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Chapter Text

CT-7567 shared a face and a duty with thousands. 67’s hair was the same not-quite powdered egg color as some of his (decommissioned) batchmates. The young cadet’s tightly wound curls thrived in the constant and oppressive moisture, alongside a sixth of his siblings. CT-7567 had the matching eye to kaysh ge’sol runi, a golden eye to a blue. A blue to a golden eye.

            The Kaminoans didn’t care for variation but a decommission due cosmetic diversity was simply a waste when credits were to be made.

            It always came down to the credits, in the end. Young clones injured embracing their unprogrammed reckless streaks were the highest risk to profits. Attempts to reject the carefully constructed ecosystem their juvenile products grew in was accounted for as a critical part of the development. Trainers were instructed to turn a blind eye to a set amount of insubordination and then quickly correct the assets. Allowances for variation were calculated and negligible when their products knew the cost of too much rebellion. The standard deviation had to be kept standard after all.

            One had to be caught, however, to be punished for nonstandard deviancy. Every batch would differ, their creators knew this, but they underestimated the natural, innate individuality softly and secretively nurtured by every clone. Little acts of rebellion, tiny expressions of the spirit, the self would crop up in the hushed rotations between gloom and grey on the ocean-covered planet. A brother would show up with bits and pieces of cleaning droid-scraps, quietly laboring amongst the breaths of his batchmates. A swiped voice box from a decommissioned med-droid. A quick surveillance of his surroundings. Soft swing-beats and voices staticked from a brother’s sleeping area. Creeping feet of his batchmates. A horror, a shame, a smile. And a secret.

            The next brother—and countless others—would scrape together their instruments of self. A tinkered attachment for a vambrace. Swirls of stolen color beneath a thin sleeping pad. Unsteady designs permanently etched over a brother’s side, hip, or heart. An ill-fated bellybutton pierced with non-sterilized scrap (lessons were learned, medics involved in any future endeavors). Just as they claimed their name, every brother carved out a piece of the world for themselves amongst the overbearingly white halls.

            CT-7566 loved to read. 67 didn’t understand where he’d found (and hid) a working datapad; he assumed he traded with Hunk and pulled his lethal tooka-eyes on Crypt to get him secure access to the holonet. His sleeping pod above 67 was rarely silent, 66 would shuffle and sigh and squeak at odd hours when he discovered a new work. First call the night after was always a rude awakening, especially for 66 and 67, uncannily alike in both their looks—even amongst their brothers—and their exhaustion. In the throng of the mess on mornings like these, 67, without fail, silently placed his single drink ration for the day, a mug filled brown black sludge-disguised-as-caf, in front of 66. 66 would glare, passing the mug to 67. Hunk would snatch the mug with his much to put upon sigh, passing the worn metal down the line of amused and exasperated brothers until it made its way to Filch. Back down the line the mug went, sludge now a more manageable brown, until it found a home nestled in between 66’s perpetually freezing hands, hidden by the slouching of the clone. All was good. All would be okay once 66 took that first sip and excitedly chattered on about what new edges of the galaxy he ventured to. 67 would listen, the rest pretended to hold their own conversations.

            Batches clustered together. Brothers teasingly battled and betted. The CCs positioned themselves as the first line of defense, black-clad and occasionally armored. The CTs poorly hid their pilfered goods, hoarded knowledge, and modifications amongst the throng of red training fatigues. The musings of the mess were of little interest to their makers, much less their Trainers, the warm bodied and belly not-quite full space was another piece the brothers had silently claimed as their own. It was hidden, it was safe, it was theirs.

            (Later, the mess of their star destroyers paled in comparison; brothers lost every day, to a battle or to the war they could never escape).

            CT-7564 was built for heavy artillery. CT-7569 was slender, slightly more flexible, and liable to strain something easier. CT-7568 fit every desired mold before and after the 60s batchers. Hunk was boisterous but nothing more than whisper in the corridors when scavenging for bits and bobbles of broken things. Crypt had any number of tools and wire sown into his padded-out reds. Volk was a fixer; patching together scraps, fatigues, and frayed nerves. They breezed through first inspection with their buzzed chocolate curls to regulation and honey-eyed stare.

            CT-7566 and CT-7567 were of the same stock; a malfunction, an error, a misplaced code. Not an error warranting a loss of the whole experimental series, Nala Se reasoned after chastising a young scientist for the unscheduled and unapproved termination of CT-7565.  CT-7568 will be the approved template moving forward, pending review after completion of phase one education. Se’s gaze pointedly flicked between CT-7566 and CT-7567, the curled bodies of the boys facing one another, halos of shock blond fuzz curling along the curve of the crown to the nape. Find the error, patch it; use CT-7565 as it will not be useful otherwise. When CT-7566 and CT-7567 opened their eyes post-decanting, the young scientist did as instructed and ignored the cosmetic aberrations. Mutations in the genetic code were bound to happen and the tight-coiled curls and mismatched eyes didn’t have any bearing on the physical abilities of the CT units. They were physically fit, ready for education, ready for the incoming war. That was what they were made for, after all.

            “67,” a low voice whispered, tapping the exterior of a sleeping pod. Groaning, 67 unfolded himself and emerged, small curls sticking up every which way. In front of him gathered his batchmates, each quietly vibrating with excitement in their own way. Hunk and Volk sported grins that could only mean trouble. Even Crypt, the quiet bastard, sported an uncharacteristically soft smile, fresh scar pulling at the left corner of his lips. 66 was beaming, eyes a little red and bags deep around they eyes. “I’m claiming my name, vod.” 67 was up in a heartbeat, after tugging on boots as his brothers tried to stifle their snickers.

            “Careful their sharpshooter,” Hunk teased, “don’t wanna ruin your perfect record with a bonk to the dome,” punctuating his comment with a light tap of knuckles to 67’s forehead. Slapping the annoyance’s hand away, he frowned, and then noticed the flask in Volk’s hand. Ah, he’d seen Filch already tonight then. 67 regarded the container with a little frown, bordering on pout.

            “Fox is on door-check tonight.” Fox was ornery on a good day, only tempered by the amused placidity of Ponds and the equally biting tongues of Wolffe and Kote. Bly laughed and looked wounded in equal measure, usually settling on the former of the two. Any other of the CC’s would turn a blind eye to the celebration of a naming. Fox, however, liked rules so long as they didn’t apply to him. If they got caught, their squad would be dealing with the Command Class’s brand of cruel and unusual punishment: babysitting by Alpha-17. When the batch had managed to turn the tables on the elder clone and on to poor, unsuspecting CT’s, no one would ever know. More importantly, no one wanted to know what they did.

            Regardless, 67 did not enjoy the response to his comment. Namely, Hunk and Crypt shrugged. Volk squished his bedhead, patting 67 like a particularly upset cadet. 66, well, 66’s grin just got bigger.

            “Yes.” 67 was never good at saying no to that grin. And he really wanted Volk to stop patting him. It would graduate to squishing cheeks and the night would be lost to mock-coddling.

            “Fine,” sighed 67, resigned to one night of attempted joy before Alpha-17’s version of a “fun run” sucked his will to live into the deep trenches of Kamino’s seas.

             Claiming a name had no set ceremony, not set rules or bounds or guidelines. Every name was unique, a choice. A gift that a person can give to themselves to never be snatched away. A moment of redefining one’s voice, one’s cells, and their infinitesimal atoms. A roll call for the collection of stardust that makes up the self to align to. To live.

            Some announced their names in the mess, a throng of vode cheering and chanting, stomping, and singing off-key, stolen drinking hymns. Some kept the name close to their chest, hearts hammering as they tell a trusted brother to pass the word along amongst the sea of the same face. Some were given their names; bitten lips and bloodied teeth and animal-like gleams responsible for the storms known as Fox and Wolffe.

            All claims were celebrated, all claims cherished.

            Some brothers scaled the precarious dome that housed the main sleeping quarters. It was a test, really. A race against the sweat and sickness inducing height above the churning ocean. Salt-crusted and rusted bearings creaked underfoot, all that the fancy engineering in the galaxy could not combat the merciless kiss of nature. Still, rising to the challenge was the easy part.

            “Kyr'bes traat'aliit,” Volk’s voice rang out clear and true over the rhythmic crashing of the waves against the decks far below. The batchmates sharpened their stances, parade rest had been drilled into them as soon as they could toddle. “We borrow our name from the language of warriors. We use their tongue as we hope they intended; a weapon that will never leave us unarmed. We lay claim to our names, not of ancestors for we have none. We forge our home amongst the seas. We band together as squads, as stars to orbit. Witness as we recognize a warrior born anew.” Steady hands opened the flask, holding the drink out to 66. Eyes softened as the brother took the worn metal with one hand, Volk reaching for the other in his strong grasp. “Claim your name verd’ika.”

            A shuddering breath in. And then out.

Flask outstretched, 66 began softly, “I know the galaxy as others see it. The world is vast and full of stories. For my brothers, for my vode to know it like I do is my desire. To be the masters of our fate, the rulers of our journey is all I can wish for.” As the wind picked up, fluttering the loose end of the brothers’ red fatigues, 66’s quiet timbre became louder, strengthened by his declaration, “Tonight we drink vinum regum, rex vinorum. We drink the spirits of kings, we drink the king of wines. To share tonight with you, to drink with you as myself is all I ask.” 66 tipped the flask, the cringe on his face drawing chuckles from his brothers. “I ask that you name me as I am; I am Lalat be ve'vut to those marching far away. I am Aurie to the ones who march beside me.” Quickly, Aurie passed the flask back to Volk, face red but looking immensely pleased and relieved to recite his speech.

Kindness and love could be found in three pairs of brown eyes and two glaringly blue and gold.

“I, Nau'ul shal kyr'am, to those marching far away, Volkaryn to those beside me, march with you Aurie.” Like Aurie, Volk drank from the flask.

