Chapter Text
Keito-Nemodya... a beautiful, colorful planet with a humid and temperate climate; with high mountains whose snow-capped tops were hidden in soft, thick clouds; with green plains and fragrant forests that stretched for miles. The views from the bridge cities are breathtaking. It is especially beautiful to watch the bright sun slowly dip below the horizon, coloring the blue sky in motley blotches that gently shimmer with the warm colors of the sunset. Oh what a pity that such a delightful planet ended up in the dirty hands of the Separatists and the Trade Federation.
This planet would have brightened anyone's leisure time. It was as if Keito-Nemodia could hear and feel her admiration, and so she gently caressed the rays of her sun on the clone soldiers who were mopping up her land. It was as if she was thanking them for her deliverance from the separatists and blessing them to victory.
But the galaxy had other plans. The battle between the Republic troops and the droids was taking place both on the ground and in the air. The clear blue sky was darkened and obscured by dark smoke that flew in puffs from damaged fighters. Shells and missiles flew like madmen, in the whistle of flight forgiving the living. Bright lasers from phasers blended in a hellish dance, taking the lives of clones and active droids in a red-blue dance. The downed fighter chained the poor pilot with its metallic chains, trying to save both their lives, but the iron bird would rise no more and fly through the air with its wings. Death cries filled the painfully screaming battlefield. Every breath, every stray laser, every trigger pulled began a countdown of someone's doomed life.
Spinning in a frantic dance of combat, the clone commander furiously squeezed the trigger of his blaster, aiming straight for the droid's head. His comlink buzzed, distracting the soldier from his target. Quickly pressing it with a finger hidden by the cloth, the commander blew the head off another brazen droid that was about to take his brother's life.
"Execute Order 66."
Heartbroken, the clone turned his head in the direction of the squeaky voice. An old man with a hood thrown over his head caught his eye, hiding the face of the familiar stranger. The commander stared silently at the man, who for the second time uttered a phrase that plunged steel cold needles into his brain, burning through his mind. The connection went out, and it was as if time stood still around the clone. He knew what he had to do, what he had to do, but he was so reluctant to do it. His temple throbbed in hellish convulsions, filling his mind with the phrase he had heard so often in his nightmares: "good soldiers follow orders."
The hand of the clock died down and quickly ran forward, catching up and even outrunning time. The clone looked around in amazement and fear, trying to even out his labored breathing and come to his senses. His brothers seemed to have completely forgotten who their true enemy was, raising their heads to the sky and shooting at the general's fighter. Heartbroken, the commander lifted his head and looked up at the fireball that was flying headlong with its nose down. "The General can make it, he can save himself! Won't he?" - was spinning in his head as he stared, heartbroken, at the fighter plane in flames. With a blazing fire, the starship crashed into the ground with a deafening crash, throwing splinters and dirt in all directions. Moments later, a bright explosion knocked the clones that had come too close backwards, releasing puffs of black smoke and fiery sparks.
Something in the commander snapped and shattered with a loud crack, but he had no time for his feelings. The clone sprang from his seat, pushing his brothers, frozen in unnaturally rigid postures, toward the fighter with a glimmer of hope in his chest. A loud, desperate cry escaped his mouth as he ran, running so fast he didn't notice anything around him. Falling painfully to his knees in front of the flaming wreckage, the clone frantically began grabbing the warped metal parts with his hands that were engulfed in flames. The fire brutally tore at the soft fabric of his gloves, burning his skin. The hot flames dug their tongues into soft flesh, tearing it and spreading a wave of pain through his nerves. His fingernails snapped against the red-hot parts of the fighter, which he raked, grabbed, and tossed aside. Red streams of scarlet blood flowed from the burns and wounds, skirting the blisters that appeared. The commander didn't care. He didn't care about the burns; about the flames that were already burning the sleeves of his suit; about the wounds that were bleeding; about his own pain that was choking him along with the smoke. Just so long as he was alive!
In his soul, with shattered glass wings, a butterfly of hope tried to fly. Ah, what irony! In the night, butterflies fly to the light of a red-hot bulb that, like a flame, scorches their wings, and then, burning them to the ground, caresses them with its light while they slowly die. Fire is neither a friend nor a comrade, but its worst enemy. So why do they continue to fly towards their own death with such fury? Why is he now, smashing his hands bloody against the debris, reaching for the cruel fire that is devouring his palms in a hot wave? Because, like a butterfly in the night, he is reaching for warmth and light, affection and love-all that the general gave him, and all that his general was.
