Disclaimer: I do not own Star Wars or any of its associated characters, worlds, or races. I am making no money from this work, nor do I claim ownership of anything other than the story. This story was created for entertainment purposes only. No copyright infringement is intended.

Loneliness gripped his heart like an icy hand. He felt alone, even though he was among friends. He was accepted, he knew. But he felt ostracized; he felt different. He
should be feeling a sense of purpose; instead he felt hollow and empty. He felt numb—yet cut. He felt like he was dying inside; he knew he would die, only to breathe in again.

When he looked at his brothers, the ones who had a life, he wondered why he felt so hurt. How could he hurt so badly, love so greatly, for someone he had never met? Skirata... hadn't felt it necessary to teach his boys about relationships. He wished his sergeant had.

Yes. He loved his brothers—he knew that his brothers loved and accepted him. But that did nothing to exempt this kind of pain. What did he do to deserve this kind of life? A life without family, love, life itself; a life without purpose. Yes; he had been created to fight for the Republic. Skirata had constantly told his boys that they were lucky; they knew their purpose in life. But did they really? Was their ultimate purpose to kill and to die for the Republic?

He gave a choked sigh, and bowed his head, sinking down onto a nearby bunk.

He enjoyed what he did; he knew that he was one of the best. He loved battle; the thrill, the danger, the adrenaline high. And in quite a different sense, he loved getting wounded. Being shot, cut…. It took his mind off the aching in his soul; relief, though painful and short, was as saccharine as the syrupy sweetness of the uj cake that Skirata used to smuggle him.

He drew in a strangled breath and brought his hands to his face.

Every moment of every day was a misery. Life continued on, with the clone soldiers fighting and dying on, and the civvies, painfully ignorant of how appealing their "mundane" and "boring" lives were. People often spoke of the glorious Republic. They spoke to the clones of dying the glorious death by fighting for the Republic. But, he wondered, if it is so glorious, why did you create us?

He slowly squared his shoulders and lowered his hands. He stood up and stumbled over to the mirror hanging in the 'fresher; he gazed deeply into his reflection.

His persona hadn't changed; no one even suspected the pain he felt; the pain that made him feel as if his very soul was being ripped and scarred with every breath. But how could they not see? These scars, so hidden, could be seen through his transparent gaze if one so much as looked him in the eye. He felt desperate, pained, numbed, cut….

The door to his room whooshed open and a pair of footsteps entered; he broke his gaze with the mirror and schooled his features to a look of indifference. There was a knock on the door of the 'fresher.

"Hey, you in there?"

"Yeah."

The door sprang open and Fi poked his head in, grinning. "You wanna join us in the mess, Sarge? Zaran's cooking." Fi smiled goofily at this pronouncement.

Niner nodded slowly. "I could use something to eat right about now…."

Fi grinned and gave a flourish with his hand, indicating that his sergeant should precede him. Niner raised an eyebrow and strode out of the 'fresher, heading towards the Mess. Fi fell into stride beside him and began telling a joke he'd heard from a trooper in SCUBA. Niner's mind wasn't on that. Here beside him was a man like him. Physically, yes; but emotionally, as well.

Niner glanced at Fi, who was speaking animatedly and making exaggerated gestures with his hands. Niner couldn't think of two more different people, who were so much alike. Like him, Fi was alone. Like him, Fi was hurting, though he rarely showed it.

Niner smiled slightly.

He was not alone.

Fin