Chapter 11: Flashlight Interrogation
The darkness lasted only three heartbeats – three heartbeats filled with DiNozzo’s muffled curse, the frantic tap-tap-tap of his phone screen, and the sudden, deafening roar of rain against the broken windows. Then, with a deep, resonant thrum that vibrated through the floorboards, the lights surged back on.
Not the flickering, dying glow from before. Full, steady, almost painfully bright illumination flooded the grand room, banishing the suffocating blackness. It revealed DiNozzo blinking owlishly, phone held aloft like a useless totem; Fornell, hand instinctively near his hip holster, eyes scanning; Obi-Wan, calm but alert; and Brittany, her hand still a grounding point on Obi-Wan’s arm, her expression unreadable but her posture radiating command even in the damp robe.
In the sudden clarity, they all saw it: Tobias Fornell was gone.
Not vanished. Slipped away. The kitchen door at the far end of the living room stood slightly ajar.
"Fornell?" DiNozzo lowered his phone, peering towards the kitchen. "Coffee run? Finally, a man with priorities."
Brittany didn't hesitate. She moved, bare feet silent on the polished wood floor, Obi-Wan matching her step. DiNozzo scrambled after them. "Hey, wait up! Gibbs is gonna want confirmation on that Alpha-Seven-Tango thing! He sounds... well, like Gibbs!"
Brittany ignored him, pushing the kitchen door open wider.
The kitchen was a stark contrast to the grand living room. Warmth emanated from industrial-grade appliances, the air thick with the rich aroma of freshly brewing coffee – Fornell’s doing, clearly. The generator’s revitalized hum was a steady bass note here. And there, huddled near a large stainless-steel island littered with empty ration packs and discarded wrappers, were the remnants of the Jedi crash team.
Rex and Cody stood ramrod straight, helmets under their arms, faces impassive but eyes wary, instantly recognizing the authority in Brittany and Obi-Wan. Fives and Echo, slightly less formal, mirrored their posture, though Fives’s gaze darted towards the steaming coffee pot with undisguised longing. Ahsoka sat perched on the edge of a counter stool, her boots dangling, looking young and out of place amidst the gleaming metal, her large eyes wide with a mixture of curiosity and apprehension.
Anakin stood slightly apart, leaning against the cold pantry door. He’d discarded his scorched Jedi tunic, wearing only the dark undershirt. His right arm was raised, fingers flexing slightly as if testing the joints. The bright kitchen lights glinted sharply off the exposed durasteel and intricate wiring of his cybernetic hand. He’d been examining it, a frown of concentration on his face, perhaps assessing damage from the crash or the aftermath of the Vala’s purge.
Fornell stood frozen a few feet away, a steaming mug of coffee halfway to his lips. His sharp cop’s eyes weren’t on Anakin’s face, or Ahsoka’s montrals, or the distinctive white armor of the clones. They were locked, with unnerving intensity, on the gleaming metal hand. His expression wasn’t fear, but a deep, ingrained suspicion honed by decades confronting the worst humanity offered. The sight of that complex, inhuman limb shattered any lingering notion of these being ordinary refugees or eccentric consultants.
The steady hum of the generator suddenly felt loud in the tense silence. Rex subtly shifted his weight, bringing his hand closer to the blaster at his hip. Cody’s gaze flicked between Fornell and Obi-Wan. Ahsoka slid off the stool, landing lightly on the balls of her feet, poised but non-threatening.
"Well," Anakin broke the silence, his voice deliberately light, though his blue eyes held a defensive spark. He lowered his arm, letting the cybernetic hand hang casually at his side. "Power’s back. That’s an improvement. Place smelled like burnt wiring and wet bantha." He forced a casual grin towards Brittany and Obi-Wan, ignoring Fornell’s piercing stare. "Sleeping arrangements still involve tents, or did the big house survive?"
Fornell slowly lowered the mug. He didn’t look away from Anakin’s hand. "That’s some piece of hardware, son," he said, his tone deceptively calm, conversational even. The paternal 'kid' was gone. This was Senior Field Agent Tobias Fornell addressing a potential threat. "Lost your original in an... accident?" His eyes finally lifted to Anakin’s face, probing, assessing.
