What Any of it is Worth

"Congress shall make no law...abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press;
or the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the Government for a redress of grievances."
- First Amendment to the United States Constitution

"...governments are instituted among men, deriving their just powers from the consent of the governed."
- Preamble to the United States Declaration of Independence

Chapter 10. Songs of Captivity and Freedom

He expected torture.

His helmet had been taken from him. He had not been able to see any of the others, locked in one of the ship's holding cells, so recently occupied by the terrorists they'd apprehended. Those same terrorists were now free, thanks to the aid of their comrades. It was as disturbing as it was disgusting, the thought that these criminals would again be free to run loose on the galaxy. He bent his head, grit his teeth, and chafed his wrists together, unable to even feel the thin band of plastoid binder wrapped around his gauntlets, pinning his hands behind his back. The plates of his forearm armor slid awkwardly against each other as he tried to stretch and flex the binders enough to free an arm. It had no effect.

One of them was another clone. He'd revealed his face as a distraction, preventing Darner from managing to take even one of them down with him. He scowled at the floor as he marched, trying to ignore the man steering him forward. It'd been a bad move, and he was somewhat relieved no one else was conscious enough to see him, in his panic, try to take a hostage. The other clone was right; he was desperate and if they'd taken the bridge, he had nowhere to go. The best he could do was take one of them down with him, but he'd failed even at that, allowing himself to be startled when the other man had revealed his face. A clone! A traitor! What kind of right thinking soldier turned away from the Imperial Army?

His guard, face covered by the goggles they all seemed to be wearing, was maneuvering him down familiar hallways, a blaster pointed at his back and a firm grip on his upper arm. They moved in silence, with the only sound their steady footfalls on the floor of the corridor. Darner kept his head low, his chin down, but lifted his eyes up enough to watch them approach a gaping hole, which was once a set of emergency doors in the outer hull of the ship. He grimaced, and his guard pushed him through the breach and into the other ship. He stumbled, the guard's grip on him tightening, steadying. He jerked his arm away, trying to display what little defiance he could muster.

They would torture him, then they would kill him. That was the way of things.

Two figures slipped into the hotel room, locking the door firmly behind them.

It was a fancier place than they were used to, often traveling on freighters and sleeping in cramped corners, eating in cheap tapcafs or diners. The hotel was not particularly large or impressive, and though it had seen better days, it was clean and comfortable, a boutique hotel which usually catered to middle class tourists on vacation.

Half an hour ago, Fives and Behri were supposed to meet Null ARC-7, named Mereel. Little contact was kept between their group and the Nulls, and Fives was anticipating the meeting with tightly controlled excitement and nervousness. He hoped to sound out the man for a better understanding of the other group's situation, to learn of their progress, to begin establishing sturdier ties to the faction that produced the decelerating cure. It had taken much longer than they'd hoped to go through the first case of serum, but they had finally distributed it across their small network, hunting down men they'd helped to escape the Empire, men who were absolutely stunned at the prospect of a normal human lifespan.

As they reached the hotel, which was the rendezvous point for their meeting, and entered the little café off to one side of the lobby, an extremely relieved serving droid buzzed over, chattering amiably about how pleased he was Fives had returned for his case, which he'd left under his table approximately an hour ago.

Fives began to protest. He and Behri had just arrived, and if the droid was mistaking him for someone else, it could only be Mereel. If something happened to spook off a Null ARC, it would be very bad news for him and Behri. Going further into the restaurant could very well be going further into a trap.

Then the droid produced the case, and it gave him pause. It matched the case he'd been given by Mereel over a year ago, the case that contained transparasteel tubes filled with the decelerating cure. The only difference was a fingerprint scanner affixed to the lock.

Fives did a sweep of the hotel room for unwanted spycams, while Behri set the case down on the small desk beside the bed, frowning down at it and biting her lower lip. She looked at him nervously, and sighed when he nodded the room was clear. They'd asked at the desk if "Fives" had also left a room key. He had, and it was paid for through the next day.

