Chapter Three: Potential

As far as skirmishes went, this one turned out to be small, but difficult. Immediately after receiving the Jedi's orders, Stonewall had snapped into full-on warrior mode, and he barely noted the brief journey to the site of the fighting – about half a klick from the Separatist facility – or the mechanics that his body went through each time he fired on a tinny. After all, his own actions were unremarkable and certainly not worth remembering, unless it was to think over ways he could improve his aim or his speed for maximum efficiency and damage.

What he did remember was yellow.

Nighttime battles were filled with color: blue and crimson streaks of plasma seeking their marks within the darkness, slicing through the air amidst the shouts of men and metallic creaking of droid-joints. Occasionally there were the bright green and blue swatches of lightsabers as Jedi deflected enemy fire, but those colors were often lost within the overwhelming miasma of blaster bolts.

But this time, he couldn't help but notice the color of General Halcyon's blade as she fought alongside General Kenobi; brilliant, incongruous yellow, like a shaft of sunlight piercing the night-gloom. It was difficult for him to see exactly what she was doing, though he did catch a glimpse of twin crimson blades, which meant that Asajj Ventress was in the area. Later, he didn't see the crimson any more, and he figured that the villain had fled, though she'd left a slew of droids in her wake.

At one point, Stonewall was standing back-to-back with Beacon – the pilot who'd transported him and the new general planet-side – when he caught the briefest glimpse of the dark-haired Jedi. She was angled before one of the medics, providing cover while he tended to Lefty, who'd taken a stray shot to his chest. Face illumined by the sunlight-shine of her weapon, she had the expression of one who was exhausted, but determined to push through the feeling because it was what needed to be done in order to protect those around her.

There was a break in the fire and Stonewall watched as she looked down to the medic, who was shaking his head over Lefty's still form. Her mouth opened as if to speak, then her eyes closed and her face dropped down. Her hair had come almost completely unbound, and the movement of her head caused it to fall and obscure her expression, but Stonewall thought he knew what it would be if he could have seen.

The fighting lasted almost until dawn. When the bulk of the droids had been destroyed and things finally quieted down, Stonewall approached the medics to offer what assistance he could, both because it was how these things went and because he wondered if she would do the same. But she kept surprising him, and he thought that maybe he should stop trying to predict what the Jedi would do.

It took him a moment to locate her, for her tunic had been coated with the kicked-up dust and dirt of the skirmish site, and without the glow of her saber she was difficult to spot even in the growing light. Finally, he caught sight of her: kneeling beside Beacon's body where the clone had fallen for good, some time after he and Stonewall had been separated. Her eyes were closed and her lips were moving with words that he couldn't hear, even if he'd wanted to adjust the sound pickup on his helmet.

It took him a moment to realize that she was performing some kind of rite for his dead brother, and for a long few minutes he could only stand and watch.

Stonewall was aware that he was young, by galactic standards. No matter that he'd spent every moment of his waking life in training, he knew that at the age of twelve, most Humans were still considered children, and expected to be wholly ignorant about the world around them. It wasn't a great thought, to compare oneself with a child, but his lack of experience with civilian matters had never bothered him much, not really, not when he knew his place and his purpose.

So as he watched the Jedi mourning for a man whose name she likely hadn't known, the thought occurred to him that such a thing must not be uncommon for her, as unfamiliar as it was to him. People died; she felt the loss and tried to mark it in some way. He could recall no other non-clone doing such a thing.

Eventually she rose and went to another trooper, then another, and as he watched her, Stonewall wondered: if he were to die out here on Basrah, would she mourn him, too?

"Commander's in fine form, today," Buzz grumbled as Stonewall handed him a bowl of stew the evening after the skirmish with Ventress. "Even when he's not even here. I never thought he'd relent with the shabla chores and let us eat."

Although General Kenobi, the commander and a contingent of men had remained behind at the Seppie facility for the night, orders given over the comm were still orders. Cody was notorious for strident after-battle procedures, but Stonewall knew it was necessary to be so; following triage of the wounded and cleanup of the dead, weapons and vehicles needed to be tended to immediately. The uninjured came last. It wasn't always pleasant, but the mindset was necessary to keep every component of war, alive or inanimate, in optimum working order.

"That's his way, Buzz" Stonewall replied. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see General Halcyon standing alone, watching the soldiers line up before the mess tent to get dinner; even from this distance he could see the dark circles under the Jedi's eyes and the way that her posture was a bit slumped. "The commander's always been like that."

"Yeah, I know," the other trooper said with a sigh. "I'm just hungry, I guess. I get tetchy when I'm hungry." He gave a sniff of the contents of the bowl and cast Stonewall an appreciative look. "Glad it was your turn to cook dinner, anyway."

