Chapter Text
The glowing datapad bathed the room in cold blue light. A chronometer on the wall ticked far past the usual hour Obi-Wan went to bed, and yet there he sat, brow furrowed, lips pressed into a disapproving line that deepened with every flick of his thumb.
What am I doing? he despaired.
But he kept at it. Another 19 Gem Clusters would be enough for a pull. All he had to do was beat the next two floors of the Endless Tower, sweat it out through the randomly selected boss that would spawn at the end, and he’d earn 20 GC as a reward for a first-time completion.
Which would put him at 161 GC exactly. At 160 GC, he could pull a guaranteed 5-star. His pity was at 99%—a terrible stroke of luck. RNG did not like him.
(How in the world he was already at max pity after playing the game for a dizzyingly intense five days, he did not care to probe.)
Coruscant’s traffic filtered through the walls of his quarters, picking up as it headed into the early morning rush. He had a meditation class for initiates in two hours. Then he was scheduled for an escort mission—one he’d quite looked forward to, as the archaeologists of Kerus IV had requested Jedi accompaniment while exploring a newly uncovered city of ruins below the surface of their planet, citing the potential of an offshoot branch of the Order having made their home there more centuries ago.
His thumb flicked again. Callused from decades of wielding a lightsaber, from tending to plants, from training until sweat dripped down the slope of his nose, it proved equally skilled at dispatching mooks.
He checked the chronometer, wincing. If he didn’t make it through the Tower in under thirty minutes, he might as well restart the whole encounter and try again, because if the minutes rolled over, he’d incur a score penalty, lowering his reward to 18 GC.
Which was unacceptable—not because Obi-Wan was addicted, but because this was all research. An assessment of whether the Council should be concerned.
Nocturnal Star Driver was the latest fad sweeping through the Inner Core, and the Temple’s youths were not exempt. Odds were that half his pupils that day would be bleary-eyed from staying up to play. That alone was a strike against it, but it wasn’t thorough enough. More data was needed.
Specifically, he needed unbiased data. Too much the Holonet discourse was riddled with biases and political agendas, poor material to base an informed opinion on.
Which was why he’d agreed to take on the project at the last Council meeting, much to the relief of the other members. Kit had turned a fascinating shade of green while stiffly admitting he’d had a brush with "gambling" games in his youth and did not wish to revisit the topic. Depa had pointed out that she had her hands full with her new Rodian padawan—the one that had crashed a speeder bike through a pricey porcelain shop.
“Gambling?” Obi-Wan had inquired, alarmed. “There is gambling in this… Nocturnal Star Driver? How can that be? Republic law forbids minors from participating in games of chance.”
“Nevertheless, it clearly does not run afoul of the law,” Mace Windu had said, rubbing his temples. “At least not the letter. The spirit of it remains to be seen. If you are willing to undertake this project, can we expect a risk assessment on the matter within a month’s time?”
Obi-Wan had said yes. Coming down hard on trends rarely led to positive outcomes. One had to study the situation and turn it into a teaching opportunity whenever possible.
And now it was nearly four in the morning.
His eyes narrowed intently. Floor down. Up the next. Save point. Ability points replenished. But not health. He couldn’t use items, either. All he had was his overworked healer. He really had to set aside some time to farm better gear, she was more than pulling her weight for the party. Pity she was only a 3-star medic… it didn’t seem practical to invest resources into her kit if he should be aiming to gain a better healer, right?
Except she was currently saving his run, so.
Decisions.
Truly, he hadn’t expected NoctStar—as it was colloquially known amongst the playerbase—to be so tactically demanding. Players had to balance all sorts of criteria, with materials being capped on a weekly basis unless one paid a premium with credits, at which point the cap was raised but not entirely lifted.
Obi-Wan had not paid for premium. While he spent more whenever he visited Dex’s diner for a good grilled nerf steak burger, surely he did not need to go that far, even if he’d be reimbursed by the Council. The game was freehanded enough in its own way, showering daily players with rewards. Sure, those rewards could be multiplied by ludicrous amounts with a few credits, but “a few credits” was a slippery, treacherous line of reasoning.
Half of floor two down. He rolled his shoulders, tension stringing them up tight as if he were facing off against an enraged Krayt dragon.
Right. He could do this. Then he’d sleep.
Facing the capstone boss was anticlimactic. He got lucky that, in a pool of almost 200 potential enemies, what spawned was one he’d already fought. Maybe the odds were tuned to favor newbies? He’d heard rumors along those lines on the forums and, from his own experiences so far, couldn’t discount the possibility.
It went down in an embarrassing three turns, barely putting a scratch on his tank before the medic whipped out a gel spray and fixed them right up.
