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CC-2224 was confused.
It had been two weeks since Utapau, and upon returning to Coruscant he had been sent right back out again, tasked with organizing security forces in the Outer Rim. Now in hyperspace, all there was to do was wait.
His memories before Utapau were fuzzy.
There were bits and pieces, and yet the more he tried to link the pieces together, the faster they slipped like sand between his fingertips. Commanding troops on countless missions. Joking around with two other troopers. Handing a lightsaber back to a Jedi.
But that wasn’t right. The Jedi were traitors to the Republic. CC-2224 had ordered one to be shot down himself.
Good soldiers follow orders.
Sometimes the thoughts in his head felt...wrong. Like they were coming from someone else. And when he woke up in the middle of the night he saw orange-red hair and brightly amused blue eyes. He didn’t know who they belonged to.
But he wouldn’t let his jumble of thoughts compromise the mission. He was a good soldier. There was no higher honor than serving his Emperor. Once they arrived in the Outer Rim, he would ensure that all members of the new Empire were compliant. And if he received word of a rogue Jedi, he’d hunt them down himself.
A part of him flinched away at that thought, but he shoved it away. He would not tolerate weakness—within others or within himself. The Emperor needed strength. CC-2224 was proud to serve.
He stood from where he had been resting on his bunk, and grabbed his helmet from the floor. Looking into the white exterior and black view frame, he remembered that his armor had been painted gold. Why had he painted it gold? It was only a waste of resources.
He jammed the helmet on. There was something there, a memory that prickled in the back of his brain. Warm laughter, gold and dark blue paint. Someone’s hand painting blue jaig eyes onto a helmet.
CT-7567.
Something was wrong about that, too. There was another name, shorter, that matched to the hand painting jaig eyes, but it was out of CC-2224’s reach.
CT-7567. He had known him. More than that—they had been brothers, as close as any two clones. Where was 67 now?
Cod—no, CC-2224 found himself walking to one of the star destroyer’s mainframes. He input CT-7567 into search.
CT-7567:
Status: KIA
Commander of 332nd Company. Former Captain of 501st Battalion. Killed in action on The Resolute Venator-class Star Destroyer during the execution of Order 66.
CC-2224 typed “332nd Company” into the search bar.
332nd Company:
Status: Inactive
Last recorded mission: Sundari, Mandalore
Clone trooper force under command of Commander CT-7567.
Mandalore. Before Utapau, he and CT-7567 had parted ways, 24 to Coruscant to protect the Chancellor—the Emperor —and 67 to Mandalore to fight. Why? He couldn’t remember. Why couldn’t he remember?
He slammed his fist onto the interface. The smooth surface remained undamaged beneath his hand. He almost wanted it to break, wanted to see that he could affect his surroundings, his situation, could have some control even as he was losing himself.
CC-2224 stared at his reflection in the screen. A blank set of armor stared back. He couldn’t recognize troopers on sight anymore. That was something he used to pride himself on, he knew. Now he barely even recognized himself.
Something was wrong. He kept going back to that. It was like a piece of himself was missing, but the more he tried to remember, to grasp onto it, the faster it disappeared into the void. He was a shell, a blank slate, just like his armor. Why did the Empire discourage individuality? Even the Jedi had wanted them to express themselves.
Something was wrong, wrong , WRONG —
“Commander,” a crisp voice sounded from the doorway. He whirled around, instinctively clearing his search bar, and stood at attention.
Admiral—no, Governor—Tarkin.
A sense of disgust rose inside CC-2224, and, bewildered, he forced it down.
He had known Tarkin. Before this mission, before the Empire. Why couldn’t he remember?
“I require the use of the mainframe,” Tarkin said. “What, may I ask, was your purpose in accessing it?”
A mask of politeness, unpleasant thoughts behind a composed facade.
“Checking our course, sir.”
He stepped away from the mainframe as Tarkin approached. “Dismissed,” Tarkin said, without turning around.
CC-2224 walked out without another word.
——
His hands were shaking.
CC-2224 did his best to still the tremors as he made his way to the bridge.
Harsh, rocky landscape and orange-yellow lava flashed before his eyes. The Citadel.
Seeing Tarkin had unlocked some part of him, and now he remembered a mission to rescue a Jedi and an ungrateful captain. A Jedi.
The Jedi hadn’t always been traitors. At one point he had been close with his General, with—
Those were dangerous thoughts. Maybe the Jedi had once been on the side of the Republic, but no longer. They sowed chaos, would try and take down the Empire if he gave them an inch of breathing room. People could change. The Jedi had changed.
The past was gone, dead. All that mattered was the present, and the future. No matter who the Jedi used to be, no matter who he used to be, this was the reality. CC-2224 worked to restore order to the galaxy, and the Jedi only wished to stop him. It didn’t matter that his memories were blurry, because those thoughts would only distract him. And if there was one thing he was good at, it was working without distraction.
The bridge doors opened before him and he strode inside, coming to a stop before the front viewport. Hyperspace swirled and tumbled in front of him, but CC-2224’s mind, for now, was clear. He was a loyal servant to the Empire. He would take down any remaining Jedi and their supporters himself.
No more doubt, no more hesitation. This was the new world order, his Emperor at the head, and CC-2224 was more than happy to comply.