“Give it to me straight, doc,” Echo prodded good-naturedly, using his good arm to lever himself from his hoverchair up onto the mat they completed most of his rehab on. “How am I doing?”
Echo's recovery continues, but it's going a little slower than he would like.
TW: medical trauma, food issues, semi-canon descriptions of medical care during imprisonment
Chapter 2: Marathon
“Give it to me straight, doc,” Echo prodded good-naturedly, using his good arm to lever himself from his hoverchair up onto the mat they completed most of his rehab on. “How am I doing?”
It had been about a week since he’d been released to the barracks, and he was still at once daily appointments for continuing care, although some of those were group sessions with other troopers present. He’d like to say he enjoyed the opportunity to socialize with other vode, but he was admittedly a little disappointed when most of them kept to themselves, giving him and his more obvious alterations a wide berth. There were a few exceptions, but for the most part, Echo was starting to suspect that this reaction to him would become more and more common as he gained enough strength to venture farther out of the barracks.
Patch gave him a tired half-smile before answering. “Well, your lung volume has continued to improve. I don’t think you’ll be a scuba trooper anytime soon, but keep up with the breathing exercises we’ve been doing here. How’ve you been keeping up with those protein vita-mixes?”
Echo huffed, fiddling with his scomp arm and avoiding looking him in the eye. “Fives is shoving those things in my face every three hours like you ordered. Doesn’t matter that I can barely stomach half of one in a sitting.”
At that, Patch frowned, and Echo winced internally. If there was one way to get a medic on his tail, it was that. “It’s not like I haven’t been trying. Any more than that, and I’m going to be painting the barracks with it.” He defended with a sheepish grimace.
Patch’s eyebrows creased in concern, “I know it’s not easy, but those shakes are one of the surest ways to replace lost nutrients and improve your bone density without worsening your blood sugar or digestive issues. Have you considered the other options I mentioned in our last session?”
Echo shook his head rapidly, nerves rising. “No, no, no– I don’t want a G-tube.” He clenched his fists, fighting back memories of a tube shoved up his nose, searing pain down his throat, and sharp helplessness pooling in his stomach.
The Seppies hadn’t cared much for numbing agents or pain meds beyond those required to prevent him from stroking out on the operating table. After he’d been lucid enough to realize that he was taken captive, refusing to eat had been one of the few choices he’d had left, and even that choice had been taken away from him when they’d shoved a G-tube down his throat until he gave in.
ARC Training had trained him for a lot, but it hadn’t trained him for that.
During his brief lucid moments, Echo had struggled to find his resolve, but he knew that even the best system couldn’t hold up forever. He’d survive, on sheer force of will and spite alone. He’d crawl his way out if he had to, and when that day came, they’d either kill him or he’d make his way back to his brothers. And here he was— shaking like a leaf at the thought of a protein shake.
At Echo’s rising panic, Patch put up his hands in a settling motion, voice reassuring. “Alright. I hear you, no G-tube.”
He gave Echo a searching look, mentally calculating even as he considered alternatives. With Echo's difficulty stomaching food, they didn't have to worry about refeeding syndrome, at least. “We could try some anti-nausea meds instead, maybe 20 minutes before meals? That, or having someone wake you up for a midnight snack?” Echo wasn’t so bad off that they had no options, but he’d like to prevent any further delays in his recovery, if possible.
Echo nodded, shoulders relaxing from their tense position. “Y-Yeah, I could try that.” He assented, spacing out a little bit as Patch started talking about timings and logistics as he tried to get his heart to go back to normal speed.
A vacant thought came to mind and he huffed a small laugh. “I’m probably way below my growth curve now, right?” He mused, shooting Patch an amused glance.
As a cadet, the dreaded growth curve had placed him loosely in the 30th percentile, with cadets 20th percentile or lower were placed on supervised meals and usually earned increased scrutiny from the Kaminoans. One of Echo’s batchers had been just under that during their 6th year of training, but thankfully he’d been able to make it up in time for their final trainings.
“Obviously those don’t apply to your situation, but yes, I did have to fight with the medscanner earlier when it thought I was scanning a cadet.” Patch rolled his eyes with a beleaguered expression, amused despite himself.
Echo snickered at that, very familiar with Patch’s ongoing war with his medscanner. Not a single session went by without Patch aggressively smashing the buttons on his new scanner and groaning about how his old one had been much better before an overeager shiny spilled their kaf all over it.
“All those fundraising galas and you’d think the Republic would think to invest in some waterproof medscanners.” He’d griped at the time.
Patch huffed again before explaining. “Thankfully, we use a different metric for vode with amputations— same one as civvies, actually. It’s not the same as a growth curve, but it says you should be at least ten pounds heavier before we start seeing some improvements in your bone density.”
Echo nodded reluctantly. “And when can I get back in the field?” He asked, prosthetic leg tapping in anticipation.
Patch let out a slow breath. “Honestly, I don’t know of any comparable trooper in your situation for me to be able to answer that question. I can tell you that right now, the biggest limiting factors are your osteoporosis, your weight, your activity tolerance, and the quality of your current prosthetics.”
Echo opened his mouth to interject, but Patch kept going. “Now, I know that Tech has been working on some alternatives to your current prosthetics, and as long as he runs those by me first, I’m happy to have you try them out, and once you’re no longer a fall risk, we can discuss training sessions beyond our current resistance training. Your respiration used to be another limiting factor, but that’s already starting to look up.” At that, he shot Echo a pleased look.
“I know it might not feel like you’re making progress, but we’ve got a game plan. Continuing the vita-mix shakes, resistance training with the exercise bands I gave you and supervised walks around the barracks and sessions here. Eventually we can move to more challenging forms of physical activity and aerobic exercise.”
He gave Echo a meaningful look. “Recovery is a marathon, not a sprint.”
Echo sighed ruefully before offering the other a wry smile. “ I know— but I used to finish marathons in less than three hours.”
Patch sighed exhaustedly at that, shaking his head in amusement. “Well, we can’t all have an ARC Trooper’s stamina, so for now, try to keep pace with the rest of us, yeah?”
Echo’s smile morhped into something a little more genuine. “I’ll try.”
“That’s all I ask.”
——————————————————
“I think we should tell him,” Fives argued, deep in conversation with Jesse, Rex, and Hunter as they debated whether to tell Echo about the inhibitor chips.
“It’s not that we want to keep it from him– it’s just…” Jesse hesitated, unsure of how to continue.
“He’s saying it’s risky, and is it a risk we really have to take?” Hunter asked. Sure, he liked Echo– he was honest and down-to-earth in a way that a lot of regs weren’t. He’d been the one to suggest that they set up an unofficial security detail until GAR command made up their mind about what to do with such an obvious security threat– or asset– in their ranks.
Nothing official, of course, given that he’d only discussed it with his own squad. Already, Hunter could see the way that Tech looked forward to showing Echo his new plans for his prosthetics, and how Wrecker had attempted to make a Lula-Two to keep him company in the barracks— don’t ask, it hadn’t turned out well. And Crosshair had nearly gotten (another) demerit for turning his toothpicks into projectiles when a gaggle of natborns had cracked a joke about placement of charging ports within earshot of Echo.
He liked Echo, but he wouldn’t risk his brothers’ safety– not on this. “I’m not saying we don’t ever tell him. Just wait until the time’s right– until he proves himself. I hate to say it, but do we even know whose side he’s on?”
“Hasn’t he proved himself enough?!” Fives exclaimed, fuming. There wasn’t a single doubt in his mind that Echo could be trusted— why couldn’t they see that?
This time, it was Rex who spoke up. “What if Echo’s chip is still active? He’s ineligible for the dechipping hypo, so he’ll have to have it surgically removed at some point. Would you really rather put him through an unknown brain surgery instead of explaining it to him outright? Or are you suggesting that his chip stays in?”
“I’m not suggesting any of that.” Hunter clarified, solidifying his stance. “But if we’re going to take this risk, we should be strategic about when we do it. We’ve still got a good 300 men on-planet waiting for another shipment of the de-chipping hypos, and medbay is backed-up enough that Echo probably won’t see the inside of a surgical unit until we’re off this rock.”
He gave the others a searching look. “If I’m wrong about this, that’s one man’s trust I’ll have to earn back. But if I’m right… that’s the end of the Republic as we know it.”
Fives swallowed thickly, hating himself for it, but Hunter was right. He’d never doubt his brother in a million years, but if the whole Republic was really at stake here, it was bigger than him and Echo– bigger than the 501st.
He just hoped that, when Echo found out, that he could forgive him for it.
The quiet felt wrong, stilted, and Tup shivered despite himself. Most troopers spent their lives constantly surrounded by their vode, finding comfort in the near constant din of their brother’s voices, even in quieter spaces like the medbay. Right now, though, Patch’s quiet groan was the only sound, as he flipped Wolffe over where he was sprawled out on the medbay floor, still down for the count.
Ch. 11: Processing
“W-What happens now?”