Yawning, Obi-Wan rolled his shoulders again. His tongue was unpleasantly heavy, sticking to his soft palate. He glanced at the cup on the table beside him, which earlier in the evening had been filled with gently simmered tangblossom peel tea, but was now just as dry and tacky as the inside of his mouth.
► CONGRATULATIONS! YOU HAVE PASSED THE THIRD SET OF FLOORS! ◀
▻▻ [REWARD] GEM CLUSTER x20
He rapidly tapped the screen. All he cared about was finally receiving his first 5-star character and sinking his teeth into whether the system was so predatory that 5-stars were necessary to make it through the combat.
What Obi-Wan did not expect—but would have, if he’d read through the news bulletin earlier that evening instead of ignoring the flashing red icon in favor of plowing through his daily tasks to earn GC—was for the screen to dramatically darken as soon as he was free of the Endless Tower.
“Summon the power of the Twin Suns themselves,” whispered a low, genderless voice, followed by a jolt of drums spiking Obi-Wan’s pulse. “Learn the secret that lies buried deep in the burning sands.”
The screen flashed text, accompanied by the fervent drumming:
◼▸ NOCTURNAL STAR DRIVER PRESENTS
◼▸ PHASE 1.2 [THE GOD CHILD’S ARRIVAL]
◼▸ NEW CHARACTER REVEAL║ SKYWALKER ║
★ ★ ★ ★ ★
DAMAGE SPECIALIST
The character emerged in a flare of electric gold, haloed into an ominous silhouette before an obnoxious lens-flare transition revealed the design. Obi-Wan caught tousled sun-gold hair and a smile sharp enough to slice through durasteel, exploding into movement as they dispatched an army of foes.
The animation lingered on Skywalker’s face in between the violence just long enough for Obi-Wan’s breath to catch. Then the shot widened, following the fluid arc of his weapon—not a Jedi’s weapon, but something close—a blade of molten amber trailing light like a comet’s tail.
“Dynamic battle animations,” the narrator whispered again. “Exclusive elemental burst: Ideal’s End —summon the power of the Twin Suns to annihilate all that would bar your way.”
Obi-Wan’s face was warm. He chalked it up to the heat of the screen.
“Hm, that seems exaggerated," he muttered. His datapad stayed balanced against his knee as the trailer ended on a close-up shot of Skywalker, his generous mouth crooked into a smile that spoke of arrogance and the talent to back it up, before he melted away into a silhouette, and then into nothing at all.
A fine display of showmanship. But Obi-Wan wasn’t a fool. He’d browsed the forums, had played the game for almost a standard week now. He’d developed a theory of how the game skirted around gambling prohibitions and how it excelled at fostering impulsive desires—the dazzling lights, the slow pans, the rich orchestral swells designed to capture a viewer’s attention until it frayed into need.
But that knowledge did nothing to temper the skip in his chest when the Warp Vortex finally loaded, announcing that 5-star Skywalker, the God Child, was available.
Skywalker’s pose on the banner was quite similar to the trailer’s. He stood with his weapon drawn, held casually, head tilted, gaze low-lidded, mouth curling in a knowing, lopsided grin. His outfit left appallingly little to the imagination: gauzy loops and twists of black shimmersilk wrapped around his well-muscled arms and snaked around his chest, exposing far too much golden skin.
Obi-Wan’s fingers hovered just shy of the screen. The character’s gaze burned into him—bright, intense, impossibly tangible for something so manufactured. No doubt the character had been finessed and designed after tallying the most desirable traits for a human male.
He clicked his tongue—which was heavier and drier now—disapprovingly. The boy was hardly dressed. Was that the edge of an areola peeking out? He nudged the screen as if that would zoom in. Due diligence, and all that.
Stars, but he was beautiful.
Obi-Wan frowned at himself for that thought. The lack of sleep was getting to him. What a ridiculous thing to think about a bunch of pixels.
He selected the [WARP] button. If he understood the mechanics, he had a 50/50 chance of getting either this newly released “Skywalker” or one of the standard units already available in the game. What he ended up with was irrelevant, since either way, it would be a coveted 5-star.
The screen dissolved into glittering fragments. Cards filled the screen, then one rose to the top.
It was an effective tactic for creating tension, he noted. The deliberate pauses and showy graphics. He could easily see someone falling prey to this build-up of anticipation.
The card flipped, shining gold.
NEW CHAMPION:
║ KEE-MAL, BLOSSOMED PURITY ║
★ ★ ★ ★ ★
HEALER
Hm.
Obi-Wan tapped the screen, somewhat dissatisfied. That was the 5-star healer, though, wasn’t it? That was considered a “good” pull?
Hmm.
He set aside the datapad, intending to call it a night. He’d put in enough work on this project for the time being; he had other responsibilities. Duties.
Obi-Wan glanced back at the datapad when it chimed, more a reflex than anything else.
