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8644 walked away from Chopper, fighting back tears. In the end, he had gotten everything- and nothing- he wished for.
He had imagined going out into the field for the first time, earning his paint, and then, when the dust settled, some brother who knew him before recognizing him, calling a name that tugged on something familiar , reaching out a hand in brotherhood...
Instead, he had been attacked. There was no warning; simply another clone charging toward him out of the crowd, drawing off his bucket to reveal shaven head and scarred face with one light eye and one dark, twisted in rage and hate, before his fist slammed into 44’s face and reflex took over.
He tried to defend himself, but the trooper seemed to know his fighting style intimately, like they had sparred a thousand times, putting 44 at a further disadvantage. And this was no friendly spar, nor a competitive one, not even a one-on-one; this trooper was out to kill him, as painfully as possible. When his arm was twisted behind him in a brutal wrist lock, tearing at his already dislocated shoulder even more and immobilizing him, 44’s mind blanked in pain and fear.
Then the unknown trooper was pulled off. “You’re defective!” Teft screamed in his defense, and 44 could almost remember a distant echo of a memory.
Then a blaster was in his face, and a voice that he knew said in icy tones, “Hello, Slick.”
44’s heart stilled, and he looked up into the hard eyes of a Sargent in yellow-trimmed armor, and the hole in his mind where his past had been yawned before him.
The scarred trooper in unmarked, hard-worn armor had spoken, then screamed, his voice wracked with grief and rage. He and the Sargent both wept bitterly, eyes filled with disbelief and sorrow. A Captain, the legendary Rex, had looked at him with eyes like blaster bolts, voice so full of rage 44 was surprised he didn’t spit plasma. He shamed him, implied he had been reconditioned for shameful reasons, in front of everyone.
44 watched in bewilderment as the Captain sent the trooper and Sargent away with nothing but praise. 44 watched them lope away, stared at their retreating backs, their names echoing in his ears; Chopper and Jester. Two of the men he had saw fit to memorialize in his skin, to set as the key to his past.
As he sat in medical, having his injuries tended, 44’s mind whirled with questions, before finally coalescing into one:
What had he done?
What could he have possibly done to make his squad hate him so? Greet him not with smiles and handclasps, but snarls and fists?
Who had Slick been?
He tried to look himself up, find the name in the records, but came up with nothing but classified files. The records of the others he found easily enough; Sargent Jester in the 212th, Sargent Punch in the 224th, Sketch in the Coruscant Guards, Chopper in the 501st, Gus a medic with the 41st. For the most part, their records were simple, but strange; Kamino, then months of nothing, then they all were transferred to their current companies within days or weeks of each other, then nothing but praises. Chopper’s was a little more complex; he had two squads before joining the rest, all dead, then that same gap, then a court marshal that was classified as well. After that, nothing but praises. He found himself thoroughly impressed by the time he was done reading, but even more confused. They had to have been an exemplary squad, one of the best. What could have happened that was so bad he not only got sent to reconditioning, but Chopper was court marshalled and his whole squad was split? He had no answers.
Finally, he decided to go find either Jester or Chopper. Maybe they would kill him, but he couldn’t not even ask .
It was Chopper he found, standing guard duty. His face was hidden behind his bucket, but his body language said everything. He stood stiffly, tensed to strike again, but when he spoke, the words were tired, and comparatively, almost kind. He outright refused to answer any questions, told him to forget the little he had learned, and sent him away. Bitter knowledge weighed heavily on 44.
His name had been Slick; he had committed a sin so great his squadmates were distraught he had not been executed; and he had no brothers.
Nearly a year later, CS-R-21-8644 stared at the viewscreen with everyone else in the mess, watching Anikin Naberrie- formerly General Skywalker- deliver a stirring speech to the Senate, watched him talk them into holding a vote to free the clones from their contract, his eyes blazing yellow. His face was placid, thumb rubbing the rim of his bucket absently, hiding the chaotic swirl of his thoughts: The war is over-The Seppies defeated-Does the squad know yet-Am I still Sargent-But what about...
And overlaid over it all, the same mantra:
Chopper. Gus. Jester. Sketch. Punch.
Can I find out now?
44 fidgeted anxiously on the soft couch. It had been almost a month since the Senate hearing that had resulted in his freedom; the freedom of all his brothers. Almost immediately, rumors had started circulating Commander Offee from the 41st battalion was trying to figure out how to undo reconditioning. Two days ago, she had made the official announcement.
And now here he was.
The door of the small, cozy office opened, admitting Commander Offee. She was a petite Miralian with a pattern of diamonds sprayed over her nose and kind eyes. She smiled at him. “You must be Sargent 8644,” she greeted with a small nod as 44 stood to attention.
He saluted. “44, sir.”
The commander waved the gesture away, shaking her head. “No, no more Commander. Just Healer Barriss now.”
44 relaxed, dropping out of attention but still standing at respectful parade rest. “I can understand that, sir.”
“I’m sure you do.” She moved to the opposite seat from his, sitting gracefully. “Please, sit. Do you know much about what we hope to do here?”
44 sat, shaking his head. “No, Healer. I just know you can undo reconditioning.”
