Chapter Text
“Attention civilians. This is a request for volunteer support. The Grand Army of the Republic is conducting evacuation operations in Ólethros and requires additional personnel. Transport capacity allows for twenty volunteers. Report to Landing Bay Senth at oh-six-hundred hours.”
The message ends. The holoscreen flickers back to the cantina’s regularly scheduled programming, some obnoxious blitzball match, and the room settles like nothing important was just said.
But the words stick in your mind. They loop, quiet and persistent.
You swirl your drink, watching the liquid and syrup separate and fold back together again, trying to emulsify it before your next sip.
“They can’t really be expecting anyone to go with them, can they?” someone nearby says.
You don’t look, but you listen.
“I’ve never heard of the Grand Army of the Republic asking civilians for help,” another voice replies. “They’ve gotta be desperate.”
You take a slow sip. Still terrible.
“They can’t expect people to be comfortable flying with clones,” the first adds. “All the way to Ólethros?”
Your grip tightens slightly around the glass. It’s not a new opinion. You’ve heard it before. Everyone has. Doesn’t make it sit any better. They say it so easily. Like it’s obvious. Like it’s reasonable. Like they aren’t talking about people. Like the clones chose this. Like they aren’t the ones out there right now, fighting a war no one else wants to touch.
“I’ll send my thoughts and prayers,” the second man says, lifting his bottle, “but I’m not going. I don’t have a death wish.”
A short laugh. “Yeah,” the first agrees, clinking his drink against it. “No, thank you.”
“Hear, hear.”
Something in your chest twists, sharp and sudden. Not anger. Not exactly. Something worse. Before you can think better of it, you stand too fast, stool scraping loudly against the floor. The sound cuts through the conversation around you. You drop a handful of credits onto the bar, barely looking at what you’re paying. You don’t bother finishing your drink. It was revolting anyway. You turn to leave.
“Hey.” A hand catches your wrist.
You stop.
“You alright there, miss?”
You glance back just long enough to acknowledge him.
“Fine, thanks,” you say, sharper than you meant to, yanking your wrist free. “Just leaving.”
The air outside is cooler and quieter. You walk nowhere in particular, just away. From the noise, the idiotic opinions, the way that message won’t stop replaying in your head.
Transport capacity allows for twenty volunteers.
You’ve had desires to help with relief efforts before. Brief ones. Passing ones that you’ve never acted on. You’ve never been given an opportunity. But here’s one, just a few blocks away that would slip away in a matter of hours.
What help could you possibly be? You’d probably just get in the way.
By the time you make it to your hotel room, the city has settled into that strange in-between, too late for evening, too early for morning.
You set your pack down, and sit on the edge of your bed. Stare at the wall, lie back, close your eyes. Sleep doesn’t come. Just fragments of it, broken and shallow, interrupted by the same thoughts over and over again.
The Grand Army of the Republic. . .
evacuation operations. . .
requires additional personnel.
You check the time. It’s still early.
You swing your legs over the side of the bed and sit there for a moment, elbows on your knees, staring at the floor like the answer might be written there. It isn’t.
The shower runs hot. You don’t stay in long, just long enough to wake up, to feel like a person again instead of something half-formed and sleepless.
Your pack sits where you left it. You’re not even sure what you’ll need. Extra clothes. Rations. The few medical supplies you have. You settle on packing as much as you possibly can. It’s not like you’ll be coming back here. You unzip it, repack it, zip it again.
You dress quickly. A dark long-sleeve under a bluish-gray jacket with too many pockets to be fashionable but just enough to be useful. Dark trousers and belt. Sturdy boots. Practical. You braid your hair into two identical braids that rest on your shoulders. Last, you tug your fingerless gloves into place.
When you’re done, you pause, looking around your dingy, cheap hotel room that’s been your home for the past three months. Good riddance.
Landing Bay Senth isn’t hard to find. It’s mostly quiet when you arrive.
A Republic gunship waits, its hull catching the early light. Troopers move around it with efficiency. Loading crates, checking equipment, speaking through their helmet vocoders.
You’re not the only civilian who saw the message. You are, however, the only one who’s here so far. No crowd. No line of eager volunteers. Just you. It must still be early.
