Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Sometime between 7948–7949 C.R.C.

#7567 [Chrono year: 3–4]; [Growth cycle: 6–8]

Planet: Kamino, Tipoca City, Clone Complex, Habitat Sector, Clone Cadet Garrison: #412.

Life on Kamino was like looking into the reflection of a reflection: two mirrors faced together, their image multiplied exponentially. Everything was a repeat of another repeat, with iterations that flowed from one to another into what seemed to go on for infinity.

Each day was just like the previous, and the next would be just as identical, with few things to break it up, to divide the concepts of time into any notable demarcation.

For the Clone Littles, being remarkably unremarkable was a sign of security. To them, conformity meant safety, as much as numbers were the same; anonymity among their infinite number of identical faces. They clung together to find their refuge; their safety, no different than a school of fish adrift amidst the tumultuous sea of their existence, each individual as insignificant as the last.

Unfortunately, this wasn’t the case for all of them, particularly those who stood out from the others through no fault of their own.

Unit #7567 was one such Clone who stood out from the rest. Always easy to spot in a crowd, he glowed like a nettle of gold against a thicket of sable kelp. Even when he hadn’t been the only Clone with a head of pale yellow, three bright blights were still easy to pick out in contrast to the standard dark brown hair of the standard Clone. Even the cadre of red-haired Clones, who outnumbered the yellow heads of three, were still not enough to replace the relative safety experienced by the regular Clones, who properly fit the individual image of the growing army of would-be soldiers: replicants ad infinitum.

As deviant derivatives of the genetic template, eyes had always followed the three yellow-haired boys. Clone #7567 and his two triplets made the darker heads of the so-called ‘Reds’ look average in comparison, and yet they had formed an alliance of sorts. They packed together, bonded together, and kept together. They gained safety in unity; mooties though they—yellows and reds, like all Clones—were stronger together.

It was a system that seemed to work until… it no longer could work.

For as long as 7567 could remember, Clones had woken up to a brother’s absence; it was as much a fact of life as the storms of Kamino.

No one knew what had become of those who had disappeared; they simply knew that they were no longer there.

So young, they were that first time, that 7567 was unable to even remember the first Clone to have disappeared, though he could vaguely remember the startled sensation when he awoke to find out that one of their red friends had left behind an empty sleeping pod and no further signs of an existence wiped out.

Yet, he could vaguely recall the night before, before the startling realization, the sudden absence, as they woke to find that first red missing.

However, when one morning rose with the chimes, he found that one of his triplet brothers was simply… gone. Now, there were only two yellow Clones left behind.

It was then that he formed a nebulous concept of what it meant to Disappear, and a genuine chord of fear was struck like a loud, rattling gong.

By then, the number of Reds had dwindled to only a few. They were so thinned in numbers and scattered in the crowd that now, even those reds were feeling the strain of eyes tracking their movements as keenly as 7567 and 7566 had, long after they had become accustomed to the absence of 7568.

Rather than lighten the weight of eyes that tracked them, the gazes of their Keepers seemed to grow even heavier, and in time, the watchfulness of the other Clones became just as weighty. Anxiety bled together, infecting one pocket of the boys from another, and it proved to be with merit.

Clones were smart, even in a world they understood so little, under the care of Keepers who didn’t care to inform the Littles of how they worked or how the world worked, and the workings of the galaxy were shrouded behind thick storm clouds. Nothing was explained; it was simply done. They were ordered to do something, and they were expected to follow, so they followed en masse. Though they were so uniform, they weren’t unintelligent, and their ignorance proved merely to be gaps that’d be filled in with the best of their understanding.

There were always signs and cues that indicated to the Clones what was to happen next: the steady flow of brightened light to indicate the end of the night, the sounding of a trill of bells in morning’s break, the many slots for the streams of orderly queues as the batches waited their turn for their next meal. Regimented and regulated, the boys lived day by day with so much unsaid, yet they rarely went from one moment to the next without the knowledge of what was expected of them or what was to come.

Over time, the Littles had noticed there were signs that foretold the likelihood that someone would disappear next.

Often, in the days that led up to the next disappearance of a Clone, a boy would begin to act funny, just a little odd. They would be more tired than the others, would eat but lose weight, cry and scream abnormally long, or become listless and unresponsive. The many little signs were infinite as their numbers, but ultimately it was simple: the boy would just act… weird.

In the nights before 7568 disappeared, he would cry and cry for hours. There was nothing 7566 and 7567 could do to comfort their brother. Even after the other two would spend their nights clumsily stroking their brother’s pale curls, despite it being after realizing that touch made it worse, nothing the two boys could do seemed to make anything better for 7568. But the silence that came in the middle of the night should have been the answer to it all.

In the end, the boy left behind an empty sleeping pod and a gap in the sequential numbers assigned at the time of their births, the sum of their identities. No evidence was ever left to remember the boy no more; the only thing left behind was silence; he was a shadow, a memory to fade away with their short time—had he ever existed, or was he simply a figment?

Silence could be deafening, painful, even, particularly for boys so used to the constant buzz of the hive-like activity of so many Little Clones.

The same thing happened the night before 7566 had disappeared. Just like before, Clone #7567 found himself unable to console his brother, to soothe whatever ailed him or made him wail. Still but a Little himself, Clone Unit #7567 grew frustrated and irritated, his own tears of sympathy eventually growing dry and spent. Out of survival, he had to hide in his own sleep pod, dulling the muffled sounds of his last yellow-brother’s whimpered mewls.

In the morning, Clone #7567 discovered that 7566 was not the only brother to disappear in the night; three other red brothers had also been absconded into the silent unknown.

So, it was only 7567 and 8822 who were left behind. By then, the two had learned to hide themselves the best they could. They refreshed in the showers with one to stand guard. They never showed they felt pain. Tears were forbidden except in an entanglement of their little limbs together and only in the sanctuary of their sleep pods.

Unlike 7567, Clone Unit #8822 had had a relatively decent history with his standard batchmates. Some would play with him; occasionally, they would eat with him. They barely acknowledged 7567, though they had never been outright cruel to him. Coldness began to set in by the time it was just the two mooties, with only 8826 to talk to them.

Of all the brothers out there, 7567 didn’t like 8826: that brother always felt too cold, with words too harsh, and too much curiosity about the mootie boys; he asked about their deviations and their defects too much. He asked too many questions about the brothers who disappeared before them and needled the fears of 8822 and 7567 over what began to seem like their own impending disappearance.

In the morning, 7567 woke up, and 8822 was gone, Clone Unit #7567 was told everything he needed to know about 8822’s fate, not with words but with silence.

Just as with every other disappearance, Clone #7567 turned to a brother, any brother, and asked, “Do you know where Eighty-eight Twenty-two is?” Without any of 7567’s nearest friends, he was left with Clones who had known him just as long, but he was now a stranger.

Quickly, the two boys scurried down the ladder without a word.

On the ground, Clone Unit #7567 approached another small group of gathered boys; they were all in the same growth cycle, though a little larger than he was. Together, their voices bubbled and rose to the top of the silence without breaking its surface. Smart enough to wait until their receded to a natural lull in their conversation, Clone #7567 took his time before he burst the tension and asked, “Uh… do you know where Eighty-eight Twenty-two is?”

Again, no one said anything. In fact, that was the pattern that he quickly found. Clone Unit #7567 would approach either an isolated brother or a group, inquire about the fate of his friend, and he would get no response.

Desperate, Clone #7567 searched for 8826, a brother who he was confident would answer his question, even if it hurt to hear from the cold-voiced boy the fate of his friend.

On approach, no one would have guessed that technically 7567 was older than 8826; it didn’t mean much for the Clones, as they were mostly the same. Yet, Clone Unit #7567 was smaller than the other boy, just as he had always been. Even with the existence of their size difference, Clone #7567 had never been too much smaller than his peers, than those of his mill-batch. However, on that day, not only did 8826 act as though 7567 hadn’t said anything, even though he had, he acted like he couldn’t see 7567.

Even 8826, with the cold voice and hollow eyes, who took some curious glee at the mystery of the disappearances, now treated 7567 just as every other brother had: like he didn’t exist at all.

Frustrated and desperate, Clone Unit #7567 raised his voice, “I know you can hear me!” Echoes of the boy’s voice reverberated across the refresher’s tiled walls, multiplying the crack of desperation until it could pierce eardrums; in the mirror, he saw his own face shatter into jagged fragments.

It was enough to get 8826 to freeze in mid-motion, but it wasn’t enough to break the spell that had encapsulated 7567 in silence.

With a broken voice, he pleaded, “Please, tell me—”

No one did. No one would.

Not even when he was two steps away from begging—from pleading.

The other boy knocked into his shoulder and didn’t even react to the physical contact with 7567, who was still a very solid and real presence.

Fundamentally, Clone #7567 couldn’t blame the other boys. He understood what had gotten him here: they were afraid. There was a good reason to be, and fear multiplied in his proximity.

Everyone who surrounded 7567 had disappeared one by one until he alone was a small auric blight in a sea of inky oneness; he was a beacon to predators, summoning the feasters.

None of them wanted to be next.

Smart though the Clones were, they were also just children, barely old enough to start forgetting what the nurseries had been like.

After that, Clone Unit #7567 just didn’t have it in him to speak anymore. As cruel as it was, the silence was also a patient hunter, and eventually, it would come for him.

So, he asked no more about what happened to his red-haired friend. He let the silence take his voice, steal it away to the seas. He spoke no more and cried no more. He stood in silence, sat in silence, walked in silence, lay down in silence, waiting for the silence to take him before morning came.

Silence became his only friend, his truest constant.

⛭

Sometime between 7956–7957 C.R.C.

#7567 [Chrono year: 11–12]; [Growth cycle: 22–24]

501st-attached Carrier Group Flagship, Venator-class capital starcruiser, the Resolute.

On a space cruiser, the concept of daytime and nighttime was meant to create the illusion of normalcy. However, space travel was still entirely artificial, so the illusion of an orbital day and night was also artificial, just like the gravity that kept the occupant’s feet to the floor panels or the light that lit their way, and according to people far smarter than he, even time itself was an illusion. Felt real to him, but what did he know? He was just a Clone, and a soldier one at that, too. Everything as simple as light cycles, gravity, temperature, humidity, air pressure, and O2/CO2 levels was only the start of what the ship’s residents needed to be managed and controlled for, just to keep them alive. To do that, the cruiser relied on the primary processing environmental computer.

The silence? That was very, very real. However, it was also a very shallow silence, because the ship was always in a constant buzz of activity and motion just beneath its hull plates, even when it was deep in its night cycle. The ship never slept; it kept vigil so its crew—each a fragile, organic life form that was safest on the surface of whatever world the species evolved on—could.

Besides, except for the stars and stellar bodies spread throughout the void, there was no such thing as normalcy in space, no more than there was normalcy in war; two things equally inhospitable to life. Put the three together, pitch it in space, and it was about as queer as the Clones were.

With less than four hours of sleep, Captain Rex still woke at the first beep of his chrono alarm and diligently set out to start his morning routine... or at least a truncated, modified version of it. Aware that he would be back in his quarters for a proper chance to refresh and groom, he only wanted to do what was immediately necessary. That meant all he needed to do was get his kit on and set out for what had driven him out of his warm, comfortable bunk at this Sith-awful early hour.

As he did every morning, the first thing the Captain did was review the dockets of General Skywalker, Commander Ahsoka, and his own. Dockets of both the General and the Captain were completed with notes scribed down by Appo. Then, he reviewed the Legion’s and went over the immediate missives from Commander Cody’s office and the scattered notes from Yularen’s yeoman. It was part of the routine; part of his life’s normalcy in an abnormal galaxy.

It was also the only life he had ever known.

Currently, the bulk of the 501^st Legion was under orders by Sector Command to stand down at half-mast readiness. Formally, the order stipulated that the division would only be sent back into combat under extreme and urgent conditions. However, the Captain knew that at first sight of a fight, as long as the unit was operational, General Skywalker would toss them right back into the brink; the Jedi Knight couldn’t help himself, though Rex couldn’t blame him. It was hard to stand back while others had an opportunity to scrap some clankas and sabotage Separatist ambitions.

It was a lot of fun spoiling things for the enemy.

Ostensibly, the stand-down was intended to provide an opportunity for several ships in the 501^st’s Carrier Strike Group to undergo long-delayed major repairs, as well as timely retrofits that would extend the ships’ serviceable lives and optimize operational capacities. Similar work was also underway on various types of heavy equipment, including AT-TEs, juggernaughts, tanks, heavy artillery guns, portable shields, and more. One of the most intensive projects on the engineer and maintenance crew dockets was the overhaul of the Resolute’s flight deck and the medical system.

