#clone oc: gunnar/faro/cryfar/fluke

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I'd like to apologize to Faro, Gunnar, Cryfar and Fluke... Canvas misses you so much.

[fandom-friday]

Happy Fandom Friday Karrde 🥰! Thanks for running this event 💙!

This Friday I'd like to submit @frostycatblr-fandom-files angsty OC fic:

I have no mother, only a brother

Canvas is their clone OC who has lost the rest of his squad and it's SO good!

OOOOOH we love a good angsty OC fic around these parts (please know I'm resisting the urge to make the "Ah, another clone OC for my collection" joke... does that count as failing?). Love taking OCs and just putting them THROUGH IT, and by the looks of it, this one's gonna crush my soul (which I am signing up for haha). Thanks so much for the rec!

Participate in Fandom Friday to show your favorite creators from this week some love! :)

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I Have No Mother, Only A Brother

Warnings and Information: Not a new story, just a more masterlist-friendly format since I'm unable to make the edits I want to the original written last year so things fit a little more in-line with the rest of the series visually speaking. Reference/allusion to canon-typical violence, injury, death and loss. Bad health conditions for civilians as a result of a Separatist blockade. Clone OC backstories and how they died. Several characters are not explicitly named as of this installment, just like in NTMY,B. Narrative and stylistic use of italics. No Mando'a here. Use of Star Wars and real-world swearing. Canvas doesn't like the Kaminoans, he's rather scared of them.

Word-count: 3,027

"Isn't it a little sad?" the nat-born child who's been asking so many questions starts up again after five minutes, the allotted break time as asked. The little one's parents sigh wearily. Here we go. There's beckoning hands, straining arms. 

"Is what sad, little mite?" The trooper only resituated their hold on the child with a twisted ankle they'd been carrying for several klics now. They still had a long way to go before they reached the Republic camp where these starving people on a far-flung planet had been subjected to horrid war crimes by the Separatists. No; let me hold them a little longer, it's fine. They weigh far less than a supply crate, this is easy for me. 

"Well… is it true that you don't have a mommy like people say?" This little one was born just before or near the very start of the Clone Wars, supposedly, and part of a humanoid species, so they're different from human nat-born children and develop differently… but the level of intellect and insight is still surprising. 

"It is," the trooper starts, mentally shaking away the thought that he'd have to dumb this down for the toddler who was meeting Clones in the flesh for the first time now. "We don't have any mothers, except for Kamino. That's where we come from." Don't think of the long-necks. Don't think of the long-necks. Don't think of the long-necks; think of your brothers! 

"So isn't it sad?" they ask again, cuddling sweetly against the stiff and impossibly firm surface of plastoid that encircles the trooper's body with a great pout on their face. That can't be comfortable for the kid. The trooper wishes he could take off the helmet so the little one can see the sympathetic smile, touched by the concern and sadness a nat-born child has for a man without a mother. But he's offered to carry this child until they get to the camp and the hospital tent where a medic-brother can splint the bad foot. There's not a great way to carry his own helmet should he remove it; other hands are busy with helping men, women and children too emaciated and weak to make this trek unsupported, or are leading the livestock with firm hands, or like the little mite's mother, carrying even littler children. An infant. 

There are so many infants. The General has cut their cloak into long strips so the brothers who have volunteered themselves to carry a suffering family's baby have something to buffer and soften the swaddling arms in plastoid armor. The three brothers who carry the five orphans of the village are quiet. They move so gingerly and are so tender to allow these little ones to sleep as long as they can; the best sleep these little ones have had since losing their mothers. 

"I guess many would see it that way. But it's hard to be sad about it when I have so many brothers to keep me company." The little one looks up at the trooper in awe and excitement. Brothers. They had something in common! The baby swaddled to the woman's chest with a meager blanket is a little boy, apparently. Born just before the Separatist's blockade and occupation. 

"How many brothers? Hundreds?" That'd been the popular guess when he and his brothers showed up with several Generals to offer aid and support to one of these many villages clustered near one another in this sector of the planet. 

"More than that."

"A thousand?" 

"Haha. More than that, little one." 

"Ah… a million? O-or the one that's bigger than that! That many brothers?" 

"That'd be "billion". A billion is bigger than a million." 

"You have a billion brothers?!" 

"Probably. Even I don't know. There's not enough time to meet all of them when we're helping people like you, ya little mite." Some he'd never get to because they were already gone. Some were already lost to this war well before he stepped off Kamino. Some shortly after. 

Cocky nerf-herder though he was, brave Gunnar… he'd been the first. Selfless. He wasn't immediately fond of the Force-wielders. The Jedi. Not like the other Shinies.

"We're their canon fodder, they don't care about us. Throw enough brothers at the problem until it goes away and then don't so much as mourn us!"

It changed when their General was cradling the body of a badly-injured brother while they were waiting for the team medic to find their position. Their General held the dying trooper and promised the medic-brother was on their way, "just hold on, son. Yes, he's coming. H-he's going to take care of you. You were very brave out there trying to keep your brothers safe."

When the battlefield medic trooper had finally reached their position and could take over for the General in taking care of this brother, he'd succumbed to his injuries only seconds later. Their General got up and left, stoic and unspeaking, and Gunnar had enough and wanted to give the General a damn tongue-lashing. But when Gunnar found the General, back pressed into the dark trunk of those towering trees and weeping silently, he suddenly realized he had their first General all wrong. 

"I think I had 'em all wrong… guess some of those Jedi really do give a banthashit about us. Found the General mourning that brother who died as soon as the medic got here. They're imperfect, brother. These… peacekeepers aren't sure how to be warriors. Not all of 'em. They're tryin'."  

Cryfar had been the second to perish. Oh sweet, well-meaning Cryfar.

To their batch, it was an in-joke that it was a miracle this son of Kamino had made it as far as he had. Either one too many blows to the head during a session of hand-sparring in one of the training centers, or something went awry with his jar, but the kid could not get his left-and-right or his phrasings sorted out when he got overexcited.

Which was often.

"Hahaha! Just wait til I send those Seppies runnin'! This war'll be a cryfar from-" The entire batch groaned, Gunnar the loudest before taking a breath to explain why the other, older brothers were laughing at the excitable Shiny with a glowering look over his shoulder. The seasoned troops stopped, recognizing the look.

"It's "a far cry from", brother. It's okay. They don't mean to be mean to ya, I'm sure… You just get excitable. Not your fault. Remember to be careful, right?" 

"R-right! I'll be careful!" 

"Watch out for the pits, too." 

"Sure thing!" 

Faro had been third. Pushed the other two brothers out of the way of danger time and time again. They'd lost Gunnar, and they'd lost Cryfar. Faro was not going to lose these brothers too.

He was gruff and stoic much in the same way like Gunnar without the impulsive streak, but about just as much patience as Gunnar had. ("You were going to kriffing lecture the General? No of course this Jedi cares about the Clones if you just paid attention to them for five min- That's the stupidest- If you would stop being so gun-ho about certain things for five minutes the COs would finally let you in the gunner's mount like you've been asking and- What's that look for!?")

Every time he'd saved their skins he'd simply sigh sharply at them before asking if these two bucket-heads really expected him to save them every time. So that last time… he looked at those yet-unnamed brothers and fondly murmured he'd do it each and every time in a heartbeat, staring up into the great and endless starfield above him with the remnants of a BX-series droid commando scattered around him.

"It's just gonna be the two of you now, brothers. I-I don't think I can watch out for you anymore. Clanker bastard got me real good with that fluke shot… but I'd do it all again in… a d-damn… heartbeat." 

Fluke took the name from Faro's dying words as a way to remember him. Maybe he shouldn't have. The word became a curse, an omen. It seemed to seal his fate. He shouldn't have survived that droid commando encounter, it was just a lucky chance that Faro accidentally strayed a little too far from his post and found his brothers getting attacked when he did.

He was thrown from a speeder-bike after getting shot and narrowly avoided plunging into a deep chasm. Two sets of ration packs fell out of the supply crate and were exposed to direct sunlight for several hours before anyone noticed and put those back in with the others. He and another brother both felt a little sick after dinner and each said he'd be turning in early to try to sleep it off.

"Guess it's just not agreeing with me, or something. I'm sure it's nothing… I'll see you in the morning, yeah? Love ya, brother." 

"Love ya too, Fluke. Goodnight.

"G'morning Fluke, you feelin' any better? Want me to get the medic to… Fluke, c'mon brother, this isn't funny; talk to me. You really feeling that bad? Y-you're cold! Wh-why are you so… FLUKE!!"

"Do you get along with all of your brothers?" The Clone unit escorting this village's survivors were getting closer to the refugee camp, so it was time to squeeze in some last questions and they'd been quiet for a while now. Canvas just chuckled. He'd been carrying this little one for a while now, watching as they turned one of his most precious possessions in their hands over and over again. The whittled nest of endangered birds from his first campaign. They'd taken great care not to drop it. Carver would've appreciated hearing that such a crude replication still held up to approval; he'd gotten so much better and thought all his old stuff was junk (save for the General's Mudhorn and this nest-set owned by Canvas). 

"Some better than others, but I get along with most of them, yes. All siblings have their squabbles; even us Clones. Maybe one day you'll drive your parents crazy by arguing with your little brother once he's big enough." The toddler grinned brightly up at the dusty helmet peering down at him and once again smoothed their hand over Fluke's scuff. Then Faro's. Cryfar's after that. Lastly, Gunnar's. Canvas's brothers all within easy reach, surrounding the scuff mark across the chest plate this little nat-born child was leaning against. Surrounded by the memory of his brothers, those who never judged him for not yet having a Name and respected his wishes not to Be Named yet. 

"Nuh-uh. I love my little brother! I never wanna argue with him when he's big enough." The little one's parents just smiled quietly in the lengthening shadows as the sun sunk behind the hills. They knew it wouldn't end up staying that way, but the sentiment was too sweet to correct. One day the screaming matches would come, and the accusations that they weren't sharing toys would rattle their eardrums, and a million other things. A welcome future to look forward to because the Republic answered their desperate plea for help and promised the inhabitants necessary aid.

"He'll tell you how lucky he feels one day that you love him so much." Canvas replied sagely, eyes staring ahead into that middle-ground where the light of the camp crept over the last ridge. That red splatter he was looking for was flying high over the center of the camp. Good. They'd gotten the medical tent set up.  

"One last question for the nice trooper before your father carries you to the medical tent, little one. Better make it count before he has to return to his commanding officers." the child's mother warned in a sweet voice. Oh he hated the way the little one frowned, Maker help him. His hold firmed up one last time. 

"I can carry the little one to the tent. It's no trouble."

"Are you certain?"

"Yes ma'am. It's no trouble." Canvas nodded affirmingly. 

"Thank you… ah, I don't believe we ever asked you your name, I am sorry." 

"Canvas. My brothers named me." he says with pride. How one came to Be Named by a brother happened in a variety of ways. Sometimes it was mockery. Sometimes it came from a joke. Even done completely unintentionally. But often it was done with love as they helped one another find an identity. More than a string of two letters and four numbers, brother. 

No mothers to name us, only brothers. 

"Your brothers named you?" the talkative toddler inquires, brightening up as Canvas continues to carry them through the camp. There was time for more questions after all. 

"They sure did." 

"And do you like your name?"

"I love my name." That name was a gift from his brothers. All of them. Its poetic origin meant too much to do anything but love it. 

"Which brother gave you your name? Was it one of them?" The little freckled fingers touched each scuff mark reverentially. (Maker, to think his own fingers were ever that little for a short time.)

"One of my commanding officers." They pass by a commanding officer with these words, entirely a funny little coincidence. But it's not Canvas's, this officer bears a different color. 

"Umm… Who has the funniest name? A-are there any?" 

"I have a brother named Scruffy." It's safe to make fun of Scruffy's name. Scruffy makes fun of his own name all the time because he knows the circumstances behind Being Named (accidentally) were silly. 

"Whoops, hair's gotten an inch past the standard cut… Think I'm starting to look a little-"

"Ahem."

"A-a little, uh, unkempt! I was gonna say unkempt!"

"Sure-sure…" 

Just three tents away from medical. 

"Who made you the bird nest again?" Canvas takes the whittled treasure back, tucking it away in his utility belt alongside the wooden worry stone. 

"My brother Carver." he reminds the toddler. Two more tents. Something's cooking nearby. It smells good. Really good. The families making their way to the camp will have their first good meal in a long time tonight. There's neatly stacked crates in front of the medical tent. That has to be Cairn's doing, but Canvas doesn't see any sign of the brother in the flesh. 

"So if he made you the bird nest, are birds your favorite animal?" 

"One of 'em, yeah." Canvas chuckles, nodding down at the child and then back up at the brother with the shattered cross painted on his plastoid. "Kid's in need of a splint, think you can help the little one out, brother?"

"Sure can, Canvas. Set up on the second cot for me, and grab yourselves a hydro pack each. You marched a long way in if you came from the southwest. No one's getting dehydrated on my watch." 

"Thank you, brother." Canvas nodded gratefully as he nabbed two foil pouches of filtered, treated water from a crate. He opened one and gave it to the child after gingerly lowering them to the second cot as indicated, and finally shucked the dusty helmet, hearing that familiar hiss as the vacuum broke. Much better. Was getting stuffy in there. "Hope you're ready for a talker." 

"Always." the medic laughs. It's promising. "I like the talkers now and then. You sit down and rest your feet." 

"But I should really go report in to the Cap-"

"Medic's orders, brother." Oh very well. Canvas just concedes; it'll be easier than trying to sweet-talk a brother who takes the mantra of "brother looks out for brother" so deeply to heart that he makes it a specified pathway beyond just his creation as a soldier. (Don't think of the long-necks… think of your brothers.) You're a fool to make these brothers upset with you. He takes a seat on an upturned crate put out for visitors to the med-tent, balancing his bucket on his knees as he cracks open his hydro pack and takes a deep swallow of water. He regrets it, but he'll be scolded for spitting it out.

Ugh. These are not the chemicals he's used to in Kamino's filtration and emergency desalinification systems. What planet treated this water? Coruscant? It's so bitter and heavy on his tongue… There's no touch of sweetness in the water like that of a bolster of emergency supplies from Naboo that had been sent by Senator Amidala. It's sour and tangy in such an unpleasant way. 

But that's not worth fussing about when he gets to listen to the little one start peppering the medic-brother with questions now as he prepared to set the bad foot in a splint so it will heal correctly and quickly with proper support. 

"Do Clones have a favorite brother?" Woof, what a loaded question to ask a medic. 

"Hah, get a load'a this kid, asking the tricky questions. Some do! Some brothers grow very close together, practically joined at the hip and I have to let the other brother stay so I can take care of the sick or injured one. Then there's Clones, like me, who love all their brothers equally. No favorites. Too many brothers to love and take care of for me personally to have favorites. But I know of a few who are someone's favorite brother." 

The medic-brother looked at Canvas over his shoulder briefly to first make sure he hadn't slunk off before he was properly rested AMA, but even in that quick look, Canvas knew there was another meaning in those warm, smiling eyes. Seasoned troopers tended to hear if a fresh-faced brother needed some extra support and became a favorite; whether that was for life, or until the Shiny found their feet under themselves. 

Canvas knew that applied to him in each sense; he was so grateful for it now. Grateful for those brothers who took care of him because they had a rather… unique mother. (Forget the long-necks.)

If Kamino was their mother, and all her sons were brothers, then they should take good care of one another. 

We have no traditional mothers. Just a billion brothers.

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Nice To Meet You, Brother

Warnings and Information: Not a new story, just a more masterlist and reader-friendly format since I'm unable to make the edits I want to the original. What was written with the idea of being a one-off became the establishing story for the main bulk of my Clone OCs, so this was written at a time not much had been planned in advance. Reference/allusion to canon-typical violence, injury, death and loss. Several characters are not explicitly named as of this installment. Narrative and stylistic use of italics, capitalization, and colored text. No Mando'a here. Minor language. My takes on Clone culture and their brotherly bonds have more thematic and narrative elements than how it's shown in the series, perhaps, as a heads up.

