Three


The past four hours had been horrific.

Three stood out from the rest, and took heart in the fact that they had survived the carnage that had cost them their captain's life.

Most of the Jedi had been exterminated.

A few had escaped.

Rumour had it Kenobi had survived the 212th on Upatau and was now taking on Skywalker on Mustafar.

Rumours, all rumours.

Coric dodged members of his unit, eyeing off the two youngest as he did. He flicked his head towards the refreshers and kept heading towards his own quarters.

The sergeant knew Rex had taken a shine to them and he felt responsible now his captain…

His captain.

The image came flooding back. The yelling, the shattering of the enormous window before he was lost forever.

Rex was gone, along with his friend and colleague in the other medic Kix.

'Jesse, you di'kut,' he thought as he swung into his room and ripped his helmet off.

There he just stood, unable to comprehend the enormity of such an event. With quick thinking he had ordered the young recruits to aim high, an act of treason, but one he could live with.

The alternative unthinkable.

.

Didge and Whisk were completely silent as they unclipped their armour and avoided eye contact. They grabbed their toilette bag, and kept to their usual routine. Once the warm water hit his face, Didge felt he could finally breathe again.

Whisk on the other hand, wasn't as easily comforted and crumpled down as the timer clicked over, dry wrenching into the corner of the cubicle.

Coric walked in and saw the two of them.

"Fek! Man up will ya? If anyone sees the two of you reacting this way it's straight back to Kamino, or going on what I've just witnessed, worse!"

Coric might have been holding it together, but inwardly he was a mess. His eyes bloodshot from the silent tears he openly shed in the confines of his bucket over the massacre at the hand of his general.

"Get up! Get up Whisk," he ordered walking into the water and hauling him to his feet. With mucous still streaming from his nose and mouth, Coric pulled the young medic in close and whispered in his ear.

"Shower quickly and get dressed. We have ration call in ten and you had better have your osik together before then. Got it?"

He nodded as Coric shot a glance over to Didge. He knew the sniper was the one on the knife edge; they had a reputation of going rogue after catastrophic events.

"You ok?"

"Affirmative sir," he replied grabbing his towel and looking at his vattie struggling in the cubicle next to him.

Coric had nervously chewed the inside of his mouth raw, the tissue swollen and rough from the evening's attention. He ran his tongue across the raised area then turned and left the refresher, his armour wet from entering the cubicle.

"Fek," they heard him say as he tried to wipe it down with his hand.

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They sat at the far table at the end of the Mess hall. Whisk and Didge had gone through the motions, standing in line with their trays then moving to a quiet table out of the way followed by the prerequisite eating coupled with benign conversation.

There were new men also.

Their armour pristine with no markings. Those soldiers sat alone, barely talking as they methodically picked up, and chewed their allocated rations.

Didge was on hyper alert, "what do ya make of them?" he asked as he continued to watch them silently eat.

Whisk just shook his head, not interested in starting any conversation about a new batch of brothers.

He was too intrigued by the weird level of calm.

Even after a few days back from deployment, the room would always be abuzz with men talking through the battle just fought – brothers lost, heroes made and major Jedi fek ups. But nothing; there was simply nothing to suggest that an order of such magnitude had just gone down in the heart of Coruscant city.

"I don't know about you, but I feel as though I'm in some sick holovid and I'm waiting to wake up." The food, which was flavourless before was less palatable now as he continued to put pieces into his mouth, participating in the façade. Even the familiar aroma of freshly brewed caf offered no comfort.

"Just shut up and do as the sarge said." Didge was doing alright. He had taken every word Coric had said to heart, and even as dreadful and unimaginable as the evening had been, his thoughts were constantly on another.

Sats.

Usually Whisk was the one offering up sage advice, but the medic had been compromised.

His tenure had been tested, and just when he thought he could almost get through the meal, Appo walked in.

Laughing loudly, he was still dressed in his armour.

Everyone knew the colour and smell; the metallic scent that had been sprayed onto his armour during the cull.

It was as rare as a black swan; an unforseen event with incomprehensible consequences.

As if in a trance, Whisk stood and walked slowly over to the table at the front of the room.

"Whisk! What the - " Didge hissed at him as he watched dumbfounded, unable to move.

One foot after the other, Whisk didn't know what he was going to do other than someone had to call Appo on what he had just ordered them all to participate in.

There he stood at the end of the table, his arms limp at his sides and looked at the men seated.

Their laughter slowly stopped and they turned to the man dressed in crimson fatigues.

Appo looked up, his eyes fuelled from the adrenaline of battle, his hand clasping a plastimug of steaming caf.

"Do I have something on my face medic?" He said and a couple of men sniggered.

Whisk continued to stare at the liquid in the lieutenant's plastimug, fascinated at the curlicues of steam rising, capturing with them, the once alluring aroma.

"I said, do-you-have-a-problem there soldier?" Appo felt uncomfortable, it was bred in him.

Always self conscious around other 501st members, he knew the playing field had now changed in his favour, placing him for once, in a position of power.

Appo slowly stood to take on the other soldier face to face.

Coric walked in just in time to see Whisk head down to the table of men still in armour. He moved with speed towards the obviously mentally distressed trooper and put an arm around him.