While the service and support crews were busy, Rex’s men were supposed to have a lighter workload; it was hard for military combat personnel to do anything without the combat part of the job description. For the Captain, it was an opportunity to catch up on administrative duties no self-respecting soldier should be doing, but here he was, pushing around flimsi and being buried alive in data work.

It was also a chance for him to provide specialized physical therapy for one very hopeful Clone with the ambition to be considered for ARC training.

But before that, he had to finish going through the status reports submitted by engineering and maintenance crews at the end of every shift; it was a guarantee that the frequency of revisions would double or even triple during retrofits or larger repairs. Additionally, crew chiefs submitted a secondary report summary brief made based on the shift crews, which was sent to both their respective department’s superiors and the division’s senior staff. The reports reviewed the progress made on their ongoing projects. He reviewed the latest updates regarding the Resolute’s status out of a need to know if the cruiser was remotely in a state for Skywalker’s combative impulses.

However, when it came to the ship, what Rex really trusted in the end was Yularen’s assessment; the Clone Captain had come to trust the Admiral when it came to the Resolute, something that hadn’t been so easy for either of them at the start. If the Admiral said that there was no way the Resolute could go into combat, Rex had to be prepared to talk the General down and provide alternatives.

Which usually meant someone else in the strike group was temporarily losing their cruiser, but that couldn’t be helped—these things happened.

Admiral Yularen’s staff always made sure to forward a breakdown summary of the Legion’s Naval counterparts, as the Captain preferred to be in the know about the status of their small fleet.

After that, he moved on to updates for the Sector Army, his eyes scanning the holographic tabletop display as it scrolled through the several updates streamed through the GAR’s CC system. Typically, a simple Clone Captain wouldn’t have this much level of access; the breadth of command Rex had was quite atypical. Despite how ill-fitted his rank reflected his functional station, he showed his due diligence. He tracked the readouts that had been marked of interest specifically for the 3^rd System Armies, which included, though was not limited to the 501^st Battalion, its parent Legion, the 104^th TCSAR, 107^th Paratroopers, 2^nd Airborne Company, 32^nd Stellar Combat Wings, the 41^st, 407^th GARCE, 442^nd Siege Battalion, 44^th Special Operations Division, 55^th Mechanized Brigade, 7^th Sky Corps, 832^nd Mobilized Artillery, and of course, the system division’s flags unit, the 212^th Attack Battalion.

Nearly in the dark, Rex moved about his quarters with practiced ease, not needing much light to see his way around. Even if he had been closer to total darkness, he could probably still find the bulk of his kit due to his meticulousness about maintaining order in his space. Without looking, he gathered up the length of his sleeves, preparing to shove his arms inside.

There was a ventral line of fine, magnetic teeth that split down his torso, designed to seal his uppers closed automatically—a lateral line of the same fasteners wrapped around the garment’s waist hem. He listened to the familiar sound as it zipped itself closed. After his uppers, he blindly fiddled with aligning the bottom seam of his tops with his bottoms’ waistband, sealing the two garments together and unifying them into one piece.

Well, they should seal themselves together. But when that set of latches tried to pair themselves all the way around, they sounded off in a familiar way that Rex knew too well.

Rex looked down and could see that the connective hems had frayed past the point of rescue by any needle and thread employed by his hands. All he could do was utter an exhaustive sigh, seeing the layers of neoprene separating from the toothed latches, breaking the seal, and failing to function as expected.

When not properly sealed together, various spots of the undergarment would ride up or down and bunch in uncomfortable spots rather than lying flat and applying pressure in the appropriate places. For Rex, an unsealed set of blacks generally meant they would bunch up across his chest incorrectly and rub his skin raw under his plates. In this state, his bottoms would typically drop to his waist, and the garment would sit too low on his thighs, sagging at his crotch. Most of the time, it would instead bunch up behind his knees.

Great, just great.

He hadn’t been particularly surprised when this set had already gone thin at the knees and elbows, and pilled too much on the neck; they were worn out.

Unfortunately, he wouldn’t be able to change into another bodysuit; these were his last set of usable blacks. The others had fallen to similar fates or had become lost in his efforts to wash them outside the army’s laundry service; once his blacks disappeared into the void with the rest of the 501^st’s wash, they were gone forever—better to just write them off.

After the rest of the ship was awake, Rex would have to see the quartermaster—just another thing to add to his daily mental to-do list. He would be issued a standard set of blacks, which, though not entirely ideal for his personal requirements, was still better than an utterly busted set of blacks that would let the armored plating chafe at his skin. Even with the padding underneath, it could leave nasty skin lesions.

Unable to afford being distracted for long, Rex went on about putting together his kit. When he came back from his Trooper’s supplementary training with a temporary set of blacks, he would then redo his morning properly, and his day could actually get underway.

Retrieving a small bottle out of the grooming kit, Rex opened it and, with blind coordination, squeezed several droplets into each eye before blinking the watery tears away.

Immediately, his eyes were back on the holodisplay. Even with the multiple streams of data spilling into the open air, he could still track more than what was of direct interest to his battalion, not just the 212^th and the 104^th, managing to look out for updates regarding the 125^th, the 21^st, the 327^th, the 91^st, and a few other familiar units his eyes habitually looked out for, including Tipoca City and Triple-0’s respective Guards.

There were reports about casualties, those marked MIA, a few stray instances of a Trooper gone AWOL, accounts regarding movements on both sides of the battlelines, and all that was simply the start of cursory overviews of the state of the Grand Army of the Republic.

On autopilot, his kit came together blindly. The fitted plates showed wear and tear with pride, each a story told well and often or lost in the myriad of similar events, but everything was in place.

Fitting his chest plates together, he felt how the blacks were so thinned across his chest that the garment’s shape had been completely stretched out, making his armor sit incorrectly. The difference would be considered minimal to most armor wearers. But to a Clone Trooper, it was as good as wearing someone else’s skin—someone who came from a completely different mould than him.

Deactivating the comm report, the regular morning’s artificial light swiftly filled the brief darkness, its intensity half that typical of the Resolute’s regular daytime operating mode.

Grumbling irritably in the back of his throat, he tossed his pauldron over his shoulder. He fussily settled the collared-combo piece into position with one hand, listening for the magnetic anchors clicking into place, and reached for his utility belt with the other. With both hands, he wrapped the belt around his midsection and snorted when he realized he had forgotten to latch the sides of his abdominal plates. Shaking his head at his absent-mindedness, he huffed, annoyed by his armor’s current off-balance fit.

Already at the door, even while Rex double-checked where his belt and skirt settled, the Captain of the 501^st Legion stepped out of his quarters and set off.

Several twists and turns through the cruiser’s corridors, Rex stood outside Torrent Company’s barracks, his fingers just over the control panel, ready to trigger the command that would split open the doors and grant him entrance into his flag company’s inner sanctum. Pausing, he glanced upwards and squinted into the light.

Even at this hour, the ship continued to detect movement as one means of behavioral patterned analysis, and specifically had the ability to track members of the senior staff with pinpoint accuracy. Unless the ship was running at battle stations, the ship’s computer knew that it was unusual for the Clone Captain to be registered in the living subdivision assigned to the 501^st troop barracks and increased the light levels in the thoroughfare corridors on the assumption that he was about to sound for a bug out.

But he wasn’t here for that.

Although the running lights weren’t even half as bright as daytime operation, enough that someone wouldn’t stumble around in the dark trying to find his way around, Rex still moved his fingers over by a fraction and adjusted the levels. It was still bright enough for Rex to see clearly, but it should be more comfortable than it had been previously for anyone who might be disturbed from his dead-man’s slumber.

Twisting his wrist, he watched his control vambrace’s chrono change over, and dropped his finger, opening the door to Torrent’s collective quarters at exactly o’four-hundred, on the dot. Standing in the doorway, he stepped onto the track, cleaving the room’s darkness in half with the muted silhouette of his figure.

Greeted by the sound of jostling heavyweight battleweave and the clanging of metal links, Rex’s eyes were drawn to the right side of the narrow aisle running through the barracks in time to see a trooper on approach.

ARC Trooper Fives was still in the process of placing his belt around his waist and settling his kama in place, taking every last second and each step to finish getting dressed. Feeling a little gracious, Rex only let his eyes linger on his man, barely hinting at any judgment because Fives wasn’t already waiting for him out in the corridor.

Fives didn’t say anything in response to Rex’s gaze, but he did squirm through his last strides to the doors, needlessly fidgeting with his utility belt. When he turned around to take the spot by the Captain’s right, Rex indulged himself briefly and smirked crookedly, shaking his head in wry amusement at how, even after he had earned his skirt, Fives still wiggled like a Neimoidian on the losing end of a haggle with a Hutt in search of Rex’s approval.

Only when they were close—close enough for Rex to smell whatever herbal soap Fives had decided to use—did Fives break the silence, hushing, “Jesse and Hardcase should be out soon.”

After a double-take, Fives caught the Captain’s raised eyebrow and quickly explained, “Yeah… Hardcase wants to join again. Said he liked the training so…” Despite Fives’s heavy armor, he was still painfully youthful, especially how he dramatically shrugged his double-pauldroned shoulders. “Jesse didn’t seem bothered by it.”

Rather than responding, Rex simply stepped aside to let Fives pass by, but remained where the sensors would be tripped to keep the door ajar while waiting for the others.

Noticing how Fives shifted and wiggled, Rex canted his head towards him and offered an ear, though he had fixed his eyes on the datapad he had brought with him.

“Oh, and also… Captain, the new kid in Torrent? Last night he heard Jesse and me talking about Hardcase joining with—”

Often, Captain Rex’s men were surprised by how observant he was, noticing his constant awareness of his space, of those around him, and how his reflexes sometimes rivaled those of their Jedi. Often, they marveled at him, and many tried to imitate him—none succeeded, few came even close. But it was their effort that was one reason for his unit’s effectiveness and one of the many sources of his pride.

Noticing the shift in Rex’s eyes as he peered into the dim barracks, tracking the movements opposite the side where Jesse and Hardcase kept their bunks, Fives stopped mid-statement. He squinted and leaned over the door tracks in a bid to see as Rex did; Fives would barely be able to make out any movement at all.

However, Rex had seen another Trooper moving through the narrow aisle, his hair neatly pulled back into what started the day as a tidy bun; by day’s end, it wouldn’t be so tidy. The teardrop under one eye gave his identity, almost as quickly as the odd eagerness in his eyes. “Sir… I was wondering if I could join. I figure the extra training would be helpful,” Tup asked, his hopeful eyes flitting between the ARC Trooper and the Captain. Ever since Tup had been internally transferred into Torrent, he was eager to prove himself capable of keeping up with the 501^st’s flag company.

“Tup, I told you last night: This is a smoke session for an ARC candidate,” responded Fives, taking the lead. “It is hard and intense—we’re trying to get Jesse in proper shape to get sent back to Kamino for ARC training. You haven’t—”

“I’m not trying to be an ARC,” Tup interrupted. “I know I’m not ready…” Catching his words mid-confession, he noticed the upward strain required to pull Rex’s raised eyes away from the report to look at him. Quickly, he added, “And—uh—I’m not gonna assume I’d ever be ready, I just want to…” Pausing, the young trooper glanced over, meeting the Captain’s eyes. He went with the ever-classic tactic of begging in the most soldierly way possible, imploring, “Sir… I just want to be better than I am. I know Torrent has high standards, and I just—”

The approach of two additional Troopers interrupted Tup.

Hardcase and Jesse both had the grace to look humbled as soon as Rex raised his con-vambrace and tapped his middle finger to the illuminated chrono.

Bashful, Jesse murmured, “Sorry, Captain. My fault, not Hardcase’s…”

Just after a great, dramatic eye roll, Rex glanced down at his pad and began to pivot, ready to walk away, when another Trooper approached.

The new transfer was immediately recognizable by his distinctive facial tattoo; Corporal Dogma had only been with the 501^st for a couple of weeks, and Torrent just as long. Already, he had begun to chafe against his stringent personality and the innate desire in all the Clones: the desire to belong.

Rex chose to blame Jesse, Hardcase, and Kix—his trio of tattooed terrors—for the inking, though the former two more than the latter, which he had conveyed by going with another slow eye roll that brought him back to look at his grimacing Lieutenant. Jesse abashedly shrugged his shoulders; even if Rex didn’t say what the look was about, Jesse knew—he always knew.

