it's been a long time since i posted any writing, but i wanted to share a little fic that i wrote as a very belated birthday present for the amazing @cosmicghostie. it's got a bit of angst, a bit of fluff, and some quality brotherly bonding time between thumbs (my oc) and sparks (@cosmicghostie's oc)!
i'm linking some other lucky batch fics for those interested in reading more about these two bros!
a little thumbs fic by @just-another-dreamerr
some sparks backstory by @just-another-dreamerr
a wee brotherly bonding fic by @cosmicghostie
a day in the life of thumbs fic by yours truly :P
and finally, the lucky batch masterlist (there are so many good ones on here)!!
i'm also tagging lucky batch because i miss y'all!
Thumbs watched as the most recent addition to the batch sat slumped against the wall of the hull, one leg drawn to his chest and the other lazily stretched out in front of him. It was the most relaxed he had ever seen his newest brother. His curly hair, slightly shorter than Thumbs’ own, swayed slightly in the breeze that blew in from the lowered ramp, his eyes reflecting the distant city lights that flickered like stars on the dark horizon.
Thumbs hadn’t gotten the chance to speak to his stoic brother since he had been suddenly sent to the batch. His vod was quiet, but he knew it wasn't for a lack of things to say. As the squad’s strategist, he of all people understood that it was a purposeful silence – a clandestine tool used to sever himself from the other batchers like an infected limb, sparing them from a part of himself that he must’ve believed was dangerous – and Thumbs wanted nothing more than to stitch this wounded mentality back together.
Which is why, while the rest of the batch were out on a supply run, he decided to finally approach his new brother.
“Hey! It’s Sparks, right?”
The clone in question remained arrested in place and for a second Thumbs wondered whether or not he had even heard him.
He was about to ask again when Sparks tilted his head slightly, silently observing Thumbs from his position on the floor. After performing what appeared to be a brief visual analysis, he turned back towards the open ramp, nodding his head in response.
Thumbs smiled. Progress.
“So you decided to hang back?” Thumbs asked, keeping his tone light in an attempt to ease his obviously-skeptical brother. Undeterred by the lack of response, he continued.
“Yeah, I get it. I know we all seem pretty crazy right now, but I promise that once you get to know us…” He paused, reconsidering the truth of his statement. “Well, you’ll probably think we’re even crazier.”
Sparks huffed in what seemed like amusement, the sound bringing immediate warmth to the frigid air around them. Thumbs grinned, taking the welcome gesture as an invitation to sit beside him.
The two sat in silence for a while, listening to the songs of nearby insects hidden from sight, before Sparks finally spoke.
“Why are you here?”
For a moment, Thumbs thought he was referring to his choice to sit next to him, before realizing he meant the reason he wasn’t out on the mission with the others.
“Ah, I don’t know,” Thumbs shrugged. “Didn’t seem like they needed me on this one.”
Sparks’ gaze flicked towards him briefly before focusing back on the vast space in front of them.
“You’re the strategist?”
“Yeah,” Thumbs sighed. “In theory, at least.”
“Seems weird to place a strategist with this batch.”
Thumbs knew he was right – Sparks was only confirming what he himself had thought many times before – but the comment still twinged at something buried deep within him that had never been vocalized.
“I… chose to be here. And I don’t regret it. Not for a single second.”
He immediately regretted his brusqueness as Sparks’ posture once again constricted, his mouth drawing into a thin line. So much for keeping the tone light.
The uncomfortable silence that followed was thankfully interrupted when a small animal appeared at the base of the Clover’s ramp. Thumbs watched in awe as Sparks beckoned it with a few tender snaps, the furry creature immediately obeying and snuggling up to his side. With an unexpected softness, Sparks ran two fingers down the creature’s spine, chuckling when it chirped in response. However, just as suddenly as the animal had appeared, it slipped away again, scurrying back into the night.
“Huh,” Thumbs said, having observed the strange encounter in silence. “Never seen one of those before.”
Sparks shrugged. “They’re pretty common. Saw a few the last time I was here.”
“Oh.” Thumbs cataloged the new piece of information. “You’ve traveled a lot then?”
Sparks nodded stiffly.
“You should tell that to Cypher. He loves talking about that kinda stuff.”
“Yeah, maybe.”
Thumbs fiddled with the hem of his shirt, unwilling to let the conversation slip away again, but unsure how exactly to proceed. So, he asked the first question that came to mind.
“What’s your favorite planet?”
