Disclaimer: Obviously, I do not own Star Wars, any of its characters, planets, etc. and am also not making any money from this fan-fiction.

R5-D4: From Cast-Off, to Traitor, to Unlikely Hero of the New Republic

TATOOINE: JAWA SANDCRAWLER

Consciousness came to me with the dark, with the clanking and screeching of the other droids surrounding me.

Designation R5-D4. Astromech droid, with modifications. This is all I knew about myself, my surroundings, but the rest would come with time. I was rather annoyed to find myself frozen in place, though my default logic programming told me this was the effect of a restraining bolt, and not a malfunction.

Still…

A grubby appendage of some sort brushed against my dome, its owner jabbering at me in some language I didn't understand. I felt a strange urge to zap it, but there the bolt was again… I brooded. Time to learn what I could of my circumstances.

Dim, limited lighting allowed me to see the other various metal shapes stacked around the room. Unlike myself, some moved about stiffly. Another astromech—this one an R2 unit, with a smooth, rounded dome—huddled in a far shadowed corner, cooing quietly to itself. I spun my optical sensor past it, towards the intruding alien.

The small, gibberish-talking creature was sifting through a bin of droid parts and various junk, its yellow eyes glowing mischievously. Only those eyes were visible; he was draped in dirty, brown robes. I watched it suspiciously for several minutes, before it was called away by other creatures like it. I didn't like them. They annoyed me.

I assumed I was in some sort of slave transport. Every once in a while, the lumbering machine would stop, and more droids were pushed into the room to be restrained. One night, I was jolted out of shut-down by a shiny golden protocol droid. He was reuniting with the reclusive blue astromech, shouting in a shrill, refined voice. Why he was never restrained is beyond me. His constant announcement of our impending doom was interfering with my plots of escape.

The R2's obsession with a 'secret mission' almost made me consider confiding in him, perhaps even to brainstorm for an eventual escape. Almost. The blue astromech was flighty, often rude, and far too loyal to the negative protocol droid.

Better to go at it alone.

TATOOINE: LARS' HOMESTEAD

After several stops at the homes of humans, generally uneventful times in which we were marched outside to be inspected for purchase—purchase!—the monstrous machine that carried me arrived at a remote moisture farm. The Jawas—for that, as I learned from overhearing the humans, was what the dirty creatures were called—lined us up as a gruff, older man approached.

Trailing behind him reluctantly was a tow-headed youth called 'Luke'. This would be the first, but certainly not the last time I would encounter him. He looked over all the droids curiously, obviously not knowing what he was doing at all.

I ignored him.

The protocol droid, who had time and time again introduced himself as C-3PO, jumped at the chance of escape. Foolish, as escape here would only mean your case and wiring blasted by the sand, your joints stiffened so you can barely move. Hard labor does not suit protocols or astromechs alike, anyway.

You'd think being out in the open meant one could escape. Unfortunately not. Two grubby Jawas flanked each droid, fingers poised over buttons to freeze any that got out of hand.

But I, Deefour, would find a way.

I turned my thoughts toward the older man. Gray peppered his beard, but he seemed quite alert and active. His sharp eyes examined the shiny protocol droid.

"I have no use for a protocol droid," I heard him grumble. This flustered C-3PO.

"Oh, of course not, sir. That is why I…"

I didn't need to listen anymore. The blond farmboy was brushing his tanned hand near my numerous buttons.

Push the dark blue one! I goaded in droid-speak, but ignorant youth that he was, he only spoke and understood Basic. Arrogant humans. I spun my flat cone of a dome, blatted at him. That ought to be universal. He jumped back, and strode over to his 'uncle.'

"…like a second language to me! In fact, I speak over..." The prissy droid jabbered on, oblivious to the annoyance in the man's eyes.

"All right, shut up." I swung my optical sensor around. Finally, a human I could respect! I knew at that moment that Owen Lars and I could join forces. To the Scrapheap with this desert wasteland, and the moisture-vaporators!

Owen talked quietly with the Jawas for a while, and sealed the deal. Amazingly, the golden protocol was among his purchases. Perhaps he wasn't as intelligent as I had previously thought.

"Come on, Red," the farmboy insisted. I realized a moment later that he meant me! Red, indeed…

I glanced over at Owen frantically. Surely this whiny, useless lifeform didn't live here, under his care? I understood human relationships little, but 'uncle' didn't seem to be in my databanks as caretaker.

I rolled several meters behind the boy and the other droid, desperate thinking my way out of this. But I still had some tricks up my sleeve, as the saying goes.

Setting off a few sparks and a little smoke was an easy task. I 'screamed', skidding to a stop as mini-explosions went on around me. Luke whirled about, hesitant to get any closer. Good thing, for him. Bad for me, because I really wanted to zap him.

"Uncle Owen!" he called. "This R2 unit has a bad motivator!"

If it were physically possible for me to do so, I would have rolled my eyes. First I'm Red, now I'm an R2? This only cemented my already low opinion of the youth.

"What are you trying to pull on us?" Owen turned on the Jawas, who protested in their gibberish language. I set to repairing myself, a relatively easy task as nothing had actually broken. If Owen had inspected me again, he would have seen that. As it was, I felt cast-off and a little betrayed. I would have to find a different way to escape.

It was my curse. All roads lead back to Luke Skywalker.