Hearing the familiar sound of Trooper boots moving to stand at attention, Rex wearily returned his eyes and sighed heavily. A half-hearted wave stood Dogma half at ease.

“Captain Rex, I’d like to request an opportunity to join in on this morning’s elective calisthenics,” Dogma asked immediately.

“Dogma—” explained Fives through a wide yawn, “—this isn’t elective calisthenics. Like I’ve told Hardcase and Tup, this is prep work for Jesse—”

Flashing a hardened look, Dogma adjusted his footing and placed his hands behind his waist. “I’m aware. But… I could use the extra exercise; the medics said it would be beneficial to continue with my physical therapy.”

Rex doubted that the medics envisioned ARC-level training as suitable for anyone’s physical therapy; he knew Kix wouldn’t’ve. He’d have to be prepared to step in and modify instructions to limit the strain placed on Dogma for now.

Knowing glances were exchanged with Fives, but Rex merely shook his head and then turned to walk away, finally. Behind him were the murmured sounds of Clone voices strung together in a disharmonic chorus. He could hear their footsteps and the words of someone remarking to Dogma, “Your funeral, Corporal.”

It was not long before Rex stood on the Venator’s massive hangar bay and observed his men standing in formation, taking in the experience. Though the hour was early, they were not alone; instead, they shared the flight deck with other Clones moving about, many of whom were working on various transport vehicles.

The work of war was never done, and it never let those caught in its wake sleep.

Parts from any number of mechanisms that kept the war going were scattered, including pieces of starfighters, speeders, Jedi interceptors, troop transports, gunships, a multitude of all-terrain combat vehicles, and several types of heavy turbosluggers.

Glancing away from the overview of the day’s plan, Rex saw Fives peer over his pauldron’s side, his posture in relatively casual parade rest. Opposite stood the four other Troopers, including the man Rex hoped would pass through candidacy and become the third ARC Cadet to come out of his command.

However, this wasn’t just a training exercise for Jesse; this was a learning experience for Fives, though he wasn’t wholly aware of how or why.

Fives raised his head in time with Rex and stared with tight lips pressed into a fine line—an expectant look. Pausing for only a moment, Fives nodded in silent comprehension and looked back at the four men, his eyes fixed on Jesse the hardest.

Also forward-facing, Rex’s eyes watched the stature and standing of each man, mentally ticking off the small details that others would miss—details that Fives would later be expected to note. The ARC Trooper stood with his hands held behind his back, his spine ramrod straight, chin up, eyes leveled over the tops of the others’ heads.

None of the four dared to break away from Fives’s long stare to catch the brief glimmer of a completely different expression as it passed across Rex’s face, the one that the newer Troopers would not recognize as what it was: the remnant glimmer of Captain Rex’s well-reserved pride.

Fives—who had been prepared to become the ARC he had since become—was imitating him, Rex.

Was there ever a bigger honor than to be the one whose shadow others hoped to stand in or be the one in the shoes others wanted to fill?

If it wasn’t so fascinating to observe, Rex might have found the clarity to see it as flattering as it was; he settled for the sight of a half-blind man.

In an instant, as long as the flicker it took for a blaster shot’s light to be caught by the sound that chased it, Rex’s smile was gone, replaced again with his stern composure as he perused the training plans he had to nearly arm-wrestle Fives into thinking through and writing up. It wasn’t easy to get a young Clone to sit down and plan for his assignment: how to train someone else to be an ARC candidate and go through the same process he had just toiled through. Rex had required him to draw on the preparatory training the Captain had given him, as well as the training he had received back on Kamino. As far as the ARC knew, it was all because Fives remained the sole field ARC in the 501^st and thus had to be representative of the current roster of active-duty ARCs.

Of course, there was far more to the thought process behind Rex’s means of training than that, and Fives only knew half of it; there were always layers, especially when it came to the future generation of ARC Troopers.

Fives knew that Rex liked to be a pain in the ass and took great pleasure in reminding his staff members that with promotions came responsibility, and responsibility sucked. He knew that despite Jesse’s more extensive experience in the field and his higher rank, once Jesse earned his skirt, the Lieutenant would have to defer to Fives—still a sergeant—as the senior Advanced Recon Commando in the battalion in all matters as an ARC. The dynamic would be hard for either to navigate, but that was just the way it was.

Separated from the formation of Troopers, Rex approached the obstacle course erected in the wee hours prior to the morning’s session. Just the night before, Rex and Fives went over the plans together and managed to stay well past 00:00 to put it together, later than either would have liked.

The obstacle course had been built from what was on hand, using strategically scattered debris inherent to the flight deck. It was another form of hands-on experience where an ARC’s mind was forced to utilize their best and most desirable attributes: adaptability, creativity, intelligence, and independence. Of course, Rex went through what Fives had drawn up and written out, modifying it only where he saw fit to improve the outlined plan. What Fives didn’t know was that it was another way Rex was preparing him for the next challenge the Captain had in mind for his prized ARC Trooper—senior leadership.

Jesse knew that through Fives, he would suffer the standing reputation that followed Captain Rex’s training regiments. Members of the 501^st—notably Torrent Company—had each man assessed under Rex’s critical eye. Based on what he saw through one means or another, their skills would be expanded based on their strengths while reinforcing inherent weaknesses into something less deficient.

The training regimen continued to be followed by Fives, perhaps followed a little too closely. As much as Rex was there to judge Jesse’s performance, he was also there to observe Fives’s with the similarly critical eye of the experienced; truthfully, Rex was probably harder on Fives, more than the others, though he bit his tongue and only revealed his assessment at a later time.

It was why Fives was quickly expanding his flight credentials and building on his expertise with the practical end of splicing. It was also why Jesse knew so much about ground vehicle maintenance, engineering, and stellar cartography. It wasn’t just any ARC or ARC hopeful that had been trained in a fashion; so too had the rest of the Captain’s men. Hardcase, an expert in heavy munitions, has acted as one of Kix’s most trusted assistants for some time now.

By the end of the first half of the morning’s training session, Rex had to admit that somehow each of the five Troopers had managed to find a way to impress him. Jesse’s quick thinking had taken a dramatic turn for improvement, and his stamina was only a little less than Fives’s; Rex had the confidence that it would be sorted out in no time. Hardcase’s dedication and focus surpassed his previous performances, or those that Rex had witnessed. Tup and Dogma stuck it longer than Rex had expected, though only with breaks halfway through each regimen that Jesse and Hardcase were paced through. As for Fives, he found a rhythm that seemingly worked while also pleasing Rex—if only Rex could get Fives to stop trying to be him when he began to overthink.

There was only enough room for one Rex in this Grand Army.

Put through their calisthenic paces—neither easy nor light—Jesse completed his laps around the course well before Tup and Dogma. Surprisingly, when Hardcase passed Jesse, he went back for two extra laps to encourage the Lieutenant’s progress.

A particularly inspired thought came to Fives when Rex jutted his chin in the direction of Jesse and Hardcase as the two were coming to a stop at the end of their ordered seventh lap around the obstacle course.

A wicked gleam came to Fives before he contorted his face into a stern frown. “Cee-Tee-Fifty-five Seventy-nine!” he barked, catching Jesse’s attention and bringing it his way. “Hey! No breaks. You keep going until—”—Fives jutted a finger at the lagging Troopers—“—those two are done.”

Jesse looked in Rex’s direction, optimistically clinging to the hope that the Captain would countermand Fives’s instruction. Looking thoroughly unimpressed, Rex crossed his arms over his chest and exaggeratedly dragged the tip of his tongue along the jagged edge of his back teeth as though he had food stuck between his left molars. Accepting his fate, Jesse hung his head and groaned before resuming the course.

Making a move to follow, Hardcase was cut off by a loud, sharp whistle. Confused, he thrust a thumb over his shoulder at the path Jesse had already started to forge for himself. “Uh… did you need me to separate from Jesse?”

Once again, Fives mimicked the image of his captain, blandly mumbling, “Yeah. Sit down, Corporal.”

Back and forth, Hardcase looked to where Jesse began to really lean into the curve around the course, then back at Fives. “I can continue with the Lieutenant, I don’t mi—”

Fives shook his head, kindly but firmly, refusing Hardcase’s offer.

It was precisely the kind of wickedness that Rex would have thought up, and why he smirked approvingly, crookedly, even as he kept his eyes on the datapad’s screen. Consuming the detailed reports filed by other commanders and captains throughout the GAR, he studied the current maneuvers and state of the Outer Rim Sieges, and all the while, he remained aware of how Fives’s group of trainees performed.

Up to the point when the sparring mat got dragged out onto the hangar bay compartment’s floor, Rex remained mostly hands-off, retaining his silence to force Fives to stay in control.

Jesse knew precisely what Rex was doing; he made a remark about it to Rex while Fives simultaneously sparred against Tup and Hardcase. The familiar pull of a vod’s eyes tickled across Rex’s skin, silently urging him to meet with the ranking officer who was technically Skywalker’s second executive.

“He has no idea that one reason why you’re making him do all this,” Jesse hushed confidently, sweat pouring down his face. “Planning and training me towards earning my skirt—it’s because you intend that if something happens to you, Fives’s gonna…”

Silently flipping through the split report, Rex quickly highlighted an area of note to be brought up at the next exhaustive tactical briefing. The dancing colors defined the sharp lines of his nose, the curve of his stern expression, and the rest of his slackened face.

Silence was met with more silence between the two men, leaving a heavy expectation that drew it out. It appeared Jesse had no intention of being the one to break the stalemate, disinterested in taking Rex’s pregnant silence as the answer.

Just as Rex was about to open his mouth, Jesse relented, “I understand why you are doing it, Rex. I do. I am not upset. If—If the 501^st were to lose you suddenly, then there would be chaos, and it would be hard enough on the men as it is. I’ve been your second for a long time, and I know how to ensure all the background details are taken care of…” Pausing, he quickly added, “Well, with Appo’s help, of course.”

Beyond the two-man bubble came the sounds of someone’s full weight coming down to a sudden drop on the mat. After both officers looked to confirm that Dogma and Tup were alive—Tup was fine, he was just wheezing a bit while standing back up—Jesse decided to continue, “The men would see enough of you in Fives—that’ll make it less jarring to follow his leadership, and…” Jesse squirmed, just like he had back when Rex first thrust him into the position the Lieutenant now filled so readily. When Jesse craned his tattooed face forward, Rex shifted his weight onto the closest leg and marginally adjusted his neck to bend an ear towards his mouth. In a voice dropped lower, Rex’s old friend spoke to reassure the Captain, “I’ll make sure everything else keeps running.”

Rex rolled his eyes off the datapad and let his gaze meet Jesse’s. His silence continued its reign. By not arguing, Rex might’ve left Jesse wondering if his affirmation had any effect. It was anyone’s guess if Jesse translated it correctly.

Well, it would be a guess if Jesse didn’t know that Rex’s unimpressed, unconcerned, unbothered flat mouth across his face meant he thought the whole promise rather pointless; Rex had never had any doubt and always held Jesse with confidence.

A swell of gratitude for Jesse filled Rex’s chest, and the corners of his lips were quirked downward. But a balanced head nod forward mutually acknowledged the loosely worded, stone-carved vow; not all oaths needed formalities to be either binding or believed.

“Jesse!” cracked open their bubble before immediately being shattered by an ear-piercing, singsong, “WOO-hoo!”

Fives was waving his arms, trying to catch Jesse’s attention.

“What?!!” Jesse bellowed back, prompting Rex to loudly clear his throat, meaningfully. Knowing full well what Rex was telling him, Jesse still couldn’t help but roll his eyes before he readdressed Fives, “What… Sir?” Now, in what counted as an ARC-centric scenario, Fives was Jesse’s acting superior during the training exercise, something Jesse, the older veteran, struggled with.

“I have been trying to get your attention for five minutes—”

“Sir, it wasn’t for five minutes; you’ve only been—” Somewhere amid Dogma’s statement—that he couldn’t help but pipe up with—he received an elbow from Tup to his midsection, effectively knocking him into silence mid-sentence and preventing him from digging a larger hole for his burial.

Before Rex could help himself, he snorted at the two. Muted chuckles shook his shoulders as Fives and Jesse bickered the whole time it took for Jesse to cross onto the mat. Remaining where he was, his arms crossed over his chest, he broadened his footing wider than his shoulders as Fives prepared to lead the next demonstration of hand-to-hand combat countermeasures.

