Project Crown

Project Crown - Main Fic

Chapter 3: Posted!

What's in a name? Chapter 3 accompanying ficlet. Posted. Two parter (POVs 48 [first part] and Kyr [second part]). Created AO3 collection for the universe.

Chapter 4: Title: TBD. Writing started. Approx. 15% written. Location: Christophsis. POV: Kyr

Side Fics

"This Anger You Harbour" - Kamino-era fic. Accompanying release chapter undecided. POV: Course Bonus title origin: The Iliad, Book 16, Line 30 - Patroclus - "the physicians with their many drugs attend them, healing their wounds; but it is you cannot be treated, Achilles. May it never take hold of me, this anger that you harbour." Production started; approx. 50% completed

"The Grey Sea Bore You" - Kamino-era fic. Accompanying chapter 6-ish. POV: 48 Bonus title origin: The Iliad Book 16, Line 35 - Patroclus - "Pitiless one: your father was not the horseman Peleus, nor Thetis your mother, but the grey sea bore you and the wild cliffs, since your mind is unbending."

General updates:

Locked AO3 collection to registered users 4/26/25 due to increased threat of scraping. Hope to unlock at some point.

Main Characters (aka Point of View characters)

Kyr (more formally Kyr'bes) / CT-0918 is the Crown Squad squad lead. Designated as infantry. Characterized by hard-headedness, bossiness, and the tendency to mother hen over his batchmates.

Course / CT-4224 is the Crown Squad medic. Characterized by standoffishness, a flat tone, and general lack of emotional expression. Physically, he stands about a half inch taller than the average clone trooper.

Shock (formerly 48) / CT-4844 is the middle-child of the Crown Squad batch. Originally designated as a heavy gunner, but moved to infantry due to delayed growth as a cadet. Characterized by a disregard for typical protocol, adrenaline-seeking, and a talent for winging it. Physically, 48 has a genetic mutation resulting in gray eyes.

8ball / CT-0980 (sometimes called "Eighty") is Crown Squad's scout. Originally infantry track, but moved to the scout track following 48's detracking. 8ball is characterized by a need for independence, a flippant attitude toward figures of authority, and a hatred for sitting still. Physically, he is about a half inch shorter than the average clone trooper.

Myth (more formally Mythos) / CT-1929 is the Crown Squad information analyst. Characterized by high social anxiety, a hard time hiding his emotions, and a strong desire to learn.

Secondary Characters

Green Squad - Crown Squad's "sister-squad" so to speak; Green Squad was decanted shortly before Crown Squad, but any exercise requiring a full unit often had their squads paired together, due to Green Squad's unique ability to work together with the Crowns. They are an extraordinarily tight-knit squad of batchmates. They are a bit mischievous in their own right, with their most notorious trick being the "Green Squad Classic", wherein one trooper pretends to be another to confuse others and get out of trouble. Even their names—Punch, Push, Punt, Pull, and Pinch—are designed to aid the confusion. "Are you sure Punt pushed you, or was it Punch?" Punch is a heavy gunner and squad lead. Push is infantry, Punt is an ordnance specialist, Pull is an information analyst, and Pinch is infantry.

Trip is the Orbit-squad scout, one of only three scouts in in Lt. Baati's platoon. Friendly with 8ball.

If 48 was completely honest with himself (not Kyr. He wouldn’t be telling Kyr this, under any circumstances), he had no idea what was happening. He’d been too busy trying to arm himself to catch the sporadic briefing, but he was pretty sure it’d be fine. 8ball gave him the gist. Shoot the droids that shot at them. Easy. He’d been shooting at droids for almost all ten years of his life. He could probably do it in his sleep. He wasn’t worried at all.

He could just ask Myth. Myth would know what was happening. If he knew where Myth was—

A blaster bolt skimmed his extra-secure cover rock. Little bits of gravel rained down onto his helmet with a grating clatter, and a full chunk of stone separated from the base.

… Perhaps he should reexamine his choice of cover, actually.

Course was somewhere further down the lines, probably berating someone for getting shot. 8ball was… running information, he was pretty sure; long-range comms were supposedly down. Or he could be sniping, maybe. Kyr had to be nearby. But where was Myth? He’d been with him and Kyr before the firefight had started.

48 fired two quick shots at the first battledroid to round the corner of his little bottleneck before quickly ducking back toward the ditch he’d already clocked as “better hiding spot”. The clanker hit the ground hard, and its compatriot stumbled over it and crashed elegantly to the ground. It made a noise of complaint that was cut short by one more bolt fired immediately before 48 let himself roll down into the dirt.

The ditch wasn’t exactly easy terrain, littered with sun-dried branches (he had no idea where the fuck they would’ve come from, since there were no trees in the area, but fuck if he cared) and sharp stones ranging from kneepad-sized (which he really didn’t wanna find out if he could crawl over) all the way up to full boulders that came level with the upper edge of the ditch wall.

Maybe more information would be helpful. Reluctantly, he tapped his helmet comm on, opened his mouth to admit he needed guidance, and—

Hm. That was very loud static. That’s weird.

Unless, he reflected as he quickly began moving through the ditch (away from friendlies and towards the enemy, because it was the faster way to ditch the B1s that were pushing him and they probably wouldn’t think to search this way, surely?), unless it wasn’t just the long-range comms that were down. If all comms were down (or jammed, probably), it’d make complete sense for him to not be able to communicate with his squad.

It occurred to him as he moved that going further into enemy lines without any communication capabilities wasn’t a good idea, because he wasn’t stupid, despite popular belief. But it was either take this path of least resistance and maybe pull off a very cool flank or try to fight his way up the much-steeper slope towards his battalion and get shot in the back in the middle of a terrible dusty climb. This was a calculated risk.

48 was right in that this was a path of virtually no resistance. It was almost laughable, really. He’d clocked the ditch immediately as a potential route, and the droids weren’t even glancing toward it. He guessed their mechanisms wouldn’t have an easy time getting in and out of it, and maybe they thought the clones would have the same problem. Most of the processing power in a series-one droid really did go to their aiming systems—

He had to choke back a startled shout as noise erupted on the ridge to his left. Brief blasterfire echoed down, but before he could properly assess the situation and decide whether or not to engage, a brother was flung into the ditch with him, plastoid clattering harshly against one of the bigger rocks on the opposite ridge wall. 48 stared for a moment before the situation processed and he realized that he’d found Myth. Myth, who was looking fairly hurt and very limp against that rock.

48 got about two steps toward checking on his brother when a loud thud and a mechanical hiss of hydraulics informed him that they had a visitor, and he turned his back to Myth to place himself between him and the droid. The IG-100, actually, which was considerably more intimidating than the average B1—and also a much larger threat.

They were supposed to only be found around really important Separatists, which sucked because it meant that 48 really should have asked more questions about that mission briefing.

The MagnaGuard stared him down, red optical sensors glaring in the harsh light of the moon’s sun. This particular MagnaGuard was armed with an electrostaff, which would have been laughable if not for the fact that they were currently in close-range, which meant that in a few moments 48 would be wishing for a melee weapon of his own. Not to mention his current best weapon was a pistol that almost definitely wasn’t strong enough to get through armor thicker than a B1’s.

“Another clone,” the MagnaGuard rumbled in Binary, as though 48 wasn’t right in front of it with a gun. “Continue with the directive. I will handle it.”

“Like hell you will,” 48 complained, already hating this droid for dismissing his threat level so quickly.

He oh-so subtly stepped back towards Myth. Myth, who was still flat on the ground and also had a better gun than him right now. A tactical retreat of three yards.

The MagnaGuard stepped forward as he moved, raising its staff in a combat pose. 48 raised his pistol and tried to figure out where the fuck he could hit this thing to walk away from this. Its internal systems were very well-guarded by the plating on its torso, the gaps between plates too small for much to slip through. A blaster bolt would have to be exceptionally well-aimed to get between them, and even if he had a stun baton like it did, the electrified heads were too broad to slip between them. As it was, he had a faulty pistol and one unconscious(?) brother.

The staff lit up purple with sparkling electricity. The droid’s head was probably the biggest target, he though. It probably had backup systems in its internal mechanics to avoid complete incapacitation but if he could get rid of its optics—

He fired off a test shot and, as he expected, it did nothing but add another scuff to the carbon scoring on the droid’s plating. He stepped back as the droid took a leisurely swing, desperately trying to figure out what the fuck to do in this situation. Kamino didn’t exactly run courses on what to do in a one-on-one fight with one of the biggest droid threats in the Separatists Army.

The next move from the droid was much faster, and 48 almost seemed to flinch into it, like it had expected his exact movement, and his body locked up, flooded with an absolutely incapacitating amount of electricity. The specifics of electrostaves were eluding him—he couldn’t remember the voltage, which would be grating on his brain for the rest of the day if he survived this—but he did know what the trainers taught on Kamino. Electrostaves were no joke, and it didn’t take more than five seconds for one to flood you with enough electricity to put you down permanently.

The armor was supposed to help with that. A little. It’d distribute the flow of the current better than if he was unarmored.

In the time it took for those thoughts to fire through 48’s brain, he was able to raise his pistol to a gap in the IG-100’s plating and fire off six quick shots directly into its arm joint. Heat immediately scorched through his glove and into his palm from his fickle blaster, but it got the desired effect. The MagnaGuard broke contact with 48, staggering back to turn its head toward the sparking wires of its elbow joint. It clenched its hand, and an unpleasant zapping noise accompanied an increase in flying electricity from the socket. Metal fingers lagged, then fell limp.

If 48 wasn’t thoroughly dazed from his playdate with the electrostaff he might’ve been proud of himself for the glare the droid leveled at him, as though it had the capacity to be personally annoyed by his existence. It warbled something else at him, in Binary again, but this time 48 didn’t have nearly enough mental energy to process it into something he could understand. It was probably a threat. 48 made for Myth’s rifle again but didn’t get far before the MagnaGuard entered melee range once more.

48 had expected for the droid to repeat its eerie prediction of his movement, but oddly he found that somewhere between his reduced thought process and the droid’s now one-handedness, he was able to maneuver himself into a position that—

Okay. Gripping the electrostaff. That’s… an interesting choice, 48.

Well, it did keep him from getting hit with it, he reasoned vaguely as he pushed back against the droid’s unrelenting force. Even if it meant he’d dropped his blaster. It was… kind of a stalemate, but it bought him time. Now if only he could actually form a tactical thought—

Fueled more by instinct than anything else, he made the very impulsive decision to stop pushing back and instead yanked sharply on the baton. Maybe his brain thought he was playing keep-away with his batchmates for some reason. It should have gotten him killed—the droid should have taken the opening to turn the electrified staff head toward 48’s neck and the unarmored patch just under his helmet seal. But somehow, the droid hadn’t anticipated the utterly idiotic move, and when 48 turned and pushed and yanked again, the droid staggered forward and lost its one-handed grip on the staff.

48 would not admit to staring dumbly at the staggered droid, nor at the staff he now held. It was a completely understandable, very curious stare, thank you. These things were designed to kill Jedi, they were designed to avoid being staggered, designed to resist lightsabers and—

And this one was righting itself. That would be bad. 48 adjusted his grip on the electrostaff, calling up the fuzzy memories he had of melee training and bringing the buzzing staff head down hard in the neck joint he’d identified as a potential weak point back when he could think past the blurry pain in his chest.

The metal jammed nicely between the droid’s head and torso, and with the right angle and torque—

The droid’s head popped off. That was good. Yeah? Its main optics would be down. These units had secondary processors but it’d take at least a few seconds to activate them…

… Oh shit, he was on a timer.

Moving as quickly as he could past the fatigue quickly setting in, 48 bee-lined for Myth’s prone form. He was past the point of deluding himself with the rifle, but in his newly enlightened state he remembered that Myth was always painfully overprepared, no doubt even with a frantically assembled kit.

Like 48, Myth was notably down on any actually useful ordnance, but he oh-so responsibly had not one but two emergency flares packed into his primary belt pouch. As 48 dropped the staff and began prepping one, he resolved to never make fun of Myth for his packing habits ever again.

The IG-100 quickly finished adjusting to its impromptu servo-switch, already ominously clomping towards him with one limp arm and no head, the optic in its midsection now gleaming a bloody red.

“Freaky,” 48 muttered to himself. He was a bit past being intimidated at this point, though. He was far too preoccupied.

The droid warbled at him again, and he could almost make out the words this time. His thoughts were soft around the edges again, which was almost definitely not good, and he could almost feel the energy from his adrenaline rush beginning to wane. That also wasn’t good. A crash was not optimal right now.

The flare was also not cooperating. Another tally on the “bad” board.

The droid closed the last yard of distance between it and the clones, and even unarmed it proved to be a very formidable opponent, because it reached its functioning arm out and grabbed 48 by the throat, lifting him into the air with a crushing grip that had 48 wishing they’d been distributed gorgets or something. Really, leaving the throat exposed?

Distance successfully closed. That was good for 48. The MagnaGuard droned something, and 48 realized with no small amount of annoyance that it was not talking to him. It said something to the effect of “neutralizing target” into its comm system, and 48 grinned wide—maybe the delirium setting in. He’d take what he could get at this point.

“Hey, clanker,” he rasped around the crushing weight on his windpipe. “Wanna see something cool?”

The droid was headless, but 48 got the sense that if it’d had a head it’d be tilted. It was very funny to watch the neck support move without an attachment, but he tried to focus. Arms weakening, 48 dragged the shoddily-modified flare into the droid’s chest-level—about his own abdominal level, with it having lifted him.

He lit it, and very quickly regained the distance between him and the enemy, because they were each launched back a considerable distance in the following boom. The MagnaGuard hit the opposite ridge in two pieces, and 48 hit his ridge with a very painful crack which signaled that A, he had hit a rock, and 2, his backplate was definitely broken, maybe shattered, and also, he was definitely concussed, assuming he wasn’t before lighting the flare. Combined with the ringing in his ear and the painful heat lingering on his front, he wasn’t in the best shape. But he was alive! So far! And very proud that he’d maintained the awareness to point the business end of the flare toward the enemy. That was a major win. And Myth was alive! Probably! And also, he had just announced their location to the enemy en masse!

That was... Less good.

“Nice,” he muttered absently, trying to assess where the fuck he had landed through the smokey soot and dust. “Knew that would work.”

If his gloves were singed from his blaster before, they were melting and fusing to his skin now. Not to be dramatic, but shit hurt.

He dragged one sticky hand to his visor to wipe the blended gunk away. It just sort of smeared, but that was better than nothing, and he realized that he wasn’t actually that far from Myth. It was a good thing he hadn’t been launched into Myth. He hadn’t considered that as an option, but it probably would’ve been bad for them both. He pushed himself upright and crawled over to his brother, who was very helpfully still prone.

“If we survive this, you owe me,” 48 warned him as he reached for Myth’s blaster.

He hissed when the grip pressed into steadily growing blisters on his palm, but he kept his hold on the rifle as firm as he could, nonetheless. He entertained the pros and cons of standing fully.

Pros: he wouldn’t be sitting down when the droids came to investigate the downfall of their superior.

Cons: ow.

Honestly, he wasn’t sure his legs would support him. Everything kinda hurt at the moment. But did his legs hurt worse than his hands? Maybe a bad metric to judge their functionality on, but his hands were still working. Maybe his legs would too?

Worst case scenario, he collapsed, and then he’d be on the ground anyway. Might as well try.

48 used the smooth wall of the ridge behind him as a support to help himself to his feet. His legs immediately protested this course of action, but either a fresh adrenaline rush or his general will to live made it a bit more bearable. It didn’t really matter which.

If he kept his weight against the wall, he could probably maintain this position. Just… only this position. This exact spot standing in the open in the ditch. Awesome.

How to get out of this? Myth would have an idea, if he were awake. Yeah, Myth would definitely owe him. How the fuck do you get trapped alone behind enemy lines and get the shit beat out of you like that? Idiot.

He lit the second flare normally. Technically, it probably would’ve been a better idea to use it as another impromptu explosive, but he wasn’t entirely confident in his chestplate’s durability, and he was already very injured. It might have kept Myth alive for a bit longer, but it’d be better for Myth all around to have a breathing brother watching his back right now.

His audio was out—48 wasn’t sure whether that was his ears or his helmet audio, but he wasn’t about to remove the helmet to find out—and the soot, dirt, and oil paste on his visor limited visibility, but luckily clankers moved and rocks typically didn’t, so it wasn’t that hard to figure out what to shoot at. He’d been drilled on shooting these fuckers since he was two and a half. He could do this in his sleep.

It wasn’t until he realized this blaster was overheating, too, that the desperation began to sink in. It admittedly took him a bit to notice this malfunction, because his hands already hurt and he hadn’t expected any fault with this blaster, but a carefully oriented glance through his grimy visor told him that the battery cell was compromised. Probably happened during the encounter that landed Myth in the ditch in the first place, if he wanted to take the time to care about how instead of what. 48 began rationing his shots.

