A/N: In case you haven't noticed, the chapters will be revolving somewhat in 3rd person perspective, from one squad member to the next. Please keep in mind that Commandos are not issued names, they are 'recognized' by their numbers. They have no rights, like the rest of the Clone Army, and thus are not allowed possessions of any kind. They, themselves, are property of the Republic.
This takes place during the Clone Wars, obviously. If you are unfamiliar with Commandos and their squads, I'd like to recommend the book series Republic Commando, which offers the Clone Wars in a light we haven't had before now—a true, real, military perspective, and the individual men involved in the galaxy wide war.
Quick list of Squad Members:
RC-3192 Beten
RC-7177 E'tad
RC-2405 Mute
RC-5163 Toss
Warnings: As per most of my stories, expect to read much suggestive and/or contraversial material, including but not limited to: sexual themes, excessive cursing, violence, drug use/addiction/dependency, hints of PTSD, mental-health related issues, homosexual implications, and violence. If this bothers you in any way, shape, or form, or if you are a minor (aka, under-aged), there is a button at the top of your screen that says BACK. I suggest you use it. Thank you.
Disclaimer: This is a non-profit, amateur effort not intended to infringe on the rights of any copyright holder. Mando'a, Huttese, and any other Star Wars language belongs to LucasArts and other holders, if there are. Characters belong to their respective owners.
Republic Assault Ship Auspicious, in-orbit over Yuwe XI, Mid Rim,
427 days after Geonosis
RC-3192, Beten, shrugged on the top half of his fatigues and rose to his feet in the dark. All personal quarters on all warships looked the same, as long as one knew which kind they were in. This commando in particular knew, without a doubt, he was in a Jedi commander's.
The commando noiselessly crossed the meter between the cot and the door, pressed his palm to the doorpanel, and exited without so much as a glance to the sleeping form left behind. He strolled away from the private quarters with his hands in his pockets. The top half of his fatigues hung open down to his waist, bouncing slightly as he walked despite the rigid material. He took a left, down another hall dimly lit to conserve energy.
Normally he'd have bumped into one of the other clones, but the ship was always quietest on third shift. The commando turned right, down another corridor, and stopped at a single plain door. The panel obediently reacted to the code he tapped in, and the door to his shared room hissed open. He placed a hand on the doorframe and peered inside.
Empty.
Unperturbed, the commando buttoned up his red fatigues, keyed in the door's lock code, and then left the private quarters entirely. He could rouse his brother on their personal comlink channel, but that would interrupt whatever his brother was up to.
Besides, if Beten couldn't locate his own pod brother in a timely manner, he didn't deserve the little sleep he could've gotten otherwise.
It took a few minutes—20 standard, he counted—to walk from the barracks to the closest hangar, which was conveniently the closest one to the mess on this side of the assault ship. It was, understandably, the favored hangout of many a pilot, bar none.
The moment he stepped into the massive space, he heard what sounded like the soft, slow moving music civvies might listen to while relaxing within an upper-class lounge on Coruscant—one usually sung by an attractive female in a sparkling dress and fanciful headgear. A faint blue light illuminated a corner tucked behind two parked CR-20 troop carriers and half a squad's worth of Alpha-3s. He approached it with hands still buried in his pockets.
Yeah. It was definitely that kind of music. He reared around the corner of an Alpha-3, and instantly noticed the half meter high holo of a classy Twi-lek who wore a dress that hugged her hips so tight it might as well have been a second skin. She danced inside an open CR-20, swaying her hips side to side in lazy, catlike movements. Her mouth moved as though she huskily sung the current song, which was something about money, women, and a man who "don't do right."
In the small open space surrounded on all sides by parked ships, three groups of troopers huddled around separate makeshift tables and played Sabacc. Among them, Beten caught sight of RC-5163, Toss. If his trimmed orange mohawk didn't give him away, the triple stripe orange goatee connecting his lower lip to his chin certainly did.
"Read 'em and weep, boys—Fool's Array." Toss triumphantly slapped his cards down onto the crate.
"Frack."
"Osik."
"What the kriff?"
The clones with him tossed their cards down onto the empty crate with various curses. Toss cupped his hands over the pool—which consisted not of credits but bits of sweet pastries and other small treats.
"Is he cheating again?" Beten asked.
"No sir, I would never!" Toss grinned cheekily as he sampled a small cream-filled puff pastry.
"Liar." One of the pilots, Sleight, waved a highly rude gesture in Toss' face.
Another pilot, Slim, greeted Beten with a lazy salute. "Oh hey, Sarge."
"Want to join us?" asked the third pilot, Mixer, without turning around, busy shuffling the cards in front of him.
Beten shook his head. "Just here to watch, vode."
"So how was the Commander?"
Beten glanced over his shoulder. He knew he hadn't been followed—she probably couldn't walk right if she tried, not after last night—but he allowed himself the nervous habit. Better safe than sorry.
"Wildcat. My back's going to need some bacta," he informed his brothers with a leer and leaned against the hull of the closest Alpha-3. "Take it from me—Jedi flexibility isn't just a rumor, vode. I had her bent in all the right ways. And her mouth does more than just look pretty, much more…" He reached forward, plucked a treat from Toss' victory pile, and popped it into his mouth. The sugar sweetcream melted on his tongue and sent a shiver down his spine.
"Lucky shabuir," Sleight muttered gruffly.
Slim daintily sniffed and pointed his nose up towards the ceiling. "Such disrespect."
Toss snorted.
"Didn't someone say Jedi vowed an oath of celibacy?" one of the clones from the other Sabacc groups called out.
"Guess it's open for interpretation." Toss shrugged.
Beten crossed his arms. "Yeah. Like the rest of their code."
Conversation died down across the groups after that. The music dragged on, filling the silence with the trill of a husky Twi'leki singer.
Eventually, Mixer sighed. "Don't know how you do it, Sarge." The pilot paused and shook his head as he dealt out the next round of cards. "Ladies should be all over us flyboys, but instead they go straight to you cut-up meatheads."
Toss laughed. "Like clutching a flight stick with one hand and pumping your fist is the go-getter for the womens."
"Whoa, whoa. I take offense," gasped Slim.
Sleight guffawed, nearly scattering the cards out of his hands. "I don't!"
"The moment we get our new squadmates, we're shipping off, Mixer," Beten reminded him. "No more having to compete with us manly folk."
"Yeah, yeah." Mixer snorted. "You sure you don't want to join us?"
"No," Beten replied as he eyed the cards. "I don't gamble."
