Title: No Marks, No Memory
By: Jedishampoo

Rating: R
Pairing: Obi-Wan/Surprise
Summary: JA-era Obi-Wan undergoes a disturbing experience. Why can’t he remember it?
Warnings: Chan (Obi-Wan is 17), Dubious (well, pretty much absent) consent
Author notes: As requested by wyomingnot, Obi-Wan/Anyone other than Anakin, chan, dubious consent. Not my area of expertise but I did my best. Perhaps not original, but I’ve not read much JA/JQ fanfiction. Therein lies the challenge, I guess!
Disclaimer: The characters herein are not owned by me, but by Lucasfilms Ltd. I made no money writing this work of fiction.

***

Obi-Wan awoke and found he could not move. It was dark. The last thing he remembered--

“I am Rannan. Xanatos was my brother,” the young man had said.

He’d looked something like Xanatos, Qui-Gon’s former and now dead padawan. He had the same silky black hair and handsome face, the blue eyes that chilled souls with their charisma. But this young man’s face was smooth, lacking the sinister scar that Xanatos had carried over his eye. He’d also lacked Xanatos’s air of menace and malice, that characteristic twisting of the psyche that one acquired only through the Dark Side of the Force. Obi-Wan had trusted him.

Obi-Wan tested the restraints that encircled his neck, wrists and legs. He was bound tight. Was he still on Coruscant? he wondered. That was the last place he’d been, not far from the Temple.

Qui-Gon had been-- was-- off somewhere, meditating or mourning Tahl, Obi-Wan didn’t know which. Rannan had appeared in the diner and seated himself without invitation at Obi-Wan’s small table. Obi-Wan’s first glimpse of the man had given him an instant stab of fear-- those eyes, that hair-- and Obi-Wan had wished for a moment that he’d not wandered out alone.

But there had been no threat, no sign from the Force, no twitch of the Dark. Only Rannan’s self-conscious grin, his hurried introduction, and his launch into a half-nervous explanation: he was sorry he’d followed Obi-Wan, he was sorry to disturb him here, but there were so many questions and so much guilt-- that poor Chun boy-- and now that there was peace on Telos, all he wanted was to talk, to try and make sense of what had happened.

And really, there had been no reason to be afraid. After all, Obi-Wan was nearly a man, on the cusp of eighteen and Jedi knighthood. He’d been surrounded by people. And he’d been carrying a lightsaber.

Now Obi-Wan was alone and the lightsaber was missing, as far as he could tell; Obi-Wan couldn’t sense it anywhere upon his person. Nor, he came to realize, his clothing. He was naked except for the straps. Robes and weapon had been whisked off to who knew where.

He relaxed his neck muscles and lay his head back against the board/table/whatever he was strapped to. It leaned at about a 30-degree angle and would not give no matter how Obi-Wan squirmed or pushed at it with the Force. In that position all he could see was the stone ceiling of the small room, but there was nothing to see anyway. Only the bare walls and the unmoving shadows that lay across them. Obi-Wan closed his eyes and breathed. He still had the Force, and that was something.

But why, he wondered, had they taken his clothes? Was it some sort of humiliation technique to prepare him for interrogation?

He tried to remember how they’d gotten him, whoever they were, but all he could dredge from his memory was the elegant young man, and the table at the diner.

“I want to hear myself how it happened,” the man-- Rannan-- had said. “I was always so proud of my brother. But then we got the news.” Here he’d paused and swallowed a brief moment of pain like a noxious pill. The waitress brought muja juice. Obi-Wan drank, entranced by the thought of bringing redemption to this man, this family. Rannan continued. “The news that he’d left the Jedi. He disappeared for years. I was off Telos at Galverry Planetary University when I finally heard he’d returned and was leading the Telosians to a new golden age. Katharsis, and all that. I tried to send messages, hoping my brother was back, was himself again. But the next I heard, he was dead. How?”

“I’m not the one who knew your brother, or the story, best,” Obi-Wan had said, proud of his lack of fear and his Jedi-like composure at such a moment. “My Master, Qui-Gon Jinn, could perhaps tell you. He’s not far; we could go see him together.”

“Qui-Gon Jinn won’t help me,” Rannan had sneered then, aristocratic nose wrinkling and carving harsh valleys into his perfect face. “But you can and will.”

That was the last thing Obi-Wan remembered.

Memory was proving to be little immediate help, so Obi-Wan turned the Force to another use, that of deducing his exact situation and perhaps a way out of it. There were other beings here. Through the Force, Obi-Wan could sense them lurking beyond the walls. He could garner no sense of good or evil from them, only steady, cool purpose.

