Chapter Text
“Tell me, Prime Minister, when Master Sifo-Dyas first contacted you about this...army, did he say who it was for?”
Lama Su’s face is a placid mask that Obi-Wan has seen on every politician in the galaxy, from the Core Worlds all the way to the Outer Rim. It is neutral, blank, vaguely friendly, and absolutely infuriating. Even on the best of days.
Obi-Wan is not having the best of days at the moment.
“Of course he did.” Lama Su answers gamely enough. Seemingly untroubled by Obi-Wan’s probing questions. “This army serves the Republic.”
And for a moment - a wet, cold, tired moment - Obi-Wan almost lets it go. Almost doesn’t notice the tiny difference in the answer. Almost overlooks the careful maneuvering from the Prime Minister’s reply that isn’t technically the answer to his original question.
But Obi-Wan does catch it though, and he pounces on the difference before the conversation can be steered away. “They are for the Republic?” He asks as if confused. Stretching the word for, in place of serve.
The Prime Minister blinks only once. A slow closing and opening of his space black eyes, but the hesitation causes Obi-Wan to hone in on the politician like an Akk-dog with a bone as Lama Su speaks. “They serve the republic, yes, though I suppose if you wish to be technical, Master Jedi. The Clones were made for you.”
Despite knowing there was more to it than the first answer, Lama Su’s words hit him like a speeder. “Me?” He wheezes. Grappling to keep his own placid mask in place as a bolt of panic arcs down his spine.
The Kaminoan tilts his head with a small smile. As if he’s trying to be indulgent for the Jedi’s sake. “Well yes, you and your fellow Jedi, Master Kenobi. They were made for the Jedi - and since the Jedi serve the Republic. It was implied they would do so too.”
‘They were made for the Jedi. ’ Obi-Wan thinks in a daze. Clinging to that one sentence and grappling with all the implications buried within it as the Force around him pulses with tension. ‘For...for us? For me?’
What can that possibly mean?
“Now come,” Lama Su says as he starts to stand up from the austere white chair he’s been perched on. “I’m sure you would like to inspect your product, Master Jedi. Doubtlessly you will be most pleased by what we have accomplished here.”
On autopilot he agrees, and allows himself to be toured through the facility. The Force around him is stretched tight like a band. Trembling taut. And before Obi-Wan even gets his first proper look at the little tubes that house the yet unborn clones. He knows that everything he’s ever known is about to change.
The hundreds - No - The thousands of containers around him sparkle like starlight. Every tube holds a spark of life that is all its own. A little wisp of color. Of sound. Of taste and smell. There is so much to see and take in amongst these infants alone that his whole mind just stalls. He has seen Senatorial home-worlds with less connection to the Living Force than this one room in a lab. Walked through whole sections of Coruscant that seemed drab and monochrome in comparison.
“Very impressive.” He flatters the Kaminoans beside him without conscious thought. Letting himself be led along the winding hallways and staying mostly silent as they go. He’s hardly able to think at the moment, let alone ask questions about what he is seeing.
“I’d hoped you would be pleased.” Lama Su bows his head in acknowledgement of Obi-Wan’s words.
The Prime Minister and his aide continue to talk to him, to upsell the usefulness and cleverness of their ‘product’. But Obi-Wan can barely breathe as the Force tenses further still as he is led past a room full of younglings all doing combat sims. The children down below him burn brighter than the Kaminoans do. All of them are so wonderfully luminous and unique.
There is one child in the back on the left side, with his tongue sticking out of his mouth - just a little - as he works on his simulation. A small wisp of black hair curling out from under his helmet as he leans in. There is almost nothing to tell this one child apart from the masses around him, except for the fact that Obi-Wan would be able to tell this child apart from everyone backwards and blindfolded. He resonates so bright to the Jedi’s senses.
The boy's presence in the Force is just right . Downy and fuzzy like a well worn blanket. His whole aura painted a cozy Sunset-Orange, and tinged with hints of something herbal that coats Obi-Wan’s tongue like the Yuuma Tea from the Temple Gardens he loves. He hears the Force around the child sing with strings and steady poetry, and Obi-Wan can barely keep himself from asking for a tour of the simulation room just to get a little closer.
He’s led further along, and further away from the child that enthralled him so by Lama Su and his aide. Both are enthusing on how much more creative and reactive the Clone are than droids. Calling them superior in every way. Explaining how quickly they will grow, how easily they take commands.