Anakin’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. "Something like that," he replied, the lightness gone, replaced by a flat edge. He met Fornell’s gaze squarely, a challenge simmering beneath the surface. Obi-Wan took a subtle half-step forward, radiating calm, but said nothing. This was Anakin’s dance.
DiNozzo, oblivious to the undercurrents for a split second, shouldered his way into the kitchen. "Whoa, retro!" He pointed at Anakin’s arm. "Is that hydraulic? Custom job? Looks way sleeker than the clunky prosthetics I’ve seen at Bethesda. You moonlight as a mechanic or something? Cause Vance’s generator needs a permanent babysitter." He sidled towards the coffee pot. "Speaking of babysitters... coffee ready?"
"DiNozzo," Fornell said, still not taking his eyes off Anakin, "shut up."
Tony froze, coffee pot in hand, his expression shifting from curiosity to wary confusion. "Okay, touchy subject. Got it. Cool arm, though. Seriously."
Ahsoka stepped forward, placing herself subtly between Anakin and Fornell. Her voice was calm, young but firm. "Master Skywalker is a skilled pilot and engineer. His prosthesis is essential." She emphasized the word 'essential,' her large eyes meeting Fornell’s with a disarming directness. "We mean no harm, Agent Fornell. We are grateful for the shelter."
Fornell’s gaze flicked to Ahsoka, taking in her youth, her strange head-tails, the sincerity in her eyes. Some of the hard edge softened, replaced by a flicker of the paternal concern he usually reserved for Brittany. But suspicion was a stubborn weed. He looked back at Anakin. "Essential for what?" he pressed, ignoring Ahsoka’s intervention. His cop brain was connecting dots, and the picture it was sketching was unsettling. Advanced tech. Unexplained crash. Energy signatures. And now, a man with a weapon grafted to his arm. "Piloting what, exactly?"
The air crackled. Anakin’s posture stiffened. Rex’s hand was now resting openly on his blaster. Cody moved slightly, flanking Obi-Wan. The comfortable aroma of coffee was suddenly cloying. Brittany, standing silently beside Obi-Wan in her damp robe, watched the exchange, her expression unreadable. She didn’t intervene, but her stillness was charged, like a coiled spring.
"Agent Fornell," Obi-Wan’s voice cut through the tension, smooth and authoritative. He stepped fully into the space between Anakin and the NCIS agent. "I assure you, we are guests here, seeking only temporary refuge until we can determine our next course. Master Skywalker’s prosthesis is a personal matter, born of necessity, not malice. We have no hostile intent towards you, or this world." He radiated calm reassurance, the Jedi Master effortlessly projecting an aura of trustworthiness.
Fornell studied Obi-Wan, the calm certainty in the older man’s eyes, the way the clones instantly deferred to him. He glanced at Brittany, standing silent and watchful. Her lack of alarm was the most significant factor. She trusted these people. Or, at least, trusted Obi-Wan. He sighed, a long, low sound that seemed to deflate some of his tension. He took a deliberate sip of his coffee.
"Alright, Kenobi," he said, his voice losing some of its razor edge, though the wariness remained. "Personal matter. Refuge. Got it." He looked pointedly at the clutter of ration packs. "Just try not to trash the place more than it already is. Vance has expensive taste. And DiNozzo?" He finally turned to the younger agent, who was pouring coffee with exaggerated care. "Stow the tech talk. Get Gibbs on the horn again. Tell him the ‘observers’ are observing. And that coffee is served."
DiNozzo saluted sloppily with his mug. "On it, Boss. Observing. Coffee. Gotcha." He fumbled for his phone, retreating slightly towards the living room doorway for better signal, relief visible on his face to be out of the direct line of fire.
The immediate tension eased, replaced by an awkward stillness. Rex and Cody relaxed their stances fractionally. Ahsoka let out a small, barely audible breath. Anakin finally moved, pushing off the pantry door, his cybernetic hand flexing once more before falling still. He avoided Fornell’s gaze, instead looking towards the rain-lashed window, his expression clouded. The defensive spark was gone, replaced by something darker, more turbulent. The open suspicion, the implication of danger in his very being, had scraped a raw nerve. He felt Obi-Wan’s calm presence beside him, Brittany’s silent watchfulness, Ahsoka’s loyalty, but also the clones’ readiness and Fornell’s lingering, unspoken questions.
