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reneeofthestars · 6 months

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REMEMBER THE FALLEN

Summary:

After a harrowing battle, Captain Mark and the other clone leaders of Chimera Company celebrate and mourn their fallen brothers.

Originally written for the unpublished fanzine, We Were Here - @cloneoczine celebrating Clone Trooper OCs

Word Count: 4,229

Mark stood on the landing platform for several minutes after the Jedi speeder disappeared into the distant Coruscanti traffic.

The airspace around the clone trooper barracks was quiet. With civilian traffic restricted and the next closest clone regiment a good distance away, the noise and light pollution was severely diluted, leaving Mark feeling strangely isolated.

His arms hung heavy at his sides, as they’d been when Commander Tiatkin had hugged him tightly. He hadn’t embraced her back; not because he didn’t want to, but because he couldn’t find the energy to raise his arms. It felt nice, though.

The Jedi had cried. Two years ago, Mark would have been appalled at the very idea of the all-powerful Jedi showing such emotion. But he understood now that Jedi were only mortal, and General Teyla Marin and Commander Gida Tiatkin were held very dearly by the clones of Chimera Company. It meant more to Mark than he could say that the two women had spent the entire day in the barracks, mourning with the troopers.

Their last battle had devolved into a nightmare.

Mark felt no ill-will towards the Jedi; they had done everything they could to counter the Separatist army, but Chimera Company had been outnumbered and outmaneuvered. The mission had been straightforward: Chimera Company was sent to wipe out a Separatist outpost on the jungle world of Akiva, and bring the planet under Republic protection.

He passed a hand over his face, scratching at his beard. The intel had been wrong. So very, very wrong.

They’d gone in prepared to assault a base. What they found instead was a battle droid factory, deep in the catacombs beneath the planet’s surface, churning out droid after droid after droid. It wasn’t the first time their intel had been bad, but never this bad.

The entirety of Tazer Squad sacrificed themselves to sabotage the factory. Though Mark hadn’t been able to get confirmation, and wanted to believe that they’d survived, the fact remained that he had last seen them swarmed by droids, falling beneath skeletons of steel. And somehow… he just knew they were gone.

General Marin said it was his Force-sensitivity. She’d carefully broached the subject a few months ago, and she and Commander Tiatkin had been… not necessarily training him, but teaching him about this bizarre connection he had. He hadn’t believed them at first; only Jedi could use the Force. But once he stopped resisting the idea, and opened himself to the possibility…

While he was still uneasy about the whole thing, Mark was learning that he could use the Force. He felt the ebb and flow of energy when the Jedi meditated with him, and could move small objects across the table. It came through most clearly during combat, when he wasn’t trying to use it at all. He noticed it first in the uncanny accuracy of his shooting, then in his reaction time. And it finally explained the connection he felt with the other clones, on a level he couldn’t describe. He could sense their feelings, could tell when they were lying, could know their intentions. Mark had always known those things, but now he understood why.

And it was that why that forced him to face that every member of Tazer Squad was dead. He just knew.

He said their names out loud. The dark night of Coruscant might not care, but he did.

“Boots. Amari. Hatchet. Garrett. Lorn. Mouse. Targon. Mechi. Shave. Nath.”

Tazer Squad weren’t the only deaths.

General Marin called for the evacuation, but Separatist ships had lurked unseen in the shadow of nearby world Malrev IV and delayed the assistance of the Zenith of the Republic, leaving Chimera Company stranded planet-side with droids pouring from the catacombs, surrounding the Republic forces in a valley.

“Mixer. Shorty. Gangle. Anchor. Ralphie. Buzz. Kory. Sunspot.”

The droids kept coming. Brothers fell around him. Explosions rocked the world.

“Avery. Karn. Arial. Carbine. Brink. Gale. Twister.”

It was only thanks to a Republic-aligned local militia that Chimera Company wasn’t completely wiped out. Ground forces came in from behind the droids and cut a path for Mark and the others to escape through, and provided cover while they fought to get to an elevation that the transport ships could access. Meanwhile, the militia sent their limited fighters and gunships to aid the Zenith in keeping the Separatist ships at bay.

“Hazel. Mac. Croaker. Cred. Vent. Hinter. Gossip.”

