Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It hadn't been on purpose.

It had started a few years back. They had just learned about what the Republic did, what the Council had decided. A war, and one using a race created just to be enslaved from birth as its soldiers. It was wrong, so painfully and obviously that none of them could understand how the Council wasn't in pain just from refusing the will of the force so thoroughly.

They'd always been more attuned to it. That's what had made them live the nomadic life they'd always preferred in the first place. They could feel the will of the force, down in their very bones. And while Fay had long since devoted herself to the ebb and pull to it, while both Knol and Nico had made a choice to follow it - Jon had been trained for that. Painstakingly, harshly, desperately trained under the watchful gaze of Dark Woman and her standards of nothing short of perfection. He did not know anything else, could not even imagine refusing to follow wherever the Force pulled him.

Following the Force, being devoted to it, that had always been their choice and Jon's only purpose.

It had been a comment from Nico that had started all of this. "Even with this," he'd told them, "there is no way I'm leaving the order. I refuse to participate - but I would die before I give up my saber."

"Our resident Drifter's died before," Knol had joked before Fay could get even a word in about how a lightsaber was not what made a Jedi, "Maybe he can give you some tips?"

What had followed had been a stupid plan. But it had been easy enough. The council had asked for their help, with a mission that would have saved thousand of lives. So they agreed, met the young boy they were working with, and got the job done. Then, all they had to do was what Jon had always done: Wandered off in the middle of the mission, getting their comm unit destroyed somewhere along the line, and then "forgot" to check in with anyone once the mission objective had been achieved before vanishing to wherever the Force pulled them.

Jon had faked his own death so many times on accident that it was hardly difficult to plan out how to do on purpose. And it worked. All four of them had been declared dead and gone, and had found themselves free to do as they had before.

Nothing much had changed for them. After all, they barely ever interacted with the council to begin with. That was, after all, why Jon had been declared dead so often. Nico, who suddenly couldn't reach out to his family and longer, was the only one really struggling to adjust and only in the beginning. Jon privately suspected he was secretly in contact with his nephew, but Jon couldn't begrudge him that. After all, Tae had been his padawan before this and the two of them had always been close, even before that.

Still. They were officially dead. On purpose. Which meant that they were technically in hiding and as such should avoid interacting with or being seen by other Jedi.

That was the only new thing about any of this for Jon. Which meant that he… kind of forgot.

He'd needed information, so he came to the Archive. He didn't even have the time to remember what he had wanted to search for before being engulfed in a hug and surrounded by Jedi all but drowning his senses in the relief about him being alive. He'd only remembered why he shouldn't have come to the Archives by then. Unfortunately, it had been too late.

Desperate to hide that not only he had been wrongfully declared dead and too overwhelmed by the sudden and unexpected attention on him, Jon hadn't managed to slip away. Besides, even if he rarely interacted with them and didn't really make a point of listening to them, as a Jedi he was technically beholden to the Council. Which was why he hadn't been able to just turn down their summons.

So when the Council told him how happy they were that he was still alive, he only nodded and awkwardly wished to be anywhere else in the galaxy at all. And when they asked him whether he was feeling well enough to take on missions he agreed, wondering whether it would be worth it to just shadow walk out of here. They told him about the war, and Jon pretended to listen as he considered whether teleporting was a viable option.

It was only when Master Windu mentioned assigning him a legion of clone troopers of his own that he snapped out of it. "What?"

"I know it is unfortunate," Master Mundi sighed deeply, "But we do have a responsibility to these men, Master Antilles. Even if we do not agree with the purpose with which they were created, it was one of our fellow Jedi who did so. Now that it is done, all we can do is protect them and hope our efforts will lower the tragic casualties among the civilians in this war. To that end, we need all the help we can get. Whether or not we like it."

And, well. Jon had heard all this before. He'd sat for days with Knol and Nico and Fay, lamenting what had become of the Order. Even after all these years, hearing it anew did not make it feel any less ridiculous.

"Masters," Jon dared to say, still bracing himself for a punishment he knew his master could no longer deliver, "I am needed in the Outer Rim. More than ever now, with Masters Knol, Nico and Fay gone. I wish to help, but I cannot risk allowing the people there suffering needlessly. I-"

"Scared, you are," Grandmaster Joda spoke up when Jon didn't continue where he broke off, "Understandable, this is. Made to be warriors, the Jedi were not. Made to fight regardless, we were. Needed here, you are."

A direct order of the Council, then. Not something he was in a position to refuse, even when it made everything inside him twist uncomfortably. And, well, Master Joda was right that Jon was scared. Not of the war like the council probably thought, but disagreeing with other Jedi still felt too much like a taboo, even so many years after his knighting.

So Jon breathed in, breathed out. Pushed his fear and worry out into the Force. Bowed to the Council. "Then I will help," he agreed, hoping they could not still hear his reluctance, "However, Masters, I…" Another breath. Another bout of fear gone with the Force. "My techniques are not made for large groups. If I am in charge of a legion, I will be unable to utilise anything that I specialise in. I fear that me being responsible for so many men will cause more deaths, rather than prevent them."