Luckily, the clankers were very reluctant to join him in the ditch, for the same reasons that they hadn’t entered it in the first place, so they were kind of just lining up into the bottleneck of boulders. It made it easier to keep them out, but it was only a matter of time before a super or tactical droid expended the three percent of processing power that it took to figure out how to deal with him.

48 identified where he’d dropped the electrostaff, on the other side of Myth’s prone form, and began staggering toward it between shots. Now that he was paying attention to it, the rifle wasn’t cooling down nearly enough between shots, which suggested… faulty coolant? Line leak? Fucked up gun. Probably something to do with the MagnaGuard. Every addition to this mission made it somehow worse than it had been before. Bottom three on the list for sure.

His boot collided with the staff, and he did his best to bring himself to an incredibly dignified crouch to wrap one hand on the hilt while the other maintained cover fire. He wasn’t entirely sold on his own ability to use this thing in his current state (Heh. Current. Electrostaff.), but he was also not going to die a coward, so it’d have to do.

When the rifle inevitably jammed, he opted to throw it at the head of the next clanker to poke its weird-ass face into the gap. It didn’t incapacitate it, but it did give him the time to push himself off the wall of the ditch and toward the other side of the trench. When the first droid succeeded in dropping down, he electrified the staff and brought it down on its head. Not as hard as he maybe could, but enough to send it down and keep it that way.

“Next?” he called wearily.

Alarmed droid voices echoed in the rocky terrain, none of it making sense to 48, but the low drone of a commando broke up the whiny pitch of the B1s and 48 really wished Myth would wake up, now. He’s not sure what he’d want his brother to do, considering there wasn’t a single gun between them, now, but at least he wouldn’t have to do this shit alone.

List of things to do when I survive this: Beat the shit out of Crates for giving me a fucking DC-17 pistol when we’re apparently fighting someone important enough to have MagnaGuard.

Then, added after a moment of reflection, Thank Myth for packing the shitty model of flare. Apologize to Kyr for dismissing the importance of briefings. Punch 8ball, he probably deserves it for something.

The next droid came down with a friend, and 48 only got to crush one’s central processor before the other was shooting at him. The bolt skimmed his pauldron and 48 was able to kill it before it shot again, but the force of the bolt staggered him, and in the time it took for him to scrap the second droid, a third and fourth had dropped down. The high-pitched buzz in his ear drowned out the sound their blasters must have made when they fired at him, and he felt at least one bolt hit him. At this range, this dizziness, it knocked him flat, and the yellow sky went dark.

Myth and 48 had been missing for fifteen minutes when someone reported an unexplained explosion. Not necessarily a long time, in theory, but in practice, on an active battlefield? That was half of Kyr’s squad missing, and to say he was worried would be an understatement.

He hadn’t even been informed about the explosion, he had happened to catch one of Tower Squad’s newest members telling their LT about it. Apparently, some sort of ordnance had gone off within enemy lines, and damn if that didn’t sound like something 48 might pull.

Kyr hadn’t bothered to request clarification from the recruit. He headed straight to Course and set off toward where the other half of their unit was dropping into the long-dry riverbed on the fringe of the field.

Course knew better than to ask questions. Green Squad did not.

“Did Baati send you?” Punch asked, not particularly rankled by their sudden appearance.

Kyr moved forward.

“Our squad might be responsible for this,” Course said by way of explanation.

Green Squad moved to accommodate for their increased number. They either didn’t want to ask Kyr to change his position or didn’t care, because they shuffled themselves to fit around him rather than ask him to fold in.

They didn’t have to trek for long before a flare lit the sky and the din of blasterfire began, and everyone broke out into a full run to round the riverbend.

Kyr processed the scene in a split second that dragged out endlessly. Several B1s with their guns raised on one side of the riverbed, a prone brother who could only be Myth on the other, and a limp body in what might have once been white plastoid laying in between them. The B1s had been aiming at the middle brother, but the sudden appearance of the Green-Crown unit had the clankers swiveling to direct their fire at the new arrivals.

Green Squad engaged. Course stood stock-still beside Kyr for a breath before hurrying to Myth, who was closer to him by about a yard. Kyr darted toward 48, heart stalling as he got close enough to properly make out the utter destruction of his kit. The front of his armor was scorched and cracked in multiple places, including a major shattering dent in the space between 48’s left deltoid and pec. Broken plastoid had visibly been pushed inward on contact, and blood lightly saturated the body glove underneath. Almost no part of his armor was still white. The smell of burning pushed past Kyr’s filters at this proximity, and Kyr reached for a pulse. He wasn’t entirely sure that he’d be able to feel one with his own heart pounding as hard as it was, but he needed to try.

Turns out he didn’t really need to, because as soon as Kyr’s hand touched the narrow strip of skin between 48’s helmet seal and blacks, his brother was moving, flinching to one side and lunging out with the electrostaff that he’d had a hand on. Kyr avoided the hit easily, given it was sluggish and poorly aimed in the first place (and also not even electrified), but it was unnerving to watch 48 attack him, and attack him so poorly at that.

“48, it’s me! It’s Kyr. I’m not gonna hurt you.”

48 either did not hear him or did not care, because he was still scrambling, pushing himself up into a sitting position and lifting the electrostaff again.

“Shit,” Kyr muttered, getting a good look at the grime-coated visor.

He didn’t really want to try to subdue 48. Not when he was hurt and not when he didn’t know it was Kyr. But he didn’t really see a lot of options here.

“Course!” Kyr called, not looking away from 48. “Need a hypo.”

Course’s visor shot to Kyr, but he didn’t question it, tossing him a hypo with practiced ease.

Kyr inched forward. 48’s helmet turned to-and-fro like he was trying to get good sights on the perceived threat, then evidently gave up, electrified his staff, and lurched forward with a wide swing. Kyr ducked away again, and while 48 struggled to bring the staff out of its momentum-driven path, Kyr pushed himself into his space and stuck the hypo in 48’s neck.

The effect was immediate. 48’s grip on the electrostaff slackened and he made a sort of choked-out sound as he slumped forward. Kyr caught him cautiously, still looking out for any last-ditch efforts.

“We’ve gotta get out of here,” Punch, suddenly right beside Kyr, informed him. “The clankers’ve realized there’s more of us down here.”

Kyr adjusted his hold on 48, who was shifting and twitching even as he went down under the anesthesia.

He didn’t need to speak before Punch pressed on. “Push will help you get 48 out of here, we’ll give you time to get back to friendlies.”

Kyr nodded, adjusting his brother’s limp form to accommodate the approaching Push, and between the two of them they were able to lift 48 easily. Course was already making his way back the way they came, Myth now half-conscious and staggering along with half of his weight on their medic.

The shuttle back to the Negotiator was easily Kyr’s least favorite part of engagements. The engines on the ship were too loud, reports needed to be drafted, there were less shuttles than there were when they began (so troopers crammed into what ships they had left), and, to top it off, the stench of blood and sweat reeked strong enough to push easily past helmet filters. 

Kyr’s mind ran from bullet point to bullet point on his ever-growing list of post-battle procedures. He switched the “write battle report” point to second place behind “get 48 to the medbay.” His head swam with the details of the mission.

The 212th came to this moon for a reported sighting of a high-ranking Separatist ship. No, not a ship, a ship’s signal. Kyr remembered wrinkling his nose at that fact. Anyone can replicate a signal.

Either way, they were summoned to engage the troops while their General went to investigate and potentially engage with the Seppie officer. Kyr met with almost all of his squad and relayed this information to them. He shouldn’t have trusted 8ball to brief 48. He’d do it himself, next time.

If there was a next time.

Kyr shook his head and shifted his focus to his conscious brother, Myth, who was currently leaning against Kyr’s side to stay upright. He shifted his weight to the opposite foot and pulled Myth up a bit.

“You holding up?” he asked through the comms.

“Mmm…” was the hummed response he got. Man, Myth was out of it.

“What even happened?” He said out loud to no one.

48 stirred. Course physically stepped back from the stretcher that the mangled clone was laid out on. The medic looked up at Kyr, but before he could say anything, 48 was muttering and moving his hands to his burnt chestplate.

“Oh… ‘m alive.” He smiled and squinted at his hands. “Sick.”

Kyr rushed forward, holding onto Myth with one hand and reaching the other out to grab 48’s melted glove. It was still unnervingly warm, and Kyr inwardly cringed at the thought of how it could have gotten this bad.

“What happened?” Kyr demanded. He wouldn’t have time for pleasantries before 48 passed out again.

“Shocked the hell outta me…” 48 mumbled. He was barely moving his mouth to speak. Kyr wasn’t sure how he was even speaking at all—that hypo was nothing to sneeze at, designed with clone metabolisms in mind.

“What was the explosion?” Kyr tugged at 48’s hand, even as his brother slipped back into unconsciousness.

Course spoke up. “The interrogation can wait. He’s hurt.”

Kyr met Course’s gaze and knew instinctively that, behind the helmet, his brother was furrowing his eyebrows and glaring.

“Okay. I’m sorry,” Kyr muttered. He really didn’t mean to stress out Course, he was just worried.

Take a breath.

The ship landed smoothly in the hangar and as soon as the doors opened, Course pushed out with the stretcher. 

Injured first, that was protocol. 

Kyr half-helped, half-dragged a barely conscious Myth alongside him as he tried to keep up with Course’s furious pace through the halls of their home ship.

The doors hadn’t finished opening all the way before Course left 48’s stretcher to prep one of the few bacta tanks kept in the back of the medbay. Kyr lowered Myth onto a cot and looked up to where another medic, the newest one, was staring at him. 

“Go help Course prep the bacta tank,” he said, barely realizing that it wasn’t his place to instruct a medic. He pointed to the door to the back room and, to Kyr’s surprise, the medic quickly walked off to do as instructed.

“Kyr, can you get Shock’s kit off?” Course came in through the comms. “Shock?” Kyr repeated dumbly. There was a pause, and then, “...48. Can you get 48’s kit off?” Course’s voice came through, a bit quieter.

Kyr bit back a laugh, but his voice betrayed his amusement. “Got it, I’ll get Shock prepped for bacta.”

He looked over and didn't really know where to start. It’d probably be easiest to get his brother’s leg plates off first, right? He unbuckled and unlatched each plate methodically, scanning all the while for injury.

The leg plates had been easy. The mangled chest piece… That one Kyr examined for several long seconds, trying to find the best place to start.

“Protocol for damaged armor says that you’re permitted to apply excessive force to structural weak spots if the plates are unable to be removed via standard methods,” Myth spoke up.

Kyr physically jumped at his brother’s voice. “Gods, Myth!”

He turned to where Myth had pulled himself into a sitting position. His brother surely should not have been awake. How long had he been up for?

“If you can’t get to the buckles or the magnets won’t release, you can cut through the straps holding the plates together,” Myth continued as if he didn’t just scare the absolute shit out of Kyr. 

“You shouldn’t be up,” Kyr scolded, looking around for an instrument to cut the shoulder straps with.

“You shouldn’t be completing medical protocols without the direct supervision of a trained medic.” Myth smiled fully, with far too many teeth to be innocent. “I won’t tell if you don’t.”

Kyr huffed in response. His eyes landed on a nearby scalpel; probably the best he’d get without snooping through drawers. He pulled gently on the strap of Shock’s armor and carefully slotted the blade between it and Shock’s shoulder. With one quick upward slice, the strap fell away. The chestplate sagged, now that it was only supported on one side.

He lifted Shock’s arm gently, finally able to reach the release switch on the inner side plating. The plates demagnetized without issue, letting Kyr repeat the sequence of actions on Shock’s other side finally pry the burnt, broken front plate off of his brother.

Purposely keeping himself between Myth’s sightline and Shock, Kyr surveyed the injuries.

Yeah. It looked… Really bad. If Kyr had any proper medical training, he could probably make out more than that. As it was, he didn’t need medic modules to know the bloody pulp of body glove wasn’t what you hoped to see in a patient.

Course emerged from the back room and Kyr let out a sigh of relief. Perfect: someone who could tell him what “really bad” actually meant.

“Give me that.” Course looked right over Shock and held his hand out to Kyr.

“Is it bad?” Kyr handed Course’s scalpel back and tilted his head at Shock.

Course didn’t respond, which was likely a yes. Instead, he pulled Shock’s stretcher into the back. Shortly after, Kyr heard Course’s sharp orders to the new medic.

“You’ve got Myth. I can handle this.”

The shiny walked out, glancing back at the door as he walked over to Myth. When he finally turned his attention to Myth, he froze.

“You shouldn’t be upright. Let me help you lay back—”

Myth was already sinking down into a horizontal position.

As the shiny got to work, Kyr realized his to-do list was still incomplete. He nodded to Myth and the medic and decided to go grab his datapad so he could at least get some work done while waiting for news about Shock.

He had just passed the medbay doors when he saw 8ball barreling top-speed down the hall towards him. Kyr knew that he had one chance to restrain his brother before he ran into the medbay and demand to see Shock or pester the new medic about Myth.

With barely a second to think, Kyr took two steps forward and threw his arms out. 8ball hit him hard, and they both fell to the ground. Kyr used 8ball’s confusion to get the upper hand and twist out from under his batchmate. He grabbed 8ball’s arm and twisted—not enough to hurt. Not yet. The day was young.

“Don’t run in the halls.” Kyr slowly loosened his grip, letting 8ball up only once he was certain the scout wouldn’t continue bolting into the medbay.

“Baati told me someone was hurt! Who is it?” 8ball demanded, as if he had the upper hand. “Course? 48?” Kyr couldn’t hold back his flinch. “It’s 48? Is he okay?”

Kyr shook his head wearily. “… He’s… he’ll be fine. He’s in bacta.”

8ball’s eyes widened. “In the tank?”

Kyr couldn’t help but sigh, pinching his nose. “Yes, he’s in the tank. He just went in before you got here.”

“What happened?” 8ball asked.

“Only Shock can answer that.”

8ball’s face twisted in confusion. “Shock?”

Kyr remembered too late that 8ball hadn’t been on the transport with them. “It’s what Course is calling him. We found him with a MagnaGuard’s electrostaff—don’t ask, I really can’t explain anything until he’s back up.”

The strain came right out of 8ball’s expression until he was all wide brown eyes and slightly-opened mouth. “48 got his name?”

“If he likes it.” Kyr smiled wryly. “I think he will, though.” Shock. It just suited him.

“Oh. Cool. Where’s Myth?” 8ball asked, and the 180 shouldn’t have Kyr reeling.

“Also in the medbay,” Kyr admitted. “He was found with Shock. He’s awake, last I saw, but really shouldn’t be up right now. He took some bad hits. You can talk to him tomorrow—” Kyr had to reach out and grab 8ball again to stop him from running right off again. “The medics are about to be swarmed. They don’t need anyone else in their way. Unless you’re hurt?”

8ball shook his head slowly. “… They’re both okay, though?”

“Yes, 8ball,” Kyr sighed. “Myth is okay and Shock—” He put the image of his batchmate’s mangled armor and flesh out of his mind, “—will be just fine once the medics get through with him.”

“Alright. I guess I can visit tomorrow.”

“Good. Come with me back to the barracks.”

Kyr put a hand on 8ball’s shoulder and guided him towards the bunks. As they talked, Kyr took note of the bags under 8ball’s eyes and the way he seemed to move his hands slightly after he started speaking, like they were lagging three steps behind his mind. 

“They had me running such absolutely kriffing ridiculous intel!” 8ball complained as they walked through the sliding doors of their barracks. He threw his helmet onto his bed, the one right below Myth’s. “Didn’t even give me a speeder, just went ‘oh, run about a half mile to tell this lieutenant that he should get his men to this position and then run a half mile back—UPHILL—to tell the captain that they can’t do that! Instead of just letting me go fix the stupid comms jam like I wanted to!” 8ball groaned and sank down onto his bed, sitting on the edge and pulling his datapad out. “And now I have to write a stupid report about those stupid communications that got jammed… stupidly.”

Kyr chuckled at 8ball’s outburst. Despite his previous frustration at 8ball, he was just relieved to have a brother in the bunks with him. If the whole squad had ended up in the medbay… Well. He wouldn’t be able to focus much on his report, he knew.

He settled at the table set up in the corner and pulled his datapad out to write his own stupid report.

Truthfully, the report was a welcome distraction. Kyr was vaguely aware of his leg bouncing anxiously every time his mind wandered back to the two brothers currently held in the medbay. The time couldn’t pass fast enough, and Kyr made sure this report was thorough. He didn’t have Myth to help “embellish” any details now if he wanted to, anyway.

8ball finished far before Kyr, and he walked over to loom over Kyr’s shoulder.

“Ooh, still on section 6-B I see,” he teased, and Kyr sighed.

“Yeah, it’s a rough one. We all kitted up so quickly, I couldn’t get a full loadout report.”

“Well, I can tell you I had all my standard equipment, if that helps. I also saw Myth grabbing flares.” 8ball was trying to remember more when Kyr cut in.

