Chapter Text
Slowly, a deep breath escaped his lips, warmth blooming in his chest, washing away months of weariness, dread and anguish. The constant ache, the tearing, stabbing pains that had burrowed into his body like parasites latching onto every nerve—clawing and chewing his worn frame, using it as a playground to breed more pain and despair—slipped through his fingers like dry sand on a warm sunny day.
The torment that had followed him for months began to fade, like a fleeting memory, a storm that had stranded him in a sea of despair but had long since passed, leaving behind still waters. His eyes fluttered shut, tension bleeding from his form, from his very bones, jaw falling slack, shoulders sagging. Mind finally quiet after months and months of running in circles, of worrying, of dreaded thoughts as it ran on fumes. A sense of calm overtook his weary mind; time slowed as what felt like the weight of the universe lifted from his shoulders, the pressure of failure replaced with a growing hope—an extinguished flame flickering back to life.
The sweet smell of a meadow just after rain flooded his nose as his mind drifted, guided away from the present. Flowers bloomed like distant memory; another hand brushed his; sounds and scents dissolved as the image behind closed lids became vivid enough to see. Yet something dark loomed far on the horizon—a figure standing amid long dead land, shrivelled, hollow trees, shrubs that begged for water. Their eyes met and they were bleeding a crimson red. It charged toward him, reaching.
The warmth slipped away. Rage came for him, clawing.
His mind was ripped back as quickly as it had wandered. Cold sweat dripped from his brow, breath ragged as though he’d seen death itself reach for him. A sour taste filled his mouth. Something held him—locked him in place outside his own body. A warning rang through his very soul. His heart thundered, breath coming in short gasps.
Where was he? What was he meant to be doing?
This wasn’t where he belonged. The realization froze his blood. He forced a deep breath into aching lungs; ribs stung as they expanded. He held it there, pushing his mind to calm, to focus.
Slowly, senses returned. The smaller hand in his own. The deafening chorus of voices. The heavy robes brushing his thin frame. The stench of credits and death.
Ever so slowly his eyes fluttered open, refocusing on the harsh bright stage lights that made his head spin. Turning away his eyes focused instead on the warm table lamps surrounding him. The hand clasped in his tightened, anchoring him. What would he do without her? His eyes flicked down to the young Padawan at his side — features hidden, body taut with weary anticipation. She didn’t look up; she only held his hand, steady — grounding.
He had to calm down; he hissed to himself. He couldn’t let his own feelings overwhelm him, couldn’t let them control him, he had to focus. Had to keep them reigned in. He had to control them, couldn’t — shouldn’t let them affect Ahsoka. He had to keep a cool head. Inhale. Hold. Exhale. Shoulders sagging once more. He squeezed her hand once, reassurance. Breath steadying, mind clearing. He couldn’t afford to fall apart — didn’t have that luxury. His men relied on him. Anakin needed him. He had to hold them all together. He couldn’t break. He wouldn’t break, not here, not now, not until they found Anakin, alive… or dead.
Something warm slipped down his face; he wiped it away quickly. He couldn’t dwell on the thought of never seeing Anakin alive again, couldn’t entertain it. He didn’t know what he would do if he did. The thought of never seeing Anakin alive again. The thought of his cold corpse in his arms. Even worse, the thought of his cooling body, cradled in his grasp. ENOUGH! Not here. Not now! They would find him. There was no reason to grieve, one does not grieve the living. He told himself — repeated. A mantra in his own mind, keeping him sane.
Below stretched a sea of tables and booths filled with the worst the galaxy had to offer — Hutts lounging in their own stench, Zygerrians draped in silks, wealthy Pantorans, Humans cloaked in false civility. Dealers in death and pleasure. Slavers. Collectors. Smugglers. Those whose hands-built empires on suffering, whose credits bought silence and flesh alike.
Here gathered every soul who sought the exotic, the wretched, the thrill of another’s pain, the control over their lives and their deaths alike. Every shade of depravity a sentient mind could conjure had found a home in this pit — a temple to cruelty disguised as commerce. And somewhere within this vile spectacle lay their last hope, their final lead to finding Anakin.
His eyes scoured the crowd until he found them — the few men they’d brought along. Bulky robes disguised them well, even from his very own eyes, their armour perfectly hidden, eyes fixed on the stage, waiting. Like coiled Predators.