Silence. Jon barely dared to breathe. He just wanted to go, but he also wanted to make sure he wouldn't get assigned a legion. He would be completely unfit for it. Surely the Council would see that? They had received reports of him from his master even when he'd still been a padawan, he knew. They knew about all his short-comings, all his failures. Surely, surely, even with all this they would not risk so many lives. Not with these odds. Right?

"A smaller group, then," Master Kenobi, the newest member of the Council, spoke up, "A company, perhaps?"

That would still be over six-hundred men. Too many lives for Jon to protect them. And he knew even young padawans were capable of this, had been forced into this, but-

Jon fought differently. Even most Jedi Masters could not manage to fight along side him. He knew that they had always seen being assigned a joined mission with him as punishment, just as he knew they were making bets about how long it would take for him to be declared alive again.

Jon hated this. Hated being in this position, hated being forced into it, hated disagreeing with the Council, hated the threat to so many lives because of him. As a Jedi, he knew that was not a word he should be using lightly. And yet it was the only one that felt suitable.

Jon took a moment to mourn the fact he couldn't keep hiding his face behind a hood in front of the Council, then steeled himself and kept denying: "That would still be too many."

He could feel the outrage, the concern, and the confusion radiating off the Council members. It was getting increasingly clear that Jon would not only be unable to get out of this but also to avoid getting assigned any men under his care. So he bit his lip, thinking about it. What was the smallest possible group, again?

"One squat should be enough," he said, voice not even wavering, "I will get all the help I need and not be unable to utilise my usual techniques."

"One squat?" the trooper next to Master Kenobi asked, speaking for the first time since the meeting had started and sounding utterly incredulous, "With all due respect, sir-"

"Thank you for your concern," Jon intervened, having the bad feeling the man would absolutely be able to sway the Council to assign him at least a battalion after all, "However, my fighting style is based on rare force abilities, which I cannot use safely with too many allies close by. I will not be putting your brothers in danger needlessly." Turning back to the Council when the man stood back, Jon scraped together every last ounce of courage he still had left after this day. "If you want my help with this, Masters, I will be taking only a small umber of soldiers with me. Otherwise, I would also be happy to take on missions on my own."

A long moment of silence. Then, Master Windu sighed deeply, rubbing his temples like he was getting a headache. "Two squats," he said, and when both Jon and Master Kenobi opened their mouths to protest he raised a hand to silence them, "This is not negotiable. You and your troops will be a special unit considering your unique abilities, Master Antilles. That way you can justify your wish for such a small group. But we really do need your help dearly, as much as it pains me to ask this of you. It is commendable that you would not risk any lives, however that includes your own. If this proves to be too dangerous, we will be revisiting this conversation. For now, I feel that trusting Master Antilles's judgement on his own abilities will be the best course of action."

Jon stood there while the other Masters came to terms with the decision, asking questions and voicing concerns. His own thoughts were swimming. This was really happening. He somehow only realised it now. This was actually, truly happening. He was going to participate in this horrible, wrong, dark thing of a war. Soon, there would be twenty men at his mercy.

Force, but he was scared of it.

"We will prepare everything. In the meantime, feel free to take a break and meditate on your fears, Master Antilles. Thank you for your help, and may the Force be with you."

Jon wasn't even sure who had said that as he bowed despite the ringing in his ears and answered: "May the Force be with you, masters."

They had failed.

Every day since being decanted they had barely scarped by. Worse than Domino before Rishi, he'd heard them whisper. They had all known they probably wouldn't make it. But they'd tried. Haar'chak, but they'd tried.

Somehow, they'd survived until their first deployment. Somehow, they'd even survived the deployment itself. But, well, they'd failed. Utterly and completely. The station was lost, the woman they'd been meant to protect was dead, and nothing had been gained.

They would be decommissioned. He knew it. And he wished he was wrong, but-

But Mirage's sergeant had been summoned with him to the CO's office. They were bad, too. Just barely better than Shadow, and Aran knew they had been fighting not to be decommissioned as well. It had always been a question of which one, not if. So if both of them were here… Well.

Taking a deep breath to steel himself, Aran nodded at Aden. Mirage's sergeant hesitated, then nodded back. They'd also had a bad first mission, if the rumours Aran had head were to be believed. Odds were the Kaminoans had decided neither of their companies were worth the trouble and waste of resources anymore and tell both of them they would be decommissioned together. Aden probably knew it too, judging by the stiffness in his shoulders.

After a moment of hesitation, Aran steeled himself and knocked against the office door. It didn't even take a moment before it was waved open, revealing a very unhappy looking Llats Ward.

