Chapter Text
Obi-Wan is at the general store, in front of the small display of school supplies. The store carries Twistables, crayons that aren’t blunted from a day’s use and don’t need to be sharpened. They’re the sturdy kind, which means they’re good for not only humanoids but also sentients with the strength of a wookiee.
Quality supplies, however, come at a price. Obi-Wan can buy a pack of crayons, and in the kind of colors Druast will love, but Obi-Wan will have to sacrifice her morning stops at the tea shop. Her gaze falls on the even larger pack of Twistables, the one with the standard set of colors and then rows of neon colors, each brighter and more exciting than the last. The last row even has sparkle colors.
Obi-Wan bites her lip as she checks the price. If she gives up her morning tea and cuts down on her evening meals, she can afford them. Not for the first time, she wishes her teaching stipend was more generous, so she didn’t have to constantly dip into her salary.
She tried petitioning the EduCorps board once, but they told her their resources were stretched thin as it was. At her last posting, a school committee member suggested she take a second job waiting tables if she was truly that concerned for her students.
Obi-Wan reaches for the regular pack of crayons and then at the last moment, grabs the bigger one. Noodles are on sale this week, and she still has enough spices that her meals will be tasty, even if they are lacking in amount or variety.
“A difficult decision.”
Obi-Wan whirls at the unexpected voice. It’s been years since she last saw her one-time grandmaster. Yan Dooku is a man who looks out of place in this small general store. His velvet cape swirls about his body, but it stays close, as if even it doesn’t dare to touch the shelves of goods. Crayons next to Obi-Wan, cleaning supplies next to Dooku.
She didn’t meet Master Dooku until after she left the Order. She had completed her first two teaching cycles, and she was starting her third when the planet’s governor invited her to a gathering. It was a strange request, she was set to teach in one of the rural schools, far from the planet’s capital, but she knew better than to refuse. She didn’t expect the governor’s friend to feel warm in the Force, almost familiar.
Master Dooku introduced himself; Yan Dooku of the Jedi Order, and then he apologized for any of Qui-Gon Jinn’s poor behavior. Obi-Wan didn’t understand why Master Dooku was interested in her, and when he asked how she ended up in the EduCorps, she gave a less than polite response. “Those who can, do,” she had told him. “And those who can’t…” She gestured to herself. Despite completing her education with the Corps and then starting her own career as an educator, Obi-Wan still struggled with self-doubt.
She thought that would be the end of Master Dooku’s involvement in her life, but it wasn’t. They didn’t see each other very often in person, but occasionally a wealthy, anonymous donor would pay for some, or all, of her holo-wish list. She always knew it was him. Even now, she still doesn’t understand why.
It was on their second meeting, when she had her guard up, that she demanded to know why he was bothering. Didn’t he know she was an unwanted initiate who became an ungrateful padawan? He only raised his eyebrows at her outburst and then asked what prompted her to leave the Order. He had his own doubts, and he was curious.
So she told him. About being twelve and unwanted and how she was going to be turned out of the only home she ever knew, because she wasn’t good enough. Like her crechemates, all she wanted was to be a Jedi. And then Bandomeer happened, slavery and a chance at her dream, and she took it with both hands. But her wounds from Bandomeer had barely healed when she and Master Jinn landed on Melida/Daan.
Child soldier, child general, and she was left alone, because Master Tahl needed help. She returned to the Temple, a padawan on probation, and she and Master Jinn were still working through how they had each betrayed the other when Xanatos attacked.
To this day, Obi-Wan doesn’t know what the worst part was. That the Temple, her home, her refuge, had been infiltrated and attacked or how, when she defeated Bruck Chun, he chose to go over the edge, rather than surrender. To him, death was preferable to Xanatos rejecting him for failure or the Jedi rejecting him for his actions.
Even one of those incidents would have been a lot. All three of them together and in such a short span of time, they were too much. If this was what it meant to be a Jedi, she didn’t want to be one. She didn’t talk to Master Jinn about it. She made the appointment with the Council of Reassignment herself, and she requested she be assigned to one of the Corps; though not, if possible, the AgriCorps.
She was assigned to the EduCorps, which was better than the AgriCorps, because she will never escape the nightmares from Bandomeer, but she still laughed at the assignment. She didn’t have the connection to the Living Force, which would have made her a good farmer. And she certainly didn’t have the skill for the EduCorps.
She told her advisor this when she first met Ba’lika. She told him she was stupid, too slow to keep up with her peers, and that the EduCorps had their work cut out with her. He took her hands in his and told her that kind of negative self-talk was unacceptable. She wasn’t stupid. And if she was slow, then they would decrease the pace of her studies to accommodate the speed of her learning.