Tup’s words echoed in the tense silence of the medbay. The slight tremble in his voice that he hadn’t quite been able to shake was back in full-force, and he clenched his fists in frustration, both at himself and this whole situation.
The quiet felt wrong, stilted, and Tup shivered despite himself. Most troopers spent their lives constantly surrounded by their vode, finding comfort in the near constant din of their brother’s voices, even in quieter spaces like the medbay. Right now, though, Patch’s quiet groan was the only sound, as he flipped Wolffe over where he was sprawled out on the medbay floor, still down for the count.
Taking the Commander’s pulse, Patch let out a quiet huff of relief. “He should be out for a while; give us some time to figure out what to do.”
He sighed, motioning for Dogma to help him get Wolffe onto one of the nearby med beds. But Dogma didn’t move, still in the same spot he’d been in when Wolffe had collapsed.
That had been far too close— his hands shook when he glanced down at them, the hypo from earlier having clattered to the floor. He felt sick, and his hand burned with the hypo’s absence, knowing that he could’ve killed a vod– almost had to kill a vod– that or let Tup die at a brother’s hands.
After another long moment, Dogma finally took a step, knees weak with the relief that he didn’t have to make that choice. He wasn’t sure how he’d ever look the Commander in the eyes, after that, but Patch had saved them all from a much worse fate.
Noticing Dogma’s hesitation, Patch gave him a tired smile, hoping to reassure him. “He’s out, Dogma. Won’t be waking up for at least a few hours, with the sedative in his system. Those things hit like a sledgehammer to the circadian rhythm. It’s why us medics are so hesitant to use them for run-of-the-mill insomnia and battle stress.”
“R-Right.” Dogma stuttered before finally moving to help get the Commander off the floor. They had barely managed to get him up onto a medbed when a thunder of footsteps sounded just outside the door. Tup flinched back behind a monitor and Blu aimed one of the Commander’s blasters at the door, only to lower it with a sigh of relief when General Koon was the first one to enter, followed by the others.
“General Plo, it’s good to see you, sir.” He said, voice faint with relief as he waved the group further into the medbay. The Commander had worn his helmet when he’d entered earlier, his voice cold and indifferent through his vocoder. Thankfully, when the others entered the chaotic medbay, including Boost, Sinker, Kix, and even Hardcase trailing behind them, Dogma’s heightened nerves relaxed a little as he saw their wide eyes and concerned looks.
The General wasted no time, standing at Wolffe’s bedside with a pensive look on his face, obvious even with his mask and goggles.
“His presence in the force is clouded. I could not sense him when I entered.” He murmured, placing a careful hand on the Commander’s forehead.
“We think his chip was activated.” Fives replied, standing up with a groan, holding a bacta patch to his right temple where the Commander had launched him into a wall. “He was trying to kill Tup, and anyone else who got in the way.”
“H-He wasn’t himself…” Patch added worriedly. “He called Tup by his number, and his voice…” He paused with a shudder. “I’ve never heard him sound like that. ‘Was all I could to sedate him when he was distracted.”
Boost blinked, stunned. Even when teaming up during sparring practice, it was a rare day indeed when someone got the upper hand on the Commander. “Wait, Patch, you took him down?! B-But you’re a medic!”
“I have bad days!” Patch’s voice bordered on hysterical; this whole thing had been a lot for him– definitely not good for his heart. He took a long breath to steady himself before adding, “It was a joint effort– but it almost felt like he was going easy on us. Like he was fighting it.”
At that, the room went quiet, and a chill went down Patch’s spine when he thought about how much worse it could’ve been. Small mercies– if control chips in every clone’s brain could be called a mercy.
“I want it out– we need them out!” Fives growled, his sentiment echoed by nearly every trooper in the room.
Patch was already nodding, reluctantly comming Korbel– the CMO was grumpy on a good day with a full night’s sleep, but he didn’t want to chance Wolffe waking up and trying something he’d regret. “Agreed. Wolffe first– keeping him sedated is a short term solution, and w-we don’t– I don’t know enough to say whether the changes would be permanent or not.” He swallowed hard at that statement, feeling cold. Especially with the Commander’s history of head trauma, there’s no telling what the long-term effects would be.
When a clawed hand gripped his shoulder in warm support, Patch glanced up at the General in quiet surprise.
“The Commander is shrouded from me, but not gone. Do not lose hope, Patch. I sense that Wolffe’s stubbornness will endure.”
Patch nodded, laughing wetly as he choked back tears. He’d have time for that later. “R-Right. Thank you, sir.” He took another moment to settle himself, still a little shaky with adrenaline now that the fight was over, but his anxiety shot back up as Fives’ eyes widened.
“Wait– won’t the Kaminoans be expecting some sort of update? How do we do that without the Commander– or without them brainwashing whoever we send in his place?” Normally, Fives would happily volunteer to impersonate a commanding officer, but with the threat of the chips, him and the rest of the Wolfpack were out.
Technically, Tup could do it, but he was almost as bad of a liar as Fives was, and with his emotions out of whack since everything had happened, Fives didn’t know if he could guarantee that Tup wouldn’t give something away, even in full armor. Still, they were running out of options, and Fives didn’t know if–
“I’ll do it.” Dogma’s quiet voice startled Fives out of his thoughts, tense with nerves but resolute in his desire to protect his batchmate.
“What? Dogma, I-”
“My chip didn’t work– probably never did. I-I’m…” He swallowed nervously, terrified at the thought of being found out by the Kaminoans, but he could do this. He had to do this. For Tup.
“I’m the only one who can.”
And as much as Fives hated to admit it, Dogma was right. Glancing around the room at the rest of his brothers for confirmation, Fives finally gave Dogma a resolute nod before standing to help divest the Commander of his armor.
Hopefully Dogma had a good sabacc face.
______________________
Sitting in the quiet medbay, Fives and Tup shifted restlessly as they waited for an update from the others. Dogma had kitted up in the Commander’s armor before sending the Kaminoans a comm to let them know that the chips had been dealt with.
Hardcase and Kix had helped him come up with the wording, being the only two vode among them who could lie reasonably well. Little notes like calling Nala Se “doctor,” instead of “sir,” referring to Tup as a traitor, and other minor details that would hopefully keep them safe from future orders. As much as they wanted to join him, they could only hope and plead with the Force that their deception wouldn’t be discovered, especially not before the chips had been dealt with.
Sans armor, the Commander himself was currently in surgery, with CMO Korbel currently removing his chip. If it was safe, the rest of their chips would be removed shortly after. While the procedure itself didn’t take too long, the medic himself was running on four hours of sleep, kaff, and spite, but for now they’d decided to prioritize those in command and the wayward 501st troopers. After Boost and Sinker, Fives was first in line.
Hands clenched tightly around the datapad that held the key to the Separatist plot, Fives’ thoughts spun in circles, anxious for an update.
“Can I see it?”
“What?” Blinking away his thoughts, Fives glanced questioningly at Tup.
“The list. With the orders– I-I need to know…” Tup swallowed, a pit of dread filling his stomach. He still didn’t remember much from when his own chip had started to go haywire, but still. He could’ve been made to kill his vode, murder civilians, even kill himself. He needed to know what that chip in his head had almost made him do.
Fives paused for a long moment, limbs going still as he gave Tup a searching look before finally nodding in agreement. He pulled up the list on his datapad before handing it to Tup with a sympathetic look.
Tup nodded in thanks as he took the datapad, taking a long breath before finally giving it a look. Adjusting his new glasses, he read through line after line of horrors, just as bad as Fives had said, and worse, but a chill went down his spine as his gaze stopped at Order 66, and he knew with certainty which order had been triggered inside him. His breath shook and he squeezed his eyes shut in an attempt to calm himself. He didn’t even realize he was shaking until Fives put a hand on his shoulder in quiet support.
“Alright, Tup?” Fives asked cautiously.
It was a di’kutla question; he knew as soon as he asked. None of them were alright– Commander Wolffe was fighting for his life, Dogma was impersonating a Commanding officer, and they were all one comm call away from being killed by their vode, stuck with kriffing time-bombs in their heads.
Tup seemed to agree with the sentiment as his breathing sped up and his movements went choppy. Voice ragged with nerves, it was all he could do to humm a thready acknowledgement as he attempted to get his breathing back under control.
Tup had always been on the anxious side, for most vode, but it took a surprising amount of effort to reign himself in, even with Fives’ comforting hand offering a warm support, gently guiding him back to himself. But finally, he managed to steady himself enough to answer when Fives asked, “Which one was it?”
Tup swallowed, throat suddenly dry. “Order 66.”
“Kriff.”
Tup huffed a choked laugh, slightly hysterical despite himself. “Yeah…” He trailed off, leaning in when Fives pulled him into a hug.
They had just separated again when the medbay doors whooshed open and Dogma stepped in, tugging nervously at the ill-fitting armor, thankfully not significant enough to be noticeable over a holocall.
“Well?” Fives asked, one arm still tight around Tup.