Nearly everyone was injured. Blaster burns, broken bones, cuts, concussions, contusions. Mark himself suffered a blaster bolt to his chest, reaggravating an old wound. Commander Tiatkin got caught at the edge of an explosion and had been flung across the valley, landing unconscious. General Marin collapsed from exhaustion as soon as the Zenith jumped to hyperspace.

A week later, most of the clones had recovered, though a handful remained in critical care. Marin and Taitkin arrived at the barracks as soon as they were released from the Jedi Temple’s med center. And together, they all mourned. And laughed, which Mark hadn’t been expecting. But the Jedi had begun reminiscing about those who had been lost, and before long there was laughter and smiles. Sorrow still tinged it all, but it was easier to bear.

Mark drew a deep breath, trying to center himself. To feel himself here and now, boots on the landing pad, rooted to the world, to the galaxy. Constant and present like the cities of Kamino, stalwart and unyielding to the tempests around it. That had been an argument between General Marin and Mark, in the beginning of his not-training. She had described her mediations as floating in a void, tethers to all other beings keeping her in place. But Mark didn’t feel that. He couldn’t let himself feel weightless, drifting; he needed to be grounded, sure of himself before he reached out to others.

It was several minutes before Mark finally made his way back indoors. He lost track of how many times he clasped a trooper’s shoulder or hand, how many more he nodded to.

By the time he got to the officer’s quarters, he wanted nothing more than to collapse onto his bunk. But as the door slid open, he realized that wasn’t going to be the case.

The four lieutenants of Chimera Company were gathered in the center of the room, having hauled over chairs around a supply crate; a jug full of liquid sat on the crate, surrounded by five cups. Mark made his way to the empty chair, shucking his armor as he went. He let the purple-painted armor clatter to the ground, for once not caring about packing it away properly.

He accepted a cup proffered by Bookie before collapsing into the chair. “Hal, how’s your leg?”

Hal – fresh out of the med bay– grunted and extended his right leg gingerly out in front of him. “Stiff, but the bone’s mended. I can walk on it.” He waved a hand. “And Cleese’s got his hearing back.”

“What?” Cleese asked loudly, the scar across the bridge of his nose crinkling as he failed to keep from smirking.

Tech rolled his eyes and shoved Cleese’s shoulder. “What about you, Captain?”

“Stings a bit,” Mark admitted, a hand going absently to his chest, “but that’s the last time you’ll hear me say it.” The faintly caustic smell emanating from the purple liquid in his cup signified Christophsis tals – potent, crystal-cured alcohol. There had been toasts and honorifics all day, but one more could do no harm. He raised his glass. “To those who rest, and those who live. Vode An – brothers all.”

“Brothers all,” the other for echoed. They drank deeply; Mark’s eyes watered.

After a while of listening to the shuffle of footsteps out in the hall and the hum of power through the barracks, Bookie leaned forward, a loc of purple-dyed hair falling into his apprehensive eyes. “Captain? When are we due back to the front?”

Mark drained his cup and refilled it, keeping his eyes fixed on the sloshing liquid. His tongue tingled from it, but it would be another cup or two before he really started to feel its effects. It had been a while since he’d been properly drunk.

“Mark?”

“The Republic wants us mission-ready in two days.”

Cleese uttered a low curse, but Tech talked over him. “And the Jedi?”

“Marin said the Jedi Council agreed to not assign anything for seven days. She’s going to push for longer, but I think that’s all we’re going to get.”

A muscle jumped in Hal’s neck, right under the black ink of the Republic tattoo there. “A week is fine. Any longer, we’d all go stir-crazy. Don’t know about the rest of you, but I need action – I can’t just hang out at Seventy-Nine’s indefinitely.”

“How –” Bookie faltered, then pressed on. “How long did it take you to move on before? With… with your original company?”

Hal turned a baleful look on him. “It’s not a matter of ‘moving on’. It’s about not being stuck.” He drummed his fingers on the crate. “I was in the med bay for a week after the attack. Shattered my collar bone and a few ribs. It was all volunteer medics – no clones – and they wouldn’t tell me anything. That should’ve been my first clue something was wrong. They dunked me in some bacta, then kept me cooped up til I thought I was gonna short-circuit. By the time they let me out, I was ready to kill something.”