“Flares? What model?” Kyr looked up from the datapad and turned to fully face 8ball. His voice had come out more harshly than he had wanted it to.

“Uh, I don’t know. I wasn’t paying that much attention.” 8ball subconsciously snapped to attention as he gave his report to Kyr—a rarity, these days. Probably the battle haze still drifting around them.

“Alright.” Kyr turned back to the report and quickly added, “Thank you.”

8ball fell out of attention and wandered out toward the mess hall, leaving Kyr to ponder the missing flares. They’d seen one on site just before they’d gotten there, but Myth hadn’t had any on him when they found him, and neither did Shock. Nobody reported an emergency flare before then, either, but that left at least one flare completely unaccounted for; if Myth really had only grabbed one flare, 8ball would’ve said so. He hadn’t, he’d specifically said flares, plural. An image of Shock’s melted gloves appeared in Kyr’s mind, and he pushed that line of thinking down immediately. It wouldn’t do to make any kind of report based on nothing but assumption.

Eventually the report was as complete as he could get it, and Kyr needed to report Shock’s damaged armor to Crates. He walked with purpose, as he always did, and other clones stepped aside to let him through. He appreciated being able to walk freely, as long as he looked purposeful; it helped him think without running into anyone.

On a whim, he took a slight detour, nearing the medbay and slowing his pace.

Kyr knew that reporting all damaged or missing equipment was more important than checking in on his batchmates, who needed rest anyway. Despite this knowledge, he found himself walking into the medbay.

He might be able to ask Myth about his kit. Yeah, that was it. 

He immediately knew that wasn’t going to happen when he looked over and saw Myth, finally passed out and thoroughly patched up. Kyr looked to Course seated on the opposite side of the medbay. His brother was examining something on his datapad with one hand and moving supplies on his table from one pile to the another with the other, expression the picture of irritable neutrality.

“How are they?” Kyr spoke, and Course’s focus broke.

He glanced up at Kyr. “Resting. Previously peacefully.” His eyebrows raised slightly. “They aren’t able to report yet.”

“I know.” Kyr tapped his foot. Why was he even here? He had other things to do, as did Course. Hell, 8ball was able to find something better to do than harass the medics—

“You can see him if you’re that worried.” Course stood and opened the backroom door, allowing Kyr to pass through to the bacta chamber.

Kyr stayed silent as he went back. All the heavy-duty medical equipment that wasn’t needed for common field injuries stayed in this sterile, often dimly-lit room. The bacta tanks lined the backmost wall, and inside one of them floated Shock.

It felt wrong to see his brother like this. Blisters marred his hands and forearms, and new scars streaked across his chest, both electrical burns and broken skin from his shattered chest plate. Kyr set a hand carefully against the glass separating him from Shock.

“He’ll live,” Course said from behind Kyr. It occurred to Kyr, distantly, that Course probably couldn’t say anything more reassuring without the risk of lying.

Kyr pressed his forehead to the glass above Shock’s forehead, willing his strength to his unconscious brother.

K'udesii jahaala, vod

“What?” Course asked from the control panel of the tank.

“Nothing.” Kyr let himself take one final look at Shock before making eye contact with Course. “Do you remember what kits they had? I’m trying to finish the mission report, and I need to tell Crates what went missing or got damaged.”

Course went along with Kyr’s self-imposed distraction, walking him out of the medbay and giving his own report of what he saw and what was salvaged from the mess they found Myth and Shock in.

From there, the report to Crates went smoothly. Kyr appreciated Crates for how well he knew protocol, but that was about where his appreciation ended. He would never admit it to anyone but himself, but Crates seemed disorganized and lost to Kyr. He got his job done just fine, but it was never without some unnecessary delay. 

Kyr let it go and moved on with his checklist.

Training schedule was next. He had been given the agenda, he just needed to put it into the range’s programming. Then he needed to head to the training deck and put in the next simulation details. He wasn’t even thinking about checking the maintenance and general upkeep schedules yet—that could wait.

Kyr always found it easy to throw himself into this kind of work. Mindlessly marching from room to room, punching in codes that he didn't have to think twice about. Enter, program, leave, repeat. The pattern soothed his thoughts and let him focus his stream of nervous energy on a simple goal. And once all the work was done, he could focus his energy on training.

He didn't realize how late it had gotten until the range lights automatically turned off on him. Blinking in the darkness, Kyr decided it was time for another stop by the medbay, some food, and an attempt at sleep.

"Kyr, for the last time, they need rest,” Course snapped before Kyr even stepped a foot into the medbay. His patience… seemed to be thinning.

"That's not why I'm here." Kyr crossed his arms and stood in the doorway. The sensors couldn't close the door on him, and more and more cold air drifted out of the medbay the longer he stood there. "Come eat. I know you weren't scheduled this late, and you look like shit.” It wasn't a question, but it wasn't quite an order yet.

Course looked at him, then at the door controls. "You're letting the air out."

"The door will close behind us." Kyr let Course deflect for a moment, the same grace Course had granted him on his last visit. "You need rest, too."

Course’s focus turned to Myth, who was fast asleep across the room. He reluctantly turned back to Kyr with a barely audible sigh. Kyr stepped back, keeping one foot in the door to let Course out.

They walked to the mess hall in silence, but it wasn't tense. Kyr knew that Course was exhausted, but he didn’t intend to push him too hard on it if it meant he could get his stubborn brother fed and maybe—Force willing—to bed.

Not a soul occupied the mess when they arrived—no small feat, with the revolving-door shifts on the cruiser, but half the ship was likely dead asleep after their engagement. The other half, presumably, was hard at work sorting out the post-battle chores. Kyr blindly felt along the wall by the entrance to get to the sensor. As soon as he passed in front of it, the fluorescent lighting flickered on, and both he and Course recoiled at the brightness.

It wasn’t a designated meal time, so options were limited. Kyr sat across from Course and tossed a scavenged ration bar onto the table by his batchmate.

"Why are you still up?" Course spoke first. He sat hunched over his datapad and didn't bother looking up.

"Same reason as you. Can't sleep when there's work to do." Kyr halfheartedly swiped at Course's datapad. "We have to stop at some point, though."

Course yanked his datapad back and rolled his eyes "Maybe you need to stop. I know the amount of sleep I need to be effective, and I've gotten it."

Kyr blinked slowly, far too tired to unpack that statement right now.

"We're both going to sleep. It's either that, or I follow you back to the medbay and file reports until I pass out."

"You can knock yourself out. I'll just be working."

"Course." Kyr was done bargaining; it was late, and he let his worry bleed into anger. "You're going to sleep. I don't need three brothers half dead."

Course finally looked away from his datapad to stare at him, and Kyr gazed unrepentantly back. He knew better than to give Course a single inch.

"… Fine.”

It might have been the only true victory of the day, for Kyr. It was more than enough for him.

----------------------------------------------------------------

This is split into two chapters on AO3 but I'm not gonna post two separate subchapters for the spinoff on Tumblr.

Second part (starting with Kyr's POV) was originally written by our resident chapter artist! She's Kyr and 8ball's creator. Both parts were originally written in probably 2023, edited and revised within the past month to align with current continuity.

The klaxon alarm was new to him, at least in practice. 8ball hadn’t felt any turbulence, but they must have entered either enemy territory or a fight of some sort for them to go off without warning. They had been trained to react to those alarms, though, and 8ball didn’t hesitate to beeline from his bunk to the armor storage at the head of the room, where Green Squad and most of his own squad were already kitting up—as usual, no Course to be found. His armor wasn’t there, though, so he had to be already kitted in the medbay.

Punch, already mostly kitted from his work shift, rapidly fired information off to Kyr while the Crown lead worked on getting his bracers on. “Contact with Separatist ships. Likelihood of designated target presence is apparently very high… We’re in pursuit.” He took a moment to look away from his datapad and put his helmet on, fiddling with the seal idly. “We report to the hangar. We’ll be in one of the first waves of gunships. Terrain and enemy information incoming, should be on your HUD before we get on the ships.”

 “Copy. You head on. We have to collect Course on the way.” Kyr adjusted the straps of his own chest plate, then helped Myth connect the magnets of his pauldron without thought. “Send me the gunship number when you can. Faster than parsing through all of that while running there.”

“Will-do. I don’t know if—”

“Shit,” 48 interrupted, rather loudly. “Shit, that’s not good…”

Kyr’s head snapped around. “What?” he demanded.

48 held his rifle in both of his hands, expression concealed by his helmet. 8ball pictured a pinched brow and a frown from his voice. “Uh…. So, I’m gonna need to stop by weapons on the way out.”

One of the veins in Kyr’s forehead threatened to pop out. “What?”

“Okay, maybe… No, yeah, definitely can’t not…”

“48,” Kyr snapped urgently.

“Okay! So, the other day when we, like, looked at the droids for twenty seconds my blaster pretty much—well, basically it overheated and some of the wires got all melted because the coolant line is faulty…”

Kyr pinched the bridge of his nose. “48.”

“… Meaning I can’t use this. Best case scenario is I shoot it, and it does nothing. Worst case, it might blow up on me.”

“Why—? No, later. Go. Now.”

8ball watched with his own share of confusion as 48 bolted directly out the door, faulty blaster in one hand and his bracers loose in the other.

“Why would he not—” Kyr continued to seethe as he assisted Myth with increasing force. “He’s had days.”

Myth’s face creased and he glanced nervously at the door after 48. “Maybe… He forgot?”

“Like hell!” Kyr snapped.

8ball straightened up as Myth’s eyes dropped to the floor. “It’s 48,” he interrupted loudly. “Why does he do anything he does? Forget him, he knows where we’re going. We need to get Course.”

Punch nodded in agreement. “He’ll be fine. I’ll send him the gunship number too, once I get it.”

Kyr took a slow, deep breath, and finally stepped away from Myth. “Fine. We’re going now.”

8ball scrambled to get the last pieces of his kit on as Kyr marched out the door. He exchanged a glance with Myth on the way out. The way his brother’s eyes darted around the hectic halls of the Negotiator told 8ball all he needed to know about how Myth felt about the lack of information they had on the situation.

The twins struggled to follow in Kyr’s wake as he forged a warpath to the medbay. They ended up a bit behind, and Course was following Kyr out of the medbay doors by the time they caught up.

“—replace his blaster,” Kyr was seething as 8ball came within earshot.

Course’s face remained fully blank as he secured his medkit to his armor. “It happened. Move on.”

Kyr stopped himself, taking a quick breath before nodding resolutely and acknowledging 8ball and Myth with a second, smaller nod. “Hurry up. We’ll go over the information I’ve been given in the hangar. Hopefully, 48 will be with us by then.”

Myth nodded beside 8ball. “He should be there by the time we are,” he said.

8ball personally thought that his faith in 48 was more than optimistic, but Kyr was still working on not blowing up. In a rare moment of self-restraint, 8ball decided to hold back on his comments until after the engagement was over—for Myth’s peace of mind, though. Not for Kyr.

Kyr and Course led the walk to the hangar in tandem. If they spoke, it must have been through a private channel. 8ball couldn’t help but feel a bit left out. In another show of self-restraint (someone should really consider giving him a medal), he elbowed Myth instead of Kyr.

“Have you got the terrain files yet?”

His twin shook his head. “No… I’m not confident we’ll get a good terrain file,” he admitted. “I don’t even know where we are, but if this wasn’t a planned encounter—”

“—I’ll be a very important asset to the unit,” 8ball finished. “You’d better keep an eye on commlines, then.”

Kyr’s visor turned toward them as they got near the gunships, then swiveled to look past them as he spoke. “48 hasn’t checked in.”

“Problems at Weapons?” Myth tried. “Crates is on duty today, right?”

For the first time that day, 8ball felt a little bad for 48. Crates… was very good at moving crates. And unpacking them. Not so good at requisitions, but he was from an older batch, and often the primary attendant in Weapons. 8ball had only had to deal with him twice so far, to get a training sniper for practice, and both times he’d received a standard training rifle instead.

“Crates,” Kyr muttered with disdain, evidently having had similar experiences already. “Fine. I’ll give the outline now. Huddle up.”

8ball made sure that his eye rolling translated bodily through his helmet. It was subtle, but he was certain that Course did the same. He had no evidence, but he could just tell.

Once they were all huddled to Kyr’s standards, he started reading from his HUD. “Engagement’s going to be on a deserted moon—8ball, can I trust you to relay the important points to 48 when he gets here?”

When 8ball waved him on, he continued. “Okay, deserted moon—breathable air, highish temps. We’ve got a rough terrain map, but it’s pulled straight from the ship. I’ll send it to all of you. Not sure how much help it’ll be…” He shook his head. “… Enemy number and positions aren’t known yet. Apparently, there’s a high-profile target involved, which’ll probably mean a whole lot of battle droids and supers. Might be some MagnaGuard mixed in, but we shouldn’t have the chance to run into them.”

Course pressed a button on his bracer to open one of the files Kyr sent over their shared commlink. “What’s our mission?”

“We’re the distraction, I think,” Kyr said grimly. “The Jedi want to hunt down the target. We’re there to keep the army occupied.”

“War of attrition?” 8ball sighed.

Myth turned to him, a confused tilt to his head. “That’s…. not at all what that means. A war of attrition is—”

“We just have to last until the Jedi finish their task,” Course interrupted curtly. “Which means staying close and not taking unnecessary risks.”

Now, that was odd. 8ball could have sworn Course was looking at him when he said that. “What? Why me?”

Kyr’s head snapped toward him as well. “You know why you. Lieutenant Baati wants you to look for vantage points with the other scouts—so you’ll be unsupervised.” He spat that word out, unimpressed. 8ball wanted to bristle, but Kyr was already continuing. “You’re looking. Not doing any sort of hero maneuvers or showing off. If you see more enemies than you can handle, you’re hiding and regrouping at the first opportunity.”

“We’ve been deployed for a week,” Course agreed, still staring 8ball down. “We’re not losing anyone on such a simple mission.”

8ball huffed, crossing his arms. “I’m not a rogue agent you have to micromanage! I’m good at my job, believe it or not.”

Kyr and Course exchanged a look that 8ball couldn’t read, but that still pissed him off immeasurably. 

“Fine, don’t believe me, but don’t be surprised when I’m getting recognized before any of you.”

Kyr didn’t take the bait, visor swiveling to look past 8ball again. “48. Took you long enough.”

48 pushed into the now-loose huddle between Myth and 8ball. “It wasn’t even my fault! Fuckin’ Crates—”

“We don’t have any more time to hear how your lack of preparation is someone else’s fault,” Kyr snapped. “Green Squad is already on the dropship. Let’s go.”

8ball fumed as he followed his brothers onto the nearby dropship (numbered, he noted for later). If anyone should be getting the lecture on safety, it was clearly 48, who couldn’t even get his blaster sorted out between engagements. Or Course, who had managed to break both of his legs last time they’d been in a real fight. Or, hell, Kyr himself, who was apparently so eager to throw aside protocol on a whim if it was what he thought was best. What had 8ball done? Find them optimal routes? Supply them with information on the terrain, enemy numbers, and locations? They’d quite literally be lost without him.

He continued to fume as the transport left the hangar. Punch and Kyr talked strategy on the opposite side of the ship, most definitely intentionally located in order to ignore 8ball most effectively. Dicks. That was fine, he’d look at the nineteen whole pixels of the terrain map and trace out where he’d go when he was finally on his own. Any cliffs would be a welcome advantage over the droids, if he could just find them…

The private channel of 8ball’s comm crackled open. “You’re supposed to fill in 48,” Myth mumbled. “He missed the huddle.”

8ball sighed bodily, turning to look to where 48 was chattering away with Punt. He probably wouldn’t even listen—but 8ball was already on Kyr’s bad side today (wasn’t everybody?), and 48 should at least know about the terrain files, so 8ball moved to grab his arm.

Once 48 was looking at him, 8ball got it over with as quick as he could. “Kyr told me to catch you up on the huddle.” He hadn’t really kept most of the briefing in mind, especially after the spat at the end of it, but he knew the big points. “We’re stalling the army while the Jedi work. I’m scouting. Course wants you all to stick together and play it safe. A shitty terrain map should be in your files.”

He gave 48 a second to pull up the map, nodding when a scoff came through the helmet. “This thing barely qualifies as a map!”

“Scanned from the ship, apparently. Any actually important information will probably come through on comms.”

“Alright. Thanks.” 48 looked from 8ball back to Punt for a moment. “Hey, Eighty, did you hear about—”

“Can we do this later? I’m trying to plan my route.” 8ball tried very hard to shoot for not incredibly frustrated. 48 hadn’t actually done anything to him since he’d woken up, and he was a good brother. The best, even, who didn't even squabble with his batchmates just for existing. 

“Oh. Yeah, sure. I’ll tell you when we get back up to the Negotiator.”

8ball turned promptly to push himself back into the corner with Myth, who seemed to be looking at the map himself. The scout took a deep breath and let himself think about his mission.