“Favorite planet?” Sparks repeated incredulously.
Thumbs cringed, suddenly feeling as small as the padawans under Sparks' intense stare. For him, navigating conversations could sometimes be like navigating the battlefield – but just like in war, he had no choice but to march on.
“I think mine’s Lothal. I’ve only been there once, but it was beautiful. No water in sight – just solid earth and sun.”
Anyone who grew up on Kamino knew that the promise of stable land beneath one's feet was a privilege.
“I’m not sure I have one.” Sparks responded after a few seconds, casting his gaze back towards the floor. “But maybe someday… Someplace quiet. With lots of trees.”
His answer came as a surprise. The two of them were soldiers, forever burdened by the weight of armor, and until now, Thumbs believed that Sparks had allowed its harsh plastoid edges and carefully engineered curves to seep into the man beneath. It was a reality for many of those who were consumed by the brutality of war.
But no, he wanted quiet. He wanted to be surrounded by trees; a dream that his very name, sparks, threatened to burn.
He wondered where he got the name Sparks at all…
Thumbs was brought out his thoughts when something fell from his back pocket, clanging loudly onto the durasteel floor.
He scrambled to pick the items up before sheepishly glancing back at Sparks, who had one eyebrow raised questioningly.
“They’re… knitting needles,” he supplied.
“You knit?”
Thumbs nodded, once again surprised by Sparks’ genuine curiosity. Back with his old trainer, his not-so-secret hobby had become the brunt of many unpleasant jokes. He tried not to let it bother him but he eventually found himself knitting less and less, tired of the negative attention. He still kept his needles with him though, a good luck charm of sorts, waiting for the day they would be useful again.
“Well, I used to at least. Not much any more.”
“Why not?”
Thumbs hesitated, not wanting to get into the series of events that forced him to abandon the one activity that brought him joy during the war. He opted for a half-truth instead.
“Well, I... I don’t have any yarn.”
Sparks hummed in response; if he had any doubts about the truth of his batchmate’s statement, he didn’t mention it. Instead, he leaned over, picking up a screw that had come loose from one of the cabinets in the hull.
Thumbs watched as his brother repeatedly turned the small piece of metal between his fingers, and couldn’t help but wonder what he was thinking about. So far, all he knew about Sparks was that he traveled a lot, had an affinity for trees, was scarily good at befriending wild animals, and was obviously reluctant to open up to any of his brothers – something that he was determined to change.
“So, what was your old squad like?”
Thumbs, eyes clouded by the fog of curiosity, didn’t catch the way Sparks froze, his spine straightening and fists clenching at his sides.
“I mean, I bet no one there kni-”
“What, now you want to talk about my old squad?” Sparks interrupted, his voice quiet, but laced with bitterness. “How about we talk about yours? Why are you really here, strategist?”
Thumbs recoiled, startled not so much by what Sparks had said, but by how he said it. Something profoundly mournful had flashed across his features before disappearing behind a wall of hostility, like lightning lost in the echoes of thunder.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to pry. It’s a bad habit, my brothers are used to it.”
Sparks scuffed his shoe against the floor of the hull.
“I’m not your brother.”
The statement was meant to sting, but Thumbs knew that something else was simmering beneath his apparent anger. He stood, knowing that despite his own instincts, right now what Sparks really needed was space.
“You should try to get some sleep before the others get back,” he said quietly, before heading back in the direction of the bunks.
Thumbs didn’t expect a reply, but spared one last look at his brother before exiting the hull. He watched for a moment as Sparks unconsciously rubbed his hands together, failing to suppress a shiver that coursed through his body.
Must not like the cold, Thumbs thought, before turning and closing the door behind him.
‧⋆ ✧˚₊‧⋆. ✧˚₊‧⋆‧
The next morning, Thumbs woke slowly. Getting up was a struggle, his limbs sore from sitting on the durasteel floor the previous night. Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, he looked around and found that the rest of the batch had returned from their mission, many of them now asleep in their own bunks.
He smiled when Pepper and Foxy passed, returning their friendly waves with his signature thumbs up. Thumbs was grateful to be surrounded by such a supportive batch; he just wished he could’ve gotten through to its newest member.
He knew it was hard, joining a new squad, especially Clone Force 37. They were chaotic at the best of times, disastrous at the worst. But despite their outward ferver, everyone onboard the Clover lived with the weight of their memories – images of relentless training sessions, unforgiving battles, and now-absent friends appearing whenever they dared to close their eyes – and Thumbs knew that for Sparks it was no different.
