Author's Note: This is my first Star Wars fic, after reading them for years. I love the community and have been wanting to write this story for quite a while now. After spending a few weeks meticulously planning out details and getting things lined up correctly, I considered taking a crack at it. I will say now, I understand that many Fics involve romance, I'm focusing more on a character drama than pairings. Just getting that out there now. Romance will be in this story, but it won't be the main focus! I also am aware that some people are skeptical of OC and prefer established characters. I often feel the same way. However, to tell the story I want to tell, I really felt the need to use more original characters. I am going to do my best to make them as believable as possible.
The canon characters start to arrive in force around Chapter 7, so if you're here for them, try to stick around until then.
PS: This was originally deleted but I decided to continue to upload to protect it from being reposted from AO3.
Introduction
"I used to believe that being a good soldier meant doing everything they told you. That's how they engineered us. But we're not droids. We're not programmed. You have to learn to make your own decisions." - Captain Rex
While the Republic and the Separatists did battle on multiple fronts across the Outer Rim following the Battle of Coruscant, the weight of an exhausting war was threatening to crush any hopes of a unified galaxy. The millions, billions, who died in this war had become meaningless, collateral damage to the ultimate plan. The soldiers on both sides were pawns sent to slaughter. For the droids and the clones were both manufactured. Factories and laboratories were their home, born and raised, built and bred, sewn up and screwed together. They were, in the eyes of the galaxy, not too different from one another. They had one purpose, and one purpose only. War.
One such detachment of Republic armed forces traveled to their final wartime destination in the days that followed General Grievous' blitzkrieg hit and run on Coruscant. Seemingly hours before Grievous' inevitable defeat on Utapau, the 404th Battalion made haste to the nearest hyperspace lane bound for Quermia, a sparsely populated Outer Rim world that served as one of the last Separatist held planetoids in the galaxy. Their target? The swift killing of a droid commander to force a retreat and capture the planet. With the end of the war in sight, the clones of the Grand Army of the Republic fought on till their last breath, even if in the end, it was all for nothing.
First Iteration
I
En route to Quermia - 19 BBY
Two hours to Zero Hour
Dazzling star systems dressed in radiant blue bathed the bridge of the Prosecutor with the glow of a hundred solar bodies a minute. The hyperspace tunnel from the Mid Rim to Quermia was denser than most, wading through a muck of corporate holdouts and spice colonies en route to the far Outer Rim. The destination of the Prosecutor and three of its sister Venator-class Star Destroyers was soon approaching, perhaps just under an hour away.
On the bridge of the Prosecutor, huddled around a holomap, stood three figures. Fitted in wildly different attire from each other, they each represented a party invested in the war.
Their conflict in devising an attack strategy would come as no surprise either, given the different outlooks and strategy that intersected their individual trains of thought.
One such outlook came from a woman dressed in the dull, uninspiring grays of Republic Admiralty, musing over the table with a simple stroke of her chin after lambasting the others. Another came from the robes of a youthful Jedi Knight, perhaps no older than twenty, hands conjoined at his waist, deeply focused on the task at hand. The final opinion came from the white and green plastoid armor of a trooper, holding his helmet at the waist, it was scratched and weary, adorned with dents, blaster scuffs, and the ranked symbol of commander. If the armor could speak, it would simply cry out for a respite from the conflict.
They all were battle hardened, they all had seen the horrors that the Clone Wars had wrought upon the galaxy. Yet despite it all, they never wavered from their views, their core values, or their strategies on winning a battle.
Their silence was only permeated by the eventual motion of the Jedi, pointing to the holomap laid out on the table before them, an atmospheric diagram of Quermia with positioned Separatist ships.
"With our recent scouting reports showing gaps in their defenses, it would be far too easy to slip between them when we come out of hyperspace," the Jedi noted.
"So…." the Admiral began, "you're suggesting I bring four capital ships out of hyperspace directly into the upper atmosphere? Behind an enemy line?"
