You can thank the boys of Omicron Squad for my long delay in updating. They usurped my mind, and absolutely refused to let me publish anything until I had got their characters just right. Enjoy.

Lemons

Sergeant Mugs had come into the 'fresher angry – very angry – enough to tender his resignation from the GAR (and those of all the members of his squad) via a blaster bolt to the nearest convenient airlock, angry. Omicron Squad had seen that quite plainly and wisely remained silent. This was the third penitential latrine duty they'd had in as many months; they were starting to accrue a reputation as the most fight-happy squad in the 327th, not a good start for an experiment which already drew a bit too much attention by its very existence. One more incident such as what had happened in the mess today and Bly might disband them – a sobering idea for all of them, not least Mugs. Anger in such a situation was understandable.

Still, Mugs could feel his foul mood lifting from the moment he arrived, due to a combination of two factors: (a) his troopers had started without him, humbly accepting their punishment without complaint, and (b) some brave, perceptive soul (probably Medic Scribble) chose the Roonan lemon-scented cleaner to get the job done. Nobody quite understood why, but that scent, long associated with punishment, shame, or at least drudgery amongst the ranks of the Army, always managed to calm Mugs' heart. Nobody would understand why, not for a long time at least. His "Shnooks" back at the RSO headquarters on Coruscant, with her bright white smile and bright green eyes and penchant for sweet-and-sour beverages made from her native planet's most prominent export, was a piece of himself that he kept well guarded.

In any case, the tactic worked. Mugs was soon in a fairly good mood – which for him meant grumbling and glowering and generally being grumpy, but it was far better than murderous – and the atmosphere was light enough to allow for some conversation.

So, of course, Dante was the first to speak. "What exactly did you say to them?" he asked, briefly glancing up from where he scrubbed the dingy grey floor. The question was directed at Threar, as most of Dante's conversation was – they had been brothers by choice from an early age, and were supposedly as closely knit as some natural-born twins.

Threar sat back on his heels on the other side of the room, where he had been rinsing down a section of wall – hygienic regulations were nothing if not thorough. "Loosely translated, 'your gestation chamber was so ugly, the technician on duty thought it was a urinal.' In Kaminoan, if you must know."

"Ouch."

A low whistle of agreement came from within one of the stalls, where Scribble had holed himself away for the duration of the punishment. "Fierfek, what did Epsilon say to deserve that?"

"You didn't know?" Dante called. "I find that hard to believe."

"I only joined the fight to try and stop it. You blockheads were the ones that started it."

"They called Droll defective," Threar explained, doing an admirable job of keeping most of the rage out of his voice, if not all. Mugs caught his attention anyway, lifting an expressive brow in a silent order that meant calm the hell down soldier.

The language expert of the squad rolled his eyes. "And anyway, it's not as if they understood me."

"They obviously got the gist of it," Mugs warned.

"More intelligence than they've ever shown before," Threar muttered.

The sergeant sighed, leaving it at that for now.

Droll sagged guiltily at his place by the sinks. His was a mild, disarming, sweet-natured personality, the only genuinely nice guy that Mugs had ever met. He honestly tried to avoid fighting whenever possible, especially with his brothers. He just couldn't help the fact that an early brain injury had landed him with a left hand with its own mind, or the fact that that injury, and the taunting that sometimes came with it, brought out the very wide protective streaks of his teammates.

Mugs moved slightly, so that Droll would catch the movement from the mirror. The younger trooper looked up, his right hand pausing in its work though his left hand would not; Mugs threw a half-smile at him, which was returned quickly before Droll went straight back to work. Nothing "defective" there. He could understand Threar's position clearly; he just needed him to be a little less…obvious, in his defense tactics.

"So, what'd you guys think of Commander Erquina?" Scribble said as he switched stalls, a conversation change about as subtle as a rancor, but exponentially more welcome.

"Dunno," Droll spoke for the first time since Mugs had entered the 'fresher. "Seemed okay to me. Distant, but okay."

Of course, that was when the refresher door had to tip open, stealthily and silently. The Commander couldn't have come in when they were discussing their punishment, oh no; he had to come in right as Threar was about to shoot his big, fat mouth off about him.

