Chapter Text
Far into the future, the event would be called any number of things; each an inference on how it affected the life of the speaker, and among the list of colloquialisms, it could be called by: Clone Regression, Clone Redress, Clone Emancipation, Critical Mass Failure, Clone Army Recall, and, simplest of all, Clone Change. However, some might call it a cataclysm. Either way, when it happened, it wasn’t hard to recognize that it was going to end up being a rather big deal, though just how large was inconceivable.
History would define it as: The Day the Republic Lost Its Army of Grown Super Soldiers, and Gained Custody of 7 million+ Babies.
When it happened, there was no warning, and there was no big and open event that could possibly point to a cause. Despite not happening all at once, it did happen quickly.
Despite the concept of time being a construct of sentience, it was an important one to those caught in the physical universe. Master Plo adhered to it with the reverence the Kel Dors were brought up with, and the diligence the Jedi showed their studies.
It was why, at any given location on the Hand of Justice, he might hear one or an entire squad of Clones singing the various children’s limericks to enforce a healthy discipline about the respect of time as an extension of respect for others and oneself. Ultimately, these sung games could be changed and used to create puzzles, one of the few things Clones enjoyed nearly as much—if not more than—fighting. Intelligent, adaptive men, they enjoyed being challenged, and often got uncomfortable with unpredictability outside of their comfortably regimented marital life.
Let it not be said, though, that they didn’t benefit from a few good routines, particularly when war cared as little for the schedules of others as a black hole would. Both distorted the flow of time, disrupted how it was allocated, and often moved with unconcerned unawareness.
As standard practice on a Republic Navy cruiser, the Hand of Justice maintained synchrony with the same timezone as the Republic’s Military Operations on Coruscant, known as Milops or HQ-000. Likewise, the Clones called it an exhaustive plethora of unnecessary iterations, such as Triple Zero, Trip O or Zero, T-Zero, and went on with the most remarkable creativity, as simple as a youngling trying to draw a flower from one of the exterior gardens. And no different than children, the Clones were just as proud, too, and sought acknowledgment from others.
However, when around the General, Coruscant (the planet) was always referenced by Commander Wolffe by its name, and Milops was referred to by some variety of HQ, rather than any other informal diminutive sobriquet. It was a small way of expressing presumed respect believed to be owed due to his superior’s rank. General Koon understood the importance of propriety; Master Plo loved it when his Commander slipped up and blurted out one of the Clones’ funny little colloquialisms. As he saw it, it was an opportunity to look deeper into the mindset of the Troopers. It was only fair, after all, seeing that at any given moment, a Clone could easily look up all manner of studies and information about the Kel Dorians; likewise, Plo was just as willing to answer questions about his species as he was to explain the so-called mysteries of the Jedi.
Patience was forced to continue its reign; it didn’t take Plo long to figure out that not only was Commander Wolffe a relatively shy Clone, especially if held in comparison to the energies of Sinker and Boost, but the Clones themselves were shy about their contemporaneous culture.
Again, it made Plo think of the Jedi’s smallest younglings bashfully insecure whether or not their little flower drawn in dyed wax should even be shared with others.
So, he waited.
Usually, patience worked. He would wait, and the Commander would come to him.
But it did work. Wolffe would come to him when there was a status report from either HQ, be it sector or Core; he came to the General when there was new information, or he had an alternate observation to offer; and slowly, much slower than the former, he came for his company, albeit still under the (flimsy) guise of duty-related justification.
Every morning, well before the sun would have cast its early rays on the Grand Army Republic headquarters, Plo could sit in his office, read his reports, review a staggering array of new information from multiple fronts, check on the most recent recorded minutes of any conference between Council members, and at exactly 5:28, he permit a waiting Commander Wolffe early entrance for their standing 5:30 meeting. Of course, the Commander was polite, so no matter what, he would chime the door, wait for permission, and step in. Just for the poor Clone’s anxiety, Plo had ensured a mat had been placed by the door for the Commander to wipe his boots off before he entered the office, even though they were his indoor set.