The contrast struck him like a bolt through the heart. The 501st—once boisterous, turning war into a game as their way of coping—now stood cold, silent. Seeing that steel in Rex’s features broke something in him. Everyone knew Rex and Anakin had been more than comrades; they’d been true friends. Something hard to find in war, something Anakin had always struggled with, something he had never had after joining the Jedi.
Yet there Rex stood — living proof that it had never been Anakin who couldn’t make friends, never Anakin who struggled to forge connection. It was him. He was the reason Anakin had been left isolated, surrounded by those who despised him — people who had placed him upon a pedestal only to tear it out from under his feet. Sneering, gloating, goading as he fell. It was his fault. Another of his endless blunders dragged into the open for all to see.
Just as when he hadn’t been there the day Anakin was taken. He knew he couldn’t have changed it — knew, objectively, that he’d been light-years away, locked in another battle, another duty. But knowledge brought no peace. The guilt lingered all the same. He should have been there — for Anakin, with Anakin. Just as he should have been there when the boy had stood alone before the Council, a child forced to weather their cold scrutiny and endless ire. Something that had never truly changed.
Rex, however, had. He’d stood with him — beside him — against ally and foe alike. He had weathered every storm, shouldered every wound, and when the end came, he had watched it happen. In truth, Obi-Wan was almost grateful he hadn’t been there. The sight would have shattered him. Yet Rex endured. It was… admirable — but brittle.
So often, Obi-Wan would find him late into the night cycle, on Anakin’s bed, blaster in hand. Through the Force, he would watch as Rex turned the weapon over slowly, again and again, as though weighing some final mercy. Sometimes he would clean it, raising it slightly, holding it there before lowering it once more — continuing the rhythmic motion, over and over, until dawn finally tore him from his thoughts, from his growing ritual. Then he would rise, armour pristine, back straight, eyes hollow, movements measured, voice steady — as if nothing had happened. No one ever questioned him. Just as none questioned the haunted look in Obi-Wan’s own eyes.
Through reports, Obi-Wan had learned that Rex had to be physically restrained—stopping him from throwing himself across the stars to reach the ship that had taken Anakin. He’d been ready — willing — to die if it meant saving him, just as Anakin would have. The thought tore at something deep within Obi-Wan — splintering his very being, with the weight of it.
“Not over my dead body.” Rex’s words echoed his very soul. Once this trail went cold—hope would crumble, would slip through his fingers like sand, under the blaring Tatooine suns.
Here now, on the balcony, gazing down — peering into the deepest roots of corruption. At creatures that so readily embraced the dark. Creatures so accustomed to power, the stench of death clinging to them, a perfume that followed wherever they went. They were vile — a rotting mix of greed and cruelty — and yet, from where he stood, they looked so small. So fragile. So utterly lost. Strayed from the light, tangled so deeply in the dark they no longer knew there was any other way.
And still, the wrongness pressed heavy on his chest. He was among them — part of this same twisted gathering — yet he stood above them. Elevated. Separate. As though the Force itself had lifted him beyond their reach, above judgment, above sin. The contrast struck him like a blow — that illusion of difference, of distance. It wasn’t only them. It was him. It made him sick.
Yet he could not look away — nor could Ahsoka beside him. He doubted the thought had even crossed her mind, but part of him wondered how she would react if it had. Would she have relished the view, or be sickened by it, as he was? Would she even entertain such thoughts?
But that was not the matter at hand.
Together, they watched as artefact after artefact, exotic beast after exotic beast, and living soul after living soul were auctioned off one by one. Bodies ranging from pristine pleasure slaves to scarred pit fighters — all reduced to numbers, to prices. Lives bargained, bought, and sold.
He would have turned and fled if any other choice existed. But there was none.
Anakin, though… Anakin would have charged ahead without hesitation. The thought had just crossed his mind — a reminder of just how different they had always been. How much braver, stronger, better Anakin was, is. Obi-Wan always held back, always hesitated. Anakin always felt so much. Cared so deeply. Perhaps that was why he had never been a good Jedi. But he had been a great man — a greater man than himself, one Obi-Wan was proud to call brother.
The Force will guide us, he had told Ahsoka. But even now, he wasn’t certain what he’d meant by it. She had trusted him — trusted his word — and so here they stood, side by side. Still. Watching. Silent. As the sickness of this place seeped into the air around them. Every muscle tense, searching for whatever it was the Force had led them here to find.
And standing there, with her at his side, the thought came again — sharp, unbidden — of how young she truly was.
