Chapter Text
“Your boy is doing well.”
Obi-Wan smiles politely without lifting his gaze from his tablet. The parlor had started feeling empty without someone swinging by. “Is that so? I’m heartened to hear it.”
Shaak Ti bores holes into his head while stirring her tea. “He’s also wondering why everyone else gets to spend time with their mentors.”
Ah. That.
Clearing his throat, Obi-Wan lays the tablet down and adjusts his cuffs, dusting off an imaginary imperfection. “Yes, well. Rather a glaring omission that I haven’t popped by the barracks, I imagine,” he allows, as if that would spare him from the dressing down he’s apparently in for.
(If he’d known this was to be his fate, he would have ordered whiskey, not Earl Grey. But as he doesn’t make it a habit to break out the brown liqueurs at ten in the morning, it’s all the woes of hindsight.)
“Obi-Wan,” Shaak Ti chides, instantly thrusting him into schoolboy sheepishness, as if he’s all of ten years old and called to the carpet.
When he fails to reply, she sets her spoon down with a clink.
Ask not for whom the bell tolls…
“Why choose him and behave like this?”
“You know why." Weariness pulls at him like an anchor. Were it up to him, he'd have taken an undercover op and not surfaced for months. A year, ideally, if he could get away with it.
Her expression softens. Somehow, that's worse. Sympathy crawls under his skin in a way outright condemnation never could.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
He leans back with a flat look. “No, that’s quite alright, thank you.” Skinning his own tongue would be preferable.
“Very well.” She meets his stare with an arch one of her own. “Then, as your Merlin, I hereby order you to do right by your candidate. Are we clear, Galahad?”
...for it tolls for thee.
He lifts the teacup to his lips. “Perfectly.”
There are a lot of things Anakin Skywalker hates.
Getting his jacket snagged on a doorknob. His phone lacking an audio jack. Fruit in salads. Sand. High ping. Reddit mods.
And all of them combined still don't measure up to how he hates being pitied.
He flaps a hand when Ahsoka lingers in the doorway like she’s two seconds from telling her sponsor to fuck off if he so much as gives the signal. She’s too nice for Kingsman—but that sheer stubbornness has kept her in the game.
Her nose wrinkles in before she disappears, leaving him in the empty barracks for the fourth week running.
It’s not the worst fate.
There’s not much to do, though, aside from pulling out the laptop they issued him—loaded with so much spyware it physically feels heavier, real Big Brother is watching you. He could get around that pretty easy, but he’s also thought about everything he’d lose just to prove he can outsmart their surveillance.
Milquetoast YouTube videos it is. Better than listening to the silence in the barracks. Too clean, too restrained. Even the air conditioner's humming feels muted, swallowed up by Kingsman’s suffocating wealth and taste.
The silence leaves too much room for his thoughts.
Like.
What the hell am I doing here?
I don’t belong with this bunch of snobs.
I’m gonna punch Ferus if he makes one more snide comment.
Should have let that guy rot.
That last thought is particularly ugly. ‘That guy’ is the reason he crawled out from under Jabba’s thumb in the first place. ‘That guy’ gave Anakin his freedom as a trade-off for helping him escape.
‘That guy’ also died. But it wasn’t Anakin’s fault. Not really.
Eight years later, ‘that guy’ has a name, though it sits awkwardly in Anakin’s mouth after all that time. Being surrounded by secret agent bullshit hasn’t helped. Caradoc, for fuck’s sake. Sounds like an ingredient on a prescription bottle. Or a cheap wine.
Anakin scrubs a hand through his hair and glares at the barracks as though they might provide a distraction. They’ve been whittled from thirteen candidates—and yeah, he’ll own it, that first loss was rough, how was a desert kid supposed to know CPR?—to six, and the empty beds are eyesores.
A reminder. A warning. One slip-up, and that’ll be another bed stripped of sheets.
It’s like looking at your potential grave. Here lies your future if you can’t keep up.
And Anakin is trying. He’s tough, he’s quick, he’s bright, but he didn’t go to fancy schools, didn’t get tapped from elite military units or MI-whatever-the-fuck; it’s literally a joke that he’s there, clinging by his fingernails.
Screw this. It’s gonna be one of those days when his brain pitches like a ferris wheel with broken brakes. His breath picks up, anxiety pushing down on him, squeezing.
