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Part 1 of Adventures of Blizzard Company
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Published:
2022-10-26
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2022-10-29
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Part One: CT–406/1146

Summary:

Clone Trooper CT–406/1146 or “Four-Six” gets separated from his squad on a mission and has to find his way out of a Separatist research facility.

He reflects on his unhappy upbringing on Kamino and how he felt like a social outcast among his brothers.

Notes:

(See the end of the work for notes and other works inspired by this one.)

Chapter 1: Prologue

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

CT–406/1146 was just one of many, but he preferred it that way. He did not like to stand out or draw too much attention to himself. All he wanted was to do his duty, be a part of the squad, and fight for the Republic beside his brothers.

He wished he’d had more time, more time to prepare, to train, to improve, to be what they were all meant to be: The perfect Soldier.

But the Republic needed reinforcements now, and many young clones were shipping out a lot sooner then expected. Four-Six would definitely do his duty, and of course he would fight, he was looking forward to it. But he didn’t feel like he was a part of the squad—not really. It was more like the others just let him tag along, because they didn’t have a choice.

Four-Six always wondered what bothered them about him. At first, they didn’t keep an obvious distance or actively avoid him, but there was always something that made him feel like he was excluded. Sometimes he would notice subtle glances or hushed whispers. At other times, conversations would stop, or they would change the topic when he entered the barracks. As time went on, they came up with inside jokes that went over his head, and left him standing on the outside more and more.

One time, early on when they had just passed their fifth year, he asked one of his brothers what he did wrong, why they didn’t like him. The only reply he got was an annoyed shrug and the words that would stay with him for a long time.

„I don’t know. Just … stop being so weird!“

Four-Six never asked again, but he couldn’t help wondering. What was so weird and wrong about him? Why did they have to treat him like this? What did he do?

If it had been due to substandard combat performance, he would have understood. He may not have liked it, but at least he would’ve known why, and he could have tried to do something about it. But that couldn’t be the reason. He performed adequately in all their training exercises.

He also followed every order and complied with every regulation. He pulled his weight as a member of the squad, especially when it came to chores. And he was careful not to step on anyone’s toes. But still, somehow his brothers didn’t want him. They never actually said it, but he could always tell.

Maybe he should just stop caring about that, he thought sometimes. And he tried, he really tried to forget about it, to ignore it, and not to let it distract him. Still, he couldn’t stop obsessing about things he may have said or done, that could be considered weird. He tried to remember if there was a time before, a time when things were good, a time when he belonged. Four-Six came up blank. Had it always been like this?

The first few times, when they tried to blame him for something that went wrong in one of the combat simulations, he let them. He hoped they would be grateful if he took the fall for it, if he took one for the team as they called it. He hoped they could see that he just wanted to be one of them. He hoped that they would appreciate it and start to treat him more like a brother than a nuisance.

They didn’t.

Four-Six had risked his neck and they didn’t even care. He told himself that he wouldn’t do it again. Being anything less than perfect was dangerous. There were rumors. Clones who didn’t meet the quality standards would disappear for a while and come back different, or they didn’t come back at all. The Kaminoans used word’s like genetic aberrations, deviant behavior, reconditioning and decommissioned units.

Four-Six was determined not to find out first-hand what exactly all of it meant. He wouldn’t let his brothers blame him again, the next time things went wrong. He wouldn’t take the fall for them, not if they didn’t have his back too, not anymore. Four-Six would not let himself be decommissioned.

So he did his best to blend in, to keep his head down, and to avoid standing out in any significant way. The words kept repeating in his head:

Don’t stand out! Don’t be weird! Don’t get yourself in trouble!

The part in the middle wasn’t so easy for him, and it became harder the older he got. He had almost completed his ninth year. At least now, with the advanced simulations and tests that were closely monitored, his brothers couldn’t blame him unless it actually was his fault.

But what would happen when their training was over, when they finally went out there to do what they were engineered to do? How would he make it, when no one had his back?

Maybe he wouldn’t. But it didn’t matter, as long as he did his duty, right? He was one of many, and there were always more.

