Chapter Text
‘I don't wanna give you the chance to make me stay
And the hardest part in all of this is I know my way back I don't want to
Go and let you see all that has become of me…’
~ “The Grey,” Icon For Hire
He should be grateful.
At this point, he should've already been shipped back to Kamino for decommissioning. No one wanted a clone with only one good eye.
But his Jedi did, apparently, and had blown Wolffe away when he'd fully funded a cybernetic replacement.
Wolffe did not want to know how much that had cost the general…
He should be grateful. He was grateful—beyond grateful for everything General Plo and the Jedi Order had done for him so far. Beyond his operation, the Order had even replaced—no, rebuilt; there was no replacing the original Pack—the Wolfpack and the entire 104th.
Wolffe was very grateful.
He would just be a little more grateful if the facial scanners on the Triumphant would recognize his face…
It was a minor issue, really. In the grand scheme of things, it shouldn't have been this frustrating. He had survived a direct lightsaber attack and managed to escape being sent back to Kamino. A small tech issue like that shouldn't be getting his goat as much as it was this week.
But it was.
Part of him wanted to scream his throat raw that it wasn't fair. It wasn't fair that he was the commander of this whole kriffing division and he couldn't even get the stupid datapad to recognize his face.
We all look exactly the same! Why won't it—?
Except, they didn't, did they? He didn't… Not anymore.
"You," Wolffe commanded, pointing at a nearby shiny. "Come over here for a second."
The bridge wasn't busy, so he couldn't be bothered to care about what sort of task he'd pulled the shiny away from at that moment.
"Reporting for duty, sir!" the shiny said with a snappy salute.
Wolffe resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "Sure, okay. Just stand right there." Grabbing the datapad off its stand, he held it up in front of the trooper's face. Instantly, the soft ping of recognition filled his ears.
It's about damn time.
"Thank you. Dismissed."
The shiny had the audacity to look confused. "Uh… was that it, sir?"
Wolffe gave a quick nod, already focusing on the navigation reports popping up on his screen.
"Really…? But, couldn't you have jus—?"
"They didn't teach a course in talking back to your superior officers on Kamino, soldier. I would know, I was there. Now, dis- missed."
The shiny gave another salute before turning on his heel and fleeing back to his post.
Shoving the kid from his mind, Wolffe went on with his task, which included, but was not limited to: double-checking their next nav-coordinates, making sure every trooper was stationed at his assigned post, and reviewing which gunships would be deployed when they reached their destination.
A recently liberated Republic planet that was in desperate need of fresh supplies.
Supply runs and rescue missions. Wolffe gave a silent scoff. He couldn't even remember the last time they'd been down on the frontlines. For a moment, he wondered if that had been purposeful; an executive decision made by the general to give them all time to adjust and heal from Abregado.
Brushing the ugly memory from his mind, Wolffe continued swiping through the datapad, his earlier frustration temporarily forgotten.
Later that night, however, as he trudged back to his quarters, feet numb from an entire day of standing without much rest, he collapsed at his desk and reached for his personal datapad. The day might have been over, but taking stock of the inventory they had handed out to the Klaxians waited for no one.
Not even the worn and weary.
Only when the pad vibrated its irritation against his palms did Wolffe remember that the rules from earlier applied here, too. Clones with perfect features were welcome to open their datapads at any time…
… Clones with grotesque scars were not.
The datapad landed in the far corner with a sharp crack. It hadn't been the first time the device refused to recognize the face of its owner, but the now shattered corner of the screen made it clear that it was certainly the last.
It's such a little thing, he tried to tell himself, chin falling heavy into his hands. There are beings suffering—dying—all over the galaxy and you can't get past this one minor inconvenience.
Just reprogram it.
Wolffe snorted, resisting the urge to rub at his bad eye. Reprogramming his own datapad wouldn't be too difficult. If he could find someone to unlock the security feature first.
You need an old face to be able reprogram a new face.
And it just so happened that he had the wrong kind of old face.
