Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

There was something defective in CC–2224. This was something CC–2224 readily admitted about itself. They were clones commissioned by the Jedi High Council to serve in honourable combat to yadda yadda whatever. In other words, CC-2224 thought in the privacy of its own head (a privacy of the likes those kriffing longnecks had yet to breach although they very much kriffing wanted to) they were cannon fodder that aged too quickly because they weren’t made to live. And, in the privacy of its own mind as CC-2224 lay in its bunk staring at the ceiling (often, at this point, nursing some form of injury) CC-2224 wondered if it was it that was defective, or if the whole kriffing galaxy had just gone mental. It understood, it knew, that it’s love for the Republic was programmed to be all-consuming, wired directly into its neural tissue whether it damn well kriffing wanted it there or not. But regardless of what it knew it should be feeling for the Galactic Republic, the most CC-2224 could muster was a bone deep apathy. Why care, when you were born to die anyway so some overfed senator on Coruscant could live?

These thoughts were groundings for a swift decommissioning. CC-2224 knew that, and with that knowledge came the bone deep acknowledgement that to survive was to obey. And to obey was a kriffing privilege.

And so CC-2224 trained, because to train was to survive and to survive was to obey. And to obey meant lying in a bunk in the dark staring at the ceiling, repeating in its head over and over and over.

Good soldiers obey.

Good soldiers serve.

And if you want to survive, be a good soldier.

…

Days and nights passed in an endless cycle of synthetic lights. The lights dimmed, the lights brightened, all corresponding to the day/night cycle outside the walls of the compound.

The days in the compound were the same. They fought, they trained, they watched endless holovids on battles long gone and some recreated. They were drilled on history, tactics, astrophysics, engineering and how to administer first aid under combat conditions. CC-2224 had been hoping to learn a little more than ‘whack a bacta patch on and pray’ on the last one, but had been assured that Kamino was always ready to breed more clones. CC-2224 found that, personally, very reassuring.

The only time the days differentiated from the long, drawn out endless cycle of fluorescent lights and the beeping of machines was when Jango Fett visited Kamino.

Then, Fett would gather the clones like children and other lessons would begin. Lessons in a culture they had never seen, a language that had never graced their lips and legends of a people who were warrior kings and queens. He would guide them through basic forms and fighting stances, counselled each other on terms such as brotherhood, vode and the resol’nare. If you stand for nothing else, Jango Fett told them, stand for your brothers.

And CC-2224, standing in the back, watched, dark eyes serious and thought, alright then.

And while Jango Fett was the kindest adult presence they had ever had access to and yes, Mandalorian culture kind of made sense, there was something in Jango Fett’s eyes that, when he looked at them, rang true to being a lie. And, in the back of the room, listening but never engaging, CC-2224 wondered what would change when they stopped being cute children, and started growing into their resemblance of Jango Fett. It was one thing to donate your template to the cause, and quite another to see yourself, surrounded by you. And Fett, CC-2224 thought, was starting to realise the uncomfortable realities of his own decisions, and seemed like a man who would not handle that gracefully. CC-2224 wondered how it would take for the Mando’a kindness and tolerance towards to children to fade to the harsh realities of an acknowledgement of what could only be a mistake. But regardless of the man himself, the template for the bodies they would grow into, the things Jango Fett said made sense.

For they were born and bred to die in a war and yes, CC-2224 had a hard time accepting that, but regardless of its personal feelings CC-2224 was bred to fight. It didn’t particularly care about the Republic, and Jango Fett was trying too hard to be truly sincere but, if nothing else, CC-2224 could fight for its brothers.

And, lying in its bunk at night staring at a white, featureless ceiling, CC-2224 thought, if nothing else, it could accept that.

Good soldiers obey.

Good soldiers serve.

Good soldiers stand for their brothers, whatever the cost.

The next morning after Fett’s third arrival at the compound, CC-2224 found itself in a small room with a few other vode to be trained, personally, by Fett.

…

CC-2224 was five years old when it saw its first Jedi. This was educational on two levels, the first being an understanding of what, exactly a Jedi was. The educational holos made them out to be terrifying magic monsters that could and would eat little clone boys for breakfast, emphasising the Jetiise ability to tear apart things with their minds, throw things that didn’t want to be thrown into the air, and to generally be such a nuisance in battle it had CC-2224 half questioning what the Jetiise needed the clones for. And then it remembered one of the core things it had learned about itself, in the beginning of its life. It’s entire being was to serve as cannon fodder, to do its duty by taking a blaster bolt so a nat-born didn’t have to. Best not to get too attached, even to itself.

At five years old, CC-2224 looked like a nat-born at ten years of age. This, CC-2224 thought of as an advantage, as a ten year old looking five year old was able to throw a vod over his shoulder with ease.

“Oof”, said CT-7567, the only sound he had made the entire session. When the clone’s trained, they rarely made any noise. To express anything was to invite the attention of the longnecks, and that invitation rarely ended well for the person involved. CC-2224 stood over him, silently offering a hand, when he felt a brief press against his mind and looked up.

The training room was divided from the rest of the compound, walled in with only a single exit none of the clones could open on their own. None of the doors here could be opened on their own. Well, they were supposed to be unable to open them on their own. The walls featured a single, long wrap-around window that allowed the various ‘observers’ to watch their investments in peace. There was one now, staring at the window, a nat-born with reddish hair, dressed in a ridiculous robe that surely nobody would choose to wear voluntarily. Thus, coupled with knowledge gained from the jetiise battle tapes they’d had to watch until their eyes fell out, made CC-2224 conclude that it must, indeed, be looking at one of those elusive ‘Jedi’. It couldn’t help it, it stared. And then, with an insouciance it couldn’t seem to help (and damn the consequences), leaned over and helped CT-7567 up without breaking eye contact.

CT-7567 looked over to see what CC-2224 was staring at, blanched and hissed, ‘What the kriff do you think you’re doing”.

“About to get myself decommissioned”, CT-2224 admitted, still not breaking eye contact in what was, it was now beginning to realise, a blatant challenge.

And that was when CT-7567 punched CC-2224 in the head.

“Oya!” CC-2224 hissed, immediately cuffing CT-7567 on the back of his head. CC-2224 felt that brief pressure on its mind again, something it had never felt before and was forced to conclude, with the emergence of a rare and elusive Jedi, that there had to be some force nonsense afoot.

And as soon as the words ‘force nonsense’ crossed CC-2224’s mind, it saw the Jedi’s carefully cultivated expression of polite interest die in an abrupt, if brief, grimace.

Wait, it thought, intentionally loud and before it could stop itself, can you kriffing read my mind?

The jetii suddenly turned on his heel. The answer, to CC-2224, was obvious. It felt like throwing up. It felt like-it felt like- kriff, they’d never stood a chance, did they?

The second lesson about the jetiise was that they could kriffing read minds.

That night CC-2224 broke the rules. Then CC-2224 felt guilty for thinking that, because technically there had been a lot of rule breaking leading up to this point, and now not even its mind was safe because their karking Jedi overlords didn’t know the difference between public and private spheres. The difference between thought and action and action being the only kriffing thing that mattered, get out of my head Jetiise! Now CC-2224 had to thought police its own thought police, or therefore risk any attempts at individuality caught and getting a blaster rifle to the head. And that wasn’t going to kriffing cut it.

So CC-2224 broke the rules. This is because CC-2224 knew a losing battle when it saw one and knew it would never, ever, be able to stop swearing enough in the comfort of its own mind to ever be safe around a Jedi. It came to the logical conclusion that this would mean death in five minutes if ever exposed to a Jedi for longer than a kriffing minute.

Or, in the privacy of the privacy of his mind, where he thought things he dared not think too loudly (and bearing in mind what CC-2224 had already thought, that was saying a lot) where he only thought things that really, truly mattered, he was scared the Jetiise (or worse, the longnecks) (longnecks couldn’t officially read minds but didn’t let that stop them) would learn his name. And that, CC-2224 thought, was one violation, one overstep that he could never allow.

