#republic commando fic

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.”

Text exchange between IC-1109 Niner and IC-1136 Darman, approximately 2200 on the day of IC-4447 Ennen’s death:

IC-1109: Come back in one piece, will you?

IC-1136: fff Niner nu draar. Im leaving somethingg here.

IC-1109: are you drunk, mir’sheb?

IC-1136: I alrrady left sth here

IC-1109: what are you on about?

IC-1136: Joint op.. Quibbuus. Theres aroom I cant forget about.

IC-1109: … that’s a different place.

IC-1136: same place in my shabla heaD.

IC-1109: come back and tell me about it.

IC-1136: fevkin Ennen,,, vodd.d What a shabla dikut. I ccclda done th sAME THING.

IC-1109: you didn’t.

IC-1136: i hd you.]

...

“Sir, I apologize for what I’m about to say. IC-4447 is dead.”

Roly Melusar did not react. Niner may as well have said he’d submitted his squad’s annual performance evaluations. “How did he die?”

Melusar looked right at Niner, holding eye contact for a moment that ticked by too slowly. His tone was even, but Niner suspected the question was rhetorical.

“Suicide. We … we found him. He’s been examined by medical and taken to the morgue. You’ll have the police report in a couple of hours.” 

Niner had never had to report a squadmate’s death before, but there was a first time for everything. Blaster bolt to the temple. His own weapon. We were just outside when it happened — Dar was inside the ‘fresher. 

Yes, you can ask him. Dar, the MPs need to take your account. No, we didn’t touch anything. 

Melusar rose from where he sat behind his desk. He leaned over the polished surface, supporting his weight on his fingertips. He nodded once, then walked around the desk. “How’s Forty taking it?”

The new squad name went in one ear and out the other. Niner had gotten used to Omega, and he'd get used to Forty, too. 

But he wouldn't get used to the absence of Fi and Atin.

Darman wasn’t taking Ennen's loss well. He’d disappeared off base by himself. He'd always been the type to process things alone, but still, for a commando, isolation wasn't a good sign. 

Rede seemed shocked. Niner could only hope he'd eventually adapt to this tragedy as well as he had to everything else he'd been put through so far. 

“Hard, sir. But we’ll handle it.”

“You always do. Take the next couple of days to yourselves. Don’t worry about the details for now … we’ll find a replacement when you’re ready.”

Niner had come to expect fairness and genuine support from their commander, but all the warm words in the world didn’t make the situation any easier. He felt hollow and robotic. “Thank you, Sir. One other request – Ennen was Corellian. He would have wanted a cremation.”

“Yes of course. Once I receive the formal report we’ll proceed with those arrangements. That won’t be the end of it, unfortunately. We’ll have to endure an investigation – don’t take it personally. Investigation is routine when something like this happens."

The only thing Niner had ever taken personally was his squad’s welfare and performance. He took a breath and clenched his jaw tightly.

"I don’t have to tell you to keep your squad within recall distance.”

“No Sir.”  

“Take care of yourselves, Sergeant. I’ll contact you when I have an update."

Niner saluted, about-faced, and strode out of the office. He’d find Rede and they’d walk the base, kicking up dust and pretending to be doing something other than trying to forget about Ennen.

…

Laundry. Rede stared at Ennen’s pile of hand-me-downs — worn blacks, fatigues, a few civvie shirts and pants. “What will happen to them?” Rede asked suddenly, toeing a red T-shirt. Rede hadn’t been through this before – the coming home to a barracks room and finding nothing but items which had nowhere to belong. Or the rote solemnity of tasks performed to force the emptiness into a structure. Filling the time so you’d make it to tomorrow. Senior leadership misunderstood how soldiers worked, Niner thought. All free time ever did was remind you where you’d gone wrong. 

If they’d been a regular infantry unit, service droids would have cleaned up all evidence that Ennen had ever existed. But commando squads took care of their own – increased autonomy meant self sufficiency. Not a steep price to pay when it meant you could hold on to those you’d lost.