As Brittany moved to pour her own coffee, the steady hum of the generator and the drumming rain the only sounds, Anakin turned his head slightly, his eyes finding Obi-Wan’s. The question in them was stark, unguarded for a fleeting moment in the relative privacy of the crowded kitchen, reflecting the turmoil stirred by Fornell’s probing gaze and the echo of his own complicated history: What exactly are we doing here, Master? And what does she really want with us? He didn't need to say Brittany's name. The look was enough. The refuge felt suddenly fragile, the unfamiliar ground shifting beneath their feet.
The refuge felt suddenly fragile, the unfamiliar ground shifting beneath their feet. Tony DiNozzo, leaning against the kitchen doorway with his phone pressed to his ear, broke the uneasy quiet. "Yeah, Boss, lights are on. Observers present and caffeinated. Fornell says coffee's ready, but honestly? It tastes like engine degreaser." He paused, listening, then rolled his eyes dramatically. "Alpha-Seven-Tango? Brittany said absolutely no..." He trailed off, his expression shifting as he clearly got cut off.
Brittany crossed the kitchen in three swift strides, her damp robe swirling. She plucked the phone right out of Tony's hand, her movement so fast his fingers barely registered the loss before it was against her own ear. Her voice, low and dangerously calm, cut through Gibbs's tinny, distant demands. "Gibbs? Listen close. If you set foot on my property tonight, I will kick your ass back to Quantico. Personally. Send the report via secure channels. Tony confirms receipt. Goodbye." She ended the call with a sharp jab and tossed the phone back to Tony, who fumbled it, barely catching it against his chest.
"Alpha-Seven-Tango is my protocol, Gibbs," she muttered, more to herself than anyone, pouring a mug of the strong coffee. She took a long swallow, the bitter heat grounding her amidst the lingering tension and the stink of wet synth-leather and ozone. Her gaze swept the room, landing on Anakin, his posture rigid by the pantry door, staring out at the lashing rain with simmering intensity.
"Skywalker," Brittany said, her tone losing its lethal edge, becoming almost conversational. "Kitchen's crowded. Walk with me." She didn't wait for agreement, heading towards a side door leading deeper into the house. Anakin hesitated only a second, a flicker of surprise crossing his face before the stormy look returned. He pushed off the door and followed her without a word, ignoring Obi-Wan’s quiet, watchful eyes and Ahsoka’s concerned glance. The clones remained statue-still. Fornell just sipped his coffee, his expression unreadable.
They moved down a wide corridor flanked by tall windows, the storm outside painting chaotic patterns on the polished floor. The rhythmic drumming of rain intensified. Brittany led him past closed doors, the hallway echoing faintly with the generator's thrum. She finally stopped before a set of double doors framed by creeping ivy visible through the glass. Beyond lay the entrance to her vast greenhouse, a jungle sanctuary barely visible in the storm's gloom.
"Spit it out, Skywalker," Brittany said, leaning against the cool glass of the door, facing him. Rainwater trickled down the panes beside them, reflecting the dim emergency lights running along the baseboards. "Before you vibrate right out of your boots. Fornell’s an asshole, but he’s a suspicious asshole by trade. That look wasn’t personal."
"Wasn't personal?" Anakin’s voice was tight, rough with suppressed anger. He held up his cybernetic hand, flexing the durasteel fingers. The light glinted coldly off the joints. "He looked at me like I was a loaded blaster pointed at his head. Like this," his voice hitched slightly, "makes me less, or dangerous, or... broken." He slammed the fist against the glass doorframe, not hard enough to break it, but the dull thud reverberated. "Like I chose this! Like I wanted to lose my arm to that Sith bastard!" The raw pain in his voice was startling, cutting through the storm's noise.
Brittany didn't flinch. She watched the rain streak the glass. "I know what it’s like," she said, her voice low and even. "To have people see the weapon first. The rank, the bank account, the weird history..." She tapped her own temple. "The things that scream 'threat' or 'asset' before they see you. Before they see the kid who got chewed up in someone else’s war." She finally looked at him, her gaze direct, unflinching. "I lost more than an arm at seventeen, Anakin. I lost the illusion that people see clearly. Fornell sees a puzzle piece that doesn't fit his picture. Doesn't mean the picture's right."