Word-count: 3,264

"Get a load of these plastoid puppies…"

They're getting new Shinnies to bolster their forces, and Maker, these boys just look younger and younger every time they get more Seppy blaster fodder reinforcements… It makes the hearts of the commanding officers hurt seeing how fresh-faced and bright these boys are.

The armor looks fresh off the assembly line and fitted onto little children fresh out of their growth jars. But they're all children. These are babies in the eyes of the Commanding Officers.

And they know the numbers of these plastoid puppies who are almost afraid of getting their armor scuffed, but no names. So young. Too young, General, please, send them back for more training...

They were never Named by their batchmates or their brothers under the rains of Kamino. They'll have to find their names out here in the galaxy. 

That will have to come later. But first it's the unofficial marring ceremony a Captain came up with before they were KIA.

Scuff the armor before they even see their first Seppy encounter.

If they get it over with now, or if they allow themselves to be scuffed by their COs, the sequential scuffs will be easier to accept. Take a knife, a wad of steel-wool used for weapon cleaning/care, or just a little rock and scratch your armor.

No really, you heard me. It's for, uh… good luck! Each deployment has their own traditions, in-jokes and superstitions. We scuff our armor for good luck. (Thank the Maker, they bought it.)

That's okay, rookie, you take all the time you need to scuff your plastoid. I can wait nearby if you need me to. (We want you to steal that first scuff for yourself so the Separatists do not have the satisfaction, brother.) 

They worry about the young brother who takes an hour to decide where to scuff his chest plate. He might be the first of the Shinies they lose. One of the Captains wants to keep an eye on him, close under his command in place of the Marshal Commander's ranks. The effort is probably as good as a Separatist's credit out in Republic space, but brother looks out for brother. They're all glad most of the Generals understand that. 

Sure, Captain. Take the Shiny. Show him the ropes. Keep him safe.

Took-an-hour survives their first encounter since the bolster of reinforcements; the Captain kept him safe. He's shaken. He's lost his closest neighbor-batchmate (the batch that was below his, in this case) and he's mourning. He's dropped his blaster in the mud of the trenches and he's having a hard time cleaning it now that they've pulled back their forces. His weapon is no good to him if it's jammed up with the thick, sandy mixture.

The Captain has to tell him to stop attempting to clean the DC-17.

"Forget it. Throw it in the dirty bucket next to the graffitied helmet on the gunship. Take a fresh blaster. Take a breath."

(Take yourself back to Kamino, please… You're just a kriffing kid. We're all just kriffing kids.) 

There's a kid who's gonna get his paint design out of this inevitable ambush and he doesn't even know it. He's a plastoid puppy with two left feet when he's nervous and keeps following the General and the Captain like a second shadow. They keep pulling this kid out of the naturally formed pits of the planet by the "scruff" of his armor. They're impossibly patient with this Shiny. The Captain has given the kid his Name when he pulls this brother out of the seventh pit and says "It's like scruffing a rowdy Tooka kitten!" with a mighty heave.

(Heh, any guess what that kid's about to get from the Captain, General?)

(You mean other than "on my nerves", Commander?!)

The kid likes the sound of the word, but he wants to change it a bit, first…

Welcome to the galaxy, Scruffy. It's nice to meet you, brother. The whole unit celebrates Scruffy and his name and his new paint and his identity. He's no longer just a number. (The General takes the time and tells him he is and feels unique in the Force, like all his brothers the General has served with, to make the moment all the more memorable.)

Scruffy is still falling into pits and still getting pulled up by the scruff of his armor by his COs and his brothers, but he's no longer a Shiny. He's no longer scared to get his armor scuffed. He's actually helping others, much later on, get their armor scuffed when they step off the gunships, and the COs see that he's got the same 'oh by the stars these boys are just plastoid puppies' look in his eyes now too. He'll show these Shinnies his deliberate, superficial damage he's so proud of and carry on the new tradition of it's for good luck!

The kid the COs have been secretly referring to as Took-an-hour is struggling. He's the last of his batch now. His last batch brother was alive just last night and never woke up. Something about the food. Something spoiled. He won't eat anything out of fear. You can't have a hungry brother out on the battlefield. You have to do something. The appetite stims just make him sick. This is hardly the right set of conditions to cook food. The only thing that placates him is the General's rations that they themselves are in charge of.

They're different and better suited for the General's metabolism and nutritional needs, but it has to be better than nothing. The General takes the rations in field supplies marked with the CT's number.

It takes an hour for the man to take his first bite. He's almost sick immediately after because the anxiety is paralyzing. But he's assured again and again by the General that the rations will be safe, he needs his strength, eat.

Scruffy (of a different batch out of the bolster of Shinnies) just sits with this brother and fellow soldier until the food is gone. It takes an hour. It's one hour less of sleep for both of them. But Scruffy doesn't complain once. He's also now keeping an eye on this nameless brother, along with the Captain, the Commander, the General. He's falling into a few more pits than usual the following day, but he just blames it half-jokingly on something flying overhead distracting him.

This brother refuses Naming. He doesn't want to Be Named. He's certain he's not long for this galaxy. He's convinced he'll join the rest of his batch soon enough and Being Named will give him hope.

"I'm a string of two letters and four numbers and I'll never be anything else."

Not on Scruffy's watch. 

Not on the watch of the COs.

Not on the watch of the General.

You will Be Named is not a threat. It is a promise. You are an individual, brother. Our paints, our tattoos, our haircuts are all signifiers: We've found our Name. We will help you find yours, brother.  

More scuff marks are added to the plastoid. The scuff marks of his fallen batchmates. He won't add them in paint. He'll add them in the same ways that they did. It takes the expected amount of time to complete the task. 

Welcome to the galaxy, Carver. It's nice to meet you, brother. He was inspired by the nameless brother who bares his batchmates scuffs in his own armor, and carved little etchings into his helmet with a vibroknife he picked up somewhere. He's quite good at it.

(Scruffy thinks it would be funny to ask Carver to add GRAB HERE in Aurebesh lettering in the ring of paint on the back-plating of his armor up near the neck, but the COs don't share the sentiment.)

Lots of troops ask Carver to, well, carve little pictures in strips of thick bark that have shed from the trees indigenous to the planet. Flowers they found pretty. That scary hellcat with four eyes they heard about once. The General cutting a clanker in half. No wait! The General cutting a TANK in half, that would be so cool! (Hey, Commander, here's the coordinates to rendezvous with the General. Once you've memorized them we can add it to the fire.) Do you think you can whittle? Guys check it out, Carver figured out how to whittle!

Oh the General is gonna love that little Mudhorn, Carver! 

The General does in fact. They keep their little Mudhorn in their pocket at all times and regard it with love. When the sour tang of the loss of life feels too heavy in the Force around them, the General holds Carver's little Mudhorn and feels the deliberate shape of the gifted token as they meditate to clear their mind. This campaign has been hard for the peace-keeper, but the little things, like this whittled Mudhorn, are cherished when things seem bleakest.

Scruffy asks Carver to make him something he thinks might help the nameless brother (and others). He's not sleeping well because he's having bad dreams. Dreams about the brothers he lost. Heard about them on the Holonet somewhere, they're called worry stones. They look like this, they're small and discreet and will be easy to carry on his utility belt. They'll be easy to replace if they get lost and misplaced.

"Whaddya think? You'll do it? You're the best, Carver, thank you."

Carver makes several, enough to give all the COs and General a worry stone, and slips the last worry stone into the nameless brother's things in the middle of the night. It's found in the morning and almost discarded, thinking it's debris in his drowsy stupor that he was about to toss without looking, but the smooth divot in the wood catches his attention. It… feels strangely nice to roll his thumb back and forth in this little space.

Okay. He'll keep the thing. He'll get rid of it if a CO tells him to. Except he later notices the COs also have one. So if they have "non-GAR contraband", he's not about to get into trouble for having it himself, right? Well then again they're COs and they'll be allowed more "luxuries".

He almost gets rid of it again after that thought. But the Captain catches it before it's kicked into the fire that night when they made camp and says it "was a close one, kid nearly lost the gift a brother gave him. That would have been a shame". Oh. Oh kriff. He nearly burned a gift? Carver made this? 

Carver wouldn't have been mad if the nameless brother had burned it. He's made so many at this point. The nameless brother was always a little tighter on the rules than most other brothers, he'd probably have been reluctant to keep "contraband".

He and Scruffy had seen him using it on a few separate occasions. The tension seemed to melt right out of him, even just for a moment. He'd grabbed it at least once when he woke up from a nightmare. Carver wondered if he would be able to find the material to make a really small one and put it on some string so this poor not-a-Shiny would have a way to keep one on him, maybe under the armor, under the bodyglove, so he'd never have to worry about not having a worry stone on him if he really needed it. Sometimes just holding his worry stone was enough for the brother. 

One not-a-Shiny claims the name Cairn finally. (He'd been given many nicknames, open to Being Named, but none had spoken to him until someone said the word "cairn" in front of him.) He's ended up with so many of his friends' worry stones one way or another that he'll build the little or big towers of wooden 'rocks' for the fun of it.

Sometimes the General uses gentle nudgings of the Force to make the towers take impossible, gravity defying formations. It boosts morale. It makes the men wonder if Cairn can find a way to replicate the upside down formations the General sometimes does with the right sized worry stones. Welcome to the galaxy, Cairn. It's nice to meet you, brother. 

It takes an hour to get this not-a-Shiny to get out of one of the towering trees after a Separatist ambush. He made for an excellent sniper, to the surprise of the Captain who'd taken care of this nameless brother since he'd gotten there nearly a month ago. He's on the comms channel, voice high and tight with fear that if he comes down he's going to knock this bird's nest out of the crown on a branch he'd need to use to get down.

They're endangered. They can't fly yet, Captain. I don't want them to get hurt if I climb down. One already fell from the nest and-

Oh the General found it? Did it… survive the fall? Why is the General scaling the other tree with only one hand; did they get hurt in the Seppie ambush?

Oh the General is okay? Thank Kamino's rains. They… found the bird alive?

The bird is returned to the nest with the Force, and his General uses the Force to pluck him out of that tree and lift him over to the other one so he can crawl down, finally. He's sorry for getting worked up about some blasted birds but they just… He got kinda attached to them because he had imagined he was protecting not just his brothers and the General from the Seppies, but those birds too. He's sorry, General. It was silly.

The General assures the trooper that the compassion and empathy he had for the birds was not "silly". In fact, they were unaware that these birds they'd been seeing for so long on this planet were endangered. They thank the nameless man who takes a long time to do certain things for teaching them something that day. Maybe one day that thinking will make him a brilliant strategist, too.

(Yeah, the Jedi are a little weird. But that's okay, brother. Apparently when you come up in conversation now, the General hears the fluttering of these birds through the Force… Good question, don't know if they hear anything when our other brothers are brought up in conversation with the General…) 

The nameless brother is just beginning to feel better, hopeful, the longer they've been taken care of by the likes of the COs, General, and Scruffy. Mostly Scruffy. Maker, Scruffy nearly cries when this brother, bearing all the scuffs of his batch additional to his own on his chest plate, asks the General if they want their rations, because he thinks he's ready to start eating his again.

He's not afraid to eat the rations meant for himself anymore, he thinks. That's a step in the right direction. 

There's a few survivors from the first bolster who still don't have names, but only because they don't know what to decide on just like Cairn did. There's another bolster scheduled to arrive soon. They've decided on their paint patterns, at least.

The brother who takes an hour to do things when time allows is the only unpainted man of the unit. He looks like a Shiny, so out of place. Everyone aside from him is vying to find a Name except for him.

But it feels like hours or days after the COs welcome their new brothers who now have Names… they get picked off by Separatist forces. Hello, and goodbye, brothers. 

"If I find my Name now, I'm cursed" is the new sentiment. The new anxiety that replaces my rations are spoiled and I'll get sick, I'll die if I eat them.

"I'm just two letters and four numbers and nothing else. Please don't name me. Please don't doom me, brothers…"

Maybe it's best that when the second bolster of Shinnies and other, more seasoned troops arrive, this brother is… sent back to the Jedi cruiser. We can't have him sent back to Kamino by now, there's no telling what the long-necks will do to him.

Wipe him clean with reconditioning? Decommission him? No chance in the galaxy they'll let their brother go through that. They'll turn him into a spacer instead before they'll let the Kaminoans decide.

So the COs are trying to find someone to go with this brother. Scruffy is willing, he's already done so much to take care of this brother, this will be a piece of meiloorun cake to accompany his anxious brother. If it wasn't a result of mistreatment at the hands of the… bounty hunters hired to be "Trainers", then it wasn't his fault something probably went wrong with his growth jar. It wasn't the fault of a brother who had a leak in his acceleration chamber that made him hyperactive and impulsive if the rumor mills are to be believed. They, all brothers, blame that on the Kaminoans. Or the Trainers. They do their best not to blame their brothers.

Brother looks out for brother. 

"Took-an-hour" is used less and eventually abandoned. The COs call him the Unpainted Brother as a nickname, now. U-Brother, or just Brother, for short. It's easy enough to pass off as a general term of addressal.

He's far from a Shiny, he's not open to Being Named, he's clearly not finding his Name out here.

"General… please, send Brother back to the Jedi cruiser when the next reinforcements come." We're… scared for him that he's just getting worse out here and he'll get himself killed the next time the Separatists attack us. 

"Another General will take him? And Scruffy? Thank you."

Brother, before you leave with Another General, we want you to take some of Our color. You may have been "unexpectedly" reassigned to another unit, but you'll always be one of Us.

Don't forget us, we won't forget you.

Carver and Cairn have a few little presents for you to remember us by. (A whittled nest of those endangered birds.) You take care of yourself, our painted Brother. Maybe your painted scuff marks will bring you good luck.

Maybe your brothers, Gunnar, Faro, Cryfar, Fluke, will bring you good luck. You, heh… kinda look like a paint canvas, now! All your batchmates scuffs glazed over in Our color. Your scuff on your chest plate is still naked, but that's okay. Maybe you can pick up the color of the unit of Another General and paint your scuff in that color, really make yourself look like a canvas. 

… 

What's that?

Oh. 

(Oh, brother. Now? When he's about to leave with Another General?)

You kinda like that, eh?

Well…

"Canvas: it's very nice to meet you, brother."

Do you want to go, still, or do you… want to stay?

Will you stay? You know our brothers are going to want to celebrate you and your name. It'd break their damn hearts if you left now, Canvas. After all that's happened up to now, the experiences that shaped up to finding a Name for yourself and have marked your armor… 

Of course, Canvas. You're welcome to stay with us longer. You're always going to be Our brother. I'll let the General know so they can let Another General know there's been a change of plans. They'll get it sorted out. Now, go grab Scruffy and let him know we'll need his skills with a brush. Need to add a little more paint to our Canvas.

Wouldn't ya think, brother?

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Protecting Little Brothers

Warnings and Information: Third installment in the NTMY,B universe which are [NTMY,B] & [IHNM,OAB] respectively, but this time, we’re focusing on clone oc: Scruffy. Reading the first installments will make this make more sense, so be sure to go give those a read first or check them out some other time!

Scruffy's penchant for not looking where he's walking leads to a very scary time for certain brothers. While he was only clinically dead for a few minutes at most, it feels much longer than that for everyone involved, and those introduced. Vague descriptions of blood, nausea and injuries. Star Wars and real-world swearing. Temporary death by explosive device. And you're probably not supposed to use a bacta tank that way, but kriff it. Scruffy meets the ghosts of Canvas's brothers and receives some very important instructions. Some minor expansion of Faro, Gunnar, Cryfar and Fluke's story and my takes on Clone Culture. No Mando'a here, just maybe lots of tissues. My usual use of italics.

Word-count: 3,782

How could he be so careless? Again? 

"SCRUFFY!"

He never watches where he's walking. In some ways he's still a plastoid puppy with two left feet. 

"LOOK OUT!" The COs warn him. Some are pulling other brothers away while one, the Captain maybe, tries to nab him by the back of his armor, racing after.

A tripwire. He should've seen a damn, glowing tripwire. He's thrown back ten, maybe twenty feet with the force of the blast. The pain is white-hot. The planet around him is swimming in and out of focus, vision growing darker than the dusky sky above him. 