But he had looked so lost, staring out at the sky the night before, trapped on the teetering threshold of past and present.
And there Thumbs was, asking him about his favorite planet… Stars, he was useless.
The strategist had flopped back onto his bunk, one arm thrown over his face, when a pair of footsteps, quiet but firm, made their way towards him. He didn’t move, assuming it was just another squadmate heading towards the hull, when suddenly the footfalls stopped.
He lifted his arm, finding none other than Sparks standing over him.
“Sparks, I-”
Thumbs’ apology was cut off as a lump of something, something strangely soft, was thrown into his lap.
He looked down and found himself staring at a bundle of bright yellow yarn.
The smile that appeared on Thumbs’ face could’ve outshined any sun; its only competition was the one that materialized on Sparks’ own features as he turned to walk back towards the ship’s hull.
Thumbs didn’t stop smiling even as he pulled out his needles, casting onto them for the first time in years.
It was like not a day had passed since the last time he had knit, his hands moving like magic as they maneuvered the yarn, each stitch falling into their respective place. After a couple hours, the soft material began to take form and soon all that was left to do was weave in the stray strands.
Thumbs looked down at his creation feeling happier than he had in a very long time. He hoped that the pair of bright yellow gloves would help keep his newest vod warm, even when the world felt a bit cold.
hey y’all! i’ve been working on this for a hot minute — turns out i am incapable writing anything shorter than 5,000 words, so sorry in advance for how long this got. a huge thank you to @cosmicghostie for being the ultimate writer's cheerleader and to the rest of the lucky batch for giving me such amazing characters to work with! you all genuinely brighten my day, so i hope this brightens yours! ♥︎
─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───
Lucky: a few days in the life of Clone Force 37’s unofficial therapist
content warnings: blood/injury, weapon use, lots of emotional distress (but also some fluff to make up for it!!)
Thumbs didn’t know when he had become Clone Force 37’s unofficial therapist. It just kinda happened.
His original role as the squad’s battle strategist shifted after he realized that his usual skill-set wouldn’t be helpful to a squad who typically threw strategy out the window.
Yet even without a set strategy, the unconventional group somehow had a relatively high success rate when it came to their missions. Thumbs had assumed it was their unpredictability that gave them an advantage. Or the fact that each of them had unique abilities, unlike any soldiers he had ever met.
However, the longer he was with Clone Force 37, the more he started to notice just how special his batch-mates were.
The twins, Foxy and Pepper, had caught his attention first. Both were skilled in their own ways, but what stood out to Thumbs was how each was fiercely protective of the other. He wasn’t sure what the pair had gone through to end up on the Clover, but he couldn’t help but notice the weight of Foxy’s quiet around strangers or the subtle promise behind each sticker that Pepper placed. Thumbs knew more than anyone, love was always accompanied by fear.
He saw this fear in Master Kenhla, every time she glanced towards the two padawans she had come to mentor. Despite her powerful posture, Thumbs could see how she carried the galaxy on her shoulders; not so that she could manage more, but so her brothers could bear less.
Brothers like Rane and Skip, who had lost everything, everyone, before finding their place with the Lucky Batch. Or Sparks and Ryder, both of whom blamed themselves for tragedies of the past.
They all had lost so much… Yet, by some miracle, they had found each other.
Thumbs would do anything to make sure it stayed that way.
─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───
This particular day had started normally, which for Thumbs meant wincing as three screaming forms barreled towards where he sat knitting at the back of the ship. He set his needles down, knowing he would not be getting back to work anytime soon.
“Here we go,” he mumbled under his breath as his batchmates shouted from across the hull.
“THUMBS!!!”
The small stampede, which was revealed to be Sparks, Ballast, and Luna, raced towards him, each one attempting to outpace the other.
“Oh Maker, Ballast, what did you do?”
The batcher in question skidded to a stop, mock-offense written across his face. “I didn’t-”
Thumbs gave each of his batch-mates a once-over, scanning them for injuries. “Should I get Pepper? Is anyone hurt?”
“Not yet,” the two mechanics both mumbled under their breath.
Thumbs sighed in equal parts relief and exhaustion. Ballast and Sparks had been ‘friendly’ rivals for as long as he had known the pair. Unfortunately for him, their rivalry often extended outside the realm of mechanics and into the everyday affairs of the Lucky Batch, with Thumbs usually acting as the chosen mediator of these disagreements.