"Sergeants," he greeted them, Mandalorian accent as thick as ever even after all these years. He barely bothered to glance up at them from the datapad he was scowling at, and didn't wait for the door to slide shut after them either. Just sighed and scowled more deeply at his pad. "You both failed your missions," he observed, "And your grades were bad even before that. Fortunately for you, you'll be getting another chance to prove yourselves. Don't use it fail again."

Visibly annoyed, he slid the pad across the table for the two of them to see. It was Aden who picked it up, since Aran was too occupied with trying to remember how to breathe. Another chance. He wouldn't die. His vode¹ would survive, too. They could still make up for it!

Karking- He really hadn't expected this.

"The 913th, sir?" Aden asked, surprise colouring his voice, "I don't believe I know that legion…"

Ward nodded. "You don't. That's because you two-" He waved at the two of them respectively "-are going be the first members. They have some Jedi who dinged to crawl out of the depths of the outer rim after all these years. For some reason his legion will be made up of only your two squats. Apparently he is a special case and needs his legion to be that small. You help him with whatever he needs. Got it?"

"Yes sir," Aden immediately saluted, and just a breath after Aran remembered to join him with his own "Yes, sir."

Ward nodded, then sighed. "The reason I'm sending you two is because it's sudden and your squats are the only ones I can send. It's going to be easy. You're probably not ready for this. But, for the love of the manda, don't kark this one up."

This time when they answered, it was in prefect sync again: "Yes, Sir."

Waden nodded. "Oya²," he dismissed them with a wave of his hand. When they saluted and turned to leave, he called out: "Sergeants? K'oyacyi³. Gedet'ye⁴."

Aran didn't know what the second word meant, but he knew the first one as a farewell, a hope for them to stay alive. It would be typical for Waden, too. The man didn't like clones on principle, hated the Jedi enough that Aran wondered why he had even joined the Cuy'val Dar in the first place. But he would always feel guilty after insulting or hurting them. If he would allow himself that sort of insubordination, Aran was sure he would hate the man.

Still, he nodded briskly, muttering his thanks and only then walked back out into the hallway.

The door slid shut quietly, but with an air of finality regardless.

It didn't even take a second for Aden to slump to the floor, datapad still clutched tightly in his hands. "Karking Sith-hells!" he breathed out. Somehow, despite the fact that he was cursing it somehow almost sounded like a prayer. "Oh, little gods. I thought we'd get decommed! Force…"

Not in the mood for Aden's dramatic side right now, Aran offered his hand with a roll of his head that broadcasted how he was rolling his eyes. "No need to be so karking dramatic about it. Up with you, vod'ika⁵, unless you want someone see you sulking like that."

Begrudgingly. Aden took his batchmate's hand and let himself be pulled up. "I feel like I get to be a bit dramatic about this, ara'vod⁶. I mean, after that disaster of a mission and with our scores I was sure this was the end of the line for us! Especially when I noticed I'd been summoned with you I-" Aden froze. "Uhm. I mean…"

Snorting, Aran walked off again, Aden following close behind. "No offence taken. I had the same train of thought when I saw you. But it looks like we all get another chance after all."

"Hm," Aden hummed happily, "Sometimes being the only option really is a life saver."

"You're not funny," Aran informed his vod⁷ dryly. Aden only huffed, obviously disagreeing but not verbalising as much. Aran, not about to acknowledge the nonverbal answer, sighed. "What do you think about this?"

"About what?" Aden, now walking beside Aran again, tilted his head to the side, all but projecting his confusion. "Too much just happened, you're gonna have to be a bit more specific here."

"The 913th," Aran answered, waving vaguely at the datapad Aden was still clutching, "The new General. The new legion. The size of it."

"Ah." Aden nodded thoughtfully. "It's a load of bantha-shit."

"Vod.⁸"

"What?" When Aden raised his hands in mock surrender, Aran took the liberty of stealing the datapad from his fellow sergeant. "Nobody is around to hear! Besides, it's true. There's no way they just suddenly made a whole new legion with less troopers than a platoon has, all for some strange jetii⁹ who somehow vanished for the entire duration of the war. Whatever we've gotten ourselves into here: It's messed up and we're as good as dead."

Unfortunately, Aran couldn't even disagree much. He would have liked to, mind you, but he couldn't. Something about this was strange, unnervingly so. And if they couldn't even be told what it was - if it was truly so secret they as the sergeants of the only troopers involved didn't have clearance - it was probably dangerous, too.

And yet.

"Not much of a choice, though," he sighed.

"Nope," Aden agreed, popping the p. "No matter what kind of karked-up, Sith-slagging hell awaits us, it's still better than what we were expecting."

"Do you have to word it like that, vod'ika?"¹⁰

"Ara'vod,"¹¹ Aden corrected, stretching each syllable unnecessarily, "But, 'Lek.¹² It's more bearable if you're blunt like that. You should try it some time."

"No, thank you," Aran scoffed, though he couldn't hide the affectionately amused lilt of his voice, "If I do get decommissioned, I don't want it to be because of insubordinate language. Besides, you're not being blunt. You're being dramatic and over-the-top about it."