Behri angled herself away from the desk, seating herself on the edge of the plush bed and offering the chair to Fives. He sank down onto it, staring at the case and the lock for several seconds before pressing his thumb against the scanner. Beneath it, it turned bright red, then flicked to green, clicking as it unlocked itself.

Fives lifted the lid. Inside was an array of thin, transparasteel tubes on soft black foam, amber colored serum filling each. There was a scrap of flimsi tucked under one of the tubes. Fives pulled it out and held it up, Behri peering over his shoulder. There were two strings of numbers: a set of coordinates, and a variant frequency for their commlinks. "Why flimsiplast?" Behri asked quietly, her voice just above a whisper. It scratched against the silence of the room.

"Flimsi can't be sliced or traced electronically," he explained, then reached into the case again and pulled out a handheld holo-projector. They exchanged glances, and Behri edged closer to Fives, placing a hand on one of his shoulders as they huddled around it. Fives flicked it on.

Mereel was only a handspan high, shimmering to translucent, turquoise life as the recording began.

"I know this isn't what you were expecting, ner vod," the Null began, folding his arms in front of him, his posture casual, face friendly, looking up at them as though he were speaking to them from the other end of an open channel, rather than being prerecorded. "Things have been running hot here. We've been continuing our own searches. We cover our tracks, but the more work we do, the more attention we potentially draw." Fives grimaced and Behri nodded once, slowly. "There's a piece of flimsi in the case with coordinates for the next meeting point. When you need more serum, contact me through the new frequency on the comlink and prepare for another drop at the coordinates." Mereel straightened, his face becoming pensive. "Be careful of the new brothers. Ret'urcye mhi."

The light of the holo-projector died, Mereel flickering out of existence. Fives clutched the disk of the projector in his palm, fingers tightening around its surface.

They sat quietly for a time, looking at the holo-projector, as though it would come back to life and give them better news. As the silence drew on, Behri shifted, placed her hand over Fives', and gently pulled the projector out of his grip. She set it on the desk with a soft tap, then stood, reached out, closed the lid of the case. The scanner flicked from green to red, then went black. Lightly, she ran her fingers over the top of his head, feeling the soft surface of his hair before she angled herself around, sliding herself onto his lap. She curled around him, wrapping her arms around his neck. He remained stiff and uncomfortable for a moment, then eased, his arms rising to circle her waist and tug her closer. She gave a small sigh, lowered her head, and pressed her lips against his temple, just above the number five etched into his skin, letting herself linger there until she felt him relax further.

She murmured, quietly, "We still have more of the cure. They're still allies."

Fives made a noncommittal grumbling sound, low in his throat. "We would be able to do so much more." He was unhappy, but it was a resigned kind of unhappiness, one of understanding in spite of disappointment.

Behri closed her eyes and hugged him a little tighter, leaning her cheek against the top of his head. The last several months had been a dizzying rush of new people, new experiences, new worries. At times, it felt bizarre, the thought of trying to save stormtroopers. To Fives, though, and to the small band of men he worked with and lived with when not traveling, they were brothers, and in need of help. The Nulls' reluctance to form stronger bonds was understandable, as the risk of operating more widely was high, but a disappointment nonetheless. They ran risks of their own. Discovery for the Nulls meant the same as it did for them – an end to any hope of a future. The rush to save what they could must be tempered with caution.

"We're not alone. And someday there will be more." She squeezed him tightly for a moment, then let her arms ease. There would be more. They would find more clones, but in the end, she knew true resistance had to come from more than a scattered handful of old Republic loyalists and pockets of frightened, half-trained revolutionaries.

Until that time came, they were the rebellion.

They would torture him, then they would kill him. That was the way of things.