She nodded, a pained look coming over her face. “It is a barbaric procedure,” she sighed. “But, for all their cruelty, the Kaminoans are thorough in documenting their procedures. Reverse engineering the process was simply a matter of having access to the records and doing it.” She reached to a low table next to her, picking up a datapad. “Force users are capable of doing something similar, so the theory for healing this mind injury already existed. What they did,” she handed him the data pad with two images side-by-side, “Was simply cut neural connections, effectively removing your access to your memories. But they’re still there.”
44 stared at the pair of neural maps. One was whole; the other was like a tattered spider’s web. Himself, before and after; one Slick, the other 44. Not for the first time, he thought about what he already knew; wondered what his sin had been. The records were still classified, and he had heeded Rex’s advice to avoid his former squad after Geonosis; he knew no more than what he had learned from Chopper. He thought about Chopper’s parting words to him.
Did he really want to know?
The commander continued when he did not comment. “Normally, attempting to heal something like this is... ill advised, unless you knew the individual before their injury; it is impossible to be sure you’re restoring the connections correctly unless you already know where they’re supposed to be, and if you get it wrong, you can drive a being mad.” 44 looked up at her in alarm, but she smiled reassuringly. “Normally. But in this case, we have the benefit of the Kaminoan mind scans.” She gestured to the padd still in 44’s hand. “By using these scans as a... reference guide, so to speak, I have successfully reversed reconditioning in four other clones already, with an 80 to 100% success rate. So far, no one’s gone mad.”
44 couldn’t help his snort of amusement. “I’ll take those odds any day.”
She giggled, for a moment girlish, then sobered. “There are still risks,” she advised. “Like I said, if something goes wrong, it could drive you mad. I might not be able to get everything, the neurons involved may have died in the meantime- hence the occasional less than 100% successes. I will also try to respect your privacy, but... in mind healing, it is impossible to touch your mind so intimately and not see at least some of your memory.”
44 thought a moment. Did he want to burden her with his sin? His gaze flicked to her hands, small and slender, but his sharp eyes picked out scars and lightsaber calluses. His resolve firmed. Regardless of how she looked, she was a Commander. She had seen the horrors of war already, he didn’t need to protect her. He met her kind eyes.
“Let’s do it.”
She grinned. “Then let’s begin.”
The lights were dimmed to a restful level, the commander guiding him to lay down on the flat couch. She gracefully settled to sit on the floor at his head in a pool of dark robes, her slim green hands gently cradling the sides of his head, thumbs pressed to each of his temples. He tilted his head back a little, looking up into her serene, upside-down face. She noticed him looking, and smiled reassuringly again.
“It will be like a dream,” she said softly. “ Sleep. ”
44 slipped under.
Teknik. Ven. Knife. Roan. Eighteen. He remembered his long dead brothers. Cruel words from the General.
Maruli. He remembered love- and loss.
He remembered a plan, born of grief and anger, to deprive the Jedi of their army.
23- no, Chopper, now. Sketch and Punch. Jester. Gus. The cruelties.
He remembered his interactions with his new General.
Unthinkable treason.
Reconditioning.
Slick awoke with a scream. He jolted upright, as if he could run away from the memories, and a pair of slender arms twined about his shoulders, holding him- whether to restrain or comfort, Slick wasn’t sure. He jerked in surprise. Maruli-?
No, it was Commander Offee, her face pinched in sorrow. “I’m so sorry,” she sobbed.
Bile rose up in Slick’s throat. “You saw?” he whimpered.
She nodded.
The bile filled his mouth, and suddenly a trash can was in his hands. He threw up into it. The Commander simply held him as he wept and vomited in turns, her own tears soaking into the shoulder of his shirt.
Finally, he knew not how much later, Slick was empty. Of bile, of tears. He sat, numb.
“Chopper was right,” he croaked out. He felt Bariss’ head lift from his shoulder.
“About what?” she whispered, and he realized she hadn’t seen that memory.
“I saw him again. After,” he choked out. “During Geonosis 2.” He laughed harshly. “It was just after I left Kamino the second time. He attacked me, tried to kill me. After he realized I had been reconditioned, and calmed, he told me to forget trying to remember. To go on, and be careful.” He swallowed thickly. “He was right. I should have left it forgotten.” He nearly choked on a whisper. "He should have killed me."
“No,” Barriss insisted, her arms tightening around him. “If you had never remembered, you could never have made amends.”
Slick barked out a bitter laugh. “There can be no amends for what I’ve done.”
“The same could be said of the Jedi.”
He stilled again, considering that.
Barriss moved again, drawing away until only one of her hands remained on his shoulder, maintaining comforting contact. “Slick-”
“No,” he interrupted, shaking his head violently. “Not Slick. I cannot use that name.”
“44 then,” she agreed, soothingly. “44, you should get some rest. Take some time to process. Perhaps talk to a mind healer.”
He nodded absently, carefully standing. “Yeah. Sure.”
It was a lie, and by her sad look, she knew it too.
“Sargent!” Slick looked up at Storm’s call when he entered the barracks. The whole squad was there, obviously waiting for him- it hadn’t been a secret he was going to Commander Offee, and what for. He must have looked awful, judging by the younger clone’s expression of surprised concern, but not awful enough for him to abandon his questioning. “How’d it go?”
