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[mwolf0epsilon]

Snips, Snails and Puppy Dogs' Tails

Summary: When first assigned to Flotsam Squad, CT-6922 is unusually shy for a clone. Quiet, evasive, anxious, and always wringing his hands together while looking at the rest of his new brothers as if expecting to be attacked. It's the loneliness and longing in his eyes in spite of the obvious fear, that makes '85 decide that this is his vod'ika now, and that he'll protect him no matter what.

[A prequel drabble that takes place in the Sugar, Spice and Nothing Nice Verse. Essentially, Dogma's reassignment to his and Tup's squad, after having been rejected and cast out of so many others due to his size-shifting ability.]

THIS STORY IS ALSO ON AO3

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A tiny fleet of cleaning droids had been the only warning Flotsam Squad had gotten in regards to having yet another stray added to their already cobbled-together group. No formal announcement had been given during roll call. Not even a quick notification on their datapads during morning module-classes.

The droids had just waltzed into the barracks and started preparing their quarters for the new arrival.

It wasn't unusual of course, for the Kaminiise not to inform the youngest cadets of their hasty decisions. Especially in regards to when they were piecing together squads full of "difficult subjects". Good soldiers, even ones as inconveniently disagreeable as them, didn't need to be told anything beyond what to do, how to do it, and when to do it. It was a simple fact of life. Commanding officers got the debriefs. CT fodder got the meat shield work. Nothing more, nothing less.

And, honestly, it hadn't really bothered '85 all that much that he and his squad hadn't been told anything prior to the cleaning droids commandeering them away from the corner they'd claimed as their hangout spot. He was mostly just curious as to what the new vod (whoever he or she may be), would be like.

The questions he'd been rotating in his head had even been fairly simple ones. Because over-complicating this sort of thing hadn't ever really been that good of a way to spend the time. No point working themselves up over nothing, and all that...

Still, there had been a lot left to the imagination because they had no information whatsoever, and '85 hadn't felt all that put off by spending his rack time considering the many possibilities that awaited them.

Things like, whether or not Flotsam Squad would be getting someone who was as stubbornly loyal as '33. Or maybe a vod who was more nurturing and tactile like '37? Perhaps someone as resourceful and studious like '20. Or (and he had really hoped for the last option) someone who was just as energetically friendly and ambitious as '85 himself.

For the most part he'd spent his time daydreaming about it rather than actually sleeping (which had bitten him in the butt early in the morning when he'd woken up late and not been able to get first-meal). Thinking up someone that would fit in flawlessly with their band of misfits, while also wondering about what sort of circumstances might have led the unknown vod to their little corner of the 4th cycle barracks.

Flotsam Squad was known, after all, as the leftovers that no one really wanted to put up with...

In fact, it seemed like every trainer they worked with (including their squad coordinator) had something bad to say whenever Flotsam got brought up in conversation behind closed doors.

Conversations that boiled down to complaints of '33 and his infamously bad temper. A temper that got him into a lot of scraps with other vode from different squads. As well as frustrated grumbles about '37 and his inattentiveness, which often caused him to get hurt and jeopardize assignments. Or, more perplexingly, '20 and his unusual way of speaking with as little words as possible. Which apparently the trainers considered disrespectful, despite it being done for efficiency (and it wasn't like his acronyms were anything new or hard to understand...).

And, lest anyone forget, disparaging comments of '85 and his proclivity for both bouts of sudden crying and debilitating headaches. Headaches which got so bad that sometimes he ended up nearly throwing up during classes.

They were, in the eyes of many, bad batchers. The rotten apples that one ought to removed from the bottom of the barrel, in order to preserve the actual good ones that were fit for shipping and consumption from being equally spoiled.

It stood to reason that whoever was joining them soon, would be another "hard case" that the Kamiinise and trainers wanted out of sight and out of mind. That they'd need to help acclimate to the group, and show them the metaphorical ropes. That is to say, teach them on how the squad compensated for each other's inherent flaws and weaknesses.

Because, even though there were many valid complaints (and they were likely never going to stop coming), none of the trainers could actually say that Flotsam squad didn't pull their own weight. That Flotsam couldn't finish their daily assignments, even with the added obstacle they posed to each other.

Adaptability and loyalty to their kin were their strongest suites.

The cleanup and preparation of the bunk and locker had only taken a couple of hours max. The arrival of their new squad member, on the other hand, had taken another full day. Something which had honestly peaked their collective curiosity even more, and led to a full night of gossiping and speculation that had left them all giddy with excitement.

Especially when, during another unassuming morning roll call, they were suddenly presented with the scrawniest (skinnier even than '85 himself, who was often referred to as the runt of the litter by his ori'vode!) most tiniest 4th cycle cadet they ever did see.

The theories that had kept them up suddenly couldn't quite compare.

Were they getting a medical mishap of some kind? Had that been what had doomed the kih'vod to such an infamous squad? Some kind of health deficiency that the poor bugger hadn't been able to control? If anything, the hapless vod definitely looked the part. Quite sickly under the harsh white lights of the halls, and seemingly minuscule in comparison to the two long necks flanking their sides.

But it hadn't just been their new kih'vod's stunted height and gaunt physique that had made him look unusually small. His poorly posture, all hunched up with tired eyes cast downwards as if unable to meet theirs, hadn't been doing them any favors. Neither had the restlessness of their hands, which had been wringing each other like crazy, in a way that suggested both discomfort and uncertainty as to what to do with them.

He was, in both the nicest and meanest way possible, the definition of pitiful given human form. Like a mangy tooka kitten with a broken leg and sad wet eyes.

All at once '85 wanted to squish the little guy in a bear hug so tight it might snap bone.

"This is CT-6922." One of the long necks, the one wearing a medical officer's uniform, introduced brusquely. "Due to behavioral issue related disturbances, this is his 11th reassignment."

"It shall also be his last." The other, wearing a scientist's uniform, had grumbled in clear annoyance. Or as close to annoyance as the Kamiinise could get, since they all spoke with as much emotion as their faces could show. Which wasn't much. "No other squad will take this particular subject due to a series of unfortunate incidents. And if this one is also not an ideal fit, termination will be the only option left."

"As such, we are counting on your current track record with these more difficult allotments, to be able to reform CT-9622's poor cooperative marks into something of... Relative use."

Their squad coordinator (who had been present for the new arrival's introduction) had been the one who was being addressed. But, in the end, it had been the cadets of Flotsam Squad that had been the ones to truly take those words to heart.

The absolute seriousness of the kih'vod's situation.

It was thus decided by them right there and then, that the responsibility to take in and protect their new little brother was theirs and theirs alone. A life or death situation should, after all, outweigh whatever nonsense the long necks were on about, whenever they wrote off one of the vode as being utterly hopeless.

What did the Kamiinise know about brotherhood? About coming together to push each other to be and do better, when everyone else only saw the worst in you?

The answer was obvious: Absolutely nothing.

The long necks, as smart as they thought they were, could never really understand what it was like to be a clone or a vod. Neither could the trainers (who only saw them as their next paycheck). So yes, the Kamiinise might have been speaking to their haughty looking trainer, but it would be '33, '37, '20 and '85 who would make sure 6922 would thrive. That the little kih'vod would become the best of the best.

Even if the latter seemed to have had other plans...

The behavioral issues that had been alluded to were, ultimately, nothing quite like what they had expected in the end. With this being their new little brother's 11th reassignment, they'd sort of pictured that maybe he was the kind to get into fights and loud angry arguments (like '33 often did).

Instead what they'd immediately clocked in on after just a few hours of knowing the little fella, was the fact that '22 was just... Afraid...

Afraid and unwilling to be close to or open with any of them, to the point of remaining so quiet that they had almost thought he didn't need to breathe at all (except he did, in fact, need to breathe as the loud snores that came from his bunk pod were definitely not their imagination and the only sound they ever did hear him produce). It was almost as if he expected them to hurt him in some way if he did or said something they didn't like. And it was '85 who was the most concerned about this particular topic, since the idea of a clone being afraid of other clones was horrifying to him.

What could any of them do to help their new little brother feel welcomed into the squad, if he was too afraid to approach them? Too afraid of them to even accept that he needed their help? How did they reach out to him when he always stared at them as if they were going to bite his head off?

And what caused that fear to begin with?

Had '22 been attacked by other vode in the past? Had he been reassigned because he was a target for in-squad bullying? He was certainly not very strong looking. All skin and bones and shorter than he should be at their age group.

And it wasn't uncommon for the less agreeable trainers to make their squads of cadets fight amongst each other, if they thought one of the members was a bit of a weak link. '22 having been harmed by other vode wasn't too farfetched if it potentially involved outside influence, but it was still against the very nature of a clone to hurt another vod so much that he'd become so timid and skittish around others...

