It was supposed to be a quiet night.
The kind of night that let Obi-Wan forget what he used to be. The wind was still, the moons were low, and the stars painted the sky like stories he no longer believed in.
He sat in his bunker just beyond the Mos Eisley perimeter, still half-dressed in repurposed Clone Wars armor—faded white, sand-stained, ill-fitting. A walking contradiction of past lives that wouldn't let go. The armor creaked every time he moved, like it, too, was tired of pretending.
Then his holopad buzzed.
He almost ignored it. No one contacted "Ben" anymore. Not unless they wanted someone dead.
But this time, the encryption was old—Senate-tier. Alderaanian seal. Clean. Royal.
His hand hovered. A part of him knew before he opened it. The Force stirred, cold and heavy in his chest.
He keyed the pad. A flickering figure appeared.
Bail Organa.
The senator looked like death. His hair disheveled. Collar twisted. Eyes rimmed red. Not the politician Obi-Wan had known. Not the prince of Alderaan. This was just a man—broken.
> "General Kenobi… I know what it means to reach you like this. I know what you've become. And I wouldn't do it if there was any other way."
Obi-Wan didn't move. Didn't breathe.
> "Leia's been taken. My daughter. My—"
Bail's voice faltered.
He inhaled sharply, and when he spoke again, his voice cracked like dry wood.
> "She isn't mine."
The words hung in the silence like a slow, falling blade.
> "She never was."
A second click triggered a second file. Obi-Wan's screen shifted—to a recording. Old, low-res. A palace security archive. The queen's private chamber.
And there he was.
Anakin.
Young. Whole. Smiling like he hadn't yet touched the darkness. Shirt half undone. Boots still muddy from a mission.
The Queen of Alderaan stood beside him—nervous, laughing, drawn to him like a flame. She looked so young.
> "Is it true what they say about sand?" she giggled.
Anakin smirked. The same smirk he gave Padmé once.
> "It gets everywhere. Except where you want it most."
She leaned in. He whispered something against her neck.
She shivered. Reached for him.
The footage faded to static.
Back to Bail—who looked like he'd watched it a thousand times.
> "I saw it happen. I didn't stop it. Because I loved her. Because I thought I could… win her back. But she loved him. Or she loved what he made her feel."
He swallowed hard.
> "And I loved Leia. Still do. But now she's gone. Stolen. And I can't lie to myself anymore. She's his. And I can't protect her from what he left behind. But maybe you can."
The message cut out.
The bunker was silent again.
Obi-Wan didn't move.
Didn't breathe.
He just stared at the spot where Anakin's face had flickered.
He whispered his name once, and the word burned his tongue like poison.
His body began to shake—quietly, subtly. Like a man suppressing grief with rage.
> She wasn't Padmé.
He could have had everything. He had Padmé. He had a son.
And it still wasn't enough.
Obi-Wan stood. Slowly. He crossed the room, opened a panel in the wall, and pulled out a small, sand-covered lockbox.
Inside was his lightsaber.
He stared at it.
Then closed the box.
He wouldn't bring a Jedi to Alderaan.
He'd bring a shadow.
---
By nightfall, he returned to the Lars homestead. Quiet. Hooded. He didn't knock. Didn't call out.
He left a metal canister on the steps—sealed with credits, survival gear, and a note scratched in cold handwriting.
> "I've been called away. Protect the boy. Use this to buy a weapon. Or don't. Just keep him alive."
And below that:
> "I will not return soon. Or ever. Tell him nothing."
Then he walked into the desert. One step at a time. Until the suns swallowed him whole.
---
Owen found the canister just after dawn.
The suns were rising, casting gold over the salt flats, but the desert air was still bitter and dry. He saw the metal container nestled beside the door like a gift left by a thief. Beru stood behind him, silent, holding a mug of caf in trembling hands.
He opened it slowly. Credits. Food tabs. A sealed ration box. A note folded inside.
He read it once.
Then again.
He didn't speak. He didn't move. He just stared, jaw clenched, knuckles whitening around the paper.