He pushes himself off the bed, throwing the laptop to the side. While everyone else dressed in civvies for mentor day, he’s still in crappy trainee sweats. His so-called mentor dumped him with Merlin and then walked out like he was leaving for a gallon of milk. No point in dressing up for someone who isn’t coming.
Still, there’s someone who’ll be glad to see him. He yanks on his running sneakers, already mapping out a route through the mansion with Artoo to beat their personal best. He opens the door—
And almost walks straight into the devil himself.
“Oh, you’ve got to be fuckin’ kidding me,” Anakin says to the man who recruited him to Kingsman.
Galahad raises a brow. “One of these days, you might learn to say hello first. Allow me to demonstrate: hello there, Anakin.”
Oh. Yeah, he’d said the same thing when they’d met, hadn’t he? At least he’s consistent. (But also, Galahad had dropped in like freaking Batman when Anakin had been two minutes off from hot wiring the most beautiful car. Appropriate response then, appropriate response now.)
Reminded that it's been half a year and Galahad is pulling the same shit again, Anakin dodges around him and keeps walking. Behind him, there’s a sigh, followed by the click of expensive leather shoes keeping pace.
Anakin doesn’t slow, taking sharp turns and climbing three flights of stairs, doubling back one because nothing in this place makes any goddamn sense, and finally exits out to the kennels.
His failure of a mentor hounds his heels the whole way.
Anakin turns around, shoulders tense, feet braced. He barely keeps from showing his teeth like Artoo during the first month of training. “What do you want, Galahad?”
—
A strong drink. Tickets to La Traviata. For England to stop fumbling the ball every World Cup.
But mostly, Obi-Wan wants the fortitude to deal with this rightfully angry boy.
“You chose a difficult breed to work with,” he comments instead.
Anakin cocks his head, raking Obi-Wan with a stare from crown to polished shoe-tip. “Yeah. I did.”
“I meant the Dalmatian.”
“I know what I said.”
Has any candidate ever disrespected their mentor this flagrantly? Obi-Wan doubts it. Not in living memory. Maybe not since the last of the original generation.
“Walk with me," he says. "We’re overdue for a tête-à-tête.”
Anakin jerks his chin toward the cages. “I’m taking Artoo.”
“As you should.”
He waits as Anakin releases a gangly Dalmatian out of his kennel. The dog slouches forward before falling into step beside his master. A picture of discipline, though Obi-Wan is not inclined to believe that any more than he mistakes the lack of arguing as agreeableness.
Anakin Skywalker. Twenty-two, Canadian by way of the mother, thought Kingman's analysts could narrow down little else, as he'd been born after Shmi Skywalker became a human trafficking statistic. Smart—brilliant, even, according to the tech department. His records had them hounding Shaak Ti to hand him over if he washed out.
And maybe that’s where Skywalker belongs, Obi-Wan muses, scrutinizing the young man as they walk across the green. Skywalker’s overall technical scores are nothing short of stellar. But he’s impatient. Volatile.
Unpredictable.
Far too much like Qui-Gon had been.
And, if Obi-Wan’s honest, a bit too much like himself once upon a time.
“I’ve been ignoring you,” he starts, choosing his words carefully.
“You? Noooo—”
“—and I apologize for that,” he cuts in, ignoring the sarcasm. “I hope you can appreciate that I might have a thing or two to teach you and tolerate the rocky start.”
Anakin mutters something that sounds suspiciously like, “Would’ve been better if you showed up weeks ago,” that Obi-Wan pretends not to hear.
For about five seconds. Then he sighs. “Yes, that would have been preferable. I have not been there for you. That changes now.”
“And you think a walk with me around this place makes up for it?”
“No, thought it might be a start.”
The silence that follows is weighed by things Obi-Wan knows he can’t fully explain. Anakin has every right to be resentful. This boy was Qui-Gon’s choice, not his, but if anything that makes it even more vital that Obi-Wan correct his lapse.
Anakin rolls his eyes. “We’ll see. You gonna teach me to talk all posh? Mix a martini? I’m not really the Bond type.”
“We don’t need his type. Violent drunkards make for poor spies.”
The humor is a gamble. But Anakin’s mouth twitches, and he counts that as a win.
“No,” Obi-Wan says. “I’m going to teach you to lie.”