He'd never had to participate in persuasive procedures himself. Enemies never gave up information willingly. It had to be extracted. He wouldn't give them anything, though. He'd scream lies if he had to, let them run around on some wild bantha chase. If he couldn't take one of them out, then he'd at least feed them lies. He was trained, and trained well; he would resist, and he would lie. He would not help such people, regardless of cost to himself.

Darner scowled at his guard as he was propelled forward. He found himself in a cargo bay, a fairly average sized one, very much what you would expect on an average sized transport vessel. It was entirely nondescript, with clean, bare durasteel walls, which sloped down at the sides, almost as though the ceiling were reaching down to welcome any new cargo. The lighting was dull, turning everything a shade of muted brown-grey. Littered across the hold were a scattering of boxes and crates; it smelled of machine oil, carbon from discharged blasters, and something oddly fruitlike, as though they regularly transported foodstuffs.

A few crates were arranged before him. Several were stacked high to one side. Two others were placed together, forming a makeshift table. A smaller crate was placed beside it, serving as a stool. Darner noticed these things, but it was the two men standing in the room that truly caught his attention. Against the stacked crates stood a clone, leaning casually back, one foot on the ground, the other placed firmly against the container behind him. His arms were folded over his chest. The other was also a clone, sitting on a box on one side of the table, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, hands dangling loosely in the space between them. He looked up as Darner entered, expression guardedly neutral.

A firm shove between his shoulders sent Darner stumbling forward again, then he was pushed down onto the box opposite the second man, who nodded once at the guard, dismissing him. Relieved of his charge, the man turned and headed quickly out of the cargo bay. Darner took a long, slow breath, trying to get his bearings. Neither of these men were the same as the first clone he'd seen earlier in the day. That meant there were three of them. Three traitors.

He felt vaguely sick. It was obscene. These men should be on his side, not running around the galaxy supporting the efforts of terrorist organizations. Their faces should be welcoming, friendly, not looking at him so judgmentally. He had nothing to hide. He was no traitor, no deserter to go around attacking soldiers just doing their jobs. He stiffened his spine, forcing himself to sit upright. He was on the right side of things. He'd show no weakness.

The one leaning by the crates spoke first. "What's your name, kid?"

Darner glared at him. What did they need his name for? It was hardly relevant information to the Empire. The clone was waiting, lifting a brow casually at Darner's prolonged silence. Skinhead, Darner dubbed him, glancing then at the second clone, picking out his most distinguishing feature, a long, craggy scar running down one temple. Scarface. He did his best to scowl menacingly. He wasn't a kid either. He'd entered the stormtrooper corps a full year ago, and he'd seen plenty of fighting. Real fighting, not the sneaking around these traitors were doing.

Scarface and Skinhead exchanged glances, and Scarface snorted once, running a hand over his shaggy crop of hair before saying, "I'm Cody. That's Rex. No harm in sharing your name with your brothers."

Darner clenched his hands into fists, feeling his armor plates grind against each other as the muscles within them flexed. He looked at them again, more carefully. Skinhead shifted slightly, the foot he'd had braced on the crates behind him coming down to the floor. Scarface leaned back, relaxed, folded his arms across his chest. Darner frowned, looking again between them. Neither of their faces were heavily lined, the way some of the older clones were. Skinhead didn't have hair, but Scarface did, and none of it was grey.

Brothers. There were those who still used the term for other clones, though not many. It was a holdover from the old Clone War years. Darner'd never seen much point in it himself. They weren't a big, happy family. They were clones, soldiers in the Imperial Army. That was what unified them, their common purpose, their status as stormtroopers, the elite, not some common set of genes. They were watching him, silently, arms folded, waiting. Was this some kind of tactic? Play nice? What did they want? He breathed in, out, trying not to make it too obvious he was nervous.