Beru stepped closer. "Did he say why?"
Owen didn't answer.
He just crumpled the note in one fist and tossed it into the sand.
> "He's gone," he muttered. "Again."
He turned and walked back inside.
---
Later that day, Luke asked where Obi-Wan had gone.
Beru lied gently.
> "He had something important to do."
Luke didn't ask twice.
But that night, he didn't sleep.
He sat awake, staring out his window toward the dunes.
Something had shifted. He didn't know what. But he felt it—like a cord had been cut. Like someone had stopped watching.
---
Owen Acts
Two days later, Owen took the credits and drove to Mos Espa.
He didn't want to. Every bone in his body screamed against it. But he wasn't going to lose his family because some washed-up ghost decided to go save someone else's mistake.
He bought perimeter tripmines. A sonic repeater. A few shield cells.
And then, in a dusty warehouse two blocks off the slave district, he saw the droid.
It was standing in a corner—covered in dust, its metal limbs matte-gray and pitted with age. One red photoreceptor glowed dimly from beneath a cracked browplate. A tag hung from its neck.
HK-51. Experimental assassination protocol unit. Clearance revoked. Refurbished. No warranty.
The vendor warned him not to power it up.
> "That thing's got kill-routines buried under kill-routines. They tried to wipe it. Tried. You want a servant, buy a protocol droid. You want a guardian?" He pointed to the HK. "You buy that. Then you pray it doesn't learn too much."
Owen didn't pray. He just paid.
---
The Droid Wakes
They brought it back in a hovercart. Luke watched as Owen set it down in the barn and flipped the main breaker.
The photoreceptor flickered.
Whirred.
Then locked on Luke.
A moment passed.
> "Statement: Organic threats will be met with extreme prejudice. Please confirm authorization."
Owen stepped forward. "You're here to protect this farm. The boy especially."
The droid turned its head with a servo-click.
> "Acknowledgement: Primary directive received. Defensive parameters accepted. Termination protocol now linked to 'Lars Homestead.'"
It turned to Luke again.
> "Observation: You are the designated 'fleshchild.' Congratulations. I am now your violent babysitter."
Beru exhaled. "Stars help us."
> "Correction: Stars will not help you. I will."
---
Luke and the Droid
Luke was fascinated.
The droid didn't move like a droid. It moved like a man who'd stopped pretending to be human. Every motion had weight. Every pause had meaning. It spoke in blunt, efficient sentences—no wasted words, no forced warmth.
It taught him things.
How to disassemble a blaster with one hand.
How to fire from cover.
How to kill without blinking.
> "Lesson one," it said during their first training session. "The first shot matters. The second should never be needed."
Luke trained harder.
Ran longer.
Watched the horizon more carefully.
Something was coming. He could feel it.
And now, thanks to the droid, he would be ready.
---
The Silence Before the Fire
Owen reinforced the homestead walls.
Buried mines under the sand near the vaporators.
Rerouted the generator into a power shield grid that could hold for six hours—if they were lucky.
At night, Luke stayed awake beside the droid, listening to the wind scrape over the walls.
> "Are you afraid?" he asked once.
HK's voice was dry.
> "Statement: I do not fear. I calculate survival odds. Yours remain... disappointingly fragile."
Luke smirked.
> "I'm working on it."
---
The wind changed direction on the fifth night.
The horizon stayed quiet.
But the silence felt wrong.
Wrong in that way Luke had learned to trust.
Something was out there.
And it was coming fast.
---
The wind was wrong.
It didn't whistle tonight—it scraped. Dry and coarse, like sandpaper on rusted metal. The kind of wind that didn't carry heat or scent. The kind that carried intent.
Luke stood alone by the fence line. His palms were blistered, the skin along his fingers split and raw from HK-51's drills—close-quarters disarmament, knife-hand strikes, recoil endurance.
He didn't care. Not anymore.
His eyes scanned the dunes beyond the moisture field. He listened—not for words, but for weight. For rhythm. For signals in the noise.
He heard it before anyone else did.
The ground trembled.