"Precisely."
"I don't like this, honestly," she retorted. "Too much pressure on our hull parked in the thermosphere like that for too long. Quermia's atmosphere is a heat bath."
"The Seps won't be expecting an attack on the undersides of their battleships, allowing us to target their shields and weapons with greater ease, while providing cover fire for ground assault teams to nab the droid commander here," the Jedi expanded the map to what was presumably the capital city, pointing out a large palace centered within. "As soon as he drops, the remaining Separatist ships should pull away without a ground leader, and we can move the ships up into the exosphere."
The clone commander, having watched their debate earnestly, finally spoke up.
"General, you said the Separatist fleet at Quermia was mostly pulled away to fight at Coruscant, and the remaining ships are stragglers?"
"Yes. The ships that pulled away to Coruscant never returned back, according to our scouts."
"That leaves how many ships in orbit then?"
"Four."
"Seems pretty even to me, four on four. What say you, Admiral?" The clone turned to the other superior before him.
She remained silent for a moment, watching the flickering holomaps transition from atmosphere to battlefield, while the entrancing tunnel of star systems in the hyperspace lane illuminated the air around her in a sparkling blue.
"What if reinforcements arrive from another system?" She asked.
The Jedi cleared his throat before continuing.
"They won't."
"How can you be so sure?"
"The Force is with us on this mission, Admiral. The pieces have lined up well for us, and I don't expect any further resistance from the Separatists. Our gunships will land before they know what hit them."
She winced a bit upon hearing "the Force," but pressed on nonetheless.
"Where was it you went to military academy again, Jedi?" She questioned, albeit rather harshly. Her interrogee was set to reply, but was interrupted by a nearby officer calling over.
"If I may interrupt for a moment, we'll be approaching Quermian space in thirty-five minutes."
"That's my cue, I need to get down to the hangar bay," the Jedi looked to the Admiral for a moment, waiting for her acceptance. "Is this a go?"
She shook her head a bit, biting her inner lip before conceding with a few rapid blinks.
"I suppose I don't have much choice at this point." She waved her hand in acceptance. "But if we suffer heavy losses, they're on your back, Kara," she muttered.
"Relax, Admiral. Everything will be as it should." He offered her a half-smile before turning towards a turbolift to the hangar. The commander turned back to his only remaining superior.
"Trust him, Admiral.. He got us out of a sticky situation on Jabiim."
"He's nearly as reckless as Skywalker. He's young. He's arrogant like the rest of them. He thinks The Force will save him; he doesn't use his head. That's no way to win a battle."
"If I may speak freely ma'am, we have not lost a battle under him."
"He has only been in the lead position for one battle. He was promoted on a whim." She paused, narrowing her eyes in thought. "I have led sixty-four missions in this war. Sixty-four, commander. You learn from experience, not mysticism," she spat.
The commander didn't speak. She continued.
"We win battles because of brave soldiers and competent leaders such as yourself, Pike." She shook her head, turning to return to her favored spot at the precipice of the bridge, hands together behind her back.
Her head tilted to the side for a final word.
"I don't place my faith in a cult of mystics. I place my faith in those in uniform." The Admiral's watchful eyes returned to the hyperspace tunnel.
Pike simply nodded, grasping his helmet firmly, before following his general to the turbolift.
Twenty decks below the bridge, was a congregation of clones flooding the corridors towards the main hangar. Their white and green Phase II armor was scuffed, heavily worn in, and showed signs of weariness. The clones wearing them, however, did not.
Two troopers, near the back of the crowd, paced together, enjoying each other's company for a fleeting moment amidst the hubbub.
"They're saying the war could be over soon. What do you make o'that, Fix?" One asked, a small scar entrenched across the left side of his lip.
"If we take Quermia, I think they'd be right. Can't think of many systems left to take, honestly." The one called Fix boasted two different eye colors, hazel and green. Perhaps a genetic mixup in the labs.
A voice called out from behind them.
