Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Hey,” Echo said, staring down into the ghostly white of the Archive. “Who d’you think they’ll get to sort this out?”

Chapter Text

Wooley crossed his feet in front of him and sighed as he checked the label on his ration bar. According to the COMOs there was a blockade near one of the hyperspace lanes stopping any supplies coming through, but knowing the reason for it didn’t make eating ‘Bantha Stew’ for the sixth rotation in a row any easier. It hadn’t been so bad before he’d known what the real thing was supposed to taste like, but now he couldn’t quite look past the artificial tang that the bars put in the back of his throat.

“Oi, Gearshift?” he called out, squinting against the bright Rylothi sun to where Gearshift was lazing in the shadow of a ruined wall a scant meter away, his bucket propped up on a brick next to him.

Gearshift twitched a little but didn’t respond. Wooley waited for several courteous seconds, then sighed again when acknowledgement never came.

“’Shift?” Still nothing. “Shift.”

When Gearshift just grunted and snuffled a bit, Wooley rolled his eyes.

“Hey, Shithead!”

“Kriffin’ hells, what?” Gearshift lifted his elbow just enough to glare at him.

“You got any ration bars that aren’t bantha flavoured?”

Gearshift groaned. “Did you seriously wake me up just to ask that?”

Wooley nudged him with his foot. “Well? Do you?”

Gearshift let his arm fall to the ground and shuffled onto his side, sitting up with a curse that would have made Wooley blush less than a year ago. Becoming a prisoner of war had beaten a lot of things out of him, though, so when Gearshift glared at him he just stared back expectantly.

“And why would I just give it to you if I did?”

“Because I saved your shebs out there today?”

Gearshift spluttered, suddenly looking far more awake. “The kriff you did. Longshot, you hearin’ this shit?”

He drove his elbow into the brother next to him as he spoke and Longshot grunted, his voice muffled by his bed roll.

“I’m trying not to. Either give him the ration bar or tell him to shut up, we’ve only got three hours until the shift change, and if you two keep me awake you won’t live that long.”

United for a second, Wooley exchanged an amused look with ‘Shift over their brother's head. Then ‘Shift got a devious look on his face that Wooley knew from long experience was bad news.

“I’ll tell you what, Wooley. You think you’re so good, prove it. See that droid head over there? You outshoot Longshot and I’ll give you my ration bar.”

Both Wooley and Longshot groaned in unison, Wooley out of pure despair. Longshot’s name was not interpretive or ironic – it really did mean what it said on the tin. Trying to outshoot Ghost Company's best sniper was an exercise in futility. 

“Did you not hear what I just said?” Longshot growled, flipping onto his back and squinting angrily into the late afternoon sunshine. “What part of I will end you didn’t sink in?”

Gearshift just grinned smugly. “If you don’t think you can manage it, just say so. We’re all brothers here, right?”

There was a momentary pause before Longshot was sitting up, throwing a fist into Gearshift’s gut as he did so.

“Maybe next time I’m on covering fire I’ll just let the droids shoot you,” he grumbled, knuckling at his eyes. “What are we aiming for?”

“Hey,” Wooley cut in, nervous. “I never actually agreed to this.”

“Aw kid, you’re not gonna back out now, are you?”

Wooley wilted at the new voice, turning his head to see Boil and Waxer’s heads poking up from the other side of the rubble he’d been leaning on. Boil had a glint in his eyes that signalled blood in the water. Waxer at least looked a little sympathetic, but amusement far outweighed that as Longshot started stretching his arms out, muttering and stilfing yawns the whole time.

“Alright, fine,” he muttered, glaring at Gearshift. Another invaluable lesson he'd learnt since leaving Kamino was to accept when you were sunk, but go down kicking. “That ration bar better be good.”

Gearshift’s smile was all teeth, his voice still slightly breathless after his gutshot. “Oh, it is, kid.”

Boil got to his feet and meandered over to the smoking pile of droid remains that they’d gathered in the main square of Nabat, finding the droid head that ‘Shift had chosen and sticking it upright in the dirt. Its dull eyes felt like they were staring at Wooley as he fidgeted and the others discussed terms.

As Boil came back Wooley started getting into position. They’d decided on using their standard DC-17s so that they were on a level playing field, so he checked the safety and the ammo, his body settling into a long-conditioned rhythm. Then Boil swore, and Wooley looked up in time to see an armoured leg retract behind another pile of rubble.

Commander Cody sat up slowly, plunging the rest of them into immediate silence. Wooley froze in the act of sighting his weapon, feeling more than hearing the others do the same. Waking the Commander was about as dangerous as kicking a nest of gundarks.

“Explain,” he said, his voice gravelly with sleep and drier than the deserts of Jakku.

“Just a friendly bit of competition, Sir! Sorry, Sir.”

Cody lifted up the lip of his bucket long enough to squint between the droid head and Wooley’s half-drawn blaster. There was a pause as he inevitably calculated the risks involved and whether he could be arsed to do anything about them. Eventually he just shook his head and took his bucket off, clambering to his feet and yawning with enough force that his jaw cracked.

He came to stand in front of them at parade rest, looking exactly like he did at the start of briefings. Wooley had started to get a very bad feeling about this.

“Alright men, lay out the stakes for me. If we’re going to measure your abilities we’re going to do it properly…”

(When it turns out that Gearshift’s ration bar is also Bantha Stew flavour, half an hour, one broken blaster and two lots of latrine duty later, Wooley throws it in his face. 

It’s a dead shot. 

His brother deserves it.)

Chapter Text

Crys stared down at the box in his hands, feeling his stomach turn as he took in the picture on the front: the manic smile on the model’s face, the sickly, almost radioactive tinge to their yellow hair, and the cheap, almost tacky feel to the flimsi.

Chapter Text

The stone echoed. Fives didn’t like it; didn’t like the way it amplified everything from the water dripping overhead to the sound of their tight breathing. It felt heavy, oppressive, casting a darkness so stifling that their headtorches only shone a small way into the gloom. The others were twitchy too, Echo pressing up into his side in a way he only did when he needed comfort. Fives knew without asking that they’d be sharing a bedroll that night, curling up tight like two cadets in a pod. He’d complain like he always did about his brother’s cold feet, but he’d be hanging on just the same. Neither of them were doing very well being underground again. Not after the tunnels of Rishi. Not after Cutup.

Even a small campfire would have gone a long way to soothing him, something just to put some warmth in his bones. He hated the way rock leeched it out of his body, greedily trying to fill its own never-ending well.

“Why d’you think we’re stopping here anyway?” Echo was speaking to Ridge, who was cleaning his blaster in slow, methodical strokes that Fives could tell were to steady his hands more than anything else. “We finished the mission, and there’s no sign of the Seps this far out.”

Ridge shrugged. “It happens a lot when we team up with the 212^th, General Kenobi likes to explore, I think. Drives Commander Cody nuts. He said somethin’ about some old Jedi temple here - wanted to take a look.”

That would explain the old pillars they were camped between, and the creepy statues that always felt like they were watching. When it was lighter Fives had been able to see that they were half covered in moss, worn smooth and impassive with age. In the dark they loomed, just present enough through the black that it felt like they were leaning over his shoulder, the occasional gust of wind settling like breath on the back of his neck.

Knowing that they were Jedi-made should have been a comfort, but General Kenobi had stressed that they stay heavily armed down here, and after what Fives had seen his own general do in combat, he knew better than to assume this place would be harmless. Not to mention that they were kliks away from any known settlement, and the local fauna had already shown itself very willing to take a chunk out of the unsuspecting.

Echo’s armour creaked as he shifted, his hands twisting some old wiring together in his lap. Fives had noticed that he liked fiddling with it in their spare moments, and had taken to collecting pieces himself to slip into Echo’s utility belt.

“Really? What he’s looking for?”

Ridge laughed, but it wasn’t unkind. “I dunno, kid, I don’t try to understand Jedi poodoo. You’ll have to ask him yourself. ‘Spect it’ll be dusty though, and trapped to the gills. A word of advice – stick tight to your squad in there.”

Fives let out a breath and glanced nervously over his shoulder at the statues and the maw of the stairs between them, slithering up the rockface into the black. “Traps? Why would they trap a karking temple?”

Ridge shrugged. “Fett knows, but they’re a nightmare to get through.”

Nax and Attie had been talking close by, reduced to two ghostly white shapes, but now they broke off and leaned into the little circle of light pooling round their headlamps.

“Aw c’mon Ridge, them Jedi are full of secrets,” Attie said, grinning. “Who knows what weird osik they left behind in here, they wouldn’t want just anyone puttin’ their grubby hands on it. Keeps the wrong people out, right?”

“Oh yeah? That why you keep puttin’ yours on things every time we go in one?”

Attie shrugged, unrepentant. “I’m just bein’ thorough.”

Ridge rolled his eyes. “We’re supposed to avoid the traps, dickhead, not set them off! The generals ain’t gonna thank you if you’re dead in a pit somewhere.”

Fives cast his eyes around, frowning, his spine going stiff. “There’s still a patrol out there. What if they run into somethin’?”

Nax waved him off, stretching lazily. “Ah, don’t worry yourself, Rookie. Denal knows better than to step anywhere he shouldn’t.”

“Yeah, worry about yourself,” Attie said, grinning wolfishly. “Who knows, you could be sittin’ right on top of one.”

Fives shifted uncomfortably as Attie chuckled, not faltering even when Nax drove an elbow into his gut.

“Don’t tease the vod’ike,” Nax muttered, never one prone to draw attention to himself if he could help it. “Unless you want me to tell ‘em about the first time you got brought on one of Kenobi’s little ‘research trips’.”

Attie put his hands up in surrender as Ridge laughed and shook his head.

“Oh yeah, I’d forgotten about that. Didn’t you –“

“Hey,” Attie grumbled. “I’m shutting up. You gotta let me have some reputation, Ridge.”

“It’s too late for that, they’ve already met you –"

There was the sound of a fist colliding with plastoid, then squawks mixed with laughter. After a brief scuffle they all settled back down into silence, and Fives tried to focus on the intricate wire tangle that Echo was weaving between his hands, his tongue poking out slightly in concentration. He found he couldn’t stop his mind wandering, fixating on all those winding tunnels in the dark. The more he thought about it the more he could feel the vast expanse of the rock over their heads, the deep belly of the earth opening beneath them. He tightened his hand over his thigh, just shy of his blaster, and contented himself by drumming his fingers against his armour. It wouldn’t be so bad if only there was light, but the clouds were as dense as ever and the cliff face stole what little might have been left.

