scorchwillow

Kel was realizing too late that armor wasn’t exactly favorable for running. Cursing the way it slowed him down, he ignored the puzzled glances of entertainment district patrons and hurtled after the fleeing Rodian as fast as the plastoid would allow. His standard-issue rifle was another problem. If there was a reasonable way to hold it while chasing after a suspect, Kel had yet to discover it. At least I haven’t tripped on it, he thought, grimly amused. Yet. His comm came to life in a deafening hiss of static. “What happened to standing by for backup?” Flip demanded. He was somewhere behind Kel; judging by the way his words were punctuated with clipped breaths, he was also maneuvering through the crowds as quickly as he could manage. “He took off,” Kel explained, dodging between a pair of Ithorians. “We’ll lose him if we wait for reinforcements.” And with any luck, Relay would be preoccupied and unable to respond. Even though the sergeant had no doubt been around the Guard long

Fox watched the shiny go. His face was set in a frown; Fox could almost hear the gears turning in his head. Luckily, though, Kel had the good sense to keep his thoughts to himself. Once the door slid closed again, Fox let his face drop into his hands. He could only hope Kel understood what was at stake, even with the limited information he had. The kid couldn’t know the full scope of what they were facing. No one could know, except his commanders, and even then Fox had done his best to only share what was strictly necessary. Another knock jerked him from his grim thoughts. Thorn stepped through before Fox could muster a tired “come in.” “So,” Thorn said, making himself comfortable in the chair previously occupied by Kel, “giving the shiny a rundown, huh? How did it go?” “About as well as it could have.” Fox, ignoring the boots now propped on his desk, scrubbed a weary hand across his face. “He’ll either learn, or he won’t.” He fervently hoped Kel would choose the former. If he

Kashyyyk was loud at night. Scorch hadn’t really registered the assortment of sounds before, but it felt deafening now. Between the drone of insects, the rumbles of the Wookies scattered across his field of view, and rustling in the leaves that suggested large wildlife, he was finding it difficult to relax. He rolled onto his back to stare at the canopy soaring high above. Any light from the stars - faint as it would’ve been down here - was blocked by the thick foliage. The leaves looked like undulating shadows from where he lay, stirred by a steady breeze. If he held his hand out just right, the swathes of branches overhead seemed to fit neatly between his index finger and thumb. “You should be sleeping.” Scorch wasn’t surprised to see Sev prowl into his periphery. He was fully armored and holding his helmet under one arm. Without the eerie blue glow from his visor, the most Scorch could pick out was the dark red markings splashed carelessly across his brother’s armor. “So

The thing is, Sev doesn’t mean any of it. He knows, he knows he’s not exactly personable or approachable or what have you; he knows that compared to his brothers - especially Scorch, who has somehow turned out charming and affable, everything Sev is not - he’s the one that makes folks send furtive glances his way like they’re worried he’s going to snap. And for all his vode joke that one day he’s going to flatten the next di’kut who looks at him funny, they’re well aware that he would do nothing of the sort. He doesn’t mean to be churlish. It’s just that the thousand and one things clogging up his brain have an unfortunate tendency to come out the wrong way. Just as well that Delta recognizes this; he doesn’t have the first clue how he would go about explaining it otherwise. His vode don’t mean it either when they poke fun at him. This is Sev. He’ll knock you clean on your shebs if you’re not careful, so try not to rile him up. If anyone bears watching, it’s Scorch - although

This is how Boss sees his squad: Fixer is their backbone. A little rigid at times, but crucial to making sure everything runs smoothly. He keeps them grounded and focused on the goal, the way Sergeant Vau taught them. More often than not he’s their voice of reason, even more so than Boss himself. He thinks of Scorch as something akin to the nervous system. Scorch keeps them connected. He’s never had a hard time transitioning from Fixer’s straightforward approach to Sev’s hidden intensity to Boss’ own pragmatic outlook. He keeps them functioning as much as Fixer does, in his own way. And Sev? Sev is his right hand. Boss needs him, same as he needs the other two. Knowing Sev, he would probably disagree - when it comes down to it, his brother doesn’t have a particularly high opinion of himself - but Boss calls it like he sees it. Sev is always there when Boss needs him most. They do surprise him sometimes, of course. Especially Sev. Funny, that - Boss really shouldn’t be