Slick swallowed thickly, fighting back hysterical laughter. His eyes roamed over the bunks, taking in his squad. They gave me another squad. After my first all died and my second were driven to ruin, they gave me more men. They really didn’t care. He shook his head, tearing his eyes away to turn stiffly toward his tiny attached room. “Some things should remain buried,” he whispered.
He started to stagger toward the door of his room, but before he could reach it, he was stilled by another call, this time from one of the shinies that had just been added to the squad two weeks ago. “What was your name, Sir?”
Slick lied. “Regret,” he choked out. “My name was Regret.”
He sent a message to General Skywalker. Routed through a dozen different proxy comm addresses, just to be safe, but the General had done what he had failed to do; he had freed his brothers. While he was still unsure about the Jedi, different experiences from two different lifetimes warring in his head, he had no mixed feelings about General Skywalker. As far as he was concerned, Skywalker could have his life.
Skywalker seemed under the impression he was in prison, based on his responses. He decided to not correct him. He asked about the gene fix, and was only reassured of his opinion on the man when, despite everything, he assured him life was a right, not a privilege.
For a while he considered sending a third message, informing Skywalker what had actually become of him and waiting for the ex-Jedi to come and seek bloody revenge, but ultimately decided against it. In the end, the ones who were entitled to revenge were his brothers, not the Jedi.
Regret jerked awake from another nightmare- another one where he raped Gus again. It was surreal, like he was a spectator in his own head, only able to watch his hands drag Gus closer, hurt him, chuckle darkly at his whimpers. The start of his scream was choked off by his rising vomit, and Regret twisted quickly to the side of his bunk, dragging out the small trash can he had started keeping under his bed for the specific purpose. As he rested his clammy forehead on the cool lip of the can, breathing in the scent of his own sick, he mused absently that Chopper had been right when he said he’d have nightmares. He shook his head. Chopper had been right about a lot of things.
“Sarge?”
Storm peeked into the room, his soft blue eyes concerned. Regret met them only for a moment before turning away, ashamed. Go, vod’ika. Go before I hurt you too.
But Storm didn’t go, he entered the room properly, padding across the floor in bare feet and slipping into the bunk behind him, pressing his front against Regret’s back, his face to Regret’s shoulder, his arm curling around Regret’s waist.
Regret tensed. He didn’t deserve kindness, deserve comfort, not after what he’d done. He thought about pushing Storm out of the bunk, ordering him out, shouting cutting and cruel words at him, giving him a demerit for inappropriate conduct with a superior to ensure he’d never again cross this line-
But then he’d be Slick again. Never again.
So instead, he stayed tense and silent, hoping Storm would get the silent message of ‘go away’, but the younger trooper merely cuddled into his back tighter.
“Was there really nothing good about... before?” he asked softly, like he was terrified of the answer. Regret supposed he wasn’t wrong to be.
“There was,” he finally murmured, his voice harsh with vomiting and emotions. “There were brothers- the best squad I’ve ever known. And a woman, the best woman to ever live, a woman who loved me. There was a crystal palace, beautiful to behold.” He swallowed thickly, feeling tears streak down his face. “They’re all dead and gone, now.”
“Kriff, Sarge,” Storm whimpered softly, as if in pain. “Is that why your name is Regret?”
“No,” Regret answered simply, then fell silent.
Storm did too, but did not leave, eventually falling asleep. As Regret listened to him breathe, he stared into the dark, his lips moving silently, as if in prayer.
Ni su'cuyi, gar kyr'adyc, ni partayli, gar darasuum. Teknik, Ven, Knife, Roan, Eighteen. Maruli. Zev. All the men who died on Teth.
I can never earn your forgiveness.
He went with the squad to Cin Vehtin when they were stood down. Registered himself as 8644. Left almost in the same breath.
He waited until they were all settled in their new barrack, excited chattering about exploring their new homeworld fading until all but him were asleep. He didn’t want any of them to get any ideas about following him into their heads, especially Storm.
On silent feet, he dressed in simple civilian clothes. Softly, he stroked the hard plains of his armor, then left it behind. He didn’t deserve armor. He didn’t deserve to be recognized as a vod.
He booked passage on a freighter that was leaving within the hour. Asked the crew to take him to the crummiest rock in the middle of nowhere they knew. He offered all the credits that had been awarded to him from the Senate, ‘for his service’. They accepted his money, and delivered him to a miserable, barren moon with nothing on it but a refueling station.
He sent a message to Commander Cody. Told him where to find him, if he wanted to. Told him Commander Offee knew everything, if anyone just wanted answers.
He built himself a hovel far away from anything else. A place of exile. He ate ration bars bartered from the owner of the refueling station in return for hard labor. He slept little, what sleep he did get plagued with nightmares. He almost never spoke, and when he did, it was usually Remembrance.
He waited to die.
They arrived a year into his exile.
Commander Cody, Captain Rex, the five Teth 501st survivors, and his old squad, Chopper, Gus, Jester, Sketch and Punch.
The twelve men came in their armor, their faces hard. Regret bowed his head in shame.
“Sargent Slick,” Commander Cody snarled. “Stand to attention.”
Regret snapped to attention, staring off into the distance.
