Master Apprentice Archive Nothing in the Dark (WIP) Quick search:

Nothing in the Dark

by Alex-Law ( plantawan@bigfoot.com )

Archive: M_A. Anyone else? Please ask.

Category: Drama, h/c

Pairing: O/Other

Rating: NC-17

Warnings: Kidnapping, violence, recollected alien non-consensual sex, too much smoking.

Spoilers: None, pre-TPM

Feedback: Sure

Note: I cast when I write. If you're interested in knowing who was who in my head, drop me a line.

Disclaimer: George Lucas', not mine. Done for the love of it, not money.

Thanks: To Alex who beta'd, reassured, was patient above and beyond the call - and nagged when it was time to. And to my Master, Chat Noir, Esq.

Summary: Obi-Wan is abducted while he and Qui-Gon are on a mission. Separated from his master, a padawan can undergo unforeseen changes.

The room's air was thick with a long night of gambling's molecular detritus. Mekall shifted his breathing to take in less of the atmosphere around him and use more of the clearer air stored in his lungs as he sized up his opponent.

"I shall have to raise you," Dharuje said with mock reluctance.

Dharuje did not look good - he was of a large, round, amphibiate species with slimy green-yellow and brown mottled skin covered at irregular intervals with sharp spikes and spines of various sizes - but he lost beautifully. While most of Mekall's world was shades of grey, he did not cheat at games. He did not have to. He had met few who could best him. Dharuje seemed to enjoy the challenge, however.

"If you must, you must, Dharuje," Mekall responded, with a practically genuine smile.

Mekall was humanoid, in his mid-twenties, with wavy sandy blonde hair worn short and green eyes. He wore black leather trousers and boots, a fitted top and a pair of curved lensed dark glasses. He knew he was considered handsome. He had had his share of admirers before he had chosen to live amongst those who did not care what he looked like, only what he could or could not do for them. He preferred it this way.

Mekall spent another moment pondering his hand although he knew he would raise again.

It had been a profitable night for him. Dharuje would not find it unusual if Mekall ended this now. His senses told him it had long since gone morning, but in Dharuje's house, it was not morning until the Ecenian said it was. The others who comprised their group had dropped out of the game. The last two remained with them at the table, one observing, the other asleep.

"I'll see you and raise you 10,000," Mekall said blandly, intentionally betting more than Dharuje had left in his bank.

The Ecenian raised himself in his chair.

"What are you thinking, Mekall?" Dharuje asked, anticipating Mekall's interest in making up the difference in trade.

Dharuje dealt in exotics: gems, antiquities, narcotics, sentients, anything that could be turned over for an excessive profit. Whether it was legal or illegal made no difference, except when it came time to set the price.

Mekall cast an ostensibly random eye about the cluttered room.

"What is that?" he asked, inclining his head toward a square cage in a dark corner.

Dharuje huffed a hearty chortle and pushed himself up onto his three legs to walk back to the cage.

"This?" he asked, turning on a light that rested atop the wire box. "This is my Jedi."

The Jedi was a humanoid male, nude and nearly black with filth. He was huddled in on himself, pressed against the back corner of the cage, his legs drawn up tightly to his chest.

Got what he deserved, Mekall thought coldly, if he can't defend himself any better than that. But how am I going to explain coming home empty handed?

Dharuje patted the top of the cage. The Jedi cringed, curling even further into himself. As he did, a slim braid of hair slid forward over his right shoulder.

Mekall felt a surge of emotion replace his disdain. A padawan! His stomach clenched violently as anger mixed with a diffuse sort of dread. The change did not show in his demeanor.

"How did you manage to acquire one of those?" he asked with a calculatedly cruel chuckle that was echoed by the player at the side of the room who elbowed his companion.

Dharuje joined in with a wet laugh. "One has to have some secrets, Mekall," he winked conspiratorially. "Let us say, I knew a man who acquired a Jedi for political gain and decided credits would keep him warmer in the cold season."

The Ecenian reached an appendage into the cage and raised the boy's battered face to his gaming partner. Mekall maintained a calm facade, although he found himself inexplicably riveted to the shock-dulled grey-green eyes. Dharuje was toying with the boy's shoulder. His prisoner did not react to the touch.

Dharuje emitted a gruff sound of displeasure. "A week ago I wouldn't have considered it," he said, studying the young captive, "but he has not held up well. I expected more from a Jedi," he opined as he handled the Force inhibiting collar around the boy's neck.