Obi-Wan is not listening, can’t listen. Because he’s being shown some sort of cafeteria crammed with thousands of bright colors and sounds and tastes. Thousands of individuals are just below him, eating robotically under the Kaminoans black gaze.
But one Clone looks up as Obi-Wan looks down. Just one face amongst the sea of many manages to make eye contact with him, and the Force finally snaps .
The man below burns singularly Nova-bright to all of the Jedi’s senses. Yet with that same flavour as the child he saw prior. He is painted in crisp shades of Sunset-Golden Orange, and seeped in fragrant herbal tea. He echoes with a symphony of strings and voices that calls to the skies in Glory. He is not the blanket soft fuzz the child had been, but there is a steady comfort that threads through his presence regardless. Something that pulls at Obi-wan even more. Because he feels like the kind of man you can lean on and know he will not falter. Will not crumble. He’ll stand before the storm and win, every time.
The fleeting moment of eye contact breaks seconds later, and Obi-Wan feels like he breaks a little with it.
‘They were made for us.’ Obi-Wan thinks almost hysterically, as his eyes roam around the eating area and he feels at least six more men with a similar tang to their presence. Not copies, None of them the same, but variations on a theme. Of Sunset-Orange and herbal teas, of string music and comfort. Each presence is uniquely their own, and yet calls to him as if tailor made to send him to his knees.
He has to get out of here.
He turns back to the Kaminoans, finally engages with what they are saying and tries his siths-damned best to block out all the colors and sounds and souls glittering around him like a condensed nebula. It takes frighteningly little effort to guide the conversation back to his original topic. To learn about Jango Fett, the originator from which all these clones are grown, and to get Taun We to agree to letting them meet.
Obi-Wan lets himself be herded away from the labs, and tries to ignore the voice in the back of his head crying. ‘They were made for me. I was made for them.’ As he trudges further away.
Obi-Wan sends the Council his findings afterwards. Tells them of the Clone Army and the mysterious circumstances surrounding their origins. Describes in detail the facility he toured on Kamino and the slender race of sentients that own it.
He doesn’t mention how the Force had snapped around him, doesn’t say anything about the cozy child with flyaway hair doing training sims. He doesn’t mention the Six Clones that sang like home and comfort to his senses.
He doesn’t mention the one blinding, glorious presence in the cafeteria that almost brought him to his knees.
All he mentions is what Prime Minister Lama Su said.
“The Clones were created for the Jedi.”
Geonosis is the culmination of too much happening all at once.
He remembers fighting. Remembers rolling in sand, dodging talons and teeth, and wishing that he had spent more time learning staff techniques at the temple. He remembers elation at the sudden appearance of so many of his fellow Jedi, and the luminous hope that he and Anakin would make it out of this arena alive.
He remembers fighting. Remembers droids arriving in mass, while Masters Siwel and Han-Ma throw him and Anakin each their secondary lightsabers. Leaving the pair down to only one saber a piece despite their preference for Jar’Kai. He remembers wielding the strangely lightweight weapon and fighting for his life. Felling droids and returning blasterfire frantically.
He remembers fighting. And fighting. And fighting. And it is still not enough. They are surrounded by seemingly endless droids. Master Siwel is dead at his feet, and Dooku offers an ultimatum that he knows the trapped Jedi will not accept.
They are going to die here, in the sands of Geonosis, and all Obi-Wan can think about is how unfair it is that Anakin managed to escape one desert only to die in another.
Then suddenly ships appear from the clouds. Firing everything they have to beat back the encroaching line of droids. He spies Master Yoda in one of the ships, directing the Troopers on board to hold the perimeter while more ships land on blood-soaked sand.
And that's when it hits Obi-Wan; Master Yoda went and gathered up the Clones from Kamino to save them. He brought the Jedi’s army here.
A transport lands near them, and a Clone in plain white armor urges Obi-Wan, Anakin, and Padme into it. His presence in the Force drips with royal blue, tastes like heady incenses, and there is a drumming warsong thundering around him as he shouts and signals them to move. Anakin looks like he’s been pole-axed by the Troopers appearance, and it takes Obi-Wan shoving his Padawan onto the transport to actually get him moving. No time to commiserate with the teen until they are safe.
