CC-119 had once been a sergeant and a damned good one. He kept his head down, followed orders and looked after his squad. He made sure his men were kept alive and that they did the same as him. He never questioned commanding officers or their orders, maybe sometimes he should have. If had, would the mess the galaxy was spinning towards not be happening?
Throughout his whole career, CC-1119 stood faithfully awaiting orders.
He was a good soldier. And good soldiers followed orders.
But faithful and loyal as CC-1119 was, even a clone was capable of missing small negligible unimportant details. Things slipped through the cracks and was lost in the vast amounts of paperwork that an imperialist army ran on. Occurrences that were easily explained and dismissed would happen on the regular, making CC-1119 twitch but always he dismissed it. Odd rearranging of troops, patrols canceled or rerouted through sections of sectors that weren't even viable or in danger of insurgents. Troop movements that should not be happening; they didn't make sense, but were! Squads shuffled through and then lost or long ago decommissioned, paperwork backdated to years prior so that they no longer were suspicious. Fleet movements that didn't make sense. Officers pulling their best men out of the field for inefficient reasons and letting insurgents take over whole sectors of space.
It made 1119 irritated and be on edge. These things were not of a normal operating army. Even one as badly run as this one. He was sure of that.
Throughout the last decade, clones went from being the sole form of troops to being decommissioned and used for canon fodder. Their kind once scattered the stars, numbers once in the trillions.
These days; a single squad would be lucky to still be whole. Clones were being shuffled through paperwork, lost in the gears of time and the ever constant movement of the Empire's war machine. No one seemed to care.
Except for Darth Vader.
He moved what clones he could find to his fleet and operations. Enlisted, natborn Stormies were quickly being replaced and taken over by experienced Clone Troopers.
1119 didn't really have much to think about such things. He shouldn't be bothered with such meaningless details, it he was. He noticed details and patterns and when things were just off enough to cause him to twitch, he did. But 1119 was a First Lieutenant now. He was doing all the duties of the missing Captain and it left him with little time to ponder what exactly His superior was doing. He had companies to look out for instead of just five men now.
The 501st may be elite, commonly called Vader's Fist, but that still didn't mean that it wasn't 1119's job to protect his men. Little as it was at times.
Maybe 1119 couldn't protect them to the extent that their General or Captain had at one point, but He could do it in other subtle ways.
1119 could keep his eyes and ears open to reports and movements. Listening to scuttle butt on the ship as men talked. No one paid attention to clones after all. He could and would keep abreast of the way the galaxy was falling apart around them. And if at the end, there were no other options? He would make sure his men at the very least got out. They were good men, dependable and faithful, loyal and true and brave.
1119 was a good First Lieutenant and that was what his job meant at the end of the day.
"You" Darth Vader ordered, pointed at him. His voice was deep and dark and everything that 1119 feared.
1119 snapped to attention, his body straightened up like a rod had been inserted into his body instead of a flesh and bone spine. A perfect parade salute had formed and was held within seconds of the snapped command. It took the Lieutenant a few precious seconds of confusion hidden by his bucket to figure out that he should be following the dark lord.
The shock rolling off him is just as unexpected and an unpleasant thing. Normally it is General Veers or Admiral Piet who sends the orders to the Second Lieutenant for the Battalions. It them who contacts the clone for new troopers that are needed for various detachment details.
Not Darth Vader personally.
"Yes sir." 1119 slips effortlessly into the Darth's wake. Two steps back and a step to the side of Darth Vader's right shoulder. A textbook escort position.
They're not headed for the hangers or Ops or even the barracks. Unusual, 1119 expected those destinations.
His step did not however falter in the least. 1119 is nothing more than a good soldier. And good soldiers follow orders. No matter how much those orders are likely to get him or his men killed.
Vader keyed a pad on a door, a door 1119 knows with a growing trepidation is not the turbo for Command decks either.
Had Vader finally decided that he had no more use for 1119 and was about to simply do away with the clone? Had the clone displeased his lordship in some way? Vader's shifting moods were legendary in the fleet, and always ended with some poor helpless officer strangled to death. They were turbulent and sudden, harsh as a Kaminoan thunderstorm and as sudden as a mudslide on Felucia. Sometime the simple foot soldiers, 'Stormies and Troopers alike, were caught in the eye of that storm and their lives snuffed suddenly. An unfortunate occurrence but unavoidable if they ended up in the line of fire as well. Everyone knew that.
Oftentimes those who died were purely casualties of a spur of a moment action. Undesirable as that and as often as it happened.
Vader keyed the door open, stepped inside silent except for the hiss of the door's mechanisms.
1119 hesitated, maybe he was expected to stand guard? A posted guard for a meeting that Vader didn't want interrupted or-
"Come." Vader ordered, curtly.
"Yes sir. Sorry sir." 1119 was quick to respond. Just like always. Stepped inside the door and watched it slide back into place. If something were to happen to him, 1119 only hoped that a majority of his troopers would make it out alive in the end.
It didn't matter now, he thought, watched as Vader's fingers flicked and set the lock on the door into place. Did it matter once before? His mind seemed to whisper to him.
