Chapter VII

Oscura, The Clone Wars

The landing pad had been cleaned, the destroyed droids thrown into a corner, and the bodies respectfully buried. Now, there was a roaring fire, ale, dancing, even music.

Some of the troopers had gone into town. It wasn't the usual "clones stay at camp, recruits visit places" dynamic that Rays had become accustomed to. Instead, it was a mix; some recruits stayed at camp, some clones went into the city. It was about 50/50 for both.

Only a few, including Trask and Qal, didn't do either—instead focusing on their work or grieving alone or together. Rays understood their reasons: they were closest to those who had died and didn't feel like celebrating. He'd let them off the hook, even consult them later, if they wished.

But the troops who had stayed here were celebrating. Some were telling stories around the fires. A bunch were playing instruments, mainly drums. Many others were dancing to the beat. Others were trying to dance...and drinking. Rays couldn't help but be grateful that his troops were too disciplined to let anything too extreme happen. Most commanders would probably forbid anything like this, and GAR regulations heavily encouraged commanding officers to minimize the amount of contact clones had with civilian life. Rays was a little more relaxed.

Needless to say, the rest of the Scorchers were jubilant. They needed a win like this, and they got it. Now they had a few days all to themselves on a planet that welcomed them as heroes and gave them a freedom not granted to them on any other Republic world, and Rays had no doubt that they were going to enjoy it as much as they could. His only job would be to watch for Seps, keep his family out of trouble, and have fun himself.

He was still amazed at how far they had come. He still remembered how he had felt when the entire unit had been made up of clones, all shinies, all with stark white armor, marshalling aboard the Republic's Destiny, ready to embark on their first mission to Geonosis. Now…

Most of the troopers, even some of the female recruits, were able to wear most, if not all, of the full gear. Those who were too short, too tall, or featured great anatomical differences usually wore at least a helmet, chestplate, and/or gauntlets, and/or other useful pieces. Almost all of them had their own helmets, even if some of them were mismatched or outdated. Even Gala wore vambraces and the belt. Despite the variation in species and sex, every Scorcher wore at least pieces of the armor.

All of them had unique additions to their armor that reflected their individuality: Rays had painted a yellow sun with rays emanating across his faceplate and the back of his helmet. Neville had a pair of parallel dashes on his helmet, well as additional flames on his chestplate. Nav had dark grey thunderclouds and blue lightning beautifully painted so as to appear to generate the flames on her armor. Kali'sto had the Jedi crest and a wroshyr tree painted on his vambraces and gauntlets. Mosaic added a new streak of color or decal for every new planet they visited. Ember had glyphs painted to honor his clan on Kalee. Splinter had a series of red scars painted across his helmet, chestplate, abdominal plate, greaves, and gauntlets, marking injuries that had been inflicted there and healed.

They had been through too much together to just be a military unit.

"Commander at home!" Neville declared, clutching a mug that had obviously been refilled more than once.

A Twi'lek Lieutenant, a man named Tap approaching middle age, offered Rays a mug of ale: Gala's recipe. Rays took it, deciding he could let loose a little bit tonight.

"Now comes the rousing speech that'll up the ante in this party!" Neville declared with a wicked smirk on his face, swinging his flexed arm upward as he spoke, evoking laughter from a handful of the assembled soldiers.
Never one to take such things lightly, Rays spent a long moment debating what he should say, refusing to drink until he had spoken.

"Come on Ray'ika, say something!" Nav ordered.

"Yeah, speak up, Commander!" Ember said.

"Rrrrrjghhh!" Gala cheered.

"Uqueri Ma, Rayzk!"

"De dorik a!"

"Gonk!"

"Give us a speech! Give us a speech! Give us a speech! Give us a…!"

"Okay!" Rays finally spoke up. He downed the ale, and then said, "Don't let me spoil your fun! Go back to the party, it's time for a vacation!"

When it became clear that he wasn't going to say anything else, the troops cheered and went back to the party.