CC-2224 waited until it was lights out, until it could hear its vode breathing even out in sleep. And then it waited a little longer, until it could feel the quiet seep into its bones, settle into its marrow. Quietly, so quietly, it threw back the blankets, slid to a sitting position and felt its way down the ladder of the bunk bed to the floor. There, CC-2224 crouched, and let the cool gloom adjust in its sight. Quietly, oh so quietly, CC-2224 crept to the door.

The lock to the side glowed dully with a little red light. Below it was the keypad that the Kaminoan’s had set with a rotating passcode. It changed daily. But, CC-2224 thought, with a little practise it could be predicted.

CC-2224 typed in the code. The light turned green, and the door hissed open and, when it stepped through, closing again behind it.

CC-2224 crept along the corridor barefoot in the gloom. The air hissed and hummed with electronics, the wires whispering in the walls. CC-2224 darted from blind spot to blind spot, all carefully calculated through the mind numbing days of training to become one of the Galactic Republic’s perfect soldiers.

The databank of computers was close to the dormitory. CC-2224 crept there in total silence, heart jack-hammering its way up its throat. If it got caught-

It wouldn’t get caught.

CC-2224 opened the door with another passcode and slipped into the databank. There, it accessed one of the terminals and, with a slight hesitation, logged into the holonet using one of the Kaminoans credentials. The light flickered, accepting, and CC-2224 began to learn about the Jedi.

This is what CC-2224 learned.

1. The Jedi could use the Force
2. The Force was some kind of mystic woo that lived around things, predicted things and ran the whole-damn Galaxy Show.
3. It could only be interacted by a few lucky individuals that called themselves the ‘Force Sensitive’, making it effectively useless for everyday life.
4. The Force Sensitive and Jedi Knights were different. Apparently you could only become a Jedi Knight if you were kidnapped at a young age, and indoctrinated into an organisation of state sponsored monks.
5. If they got you too old, the brainwashing was ineffective and they just left you to rot to, presumably, become the village hedge witch.
6. The Jedi could do a lot of things that should be mentally, physically and spiritually illegal but were, apparently, not.
7. This included mind reading.
8. Mind reading could be blocked. This could be achieved by placing walls around your mind.
9. There were no further instructions around this. Apparently it was self-explanatory.

This, to CC-2224, sounded like metaphysical nonsense, but it was willing to give it a sporting try. Maybe so it could, at least, stop referring to itself as an it, and go with the more pleasant pronoun of he. Afterall, CC-2224 reasoned, if this Jedi mind wall stuff worked for actual Jedi, then it should work on the Kaminoans who were about as Force Sensitive as a brick.

At least, CC-2224 assumed they were as Force Sensitive as bricks. CC-2224 had yet to see them lob any of the clone’s with their minds, and assumed they would have done that at the first opportunity if they had been able to.

Thus reasoned, CC-2224 slipped out of the databank and padded down the hallways, stepping everywhere the cameras couldn’t see or, if that wasn’t possible, waiting until they had shifted position and then hightailing it really really fast around the corner. It was in this way that CC-2224 slipped into the dormitory and, as it stepped towards its bunk, saw CT-7567 staring at CC-2224 with his eyes wide open.

Heart in its throat, CC-2224 stared.

Slowly, carefully, CT-7567 pressed a finger to his lips and deliberately closed his eyes and rolled over.

Trying to slow its breathing, CC-2224 climbed into its bunk, and went to sleep.

…

“What are you doing?” asked CT-7567.

Sitting, bowed over in the training room, eyes closed and seemingly not doing much, and had been doing such in regular intervals for quite a while, CC-2224 thought this was a fair question.

“I’m trying to create a mind wall”.

CC-2224 felt the air shift as CT-7567 settled down next to him. The younger boy asked,

“A mind what?”

“A mind wall”.

Silence. And then, “Whatever for?”

“I’m going to try and block out the jetiise from reading my mind”.

“They can read minds?”

“Yes”.

Silence, again. Then CT-7567 settled down more firmly, gently taking CC-2224’s hands.

“Can you teach me?”

“I don’t know much”, CC-2224 warned.

“I don’t mind”, CT-7567 said, “Teach me anyway”.

And so CC-2224 did. Quietly, slowly, whenever the Kaminoans weren’t looking (and they were always looking but sometimes, sometimes, not so well) CT-7567 sought CC-2224 out and, in these quick, furtive moments, they practised blocking their minds.

They started slowly, fuelled by fits and starts by illicit research conducted in the dead of night by CC-2224 (and it was always CC-2224 who did this. If anyone had to take the fall, if anyone – it was him) (and oh yes, it was him now, in the privacy of his own mind, now they were practising this, that little bit of individuality felt, suddenly, safe).

They started their practise by imagining their minds as pools of water, deep and endless. And their thoughts were a rock sinking ever downwards into the deep depths. Sometimes, stray thoughts would escape and filter up towards the surface, but the currents took them and spun them, around and around, until they sunk back below the surface of the water.

When this began to be second nature, and could be maintained without thought or conscious, stray thoughts being caught and swept away, swayed back down to the hidden core of themselves, they began to practise other, more different things. More difficult things. They hid traps in their minds, things that would grab and snare any intruding force.

“It’s like a cold weight”, CC-2224 said, “When they really try, you can feel it. That’s when you know the true danger has begun, the true threat”.

And so they practised, catching and holding onto the imagined threats in their mind. Taking and holding, throwing nightmares at the invading cold (imagined, for now, but it could be real, it could be real) trapping it in endless layers of chains and sinking it into the deepest pits they could imagine, far, far away from themselves.

To have their minds, after everything else, also robbed from them, that would be the greatest evil of all. The possibility of that ever happening made CC-2224 truly afraid.

Catch and hold, catch and hold, and sink it under layers of overlapping water until it drowns in peace. Soon CC-1010, CC-5052, and CC-3636 joined them, curious, and then more of the Command Batch. And then, soon, their lessons incorporated other things learned from illicit excursions to the holonet.

In the dead of night, staring at the ceiling, CC-2224 thought of much and let none of it escape. He felt, on the bunk below him, somebody stirring and then, so quietly, so very quietly, CT-7567 spoke.

“You have anger issues, you know”.

“Yes, I know”.

“You’re going to have to learn to control that”.

“Yes thank you CC-7567”.

Silence. There came the sound of shuffling, and then CC-7567 was sticking his head over the side of the bunk. His eyes were dark and serious, his voice barely there.

“Ori’vod, what’s your name?”

And CC-2224 didn’t know why he answered. He said, “Kote”.

“Hello Kote”, said CT-7567, “My name is Rex”.

And at that time, Kote was seven years old.

…

When Kote was nine, everything went to Bantha-shit.

Selected for ARC training, and on the command track, Kote was in the infirmary being treated for a concussion and multiple rib fractures when the claxons blared, and the Clone Army was called to war.

At first, Kote thought he had imagined the alarms, the sirens, the stamping of booted feet as his vode pulled on plastoid armour, tightened their vambraces and marched to war. He groaned when he realised what was happening, and squinted his eyes against the glaring lights sending needles into his head.

“Help me up”, he told the medic droid.

“Request denied”, the droid said.

“The sirens – I have to go”.

“Request denied”, the droid said, “CC-2224 is currently unfit for duty and cannot be deployed”.

Oh no, Kote thought, his brothers. His brothers.

“I have to, droid”.

“Denied, Commander”, said the droid.

Kote tried to sit up, and damn this karking droid to hell, and groaned at the pain. His vision swam, spotty and, suddenly, he felt the overwhelming urge to throw up.

The droid pushed him back down, ruining any forward momentum he had been gaining.

“Lie down, Commander”, said the droid. And then, in what it had probably been programmed to think of as comfort, added, “Your time will come soon enough”.