Anakin stared at her, his anger momentarily frozen by her bluntness. The storm raged outside, a chaotic counterpoint to the charged stillness between them. He searched her face, seeing not pity, but a hard-won understanding carved into her features. "Seventeen?" The fight seemed to drain out of him, replaced by a weary confusion. "What war were you fighting?"
"Doesn't matter the name," Brittany said, pushing off the glass. She took a deliberate step closer. "The scars feel the same. The suspicion feels the same. The feeling that you have to be ten times better, ten times more, just to prove you're still whole." She reached out, not towards his face, but towards the gleaming metal of his forearm. Her fingers stopped a hair's breadth away. "May I? I fix things. People, machines... sometimes." There was no pressure, just an offer.
Anakin hesitated, a lifetime of Jedi stoicism warring with the unexpected, visceral connection sparked by her words. He saw Obi-Wan’s calm acceptance, Ahsoka’s fierce loyalty, but this... this felt different. Raw. Unfiltered. He gave a single, tight nod.
Her fingertips touched the cool durasteel, tracing a seam with surprising delicacy. "Beautiful work," she murmured, genuine appreciation in her tone. "Precision engineering. Flawless articulation. The maker was an artist." She met his eyes again, a ghost of something almost like empathy softening her usually sharp gaze. "It’s part of you now. Not a weapon unless you need it to be. Not a weakness unless you let it. Screw Fornell. Screw anyone who only sees the metal."
The simple statement, the unexpected touch, the shared understanding of being viewed as a threat first, a person second – it hit Anakin with an almost physical force. He hadn’t spoken of Dooku, of Geonosis, of the shame and fury tied to the loss, to anyone like this. Not even Padmé. The tightness in his chest eased fractionally. A shaky breath escaped him. "He just... looked at me like I was the enemy," he admitted, the words quieter now, less anger, more bewildered hurt.
Brittany’s hand rested fully on his forearm now, a solid, grounding weight. "Then he’s an idiot," she stated flatly. "And you’re stuck with us weirdos for a bit longer. Try not to punch any more walls. Vance does have expensive taste." A hint of dry humor flickered in her eyes. "C'mon. Let's make sure DiNozzo hasn't electrocuted himself trying to 'observe' the generator. Might need that surgeon after all." She turned, her hand dropping away, but the unexpected sense of connection, of a shared, unspoken burden, lingered in the humid air of the corridor like the scent of ozone after lightning. Obi-Wan, watching from the shadowed kitchen doorway, saw the shift in Anakin’s posture, the subtle lessening of tension in his shoulders, and felt a quiet ripple in the Force – something fragile, unexpected, and strangely potent beginning to take root.
Obi-Wan, watching from the shadowed kitchen doorway, saw the shift in Anakin’s posture, the subtle lessening of tension in his shoulders, and felt a quiet ripple in the Force – something fragile, unexpected, and strangely potent beginning to take root. He exhaled slowly, some of his own wariness easing as Brittany guided Anakin back towards the kitchen, her earlier lethal intensity replaced by a brisk pragmatism. The storm still lashed the windows, but the atmosphere inside felt less brittle.
"Alright, folks," Brittany announced, striding back into the warm, coffee-scented chaos. She surveyed the wreckage – shattered glass still glittering near the broken living room windows, water dripping from the ceiling where rain had forced its way past damaged flashing, the lingering acrid scent of burnt wiring clashing with the coffee. "DiNozzo, stop eyeing the generator like it owes you money. Fornell, breathe. Everyone else? Clear the decks."
Anakin hovered near the island, the raw edge of his anger banked but still warm, watching her. Rex and Cody exchanged a look, automatically moving to gather discarded ration wrappers. Ahsoka perched back on her stool. "Clear the decks for what, precisely?" Obi-Wan inquired, stepping aside as Brittany moved past him towards the living room doorway.
"This," she said, stopping just inside the vast, rain-drenched space. She closed her eyes for a heartbeat, drawing in a deep breath that seemed to pull the very air taut. The simmering energy Obi-Wan always sensed coiled within her – the witch, the sea-heritage, the sheer latent power – surged outward, invisible but palpable as a sudden pressure drop.