The men behind him chortled in agreement, but Stonewall had already formed something of a plan. "Hey, Buzz," he said, bending to collect another bowl. "I'm going to bring this to the General. Would you mind standing in for a minute?"

Before the other clone could object, Stonewall slipped out of the mess-tent and headed over to the dark-haired woman, ensuring that his steps were smooth so that he wouldn't spill any of the stew. As he approached her, he saw that her gaze was still on the clones, but it appeared distant again, as if she were lost in thought. Once he reached her side,he said her name – well, her title, as it would be highly inappropriate to call her by her name – and waited for her to respond.

She didn't.

He tried again; same thing.

Finally he held the bowl up near her nose, hoping that the scent of the stew would draw her out of her reverie; at this, she turned his way and blinked in surprise as her eyes flicked from the bowl to his face.

Shab, he thought with a mental wince. I'm not wearing my bucket. He figured she didn't know who he was, and said his own name to remind her, fighting back the swell of disappointment that accompanied the realization that yes, he was as forgettable as he'd figured.

It didn't matter. Of course it didn't. Very likely she had all sorts of important, Jedi-matters on her mind, and had little reason to concern herself with one clone out of three million.

All of his disappointment was forgotten when she smiled up at him.

Force, she's...well, she's beautiful, was all he could think for a moment, during which time he completely forgot that he was holding the bowl. Even coated in dust, even with her hair messy and her tunic stained in places with blood and grime...she was beautiful. The understanding frightened him in a way, because now that he'd acknowledged it, he didn't know if he could go back to pretending that he hadn't noticed.

"I didn't recognize you without your helmet," she said. Her eyes were on his eyes, and again he fought back the queasy feeling in his stomach, chalking it up to extreme hunger and trying to forget his realization of a moment ago.

"That's a first," he replied with a nod. "I'd think it'd be the other way around, sir."

There was something heavy in his hand; a moment later he remembered that he a was holding out the bowl to her, so he offered it again, hoping she'd accept. She did, and he watched as she began to move the spoon around within the broth, mixing up the diced vegetables and nerf-meat and causing spirals of steam to appear in the air between them.

He watched as she did so, fascinated by her slender fingers; her hands were much smaller than his own, and he wondered why she didn't wear gloves – or any armor, for that matter. There was dirt under her nails. After a moment she glanced up at him again. "Perhaps," she said. "But your helmet has a distinctive scouring pattern on the front...as if you ran headlong into something very...solid."

Here she lifted the spoon to her mouth, blew softly across it, then tipped the broth down her throat, and he found that he was waiting for her reaction to the taste. He didn't pride himself on being an amazing cook, but he could throw freeze-dried meat and vegetables together in a pot of hot water as good as anyone, and he hoped that she liked what he'd prepared.

Judging from the pleased look on her face and the way that she eagerly went for another spoonful, he supposed that she found the stew satisfactory, which pleased him enough to elicit a chuckle. At this, she raised her eyebrows. "Ah...I think I've figured out the origin of your name." Her brow lifted. "Am I right?"

Actually she wasn't, not about the name, anyway, but there had been an incident several weeks ago where he'd slammed headfirst into a group of B1s that had surrounded some of his men. Both of his hands had been busy with weapons, so the only other option had been an ungraceful head-butt. Well, it had served the purpose, and he'd saved his brothers, so he didn't mind looking silly in the process, nor did he mind the scrapes against his bucket. The men he'd saved had been thankful, of course, but there had been a number of "hard-head" jokes at his expense running through the ranks for a week or so afterward.

There was no reason to go into all that, as she very likely wouldn't find it interesting, so he gave a casual nod. "Something like that. I can be a hard-head about things, I guess. At least," he added, thinking of the copious mockery in the aftermath of the incident. "Some of the others seem to think so."

"Have you eaten?"

The question startled him, but he deflected it easily. "I cooked it."

Again, she looked up at him and he watched her expression soften to concern, though her words were pointed. "You didn't answer my question."

Why did it matter? Or, more to the point, why did it matter to her? He had no ready answer for either, and his thoughts fumbled over one another until he was able to form a reply. "I wanted to make sure that everyone who fought today got first dibs, sir."

It was a silly response, but she seemed not to notice; instead she shook her head and leveled her dark-eyed gaze upon him with all seriousness. "But you did fight, Stonewall, and quite well from what I could see. Get yourself a hot meal, then sit down, for goodness' sake."

He was so stunned by her speech – and the multitude of implications behind it – that he almost missed her parting words: "That's an order."