Anakin stops mid-step a the sight of the AC Ace in the garage. “This antique’s gonna run?” He sweeps a reverential hand over the hood as if he’s afraid it’ll vanish under his touch. Without waiting for an answer, he slides into the passenger seat. “It’s gotta be at least a century old.”
“Off by a few decades. Seatbelt.” Obi-Wan taps the side of his glasses, darkening the lens as he settles into the driver’s seat.
Rather than arguing, Anakin straps himself in, going right back to stroking the shiny metal knob on the window handle, rolling the passenger window down.
“Let’s treat the vehicle with a little more respect, please.”
“I’m not hurting anything. Do you know they stopped making these forty years ago? I’ve never seen one.” Anakin grins delightedly as he cranks the window back up.
Maybe Obi-Wan should have led with the car. He files that away for future obstinacy episodes.
Once the garage opens, he drives them out into the summer sunshine. Their destination isn't far, though a good ten minutes pass where the only sounds are the engine purring and the whistling wind.
Anakin stiffens, twisting as if to glimpse the manor already out of sight. “Why didn't you blindfold me? What if I flunk out? Does everyone know where this place is?”
Obi-Wan hums, as if considering. “Are you planning to come back and do something nefarious if you fail?”
“I could.” Anakin argues, unease flashing across his face. “Unless…”
“No. We do not dispatch failed candidates.”
“That’s exactly what you’d say if you did."
Obi-Wan tries—tries—not to laugh. “Most failed candidates work for us in roles better suited to their abilities. We don’t waste up to a year on training only to cut you loose. But if it brings you any comfort, where you’re staying isn’t HQ. It’s simply our training facility.”
Anakin scowls. “Your trai—it’s a mansion.”
“We have a few,” he agrees without elaborating, to Anakin’s consternation.
There’s a reason things are like this now, so seemingly wasteful. Kingsman has burned to ashes before, and although by its nature it is incapable of not playing with fire, it learned its lesson. Not every trainee, no matter how vetted, can be trusted.
“What do you think they see?”
They’re seated at a cafe, tucked into a sleepy countryside town. They’ve ordered a tea service, and Obi-Wan is quite pleased with the brew.
“When they look at you, or me?” Anakin asks, suspicion whetting his tone. He’s nibbling on the cucumber sandwiches, distinctly uninterested in the finer points of tea.
“When they look at us.”
Anakin’s narrowed eyes imply he’s about done humoring Obi-Wan. “Newlyweds in love, obviously.”
“Then let’s start there,” Obi-Wan says, refusing to let Anakin off the hook. “What’s the truth of a lie?”
“A lie’s a lie. You make up shit to keep things easy and then bail."
“Forgive me, but that’s a child’s understanding of a lie.”
There’s something very pretty in how quickly Anakin’s eyes shift to a stormy blue. Obi-Wan tastes ozone in the air.
“A lie is a craft,” he admonishes, undeterred. “And like any craft, it requires talent, purpose and training. Intent. How would you sell the idea that we’re newlyweds? Consider the details. There's quite an age gap. That’s the first thing they’ll focus on.”
Anakin scowls. “I was joking.”
“I am not.”
There’s a beat while Anakin pushes back into his chair and directs his scowl at the surrounding people having a late breakfast. “We don’t have wedding bands.”
“No.” Obi-Wan toys with his signet ring. “Though that’s a minor detail in the grand scheme of things. What else?”
"If the point you’re making is that there’s a difference between lying and acting, you could have just said that.”
“In our line of work, there is no difference.” Obi-Wan rotates his cup. Cheap ceramic loses heat so quickly. “The truth of a lie is that it becomes real when someone believes it. If they think we’re newlyweds, then we are. Perception is what matters, not fact.”
Anakin is unwilling to let him have this point without a fight. “Sure. Because if you say something long enough, it just magically becomes true. That’s how it works.”
“Yes,” Obi-Wan agrees flatly. “That’s exactly how it works. How else do you think propaganda takes root? It’s about telling a story that people want to believe—or fear not believing.”
“Okay, fine. What’s our story, husband?”
Ah, there it was. Obi-Wan hides his satisfaction behind a sip of tea, then offhandedly gestures at Anakin. “I’d say you’re a newly minted tech mogul, and I’m your long-suffering older partner who tolerates your obsession with gadgets and your dreadful wardrobe because, deep down, I know you mean well.”