There is so much fighting, so much death happening around them. He feels glittering stars from the Clones snuff out and die. Crushed into blank void space between breaths. He doesn’t let himself think about if any of them feel like Sunset-Orange comfort. Can’t bear it if they do.
Anakin guides their pilot (Who feels of painted sunshine, tastes of copper, and sings like crystal ) on blowing up the rigs in front of them. A move that saves so many lives as the towers topple and crush the anti-aircraft guns and battle droids below. He breathes out a “Good job Padawan.” Which Anakin accepts with a grim nod. His attention divided between Padme, the Trooper that drips in royal blue, and the pilot.
They chase Dooku through the sand until their ship lurches from blasterfire and Padme disappears into the dunes below. Two troopers follow after her as the ship continues to rock. The first, who feels like a smoldering fire, and the second who is Anakin’s royal blue Clone.
“Padme!” Anakin yells as soon as the senator disappears, looking like he’s about to throw himself over the side after her. His panic increases twofold as the white armored Trooper that tastes of incense also falls. “No!” he howls into the wind as they keep flying.
“Anakin, stop!” Obi-Wan yells, cutting off the teen before he can throw himself overboard too. “You need to stay with me Padawan. We can’t lose Dooku now.”
Anakin breathes heavy for a long minute, his blue eyes trained behind them unerringly and tense. Obi-Wan braces himself to fight with Anakin more. Already cycling through arguments to try and sway his headstrong Padawan that he can not abandon him to go and save the senator now.
“E chu ta!” Anakin swears in furious huttese, pounding a fist into the side of the ship before he turns to Obi-Wan. All the fire draining out of him as he shoves his anger into the Force. “Okay, okay. He’ll keep her safe. I know he will. Let's get this sleemo and then get back to them.”
Obi-Wan doesn’t have time to argue, or even question Anakin on his faith in a man he hasn't shared a single word with yet. The pilot gets them where they need to be and suddenly it is all Obi-Wan can do to keep standing as he wields his saber against Dooku. The bright flashing of lightsabers clashing, blue and green and red all swirling together all he can think about.
He remembers fighting. Remembers Dooku goading and insulting them as their blades clash. He remembers the pain of his right arm and leg getting clipped by Dooku’s saber, he remembers Anakin’s shriek of pain as his arm was cut off. Remembers the bile and nausea in his throat as he thinks. ‘My fault, my fault, I made him follow me.’ and how he could barely move as Dooku hovered over them.
Only Master Yoda’s timely arrival saves the pair, and he doesn’t honestly remember much after that.
The Senate declares that the Jedi will no longer be Peacekeepers, and instead they will become Generals. Soldiers in a war that seems to appear overnight.
“We can’t do this.” Obi-Wan tells the Council as soon as the news comes crashing down on all of them. “We are not generals and warlords that the Senate can unleash upon the galaxy. We are keepers of the peace!”
“The will of the people, it is.” Yoda says with a tired rasp, his ears firmly aimed downward. “Fight to save the Republic, we must.”
There is yelling - so much yelling - and everyone in the Temple, from the youngest Padawans to the Grandmaster himself, has opinions on what is about to happen. Some in favor, most in outrage. Almost a thousand years of duty and tradition about to be shredded by the powers that be.
Obi-Wan lets them argue, sick and tired already with the knowledge of what is about to happen to them.
The Jedi have been forcefully drafted into this war, but there is no military draft being pulled from any of the senate worlds to compensate. Nor have any major planets pledged soldiers from their home-armies to this war. There are monetary donations and supplies pouring in of course. But those are the easy things for the senators to write off as doing their part.
No, the brunt of this war will be waged on the backs of the Jedi and the Clones alone it seems. Along with a handful of GAR officials necessary for the day to day operations that the Clones were not trained to handle. Which is staggeringly few things all considered.
Sadly, in the end, it doesn’t matter that most of the Temple is not in favor of war. They have been drafted, and so to war they must go. Obi-Wan is one of the first picked to have the dubious honor of being given a flagship and sent off to Kamino to pick up his troops. The excuse being that he’s already dealt with the Kaminoans before so it should be easier on him.
His ship has a skeleton crew. He meets a human woman on board who doesn’t introduce herself beyond the title of admiral, and he forces himself to meditate all the way to their destination.
When he arrives he is almost sent back to his knees as he is greeted by not only the Prime Minister, but also the nova-bright glorious trooper from before. Only this time instead of wearing a red uniform, he is decked head to toe in armor painted with stripes of Sunset-Orange that almost matches his presence in the Force.