You adjust your grip on your pack. Too late to turn around now.
A trooper with distinct blue markings stands near the loading ramp, an arrow-crowned helmet tucked under his arm. You saw him before on the holoscreen. Sergeant Appo.
“Hello!” you call.
He stands perfectly still. Up close, he is taller than you expected, broader. And the way he looks at you, solid and unblinking, makes it feel like he is assessing more than just your words.
You resist the urge to fidget.
“I’m here to offer my services,” you add quickly. “To help the people in Ólethros.”
A pause. “We weren’t expecting anyone,” he says at last. Not unkind, but not welcoming either.
His gaze darts once over your pack, your clothes, your stance. “You can wait here while we finish loading. We’ll be departing shortly.”
“Are there any other civilians joining?” you ask.
“No.”
Oh.
“Right. Thank you,” you say.
But he is already moving, calling something to his men as he heads back toward the gunship. You are left standing alone on the landing deck.
The noise hits you when you first board. The constant hum of the engines, the clank of crates locking into place, the shuffling of boots, the low murmur of voices that all sound very similar.
You find a spot near the wall, lowering yourself beside your pack, trying to take up as little space as possible. No one tells you to move, and that feels like a win.
The troopers move around you with practiced ease, securing cargo and adjusting equipment.
One passed by and secured a latch on a crate near your shoulder without a word. Another checked the seal on a container, gave it a firm knock, and moved on. Efficient and focused. Like you’re not even there.
Once the doors slide closed and the gunship takes off, the walls catch your attention, littered with drawings. Dozens of them, scattered across the interior plating. Some quick and messy, others very detailed. Portraits, blasters, decapitated battle droids, and one of an R-series astromech, lines clean and precise.
You lean slightly to get a better look. When do troopers have time for art?
A burst of laughter comes from the other side of the hold, smooth, overlapping voices. You can’t make out the words, just the tone, laid-back and familiar. One trooper claps another on his cuirass. They all know each other. Which makes sense, but it makes you feel all the more isolated.
You turn toward the small viewport.
Below, your planet Antochí stretches out in endless green. Rolling plains, thick clusters of trees, clouds casting soft shadows across the land, alive, breathing. Your father used to say it’s the most beautiful planet in the galaxy. You’ve always been inclined to agree, since you’ve never left the planet before.
It’s hard to believe that a short distance from here, the same ground has been burned to ash. That people are still there, suffering, waiting for rescue. That’s why you’re here. Whether the clones want you or not doesn’t really matter.
The ship lurches slightly, and you grip onto your pack. Three hours till you land you heard a trooper say. You can handle three hours.
A voice crackles faintly over the comms from the cockpit. “Heads up back there. Weather’s looking ugly ahead. Lock up anything you don’t want flying.”
So, there is someone piloting this thing. Good to know.
The Sergeant’s voice cuts across the hold. “Sketch, get to the back and check the mag-locks.”
“Yes, sir.”
The clone nearest you breaks off from his conversation and moves immediately, weaving through crates toward the back of the ship. He stops short when he reaches you.
“Oh—sorry,” you say quickly, pushing yourself to your feet. “Didn’t mean to be in your way.”
“That’s alright, ma’am,” he says, not moving.
You hesitate. You can move and find somewhere else to sit. Stay out of the way. Or you can introduce yourself. What’s there to lose?
You stick out your hand before you can overthink it. “Hi. I’m Avía.”
There is the briefest pause, like you surprised him, before he takes your hand.
“Oh, hello.” He pulls off his helmet as he speaks. “I’m Sketch.”
The difference is immediate. Gone is the unreadable helmet, replaced by the widest, most genuine smile you’ve seen on a person. His hair falls a little longer than the others you’d noticed, somehow still perfectly in place despite the helmet. You try very hard not to stare.
“Nice to meet you,” you say, relaxing. “Can I help with anything?”
He glances around, thinking. “I’ve just got to check the mag-locks. Make sure everything’s secure before we hit the storm.”
As if on cue, the ship gives a small, warning shudder.
You smile. “Sounds important.”
“It is, if you don’t want a crate taking you out.”
“That seems like something I’d like to avoid.”