"It is a young one," Mekall responded, rising for a closer look.

"Mmm," Dharuje agreed. "Still, there's not much entertainment in a corpse. Even a Jedi corpse."

Mekall made a mental note of the one perversion in which Dharuje did not indulge.

"Perhaps," the trader continued, his mind returning to the game and their bet, "you might get some use out of him."

Mekall slid his crawlerglasses back atop his head and crouched beside the cage, as though appraising the worth of its contents. "I might know of a party who would be interested," he said.

Dharuje formed what passed for a smile on him and turned off the light.

"Then let us go back to the table, my friend."

"Well?" Hilty asked by way of greeting.

It had been Hilty's prompting that sent Mekall to Dharuje's. Hilty worked for LKG, the planetary power company. His crew had been dispatched there the day before to repair a compressor. When he had seen what was in the cage, he had to do something. Living things did not last long under Dharuje's care; humanoids fared less well than most. Their physiologies did not correspond with the Ecenian's. Not that that slowed Dharuje down. In fact, it seemed to increase his enjoyment.

Mekall nodded yes and Hilty noted unexpected tension in the compression of his lips. Mekall had learned to school his features to impassivity long before they met, but Hilty could see past that.

Hilty was younger and a bit shorter than Mekall. His open face was framed by short brown hair and a day or two's growth of beard. He had pale gold eyes which gave him a vulnerable look, but he was quite capable of taking care of himself.

"What is it?" Hilty asked.

Mekall only searched his eyes in response.

"Lure!" Hilty shouted without breaking eye contact with Mekall.

"Yeah, I'm on it," the deep voice of Mekall's Niadan helper called from the workroom.

"Did you know?" Mekall asked so softy it took Hilty a second to register what he had heard.

"Know what?" he inquired, scrutinizing Mekall's averted face while searching his own memory for what he should have known.

Mekall did not answer. He was lost in his thoughts.

"Mekall," his companion said gently, trying to get an answer out of him.

Mekall looked at Hilty, back in the present and raised an eyebrow in a silent 'what?'

Deciding not to push, Hilty instead reminded him, "I have to go back to work."

One-third of the way through a three week long work shift, Hilty had slipped home for a few hours to see about this rescue. The reserve droids could only cover for him for so long. He had been about to leave when Mekall finally showed up.

"Yeah," Mekall murmured.

Hilty took Mekall's face in his hand, drawing his lover in. Mekall brought his mouth to Hilty's lips and they exchanged a probing kiss which Hilty found himself breaking first. Something is definitely wrong, he thought. But he had no time to find out what. He studied Mekall's face another beat then reluctantly turned toward the door.

Mekall drew in a deep breath to focus himself and, releasing it, went down the hall to the workshop.

Mekall and Hilty shared the shop, Mekall for work and Hilty for his hobbies. Hilty loved electronics, working with them for a living and in his spare time as well. They were perfectly suited in that way. Hilty could build just about anything electronic one could imagine and Mekall could make it do things its designers and owners never dreamed it could be made to do.

Lure had unloaded the cage onto Hilty's workbench and was peering down into it critically. Over 7 feet tall, strong without bulk, Lure had medium length curly red brown hair and eyes the exact same color which had no whites. He was tough but not uncaring and his four arms made him all but unbeatable in a fight.

The young Jedi was still wedged into the corner of the cage.

Lure cast an eye over his boss. It was not like Mekall to worry about an abused stranger. Hilty had a habit of rescuing then aiding creatures in need. Mekall was more in favor of the spring 'em and fling 'em method. He would help Hilty, it allayed his need for adventure, but you were on your own afterward. He had survived on his own. It fit his view of the world that others should have to do the same.

Lure went to get a vibro-pick to open the lock.

Mekall stood over the cage, staring at its occupant, absent-mindedly running his finger in and out of one of the wire squares.

Lure returned to the table and placed the pick in the lock.

"You do want this open, don't you?" he asked.

"Yeah," Mekall replied.

Lure fried the lock and removed it. The cage front fell open with a bang. The man inside did not move.

"He's a -" Lure began.

"I noticed, Lu. Could you just bring him to the 'fresher?"

Lure reached into the cage expecting to be bitten or scratched, but it turned out the young man was unconscious. He was so petrified his muscles kept him in a tight ball, even when Lure had to tug on him to dislodge him from the sludge-encrusted prison.

