#exploring the gar

Marshall Commander Cody of the 212th was not the only Cody.

Jesse of the 501st shared a name with many soldiers across many battalions.

There were so many Foxes, younger Clones naming themselves after the Marshall Commander of the Coruscant Guards in a bout of hero worship.

But there was a set of Clones on each Venator that, after passing their normal tests and combat training, went into specialized training before their assignments. A majority of them didn’t have names before the specialized training, and those that did, weren’t really attached to their names and chose their new names amongst the others they worked with.

Obi-Wan met them on the flight deck, the group disembarking from the drop ship and saluting the Jedi.

All of them would join in on the battles and train with the others during hyperspace flight, but it was fairly quick to see that these soldiers worked together in a specific way.

“May I know your names?” Obi-Wan asked. He was still hesitant in asking, knowing names could be a private thing amongst the soldiers.

“My name is Spoon, sir!”

“Cup, sir!”

“I’m called Whisk!”

Eyebrows rose, and a glance to Cody told Obi-Wan that this group was a bit of a surprise to him.

“Are all of you working in the mess hall?” Obi-Wan, not bothering to hide his amusement.

“Of course, sir,” Whisk answered. “We’re all trained in ways to make the nutripaste more appealing, and not to give the soldiers food poisoning. We also know how and what to hunt and forage in case we run low on supplies during a campaign.”

“I see,” Obi-Wan said. And it did make sense. Many Padawans got the same training, especially if their missions took them to the more remote planets.

Obi-Wan continued to smile as he got the names of Fork, Lid, Pan, Pot, and Kettle, but he paused when he heard a second Spoon. He glanced back at the first one for a moment before looking at the second one.

“It’s not often that squad mates share a name,” he offered.

The second Spoon shrugged. “You can call me little Spoon if it helps, sir, but it’s silly if a kitchen only has one Spoon in it.”

“I’m called Two Tone,” he told his Captain, who raised an eyebrow. To the silent question, he shrugged. “No one told me why.”

And that was the truth. He wasn’t inclined to whistle or sing. He got the name long before he reached the age of his voice cracking in forced puberty. Just one day in class, one of his batchmates laughed and called him Two Tone, and it stuck.

Somehow, he never figured out why he was called that until after a joint battle with General Unduli and General Kenobi, fighting to take back a planet from the Separatists, at the request of the local government. Everyone was giving him weird looks ever since he had painted his armor, and he just told himself it was probably because of the design. He always had problems getting it correct on his armor, and he didn’t want to ask someone for help, so he was stuck with his own quality.

Cleaning up after the fight was normal, trudging around the battlefield to find any fallen comrades and equipment, seeing the medic if hurt, packing things away again. Two Tone thought it was weird when he didn’t bump into anyone from the 212th, but figured it was because they might have been on the other side of the battlefield. He did his best sticking to his brothers as things began to get loaded into the LAAT/is, tired and quiet as he road the drop ship up to the Venator.

He assisted with unloading things, feeling the ship shudder faintly as it transitioned into hyperspace, though his movements came to a halt as he saw General Kenobi walking by the area. Frowning, he turned to the Clone beside him.

“Why isn’t General Kenobi with the 212th?”

The Clone frowned at him. “This is the 212th…”

Two Tone prided himself on being levelheaded, so when he started to panic so hard that General Kenobi came to an abrupt stop and looked at him, he was proud that he didn’t run away or collapse or simply imploded.

“Are you all right, dear one?” General Kenobi asked and a part of Two Tone’s mind was amused to learn that the rumors were correct about the endearing terms the man used.

“I apologize, sir,” Two Tone managed to squeak out. “But… I was assigned to General Unduli… I’m on the wrong ship.”

General Kenobi’s head tilted to the side curiously, glancing over Two Tone’s armor.

“Have you been tested for colorblindness?” the General asked curiously.

***

“Deuteranopia colorblindness,” Obi-Wan said, giving Luminara a faint smile. “The poor man was so embarrassed. Evac tested him and decided to do a ship wide test. Apparently colorblindness isn’t too uncommon among the Clones.”

