AN: Nope, I still don't own Star Wars - my plan to take over Lucasfilm hasn't succeeded yet. ;) Anyway, I adored the scene in the premiere Clone Wars episode where Yoda described the individuality among the clones, but it got me thinking about Order 66, particularly those two clones Yoda beheads on Kashyyyk. So this fic was born. Don't ask what possessed me to write an entire fanfic in Yoda speech and expect people to take it seriously...having a Creative Writing degree does that to you.
"There's not much to see, General. We all have the same face."
The same face they all have. Millions of them there are, all with the same face, that same face nearly always concealed under those helmets. Uncomfortable they were when ask them to remove their helmets I did. See themselves as only clones, they did. Only clones. Not worthy as anything except combatants - if one died, a hundred more there would be to take his place.
Yet see more in them I could. Feelings. Compassion. Morals. All that separates the sentient from the animal. Surprised they seemed when told them this I did, but only telling them what they knew, I was. Care about each other, they always did. Care about the Jedi, they always did. Great warriors, all of them.
Only clones? What is this "only"? For almost nine hundred years have I been alive, and never have I had reason to use "only" in that sense. Bind us all, the Force does, down to the smallest creature. Insignificant life forms, there are none, and include clones, that does.
The same face. Appearance matters not. Inside them I saw not millions of the same, but millions of individuals. Their own interests, their own passions, their own personalities. Whether or not they were programmed that way, I know not, but matter it does not. How do individual traits rise in those naturally born? Are we too perhaps programmed? If so, matter does it? Beginnings are simply that - beginnings. Determine who we are, beginnings do not.
Yet something wicked in their beginning there was. Something none of us knew. Something they themselves did not know.
Assure me, Chewbacca does, that the right thing I did, but know the whole story he does not. Know about that night in the cave he does not, that night when show me their real faces they did. That night when thrilled they were to learn that they were individuals, that real souls they had.
Real souls they once had.
But think about that too much, I cannot. A Jedi must not linger on the past. Not even when lost forever, friends are.
Not even when dead at my own hand, friends are.
Trying to fall, tears are, but let them fall I cannot. Tell me again that it was defensive, Chewbacca does, but think the clones are expendable he does. Think they are only important in battle, he does. Think they are individuals, he does not.
Tell him about the night in the cave, should I? No. My own burden it is, not his. My own loss. My own sorrow. Their bodies falling will haunt only me.
Wonder I do, if they remembered the cave when they attacked me, if they still had some essence of their individuality. Remember their feelings, did they? Remember their differences, did they? Remember themselves, did they?
Sense nothing from them I could in that moment. Look hard I did, but discern nothing I could - the truest nothing. A nothing that was automatic, more lifeless than a droid. No longer the individuals I knew them as. Like-minded, they all were, with only killing in their thoughts.
Their souls vanished.
Nothing left of them there was.
They had become what they once thought of themselves.