Taking off the Commander’s helmet, Dogma gave them a short nod, face pale but eyes shining in relief. He hadn’t kriffed it up, and now the Kaminoans were off their tails, assuming that all evidence of the chips had been tossed out an airlock, never to be seen again. They were safe for the moment, free to go back to the 501st, alert the Jedi, and get these chips out of their brothers’ heads. All of them.
___________________
[Algorithm Connection Confirmed]
[Information Received on Case 00024613]
[Processing]
Case 00024613: Kaminoan forces cite an instance of a clone removing their inhibitor chip before being subdued.
Chip Purpose: Chip responsible for minor behavioral inhibition
Chip Priority: High
Case Report: Kaminoans report that the trooper in question, CT-5385, has been eliminated, along with CT-6116, CT- 5493, CT-6922, and ARC-5555. The evidenc–
[Hardware reboot required. Processing]
Case Report Continued: The evidence in question has reportedly been disposed of, with product CC-3636 of the 104th Battalion returning to normal duty after eliminating all traces of foul play.
…
Update: Sensors detected communications between Venator II Class Star Destroyer Resolute under the 501st Legion and Venator I Class Star Destroyer Defender under the 104th Legion. Keywords of transmission include “transport, troopers, rendezvous, resupply.” A small freighter is scheduled to provide additional supplies to the Resolute during a rendezvous on Coruscant. Freighter lists only cargo and one pilot in transport.
[Processing]
Inconsistency detected: Resolute resupply on Coruscant already taking place– additional resupply from 104th deemed inefficient and unlikely.
Additional information: Common 501st Battalion tactics include misdirection, including disguising as Separatist forces to gain access to information and facilities. Similar tactics utilized on: Rishi Moon Base, Malevolence, Geonosis, and Lola Sayu.
Risk Assessment: Not insignificant.
Recommendation: Task force deployment to intercept the freighter and capture any Republic forces to determine status of enemy knowledge of chips.
[Processing]
Recommendation approved.
[Algorithm Disconnecting]
____________________
AO3 Link:
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
Found this guy at goodwill, and with a fresh coat of paint, I now have a new friend!!! The red hand-armor originally belonged to his batchmate, Blunt, and the little bit of paint on his chin is meant to mirror his soul patch/goatee under his helmet 👉👈
Patch is also a great chore buddy! Sometimes I’ll bring him into whatever room I need to clean, and if I get bored or unmotivated, I’ll imagine him encouraging me, lol 😅
“Don’t you have somewhere better to be?” Echo asked one day as he sat on his bunk, bored out of his mind. Tech was his minder at the moment, Fives having stepped away for a briefing after making Echo promise to stay put unless someone was there to help him.
For some reason, the Bad Batch had designated themselves his unofficial bodyguards, with at least one of them hanging out in the periphery whenever he turned around. They’d deny it when anyone asked, but his little shadows could only loiter around the barracks for so long before becoming conspicuous.
“The Separatists have organized a blockade around the planet, and GAR command has forbidden us from risking it at this juncture.” Tech responded, not looking up from his datapad. “We currently function as an extension of the 212th, and until Commander Cody finds a use for us, we’re more or less grounded.”
"Huh."
After Echo's rescue, recovery is less straightforward. Between his prosthetics, secret Separatist plots, and the search for a missing friend, Echo is trying to figure out if there's a place for him with the brothers he left behind.
Ch. 1: Visible
A sharp klaxon sounded in the frigid cell corridor, and quiet footsteps followed, the sound barely audible above the clacking of marching droids. Head bowed and previously-sharp hairstyle unkempt, he kept his steps deliberate. He slowed just enough to trail slightly behind his captors, hoping the gap could give him an opportunity to—
“Keep moving, clone!”
–Kriff.
Kix winced internally, but with the cold durasteel of the nearest Commando Droid’s blaster digging into his occipital bone, he had no other choice to keep moving forward, albeit slower than the clankers would like.
It hadn’t been too long since he’d woken up in a dimly-lit durasteel cell, added together with the full-charge stun blast he’d taken in the shuttle, it could’ve been anywhere from three to eight hours since he’d been taken– more if the metallic taste in his mouth was anything to go by– he’d more than likely been drugged. And as the days and weeks go on, it’ll likely be even more difficult to tell how much time had passed since he was initially taken captive.
If he’s going to make a move, it needs to be soon.
Kix reassured himself that he hadn’t been out long enough for his hair to start to grow out. He hadn’t been able to maintain it quite as well as he’d like in the past weeks, but the lightning-bolt patterns were still mostly intact when he’d been able to catch a glimpse of his reflection on a nearby metallic surface.
He didn’t plan to stay here that long, after all. One way or another, his time is limited– and if he had to pick between blasterfire or Dooku prying open his mind like a roasted koja nut, Kix knew which option he’d pick.
He might not have the luxury of choice, though, as another stun blast wracked through him, the sharp tang in his throat promising a migraine when he woke up.
“How’s he doing, Tech?” Hunter asked, poking his head into the makeshift hold/medbed in the stern of the Havoc Marauder, where the rescued ARC and his batcher had taken residence for the flight. Normally he’d be concerned about whether the bunk could hold the weight of more than one fully-kitted trooper, but it had held Wrecker on more than one occasion with only a few warning creaks, so it would probably be fine.
Echo had long since given up his shaky hold on consciousness, fully drained from the day’s excitement, but Fives was more awake than ever, watching Echo’s hollow chest rise and fall with an intense gaze. When Echo’s breaths stuttered with a shiver, Fives was quick to adjust the blankets around him, and when he slumped against Fives’ shoulder in his sleep, the arm around him tightened its careful hold. Now fully-clothed in one of Crosshair's spare off-duty reds, Echo had never looked smaller.
With his heightened senses, Hunter could feel the way that Fives’ anxiety spiked with every minute change in his batchmate’s wellbeing, but he’d learned to be discreet about those things. Not that he blamed him— having a batcher that vulnerable was a terrifying experience, and even now, he closed down that train of thought, turning instead to hear Tech’s reply.
“His numbers are holding steady for now– or steady for him, I should say,” Tech equivocated, adjusting his goggles as he spoke. “Based on the mild swelling and irritation around his prosthetics, I would consider another anti-inflammatory injection for the pain, as well as future mobility, but given the likelihood of potential organ damage, I do not have the capabilities to accurately adjust the dosages to ensure safety.”
So basically, the reg was in pain and they couldn’t do anything about it. Not much more than Hunter could detect with his own senses, between the furrows in the other’s brow and moisture beading on his temple. He considered himself thankful that, despite everything, the reg had managed to drift off to sleep. Force knows he needed it.
Although… “Would taking off the prosthetics help?” Hunter questioned. He didn’t have heat vision, exactly, but from what he could detect, most of Echo’s discomfort seemed to spike whenever he moved his legs– or what was left of them.
“Hmm… it could possibly remove some of the strain on his body.” Tech considered, and despite Fives’ instinctive protest at the idea of removing his vod’s legs, he couldn’t deny the fact that the things were veritable lead weights. So he relented when Tech pulled back the blanket from Echo’s lower half, glancing to Fives for permission before manipulating the manual release first on one, then the other.
Echo shuddered at the sharp catch, at first, but then he let out a sigh of relief before turning over in his sleep and burrowing his head into the thin blankets. Fives let out a small huff of air, comforting himself by running a hand through the thin patch of hair on his brothers’ scalp, earning him another sleepy contented noise.
That much hadn’t changed, at least, Fives mused with a chuckle, trying to avoid thinking about how small his batchmate looked curled up under the blanket, sans prosthetic legs.
Now that he was able to see the whole thing, Tech couldn’t hold back a scoff. “These things have worse servos than the average B1 battledroid. I am shocked he was as mobile as he was during our exit, if this was the equipment they provided him.” He shook his head, already planning alterations to the poor workmanship.
‘And the Skakoans called themselves scientists.’ He huffed skeptically.
The only saving grace for the Seppie’s design was that they had opted for osseointegration prosthetics, rather than the standard socket prosthetic, especially given the rather limited residual limb on the right side. With the osseointegration model, it allowed for more efficient adjustment and removal of the prosthetic, with far fewer concerns for skin integrity. Given the right prosthetic, could even allow for some pressure sensation through the bone, but upon first glance, these prosthetics appeared to serve as more of a clunky placeholder than any meaningful effort towards mobility.
He’d have to fix that if the regs were planning to stick around for any length of time.
—————————————
Landing the ship was both more and less eventful than Fives expected, with Tech’s landing being the least dramatic part, between the commotion of the medics and other members of the welcoming party as they returned. Apparently news had gotten out that they’d found more than an enemy algorithm in their latest mission– thankfully, Rex had shielded the reunited Dominoes from any unwanted gawkers during their disembarkment.
By all rights, Echo should’ve woken up mid-transport– he used to wake up at the drop of a hat, back when they shared a set of bunks and he’d glare sleepily whenever Fives attempted to sneak out– but he stayed almost worryingly still as the medics transported him from the Marauder to the long-term recovery ward of their well-defended staging area. They’d been on-planet long enough to have actual imaging equipment and specialty supplies that Echo might be needing, but Fives couldn’t help the spike of worry in his gut as he snagged a corner of the hover-stretcher to avoid being left behind.
