sojournerdeep | [Location: Arrival Plaza] [Open] always on the move . . .

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[Location: Arrival Plaza] [Open] always on the move . . .

The last time Obi-Wan had found himself waking in a strange place, things had been much less . . . formal. He'd woken on the floor, with a cheap duffel bag sitting beside him and a few light provisions. This room was bright and metallic, and he was immediately greeted with a warm, mild voice -- a man? a woman? otherwise? -- attempting to ease his concerns. It did, admittedly; Obi-Wan, for all his efforts to be comfortable with the meanest of furnishings and the simplest of attire, took a certain comfort in the familiarity of good technology. This place was more advanced.

Obi-Wan offered his greetings to the computer, provided his name when prompted, then double-checked his lightsaber was clipped securely to his belt. He didn't like the worrying presence of some kind of foreign object under his skin, but it didn't seem as though it was going to exactly explode and kill him a few seconds after arrival: it was something to look into in due course, like everything else in this new place.

His first concern was Anakin -- a presence in his mind, certainly, but a maddeningly unclear one. Was he somewhere far away? Maybe asleep?

The door slid open and admitted him outward until he found himself standing in a large, open plaza that looked nothing like an enclosed city. Although it mostly seemed to contain humans and humanoids, they had a varied look to them, in fashion and in personal style. The architecture was even more unfamiliar.

It had an organic look to it, walls and windows worked into the land seamlessly along with the occasionally spot of metal. Right angles and rectangles were largely absent; structures seemed built with a natural fondness toward rhombuses and trapezoids. It looked beautiful and ancient -- a clearing that seemed almost grown rather than constructed. Even among a small crowd, there seemed to be something peaceful here.

Peaceful . . . except that Anakin was missing.

Obi-Wan wrapped his robe around himself, blending his way into the crowd while keeping his lightsaber out of sight. He'd have to start making inquiries about Anakin's whereabouts -- but it wouldn't be wise to ask just anyone. He kept his eyes open for someone who looked relatively familiar with this strange new place.

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A man sat on the lip of a fountain with his legs half-crossed: a man with little to draw Obi-Wan Kenobi's attention, save the way he scuffed his foot on the ground in front of him in concentric circles, in a sort of arithmetic fidget. His attention was absorbed in his comm device, on which he tabbed through options with one finger, occasionally typing something in with three. He had a long tailored coat loose around his shoulders and a scarf looped around his neck and--perhaps more interestingly--some kind of string instrument in his lap.

As Obi-Wan came closer the stranger's eyes flicked up to him, then back down to his tablet for a moment. As Obi-Wan fell into conversation with another passerby next to the fountain--a man carrying a shoulder bag--the stranger with the violin glanced up at them again: no, at Obi-Wan specifically. Something had caught his half-lidded attention.

As the short conversation went on, he looked back at his tablet. When he spoke up to interpose himself, he did so without looking up or clearing his throat; "What is that thing?" he said. "On your belt?"

He did not specify whom he was addressing. Presumably only one of them had a thing on his belt.

The attention caught Obi-Wan's notice. He looked up for the source of the voice -- a young man, a little careless-looking, with a forwardness that Obi-Wan associated with youth. Anakin was like that, even at his age. Had Obi-Wan ever been? It was hard to remember himself that way; all his own memories of his early twenties had been spent trying to keep Qui-Gon's wild whims reined in.

He'd never been good at being young. Immature, yes -- but perhaps not exactly young.

This man, on the other hand, was a bit old for his youth. It put him in mind of Spike, with his protracted teenagerhood. He swallowed back an immediate rush of exhaustion, at that thought.

It didn't matter what this man looked like. Obi-Wan excused himself momentarily from the conversation and turned to regard the stranger and his wooden device.

He made no move to bare the lightsaber to the man's further notice. It was enough that he'd spotted it at all, with the loose Jedi robes serving to mostly obscure it from sight.

