A Wolffe In Clones Clothing.
this was a writing exercise i did for my writers block, the prompt is based on a beautiful piece by the artist Raphaaerolo here on tumblr. https://www.tumblr.com/raphaerolo/741237451742461952/my-favourite-father-son-duo?source=share
A Wolffe in Clones Clothing.
“And that’s when were kidnapped by these savage natives. Oh Commander Wolffe, I can’t tell you how grateful we are to be back aboard a Republic ship.” C-3PO whistled cheerfully. He turned to his astromech companion “Aren’t we, R2?” the smaller droid beeped in a binary language, that left Wolffe even more confounded than he already was.
He fidgeted with the sound dampener in his helmet and turned his attention ahead to the Kel-Dorian Jedi master who himself was busied with exchanging battle plans and relief assignments with his Jedi companion.
He’d already been separated from his general for far longer than he cared for and the small distance between himself and his superior, felt almost infinite in its distance. The Wolffe pack was Master Plo’s first defence in the bloodied stage of war, how could they protect him if they were constantly being sent off to mediate with local, low sentience species. There was that. But also that upon being reunited with him, his commander had instead hoisted him off to listen to the meandering prattle of the golden protocol droid that never seemed to run out of things to say.
A couple of standard hours had passed, when the venator had docked with an emergency transport to shuttle the two droids back to Coruscant. Wolffe was stood in the hanger bay, following the shuttle as it ascended through the hyper-barrier, when of his brothers mentioned offhandedly that their general wanted to speak with him about a personal matter, but in his indited irritation that still stoically clung to his heart, the commander had barked a dry curse and stomped off in the direction of his quarters.
A few more hours had passed, and Wolffe was now busing himself with one of his personal projects. A hobby he’d acquired during a long-drawn-out campaign over the Gotal Moon: Antar 4. Taught to him by a friendly sculptor dwelling on said moon. The clone had garnered knowledge on how to create miniature full-bodied sculptures.
As a result of lacking any other suitable material, he resorted to using the left-over contents of his ration packs, as his medium. The nutrient dense bricks were surprisingly malleable when soaked in water and mixed with adhesive pastes. At present, he’d created miniaturised versions of his squadron, Captain rex, Commander Cody, and of course: Master Plo, who he’d set about making first. After completing it, the shrunken figure was kept in a place of honour atop his singular shelf, crowded in by his other personal affects.
His focus was entrenched entirely, in forming the domed head of the astromech: R2-D2. When all of a sudden, the door of his quarters released a singular humming chime. His eyes remained fixed to the half-assembled pill shaped droid, when he quietly voiced for the visitor to enter.
The door hissed and glided across its rails. Upon the entrance opening up entirely: Plo Kooon walked into the commanders quarters and settled himself a meters distance from where Wolffe was sat, his hands were tucked behind his back “How are you fairing, Commander?” The general asked, as though he wasn’t the one who caused him to seek out refuge in his room in the first place.
Wolffe permitted himself a vow of silence, and instead turned to face his superior, his scowl concealed beneath his battle-worn helmet.
His commander, ever the vigilant Jedi, must have sensed his growing annoyance “I apologize, for how I made you feel. That was wrong of me, it was never my intention to upset you, commander,” he slanted his head to the side “General Skywalker calls them practical jokes.” He said, “I thought it would be in good favour to try one with you.”
From beneath his mask, Wolffe snorted “Did you need something, sir.” He said. Curtly and without the due respect he knew the general deserved.
Plo Koon stroked the spidery mandibles of his breathing apparatus “No. I came down here to give you this,” he shifted something from behind his back, and a large red box sashed with a yellow ribbon suddenly dwarfed Wolffes vision “I’m aware the date is slightly earlier,” he moved closer and placed the box in Wolffe’s waiting, if not confused hands “Happy eleventh birthday, commander.”
Wolffe’s words became stuck in his throat “How did you know, sir?” was the question he was finally able to ask.
The Kel-Dorian reached into his robe and retrieved a transparent sheet of plastifilm “I keep a record of the birthdate of every clone under my command,” he explained, pointing a clawed finger to one of the columns, where Wolffe’s name and birthdate were written in finely scribed Aubresh “Knowing the time I spend with you all, is shorter than that of other life forms, and the inconstancy of war - I want to treat each of your birthdays as if it’s the last.”
Folded neatly inside the box - was a t-shirt. Its colour, a variable shade of the night sky. Adorning the front of the garment was a bodyless trio of canid mammals, covered in fur the mottled shade of aerated smoke. Their truncated snouts were each slightly agape, and their flat black noses were pointed skyward toward a chalky white moon placed near the upper right corner of the garment.
“Your namesake.” The other explained “I sent a holo-transmission to Madame Jocasta at the Jedi temple, she explained in great detail that they reside on a habitual planet in the outer rim, called: Earth; according to the Jedi archive. What do you think?”
Wolffe’s calloused hands glided over the material: it was shimmer silk – it must’ve cost the general a small fortune. It was softer than anything he’d received during his service – and even more dear.
I consuming smile curled the corners of his lips “I love it, sir.” He managed to say after a while. He quietly noted how the subtle markings of the wolves fur matched his own amours animalist motifs.
The general had started speaking again “I believe our current course will put us within a few inner system jumps to the planet,” Wolffe’s helmet shot up in surprise “Perhaps we could convene a quick trip to one of their sanctuary’s. This species in particular; is called a grey wolf. They’re currently endangered and the natives keep them protected in enclosed forests as a means to allow for a steady rise of repopulation of the species.”
“I’m sure the men would appreciate that, sir.” Wolffe said, rising to his feet, the shirt clutched closely to his chest.
Plo Koon nodded, once “Come along, commander.” He said, waving his clawed fingers toward the door “We’ve a long journey ahead of us.”
“Yes, sir.” Wolffe replied, his smile brightening beneath the mask.
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