Sparks pointed at Ballast, pleading his case. “He ate all the cookies Jack made me!”
“You’re overreac-”
“And drank all my caf.”
Now Thumbs understood the near-murderous look on Sparks’ face.
His brother had always done so much for the batch and asked for very few things in return, one of those things being his morning cups of caf: a simple but necessary pleasure that allowed him to function throughout the day.
Thumbs brought his attention back to the pair in front of him, wondering whose word to trust more. Then he brought his gaze down, to a much more reliable source.
“Luna, what happened?”
The padawan looked up nervously, her eyes partially hidden behind choppy bangs. Thumbs smiled when he noticed she was wearing the mittens he had knit for her. He had originally made pairs for both her and Brisk while they were stationed on a colder planet, but now Luna liked to wear them for fun, claiming they made her look like an ewok.
The young girl shrunk from the attention that was suddenly on her, moving closer to Ballast’s side.
“I…”
“What happened is he drank all my caf.” Sparks stepped forward, jabbing another accusatory finger towards Ballast. “The caf that prevents me from strangling my brothers when they get on my nerves.”
Thumbs spoke up, attempting to diffuse the rising hostility. “I thought you didn’t even like caf, Ballast. I always see you drinking that tea Jackal likes.”
The mechanic shifted on his feet nervously. “Well, I…”
Thumbs looked towards his brother curiously, confused by his sudden change in demeanor. Something about the whole dispute seemed off, almost like Ballast was covering for someb-
“Wait,” a small voice piped up from behind the three brothers. “B-Ballast didn’t take your caf, I did.”
“You-” Sparks spun towards the voice with an instinctive glower before recognizing its source. His features softened almost instantly. “What?”
Luna shrugged sheepishly. “I wanted to see if it was good… It was! And Master Ken said I was exceptionally energetic during our training afterwards.”
Thumbs fixed his gaze on Sparks expectantly, curious how he would react to the young batcher’s confession.
“I’m sorry,” she continued, wringing her mittened hands. “I know I should’ve asked.”
Sparks cleared his throat awkwardly as he waved off her apology. “No, it’s uh... It’s fine.”
Luna’s expression remained uncertain and Ballast elbowed Sparks in the side, urging him to reassure the young girl.
“Really, I mean... I shouldn’t even be drinking that much anyway,” he mumbled, rubbing the back of his neck guiltily.
Ballast grinned at Sparks, eating up the moment.
Thumbs couldn’t help the smirk that crept onto his own face as well. For a squad of soldiers who had fought countless battles and overcome powerful enemies, they sure did surrender fast when it came to their padawans. No one onboard the Clover was immune to their effortless charm.
Luna eventually looked up at Thumbs, seeking his own approval, which he happily granted with an encouraging thumbs up.
There was a welcome moment of silence before Sparks’ head jerked upwards once more.
“Wait, what about my cookies?”
“Hmm...” Ballast looked to the floor dramatically, feigning deep thought. “You mean the chocolate chunk cookies with sea salt and a fine caramel drizzle?” He smirked before continuing. “I have no idea.”
Sparks took two threatening steps towards Ballast and within seconds the two of them were chasing each other throughout the Clover with Luna giggling in their wake.
For the clones, who quite literally were forced to grow up too fast, the padawans’ presence reminded them of what a childhood should be. It kept them grounded, desperate to preserve that feeling for the young girls for as long as they could. And if that meant that Luna could get away with stealing Spark’s caf, then so be it.
─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───
That evening’s supply trip was supposed to be easy. A quick in and out operation to gather necessary materials for the coming weeks. But it had already been three hours since Ballast, Sparks, and Foxy’s expected return and no one on the Clover had received an update on their whereabouts.
Thumbs wasn’t someone who paced often. While the rest of the galaxy seemed to be in constant motion, Thumbs always tried his best to remain still at its center. But the longer he waited for his batchmates’ return, the more he felt like he was spinning off his axis, unable to stop the repetitive trajectory of his feet throughout the hull.
He wasn’t even aware of his own movements until they were interrupted by the sound of distant yelling. Strained shouts echoed from outside the Clover’s walls, nearly imperceptible amidst the intensifying wind. Their tone, panicked and desperate, was more bone-chilling than the rain that had started to fall around them.