Glass shards trembled on the soaked rug. Then, like film played in reverse, they skittered, lifted, and flew upwards to reform into the tall window panes, seamless and whole. Rainwater soaking the rug rose in shimmering beads and streamed back out through the newly sealed windows. Above, the water stains on the ceiling faded, the damaged flashing knitted itself back together, metal groaning softly as it reset. The faint ozone smell vanished, replaced by the clean, wet-earth scent of the storm outside, safely contained. It was silent, efficient, and utterly unnatural.
"Whoa," breathed DiNozzo, frozen mid-sip. "Okay, that? Was definitely not in the NCIS handbook on unexplained phenomena." He looked at Fornell. "Should we... write that down?"
Fornell just stared, his coffee mug forgotten, his cop-brain visibly short-circuiting. He’d seen Brittany do impossible things before, hints and flashes, but this? This was wholesale reality revision. "Kid," he managed, his voice rough, "a little warning next time? My heart ain't what it used to be."
Brittany opened her eyes, a faint sheen of sweat on her brow, but her stance was relaxed, almost energized by the expenditure. "Consider it housekeeping, Tobias. Now," she turned back to the kitchen, clapping her hands once, the sound sharp in the sudden quiet. "Hungry? Actual food this time, not paste in a packet." Her gaze landed on Anakin. "Skywalker. You ever wield a spatula?"
Anakin blinked, momentarily thrown. "A... spatula? I've recalibrated hyperdrive motivators mid-combat. I think I can handle a frying pan." A flicker of his old, competitive spark ignited.
"Good," Brittany said, a hint of a challenge in her voice. "Kitchen's mine. You're sous-chef. Eggs? Pancakes? Something edible." She marched towards the massive stainless-steel refrigerator. "Ahsoka, find the maple syrup. It looks like tree sap but tastes like heaven. Rex, Cody – table duty. Set it properly. Fives, Echo – trash patrol. Obi-Wan, make sure DiNozzo doesn't lick the batter bowl. Fornell? Pour the orange juice. You look like you need it."
Chaos descended, the magical repair already fading into the background as practical needs took over. Brittany moved with efficient grace, pulling out cartons of eggs, a sack of flour, a jug of milk. Anakin, after a moment’s hesitation, found a stack of bowls and a whisk, his movements initially cautious, then fluid as he fell into the rhythm. He cracked eggs one-handed, the shells shattering cleanly against the rim of the bowl with precise, mechanical force.
"Show-off," Brittany muttered without heat, measuring flour. "Try not to get shell in it."
"Please," Anakin scoffed, whisking vigorously. "My hand-eye coordination makes yours look like a drunk Gungan's." He nodded towards the sizzling butter in the large skillet Brittany had produced. "Pan's hot enough. You gonna stare at it or cook?"
Brittany poured batter, the hiss loud and satisfying. "Patience, Skywalker. Good pancakes take time. Unlike your flying, which I hear involves a lot of luck and screaming." She flipped one with a practiced flick, golden-brown perfection. "See?"
Anakin grinned, a genuine, almost boyish expression that transformed his face. "Luck? That was skill. And the screaming was usually Kenobi." He glanced towards Obi-Wan, who was diplomatically intercepting DiNozzo's wandering spoon. "Right, Master?"
"Focus on the eggs, Anakin," Obi-Wan replied smoothly, pouring himself more coffee. "Less on the alleged deficiencies of my piloting." He watched them, the easy, almost sibling-like bickering flowing naturally between the Marine surgeon and the Jedi Knight. It was absurd, yet fitting – two forces of nature finding common ground in the mundane alchemy of breakfast. The Force hummed softly around them, not with conflict, but with a surprising resonance. Ahsoka giggled, handing syrup to Rex, her earlier tension dissolved in the warm, buttery aroma filling the air. Fornell just sipped his juice, watching the impossible duo cook, the storm outside now just a distant rumble beyond the magically restored windows. The house felt alive, repaired, and full of a fragile, burgeoning sense of... home.The generator’s sudden roar was deafening, the lights flickering back to life with a sharp, almost violent brightness. Fornell squinted, his hand instinctively moving toward his sidearm as his gaze lingered on Anakin’s cybernetic hand. “You’re not exactly from around here, are you?” he asked, his tone casual but his eyes sharp. Anakin exchanged a glance with Ahsoka, who was busy trying to look inconspicuous while fiddling with a loose thread on her tunic.