Notes:

This story is part of the LLF Comment Project, which was created to improve communication between readers and authors. This author invites and appreciates feedback, including:

Feedback

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Chapter 2

Chapter Text

Four-Six wasn’t sure how, but he made it.

He made it through his training on Kamino.

He made it through his final test as a cadet.

And he made it through his first real battle.

He survived.

And now? Now it all goes wrong. How could you have been so stupid?

„Stupid idiot!“ he cursed, as he pressed his back against a scorched durasteel crate—his only cover. Blaster fire hit it, again and again, and he could feel each impact as the crate bucked against his plastoid armor plates. It wouldn’t take long for the hail of blaster bolts to melt the entire crate and him along with it.

How did you let this happen? How? So stupid.

His squad had been advancing on a Separatist research facility, when they had gotten orders to stop the assault and retreat. Word was, some sort of self destruct had been activated in one of the labs, and the whole place was about to blow. They quickly made their way through an unfinished part of this brand-new lab complex. An overhead gangway led across large chambers and hangars. Some were visible through open ceilings or transparisteel viewports. Some contained partially equipped workshops, medical labs, and what appeared to be some kind of holding cells. Others were boarded up or completely empty. Construction was obviously still underway, because building materials and tools were scattered everywhere.

As the squad moved forward, Four-Six was bringing up the rear. There was little warning, when a piece of scaffolding beneath the gangway collapsed. They had almost crossed the section in question, but the gangway dropped on one side, letting stray construction materials and crates crash down to the workshop below. Four-Six was hit by a heavy construction tool and his left foot was caught in a bunch of tangled cords. There was nothing to hold on to. He was dragged down the length of the slope and dropped about seven meters straight before crashing through the already cracked transparisteel ceiling of an unfinished workshop below. On his way down, a number of construction foils, stacked prefab cubicles and plastoid partitions broke his fall—at least somewhat.

Four-Six must have passed out for a while, because his face was itching with dried blood when he came to his senses. Everything hurt. When he tried to get up, sharp pain shot through his entire body.  He winced and let out a sharp hiss. His left knee and shoulder had definitely taken a beating, but he was almost sure that nothing was broken—nothing major at least.

You’re lucky you didn’t break your neck.

When Four-Six pulled himself up he could feel his head spin. He managed to remove his helmet just in time to avoid puking inside of it.

That would have been a fine mess.

He concentrated on his breathing to calm himself, and his stomach, before finally taking stock of his gear. His armor was busted up from the fall, and half the systems in his helmet were failing. Now he could see why; a crack went straight across the plastoid surface, right through his T-shaped visor, and the housing of his com unit.

That thing is gone for sure.

The chrono didn’t work either, so he wasn’t sure how long he had been out. At least his DC-15A blaster carbine seemed to still be in good shape.

Things could be worse.

Four-Six was looking up the trail of destruction he had caused on his way down. As far as he could tell, there were no stairways, ladders, or ropes nearby. There was no way he would get back up there that way—even with intact shoulders and knees.

Doesn’t make sense to design a facility like that. How will people move around?

Maybe it was done on purpose. There were holding cells earlier.

Come on, this isn’t helping. Focus!

Four-Six looked up again. His brothers were nowhere to be seen or heard. And his comm wasn’t working. From the looks of all the debris and shattered equipment he fell through, they probably thought he was dead anyway. Even if they didn’t, Four-Six was sure they wouldn’t come looking for him. They didn’t even like him enough to save him a seat in the mess hall, so they definitely wouldn’t risk their lives to come back for him now. He was on his own. And he had to get out as soon as possible.

He made his way through a maze of unfinished labs and construction sites, stumbling every now and then when his vision blurred or he felt dizzy.

I hope it’s just a concussion.

What if you have brain damage? Alone, in enemy territory and unable to trust your own senses?

Focus!

He gripped his DC-15A even tighter and just kept going until he finally found a way out of the labs. He wasn’t sure if he was heading towards the rendezvous point, but it didn’t really matter as long as he could get away from the facility and past the blast radius in time.

