The door opens again. Yousa tries to ignore the light it invites, but she's at the perfect angle for it to touch her face.
"Who-what are you-Yousa?" Ridge's voice calls out. She hears his armor scuffle against the floor as he kneels beside the cot. "Yousa? Are you okay? What happened?"
She opens her eyes; the look on his face is one she hasn't seen before on him. He's deeply concerned, worried, his brow creasing with the anxiety and his lips firmly planted. Somewhere inside, she's touched.
"What happened?" he repeats. His gaze on her is too strong; she closes her eyes again.
"Squad happened-found out I got my ears pierced and went off on me," Yousa answers. She rubs her neck with the memory. "Did you take me to a piercing parlor?"
He ignores her question. "Did they hurt you? Why are you rubbing your neck?" Ridge demands. "Yousa!"
"What?" she snaps back, bolting up to face him. "Yeah, my ass of a sergeant grabbed my hair and almost fucking broke my neck." The rush of energy makes her head throb. "Did you take me to a piercing parlor after the restaurant?" she demands.
"You were drunk and wanted your ears pierced. Quote: 'I'm getting hoops.'"
"Why the hell would you listen to me when I'm drunk?!"
"'Cause drunk Yousa's fun." Ridge lamely shrugs a shoulder. "There a reason you're in my closet?"
Yousa picks her head up, scans the small area. The space is wide enough to fit maybe three more cots side-to-side. There are eight unopened (she's assuming) crates total, four at the end of the cot she's on and four more in the same relative position on the other side. There is a ceiling light, but it's off; the room is completely dark.
There were things-personal items-in the closet, which Yousa guesses is what makes it "his". There's a discarded wrapper on the floor on the other side, huddled in the corner and flickering under the air from the vent. One of the crates, she realizes, has actually been opened; the sleeve of something clones don't wear hangs out of its slightly open mouth.
Ridge has a lot of things. It's normal for clones to collect whatever little items they come across that they like-owning nothing, they tend to get attached to things they could call theirs: jewelry, unique civilian blankets, pieces of flimsi with drawings on them, anything. Some even go so far as to use tattoos as a way of having something to own.
But the level that Ridge takes it to is extreme. He has piercings, tattoos-two things that are already considered much for a clone to have. Then there's all the food; he's always eating and munching on things that aren't served in the caf, and he gets wildly defensive whenever someone asks that he share it. He has a small music device that he either bought or stole from a civilian. All it does is play music, but he hates when someone other than him tries to touch it.
Clones are materialistic by nature, but not in the sense that civilians display-as in, they don't hoard with the intention to keep their piles forever. As soldiers, they can't afford the expectation that every little thing they own-if they ever come to own anything-will be with them til death. They'll hang onto something small, but they won't keep it from brothers and they won't expect to have anything more than those one or two items. Ridge is his own kind of materialistic, hiding everything he owns so as to keep it from other clones. It's socially rude not to share with a bother. He doesn't care.
All of the small signs of life may as well have made the closet his. Yosua sees that the sweater sleeve is dark blue and stained. "I'm avoiding my squad, like I said." She closes her eyes, rubs her scalp gingerly.
"If you want, you could start sleeping in here," he offers. "I sleep here mostly. There's food in that crate, if you want." He points to the crate at her feet.
With some difficulty, she sits up and looks at the crate. He removes the lid for her; she peers in. Brightly colored wrappers and containers stare back at her from their nest in about two other sweaters and a non-military regulation blanket.
Holy hell. Yousa's eyes land on a small bag of chips. "Can I have that?" She points to it. Once she's given the okay, she rips into the bag of chips with a flavor she can't identify. They're okay.
"You could fit another one or two cots in here," Ridge says, pointing to the other wall. "But this one's mine. If you wanna take a nap, you can-for now. I'll be back." He leaves the closet.