"Fix! Tandem! Hold up." It was Pike.
The troopers turned, making way for Pike's timely arrival between them.
"Well Commander, is this it? Is this the one?" Fix asked. Tandem chuckled, shaking his head.
"Can't say for sure boys, just know we're almost there. I just know it. The General seems to know it too, he's ready for this one." The commander appeared hesitant, but a smile of optimism tugged at the edges of his mouth. He was ready for the war to be over just as much as those under his command. They had all endured far too much, for far too long. The barrage of reciprocating fire from super battle droids would fill their nightmares for years to come.
"I could use a good drink or two when this is over," Tandem commented, a silent thirst washing over his demeanor.
"No way. Last time you had a 'drink or two,' you and Chuckles ended up unconscious under a table in the club district on Coruscant," Pike answered.
"C'mon commander, the whole 404th knows that alcohol is our existential calling. It's just meant to be."
Fix let out a laugh, while Pike just shook his head.
They continued on, approaching the hangar bay, as overhead speakers threatened to interrupt them.
"All remaining troopers from the Yerbana campaign and/or Coruscant defense who have not been examined, please report to medical bays five or six on deck eight for clinical evaluation as soon as possible."
"What's the plan?" Fix shot over to the commander.
"It'll be detailed in the bay, c'mon. Only a half hour now."
In the Prosecutor's fitness lounge, down the hall from the hangar bay, a lone clone trooper was laying hits into a punching bag. His shirt and gear lay on a nearby bench, and sweat beads carved trails down his bronzed body, pausing to overcome a handful of scars peppered across his torso.
The day was already long, but for him, it had just begun.
Another entered the room, two horizontal lines of tattooed ink were carved around his neck.
"Dynamo, let's get moving, grab your gear. Pre-flight in five."
"Yeah, one sec. I really got 'em this time." Dynamo called back, his punches growing heavier as he ducked and swung into the side of the bag, a solid blow. He wiped the sweat from his brow and dropped his gloves to the floor before throwing his shirt back on. He was hastily attempting to slide into his gear while still covered in perspiration.
The other clone smirked, watching him struggle for a moment.
"Need some help there Dy? We all know it's a bit of struggle to slip the gear around that lively manhood of yours."
"Shut it up, Chuckles, I got it!" Dynamo's temper flared as laughter from his counterpart followed. The latter soon clamored out of the fitness lounge, trailing Chuckles towards the hangar bay.
Across the hangar from the gathering of clones awaiting a briefing, was the entrance to a side weapons locker. Emerging were two clones, one in scouting greens, the other in a captain's uniform, with a modified Phase I helmet and plating.
Heavily armed, they traded quips as they observed a growing number of clones entering the hangar.
"What are your odds on this one, cap?" The clone in scouting garb asked, hoisting a modified DC-15 rifle onto a nearby gearbox for examination.
"Four to one we take it," came the reply, the Captain was cleaning his pistol and counting the thermal detonators in his bandolier. "Three to one in less than an hour."
"How's the General looking?"
"From here?" The Captain paused, peering across the flight deck to a baby-faced man in brown robes, ushering the clones to assemble around him. The shadow of a LAAT gunship loomed over the crowd. "Seems a little on edge, why?"
"Heard from Pike yesterday that the admiral didn't like this plan he was proposing. Said it was gonna get us all killed."
"If we die, it'll be for the Republic. Try not to worry what the admiral says, she doesn't see it from our point of view."
"Touché." Karma locked a scope into place on his rifle and grabbed a lonely bandolier nearby, armed with mines and thermals.
"After Jabiim, I'd put my life in the General's hands any day," Karma continued, his superior joining him as they began to approach the briefing across the deck.
"So would I, Karma," the Captain gave him a pat on the shoulder, as the gunship's shadow soon enveloped them as well. "So would I."
"Alright, listen up!"
Jedi General Orren Kara was never one to shout, but when the situation demanded it, he made himself heard. His voice was a mid-low octave, loud enough to fill the hangar and deep enough to fill attention spans with its baritone gravitas.