Four-Six left the building and was heading for the inner walls of the lab complex. There were only two hundred meters between him and his next objective. If he managed to somehow scale that wall and then crossed another stretch of open terrain, he was in the clear.

He had crossed the empty square halfway when he heard shots. The first blaster bolt had come so close, it would have singed his hair, if it wasn’t for the sorry excuse of a helmet he was wearing now. Instincts had kicked in immediately, and he’d bolted across the square and dodged the shots as best he could with his busted knee. The closest thing to cover he had found was this stupid crate. And it was deteriorating by the second, now.

You’re so stupid.

Not only had he managed to almost break his neck back in the facility because he’d been too focused on covering their backs and hadn’t paid enough attention to his immediate surroundings, but he’d also failed to properly recon the area outside before attempting to cross an open space with limited cover.

Sloppy! If this was a sim they would fail you. And now you’re cowering here, behind this melting crate, waiting to be shot to pieces by turret-droids. You should have checked for automated defenses or found another way out. You should have just …. No! No time for this kind of thinking.

“Focus! You can do this! You have to do this! Just think, damn it,” he cussed, as he slammed the back of his head against the metal behind him in frustration. He immediately knew it was a mistake, because a sharp, stabbing pain pierced his brain and made his eyes water. He had to draw a deep breath to stave off the panic that started to rise in his gut. He tried to check his HUD for any information that would help him find a way out of this, but the thing was pretty much useless now.

The metal at his back was getting hotter by the second. He could feel the heat through the plates of his armor.

It’s now or never. If you stay any longer, you’ll get a bunch of blaster bolts in the back or you’re blown apart by the impending explosion.

But if I make a run for it, without any kind of diversion, I’ll get hit as soon as I get up.

He took another deep breath, as he firmly pressed his blaster to his chest plate. The familiar feel of the weapon in his hands was calming.

I don’t want to be gunned down, while I’m hiding behind this crate, like a coward. No! I’d rather go down fighting.

He was ready to jump when, out of nowhere, a passage from one of the medical manuals flashed before his minds eye.

 

 

A concussion, also known as a mild traumatic brain injury, is a head injury that temporarily affects brain functioning. Symptoms may include loss of consciousness; memory loss; headaches; difficulty with thinking, concentration, or balance; nausea; blurred vision; mood changes; and impaired judgement.

Impaired judgement? IMPAIRED JUDGEMENT!

You’re really about to jump out guns blazing without any plan? Get it together Four-Six!

He closed his eyes and allowed himself two seconds to recall the turrets' positions as best he could.

No reason to go about it impulsively and without a clue where to fire. You’ve been careless enough today.

There were two auto-turrets directly on his six. They were embedded under the parapet of a second level gallery along the building he had just left. There had also been at least three mobile turret-droids patrolling, somewhere along the same catwalk in irregular intervals. He wouldn’t be sure of their position until he could take another look, but he had noticed them moving at relatively slow speed.

Take out the stationary targets first, before they evaporate this stupid crate. You worry about the patrol later.

Four-Six leapt to his feet, fired two shots with one swift motion, and hunkered down again.

Blast, only hit one! The second auto-gun is still firing at my position.

He was feeling woozy again after getting up that fast, and while the world around him became blurred, he fought his urge to throw up again. Four-Six had to lean his forehead and hands against the crate to steady himself. The hot metal almost burned his hands through his gloves. At least he could hear parts of the destroyed turret hit the pavement.

One down, four to go.

When everything started spinning, he closed his eyes again to review what he had seen. He had hit the left auto-gun, and one of the patrolling turret-droids had been in plain sight. It had been about four meters to the right of the auto-guns position, and was heading south.

But where are the other two? You must’ve overlooked them!

He hated that he couldn’t trust his own senses right now. He didn’t have time to question every move he made. But rushing into things in this state of mind could also get him killed.

Just great!

The sound of blaster fire from behind yanked him from his thoughts. His heart plummeted as he spun around and struggled to keep himself and his weapon upright. He had made a mistake. He had lost track of the patrol and had wasted time with all the self-pity. And now he was surrounded. He was going to die here without completing his mission and without anyone to take his armor tally back home.