Two followed after.

“I, Shev'la sho'cye, to those marching far away, Hunk to those beside me, march with you Aurie.” A long drag, a poke in the ribs.

“I, Shukur bal demar bal gotal'ur, to those marching far away, Cryptograph to those beside me, march with you Aurie.” A small swing, followed by jeering and a bigger swig.

Crypt handed the flask back to Aurie, moving to stand beside Volk and Hunk. 67 faced his mirror, a creeping happiness overtaking his usually stoic disposition. Blue met blue. Gold met gold.

Aurie grabbed his brother’s shoulder, bringing their foreheads together, and pressed the cold metal into waiting hands. He stepped back.

67 took a breath, closing his eyes. 1, 2, 3. In. 3, 2, 1, Out. Open. Joy and warmth radiated from his line of three brothers, parade rest forgotten, shoulders slumped and bodies titled close together.

“I march with you, though I am yet to claim a name. I march to bring glory to Kyr'bes traat'aliit, to my squad.” 67 paused, unsure where to go, what to say. Unsure what to promise. Looking at his squad, his brothers in every sense of the word, their tranquil and proud expressions seared into 67’s memory. This peace, this grace, this moment of nothing and everything and existence is what he wished to hold in his too-young hands forever. “I-I march to bring peace to the galaxy, so when we join the eternal march, we leave this world better. Tonight, we drink to celebrate the death and birth of a warrior. Gal’gala vode!”

A chorus of “gal’gala vod” rang out cheerfully around him. 67 wished he’d noticed over the burn of whatever Filch had acquired. He passed the flask to Hunk, who’d laughed as he clapped 67’s back and wheedled his brother into a sitting position. A companionable quiet broke out amongst the batch, the five savoring the calming of the winds and the flavor of celebration.

            Oddly, it was Crypt who broke the silence, the now-bearer of a second flask that 67 really didn’t need to know where it came from or where his batchmate had stowed it. “What was the toast you made Aurie? Vinorem or something?”

            Aurie’s eyes sparkled, the gleam of a person who knows the answer and is prepared to talk at-length about the requested information. Hunk groaned, knowing the look, as Volk shushed him. It was Aurie’s night after all.

            “Wellll,” their brother started, “it’s a really old fragment from an ancient pre-Republic text. The jetti have an entire digitized archive of the texts for historians to look at without having to travel to Coruscant. Some have translations and it’s mostly old poetry.”

            “Welll,” Hunk parroted dryly, “if our jetti ever deem us worthy of showing up for, I’m sure you could formally inquire about any reading your little nerdy heart desires.” This comment had the opposite effect of what was intended as Aurie had yet to understand sarcasm.

            The newly named clone leaned back, worrying his lip, “I guess I could, but there would be so many forms.”

            Volk snorted, “Try being a medic.”

             Hunk groaned, “Not this agai—”

            “How much practice paperwork have yo—”

            “I don’t actually. I just point and sho—”

            Crypt interrupted the familiar argument with a sigh, “The toast, Auri’ka.”

            “Vinum regum, rex vinorum.” Aurie added hastily, "To the wine of kings, the king of wines."

            Crypt raised the drink, “To us good for nothings who are kings for this night. Though every dam day we raise our crowns.” He took a swing, passing it around the cluster.

            “To kings.”

            “To booze.”

            “To kings.” 67 repeated, exasperated, glaring at Hunk who simply turned squished his cheeks.

            Aurie’s batchmates turned to him expectantly, to finish the round and begin another. Raising the source of surefire killer hangovers come first call, he call out, “To us.”

            Sneaking back was easy. The next morning, however, was a brutality unlike anything that 67’s squad had ever experienced. The hangover was the easy part, a medic in one’s squad does tend to facilitate not so stellar self-care much to the chagrin of the aforementioned medics. Even the early nature of first call couldn’t dampen Aurie’s brightness and the passing on of the naming throughout the sleeping quarters. It wasn’t until a glowering Alpha-17 stalked into the mess and right to Crown Squad’s table that 67 knew with certainty that someone snitched. Alpha-17’s eyes, much colder and more tired than anticipated, bored into 67’s soul, touching some deep primal instinct to steal a ship, run, and never ever return. Alpha-17 scrunched his eyes, squinting at and surveying the squad but probably finding them lacking. Volk, because he apparently was decanted with no functioning fear response, pointed his stare right back at the man with a veneer of professional calm. It would’ve have fooled anyone but CC’s and above.  

            “Can my squad help you with anything,” Volk paused, as if lazily searching his brain for the correct address term for his commanding officer. Crypt stopped drinking his caf. Aurie paled, collapsing inwards. The mess gossip graduated from a low murmur to a chatter. Hunk continued to eat. Alpha-17 continued to stare at 67, ignoring the delicate but pointed, “sir?”

            Silence rested between the looming figure, 67, and Volk. The mess hall had suddenly and not unexpectedly turned into a free for all commentary zone. Most notably, however, were the hoots coming from the CC table.

            “Git' him Alpha! Come on an' show them the rules!” Wolffe yapped with a wildly exaggerated drawl behind a shit-eating grin and his penchant for being the actual worst.

            Bly had decided to start a running commentary one what the whole squad could have done to have Alpha-17 sicced on them in the morning. And the commentary was running, very loudly and at great speeds into the gossiping ears of the other tables of Commanders and Troopers. Unfortunately, that meant everyone in the mess was invested in whatever punishment the older clone saw fit to assign to the members of Crown Squad.

            Ponds had decided to stay neutral. Cody decided to look neutral until proven otherwise, there was no decision until then. Cody always chose a side. And that side would always win.

            That left Fox, who somehow managed to combine put-upon, exhausted, gleeful, and vindictive into a singular response to Bly’s motor-mouth, “I dunno Blyara," rolling each syllable off a condescending silver tongue. "Maybe you should march that interrogative streak all the way to the Coruscant guard; I’m sure they love a smooth talker like you.” Aquainted with and unperturbed by his batchmatche's utter assholeatry, Bly continued his rapid theorizing.

            67 would like to stay away from whatever that was with a very very very long pole.

            “Blondie.” Alpha-17 finally grunted out, pointing to 67 and then gestured to the chaos at the CC table. Oh no, the pole was getting shorter and shorter. “With me.” Hunk stopped eating. Crypt hissed quietly into his caf. Aurie was radiating horror at not being the blonde one picked on today. 67 numbly nodded, head ducked.

            “Yes sir.” Fox was an absolute bastard of the highest order. 67 spared a glance to Volk, hoping the speaker of his batch might put up some words of defense.

Blank stare still directed at Alpha-17, Volk inquired, “How long? I’ll need to inform Trainers ASAP to adjust our agenda.”

Another grunt, hardened durasteel eyes moving to Volk finally, measuring the plain clone up against the bullshit criteria that every clone in the Alpha series seemed to heap upon the batches after Crown's decanting. Volk met the steely gaze evenly. From one of the Trooper tables, a low whistle of appreciation sounded, then a smack. “All day. Paperwork is complete and your Trainers are informed.” The stoic and large man let out a small sigh, biting out tiredly, “It’s the least any of those rambunctious bastards can do.”

Volk, also an absolute bastard, shrugged. “Alright.” He went back to his meal as if he hadn’t casually acquiesced to 67’s death warrant. Alpha motioned for 67 to move his first meal over to the CC table and quickly turned before the man could collect his tray and caf.

“You all suck,” 67 quietly hissed out to his batchmates. Each and every one of them looked unrepentant; well, except for Aurie, but it was his fault after all. Hightailing away from his traitorous squad, 67 caught the tail end of Filtch asking,

“What happened?”

Hunk snorted, “Night watch spotted a blondie. Guess they weren't observant enough.”

A slap and a snort followed. 67 sighed, crossing the sea of the definitely not watching eyes of his brothers. Not a single one of them had a sympathetic look, well except for Kix but that might have been more of a grimace in anticipation of work to come.

Collecting his wits, he closed his eyes. Breathe. 1, 2, 3. In. 3, 2, 1, Out. Open. Glancing behind one last time, 67 saw his squad in tandem point at their eyes, moving the v in upwards to their foreheads.

Only Hunk mouthed the words: eyes up.

Eyes up, resigned to his future torment, he marched towards destiny.

Chapter Text

         No one was more surprised than CT-7567 when he managed to walk—more like a tottering, beached Aiwha than a cadet—back into the mess for final mealtime on the fated day his batchmates viciously and unceremoniously left him to the CC’s no so tender mercies. As the CT shakily passed through the gauntlet to the mealmline, the clustered murmurs of the brothers who hadn’t retreated to the barracks early were dotted with snickers and winces in equal measure. Falling into the short line, 67 leveled a vacant stare disinterestedly at the back of the trooper's in front of him. Several brothers fell in behind him. 67 ignored them diligently, moving through the line and quietly thanking Grub and 98 for the grey latemeal mush they slopped on to his tray. It was lukewarm. Grub seemingly took pity on the rattled CT, passing a chipped mug filled with a sharp, tangy alarmingly yellow liquid. It smelled metallic and a bit like a fermented version of their rehydrated camba-fruit meal rations; 67 muttered out another thanks and Grub grunted in return. Dutifully ignoring his pack of brothers clustered behind him, 67 sharply turned and made his way to a table in the outermost edge of the mess. Taking the corner seat, he sighed, head still down, and slowly dug into his slightly congealed meal. Not even two bites into his probably meat flavored slop—it was always hard to tell why flavor was included in their meal rations, but alas, it made some meals slightly less terrible than others—an unsubtle cough cut into 67's diligent and measured assessment of the latemeal in front of him.

          The blonde clone set his spoon down with a soft clink, then leveled his batchmates—all hovering in a line before him like lost cadets—with the most withering glare he could muster from his tired, aged soul.