“Sargent Slick, you are guilty of espionage, lying to your commanding officer, abuse of a subordinate, and treason that led to the death of 134 brothers,” he intoned. “Do you have anything to say on your behalf?”
Regret remained still and silent.
“Then we begin your punishment.” Cody’s hard fist smashed into his nose.
They took turns beating him. A man beat him to bloody sorrow, taking out their pain and rage on his flesh, then Gus patched him up. Coldly, impersonally, with precision and skill but no comfort. Let him heal just enough he could stand unassisted again, then did it again. Regret lost track of time, but it seemed to take weeks until eleven of them had done so, leaving only Gus.
Gus was the last, and the worst. He didn’t beat him. Instead, after he had finished tending his wounds from Zeer taking his turn, he slipped a syringe of some immobilizing drug into his veins, took a blade, and slowly, carefully carved a design into his face, over his cheeks and nose. A word, but what word Regret wasn’t sure. As he cut, Slick wondered idly through the pain if Gus ever went back to Crystophsis, back to Lirane, but he couldn’t ask. He had no right to ask. After, he carefully tended that wound too, making sure it scarred cleanly.
And they left.
Hunger finally made Regret go to the refueling station a week later, to trade labor for rations again. The man who ran it, a hard man who Regret had never seen any expression but anger and annoyance on, went pale at the sight of him.
“Exile,” he asked, looking nauseous, “Why is the word ‘Traitor’ carved into your face?”
Regret blinked, then smiled bitterly. “It’s what I am.”
He did the work the man set him, then went back to his hovel.
He waited to die.
In some strange twist of fate, it was Ventress who found him again. A different Ventress, like he was a different clone, but Ventress all the same, just as he was.
Despite everything, she recognized him immediately when she saw him outside the refueling station. She did a double take, eyes wide with shock. Then, a slow, curling smile that reminded him so clearly of Crystophsis that it took his breath away grew on her face, and she said in the same way she always had, “Hello, Slick.”
“Not Slick anymore,” he protested in a voice rough from disuse. “Regret.” His lips twitched in a ghost of his old smirk, remembering what the station owner, who he had never given any name to call him by, had started calling him. “Or Exile.”
“The Regretful Exile,” she hummed thoughtfully. Her eyes studied his face, his traitor mark. He let her. “I see your past caught up to you.”
Regret nodded. “The price for my failures. Now I wait to die.”
Ventress frowned, then. “Such a shame. You were always so... deterministic, Exile. I am saddened to see you wasting your life here.”
“I got brothers killed and worse,” Regret explained simply.
“I have killed many of your brothers as well. Directly. Tortured them.”
“You were our enemy. It was your job. We attempted to return the favor.”
“And yet.” Ventress mused. “Come with me, Exile. You are exiled from your brotherhood, not the galaxy at large. I am working on earning a pardon myself for my own crimes; perhaps we can do so together.”
“There can be no pardon for what I’ve done.”
“Tch,” Ventress scoffed, rolling her eyes. “Even if that’s true, simply because you have done evil does not mean you are incapable of good. You have caused much suffering, true, but it is a measurable amount. If you save as much suffering as you caused, you may yet make your life worth something. Simply suffering here on this rock helps no one, not even your dead brothers.” She paused, and when he gave no answer, she said softly, “Think on it.” Then she left.
The next time he went to the refueling station, the owner handed him along with his earned rations a bottle of cheap alcohol and a note.
“From a lady,” he said, bemusement in his voice, but he did not bother to ask any questions. Regret never answered any.
The alcohol he gave away to the next spacer he saw, and he waited until he returned to his hovel to read the note. It simply read, ‘ Think on it, Exile. I will return in one year for your final answer. ’
Regret thought.
When Ventress returned one year later with a 17-year kid in tow, Regret was waiting for her. She raised an eyebrow, looking meaningfully at the sack with all his scant possessions inside.
Regret nodded. “I have 145 lives to make up for.”
Ventress nodded. “We shall keep a tally.”
“Who is this?” the kid asked, black eyes flecked with gold curious.
“Regret,” he answered simply. “Regret Exile.”
“Miggs Ky,” the boy replied.
Regret stared down at the box in Ventress' hands.
"No." He flatly refused.
"Yes," she insisted calmly, her silvery eyes cooly calculating and considering as she examined him. Once again, Regret was uncomfortably reminded of Crystophsis, as he often was around her. While she had been... smoothed, by Nabberie's tutelage, much of her mannerisms were still exactly the same- until she wasn't. Like her actions right now, for instance.
"I know what this means to you and your brothers," she continued to calmly push. "But it will be a convenient way to keep track of your tally, stripping a section every time you earn a tally, and I know you are accustomed to having more protection than an armorweave vest in a skirmish. I hope the symbolism is not lost on you."
Regret's throat worked, trying to swallow the lump in his throat. No, the symbolism was not lost. In her hands, still offering him the dread package, was a set of GAR armor. She had already taken the liberty of painting it. The armor was a solid, matte black- black for mourning, black for death, for he was a dead man from whom his brothers had taken their revenge. Overlaid was a net of meandering white lines made by stripping away the paint to the white armor underneath that blocked off every square inch into roughly equally sized sections, even helmet and boots. Like cracks in a shell, letting light through. Although the sections were all roughly rectangular, none of them were quite straight or even, each unique. A subtle commentary on the individuality of his brothers, perhaps. And when he finished, when his debt was repaid, the armor would be white again, shiny and new.
