#clonecaptain

     luke shakes out his hair as he takes off his helmet. he’s in high spirits, even as a half-scorched artoo complains about being stuck in an equally blaster-marked x-wing. it’s obvious from the color in luke’s cheeks, as if he and not the ship did the flying. today has been a good day for the rebellion. it feels like they haven’t had one of those since they moved base camp, but maybe things are finally looking up.

     he’s so busy trying to pry artoo out of the co-pilot’s seat that he doesn’t notice anyone approaching. not until his head pops up from behind the ship, and there that someone is.

     “commander,”   he says, surprised. he’s not sure they’ve ever spoken.   “sorry, just let me get my droid --- ”

     after another long minute of straining and artoo not budging, luke blows out air in defeat.

   “So, you happen to be Slick’s old captain.” Wyndel may have prided himself at times on having information, but even his was limited at times. The bad part about not having many Jedi allies and contacts in the republic. “I always figured you’d be taller.”

Interrogation Starters // ACCEPTING          ↳ @clonecaptain​​  said:  “ it’s okay. you can tell me.”

𝐒𝐔𝐂𝐇  𝐀  𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐕𝐘  𝐁𝐔𝐑𝐃𝐄𝐍  𝐓𝐎  𝐁𝐄𝐀𝐑,  guilt.  The  Padawan's  shoulders  bent  under  its  weight,  curling  inwards  where  she  sat  alone.  From  the  neat,  orderly  steps,  she  had  an  idea  of  who  it  was  who  took  a  seat  beside  her,  but  she  didn't  speak,  didn't  so  much  as  glance  sideways  until  Rex  broke  the  silence  on  his  own  accord.  Ahsoka  looked  up  to  find  a  face  filled  with  gentle  concern  —  the  same  face  worn  by  each  and  every  one  of  his  brothers;  the  same  face  worn  by  the  men  they  lost  today.  Alto.  Buck.  Keys.  She  ducked  her  head,  the  skin  of  her  knuckles  paling  where  she  clasped  her  hands.

"It's  just...you  were  right,  Rex.  What  you  said  about  experience,  I  mean."  They  could  teach  lightsaber  forms  and  battle  tactics  all  day  long  in  the  Temple,  but  nothing  compared  to  putting  them  into  practice  on  the  field.  Here,  the  stakes  were  real:  the  rewards  and  the  risks.

The face in the mirror was not someone she recognized. It was the same face that her brothers shared; square, with thin lips and lines on the forehead, and laughter lines that had not been borne of joviality. It was masculine, a sturdy face of Mandalorian stock - and yet, it did not feel like her face. Blue eyes stared back at her (a harmless somatic mutation, particularly rare within clones, apparently), sad and wistful, and perhaps that was the only thing that she really felt matched what she felt on the inside.

There was still several hours until they reached their next deployment, and at least one hour that she could remain hidden away in this storeroom before anyone would notice her absence. It was now or never, then - and, with shaking hands, she drew the tube of lipstick from the hidden pocket sewn into the hem of her regulation undershirt - her only possession, forbidden as all possessions are for Clones. She paused, breathing in, willing her hands to stop shaking, before she slowly, slowly traced the outline of her lips with the rouge.

It was such a small change, and yet Chance stared back at her reflection with wide eyes, stunned at the transformation. She wasn’t particularly good at putting on the lipstick yet (practice was hard to come by), but this time… this time she felt as if she’d done it right. A little more feminine, a little more like herself. Like the woman she was, the woman inside of her who wore the guise of a man with two million identical faces.