          “Vod?” came the soft inquiry from Aurie. Oh, well, that was just cheating, throwing his ashi ge’sol at him immediately following his day of torture. While 67 would go to great lengths to assure Aurie’s happiness, his batchmates failed to account for the fact that 67 had been decanted with the uncanny ability to hold a grudge like a CC.

          (Waxer and Boil were still polishing their whole batch’s armor, even though it had been four months since Ponds had stopped imposing “surprise inspections.” No one knew what the dynamic duo had done to earn the ire of the most even-keeled CC batcher for nearly a year. Like most things associated with that particular CC batch, no one truly wanted to know.)

           So, 67 returned to his meal, immediately learning that his mug full of delicious, fermented, and probably medically inadvisable liquid from Grub and 98's against regs brewing operation had been swiped. Ah, so he still had to deal with this particular brand of osik, even during mealtime. Steely blue and dangerously glinted golden eyes were directed back towards his batchmates, he saw Aurie brighten behind his fearful expression at his brother redirecting his attention to the loiterers. The eyes soon listed right to the line of his batchmates, narrowing in on Wolffe's retreating, smug figure sauntering back to the CC table, a mug in his hands. Bastard even turned around and grinned at 67, offering him a small salute and a long drag from the snatched mug as he settled down next to his own batchmates.

           67’s own brothers hadn’t even noticed the swiping, typical. Letting out yet another world-weary sigh for someone so young, he offered his spoon out to Crypt like some sort of offering. His mismatched eyes were still locked on the mug currently in possession of the CC table.

          “Spoon for vibroknife.” All four brothers followed 67’s eyeline. One winced. One guffawed. One’s face fell in horror. The remaining took the spoon and tucked the implement underneath his reds. Crypt then removed a vibroknife with a hilt that had seen better day from the abyss underneath his fatigues where the spoon had disappeared moments before.

           67 took the knife.

           Volk, the sensible one, had shoved Hunk and Aurie to block the CC’s sightline. What a great team leader, it almost made up for his absolute betrayal at firstmeal. “Alright, but you are patching yourself up if you get stabbed with your own knife.”

           67 smiled, a crooked thing that barely hid the cascades of rage at whatever it was that Alpha-17 (but mostly the CC’s) had subjected him to. “Kix owes me a few favors.”

           Hunk, now having corralled his frankly unnecessary laughter at the implication of stabbing, spluttered, “A few?” A pierced eyebrow raised. “Now that’s a story you’ve yet to share ver’dika.”

            67 shrugged and stood, tucking the knife into a worn leather armband gifted by Filtch after besting him in blaster training underneath his reds. “Don’t tell you shebse everything.” Hunk turned to Aurie—who 67 did in fact tell everything—but found his wellspring of gossip on his batchmate vibrating with anxiety. Figures. 

            “Ge’runi,” steady golden and blue eyes met their widened and panicked twin's, “please no. Vod, gedet'ye, nāyc.” The last implored word was drawn out, pleading with his brother to see reason. Hunk’s hand clamped down on Aurie’s shoulder, head shaking, and lowered them both to sit next to their other batchmates who were perfectly content to watch this slow star destroyer wreck happen. 67’s gaze was firmly fixed back on the object of his ire, who, at this point, had foolishly been dragged into whatever commotion the CC table had cooked up.

Surrendering to the stupidity, Aurie buried his face in his arms. “He’s gonna get stabbed with his own knife.”

            Not turning to face his brothers, 67 commented mildly, “I’ll stab Hunk if he doesn’t get his grubby mitts off my food.” Hunk’s hand slowly retreated away from the now definitely cold goo on 67’s tray. Food secure under one watchful eye of Volk and Hunk’s short-lived guilt at being caught, 67 held his head high. He squared back his shoulders and marched over to the boisterous table filled with their future commanders.

            To no one’s shock, Cody and Ponds had clocked the intent of the cloud of bitter CT that had made his way over to their table. Ponds didn’t care enough to comment, securing the last piece of his armor before leaving for corridor patrol. Cody only cared tangentially, as this was the CT they had spent the better part of the day scrutinizing. He liked to scrutinize, it was one of his favorite pastimes. Who was he to pass up the chance to passively interrogate the young trooper even more?

            When CT-7567 had followed Alpha-17 and the squad of CCs to their duties throughout the day, he had done so without complaint and perfectly regulation volumed yessirs. So, about halfway through the day, when 67’s legs were all but mealtime mush after running Alpha’s version of suicides (in full armor, a weight pack, weapons, and balancing two spoons in each with wet, tied socks), that’s when the CC’s had upped the ante. Everyone knew that half of the war was the paperwork for the war. All clones, from tubies to CCs to Alphas to duds, knew that datawork would fall to them. No natborn officer, or little gods forbidding their assigned jetti, would stoop so low as to fill out the unending maintenance and requisition and inspection forms. The clones were created to keep going when the energies of those not built for war burnt out; they were made to be the backbone of a battle, a campaign, a galaxy-wide conflict—replicable, replaceable but valuable. Above all else, the line of CCs were the Kaminoan’s greatest and most dangerous creations. Ingenuity was cultivated. Access and education were provided. They were lethal, not just because Alpha-17 had shaped their violence to surgical precision, but because they were given access to more knowledge than the more-sheltered series that came after them. While datawork was a necessity, it was also a ball and chain that trapped those slated for Command to it for an extended period a time. A requirement to ensure no Commanders stepped out of line as they were documented. They were watched.

(This system, however, had a massive, glaring flaw. Maybe it was due to cultural differences, but Kaminoan’s didn’t obfuscate nor lie. They omitted. It, then, would surprise the cloners that their products would learn how to not tell the whole truth. First, on forms. Then, to their COs and generals. Then, to their creators. Lastly, to one another.)

            The CT knew that the CCs spent time learning, practicing, and completing datawork; the management and functions of the older clone squads had been delegated by their creators and Trainers—fewer and fewer in number as the years waned—to the Alphas and the CC squadrons.

What 67 never really understood until that fateful afternoon spent with his future COs was how much datawork it took to keep Kamino running for even a day.

            What the squad neglected to tell CT-7567 was that he was working through the practice forms that came along with managing an entire battalion. If Alpha’s training couldn’t break the quiet, obedient brother, then the mind numbing, endless, and confusing, intentionally so swore Bly, nature of datawork was sure to do it for them. Ponds, the kindest of the hardasses, had thrown their younger brother a bone and had directed him to fill out the forms based off of a particular pre-Republic battle’s specs; the text that Ponds had uploaded as an aid, however, had the added benefit of being a 200 page long, dense, historical report and transferred onto the holonet via a poorly lit hand scanner. At one point Alpha-17 had unsubtly loomed over 67’s shoulder to see what torture his erstwhile charges had saddled the CT with, gone just a bit pale at the page count, and grumbly excused himself from the ticking time bomb. Never let it be said that Alpha-17 did not know when to employ a strategic retreat.

            It took an hour of quiet work and thoughtful hums from their day’s shadow that Fox realized that the kid wasn’t going to break in the face of paperwork. In fact, CT-7567 seemed to be enjoying or at least tolerating the work they had given him. Every time one of the CCs checked in, the trooper was so involved in his work that the mask of professional obedience began to slip a bit. It seemed obvious, to Fox at least, that they had a resident nerd on their hands. And so, they escalated. It started out small at first; they had provided 67 with two pens to complete his stack of flimsiwork Cody had ceremoniously dumped in front of him. Wolffe stole one of the pens ten minutes after Fox’s realization. Eyes glued to GAR Form 2062 (for Property Accountability), subsection Theta (for munitions requisitions, usages, and totals post-engagement), 67 didn’t notice the loss of the first pen. When their charge for the day set aside the flimsi and pen to read through another dense paragraph on his datapad, Fox made his move. Ten minutes later, 67’s glazed eyes shifted from his reading to the half-completed form. A small frown worked its way across his face as the CT softly tapped where his pen used to be.

            Five sets of identical eyes subtly peered over their own datawork to watch their companion’s reaction. Fox expected embarrassment. Wolffe expected anger. Ponds and Bly withheld judgement. Cody was actually doing his datawork and only paused as his batchmates had clearly stopped for something. What nobody expected was for 67 to close his mismatched eyes, hiding the eerily blue and glistening gold.

Breathe. 1, 2, 3. In. 3, 2, 1, Out. Open.

A sharpened and steely gaze directed its way to Fox and Wolffe.

“Excuse me sirs.” All five took this opening to forgo their work, the CT hadn’t specified which CO he was addressing. Cheeky. 67 was silent. That was fine. This batch had basically been reared by Alpha-17; no tense silence could compare to that which preceded and proceeded their stoic caretaker’s attempt at sexual education when they were still cadets. Their younger brother could not hold a candle to that whole experience. 

67, simply grabbed his form, holding it out in front the CCs, and cocked his head towards Ponds as well. Politely, with no trace of anger or the long-suffering face that plagued the blonde around his own batchmates, he requested, “If Wolffe and Fox could return my pens that would be optimal.” Two sets of honey eyes narrowed. “Also, if Ponds could unearth form 2062 from his pile it would be appreciated.” A golden eye twitched with an added, “Sirs.” Fox sneered. Wolffe let out a barking laugh. Ponds shuffled through his stack of flimsi and swapped the proffered form with the one dotted in 67’s teeny, neat handwriting. Neater and more practiced than most of his agemates, Cody noted absently as the flimsi exchange occurred.

Fox threw the pen back, turning back to softly tapping out something on his datapad, his fun now spoiled. Wolffe, however, just grinned at the CT. Bly groaned, seeing his batchmate lean back into the shaded corner of his bunk.

“Come on vod, don’t start this shit again.” His batchmate's pleas went ignored.

Perhaps foolishly, 67’s gaze didn’t waver from the future commander poised like a cornered animal awaiting prey foolish enough to stick their fingers in a cage.