Ba’lika saved her. She didn’t realize it until she graduated, her primary education completed along with her secondary teaching certification. When she tried to thank him, Ba’lika took her hands again. He told her the only thanks he would accept would be for her to go out into the galaxy and help others realize that the student is never the failure.
And she has. It has been twelve years since Obi-Wan graduated. She has been able to help more students than she will ever be able to remember. There is still a small part of her that whispers not enough, but she is better at ignoring it.
Speaking of the passage of time, Obi-Wan looks over Master Dooku with a hint of reproach. “It has been some time since we last spoke.”
Five years, in fact. Even if it takes longer for news to reach the EduCorps, especially teachers on distant postings, news does travel. She heard that Master Dooku left the Order after what is being called the Naboo Invasion. She thought he would have come to see her before now. If she’s honest, she’s hurt that he hasn’t.
“I have been adjusting to my new life as Count Dooku,” he tells her. “The life of an aristocrat is far more work than the holodramas would have you believe.”
“And now?” Obi-Wan asks.
“And now, I would like to invite you to dinner tonight.”
It may have been five years since they last spoke, and he may have implied that he’s simply been too busy to reach out, but he is here now, and Obi-Wan won’t turn down free food. She takes a second box of crayons, because she knows Dooku’s tastes. She’ll have enough leftovers from tonight’s meal that she can cut back on this week’s food shopping.
#
Obi-Wan lives a simple life. She knows she can’t compete with Master Dooku’s finery, but she also knows he is a man who cares about appearances. While she may not have the wardrobe to match his, she can at least match his effort. She returns from the store and showers until the last flecks of paint from last week’s art project are scrubbed off her skin. She trims her nails. She blow dries her long red hair and then pulls it into a half ponytail. She wears her nicest, cleanest clothes.
She feels ridiculous, but Master Dooku smiles when she joins him at the restaurant, as if he can recognize her effort and is pleased by it. And Master Dooku, while he’s clearly wearing fine things, they are simple. Trousers, a shirt, and a waistcoat over it. He could have made her look like a grubby sewer rat, but he didn’t.
“You want something,” Obi-Wan says once they’re seated.
Master Dooku smiles. “You don’t want to eat before business?”
Obi-Wan fidgets but she relents. They make small talk over appetizers. She talks a little about her students but mostly she listens as he tells her about his family on Serenno. He is clearly happy to be in this new position. She knows there is more to his departure from the Order, but she hasn’t pressed on it. He will tell her, or he won’t.
Once Obi-Wan’s leftovers are in two neat boxes for her to take home and Dooku has ordered caf and dessert for both of them, he brings up his reason for being here.
“There is a posting,” he says. “It requires a highly qualified individual, not only a teacher but someone with the capacity to care for their students and with enough stubbornness and fire to fight for them.”
“On Serenno?” Obi-Wan asks.
“No, not Serenno,” Dooku tells her. “This assignment would be a challenge unlike anything you have ever or will ever face, but you are my first choice for it. I know you aren’t swayed by such things, but the payment at the end would be enough that you would never be underfunded again.”
Obi-Wan stops contemplating whether she has enough room in her stomach for just one more bite of the peach cobbler. “What’s the catch?”
Dooku looks proud at her question. “You will have to cut off all contact with everyone you know until the job is complete, and I cannot give you a firm date. I expect it to last no more than ten years, but I’m not positive. And, of course, most of the details are classified, and I can’t share them with you until you accept.”
“If,” Obi-Wan says. “If I accept.”
Dooku looks at her with an expression that says he’s humoring her. The more she learns about her grandmaster, the more she is amazed that he and Master Jinn both survived their apprenticeship.
“You realize how shady this sounds, right?” Obi-Wan asks. “Would I even be teaching?”
“It is a teaching position,” Dooku answers. “And it is not a private school. This situation…there is money, but the students have little else. They are taught via learning modules and droids.”
Obi-Wan knows she’s going to say yes. There are children in need and, from what Dooku has implied, there are no teachers. She knows how useful holocourses are, and she’d never disparage a droid, but they aren’t enough. Even if Obi-Wan’s role is to create curriculum and make sure each student has the accommodations they need, that will be enough.
And, she’s swayed by the promise of payment. Ten years is not a very long time. It would be the longest time she ever spent in one place, but she would be teaching. At the end of it, she would have the funds to buy as many crayons as her future students needed. Even having to leave her life behind isn’t a deterrent. She is used to picking up and leaving after a teaching rotation ends.
“Why are you doing this?” Obi-Wan asks. She can tell the question catches Dooku off guard, because he doesn’t have the answer ready on the tip of his tongue. He probably expected her to ask why her, but she knows that answer. She wants to know why former Master Dooku of the Jedi Order and current Count Dooku of Serenno is invested in this secret school.
