Archive of Our Own

When Commander Mayday sets foot on Barton IV, he’s impressed by the planet’s relentless ferocity. The jagged mountain ranges jut like fangs from the ground, the howling wind whips snow across the landscape, and the freezing temperatures bite to his bones. Overhead, a bird circles and screams, the cry of a tough, unyielding world. Yep, Mayday’s impressed. Doesn’t mean he’s thrilled, though. What’s there to be thrilled about? Even the Republic Outpost is unhappy to be here. 

His new base huddles in a depression in the mountainside, flanked by an ice-coated, standalone rock formation. The oval warehouses cling to the permacrete airfield like snow turtles. They radiate misery and resentment: Why were we built here? What did we ever do to the Republic? Mayday could ask the same question. His armor wasn’t made for this weather—standard Phase II, not HT-77 Cold Assault Armor. Apparently his new unit isn’t worth the four-thousand-credit price of insulated protection.  As it is, snow has already found the armor’s cracks, melted with the heat of his skin, and refrozen. His thin black undersuit is stiff with cold. Lovely.

His troops aren’t happy either. They mutter as they file into the central warehouse, only a few acknowledging Mayday. They’re from various units, remnants of platoons destroyed in battle or broken up during reorganizations. Splinters, fragments—survivors, one way or the other. Shoved into a shuttle and dropped off to babysit cargo. Mayday understands their frustration—he’s an elite combat trooper, a Commander for kriff’s sake, used to leading large units. Now he’s a sergeant in all but name. 

The last trooper enters, and the shuttle unfolds its wings in a roar of engines. The pilots give Mayday a sympathetic wave. Probably relieved they don't have to stay. Lucky. The shuttle rises into the air, past those circling birds, and disappears into the storm. No turning back now. Mayday swallows his bitterness like dry foodboard. A mission’s a mission, and he wasn’t made Commander to complain. 

He seals the door, muting the storm. In the dim entryway, the men squish in front of the neat stacks of crates, which reach to the far wall. Inventory droids already work around them. The warehouse is too big and too crowded at the same time. “All right, men,” Mayday says, activating his Officer Voice. “I’m Commander Mayday, your new boss. Some of you may not like the…circumstances we’re in. But I expect you to devote yourselves to this mission just like any other. Our objective is simple: protect this cargo.”

One speaks up. “Question, sir. Protect from what ?”

The man’s unfamiliar—not that they had the chance to mingle in the shuttle. “What’s your name, trooper?”

“Razor, sir. CT-Nineteen-Thirty-Twenty, if it matters to you.” His voice is relaxed, with an edge of attitude. He’s not standing as straight as the others. “Just wondering why they sent us to protect cargo on a world devoid of life.”

Definitely some attitude. Better keep an eye on this one. “Reports indicate there are local people here. Humanoids. They live off supplies stolen from the Trade Federation warehouses on this planet. They’re the only ones who’d care to try,” he can’t resist adding. Mayday should keep the quip to himself—it’ll only encourage Razor. But he’s cold and tired and facing his new role as commander of crates. He can’t entirely bring himself to care. “They haven’t been seen in months. The Republic’s just being careful.”

Another trooper raises his hand like a shiny. “Sir?” 

“Yes?”

“Hexx, sir, CT-Sixty-One-Eighty-Five. What exactly are we guarding?”

“Crates.” Mayday crosses his arms. “What’s in them is above our pay grade. We’ve just been assigned to guard it.” Whatever it is, could be perishable. Why else would the Republic choose a frozen wasteland to house an outpost? 

“Respectfully, sir, wouldn’t we be able to guard it better if we knew what it was?”

The trooper beside him sighs. “Hexx, it doesn’t matter. Shut up.”

Hexx sounds hurt. “I was just—” 

“That’s enough.” Mayday sighs internally. “Like I said, the important thing is to do our jobs. Speaking of which…”

As he passes out assignments, he gathers their names. Veetch (the one who shut down Hexx), Maxwell, Bit, Quartz, Clipper, Ridge, Leo. Ten troopers, himself included. Razor watches him as they disperse—more of an observation than a threat, the initial scan Mayday’s giving the others. Keeping his face smooth, he turns his back. He is their Commander, and protocol demands he give nothing away. 

* * *

Mayday doesn’t like setting up new bases. On top of regular guard duty, they have to pick up (and clean up) where the last set of guards left off—in this case, from decades ago. They have to take inventory of the crates and droids in each warehouse and install new sensors on the Outpost’s perimeter—the old ones are long frosted over. Not to mention scrubbing floors and dusting control panel buttons. On top of being security droids, they get to be cleaning droids.

It's an old base, the Outpost. Built during the Stark Hyperspace War, then abandoned, then repurposed as a warehouse. It shows. Not just in the ancient generators and layers of dust and ice, but in the layout. Every spare bit of the main space is filled with crates, but there's a huge barracks in the back, a warehouse for sleeping soldiers. Narrow rooms with double bunks built into each wall. Sound amplifies in them like a tomb, and keeping them warm enough to sleep in requires constant internal heating. The squad claims adjacent bunks by the door. New as they are to each other, no one wants to sleep alone.

During these first weeks, Mayday moves among the troopers, checking their progress and answering questions. It’s his excuse to hound information out of each—he likes to know who he’s working with, and he loves to talk. It’s good for a Commander to build trust with his men, especially since they’re stuck here together.

Some are more open to it. During a shared watch on the airfield, Hexx happily supplies Mayday with information about himself. “I’ve been all over the place, sir. I’ve done scouting missions, fought in campaigns, even worked in maintenance when an attack wiped out a lot of our mechanics. Got transferred here from the Coruscant Guard, after babysitting senators on their diplomatic missions.” He chuckles. “I have to say, the crates complain much less.”

“Why’d they move you around so much?” That’s uncommon in the GAR; most clones are specialists, not generalists.

Hexx gives a one-shoulder shrug. “I went where I was needed. I can do a bit of everything, and we were often short on personnel.”

“Hm. How’d you end up here?” 

“I’m not sure, sir. Command might’ve pulled me at random. Or chose me because I’ve been transferred so often.” He scans the landscape. Mayday is learning there are many ways for a sky to snow; today, it’s sparse, meandering flakes crisscrossing in a mocking breeze. Hexx’s sigh exits his helmet filters in a cloud of mist. “Just luck, I guess.”

Others, like Ridge and Leo, sacrifice information like it’s an interrogation instead of small talk. They were in the same platoon, got transferred here after a disastrous battle killed everyone else. Ridge has lines shaved into his short hair, a style to match his name. Leo has dots tattooed at his temples like holes blasted through his skull. They claim bunks near each other and sit together during evening meals. After a while, Mayday lets them have their space.

Most troopers talk to Mayday after some prodding but are not openly chatty. That’s fine. He’s asking to get a working knowledge of them, not to make them spill their guts. Between the conversations and his observations, he builds a biography of each trooper. Bit is a mechanic; he likes to have something to do with his hands. Quartz got his name from a translucent white gemstone he found on his first mission. He wears it on a wire around his neck and has a matching tattoo of the crystal growing up his left arm. Clipper is the medic but can also cut hair better than the average trooper. He puts tools or weapons back where they belong and gets annoyed when others don’t.

Veetch confirms he’s worked with Hexx. “We were in the same squad.” He and Mayday are checking the armory, which is in sad shape. No heavy munitions, two partial cases of grenades, three crates of LT cartridges. So much for “protect the cargo at all costs.” Veetch kneels to count the grenades in one case. “I’ve known him a few months.”

“Hmm. How long have you been with the Guard?”

Veetch avoids Mayday’s gaze. His fingers tap the shells. “Since…I was deployed.”

“This your first field mission?” Mayday avoids saying “first real mission.” But really, how much action has this guy seen?

Mutely, Veetch nods. He types a number into the inventory datapad, then puts his back to Mayday like a wall.

Mayday’s heart sinks. “Trooper,” he says.

Veetch turns, eyes on the datapad. “Sir?”

“I meant, is this your first mission away from Coruscant?”

“I guarded Senators, sir. We travelled all over the galaxy.”

Winning points here, aren’t you, Commander? Chewing his lip, Mayday counts the DC-15As along the wall: one, two, three, four, five, six, seven. Two have broken barrels. 

After a while, Veetch says, “Sir? Respectfully, I know you think because I was a shock trooper, I’m not a real soldier. But I assure you, sir, I’m no shiny. I’ve seen my share of combat, and I can fight as well as any man here.” His statement hangs in the air, quiet but assertive—not a rookie’s untempered confidence, but the understated self-assurance of experience. There’s accusation too, but Mayday deserves that. 

“I believe you,” he says, trying to match Veetch’s sincerity.

The silence continues as they work, except for when Veetch finds swaths of neutral-toned cloth, which they put in the barracks as spare blankets. As the time passes, Veetch seems to relax, which Mayday finds hope in.