Just as he was beginning to relax, he heard something right on the edge of hearing.

“What was that?” he asked harshly, closing his hand around his weapon so tightly his knuckles hurt.

“What was what?” Echo stilled instantly apart from a small jolt that Fives knew meant he was tilting his head, listening. The others had all gone quiet too, but after a second Ridge snorted.

“I don’t hear anythin’. Don’t let Attie rattle you, kid.”

Fives made a harsh sound in his throat as the noise came again, closer, followed by the scrape of something against rock.

“I’m tellin’ you, there’s somethin’ out there.”

They all paused again for several long seconds, and Fives knew when Echo had also heard the sound, because he went rigid. Fives didn’t breathe, listening to the sound of something dragging itself towards them. All he could think about was the memory of walking down a stone ridge and saying “watch out for the eels”, before hearing his batchmate scream. He curled a hand around Echo’s back, getting ready to shove him to the ground.

After half a minute Ridge sighed and hauled himself to his feet. “Look, I’ll go check it out, don’t get your armour in a twist.”

Fives watched him disappear into the gloom as the rest of the group muttered, a collection of disembodied voices and floating lights. A moment later there was a loud squeak, the sound of a safety switch flicking off, and then a bright, searing bolt of blue.

Then there was a sizzling sound.

Then there was silence.

“All clear, it was just a rat,” Ridge’s voice called out. “Kriffin’ big one, I’ll give you that, but I don’t think we were in mortal peril. You’re a jumpy batch of shinies, ain’t you?”

Fives felt his chest clench, his face going hot as the rest of the squad laughed. His hand automatically went up to grab the scruff of Echo’s neck before he could start another fight he couldn’t finish. They weren’t a batch, not anymore, just the remnants of one – and therein lay the problem. He could feel his twin practically vibrating next to him.

“Sorry, Ridge. Better to be safe than sorry, right?” His voice was just a little too tight to be believable, but thankfully nobody called him out on it.

Ridge came ambling back and sat himself down, and there was a long stretch of silence before someone spoke again. To Fives’ surprise, this time it was Echo.

“Say, Attie? Tell me more about these temples? They’re all really old, right?”

There were a few groans, Fives’ included, but Attie’s armour ground together as he gamely leant in again. “Think so. General Kenobi said somethin’ about centuries, at least.”

“You know, I think I’ve read about ancient places,” Echo said, which made Fives raise his eyebrows, because Echo usually selected his reading material the same way he liked to approach their missions – directly, and with a clear point. “’Specially abandoned ones. Some people say that dead things sometimes…linger.”

“The hell you talkin’ about, kid?” Ridge asked.

“S’just what I’ve heard,” Fives could feel Echo shrug. “Especially in old Jedi places. Did you know that they used to be in a war with the Sith? Went on for hundreds of years, nearly tore the galaxy apart. Some real bad blood between ‘em. Apparently, that makes for a lotta angry ghosts.”

“Ah, you’re pullin’ our legs,” Attie said with a laugh, but to Fives’ ears it sounded a little strained. He could feel his own skin crawling, but something still felt a little off about the whole situation. It was Echo, he realised after a moment; the ramrod straight position he was sitting in. He usually only held himself like that when he was sniping and lining up a shot. Where was he going with this?

“I’m only passin’ on what I’ve read.” Echo said. “Was real interestin’ though. The temples have always been worst for it, ‘cause they used to get attacked all the time by bad Jedi. Every time someone died it left an imprint in the force, and sometimes you can see ‘em standin’ there still, like they were in the seconds before they got cut down. Sometimes they even scream. One account said some guy went scavengin’ and felt like someone was followin’ him the whole time. He wasn’t sure at first...but then his torch kept goin’ out. He replaced the charge: same thing. So then all he had was candle light, and it kept gutterin’ as he moved from room to room, like someone kept breathin’ on it. Could’ve just been the wind right? But here’s the thing – there wasn’t any.”

As if summoned, there was a sudden gust of air through the narrow ravine they were camped in. Fives heard a shiver ripple through their seated brothers, a clattering of plastoid.

“Then,” Echo continued, his voice hushed. “As he tried to look for the vault, he swore he could hear voices, muffled like they were just around the corner. He called, and he called, and told them to show themselves, but there was no answer. Just the slow, creepin’ knowledge that he was bein’ followed, and that it weren’t friendly. As he made his way through to the old vaults the feelin’ got stronger, and stronger. Doors kept slammin’ shut, and things kept trippin’ him, pullin’ on his clothes. He thought about turnin’ back – but he was so close.”

Echo paused, letting his words hang in the air for several long seconds.

“An’ then what?” Nax asked, his voice a little breathless.

“Nobody knows. The rest of his travellin’ group had waited outside, and according to them, all they heard was his scream. And when they went into the temple to find him, he was curled up dead by the entrance, stone cold to the touch. Like he’d been there for hours. No mark on him, no blood, just a look of terror on his face and some words at the bottom of his notes, not written in his own hand: Get Out.”

Echo lapsed into silence, and this time it was permeating. Attie sucked in a breath, deafening in the quiet.

“That’s a whole lotta shit, vod.”

“Maybe. But General Kenobi wants us armed in there, you said it yourself. You ever wondered why?”

More silence, but in it, Fives could pick out the sounds of people’s fingers tapping on armour, the sounds of sharp breathing and rustles as they shifted. Echo had rattled ‘em, good and proper.

“Hey, what was that?” Someone’s voice whispered suddenly. “I – I can hear footsteps.”

Fives could hear it too, a rhythmical beat that was getting closer.

“W-Who’s there?” Ridge barked, getting to his feet with one hand on his blaster. When there was no answer, there was a resounding sea of clicking as the others all copied him. “Show yourself!”

“At ease Ridge, it’s just us!”

Ridge cursed as the patrol came into view around the corner, flooding their seated brothers with light. Denal was at point and took off his helmet, shaking his head in mystification as several clones put their blasters away and sank down with a groan.

“It’s quiet as the grave out there, the hell’s got you spooked?”

As Ridge fumbled for an explanation, Fives felt Echo start shaking next to him, and with a jolt realised that he was laughing. Honestly, he shouldn’t have been surprised.

“You made all of that up, didn’t you?” Fives breathed, feeling a grin spread over his face. “You kriffin’ liar.”

Echo laughed softly in the dark, just the edge of his smile illuminated by his torch. He knocked their shoulders gently together, satisfied by a job well done.

“Hey, it’s not my fault they’re a jumpy batch of shinies.”

Chapter Text

The medbay lights were low when Rex woke. He knew where he was even before he opened his eyes, just by the engines rumbling and the sharp smell of antiseptic. Sure enough, the Resolute took gentle shape around him, turning from smear to ship once he’d blinked the sleep away. His eyes were dry and sensitive after whatever sedative they'd given him, so for a moment he kept them closed, lying still as the galaxy trickled back in, sense by sense. 

The bleep of a monitor, the stiff, starched edges of the sheet tucked up round his body. A warm, solid weight wrapped around his hand, the rumbling sound of someone snoring, the unnatural dryness of his mouth, the lingering taste of bacta on his tongue.

He looked down, then smothered a laugh. Cody was crumpled like discarded flimsi in a chair next to his bed, hunched so that his head and upper shoulders were wedged close to Rex’s thigh over the blankets. His nose was scrunched with sleep, the force of his soft snores dislodging the curls on his forehead with each puff of air. He still smelt like blaster residue and dust, and his cheek had left dark smudges on the sheet. There was a discarded datapad next to his head, glowing with soft blue light as it announced the arrival of several new messages. His hand was the heavy weight that Rex could feel, wound tight around his own. Cody had split his knuckles again, the skin around the thin cuts raised, puffy and glistening with freshly applied bacta.

It couldn't have been too long since he'd gotten here, then, or someone would have bullied his brother into at least hitting the fresher.

He couldn’t remember making it to the rendezvous, the memories buried somewhere under the jarring bolts of pain from his chest and the way his arm had stung like a nest of hornets as the nerves tried to heal. Telling General Kenobi that he’d been on the mend hadn’t been a lie, per se, but even Rex could admit that he’d perhaps been stretching things. It was at least reassuring to know that he’d not fallen off his eopie and collapsed alone in some unremarkable patch of Saleucami’s farmland.

Rex stared around the familiar bay, struggling with the rush of relief and discomfiture that spread through his body. Nothing was out of place here; he could look around and know exactly what to expect, from the barracks to the bridge. He wanted to let it settle him the way it usually did, to let relief seep into his bones at another mission fought and – well, not won, but survived. This time it wouldn’t quite come.

It wasn’t because he’d been injured. That had happened more times than he had fingers. Maybe it was because the Resolute was the closest thing to a home that he had…and for the first time in his short life, he couldn’t help but find it a little lacking. He’d come back. That much was true, and he was glad of it. But some part of him was still stranded on that farm on Saleucami, rooted there in the sound of children’s laughter and the humming of insects in the fields. He could still feel the pale sun beating down on his face, taste the sharp wind on his tongue, and was surprised to find that the memories had knotted themselves into a small ache that he could feel deep in his chest. 

The blaster bolt injury would scar. So would this feeling. But neither would ever fully go away.

When Rex had told Cut that he’d never really thought about the names they gave each other, the individuality it bestowed upon each clone, he’d been telling the truth. Perhaps it had been a fleeting thought, once or twice. But before today it had always been a base fact, a simple truth. Each brother was different, beyond name, station, hair colour or designation. It was never something they had to be taught, even when they all came from the same recipe, the same ingredients. And that had always been enough, until now.

But the sight of one of their own framed in a farm-house door, children round his feet and a whole world under them…the possibility of that future sat irreversibly inside him, a Pandora’s Box he’d never known could be opened.

Maybe he’d never thought about it before – but on some level now he always would.

That terrified him.

“Rex’ika?”

The fingers around his palm flexed, dragging him back to the present.

He glanced down to see Cody’s eyes fixed on his face, puffy but alert, his cheek creased where the sheets had pressed into them. His ori’vod jerked frantically into motion, pushing upright. Rex didn’t even have time to speak before Cody’s fist was colliding lightly with his shoulder.

“The kriff d’you get shot for?”

“Good to see you too, vod,” Rex grumbled, rotating his shoulder for show then actively wincing when the motion sent streaks of pain skittering from the crater in his chest.

He knew that Cody had seen it, because instantly his hand pushed him firmly back into the pillows. 

“I’m alright,” he said after a moment, patting Cody’s hand a couple of times before his brother deemed he could be trusted to let go. That was the one downside to growing up round the command batches; they were all so bossy.

