this edition has been edited as of february 25, 2020

warning: this is another very long chapter and it might require a few breaks in between reading, but PLEASE DON'T SKIP. very important plot points happen in this part. i promise they're interesting!!

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

GEONOSIS IMMEDIATELY DID NOT SIT WELL WITH ARTIE. THEY LANDED IN A SMALL POCKET OF ORANGE ROCK, the sky crimson and wet around them, air barely breathable. A drop in the atmospheric pressure made Artie's head throb, and as the ship ramp lowered with a small hiss an overwhelming chill rolled through her despite the balmy climate. Something there was evil and wrong, and she could not wait to be off of the wretched system. She hoped Obi-Wan would make himself easy to find.

Artie, Padmé, and Anakin stepped out into what resembled a cave, but what Artie knew immediately to be designed by something sentient; the walls were too smooth, the symmetry too obvious. Life was here and likely knew they were, too. Artie held Padmé's hand tightly and let Anakin lead the way, grateful that he wanted to. Her courage was taking its time surfacing again, and with angry pain in her arm, it was difficult to focus on anything else. They crept through near-darkness, only the blue glow of Anakin's saber to light their way, when suddenly a nauseating odor stained the air and a horrible, insect-like clicking trailed behind them, before them, and then on all sides.

Artie tried to cry out; a three-fingered claw clamped down on her mouth before she could. She twisted and writhed again the hold, but more nonhuman hands seized her arms, her hair, wrenched her away from Padmé. Anakin swung his blade and a horrible hiss broke the air, but the next moment the lightsaber sheathed and darkness overwhelmed once again. Something bludgeoned Artie in the back of the head and she slumped forward, unconscious, the last thing she heard a distinct flapping of wings she never once saw.

• • •

WHEN ARTIE CAME TO, SHE WAS CHAINED TO A HIGH-BACKED CHAIR IN WHAT LOOKED LIKE A BRIEFING ROOM. A LONG TABLE stretched before her, and when she finally blinked the blurriness from her eyes, she saw that Anakin and Padmé were similarly bound, both more awake than she, and looking equal parts furious and anxious. Artie followed their troubled gazes and found the stuff of nightmares.

Count Dooku sat at the head of the table, stare amused and triumphant, his long fingers tapping on the arm of his chair casually as if they were discussing vacation plans. His white hair and beard were immaculate, his robes pressed and clean and very expensive. In all her fear and anger, Artie admitted privately he did not look as vile as she had expected. Somehow, it made him more imposing.

"Senator Amidala," Dooku began, voice regal and diplomatic, "Excuse me for being less than hospitable, but I have to admit I loathe to see you alive."

Padmé's face did not change. She lifted her chin. "If we are confessing, Count, then I must say it is difficult for me to feel threatened when I am so vindicated. I knew you were behind this chaos."

"Not me alone," Dooku said with the slightest shrug. "Your politics vex me, my dear, but there are some who simply despise your gall to exist. They think you arrogant, suffocated by hubris, and a continuous, unnecessary obstacle in the way of what they consider the good of the galaxy."

"The Trade Federation," Padmé replied coolly. "The Commerce Guilds."

Dooku smiled. "I'm afraid so. Viceroy Gunray has purchased your death several times and it seems you have managed to evade the ending transaction for some time . . . well, it's good we're all here. We can see the payment be done."

"Is that a threat, Count?"

"Most certainly, Senator. You are invading territory that is not your own with clear hostile intentions. You have no jurisdiction on this planet and no reason to be here, lest we count spying as a legitimate purpose."

Anakin stirred in his seat. "We're trying to find Obi-Wan Kenobi, not spy on anyone. We received a transmission that he was here."

Dooku lifted an eyebrow. "Kenobi? That Jedi has been tried and convicted of espionage with malicious intent, boy. He's been sentenced to death and will die inside the hour."

Anakin tried to leap to his feet, but the chains held fast. His eyes blazed with horror and rage. "You can't do that!"

"Oh?" Dooku looked genuinely amused.