Yousa does take a nap-after eating some more snacks. When she sleeps, she dreams of the fight she just had with her squad, except it's in black and white, she can't talk, and every noise sounds like it's being filtered through a dense bubble. When she wakes, she's still hungry.
Yousa creeps out into the hall, eyeing the empty space for any members of her squad. Seeing that it's clear, she strides down to the right, wheels the corner, and nearly body slams another clone.
It's Angel, but his hair's different-longer still, and lavender, oddly enough. The roots, however, are dark. His face is startled before he realizes who it is. "Yousa!" he exclaims like he hasn't seen her in years.
"Angel-how are you guys settling up?" In the few weeks that they've been with the 686th, their squad seems to have gained a significant amount of popularity. It probably helps that they decided to call themselves RAPTOR Squad. All of the members are friendly and quirky; the general is absolutely in love with them.
"We're doing alright, actually-I mean, Poindex almost got in a fight for asking too many questions, but we're fine," Angel answers, beaming at her. "But...how are you?" He almost adds "sir" at the end before remembering, she can tell.
Yousa debates whether or not to be honest. "Could be better," she says, opting for the truth.
"Yeah, I heard your squad's a bunch of assholes," Angel responds, surprising her. "It was one of your guys that Poindex almost fought."
This is news to her, the fact that she's not the only one who despises Cutter and his lackeys. Yousa feels a little less alone.
"But anyway, the squad and I were headed to the weight room, if you wanted to come?" The kid has a hopeful look on his face.
Her stomach growls. "Sorry, can't-gotta find food." She can already hear Cutter's voice chastising her for not taking the opportunity to lose some weight. "Actually-yeah, I'll come with."
Exercising with RAPTOR Squad is much more fun than Yousa could have imagined. Their mini competitions aren't filled with malice or contempt the way her squad's are-and they don't judge Yousa's wanting to keep her sleeveless shirt on. Most clones would forgo the shirt because it's cumbersome and doesn't regulate heat well. For obvious reasons, Yousa can't do that.
Despite Grey's rank above her, he's still intent on attempting to impress her through his weight training-his being a sergeant doesn't negate the fact that she's simply been around longer. Soon enough, the eager-to-please streak that all shinies harbor would disappear, and they'd behave like normal clones.
But for now, Grey and Trig engage in a friendly wrestling match. They have their hands on each other's bare shoulders, fighting hard to grab a firm hold and throw the other. Grey starts to gain the upper hand when he changes stances, shifting his weight onto his back foot and yanking Trig towards him. If Grey had twisted his body, he would have thrown Trig and automatically gained the upper hand.
Sensing this, Trig thrusts his hands forward and tickles his sergeant. Surprised giggles force Grey to double over in laughter. Seizing the opening, Trig lifts him over his shoulders in a wounded man's carry, crowing with triumph. Grey keeps laughing.
"The best of the best!" Trig cries loudly, brandishing his sergeant like a trophy. "After years of training-"
"No dirty fighting allowed!" Grey shouts, still giggling. "This isn't a win for you, Trig!"
Miffed, Trig drops Grey on the mat. "One day!" he swears.
Just watching the shinies play like children is enough to make Yousa happy. She would join in on their antics, but her shirt might get pulled in the process of roughhousing. For the time being, she stays put.
Apparently tired of exercising, Grey comes and plops down next to her. The sergeant wipes the sweat out of his eyes. "We don't normally have this much fun exercising-not with just us, at least," he says, his breath escaping him in heavy pants.
"And why's that?" Yousa is nowhere near as exhausted as he is. She only intends a light workout, nothing more.
Grey gives a minor shrug. "I want us to be as physically fit as possible-peak performance, peak form-so," he takes a breath, "I try to prevent roughhousing. Doesn't do much for exercise or our image."