"No-no-no-! Scruffy!" Canvas. Canvas is screaming across the field, booted feet tearing up the golden grass with every step. He's faster than he'd ever think possible for a brother who once took an hour to eat a small ration pack. The hard, white shell of his helmet is plucked from his head and thrown behind him along with his sniper rifle  in the grass as he races to make his brother's position. "Scruffy!!" His vision is so hazy now, but he sees the unfettered panic in Canvas's eyes when he drops to his knees. "No-no-no-no-no! Please don't- Don't leave me, brother!" 

"H-hey, 'Vas I-I'm going to b-be fine… don't worry." he rasps, hearing the clamor of the COs calling in all available medics to convene on their position. Sounds like the Captain had been thrown as well. "They're c-callin' the m-" Something heavy and metallic claws its way up his throat, interrupting him and painting his brother's knees in crimson when he's thrown on his side so he can't choke on it. 

Canvas's voice is fading fast. "O-over here! Hurry! He's-!" 

Back on Kamino. Scruffy is suddenly back on Kamino in one of the massive training rooms, flat on his back. Sitting up slowly, he expects to find he's got company for a moment. That he's in a massive training exercise in his sweat-slick training uniform and he's a cadet again, that one of the Trainers will be along down the training floor and sharply telling him "That was sloppy, CT-××××! Get up! Again!" but the order never came. He found he was alone in this room. 

Strange. Maybe he'll find someone out in one of the halls. "Hello…?"

Except that's too empty, too. All of Kamino is. Kamino isn't supposed to be empty... Growth jars. The halls. The mess. His old bunkroom. There's nary a Clone to be found. It's just him. As far as he can tell. "Hello?"

There's a steady pull just behind his navel that seems to direct him to another part of the cloning facility. He's not sure what the long-necks called this place officially. Doesn’t really give two banthashits what it is, either; Scruffy prefers the nicknames and in-jokes he's heard from older brothers when he'd been caught snooping around the area once or twice as a very young cadet by the brothers who were a part of the Kaminoan security unit. 

"Hey: CT-×××× to command, it's just a trainee out of his bed. We'll take care of it. Aww look, someone's found an excuse to wander into the Build-a-Brother lab."

"Can you blame him? There's something… so calming about the nurseries. But you're not supposed to be here, little brother. C'mon. Back to bed before the long-necks get angry."

"Hello?!" He's getting desperate and unsettled. Kamino isn't supposed to be desolate and silent, his mother-world was always bursting with brothers even before the Clone Wars started, traversing Tipoca City was like swimming in a living sea of identical faces and voices. There was unspoken comfort in that uniformity as a cadet. There was always someone who may not have been the brother you were looking for, but would help you find the brother you needed. 

Needed. Oh what he needed was to find someone. Scruffy has to understand what's going on, why the pulling sensation is getting stronger when he enters the next section of the nursery. Why his chest feels so heavy with rhythmic pulses of pressure. He can't be dead, can he? 

"HELLO?! Will someone tell me what the kriff is going on?!"

"Hey-" calls a particularly brusque voice, but a brother's voice, unmistakably, "Cut that out. There's no need for yellin'. Not in here." Scruffy stares at this brother who seems to have blinked into existence in front of him, wearing armor just like him. There's a scuff mark and three "blaster-blooms" that mar his armor kit. Two in the chest and shoulder plate, and one in the kidney armor. Scruffy remembers that damage in the kidney armor. The ruined flesh beneath it. The BX droid commando's fluke shot. The injury that this brother shortly succumbed to not too long after he had gotten his Name. 

Scruffy can't believe it. "F-Faro? That really you? Where's the oth-" If Faro's here, would the others of Canvas's batch be too? Fluke? Gunnar? Cryfar? Maybe they're somewhere in this section of the embryo lab with him, hiding in another row of machinery ordinarily containing little, growing brothers sleeping in their jars. Someone sighs when he turns around to look behind him, flashing them the ring of paint around the neck of the back plating of plastoid. More have joined him and Faro. "... it's not him. It's Scruffy." 

"Who's-?" asks a third.

There's a fourth new voice, patient with the third while trying to mask the bitterness of disappointment. "Scruffy's the one that kept falling into the pits like you, Cry." 

"Oh, right-right-right..." the third one replies.

Scruffy turns back around, finding a frowning Fluke, confused Cryfar, and the last brother, Gunnar. Scruffy never had much of a chance to get to know each of these brothers. He would've liked to. There were as much his brothers as they were Canvas's batch, "his" brothers, and he… Scruffy was never as close with his batchmates. He loved them, sure. Scruffy loved all his brothers. But the three remaining brothers of his batch weren't quite as close as he would've liked. That kind of closeness didn't interest or suit them. 

"A batch isn't a bond for life, Scruff… you know that. I don't need you to coddle me." 

"C'mon, of course I do know that, but-"

Fluke approaches Scruffy at long last, laying a comforting hand on the deep injury cut into the plastoid chest plate by the explosive he triggered stepping through the tripwire. "I hope that was quick and you didn't have to suffer… C-can I ask-? Wh-where's-?" 

He doesn't know. "Hopefully he's… Oh Maker, hopefully Canvas is okay…" He faded so fast. One moment he was listening to the sound of Canvas's voice becoming more and more submerged before… nothing. He remembers trying to blink the haze from his eyes, and when he next opened them, he was on the gridded floor of the training center instead of the golden field. 

"Canvas?" It's a chorus of confused, delighted voices.

"Did he choose his name?" Faro inquires, his stoic expression brightening with a sense of curiosity. "Fluke, you were with him longest, did he-?"

Fluke shakes his head solemnly. "No…he still hadn't found or chosen a name before I died." Fluke says grimly. "Besides, I would have told you he found his Name. Or had come to Be Named."

They keep talking around Scruffy, excluding him from their conversation. "Dank farrik. Right, no, of course." Faro grumbles before his face is like stone again. Gunnar shooed Fluke off, pulling Scruffy aside to speak by a more "private" row of machinery. Scruffy grimaces seeing the jars up close. 

They shouldn't be empty. Even if this was the afterlife, if he was dead, this dreamscape of Kamino shouldn't be so empty… where are the little brothers? Where are the future soldiers and heroes of the GAR?

The grimace is noticed, and Gunnar tries to console him. "Hey, it'll be okay Scruffy… the longer you're here, the more you'll kinda get used to it. Details will start to fill in and it won't be so bad. We can see 'em… all ten fingers and toes. I've been here the longest between the four of us. I remember being scared too." Gunnar says, gesturing to his batchmates before gingerly laying a hand against the glass. "Hard to believe we were ever that small…" 

"G-guess so." Scruffy forces out between stunted breaths. He can't see the brothers inside these jars, and he's suddenly feeling this wave of dread the longer he looks. His eyes scrunch up before he has to duck his head urgently. He feels… nauseous. Lightheaded. Do ghosts get nauseous and lightheaded? What the hell is going on? Gunnar notices the distress, and thinks he's just not taking the news of being dead so well. Fluke certainly didn't; sobbing for leaving their brother behind on his own. Faro had been silent for weeks, stewing with worry over Fluke and… Canvas. His batchmate finally had a name! "So… he went with Canvas, eh?" That was not the thing to ask perhaps, but it was the first thing that came to mind. 

There's pressure in his chest, or maybe on his chest. Like he's being sat on by a Reek. Scruffy can't breathe. He's going to be sick, he's going to be sick- 

"Far!" Gunnar cries as Scruffy falls to his knees, trying to clear his throat, cough, something, to relieve some of this pressure on his rib cage.

"What, Gun?"

"What's going on with him? You think he's-?"

Faro comes closer, stooping down to Scruffy's level as he's on his elbows and knees, gasping desperately as he tries not to dry-heave. "Yeah. I think they're trying to bring him back." 

"They can do that?"

"For the lucky ones, Gun. For the people who go before it's their time. It's not his. I think… I think someone still needs him." 

"The Republic needed us and we-!" Gunnar shakes his head sharply in self-regulation, apologizing for losing his temper. "Sorry. Guess some sentiments never change and make my temper flare… Wanted to tell off the General like a real idiot, for kriff's sake. I'd have knocked my own head clean off too, Faro." 

"Here. Sit up, Scruffy." Faro's steady hands pull him up to his feet best he can before he's scrutinized by Canvas's batchmate; there's a familiar aura around him, lurking in the depths of his eyes. A rich, deep brown that reminds Scruffy of the mud from their first campaign together. How Canvas and Fluke used to poke around in the older trenches after rainfall, looking for bugs together. Faro's way of keeping them out of trouble. 

"I'm going to speak with the Captain or Commander about seeing if we can't borrow something a little more permanent than filmsi… Would be nice to know what kind of friends you two are finding in the mud by looking everything up one of these days, and we'd need records to do it. Maybe I can convince one of them to use a spare datapad. Or, something." 

"Hey look, this one's green!" 

"You two bucket-heads didn't hear a word I said, did you?" 

The tired eyes of the oldest brother of Canvas's batch looks at him, softening at last when he's satisfied with his study. "Can I ask you something before you go, Scruffy? One oldest of the batch to another?" Of course Faro would figure out Scruffy was the oldest of his batch. You could always tell. Somehow, you could always tell. Sometimes it was the posture, the way they carried themselves. Or the way they kept their brothers in line. A nurturing aptitude. Extra compassion and patience. A helpful and reassuring disposition. A sacrificial nature.

Scruffy wonders what gave it away. "An-anything." Plastoid clacks together, and for a moment the weight in his chest abates as he's encircled in a hug by one Clone-brother. Then another as Gunnar joins in. Cryfar and Fluke don't hang behind for long. "Ask me anything…" he promises once he’s been surrounded by these brothers bearing scuff marks he’s become very familiar with by proxy.

"How or when did our brother get his Name?" 

"When the CO tried to ma-make him a spacer. He was so lost without you, he wasn't doing well. He adopted all your scuff marks. We got worried about him and thought… It's something they said to him. Well he adopted all your scuff marks and eventually painted them in Our color and the CO said he'd eventually paint his in the colors of Another General after he was transferred most likely and he'd look like a paint canvas when he was talking to him and… H-he liked the word." Scruffy explains, feeling all arms tightening around him with every little gasp to alleviate the sensation. We're here, we have you, the gesture seemed to say. Something he never got from his own little brothers much. They didn’t care to be coddled or taken care of the way Scruffy often offered. There was nothing wrong with that. They were allowed not to want their older brother to offer comfort and help and security. 

“Hey. I’m gonna be okay. Medic made sure the cut’s gonna heal up.”

“Oh… good. That’s good to hear, Stick.”

“Have you checked on the one brother yet? How’s he doing?”

“He’s…”

“He’s not doing well, is he?”

“No…”

“You should go take care of him. Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine, Scruff, I promise to let you know if anything changes. He needs you more than I do right now.”

The scene around him was fading out. His body felt like it was being pulled in all directions and nothing would hold him down much longer. One by one, Canvas’s brothers released him except for Faro. Faro held this brother close, sheltering him for a moment longer. The medics nearly had him back, they figured. It wouldn’t be long. It wasn’t his time. The galaxy had other plans for him. 

Faro did too. “Promise me something, Scruffy...”

“Anything.” Scruffy swore. Anything at all. He’d swear by the seas of his mother-world and his own blaster if asked. He’d swear he’d always watch where he was going from now on. No more getting so distracted he forgot to look ahead while keeping his eyes trained on the sky looking for more birds to show Canvas, or more sweeping the treeline for spotting scrap wood for Carver, or finding weather-worn rocks to give to Cairn to add to his collection of “proper” rocks. 

“Keep looking out for our baby brother.” Faro requests. It all snaps into place for Scruffy. Canvas was the youngest of his batch. Now he was the last of it. The last brushstroke. No wonder his two older brothers, Faro and Gunnar,  seemed… so worried about him in particular out of the other three from the moment they stepped off the gunship and heard the COs murmuring to themselves. Never scolding him for his lack of adherence to the rules because Canvas made sure to try to follow them to the letter as a Shiny. Never needing to remind him to stick close because he followed so obediently after them. Of course… he should have noticed Canvas was the baby of the batch… (But, maybe he did, deep down.) “Canvas still needs you. Can you promise me that? Can you promise me you’ll protect my little brother for us?”

“I always look out for my little brothers. Brother looks out for brother. I-I promise. I promise I’ll protect him. I’ll protect your little brother, Faro…” he vows fervently. Faro, satisfied with this answer, nods gently before he tries letting go of Scruffy (but Scruffy still holds tight). He trusts this brother to keep his word. Scruffy had never rushed Canvas to find his Name or Be Named, even telling other Clone brothers to back off if he thought that Faro hadn’t heard someone harassing his batchmate. (“He’ll find his Name when he’s ready, leave him be, brother.”) Scruffy had seemed to be concerned about this little brother, just like Faro's batch, when he realized he didn’t have an answer to their questions. It seemed they’d gotten close since they’d died and Canvas was the last survivor of their batch. Maybe Scruffy needed Canvas as much as Canvas probably needed him.

“Thank you, brother.” Faro says before Scruffy slowly fades away in his arms, once again encircling him in embrace around his lower body this time. “Thank you.”

Scruffy comes around slowly, gently, feeling most of his body enveloped in a sense of weightlessness. Nothing below his feet provides any resistance when he tentatively stretches out one leg. He must be in a bacta pod. He tries looking around him, to get a sense for what's going on around him. What's hooked up to him? A couple of leads fixed to the fingers of his left hand that he feels dragging through the solution when he flexes his fingers, so maybe a pulse-OX and heart monitor. There's the breath-pipe and mask attached to his face of course, but there's… two of the oxygen tubes in here feeding in from the top? 

What the hell? His clouded eyes follow the second tube, finding the tense, scrunched face of… 

Canvas. 

His arms are anchored around his lower body, the same area he'd been held by Faro after he made a brother's oath. The promise to look out for Faro’s little brother. Their little brother… Canvas was his little brother, too.

“Commander…?”

“Yes, Carver?”

“What happens to the brothers who lose all their batchmates, Sir? Is it… common for them to be “adopted” into another group, or do they…?”

“...It’s entirely up to that unpainted brother, Carver. Believe us,” he said, nodding to the Captain not far away at the time, “we’re very worried about him too. We’re… trying to find some methods to keep this man safe. There’s an idea that seems promising, but we’re not sure he’d go through it alone. If we sent two people-”

“I’ll go with him, Commander. I’ll go with our brother. It doesn’t matter where.”

“Scruffy…”

“I mean it… uh, Sir!  I’ll go with him.”

The bacta levels are dropping now that the sensors have picked up that the occupant within has begun to show a prolonged period of consciousness. He knows he should brace his legs to support his weight ordinarily, but he’s got Canvas practically glued to his side, head tucked under his chin with one cheek planted snugly on Scruffy’s chest. He’d probably been sedated in order to “allow” him to stay with Scruffy, a smart act of mercy from an understanding medic-brother. Some brothers grow very close together, practically joined at the hip and you have to let the other brother stay so you can take care of the sick or injured one.

The glass shell of the bacta pod opens, allowing three people to step in and support the brother-pair coming out of the medical slumber. It looks like a medic and his Commander, but who was the third who stepped behind them? “Easy, easy,” his Commander urges when he tries craning his neck over his shoulder and feels an unpleasant pull, “you need to take it easy, Scruffy. You’re pretty lucky to be alive. We’re on the Jedi cruiser.” the CO promises, keeping his hands on both brothers as the medic removes the equipment. It finally allows Scruffy to talk without obstruction, though his mouth feels full of thick cotton.

“Wh-what do you mean, Sir? A-are you telling me I didn’t die?” 

The medic-brother’s face flashes with an expression that tells him “ah, so he knows” all too plainly. “We were lucky to get you back. You were clinically dead for a couple of minutes, but we managed to get your heart restarted.” He nods his head to the mysterious third person behind Scruffy and Canvas, arriving with a dinged up supply crate wide enough to comfortably seat two.