…

The morning was bright, and cold, and Kote was just that little closer to being ten years of age when the GAR rolled out for war. Technically, this had already been achieved and all with the First Battle of Geonosis (please refer to scenario above where Kote couldn’t attend due to the interference of a damn medical droid) but that was more of a shit-show emergency rescue mission then anything that formal. According to a vod who called himself Waxer they had all flown in to go and untie a bunch of jetiise who had managed to get themselves tied to stakes, minutes away from being devoured by the local wildlife. This seemed out of character for the jetiise to Kote, who had admittedly made studying them a bit of a research project.

When one was going to be a Commander one needed to be well versed in the care and feeding of jetiise, upon pain of getting your brain sucked out through your eyeballs by an innocuously named (but still terrifying) ‘Jedi Mind-Trick’. Or, worse, getting the whole battalion brainwashed by a state sponsored monk who didn’t know the meaning of the word ‘boundaries’. Or, worse-

“Kote haalur”, murmured Rex, to his right.

“Kriff off”, Kote murmured back, just as gently.

“You know, I’m not one for organised religion but this Force stuff really seems to work. You should give it a chance”.

Kote huffed a breath, shoulders relaxing minutely beneath his plastoid armour.

“Oh yes”, Kote said, “We should just hang up the armour and start going door to door with pamphlets”.

“We could make a real business of it too, you know. Hello ma’am, my name is Rex No Last Name. Have you heard of this bunch of mystic wank that powers the Universe?”

“What are you two going on about?” whispered Waxer from behind. It sounded like he was leaning forward.

“None of your kriffing business, Lieutenant”, said Kote, “Now stand up straight, stick your chin up and at least try to generate an aura of respect and awe or I’ll keelhaul you where you stand”.

Waxer huffed. “I am standing up straight, sir”.

“You’re slouching”.

“You’re not looking at me, sir. If you were, you’d see that my back is as straight as a board, sir. As per regulations, sir”.

Beside Kote, Rex huffed out a small laugh.

“Do not make me get a ruler out, Waxer”.

There was the sound of a tiny scoff, and that was when the hanger opened. Sunlight spilled across the rows and rows of troopers aligned in neat ranks. And like a line of superheroes or something, cloaks billowing in the wind in full dedication to the drama of the moment and just shy of fashionable, came the monks.

Beside Kote, Rex let out a deep, steadying breath.

“Your mind is like a pool of water, Captain CT-7567 ”, Kote said, dropping Rex’s name.

“Elek, ori’vod”.

“Troopers, attention!” shouted one of the trainers. As one, the troopers hands went up, saluting. “Commanders, prepare your men!”

“Here we go, ori’vod”, Rex said. His voice betrayed nothing, but Kote knew. He was the ori’vod. Rex was eight years old. And Rex was nervous.

They started calling out the names of the battalions.

“327^th, with Jedi General Aayla Secura!”

“416^th  Star Corps, with Jedi General K’Kruk!”

Kote felt his heart rate increase and slowed his breathing down to compensate. My mind is like a pool of water, my mind is like a pool-

More names were called out, more battalions launched, trooping to their carriers. So many, so many vode he could not possibly count them all. How could he save them all? How could he save them?

“7^Th Sky Corps, with High Jedi General Obi-Wan Kenobi!”

Kote snapped to attention.

“7^th Sky, marching!” he yelled.

Behind him, his vode snapped to attention.

“Marching!” they yelled, marching.

In perfect form, in time, the 7^th Sky Corps rolled towards the waiting carriers. The fleet of venators. It was a sight, Kote was sure, his brothers marching in perfect unison towards the waiting ships. They would then split, divided into their different regiments, their different duties, their-

Oh kriffing hell.

There, to attention, were two jetiise. Kote identified from the way one of the jetii was squinting at his men that Kote was supposed to be standing in front of them, too. Kote swore and stepped out of line of the rest of his troopers. Rex took over like he was born for this.

“Sirs”, he said, saluting.

One of the jetii was a bronzed looking little pretty boy with too long hair and what Kote could sniff out as a bad attitude a parsec away. He was an ori’vod to hundreds of thousands, he could recognise a decommissioning offense anti-authoritarian streak when he saw one. The other one was older, with auburn hair and a neatly trimmed beard, looking generally less like a major walking irritation waiting to happen. He was also instantly recognisable as that one jetii that couldn’t keep his mind to himself that one time, when Kote was a child.

“Marshal Commander CC-2224 reporting in for duty, sir”, he said.

“Ah Commander”, the older one smiled. “My name is General Obi-Wan Kenobi, and this is General Anakin Skywalker”. He squinted slightly, which Kote recognised as an ill-advised attempt to see behind his visor. Squint away, Kote thought. I’m not taking it off until I have to use the fresher. “It’s good to have you fighting with us”.

“Yes sir, it’s an honour to fight for the Galactic Republic”, said Kote, because he knew that was what was expected of him.

“Excellent”, General Kenobi said. The other one, Skywalker, turned his head to the side briefly. Kote caught the expression of sheer disbelief before it was hidden by a façade of jetii general serenity. “Please report to me once you have settled your men”.

“Yes, sir”, said Kote. He turned on his heel and re-joined the lines of his men.

The Negotiator was a large star destroyer, and the current flagship of the 7^th, currently housing the 212th. Its previously empty halls were filled with the sounds of the rank and file filling the large barracks, assigning cots and, Kote was warmed to see, already arguing with the field medics. Electronics hummed and thrummed to life as the ship began to prepare for departure. Kote finished his final checks and then went to go and see a General about a war.

The Command Deck was located at the front of the ship, a large circular room with a holotable in the middle. General Kenobi was there, as well as General Skywalker, a Shistavanen Jedi General Kote didn’t recognise, and Rex.

General Kenobi looked up as soon as he entered, and smiled.

“Hello there”, he said.

Behind the safety of his bucket, Kote rolled his eyes. General Skywalker seemed to have no such compunctions about rolling his eyes without a bucket, and did so anyway and in full view of everyone.

“General Kenobi, sir”, he acknowledged, saluting. “What are your instructions?”

“We are deploying immediately to the Separatist controlled planet of Muunilist, Commander. We are going to retake the planet, my dear”.

We are all going to die, thought Kote with a kind of fascinating combination of emotions, primarily a profound sense of apathy and a sick dread. And he wasn’t even going to begin to start on processing the little ‘my dear’ Kenobi had tacked on the end of that sentence. Kote was nine and a half and hadn’t been anybody’s ‘dear’ in his life.

“What are your opinions, Commander?” asked the High General, gesturing towards the holotable.

Kote took a deep breath and stepped closer. Displayed on the table was what could only be a map of Muunilist. He scanned it, picking up a few options from what he knew of his vode’s capabilities.

“Well, sir…”.

…

The night cycle was dark and quiet with the comforting noises of vode at rest and, outside the barracks, the stamping of clone feet from vode on patrol. In the hush of this time, Kote reviewed in his mind the duties of the day. The assignation of the upcoming battle strategies, the delegation of troop movements and the ordering of supplies, the management of the roster, the-

Commander Kote couldn’t sleep.

He could feel the dull ache of the day pressing against his eyes, which he kept trained on the ceiling.

My mind is like a pool of water…

He found a comfort in the familiar rhythms of that old incantation, the push and pull of the practise of stilling his mind, quietening his thoughts and tamping down on emotions. One must not show weakness, even in the quiet of ones mind.

And good soldiers always obey.

Kote huffed out a sigh, resigning himself to a sleepless night.

During nights like these, in Kamino, when the exhaustion of the day pressed into his very bones and yet, his mind denied him sleep, Kote would leave his assigned dorm and access the holonet feed. There, a whole world was open to him in ways the Kaminoan’s never meant for him to experience. With the subtitles on, and with the music turned down, Kote would watch holovids where the characters did more than just try and kill each other in an endless recreation of some bloody battle. He would read books and poetry, and try and teach himself the languages of the Galaxy. He learned about architecture and engineering, the arts and chemistry and anything, anything, that he could get his hands on. Because while Kote may be bred for war and the war would likely claim him, he liked to, sometimes, imagine an after. He liked imagining an after where he and his brothers would be free to leave, go where they wished, explore and do something other than shoot Separatist droids in the face plate. Although, Kote thought, the most likely outcome for the clones post war was a mass decommissioning.