Grey is a sergeant, selected six months after decanting to be leader of his squad-the way that all sergeants are. But before that, he's a shiny, a clone who's just arrived on the front lines, who hasn't scratched or dented his armor yet and wants everyone to pay attention to him, but only for noteworthy things. He seems to be going through his shiny stage worse than his men; Grey's keen sense of time, performance, and appearance have already made news throughout the battalion.
Poor him. Sergeants have the extra burden of being represented by their squad, and his just happens to be the most colorful in terms of both personality and hair. They were breaking the rules of uniformity and it killed him-but he secretly wished that he could be like them and not have to perform to such a high standard.
With only a little guilt, Yousa is glad that she'll never be a sergeant. She's seen how much the new sergeants stiffen around General Dei and Commander Bliz-especially the commander, whose constant bad mood could make him difficult to be around and even more difficult to please.
Yousa watches Grey observe his squad. The embarrassment and the constant need to please don't outshine the deep love for his men, which presents itself louder and stronger in his eyes.
Grey, tough as he tries to be, even chuckles at the next wrestling match between Poindex and Miser.
"You need a little friendly play every now and then," Yousa says after the beat of silence. "Your image is fine-you've got a good squad, Serg."
Grey looks at her in open surprise before letting a soft smile fall on his face. "I'm 'Serg' now?" he asks, amused. He can't even hide it; he loves the title.
"You outrank me," she says simply.
He snorts. "You have more experience." Which is true-in terms of war, she has years of battle and life experience on him. Rank means nothing if you don't have the experience to match.
There's the barest purse of his lips, the dampening of his soft smile into something less content than the sergeant had been mere moments before. Another thing that bothered him, then.
Stressed kid. He'd get over it in time-hopefully. If Grey didn't learn to relax and not worry so much about how he appeared to others, he'd turn into a bitter sergeant with a stick up his ass.
Ironically, he would end up exactly like Commander Bliz.
"You're still Serg to me, sir," Yousa throws back, adding the "sir" with the hopes that it would be a morale booster. It works; Grey has returned to his softly chipper self.
The rest of his squad crows as Miser successfully throws Poindex on his back, pinning him to the ground. He grudgingly accepts the congratulations from his squad; Poindex doesn't seem too bothered. He turns his head to the pair sitting by the edge of the mat. "Sir?" he asks, inviting Grey to spar.
Grey waves a hand, clearly having spent all of his energy on Trig. "I'll pass for now, Dex."
Poindex turns a curious gaze to Yousa. "And what about you, si-I mean, Yousa?" he asks, tripping over her name.
She tugs the fabric of her shirt. "Maybe later."
The kid's clearly disappointed; his lips turn down at the slightest angle, his eyes drifting over to a new spot in the gym. He shrugs a shoulder.
"No tantrums, Dex," Grey admonishes, a sharp edge to his words.
"Why've you got a shirt on? Aren't you hot?" Trig asks, hands braced on his knees.
Again, she tugs the fabric. Her skin is sweltering, but she doesn't dare remove it. "I'm fine," Yousa lies. "I'll grapple, Dex, if you want," she offers.
Dex's sour mood improves instantly. He bounces onto the mat, waiting impatiently for Miser to make the call to start.
The fight doesn't last long-Yousa hates wrestling, but she has much more experience over the shiny. She grapples and tosses Dex with ease.
Dex cries from his prone position on the floor, "Again!"
"I think that's enough for me," Yousa answers apologetically, anxiously fixing her shirt.
"What? Why?" Dex instantly sits up, legs half-crossed on the mat. He looks at her with the big brown puppy eyes of a severely disappointed shiny.
"I'm tired," is all she says. Yousa crosses the floor, taking her place at its edge.
The rest of the play-fight-exercise session goes smoothly. Grey, releasing himself even to his own shiny tendencies, wrestles Miser to try and impress Yousa.
Angel rests quietly beside her, lazily fanning his face with one hand. Drying sweat lays beaded and shining on his forehead; he smells like hell, but he looks content. He regards the matches with quiet interest. Occasionally, his hand will push his lavender hair back and out of eyes. It's curled tips are long enough to reach his jaw.