"Meh. Sa ibic, sa ibac,¹³" Aden just shrugged, and Aran couldn't hear it but he just knew the other sergeant was wearing a giant grin underneath his bucket. "Do mind your tongue right now, though. We're here."

They had, indeed, arrived in front of the barracks. Aran knew Mirage had their quarters a bit further down the hall, but Shadow was right behind this door. Which meant their ways would split here. "I always do. Unlike some people," he allowed himself to tease back before straightening again, "But Aden? I'm glad you survived."

"Yeah," Aden answered, voice all soft, "That makes two of us. I'm glad, too."

With that, Aran's batchmate walked off down the hall to inform his own squat about the new assignment. It left Aran to face his men, who probably were all expecting the same thing he had earlier still, by himself. Well, he thought to himself as he keyed open the door, at least it's better news than expected.

When he entered, he found Tra pacing nervously across the floor, Cat bouncing his leg where he sat on his cot with his hands pressed over his mouth like he was trying not to hyperventilate. Colours seemed to have given up completely, sitting curled up on the floor with his head between his legs. Sprain was laying on his bunk starring despondently at the one above, and Birds did the same with the wall from where he'd seated himself on Sprain's ankles. Blue seemed to sort out his belongings, carefully laying them out in different piles. The other three - Stair, Blade and Diego - were huddled together in a pile on the top bunk, whispering fervently with each other.

It was Tra who noticed Aran first, abruptly freezing just when he'd turned once he'd run out of space to pace. "Well, Sir?" he all but demanded, "When do we… report?"

Glancing down at the datapad, only now noticing that he hadn't remembered to read that up in all the chaos, Aran grimaced. "Right away, it seems…"

"What?!" Birds all but jumped up. "But- That's not fair! We don't even get time to… to say goodbye to anyone?"

"Nobody ever gets when they get decommissioned," Aran reminded him, then raised his hand before more chaos could break out. "But. We won't get decommissioned. Not this time."

Surprise. Weary relief. Hope. Slowly, all of them sat up and turned to Aran, giving him their full attention. Hesitantly, Diego glanced at Stair. "Sir? What… does that mean?"

"It means," Aran was so, so relieved to be able to say, "that you'll have to gear up. We've got a new assignment."

Silence. Just for a beat. Stunned and disbelieving. Then, the entire room broke out in cheering and relieved laughter.

Chapter Text

The days until he would meet the men soon to be at his mercy were long, time stretching endlessly as he agonised about all the ways he could fail them, hurt them.

There was not enough time, and the days passed him by in a blur he barely remembered.

Sometime during this, he boarded a ship. His new ship, apparently. Soon after - too soon, too late - the two squads he would oversee boarded as well. They were a good distance off Coruscant by then, already moving back to the outer rim. The two ships that had boarded the larger vessel - which they would apparently use as a base of operations as of now - were both just barely large enough to fit all of them. The new ship, on the other side, was a bit larger.

They had a weapons room, a command center, a strategy room, a common area, a dining area, a small medical room, the barracks and - thankfully - another room Jon could use to vanish into. His room, he'd been told. He got his own room, apparently, because he was the one in charge.

Jon had decided this was unfair and amended it by at least installing curtains that could be drawn for some semblance of privacy. It wasn't much, sure, but at least now each of these men would only have one instead of all the others in sight while sleeping.

It was about evening in the artificial cycle of the ship when Jon got the message: The men had arrived. Nervously biting his lips, he typed out a quick, hopefully not too impolite message:

      ╔═══⦗ GENERAL ANTILLES ⦘════════════════════════════════════════════╗
      ╠═⟦ 19:04⟧═══════════════════════════════════════════════════════════╣
      ║ Welcome aboard. Head to the strategy room, I'll meet you there.   ║
      ╚═══════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════╝

The answer came not even a moment later, a simple:

      ╔═══⦗ CAPTAIN CT-4478 ⦘═════╗
      ╠═⟦ 19:05⟧═══════════════════╣
      ║ Yes, Sir.                 ║
      ╚═══════════════════════════╝

Alright, Jon thought to himself, taking a deep breath and releasing his not-so-sudden trepidation into the Force. First things first.

Jon didn't usually care how he looked. But then again, Jon usually tried not to be perceived in general. If he was to meet these men who would rely on him for their safety starting now, though, he should probably do something about that. After all, it would probably harm them if Jon didn't seem reliable.

So Jon stood and walked over to his closet. He didn't usually mind how his clothes looked. They were worn and old because he spend his resources on helping others rather than on feeble appearances. Doing anything else would have made Dark Woman balk and probably result in punishment. If Jon had ever had a single vain part, it had been throughly killed before he could even remember. Usually, Jon didn't care about this. However, it meant that his best robes were… passable at best.

Maybe he should have requested new robes in that blurry haze of a waiting period.