“Oh yeah?" Cody snorted. "Because five hours ago you said that and then fell flat on your face.”

Rex grimaced, unable to refute the claim because he simply didn't know any better. He could only hope there hadn't been many troopers around to witness it. There was a familiar pinch between Cody’s eyebrows as he hovered, ready to manhandle Rex again if he felt it necessary. It had been a long time since he'd inspired such an expression, but he remembered it intimately from their youth.

He’d been a scrappy cadet; never allowed anonymity because of his hair, defiance and recklessness had been a kind of defence mechanism. If he was going to be singled out, he could at least control the way it happened. The fourth time he’d been made to run so many laps that he vomited, he’d looked up, panting, to see Cody’s pinched face staring back. The commanding batches were only meant to supervise the punishments of the younger levels, but Cody had reached out a hand anyway and hauled Rex to his feet. He’d been the one to teach him that there were better ways to make himself untouchable.

“Yeah, I’m sure,” Rex said, swiping his tongue over his dry bottom lip. “Tastes like Kix gave me the good stuff.”

Cody rolled his eyes, the corners of his mouth twitching into something fond. “He’s gonna kick your shebs, and I’m gonna let him. You should’ve seen his face when the General said you were on your way. The hells were you thinking, di’kut? We could’ve sent an escort.”

Rex felt his answering grin slide off his face at the thought, uncertainty settling back into his belly like lead. An escort would have had to come to the farm, and in turn would have seen the deserter. Some not insignificant part of him felt almost affronted at what Cut had done, even as he didn’t regret keeping his secret. It ground against what they’d been taught about themselves, against what had been built into their DNA. It didn’t matter whether they liked war the same way it didn’t matter whether they liked the colour of their eyes. It was what it was.

But Rex could comprehend turning his back on that, even if he didn’t understand. What was harder to fathom, with Cody’s hand anchoring his own, palm sweaty with relief that his ori’vod wouldn’t voice, was being alone. The idea of saying ‘family’ and not meaning a face just like his own. The thought of being cut off from the vode was thoroughly alien, impossible to conceptualise even now that he'd seen it.

“It was for the best,” he said to Cody, a beat too slowly. “The farmer who put me up…he wasn’t the friendliest sort.”

Cody’s gaze sharpened. “Anti-clone?”

Rex very nearly laughed. “No, just the over-cautious type. He didn’t want the war on his doorstep.”

Cody paused for one very long moment, surveying Rex with eyes that always unearthed everything he wanted to hide. He would have been more worried, had he not been quite confident that Cut Lawquane was unpredictable. He wanted to tell Cody everything, wanted to share the root cause of the tangled longing snaring his insides. But...he'd made a promise. And Cody had taken Slick's betrayal so hard. 

Maybe he'd tell him one day, when Saleucami was nothing but a memory.

“Then why are there hand-print bruises on your neck, Rex?”

Reflexively, Rex reached for his throat, running his fingers gingerly over the puffy skin. He hadn’t realised that they were there, but immediately the sensation of dangling by his throat came back to him.

“I got throttled by a commando droid, that’s why. Turns out the farmer didn’t get a whole lotta say about some landin’ in his field. We handled it.”

Cody swore, his hand tightening around Rex’s again. “Just couldn’t miss out on the action, could you vod’ika? Gettin’ shot wasn’t enough?”

Rex grinned, shrugging a little. “How else am I gonna give you grey hairs? Me ‘n Wolffe have still got that bet going about which marshal commander it’ll be first, you or Fox. And I’ve gotta make up for the whole Senate somehow.”

“Unbelievable,” Cody growled, shoving Rex’s hand away and running a hand over his head. “Throwing the odds is illegal, Chakaar. What did he wager? Corellian whiskey? Koon always sneaks him the best shit.”

Rex snorted, wrinkling his nose. “Hardly. As if I’d risk my shebs for a drink, Kote, it’s for the glory.”

Cody leaned back in his chair, face a thoroughly distracted picture of outrage. Rex still knew exactly which of his gears to grind.

“Yeah, well, next time you don’t hafta try so hard,” Cody muttered. “Or you’ll bypass grey hairs and push me straight to cardiac arrest.”

“That still counts as a win.”

Rex knew he fully deserved the punch that Cody landed on his leg, covering his mouth to muffle the laugh that wanted to burst out of him. The rest of the bay was surprisingly quiet, the lighting soft and low. The vast majority of the beds were empty, the few other occupants sound in either natural or induced sleep. Cody probably should have gone to alert the on-duty medic that he’d woken up, but instead the silence lapsed on between them, Cody’s eyes crinkling soft at the corners again in that unguarded way Rex missed from their youth.

After a moment Cody’s pad chirped from between the disturbed sheets, a gratingly cheerful sound that never heralded anything good. Rex watched his brother sigh and pick up the offending item, scrolling and clicking through notices as the tension crept back into his face. Cody had always been like that – ruthlessly efficient, wickedly shrewd, a ship against which the rest of them could weather all storms. Any clone who’d ever met him knew what class he was destined to go into, and when he’d been promoted, the only person who’d been surprised was Cody himself.

There was a pride in that, Rex reflected; to excel so thoroughly at the purpose for which you’d been made. But there was no choice in it either, and it was an odd thing, to look at Cody for the first time and find it a little wrong that he couldn’t picture him as anything else.

“What? Have I got something on my face?” Cody had looked up from his datapad with one eyebrow raised. Then he sighed again, jabbing at the screen grumpily. “I swear Bly waits until it’s my night cycle to send me forms on purpose.”

Rex watched him type for a few more seconds, then looked down at his hands.

“Have you ever thought about the end of the war?”

There was a long pause, hanging heavy in the air between them. Rex twisted his fingers together before he looked up, feeling too open, too vulnerable. Cody’s brow was lifted in a rare moment of unguarded surprise, before his eyes narrowed, searching Rex’s face.

“…no, I suppose I haven’t,” he said eventually. “General Kenobi theorises that it’ll hinge on –"

“No, I meant – have you ever thought about what we’ll do after.” Rex said softly.

Cody blinked a few times then leant back in his chair.

“After?” The word curled uncertainly off his tongue, an awkward shape in his mouth. “Don’t you think we’ve gotta win the damn thing first, Rex’ika?”

Rex shrugged, feeling his shoulders creep up round his ears the way they always did when he was nervous. The words almost stuck in his throat, scraping raw as he pushed them out, unformed and fledgeling.

“Yeah, of course. But…all the same. For some of us there will be an after. Commander Tano talks about it sometimes – getting back to all the things she did before.”

That did make Cody smile, a little fleeting thing. “General Kenobi does too. He had to put all his plants in the Temple gardens when he got his commission, says he misses them.”

“Have you ever thought about going with them?”

Cody’s eyebrows jumped again, a rare, blank look on his face that made Rex feel better and worse all at the same time, because it didn't just confound him. “Can’t think why the Jedi would need clones around in their Temple. What’s this really about, Rex?”

Rex let out a breath, a long gusting sigh that peeled out of his ribcage, and fixed his eyes back on the ceiling. “Staying with that farmer…eating at his table, sharing his food. Talking to his kids…it just made me wonder, you know? What that might be like.”

Cody snorted, but his eyes were impossibly warm as he scrubbed a knuckle over Rex’s short blond hair. “You? A farmer? Didn’t you kill the plant Kenobi got Skywalker for his lifeday?”

Rex batted him away. “That thing was already dead when he brought it to me. And to be honest, the farm didn't really appeal. But…his kids were cute. Real big eyes, you know?”

The corner of Cody’s mouth had ticked up again as he settled himself back down with his datapad. “Tano and Skywalker not kids enough for you?”

He ducked the fist Rex shoved his way, chuckling, and they settled back into a docile quiet, Cody confused, and Rex unsure how else to put his feelings into words. How it wasn’t just the farmer, or the kids, or the land. Just the new, frightening possibility that one day they might be his to take. Rex felt the drowsiness creep back in on him, cresting and falling in a wave. He didn’t fight it, twisting down into the sheets and letting the soft tapping of Cody’s fingers on the screen lull him on. When he reached the precipice of sleep, hovering somewhere above a dream, he felt his brother’s hand squeeze his one more time, then heard him speak.

“I guess I never have thought about it, vod. But you’re right. Maybe it does sound nice.”

Chapter Text

Insects swirled in a halo around his helmet. They swarmed around the seams of his body glove, too, attracted to the small beads of sweat there, to the tiny strips of flesh he couldn’t quite cover. The rising bites itched, rubbing where the edge of his vambraces met fabric, and the buzzing was enough to drive a man mad. Boil sighed, brushing them off half-heartedly and watching them billow angrily away. They’d be back. They always were.

In the reprieve, he fumbled at his belt for the viewfinders hooked there and brought them to his visor. As he spun the dial to within half a klik so that he could search the undergrowth, his thumb settled in the comforting groove where Waxer had dropped them and chipped the plastoid. He worried at it with his nail while he scanned, frowning. 

It was too still. 

Too quiet.

Had been in his head for weeks now, verging on a month, and he was still waiting to feel something other than crippling emptiness. There weren’t any dreams any more, none except for the oldest one they all pretended not to have; levelling a blaster against Kenobi’s head and pulling the trigger. Even that didn’t feel like the nightmare it used to.

Eventually he lowered the viewfinder, feeling the hair stand up on the back of his neck at the stifled sound of his own breath in the dense air. A faint, humid breeze stirred the leaves, sending a cloud of thick yellow pollen up towards the canopy. Boil blinked to bring up the filter diagnostic on his HUD, keeping his belly low to the ground to avoid the stuff as it drifted lazily overhead.

“Kid, you doin’ alright out there?” 

He listened to the static hum of the comm line for a few moments, biting back the panic that crawled up the back of his throat when it dragged on just a beat too long. 

“Apart from gettin’ gnawed on by the bugs? Just grand, Sir.” 

Potshot sounded a little winded, but that was probably just the heat. Their body gloves self-regulated temperature, but only to the extent that they made sure you sweated evenly. It never used to be quite so bad; that had been the one thing Phase 1 armour had going for it, for all it was bulkier and less adaptable to varied terrain. He supposed the Republic had had to cut costs somewhere. Waxer would’ve been whining by now that his ass was so hot they could light a flare off it. Potshot was young enough that he’d never known any different.

“Good, you see anything?” Boil grunted, pinging his location anyway. There was no real reason for it; Potshot might’ve still been green but he wasn’t stupid, and he’d done well to keep up so far. Boil could stand being self aware enough to acknowledge that he hadn’t been the most welcoming, or the most patient with the new partner he’d never wanted. He wouldn’t have had any right to be overbearing now, but it was for his own comfort, however small and bittersweet.

