por la oba

[uscathena]

Happy birthday, obaona!

Title: Eluding Order Sixty-six
Fandom: Star Wars
Characters: OCs
Timeframe: RotS
Genre: gen
Summary: An average Jedi has above average luck while escaping the Purge.
Author's notes: For oba, mainly. Unbetaed and not very well written; you are warned in advance. It was mostly hand-written while I was supposed to be listening to lectures on Cicero. Thus, not very thoughtful. Sorry :p

“Ambush.” He said the word so calmly that even the most seasoned and hardened clone troops would have felt chided.

His posture remained the same; rigid back, arms folded behind him, left knee slightly bent. Only his expression changed - contemplative to focused.

The bridge crew bristled behind him, waiting for the obvious order to retreat. But Daven Staver wasn’t quite ready to give it just yet; at least not in the way they all supposed.

“Fan out,” he ordered instead, his gaze flicking to the comms operator. “I want the Duty and the Defender about five parsecs on either side of us. Make it look like they’ve done an unordered desertion.”

Five parsecs was much too far away for those other ships to defend them. The comms tech paled slightly, but did as he was told.

“Once they’ve reached the right distance, they’ll jump into hyperspace. Back to these coordinates, in the first formation. We hold our position here. Let them come.”

The small Separatist force loomed in the distance, edging ever closer as their sublight engines brought them up to speed. The Baking Guild, from the looks of it.

“Ready fighters for launch.” Daven narrowed his eyes. “We defend our position.”

The two battle groups nearly collided - with one severely outnumbered. Streaks of red and green lit up the space outside the viewport as the Guild’s fighters struck.

“Launch fighters. Protect our hull and turrets.”

As expected, the enemy cruisers looped around, attempting to encircle the lone Republic ship. Daven fought the instinct to blink rapidly when the first shots hit the shields and created bright flashes.

“Shield power: ninety percent.”

Daven all but ignored the warning. Instead, he focused his line of sight on the movement of the Separatist group.

“Commander, Duty and Defender have made their jumps.”

“Eighty-five.”

Daven sucked in a breath and counted: thirteen, twelve …

“Seventy.”

“Fire the turrets at the cruiser shifting port side. Don’t let them get too close.” Eleven, ten …

The ship shook as one of the Separatist cruisers struck a glancing blow across the hull with its turbolaser. Nine, eight …

A wild dogfight spun nearly out of control, providing a spectacular performance lasting but a moment. The clone pilot soon gained the upper hand. The droid ship dipped down in its fiery death, hitting Daven’s shields head on. Three, two …

“Sixty.”

The two other Republic cruisers blinked into real space right on time, greeting the battle group with a hale of fire. Surprised, the Banking Guild ships attempted to turn and face their new attackers. Two of the smaller cruisers made it, but a larger, slower ship wasn’t so lucky: the Duty managed to land a critical hit on the rear, where the shields weren’t nearly as fortified.

One of the small cruisers lasted only a bit longer than its larger sister - it found itself boxed in between the Defender and Daven’s flagship, the Rebound (Daven always thought the name strange). The two Republic cruisers made easy work of the weaker vessel.

“Focus the Duty on that M-class,” Daven ordered, pointing the ship towards the smaller cruiser. “We group with the Defender to handle the H-class.”

Slowly the Separatist ships broke off their encirclement, either through their own destruction or through veering to avoid the Republic cruisers.

“Shields at forty-five, sir.”

“The H-class is down!”

“M-class destroyed!”

“Prepare a boarding party. We take the H-class.”

As he watched the troop shuttle head towards the dead Separatist cruiser, Daven couldn’t help but wonder if this was the easiest Republic victory in the Clone Wars yet.

Daven smoothed out a fold in his robe absentmindedly. The comm. room aboard the Rebound was cool, and the smallest breeze of recycled air blew against his face. He shifted his weight slightly as the holocomm activated.