You’re going to die! Right here, right now, and no one will know what happened to you!

Four-Six took a last deep breath and closed his eyes.

Chapter 3

Chapter Text

Four-six opened his eyes. His blurred vision and sluggish reaction time made it almost impossible to take aim at the approaching shapes. They were moving much too fast. The bright figures came closer, fanned out, and completely surrounded him. Blue beams flared up, and Four-Six felt like gears were turning inside his head in slow motion. He squinted his eyes—hard.

Now that he’d stopped moving his head around so much, his vision started to improve again. White armored troopers swarmed out, targeted the remaining enemy positions, and quickly reduced them to scrap metal.

My brothers! They came back for me!? They really came back after all?

Four-six sighed with relief as he lowered his blaster. It took him a moment to realize that this wasn’t HIS squad. These men moved differently than his batchers, and one of them had marked his helmet with red stripes.

As they approached, Four-six noticed a reflection out of the corner of his eye. It took him an embarrassingly long time to turn his head and realize that more battle droids were entering the square from different sides.

When he finally started to move, half of the droids were already riddled with smoking holes, and by the time Four-Six raised his blaster, the red-marked Trooper had taken out the last droids with a few well aimed shots.

Wow, that was amazing.

The Trooper walked up to Four-six, knelt next to him and put a hand on his shoulder. His rank insignia indicated that he was a sergeant.

“Hey, are you okay?” the Sergeant asked. “What are you still doing here, where is your squad?”

Get up, it’s protocol to stand at attention when speaking to a superior officer!

Four-Six tried to stand and give a coherent answer, but his left knee refused to cooperate, and he felt dizzy again.

“Let me take a look at that head of yours,” the Sergeant said. “You look like you’re about to keel over.”

The Sergeant helped Four-six to sit down and rest against the scorched but cooling crate. After he had carefully removed the cracked helmet, Four-six tried to give a quick recollection of what had happened since receiving the order to retreat. Then he felt a black-gloved hand slowly taking his chin and tilting his head back with caution.

“Follow the lights,” the Sergeant said as he activated his helmet lights, and Four-six flinched at the glare.

“Sorry about that. Just making sure you don’t have brain damage. Now, squeeze my hands,” he continued as he drew Four-six’s arms out in front of him. “Good."

So, no brain damage?

“The name’s Red, by the way,” the Sergeant said, and pointed towards the painted side of his helmet.

The green regulation paint that usually indicated a clone sergeants rank was partially covered by red stripes. The color was deep and vivid, almost like half-dried blood.

I wonder why he painted those? And how did he get his name?

When the Sergeant suddenly snapped his fingers right in front of his face, Four-Six realized he must’ve drifted off during the check-up.

“Sorry, Sir,” was all he could come up with as he strained to focus his sight on the man in front of him.

“What’s your name, Trooper?”

“CT–406/1146,” he identified himself as he had done a thousand times.

“Ok, but what’s your name,” the Sergeant asked patiently, and Four-Six wondered if he was laughing at him inside his helmet, because the tone of his voice slightly changed.

“Oh … ummm … they just call me Four-Six … Sir,” he mumbled self-consciously. And when his voice cracked at his nickname, his face started to heat up.

Oh no, don’t be weird, stop being weird!

Just because he had hit his head, didn’t mean he was unaware when he was embarrassing himself, and in front of a superior officer, no less.

“Alright, Fawkes. I think you got lucky, walking away from a fall like that, but I’d still like to take a look at your injuries. Good thing we don’t have to hurry too much, we took care …”

Wait, what? Did he just call me … Fawkes? Maybe he misheard. No wonder, with that sorry excuse for speech you’re displaying right now. You idiot can’t even say your own name right. Not that it really counts as a name.

Some of his brothers had given each other names. Some had been given nicknames by their drill instructors or other non-Kaminoan personnel back on Kamino. And others had picked their own names. No one ever bothered to call him anything, other than Four-Six—at least not to his face. He was pretty sure they called him names behind his back, but he’d rather not know which. He also had never picked a name for himself. Not because he didn’t want one, but he just never came up with something that felt like HIM.

