"Go!"
He rushed forward, alongside a wave of bodies. Experienced, muscled hands, rose in tandem; feet rocked the desert floor. Blue fire arced from countless barrels and yells of anticipation rose.
His name was Skull.
His identification number was R-103134
He was a clone.
He ducked behind a rock formation, alongside five brothers as Vehicons fired into a cluster. Three didn't make; energon blasts rent them apart. The smell of burning flesh rose above the scent of ozone, but Skull, so used to it by now, didn't even react.
He was a veteran by standards, even though this was only his fourth battle. Not much in comparison to their century-old superiors, but old enough, considering how short-lived a clone generally was. Most died after their first battle, despite the training they went through.
The problem was muscle memory and coordination. Some commanders, like that big green oaf of an Autobot, trusted far too much in the preset copes of muscle memory present upon awakening in each clone. Just because they knew how to hold a gun, didn't mean they knew how to use it. Worse, some commanders (read: BIG. GREEN. OAF.) had no sense of planning at all, and threw whatever troops they had at the enemy.
The worst part was that the clones had to do it, simply because they had no other choice: to obey was their way of life. They knew no other.
As he downed a Vehicon with a well-placed shot, Skull couldn't help but feel sorry. Not for himself of course: he understood his place in the world and knew he as well as countless others would probably die this day. No, he felt sorry for the enemy, simple because they were all in the same boat. He could feel sorry for them because he wasn't allowed to feel sorry for himself.
They was just a mass of cannon fodder, and endless sea of black ad purple armor, and pale skin with raven hair and steel blue eyes.
Their devotion was false and their lives that they lived for, the lives that were fueled by that devotion, was just as fake and as plastic.
His comm crackled with warning, and he and several others leapt out of the way as the creature known as Bulkhead, rushed the crowds, heedless of who he stepped on, or frightened. His optics were focused on the enemy, and nothing else.
Skull knew that the wrecker despised them all, saw them as meat shields because they were copies, and thus it wasn't as if they had emotions or feelings or anything. They were to hack at the barriers within the enemy, he was there to reduce them to splinters.
The clone had no doubt Bulkhead's own battalion was dead, and ignored the sorrow creeping up on him, because he knew, that as inexperienced as they had been, as untrained as they had been when they marched out this morning, that there would have been no other outcome.
His HUD alerted him to another signal, and as he crouched behind another rock formation, he spotted the infamous blur of blue and pink racing along the edge of the battle field. He eyes followed it as the blur (the motorcycle) leapt into the air and transformed into a slim femme, with a faceplate full of righteous rage.
Her pistols blazed; her blades flashed grey and blue as they sliced Vehicon neck cables with inhuman grace.
Arcee was notorious for never taking on a battalion. It wasn't so much that she hated them; rather, there were dark whispers about a betrayal by her superiors and an ache that continued because of their existence. She was officially an Autobot, but everyone knew that Optimus Prime, was content with letting her roam, and basically "do her own thing".
The fact that she was here was telling, and Skull increased his rate of fire, suddenly determined to end this battle, not because he feared for himself, but because he feared for the femme that he alongside.
He let out an uncharacteristic roar and he rushed forward, rifle screaming in defiance to the creature that would put him down. A stream of brothers followed him, rushing past the Wrecker, following the motorcycle femme into the heart of the fortress.
His name was Skull.
His identification number was R-103134
He was a clone.
He would never be anything else, either.
But for once, strangely enough, he felt none of the cold indifference to life that he usually felt.
Today…he cared to live.
Live for her.
And so he reloaded his rifle yet again, raised his aching arms…and did what he was bred to do.
Fight.
A small, twenty minute oneshot I created after seeing an old Star Wars: The Clone Wars episode. Think of it as a small, pre-Christmas gift.
If anybody wants to do something with it, be my guest. Just let me know first.
Review Please!