They divided up Ennen’s clothing between them wordlessly. Rede took the civvies and folded them, lingering reverently over his footlocker as if the precision of the folds would make things right. Maybe they wouldn’t, but Rede would have his first pair of civvies out of it. There were plenty more jarring things than seeing a vod in a dead man’s clothes, Niner told himself. That’s how things were done in the squads.

Niner took Ennen’s fatigues for himself and left the backup bodysuit on Darman’s bunk. Dar needed a new one, but superstition dictated wearing your first one until it became more of a hazard to wear it than replace it. Dar's blacks were Bry’s old pair.

Niner rubbed his forehead wearily and beckoned Rede out the door. “That’s sorted. Let’s eat.”

The sun was setting behind the spacescrapers, casting a forest of cool shadows over Core Square. It had been a hot day. The ferrocrete blacktop had begun to release its absorbed sunlight, warming their boots as they walked, like shadows themselves in dark imperial armor. The katarn, an effective insulator, kept them cool enough, and their bodysuits did an adequate job of adapting to body temperature. Niner could feel his sweat being wicked away even as his brow furrowed in worry over Darman’s radio silence. He focused on Rede’s profile as they walked. Under his bucket, Niner knew Rede’s face still looked smooth and youthful. His eyes, normally expressive, sat high and deep under his brow bone. No eye bags, no lines yet, no gray hair. Age would come for Rede, too, but Niner had somehow hoped that he would be spared just a few months longer.

The few years between Rede and the older commandos were enough that Niner noticed. Seeing Rede was like seeing himself as he thought he was, and then realizing he was not that younger man anymore. A few years did a lot to a clone – some of it visible, but most of it not. 

…

Lights out had come and gone, and Darman stumbled into the bedroom, a darker shape in a dark room, briefly illuminated by light filtering in from the hallway. He blundered into the bunk he shared with Niner and put one foot on the ladder’s middle rung. Niner, up to his chin in covers, reached out and grabbed his calf. “Hey. Down here. Rede’s up top.”

“Whaa?”

“I offered,” Niner explained in a hoarse whisper.

“‘Course,” Darman agreed, but he groaned, unstuck his foot from the ladder, and crawled heavily onto the narrow mattress next to Niner, still booted and clothed. Niner turned towards the wall, taking up as little space as possible. “Sorry.” 

He didn’t mind that Darman had to scoot in close to him, or that he rested his hot forehead between Niner’s shoulder blades, huffing as he settled down. Rede snored above them, a loud rattle that drowned out background sounds of sky traffic and the laundry room down the hall. They could have an entire conversation without him hearing.

“Oh fuu, m’ clothes,'' Dar slurred suddenly, and Niner caught a whiff of beer on his breath. Darman sat up, thunking his head on the bunk above. Rede snored on, undisturbed, and Darman continued thrashing and huffing as he tried to pull his shirt off.

“Help me, vod’ika.”

Niner reached blindly for his brother, bumping into bare skin and grabbing onto what he realized was Darman’s back. He slid his hand up, wiggling his fingers experimentally where the edge of Darman’s shirt cut into skin. It had gotten stuck around his lats. “How did you stuff yourself into this?” He asked helpfully.

Darman sighed. “It fit fine earlier. Just get it off me.”

The CSF Social Club, known for its loaded fries, had obviously bloated him on both sodium and booze. 

Niner had to roll over and straddle him from the front, edging his fingers in deeper, before he finally worked Darman’s shirt up and over his head.

“Di’kut,” Niner murmured, pushing him back down onto the bed. He rolled off Darman's lap and settled onto his side again, feeling better about everything with Darman close. He closed his eyes, intent on falling asleep. Dar's chest rose and fell against his back, but he kept moving and twitching, bumping Niner’s legs with his knees.

Niner sighed patiently and focused on the sound of Rede’s snoring. He was interrupted again a moment later by a metallic jingle right behind him. It had to be Darman’s belt buckle. Niner turned, waiting for his eyes to re-adjust to the dark again. He could just make out Darman’s hands fumbling with his belt and then with something else between his legs. “What. What are you doing?”