He’d stick to his batcher like synthglue, or a bad case of trenchfoot— persistent and unmistakeable.
So that was what he did, staying with Echo as the medics gave him every test they knew to give, the sun moving across the sky at molasses pace as they assigned Echo a bed. About three hours in, a well-meaning shiny offered Fives a chair and a near-pitying look, which is where Rex found him later, with Jesse in-tow.
Fives could see the mix of emotions on the latter’s face, caught between joy at a brother's return and despair at their identity. Sure, it wasn’t like he’d really expected them to find Kix as well, but Jesse couldn’t quite hold back the desperate hope that Rex and Fives had found him when word got back that they’d be returning with a prisoner of war. The reality was both better and worse than any of them could’ve imagined.
“How is he?” Rex asked, voice gentle as he came to stand beside Fives, where the other sat clasping his batchmate’s one remaining hand.
“His blood sugar’s been doing better since they started him on an IV drip, but apparently his temp’s a little high, which is impressive given that ice box we found him in.” Fives responded, eyebrows pinched in worry and voice filled with wry fondness as he continued. “One of the medics explained it to me earlier– all I know is he’s not sick; he just pushed himself a little too far during the escape, and now he’s paying the price.”
Fives pushed down a surge of guilt, wondering internally why he didn’t just carry Echo the whole way, rather than let him wear himself out like this. At least he knew that, whatever the Skakoans had done to Echo, they hadn’t managed to break his stubborn streak.
Almost as-if on cue, Echo’s forehead wrinkled and bleary eyes opened at the voices around them, heart rate spiking at the harsh lighting but calming at the familiar callused hand clasped around his wrist.
Hazy expression clearing slightly, Echo took in their worried expressions, before clearing his throat and giving Jesse a tired half-smirk. “Hey Jesse,” Echo paused to take a wheezing breath. “—Don’t think I’ve forgotten those ten credits you still owe me.” He ended with a chuckle.
The words shocked a choked laugh out of the other, and Jesse surged forward to envelop Echo in a tight hug, bittersweet guilt shifting to genuine gratefulness to see Echo alive again. Sure, he wasn’t Kix, but Torrent felt a little more complete with their lost Domino back in the mix.
And if he’d had any hand in the Seppie’s plans with the inhibitor chips, then maybe Echo could be the key to getting Kix back.
———————————————————
Between the fever and the overexertion of his escape, it took Echo a good few days to stop feeling like an overripe meiloorun left out in the sun. The medics said he still had a lot of strength to build back up, especially given the deconditioning he’d experienced spending the majority of several months immobilized in a metal tube, although the Seppies had done the bare minimum rehab care to prevent him from withering away entirely.
One medic, Patch, still muttered under his breath about it when Echo would describe his “medical care” under the careful eye of the Skakoan scientists during their daily appointments working on his strength and respiratory volume. Unlike Fives, Echo hadn’t protested when he was released from the acute care ward once they had figured out that he was, for the most part, medically stable.
He’d had more than enough medical trauma for one accelerated lifetime, thank you.
Still, he couldn’t help but notice the anxious glint in Fives’ eyes as he was discharged to the barracks with strict orders not to overexert himself, and to only walk when supervised by at least one vod. Between the deconditioning and malnutrition, his bone density was much lower than ideal, and a simple fall could result in a broken hip– something his prosthetics really couldn’t afford.
It could be worse— he’d remind himself on his worst days– he could’ve lost all his limbs, and then he wouldn’t be able to unscrew the caps on his medication bottles or slip into modified ARC sign with Fives, sharing silent conversations like cadets after lights-out. He didn’t love the attention his visible modifications had brought him, though, or the overanxious looks everyone sent him whenever he so much as breathed weird.
Don’t get him wrong– his body was fully and truly karked. The explosion had wreaked havoc on his abdominal cavity, for starters. The medics had already explained that he was on the waiting list for a kidney transplant once the inevitable happened to an unlucky vod on the battlefield. Echo had insisted that they not put him at the top of the list– he’d survived this long on dialysis and spite already, what was a few more months? Who was he to get in the way of another trooper's quick recovery and return to the battlefield?
Patch, the rehab medic, had also explained that Echo had experienced some intestinal trauma during the explosion, which he’d been able to guess from the near-chronic stomachaches he experienced anytime he varied from the strict dietary regimen the medics had set up for him. He’d adjust eventually, and intermittent bacta treatments were making some improvements, but it was, admittedly, a lot to be dealing with, especially when added to the novelty of monitoring his own blood sugar, rather than having everything automated by a durasteel sarcophagus.
When he’d first been injured in the explosion, a piece of shrapnel had damaged his pancreas, and the Seppie’s timely medical intervention had apparently been one of the only things keeping his body from tearing itself apart, between that and the rather obvious trauma to his absent limbs. There were some plans to try islet cell transplants later on in his recovery, but for now he was tasked with keeping an eye on a modified comm unit synced to a smaller CGM unit on the back of his arm, much less bulky than his previous one.
Thankfully his breathing had improved by leaps and bounds after a few bacta treatments, which helped his overall conditioning and energy reserves, but he still found himself a little wobbly on the way back from the fresher most nights, and he hadn’t been able to turn down the offer to requisition a hover chair for when he needed it most.
If there had been one saving grace in all of this, though, it had been the Bad Batch. He’d expected Fives to stick to him like glue, sure, but it seemed like there was always at least one of them hanging out in the periphery whenever he turned around. They’d deny it when anyone asked, but his little shadows could only loiter around the barracks for so long before becoming conspicuous. The grumpy one, Crosshair, had dropped all pretenses at one point when a transfer squad had bustled through the barracks and almost tripped Echo in their rush out the door, giving them a real reason to run before even Fives could step in.
“Don’t you have somewhere better to be?” Echo asked one day, no bite to his tone as he sat on his bunk, bored out of his mind. Tech was his minder at the moment, Fives having stepped away for a briefing after making Echo promise to stay put unless someone was there to help him.
“The Separatists have organized a blockade around the planet, and GAR command has forbidden us from risking it at this juncture.” Tech responded, not looking up from his datapad even as he spoke. “We currently function as an extension of the 212th, and until Commander Cody finds a use for us, we’re more or less grounded.”
“Huh,” Echo hummed before arching his neck to get a better look at the others’ datapad. “What’cha working on then? More of your squad's impresively well thought-out plans?”
“I am working on a prototype for a prosthesis to replace the ones you are currently using.”
“Woah, really?” Echo sat up, intrigued.
Tech responded with a disdainful look at the prosthetics currently sitting at the foot of Echo’s bed. “Affirmative. These will be made of a lightweight durasteel alloy, with microprocessors in the knee joints to replace the simple hinge design common in most B1 battle droids that your current prosthetics currently utilize. When they are complete, there will even be the option to disconnect the foot and add alternative prostheses for different uses.” He explained, never once looking Echo completely in the eyes despite his excitement at the topic.
“That’s amazing— where are you getting the materials for something like that?” Echo pondered aloud. He couldn’t imagine something like that being cheap.
Tech cleared his throat, at that, readjusting his goggles in a way that didn’t quite hide the reddening of his cheeks. “General Skywalker was kind enough to introduce us to a benefactor of his in the Senate who helped fund previous rehabilitative necessities for injured 501st troopers.”
At that, Echo gave a well-worn smirk, familiar with the General’s mysterious sources of funding. “Is that right? Well, be sure to send her my thanks if you happen to talk with her again. I imagine she left quite the impression?” He asked, unable to keep the teasing tone out of his voice. He highly doubted that Tech had ever had a full conversation with anyone of the opposite sex before– aside from the Kaminoans.
“Indeed,” Tech assented, somehow succeeding in avoiding looking like a deer in the headlights before changing the subject by reaching over to show Echo his datapad and the information it held. “Would you like to take a look?”
“I’d love to,” Echo gave Tech an encouraging smile before settling in, happy to have his ear talked off by a vod’ika who didn’t treat him like glass, whose expectations he didn’t have to manage at every turn when his rehabilitation took longer than expected.
Don’t get him wrong– Fives was great, and the other had barely left him for long enough to shower since Echo had been rescued. If he knew that something was bugging Echo, he wouldn’t hesitate to get him a hydropack or adjust his mannerisms to avoid causing him distress, but Echo was getting a little tired of the cadet gloves. Sure, he was far from battle-ready, but he wasn’t an invalid either, and he was gaining strength every day.
Maybe one of these days, Fives would be able to see it too.
Shortly after hearing rumors of a new Separatist Malevolence, Patch, Boost, and Sinker are trapped in the Protector's lift, and Patch is fine. He has to be fine, because Sinker is not fine, and he needs to make sure his brothers are alright. He can break down later.
Patch knew they were in trouble when the lights went out.
