We're Code 10 blasting Danger Zone!

Insight is rarely one of those brilliant aha moments where you're suddenly confronted with a completely new perspective. Only in exceptional cases do you facepalm and, depending on the nature of the insight, let out a sound of triumph or shame. No. More often than not, it's a rather gradual process that begins in a seemingly insignificant situation. A situation in which you're unaware that it will turn your life upside down. And even if you can't quite remember that one moment later... the subconscious keeps working. Relentlessly. And at the end of the process, you inevitably ask yourself how, in hindsight, you could ever have felt, thought, or considered anything different than what you now believe. And how the heck you actually got from there to this point right now.

For IC-1262, Clone Commander Scorch, that process started in 18 BBY, on a sleazy space station in the Ojoster Sector, while he was running errands.

“And why should I accommodate you in this matter, clone?” The down-and-out Corellian gave Scorch a crooked smile across the table, revealing a row of yellow, rotten teeth. His bodyguard beside him, a grumpy-looking Devaronian, remained impassive, staring blankly at the wall behind Scorch.

‘Because I’m a fucking commando, you jerky dumbshit, and all I’d have to do is flicker my finger to blast you and your buddy into orbit. And if it weren’t just a waste of ammo, you’d put on quite a show. Scum!’

But since he had been raised to be polite in a certain sense, and certainly obedient, Scorch only swallowed his answer. He was on a mission. Even though it was an illicit one. The blue glow in his visor still flickered dangerously in the dimly lit room as he tilted his head slightly and replied in a calm voice: “I understand from your answer that you intend to refuse service to the Empire?”

That hit home! Thank Katarn. Scorch didn't even have to straighten up to add another inch or two to his already imposing stature. Without another word, the scumbag slumped down behind the table and slid a small package wrapped in brown flimsi towards him. Pathetic.

“On the house, sir!” he stammered. “It's always an honor to do business with you!”

His expression betrayed his hope that Scorch wouldn't be showing up again anytime soon. And Scorch shared that hope, albeit for a different reason. It felt so much longer than four years since he'd left Kamino as a fully trained elite commando with Delta Squad and successfully completed his first mission on Geonosis. Delta Squad. What…? He immediately pushed the thought aside. Instead, he accepted the package, discreetly put it into one of his belt pouches, and gave a short nod to signal the conversation had ended, before turning and heading towards his shuttle.

That's when it happened. Scorch was almost at the airlock when he saw a mirage in a scratched Transparistel window. Just for a moment. It was the reflection of a face, half-hidden beneath a hooded cloak, a face he'd seen a million times before. Every day it stared back at him from his mirror before he hid it beneath his white-gray helmet, concealing it from the galaxy, and Scorch became "Commander Nameless." And even though he shared that face with a million others, for him… for all of them… each one was unique. And this face here… No, it just COULDN'T be! He stopped and whirled around. But there was no one there. At least no one who could have been a clone in civilian clothes. No one who bore the name… Perhaps his imagination had played tricks on him, he pondered about half an hour later, as he sat in the cockpit on approach to Wayland, gripping the controls a little tighter than necessary.

And even more so, about twelve standard hours later, when he was back in the shuttle on his way to the space station again. This time, however, not on some stupid mission. Not to procure another dose of glitterstim for the head of the Advanced Science Division, like some shady henchman. This time, because he wanted it himself. Because he needed to know.

He was a fucking commando. Back then, four years ago, that still meant something. He and his brothers had been through hell for ten years to receive the best training an elite trooper could get. He had survived Vau and his whims—and Geonosis. He was outstanding! Even better than the already magnificent clones of the Grand Army of the Republic. Excellent, enhanced genetic material, bred for battle, drilled to succeed. To… what the hell?! Since when did he think of himself and his brothers in derogatory terms like “genetic material”? Fierfek! Ever since he was assigned as Royce Hemlock's personal lurca hound, that perverse sadist in the name of science. If Scorch was still able to cry, a tear or two would probably have trickled down his cheek. Visible to everyone, if anyone had been there, as his helmet lay unattended on the co-pilot's seat.

Some time later, when Scorch re-entered the space station through the airlock, he noticed for the first time how different this place was from his current living space. Tantiss, like Kamino before, was cold and sterile. New and shiny. In a way, frightening. Up here, everything was old and dilapidated, teeming with shady characters lurking in the shadows. In every corner someone was talking or laughing. There was shouting and bargaining, and in the canteen, the dulcet voice of a Twi'lek singer wafted through the air like wisps of smoke. He strutted slowly through the corridors, and it was as if the scum around him held their breath as soon as he approached, even before he had his DC at the ready. He didn't belong here, they made sure he knew it, and suspicion hit him like a blast of icy surf. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the Corellian, who was still frantically trying to take cover behind a wall panel the moment Scorch entered the room. The "prime" stuff he'd given him earlier was probably laced... again. Scorch couldn't care less, and that wasn't why he was here anyway. He was here to gain certainty. He was here to... well, to do what exactly? Step by step, he felt himself gripped by trepidation. What had he been thinking, coming here to hunt down a delusion? What did he actually intend to do if his instinct proved correct? And what if he'd been wrong? Then he'd return to Tantiss empty-handed and pick up where he'd left off, as if nothing had happened. The mere thought of this possibility tightened around his throat like an icy claw, threatening to choke him.