“Sorry kid,” oh 67 bristled at that, a minute shifting of the shoulders back, “finders keepers.”

A pause. “Alright.” Eyes once again cast down to his datapad, reflected light cooling the sharp blues and golds, as 67 got to work. He tucked his pen behind an ear and shuffled his flimsi to his lap as much as he could. A tactical repositioning of assets. Very smart and very necessary as Fox, Ponds, and Wolffe did not let up on their ribbing the rest of the afternoon, including the completion of the rest of the flimsiwork and four runs through the Citadel course with their additional squad member for the day.

The flimsiwork told Cody that this trooper was organized and efficient, he’d be wasted on the battlefield and should be moved to bridge training immediately. The Citadel forced Kote to reconsider his initial assessment. All the commanders had heard of the Blondies, the duo amongst a batch that had barely avoided complete, and total decommission. Crown Squad had their own reputation; a little odd but good at what they did. The two blondes, however, were ge’sol runi, missing halves, intertwined souls that were already deadly without one another and lethal when together. Another pair, Waxer and Boil, were of a similar stock (Cody was eyeing them for his company he knew he’d be assigned, teamwork like that was invaluable for scouts) but drew less ire and attention as they were of the model template. Brown haired, strong but not massively built, and calculating honey-eyes like their batchmates.

            The Blondies were blond, for one. Which, in the grand scheme of the GAR, did not matter. Their eyes, however, were unnervingly odd. Heterochromia, not bizarre. Other brothers had cropped up with the trait, variations on hazel and dark brown, but not with a single stark blue eye.

            Their eyes, it seemed, saw far more than the rest of their brothers. Aurie, the recently named trooper, totted around a lovingly cared for rifle named Matilda. CT-7567, their charge for the day, simply carried his standard issue blaster, geared up like any CT foot soldier. When Bly went down before his run at breaching the enemy wall, 67 dragged the CC behind cover and plucked his fallen brother’s blaster with his free hand. Cody observed this interaction from his perch through his scope; the stealth run was busted, and they would reset the drill to try again.

            Except, CT-7567 didn’t call for a cease in operations. Instead he nodded to Bly, shifted in his protected crouch so he was facing the training droids and vaulted over their cover. He ran forward, wielding two pistols that were felling the line of clankers with ease and precision. Amidst the provided distraction, Cody hadn’t noticed that Fox and Wolffe had made contact behind enemy lines. He could only stare through his scope, a not-quite gasp caught between his lungs and his throat in his prone position. CT-7567 had brought his brother behind cover. CT-7567 had not called for backup or that the mission was compromised. CT-7567 took his vod’s karking blaster and ran out, blazing to provide a moment’s distraction for the mission to work. CT-7567, charging with two blasters in hand, fell a line of clankers at a distance and angle where most brothers would struggle to hit one just standing still. Unfucking believable. 

            Cody was rarely impressed. An impressed Cody was an intrigued Cody. And this intrifued Cody really wanted to know how someone who was so disgustingly competent was hiding it. He didn't need to know why. Kote and all the vode all knew why anyway. As such, when the CT made his was over to their table, while Cody’s care for whatever happened to Wolffe was tangential, he set down his own mug and fixed his eyes on the proceedings.

            Wolffe had yet to notice or elected to ignore the presence quickly growing irritated to his right. If he hadn’t noticed, shame on him. If he was ignoring the issue, double shame on him for not confronting the mess of his making. It was very important as Commanders for them to model good behavior, or something to that effect. There would have been no issue if the mug was out of the man’s hands. Unfortunately, the commander talked with his hands and was thus utilizing 67’s gifted mug of very illegal and most definitely cherished juice like a prop to punctuate whatever story Fox was pretending to listen to. The intensity of the story picked up. The growing irritability of 67 was palpable at this point.

            It was also at this point that Bly, bless the bastard for being the only one decanted with a modicum of an ability to read a room, noticed the dark presence behind his batchmate. Wolffe’s story was apparently ratcheting up in intensity, so much that the bright yellow liquid threatened to swirl out of the mug. Cody’s brows imperceptibly furrowed together. Fox started to pay attention to the threat to his brother’s bodily safety behind him. Bly winced, “Hey vod—”

            Alas, Bly never finished his sentence and Wolffe never finished his story as the blade of a vibroknife kissed his throat. Huh, had Cody blinked?

            Unperturbed and an idiot at heart, Wolffe tried to turn his head. The blade pressed further.

            “Mug down. If you spill a drop I will remove those pilfering hands you snatched it with.”

            Wolffe waggled his brows, unseen by the brother threatening him but definitely seen by his brothers, one wearing a face of glee and the other of exasperation. “Oh, didn’t know you know what pilfering meant CT.” The blade did not move or waver from his throat. The CC bit out, “fine,” and lowered the mug gently on to the table. A hand slowly reached out from behind him and dragged the stolen goods out of his eyeline. The mess was quiet, not a peep or a murmur to be found. Only the curious eyes of the older troopers who were still awake (thank goodness cadets had earlier, actually enforced curfews). 

            “You gonna move that, kid?” Wolffe grunted, gesturing to the knife with a hand now bereft of the snatched cup.

            “I’m thinking about it.” 67 said coolly. The blade hummed. Wolffe sat calmly with it to his neck. Bly and Fox's expressions moved towards a mix of confused, appreciative, and astounded. Bly at the CT”s astounding bravery. Fox at his batchmate's astoundingly overbearing stupidity. Cody, for his part, simply sat there as witness to a murder if things went south or as witness to a much-needed public instincts check for his unruly batchmate. Win-win for Kote.

            Three things happened very quickly. The hum of the vibroknife went out. Wolffe swung out and turned blindly, trying to snatch the collar of his attacker with little success. CT-7567 had sprung up and quickly marched back from whence he came, mug in hand, blade disappeared. Halfway back to the table where his batchmates were perched, mortified and delighted in equal measure, he turned to the CC table. A glowering Wolffe was held in place by Alpha-17’s hand at his nape. Alpha radiated amusement and exasperation. Ponds, still in armor, was unreadable but still maintained his standing as the one in the hell CC batch with the most common sense.

            CT-7567 decided that he’d committed. And he’d played by their rules the whole day. He could press his advantage. Breathe. 1, 2, 3. In. 3, 2, 1, Out. Open.

67 removed one hand clutching the mud to reveal the pen Wolffe had taken from him earlier in the day. Bly wheezed. Ponds snorted. One of Cody’s eyebrows raised slightly higher. Alpha sighed as Wolffe squirmed. Fox stood, mortified, realizing what was to come. 

“Hey Wolffe,” 67 grinned, his batchmates swearing at his back as he twirled the pen in his free hand. “Finder’s keepers.”

Chapter Text

Life was as normal as it could be after the incident with 67 and the CCs. Volk referred to the day as The Incident. Aurie put forth rebranding it as The Nightmare. Hunk would snicker unsubtly, lovingly cuffing the back of 67’s head at the immediate aura of embarrassment and sulk that the clone retreated into when the day was mentioned. Because Crypt agreed with Volk, however, The Incident remained the title of the day of 67’s exile to the Command Clone batch.

When casting votes during a lull on a sim-focused training day, 67 was informed that he wouldn’t be allowed a vote as he was clearly not objective. Upon protesting, Volk simply leveled his batchmate with an unimpressed eyebrow crawling towards a regulation-perfect hairline.

“Stabbing.”

67 noted, petulantly, “I didn’t get stabbed.”

“But you did, in fact, threaten, who, again with stabbing?” Volk’s question was both rhetorical.  And, more importantly, punctuated the beginning of the airing of his grievances over 67’s stupidity. The brother curled inwards, as if sinking into his frame would diminish the rapid reddening of his ears and divert Volk’s attention away from the object of his ire.

“A Commander.” The medic answered in lieu of actually waiting for his batchmate’s response.

“Volk,” 67 attempted to cut in.

“And which Commander, again?” Volk barreled onwards, uncaring of protests now that he had a semi-private area to commit to his diatribe.

“Wolffe.” Crypt chimed in helpfully from where he’d nestled himself in a corner, methodically disassembling and reassembling his blaster, hands itching for something to do. Absentmindedly, he added, “Admittedly, you chose the most bothersome one to poke. At least Commanders Bly or Fox stood a better chance of preventing The Incident from developing further.”

Hunk snorted, hefting his heavily modified Z-6, scraped to hell with poorly etched drawings, off his shoulder and on to one of the flimsy tables shoved on to one lonely wall in the prep room Crown Squad had claimed. They would swap with the other squad assigned to their simulation center that day between run throughs of the course. The older batches were moved to retrofitted training centers a few rotations previous. The Kaminoans had rotated the troopers to older barracks, less sleeked white and obviously repurposed from other cloning projects. It was odd, to see scuffed walls and well-worn furniture; the central laboratories and dome where the vod’e had trained initially were pristine, organized, and new—sleekness and order oozed throughout the complex. In the beginning, state of the art battle droids, the B1 models, were used in sims. Two to-scale practice venators were explored by tubies and shinies of all specializations and designations alike. In an inevitable right of passage, an older brother would have to drag lost cadets out of the nooks and crannies littered throughout the ships. Each trooper was permitted to carry and expected to care for their arms of choice, DCs and Z-model artillery.

(Later batches would recount tales of changes as the war progressed. Oddly, a new model of droid would be incorporated into the training regime a standard rotation or so after a conflict. It seemed that the clankers showed up to Kamino’s doorstep following these battle cycles. Kote had noted the pattern in his spreadsheet, his informants spread through the galaxy and amongst almost every level of the GAR, suspicious but never sure if the longnecks were dealing with the Trade Federation. This war was too meticulous, surpluses of information swelled within the ranks of the vod’e and yet Command kept behaving as if the Republic was acting in a deficit. It was only through the knowledge that came from the shinies, looking less and less sharp, too young, that kept some of the second generation—not many of the original batchers made it out from beneath the dust of Geonosis—clones alive.)