The holo of the Jedi Master shook her head, a fond sigh escaping her. “When he painted his armor orange and green, I thought he was living up to his name. I am glad to hear that we hadn’t lost him in battle.”

“No, just temporarily misplaced,” Obi-Wan said with a chuckle.

“Joint custody then, until you can return him to me?”

Echo paused, glancing around for a moment He thought-

“Help me.”

It took a few steps until he located the source, and when he did, he grinned widely.

Fives was sitting on a crate, looking rather uncomfortable, and it was easy to see that it was because of the young clone curled up beside him, he pillowed on Fives’s thigh. Poor kid looked barely old enough to be off of Kamino, let alone already painted.

Orange paint. Don’t know why the kid thought Fives was a safe spot, but he wasn’t necessarily wrong.

“General Kenobi told me to keep an eye on him.”

Despite the requests for help, Fives was keeping his voice low so as not to wake the other up.

“Does he have a name?” Echo asked, amusement coloring his voice. He looked around the area, opening a crate and inspecting the contents before moving to the next.

“I think it was Wooley? What are you doing?”

Echo made a noise of triumph as he pulled out a blanket, flipping it open easily and tucked it around the kid-Wooley.

“No! You’re supposed to rescue me!”

“General Kenobi trusted you with him. I won’t rob you of that experience.”

Sharing a look with his commander, the two of them ventured across the large room and through the open doorway.

In the kitchen, the crew stood in appropriate attire: blacks and shoes, a secondary tunic covering them from shoulder to thigh in attempts to keep the underlying blacks cleaner longer. He could name all of them with ease, but there were new faces as well as some missing.

During the last mission, after the fighting had been concluded, the soldiers had stuck around long enough to help the nearby town get cleaned up and fed. Half of the kitchen crew spread out with a purpose, and with the assistance of the local people, were able to gather enough edible plants to feed everyone, with a supplement of emergency rations.

When a building had started to collapse, the nearby soldiers had ran forward catching what they could and pulling people out. The near disaster left a handful of them injured. Poor Whisk and (Paring) Knife were placed on light duties until Evac declared their broken legs healed enough, and two other soldiers volunteered to take their place.

They were new, arriving on board just before the last battle, and Obi-Wan didn’t want to use their numbers, unless they told him. He focused on the young man in the middle of the group. Embarrassment clouded around him, but as did pride and a feeling of belonging.

“Are you okay…?”

“Fumble, sir,” he answered, glancing up, and Obi-Wan felt the embarrassment grow a touch as the soldier’s cheeks colored. “But apparently I have a kitchen name now.”

“A kitchen name?” Obi-Wan asked, trying to smother a smile.

“Yes sir. Sticky.”

Obi-Wan struggled for a moment before voicing his question. “Why are you Sticky?”

The sigh that escaped the man was forlorn, though his emotions were laced with amusement as well. “Because I dropped the tray again.”

Only then did Obi-Wan pay attention to the mess of fruit pulp that splattered the floor and Fumble-Sticky’s boots and blacks, up to his knees. A snort of laughter escaped the Jedi General, which was enough to set off the rest of the kitchen crew with their own laughter. Fumble-Sticky’s own lips quirked with a smile.

“Go get cleaned up,” the man currently in charge of the kitchen, Butter (Knife), said, patting his back. “We’ll see you on second shift.”

With a nod, Fumble-Sticky exited the area -after wiping off his boots- and Obi-Wan looked at Butter.

“Don’t be mean.”

“He started it,” someone said from the back, followed by an ‘ow!’ as someone else smacked his head. “What!? He’s the one that said ‘well now I’m sticky’.”

“That may be so, but he just got his first name,” Obi-Wan said. “He doesn’t need five more.”

“If he’s okay with it, we’ll only use it in the kitchen,” Butter said, glancing around at the others, all of them nodding. “We know he’s back up if one of us is out. Honorary kitchen crew.”

“Very well,” Obi-Wan said, satisfied. His soldiers might tease each other, but Cody had yet to report problems about it.

He was about to leave when he looked at the second temporary member of the kitchen crew, head tilting slightly.

“Do you have a name you would like to use?” he asked, wishing to get to know him as well.

The grin the soldier gave him was a bit concerning.