They were likely dropping in one of the flat stretches—fields? The dimensional capabilities of the scan weren’t all that, but basic formations could still be made out. Occasional giant boulders jutted up and provided texture to the otherwise flat sections of the map. But that wasn’t what 8ball was interested in. Instead…

He quickly identified the pattern to the boulder placement. Following along with his eyes, up what must be a sloping hill, 8ball found what he had been looking for. It didn’t stand out too much from the rest of the map, save for the slightly different color in an attempt at contrast. It wasn’t huge—no mountains, at least in this region of the moon. But 8ball would accept a mesa instead. A flat top could even prove useful, assuming the Republic got there before the Separatists did. He almost wondered why they weren’t landing there—but then, if they were just trying to engage the droid army, starting closer to the action made a bit more sense. That kind of height advantage made picking off Seppies easier than breathing, and if there were supers, then he'd have plenty of time and space between them and him to line up shots to their vulnerable zones. His hand found the pack on his back by instinct—he knew he remembered to repack his climbing kit; he didn't have to check. Unlike 48, 8ball kept up with his equipment maintenance.

It occurred to him that that thought may be, again, unnecessarily mean-spirited toward the wrong brother, but the dropship door opening cut short his opportunity to reflect on that. The ground rapidly approached, and 8ball felt only a little paranoia around not having checked who their pilot was this time. They touched down a little heavy, but still safely, and (after quickly reorienting) flooded out together into the clouds of dust stirred up by the ship.

8ball ignored Kyr and Course both as they landed in the dirt beside him. Instead, he clasped his hand to Myth’s shoulder, wished him, specifically, luck, and ran over to where he could already see the other scouts gathering. There weren’t many of them in their platoon, so Lieutenant Baati was already speaking quickly when he came into earshot.

“—eye out for dropships,” he was saying. “You boys need to stay out of the fight as much as you can, but if you get a shot on one, take it. If our intel is correct, we’ll be dealing with enough on the ground as it is.”

The Orbit Squad scout—Trip, his name was (rather unfortunate name for a scout, 8ball thought)—elbowed him fondly. “How are you always late to everything?”

8ball rolled his eyes. He’d been late to one training session with the other platoons’ scouts, and now that was the bit of the week… And it’d only been a week.

“I’m not late, I left when my dropship was scheduled to leave. Did I miss anything important?”

“No, you heard everything important. It was mostly a ‘be careful’ talk. You know the Lieutenant.”

8ball did.

“He just wants us to get to the high ground and keep the fodder aware of enemy movement. He said we might have to run information if comms go down. Basic shit.”

There was something eerie about referring to their foot soldier brothers as “fodder”, but it wasn’t really something 8ball could argue about.

Trip and Vision—Harbor’s scout—moved too slowly for 8ball’s liking. He itched to go. They’d not had an opportunity like this—not since Geonosis, which barely counted. This was a proving ground, and 8ball knew it was best to make a good impression on their officers, even if the rest of his batch didn’t. There were a couple scouts from other platoons that seemed to have similar ideas; they, like him, had already gotten their climbing gear out. 8ball could see the mesas, now, and they were even better than he could have imagined, towering much higher than he'd be able to climb in one battle. Plenty of ledges, though. He kept an eye out as he began his ascent.

As far as he could see, the moon was another dusty skughole like Geonosis. This one, at least, didn't seem to have nearly as much local life. Cracks split the ground into jagged polygons that grew smaller and smaller below him as he ventured for higher ground. He could make out the lines of droids clearly as he cleared the sixty-foot mark: a jagged, rusty beige mass moving toward the forming blockade of white plastoid. 8ball would send his estimate on numbers once he got up to his first perch.

At one hundred and fifty feet, 8ball got his first chance to set up shop. It wasn't as high as he'd like, but it was the first ledge he'd hit that stretched more than five or six meters across. In fact, he'd probably be able to get a full look east over the battlefield. He could see some of the other scouts continuing up toward the top, but 8ball rolled his eyes and lowered himself to the ground to ready his rifle.

Sure, Lt. Baati had technically told them to stay out of it, but also, no standard battle droid would have any chance at hitting him from this distance. He could spare a couple blaster bolts to thin the herd a little.

As he got settled, he commed in those numbers. It was a rough estimate—after all, he couldn't well make out how many droids were in each line—but apparently it was good enough. 8ball preened openly in solitude as the first line of clones began to shift and broaden to combat the enemy numbers. How has nobody else called that in yet?

He understood, at least, how the ground forces hadn't seen it. The terrain was rocky, uneven, and the trenches snaking around the field would make it difficult to know where all enemies lurked. 8ball was reminded of the crags of Geonosis—of how easily they could be ambushed by an especially opportunistic bug. He’d keep an eye out around his ledge, as well… Just to be safe. His mind unhelpfully provided a nice, clear memory of the sound Course’s legs made when the medic hit the ground over a week ago. And Course hadn’t gotten carried nearly as high up as 8ball was.

He had good sights on the closest trenches, at least. He'd be able to warn everyone if the droids started to flank. 8ball spared a glance back up. Most of the other scouts were still climbing, though a few had clearly seen his decision to stop and started doing the same. Tatuk’ikase.

8ball rolled his eyes and focused back on his scope. If he looked, he thought he could maybe make out his squad. He’d not listened too closely to where his squad would end up—hadn’t thought he’d have such a good view, honestly—but there were some constants, already, in how different squads were “handled” by officers. Some of it was logical, some of it personal. Crown had a medic, for example, and they paired well with Green, which had a heavy gunner and an ordnance specialist, more than making up for the unit being a man down while 8ball was away. That meant that they wouldn’t be on the front of the frontline, but they’d be damn near close.

He had a minute to look, since the fight hadn’t broken quite yet, and—yes, right there. Two shiny-armored troopers rifling through an ordnance pack. A few steps away, a brother with the red medic sigil stamped on his left pauldron, hips cocked, arms crossed as he listened to the evidently heated rambling of a trooper with a back so ramrod straight it could only be Kyr. And, of course, Kyr was completely oblivious to Myth, just behind him, starting/stopping himself from chiming in over and over. He’d have useful information—he always did, whatever the trainers claimed, but Kyr’s bucket was too far up his own shebs to notice. Probably still pissed about the way the huddle ended. Or 48’s gun mishaps. Or the direction that the wind chose to blow at that moment. Hard to tell, really.

Kyr stormed off to talk to 48 and Punt, and 8ball realized that Course hadn’t left. He… might’ve been talking to Myth. A little bit of petty anger drained out of 8ball just as the tension trickled out of Myth’s shoulders. 8ball wasn’t even really mad at Course in the first place, anyway. Course had sided with Kyr, but he always did that. He had to. If a five-man squad could even have a second in command, theirs was Course—and division among leadership was one of the fastest ways to dissolve any organization, even one as small as a squad of clone troopers. And besides that, he was always snippy. Had been since they were cadets. It wasn’t personal when he snapped at you, that was just how he talked. Not at all like it was with Kyr.

Kyr’s patience did not cover incompetence—and for some reason, that word always seemed to really mean “8ball”.

At least, that’s how 8ball explained why it was so easy to shift the still-simmering anger burning at the back of his throat away from Course to center solely on Kyr.

8ball sighed and dragged his scope away from his brothers. It skimmed briefly over the rest of their platoon at the frontlines before coming to a halt over the front of the droid unit. The clankers stared blankly forward, no last-minute arguments or jittery nerves like the clone forces, each step bringing them closer and closer to 8ball’s brothers with the kind of finality that could only be seen in machines. 8ball suppressed a shiver, instead doing one last check of his blaster’s heat sink, its battery. Everything looked in order—8ball thought of 48, again. How was it even possible for a clone to forget his gun maintenance? How had 48 forgotten it? 48 lived and breathed weaponry. Spent half his time in Weapons. The longer 8ball sat stewing, the less sense it made.

Every thought of 48 quickly left his brain, though, as the first shot of the engagement rang out—from the clone side. A brave infantry trooper atop a boulder, going by the angle. He’d gotten first shot—maybe even first blood. 8ball quickly scoped in to follow the smoking trail but couldn’t make out any downed clankers. On a whim, he fired off a shot of his own. Too much distance meant it was his imagination supplying the ping of the tincan’s head crumpling inward, but he preened anyway. If he was right—if that infantry trooper’s shot hadn’t connected—then he got the first blood. First oil?

Fuck it, first kill of the battle. It felt good, pride and vicious vindication oozing like satisfaction out from his chest. “Just looking” his ass. He was helpful up on his ledge, which he knew was more than Kyr could say on the ground, shooting blindly over the edge of his trench. Dickhead.

8ball continued to comm numbers idly between his shots. Four units pushing forward on the eastward flank. Two SBDs coming up the center, ETA fifteen seconds to frontline. Reinforcements an entire company in size coming up at the back, ready to fill in the gaps. It was a war of attrition, 8ball realized. Kyr mentioned a high-profile target, hadn’t he? That target sure had a lot of fodder to throw for a quick distraction. Doubt twisted 8ball’s breath straight out of him. A unit of heavies. And was that—?

“Rollies, two, either flank,” 8ball snapped sharp into his radio, the realization sucker-punched out of him. He’d not realized—rolled-up, coated so thick in dust and grime that they’d blended right in. Had the droids camouflaged the—?

Baati didn’t copy. Baati always copied. 8ball found it grating—obnoxious and stuck-up and just too by the regs. 8ball would rather just be told if he needed to repeat himself than be barraged by the crackling gunfire-over-comms every single time he sent off a new piece of information.

“Lieutenant,” 8ball ground out, trying to breathe through his irritation. Why ignore him now? This might have been the most important information yet. “Say again: two droidekas coming up, one on each flank. How copy?”

Nothing. Silence, barely even static from the line. Doubt quickly morphing to dread, 8ball pushed himself half upright from his prone. Tapping in again, 8ball tried to remember his training. He’d never actually focused much on protocol for this kinda shit, but he’d passed, right? “Radio check.” And then, after a brief hesitation, “Over?”

Silence again. 8ball switched channels, tapping local first. “This is 8ball from Crown; radio check.”

None of the other scouts responded. He tried the Crown link. Nothing. Nobody was comming. That wasn’t right, which meant that something was wrong. They were getting jammed. Or scrambled. Or tapped, even. A chill went down 8ball’s spine. They didn’t know about the rollies. Or the gunship undoubtedly bringing in more reinforcements that moved to touch down well on the other side of the southern ridge. 8ball pushed himself the rest of the way up. He needed to run, then—Baati had said as much, right? Even if 8ball had missed that part. He didn’t know why nobody else was moving, but—

“Incoming!” a voice somewhere above him screamed, and 8ball didn’t think, just flinched back from the edge of his perch and braced.

A dangerous boom rocked the mesa and volleyed debris down on him. It took only one cadet-sized chunk landing inches from his huddled form for 8ball to quickly decide on a course of action. Instinct took over, and he managed to pull himself out back onto the steep cliffside just moments before a massive hunk of stone shot straight through the far side of his ledge, the dusty orange rock plowing straight through and down the hundred-some-odd feet to the ground. 8ball clung desperately to each handhold as he inched away from his now slowly crumbling perch. Sweat trickled down his neck and he swallowed back panic. Success was limited, but he at least did a better job than the scouts above him, many of which he could hear swearing over the blood in his ears.

He needed to get down. SBD rockets aside, comms were dead. Scouts would need to be runners, and he was closest to the ground. Descending proved much trickier work than ascending had been, both because he was working semi-blind and because there was a slight tremor to his hands that he attributed to the adrenaline pumping through him. Every second he spent descending dragged. Every beat of his heart could mean tens of clones dead. The rollies must be on them by now, he thought. And they’re not ready for the next wave of reinforcements. How did things go sideways so fast?

8ball didn’t need a clock to know he took too damn long getting down. A handful more rockets hit the mesa in that time, but none so directly above him as the first had been. He didn’t look at the rubble, already knowing he’d find at least one set of white plastoid if he tried. He’d find out who didn’t make it in the reports. For now, there was work to do.

The closer he got to the fighting, the worse he realized it was. The LT would be somewhere in the thick of it, probably. One of his new squad members was a medic, 8ball was pretty sure. The frontline was manned only by medics that had experience from Geonosis, and Baati wouldn’t stray too far from the unproven troopers assigned to him.

8ball ducked under flying plasma bolts and nearly toppled trying to swerve the panicked rush of troopers around him. Indistinct shouts and distant explosions blurred together in 8ball’s helmet audio processors, and he had half a mind to mute it entirely as he scanned and scanned for an officer—any officer at that point, he wasn’t picky. Fortunately, that wasn’t necessary; Baati was talking quickly with a medic 8ball couldn’t immediately ID and visibly perked up when 8ball entered his line of sight.

“Scout, report,” the lieutenant barked, and 8ball straightened despite himself.

He took a quick breath. “Our position on the mesa was compromised. SBD’s have been shooting at us. I realized comms went down when I tried to report position of approaching rollies and an incoming dropship of reinforcements. That’s when they started firing at us, too.”

“That explains a lot,” Baati said with a tired shake of his head. “Good job, trooper. Unfortunately, not a lot we can do about comms, under fire like we are.”

An idea started taking shape in 8ball’s mind, fuzzy but there. “Sir, I can do something. The jammer can’t be too far, right? Let me infiltrate their ranks. I’ll sneak around their flank and—”

“No. We need you here.” Baati didn’t even consider it. “I need you to run numbers to and from the frontline. We have to hold this position until the Jedi can complete their mission.”

“I understand,” 8ball said, then added, “sir,” and continued through at full speed, “but if you give me a chance, if there are any scouts still left with high ground, numbers—”

“No,” Baati repeated, more sternly this time. “There are too many variables for your plan to be worth the risk. If you can find the jam, if you can sneak through, if there are still scouts who can report in. If we survive long enough to get those numbers. I need you here, now, running the information we do have. This isn’t up for debate.”

8ball swallowed back a knot of frustration. “… Yes, sir. I understand.”

“Good. Then get out there. I need numbers of wounded on the frontlines. Lieutenant Banks should be to the southeast perimeter; he’ll have the most accurate estimates.”

8ball brushed past Baati’s new heavy gunner and let running draw the dull, thrumming anger from his chest to his legs. Nobody listened to him, and 8ball couldn’t fathom why. The battle was falling apart less than a half hour without comms; if this was going to go on longer, they’d need them back online, and soon. But noooo, go run numbers, 8ball. Let’s just resort to the most primitive form of communication available, that will save us.

Any plans 8ball fostered of proving his worth were swiftly dashed further with each information run he made.

“No, we can’t complete that maneuver, we’ve got too many wounded.”

“He has to do it, tell him to make it work.”

“Muhmuhmuhmuh—”

Okay, so maybe the mocking of officers wouldn’t be considered acceptable behavior for a subordinate, but 8ball figured it didn’t matter if it all stayed in his head. The head that started spinning in circles from the menial messenger bird act he’d been thrown into. A sickening shadow of envy started to build in 8ball’s gut, and for the first time in probably his entire life, he wished he had just been left on the frontlines with his brothers. It’d be a dry day on Kamino before he extended that to its logical conclusion of longing to be around Kyr, but it was easy to picture himself alongside Myth, 48, and Punt, taking pot shots at droids and arguing about whose kill count was highest. Course would roll his eyes so hard they’d see it through the visor, and 48 would joke that Course would have a higher kill count than all of them by the time he got through handling all the idiots who’d had the misfortune of being carelessly wounded within fifty meters of him.

Gods, he just wanted to fight. Or at least properly scout. Turns out, wars of attrition maybe weren’t the best place to be when your job description wasn’t just “shoot.”

8ball ran back and forth and back until eventually, the droids began to fall back, and, not long after, their comms came back online. Presumably their “high profile target” had either gotten away or been captured. 8ball didn’t even have the energy to hope it was the latter.

The Kaminoans designed him to run—or, at least, he felt like they had. He’d never been one to complain about a nice bout of exercise, but as he dragged his feet back to Baati, he found no shortage of annoyances: the hot, dusty air, or the utter stupidity of the job he’d been given, for example. And, at what felt like the very base of his brain stem, the constant, niggling sense that he’d not proven anything at all. He’d only been useful for the first ten minutes. The rest of his squad undoubtedly saw so much more action from their position on the front. Knowing them, Myth probably hadn’t even needed 8ball’s information to predict the enemy’s movements. Course would’ve been invaluable patching up the wounded on the fly. Hell, he could even picture 48 contributing more than him, if Punt let him help with ordnance (and when didn’t he?).

What did you do, 8ball? Oh, you know, just ran back and forth so some prickly officers could argue half a mile from each other.

Embarrassing, but 8ball refused to let that fall onto himself—it was embarrassing for Baati to doubt 8ball. How much better would the 212th have fared with comms back? The captain could’ve argued with the LC directly, no middleman required. It probably would’ve taken the same amount of time, too.