Never let anyone say that Clones were anything but fastidious about cleanliness. They liked to be clean, they liked their equipment clean, and they liked to keep their space clean. Dirtying someone’s space carelessly was disrespectful, and intentionally tracking filth might get someone’s bucket boxed right off his head if he were a Clone Trooper. For others, they bided their time to figure out a way to bring balance.
Plo had once witnessed a Navy Admiral put his mud-covered boots up on one of the holotables in front of his then-new Clone Commander Wolffe. Admiral Coburn had also been a witness, but he didn’t like his colleague very much, so he let it happen. Within two months, the Clones aboard the same Admiral’s cruiser made their position known when the filtration system in the crew quarters for the Navy personnel stopped filtering the filth from the shower chambers.
Being that Clones’ concept of respect and honor included a top-down approach, the Admiral’s misery was shared with his junior officers (his natborn officers), who had failed to step in and left the mess for others to clean up.
Needless to say, the Clones were thoroughly judicious.
When word reached the Hand of Justice, it openly delighted Admiral Coburn to no end, despite Commander Wolffe’s lack of outward approval.
A message had been passed along on behalf of the joint Army-Navy Clones to their new Admiral: despite the flag officer being in command of the ship, the admiral was expected to respect those who worked and operated the vessel in question, and disrespecting the ship was as good as denying the owed deference to the people who serviced it with pride.
The Troopers were of the opinion that the Admiral’s rank and service within the Navy did not give him the right to be so discourteous to their cruiser; it wasn’t merely a piece of equipment to the stationed Clones, but was their wartime home—something agreed upon by both the Navy’s junior service members and the GAR’s.
In summary: don’t be a disrespectful swamp rat.
Respect was a precious commodity to the Clones and something to be doled out with reverence.
Plo glanced at the chrono and read the time—5:31. Technically, only a minute late; Commander Wolffe was uncharacteristically late by three minutes. The read-out shifted, and now his respectful Clone Commander was late by four minutes.
Other than the times he was in the medbay, the Commander had never been late without advanced forewarning of the possibility; as the exact minute mark approached, another confirmation would be sent out. Even if Wolffe had been delayed, he would have commed to inform Plo, rather than allowing his time of entrance to pass without communication.
Tip. Tap. Plo counted the seconds on the end of a claw-cap.
In his old age, Plo broke away from Kel Dor expectations of nearly theocratic observance of time, especially if it came from others; he operated under the presumptive understanding that things happened. The Force flowed as it willed, and its relationship dynamics could be as capricious as the weather on Kamino. It wasn’t the inconvenience that distracted him.
He leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers together. Reflecting on his less-than-proper ease, Plo had to accept and respect that it came from on behalf of his Commander’s well-being. Anything could have delayed him, but it was so unusual that something extreme and likely personal had happened. Initially, he told himself to give it and the man his space. He had to trust that until he was informed otherwise, it must be of genuine concern to the Commander, though not likely a major threat to the Clone or the war efforts.
Only able to do so much about being too much, Plo leaned forward and resumed the work in front of him. For another fifteen minutes, it kept the Jedi Master occupied; it was only 5:32.
By 5:47, General Koon’s door had still not chimed, nor had his concentration been so welcomingly broken with the sound of Commander Wolffe’s voice. Actually, he hadn’t heard from any Clone.
“Admiral Coburn, have you heard from—”
“General Koon!” cut the Admiral’s gruff voice, coming in from the other end of the comms, “You won’t believe what has happened—”
The Admiral had been partially right; Koon didn’t outright believe what he had been informed. His skepticism followed all the way to the mess hall, reached shortly after he had all but broken out into a run to see for himself the Wookie-tall-tale he had been told. Over the high-pitched sounds, he acknowledged the situation and tore into it like his Master would have, “How many are accounted for?”