And in the quiet pools of the night, when the Kaminoan’s weren’t watching quite so closely, Kote slipped from his bunk and joined his vode and he taught them what he had learned. Because it was no use only one clone receiving an education when Kote wanted them all to have the best chances of making it.

Because the clones were never meant to live, and in the quiet of the night Kote looked at his brothers and said, ‘Unacceptable’. And so he taught them what he could learn, and he learned so he could find a way out of it all for them.

Kote gave up on sleep entirely, slipping his feet off the bunk to feel for the ladder like he had done thousands of times in Kamino, moving silently through the barracks. He pulled his armour on over his blacks, and slipped on his vambrace with the comm. There was a comm-text waiting for him.

CT-7567

News just in, Anakin Skywalker is one crazy Bantha-fucker.

Kote huffed a laugh and typed a quick message in reply.

CC-2224

What did he do?

There was no response.

Kote grabbed a datapad and slipped out of the barracks and made his way to the cafeteria. As he passed his brothers in the hall, helmeted and silent, he called a soft greeting to them, steering carefully away from their self-assigned names in case any jetii were lurking around the corner waiting for a chance to monumentally invade a clone’s privacy.

The cafeteria was quiet, the lights dulled slightly in respect for the night cycle they were honouring. There was no one there. Kote poured himself a cup of caf and set himself up in the corner on one of the benches. He began reviewing the following days’ work, earmarking things that would specifically need the High Generals approval, and marking other assignations that could be delegated to other officers. He reviewed the battle plan for Muunilist. There was, he knew, going to be a problem getting the troops to land. The Separatists had been there too long, had too long to fortify. And the Mun had a bad habit of playing both sides of the field and pitting them against each other. Absentmindedly, Kote chewed his bottom lip. He marked this phase of the plan as ‘high risk’ and began compiling notations on possible battle strategies to mitigate it.

There was a quiet whisper of fabric. Kote looked up as General Kenobi seated himself on the opposite end of the bench, cradling a cup of something that smelled like burnt grass.

“Couldn’t sleep, Commander?” asked the General.

“I could ask the same of you, sir”, said Kote.

The General smiled, the edges of it weighed down by fatigue.

“Oh I often find myself wandering around in the middle of the night”, he said airily. “I’ve had trouble sleeping since I was a padawan”.

Kote’s comm buzzed, an incoming comm-text from Rex.

CT-7567

He’s got some sort of Astromech droid that just, follows him around all the time cursing him out in binary. Occasionally it runs over my foot! Why did you make me learn binary again? That droid is filthy! I would have decommissioned it years ago.

Kote didn’t realise he was smiling until the General cleared his throat lightly, nodding to Kote’s comm with a small quirk of his lips.

“Something funny?” General Kenobi asked.

Kote hesitated.

“No sir”, he said, tapping out a quick reply to Rex.

CC-2224

I made you learn binary because knowledge is the key to survival.

“Ah”, General Kenobi said, bringing his mug to his lips. “The infamous Rodian Facial twitch at work, I see. My mistake”.

Kote stared at him. Did the General just make a joke?

Kenobi sipped his drink, the picture of serenity. His facial expressions were no help whatsoever.

Kote gathered up his courage.

“May I ask you a question, General?” Kote asked.

“Certainly, my dear Commander”.

“What is that you’re drinking?”

Kenobi paused. “My drink? It’s tea, Commander”.

Tea. Kote had heard of tea, but didn’t expect it to be so…watery looking and unappealingly smelly.

“Smells like burnt grass, sir”, he offered, going back to his caf.

Kenobi burst out a startled laugh.

“Yes, yes”, he said, “I suppose it does. It’s not the type of tea one normally drinks for enjoyment, my dear”.

Kote raised an eyebrow. “Then why drink it, sir?” then Kote realised he probably shouldn’t have raised his eyebrow as he said it. Then he realised he probably shouldn’t have initiated that entire conversation. Then he mentally shrugged his shoulders in an example of what Rex called his ‘stunning death wish’ and willed it to the Force. Or whatever. They were off duty anyway.

“Why indeed”, Kenobi said with a private little smile. “You know Anakin brought that exact point up to me when he was a child”.

“General Skywalker sir?”

“Yes. Anakin is- Anakin was my padawan”, Kenobi said. “The tea is supposed to help cleanse your mind, make it easier to be one with the Force”.

Kote looked at the tea again. “And does it work sir?”

“Well”, Kenobi shrugged. “It doesn’t hurt the connection”. And then drank some more.

Kote was beginning to realise that it wasn’t just Rex’s General who was Bantha-fucking crazy.

“What about you, Commander?” Kenobi asked.

“What about me, sir?”

“How are you enjoying being Marshal Commander?”

“It’s been one day, sir”.

“Yes, of course”, Kenobi said, with a wise and placid expression on his face that Kote was beginning to register as being uniquely Jedi, “Humour me anyway?”

Kote thought about it. Then he discarded the first ten answers his brain came up with

“It’s a joy and a privilege, sir”, he said as honestly as he could.

“Yes, yes”, Kenobi said, and this time his smile was kind of…sad? What did he have to be sad about? “Tell me, Commander, do you have a name?”

“CC-2224, sir”, said Kote. My mind is like a pool of water…

“Of course”, Kenobi said, “Do you have anything you prefer to be called?”

“CC-2224”, Kote said. “Sir”.

Kenobi sighed. “Well, Commander”, he said, draining his cup of that disgusting liquid and apparently catching a hint. “I’d better be off. We have a long day tomorrow although, I do note, that you seem to have a head start on the flimsiwork”.

“Just being a good soldier, sir”.

“Of course, my dear Commander”, Kenobi said, and his smile was…strange. “Well, I’ll leave you to it. Do try and get some sleep”.

“Goodnight General”, Kote murmured.

“Goodnight Commander”.

Kote stared at his cup until he was certain the General had left. Then, his vambrace buzzed in time to signify another comm-text.

CT-7567

Now the bloody man is pulling apart the wiring in our ship. What’s wrong with these dank farrik jetiise?

…

Waxer had met a vod named Boil. Waxer and Boil, Kote was beginning to realise, were a combination that might get him killed.

They had a day remaining in hyperspace before they made their landing on Muunilist. Kote had spent the entire time of hyperspace in the war room arguing until his lungs burst with the previously unknown Jedi General about battle strategy. (Please note, that despite a temper he had carefully cultivated in his years at Kamino, Kote knew how to argue politely). Said Jedi General, whom Kote wasn’t even going to dignify by thinking his name in the privacy of his own mind, didn’t know what he was doing. He didn’t like having the fact that he didn’t know what he was doing pointed out. It was becoming obvious that the GAR had launched with the Jedi Generals at the helm having only learned about war through spit and prayers.

This was going to end in disaster.

The jetiise, Kote had realised, were anti-clone. This was because they had associated the clones with the war they had currently embroiled themselves in. They seemed to take this as a personal insult, because the jetiise were supposed to be peacekeepers and none of them wanted to be where they currently were. Kenobi seemed to be the exception, in that he seemed to not actively blame those under his command for a situation that was entirely out of their hands. Although, Kote reflected, Skywalker might have been the same way as his former Master. He only seemed to be interested in pulling mechanical things apart with his bare hands and driving Rex up the wall. While it was possible that Skywalker didn’t realise that he was slowly driving his Captain crazy, the effect was that Kote was glad for the distraction of Rex’s increasingly aggravated comm-texts. For example;

CT-7567

If he doesn’t get that droid to cease and desist, I’m going to push them both out of an airlock.