"Looks good doesn't it Whisk? Here, let's both grab a caf each and leave the lieutenant to enjoy his before he hits the refresher."

Appo turned on Coric faster than a Gully rat out of an aquaduct.

"It's commander, sergeant."

The medic was completely taken aback.

"I'm sorry sir?" He questioned foolishly.

"I said," Appo spoke slowly as if to make the point, "its commander, not lieutenant, sergeant."

The hut'uun had been given a commission for killing the captain?

Coric took in a breath to contain his anger as every man at the table held theirs.

A smirk crossed Appo's face.

He knew that the medic had never particularly liked him, and without the captain stepping in to back him up, the sergeant would be feeling alone and vulnerable.

"And since when does a sergeant order a commander to the refresher?"

Coric shook his head slightly to refocus. He knew Appo had a particularly short fuse, but he had one up his sleeve.

"My apologies sir. It's just that the regs stipulate that no blood stained armour is allowed in the mess," intonating to a large spray on his vambrance.

Appo looked at the splatter of brown blood along his left arm before he turned to Coric. The promotion had expanded his already overly paranoid ego. He then looked around at the others seated before he moved within a centimetre of his protagonist's face.

Coric stood straight as a pin.

"I'm watching you sergeant."

"Copy that commander."

Appo couldn't pick fault with him.

Regs were regs, after all.

.

"Did you see how they reacted? None of them flinched or said anything about what happened back at the temple."

Coric sat silent as Didge continued, "I mean the captain is dead and no one has said anything? I just don't understand?"

"I don't understand either, but if we are going to make it through we need to stick together. No more questions and no more raising Appo's ire, you got that Whisk?"

"Yes sarge."

"I wonder," Coric began.

"Wonder what sir?" Didge could see Coric grappling with something.

An idea, a thought, something to explain the unexplainable.

"Nothing," he snapped back to the present, "just watch yourselves, alright?"

"Understood sir," they both replied as he left the Mess.

.

The usual scraping of boots and raucous banter welcomed the 212th back to triple Zero. Tired and happy, they were the unit hand picked by Kenobi to fight it out with Grevious on Upatau.

It was a double edged sword.

Grevious was gone, but Kenobi had got away.

Commander Cody was still smarting from the fact that he had just handed the Jedi his light sabre seconds before the order came through.

Fekking Republic timing yet again.

He signed off the transport and saw himself to his room.

He diligently removed all his armour and continued to strip down before he headed to the refresher to clean up.

He even allowed himself a short whistle during the three-minute wash.

Returning in a fresh black body glove he went about the ritual of his office.

Upatau had seen the end to the war.

This messy business with the Jedi had been put to rest, and he could now concentrate on his ritualistic regime of running the 212th. He knew the drill precisely.

Rosters.

Ordinance.

Armaments.

Cody decided it all could wait, and instead went to the Mess to grab some caf.

His first deviation.

The usual; black with no sweetener.

Within 10.1 minutes, he sat back down at his desk and took the first sip – it was pure heaven and he savoured it a little longer than he usually would. He then turned himself to the work on his desk; the communiqués were banking up, the green light indicating a line of stored messages.

Republic HQ needed him for a meeting at the barracks; he would leave in approximately 20 standard.

He had just enough time to go through the numbers, check the status of all commanding officers of units on deployment.

In the not so distant past, Cody would brace himself and look through for one number in particular.

CT-7567.

Its presence on any list would more than likely elevate his heart rate and he would steel himself to read on and find out how, when and why that number was listed.

But this time he didn't.

Another deviation.

The curser continued to blink in front of him. He gave in to its insistence and hit the replay button and sat back to listen.

A female's voice.

One he did recognise.

"Cody? Cody where are you? We're worried. Piers and I are worried about you? Is it true? Is it true about the Jedi?"

He cut the transmission and depressed another button.

Message deleted.

Twelve minutes had passed and he needed to redress in his armour if he was to make the meeting at the barracks Head Quarters.

But just not the armour he arrived back from Upatau in.

The new set that had been delivered to his room when he was in the refresher.

The new set without any markings at all to suggest the seasoned veteran who would be wearing it.

"Cody. Are you alright? We can't believe the reports on the Holonet. The Jedi, all gone. Kenobi? What of General Kenobi?"

Message deleted.

He methodically snapped and clicked each piece in place until he came to the helmet and stopped midway of lifting it up.

At this point Cody wavered.

He looked it over for a minute and hesitated as he listened to her voice.

His eyes shiny from a memory.

"Codes please. I'm worried about you. Comm when you get the chance OK?"

Message deleted.

He lifted his new helmet up and placed it over his head.

He was no longer Commander and Chief of the 212th.

He was no longer the second in command to Jedi Knight Obi-Wan Kenobi.

He was now simply CC-2224.

The seal of his helmet marked a new day.

One there was no turning back from.

He then walked out of his office, the automatic door silently closing behind him.

The private comm on his desk sounded and another message was recorded, the light innocently blinking in desperation.

"Cody. Cody it's me. I just, I just want to let you know that I love you. That's all, I guess."

Message deleted….

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