Then, as if to further flummox him, she gave him a wink that belied the stern nature of said "order."

All he could do was sputter out a wholly inadequate and inelegant "yes, sir," as she walked away. His legs were on autopilot as he returned to the mess tent, where Buzz had apparently given up on his return and pawned the task off on one of the shinies. It didn't matter so much though, because being a ranked officer was not without some privileges, so Stonewall did as she'd ordered – did it count as an order if she winked at him? – and a few minutes later he took a seat on one of the crates that had been placed around the fire that another of his brothers had set up.

The stew was pretty good, he had to admit, and it was filling to boot; within less than a minute he'd finished the meal. Lind, one of the newer guys, offered to take his empty bowl, so Stonewall sat for a few moments and relished the feeling of a full belly. Around him, he heard a few of the others in quiet conversation, though their exact words didn't register in his mind, because he kept thinking back to what she'd said: but you did fight, Stonewall, and quite well from what I could see.

So she had watched him, at least a little bit. For even a small amount of time, she had thought to seek him out, to pick him out among all the others and make note of what he was doing. He thought back to the battle and tried to remember where he had been in relation to her, so that he could maybe recall what she'd seen him do, but it was useless. None of the battle stuck within his mind, and now all he could see was the Jedi smiling up at him, and he decided that was okay.

I'll take that mental image any day, he thought with a sigh, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees and watch the flames. The memory, coupled with the warmth of the fire and the soft way that this evening had descended – always, the day after a battle was strangely calm, as if to make it up to those who had fought – made him feel...content.

And then the general slid on the crate beside him, holding the dulcimer she'd brought, the one that he'd looked up yesterday morning. Instantly, his feeling of calm fled and he felt his shoulders stiffen in alarm at her sudden proximity. However, she made no mention at all of the fact, just adjusted her grip on the instrument and glanced around at the dozen or so clones also seated at the fire, all of whom were gaping at her.

"Any requests?"

Silence, save for the snap of the fire.

"Come on," she said in a light voice. "Surely someone can think of a song?"

Still, no one spoke, but a few of the newer guys were exchanging startled looks. The Jedi looked at each clone, her eyes falling on Stonewall last, and he noted the way that her lips parted as if she were about to speak. "Sorry, sir," he heard himself say. "We're not familiar with much in the way of music."

He expected her to nod in grave acknowledgment and perhaps put the dulcimer away, but she did nothing of the sort. "Well then, I suppose I get to choose the song," she replied, smiling at him. "Lucky you."

For a few moments she toyed with the knobs at the neck of the instrument, then she began to flick her fingers across the strings in earnest; the resulting sound was unlike anything that Stonewall had ever heard in his life.

Clear, high, sweet: those were the first words that came to his mind, but there was so much more to the sound than he'd ever imagined could be contained in a simple noise. It wasn't that he had never heard music before – the radio was a frequent source of entertainment among the clones – but there was something about being in the presence of music as it was being made that was astonishing and a bit humbling as well.

The sound...it was beautiful, and he felt a flare of shame that he could think of no adequate words to categorize it within his mind. It was beautiful, and she was its creator, its source.

Then she began to sing, and everything else spun away from his attention. Had a bomb dropped in the center of the camp he would have been unable to tear his eyes from her, or pull his focus from the sound of her voice, which he could practically feel lodging itself within his brain, never to depart. In all his days, Stonewall had never heard anyone but another clone sing in person, and then it was only the occasional pre-battle tune or some off-key rendition of a popular melody.

But her voice moved within him, through him, like a gust of wind, and he was powerless against it. There was no word he knew that would describe the sound of her singing. Kriff, he couldn't even remember the words of the song as soon as they left her throat. Later, he would think over the evening and try to find a way to quantify the way that her voice lifted through the air, but now, at the fire, sitting beside her...

That's it, he thought, his chest tight as he listened and watched. I'm done for. Nothing in my life will ever compare to this moment.

When she finished, there was utter silence for a few moments, then someone – he had no idea who – began to clap, the others following a beat later. The Jedi gave a soft smile of acknowledgment and ducked her head in thanks, then flicked her eyes to Stonewall, who was still frozen in place even as the clapping intensified. "It wasn't any good?"

He blinked, then managed to breathe again. "It was...great. Thank you."

She smiled at him. "Glad to hear. And you're welcome, Stonewall." There was a pause while she waited for the men to settle down, after which time she cast a wry look around the circle of clones, which had multiplied in number during her song. "Okay, I'll give you guys another chance...any requests?"

Buzz, who had come to stand at the edge of the circle of light cast by the fire, called out the name of a relatively popular tune; it was one that Stonewall recognized, and he knew that a good portion of the men knew it as well. He wondered if she did.