He’d been walking to the bridge with Boost and Sinker for a briefing with Commander Wolffe, and they’d just entered the lift and pressed the button when the lift shuddered to a screeching halt. Stumbling from the sudden stop, Patch barely had a moment to think before the lift was plunged into darkness, aside from the faint light from the stars in the viewport.
“Everyone alright?” Patch asked, fiddling around in his medkit for the penlight he kept for concussion checks, grateful that he’d been in full gear that day. With a grunt of success, he pulled out his penlight, shining it on the ceiling so he could see the others a little better.
“Fine. You?” Boost responded, sounding a little breathless but otherwise alright, so Patch nodded to the other’s question. Sinker didn’t respond though, and it took Patch a moment to realize that Sinker had dropped to the floor, eyes glued to the view outside the viewport. It took another moment for Patch to realize that Sinker hadn’t breathed since the lights went out.
“Sinker, breathe vod.” Patch dropped to one knee next to Sinker, taking in the panicked look in his eyes. He started rubbing Sinker’s arms– not too hard, but firmly enough to get a response. It wasn’t long before Patch was able to get Sinker to respond with a sharp intake of air, but then he started having the opposite problem, chest heaving as his eyes darted around the cramped lift.
Eyebrows creasing in concern, Patch grimaced, pushing aside his own discomfort at the tight quarters and the faint glow from the viewport and the slowly encroaching feeling of the recycled air turning stale– his vod needed him. He could panic later.
There’d been whispers about the Separatists building a new Malevolence, and the Wolfpack had admittedly been more jumpy than usual as of late, Sinker included. This lift malfunction couldn’t have come at a worse time– and Sinker’s insomnia probably hadn’t been doing him any favors. Patch wasn’t the only one in the Wolfpack with triggers- his were just the most obvious. Their time in that escape pod had left its mark on all of them, but this time it was Sinker who was paying the price.
“Kriff,” Boost hissed, feeling a sharp pang of concern for his brother as he moved to stand between Sinker and the viewport despite the way it made him twitch to have the depths of space yawning behind him.
‘At least Patch seems to be doing okay,’ Boost mentally reassured himself.
So while Patch focused on helping Sinker, Boost tried to contact help, staying back as much as he could to avoid worsening any claustrophobia that Sinker might be feeling.
Meanwhile, Patch had managed to get Sinker into a better sitting position to maximize airflow, his back against the wall of the lift so he could stretch his legs out and feel a little bit less like the walls were closing in. When Sinker’s claustrophobia got the better of him, intense physical contact like a hug was one of the last things he wanted, but small things like checking his pulse or tracing symbols on his palm sometimes helped to bring him back to himself. Patch had started doing the latter, having removed one of his own gloves to trace circles in Sinker’s palm for Sinker to match his breathing to.
It seemed to be helping a little bit, but Sinker didn’t truly start to relax until Patch started humming a quiet tune he’d heard on the holonet the other day. He’d never been a particularly musically talented vod, but he could hold a tune well enough. Sometimes he’d use it to calm his own anxiety, even though he shied away from those thoughts now– he didn’t have time to break down, not when he had no idea how long they’d be stuck there, or how the rest of the ship was doing, or –
Patch pursed his lips together, pushing those thoughts down with more force, instead focusing on the brother in front of him, who’d glanced up when Patch’s humming had faded. At least his eyes were looking a little more focused, Patch noted with relief, giving Sinker an apologetic look before continuing.
It felt like hours, but couldn’t have been longer than fifteen minutes when they began to hear muffled voices outside the lift.
“We’re in here!” Boost yelled, banging on the doors enthusiastically, causing Patch and Sinker to flinch before exhaling in relief as the lift doors began to groan with the force of being pried open by a couple of maintenance troopers, and Patch was relieved to see one of the on-duty medics approaching. Boost must’ve made a call to medbay too, he realized, having been too preoccupied with Sinker’s wellbeing, and his own spiraling thoughts, to pay much attention beyond that.
It was a little awkward making their way out of the lift when it was stuck halfway between floors, but they made it work. As soon as he was sure that Sinker was in good hands– and Boost too, don’t think Patch hadn’t noticed the other’s shaking hands– Patch wandered away on trembling legs, looking for a quiet place to regain his own composure.
Fixer was the one to find him, because of course he was, discovering Patch curled up in a ball in the nearest supply closet, trembling like a leaf. He'd probably gone looking for him after Boost had contacted Wolffe- Patch had definitely missed their briefing at this point. Eyebrows pinching in concern, Fixer crouched down in front of Patch, reaching out to squeeze the hand that wasn’t gripping his gauntlet for dear life.
“What can I do, Patch?” He asked quietly. Each of his vode were different, when it came to receiving help, and while Patch was usually good with a hug, he wasn’t sure if it would set him off even worse after his recent experience.
“Grounding. H-helps,” Patch managed to say between panting gasps, trying and failing to regulate his own breathing, but it felt like the recycled air of the ship was all escaping out of the airlock, along with his sanity. He didn’t hesitate to hold onto Fixer’s hand with a tight grip, and when Fixer tugged on his arm lightly, pulling him forward just enough for Patch to know what he was offering, Patch immediately accepted the invitation to hug.
Burying himself in his vod’s arms, Patch couldn’t help but relax. The claustrophobia of an escape pod was very different from the warm embrace of his brother’s arms, at least to Patch, and even though he had a small moment of self-recrimination, Patch knew that Fixer always felt better when he could provide some physical assistance to his vode– he was a trooper of action, not of words. And aside from Wolffe– and maybe Fives– he gave the best hugs.
The emergency was over; Patch could let himself feel now.
So he did.
___________________________
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Organization for Transformative Works
Dogma had been a part of the 104th for nearly four months by the time their first real shore leave came around. They spent so much time in transit that apparently the powers-that-be considered it less necessary than some other battalions, but all things told, Dogma was looking forward to it.
Final chapter of this fic!!!
Chapter 11: Enough
When General Plo found Wolffe waiting outside his quarters after latemeal the next day, he wasn’t exactly surprised.
“I want to see the reports.” Wolffe stated, standing firm with his hands clasped behind his back. General Plo didn’t have to ask which ones— honestly he’s surprised that Wolffe had managed to wait this long. He gave Wolffe a measured look through his goggles and waited for him to explain.
Wolffe’s expression tightened with concern, skin pinching around his scar. “I don’t— Dogma’s been through enough, and I… I hate seeing him hurting without knowing why. And I hate making it worse.”
He paused for a long moment before continuing. “The kid still hasn’t painted his armor, and I just… want to make sure it’s not anything we’re doing wrong, to make him feel like he doesn’t belong…” Wolffe’s eyes trailed down to the ground, at least until a firm hand on his shoulder prompted him to look up again.
“You are a good Commander, Wolffe, and a good brother.” General Plo rumbled quietly, squeezing his shoulder in reassurance. Warmth spread from his hand, and Wolffe knew the General’s eyes were examining his own. “Dogma has made much progress in recent weeks, and I sense that he appreciates the Wolfpack’s care. His hesitations are not on you… rather, the transgressions of the Jedi, I fear.”
Wolffe blinked, confused. “What do you mean, General?”
Plo Koon released a breath through his rebreather, almost a sigh, and his expression tightened in what Wolffe finally recognized as anger, brain stuttering in surprise.
Finally, he gestured inside his quarters, beckoning Wolffe to follow. “Come, my son. We have much to discuss.”
—————————————————
Skin buzzing and feet pounding as he channeled his frustration onto the treadmill, Wolffe nearly roared in anger as he thought of what he’d learned. Already much faster than his usual pace, upped the speed despite the hitch in his side, hoping to drown out the thunderous rage threatening to engulf him.
What the 501st had gone through— what Rex, and even Dogma had been through— he banged a hand on the side of the treadmill before prompting it to go even faster until his breathing felt ragged and all his muscles were burning.
Slamming a hand down on the shut-off pad, he leaned forward until his head made contact with the support bars, hands gripping the sides with a vicelike grip as what he had seen flashed through his head.
The file the General had shown him– still half-osik after the GAR’s security council was done with it– had painted a stark picture, one with Dogma right in the middle of it. General Plo hadn’t been there in-person when the report had been given, but he’d shared with Wolffe quietly, how Captain Rex, always so steady and sure, hadn’t been able to meet their eyes during the mission debrief. General Plo had cautioned him against watching the helmet vids from when they’d taken the darjetii demagolka down, the besalisk’s limbs easily the size of Dogma’s torso. After watching that, he understood Dogma’s kneejerk reaction to lightsabers all too well.
Wolffe’s only solace was the report of a single blaster bolt burning through Krell’s back with a sense of finality, and even that made his stomach churn with guilt– feeling relieved at Dogma’s expense, grieving for the near-shiny he’d been before everything had been stripped away. Before his whole life had been reduced to the Clone Product who killed a Jedi General. Who would’ve been sentenced to death if not for a last-ditch effort from Captain Rex and the Jedi Council to schedule his sentence with the Coruscant Detention Center’s general prison population. After all, a death sentence could take years to get through their system, and nobody would bat an eye at an untimely death, putting a trooper in general population.