Razor talks easily enough. He and Maxwell are squadmates from a previous unit, transferred here when their general died and everyone was shuffled. Mayday notes his laid-back attitude and wry tone. Other than the occasional “sir,” he speaks to Mayday as a fellow trooper, not an officer.  

Razor shoots him a look. “You seem to think I’m a troublemaker, sir.”

Huh. He’s direct too. Mayday hefts another power cell from the storage units they’ve been cleaning. This, like the others, is depleted. “Really?” he asks evasively. 

“Oh, I’ve seen that look before. CO’s watch me ‘cause they think I have a problem with authority.”

“And do you?” Might as well fight bluntness with bluntness.

Razor chuckles, appreciating the move. “No. I’m not here to mess up our mission, sir. Just not afraid to say what I think. Or what everyone else is thinking, but doesn’t want to say.”

“Hmm.” Mayday begins scrubbing the storage unit. As a cadet, he was that supposed troublemaker. Being both observant and outspoken pushed him to ask inconvenient questions: Why were we commissioned if there’s no war yet? If we’re such good and respected soldiers, why can’t we be generals too? Where did those other cadets go, the ones who hadn’t been doing so well on their tests—why are their bunks empty now? He remembers his squad’s glares, warnings to keep his mouth shut and stay in line. He remembers one cadet told him he would never graduate because “loudmouths don’t deserve to be soldiers.” It’d hurt. Subordination wasn’t his intention; he was a loyal trooper, and he believed in the Republic. He was just curious.

Eventually, he learned he would only receive one answer: Don’t question orders; just follow them. Didn’t prevent the questions from arising, though. Neither did it stop him from realizing, all too clearly, how little the Republic regarded its soldiers. But by then, Mayday was in charge of a unit (stars only knows how) and had to worry about staying alive. Doubts have no place in the frenzied rush of fighting, especially not from an officer. He trained himself to swallow his observations, just as he trained himself out of humming while he worked.

Razor has no such inhibitions. He’s chimed in with comments or questions multiple times, happy to share his opinions with whoever will listen. But he’s followed all Mayday’s orders, and not even Clipper has complained about him disobeying the important protocols. 

“I’m guessing it’s gotten you into trouble before,” Mayday says.

“Heh. Yeah. Probably why I got shipped here.”

Makes sense. Troopers who bend the rules too far get unofficial punishments. Such as guarding cargo on an ice world. Is this why Mayday’s here, instead of with one of his platoons in a new battalion?

Razor speaks into the silence. “I get the feeling you know what it’s like, Commander?” 

Mayday peers onto the storage unit’s bottom shelf, weighing his response. He sees only shadows. Razor’s question hangs behind him, a door to an unknown world. 

Respect, Mayday was taught, is key. Leaders must command respect. Other officers have made a point of lecturing him about it: he’s too friendly, they’ve said, too lax with his men; it disrupts the chain of command. According to them, he must rely on detached competence to earn his men’s respect, not camaraderie.

While some of it is pretentious slag, Mayday understands respect’s power. It binds soldiers together and pushes them to do what must be done, a far stronger motivator than duty or patriotism. It saves lives. And the chain of command generates it. No line between troopers means no structure. No structure means lower efficacy. Razor’s question disrupts this structure, and any good Commander would shut it down. Going a little too far, soldier, is the nice version. There are plenty of mean versions. 

On the other hand, lashing out at one of his men is not a great way to build trust.

Mayday grunts, a noncommittal sound. Razor seems to decipher his answer anyway. He goes back to scrubbing a shelf, smiling.

Maxwell is the only one who volunteered to come here, to provide Razor with company. Earlier, Mayday noticed him guiding Ridge through replacing the heat lamp’s power cells. He suspects, if the squad included any rookies, Maxwell would immediately adopt them. He shares Razor’s straightforwardness and knack for reading people. “I noticed you’ve been reaching out to the others too, sir.” Maxwell glances down, shy. “Not a lot of officers do that. Not directly, I guess. I wanted to say thanks.”

“Thanks for talking with me.” Mayday smiles, and Maxwell returns it, sheepishness melting away.

* * *

After scrambling to make the Outpost (barely) operational, the squad falls into a routine. In their preferred pairs and groups of three, they patrol the airfield and perimeter, inspect the warehouses and check the inventory droids for malfunctions or issues with the cargo. One man—usually Clipper—stays at the control panel indoors, monitoring scanners and intercepting transmissions. (Not that there are any. Consistent snow makes reception spotty—regular duties include knocking the ice off the satellite dish with a shovel. And who would want to hear nothing is happening on a remote outpost?) Mayday senses them settling into semi-pleasant boredom, a comfortable inertia. So he decides to shake things up. 

About three weeks into their mission, he calls a meeting. “From now on, we’re going to swap duties every few rotations. Teams who were patrolling outdoors will get indoor duties, and vice versa.“

“So we don’t get frostbite?” Razor smirks. “Good idea, sir.” 

Mayday nods, scanning them as he continues: “We’ll also mix up teams every week. They’ll be coordinated so no one has a repeated duty, and everyone will work with each other.” 

As he expects, reactions are mixed. Maxwell scans the group as though anticipating who he’ll be teamed up with, and Hexx is downright excited—no surprise there. Ridge and Leo swap looks of dread, though, and Clipper is wary—he’s slow to warm up to people. But they separate into their assigned groups, and Mayday feels a touch of satisfaction. Not a popular maneuver, but it’s good for them and their mission. He has to make them a team somehow.

That night, when they officially shut the doors against the dropping temperatures, the men drift into their regular groups like metal filings to the ends of a magnet. They spread out in the makeshift gathering space they’ve carved into the cargo, sitting on crates to chew their rations. Mayday sighs internally. Squad unity develops naturally with time, but it doesn’t make the first steps any less like pulling teeth. 

From the box in the center, the last team—Hexx, Ridge, and Bit, back from the perimeter—grab their food. Ridge immediately settles beside Leo, but instead of joining Veetch or Maxwell, Hexx follows and sits between him and Quartz. 

Bit pipes up from the circle’s other side, speaking around a mouthful of food. “We’re off duty, Hexx. You’re not required to sit with your new team.”

Hexx shrugs. “What if I want to?”

Bit smirks. “Oh, I see. Can’t resist our dazzling personalities.” That earns a snort from Razor and everyone’s attention. 

“Don't tease Ridge just because he’s quiet,” Maxwell says.

“I’m not teasing Ridge—talking about myself.”

“So you're saying Ridge doesn’t have a dazzling personality?”

“Technically, both of you implied that,” Clipper says. “I’d stop digging yourselves deeper if I were you.”

As the conversation builds, Mayday smiles to himself. The men are talking to each other. He eats and watches the show, which becomes a debate about the squad’s chattiest member.

“I think it’s Hexx.” Quartz says. “Start him talking about some planet he’s been to, and he’ll never stop.”

“You haven’t been near Razor enough,” Bit says. 

Razor shoots a competitive grin at Hexx. “Take that.”

“You think this is an honor? ” Clipper arches an eyebrow. 

“Yep! ‘Loudest Trooper’—highest accolade in the GAR.”

“You haven’t won yet!” Hexx says. 

Maxwell cuts in. “Hey, don’t forget Commander Mayday, guys. He’s been pretty chatty with us.” 

Their attention turns to Mayday, who hesitates. He’s already thought of a comeback to add to the game they’re playing. But training and experience tell him Commanders don’t join conversations among the men, except in cases of bullying or “disloyal thoughts,” as the reg manuals put it. Mayday‘s sure the authors were set against Commanders having fun, but his new squad might not see it that way. Razor doesn’t care, and Hexx and Maxwell are happy to talk with anyone, but the rest? If Mayday breaks the rules they expect him to follow, they might believe he’s trying to be one of them when he fundamentally is not. He might have already done so through the introductions. He can’t risk making it worse.

Mayday sips his water; the cold liquid kicks his teeth and makes his throat clench as it goes down. Veetch fills the space instead: “How about a competition for the quietest?” The game continues, and Mayday can't shake the feeling of observing from outside—not in the back row of an audience, but watching a holo-recording several planets away, the action inaccessible as a star.

“Come on , Veetch, just having a little fun.” Bit says.

“Don’t mind him,” says Hexx. “Veetch’d rather be alone on a mountaintop than around people.” 

Veetch rolls his eyes. “I like peace and quiet, but I’m not crazy enough to climb a mountain to get it.”

“Quartz might be.” Maxwell teases. “He told me the other day he was thinking about climbing one of those mountains.” 

Quartz flushes. “Kind of. I mean, if I could do it safely—I’m not saying I plan to—”

“Hey, do whatever you want,” Bit deadpans. “Just don’t expect us to rescue you if you get lost.”

Quartz chuckles nervously. “I could follow the Outpost’s signal back—”

“Actually, if you were out for so long without insulation, you’d get frostbite and hypothermia,” Clipper says matter-of-factly. “You probably wouldn’t make it back.”

“Exactly.” Bit punctuates his agreement with a gesture. “I’m not freezing to death because you decide to do something stupid.”