Besides, it’s the shipwide holos and computers that pose the issue. If he reprogrammed the facial recognition scans to his own face, the entire rest of the 104th wouldn't be able to get into the system.
He supposed there had to be some way to get the shipwide programs to recognize more than one face…
After all, how does General Plo gain access?
… and yet, part of him didn't want to. The deep, shamed part of him that still harbored guilt for being so reckless; for trying to take Ventress on his own; for rushing into danger when any sane clone would have thought twice. You probably deserve it.
If he thought hard enough about it, he could trace the guilt all the way back to Abregado.
Somehow, some way, you probably deserve it.
Right. Sure…
It was an inconvenience, he decided, and nothing more. One he would just have to deal with because even if he did know how to program a third facial recognition…
… he wasn't sure he wanted to.
It was the worst kept secret among the youngest shinies in the 104th that the commander preferred to outsource the opening of every datapad and computer rather than do it on his own.
Blazer had been the first one to be voluntold to open Commander Wolffe's datapad on the bridge. Next, the summons had gone to Ky. Then, Trix got his turn, one that had ended with the full wrath of the commander falling down upon every shiny in the general vicinity. Commander Wolffe's frustration had already been a brewing ion storm crackling above all their heads that day and whatever was wrong with the holoscreen had been the last straw.
No shiny looked back on that day on the bridge with any sort of fondness…
Asher suppressed a shiver as he made his way through the halls of the Triumphant. They were all on the way to their first campaign. Well, his first campaign since joining the 104th.
Not some rescue or a supply run. A real mission this time, with combat, action, and blaster fire.
Upon reaching the left turn to the mess hall, he poked his head around the corner and held back a sigh of relief.
It wasn't as if he were purposefully trying to avoid the commander. It was just… his turn to open a datapad or a computer or whatever hadn't come up yet and…
Okay, maybe he was avoiding his commander, but only until they arrived at Klaxia. The likelihood of Commander Wolffe needing to access a datapad during a battle was 425.4 to 1 and—
"Good morning, Asher."
The only thing that stopped him from jumping ten feet straight in the air was the fact that General Plo's voice was so much deeper than Commander Wolffe's.
And in all honesty, he didn't think the commander actually knew his name like the general did.
He couldn't help but startle the least little bit, though, before letting his slump in relief at the sight of his general.
"Oh, it's just you, General. Uh…" Asher gave a quick salute. "Morning."
"Just me?" The humored tint to his voice alluded to the fact that there might be some sort of smile underneath the general's mask, which only added to Asher's relief. "Who were you expecting? Or, should I say, trying to avoid? "
"Uh, me?" Asher gave a tight laugh. "Uh, no one, sir. Not really, just… Well, has the commander asked you to open his datapad yet?" Another laugh cut through his throat, this one slightly more nervous. "Of course, he hasn't. You're the general and… Well, never mind. I guess I don't really know where I was going with that."
General Plo let out a chuckle of his own. The sound was warm and caring, unlike anything Asher had ever heard back on Kamino.
"In that case, would you care to join me for breakfast before we land?"
"I was, uh, actually on my way to the mess," Asher replied with a grin.
As he joined his general, the commander's constant undercurrent of fury vanished from his mind. After all, one simply didn't worry about stuff like that when they were with General Plo.
It was this newfound carefree spirit that had Asher missing the way his general's brows furrowed slightly as they made their way toward the mess hall.
If he applied enough pressure, Wolffe briefly wondered if he could snap the datapad clean in half. He was sure it would feel so kriffing satisfying that he was tempted to actually do it.
Rain dripped from a stray lock of hair plastered to his forehead, splashing into his eyes as he glared down at his device.
Maybe if he just stared at it hard enough, it would burst into flames or something. Anything to make it not his problem.
As it was, he had work to do before he could even think about getting some sleep. It didn't help that the battle was only on a temporary hold, a shaky sort of peace that could be broken by an onslaught of droids at any time. It didn't help that his tent was leaking somewhere and he had no time whatsoever to fix it.