Although now Rex thought he had carte-blanche to comm him whenever he felt like it. They had a day left of travel before they exited hyperspace into the loving arms of the Separatists, and the Jedi Generals in charge of this whole shebang couldn’t seem to agree on strategy. Neither, as Kote had learned (see mention above), had they taken well to any constructive criticism. Kote had thought he had gotten his point across about the dangerous re-entry into sublight, only to have the same argument rehashed the following day.

“Obi-Wan”, the unidentifiable jetii was saying through the convenience of a holoprojection (convenient, because Kote couldn’t deck him like Kote oh so wanted to but couldn’t), “You cannot seriously be considering listening to this clone. The Separatists have nowhere near the capabilities to launch a space battle of enough quality to keep us off the planet. You’ve seen the intelligence reports”.

Kote’s comm buzzed with an incoming comm-text from Rex.

CT-7567

Tell him he has a nice ass.

CC-2224

What?

CT-7567

Wanna shut him up? Tell him he has a nice ass.

Kote looked up at the holotable, where the other people involved in this whole shit-show had their bodies projected in all that holo-blue glory. Skywalker was looking off to one side like he had somewhere better to be, and behind him, just to one side, Rex was standing with a serious expression on his face looking down at his vambrace like he was in the midst of sending and receiving very important comm-texts.

 Kote didn’t bother to reply.

“Thank you for your suggestions, (NAME REDACTED)”, said Kenobi, “But the strategy has already been decided. I agree with the Commander that the point of contention, as it were, is the re-entry into space”.

“But the plan-“

“The Marshal Commander’s plan, I admit, is unorthodox. But the Commander’s suggestion is sound, and has the best chance in the conservation of our troops lives”.

(NAME REDACTED) looked confused at the concept of conserving clone lives.

Kote’s comm buzzed again.

CT-7567

Alright, if you won’t do that then tell him Kenobi has a better ass. That will shut him up.

CC-2224

Do not make me come over to your ship to push you through an airlock, Captain.

Kote looked up. His comm buzzed again.

“Well you’re certainly popular Commander”, said Kenobi.

“I apologise, sir”, Kote said, looking down at his comm and ready to give Rex the reaming of his life. Then he saw what the comm said and he almost, almost, swore out loud. “If you’ll excuse me, sir”, he heard himself saying, “There’s been an incident”.

He saw the General frown. He thought, oh no, he’s going to follow. And this was the last sort of incident that a jetii needed to see.

“Excuse me”, he said again, and then left the room before he could be followed.

Longshot was waiting for him just outside the war room.

“Commander”, he said, falling into step beside Kote.

“Where is he?”

“In the med-bay”.

“Dank farrik”, Kote swore. “Did anyone see?”

“The nat-borns seem to be blissfully unaware, sir”, said Longshot, “The vode have started a rotation around the med-bay to alert if any jetiise approach”.

“How is he?”

“Completely out of it, sir”.

Kote swore and walked faster.

“Sir”, Longshot asked, “Can we keep this from the General, sir?” They’d all taken turns hiding this from the Kaminoans and now- now-

“Let me worry about that”, Kote said.

“Sir-“

“Longshot, if it comes to that none of you knew about this. I am the Commander and, more importantly, I am ori’vod. If it comes to a confrontation none of you knew about this and I take the fall. Do you understand? Make sure everyone understands. That’s an order”.

“Elek”.

“Jate”, Kote said, grimly resolute.

The Kaminoan weren’t as good at obtaining perfection as they liked to think. But the vode were very good at hiding what shouldn’t be seen.

The med-bay was quiet when they arrived. The only sign of anything being wrong was a curtain drawn around a bed in the far corner. Kote hesitated slightly, steps far too loud in the hushed bay. He turned to Longshot and signalled for him to take up a guard position by the door. Kote went alone. He approached the curtain, trepidation curling a fist in his gut. How was he going to hide this? How was he going to save them?

He pushed aside the curtain.

Waxer lay on the bed, white as a sheet, a respirator over his face. On the chair beside him, Boil sprang to his feet.

“Sir”, he said.

“At ease, soldier”, said Kote, “How long has he been like this?”

“Half an hour, sir”, said Boil. “We comm’d you as soon we realised what was going on”. He wrung his hands. “I aint ever seen it this bad before, sir”.

Waxer lay in the bed, completely unresponsive, muscles tight and tense, quivering, as the neurons in his brain misfired.

“Karking hell”, said Kote, “Where’s the kriffing medic?”

“Here”, a tart voice responded from behind him. Sawbones stepped around Kote, holding something in a syringe that was blue and violently electric looking. “How in hell did you idiots manage to conceal his seizures from the longnecks this entire time?”

“By punching people”, Kote told him. “Now inject him with whatever the hell that is and shut the kark up”.

Sawbones lined up the needle with Waxer’s arm.

“You know the cause of it?” he asked.

“Of course I know the cause of it”, Kote snapped, “I’m not a kriffing idiot. It’s the accelerated growth gene. It doesn’t bloody work!”

“How in the seven karks did you lot manage to stop him from being decommissioned?” Boil said with something like wonder in his voice. Any defects were culled. No exceptions.

Kote’s comm crackled.

“Uh Commander”, said a vod, “You have a boogey incoming, over”. 

“Stall for time”, hissed Boil.

Kote felt the bottom drop out of his stomach as he heard, from outside the curtain (and slightly louder then was necessary but appreciated anyway) Longshot call a greeting to Kenobi. He shot a glare at everyone, and then stepped out in front of the curtain in time to block Obi-Wan.

Desperation, he thought with a mild interest, tasted a lot like blood.

“Sir”, he greeted.

Kenobi looked at him, and then looked past his shoulder.

“Is everything alright Commander?” he asked, and there was something in his eyes that made Kote go oh kark he knows.

Kote gathered his courage and made him look Kenobi in the eyes. In for a credit-

“Well sir”, he said, “We have a problem, sir”. Because all the best lies were based on the truth. And if he didn’t want to give up the game too soon, and if he wanted to give Waxer the best chance, then he had to keep the General from sniffing out the lie too soon. And in his years of reading about Jedi (hoping, that by learning about his enemy, he’d lessen the fear he felt at the thought of them) he knew that Jedi’s could tell when you lied. And so, when lying to a Jedi, you had to couch it in a little bit of truth. And, if he was ridiculous enough with it, maybe he could win this battle through panache? Kote didn’t know. Stranger things had happened.

“I’m sure it couldn’t be that bad, Commander”, Kenobi said.

“It’s just that, sir, I’m beginning to realise that I may be slightly racist”.

Kenobi’s eyebrow shot up before he could stop it.

“Racist?” he clearly had not been expecting that.

“Yes sir”, said Kote, “Towards Kaminoans, sir”.

Kenobi looked at him. “Commander-“

“And really”, Kote said, “I’ve had a lot of time to think about it and really, it’s not our fault they’re bad at cloning. The human genome is hideously complicated and you can’t get it right all the time. It is, and I hope you don’t mind me saying this, General, practically impossible to replicate the same person millions of times. Especially with all the enhancements they crammed in there. And yes I know being racist towards a whole race isn’t feasible, especially since, really, we were only exposed to a small portion of the really bad tempered ones”.

Kenobi didn’t say anything at this, clearly having decided that the best track to take was just to keep quiet and wait it out.

Kote shrugged. “But I can’t help it”.

Apparently that was too much.

“Commander”, said Kenobi, slowly and carefully. “Are you stalling for time?”

Oh karking mind reader piece of Jedi-

“Absolutely not, sir”, Kote lied through his teeth, “And I am-“

“Oh my karking hell-“, said Sawbones, wrenching the curtain open and glaring at them all. Since Sawbones looked like a teenager barely out of prepubescence, the effect of this was muted. Kote appreciated the effort anyway. “General, this happens sometimes. It’s perfectly manageable with the right medication, which I have, and is an effect of the accelerated aging gene, which he can’t help”. And with that, he closed the curtain.

Kote turned and looked back at Kenobi.