"Is it familiar to you?" he asked in return, mild.

The stranger gave Obi-Wan a look that suggested this was an unnecessary line of questioning. "No," he said. He locked and pocketed the tablet phone, then turned his attention briefly to the strings of his instrument: plucking one after the other. At first this seemed to be some bizarre musical display. Then it was obvious that he was checking the tuning.

(The man that Obi-Wan had been talking to shifted uncomfortably, with glances between the other two. The stranger with the violin didn't spare him a look.)

He frowned at one note, sounded it again, then looked satisfied. "You're looking for someone," he stated. "I'll find him. Can I see it?"

The two sentences came rapid-fire, as if he was offering a bargain--but he didn't seem to be, just putting two thoughts in quick order. His eyes tracked to where the lightsaber sat anyway; the rest of Obi-Wan didn't seem to interest him as much.

Edited 2016-09-23 02:13 (UTC)

Well. Manners were clearly not this fellow's strong suit.

Obi-Wan had certainly dealt with people like that before, though it never made it any more pleasant. He waited while the delicate-featured young man fiddled with his device -- now clearly some musical instrument -- and made a new assessment to go with the previous one. It was becoming clear that waiting for the stranger to return his full attention to Obi-Wan was a fool's venture; he was not going to look up.

It didn't really inspire confidence that he could, as he claimed, find Anakin. But it was certainly possible that he had some information on that score that he wasn't sharing.

Obi-Wan lifted his robe out to the side to offer a view of the lightsaber clipped to his belt.

He did not hold it out to the young man to touch.

"The man I'm looking for wears a device much like this, and robes like mine. Do you know where he is?"

"No," said Sherlock Holmes, far too carelessly. "Hence the finding."

***

Sherlock had not been not feeling so careless two hours ago. This was a recent development, and about ninety percent affect. Sherlock was, in fact, terrified and perplexed to find himself transplanted into a completely foreign, genteel little science-fictional prison for the second time in his life; it happening twice did not make the experience more reassuring for him. On the contrary, he found that he'd been growing used to his previous accommodations--and company--and that having them so abruptly ripped away and replaced by a soothing and not-too-complex AI did not do much for his short-term emotional health. He spent a good thirty minutes interrogating Ship's Services all the same, before heading out gingerly into the 'world'--if you could call it that. Whatever you could call it.

(He also spent a good five minutes prodding at his implant, but he, fortunately, did not have a friend.)

A few conversations with 'locals' later, he'd managed to ascertain a small amount of explicit and implicit information: that most of the people here were from Earth, of various times and places. That most of them arrived alone. That no one knew who was piloting the ship, if indeed that was what it was. That no one knew what alien design went into it--though Sherlock would have placed bets on Tate Modern, or the MOMA. That there was a breathable atmosphere. That there was no immediate danger, that they were 'safe', that necessities could be gotten easily, that there were doctors and farmers and--

--and nobody that Sherlock knew.

Well, you could wait, said a kind old lady. They might turn up.

And, with painful fright in his chest and without declaring his intention to anyone else, that was just what he did.

***

"What is his name?" Sherlock rejoined. He tucked the violin and bow under one arm, then swung his other leg off the fountain's edge and stood, to not-inconsiderable height. "How can you be so certain that he's here, if you haven't encountered him?"

He looked like he had more questions, but he was restraining them, at some great and impatient effort; before Obi-Wan could answer him he was already fishing out his comm again and typing something into it, though he eyed Obi-Wan as he did, so at least it stood a chance of being relevant. His interest in the lightsaber seemed to have subsided, at least, for now.

"Anakin Skywalker," Obi-Wan answered, watching the man's eyes for any hint of recognition. It was, he supposed, possible for someone to have heard of Anakin for any number of reasons -- or simply for Anakin to have run around introducing himself to everyone he encountered. Or there'd be no recognition at all, and Obi-Wan would be back where he started.