Storms had always scared Thumbs. He hated seeing flashes of lightning, understanding that the explosion of thunder would follow, but never knowing when. Deep down he knew that thunder was harmless, that lightning posed the greater threat, but at least it was quick, unexpected, gone in a flash. Thunder was slow, deafening, inevitable.
When the Clover’s ramp finally lowered to reveal a bloodied Sparks cradled in Ballast’s arms, he knew that the lightning had passed.
This was the thunder.
Thumbs watched in silence as his brothers stumbled into the hull of the ship, a trail of mud and blood left in their wake. Ballast and Foxy eased Sparks onto the closest bunk, removing his armor to better assess the injury. Luna and Brisk dashed into the room, their eyes widening at the horrific sight. Luna’s breaths came in labored bursts as she called for Pepper, tears streaming down her face.
The squad’s medic came running, following the worried gaze of the two young girls who stood near the bunks. He spared a brief glance at Foxy before quickly donning a pair of gloves and shouting orders to nearby batch-mates. Hearing the commotion, Master Kenhla arrived and immediately ushered her padawans out of the room, not wanting them to witness the sight of their brother in pain.
While before Thumbs had been unable to sit still, now he felt frozen, cold as the ice on Hoth. His brothers were right in front of him, yet he felt as if he were watching the scene unfold from millions of miles away.
He kept thinking back to that morning — Sparks had been fine, albeit cranky over his lack of caf, and now…
Thumbs hated it. He hated how things could change so quickly.
He watched as Ballast, usually explosive in his mannerisms, now held Sparks’ hand in his own, whispering words of comfort as his brother lay motionless on the cot.
Thumbs suddenly felt sick to his stomach, a shrill ringing filling the air around him. The echoes of a memory that had been stagnant for years, forced into the depths of his mind, suddenly emerged:
An argument, a battle, another brother gone. A hand desperately squeezing his own before going limp, devoid of all life.
Another hand, this one from the present, landed on his shoulder, dragging him out of one nightmare and into another. A voice was speaking, asking if he was alright, telling him to sit down.
Thumbs’ guilt only increased. Hands that should be helping his fallen brother were instead on his own shoulders, urging him towards the nearest seat. He shrugged them off with an uncharacteristic roughness, finally taking a few shaky steps towards Sparks.
He had almost made it to the bunk when the same pair of arms wrapped around his torso, pulling him back.
“Thumbs, stop,” the voice urged. “You need to let Pepper help him. There’s nothing you can do.”
He knew the words were supposed to be comforting. He had spoken the same ones to almost every soldier who had come to him burdened with the invisible weight of survivor’s guilt. Sometimes it was what they needed to hear; other times, it wasn’t.
The last thing Thumbs saw was an oxygen mask being lowered onto his brother’s face before eventually succumbing to the arms around him, letting himself be removed from the scene.
─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───
Thumbs woke up the next morning with a headache.
Foxy, who had been the one to escort him out of the room the night before, filled him in on what had happened during the supply run.
Apparently as the trio had made their way back to the ship, bandits had intercepted them. The ragtag group of thieves were lacking in both numbers and artillery and hadn’t been particularly difficult to subdue. Sparks had simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time, caught in the unforgiving crossfire of a supply trip gone wrong.
Thumbs wished he had been there. Maybe then he could’ve shouted to his brother in warning or pulled him out of harm’s way. Stars, he would’ve jumped in front of the deathly bolt himself if it meant Sparks was still standing at the end of the day.
The two of them had grown close over the past few months, especially after Thumbs learned the story behind Sparks’ name. He could tell that his brother’s outwardly gruff attitude was just a shield used to protect the sensitive, guilt-ridden soldier beneath. Even one offhand criticism of his work as a mechanic could bring him back to the accident and a past he wished desperately to forget.
Because of this, Sparks would often work through the night, losing himself in the wires and circuits of the ship to ensure he didn’t make the same mistake twice. Thumbs was always at his side reminding him to take breaks, to drink water when he was thirsty, to eat when pangs of hunger hit...
But there was little he could do for Sparks now as he lay unconscious in the hull of the Clover.
Pepper had done everything he could, luckily managing to stabilize their brother within a few hours of the incident. Sparks was slowly showing signs of improvement — he had even woke up briefly in the early hours, mumbling something about watering Percy, before slipping back into the depths of unconsciousness.
Percy was the name of one of Sparks’ plants, something Thumbs discovered after walking in on his brother affectionately repotting it in a moment of assumed privacy.