“We?” Scruffy could guess that the field medics were a part of the effort, naturally, but… Who’s behind him? Had Canvas been involved, too? “Who’s-”

“Hey, Scruff.” the mysterious third announces themselves, finally stepping into Scruffy’s line of sight. It’s his batchmate. It’s the little brother with a silly sense of humor similar to Scruffy’s who named himself Stick. “Turns out the scrawny little Shiny who couldn’t complete a push-up in a full armor kit can do some pretty impressive chest compressions now.”  Scruffy stares at him incredulously, almost missing the moment Canvas stirs against him.

“Stick…? That really you, little brother?”

Stick grins broadly at his batchmate. “Sure is.”

“D-did you-?”

“Sure did,” Stick confirms, bobbing his head once before growing a little more timid, “I was near one of the medics when the call came in for help. When I realized that my batchmate was behind the man-down call, I… found myself running after to help so Canvas wouldn’t lose you. So… I wouldn’t lose you. While I was waiting here with the medics on the cruiser for you to wake up for… a-about half an hour…  I realized I’d rather have you embarrass me by trying to take care of me like I’m a cadet all over again than… be gone.” Scruffy is having a hard time wrapping his head around the words coming out of his batchmate’s mouth, surprised by the confession that Stick cared about him still. He thought Stick was still stuck on the adamant sentiment that Scruffy embarrassed him to be around from the last time they’d talked. 

He’d been sent back by the galaxy, Sith’s hells, maybe even the Force itself for all he knew, to protect one little brother now awake and blubbering in his arms. Maybe he’d been sent back to protect a second brother, too, if he wanted to reforge his relationship with his batchmate. Kamino’s rains, just how badly had he been hurt? Well, no matter. There was time to suss that out later. “Hey, it’s okay, little brothers…” he hums softly, taking Canvas and Stick under each of his arms, “it’s okay. I’m still here.” 

“Count yourselves lucky, boys,” the Commander replies with a solemn voice and a nostalgic smile that speaks to his storied past, “not every day we get to keep those so devoted to protecting little brothers from death itself. We’ll give you some time to comfort your little brothers.” Scruffy wants to thank his CO for this small mercy and act of compassion for their situation, but he’s silenced with a merely mouthed shush you. That comfort isn’t just for them. 

You’re someone’s little brother too, Scruffy, he’s reminded.

We’re not just protecting the Republic. We’re protecting our little brothers.

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How older brothers in the 302nd and 417th deal with younger brothers' arguments

Faro - Put distance between squabbling brothers until cooler heads prevailed. Was not afraid to scruff or frog-march them by the back of their armor. (Unless Gunnar was involved. Then Gunnar got yelled at because as the second-oldest of Faro's batch he should have "known better".) There have been times Canvas really wishes Faro was still here to do this following his passing.

Commander Juke - Congratulations! You're now battle-buddies with him in the next firefight. If you all make it out in one piece, you can expect to have a "short chat" about the argument to make sure it's behind you.

Captain Law - Congratulations! You're now battle-buddies with each other, and he'll be keeping a very close eye on you. You can expect to expect to have a "short chat" about the argument, but rarely does it ever happen.

Scruffy - Expect to "hug it out" once the matter is settled. He knows brothers can't get along all the time, just ask him about his own batchmates... *Cough* Scuffle *Cough* But smoothing over the ice after a disagreement, no matter how minor, is important.

ARC Trooper Kessel - He's made many brothers learn to properly recite Vode An (Brothers All) in Mando'a together following heated arguments. Yes, he noticed you're not actually singing all the words to the war anthem, so he's going to "help" you make sure you really get it. (Better get friendly with your study partner to make this easier for everyone.)

ARC Trooper Nockite - Once he's put on his helmet, argument's over. He's done mediating. Expect to scrub blaster marks off the gunships if you feel like continuing after that. He doesn't mind helping his younger brothers with their disagreements but after a while he can't take the cadet-like bickering.

(Bonus) Carver and Cairn - No one really knows who's older between the two of them, but Cairn and Carver do plenty of "big brother" duties in Mudhorn Company. The twins would rather be the fun older brothers who keep things light-hearted, but they can also dole out the tough love when the need arises.

They actively discourage younger brothers from sorting out arguments the way they do (which often means wrestling and biting each other).

(Bonus Bonus) General Caelen - How would everyone like to hike somewhere quiet to meditate with them to clear their minds? Doesn't that sound nice? (This is not a rhetorical question. You will be hiking at least a mile out from camp so they don't have to discipline you in front of both deployments.)

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"I'm not telling anyone I won the lottery, but there will be signs."

302nd Legion (Mudhorn Company)

Captain Law: He prioritizes taking care of his men and gives it away slowly over time.

Faro: He lives quiet modestly, but his little brothers are very well taken care of on the other hand.

Gunnar: Nice living arrangements and a yellow speeder that he treats like his baby.

Cryfar: Service hound for his TBI (with Faro's encouragement). Names them Muddy after his company.

Fluke: Everything he owns in the color blue.

Canvas: Takes trips to other planets to go birding (usually with an older brother or a friend from his company). Birding equipment is slightly higher-end than before.

Scruffy: A few professional-level art supplies for himself. Most of it goes to his little brothers + Canvas.

Stick: There are no signs. It's all been squirreled away.

Scuffle: Professional therapy or funding his (minor) smoking habit; no in-between.

Cypher: A select few high-end specimens of his favorite galactic creatures. Nice display cases for his smaller specimen collections.

Cynic: ????

Carver: New knives and wood-carving tools. Plus a few rare rocks for Cairn's collection.

Cairn: Display for said rock collection. Plus a few nice wood stains and a locking toolbox for Carver.

ARC Trooper Kessel: Never bought a lottery ticket. Or gave it away to someone.

Medic Riddance: Boxes and boxes of bacta patches (he can never have enough). Stuffed tooka toys to soothe sick and injured brothers.

[FFF Masterlist] [Clone OC Masterlist]

[frostycatblr-fandom-files]

Comforting Little Brothers

Warnings and Information: Scruffy's story continues on in the fourth installment of the NTMY,B universe. Canvas is not having a good time since Scruffy's brush with death, so Scruffy's paternal instincts are on full display. Are there recreation rooms on a Venator class starship in canon? Maybe not explicitly mentioned, but we can pretend chances are good given the size of and the multiple purposes these ships serve in SW canon. Some more minor expansion of Faro, Gunnar, Cryfar and Fluke's story with more emphasis on Stick and Scruffy, and my takes on some softer aspects of Clone Culture. The Clones are artistic AF because I say so (*gestures at their armor designs*). That bird exists in SW because I say so [there's only so many times I'll open Wookiepedia for species that probably have one or two lines of Canon/Legends information]. No Mando'a here. Star Wars and real-world swearing. My usual use of italics.

Word-count: 5,324

He felt, in a word, just terrible, really. Canvas had been doing so well since finding his identity, getting his Name from one of their COs, but since Scruffy’s brush with death - only a matter of two agonizing minutes for this little brother - he’s… regressed. Canvas has regressed badly in the week and half they’ve spent aboard the Venator class ship that’s been stationed above the planet while Scruffy recovers to the satisfaction of the medical crew.

Scruffy can’t blame the lack of sleep he’s been getting, sleep that would accelerate his recovery and get him combat-ready sooner, on poor ‘Vas…  

Poor ‘Vas who’s been having nightmares about the tripwire and detonation. The feeling of the brother who took care of him fading away under his hands, and the chest compressions Stick performed on Scruffy failing to bring him back. The detonation was Scruffy’s fault in the first place. If he’d only watched where he’d put his damn foot, his little brother wouldn’t be having these nocturnal terrors about losing more brothers close to him. 

Nightmares that were only getting worse, leading to a devastating and vicious chain reaction of consequences. The worse the nightmares, the less he slept, and the less he slept, the more paranoid he would become. Paranoia that worsened the nightmares. 

Nightmares where Gunnar hadn’t just tried to race across No Man’s Land to selflessly provide cover-fire for a trooper who wasn’t dead after all, but he had triggered the landmine nearby instead of the CIS battle droid. Where Cryfar hadn’t just fallen backwards into a deeper pit and presumably broken his neck or his skull after losing his footing on the soil softened by the rains, but had either drowned or been swept away in a flash-flood. Where Faro hadn’t just been shot by the BX commando, but had his spine broken over the clanker’s knee, too. Where Fluke hadn’t just been effectively poisoned by his spoiled rations and died in his sleep, but he’d been… Maker, poor Canvas couldn’t even say. 

And now, he, Scruffy, was showing up in these nightmares. The more the medics said he recovered and got closer to battle-ready, the more Canvas seemed to regress. 

Scruffy couldn’t let his little brother go on this way, but he wasn’t sure how he could break the anxiety spiral this time. All the worry stones in the galaxy couldn't help him right now. Sedatives just made him fitful and sick to his stomach. They'd tried; many times. It was hard to think at 0300 in the morning as he listened to Stick trying to coax Canvas back to his bunk while he feverishly messaged the CO back. 

“Hey, do… you want to try one of those strategy games they gave us as cadets, Canvas?”

“No.” Canvas snaps back, squeezing his knees tighter under his chin, thin GAR-issued blanket draped around his shoulders as he sits, hunched, in a corner of the room.

Sir, please, with all due respect, I’m not sure the sedative is the best call. Yes, I know he needs sleep, believe me. But he was sick for an hour afterwards the last time we tried it. He’s not eating regularly again.

Placating hands are raised to chest level, trying to show the lack of threat. “Okay-okay. What about walking around the ship to tire you out?” Stick suggests gently, trying to buy Scruffy time to find or outsource a potential solution. 

“We’re not supposed to leave our quarters,” Canvas drones in a flat intonation, “we’d get in troub-”

“Well not if a CO said it was okay!” Stick blurts in interuption, a wide-eyed look thrown Scruffy’s way. He remembered the warning from his batchmate that this brother of a different batch was once pretty tight-fisted about the rules and regulations as a Shiny, because they offered comfort and stability to a cadet with a higher than typical obedience before he learned that the regulation manuals couldn’t teach you everything. The reg manuals couldn’t teach you about the effect losing your brothers has on a soldier. Canvas stopped being quite such a stickler for the rules when Gunnar disobeyed the order to retreat to the natural cover provided by a ridge before returning fire and-

> Good idea, see if walking around the ship will help him. Permission granted.  

Thank you, Sir.

He pitches the communicator onto his bunk and strides across the private quarters suggested by the medical crew that was mercifully signed off on by the COs. “We’ve been granted permission. C’mon, you two.” Scruffy declares, hoisting Canvas up to his feet by the wrists. “Let’s go stretch our legs, little brother.”

Canvas slumps forward, fatigue weighing down his every limb. He’s so tired. He’s so paranoid. He’s so traumatized. “O-okay…” Scruffy supports him on one side, Stick the other, and the three Clones leave their temporary quarters to walk the ship aimlessly. Scruffy didn't have anywhere particular in mind, just anywhere else away from the room Canvas has effectively made into a foxhole. 

I should thank the brothers in Laundry for sneaking us all these extra blankets, soon, Scruffy thinks to himself, tucking the blanket Canvas had essentially swaddled himself in back over his shoulders when it slips. 

“Hey, Scruff? I thought of somethin'. You know where the replacement armor depot and rec rooms are on this level, right?”

Scruffy gives his batchmate a quizzical look. “Yeah… why?” He'd already gotten the parts of his armor that couldn't be repaired after the detonation replaced and repainted in their unit's color. He'd had to make several secretive runs to collect more paint after he kept knocking over the containers in his haste to rescue Canvas from yet another panicked awakening several nights in a row. Had to send several sets of sleepwear to Laundry after hastily smearing paint on them to clean his hands. Clean hands Scruffy needed to clean up his brother's tears or hug him or pull him out of bed to settle him down.

"Back so soon, Scruffy! This is the second time tonight. Whaddya need?"

"Clean set of sleepers, please… Got paint on em, don't want the stain to set." 

"Uh oh. Canvas again, yeah? Poor kid. Here… Fresh set of sleepers for the three of you. Blankets, too."

"Thanks… appreciate it. Off to the armor depot to pick up some paint remover."

Stick scratches behind his left ear to think. “Well I uh… heard a rumor that if you ask someone in the depot for it, they've got a bad batch of armor paint they're trying to find uses for. Say it's too thin and runny to properly adhere to plastoid but it'd probably be better suited for wood or something." 

It has turned out that more Clones than just Carver, and Stick, as Scruffy had come to find out, had a penchant for finding and collecting the odd scrap of wood here and there as little tokens from this ongoing campaign. Or as art material. The General has joked fondly on more than one occasion that they must have cut as many logs as they have battle droids with their lightsaber in the name of their men so the troops have more manageable sized pieces of wood to work and create with.

"How beautiful it is that so many of these men desire to breathe creation into this galaxy, each work of art as unique and distinct as them all." 

"So… that's a 'yes, I nicked myself with my own lightsaber and would like my team medic to check the wound' because you got excited rather than tired, then, General?"

"Hah, I suppose so."

Disposable canisters of paint and brushes from the depot, some whittled token for Stick to work with and paper-like material for Scruffy in case he doesn't care for the wood he's selected from the scrap pile, they find an empty, circular table in the unofficial rec center and "make camp", so to speak. Scruffy is flanked by Canvas on his left, Stick his right, to allow him to keep Canvas close in the way that's most comforting to him while keeping his more dominant hand free. In the matters of painting, Scruffy found his right hand was better suited for controlling the brushes, while he felt he was better with a blaster in his left. 

They were trained to be dual-handed, ambidextrous, on their mother-world of Kamino. But brothers tended to favor certain hands for certain tasks. Stick always ate with his left hand, and shot primarily with his left, too. However, when he creates, like Scruffy, he's right-handed. Canvas is the inverse; primarily right-handed when it comes to how he eats and fights, but left handed for most other matters. Scruffy was more balanced, equally comfortable using either hand for anything at the end of the day. 

Canvas doesn't want to do anything but watch, too tired or too uninterested, arms stitched tightly around Scruffy's waist with his head laying over his brother's heart. Stick is more interested in rifling through the colors the crew stationed in the depot gave them for their creative efforts; decided on what carved item he wishes to paint, at least.

He's not sure what he wants to paint yet, but Scruffy knows that he should at least get started on something to keep himself calm instead of actively fretting. If Canvas's ear was just above his heart, then he was probably using this organic timer to measure out his own clarity and calm. "Hey, could I borrow the blue?" Stick requests in a soft voice. By following his batchmate's lead, maybe, hopefully, Stick hopes Canvas will be kept calm enough to decide to test his luck and sleep. 

"Sure. Whatcha paintin'?" Didn't look like anything Carver made to his memory, so it must have been one of the friends his little brother made during his time as a Shiny. Looked to be some kind of livestock from some far-flung corner of the galaxy.

Stick shrugged. "Uh… I forget what he called it. Just remember he said it was mostly blue." 

"Fair enough." 

"What're you painting?" 

"Mm," Scruffy hummed in thought, laying down a washing of white paint as a base coat on the wood square in careful, steady strokes, "thinking about that still. Maybe an Aiwha. Or a bird. Or… something." Just needed something to keep him busy, keep him engaged and focused on something that would keep Canvas's mind occupied on anything else. Anything else than the memory or thought of the dreams he's been having about losing his brothers. If silent observation was what he wanted, found comfort in, Scruffy would give that to Canvas.

He'd go so far to give the armor with the collar of paint around the neck off his back to a brother in need. Whatever it would take to uphold that oath to Faro. 

I'll protect our little brother.

I'd do anything to comfort him, too.

So yes, we're now sitting in the rec room at nearly 0400 after spending half an hour walking around aimlessly before we got the paints, and-

"You've gotten really good with a brush, Scruff." 

The compliment throws him off track for just a heartbeat, the break in the comfortable silence only punctuated by the soft inhale and exhale of breath between the wet sweeping of paint-laden brushes unexpected. "Thanks, Stick." There's a muted hum of agreement from Canvas that he can feel through his brother's chest. "Thank you too, Canvas. How're you feeling right now? Sleepy?" 

There's no reply, verbal or otherwise, and the soft patter of his heartbeat Scruffy can just barely make out being held so close, like he'd drift away with the tide if Canvas relaxed his arms even a fraction, changed only slightly. 