Even from where Rex was standing, he could see Hardcase’s eyes ignite with an attentive eagerness he had seen in the Corporal before; the same kind that had led to his proficiency with his explosive ordnance specialty and drove him to meet the challenges Kix gave him.

Jesse, Hardcase, Tup, and Dogma had been paired in various configurations and pitted against each other through several one-on-one sparring exchanges. Fives had the foresight not to stick within equal skill levels; no enemy combatant would take it easy on a Clone Trooper with lesser experience.

It was still up to Fives to provide the input that would guide and grow each man, expanding their hand-to-hand combat skills. For the most part, Rex hung Fives out to dry, expecting his ARC to provide the feedback and criticism as required. Whenever Fives looked at him with eyes silently asking for the Captain’s feedback on his own performance, Rex sometimes offered a modicum of mercy. On occasion, he made a gesture at someone’s loose footing or poorly positioned arms; a dropped hip could weaken someone’s stance, and weaknesses had to be repositioned and perceived as conceivable strengths.

The skill difference between Jesse and Hardcase was considerable, though the gap was not as extreme as with Tup and Dogma, both of whom had less field experience than the 501^st veterans for different reasons.

Dogma appeared to be the weaker opponent at times, and at others, he showed his merit. Initially, his hand-to-hand combat seemed unreliable and unpredictable, seemingly without a discernible pattern that Rex could find. That is, until Dogma managed to outmaneuver Jesse, flipping from being on the defensive to going on the offensive. Figuring out Dogma’s tactic, Rex smirked.

During an exchange between Dogma and Jesse, Rex brought the feint-and-fight tactic to Fives’s attention, setting up a twinkle of amusement in Fives’s eyes. However, Dogma’s advantageous technique was short-lived after that, and Jesse regained the upper hand once he stopped going easy on Dogma—it didn’t do any good to do that.

At one point, Jesse got carried away when he went on a counterstrike. Had Rex not whistled loudly enough to startle all five pairs of eyes on him, then the Lieutenant’s maneuver would have taken advantage of Dogma’s still recovering injuries. The intensity behind the look Rex leveled Jesse’s way stopped him. Taking a step back, Jesse raised his hands, his palms facing Dogma, and shifted Rex’s attention back to Fives, who then recognized the faux pas.

Jess rapped his knuckles against Dogma’s cuirass, knocking just over the armored heart. “We know about Dogma’s injuries, so we can’t exploit them against him during a spar,” explained Jesse, proving that he was self-aware of his wrongdoings.

Looking confused, Tup glanced at Dogma and watched him compulsively rotating his left shoulder. “But… the enemy wouldn’t—”

“Dogma has healed enough that if an enemy were to watch him as we did, they might not know he had been injured. But we know he was,” elaborated Fives, his hands atop his hips, elbows jutting outward.

“Until he is cleared for active duty, can’t use it against him, and only if he shows signs of his injury while on the mat.” Jesse glanced at Rex’s way; he was searching for something.

Slowly, Rex nodded his head and gave it: forgiveness.

With that, the sparring rounds resumed.

There came a point when it was time for the four infantry Troopers to face off against ARC Trooper Fives. Initially, the rounds with Fives had been met with excitement. With all his corrections, tricks, and advice, many learned when working with an ARC. Whether gained by Fives’s time under the Captain’s tutelage or when he had been sent back to Kamino as an ARC Cadet, he had a variety of sources he gathered from and shared freely with others. However, it was clear that most of Fives’s gained skills had come from hands-on and hard-won experience.

A palpable confidence seemed to rise in the four Troopers, peaking upwards to the point that they tried to coordinate together and land Fives on his back. It could have worked, too…

Except for the fact that their hubris let them forget something that shouldn’t have been: Fives was one of the GAR’s youngest ARCs, but he was still one of their most highly trained and talented. The four were forcibly reminded that there was a reason why Captain Rex had been known to peacock behind Fives’s back, almost as badly as Commander Cody was known to strut his pride over Rex and his reputation. In the most polite, charitable, and sportmanly ways, Jesse, Hardcase, Dogma, and Tup were reassured that all along, Fives had been going easy on them. Even the two seasoned and hardened veterans of the 501^st flag company, Torrent, all experienced combatants, were each left stunned on the ground.

Jesse could be heard wheezing something about being too old for this kind of treatment.

Beaming a smile, Fives bent down and helped each man back onto his feet, lifting Tup and Hardcase simultaneously.

“Okay, look, I’ve seen Commander Cody do that, but I’ve never seen anyone who countered that maneuver that isn’t a Jedi or a student of Dooku.” Jesse still clapped Fives on the back in high praise as equal to the comparison of their marshal commander.

Hardcase whistled and rocked on his heels. “Fives, how did you get a chance to have Commander Cody show you how to do that?”

“Commander Cody didn’t teach it to me,” corrected Fives, shaking his head. He made a motion behind him to a man who had allowed himself to become all but forgotten. “It was the Captain—he’s also the only one I’ve seen able to counter the Commander’s maneuver.”

Three of the Troopers looked impressed for only a split second until Jesse concluded that he should have known better, knowing Rex’s credentials. Any opportunity Jesse had been given to watch either Captain Rex or Commander Cody spar up against any of Alpha-17’s original hundred-odd ARCs—especially each other—was taken.

“Don’t suppose you’d show us how to block that strike, hm, Captain?” Jesse’s call over the mat was a trap laid. “Getting tired of Fives pullin’ it.”

Face schooled to impassivity, Rex couldn’t entirely dim the dazzling twinkle of mischief in his eyes; it brightened when he locked gazes with Fives, who nodded in assent, then excitedly bounced on the balls of his feet.

It was like performing for a bunch of young Cadets.

Performatively, Rex groaned and exaggerated just how much such a brotherly request inconvenienced him before he bent his weight on one leg, stretched out an arm, and laid the pad on the edge of a crate. He was toeing off his first boot when the men let out an excited hoot.

With the prospect of witnessing two 501^st heavyweights, their active-duty field ARC and Captain, engage in a spar for their benefit, Jesse and Hardcase’s cheers lasted the longest. Dogma hadn’t yet come to understand how to incorporate the spirit of Torrent as his own, but he still clapped appreciatively, civilly, politely, all the while casting aside dubious looks of concern Hardcase’s way, probably because of the massiff howls.

For Fives, it was a chance to show off. Whether the subject was either his own skill or that of his captain, Rex didn’t know, though he suspected that it was also to show off what it meant to be an Advanced Recon Commando.

Before starting, Rex stepped forward and exchanged a signal, touching their knuckles against the other’s chest plate and knocking together their plainer vambraces. Then, the two pivoted and took positions, their kama appearing to dance in synchrony.

The eyes of those in their small audience now showed a glimmer of envy. The exchange between the two ARCs served as a reminder of the exclusive brotherhood shared among its elite members. Fives bounced on the balls of his feet again, giddy at being able to share such a moment with Rex and have it witnessed.

However, the Captain played it off as something small and insignificant. Though honestly, he still felt a knot in his chest and the swell of pride to see what had become of Fives; there was nothing insignificant or small about the soldier Fives now was. Once the shiny he had picked up off a moon infested with eels and infiltrated by Separatist droids, Fives was now one of the GAR’s premier active-duty ARC Troopers.

A palpable excitement came from the four onlookers.

On one side of the sparring mat stood Fives, a product of the newest generations of ARCs and considered one of the most highly regarded active-duty Advanced Recon Commandos in the field.

On the other side stood a calm Captain Rex, known as one of Alpha-17’s prized pupils; he knew the whispers that followed his skirttails about whether or not he had been a favorite.

Without the other half of the Domino duo to split the limelight, each glimmer and shine that reflected the pride in Rex’s eyes fell solely onto Fives, standing tall, and filling in for those who had gone before to march onward, holding the line for them until they, too, joined. Fives honored Echo’s memory as much as he honored Rex’s legacy.

So, as soon as the blows began to be exchanged, it happened in a blur of movements. Each sparring man was cautious about how much force they put behind each connection, both far too needed in the field to be injured while trying to show off for their brothers.

Jesse and Hardcase had been members of the 501^st Battalion well before Fives had left Kamino the first time. They had fought alongside Rex since the start of the war and were among the first to refill the lost Torrent Company after Teth. Even for them, it was rare to witness flesh and blood generations of ARCs come together in a display of prowess; to the Clones, this was an opportunity to watch two titans in action.

Quickly, it became evident that, despite how mindful both were about not causing harm to the other, Fives was certainly trying his best to outsmart and outmaneuver Rex, a feat the audience knew would be quite the challenge. But it was a challenge that Fives never backed down from, exactly as Rex expected from him.

Somewhere in the depths of Rex’s chest, he looked forward to the day when Fives finally surpassed him, as was the wish all Ori’verd’e had for their Verd’ike.

It was the dream of every Ori’verd to be eclipsed by his brightest Verd’ika and something he had seen in Cody, Alpha-17, Alpha-77—each of them who had ever fought hard to win even a glimmer of acknowledgement in the eyes of Jango Fett himself.

Either man would need six points to have the match’s win called in his favor. There had been several instances when Fives nearly got the leg up on Rex, his knuckles frequently coming close to grazing across the Captain’s point-spots. As the tally stood, Rex had already racked up three, as opposed to Fives’s one.

Another attempt by Fives nearly landed a second strike to Rex’s waist, but a swiftly reactive countermeasure denied him. Double-tapping the air on either side of Fives’s head, right by his ear, Rex stopped his foot and held it stiff. He let it linger long enough for his opponent’s wide eyes to stop and stare at the restrained blow; an impressive reminder that had Rex been in true motion, the blow would have been sharply delivered right to Fives’s head.

Tup cheered, Hardcase whistled, and Jesse announced, “Captain, four; Fives, one!” Respectfully, Dogma gave a dry, congratulatory clap, showing his appreciation.

Tightening his abdominal core, Rex lifted his leg high enough to complete the kick’s large arch over Fives’s head on his way to resettling his foot behind his support leg.

Based on Rex’s facial expression, he gave the impression that he might not be exerting as much effort as Fives. Yet, there was still a thin sheen of sweat beading across his forehead; some rolled to freedom and disappeared into his collar.

Looking back at the other four, Fives grinned blindingly; he excitedly bounced on his feet again. “See, if Commander Cody ever tries to tell you—”

“—since when would Commander Cody speak to me?” muttered Hardcase.

“—that the reason why he won’t wear his skirt is that it gets in the way of his kicks—he’s lying.”

Smiling wryly at Fives’s remark, Rex shook his head, beckoning Jesse, Hardcase, and Tup’s laughter at Cody’s expense to continue with a few come-on flicks by two come-either fingers, ignoring Dogma’s disapproving frown.

“So, when we gonna see that counter maneuver?” Jesse asked again, the boldest of the four infantry Troopers. “Imagine Commander Cody’s shock if some grunts can counter the same stunt.”

Fives deferred back to Rex and was greeted with an arm graciously sweeping across the floor—an invitation.

Retaking the starting positions, Rex gave Fives the first move.

Undeniably, the more experienced ARC between the two, Rex’s reaction time had always been nearly legendary. In fact, it had become part of the legends told about Captain Rex. But everyone had their moments of weakness, even Jedi, and Rex was still mortal, after all.

Still under the effects of such little sleep, Rex began to feel his body move marginally slower, particularly as he spent more time on the mat with Fives. He hoped it was just warped self-perception. However, Fives had taken what he had been taught into every part of his being and subconsciously noticed the shift in Rex’s performance, enough to react when an opportunity presented itself.

Eventually, one such opportunity came when no one saw it coming, least of all Captain Rex. The only comfort he’d have was that Fives didn’t let it slip by. Waste not, want not—opportunities were no different.

What began as a deluge of dance-like maneuvers exchanged between the two men at a quickstep pace was shifted out of synchrony when Rex’s actions began to exhibit a half-second drag. Until ultimately, he simply had not reacted quickly enough to something Fives did, something he had taught.

No one expected to hear the sound of Fives’s foot landing squarely dead-center on Rex’s chest; not the man who delivered it, and he certainly hadn’t expected who the recipient would be.

Rex stumbled under the impact’s force; the wind kicked right out of his chest. It felt like his lungs had been physically knocked out of his chest cavity and popped out on the other side, right through his ribcage.

As the edges of his vision blurred from the stun, Rex caught the bright sight of Fives’s large eyes widening in realization. It would take longer for the celebratory cheers on behalf of Fives’s luck to morph into first concern, then dread.

