A/N: Two chapters just a few days apart huzzah! I can't remember the last time that happened. I should celebrate…

I've got a slightly lighter one for you this time. I'm not sure what to think of this one, I feel like I have made Krell a little too vindictive but I don't think it's - that - bad…

Anyway, hope you enjoy.

For days, Stitch had been up to his neck in the injured and dying, and he was close to reaching his limit.

The med tent had seen nothing but a steady stream of wounded ever since the 323rd arrived a week or so ago. The young medic had never seen so many casualties before in his life. Day in and day out it was the same - stitch up gashes, bind wounds, add a kolto patch here, some antiseptic there, do whatever possible to keep your brothers alive. And he was proud to do it, but you could only watch so many brothers die on the operating table before you needed a good long break.

It wouldn't have been so bad if Zach had been there to help him, Stitch reflected, dabbing Russ' face with a damp cloth, but he'd gone ahead with the general to meet the reinforcements, and none of the other medics (Stitch included) were anywhere near his calibre. Still, they'd have to make due, at least until the general got back…

Well, speak of the devil, there she was now.

Through the tent flap, Stitch could see General Phalco leading a rather large group of clones into the camp, with Rancor and Mech flanking her and Zach and Sketch walking a ways back, supporting another, unfamiliar clone in between them. The new group's General, Krell, was marching at the back of the group (it was hard to tell at this distance, but it looked like he was a Besalisk. Oh goody). Judging by the bedraggled look about them all, it was probably safe to say that they'd gotten into another skirmish on the way back. Stitch noticed a handful of makeshift stretchers among the crowd and inwardly groaned.

More wounded. Great.

Rens said a few words to the assembled crowd of clones (Stitch was two far away to hear it but he could guess that it boiled down to something like "briefing soon, be there on time") before gesturing to her own soldiers and turning to march into the camp.

Rancor and Mech broke off with two of the newcomers (probably some of Krell's higher-ranking officers) to go into the war tent, no doubt to explain the situation and discuss tactics. Sketch passed the clone he was helping off to Zach and made his way to the barracks. Rens and Zach supported said clone between them and headed off towards Stitch. The horde of stretchers followed behind them.

"How is he?" Rens asked quietly, sidling up next to Stitch to look at Russ. The injured clone twitched and groaned, but he was so pumped full of sedatives that he didn't wake.

Stitch sighed and set his cloth aside. "Not good," he croaked. "I've done what I can but…" He wagged his head tiredly. "It's not enough. It's never enough…" He clenched his fists until his knuckles had turned white.

Rens squeezed his shoulder. "You're doing fine," she whispered. "You can't save everyone."

He sighed. "I know."

A hand touched Stitch's arm, and he jumped. Zach had come up behind without him noticing. Glancing sideways, the younger clone looked at his brother quizzically.

"I'll look after Russ," the head medic told him. "One of Krell's boys got a fried left ankle. Think you can take a look?"

Stitch flashed Zach a grateful look and nodded, pulling away from both his brother and his general. Said injured clone was sitting across the tent, hunched over on a pile of crates massaging his injured limb with a grimace. The man was a typical-looking clone, with dark skin, short dark hair, a sturdy jaw and golden-brown eyes. He glanced around nervously, wetting his lips every now and then and obviously trying to look invisible (it wasn't working).

Stitch approached him cautiously, as if he were a skittish animal he was trying to coax out of hiding. The man's head snapped up. Hard brown eyes locked onto Stitch, who squirmed under the intensity of his gaze. The trooper watched his approach warily, unblinking, just sitting stock-still and staring hard as the younger one moved closer. The medic swallowed, forcing a smile.

"I need to take a look at that," he told the soldier patiently, gesturing to his wounded ankle. The soldier shook his head vigorously.

"It's not that bad," he stated. "I can still fight."

"Being able to fight doesn't always mean you should," Stitch replied calmly, plucking a bacta patch and some antiseptic out of a nearby crate. "Let me take a look."

"Look after the others first," his brother responded.

"The lieutenant is more than capable of looking after them," Stitch said patiently. "I'd just get in his way. Now let me look at that."

Begrudgingly, the soldier lifted his foot and let Stitch inspect his ankle.

Clearly this soldier didn't know anything about medicine, Stitch thought as he examined the man's limb, because it was so red and swollen that it was nearly impossible to get it out of his boot (and what was this armor made of, flimsiplast? It should've been able to protect him from a shot like that). The wound was an angry shade of scarlet and was oozing blood and pus all over the place. Bits of dirt and leaves were stuck in the wound, souvenirs from the forest just beyond the campsite.

Stitch wrinkled his nose and set to cleaning it, flushing out the grit with a small amount of fresh water and then wiping it down with antiseptic in order to prepare it for the bacta patch. His brother didn't complain, holding his leg still to let him work, unflinching, the strained expression on his face the only thing betraying the pain he was in. The medic admired his restraint - most of the other patients he'd worked with would be swearing and screaming in agony right about now.