If only his stupid face would work, he could get something done. He could feel useful; he could do his job.
The rain still poured outside, coming down in thick sheets that made seeing more than five feet away a mere fantasy.
For the smallest, briefest fraction of a moment, Wolffe considered saying kriff it and collapsing on his mat.
But he knew if he rested his eyes for even a second, he'd be lost to the darkness.
Prying himself off the floor was physically painful—maybe he'd landed in the dirt during that last explosion harder than he'd thought—but Wolffe was determined to get his datapad open one way or another, even if he had to yank a shiny out of dreamland to do it.
The second he stepped out into the dark, the rain smacked him in the face and he regretted all his life decisions.
"It's worse than kriffing Kamino," he muttered to himself, yet he made his way into the storm all the same, searching for someone—anyone—whose face he could borrow.
One clone. He just needed one clone, one shared face.
Only, you don't share that face anymore, do you?
Tightening his grip on the pad, Wolffe could've sworn he felt it bend between his fingers.
It's still the same face, just… scarred.
More like broken. You can't even open a little datapad. What happens when you need to get one open in a pinch on the battlefield and can't?
He clenched his jaw, feeling the muscles in his neck pop.
And why the hell would I ever need to do that?
His inner critic fell silent and Wolffe let a sardonic smirk stretch his lips.
That's what I thought.
The lights that had once turned the camp into a glow in the dark connect-the-dots pattern had all been extinguished. This meant he had two options: wake a sleeping shiny, which was growing less appealing to him by the minute, or find someone who had turned out the light but had yet to fall asleep.
Right. He'd just as soon try to find a needle in a haystack.
The shiver that wracked his spine was a cruel reminder that not only was it wet outside, it was cold.
Find someone, open the pad, go back. He repeated the short commands like a mantra as he shuffled through the camp.
What happens if you accidentally turn the pad off while you're working? What then?
This new thought stopped him in his tracks. Despite his tendency to tease Rex for falling asleep in the middle of late-night projects, he knew he was just as prone to the beckoning call of sleep as his baby brother.
Shoving the thought away with more force and bitterness than necessary, Wolffe pressed on, searching for a single shred of light.
Something. Just give me something.
Part of him wondered if it was even still worth it. The other part oh so kindly reminded him that half a dozen medical, statistical, and casualty reports depended on his ability to open his datapad. Saving them for tomorrow wasn't an option.
There'll just be twice as many to deal with after the next battle. And the last thing he needed was to stockpile his work until he couldn't breathe. He'd seen Bly do that more than a few times and viewed his brother as a sort of cautionary tale.
He would rather forgo half a night's sleep than let it come to that.
It was a testament to how deeply he'd buried himself in his own thoughts that he didn't notice anyone approaching until the general was right in front of him.
"Sir," he greeted with a nod, suppressing the shiver that threatened to send his teeth chattering. "What are you doing here in this weather?"
The irony of the question wasn't lost on him and he half expected General Plo to chuckle. Fox or Bly would have…
Instead, by the glow of his datapad's lockscreen, Wolffe saw the general's head tilt gently forward. "Coming to get you."
Oh.
Wolffe didn't know how to respond at first beyond furrowing his brows. By the time he’d unscrambled the words bouncing about his brain and opened his mouth, the general was beckoning him with a wave.
"I believe our first objective should be to get out of this rain."
"And our second?" Wolffe couldn't help but ask, still confused as to why General Plo would be looking for him at this hour when the Jedi could have simply called his comm.
Plo made no reply and headed off into the darkness.
Following the general in relative silence—the cold shudder that knocked his teeth together before he could stop it gave a whole new meaning to the word relative—Wolffe couldn't help but give a small sigh of relief when they entered General Plo's warm tent.
Only in the dry atmosphere did Wolffe realize that the rain had completely soaked through his blacks and was no doubt in the process of pruning his skin.