He smiled at the memory, shaking his head in disbelief. It was just like Sparks to be worried about keeping his plants alive while he was barely clinging to life himself.
With nothing to do but wait until his brother woke up, Thumbs made his way into the hull of the ship where he found most of the batch engaged in a lively game of Dejarik. It was a tradition, meant to keep the batches' spirit alive when faced with tough times.
He almost started towards them when he felt a presence to his left, distanced from the laughter of the others.
Thumbs’ gaze landed on Ryder as he stared out of the cockpit window absent-mindedly, though he knew from his expression that his mind was anything but absent.
Thumbs approached slowly, not wanting to startle the squad’s weapons specialist.
“Hey Ry, you alright?”
Ryder glanced up, a flash of surprise illuminating his expression, before looking back down, his face once again shrouded in darkness.
“Yeah, I’m fine.” A barrage of laughter sounded from the other side of the room, where everyone was still gathered. “Think I’m gonna go for a ride though.”
“Oh, okay…” Thumbs replied, wanting to say more to his obviously-distracted brother. “Mind if I tag along?”
“You always do,” Ryder said, shooting him a small smirk.
“Hey!” Thumbs laughed, punching his shoulder lightly.
Ryder chuckled, nodding for Thumbs to follow him to the far corner of the hull. Once there, he opened the weapons cabinet, extracting a couple blasters and holstering them on his form.
Thumbs looked at his brother questioningly.
“Just in case,” Ryder said, carefully checking over his chosen artillery.
Thumbs nodded quickly, admonishing himself for not thinking more practically, especially after what happened with Sparks. It was a dangerous thing to give the galaxy the benefit of the doubt.
─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───
The planet they were currently docked on was beautiful. The hues of its rolling hills were softened by the dying light, the gentle breeze transforming the tall grasses into golden waves. The sky’s colors evolved with each passing minute, all evidence of the previous night’s storm lost to its changing shades.
It was Thumb’s favorite time of day. At dusk the light never seemed harsh; it was sympathetic, understanding. It hovered, never fully settling, like a cloud. But dusky light was also ephemeral. Thumbs wished he could freeze it, trap it in a jar and release it when he needed its soft companionship.
He knew too many people like dusk: perfect, until they were gone.
“It’s pretty here,” Thumbs eventually broke the silence, a welcome distraction from his own thoughts.
“Yeah,” Ryder replied as his eyes traced the horizon, “It is.”
“That why you’ve been coming out here so often?”
Thumbs knew his brother liked to take his speeder out on rides whenever he needed a break from the confines of the Clover. He would even accompany him from time to time. But recently he had been escaping much more frequently and Thumbs couldn’t help but worry that something else was going on.
“Hey, you’re kinda hard not to notice.” Thumbs smirked, gesturing a hand towards his brother’s head: “Ya know, cause of the hair.”
Ryder grinned, blowing a stray strand out of his face. “Yeah, sure thing curly.”
Thumbs ran a hand through his own coily locks with a shy shrug.
The two brothers fell into a comfortable silence as fireflies blinked to life around them. Thumbs pretended they were shooting stars, closing his eyes and wishing for the speedy recovery of Sparks back onboard the Clover.
After a while, the air seemed to become heavy and Thumbs could tell that Ryder needed to get something off of his chest.
His suspicion was confirmed when he heard his brother sigh deeply, preparing to speak.
“Lately…” he started, tugging on the end of his turquoise braid. “I’ve been thinking a lot.”
Thumbs nodded and moved to sit beside him in a subtle gesture of comfort.
“About them?”
Ryder nodded, knowing Thumbs was referencing his past squad.
“I’ve been having the dreams again.”
Thumbs’ face fell. He remembered the night he found out about Ryder’s nightmares as if it were yesterday.
He had been awake in the hull of the ship, too afraid that something bad might happen if he allowed himself the privilege of closing his eyes. Ryder had started tossing in his sleep, muttering the names and numbers of unfamiliar clones. Thumbs shook his brother awake, eventually guiding him outside of the ship when he struggled to regain his breath. The two of them had sat on the Clover’s ramp until long after the sun rose, each finding comfort in the other’s presence.
Since then, the nightmares had decreased, but every now and again they would return. The guilt would return.
“In the dream, I’m back on the venator,” Ryder described, his voice hoarse. “First there’s the flashing lights. Then voices, their voices, but they eventually fade away and then there’s just static. For a moment, everything is quiet, just a faint buzzing...”