Fixer may not be inclined to mindless chatter like Six-Two, or have Three-Eight’s knack for insight, but that isn’t to say he doesn’t know his brothers. He just prefers to keep his emotions firmly under wraps where they belong. He and Oh-Seven are similar that way. Fixer suspects their reasoning differs, though. He keeps things to himself because Vau made sure they wouldn’t let anything interfere with mission completion; Seven, on the other hand, tries to bury everything that isn’t perfunctory contempt for the enemy because it scares him. It isn’t really Sev’s fault, of course. Fixer knows that. But he’s always believed that knowing and understanding aren’t the same thing - and in this case, Fixer still isn’t sure he understands. He’s had plenty of time to draw some conclusions, though, and the bottom line is this: Delta Oh-Seven is a tangle of contradictions. Moreover, Sev is a tangle of contradictions who doesn’t take kindly to people poking into his business. Fixer has made

Sev reminds him of Vau, sometimes. Scorch can never quite put his finger on what it is exactly. Nor does he usually put much thought into it; he’s content to accept that they’re all bound to have some measure of Vau in them. It doesn’t mean anything other than sometimes Scorch catches himself parroting the old shabuir’s favorite precepts. Scorch knows it isn’t like that for Sev, though. Sev may be dour and cynical at best, off-putting at worst, but Scorch knows the one thing that scares his brother the most, and it’s got nothing to do with droids or Trandoshan slavers. So he keeps his mouth shut when Sev pulls away, hidden behind his visor where none of them can see his eyes. When he withdraws deep into himself, to a place where Scorch knows he tries to convince himself the hurt can’t reach him. It wasn’t always like this. The irony of superior recall, Scorch thinks, is that things he’d rather forget are always just a little too close for comfort. Because the thing is, he

“Kel, can you do me a favor?” Kel looked up. Seeing as Nines was doing the asking, he knew to be wary. “What is it?” “Can you run these to the medbay?” His brother waved a stack of flimsi. “They’re just requisition forms and the like,” he added, catching Kel’s questioning look. “Puck likes to have them on hand.” “Why can’t you bring them?” Kel asked even as he hopped off his chair and held his hand out. He didn’t mind the errand, especially since he still had yet to make the acquaintance of the Guard’s CMO, but he was learning that a little pushback kept Nines humble. “Because I know you take duty too seriously to refuse.” Nines grinned as he handed off the forms. “Mind you don’t drop them - Puck is picky about how they’re ordered.” “In that case, I’ll just tell him you sent me.” Kel snapped off a salute for good measure - never mind that they were indoors and unhelmeted, and Nines wasn’t due a salute anyway - and started off towards the medbay. This area of the base was

There was a certain charm to Coruscant in the early morning, before the daily hustle and bustle resumed and the shops and offices that dotted the upper levels hadn’t opened yet. Even the more disreputable alleyways appeared more palatable now that the sun was rising. Presently, though, Kel was blind to it all; he and a trooper from Commander Stone’s company were escorting the incoming delegation from Malastare today, and he was late. Kel walked as quickly as he could without actually running. Bad enough that he was behind schedule; he doubted the senator and his party would have much faith in his ability as an escort if he looked like he had been rushing. He ducked through a door leading into the Executive Building and dashed up a set of stairs to the appropriate hangar. He threw himself out another doorway and onto landing pad H-2 in time to see the Malastare delegation disembarking. The other trooper was already waiting at the foot of their shuttle’s ramp; Kel would have to ask