A life-sized, blue mockup of the council chambers appeared before him, and he found himself staring into the hardened eyes of Jedi Master Mace Windu. The master looked away first, not because of any sort of bashfulness, but because he had to gaze down at the datapad sitting on his knee.

Daven took the moment to glance around the chamber. Most of the masters’ chairs were empty - they were all away attending to one battlefront or another. Windu was leading the Council, with Masters Kit Fisto, Saesee Tiin, and Agen Kolar. Odd and unexpected, though, was the presence of Anakin Skywalker, a knight only slightly older than Daven. Was he made a master already?

Skywalker regarded him coolly, and Daven quickly looked away.

“Knight Daven Staver, Battle Group Forty-five,” Windu said, finally identifying him via the information on the datapad. Windu didn’t know who he was, but Daven took no offense. He wasn’t a famous Jedi, even among the Order - especially among the Order. His line bore no renowned Jedi - his master hadn’t made a name for himself, neither has his master’s master. The only thing distinguishing of his line was their unique lightsaber colors. Crystal caves other than Ilum had been found by the originator - the oldest known master of Daven’s Master/Padawan line - and the location of that planet had been passed from master to padawan for generations.

Windu keyed up the ’pad. “Report.”

“The intel was a set up,” Daven admitted. “We were ambushed.” He keyed up a schematic, so that the battle would appear as a large holo in the council chamber next to him. It replayed the battle using rough animation in a ratio of seconds to minutes. Windu raised an eyebrow as he watched. “We lost a capital ship, but we managed to capture an M-class.” The holo winked out.

Windu sat back, folding his hands across his lap.

“Your performance was … impressive,” he admitted, with a touch of surprise in his voice.

Daven’s throat went dry at the unexpected praise, but he managed a small nod. Again, Daven’s line was never known as ‘impressive.’ Slipping into the shadows, blending into the background - undercover work - that was the usual way (though Daven, with his red hair, doubted he would ever play that role well). Tactics, bold moves - this was rather uncharacteristic.

“The hyperdrive on the M-class is out,” Daven said when it became obvious that Windu was done speaking. “We’re towing it to Ord Mandell at subspeed.”

“No,” Windu ordered. “Reroute to Cambriley. We are undergoing negotiations with the Twi’lek population there. They are seeking a way to prove themselves useful to the Republic. Let them use your ship repairs.” Daven merely nodded once in acceptance. “That will cut your trip short by a number of days. When you return to Coruscant, you will be promoted to general and assigned to the Eighty-fifth.”

“Master,” Daven acknowledged. A slight prickle at the left side of his neck forced him to turn his head suddenly to regard Skywalker’s gaze. The older Jedi looked almost annoyed. Ignoring the look, Daven reached a hand out to disconnect the call.

“Hold,” Windu said before he cut it. “What is this M-class’s new call name?”

“Ah,” Daven said, finding himself pausing. “I renamed it to enter it into the registry. It’s a temporary name; it’ll be changed upon being recommissioned.”

Windu looked at him like one would an errant padawan. “I am aware of this, Knight. We need the title for our records now.”

Daven swallowed roughly. “Ah. The Hero With Slightly Less Trepidation Than the Average Sentient.”

“I see,” Windu said, dryly, typing the entire name into his datapad. “Thank you, Knight Staver. May the Force be with you.”

At the unofficial note of dismissal, Daven bowed and moved to shut off the comm. He stole a glance, though, to his left as the holo flickered out, only to see an expression of barely contained rage radiating out from Anakin Skywalker.

“The man has no sense of humor,” Daven stated as the ramp descended. “It’s hardly my fault.”

“Mace Windu is a Jedi Master,” Ona reminded him in monotone. Daven shifted his gaze to regard his clone lieutenant more fully.

While normally Daven would insist that Ona had more personality than the average clone, on some days he had to wonder. He was a great soldier - Daven had made him active captain of the Hero - and an even better friend. That more than made up for any personality defaults. He even trusted Ona enough to travel in his company without the rest of the squad down to the planet’s surface. Cambriley was ruled to be a safe enough place, and Daven felt no real danger - aside from that which always loomed behind the tides of war.