Oh, how that thought haunted him now. That small child — for that’s all she was. Barely sixteen. The same age Anakin had once been — just a boy, when Obi-Wan first began to train him — a boy who’d grown far too quickly into a man of twenty. Hardened by war, by death. Both of them had been. Thrust into a conflict too early, a conflict so cruel, so unrelenting, it had carved darkness into even his own heart. He could not help but mourn what had been done to them. Because truly, it had been done to them. Just as it had been done to Anakin’s men.
Unlike himself — unlike that bright, beautiful boy who had once laughed so freely at the sight of rain — they had managed to keep laughing. To find light amidst the dark. They had turned war into something almost bearable: a challenge, a jest, a breath between battles. They’d been good for him; those rare times they’d worked together. Good for Anakin. Good for Ahsoka.
He mused how she had once told him that they were the reason she could rise each morning — because no matter how grim the days behind, someone would always try to make her smile. Watching them bicker and tease had brought warmth to Anakin too, though that light had faded as the war dragged on.
But now… now they stood cold. Calculating. Silent.
It had been this way for months.
It showed just how deep a wound Anakin’s absence had left — how wide the hole truly was. Obi-Wan saw it in himself, too. He hadn’t smiled since the day they told him Anakin was gone. He doubted the men had either. That tight focus, that quiet anxiety — it all rested on this mission. None of them would slip up. They couldn’t afford to.
He hoped — Force, he needed — to find Anakin here. Not a whisper. Not a trace. Him.
That was why he’d chosen Kix to remain aboard the transport, monitoring their position. Jesse stood not far behind them, watching their backs, making sure nothing went wrong.
He could feel Fives’ anticipation pulsing through the Force, mirroring his own. They had been here for over four standard hours — listening, watching, waiting — as artefacts, creatures, and people were paraded and sold. Still, they had found nothing.
It was the first time they had all worked together for a single purpose: finding Anakin.
The men who once laughed and teased over who would wake Ahsoka were now sharpened into hunters — silent, precise, coiled like springs ready to pounce.
If Anakin had been here in his place, he would have stormed in, his fleet in tow. Council and Senate be damned. But Obi-Wan didn’t have that luxury. Didn’t have the strength. They’d been searching for three months without permission.
The Council had given up — declared Anakin dead.
That fact burned. He wanted to scream that they never cared about their Chosen One, only the prophecy he carried. But he’d swallowed the words. Knew they would never let him out of their sight if he didn’t. Yes, Masters. Of course, Masters. He’d left with fire in his heart.
Once Anakin was back—safe, healed—he’d leave the Order. He’d take Anakin, ask Ahsoka to come, go to Naboo with Padmé or Mandalore with Satine. Somewhere, anywhere far from the war that had stolen Ahsoka’s youth and scarred a boy with stars in his eyes.
But none of that could become reality if they didn’t find him.
A sharp shrill sound cut through the hall, drawing the gaze of every creature in the hall. The crowd stilled, the loud air fell eerily silent. A man stood centre-stage, gloved hands clasped in front of him, back straight as a rod, his slight frame draped in black. As the lights dimmed, a single white beam fixed on him — too precise, too deliberate. The scrape of metal on metal echoed, through the silence as the patrons waited with bated breaths. Only when it ceased did he finally speak.
“We thank you all for so graciously attending this auction,” he began, voice stretched by an unnatural grin. Ahsoka’s hand tightened in Obi-Wan’s; she felt it too—the wrongness that thickened the air.
“As we reach the final act before the curtains close, our esteemed host presents the centrepiece of your evening—a token of gratitude for your continued patronage.” The man bowed too fluidly to be living.
This was it. The lead their contact had whispered of. Something valuable. Something connected to the roots of evil that hung in the air. The Force whispered a warning—sharp certain. The lights grew as a large, shrouded container was forced into focus.
“All that remains,” the auctioneer paused tension growing before he finally continued, “is a pre-bid.”
“Do not worry — it will be worth every credit,” the auctioneer taunted, voice dripping with false charm. “So—who shall take the first step?”
A hush swept the hall. Whispers rose and tangled through the silence as the price was named. Obi-Wan’s pulse quickened. Whatever this was, it was precious. Guarded. Expensive. They waited. Breaths held as patrons murmured. A Twi’lek slave stepped forward, trembling — her mistress, a Zygerrian noble, draped in the finest gold and ores worth more than planets.
“The mighty Quirella Darak accepts the gamble—five million, one hundred twenty thousand credits—to unveil the mystery and begin the bid.” She spoke, her voice though uneven cut through the silence.