These other domes were an afterthought, warbling against high winds that plagued the planet, an oversight amongst a mass movement of products that should have never occurred with their strict schedule. The buildings were worn, things used earlier and left to rot, to be torn asunder by the ever-bitter tides of the ocean. Permanence was of little value when one could modify their likeness for the next generation. The continued existence of the longnecks was assured by the retention of their consciousness.  So, the scientists were unprepared for the housing and caring of beings who subsisted off connection, off life and enjoyment. Of all the complex problems they’d solved, the scientists of Kamino were never able to take away the essence of a person. The singularity and warmth of a soul. Like snow-ridden planets, a glance at the surface gleamed back a heady sheen of white. But the ice beneath was a mixture of infinitesimal, unequivocally distinct flakes at a second pass, coming together to form something bigger. The clones yearned for individuality at the expense of following orders, following a directive. They could and would choose their siblings over the greater authority they were created to serve.

And so, the chips were developed.

(If you cannot design their loyalty, weaponize it. No matter the outcome, the Jedi's faith in their tools will be destroyed forever when betrayal overwhelmed the senses. An old man wandering the wastes of a planet with two suns knows that lesson well. A wheezing thing, more machine than the man whose smile once glimmered with the hunger and sheer presence of a karyat dragon, was the example. A slithering thing, oily yet sharp, the teacher and conductor of the exercise in loss.)

Every batch after 67’s mirrored Volk. Shades of hair varied in the light, not by vast swathes of the color scale. These mimics were separated from the older generations. Not much contact even with the trainers. The separation was clear. The older ones would well and truly be the first to march towards death. By virtue of their age, their circumstantial and random placement in a lineage they never asked to be a part of, the members of Crown Squad knew that they would be among the initial front line when the war came. If the war were ever to come, their outgrowing of the older facilities on Kamino was an outstanding and intriguing event but ultimately useless change in the grand scheme of the War. A period of change that signaled something wasn't quite right, but there was no one else besides the vod'e to witness the oddity. Some brothers thought that the War the Kaminoans were preparing them for was delayed. Some even whispered, between calloused hands and bloodied teeth, that there was no War. Those brothers, often, found their way into the light greys of the dreaded, tight lipped, and vacant-eyed Facility guard.

(And those brothers couldn't remember their names.)

The batch continued bickering over the weak protests of a deeply regretful 67.

“That’s only cause’ Commander Fox hates extra paperwork. And Commander Bly is nice—”

“Oh? And does your definition of nice includes a high stakes obstacle course around all the main towers, kih sho'cye?” Aurie cut in, clearly smug at Hunk’s forgetfulness of Filtch’s harrowing punishment he underwent from the objectively nicest Commander in the feral CC batch. Hunk scoffed, but a—

“Thank you, Crypt.” Cut the brother off. Volk replied to the original contributor to the conversation kindly, indigent noises of protest from Hunk and Aurie going ignored, like most of their squabbles. Volk pinned his gaze on the embarrassed brother trying to crawl deeper into his armor. “And what, exactly, did you stomp over and tell him you were about to do?”

“Stab him.”

“You told a Commanding. Officer.” Aurie dodged the waving hands of Volk as the lecturing picked up in speed. Hunk nicked the medic's sidearm, placing it next to his own before the urge to use the blaster as a gesturing aid in his rant overtook his brother’s typically impenetrable common sense. It had happened before. 99 had simply laughed but Volk was still mortified. “That you would ‘removing his thieving—'”

“Pilfering,” Aurie chimed in, all soft voiced and caring where he’d taken refuge in the corner next to Crypt, conspicuously away from flailing arms and batchmates he’d verbally poked. 67 shot his brother a withering glance, mouthing a sharp aruetii. Aurie shrugged, nestled into his secure and safe vantage point at Crypt’s side, steadfastly joining him in weapons maintenance.

“Pilfering.” Volk nodded to his brother in assent. He was good at that, acknowledging people, meeting them head on, and letting them know that they’d been seen. It made him an effective medic. It made him a nosy and lecture prone ori’vod as well. Hazel-gold eyes bored into 67’s mismatched pair. “Pilfering hands.”

Discomfort radiated throughout the small prep room the clones had commandeered. Volk’s tone was even to any observer, but his squad could pick apart the unease and worry laced throughout the rant.

Hunk gently grabbed his brothers’ shoulders, slinging his arms around and securing them to his side like a particularly attentive noodle. 67’s ears burned, gaze darting everywhere but at his brothers. Volk sighed, tired.

“Come on you two. It doesn’t matter now.” Hunk rumbled out lazily but reproaching of the unofficial head of their squad, the playful rant now gone sour. Fully securing his grip on the blonde clone, he continued, “Like I said before, the Commanders don’t ever report on low-level offenses, too much paperwork with all the crap the eggheads shuffled off to them.” Hunk’s brother squirming to escape the vice-grip stopped at the mention of the Kaminoan scientists and skipped paperwork.

“But not all squads are defective.” The batch collectively flinched. “Hunk.” 67 added, licking chapped, anxiety-bitten lips. “Volk’s right, I pulled a di’kutla maneuver and drew more attention to us.” The clone shrugged off his brother’s jostled grip, body still slumped to make himself smaller than his commanding officer. “I apologize, Volkaryn, sir.” A pause. The rhythmic and almost-silent clicks of Crypt’s maintenance filled the white-walled space. “For drawing attention to our squad as well.”

“Don’t call me sir, 67.” Volk sighed, “No, 67. I am sorry ver’dika, I should have pulled you out.”

“That’s not your job Volk.”

“It is exactly what we all agreed I would do, khivod.” The medic reasoned, the endearment more placating than chastising. 67 still bristled. “You voted me leader of this squad so I shouldn’t have sent you in.”

“You make it sound like a battle. Like something worse than it was.”

“Again, might I point out: you threatened to not only stab a superior officer but to also remove his hands in the middle of the mess hall.” Volk grimaced. He had watched. Too apathetic and tired from the day to step in. "It's an overeaction at best-"

"And at worse?" 67 cut in, voice harsh and cutting, Mismatched eyes flashed brightly with fury, then glazed over with an unreadable emotion, “You don’t even care that I threatened a Commander, do you?” Anger laced throughout the room, hooking and fraying the nerves of the blonde’s batchmates.

“Ver’dika—” Hunk warned evenly at 67’s shift in tone.

“It’s because I got angry, right?” 67 continued, speech becoming frantic. “And you felt it so now you worry that I’m going to get us all decommissioned, right?”

Another hand clasped 67’s shoulder, Aurie’s presence, warm and grounding washed over 67. “No, Ge’runi, I’m sure that’s not what oribaar’ur thinks.”

“But it’s true,” a drifting voice arising from the corner, eyes fixated on the cluster of brothers. Crypt nodded towards Volk, “it’s an Incident because they’ll keep an eye on us if we’re aggressive, if we’re angry,” His hands jerked backwards instinctively searching for something in too-long, red sleeves instead of skin-stuck, plastoid armor. “They’ll send us out first. And they will expect us to die.”

“I’m a liability.” 67 muttered between fluttering heartbeats rising and clawing against his breastbone. “Again.”

A dour silence. A surge of panic and fear and guiltguiltguilt that would never go away.

Emotions were a vile, bitter thing, like plunging into cool depths only for the salty sea to filter into your head, drowning all thoughts as open eyes stung and lungs gasped for purchase against the roiling tide.

“Stop!”

“Ver’dika,” admonishing with a touch of panic.

Hands cupped 67’s cheeks, blurry smears, hazy sensations of whites, browns, blacks, and a brilliant blue trickled across his vision. Hiccups surged like a wave beneath his chest, rolling out, unstoppable, impossible to come up for air as yet another round dragged him back under. Noise and murmurs leaked into his consciousness as the overwhelming panic subsided. Was someone counting?

“Breathe.” Could he breathe? Somehow the world had lessened in its nonsensicality but his vision still swirled around the edges, rivulets of salt falling from his eyes. Burning, scarring his cheeks with something viler than the taste of fear, something crueler than the shattering of bones, deeper than bruises formed from incessant needles digging into skin. Something hazy yet knowable.

Panic. CT-7567 was panicking.

There were people talking to him, far away and too close. All 67 could do was breath.

“1, 2, 3.” Yes, but not. 67 knew there were more out there, brothers in the corridor and running through sims, all a tapestry of vibrant life amongst the ever-grey seas. It was overwhelming, tasting the joy and the dreariness in equal measure. The hallways of Kamino were sterile, all whites fitted with standard galactic medical and research grade fluorescents that sallowed the complexion. Color leached out from nooks and crannies, marching in time to the pitter-pattering of his brothers’ hearts. They shone, radiant and luminous beings contained by soft shells of flesh. 67 could see them all. Could feel them all. Their screams. Their laughter. Their hope. Their silence. CT-7567 knew when every single one of his brothers died, lights slipping into well streams of air, of salt, and of water.

 “In.” Inhale. The buzz of their radiance dimmed.

4 brothers in front of him.

3 scuffed helmets were piled on the table, next to Hunk’s monstrosity of a Z-6.

2 DC-17s in his grip, hot as if used and vacant eyes looking up up up at a jet-Jedi (?) and good soldiers follow. bracers underneath his blacks.

1 breath.

“Out.” Exhale. CT-7567 clawed his way back down from the clouds. His brothers held him close as he came to, nestled into Aurie’s side like a cadet afraid of being abandoned by his batchers when he laid down to sleep. Rough, gloved hands ran through springy blonde curls. Crypt and Hunk jammed themselves in beside 67, flanking their batchmate in case of an unexpected attack. Volk’s steady warmth pressed against the blondes’ backs, facing the door in case of an intruder. Curls of color bled in the periphery of 67’s vision. He was safe. He was with his squad. It would be okay.