CT-0918, known to his brothers as Kel, fought to smother another yawn. He had been on duty outside the Senate Building for the better part of five hours, and he was looking forward to some rack time once he returned the standard issue rifle all Guards were required to carry to the armory. He shifted his weight discreetly. His armor seemed to grow heavier by the minute. Nines often opined that whoever designed the clone troopers’ armor had obviously never tested it out themselves; Kel was starting to agree. Not that he could ever tell Nines, of course - if he were any more puffed up he would be indistinguishable from a nuna, as Kel had once informed him. This time Kel gave in to the impending yawn. No one would know the difference anyway, thanks to his helmet. Plus it was late enough that most of the Senators had already retired for the night. Aside from the occasional aide scurrying through the hallway, looking hassled and often bearing stacks of flimsi, the area was deserted. By

These words are not intended for AI use or training. *4* Maze and his buddy (who goes by Ca now, apparently) have already departed the shower block for their bunks, but I’ve decided to take an extra minute in the warm water. “Stop scowling,” Won advises. “You hit the target and that’s a result.” “You were KIA,” I bark. “It’s a sim,” he shrugs. I don’t want to use that stupid line on him, but it’s tempting. “Just take the result, Di’kut,” Won tells me. “Aren’t you counting your officer points?” I throw a bar of soap at his head, but he catches is easily, gives me a cheeky grin. “It’s got to be you,” I say, continuing the argument we’ve been having in fits and starts for the last several days. Ever since Gilamar…. Won looks serious now. “Why?” We try to make the conversation sound like we’re talking about who’s going to make captain. “I don’t think it’ll be as bad

These words are not intended for AI use or training. *3* We got our full size, full spec armor a few weeks ago. Two-six and Two-seven and all the rest seemed ridiculously pleased about it, and Seventeen walks around now like he came out of his vat in the osikla plates. Shabuir. Won says it’s better than the flimsy practice rig, and I guess he’s right. Fett said ARC armor can stop a small canon round under the right circumstances, so that makes it OK in my book. You don’t see Fett striding around in trooper plates, though, do you? Just saying. Tonight’s simulated city scape is so detailed it’s probably based on a real place – seems astronomically unlikely I’ll ever see it, though, so I let all the small stuff filter through my awareness. Won and I are managing a staggered advance down a series of alleys while Two-six and Two-seven work as a sniper-spotter team providing high cover. I’m not sure what they’re supposed to be covering us from

These words are not intended for AI use or training. *2* “Spar.” This passes as a terse greeting among our kind. He clicks his tray down across from mine in the mess hall. “What,” I demand. The brusqueness works as a shield even against most of the other ARCs, but not this barve. So self-righteous you can smell it even after he’s showered. “Are you and Won ready for tonight’s mission?” I roll my eyes. “It’s a sim, Two-six.” “Train like you mean to fight,” he quotes at me. “And it’s Maze now,” he reminds me. “Yeah,” I growl back. “Yeah, what,” he snaps in turn. “I mean it, Oh-two. No more headaches or any of your other malingering pudu. Ca and I got stuck with you two for the op, and we don’t need dead weight.” “Gonna frag me when the live fire starts?” I taunt. It’s this attitude that got me the moniker the others use for me. I’m combative, apparently. Always spoiling for

These words are not intended for AI use or training. “I don’t want it to be me.” “Like I want it to be me?” my brother retorts. “That’s why we’re drawing lots, di’kut.” *1* Di’kut. It’s one of the first words we learned outside flash training. A Mandalorian insult that questions the target’s intelligence. That’s what it means to anyone else, or what it would mean if anyone could overhear us. For us, though, it’s a portal to a bigger world - a touchstone that represents what the galaxy might have offered us if we’d been born on Mandalore or Concord Dawn or anywhere, really, as long as a mammalian womb had been involved. As it is, we’re lucky we even have belly buttons. I’m not complaining, just stating fact. Facts can make people uncomfortable, it turns out, but the fact is that we haven’t got a mother or a father. Lab vats and a training program, we’ve got those. And Fett. The ultimate warrior – and some of his recollections. (Those were flash