The Jedi straightened in her seat and he watched as an expression of pleasure came across her face. "You're in luck, Buzz," she said with a smile at the trooper. "I know that one."

The very first reaction that he felt to the smile she gave Buzz was that bizarre irritation that he'd experienced earlier – when she'd smiled at Lefty during the trillium game – but he instantly felt a flare of shame for it. Lefty was gone, but Stonewall thought that his brother had appreciated that the Jedi had smiled at him, and now, after the fact, he felt petty for being annoyed in the first place.

Anyway, it's no concern of yours whom she looks at, he told himself, exhaling the emotion away. No concern at all.

Instead, he focused on Buzz's reaction, and found that he had to bite back a chuckle at the reddish tint that came to the other clone's face at her acknowledgment of his name; as before, she seemed not to notice, instead returning her attention to her instrument again and plucking a few notes before she began the song in earnest.

It was a pretty catchy tune, if not particularly poignant, and Stonewall's men were more than ready for a bit of distraction; the Jedi was inspiring as well, singing for all she was worth and giving them encouraging looks despite the weariness that he could read in her posture. Soon enough, he realized that many of the others were clapping along, or tapping their feet in time to the music, adding a rhythmic layer beneath the dulcimer that was not unpleasant.

This time, Stonewall tried to keep his attention spread throughout his men and not fixated solely on her, because it was disconcerting to know how easily it had been absorbed by the dark-haired woman during the last song. However, his efforts were unsuccessful, because within a few minutes he found himself clapping as well.

Dark eyes met his and he watched the reflection of the firelight within them. Her gaze on his was not quite a question, not quite a challenge; he didn't know what it was, really, but he found that he didn't much care anymore. He knew the chorus to the song – they all did – but when it came around again, Stonewall was the only man who raised his own voice to lay it alongside hers in a new kind of harmony.

It was a memory that would – he knew – sustain him long after she left. It would sustain him through the time after this mission, when they would never see each other again, which he supposed would be the rest of his life.

Time passed. Stonewall wasn't sure exactly how much, and in truth had little desire to measure its passage, but later on he estimated that General Halcyon had spent at least an hour or two singing for the clones. It had flown by, and when it was over he thought he could still hear her voice in his head. However, as much as he didn't want the experience to end, the sight of her trying to stifle a yawn indicated that she needed sleep.

"Alright," he said as he got to his feet once she'd finished the current song. "Show's over. Jedi need rest, too. Let's start the watch rotation." He felt a pang of sorrow, because that had been one of Lefty's responsibilities, but there was no use mourning a dead brother, after the fact.

The Jedi's light voice shook him out of his thoughts, again. "Aren't I supposed to be giving the orders, here?"

Dread pierced him. Had he overlooked something? Was there a new reg to cover this sort of scenario? Some generals preferred things done a certain way, and didn't take kindly to boundaries being tested...perhaps he'd misread her, after all.

"It's okay," she said with a chuckle and a wave of her hand. "I was only teasing you."

Teasing? Stonewall thought that he was fully justified in gaping at her, right now. Jedi could...tease?

A smile broke over her face and she beamed at him like it was the most natural thing in the galaxy for a Jedi and a clone to share a joke. "If we're going to work together, Stone, you're going to have to learn my sense of humor, or develop one of your own."

Stone. He blinked once at her, knowing that his bewilderment was showing, but he was powerless to prevent it right now.

Not Lieutenant. Not Stonewall. Stone.

A nickname. Part of him wanted to laugh at the idea – a nickname for his nickname? – but a larger part of him was in too much shock to react in a way other than the conditioned response of "yes, sir." However, despite his confusion, he felt a small smile tug at his face, widening at her look of approval.

After that she left, but he could still hear her voice.

Stone.

During his younger days on Kamino, his training squad had been taken out onto the swaying sea a number of times to acclimate them to dealing with the ocean, and long after he'd returned to solid ground, he still felt as if he were aboard the sea-vessel and being rocked by the waves.

Later that night, he experienced something similar; as he lay in his bunk, trying to fall asleep and not really worrying that he was unable to, her voice was all he could hear, over and over, an echo that pinged against his the inner walls of his mind and resonated someplace within his chest.

Once he managed to drift off, she sang through his dreams, pausing only to cast a smile his way as she called him "Stone."

If anyone is interested, the "soundtrack" for this ficlet is Keane's "Just Another Day." I must have listened to that song dozens of times while writing this; it fits perfectly, in my mind. :)

Thanks to everyone who has taken the time to review! Your comments and feedback always make my day, and I love knowing what y'all think of the story so far. :)