Distant thuds. Deep. Organic. Heavy hoofbeats rolling through the crusted salt earth like ancient drums.
Then came the whistles—bone flutes shrieking in staggered, offbeat patterns. War signals. Each pitch meaning something different.
They were coordinating.
---
The first torch arced over the dark and hit the sand with a puff of flame.
Then the scream.
High. Close. Human.
Beru burst through the back door, her robe half-fastened, blaster already in hand. She yanked Luke back inside by the collar, her grip tighter than he'd ever felt from her.
> "Owen—!"
> "I see it."
Owen grabbed the repeater rifle from above the door. His jaw was locked, and his knuckles were already white on the grip.
HK-51 stood by the doorway. Silent. Unmoving.
Until the alert tone activated.
> "Alert: Incoming tribal swarm. Bantha cavalry identified. Mixed weapons—crude melee and scavenged slugthrowers. Combat ratio: high threat. Recommendation: maximum efficiency."
---
The sand erupted to the east.
Luke watched through the slit in the steel blinds.
They came like a storm—thirty, maybe more. Cloaked in layers of sun-bleached rags and leather armor, some carried gaderffii sticks, others wielded old slugthrowers, or cycler rifles slung across their backs. A few had actual blasters—rusted, scavenged—but deadly all the same.
Their Banthas galloped like siege engines, their massive shaggy forms barely visible through the sand fog.
The screams came next—from the homestead's perimeter sensors, then the greenhouses. A blaster bolt zipped past the window and detonated in the dirt yard.
The comm tower burst into a spark shower.
The generator hissed, coughed, then exploded—sending up a gout of flame and knocking Luke flat with the shockwave.
---
Luke scrambled to his feet.
He didn't remember moving.
He crawled into the storage shed and pressed himself against the back wall, the blaster HK had let him train with now in his lap.
He watched through the narrow viewing slit.
He didn't shake.
He didn't breathe.
He felt… something open. Like a door he hadn't known was inside him.
It wasn't fear.
It was something else. Something colder.
Something awake.
---
HK stepped into the courtyard with no announcement.
A Tusken Raider charged forward on a Bantha, its gaderffii raised for a killing blow.
HK's targeting module activated with a low tone.
> "Hostile confirmed."
BRRAP.
One shot.
The raider's head snapped backwards in an explosion of blood and bone. It flew from the saddle mid-roar, its corpse spinning in the air before it hit the sand with a wet, thudding slap.
Luke's mouth opened.
No words came out.
His throat tightened, dry.
It was the first time he had seen a man die.
The first time he smelled burned flesh and cauterized bone.
The Tusken had screamed—just for a moment—but long enough.
He didn't forget it.
And he would never stop hearing it.
---
More were coming.
They breached the northern fence. Five raiders, two with rifles, the others with clubs and axes hacked from scrap.
Owen dropped one with the repeater—mid-sprint, through the eye.
Beru crouched low behind the pump stacks, reloading.
Luke clutched the blaster to his chest.
He looked down.
His hands weren't shaking.
Why weren't they shaking?
He stood up.
And ran into the dark.
---
Owen fired from the roof, working the repeater rifle like a war veteran. Each bolt lit up the night—his aim cold, efficient. He wasn't shooting to wound. He was shooting to stop.
One rider fell from his Bantha, his chest burned black and steaming. Another slumped near the irrigation trench, his gaderffii clattering uselessly in the sand.
HK-51 moved through the battlefield like a shadow of death—inhumanly fast, cutting down raiders with mechanical precision. One Tusken lunged with a vibro-spear. HK sidestepped and drove a vibroblade into the raider's throat with a sound like wet paper tearing.
Another screamed and swung wild. HK broke the arm, took the weapon, and returned it through the raider's spine.
> "Threats removed. Requesting further targets."
But there were too many.
Three Tuskens breached the east gate, slashing through the lock with curved bone blades. One sprinted for the greenhouse, roaring—rifle slung, blade drawn.
---
Luke ran.
He didn't think. He didn't hesitate. His body moved before his mind could catch up.