"You want me to pop this?" Lure asked when he got the Jedi into his arms, indicating the collar the man wore.

"No, I'll do it," Mekall said. "Later."

Letting Lure take the Jedi on ahead, Mekall took a minute to find his center. And to both curse and thank the ancient forces in his life that enabled him to do so.

Mekall hesitated on the threshold of the 'fresher. The Jedi was on the massage table under a blanket, still curled into himself. Lure had left the room.

Moving to the table, Mekall pulled aside the cover, assessing the Jedi's condition as he straightened him out on his back.

The boy remained senseless, his eyes closed. He was badly beaten but, Mekall thought, if any of the injuries were going to kill him, they would probably already have done so. He had to respect the boy's . . .

What? Strength? Luck? No, the Jedi do not believe in luck, Mekall reminded himself. A thing was or was not, as the Force willed it. He laughed a small dark insult of a chuckle at the notion.

Mekall slid the Force inhibiting collar around until its lock faced him. Taking a deep breath and slowly letting it out, Mekall closed his eyes.

Behind his closed eyelids, the lock came into view once again. Mekall visually moved inside it and worked the mechanism. The lock clicked open and the collar parted in his hands. He had intended to stop there. The Force had other ideas. Before he could pull away, Mekall was plummeting into the depths of the young man's jagged, shell-shocked thoughts.

Walking a path through a garden, alongside a tall handsome man with long greying hair and a dark robe. His master.

Talking. A point of the negotiation he sought to better understand.

A moment's upheaval. Weapons fire. Stunned before he had time to draw his lightsaber.

A man sneering in his face. Bound and gagged. Blind and Force blind. Blackness and grey, disrupted by flashes of overbright colors as his captors - insurgents holding him in an attempt to derail the peace talks the two Jedi had been sent to mediate - beat him for recreation. Stoic, centered, calm. The Jedi would know. They would find him.

An explosion in the middle of the endless darkness.

"Obi-Wan!"

His master's voice. A wash of adrenaline-filled relief surging through him.

A blow to his head. A cold, muculent touch.

Blackness, broken by different blackness. Sounds of a ship's engine.

Frigid air hitting bared flesh.

Unable to see. Dragged upright, limbs stretched out into restraints.

A wet, slimy hide rubbing against and over him. Tongues, limbs, tentacles wrapping around him, slowly, methodically covering him in thick trails of ooze. The will to fight without the ability to move. Shudders of revulsion eliciting guttural distorted laughter.

Heavy wet breath moistening his ear. Words he did not understand. "Echannu wanma theili, Jedi."

Spikes and spines pushing into his skin, puncturing him. Entering him. Reason skittering away from his control like a clutch of frightened chathaflies.

Litanies at once familiar and alien rose to his mind like prayer.

Chanting turned to . . .

Screaming his vocal cords to shreds as pain tore through him.

Tumbling uncontrolled through his own darkness, Mekall's storm-tossed consciousness replayed what Dharuje had said. Now I will make you mine, Jedi.

Now I will make you mine.

When Mekall returned to awareness of himself, he was clawing over the wastebowl, held in Lure's four arms.

"Mekall, boss, please. Mekall."

He had no idea how long Lure had been trying to reach him. Mekall took control of his breathing and slowed it with shaky deliberation. Then he looked up to the ceiling, to stretch cramping neck muscles. Lure had stopped talking and was staring at him with fear in his eyes.

"I'm all right," Mekall said, or he meant to say it. His voice was little more than a rasp. Have I been screaming? he wondered. Lure still looked at him anxiously, but less so.

"I'm all right," Mekall repeated with more voice, as he got to his feet.

Lure rose with him which turned out to be good, since he was the only thing holding Mekall up. Lure helped him to a chair, then stepped back.

"Are you?" Lure asked. Mekall glanced up. "All right, I mean," Lure explained.

Mekall scrubbed his hands over his face.

"What happened?" Lure asked.

"Stupidity," Mekall answered curtly, angry with himself, far more so at the Force. He got up and crossed to the bathtub, kneeling to turn on the water. "Bring him here," Mekall directed.

Lure took the filthy, beaten young man in his arms and walked to the tub. Mekall left him to stand there while he gathered bottles from the cabinet and took a few soft cloths from a storage cube.

"Put him in, " Mekall ordered. The Niadan lowered himself to his knees and placed the Jedi into the tub while his boss poured different amounts from the bottles he held into the running water.