He paused, his focus drifting. “Went to join up with the boys – but found out I was reassigned cuz everyone else was dead. I was on the field the next day. It helped, being able to focus on the missions. But if I’d just… if I’d waited just a moment during the attack, I might’ve been able to grab a few others.”

Cleese frowned. “What d’you mean?”

“The clankers hit our outpost with an orbital bombardment. I only survived because I was able to make it to a reinforced bunker. There were three clones right behind me when we started running. But when I reached the bunker and turned around to pull them in, they were two dozen feet behind me. And a blast came down right on top of them. I couldn’t have outrun them that quick; maybe they got tripped up by something. But if I’d slowed up, realized I got ahead of them – ” he broke off and glowered at his cup.

The guilt rolled off Hal in waves. It was a pain shared by all the clones of Chimera Company; they were all survivors from other companies and squads that no longer existed.

“This is a day for remembering our brothers.” Mark raised his glass. “To Zeta Company.”

Hal’s harsh expression faltered and he ducked his head to hide his tears as the others repeated the salute.

Bookie spoke up; Mark felt his embarrassment at having prodded Hal. “We were fractured at Ryloth. We weren’t expecting the Separatist interest in the planet, and they hit us with more forces than we ever expected. It was a slaughter. Two of our squads survived the initial battle, and we hid in the canyons while we waited for reinforcements. But the droids chased us down.” Bookie averted his gaze, unable to make eye contact. “I was able to duck down quick enough after taking potshots – I dodged the bolts that came my way. But most of the others couldn’t. Only six of us walked away. They reassigned us to another force on Ryloth three days later. I think I would have liked to have some more time to process everything; I feel like I had to move on too fast.” He took a swig of the tal. “The Fifty-Eighth Battalion.”

They toasted; Mark took a smaller sip, a pleasantly warm buzz already at the edges of this consciousness. He had wondered when they’d have this conversation. Chimera Company had been formed almost two and a half years ago, and though they had all strengthened their bonds over that time, they’d never discussed where they’d come from, what they had experienced. Mark knew the stories of the rest of the company, but he’d hadn’t pressed the lieutenants; the weight of living while those under your command had died was a harder burden to bear.

After a stretch of silence, Tech turned his head away. “We didn’t even fall to the Separatists.” The bitterness in his voice made Mark’s gut twist. “There was a distress beacon out in the middle of nowhere. The General and the Captain argued about it, but the Jedi finally ordered the ship to go and offer assistance.”

“And there was nothing there?” Hal asked.

“Oh, there was. A civilian cruise ship, dead in the void. We boarded to search for survivors. Once we were all split up, the pirates made their move. They’d been lying in wait onboard, and picked us off as we went through the halls, and their ships dropped out of hyperspace and took out our capital ship.”

“How’d you get out?” Bookie asked, refilling Tech’s cup.

“A small group of us were in the lower levels of the ship. I could tell when they were nearby – I think I could hear them, or whatever – so we were able to sneak around them, for the most part. We managed to steal one of their smaller ships and get away. No one else survived.” He tapped his cup thoughtfully. “I was reassigned the next day, after we were debriefed. Didn’t really have time to process what happened. I just tried to fit in with the new group.”

“To the Two-Oh-Third,” Mark intoned.

After they drank, they looked to Cleese.

He scowled. “What?”

“What about you?”

Cleese’s lip curled. “I don’t wanna talk about it.”

Mark set his cup down. “You’ll need to eventually,” he murmured softly.

Cleese’s head snapped toward him. “Why’s that?”

“Because you’ve been carrying around the weight of it since you lost your company. I don’t think you’ve ever let yourself mourn.”

“There’s always more brothers to mourn,” Cleese snarled. “More dead, every day – it’s a miracle that Chimera Company hasn’t suffered major losses like this before. There’s always dead brothers that need remembering, but there’s no time for it – we have to keep moving, we have to keep marching on, to win this war, so they didn’t die for nothing.”

For a moment, the only sound was the hum of the barracks’ generators. “I read the official report,” Mark said carefully. “That Haval Company responded to a distress call at Garentti’s Keep and gave the civilians enough time to evacuate the city and escape into hyperspace. You saved over two thousand people.”

