"Master? Master, can you hear me? We're going to get you home, okay? Just hang in there… please," Anakin's voice trails off in a desperate whisper. Obi-wan wants to reply, but he's too exhausted to even open his eyes. The Force had given him enough to get Alpha and himself off the planet, but that was it. He's not even sure where he ended up crashing their stolen ship. All he knows is that he's grateful to hear Anakin's voice again, no matter how panicked it sounds.

"Alpha?"

"Yes, sir."

"Where is he hurt? Is it safe to move him?" Force, his old padawan sounds positively terrified.

There is some shuffling of feet and Obi-wan can picture the poor clone's face without having to open his eyes. He imagines the man is stone-faced, tense, and hesitant to answer. Obi-wan knows there is terror flashing in his dark eyes behind swirls of anger and helplessness. He had seen Alpha's face when he'd first freed him from his cell.

He'd never seen a clone look so lost before. He didn't think they could be lost like that. It wasn't supposed to be in their 'programming'.

"Alpha?" Anakin's voice again, more insistent this time.

Obi-wan's groan seems to snap the clone out of whatever daze he's found himself in. "The general shouldn't even be alive, sir. I don't know how he – what he did – even with the Force, he shouldn't –"

"I need to know if he can be transported."

Obi-wan musters up barely enough energy to open his eyes. Anakin notices immediately and jumps forward to most likely lecture him on foolishly trying to kill himself again, but Obi-wan pays him no attention. He directs his gaze to Alpha who is standing off to the side and slightly behind a kneeling Anakin. Slowly, shakily, Obi-wan raises a hand in his direction.

Alpha is there almost immediately, kneeling in the dirt and not hesitating to grab his hand within his own. Obi-wan offers a shadow of a smile and tries out a couple of words. "M-made… it."

"It was a fine landing, sir." The clone doesn't even attempt to smile.

Obi-wan wants to laugh, but he can't. "Liar," he whispers, before drifting off.

When he wakes, he's surrounded by bacta and being fed through a tube. The logical part of his mind tells him that he's safe, but all he sees is a suffocating mask being forced onto his face and all he feels is a thick cloud of darkness trying to smother the light right out of him.

All he hears are Alpha's screams… or are they his own? He hears them for four more months before they slowly begin to fade. It takes him another two months to stop being afraid to go to sleep. Alpha helps him with that when Anakin can't. "I'm okay, general. I'm right here and you're right here, and they're just nightmares. They're not real."

Obi-wan looks into the clone's eyes and knows that he is trying to convince himself of that as well. He appreciates the effort. "But they were, Alpha. They were," he mutters.

Alpha doesn't reply and Obi-wan, oddly enough, finds great comfort in this. Neither of them will ever be the same, but at least they aren't alone.

He'd seen them in the city today. Clones. Just a few, but it had been enough to set him on edge. Not an hour ago, Cody had stopped by to let him know that he was leaving the planet. Obi-wan had briefly considered joining him, but in the end he'd declined. Now he's wondering if he'll ever see his old friend again.

He knows he won't.

With a colossal sigh, he throws his old robe around his shoulders and steps out into the afternoon heat. Small dust devils swirl and climb into the air. A womp rat scurries across a dune a couple hundred yards away. The sky is clear of all clouds and a bit hazy from the constant dust. Its appearance seems to indicate a very normal day on Tatooine.

They are called Storm Troopers now, or so he's told. At least that's what other people are saying. They still look relatively the same as before except for Obi-wan guesses that not many people have seen their faces. Behind those blank, squeaky clean helmets and the white armor, every single one of them looks the same. Just like Cody, though his old friend is different in other ways.

Just like Alpha.

His jaw clenches and he looks down at his feet. It's not like him to hang his head like this, but he no longer has anyone to keep up appearances for. It's been a while since Obi-wan's been reminded so bluntly of his former life. Names and faces flood unbidden before his eyes. Cody, Boil, Longshot, Waxer, Wooley… countless names, never numbers. Faces that only he and Anakin knew well enough to tell apart.

But Alpha's name stings the most.

Obi-wan stares at himself in the mirror for a good long while now. Mirrors had never held any appeal for him before this, but he thinks it odd that now that he's finally glanced at one, a different man stares back at him. Perhaps it is broken, this mirror that reflects a different face. Surely that isn't him.

