"How do you think this trade viceroy will deal with the chancellor's demands?"
"These federation types of cowards; the negotiations will be short."
Ha. It is Obi-wan's horrible sense of humor that allows him to laugh as he stands on a pile of corpses and droid parts. The hems of his robes are splattered with blood and oil and his worn leather boots are smeared with entrails belonging to at least three different sentient races. One of those races is probably Nemoidian, he reflects. He is, after all, standing almost wholly in what looks to be the abdominal cavity of one.
He thinks back to the jedi he once was, scrupulously correct, standing at his master's side, and wonders how it has come to this. How he has changed? How is it that he can stand here, in the center of this horrifying field of battle, and feel nothing but a vague concern about whether or not he needs to sure up the lines of his left supporting flank before the fighting starts up again?
A blast from a mounted laser cannon flies overhead and impacts against an abandoned building some of the clones have been using for cover.
Breaks over; time to focus on the moment.
"Be mindful of the living force padawan."
He keeps laughing even though nothing much is funny anymore.