“Unfortunately, we’re missing quite a few. That’s why I didn’t reach out to you. My sailors have been trying to round ‘em up; nearly every droid that can be spared has been put into service for the search. Honestly, we all got too scared someone would get hurt, especially after how many were in places like engineering or the hangar bay; an ensign found one in a toilet bowl,” Coburn reported. Though Plo’s expression made no demands, it prompted him to reassure, “Don’t worry. That wee one was given a thorough cleaning.”
“Obviously.”
Grizzled old Coburn admitted, “My apologies for not coming to you earlier. As I said, we’ve been a little frantic.”
“Quite understandable.” Koon looked downward and watched as small blurs of bright colors danced, wiggled, and flailed. “What is the meaning of the bracelets?”
“Oh, those were Lt. Becker’s idea; a way to deal with not knowing who is who. The number refers to entries in a log of where the tyke was found, what was nearby, and who was in close proximity with each other,” Admiral Coburn explained. From behind his waist, he retrieved his hands and raised a datapad, indicating its precious records by wiggling his wrist.
“It appears you and your people have been remarkably thorough, considering the circumstances.”
“Tis nothing but all the experience we’ve had with search and rescue,” Coburn grumbled with a frown. Something caught the Admiral’s eye and softened his gnarled expression. “As long as we found ‘em all and no one is too badly hurt, I’ll admit, this is one of the more pleasant ones.”
Plo wanted to agree. With the focus he needed in a duel, he asked directly, “Any sign of Commander Wolffe?”
Referring back to the record, remorseful skepticism showed on Admiral Coburn’s face; it wasn’t long before Plo understood why his star-sailing colleague’s head had twitched side-to-side. “None,” Coburn answered succintly, before daring speculation, “Though, he may be lost in—”
Swiftly on the move, Plo left Coburn’s last words to fade to his back.
What became Plo Koon’s personal mission took far longer than he would have expected. He searched the Commander’s quarters, his formal and informal offices, the smaller Officer’s Lounge where Wolffe rarely did more than box himself into a corner because he felt obligated to be there; he even checked the ship’s tiny library. Despite the thoroughness of his searches, Koon’s executive officer was in none of the messes anywhere on the ship, and none of the locations had even given him a remnant piece of the Commander’s armor kit to start a trail.
Then, something caught his attention, and a single memory began to resonate, differentiating itself from the rest. As long as he followed the string of logic, Plo felt the Force also slowly refine its tune. By the time he entered the Navy Officers’ private galley, it felt like the resonance had slipped back into harmony.
The motion-activated lights raised the galley out of total darkness and into a twilight dimness.
Around the edge of an island of heavy kitchen equipment, Plo saw a familiar boot, its white sole cleaner than its top, painted what was now his favorite shade of grey. Around that corner, he found a scattered pile of plastoid armor parts and plates every which way on the floor, and some had even landed on the stove. Fortunately, the burners were deactivated; the smell of burnt plastoid was horrific enough to get past his breathing mask.
Something stirred as Plo approached the large industrial conservator against the back wall. So, he continued to step closer and closer, moving his boots only a few centimeters off the deck, nudging aside the pieces—each one he could have described by memory—of a Clone Trooper’s armor kit.
Once he got close to the individual piece he’d claim was the second most precious part of the Trooper’s armor, he bent down and picked it up. The viewfinder on top was rotated out of position; a smudge had dulled the bright red triangle. For not the first time, he rotated it in his hands and marveled at Comet’s hard work, tracing parts with the edge of his foreclaw. Obviously, the painted teeth had just been touched up, for the white was too bright; the still too-sharp painted edges were raised and wouldn’t go down for another few days. A glance inside let him know that the foam had just been replaced. It smelled of cleaner, blaster smoke, bitter kaf, and the classic bar of GAR soap.
Carefully, he placed it atop the countertop and looked around for signs of its wearer, when all of a sudden—
To Koon’s back, the oven door hissed itself closed.
Quietly, he retraced his steps past the debris field of clone armor, bent down, and peered in through the tinted see-through door; despite the darkness, he could still make out movement.
Near his boots, two wire trays were strewn about haphazardly.