“Nothin’ at all. That seem odd to you too?” Potshot said, as the surveillance holos he’d taken popped up. Boil flipped through them, earmarking a couple to show him how to improve the angle later. The important shit was all there - enough to confirm what he’d already suspected. No birds, no creatures, no fresh droppings. 

Just the bugs, and the trees, and them.

“Yeah, it’s odd alright. Think we’ve found what the general’s looking for.” 

Boil felt pressure around his right boot and turned, vibroblade in hand, to stab into the fleshy vine knotting round it. It writhed and retreated, leaving behind pitted, smoking trails where acid had started eating into the plastoid. He registered the damage with a dull sort of annoyance. It was something else to take care of later, a way to look busy and shape the silence. It would fend off the others and their offers of company, made out of pity he couldn’t bear to look at. 

“Really? What’re you seein’, boss?” Potshot asked. 

Boil glanced upwards to track the position of the sun; high, almost directly overhead. At the peak of the day this place should have been teeming. Instead the only tracks he’d found had been baked solid, and this wasn’t the shocked quiet that followed a stampede. It was stagnant, aging.

“This forest is in the centre of an old super-volcanic crater, right?” he asked, not waiting for a response. It had been in the mission dossier, alongside profiles of the flesh eating plants, the deadly pollen and the venomous creatures, all of it fenced into the sloped, unforgiving bowl of the terrain. It was the kind of forest that stuck in the mind. “And we know that something has driven the wildlife away.”

Potshot hummed, the comm muffling for a second as he shifted. It took a moment of bitter disappointment coiling in Boil’s belly for him to realise that he’d been waiting for a sharp quip that wasn’t coming. He swallowed thickly, wondering how it was possible to feel so wrongfooted while lying down. If he’d ever find his balance again. If he ever wanted to feel whole now that such a fundamental piece was missing.

Potshot groaned suddenly. “Kriff it, the factories we’re looking for are underground, aren’t they?” 

Boil forced a chuckle, choking past the self hatred clawing up through his lungs. The kid deserved better, deserved a superior who didn’t constantly treat him like a ghost.

“That’s it, kid. Just like the simulations, eh?”

Potshot laughed, the easy sound making Boil’s throat seize in longing so strong his teeth ached. Waxer would’ve loved him, and that made it all the worse.

“Hardly. What do we do next?” 

“Alright,” Boil said, lifting the viewfinder for one last look at where he could see slight fog rising through the trees. “You get your ass back to forward command and debrief the General, I’m heading in for a closer look.”

“ What? But - Sir! We’re supposed to be working as a team. I can’t leave you -”

“Sometimes working as a team means you do your duty and trust the others to do theirs.” He cut in, keeping his voice steady by force of will. Sometimes, it meant carrying on alone. Boil clipped the viewfinder back into place and prepared to move, even as Potshot continued protesting. Boil didn’t answer for long enough that silence fell on the line. 

“...am I not performing to the standard expected, Sir?”

Potshot’s voice was soft, all vulnerable underbelly. Still so shiny, and Boil remembered feeling like that, like there was still a scorecard constantly on his forehead. 

“No - kid -” Boil sighed, dropping his head forward. He’d never learned how to be gentle - it hadn’t ever come naturally, and there had been no reason to lose his sharp edges when Waxer had always been there to foil them for him. He felt sharper now than ever, full of shards that didn’t sit right, and fished among the pieces for something his brother might have said. “I trust you to have my back. You’re doing everything right. But...sometimes we’ve gotta think of the mission. We need more proof before we can move in, but the two of us get caught, command loses what we already know.” 

“Can’t we just send a comm?” Potshot asked, his voice still tight and hurt sounding and he was fucking this up, shouldn’t have been trusted to try to fix himself without breaking everyone else wide open in the process. 

“Don’t trust it not to get intercepted,” Boil said, which was only half a lie, and would have made Cody scoff at the back to front over-caution. “And it don’t all fit in a comm. They’ll need everything you can remember to plan the advance.”

Potshot sighed, but when he spoke again his voice was looser. “...Yes, Sir. I won’t let you down.”

“I know you won’t,” Boil said, feeling his own chest lighten. “If you don’t hear from me by 1100 then raise me on the priority channel.”

He listened until Potshot had stated a reluctant affirmative and clicked off the line, then bellied out of the undergrowth and headed further in, to the epicentre of the unnatural quiet. He liked the way his mind went silent on recon, how everything else fell away. It wasn’t quite the same, tilted just a little off axis, but similar enough to when it had been Waxer at his six that if he didn’t think about it, he could almost trick himself into believing nothing had changed.

Plus, the space was good, just for a few minutes, where he didn't have to pretend for anyone.

It was a quiet journey, for the most part, punctuated only by the steps he couldn’t quite muffle. His thoughts were broken some time later when he suddenly heard it; the distant mechanical boom of something deep underground. He quickened his pace, following the vibrations until the earth under his feet grew hot, the air shimmering unnaturally in front of him. It had been like this at Point Rain, when the sand baked and glinted, glass-like, under the blaze of the overhead sun. If he hadn’t known the super-volcano was very thoroughly extinct, he could have kidded himself that it was just the geothermal energy of magma moving close to the surface. A clever disguise. But not clever enough.

The ground sloped ever downwards the further into the bowl he got. He watched where he placed his feet as it grew rockier, stones and small craters acting like pitfall traps concealed by the moss. Boil pinged his scanner every minute, searching for Seppie probes as the terrain tapered, falling away into a green-rimmed yawning abyss. Set into the centre of it was a huge grate, the source of the searing air. Here were the factories they’d been looking for, exactly where he’d suspected. It was a muted sort of satisfaction.

He crouched at the edge of the drop, taking holos and transmitting them directly to the Commander’s HUD. Then he checked his chrono and sent an unapologetic follow up that he’d be late to rendezvous, seeing that 1100 was about to come and go. Then he minimised the comms on his HUD to flash for priority only; he’d get bollocked for being late sooner or later, but he figured it would be novel to have it fully in person.

Finally he turned, ready to start the rapid scale back towards the 212th's forward camp, when he registered a low, keening whine. 

His blaster was in his hands within a moment, trained at the knee-high leaves. The sound came again, higher this time, followed by laboured panting. 

He gently brushed aside some of the foliage with his blaster barrel. Dark eyes stared at him from between the leaves. They both froze. It was some sort of animal, obviously; a mammal, probably a predator. It was small too, with paws too large for its scrawny body and a dark, downy fur that rippled with every laboured breath. 

Sharp teeth. A narrow muzzle. A long, whip-like tail. 

A vornskr, Boil thought, and hated how readily the identification came, how readily he tensed in anticipation of the inevitable Boil can you see - do you know how rare - 

He shook the memories away, of Waxer leaning precariously over the top bunk to wave some manual Commander Gree had sent him in his face, bleating about some animal or species that Boil couldn’t pronounce. In the present the vornskr pup cowered away from him, pushing backwards on thin, spindly legs. Deceptively powerful though, he’d bet. 

The creature let out another whine and stumbled, an odd abortive movement. Boil pressed more of the leaves away to get a better look and swore when he saw the brutal metal trap closed around one of its small hind legs, paring down to bone. His blaster was up and trained on the thing before he thought much about it. Better to shoot it, put it out of its misery, than prolong its suffering. It was what they did as part of the cleanup sometimes; wildlife was usually pretty good at getting out of the active battlefronts, but there were always stragglers. The too old or the too young, mostly. 

Creatures like this one.

The vornskr stilled, staring at him with those big, wide eyes as if it knew exactly what he was thinking. Boil swallowed. Waxer wouldn’t have let him shoot it. Waxer also wasn’t here now to stop him, but Boil felt his arm lower all the same, just a few inches before he pulled the trigger. The vornskr yelped as the trap hinges came apart in two neat halves and immediately tried to run. It didn’t get very far before it collapsed, panting again.

Boil sighed and shook his head, holstering his blaster across his back.

“That was a stupid thing to do,” he tsked, shuffling closer. 

He kept half an eye on the tail, remembering something about it being venomous. While being high off his ass on some unknown substance had the potential to make Cody’s dressing down more interesting, it might also kill him before he got there. 

The vornskr growled as he leaned over it, baring needle sharp teeth, and made a snap at him when Boil reached out. 

“Ah, give over,” he muttered, batting the attempt away. The little body was light in his hands as he lifted it, careful to let the injured leg hang out as he folded it into his chest. The vornskr made an odd, throaty sound and shifted, almost experimental. Then it huffed, and after a pause laid its head across his vambrace.

Boil rolled his eyes at the display, setting off towards forward command as soon as he was halfway sure he wasn’t in danger of losing a finger. 

It was...nice, to have that little body cradled to him, reminiscent of better occasions when Waxer just had to stick his nose into every curious happening and inevitably adopted some struggling lifeform. However much Boil had complained, it had never steered them wrong. 

When he got back to command it was to find Cody pacing the perimeter, Potshot perched on a crate nearby. The Commander’s bucket was under his arm. Boil winced. With Cody that was never an accident - usually so he could get the full weight of a glare in, the excavating kind he’d learned from Kenobi and then weaponised so that it pierced straight down to bone.

“Boss!” Potshot exclaimed, pushing off his seat. “You made it!”

“What time d’you call this?” Cody demanded, stalking over. “I was about to -” 

Cody stopped short, gaze dropping to the furry bundle against Boil’s breastplate. Something in his expression softened and Boil felt in his heart, panicking as a lump rose in his throat.

“What’s that?” Cody asked.

Boil let his gaze slide downwards to a point far beyond, where two troopers were fighting over a tarp. 

“Found it in a trap,” he said, his voice ragged. “Couldn’t - couldn’t let it die.”

He flicked his eyes back to Cody’s face and breathed through the grief and understanding he found there. Cody stepped forward and clasped Boil’s elbow.

“I’m sure Tranq will be able to do something for it.” A little upturn crept into the line of Cody’s lips. “Debrief in fifteen.” 

Boil nodded and broke away, tipping his head to Potshot before clearing his throat roughly and popping his bucket off one-handed as he made his way to the medtent. The sun was warm on his face here, the air lighter. A butterfly flew lazily past and the vornskr lifted its head, tracking the motion with large, interested eyes.

Boil smiled, hoisting his bucket under one arm and daring to touch the creature's head with his freed hand. It wouldn’t ever bring Waxer back, but it meant something that this little life continued, because of the choices his brother would have made and all that he had been. Like the phantom touch of the sun still lingering in cooling earth.