Since it was too late now either way, Jon bled his frustration into the Force and changed into his better robes. He had to use pieces from two different sets, resulting in him wearing both the earthy, dark browns he preferred and the deep, forest green that Nico had gifted him shortly after they'd first become acquaintanced with each other. Nico had, apparently, taken great offence to the disarray Jon was usually found in. Nico was also, apparently, still deeply offended by it but had chosen to give up on that fight.

Jon, for his part, still wasn't sure why there was a fight to beging with or what exactly it had entailed.

Smiling to himself at the memory, Jon clipped his lightsaber to his sash and tied his favourite belt rope above it. It was a simple thing, five braided leather striped of different colours. A nice woman a few planets over from where his last mission had been had given it to him, as a token of gratitude for saving her son. Jon hadn't wanted to accept it then, but the woman had insisted until he'd relented.

Once he was done with that, Jon gathered up his hair to throw it up into a bun. He never cared what that looked like, really, since nobody would see it either way. It was just about keeping his hair out of his face where it would be in the way, really.

Next and last was his cloak. The one he had been wearing was still usable, though threadbare and patched many times over. For his first impression, though, he decided to use his other cloak. It didn't feel as familiar and comfortable as the other one, the fabric lighter and the hood a bit deeper. It had only been patched twice, though, and both times Jon had actually used fabric in shades of grey similar to the original green of the cloak.

Good enough, Jon decided with a nod, then pushed his anxiety into the Force again. Alright then. No use in stalling more than he had, he supposed. Taking a deep breath, he made his way towards the room where he was surely being awaited by now.

Aran met the eyes of the troopers with him in the hangar through their visors. All of them, both his own squad and Aden's. "Alright," he spoke up, sounding a lot more sure of himself than he felt, "We will meet the General soon. Remember, we will built a special response unit. I'm sure he has high expectation for all of us. Failure to meet those expectation is not acceptable."

"Our objective for now," Aden chimed in, "is to gather information. Our General has not provided any intel, neither regarding himself nor our upcoming missions serving under him. As we are going to be a special response unit, however, we can expect the standard training to be insufficient at times. Expanding on your training will be your own responsibility. Keep in mind, we do not know what liberties he does and does not condone. Proceed with caution. Especially when engaging with contraband that may or may not exist."

Irritated, Aran turned to his fellow sergeant. "Also keep in mind that he is our commanding officer and not an enemy." When the tilt of Aden's helmet took on something sheepish, Aran scoffed and addressed the room at large again. "Being able to serve directly under a Jedi General is a privilege. We will rise to his standards, we will complete our missions, and we will prove that we are worthy of this privilege."

"Yes, Sir!" Shadow squad answered in unison. Mirage, on the other hand, seemed to wait for something.

"Mission safety brief," Aden stated, probably knowing what it was they were waiting for, "Keep with a vod¹ at all times. Don't ask questions. Think objections, don't speak them. If you must, make it count. Avoid confrontation at all cost. Tayli'bac?²"

"Elek!"³

"Jate⁴," Aden nodded, "Tion'meg mhi ven vaabi?⁵"

"Ven barli!⁶"

"Tion'tuur?⁷"

"Akay kyr'am!⁸"

"Tion'bor?⁹"

"Ti mayen!¹⁰"

"Gar serim!¹¹"

Once Aden and his troops were done with whatever that had been, Aden swiftly turned around with a single nod and started walking. What…?

"What was that?" Aran asked him in a murmur, falling into step beside his batch-mate. It was more curiosity than anything else. He'd recognised the Mando'a, but had understood barely a word. He'd also never seen or even heard of a squad do something like this. Yet his troops had obviously been waiting for him to start with it and it'd sounded memorised, almost. They also, strangely, all seemed calmer after that exchange and Aden's ominous "safety brief".

"Hm? Ah." Aden shrugged. "My squad's full of troublemakers. Jare'la¹². We've gotten into the habit of reminding ourselves what we should or shouldn't do. You know. To stay safe?"

"To not be accused of going AWOL or being insubordinate, you mean," Aran couldn't help but smirk, remembering how often Aden had gotten into trouble for things like that when they'd still been tubies. It was obvious that Aden included himself in the sentiment, at least.

He snorted, but didn't refute it. When silence stretched between them, Aran glanced over at his batch-mate again. "And the Mando'a?" he prodded.

"That's just a little tradition we have. Bevan came up with it. He convinced one of the trainers teaching him some proper Mando'a would help him on the field. Somehow. He thought us some of it, but you know how it is."

Aran did know. The Cuy'val Dar didn't see them as much more than meat droids, and certainly not as people. The Mandalorians were selective with whom they allowed to speak their language to begin with and while they were alright with them using some words or phrases they certainly wouldn't have been condoning of a clone actually speaking in mando'a.

