CHAPTER 6

Cannon's cybernetic arm whirred softly as he moved through his combat drills, the familiar rhythm of training exercises grounding him, even as his body still adjusted to its new limitations. His right eye, the only one he had left, focused sharply on the simulation droid in front of him. The droid lunged, and Cannon dodged, the joints in his cybernetic arm responding with a delayed twitch as he parried a strike.

"Again," he muttered to himself, stepping back and resetting his stance. The droid circled him, its mechanical hum a steady beat in the background. He had run this drill dozens of times since his rehabilitation started. Each session felt like a step toward regaining the precision he had lost, though there were moments where the absence of his left arm—a real one, not this cold, unfeeling piece of machinery—seemed to slow him down.

His vision wasn't what it used to be either. The left side of his peripheral was now a blind spot, something he couldn't get used to just yet. He'd have to train his senses to make up for it, rely on hearing, on instinct.

But despite the progress, the setbacks haunted him. His mind drifted as the droid spun, attacking once more.

Kamino. He could almost hear the stormy waters of his home world crashing against the cloning facilities, smell the sterile halls where they had trained, day in and day out. That endless sound of rain—always the rain. He hadn't been back in years, not since the war broke out and his unit was deployed. But Kamino wasn't home, not really. It never had been. Home was with his brothers—the men he fought beside, laughed with, cried for, and lost.

He struck the droid again, knocking it off balance.

How many brothers had he lost now? Too many to count. Too many faces blurred together in his mind. And for what? Another bloody battle on some dust-covered planet? Another skirmish to push the Separatists back just enough before the next engagement? It felt endless, this war.

The Separatists—they weren't so different, were they? Just soldiers, like him. Some probably fought because they believed in their cause, and others because they had no choice. Good people and bad people, all tangled up in the same conflict. Wasn't it the same on both sides?

Cannon's parry faltered as he lowered his blade slightly, a sharp pang of doubt twisting in his gut. What were they even fighting for? To win? What would that victory look like? Another planet burned, more lives shattered, and for what—galactic peace? Would there even be anything left worth saving by the time this war was done?

He felt a weight settle in his chest, a familiar sense of dread creeping in. What would it matter, in the end? Victory at the cost of everything else?

Before he could delve any deeper into the growing pit of existential questions gnawing at him, a voice called from across the training bay.

"Still asking yourself the big questions, Cannon?"

Cannon blinked, his focus snapping back to the present as he turned to see the source of the voice. A tall figure in clone armor stood at the entrance, his helmet tucked under his arm, the bright blue stripes marking him as one of the 501st. It was Fives, his cocky smirk as sharp as ever.

"Fives," Cannon said, a small smile tugging at his lips despite himself. He deactivated the training droid and took a step back, rolling his sore shoulder. "What brings you here? Thought you'd be busy with your own drills."

"Ah, you know me," Fives said with a grin. "I heard you were back in action and thought I'd come see how the old man was holding up."

"Old man?" Cannon raised an eyebrow, smirking. "I'm only a few weeks older than you."

"Yeah, well," Fives shrugged, "you've been acting all philosophical lately. That's something old men do, right?"

Cannon chuckled softly, shaking his head. Fives always knew how to lighten the mood, even when things felt heavy. He was one of the few clones who could pull him out of his thoughts.

"You're not wrong," Cannon admitted, wiping the sweat from his brow. "Just trying to get back into the swing of things."

"Looks like you're managing," Fives said, eyeing the droid, now in a heap at Cannon's feet. "Still keeping up with the rest of us, even with the new arm."

Cannon shrugged, flexing the cybernetic fingers. "It's taking some time. But I'll get there."

Before they could continue, another voice chimed in, this one more gravelly and no-nonsense. "You'd better get there soon. We're going to need you on the front lines again."

Cannon looked up to see Commander Wolffe striding into the training bay, his own cybernetic eye glowing faintly in the dim light. He was flanked by two more Jedi—Plo Koon and Luminara Unduli, both walking with their typical measured grace. Cannon snapped to attention, though Wolffe waved him off.

"Relax, Cannon. You're not on duty right now."

Plo Koon, always the calmest presence in any room, nodded in greeting. "It's good to see you recovering, Cannon. The Republic needs soldiers like you."

"Thank you, General," Cannon said, though there was a weight to his words he didn't fully understand.

Luminara stepped forward, her green eyes sharp as she examined the training droid. "It seems your progress is considerable," she said softly. "I sense doubt, though. Uncertainty." She tilted her head slightly, as if reading something deeper within him. "Your mind is clouded."

Cannon hesitated, feeling the eyes of the Jedi on him, as well as Fives and Wolffe. "I've been… thinking a lot," he admitted, his voice quieter now. "About the war. About what comes after."

Plo Koon's voice was deep and gentle, like a distant thunderstorm. "It's natural to question, especially after loss. But you are a soldier, Cannon. The purpose you seek may not be found in the fighting itself, but in what you stand for. In what you protect."

Wolffe crossed his arms, his gaze intense. "You're not alone in that. We've all lost brothers. We keep going because we have to."

Fives nodded, his usual light-hearted tone absent now. "We're all fighting the same battle, Cannon. You're not the only one asking questions."

Luminara regarded him carefully. "But you must not let that doubt control you. The moment we lose sight of what we fight for, we lose ourselves."

Cannon swallowed, the weight of their words pressing down on him. He had been fighting for so long—his whole life, really. What was he protecting? What future was there after the war ended?

He glanced around at the familiar faces—the brothers who had survived with him, the Jedi who had fought alongside them. They all carried the same weight, the same questions, but they kept going. Maybe that was enough.

The conversation was interrupted by the sound of approaching footsteps, and Cannon turned to see another familiar face. Captain Gregor, recently reassigned to help train some of the newer clone recruits, strolled in with a casual grin.

"Hope I'm not interrupting," Gregor said, his voice light but with an edge of professionalism. "Heard there was a reunion happening."

"Gregor," Fives greeted him with a grin. "We're just having a chat about the meaning of life. You know, standard clone banter."

Gregor chuckled, giving Cannon a friendly pat on the shoulder. "You've been through a lot, Cannon. But I know you'll bounce back. You've always been one of the toughest."

Cannon smiled faintly, feeling the camaraderie of his brothers around him. It was strange—how even in moments of doubt, the presence of his fellow clones grounded him, reminded him of the bond they all shared.

As they all stood there, the moment heavy with the weight of their unspoken thoughts, Plo Koon spoke again, his voice calm and resonant.

"The war has taken much from us all," he said. "But we continue because there is still hope for something better. For peace."

Cannon nodded slowly, feeling that same stirring inside him—the one that pushed him to keep going, even when the doubts crept in. Even when he questioned everything. He didn't know what the future held, or what the end of this war would look like. But for now, he had his brothers, and he had his purpose.

That would have to be enough.