A new message flashed at the top of the screen, as subtle as a thermal detonator in the middle of the Senate floor:
Pre-Pull Event! 10x Summons FREE for Limited-Time Champion: Skywalker, the God Child!
Oh, for Star’s sake. The game’s ploy was so blatant, surely no one would take this as benevolence? It was textbook manipulation of the seediest sort.
He reached for the pad again and claimed the offer, justifying that every padawan and initiate in the Temple was likely doing—or would be, when logged in for their dailies—the very same. What use was investigating if he didn’t follow every rabbit hole down to its inevitable conclusion?
A beat, followed by the usual animation. Cards turned over, one by one—a low-rank upgrade material, another low-rank, a 3-star even he recognized was useless, another material. He made notes on all of this.
The penultimate card revealed another low-rank item. Obi-Wan sighed. He’d expected no less, really.
The final card flipped.
Blazing gold. Obi-Wan’s brows furrowed. What? Again? What were the odds on that?
His stomach dropped and lifted at once, a strange, weightless sensation he hadn’t felt since his early padawan days.
The new character flourished their twin blades with theatrical flair. Their grin was cocky, knowing, dazzling.
NEW CHAMPION:
║ YUK UMAI, DAGGER OF SHADOWS ║
★ ★ ★ ★ ★
DAMAGE SPECIALIST
It was not Skywalker.
Obi-Wan was bemused. This would go into his report, he decided. Perhaps he should go on the ‘net and look at images of Skywalker to append, so that the Council could better understand the issue.
Yes. Yes, he’d do that.
“You’re selling ouuuuuut.”
“Shut up.”
“So popular, so wizard.”
“I’m going to slice into your apartment UI and make sure you have to drink the shitty caf from Novadoe’s.”
“Hey! That’s not nice.” His coworker’s eyes filled with tears—a sight that might have been more moving if her species didn’t do that at will. “You wouldn’t do that to me! You love me!”
Anakin had nothing to throw at her. Not unless he wanted to break his ridiculously expensive customized datapad. Or one of his favorite digital pens. He waved dismissively, his mouth turning down at the corners. “Seriously, bring it up again and you can kiss your sonic goodbye.”
She wiggled a tentacle back at him. “Hard not to talk about it when Skywalker is the top-selling champion. He’s breaking records, and that’s insane, you know that? Normally gamers just want those gross mammalian breasticles your females have—”
“Maeki.”
“—ineffective fat storage, if you ask me. So, um, anyway.” She changed the topic abruptly, which should have tipped him off that a pile of bantha poodoo was rolling his way.
Just like he should have sensed it coming when Maeki asked if she could use him to sketch out a human male character. Anakin’s aptitude detecting danger was razor-sharp, but apparently the Force didn’t concern itself with underpaid designers, because he’d agreed.
“Maeki…” Anakin just wanted to go home. He was tired of the double-takes from NoctStar players on the speeder bus. He was tired of opening up his work computer to be greeted by the full splash art of Skywalker, the God Child while knowing the company was making millions by selling a tarted up version of himself that had apparently never skipped leg day.
Or arm day.
Or abs day.
Or any kind of day at the gym.
Or that had ever fought in the war.
He rubbed his prosthetic, feeling the twinge of old pains, as if all his scars were scabs again.
He screwed in his earbuds and hunched over his datapad—another bug logged, another line of code tweaked, another micro-adjustment to the clunky physics engine that had been giving them grief. He should have been in the zone, new-zeon music pulsing, locked in that narrow, blessed headspace where everything beyond the screen was meaningless white noise.
But Maeki wouldn’t shut up.
“I’m serious! Top. Selling. Champion.” Her tentacle slapped the side of the tablet. “They’re calling him ‘the face of the franchise’ in the investor briefings. It’s big-time.”
He gritted his teeth, attention trained on the line of code like if he stared hard enough, maybe he could brute-force himself into blanking out. But Maeki’s blathering slithered in through the cracks like damp air.
“Bet you’re amazed, huh?” she pressed, her grin audible even without teeth. “You’ll be a celebrity soon!”
“Shut up, Maeki.” He deleted three lines in a row, retyping them slower than necessary.
“Aw, come on. It’s not that bad—”
“They own my face.” His stomach burned with resentment. “They own my name. They’ve got a fake version of me in shimmersilk making bedroom eyes at the camera like…” His throat hit a snarl. “It’s karking humiliating, and it’s your design, so maybe don’t talk to me for a while.”
Maeki’s silence was loud enough that he glanced at her through the transparent walls separating their desks. She’d folded all her tentacles neatly on her lap, her eyes—all five of them—fixed on him with a look frustratingly close to concern.
“Are you mad at me?” she asked piteously.
What the hell do you think?
