Chapter Text
The Jedi, Anakin has been taught since he was nine years old, are keepers of the peace.
He can’t even count the number of times that he’s received variations of the ‘we are not warriors’ lecture. Every time he’d get a little too into sparring, or do something just a bit beyond the norm as far as using the Force went, there’d be concerned looks and carefully spoken words.
The Jedi don’t want to be known for fighting. They want to be known for diplomacy, for protecting those who can’t protect themselves.
Unfortunately for the Jedi, their skill in battle still became widely known.
Perfect for a war that started too suddenly to properly prepare for.
He wonders at the reasoning that the Senate must’ve used. He thinks, with a sort of grim humor, that perhaps they looked at the thousands of Jedi, trained and disciplined, and thought, ripe for the pickings.
After all, Anakin thinks as he reads the announcement on the Jedi Order’s holosite, telling the Jedi they’re going to be Generals- they were trained to handle stressful situations. They were trained to fight, trained to have compassion for all life. Defending the galaxy from the Confederacy has to fall under that, right? He clenches his new, unfamiliar metal hand as he rereads the message, again and again.
He, himself, thinks that it’s something like a guilt trip: if the Jedi refuse, then every single death during the war will make the guilt on their shoulders grow heavier and heavier. Even if they denied the call to arms now, they would eventually give in. And when they did, it would be much worse.
He hears how other Jedi justify it to themselves: surely, by serving the Republic Army, they’re preserving the peace. Surely, it’s right to defend their democracy. This is for the good of the people. They were created to protect all life.
Meanwhile, Anakin doesn’t think he’s ever seen so many Jedi try to leave the Order at once.
So many try to leave, in fact- several hundred within not even two weeks- that the Jedi Council has to hold a grand meeting to convince those remaining to stay.
We’re the best that the Army can get, they say.
We have a responsibility to the Republic, Master Windu says firmly.
Maintain the peace we must, even if it means change, Yoda intones solemnly. Master Yoda, at least, doesn’t look too thrilled as he says it.
Anakin, who had lived his early life resenting the Republic for letting the Hutts enslave him and millions of others, has never felt a particular loyalty to them. In fact, he has so little loyalty to them that he had planned to leave shortly after being Knighted.
In an ironic twist of fate, Anakin practically has the least amount of choice out of all of them. It’s made all the funnier by the fact that in any other situation, the Jedi Council would probably be relieved to see him go. But-
He’s the Chosen One. He’s been told this since the Jedi Order first allowed him to join the Temple. He always knew that the expectations for him were astronomically high; he was destined to balance the Force, the Masters said seriously. At some point, he would face the Sith and finally destroy them, putting the Dark side to rest.
The fact of the matter is, there is absolutely no way in hell that Anakin will be able to leave now that they’re in an officially declared war.
~*~
He’s saluted as he boards his newly assigned Star Destroyer.
It makes him falter, for a moment, because- it should be waving. Bowing, if it’s an official occasion, but it isn’t, and he doesn’t really know what to do about it. Doesn’t know if there’s anything he can do about it.
So he nods, and keeps walking.
It keeps happening, as he makes his way toward the bridge. Identical men, except for haircuts and tattoos. Scars, on a few of them. Identical salutes, too, stiffly precise.
They’ve been saluting their whole lives, Anakin thinks. It’s an uncomfortable thought to him- the whole situation screams slavery, and it makes his skin crawl. He wants to grab the shoulders of every single Jedi on the Council and scream, wants to say, we can’t do this. You must see how wrong this is.
But even if he did, they wouldn’t listen. Hell, they’d probably tell him to let go of his past and stop letting it cloud his judgement, as if he only perceives it to be wrong because he was one, and not because the thought of taking a sentient being and forcing them to do someone else’s bidding isn’t wrong on a very fundamental level.
He really hates the Jedi, sometimes.
He pauses for a moment, inspecting the thought. Considers it, registers how true it is, and then sets it aside.
There are many Jedi teachings he’s willing to ignore, but letting hate take root isn’t something he wants to risk.
As the elevator to the bridge opens and he walks out, the officers in the room who aren’t sitting stand straight and salute.
He resists letting uneasy expression come to his face, and instead says, “At ease.”
With an ease that speaks of familiarity, they all settle back into what they were doing. He doesn’t miss the glances they shoot him when they think he’s not paying attention, though; he might’ve, if he hadn’t long ago developed an instinct for registering eyes on him. Being a slave with sought after talent, then the Chosen One in the Temple, and finally spending so many hours in the worst levels of Coruscant in his free time have given him a very strong sense of his surroundings.
