Chapter Text
Obi-Wan Kenobi is many things: newly knighted, grieving, tired. But she is also on a shadow-registered ship to a planet that her own grandmaster has removed from the archives before dramatically declaring his departure from the Order.
It's not true, of course, though she has no doubt every word he said about the Senate and its grip on the Order was meant. It was, she has been told, all part of an elaborate Shadow cover, luring a darksider - a self-proclaimed Sith, though that may be more true than not after Naboo - into believing Dooku ripe for the pickings, disillusioned and angry.
("I am angry," he had confessed to her over tea, with a rueful smile, "but I do not think that Dark. Not if I put that anger to productive uses, to bettering the system I am so angry with."
She still isn't sure how she feels about it.)
It's a strange mission she has been assigned for her first as a Knight, tied inextricably to her grandmaster's. There is, on Kamino, a plan in place to grow three million clones for the Republic, under the auspices of the Jedi Order, at the behest of Master Sifo-Dyas, the man some masters scoff at as the mad seer. The future is always in motion-- and so now is she. The base for the clones is living in the facility, Jango Fett, the true Mand'alor, should he claim the title.
She isn't, she must admit, entirely sure what anyone expects her to do here on Kamino, besides make her presence obvious to the Kaminoans, who whilst exceptional at their chosen craft have very little in the way of what most would call ethical scruples. Less still how she is supposed to make nice with a man who once slew six Jedi with his bare hands, not to mention whoever else is there. That, too, was part of the Sith-laid plan, she has been told, that the clones are going to be raised and taught and made for the Jedi at the hands of men who would like nothing more than to see them all dead, no doubt. Even her previous experience on Mandalore itself will work against her more than for, here, having defended and eventually put in power a woman who is systematically tearing apart any culture the mandalorian people might lay claim to, starting with their armour and drilling all the way down to the very language itself.
(She had loved Satine, once. Now, she thinks of someone demanding she give up her kyber to be used in something as base as construction, and shivers.)
Despite the intel she had been given on the planet's conditions, Obi-Wan didn't quite expect this much rain, she thinks, staring out of the lowered hatch of her ship at the sheet of water between her and the open door, where a tall, long-necked being stands, waiting patiently.
Anakin, stood beside her, on the other hand, is practically vibrating out of his skin, though with nervousness or excitement she can't quite tell, despite the Master-Padawan bond settling slowly, slowly in the back of her mind-- and wasn't that a shock, to realise that the depth of his strength of connection to the Force was such that she felt she'd have to be lightyears away to sense him, for much the same sort of reason one stood in the Senate Dome could not, for instance, see Coruscant.
She looks at her padawan, then back out at the endless rain, and then says, "you'll have to climb onto my back."
"Huh?"
"You've never had to run - or even walk - across wet pourstone before, and apparently the Kaminoans are allergic to safety features, so I'd rather carry you at least this time."
"Oh," says Anakin, head tilted to one side, and then, "can I stand out in it later?"
"Once we're settled," she promises, putting her hand on top of his head gently for a moment. Considering he'd almost had a breakdown when she'd shown him the Room of a Thousand Fountains over the waste, this was very much an improved outlook. Though she was probably going to have to explain the water cycle to him again soon; he'd been very sceptical when she'd told him about it in hyperspace. And that wasn't even getting into convincing him that being wet and cold would make him sick, combined with the fact that yes, water showers were healthy and no they weren't wasteful, because most places had water recycling technology. She'd also had to explain food conservators to him, which still unsettled her. Surely, she thought, whilst water might be precious on Tattooine, there was solar energy in abundance, and whilst the sands would make maintenance difficult, it wouldn't make it impossible.
Thoughts for another time, she chides herself, turning her back to Anakin and settling onto her heels.
"Arms around my neck, though not too tight, and legs around my waist," she instructs, "yes, that's it." She stands, makes sure his weight is more or less even and that he's not going to throttle her by accident, and then she turns her head far enough to give him a grin. "Ready?"
"Ready!"
The run across the landing pad is exhilarating, not least because of the nine-year-old desert boy shrieking laughter in her ear the whole way across. She skids to a stop in front of the waiting Kaminoan, settles Anakin back on his feet, and then puts on her blandest, most polite diplomacy smile, as though absolutely nothing out of the ordinary had just occurred.
"Master Jedi," says the tall figure, dipping their head a little. "I am Taun We. Please, allow me to escort you to our Prime Minister, Lama Su."
"Might my padawan and I be shown to our rooms to dry off first? It would hardly be a fitting first impression to drip all over the Prime Minister's floors."
Taun We tilts their head to one side, blinks rapidly, and then folds their hands in front of them.
"Very well. This way."
The halls of the facility are very... white, Obi-Wan notices, following Taun We with a gentle hand on Anakin's shoulder, more reminder than restraint. There also appear to be no signs of any sort, though that may be attributed to the Kaminoans seeing in a different spectrum of colour than humans and near-humans, she supposes. Every door they pass is closed, until Taun We slows, head weaving side to side for a moment.
"Ah, Jango!" they call, "a Jedi has arrived to oversee their project!"
Stepping out of the open doorway is a figure in armour - true beskar, judging by the way Obi-Wan can't feel anything from them in the Force - and they still, turning to block her view of the child stood behind them, whose eyes flicker to Anakin and give him a little wave. Anakin waves back.
---
"Jetii," hisses Jango, shielding Boba with his body and his armour, and absently notices them doing the same for the little jetii stood beside them. "What do you want?"
"I'm here on behalf of the High Council to oversee the... production of our product," says the jetii, mouth twisted in distaste and hands folded in their huge sleeves. "Who might you be? One of the trainers? If so, I must say, you're rather early."
"This, Master Jedi, is Jango Fett, our template for the process," Taun We says, enthused, and the jetii makes a non-committal hum. "And this is where I leave you, as your rooms are the next set. My comm frequency is available to you from the holotable inside."
"Thank you, Taun We," the jetii responds, eyes still fixed on Jango's buy'ce, and the longneck takes her leave, either blind to or ignoring the obvious tension in the air. "I do have to wonder why someone would choose the man who killed six Jedi with his bare hands to raise an army made for them," they say when Taun We is out of earshot, and Jango snarls.
"Do you want to find out?"
"I'll pass, thank you," is the reply, one arm emerging from a sleeve to gently move the ad further behind them. "Galidraan was a mistake, Fett, one I did not participate in. Or should I say, Mand'alor?"
That-- Jango can't process any of that sentence, not right now, so he settles on the easy part.
"And where were you when Galidraan happened then, jetii? Holed up in your Temple?"
The jetii's face changes then, twisting into an expression only a fool would call a smile.
"If I recall the dates correctly, I was in a deep sea mine, wearing an explosive collar, actually."
The tone is pleasant, conversational, even, despite its content, and Jango barely stops himself recoiling, a tiny part of his mind noting how the ad draws in a little breath and clutches at the fabric of the jetii's robes, white-knuckled.
"Now, if you'll excuse us, my padawan and I need to dry off before we meet the Prime Minister."
"Your name," Jango blurts, still off-kilter, and the jetii tilts their head slightly, giving him a bland smile.
"Obi-Wan Kenobi," they say, and sweep into their rooms with the ad before Jango can muster a response.