Lure's hesitance was tinged with apprehension. He had no idea what Mekall would do next and the guy in his arms was not going to last through much more. In all the time Lure had been working for Mekall, even when they were doing much less reputable work than they did currently, Mekall had never asked him to bury any bodies. Lure did not intend to start doing that for him now. In addition, he was not sure that Mekall had not simply cracked up.

All of this broadcast pretty clearly to Mekall. Incongruously, he smiled, which did not make Lure feel any better. Just the opposite.

"I haven't lost my mind, Lu," Mekall told him.

Normally, Lure was not overly fond of his boss' ability to read him, but at the moment it was welcome.

"Unh huh," Lure said, not completely convinced.

"He's a Jedi padawan," Mekall explained.

"Uh huh," Lure went along, thinking, yeah, right, that's a Jedi.

"As I nearly was."

Lure's head snapped from the body in the tub to Mekall. Then he released his doubt in a bark of laughter.

"Right," Lure said, rising, "and I'm a fairy princess," he added, amused at what he took to be an attempt to lighten the mood. "Call me when you need me."

Half smiling as he watched Lure depart, Mekall reached in to buoy the young Jedi. He was glad to hear Lure make light of what must have seemed patently ridiculous to him. The Niadan was his rock, solid and certain, and he needed the certainty at the moment.

Directing his attention back to the tub, Mekall moved the Jedi to the anti-grav recliner Hilty kept there. A bath was a luxury on Larral. While there was plenty of water, little of it was either fresh or clean. Hilty liked to indulge even further by sleeping in the tub, a habit which has been known to lead to drowning. So, Hilty had devised a solution.

The tub was oversized, as was the entire room. Mekall had money. However, he also had taste, and almost half a lifetime's Jedi training to rid him of ostentation. He enjoyed what his money afforded him in possessions and freedoms, but he shunned overt display.

Except here.

Where he was raised, in the Temple, he corrected himself, things were basic and functional, not austere, but certainly spare. Having endured smaller and worse facilities for years after his time with the Jedi, he had promised himself one day he would have a large comfortable room in which to bathe. As soon as he was able to afford to, he had made good on that.

Chiding himself for the foray into avoidance, Mekall stripped to the waist, centered for what felt like the hundredth time that day and erected as strong a mental shield as he could. Then he sat on the tub's edge, picked up the top one from the pile of cloths and reached to pull the Jedi from the bath chair.

"Obi-Wan!" the Jedi master's shout flashed into Mekall's mind, freezing him in place.

"Obi-Wan," Mekall tasted the name aloud, to supplant the needful sound of the other man's voice in his head.

Mekall began by bathing him. Although he worked as carefully as possible and imparted healing energy to Obi-Wan, the young man he held repeatedly groaned from the depths of wherever his mind had gone. Only halfway through the process, the water was so dirty Mekall put Obi-Wan back in Hilty's chair while he drained and cleaned the tub.

When it was again filled, Mekall washed Obi-Wan's face, working gently around blackened eyes, a darkly purpled cheek and split lips. As he undid and washed the padawan braid, Mekall felt a heart-rending pang of recollection. It was eased by washing the rest of the short spiky hair. Oh, he remembered all too well comforting friends after they had been subjected to that haircut. Mekall could not help smiling. Strange, he thought, where humor and horror can intersect. And regret, but that went without mental voice.

Obi-Wan was abused well past a point that would have killed a lesser mortal. He was covered head to toe with a disgusting rainbow of deep large bruises, spike holes, bite marks, scrapes and lacerations, both front and back. His entrance was like raw meat from his time with Dharuje's spine covered penises.

After discharging and replacing the water a second time and reinforcing his shields, Mekall covered his finger in healant and pushed it into Obi-Wan along with a pulse of healing. Obi-Wan's whimper of pain was so small and helpless, Mekall found he was holding his own breath in sympathy. He exhaled and shut his eyes to regroup.

Mekall held the Jedi instead of placing him in the chair while the tub emptied, but avoided looking at him. He watched the water circle the drain.

Looking up, Mekall found himself facing panic-widened grey-green eyes.

"Obi-Wan," Mekall coaxed, with no result except the frightened eyes grew even more so.

"Obi-Wan, it's all right now. You're safe. They can't hurt you anymore. You're safe here. Obi-Wan," Mekall said again, emphasizing the name, hoping its repetition might cause a spark of recognition in the Jedi's mind, but Obi-Wan stared at him in unallayed horror.