Unfortunately, only one person really knew the right answer. And said person wasn't really willing to share it with him. At least not at the moment. '85 had always been fairly patient for his age though. He could play the long game.

Especially after having decided that '22 was HIS vod'ika.

Sure, the little guy had promptly become Flotsam Squad's collective kih'vod (how could he not? he really did look like a bit of a pathetic sopping wet tooka that needed to be coddled), but he was '85's vod'ika in the same way that '33 and '37 had proclaimed that he was their vod'ika.

'22 was '85's and no one else's. It was a bit hard to explain to someone who wasn't aware of this particular clone sibling dynamic, but also not. An oxymoron of sorts. And, even if '85 was a bit too young to be anyone's big strong older brother that they could look up to with the utmost admiration (like the Alphas), something about those big sad eyes... It just seemed right for him to be '22's ori'vod.

Like it was meant to be.

Now if only his new vod'ika would understand this. That he could come to his brand new band of ori'vode and feel safe among them. Especially around '85 who had decided he would move mountains if it meant '22 would unclench his jaw just a little, and maybe even smile...

Breaking in the newbie (as '33 put it) was ultimately a lot of work. A lot of arduous heartbreaking work that revealed just how much of '22's fearfulness was truly ingrained in him. Even so, they did what they could to work around it.

'85 did what he could.

As days passed, a new sort of team dynamic formed. One where, as usual, Flotsam did what they could to help each other out during both practical activities, tests and module course work.

But now there was also '22 who, remarkably, seemed to be rather brilliant on his own. For all that he was smaller and weaker in constitution, '33, '37, '20 and '85 were astonished to discover that he was fantastic at getting assignments done without the need of any outside help.

What he wasn't particularly good at was acting as a part of the team.

Which was... A problem. Not because he was making it harder on any of them (far from it, he made himself rather scarce to them actually, but his methods were fairly easy to follow from just watching him and the group actually got their work done faster because of him), but because he would be expected to work with others once they all graduated and got put into a much larger battalion.

And if '22 couldn't be a part of a team, a member of a cohesive and cooperative battalion, he was as good as dead. Or worse...

So '85 redoubled his efforts to show him he could trust the rest of the squad just as much as they were trusting his methods. Spent days, and then weeks, and then a good part of '22's first month with Flotsam, making sure he was as approachable, friendly, generous and gentle as possible whenever '22 was around.

And in spite of the resistance he was initially met with, there had been a few promising results that proved he was on the right track with his flighty vod'ika.

Like how '22 began to gradually feel comfortable enough to sit down in the rest of the squad's presence without closing his bunk pod, just so he could catch up on some light reading. His frightened and frantic eyes darting less and less from the screen of his datapad to the group, as the minutes slowly ticked by. The tight knots of his tensed muscles slowly relaxing as he got into whatever it was he was reading.

Or how '22 started joining the group to eat, even if he still put as much distance between them and himself as it was physically possible while sitting at the same table. He'd even begun to set aside the things he did not like to eat (and he seemed to dislike a lot of food stuffs, which maybe explained why he was so small), only to then push his nearly empty food trey towards them, so that they could each have an extra serving of their own favorite treats. Treats that he seemed to have memorized them liking the most.

Or even how he'd cock his head in their direction, to listen in on their more outlandish ideas of how to solve some of the puzzles and problems they were given without a set of explicit rules to work with. Granted '22 never went with their bizarre ideas when he solved his own puzzles, but he seemed almost amused listening to some of the wilder takes. Even if he wouldn't do something quite like that himself.

Seeing him roll his eyes and his lips twitching ever so slightly upwards, had been the highlight of '85's day when he'd first seen it happening. It was hard work, but he really felt like he was getting somewhere.

Which, of course, made him really question why the other squads had found it so hard to work with his vod'ika... Surely being a little shy and independent shouldn't have lead to '22 being tossed out from 10 separate squads. Especially considering just how darn smart, attentive, considerate and resourceful he seemed to be.

It wasn't even that he didn't want to be a part of the team either

Seeing as '85 could tell just how much '22 wanted to engage. How his eyes followed them sometimes, not because he was scared, but because he wanted to join in on one of their free-time activities. He was just a little guarded! Guarded and unsure of how to meet them at the middle.

It made no sense... Until it did...

The true reason behind '22's reserved nature and difficulty integrating into other squads, had only come to light during an obstacle course of all things.

Now, obstacle courses weren't as difficult as combat, blaster and battle tactics training. There was not as much risk of injury, or room for arguments, when all you really had to do was get from point A to point B with only a few hurdles in between.

Except, as 4th cycle cadets, Flotsam squad was ready to be bumped up onto a new difficulty level that was outside of their comfort zone (the 3rd cycle courses were as easy as uj cake, for rambunctious and energetic boys like them).

And, with the hardness cranking up significantly, came something they were ultimately not prepared for: Practice fire to simulate their group getting shot at in the battlefield.

If you thought about, there was certainly a method to the madness. If clone cadets learned early on to be more attentive out in the field, then they would more likely survive their first deployment as fully fledged soldiers without losing their lives or limbs. But without any sort of warning or any real idea that they should be expecting more resistance than usual, Flotsam had ended up getting surprised in the worst way possible.

Which had less to do with learning a valuable lesson, and more to do with the trainer in charge of the exercise... They really didn't like trainer Bric.

Unsurprisingly, it had been '33 who had been the first to find out about the course's alteration. One moment he was rushing forward as he would any other round in the course, and then the next his startled yelp rang out so loudly that it had nearly drowned out the volley of stun shots suddenly zipping over their heads.

'37 had gotten hit trying to pull his twin to cover. His own cry of startled pain causing '85's heart to hammer in his chest, as '20 called out for him and '22 to stay put behind one of the obstacles they'd ducked behind of for safety.

There had then been a long break between the next shots actually hitting anyone. '20 had ducked and weaved expertly and as quickly as he could while running across the course to grab both '33 and '37, and he'd nearly made it all the way back with both of them if not for the fact he'd tripped and then gotten hit square on the leg.

And then '85 had made a mistake of his own. He'd gotten so worked up that he'd gone out of cover to try to help all three of his ori'vode, despite the entire exercise being more than a lost cause at this point...

In the end, he hadn't even seen '22 getting shot. He'd been too busy trying to rescue the rest of their team. But the pained whimper and the proceeding thud of a fallen body, were indication enough that his vod'ika had reluctantly followed him before getting hit himself.

And that should have honestly been the end of it... Until '22's whimpers turned into agonized panicked gasps.

The next few minutes had been... Perhaps chaotic was the better word for it. A cacophony of Bric yelling all kinds of expletives over the sound of tearing fabric, shredding flesh, breaking bones, grotesque gurgling, splattering fluids, and horrific wails.

If you were to ask him later about what he'd done when confronted with the situation, '85 wasn't quite sure how he'd initially reacted to the whole affair. This near-impossible gorefest of an event that he hadn't been able to fully comprehend at the time. All he knew was that he'd turned around to look at '22, and then suddenly he was at the far corner of the training room, squeezed between a trembling and wide-eyed '33 and '37, while '20 held his hand in a vice-grip.

Bearing witness to a vod who used to be smaller than average slowly become big enough to possibly hold their trainer in one hand, had been extremely traumatizing. For all of them.

All at once it had made too much sense. '22's resistance to showing any sort of vulnerability around them, aside from the obvious longing in his big sad eyes. Heck, '85 wasn't sure he himself would have been comfortable approaching anyone if he could... Do something like what '22 had just done in front of them...

It was cool. No doubt there! Like a superpower from those stories that some of the older vode illicitly acquired from sources unknown. But it was also...

It had sounded like it hurt. It had looked like it too.

Watching his giant-sized vod'ika slowly shake off the pain, only to then clumsily back away from their squad while looking at them with a horrified expression (clearly on the verge of crying, as well as becoming even more distressed every time either of his hands or feet crushed one of the obstacles on accident), everything really did click into place for '85. It wasn't really '22's behavior that had set him so apart. It was the fact that he was most definitely different from the other vode. Uniquely alone in his own personal plight.

And honestly that had made '85 burst into tears right there and then. Which of course seemed to set off '22's own waterworks...

Between just how much it had clearly hurt him to get so big, trainer Bric's continuous yelling, his new squad huddling away from him as if he were some kind of monster, and then the brother who'd tried so hard to include him starting to cry at the sight of him?

Yeah, '22 hadn't been having a good day at all...

So '85 had done the only thing he could think to do at the time. He'd shrugged off his ori'vode's grip on him and ran forward.