“Sir,” a clone with blue-painted armor says, seeming uneasy. “I was supposed to meet you at the flight deck at 1500.”
Which was in about forty minutes, but, well.
Anakin crosses his arms, rocking back on his heels. “Master Obi-Wan was hovering,” he says in explanation, and it’s even partially the truth. Not the entire truth, but close enough.
In reality, being surrounded by the imposing walls of the Temple had just felt too restricting, and he wouldn’t have time to change if he went to visit the underworld.
The man hesitates, then says slowly, “I was to give you a tour of the ship.”
Anakin blinks at him. “Is it not the same as all Star Destroyers?”
“It is,” the clone- a Captain, Anakin remembers from the late hours of research last night- answers.
Anakin makes a dismissive noise, waving his hand. “I know what’s in a Star Destroyer. I’ve researched just about every ship schematic I can get my hands on.”
There’s something interested in the man’s eyes, sharply considering, like he’s reevaluating him. It makes sense- being assigned a General who’s only nineteen must seem strange, to them. Unorthodox- which it is, of course, but. Anakin thinks he’d do a better job than someone else his age, and it isn’t arrogance that feeds the thought. Aayla is scrambling to learn all she needs to, was a bundle of stress when he last saw her, and she’s twenty one.
Though to be fair, he thinks, all the Jedi are stressed right now.
This new position is so completely conflicting with their role before that they’re all struggling to adjust.
“I don’t think we’ve met,” Anakin says, falling back on Obi-Wan's frequent lectures about manners as he extends his hand. “I’m Anakin Skywalker.”
“Captain Rex, CT-7567,” he responds, shaking Anakin’s hand, and there’s something vaguely challenging in the way he says his name first, followed by his serial number.
Anakin nods easily, because he gets that, and won’t try to dissuade it. Names are important. “Well, Captain Rex. Since a tour isn’t necessary, how about telling me about the clones in the brigade?”
The Captain looks a bit startled, even as he automatically nods and says, “Of course, sir.”
Well, that reaction certainly doesn’t bode well, he thinks with apprehension. Because either the clone was shocked that he addressed him by name, or that Anakin wanted to know about his own damn men.
My men, he thinks, and the thought is foreign. He’s never looked at someone and thought mine in a way that meant under my command; always, when he’s thought mine it’s meant mine to protect, mine to love. When he thinks the word, what comes to mind is Obi-Wan, or Padmé, or even the younglings who pester him when he’s delegated to teaching their lessons.
Maybe, with time, the clones will fall under that category.
It’s a bad idea, he knows. He should, in this case, probably listen to the Council and make sure he doesn’t grow attached. Not all of them- not all of his men will survive this war, and if he gets attached, their deaths will hurt all the more.
It feels right, though, to grow attached even if he knows they may die. It’s hardly their own fault, after all.
Oh, well. He’s ignored enough Jedi-taught rules and principles to feel comfortable in the realization that, yes, he’s going to set aside that warning.
~*~
Rex doesn’t understand General Skywalker.
That’s probably to be expected. The man is a Jetii, after all- clones are warned all throughout their training that the people they’re raised to fight beside are very different from anyone else they’ll come across. They follow something no one else can feel, have instincts that any one of the trainers they had over the years would kill for. They’re fierce in battle, centered, serene-
Except General Skywalker seems far from the common definition for serene.
The General moves with a sort of effortless grace that’s different from the other Jetii Rex has seen; on others, it speaks of control and practice. On Skywalker, it’s different- it’s closer to Jango than anything else. It says danger, says I am aware of everything around me in a way that implies and I could destroy it with ease.
And more than that, the man doesn’t even seem to realize it.
“He’s named Jackass? ” The General guffaws, looking positively gleeful. “The hell does a guy have to do to deserve that?”
Rex shrugs, discomfited by the open attitude General Skywalker has. None of the trainers had ever been so easygoing. “Rumor has it that his batchmates just called him it so often that it stuck.” As an afterthought, he adds, “Usually it’s shortened to Jack.”
Skywalker makes an amused sound, grinning a bit, like it’s hilarious rather than, as the Kaminoans liked to say, an immature nickname.
Rex really doesn’t understand General Skywalker.
They’re going through the names, and he watches with increasing incredulity as the General pauses over each one, matching the photos to names, seeming to actually be trying to remember each one, when the man suddenly murmurs, seemingly to himself, “I should learn how to shoot, huh.”