He'd heard it didn't use to be like that, that older batches sometimes got taught so they could speak in front of enemies without compromising any information. It certainly was like that now, though. That was why the later batches, like them, usually didn't know more than a few words. If that.

Aran, even though he'd gotten his name from the language, wasn't different. Aden, on the other hand, had always enjoyed being a thorn in the trainer's side. He was known among the clones for pushing limits and using more Mando'a than the rest of them even knew.

The fact that Bevan, Aden's medic, somehow knew enough of the language to make up a short conversation like that was surprising.

Almost as much as the fact that Bevan had been the one to condone and encourage Aden's bad habits in the first place. Aran wouldn't have thought him the type. Then again, he was a medic. For some reason, those always seemed to be crazy. Maybe it came with the job?

Silence stretched between them as all of them made their way to where the general had told them to meet him. But Aden had never been good at allowing silences to stretch, so of course he asked Aran softly: "What do you think? Of the jetti¹³, I mean." Aran tried to ignore his vod¹⁴, but Adan didn't bother acknowledging his attempt to be well-behaved. "I think it's weird. I mean, the war's been going on for a while now. Why would he only join now?"

A good question. Still, Aran knew they couldn't allow themselves to chatter like this. Not where the general could overhear. So he sighed, glanced at his vod¹⁵, and reprimanded: "You shouldn't be speculating about your superior officer, soldier."

Aden scoffed but fell silent again. At least until they'd rounded another corner. "I'm just saying," he started up again, "that something about this feels weird. Not bad weird, just… I'm telling you, there's more to this than they're telling us."

"We're clones," Aran deadpanned, "There's always more to things than they're telling us."

Even Aden didn't seem to have an answer to that. At least he remained silent for the rest of the trip. Which, truth be told, did wonders for Aran's stress levels. Seriously. Adan wasn't a tubie anymore! He should really know by now that those conversations shouldn't be had where someone could overhear them. Especially not someone who could take it as criticism or insubordination. That, after all, was one of the fastest ways to get yourself decommissioned.

Unfortunately, that also meant Aran was now free to start worrying. After all, like they'd told the others, they knew nothing of the man they were to serve under. And, yes, they might have gotten a kind jetti¹⁶, like Cody who always bragged about his general to anyone who'd listen, but they also might have gotten a very demanding one. Or even one as bad as the whispers of that one jetti¹⁷. The one who'd turned, who send his troops to die purposely and had them shoot each other in some sick game.

Aran preferred not to think about the last possibility. The jettise¹⁸ were meant to be kind, right? Kind and following the light side of the force, whatever that meant.

He didn't know what would happen, was the point. On Kamino, he knew the rules. They knew what would get them punished or worse, what would only warrant a warning and what would go unnoticed. They knew how to hide the little habits and rituals they'd created for themselves, the ones they knew they couldn't abandon. They knew the lines in the sand, and all the things to expect. They knew what was expected of them, too.

When any of them joined a battalion, usually, they also had some vague idea what to expect. After all the war had raged on for a little while now, and the rumour mill was working overtime. It reached even Kamino. And if it didn't, well, then they were at least able to ask someone.

Their new general, General Antilles, though, was a complete unknown. And that meant Aran didn't know what to do. He didn't know how to protectthe others, or when to. Or even from what he had to protect them in the first place.

So while he knew he'd get decommissioned for it if anyone knew, it was with dread heavy in his stomach that he braced himself and opened the door to the assigned room. The door opened with a soft and yet defening swish and-

Nothing. The room was empty.

Huh.

Aran entered briskly, just in case their general was close enough to see, and took position inside the bright, almost sterile room. The others followed him shortly after, his squad taking their position behind him and Aden's behind their leader. Aden elected to stand next to Aran but slightly further back.

Once everyone was inside, the door closed again. Aran took a deep, too shaky breath and steeled himself. Alright. So the first trial had begun, then. Surely this was their general testing their patience, or how well they could handle stress. A test. Aran glanced towards Aden, who gave him a short nod. Yes, he thought to himself and found that sentiment mirrored in Aden's posture, they would show their general that they were more than capable of enduring whatever they were asked to.

Jon had stalled too long. He knew that. But…

Swallowing, he straightened his robes once more. First impressions, he reasoned. It was really about not wanting to open that door, though, and he knew that. Too well, really. And he was a Jedi Master by now, not a snotty-nosed, little Padawan who hadn't yet learned not to hide behind his Master's cape. He should be able to do this, to face them proudly and with the grace any member of the Order should always carry themselves with.

The thought of what his master would do to him should she ever see just how downright pathetic he was being right now was enough to send a shiver down his spine.

And yet…

And yet.

Jon was not meant to fight in this war. He knew that with the same certainty that he knew he should always defend the weak and help those who needed him. He knew it like he knew that he belonged to the Jedi Order. He belonged to the Force, and the Force would guide him. Always.

He also knew that he was supposed to meet these men, though. The Force was pushing him to open the door, to take the next few steps. If it didn't he would have already ru- left long ago.