After, The Incident went unmentioned among Crown Squad. CT-7567 had shored up his panic, burying it alongside everything else he’d rather forget. What he needed to forget to ever have the chance to see the universe for himself. To finally get close enough to hear the ringing of the stars and feel the steady warmth of suns galaxies far, far away.

Calling it an Incident, however, suggests that the torturous punishment disguised as a training day was a one-time occurrence. Yet, CT-7567 was seemingly unable to escape the pull of the CCs’ orbit. Apparently.

Wolffe’s pestering was annoying enough to be considered cosmic retribution for something 67 had done in a past life. Before running sims, the blonde would find himself meticulously cataloguing all the well-scuffed grooves and nicks of his plastoid armor, only to find some random, and oft unnecessary in the temp-controlled and stun-only blasters simulations of Kamino, piece missing. The absence of the codpiece was a memorable experience that 67—his batchers, CC observers, trainers, and the Kaminoans as well—would like to never repeat. One time, his boots disappeared during his allotted fresher slot, only to reappear attached to the ceiling by some miraculous happenstance and creative use of Fry’s should-be-illegal-in-Republic-space adhesive. Inhaling paint fumes in the hopes of mixing a new color was one thing. Intentionally making also impossible trapping agents with unusual solvents was another. Another time his single, approaching threadbare blanket was bnestled around Bly’s shoulders like a capelet during midmeal only to be worn as a particularly raggedy scarf by Ponds during final mealtime. The small trove of items that 67 could call his own, were systematically pilfered and returned, through persuasion or force. Unfortunately, both routes of retrieval put 67 in the sights of the particularly unruly Command Class batch.

Wolffe never touched his blaster; weapons, a brother’s lifeline, were something never to be toyed with. Kote however only seemed to pay attention to 67’s blaster, glaring at the plain DC-15 amongst a sea of well-loved and customized weaponry. Sharpshooters were rare, even among the older batches, and Crown Squad happened to have two. Kote had taken note of their finesse and fluidity. Ponds had firmly but quietly congratulated Aurie and 67 on their marksmanship seen in their sim when the Commander came to return the stolen blanket. Fox pulled 67 into paperwork duty and the blonde brother learned very quickly that without the Alphas and CCs, half of the Kaminoans’ products for the Republic would have revolted through a sheer lack of stimulus. The Command batches kept Kamino running with a surplus of soldiers bred for combat and trained in violence since decanting. While it shackled a CC from each squad every day, that meant the rest could run interference as needed and help others better develop their skills. Fox was most often on paperwork, a long-standing tradition or bet—67 had conflicting information on that bizzare happenstance—relegated him to the stacks every day. At the rate of continued invitations (threats) to work with him, 67 was unsure if Fox was really that bored or if the CT himself was competent enough to lessen the workload.

It was both. Fox smugly showed up in the middle of a hand-to-hand intensive Wolffe was running and shoved his batchmate's papers into unsuspecting hands. All of Wolffe's reports had been rewritten with 67s handwriting. Wolffe responded by nearly shattering four of Fox's ribs as the cadets watched the CCs spar. Both Commanders had shown up to latemeal bruised, Wolffe's hand wrapped from where his batchmate had bitten him.

"I'm keeping the CT." Fox annouced cheerily. "He completed all of Wolffe's work in a quarter of the time."

"No," Ponds sighed wearily, "you're not keeping him."

"I am."

"No." Fox's brother tiredly glared at Bly for back up, the more verbose and diplomatic of the two. Bly was distracted. Kote was on hallway patrol. Firmly, he restated, "You're not getting him."

Wolffe eyed Ponds quizzically, "Objectively, vod, he is odd but he's the best choice to help offload the paperwork."

"He's odd." Ponds noted.

Wolffe scowled, "Yes, I said that dearest. Try to keep up." Fox narrowed his eyes. Ponds wasn't one to obfuscate or omit information, as stoic as the bastard was.

"His squad is slated to be called first for action." Ponds added.

Fox balked. Wolffe blanched. Bly kept regaling cadets with the greatest training stories that didn't involve Alpha-17 beating the shit out of his erstwhile ade.

"They're the first on the ground?" Ponds nodded.

"Pulled the paperwork today." At his batchmates' questioning glances, he added, "I was scoping them for my battalion but they aren't up for assignment or request, just like the CT generations before us." 

Wolffe snorted, the somberness not quite leaving his eyes. "Guess you'll have to find someone else to chain to a desk with you Marshal Commander of the paperwork legion."

"The Galactic Republic thanks you for your tireless service, Commander," Ponds intoned gravely.

"All of you can lick the outside of the domes," Fox griped. "I won't be chained to a desk or a planet. Ka'ra forbid I serve a jetti who's a diplomat."

(Unfortunately for Fox, the Ka'ra had little to no power over Alpha-17's assignments after the First Battle of Geonosis. Fox had practically been chewing to command a mobile battalion. Security concerns with the Senate and urging by their Jedi Generals necessitated the creation of the Coruscant Guard in addition to the Senate Guard. Wolffe had cackled, bopping in and out with his shitty holoprojection, when he’d seen the page count of the drafted memo between Generals Plo Koon and Windu. “The Marshall Commander of this branch must be organized, driven, and above all else diplomatic. Senators come from an astounding diversity of planets whose cultural background and experiences might take issue with the vigilance of the highly trained GAR members. To ease tension, a member of the newly formed Corsuscant guard must put diplomacy and peaceful resolution above all else, as always the Commander must be the example for their battalion.” There were only two Commander brats left to assign when the request came to Alpha-17’s desk. War had bequeathed him the option of having somewhere to sit to do work and yet work always seemed to find him before he could sit the fuck down. Cody and Fox, however, perched eagerly on each corner of 17's desk as their erstwhile caretaker read out the main assignment in the missive. “Jedi Command also informs you that the position for the Marshal Commander of the 7^th Sky Corps is also in need of assignment. We advise that the Commander be flexible, attentive to detail, and adhere to the regulations for those who serve under them. Please complete these assignments at your earliest convenience with whom you believe best suited for the position.” Alpha squinted at his datapad, as if he was just imagining the unfortunate luck of the final CCs and the requests would disappear into the ether.

One of his ade was going to get Kenobi.   

“Fox.” The more auburn than brown head snapped to attention.

“Yessir.” Technically regulation, sassy enough for running suicides.

Crafty enough to survive Coruscant. 17’s traitorous mind sings out. Disinterested and distrusting of people, no matter how beautiful or ugly they may be. But he cares enough to enact change.

“You are heading up the Coruscant Guard.” Kote smelled blood in the water and grinned.

“What.” Fox looked like someone kicked him off a platform and into the desolate, cold depths of the sea. “Why?” He did not whine but it was a near thing. Cody laughed internally. Fox kicked him anyway, knowing the youngest member of their batch too well.

Alpha-17 snorted, tapping, and signing the assignment forms where needed. “Diplomacy.”

Fox raged. Cody let loose consoling pats, muttering sarcastic there theres at his batchmate’s misery.

“Don’t laugh Kote.” 17 did not look up from his paperwork. “You get Kenobi.”

Cody paled. It was Fox’s turn to cackle now.)

67’s batch had survived through mediocrity, by shoring up what their makers had considered defects with regulation performances. To be exceptional was to be noticed. The members of Crown Squad had enough attention to last their very short lifetimes. Volk’s careful stitches, Hunk’s blabbermouth tendencies, Crypt’s carefully padded fatigues, and Aurie’s practiced disinterest were constructed normalcies. Their batch was deemed abnormal from the outset, to survive they strove to be average in a sea of others trying to claim individuality against Kamino’s suffocating current.

67 survived through absence and reveled in quietude. The Command batch had started paying attention and the War could not come fast enough. Of all his batchmates, he knew the cost of being seen as something other than regular. CT-27 had made sure of it, had ingrained the importance of inconspicuousness, of namelessness into the very marrow of 67’s bones.

            27 was stationed outside one of the Kaminoan scientist's lab when a young Aurie and 67 trotted by for their monthly check up. Not having completed Phase One education, the knobby-kneed Crown Batch’s resident abnormalities were subjected to continued scrutiny. 67 felt the trooper before he saw 27, a graceful warm glow nestled tightly into the older clone’s sternum.

            Comfort; a sensation creeping from the tips of his toes and out through a crown of aurelian curls.

            Home; the joy of brilliance washed throughout the corridor, 67’s cheer to ecstatic and effervescent to keep tucked into his too-small chest.

            Cold; a hand on his shoulder in the entryway, grip steely and once-warm presence alit with a crimson panic. The fear was a seeping, bloodied, weeping thing that made 67’s joy curl into his belly, hiding from the monster that was disappointment and anger. The blonde gazed at the trooper, armor streaked with greys, feeling a steely gaze meet his own full of shock and hurt.

            Hide, hide, HIDE! The cadet wanted to run, nerves shot and lackluster control projecting his panic into the room and throughout the hallway. CT-27 abandoned his post by the door and steered the young boys away from the scientists, white knuckled grip on 67’s shoulder. He turned to the scientists, free hand waving in time with, “You will not remember this interaction. Delete all references to abnormalities with their batch. They will be passed to Phase Two.” Silence. Intent and force dripped down the walls of the blindingly white hallway, coating the young boys and the scientists like a warm blanket. Then a rush of cold tingled down 67’s spine, throwing off the peace of the suggestion to stare in horrorfascinationfear at the vod connecting like he did. CT-27 marched the cadets down, down, down hallways until they hit the CC-section of the barracks. (A younger) Cody greeted them at the entrance, quickly snagging Aurie by the scruff as the confused but excitable blonde wiggled out of CT-27’s grip.

            “Hello.”