The minutes passed by and nothing happened. No matter how closely he looked and scanned his surroundings, he couldn't find the face he'd come for. Not a single clone... even though he'd expected none, the fact still stung. He'd do one more round, head towards the storage areas, checking if anyone was hiding in there. Just then, a red dot flashed on his HUD. Unauthorized access to the shuttle. Scorch turned on his heel and ran towards the docking bays. The shuttle was there, amidst other vessels, and it looked like it had been a false alarm. He still thought there was something in the wind.

And rightly so.

“I thought I’d have to engage the weapon systems and light this thing up like a tree on Life Day before you realize something is off.”

A cloaked figure sat in the pilot’s seat with folded arms across the chest, turning toward the hatch just as Scorch jumped into the shuttle and targeted the intruder in the DC’s crosshair.

“You used to be better than Six-Two,” the figure said mockingly, before adding, “and more talkative.”

Scorch tilted his head and considered for a split second. Was this…? Of course he was. Who else would be this level of crazy, or arrogant, to sneak onto an Imperial shuttle undetected, only to then deliberately set off the silent alarm? For the first time in a long time, a smile played on Scorch’s lips, and no one could see it.

“I had nothing useful to say, Fixer.”

There was a moment of silence. Then the figure stood up and pulled the hood off his head. And there, in the dark cockpit, illuminated by the concealed neon light of the landing platform, stood Fixer. Dressed in civilian clothes, unarmed, his golden-brown eyes fixed intently on Scorch. And perhaps for the first time in his life, Scorch was speechless, as the icy claw around his neck was tightening mercilessly.

“I was afraid you hadn’t seen me this morning.”

No answer.

“I… Boss sent me to get you outta here.”

No answer.

“Scorch?” To an outsider, his voice might have sounded uncertain, but Fixer was more likely alarmed. And, to be honest, Scorch couldn’t even blame him.

It had been almost a year since the initial commando units were disbanded on Vice Admiral Rampart's orders. With the list of deserters and insubordinate troopers growing ever longer, especially since the newly formed Empire had begun replacing clones with recruited stormtroopers, this was considered a justified measure to prevent further defections. However, it met with little success. Scorch had just been transferred to his new assignment on Daro to train stormtroopers when he received news that IC-1140 and IC-1138 had deserted. The loss of his brothers, no, that fact that they left without him, was such a blow that he threw himself into his work from that moment on, regardless of the consequences. Not even the weekly electroshock sessions bothered him anymore; afterwards, he always felt "set on the path of righteousness." Good soldiers follow orders…

If there were clones who were deserting one by one, then it was up to him to take care of those who had stayed behind like him. He had to make sure they survived. He had to…

He had to arrest Fixer right here and now and hand him over to the Imperial courts. He had to make sure he got what he deserved. Good soldiers follow orders… and not just the ones they like.

“Scorch? Fierfek, if you don’t say something soon, I’m going to assume you’ve had a stroke.” Fixer pointed his index finger at Scorch’s visor.

No answer.

But if he did watch over his brothers, as he had sworn in his despair… Images flashed before his mind's eye. Hundreds of captured clones, all currently in solitary confinement at the base on Wayland, undergoing daily blood tests for scientific purposes. To… well, what exactly for? Scorch closed his eyes, but more and more images surfaced. Brothers, emaciated and hopeless. Brothers who were still here one day and gone the next. But not like they’ve vanished on the battlefields all over the galaxy. Piles of corpses… the cadets, the… the children… in the basement… the…

Good soldiers follow orders… not just the ones… the…

“Scorch!”

He saw himself patrolling on the other side of the cells. He saw himself shadowing Royce Hemlock, the cursed monster with the gentle voice and the icy face, ready to obey any order he received. He saw himself wipe out an entire village on Silla, simply because of the fact that the civilians witnessed the Science Corps attempting to capture a Zillo Beast for their own purposes. He saw his face disappear behind the unfathomable facade of his helmet, carrying out unspeakable tasks in the name of the Empire…

“Are you going to arrest me now? You know, I won’t make it easy for you, Six-Two.”

He came face to face with the insight. Then he removed the helmet, and his own golden-brown eyes filled with tears gazed upon his long-lost brother.

“I think I’ve screwed up.”