A so familiar hand, hidden in a glove, came down roughly on his shoulder, squeezing him in a firm grip. His brother was saying something to him, but the commander could not hear. A second hand grabbed his other shoulder. With force, the clone was thrown from the wreckage into the ring of brothers thickening above him. Bringing his bloody hand up and placing it against his painfully throbbing temple, he blinked, wetting his lashes. A tear ran in a wet trail down his face, rolling down his chin and falling, shattering into small pieces just as his life was at this moment. Tearing his gaze away from the blazing fighter, the commander looked at his men, who stood silently above him. Boost, his loyal brother and comrade, slowly and so unnaturally, pointed the muzzle of his blaster at him.
"Why?"
The question came off the broken commander's lips. His answer was a pulled trigger and a laser that slammed into his body, sending the defeated clone into darkness.
With a deep, tearing breath, Wolf opened his eyes, sitting up sharply on the bed. Breathing deeply and trying to equalize his breathing, the clone, closing his eyes and massaging his sore temple, tried to suppress all the feelings and emotions that had been tormenting him for a long time. He was left for dead by his own brothers, who marched past him like programmed droids. No talking, no mocking. Nothing but a terrible silence that shuddered with every step they took. Wolf was abandoned by all. Abandoned like a defective thing that had fallen to them. A defect they were happy to get rid of.
Sighing, the clone opened his eyes and looked at his bandaged hands, which to this day reminded him in pain of the worst moment of his life. Beneath the snow-white bandages were ugly scars that would never heal. Clenching his hands into fists, the former commander lay back on the bed, pressing his bare back against the warm mattress.
He miraculously managed to survive then and escape from the damn planet that took from him the most important thing in his life. No, it wasn't the planet's fault, it was his brothers, who, at the snap of their fingers, went crazy and started shooting at the general. Wolf wanted to cry, but all the tears had been shed long ago on that nightmarish day that had turned his world upside down and destroyed it. He was left alone with his pain. He would rather have been burned by fire, he would rather have drowned in the sea than live like that! Without purpose, without meaning, without future, without brothers and general...
The clone seemed to go mad, not knowing where to take himself from his soul, which loudly and tearingly screamed day after day. And the eternal nightmares were wearing Wolf out more than the whole damn war, which would not let him go, chained in its steel chains that cut his already wounded heart. He was angry. Angry at his brothers; at the Separatists; at the Sith with their insidious plans; at the galaxy as a whole.
His brothers were like dumb droids, obeying any orders that were given to them without question. They are twisted and turned as they please, as if they were just things without souls or feelings, without emotions or desires. Slaves, that's what they are. Always have been, if you think about it that way, but in the days when the Jedi Order was alive, it didn't feel so drastic. The Jedi, especially his general, did everything for him and his brothers, accepting them for who they were.
"Not for me," was the phrase his general had first heard when all 104 had been blown to smithereens by the ion cannon. There were four of them left, but Jedi Plo Koon believed in coming for them. And so they did.
He was so used to following his general that now, hiding from the Empire, he was completely unsure of what to do. If only Plo Koon were here, he would know what to do: where to go, who to talk to, how to survive in such dark times. He would be able to tell what is happening to him...
The moment the general's fighter plane collapsed and scattered hot flames all around, Wolf felt strange, as if he could hear and see everything. Could feel danger and pain with his mind. He hadn't paid attention to it then, but now, in the darkness, he could feel clearly what was going on outside the doors of his room. To feel other people's emotions, to touch their minds and know all the innermost things that lurk inside them. It frightens him.
The general would answer all his questions, calm his panic-stricken heart, but he's gone. The pain is there again. He had lost everything and everyone. All he is left with is a blunt pain that tears him from the inside with sharp claws.
Rising from the bed, the clone rubbed his eyes with bandaged hands, heading for the bathroom. Turning on the light, he leaned his hands on the sink and looked up at the man watching him from the mirror: pale skin, dark bruises under his eyes, and cheeks flushed with tears. He had been crying a lot lately. Sighing, Wolf ran a hand through his hair, removing strands of long bangs from his face. He hadn't cut his hair since the fall of the Republic. He only had the strength to shave, but even that was difficult.
Apathy gripped the clone. He seemed to want something, but did nothing for it. He wanted answers to what was happening to him, but he didn't even try to find out. Wolf suspected that he already knew the answer to the question, but he just didn't want to believe it. Is the clone force sensitive? Nonsense! It just couldn't be, especially not with him. Purely to disprove it, he raised his hand with the urge to take the towel in his hand. Tensing up, he closed his eyes. What was his surprise when the soft fabric of the towel touched his hand. Yanking his hand away, the clone stared with fright in his eyes at the towel that had fallen to the floor.
“This can't be true," a hoarse whisper escaped his lips, "it's a lie!
"General, if you can hear me somewhere in the force, help me..."