It wouldn’t ever be enough. But, perhaps, it was just the right amount to cling onto.

Chapter Text

The ocean didn’t smell anything like Hardcase thought it would. 

He slipped his bucket from his head, squinting against the sudden rush of unfiltered light. On either side of him troopers broke free of the tree line, and, feeling sand beneath their boots, took off whooping towards the frothing crest of the sea. The sunset blazed red and orange, bleeding like a punctured egg yolk across the cloudless horizon and into distant water. Hardcase breathed in, wrinkling his nose against the salt-laden tang, so visceral he could taste it. 

It wasn’t like Kamino. That was almost the biggest surprise. He’d thought that oceans would be the same everywhere, but this wasn’t a bad way to be proven wrong. It was the salt, he realised after a moment, darting his tongue out to touch his lips. There weren’t really any beaches on Kamino, though he supposed there must be sand under there somewhere. There were no winding strips where ocean met land, where the sun could ferment the pools, rocks and shells left behind. It tasted lighter there, cleaner, more cut through by its brutal winds. He breathed in deep again, wrinkling his nose and grinning at the way the seasoned tang sat on his palate here, briny and thick. 

It was the colour too, that really made the difference. It was so pale and clear on this far-flung planet, instead of the angry greyish blue he remembered. The waves were...politer, somehow. Less vengeful, not boiling with ever-falling rain. Several troopers had reached the shore now and were chasing the surf, shouting and laughing when it nipped at their heels. 

He decided he rather liked it. 

It was something different after weeks spent cowering under cover further inland, coated in showers of dark earth from enemy artillery and rationing out stale water in mouthfuls that were barely enough to coat the back of the throat. Even the air was damp here, and overhead the gulls were crying, sharp against the thundering crash of the waves. He lived for these moments, these breaths between the axel-grind of war. It was true that he loved the spoil of a fight, loved sinking into it and letting his Z6 sing. But there was a different, more intoxicating thrill in these snatched hours or - if they were lucky - days. He’d never voiced it to anyone, but he sometimes thought he might like to do this all the time, one day, trawling the stars and standing beneath unfamiliar skies. For the views, this time, explored under his own rhythm. 

Yeah. That sounded pretty good. 

“Oi, Hardcase!” Someone bellowed, sticking up a hand and waving at him amidst a far away knot of troopers knee deep in the sea. “You coming?” 

He shook himself, setting down his pack and his Z6 with loving care amongst the mountainous piles of gear, before jogging down the dunes, following the trails of discarded armour and the shouts, happy laughter and splashes echoing from the water. The wind was sharp on his face and neck and on the strips of skin at his wrists, intoxicating and too heady to ignore. The sand was strangely weightless beneath him, too. He’d slept on a real feather pillow, once, while they were hunkered down on Ord Sedra and several hundred crates of luxury bedding had gotten damaged in the crossfire. It had felt like floating, and all of them had tossed and turned all night. This was similar, and just as strange...what would it all feel like on his skin?

The thought wouldn’t let him go. Halfway down the beach he sat to strip off his boots, then his plates, then his body glove, until he stood in just his greys, laughing at the feeling of the wind and the spray licking against his body. The way it cut through the stubble sprouting on his scalp after far too long stuck in a bucket-locked zone was...disconcerting. The prickle of just-forming curls felt like phantom fingers on the nape of his neck, and he’d found the way sweat clung to hair under his helmet sort of disgusting - it reminded him of being an under-washed cadet. Frankly, he didn’t plan on letting it stay long enough to get used to it. 

The sand though...now that was weird. The way it sat between his toes made him squirm, each grain a bolting pinprick against the soles of his feet. When had he last had his boots off? Back on the Venator in the communal fresher, probably. It was a cruel galaxy when that barren room and its clinical racks of scentless soap started to look like a king’s treasury. He dug his feet into the cold, wet sludge, shivering in disgusted delight as the beach swallowed them whole. 

“Hardcase!” 

He looked towards the bellowing figure stumbling up the sand towards him, squinting as the sun hit their upturned face. Then he barked a laugh of surprise at the edge of the Republic cog he found there. 

“ Jesse? Kriff, vod, barely recognised you.” 

It was the first time he’d seen his flesh face in weeks, aside from in hurried moments allocated for gulping down rations. Jesse’s hair had grown in thick and black, much to the consternation of several brothers who were offended he could grow a moustache like that and still chose not to. Right now, he reached up to scratch the offending hair on his cheeks and scowled. 

“S’rich comin’ from you. What is that slug on your face?”

Hardcase winced. His own unwilling hair cultivation very much proved that clones were not all made equal. 

“It’s a casualty,” he said, feeling the short, patchy bristles on his upper lip. His trainer had always promised it would settle as he came out of puberty. That had been a lie. Hardcase blamed it on the crack in his growth jar, like he did most minor physical inconveniences. “This is why I don’t bother with the stuff.”

Jesse nodded, turning away to rummage through the packs strewn over the sand. “It just won’t stop itchin’.”

“You’re telling me.” Hardcase groaned. “You didn’t get woken up last night because your hair tickled the back of your neck and made you think you were bein’ jumped.”

Jesse snorted, straightening back up with his meagre GAR-standard microfibre towel in hand and a ration bar hanging from his mouth. 

“Was that what that was about?” he asked, voice muffled. “We thought we could hear you squirmin’.”

Hardcase kicked lightly at Jesse’s ankle. “Real nice of you to not even ask if I was alright.” 

Jesse broke off the ration bar and smirked round his mouthful. 

“‘Case, it’s when you go quiet that we start asking questions.”

Hardcase shoved him. Jesse went down with a yelp and a curse, his towel catching under his ass and the loose end flapping like a banner in the wind. Hardcase bellowed a laugh, kicking sand towards him. It was a fatal mistake. 

Jesse caught him by the ankle and yanked him down too. He landed on his stomach, still laughing as the wind knocked out of him, and scrambled forward with abandon, yelping with shock as water seeped cold and heavy into his greys. He wasn’t fast enough. A leg slung heavy over Hardcase’s ankles, pinning him, and then Jesse’s weight was pressing down on his back, forcing his face towards the wet sand. 

“Get off, you kriffin’ shabiir,” he laughed, groaning as Jesse adjusted his weight and squashed the air out of his lungs.

“I’m not the one startin’ fights they can’t finish,” Jesse retorted, his voice light. 

“Who said I was finished?” Hardcase shot back, going limp and then bucking hard. Jesse swore, losing his grip, and then they were scrabbling again, a tangle of limbs and righteous yelling. 

The fight ended with them lying side by side on their backs, both covered in muck. Hardcase was sure he had sand in his crotch. The sun was still blazing on the horizon, lower now, deepening from yellow to dark, hazy red. It gleamed like fire on the water, like copper on the sand. This world was so reluctant to let the light go, eking out the daylight drop by drop. An errant touch to his thigh made him look over. Jesse was rummaging around underneath himself, grumbling about something digging into his back.

“You think we’ll get to stay here long?” Hardcase asked eventually.

“Aw, hell,” Jesse said, pulling the squashed, sandy remains of his ration bar from underneath him. “This was my last flavoured one. What’d you say?” 

“D’you think we’ll stay long?”

Jesse hummed, flinging the ration bar away up the beach. A gull immediately swooped down to snatch it. “Here? Don’t think so. Heard Rex talking to the General, lots still to do before we can get off this rock.” 

Hardcase sighed, letting the disappointment wash over him quietly. He shut his eyes again, just listening for a moment, committing the sounds of the sea to memory. It wouldn’t be goodbye. He’d come back to this place, one day. He’d make sure of it.

“So,” he said, cutting himself off before the longing could get too strong. “We gonna shave or what?”

Jesse scoffed. “What? Now?”

Hardcase shrugged. “Why not? We leave here, we’re gonna be back on water rations, right? You really want that nest growin’ for however the fuck long?”

Jesse sighed. “Course I don’t. But what the hell’re we gonna shave with? You didn’t bring your razor, did you?” 

“Not a chance,” Hardcase said. That was only a mistake shinies made. 

It wasn’t so bad if you lost one of the Kamino issue ones - those were about as blunt as a butter knife. Better to grow hair on campaign and hack it off later than lose one you’d bartered. He still mourned the first he’d ever owned - he’d never seen another with the same quality Corellian steel, and Uppercut had been so smug to win it over sabaac. Gracious enough to let him keep using it though. Some of Hardcase’s best memories were in front of fresher mirrors with him, taking it in turns and helping catch any stray hairs, paying each other in gossip for their trouble. He still hadn’t forgiven that bastard for dying. The first time he’d had to shave after had left him curled over the sink, his head half lathered and his whole body shaking, so on their next planetfall he’d taken the razor with him and buried it in the nicest spot he could find. 

Uppercut had always preferred cities to trees, but Hardcase hoped that, wherever he was, he’d appreciated the effort all the same.

“I do have a vibroblade, though,” he carried on brightly, grinning at the way Jesse’s expression fell.

“Absolutely not.”

“Aw, come on. It won’t be that bad.”

Jesse pushed up on his elbows, his face scrunched. “If you think I’m gonna let you dry shave my head with a dagger, ‘Case, you’re more stupid than you look. I want a haircut, not a head cut.” 

Hardcase rolled his eyes. “Who said anything about dry shaving? I’ve got soap.”

Jesse paused. “You’ve had soap this whole time? Here? ”

“What can I say, I’m an optimist,” Hardcase said, peeling his back out of the sand. “You in or not?”

Jesse didn’t answer, just stood, grinned, and offered Hardcase a hand.

The light continued to wane as they made their trips up and down the beach, finding a good spot where the shoreline banked a little, and where it would keep the worst of the wind off while Hardcase lathered Jesse’s head. He stuck his tongue out a little as he worked, trying not to get distracted while the frothy water lapped at his ankles. He felt himself loosen as he scraped the vibroblade over his brother’s head, even just the act making him feel more like himself. It relaxed the jittery edge his thoughts always had, dialling down the almost frantic noise that built in combat and then sat under his skin. Usually it took a good spar to bounce it all back out of him, but this had always worked too…it had just been a long time since he’d had anyone else to go through the ritual with.

When it was his turn, he all but melted under the gentle, smooth touch of the vibroblade on his head, the soapy lather chilling quickly on his skin. He hummed, the feeling of the pads of Jesse’s guiding fingers on his chin almost too much sensation after so long under plastoid. He let his mind drift, watching the ocean and listening to Jesse’s mutters and curses as he concentrated.