1119 briefly wondered how exactly he was about to die. Rumor was that the Lord could and would choke a person without touching them. Others said that the blood colored blade was used just as often. Cut to pieces or strangled? 1119 could clearly see the plasteel windows behind the black shroud in front of him. Perphaps, the Commanding Lord would just save those things for another poor soul and it'd be a spacing for him. That sounded like an even more unpleasant way to die. 1119 wondered if there was even a possible chance of him being spaced, even.
"Remove your helm, Second Lieutenant ."
Immediately, the white plastoid Stormtrooper helmet was removed and tucked into a curved arm. All in a single smooth motion.
"Sir?" He curiously asked, as he looked at the looming figure. No other officer ever bothered to order such a thing. Why should they? 1119 was just a clone. He had the same face as a billion others, once a time. Now he was a mark of an antique war that never quite finished.
Vader advanced, hand reaching upwards. 1119 froze, locked his limbs into place and tried not to bolt for the locked door. A hand reached for a blaster on his hip, fingers spasmodic as he held himself in place.
A good soldier followed orders.
"Easy, Lieutenant. I am merely fixing something." Vader told him. The words were quietly uttered but it was more impactful that if they had been shouted in an active field.
"Sorry sir." The words quick and precise. 1119 never really had to think of a different response.
Vader advanced and reached up-
It took all of 1119's full skills as a trained experienced soldier to not flinch. His eyes shifted towards where Vader's gloved hand was curled around the side of his head. Cradling his face in a way that was unusual. Vader's fearsome visage gave away nothing, revealed not a single thing in the lines of his body or how he held his weight. It is to that sight that causes 1119 to lock his knees as his breath hitches in his chest.
The room is quiet. Too quiet as hidden eyes stare into 1119's for a long moment, examining or looking for something before a nod is given.
Something broke free.
Something deep within his mind. Hidden deep and forgotten until now. Until Vader knew what to grab and yank away. Freeing chains that 1119 never knew he had.
A strangled half agonized cry slips between numb lips as his legs give out and he collapses downwards. Knees and the forgotten helmet tumble and crash onto the floor as stabbing pain flares outwards. Everything is red and monochromatic and Appo lets it flair outwards. Unfurling into colors and pain and tears streaming silently down his cheeks. His body does not stand tall, instead it folded like a puppet strings no longer attached.
Appo does not kneel at Vader's feet for long. Possibly only for a few precious scant seconds. That's all he'll give himself before he's scrambling into fluid motion. Limbs jerking and simply reacting at this point while his brain scrambles to understand what could be... what was actually blown open to stare at Vader. His heart and ribs thud against each other they are both trying to win a bare fisted knuckle fight.
Everything comes back at once.
All his brothers that died in years of war. Brothers lost and named forgotten. Slave chips that sat in their Kriffin heads that no one bothered to tell them about. They were no better then then meet droids. Fighting Clankers and insurgents... for what?! They TOOK his name from him! The one thing they could not take- their minds and their names. And and Vader had..., what HAD Vader done?!
The blaster was in his hand the next moment, and Appo is firing as he comes back to his feet. The snap-hiss of a red lightsaber sends him ducking behind minimumly slim cover of a long briefing table as muscle memory takes over. He doesn't wait to see where the bolts end up, but the constant hum of the weapon winds his already fraying nerves tighter. This was a Sith. A force damned Sith. Appo had lost countless brothers to this foul Hutt forgotten creature!
It…. it is everything the Jedi were fighting. Everything Appo and his brothers were fighting and protecting against.
Vader is… is a Sith. Appo may have been a sergeant, nothing special during those last few days but he was made for the Jedi. Just like all his brothers. Made for them, and he- he helped hunt... no. He helped KILL Jetii and lead troops... his men and brothers... his... and and~
Appo climbed to his feet. Posture tight, not loose as he had been trained to do. Shoulders back, head level. Eyes on the target. Muscles locked, held steady but his hand that pointed the blaster shook as he took aim.
One.
Two.
Six shots squeezed off without thought, even as his reflexes screamed at him to move (get away. Do something! Don't just stand there, you shiny!).
Vader yanked the blaster free, crushing it with the force as the red blade distinguished once more. "Your reflexes are still impressive, Lieutenant." Vader took a step backwards. Hooked his saber onto his utility belt. "Very good. I may still have use of you yet."
Hands reached upwards and clamped around the soulless visor of a death head before they lifted it away.
*|~ Alorir'ika~|*
"That's it. I'm going after them." The voice is steady and full of emotion. Rex slammed the stein of really good homemade brew onto the table. None of the others in the Covert bothered to look up. They had all watched as the former captain got more and more restless without any notice of Leia's checking in.
"Hmmm. Do you think that is an appropriate idea, vod?" The steady presence of the Armourer asked, tilting her head as she looked at the aged clone. "This is her first hunt, do not undermine that."
"She's good, I'll grant her that." Rex shoved his hand over his face, dragging it across tired eyes. "But it's been nearly two ten days since she's reported back. Shouldn't we have heard something by now?"
The Armourer nodded, stepping closer. "Vod, I understand that you are worried and concerned for your ad. But she is a warrior that you have trained. You have done as any buir would have and made sure that she will and can be capable of handling anything that may happen to her. That is the way of all parents. The difficult part is understanding that there is no more training and drills you can force into her thick head. You have trained the ad well. Now we must wait for her to return yaim from the oya'karir."