😴 obi or hardcase SURPRISE ME
IT WAS HOT. That was one thing Waxer hated about dry planets, like Tatooine or Geonosis – the sun(s) were merciless, the heat curling against his armor and making the metal of his blaster WARM beneath his gloves. The heat seemed to escalate the PANIC of battle, seemed to make the gunshots louder and scarier. Waxer was a GOOD CLONE, like most – he didn’t bend beneath the pressure of PANIC, and kept an upright mindset even when his brothers were being shot down around him. All he knew how to do was protect others (his brothers, his general, himself, protect, protect, protect) and PULL THE TRIGGER.
What helped was having HARDCASE and BOIL by his side. The squadrons combined made for quite the ONSLAUGHT of soldiers clad in white, red and blue blasts seeming more constant in the air than OXYGEN. The trio were mainly silent; after all, there wasn’t much to say when they were focused on SURVIVING, but occasionally one would bark a phrase – “On your left, Boil!”, “Behind you, Casey, behind you!” – and leave it be. The clones functioned as one, and they’d be damned before they let one of their CLOSEST BROTHERS DIE.
That was the mindset Waxer had when he heard the sharp intake of air from the one to his direct RIGHT. It had happened in a blur. Hardcase, gunshot, gasp, thud, against the ground —
Before he knew it, his hands were clutching his brother, dragging him off to the side behind a large ROCK, safe from any more impending blasts. The WORRIED clone pulled the other half on to his lap, working away the helmet from his head so as to allow him fresher air to breathe. “– Casey! Hardcase! Stay with me, brother!” Waxer was shouting (perhaps unnecessarily), ears RINGING from the constant action around them. He wrapped his arms around the wounded clone, pulling him close to his chest and lifting his head to scan the surroundings for aid in a panic. He had left Boil alone, and this, too, made him rather afraid. Their generals were nowhere in sight. Hardcase was closing his eyes.
Waxer knew that Case’s wound wasn’t LETHAL. It was in the shoulder. However, he was more worried about possible infections that could come from such a thing on such a SANDY PLANET – just to be safe, he was pressing a hand against the gaping hole in the other’s armor. Despite his noise, Hardcase had fallen unconscious, and Waxer was not moving. Without moving one arm from around the other, Waxer leaned down to speak into his comlink. “General? I’ve got a man who needs medical attention in the back. Requesting aid.”
It was Waxer’s job to be loyal. Loyalty, to him, meant curling himself protectively over his wounded brother, even as the heat trapped them in a bubble of uncomfortability and VULNERABILITY. While one hand remained locked over Hardcase’s wound, the other locked on a weapon. Again: he’d be damned before he let one of his brothers die on his watch.
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