Now, '85 couldn't call himself the bravest of the bunch. He could be bold if he thought he had the advantage, no doubt there. But honestly he got spooked quite easily at times. He still slept in '20's pod when the storms got too loud sometimes!

Being so close to a literal giant was scary, incredibly so, especially one who was currently bawling his eyes out and sobbing so loudly that it made his ears hurt a little. But while '85 wasn't fearless he was still a softy.

And his vod'ika being so huge did not make him any less worthy of comfort. And stars knew he could have used some right then.

So he'd put his hand on one of '22's huge knees, and he'd started the most long-winded word vomit of a ramble he'd ever spat out in his entire short life. It wasn't the most eloquent speech, or even all that cohesive, but he'd hoped it was distracting enough to get '22 to stop crying. To his immense relief (and surprise) it had actually worked.

'22 had gone from curling in on himself crying his (not so) little heart out, to sniffling quietly while watching him with curious and slightly puffy eyes. Seeming almost unsure if he believed what was happening. Honestly '85 could hardly believe it himself, but he was at the very least happy to help his frightened vod'ika calm down.

"See? It's all good!" He'd grinned up in what he hoped was a confident manner, as he reached up to pat his brother's splotchy red nose, instantly trying not to grimace or shudder visibly in disgust when his hand came into contact with (a lot) of snot. "We're all ok! You're ok."

Or as ok as a giant nude cadet could be after wrecking an entire obstacle course. But really who could argue with him at the time? He was the one comforting said giant, acting brave when he was this close to peeing himself. And he was very thankful that he hadn't, in fact, peed his scrubs in the end. Mostly because 99 didn't deserve to have to deal with something so childishly pathetic... Speaking of which.

The janitorial clone had come through the door just as trainer Bric disappeared through it. He was steady-footed and self-assured, despite the rather astronomical nature of the situation.

Almost seeming unsurprising by '22's dilemma.

In fact, he seemed all too aware of what to do to deal with it. To both help them all relax and see that there was no danger to be found, as well as calm '22 enough that he could safely shrink back down. Which was equally as horrifying an event as him growing to giant size. Very gross too. It made a pair of soiled scrubs look like a walk in the park.

'85 really had not envied the mess that 99 had been left with to clean up, while Flotsam quietly ushered their shivering and naked kih'vod back to the barracks so he could get dressed. Nor did he envy the next group of cadets who would have to deal with whatever bullying tactics Bric might have in store for them (after being so suddenly humbled by the sight of a starship sized 4th cycle cadet).

They'd been told to help '22 dress, sneak him some food and water, and then wrap him up in all of their blankets so he could sleep a little better. 99 had been very explicit in his recommendations as to how to care for their little brother after he shrank back down. He'd even used his stern ori'vod voice, which was a very big deal!

And it hadn't been hard to see why he made sure they were well aware of how important it was to care for '22, after he'd gone through such an ordeal.

The poor kih'vod had barely been able to walk back on his own, and he'd practically been asleep with his eyes open as they pulled an extra set of undershorts and sleeping scrubs on his frail body. Had even proceeded to flop over like a boneless nuna once he'd had a quick bite and a few sips of water.

Growing and shrinking had drained him. Enough so that he'd not even remembered to be afraid of his squad. Instead curling up in the blanket cocoon while resting his head on '85's lap. Allowing him to run his fingers through his hair, like how he himself liked to have done when he had his headaches.

Soaking up the warmth of all four of his brothers curling around him protectively.

It had been both endearing and a little sad to actually have him seeking comfort in them. To show them so much vulnerability after something so traumatic. Especially when, after he'd waken up from his nap, he'd finally spoken to them just to ask when they'd be sending him away to be destroyed.

Even after they'd made sure he was comfortable, '22 expected to be kicked out. And that had made '85 seethe with anger at every other squad that had failed to be a good brother to his vod'ika. That had left him feeling so worthless and unwanted because of something he clearly couldn't control (and 99 had made sure they understand he couldn't control it).

Never again.

All four of them told him as much, and insisted on it once they were met with a look of disbelief. '22 hadn't believed them, but they would make sure to drill it into his head that he was stuck with Flotsam squad now. For better of for worse he was one of them now.

It was hard to ignore the spark of hope in his tired eyes.

In the end, size-shifting wasn't really all that big of a deal once they knew that's what they were dealing with. It'd taken a while to adapt and work around '22's lack of control of it, sure, but they'd compensated by making several contingency plans for it.

And a nice bonus that had come along with his unusual condition, was just how nice it was to have a bit of a trump card against the nastier trainers.

Nothing instilled the fear of the Manda in those natborn bullies, quite like being stared down by a cadet who could easily kick them all the way from Kamino to Rishi Maze. If they so much as got it in their heads to threaten any of Flotsam squad with violence, '22 only had to stare at them in a certain way to get them to back off. Bric had, after all, not remained quiet about what had happened with the obstacle course. And the fact the training room their little brother had accidentally wrecked had to be closed off for repairs for several weeks, had certainly left a lot of space for interpretation of just what exactly '22 was capable of.

The rumors that unfortunately rang loudest came from the vode who had actually repudiated '22. Those were also the ones that got 99 absolutely miffed whenever he caught wind of them (the ones from trainers got a twitch of the brow at best, but he never discouraged them because he too thought the natborns needed a healthy dose of fear to keep them in check around the younger cadets). And by proxy a miffed 99 usually meant a very pissed off Alpha-17 or Fordo on the prowl for snakes in the grass. Which ended with several disloyal small-minded brothers getting taught a lesson in brotherhood that was most definitely needed.

Aside from realizing just how many actually had their squad's back, it was genuinely also kind of nice to have a brother who was so very great to cuddle with after they were all done with course work, because he could very well serve as a heated bed. Even if '22 did kind of have a snoring problem.

Sure, the cuddling sessions were never really planned ahead of time. They sort of just happened anytime '85's vod'ika lost control of his ability. But who could say no to a vodpile after a long hard day of training? And if it got '22 a little more comfortable at his bigger size, that was a plus all on its own.

A win-win sort of deal.

If anything, it had just made it easier for the once skittish and very timid cadet to finally open up to their affections. Which was ultimately what '85 had hoped for since the very day he'd laid eyes on his baby brother. The future could only get brighter for them. Of that, 85 was sure.

Now if they could all just agree on a naming theme for all five of them, that'd be the icing on the cake... He really didn't fancy something corny like Teardrop or Softy, just as much as '22 would rather they not call him Bigman or Vodzilla (they were cool names too, but alas back to the drawing board it was!).

Maybe something about strength and perseverance? A true reflection of their positive attributes? Only time would tell.

[mwolf0epsilon]

Sugar, Spice and Nothing Nice

Summary: A lot of brothers would give an arm and a leg to be remotely unique. Dogma is not, and has never wanted to be, one of those brothers. Unfortunately he is anything but average, and that is the root of his perpetual misery...

[In which I explore the more biologically distressing side of a power like size-shifting, as well as how a desire to be of service and to prove one's self can be a truly horrible combination when paired with such an ability. Sorry Dogma!]

THIS STORY IS ALSO ON AO3

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A lot of (if not all) clones would do anything to be naturally unique.

Having been born and raised to be as uniformly identical as can be (all the way down to their neutral expressions and synchronized movements), it made sense that they craved their own personalized style and identity. That they wanted to be more than just another insignificant number in a sea of indistinguishable faces.

It's why the first thing most of them did as soon as they got deployed, was to either find a fitting name, modify their appearance in some way or another, or try to earn their paint as quickly as physically possible. So, with this in mind, it was a bit of a no-brainer that many of his brothers (as soon as they found out about it) would happily proclaim that they would kill to have an ability like the one Dogma had.

A rather bold statement. One that Dogma had heard countless times since being assigned to the 501st. And likely would keep on hearing until the very day he seized to be (most likely from getting shot, exploded, or who knew what else the Separatist Forces might have in store for him if he were to get any more unlucky?).

And yet, no matter how many brothers had so callously told him this (their envy and naivety blinding them to the reality of his situation), no matter how much they insisted on reminding him of his state of "marvelous uniqueness" (something he'd never asked to have in the first place), Dogma couldn't ever get over the bitter feeling of resentment that always settled deep in his core afterwards...

Because those brothers who were so jealous of this ability of his, and of how useful an asset it made him out in the field, didn't really know what they're wishing for. Didn't know the agony he had to go through on every mission where the combat plan revolved around his ability.

The torturous strain that growing to such behemoth proportions put on his perpetually scrawny body...

Of course Dogma never blamed any of the vode for the unintended torment that their words brought him. No matter how sharp the words, how cutting the remarks, he'd long since grown skin thicker than that. And honestly it wasn't really their fault for not knowing the full extent of his differences, or what they entailed.