“Ah Master Kenobi, welcome back.” Lama Su says politely. A small smile on his face that is no real comfort to anyone present. “We are ever so pleased to inform you that your battalion is ready for you. This is CC-2224, a Clone Commander with a very impressive record under his belt. He will perform most excellently for you.”
Obi-Wan darts his eyes between the glorious presence in front of him and Lama Su, a tight smile on his face as he debates being polite and being a touch spiteful for the way this trooper (his trooper) is being treated.
“My thanks, Prime Minister. I’m sure you have other things to do than oversee me and my commander here though. Please, have a most pleasant day.” He bows down low, mostly so he doesn’t show the smirk on his face as he feels a jolt of annoyance in the Force around Lama Su.
The Prime Minister is aware that pushing his presence when he has been dismissed will only make him seem petulant. So he bows in return. Voice clipped as he says. “Of course. Please do not hesitate to call upon my office should anything seem...out of line.”
Obi-Wan waits for the slender alien to disappear along with his aide before turning to the brilliant Sunset-Orange presence before him. Taking a second to bask in steady strength and perfectly steeped tea before he makes himself actually go through with speaking.
“Right well, I’m ever so sorry you had to witness that.” He shoots the man a playful grin despite the helm he’s wearing. “I can’t stand politicians you see, terrible flaw of mine.”
“Yes sir.” The nova-bright man says evenly. Nothing about his tone gives away his feelings. Nothing but his own vibrant presence in the Force that wavers with a flavor that seems like the tea is being oversteeped. He is pondering, thinking, maybe confused. The taste deepens another touch, and Obi-Wan cuts it off before it starts to become bitter.
“Anyways, I am Jedi Knight Obi-Wan Kenobi. It is an honor to meet you.” He bows deeper to the Clone before him. Enjoying the way the man’s presence brightens slightly at his move. “The Prime Minister introduced you with a...serial number?” He asks in confusion.
“CC-2224, sir.” The Clone recites immediately.
“Ah, yes. Well…” Obi-Wan stands back up and rubs at the back of his neck. Feeling oddly like Anakin when he gets caught out and embarrassed. “Do you by chance have a name you prefer to be called? If you don’t that's fine too. Or even if you do have a name but you prefer your number designation. I just...don’t know what to call you?” he wants to smack himself for the rambling. What happened to all his vaunted negotiation skills and silver tongue? Why must they abandon him in his hour of need.
The man’s presence flickers sharply for a moment, as if he’s struggling with himself on how to answer. Which makes Obi-Wan immediately feel like a heel for putting the commander on the spot like this. Maybe he will get in trouble for having a name. Anakin has told him stories of the Nameless back on Tatooine. People who had no name but whatever their masters allowed them, and the punishments they could receive for daring to give themselves something so meaningful as a name.
Finally the commander seems to come to a decision, and his whole presence in the Force does something. Braces maybe. The sunset dims, the tea cools, and the symphony swoops into simplicity. The only thing that doesn’t waver is the steadiness of his presence.
“My name is Cody. Sir.” Cody says at last. Not even a tremble in his voice to belay his nerves.
“Cody.” Obi-Wan repeats the name, and smiles as his tongue bursts with the flavor of sweet sapir tea, the kind he only gets on his Name-Day. Too expensive for his meager Jedi allowance to afford year round. “Co-Adi? Codi? Kote?” He tastes the name in multiple languages. Laughing as he gets the strongest flavor from the Mandalorian word. “Oh of course, I knew you would be nothing less than Glory. Thank you, Cody.”
“You’re..welcome?” Cody’s voice wavers slightly. Confusion blatant is the air around him.
“Ah, I’m sorry.” Obi-Wan backtracks immediately with an embarrassed flush breaking out over his face as he realizes what he said. “When I saw you in the cafeteria before you had such a strong presence. I’m just thrilled to know I was right in the way I ah...perceived you.” There, that seemed less weird than saying. ‘Your presence in the Force is so perfect and overwhelmingly glorious you almost made me cry.’
Well...Marginally better at least.
There is a pulse in Cody’s presence. The symphony crescendos louder, like his heart is beating faster. Surprise and shock lacing through Obi-Wan’s senses. “You…You saw me in the mess hall? Sir?”