“Not Master Windu. Anakin Skywalker,” Daven corrected. “He’s my age, and I’ve never hardly ever seen him crack a smile. You think he could take a joke.” He blinked, adjusting his eyesight to the gleam of a setting sun. His focus cleared, and he spotted a small welcoming party of Twi’leks awaiting them.

“You insulted his name,” Ona said. “You offended him.”

“‘Hero With No Fear’ isn’t his name,” Daven grunted. “It isn’t even a title. Holding an attachment to a ridiculous nickname isn’t proper, anyway.” He sighed as they moved towards the party. Ona followed in silence, either in agreement or indifference.

Cambriley was extremely industrial - prefabricated skyscrapers lined the horizon, absorbing the sunlight like gray rocks in a canyon. They definitely had the resources to fix a cruiser, but had, perhaps, little else.

“Greetings,” a young, blue Twi’lek, clearly the leader, said once they stood nearly a meter apart. “I am Dia’tia. Which of you is the Master Jedi?” She glanced between the two uncertainly.

Daven cast a sidelong look at the clone, imagining Ona holding a lightsaber. Clearly the Twi’leks of Cambriley were quite unawares of what Jedi looked like. He was, after all, even wearing his robes.

“Daven Staver, Jedi Knight, at your service, Milady,” Daven introduced himself, stepping up a few foot-lengths from the clone. He should have walked a few paces ahead of Ona, as was dictated by their ranks, but Daven rarely had a mind for military protocol.

“My,” Dia’tia stated, her eyes widening. “You are quite handsome. I was unawares that Jedi were meant as attractive.” Her Basic was pretty good, Daven had to admit, even after the smallest of slips.

“Thank you,” he said with the slightest hint of embarrassment in his voice. She drew closer to him, and her sharp teeth pointed into a smile. Her lekku twitched almost unnoticeably.

“I would mate with you after our talks,” Dia’tia said.

Daven instinctively drew back a few steps. Unaware of the Jedi order, indeed. He racked his mind, looking for the right thing to say. He knew Twi’leks took their sexuality very seriously, and that a free Twi’lek female offering herself for no fee was quite an honor. He was hardly an ambassador, but he had to find a way to keep the negotiations on good terms. Insulting the lead diplomat wasn’t the way to do it.

“Uh, we can discuss it later,” he suggested. He could let her down gently after his cruiser was on its way to being flight-worthy.

She smiled brightly again, and then, before Daven could react, she jumped forward and bit him on the neck, drawing blood.

“So that you not forget,” she said, pulling away.

“Oh, how could I?” Daven asked in a state of half-shock. He touched his neck, hiding a hiss of pain as a warm fluid seeped between his fingers.

“Wonderful!” Dia’tia exclaimed. “We have quarters for you to refresh yourself before meeting with the Prime Minster. Follow please.”

Exacerbated, the pair followed their hosts.

“Okay,” Daven admitted. “I’m now officially having a bad day.” He scowled. The room wasn’t necessarily the problem - it was furnished well enough, neither ornate nor sparse, industrial and clean. It was the actual living situation that caused Daven a slight annoyance. He and Ona were to share one room.

“They must have assumed that you would be alone,” Ona said.

Daven shrugged and stepped into the room. A row of windows lined the wall opposite the front door. Daven threw his small tunic knapsack on the bed before heading over to enjoy the view. They were several stories up from the ground, and it was easy to see the natural beauty of the grass fields kilometers outside the new city. Rivers and streams, used to unregulated movement, still partially flowed, and a small brook even lapped against the edge of this building. A massive dam project, bridges and tunnels, too, were being constructed. The technology of harnessing the power of water was primitive but still useful, especially on a world in the first stages of development.

“If we followed protocol,” he said at last, finally turning away from the window, “we would have brought a whole clone squad down with us. I wonder if they would have made us share a bunk then.” He smirked at Ona’s vaguely disgusted frown. “What? I thought you guys were close.”