That earns another grin. He points to the nearest control panel. “Yellow light means it’s locked. Blue means it’s not.”
“Got it.”
You move to the nearest crate, crouching slightly to check the panel. Yellow. Across from you, Sketch was already moving down the opposite row, quick and methodical. For a few minutes, it’s just that. Checking and moving with the steady rhythm of the ship around you. One light blinks blue.
“Sketch?” you call.
He is at your side in seconds, tapping the panel and flipping the switch. The light shifts to yellow.
“There we go.” He glances at you, grin returning. “You just saved all of us.”
You laugh softly. “I’ll try not to let it go to my head.”
“Probably for the best, ma’am.” He gives you another wide smile.
You sit back down near your pack, smoothing one of your braids. He joins you without hesitation.
“Oh, please, don’t call me ma’am,” you say.
“Oh, right.” He nods quickly. “What should I call you?”
“Avía,” you say, nudging his shoulder lightly. “Remember?”
“Right. Avía.” He repeats it like he’s committing it to memory. “That’s a nice name.”
You smile. “Thanks.”
“Does it mean anything?”
You blink. “I . . . don’t actually know. No one’s ever asked me that before.”
“Huh.” He leans back slightly. “All our names mean something.”
You glanced past him.
A few of the other clones had moved closer to where you and Sketch sit, not interrupting, just settling. One of them mutters something that makes another snort. Another studying his datapad intently. Off to the side, one trooper lies slumped against the wall with an arm over his face, looking a little sick if you had to guess.
“You’ll have to ask them,” Sketch adds. “Some of them will pretend they picked their names for no reason.”
A voice from behind him: “Some of us did.”
“Liar,” Sketch shoots back easily, not even turning around.
You laugh, the sound coming easier now. “So how’d you get yours?” you ask.
He straightens just slightly, like he’s been waiting for that question. “Well. . .”
From somewhere behind him: “Here we go. Sketch is flirting with the civvy.”
The voice drops in out of nowhere as a clone slides down beside you. No helmet. Darker skin, loose curls, and a small skull tattoo at his temple. He flashes a grin like he’s already enjoying himself. “Thanks for saving me a spot, brother!”
Sketch stiffens slightly. “I wasn’t flir—”
“Stop, Fuse.” Another clone drops down on your other side.
He’s younger than the others with fluffy curls and pristine armor, no blue markings like the rest of the troopers have.
He folds his arms. “Excuse him. He’s the embarrassment of the squad.”
Fuse scoffs. “Please. I’m the only presentable one here, shiny.”
You lean back against your pack, fully engaged in their rivalry. Sketch, caught in the middle, looks like he’d rather be anywhere else.
“Avía, these are my brothers—”
“Shiny, right?” you cut in, holding out your hand to the younger one.
Fuse loses it. Full, unrestrained laughter.
The younger clone stares at your hand like it’s personally offended him. Then he stands abruptly. “I’m going to go copilot with Klick.”
He glowers at Fuse. “Kriff you.”
And just like that, he’s gone.
You slowly lower your hand. “Uh. . .”
Sketch huffs a laugh beside you. “That was Mismatch.”
Fuse is still laughing, wiping at his eyes. “That was perfect. First girl he’s ever talked to, and she calls him a shiny!”
“Not helpful,” Sketch reaches over and smacks the back of Fuse’s head.
“Ow—!”
You glance between them. “What does ‘shiny’ mean?”
“It means rookie,” Sketch says. “Fresh out of training. Armor’s still new.”
“So I just insulted him.”
“A little,” Sketch admits.
Fuse grins wickedly. “A lot.”
You press your fingers to your temples. “Amazing. Great start.”
“He’ll live,” Fuse says easily, pushing himself to his feet. “Might sulk about it for a while, though.”
“Don’t escalate it,” Sketch says meaningfully to Fuse.
“Yeah, yeah,” Fuse starts backing away, already turning toward the cockpit. “I’m just gonna go make sure he doesn’t crash us trying to impress Klick.”
You lift a hand. “Nice to meet you!”
Fuse doesn’t turn around, just throws up a lazy wave. Then he’s gone.