Carefully, he shifted the pieces in the box, without making any real move to take it. He could tell Ventress was getting impatient, but he didn't care, his eyes carefully examining each piece.
He frowned when he was done. "Too many sections. 145 lives I have to my account," he rebuked her mildly. "Not 146."
"I assumed you had not bothered to count yourself," she shrugged nonchalantly. "I figured this one," she tapped a slim finger against a section on the helmet that covered the nose, roughly where his traitor mark sat, "Should represent you, and be the last one you shed."
Regret couldn't help a sharp inhale, his gaze locked on the helmet and the patch she said was supposed to represent him.
For a long moment, they stood there. Finally, Regret slowly lifted the box from her arms, and retreated to his cabin.
Storm often thought about his Sargent.
He had first met Sargent 44 when he was a shiny, fresh off Kamino and assigned to General Mundi's battalion. Storm had marched into the barracks with 57, both of them shiny and crisp, just another pair of faceplates in the crowd. Sargent 44 had looked right at them in his experience-marked but unpainted armor, asked them to take off their buckets, and looked them in the eye. He didn’t even seem to notice Storm’s ghost eyes, or if he did, he never mentioned. When he had asked 57’s name and 57 told him he preferred just 57, he had just smiled and nodded.
“I prefer 44 myself,” he said firmly, with a shrug. “Most vode find it awkward, me being higher ranking than them, so for them I let them call me Sarge. Feel free to call me either of those.”
He was a good Sargent, despite the rumors that floated around. Storm was part of the squad for less than a day before he was told he was reconditioned. Storm had looked at the other trooper in the mess with confusion.
“What’s wrong with that? Probably wasn’t his fault,” Storm had pointed out. Reconditioning could happen for a variety of reasons, anything from your flash-training slipping a bit to getting caught by the wrong officer with a baar’vod. Rarely was it something shameful.
The brother had nearly squirmed with excitement at the gossip. “On Geonosis, there was some scuffle between him and someone from the 501st. Sarge ended up in medical. The Captain of the 501st, Captain Rex, implied he... did something.” He waggled playful eyebrows.
Storm had frowned. Gossiping like this, especially about his direct superior, felt wrong. “Or maybe he was caught up in something.”
The other trooper must have caught his tone, all disapproving and reproachful, because he leaned back, his face going more reserved. “Maybe,” he replied simply, and the matter was dropped.
He was there less than three days when he realized the gossip had a darker edge. Speculation that Sarge had done something wrong meant he wasn’t quite trusted by most, and by extension, neither was the rest of the squad. 57 had grown frustrated with it and requested a transfer to a different squad by the end of the week, after one too many incidents in the mess and the gym. Sargent 44 hadn’t been surprised, just sadly quiet as he signed off on the request. 57 had begged him to come with, but Storm had looked at Sarge sitting at his desk, just visible through the open doorway of his room, staring contemplatively out into space, and shook his head no. 57 had left in a huff. He didn’t talk much to 57 after that.
He asked Teft, the second, why Sargent didn’t just challenge the rumor-mongers to one-on-one. Teft had just smiled sadly and shook his head. “That wouldn’t do anything,” the older clone had explained gently. “Winning a one-on-one means nothing if you don’t have an alternative to replace the stories before, and he has no explanation. Neither does anyone else. So they make them up.”
Storm had considered that. "What do you think happened, Teft?" He finally asked hesitantly.
Teft's eyes had went sad. "I think something went wrong with his last squad," he answered softly. "I was with him on Geonosis. I saw the trooper that attacked him. Scars like... I've never seen scars that bad." He shuddered, and Storm felt a shiver of dread go down his spine. "I don't know exactly what happened. But I know something did, and those troopers blamed him for it. Maybe he led them into an ambush? I don't know. But it would explain why he's so... careful, now."
And careful did sum up Sargent 44. He put up a front of self-assured confidence, but you could tell his every action, every word was carefully weighed before he committed to them. It was nearly obsessive the degree he looked out for them, always double and triple checking their armor and gear, especially right before they went into a battle. Most troopers would have been insulted, and Storm gathered that it was one of the reasons most transferred out of his squad as soon as they could, but Storm couldn’t help but feel settled when he did it. Like he could trust Sarge would do whatever he had to to get them out alive, and hopefully in one piece. Like he cared.
If Sargent 44 had any idea what actually caused him to be reconditioned, he never mentioned it. He never talked about Geonosis 2, or anything before it, actually. Never acknowledged the rumors or not-quite accusations. Sometimes he would get quiet and withdrawn, sitting at his desk and staring at the wall, but it was rare, and usually during a sleepless night. He laughed often, had a cutting sense of humor, and played Sabbac like a pro. In battle, he was solid, quick-thinking and always the last one of their squad out. Storm trusted him with his life, looked up to him.
Then the vote came, a mere twelve tendays after Storm was assigned to Sargent 44. Suddenly they were free. Almost immediately, there were rumors about the 41st’s commander working on reversing reconditioning. Sarge never spoke about it, but the whole squad noticed how he went still when someone else mentioned it. A month later, he donned his off-duty fatigues and marched off, and the whole squad knew he was going to see Commander Offee.