Padmé narrowed her dark eyes to slits. "That is an act of war, Count. Kenobi is a Jedi Knight and an officer of the Republic—you have no right—"

"No right?" Dooku scoffed. "We do not recognize any Republic here, my dear. Kenobi will die a criminal's death . . . but should say, Naboo join the Alliance. Perhaps then I could be more understanding."

"And if I refuse, I assume I will be executed as well?" Padmé ventured fiercely.

"You, yes, and your Jedi," Dooku nodded to Anakin, "and the girl," his cold eyes moved to Artie. A horrible feeling seized her when he arrested her gaze—he was darkness personified, a vile husk of a man. Hollowed out and filled with something . . . unnatural. Something black and dangerous.

"I will not be blackmailed and threatened into complying with you, you snake," Padmé snapped. "You will release Kenobi into my custody and you will let us go free. Lest you wish to answer to Republic forces."

Dooku looked them over, expression grave. "It is not my place, Senator, to decide your fate. I am only a witness. As I said before, there are those who want you dead and have shoveled out considerable funds to see it carried through. So, yes. As a member of the Republic you are an adversary and I do not show mercy to my adversaries. If you were to pledge loyalty to the Alliance, however, my feelings could be different. Otherwise, your demands are impotent and childish. The choice, my dear, is and always has been yours."

This time, Padmé did not have an immediate answer. Her mouth tightened and her hands strained against their shackles. Eyes suddenly filled with worry, she looked to Artie and asked a silent question; her gaze shifted to Anakin, pleading the same. Without a word, they both complied. Artie felt Anakin reach to her through the Force, and she met him with fervor; the three of them could escape whatever nightmare Dooku had in mind—or die trying. They would not give up what was good and right. Artie had never envisioned herself becoming a martyr for the Republic, and she knew the prospect of death had not fully reached her, but if it was the will of the Force for her life to be given in the name of democracy and diplomacy, then she would accept it. Better to comply than to beg for mercy. Artie's days of pleading were over.

Padmé straightened and seized Dooku's gaze again. "I choose honor over cowardice, then."

He watched her closely, coal-black eyes burning. Dooku sighed heavily. "I could only hope. You're an admirable leader, Senator Amidala. I would have enjoyed having your ferocity on my side."

"Then you chose the wrong side."

Artie couldn't hide her smile. No Jedi, no Sith, no warrior in any millennia before them ever possessed the same courage that blazed in Padmé.

A trio of Geonosians darted forward. Their soulless, insectoid eyes seemed to glimmer at the prospect of blood. All three of them took hold of either Artie, Anakin, or Padmé's chains and dragged them forward; Anakin's guard snatched his lightsaber from his belt with what Artie could have sworn was a laugh. Out of the war room and down a corridor so poorly lit Artie could not see her hands shackled in front of her; she assumed these stinking Geonosians liked things wet and dark. In the dark and quiet, nothing to listen to but the rattling of their chains, Artie began to think hard. How were they to be killed? If it was by firing squad, there was little hope of escape, but she knew that Separatist dignitaries often hosted elaborate executions as entertainment. Given enough time and unprecedented quick-thinking, Artie suspected they could find a way to get free—or, at least stall until Windu and his reinforcements arrived.

Artie tried to push her intuition, her intentions, through the Force and to Anakin's mind. He trudged slightly ahead of her and she couldn't see his face, but a moment later a surge of reassurance filled her, Anakin's enthusiastic compliance and Artie knew hope was not dead yet.

• • •

IN ALL OF TWENTY MINUTES, THEY WERE CONVICTED OF ESPIONAGE AND SENTENCED TO DEATH, and came face-to-face with the fiends that ordered Padmé's assassination. Viceroy Gunray of the Trade Federation, Poggle the Lesser of Geonosis, and his underling Sun Rit, had all offered them smug smiles and practical cheers as they read out their sentencing.

"Go, then, Senator," Poggle jeered. "Your Jedi friend is waiting. Take them to the arena!"