When the Kaminiise were still trying to develop the project that eventually gave rise to both him and his particular brand of misery, they had opted to keep it all concealed. Either in case Prime didn't agree with their ideas, or perhaps in case it simply didn't pan out the way they had wanted it to (which, in the end, it hadn't).

They had isolate their test subjects to both better study the results of their highly experimental formula, as well as iron out whatever defects and kinks the prototypes would surely produce. And there had been many of those. Too many in fact...

It was no secret (to him or the medics who had access to his highly redacted medical records) that Dogma was not the first GT-6922. He was actually the 73rd iteration, and also the only survivor. Which, even without taking into account the effects of the formula (a mutagenic concoction made up from splicing and refining the DNA of several species of shrew, cephalopods, frogs and pufferpigs, that would supposedly alter the human genome to acquire specific traits these species had that would be of some kind of use in the battlefield), hadn't been too surprising.

The GT Series clones were, after all, cloned from a clone template rather than from Prime himself. Copies of a copy. Imperfect and more prone to defects. Not nearly healthy or strong enough to endure the horrors of having their DNA tampered with, just so that they could express inhuman traits.

The Kamiinise, proficient cloners that they often boasted they were, should have known better than to expect something better from an utterly doomed concept. Should have known how much of a waste of time and resources this entire endeavor would be.

And yet here Dogma somehow still stood... The 73rd and only surviving GT Series clone trooper. Lesser than less, just like the rest of his expired brethren. The ones who's nameless faces he still recalled in restless sleep.

Another thing his 501st brothers did not know about. Something that Dogma had no intention of changing anytime soon.

Sometimes, while laying in bed listening to the soft snores of the vode, Dogma couldn't help but wonder what the Minor Prime would think of him. None of the GT-6922s had met the original CT-6922. According to the files he had dared to snoop through during specialized Splicer training, the Minor Prime had been stillborn.

Dead before he could even begin life... And yet...

And yet Dogma wondered. Really wondered what his donor would think of him if he'd had the chance to be decanted and live. A chance to grow up and be something more than a footnote on some ill-fated experiment that had not yielded great results.

Would he be proud of Dogma's accomplishments? Would he be disgusted by his mere existence? Would he want nothing to do with him, in the same way that Prime rejected his CT-brothers? Was apathy towards one's own kin something of a genetic predisposition?

Pointless questions really. Because even if Dogma had never known CT-6922, he'd eventually become him on record. So really, there was no point in asking himself things that simply had no answer because they were not meant to be. Just like the experiment.

Dogma was both a failure and a success all in one. Because he was a good result but not one that inspired a new branch for the clone army. Alone in his uniqueness and thus alone in his misery.

And ultimately that was not something anyone but he could really understand. Not even Tup who, bless his bleeding heart, really made an effort to be there for him when he needed it. Who tried to be supportive and recognize that not all 'gifts' were blessings. That sometimes they could be curses as well.

But Tup, in all his idealistic optimism, always tried to look at things as if there was any bright side to them at all. And well, there was a use for Dogma's size-shifting (of that there was no doubt), but it was also not something they could use on every mission the 501st were thrown into headfirst.

Because, the reality was, size-shifting was an extremely resource intensive ability. One that was not very sustainable at that.

The thing that had in time lead to the scrapping of the GT Series project, was the fact that growing required a stupid amount of energy. Energy that had to be supplemented to him in the form of tons of food and water. And then, on top of all that, there were the medical expenses and the constant fatigue from having one's organs, muscles and bones put through such extreme pressures.

In many ways Dogma was the perfect living weapon. Capable of wrecking havoc on the battlefield, in a way that was very akin to the sight of a small child vs a tiny toy army. He could very easily fell an entire wave of battle droids with just the stomp of a foot, or incapacitate a tank with a very well aimed toss of a boulder.

He was gargantuan. Unstoppable. A controlled calamity.

He was also exhausted, in pain, and starving all the time.

And none of that took into account the horror of actually growing, or the humiliation that came with the exposure of it. Because of course, after realizing there would be no more GT Series clones, the Kamiinise hadn't bothered to design armour or any sort of undergarment that could grow with him.

They had never gotten around to that stage of the process and (even with one singular successful test subject in full deployment), had just dismissed the idea entirely because his skin was already pretty impenetrable when he was large enough to carry a LAAT in his arms as if it were a small cat.

The near constant sight of his nude form when he was a cadet, hadn't dissuaded them from this decision either. It simply hadn't been their problem. They hadn't been the ones to have to deal with the embarrassment of the situation... And oh how Dogma remembered the shame he'd felt every time he lost control.

The first time it had happened, he'd ended up a terrified wailing mess. He'd been pressed uncomfortable inside of a room that could barely contain him. Bunkpods crushed beneath and above him as he'd required space that did not exist in the 4th growth cycle barracks.

The squad he'd been hastily assigned to had fled, terror-stricken by what had suddenly happened to him. Screaming for help because he was some kind of a monster hellbent on harming them.

99 had been more understanding than them. Looking up at him with such sad eyes as he took in Dogma's extremely constricted form. Taking note of every bruise and cut that he could see, while trying to sooth him between his shaky and far too loud hiccups.

He'd had to change squads afterwards. As well as be fitted for new pajamas. Both hadn't lasted long. Every squad he had been reassigned to rejecting their newfound monstrous burden, anytime he'd suffered another unfortunate growth-spurt.

The Kaminiise, even in the face of such issues, refused to accommodate for the power they'd forced upon him. They threw him around as if he hadn't been undesired by every group of cadets that laid eyes upon him and his abominable ability. Hoping that by some miracle of the Force he'd just fit somewhere in the puzzle.

And, eventually, he did.

Dogma would never forget the day he had collapsed during training, his body turned against him once more, and instead of running away from him like everyone else had, Tup had stayed and consoled him. Sat next to his inhumanly large body and smiled up at him as if he'd been the coolest person he'd ever met.

Like 99, Tup had made Dogma feel like a person instead of an unwanted freak.

In the end the 501st had done better than the cloners. Not by much, as they'd only managed to fashion him a pair of undershorts to hide his modesty (if just to spare their young commander the horrors of seeing a full grown man's bare nether-regions and ass). But they had still tried, and the thought was what counted to him the most. The unfortunate reality was that he simply got too big for them to do anything more. They'd had to use all of their own spare body-gloves to make him just one pair of measly shorts, after all.

And hey, at least he wasn't running about fully in the nude anymore...

But it was still humiliating being gawked at so openly every time that he emerged at full size. Every gaze burning into his exposed flesh, making his face and ears heat up with shame as he tried to focus on the task at hand. Even if it bothered him on a more personal level, Dogma would never really ask for them to pull unnecessary resources to make him a giant-sized kit. He simply had to live with this indignity anytime he was set loose to rampage on an enemy encampment.

And with just how much his battalion, his brothers in arms, did to keep him going during rougher times? He really didn't feel like he could complain much. Not when they brought with them as much food as they could spare to properly feed him. Even when it was never really enough, and they always had to remind and encourage him to shrink before he started trying to quell the burning hunger in his gut.

The hunger and thirst could be quite dangerous. Could cause him to collapse into a heap, if he was particularly careless or unlucky. And the mere idea of him suddenly falling unconscious causing potential harm to the vode, always made him quite nervous without miss. Fainting at a giant size while close to a settlement, camp, or group of brothers could lead to any number of injuries or deaths.

Even so, eating to make sure that didn't happen was also very much a reason for others to grow a little nervous around him.

The vode tried to be fairly discrete in their apprehension whenever they heard his stomach growl. The natborns not so much... Especially when he'd return to camp with clear intentions to satiate himself. If just so that he could escape at least one constant ache he had to deal with.

The way they'd look at him...How they'd zero in on the way his jaw worked itself as he chewed. The sudden pallor of their skin when he'd swallow, and how the lump in his throat would effortlessly slide down so noticeably against skin that was too tight around his frame because his body was already trying to eat itself to sustain him...

He knew what they would be thinking when they were watching this gigantic clone devour anything that was presented to him. He knew where their minds took them when he would reach down to grab something. He didn't like it.

Sometimes he was petty enough to swallow the food crates in one massive gulp. Just to get them and their accusatory gazes to leave him the hell alone. It was a simple fact that he despised when people watched him eat. Because, in the same way they didn't like to be reminded of how easily it would be for him to do the unthinkable if he got hungry enough, he abhorred that some people thought that little of him. That he was some kind of animal with no self control.

He'd rather die than ever resort to something as barbaric as that. But it appeared that no one but Tup seemed to understand this. Seemed to really trust him with their lives...