Baati didn’t seem aware of the blunder he’d made when 8ball stepped in front of him. Instead, the stupid man seemed pleased, turning to 8ball and ignoring the slow stream of troopers heading to the landing zone.

“Good job out there, trooper. You’re Crown Squad, right?”

“Yes, sir,” 8ball said, bottling up his instinctive anger.

He didn’t know how to read the LT even with his helmet off, especially now that the man wasn’t under battle stress. “Get yourself onto a dropship. Second priority after wounded and officers.”

8ball had already half turned toward the landing zone before those words processed through the growing fatigue in his psyche. Second priority?

“Sir?” 8ball asked warily, turning back to Baati at full attention. “What for?”

Suddenly, 8ball didn’t need to know this brother to read him. Concern pinched his brow, and he seemed to glance at his comm. “I’d’ve thought you’d heard already, with comms back… Shouldn’t assume, I guess. Sorry.” The LT straightened up a little, that pinch loosening as the officer stepped back into formality. “A few of your squad members were injured. They got a medical evac first thing when comms came back. I haven’t heard much beyond that.”

Baati’s words dropped like a rock in 8ball’s stomach, like the boulder that’d smashed through his vantage point maybe an hour prior. “But they’re okay?”

“Last I heard, they’re all still alive,” Baati said, a careful non-commitment. Technically “alive” wasn’t what 8ball asked, but he’d certainly take it.

He didn’t wait for dismissal; he doubted it was coming, anyway. He pushed through throngs of white armor, wishing, for once, that Kyr walked beside him to clear the way.

It took no time at all to find room on a transport for a single lone scout. The trip up wasn’t nearly as comfortable as it was coming down; besides being packed in like cattle awaiting slaughter, not a soul in the ship hadn’t ended up bloody, sweaty, or otherwise covered in dirt and grime. The helmet filters could only do so much.

8ball wondered briefly which of his brothers had been injured. It could’ve been any of them, really. Kyr and Course, as untouchable as they seemed in his mind’s eye, were easy targets, Kyr always just ahead of the squad and Course often a sitting duck treating the injured with laser focus. 48 made himself a target anytime he got within ten meters of Punt, not to mention how reckless he could get at times. And Myth…

8ball didn’t want to imagine Myth getting hurt, but something in his gut forced him to remember that it was always a possibility. Myth hadn’t ever scored as well as the rest of them in physical conditioning, hadn’t ever scored as high on the sims. And then there was his bad habit of getting distracted…

The moment the ship door opened, 8ball hit the ground running; he didn’t need anyone to instruct him to the medbay. He ran the whole way there, sharp satisfaction curbing some of his anxiety as other troopers nearly fell to get out of his way under threat of trampling.

Until a trooper didn’t get out of his way, and 8ball hit the ground right with him. It wasn’t until the trooper had him in a lock that 8ball realized it was Kyr.

“Don’t run in the halls,” Kyr snapped as he slowly let 8ball loose, and 8ball immediately bristled.

“Baati told me someone was hurt! Who is it?” He pushed himself upright and tried to read Kyr’s face. “Course? 48?” Bingo, Kyr’s whole face tightened like 8ball had punched him. “It’s 48? Is he okay?”

“He’s… He’ll be fine. He’s in bacta.”

8ball’s eyes widened. “In the tank?”

Kyr sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Yes, he’s in the tank. Just went in before you got here.”

“What happened?”

“Only Shock can answer that,” Kyr sighed.

8ball’s own brow furrowed. “Shock?” He thought hard, but he was certain that name had never come up. Maybe that was the new medic?

But no, Kyr shook his head and that pained expression faded to something a little softer. “It’s what Course is calling him. We found him with a MagnaGuard’s electrostaff in his hands—don’t ask, I really can’t explain anything until he’s back up.”

“48 got his name?” 8ball demanded, an ugly something brewing in his chest. Without me there? he didn’t add.

“If he likes it. I think he will, though.”

8ball couldn’t explain the sensation like a knife twisting between his ribs, but he tried not to deflate too visibly. “Oh. Cool. Where’s Myth?” he tried.

“Also in the medbay. He was found with Shock… He’s awake last I saw, but he really shouldn’t be up right now. He took some bad hits. You can talk to him tomorrow,” Kyr added, reaching to plant a hand firmly on 8ball’s shoulder when the scout started trying to push past to the medbay. “The medics are about to be swarmed. They don’t need anyone else in their way. Unless you’re hurt?”

It pained him, but 8ball shook his head. Kyr was right, for once. “They’re both okay though?”

“Yes, 8ball,” Kyr sighed. “Myth is okay, and Shock will be just fine once the medics get through with him.”

Will be, Kyr said. He wondered if Course would have the same optimism, had 8ball asked him instead. Was “will be” the prognosis, or Kyr’s own forced optimism?

“Alright,” 8ball agreed, more than a little reluctant. “I guess I can visit tomorrow.”

Kyr’s expression cleared up, and 8ball shouldn’t be pleased to have lifted any imagined burden from his most obnoxious brother. “Good. Come with me back to the barracks?”

An olive branch.

Sure. 8ball would let it all go… for today. Tomorrow? Only time would tell.

Web tumblr is still aggravating me so have the image again as a separation between chapter and notes.

Chapter 1 (Tumblr)

PREVIOUS: Chapter 2 (Tumblr)

AO3 Chapter 3

Accompanying Fic (What's In A Name?)

Infantry are the "default"; all troopers receive the same standard required physical and weapons training, but if a clone is not in a special track, he'll have a training period dedicated exclusively to advancing weapons training, formation practice, endurance training, live sims, etc.

Information analysts are the designated "brains" of a squad. If they aren't their squad's lead, they'll work with their squad lead to build and execute plans. Most information analysts will have at least a basic understanding of concepts like splicing and have an advanced understanding of factors such as land formations and native wildlife. They may be less physically imposing than other troopers (by a standard likely unnoticeable by most natborns, but that is recognizable by other troopers), because their specialized training involves little physical strain.

Specialized tracks are a broad range of potential focuses for troopers. Like the other trooper types, these are assigned upon decanting and are only changed in examples of extenuating circumstances (for example, if a squadmate fails out of their original track and is "demoted" to infantry). This category includes tracks such as heavy gunner, engineer, ordnance specialist, medic, scout, pilot, sniper, etc. There are various expectations placed on troopers in certain tracks—scouts must be good runners, snipers have to have an eye for detail, etc. If a clone is incapable of meeting the standard of his track by their third cycle (approx. 6 years old, developmentally), he is removed from his track and becomes infantry. This may also happen to information analysts. In this instance, the original infantry of their squad will be evaluated, and one of them will be inserted into an appropriate track.

For the sake of showing my work:

The Bad Batch exemplify "advanced" versions of some of these tracks. It's presumably that more clones like them would have been developed had they been viewed as "successful" experiments earlier on. Hunter is an advanced scout. Tech is an advanced information analyst. Crosshair is an advanced sniper. I actually think that Wrecker would have been an advanced heavy gunner (big, bulky, able to take a lot and dish it back without too much delay), but found more love in ordnance than rotary weaponry (although he is certainly an expert at both).

Domino Squad is a little tougher, because of how little we see of Cutup and Droidbait (my poor boy barely even died). I think Echo is likely an information analyst, which is primarily due to his technological expertise in TBB (I simply think he would have a more "typical" prosthetic hand by this point if wanted one, so I think he prefers the scomp). I think it's also in line with his characterization in Rookies. He's the one to consider liquid tibanna as a method for destroying the base, solving the problem Hevy raises. Hevy was a heavy gunner, of course. (So is Commander Thorn.) I also believe Hevy was squad lead, and I will die on that hill. Fives is a fun wild card for me. I lean infantry, because nothing else stands out as obvious to me. And also because I think that Droidbait was the other tracked member of their squad. He's clearly got a knack for getting himself into precarious positions that ended up with him having a slightly unfortunate name; I think he's had a little less active-battle training than, say, Cutup and Fives. I imagine him as perhaps a scout or engineer.

And Delta Squad. Fixer is an IA, Scorch is an ordnance specialist, and Sev is a sniper. I would peg Boss as infantry, but I think technically you could make a case for few options since he's the played character and doesn't have a lot of solid character established in the current canon. I could make an argument here reinforcing my 5-squad rule by saying commando squads wouldn't need a second infantry trooper, but this is already long winded and rambling.

“When we touch down, I want 48 and 8ball to help Course to medical. Myth, with me.”

The transport ship rocked ominously in the gale of the storm as Kyr gave them their instructions. Myth found himself relaxing despite it. If he was with Kyr, that meant he’d probably be doing something administrative. Helping with the combat report, maybe, or recounting inventory and expended supplies. No matter what, it would almost certainly be better than a trip to the medical bay.

8ball seemed to think the same. “I’m sure 48 could take Course alone,” the scout implored. “Or, hell, Course could probably get to the medbay on his own?” He inched a bit closer to Myth.

Kyr fixed a tired glare on 8ball. “No. You were both there when Course got hurt, you’re responsible for making sure he gets helped.”

8ball bristled immediately. “He was supposed to be the one watching for bugs! I was shooting an SBD—and so was 48! You can’t just put us on babysitting duty because you’re mad you didn’t do anything to stop Course from—”

“He can.” Course’s voice cut in flatly, immediately shutting 8ball up. “He is squad lead, and he tells you what you do, where, and when.”

Blood buzzed in Myth’s ears at the undercurrent of anger in Course’s voice. Course was… not frightening. None of his brothers were frightening. But Myth hated conflict on a good day, and today… hadn’t been a good day. And Course was never the one to start a conflict. He was the closest thing they had to a mediator—the only one that could ever hope to redirect Kyr—and hearing him with that barely concealed hint of something boiling under the surface did frighten Myth.

“—miserable existence! Ooh, wow, he’s got a fancy title! He’s still got the same brain as any of us!”

Uh oh. Myth missed the first half of that, but it didn’t take an information analyst to see that 8ball wasn’t responding well to Course’s attempt at grace. His mouth opened uncertainly, but he quickly shut it as 48 began to speak.

“Shut up, man.” Myth could hear the rolling eyes, even if his brother still wore his helmet—48 was not impressed. “It’s been a long day already. Do you have to do this right now?”

It was as close to defending Kyr as 48 would get right now. Probably more for Course than anyone else, but Myth doubted any of them were enjoying this argument. Green Squad, silent backdrops in the dim transport, made no attempt to intrude on this display. Pull and Push shared a look, and Myth’s stomach dropped.

“It won’t take too long,” Myth blurted. “If you just get out of the ship as quickly as you can and go directly to the medical bay—you probably wouldn’t even have to stay to explain the situation to the medical droids, Course is awake, and it isn’t like there’ll be any trainers looking to cause problems right now with everything going on—”

“You’re stressing Myth out,” 48 interjected, annoyance growing. “Just suck it up.”

8ball elbowed 48 in retort, but he turned to glance at Myth, eyes searching for a moment. “… Fine. I’ll do the thing that nobody involved thinks is necessary to satisfy Kyr’s ego—but I’m not doing it because you told me to,” he directed at Kyr, an accusing finger tapping the squad leader on the chest.

Kyr did not respond. Probably for the best. He was probably seething—he had a temper just as bad as 8ball, but he was usually a little better at handling it. Plus, it was typically reserved for just 8ball and 48. Myth and Course got a little more lenience from him—except for when one of them had two broken limbs and tried to argue against being helped, apparently? That was a new development, and he’d have to take it into account. Myth couldn’t remember Kyr ever blatantly disregarding protocol like that before, and it concerned him, but Myth hoped that they could convince Course to at least be a little kinder to Kyr in the medical report than he’d been in the canyon.

The transport shuddered as it landed in the hangar, jolting Myth out of his thoughts. Kyr put a hand on his back while Punch and Punt slid the transport door open. All ten troopers immediately poured out of the cramped space, more than eager to get away from the stifling air they’d been stuck in.

Kyr set a steady hand on Myth’s shoulder to both ground him and guide him through the cacophonous hangar. Myth glued himself to Kyr’s side, not eager to get nudged or shoved by any clone that didn’t put much stock in the idea of personal space. One of the best parts about being placed with Kyr was that he had a certain way of walking that made other people move out of his path. Even when he had full kit, just the set of his shoulders and the weight with which he stepped had even the brothers that didn’t know him scrambling to make space. In another life, he would have been a CC. Maybe even an RC. Myth didn’t like to think in “could-have-been”s, but that was one thought he couldn’t help but sit with sometimes.

People steered clear of Kyr because he was intimidating, in-control, and good at what he did. People avoided Myth because he talked too much and never gave a straight answer.

… It wasn’t quite the same.

“I want you to help me with this report,” Kyr said in the quiet of the sterile white halls, voice as steady and confident as always. Only the barely perceptible swivel of his head (searching for eavesdroppers?) told Myth why he wanted help.

“Do you think Course will really put your protocol breach in his report?” Myth couldn’t help but ask. He wanted to backtrack immediately, nervous about speaking it into being. “I mean, he wouldn’t, right? That would hurt all our chances at a decent placement. He was bluffing to get you to back off.”

Kyr didn’t answer immediately, steering Myth into the cafeteria. Not many troopers had found it in them to eat yet, so the usual chatter was a pleasant murmur. They got in line, Kyr ahead of Myth. Myth didn’t comment on Kyr filling his tray for him.

Kyr took him toward the far wall, leaving a couple tables of buffer for any incoming troopers who preferred to hug the wall outright, and they sat together at a round table. It was only once Myth took the first bite of his meal that Kyr answered his question.

“He said he would, so he will. He might let 48 talk him into being a little forgiving about it, but he won’t go back on the threat.”

Anxiety burst through Myth’s chest, freezing tendrils wrapping around his heart. He tapped his foot on the metal leg of the table. If one of the biggest outliers of their performance in their reports was that Kyr had ignored protocol, they would be lucky to get a placement at all. The idea of the Kaminoans reading that, deciding they wouldn’t get deployed after all, and putting them back in training popped into his head and refused to leave. They could hold them back. Use them as an example to any of the ninth-cycle cadets getting too big for their helmets. Or they could recondition Kyr and send them all to a moon where he'd never get the opportunity to break protocol ever again, even if he wanted to.

“Myth. Myth! Hey.” The warmth of Kyr’s hand between his arm plates snapped Myth out of his thoughts and reminded him painfully that he had been shot earlier. “We can make it work. That’s why I want your help. There’s a reason they use us instead of droids.” His voice dropped a bit, careful not to be overheard in the relative quiet of the mess. “If I can give a really good reason why I didn’t listen to Course, we’ll be fine.”

He wanted to wave it away. If they could justify the decision effectively enough, Kyr’s hardheaded decision could prove the benefit of using clones, not the drawbacks. It could work. It could at least keep them away from the attention of the wrong people.

 “Okay. Okay. You—have you started the report? I can help.”

Kyr exhaled, and Myth watched the crease between his eyebrows relax as he removed his hand from Myth’s arm to take another bite of his food. “I did inventory and expended resources on the transport. Finished everything up to the… attack, on the way into atmo. Once you’ve eaten, we can head to the barracks and finish it. I need to submit this—soon. I got an alert when we landed that they’re reviewing and assigning us ASAP.”

Another quick bolt of anxiety raced through Myth. “Already?” He set his spoon down. “I don’t—we don’t have to eat. We can work on it now.”

“No. Eat your food.” Kyr nodded at Myth’s tray. “You’ve had a long day, and you barely ate before we left.”

Myth stared at his nutrient mush, mouth suddenly dry. “… It’s really fine. I’d rather get the report out of the way.”

Kyr sighed, and Myth shrank back a bit. “How about this. You eat, and I’ll start working on it. I’ll ask you for your help as I need it.”

“… Okay.”

The mush did not grow any more appetizing as Kyr put on his helmet and started tapping at his bracer. Myth knew he was looking at the report draft, but between the emotionless visor and the rapid typing, he exuded an aura of annoyance that did nothing to ease Myth’s discomfort.

He began poking at the mush. Really, it wasn’t appetizing on a good day—not since they’d changed its consistency. Where before you could at least pretend to chew it, the new mush was almost slimy. It made the exact same taste seem vastly less appealing.

When they’d originally made the change, Myth hadn’t been able to stomach it. He’d tried—really, really tried, but he couldn’t manage to eat more than a bite at each meal before his rolling stomach stopped him. He’d given his portions to 8ball for a week before his body started to get too weak for their squad training. Despite the physical issues, the real catalyst that had forced him to start eating again had been his specialty track scores. The brain fog that came over him had resulted in him getting the worst scores he’s pretty sure any information analyst had ever gotten. He never scored great—he could never settle on a single strategy, and the trainers never let him forget it—but the threat of detracking looming over him was more than enough to make him push through the nausea.