And so they were again dragged through the stronghold, chains clanging, hearts sinking. They were taken lower, back to ground-level, Artie suspected, and into the underbelly of what she assumed was the arena Poggle spoke of. The Geonosian picadors prodded them along towards a pair of orray-drawn carts and forced Padmé upon the first one. A carved arch acted as an entryway into the area; a band of orange sunlight poured into the black catacombs, illuminating Padmé like a golden idol, straight-backed and determined. Jeers and shouts carried in from the arena audience, vicious calls for death. The Republic was decidedly unpopular on Geonosis.

Anakin and Artie were loaded into a chariot behind Padmé's. Things were very still for several moments until a pair of mounted picadors clicked a brief exchange and Padmé's guard urged its orray forward. The cart lurched into motion and carried her into the arena.

"Padmé!" Artie yelped, throat tight with tears.

Padmé craned her neck back to look at her. "Courage, Artemis. Have courage!" And then she was too far gone.

Artie inhaled sharply and tried not to cry. What if they could not escape? How could she watch Padmé die? Several tears fell despite her efforts.

"We'll get out of this," Anakin said lowly, gently. "All of us. We'll be all right."

Artie fought her shaking hands. Her resolve had been great, but hope was looking more scarce by the moment. Oh, Padmé . . . "And if we don't? If you're wrong, and we all die today?"

Anakin said nothing. He gazed at her, eyes as burning as ever, deep and unwavering. When his lips parted, his voice was little above a whisper. "Then I am glad to have met you. You are . . . extraordinary. And I wish we had more time together. I planned to know everything about you."

Artie felt a smile stretch her lips, completely independent of her own will. Something warm bloomed in her chest and spread all through her stomach, her arms, legs, very fingertips. It was safety and certainty, unlike anything, unlike even the Force's pull. Artie breathed in deeply. "Know that I care for you and always will. If we're dead before the day ends, find me in whatever comes after."

"I swear I will." He dipped his head and caught her in a kiss, slow and slightly withheld like he was savoring each second that came. Artie wanted him close again, even closer than he had been on Padme's ship, but their chains would not allow them an inch more. Suddenly, the cart lurched and they broke away. Garish sunlight engulfed them, blinded them, the crowd's cheers erupting into a collective roar as they were wheeled into view. Artie blinked hard against the light and saw, when her vision focused, four stone pillars erected in the center of the coliseum. Padmé had been bound to the rightmost column, hands chained above her head, and to the leftmost was Obi-Wan himself, looking vexed and, if Artie didn't know better, extremely exasperated.

The cart halted before the pillars and the picadors ushered Artie and Anakin out onto the arena floor. As soon as their feet touched the red sand, the crowd exploded again. Half hopping, half flying, Artie's Geonosian guard seized her bound hands and dragged her to the column beside Padmé. It took the long chain that sprouted from Artie's irons, flew its end to the top of the pillar and secured it there like the others. Arms raised above her head, it was difficult for Artie to see either side of her, but at a glance, she thought she saw Padmé wriggle one of her hands free.

"I've got a bad feeling about this," Anakin murmured, eyes wide.

"I was beginning to wonder if you got my message," Obi-Wan said, throwing Anakin a scowl.

"I retransmitted it as you requested, Master," Anakin defended. "Then we decided to come and rescue you."

Obi-Wan glanced up dryly at his shackled hands. "Well, you've done an excellent job so far."

The chariots were taken away and the picadors retreated towards four gates across the arena. They shuddered and then rose slowly, opening up only to darkness, but after a moment there were shifts in the shadows and Artie realized with a burst of trepidation how it was they were to die.

Four creatures, four massive, screeching monsters stalked out of their cages and into daylight. They were all objectively horrifying, but Artie felt her blood run cold at the sight of one: a krayt dragon, fifteen feet long, with a mouth full of knife-like fangs. It reared its horned head and shrieked, claws scraping through the sand, tail swinging dangerously and knocking over a mounted picador that had gotten too close. The krayt dragons were reptiles native to Tatooine, fiercely territorial and as vicious as a creature could be—as a child, Artie had once made the mistake of wandering too near a krayt cave and narrowly evaded a nasty end. Well, she thought scathingly, it's caught up with me now.

