Four supported his wounded shoulder with his other arm, his bucket hooked over his finger.

The 501st captain had told him one of them was a medic. He could go to medical and... He was wounded, he should go to medical, Silver had ordered it. If he paid attention he'd be able to tell which one of them knew him. All he'd need would be a moment's pause, the flicker of an eyelid, or a hesitant breath.

They were competent troopers - Jester was a sergeant of the 212th, Chopper the commander's second in the 501st and now, another of his squad was a medic in the 41st Elite. All excellent companies. The men in his squad had been good, competent troopers. They'd been more than merely 'good', more than 'competent'. They'd been superlative and it was well-known that a sergeant was usually the best man of his squad.

For a moment, his chest expanded in pride as he thought of them as his squad. Then came the questions. Why had they attacked him? Why had Captain Rex of the 501st trembled in rage at confronting him? Why were they in three different companies and him in a fourth? Where were the other two?

And, most of all. Why had he been reconditioned?

What had he been?

What had he done?

Captain Rex implied that it had been worse than incompetence, worse than shameful.

R-8644 trudged to the medical tent closest to the 41st Elite and, with only a twisted shoulder and other clones more seriously wounded, had to wait a while. He tried to help. Simply listening to someone talk about the mission or how someone's vod had been wounded seemed to alleviate the tension of waiting. Being there while a clone wept for the death of his brother and coaching him through the words of remembrance the first time was a painful honor.

He recognized the medic by the stare that was blank of any emotion yet still shone with pain as he nodded to another medic. "I have this one, Gil. You keep watch on the post-ops and call me if you need me."

He grabbed the kit and gestured R-8644 to an enclosed area. "Looks like you got in a fight." He didn't sound curious.

R-8644 sucked in his lower lip then looked into the eyes of someone who had once been part of his squad. "Which one are you? Gus, Punch or Sketch? Not Chopper or Jester." He gestured his fingers at his injured shoulder. "I already met them," he quipped sadly.

"They told me." He paused and reached for a small syringe patch. "Gus. I'm Gus." The medic tilted his head as he kept his eyes on Slick's shoulder and gently explored with his fingertips. "And if Chopper started it, then that wasn't intended to be one-on-one."

"Then what…" Four's silence answered himself. Chopper had intended to kill him. Beat him to death. And if that hadn't worked, Sergeant Jester would have blasted his brains over Geonosis sand. Until they'd seen that Four wasn't the person they remembered or hated.

Four felt sick and Gus's hand on his neck pushed his head lower while his other arm suppported Four's shoulder.

"Relax. Just breathe."

After a moment, Four felt less nauseated and he breathed easier knowing Gus wouldn't attack him. He tapped the medic's arm and sat up, again Gus supported his injured arm. Perhaps Gus would tell him what had happened but before he could ask, the medic spoke.

"It's dislocated. Nothing more. This will hurt." Then he stared into R-8644's eyes and his lips were a pale line. The medic was gone and an enraged trooper stared at him. "But not nearly enough." His voice was a harsh whiplash of anger.

Four flinched.

What had he been?

What had he done?

His squad, the ones who had helped him through the darkest times of training, the ones who told him he could make it because he had made it before, hated him.

Not nearly enough…

After those words it was as if Gus hadn't said them. He set the syringe patch somewhere on Four's upper back, helping to numb some of the nerve endings. His hands were firm and seemed to know how best to make it less painful to re-articulate Four's shoulder. Then Gus checked for further injuries and wiped the blood from the cut on Four's face, his voice calm and professional.

Four thanked Gus for fixing his shoulder and Gus handed him some painkillers as well as orders to take light duty for three days in that calm, professional medic's voice. Then he stared at Four, his jaw grinding before he spoke.

"I don't want to see you again. I want to spend the rest of my short life without hearing your name or your designation or even thinking of you. Don't ever confront me again. You won't survive it."

He turned briskly, moving to the inner workings of medical asking Gil about the post-ops.

Four felt more broken than ever.