They had waited for him, like he was being released from medical, all gathered in the barracks and chatting, tossing around theories and conjectures about what Sarge might remember, if he would remember at all, if he might remember having a name. Storm liked to think he had a name before, and couldn’t wait to know what it was.
He returned several hours later, stumbling and swaying on his feet, face a blank mask of grief and shock.
Storm had stood almost without thought, reaching out to help him, calling out, “Sarge?” and when his eyes had met his, then looked at the rest of the squad, the anguish in them had been painful to witness. He refused to say anything about the reversal, only offering a name- Regret- in response to Seph’s timid question, and then stumbled to his room, closing his door, which he never did, leaving them all with more questions than ever.
Sarge- Sargent Regret, now- was quiet after that. Morose. He started having nightmares, and refused to talk about what happened in them. Only once did he say anything about his remembered past, whispering hoarsely about dead brothers and women and crystal palaces. Storm and Teft tried to help as best they could, offering what little comforts they had, but Sarge responded to nothing, only becoming more distraught when Storm would cuddle him after a nightmare or Teft would try to draw him into a game of Sabbac. The others didn’t even try. Storm had been angry, and confronted them, shouting his frustration at the barracks at large that Sargent needed help and they weren’t helping .
It was Garen who shook his head sadly, looking up at Storm with defeated eyes and insisting that Teft and Storm were his favorites; and if they weren’t getting through, none of them could. Storm had gone cold at that, but had no retort.
About a month after Sargent claimed the name Regret, they were officially stood down and sent to Cin Vehtin, to finish their citizenship processing and start their new lives. Sargent Regret disappeared the same night.
Storm had been crushed. The whole squad was upset, but he and Teft took it the hardest. They reported it to the guards, and the Guards had investigated. Sarget Regret had taken a cargo freighter off planet, then effectively disappeared that night. They couldn’t find him, but they also couldn’t find any evidence of foul play.
“I know it’s hard,” the trooper who informed them of the results of the search had empathized gently. “But even vode react to the stresses of the war different, and it’s not a crime to decide to wander off. If he doesn’t want to be found, that’s his right. I’m sorry.”
The squad had drifted apart after that. Teft and Garen had went back to the army; the shinies, Seph and 69, both decided to become musicians of all things; Face and Teto and Sharp all went in on a small ship together and set off to explore the Republic. Storm found himself enlisting with Diamond’s Men, the slave-freers. He liked it, liked feeling like they were making a difference rather than just fighting in pointless battles. He found friends, squadmates, that were closer to him than his surviving batchmates, and helped him push away the niggling memory of his lost Sargent. All in all, it was a good life.
It was in the aftermath of a mission Storm met Regret again.
They had just raided a slaver’s compound, freeing hundreds of sentients in various stages of “training.” The slaves had already been evacuated. The slavers were being processed to sift out the ones with bounties so they could be turned over to the appropriate authorities, the remaining ones would be taken back to Cin Vehtin for trial. The atmosphere on board the Skywalker’s Justice was jubilant, all the brothers not involved in finishing the slaver processing already planning a mission success party for later that night.
Storm was striding through the hangar, thinking about grabbing something to eat in the mess, when he froze.
Commander Diamond himself was standing there, talking to Ventress. This was not unusual, the former Sith was a sporadic fixture among Diamond’s men, assisting in their efforts at her pleasure, often with her student Miggs Ky or other students in tow. He had heard that she was involved in this mission earlier, so seeing her on board wasn’t surprising.
The man standing stiffly to her right was.
He was turned slightly away, wearing GAR armor, and his armor was unlike any Storm had ever seen before; black with patches and veins of white, far more black than white. He still had his bucket on, so Storm couldn’t see his face, but something about him was familiar.
“No,” he breathed. “It can’t be...” Slowly, cautiously, Storm started in their direction, calling out in a shaky voice, “Sarge?”
The trooper froze, half-turning, and Storm felt a grin break out on his face, his pace turning into a run.
“Sargent Regret!” he whooped, crashing into him in a fierce bear hug. The man pitched forward with the force of Storm’s running embrace, but did not stumble, taking it with a grunt.
“And you thought no one would recognize you,” Ventress’ voice, smokey and amused, drifted over them.
Storm laughed, incredulous and ecstatic. “How could I forget my Sargent?” he asked rhetorically, shaking his head. His hands landed on his Sargent’s shoulders, turning him to face him, shaking him slightly. “Sarge, where have you been?”
Sarge hesitated to answer, so Ventress did for him. “In exile. Doing penance for his sins,” she revealed casually. Sarge’s bucket whipped to face her, and he was undoubtedly glaring under his faceplate, but she merely smiled serenely back at him.
“Exile?” The word slipped from Storm’s mouth in a shocked exhale, his brow furrowing. “Sarge, wha- oh. About what you have nightmares about? What you were reconditioned over?”
Sarge went stiff, but nodded shallowly after a long moment. Storm sighed, chewing his lip, before he made a decision and nodded. He smiled and pounded a fist on Sarge’s shoulder bell familiarly. “Come on. Let me introduce you to my squadmates.”