Another thing they didn't understand was just how much it actually hurt for him to grow on command. Or how lonely an experience it really was. In all honesty he'd much rather rip his own nails and teeth out than have to endure it. And yet, when this was asked of him, he always complied without fuss or question.

Because if there was something Dogma wanted more than to be accepted and trusted by his brothers, it was to be useful to them. To help them when they needed it, and to protect them from what he considered unnecessary harm.

In defending the Republic that was often very difficult, as war came with injury and casualties abound. So he puts himself through pain no one would ever be able to comprehend, just to defy that one part of their lives that was an inevitability. If just to buy everyone else some more time.

It was a truly excruciating price to pay for the lives of his brothers. One he'd pay time and time again so long as he could do so.

He kept them blissfully ignorant of his pain by hiding away from them, so that they wouldn't have to watch the way he'd tense up before curling up into a tight ball. Each bone, muscle and sinew, swelling and expanding as his blood and marrow boiled within their enlarging constraints. The painful pop pop pop as one by one his vertebrae grew in disorderly fashion, temporarily ringing deep in his ears. A noise which was accompanied by the wet sound of tearing flesh, as his ribs would often outgrow his skin, puncturing and exploding outwards before the rest of him caught up and mended itself.

On every mission that required him to be a giant, Dogma would isolate himself from the 501st so they did not have to witness just how unevenly grotesque his form had to become, before it came close to becoming behemoth in proportions.

He always lost his hearing first, the fragile stapes shattering apart to facilitate their reconstruction in much larger form. Then he'd go blind, his eyeballs liquefying inside their sockets to give the optic nerve a better chance to branch outwards unimpeded. Then he could taste too much as his tongue overfilled his mouth and blocked his throat, nearly cutting out his breathing altogether. Sometimes if he was extra unlucky, his esophagus grew before his tongue, sticking out of his mouth like a morbid mimicry of an insect's proboscis.

His skull and jaw had to grow to full size before his brain and senses could follow up and be restored. It must be a sight. His gigantic chin resting on dirt, grass or loose foliage, while his still growing body tried to keep up with the strain of being attached to something so humongous and heavy. The expansion of it hurt less than the migraine inducing horror that was his brain growing to fill its protective casing. Each nerve on fire from the extreme stimulation.

Perhaps the least painful part of the process was the increase of his erogenous zones, as the nerves were always the first thing to grow and the burst of pleasure was a minuscule moment of relief before his hips and back took back his attention with each tug of a muscle or skin pulled too taunt over too sharp a ridge of bone.

The worst part was that he couldn't scream. He had to choke it all down, or risk the booming supersonic range of his voice to obliterate any life-form unfortunate enough to be lured to his current position.

That included his battalion. He didn't want to hurt them with his monstrously loud voice. Just one soft 'shoo' and grey matter would easily spill out of their ears. A thought that filled him with just as much dread as the idea of accidentally crushing them. The volume of his voice as a giant was ultimately what gave him such a strong instinctive need to be silent.

Even when small. Even when displeased. Even when distressed.

In truth, Dogma only ever really talked to Tup. And even then he did so in a hushed whisper. Which probably made him seem anti-social to anyone but his closest brother.

After growing he'd need to lay there for a moment to catch his breath, and recompose himself if his body reacted to the more pleasurable side of his ability in a rather embarrassing way. He'd rather be able to fit his shorts on without the mortifying possibility of being caught as stiff as a rock by some unwitting passerby. That said, the pain did certainly do wonders too kill any raunchy mood his unruly biology might be in.

More often than not, his poor heart would be giving him more troubles than his lower extremities. All but threatening to thunder out of his ribcage (for a second, third or eleventh time, depending on how rapidly the components of his chest had grown that time).

The moments after growing were very much so the post-panic attack recovery process. It wouldn't surprise him in the slightest if the stress of growing did cause him to experience one without him fully realizing. And it definitely made him not at all look forward to shrinking back down afterwards...

The process of shrinkage was no less painful than that of growing, but so much more infinitely disgusting. Involving the full liquidation of his body, his shrunken form emerging from some kind of cystic cocoon that formed while he shed skin and body fat like a dog shed fur. It was somewhat comparable to a butterfly's metamorphosis. A thoroughly unpleasant experience. One that was, unfortunately, extremely necessary after each growth spurt, since all the extra mass didn't just vanish into thin air...

The cleanup crew would need to burn all of that hazardous mess after wards with flamethrowers.

And this was what made his ability not an envy-worthy one. What made it something people shouldn't want to kill for. It definitely made Dogma a little sick and a little angry whenever his brothers naively assume it was... But since this was an assessment made in ignorance, he never really aimed his ire at them. Never dared take his frustration out on them. It would be less fair than the reason behind his "desirable uniqueness".

The selfishness of others had already ruined enough lives as it stood. He wasn't about to add to that mess, when he would rather simply roll his eyes at them and get back to reading while listening to Tup greet the newcomers and lure them off to do something better with their time.

Preferably something that involved less talking about things they didn't understand. He loved how observant and infinitely patient his ori'vod was with both himself and the newbies.

And besides, incorrect assumptions or not, Dogma thought them all pretty special in their own ways anyway. And the most wonderful part about that was that they didn't even need to suffer for it.

Which was, in truth, a comfort to him. He only wanted the best for his brothers. Even if that meant suffering in silence.

[mwolf0epsilon]

It's not something that Dogma does very often for obvious reasons but, sometimes when missions where he uses his ability get particularly rough, he ends up falling asleep in remote little corner to regain some of his strength and energy. This of course means he wakes up in the middle of nowhere, and has to navigate his way back to camp without any gear to help him out, as well as still being an alarming height to behold (he avoids the locals as best he can but there have been occasions where this is not possible). Sometimes he brings back a few souvenirs. Some of which the general isn't particularly fond of...

Set in the Sugar, Spice and Nothing Nice Universe, where Dogma is a size-shifter who uses his ability despite it being quite painful and unsustainable.

Bonus unused angles + background image under the cut! ---

These angles didn't fit the idea I wanted to go with but I am pretty fond of them still!

An official Battlefront render of Scarif.

[mwolf0epsilon]

Being sick has left me in quite the funky mood, so I sculpted a good boy to give myself a much needed serotonin boost.

— ☕️ Ko-fi | 🧡Commissions

Better look at the sculpt under the cut!

Happiness is stored in the little wet beast.

[mwolf0epsilon]

Snips, Snails and Puppy Dogs' Tails

Summary: When first assigned to Flotsam Squad, CT-6922 is unusually shy for a clone. Quiet, evasive, anxious, and always wringing his hands together while looking at the rest of his new brothers as if expecting to be attacked. It's the loneliness and longing in his eyes in spite of the obvious fear, that makes '85 decide that this is his vod'ika now, and that he'll protect him no matter what.

[A prequel drabble that takes place in the Sugar, Spice and Nothing Nice Verse. Essentially, Dogma's reassignment to his and Tup's squad, after having been rejected and cast out of so many others due to his size-shifting ability.]

THIS STORY IS ALSO ON AO3

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A tiny fleet of cleaning droids had been the only warning Flotsam Squad had gotten in regards to having yet another stray added to their already cobbled-together group. No formal announcement had been given during roll call. Not even a quick notification on their datapads during morning module-classes.

The droids had just waltzed into the barracks and started preparing their quarters for the new arrival.

It wasn't unusual of course, for the Kaminiise not to inform the youngest cadets of their hasty decisions. Especially in regards to when they were piecing together squads full of "difficult subjects". Good soldiers, even ones as inconveniently disagreeable as them, didn't need to be told anything beyond what to do, how to do it, and when to do it. It was a simple fact of life. Commanding officers got the debriefs. CT fodder got the meat shield work. Nothing more, nothing less.

And, honestly, it hadn't really bothered '85 all that much that he and his squad hadn't been told anything prior to the cleaning droids commandeering them away from the corner they'd claimed as their hangout spot. He was mostly just curious as to what the new vod (whoever he or she may be), would be like.

The questions he'd been rotating in his head had even been fairly simple ones. Because over-complicating this sort of thing hadn't ever really been that good of a way to spend the time. No point working themselves up over nothing, and all that...

Still, there had been a lot left to the imagination because they had no information whatsoever, and '85 hadn't felt all that put off by spending his rack time considering the many possibilities that awaited them.

Things like, whether or not Flotsam Squad would be getting someone who was as stubbornly loyal as '33. Or maybe a vod who was more nurturing and tactile like '37? Perhaps someone as resourceful and studious like '20. Or (and he had really hoped for the last option) someone who was just as energetically friendly and ambitious as '85 himself.