Once more with caution, he pressed the control and let the oven’s door retract itself. Intended for the Navy Officers to make personal food, the oven was large, but nowhere near as large as what was found in the proper mess galleys. If a stubborn Clone—and Clones could be very stubborn—folded up his limbs, he still wouldn’t be able to squeeze his body in there, not even if it was stripped bare.
However, as it was, the oven had just enough room for a small, toddler-aged human to sit in.
“We shall be grateful that no one thought to preheat the oven,” Plo murmured.
Kel Dorian instincts told him not to reach into the oven to pull out the child. He looked around, pressed his palm into the floor, and felt it leech warmth into the deckplate. Prior to being closed up by its previous users, the galley had been dutifully cleaned, and all products from the baking practice session had been properly stowed away.
Yet, he found more armor spread about.
Lowly, Plo hummed thoughtfully. “I wonder where…” Standing upright, he focused on the conservator. After he approached, he opened the door and glanced within to find all sorts of things. Some were neatly labeled, while others were not. Treats and meals brought in from their off-duty lives filled the shelves and were stored away with the things prestocked by the logistics corpsmen.
Among them were trays of miniature cakes that had been baked within a tray with cup-like sections. Most were in various stages of a decorative process; some were sloppily done with about as much skill as Temple Younglings might have done, and others appeared to have been done by steadier hands.
“Hmmm… which one…” Plo considered the available options, smiling behind his mask before he had even made a selection. Eventually, he settled on one that had a base layer icing that was neatly piped, and candied beads edged the indents in a colorful swirl; it was, objectively speaking, the best-decorated one of the bunch. Careful not to disturb the others, Master Koon filched the baked treat, closed the door, and began his way back to the oven.
Through the heavy appliance’s opening, he saw a plump little hand try to close the oven door. Not one to leave others to flourish in ignorance, he politely informed his companion, “I locked the door in the open position. I apologize, I know you may want your den to hide in, but… I do need you to come out.”
Before he returned to his destination, he stopped and looked down at the floor.
There lay a simple set of two black panels of cut battleweave, decorated only by a simple tape of hemming fabric dyed to match the armored plates; haphazardly left to wrinkle, their state made him grieve—he frowned. One-handedly, he gingerly unhooked the fabric portion by the belt and took it along with the little cake back to the open oven door.
“I understand that an ARC’s kama is to be treated with reverence; I do apologize. However…” Plo crouched again. “I believe this is for a good cause, and the wearer will understand—if explained.” Laid flat and the silvery hems lined up, the two halves made a considerable mat on the floor. “I will make sure it is cleaned… by hand, as per the detailed instructions described to me; it was most fascinating,” the Jedi Master promised.
Looking down, he saw—hand-stitched with original 104th maroon—five simple characters: #3636. After he traced the detail with the end of a claw, he looked up at the small child’s face; his fingers were being watched as he touched the thread.
“He lost his whole armor kit when another ship, similar to this one…” Plo looked around the belly of the cruiser, as though he could see beyond the many layers of bulkhead. Looking down, he found that the child had mirrored him.
Oh, how enjoyable it was to witness, as he did, the small human’s curiosity.
Once Plo had those eyes on his goggles, he tried his best to smile; he knew how much the expression conveyed safety to humans, no matter the age. “…had been destroyed. Before that, in the course of a previous battle, his armor had already been irrevocably damaged, requiring replacement. We had just been assigned the ship when the new kit arrived. Of course, it needed to be painted. On our first mission in our new cruiser, he had been wearing his dress greys that shift, instead of his armor; he had hoped he could finish painting it in time for the next day.”
Based on what he had left in Admiral Coburn’s capable—if also overwhelmed—hands, the Jedi Master could see that this particular Little could be described as rather on quite the plumper side; he was also just a large little human.
“When he got his kit replaced, for the second time, I may have cornered him in his new quarters and asked questions about Clone Trooper armor. That was how he told me about various markings.” Pausing his words, he turned to look at the helmet.