"That's okay, brother. You don't have to answer. Only wondering." Scruffy assures him, the arm draped around his shoulders constricts softly to give him a comforting squeeze. "Like… have you been told why his name is Stick, yet?" Scruffy feels the answer, a gentle bumping of Canvas's chin against his chest as he shakes his head no. 

His batchmate chuckles quietly. "It's silly. I scratched my CT number into a stick I found nearby and used it to hold my place in line for receiving our evening rations because I desperately had to, y'know, "help a thirsty tree"... One of the COs was wondering why there was a gap in the line and asked why there was a stick in line when he went to inspect things, asked what a stick was doing in line right around the time I came back. Looked the CO straight in the eye and said "Oh that's me, Sir!", completely serious-like. I accidentally named myself Stick."

"And… you didn't want to change it?" Canvas asks in a small voice. It's the first he's spoken since he suggested he believed they'd be in trouble if they were out of their room after-hours on this part of the massive Venator-class ship. 

Stick smiles brightly, surprised just like Scruffy that Canvas was actually talking. "Nah. The look on the CO's face was too funny and the joke got away from me quickly. Took on a life of its own so fast that other soldiers actually kept using that placeholder I made to keep my spot in line several times. I just decided to lean into it; claim it for myself." 

"Do you… still have it?"

Stick nodded, blotting the smallest brush clean for Scruffy so he could use it next. "Yeah. It's in one of the lockers with the rest of my things back in the room, actually. Here, trade with you so you're not trying to use the edge of such a thick brush to paint such thin lines, Scruff." 

"Oh, thanks…" Scruffy murmurs, finding the tiny tip much easier to control to properly convey the shape of his subject. A little bird sitting in cupped hands.

"Is that a… uh, what'd the General call them again? Spearoos?"

Scruffy chuckles, amused by the mispronounced attempt. "Sparrows. Little birds they'd see at the Jedi Temple, apparently. They sounded cute." he admits with a shrug. The more he learned from Canvas about the various birds of the galaxy, the more he could understand why they fascinated this brother from another batch. There were just so many. So many fascinating evolutionary niches, adaptations, colors, sizes, even types of plumage. There was no shortage of information to learn about avian life of the galaxy outside their rainy mother-world. 

"What kind of…?" Canvas yawned halfway through his question, head drooping a little deeper.

"Oh… I dunno yet." Scruffy suddenly had an idea. He'd come back to working on the sparrow. Hands cupping the sparrow now found themselves at the ends of bent arms encircled in armor. "You'll get to decide once I'm done painting you." 

"... me? You're gonna paint me?" Canvas stubbornly blinks away the fatigue steadily tugging his eyelids shut the longer they're in this quiet recreation center. Every Clone who comes in from the outer halls of the ship, initially bursting with exuberant laughter, falls silent when they see the three brothers sat around the little table, one of them slumped so far down in his chair while draped in a blanket, practically sharing his brother's shadow. The rumors have gotten around fast. 

If for any reason you see a particularly anxious trooper huddled in the hall outside the infirmary, that's not a Shiny scared about his check-up. Please seek out Scruffy or his batchmate Stick immediately. They'll be the only ones who can settle Canvas down. 

The permanent crew has heard of the ordeal just a week and a half ago, and they've made sure to advise all brothers and batchmates to show Scruffy, Stick and Canvas some extra support and patience because this "I'm having too many nightmares to sleep properly" cycle has been going on for four days, at least. Those entering the room become hushed with one quick glance at the trio. 

Scruffy waves in return to those entering to be polite. At last, he answers Canvas with a "Yeah, why not?" paired with a little shrug and gentle nod. "Would be good practice, too." 

Thank Kamino's steady rains and her endless, yawning seas… 

Canvas was actually asleep. 

This whole time, Scruffy just needed to hold Canvas close and sit in relative quiet in order to coax his brother into sleeping. With any luck, a sleep that was not burdened with pain-soaked memories of how he'd lost his batchmates to this galaxy. Hopefully that sweet-tempered, tiny smile was brought about by dreaming of happier times with those brothers. Maybe he was dreaming of Faro holding him and maybe all his brothers close during one of the rare times they had no training, no studies to complete. Or remembering a time he perhaps straddled Gunnar’s shoulders to reach or see something on a high shelf, maybe even racing down the halls pretending they were riding on the back of an Aiwha, instead. Maybe he was hand-sparring with Cryfar for fun, throwing sloppy punches with the intention of making a brother crack and break down into peals of laughter that lasted until their sides ached and their heads felt light. He could have been fantasizing with Fluke all the planets they’d see once they were shipped off to fight in the name of the Republic, the name of their brothers, their homeworld. 

Fantasizing and brainstorming their Names. Their paint patterns. If they’d get brave and step outside the uniformity of the regulation haircut and get wild with it. If they’d be lucky and survive long enough to no longer be Shinies, but be the seasoned, experienced soldiers they’d been bred for, bred in the after-image of a late bounty hunter. Wishfully thinking they’d outlast the war.

Similar things Scruffy had done himself with his own batchmates. 

“Who’s scuff mark is that?” Stick mumbles, whispering in a sleepy voice as he points to the scuff that spans across the split in the chestplate that denotes the “pecs” of the armor, just under the chin of the Phase II helmet.

“Faro’s…” Scruffy whispers back, carefully dabbing his brush to gather a miniscule amount of black paint to mix into the white on the makeshift mixing palette to make more of the light gray. “His scuff mark is above ‘Vas’s… almost like he’s…” 

Looking down on his little brother. 

Oh how poetic. 

“Kriff…” Stick murmurs, thinking the same exact thing, bottom lip quivering. He’s heard what Scruffy experienced in those two minutes, heard the dreamscape he wandered through, heard the promise made to a fallen brother. “Do you… think he is, if he’s able to?”

Scruffy never had the time to ask Faro questions like that. Questions he wished he’d thought of at the time in hindsight. “If Faro can, I hope he does…” Could Faro see how confident and self-assured Canvas had become after adopting a name from the words of a CO? Did Gunnar feel honored that his bravery inspired Canvas to offer support to their brothers in the middle of a firefight? Would Cryfar laugh knowing that Canvas would take a deep breath to settle himself if he got overexcited or stumbled over his words? Could Fluke find it in him to be glad rather than guilty that Canvas inspected his rations for signs of spoilage no matter how tired, how hungry, he’d be to avoid preventable sickness? 

Would ‘Vas’s batchmates never doubt for a moment that they’d asked the right person to take the task of protecting their little brother?

"Wow… it really looks like him so far." Stick whispers. 

Scruffy needs to give the work more color still beyond the shading of the white armor and the paint of their unit. He'd done all the linework and painted Canvas in his armor and his six little scuff marks. But now he needs to take care to mix up the paints available to him to get the skin tone just right. There had been no basic brown in the depot to build off of, so he'd have to create it himself. 

Let's see… complimentary colors could make brown in most cases. And Canvas… in natural light, in perfect health, didn't he have more red undertones to that bronzed skin? Almost a less saturated mahogany? Hmm. He'd have to play around with the color mixing for a while to make sure Canvas didn't end up looking so light and pale, or too dark. 

After a painstaking process of getting the shade perfect, Scruffy could finish capturing his brother's likeness. The jaw and broad nose looked less flat and stiff with the color introduced by his brush. Carefully building up that color, Canvas's face on the cut of wood became softer, rounder, more humanized. 

Human. They were all human. Their General told Scruffy when he first found his name that they, the Clones, the sons of Kamino, all of them felt unique in the Force. Cut from the largest bolt of cloth the galaxy had ever kriffing seen to anyone else, but distinct to the Force-wielders. 

"There is a protective nature to you, son. You might make a fine leader for your brothers in this war. I can feel it; how many of them feel safer with you watching out for them. Perhaps… even the ones who don't want to admit it. But especially to that brother who I came to assist in his descent from the treetops, just the other week." 

"M-me, a leader? Oh, uh… Thank you, General… I don't know what to say." 

"You are very perceptive, Scruffy; it has been hard not to take notice. And I can sense that you have questions. You are welcome to ask." 

"Do you still hear the fluttering? When talking about our brother we're all worried about, I mean."

"I do. The sound has… gotten slower, less frantic. But I do not feel it means he's giving up. I sense it means something else for him." 

Scruffy has to pause for a moment, giving the paintbrush to a half-asleep Stick so he can adjust his support on Canvas, carefully sit him up so he doesn't strain his neck with an uncomfortable angle or lack of support after he's practically doubled-over since sitting at the table. "Easy… please stay asleep…"

Stick gives his batchmate the brush again, murmuring that he's just gonna lay his head down on the table and rest his eyes. The sun is slowly peering over the horizon on this side of the planet and it's getting in his eyes. It's almost daybreak. 

"Go ahead, I'm almost done. Just need to… paint one last… thing, then we can see if we can carry him back to the room before this side of the ship officially wakes up." 

The little sparrow. Scruffy just needed to finish the little sparrow, but Canvas was likely in a deeper sleep now because shifting him didn't cause him to stir in the slightest. So he wasn't available to say what kind of sparrow Scruffy should try painting. But at least Scruffy knew his brother's favorite color. 

Orange. He could make the little sparrow orange.

Not just any old shade of orange, either. A very distinct orange. 

Saffron. 

A beautiful surprise sometimes found in the middle of golden and blush-pink sunrises. Dramatic and demanding in the red and purple sunsets. Canvas hoped to try something with Ithorian saffron in it one day. And as far as oranges went, to Scruffy's recollection, it didn't show up in many birds and their plumage across the galaxy. 

Stick yawns and tells him not to be a perfectionist about it. Just paint the bird orange, add a few details and call it good. Scruffy carefully hums in agreement, saying it shouldn't take long. He should be finished soon.

The CO strides down the hall, hearing the chatter through the Clone rumor network that the trio from his unit could be found in the rec center. There's been a lot of chatter.

"They've been in there since almost 0400. It's nearly time for the mess to start serving breakfast for this side of the ship. You think they're okay?" 

"I dunno. You've heard how Scruffy's brothers have been since the guy got himself blown up and came back from the dead; Stick actually wants to talk to him again and the other one… what's his name again? Vas?"

"Canvas."

"Ah, got it. Well Canvas has been inseparable from Scruffy ever since-"

Why were so many troops of a different unit stopped in the hallway, slowly peeking into the doorway of this level's rec center in groups before moving on to get some sleep? "Boys, you know what safety protocol is for the halls." Too many brothers lingering in the halls made for dangerous bottlenecks. Too many lives to potentially lose in one place if they were to come under Separatist fire. There's a mixed rippling of apologetic sorry sir-s and we'll go-s and you should see it for yourself-s that makes the CO sigh gently. "That's what I'm here for, trooper. Get yourself to bed and sleep well." 

"Yessir." The reply comes with some salutes.

The CO finds the three young soldiers of his unit, his brothers, slumped at the table together, asleep, save for one. Head propped in his hand, elbow firmly on the table, Scruffy was just teetering on the edge of consciousness, his left arm curled around Canvas. Almost all Clone brothers have the same rich, brown eyes, but there's something that is profoundly, simultaneously doleful and calm when Scruffy looks up from the table to politely acknowledge his superior officer. 

"Good morning, Sir. Sleep well?" 

He can tell Scruffy hasn't gotten so much as an hour, or even half, of sleep since granting "permission" to roam the ship to ease Canvas's paranoia. He wonders whose idea it was to stop by the depot for the bad batch of armor paint and come into the recreation center on this level. 

"Well enough, I suppose… Have you gotten any sleep, soldier?" 

"No, sir. But…" Scruffy glances down at Canvas, still fast asleep, still bearing that tiny, tender smile, "...that's okay. I'll get an opportunity later. I think… I think this is the way to help 'Vas, though." 

The CO is slightly surprised. Holding him while he sleeps, like a little nat-born child? Was it really that simple in the end? 

He has to check,"Did you get a sedative from Medical?"

Scruffy shakes his head. "No sir."  

"Huh. Well, if it works-"

"-don't kriff with it." his soldier closes out the saying held close to the heart of many a battlefield medic. "Should… probably get back to our room so others can use the rec room without needing to walk on their toes. Stick. Wake up, brother. C'mon…" Created and trained for war, but so perceptive and kind, Scruffy is telling his CO indirectly that he'll get the three of them out of everyone's curled hair.

Scruffy will have his hands full carrying Canvas back, and Stick is bleary-eyed as he stumbles to his feet, swearing sharply under his breath when he drops the whittled farm animal. (Hmm, he's curious as to who made that; it doesn't seem like Carver's work.) The CO stoops down and reaches under the table, "Here, just follow your brother, Stick. I've got it." He collects the other item that bears evidence of importance to his brothers, and with relief finds the paint is long dry. He'll return to clean up their table later. 

"Thanks, sir…" Stick yawns, trying to clear his vision. He nods simply, hand on Stick's shoulder to better guide him after Scruffy back to their room. 

As they walk in relative silence, aside from Scruffy's soft-spoken "conversation" with himself, seemingly. 

That's been a new quirk for this soldier, since the detonation. Since his batchmate brought him back from the brink. Talking to himself. 

Except just as they reach the quarters temporarily assigned to the trio, the CO catches Scruffy drop a name for the first time. "Wish I knew what your favorite color was, Faro. Maybe I could've made your brother's portrait even more symbolic by making your scuff mark your favorite color instead of the color of Our unit. Really make Canvas look like a painter's pallet or something; wouldn't that be funny?" 

Scruffy was talking to Faro. That was the third batchmate Canvas had lost not long into his first campaign off of Kamino. He remembers Faro for his stoicism and a fond eye he only seemed to hold for his batchmates, for whatever the reason. Sadly the COs and the General never had the opportunity to get through to this soldier before he was forever lost to the galaxy not long after finding a Name. 

For the first time, before he'll have to give it to Scruffy, the CO takes a closer look at this thin sheet of wood he picked up off the table.

It's a face that millions, maybe billions of Clone troopers bare, but it's still undeniably Canvas. The portrait has his gentle, coal-dark curls of hair and the dark, doe-like eyes that exaggerated his emotions. He remembers seeing Canvas, then just a number, a plastoid puppy, when he disembarked the gunships full of reinforcements. The kid had such an expressive face. And here, it was captured in a perfect expression of serenity. 

Canvas has been painted in his Phase II armor, save for his hands at chest level; lacking the gloves and gauntlet plates. Cupped in his hands is a little orange bird, backdropped by his gray-ish scuff mark. But his scuff mark near the plackart is not glazed over in Their color. It's completely barren of paint.

The scuff marks of his batchmates are coated in paint, however. Faro's above Canvas's. Gunnar's is on the left shoulder bell and part of the shoulder on the chestplate. Cryfar's is on the left, on a lower part of the chestplate just before it touches the seam where chest and backplate meet. Fluke's is on the right side of the chestplate, near the space the arm comes through. 

His batchmates' scuffs surround his own with color to frame Canvas's gentle hands, carrying a little orange bird, and the CO can see with each deliberate stroke of the brush that this entire portrait has been carried out with the sentiment of another brother's love for him. 

Bacta, nysillin, both were some damn good stuff in the way of medicine out in this galaxy, but love… 

It didn't matter the type. Romantic. Platonic. Familial. Love was some of the best medicine to soothe a troubled mind, a fearful heart, a struggling brother. It was far from Canvas's fault something in him was so fearful, so frightened again; like he had been from the very first step off the gunship. 

It was far from Scruffy's fault as well, the CO hearing the thin GAR-issue mattress creak with the additional weight as two troopers sandwich Scruffy once Stick joins them. They were young. These three were more experienced than when they had been Shinies, but they would all have their slip ups. Even him, and his other commanding officer who he worked with regularly due to the nature of this campaign. 

The General blames themselves for trying to warn Scruffy too late about the laser trip wire. Each CO individually blames themselves for not looking out for his brother better. They'd just rather Scruffy not take the blame while he's focused on trying to take care of a slightly younger brother once again because he has so much love for his brothers. 

That was a good thing. 

"Sleep well, boys." He sets the portrait of Canvas down near the bed, pulling one of the many, many blankets he finds on the floor up and over Scruffy and his little brothers. 

A brother's love could be such a healing thing.