Ridge grips his canteen so hard it might dent. “ We don’t leave brothers behind ,” he snarls. The room falls silent. Shadows lurk in Ridge’s voice, edges of ghosts, echoes of fading screams. Leo squeezes his shoulder like a lifeline, and Ridge twines his fingers with his brother’s. Bit drops his gaze. He’s cut open an old wound, and he knows it.

Hexx breaks the silence, voice gentle. “Don’t worry, Bit didn’t mean it. It’s a joke.”

Razor glares into his food. There are shadows around his eyes too. “Tell that to the Republic.”

“What?” Leo breathes. Cold water pools in Mayday’s stomach.

“I mean, you think we can always protect each other when the Republic doesn’t care what happens to us?” Razor spreads his hands, encompassing the squad. “We’re clones . They can do what they want with us. Including abandon us here.” He chuckles humorlessly. It rings in the enclosed space, and the men shift uneasily. Kriff.

“They haven’t abandoned us…” Hexx doesn’t sound certain.

“ Really ?” Razor snaps. “Have you seen our supplies?” He gestures to the clunky heat lamps, the kit of stale rations, their own insufficient armor. “Why would they leave us with so little unless they didn’t care? Heh . I wouldn’t be surprised if they never came back for us.”

Okay, that’s enough . Mayday rises, projecting to drown the echoes of Razor’s voice. “They’ll come back when our job is complete. This is a mission , trooper, not a death sentence. The Republic won’t abandon loyal soldiers.”

He keeps his face smooth, hoping they believe him. He doesn’t believe himself; he’s seen the Republic do plenty worse to its loyal soldiers . But as an officer, he has to live the lie it honors their service and values their skills. Otherwise, what authority—what ability —does he have to protect his men?

“Leo, you and I have the first shift tonight. Everyone else, get some rest. We have work to do tomorrow.”

Their yessirs are mumbled, and they finish the meal in silence. As Mayday gathers his helmet, Ridge and Leo clutch each other, then release like the other might disappear overnight. Mayday curses himself for slipping into complacency. Now they’re afraid, all because he doesn’t have the guts to discipline his soldiers.

Later, he talks to Razor about letting his bluntness ruin morale: “You can think whatever you want, trooper, but it doesn’t mean you can, or should, say it. Not everyone thinks the way you do.” 

Razor listens, stiff at attention though Mayday gave him permission to be at ease. After Mayday’s finished, all he says is “Yes, sir.”—clipped, frigid, droidlike. 

You did what any Commander would have done , Mayday tells himself as Razor walks away. Yet the easygoing connection they’d been building feels abruptly shut down. And the dread his trooper’s words conjured sticks in his throat. 

* * *

A few rotations later, Quartz notices a set of tracks which trail right up to the perimeter, then retreat. Mayday hoped these would be paws, hooves—even talons would be fine. Instead, they’re humanoid. Raiders. Mayday assigns an additional trooper to the night shift: one to monitor scans, two to intercept intruders. But they find no intruders, just tracks which fill with snow without being replaced. Breathing a sigh of release, Mayday reduces the security. Then, about three months in, a power generator dies. 

Bit tinkers with it, cursing, but nothing works. Mayday gathers the men in the barracks before the night shifts. “We don’t have enough power to heat the barracks internally anymore.”

His men mutter amongst themselves. “So what do we do?” Clipper asks. 

“I’ve contacted the Republic. A replacement, or the parts to fix it, should arrive in several rotations.” Or so he was told. The Mon Calamari woman receiving the transmission was short with him. She’d said the Republic’s resources were stretched thin; active campaigns needed supplies more than crate babysitters. But she’d relented, told him she would send a request and contact him soon. “In the meantime, we’ll have to conserve power.”

“Will heat lamps be enough?” Quartz pinches his sleeping bag, showing its lack of bulk. “It’s pretty chilly in here.”

Murmurs of agreement ripple through the squad. Mayday sighs. The only answer he has is to tough it out. But tired troopers are less alert troopers, and less alert troopers are more likely to be dead ones.

“I might have an idea.” Hexx steps forward. He looks embarrassed, but Mayday nods, and he continues. “My unit served on an ice planet for a while. We learned this trick to keep warm at night. Here.” 

He takes Veetch's sleeping bag and unzips it, then drops it on the floor despite his friend’s protest. There’s space for two people when it’s laid flat. Kneeling, Hexx smooths out the lumps. “It’s like the issue of wearing gloves. They cover your hands, but your fingers are isolated from each other. It makes them colder.” He wiggles his fingers to demonstrate. “But some people wear mittens, which keep your fingers together and conserve heat.”  Lying down on half of Veetch’s bag, he drapes his own over himself. “If we huddle together, we’ll be warmer.” 

In a stretched silence, discomfort twists in Mayday’s gut. As clones, they’re familiar with close quarters and bodily shielding each other from danger. It’s part of army life. But snuggling isn't something he’s thought about since the murky days of his childhood. Similar to the boundaries between officer and trooper, unseen walls separate the clones’ bodies. Batchers and close friends may nudge each other, but those are miniscule exceptions to the rule: No unnecessary contact. Purposeful touch on this scale doesn’t just disobey orders; it violates the expectations the vod’e have for each other. It feels intrusive, an invasion of privacy.

Hexx sits up, demonstration over, embarrassed and weakly defensive. The troopers turn to Mayday, silently asking, Are we really considering this? 

Is he? Does he dare? But…what is he daring to do—really, why is he so wary? It makes as much sense as hiding from a tooka kitten. Shaking himself, Mayday focuses on the facts: they need to keep warm, and heat lamps aren’t enough. It’s a choice between awkwardness and ensuring they stay alive. 

He nods. “Worth a shot.”

The others begin following Hexx’s lead, laying out sleeping bags on the floor between the bunks. They avoid looking at each other, as though looking itself is crossing a boundary. Mayday repeats to himself, It’s a matter of survival. 

“Whoever gets the end is going to be cold,” Maxwell says.

Hexx shrugs. “There’s only eight of us sleeping at a time. The guys on the end can take the extra bags.” Clipper and Quartz, who have the first watch, reluctantly relinquish their covers. The rest lie down, gingerly. Ridge and Leo press together with only a flinch from the former, but the others maintain a few centimeters between each other. Hexx sighs when Veetch edges away from him. “You know, the point is to sleep back-to-back. It doesn’t work as well otherwise.”

For a minute, no one moves, and no one meets each other’s eyes. Then the troopers shift close enough so their backs brush together. They maintain the space between them and the person they’re facing, as if their touch might make the other shatter or explode. Mayday hovers, long-buried memories rising to the surface like bubbles. They pop before he can see them clearly. Something like fear beats inside him. Not fear for his life—he’s familiar with that. Not the internal whisper, How will they respect you now? A deeper, more terrible, illogical fear. Like he’s just had surgery, and the smallest slip might put him back in the med bay. Like his chest gapes open, and one bump could knock his heart from its cavity. He’s afraid his men might… what ? Why is he so scared of nothing ?

Razor lies on the end closest to Mayday, back to the door. He peeks over his shoulder at his commander. Mayday feels another twinge. Things have been…strained between them since he lectured Razor. Yet he’ll make it worse by refusing to join them. The more Mayday acts uncomfortable, the more uncomfortable his men will be. 

Body creaking in the cold, Mayday lowers himself to the ground. The hard floor presses into his bones. In the dim light the empty bunks loom, each alcove a cavernous shadow. He inches backward into the void and nearly jumps at the physical contact with Razor. He’s tense as he pulls the covers over himself. The extra bag he gives to Razor and Maxwell, who lies facing his friend.

“Thanks,” Maxwell murmurs into a clenched silence.

“Mmhmm.”

They lie in the dark, awake. Mayday tries to relax, but ethereal impressions fill his mind: the smooth interiors of sleeping pods, bodies close to him like young creatures huddled in a nest. And someone humming—is that his voice? Tenderness fills that memory, a strange comfort, a gift for someone else given to him. He can’t recall these brothers’ numbers, not even whether they had names. But this warmth, the same warmth shared between him and Razor…it’s like having them back. Aloud, he says, “Well. This is cozy,” trying to infuse it with humor.

“Yeah. It is,” Razor says distantly. His voice vibrates through Mayday from their point of contact.

As the minutes of night tick away, his troopers’ breathing falls, one by one, into the rhythms of slumber. Razor slackens when he falls asleep, and finally, Mayday lets himself do the same. Despite the awkwardness, he is warmer than he’s been in a while. 

* * *

The next rotation in teams and duties puts Mayday with Quartz and Veetch on perimeter patrol. They hike into a glaringly clear day with snow thin and insipid as glitter falling from the sky. Mayday’s learned to be wary of the sun; the days it’s visible are the coldest of all. Of course. Their snow-caked boots slip on the frozen ground, so they adopt a shuffle-walk in place of a march. As the three part ways at the row of sensors, Quartz and Veetch to the left, Mayday to the right, a shadow swoops overhead. One of those birds. Mayday walks behind the sensors, searching for more tracks. Snow is all he finds, drifts sparkling blindingly in the daylight. So exciting.

