An explosion blossoms bright orange in my peripheral vision. "Whoa! That was too close!" Well, what would have been my peripheral vision if I hadn't been wearing a HUD. That thing gives you 360º vision, which comes in pretty handy during a scrap. Not to mention all the data arrays in the V-wing fighters we fly.

With all the data they stuff in those things, they could maybe add a little life support, I think.

"Gez, you okay over there?" The voice comes from my comm. "It's Lat."

"Yeah, didn't even scorch me but it could have been further away."

"Just be careful, ner vod." This exchange was made while we were both flying. Or trying to fly, at least.

Well, more like rocket through space, crazily dodging droid fighters and space debris as well as laser bolts from nearby ships. Not to mention stay as formed up as possible in the squad. It's pretty amazing we even could carry on such a normal conversation.

But that's what we clones do. Face death, dismemberment and destruction daily, not even receiving a commendation from the Galactic Senate on our days off for it.

It's been three years since Geonosis. I'm 13 and 26 years old now. But I feel almost as old as Master Yoda's said to be. There are some days when reveille sounds and I lie in my bunk a few extra seconds wondering, is it even worth it anymore?

But I always get up and go anyways. Because, what choice do I have? It's either fight and maybe get killed, or be shot for insubordination. Which leaves me wondering, what'll happen when this war's over. Where will we fit in, as clones?

BABOOOM! Another explosion, soundless in space, but I feel the shock waves travel through me. Most of the squad dodges crazily to avoid the debris in its wake. But one of us doesn't make it.

"Aaaahhhhh!" The scream passes over the shared comm and I whip my head around, trying to see who's hit.

"Jor!" His starfighter's in flames and I can vaguely see him behind the viewport, trying in vain to dodge the fire, his eyes wide in panic.

"JOR!"

"Jor! Hang on, ner vod!"

His voice comes onto the comm then, strangely calm. "Lads, go on." My breath freezes in my chest. He knows he won't make it.

"GO!" I can't tell who shouts the command, whether it's Jor or Lat or even me. But the squad leaps forward in unison, just as Jor's fighter creates another fiery orb in space.

There's a quiet moment then, where we don't have to dodge droids or ships of any kind, as if we get a small time to mourn for Jor. My hands are trembling a bit on the control stick and I clench it even tighter.

"All right, lads, heads up!" Lat's voice snaps us back to reality and just like we trained in simulations, we peel off in different directions to avoid a squad of vulture fighters and then come in behind them. As I pull the trigger, I grin grimly, baring my teeth like a nexu. That's for Jor. And for all my brothers, you Sep scum…

-8-8-8-

Ner vod – Mando'a for "my brother."