Entry tags:

50episodes, fanfic

FIC: I Come to You - Obi-Wan Kenobi - PG
TITLE: I Come to You
AUTHOR: agentj / agentjedi
CHALLENGE: 50episodes
CLAIM: Obi-Wan Kenobi
TABLE/PROMPT: 3; #34 Months
RATING: PG
DATE WRITTEN: idea January-February 2005, August 2007
TIMEFRAME: Approximately one month prior to A New Hope
SUMMARY: Obi-Wan finds himself in Mos Eisley on a mission to save a fellow Jedi.
CONTENT WARNING: none
WORD COUNT: 969
AUTHOR'S NOTE: This idea came before "These Whispering Sounds," for which all my other prompts have been written, so it doesn't fit the style I planned for "Sounds" (i.e., the "present" written in first person). The idea was why did Obi-Wan appear to know about the Death Star, as he seemed slightly unsurprised when he said, "That's no moon...." Oh, and if you've been reading my other posts, you'll notice Obi-Wan's favourite drink is a "Denebrian Sunrise" which is the name I gave that blue goo from Attack of the Clones.

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"Here you are, old man," the driver spoke as they approached the centre of the settlement. It was barely a city, really, built up from mud and clay. Metal spires towered from various mud-caked domes to extract moisture from the atmosphere or relay communications. This particular settlement was one of the less reputable on Tatooine—the spaceport of Mos Eisley.

The driver stopped the speeder, and the hooded man swung his legs over the side. Turning back to the driver, he spoke in a cultured Coruscanti accent, "Thank you, young man." His hand slipped out of the folds of his cloak, and he handed the driver the rest of the promised payment for his transportation. "May the Force be with you," the cloaked figure said as he handed off the Imperial credits. He turned away and headed for the shade of the nearest building, missing the look of incredulous surprise on the driver's face—not for the paltry credits, but for the man's statement of faith. The driver shrugged and sped away down the winding dusty roads.

The hooded man stood against the wall of a public cantina, the light of the twin suns blocked by a fluttering canvas tied to posts near the entryway. Pulling off his hood, his face revealed skin leathered by time and the unrelenting suns overhead. His hair was stark white with the barest hint of auburn lingering in his sideburns and beard. The man squinted up into the sky, watching various space ships taking off and landing in the nearby docking ports. With a soft sigh, the elderly man looked pensive and thoughtful at the same time.

It had been three days now since he received the coded transmission. The receiver hadn't been used for years, and at first, he wasn't sure what was causing that beeping from inside his trunk littered with artifacts and old memories. But when the man drew out the holodisc, his blood turned cold. Receiving a message on such an old and disused frequency meant only one thing—a fellow Jedi was in trouble.

"Trickling Brook to Guiding Light. Please respond," the voice called from the past. The man's hand had trembled as he held the holodisc in his palm. He hadn't heard that voice in 17—no, almost 18—years. All at once, his heart leapt in joy—and fell down in disgrace.

With a flick of his thumb, the man had turned on the device to reply. "Guiding Light to Trickling Brook. Go ahead." His voice was strong and steady, a mask he used to deny the years of solitude he'd spent on this wretched dustball. His soul yearned to plea with the voice from the void, to ask a million questions, but years of discipline overruled his reckless impulses.

A disembodied head appeared over the holodisc. The Mon Calamari's face who appeared looked worn by time and constant sorrows. "Thank the Force. Obi-Wan, is that really you?" Apparently, the woman at the other end couldn't withhold those same impulses.

"I don't mean to be terse, Bant," he replied, "but anyone could be monitoring this." Admonishing his fellow Jedi to the end. It was a knee-jerk reaction, bred into him from near-birth, strengthened by years of war, reinforced by decades of hiding.

"We need your help," her voice tore through years of loneliness and pain. Suddenly the holodisc's image spun and sputtered, managing only a few words to come out clearly. "...grave danger...transport...."

A flicker of worry rose to the surface as he responded, "Please repeat, Bant. You're breaking up."

The transmission sputtered again before a solid signal continued, "...managed transport to Tatooine. We will rendezvous with you at Mos Eisley in five days. I repeat..." The image spun again, then burst into static before it cut off completely.

Five days, she said. It would take him nearly all of that just to get to the spaceport. Mainly because he would have to go most of it by foot. Packing as many provisions as he could carry as well as all the Imperial credits he had left from years of bartering and trading, the man set out that very day to make his way across the desert wasteland.

Now here he was, Mos Eisley spaceport, and not a clue where to begin.

What he really needed was a drink.

A cool blast of air struck his back as the door behind him opened and closed, and a very drunk patron wandered out, one of his four scaly limbs wrapped around a jet-black haired woman's waist. The woman slipped him a smile and a hand down his pocket where his credits were likely stored. Suspecting how it would end, the old man slipped inside the cantina.

It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the low-level lighting after staring for days at the yellow sands that had stretched endlessly out before him, but he had more senses than his tired old eyes to see. Instinctively, the man stretched out with the Force to take in more details than a human eye. Wisps of dark tendrils wove in and out of the unseen energies as fellow patrons lied, cheated and generally went about their everyday business of life as they defined it. The man wrapped his arms around his torso, carefully checking his weapon before stepping all the way inside.

He saddled up to the bar.

"Denebrian Sunrise," he ordered when the barkeep turned to him. The heavy-set human eyed the white-haired man, assessing him for potential threat—or promise of profit. Seeing neither in him, the barkeep slid a tall neon blue drink in front of the man and pocketed the credit placed on the table.

The elderly man lifted the drink and eyed it appreciatively. It had been a very long time, indeed.

( Other scenes from Obi-Wan Kenobi's life. )