The journey from Mos Taike to Mos Eisley was exactly what you'd expect from a five-hop nightmare across a planet that's basically a giant litter box. I now fully, completely, and totally understood Anakin's hatred of sand.
Coarse, rough, and irritating. It got everywhere. It was the universe's most invasive particle, and I was wearing three layers of clothing it couldn't be stripped out of. Hell, my nipples had gotten injured cuz of it. This is quite possibly the first time in my entire two lives that anything had attacked me there.
The worst part of the trip wasn't the lumpy seats or the questionable company. It was the Tusken raids. They weren't a constant threat, but they were a guaranteed feature of the landscape. On the second leg, a shuttle ahead of us got hit.
We heard the distinctive crack-crack-crack of their slugthrowers, then saw the plume of smoke as the transport's engine was hit.
Our pilot, a grizzled Aqualish who smelled like engine grease and bad decisions, just gunned the engines and flew lower, weaving through the canyons without a second glance. No one helped. No one even commented. That was the rule of the desert: you don't stop for trouble, you accelerate away from it.
Another time, we saw a band of them on a ridge, just watching. Not attacking, just observing. It was somehow more terrifying. They were like landmarks of violence, a natural part of the scenery as much as the suns or the sand. You didn't question them; you just acknowledged their presence and prayed you weren't their next destination.
Somewhere around the third transfer, huddled in a corner of a transport that smelled like sweat and regret, I started a new habit. I'd pull out my datapad, snap a picture of whatever miserable vista was outside the viewport, and attach a short audio message. It was a diary, sort of, but more like I was talking to Vasha about my travels live. A one-sided conversation with a ghost.
Now, standing at the edge of Mos Eisley, I pulled out my datapad to snap another photo. The view was... well, it was Mos Eisley. A wretched hive of scum and villainy that somehow managed to look even more disappointing in person. The air was a thick cocktail of dust, spilled booze, and something vaguely like roasting meat.
"Hey Vasha," I murmured into my helmet's mic as I took the picture. "Made it to Mos Eisley. It's exactly as shitty as Espa, but with more broken droids and questionable smells. What did I expect from this 'more sand, less land' planet anyway? Missing you. Wish you were here to complain about it with me."
The datapad pinged, saving the image and audio attachment to my growing collection of "Letters to Vasha That She'll Never Hear." It was a stupid habit, but it helped. A little.
The Iron Mule was groaning under my pack, the servos whining in protest. Every step sent a fresh wave of sweat trickling down my spine, where it would inevitably join the sand party already raging in places I didn't know I had. I needed a room. A shower. And to burn these clothes.
I found what passed for lodging in this part of town—a building that looked like it had been constructed from regret and spare parts, with a flickering sign that read "The Sandcrawler's Rest." Classy.
The Duros at the counter didn't even look up from his datapad when I approached, his large, red eyes fixed on the screen. "Fifty credits a night. Water's extra. Ten credits for the 'fresher. No refunds. No questions." His voice was a flat, emotionless monotone.
I slid the credits across the counter, adding the extra for water. He tapped them into the register without a word and tossed me a key card.
Room 4B was exactly what you'd expect for fifty credits on a planet where water was more valuable than common sense. A bed that had seen better decades, a fresher that smelled like a bantha had died in it, and a window with a view of the wall of the adjacent building. From the street, I could hear the sounds of the city: a Gamorrean guard laughing, the high-pitched haggling of Jawas, and the distant thud of a speeder crash.
But it had a door that locked and a shower that actually worked. Victory.
The ritual of unstrapping the Iron Mule was becoming second nature.
Each piece joined the growing pile on the floor until I was standing in just my base layer, feeling like a deflated balloon.
I peeled off the layers of clothing, each one revealing more sand than the last. It was like an archaeological dig of my own misery. There was sand in places that sand had no business being. I was pretty sure I could start a small desert with what I shook out of my boots.
The shower was glorious. Hot water—actual hot water—cascading over me, washing away days of grime, sweat, and what felt like half the planet's surface area. Each drop costed credit here but I had plenty to burn for small happiness like this.
I stayed in until the water started to cool, then stayed some more, because who knew when I'd get this luxury again.
Clean and wearing my last set of semi-fresh clothes, I felt almost human again. Almost.
I sat on the edge of the bed, datapad in hand, scrolling through the photos I'd taken. Each one was accompanied by a short audio message to Vasha—a running commentary of my journey that she'd never hear.
"Day whatever of this sand-infested quest. The transport broke down. Again. We're waiting for a Jawa with a suspiciously large wrench to fix it. I'm beginning to think they break things on purpose just to charge for repairs."
"Today I saw a Tusken Raider get hit by a speeder and just get up like nothing happened. These people are terrifying. I'm reconsidering my life choices."
"I think I have sand in my teeth. How is that even possible? I haven't opened my mouth outside of this helmet."