Dar hissed in frustration, palming himself, yanking on his pants. “Gotta take care of this.” 

This turned out to be his half-hard cock, which was nestled in his open fly. Niner watched, frozen, as his hand dipped into his pants and moved up and down a few times. Then Darman stopped, his face turned toward Niner’s in the dark. Niner swallowed. A brother taking care of himself in the same room wasn’t unusual, but Omega Squad had always given their sergeant a respectful amount of distance when it happened.

Darman seemed to have forgotten this unspoken etiquette, or maybe their relationship had evolved enough that he felt it no longer applied. “Could you … could I – I mean –” he stuttered, face tipped toward his dick, which peeked out of his fist. 

Niner’s mouth dropped open. He probably misses Etain, and I’m the best he’s got. “I don’t think –”

“Fine. Forget I asked.”

Darman sounded tired now, and resolute, and vulnerable in a way Niner had not heard since before …

“You want … me?” As soon as the words left his lips, Niner’s chest began to pound. He’d never been propositioned before. He couldn’t even say where Darman would fall on a list of possible partners, because he didn’t think he had a list. Everyone he met was more or less the same to him – just people, and they all had a job to do. 

“Your hand, maybe?” 

This wasn’t part of the job. Or at least it hadn’t been until now. 

“I don’t know, Dar,” he said, as gently as he could. “I’m probably not the best person to ask.” 

Darman growled, frustrated, and his hand snapped up and down, as if he were trying to yank the stiffness out of his erection. Then he lay down on his side behind Niner, his forehead warm and solid against his back again. Niner sighed. Darman hadn’t pulled his pants back up, which meant the door of opportunity was still open, and all he could think about now was how Dar was lying there behind him with an abandoned boner. 

Niner didn’t know what to do. “I’ll sleep on the floor,” he muttered. He grabbed a blanket, rolling onto his elbow to sit up.

“Lay down,” Darman snapped in a loud whisper. “‘M not that drunk anymore. I know what I’m doing.”

Niner wasn’t convinced. It was difficult to tell which Darman he was dealing with. Was this grieving Dar or couldn’t-care-less Dar? But Niner lay down again, for reasons beyond rationality. They breathed quietly for a minute, each with his own thoughts, and then Niner felt Darman shuffle closer and rock into his backside. He was still hard. And his hand pinned Niner’s hip firmly against his own.

“Udesi, vod,” Niner bit out, but a little shiver crawled up his spine. Something was happening. Maybe he’d never had a list before because no one had ever come quite this close. And Darman wasn’t anyone. He wasn’t just one of his brothers anymore – or even just one of his closest brothers. After Shinarcan Bridge something had changed. The playing field had leveled out in a way that made him want to respond to Dar’s insistent advances. 

Niner reached back, not knowing exactly what he meant to do, and found Darman’s head. He pulled Dar in close, turning to face him, caught by the need to keep him where he was.

“Let go of me, then,” Darman breathed, fanning Niner’s neck with warm air. 

Niner didn’t move.

“You want this, don’t you.”

Niner shuddered, and Darman felt it, because he relaxed, face buried in Niner’s neck. “Please.”

Of all the days, of all the times, Dar.

Darman’s lips on his neck made everything feel fuzzy. He didn't want to let go. So he held on, folding Darman close, breathing deeply against him. Warm little curls of desire unwound as Darman's hips arched into him again, and before he knew it he was letting Darman hump his thigh, and then his open hand; all he had to do was close his fingers.

He had his vod’s cock in his hand on the same day he’d lost another one to his own demons.

All our demons.

Dar’s gentle huffing noises turned tight and desperate as Niner worked him. Then they went ragged and wet with tears as he came, effortlessly, into Niner’s hand. 

Rede hadn’t stopped snoring. Vor entye Manda. He’d seen enough for one day.

Darman drifted off to sleep, and Niner didn’t move for the fresher until he was sure he wouldn’t wake.