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Clone Captain CT-7522, also known as Howzer, stands in the canyon's gloom, helmet clattering against his hip, white knuckled grip on his blaster, watching the LAAT take off with his cuffed general and traitorous vice admiral.
He has orders—some direct, some implied—and really, he should be following both. Howzer's a good soldier, always has been, and has no intention of stopping now... But being good comes with standards, and chasing innocent little girls just doesn't make the cut.
His men buzz about the crippled juggernaut behind him, collecting BARC speeders and stunned and injured men. They give him room, patiently waiting for his orders while he processes the latest round of emotional whiplash.
Howzer's hand twitches, a compulsion to call Sinker barely held in check. He badly wants to talk to him, but couldn't bear to hear his batchmate's monotone voice telling him to just get over himself and do his job.
It was Sinker who'd told him about the mind-medics out on Coruscant, a bunch of natborns who'd managed to scramble some resources and pass bills in the senate to earn the right to help the vode. Supposedly all you had to do was talk with one of them, share your experiences, your worries, your darker thoughts.
'It's crazy how good it feels, just saying it aloud,' Sinker had mused. 'They nod and ask you some questions... There's nothing to it really, and yet I just feel like I understand myself so much better.'
Howzer hadn't been sure how to take Sinker's recommendation. It was like his batchmate had taken one look at his selfsame face and decided he needed to hear about all this mental help stuff. It was all the more offensive because it was true. At the time he'd just been assigned to Cham, and it rankled.
Howzer, like many graduates of the first
Geonosis survival training course,
as he'd taken to calling the meat grinder of their first mission, had been raring for a position under a Jedi. They'd been created to serve the Republic through them, after all. He'd seen them in action. He owed his life to several. He had wanted nothing more than... Well,
more.
He'd been as fresh faced as any shiny ever shone. Even Geonosis hadn't managed to scratch all that eagerness from him.
He'd done a bit too well on the investigative track, and he was afraid his orders would have him sent to the CG. No shade on Fox and his lads, but he couldn't see how any vod would want that job.
His appointment as a lieutenant under general Malicos in the 110th of the 12th Army was everything he'd dreamt of. The general was fair, led from the front lines, and he had a way with words too, made you feel bigger... Howzer still remembers the swelling pride, the devotion singing through him when the man had smiled at him and handed him his teal blue pauldron.
'Honestly Howzer, you deserve more,' he'd said, 'you should have come in as a captain already and you've got all it takes to make commander. Keep working hard like this and you'll be there in no time.'
Artsy had rolled his eyes behind the general, a friendly reminder he was commander and that the title would be clawed from his cold, dead hands.
And then the battle on Ryloth... And General Malicos' trust, suddenly double-edged.
Howzer had resented the assignment under Cham for a solid month, and Sinker's well intended tips hadn't helped. The Twi'leks' way of fighting was too foreign. They didn't train for guerrilla warfare on Kamino. They read about it, but classes have nothing on practice, and this sudden change of tactics was jarring and unwelcome. Howzer had felt out of his depth, struggling to catch up.
But he'd followed his orders, put a begrudging smile on his face, and after a while it had become genuine. Cham earned his respect. He was not only excellent at what he did, he valued the lives of Howzer's men.
And then there was the issue of goals. Ryloth was in a constant state of warfare, sure, but every outpost taken was a real victory. Each liberated town or homestead brought hugs and tears from grateful populace, food pressed into their hands, kisses planted on their cheeks, their names whispered gratefully and committed to memory.
Malicos had entrusted them with the reconquering and defence of Ryloth, and what had once stung like an abandonment became a source of pride. They woke every day with a sense of purpose, and marched towards a quantifiable goal.
Meanwhile Sinker always looked a little more harried during their calls, more jaded. He worked under Plo Koon every day, but he also zipped from front to front, losing men to unending missions whose results they didn't linger long enough to appreciate. Worse, they sometimes regained a system and left, only for the seppies to claim it back within the week.
So maybe Howzer had the better deal in the end. The distant trust of his Jedi, the esteem of his new general, the satisfaction of winning the war for a people, of making a tangible difference...
That's when the order came, and the nightmares coalesced into reality.
For Howzer, it meant a week's worth of constant headaches and a compulsion to obey any and all orders. He's certain that if Cham had asked him to strip on the mess table and dance to some sparkle-bop, he would not only have done it gladly, he'd have performed to the utmost of his abilities.
Thankfully Cham had only been concerned for his well-being, and kept his opinion on the Jedi purge to himself.
For Sinker, however... Well, same as for Artsy.
An account of shooting down a Jedi starfighter, delivered with dull eyes and a sedate voice. Howzer could hear the wordless screaming in the deafening silences and stubborn frowns, resonating within his own aching skull. They hadn’t spoken of it again. He couldn't do it to them, or to himself.
Had Malicos deserved to be shot down? Had Plo Koon? Unnecessary questions best left unvoiced. He was far from the big picture, all the way out on remote Ryloth.
Maybe one day, things would make more sense.
Life and work went on. Howzer still had a general to follow and a planetary liberation to celebrate. Then he had a facility to guard, weapons to collect, a new vice-admiral and his pet enhanced clone to mind, ranks shuffling and new shinies arriving—little babies decanted yesterday, as far as he was concerned. The situation was evolving, politics flooding back into the power vacuum of post-war Ryloth.
Not his problem, until two shinies showed up with Hera and her droid, caught in a restricted area.
Not his problem, until Gobi Glie was shot out of the sky with crateloads of contraband weapons in his hold and Vice Admiral Rampart brought Senator Taa into the fray.
How could things escape him so fast? How could he stay on top of a war of planetary scale for years, and be blindsided by a smirking natborn in one evening? And how is he to follow the orders of a man who set up an appointed officer by murdering an elected official?
The sun sets under the unseen horizon, red skies burning down to leaden night.
'Sir?' Atin, his lieutenant, walks up to him with a speeder in tow.
Howzer wishes he had someone to speak to now, someone to scream his emotions at, to run his orders by again, to make sure he's not kriffing dreaming. Someone to slap him out of the nightmare.
He can't turn to his subordinates, and calling his commander isn't even in the cards.
Atin looks at him, bucket cocked to the side, a polite shorthand for what the kriff are you doing taking so long to answer me.
Howzer's never felt more alone.
'Sir, your orders?'
He sighs, puts his bucket back on.
'Take your squad, spread out. We're going after Hera. Radio in if you spot her but keep your distance. I'll be the one to apprehend her.'
Atin salutes and runs off, and Howzer climbs on the speeder. Whatever he does now, it's on him, and on him alone. It's his best shot at defining what a good soldier is.
What he is, and how his general’s trust and friendship should be repaid.