 The bird’s high, lonely call fills the air. Another one joins, drawn to him. “What are those critters?” he wonders aloud.

“Ice vultures, sir,” says a voice next to him—Veetch, returned from his initial sweep. He tilts his head toward the birds. “They’re scavengers.”

“How’d you know?”

“I looked it up, sir.”

Huh. Mayday wouldn’t have marked Veetch as the type, but he’s intrigued. “Got an interest in animals?” 

“Not really sir. Just like to be aware of potential dangers.”

“Ah.” Its wingspan probably measures as long as Mayday is tall, though from here it’s unclear. He imagines the beak and talons sharp and hooked, made for tearing meat. “Do they attack living prey?

“No sir, not as far as I could find.”

“Wonder how they survive. No big prey around here. Heh. Except us.” 

Snow drifts into the silence, scant and powdery. Veetch shuffles his feet. “Any word about the generator parts, sir?”

Mayday sighs. “No.” It’s been ten rotations since he sent the request. You’d think, if this cargo’s so important, they’d be able to spare some supplies for its guards.

Veetch drops his gaze from the sky. “Do…do you think Razor is right, sir? About the Republic forgetting us here?”

Mayday keeps his posture neutral. His training tells him No, but it’s weaker than the observant, cynical part of him, which wants to spit Yes. The Republic’s image isn’t a concern out here; they have no reason not to abandon them. Razor might’ve been speaking from old wounds like Ridge was—doesn’t mean he’s wrong. 

Veetch sounds worried—this clearly wasn’t a problem in the Coruscant Guard. Hard to abandon clones in the heart of the Republic. But at the Outpost, in the Outer Rim? All they have to do is “forget.” Easy, especially with clones. “It’s not like we’re made to be remembered,” slips out of his mouth.

Kriff . 

Veetch’s expression is unreadable under his helmet—probably would be without it, too.  Mayday bites his tongue, adding a physical wince to his mental one. What’s he thinking, blurting something so taboo in front of a trooper? Past lectures from other officers ring in his ears. Completely unprofessional. Offensively informal. Unfitting of a Commander.

“But we’re remembered anyway,” Veetch says softly. He runs his thumb over the barrel of his blaster. “At least, I remember my squad from the Guard.” His voice grows distant, edged with shadows. 

“What…happened to them?”

“They’re gone.” Veetch’s head tilts down. “But…I try to remember them. No one else will. Well, Hexx would, I guess.” He shrugs. “It helps. Feels less disrespectful than…” He waves a hand as though tossing the names and memories into the sky. 

Mayday watches the breeze whip a spray of snow into a sparkling whirlwind. It spins and rises, then dissipates. He has lists of names he could recite, hundreds, thousands scrolling through his head. Lives which will be erased when his mind no longer works or his life ends. “Not exactly a stable system, is it?” he remarks.

Veetch meets his gaze. “Respectfully, sir, that’s how it is with every being in the galaxy. Civvies’ whole family histories can be wiped out in one day. Doesn’t mean the people we’ve lost aren’t worth remembering. Who will do it if not us?” He seems to remember himself and looks away. “It, you know, lets us be more like sentients and less like droids. Sir.”

A wispy cloud slips off the sun, and brightness throws the angles of Veetch’s armor into sharp relief. There are scuff marks on the plastoid—chips and cracks from battle, but also a more uniform, scraped texture on places Veetch sanded off the red paint. Mayday’s own armor carries similar markings. His battalion color was a light orange, and it took ages to remove. It felt like a betrayal to where he came from, the battles and brothers he carried. But he still carries those memories, no matter how faint the physical markings are. So long as he does, it’s not a betrayal. He finds he agrees with Veetch: it’s worth it. 

“Fair enough.” He leaves it there, and they scan the horizon together in silence. What distance there was between them has closed—almost too much, like the first time the squad huddled together at night. At the same time, it gives him a taste of forgotten comfort, a hot drink which warms him from within. 

When Quartz joins them on the hike back to base, both he and Veetch give Mayday a sideways glance. He realizes, with a blush, he’s been humming to himself.

* * *

The Republic does not call Mayday back. 

Temperatures drop as the planet revolves away from its star; to prevent frostbite, the squad wrap their armor in the swaths of cloth Veetch found in the supply room. The beige is more visible in the snow, and now they match. Squad colors, Mayday thinks. He snorts. Of course his squad’d get stuck with beige .

The spare parts Bit salvaged aren’t enough to fix the generator, so each night, they return to the strange, cozy place at each others’ sides. It’s more comfortable now—for all the odd emotion it stirs in Mayday’s chest, it protects them from the chill. 

 The physical closeness at night makes the men more comfortable with each other in the daytime. Their conversations flow easily with jokes and banter; occasionally, Mayday joins in. Once, Leo surprises everyone by pulling out a pack of sabacc cards. For all his gentle introversion, he’s a ruthless player. Mayday loses to him in a close game that has the others, long since folded or outmatched, hovering breathlessly. They cheer when Leo wins; Razor claps him on the back, and even Ridge is smiling. Leo drops his eyes, pleased but bashful. “Sorry, sir.”

“For winning?” Mayday chuckles. “Leo, anyone who can beat me at sabacc is someone I’m proud to fight beside.” Leo beams.

On the rare evenings they have power to spare, they listen to music. Mayday shows them how to hack past the computer-written jatz of the official GAR broadcast and into the more varied civilian channels. To his disappointment, they favor the genre all the Coruscant clone bars play. “There’s more to music than leap-jump,” he says the third time Quartz tunes in to the loud, rhythmic sound.

“Is there?” Bit deadpans. The others chuckle, good-natured but doubtful. Fine. If that’s a challenge, Mayday’ll take it. He motions Quartz aside and begins pressing buttons. He choses three songs: a classic Rhodian flatharp melody overlying synthetic beats; a whiny Gungan song mixing woodwinds and wordless vocalizations; and a voices-only group (a-capella, as Mayday explains it’s called) singing an ancient weaving prayer-song.

Silence settles as the last notes fade, and heat rolls through Mayday’s face. He shouldn’t have done that. What was he thinking?

“Well, you proved me wrong, Commander.” Bit smiles. “Switch back to the leap-jump channel, Quartz.”

“Hey, I liked the last one,” Maxwell says encouragingly. 

“Yeah Bit, leave him alone.” Razor grins. “Everyone needs a hobby.” He rests his hand on Mayday’s shoulder on the way to grab another ration bar.

From there, the conversation switches to other topics. Mayday hides in his food for the rest of the evening. Luckily, his men don’t seem to have minded the sampling of unusual music, for all Bit’s teasing. They know what songs he’s humming, at least. Mayday falls asleep oddly relieved, with Razor at his back. He finds he wouldn’t mind if the generator took a little longer to be fixed. 

Then the raiders show up. 

They first appear as blips on the scanners, too big to be ice vultures. Razor and Leo report sighting some over a distant snowbank: humanoid figures with faces wrapped in cloth to protect their skin. “We fired a warning shot, sir,” Leo says, “and they ran off. But they’ll probably be back.”

“Right.” Mayday feels their eyes, their expectation. “I want more men on patrol outside. We’re going to convince them we’re a larger force, deter them long enough to get our backup power running.” He turns to Bit. “Can you get the generator working? We’ll need it.” 

Bit sighs, flicking his blaster’s safety on and off. “I can try, sir. It’ll be hard without parts.”

“Do what you can. The rest of you, keep alert. Things might get exciting around here.”

“Lucky us,” Razor says. Mayday shoots him a glance, and he bows his head in acquiescence. “Sorry.”

“Let’s get some physical defenses in place too. Quartz, Hexx, Ridge, with me. Clipper, prepare our medical supplies. Then join Veetch at the control panel. Razor, Maxwell, Leo, keep watch outside.”

The men chorus, “Yes, sir!” and disperse. Mayday catches more than one worried expression as they don their helmets. 

The next several days, more raiders appear. They scatter around the area, observing but never making moves. Mayday’s squad piles empty crates on the airfield to act as cover and patrols relentlessly, putting on a show of strength. But they’re a strutting bird in front of a gundark pack. It doesn’t help that the Outpost is pinned against the mountain. Anxiety builds inside Mayday, and he can feel it from the others. The games and music end, a dangerous distraction, not a solace. Their conversations are shorter and more strained, and their sleep is more restless. Often, the only reason Mayday can close his eyes is feeling someone at his back.

After nearly two weeks of waiting, the raiders attack. Taking vantage points on the mountain and the roofs of vacant warehouses, they aim to snipe the clones from afar. While the troopers hold them off, two groups come in under their comrades’ cover fire. They steal three crates and leave behind some nasty wounds. Razor’s shoulder gets shot; Maxwell is thrown by a blast and bruises a few ribs; Bit gets a head wound—not serious according to Clipper, but it bleeds a lot. The men huddle near a heat lamp, tense from leftover adrenaline. They should eat. No one has touched food.