When they were done and had rinsed in the freezing water, the sun had almost vanished, leaving only a purple after-bruise on the darkened sky. Most of the battalion had settled much further up the beach near the largest sand dunes, so they drifted there and claimed a patch of sand, pulling on their body gloves when the sticky film of drying salt water got too much in the cold night air. After a late meal of ration cubes, and, far more enticing, some dried bantha milk the last villages they’d fortified had gifted them, Hardcase was splayed out on his back again and feeling quite ready to have a nap. 

Jesse was lounging beside him, carefully rehydrating his milk with water from his field flask. Hardcase couldn’t remember the last time they’d had a night like this, where the war had felt so far away.

They turned their heads at several loud hoots, a crash, and a cheer, followed by an angry bellow. He squinted his eyes against the sudden flare of bright light.

Several brothers had constructed a modest bonfire out of driftwood - and, Hardcase suspected, several unlucky clones’ body gloves - and had just tossed over a spare fuel canister, setting the whole thing ablaze in a column of blue flame. The tense figure stalking towards them looked awfully like Appo. 

“D’you think we should help him?” Hardcase murmured, his hands propped comfortably under his head. Plasma always burned fast and hot, and he could already feel it faintly against the side of his freshly exposed head. It was nice; soothing, even. 

Jesse hummed, pushed up on one elbow so that he could sip at his drink. 

“...Nah,” he said slowly, lowering his cup and scrubbing away the blue moustache left behind. He flopped back down with a boneless huff. “Appo’s a big boy. He’s got this.” 

Hardcase turned his head again, in time to see Appo tug futilely at some of the dark fabric being swallowed by flame. He chuckled and shut his eyes, breathing in deep and enjoying the soothing melody of shouting that, for once, was not being directed at him.

“Yeah,” he murmured after a moment, sighing as the heat flared and there were more jubilant whoops. “I think you’re right.”

Chapter Text

Fox clung to the emergency escape ladder on the side of the GAR barracks, 0300 hours closing in around him.

Frankly, the chrono had long ceased meaning something. It could have been two in the afternoon. It could have been 8 in the morning. Fox’s office always looked the same regardless, and so did the lower levels, where nobody seemed to know how to sleep either. At this point he figured he was practically a native. 

Except...he never could quite get used to the dark, to the cramped, damp stench of the back alleys and crawlspaces that riddled Coruscant’s underbelly like wood-worm. His chest always felt that little bit too tight down there, on levels so deep that the comm-relay went patchy. Stone’s claustrophobia was worse, though, so he usually volunteered to lead any raids that required going under.

There hadn’t been any for two months, until today. Fucking spice runners. If there was a bottom to this planet’s moral depravity, Fox had given up hoping they’d ever find it.

He hitched his heel over the side of the barracks building and hauled, his joints protesting as he slid ungracefully onto the roof. Alpha-17 would have beaten his hide had he ever seen such poor form. But Alpha-17 was a very long way away. As things were there was only his own pride to worry about, and he’d stopped being overly concerned about that a long time ago. There were too many little brothers around to have an ego, and too many people to fight for scraps over on their behalf. 

That was perhaps the only other thing he’d inherited from Coruscant that he liked: no shame.

Fox prised himself to his feet, rain drumming off the plates of his armour and sitting in murky pools on top of the rusting durasteel. No doubt Thire would be bitching about it when he arrived. The thought made him smile. 

Coruscant was different when it rained. It made it possible to almost like it. Not like during the artificial summers, when dust storms formed in the hot, dry air tunnels in the lower levels and the stench of the alleys was so thick you could taste it. The city looked too exposed in sunlight, too much like the patched, lumbering beast that it was. A cloner’s nightmare, he’d always thought - stray blocks mashed together and on top of each other into some shambling sort of order. There was no finesse, none of the streamlined, wasteless perfection that Kamino had bartered away its soul for.

Not that he thought Coruscant necessarily had a soul. But it couldn’t be denied that it had something. 

The holocasters called it a monument to a long legacy of intergalactic diversity. Fox called it a testament to hypocrisy, a hollow veneer of glittering expense on top of dereliction. 

Nobody truly knew what went on in the depths of the planet’s underbelly. Nobody really cared - and that, in essence, was the whole problem.

It was impossible to understand how anyone could look at the millions of people crammed, poor and scavenging into the limitless dark, and think the Senate was anything but rotten at the heart. The rain blurred the city’s raw edges, let the buildings bleed into each other, and made the neon lights glow a little warmer. It allowed you to see it the way the dreamers did, if only for a moment; where skyscrapers were credit chips and sidewalks were red ribbons leading you to your destiny. Fox paused on the roof edge for a moment and released his bucket seals, looking out across the skyline before tilting his head towards atmo and shivering as the first drops made contact with his skin. 

Viewed like this, he could almost believe that Coruscant had a heart.

That was how it got you.

“Caf’s getting cold.”

Fox turned his head and gave a lazy salute in the direction the voice had come from. He spared a last, lingering glance for the GAR plaza and the distant hulking shape of the Geonosis monument, before turning his back and vaulting over a protruding stretch of vent piping, pushing away the heavy dread in his gut. Thire was always first there, somehow - had beaten them even that time he’d been on the Chancellor’s protection detail and the Banking Clan representative had filibustered on the senate floor for 12 hours. They’d long since given up trying to work out how he managed it. 

He always made the best caf, and as usual, had a pot of it waiting on the field stove they’d gerryrigged to feed off the building's mains. 

“You know I’m not picky how I drink it,” Fox said, making his way to the squat, crumbling overhang Thire was wedged under, his legs crossed and head in one hand, caf mug in the other. 

They never had figured out what this thing had been, originally. The GAR buildings themselves were old converted warehouses, completed in a hurry and obvious about it. Thorn had asked why the Republic had been so unprepared for them, when they’d ordered them and known they were coming, but Fox found it hard to be surprised that nobody had wanted to make room for the clone army until they had no other choice. 

Still, there were perks. Like this strange, dilapidated little lean to, shaped like one of the public shuttle stop shelters. Whatever it had once been, Fox was grateful. If anyone looked on their trackers all the commanders would be exactly where they were supposed to be, tucked up in the barracks. But if a trooper thought they might follow up on that, they wouldn’t actually be able to find them. 

It was the only place his head felt truly quiet, empty of everything but the indifferent hum of the distant skylanes.

“At least take your fucking boots off,” Thire griped, not even looking up through his fingers as Fox stepped under the welcome shelter of the corrugated roof.

“Too sodding wet,” Fox said, setting down his helmet instead. As it made contact with the duraplast he heard a muffled ping, and instinctively he paused, reaching his hands back out towards it.

“Don’t even think about it,” Thire said, peeking up to glare through the gaps in his fingers.

Fox smiled weakly and reached for his wrist comm instead. 

“Usually, I would listen to you,” he said, ignoring his brother’s dismissive snort. “But I haven’t heard from Cody.”

Cody, who was pinned down at Point Rain in the last chatter from the brass he’d heard. Cody, stuck on Geonosis, the place where clones went to die. Fox had been dreaming in visions of red dust for days, could feel the memory of blistering heat in his lungs. It was times like this that made him feel useless, that made the armour against his skin feel like a lie. What good was he here, the Chancellor's puppet, when out on the war front his little brothers bled and died for the little comforts this place didn't think it could live without?

The silence on the roof immediately changed quality, gaining a tight, alert edge. Thire’s gaze sharpened, his dark eyes glinting through the slit in his fingers.

“You want me to take it?” he asked, quiet, and then when Fox shook his head, nodded and turned to the stove, the clinks and gentle roar of the flame settling against the night. 

Fox swallowed the lump in his throat at the gentle provision of privacy and opened the message, reading it several times before the words sunk in. He read it again for good measure, and then couldn’t stop the laugh that bubbled out of him, or the salt that burned his eyelids.

Thire turned back, a steaming mug of fresh caf in his hands, and passed it over with a grin, that terrible tightness dissipating from his demeanour.

“He’s alright then?”

“Yeah,” Fox said, sliding down the wall with both hands wrapped around the mug, then thunking his head back against the brickwork. He laughed again, his breath streaming up around his face. “Lucky bastard.”

“I’ll drink to that,” Thire said, clinking their mugs together and resting one closed fist against the side of Fox’s thigh plate. It was a comfortable weight, one that kept him grounded as a layer of crushing worry stripped away, leaving only exhaustion behind.

When his mug was empty and his belly was warm, Fox shuffled a packet of cigs out of his utility belt and flipped open the top, running his nails across the tightly rolled tubes. A present from Bly on his last shore leave, some swanky brand of tobacco that tasted cleaner, sharper than the cheap shit available on a trooper’s meagre ration packet. 

Thire made a funny sighing sound, and Fox rolled his head towards him, a smirk colouring his lips. 

“Come on, I deserve it.”

“You always say that,” Thire grumbled, but still lit the cig on the stove for him and passed it back.

Fox took a long, savouring drag, held it, then blew out the smoke, relaxing further at the way the sharp smoke contrasted with the smell of the damp air. 

“That’s because it’s always true,” he said, then dodged the elbow Thire threw towards him. “Long shift?”

“The fucking worst.”

Fox watched as Thire refilled his caf cup, taking in the slant of his mouth, the limp curl to his hair. He’d been on prison duty the last tenday, in one of the rowdiest cell blocks. Fox found it difficult not to worry about how hard Thire took the bad days, how personally the punches landed. He’d still not settled into ranking at Commander, still mentally stuck in the rat-race of the lower echelons and the need to distinguish oneself, whether that be through marks, appearance or notoriety. He reminded Fox of himself so strongly sometimes that it hurt.

“You wanna talk about it?” he asked, tapping away the ash on his cig end and knowing the offer was useless. 

Thire grinned, crooked, flash-fire warmth lighting up his eyes and for one brief moment reinstating the boyhood he’d never properly gotten to enjoy. “Nah. Same shit, different day, right?”

“Ain’t that the truth,” came a call from behind them, followed by sharp footsteps and skittering debris. “Smoking that shit’ll kill you, you know?”

Before Fox could even protest, the cigarette was out of his hands. Thorn examined it, shrugged, and took a drag.

“Where the heck did you get this? Tastes whack,” he said, dumping his helmet off to the side and nudging Fox with his boot toe. “Budge up.”

Fox rolled his eyes, kicked him back, and reached for the packet again.

“Give it back if you don’t want it.”

“Never said that,” Thorn said, landing heavily with a groan. He pulled in another drag and tilted his head. “Yep, I’m used to it.”