A cacophony of nearly identical voices echoed in disjointed unison, each one differing in ratios between alarm and shock. Between the buzz in his ears and their intermeshing voices, Rex wouldn’t be able to distinguish who said what. His brain immediately suffered too much from the lack of oxygen to process based on their inflections or speech patterns.

“Captain—!”

“Osik—Captain!”

What semi-functional brain cells Rex still had left wanted to snark that he was well aware of his rank, but that was the defensive man in him with the bruised pride, who hated to be doted on, even if it lasted an instant. Stubbornness kept him on his feet and defied the sumptuous pull of gravity that made a good argument for why he should let it take him down. Instead, he followed the blow’s momentum while refusing to surrender any more ground than a few steps behind him; he hadn’t so much hubris that he couldn’t acknowledge it was partly his pride that kept him on his feet. Through the hazy flash over his eyes, blurring the boundaries of his vision, he made out several—more than the five he knew were exactly there—concerned identical faces moving to swarm him.

Raising a hand, he put it to a stop.

Even with the padding inside the armored thoracic plate, Fives’s kick had generated enough force that the blow couldn’t be sufficiently offset; Rex decided right then that he didn’t want to feel what a raw kick from Fives would have felt like on his unprotected chest.

Pain radiated through him, starting at his sternum. It was the sort of pain that spread through his bones as a forged fire might, while also shredding up the flesh that had never seemed so tender.

Well, that hurt.

A deep exhale refilled his lungs, reversing the vacuum pressure left just behind his breastbone. As his ribcage was broadened, tender spots were revealed by the cuirass’s constricting pressure, the paneled pads pressing inward with every inhale. Electric pain flared through his shocked muscles, its heat a stark contrast to the ship’s cooler air, expanding his lungs after the lingering burn of being so abruptly emptied.

“Captain, should we call for a medic?” asked Dogma, with every intention of being helpful and dutiful, as per regulations.

Automatically, Jesse took charge out of habit, barking, “Yeah, Tup, go get Kix—”

But Rex didn’t need a medic to tell him that he was just winded. Defiantly, he shook his head and stubbornly exercised the act of breathing in a repetitive pattern, for their comfort, for their assurance. All too experienced with the obsessive worrying of brothers, Rex knew that until they witnessed with their own eyes and ears that Rex could exhale and inhale, they’d never let up. So, he exaggerated the simple act of breathing, all the while glaring at Jesse and Tup. It was enough to get the latter to halt, freeze like prey caught in the gaze of a predator.

Jesse was a little harder to intimidate; he frowned dubiously.

Luckily, in the end, the Clones made their own distraction: temporary verbal fratricide, delivered with an exchange of snipes and barbs.

“I thought a demo spar meant we weren’t supposed to actually hurt our opponent,” Hardcase muttered loudly.

Unable to help himself, Rex upturned one end of his mouth while his men turned on each other, dissolving into childish bickerings; it was a better alternative than Kix being summoned at this Sith-awful hour. So Rex was just fine with the distraction Hardcase baited.

Reminded of who to blame, Jesse snapped his head to face the standing ARC. “Fives, what did you do to the Captain?!” His lieutenant had always had a hidden protective streak wide enough to rival Kix’s, especially when it came to Rex.

“I didn’t think I’d get the hit!” Fives genuinely sounded convinced that his improficience, presumably perpetual, was a decent enough defense. “Rex always stops me, lands me on my shebs—”

Ah, the ever-comforting sound of quarrelsome brothers—it wasn’t like it took a lot to get Clones to start arguing with each other; if they weren’t given a reason, sometimes they’d make one up, just ‘cause.

Functional once more, Rex caught Tup’s eye and smirked, very much meaning it as: watch this.

“Fives, I’m going to land you on your shebs!” Jesse threatened.

While the two were distracted, Rex acted, his volley of movements too fast to be more than a blur. First, he quickly jabbed the nerves in Fives’s armpit, where his armor had a gap. Just as quick, he hooked his leg around Fives’s knee, coming in from behind, and landed the heavily armored trooper on his back.

Fives let out a wheeze.

Concern for Rex’s well-being shifted to brotherly amusement at Fives’s downfall.

“Right…” A crosseyed Fives stared up at Rex, taking a standing position over him, hands on his hips, cocky smile downward-facing. “Good, glad to see you’re okay, Captain.” When Fives took Rex’s offered hand, he did so with a loud clap that echoed through the deck’s corner subdivision. Fives was the heavier of the two, but Rex still knew how to leverage his legs to lift Fives back on his feet.

The mirrored grins encircling them were broken only by Jesse wiping his off and replacing it with a severity that could have mimicked Commander Cody’s.

“Okay, are you going to show us how to defend against the lughead or not, Rex?”

“I’m not a lughead, Jesse!”

“Mate, you kind of are.”

“Hardcase, since when did you become a traitor?”

“Unlike you, he’s stuck with me more often, Fives. He doesn’t—”

The sound of Rex’s laughter filled the Venator’s massive flight deck.

It was a quarter past their allotted time before they left, scurried off by maintenance and flight crews, both of whom resented ’grounders’ being underfoot. Fortunately, they had cleaned up the obstacle course just in time. If they hadn’t, they would have earned even more ire from the deck chief—Rex would rather not start that.

Sent off to return to the depths of the Resolute, the six Clone Troopers began the returning trek. Tup and Dogma were side by side, Fives and Jesse shoulder-to-shoulder, Hardcase meandering between the two pairs, while Rex picked up the rear, his nose still in the datapad.

“Okay, but seriously…” Tup asked, “How did we do, sir?”

Glancing over their shoulders, the others caught sight of Rex’s eyes, continuously glancing at the datapad he had brought with him, filled with an informational readout that they didn’t have context for understanding. It looked like he wasn’t paying attention. He could feel the eager eyes of his men wanting his word, wishing he’d deign with a gift the Captain’s wisdom, criticism, or—dare they dream—his approval.

Through the morning, Rex had bitten his tongue and allowed his silence to do most of the speaking for him, forcing the men to rely on their familiarity with him to fill in what words could not. Fundamentally, he needed to see how they criticized themselves and how they reacted without direct feedback from senior officers. He also needed to observe how they mutually provided feedback to each other and how they coped with the strain of being expected to act without immediate supervision or interference.

He also needed to see how Fives would handle it when Rex’s silence redirected expectant eyes his way.

Except for the brief exchanges on the sparring mat, Rex had left the men with the impression that the Captain wasn’t truly there with them. Indeed, he was physically present, but he allowed them to feel like he had left them hanging out to dry, with only Fives to guide the flow of the training session.

“Captain, really… how did we do?” asked Jesse, pushing the issue. It wasn’t often that Jesse showed his insecurities, but the man had wanted the opportunity to become an ARC for a long time, going back further than when Fives and Echo had joined the 501^st. Then there was his emphasis on the ‘we’ that made it clear to Rex that his Lieutenant was stressed about the performance of the other three—more precisely, one of the three—as much as his own.

Though Hardcase had never expressed any genuine ambition toward being an ARC, he had always been exceedingly eager for any chance to better himself and to prove it to others. Once word came that Jesse would begin prep training, Hardcase had pleaded with Jesse to allow him to tag along, ostensibly just to learn whatever he could. He always acted like he had to do more. Nothing ever convinced Hardcase that he was good enough. On his behalf, Jesse made a passionate case to Captain Rex, who still abstained during the 2XO’s one-sided argument. But in Jesse’s anxiety and excitement, he had just talked over Rex and completely missed his easy agreement. Instead, Rex gave Jesse the chance to finish his obviously rehearsed diatribe. Rex didn’t try again until Jesse got it all out and paused long enough to be reminded that he needed air in his lungs if he was going to say any more. It was worth seeing Jesse’s bashfulness when he realized that he never had to say all that in the first place; Rex had already consented early on.

Jesse tried to play off his investment in Hardcase’s inclusion as if he didn’t feel responsible if Hardcase’s performance didn’t meet some unknown minimal standard. But Rex knew what was percolating under Jesse’s thick skull.

Stealing a glance at the others, Rex was plainly aware of each bare-faced insecurity. Fives kept his focus locked forward, barely listening to Hardcase anxiously prattling on about something else entirely. Tup and Dogma tried their best to look neither too nervous nor too interested. Reaching the limits he wanted to push with them, he lowered his hands.

Approaching a bend would pass them closer to the refresher before reaching Torrent’s barracks, he drew air into his chest, readying the truth…

—*CHIPcheep*—*CHIPcheep*—

…when the datapad let out a chirpy trill that cut into his reply, cleaving it off the tip of his tongue and stealing his attention; he closed his mouth before a word made it past the back of his throat.

The alert had been to announce the download of a priority data packet from Commander Cody.

Skimming through it, the noise of the men became a dull buzz around him as he shifted focus, narrowing it to the transmitted contents. It wasn’t long before his brows were knitted together from concern.

Included were multiple reports regarding a new series of Separatist attacks on their shipping lanes, specifically highlighting the means employed in the offensive maneuvers used against the Republic’s forces. He had already been aware of other attacks that had started to squeeze the Republic’s access to much-needed supplies.

Added was a text-based communique:

[[TEXT:(2224)] Be prepared to give a preliminary analysis for today’s holoconference.

In succession, additional subsequent text-comms followed:

[[TEXT:(2224)] We’ll propose our complete analysis tomorrow.
[[TEXT:(2224)] The General is going to want a solution.
[[TEXT:(2224)] Forwarded the same data to Wolffe.
[[TEXT:(2224)] I need my best heads together on this.

Focusing on the transmission, Rex took a half-step and departed from the company of men standing right in front of Torrent’s barracks.

Overlaid but translucent over the heavy data load, Rex opened a remote communication terminal, where Cody’s rapid-fire commentary continued. To compose a reply, he cut short the time with his men and stepped away with every intention to depart, leaving them behind.

[[TEXT:(7567)] No need to try and sweet-talk me, Cody. You’re shameless.
[[TEXT:(7567)] I’ll do my job. Just keep from trying to be Kenobi.

“Sir, where are you going?” asked Hardcase to Rex’s back.

—*CHIPcheep*—

The alert began to chirp again—*CHIPcheep*—announcing another round:

[[TEXT:(2224)] You take that back.

[[TEXT:(2224)] I just need you and Wolffe on this.

[[TEXT:(2224)] You two are very good at what you do—no shame in admitting that.

[[TEXT:(7567)] This is too much sugar for me at this hour.

[[TEXT:(2224)] You always came up with the most ingenious strategies.

[[TEXT:(2224)] Which is why you’re both my best men.

[[TEXT:(2224)] This is also why I fought so hard to get the 104th in the 3rd Army.

[[TEXT:(2224)] Now, shut up and take the compliment—or I’ll order you to.

[[TEXT:(7567)] I will coordinate with Commander Wolffe later.

[[TEXT:(7567)] I’ll see what I come up with.

[[TEXT:(2224)] Good, he could do with a distraction. He’s in a mood.

[[TEXT:(2224)] Again.

“Uh… Captain, aren’t you going to let us know how we did?” Tup joined in with a question of his own.

“I think he said something about needing to see Klinger,” Fives answered for him.

As Rex furthered the gap between himself and his men, he could hear Fives loudly clap his hands together, likely to recapture the full attention of the four before pronouncing, “All right, look here, you stink slugs: wash up before we file for mess hall—”

“Who do you think you are, Fives?” sneered Jesse; he was still the ranking officer without the Captain’s presence. “We’re not in ARC Training, so you’re not in charge—”

“—and clean your kits,” Fives instructed, raising his voice and matching Jesse’s stubbornness. “You all stink.”

Someone snickered. “Mate, don’t think you’re one to talk, Fives.”

“Hardcase, I’m going to loan you some of my soaps. The captain said you really stink—”

Fondly, Rex shook his head as he rounded the corner, still exchanging messages with Commander Cody.

[[TEXT:(7567)] What happened now?

[[TEXT:(2224)] How would I know?

[[TEXT:(2224)] My guess? Been away from General Koon for too long.

Yes, Rex knew quite well how Wolffe could get when he was separated from the 104^th’s Jedi General for too long; he knew better than most, perhaps.

Even at this distance, Rex could hear Hardcase’s outcry reverberate against the bulkheads, “Captain!”

[[TEXT:(7567)] Don’t pretend you’re any better with Kenobi.

[[TEXT:(2224)] Only because I can’t trust the General not to lose his lightsaber.

[[TEXT:(2224)] Or not to steal the liquor cabinet’s key.

[[TEXT:(2224)] For all I know, he might find himself betrothed to some royalty to keep a planet from seceding to the Separatists.

[[TEXT:(7567)] That was one time, Cody.