Great. Just what I always wanted.
The general motioned for him to sit down and Wolffe felt suddenly awkward. Sitting would mean dripping water everywhere and it would be better if he just—
Plo's hand on his shoulder had an instant calming effect and Wolffe found himself being guided onto the floor.
The general's tent was perhaps more sparse than his own, with a single sleeping mat and a small crate of necessities acting as the only furniture. Yet, somehow, the general dug out a blanket—pulling it seemingly out of nowhere, probably with some sort of Jedi magic—and holding it out to his commander.
When Wolffe refused to take it—he would definitely get it all wet and it looked special and—General Plo draped it carefully around his shoulders. No sooner had the fabric settled than Wolffe was pulling it closer in a vain effort to chase away the chill.
Easing onto his knees across from Wolffe, the general took a deep breath through his mask.
"Now, onto our second objective."
Right. He'd almost forgotten about that. Whatever it was…
"What do you need, sir?"
Plo's answer surprised him more than he'd ever care to admit. "To help you with what you need."
"Uh…" Wolffe fought against another shiver, gripping the blanket tighter. "I'm afraid I'm not following."
The general switched tracks, forcing Wolffe to hop along with him onto the next train of thought. "Why were you standing out in the rain?"
The initial reason for his venture out into the storm hit Wolffe straight in the chest and he pursed his lips.
Because I'm a defective clone who can't even get a kriffing datapad to recognize my face. Because you should have sent me back to Kamino instead of trying to fix something that's beyond repair.
"How did you know I was out there?" Answering a question with a question was a tactic he'd learned from Fox during training—one that had quickly become a favorite.
General Plo's face softened. "I could sense your pain."
Oh.
Wolffe clutched the datapad until he was certain that taking off a glove would reveal a set of white knuckles.
Oh…
"You don't have to worry about me, sir." It was one of the many mindless responses Wolffe kept stored in the forefront of his mind, a pool ready to draw from at any moment.
When it came to the general, however, these responses rarely worked. Not like they did with Cody, Rex, or Bly. That, Wolffe supposed, was all thanks to the Force.
It was almost as if his general could see right through every facade he'd ever constructed. Wolffe didn't know much about how the Force worked, but sometimes it was annoying as hell.
And sometimes… it made him feel more seen by his general than he had been by anyone ever— even his brothers.
"Why were you standing out in the rain?" General Plo repeated, his voice taking on a slightly humorous tint. "Do you miss your homeworld that badly?"
"No." Wolffe snorted. "Kriff no. I…" Sucking in a breath, he let his gaze fall on the datapad in his hands for a mere handful of seconds before shrugging. "I was just trying to find Boost or Sinker to go over a few last minute details for tomorrow."
He could have smacked himself at the sudden idea. Why didn't you go to them first? Instead of wandering around like an idiot?
Deep down, he knew the answer. It was one he refused to even entertain.
If he went to either of his brothers, they would realize what was going on and then they would try to fix it.
Wolffe didn't need anyone to fix it. He just needed to get his kriffing datapad to open.
The general's voice, though gentle, left no more room for dancing around the subject.
"How long have the facial recognition scanners been giving you trouble?"
Should've seen that one coming… Sometimes, he wondered if the Jedi weren't truly the gods the media kept trying to make them out to be.
Seeing no point in keeping up his charade, Wolffe heaved a sigh. "Since this." He pointed at his scar, which had chosen that moment to throb a bit with phantom pain. "How'd you find out?"
Plo's mask twitched in a way that Wolffe had come to learn meant he was trying to hide a smile. "Sometimes, I do not think you're as subtle as you think you are, or as you would like to be."
"Right." Wolffe sucked in a sharp breath. Great. “Apparently not.”
"Why did you not install a new scan that would recognize your features?"
"About that…" Wolffe tried for a half-smirk that he prayed didn't resemble more of a wince. "You need to unlock the system with a previous scan to make a new one, so…"
Plo gave him a knowing look that had Wolffe gripping the pad tighter. "Though that isn't why you haven't made one yet, is it?"