Dooku steeples his fingers. “I officially left the Order after the Naboo Invasion, but I began pulling away much earlier than that. What I can tell you now, is that I believe this is the right thing. It is atonement for something in my past. I can tell you more once you sign the contract.”
“Gods damnit,” Obi-Wan mutters. “Alright. Do you have it in your bag?”
“You don’t want an evening to sleep on it?”
“No.” The Force didn’t shout and wave its hands, telling her this was a bad idea. That’s all the confirmation she needs. “Are you going to pretend you don’t have the contract with you?” She smiles at the mild shock on his face. “I know you, Master Dooku. You don’t do anything unless you’re sure of your success.”
“That—” Master Dooku swallows thickly and looks away. “That is a higher compliment than I deserve, Obi-Wan. Thank you. Would you like your cobbler boxed as well? I’d rather do the formalities on my ship.”
Fewer witnesses and eavesdroppers, Obi-Wan thinks.
#
Obi-Wan pauses when she sees the number next to her payment. She looks over at Dooku, her apprehension returning. “That’s a lot of zeros.”
“You will earn every credit,” Dooku promises her.
Obi-Wan signs the contract which binds her to this assignment until its completion. She has to disappear from her life. She isn’t allowed outside contact with anyone except Dooku, and there are very specific protocols around that. She has the full resources of the facility at her disposal, and Dooku has given her the ultimate authority over the education and care of her students.
Dooku only gives her a few more details. Her students are clones, and their progenitor is Jango Fett. Dooku tells her that Dooku’s involvement must remain secret. This is his reparations for Galidraan, for a tragedy he led that saw the True Mandalorians all but wiped off the face of the galaxy. If Jango Fett realized Dooku was involved with Obi-Wan’s placement, he would either kill her or use her to draw Dooku in so he could kill them both.
It means Obi-Wan flies to Kamino on her own. She has a small craft, because this is essentially a one-way trip, and she doesn’t have a lot of belongings to bring with her. She lands in Tipoca City, and she meets Prime Minister Lama Su.
“Some kind of weather, huh?” Obi-Wan asks once she’s inside and dripping on the pristine white floor.
Lama Su turns to look at her. Kaminoans don’t have the same facial expressions as humans, but Obi-Wan has the distinct impression that he isn’t impressed with her. “This is typical for our planet,” he says.
“That must make recess difficult,” Obi-Wan says.
“Recess?” Lama Su repeats, unfamiliar with the word.
“Recreation,” Obi-Wan says.
“Ah. We have recreation centers for that purpose. If you will follow me, I have a briefing prepared.”
Obi-Wan walks through the white halls and doesn’t see another sentient, clone or Kaminoan. Lama Su brings her to what Obi-Wan assumes is an office, where a second Kaminoan is seated and waiting for them.
“This is our Chief Medical Scientists, Nala Se,” Lama Su introduces. “Nala Se, this is Obi-Wan Kenobi.”
“Pleasure,” Obi-Wan says. She’s still dripping. Maybe Kaminoans aren’t affected by rain? “I haven’t gotten much information about this posting, but if you have a class roster, I would like to familiarize myself with my students.”
“Class roster?” Lama Su sounds as puzzled as he did when she brought up recess. “Ah. You want an accounting of the clones. Would you like the breakdown by batch?”
Are batches their equivalent of classes? “That would be great,” Obi-Wan says.
“There are eighty in the Alpha batch,” Lama Su says.
Eighty in one class? And she thought having twenty-five was pushing the limits.
“The command batch numbers at 6,810,” Lama Su says.
What, Obi-Wan thinks.
“The officer batch numbers at 430,080,” Lama Su continues.
Fuck you Dooku you fucking son of a Sith, Obi-Wan thinks.
“And we have begun production of the trooper batches. The complete order is for 3.2 million clones.”
Obi-Wan really should have asked more questions about this. She rubs her forehead and tries to settle her thoughts enough to have a conversation. “What does your staffing look like?”
“Our staffing?” Lama Su asks.
“Teachers, guardians, anyone who isn’t a scientist or a clone, what does that personnel look like?”
“There is the template,” Lama Su says. “He is currently off world. There are the trainers. Those are one-hundred individuals the template brought with him. And then there are the droids.”
Obi-Wan feels a headache building behind her eyes. There are a million questions in her head, but the one she settles on is, “Who holds the infants?”
Lama Su and Nala Se exchange a look. Nala Se, in particular, seems as though she’d like the opportunity to dissect and study Obi-Wan’s brain.
“You have one-hundred trainers,” Obi-Wan says. “And you told me the command batch has almost seven thousand members. How were the infants held?” Obi-Wan realizes the silence is an answer in itself. “Do you know anything about humanoid child development and education?”