“Stone on his way?” Fox asked, lighting his new cigarette and leaning out of the way as Thorn discarded armour in his usual theatrical, busy pantomime. 

“Yeah,” he said, cig hanging between his teeth as he wrestled first with one vambrace and then the other. “Told me to pass on that you can go fuck yourself for leaving him with that report on seized slug slime aphrodisiac shipments.”

Fox smirked again and crossed his arms, settling in to wait in anticipation for the tongue lashing he’d get when Stone finally showed his face. Cody was fine, the rain was falling, and his Commanders were gathered around him.

For this moment, at least, everything was as it should be.

Chapter Text

“Uh...do you guys hear something?”

Wolffe pushed up from where he’d been lying on his stomach, face mashed into his pillow. He cracked his eyes open to glare at Bly.

“Only you and your big mouth,” He grunted, voice rough and groggy. “You gettin’ twitchy, trigger finger?”

Bly was sitting with his legs dangling off the edge of the opposite pod, so Wolffe got a good look at the way his face fell. He refused to feel bad about it. Not when he had fresh bruising coming up purple across his ribs and the shouting of their drill Sergeant still ringing in his ears. Bly sniffed, his eyes going big and round. Wolffe snorted. That tactic had stopped working before they’d even enrolled as cadets.

“I said I was sorry,” Bly muttered, pouting and reaching across to kick Wolffe’s pod when the threat of tears didn’t get him anywhere.

That was an old trick too. Wolffe shot his hand out and grabbed the errant ankle, pulling hard and laughing when Bly shrieked and had to twist to cling on to his bed.

Below them there was a loud groan and an ominous creak.

“Will you guys knock it off?” 

 Wolffe froze, but was too late to avoid the blunt force that slammed into his lower back. The air shoved out of his lungs, and he dropped Bly’s foot in favour of curling over.

“Kark it, Fil,” he coughed. “You kick like a rancor.”

Fil grunted then jabbed his toes into the small of Wolffe’s back again for good measure.

“You’re ruining nap time,” he said, voice muffled. “We’re supposed to be resting .”

Wolffe scoffed and uncurled slowly, sticking his tongue out at Bly, who had scrambled back onto his own bed and was looking smug.

“Nap time’s for tubies.”

Fil stabbed viciously at the mattress again.

“Yeah,” he said. “And I wouldn’t need it if you and Blitz hadn’t been so kriffing loud last night.”

Wolffe froze and scowled. He’d told Blitz he was making too much noise, but their brother wouldn’t know the meaning of quiet if it punched him in the bucket. They kept failing stealth simulations because he either didn’t know or didn’t care what the difference between a popper and a detonator was, and for all Wolffe’s efforts, he carried over the same attitude to conversation, too.

Bly brightened. “I heard that too, what were you doing?”

Wolffe scowled even more, feeling his shoulders bunch up to his ears. “ Nothing .”

He hadn’t pulled off a lie in his life, but that wasn’t going to stop him from trying. It was better than the alternative of actually admitting that they’d stolen one of the practice droids and been trying to programme it to go for the trainers instead. If his brothers got wind of things, there was no way that Fil wouldn’t sell them out to kiss ass, and Bly just couldn’t keep his mouth shut.

Cody...well, Wolffe never quite knew where he stood about these things. Sometimes he’d veto ideas entirely, the downturn of his mouth a deathknell to even the best laid plans. Wolffe knew when he was beaten. But on better occasions Cody would get a special glint in his eye, one that always reminded him of light bouncing off a blaster barrel, and suggest something that would magnify the chaos instead. He had the best sabaac face of them all, so it was always better to have him on side. 

Wolffe had spent many hours trying to figure out what cast the odds of getting Cody to loosen up a bit. Until he knew for definite, it was imperative he kept this one under his bucket. He felt good about the plan; Blitz had done a real number on the wiring, so the job looked seamless. But they’d need the whole squad to pitch in if they were gonna get it to work. He wanted to make sure this thing was airtight before he pitched it.

“Why don’t you pull your pod closed if you’re so tired?” He asked, sticking his head over the edge of his own to glare at Fil properly. He got a glimpse of Fil’s pillow-creased face before a socked foot shot towards his face. “ Hey.” 

“You’re deflecting, vod,” Fil grunted. 

“ Vod ?” Wolffe scoffed, scrubbing his sore cheek. He wrinkled his nose. “The hell’re you tryin’ to talk like one of those Alpha ARCs for? Hopin’ they’ll adopt you if you ask nicely?”

There was a short silence, long enough that Wolffe chanced another peek over the edge. Fil’s ears had flushed dark, his expression mulish. Wolffe scented weakness and grinned.

“Bet they’d be nicer to me than you are,” Fil said, the furrow between his brows deepening.

Wolffe snorted. “The Alphas aren’t nice to nobody, ‘ specially not scrawny regs like you .” 

“That’s not true!” Fil’s voice was shrill. 

As Wolffe opened his mouth to reply, Bly made a sharp sound of warning that he was too caught up in amusement to heed.  

“The Alpha class get to break the rules , Fil. You just kiss the manual.”

There was ringing silence from the bunk below, instead of the sharp quip that Wolffe had expected. For a second, the only sound was the harsh burr of Blitz snoring on the next level up. He glanced automatically at Bly, who scrunched his face and cut his hand in a line across his throat. 

Then Wolffe heard a distinct sniffle, his stomach dropping. He scrambled back to the edge of the bunk and stuck his whole head over the edge, something cold and awful spreading inside him, extinguishing his humour in an instant.

“Hey, are you crying?” 

“ No, ” Fil said, wetly, struggling to turn over and hide his face. His breath hitched so hard Wolffe could see his ribs jump.

Kark it. He’d done it again. Pushed too hard and put his great big foot in it. It felt like he’d come out of the tube wrong sometimes, like there was simultaneously too much of him and not enough of the good bits. He’d made Gree cry the other day, too, had pulled just a little too hard when they were sparring and then suddenly found himself trying to calm him down before the trainer noticed. He was always doing that; barrelling straight over the line and not realising until it was dust behind him.

It made him good at simulations. He didn’t think it made him a very good brother. 

He twisted his hands together and looked beseechingly towards Bly, who fixed him with an unimpressed glare and gestured at the lower bunk. 

The message was clear: Go fix it . For a moment, he was tempted to just retract his pod, but...that would be cowardly. And if he didn’t make things up now, Cody or Blitz would force him to later. Probably from a headlock.

He sighed and dutifully clambered down a level until he was hanging off the ladder by Fil’s head. He was still curled up and sniffling, but with a stiff sort of awareness that told Wolffe he was fully alert and primed to start swinging if he didn’t get this right. They always had to be ready to turn tears into anger, to prove that you weren’t someone too weak to leave behind. 

“You can say vod if you wanna,” he began, cringing at the way the words sounded coming out of his mouth. 

Fil snorted and didn’t turn to look at him.

Wolffe took a deep breath. “S-just… why ?”

Fil shuffled. “What?” 

“Why do you wanna talk like them? They don’t do nothin’ for us.” 

Wolffe didn’t know how true it was, but he’d heard that all 100 of the Alpha class were still kicking. Alphas didn’t get sent to reconditioning if their scores dipped, didn’t just disappear . And the trainers even called them by their names. 

Wolffe might have respected that more if it had ever trickled down to the rest of them. He’d always be a plain old CC until the day he died and there was nothing anyone could do about that, no matter who he spoke like. 

Fil finally rolled over, displaying a damp tear streaked face. He scowled at Wolffe. 

“I dunno. It’s not even about them,” he bit out. Wolffe saw the way his shoulders hunched and thought lie . He only just managed to restrain himself from sinking his teeth into it and let go. “I just…they say it like they’re part of somethin’.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“They say it like they’re something…more, I guess,” Fil shrugged, swiping a sleeve under his nose. 

“More than us , you mean,” Wolffe said. He’d been aiming for outrage, but was surprised by the meek little voice that came out of him. 

Fil had been watching the Alphas for a while. Lots of cadets did. Wolffe could understand wanting better for yourself - hell, he wasn’t exempt from that - but seeing that dream in another clone classification felt a lot like wishing yourself away. Like wishing your brothers away, too. 

“If you want another squad just say it,” he muttered, through a throat so tight it hurt. He’d been bunked with this squad since their second cycle - practically batchmates, since none of their original ones had made the cut. That was a long time in the projected shelf life of a clone. Despite his better judgement, he liked them most of the time.

Fil made an exasperated noise. “That’s not what I -” 

Above their heads, there was a clang, then a thump. Wolffe shot to attention, but didn’t anticipate Fil doing the same. Their shoulders collided, nearly pitching him off the narrow bunk entirely had Fil’s hand not caught the back of his collar.

“I told you I heard something,” Bly hissed. 

The huge ventilation tunnel spanning the length of their dormitory ceiling shuddered again, creaking as it swayed ominously. There was the echoing thud of a foot connecting to the inner wall.

Wolffe snorted. 

“It’s just some of the tubies sneaking out,” he said, sinking back to lean against Fil’s pillow. 

“Badly,” Bly said. “Have they got a full set of armour on or what?”

Fil was frowning, still craning his head upwards.

“Where the hell are they going?” He muttered, tracking the tunnel to where it disappeared into the far wall. “The only thing that way is the shower block.”

There was another clang, before the maintenance hatch for their dormitory popped open. A small body wriggled out, before swinging to grab the surface of the nearest pod on the uppermost level.

Wolffe studied the cadet that had just dropped into their midst. The gangly, colt-like limbs on 'em made him wince. With legs like that he was either approaching a stint in the growth acceleration chamber or had just come out of one. Wolffe pitied him regardless. Judging by his height and the extra fat he still had in his cheeks, he was probably only a cycle behind them. Most interesting was the shock of pale blond curls in disarray as the cadet nimbly scaled the pod latches on the wall opposite and landed on the floor. 

He’d only seen a few mutations before, and none so dramatic as this. No wonder the poor kid had learned how to sneak around - you certainly wouldn’t miss him in a crowd.

“Uh, you lost?” he asked, coughing out a laugh at the way it made the cadet jump and wheel around. He caught a glimpse of the usual big brown eyes, a pair of eyebrows drawn together over them. There was a tight, resolute downturn to the curve of their mouth, a ready wariness in the hunched line of their shoulders.

“ No.” They said, gaze flicking rapidly between each member of their rapt audience. Wolffe stifled another laugh at the squeaky pitch of their voice - it was hard to imagine they’d ever sounded like that. “I have an appointment.”