The clones gathered tightly together as the final troops streamed into the LAAT compartments.
The shields protecting each hangar compartment were down, but upon arrival, their familiar blue zing would resonate through the bay to protect mechanics and pilots alike from hard space during hangar opening.
Commander Pike, Fix, and Tandem gently elbowed their way to the middle of the pack. Dynamo and Chuckles hurried in the doors to join the far rear of the platoon. Karma and his accompanying captain arrived on the outskirts from across the hangar.
Orren continued onward.
"In just twenty-five minutes, we will be dropping out of hyperspace, emerging past a Separatist fleet, into the upper atmosphere of Quermia."
Some low talk emerged from the crowd, but was quickly silenced.
"Listen. I know some of you may have your reservations about this mission. About this being only my second command. You've heard whispers. Rumors. As you all know well, we've fought together for two years, while the 404th was part of an auxiliary unit to my master's 104th battalion. I assumed command at Jabiim, given our fondness of each other," he flashed a smile before continuing.
"I can promise you, I won't let any of you down." He looked around at them for a moment, eyeing their expressions.
His master, Plo Koon, commanded the 104th, commonly known around clone commons as the "Wolf Pack" battalion. Led by Commander Wolffe, they had shown their skills at notable battles on Felucia and Kadavo. The 404th worked jointly with them on several endeavors.
That is, until Orren took over as a General. The troopers of his battalion had become a family to the young man that had only known loneliness in the Jedi Temple.
Orren continued, "however, some of you may be elated, as you also may have heard rumors that the war could be over any week now." He sighed.
"But I'm telling you now, the war ends when General Grievous is destroyed, and the Separatist Council is captured. I have spoken with our counterparts at the 212th, and they assure me that General Kenobi has indeed engaged General Grievous."
The clones erupted into cheers, some raising their fists, others raising their rifles. Claps ensued.
"Now, this means that if General Kenobi can pull this off, then we are about to enter what could be one of the final battles of this long war." Orren joined his hands together in focus.
"We are essentially conducting a rapid raid on this planet. We sneak in past their formation, our ships open fire on their cruisers, and cover for the ground teams."
He paused, removing a small holo projector from his robe pocket. He placed it out in front of him, turning it on to reveal a terrain map of the Quermian capital city.
"We're taking six gunships down to the surface. We have pinpointed the sites of potential AA fire and will concentrate on landing just beyond the capital's perimeter." He pointed to the main gates of the city.
"Blaze Squad, our rocket troopers, will set up mortar entrenchments and knock down the main gates." He gestured over to a small contingency of heavily armored troopers to his left, they signaled in affirmative.
"The rest of the platoon will charge the gates, surging into the market district, making a point to immediately move into the royal district and capture the palace grounds. From there, two squads suppress outside fire, while the rest move into the palace and eliminate the droid commander."
He turned off the holo projector, taking a moment to examine the faces of the soldiers before him.
"I will be leading Tempest Squad and Gale Squad, as we did on Jabiim, for further reinforcement. Captain Noble, Sergeant Stax, and I will push in first."
This drew a bit of chatter from the clones as well.
"Make that five to one," Captain Noble elbowed Karma, a cheeky grin forming.
"Under an hour?" Karma whispered back.
"All depends on your shooting, lieutenant," came the reply.
"Pre-flight begins in two minutes, grab your essential gear, find your captain and squad, and prepare to board your assigned gunships," Orren said.
"Sir!" One clone had a question.
"What is it, Nox?"
"You said we'd be dropping out of hyperspace into the atmosphere?"
"I did."
"We've never launched within the atmosphere before sir, usually the gunships need a bit of warming up before they take those temperatures."
"The gunships can handle the temperature, Quermia has a thin thermosphere, we won't be lingering very long. Just be ready for a bumpy ride." Orren paused.
"Trust me on this one. We're going to take it," he offered a smile as a gesture of reassurance.