Ona chose to ignore his comment.

“Best get cleaned up, sir,” he said instead.

“Look who’s talking,” Daven said, pointing out the clone’s unpolished armor with a flick of his gaze.

“Your neck, Master Jedi,” Ona reminded him sharply, a hint of amusement in his usually monotonous voice.

Daven reached up to touch his most unconventional battle wound. It was still bleeding slightly, it seemed, but some clots had formed. He had resisted the urge to keep his hand on it on the way up to the room, knowing that doing so would probably be considered an affront to Dia’tia.

“They ought to have bred sarcasm out of you,” Daven grunted. “You think they stocked a medkit in here?”

The duo looked around - under the sleep couches, in the footlocker drawers.

“’Fresher, then,” Daven suggested. He palmed the nearest door, which immediately slid open to reveal a plain refresher unit, complete with a small tub and basin. There were no drawers, however. Upon inspection, the vanity mirror could be pushed out, revealing a med cabinet.

“Found it,” Daven shouted. He took out a small medkit and pushed the mirror back into place. “Comm Ver and see how our Hero is doing.”

“Sir,” Ona acknowledged.

Daven heard a comm. connect as he opened a bacta patch. Within a few hours, the bite would be barely visible.

“-sixty-six.”

“Yes, sir.”

Daven wrinkled his forehead at the mirror, confused.

“Was that the Chancellor?” he asked. He pulled open the mirror to put the kit back, waiting for his clone lieutenant to answer.

A sharp, piercing noise and the mirror was shattered, pieces of it reaching every corner of the refresher. Within the second, Daven turned his head to regard Ona and noticed his smoking blaster rifle. Without hesitation, Daven slammed the door controls, locking himself away in the relative safety of the ’fresher. A small burst of Force later and the controls were melted, keeping the door shut. The door itself would withstand a small bombardment - it was duracrete - but it wouldn’t hold forever.

It was only after Daven had assured his momentary safety did he begin to question why Ona had fired a shot at him.

Maybe his blaster was fried - those things were always breaking, pesky machines. It was probably just an accident - an oddly timed accident. Glancing around the small ’fresher he was currently locked in, Daven started to feel understandably stupid.

“Hey, Ona?” he called out. “Why are you shooting at me?”

No answer; just another round of bolts. The door shook violently under the pressure, but still held.

That was no accident.

It was only then that the wave of warning flowed though the Force, seeped in urgency.

“Gee, I noticed, thank you,” he muttered. He would have to speak to Yoda about that when he got back to the temple. First things first, though.

There was a break in the firing, and Daven pressed himself against the slightly warm door.

“Ona? Did I say something to piss you off?” he asked, only to back away further into the ’fresher when the door thudded. Ona was clearly testing its strength with the butt of his blaster. “I command you to stand down.” It was worth a shot.

“My orders come from the Chancellor, Staver. You have no rank here,” Ona finally responded, his voice muffled from the other side of the door.

“The Chancellor?” Daven sighed. What the hell was going on?

“Surrender, Staver.”

Daven studied his surroundings, a look of blank confusion on his face. Had the Chancellor turned on them? It didn’t seem possible. Perhaps the clones had broken down - a problem with their programming, maybe? Or Ona by himself could somehow have been damaged. Daven didn’t know a lot about clones or clone technology, but something like that seemed possible, at least.

Well, if Ona was somehow sick, Daven didn’t want to attack him or accidentally hurt him. And, with the clone standing just outside of the door, armed with a blaster rifle, Daven surely doubted that he could free himself without fighting Ona.

He sat down on the seat of the reliever, pondering his options. There was an unlimited supply of water; perhaps he could wait out Ona’s insanity. There was no food in the small ’fresher, though - unless mintafresh dental paste counted - so he wouldn’t last beyond a few days.

A loud thump on the door caused him pause, and the reality of the situation hit him; that door wouldn’t last an hour, let alone a day.