Artie quickly took in the other beasts and decided none of them were preferable. A lithe nexu set its four beady eyes on Padme, the crimson sun glinting off spines curving from its back. Its broad face was split by a mouth set with rows of needle-like teeth. A reek stamped its heavy feet and roared at the sight of them, two curved horns jutting from the sides of its snapping jaw and a larger one from its forehead. Artie could have sworn they were herbivorous . . . but this one seemed plenty bloodthirsty. A towering acklay darted ahead of the rest, towards Obi-Wan, its six crustacean claws stabbing the sand as it walked; it shrieked and jabbed its long neck, gnashing small sharp teeth, and the Geonosian crowd roared with glee as they realized it had chosen its prey; apparently, there was a fan-favorite.

The krayt howled again and lowered its head, devilish yellow eyes narrowed on Artie. She swallowed hard. It was common knowledge on Tatooine that the dragons did not make clean kills--the Geonosians would be scrubbing her off the walls for days after. She wanted to cry out for help, to weep and cower, but she knew there could be none of that today. None of that ever. If she died, she'd die respectably, honorably, her last actions those of bravery. She remembered Padme's words and heeded them like a command. Have courage. She'd beaten Lysander—what was one more monster?

The krayt charged. Artie yanked at her chain but found it firmly attached to the pillar. She hissed through her teeth and frantically tried to remember anything useful about krayt dragons—they were fast, impossibly strong, and vicious . . . but not particularly intelligent. A clumsy plan formed in Artie's mind, but it involved getting a bit closer to the krayt than she would have liked . . . well, she risked dying in any case. She waited until the ugly beast was twenty, fifteen, ten feet away. Artie could smell its musty scales, feel its foul, hot breath on her face as it roared. Six feet away. The krayt reared, talons flashing, and Artie leaped behind the pillar, pulling her chain taut against it. The krayt swiped at where she had been a second before and raked its claws through the manacles; they split with a snap! and suddenly Artie was free.

The hard part had just begun.

The dragon howled and thrashed its head in confused fury. Artie felt it stalk slowly around the pillar, a low growl rolling from its fleshy throat, and as it moved she crept back to the other side; once she was sure she was out of its sight, she tore into a sprint across the arena, a good six feet of heavy chain still rattling from her shackles. Artie got a three-second head start before the dragon realized where she was. It screamed and bounded after her, feet kicking up plumes of sand as it galloped. Luckily, Artie had found what she was hunting for: a sharpened polearm, dropped by picador the nexu had mauled, lay ten feet away.

But the krayt was already upon her.

Artie leaped around, heart slamming as frigid panic threatened to overtake her. With a desperate cry, she took the excess chain in her hands and, acting on instinct alone, swung with all the strength she had. It's sharp, broken end tore into the dragon's eye just as it lifted its head to strike; blood spurted everywhere, rained down on Artie's face and arms, and the krayt shrieked in pain, a blood-curdling yowl. Artie could not waste time on disgust or pity, even though she wanted to. The krayt hadn't asked to be hurt any more than she, but there was nothing she could do to change what had to be done. She dove for the polearm as the half-blind dragon pounced on her; Artie's fingers closed on the spear just as the krayt's talons pinned her between them. It lifted a forefoot, ready to disembowel, and Artie plunged the weapon through its soft throat until there was only enough of the shaft left for her to hold. The krayt could not even howl its pain. It groaned, clawed uselessly at its neck for a moment, and slumped forward like a mountain keeled forward—straight onto Artie, still trapped between its claws. Its full weight collapsed and immediately something in her cracked! Artie howled as her midriff exploded in white-hot pain, the worst she'd ever felt. She could not take in air, she could not even move her legs. She was beginning to lose feeling, black spots dancing over her eyes, a searing fire in her lungs . . .

Suddenly the weight lifted and Artie gulped in a huge, involuntary breath. She retched and coughed until her eyes poured, every movement agony on what she was sure were broken ribs. The krayt's body landed in a heap a few feet away and a moment later someone lifted her by her manacles and pulled her up behind them on the back of an animal. The reek? Artie thought through her daze. A familiar scent filled her nose (though now less pleasant, mingled with blood and dirt and sweat) and a familiar voice urged the mount forward. Artie could have wept with joy. Anakin. He was alive. Unspeakable relief filled her and she latched onto him, buried her face in his shoulder. Thank you, thank you, she kept repeating in her head, though she didn't know to whom. "Are you all right?" Anakin asked urgently, fierce concern in his voice.