For the most part he'd spent his time daydreaming about it rather than actually sleeping (which had bitten him in the butt early in the morning when he'd woken up late and not been able to get first-meal). Thinking up someone that would fit in flawlessly with their band of misfits, while also wondering about what sort of circumstances might have led the unknown vod to their little corner of the 4th cycle barracks.

Flotsam Squad was known, after all, as the leftovers that no one really wanted to put up with...

In fact, it seemed like every trainer they worked with (including their squad coordinator) had something bad to say whenever Flotsam got brought up in conversation behind closed doors.

Conversations that boiled down to complaints of '33 and his infamously bad temper. A temper that got him into a lot of scraps with other vode from different squads. As well as frustrated grumbles about '37 and his inattentiveness, which often caused him to get hurt and jeopardize assignments. Or, more perplexingly, '20 and his unusual way of speaking with as little words as possible. Which apparently the trainers considered disrespectful, despite it being done for efficiency (and it wasn't like his acronyms were anything new or hard to understand...).

And, lest anyone forget, disparaging comments of '85 and his proclivity for both bouts of sudden crying and debilitating headaches. Headaches which got so bad that sometimes he ended up nearly throwing up during classes.

They were, in the eyes of many, bad batchers. The rotten apples that one ought to removed from the bottom of the barrel, in order to preserve the actual good ones that were fit for shipping and consumption from being equally spoiled.

It stood to reason that whoever was joining them soon, would be another "hard case" that the Kamiinise and trainers wanted out of sight and out of mind. That they'd need to help acclimate to the group, and show them the metaphorical ropes. That is to say, teach them on how the squad compensated for each other's inherent flaws and weaknesses.

Because, even though there were many valid complaints (and they were likely never going to stop coming), none of the trainers could actually say that Flotsam squad didn't pull their own weight. That Flotsam couldn't finish their daily assignments, even with the added obstacle they posed to each other.

Adaptability and loyalty to their kin were their strongest suites.

The cleanup and preparation of the bunk and locker had only taken a couple of hours max. The arrival of their new squad member, on the other hand, had taken another full day. Something which had honestly peaked their collective curiosity even more, and led to a full night of gossiping and speculation that had left them all giddy with excitement.

Especially when, during another unassuming morning roll call, they were suddenly presented with the scrawniest (skinnier even than '85 himself, who was often referred to as the runt of the litter by his ori'vode!) most tiniest 4th cycle cadet they ever did see.

The theories that had kept them up suddenly couldn't quite compare.

Were they getting a medical mishap of some kind? Had that been what had doomed the kih'vod to such an infamous squad? Some kind of health deficiency that the poor bugger hadn't been able to control? If anything, the hapless vod definitely looked the part. Quite sickly under the harsh white lights of the halls, and seemingly minuscule in comparison to the two long necks flanking their sides.

But it hadn't just been their new kih'vod's stunted height and gaunt physique that had made him look unusually small. His poorly posture, all hunched up with tired eyes cast downwards as if unable to meet theirs, hadn't been doing them any favors. Neither had the restlessness of their hands, which had been wringing each other like crazy, in a way that suggested both discomfort and uncertainty as to what to do with them.

He was, in both the nicest and meanest way possible, the definition of pitiful given human form. Like a mangy tooka kitten with a broken leg and sad wet eyes.

All at once '85 wanted to squish the little guy in a bear hug so tight it might snap bone.

"This is CT-6922." One of the long necks, the one wearing a medical officer's uniform, introduced brusquely. "Due to behavioral issue related disturbances, this is his 11th reassignment."

"It shall also be his last." The other, wearing a scientist's uniform, had grumbled in clear annoyance. Or as close to annoyance as the Kamiinise could get, since they all spoke with as much emotion as their faces could show. Which wasn't much. "No other squad will take this particular subject due to a series of unfortunate incidents. And if this one is also not an ideal fit, termination will be the only option left."

"As such, we are counting on your current track record with these more difficult allotments, to be able to reform CT-9622's poor cooperative marks into something of... Relative use."

Their squad coordinator (who had been present for the new arrival's introduction) had been the one who was being addressed. But, in the end, it had been the cadets of Flotsam Squad that had been the ones to truly take those words to heart.

The absolute seriousness of the kih'vod's situation.

It was thus decided by them right there and then, that the responsibility to take in and protect their new little brother was theirs and theirs alone. A life or death situation should, after all, outweigh whatever nonsense the long necks were on about, whenever they wrote off one of the vode as being utterly hopeless.

What did the Kamiinise know about brotherhood? About coming together to push each other to be and do better, when everyone else only saw the worst in you?

The answer was obvious: Absolutely nothing.

The long necks, as smart as they thought they were, could never really understand what it was like to be a clone or a vod. Neither could the trainers (who only saw them as their next paycheck). So yes, the Kamiinise might have been speaking to their haughty looking trainer, but it would be '33, '37, '20 and '85 who would make sure 6922 would thrive. That the little kih'vod would become the best of the best.

Even if the latter seemed to have had other plans...

The behavioral issues that had been alluded to were, ultimately, nothing quite like what they had expected in the end. With this being their new little brother's 11th reassignment, they'd sort of pictured that maybe he was the kind to get into fights and loud angry arguments (like '33 often did).

Instead what they'd immediately clocked in on after just a few hours of knowing the little fella, was the fact that '22 was just... Afraid...

Afraid and unwilling to be close to or open with any of them, to the point of remaining so quiet that they had almost thought he didn't need to breathe at all (except he did, in fact, need to breathe as the loud snores that came from his bunk pod were definitely not their imagination and the only sound they ever did hear him produce). It was almost as if he expected them to hurt him in some way if he did or said something they didn't like. And it was '85 who was the most concerned about this particular topic, since the idea of a clone being afraid of other clones was horrifying to him.

What could any of them do to help their new little brother feel welcomed into the squad, if he was too afraid to approach them? Too afraid of them to even accept that he needed their help? How did they reach out to him when he always stared at them as if they were going to bite his head off?

And what caused that fear to begin with?

Had '22 been attacked by other vode in the past? Had he been reassigned because he was a target for in-squad bullying? He was certainly not very strong looking. All skin and bones and shorter than he should be at their age group.

And it wasn't uncommon for the less agreeable trainers to make their squads of cadets fight amongst each other, if they thought one of the members was a bit of a weak link. '22 having been harmed by other vode wasn't too farfetched if it potentially involved outside influence, but it was still against the very nature of a clone to hurt another vod so much that he'd become so timid and skittish around others...

Unfortunately, only one person really knew the right answer. And said person wasn't really willing to share it with him. At least not at the moment. '85 had always been fairly patient for his age though. He could play the long game.

Especially after having decided that '22 was HIS vod'ika.

Sure, the little guy had promptly become Flotsam Squad's collective kih'vod (how could he not? he really did look like a bit of a pathetic sopping wet tooka that needed to be coddled), but he was '85's vod'ika in the same way that '33 and '37 had proclaimed that he was their vod'ika.

'22 was '85's and no one else's. It was a bit hard to explain to someone who wasn't aware of this particular clone sibling dynamic, but also not. An oxymoron of sorts. And, even if '85 was a bit too young to be anyone's big strong older brother that they could look up to with the utmost admiration (like the Alphas), something about those big sad eyes... It just seemed right for him to be '22's ori'vod.

Like it was meant to be.

Now if only his new vod'ika would understand this. That he could come to his brand new band of ori'vode and feel safe among them. Especially around '85 who had decided he would move mountains if it meant '22 would unclench his jaw just a little, and maybe even smile...

Breaking in the newbie (as '33 put it) was ultimately a lot of work. A lot of arduous heartbreaking work that revealed just how much of '22's fearfulness was truly ingrained in him. Even so, they did what they could to work around it.

'85 did what he could.

As days passed, a new sort of team dynamic formed. One where, as usual, Flotsam did what they could to help each other out during both practical activities, tests and module course work.

But now there was also '22 who, remarkably, seemed to be rather brilliant on his own. For all that he was smaller and weaker in constitution, '33, '37, '20 and '85 were astonished to discover that he was fantastic at getting assignments done without the need of any outside help.

What he wasn't particularly good at was acting as a part of the team.

Which was... A problem. Not because he was making it harder on any of them (far from it, he made himself rather scarce to them actually, but his methods were fairly easy to follow from just watching him and the group actually got their work done faster because of him), but because he would be expected to work with others once they all graduated and got put into a much larger battalion.

And if '22 couldn't be a part of a team, a member of a cohesive and cooperative battalion, he was as good as dead. Or worse...