No window, one door out. Was there anyway to avoid killing his best friend? Popping his elbows onto his knees, he stared sadly at the shower.

The shower. A wet wall.

His lightsaber made easy work of the ceramacrete backsplash, and, to his luck, he found an opening large enough to fit him. He tested the strength of the main pipe, making sure it could support his weight, before tying his belt cable onto it.

The trip was simple enough for a fully trained Jedi Knight, and Daven found himself several meters away from the saber-made opening within ten minutes.

His luck wore out, however, far too soon. He felt the cable being roughly tugged, and he struggled to hold his footing. He detached it before it threw him off balance and used the nearest pipe as a handhold.

A hot pipe.

Daven grunted, uncomfortable, but kept his grip. If he moved quickly enough, he could stop himself from being burned. It was a trick of balance, to be sure, but Daven continued his descent.

That was, until Ona’s blasts ricocheted off the walls and down towards him.

Daven hissed as a shot landed deadly close to a precariously perched hand. The crawl space was far too small to block the bolts with a lightsaber.

Dodging another shot, Daven gripped his saber anyway, running it through the wall in front of him. Placing his weight against the now weakened wall, he easily fell through and landed on the other side as durawall scraps crashed around him.

He blinked away the dust and looked up.

And caught the surprised gaze of Dia’tia, wrapped as she was in only a light and fluffy towel.

He was in some sort of sauna.

Okay. Now he was really having a bad day.

“Master Jedi!” she exclaimed in a confused but pleased voice. “What are you doing?”

“Ah,” he started, rising to his feet and testing his now sore limbs. He stopped, face blank, when no excuse could come to him. How was he going to explain this? His clone had gone mad and was trying to kill him. She would either believe him or she wouldn’t. Worst-case scenario, she would scream her guts out and Ona would come running.

“Ah,” he began gain. “I wanted to see you again.” What? Where did that come from?

She beamed at him all the same, clearly believing his lame excuse.

Okay. Good so far. Now to get out of here without arising suspicion.

“But I just realized! I haven’t gotten you a courtship gift!” Thank the Force for standard Twi’lek rituals. “Tell me what you would like.”

She reached out, possibly to bite him again on the other side of his neck. Wary, Daven placed both hands on her shoulders, effectively stopping her movements towards him. She, naturally, took it as a gesture of affection.

“There is a kertab jeweler downtown,” she said. “It is a tradition amongst my tribe to wear a necklace while courting.”

“Great,” Daven said. “Point me to the door and I’ll be back before you know it.” Well, that was a lie if he’d ever told one.

“Oh, but we must pick out the necklace together!” Dia’tia said. She attempted to edge closer to him, but Daven held his elbows rigid.

“Um, okay.” Think, Staver! “You, ah, get dressed-” he chanced a nervous glance at her half-clothed body “-and I’ll wait down in the lobby for you.”

“That’d be perfect!” The hopeful expression in the Twi’lek’s orange caused a small lump to form in Daven’s throat. “There’s a lift bay out the door and to your right.”

He nodded and pried himself away from Dia’tia before she could attempt to hug him.

“See you soon!” she cried as he half jogged out of the sauna. He was a horrible person, he knew, when he failed to look over his shoulder in acknowledgment.

This was a matter of life and death, he reasoned, and what was the heart of one girl worth compared to that? She would get over it, anyway, right? Surely many young, non-Jedi boys would love to shower her with romance.

But still… he felt guilty … like Hutt sludge, really.

He wiped the sweat off his brow and ran a hand through his now damp hair as he entered the nearest lift. A soft acoustic tune played in the background as the doors closed, and Daven allowed himself a moment to breathe.

His shuttle should still be docked at the landing bay; he hadn’t given any orders, at least, for it to return to the Rebound. He could comm. the battle group from there and have a squad of troops - or, rather the squad that should have come down with him, had he followed protocol - sent to subdue and detain Ona. Everything would be back to normal before Dia’tia expected her necklace.

