lepidopoda

His spine goes rigid even before he turns. The tone hits some buried neural pathway before the words themselves register.

An infantry clone stands there. He is older now, broader too. A red pauldron on his shoulder stands out against the white armor. Graft’s gaze catches on the man’s face. He notices a flicker of recognition in clone’s eyes as they track up to the scar across Graft’s forehead.

“Kriff… that is you! Haven’t seen you since Kamino!”

In the next seconds Graft’s mind produces three parallel responses:

Logical one: identify the trooper, then assess his relevance to the pending mission. Provide neutral acknowledgment if necessary.

Physiological one: try to ignore unbearable tightness in the chest and the faint pressure behind the eyes.

Mnemonic one: get a vivid mental image of metal lockers, hands on his shoulders, the moment before impact.

None of these responses align, so he just defaults to the safest possible script:

“You require something, trooper?”

The other clone huffs a small laugh. 

“Still got a beam up your ass, huh? It’s me, Bitter.” A pause. “Your…batch?”

Graft processes the information, but it doesn’t create any emotion he can label. Instead, it creates noise. Static.

Bitter’s expression shifts: a mix of awkwardness and… guilt? That part Graft doesn’t know what to do with.

“Listen… uh. About back then. Uhm. We were stupid kids, we just didn’t know any better.” His eyes flick to the scar again. “No one taught us how to, you know… Didn’t expect you to end up… like this.”

Graft’s jaw tightens a millimeter, the kind of movement you notice only if you know what you are looking for. His internal processes spike: is he referencing the incident? Is this a threat? Is this an attempt at reconciliation? What is the correct protocol of action here? Why is he still looking at the scar? Why does my chest feel constricted?

He settles on the only truth he knows:

“The past is not operationally relevant.”

Bitter winces at his delivery. 

“Yeah, yeah.... Right. Sure. Still… you didn’t deserve-” He stops, looks away at a passing trooper. “We should’ve treated you like a brother.”

Graft doesn’t understand what he’s supposed to feel, but something in him objects. A small, sharp flicker of… irritation?

He speaks softly, evenly, the kind of voice he uses when interrogating an especially hostile suspect:

“Incorrect. I did not fulfill the behavioral pattern expected of a brother. Your actions attempted to correct deviation.”

Bitter stares at him, horrified.

“That’s not- we weren’t!” He swallows. “You think that was correction?!”

Graft stands perfectly still. He doesn’t feel defensive or angry. He simply doesn’t understand why the conversation is happening in the first place.

“It is irrelevant. You are dismissed, trooper.”

Bitter opens his mouth, maybe to apologize again, maybe to explain, but nothing really comes out. He gives a stiff nod instead and walks off, slow at first, then faster, as if trying to escape the hallway. Graft remains.