Jon closed his eyes and breathed through his doubt and his fear. He allowed himself to reach for the patchwork that made the universe, to sink into the ebb and flow a little deeper.

As Jon breathed out his feeling and released them into the Force, he knew three things for certain: One. Jon Antilles was not meant to be a cog in the machine of war. Two. Jon Antilles was meant to be here and meet these people. And three. Jon Antilles was, had always been and would always be a servant of the Force first and foremost.

In contrast to everything he wished to do, Jon opened his eyes and pressed the panel to open the door.

Unsurprisingly, it opened.

Inside stood sixteen men. Also unsurprisingly, Jon had been able to feel their minds thought the thin walls already. But as he looked at them, all forced into the same, indistinguishable set or plastoid armour, standing at attention and riddled with anxiety in the force, he wanted nothing more than to turn around and leave. Right to an escape pod, maybe.

Instead, he swallowed and entered. Rather than looking at any of them, Jon decided to stare at the wall behind them. It helped only marginally, but it did help. And Jon knew he needed all the help he could get right now. Force! Why him?

What was he even supposed to say? Welcome abroad, my condolences for having been drafted in a war not your own and being turned into glorified war-slaves? Somehow he felt that while it would be true it would neither be well-received nor appropriate.

He had to say something, though. He could feel how his silence affected the men in front of him.

"Greetings," Jon finally managed to get out, though his voice was too quiet. Could the men further in the back even hear him? Yet he couldn't make himself speak any louder as he kept going: "I am the Jedi Master you were assigned to. They call me Jon Antilles. To start with…" Well, what did you do when you meet someone for the first time and were neither trying to get information out of them nor fighting them or greeting them in the Force? What did non-Jedi do? "Please, may I have your names?"

A short silence, then one of the two men standing at the front straightened impossibly more. "Yes, General Antilles, sir! I was assigned as your Captain, sir. My name is CT-44-"

"No." Only when he had already interrupted the man did Jon notice how sharp his tone had been and how rude the interruption was. The shock and concern from the other man were enough to make Jon dizzy, so he hastened to explain: "I didn't ask for your number. I refuse to call you by something so demeaning. What I asked you for was your name. Surely you have one?"

For some reason, that only made the fear staining the air heavily worse. The man who'd spoke up shifted barely perceptiably and answered hesitantly: "…That is the only name I was given, sir."

Padawan, Jon heared a sharp voice hiss somewhere in his memories. Boy. Child.

Ignoring the cold that was trying to choke him, Jon hummed softly. "I see. And have you found a different name?" Again, fear. Panic, almost. "I did not have a name at all," Jon decided to confess, praying to the Force that it would lessen that strong swell of emotion at least a little, "Non that I was given, at least. My name, Jon Antilles, that is one I found for myself and took on by myself. It doesn't make it less of my name." A conviction as much as a reminder to himself. "So? Did you find one?"

Another long moment of hesitation. Then the same man spoke up again: "Sir? Permission to speak freely?"

Ah. Right. They were acting acroding to military practice now, weren't they? Wasn't there something else he was supposed to say when people did that? He couldn't quite remember. So instead of whatever he was supposed to say Jon only nodded mutely.

"Thank you, sir. The truth is, I like to be called Aran. If you don't mind, sir."

"Captain Aran," Jon repeated, testing the name. When he only nodded it was all he could do not to stagger from the sheer relieve that flooded the Force signatures of all of these men. Just how had they been treated, if this, sharing a name, was already proving this anxiety inducing to them?

Perhaps, he thought bitterly, the Force wanted him to take care of these men because he knew what that was like. What discovering how to be a person was like, after having been trained out of it.

Unfortunately, that thought felt right.

"I am going to be your Luitenant, sir. I go by Aden," the other man up front spoke up when the silence stretched.

Aran and Aden, huh? Guard and merciless in mando'a, if Jon wasn't wrong. How strange.

"Sir! I am your pilot, sir. Tra."

Void.

"I am your other pilot, sir. Carud."

Smoke.

"I am Sprain and this is Bevan. We will be your medics, sir."

Ah. So not everyone of them had a random mando'a word as their name, then. Just a random word, really. Not that Jon could judge, of course. He'd found his name by searching for the most common name in the galaxy and using it, after all.

As the introduction continued, Jon did his best to remember all the names he had been given. After all, these were precious. Every name was precious, Jon had found while living away from his Master, but these were names that had been found and - by the sounds of it - defended with secrecy and desperation. Just like his had once. And if Fae hadn't told him that is was okay, that his name was precious and he'd been right to guard it…

So when he'd been allowed to know all sixteen names, he smiled at them and made sure to project his gratefulness into the Force. He wasn't sure how much non-force sensitive people could feel, had never gathered much experience in that area, but he believed they would at least notice his effort. Eventually if not today. And that might not be enough, but it was a start.