“Dreadful—?” Anakin's eyebrows snap together. He truly does bear a resemblance to Cabanel's Lucifer. That'll be useful. “Fine. But if we’re playing pretend, I’m the one who swept you off your feet.”
“Obviously. You’re very charming.”
The sarcasm doesn’t miss its mark, though it slides off Anakin. “I’d probably tell people we met on some schmancy yacht party and hit it off because you’re into old cars and I just so happen to own half the market on vintage imports.”
"Creative. But extreme."
“What’s wrong with that?” Anakin challenges.
“You want believability and a certain degree of likeability. There will inevitably be someone who will either know who does own half the market on vintage imports, or will consider you a braggart for bringing it up. You don’t want to be particularly noticeable or memorable. Does that make sense?”
Anakin pulls a face, though he’s clearly listening. “Great. I have to be the beigest person in the world.”
Obi-Wan smiles, not entirely unamused. “Yes, actually. Being a Kingsman is about knowing how to adapt, and that often means taking on the most benignly ineffective, forgettable personas. Though of course, not always.” It’s important to not let Anakin believe everything is written in stone. A rigid, by the book agent is a dead agent. “Regardless, when you do lie, sell it like you're vying for an award—speech, posture, gestures, everything. You want them think the story you’re telling is real because you are that story.”
“Yeah, yeah. I get it. Walk the walk, talk the talk.” Anakin summarizes, deadpan. He is not impressed so far with Obi-Wan's mentoring.
“If you can,” Obi-Wan says, “you’ll have mastered one of the most useful tools in your arsenal. Now, let’s put you to the test.” He tips his head at a table where a middle-aged couple is seated, leaning conspiratorially close over their coffee cups. “Convince them that we’re the happy newlyweds. Start now.”
Anakin’s frown deepens, his knee bouncing under the table. Obi-Wan can practically see the calculations running through his head: defiance clashing with a desire to prove himself, annoyance versus curiosity.
Finally, Anakin licks his lips, and then rests his elbows on the table, raising his voice slightly. “Quick question; how much are you regretting that drunk toast? Because I don’t think anyone’s ever going to let you live down that you decided to sing. Even my grandma thought it was lame."
Obi-Wan plays along. “Well, forgive me for being inspired, darling. It was a trying day. And you looked particularly lovely turning red during my wonderful rendition that was, admittedly, a bit on the nose—though your grandmother absolutely did not think it was ‘lame.’ She was crying.”
“No, she totally did.” Anakin’s gone a little pink now. Obi-Wan isn’t sure if he’s embarrassed by the darling or if he’s an acting prodigy, too. “But, uh, it was. Sweet. Maybe let’s not end up like what’s-their-names when we go back to the US tho’, yeah?”
“Divorced and one of us dead in the loo? I’ll make a note of that. It would certainly put a damper on things.” Obi-Wan extends his arm across the table, leaving his hand palm up.
Anakin gnaws on the inside of his cheek once and then gingerly curls his fingers into Obi-Wan’s.
Neither of them have soft hands. Obi-Wan’s are in better condition as he makes a concerted effort to buff, exfoliate and moisturize, preventing the formation of telltale calluses, but Anakin does not have that luxury or necessity. He’s been training nonstop since he entered the program, and his hands reflect that—
As well as the life he’s led up to this point. His elegantly long fingers are covered in scars.
The couple at the other table has paused, their conversation dipping into a murmur as they glance over at them. Anakin might be rough around the edges, but he has natural charisma underneath all that.
Obi-Wan lets a fond smile slip through. “Though I don’t think you have much room to talk. Now, who was it that gave the best man a twenty-minute lecture on the history of failed blockchain technology?”
“Hey, someone had to educate him.” Anakin shrugs. His tone is light, the flush has spread fetching across the curve of his cheekbones. “He didn’t even know what the 2022 NFT crash was. Poor guy was lost.”
The couple are making distinctly disapproving noises now, and Obi-Wan knows they’ve succeeded. It’s a small victory, but an important one.
“Well done,” he murmurs, loud enough for Anakin to hear.
There’s a flicker of satisfaction in Anakin's expression as he returns to pilfering the sandwiches.
Obi-Wan refills his cup of tea.
This might just work.
—
Galahad promises to be back the next week, and Anakin is on the fence about it. About this sudden interest from a mentor who clearly had better things to do with his time for the last six months. What's the use of a half-assed lesson plan?