"Raaagghhhrrr!" Gala cheered, patting Rays' armored back.

"You did great too, Gala," Rays complimented, "You were brilliant."

Gala walked off to join a small crowd, observing an arm-wrestling match between Snap and Sticks.

Nearby, Nav was regaling her squad with tales of her childhood on Concord Dawn.

Cobalt was practicing his strategic thinking in a game of dejarik against Lieutenant Rangshi.

Creed was participating in a round of smash-ball with Ember, Rikks, Regent, Xal, and Switch.

Husker and Ros were dancing to the strings and melody of Torpedofist's and Miiile's harp and flute.

Rays grinned when he caught Neville by the fire, making out with...Xhalleen?

Sure. Why not.

Marks, standing guard at the edge of the camp, was trading jokes and fruit with Lelna Rydlei.

Even the injured troopers with bandaged legs or blaster burns were still enjoying themselves: drinking ales, savoring Kali'sto's stew, or cracking jokes amongst themselves while Mosaic and his staff treated their injuries. Rays admired their emotional endurance.

Hoarse and Merchant were singing. Their voices and lyrics were horrendous, but Rays still listened.

"And the Scorchers charged forth, running and thinking…"

"At night they sat around, laughing and drinking…"

Rays laughed, joining in on the fun.

Several minutes later, he was entrenched in a great battle of strength and endurance. Grunting, Rays fought through the pain, attempting to hold his ground against his mighty foe, never surrendering…

"Agh!" The last of his resistance gave out and his fist hit the table's surface.

"Raarrrrgggghh!" With a total of three hundred-fifty-two victories and only two defeats in her three years of service, Gala was still the uncontested champion of the Scorchers' arm-wrestlers. She raised her arms in celebration before downing another tankard of her ale. The crowd gathered around them cheered…well, except for Snap, who was currently nursing a fractured wrist.

"One hundred twenty-five seconds," Cobalt reported, a timer in his hand, "Not bad."

Massaging his bicep, Rays patted Cobalt on the back as he went to grab a second serving of stew.

He looked out and noticed Splinter, off at the edge of the camp, cleaning his DC-17a heavy pistol.

Other troopers might get away with staying out of the celebration, but Splinter had a distinct reason for weaseling his way out of activities such as this.

Rays walked over and sat down next to his close friend. His head was shaved, his face marred by a faint scar left by a lightsaber, painted over by a red tattoo. A mutation had left his eyes a shade of hazel. He clutched his pistol with fingers made of sleek, burnished durasteel, attached to a sturdy mechanical forearm that extended to his elbow.

"Jammed?" Rays asked.

"Not anymore," Splinter remarked.

Rays took another sip from his ale.

"Want any? I can get you a mug."

"I'll pass, sir."
"You okay, Splinter?" Rays asked, "I know you still have a hard time off hours."

"It seems frivolous," Splinter explained, "I still don't get why we do this."

"It's another necessity, Splinter. Regulation One-Seven-Oh-One-N: In order to facilitate the continuation of a unit of greater effectiveness and cohesion, personnel must be allowed to spend at least two hours per week not thinking about the war, during which time each individual trooper may relax, interact, party, and occasionally fraternize."

"You made that reg up," Splinter said with a slight smile.

"It's a fact of life, Captain. Now, I order you to have fun."

"Alright, Rays," Splinter shrugged, "I'll go in." As Gala had said, Splinter simply didn't "know when to take his helmet off."

As they approached the heart of the group, Rays added, "Gala's been making some ale. It's really bad, but…"

Rays' comms beeped. So did Splinter's.

"It's Command," Splinter remarked, "Probably an update on the fleet."

"Alright," Rays replied, "Let's answer."

Instinctively, Rays and Splinter followed protocol, putting on their helmets before proceeding to patch the message into their comms. Rays adjusted his body language and demeanor, setting himself into professional mode.

"This is CC-4242," he greeted. He was met with one short message.

"Execute Order Sixty-Six."