Each message was stupid, pointless, and helped keep me sane.
Tomorrow, the real search would begin. Obi-Wan Kenobi. Or Ben, as he was supposedly calling himself these days. The hermit of the Jundland Wastes.
I pulled up the map of Mos Eisley, studying the layout. Cantinas were always good places to start gathering information. And there was one particular cantina that was famous in a certain movie I may have seen in a past life.
But that was tomorrow's problem. Tonight, I was going to enjoy not wearing a hundred pounds of metal and not having sand in places it shouldn't be.
I lay back on the bed, which groaned like it was in physical pain. The springs were shot, the mattress was lumpy, and the pillow smelled faintly of dust and regret.
It was the best bed I'd slept in since leaving Lothal.
"Night, Vasha," I whispered to the empty room.
----
The springs of the mattress groaned in protest as I sat up, a chorus of metal fatigue that perfectly matched my own. Another morning in the Dune Drifter. Another day on a planet made of fine-grained misery that clung to everything and everyone.
My first thought, as always, was a dull ache for Vasha. My second was the monumental task ahead.
Finding Obi-Wan Kenobi was going to be a masterclass in finding a needle in a galaxy-sized haystack. A needle that actively didn't want to be found and was probably surrounded by Force-powered tripwires and a thick blanket of trauma.
From what I remembered, the man wasn't just hiding; he had erased himself. After the fall of the Jedi, Kenobi became a ghost. He went by "Ben," worked odd jobs—farmhand, mechanic, bartender—whatever kept him unremarkable.
He lived out in the desert, watching over Luke Skywalker from a distance but careful never to become a familiar face. A hermit in a cave, a general turned nobody, clinging to purpose through one boy. A legend pretending to be dust. Finding him in a wretched hive like this would be next to impossible.
I had two theoretical paths.
Option A was the big, shiny red button: go sniffing around the Lars homestead. Direct route, yes, but suicidal. Asking questions about Luke would either send Owen and Beru into panic mode or make Kenobi disappear into the dunes forever. A Force-sensitive teenager in custom gear asking about the son of Anakin Skywalker? That sounded less like a friendly visit and more like an Inquisitor's calling card. It would be a disaster.
So, Option B. Quieter, smarter, and more my speed. I remembered that Kenobi kept an eopie for traveling between the Dune Sea and the city. And unlike its owner, an eopie couldn't vanish into legend. It needed food, water, and shade. Which meant somewhere in Mos Eisley, there had to be a stable equipped to handle big beasts. A physical, traceable breadcrumb.
It was the difference between charging the boss arena and sneaking in through the janitor's hatch. I'd take the hatch every time.
Decision made, I started prepping for the day. The Iron Mule stayed behind; rolling through the streets in that thing was a giant "look at me" sign. I left it and the Predator on watchdog mode, ready to dissuade any thief with bad judgment.
I pulled on my overcoat, checked the gauss pistol on my thigh, made sure the looted vibroblade was snug against my lower back, and adjusted the slightly modified blaster on my hip. Helmet on. Systems check. Good to go.
One last glance at the fortified room, and I slipped out the back window into a grimy alley that smelled like stale oil and regret.
The morning air was already thick enough to chew, a mix of sand, exhaust, and cooking smoke. I needed a starting point. On Tatooine, information was a commodity, and a few credits could make even the most tight-lipped trader start talking.
I found my mark a few streets over: a wrinkled Rodian vendor selling secondhand droid parts and what looked like repurposed jerky. He had the wary look of someone who saw everything and charged appropriately for silence.
I leaned against his stall, pretending to study a rusty hydrospanner. "Morning," I said through the helmet's filter.
The Rodian grunted, uninterested.
Well, nobody on this planet talked without credit, did they?
I let a fifty-credit chip land with a soft clink beside a stack of power converters. "Looking for a place that stables big animals. Eopies, banthas, things that drool and kick. Not an auction house. Somewhere long-term."
His antennae twitched toward the sound. His gaze flicked from the chip to my helmet, then back to the chip. He scooped it up and made it disappear into his tunic.
"Most folk with beasts that size live outside the wall," he said, voice rough and cautious. "But a few places inside take travelers. Docking Bay Seven's got pens, short-term only, pricey."
"I'm after something more permanent," I said. "A place a regular might use. Week after week."
He scratched his snout. "There's Gralle's Pit by the south gate. Cheap, dirty, and smells worse than it looks. Then there's the Starlight Stables off the main drag. Costs more, but secure. The kind of place people use when they don't want questions asked." He hesitated. "If you're looking for someone who comes and goes regular, not making a fuss... Starlight's the one."
"Appreciate it," I said, pushing off the counter and fading into the crowd.
Starlight Stables. Sounded almost respectable. Which, in Mos Eisley, probably meant they only broke one law at a time. It was a solid lead.