“An appointment ?” Bly didn’t even try to hide his amusement. “Nobody ever told me this was an office. Who’re you booked in with, kid?”

The cadet kept his back to the wall, and Wolffe didn’t miss the way he catalogued the door, or scoped out possible routes back to the maintenance hatch. His shoulders hadn’t relaxed down from around his ears yet, his hands tight fists at his sides. Wolffe had to admit, he didn’t know if he’d be able to go uninvited into another squad’s dorm with any more swagger. There was something scrappy about this kid - an unpredictable mixture of fight or flight where either impulse might win.

“You’re Cody’s new pet, aren’t you?” Fil said suddenly. “The one he keeps trying to socialize.”

That rang a bell. Cody had been ranting about this new cadet he’d found in the detention laps for the last two weeks, convinced the kid was either going to commit a murder or become the victim of one if someone didn’t do something about it. Wolffe had wanted to question why that someone had to be Cody, but there was no point wasting the breath - Cody was a sucker for charity cases. It was why he was the best of them, unilaterally deferred to when the chips were down. There weren’t many people in this army who you knew would always come back for you, squad or not. Maybe it was because their whole squad had been strays, once. While the choice to be together had never been theirs, the choice to become a unit had. Cody had taken that mentality and run with it.

The cadet brightened a little bit, in a desperately hopeful way that was kind of disgusting. “Is he here?”

Instead of answering, Bly tilted his head, studying the new arrival with rapt attention. “Wow, I thought he was making you up.”

Wolffe wrinkled his nose. “Why would he do that?”

Bly shrugged. “I don’t know, I figured it was just a polite way of telling us to kriff off.”

Wolffe stared at his brother in naked disbelief. “Cody’s never been polite in his life.”

“And he told you to kriff off to your face this morning,” Blitz said, poking his head over the edge of his pod. “I heard him. What are we talking about?”

“Cody’s new passion project,” Wolffe told him. “Apparently they have an ‘appointment’ together.”

The cadet’s expression had been slowly softening into crestfallen the longer none of the other pods popped open, but the moment Wolffe spoke a spark of anger lit again, his teeth coming out.

“My designation is CT-7567,” he snapped. “Cody was going to take me to watch the aiwhas.”

Wolffe caught Bly’s eye - the lack of a name spoke volumes. Either this cadet was so far in the shit he was on performance rotation and didn’t have a set squad of his own, which was practically having one foot over the threshold of the decommissioning bay, or his relationship with his squad was the thing on the rocks. Neither prospect had a long lifespan attached to it.

“He got pulled back by our trainer,” Blitz said, taking pity on the kid. He ran his hands through his sleep-mussed hair and yawned until his jaw cracked.

“Is he okay?” ‘67 asked.

Fil rolled his eyes. “Yeah, he’s fine. Just doesn’t study hard enough for his galactic history modules.”

‘67 folded his hands into his sleeves, scrunching and relaxing the material over and over again. His eyes drifted back towards the maintenance hatch. He was going to try to run, Wolffe realised. 

He turned to look properly at Fil, gesturing just the slightest bit towards the kid. It had been a long time since they’d gone aiwha-watching, but it had been their favourite thing to do a few cycles back. They only really swarmed when it was storming, the danger of navigating the slick rooftops worth it for the way the pods drifted lazily on the huge waves and rolled to let the pelting rain tickle their undersides.

Cody had never taken anyone out there, of all the miserable tagalongs he’d acquired over the years. More than anything else, it sealed Wolffe’s decision - whether they liked it or not, 7567 was here for the long haul. 

Fil rolled his eyes, but he was almost smiling.

“Sure, been a while since we snuck out,” Bly shrugged, catching the silent conversation. 

“Hell yeah,” Blitz said. “Where are we going?” 

7567 had gone very still, like he was stood in the crosshairs of a KiSteer rifle. 

“To see the aiwhas, idiot,” Wolffe scoffed. “It’s not the kid’s fault that Cody’s late.” 

“Hell yeah, ” Blitz said again, stretching until his spine popped. “I’ve got a theory, do you think if I -” 

“ No, ” Wolffe said forcefully, in unison with Fil and Bly. Almost as long as he’d been out of his tube, Blitz had been trying to find a way to ride the aiwhas like the longnecks did. They’d been finding ways to stop him for just slightly less time than that. 

“Aw, you guys are no fun,” Blitz muttered, but there was no heat in it. He’d swung himself onto the ladder and made it most of the way towards the floor before 7567 found his voice again.

“Why would you do that?” he asked, voice brittle. He was still frozen, eyes darting between them. Distrust was the winning emotion on his face, but there was that unwilling edge of hope again, that even the experience of having a mutation on Kamino hadn’t managed to smother. Wolffe had said it before, he’d say it again: disgusting. He could entirely see why Cody was ready to put his commendations on the line for this little brat.

“Because if you’re one of Cody’s, you’re one of ours,” he shrugged, clambering past Fil to slide down the ladder. He popped open their wet weather locker and yanked out two of the coats inside. He threw one at ‘67. “That’s how squad works. Now suit up.”

They didn’t take ‘67 back through the ventilation shaft - a cycle ago they would have, but in the months that had lapsed since they’d last tried, they’d grown too much for it to be comfortable. They used the maintenance halls instead. Less secure, maybe, but they were on good terms with old ‘99, who in turn kept the droid fleet sweet, so they were unlikely to be ratted out by anyone.

“You don’t have to creep around like that, kid,” Bly was saying to him, as they cleared the stretch underneath training hall 3.

‘67 looked like he might bite. “Don’t call me kid . I’m barely younger than you.”

Wolffe stifled a laugh. He wanted to hold the cadet up by his ankles and shake him around until he really fought back, just to see what would happen. There would be time for that, though, once he stopped believing it was really a matter of life and death and loosened up a bit.

“Gotta find yourself a name, if you don’t want kid to stick,” Fil told him, flanking his other side. “Some clones in our cycle have got some real unfortunate ones cause they weren’t quick enough.”

‘67’s scowl deepened into something more hurt than mad. “No chance of that. My squad won’t even give me a stupid one.”

Wolffe felt that funny wrench in his chest again. Was that what the younger squads were doing? Only taking names when they’d passed group consensus? More proof that a single cycle between clones could be akin to an ocean. 

“So pick your own,” he heard himself say. 

“What?” ‘67 asked, looking at him like he’d grown a second head.

“Pick your own,” he repeated. “Don’t let ‘em have that over you.”

“You can do that?” ‘67 sounded deeply sceptical.

“Course you can,” Blitz said. “I wasn’t going to let any of these idiots pick for me.”

Wolffe laughed. “Yeah, we’d have ended up as Idiots One, Two, Three and Four.”

“I’d have been Idiot One,” Bly told ‘67, grinning.

“Like hell you would,” Fil retorted. “ I’d have been Idiot One.”

‘67’s voice was flat. “Aren’t there five of you?”

Bly’s grin grew wider. “Yeah, but Cody would have been Big Idiot.”

Their laughter carried them until they were out on the rooftop, when they had to start concentrating to stop themselves getting blown off into the oblivion of Kamino’s oceans. Wolffe went first - he was one of the surest on his feet, and he’d been out here the most often. It took a little longer on this new route, but he figured his way to their usual spot easily enough, where the wind was a little less brutal with the facility fully at their backs. The views out over the long, desolate horizon were best here too, letting you see the huge tidal waves roll in.

“I don’t see anything,” ‘67 muttered, casting a hand over his forehead like keeping the rain out might help him see better.

“Just give it a minute,” Bly said, tracking the rolling water and the loud, slamming booms as each wave hit the platform stilts all those meters below. “Aiwhas like the massive ones, lets ‘em really surf.”

“Got a platform beater coming!” Blitz shouted, gesturing. “Look at the crest on that!”

“I see them, I see them!” ‘67 cried, flapping his hand in the same direction. Sure enough, as the wave swelled, there was the low, carrying croon of an aiwha pod, before their great, grey bodies came shooting out of the frothy wave head, first five, then ten, their huge wings beating lazily to help them keep pace with the waterline. 

The pod leader, a huge, grizzled thing with chunks out of its wings, bellowed and rolled as the wave started its downward trajectory, spinning once, twice, before tucking everything in tight and bombing back into the water, the rest of the pod following. The resulting spray was so fierce Wolffe barely had time to get his hand over his face before it got them.

‘67 was shrieking with laughter, a huge smile splitting his face from side to side. “That was amazing !” 

A looming shadow fell behind them. They all froze.

“What the heck is this?” 

Everyone apart from ‘67 relaxed.

“Hey, Cody,” Bly said, giving him a lazy two-fingered salute. “We thought we’d take your cadet for a walk.”

“That’s my vod’ika, get your own,” Cody growled.

Wolffe groaned. “Not you, too. Why can’t we make up our own word?” 

“Do you like karkhead better?” Cody asked. He was still in his training armor, and looked mad as hell about it. He’d clearly hightailed it straight from his remedial to the dorms and then come here directly when he’d found it empty. Wolffe might have felt bad about his panic had it not been clearly rooted in Cody not trusting what they’d done with ‘67 in his absence.

“That’s not very nice, ‘67 has a perfectly fine head,” he retorted, dodging the kick that quickly followed.

“I meant for you ,” Cody said, eyes raking over ‘67. When he was satisfied that his squad hadn’t managed to break him, he sniffed. “Have I missed many?”

“Just the best pod dive we’ve ever seen in our lives,” Bly crowed.

Cody made the mistake of trying to kick for a second time; Bly bypassed the foot and latched around his thigh, and they both went down with shouts and lots of scuffling, clearing out Blitz as collateral.

‘67 stood in the middle of the chaos looking thoroughly bewildered.

“Shouldn’t we stop them?” He asked Fil in a small voice, one arm coming up to wrap round his stomach. “I - I don’t want ‘em to fight cause of me.” 

Fil grinned. “This isn’t fighting, kid. C’mere.”

And to Wolffe’s surprise, ‘67 came, scooting to fit into the small space between him and Fil, where he’d clearly figured out the best warmth would be.

 Fil turned to look at Wolffe over ‘67’s blond head, satisfaction on his face.

“This is why I call you vod , you know,” he said, gesturing back at where their squadmates were tussling in a puddle. “When I said it made me feel part of something, I meant that when I say it, it feels like this. I don’t want a new squad.”

And standing there in the rain, wet through despite his gear and cold to the bone, with his idiot brothers and their strange new tagalong, Wolffe could almost get it.

“Good,” he said, then turned back to the ocean. There was a new wave coming in.