Jesse encouraged the ribbing and must have said something about wanting to try out the same soaps.

[[TEXT:(2224)] Don’t remind me.

[[TEXT:(7567)] I’d be more concerned about him broadcasting his location with something about the legitimacy of Grievous’s parentage or some rot.

But Fives was appalled and refused, “He needs the extra perfume—you don’t.”

[[TEXT:(7567)] Maybe’ll become the cyborg’s bride.

“We’re men—wouldn’t it be cologne?”

[[TEXT:(2224)] Wait, how long since Wolffe spoke to you?

[[TEXT:(7567)] Why are you asking that?

[[TEXT:(2224)] Answer the question, Rex.

“To be fair, the Captain did say we—all—stunk.” Tup’s voice barely made it through the juncture.

“That reminds me, we’re gonna have to let Torrent know the Captain ordered a scrub down of our barracks,” Fives dutifully relayed. “Thinks it also stinks. Can you believe it?” he commiserated, immediately after.

[[TEXT:(7567)] Received updates about General Skywalker’s droids.

[[TEXT:(2224)] What about a holocomm like a couple of sentients?

“No, I don’t believe it, Fives.” Jesse took the offense. “What did he say?”

Each distinct voice was easily discernible, even though Rex’s slow stride continued. He could hear the bruises on Jesse’s ego, colored on behalf of the whole company.

[[TEXT:(7567)] Hold on; my men are trying to exceed their usual levels of stupidity.

“He didn’t say anything. But—”

[[TEXT:(2224)] Rex.
[[TEXT:(2224)] (Also, if it is a good one, try and record it.)

“—I saw it on his face this morning.”

Stalling the forward progression, Rex indulged in something that often sparked happiness in him: witnessing his brothers… being brothers.

[[TEXT:(7567)] A few rotations.

[[TEXT:(2224)] How long, Rex?

“We have Hardcase with us. Bound to happen,” Tup’s remark lacked the venom Jesse mastered, but proved that he was becoming a genuine member of Torrent Company.

[[TEXT:(7567)] Almost two weeks.

[[TEXT:(2224)] Oh. That explains why he’s worse than usual.

[[TEXT:(7567)] How does that explain his mood?

[[TEXT:(2224)] General Koon has remarked to General Kenobi that Wolffe gets… in a mood when he goes too long without talking to you.

“Hey!” Hardcase’s interjection proved that he took the bait like a fish on a hook. “Just because I don’t like to refresh as much as some Clones—”

[[TEXT:(7567)] Did General Koon make the remark to you or…?

[[TEXT:(2224)] Okay, Kenobi gossiped about it to me.

[[TEXT:(7567)] Cody, I’m shocked.
[[TEXT:(7567)] Shouldn’t a marshal commander be above gossip?

[[TEXT:(2224)] In my defense:

[[TEXT:(7567)] This will be good.

Lips pulled tight with deep amusement, Rex shook his head. He knew that Hardcase had just made things worse for himself—he never learned.

[[TEXT:(2224)] 1.) Kenobi is a notorious gossip.

[[TEXT:(7567)] Once again proving: Like Jedi General, like Clone Commander.

[[TEXT:(2224)] You take that back, too. It has nothing to do with him.

[[TEXT:(7567)] Cody.

[[TEXT:(2224)] Maybe a little.
[[TEXT:(2224)] 2.) I am still a Clone. I thrive on the gossip and, most of all, the misery of anyone with less than three points of separation between Jango Fett and me.

Jesse put on an effect of exasperation, exhaustion when he pointed out a simple truth, “Hardcase, we’re Clones… from Kamino—”

[[TEXT:(7567)] Cody, we’re Clones; our separation is more like half a degree, and that’s being charitable.

[[TEXT:(2224)] That is my point. Also, there is more room for debate.
[[TEXT:(2224)] Not that I’m charitable.

[[TEXT:(7567)] Your secret is safe with me.
[[TEXT:(7567)] Glad to hear you still have #2 going for you.
[[TEXT:(7567)] Not that I would have known or anything…
[[TEXT:(7567)] With the whole CLONE Commander rank—

[[TEXT:(7567)] Or the identical face with all those Fett Clones I hear about.
[[TEXT:(7567)] Or the Clone Armor.

“That’s redundant, right?” interrupted Dogma. “Kaminoans are the only Cloners in the galaxy.” Unusually high-strung and anxious, he frequently tempted Rex into letting it be known how much the Corporal reminded him of Commander Cody.

“No, there are others,” Jesse corrected, with a bit of pride in his voice, “Our Cloners, though, are the best in the galaxy.” He gave Rex the mental image of his brothers meeting clones made by other Cloners.

“That is what I meant, sir.”

Quickly, it dissolved into the sight of his brothers flinging themselves into a full-fledged bar brawl in defense of their pride: they had the best Cloners, and that made them—the—best Clones in the galaxy, obviously.

[[TEXT:(2224)] You think you’re really funny, don’t you, Rex?

[[TEXT:(7567)] Plenty of people do.

[[TEXT:(2224)] Plenty of people have bad taste.

Truthfully, Captain Rex would be right alongside his brothers—it was a matter of honor.

“—a water world; everyone refreshes more than you do. You’re just weird,” Fives breathlessly continued Jesse’s stream of thought over Dogma’s interjection, like he and Jesse used the same filling to keep their respective buckets from collapsing inward.

[[TEXT:(7567)] Wolffe thinks I’m funny.

[[TEXT:(2224)] He has especially bad taste.

“Hardcase, you are kind of weird.” Rex could imagine Tup’s gentle smile to go with his gentle voice.

[[TEXT:(7567)] General Kenobi thinks I am funny.

[[TEXT:(2224)] Don’t take his taste in humor as a compliment.

“To be fair, all of us Clones are weird,” Jesse said.

[[TEXT:(7567)] You think I’m funny.

[[TEXT:(2224)] I have exceptionally bad taste.

“Want to know what’s really weird?” Hardcase sounded desperate to deflect attention away from himself. So he did what any Clone would do. “Fives and his fancy soaps.” He threw another under the HAVw A6 Juggernaut. “Fives, you don’t need to smell like a bouquet of flowers and fruit—you are not a fruit tart—”

“I am not fruit!”

“I don’t know…” Clearly, it worked on Jesse. “He is kind of fruity.”

“We all know how much he wants to be a tarte,” Tup excitedly jumped in, taking the chance to be accepted in the Clonely retorts at the expense of another. “Especially for a certain—” Something covered his mouth, likely a hand, turning anything else he had to say into muffled jibberish.

[[TEXT:(7567)] Admission is the first step.

[[TEXT:(2224)] What’s the second?

“I like to smell nice.” Fives failed to hide his defensiveness. “Plus, I have sensitive skin.”

“No, you don’t.” Dogma’s deep voice rumbled with confidence.

[[TEXT:(7567)] Wear your skirt.

[[TEXT:(2224)] No.

“You don’t know me.”

[[TEXT:(7567)] You are the most self-disrespecting ARC I’ve met.

“No, Fives, he—and the rest of us, for that matter—just happen to be a Clone from the same man they cloned to make you.” There were times when Dogma showed a perfect kind of sarcasm that almost made Rex want to kiss the man squarely in the mouth, especially if it would make obnoxious Troopers choke, like he overheard Fives doing right then.

Almost. But no.

[[TEXT:(7567)] You don’t even duel-wield.

[[TEXT:(2224)] I like my carbine rifle.

[[TEXT:(7567)] You also like your ass cheeks being burned from blowback and shrapnel, apparently.

“Fives wants to be a tarte, all right!” wheezed Tup, taking the first opportunity after choking on his laughter and barely holding himself together.

“He’d have to lose his virginity for that,” chuckled Jesse through his words.

[[TEXT:(2224)] I like the smell of bacta.

[[TEXT:(7567)] No, you don’t. No one does. I should know. I’m the mootie with the sense of smell like a massiff.

“Safe to say that for most of us… that we’d all have to do that,” Dogma easily remarked and shrugged his shoulders, his armor dully rattling.

“Speak for yourself, Corporal,” Jesse teased, willfully dangling just enough to tempt the interest of the others.

[[TEXT:(2224)] Well, maybe non-mooties like the smell of bacta.

[[TEXT:(7567)] No, you don’t.

Whether the others would take this revealed tidbit of information from Jesse and fall victim to the bait was anyone’s guess. To do that, they’d have to take Jesse’s vague retort seriously.

Just a half-breath later, he overheard Hardcase’s skepticism, “Yeah right, when have—you—”

“Who would want to go near your face?”

“Fives, we have the same—”

A familiar chorus of voices broke out, each desperate to be heard over the other, meaning no one heard anyone else more than the others, and even fewer could be understood. The energy bled together until it was hard for even Rex’s trained ears to tell them apart.

“Hey!” Fives’s voice rose above the clamoring din, though it sounded like he might be desperate enough to whip the butt of his blaster against some skulls. Which would have been just fine by Rex—Clones were hardheaded, so they’d be fit in time for their duties—because he knew that sometimes his brothers just needed their brains rattled around to clear out the cobwebs. “Can we get back to Hardcase not showering enough?”

“Don’t focus on me! Besides, the Resolute is old, and we don’t have a fancy new ship like the Negotiator or the Benevolence—we have to ration our water supply. I’m just doing my part. What’s your excuse for nose-blinding us with your stinky perfume?!”

“It’s cologne.” It was a fruitless effort, but Fives was as stubborn as any Clone.

——*hish*–

“If you bathe properly, Fives, why do you even need to stink like one of the Jedi Gardens?”

“Since when have you ever been in any of the Temple Gardens?” Kix’s voice was explained by the sound Rex had heard of retracting doors, just a split second ago.

Someone else loudly cleared his throat in the same tone older Clones often used to wrangle smaller ones. Even this far from Kamino, even this long after anyone’s graduation, it was effective.

They all went quiet, entangled in their sudden mutism.

Rex heard the equally familiar sound of a Trooper shifting his weight, disturbing his armor—impatient expectation.

“Sorry, Appo,” mumbled one.

“Uh…” Another clumsily suggested, “We should refresher, and start on doing what the Captain told us to do.”

“By any chance, uh…” And another played off innocence. “Appo, do you know what—”

“Refreshen up, clean your kits, and start scrubbing down the barracks. Hardcase, use some of Fives’s soap, and spend an extra four minutes in the refresher.”

“That’s not very—”

“Jesse, Tup, Fives, and Dogma, you’re docking a minute off—each.”

“Hey!”—“Sir, what’d I do?”—“That isn’t what Rex said—”—“Yessir, Sergeant Appo.” Multiple outcries overlapped in disharmony; start to finish, the respective names of each Trooper sounded off by Appo, with the last one—the calmest and most resigned—having to be Dogma.

Someone whispered to someone else, “Don’t you outrank him, Jesse?”

“Yeah, but I don’t think he knows.”

“Shouldn’t you remind him?”

“No, I don’t think I will.” Jesse sounded like he was coming from a place of trepidation hard-won through traumatized experience. “But you’re free to, Fives, Hardcase. I’m sure Kix is standing by.”

“No, I’m needed in a comm with Coric. You’ll have to arrange your own funeral.”

“But we’re Clones. We don’t—get—funerals!”—sounded like Fives.

“Should be an easy arrangement, then.”

“Just hope it’s an open casket, Fives; wouldn’t want to be deprived of my last chance to see the results of your skin care.”

”Jesse!”

“Casket?” gawked someone, scandalized. “As in… a burial? Fate worse than death.”

“Mhmm.” No one hummed quite like Dogma, meaning theoretically the aggrieved party had to be none other than Tup.

“Would that be worse or a cremation?”

“I’d rather be tossed out an airlock, Hardcase.”

Several more hummed the same as Dogma had.

“Just make sure Jesse doesn’t get my skirt.”

“Who says I’d want it?”

Not that there were watchful Clone eyes to hold the Captain accountable, Rex was unable to restrain himself and chuckled dully, shaking his shoulders in time with his rocking head.

His next round of replies read:

[[TEXT:(7567)] Should be able to go over the tactical reports this evening, Commander.

[[TEXT:(7567)] If I can patch through to Aleen, I can work with Commander Wolffe.

After sending it, his resuming bootsteps and his steady stride’s rhythm went unnoticed by his men’s continuing bickering—there wasn’t far for him to go.

[[TEXT:(7567)] Either way, I should be able to give you some thoughts shortly.

[[TEXT:(2224)] Good.

[[TEXT:(2224)] We need to figure out how the Separatists are getting through our defenses.