“Commander”, Kenobi said, once again in that slow and careful way Kote didn’t know what to do with. “Walk with me?”

They walked. Kenobi was silent. Kote focused on the grounding techniques of his mind, the pushing and pulling and the ebb and flow of the water.

“Commander”, Kenobi said, “I believe I have done you and your brothers a disservice”.

“I’m sorry sir?”

“I have done you and your brothers a disservice”, he repeated, gently. “We have all been placed together in extremely difficult circumstances where you and yours are reliant on me and mine for survival, and I am extraordinarily aware that these circumstances were not of your doing. And I have given you the impression that you cannot trust me. That you thought I would, well, to put it bluntly, send one of my men away to be murdered. For that, I am sorry”.

Kote found something difficult and hard pool in his chest.

“With all due respect, sir”, he found himself saying, because Kenobi was being so kind and Kote had the awful feeling that he was being genuine and he didn’t really know what to do with that and what if this was all some kind of trick? That age old fear, again, bone deep by now, that the jetiise could not be trusted. “We have been under your command for four days. Beforehand, in Kamino, any flaw was unacceptable, any difference was grounds for decommissioning. It’s not you-“

Kenobi held up a hand and gave a soft, understanding smile.

“It’s quite alright, Commander”, he said. “I only hope, in time, I will be able to earn your trust”.

Kote opened his mouth and- nothing came out. He didn’t know what to do. He didn’t know what to say.

He didn’t know how to reach across the gap and tell him all the years he had spent fearing the Jedi. Of having every liberty taken away from him, of being robbed of choice, that he’s feared being robbed of his mind as well. That he’d feared that being put under the command of the Jedi would steal the last thing that had ever, truly been his. He didn’t know how to say that he had no reference point for this, not really. That he’d never communicated with a nat-born who kept him company through insomnia, answered stupid questions about tea and knew a brother wasn’t ‘perfect’ and didn’t send him away to be murdered. He didn’t know how to say ‘I don’t trust you’. He didn’t know how to say ‘it was going to take time’. But maybe, if Waxer doesn’t disappear in the middle of the night…he could learn. And then Kote thought, in regards to everything he had ever thought and every escape plan he had ever made, did it really even matter?

“It’s quite alright, Commander. And don’t worry about your brother, I am sure he will be fine”, Kenobi repeated, patting his arm lightly. “Now”, he said, suddenly brisk, “We have quite a few preparations still to do before tomorrow, my dear. Tell me, did you manage to overview the Requisition form 202-8 that I filled?”

Kote’s mind stuttered before he was able to switch tracks.

“Yes sir”, he said, “And I hope you don’t mind, but I have a few suggestions”.

“Of course, Commander”, Obi-Wan said, gesturing forward, “Shall we?”

…

Klaxons blared as a countdown ran over the speakers. Troopers, armed and armoured, strapped themselves down in the dropships, hands cradling blasters nervously, waiting for The Negotiator to fly close enough to the planet for the dropships to be engaged.

“Exiting hyperspace in three, two-“.

The Negotiator shot into space and landed in the middle of a war zone.

The ship rocked and shook with the force of the resistance and Kote, despite it all, bared his teeth in the knowledge that he had been right.

“Dropships being deployed in three, two-“, came that same, automated female voice.

“Brace yourselves”, he barked to his troopers. The ship shuddered so violently Kote thought it was going to fall apart.

Quietly, desperately, came the sound of crying. He could hear, somewhere, the sounds of a feverishly whispered Mandalorian prayer.

Klaxons blared. The dropships disengaged from the ship and they entered freefall. The world tilted, going curiously quiet. He could see, from a window fixed on the opposite side, the battle in space. Saw, with a curious detachment as they began to enter the atmosphere, a dropship like theirs’s caught by enemy fire and blown apart. Fire bathed space, forced outwards by the force of the explosion. Black and red, black and red, under the eyes of a million stars.

The thrusters engaged. The sudden force threw Kote back in his seat. The world jerked and shuddered. He could see the rapidly approaching planet from the window. Could see a Separatist ship blown apart. Fire, ash and despair, the taste of blood coating his mouth.

Oh Force save our souls.

Blaster fire hit the ship. It shuddered, the lights flicking on and off. He could hear a whine as one of their fly boys engaged the enemy ship, flicking past their troop carrier with awe-inspiring speed. Someone moaned, the fear drenching the ship with a sour feel. Kote felt sick, he was going to, he was going to – his brothers- his brothers-he had to help them. Quivering, nauseous, he forced the first lines of the Vode An through his lips.

‘ Kote!
Kandosii sa ka'rta, Vode an.
Coruscanta a'den mhi, Vode an’

Almost hesitantly, other picked up and joined in the singing. Until they were one great voice, echoing loud.

‘Bal kote, darasuum kote,
Jorso'ran kando a tome.
Sa kyr'am nau tracyn kad, Vode an.

Kandosii sa ka'rta, Vode an.
Coruscanta a'den mhi, Vode an.
Bal...’

With a wine of thrusters, the dropship settled onto the surface of the planet. The troopers unstrapped themselves, readied their blasters and fell into lines. Through the singing, Kote yelled, “Brace yourselves!”

The ramp opened into sunlight.

‘Motir ca'tra nau tracinya.
Gra'tua cuun hett su dralshy'a.
Aruetyc talyc runi'la solus cet o'r.
Motir ca'tra nau tracinya.
Gra'tua cuun hett su dralshy'a.
Aruetyc talyc runi'la trattok'o.
Sa kyr'am nau tracyn kad, Vode an!’

And the vode marched into Hell.

…

Blaster fire, the boom of mortar dropped on the earth. Craters formed, bodies flying. A body lying still, helmet cracked, half the head missing and pulverised into the earth. All the bodies, look at the bodies, climb over the bodies, fight, fight. The sky was red with fire, the smoke curdled the air. Dirt churned, trenches dug out. Faceless droids, rank upon rank, as ash rained down from above. Fire spurting, brothers burning. The hum of a lightsaber in the distance. An endless, premature night. Days of fighting, days of fighting.

“Hold your positions! Hold your positions!”

Something hit Kote from the side and he fell, falling into the dirt. Someone looked back at him, a familiar face, so very young, eyes wide with panic. His chest was torn open and he looked at Kote, eyes wide on a familiar face. Throat working. Something glistened and his chest was torn open and he was too young. Kote dragged himself over, pressed his hands over a wound too large.

“What’s your name soldier!” he yelled over the blaster fire. And then, “Medic! Medic! I need a Medic!”

The soldiers throat worked, eyes on Kote, desperate, desperate and half of him was gone! Just gone into the red dirt. He was trying to say something, trying to tell him. Blood pooled from his mouth, slipping down his throat.

“My name is Kote”, Kote told him. “Repeat it back to me, Kote”.

“C-Cody”, the soldier managed to repeat back.

“That’s right, Cody”, Kote told him, “What’s your name?”

“F-f-“, the soldier said, mouth working, eyes desperate. “F-elix”.

“Hold on Felix, hold on”, Kote told him, and then, “Medic! Medic!”

A similar cry echoed across the field from the mouths of thousands.

…

The sunrose, slowly, on the third day of fighting. Kote sat in the dust in a field of devastation. His mind buzzed, numb.

Kote! Kandosii sa ka'rta, Vode an, he thought.

Vode an, vode an.

He could hear his brothers calling out, the medics going from body to body searching for the wounded. He could hear the screaming and the crying, and he felt numb. They hadn’t deserved this, he thought, they hadn’t deserved any of this.

They had won.

Glory to the Republic.

He was exhausted, so exhausted, but he had a field medkit strapped to one hip and thousands of brothers dying in the field. He got up and went to check on his men.