Hexx breaks the silence. “Well, I guess we get to see some action.”

“Yeah. Great. So glad,” Bit says. He winces as Clipper presses a bacta patch over his scalp. “I miss it being boring.” No one laughs. It doesn’t feel like a joke.

The raiders return a standard week later, snatching another crate. Whatever the cargo is, it’s valuable to them. A blast grazes Mayday’s side—not debilitating, but it kriffing hurts—and Quartz gets a nasty bruise from a one-on-one fight with a raider. Turns out he’s great at hand-to-hand combat. Everyone else is spared, but the old wounds remain, and another layer of aches covers the first. The next attack comes at night, and it’s only thanks to the perimeter sensors no one dies. The potential for battle poisons their days. No one dares relax, no matter how much time has passed since the last attack—it means a new one is imminent. 

After the third week of sporadic battles, Clipper approaches Mayday. “We’re running low on medical supplies.”

For a moment, all Mayday can do is gawk. “Have we been using that much?” Sure, there have been a few more injuries—his wrist, Leo’s foot. But the original ones are healing, and the recent battles left only bruises and scrapes behind.

“I’ve been using bacta patches to help the men heal faster. You said we need everyone to defend the base. And we didn’t have much to begin with”

Mayday feels a stab in his stomach. He’s been letting his concern for the men drain their resources, and he hasn’t noticed? “How many do we have left?”

“A half-dozen small patches. Only one big one left. We’re also running low on antibiotics—ten more doses.”

Swallowing alarm and shame, Mayday nods. “I’ll send in a request for more. I need to check on the generator parts anyway.”

The person on the other end of the transmission—a Mirialan man this time—sounds bored. “You could have sent a message via datapad. Why did you open a comm channel?”

Annoyance nips at Mayday’s professionalism. “It’s been over two months, and no reply. The generator and supplies are vital to our mission.”

The man sighs. “Our resources are stretched very thin. We will send what is available.”

“Thank you.” The words don’t feel deserved. Mayday’s refute to Razor chases him: The Republic won't abandon loyal troopers. His own voice sounds alien.

But the next span of days is uneventful. Nothing on the scanners, no trace of raiders during cautious patrols. Whatever the cargo is, the raiders have enough to satisfy themselves for now. A passing Republic shuttle delivers two measly crates of supplies—basic bandages and anti-inflammatories. Clipper grimaces at the meager collection, but brushes off Mayday’s apology. “It’s better than what we had, sir.” There are no generator parts.

Despite this, the squad slips into old, comfortable patterns, like light peeking over the horizon after a stormy night. If anything, the battles have drawn them together. When they sleep, they no longer hold the troopers in front of them at arm’s length; instead, they snuggle close, tucking arms around each other. Their awkwardness feels so far away. 

Touch follows them into their daily interactions—not only brushes and shoulder clasps, but hugs, playful punches and headbutts, full-on snuggles. The men reach for each other like they reach for heat lamps after an outside patrol. It is more than convenience; it is comfort, tactile knowledge the others are near and living and safe. It is a sanctuary they denied themselves for so long, a sustenance left so far behind, they didn’t realize they were starving for it. Despite the harsh circumstances, it makes their days warm and bright. 

One evening, Hexx grabs Veetch’s and Maxwell’s arms as they stop to grab rations before their watch. “No, wait, stay! We haven’t seen anything on the scopes for five weeks. You can step away for ten minutes.” 

Veetch arches an eyebrow. “And what if this is the one time we can’t?” 

“Fine. Go, and Maxwell can hear how you embarrassed yourself in front of the Pantoran senator.”

Veetch sighs. “I’ll be back later to set the record straight.”

“Of course.” Hexx pats his shoulder cheerfully and leans forward as if the heat lamp is a fire built to lend drama to his tale. “It was a few months after I joined the guard, when Veetch and I were on our first SSD—Senatorial Security Detail, for you front-liners—” Bit, passing, pokes him for the jibe. “Anyway, Veetch was the most nervous I’d ever seen him. After one-and-a-half years patrolling Coruscant streets, he was going to the Senate dome…”

As Hexx continues, the men settle into each other. Quartz rests his head on Hexx’s shoulder. Bit, standing, uses Clipper’s head as an armrest, and Maxwell leans against the medic’s side. Razor sits between Ridge and Leo, occasionally rubbing their backs. Longing squeezes Mayday’s throat. It’s so close, this touch, this nearness to his brothers. What he wouldn’t give for a taste of it…

He shakes himself. He is their Commander. They’re a squad, in an army. He has to follow certain regulations to maintain their respect. Unwritten rules—who cares? But written ones…it’s too risky. He’d make them uncomfortable. Biting his lip, he swallows the feeling of loss.

“So there we were, the two of us and Senator Chuchi waiting outside this meeting room.” Hexx leans forward. “Now, Veetch doesn’t look the type, but he likes keeping up with politics. It’s the best entertainment we got in the Guard. He was an admirer of Senator Chuchi’s work, especially her fight for the rights of the Talz nation. So to be in the same room as her—he couldn’t have stood straighter if he guarded the Chancellor himself.

“Well, she turns to us for a bit of conversation and says, ‘Pardon me, troopers, but I believe we haven’t been officially introduced. I am Senator Riyo Chuchi.’ 

“A look of complete panic crosses Veetch’s face. He stands up even straighter, blushing like a fool—I thought he was going to pass out. And then he blurts out, ‘You sure are!’” Hexx laughs, and snickers rise from a few others. 

“Yeah, right,” Razor says. “Veetch is a tough guy to break under pressure. You expect us to believe he got starstruck by some Senator?”

“At least part of it must be true,“ Ridge adds. “Where but the Senate would Hexx learn to lie like this?”

Everyone stares. Bit asks, “Ridge…did you make a joke?” Ridge ducks his head, embarrassed, but Razor claps him on the shoulder, and the others grin. Ridge’s blush shifts from awkward to pleased. Warmth fills Mayday’s chest. However he feels, they’re a team now. Things feel…okay. Safe. Mayday hasn’t felt safe in a while. Maybe whatever fortune the raiders found is enough to satiate them for good.

It’s not.

* * *

With a fresh attack, the raiders bring new ferocity and tighter strategy: in coordinated teams, they try to divide and swarm the troopers. Powerful gusts blow shards of ice in Mayday’s face, tiny chips clattering on plastoid like sand. Adrenaline screams in his veins.

Quartz cries a warning from his vantage point on the right: “More coming, sir! They’re headed down the center!”
Three speeders roar into sight, mounted cannons blazing. Kriff. “Razor, Leo, move to intercept!” They do, running toward the main warehouse. Leo gets one driver through the chest, but the others keep coming. As Ridge turns to help, a raider throws a grenade. 

It arcs high in the air, a silver planet the same color as the snowy sky. The wind calms, letting it spin forward through the curtain of flakes and plunge toward the ground where Razor and Leo stand, where Ridge is running. 

“Watch out!” Mayday can’t tell if it’s his voice or the cries of his brothers, but it comes too late, and the grenade lands and bursts. A blinding flash of red and yellow blooms from where it lands, a violent summer melting snow and metal in a flare of heat. Mayday forces his streaming eyes open and continues what his training tells him: aim and shoot and keep shooting. His face is wet.

Now there is darkness, twisted permacrete, and smoke, snatched away by the winter wind. Through the holes the raiders speed and emerge with three crates while the other groups pelt Mayday’s men with hail-like fire. Mayday shoots one in the back of the head as they escape, but their trilling call of triumph rings in his ears.

He faces the dark hole in the airfield. The squad gathers nearby, avoiding the scorched shapes on the ground. Razor was directly in front of the blast. All that’s left is a smear. Leo lies a handful of meters away; red spills out of a large crack in his helmet. Thrown by the explosion and hit by shrapnel. Mayday grinds his teeth, fighting the lurch in his stomach. He keeps his helmet on as he turns his back on the corpses—his men. He doesn't trust himself to control his expression.

The squad gathers around Clipper, who presses his hands into Ridge’s abdomen where a terrible crimson gash cleaves fabric and plastoid. Ridge struggles feebly, gasping—”Leo, Razor.”

“Stop,” Clipper says, a tremor in his voice. “You’re going to bleed out if you don’t hold still.”

“Leo, Razor,” Ridge babbles. His helmet is off; there’s a gash on his cheek, where more shrapnel cut through. Blood dribbles from his mouth. “Are they… where are they…”

“Shut up and stop moving ,” Clipper snaps. He pulls a shard of metal out of the wound, and Ridge gives a burbling cry. Red droplets fly from his lips. For some reason, Mayday recalls an old propaganda poster: “Support the Boys in White.” The Republic flag, an eight-spoked cog on a red field, flying behind a squad of black-and-red Y-wings shooting to the stars. Before them stands a neat row of troopers in shiny white Phase I armor. Red, white, and black. Stark, simple, patriotic colors. Ridge paints the snow beneath him with it, a Boy in White becoming a Boy in Red. For an eight-spoked cog. Heat compresses Mayday’s throat.