In front of one of the support staff barracks, Rex paused and considered something he should probably include. Raising the datapad, he could see his reflection as he composed the quick afterthought:

[[TEXT:(7567)] On it, sir.

Before Commander Cody was heard from next, Captain Rex had already retrieved Sergeant Klinger and was walking beside him on his way to the Quartermaster’s so-called closet, and was on the receiving end of an earful.

[[TEXT:(2224)] Thank you, Rex.

Rex had almost heard the back-and-forth cadence of Cody’s many internal voices through the limited textual communiques. The first had the force to knock down durasteel-enforced doors, and the second was sharp and rambled together with too much kaf. By the time Cody proverbially slipped into the third, when good humor had resurrected the spirit of the ARC within the marshal commander, he would be back in his own skin; his words bowed under the weight of his unseen smile. The fourth stanza marked when his attention was jerked back onto the original track. Yet, in the end, Cody still managed to poke his head in one last time, just to have the final word, and softly end his melodic performance with a gracious, though curt expression of gratitude.

What was one man’s afterthought was a soldier’s overthought tender sentimentalities.

It made Rex smile in kind.

Which was more than could be said for Klinger.

“Captain, we’ve had this talk before.”

Sighing, Rex nodded and continued skimming over one of the reports. ‘Yes, Klinger, we have,’ he mentally admitted, knowing better than to let out the useless remark.

The Sergeant was in a mood, which was probably deserved at this hour on a rare morning he would’ve been allowed to sleep in on, but today Rex had a limited inventory of personal patience for the moods of others. “You know you should come to me—before—you run out of your spare blacks, sir. Because of how slow it can be to go through proper requisition requests, I have to get ‘em through improper channels. It takes time for—”

Aware that this was a punishment that would have to be endured, Rex remained by his side, but pinched the bridge of his nose with two fingers; he supposed Klinger was owed this much from him.

“—me to find someone who needs something we can spare or owes me a favor, and is expected to travel to Kamino in a reasonable time. I have to let GAR Logistics and Tipoca’s Que-EM know we need a provision of several sets of cadet blacks. If the same person has to arrange for a separate transport, take the sets and swing back towards wherever we are—well, that takes extra time,” Klinger repeated, his speech well-rehearsed after his two years under Rex’s command as the Battalion’s Quartermaster.

Rex probably could give himself the speech so Klinger wouldn’t have to. Repeatedly, he nodded his head and acknowledged Klinger’s tired but true dressing-down, making small noises to show that he was both paying attention and in agreement. On the edge of his tongue sat a terse, sardonic, silent reply, ‘I’m sorry, Sergeant, the war has kept me a little busy…’

Instead, he rolled his eyes with such good form that it would have made Commander Wolffe proud, but only when Klinger was looking off somewhere else.

“Captain, I may not fight in the field as often as the 501^st frontliners, but I know the war is hard,” Klinger acknowledged, as though he could read Rex’s mind. “However—”—the concessions were over and it was back to the nagging—“—my job is more than securing food and ensuring everyone has their bedtime sleepers.”

Once more, Rex nodded acknowledgingly and looked to the old, familiar Clone; he knew immediately what his QM was talking about.

The Quartermaster was kept occupied securing medical supplies, supplying field rations, restocking a proper inventory of kit replacement parts, ammunition reloads, personal items like grooming kits, and coordinating with the Mortuary Corps to deal with the remains of their fallen brethren; those were just some of the responsibilities Klinger and his support staff managed. If there was something a Trooper needed, he was the one who made sure it was there, and if it wasn’t, he shook down whatever he had to get it in hand.

“It is also making sure you—our illustrious Clone Captain—are properly kitted, and ready to take on the Separatists.”

Without the Support Clones corpsmen and the natborns who served alongside them, the GAR would be a behemoth of a machine ground to a halt; they’d be unable to continue the fight on the front.

“While looking stylish, if I may say so myself. Why do you think I keep a spare kama for you on hand? Wouldn’t want morale to drop because of that. But what good is ya kilt if you keep running out of your blacks, sir?”

Klinger shook his head, rattling his exasperated thoughts around in his skull. While they were on the move to the QM’s storage closet, he had a captive audience in the form of Rex.

“I really wish you would just wear the standard blacks, Captain. It would make my life a lot easier.”

With an expression so dry it was enough to rival Tatooine, Rex raised his eyes and leveled them on the Quartermaster, who had the good grace to squirm under the look.

In defense, Klinger raised his hands and showed his palms. “Yeah, I know—you prefer the fit of cadet blacks, which is your right, sir. After all, you’re the Captain—senior officer’s prerogative and all that. Guess it—is—good to be King.”

Rex stopped abruptly in mid-step and slowly lowered both arms to level an incredulous, hardened look at Klinger.

Showing more grace, Klinger raised his palms and gave a second surrender. His boots resumed his stride after Rex’s started up again; he missed Rex’s muted amusement, shaking his buzzed head in disbelief, and the lopsided crook on the edge of the Captain’s mouth.

“I just don’t understand what the difference is. Training blacks are mostly the same thing, except where it has extra padding, and the spots it compresses—” Klinger stopped himself mid-sentence with a sudden epiphany, then snapped his fingers before exclaiming, “Oh!!!” He kept both forefingers pointed at Rex, acting like he had just won a hand of sabacc. “It’s the compression, isn’t it?!” Sounding too pleased, Klinger’s excitement was enough to drive a pick between Rex’s eyes. “It is because the fit is tighter. Senior Cadets are about the height of a full-grown Trooper, but not as broad and bulky yet. And you’re more flexible than most of us. Yeah, that makes sense. You work so long and spend so much time in the field with the General, and I bet the tighter compression would feel good around your muscles and joints, moving about like you do.”

Not for the first time in the last ten minutes, Rex pinched the bridge of his nose and huffed a long exhale through his flaring nostrils. When that didn’t work, he tried it again, this time through his mouth, all in an attempt to will away the tension from the headache he knew just wouldn’t go away. Confirming Klinger’s theory, he nodded, and again, he sighed.

“Have to say, sir, a fresh pair of blacks is one of the best things, hm?” Klinger was still beaming. “Maybe I should try a set of cadets; I am on my feet for long hours. That’s good thinking, sir!”

Finally, they stopped at the storeroom colloquially referred to as ‘Klinger’s Supply Closet’. There, the Quartermaster disappeared into his hold and only emerged when he had a small inventory of standard-issued blacks stacked about four high, still in their shipping wrappers.

“Here you go, Captain.” Master Sergeant Klinger had a smile that reminded Rex of Commander Odd Ball; it was warm, bright, unabashed, and usually, something the Captain would welcome. “Freshest batch from Kamino, homemade with mother’s own hands,” Klinger teased, arms held out.

A dull grunt came out of Rex’s nose, a subtle sound of humor at Klinger’s attempted joke. Raising his arms, the muscles in Rex’s pectoral muscles made him wince, finally letting him know how Fives’s kick was worthy of a grudge, but it wouldn’t be the ARC Trooper who would bear the brunt of the bruised misery. Luckily, Klinger didn’t notice Rex’s small, discomforting signal.

Rather than linger, Rex nodded his thanks, then he immediately pivoted and briskly walked away.

To his back, Klinger’s raised voice offered, “Maybe later I can take those in for you—”

Completely disinterested in being diverted, Rex walked onward without a single step stalled on his backtrack trek to his quarters. Instead, he only raised the hand holding his datapad, acknowledging the offer with a single, vague, dismissive gesture.

Rex wasn’t worried about the fit of his blacks. He wanted to get back to his quarters, finally take a proper refresher, and possibly even shave. That PT had made him sweat, and not only had his old blacks started to fall apart at their fastening teeth and seams, but their odor management properties had started to lose effectiveness.

He could smell his own body odor, something he hated as a respectable, proper Clone with too much self-dignity to endure that. To top it off, his hair was making him itch whenever he wore his bucket.

After taking the chance for a proper wash, Rex immediately felt better now that his combined overnight and PT-training funk washed down the drain, where the ship’s water cycling system would reprocess it.

Warmed by his skin, the smell of standard-issued GAR bar of soap soothed and comforted him. Not one to always disappoint his brothers, he knew that Fives would be disappointed when he stuck with it, but he just wasn’t feeling up to the strong scent of—

Rex had no idea what the bar of soap Fives had thrust into his hands smelled like. Unfortunately, he hadn’t bothered to pay attention to Fives’s excited ramblings, listing off different kinds of woods used to source the scent. All he knew was that it was fancy, made from materials Fives had bartered for and obtained off the GAR’s so-called black market.

It wasn’t actually a black market because the bulk of what the troopers traded wasn’t against regulations, just outside of what was issued, and otherwise difficult for Clones to obtain.

Microscopic blond fuzz had fallen onto his face and somehow even got into his nostrils. Sharply, he huffed through his nose, attempting to eject the debris; this was one of his least favorite parts about shaving.

One of his favorite parts about shaving was Fives’s whining about Rex brutally mowing down his beautiful blond curls, which never failed to amuse him—being reminded that he had never seen Rex’s hair at any length sufficient to know if it curled or not never stopped Fives from whinging like a Cadet who had been denied his daily sweetened treat.

Of course, Fives wasn’t wrong. His hair color might be a deviation from the standard Clone Template, but he did inherit one of the many curled textures found throughout their population. Not that Rex was going to allow Fives to confirm his assumptions easily; he could only imagine Fives’s overindulgence if he ever learned that when Rex’s hair was grown out, it had looser curls that lazily wrapped around small Cadet-sized fingers. But as far as Rex was determined, Fives would never be allowed to find out that Rex didn’t have one of the more common textures. At the first opportunity, before he had even taken the name Rex, he had shaved his head and never looked back.

Good riddens.

Unfortunately for the respectably groomed but low-maintenance Captain Rex, ARC Trooper Fives was way too invested in Rex’s appearance; he cared more than his superior officer did. Too many times, Rex had been on the receiving end of a lecture about how he should moisturize his face and grow out his hair. Only for Fives to devolve into an overly complicated list of extra steps he thought should be required for Rex to maintain his appearance, which did nothing to help Fives’s case, and only further convinced Rex that he did not want to grow his hair out. There was no way for Fives to know the legendary bramble of chaos Rex used to have on his head as a Cadet; not every Clone had been made with the effortless hair Private Tup had. All that work for him to stick his bucket on? No, thank you. After all, he was a soldier in the Grand Army of the Republic. The standard bar of soap was already multipurpose, at least for him; it washed his body, face, and hair just fine. So, his hair continued to be mowed down whenever it got past his usual buzz-cut.

Still, Rex could admit to himself that he was grateful for the thoughtfulness Fives put into the simple gift. Not only did it cost his man something to get the stuff to make the soap, but there was the effort of making it. However, that was Fives’s hobby, his interest, his taste—not Rex’s.

He wondered if Commander Cody would like it? He would contemplate giving it to General Skywalker, but it was a real roll of the dice if Skywalker would break out into hives, and next thing Rex would know, he’d have not only Fives’s whinging about ‘what was wrong with it, sir?’ to worry about, but Skywalker scratching endlessly when they were trying to survive combat. Force forbid gave another reason why Skywalker became a mad scientist, scheming with another Clone Trooper the way he did with Wolffe and his prosthetic eye, except now, with Fives’s frou-frou-y toiletries.

Completing the last step of his trim, he turned off the clippers and put them away. Then he ran his palms over his shorn-short hair and smirked with satisfaction at the soothing of the bristly hair under his touch.

Now Rex could move on to the next steps in his light-year-long to-do list while his kit was in the refresher to be refreshed—again, he couldn’t stand the smell.

Meaning it was time to put on his new blacks. But before doing so, he paused in front of his grooming station’s mirror and looked at the faint bruise imprinted on his chest. Fives must have really put an exurbanite strength into his kick; the bruise promised to darken over the next several hours, guaranteeing a gnarly shade of green by tomorrow morning. Under his fingers, Rex grimaced, feeling how much the swollen pectoral had ripened with sensitive tenderness.

Rex felt dismayed by how much his chest was already hurting, even this long after the incident; he knew it would only get worse, just like the bruise’s colors. However, he wasn’t going to let Fives know that it ached with enough soreness that he hissed through his teeth as he massaged the pectoral muscles.

It made him dread the fit of the newer, standard-issued blacks all the more.