The sun rose overhead, bright and harsh. Kote administered bacta patches when he could, made trips to the temporary base for water for his canteen, bringing it to the badly injured. He liaised with the field medics, overseeing the construction of temporary field hospitals. His comm crackled with priority messages, and he gave orders and delegated. Burials were organised, mass graves dug into the loamy soil. He received the final death count from one of his men. Sitting with one of the dying he organised his report on a grimy datapad somebody brought him, joking about flimsy and keeping him company until the light faded from his eyes, and then Kote moved to another brother. Eventually, the light began to fall and the post-battle chaos finally showed signs of being tamed. He stood up from his crouched position as he desperately organised the various squads, sleeping rotations and ration supplies and all those tiny, minute details that only came after a battle had been won. His back felt sore, his eyes grimy and his face cracking from the wound he’d hastily covered with a bacta patch and left, too busy for anything else. But if nothing else the clones were built for endurance, and this was nothing compared to the reserves he could commit when push came to shove.

He stepped out of the tent and almost tripped when his foot came down on something hard and unyielding. He looked down and registered, with shock, that he had stepped on a lightsaber. Since he hadn’t received any urgent communications regarding a Jedi’s death, Kote surmised that somebody had gotten careless with equipment. He knelt and tucked it into his belt, and walked away to go find Kenobi.

The jetiise were all located in a command tent in the centre of the sprawling camp. Kote would know, he’d given the order for its construction earlier that day. As he walked various brothers called out to him in greeting, and he raised his hand in return, giving the occasional smile.

“Oya Kote”, someone called, saluting. Kote saluted back.

He reached the command tent in time to witness a full blown argument between former Master and former Padawan. Rex stood to one side, cradling his helmet, eyes red rimmed from exhaustion. He nodded to Kote when he came in, but otherwise stood to perfect attention. Kote nodded back and placed the unknown lightsaber on the table, where it wouldn’t get stepped on.

“I don’t want to hear it, Anakin”, Kenobi was saying, “You got reckless”.

“How is it recklessness if it worked?” said Anakin.

Kote raised an eyebrow at Rex, who tapped out a reply on their private comm link.

CT-7567

Skywalker rushed the capital by himself to take over the ion cannon.

CC-2224

By himself?

CT-7567

Not for long. We ran to give him backup but the silly bugger thinks he’s invincible.

If any of the vode had done that, Kote would have given them a very practical demonstration on the perils of thinking oneself immortal and invulnerable.

CT-7567

This battle was a shitshow Kote. They’re going to kill us.

CC-2224

I know.

CT-7567

If they’re all like this, none of us are going to make it to the grand old age of thirty-five.

CC-2224

I know vod’ika.

CT-7567

What are we going to do?

Despair, the taste of blood. They were all going to die unless they did something.

Kote hesitated, and then typed back because Rex had always been there and Rex knew.

CC-2224

I’m working on it.

He hesitated again, and then sent an encrypted message that read, simply. I need a trusted medic. Get me one.

There was a short pause, and then Rex replied using the same encryption. I’ll handle it, but why?

Kote thought of Waxer, lying in a bed in agony as his own body betrayed him. He sent back, because if we’re going to get out of this alive, I need to know what we’re working with.

Rex sent back an affirmative and then they cut communication.

…

The first problem, Kote thought later in his bunk on The Negotiator, weeks later, was money. To do anything in the Galaxy, you needed credits. And considering how many vode there were, whatever plan they enacted was going to need a lot of credits. Kote had a plan, one born of desperation and everything they had all learned, illicitly on the holonet so many years ago and put together in an attempt to soothe his whirring thoughts in the dead of night. And every night in Kamino, when he had promised his brothers, promised them, that there would be a way out of it all, he had always intended to make good on his promises. It was going to take a lot of credits. It was going to take a lot of trust. It was probably going to get him killed. Admittedly he liked it more than waiting for the war to end to be killed because the Republic no longer needed them.

Even thinking all this, Kote knew, was dangerously close to treason.

Here were the facts as Kote knew them.

1. The clones were never meant to live.
2. Nobody was invested in making sure they lived, but them.
3. The Kaminoan’s had ensured they aged twice as rapidly as a nat-born, and had altered their genetics to include many other enhancements to make them twice as combat efficient as one (barring the jetiise).
4. Who knew what the hell else those Kaminoans did to them. This was problem one.
5. Problem two was how to keep this rebellion under wraps and completely quiet in the middle of a Galaxy-wide war, whilst keeping everyone informed. They would have to plan for the eventuality of treachery. This was surmised under the assumption that this would ever get off the ground.
6. If the Republic caught wind of this, they would decommission the clones. All of them. Whatever action they undertook had to be done slowly, and quietly, and as under the radar as possible.
7. Kote had a plan.
8. Kote needed to contact those others in Command, because he couldn’t do this on his own.

In the dead of night, he outlined everything on a datapad fully aware that he was placing his life into the hands of his brothers. He wrote it in code and shrouded it in an encryption that they, together, so long ago had created. He put everything in there. And then, on a private commlink that included every one of his batchmates, spread far and wide from each other, he sent it. And then, because it was right, he sent the plan to Rex.

Quietly breathing, he deleted the plan off the datapad and slipped the datapad under his pillow.

He let out a breath. He could feel ash on his skin and could taste desperation on his lips but, for the first time, his heart felt a little lighter. His head, a little quieter.

Silently, like he had done so many nights, he climbed out of bed and pulled on his blacks. He crept out of the barracks and made his way to the cafeteria. He passed by his office and pulled one of the datapads that were waiting there for his perusal tomorrow. He entered the cafeteria and saw that Kenobi was already there, mug full of something that smelled horrible, hunched over his own flimsiwork and looking like he hadn’t slept since he was born.

“Shouldn’t you be asleep, sir?” asked Kote as he approached. He remembered Kenobi during the battle, picking up lines of droids with his mind and crushing them mid-air. He could still hear the thrum of the saber as Kenobi pulled one of the troopers away from the line of fire, and put his body there instead.

Kenobi looked up and smiled. “Ah Commander”, he said as Kote came and sat opposite him on the bench, “Couldn’t sleep?”

“I don’t need much sleep, sir”, Kote said. “And it’s hard to force my mind to rest when it doesn’t want to”.

Kenobi cracked a yawn. “I wish I could say the same thing about sleep, but I understand what you mean about restless minds”.

Kote hummed in response, pulling up his work list. There was already a backlog. He sighed.

“I’ve finalised your reports from Muunilist”, said Kenobi. “Thank you for including the names of the deceased in the report”.

“Marched, sir”, Kote corrected.

Kenobi’s brow furrowed.

“We refer to the deceased as ‘those who have marched on’”, Kote explained.

Kenobi’s expression cleared. “Ah. You refer to each other as vode, do you not?”

“We do”.

“Is that something you would prefer to be referred to, rather than ‘clones’?”

“It’s what we are, sir”, Kote said. “Referring to us as ‘the clones’ minimises our individuality and autonomy. We would greatly preferred to be known as brothers, sir”.

“Of course”, Kenobi said. “Thank you for letting me know”.

Kote hummed softly to let him know he was listening. Someone, some smart ass little dik’ut, had filed a form with him to try and requisition something called a Dantooine pinball machine and thirty cases of Corellian whisky, claiming it as a medical necessity. Kote sent it back to the vod with a little message of ‘try again’. Requests like these were becoming more and more common as the weeks passed.

Silence. Kote looked up and found that Kenobi was staring at him, once more with that strange expression on his face.

“Do I have something on my face, sir?” he asked, warily.

Kenobi started. “No, no”, then, he hesitated, “May I ask you a question, Commander?”

“Go ahead, sir”.

“What do you want?”

Kote kept his face carefully blank. “I’m not sure I understand, sir”.

“I apologise, I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable”, Kenobi said, “I suppose…I am aware the burden of responsibility”.

“I’m sorry, sir, but I’m afraid I don’t understand”.

Kenobi smiled, small, melancholy. “I’m sorry Commander, please excuse an old man his fallibilities. I do believe the lack of sleep is catching up to me”. He went to stand, pushing himself up with a little groan.

Kote wasn’t sure why he said it.