“No,” he grunted, turning back to his screen. If the war and its aftermath had taught him anything, it was lying to get people off his back. “Just don’t bring it up again, alright?”
By the time his shift ended, he’d recompiled the code three times before realizing he’d been fixing the same problem in circles. Pointless, frustrating, draining. He left the bug half-fixed and ducked out.
Coruscant’s smog was almost normal to him now, along with the sensation of billions of sapients crammed together. He’d had enough practice closing himself off while in the army, but Coruscant had been a challenge, and on bad days? It still was.
He barely made it a block before he felt it: the creeping sensation of being watched. That had been happening more often lately, ever since the ad campaign hit and plastered Skywalker on billboards the size of speeders.
Anakin’s hood went up. His mecha-hand tugged it forward until it shadowed most of his face.
“Is that…?”
“What? What are you on?”
“Looks like him, though, huh? I mean, kinda?”
“Nah, that’s nerf scat. Skywalker is gorgeous… and fictional.”
His jaw tightened. Usually commuters just murmured to each other like he was an oddity on a shelf. Sometimes they’d sneak a holo-snap—never as subtle as they thought. But tonight the attention felt heavier.
The Force stirred.
He ducked down a side alley. Not fleeing, just… changing course.
Stupidly, he itched to reach inside his bag for his collapsible baton, but he didn’t. There weren’t Separatists out there with blasters. No one was hunting him. Not for real.
He checked over his shoulder, catching sight of three figures at the mouth of the alley.
Anakin’s heart kicked hard enough to make him stop moving. His hand made an abortive attempt for his bag.
“Just fans,” he muttered to himself, forcing his legs into motion. “Just… just fans.”
He’d report it to Royal Games, except it wouldn’t do any good. Once he discovered what Maeki had done, he’d written an almost-panicked email to HR about it. They’d sent back a reminder about the million sneaky little stipulations written into his employment contract, and how his appearance under the circumstances was considered company property. Like he’d signed up for this. Like he’d asked to be made into some over-idealized version of himself that had never known a battlefield, never had his body broken and reforged into something half-synthetic and always aching.
Besides, he didn’t need anyone’s protection. Anakin was more than capable of taking care of himself.
He faced forward and breathed in through his nose, out through his mouths, expanding his awareness. The Force was there. It was always there. It was in every living creature, and even in some things that couldn’t be called either.
No malice. But he didn’t want to put up with whatever this was. He was just a normal guy. Nothing more. Nothing less.
He jumped up, pressed his feet against the smooth plaster, and flipped back, scaling the space between the two buildings in seconds, climbing into the open window the Force tugged him toward, dropping into an empty hallway.
Well; not quite just a normal guy. But close enough.
He dusted himself off, tugged his hood down, and whistled as he exited the building’s ninth floor through the bridge leading to the next level of the city. A longer walk, and he had to check his holophone for the speeder bus schedule, but he was in luck; a bus was scheduled to arrive at the next stop soon.
The Force went quiet.
But he had the feeling that wouldn't last long.
It didn’t.
Anakin chugged back caf and squinted at the monitor. Lines of code flitted across the screen, green for “all good” and searing red for “you’ve ruined everything.” He tracked the red entries with bafflement.
“I have news,” Maeki sing-sang from behind him.
“What.”
“Well, they’re maybe, um, not good news?” Her tentacles wavered in the air. “But it looks like someone on the holonet started digging around, you know? And they saw an ‘Anakin Skywalker’ on the coding team and…”
He grit his teeth so hard it was a wonder his molars didn’t crack. “And what?”
Maeki’s tentacles vibrated. “Er. Well. Theymadeafanclubforyou.”
It took Anakin a second. “Excuse me?”
“Made. A fanclub. For you.” Maeki peered over the transparent divider. “Um. They named it AnakinTheRealSkywalker. ATRS. Could’ve come up with something catchier, if I’m being real with you. Skyanakin? …Skykin? That anything?”
“Kark’s sake.” Anakin downed the rest of his cold caf. “You’ve gotta be kidding me.”
“Sorrrryyyyyyy.” Her big eyes filled with tears again. “I mean, seriously, I didn’t think Skywalker would blow up this much, and I was pressed for time, and K’a’llum kept rejecting all my other designs, so I was just like, you know who has real brooding main-character energy? My fantastic coworker Anakin! Who is super wizard and wouldn’t hold it against me. Even if, um, fans petitioned the company to have you show up at the Royal Con….?”
Anakin’s heart dropped right into a yawning pit at the same time as the Force twinged—and then his inbox pinged.
With a profound sense of doom, Anakin tapped the flashing icon.
FROM: [email protected]
SUBJECT: Royal Con—Skywalker Event
Anakin put it down his tablet and said, very seriously, “Maeki, I’m giving you five minutes to run.”
She took them.