Rex blinks, and takes a look at the screen the General’s looking at. It’s Mirage, and Rex doesn’t remember him very much beyond that he’s a decent sniper, inclined to sticking toward the back of formations.
“I didn’t know Jedi use guns,” Rex says carefully, and it tilts up at the end in question.
The man’s mouth twists, and he looks startlingly bitter for a moment. “We didn’t fight wars, either,” he mutters. And-
Rex hadn’t considered it, until now, but. The Jedi were peacekeepers, weren’t they? From what he knows, they were devoted to protecting all life, settling disputes between planets and the like. He can’t remember seeing a single piece of history in which they willingly participated in battle, excluding the ancient war all those hundreds of years ago.
For all that they’re revered for their skill with a blade, they don’t seem to revel in it.
“There’s no rule against it,” Skywalker says, and it takes Rex a moment to remember the conversation they were having. “The Council will surely disapprove, but.” He leaves it there, shrugging, like he couldn’t care less what the most important members of the Jedi Order think of him.
“Well, there’s certainly enough men that could teach you,” Rex says, if only to diffuse the odd tension in the air.
Skywalker blinks, like Rex has surprised him, and laughs a bit. “There are, aren’t there.”
He surprised himself, actually. Joking with someone he’s known for not even an hour isn’t something he’s particularly inclined to do, what with how easily offended some of the trainers used to get. Even Alpha-17, a clone like the rest of them, brushed off attempts at humor in the sessions he trained. According to Cody, at least. Rex himself has only spoken to the man a few times, and all of those talks were very short.
They trail off into silence from there, leaving the General to continue paging through the registry. He asks questions, every once in a while, and seems to have an acute sense of when to stop pushing, like when he questioned a tattoo on someone’s face, or the absentminded remark that Rex’s hair color seems to be a rarity.
Rex had halfway expected to be asked if he dyed it- a very annoying question that everyone seems to ask when they see him without his bucket. As if he’d dye a buzz cut, honestly. Thankfully, either Skywalker isn’t dumb enough to bother, or he just thinks it’d overstep some sort of boundary.
The fact that the General is even paying such close attention to boundaries is perplexing. The Kaminoans certainly never had.
“Is the color a rank thing, or a personal choice?”
Rex looks over at the Jedi. “Rank,” he says, and doesn’t say for now, going by how many men I’ve heard talking about painting their armor. He can’t really fault them for not wanting to wear plain white. At least the blue provides some sort of camouflage.
“White armor,” General Skywalker says, shaking his head. “What were they thinking?”
“It’s colored, to the Kaminoans,” Rex answers automatically, and wonders, uncomfortably, if the rumor that Jedi can read thoughts are true. That was frighteningly good timing, on Skywalker’s part.
“Not to the majority of other sentient species, it’s not,” he replies, eyes scanning over the text on his datapad. Rex thinks he catches a glimpse of a new message alert, but he can’t be sure. “I mean, hell, where do they think we’ll be fighting? Hoth?” Then, quieter, in a sour voice, “I sure hope not.”
Rex tries not to choke on his tongue, because there’s actually ongoing jokes that there’s some sort of secret base on a snow planet, because why else would their armor be white? Skywalker looks over at him, like he heard the contained bark of laughter that almost escaped him, and raises his brows for a moment before returning to his ‘pad.
Another unbroken stretch of silence, in which Rex goes through his own datapad to approve shipment forms, before Skywalker says, “We’ll need to arrange a rotating training schedule, so we can all get used to fighting together.”
Rex straightens from his reclined position in his chair, opening his notes app, and replies, “Of course, sir. Numbers?”
The General hums consideringly, tapping his gloved fingers on the table. “Platoon sized groups would be most efficient, I think.” He pauses. “What are your thoughts, Captain?”
Rex glances up. “Depends on what you’re aiming for.”
“I’ll need to get as many clones as I can used to fighting beside a Jedi before we’re sent into a fight. That means you all need to know the basics of the forms I use- enough to be able to somewhat predict my movements- and I need to know how you think during a fight, so I know how to not get in your way.”
Rex is pretty sure it’s the clones that would get in his way, but he lets it slide. “Platoon sized training sessions would work, but any more than that and it’d be pushing it. I’d suggest a run in the simulation room and a demonstration for each group.”