"Sir, yes sir." An echo of replies returned to him.
The clones were good soldiers, and even better people. They saw only loyalty and fighting for a just, righteous cause. Some of them, however, appeared a bit apprehensive, standing alone as the platoon began to swarm around them in all directions, crying out orders and relaying wise-cracks.
Chuckles, while normally one to toss said wise-cracks around before a battle, stood by himself in the swarm of troopers, looking uneasy, almost lost. His heart was racing.
The potential of the war ending made their nerves tense. What were they to do? What could they do? Another question perhaps, for a different time. But this time was for the battle, and they soon came back to reality, joining their squads and fixing their helmets to their heads.
Chuckles eventually joined them.
In hangar compartment four, Fix was dropping to the floor, laying back on a mechanic's creeper to wheel himself under the hull of his LAAT. A few clones passed by, giving him a friendly kick in the shin.
"Good luck down there Fix."
"Fly straight and maybe we won't run into each other this time buddy."
Fix could only nervously laugh, drawing a spanner to a small compartment near the starboard ion relay. Popping open the box, he brought the spanner to his mouth, holding it steady between his lips while another voice cried out to him. This voice he knew far better than most.
"How we lookin' down there, Fix?"
Fix mumbled a reply, vocals muffled by the spanner in his mouth.
"Just beautiful. Already retrofitted for spaceflight, repaired from our last mission. One last touch up and she'll be good as new." He took the spanner back to the job at hand, eyeing a pair of boots in front of him.
"You need any help? Launch is in fourteen," Karma said.
"Yeah, actually. Grab an ion coil from my tool cart and toss it down here."
Within about five seconds, Fix felt the intimate form of an ion coil rolling into his hand. He pulled out the old one and replaced it, connecting the wires in under a minute.
"She good to fly?" Karma asked.
"Yeah, blaster fire from the clankers on Jabiim really tore her chassis up. She'll be alright though. Coil is fresh so the engines should be manifesting pretty cleanly."
"One day I'll have to have you teach me how to fix one of these things," Karma laughed.
"When the war is over, I'll have the time."
Karma paused, hesitant to ask, hoisting his rifle over his shoulder.
"You got any plans for after this is all over, Fix?"
"Come to think of it.." Fix rolled his wheeled creeper out from under the gunship, wiping his hands and replacing bare skin with plastoid gloves, "Yeah, actually. I do. I'd love to work on ships like this for a living." He offered a simple shrug. "It's what I do best."
He was right, none of the other troopers in his platoon had much interest in repairing, while he often sat up in the mess at night reading technical manuals. When the other gunships blew, the captains requested new ones. Fix simply kept his running.
"I'll be sure to keep you in mind for whenever my speeder breaks down," Karma returned a smile.
"What about you, Karma?"
"Haven't given much thought to it honestly. But every time we're on Coruscant, seeing those busy skylanes, speeders full of families. I dunno… They seem to have it made, I guess."
"Who, the families?"
"Yeah," Karma answered.
"I guess you're right. We were never trained on how to start one."
"Maybe you can write a manual on it like you do everything else."
Fix gave him a friendly punch to the shoulder.
"Maybe."
In an adjacent hangar compartment, Captain Noble approached the members of Tempest Squad, eager to get underway.
"How we lookin' over here, sergeant?" Noble called out.
Most of the squad turned to salute him.
"Sir!"
Their squad leader was the final to turn around. Sergeant Stax. A square and stocky veteran of both battles of Geonosis, Stax's affinity for droid-busting was hotter than a lava pit on Mustafar. He balanced Noble's collected attitude with a bit of a rambunctious one.
"Ready to go over here. Who's carrying the General for round two?" The grin came a few moments after.
"We took him down to Jabiim, I imagine you'd love to accommodate him this time," Noble winked to the other captain.
Stax nodded, grabbing his helmet.