Sarge somehow went stiffer, his fists flexing nervously at his sides. “Storm, I-”
“Whatever you’re in exile over, I don’t need to know now,” Storm interrupted him, shaking his head. “We can talk about it when you’re ready. For now, I’m just glad my Sargent is back and not kriffin’ dead . Kark, I need to call Teft!” He laughed, still a little incredulous that his Sargent was actually standing in front of him after so long. “I’ll call all the squad. Everyone will be glad to know you’re ok.”
Finally, Sargent Regret relaxed. Storm could almost hear a smile in his voice as he nodded. “Sounds good, rookie.”
Storm felt his grin widen even as his nose wrinkled. “Oh Force, I haven’t been called a rookie in ages .” Sarge laughed.
Storm led him from the hangar toward the barracks, feeling lighter than air, buoyant and full of shershoy. He chattered at Sarge incessantly, not even caring that he was mostly silent, desperate to update his wayward Sargent on all that he had missed. He was so caught up in trying to remember what Teto was up to these days he was genuinely startled by the shout of a vod.
“SLICK!”
Storm yelped in surprise as hard hands grabbed his upper arm, dragging him away from Sarge and nearly flinging him behind another brother. It took him a moment to regain his bearings, and when he did, he found himself behind Gus, one of the medics; he didn’t know Gus very well, but he was a solid trooper and medic, fiercely determined. Not the gentlest or kindest medic, but every man he touched survived. Formerly of the 41st, and had worked closely with Commander Offee, and that earned him a lot of respect in the wake of the reconditioning reversals. Now, he stood between Storm and Sarge, his body language torn between protective and hostile.
Storm blinked, frowning in confusion at the medic. Gus apparently wasn’t even paying him any attention, though, his cold glare zeroed in on Sarge.
“How dare you wear that armor,” Gus hissed between clenched teeth, and Storm suddenly realized he was shaking in rage. “How dare you hide my mark.”
“Gus...” Sarge tried, softly, his shoulders slumped in defeat, but Gus cut him off harshly.
“Take. it. Off.” he snarled.
There was tense silence for a moment, everyone in the hall watching the confrontation with unabashed interest. No one dared to breathe, much less speak.
Finally, Sarge moved, unclasping the seals of his bucket with a soft click of locks. He pulled off his bucket, and faced them with a blank expression. Storm’s breath caught in his throat.
There, across the bridge of his nose, the word TRAITOR was carved into his face in a series of neat, clean scars.
“Sarge...” he felt more than heard the strangled word come from his throat, soft and horrified. Gus glanced over his shoulder at him, a complicated look flashing in his eyes, before his gaze hardened again and returned to Sarge.
“You just can’t stop lying, can you, Slick?” he snarled, his hands clenching into fists. “What have you told him? That you’re innocent? That it’s all just a mistake? Ventress tricked you into it?” He took a step forward, getting into Sarge’s space aggressively, but Regret’s face remained blank. “Have you marked him yet?”
That finally drew a reaction from Sarge, the older man recoiling, horror and disgust flashing in his eyes before his face went hard. “ No ,” he barked sternly, but Gus was on a roll now, his accusations building in volume and anger until he was shouting his rage, Sarge flinching at every accusation.
"Does he know the price of a favor, Slick? Have you bet his body in Sabacc with civilians? Separated him from his brothers with words and fed him lies until he doesn't know which way is up? Made him beg you for the smallest mercy-!"
"Gus-" Sarge breathed softly, pained, and abruptly the medic's fist came up to connect with his nose. Sargent Regret fell back against the wall, blood pouring from his obviously broken nose.
The sudden violence snapped Storm from his trance, jumping forward to help his Sargent, but strong arms wound around him, Gus holding him back with a beskar grip. Storm struggled uselessly against him. "What are you doing?!" he cried, too confused to really sound angry, but he was ignored.
"Get out of here, Slick," Gus snarled coldly. "Don't you dare show your face here again."
Without a word or a glance, Sarge straightened, and left, his nose still dripping. Storm was too stunned to even call after him.
Gus's grip relaxed, but he didn't release Storm, his arms turning into more of a hug, and suddenly he was talking to Storm, a low soothing murmur, and kriff how could someone who had just sounded colder than Hoth so quickly sound so kind?
"It's ok, vod'ika, I promise, you won't ever see that traitor again. I don’t know what he told you-"
“He didn’t tell me anything!” Storm burst out in frustration, finally breaking out of his shocked haze enough to knock the arms away and round on the medic. “Nobody will tell me anything! All I know is Sargent Regret is my Sargent, I owe him my life, and this is the first time I’ve seen him since the vote, practically, and he’s been hurt- ”
“Your Sargent is the Traitor at Teth.”
Storm froze. Blinked. “W-what?”
Gus snarled, turning away. “The kami’uun were too thrifty . They reconditioned him. Gave him more men.” Old pain and rage bled together into his voice, and he began to shake again. “He is no better than the kami’uun in my eyes. Worse.”