A few stories from the ground floor, he felt himself relaxing, and he even managed to hum a few recognized words from the song chiming away overhead. It was an odd scene - a dust covered, half-wet Jedi knight turned potential Twi’lek mate singing popular outer rim melodies.

“Will you light the sky on fire?” he sang softly. “Will you light tonight like
you did the night before?”

Damn if his time spent on Kashyyyk wasn’t worth something! And if you couldn’t hold a tune when your best friend/lieutenant/personal clone slave turned assassin/mad, defunct clone warrior was trying to kill you, what was the point of anything?

Exiting the lift with a spring in his step, Daven crossed the lobby - a familiar area now - and headed towards the main doors.

And promptly stopped.

A squad of clones - the same one he was about to order down - stood outside in perfect formation, fanned out in a semi-circle and surrounding the wide line of transparent doors leading out.

Blocking his path, blasters-a-blazing … or about to, at any rate.

“Oh, poodoo,” he had just enough time to say before ducking back into the lift corridor. The sound of shattering plexi filled his ears, nearly deafening him.

“Roger that,” he heard as the clones’ marching feet crushed the pieces of broken glass. “We’ve found Staver.”

That did not sound good. He crouched down, placing his hood over his head - brown was less obvious than red - and rested his back against the wall.

The wall which quickly slid out from behind him, revealing the opening a lift. Losing his balance, Daven fell rear-first right into an equally surprised but fully clothed, at least, Dia’tia. She managed to remain standing, backing away from Daven as he crashed to the floor.

“Going up?” Daven asked dryly, cranking his neck to regard the Twi’lek standing directly above him.

“What is-” Dia’tia began as Daven jumped back onto his feet.

“No time,” he said as he pushed her gently aside and palmed the controls to shut the doors. “We’re having company. Not of the friendly sort, I’m afraid.”

Instead of responding, Dia’tia let out a halting shriek. A row of clones filled their line of vision, thin as it was through the narrow opening of the closing lift doors, and aimed clear for the Jedi.

Daven, unalarmed for the moment, smiled and waved. The rifles were powered up and ready to go, to be sure, but clones always did take a bit longer than he would have liked to make the shot. It always had to be lined up perfectly. Such a problem against the wildly firing and numerous battle droids, one of whom was bound to eventually hit the mark out of pure chance.

But Daven never would have imagined a day when the clones’ idiosyncrasy would work to his advantage.

The lift shook from the blasts a half second after they were on their way up, causing the pair to fumble recklessly before griping the side rails. Daven glanced around nervously, waiting to hear any tell-tell signs that the lift was malfunctioning.

But, by the grace of the Force, the ride remained smooth as they sailed towards the top of the complex.

“I’m not going to lie to you,” Daven said seriously when Dia’tia’s fearful gaze met his. Gone was any sense of sexuality from her person, despite her barely concealing clothing; all that remained in its place was naked, white terror. But there was something to it, something to the terror other than just nearly being injured, that made her quiver in the lift’s corner. “Something happened to my soldiers. They’re trying to attack me. I don’t know why.” Daven blurted out the last sentence, anticipating the question. “I need to get out of here. And stop this before someone gets killed. Can you help me?”

Dia’tia swallowed roughly and nodded once. Without speaking she flicked the lift’s controls, entering in a floor number at the mid point of the building’s height.

“There’s a pad with my personal shuttle,” she explained. Her eyes met his briefly before looking away and down. It was then that Daven realized: she wasn’t scared because of the rifle blasts or the insane clones. She was afraid of him.

“You’re lying.” The phrase was meant to come out as a question, but Daven came to know the truth in the words as he uttered them. “Why?”

Dia’tia was shaking. “Please don’t … don’t hurt me. It’s all over the holonet. Jedi tried to kill the Chancellor. You are all traitors. Please, please, please …” She sunk to the floor and wrapped herself into a ball - hands crossed around her legs and forehead resting on her knees. She looked like a wounded animal, waiting for the victorious hunter to deliver the final blow. “I had to.”