The black undersuits, designed to be worn under a Clone Trooper’s armor, were the product of careful thought, down to their materials, cut, and weave, especially optimized for the newly released Phase 2 Armor kits. The neoprene weave compressed the muscles around the chest, along his back, and broad shoulders, just as it did the wearer’s legs and arms, providing extra support at the joints. The neck seal was flexible while retaining its shape. Over time, the elastic fibres would mould to the Trooper’s body and react with his body’s movements. But after a hot wash and a cold rinse, the elastic would return to its original shape. In an effort to limit how much armor had to be removed in the field, but give medics easier access to the wearer, the garment’s pieces had several seams with redundant magnetic seals, with one benefit being that fewer blacks were destroyed in the process, ultimately saving more credits for the Republic.

Master Sergeant Klinger had figured out why Rex preferred the fits of the blacks issued to Cadets. So, it was a surprise when he had no reason to be disappointed by the fit of the standard-issued, fresh set. Once on, he felt surprisingly comfortable. In fact, the fit was far better than he remembered. He wondered if a revision had been made to the weave’s pattern, and he had missed the notice; the possibility was in the same range as it being a silent release without fanfare.

It was either that or Rex’s chest was just too sore, meaning that if he had put on a fresh pair of Cadet blacks, he would have likely been more uncomfortable than he was with the looser fit.

Well, at least there was that.

Breaking the room’s silence with an excessively loud sigh of satisfaction, Rex sat down at his desk and took advantage of the short time he had left while his kit finished in the fresher; the clean cycle was almost complete, but then he would have to wait for the drying cycle.

So, he opened the data packet Cody had sent over and began to go through it. From his cursory flips between the various dataparcels, he found intel from three distinct naval fleets, their GAR counterparts, and Republic Intelligence, as was to be expected. The Commander had likely taken it upon himself to preemptively provide before Rex had a chance to submit a request.

Cody knew him too well.

Using the datapad’s stylus, he started jotting down notes on what he saw as he searched for patterns, irregularities, and any signs of what the Separatists might be thinking, beyond the obvious.

Among the obvious was the focused targeting along the Hydian Way Trade Route. Blitz attacks converged on key defensive and distribution hubs along the way.

Bare fingertips brushed over the pad’s screen, and with a flick, a select range of data was sent towards the holocaster’s terminal built into his desk. Now emitted into the open space in the form of a holoimage, Rex was given a far broader view of the information. The civilian bureau provided another angle of intel, which showed the civilian response to the military attacks. What Rex saw made the knot between his brows tighten like a drawstring.

Another movement between the pad and the holoprojector implemented an overlay based on the contents within the compiled intel reports against a rendered image of the affected galactic sectors. The computer system used an array of colored dots to distinguish the various controlling parties, and doppler circles emanated to show which specific targets had been struck by the Separatists.

The bulk of the controlling hands ranged from Republic military (army and navy) to civilian holdings, legitimate and illegitimate. Colorful strings wove from one point of light to another, weaving through the sectors and interconnecting the targets.

From afar, it would have looked like a string of colorful pearls had been hung on this section of the galaxy.

Like many things in Rex’s life, it could be beautiful… if he didn’t understand so well what it actually meant.

Rex took a moment to have the computer system filter through the data, enabling a new representation: animated eddies rippled over the threads, indicating the traffic flow through the region.

A rendered reenactment of the events played out, matching the timestamped scrolling accounts with the chrono-readings constantly streaming forward until it reached the end with a sudden jolt. Then, time was reset and the whole animation began again—and again—and again.

Replayed on a loop—running several times faster than the actual speed—the events went on and on—only the faint dings, pings, trills, and churrs filled the quietude. All the while, Rex’s eyes flitted about, following what seemed to have no discernible pattern.

With the same pull as a gravitational singularity, Rex’s eyes absorbed the light, relentlessly drawing in the information. Somewhere in the rear of his consciousness, the ARC’s mind worked like a multi-threaded processing core, correlating the new variables into seemingly endless arrangements against known data.

Glancing at the chrono, Rex noted the hour. Morning mess would be in full swing; technically, he knew he should go. However, he opted not to. There was still so much work left for him to wrap up, and he still had to digest this tactical data packet Commander Cody had forwarded him—plenty for him to chew on.

Plus, Rex didn’t feel up to trekking to the mess with the tension tight behind his eyes; his headache felt like a vibroblade had pierced straight through his eyeballs, into his brain matter. Just the thought of the hall’s bright lights, the rowdy buzz of his brothers’ voices numbering in the hundreds, and the smell of whatever Force-awful slop that would be served was enough to make his stomach drop out of his body and drag him under the waves of nausea his aching head attempted to drown him with.

Groaning briefly, Rex reached over to the control panel built into the desk and manually lowered the lights in his quarters further, relieving his head of some of the strain.

Then, he went back to focusing on dismantling the strategies employed by the Separatists that had been so successful in breaking down their defenses, chiefly the pressing issues of the attacks on their shipping lanes.

Searching for the secrets of the Separatists’ success and their future intentions, Rex stared into the glittering rivers of data the holocaster projected. Compiled details were illustrated using interwoven lines and blots of pale blues, highlighted with scattered instances of faded reds, mellow yellows, and every other combination of colors.

Rather than attempt to force the mysteries to reveal themselves, Rex passively let his eyes dance from one line to another; words and numbers were seared into his memory without being immediately processed. Sometimes things just made sense when they clicked together on their own.

Part of him also wandered off—not into the coruscated play of light, but into the shadowed canvas of the room. He saw beyond it, past the bulkhead, between the stars, into the void, where he drifted like debris on the Kaminoan waves.

For not the first time that morning, Rex was again struck by a pang of loss: he missed Echo, craved his friend, and couldn’t help but wonder how much fun they would have had tackling this puzzle together.

—*CHIPcheep*—*CHIPcheep*—

Of course, Rex was also aware that Echo’s presence would have made collaborating with Commander Wolffe difficult; the two just… couldn’t seem to get along.

He had always found Wolffe an easy vod to get along with; many wouldn’t agree with him, but that was surface-level. Likewise, Rex hadn’t originally gotten along with Echo as well as he would have liked, which only made their friendship stronger after they got over that hurdle.

And the two? Together? Wolffe tried too hard to be friendly and personable, which only made him even more awkward, and Echo tried too hard to be professional and respectfully distant. The only way the combo would have been more disastrous would be if Commander Cody had been present, and Commander Fox of the Coruscant Guard had decided to crash the party.

Poor Fives, he always decided to stay on the sidelines and wait until the fallout had settled, but he would have been utterly unprepared for Wolffe, Cody, Echo, and Fox all in the same room, and by no fault of his own.

Rex would have invited Alpha-17—the ori’vod always did love himself some good fraternal chaos and mayhem. He would have been so proud that he wouldn’t have had to do anything to start it, too. Sit back and enjoy the show.

—*CHIPcheep*—*CHIPcheep*—

Come to think of it, Cody and Echo also butted heads. But that was like saying water left things wet or that Kamino got a little rainy. Both individually butted heads with, well, everyone, which was how Rex knew Keeli would have probably tried to poach Echo, after making a decent effort at doing Lola Sayu’s work.

Kriff, both of Rex’s squads from the academy would have adored Echo, and if the war hadn’t taken as many as it had, scattering the rest, he knew that Fives would also be a quick favorite. Now, Wolffe and Cody were very fond of Fives. All Fives had to do to win over Wolffe was be warm, smiling, amicable, and unintimidated by Wolffe’s Wolffe-ness—in other words, Fives just had to be Fives. The latter because, overall, Fives was an impressive Trooper, but also a very easy chap to get along with; the only Clone more agreeable than Fives would probably be Gree.

Rex would trust no one if they didn’t like Gree. He was pretty certain that somewhere in the GAR’s regulations, there was a hidden subsection that not liking Commander Gree was grounds for a court-martial, and if the man were a Clone, his remains were to be immediately marked for a direct return to the Cloner’s quality control lab to dissect what the kriff went wrong.

—*CHIPcheep*—*CHIPcheep*—

Completely taken aback by the lapse of awareness, Rex jerked his fingers onto the pad and moved to retrieve whatever messages were in his text transmitter. As he flipped through the various open instances of basic communiques, he could tell he had missed a flurry of messages.

[[TEXT:(5555)] You coming for breakfast?

There was no one around to hear his nasally snort; he decided against responding that no, he had no intention of coming for breakfast.

[[TEXT:(5597)] Fives still feels guilty for getting ya so good, Cap.

Another sigh. Well, then maybe Jesse should tell Fives to quit it.

[[TEXT:(2224)] Heads-up: The Navy is pressing the issue over those two Marines.

[[TEXT:(2224)] Don’t know why we need to. The regs are clear. But the Navy isn’t happy with the punishment. I know Bacara probably just wants the matter resolved already.

[[TEXT:(2224)] But alas, the Navy is here to make us uncomfortable and miserable.

[[TEXT:(2224)] So, there will probably be a discussion about that.

That was not a discussion that Rex wanted to have. He wondered if it was too late to tell Kix about the incident on the sparring mat and his head-induced nausea; could he call in sick? Would that even work for a soldier?

[[TEXT:(6116)] Don’t come to breakfast this morning.

Now what? Rather than confirming his decision, Kix’s message only made Rex more suspicious that he should have gone, even if he didn’t eat anything.

[[TEXT:(2224)] We’re docking.

[[TEXT:(2224)] Not sure why we came to you, only to return to the Negotiator.

Probably because Yularen told Forsil to make sure the refit crews had a chance to work without Skywalker interfering.

[[TEXT:(2224)] Not here to meet us? Rude.

[[TEXT:(2224)] Your mechanics chose a lousy time to refit the transports.

Sorry, hard to schedule routine maintenance, let alone total refits, around the war—how rude of the Separatists.

[[TEXT:(2224)] Though, I guess there isn’t ever a good time during a war.

[[TEXT:(2224)] Skywalker and Kenobi are bickering. Already.

Well—duh.

Something that had been exposed to water had a high probability of being wet afterwards; if Aohl hadn’t gone supernova, the sky was more than likely some shade of grey and a topside march through the city probably called for rain gear; as long as lightsabers were hot, robes flamable, and Kenobi and Skywalker drew air, they would bicker—if one of them died, they’d probably still find a way to keep on.

One of the cornerstone principles of science was that of reproducibility—the predictability of observable outcomes in controlled circumstances.

[[TEXT:(2224)] I swear, Skywalker behaves worse when you aren’t around.

[[TEXT:(2224)] Does Kenobi behave better or worse without me?

Depends on who was asking. Rex thought Kenobi acted no different and was funny either way, but he knew that without Cody to split Kenobi’s Kenobi-isms, Skywalker got the full brunt of the same drive Alpha-17 had.

The old eating the young.

[[TEXT:(2224)] Normally, I would be entertained by their witty repertoire.

[[TEXT:(2224)] But Kenobi forgot to bring his wit.

The duty of an Executive Clone Officer was to be his superior’s backup wit—why else did they get paid such big heaps of credits?

[[TEXT:(2224)] And I’m assuming you are keeping Skywalker’s safe.

Actually, Rex didn’t get paid enough.

[[TEXT:(2224)] Because I haven’t seen him use it a lot thus far this morning.

Or anything.

[[TEXT:(2224)] What kind of influence have you been on Commander Tano?

[[TEXT:(2224)] Pretty sure she’s egging on Skywalker and Kenobi.

Oh, Rex could guarantee that, and not only because that was part of the influence he had had on her. She had come by it honestly, but he had definitely encouraged it—shamelessly.

Most recently, Rex had missed:

[[TEXT:(2224)] Almost time to larty back to the Negotiator.
[[TEXT:(2224)] Where are you?

From the reading on the chrono, Rex could see the countdown drawing tighter on the zero mark. Muttered nonsense escaped under his breath; he pried himself off the chair and quickly finished up his morning routine.

A familiar beep sounded from the desk’s console, then the projection flared as it hadn’t thus far. Like a segmented piece of his bucket’s HUD, the light blinked and alerted him to an incoming voice communique and displayed the registrant COMM-ID assigned: #2224.

Once Rex snatched up his control vambrace, he slapped the receive button, routing it through its built-in speaker. As he latched the band around his forearm, he listened to the transmission.

[[COMM:(2224)]] “Captain Rex.”

Commander Cody’s voice sounded resolved, hardened, though also edging towards skeptical concern.

[[COMM:(7567)]] “Captain Rex here, Commander.”

Rex’s acknowledgment was met on the other line by a heavy exhale—relief.

[[COMM:(2224)]] “Good to hear your voice, ole boy.”

[[COMM:(7567)]] “Good thing someone wants to hear it.”

Time to kit up.