It stared back without the life it had when worn by its wearer; quickly, his eyes found the detail painted just above the bridge of the bucket: a little red inverted triangle. He tried not to think about how it was earned and what it conveyed to other troopers. Wide eyes followed and tracked him with all the observationalness that the Jedi General expected to find; he could not find the same thing that earned a Clone that small red triangle.
Open innocence watched Plo; nothing could be sweeter.
How dare he—(though, he did)—wonder: Could this child be spared a little red triangle? Could the innocence be kept? Now that he had a taste of it, Plo never wanted it gone.
Around his mask, he smiled as his species did; something he had learned to do around near-humans. It creased around his mask and crinkled around his goggles. “That was how I learned what practical purpose their battlespats may serve, what they mean to their wearers, how they are to be treated. That was also how I first heard them referred to as… a skirt.” What he told the Little through his vocoder brought many memories of the first of many more nights when the General slowly coaxed his Clone Commander a little further out of his shyness.
Downward, Plo looked again, right onto the round-faced little human who continued to pay so much attention to him. As long as he had an audience, the old Jedi Master was happy to share his tale. “He began to sew, by hand, the fabric tape onto the edge of his new spats—this same pair. He hadn’t yet decided to change the colors of the 104th, which is why his stitched birth numbers are in it.” Each word seemed a crumb that tempted the Little to peer as far out of the oven as he could; several times, the kid threatened to topple out of his little hiding den.
Calmly, steadily, Plo continued to utilize his voice in an attempt to draw out the child’s comfort and confidence. “I quite liked the color, which is why I had picked it. Come to find out, he didn’t really like it. But as I told him, I’m not the one who will wear armor painted in the colors.”
Eventually, the human child became less overwhelmed by his anxiety, and his attention was drawn by the allure of the confection and its colorful icing. Plo heard the tiny stomach growl and snarl like it was a beast large enough to fill the room to its ceiling. Occasionally, the brown eyes darted back to the voice’s source, yet Plo knew what the child’s real focus had honed in on: the little baked treat nested in his palm.
Plo carefully offered his hand’s contents, keeping it just outside of the fingertip’s reach. “Hungry?”
Timidness, curiosity, and shy bravery looked back at him. Uncertainty held its ground until something far more basic won out: hunger.
Splayed finger stretched to their fullest, the tip of the distracted child’s little pink tongue poked out between his lips, but determination kept him extending his reach, far beyond where reasonable hope could maintain balance until—
With all the swift reflexes of a Jedi Master of his experience, Plo scooped up the kama like a receiving blanket, and in the same motion caught the child within his arms, just as the little human had tumbled out of the oven. In his graceful haste, he had abandoned the treat to the Force, leaving it to float in the air with all the faithfulness of a tiny sprite droid.
Rather than burst into a full-on fit of noisy tears, the toddler let out a murmured whine of discomfort and frustration. The face poured with shame, and the eyes became bright with brimming tears; to observe it, Plo felt an ache to see those lashes become so heavy with the rise of an incoming tide.
Sympathetic to another person’s dignity, even before awareness of it had been gained, Plo moved his hand ever so slowly and gently wrapped the thick battleweave around the child’s waist. Somehow, he even managed to get them around the toddler’s legs. He didn’t scold the child for the tears, be they stay where they were or shed their bounds.
Plo adjusted how he balanced the child’s full weight in his arms. Resettled, he went back to watching those large eyes check out the surroundings from the new height before looking back at him. A flattened palm patted on Koon’s mask; something bubbled, not quite a giggle, but undeniable curiosity, equal parts brashness and bashfulness. Once the cupcake was offered again and his plump hand was no longer empty, the child’s attention became occupied by the baked treat and all the colors iced on top.
Briefly watching the eyes trimmed in dark lashes, he felt he might have shared an exchange of gratitude and graciousness.
Pulled a little closer in tightened arms, the child looked up at him and tried to look through his goggles; he would have seen no stranger in Koon. Around the bounds of the Kel Dorian bronze mask, Plo finally said so softly…
“Hello, Commander Wolffe. It is good to see you, my friend.”