Three clones. How many were there in this group, total? He'd seen three. Were there more? To take over their ship so quickly and efficiently, they'd have to have more than three or four men. Ten, probably. How many were clones, if more than these three? He met Scarface's steady gaze for a moment, then turned away. Three clones. Three who'd somehow been convinced to leave their lives in the Empire for lives of criminality. Brothers. Why would they be trying to play on their commonalities? Why try to allude to some bond that didn't exist? He breathed in again, sharply, as it clicked. They were asking nicely for names and not using any persuasive procedures because they were recruiting.

Did they really think they'd turn him? Make him into a traitor with a few nice words, make it sound like they had some kind of connection because they shared a face? Family. There was no family in the corps. There was duty, and there was purpose, not kinship. He had nothing to hide. He'd lived a life following orders, doing what he was supposed to, believing in obedience and understanding the consequences of betrayal. That made him a good man, a good soldier. He lifted his head and said, proudly, "My name is Darner."

Skinhead smirked a little, his shoulders easing, as though he'd won some sort of victory. Scarface only gave him a mild look, cocking an eyebrow and tilting his head. This wouldn't be the end of things. Darner braced himself. No, this would just be the beginning. If they were recruiting, they would have to try to convince him, shake his faith in his duty, in his Empire. The question was: How did he want to play this? He could be obstinate, show them his dedication, try to make them feel shame for what they were doing. If he pretended to believe them, join them, would they fall for it? Could he buy time with deception, try to free the others? Take back the ship? If there was even the slightest doubt on their part, they would likely throw him out an airlock. Behind him, he clasped his hands, squeezing them together tightly, his gauntlets grinding against each other as he tried to keep himself calm.

Skinhead shifted again, turning to the side so that his shoulder was leaning against the crate. He kept his arms folded, and that smirk on his mouth. Darner released his clenched hands, then tightened them again, readying himself. "How old are you, Darner?" Skinhead asked.

Starting out slow. Darner resisted the urge to nod, as though watching the first move an opponent made in a game of dejarik. They would have to make a play for the center of the board, much like a soldier would want to find the best ground for a fight. He wasn't much for dejarik, but he understood tactics. The most reliable way to secure victory was to come in from the oblique, to strike when least expected. He must be wary of what these two were scheming, they must be planning on tripping him up somehow. He bit his lip, trying to think of a way to gain control of the situation. He was at an obvious disadvantage, and it was unlikely he could really turn the tables, but he had to try. To at least point out the wrongness of what they were doing. If he found a way to manage more, so much the better. He met Skinhead's eye. "Old enough to fight," he announced, relieved his voice was clear and unshaken.

Scarface leaned forward and shot back, "Old enough to die?"

He was outnumbered, and they were taking advantage of that, each of them supporting the other through the questioning. That was to be expected. He couldn't let himself get boxed in, mentally. They couldn't argue him down until he had his back to a metaphorical wall. He was old enough to see battle; if they were clones with any kind of training, they'd know that. The number of months he'd lived didn't matter. He'd seen almost three years of life, now.

The moment he picked up a blaster and learned to shoot it, he was dangerous. The moment he became dangerous was the moment he became useful to the Empire. That was the moment he began to mean something.

Darner straightened, lifted his chin slightly. He understood his duty, and he declared, firmly, "If that's what I'm ordered to do." Scarface sighed heavily, looked down for a moment as though disappointed. Darner allowed himself a moment of triumph. They must have been hoping he valued his life more, was afraid of losing it. He was no coward, to run and hide. He added, a bit pridefully, "The Empire keeps the peace. I'm a part of that. We're peacekeepers."

Skinhead snorted once and straightened slightly, his eyes shifting momentarily towards the crates he was leaning on. Darner stiffened. Everyone knew that they kept the Emperor's peace. With such a dismissive sound, he seemed to doubt that. It was insulting. They dared to call him brother? Didn't they know how many men fought and died to keep the peace?

Scarface said, very quietly, "Doesn't seem like you're doing much protecting."