Storm stared at the medic, gaping. Not quite able to grasp what he had been told. Of course he knew the story of the Traitor at Teth, it was one of those things everyone knew, that the vod’ike were taught in the creche. The only vod to ever be unanimously declared dar’vode, worse than dead and name forgotten. The only Fett clone to turn on his vode. The records were classified, likely would be for a hundred years or more, but everyone knew what he had done. Not just treason; whispered suggestions of barbaric abuse of subordinates, horrifying to even contemplate. It was said that he was dead, executed.
Storm swallowed. If... if it was true... No wonder Sarge had nightmares.
He turned and ran after Sarge.
Ventress frowned as she watched Regret march onto her ship not ten minutes after leaving her side, his now uncovered face stiff and blank. He brushed past her, going straight to his cabin, the lock clicking behind him.
Something had happened.
She did not pretend to understand him or what he had done. She had never had a people, the closest she had was the Nightsisters, and she had left them easily enough when it became obvious she was not truly one of them. The Naar was merely an organization she worked within, not a part of her like the GAR was for Regret. She did not even know even the exact nature of his crimes besides his cooperation with her plans, though she was intimately familiar with the nature of his slow, painstaking attempts to pay back his debt. His borderline suicidal heroics were becoming a rather persistent headache for her, actually.
But she understood redemption. She had hoped he may find it, or perhaps part of it, if accepted back into the fold of his brotherhood, and perhaps contribute to her own. Another life she had ruined, gently guided back to arm’s reach of the Light, as Naberrie had done for her. The young clone subordinate of his that had greeted him had seemed an ideal candidate to initiate the process. Had she miscalculated?
She tensed when another pair of boots stomped up her ship’s ramp a scant few minutes later, running pace, battle instinct only tempered by a lack of threat in the Force. She relaxed fully when she recognized the young clone from earlier.
He was frantic, his face creased with worry. “Is Sarge here?” he burst breathlessly.
A thread of satisfaction curled in Ventress’ gut. Properly calculated after all. She waved carelessly to the door of the morose clone’s quarters. “I don’t think he wants visitors,” she drawled.
The clone didn’t even hesitate, much less pay her any mind. He nearly charged straight into the door before realizing it wasn’t opening and mashing the panel, then turning to her to nearly demand, “Open it?”
Ventress raised an eyebrow at his tone, but sighed and ordered him briskly, “Step aside.”
His frown morphed to one of confusion, but he obediently did so. “Why? Do you need to be close-?”
After making sure she was out of line of fire as well, Ventress gestured casually, the door sliding aside, a blaster bolt spitting forth almost instantly causing the clone’s words to die and his eyes to go wide.
Ventress smirked. “That’s why.” Sing-song, just to be an ass, she called into the room, “Oh Exile, you have a visitor,” then sauntered off toward the cockpit. Over her shoulder, she tossed, “Good luck, little blue eye. I’m taking off in twenty minutes, with you off this ship or on it.”
She smirked smugly as she heard the clone enter the room, felt his deep, underlying devotion and determination to help his commanding officer shining brighter than ever through the hurricane of his emotions. When she entered the cockpit, she had a comm call waiting for her.
Anakin Naberrie popped up in blue miniature, raising an eyebrow and smiling mischievously after looking her over. “Why do I get the impression I’ve missed something?”
Ventress laughed. “Just your influence, rippling out over the galaxy, as usual, Hero.”
Regret couldn’t make himself turn and face Storm. Not now that he knew. He couldn’t take seeing betrayal in the eyes of Storm.
He felt his shoulders hunch as he heard boots cautiously enter the room, his hands clench painfully tight around his blaster. Not a deece, but a decent enough thing that Ventress had given him. Shot straight, at least. He flinched when Storm sighed.
“Is it true?”
Regret swallowed. Nodded.
A pained sound escaped Storm that cut far deeper than any wound delivered by the survivors.
“ Why? ”
Regret forced his voice to work. “In memory of people who would have gutted me had they known what I’ve done in their names.”
Storm swore softly. There was a stretch of silence, then, a pair of boots appeared in his line of sight. Storm crouched in front of him, his face set, his pale blue eyes bright with determination and as stormy as his name. “Tell me everything.”
Regret shook his head vehemently in refusal. Stars , too many were already burdened with the truth of his crimes, he wouldn’t damn Storm to his nightmares too.
Storm’s expression darkened, but he remained firm. “Sarge. You owe me that at least.”
Regret shook his head. “Ask Commander Offee. She knows.”
Storm swore again, standing and marching out of the room. Regret didn’t turn to watch. It was for the best, really.
When he emerged from his cabin finally, several hours later, he was shocked to discover Storm beside Ventress in the tiny but comprehensively stocked galley, clumsily helping Ventress prepare latemeal and laughing at her exasperated scowl.
“What are you doing here, Storm?” he demanded blankly.
Storm grinned blithely. “Following you into exile.”
Regret closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose like it might ward off the headache. “Why.”
“Because I would have if you asked me to three years ago,” was the simple and nearly blase answer. “The whole squad would have, and rest assured I will still be contacting them all later to let them know you’re alive and extend an invitation to join us.”
Regret snarled. “Storm-”
“Dont, Sarge.” His face was still smiling, but his tone was firm. That of a trooper that had made up his mind and would die for this objective. “I’m coming. You can’t stop me. And don’t you dare try to just sneak away again.”
Regret sighed.