As the rain continued to thunder, I pondered my place in this war. As far as my commanders were concerned, I was a number. To the general, a pawn. To my brothers, well, I was a brother.
I sighed and peeked up over the embankment. 4 long months of hell. On a backwater planet nobody but the locals and the seppies cared about. No strategic importance, but a battle to deny the enemy a propaganda victory. And here I was stuck in the thick of it. No better than the droids stationed against me.
An explosion tore through my musings, and I looked to my left. An artillery barrage had begun, it seems. I saw three corpses where my brothers used to be. Mangled, jumbled, destroyed. You couldn't even make out the battalion colours on their armour anymore.
Such is the life of a clone. Just as disposable as any clanker in the eyes of the republic.
As explosions wracked my body, mud sprayed all around me, and brothers died. I felt apathy. This was nothing like the simulations. This was reality, in all of its horrid and unrestrained glory. After nearly two days of silence, uninterrupted by anything-be it sleep or enemy action-, an artillery barrage was just what I needed to wake me up.
After three continual hours of bombardment, the explosions stopped. My heart pounded, I knew what came next. Further up the line, the general stepped out, green lightsaber shining. He was just some knight, no older than twenty five, nothing special. Yet the republic sent him against the enemy just the same as they sent the clones, a pawn to the war effort. Yet despite this, he acted as if he was a great war hero. I didn't like him.
He screamed, lightsaber pointed forward. This happened after every enemy barrage, and after every one of ours as well. We recklessly charged the enemy, as if it was the first day of the war all over again. And today, just as many of us would die as before.
I climbed the edge of the embankment, carbine in my hand, and charged. Just as I was trained to do. For the Republic.
We met the enemy in the middle of no man's land, at practically melee range. A shot here, a bash there, roll out of the way of a rocket, throw a grenade. The thrill of combat, no longer thrilling.
I carried on fighting, until I felt a burning pain in my stomach, and I collapsed. My armour, not kept properly as it was, couldn't do much to stop the blaster bolt from a B2 of all things, let alone what seemed to be three in near enough the same place.
I could feel the heat of the plasma spreading around my body, my insides slowly vaporising. I let out my last breath, and in my last moments, I finally found peace.
I am CC-258763. I have no name. I am a number. I despise the republic, and this war. At the end of the battle, I will be but a statistic. And the mission will be over.
Ni su'cuyi, gar kyr'adyc, ni partayli, gar darasuum. A whisper to the wind, meant for no one but me. I will be seeing my brothers in Manda.
A one shot for your enjoyment.