He skidded around the water pump, fell, scrambled up again.
His hands locked onto the blaster HK had buried there days ago. An old DH-17—battered casing, rusted sideplate, scratched power cell readout. The charge was low, but it was still a blaster.
His fingers trembled as he raised it.
The Tusken charged.
And Luke fired.
The bolt struck dead center in the raider's gut. The blast didn't launch the body—it wasn't a cartoon. It boiled through the layers of leather, flesh, and viscera. The creature screamed—a sound like gravel ripping through lungs—fell forward, and began writhing on the ground, clawing at the wound as if it could peel the pain away.
Luke stood frozen.
His ears rang.
His throat locked.
The screaming didn't stop. It got wetter, like it was coming from a mouth filled with blood and sand.
And then came the smell.
Burned meat. Ozone. Piss. Blood.
Luke stared down the barrel, his breath stuttering in and out.
> "Statement," HK crackled over the comm. "Congratulations, young flesh-unit. First confirmed kill. Psychological destabilization expected. Recommend you do not vomit on your boots."
---
No time.
Two more.
One hit him from behind.
Luke hit the ground hard. A rock tore his shoulder open. Something snapped near his ribs.
The second Tusken was already on him, ropes whipping through the air. One looped around his arms. The other caught his wrist.
Hands. Rough. Leather-wrapped. Pulling. Grabbing.
A palm jammed against his face, smearing dirt and blood into his mouth.
He couldn't breathe.
His vision spun.
> Not like this.
They dragged him.
Toward a Bantha waiting at the edge of the fields—its massive form shifting in the smoke. One of the Tuskens yelled in triumph.
Luke kicked wildly.
He bit down on the hand covering his mouth.
A growl.
A curse.
But they didn't stop.
He screamed.
> "Help!—BERU!!"
---
And she came.
Not yelling.
Not panicked.
Just there—suddenly, like a force of nature wrapped in ash and firelight.
Beru Lars stepped from the shadows beside the vaporator, eyes narrowed, both hands on a compact holdout blaster.
She didn't aim like a soldier.
She aimed like a mother protecting her child.
She fired once.
The bolt struck the nearest Tusken in the temple—not clean through, but burned a hole in the side of his skull, igniting the wrappings around his face.
The raider dropped, convulsing, brain matter sizzling as it leaked from the wound.
Luke tumbled free.
The second Tusken turned—roared—and rushed her.
Beru fired again. Missed. The bolt burned into a crate behind him.
Luke was already moving.
---
He hit the dirt and rolled toward the body of the raider he shot.
There—at the belt—a knife.
Crude, chipped stone bound to bone.
His fingers found it just as the third Tusken lunged, gaderffii raised.
Luke turned and drove the blade into its ribs, just under the arm.
The Tusken howled and swung blind.
Luke ducked, pulled the blade free, and stabbed again.
And again.
And again.
He didn't think about where. He just wanted it to stop moving.
Blood sprayed across his face.
He kept stabbing.
The raider collapsed, twitching.
Still, Luke held the knife.
Still, he shook.
---
Thirty minutes later, it was over.
The yard was a graveyard of twitching bodies and scorched earth.
A Bantha lay moaning, blind from a blaster shot to the face. Its rider was split in half nearby.
HK stood atop a pile of corpses, his chestplate smeared in blood and carbon scoring.
> "Status: Hostile neutralization complete. Family unit intact. Combat data logged. Conclusion: satisfactory."
---
Beru sat on the porch, blood up to her wrists. Her expression unreadable.
Owen limped across the yard, his shirt torn, a graze wound bleeding down his thigh.
Luke sat alone.
In the dirt.
In the dark.
The knife still in his hand.
The blood still warm.
---
He had killed.
Not a creature.
Not a machine.
A man.
A living, breathing, screaming man.
He looked at his hands. Felt the tremor in them.
But deeper than the fear… was something else.
A hunger.
To never be that weak again.
To never be dragged, beaten, nearly stolen.
To never have to scream for help.
Something in him had opened.
And it wasn't going to close again.
---