Daven backed away as his heart fell into his stomach. He tried to breathe as the air seeped from his lungs. His words came out in sharp gasps.

“I don’t understand,” he managed. Traitors?

The lift drew to a lazy stop and, with a cheerful chime, the doors opened. Dia’tia’s withering intensified as Daven turned to face his ambush.

It was only an unhelmeted Ona awaiting him outside the doors, but the clone’s blaster was raised and ready. All confusion, hurt, and surprise flowed away from Daven as the Force and instinct took control. He brought his lightsaber to bear - something he wasn’t quite willing to do before - and fluidly blocked the oncoming fire.

He quickly had the upper hand, too, and he forced Ona into a position of retreat. Ona continued his assault, though, in the vain attempt to get just one shot through; one, after all, was all he needed to break a Jedi’s intense concentration.

Daven could have easily ended it: With a flick of his right wrist, he could have sent a beam spiraling back towards the vulnerable hinge in Ona’s armor. But he hesitated. Even one hit could spell death for Ona as much as it could for Daven.

Using the Force to speed himself up, Daven rushed Ona faster than the clone could possibly hope to repel in time. A swipe of his lightsaber later, and a melted pool of blaster parts was already starting to cool at their feet.

“Enough, Ona,” Daven ordered. He held the saber low, non-threateningly, as Ona took a few moments to recover. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

There was a blank stare even worse than the armor’s mask that Ona usually wore, and, without offering any sort of reply, Ona yanked a vibroknife free from his utility belt. The pair clashed again, Daven keeping his saber turned away while Ona aimed to strike at Daven’s face.

Daven managed to grab Ona’s right hand with his left and draw the blade to a halt mere centimeters from his nose. Though his grip held fast and the Force maintained his strength, Ona’s superior size and position were slowly beginning to win out as they wrestled.

It wasn’t much of a choice, Daven would ration later in life, but that fact perhaps didn’t make the actual deed any easier to bear. Before he folded underneath Ona’s attack, Daven swung his saber, arching it back towards the clone.

The hit was precise if slight, and Daven found the intense pressure on his left hand suddenly eased as a dying Ona crumbled against him. Daven deactivated and dropped his saber to support Ona with both hands, but the clone’s weight was too great and he slipped away from Daven’s gasp.

One last glance was exchanged - Daven’s eyes were filled with sorrow and regret, but Ona’s expression was a near unreadable cross between disappointment and annoyance.

“You were my friend,” Daven said softly, accusingly, as he placed Ona on the ground. Ona’s gaze became distant and glassy, and he looked everywhere - at the ceiling, at the lift doors, down the hallway beyond - everywhere except Daven.

“Orders,” he finally whispered before his eyes rolled back into his head.

A shallow sob escaped Daven’s lips as he rose, but he allowed nothing else of his spinning emotions to shine through. Ona was, after all, only a clone - little more than a living machine programmed only to follow his master’s orders. And Daven was certainly no master - of the clones, the Force, or anything else for that matter.

But, as much as he didn’t want to admit it, the feeling of betrayal stayed with him. He turned to Dia’tia, who was now standing and attempting to close the lift doors. A small order through the Force stopped them midway and Daven regarded the Twi’lek.

“Is there a landing pad, or did you lie about that, too?”

“If … I tell you, you let me live?” Her gaze shifted nervously to the dead clone.

“I’d let you live even if you didn’t,” Daven clarified. What did she take him for? Some sort of assassin? A bounty hunter? He was a Jedi!

Yet he saw the obvious incredulity written across her face. She palmed the door controls again, and he relinquished his grip on them, letting her go.

“There is nothing,” she said when there was nothing more than a sliver of space between the doors. They shut as the last word of her short sentence was uttered. The lift lights brightened, indicating that it and its passenger were on their way down.

Daven was alone and trapped. He glanced around for a means of escape as he felt the familiar buzz of a dozen like-minded (same-minded, actually) individuals moving towards him. The chimes sounded for the two lifts on either side of Dia’tia’s, indicating that they would soon stop on this floor.