Which, so far as he could tell, was what happened. He rolled up his disappointment like a blanket and shook it out into the Force. His worry was slightly more difficult to let go of.

"He's a Jedi knight, as I am. I can sense his presence here -- but not where he's located." He smiled politely. "What's your name, friend?"

"Sherlock Holmes," said Sherlock shortly. He, on the other hand, neither hoped nor expected to be recognized; he had a reputation in just one place and time, from which it was obvious this man did not originate. That was not at the forefront of his mind right now, anyway--that was occupied by Anakin Skywalker and Jedi Knight, but they were just two lonely pieces of a missing puzzle. He was looking for a man he'd never heard of, of whom no one seemed to know, in a place he knew nothing about--

"What is a Jedi Knight?" he asked--or demanded, really, without thinking about it. More puzzle pieces. Maybe he could find two that connected. "I take it you have some kind of telepathic bond? What's his relationship to you? Would he be looking for you?"

If the answer to the last question was yes, then either Anakin Skywalker was an idiot--the arrival plaza was the best place to look for anyone, and he clearly wasn't there--or something was preventing him, or he wasn't newly arrived. It did not really occur to Sherlock that he had just asked four questions in a row. His mind was spinning off in a different direction--and, accordingly, he turned physically in that direction and motioned for the (still nameless) stranger to follow him. He looked unaware of the possibility that he might not.

"Obi-Wan Kenobi," Obi-Wan responded, his bow brief and semi-formal. "Of the Jedi Order. The Jedi are a holy order of peacekeepers. We serve at the needs of the Galactic Republic, where we hail from. Anakin is my former apprentice, which is the origin of our bond -- though I'm afraid that, with Anakin, there's no real guarantee of what he'd be doing. He follows his . . . instincts."

Impulses, he'd been about to say -- but his heart wasn't in despairing over Anakin's antics, not just now. Anakin was missing, which was usually just an annoyance; today, however, it was a full-blown concern. Today he'd been transported to a new and strange captivity, and he hadn't yet confirmed anything about what had happened to Anakin, except that yes, one or two people here did remember noticing that a man with an articulated metal hand had arrived a few hours ago.

There was almost no clear feedback along their Force bond that could clarify what had become of him -- for unknown reasons, he was difficult to sense. Obi-Wan imagined the worst: that he was injured somewhere and needed help or rescue.

Obi-Wan followed where Sherlock was leading. "What's your vocation, Mr. Holmes?" he asked carefully. Not all humanoids lived in societies or held ranks that required them to seek employment for pay, and some might take offense to the implication of the need.

Sherlock followed the explanation, extracting from it a few things he'd already surmised--warrior monk of some variety, some futuristic spacefaring time and place--and what he hadn't: former apprentice. Following his instincts. So they were looking for someone young and stupid. That was cheering, actually; that simplified things to a few of Sherlock's ideas. He was already in the midst of pursuing one, anyway.

If 'Anakin' was the type to get himself in trouble, there were one or two decent leads to be had. Sherlock did not elaborate upon them to Obi-Wan Kenobi, however: just pulled out his phone to confirm something on the map as he kept walking. "Detective," he said absently in response. "You're telepathic? In what form and to what extent?"

All of this was interesting, to some degree: but Obi-Wan's supernatural abilities and peculiar religious order were at the top of the list, for the moment, and Anakin's whereabouts at the bottom.

Sherlock was, so far, not a particularly chatty person -- and Obi-Wan had never been the most graceful at drawing others into small chat. Qui-Gon had done it effortlessly, and Obi-Wan had relied upon him for it, for a while; in his absence, Obi-Wan had never quite managed to fill the void. You're too much of a Jedi, Kenobi, someone he thought of as a friend had told him once. Propriety bleeds out of you. Or it would, if anyone could ever manage to stab your slippery hide. Anakin, of course, was no better: oh, he could certainly chat, that much was burningly obvious -- but Anakin tended mostly to chat enthusiastically to other people. He didn't necessarily lull them into chatting back.