They're down to five candidates now, the clock is ticking. Anakin's done it all by himself. He's even struck a deal with Artoo that if they win this, he'll live a life as a pampered couch dog. Ahsoka is skeptical that Artoo agreed to the deal, but Artoo is also the only trainee dog that stays put when they're at the shooting range, yawning and napping as they shred paper targets.
"He knows our deal," Anakin says smugly. Ahsoka, struggling with her greyhound to keep him from taking like a shot into the woods, groans and throws spent shell casings at him.
In short, he's done great for himself, mentor or no mentor. So Anakin spends the week with doubt simmering in the back of his mind, rolling odds on Galahad showing up and whether Anakin even needs him.
Then Friday rolls around. The sun hasn’t peaked, the grass still wet from the last stubborn cling of early morning dew.
Galahad appears on the field, striding up to meet up with him as if this were established routine for them to meet after Anakin's morning run.
“You’re late,” Anakin says, scratching behind Artoo’s ear. He's slightly winded after doing an hour's worth of laps around the mansion
“A gentleman is never late, merely arrives fashionably,” Galahad says dismissively. "Now hurry up, you are badly in need of a shower."
"I'll get you a steak if you piss on his shoes right now," Anakin says to Artoo as Galahad walks off.
They end up in London, of all places, and Galahad makes the baffling choice to drag him into the National Gallery.
“This isn’t a school trip,” Galahad says when Anakin dares to complain. “It’s immersion. Look around. Tell me what you see.”
“Old people. Tourists. Expensive art no one gives a shit about. More old people. Even more tourists. That guy with the toupee is casing the place.”
“Excellent. Yes, he is. Do you think he’ll succeed?”
“No. Total amateur hour,” Anakin sniffs. “He’s gonna chicken out when he realizes he’s gonna get shot. Why? You gonna do anything about it?”
“No, I believe you’re right. Let’s continue on, shall we? The lesson today is observation, and so far, you’re doing splendidly.”
Against his better judgment, Anakin preens.
They wander the halls, Galahad commentating like a guide; Anakin’s only contribution is an increasingly bored hmm. Then they pause at some abstract piece full of jagged, violent reds and oranges, and it reminds him—
“My mom used to paint,” he says, without thinking.
Galahad’s head tilts, his attention turning to Anakin. “Did she?”
“Yeah.” He scuffs a hand through his hair. His insides knot up, fondness and bitterness closely married. “Nothing fancy like this. Just… you know. Portraits. Stuff to sell at flea markets when she couldn’t pick up hours cleaning houses.”
The words are out before he realizes how they sound—pathetic, vulnerable. He rushes to patch them up. “She’d think this is pretentious crap. I do, too.”
Galahad is still watching him. “I would like to see her art. Did you keep any of it?”
Anakin sticks his hands in his pockets. “She sold everything she ever made.” He feels the weight of Galahad’s gaze like a physical thing. “Can we move on?”
Galahad nods, and they leave the gallery behind for lunch at an overpriced bistro where Galahad orders a steak salad and Anakin stuffs his face with fish and fries. Chips.
“What’s your name, anyway? People are gonna give me funny looks if I call you Galahad in public.” Anakin bites into a fry. “Or is that too top secret for a pleb like me to know?”
Galahad falters. It’s subtle—a tightness around the eyes, crow’s feet deepening—and then gone in a flash. “Hardly. It’s Obi-Wan. At your service.”
“That come with a last name?”
“Maybe later.”
—
In the third week, Anakin crosses the lawn with Artoo trotting at his side to meet his mentor.
“What now?” He tries not to sound too interested.
“Locks.” Obi-Wan leans down to pet Artoo, withdrawing when the Dalmatian growls.
Anakin grins. “Please. I’ve been picking locks since before I hit puberty.”
“Good. Then it’s time for safes.”
Anakin doesn’t mean to betray himself with the way his shoulders straighten. But Obi-Wan catches it anyway, and his amused look makes Anakin want to crawl out of his own skin.
They spend the afternoon in a basement room filled with old and new safes—some are dusty, battered things that look like they came out of an antique shop. Others are sleek, modern, and downright intimidating.
Obi-Wan starts with the basics, and for once, Anakin listens as Obi-Wan walks him through the mechanics of locks vs safe tumblers, the art of feeling the faintest vibration in the dial, the difference between brute-forcing a cheap lock and teasing open something elegant and intricate.