And, chances were, they were full of clones.

Daven turned and ran down the hallway, now recognizing this as the floor where his and Ona’s quarters had been located.

The door to their room had been left open, probably by a rushed Ona, and scoring from blaster marks laced the walls. The refresher door was in a pile of half melted shreds as well, but Daven paid little mind. He moved, instead to the window and the breathtaking view he had seen but only a half an hour earlier.

The plexi-glass cracked, shattered, and fell away from the frame when he bore into the window with the tip of his lightsaber. A gust of wind greeted him as the pressure of the outside and inside equalized, popping his eardrums.

The sudden and deafening ringing in his ears, however, wasn’t loud enough for him to miss the marching steps of the clone troopers. Ignoring the impending confrontation, he leaned out the window frame and looked down. There, cool and light, was the small river winding along the side of the complex.

Daven took several deep breaths and jumped.

He hit the water before the clones even reached the room.

Some hours later he washed up on a deserted bank, looking much like a half-drowned kath mouse. He grabbed onto a thicket of willows and pulled himself completely out of the water. He went still for a few moments until his entire body was seized with a fit of coughs, which only ended when he gagged up a liter or so of water.

Daven forced himself to sit up and fill his sore lungs with air. Breathing regularly, he finally managed to study his surroundings. He was far outside of the city - perhaps several kilometers, as he couldn’t even see a hint of the tall skyline. He was someplace wild and untouched. Forest spread around him in every direction, and the river here was clear and unpolluted.

Exhausted, he pulled off his boots and emptied the pools of cold water from them. He checked his lightsaber and was grateful that it hadn’t short-circuited. The other items on his belt all also seemed to have survived the fall and the swim, thank the Force - he doubted he would be able to last long without them.

The comlink, he noticed as he pulled it out, even had a message on it. It was a code from the temple, but, since he was never very good at remembering such things, he thought at first that he had deciphered it incorrectly.

He waited as it repeated itself again.

And then let it run a third time.

“The war’s over, all right,” he said bitterly when he knew he had interpreted it right. “And we just lost.” He was half-tempted to toss the com in the river and be done with it, but he resisted.

There was a chance that the Jedi would get their comm. system back under their control, and Daven knew that comlink would be essential in regrouping with his brethren. They could fight back against the clones, against Palpatine, even.

If there are any Jedi left, a small voice in the back of his head nagged.

What if some hadn’t been quite so lucky? What if the others followed protocol and had their entire squads with them at the time?

Chances were, most would have.

Loneliness hit before panic as Daven reached out with the Force to touch someone, anyone, and found the Force uncharacteristically silent. The warm space where the Jedi presence could always be felt had grown cold.

“No,” he whispered and hugged his knees to his chest. He was alone, utterly alone, without the Jedi, and not even the familiar buzz of the clone minds he had become so accustomed to over the years was either currently present or welcome.

He shivered as the water, wind, and pain racked through him. Where would he go? What would he do? Without the council and the others he was lost. He was nothing. A knight without an Order.

Raw terror took him, and he hissed at the unfamiliar sensation. He gave into it for a single, damnable moment, though, letting it run wild before he reached out for the Force and calmed.

His mind cleared, and he idly wondered if Dia’tia had felt such fear while riding the lift with him. If so, he pitied her all the more. Yet even the thought of her made him scowl against his more philanthropic sentiments.

She had betrayed him as sure as Ona had, but she didn’t even have the excuse of genetic programming or orders. She, a girl who had fancied herself taken with him, had betrayed him freely, even when she had nothing to gain by it.

Was it the same everywhere else? Would average people turn them in over nothing but a rumor and a lie, despite everything the Jedi had done for the galaxy?

Possibly.

Probably.

He ran a hand through his soaking wet hair and shrugged. He could trust no one, then. Not a problem, since there was no one left to trust.

Daven picked himself up and began to walk.