"Go to sleep, Padawan," Mekall ordered, closing the terrified eyes with his palm to help implement the Force suggestion. He lowered Obi-Wan into the tub and went to retrieve towels and a robe.

When Obi-Wan was dry, Mekall spread a coating of healing gel all over him. Then he wrapped him in two large towels and palmed his comlink from his trouser pocket to call Lure.

Mekall surveyed his charge while he waited. Looking at Obi-Wan, he was pulled to a shadowy place in his past. Gods, he realized, if I had been chosen, I might still be a padawan now.

With the first thought of himself in hours, Mekall's exhaustion began to sink in. He had not slept. More to the point, he had not tried healing anyone other than himself in what felt like a lifetime. Fortunately, with his usual good timing, Lure picked then to appear.

"How's he doing?" the Niadan asked. Mekall pointed to the where Obi-Wan lay in the tub.

Lure gave Obi-Wan a once-over. He bent to pick him up, then noticed his wilting boss.

"Good thing I've got four arms," he commented, shifting Obi-Wan to leave room in case he had to catch Mekall. "It looks like I might have to carry both of you."

Mekall smiled briefly and followed Lure to the guest room. He watched from the doorway as Lure settled Obi-Wan into bed with that gentleness some big men have with small or fragile things.

"You better get some downtime, boss," Lure said as he walked to the storage cube to grab an extra blanket. "I'll watch him."

Mekall agreed and went to his room. He lay down for a minute to collect his strength and his thoughts and woke hours later with Lure jostling his bare shoulder.

"I've got to go."

"What's the time?" Mekall asked sleepily.

"Almost half past seventh," Lure replied.

"Okay," Mekall said hazily

"Mekall," Lure prodded him again, "are you all right?"

"Yeah Lu. It's nothing a few days in a coma wouldn't cure."

At least he sounds like Mekall again, Lure thought.

"Okay," he conceded, "the forcefield's up and the alarms are set." Same as every night, but it was all Lure could think of to say.

Mekall sat up, rubbing sleep from the outer corner of his eye.

"Go home, Lu," Mekall told him. "I'll see you in the morning."

Lure, unable to come up with a reason to stay, and with a family of his own to go to, did just that.

Mekall removed his boots and padded down the hall to check on the Jedi. He had developed a fever but was still under. There may not be enough sleep in a lifetime, Mekall thought, to recover from that.

Even for a Jedi.

Continuing on to the 'fresher, Mekall stripped from the waist down, threw everything into the launderer and stepped into the shower, dialing up a strong flow of water. Purified water was expensive and he had used a lot on Obi-Wan, but he could afford it. The sonics would never have been enough to get the stench of this day off him.

Clean, dry and in the robe he had meant for Obi-Wan but not bothered with, Mekall sat down to soak in the steamy comfort of the foggy room. He did not realize he had drifted off. The alarms keening jolted him awake. Mekall ran to Obi-Wan's room. Finding it empty, he went into his own room, shoved his feet into his boots and raced down the stairs.

Even as damaged as he was, Obi-Wan's instincts had led him to the front door. Naked, wild-eyed, he turned on Mekall with the strength of delirium, pummeling him to the floor. Obi-Wan flailed at the doors. However they would not open, even from the inside, without the codes. Obi-Wan emitted a roar that would have been a scream if he had any voice left. Instead it was a plaintive wail of animal suffering. He spun and fled down the hall.

Mekall made it to his feet and followed, tackling Obi-Wan, hoping he was preventing more damage than he was causing. They landed hard.

Mekall slid off him into a crouch and reached for his pulse. Obi-Wan pounced, catching Mekall's hand in his mouth and biting down hard. As Obi-Wan began to get up, Mekall latched onto his arm. Using the Jedi's power against him, Mekall let Obi-Wan pull them both to their feet as he rose.

Finding Mekall standing beside him confounded the other man long enough for Mekall to catch him with a blow to the side of his jaw. Obi-Wan fell to the floor unconscious.

Mekall cursed to himself in several languages as he examined his bleeding hand. He cursed to himself as he went in search of a rag to wrap around it to stop the flow of blood. He was still cursing in Huttese, Ved and several other languages known for their coarse and voluminous epithets as he returned Obi-Wan to bed.

It took a while to tend to his wound. By the time the bleeding had abated, Mekall's anger had as well. In truth, he knew he would have done the same thing in Obi-Wan's position. Now, however, he had to call a healer. Animal bites required resistance shots.