But it is. He can vaguely recognize himself in the empty gray eyes and the limp, ginger locks that have grown much too long. And there is the tiny, almost invisible scar near his right ear that he's had since his apprenticeship. They've shaved his face to better treat the various lacerations he'd acquired at Ventress' hands and so now everything is visible. Frowning, he wonders why people are always going on about him hiding his boyish features beneath his beard. There is absolutely nothing boyish to speak of.

It seems he's acquired more than a few new scars. The ugliest by far is a stretch of gnarled, irritated skin just below his ribcage. It's only just beginning to heal, so there are still a few stitches snaking in and out of the jagged line. Thank the Force he'd been sedated when they'd removed the flesh-eating maggots…

He shivers, wanting to forget. For the moment it's simply enough to walk away from the mirror and return to his bed. A moment later, he thinks better of it and exits the room. It takes no time at all for him to enter the room directly across from his own.

Alpha is sitting up, pillows propped behind him, looking out the window. When Obi-wan enters, the clone immediately glances over. Before Alpha can offer him a greeting or one of those nonsensical "sirs", Obi-wan stops and pulls up the bottom of his shirt. "This is as close as I can get, I'm afraid."

Alpha, bless the man, manages a smirk. "You've come close, sir. I'll give you that."

Obi-wan grants him a small smile before sighing. It's uncharacteristically dramatic on purpose. It's a game they both play. Making light of the marks that will brand them for the rest of their miserable lives. Alpha is the runaway winner, of course.

Grunting, Obi-wan turns back around. "I'm sure there's an uglier one here somewhere…" he mutters. The clone's low chuckle bids him farewell and he warms at the sound. It's no small miracle that either of them can laugh, though Obi-wan's laughter will forever be shortened by minor chest pains and Alpha's will be accompanied by only half a smile.

The poor man's face has been marred by a twisting, ropy scar that slashes straight through his lips and twists the left side of his face with every minor twitch.

Yes, he concludes. Alpha will win this game. But that's no excuse to stop playing.

He imagines that while the majority of the Storm Troopers look identical, none of them look quite like Alpha. The rest of them are not branded by ugly lines echoed by even uglier memories.

Obi-wan finds that his right hand has somehow come to rest right where the scar is, as if it's still bleeding profusely and he has to stop it before he bleeds out.

He'd been at The Market, Tatooine's crude attempt to do what other greener, wetter, and more agriculturally productive planets do much much better. It happens only once every few months on this parched dust ball and he makes a point to be there every time. The merchants selling their meager, half dead crops look as dry and parched as their produce and grains, but he buys from them anyway. He figures they have to make a living somehow and he has to stay alive, even if that means purchasing foods that contain only a fraction of the nutrients they are supposed to. They taste even worse, but he learned long ago how to drown their deadness in spices.

When the Troopers showed up and started questioning the vendors and pulling some of the natives aside, he'd decided that retreat would be his wisest move to make. It wouldn't do to be found out this early in the game.

And it is a game, he thinks. Looking down now at his shaking hand, tattered robes, and dusty boots, he wonders if he's finally beaten Alpha at this game. While he bears plenty of physical scars that can't begin to measure up to the clone's distorted face, his mind is another story entirely. "Blast it," he mutters, turning and reentering his hovel. He immediately crosses to the far corner and takes a seat on a short-legged stool. Wood shavings surround his boots and latch on to his robe. The carving knife is right where he left it, plunged all the way up to its handle in a block of wood that he's begun to shape into a small chest. He still has to hollow it out, attach the hinges, and…

"It will devour you, Obi-wan, dear. Hollow out your soul until nothing is left but hatred, rage, and passion."

He flinches.

The hinges scream every time she enters his cell, grating on every one of his damaged nerves and setting off migraines behind his eyes. All he sees are stars dancing in his limited field of vision until the dull blade of a knife comes into focus. She wields it with the same deft skill that she wields her sabers with.

Obi-wan is breathing fast and hard. His chest hurts, as it always does when this happens. He hasn't had an episode this bad in a very long time. He stands, stumbles a few steps forward, and then collapses into a rickety, high-backed chair. "Breathe," he tells himself. "She's not here. I am safe."