“Hey Fawkes, let’s patch you up and get going,” Sergeant Red interrupted his thoughts cheerfully. “Time to go home.”

Four-Six flinched at the sound of the name and was debating whether or not to correct the Sergeant, when he suddenly remembered that they were running out of time. He had completely forgotten about the fact that this facility was supposed to explode anytime now.

Stupid concussion .

And they don’t have time to patch you up. You’re injured and pretty much useless now. They have a better chance without you.

Four-Six could feel a lump in his throat forming when he made a decision.

“Sir, I … ummm … I think it would be best to … go on without me. I’ll just … slow you down,” he said disheartened and his voice sounded weak in his own ears.  “Who knows how long until this place blows? And … I’m not going to be of any use—not like this.”

Of course, he wanted to go home, but they shouldn’t waste valuable time on him. He was damaged and only a burden now. He was replaceable. They all were.

Four-Six started fumbling with the identification tally on his armor. He looked down, pretending to focus on his task, and trying hard to retain his composure.

Don’t start crying, Four-Six. That would be an embarrassing way to go. At least this way, they can take your tally back with them and someone will know what happened to you.

Four-Six's hand was shaking, and he couldn’t get a proper hold of the little plastoid tally. In the corner of his eye, he noticed the Sergeant’s painted helmet on the ground. He felt one hand gripping his undamaged shoulder and another stopping his trembling fingers from working on his tally.

“Fawkes, look at me!”

Again with the name?! Four-Six thought, and was surprised by the irritation it stirred in him. Why did that stupid name bother him?

Fawkes? What kind of a name is that anyway? A name should be something you earn and deserve, something that has meaning to you, not the result of slurred speech.

But he couldn’t waste precious time and be the reason they all died just because he was feeling insecure.

I guess, I’m called Fawkes now—at least until this place blows.

Chapter 4

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

When Four-Six looked at the Sergeant to ask him to just take the plastoid tally—the only thing that would be left of him—he was dumbstruck for a moment. The man's expression was one of concern and patience, but Four-Six barely noticed that. The eyes that should have been like his own completely caught him off guard.

Clones were genetically identical, with only a few intentional exceptions, like those special commando units. And although environmental factors, body modifications, and injuries can result in differing physical appearance, genetically they were the same. At least, they were supposed to be. But rumor was that, every now and then, mutations slipped past the screening filters and could result in aberrant characteristics, physical as well as mental. Four-Six had heard a lot of rumors, but he’d never seen anyone like that, until now.

A clone trooper’s eyes were supposed to be a light brown or amber, with occasional flecks due to the slight compositional variation in their growth chambers’ fluids. The Sergeant’s eyes were different. Vivid red pigments gradually radiated outwards from the center of his iris'. Their color was the same as the stripes on his helmet.

It doesn’t look like it’s just bloodshot eyes or an injury. It’s way too symmetrical for that. There’s no way this isn’t a genetic deviation!

Four-Six had so many questions.

Is this his only mutation? Does it only manifest physically, or does it affect his mind to? Does it affect his vision? At what age did it first manifest? Did he have to undergo additional testing? How difficult was it to make Sergeant while being different like that? Does it even affect his performance? Does it improve it, maybe? Does he have abilities other clones don’t? Does it make him feel alone? Do his brothers dislike him and avoid him, too?

Of course, Four-Six would never ask any of those questions. Calling attention to a clone's differences like that didn’t seem right. He didn’t like it when it happened to him.

He often wondered if he had been missed by those genetic screening filters. Maybe some people just sensed that there was something off about him, and that’s why they kept their distance. It would certainly explain a lot. But he couldn’t get a test to find out and be sure.

That would be asking for trouble. No, better keep your head down, focus on doing your duty, and prove your worth.

Be glad you don’t have any physical abnormalities. That would make it much harder to blend in.

The Sergeant, however, didn’t appear to care about blending in. He called himself RED, and he even displayed the mutation’s color on his armor for the whole galaxy to see. Maybe he just didn’t care what anyone thought.