Mekall placed a call to Yls, who, through virtue of a good sense of humor, a disturbingly clear point of view and a trenchant ability to express it, had become his friend over the years. Yls called back to confirm and arrived within half an hour.

Yls was a little older than Mekall. He sported a perpetually tousled thatch of hair and his blue eyes were slightly too large for his face, as though all the sharper to observe the world with.

Mekall met him downstairs and did his best to keep the meeting short, but, of course, Obi-Wan picked then to make himself known. A strangled cry came from the upstairs. Yls cast a chastising look his way. Mekall gave in and showed the healer to the Jedi's room.

Yls bent to examine Obi-Wan while Mekall sat down in the chair at the other end of the room. The healer let out a low whistle of amazement at the thoroughness of the beating and the fact that the man who had received it was still alive.

"I won him from Dharuje last night," Mekall stated, as if it explained everything.

Watching Yls check Obi-Wan over with practiced professionalism, Mekall, his hand tended to and his adrenaline burst behind him, found he was barely able to sit upright in the chair.

"I'll be down the hall," he said.

"Mm hm," the healer acknowledged distractedly.

Retreating to his room, Mekall nearly tipped over when he tried to slide his boots off one against the other. If he lay down on the bed, he would fall asleep and he did not want to do that until he had spoken with Yls. So he settled himself in the chair by the window. Yls found him there twenty minutes later, seemingly entranced by the dual crescents of the new moons.

Yls was knowledgeable and well traveled. He knew what the spiky haircut and slim length of would-be braid meant. He was also one of very few people with whom Mekall had shared any part of his past. I never would have told him, Mekall reflected bitterly, if I thought it would ever come up again.

"You okay?" Yls asked as he entered the room.

"Lure couldn't stop asking me that," Mekall recalled, still looking out the window.

"What did you tell him?" the healer inquired, as he perched on the edge of the bed.

"Hilty found him," Mekall continued disjointedly. "His crew was at Dharuje's on a repair." The rest of the tale hung in the air untold, as Mekall still stared outside.

"How is he?" Mekall eventually resumed.

"You mean other than beaten half to death and raped by a spine-covered amphibine," Yls responded. It was not a question. "He has a concussion, broken ribs, internal injuries. Some of the punctures are infected. The rest you can see. The fever means his body is fighting back, though with what resources I couldn't say. I dosed him to the skin with anti-bios. He should live. The fact that he's survived this long is a good thing."

Mekall breathed a restrained sigh of disagreement.

The two men sat for a time in companionable silence. Then the healer produced a bottle and two glasses from his med bag. They drank in silence too, at first.

"Did you know him?" Yls finally spoke.

Mekall looked at him, nonplussed by the question. "They did me a favor," he averred.

"Um hm." Yls went along.

"I'd still be a padawan now. A little boy in a grown man's body. Shackled to a master, naive, repressed - " "Protected, cared for . . . a Jedi," Yls contributed.

"I got what mattered back!" Mekall bristled. "And I did it for myself."

"Yes," the healer mollified.

"Hilty - This - I - " Mekall pivoted and threw his glass across the room where it shattered against the wall over the bed.

Unfazed, Yls wiped a drop of liquid off his right cheek.

Mekall closed his eyes, pressing his fingers against them hard.

"Feel better?" Yls asked.

"Fuck you," Mekall replied.

"You're welcome," Yls said, getting to his feet. "Get some sleep. I'll watch the Jedi."

The sun was up again before Mekall knew it. His hand was throbbing, but he had slept badly and had neither the will nor the strength to do anything about it. He dressed and walked down the hall to Obi-Wan's room.

Yls was not there. Obi-Wan was sitting up in bed. His eyes were open, a sightless blank of grey-green. Did I know him? Mekall wondered, trying to examine a part of his memory he normally went nowhere near. He had shut out so much of that time, he honestly could not say if he recalled.

"He's catatonic," Yls broke into his thoughts, coming up behind him. "I spent the night in here. He sat bolt upright about an hour ago. Been like this since. I thought he might be coming around, but . . . " the healer left the thought unfinished. "Lure's here," he continued instead, "I told him to let you sleep."

Mekall pressed his palm to his right eye socket as if to fight the headache beginning to form there. He wanted to hit something, or better yet, someone. Not much point in hitting his friend and it was beyond obscene to think of striking the Jedi.