He'd gotten used to it. Eventually. Staring at the goop now brought him memories of the way he threw up the entire meal the first time he’d managed to make himself eat all of it. Not fun memories. He’d gotten odd stares from all the other squads in the mess, and more than a couple cadets had laughed at him. He’d been dragged off to the medbay by a droid and poked and prodded for an hour before it declared that he must have eaten too quickly and sent him back on his way with a ration bar, since he didn’t have time to go back for a new meal before his squad training.

Myth took a deep breath, studying the glint of the overhead lights on the mush. “You sent Course with 48, 8ball, and Punt because Course has the highest scores in close-range fighting and the position of the SBDs at the intersection of the passes meant he’d be best positioned on the frontlines.”

Kyr didn’t have the audacity to pretend he’d originally had a good reason to send Course with the smaller group, so he nodded and tapped away accordingly.

Slowly, Myth lifted a small glob of nutrient mush to his mouth, swallowing it quickly. “… Course was ambushed by a Geonosian warrior. He was disarmed and lifted while the others were in the middle of eliminating the SBDs, leaving them unable to help quickly enough to prevent him from being taken. They split their focus between the remaining SBDs and the Geonosian—Punt and Eighty finished off the supers while 48, who was sent as backup, began to shoot at the Geonosian. When the last super went down, they focused all fire on the Geonosian. The increased fire provided enough distraction for Course to extract himself from the hold, and he fell.” Myth paused for a moment.

Kyr didn’t push him, continuing to tap away with increased speed following Myth’s massive information outburst.

Myth breathed in slowly, then out, then took another small bite of his food. In, out, bite. After a third repetition, he spoke again, slowly, but as firmly as he knew how. “Course hit his head against the rocks on the way down. Although he was verbal and cognizant, you did not think him fully aware at the time of his landing.” He paused again, air stalling in his chest until he remembered to breathe. “You expressed concern of Course’s ability to walk quickly enough to the rendezvous point. He only repeated the protocol for broken limbs. Believing him to be concussed and not fully understanding of the extent of the damage to his legs, you followed protocol to deliver stim shots to the affected limbs, as well as to his spinal cord in case of spinal injury and to hopefully alleviate the suspected concussion.”

Kyr nodded slowly, tapping with deliberate intent.

“Following the injections, you carried him through the majority of the mountain pass until you were certain we would make the rendezvous on time with his impeded pace.”

“So, we’re playing up the urgency aspect of it?” Kyr took off his helmet to take a bite of his own food.

“Course likely won’t include the exact timeline in his own report,” Myth reasoned, slowly growing more confident in his words. “His reports are very short. It’ll be something like ‘advised squad lead of protocol but was dismissed’.”

“I almost feel bad for implying he isn’t a reliable source of medical advice,” Kyr muttered dryly.

“For good reason,” Myth said mindlessly. “He’s never given us any reason not to listen to him before.”

Kyr went quiet, picking at his food for another minute before putting his helmet back on and continuing to fill out his report.

Myth made slow work of his mush. With his job fully completed, he wasn’t as anxious, but his hunger had already been spoiled. Not much any of them could do to fix that.

The rest of their squad would have long since made it to the medical wing by then. Myth wondered if he and Kyr would pass 8ball and 48 on the way to their barracks. He was pretty sure both of them had eaten all of their food pre-deployment, but that didn’t mean they wouldn’t be hungry. But if neither Kyr nor Course hounded them to go get food, would they…?

“Are you not going to finish your food?”

Kyr’s unmodulated voice snapped Myth out of his mind abruptly, and Myth stared as the goop dripped from his spoon back down to his tray. “… I’m really not hungry,” he mumbled.

Kyr sighed, and Myth shrank back a bit. Kyr shook his head. “It’s fine. You ate something, at least…”

Myth pushed the tray away from himself at the—not quite permission, but acceptance. He watched Kyr finish his own food in a couple bites, then stand.

“Well, we may as well go to our barracks,” Kyr said with another sigh. “Our training is cancelled for at least the next day cycle. I’m sure the trainers are trying to figure out what happens now.”

Myth stood with him, wringing his hands a bit as Kyr took both of their trays to disposal. “You submitted your report?” he verified.

“Yeah. It’s getting processed now.”

Shoulders relaxing, Myth found it easier to breathe. If their report was turned in, that meant it would be reviewed shortly. He wondered if Course would even have time to submit his medical report. He hadn’t been looking during the flight; had Course submitted it while they were still on the shuttle? Surely, they wouldn’t make judgements on placement before both reports were in.

Despite himself, Myth’s anxiety began to blossom into anticipation. If their generous take on the events of the day were taken at face value… Well, it wouldn’t look half bad. Only one major injury, 100% survival rate, and they followed instructions to a T.

“Myth.”

Myth startled guiltily, quickly turning to Kyr, who stood waiting for him. To his credit, he didn’t seem like he was actually annoyed with Myth’s spaciness, but the tired look in his eye and the tenseness in his back made Myth still feel like he was only adding on to his squad lead’s stress.

Kyr’s expression softened after a moment, and his next sigh was not nearly as severe as the last several had been. “Let’s go back to our barracks,” he said, voice gentler. “We’ve done our jobs. Now we get to shower and rest.”

Myth faltered for just a moment, then nodded. That nervous anticipation remained, but if Kyr deemed there to be nothing more they could do, then that was that. He stepped in beside Kyr and let himself be herded toward the promising chill of their sleep pods.

The walk itself held no surprises for them, but upon reaching the door to their wing, a small droid sat stationary. As they approached, its eyes lit up—eerie, opaque white windows—and its head swiveled toward them.

“CT-0105-203-0918-01.”

Myth’s eyes widened, and his attention snapped directly to Kyr, who looked as stricken as Myth felt to hear his full identification code spoken at him.

It took Kyr only a moment to recover from the surprise. “That would be me.”

The rest of the droid’s mechanics began to start up. Its boosters activated with a high whir, and it lifted itself a few feet to bring itself level with the clones’ eyes. “CT-0918, you are summoned to briefing room 27-8 to await orders. The rest of your squad may continue their designated recovery period.”

Myth couldn’t help but stare. Kyr’s expression schooled itself in a matter of seconds to something more confident, like he wouldn’t have expected anything less.

“Alright. Are you here to escort me?”

“Affirmative. Follow me.”

Kyr put a warm hand on Myth’s shoulder as the droid began to drift down the hall. “I’ll be back,” he said, promptly following his escort.

Myth stood in the hall for a few seconds after he lost sight of Kyr. Even though Kyr had told him that they would be placed as soon as possible, pulling squad leads to wait for results sounded like a sudden decision. How long before they were given their placement? How closely would the details of their reports be examined, really?

He wandered into the barracks in a daze, oblivious to the bemused glances he received from the other squads as he made his way to the Crown Squad bunks.

48 was the one to jar him out of his muddled state. “Did you hear? We’re going to be placed! Pull heard a nattie saying that the CCs were all reviewing the reports ASAP.”

Myth started to regret eating the caf food, given how much his stomach began to roll. The thought of a CC—a future officer—reviewing their messily spun report made him want to throw up again. What if they realized it was intentionally skewed? What if they pulled the security footage of the caf and realized Kyr asked Myth for help? Myth’s earlier paranoia of reconditioning sprung back to the forefront of his mind. Falsifying official reports wasn’t a light crime. Did this count?

“… hope we go somewhere busy,” he heard 8ball telling 48 from his place in his extended pod.

“Like Coruscant?” 48 asked, dubious. “You wouldn’t find me dead there. If I’m gonna get deployed, I’m gonna be somewhere I can show the clankers who’s the superior soldier. Can’t do that so close to the core.”

“I was thinking more like big warzones. Somewhere I can run around, y’know? Lots of fun angles to catch ‘em off guard.”

48 rolled his eyes. “So you wanna give Course a heart attack? Poor guy spent the whole time on Geonosis hovering over Myth’s graze. He wouldn’t survive somewhere busier.”

Myth realized then that Course wasn’t present. His pod was closed, and the panel suggested it wasn’t occupied. He glanced between 8ball and 48. “Is Course still in medical?” he asked.

 48 turned back to him. “Oh. Yeah, apparently his legs are super fucked up. The droid said it wasn’t that big of a deal, but they held him to make sure the injections didn’t get screwed by him walking around.”

Frowning, Myth nodded. That made sense.

“Did you get your graze checked out?” 8ball asked. It wasn’t said accusingly, but it didn’t need to be for Myth’s expression to turn guilty.

“I forgot,” he said. He really had. He hadn’t thought about it at all since Kyr put pressure on it earlier—he’d been quickly distracted by the borderline insubordination they committed.

48 shook his head. “It’s just a graze, and Course treated it anyway. Probably better to wait until the medbay isn’t so busy with the guys who really got injured.”

“Hope you’re ready for Kyr and Course to accept that answer,” 8ball warned. “They’ll be fussing the minute they figure you out.”

Myth moved to their storage bins and started methodically removing his armor. “I’ll go when it isn’t so busy,” he echoed 48. “They’re probably oversaturated with injured by now.”

A passing clone laughed, and Myth froze mid doffing.

“Don’t suppose they could fix your head while you’re there?” Myth did not turn his head, but the unknown brother kept teasing anyway. “Or is your condition terminal?”

“Fuck off, Hud,” 48 ground out. “You’re not any funnier today than you were yesterday. Or the day before that.”

“Just a joke, bud. I know you clowns are delicate, but you gotta lighten up.”

Myth saw 8ball jumping down from his pod from the corner of his eye.

“Yeah? We aren’t the ones that threw up in the dropships. Unless Bingo was misremembering when they told me about that?”

The passing brother—Hud—went quiet for a few seconds before hotly going, “It was motion sickness. We’ve never been in actual ships before, I couldn’t exactly help it.”

48 spoke again, evidently gleeful to learn this piece of gossip. “Delicate stomach, Hud? I didn’t expect that out of you.”

“Oh, fuck off.” Hud’s voice grew fainter, and Myth relaxed as he realized the other clone was walking away. “You guys’re gonna regret that in a year when I’m an officer.”

A hysterical laugh broke out of 48, and he collapsed onto his bunk in sporadic giggles as they were left alone again. “That dumbass? An officer? Over my dead body.”

8ball scoffed in response, walking over and beginning to help Myth remove his armor. “If he can’t even handle a little turbulence, you won’t have to worry about it.”

Myth bit the inside of his cheek, slowly continuing to doff his armor with 8ball’s help.

“I mean,” continued 48, “seriously, good on him for having plans, but really? He’s gotta find some more attainable life goals. Like surviving.”

8ball floated into Myth’s peripheral in the process of unlatching his rerebrace, and Myth watched him raise an eyebrow. “What, like you? Sir ‘I Can Become A Commando, No Really, It’s Entirely Feasible’—”

“It is!” 48 insisted. “Just because it hasn’t happened before doesn’t mean it won’t.”

Their voices faded out while Myth focused on removing his armor. He couldn’t pretend that he wasn’t upset by the teasing. He never could—he just didn’t know how. 48 always did it without problem. Course and Kyr hardly seemed to blink whenever cruel words ended up being thrown in their direction. 8ball could give it back better than he got it. Why was Myth the only one that always shut down?

The teasing wasn’t even that big of a deal. It wasn’t malicious. Like Hud said, it was a joke.

8ball put a hand around Myth’s wrist, drawing his eyes up.

His brother wasn’t making a deal about it, but Myth could see the concern creased in his brow. “What about you?” 8ball asked, those creases easing a little while he spoke. “What’s your plan? Where would you want us to get sent?”

Myth took a moment to find his words, and when he did any energy from earlier was gone. “… Somewhere with an interesting ecosystem,” he mumbled.

8ball nodded, pulling him toward the ladder to the bunks. “That sounds good. I’d probably have good cover, too.”

“… I want to see different plants and animals.” Myth remembered his modules; he’d always gotten more modules and more in-depth modules than the rest of his squad, as an information analyst, and he remembered how many times he’d come back fawning over the flora and fauna of different planets. He understood more about the different lifeforms of Felucia than he understood about natborns as a whole.

“So definitely not Coruscant,” 48 laughed. “Unless stray tookas and criminal lowlifes count?”

Myth climbed up to his own bunk while 8ball responded.

“I think Course’s the only one who’d actually like us to end up there. Although, Kyr…” 8ball got a thoughtful look on his face. “Maybe.”

“It would be them,” 48 complained.

8ball did not climb back up to his bunk, instead sitting cross-legged on the cold metal flooring. “Well, wherever we end up it’s gonna be with Green Squad. I’m pretty sure they’re legally not allowed to separate us, what with Punch being Kyr’s handler.”

48 sighed. “Truly, a masterclass of a soldier. Able to lead without leading… What would we do without him?”

“Get chewed out. Constantly. And maybe killed,” 8ball deadpanned.

Myth weighed the merit of closing his pod. It wasn’t that he disliked his brothers bantering, but his nerves had been fried throughout the course of the past twenty-four hours, and the thought of them talking poorly about their squad lead in the middle of the crowded barracks made him want to smother them with his thin pillow. Best to just not hear it at all.

Despite his misgivings, Myth did not close the pod. Hearing his brothers joke like their world wasn’t changing irrevocably put Myth a little bit more at ease than he would be with his own thoughts, even if the jokes added to his overall stress. The lesser of two evils.

His compromise for this was to zone out. He didn’t have a datapad, which had been left behind in the rush of the first call to Geonosis, so he couldn’t study his modules—which, he hadn’t considered before then, likely would not be continued. If they were deployed, they would have no more time for educational modules. Would they just have to get by with briefings? Would the information analysts have time before engagements to study the terrain and wildlife modules for the planets they were being sent to? They wouldn’t always have time for that.

There were too many unknown variables. Myth couldn’t finish drafting a single plan without it being countered with a potential roadblock he hadn’t ever dreamed of two moments prior.

 Myth wasn’t sure how much time had passed between climbing into his bunk and the door to the barracks opening again. The Crown bunks weren’t terribly close, but it didn’t take proximity to figure out that the flood of clones entering were the squad leads. Within moments Kyr approached, fully absorbed in a datapad. A quick glance to Green Squad across the room confirmed that Punch had a matching one. Our orders.

All three present Crowns dropped down to the floor without hesitation.

“Well?” 8ball pressed. “Where are we going? What’s the verdict?”

48 clasped his hands together pleadingly. “Don’t say Coruscant.” he muttered. “Don’t say Coruscant, don’t say Coruscant, don’t say—”

“It isn’t Coruscant!” Kyr snapped, physically swatting at 48 without looking up from the datapad. Then, reading directly from the screen, he said, “Following the Green-Crown Unit’s performance at Geonosis, CTs—well, all of us, I’m not reading that—have been selected for deployment with the 212th Attack Battalion—”

“Led by who?” 8ball pressed.

“Do we get a Jedi?” 48 cut in.

Kyr finally broke eye contact with the datapad to glare at them both. “If you two would shut up for twenty seconds, I would answer those exact questions!”

Both of their mouths snapped shut, too excited at hearing about where they’d ended up to bother being nuisances.

“As I was saying,” Kyr muttered. “Let’s see… deployment with the 212th Attack Battalion of the 7th Sky Corps, led by High Jedi General Obi-Wan Kenobi and Jedi Commander Anakin Skywalker, alongside Marshal Commander CC-2224—”

48 interrupted again immediately. “2224?”

“Wrong focus,” 8ball shook a hand in 48’s face. “Hello? Who are the Jedi? We get two?”

“Jedi Commanders are Jedi apprentices,” Myth found himself saying. “The High General would be his mentor.”

“Second priority focus,” 8ball said pleasantly, physically covering 48’s mouth when it opened again. “High General? That’s for the corps, obviously. What about the battalion?”

“That is for the battalion.” Myth did a double take, but Kyr’s face stayed deathly serious. “The 212th Battalion’s only listed commanders and general are the same as that for the corps.”

“Surely that must be an error,” Myth muttered.

48 did not seem nearly as bothered as Myth was to learn this. “Oh, Hud is about to hate me.”

Kyr raised an eyebrow, but rather than question it, he said, “Only if he got deployed to the same battalion as us. We ship out first thing in the morning.”

Every new piece of information made Myth’s heart palpitate more sporadically. “First—? But—Course…?”

“The wounded will be transferred to the medical bay of the Star Destroyers,” Kyr said emotionlessly. “From my understanding, we’re being transferred to Coruscant, where our home ships will be designated, and the Jedi briefed.”

48 sighed bodily, but 8ball’s eyes lit up. “This really is just starting, huh?”

“Very suddenly.” Myth’s mouth felt dry.

They’d had ten years and yet no time at all to prepare. Course’s legs were broken. 48 had just barely reached the final stage growth requirements last cycle, and Myth wasn’t any of them had ever passed their exams with anything more than a “Permissible” score. How had they ended up in a High General’s battalion? A Marshal Commander’s battalion?

Something had gone wrong. He couldn’t be more certain, but none of his brothers seemed to be nearly as concerned. The Kaminoans are using us as fodder, his mind whispered traitorously. We’ll all be dead in a month.