Darner glared at him, as blackly as he could. They'd cleaned up that terrorist cell, hadn't they? Put an end to their fear mongering? The good citizens of Gandle Ott were far safer now than they were a few weeks ago. "Stormtroopers keep the peace," he insisted. "Those terrorists you're freeing by imprisoning me and the rest of my squad? They're the ones killing people. Gandle Ott belongs to the Empire. They're trying to violently destroy the rightful government."

Scarface shrugged, leaned forward and placed his elbows on his knees, then replied casually, "Others might call them freedom fighters. Rebels, fighting an oppressive regime."

Freedom fighters? The terrorists? Is that what they thought of themselves? Darner laughed, then snickered as Scarface's brows raised. "They're deliberately trying to stir up public anger against the Empire," he said, allowing wry amusement to flavor his words. "They're deliberately creating division, just to incite more violence. Their opposing the Emperor's peace is creating the problem in the first place. If they just obeyed, they'd be left alone."

Scarface and Skinhead exchanged glances. Skinhead looked away towards the crates behind him, then sighed. "There are a lot of worlds not too happy with the way Palpatine is treating them," Skinhead said, and Darner bristled, both at his sad tone and his casual disrespect for the Emperor. "Palpatine appointed himself ruler. He created the problem by usurping control of the Republic at the end of the Clone Wars, taking away the rights of the people to choose their own leaders. Why should dissenters be willing to obey if nobody picked him to lead in the first place?"

Now they were simply lying. Darner lowered his head slightly, as though thinking it over. He looked at the top of the crates placed before him, at their dull durasteel surface. The Emperor was chosen by the people to lead them through the Clone Wars. Who else could lead them? He lifted his head and said, calmly, almost gently, "The people did choose him. He gives us all leadership, safety. You're clones, same as I am. We're genetically engineered to be tools of that control."

They had to understand that. They were all clones, they all went through the same training, learned from the same histories. If there was anything they shared through their common DNA, it was a drive towards loyalty and a desire to fight. It was in their blood. He looked at them hopefully, while they looked at him only with disappointment.

Skinhead said, with a strange kind of timbre his voice, as though he were repeating something someone had once asked him. "Do you really believe that? Or is that just what someone taught you to believe?"

Darner sighed. Everyone he knew in the corps believed the same way. How could so many men be wrong? "No," he replied, firm but sad. Of course, these two believed differently. It was a pity. If these two were the leaders of the men who took out their ship, they would have been very useful to the Empire. "It's just what I believe. These are dark times. I can't imagine what the galaxy would be like without proper guidance." He shuddered slightly, and saw Skinhead do the same. Darner looked away, not wanting to watch his gestures mirrored by the other man.

Scarface picked up the questioning again, noticing Skinhead's distraction. Darner met his eyes, unflinching. "If someone rebels, you think they deserve to be literally crushed?" Darner opened his mouth to retort, to remind him that such violence should always be met with superior violence, to eliminate the problem before it grew larger, but Scarface's pause was only to draw another breath. He continued, "I'm not talking about explosives. I'm talking about speaking out. Assembly, free speech, petitioning the government for redress. People who do those things against the Empire disappear. No trial, no jury. They're tortured, kept captive if they're allowed to live, executed if they're not. Do you honestly think that's the system of a fair government? Of a fair leader?"

Darner could only stare at the man. The galaxy was currently under threat by violent insurgents, which followed one of the most turbulent times in history, and he was worried about some sort of petty civilian rights? Trial and jury? Executing criminals as soon as they were found was the only way to keep good, law abiding people safe. That was justice. The safety the Empire provided preserved liberties – it didn't destroy them. Exterminating those who would disrupt the peace kept the galaxy a safer place. Criminals deserved no mercy. They deserved no rights, for they gave them up the moment they began to break the law laid out for them. It was a mercy the Republic fell, ruled as it was by petty, bickering, immoral people. Such democracy was chaotic. Now the galaxy had order, security, stability.