"Broken ribs," Artie croaked. She lifted her head; somehow Anakin had managed to control the reek, though its pounding gait did nothing to help the pain in Artie's sides. "What about Padmé? Obi-Wan?"

"Both alive," Anakin assured her. "But I'm not sure how long we've got."

"What do you . . . oh, kriff." Through the gates that had released the monsters now marched hundreds—maybe thousands—of battle droids. A quartet of destroyers rolled through the ranks and surrounded them, dual blasters at the ready. Frantically, Artie scoured the arena and found Padmé and Obi-Wan back-to-back amid their own shrinking circle of droideka. Weaponless, they were all outmatched. Artie swore under her breath and mentally kicked herself—how could they have thought it would be so simple? On a system that manufactured war machines, of course this was to be expected; if they did not die properly the first time, nothing would be more reliable than a blaster shot to the head. All the dramatics had been for absolutely nothing.

But then . . . what was taking so long? The droids stood with guns at the ready, but remained motionless, awaiting the order to kill. So where was the command?

Suddenly, like a scene from one of Padme's adventure epics, dozens of lightsabers broke the air, blades of green and blue humming to life. There were cloaked figures, men and women, human and nonhuman alike, standing steadfast amid the fleeing Geonosians, some leaping down to the arena floor with determined shouts. One of the warriors threw Anakin a lightsaber and at once he used it to slice his and Artie's shackles. Panicked gunfire sounded from high above, and out of the Viceroy's box soared a Jedi, smoke trailing from his robes and purple saber ignited. Mace Windu landed gracefully on the red sand and swiftly discarded his singed cloak. He raised his lightsaber and the fierce look on his stern face said only one thing: the Jedi Order had arrived.

The droid army erupted into action, and the coliseum dissolved into chaos. Waves of gunfire swarmed the arena, streaks of red tearing through the air; a shock-wave cannon fired a pulse of energy and floored everything in range, including the reek. Artie and Anakin went flying, landing hard several yards away. Artie couldn't swallow her anguished cry—the pain in her ribs was nauseating and for several moments she could not move at all. Eventually, however, she unfurled herself and climbed wobbly to her feet, stomached the spasms of agony, and snatched up a blaster that had been scattered by the cannon fire. Artie began shooting at anything that wasn't Padme or a Jedi. Anakin hurried beside her and helped deflect blaster-fire away, a lopsided smile stretching his soot-smudged face. "Is this what you politicians call a diplomatic solution?"

Artie shot through an approaching droid. "Is this what you Jedi call a rescue?"

Anakin laughed and parried another blaster beam; if Artie hadn't liked him so much, she could have throttled him. How could he joke at a time like this? The battle raged; droids and Geonosians fought and fell, and though the Jedi's sheer combative skills were extraordinary, they were not invincible. Artie watched several fall and not stir again and the sight sent bile up her throat, but there was no time to dwell, no time at all. Already, the droid legions were herding them to the arena's center, and it was all the Jedi could do to keep fighting. Windu's forces were exhausted, but there was no one left to send aid. In her pain and fear, Artie found herself damning diplomacy; they should have voted to build the army.

Six more Jedi died before Artie's eyes. Twenty remained, along with her, Anakin, and Obi-Wan; the last defenders the Republic had. How had it come to this? Above them, Artie watched Dooku step forward in the Viceroy's box. He lifted his hands, and the droids ceased their fire. "Master Windu!" he bellowed, voice carrying across the coliseum. "You have fought bravely in an effort worthy of recognition. But now . . . it is finished." His gaze swept over the straggling survivors of his massacre. "Surrender, and your lives will be spared."

Before anyone had a moment to consider Dooku's terms, Windu stepped forward. "We will not be hostages for you to barter with," he said fiercely in a way that made Artie think it was more about defiance than honor.

Dooku smiled. "Then you must be destroyed, my old friend. I don't relish it."