Wolffe couldn’t even imagine what that had been like– that month-long gap between the Umbara campaign and when a new shiny had shown up in the 104th. But he’d seen the scars, and the kid still flinched instinctively at lights out. So many of Dogma’s reactions made sense now, as much as Wolffe grieved for it.
And Wolffe knew grief; on his worst days, it still threatened to swallow him whole, especially after the Malevolence attack, but grief was a familiar companion in death, almost preferable to the bone-aching limbo of continual injustice… injustice that Wolffe tried not to think about, in a battalion with a General as good as theirs.
Dogma had been through so much, much more than anyone should have on their shoulders, and even though Wolffe despaired at what the vod’ika had been put through, he refused to regret the knowing.
Throat raw and legs wobbling, Wolffe’s tired body carried him through the rote movements of showering and returning to his bunk, long after the others had turned in for the night. Mind numb from the thoughts still racing through it, Wolffe knew he wouldn’t be getting much sleep that night, but as his eyes drifted, he focused on the gentle rise and fall of Dogma’s chest, and for now, that was enough.
It had to be.
————————————————
Dogma had been a part of the 104th for nearly four months by the time their first real shore leave came around. They spent so much time in transit that apparently the powers-that-be considered it less necessary than some other battalions, but all things told, Dogma was looking forward to it.
He’d been… a little preoccupied the last time the 501st made port on Coruscant, but Comet and Fixer were bickering about being the one to take him shopping for civvies, and Patch had plans to show them his favorite hole-in-the-wall diner from his time on-planet, and even Commander Wolffe had plans to meet up with his batchmate at some point.
And Tup… the 501st’s leave time would overlap with theirs by about 24 hours, and Dogma’s mind turned in anxious circles any time he thought about seeing Tup again. It helped, though, looking back at Tup’s comm updates. As much as it had shocked him the first few times around, Dogma had been missed, and it was a nice feeling, all things considered. Tup ended every comm saying he missed him, that the 501st was doing okay, K’oyacyi and all that, even when Dogma’s stomach squirmed with awkwardness at the idea of saying it back.
He did miss Tup, but he was also finding his place with the Wolfpack, growing in ways that he hadn’t been able to with the 501st. Getting his first pair of civvies would just be another sign of that.
So when they finally set out on their excursion to the “Best bantha burger this side of Coco Town,” Dogma barely resisted the urge to crane his head up to look at the endless cityscape of Coruscant.
Thankfully, Comet kept an eye on him and managed to prevent him from tripping in a divot in the duracrete. Cheeks flushing without the usual cover of his helmet, he gave Comet a nod of thanks as they finally arrived at their destination.
“Medics first,” Fixer grinned cheekily as he opened the door, holding it behind him and bowing dramatically to let Patch pass.
Patch, in turn, responded with an amused snort, giving Fixer a shove before walking inside with the poise of a Senator. “Joke all you want, vod, but you’ll be singing a different tune after you’ve tried their fried tubers.”
The duo’s dramatics earned a round of chuckles from Boost and Sinker, who mimed an overdramatic bow, shuffling inside before Fixer could slam the door on them. Dogma huffed in amusement, took a moment to appreciate the other’s relaxed teasing, less common on-planet than in the safety of their barracks.
Stepping into the bustling little diner, the Wolfpack was quickly and efficiently shuffled into one of the booths near the back, with Patch, Fixer, Warthog and Boost on one side and Sinker, Comet, Wolffe, and Dogma on the other side, Dogma sitting on the end. They weren’t the only troopers in the diner, which made Dogma smile, just a little, seeing other vode looking comfortable in this place.
“I’d recommend the Trooper Special, unless you see something else you’d like. I’m pretty fond of their Bantha Bite Sub myself, but you can’t go wrong.” Patch suggested, pointing to it on the menu.
Dogma appreciated the suggestion, feeling more than a little overwhelmed by the sheer number of choices. On a good day, he got to pick between a green ration bar and a red one, and maybe some rehydrated bread on the side. Glancing around the rest of the diner, he could see all kinds of foods he’d never even known existed, and the smells wafting from the kitchen made his mouth water.
A service droid came and took their order not long after, and when prompted, Dogma opted for the meiloorun shake with his meal. Comet, predictably, picked chocolate, and Boost and Sinker took the opportunity to start arguing about whether chocolate or vanilla were better.
“It’s the same ingredients either way, vod, just with an extra heap of syrup. ‘sides, I like it. Vanilla’s more subtle. Don’t need to beat me over the head with sugar to enjoy it.”
“If it’s the same exact ingredients, wouldn’t you wanna have the same ingredients and chocolate? Warthog, back me up here, vod!” Boost nudged the trooper next to him, who made a hand-waving gesture to signal that he was staying out of it.
Soon, their shakes and a healthy serving of fried tubers was delivered to their table, gaining the collective attention of the whole table. Half of them looked like they were barely restraining themselves from diving for the tubers, but once all their drinks had been situated, Dogma hesitantly reached for a fry. Mimicking his vode’s moves as they enthusiastically dipped them in sauce, or in Fixer’s case his shake, Dogma took a bite.
He couldn’t quite stop the noise of pleasure at the combination of salty, savory, and even sweet from the sauce he’d dipped it in, and it wasn’t long before he was reaching for his next fry. The shake was also delicious, and he finished it in record time, earning a pleased look from Patch, who apparently thought he could use the calories.
Caught up in the relaxed environment, suffused with the joking and laughing of his vode, he didn’t notice the scuffle by the door until it got loud, but he picked up more than a few key phrases that made him hunch his shoulders in an attempt to make himself disappear.
A natborn, tall and distinctly slimy-looking was running his mouth to the service droid up front, gesturing emphatically towards the other table of troopers, these ones with purple armor markings. “War-mongering wet droids! A being can’t even get a burger in peace without having to look at their pathetic lot!” He griped, trying to argue his way out of paying for his meal, attracting the attention of every trooper in the diner in the process.
Dogma glanced towards the commander nervously, looking for a cue in case they needed to leave before the door to the kitchens swung open and every thought in Dogma’s head fizzled out as a besalisk stepped out.
Eyes cool in a dangerous way, Dogma barely even registered the shorter, wider appearance of the being now standing in front of the natborn, but he noticed the way two of his four hands drifted towards the blaster tucked into his apron. He may have been shorter than General Krell, but he still managed to tower over the rude natborn whose eyes flashed with a brief look of panic as the cook shared some words, tone quiet but deadly. Practically quaking in his boots, the natborn shakily rifled around for the needed credits (and maybe a couple extra in his haste) before making a break for it.
If Dogma had been paying attention, he would’ve noticed the speeder lifting off just outside their window and vacating the premises with all haste. As is, his eyes locked on the besalisk giving the door a satisfied nod, handing the other table of troopers another order of fries before his eyes caught on their table, starting to make his way over.
Dogma could feel his blood rushing in his ears, and the tubers he’d just eaten felt like a brick in the bottom of his stomach, his jaw impossibly tight. He didn’t even register the tray laden with food that the cook had picked up on the way to their table, starting to hand out the assortment of burgers they’d ordered. The vode around him cheered, quickly digging in, but Dogma felt frozen in place as the besalisk started to talk.
“Apologies for the scene, boys. Patch! And Commander… Wolffe, was it? Pleasure to see ya here again! Think I see a couple’a new faces, yeah? My name’s Dex.” The besalisk, Dex, gave them a grin, but in Dogma’s mind’s eye, the image distorted into the cruel glee of the being that still haunted his nightmares, and he knew he couldn’t stay here.
“I-I need to go.” Dogma muttered, standing up abruptly and leaving the diner in a rush, narrowly avoiding bumping into Dex in his haste.
Letting out a noise of confusion, Patch felt himself rising to follow, only to be stopped when Wolffe gave them all a settling motion, standing and gesturing for them to get back to their meals. “I’ve got him, vode. Eat your burgers.” And with a respectful nod to Dex, he was gone. Dex nodded back, having stepped back when Dogma made a break for it, and returned to passing out their meals.
“A-Apologies, sir. I’m not sure what–” Patch started to apologize, eyes drifting to Dogma and Wolffe’s retreating forms, the diner’s door still swinging on its hinges.
Dex waved them off, picking up Dogma’s still untouched plate. “Ah, ‘s fine. A few of the boys in blue— I’ve seen ‘em have the same reaction in recent months. I don’t take it to heart.” His head fins twitched in what Patch had come to recognize as sympathy. Dex still dabbled in information broking, as far as Patch was aware, so it was possible he knew what that was about even more than they did.
“I’ll pack up his portion to-go, the Commander’s too; let ‘em try the bantha burger later, yeah?” He said, an intentional lightness to his deep voice. “Can I trust you boys to get this back to them?”
“Yessir.” Their response was firm, if a little quieter than their usual volume. Patch’s growing confusion and concern reflected back at him on his brother’s faces, but Wolffe said he had him, and he’d trust his ori’vod with Dogma for now, so he tried not to worry too much.