Ingratiating themselves to people had never been Obi-Wan and Anakin's best strategy.

Instead, Obi-Wan stuck with what he was good at, which was a more honest depiction of his personality. He walked alongside Sherlock politely, hands held loose at his sides, and watched the other man's face for information.

It was possible, he supposed, that Sherlock was asking about Obi-Wan's telepathic ability in order to potentially make use of it in locating Anakin. However, considering that he'd boasted of his ability to find him before Obi-Wan had ever mentioned a mental connection, it seemed less likely. More likely he was just gathering information, none too subtly. Or attempting to chat, none too smoothly.

Obi-Wan took the same approach.

"Oh, nothing terribly major," he answered, cataloguing himself in brief. "I can sense the general intentions of the people around me, often, and I can sometimes communicate with the Force to influence such things to an extent, but my clearest connection is generally to Anakin. Master and apprentice have a paired bond. It aids in our work. Is telepathic ability common on your world, Mr. Holmes?"

Obi-Wan Kenobi's idea of nothing terribly major was comical. It provoked a brief twist of mirth on Sherlock's mouth, as did Obi-Wan's question--"No," he said frankly in response and kept walking. He could have said: But I've been acquainted with one or two elsewhere, or I've grown somewhat accustomed to things I do not perfectly comprehend, or something else forthcoming.

He did not. He instead set himself to trying to fit Obi-Wan into something resembling a logical framework, though this was difficult when one was apparently dealing with a telepathic warrior monk from another world. Obi-Wan was certainly one of the strangest people he'd met, here or elsewhere, and this rendered him an object of interest; however, there was no real way to gather data about him other than by badgering him, and even Sherlock had a sense that there was probably a limit to a stranger's patience. He could parcel out his questions.

(Or, what to Sherlock seemed like parceling them out, anyway.)

"What are my 'general intentions,' Mr. Kenobi?" It was less a challenge than a point of obvious curiosity; if it was rude, or unwise, to immediately ask a telepath to prove their abilities, this did not occur to Sherlock Holmes.

Jedi telepathic abilities were at once parlor tricks and also terribly invasive. If Sherlock was seeking a demonstration, however, he didn't get it; with the same mildness with which Obi-Wan had shown his lightsaber but not offered it to be toyed with, he glanced over at Sherlock. On his face was an easy smile. "To help me find Anakin, I should hope. Are we pursuing any particular leads at the moment, Mr. Holmes?"

Obi-Wan didn't mind a bit of curiousity -- it was healthy in a young man, or a not-so-young one -- but part of establishing boundaries as an adult was in treating those boundaries as pre-ordained and not implying that they could be negotiated. Sherlock was welcome to ask questions, but Obi-Wan was not inclined to oblige his every question and set a poor precedent.

Sherlock's general intentions, as the Force had told him, were benign -- that was what chiefly mattered. He had high, lively energy. It was nothing world-shattering.

Sherlock shrugged off the deflection and wheeled, mentally, to other things. Comparative religion was not his strongest point--particularly when one arrived at non-Earth cosmologies, which were another matter entirely--but nevertheless he found himself trying to piece apart what manner of faith it might be to which Obi-Wan Kenobi (and his apprentice, one assumed) belonged. The logical thing would be to ask. But asking would mean ignoring Obi-Wan's question baldly or having to answer it ahead of time, and Sherlock--

--well, Sherlock Holmes still found some comfort in theatrics.

Their feet took them through a hallway somewhat less (or more) than rectangular in shape, constructed from a foreign wood that Sherlock brushed the tips of his fingers against in passing. They were leaving the bustle and now low murmur of the arrival plaza behind. Every so often at a junction Sherlock checked his tablet.

They came to a doorway in the shape of, as Sherlock saw it, a metronome.

Without looking back, he walked in.

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[Location: Arrival Plaza] [Open] always on the move . . .

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