Artie scoffed, embittered by her approaching demise. Sure you don't.

The droids lifted their weapons again. Anakin took Artie's hand and gave it a squeeze. A goodbye. She shut her eyes and braced herself for death's oncoming will. How would it feel to be filled with blaster bolts?

The guns whined, but no beams shot forth to raze them down. A monstrous growl filled the air, beat into Artie's ears. Engines? A great black shadow seeped over the arena. "Look!" cried Padme, and Artie opened her eyes. Warships. Six Republic gunships descended upon them, landed in a tight barrier between the cluster of survivors and the nonplussed droid army. Anakin let out a triumphant laugh beside her, and Artie couldn't help but grin.

"I'd call this a rescue," she said to him, and his smile broadened.

And suddenly the battle began again. Out of the gunships spilled dozens—hundreds, even—of soldiers, armored troopers that met the droid's gunfire with their own, and beyond that, across the bleeding atmosphere, hundreds more Republic ships glided to meet the assembling Separatist fleet. It gave Artie pause when she remembered Republic soldiers should not have existed. For a moment she was shocked, really, upon realizing the army had been created anyway, despite whatever the Senate's vote was. Nonetheless, it was hard to stay angry when said army was saving her life, so Artie hurried alongside Anakin to a waiting ship and took a trooper's offered hand. "Your timing couldn't be better," she said as he pulled her onto the transporter. His armor was shining new and he carried twin pistols at his hips.

"Happy to help, ma'am," the soldier said, voice altered through his helmet. "CT seven-five-six-seven, captain for the five-hundred and first legion, at your service."

The ship lurched and ascended swiftly into the air, chased by an onslaught of angry red blaster-fire. Artie frowned as the wild wind whipped her hair across her face. She raked it away and gingerly reached for one of the handles that hung above their heads. "That's your name?"

The captain dipped his head. "We're clones, ma'am. S' my identification number."

Artie's lips parted slightly. Clones. Not commissioned soldiers, but men made for combat. Immediately, the notion left a bad taste in her mouth. Men created to fight and die. It alarmed her, realizing it all at once, but the Separatists' droid army was more ethical. They weren't sentient, they weren't flesh and blood . . . but clones? Genetically identical or not, they were human beings . . . . Artie tried to cover her worry. "Is there anything else you like to be called?" she went on lightly. "You have just saved our lives—that's about as personal as it gets."

The captain was quiet for a moment. Artie wondered if he smiled beneath the helmet. "Some 'a the boys in the Torrent Company call me Rex."

"Rex," Artie repeated with a smile, "it's nice to meet you. I'm Artie Adhara."

"S'a fine day for a rescue, miss Adhara."

Artie was so relieved to be free, she laughed despite the chilling pain in her ribs. "You're telling me."

They soared on for several minutes, following another gunship that Rex assured Artie Padme and Obi-Wan were aboard. Anakin stayed close, not letting more than a foot separate them, and Artie wished she could lean back into him and feel his heart thrum, certain he was alive and safe. But though they were alive and safe, they had reentered a world of watchful eyes and rigid rules; for the time being, they could present themselves as nothing more than friends, if even that.

"Captain," the piloting clone called from the cockpit, "Kenobi is attempting to chase down Dooku—he's flying uppahead of us. Kenobi says he needs Skywalker with him if we manage to corner the Count."

"Keep following them, then. If he—" Rex broke off; a cannon blast sounded from the ground and he barely had time to shout "Hold on!" before a shockwave of yellow-green plasmic energy collided with the gunships. Theirs got the least of the blast, just veered off-course for a moment, but Obi-Wan's ship was not so lucky. Artie watched in helpless horror as it keeled sideways, throwing Padme and a pair of clone troopers out through one of its open sides.

"No!" Artie shrieked as they passed over her teacher sprawled unconscious on the red sand dunes. "Stop—go back! She's my best friend, we can't leave her!"

Rex lifted a hand to try and calm her. "Miss Adhara, there isn't time. If we want to catch Dooku—"

"I want to help my friend," Artie insisted. "She could be hurt."

