"Nice one, C33-2383! Thanks for frying to a spark, I really appreciate it. Because of you, the Triangle Formation failed! And as for you, C33-5769, I wish you would do less signals and more blasting. If I wanted you shot down I would've done it myself!"

Tri is spitting fire.

"Haha, good going, Spark," laughed C33-2044.

Spark's face grew more red than a Sith's lightsaber. "Well, at least I'm not a beacon of death! Your stubborn ass got kicked hard," he yelled.

"Hmm, Beacon. I like it. Let's see, we got Beacon, Spark, Deadshot, Signal, Tri-"

"DON'T CALL ME TRI!"

"Yeah, yeah. You know how it goes, boss. Here on Kamino, we don't choose our names; we earn 'em. So you can thank your cloner for designating you as Cadet 33-3333. And I'm just saying, but you came up with the Triangle Formation."

I can't help it. I start bursting into laughter. It isn't until Beacon looks at me with a devilish grin on his face that I stop.

"As for Shockwave here," Beacon says, "maybe he shouldn't explode so suddenly, even if it's just into laughter."

I scowl as everyone, even Tri, cracks up.

Actually, Shockwave isn't a bad name. It could've been worse. One poor clone accidentally dropped his impact grenade and was named Combustible. Another got sick from food poisoning and was puking for days; he became known as Mamabird. Then there's the guy who didn't use the restroom before a session of training; after crapping himself, he was named Loaded. There's also Tumble, Buttpads, and Droidbait. The point is that I could have gotten an awful name; permanent shame. Now, I only have...somewhat permanent shame, and the name doesn't sound half bad. I guess we all got lucky.

I try to lighten the mood a little more. "Come on, boys, we just graduated from cadet training! Let's get a little more excited. Finally, we can drop the C33 and become CT! This trooper armor is pretty sweet, too. It's surprisingly light, though I find the white pretty boring. What legions should we apply for? I hear the 501st is recruiting!"

The five of us are talking, and I notice that Deadshot is quiet in the back. I forgot he was there. I interrupt the conversation. "How about that shot, huh? That was really impressive, Deadshot!"

"Oh, um, it's nothing. I guess all those hours at the practice range paid off," he responds. Deadshot's always been a humble soldier, and never takes credit for great accomplishments.

"Come on, now, it's just us! Take the glory! You are a talented sniper, Deadshot."

Everyone in the room nods in agreement, which makes Deadshot smile. "Thanks, guys," he says. "Really. It means a lot. But the only reason we did it was because everyone played his part. It may not have been planned, but we all have to agree that we passed because we all did our best."

Rogue Squad cheers. I'm so tired, and I think everyone else starts feeling it, too. I have something to ask Deadshot, though, before I head to the barracks.

"What did General Shaak Ti tell you?"

I notice that Deadshot looks really uncomfortable as the light in his eyes goes out. It's something serious. Something big. "Well, um, the general offered me a place in the Grand Army of the Republic. She offered to promote me to ARC trooper sniper. I couldn't accept it. I can't leave my squad. We're brothers, and we cannot leave each other, even for such fame."

I couldn't believe it! Deadshot declined an ARC trooper promotion? "So, you...aren't going to train to become one of the greatest snipers in the GAR?"

"Nope."

"So, you'll be staying with us?"

"Of course."

"That's ol' Deadshot for ya," I say as I playfully punch him. "Always turning down fame. One day, I assure you, you will be offered to lead the legendary 501st, and you'll pass!"

"Oh, please. I don't think I would ever turn down…actually, yeah, probably."

"What the hell is this?! They can't split us; we're a squad! I don't understand," I say aloud.

My squadmates and I opened our draft letters to find, much to our surprise, that we were going to be split. Beacon, Signal, and I have been assigned to the 407th Assault Corps, and Tri, Deadshot, and Spark are assigned to the 153rd Elite Battalion. We report to our respected divisions tomorrow. I am furious, as is everyone in Rogue Squad. Who splits a six-man team?!

"Heh, I guess we should have failed after all. Then we could've stayed together, at least," jokes Beacon; only, I have a feeling he isn't joking. None of us are.

The truth is that we, as dysfunctional as we may seem, are inseparable. What Deadshot said the other day was right: the six of us make up Rogue Squad. We clones may be expendable, but no other clone can replace any member of Rogue Squad.

We begged ARC trooper Colt, the commander of all training divisions. We even confronted General Shaak Ti on the matter. Despite our efforts, it seems that our split is imminent.

"Rogue Squad, meet at squad quarters at 14:00," Tri says. "I've got something special. Actually, to hell with that. I'll show you guys now."

He pulls out a small box and opens it carefully as if it is a bomb that will detonate, should any slight mistake be made. Reaching in, he pulls out a can of spray paint and a metal tracer. I look at my comrades, who are grinning. Painting armor is against the rules; a uniform army of white is intimidating, apparently, and clones aren't encouraged to act uniquely. The only ones who are supposed to stand out are officers, who earn those red, green, yellow, or blue colors. But if we're going to be treated differently by the conscription office, then we're going to treat the rules differently. After all, we aren't mindless droids.

We decide on a symbol for Rogue Squad. With a knife, Tri cuts the shapes into the soft metal. He places it over the right shoulder pad and uses the bright gold spray paint to fill in the design.

The next day, the six of us head to the main hangar, where two Venator-class star destroyers are waiting. In a double-file line, we turn abruptly to face the other line. A quick salute. Helmets on. The new gold symbol gleams brightly. Through our helmets, I know that we are mourning silently. I know this because they are me, and I am them. We can't cry; crying won't change a damn thing. Yet, on my masked face I feel warm water, and it isn't from the constant Kaminoan rain. I've got a funny feeling that not even the best medic in the GAR can heal this wound in my heart.

Without another word, the two lines of Rogue Squad split and march towards their designated ships, ready to begin the adventure of a lifetime: galactic warfare.