“Ridge,” he breathes, kneeling and pressing a palm to Ridge’s forehead. His brother’s skin is warm in the freezing air. “Quiet,” Mayday says in what he hopes is a soothing tone.

“S-sir,” Ridge gasps. His hand makes a wavering grab towards Mayday, who catches and holds it fiercely. “Did…Leo and Razor?”

“Don’t worry,” Mayday murmurs. “Not right now. Clipper, can we move him?”

Clipper hisses in frustration. “Not until I stop the bleeding. My supplies are inside.”

“I’ll get them.” Maxwell runs for the door. Over Ridge’s pain-filled face, Clipper seeks Mayday’s eyes. He might speak, declare Ridge too far gone, and fear seizes Mayday’s gut, his heart, winding him into a tight bundle of terror. But Maxwell returns, and Clipper gets to work. 

It takes an hour to stop the blood. The others surround their injured brother, “blocking the wind,” as Bit puts it. Overhead, ice vultures orbit, drawn by the smell of blood. When the red river slows, Clipper wraps a piece of cloth from his armor around Ridge’s torso as a makeshift bandage and tourniquet. They lift him together and carry him inside. They have to keep his head up so he doesn’t choke on his own blood. The gale shrieks behind them. 

Inside, Mayday scans the group: Quartz, Bit, Maxwell, Hexx, all here. Where’s Veetch? But the trooper enters a minute later, unhurt, Razor’s and Leo’s helmets under his arms. He lays them on a nearby crate, and understanding blooms inside Mayday. Intentionally, he pictures Razor’s wry smile and Leo’s quiet tenderness, then tucks them like old holopics into a corner of his heart. He and Veetch share a nod. They will not be forgotten. With the helmets nearby, Ridge calms and lets Clipper sedate and stitch him up. 

Two rotations later, he dies, delirious with blood loss and calling for Leo and Razor. Their supplies were not enough. Mayday volunteers, with Hexx, to carry him outside. They avoid Leo’s body, left on the airfield and eagerly torn up by ice vultures. In a snowbank next to the mountain, they dig a hole for Ridge’s body. He’s back with Leo. They weren’t apart for long. Shallow comfort, but what else do they have? 

No one wants to return to the barracks that night. They’re too big and empty and the singing storm outside echoes the cries of dead brothers. So Hexx and Maxwell bring the sleeping bags into their common space, and they move crates to expand it. An inventory droid tries to stop them, but Bit snarls at it to leave or he’ll scrap it for parts. There is no humor in his voice. With the heat lamps and sleeping bags covering the floor, their new quarters could be cozy. The three helmet sentries watch, and Mayday drifts off with his back pressed to Maxwell’s. 

The following weeks are uneventful, but Mayday doesn’t dare let it fool him. He calls the Republic for reinforcements and generator parts, but his recorded message is not acknowledged. He orders regular patrols on the airfield and perimeter only—let the droids come to them if they or the cargo have a problem. He leads all the perimeter patrols, pacing until his body aches. He won't leave them vulnerable, and if he slips up, he’ll pay for it. He names Veetch and Maxwell next-in-command in case the raiders get him. 

In an ambush soon after, a stray shot gets Quartz in the side. He falls, and his scream brings Clipper running, slipping, dodging and ducking fire, across the battlefield. He hauls Quartz toward the warehouse. From behind, a raider dragging a crate shoots Clipper point-blank through the back. He falls without a sound. 

Quartz utters a cry for help or a scream of defiance, Mayday can’t tell which. But as he shoots frantically in their direction, the raider’s blaster shrieks and the cry stops, leaving ringing silence. The raider crouches behind their crate and pushes to break through the clones’ ragged line. Mayday spots a glint of clear crystal hanging from their hand.

Mayday carries the new helmets inside himself, their weight pressing on his heart. He helps bind Maxwell’s shoulder and set Bit’s dislocated knee, and the ache worsens each time one of them grimaces. Clipper would have done it better. Now the number of vacant helmets matches the number of living men, and the Republic still hasn’t called Mayday back.

He doesn’t know how much more he can take.

* * *

A week later, their long-range communications malfunction, a problem beyond mere snow buildup. Bit insists on fixing it as quickly as possible. “I saw a transmission scheduled to come in at fifteen-hundred. They might be answering our call for reinforcements.” Wrapping a sleeping bag around his shoulders, he smiles like hope is a joke, and disappears into the snowy night. 

Whatever he does, it works. The message comes through at the scheduled time, an announcement telling Mayday what he obeys is now called the Empire, not the Republic. His men sit around the holoprojector as the twisted face of the now-Emperor drones about safety and peace and security. He mentions something about the Jedi being traitors, but Mayday barely notices. The holoprojector shuts off.

He doesn't understand what led to this, and he doesn’t care. Republic or Empire, him and his men are stranded here without adequate supplies. Half his squad is dead. The announcement consumed more of their precious energy for a show of strength. And Bit’s comm is silent. 

Mayday discovers him dead the next morning, shot in the head and stripped of all his armor but his helmet. Instead of memories, Mayday’s brain simply recites the message the trooper died to ensure they received. The war is over. The Empire will bring peace. For now, continue defending our noble society. Good soldiers follow orders . Like a lullaby, the soothing croon drowns his thoughts. He succumbs to it, lets it guide him through the motions: wake up, eat, patrol, give orders, collect reports, eat, sleep, wake up and guard. The others fall in line. The numbing voice directs their gazes away from each other and divides them as they sleep. It’s not soldierly to cuddle . Good soldiers follow protocols. Good soldiers don’t grieve. Loss is part of battle. Forget the dead. 

One day, Hexx asks, “Where’s Bit’s helmet?” He stares at the lineup of helmets as though trying to recognize it. 

Bit . The dead man’s name pulls at Mayday, a rope around his chest dragging him to the surface of an iced-over pond. Bit…Oh stars, Bit. “It’s outside, I think.” He wanders toward the door, half-dazed, and Hexx trails after.

Veetch and Maxwell, who have been patrolling, meet them outside. “Sir? Why are you not in the command center?” Veetch asks warily. 

Why isn’t he? He’s supposed to be guarding the cargo, isn’t he? He’s supposed to follow orders, complete the mission. The numbing voice blurs his thoughts. Good soldiers follow orders.

But there’s something he needs. He has to get it. Not his, but someone else’s, belonging to one of his men. A helmet. He remembers: “We have to get Bit’s helmet.” Saying it sends a tingling through his body, like he’s emerging from stasis, and his head clears. It’s not an order, but it’s important—a duty deeper than his loyalty to the Republic, though its name eludes him. 

Ice vultures gather near the satellite dish, shredding Bit’s flesh. Sudden, sick rage punches through Mayday. He shoots one through the wing, and his second shot scatters the rest, but he keeps shooting until the flock dissipates in a shower of feathers. 

Hexx runs to Bit’s side and kneels. His blaster slips from his hands, trembling like Bit has died before him. Maxwell physically starts, as though slapped; Veetch freezes, muscles locking. He turns to Mayday, pleading in his posture, begging Bit’s memory for forgiveness for leaving him to rot. Mayday clings to his own blaster, fighting nausea. What have they been doing? What is wrong with them? 

Kneeling beside Hexx, he gently lifts Bit’s helmet, ignoring the burnt hole in both it and the skull beneath. “Come on.” It’s not an order, but a request. He leads them back inside and lays the helmet with the others. It’s where it’s meant to be, but it doesn’t change that they’ve failed their brother. Shame collapses over Mayday like an avalanche. Bit’s sacrifice deserved more honor than this.

The three survivors fill empty space behind him, blocking the blistering wind. They’re holding each other again. Hexx drapes his arms around the others’ shoulders like they’re supporting him after an injury. Mayday studies the suffering men—his brothers. He wishes he could comfort them. But what can he do?

They stand for a minute, snow blowing through the still-open door. Mayday crosses the room and hits the button to seal it. “We should eat,” he says quietly.

In the circle around the heat lamp, his men begin talking. Hexx shakes, and Veetch leans into him, wordless comfort. Maxwell speaks soothingly: “Whatever that was, it’s over now, we’ll be okay, we’re going to get through this.” Their tenderness burns Mayday like a strike. His men, good-hearted and caring, aren't cared for; supportive and protective brothers who aren’t protected; brave, loyal soldiers who’ve expended their lives for cargo as though these are worth the same. They have poured everything into the Republic and Empire, yet barely received a drop in return.

Listening to them, Mayday feels in a flash of chill clarity that he would do anything for them. Kill every last raider. Hijack an Imperial ship and fly them all to a nice tropical planet. Steal the cargo for themselves and use it to start a new life outside the army.

It passes like a stomach lurch, and his senses take over. As if those are options open to him and his squad—they’re literally frozen in place, imprisoned in their own barracks. And the numbing voice whispers, Good soldiers follow orders. If it was possible, could he desert? Would he have the guts? 