He closed his eyes and bowed his head again, allowing his arms to hang loosely behind him, slack. These men would never understand. They must be flawed in some way, their training incomplete or somehow skewed, for them to end up so wrong-minded. He pitied them, even as he feared what they would soon have to do to him and the rest of his ship's crew. Scarface was waiting patiently for a response, but Skinhead was shaking his head, looking again at the crates beside him, worried.

"Do you honestly think that people should have the right to fight against their own government?" he responded, not allowing himself to plead, but wishing that, if these men really did think of them as brothers, they would at least try to understand what he was saying.

Scarface sighed heavily and turned away, catching Skinhead's attention. He shook his head, and Scarface turned back to Darner, sighing a second time, then lifting his wrist to speak into his comlink. "Fives, could you come take our friend back to his cell?"

So that was the end of it. Darner shuddered. Back to his cell, to wait for whatever happened next, more intense interrogation or execution. He felt ill, his gut suddenly churning with apprehension. Such an ignominious end, this. The steady stomp of feet approaching through the hull breach announced the return of his guard, who, upon entering, paused, looking at Scarface. Scarface shook his head once, and the guard's body shifted, as though some new weight had been added, causing him to slump his shoulders. After a moment, he walked forward again, grasped Darner's elbow, and pulled him to his feet.

As Darner was led away, there was a series of shifting sounds behind him, and Scarface's voice called out, coolly, "Darner?" The guard stopped, and Darner turned back to see both Scarface and Skinhead standing, Scarface with his arms folded over his chest. "If you see a red-haired woman around here, I wouldn't repeat anything you just said in front of her," Scarface told him.

The guard sucked in a breath at the words, and the grip on his arm suddenly became tense. A moment later, he was wrenched roughly back towards the exit, then yanked forward. Darner nearly tripped, his feet fumbling over each other as he struggled to stay upright.

In those few moments he was looking back, he saw something peculiar; a small, alien woman with fierce, striped horns and orange skin stepped out from behind the crates. The white facial markings patterned on her face made her appear almost feral, animalistic, and decidedly primitive.

As she silently stepped up beside Skinhead, she met his eyes. He did not like her look.

It was one of pity.

Rex and Cody sat across from each other in the galley of the Drake.

Untouched mugs of caf sat before them on the table, slowly growing cold. The day had been long, and though they had successfully stormed an Imperial ship and rescued the small group of resistance fighters living on Gandle Ott, the interrogations did not go nearly as well as hoped.

Ahsoka placed her hands lightly on Rex's shoulders, gently rubbing them. The muscles in his neck were knotty with tension, his shoulders rounded inward, displaying his disappointment with the day's events. She sighed. Nothing but time, and perhaps a more successful mission, would allay the worries, the hurt, the frustration. Rex lifted a hand and placed in on top of one of hers, squeezing it lightly as though to reassure her he was alright. She responded by sliding her fingers between his and squeezing back.

Each stormtrooper brought into the cargo bay for questioning remained doggedly loyal to the Empire. Most were obstinate, sullenly glaring at Cody and Rex, refusing to even acknowledge their questions. A few only swore violently, cursing them all as traitors and criminals. She held out hope for a few minutes with the last man, the one who willingly gave them his name – Darner. She sensed pity in him, and if pity, she hoped perhaps sympathy and enough open mindedness to at least listen to their words. But as the interview continued, she came to realize how badly skewed his sense of integrity was, how determined his sense of self-righteousness, how rigid and unrelenting his distorted sense of justice. He, like the others, lacked any kind of sympathy or willingness to look upon others with compassion or understanding. There was no mercy in such a man.

