CT-1304 had gone into battle once before, under the command of Jedi General Pong Krell. He had done everything his training demanded and had followed every rule in the hopes that, some day, he might get acknowledged by one of his superiors. They never had the chance. CT-1304 had been to battle once, and all of his supervising officers had died right in front of him. The number of troopers that survived that battle were all reassigned to different battalions, those with the most experience went to Generals like Kit Fisto or Ayla Sekura, but CT-1304 had not acquired any experience before that gruesome battle on a planet he couldn't remember the name of.
He had survived because he had been lucky, and the thought that he hadn't been as worthy of living as many of his brothers who had died there, haunted him each and every one of his waking hours. He knew this because when no one offered him a place in another battalion, his superiors contacted the one they hoped would take him, the one who took every trooper no one else wanted: the 104th.
The Wolf Pack they called themselves, a title one of their commanders had bestowed upon them. CT-1304 thought it was pretentious, but he kept his mouth shut. He had learned, under the care of his first Jedi General, that there was no room for sentiment on the battlefield. He had learned that protocol and rules were there to be followed, and failing to do so only got you sent back to Kamino for reconditioning. Sentiment, and freedom of ideology and speech had no place in war.
When he arrived on Coruscant to meet with his new battalion, he identified them immediately, the gray markings and canine imagery on white armour were hard to miss. The first thing that surprised him was that the Jedi Commander herself was there to welcome him, an honour he had not expected a lowly clone like himself to receive. Although Zabraks were an intimidating kind, there was nothing hostile in the way his Commander welcomed him. There was, in fact, a certain warmth to her as she showed him around and introduced him to the men. She even asked for his name, not his designation, and the face she made when he told her he didn't have one was one of confusion and sadness. That look had stayed with him for a long time. Commander Foreas was young, but her friendliness did nothing to take away the aura of authority she carried with her. She held herself confidently, with her head held high and her body language relaxed, at ease.
It did not take long for him to be given a name, one of his brothers, Art, had found him sketching away on his datapad while he was off duty. He was immediately baptized Sketcher. Now, with a new name, new brothers and new leadership he could let his guard down around, Sketcher went to battle once more.
They had been tasked with occupying a planet, and their forces had been divided to cover as much terrain as they could. That was the first time he saw his Jedi Commander fight. Kriari Foreas had been a force to be reckoned with, tearing through enemy lines with ease and protecting the men, his brothers, at the expense of her own safety. She had almost died in an explosion trying to save one of his brothers. From that day, Sketcher decided he was no longer fighting for the Republic, he would be fighting for his Battalion, for his brothers, and yes, for his Jedi. It was a decision that he never could bring himself to regret. The Wolf Pack had embraced him, given him a name, a place to belong to and people to fight for. The 104th battalion never made him question his loyalties like General Krell had, they had never given him a reason to be afraid.
Until now.
The wind made visibility hard as it picked up snow and ice and wiped the outside of his winter armour, and still he could see them both perfectly, facing each other and engulfing the area around them with a presence, a pressure that would suffocate him. Commander Foreas had abandoned her fighter the second she found out Wolffe had engaged the assassin. Now, she stood with her back to them, lightsaber drawn and stance wide. Sketcher knew then, she was just as dangerous as the woman in front of them, if not more. She was protecting them both, Sketcher knew, she was protecting him and his wounded Commander, who seemed on the very doors of death. The bald lady, Ventress The Commander had called her, would have split Wolffe's head in half had he not dodged her strike on time. He hadn't come out of the encounter unharmed. Now, he lay in his brother's arms, missing one eye and bleeding more than he should have been. And their Commander was there to protect what was left of them.
Sketcher knew this, but he couldn't help but feel like he was drowning in Kriari's grief, her rage, her urge to kill, to maim, to avenge, but most of all, her urge to protect. Sketcher had never been afraid of a Jedi, until now. The woman in front of him was powerful, more than he could have ever imagined, more than her friendly demeanor and her warm countenance would ever let on. But now, as she struggled to keep her emotions in check, as the assassin in front of them boasted and teased and mocked her, she felt like the most terrifying thing the trooper had ever seen, had ever felt.
The wind flapped and snapped her robes around her, and the snow in the wind created an eerie glow around her green blade. They were speaking, but Sketcher couldn't hear them over the howl of the incoming storm. He tried to take his eyes off the warriors' face off, his brother needed first aid or he would die.