Hexx squeezes the other two close, a grip no less strong for the grief and horror wracking his body. The storm inside Mayday settles. Doing anything for them isn’t possible, but he can do something. He’s their Commander—he can ensure they are protected, supported, cared for. And he will. At all costs. 

* * *

Despite this promise, Mayday has to spread his men thin to keep the Outpost secure. During the day, two patrol the perimeter, while one guards the control panel and the other the airfield. After these extended shifts, each has to remain awake half the night, two men guarding while the other two sleep.

As exhausting rotations pass, their hair grows shaggy and wild. They haven’t been able to locate Clipper’s hair scissors —the raiders might have stolen them—and their razors have rusted. Showers are freezing and brief, requiring several sleeping bags, blankets, and heat lamps afterward to avoid hypothermia. After a while, Mayday resorts to sponge baths, fending off the grime with makeshift rags and half-frozen soap. Caring for himself becomes another obstacle to overcome. Waking up becomes a battle. 

The wear on his body begins to corrode his soul. Some nights, he can’t stop checking on Hexx and Maxwell, sleeping back to back with the line of helmets guarding them. His frayed nerves spark with a painful mix of care and fear each time he sees them safe. Veetch brushes his shoulder: Don’t worry. But Mayday does worry. How much longer are they going to be here, limping along on low sleep and supplies? Razor’s words fill Mayday’s mind: The Republic won’t come back for us. Neither will the Empire, it seems.

One evening, Maxwell doesn’t answer his comm. As the gray-white day turns blue with evening, the snow grows heavier, and the temperature plummets. Hexx comes in so cold he can’t stop shivering, fingers and toes numb and discolored. Frostbite. Veetch removes his gloves and wraps him in the emergency blanket while Mayday checks comms, scanners, comms again. A hole in his gut tells him it’s not just weather jamming the signal. He grabs his blaster. “I’m going out there.”

Veetch’s voice holds an undertone of panic. “Sir, it’s not safe.”

“Exactly. Maxwell may need help.” Mayday tightens the cloth on his gauntlets. Ridge’s helmet stares across the room. “We don’t leave brothers behind.” 

He opens the door. The screaming wind and thick snow obscure his vision; in the flashlight beam, the weather looks like hyperspace. His body and instincts cry for the warm warehouse. In this weather, it’s too easy to get lost and freeze. But Maxwell is out there, and Mayday won’t fail him too. He can’t.  

The drifts reach Mayday’s calves, burying the bottom stairs to the walkway. He wades through it like mud toward Maxwell’s last known position, fingers already half-numb. In case it might guide him, he activates his comm. But between the wind and snow, he can’t hear the responding chirp. 

His knee hits something, and his light falls on a smear of beige in the snow. Maxwell? No, a dead raider, sprawled backward with a clone’s gauntlet in one hand. The light on Maxwell’s comm blinks feebly. Heart pounding, Mayday presses on. Not far beyond, he finds a smear of black: Maxwell, in his undersuit and helmet, lies face down in the snow. 

No.  

Mayday drops to lay fingers on Maxwell’s neck. A weak pulse. Stars, he’s alive, he can still make it. “Maxwell?” Mayday tilts his brother’s helmet up. “Maxwell, it’s Mayday. Can you hear me?”

“Commmmmander,” Maxwell slurs. His head falls against Mayday’s palm, not strong enough to hold it up. He isn’t shivering anymore. “Wh-wherrre—”

Relief and terror stir into nausea inside Mayday’s gut. “Save your strength. I’ll get you inside.” When Mayday lifts him, he feels sticky heat and a tear in the cloth: Maxwell’s leg bleeds, the hamstring slashed. Incapacitating blow, not a killing one—the raiders must’ve wanted a secret theft, not a full battle. Karking cowards. How did they evade the sensors? Trembling, Mayday lifts his brother over his shoulder and carries him back to base. His vod is freezing, breathing too slowly and shallowly, hovering close to coma and death. Stars, not him too.  

The inventory droids watch emotionlessly as Mayday limps toward the clones’ space. Hexx rises, fear on his face, but Veetch pushes him down. “What happened?”

“Ambush.” Mayday lowers the whimpering Maxwell onto a sleeping bag with shaking, cold-stiff hands. “He has hypothermia, and probably frostbite. We need bacta too; they slashed his leg.” Mayday feels his own breathing shallow, fear twining through his body like the dangerously cooled blood pumping through Maxwell. Clipper, I wish you were here, we need you. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how to save him. 

Slowly, too slowly, his brain recalls instructions from first aid training: Don’t apply direct heat; it can damage his skin and could trigger fatal heart arrhythmia. Only move him as much as necessary—rubbing or massaging him could also cause cardiac arrest. Mayday takes a breath. Okay. What else? 

Don’t heat his limbs; it’ll push cold blood toward his core. Heat the armpits, the groin, the body’s warm spots. Lifting him gently, Mayday wraps a blanket around Maxwell’s torso, then winds it around his shoulders to cover his armpits. He wraps another sleeping bag around Maxwell’s core, one layer under his legs and one over his lap. Veetch, who has fetched the med supplies, helps Hexx lie down beside Maxwell—his hands and feet may be frozen, but he has body heat left to share. Mayday drapes another bag over them both, then presses into Maxwell’s exposed side as Veetch tends his leg. A chill radiates from his brother’s body through the covers. But Mayday stays close, fighting to keep his brother alive with the living warmth of his own body.

Veetch tucks one more sleeping bag around their heads like a hat, then settles into Hexx’s other side. They cling to each other, sharing heat. Mayday hums the weaving song, quiet and low in his throat, feeling the vibrations fill his chest and radiate through the space. The blessings for protection and health entwined in the lyrics run through his mind, and he wills them to be true as he pours melody into the unforgiving darkness. He will not leave his men as long as they need him. The voice telling Mayday good soldiers follow orders is the weak remnants of a nightmare.

They stay in their huddle for hours—a rotation?—until Maxwell’s core body temperature is high enough to leave him with Hexx, then only sleeping bags and heat lamps. Mayday takes his place patrolling with Veetch. He insists Hexx take control panel duty to recover (sitting, of course; he shouldn’t stand on frostbitten feet) and keep an eye on their wounded brother. The good news is Maxwell’s leg isn’t infected, and while his hands and feet are swollen and stinging, he’s recovering well. He doesn’t remember what happened, but of course he thanks them for helping him—as if they would leave him there. At night, Mayday stands guard and talks to Maxwell, whose abdomen pain keeps him awake. The conversation is one-sided, since it hurts for Maxwell to talk.

“They must’ve hit me hard during the fight, sir,” he says. “Don’t worry about me.” Pained as it is, his smile eases Mayday's heart.

The next day, Hexx comms everyone. “Sir. Maxwell’s dead.”

Mayday freezes on the airfield, ice vultures singing overhead. His heart beats faster, a sound like wind in his ears. Dazed, he lifts his comm. “How?”

“I don’t know, sir. He was fine this morning when I checked on him, But he…there was no pulse.”

“On my way.” Mayday starts toward the Outpost, reeling. Maxwell was recovering. He was going to live . What went wrong? Was it internal damage? Or maybe the hypothermia and loss of blood were too much. Guilt tears at Mayday. Clipper could have saved him; if he was here, Maxwell would too. 

He finds Hexx crouched beside Maxwell, head bowed. Maxwell’s helmet sits with the others, and Mayday feels discombobulated, as though two corpses of Maxwell sit in the room. He kneels beside Hexx, whose eyes are hopeless, and lifts under Maxwell’s arms. “Stay here,” he murmurs. “Veetch and I’ll take him outside.” 

Their snowbank graveyard is growing full. They have to pile more snow atop it to cover Maxwell completely. Each body they bury has weighed heavier in Mayday’s arms. 

* * *

Mayday wakes to a sniffling sound that night. It takes him a moment to register Hexx leaning against the memorial crates, helmet off, hand pressed to his mouth. Tears spill down his face, glinting in the dull orange light.

Mayday’s stomach twists. He can’t remember the last time he saw a brother cry. Most troopers don’t, or hide they do; it’s another unspoken rule of being a soldier. He closes his eyes, pretending to be asleep. There’s space at Hexx’s side, but the space is not for Mayday. The numbing voice, though growing fainter each day, chides him: A Commander does not pretend he is one of his men . Hexx wouldn't want him gawking. He’ll be fine. Right?  

Hexx’s sobs clutch his heart in a desperate grip. Beside Mayday, Veetch sits up, the warmth at Mayday’s back gone. Hexx flinches and hides his face in his hands. Kneeling at his brother’s side, Veetch wraps an arm around his shoulders; Hexx tenses, then slumps into the hold in defeat. Mayday props himself up, hovering between lying back down or rising. Should he try to help? Is he allowed to? What if his intrusion makes it worse?