“Depends on your definition of ‘around here,’” Anakin replied with a smirk, leaning casually against the kitchen counter. Ahsoka rolled her eyes, muttering something under her breath about his inability to keep a low profile. Fornell’s lips twitched, but he didn’t press further, his attention shifting to the sudden burst of warmth flooding the room. The generator’s hum had steadied, but there was something else—something almost imperceptible in the air.
Brittany stood in the center of the living room, her hands glowing faintly with a soft, iridescent light. The cracks in the walls sealed themselves, the shattered glass from the earlier commotion reassembling into pristine panes. She exhaled slowly, the energy dissipating as the room settled back into its usual state of quiet elegance. “There,” she said, brushing her hands together like she’d just finished a mundane chore. “Good as new.”
Anakin whistled, impressed. “You’re just full of surprises, aren’t you?”
Brittany shot him a half-smile, her eyes tired but amused. “You have no idea.”
Ahsoka wandered over, her curiosity outweighing her caution. “Is that… magic?” she asked, her voice tinged with awe.
“Something like that,” Brittany replied, shrugging. “It’s complicated.”
The clones were busy inspecting the freshly repaired walls, their helmets tilted in unison as they poked at the now-smooth surfaces. Rex turned to Cody, his voice low. “Think she could fix the ship?”
Cody snorted. “Doubt it. That thing’s beyond even magic.”
Brittany overheard and chuckled, her laughter light and unexpected. “I might take a look later. But first—” She glanced at the kitchen, where Anakin was already rummaging through the pantry. “Are you cooking, or just making a mess?”
Anakin held up a jar of spices, his grin wide. “Depends. You got anything edible in here?”
“You’re literally standing in front of a fully stocked pantry,” Brittany deadpanned, crossing her arms. “Try not to burn the place down.”
Ahsoka leaned against the counter, watching as Anakin started pulling ingredients out with the enthusiasm of someone who’d never seen food before. “You know how to cook?” she asked, her tone skeptical.
“Of course I do,” Anakin said, though the way he fumbled with a bag of flour suggested otherwise. Brittany sighed, stepping in to take over.
“Here, let me. You chop the vegetables.”
The kitchen quickly became a flurry of activity, the two of them working in tandem as Ahsoka and the clones watched from the sidelines. Anakin’s knife skills were surprisingly decent, though Brittany had to stop him from adding way too much garlic to the dish. “You’re not trying to ward off vampires, are you?” she teased, her tone light.
Anakin laughed, the sound genuine. “Just making sure it’s flavorful.”
As the scent of cooking food filled the air, the tension in the room eased. Fornell lingered in the doorway, his earlier suspicion softened by the domestic scene. “You two seem… close,” he remarked, his tone casual.
Brittany glanced at Anakin, a small smile tugging at her lips. “Guess you could say that.”
Anakin shrugged, his focus on the vegetables he was chopping. “She’s not so bad once you get past the whole ‘mysterious witch’ thing.”
Ahsoka snorted, earning a playful nudge from Brittany. The clones, meanwhile, had started setting the table, their movements efficient and practiced. Rex paused, holding up a fork. “What’s this?”
“It’s for eating,” Brittany explained, her tone patient.
Rex frowned. “Seems unnecessary.”
By the time the food was ready, the room was filled with laughter and the easy rhythm of conversation. Brittany and Anakin worked together seamlessly, their banter effortless and warm. Fornell watched them quietly, his earlier suspicions fading as he took a seat at the table. “You’ve got a knack for this,” he said, gesturing to the spread of food.
Brittany shrugged, her expression modest. “It’s just dinner.”
Anakin grinned, raising his glass. “To not burning the house down.”
As the group dug in, the weight of the earlier chaos seemed to melt away. The generator hummed steadily in the background, the house alive with the sounds of life and camaraderie. For the first time in what felt like forever, Brittany allowed herself to relax, the warmth of the moment washing over her like a gentle tide.
And in the quiet of the night, as the stars twinkled overhead, the bond between her and Anakin grew stronger, a connection forged not just by circumstance, but by something far deeper.