Thumbs gave his brother’s shoulder a gentle squeeze, letting him know he was still there, still listening.
“And then I’m in the escape pod. As I’m drifting away, I look back towards the ship, but it’s not the venator anymore. It’s the Clover.”
He paused, swallowing thickly.
“And then it’s just gone. Swallowed by fire.”
The unsettling images unearthed feelings that Thumbs never had the courage to voice out loud, but the anxious thrumming of Ryder’s fingers on the side of the speeder reminded him of his current task: to show his brother that he was there for him now, regardless of what happened in the past.
“Ry, I know there’s not a lot I can say. But know that they would’ve been so proud of you, of the soldier and brother you’ve become,” Thumbs reassured gently. “We all are.”
“Yeah, I guess,” Ryder mumbled.
Thumbs frowned, knowing his brother wasn’t convinced.
“Well, this was supposed to be a surprise, but it looks like you need it now.”
Thumbs pulled out the pack he had brought with him, rifling through it until he found a small bundle. He nervously presented it to Ryder, who observed the way it had been carefully packaged in colorful gift wrap and adorned with stickers, most likely donated by Pepper.
“I made this for you,” Thumbs spoke as Ryder opened the parcel. “It’s a blanket, obviously, but it’s… Well, it’s got a little more to it than that. Each row of stitches is made of yarn from all the different places we’ve been to as a batch. Thought it could be cool to see how far we’ve all come. But I also know how important it is to you that we honor our pasts, so down here,” Thumbs pointed at the bottom left corner, “I stitched in the names of CT-2019 and CT-1882. And over here is General Lyle’s.”
Thumbs looked up at Ryder, trying to gauge his reaction.
“I know it doesn’t change anything, not really, but I thought maybe it could help you sleep at night.”
There was a long moment of silence as Thumbs began to doubt the impact of his gift. The whole idea was starting to sound stupid now. Maybe if he had-
Thumbs grinned, glad to see the glimmer of hope return to his brother’s eyes. “Of course, anything for my vod.”
Ryder held the blanket close, tracing his finger over the carefully stitched names of his old squad. His eyes scanned over the various colors and textures that Thumbs had incorporated, recognizing yarn from planets they hadn’t been to in years. How long had his brother been working on this?
He was just about to ask when a subtle movement drew his own gaze downwards. Thumbs was quietly bouncing his right leg, a nervous habit that Ryder had picked up on throughout their time together. He doubted that Thumbs was even aware of his own anxious mannerism, but Ryder could tell that something was on his mind.
“Hey, vod?” Ryder placed the blanket down, his focus now on his brother.
“Yeah?” Thumbs replied, still staring straight ahead.
Ryder thought back to something his companion had told him just moments ago, something that had made him feel important, valuable, seen.
“People notice you too.”
 Thumbs chuckled, thinking back to when he invited himself to join Ryder on his impromptu speeder trip just hours before. “Yeah, I guess my constant pestering makes it hard not to.”
“Yeah...” Ryder continued, almost hesitantly. It would be harder getting through to his brother than he thought. “But we also notice why you do that.”
“And why’s that?” Thumbs asked casually, not quite sure where Ryder was guiding the conversation.
“Because you care.”
At this, Thumbs finally met his brother’s eyes, confusion painting his features. The words were simple, yet something about them did not fully compute.
“No matter how many idiotic things we pull, you’re always there for us.”
Thumbs held his brother’s gaze, considering his words intently, before looking down to his feet. He frowned before mumbling something, barely audible above the light breeze:
“Not when it counts.”
The words sliced through the air, contrary to the soft tone in which they were spoken. Ryder couldn’t help the immediate snap of his head towards his brother.
“What do you-”
“Yesterday, with Sparks,” Thumbs interjected, his voice gaining strength. “No amount of pestering could’ve helped him.”
There was something about the way Thumbs was speaking — something that Ryder had missed before, something familiar — that was unravelling with each passing moment.
“But he’s okay now, he’s fine,” Ryder tried to console, his brow furrowed.
Thumbs scoffed. “That was just luck. I heard what Pepper said: If his injury had been just an inch to the left…” He ran a hand through his hair frustratedly.
“Well, luck is kinda our thing,” Ryder said, repeating words that Pepper had spoken to him when he first joined the batch.
“But I don’t want it to be!”
Ryder looked up in shock. In the entire time he had known Thumbs, he had never once heard him raise his voice. But shock soon turned to concern when he noticed the tears streaming down his brother’s face.