Thinking about it, Dogma from even a month ago would’ve sat through the meal, ignoring his limits and working himself halfway into a panic attack before anyone noticed something was wrong. And as abrupt and worrying as it was, Dogma’s willingness to recognize his limits, and his security in knowing they wouldn’t hold it against him, were pretty good signs.
With that in mind, Patch allowed himself to turn back towards his meal, eventually pulled back into light conversation with his vode. Wolffe’s presence was enough for now, and if the others joined him, it’d only end in Dogma berating himself for ruining their time together. The others seemed to think along the same lines, although Patch wasn’t the only one keeping a weather eye on his comms. Just in case.
————————————————
“Hey kid! Dogma, wait up!” Wolffe called out, catching a glimpse of armor disappearing around a corner, leading to a lesser-used set of alleyways. They weren’t quite in the seedy parts of Coruscant, but it was still far down enough that Wolffe sighed in careful relief when he found Dogma. Crouched down and leaning against a wall, a faraway look in his eyes, Dogma’s muted expression made Wolffe want to curse under his breath.
This one, at least, he should’ve seen coming. Between the natborn throwing invectives at well-meaning vode and Dex’s unfortunate resemblance to a particular darjetii, Wolffe didn’t blame Dogma for his timely exit.
Settling next to Dogma for as long as it took for him to come back to himself, Wolffe startled but didn’t protest when the kid leaned slightly into him. Bringing an arm up around Dogma’s shoulder, he could feel the kid’s intentionally deep breaths and the slow but sure slowing of his breaths.
Finally, he asked, “You good now, vod’ika?” He waited a second before adding. “Don’t even think about apologizing for that.”
Dogma froze for a moment, nodding. “Y-Yeah, I’m okay… thanks.” He said instead of an apology.
Silence hung between them for a while longer before Wolffe spoke again. “I read your file, earlier. Don’t blame you for needing to get some space.”
Dogma shrugged, shoulders starting to relax. At this point, he’d told them almost everything, and it was more of a relief than anything that he didn’t have to explain himself, at least not to Commander Wolffe. He grumbled to himself, “Still feel bad though… Dex didn’t do anything wrong.” Far from it, actually— he’d stood up for clones. He even knew Patch and the Commander by name. Most natborns wouldn’t even bother with that much.
Wolffe shrugged, “He’ll get over it. If you’re not ready to go back there yet, that’s alright, kid. Dex is… he’s good to the vode, better than most, and if and when you feel ready, he’ll probably try to slip you extra dessert or something.” He huffed, shaking his head. “Used to do it to Comet all the time back when he was a shiny.”
Dogma scowled, just a little bit, muttering, “I’m not a shiny.” His blank, white armor did nothing to refute that statement, though, so Wolffe shook his head in amusement.
“Dex isn’t gonna know that, kid.” He huffed in amusement at Dogma’s grumpy expression.
He glanced back at Dogma, deciding to broach the question that’d been bugging him for a while. “Can I ask, is there a reason you haven’t painted your armor yet? I can make assumptions, but I don’t always know what’s going on under the bucket.”
Dogma blinked in surprise at the statement before grimacing self-depricatingly, looking down at the bucket in his lap.
“I just… armor paint’s for vode who’ve earned it, and I… haven’t.” Dogma curled into himself a little bit more, voice small and ashamed.
Wolffe shook his head in fierce disagreement, “You’ve earned your paint twice over, vod’ika. I’d be tempted to award you some jaig eyes after taking down that demagolka if it wouldn’t attract so much attention.”
Dogma blinked like he’d been stung, looking up at Wolffe with disbelief and painful hope. “Really?”
“Kriff, if anyone deserves it, kid, it’d be you.” He nodded before giving Dogma a smug look. “Don’t tell him I told you this, but Captain Rex got his jaig eyes after biting Fett during training, back when he was still a cadet.”
Dogma snorted in disbelief, “There’s no way that’s true.”
Wolffe shrugged, not proving or disproving the story, but his eyes were shining with mirth. “Believe it or don’t, pup. I’m just saying, you’ve done a lot since joining us, more than enough to earn it. Probably saved my life a couple times over. Even if you hadn’t done any of that, though, you’d still be worth your armor paint. Don’t let that shabuir Krell convince you otherwise.”
Dogma was silent for a long moment, before responding quietly. “I’ll think about it.”
Wolffe’s expression relaxed, not quite a smile but close enough. “That’s all I ask.”
“Come on, kid.” He said finally, pulling Dogma along with him towards the nearest shopping center.
“What?”
“Might as well do some shopping while we wait. What do you say, pup?”
“Uh, sure. It’ll get Comet and Warthog to stop fighting about it, at least.” He replied, a small grin on his face as Wolffe drew him in for a moment before releasing him, dragging him towards the largest civvie shopping center Dogma had ever seen.
——————————————
“Commander Wolffe, sir?” A hesitant voice called Wolffe out of his musings. He’d been halfheartedly looking at some supply shipments on his datapad, but nothing he couldn’t do later, as he turned to look at Dogma. The kid was standing in their leave barracks, still fully kitted out in his too-white armor, looking unsure.
“What is it, vod’ika?” Wolffe asked gently, sitting up in his bunk as the not-shiny seemed to draw himself up, taking a deep breath, eyes blinking open again with a glint of determination before he spoke again.
“Do we have any armor paint on-planet?” Dogma asked, and that question struck like a bolt of lightning to the entire room.
“Do we ever!” Fixer cheered, scrambling for his gear kit as Sinker and Boost joined in, practically in tears as their eyes shone with pride. Comet started chattering excitedly about armor designs, causing Warthog to start sharing his own armor’s stories. In the middle of everything, Dogma smiled, hesitantly at first but practically beaming by the time they’d sat around him in a loose circle, making the first few strokes of paint on his armor.
Looking back now, he still wasn’t sure if he deserved it– deserved having paint, having vode again. But he was starting to learn who he was; not who the Kaminoans– or even his vode wanted him to be… and maybe for now, in this place and time, Dogma was enough.
————————————————
“I don’t see him.” Dogma grumbled, worried despite himself as he stood on the landing platform in his freshly painted armor, waiting for the familiar sight of 501st blue.
“He’ll be here, vod.” Comet reassured him, earning a snort from Dogma.
“I know. He’s been sending me a comm message every ten minutes since they got within view of Coruscant.” Dogma chuckled, calmed by the reminder of his batchmate’s enthusiasm.
Finally, in a shuffle of movement, he sees him. Standing shoulder-to-shoulder with Fives, Tup’s grown into himself since Dogma saw him last. Armor weathered by months of experience on the front lines, his familiar bucket under one arm, it took a moment for Tup’s eyes to lock onto Dogma, still recognizable despite the new armor design.
He’d kept it pretty similar to his old design, more paint than white armor now, but his telltale V was larger, larger than the space available on his bucket, and between the two peaks there was another jagged edge, just off-center, almost reminiscent of a mountain, or maybe a scar. It reminded him of Comet’s helmet design and Wolffe’s, but the chevron was still 100% Dogma, and apparently it was enough to assure his batchmate, who raced across the landing pad before colliding with him with enough force that it might’ve bowled him over, back at the beginning of his time with the 104th.
He didn’t even care when his helmet clattered to the ground, letting himself be pulled into a fierce keldabe, treasuring his batchmate’s familiar presence. And when he returned Tup’s vice-like grip, whispering, “I’m alright, Tup,” he actually meant it.
————————————
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General Plo returns from a mission, and Dogma learns about the history of lightsabers.
Chapter 5: The General
“General, good to have you back, sir.” Commander Wolffe called as the gunship doors opened, welcoming General Plo. The General had been gone on a solo mission for the last few weeks, and while Wolffe was more than capable of leading the 104th in his stead, he’d missed the Jedi’s company and insight.
“It is a pleasure to be with you once again, Commander.” Plo Koon rumbled, offering Wolffe a short bow. “Tell me, how have your brothers been in my absence?”
“Good, sir.” Wolffe nodded, walking alongside him. “The latest group of shinies have been settling in, more or less, but it’ll be good to start doing drills with you again, sir. Don’t need them getting distracted with your flashy moves on the battlefield.”
At that, General Plo chuffed in amusement. “I do not think my fighting is considered as flashy as some, Commander. How is the Wolfpack?”
“Sinker and Boost are up to their usual nonsense. They’ve been trying to adopt one of the shinies– We’ve taken to calling him Pup until he finds a name he likes…” ‘... or he feels ready to trust us with the one he already has…’ he thought to himself, knowing how likely the second scenario was.
“I am glad that Sinker and Boost are welcoming this new trooper to the 104th.” Plo Koon responded knowingly, a hint of a smile under his mask, and Wolffe tilted his head in acquiescence– maybe not just Sinker and Boost wanted to bring this shiny into the pack.
“You should know him, sir. According to Sinker, his file was sealed by you.” Wolffe responded just as knowingly, not asking but curious.