"Why did I do this?" he settled for asking.

"Because you can kick the boy out of the Jedi but you can't kick the Jedi out of the boy?" Yls hypothesized.

Mekall gave him a cutting look and left the room. He needed to see what Lure was up to and get started on his day, not stand and stare into some haunted house of a man.

Nine hours later, Yls was waiting for Mekall when he returned after the day's work. Mekall had gone directly to his bedroom in an attempt at avoiding both the healer and the Jedi.

"The fever broke. He still hasn't come to," Yls informed him.

Mekall sighed, rubbing his good hand over his face. "What do you want from me?" he inquired irritably.

"What do you want from you?" the healer countered.

Mekall concluded that was a very good question and thought, not for the first time, that he was glad this man was his friend.

However, all he said was, "Ask me again tomorrow."

The next morning Mekall woke tired after another night of difficult, elusive dreams. His hand still throbbed. It was now keeping a matching beat with the dull throb in his skull. As he passed the door of the spare room, he looked in. Obi-Wan was as he had been the morning before, eyes open but unseeing.

Mekall found Yls down in the galley.

"I'm going," the healer told him. "I've got patients and I'm not doing anything for him you can't do. Here," he ordered, "drink this."

He handed Mekall a glass of a thick pinkish orange liquid. "You look terrible, by the way."

Mekall sipped hesitantly from the cup, then took another less tentative drink. "That's not too bad," he evaluated with a small grin.

Yls looked annoyed with him, then gave it up and smiled back. "Look, I've made a bunch of that. I didn't notice any food go into you yesterday. You might want to eat today."

In truth, Mekall had no appetite, had not had since bringing the Jedi into his home.

"I don't care if you're hungry," Yls said as if Mekall had spoken aloud. "Falling flat on your face won't help anything. Eat. That," he pointed to the cup in Mekall's hand, "if you can't keep anything else down. You're dehydrated. It's the reason for your headache, and the tiredness. Let me see your hand."

Mekall sat down, sighed and closed his eyes while Yls unwrapped the psuedoskin around his hand and inspected the bite.

"You know," Yls commented, "I don't think I've ever heard you sigh before."

"Really," Mekall replied quietly, "I feel as if it's all I've done for days."

Yls said nothing more as he redressed Mekall's wound. When he was finished, Mekall neither moved nor opened his eyes.

Of necessity, Yls carried on with his parting instructions. "You," he poked Mekall, which made him open his eyes, "eat." He put two containers on the table. Pointing to the first one, he said, "Put this on yourself." Indicating the second, "Put this on him. Give him as much of a cup of that," pointing to the drink where it stood on the table in front of Mekall, "as you can. About every third hour. Just worry about getting it into him. I've taken care of getting it out."

Mekall stared down into his cup until he became aware Yls had stopped talking.

"What did I say?" the healer queried.

"Obi-Wan," Mekall replied.

Yls looked perplexed.

"Obi-Wan. It's his name. I heard his Master - "

"Mekall do you have any idea what I said?" Yls asked again, his concern obvious.

"He eats. The stranger drinks. Keep the hand dry and put the goo on it," Lure contributed, catching the healer off guard.

"Right," Yls confirmed, needing to let his mind be eased. He had little choice about leaving. He had been there too long already.

"Call me if you need to," he said loud enough for Mekall to hear, as he made his way to the door, "but try not to need to."

At the front doors, Lure bent to hear Yls' quiet, "Keep an eye on him. I'll be back in a day or two." Lure nodded.

"Call me if . . . "

Both men turned to observe a still distant Mekall. If what?

Yls expelled a loud unhappy breath. Lure hid his uneasiness behind working the doors' codekey pad.

After the healer had gone, Lure returned to the galley. "You want me to take some of that up to him?"

Mekall did not answer.

"Mekall?" Lure sharpened his voice.

"Hm? Oh, yeah, if you think you can get him to."

"No problem," Lure told him, "I've nursed sick kids, sick pups, sick yiwlen."

Lure poured some of the drink and went to take it upstairs.

Mekall's mind was light years away. He found himself at the far end of the house without recalling going there.

The system was supposed to ease the journey, when the Force, your guide in all things, produced an alternate version of your destiny than the one you had foreseen.

Everyone was needed and there were many other paths: agriculture, healing, piloting, government; the universe required engineers and security officers and estate agents. All important in their way, all with a place in the puzzle that was the galaxies. To every being a season and a purpose.