Four-Six tried to imagine what that would be like—not having to hide the things that set him apart, not having to pretend to be like everyone else—and he found himself envious.

The grip on his shoulder tightened, and he tried to focus on what the Sergeant was saying.

“You’re not really getting any of this, are you?” Sergeant Red said with a sigh.

“Sorry.”

“It’s okay. I said that we have a remote trigger. Nothing is going to blow until we’re all out, so don’t worry. Okay?”

“Really? I don’t have to die here?”

“No, so there is no need to take THAT anytime soon,” Sergeant Red said with a warm smile while pointing to the little plastoid tally.

“I … ummm…,” Four-Six mumbled.

“I’m going to look out for you, alright?” Sergeant Red assured him, as he started to gently clean the cut on Four-Six’s forehead.

At that moment, Four-Six knew that he would be okay. And maybe, just maybe, Fawkes wasn’t such a bad name after all.

Notes:

My first image of Red can be found in the first chapter of:

Assorted Blizzard Company [Art]

The other images may contain spoilers, so if you want to avoid those, take a look at the chapter titles.

Now (two years after I posted this), these two are still on my mind, and I recently drew a portrait of Red with charcoal and it's gorgeous. It's here on Tumblr. Seriously, go check it out. I'm stupidly proud of this one 😁

Chapter 5: Red's point of view

Summary:

This is Sergeant Red’s point of view for the encounter with Four-Six/Fawkes.

Chapter Text

Thirteen minutes earlier, Red and his men had been on their way out of the Seppie lab and heading for an access hatch to one of the drainage tunnels they’d used on their way in. They had almost reached it, when they heard shots from about a quarter klick south of their position. The sound of rapid automated blaster fire told them that at least two auto-turrets had found something worth their attention. Luckily, they were outside of the weapons’ effective range and not in their line of sight. Red motioned his men to continue, but when they heard the familiar sound of a DC-15A blaster carbine, everyone knew immediately: They were not the only GAR Soldiers here.

Everyone should have cleared out by now. It had almost been thirty minutes since he’d warned every squad within their limited comm range to get out. The reason Red and his men were only leaving now, was their unauthorized side mission and detour to the holding cells. Red did not look forward to dealing with the fallout of that mess, but that wouldn’t stop him from getting one of their own out of here—if it was one of their own.

“Peaks, I want eyes on that guy ASAP!” Red ordered. “Is he one of ours?”

As usual, Red marveled at the ease with which the squad’s sniper climbed up the face of one of the structures to get to a better vantage point.

“Single vod, pinned down, Sarge. Looks heavily damaged,” Peaks reported shortly after reaching his new position. “No luck with the turrets, can’t get a shot from here. I am having a nice view of a secondary point of egress, though.”

“Peaks, what’s your take on this guy? Could this be another trap?”

“If it is, they set it up awfully fast. And how would they know which direction we’d take? I think he’s a straggler who got in over his head.”

“Understood, sit tight and keep your eyes peeled. GG, take the right flank. Trapper, take left. Mix, watch our six.”

“Sir, we’re already T plus 5,” Mix interjected and Red could almost see the impatient and grumpy look behind his visor.

“Then a few more minutes to help out a brother won’t matter.” Red’s tone left no room for debate.

Mix wasn’t wrong. If they delayed much longer there would be consequences—well, more consequences. But since Red was giving the orders, that should be his problem. And he couldn’t just leave one of their own, if he had a choice. And he did have a choice. He’d had one earlier, too. His squad was already late, because he’d decided to rescue prisoners. The Seps had held civilians as well as soldiers in those holding cells, and Red couldn’t leave them to die, either. It'd turned out to be a trap. The live feed from the cells they’d seen in the control room hadn’t been live after all, and the squad had to fight their way out though a kriffload of droids. Red was keenly aware that there was a chance this was another setup, and that he could be doubling down on a losing hand. He just knew he would regret it, if he didn’t at least try.

“Let’s do this and head out. Go, go, go.”

While they advanced on the Trooper’s position, Red tried to reach him on his comm, but there was only static. It was a bad sign, and they needed to be careful.