An attack battalion of this calibre had to have sandbags to throw at the front lines. That would be the Crowns—and Green Squad, unwitting but unavoidable casualties in the crashing dropship that was the Crown track record.

Myth felt ill.

But looking at his brothers, 48 and 8ball excitedly scheming and dreaming up all of the crazy battles they’d surely see and even Kyr cracking a smile in their beaming presence, Myth couldn’t find it in himself to say any of his thoughts aloud. Instead, silently, he returned to his bunk. He would skip his shower for now.

His brothers noticed his movement, quieting down a bit as he moved, but Myth didn’t bother sitting in his extended pod. Instead, he climbed directly in and closed it, flimsy pillow over his head as though he could still make out any of the words in the barracks beyond. He didn’t think about their odds—or the disaster that had followed them from decanting to deployment. Instead, he recalled the way Course had twisted out of the grasp of that Geonosian. He remembered the excited sound 48 had made when he got his first confirmed kill, and the way 8ball had clapped him and 48 both on the shoulder when the mission was complete, when it was time to move to the rendezvous.

He and his brothers weren’t fodder. They weren’t meat droids, and they weren’t going to die easy. Not after they’d made it as far as they had. In a way, the hard part was over. They’d never had a simple day in their lives, on Kamino. Geonosis… hadn’t ended well. But up until Course got picked up, it was the closest Myth had ever come to feeling like they were doing something really right.

Remembering Green Squad truly put Myth’s racing heart to rest. As long as they had the Greens, they would be fine. Maybe he didn’t have quite enough faith in his own batchmates, but their brothers from Green Squad were needed to temper some of the worse habits of the Crowns. The thought of being deployed without Punch to temper Kyr or Pull to make sense of Myth’s own nonsensical plans was just a bit nauseating.

He remembered Course pulling him aside to repatch his arm, and the way Kyr had insisted on carrying Course out of that canyon. He remembered 8ball’s adrenaline-filled hurtling back to their unit, pursued by a squad of B1s who weren’t prepared for what Green Squad and Crown Squad had in store for them.

They would stick together, and they would survive. They always looked out for one another.

They would be fine.

-- -- -- -- -- -- -- --

I still hate web tumblr. Why can't I just insert a line? Why have the gods forsaken us?

Chapter 3 is in an interesting purgatory atm but the accompanying ficlet has been written for literally like 6 months, so there's that.

Chapter 1 (Tumblr)

Chapter 2 Spotify Playlist Here (Spoiler Free, I believe)

AO3 Chapter 2

Instead, I propose a corps of 40,960 troopers. Each corps has 16 regiments (each being 2,560 troopers). Each regiment has 4 battalions (of 640 troopers), and each battalion has 4 companies (individually 160 troopers). This is where we get into the units that we're more familiar with—such as Ghost Company and Torrent Company. Breaking the companies up gives us 4 platoons, such as the one headed by Waxer. Here is where I step out again from the trenches of division and multiplication.

I want a division between Platoons and Squads. This is where my "Units" come in. A unit is two squads squished together. Unlike a squad or a platoon, which are static, a unit might be a combination of clones best suited for the assignment at hand. Units would be referred to as their squad names combined (ie "Green-Crown Unit", "Orbit-Nexu Unit") and the mix-and-match nature would allow skills to be better distributed for the needs of the clones within. You could pair a squad with a medic with a squad that's going to be under heavy fire, or a squad with a heavy gunner can be put with a squad that needs to be covered while they try to help retrieve the wounded from the field.

There would be two "heads" of a unit, since each squad would have a single squad lead. Rather than pick between the two, they would be expected to work together and coordinate their squad members together.

A platoon would be 4 units, or 40 troopers in total.

EDIT 8/27: This just got reblogged again and for anyone interested I have made a few tiny changes based on some reblogs (which I did not see soon enough to reply to meaningfully). For one thing, I agreed with the comment that it's stupid to not have something between Corps and Regiments. In come Divisions. As far as I can tell (from Wookieepedia and memory, because I'm not going through every episode to fact check for a niche military unit type) Divisions were Not really used consistently in TCW era. For my worldbuilding purposes, a division is 1/4 of a corps and composed of 4 regiments. Every day George Lucas makes me do more work. Someone needs to pay me for doing math in my free time.

Also, I think there's been a good bit of critique on my idea of units having two leaders. I use the term "leader" very loosely. In terms of actual power, they have none. They're in charge of keeping their squads on task and coordinating with each other; some squads will naturally have chemistry with others, especially if they've worked together before, but for squads that don't get along, think of them as supervisors connecting two different work branches. Their only special job is to make sure the ACTUAL jobs (determined by higher ups [Lieutenants, Captains, Commanders, etc etc]) is done.

I liked the bit of commentary on backend workers (In TCW, this would include the troopers we see on the bridge of the Venators or in the security rooms in prison, etc) but I do think they're just specialized squads/platoons/etc. I do not have the willpower to give them any sort of special category in my already incredibly twisting Obsidian vault.

“48! Get back in formation!” Kyr snapped beside him.

Course didn’t bother turning to see what trouble their idiot brother was getting up to this time, far too preoccupied trying to patch up the unnamed clone that a Geonosian had flung down to their squad from one of the ledges a few meters above them in the canyon. The poor guy was thoroughly dazed from his short flight, but his wounds weren’t serious.

Kyr’s steady presence hovered by Course’s left side. “Status?”

“Stable. He’ll be able to keep fighting as soon as he’s able to think straight.”

The newcomer groaned out something vaguely interrogative, and Course turned to address Kyr head-on.

“Give me two minutes.”

Kyr’s visor tilted toward the ledges, and Course knew he was on the lookout for more bugs. “Hurry.”

There’s not really much I can do to speed the process up, Course thought dryly as their unit moved to block the wounded clone from any new avenue of attack. Nonetheless, he leaned over the clone.

“Break’s over,” he said bluntly. “As soon as you’re up we can get you back to your unit.”

“What… Where…?”

A flash of annoyance flickered through Course, and he tried his best to smother it. It was reasonable that a trooper would be confused after such an atypical experience. It wasn’t his fault he’d hit his head. Probably.

“A Geo dropped you down onto my squad. We’re gonna get you back up to yours.”

“Oh.” The other clone pushed himself into a sitting position, crest waving like a flag as he looked around to try and get his bearings back about him.

“Is he up?” Kyr called from where he spoke with 48.

“It hasn’t been two minutes,” Course reminded.

“I’m up,” the clone announced, pushing himself the rest of the way up.

Course sighed, but offered the clone a hand, pulling him to his feet.

“Myth contacted his unit,” Kyr told Course. “They’re sending down their gunner to help bring him back up. We just have to stick around to make sure no Geonosians interrupt their climb.”

The gunner in question just barely peeked over the edge of the east-side ledge, fiddling with something, presumably in preparation to drop down. The ledge wasn’t too tall, maybe six meters, but the wall was sheer, and the Crown-Green unit didn’t have the gear to scale it even if they wanted to. Fortunately, the unit above them seemed to be prepared for this exact situation, and in moments, the heavy gunner was descending.

Course knew that Green Squad alone could probably handle bug-watching, so he didn’t hesitate to use the lapse of downtime to head directly over to Myth and drag him under an overhang to check him over.

“Wh- Course!” Myth yelped, staggering as Course pulled him along. “I’m fine!”

Course ignored him, opting instead to remove Myth’s upper bicep armor with a quick click and pull of the release mechanism. Immediately, the magnets deactivated and the rerebrace fell away from his brother’s arm in two pieces. Course twisted Myth’s arm to better assess the area where a stray bolt had skimmed him earlier that morning during their first big firefight.

Course removed the hastily applied bacta patch from the sliver of blister-bright skin revealed by the incision in the body glove, and Myth’s hiss through clenched teeth told Course that he wasn’t enjoying it. But the bacta did its job, and as Course applied a new one (more careful now that he had the time to dedicate to it, carefully centered so that the bacta-infused center sat flush with the worst of the burn), he grew confident that it would be fully closed by the time all this mess was over.

“Seriously, it was fine,” Myth muttered, his words just barely making it through the vocoder.

“Don’t be a brat,” Course said. “Infection is one of the stupidest ways you could die. I’ve been wanting to fix that patch for hours.”

“We’re supposed to be watching for Geonosians!”

The sound of blasters firing followed immediately by a bright, “Got it!” from their unit made Course raise an unimpressed eyebrow under his helmet even knowing his brother wouldn’t be able to see it.

“I think they’ve got it handled.”

Myth’s visor dropped toward the ground, and for a moment Course considered poking fun at him for being so petulant, but then Kyr ducked into the cover with them.

“Dral’s back with Orbit-Nexu,” he informed. “We need to keep moving.”

Course latched Myth’s rerebrace back on. “Of course.”

“Of course,” Myth echoed absently, already moving back toward the unit the moment his armor was secured.

“Any problems?” Kyr asked, a hint of his Leader Voice peeking in past the otherwise innocuous question.

Course shook his head. “Just took a second to redress Myth’s graze,” he dismissed. “Didn’t have time to do it properly the first time.”

“Good. Let’s get going, then.”

Together, they headed back toward the unit, where 48 was giving Myth a dramatic retelling of what Course guessed would be the Geo kill that he had just performed.

“—hit it right in the wing, it went spiraling, and I—”

“Alright soldiers,” Kyr interrupted, “break’s over. We’ve still got a rendezvous to make.”

48 threw his head back, clearly personally targeted, but he moved with the rest of them to get back into formation. Kyr and Punch side-by-side in the lead, followed by Myth and Push, then Course and Pinch, Pull and Punt, and 48 on his own at the rear of the group. Comfortable. Familiar. Protocol.

Technically speaking, it was protocol to have infantry at the rear to prevent any specialists from getting attacked from behind. Course knew that 48 specifically got put in that slot to prevent him from getting sidetracked trying to talk to the person beside him, but it felt like a bigger risk that he would get a bright idea and leave the formation, and then none of them would notice until he was already gone. Kyr clearly had more faith in him than Course did.

“8ball is heading back our way,” Kyr announced over local comms as they continued the trek through the dusty canyon. “He says it should be a clear shot to the landing field.”

Kyr did his best to conceal his apprehension, but unfortunately, Course was also familiar with their brother. Just because 8ball thought the path was clear, that didn’t mean that it was by anyone else’s standards.

And, as the Crown-Green unit caught sight of their scout dashing back toward them, a small horde of B1s trailing behind him, Course’s skepticism was rewarded.

Their helmet comms crackled as 8ball connected to the local frequency. “Hey guys! Help!”

Blaster bolts filled the air between the two parties, and in a frankly impressively short moment 8ball found himself barreling into their formation at top speed. He did not slow down once he got past the leads, and Myth and Push jerked to either side to avoid getting run over. Beside Course, Pinch moved to the right. So did Course.

8ball scrambled to slow down in the two meters he had to realize Course was stepping into his path, sending up a spray of dust and grit as he tried to hit the brakes. Course braced. 8ball hit him with a loud CLACK, armor colliding with armor, and Course stumbled backwards to keep them both from falling to the ground.

Course gripped his brother by his shoulders and bodily turned him back toward the droids, pushing him a bit to give himself the room needed to raise his own rifle.

48 shoved his way up to be with the two of them, shooting all the while. “Y’know, 8ball, typically you want to shoot the droids that are shooting at you.”

8ball snarled something distinctly offensive as he fumbled to equip his rifle with its sniper extension.

“Focus,” Course snapped at the both of them. “This isn’t a sim.”

48 straightened up theatrically. “Yes sir, medic sir!”

Course scowled, but 8ball laughed and began lining up his shots.

“What happened to ‘clear’?” Kyr demanded over their comm.

8ball fired off a shot, and Course watched a clanker fall bodily into its neighbor. “I said ‘pretty clear’! And it is! Once we get past these guys.”

There was a laugh from someone in Green Squad at that, and in front of Course, Punch shook his head in the resigned sort of way that most sane individuals did after more than ten minutes alone with Crown Squad. Course would know it. He did it daily.

“Charge primed!” Punt announced behind them, and the unit scattered like clockwork while the ordnance specialist readied his shot. In an instant, the path cleared, and the explosive was flying through the air toward the unit of droids.

Even from the moderate distance between the groups, Course could hear the cartoonish, “uh oh” that came from at least three separate droids when the explosive rolled neatly into the center of the group. The explosion itself was quick and controlled, enough to fill the comm channel with brief feedback from the sheer number of open lines, but not enough to shake the walls of the cliffs on either side of them.

“Nice shot,” Kyr complimented, lowering his gun now that the threat was neutralized. “8ball?”

8ball flitted to the front of the unit. “Yes?”

“What the hell was that?”

“Well, I snuck by them really easily on the first trip,” the scout started, “but then on the way back they’d decided to get in the way and I couldn’t get back without getting their attention, and it’d take too long to deal with them alone, and I knew the SBDs would be too slow to follow all the way back to the group so I thought—”

“Supers?” Punch interrupted, head jolting back the way that 8ball had come and half-lifting his Z-6 like he expected a Super to appear dramatically out of the dust, summoned by the very mention.

“It’s just the Supers now,” 8ball said, a bit defensive now at the tone of the other squad leader. “That’s why I said it was ‘pretty’ clear. It was just two squads of B1s and the SBDs. That’s nothing.”

Kyr went quiet, head tilting, and Course knew he was trying to be patient.

“How many SBDs?” Course asked, shooting a glance towards Kyr that hopefully conveyed it happened, cope.

“Just two,” 8ball said, and the tension drained out of Kyr’s shoulders.

“Alright, that’s workable.” Kyr glanced toward Punch, then Punt. “Do you have enough ordnance to deal with both of them?”

Technically they all had some ordnance, but Kyr would be trying to keep them all as armed as possible for as long as possible, so taking care of these Supers would fall primarily on Punt.

“Easily,” Punt said, waving him off. “Leave the clankers to me.”

“8ball, I want you to be with him,” Kyr said. “You know the drill with B2s. See if you can’t get their plating to crumble before Punt takes his shot.”

Punch examined the group. “It might be useful to have 48 with them, too. I know he knows his way around a grenade, if it comes down to it.”

48 lit up even through the thick layers of armor, practically glowing under the plastoid. “Happily, sir.”

Kyr shot Punch a look, then 48. “It’s not a bad idea,” he permitted. “You three will head in. Course, I want you with them. The rest of us will be behind you to prevent a flank.”

Course wanted to argue against that. It made more sense to keep the medic with the bigger chunk of the group, especially when the men taking point would be ideally staying out of range of the B2s. But it wasn’t his job to question the order, and if Kyr was the one giving it, he’d follow it. Hopefully the rest of the unit would be staying close enough to them that it wouldn’t matter in the end anyway.

“Alright,” he said. At least if he went, he’d be able to stop 8ball and 48 from doing something inadvisable. He didn’t trust Punt to do as much.

Kyr grasped Course by the vambrace and tapped their helmets together for a few short seconds. “Good luck.”

Bastard. “You’re better off telling that to 8ball.”

An amused huff crackled through Kyr’s vocoder, and he gave Course one last pat to the back before moving to give 8ball and 48 the same treatment. The second Kyr stepped away from him, Myth fluttered up to Course.

“SBDs are slow but they hit hard,” Myth blurted. Then, all in the same breath, “Their plating is blast proof but there are weak points at the edges of each plate that if targeted can cause the internal components to be exposed and leave them more susceptible—”

Course shook his head. “Myth. We’ve got it. You focus on keeping the Geos away from us, we’ll worry about the Supers.”

Myth hovered a second longer, arms moving in little aborted jerks like he had more to say, before his head snapped into a nod and he hurried back toward Push and Pull.

An arm slung itself around Course’s shoulders and he tensed, turning his helmet and nearly clacking his helmet against 48’s.

“So… Babysitting duty,” 48 dragged out.

Course blinked slowly. “Yes. Babysitting you.”

“Kyr’s mad at 8ball right now, not me,” 48 dismissed. “You’re babysitting him.”

“You broke formation. He’s mad at both of you.”

“Yeah, but I only broke formation. 8ball’s doing 8ball-level stupid shit. He takes the lead.”

“Alright Crowns,” Punt sighed, pushing himself into their little bubble and grabbing 48 by the strap of his armor. “Let’s go blow up some B2s.”

They steered toward 8ball and, having collected their last stray teammate, set out into the valley that 8ball had scouted.

8ball darted to take point. “They should still be pretty far in, the big ones don’t do well with uphill slopes, if they even bothered chasing.”

“What are we looking for, exactly?” Punt asked, glancing around the steepening cliffs with a wariness that you couldn’t help but gain after having one too many Geonosians appear out of nowhere.

“There’s a gap between the cliffs that we need to go through to get to the landing zone,” 8ball said. “But a little bit before that there’s this place where a bunch of these mountain passes meet at a sort of crossroads. The droids were down the left one when I passed the first time. It’s only a few minutes out. I was thinking we could scale one of the ledges that overlook it and take pot shots from there.”

Course breathed an impatient sigh. “Coordinates, 8ball.”