If that was true, why then did they spend twelve years of his life teaching him exactly the opposite; educating him with one end in mind?

Initiates were taught some healing, some flying, some farming, a bit of everything. But always the goal was clear. To produce balanced, well rounded padawan knight candidates. Healers rarely duel with laser swords. Most farmers could get by without speaking two dozen languages. Pilots seldom depended on their skills at mediation. It was implicit in every initiate's life from their time in the creche on. The reason they were there was to grow up to be knights of the Jedi order. Everything else was a distant second place finish. If you were not picked, it was because you were not good nough. That took more to recover from than being counseled that the Force had other plans for you.

Mekall had tried at first. Tried to work through his anger and defeat. His tech skills put him in the Engineering Corps. He had moved to his new housing, gone to his new classes, performed his duties diligently and meditated until his knees were bruised and aching. None of it helped. He had failed. His disappointment was omnipresent. No matter how much he released into the Force, he found bitterness constantly filled him. He turned his back on it all two months before his fourteenth birthday.

That was when he discovered how truly unprepared Jedi trainees were to be much other than Jedi. He took his knocks and used them to construct personal armor the order did everything to dismantle. He spent two years in the lower levels, taking whatever jobs he could get. Anything to survive at first, the outside world a rough and hurtful place.

Ultimately, Mekall's background and a bit of luck led him to an apprenticeship in the electronics shop of a Toydarian who took a liking to him, teaching him the ins and outs of the deal in exchange for the boy's innate mechanical skills. During this time, through trial and error, Mekall began to teach himself to use the Force in ways Jedi did not discuss in mixed company.

After going into business for himself, Mekall had spent the last ten years progressively putting as much distance as possible between himself and Coruscant. When he got to the Outer Rim, with nowhere else to go, it had to be far enough. If anyplace could ever be far enough. Now Coruscant had come after him like an Abdurian bloodhound. The irony did not escape him.

With effort, Mekall forced himself out of his thoughts. This could not continue. The Jedi order had consumed enough of his life. The person in his spare room was just another lost soul in an often cruel universe. Mekall did not owe him anything, this pathetic shell of a padawan. If anything he was owed, not that that debt would ever be repaid. His thoughts dark and his countenance clouded, Mekall found his breather, pulled it on roughly and left the house.

Lure did not think much of it at first, as they went around the property checking fences and calibrating locks. Mekall tended to be overly cautious with his home security arrangements.

When Mekall had him go to the hangar to look over the cruiser, Lure began to wonder. Sure, it was scheduled to be tuned up, but not yet. Still, he set about checking the ship. After a time, Mekall came in and did the same to the engine of the speeder. As Mekall progressed to taking it apart, Lure knew for sure something was askew. He had gone over that drive himself not two weeks before.

He decided to keep quiet for the time being. Mekall was barely noticing him anyway. He had not said a word to him any of the times he had gone into the house, whether to feed the stranger or to feed or relieve himself. Mekall had not stopped to do either. Lure did not think of himself as the most sensitive of guys, but his boss was wound so tight, the tension was raising the little hairs on the back of the Niadan's neck.

Mekall worked on the ship all day like a man possessed, or a man determined to ignore a large unavoidable object directly in front of his face.

Lure went back to the house to feed the boy every three hours, as Yls had instructed. Mekall came into Obi-Wan's room as Lure finished his last feeding of the day.

"Any luck?" Mekall asked.

"Um hum. For all the good it'll do him," Lure replied. He leaned in and gave Obi-Wan a less than gentle thunk in the middle of his forehead. Then he moved his face within a millimeter of Obi-Wan's.

"Anybody home?" he asked the unresponsive man. "Might have been kinder to leave him there to die," Lure ventured, pulling back. "At least it woulda been quick. I'll feed him as long as you say, boss, but he could go on like this for a long time. His mind's gone, it's just his brain doesn't know it yet."

"I have a feeling he's in there," Mekall responded.

Lure looked at him doubtfully,"Boss, he shouldn't be here."

"No, Lu," Mekall agreed with a sardonic smile, "he shouldn't. But if Dharuje didn't kill him in a week, I doubt I'll be lucky enough to do so by morning."

"Mekall," Lure warned, "you're making me nervous again."

Mekall looked up into Lure's troubled, well meaning face and felt compelled to make an effort to project normalcy.

"Go home, Lu. Everything's as all right as it's going to get," he smiled.

(continued in part 2)