The Jedi hums in agreement, quickly pulling up a guide on the program that the simulation room uses. “We’ll do that, then, starting tomorrow at 0900. How long would we… hm. A bit over an hour with each group, just about. I’ll have to drag in anyone who’s not busy if I come up with something later on that needs teaching.”
Rex nods, getting to work on a proper schedule. General Skywalker looks over it, every once in a while, telling him times that he knows he’ll be busy- Rex’s confusion must be obvious, for some of it, because the Jedi will say things like, “Teaching the younglings,” or, “Doing some routine maintenance in the Temple,” after listing odd times.
In the end, they finish their impromptu meeting after three hours, most of which consisted of idle chatter while Skywalker read through the clone’s general information.
As he watches General Skywalker head toward the lift to head down to run a quick check on the simulation room, he wonders if he’ll ever understand the man.
~*~
Anakin walks into the Temple just past eleven o’clock, and is resigning himself to doing meditation to clear his head when he feels eyes on him.
He glances surreptitiously up at the high arches framing the windows, catches several small shadows, and relaxes. This, he can deal with. It’s a common enough occurence now that he can keep walking without looking like he suspects a thing, perfectly inattentive-
A figure launches itself at his head from above, while at the same time he sees several more drop around him, hiding themselves expertly in the little shadow the Temple’s interior has.
He grins sharply.
He drops with ease, rolling onto his back and kicking up- restraining himself, since these are only younglings, but enough that the boy goes sailing a few feet away with an offended squawk.
The other three surge forward, like this was their cue, and Anakin weaves around their hits, sharply tapping at spots where he can get through their guard. He sweeps a foot out, and beside him, Ahsoka lets out a frustrated noise as she stumbles. Vin, a girl two years younger than Ahsoka and twice as unhesitating, fills in the space, guarding the girl’s moment of weakness, trying to distract Anakin from the fact that La’tran is maneuvering towards his back.
They’ve gotten better, he notices, pleased. They must’ve been practicing while he was gone.
He lets them have their moment of perceived victory, allowing La’tran to snake around- and the moment she moves to attack, he ducks, backs up, and tosses the Rodian over him and right into Vin.
The whole lot of them go down in a pile as Fira stalks over, fuming. He snorts as the boy immediately goes on the offense, as ever letting his emotions get the better of his common sense. Anakin feints a dodge to the left, then leans right, getting right in the boy’s guard, and hooks his foot around the youngling’s ankle, pulling his feet out from under him.
He goes down with a noise of pure grumpiness.
“Well,” Anakin announces smugly, “that went well.”
Ahsoka, squirming out from under Vin, glares sullenly at him. “You knew we were there!”
Anakin grins at her, rolling his eyes. “Of course I did. That might’ve worked on Aayla, but you can hardly surprise me like that.”
“ Lies, ” Fira hisses as he rises to his feet, as always a big supporter of everything Aayla-related, “Aayla would’ve beat us faster than you.”
“Sure.”
The boy makes a furious sound, like Anakin’s just insulted him personally. Maker, but this kid’s a riot, he thinks. He hopes Aayla ends up mentoring him. That’d be hilarious.
Actually, that’d be a horrible idea. Her Quinlan-induced poor impulse control coupled with Fira’s love for poorly planned throwdowns would be a disaster.
“La’tran,” he addresses, falling easily into post-ambush lecture mode, “you leaned too much into your attack at my back. If you’d been better anchored, you might’ve been able to use me grappling you to your advantage. Ahsoka,” he says next, and she perks up, “you’re good at being light on your feet, but you can’t be completely light on your feet. It leaves you open to losing your balance- mind your center.
“Fira, you rushed in instead of standing back and seeing how you could benefit your allies,” he says, and the boy slumps, glaring down at his feet. “Your form is getting better, but you give into frustration too easily. And Vin,” the girl glances at him, her head tipped down a bit as she adjusts her ponytail, “good job. You protected Ahsoka when she was vulnerable. But you stopped focusing on your surroundings, and that made it easy to surprise you.”
They all nod solemnly for a moment.
Then Ahsoka steps forward and asks, “So, how’d it go? Did the clones like you?”
He sighs, setting off for the residential wing of the Temple. Four sets of steps echo him. “I don’t think they dis liked me?” He hazards.
“Aw, they didn’t like you?” Fira asks.
“I didn’t say that,” he sighs, flicking the blond on the side of his head. He ignores the mortally wounded noise it earns him, and says, “It went well, but I think a work relationship is the best I can ask for right now. Actually getting to know them will take awhile. There are a lot of them, after all.”