As they approached the open square and the besieged Trooper, Red noticed that Peaks had not exaggerated. He looked fairly battered and could barely keep himself upright as they moved in to take out the enemy positions.

Red’s blood ran cold when the Trooper turned around and raised his weapon. No, not again, Kark! But then the blaster’s muzzle dropped, and Red could feel a sigh of relief leave his lips. Karking Hells, brother, you almost gave me a heart attack!

“We’ve got incoming. Five Clankers on your nine and six on your twelve, Sarge,” Peaks reported from his spot on the roof. “Make that three on your nine,” he added smugly after firing two shots in quick succession.

It took them less than a  minute to scrap the Tinnies and secure the perimeter. No trap then—so far.

“Hey, are you okay?” Red asked the Trooper who was awkwardly kneeling next to his cover. “What are you still doing here, where is your squad?”

The Trooper was looking up at him now and Red had to admit he was impressed the guy hadn’t completely collapsed yet, given that his armor, and especially the helmet, looked like he went through a meat grinder. He’d have to be careful when he removed it. Red wouldn’t be surprised if his head came off along with it.

When the Trooper tried to get up, Red could tell that he was inexperienced. His armor may be all scratched and cracked now, but he was definitely one of Blizzard Company’s latest replacements. From what he’d heard, the latest batch was fresh off Kamino. Red always thought it was a little cute how the shiny new troopers tried to follow every rule and regulation to a fault, without even a thought about the actual necessity in a particular situation. Still so eager and naive.

“Let me take a look at that head of yours. You look like you’re about to keel over,” Red said and carefully maneuvered the Shiny into a sitting position before he could overdo it and pass out.

“Sarge, T plus 8,” Mix reminded him on the squad’s open comm channel.

“Maybe we should just grab him and haul ass?” GG suggested.

“The way he looks, he’ll probably pass right out,” Mix remarked. “You wanna carry him?”

“We could take turns,” Peaks suggested from his lookout on the roof.

“You’re just saying that because you’re always scouting and won’t have to do it,” Trapper griped.

“It’s not my fault you have the attention span of a Kaminoan spongeworm and don’t get to be scout,” was Peaks’ snotty response and Trapper took a deep breath, probably for a loaded respone.

“Enough,” Red cut them off. “I will carry him, if it’ll shut all of you up.”

Immediately, the comm channel was dead silent. Red scoffed and shook his head. Threatening extra work, or offering less of it, usually helped breaking up one of their arguments.

Red carefully lifted the Trooper’s helmet, and the familiar but very young face was stained with blood. The Shiny had a nasty cut on his forehead and possibly a concussion, but after a short examination Red was almost positive there was no severe brain damage.

Apparently, the kid had taken quite the fall and had lost contact with his squad when they’d been retreating. Red had some difficulty understanding some of the Shiny’s mumbling, but he had the distinct impression that he was not only dazed but also a bit intimidated and tried to make a good impression. That’s adorable, Red thought and felt a bit flattered. Usually that happened to high-ranking Officers—he was just a Sergeant after all. Shinies, he thought and rolled his eyes inside his helmet. Red hoped this would go a lot quicker if the kid wasn’t so nervous, so he introduced himself and asked for a name as well.

“CT–406/1146,” the Shiny reeled off his designation.

“Ok, but what’s your name,” Red insisted.

“Oh … ummm … they just call me Four-Six … Sir,” he mumbled self-consciously.

Red had to bite down an impatient sigh. We’ll have to work on this. I’m not calling that kid by his number! Red would just have to think of something better to call him. With all the stammering, it almost sounded like the name of that bird in that holo novel he had just read during their last downtime. The one where a leader had a pet starbird in his office. And those are said to be immortal, but always look like crap after resurrection. Well, that sort of fits. The Shiny does look like crap, but he is still alive. Maybe that name will be good luck.

“Alright, Fawkes,” Red said, as he bit down a chuckle, and gave the Shiny a quick assessment of the situation and their next move.

“Sarge, I don’t think that’s really his name,” Trapper said confused.

“I know.”