He didn’t have to wait long before the beings entered the room. First to enter was Rannan, looking as handsome and as like a scarless Xanatos as ever. He wore the same tailored black shirt and brown trousers he’d worn in the diner. Behind him hovered two massive human men. Both of them wore masks.

“Where am I?” Obi-Wan asked.

“Greetings. I’m very glad to have you here,” Rannan acknowledged him coolly. He stared at Obi-Wan for a few moments as if memorizing his face before leaning in and kissing him.

His lips were warm and oddly soft, his tongue slick and pushing. It was a shocking invasion, but Obi-Wan swept it out of his mind to focus on more important matters. “How are you holding me here?” he asked when Rannan pulled away.

“I’m not going to tell you.” Rannan showed no anger, only an impassive countenance. “Just listen to what I do wish to tell you. And watch and feel how I wish to tell it.”

Rannan reached out pointed a long, slim finger at Obi-Wan’s heart. He held it there, steady, eyes studying it. Obi-Wan tried to push it away, tried to use the Force to coerce the man’s nerve and muscle to point it elsewhere. The Force moved within him, but the hand stayed still.

The finger hovered a few seconds longer as if proving a point, then pressed against Obi-Wan’s breastbone and drew a slow, deliberate trail from collarbone to navel. Rannan would not meet Obi-Wan’s eyes, only watched his own finger as it committed its assault.

“Why don’t you stop that and tell me what you want,” Obi-Wan said, squirming a bit and hating himself for it. He wished the man would look at his face. This was too odd, too uncomfortable.

“I already said I would do so. In the meantime, I will do what I wish.” Rannan’s lips crooked in a half-smile, a smirk which gave his handsome, open face the malice and menace it had lacked earlier. Still his eyes would not meet Obi-Wan’s, only the skin of his chest and his belly, and the sweat beginning to glisten upon it.

Finally Rannan looked up, smirk in place. “Already? Where’s your Jedi calm?”

“I am calm.”

“No you are not.” The finger dropped and drew circles about his navel. It was intimate and irritating.

Obi-Wan realized with a bit of dawning horror that Rannan was right. What calm he’d had was dissipating quickly. He’d been captured before. But here he was almost helpless; despite having the Force as his ally he could do nothing with it.

And never before had he been threatened in such a... sexual manner. Obi-Wan knew such perversions existed, but had never expected to be faced with them so intimately. To have someone attack him with a weapon or try to kill him-- that was unnerving enough, but he’d been trained in battle techniques. This... this impersonal violation of personal sanctity couldn’t be anticipated and he didn’t know how to counter it. His mind swam with the possibilities-- what exactly they might do to him, and how far they might take this, all without his consent or the power to stop them.

Rannan continued, calm voice irritating Obi-Wan’s every last nerve. “You won’t be here long, if you don’t wish it. I only wanted to introduce myself to you, sort of, in a way that you might understand.” Rannan’s palm dropped against Obi-Wan’s abdomen, fingers splayed and grasping at his flesh.

Obi-Wan shivered. It was uncontrolled, sprung from either his own sweat in the cool of the room or from a horrified arousal. He didn’t want to know which. Yet even if he could not use the Force to stop Rannan, he could use it to calm himself. He took a deep, only slightly shaky breath.

“If you want some sort of revenge, then just kill me. I’m not afraid to die.”

Rannan breathed a soft chuckle. “I don’t want to kill you. I don’t even want you to remember. No marks, no memory. Just to give you the knowledge, now, that power is what matters in this galaxy. To be ruthless is to win. When you learn that, then I will release you.”

Obi-Wan replied with a short laugh of his own. “That is a foolish promise. Why should you?”

“Because you won’t tell anyone.”

No memory. Obi-Wan stole a quick glance at the bodyguards, searching with the Force. Within him a faint hope grew and died in the same instant. They did not seem to be watching and had shown no sign of participating in this degeneration, but their minds were as impervious as Rannan’s.

“You’ve been so isolated, so protected. You hadn’t realized that until now, had you?” Rannan had leaned in again, and his breath came quick and warm in Obi-Wan’s ear. Still his hand clenched at the flesh of Obi-Wan’s belly. Only through a burst of will did Obi-Wan smother the shiver that threatened to reveal his apprehension. “Qui-Gon believed he could protect you. I thought he’d done a terrible job, but now I see that this was not so.”

“I am a Jedi. I’ve faced worse than you,” Obi-Wan told him with half-convincing bravado.