One is true, the other is not. "Safe from her," he amends between ragged gulps of air. Slowly, eventually, he can breathe normally again. By that time the suns have passed almost completely to the other side of his home and are beginning to set.

He wonders why the Emperor changed their title. Why Storm Troopers? Are they not still clones? Maybe not. Maybe the faces are no longer identical even though the armor remains relatively the same.

Does it matter?

"Yes," he says out loud, banishing visions of dull knives and twisting scars with a single precise blow. "It does."

It matters because they were his men. Good men. And he wants to believe that more than just Cody escaped. He reaches forward to grasp at some blank sheets of flimsy and his writing utensil. The Empire will not tarnish the legacy of some of his most trusted friends.

The Clone Army of the Republic was created for a single purpose, he writes. It is a bitter truth to record and one that many already believe. To destroy the Jedi in a single, precise blow. None saw it coming since it couldn't possibly have been predicted. Irony abounds, it seems. The very army that was instrumental in crippling the Separatists and helping the Order win battles and free planets turned on them at the single flip of a genetically ingrained switch. It is a frightening thing, that a person of any species could create another person to be so helplessly enslaved to their own genes.

Monsters, he thinks, but doesn't write. Yes, they were clones, but they had been thinking, living, and laughing men as well. They were men he fought beside and would have died beside had he had his way.

No, that's not quite right. He would have died beside Anakin first, and if a few of their men had ended up dead beside them… well. Obi-wan wouldn't have complained one bit at that. It would have been a perfectly fine way to go.

Despite all of that, however, each one had a personality of his own. Each man could think for himself, crack jokes, save each other's lives, save a Jedi's life… they were men first, soldiers second, and clones a distant last. They were good men, though history will remember them as something far less. They will be remembered as tools under war-time titles: The Clone Army of the Republic, the first generation of Storm Troopers. Only numbers and never names.

I ask, Luke…

Obi-wan's knuckles clench on his writing utensil, growing white before he loosens them with a sigh. This is the first time that he's addressed the boy directly in his – his what? His memoir? He supposes it could be called that, though it isn't his intention.

I ask, Luke, that you remember them as more than that.

He stops, stands up, and looks outside again. The hovel is silent save for the sound of the breeze flowing through the door he'd left open. It's blowing sand and dirt inside, but he pays no attention to that. The suns have exploded in the sky as they do every evening and it's a scene that leaves him breathless every time. Oranges, yellows, pinks, and rich purples blend together in a sea of vivid color that somehow always seems to arrest his thoughts and clear them completely.

It doesn't work tonight. Orange the color of Mustafar's rivers bleeds into a sickly yellow that glares straight through him like Grievous' eyes used to. Shades that used to look pink have taken on a bloodier hue and in the dark purple just beginning to shadow the distant dunes he only sees Mace's lightsaber and the man's dark eyes dancing behind it in silent, amused challenge.

I miss you, old friend. Obi-wan tugs his robe tighter, noting the slight chill that's begun to fall, and steps through his door and onto an invisible path. Tatooine has no clear paths or roads in the middle of the desert. Not where the dunes are constantly shifting and the winds never stop blowing. He learned quickly to mark directions by permanent outcrops of rock or distant landmarks that were always visible. Tonight, when he returns, the skies will be black enough and clear enough that he can use the stars to fix his direction.

"I'm going to be the first to see them all."

Obi-wan smiles sadly. I'm so sorry, Anakin. Perhaps Luke would be able to visit the ones that his father had been unable to reach.

Luke. He winces, flashes of Storm Troopers dancing in his head. The boy is in danger of being accidentally found out and he won't allow it. He can't.

So he walks an unfixed route until the sky is only purple, almost black, and he knocks on a worn door that he will never knock on again. "What are you doing here?" Owen greets him, eyes angry and afraid. Obi-wan doesn't blame him.

"May I come in?" he asks, feeling his gut churn at what he's about to do.

Obi-wan can tell that Owen is about to tell him with no small amount of venom to get off of his land, but then a small hand lands on the man's shoulder and Beru is staring at him and convincing him to let him in. Owen jerks the door wide and flicks his head, "Make this quick, Kenobi." Both of them wince at the slip of his tongue and look towards the nine-year-old boy sitting at the table with his hands buried inside of a droid. Thankfully, Luke doesn't seem to have caught the slip.