Veetch gives Mayday a pleading look—vulnerable, open and raw, the same look he had when Bit died. Something clicks into place, and Mayday recognizes it: it’s a plea for him . His men want him close. They need his touch, his comfort, his reassurance and care. How has he not seen the way they reach and cling to him in moments of pain? How could he miss the way they draw strength from his presence?

Kriff, he’s been so stupid . After all the rules they’ve broken, does he really believe they care about this one? He promised himself he would provide for them when the Empire won’t, but he’s worried about breaking reg manuals ? About failing to “earn their respect”? They do respect him, deeper than duty-bound obedience or cursory acknowledgement of authority. Just as they are his men, he is their commander. Theirs , trusted and wanted. Loved .

Shame squeezes his throat. If his men want him near, if they know he loves them too, what does it tell them if he holds back? What does it say when he shows more concern for the Empire’s commands than their welfare? He’s hurting them, and himself, for no reason . They deserve better from him.

Mayday climbs out of his sleeping bag, and the worry in Veetch’s face eases. Settling beside them, Mayday lays a hand on Hexx’s shoulder. Hexx doesn’t flinch this time, and his hand grips Mayday’s like a lifeline. (How would things have changed if he realized earlier?) Softly, he says, “There’s nothing you could have done. It’s not your fault, Hexx.”

“It’s not that.” Hexx chokes, wrapping his free arm around his stomach. “It’s…” He struggles for a moment. What words are there for what they’ve lived through? “It’s everything . Everyone.” He glances at the helmets behind them, but drops his head, overwhelmed by the hollow stares. “Razor was right. The Empire’s abandoned us.” Sobs like electric shocks pound his body. “We’re all going to die here.”

A sound between a sob and a gasp leaves Mayday’s lips, a sharp exhale of pain. Hexx isn’t wrong. What is left to them but a hollow Outpost, dying machinery, and cargo waiting to be shipped? Rage sparks in his gut, a hopeless, bitter hatred more sickening than Mayday has ever felt. The Empire demands so much from them, most of all that they survive longer to protect these karking crates. Survive longer so they can get more wounds, suffer more sleep loss, spend more fearful days clinging to shreds of life as the Empire denies them basic supplies. Survive because it wants to squeeze every last drop of usefulness from their breath and collect the rest from their spilled blood. Mayday is so tired of fighting so hard to survive. And for what?

“I—” Hexx curls on himself, and Veetch pulls him closer. “I don't want to be alone.”

The words crush Mayday through the floor, smothering his anger. Out-surviving the others looms before him, a frighteningly immediate future. His men might die tomorrow—tonight. Or he might die, abandoning them to sleep without anyone at their back, bandage their own wounds, talk to empty helmets and choking silence. It’s so vivid he forgets it’s not real until Hexx clutches his hand in response to his own unconscious squeeze. 

Mayday breathes out. That future is not here yet. What is here is Hexx and Veetch and himself. He has to give them something they can hold on to, to keep the future from swallowing them. Leaning forward, Mayday rests his forehead on Hexx’s. His brother’s warmth seeps into his skin. “You’re not alone.”

It’s all he has, a promise for this time they have together. But he will string it out into the next moment, and the next, for as long as he can. He wraps his other arm around them both, and Veetch squeezes his forearm. They cling to each other as Hexx cries with the weight of what they all feel. To fend off the despair, Mayday focuses on Hexx’s fingers twined with his, Veetch’s shoulder rising and falling with breath, the fierce tenderness with which they hold one another. 

You’re not alone. 

Outside, the wind wails a mourning song. 

* * *

Five rotations after Maxwell dies, an announcement comes through: something called the Defense Recruitment Bill has been passed. The clones are being retired. Retired with pensions, supposedly, but retired nonetheless. Mayday doesn’t have time or energy to ponder it. So the Senate has decided they're expendable. That’s nothing new. Retirement might mean they can leave the Outpost

A ten-day after, they get word from Imperial Command: they’re getting reinforcements. Mayday’s heart leaps at the news. “Why now? All my previous requests have been ignored.”

The person, a pale man with thin features and a matching voice, ignores his question’s edge. “The cargo is to be offloaded as soon as possible. The additional personnel will aid in the transition.”

“How many?” Mayday asks, though it may not be new brothers, but whoever or whatever will replace them.

“Enough to complete the mission.” The person names a date—twelve rotations from now—for the reinforcements’ arrival. The transmission ends. Hexx and Veetch watch, shoulders touching, worn eyes gleaming. Under shifting layers of crystalized loss and misery, hope hibernates. Help is coming. The end might actually be near.

Except the reinforcements don’t arrive on schedule. Mayday checks the scanners and the snowy sky, like a youngling awaiting a friend’s visit. The storms grow wilder, the nights more frigid; their equipment degrades and their hair tangles. Mayday doesn’t recognize himself. He barely speaks anymore, out of quips and overwhelmed with the amount of work to do. Veetch’s resolve has faded into plodding. He collapses too easily at shifts’ end. Hexx works grimly forward with dull eyes and no trace of his near-constant smile. They’re fragments of men, already dead. The only question is when they will draw their last breath. Still Mayday guards them at night, provides something solid to put their back to, and shares what warmth he can. The planet rotates in a dreamlike farce, day to night to day again. 

Thirty-six rotations later, in the middle of a snowstorm, the reinforcements arrive: a handful of clones and one nat-born Lieutenant who’s arrogant and stupid enough to believe he outranks Mayday. With each order, Mayday’s hope for getting off this rock dies a little more.

He lets himself run on automatic. His filters, so clogged with exhaustion, fall entirely; he mocks the Lieutenant and candidly shares how terrible it has been to anyone who will listen, including the man in dark armor (is he a clone? Must be, what else could he be?) It feels good to say what he’s bottled up for months—kriff, years. The newcomer’s silence, or weak defenses of the Empire, don’t matter; Mayday would talk to an ice vulture if it stayed long enough to listen. He obeys the Lieutenant—what karking choice does he have? He has to get his men offworld. After everything, Hexx and Veetch deserve to see a sky without snow. 

And then, in a rain of blaster fire and a thunderous explosion, his last two brothers are gone. Hexx’s earnest friendliness, Veetch’s quiet compassion—both their bright spirits evaporate in a bloom of fire. They are helmets now, skulls, shadows. Holes in Mayday’s heart. Does he have a heart left? It feels hollow in his chest, a depot abandoned. 

Events blur. He continues to chat at the other trooper (name’s…Crosshair?), pretending he has some sort of connection with the man. Anything for some solidarity. Killing the raiders is his only clear memory. The explosion’s orange glare against the dark gray of night snow burns into his mind. Each falling, cloth-wrapped body is—not justice, but catharsis. Release of loss and rage, a blizzard unleashed on those who took his brothers away. The ice vultures will feast tomorrow. 

When Mayday learns what’s in the crates, he has no strength for new anger. After all the betrayal, what is this? The final blow, the universe’s last laugh, the Empire telling him once more, You don’t matter, clone . Resources stretched thin, his karking foot. For all he knows, this whole war was an excuse to throw the clones away. 

When the avalanche hits, he’s too numb to care. Everything is gone. He means it when he asks the other trooper to leave him behind. He is vulture fodder—always has been. Yet for some reason, the trooper drags him back toward the Outpost, like he can be saved. Mayday’s chest is crushed; bones slice into his organs. There’s blood inside him, flowing into places it’s not supposed to be. He’s dying. 

On the agonizing return hike, the dead dance before his eyes. Clipper watches him walk and shakes his head: You need to lie down, sir. That doesn’t look good. Quartz gazes at the mountains he wanted to climb, finding wonder even as he supports his suffering Commander through them. Ridge and Leo flank him, knowing and sad; Leo rests a ghostly hand on Mayday’s shoulder. Veetch tells him, You should rest, Commander. You can’t go on like this. Bit adds with a sad smirk, Not like it’ll buy you much time. Hexx lays his head on Mayday’s shoulder, and Maxwell gently encourages him to let oblivion wrap around him like a blanket. Razor sits beside him as he lies in the snow beneath a rocky outcropping, bones brittle and lungs screaming with frigid air and the struggle of walking. Is it hard? Mayday asks him. Dying?

Razor smiles humorlessly, but his words are ever-genuine. Where you’re at, Commander? It’s easy as closing your eyes.

So, what’s next? Will you all…be there for me? Mayday’s chest clenches and he coughs. Brother?

Razor just fades away, smiling. 

In the clear, cold day of Barton IV, with glittery snow falling over the Outpost, Mayday registers boys in white carting the crates to shuttles. Not his boys, not brothers—the new ones. His inevitable replacements. His body hits frozen permacrete, and a distant vulture calls to its brothers: food . He gasps out a final breath, his surrender: I’m sorry. His men die their last death with him, lives erased as though they never lived, as though they never had names, as though there were no breathing beings beneath their armor. Their individual files will be wiped from the Empire’s records, the old sacrificed to herald in the new, a mere statistic in the footnotes of history. 

Closing his eyes, Mayday fades, one more helmet in a row of faceless casualties.