            The CT nodded. “Where’s your minder? I need them returned to their squad.” The clone in greyed armor peered down at the child he still had a vice grip on, finally noticing the young clone’s bug-eyed stare at the CC in front of him. A soft snort, a ruffling of hair.

Warmth. It pulsed slow and steady; an orange-gold haze molded in the shape of a man. Murmured conversation danced around 67, the boy entranced by the light of the person before him. Aurie, then 66, wriggled in delight. All swirling blues, brighter, more jubilant than Kamino’s oceans. Afterimages like laughter on a fine morning, his batchmate composed of joy and light.

            Confusion, worry, anger, curiosity, worryworryworry hit 67, blindsiding the cadet.

            A hand ran through his hair.

            “Breathe.” The grey man barked, nauseatingly solid amongst the beings of light. 67 shuddered. Where was his brother? Where was that CC? They would miss their tests and then their whole squad would be put up for decommissioning. The longnecks had threatened it before, 66, afraid of needles, had been sobbing when the scientists went to take his blood, constantly jerking away from the hypo as it inched closer and closer.

            “Sir, I, we, we need to go back. We have tests.” Bile welled up in 67’s throat at the sharp gaze of the helmetless older brother in front of him. He was a regular CT. Except for his eyes.

            Blue. Mutated, just like 66 and 65 and 67.

            “There will be no more tests.” A shoddy smile graced 27’s face, more like a grimace, unpracticed and crooked. “You’re moving on to Phase Two, your batch is more than ready.”

            “You told them to move us.” You lied to them.

            “I did.”

            The barracks for the CCs were quiet, notably absent of usual traffic and chatter. The golden glow and the swirling blues gone. The CC and—

            “Where’s CT-7566, sir?”

            “With little Kote.” His kidnapper intoned wryly, “He goes by Cody. But you’re small so he won’t bite your head off if you forget.”  

            “Is he safe, sir?” I look like you. We're not quite like everyone else. I don't know what you'll do.

            I don't know what to do.

            The CT slowly stood up from his crouch, knees popping painfully. 67 could grab his sidearm, it was far but with a little pull he could disarm the CT and stun him. But that would leave him with a stunned CT, no real clue where 66 was and no plan to keep his batchmates from suffering the attention and scrutiny of the Kaminoan scientists and their other brothers. Tracing his sightline, 27 snorted and unholstered his blaster offering it to 67. Gingerly, the cadet took the proffered weapon, confused.

            Another sigh, “I’d hesitate to say that anyone is truly safe with 17’s brats running around. But Kote has a soft spot for cadets and knows when to ask questions. And he knows when to not ask them and listen to orders.”

            “You told him you needed the Command Barracks cleared.” 67 was alone. The shining light of his brother and the CC gone. "And he followed orders because he trusted you."

            A pause. "You've got a good sense for a cadet." A low whistle and a drawn out, “Sharp kid you are.”

            “Do it then.” What are you asking little one?

            “Do what?”  Take me away like everyone else.

            67 met the older clone’s gaze, all durasteel but gleaming with a practiced resignation. “Take me for decommissioning.” Like 65.

            The light buzzing of air filters ebbed away and the pitterpatterings of rain on the domes fell off in rhythm. 67 clicked the safety off the blaster. Breath. And leveled it at CT-27. The older clone loomed over the young blonde. “Go on cadet. Can you do it?” 27 leaned forward, the barrel of his blaster thudding against his forehead. 67’s hands didn’t shake but fear, despair, anger and idon’twanttodie permeated the air. “The winds tell me you aren’t a killer. What do you believe, kid?”

            Silence. A nudge trickling in behind CT-7567’s skull. A not-quite voice.

  Safe harbor young king, the winds swayed outside in time with the rain. Lay your weapon down.

            “You won’t hurt me.”

            “That’s right,” the clone intoned, even keeled despite who held the weapon.

            “Why?” 67 questioned, slowly withdrawing the blaster, absentmindedly flicking the safety back in place. The world around him remained quiet, no swathes of color nor overwhelming waterfalls of emotion. Just silence.

            “What’s my name?” The older CT replied in lieu of an answer.

            “I don’t know.” Names were special after all, Crypt was the only one in their batch who had laid claim to one when the blonde had met the older clone. But 67 knew the answer to CT-27’s question. Just like he’d known when the trainers were about to assign the hardest workload, who ate CC-1010’s pudding ration (the last one in the mess), and when a fight was about to break out. He knew the answer just how he knew that one day Kote would be streaked with gold. And 66 would fall into an endless sea of blue.

            And Rex67CaptainCT-7567 would never get the redredred out from underneath his nails.

            A soft light, a clarity, that guiding hand when you’ve misplaced a boot, a pad, or a ration card. Here lies steady ground.

            “Morut'yc vheh.” The cadet intoned, handing the weapon to Steady. The world righted itself again. Deafening in the wake of silence, the buzzing thrummed back to life. The storm picked up speed. “That’s your name.”

            CT-27, no Steady, nodded, “Good. Now forget that you ever knew it. Never look for answers in that place again cadet.” Blue eyes met the mismatched set. “You have no name. You have no squad. There is only the mission.”

            “What are you saying sir? You're not making sense!”

            “Repeat it.” The man was unmovable, tone equally rooted in place, no matter how much the blonde squirmed.

            “Why?”

            “Good soldiers follow orders cadet.” Bullshit, the not-quite voice from before intoned softly.

            “I have no name. I have no squad. There is only the mission.” Tears welled. 67 stuttered through the sentences as heaving sobs wracked his body. Despair and sorrow wrapped around him like a well worn shroud. The young boy mourned alone. The grey man watched pityingly.

            “Your directive for the foreseeable future is to be middling. To be unremarkable. You must not be known.” CT-27 commanded, holding a shuddering 67 close. That ease of home seeped into the cadet’s chest as he nestled against smooth plastoid. “Ignore the pull. The way it eases your mind and soothes your ringing headaches when the world feels like it’s about to explode. The connection it provides. Cut it off, wall it away. That’s how you’ll survive, kid.”

            The rain picked up speed. The brothers ignored the buzzing and rush that mirrored the rapid falling of water from the sky. Some day, some day—but not today—you will be known. I will know your name, as my child. You will know me, as my treasures, my star bringers and light crafters. But not today.

            “Survival,” 67 sniffed, exhausted, and slumped against his older brother, “is that what we fight for?”

            “Yes, kid. That’s all we can do.” For now, Steady didn't add, rocking his small charge back and forth amongst empty rows of beds, their owners absent preparing for the War yet to come.

            Later, Kote and CT-27 would escort a tuckered-out CT-7567 and excitable CT-7566 back to the CT barracks to meet with their distressed batchmates. Later, 67’s anger would boil over and leave nasty impressions that stank of hate and fear amongst his squad. He'd try to tamp down the feelings, ignore the balms provided by that presence lingering in the back of his mind. He couldn't go to Steady. Cody (Kote the voice softly hummed) and 66 were the only ones who knew 67 had spent time with the Guard of Kamino. But Kote couldn't soothe his migraines, wouldn't want to aid a cadet who couldn't control their emotion. 66 was joy and peace, 67 couldn't bring the disaster of his mind to his brother. They were light incarnate, 67 wouldn't be the one to snuff them out.

Halfway through Crown Squad's progression through Phase Two, the vod'e held a Remembrance for CT-27. 

CT-27 been working diligently until one day he stopped responding to other troopers. For days he’d been holed up in the barracks, blue eyes pale and far away. Nobody saw him reach for his blaster. 

67 heard the intake of breath, felt the rising of a force rocking a decaying mind like a babe, pulling the substance into the insubstantial amongst the vast nothingness of space. Pulling a soul into the air.

Everyone heard the body hit the bed.

            “His gloves are missing.” 67 listened.

            “Someone robbed dead brother?” Anger welled up amongst the throngs and varied tones of despondency and sadness. Brothers both armor-clad and donning reds made a uniformed crowd. Each muttering vague memories to the grey-painted armor.

           “No, he wasn’t in his armor when he died. Gloves were missing but we wanted to send him off with it before the longnecks could strip it.”

            A grumble, "It was all that was left of his batch." An acrid scent filled the air. Ah, alcohol. "Wish he'd had more than that." Mumbles of agreement.

           "He'was more than just 27, even after the ori'dush surhaii."

           "Wish I knew his name."

           "He had a name. The longnecks stole it."

           "Wanted to call him Sevens, you know? But it never fit. Wasn't his name."

            I know your name CT-27.

The night of the Remembrance, CT-7567 held a vigil for Steady. He hoped Morut'yc vheh ran amongst the stars with the Ka'ra.

After, 67 started wearing gloves everywhere.

After, 67 learned to shoot.

After, 67 skirted around the edges of Crown Squad. A member by birth, but not by claiming a birthright. The nameless one of his squad. The only one who answered to his number. That’s all who he would ever be.

            Except for that one thing.

            He would have been 67; if Aurie hadn’t fallen. If he’d been faster. If Kote hadn’t almost bled out from a jagged head wound, screaming and worried and scared for 67’s life. If 67 hadn’t grabbed hold of an invisible rope to tug himself and two fully clothed men out of the churning seas of Kamino. If only he’d let himself be taken under by the waves. Another nameless body returned to sea foam to become another star one day.

            But that’s not this story.

Chapter Text

This is how a story ends.

In a universe, in a galaxy far, far away, CT-7567 was born with blonde hair. He was assigned to the 501^st battalion under Jedi General Anakin Skywalker. He fought. He won. He fought. He lost.

            Fives died. His mission was over. He marched on.

            He believed his brother. He had a duty to fulfill.

            Commander Tano lived.

            His brothers marched on.

            He lost but he fought, still.

            Until he was an old man. ("Old man Rex!" The little ones would cry. "Tell us about the Dominos!")

            Too soon, the wind whispered, it’s too soon.