"Thank you," Obi-wan says. Then he's moving towards the table and taking a seat. "Hello, Luke."

Luke mutters something to himself, pulls his hands from the mess of circuits and wires, and looks up. Blue eyes lock with eyes that used to be the same color and Obi-wan freezes, struck dumb. "Hi Ben," Luke says, an easy smile slipping across his face before it falls away. "What's wrong?"

He wonders how he never saw it before. The hair and face are all Anakin. The tinkering, the exuberance, the lack of patience, the fiery Force signature, even the color of the boy's eyes are all clearly, so very clearly from his old friend. But the blue eyes that have seized him in a sudden, compassionate bind should really be a soft brown, because he's only ever seen that overflowing empathy from one other person.

"There is still good in him, Obi-wan."

Padme is dead, but here in this child he sees her alive and well and he can't help but smile back once he's finally forced himself to move and think again. Force, Luke, Obi-wan laughs internally, give me a chance here. The boy has had no training and he's unintentionally projecting an aura of warmth and comfort that has Obi-wan wanting to laugh and cry and weep uncontrollably all at the same time. Is this what Padme would have been like had she been Force-sensitive? "I can't stay long," he manages to say, "so I need to explain something real quick, okay?"

Luke nods, fingering a loose wire. "Okay."

He watches the boy for a short, precious moment, wondering how things had ever gone so wrong and knowing that somehow it will all turn out right. He knows this the same way that he knows that this is something he must do. For Luke, but mostly for Anakin.

And for Padme.

For the first time in Luke's young life, Obi-wan reaches out gently with the Force and pokes at the boy's signature. It's an uncontrolled mess of warmth, confusion, wonder, and pure light that he marvels at for the half second it takes for Luke to blink and meet his eyes again. "Luke," he starts, managing to keep his voice steady despite the grief that's beginning to well up inside. "I won't be able to see you again for a long time."

"Why?"

And isn't that a loaded question? "When you're older you will understand," Obi-wan murmurs. Holding the boy's gaze in his own, he reaches a hand forward and places it on his shoulder. "I will see you again, just not for a while. To keep you safe."

Luke frowns. The boy doesn't understand at all, but Owen chooses that moment to intervene. "It's for the best Luke. Now why don't you tell Ben goodbye." The words are surprisingly gentle and Obi-wan looks at the man. Owen simply looks back. There is no smile or fondness in his gaze, but there is still something there that hadn't been before.

Respect.

Obi-wan smiles a little, catches Beru's soft reassuring look in the background, and turns back to the boy. Anakin and Padme are both looking back at him and he swallows. "It's okay, Luke."

The child, a mere eight years old, smiles an impossibly beautiful smile. There is a hint of his father's roguish smirk in it, but it is mostly Padme. "I guess so. You're my friend, so I know you won't leave forever." That said, the boy sticks out a tiny, but already calloused hand. It appears that Owen has already taken it upon himself to help Luke transition into becoming a man, and Obi-wan has no objections. Children grow up quickly on Tatooine, after all.

He doesn't shake Luke's hand just yet, though. Instead, he reaches into the folds of his robe and withdraws a rolled up piece of flimsy. Placing it in Luke's hand, he smiles. "This is for you. I consider you a friend as well, Luke, and I wanted to bring you a parting gift."

Luke's smile widens when he unrolls it. "Thanks Ben!"

A drawing of a womp rat stares back at both of them, fur smooth with a soft sheen that is evident even in the leaden shades of gray. Its bony and sodden counterpart had been burned long ago. Obi-wan nods. "You're welcome." Then he sticks out his own hand. It is far larger than Luke's and when the boy grasps it, Obi-wan curls his fingers around the smaller hand, enveloping it in his own callouses, early wrinkles, and scars. "Until we meet again, young man," he murmurs.

Luke nods, an attempt to be grown up, Obi-wan supposes. His answer is still that of a child. "Okay."

Then he leaves. It is a rather anticlimactic moment, he thinks. Owen had bid him farewell and actually wished him well. Beru had given him a hug and sent him out.

He crests the first dune, thinking that goodbyes should last far longer than they do. With a sigh, he glances at the sky, sees what he's looking for, and follows the stars home.

I've missed this story! Excited to upload a new chapter for you guys... please review if you have the time. :)