"That's putting it a bit mildly," Threar growled. "Downright cold is what I'd call him."

Erquina halted in his tracks, as yet unnoticed by everyone save Mugs and Droll. Mugs inwardly cursed the tank that had given him birth, and was about to tell Threar to shut the kriff up before they were all reassigned to Hoth when the young Twi'lek held up a hand, motioning him to keep quiet.

"Uncomfortable, more like," Dante said, taking a moment to rub sweat from his close-shaven head. "He didn't look like he was used to being around so many brothers."

Threar snorted. "Where has he been for the past two years, then? Under a rock?"

The uber-Jedi mask of utter impassivity broke for a moment with a pain-filled twitch of the cheek, and Mugs resignedly kissed every chance of ever returning to Coruscant good-bye. Damn it, Threar.

"Nah. I caught him head-tail-talking to the General. He's one of those that think clones are wrong. Don't expect any sympathy from him, boys – he's dead sure we're a smear on the honor of the Republic."

"You read lekku, Private?"

Threar and Dante froze, the dread in their posture as easily read as it was on Droll's panic-stricken face. The water-sloshing sounds from Scrib's toilet-stall immediately died. Slowly, carefully, the three brothers moved so that they were standing at attention, clearly visible, as Mugs and Droll had been doing for the past minute or so.

Threar licked his dry lips. "Sir, I didn't mean–"

"You meant every word," Erquina said softly, dismissively. That voice was dangerous. It was a sharp, bladelike order which meant "drop it" in all-uppercase letters. Somehow, somewhere, this green (even literally, in this case) officer had perfected The Command Tone, and Mugs wasn't quite sure he wanted to know where he did so. "But you still haven't answered my question, Private."

Dante looked at Threar; Threar looked as if he wanted to look back, but didn't dare break eye contact with the Commander. "Yes sir," he said after a moment. "A little."

"Good. You will meet with my Master and me for the next few days, to learn a little more."

"Yes, sir."

Erquina nodded, and then turned to face Mugs. He didn't even hesitate upon seeing the sergeant's oddly-colored eyes, so cool and collected he was. "I have need of your squad for a mission on Ryloth, within a few days. Finish your work here, and then report to General Secura's quarters for a briefing."

The sergeant was perplexed, but he hoped he was professional enough not to show it. "Yes sir."

"As for the rest of you," the little commander called, doing a slow circle on his heels. He did not look at them, rather at the room itself, one head-tail twitching indecipherably.

"…Good job. Even the caretakers of the Temple have trouble getting a refresher this clean."

"Yes sir."

Then, without another word, their enigmatic new CO was gone.

Silence reigned for a few minutes, as they tried to figure out what, exactly, had just happened.

"Is it just me," Droll timidly ventured, "or have we just been adopted?"

Mugs just shook his head, inhaling deeply to remember the comfort of lemonade, feminine conversation, and loving eyes just as green as his were. "I have no idea, mate. Not a blinkin' clue."

"Brothers by choice" is a beautiful term I found in reulte's Scars. I love that fic...it's just about the most poignant depiction of clone culture out there (including Karen Traviss's work, which wasn't so much about clone culture as it was about Mandolorian culture. There's a difference).

RSO stands for Republic Service Organization, a non-profit group dedicated to helping clone troopers relax when they're off duty. They're somewhat like nurses and waitresses rolled into one, and the idea of it intrigued me. Check them out on Wookieepedia; they're a pretty tough bunch of girls, and I love them to pieces.

Small background note on Mugs' name: "Mugs" and "Shnooks" are the two names my beloved grandfather has always wanted to give to a dog. He and his irreverant sense of humor just wanted to see the bewildered looks on the neighbors' faces when he called the animal in every night. I noticed that a disturbing number of clones bear names that I would only give to a dog: Rex, for instance. "Mugs" always struck me as a perfect name for a bulldog: tough, kinda ugly, yet sweet and cuddly when you're close to them. Thus, my dear Sarge was born, bless him. "Shnooks" always struck me as one of those stupid things sitcom honeymooners call each other (God save the poor man who decides one day to honeymoon with me). Thus, Mugs' lady friend was born. Now you know.

Love you, Grandpa!