            CT-7567 watched the sun rise after the Battle of Endor.

            And the sunset.

            Rest.

            In another universe, amongst the stars in a galaxy far, far away, CT-7567 was born with blonde hair, one Fett eye, and one a brilliant shade of blue. There was one other thing, though; an ever-present lullaby shifted in the winds of Kamino and followed his footsteps.  

            This is how a story ends.

            It was morning, a slight drizzle marching onward, and Crown Squad, along with many of the older batches were tasked with running drills on the precarious landing platforms. The Trainers assigned to Inclement Weather Training took one look at the impending clouds and pawned the assignment off on to future Commanders Cody, Monnk, and Bacara. Orders given, the Command Class troopers set to work, assigning squads to the unoccupied, older platforms.

            Crown Squad, as luck would have it, was placed under the watchful eye of Cody. (It had nothing to do with luck, Bacara and Monnk assigned him the squad without much fanfare. The obsession of 17’s brats with the blondes was well-known and Monnk particularly wanted to avoid the possibility of being mercilessly and systematically robbed. He did not want to know what the blonde had done to Wolffe to draw the brother’s ire and attention.)

            If the vode had a ranked their standard training, which they never would because Bathtub definitely wasn’t the sacred keeper of that record, Inclement Weather Training was near the bottom. It was above seminars on Proper Facilities Management in Prolonged Intergalactic Travel and Annual Testing Requirements of GAR Equipment. Most brothers, those not siphoned off into engineering, navigation or medical, the ones who itched for a fight tended to upend those seminars with some sort of brawl. Most couldn’t sit still for very long, if by themselves. Repetitive action helped. The thud against a punching bag. The clicks of checking a blaster. The smack of boots on the ground as they ran or marched in time.

            Many brothers liked to run, often abandoning, and later kicked out of, the training rooms for the odd walkways and paths between the research domes. Some brave and reckless troopers began scaling the domes, finding handholds in the weather-worn durasteel. They’d jump between the tops, vault over rickety walkways, whooping and cawing in delight. The wind whipped against their faces, sweat-slick and so very alive above the churning seas.

Crown Squad was one of the early adopters of this pastime, carving out the top of their dome of residence as the stage for naming. While not as daring as other squads who threw themselves bodily from railings, the methodical and precise placement of one foot in front of the other was meditative. Most nights, one of the squad members would arrive to their sleeping pod, curls coiling and salt crested, cheeks streaked with windburn.

The world above the sea and outside of the prying eyes of Trainers and scientist was theirs. 67 never truly thought it would become a place of tragedy. That’s the funny thing about the places you love, nothing bad can ever happen there. Nothing can go wrong because you remember it as it was, not as it is.

The walkways were old by Kaminoan standards when 67 was decanted. Eight years under the torment of the planet and the stomping weight of countless of brothers only aged the metal further. They creaked. They groaned.

And eventually, the walkway gave out.

The ending began like this.

Following their Commander, four squads of brothers steadily traversed the rusted path, boots squelching in puddles formed by clattering rainfall.

Gemstone Squad made it through.

A member of Widow Squad, Piston, slid onto the main platform.

Rancor Squad made it through, clutching on to one another on the main platform as the storm picked up in speed. Commander Cody frantically yelled to the oncoming troopers.

His warnings were swept away with the wind.

Three members of Crown Squad made it across.

Aurie had slipped, flipping over the railing. CT-7567 caught his blaster, gripping Aurie’s other hand to haul his batchmate over the metal rails. The rain beat against 67’s gloves. He leaned further over the railing to get a better grip on Aurie’s shaking arms. 67 leaned further, a clattering of boots disguised amongst the raging storm.

What was Aurie saying? Why was he wasting his breath? His brother was falling. His brother was going to die.

He was falling.

Arms encircled his waist.

Warmth.

The railing gave way in a sickening shudder under the weight of three men.

Kote, 67, the railing, and Aurie fell into the churning ocean below.

The fall was weightless. Then suddenly, a painful cold leeched into his lungs as the plunge hit him. This was familiar. This feeling of drowning. Except this time is wasn’t just in his head.

He seen this before. Aurie’s plunge into the vast blue.

What he hadn’t seen was the jagged bending of the railing upwards, a horrifying bloodied and bronze gleam from the other half of his soul’s neck through his hazel eye, still open. Pain laced through 67’s thigh and a crushing pressure begun to mount in his chest. Aurie was dead. He was deaddeaddead and 67 couldn’t do anything but die alongside him.

The warmth.

Kote. 67’s body failed him, gasping and inviting water into his lungs. Burying, smothering, drowning all sense. The dark water ran murky, a haze trailing along with streams of blood?

Who was bleeding?

The Warmth. A whisper on the wind. Currents swerved and boiled, pushing the cluster of bodies upUpUP.

67 gripped Aurie, dragging his body. Cody on his back. He heaved them ashore to a tiny maintenance platform at the base of one of the research domes.

It was an improbable thing 67 did.

He checked Cody for breathing. For a pulse. Sluggish thumps tittered under shaking hands. An ear heard and felt warm little exhales against the chill that had embedded itself into 67’s form.

It was an impossible thing, that Kote lived.

The blood from Aurie trickled out a slow stream beneath his batchmate’s armor, staining the white plastoid.

67 retched. He didn’t need to check for a pulse. Shakily reaching out, he pressed the blue eye that matched his, closed. A quick keldabe.

“Nu kyr'adyc, shi taab'echaaj'la.” He whispered over and over. A prayer, a plea, a pain lost to the tides. “Kyr’am ru’laararir par ni, draar gar. Ni ceta, mihi ge’runi.”

The boy wept for his brother, holding him close one last time.

The planet wept for his kin.

Another story began like this.

67 woke up in a medbay, vision blurry and fluorescent lights compounding the ringing of his head. Slouched into a seat too small for him, head wrapped in bandages lolled into his chest, sat Cody. Two equally uncomfortable chairs were scrunched next to the CC, unoccupied.

67 cleared his throat.

Cody shot up to attention, not quite opening his eyes, “G’morning Seventeen.” He then opened his eyes, squinting in the domineering light. “Shit.”

67 snorted and immediately regretted the way it made his own vision swim. “Good morning, sir.”

Cody waved vaguely with an arm littered with various plasters and patches. “Don’t call me sir.” The waving arm found its way to 67’s shoulder, usually distant eyes shining with a something 67 couldn’t place, “Thank you, vod’ika.”

Bile built up in the back of the CT’s throat.

“When was his Remembrance?”

An unreadable expression resumed its place on Cody’s face. “They’re waiting for you.”

Oh. “Oh.” The blonde’s hands suddenly became a whole lot more interesting. “I-Kote”

“You already said goodbye.” A nod. “Do you want them to have it without you?” Another nod.

“I’ll tell Volk,” Cody paused, “is that okay?”

“Yessir.” The older brother huffed a soft noise as he carefully ran fingers through the blonde curls.

“Sleep verd’ika.” Kote had never been this gentle before.

“Oya, Kote.”

67 was released a week before Cody, whose streak of getting out of bed made his stint in medical longer by proxy of an irritated Helix and Volk.

Geonosis happened two days after 67's release.

67 walked off the battlefield as the sole survivor of his Squad, armor scuffed with the red dust of the godforsaken planet. He carried them off the battlefield. Three tallies along his DC-17. One sown into the lining of his right glove. Amongst the booze and the dead-eyed gazes of the survivors awaiting future orders, Fry had cracked out the paints.

Grey, it seemed was the most popular.

67’s helmet was snagged, a bottle of something put in his hand, and returned to him the next morning alongside marching orders to get his ass back to Kamino for ARC training. The bucket was plain, except for the grey jaig eyes staring back at him.

A hunger burned deep within him. A grief intermingled, twining his pride and anchoring it to something awful. He’d earned commendation, at least from his brothers, while his batch was gone. He’d fought and was recognized for his survival. He was seen. He was the last of his kind, like many of the brothers he’d be shipped back to Kamino with.

The War, it seemed, had come for them.

This is how the story begins.

CT-7567 shared a face and a duty with thousands. 67’s hair was the same not-quite powdered egg color as some of his (decommissioned and deaddeaddead) batchmates. The ARC trooper’s tightly wound curls were buzzed to regulation length. CT-7567 had blue eyes, one his own and one from his brother.

One morning, CT-7567 climbed to the top of a dome, a small container of paint and a brush carried with him. As the sun rose, helmetless, CC-2224 joined him, body of his armor not quite yet golden yellow. He brought his own paint.

Wordlessly, Kote removed his bucket, sitting next to 67, pulling off his chest plate.

67’s shiny bucket gleamed, a soft warm light as a new beginning peaked out beneath Kamino’s oppressive greys.

For a moment, two brothers sat, watching the sunrise.

“I’d take Tranyc over Kote any day.”

67 snorted, “Pretty sure Tranq would fight you for that right.”

Cody hummed in agreement, picking up his brush a beginning to work on his armor. “Got a design in mind yet?”

“I’ll redo the eyes.”

“Good. You’ve earned them, ver’dika.”

“Rex.” Cody stopped his painting, peering at 67, confused.

Unperturbed, 67 traced a line of paint up, curving the line just so and down. “My twin like all those obscure languages and histories that the galaxy had to offer.” The CT mirrored his actions on the other side. "Part of his toast after his naming."

“So, Rex, then?” Cody sounded out the second word, as if savoring it.

Finishing the details on the eyes, 67 nodded.

“Rex.” A finality, something correct. Something his.

All sunrises come to an end. As morning broke, the duties of a future Marshal Commander and one of his ARC Troopers bound ever onward. But, for another moment, they were just brothers.

“Su cuy'gar ogir rex.  Ni cuy' Kote.” A clasping of arms.

“Kote cuyir, Ni cuy' Rex.” A squeeze and a smile, bittersweet. “Rex regum.”