Nala Se bristles, offended.
Obi-Wan should be more diplomatic, but she can’t. The sheer scope of what’s happening here…it hurts her head. “I’m not insulting your science, you clearly have cloning down.” Already, nearly 500,000 with another couple million to go. “But once they’re born. Do you have any idea what you’re supposed to do?”
“That is why you are here, is it not?” Nala Se asks
Fuck, Obi-Wan thinks.
#
Obi-Wan wants to retreat to her quarters and bury herself under all her blankets. No, she wants to get back on her ship, track down Dooku, and tell him he didn’t even come close to explaining what her duties here would be. But she can’t. She signed a contract, committing herself to this project until it was done.
She thought it was a school. But it’s so much more than that.
This is the rebirth of the True Mandalorians.
After the Kaminoans get tired of her vaguely insulting them, they bring her to new people, clearly hoping to give her a new target or something. There are five individuals in this new room. Obi-Wan is still dripping on the floor.
There are two Mandalorians, or she assumes they’re Mandalorians, because they’re in full armor except for their helmets. Both are humanoid, male, and they study her briefly, intensely, and then look away as if she’s come up short.
The other three individuals must be clones. They’re in different stages of growth and development. The first looks to be in his late teens or early twenties. He wears a simple black flight suit. He is tall but proportionate, thick muscle in his thighs, his arms. His chest is broad, and she imagines he is just as strong there. He studies her, not clinical like the Kaminoans or assessing like the Mandalorians. There is curiosity and his gaze and something else. Something that threatens to bring a blush to her cheeks.
Next to him is a younger clone. This one has the same dark hair and eyes, but they don’t have the thick muscle or imposing frame of the other. They have the corded muscle of youth, of a youngling in the midst of a growth spurt, when their body can’t keep up with how fast they’re burning calories. This one has a scar curved around their eye.
The final boy is just that, a boy. Obi-Wan doesn’t think he can be more than ten. He looks at Obi-Wan and looks away before sneaking another look. He has a child’s curiosity, but a wariness that is not childlike at all. This is a child who is afraid, and that twists Obi-Wan’s stomach just as much as the scar on the other one.
“Hello,” Obi-Wan greets, when it’s obvious the Kaminoans aren’t going to do introductions. “I am Obi-Wan to my colleagues and Teacher Obi-Wan to my students. Who might you be?”
“Walon Vau,” one of the Mandalorians says. “I’m one of the Cuy’val Dar. A trainer.”
Obi-Wan notes that he doesn’t consider himself a teacher. She supposes if these are Mandalorians raising the next generation of Mandalorians, they would put more emphasis on martial training. She’ll need to gather as many resources as she can and study up. She doesn’t know as much about Mandalorian culture as she will need to.
“I’m Mij Gilamar,” the second Mandalorian says. “The medic.”
“The medic?” Obi-Wan repeats.
Mij almost smiles. “And now I have met the teacher.”
Obi-Wan swears viciously in Huttese.
“I have assistants and droids,” Mij says. “But we are understaffed for what we’re attempting to do here.”
“I’d like to talk to you more in depth before this meeting is over,” Obi-Wan tells him. But right now, there are still more people to meet. She turns to the remaining three. “And who might you be?”
“Alpha-17,” the oldest one introduces. “This is CC-2224 and CT-1590.”
Obi-Wan smile flickers as a stone lodges itself in the pit of her stomach. Designations. They have designations. She takes a steadying breath. “Thank you for introducing yourselves. Would you mind staying and speaking with me for a little bit? I’m new here, and I’m trying to get my bearings.”
“CC-2224 and CT-1590 have curfew,” Nala Se says.
“I wouldn’t want to disrupt your routine,” Obi-Wan says. Not yet, at least. “It was a pleasure to meet you both. I hope you have pleasant dreams.”
The two boys nod and then see themselves out. Obi-Wan watches them go, disquieted by their uniform steps, almost like marching. They are perfectly controlled, far more than they should be for their age.
When the doors close behind the two boys, she feels a prickle on her neck. She watched the boys, but Alpha-17 watched her. She meets his gaze and offers a smile. “Do you have a curfew as well?”
“No,” Alpha-17 answers. His own smile is sharp, testing, as if he wants to see how she reacts to his curt response.
“The Alpha batch has reached maturity,” Nala Se says. “There are not as many regulations for them to follow.”
“I see,” Obi-Wan says for lack of anything else to say. She turns to Mij. “My employer left out a lot of information when he offered me this position. I’m hoping you can help fill in some of the gaps.”
Mij glances at the puddle at her feet. “Would you like a dry change of clothes first?”
“Please,” Obi-Wan says.