“I don’t want to rely on luck,” Thumbs choked out, his voice softening. “Not… not when it comes to the people I care about.”
Helplessness.
Ryder was well-acquainted with the feeling — the image of his former general on the other side, the wrong side, of an escape pod window, forever etched into his memory. He tried to think of something to say that could comfort his brother, but the only words that came to mind were the ones Thumbs had already spoken to him moments before.
The whole batch knew that Thumbs had always struggled to take his own advice and that reminding him to do so never seemed to have an effect. It was unusual to see him in such a vulnerable state, something the former-strategist was well aware of as he avoided his brother’s gaze, shame written across his tear-stained features.
Ryder cringed at the sight, knowing he would need to take a more unconventional approach to offer his brother reassurance, one that would hopefully provide him with a fragment of control in a galaxy that seemed to feed on chaos.
Ryder nodded once, steeling himself, before reaching down and pulling his twin blasters out of their respective holsters.
“You know,” he started, attempting to keep his voice level, “I got these from CT-2019 and CT-1882. They were graduation gifts.”
Thumbs turned his head curiously, wiping away a stray tear in the process. A small part of him fought back the urge to smile: unlike his brother, he had been given craft supplies and a book for graduation.
“I could teach you how to shoot ‘em, if you want.”
Thumbs looked towards his brother incredulously.
“Ry, I’ve shot a blaster before...”
Ryder exhaled breathily, a playful grin gracing his features. “Ah, not ones like these. These here are DC-17 hand blasters.” He held his weapons in front of himself reverently. “They’re more powerful than your standard blaster, more efficient too.”
Thumbs hesitated, his confusion at the sudden shift in topic still evident, before nodding slowly.
“Alright, sure.”
Ryder spent the next few minutes guiding Thumbs through the best way to handle the blasters — helping him correct his stance, improve aim, and prepare for recoil. The process was strangely reassuring, giving Thumbs something tangible to hold onto, something he could control.
“Hey, Ryder?” Thumbs asked, looking down at the weapon in his hands, the echoes of its former owners serving as a comforting reminder that those who were gone could still protect their brothers who lived to fight another day. Maybe when Thumbs was gone, he could do the same.
“Thank you.”
Ryder had just begun to respond when a noise sounded from behind them.
Thumbs startled and spun on his heel, impulsively throwing the first thing he could think of towards the nearby bushes: Ryder’s blaster.
He mentally facepalmed as his brother jumped off of the speeder, aiming his remaining blaster towards the sound. He held out a hand as he crept closer to the bushes, silently telling Thumbs to stay back.
A tense moment passed, before a tooka revealed itself from behind the bush.
Thumbs sighed in relief before looking up at Ryder guiltily.
“Probably not the best use of the blaster,” he said with a cringe.
“What, you wanted to shoot it?” Ryder questioned breathlessly, a smirk growing across his features.
“No, of course not!” Thumbs smiled, relieved that his brother didn’t seem upset over his moment of panic. The tooka sauntered up to him, rubbing its head against his legs.
Ryder retrieved the discarded blaster and walked back towards the speeder, the remnants of a smirk still visible on his face. “Well, looks like good things can come from bad luck.”
“Yeah,” Thumbs huffed, looking down at the small animal by his feet. “Guess so.”
And maybe that’s what Clone Force 37 was: a group of outcasts who were all in the process of turning their histories with bad luck into good things — good luck.
“C’mon, hop up,” Ryder said as held out an arm. “Let’s get back to the ship.”
Thumbs let himself be pulled into the speeder, the firm grip of his brother’s hand a silent reassurance: I’m here for you.
He leaned back, his eyes reflecting the stars that had started to appear above. He wondered how many of them he couldn’t see, how many millions of lives were being lived just out of his view.
Thumbs glanced over to the brother at his side, thinking about how lucky he was to have crossed paths with him, with all of them, in a universe of infinite proportions.
“We should probably pick up some caf for Sparks on the way back… I know he’ll want some when he wakes up,” Thumbs spoke, laying all the way back in the speeder.
Ryder nodded in agreement as they lurched forward. The sun had finally disappeared from view and the two soldiers soon became mere silhouettes against the dimming night sky.
But anyone familiar with Clone Force 37 knew that they were so much more than two small blips on the horizon:
They were brothers.
And Thumbs was positive that nothing in the galaxy could ever change that.