“Do they really all look the same?” Vin asks quietly. He can’t quite place the look on her face, but he thinks maybe the thought makes her uncomfortable. He can’t fathom why, other than the general wrongness of it.
“Mostly,” he answers. “They cut their hair differently, and a lot of them have tattoos to tell them apart.”
La’tran, silent until then, says hesitantly, “I heard someone say they all have the same personality.”
He scoffs before he can stop himself. “Yeah, that’s a lie. I don’t think any two of them are the same.”
La’tran looks greatly relieved by this, and it’s oddly warming to know he wasn’t the only one worried about things like that. If they had all had the same personality, then Anakin wouldn’t be able to stop himself from going to Kamino and investigating himself. Even without that added factor, it’s difficult not to.
Ah, yes, here’s the army of clones you ordered, years before the war, which isn’t suspicious at all, he thinks with annoyance. Gods, but the Council makes the strangest damn choices about some things. Most things, even. The fact that they didn’t even bother to investigate further than finding out it was Jango Fett being cloned is ridiculous. Instead, they swept it under the rug, let the Kaminoans do as they please, let them continue making slave soldiers-
He cuts the thought off there. Now isn’t the time to think about it.
He stops them in front of the youngling rooms, and shoos the four of them to bed.
As he watches them go, laughing quietly to each other as they head to their rooms, he wonders with a sort of dread if this war will be over before they become padawans.
He hopes it is, but it rings empty even to him.
It’s only just started, after all.
~*~
When the first platoon of the day walks into the training room, Anakin’s already there, perched high on a hard slat of elevated flooring.
Field simulation rooms are only in about a dozen or so ships, from what he’s heard, and it makes a lot of sense when you realize just how much effort goes into making them. Stretching over 120 yards long, the entire area has over a hundred different holoprojectors, expertly hardwired together. Each square foot of flooring can rise up to eight feet, imitating different terrain with its tilt and color. It just might be the most expensive room of the spacecraft, after the engines.
The floor setup has already loaded, leaving the area with steep inclines and areas that are hidden from most angles. It’s actually based on satellite pictures of a hilly forest in Kashyyyk, and looks awfully strange with the blocky-shaped roots.
Star Destroyers are being made for war, after all. They’re not going to invest too much tech into them.
As they realize his presence and fall into lines in front of him, he drops down to stand level with them. “Alright, men, I’m going to be transparent with you. By the end of this session, you will have, at the most, only a basic grasp of how to predict my movements. I will only have a basic understanding of how you move. This simulation is not expected to go smoothly, so don’t be surprised when we get in each other’s way and mess it up.”
He straightens his back. “Our first goal is to complete a basic capture point simulation. Armor up, talk strategy, and get yourself some sting guns.”
Anakin, who’s already decked out in gear- plates that will light up red if he’s hit by holographic shots or sting rounds- makes his way around the room, keeping his ears tuned to the chatter. There’s pairs of clones walking along the nearby edges of the simulation floor, observing possible ambush spots and places of cover, and relaying information to the others.
When they’re all standing straight and ready, not even five minutes have passed.
They’re so efficient, he thinks. He can’t believe the Jedi Council really Knighted him at nineteen and promptly foisted him off into the throes of the military. He wonders how long it’ll take for him to say something stupid and embarass himself.
Probably just today.
“Alright,” he murmurs to himself, taking a deep breath. Have to look like I know what I’m doing, he thinks with wry humor. Can’t be too hard, right? “What’s the call on formation, Lieutenant?”
The man in question straightens. Without seeing his face, and so potential tattoos or unique hairstyles, Anakin can’t place the name. “A two group maneuver, attacking from two sides, General.”
“With one of these groups led by you?” Anakin clarifies, thinking it out. That’d be two groups of eighteen, then, with Anakin leading the other.
“Yes, sir.”
Anakin unclips the lazer-bladed simulation saber from his belt and says, “Works for me. Have you decided the groups, then?”
The Lieutenant seems thrown, for a moment, but answers, “Yes, sir.”
“Let’s get this started then,” he says. “We’ll begin when the countdown reaches zero.”
For as long as the simulation room is, it’s not even eighty yards long, so when the platoon divides into two sets, they’re only about twenty yards away from each other while they watch the bright red hologram of the countdown begin from thirty.
Three, two, one-
Anakin and his team set off into the field, weapons bared.
Anakin prepares himself for a disaster.