So '85 redoubled his efforts to show him he could trust the rest of the squad just as much as they were trusting his methods. Spent days, and then weeks, and then a good part of '22's first month with Flotsam, making sure he was as approachable, friendly, generous and gentle as possible whenever '22 was around.

And in spite of the resistance he was initially met with, there had been a few promising results that proved he was on the right track with his flighty vod'ika.

Like how '22 began to gradually feel comfortable enough to sit down in the rest of the squad's presence without closing his bunk pod, just so he could catch up on some light reading. His frightened and frantic eyes darting less and less from the screen of his datapad to the group, as the minutes slowly ticked by. The tight knots of his tensed muscles slowly relaxing as he got into whatever it was he was reading.

Or how '22 started joining the group to eat, even if he still put as much distance between them and himself as it was physically possible while sitting at the same table. He'd even begun to set aside the things he did not like to eat (and he seemed to dislike a lot of food stuffs, which maybe explained why he was so small), only to then push his nearly empty food trey towards them, so that they could each have an extra serving of their own favorite treats. Treats that he seemed to have memorized them liking the most.

Or even how he'd cock his head in their direction, to listen in on their more outlandish ideas of how to solve some of the puzzles and problems they were given without a set of explicit rules to work with. Granted '22 never went with their bizarre ideas when he solved his own puzzles, but he seemed almost amused listening to some of the wilder takes. Even if he wouldn't do something quite like that himself.

Seeing him roll his eyes and his lips twitching ever so slightly upwards, had been the highlight of '85's day when he'd first seen it happening. It was hard work, but he really felt like he was getting somewhere.

Which, of course, made him really question why the other squads had found it so hard to work with his vod'ika... Surely being a little shy and independent shouldn't have lead to '22 being tossed out from 10 separate squads. Especially considering just how darn smart, attentive, considerate and resourceful he seemed to be.

It wasn't even that he didn't want to be a part of the team either

Seeing as '85 could tell just how much '22 wanted to engage. How his eyes followed them sometimes, not because he was scared, but because he wanted to join in on one of their free-time activities. He was just a little guarded! Guarded and unsure of how to meet them at the middle.

It made no sense... Until it did...

The true reason behind '22's reserved nature and difficulty integrating into other squads, had only come to light during an obstacle course of all things.

Now, obstacle courses weren't as difficult as combat, blaster and battle tactics training. There was not as much risk of injury, or room for arguments, when all you really had to do was get from point A to point B with only a few hurdles in between.

Except, as 4th cycle cadets, Flotsam squad was ready to be bumped up onto a new difficulty level that was outside of their comfort zone (the 3rd cycle courses were as easy as uj cake, for rambunctious and energetic boys like them).

And, with the hardness cranking up significantly, came something they were ultimately not prepared for: Practice fire to simulate their group getting shot at in the battlefield.

If you thought about, there was certainly a method to the madness. If clone cadets learned early on to be more attentive out in the field, then they would more likely survive their first deployment as fully fledged soldiers without losing their lives or limbs. But without any sort of warning or any real idea that they should be expecting more resistance than usual, Flotsam had ended up getting surprised in the worst way possible.

Which had less to do with learning a valuable lesson, and more to do with the trainer in charge of the exercise... They really didn't like trainer Bric.

Unsurprisingly, it had been '33 who had been the first to find out about the course's alteration. One moment he was rushing forward as he would any other round in the course, and then the next his startled yelp rang out so loudly that it had nearly drowned out the volley of stun shots suddenly zipping over their heads.

'37 had gotten hit trying to pull his twin to cover. His own cry of startled pain causing '85's heart to hammer in his chest, as '20 called out for him and '22 to stay put behind one of the obstacles they'd ducked behind of for safety.

There had then been a long break between the next shots actually hitting anyone. '20 had ducked and weaved expertly and as quickly as he could while running across the course to grab both '33 and '37, and he'd nearly made it all the way back with both of them if not for the fact he'd tripped and then gotten hit square on the leg.

And then '85 had made a mistake of his own. He'd gotten so worked up that he'd gone out of cover to try to help all three of his ori'vode, despite the entire exercise being more than a lost cause at this point...

In the end, he hadn't even seen '22 getting shot. He'd been too busy trying to rescue the rest of their team. But the pained whimper and the proceeding thud of a fallen body, were indication enough that his vod'ika had reluctantly followed him before getting hit himself.

And that should have honestly been the end of it... Until '22's whimpers turned into agonized panicked gasps.

The next few minutes had been... Perhaps chaotic was the better word for it. A cacophony of Bric yelling all kinds of expletives over the sound of tearing fabric, shredding flesh, breaking bones, grotesque gurgling, splattering fluids, and horrific wails.

If you were to ask him later about what he'd done when confronted with the situation, '85 wasn't quite sure how he'd initially reacted to the whole affair. This near-impossible gorefest of an event that he hadn't been able to fully comprehend at the time. All he knew was that he'd turned around to look at '22, and then suddenly he was at the far corner of the training room, squeezed between a trembling and wide-eyed '33 and '37, while '20 held his hand in a vice-grip.

Bearing witness to a vod who used to be smaller than average slowly become big enough to possibly hold their trainer in one hand, had been extremely traumatizing. For all of them.

All at once it had made too much sense. '22's resistance to showing any sort of vulnerability around them, aside from the obvious longing in his big sad eyes. Heck, '85 wasn't sure he himself would have been comfortable approaching anyone if he could... Do something like what '22 had just done in front of them...

It was cool. No doubt there! Like a superpower from those stories that some of the older vode illicitly acquired from sources unknown. But it was also...

It had sounded like it hurt. It had looked like it too.

Watching his giant-sized vod'ika slowly shake off the pain, only to then clumsily back away from their squad while looking at them with a horrified expression (clearly on the verge of crying, as well as becoming even more distressed every time either of his hands or feet crushed one of the obstacles on accident), everything really did click into place for '85. It wasn't really '22's behavior that had set him so apart. It was the fact that he was most definitely different from the other vode. Uniquely alone in his own personal plight.

And honestly that had made '85 burst into tears right there and then. Which of course seemed to set off '22's own waterworks...

Between just how much it had clearly hurt him to get so big, trainer Bric's continuous yelling, his new squad huddling away from him as if he were some kind of monster, and then the brother who'd tried so hard to include him starting to cry at the sight of him?

Yeah, '22 hadn't been having a good day at all...

So '85 had done the only thing he could think to do at the time. He'd shrugged off his ori'vode's grip on him and ran forward.

Now, '85 couldn't call himself the bravest of the bunch. He could be bold if he thought he had the advantage, no doubt there. But honestly he got spooked quite easily at times. He still slept in '20's pod when the storms got too loud sometimes!

Being so close to a literal giant was scary, incredibly so, especially one who was currently bawling his eyes out and sobbing so loudly that it made his ears hurt a little. But while '85 wasn't fearless he was still a softy.

And his vod'ika being so huge did not make him any less worthy of comfort. And stars knew he could have used some right then.

So he'd put his hand on one of '22's huge knees, and he'd started the most long-winded word vomit of a ramble he'd ever spat out in his entire short life. It wasn't the most eloquent speech, or even all that cohesive, but he'd hoped it was distracting enough to get '22 to stop crying. To his immense relief (and surprise) it had actually worked.

'22 had gone from curling in on himself crying his (not so) little heart out, to sniffling quietly while watching him with curious and slightly puffy eyes. Seeming almost unsure if he believed what was happening. Honestly '85 could hardly believe it himself, but he was at the very least happy to help his frightened vod'ika calm down.

"See? It's all good!" He'd grinned up in what he hoped was a confident manner, as he reached up to pat his brother's splotchy red nose, instantly trying not to grimace or shudder visibly in disgust when his hand came into contact with (a lot) of snot. "We're all ok! You're ok."

Or as ok as a giant nude cadet could be after wrecking an entire obstacle course. But really who could argue with him at the time? He was the one comforting said giant, acting brave when he was this close to peeing himself. And he was very thankful that he hadn't, in fact, peed his scrubs in the end. Mostly because 99 didn't deserve to have to deal with something so childishly pathetic... Speaking of which.

The janitorial clone had come through the door just as trainer Bric disappeared through it. He was steady-footed and self-assured, despite the rather astronomical nature of the situation.

Almost seeming unsurprising by '22's dilemma.

In fact, he seemed all too aware of what to do to deal with it. To both help them all relax and see that there was no danger to be found, as well as calm '22 enough that he could safely shrink back down. Which was equally as horrifying an event as him growing to giant size. Very gross too. It made a pair of soiled scrubs look like a walk in the park.