“I take it you’re pleased?” Obi-Wan’s tone is far too knowing as Anakin fiddles with the dial on a particularly tricky safe.
“This is way cooler than art,” Anakin mutters.
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
Anakin's brow furrows until he twists his wrist just right and something underneath his palm settles into place. “Hell yeah!”
Obi-Wan places a hand on his shoulder. “Well done.”
And Anakin wants to bristle and snap that he’s not Artoo to be praised for performing a trick, but his tongue gets in the way, sticking to the roof of his mouth. What comes out is an embarrassingly sullen, “Yeah, whatever, that was easy. Give me something hard.”
“Something hard, mn?” Obi-Wan repeats blandly.
Anakin sputters. Bastard. “A harder safe!”
Obi-Wan’s lips curve in that maddeningly restrained way. “Of course. How careless of me to misunderstand.”
“Just get on with it.” Anakin's face is a shade too warm to be entirely attributed to the basement’s stuffy air. He wipes his sweaty hands on his tracksuit as Obi-Wan strides to a steel case at the far end of the room. When the door swings open, Anakin is riveted. Inside is a sleek, jet-black safe that looks more like an alien console.
“This,” Obi-Wan says, turning to face him, “is a biometric lock with an electromagnetic fail-safe. No smashing. No fried circuits. Pure skill.”
Anakin rolls his shoulders like he’s about to fight someone, giddy. “Piece of cake.”
“Is it? By all means, proceed.” Obi-Wan stands back.
The first ten minutes are frustrating. The safe resists everything he tries—not what Obi-Wan just taught him, or any of the tricks Anakin’s been saving up. The biometric scanner rejects every input, and the electromagnetic field ensures no direct tampering with its internal mechanisms. It’s maddening.
Behind him, Obi-Wan stands and observes.
“I hate this thing,” Anakin grumbles, glaring at it. “Just put your money in a bank like a normal person.”
“Perhaps it was designed for someone who mistrusts banks."”
“Well, whoever they are, they suck.” He rubs his jaw. “It’s not about brute force... so what is it? A trick? A puzzle?”
“You tell me.”
Anakin’s fingers trail over the edges of the lock, pausing at a faint seam along the side. A seam too small to be structural. Decorative, maybe? But it doesn’t match the safe’s minimalist design. Hmm. Would Obi-Wan give me a test I can't pass?
Carefully, he presses his thumb along the edge, and a panel clicks, sliding out of place to reveal a dial, simple and unassuming—a mechanical override.
“Gotcha,” Anakin mutters. He’s grinning again, fully immersed, frustration forgotten. A minute later, the safe door swings open with a hiss.
“Impressive.” Obi-Wan straightens from his perch. “You’ve a sharp eye.”
“I’ve got more than that.” Anakin is way too pleased with himself, and he knows it. But he basks in his victory anyway. “You’ve gotta try harder if you want to stump me.”
“Fear not, I have plenty more where that came from.”
Anakin sits back on his knees and looks up at Obi-Wan. “This was... kinda fun."
“Good. There’s much more to learn." Obi-Wan adjusts his cuff and offers his a hand up. "We're only getting started."
The video recording starts forty-seven hours into Qui-Gon’s mission to retrieve a copy of the database of Jabba Hutt’s criminal empire.
What it skips, as stated in the incident report that Obi-Wan cannot claw out of his brain, is that Qui-Gon was tortured for nine of those forty-seven hours—half his fingers severed, his teeth broken, his ribs cracked.
The recording begins after the last—the final—torture session with a skinny teenage boy unlocking a door.
The report includes a transcript.
BOY: Can you walk?
AGENT CARADOC: Yes.
BOY: You wanna get the hell out of here?
AGENT CARADOC: Also yes.
BOY: You’re not gonna ask if this is a trap?
AGENT CARADOC: I don’t have much to lose, so no.
The recording is bad. So is the audio. Not only have the glasses been smashed into Qui-Gon’s temple—now tacky with blood—but the entire system has switched to low battery mode. His glasses are also storing the data he risked so much to retrieve.
This is the first time Obi-Wan has watched the recording in eight years.
Mace is the one to inform him that Qui-Gon is dead. He leaves it to Obi-Wan to decide whether to watch the recording, stating there’s a good reason for Obi-Wan see it.