“Excellent!” the auctioneer’s glee palpable — grin widening into something sickening, sharp, “Unveil the product”.
Two servants stepped forward. They pulled. The cloth fell away.
It felt as though time slowed. The sight froze the blood in his veins and stole the breath from his lungs. A tremor rippled through the Force — a shockwave that reached even Masters light-years away. The shift left Jedi uneasy, their senses recoiling. Ahsoka’s hand crushed his. He drew her close, shielding her face against his chest before she could see.
At first, his mind was unable to comprehend what it was exactly that was presented to him, to all of them. Then the smell hit — charred flesh. Decay. Blood. Metal. He had thought himself long since numb to the stench of war. But this — this was worse. It seared his throat, burned his lungs, made his eyes sting with tears he refused to shed.
Within the cage hung a man.
His left arm shackled high above his head, barbs digging into the soft flesh, body suspended, feet barely brushing the floor. His right arm—gone, severed nearly to the shoulder, blood still oozing, a sluggish trail running down his side.
Hair matted with sweat and dried blood, hid his face. Coiled around his throat like a viper, stood a Force-suppressing collar, dug so deep blood trickled freely down his chest, soaking the blackened flesh below.
Scars and burns covered every visible part of his body—a sickening map to the agony he had endured. His skin pale as starlight the bruises blooming black across ribs that rose unevenly beneath too-thin flesh. His torn trousers hung loosely, streaked with grime, blood. The patches of visible skin below, covered in deep gashes, sunken wounds. Some ribs pressed inward, threatening to pierce lungs already fighting for breath.
Each breath he could take shallow, quick — the desperate gasp of a body too broken to rest.
Ahsoka trembled against him, tears streaming silently down her cheeks. The Force screamed her grief, clawing at everything around her, the sound shaking him to his very core. His hand hovered over his belt—not over his own weapon but over Anakin’s. Oh, if only he’d had it when they had been ambushed. But regrets would not save him now.
Below, Fives and Kix fought to keep their composure—to keep the contents of their stomachs inside. They were closer — close enough to see the greyed flesh, the blood still dripping. Even battle-hardened soldiers struggled not to gag. Rex stood perfectly still, fists clenched so tightly his knuckles shone bone white.
“Might I present—Jedi General Anakin Skywalker, the Hero with no Fear” He sneered, the auctioneer’s words rang through the crowd, sharp, cruel. All around, bidders stirred—eager, hungry. The price climbed fast. Five million. Eight. Ten.
“How can we know it’s still good?” the Zygerrian woman’s servant called, her voice breaking slightly. Obi-wan's jaw clenched teeth grinding, as they viewed Anakin as an object.
“Oh, it still works. Jedi are rather difficult to train, but Toys are no fun if they don't work.” The auctioneer laughed before he produced a remote from between his hands, his finger carefully clearly descended upon a small red button.
Obi-wan could only watch as electricity crackled, as it coursed through Anakin’s body. He could only watch as the man’s body convulsed painfully, a strangled cry—barely human—tore from his throat. His voice, raw, broken shredded by torture that had stretched on for months.
“He’s under partial paralytics and a force-suppressor,” the auctioneer continued cheerily. “as well as a drug to heighten pain receptors. A true marvel of science!” Obi-wan could only swallow. A chorus of voices one louder than the next, falling all over each other, sung through the crowd. Everyone wanted him, everyone wanted the prized possession on the Jedi order, but none stood a chance.
“One Hundred million credits,” Quirella declared. Silence fell. No one dared challenge the bid.
Obi-Wan could feel just how tightly Rex was coiled, every muscle drawn taut — they both knew, they couldn’t act. Not yet. Too many guards. Too many eyes. Rex’s fists trembled. Rage burned through his composure, barely held in check. Every instinct screamed to move — to end it, to make them all pay. But he forced himself still. There would be a moment. There had to be.
He couldn't hear the rest of the auctioneers words, the ringing in his ear drowning out all noise. He stood there holding this poor broken girl in his arms, as he tried so hard not to fall apart himself. He swallowed, jaw set tightly, he watched shadows flit across his vision. He pulled himself out of the sludge that was dragging him down. He forced his legs to move turning them sharply, slipping into the shadows. Patrons passed them, slowly drifting down their respective paths — some descending into the depths below to collect their prizes, others climbing toward the surface, muttering their displeasure at wasted time.