“Hmm. No.” Rannan’s hand slid down and committed a more heinous violation, fingers encircling Obi-Wan’s penis and tightening, pulling at it with firm strokes. This time, Obi-Wan was unable to stop the shiver of horror that gripped his skin. “I can tell. There are all kinds of danger, and all kinds of power, of revenge. For all your travels and your advanced age,” here he chuckled again, “you’ve only seen the mundane. People killing each other. How prosaic. That’s partially why I chose to meet you, now. You’re still young enough to have not yet been ruined.”

“Burn in the five hells,” Obi-Wan said, as emotionlessly as he could. It took all his attention, all his calming powers, to stay the aroused betrayal of his own body. He was only partially successful, and Rannan knew it.

“Jedi don’t believe in hells. There is only the Force. The Force! Xanatos believed it.” Rannan removed his lips from Obi-Wan’s ear and pulled back, but his hand remained where it was, moving in its maddening rhythm. And despite all Obi-Wan’s efforts and training he was losing the battle with his own body; his penis was awake and hard, aching. Rannan smiled and continued his quiet diatribe. “Seduced by the Dark Side. Hah. No one is seduced. They choose. Xanatos chose. And you will choose.”

“Choose what?” Obi-Wan ground out, sending frantic waves of calm to every cell in his body.

“Choose to end this, of course, in the only way it can. You have to let me win this one, tiny thing. You know, don’t you, that as soon as we finish this to both our satisfaction, I will let you go. Don’t you?”

Obi-Wan looked into Rannan’s eyes, and knew. He could read it there as clearly as if he’d been a true telepath and not just a Jedi. But this defilement was impossible. “No,” he said.

“Then we’ll stay here all day. Longer. I’m quite set on this, you understand. This is a lesson you need to learn.” Rannan’s control and conviction were a chilling spectacle. Still his hand pulled at Obi-Wan’s flesh, each movement and stimulation a torture.

But despite the degradation, Obi-Wan realized he had a conviction as well. Perhaps his failure here was inevitable. But when this was all over he would find this man again, and with the power of the Jedi behind him. However many times Rannan had done this in the past, Obi-Wan vowed silently that his future games of perversion were numbered. Reluctantly, he let go of the Force surrounding him, ended his resistance and pleaded silently with himself for a quick end.

Release was quick and unsatisfying and enervating. Rather than emptying Obi-Wan, it filled him with rage. As Rannan pulled away, wiping his hand on his grey trousers, Obi-Wan spoke to him in a voice that was deadly quiet and filled with all the certainty he wished he’d had earlier.

“I will remember. And I will remember you.”

But Rannan only laughed. “No you won’t. No marks, no memory, remember? Just perhaps the knowledge, buried within you, that the Jedi are not the only power in the galaxy. The tiny, mostly-forgotten knowledge that we can do what we will with you. A small revenge, but all mine.”

“A sick revenge.” But Obi-Wan didn’t speak further. He didn’t need to. All he needed was to remember this man’s face, one of the easiest things he would ever have to accomplish. A variation of this face hovered among his thoughts every day, egging Bruck and Bant on to their deaths. How could they erase his memory? It would be impossible to erase the memory of a Jedi. That overconfidence would be this man’s downfall.

“By the way,” Rannan said in reply, hated half-grin returning. He waved his hand in a gesture to the guard on his right. “My name is not Rannan. It’s Ornum. Grant Ornum. And this is not the only face you will know me by. Now, drinky drinky!”

One of the giant men grabbed Obi-Wan’s jaw and squeezed it open, while another poured a clear, cold substance down his throat. Obi-Wan choked at its shocking, sweet taste, sputtering and glaring his cool rage. But moments later all was nothing.

***

Obi-Wan awoke. He sat up in a rush, still sputtering. It took a few moments before he realized that he was not choking, and the sweet taste was gone. He was in his room at the Temple, and it was nearly dawn.

What an odd dream, he thought. But in the instants since he’d awoken, the threads of it had already become tangled, nonsensical. He grasped at them with mental fingers.

He’d had the dream before, Obi-Wan knew. He swung his feet out of the covers to the floor and sat for a moment, running his hands through his short, bristly hair, thinking. The repetition of such a dream, in and of itself, was disturbing.

Obi-Wan knew that he should probably discuss the dream with Qui-Gon, or even Master Yoda. But in the light of day such a dream was more humiliating than prophetic.

Obi-Wan finally decided that surely it meant nothing. The dream had to be about the past, because in it he’d been at least several years younger than now. It had not been about the future, and the future was what mattered. Obi-Wan had learned to bury the past or else be haunted by it. Already the dream was fading like a whisper in the rush and clamor of the day ahead, like dark in the presence of the sunshine trickling in through his window.

The dream meant nothing. Obi-Wan stood and went to take a shower.

End.