Now all I had to do was find a ghost riding a giant, floppy-eared lizard with a familiar face riding atop it.
------
The twin suns of Tatooine had a particular way of baking the moisture right out of a man's soul. Obi-Wan Kenobi had learned this truth more thoroughly than most over the past decade. As he guided Akkani, his eopie, through the dusty, crowded streets of Mos Eisley, he kept his hood low and his head down, the very picture of an old drifter who'd long stopped caring about anything more than shade and water.
Akkani let out a low groan, her long ears drooping in the oppressive heat.
"I know, old girl," Obi-Wan murmured, patting her thick neck. "Just a bit further. Water and rest await."
The eopie was his only true companion in this quiet, sun-baked exile, a creature of simple needs and steadfast loyalty. She had been a half-dead, skeletal thing when the Jawas sold her to him years ago, and now she was round and sturdy, the only other heartbeat he regularly heard besides the faint, tired thrum of his own.
Starlight Stables came into view, its patched durasteel roof gleaming dully under the suns. It was cleaner than most places in Mos Eisley, though that wasn't saying much. The Rodian owner, Grak, gave a curt nod as Obi-Wan approached, his snout twitching.
"Ben," he grunted, using the name the old hermit went by these days. "You're later than usual."
"The sands had their own mood today," Obi-Wan said, his voice a dry rasp. He slid a few credits onto the dusty counter.
Grak's antennae twitched, and he scooped up the coins. "Yeah. They always do."
That almost drew a smile from Obi-Wan. Almost.
He led Akkani to her usual stall in the back, the air thick with the smell of dry hay and animal musk. He unbuckled the worn saddle, his movements slow and methodical. Akkani immediately plunged her snout into the trough, drinking deeply. She drank like a creature who truly knew thirst, and for a moment, Obi-Wan envied that simplicity. Water, shade, food—needs that could be met. Not like the kind that haunted him in the quiet of his cave, the ghosts of failure and loss that no amount of water could wash away.
He brushed down her side, the repetitive motion a familiar comfort. A decade of silence had given him an abundance of time and a shortage of purpose. Watching over the boy—Luke—had become the one fragile thread that still tethered him to this world. From afar, always afar. Anything closer risked exposing them both to the horrors he knew lurked in the galaxy.
He had grown used to the monotony, the sandstorms, the long empty nights, the dull ache in his bones. He had even grown used to the weight of the blaster on his hip, a weapon he had once called uncivilized, now his only means of defense. The Force, once a boundless ocean in which he swam, was now a distant, phantom limb, an ache of something that was no longer there, a presence he had deliberately and painfully walled off. Life had become a whisper. Peaceful, if one stretched the definition to its breaking point.
He gave Akkani a final pat and turned to leave the stall, his mind already on the meager rations waiting for him back at his dwelling.
Someone was already standing near the exit, half in shadow. Obi-Wan noticed them the way one notices a mirage—uncertain at first, then unmistakable. The figure didn't move or speak, simply waited. His brain, despite surviving on this questionable planet, hadn't lost there edge. One couldn't survive here without those.
He noticed how the coat they wore was too heavy for the heat, the dark visor of their helmet reflecting the dim light from the stable lamps. A scavenger, perhaps. Or Maybe one of the Jabba's enforcer.
Obi-Wan's hand drifted toward his blaster instinctively before he controlled himself. Days of his fight were over, he couldn't attract attention to himself.
As he prepared for whatever demands the man would made, he heard him speak.
"Hello there, General Kenobi."
The voice was electronically filtered, flat and calm, but the name hit him like a forgotten wound tearing open again. Not "Ben." Not "hermit." But "General Kenobi"—a title from a lifetime ago, from a war that had cost him his friends, his Order, his brother. Everything.
His blood went cold.
Every survival instinct screamed. He narrowed his eyes beneath his hood, his posture nearly shifting into a defensive crouch he hadn't used in years. "I'm afraid you have me mistaken for someone else."
The masked figure shook their head slowly, the motion deliberate. "No. I don't think so. I've been looking for you."
Obi-Wan's mind raced. An Inquisitor? An Imperial agent? Had they finally found him? He braced himself for the snap-hiss of a lightsaber, for the fight he had long dreaded.
Instead, he heard the soft hiss-click of a helmet's seals disengaging.
The figure reached up and lifted the helmet off.
Obi-Wan froze. He had been ready for a scarred veteran, a ruthless hunter, a dark-sider with eyes full of hate. He was not ready for this.
Staring back at him was the face of a child. A boy, barely ten or eleven years old, with bright, intelligent eyes and a face completely unmarked by the cynicism of the galaxy. He looked earnest, determined, and utterly out of place.
The boy held the helmet under his arm and met Obi-Wan's gaze without a trace of fear.
"My name is Ezra," the child said, his voice clear and steady. "And the Force has led me to you."
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