All Obi-Wan can do is smile weakly at the question. Trying not to be horribly embarrassed at how poorly he’d handled first seeing Cody all those weeks ago. “You looked up at me when I was being escorted around by the Prime Minister. We made eye contact, though I know it was only briefly. I am not offended if you don’t remember.”
“I remember, sir.” Cody’s voice is tight and controlled, but something shimmers in his presence below the control. Something like wonder .
Obi-Wan sighs and forces himself to let go of the current conversation thread, though it is entirely against his will. He so badly wants to know what caused the cresting note of wonder in Cody. Wants to make it become a permanent addition to the man's Glorious presence. But instead he says. “All right, I suppose we should get on with the rest of this unfortunate mess then.” He sighs in disappointment. Because If he doesn’t make himself get on with this he is liable to just spend the rest of the day basking in Cody’s presence here in the entryway. “Do you know where the rest of the men are, Cody? Err.. Commander Cody?” He winces at his own misstep. “Forgive me, I'll get this right at some point today. Are you a commander like the Prime Minister implied, or a different rank entirely in the Republic Army?”
“Marshal Commander is my current rank, sir.” Cody clarifies without pause. Another ripple in his presence that seems to steady further, like rocks settling in after a landslide. “I also know which hanger bay your battalion is being gathered in, however I-” Cody swallows and cuts himself off, freezing like a tauntaun caught in speeder lights. He seems like he wants to say more, but doesn’t.
Obi-Wan almost smacks himself for his thoughtless oversight. Cody is a soldier. Cody isn't allowed to speak up, or to ask questions of his superiors without being prompted. The fact he asked about being seen in the mess hall must have rattled him deeply if he broke through what is likely years of conditioning just to inquire about it. Force preserve them all, this is a mess.
“Please Marshal Commander, speak freely.” Obi-Wan offers as soon as he realizes the problem. “I’m sure you can tell I’m in over my head here. Anything you might have to say, or advice to give, would be sorely appreciated.”
“Yes sir.” Cody agrees shortly, before turning his head minutely back and forth, checking the hallway to see if they are truly alone here. “I was simply about to say that I believe the Prime Minister intended to speak with you for longer, sir. The 212th is not scheduled to begin forming up for another standard hour.”
For a split second Obi-Wan wishes he could remember the vicious swears that Anakin likes to indulge in. Something disgusting and Huttese would perfectly fit how he’s feeling right now. “Of course he did.” Obi-Wan mutters as he pinches the bridge of his nose, before forcing himself to release his frustrations into the force. “And I sent him off early. Joy.”
“I can lead you to his office, sir.” Cody offers after a moment of Obi-Wan’s muttering. “If you would like.” He tacks on at the end, a little hesitant.
Obi-Wan momentarily indulges in the Commander’s presence instead of really listening. Leaning into the rock-steady comfort he radiates. Even confused and unsure, Cody shines like a beacon. He reaches out with Sunset-Orange tendrils and soothes at the Jedi’s ragged edges without knowing what he does. Cody is just gloriously perfect, and Obi-Wan is a horrible wretch for letting himself cling to this stranger like he’s the only port in a cosmic storm.
Lama Su voice suddenly echoes in his head again ‘They were made for the Jedi. They were made for you.’
“No.” Obi-Wan denies quickly. Though he’s unsure if he’s disagreeing with Cody’s offer, or the ghostly voice of Lama Su haunting his thought. “I’m sure there are other things we can do while the men get ready. Things that do not involve politicians.” He clarifies after a second, not wanting the Trooper to think he’s being snapped at.
Cody inclines his head some, and his presence flickers again. Like it did when he was struggling to decide what to say when Obi-Wan asked over his name. Some sort of inner conflict that causes the taste of tea to become deeper.
“Sir, if you would like…” Cody noticeably hesitates as he speaks. “I could escort you around the facility. I’m sure there’s plenty the Kaminoans didn't bother to show you on your first tour.”
Obi-Wan lets out a breath of relief. “Oh yes, that sounds infinitely better. Please lead the way.”
“Yes sir.” Cody snaps a sharp salute and turns on his heel to start walking down the glowing white hallway. Obi-Wan right on his heels as he trots along. Happy to have something to do that doesn’t involve pandering to Lama Su and his cohorts.
Even happier to have something to distract himself away from the quiet voice in the back of his head that cries out over and over again. ‘We were made for them. I was made for him. They were made for us.’