“And I lost one-hundred thirty-seven men!” Cleese launched himself onto his feet, hands clenched at his sides. “One-hundred thirty-seven brothers who were depending on me to get them out alive. And they died. I only focused on the tanks and ships attacking from the north, I didn’t think to look out for anything else. A whole squad of commando droids crawled out from the cliffs to the south. Only reason I lived was ‘cause I felt one of the karking things sneak up behind me. They took us out from behind, and the clankers overran us.”

“You had no way of knowing. You did what you could with what you had.”

“And what about you, Mark?” Cleese was suddenly in Mark’s face. Anger radiated from him, washing over Mark in such a tangible way that he almost toppled off his seat. “Have you talked about losing the Eighty-Second? Only twelve of you survived, right? You lost an entire battalion. You gonna act like you’ve gotten over that? That you’re gonna get over this?”

He may have said more, but a high-pitched ringing in Mark’s ear drowned him out. Mark’s blood boiled and heart hammered, aching beneath the blaster burn scar. Brothers could fight, could say things and apologize later. A captain couldn’t.

Mark ground his teeth together as he slowly stood. Cleese filled his vision, shaking and blinking hard. Mark hadn’t gone over managing his emotions with the Jedi yet. Marin said it was because he already had control over it, that she wasn’t worried he would act out of anger. He wasn’t about to start now.

“Of course I never got over it.” Mark kept his voice low and even. “I did what I could, and it wasn’t enough. After that slaughter on Eadu’s moon, I blamed General Thalen, I blamed the Separatists, I blamed myself – I even blamed the ones who died. But the end result was the same. The men under my command were dead, and I wasn’t able to help them. It was out of my control. That doesn’t make the pain go away. Or the guilt. But when I was given command of Chimera Company, I had to pull myself out of my own misery, because others were depending on me.”

He paused and drew a shaky breath. The others were silent, waiting. Drawing on the Force, he grounded himself. And as he did, he felt his connection to them like a heartstring. He softened his voice.

“And this? No, I’m not going to move on very quickly. It’s easier, sure, because more of us survived, and I know that we’ll remain together. But what eases more of the pain for me is this.” He gestured to the assembled lieutenants. “Being together. Remembering together. The twelve of us from the Eighty-Second, we got four days. And all were hazy to me but the last one. Because the night before reassignment, we all met up in the mess and talked about the ones we’d lost. Just like we did today. For me, it doesn’t matter how many days it’s been – or how many years. The pain is still there. But it’s easier to bear when I’m with others who understand it.”

Cleese’s anger had melted into sorrow, and he didn’t say anything; he just sank back to his seat, head in his hands. Mark clapped a hand onto his shoulder, and raised his cup. “To Havel Company. And to the Eighty-Second.”

“I’m sorry, Mark,” Cleese murmured after he drained his glass.

Mark sat down heavily beside him. “There’s nothing to be sorry for.”

The other man smiled ruefully at the rapidly-emptying pitcher. “As far as gatherings go, I much prefer happier ones. One of the Haval Company squads learned from some local children about birthdays. The kids didn’t like that none of us clones exactly have a ‘birth-day’. So they decided that all clones were born on that day, and somehow convinced their parents to throw the entire Company a birthday party.” Though it was undercut by a dry sob, Cleese laughed. “I’ve never had such sweet desserts, before or since. That cake was way too rich, and we ate way too much of it.”

“Oh, cake will get you in trouble!” Bookie jumped in, his eyes suddenly bright. “Charger almost got married because of cake once.”

“Married? But we’re not allowed to marry until retirement.” Tech cocked his head to the side, frowning. “Unless that’s changed?”

“It’s still the same. It was an accident. We were on a backwater world where Basic wasn’t well-spoken. One of the locals offered him a cake – in a real meaningful way – but Charger just thought he was being friendly. The translator saw what was going on and managed to set it straight.”

Tech shook his head with a smile. “The long-necks really should have taught us to speak more than just Basic. I think I’d like to understand Huttese – it seems useful.”

“You had any communication mix-ups?” Cleese asked. Mark was relieved to see he’d relaxed.

“All the time. The boys always had trouble in the Outer-Rim markets.” Seeming to jump from one memory to another, he went on. “I was just thinking of the time a shiny – he didn’t live long enough to get a name…” Tech faltered, then gave a weak smile. “This shiny started trash-talking me to my face. Since I’ve always been pretty regulation, he thought I was a shiny from another unit. Didn’t realize I was the squad leader.”