[FFF Masterlist] [Clone OC Masterlist]

Tagging @stardust9905 just to make sure that you see this, since you had asked if there was going to be more. 🩷

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Brothers & Batchmates [Part 1]

Warnings and Information: Made a real mess for myself in the NTMYB narrative by giving one Jedi command of both a battalion and a legion, which just goes to show I didn’t plan this far in advance from the beginning when what was meant to be a one-off has become a Whole Thing. (Ah well. You live and you learn who the hell’s in charge here. This is me fixing my mess and fleshing out the story.) I missed writing about my boys. Reference and allusion to canon-typical violence and war crimes. Reference and allusion to death, injury and loss. More takes on Clone culture. Still no use of Mando’a here. Star Wars and real-world swearing. The usual use of narrative and stylistic italics. Clone OC Scuffle is his own damn warning (perhaps just for this installment as a whole). *Use of a character’s deadname. Reference to the transgender Clone named Sister. Like her Clone OCs, the author can’t stop making up fake birds.  *Jedi OC Caelen is genderfluid, and while any pronouns are applicable, they/them is primarily used in the story for clarity. Caelen’s deadname is brought up ONCE in an establishing flashback, as a warning, to those who are sensitive to such things. (I want it to be very clear it is not done with disrespect, however.)

Word-count: 6,272

The combined unit eyes the three-dimensional map with bated breath. They were warned this morning that the commander and captain needed to conduct a last-minute mission to move against the Separatist forces - an opportunity to deal a critical blow - but they could not take the entire combined company. There is a chance many brothers will have to be apart, a very long twenty-four hours for some. 

All Clones are brothers of course, though batchmates are most often the closest of all brotherly bonds. And for those who have been adopted into these batch-bonds, the potential to be split apart proves more stressful. 

But duty takes precedence over such feelings. 

Their commanding officers are apologizing before they even make their verdicts, who will be going with the commander, and who will be staying with the captain. "We're sorry for what's to come; we never want to split our forces unless necessary of course after growing used to this… unusual arrangement. However, Captain Law and I have agreed this could make the difference between an early victory or a crushing defeat in this sector of Republic space." Hundreds of brothers reply that they understand in the affirmative, however begrudgingly for some, and however anxiously for others. 

"Commander Juke will take volunteers first, and if necessary following that point, we'll select and recruit additional troops into the task force." Captain Law further explains, switching the holonav off for the time being. 

One soldier steps forward out of the lineup, picture of perfection in formation position with his helmet carried in the crook of his arm. There is a jagged notch cut out of his right ear that makes him stand out. This is Nockite, one of the oldest brothers in the combined forces under a singular Jedi’s command. 

"I will go." Nockite’s simple pledge is an unwavering oath, and the first break in the ice of hesitation for many of his other brothers. If Nockite will go, many who look to his example will follow.

He's thanked for volunteering himself, but Commander Juke doesn't need them right away. The only timeframe they are supplied with is “soon enough”. Juke says he is only telling his brothers now to give time to think it over so the call doesn't come as a complete surprise. Where he can avoid it, it is not in the commander's nature to create rude awakenings for the men, whether they be from his battalion, or Law’s legion. He’s proved he cares about preventing the decay of overall morale on many occasions before.

They’ve taken many blows as it is, these brothers. 

The death of General Kalsamm. 

Many of these last planets, festering with CIS battle droids, have proven for staggering losses of life in the name of tentative victories. 

Knowing that though they’ve proven capable thus far, one singular Force-wielder cannot maintain the command of a legion and their late master’s battalion on their own forever; the arrangement brothers have grown used to will eventually come to an end…

Fortunately this dividing line - when that time comes - will not have too great an impact on a group of Clones who admittedly have grown very dependent on one another, in one sense or the other. Canvas, the baby brother of one batch, now adopted into the fold of another, would have been utterly inconsolable if he had been separated from the one brother who’d come to mean the galaxy to him. And Scruffy, equally attached in his own fashion to not just Canvas, but his batchmates Stick and Cypher and twins Carver and Cairn too, would not be capable of taking such orders without challenge. Join the ranks of the battalion without his chosen brothers? Remain in the legion without the brother who spent the most time ensuring he did not die a rookie?

Sat together, not far from where the COs had made this announcement, Scruffy and his brothers consider if they should volunteer to go to assure they don't become fragmented. Do they just say nothing and hope enough brothers will volunteer themselves? Commander Juke is taking a relatively "small" response force for this opportunity, maybe only fifty or so brothers, so surely these slots would fill fast between the legion and the battalion, right? 

The more they all sit and think about it, the more one of them grows nervous about particular possibilities. "Maybe we… should? If we tell the Captain we volunteer to go together then we won't be split up." 

"Is that what you wanna do, Vas?" Scruffy asks, carefully picking leaf after leaf from Canvas’s tight curls of hair. He’d fallen in a patch of bluefern this morning, chasing after a Seppie probe droid. Damn thing nearly got away too, had the Clone with five scuff marks on his chest plate not recklessly thrown himself forward in hopes of catching the thing by one of its many thin appendages and succeeded. 

Lost his helmet in the process, but Canvas looked so damn proud of himself for slowing the recon unit down just long enough for a marksman to turn the droid into scrap-metal. Captain Law had been proud too, once he had talked himself out of lecturing his brother on account of the recklessness. 

"I think so. While it's not that I don't like the look of the situation, I don- can't lose my brothers…" Canvas replies, screwing his eyes shut in his admittance. "I just can't." Out of all his fears - and there are many - the thought of losing his brothers paralyzes him. Battle droids don't frighten the Clone who bears the marks of his dead batchmates like they once had, save perhaps BX commando droids and for every good reason. 

On more than one occasion since being accepted into Scruffy's fold, Canvas has woken up in a bundle of emotionally shattered nerves with hot, thick tears trailing down his face after waking from a dream about losing his batchmates, and then his closest brothers; leaving him all alone. Sometimes the worry stone that sits in his utility belt helps. Other times it's nothing more than whittled wood that has become smoothed through repeated use. 

Cypher looks up from his datapad at long last, breaking away from studying his page on a specimen of carnivorous invertebrates. "Should we ask the Commander before you change your mind?" 

Canvas scuffs the dirt before him with the toe of his boot, taking a moment to ponder. Should they? What if the others didn't want to go? The twins hadn't said anything since Commander Juke and the captain informed them of the plan. 

"Cairn? Carver? What do you think; do you want to do it?" 

"I'm still considering it." Carver admits in a grumble through gritted teeth. Someone has his vibroknife for the time being, and he's been somewhat unhappy without it. He’s always thought best with his hands occupied. His twin, Cairn, on the other hand has his mind made up. 

"I'd go. I'd love to lay waste to a couple of clankers. Tear 'em limb from limb!" 

"Cairn, you worry me." Scruffy's batchmate Stick says plainly, grimacing in concern after sharing a glance as the oldest and next oldest. Yeah, this is normal for him, welcome to my galaxy little brother. "And you too, Carver. You're not usually so… moody." Stick adds with a shrugging gesture. 

"I can't think when I don't have my knife on me." Carver reminds him. 

"That is kriffing terrifying, thank you." Stick replies hurriedly, no longer grimacing, but actively recoiling from the grumpy brother beside him. "I wasn't aware the knife was quite that important."

"It's part of his identity. How he got his Name." Scruffy explains, fishing out a folding blade that's part of his batch-brother's kit after Cypher says he's welcome to take it and use it for the time being ("I needed to collect some cuttings the last time I used it; just… don't get anything on your armor.") apologizing for the purple sap stuck to the edge of the blade. "Back before Canvas had his name, he added Faro, Gunnar, Cryfar and Fluke's scuff marks into his armor after Fluke died. Took him about an hour to do it with nothing but the rough edge of a rock. Carver found an old vibroknife somewhere, and dug a couple of designs into his helmet after watching what Canvas had done. You can guess the rest from there." 

Stick plucks up the whittler’s helmet to examine it for himself at Carver’s invitation when admitting he’s never noticed the designs before. Simplistic renditions of marching bantha and the twin suns of Tatooine. “Heh. Reminds me of the day the captain was talking about naming us Bantha Company, for a while. Not half bad at all, Carver.”

Having honed his skills as quickly as he has, Carver often hates much of his early work; there are at least four known exceptions. His worry stones, the General’s Mudhorn, Canvas’s whittled bird’s nest, and now the helmet carvings. “Thanks. Think that’s what I had on my mind that day as well. Some day, I want to add a great, big old Mudhorn on the other side, now that we’re the Mudhorn Company.” Yeah, maybe he’ll look like a kiss-ass by adding the captain and Jedi’s favorite creatures to his helmet, but so what? (He’d have to add Commander Juke’s favorite creature - a scarab - to really sell the idea anyways.)

“Could paint one for you,” Scruffy offers before reminding him he needs to start thinking on his decision since getting him the temporarily-loaned knife to think, “but you’re not allowed to blow me up in order to make that happen.”

“Don’t worry. Was considering breaking my favorite arm instead.” Carver promises, continuing the gallows humor a moment longer, “Or provoking stone-stacker to.” A small pebble glances off his thigh armor with a sharp tok! in response from Cairn; something Scruffy quickly puts an end to before the behavior escalates, as it often does. 

“Cut it out,” he warns in a paternal tone, confiscating the next pebble from the palm of his brother’s hand, “now’s not the time.” Carver is fixed with a firm look next, one disapproving and unimpressed. “You know he doesn't like that nickname. Let's not have another fight if he's going to come along and you stay behind.” This will be all Scruffy needs to add to make his point to each brother out of the twins before returning to picking out the tiny bits of powder blue foliage from Canvas’ hair. 

“Hold on a second,” the researcher among them requests as he remembers something, reaching for Cairn's right hand which he had recently injured, “I’m not certain you should join the task force with a healing tendon injury.” 

They're unable to recall what he'd done to sprain one of the major tendons in his hand and wrist, and with no great way to treat it out here in the field other than pain-killing stims and compression wraps, Cairn had been given certain restrictions in how much he could safely lift. 

“Oh shit- ow!” Cairn mumbles as Cypher experimentally rolls and prods Cairn’s wrist, and finds it responds less than favorably even now, “I'd already forgotten about that. Maaaaaybe I should reconsider…” 

The brothers and batchmates have made up their minds, now that they're certain Cairn has come to his final decision. Carver and Cairn will be staying behind, and Canvas, Scruffy, Stick and Cypher will be volunteering to join the ranks of the task force. There are precautionary goodbyes, just to be safe. With few specifics given, there’s no telling what is in store for these brothers, what they’ll face in the line of duty. 

That reality is concerning, but it’s what they were made for. That’s how they serve the Republic. 

"Captain Law, we'd-" Canvas begins to volunteer himself and his brothers, but the C.O. holds his hand out, flat palm and splayed fingers, to halt him. 

The scarred brow belonging to his superior officer furrows harshly. "Actually, Canvas…" Captain Law looks to Commander Juke for a moment, for confirmation, and the furrow deepens when all Juke offers is that solemn nod. The decision is final. “I’m… I’m afraid you can’t go.”

Getting hit with the stun setting from their DC-15s when doing training drills with the Carbines hurt less than this, worse than the total-body paralysis that follows after the tsunami of numbness. What does his captain mean he can’t go?

Risking wrath or reprimand, he challenges the call. “But, sir, I-” His mind races, but he tries not to give into the rising panic. “Why can’t I go? I want to go.” What reason does his brother, his captain, have for retaining him? He’s a willing and able soldier, according to his last evaluation. Does the captain know differently?

“Sir, Vas hasn’t been talked into this by any of us, he’s more nervous about staying than going if this is about his anxieties.” Scruffy steps in to not only defend Canvas’ claims, but of course to support his brother. “Honest, he wants to go.”

“This isn’t about his anxiety-” Captain Law begins insistently at risk of being interrupted, “- this is about other things, boys. The rest of you may go, but Canvas needs to stay behind.”

Before Canvas can get in a word about talking to the captain in private for a moment, Scruffy turns his voice steely and defiant, and that’s unlike him. 

“Then I’m not going either.” 

“Son, mind your tone.” The commander’s warning to Scruffy is more out of habit than true distaste for how his brother is conducting himself right now. He understands the how and the why of the behavior, fully prepared for this. “Let’s not be so hasty. There’s still time to deci-”

“Respectfully, there’s nothing to decide, Commander Juke.”

No, that’s definitely enough now, Canvas decides. “Scruffy… can I have a minute to speak to the captain, alone?”

If he can speak with Captain Law, one on one, maybe he can make more sense of this decision. Maybe he can sway the mind of his immediate commanding officer, and together they can have a discussion with the commander about his participation in the task force. Then he still gets to go. He still gets to prove himself a capable, competent soldier for all of his set-backs and faults, and his older brother won’t get himself in trouble with their even older brothers. 

Canvas feels confident that this discussion could reverse the captain’s decision, if he just has the chance to speak without Scruffy interjecting on his behalf. And though Captain Law agrees to humor him, suggesting they speak a short ways off from everyone else, the pained expression on his face does not bode well.

“I’m sorry, brother… I know you’re hoping to convince me, but I’m afraid the decision was not mine to make in the end…” Captain Law begins, hoping to ply Canvas with apology and reasoning as he reaches forward and takes the younger by their shoulders. “I wanted you to go, too, little brother. I truly did.”

He is not going to cry like a child who didn't get his way. He is a grown man, a soldier. He knew this was a risk from the moment he was old enough to partake in the tests and the training on their motherworld that he would either lose his brothers, or be separated from them, at some point in this war they would be fighting. Every damn one of them knows this. 

I was created to march a war that had not yet started. I was created to serve, to fight valiantly and loyally. I was created with my brothers, and I will lose many of them in this war. If… when… I lose them, all I will have to remember them by is a cut scrap of their body glove. No helmets. Only my memory and their smell in my nose. 

Canvas has the scraps of their black bodysuits all Clones wear under the plastoid armor that once belonged to his batchmates - Faro, Gunnar, Cryfar, Fluke - though unfortunately, they no longer smell like his brothers. 

Captain Law has apologized again and again for what he's had to do. Commander Juke has taken him aside and tried to say something to him too, but the reaction remains the same. 

"Please just try to stay safe." If he speaks anything beyond these six words, Canvas knows how it will end. How his resolve will crumble. How he will accuse his commanding officers of singling him out, babying him like a cadet and lying about it. Abandon the logical understanding of why he has to remain behind with the Captain and why Scruffy, Stick and Cypher are going to be a part of the task force. 

And the General from a planet called Little Archossi… they haven't liked the arrangement either, but the Force-wielder has given full control of this strategized attack to their officers. When they come and speak to Canvas themselves, using the affectionate terminology of their culture and homeworld, they are very, very careful not to sound as though they mean to infantilize anyone.

"Young one, I heard you won't be going with your brothers. I am surprised to see you look so calm."

Canvas can only lift his shoulders stiffly before they are quickly dropped. He doesn't know what he should say to that. He certainly doesn't feel calm, and the Jedi Knight can probably sense that. "Captain Law explained why I'm staying behind, why my brothers have been asked to go. I know what's been asked of me, General." His statement makes the gray-skinned General frown sharply, and he worries he's made it sound like he's waving off sympathetic efforts. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to be… like that." 

"It is only understandable, young Canvas, to feel as you do. To understand that your task keeps you here while your brothers will walk another path with trust and acceptance speaks to your training." A calloused hand is laid on his shoulder for a moment, an expression of comfort and compassion. There is understanding when the General speaks next, but also some pride. "And to understand that while you are perhaps very upset about this, you still conduct yourself in spite of your feelings in a way that speaks to your maturity. You prove time and time again that you understand your duty to the Republic without forgetting these are your brothers." 

"I don't always feel very mature, General." Canvas admits gently, shamefully. He can't decide if the admittance is supposed to be bitter, or regretful, or full of remorse and disappointment instead. His feelings are too much of a tumultuous tailspin to make sense of everything on his own. What would the General sense from him? "I'm not like the others…" 

They seem taken aback, short of balking in surprise, starmelt yellow eyes blinking rapidly. 

"No, in a sense you are not. But whatever do you mean, little one?" 