"She's right," Anakin supplied, "there isn't telling how injured she could be, we have to go back—"

"I'm sorry, both of you," Rex interjected, and he did sound sorry, so Artie tried not to be too furious, "but I'm under direct orders to follow Kenobi. I can't defy a direct command, but I can comm the two troopers that fell with her and see how she is."

Artie grabbed his arm and gave it a slight shake. "Yes, please, do that. And if she's hurt, can you send back a medic? Please?"

"Yes, ma'am. I'll see to it."

Artie sighed with relief. "Thank you. Thank you so—ARGH!" She practically doubled over. A spasm of pain seized her and did not let go. Tears flooded her eyes and blood roared in her ears.

"She broke her ribs," Anakin shouted over the wind, "she needs help!"

"Kix!" Rex called, and in an instant, a medic clone appeared beside them. He forced Artie to unfold and lie on her back, which was easier said than done, with the ship lurching through the air and dodging a maelstrom of blaster fire from the chasing Separatists.

"Two broken ribs all right," the clone Artie guessed was Kix announced as he pressed his gloved fingers down her left side. "Maybe something ruptured—we'd have to screen her to tell. Bacta should help, but you have to take deep breaths so your lungs don't fill up, all right?" Artie nodded, teeth grit tight. Anakin knelt on her other side, gently sweeping her hair away from her face in a way that was certainly suspicious, but Artie was glad for the comfort. Kix produced a syringe from his medipack and lifted her shirt past the middle of her ribcage. Artie risked a glance and saw that the skin was bruised almost black; she quickly looked away. Kix carefully injected her with the bacta in three different places along the length of her side. "Honestly, I'm surprised it's not worse. What happened?"

"Krayt dragon fell on me," Artie managed. When she said it out loud, it sounded ridiculous.

Kix drew back slightly. "Are you serious?"

"It dropped right on top of me," Artie said. She half-smiled. "It'll be a great story if we make it off this sithing planet."

Suddenly the gunship slowed; the world stopped zooming past in an indistinguishable blur, and they lowered onto a small landing bay that stretched out from one of the large hangar towers jutting up from the landscape. They hadn't been still for a moment before Obi-Wan appeared, ginger hair windblown and eyes fiercely determined.

"Dooku's inside, Anakin, we have to go after him—Artemis, are you all right?" His eyes widened at the sight of her and Anakin quickly jumped to his feet.

Artie shot him a thumbs-up and a wry smile. "Stellar."

Obi-Wan seemed genuinely concerned, but Artie could tell he was anxious to go after Dooku. "Anakin, come with me. We won't be gone long."

"You're going by yourselves?" Artie cried. She struggled to sit up, ignoring Kix's protests. "You can't—you can't go without backup. He'll have guards and guns and—and—at least wait for Master Windu to get here."

"He stayed behind in the arena to command the troops, there's not time," Obi-Wan argued. "We'll be fine, Artemis. Stay here and rest." With that, he raced for the hangar entrance. Anakin cast Artie one last apologetic look and followed his Master.

Artie scowled as she watched them go. The bacta was working—the sickening strikes of pain had settled to uncomfortable throbs—and Artie's nerve was returning. Somehow she knew the situation was more dangerous than Kenobi thought--it felt more like paranoia talking than the Force, but Artie thought both were worth listening to. Her frown deepened. "I told him to call me Artie," she muttered. She glanced around. No one was paying her much attention anymore—Kix was busy helping another clone that suffered a burn on his calf—so Artie seized the opportunity. She climbed to her feet, snatched up a blaster that was lying unattended, and leaped out of the gunship.

"ADHARA!" Rex shouted after her. "Get back in here!"

But she was already too far, too far to turn back. She pushed away her pain, her fear, and sprinted through the hangar entrance, open like a black maw ready to swallow her in shadow.

She burst into the broad cavern just in time to watch Count Dooku throw out a hand and hurl Anakin across the room on a torrent of lightning; he slammed into the opposite wall, clothes smoking, and hardly stirred again.

And Dooku's stare found her.

note.
jesus that was long! im so sorry. i hoped you all liked it!! stay tuned for the next part coming this week!