He forced himself to look down at what he knew would be a gruesome sight. The image he saw would haunt him forever. The helmet had melted under the heat of Ventress' saber, fusing itself to his brother's skin and making it impossible to remove without hurting him even further. The medic of their squad had been killed, and their comms were down in the face of the incoming snowstorm. He was Wolffe's only hope for survival, and he would not let his brother die, not that day, not in his arms.
Sketcher got to work immediately, taking the vibroblade Commander Foreas had given him when she arrived. Ventress had destroyed all of their weapons and had left them unarmed. "You need to get him out of here" his commander had told him when she threw the blade at his feet, "if you see me fall, don't look back, Sketcher." He had never seen his Commander look so grimm, so conflicted, but so determined. He understood she hadn't been giving him an option. Kriari Foreas knew that, in desperate situations, orders saved lives.
Without thinking too much about it, Sketcher cut his brother's helmet open with their Commander's blade, taking great care to leave the edges of the wound alone. Those pieces would have to be taken out by someone who knew what they were doing. For now, he wanted to stop the bleeding and prevent the wound from getting infected. He got his medical pouch loose from his belt and put all of the bacta wipes he had on Wolffe's face. He then took his only bacta shot and injected it into his brother's neck. Sketcher then bandaged his brother's head as generously as he could, not only to keep the wound clean, but to avoid him getting frostbite.
When he was done, Sinker looked up to see the fiercest battle he had ever witnessed in his life. His Commander had engaged the woman with the red sabers and was locked in a battle that looked like it belonged in legends. He had only seen Kriari fight droids up until then, but this was much different. Green and red flew from side to side, clashed in a hypnotic show of lights, speed and skill, and disengaged only to start all over again.
The red lady was clearly much more experienced, but Kriari was being pushed forward by something, a feeling, a being, an entity, a force that drove her, guided her and allowed her to meet her adversary blow by blow. She seemed more calm, more in control of herself, infinitely focused on her task. Revenge no longer raged in her eyes, instead, there was determination and the will to protect what was hers at any cost.
And Sketcher knew they were hers, and she was theirs. And for the first time in his short life, Sketcher felt seen, felt like a unique being, felt like a man and not a clone. Because his Commander was fighting for him and his brother to live, because his commander had asked his name when they met, because his commander was willing to die to save two clones in an army that had hundreds of thousands of them. Sketcher felt like a man because right there, right then, Kriari Foreas was fighting for him and Wolffe and nobody else. A Jedi, a peace keeper, the warriors who had fought and beaten the mandalorians, the very people who had trained them. A member of the most prestigious order in the galaxy, who were not allowed emotional attachments, was fighting so that he and his brother would live.
Sketcher would make sure her efforts weren't wasted.
He took his brother and threw him over his shoulder. Once he was sure Wolffe wouldn't slip, he grabbed his Commander's blade in a steel grip and started marching back to where he knew the rest of the troops were. Once he got Wolffe the care he needed, he could send reinforcements to Commander Foreas' position.
The storm gave no signs of letting up, comms were still jammed by the wind's interference and visibility was very low. But he would not let a damned snow storm prevent him from getting his brother to safety, from getting his commander the backup she needed. The Republic could buy all the clones they liked, but only a few Jedi could say they had their unreserved loyalty, Plo Koon and Kriari Foreas were two of them.
Sketcher's legs were burning and the inside of his helmet's visor was starting to fog with how hard he was breathing, but he refused to stop. He would get his brother clear, he would get help for his commander. Sketcher repeated the words in his head and under his breath like a mantra, like a prayer. He said the words once and again and again as if the reminder was the only thing that kept him on his feet.
Suddenly, out of the white wall of wind and snow that surrounded him, came one of his brothers. It was Art, he was saying something, but Sketcher couldn't hear a thing. His brother changed comms channels and repeated himself.
"Sketcher, what the fuck happened? Where's the Commander?" His brother's tone was agitated, almost desperate. They had all been trying to reach the three of them for hours and the storm had put a sudden stop to any attempt they made.
"Wolffe and our squad went after the assassin, we are the only survivors. We wouldn't be here if the Commander hadn't showed up. Wolffe needs urgent medical attention, and the Commander needs backup." He rushed through the words, almost choking on air as he tried to debrief his brother. "I'll give you the coordinates of their last location- we, we need to help her, Art. She took on the crazy lady on her own, we need to help her." He was frantic, he needed to get her back up, she couldn't die, he wouldn't be able to live with himself if she did.
Twitch took Wolffe from Sketcher's arms and dragged him into one of the tents they had set up when they landed.
"We will, trooper," said Art, trying to hide his worry so as not to agitate his brother even more. "This is the Wolf Pack, no one is ever left behind."