It's too much to explain. Canvas isn't sure where he should start, if he did. Did he tell his General that now that he's been away from Kamino for a while, he suspects one of the Trainers there of abusing the soldiers? Would it be a good idea to tell them that he doesn't always think he's fit to be a soldier; there's some "minor" defect or a mishap with the equipment during his development that explains why he has a perpetual undercurrent of anxiety beyond the pale for someone in wartime? Does he explain that more recently, he dreams he's… decommissioned? Or reconditioned if he's lucky? 

"... nevermind, General. It'd take too long to explain."

"I see, then... perhaps another time. I would like to understand what it is that troubles you."

Canvas thinks on it, seeing no real harm in the General knowing, but ultimately he decides against what he initially had to say. "Perhaps another time would be better to talk about that, yes… but I did have a question about something else. Something I just want a little clarification on, if it's okay." 

The Force-wielder blinks curiously. "What would you like me to clarify, young Canvas?" For a moment, they must believe it's another case of confusion regarding the gender-presentation of the temporarily combined unit's leader. The matter of gender fluidity wasn't a completely rocky concept for their men to navigate like it has been elsewhere in the galaxy, remembering how their first days of command played out.

“You look troubled, my friend. Come.” Master Kalsamm tells them privately, ushering his former pupil into one of the battered command tents. 

There in the sparse shade, the Togruta can find the thin cloths they’ve used before to soak in water, where they then apply it to the sun-flushed skin of the other. Coming from a small world where much of the people are nocturnal, his pada- former padawan does not have certain adaptive traits that protect them well from the light of the sun. Ideally, tolerance to ultraviolet rays would have continued to build over time, but with the state of the war, his former padawan had grown somewhat impatient, and believed the time had come to brute force it instead.

It will be the physical trial I will willingly bear if it means I am able to protect the peace of the innocents of this galaxy before it is too late, Masters. 

His heart pangs, knowing that though they have tried to hide it, these developing sunburns are among the worst his student has suffered. “You’re in great pain today, my friend. Pulling away every time I put down another cloth, shielding your thoughts from me… Are you regretting your decision?” Kalsamm has always had such a trusting bond with his student, very rarely does the other find thoughts have been concealed from the greater current of the Force. 

“I’m sorry, Master Kalsamm. There’s just a lot on my mind. Feel like an overwhelmed padawan again with everything I feel I must remember.” the newly-appointed Jedi Knight admits as their teacher lays another cooling rag to burning skin, doing their utmost to remain still this time. “I do not regret my decision.”

The 302nd Legion of the GAR is mine to command. A Clone captain named Law who offered to find me a new name today after one of the few conversations they had together so far.

“We know you introduced yourself to us as General Caelum, but is there a name you'd prefer to that? Or a name we could… give you? Like we give our brothers?"

They blink in confusion, unfettered curiosity. Scarcely met their commanding officer, explained that though they were born with the body of a boy, they are not limited to this ‘singular capacity of self’. When explaining ‘he is sometimes she is sometimes he’ only a short time ago, already, the one who called himself Law has shown more understanding than people they've spent significantly more time with. 

“You don't seem confused, Captain Law. I am… surprised.” 

Law was only newly promoted, unused to the change in rank, then. It's him who balks next. “Well, um, I don't see why it's something to be confused about. It's not my identity to question, only to respect, General.” 

Indeed… didn't Master Kalsamm try explaining before that the Clones were engineered with things like obedience and respect for command in mind, given that the Kaminoans view them as… property? How heartbreaking. 

If only I could let others feel what I do - that unique sound in the Force every lifeform takes, like a fingerprint. Captain Law: he is a beating heart, keeping time with the slow but relentless surf. 

“Speaking with experience, young one?” they ask habitually. Most Clones haven't gotten used to the cultural quirk. Some hate it. Some don't care for it, nothing more. Others still, after buffeting the initial confusion, love it. 

Captain Law does not indicate disdain for it. 

“Young one's definitely applicable here because she's a couple of Growth Cycles older than me, I imagine, but… Yes.” Captain Law answers with a knowing chuckle and affirmative nod. “Yes, there's a Clone among us who was named Sister, by other brothers. So she knows she belongs.” 

A new name can be thought up by the legion, so the General knows that they belong, too… If that's what they want.

Whether it is shouted across the battlefield in a rally cry, or whispered out of fear when the night is darkest, or spoken with naught but reverence, hearing their new name, given to them by their brave men, sparks a little more love for it with each passing day. 

"Are Jedi forbidden to love, General Caelen?" 

Caelen smiles gently, fondly. Firstly because of the use of the gifted name, followed shortly after by the surging feeling of interest and wonder. They cannot promise the best explanation, only their best effort to give it. "We are not. Love is only natural. It takes too many forms to make it forbidden, too. Compassion and empathy are siblings to the greater concept of love. To live is to love something, someone, not just other than yourself, but along with yourself. It is attachment that is… discouraged. Yet, attachment is only too natural. Jedi are not forbidden from loving, or to love. Common misconception." A gentle and curious 'why do you ask?' remains unspoken for now.

Canvas chews his bottom lip in thought for a moment, one of his hands grazing a scuff mark that mars his armor kit. "I see… Thank you, General Caelen. I was just curious. It's… something I've been wondering about." 

"It was something Gunnar wondered." General Caelen deduces, recalling which of Canvas's batchmates that scuff mark once belonged to prior to him adopting it. "And something rooted up the memory within you, recently." 

Canvas does not, or perhaps cannot elaborate at the time, instead only capable of nodding. Glancing towards the heavens, he studies the Jedi cruiser where it sits just out of reach of the planet’s gravitational pull. 

The Harmonious. This ship was at one point under General Kalsamm’s command; but with Kalsamm’s untimely demise (which General Caelen emphasizes was a test meant for them, by the Force), it has been turned over to Caelen’s command instead. Same as the battalion, for the time being.

Ironic that he spent two weeks growing increasingly paranoid out of his mind on the Harmonious, after what happened to Scruffy, honestly. If the Force is capable of doing things like providing tests to (for?) the ones who can harness the many gifts and abilities within it, is it capable of having a sense of humor as well? (Albeit, a twisted one?)

“I still think of your batchmates, young Canvas,” Caelen shatters the otherwise contemplative silence that has elapsed between themself and their soldier, “though perhaps not as often as you, granted. While they were courageous men I had the honor to fight alongside, for a time, they were so much more to you.” Caelen omits the word only here, refusing to boil down any part of that memory where it is not necessary (like discussing matters regarding the Clones with the long-necks, whose discussions must reluctantly be carried out in terms of property and product for the duration of). 

“I sensed at one point you were deeply ashamed, or perhaps embarrassed by how much Gunnar once disliked me. Perhaps… even hated me, for one particular moment.” General Caelen admits. 

‘We’re their cannon fodder, they don’t care about us. Throw enough brothers at the problem until it goes away and then don’t so much as mourn us.’

Canvas can do little but wince when the words come back to him. Those bitter, stinging words said in a moment of great frustration after five long, grueling days of trying to brute-force their way into a Separatist outpost. So many brothers had been hurt, or picked off by enemy fire. The respective medics of the legion and the battalion had sacrificed so much of their sleep, their sanity, tending to the wounded and the dying in vain hopes of helping them limp along until the next volley, the next thermal detonator, the next anything. He still remembers the way Gunnar’s face fell just a fraction, chipping that shell of stoicism, when the brother’s body suddenly went limp almost the moment the medic, Rid (short for Riddance), took over. 

“You didn’t deserve what he said about you, General…”

“It’s okay, young one. I harbor no hurt in my heart for your brother’s words.” General Caelen assures Canvas, “Grief takes many forms. For Gunnar, it was anger. For Faro, it was protectiveness, was it not?”

Maybe it was. It felt more like it was more a matter of having an impatient, second shadow, honestly. 

Keep up. Don’t fall behind. Yes, it’s not fun to lug a 4.15kg gun, but that’s no excuse to leave it laying around. 

If something happened to you… I’d never forgive myself.

“I guess.” Canvas admits with a shrug. “I’m sure what you saw of Faro was… different, General.”

The Jedi from Little Archossi bobs their head, the movement slow. “He was always so reserved. But, I never once questioned for a moment how much he cared about the larger cause when he did not devote his time to your batch.” The General pauses here for a moment, offering a wistful, but reflective expression to accompany the smile. “While the Force could not tell me everything in the times I meditated for answers, answers I sought trying to meet the needs of my men while aiding my former teacher in his assignments, it told me enough. Faro would have sooner deserted the GAR than bury another batchmate were it not for the guilt of abandoning all his other brothers just to save you and Fluke, on the days his grief was strongest.”

Short of accusing the Force-wielder of lying, Canvas challenges that claim. “I don't know if I believe that… that doesn't sound like something Faro would do.” The notion is disturbing to him, immediately speaking. Desert the GAR? Discard his sense of loyalty and honor for something so… so selfish and self-serving? All because of grief? 

He can't imagine that of Faro, he tells the general. He doesn't want to. 

“No… of course. I'm sorry for upsetting you to suggest such a thing.” General Caelen apologizes in earnest. “I was wrong to do so. Forgive me, for any malice.”

A solitary trill sounds from their respective comm devices, a warning. It’ll be time for the task force to depart ten minutes from now. Canvas won’t have the time to finish, maybe even amend, the conversation with General Caelen and see Scruffy before he has to leave like his brother asked. So it’s time to smooth the ice, “I should go see Scruffy like I promised; but General, before I go… Please don’t be so hard on yourself, just as you encourage us. I know what you said wasn’t meant in malice. I swear it.”

The Force-wielder born on a strange little planet before spending many years in the Jedi Temple to hone their connection to the great galactic tapestry sacrificed not complete connection to, but rather a full immersion in the culture of their home planet. The Chossi conduct themselves in a clan-like structure, placing great importance in paying penances for their acts or words of malice, if they do not feel it is deserved or justified. 

Fact of the matter is that Caelen sees their unit of troops as a clan on a symbolic level; to say I swear it acknowledges the process of offering penance has started, but will not be necessary. 

And so Caelen returns the acknowledgement. “So you swear it. Thank you, young Canvas.” 

He has been dismissed, so he wastes no more time, calling “May the Force be with you, General!” as clearly as he can before breaking into a run; knowing where he will need to go in order to find Scruffy is some way off, and he needs to hurry if he wants to get there with time to spare. 

“Ouch!” “Ow!"

They'll likely bruise one another's brains with the force their buckets have knocked against each other, given how Canvas didn't slow down in the slightest as he was bottoming-out the small hill he had just run down to get here. The stars in the fuzziest edge of his vision are only just beginning to clear, fire in his lungs sputtering out. 

He doesn't let a little thing like the fretful way Scruffy gives his helmet a once-over for any chipping (the same way a young nat-born’s mother inspects a scraped knee, minus the cooing and fussing) give him any pause in what he has to say. 

"You gotta promise me to come back." 

Scruffy looks at his little brother from the same Growth Cycle, a different Batch, with nothing but deep, emotional pain and hurt. "Canvas you… you know I can't. You know what Commander Juke says about those kinds of promises." 

The desperation in him does not care. Not right now. "Yeah-yeah-yeah the poetic kark he read somewhere, but please -" Strong arms throw themselves around him, and helmets knock against one another a second time as Scruffy initiates one of those hugs he's become famous in the combined unit for. Hugs where he pulls you in close with one arm, cupping the back of your head, reminiscent of how one holds an infant's head when they're adorably too young and floppy to support the weight of it themselves. 

War has not stolen all Scruffy's warmth and tenderness, his love for his brothers. It has not made him bitter. It has changed him; chewed him up in its cruelty and jagged edges and spit him out with little regard for how softly he will land… but Scruffy has not lost his spirit in spite of all that. 

Nor his patience. "I will do my best, Canvas, okay?" Scruffy pulls Canvas tighter, if possible, and he hopes Vas can’t hear the heavy swallow in his throat. It may prove difficult, but he’d rather not cry if it can be helped. With a clearer head, the shame has hit him that he was so… oppositional with his commanding officers. Defiant. He should be punished for daring to be so- so insubordinate! He’s never given them problems before, why did he have to start now?

“Maker, I should be in so much more trouble for talking back to Commander Juke like that…” 

Canvas hums thoughtfully, not quite in agreement, while pushing back from Scruffy. Let me go, please, it asks. He’ll feel constricted before long if Scruff had his way in this state. He agreed to stay on the task force only because the time to depart was getting down to the wire, and no other brothers had volunteered themselves. He’s there, admittedly if only to make it less of a hassle for Commander Juke, and to keep the peace. 

“I don’t know. Maybe the commander will let it go…” It seemed plausible, to Canvas. At least in the moment. “You do a good job of hiding it, but you tend to take things pretty hard when you feel you’ve messed up ever since the… well, the tripwire. You’ll punish yourself worse than any reprimand.”

There’s a soft and breathless chuckle from under the helmet. “Do I, now? What gave it away?” When Canvas doesn’t answer, perhaps considering how best to explain, Scruffy changes his tune after a note of the time. “Actually, pretend I didn’t say anything: not exactly a lot of time before I have to go.”

He probably had five minutes at the most before Commander Juke called upon his brothers and it was time to embark on this mission. It would be strange, seeing as they are doing this without General Caelen to guide them, lead them, for the first time since the Togruta Force-wielder perished. They’ve just grown so used to this arrangement; attached to it even, if they had to admit to it. And they have. But the Clones recognize this isn’t the healthiest situation for the Chossi-born General. 

This is so much responsibility for you. You were only ever meant to lead one legion. You can’t do this forever. It’s just not feasible. 

“Give those clankers hell for me.” Canvas requests when the call comes in to board the gunships on Scruffy’s comms. Quickly and gently as he’s able, he and Scruffy touch their helmets together, hoping the other is peering through the t-visor back at him. “For the General, too.” Canvas softly adds, knowing that while his brothers will embark this mission alone out of trust, the Jedi would still desire to accompany them out of principal and bond. 

This, Scruffy can promise. This is what he was made to do, after all. This is what necessitated his very creation: to fight the coming pan-galactic threat it was believed the Republic would one day face. A being of flesh and blood, far superior to any metal amalgamation. This is the grander purpose he’s been made to believe his every breath is dedicated to. 

And it is true. But it isn’t everything his breath is given for.

Scruffy leaves his younger brother with an oath before he must run for the LAATs, mustering as much conviction as he can into a soldier’s creed to make it as meaningful as any loving expression. 

“For the Republic. For my brothers.”

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OC question game!!!! 13 and 27!

13.) Do you have any troublemaker OCs?

Oh, it's briefly hinted in "I Have No Mother, Only A Brother" that out of Canvas's batch, if you were to ask Faro, it's Gunnar. Gunnar is the troublemaker. Gunnar was a mini-menace as a cadet but mostly grew out of that by the time they had their first campaign.

27.) Any OCs that were inspired by a certain song?

Not explicitly... But also maybe? Before I got to the Umbara/Pong Krell arc in TCW, I was listening to a bunch of different songs on repeat. One of them was Brother by Kodaline and that song has felt very fitting since getting back into Star Wars for the mentality of brotherhood the Clones have for one another, in my book. The idea of "what if a bunch of Shinies never got their name on Kamino?" was always backed by the idea of "Brother looks out for Brother/I'm going to take care of you" that I use all throughout "Nice To Meet You Brother" was almost certainly because of that song at least subconsciously!

OC Questions Meme

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Memes for some of my (many) Clone OCs!

If these names don't look familiar to you, be sure to check my pinned post under "General Clone Stuff" to find the two stories I've posted about my boys so far if you haven't already. Gosh I love 'em. Sweet little Canvas especially. He's not my first but he's perhaps my most fleshed-out.

No thoughts, only Clone OC brainrot and some hints of their personalities tonight.

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Baby Brothers - Faro's Telling

Warnings and Information: Uh… oops? Out of my 18+ Clone OCs, Faro was supposed to be my *ONE* OC who did not have a proper/creative backstory for his name out of everyone who appeared in the NTMYB story that has since spiraled into a series. But I had an idea. This takes place before NTMYB, so rather than break the in-house rule of using their names before they actually get them, or make up CT designations that will just get confusing (and I’ll forget later), everyone's dialogue gets color-coded. Apologies, and warning, for eyestrain. This will not be a regular story-telling method. Star Wars and real-world swearing. No Mando'a here. Narrative and stylistic use of italics.