Standing behind Rex, she looked down, following the stretch of his arm resting on the table, then out the narrow window. Could such a man as Darner, born fifteen or even ten years earlier, under different circumstances, have been a different man? A better man? It was true that the Republic began the cycle, creating the clones in the first place and using them as soldiers in a war, but it was the Empire that so willingly took their existence to its terrible end. To the Empire, these men were mere clones, irrelevant people of no consequence, simple tools used for cruel abuses against humanity and nothing more. In turn, to survive without going mad, Darner and the other stormtroopers allowed themselves to be indoctrinated by the characteristics of the Empire. Darner and the stormtroopers were as alike to Rex and Cody as she, as a Jedi, was to a Sith.

She looked at Rex's bent shoulders, and at Cody's tired face. Her grip on Rex's hand tightened. She was glad for what she had, though at times she wished they could do more. She sighed, reminding herself again to be patient.

"It's not right," Rex said, his voice sounding rough in the quiet of the galley.

Cody glanced up, then away. He reached for his mug of cool caf and held it in his hands. "It's more mercy than they'd show us."

"I know," Rex responded. "But it still doesn't make it right."

Cody took a sip of his caf, frowning down at the lukewarm surface as he swallowed the bitter drink. Ahsoka turned again to the window, at the round, green-brown surface of Yavin IV. It was habitable, though uninhabited. They'd taken the stormtroopers' helmets and comlinks, leaving them on the surface of the moon with blasters and a set of vibroblades. They would survive.

It wasn't right. It was also more mercy than they would have been shown, if their positions were reversed. They could not risk letting the stormtroopers go, to return to the Empire with knowledge of their group's existence, and an interest in finding a group of rebellious clone soldiers to make example of. They could not risk being tracked back to Alderaan, back to home. Marooning them on Yavin IV was the only choice they had, save for killing the men, and none of them had the heart to do so.

Rex, Cody and the others perhaps needed some time to themselves. The stormtroopers were brothers, and though they were not dead, they were still lost. The two men before her were filled with the bitter ache of mourning. Ahsoka patted Rex's shoulders, sliding her fingers out of his as she turned away. She'd call Behri up to the bridge in a few minutes, to have her review jump calculations. Until then, she had a promise to keep.

Ahsoka walked to the bridge, the doors sliding open to permit her entrance. She slipped into the pilot's chair, and opened up an encrypted channel.

She did, with this, acknowledge the establishment of a certain trust. The last few months had proven their alliance. This rescue mission, requested by Ventress, was the first time her old enemy had asked for assistance. Ventress would not put herself in any kind of debt if she did not mean to truly honor their bargain, and continue to work on their shared side. Ahsoka would, in turn, uphold her end of the agreement.

She wrote a single word, closed her eyes, and sent it out into space: Tatooine.

Darner is an OC. As I mentioned back in chapter 7, hawkers and darners are types of dragonflies. Just following through with my naming scheme.

This was a very interesting chapter to write, and I hope you enjoyed it – or it at least made you think. According to how he was raised and what he was taught, Darner's not meant to be a 'bad' man. More misled? His thoughts and opinions are not meant to be black and white. I was having a hard time writing the chapter from either Rex or Cody's perspectives, and it didn't really flow right until I flipped sides. It made for an interesting exploration of a clone stormtrooper's psychology, and I really liked writing it.

Around the time I was plotting out this chapter, I was reading a book called Little Brother by Cory Doctorow. (Highly recommended, btw!) There's a particularly powerful scene about midway through the book involving a heated discussion of the 1st Amendment, the right of revolution, and what one person sees as oppression, another may see as peacekeeping. It very much sparked off my thinking about this chapter. Another book that strongly influenced this chapter was Azar Nafisi's Reading Lolita in Tehran (also highly recommended!).

lol, can you tell I was taking an intellectual freedom seminar when I drafted this chapter or what?

Anyway, thoughts are much appreciated!

And as always, many thanks to all of you who took the time to read and review - doctor anthony, KatiaSwift, Christina, DoubleEO, BetaReject, rabbitwriter, 3LW00D, BleachBoy95, littlelionluvr and ThoseWereTheDays! Much love to you all!

~Queen