Either the Force could see inside the depths of his mind, or the general was just obnoxiously perceptive.
Or he just knows you too well.
He had an answer on the tip of his tongue, dripping with acidic half-truths and excuses that scorched his mouth, but when he moved his lips, Wolffe heard a broken whisper escape in its place.
"Why did you fix me…?" When Plo's brows dipped in obvious concern, Wolffe rushed ahead, not entirely sure where his mouth would take him. "You should have sent me back to Kamino—you were supposed to send me back."
I'm broken. I'm defective, and I can't even—
"Would you like to go back?" Wolffe's head jerked up at this quiet question, his wide eyes locking with his general's masked ones. "I was under the strong impression that you would rather avoid that at all costs."
"No," came Wolffe's whisper a long moment later, when his dry throat had decided to work again. "No, of course I don’t want to go back, but I… I should."
"Why?" Wolffe pursed his lips at Plo’s simple question because that was just it: it was too simple.
Yet, it was the very question he had wrestled with since the Battle of Khorm.
"Are you unfit for battle?" the general asked, pressing forward when Wolffe couldn't seem to find his own voice. "Is the cybernetic giving you trouble? Can you not see well anymore?"
"No," Wolffe managed to push out. "I can see just fine."
"Then, you must have some sort of hidden injury that will prevent you from fighting tomorrow's battle as well as your fought today's."
"No," Wolffe replied when it became clear that his general was waiting for an answer. "No, that's…" Clearing his throat did nothing to dislodge the lump that had settled there. "That's not it."
"Why, then, do you think you should be sent back to Kamino?"
"Because…" His breath hitched and Wolffe silently cursed himself for it. "I'm… I'm broken."
"You are not broken." Plo spoke the words with such conviction that Wolffe found himself almost believing them. Almost. "You're simply… different, now."
Wolffe scoffed, pulling the blanket closer to fend off an oncoming shiver. "In your world, maybe that's a good thing. In mine, it's not. My brother, Rex, is different and it nearly cost him everything when we were cadets. We're not supposed to be different. I mean, look!" He held up the datapad. "This just proves it."
"All it proves to me," Plo said, "is that we need to create a new scan to fit your features."
"So, I'm handicapped now, is that it?" Shaking his head, Wolffe tossed the pad off to the side with no small amount of force.
"No, you're adjusting."
He ran a shaking hand over his face in a vain attempt to steady it. "Same difference. I'm supposed to be a commander. What happens when I'm not on the Triumphant and need to access sensitive information somewhere else? Making a new scan will only get me so far and…"
A wave of exhaustion crashed over him and he slumped, finally giving into a cold shiver or two. He'd forgotten how much he hated being wet, how much he hated the rain.
What's it good for, anyway?
What am I good for…?
A long, heavy sigh filtered through the tent—one that was decidedly not his own—and Wolffe glanced up. General Plo had taken up his datapad, opened it, and was now fiddling with programs Wolffe couldn't see.
"I seem to remember a certain shuttle ride back to the Triumphant," Plo began, his voice steady and calm, yet Wolffe detected an underlying current of emotion. "You needed more medical attention than our field medic could give, and personally, I was more than ready to leave Khorm at that point. For nearly the whole of our ride back to the flagship, you begged me not to let them take you back to Kamino. You promised me many things if I would only spare you from such a fate as the one you seemed to think awaited you. Does that sound familiar?"
A hot flush crept up his neck and cheeks at the hazy memory. Begging was certainly not in his repertoire and never had been. But he supposed pain made people do and say crazy things…
Sure, blame it on the pain.
"The ride off Khorm was a bit blurry in, uh, more ways than one…" Wolffe swallowed. Maybe if he tried hard enough, he could get the blanket to swallow him. "Sinker mentioned something about that later, though. Apparently, he was there, too."