“And we’re at T plus 14,” Mix jumped in as well.

“I know, Mix.”

“Just saying.”

Red could see the kid struggle with the decision between speaking up for himself and not wanting to talk back to a superior officer. When he finally did say something, Red realized that he had misjudged him and felt a pang of guilt. He basically told Red to leave him there to die, just so the squad had a better chance of survival. And the only thing he asked for was not to be forgotten. Red understood the need to place the well-being of others over one’s own. Less than thirty minutes ago, he had disobeyed a direct order to go off and rescue prisoners. And now he was taking his sweet time to care for this Shiny instead of trying to save his own ass from the impending fallout of his decisions.

The kid was close to tears now. He must have hit his head harder than previously assumed. He obviously hadn’t registered Red’s assurance that the situation was under their control. He was still convinced he was about to die. Aww Shiny, don’t worry, it’ll be fine.

They would definitely not perish in the timer-regulated explosion Red had been ordered to set up. When he’d thought there were still people held in the facility, he’d instead told Mix—their demolitions and explosives expert—to rig a remote detonation linked to Red’s comm. The plan had been to rescue the prisoners and get out in time to blow the place on schedule. No one would have known he’d disobeyed orders, and everyone would have gone home happy, including the squads of troopers he’d warned about the impending explosion. Red had no idea who’d karked up the distribution of troops on this mission and almost sent them to their death. He would definitely deal with that later, but right now, he was just glad he had spotted the squads on the monitors and had been able to warn them.

The rescue itself hadn’t gone as planned—obviously. It had been a trap, and  disposing of the droids and defenses that had been lying in wait for them in the cell block, had taken them a little longer than Red would care to admit. They were now fifteen minutes overdue and people—high-ranking and probably very angry people—were bound to notice. But Red just couldn’t help himself. This Shiny WILL make it out of here, even if I have to carry him!

Red knew that the timing of the explosion wasn’t critical to the strategic goal of the campaign on this planet. So what if this place blew twenty minutes late? Make it thirty, just to be safe. The Seps wouldn’t find out until it was too late, and there weren’t enough hostiles left on base to mess up the overall mission. The only thing this delay would threaten were his chances to make lieutenant anytime soon. Red could live with that. And so will the kid.

Fawkes was still fumbling with his armor tally clumsily. Red took off his own helmet and put a hand on the kid’s shoulder.

“Fawkes, look at me,” Red said, but the only answer or reaction he got was a confused frown. He was starting to worry, that maybe, Fawkes was too far gone after all. He carefully shook his shoulder to see if he could snap him out of it. Then the kid turned to him, ready to say something, only to start staring with a bewildered look.

Oh, right, the eyes. Red sometimes forgot about that. The slightly red tint of his eye color was something nat-borns might not even notice. But to clones, the small difference in appearance was quite obvious. Red actually liked his eyes, but the reactions he got from others were almost always the same. Surprise, curiosity, and after that usually caution, maybe suspicion and, depending on how serious the person had internalized the Kaminoans obsession for conformity, even rejection.

Red didn’t really mind the last parts, because it was a quick way for him to know where he stood with those people. So there was no need to waste his time with them, if he didn’t have to. Fawkes, on the other hand, didn’t seem too bothered by them. Then again, who knows if he even registers anything right now. The kid just stared at him with fascination and confusion. Red started to reassure him, but quickly realized he had drifted off again.

“You’re not really getting any of this, are you?” Red said with a sigh.

“Sorry.”

“It’s okay. I said that we have a remote trigger. Nothing is going to blow until we’re all out, so don’t worry.”

“Really? I don’t have to die here?”

“No, so there is no need to take THAT anytime soon,” Red said with a warm smile, pointing to the little plastoid tally.

“I … ummm…,” Fawkes mumbled and still looked so scared and overwhelmed.

“I’m going to look out for you, alright?” Red tried to reassure him, as he started to gently clean the cut on his forehead.

The carefully hopeful look Fawkes gave him was the final straw, and Red had to fight the urge to just hug the kid.

This is ridiculous. You are starting to go soft, man. Pull yourself together.

Notes:

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