"Thank you," he made sure to tell them, "for your trust."

Once again, silence stretched through the room. Jon had thought about what to say, of course. But standing here it was different. He had managed to loose all the words he'd prepared, and he was second-guessing all the remaining ones.

But he still knew what he had wanted to convey, in essence if not word by word. As the silence stretched he could feel the fear that had ebbed away return again, and he really didn't want that. He especially didn't want to be the reason for it. So once again, he decided to just start talking: "I am not a Jedi of the Core. My work is done in the Outer Rim, where the Force is my guide and shows me what has to be done for the good of the sentients around me. All the sentients, not just the citizens of the Republic.

"Once, there were more of us. Now I am one of the last. So there are a few things about my work you probably don't know. For example, we seldom take missions from the Jedi Council and we do not listen to the Republic. And there are things that have to be done that aren't pretty. They're dangerous, and dirty and vile at times, but they help."

Jon took a deep breath in, focused on the sense of attention and curiosity he could feel in the air around them. He breathed out, opening his eyes again. "I do not condone this war. I don't condone the part the Jedi play in this, and I don't condone what they did to get their army." Fear. Pungent and stifling and vicious. Like he was about to draw his saber and smite all of them. It was nauseating, and Jon couldn't help the step back he took at their reaction.

Yet they didn't show it. Not the slightest change in posture. How did they not show any of it?

Just what had these men had to live through?

Jon took another breath. "I don't mean," he clarified through the oppressive feeling in the Force that barely let him breathe, "that there's something wrong with your existence. It is what has been done to you, how you were treated and what you are forced to do that I cannot align with my faith and my oath. It goes against everything the Jedi stand for, you must know, and I cannot compromise on that. So I refuse to do as the Republic would have me do."

Jon breathed in, noting with relief that the fear had been replaced by confusion, acknowledged what he was about to say was treason, accepted it, breathed out. "If you," he said, making sure his voice carried this time, "if any one of you don't want to fight, you can leave now. I won't stop you. I won't let anyone search for you, either. Officially, you will be marked as deceased and you will be free to live as you please away from the GAR, the Republic and its war. That choice is yours now, and I won't let anyone take it from you."

Confusion. Fear. Suspicion. Awe.

After allowing the men a few seconds to process the idea and feel their feelings regarding that thought, Jon continued, hands clasping each other tightly to support him: "Also, you should know that I am faithful to the Force, not the Republic. The Jedi Order might assign us missions now, but we will take our own assigned by the Force most of the time. And while on missions for the Order we might get side tracked by one of those Force-given missions. And if it was for the better of the universe, I would not mind betraying the Republic either. So if you follow me, we might act against the interests you have been trained to protect.

"The missions will be long and harsh either way. We won't be in contact with the other branches of the GAR for long periods of time. Chances are, if we're honest here, that all of us will be thought dead again and again, until people will stop mourning you and make bets on when you'll show up again. I would know, it happened to me. There are easier placements. So if any of this is something you don't want for yourself, you are also free to leave and start your own life. Or, if you prefer, I can submit a request for transfer, to anywhere you want."

Another stretch of silence. Then, Aran cleared his throat. "Sir. Permission to speak?"

"Go on," Jon nodded, swallowing his own nerves.

"There are no clones to replace us if you do that, sir. The others on Kamino aren't… ready yet. If you send us away, they… probably won't survive, sir."

And, oh. Oh, of course. Because that's what they'd been taught, right? That they were replaceable? Jon sighed. Then, he ignored the flinches that simple sound caused. "I am not talking about replacing you. I am giving you a choice. I have done this for years without support. If you lend me yours it will be appreciated, but I won't force you into it."

"Then… You don't need us, sir?"

Jon shook his head. "The Force want me here," he admitted, "so I probably do. But you are no Jedi. You're not bound to follow the Force like I chose to be."

"We can save lives, though. Right, sir? We can fight… to protect our siblings? And the civilians?"

Jon closed his eyes, gently prodded the Force in question. The answer came back determined. "You can. Not always, and it won't always work, but I feel that we could save many together. If you so choose."

"Then, sir, if I may say so, none of us would turn our back on the GAR. And we were assigned to you, sir, so we wouldn't turn our backs on you either."

He felt determined. Sure. But there was still so much hesitancy in the Force, so much insecurity and thoughtfulness. So Jon smiled tiredly at him. "That may be," he said, "but it would not be turning your backs on anything. And even if you don't decide to leave, it is important to me that you had a choice. So, please, take your time to think about it. We will meet here again tomorrow at noon, me and those of you who decided to stay. Spend the day as you will. If you need me, I will be in my quarters meditating."

With those words, Jon finally allowed himself to flee. He knew there was still more to be said, still more questions to be answered. But he desperately needed to be somewhere he didn't feel their emotional turmoil quite so loud. Besides, they needed time to think without him there.

And Jon had a lot to think about as well. He had not been lying about the meditating.