"Alright then, I'll be sure to let him know. I'm sure he's very eager to ride with his next taxi service." He motioned to his squad with a laugh. "Let's get moving boys, showtime's in ten!"
Stax's squad obliged, grabbing their helmets and loading their gear onto the gunship.
Copy, Ty, and Sash. Three out of the four that followed Stax. One was always trailing behind. The one that was always caught up chatting with Gale Squad. The amicable one.
Karma.
A few moments later, Karma came blitzing into the compartment, fixing his helmet onto his head.
"Sorry I'm late, Sarge." He shot across to Stax, offering his superior a salute, before giving Noble a nod as he passed.
"What else is new? Get up here, let's go Karma."
"Yes sir."
Orren entered the compartment not long after, glancing at Noble.
"Captain, I believe your squad is.. awaiting your command." The deadpan went a bit over Noble's head.
"Oh, right, sorry sir! Was just coordinating your escort."
The Jedi smiled.
"I'm sure Sergeant Stax will take fine care of me this time, I'll see you down there."
"See you down there, General."
Noble passed through the bay doors into the adjacent compartment, where Dynamo, Tandem, Chuckles, and Fix were lining up to inspect each other's gear.
"Troopers!" The Captain cried.
"Sir!"
"Are we ready to take some clankers' heads off today?"
"Sir, yes sir!"
Noble couldn't help but beam. His squad had fought tirelessly alongside him from Christophsis to Cato Neimoida and everywhere in between. Three years of war, bloodshed, exhaustion, all of it could be ending soon.
Those faces he would never forget.
Dynamo, Tandem, Chuckles, and Fix. They weren't perfect by a longshot. But they were his troopers. His brothers. His family.
Sometimes, he longed for Karma to join Gale Squad. But his home was with the Tempests, their co-squad.
A typical clone squad would consist of nine or ten troopers, but the Gales and Tempests garnered such a keen reputation for precision work, that they split into co-squads under two captains for better coordination. While they normally shared a gunship, for better odds this go-around, Noble and Stax opted to split, like they did on Jabiim.
Watching his men load up the gunship, he could see it in their faces. The future after the war was on the minds of many of the 404th.
Right now, Captain Noble was focused on the mission at hand. Quermia.
"Alright boys, wings up in five, let's move! Pile on." The squad eagerly obeyed, and Noble followed suit, clamoring aboard the side, gripping a horizontal handrail above, as Fix took to the cockpit.
"Let's get this show on the road," Fix murmured, switching on the LAAT's reverberating engines and boosting power to the inertial dampeners. "Looks like that new ion coil worked like a charm."
The ship rumbled awake, after lying fast asleep following its last excursion. The sublight engines flared, casting a dizzying light show across the steel compartment.
Fix opened the communications channel. A steely, static voice echoed through.
"Prosecutor Control to assault teams. Gunships, you are clear to depart in two minutes, mark."
"This really the last one, Captain?" Chuckles asked, as the gunship doors glided to a lock shut.
"Can't say for sure. Hoping so, honestly," the Captain answered.
The gunship creaked for a moment as the upper exhaust ports and inertial boost chambers came online. The ensuing roar of the gunship became cacophonous.
"Damn. You think the clankers hate my jokes that much Cap?" Chuckles called out.
Tandem muffled a laugh.
"Alright Chuckles, let's wait till we hit terrain before we start quipping, yeah?" The Captain cried over the engines while Chuckles acknowledged him.
Fix looked back to his squad. "Vacuum seal is locked. Should be coming out of hyperspace any second now."
"Prosecutor Control to assault teams. Gunships, you are clear to depart in one minute, mark."
Fix moved his hands to the lift controls and throttle boosters, securing his helmet in finality. Typically he'd rely on a flight computer to do the heavy lifting. This time, he was flying manual.
His thumb grazed the throttle, tensing a bit.
In the troop hold, Noble looked around to his squad for a concluding time before departure.
"One last time. What do we say boys?"
Their reply came in unison, as always.
"For the Republic."