"You're a quiet one, aren't you?" Yousa says, startling him.
Angel studies her for a quick second, then shrugs a shoulder. "Eh," he says, "I'm quiet until you get to know me."
"Then tell me about yourself," Yousa says, smiling at him. "What's the worst secret you have? Your deepest, darkest fears and insecurities?"
She might have scared him a bit. Angel's eyes flash left, then right gravely-then, a cheeky smile. "I'm attracted to men," he says.
Yousa snorts. "That's no secret." And it is not uncommon among the clones, either. Most of them have some level of attraction to both or multiple genders, anyways.
"I mean only men," he elaborates. Okay, less common. A singularly-attracted clone wasn't rare, but they weren't the norm, either. Yousa knew that Cutter liked women and only women, and that Ro was likely the same. She herself only likes women, also.
"Still not a secret, but a nice factoid." Yousa laughs as Dex and Miser go at it. Dex loses-the kid doesn't seem to be very good at wrestling.
Something catches Angel's attention, because his small snorts die off and he stares hard at her. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees his eyes narrow.
"Something the matter-"
"Did you pierce your ears, sir?" Angel asks, stunned enough to make the mistake of calling her "sir".
Her stomach goes a little cold. "Yeah. Yesterday."
He brushes his own earlobe. "Are we allowed…?"
"Well-no, not reall-I was drunk." She'd forgotten that she put her hair up before coming to the mat. Her little purple studs are visible to the whole galaxy.
"Oh, I called you-"
"It's fine."
Angel doesn't look like it's fine. He continues pinching his earlobe.
OoOoOoO
In the following weeks, Yousa spends more and more time in the closet with Ridge. Nothing much changes about it's interior save for different kinds of wrappers and civilian clothing coming and going. It must not be a closet that's very needed.
They bring in a second cot, and Yousa sleeps on the other side of the small space, across from Ridge. She's directly under the vent, but for the first time in her life, she has multiple blankets and two pillows.
In these close quarters at night, when they're both tired and Ridge is semi-willing to open up to her, his aversion to physical contact becomes glaringly obvious. He could clap Yousa on the back, but he would wince should she try to do the same to him. Even when relaxed, he would press himself into the corner of his cot that was by the walls, as far from Yousa as physically possible.
One night, the vent is particularly insidious in how much cold air it decides to dump on her. As a result, she lay curled up on her side under four blankets, looking across the four meter space to where Ridge lay in a similar position. She remembers idly that he always falls asleep after she does.
"Hey, Yousa…" Ridge says into the dark. His voice sounds even younger now that he's not trying to force any depth.
"Yeah?" she answers from under her piles of blankets.
"When did you start feeling like a girl? Like, did something happen, or…?"
Yousa doesn't want to think about what Ridge could mean by "something". She pops her head out from under a blanket, contemplating her answer.
He mistakes her silence for discomfort. "I mean," he cuts in quickly, "if something did happen and it's a bad memory, I'll stop-"
"No, you're fine," Yousa says. She sighs. "I've always felt like this." Her earliest childhood memories include her viewing herself as a girl with a little boy's body. She remembers doing everything in her power to mimic her female head sergeant on Kamino; and she remembers the devastating reality of puberty. She doesn't tell Ridge this.
"So you feel like a woman?" Ridge asks, his eyes intent on her. The most notable point of his facial expressions is that there is no malice, no disgust on his face-there is confusion, but only because he's new to the subject.
"As far as I'm concerned, I am one," Yousa corrects him.
The two continue talking into the night. The conversation shifts away from how she feels about herself to other things: comparing General Dei to other Jedi, what it would be like to be farmers, and other little distractions. Yousa is the first of them to fall asleep; Ridge follows not long afterwards.
Yeah...nothing much happens in this chapter. Next chapter, however, is where things start to get interesting.
~AAx