Just as he was starting to apply the bacta, the soldier stiffened and sat bolt upright, his leg giving a violent jerk. Surprised, Stitch dropped the patch. He scowled and started to turn to fetch a new one, but paused when he noticed his patient staring, terrified, at the empty entrance to the tent.

"What are you looking at?" he asked, trying to keep the irritation out of his voice. The soldier didn't answer, simply staring at the doorway with a terrified expression on his face. "Listen, I'm going to need to ask you to please relax and-"

"Shh!" the patient snapped, not tearing his eyes away from the tent flap. Startled by the outburst, Stitch fell silent.

For a few moments, nothing happened.

Then General Krell entered the tent.

If Stitch had thought that Krell looked big from a distance, it was nothing compared to how he looked up close. Standing at over seven feet tall, the Besalisk had four beefy arms, leathery green-grey skin, sickly yellow eyes that seemed to stare straight into the young man's soul, and a coarse goatee that only served to make his savage face even more alarming. He could fully understand why his patient seemed so terrified of him - he was intimidating.

Krell looked around for all of three seconds before his gaze settled on Stitch and his patient. Scowling hard, the Jedi stormed over to them.

"Lieutenant!" he barked (Stitch's patient flinched and looked away). "What are you doing sitting around?"

The soldier muttered something incoherent into his lap. Krell's eyes narrowed.

"What was that?" he demanded (it was Stitch's turn to flinch, though he kept his gaze locked on the general).

The lieutenant winced but said, a little louder, "I was hurt in the fight and General Phalco said -"

"General Phalco said?" Krell sneered. The lieutenant shied back, terrified. "General Phalco said? Need I remind you that I am your commanding officer, CT-5122?"

The clone shook his head vigorously.

Krell curled his lip. "Good." He took a step closer to the lieutenant. Said lieutenant shied back a few centimeters, looking terrified. "I expect you up and back to work in an hour."

Mortified at Krell's aggression, Stitch stood up and placed himself between the clone and the Besalisk, putting his hand out defensively.

"General," he protested, "this man has an infection. He's going to need a few days to let it clear up -"

"Be quiet!" Krell roared. Stitch fell into a stunned silence. The general pointed a beefy, green finger at his face. "You don't tell me how to handle my own troops, clone," he snarled, gold eyes flashing. Stitch shrank back in fear.

"Is there a problem here?"

All three people jumped at the new voice. Lieutenant Zach had come up to stand behind Krell and was now looking over the scene curiously. His brows were drawn together as he gave them all a once-over. Krell sneered.

"Don't interfere," he growled. "This matter does not concern you."

Zach snorted derisively, leaning against a nearby crate and crossing his arms over his chest. "Considering that you're threatening a patient and one of my top medics, yes it does."

"Don't talk back to your superiors. clone!" Krell growled.

"You're not my superior," Zach retorted, standing up straight. "General Phalco is. And I'm the head medic. I outrank everyone." He gave the general a cold stare. "Even you."

Stitch watched the exchange cautiously, eying all parties carefully. Krell's eyes were bugged out in fury, his massive hands clenched into fists and his teeth drawn back in a snarl. The injured lieutenant was still cowering in his seat, curled up as close to himself as he could manage in his armor while his ankle was injured. And Zach was just standing there calmly, cool as a cucumber under the general's harsh glower, only a slight furrowing of his brows indicating the anger that he was holding back. Stitch had never felt so proud of the man before that moment. Now he was so pleased he would've happily hugged him if he thought that he could get away with it.

"How dare you?" Krell hissed, eyes flashing. Zach's expression remained neutral. "I am in charge here and I said -!"

"With all due respect, sir -"

"I am talking!"

"AND I'M NOT LISTENING!"

Silence. Clone and Jedi glared at each other, the former breathing heavily and glaring daggers at the latter. The tension in the air made Stitch's hair stand on end. Behind him, his patient was surreptitiously scooting away from the furious duo, his eyes wide and his hands trembling. Around them, the other medics and patients had stopped what they were doing to watch the standoff.

And then from behind a pair of doctors emerged General Phalco. The clones moved aside to let her step forward. Stitch and the others watched warily as she approached.

The general stopped two meters away from Krell. The two Jedi scowled at each other. And even though Krell was a whole head taller than Phalco, she still somehow managed to look him square in the eye.

"These boys are ready for action when the medics say they are," she said coldly. Krell's scowl deepened, but for once he kept his mouth shut. Encouraged by his silence, she continued; "You and I have no say in when they are in fighting shape. Remember that."

She paused and then added; "Now get the hell out of my medbay. I never want to see you in here again."

Krell opened his mouth as if to speak, but the dozens of glared directed his way apparently made him think better of it. He hesitated a moment, glowered at them all, shook his head and stormed out.

The moment that he left, the tent erupted into cheers. All the clones were hollering and laughing, some of them rushing up to congratulate Rens and Zach, some making vindictive comments about Krell, all of them absolutely ecstatic. Patients and doctors alike applauded.

Grinning from ear to ear, Stitch glanced over his shoulder at his patient. The sight he beheld warmed him to the very tips of his toes.

Lieutenant Baron was smiling.