✨Fordo Day on December 15✨

Six months after the end of the war, and the world can't seem to remember what it was like, the blaster-fire and the rubble and the corpses left rotten on their soils.

Isn't it too fast?

(Isn't it too pointless?)

Fordo barely knows what to do without war. Without his DC-17s, without his soldiers, without his armour. The constant thrum of the ships, the constant noise of his brothers.

In this seemingly-new galaxy, very few of them remained in the military. Many had chosen to help out the Jedi and their post-war operations, and just as many had chosen to travel the stars to try and find their place between them. Some had chosen to try and live the civilian life, and he keeps wondering how any of his vod'e can handle it.

The lack of action. The lack of fighting, of training, of objectives.

Fordo wakes up every day at dawn and he doesn't know why.

Walking through the streets of Naboo, the question lingers. Under gentle sunlight, accompanied by a slight breeze, the sound of unaligned steps distorts reality from how he's always known it.

He came here because of Vinc, Sync and Frere; because he wanted to make sure the last of his troopers settled well into the bizarre peace they survived onto.

He doesn't know why he stays, but his feet remain on Naboo, and never get on any spaceship that would leave him far, far away from this idyllic place that feels more of a mirage than anything else.

He drifts. Fordo—knows all the vocabulary necessary, knows all the words in the dictionary.

He doesn't know how to express himself. How he strays, how confused he is, and how day after day the sensation only grows.

Nobody has ever held Fordo's hand.

Somehow, it still feels like fingers have slipped through his, the direction he'd always been pulled forward suddenly gone without any other order to follow.

"Oh, you're one of those clone boys, aren't you?" The vendor of the market stall asks, affable and cheerful. "Take more, take more! I heard you burn through food faster than most."

Fordo nods—as an acknowledgement, because he certainly doesn't put more food in his basket—and keeps examining the fruit.

"Not too talkative, I see."

No, not really. Frere's the one who likes conversations. Sync, too, when it's about topics that really interest her.

"Well, at least you have good taste. Muja's are the best seasonal fruit, aren't they? They're my niece's favourite, too." Fordo cuts through the sentence by giving them the basket with fruit to weight. "Oh, that'll be some credits, alright. You boys sure are good for business!"

It's for four clones. Of course it's far more than an ordinary humanoid would eat. Fordo would judge them for not remembering, except he also cannot get used to buying things and surely one of those is more embarrassing than the other, considering he still forgets to grab credits from time to time.

"Thank you."

The words barely get out. His voice unused, raspy and unpracticed. Inactivity has more side-effects than just relaxation and the crawling of ants beneath his skin.

"Of course, good sir! I hope to see you again soon!"

The mujas are for Vinc, since they're trying out baking and put them in the grocery list with five exclamation points and a smiley face. Fordo can't remember ever trying them out, but one of those sugary drinks he likes is apparently muja-flavoured, so they can't be that bad.

Maybe because they're seasonal fruits, he's not gotten the chance to try them yet. Or for Vinc to insist on them. He's the only reason Fordo has tried out any other food, after all.

The walk back to the apartment is as tedious as the rest of the grocery shopping. The added weight of the bags is nothing, but the sun and the people and the sky are unbearable.

He still isn't used to the sound his shoes make. He misses the weight of his armour.

How does anyone live like this, without any white cuirass between the world and their soft flesh? How do people live, when they can sit back or run or walk at any pace, without bothering to be uniform and ready for the next order?

How can anyone live at all?

"Mreow."

Fordo stops.

Looks.

It's a tooka.

"Mreow."

It's mangy and dirty and missing chunks of fur. It's ugly, and red-stained, and the mewls that come out are strident and tone-deaf.

Fordo takes a muja from his basket and drops it to the floor.

The tooka pokes it, and pokes it again, and looks at him and: "Mreow."

Maybe it's dumb.

"It's for you." Fordo points out. Uselessly. "Eat it."

The tooka doesn't eat it. So Fordo crouches down, and grabs the muja fruit, and extends his hand. The tooka stares, and it could've been seconds or it could've been minutes, but it meows again at him before eating it, and a purr stutters from their throat.

Fordo wonders if that's how his voice sounds to the vendors of the market. Tired. Half-used, and a little bit hopeless.

He pats the tooka's head. For some reason—probably the muja—it lets him do it.

Have his hands ever been so gentle? Have they ever felt fur, without gloves to null the sensation?

… Can they ever do it again?

But, once more: "Mreow."

He pets the tooka some more, and stands up. Maybe some other day the tooka will be here, too, and it will let him pet it more.

(Somehow, the feeling of his armour cracking fills his senses.)

When Fordo steps away, the tooka follows.

When Fordo keeps going, the tooka follows.

When Fordo stops, he wonders why such a beaten-down animal would follow a beaten-down clone.

More muja, perhaps.

And then the tooka yowls, and jumps to his chest, claws digging sharply into his clothes. It settles, Fordo's arms curling around it clumsily, and looks at him eye-to-eye and yowls again.

And yowls, and yowls, and yowls.

It breaks the peace of the Naboonian streets.

Fordo doesn't think he's ever heard anyone scream with such offense on it since Boba was a toddler—in some training room or the other, demanding attention from Prime and waking up every clone in residence over a 50 mile ratio.

He wonders what he should do in this situation, if he should put it down and forget about it, but his hand still tingles from the warmth underneath it and somewhere inside, he thinks he should be screaming, too.

So he keeps going.

The tooka yowls and sounds like it's reliving the deaths of all its seven lives. It doesn't calm down, for all that it scratches Fordo's chest and Fordo's clothes and Fordo's dignity. It reminds him of the battlefields, if only a little bit.

It's probably going to scratch all the furniture of their apartment, and Sync won't like the intrusion without warning. He'll have to buy it food, and remember to do it consistently, if it really wants to stay with him at all. Give it a bath. A bed? Maybe a toy or two.

Nearing the building, it still hasn't let go.

"I think I'll call you Muja."

Muja yowls even louder.

But it's fine.