Transferred.

One does not simply get transferred in the Alliance Army.

Skull scowled in confusion and to any bystander (i.e. not a clone) his scowl would have seemed creepy, as it was mirrored by a hundred other faces like his. They mingled in a warehouse, different shades of armor, different ages and personalities.

Skull hung back from the muted chaos and upheaval the transferred soldiers were causing. Today, though, hiding amongst the crowd wasn't as easy as it should have been. No matter where he went people—mostly clones, but a few non-clones as well—seemed to recognize him.

He knew why of course. Ever since the Battle of Shadowfall, his brothers had begun looking at him less because of his odd tendencies and more because of his apparently admirable, unthinking rally to fall under General Arcee's command.

He could understand the fascination. They were clones, not people. They were meant to follow orders, not dish them out. Really, he should have kept his mouth shut after the first incident. But not minutes later, it was he who ordered a small group of soldiers into the vents. There, bombs were detonated, blinding Vehicons, gassing organic assailants, and crushing both under tons of debris, effectively clearing the way for Alliance takeover.

And it seemed that the news of that had spread, since he hadn't had a moment of ogle-free space since then.

When the news of transfers came, he had simply accepted that as the other shoe dropping. After all, many of the higher-ups had to have seen the battle footage and would probably be unsettled by his un-clonish behavior. He figured he would be sent to General Bulkhead's battalion or maybe simply executed. Perhaps there was an underground rebellion, made up of all of these brothers, and someone suspected him of involvement—whatever it took to nip the bud in the stem.

Or maybe not.

He straightened as his new General strode in front of the ground and stood, towering over them. The action had been ground into him since awakening, but this time it wasn't instinct. It was surprise.

Because General Arcee stood in front of them.

The General Arcee. Which was impossible. Because the only time Generals addressed clones like this was if they were addressing their battalions. And the two-wheeled general had no battalion.

The General crossed her arms, staring at them. A symphony of emotions (sadness, pain, determination, fear) flickered across her faceplate. Finally, with a heavy sigh, she began to speak.

"I'm not going to tell you lot that you'll be lead to victory under my command or any of that other pompous scrap. I'm not going to brag about my battles, or complain about my losses. I'm not to bullshit you and tell you it's an honor to fight in this Primus-forsaken war, when we all know it's just a nightmare."

She vented heavily. "But I will tell you this story. There once was a hero. Not like that douche, Sanchez. I'm talking about Jack Darby."

Skull frowned at the unfamiliar name. He'd never heard of a Jack Darby. Around him, others quietly voiced similar confusion.

General Arcee continued. "Jack Darby wasn't some great and epic hero of legend, and he wasn't a no-name soldier either. He was just a man doing what was best for his world. And when he died, he was given a scrap-load of pomp and circumstance that he never wanted. He was made a symbol. And his face was copied onto a thousand soldiers."

Skull's blood ran cold.

Jack Darby.

The name had so much meaning now.

He looked at his hands, watched them shake and quiver. Did Jack's hands do that?, a hysterical voice whimpered in his head. When Click rubbed the back of his head, was that Jack's way of showing embarrassment?

"SILENCE!" roared Arcee, and Skull suddenly realized that everyone else had been doing what he had: staring at themselves, questioning their every action, no doubt wondering if what bit of individuality they had was simply another copied motion…

Arcee stared at the crowd stonily. "You are not Jack. None of you are." And, then, unexpectedly and suddenly, a small, weary, pained smirk spread across her faceplate. "And he's not you."

A servo snapped forward and a digit was leveled at the face of a terrified clone near the front. "You!" Arcee barked. "What's your name?"

The clone began shakily rattling off his number, but stopped as Arcee gave a small impatient shake of her head. "I don't care about what you're listed as. That for paperwork and hospitals. I asked you for your name."

The clone swallowed hard. "Jive, Sir."

Arcee nodded then pointed at another clone in the back. "Name!"

This clone was quicker on the mark. "Uppercut, Sir!"

"You!"

"Flicker, Sir!"

You!"

"Three-eyes, Sir!"

"You!"

Skull didn't miss a beat. "Skull, Sir!"

Arcee straightened. "Now maybe I'm wrong, but there's no Jack Darby here, is there?"

The clones were excited. No general had pumped them up like this, had gotten them to admit their names, to expose their individuality. But Skull could see the pain lingering in the General's optics, and you tell that despite her apparent determination to get them to open up to her, their presence was like bleach on a gaping wound.

And it was then that he realized that he'd do anything to make her smile again.

Yet another copied motion?

He didn't care.

Arcee stood straight and tall, and Skull felt his breath catch at the beauty of such an image. "You are all heroes. You risk your lives everyday for a world that does not appreciate you. I intend to make them notice. I intend to make them appreciate every drop of blood, sweat and tears spilled by you. I intend to honor my friend's sacrifice the best way I know how: by seeing this war through to the end, and seeing you lot find the dream he searched for—peace.

So. Who's with me?"

A legion of fists, identical yet oh so different, thrust into the air.

"OOH RAH!"