'85 really had not envied the mess that 99 had been left with to clean up, while Flotsam quietly ushered their shivering and naked kih'vod back to the barracks so he could get dressed. Nor did he envy the next group of cadets who would have to deal with whatever bullying tactics Bric might have in store for them (after being so suddenly humbled by the sight of a starship sized 4th cycle cadet).

They'd been told to help '22 dress, sneak him some food and water, and then wrap him up in all of their blankets so he could sleep a little better. 99 had been very explicit in his recommendations as to how to care for their little brother after he shrank back down. He'd even used his stern ori'vod voice, which was a very big deal!

And it hadn't been hard to see why he made sure they were well aware of how important it was to care for '22, after he'd gone through such an ordeal.

The poor kih'vod had barely been able to walk back on his own, and he'd practically been asleep with his eyes open as they pulled an extra set of undershorts and sleeping scrubs on his frail body. Had even proceeded to flop over like a boneless nuna once he'd had a quick bite and a few sips of water.

Growing and shrinking had drained him. Enough so that he'd not even remembered to be afraid of his squad. Instead curling up in the blanket cocoon while resting his head on '85's lap. Allowing him to run his fingers through his hair, like how he himself liked to have done when he had his headaches.

Soaking up the warmth of all four of his brothers curling around him protectively.

It had been both endearing and a little sad to actually have him seeking comfort in them. To show them so much vulnerability after something so traumatic. Especially when, after he'd waken up from his nap, he'd finally spoken to them just to ask when they'd be sending him away to be destroyed.

Even after they'd made sure he was comfortable, '22 expected to be kicked out. And that had made '85 seethe with anger at every other squad that had failed to be a good brother to his vod'ika. That had left him feeling so worthless and unwanted because of something he clearly couldn't control (and 99 had made sure they understand he couldn't control it).

Never again.

All four of them told him as much, and insisted on it once they were met with a look of disbelief. '22 hadn't believed them, but they would make sure to drill it into his head that he was stuck with Flotsam squad now. For better of for worse he was one of them now.

It was hard to ignore the spark of hope in his tired eyes.

In the end, size-shifting wasn't really all that big of a deal once they knew that's what they were dealing with. It'd taken a while to adapt and work around '22's lack of control of it, sure, but they'd compensated by making several contingency plans for it.

And a nice bonus that had come along with his unusual condition, was just how nice it was to have a bit of a trump card against the nastier trainers.

Nothing instilled the fear of the Manda in those natborn bullies, quite like being stared down by a cadet who could easily kick them all the way from Kamino to Rishi Maze. If they so much as got it in their heads to threaten any of Flotsam squad with violence, '22 only had to stare at them in a certain way to get them to back off. Bric had, after all, not remained quiet about what had happened with the obstacle course. And the fact the training room their little brother had accidentally wrecked had to be closed off for repairs for several weeks, had certainly left a lot of space for interpretation of just what exactly '22 was capable of.

The rumors that unfortunately rang loudest came from the vode who had actually repudiated '22. Those were also the ones that got 99 absolutely miffed whenever he caught wind of them (the ones from trainers got a twitch of the brow at best, but he never discouraged them because he too thought the natborns needed a healthy dose of fear to keep them in check around the younger cadets). And by proxy a miffed 99 usually meant a very pissed off Alpha-17 or Fordo on the prowl for snakes in the grass. Which ended with several disloyal small-minded brothers getting taught a lesson in brotherhood that was most definitely needed.

Aside from realizing just how many actually had their squad's back, it was genuinely also kind of nice to have a brother who was so very great to cuddle with after they were all done with course work, because he could very well serve as a heated bed. Even if '22 did kind of have a snoring problem.

Sure, the cuddling sessions were never really planned ahead of time. They sort of just happened anytime '85's vod'ika lost control of his ability. But who could say no to a vodpile after a long hard day of training? And if it got '22 a little more comfortable at his bigger size, that was a plus all on its own.

A win-win sort of deal.

If anything, it had just made it easier for the once skittish and very timid cadet to finally open up to their affections. Which was ultimately what '85 had hoped for since the very day he'd laid eyes on his baby brother. The future could only get brighter for them. Of that, 85 was sure.

Now if they could all just agree on a naming theme for all five of them, that'd be the icing on the cake... He really didn't fancy something corny like Teardrop or Softy, just as much as '22 would rather they not call him Bigman or Vodzilla (they were cool names too, but alas back to the drawing board it was!).

Maybe something about strength and perseverance? A true reflection of their positive attributes? Only time would tell.

[mwolf0epsilon]

Flat Frogma Friday 65

Good heavens, there is a beast in the sauce...

Been struggling with drawing recently, so I decided to remake the Frogma model for today's Frogma Friday.

— ☕️ Ko-fi | 🧡Commissions

A better look of the new sculpt under the cut!

I'm still not very good at replicating a Budgett's frog's proportions, but it's closer than when I first tried!

[mwolf0epsilon]

Of Clams and Clones

Crayfish, laying belly up in his bunk pod contemplating life: Do you think clams can feel?

Jelly, blinking awake: ...Uh?

Conch, groaning: Karks's sake...

Sponge, turning over in their own pod to try to ignore Crayfish:

Geoduck, sighing: Cray... It's 0200...

Crayfish: I can't sleep without knowing for sure...

Conch, gritting his teeth: Who cares about whether or not clams can feel?! They're clams! They freaking suck!

Geoduck, frowning: Clams are cool...

Crayfish: They so are, and Conch is being very rude. He might hurt the clams's feelings.

Jelly, pinching the bridge of his nose: Can we PLEASE all just go to sleep?

Crayfish: But the clams...

Conch: Cray, shut the kark up before I toss you out into the ocean to live with the fekking clams.

Crayfish: Uh, I'd rather like that. The ocean is neat.

Conch: SHUT THE HELL UP!

Geoduck, hitting the side of his pod with his fist: No yelling at your brother!

Sponge, pressing their face into the crook of their elbow: All of you are the bane of my miserable existence...

Jelly, wide-eyed: ...Even me?

Sponge, sighing: No, Jelly, you're cool.

Jelly: Yippee!

[mwolf0epsilon]

Chag Sameach everyone!

Here's your annual reminder that it was a Plague of singular Frog (who must have been so big)

[mwolf0epsilon]

i just found out tumblr was storing over three GIGABYTES of cookies on my device without me knowing and that's why it's been running so fucking slow recently... incredible. anyways everyone go clear your fucking cookies. don't let this website run a goddamn video game's worth of disc space in the background for no good reason.

[mwolf0epsilon]

Caption: [A stitch with user @/sapphicyuji. The text on screen reads, " "you can't misgender cis people!", you have never had your gender questioned outside of your transness and it shows. sincerely, a trans poc".

I'm actually super glad we're having a conversation about this. The masculinization of black and brown women, because for years I felt like I endured this unique form of trauma until I realized other people went through the same thing too. And if there's one thing that I'd like to add to the conversation, there seems to be this misconception that this is something that starts at puberty. Like boys tell you you look like a man to hurt your feeling when that's so far from the case.

The first time I was purposefully misgendered was in kindergarten. I was constantly referred to by the masculine variant of my name, I was chased out of the women's restroom, and I had grown adults questioning what my biological sex was before I even knew what the difference was. And those behaviors persisted into adulthood because now if I present as anything less than 100% feminine, people will either compare me to men or animals.

And for myself and for many other brown and black women this is a life long act deliberately intended to humiliate, shame, and other us for the features we were naturally born with and I'm glad we're having a discussion on how harmful it actually is.]

[mwolf0epsilon]

It's cool everyone, he made it!

And he found a lovely pirate polycule that adopted him.

How does someone panic and yeet a baby into space?

Something like this...

[mwolf0epsilon]

How does someone panic and yeet a baby into space?

Something like this...

[mwolf0epsilon]

DID I SERIOUSLY ONLY DISCUSS THEM ON DISCORD, ARE YOU KIDDING?!

Y'all don't even know about how Sulu Ra panicked and yeeted a clone baby into space to avoid getting caught in one of his schemes, and that said baby got picked up by a bunch of pirates that decided they would raise him as their own... Despite none of them being human or even knowing how clones work...

Did I... Seriously forget to post about the poly pirate crew I made ages ago???

[mwolf0epsilon]

“that fandom is so annoying” i hate to break it to you but every fandom is annoying. all of them. if you’re in a fandom you’re annoying. i’m in several fandoms i’m extra annoying. everyone on this website is annoying.

[mwolf0epsilon]

Polyamorous space pirate crew with an adopted clone baby son. Ringing any bells?

Did I... Seriously forget to post about the poly pirate crew I made ages ago???

[mwolf0epsilon]

Did I... Seriously forget to post about the poly pirate crew I made ages ago???