“Oh. Yeah. Sending them now.”

A ping on the corner of his HUD appeared, and Course accepted it to update his local map with a location marker.

“We should probably start climbing now,” 8ball considered. “It’ll just get steeper the further in we go.”

Nobody was going to argue with a scout about local topography, so they began to painstakingly increase the distance between themselves and the ground, following 8ball as he made occasionally precarious hops between the cliffside’s sporadic footholds. Course’s only regret was that he wouldn’t get to watch the rest of their unit attempt the journey.

Course trailed behind the three of them, focusing his attention on the cliffs around them more than the conversation going on over their comms. Any sudden shadow made by the clouds drifting above them could be a Geonosian gunning for them, if not for the undisturbed quiet of the canyon. Geos typically didn’t run at them, though. All of the ones that Course had encountered thus far flew, and their wings made a distinct droning buzz that had reminded him of the insects they studied in their flash training modules—they hadn’t included audio, but the description couldn’t be like anything else. The Geos were presumably louder than a traditionally sized insect, but so far, he hadn’t run across one to compare them with.

“What do you think, Course?” 48 prompted suddenly over their comm. They were on relatively flat ground, now, and his brother peered over his shoulder back at him.

Course did not know what the topic was, but given the clones present, he didn’t think it mattered very much. He fixed his visor on 48 and stared wordlessly.

“See? I told you Course would agree with me,” 8ball bragged. “Your idea is stupid anyway. There’s no way that you’d be able to—”

Course rolled his eyes. “Stay on task.”

8ball sighed, but if he kept talking, it happened on a comm frequency that didn’t include Course, which was really all he could ask for.

They made it to the overlook in good time. Kyr would be glad, given that their rendezvous was supposed to be in twenty-two minutes and they were already pushing it. 8ball made quick work of dropping to his stomach and propping his sniper while 48 stooped to help Punt arm the grenades.

“Told you. I think they might be stuck,” 8ball crackled through the comm.

Course glanced over the ledge to get an idea of the scene and saw that, as 8ball had suggested earlier, the so-called “super” battle droids did indeed seem to be stuck at the bottom of a fifty-degree slope. Course struggled to think of too many other reasons the droids wouldn’t have gone to reinforce the B1s’ attack.

“Either that or they’re guarding the pass,” 8ball continued idly. “That’s the way we need to go. You need to make sure that you don’t blow up the entrance or I’m gonna have to find a new route and then we’re really gonna be late.”

Course looked past the SBDs and saw what 8ball must be referring to. Half blocked by the hulking frames of the supers was a crack in the cliff face. A clone could probably fit, if they took their time and entered sideways, but an SBD had no hope. Course just hoped that the rest of the pass widened out, if that’s the way they’d be having to go soon.

“Alright,” Course said. “Get to work.”

“Yeah? And what’re you gonna do, watch us?” 48 demanded. 

Course knew intrinsically that 48 just wanted to get a rise out of him, but he couldn’t help the slight air of annoyance as he said, “I’m going to watch your six so you don’t get ambushed. Hurry up.”

48 laughed as Course turned and stepped away to watch their flank. Course never did understand the carelessness of his brothers, but he wouldn’t be wasting the time trying to figure it out now of all times.

He was aware, vaguely, of Punt and 8ball coordinating their attack a solid few meters away, but Course examined the rocky ledges above and below them. This planet had an eerie atmosphere— eerie in the way that it seemed to house enemies that could appear or disappear in a moment. On the gunship down, Myth had rattled off a hundred different facts about the planet’s geography, but the one that Course remembered most clearly was that the Geonosians lived primarily under the surface, in dingy caves and tunnels. It made sense, if you wanted to avoid the glaring heat of the Geonosian sun, but it also meant that Course could never be sure that a shadow was just a shadow. The natural texture of the cliffs meant that there could be a tunnel mouth hiding just out of view at any point, and none of them would know any better.

“Ready?” 8ball asked.

Punt’s comm crackled as he spoke. “Go.”

A deafening crack shattered the quiet as 8ball took his first shot, followed quickly by a second. Course looked over just long enough to see Punt lobbing his first explosive down at the droids, a muffled blast following just seconds after.

“One damaged, one staggered,” 48 reported through their local helmet comm. “Eighty, target the one by the wall. Punt, the other one should be easy to finish off, its hull’s warping—”

Another crack as 8ball fired his sniper rifle, but Course didn’t look to see if it hit. Punt said something about the SBDs below, loud in Course’s ears as he fumbled to mute the incoming audio. A high pitched droning echoed in the walls of the canyon, quickly growing louder as its source approached. Where was it coming from?

“Course!”

That wasn’t over the comms, and Course didn’t have time to identify which brother had called out to him before unyielding hands grabbed him and hoisted him into the air.

Course had been trained for a lot of things. Impromptu, uncontrolled flight was one of them, actually, but it had always been in the context of jetkits, not flying enemies. He couldn’t cut the fuel line or unlatch this carrier from his armor. He couldn’t even complete a fraction of a twist, due to the hold the bug had him in, so wriggling his way out didn’t look likely. The droning from before now rattled his skull as the ground shrank underneath him, and he couldn’t hope to hear his brothers even if they somehow knew what to do in this situation—Myth would, but he wasn’t here either way. Course was alone.

Plasma bolts flew into the orange rock around him as the others tried to shoot at the bug, occasionally accompanied by the resounding crack of 8ball’s sniper, but either Course had been picked up by a master of evasion, or they were too afraid of shooting him instead of it. He’d love to tell them to just commit, because he’d much rather die getting shot than by whatever this thing had planned for him. The sound of rushing air muffled the shouts coming from below him, and as Course craned his neck to peer down, he realized that his window for surviving getting away from this bug was closing rapidly. Damned if you do…

Course would take death by falling over a secondary location any day. With that thought in mind, he ducked his chin as close to his chest as he could manage and slammed his head back into his captor with all his strength. He doubted he’d hit it anywhere important—the bugs that were big enough to carry a clone trooper had eerily long torsos—but between the barrage of blaster bolts and the headbutt, the bug loosened its grip enough for Course to jerk halfway out of its hold. The two of them dipped in the air for a moment as the Geonosian fought to maintain its grip on him, but with one arm free, Course was free to wretch the medical scissors out of his belt and stab at the bug until it gave up and dropped him completely.

Hurtling toward the ground was louder than heading up; the rushing air was familiar, and the absence of insectoid wings was more than made up for by the blood that roared in his ears. Somehow, both of those constants disappeared to highlight the sound his armor made as he skimmed the rock wall of the canyon. Course wasn’t sure if it would have been enough to slow his speed, but he had no time to run calculations. If he’d been thinking, he would have counted how long it took him to fall. It would give him an idea of how he should go about treating himself, should he survive the landing.

Unlike the first collision, Course did not hear himself hitting the ground. He could tell you how he landed—feet first, and then crumpling forward onto frantically-outstretched arms—but nothing else. He must have blacked out for a moment, perhaps upon impact? One minute he was falling, the next, he was flat on the ground. He knew how it happened but would be hard-pressed to describe it in any detail.

Sound filtered slowly back in through his helmet. Fuzzy voices of panicked brothers, indistinguishable without focus that he did not have. No more blaster-fire, no explosions, nothing to suggest they were still in danger. He found himself still on his front. The others must have caught up, because Myth or Pull would be the only ones with enough sense through the chaos to tell the others not to turn Course over in case of injury to the spine.

Course ignored the voices for a moment to focus deeply on the feel of his legs. They were in sharp, searing agony, which was nice. It meant that at the very least, he probably wasn’t paralyzed. His arms, too, ached, though not nearly as badly. But he survived, somehow, and although the realization slowly dawned that he hurt all over—no doubt from the events of the entire day, not just his impromptu flight—there was little more he could ask for.

Someone’s arm jostling his shoulder drew him out of himself, and a small sound of discomfort left him at the disruption.

“Course?” Kyr’s Leader Voice, unmistakably, which could only mean that he’d terrified his brother. “Can you hear me, vod?”

Course closed his eyes for a second. Can’t even fall out of the sky without having to do everything on his terms, he thought bitterly. He knew that was uncharitable. He also figured he was more than entitled to a little bit of a bad attitude, at that moment. He took a moment to brace himself. “… Yes.”

A chorus of identical voices broke out, quickly hushed, before Kyr spoke again. “What’s your status?”

Status? Course thought, astonished. That was… an unbelievable ask. He knew, logically, that Kyr falling back on protocol helped him to hold onto some sense of normalcy. His brother was definitely, certainly, very deeply concerned about Course. It still pissed him off. “… Blunt force trauma to the legs. Extensive. Probable minor damage to arms and skull,” he droned. “Recommended course of action is to administer one stim cannister to each leg and continue to the rendezvous.”

The chatter picked up again, and nobody shushed it this time.

“What?” Kyr demanded, pitch increasing in fractions. “You just broke both of your legs. You are not getting a stim and a pat on the back.”

“Protocol says I do.”

“This is an exception,” the Leader-Voice intoned, back in full-force and leaving no room for debate. “We’ve got seventeen minutes to get to the rendezvous. We can’t have you hobbling along behind us slowing us down. I’ll carry you.”

Course’s eyes shot open. “No, you won’t,” he argued, his normally flat tone lilting up with frustration and incredulity. “If you’d just administer the stim, I will be up faster than it will take you to figure out how to get me through that opening.”

“We’ll give you the stim and you can get through the narrowest part of the path,” Kyr agreed, “but once we can, I’m carrying you.”

“That is not protocol,” Course snarled, anger simmering up from his stomach.

“It’ll be faster.” Kyr’s voice held no concern for any potential breach in protocol. “The most important thing is that we make it to our rendezvous. How we get there isn’t so important.”

Course took a moment to process. If Kyr truly refused to relent on this… “Then I’ll be noting your disregard for protocol in my report.”

The quiet murmur of their other brothers cut out suddenly. Nobody said anything for a few long moments. A hesitant voice—who had to be either Myth or Pinch—was the next to speak.

“It’s really not worth it, Kyr. As long as we move now, we can still make it—”

“Write me up, then,” Kyr interrupted, ignoring the input entirely. His words grew sharper, edged in frustration. “I don’t care. I’m not having you walk on broken legs the entire way.”

He did not wait for a response, immediately injecting stim into the gaps between Course’s leg plates. Course supposed Kyr had spent the duration of the argument rummaging through Course’s med kit. A third, unexpected jab at the top of the neck startled Course, and he flinched away from it.

“I don’t trust that you didn’t hurt your back.” Kyr’s voice wasn’t so sharp now, perhaps in apology for the unwarranted extra shot.

Course did not grace him with any further reaction, instead rolling to his side and pushing himself upright. He ignored the influx of brothers at his every side, jerking to his feet with gritted teeth. Every pound of weight he put onto his legs sent screaming agony directly through his lower half, but he would not be encouraging Kyr’s disregard for regulation by doing anything other than breathe through it.

Kyr finally seemed to understand that he wouldn’t be getting acceptance out of Course today. “48, take point with 8ball.” Kyr continued to instruct the unit how they would proceed, fully ignoring the Green Squad Lead two meters away from him.

To Punch’s merit, he said nothing. He looked Course over and gave him a small nod as Kyr did his job for him. Course wondered how he just decided to let it go. Course wasn’t a squad lead. Wasn’t even kind of an officer, in any sense, other than being a medic, and even that being dismissed for what Kyr wanted to do was rage inducing. He couldn’t imagine spending his entire life being trained to lead others and then having some hard-headed ass swoop in and take that away from him.

They progressed to the ground level in a very nontraditional huddle of plastoid, half of them pointing their guns at every shadow on the rocks and the other half hovering around Course like he could turn to dust at any moment. If Course could focus on anything other than the amount of pain he was in, he was sure he’d tell them off so badly they wouldn’t ever look at him twice again.

The charred heaps of scrap that were once Super Battle Droids lay just in front of the narrow crevice that their unit would have to squeeze through. If Course was lucky, it would stay that narrow long enough for Kyr to drop the subject of carrying him.

Course glanced to 8ball. The scout inspected his sniper, uncharacteristically quiet, while 48 spoke lowly by the audio receptor of his helmet. What they were talking about, Course couldn’t say, but after a moment, 8ball nodded and pushed toward the front of the group to take point as previously instructed. He turned to the side and squeezed into the gap between the cliffs. A few steps in, he turned to face the unit again, waving cheerily.

48 went next, followed by half of Green Squad. There was a brief moment of concern where Punch nearly got his Z-6 stuck going through, but with a little pulling by 48, both clone and gun were in.

Kyr gestured Course to go first. Course assumed it was so that he could breathe down his neck the entire time, but bitterly followed the given instruction. Kyr followed close after. Blessedly, he did not attempt to hoist Course over his shoulder the moment they could walk straight.

Once the entire unit was confirmed to be in the passage, they began to make their trek. According to Course’s comm, they had approximately ten minutes before they were late for the rendezvous. Despite himself, anxiety began to bloom in the pit of Course’s stomach. The hard part of this deployment had already concluded—a brief firefight with Geonosian ground forces while the command class troopers and commandos knocked out the big stuff—and the only thing left was to show up on time.  What would happen to them if they failed to do something as simple as that?

He knew the others had to be feeling the same stress. Some of his brothers knew how to hide it better than others—he was pretty sure if Myth looked over his shoulder one more time, his neck would break—but every one of their lives hinged on a good combat report. Failure to do the one part of the mission that required them to think on their own feet wouldn’t look good. If they were lucky, they might end up somewhere nice and boring. If they weren’t—well, you don’t send your best troopers to fight on the front lines of losing battles. Maybe the Kaminoans would find the bleakest battle possible and deploy them there as cannon fodder.

About a minute later, the passage widened further, allowing them to pull up into a traditional two-lined formation lead by 8ball and 48 side-by-side. It was then that Kyr walked around Course and blocked his path.

Course fixed his T-visor on his brother. Kyr’s emotionless helmet peered back. He was sure both of them had their jaws set, could almost see the annoyed scowl Kyr must be wearing.  He knew all of their faces well, but he knew Kyr’s micro expressions better than anyone else.

Kyr didn’t seem eager to prolong their standoff any more than Course was. “You can let me carry you, or I will wrangle you into a hold.”

Unspoken: we don’t have time for this. Course knew that. At least Kyr didn’t feel the need to spell that one out for him.

Course said nothing for a moment. Reflected on the situation as a whole. Remembered the unspoken message he gave Kyr not an hour before—it happened, cope. He took a breath.

“It will be going in the medical report.”

“Fine by me.”

The air cleared suddenly. Course hadn’t realized it had ever thickened, but he felt it then.

Everyone else had expected him to cause a scene about it. They were waiting for him to dig his heels in and start an argument. Maybe because that’s what most of his batchmates would’ve done. Hell, if Kyr and Course were to trade positions, it was likely what Kyr himself would do. Maybe if they had any more time, Course wouldn’t let it fly so soon, but he knew that they didn’t have time to argue about it any more than they already had. So he let Kyr heft him over one shoulder.

Every step Kyr took, Course seethed. Not only was this a humiliating position to be in, but it was entirely unnecessary. Course had personally told Kyr of how every metric said they should proceed, and Kyr ignored him at every turn. The fact that he had gotten into this situation at all in the first place was ridiculous. There was no reason to send him on the team against the SBDs, except for that Kyr wanted supervision for the squadmates that he felt unable to trust with such a task. Which was stupid, given that all three had stayed on task just fine. Apparently, they even managed to take out the SBDs while trying to recover Course from the grips of the Geonosian. Punch should have been the one to go with 8ball, 48, and Punt. A heavy gunner would not only be helpful against the SBDs, but he would have stood a much better chance at deterring an oversized bug from trying to make off with a clone.

Anger rolled steadily through Course’s chest by the time they got to the rendezvous—with three minutes to spare, maybe Course had had some room to argue. Kyr set Course down just before they were swamped by other troopers. How kind of him. A company’s worth of clones milled about, a sea of shiny white plastoid ever-shifting as everyone tried to keep organized and stay with their squad while boarding the dropships meant to take them back to transport.

Kyr continued instructing their unit like he was the only one who knew what to do. Course listened as a formality, then turned to head toward the transport with their assigned number. They’d all read the brief—not just Kyr.

The troopers managing the transports gave him a nod as he limped up to the open door. Course couldn’t identify them, assuming he’d ever met them, but he did pity them a bit. Administrative tasks like they were doing weren’t the most impressive on a combat report. Might land them a title, but it’d be a title on some low-level base, given they weren’t command-class. It wasn’t the worst thing Course could imagine happening to a clone, but to many, it was world-ending.

Maybe clones were dramatic by nature, and it skipped a generation with him?

The rest of the unit piled into the transport, Greens brushing elbows with Crowns, and in minutes the ship was humming to life. Back to Kamino.

Course looked forward to his report.

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Tumblr formatting is agonizing but I will learn it. Anything for my boys.