Mark laughed. “What did he say?”

“He was complaining about the drills I was running them through. Thought I was treating them like cadets. He didn’t expect me to be going through the paces with them.”

“Shinies always have such big heads in the beginning.” Hal settled back, throwing an arm over the back of his chair. “Sometimes those heads never deflate. I had a kid in Zeta Co that crashed everything he ever piloted. Fighters, AT-RTs, speeders – if it had a control yoke, he’d end up walking away from a flaming heap of debris with a smile on his face. We called him Crash after the second time.”

After another drink, Cleese turned his watery gaze toward Mark. “I’d asked you when we first met, Mark, but I don’t think you ever actually answered me. The strike team you led on Brentaal Four. Did you really use a B-One’s faceplate to tunnel under a Separatist compound?”

He hadn’t thought of that mission in ages. “We didn’t just use a droid’s faceplate. But some of our tools had to be left behind when we had a complication with landing, so it was the next best thing available.”

“And that worked?” Bookie said incredulously.

“Droids never considered that we’d try to dig our way through. Besides, they were preoccupied with a diversionary force in orbit. If I hadn’t been so concerned about rules at the time, I would’ve let the men keep it as a trophy. It was probably the most useful thing the droid had ever done.”

Cleese slapped his leg as he laughed, tal sloshing out of his cup as he did. “Ah, damn.” He reached for a rag on a trunk behind him, still focused on the dripping liquid. The rag was about a foot away, but before Mark could get up to grab it for him – it moved.

Mark froze, watching as the rag twitched, then slid right into Cleese’s fumbling hand.

He stared at the other man, but Cleese didn’t seem to notice; he was focused on mopping up the mess, saying that at least he hadn’t hit the pitcher.

The Force. Cleese had just used the Force. Mark knew it. But how?

“You okay, Mark?” Bookie asked. Bookie, who had been able to dodge blaster bolts, moving just before they could hit him. Mark slowly looked around the circle.

Hal, who had found himself moving with unprecedented speed. Tech, who had sensed when pirates were nearby. And Cleese, who had sensed danger behind him, who had just moved a rag without touching it.

But then other instances started coming to the forefront of his memory: a clone who always caught whatever was thrown at him, even when he wasn’t looking; a squad jumping much further than they should have been able to over a crevasse; a clone that every animal seemed to become docile around; and every time someone had muttered that they had a bad feeling just before something went wrong.

They piled up, instance after instance of clones in Chimera Company that were just a bit faster or stronger, a bit more agile or focused, a bit luckier or more aware, a bit more –

Seas. They’re all Force-sensitive.

“Mark?” Bookie repeated, concern creasing his brow. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” Mark croaked, blinking rapidly. His heart thudded in his chest, his mind racing. “Yeah, I just – It’s been a day.” He stood, the alcohol rushing to his head and making him teeter for a moment. No, it wasn’t just the tal; it was the adrenaline that suddenly coursed through his veins, the energy that came with suddenly knowing something vital and not knowing what to do with it. “I think I’m gonna turn in for the night.”

The others made to rise, but Mark waved them down. “Don’t let me interrupt this. Stay up as long as you need. And remember – this doesn’t have to be limited to today. We can mourn and remember as long as we need.”

The others called out their good nights as he gathered his armor and made his way to the far end of the officers’ quarters. A door led to his private bunk, and when it slid shut behind him he stood there, arms shaking as he put his armor away.

Force-sensitive. Was that how they’d all survived? The remnants of companies and battalions that made up Chimera Company, had they all lived because of the Force? Because they subconsciously tapped into an energy that they didn’t know about, and enhanced their skills, like he had?

Did it matter?

Before General Marin had started teaching him about the Force, Mark would have said no, it didn’t matter; the troopers had their abilities and advantages, and it didn’t matter where they came from.

But a company of trained, Force-sensitive clones? They would be a force to be reckoned with.

But would the Jedi see it that way? Would the Republic?

Mark sat on the edge of his bunk, elbows on his knees as he stared at his armor. He’d need to talk to Marin about it. He trusted her. Hopefully, she’d have an idea of how to proceed.

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