"Yes," Plo said with a nod. "Along with Boost. Both of them made some of the same pleas to me once you were in surgery. If I remember correctly, they vowed to do anything to keep you from being sent back. They needn't have worried," he added with a sad smile. "I had no intention of sending you back. Even if you had lost your leg or an arm instead of your eye, I still would not have sent you back—and I have no intentions of doing so now. Unless… that is something you find yourself suddenly wanting."
Wolffe shook his head. "No, of course not, but… why?"
"I care very deeply about you, Wolffe. About you and all of your brothers. It pains me that you would even have to ask such a question. If I were in your position, would you have them get rid of me?"
Gaping, Wolffe couldn't even bring himself to answer, merely shaking his head once more.
"Anakin Skywalker lost his arm at the beginning of the war. Should Master Kenobi have sent him away because of it?" Another shake of the head. "Then, why should the same not apply to you and your brothers?" Turning the pad around, Plo held it up. Wolffe barely registered the fact that it was scanning his face. "It occured to me some time ago that the way you were raised was vastly different from the upbringing of the Jedi. We do not share the same view on things when it comes to the quality of life, the Kaminoans and the Jedi. It is my own personal opinion that the Kaminoans, while brilliant scientists, are wrong about a great many things.
"This is not Kamino, Wolffe, and I am not your trainer. I am your general, your friend, and in my eyes, you are not broken. You are different; you are special. Each and every one of your brothers are, too. That is why I am honored to have you continue to serve at my right hand as my commander, and why I will never be sending you back to your homeworld. Do you understand?"
Only as Wolffe gave an unsteady nod did he notice the sticky tears that were trailing down his cheeks and mixing with the raindrops.
"Good." With another smile, Plo made a few more adjustments on the pad before switching it off and holding out to Wolffe. "I'm glad we got that sorted."
Willing his hand not to tremble, Wolffe took the datapad and stared down at it. Part of him knew what his general had done, he just didn't want to believe it. He didn't want to believe any of it. Believing meant having to find some sort of way to deal with the fact that someone out there cared about him. And not in the same way that Fox or Sinker cared, but in…
In some weird way he couldn't seem to figure out. Some sort of… of fatherly way. The kind of caring he'd watched Jango show to young Boba from afar.
He wasn't used to that kind of caring, and yet, that didn't mean he didn't like it.
Taking a deep breath, Wolffe switched on the datapad.
It recognized his face immediately.
The relief that flooded through him was so immense and sudden that Wolffe was certain he would have cried if he hadn't been shedding a few tears already.
He'd never been much good at feelings. Though not as bad at them as Fox was—or pretended to be—Wolffe found emotions, especially the teary-eyed kind, a difficult thing to manage.
And yet, the soft thank you that escaped his lips felt so easy, so right.
Plo just continued to smile. "Now, I'm sure that catching your death of cold is not an item on one of your many To-Do lists, is it?"
Swiping at his eyes, Wolffe barked a short laugh and shook his head. "No, definitely not. I should get back out there and change, but…" He lifted the pad. "Thank you."
In response, Plo took his Jedi robe out from the corner and unfolded it, replacing it with the blanket and draping it around Wolffe's shoulders before the commander could protest.
"No use in you getting more wet than you already are," he explained.
Wolffe bit back a protest, flashing a small smile of his own instead.
"Never forget," the general said as Wolffe stood, making for the exit, "how important you truly are, Commander. Should anyone ever try to convince you otherwise, just remember that you will always be important to me, no matter what you're told or choose to believe."
With another tight nod, one that had Wolffe fighting to hold back the fresh wave of tears threatening the back of his eyes, he ventured out into the darkness.
For the first time since Khorm, since Abregado, since Kamino, he felt lighter. Like a weight had been lifted from his shoulders.
Maybe he truly wasn't broken, or maybe the general was just biased. Either way, Wolffe knew he had some thinking to do.
And with a new lightness in his step, he pulled the cloak closer, letting it shelter and protect him from more than just the rain.