“Well, sir”, he said, “I suppose it wouldn’t hurt for some shore leave every once in a while. Minor diversions will also not go amiss”.

“Oh?” Kenobi said, softly hesitantly, settling back down.

“With all due respect, sir, my men and I are not droids. This will wear on us, in time. In order for us to remain at optimum combat capacity, it would be beneficial for little leniencies to be granted for use during downtime”.

“Do you have any suggestions, Commander?”

Kote hesitated. “I have compiled a list, sir, of the suggestions I have been receiving via the requisition forms. I could send them through to you, for approval?”

Kenobi’s smile was a soft, gentle thing.

“That would be greatly appreciated, Commander”, he said.

“Additionally”, Kote said, “Although I have not included this on the list, there have been multiple requests for paint”.

“Paint, Commander?”

“The men wish to mark their armour to distinguish themselves amongst their companies. The 212^th ran a poll and have specifically requested the colour gold. Captain CT-7567 has also mentioned that the 501^st have taken a liking to a very specific shade of blue”.

“Include it on the list, Commander”, Kenobi said.

“Thank you, General”.

“Please, Commander, we’re not on duty on the moment. Please call me Obi-Wan”.

Kote looked at him dubiously. “Of course, General”.

Kenobi sighed and shook his head in what Kote was shocked to realise looked like fondness.

“I’ve also been meaning to congratulate you, Commander”, said Kenobi.

“Sir?”

“Your tactics during the retaking of Muunilist were a key factor in the success of the battle. Your men also followed orders well and, I hope you don’t mind me saying, have been trained to fight very well”.

“Thank you, sir”, Kote said, “And may I say you and your jetiise were eye-wateringly terrifying when you fought. You fought so hard. It was an education”. Then his brain caught up with his mouth and Kote wanted to keelhaul himself.

Kenobi barked a laugh, and then looked surprised by his own reaction.

“Oh my dear Commander”, he said, warm and smiling. “I hope you don’t mind me saying that the reason we fought so hard was so we could kill as many droids as we could, before they could kill you”.

“Are you trying to save us, General?” Kote asked, half teasing and half deadly sincere.

“Oh Commander”, Kenobi said, “Of course I am. If there was some way I could keep a single one of the vode from dying, I would take it in a heartbeat. You’re all so young, and this is all very much not fair. I fear we will all have much to answer for, when all is said and done by the will of the Force”.

Kote thought of what he had seen, Kenobi pulling a brother out of the line of fire and placing himself there instead. He looked at Kenobi’s face and saw nothing but deadly sincerity. The way you could tell if someone was lying was if their words belayed their actions. And from what he could see, action backed up every one of Kenobi’s words.

“You have been frank with me, sir, and so I will do you the curtesy of being frank with you. There’s no good way this is going to end, sir”, Kote found himself saying, “Not for us. What do you know of the vode, General?”

“I’m afraid not much, Commander?”

“How old do you think I am, General?”

“Pardon?”

“I am nine and a half”, Kote told him. “And I am one of the eldest. We, the vode, age differently to the nat-borns. The Galaxy willing, we’ll live to be as old as thirty-five. That is if we’re not all decommissioned at the end of this war”.

“Commander-“

“Please let me finish, General. We’re stronger and faster, and we have better recall and capacity for learning. Simply put, we were made to be intuitive killing machines. Our sole purpose, like the Separatist droids, is war. When the Senators on Coruscant think of us, they think of us as droids. To think otherwise is an exercise in pointless naivety. Thus, consider the three times a bill has been called to the Senate for consideration of droid rights. Three times the Senate have voted on the rights of constructs and droids, and three times they bill failed to pass with an overwhelming majority. If, you wish, to approach this problem from another angle without the comparison of vode to droids, then consider the plight of the slaves in the Outer Rim. For example, Tatooine. Their plight is inconvenient. Their plight is ignored. Why should the vode be any different, when it is so much easier to believe a convenient lie regarding our status and freedoms?”

Kenobi was silent. With the lights dimmed in the cafeteria, Kote was almost convinced the General’s eyes were full of tears.

“You must have faith, Commander”, he said. “The vode have more friends then you realise”.

“And all will be right in the Force?” Kote asked.

“You mock”, Kenobi said, with a small quirk of his lips. “But the Force is with us, Commander”.

“Cody”, Kote said, on impulse. He couldn’t tell what possessed him to offer this portion of himself.

Kenobi froze. “Cody”, he repeated.

“It’s nice to meet you, General”, Kote offered, gathering up his datapad. “Try and get some sleep, sir. You’ll find that fighting battles is easier when one is not half-dead from exhaustion”.

“I’ll take that under advice, Cody”, Kenobi said.

Kote nodded and left the room.

What the karking seven hells was wrong with him? He thought, heading for the gym. Let’s plan a rebellion, Kote, let’s lecture the General, Kote, and then go ahead and tell him some facsimile of your name.

Kote was so done with himself that he amazed himself.

His comm beeped, signalling a response on the private chat.

He paused, heart suddenly in his mouth. And then he opened it, running the code to disable the encryption. It was in code, but reading this code was as easy as breathing.

Fox: that’s a surprisingly un-stupid idea, Kote. Did you grow a brain during your time on the front? I’ve attached some ideas in regards to how we can manage the funds for the purchase of ships. Please see attached document, mytimeoncoruscanthasbeeneyeopening for reference.

Bly: I would also like to add that the jetii are going to be a problem. Specifically, how they can all see us in the Force. If we’re going to attempt to evacuate vode off world (and Kote, stop being so dramatic. This isn’t a rebellion, more like a strategic and long winded retreat) we need some way to register ourselves null in the Force. I’ve passed this problem down to some Engineers in the 327^th as a potential hypothetical. The karking nerds are having a great time. Please also see attached personnel file on the medics in the 327^th who can be trusted to conduct discreet medical evaluations.

Fox: I have also attached personnel files for potential medics. To gather the best data, we’re going to need a pool of vode recruits.

Rex: I have Fives in the 501^st running medical evaluations under the guise of picking up genetic problems left over from Kamino. Fives also has a theory on how to initiate treatment for the aging gene. I don’t know about you guys, but I want to live passed thirty-five.

Fox: Hiphip hooray for Fives!

Wolffe: Karking hell Kote, you don’t kriff around, do you? I’ve crunched the numbers and this might actually karking work, if people can shut the kriff up. I’ve attached some revisions to your initial proposal. If we get this right, we could begin stage one of the evacuation in six months.

Neyo: Bly, I ran your idea of inhibitors past Mac. He almost died of excitement and has already submitted five different blueprints for potential models. We will need funds for this.

Fox: Let me handle the funds, at least initially.

Neyo: What about the purchasing of ships and supplies? We have pretty karking recognisable faces.

Fox: See attached, coruscanthasbeenREALLYeyeopening, revised.

Neyo: Oh wow what’s wrong with these people.

Bacara: There’s going to be a potential problem with the end game. We could fudge the causality reports all we like, but there’s a point where we’re going to need to get vode off-world en masse and they’re going to karking notice.

Wolffe: If we have enough vode off-world by that point, we’d have a sizeable army to really make a karking point. Please see attached proposal document tatooinestandoff.

Blackout: I have a proposal to deal with the problem of relocation. See attached document theholonetisnotassecureastheydliketobelieve.

Blitz: That’s pretty ballsy, Blackout.

Blackout: Why thank you Commander I’d say that’s my best work.

Fox: That’s not saying much. If we’re going to start stage 1 in six months, we’re going to need to locate a viable planet and procure the following supplies for the initial landing teams. See list, thenotdeadclonessurvivalkit.

Blackout: I’ll take care of the planet. We need to start allocating the initial landing team immediately. We also need to discuss what this means for the war. I have some suggestions.

Kote took a deep breath, and then typed.

Kote: So we’re in agreement then.

And then he watched, eyes wide, as a steady stream of ‘stage 1 is a-go’ flooded his commlink.