“Is that so? In that case, I look forward to seeing him again.” General Plo said, the smile still present.
“There we go, vod! You’ve got him on the ropes!” Boost cheered from the sidelines while Dogma and Comet sparred. Despite what Boost said, Dogma most definitely did not have Comet beaten. The other trooper moved like– well, a comet, limbs quick as they prodded at weak points in Dogma’s guard. It was all Dogma could do to keep from constantly backpedaling across the lines in the training room floor.
He ducked again, narrowly escaping Comet’s attempt to pull him in for a grapple, using his ankle to hook Comet’s leg, but only managing to get his instep bruised. While he was unbalanced, Comet surged forward, and Dogma couldn’t stop himself from tumbling to the ground.
“Aw, next time, Pup!” Boost yelled from the sidelines, earning a half-glare from Comet. Reaching out a hand to pull him up, Comet patted him on the back with a grin. Dogma groaned, still panting with effort. Sure, he’d had experience sparring with the others in the 501st, but times like this, he remembered that the Wolfpack was an elite squad, and even their younger members were competent fighters.
‘...and they want me to join them…’ Dogma thought to himself, still unbelieving. When Wolffe had approached him the other day, maybe a day or two after he’d officially moved bunks, and hadn’t that been an adjustment in itself, he hadn’t believed it– still didn’t believe it, to be honest, and he hadn’t given the Commander an answer yet.
“I see something in you, kid. You and me, we know what it’s like to lose… to lose brothers, lose hope, even. And when the time comes, I think you’ll fight like hell to prevent that from happening again.”
And Dogma knew loss– on Umbara, he’d lost what little trust and camaraderie he’d gained during his time with the 501st. He still didn’t know where he stood with Tup, and he tried not to think too hard about where he stood with Fives and Jesse. A large part of him still mourned the simplicity of right and wrong before Umbara, but the Dogma that could accept orders at face value was long-dead. And it terrified him to know that was probably a good thing– but where did that leave him now?
For so long, he’d taken comfort from his orders, knowing that if he followed a specific set of rules, he’d be safe, and so would his brothers. But war was messy, and that safety net was as useless as he’d felt at the time, grasping at straws. It was part of his name, for kriff’s sake.
Being asked to join the Wolfpack, though… that part of Dogma that longed for safety, longed to be able to trust the orders he was given… wanted to believe that Wolffe could be trusted.
Thankfully, Wolffe hadn’t demanded an answer right away, seeming to sense his hesitancy. “ Now, you don’t have to answer right now– maybe do a few missions with us first, see what you think.”
But even Wolffe wasn’t the Commanding Officer of the 104th, Dogma argued within himself, straightening instinctively as General Koon entered the training room, heart pumping anxiously in his chest.
With Comet pulling him over to greet the General, Dogma staggered in muted panic, eyes drawn towards the General’s lightsaber despite his best efforts. He desperately wished for the comforting cover of his helmet, but it was back on the bench in the corner. Instead, he schooled his expression into what he hoped was a neutral look and stood a half-step behind the rest of the pack.
Numb with dread, he almost missed when Boost introduced him. “... and this is the kid we were telling you about, Pup!”
Dogma froze, standing stock still as General Koon gave him a polite half-bow, greeting him warmly. “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Pup.”
It was all Dogma could do to nod in response, throat dry.
“Right…” Boost trailed awkwardly. Pup’s response wasn’t insubordinate, exactly; the kid didn’t have an insubordinate bone in his body, but it wasn’t the familiar crisp salute or the babbling excitement of most troopers being introduced to the General either. He shrugged internally; if it was important, it would be dealt with, if not, the kid’s shyness would probably fade in time. No use worrying over nothing.
“To the staging area! Go! Go! Go!” Commander Wolffe called, midway through the training simulation. The 104th’s ship was a bit smaller than the Resolute’s, but its training rooms were still something to behold, and the Wolfpack took full advantage of it. There were still a limited number of scenarios, but starting points, orders, and troop configuration differences made it so the only limit was your imagination.
Fives would’ve loved this place, Dogma found himself thinking before shutting down that line of thought hard.
Honestly, he wasn’t doing that badly, working with the Wolfpack to get to the simulated ridge, where they’d meet up with the General to continue towards their objective, where Patch was busy playing hostage. He even took down a commando droid as it popped up in his field of view, earning a “Nice shot, kid!” from Boost.
It wasn’t until they reached the ridge that Dogma remembered that this was his first time fighting alongside a Jedi General since Krell, even for a simulation, and he only just stopped himself from dropping his blaster. Heart stuttering as General Koon’s lightsaber swung wide, Dogma felt the blood drain from his face, and he missed the order to move forward until Comet nudged him on, earning an almost violent flinch before he followed.
After that, Dogma’s focus was completely shot, brain bouncing back and forth between a desire to focus and a clawing need to be anywhere but here. He’d seen the recordings of Krell’s escape attempt, after, where the General’s lightsaber had sliced through brothers without remorse, breaking spines with his bare hands, and despite his best efforts, his vision kept narrowing on that eerily familiar green.
Finally, they finished the simulation, and Dogma was holding onto his sanity by a thread. He was surprised his aim hadn’t been thrown off by the way his hands were undoubtedly trembling. Patch gave them a congratulatory grin for “saving him,” offering them each a hydropack and a reminder to hydrate after the simulation. He’d even remembered a straw for the General.
Knowing better than to refuse a medic on a mission, Dogma reluctantly removed his helmet to take a sip, earning a sharp intake of breath from Comet at his pallor.
“Pup, what happened? You look like kriff!” Comet asked worriedly, earning the others' attention, including the General’s, to Dogma’s never-ending horror.
He tried to deny it, even as his voice shook. “I-It’s nothing. I’m fine.”
“You’re as pale as a Kaminoan’s shebs, vod’ika. Here, sit down.” Patch ordered, disbelieving. “When’s the last time you ate something?”
“... this morning.” Dogma responded, eyes pointing downwards in shame.
“Hmm… I’d prefer it if you’d eaten midmeal, but that shouldn’t be causing this.” The medic muttered to himself, offering Dogma a ration bar, eyes daring him to refuse it.
“It’s nothing– just… it shouldn’t affect me in the field.” He tried again, reluctantly taking a bite of the ration bar, even though it tasted like fear and desperation in his mouth. Swallowing with difficulty, Dogma couldn’t help but glance up at General Koon with a half-aborted flinch, watching as the General eyed his lightsaber hilt thoughtfully.
The General looked up, and Dogma realized that he’d been caught watching him. His instincts screamed to flee, but he found himself frozen in place as General Koon slowly approached him, crouching down to eye level before doing something that shocked him.
“Would you like to hold this, Trooper Pup?” General Plo asked, in a voice that conveyed nothing but kindness and concern. “I’ve found that the crystals can have calming properties for some.”
“I-I– I couldn’t, sir.” Dogma stuttered, shaking a little at being directly addressed, but he couldn’t help but be drawn to the lightsaber, looking so much smaller when unlit. He took a couple shaky inhales, and after another hesitant glance towards the Kel Dor, he didn’t refuse when the General offered a second time.
When Dogma finally reached out to touch it, his hand jerked away, like it might burn him, but when nothing happened, he reached out again and hesitantly took it in his grasp. He’d never held a lightsaber before.
Radiating trust and peace, General Plo kneeled next to him, doing his best to appear unthreatening, and Dogma’s focus was drawn away from the General to the lightsaber in his hand, radiating a similar warmth.
Despite himself, his shoulders began to relax, and his eyes widened in awe. “It feels warm.”
He didn’t even attempt to turn it on, just sitting and basking in the feeling of safety the lightsaber somehow radiated. He could feel his heart rate going back down to normal, and he wondered if some jedi always felt like this.
“It appears it likes you. It has much the same response to Commander Wolffe,” General Plo commented, amused, and Dogma’s ears flushed.
“It better, with how many times I’ve had to pick it up off the battlefield.” Commander Wolffe groused, but it was mostly for show.
General Plo chuffed in amusement under his mask, and then went into an explanation of how his lightsaber worked, its role as a right of passage, and even as a representation of his life and commitment to the Jedi way, leaving Dogma in awe of the trust he’d shown by handing it over so readily.
Returning the lightsaber with a look of near-reverent thanks, Dogma choked back a laugh as Boost and Sinker started nearly tripping over each other to ask for a turn. General Plo knew better than to let them, chuckling in amusement at their efforts.
“How did you know that would work?” Wolffe asked after the rest of the group had left. Pup's response to the General had been more than a little unusual, and it worried him more than he'd like to admit.
“A feeling. I sensed that Pup’s anxieties were not focused on me… at least not directly. My lightsaber felt drawn to him, and I chose not to refuse.” General Koon rumbled mercurially, grateful to have helped. He sensed that this trooper... Pup, would be a little less hesitant in their next interaction, and his heart warmed at the way Wolffe and his brothers had taken him under their wing.
“Jetii osik.” Wolffe rolled his eyes, and then the two headed down the hall together.
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