Obi-Wan, who only minutes ago had no reason to think that just because Qui-Gon was MIA—that was practically his MO—it would mean...
The video is grainy, each frame a small triumph of the device’s persistence. Obi-Wan leans forward, elbows braced on the desk, the screen bathing his face in cold light. He doesn’t realize he’s holding his breath until the recording's static hiss shifts into sound.
The door creaks open, and a boy steps inside, moving with the quiet efficiency of someone who’s done this before. He’s small—lean, underfed, his clothes too big on his wiry frame.
The boy kneels, unlocking the crude restraints around Qui-Gon’s ankles. His movements are quick but not careless.
“Can you walk?” the boy asks. The audio crackles.
“Yes,” Qui-Gon answers. Calm, steady. He’s good at lying, even after everything.
The boy’s lips press into a thin line. He glances at Qui-Gon’s mangled hands. “You wanna get the hell out of here?”
The video records Qui-Gon’s head bobbing in a nod. “Also yes.”
“You’re not gonna ask if this is a trap?” The boy tilts his head, studying him like he can’t decide if Qui-Gon is stupid, brave, or both.
“I don’t have much to lose,” Qui-Gon says, dry despite the exhaustion dripping from every syllable. “So no.”
The timestamp jumps. Their tech department has edited it.
Obi-Wan isn’t sure if he’s grateful or not.
Obi-Wan isn’t sure if he’s still breathing or not. His hands are hot. His face feels cold. His eyes are dry.
The jumpcut is to a hallway. Qui-Gon is limping, the boy beside him, his shoulder glued to Qui-Gon’s side to help guide him when Qui-Gon looks down. The camera jitters with each step, the dirty lens catching glimpses of metal walls and flickering lights.
In the background, the audio picks up the hum of machinery, distant voices, and the boy’s muttered curses as they approach a junction.
“Why are you doing this?” Qui-Gon is quieter now, strained.
The boy peeks around the corner, his fingers curling tight around the edge of the wall. When he looks back, his face is strained, closed off. “You’re one of the good guys, aren’t you?”
When Qui-Gon responds, it's almost gentle. “I am.”
The boy inhales like he’s just confirmed something he was desperate not to be wrong about. "Then let’s get outta here before someone comes back to finish you off."
The video jumps again. They’re moving faster now, Qui-Gon relying more heavily on the boy as they navigate the warehouse's labyrinthine corridors. The camera records scuffed boots, broken crates, and puddles of oil—or worse—on the floor.
The next interruption is sudden. Shouts erupt behind them.
“Run!” the boy hisses, shrill, almost blowing out the mic.
The recording shakes Qui-Gon stumbles. The audio spikes with the echo of gunfire. Blurred figures appear at the edges.
More gunshots.
More gunshots.
“Watch out!” Qui-Gon barks, shoving the boy down.
Blood sprays across the screen. The camera’s view jerks, catching the boy’s wide, horrified eyes.
“Shit—shit!” the boy gasps, dragging Qui-Gon toward a nearby door. “Don’t you fucking die on me, old man!”
The recording cuts out for thirteen minutes—a gap Obi-Wan will replay in his mind over and over later. When it resumes, Qui-Gon and the boy are outside under the night sky, crouched behind a stack of shipping containers. The footage is worse now, the lens fogged with fresh blood.
The boy is pressing his hands against Qui-Gon’s side. “You said you were one of the good guys, so act like it and stay awake!”
Qui-Gon removes his glasses. They make an audible sound peeling off blood-tacky his skin. “I need you to do something. It’s important. You can’t go back to Jabba. You understand me?”
The boy falters. Fear is bright and caustic on his face. “No—yeah, I get that, but—”
“Go two miles north of here. Find the abandoned gas station. There’ll be a man there. Say, ‘A seat is now empty,’ and give him this.” The recording becomes even harder to parse now, audio muffled, the lens pointed at the ground. “He'll take care of you.”
“You want me to leave you?!”
“Go. And… lìon an suidheachan.”
“What? Old man, hold on!”
The recording ends there.
Obi-Wan doesn’t move for a long time after the screen goes black. His tea has gone cold, the tablet heavy in his hands.
Lìon an suidheachan.
Fill the seat.
And Obi-Wan has to come to grips with the fact that his father is dead—
And he’s chosen his successor.