Word-count: 2,633

Key: Faro, Gunnar, Cryfar, Fluke, Canvas

By Kamino's three moons, why did he have to get pulled out of the cloning tanks first? Now he feels like he's supposed to shoulder all blame and fault for his brothers until their training is completed. It's lousy. He never asked for this! And what's worse, is he has some of the most patience-testing batchmates possible out of this whole Growth Cycle… 

The whole of the Growth Cycle gets shipped out next year. Perhaps several hundred healthy adult men within a single Cycle (he doesn't keep track of the numbers) all fit and ready to fight for the Republic. Hundreds of batches of brothers. 

Batches of brothers made up of fives. 

"All four of you are going to make me gray before we're even shipped out…" he finds himself muttering as he tasks himself with taking care of them out of a sense of obligation. Of responsibility. Brotherhood. "Kriffing hells, stop it. We're supposed to be practicing for our weapons disassembly, would you quit messing with the other two?"

"I'm helping them! One of their parts got lost. Help me find it before the trainer sees!"

One of them is cocky and impulsive sometimes, another underwent a massive personality shift in the last two years that does not seem related to developing a unique identity, and the youngest two are so kriffing hard to separate. Second youngest can be easily distracted and just as unlucky as the third. The youngest… constantly breathing down his neck and inventing excuses to stay close. 

They get shipped out next year. They're all almost fully-grown, and none of them have Names. 

He's just the oldest out of choice. So he feels he has to be mature and steadfast and a teacher for his baby brothers… He takes the worst of it from the Trainers. Either because he thinks he has to as the oldest, and therefore the example, or because he’s made the scapegoat. For some reason it’s his fault that one brother keeps getting a DC-17 hand blaster and a DC-15S mixed up when they do drills on each model. It's his fault when the oldest brother after him loses his cool. It's his fault that the youngest are distractible and shy and never feel like socializing with their other Clone-brothers outside of their batch. 

It's his fault because he's the oldest. He's only trying to be a good example. He's only trying to take care of them. But he's got four baby brothers and only two hands to take care of them all… he tries so, so hard to, anyways.

Two hands that have been trained to do so much damage can only be so soft sometimes. 

But Maker, he's trying. He's been trying so hard ever since they were little and when "babying" was more acceptable. Well just because they're nearly men, it doesn't mean they stop being his little brothers. Because he was pulled out of the Cloning tube first, these four are his baby brothers; now, forever, always. 

They annoy him, yes. But he loves them… and he loves them by protecting them before they ever set foot off of Kamino, when it will become impossible to do so. When he understands the risks that he will lose them - or they lose him - to war against the Separatists and all those who would oppose the Republic. Risks he is prepared for, but selfishly does not want to accept. 

These are his brothers. Come stormy seas or blaster fire, that will not change. Not even men like Jaccynn will change this. 

And Jaccynn is in a mood today. A particularly nasty one. "That was sloppy, CT-xxxx! Again!" 

"S-sorry, Sir! Yessir!" his middle batchmate pants, daubing his brow on the edge of his sleeve. His training uniform is soaked with sweat new and old. The training center stinks of musk and petrichor from hundreds of brothers engaged in hand sparring. He snaps all his limbs in starting position, but his knees soon begin to wobble. He's too tired to keep this up for much longer. "I-I'm upping keep as best as I can! I mean I'm keeping up!" 

That's been happening a lot more lately; the word confusion. But it's just subtle enough that the Kaminoans haven't caught on, or don't have enough of a reason to look into these reports. 

Words from the smuggled datapad from their classrooms come back to him. 

Possible brain injuries. Minor aphasia. 

His middle brother is likely suffering with minor aphasia, and there's nothing he can do about it. Except exercise yet more patience… patience that would not be shown by the Trainers. So he has to be creative and crafty with his words and his excuses when Jaccynn oversees their combat readiness. 

"Wait. It's been ten minutes since your last sip of water," he warns his brother, grabbing his bottle from the stack and bravely crossing into the combat mat's boundaries to take it to him, "And our brothers in the medical center keep reminding you that the reason you passed out last time was because you were dehydrated, CT-xxxx." Ordinarily he would not let another brother lean on him like this, having to fully support the tugging weight that threatens to take him to the floor like a bored child hanging off a parent's wrist who's too old for such behavior. But he makes exceptions for his batchmates. He has to. He sees his brother is not as fine as he claims between long, drawn-out pulls from the bottle. 

"I'll be fi-fine!" comes the unconvincing insistence after a particularly violent sway, "I'll begot this!" 

There's a loud snickering behind the two of them. "You'll kriffing what now?" 

"What did I say?" He doesn't get what's so funny about what he said, as usual. That is also a more recent problem. One that he just has to hope doesn't get any worse, or they might take his brother away from him and never be seen again. He can't let that happen. "What'd he say I said?" 

"Ignore him. Focus, brother. You're almost done, c'mon. Be ready as soon as I get off the mat." His brother has to focus. And the second oldest needs to get a hold of himself too, he can't just make these unfiltered comments out in the open. Not in front of this trainer who oversees the instruction of this Growth Cycle. 

The trainer who calls himself Jaccynn just sneers with disgust. He knows the water break was a clever tactic to stall his instruction, but he cannot delve into supplying punishments for interruptions the way he would like. So he goes about it a different way: giving the losing combatant no time to prepare himself. "Okay, now that you've had your cute little pep talk it's time to get serious… Ready. Set. Begin!" 

He's hardly had the time to brace himself to be laid out on his back, and the air bursts from his lungs in a harsh wheeze as the winning challenger makes his first and only move necessary to complete the round. He's so damn dazed that he can only grin stupidly up at the Clone brother above him asking if he's okay. 

The impulsive streak is rearing its head again. "Why that-"

"Sit your ass down, you're not a charging Reek." He pulls his brother back down with a fistful of his uniform. Retaliation is just going to spur Jaccynn on and take it out on more of his little brothers. He's sung this song and danced this dance for years now with Jaccynn. 

"But Jaccynn didn't give him enough time to get ready, I should feed him his teeth!" 

"I saw it too, mynock-brain." 

Though nearly fully-grown, the youngest are crawling on their hands and knees to avoid being noticed by the hired instructor as they try to get their brothers to stop arguing. To his memory, of all his baby brothers, these two are the only ones who have not fully abandoned this behavior when they're all supposed to be seated on the floor.

They don't opt for shuffling along on their knees like most other brothers. His batchmates are far from being like most other brothers. 

"Cut it out, guys!" the second youngest pleads, using his body as a buffer between his oldest two brothers with the help of the youngest. Their faces are probably warm with anxiety as warm as their bark-brown eyes that implore them to get along. Privileges that come with being batch-babies. 

The four of them really, really test his patience, but he wouldn't trade them for any other Batch, deep down. These are his batchmates. These are his brothers. Maker help him if he ever stopped loving them so much… 

"Alright, alright, stop. Go pester him. I'm going to make sure he's okay." Privileges that come with being the two oldest means it takes just a few words to settle the others down. And, if you're annoyed enough, you make it the other's problem. Again, where these any other brothers but his batchmates, he would not be quite as tolerant of someone nearly fully-grown trying to share his shadow. "He's probably just had his bucket rung, again. Look at him, he's grinning like an Acklay. He'll be okay." 

The simple fact he's sitting up and laughing it off bodes mostly well, at least. Second and third oldest are now joking that the third has probably seen more stars than a spacer, and he's never even left Kamino yet. "You're setting a galactic record!"

"Hell yeah!" 

Maker, those two were certainly going to make him gray before he was ten. But at least the youngest would keep him softer and kinder. "Stop gnawing on your nails, little brother." 

"Sorry…"

"I'm not angry anymore, it's-"

He shakes his head rapidly. "It's Jaccynn. He scares me." That's fair enough, he concedes. Jaccynn hasn't exactly made himself a popular Trainer with the Clones. More than one Clone-brother has wanted nothing more than to feed him his teeth for berating them, or picking on the batch-babies. That seems to be his thing. Jacc hates that across most of the facility, younger brothers are often afforded a little more leniency. 

Cared for a little more until the next Growth Cycle is old enough to really roughhouse with the rest of them. They still can, granted; it's just that they don't want to accidentally hurt any of their brothers while they're still growing, still learning. 

"All you damn Clones look the same, how can you possibly tell who's younger than you?" 

It was impossible to explain how you just knew, or why exactly they did it, but of course they could absolutely tell who was younger than them even without being explicitly told. You're older than your batchmates by mere minutes. So when you age and grow and change as fast as they do, they have to find some way of establishing a sense of… normalcy. Maybe this was something that was passed down to them from the very first generation of Clones, or something that someone saw on the Holonet and really liked the idea of. 

A living sea of hundreds and thousands and millions of brothers, of course they'd behave a lot alike "traditional" brothers in some ways. But they're a lot more unalike than nat-born brothers… they don't tend to Name one another. 

"What about Fang?"

He scoffs, insulted. "What am I, a massiff? Pass."

"I dunno, you seem like an Axel to me." 

He shakes his head again. Someone else in the neighboring batch (below them) is considering that Name. It's bound to happen, but you try to avoid too many name duplicates within a Growth Cycle.

"Rachet?" 

That's not a bad name, but no. ("Stop chewing your nails or I'll have to hold your hand.")

His middle brother gives him a woozy smile as he's helped down to medical, again. "I think he's more of a… Ozone. Yeah, I kinda like it… That's a nice name…"

"Are you sure you don't want that name for yourself?" He offers as he helps his brother into a chair and lets a medic know that yeah, it's them again, who else? while doing his best to keep him upright. 

"I'llthinkaboutit." That's fine, he promises. Only half-jokingly he replies he's more concerned about keeping them in one piece on Kamino so they can go and fight for the Republic. "There's plenty of time to find names, little brother. Even if that's when we leave Kamino." Away from Jaccynn who mocks every last name choice. Away from the bounty hunter who's only training soldiers of the GAR for a promised sum, not because he genuinely wants to make any kind of difference. But because he must feel small without hundreds who have to listen to him, one of those types of people. "One day, brothers… we'll find Names, and I won't have to keep thinking of you by your favorite colors. I'll think of you by your Names. One day I'll stop sounding like such a jackass in front of the others when I have to refer to you by CT numbers."

"Is that why you call me Yellow?"

"What am I?" His youngest brothers look at him with wide, imploring eyes. These two have always been so expressive. "Me?"

"Privately: I'm Red," he answers with a gentle chuckle, "yes, you are Yellow." he tells him with a nod, and ruffling the soft, fluffy curls of the second and then the youngest's last, he adds "You're Blue. And Orange seems to be your favorite color. That leaves our dizzy brother over here as Green."

"Green's not a creative color for a Name…" he complains softly, dodging the pinpoint of light from the otoscope in the medic's hands as he tries to check the pupils. 

"What do I use instead then?" 

He whines softly and shrugs while he tries to swat the otoscope away. "I dunno… no-go-awaaay." (He's never liked how much they have to use the otoscope on him when trying to figure out the root cause of his confusion and word-swapping.) 

"Then for just now, I'll stick with Green, okay?" 

"Eh… sure." he concedes before he allows the medic to do his job with no further complaints, since 'Red' offers his hand to hold. He's already holding 'Orange''s hand just so he settles down. Three Kaminoans have entered the medical wings. They've always made him a little nervous, much like a lot of things; he speculates that Orange has a lot of masked nervousness…

"Don't think about the long-necks…" he whispers, nudging his youngest batchmate to turn his back on the Kaminoans. "Just think about us, or what you want your Name to be. Anything but them. You're okay. So long as I'm here." 

He'd make sure of it. For all of them. He's just minutes older than them, and he never wanted to be the oldest… but for them? Maker. As much as they drive him crazy, he'd probably burn down the galaxy for them if it would keep them safe. 

These are his baby brothers. And he loves them. 

Everything. He'd do everything again in a damn heartbeat. 

He just needs to make sure if he gets another chance, another life, that he does a lot of things differently. That he stands up to Jaccynn sooner, and defends his batchmates more. That he tells his brothers he loves them, not just showing them through acts of service or sacrifice. Apologizes to his superior officers for being so closed off and stoic all the time. Thank the other brothers who showed friendship and offered their help to the youngest of his batch. 

But more important than anything else is that he explains why his name is FARO…

Note from Frost: Don't have much of an explanation for this other than "creative exercise that I don't hate", taking the advice of just writing for myself on occasion, and exploring more of what made Faro tick. This ties in most directly to "Nice To Meet You, Brother" and "I Have No Mother, Only A Brother" within the OC lore.

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Made a visual that's going to help any fellow visual learners out there (Sup! You have trouble visualizing stuff too sometimes?✌️) understand what I'm going to try to describe at the end of "Comforting Little Brothers" that I'll likely post Wednesday morning, before I take off on a short vacation.

It's my lil guy, my son, my baby boy, Clone OC "Canvas".

These are just Canvas's scuff marks, (not his full paint design). Their importance comes from Nice To Meet You, Brother, for the unfamiliar.

They're color coded by what scuff belongs to which of his batchmates. I won't spoil the full "why" behind whose name is which color, but it'd be very easy enough to guess.

I mean, if I tell you Canvas's favorite color is a specific shade of orange, you can figure out the rest.

[Imagine was found off of Google by searching "Phase II armor example" (I believe; I saved it weeks ago) and it was edited in an app on my phone.]

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Gunnar: Faro! Hey, so gun fact-!

Faro: Don't you mean "fun fact"?

Gunnar: No I do not!

Gunnar: So anyways, if you don't properly clean a rotary cannon, you find out just how loud Captain Law gets when he yells at you.

Faro: Gunnar.

Gunnar: It wasn't me. But I took the blame!

Faro: And why did you-?

Gunnar: Because it was Cryfar who didn't clean the rotary cannon properly.

Gunnar: And you know the youngest two would be crushed if they were yelled at by Captain Law when they idolize him so much!

Gunnar: And yes: I showed Cry how to clean the gun so it doesn't happen again.

Faro: Huh. For once, I'm not disappointed in you.

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Incorrect Quote Generator: Birds Edition

This is where Cryfar or Gunnar would be the ones laughing because "of course the owl is gonna possess the batchmate obsessed with birds". (It also helps when Canvas is the youngest of the batch, therefore a smidgen more likely to not realize his older brothers are messing with him before it's too late.)

Canvas how the hell did you manage to catch it to begin with?

We all know who would. (He'd also ask what kind of songbird, raptor and extinct bird you'd want to be.)

I imagine him bursting into the room after hearing this conversation from another part of the house. (He'd then be asking why Cypher of all brothers is the one making jokes rather than correcting them as the no-nonsense researcher. Stick and Cairn are who Canvas expects this from by now.)

Gunnar's wondering "Do I need to be worried about my little brother?" and the answer to that question is always yes.

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TELL ME STUFF ABOUT YOUR OC(S) PLS

Clone Trooper Canvas of the 302nd Legion

His storyline can be found [here].

Quick Character Facts

Canvas serves in Mudhorn Company of the 302nd Legion under the command of General Caelen, a genderfluid Jedi born on the planet of Archossi.

He struggled, and later resisted, finding or being given a name for a very, very long time. Brothers and commanding officers would take to calling him a variety of nicknames to avoid the (over)use of his CT number. The most common of these was simply "Brother".

Canvas claimed his namesake from an observation on the appearance of his armor from Captain Law after he adopted his batchmate's scuff marks to honor them.

All of his batchmates, Faro, Gunnar, Cryfar and Fluke, died not long after their deployment. He was the 'baby brother' of his batch, and now the only one left. Scruffy later "adopted" Canvas into his own batch.

His favorite color is saffron orange.

Canvas love birds; his favorite is a rare, primarily orange bird called the flame-bellied bunting.

General Caelen has the ability to hear or sense what each and every trooper sounds like through the Force; to Caelen, Canvas began to sound like wing-flutter or birds in flight the closer he was to finding his name.