“Well.” You exhale, glancing back at Sketch. “That was something.”
“That was Fuse and Mismatch,” he says, like that explains everything. It doesn’t.
He smiles, a little sheepish. “You learn to tune them out.”
You glance past him, toward the walls again—the drawings scattered across the metal. “I think I figured out your name,” you say, tilting your head.
“Oh?” He perks up immediately.
“You’re the one who did all these, aren’t you?”
That grin again—bright and infectious. “Guilty.”
You gesture toward the drawings. “They’re really good.”
“Thanks.” He ducks his head a little, clearly pleased.
You pause, then glance toward where Fuse disappeared. “So. . . abrasive and explosive, I’m guessing?”
“Fuse?” Sketch nods. “Yeah. That one’s pretty straightforward.”
“And Mismatch?”
“Says his name doesn’t mean anything.”
You smile slowly. “So. . . he’s lying?
Sketch glances at you, then laughs. “You catch on fast.”
The shift is immediate. One moment there’s chatter. The next, rain slams against the hull, loud enough to feel in your teeth. The entire hold sways, dim lights flickering.
Troopers are on their feet, helmets on, hands gripping overhead bars like it’s second nature. You scramble up a second too late, grabbing for the nearest bar as the ship dips hard beneath you.
“Hold on back there,” the pilot’s voice cuts through the comms. “She’s gonna fight me a bit.”
This does not inspire confidence.
The ship lurches again, sharper this time, and you stumble sideways. A hand catches your arm before you can slam into the wall.
“Easy.”
You look up. Another trooper with blue markings and a large GAR symbol spanning the top and front of his helmet. His stance is unshakable, like the floor isn’t moving at all. He lets go once you’ve got your footing, shifting just enough to give you space at the bar.
“Thanks,” you manage.
He nods once. “Jesse.”
“Avía.”
Another jolt. Hard enough that you instinctively grab the bar with both hands.
“Is it supposed to do that?” you ask, glancing toward Sketch. He’s a few feet away, holding on perfectly balanced.
“You get used to it,” he calls back.
“Where’s Mismatch?” one trooper asks.
Across from you sounds a familiar voice. Fuse. “Sulking,” he answers immediately. “Turret.”
A few helmets tilt your way.
“Oh—That’s my fault,” you call over the noise. “I think.”
“What’d you do?” Someone asks.
You wince. “I called him ‘shiny.’”
A pause, and then laughter breaks loose. Even the trooper next to you, Jesse, huffs a quiet laugh through his vocoder.
“Didn’t know what it meant,” you add quickly, pointing across the hold at Fuse. “He said it first.”
“Of course he did,” someone mutters.
The ship jerks violently to the left.
Your pack slides across the floor.
Before you can react, Appo snags it mid-skid and shoves it back toward you. “Secure your gear,” he says, already looking away.
“Right. Sorry—”
You fumble with the strap, trying to sling it properly over your shoulders without letting go of the bar.
Another sharp drop, and your grip slips, and suddenly, you’re not where you were a second ago. You collide into Jesse again, this time harder, your pack throwing off your balance completely.
“Sorry—sorry—” you rush out, trying to untangle yourself and failing.
“You’re good.” His hand steadies your shoulder, firm but comforting.
He guides you back toward the bar like it’s nothing, like the ship isn’t actively trying to throw you both across the hold.
You latch on again, breathing a little faster now.
Around you, the troopers barely react. They shift with the movement instead of against it, adjusting. Compensating. Like this is normal. Even the one who looked sick earlier seems. . . fine now. Helmet on, unwavering.
You take a breath, adjust your footing, and try to copy them. Bending your knees slightly and centering your weight.
The next jolt hits, and you don’t move. Not as much, anyway.
“Hey—look at that.” A voice comes from somewhere to your right. “Cadet’s learning.”
A couple of helmets turn your way again.
You scrunch your nose. “I’m not a—”
“Sure you’re not,” Jesse cuts in. There’s amusement in his tone. “Just don’t fall over again, Cadet.”
You open your mouth, pause, then tighten your grip on the bar. “Working on it.”
The turbulence fades slowly. The violent jolts ease into something still rough, but more manageable. The rain softens against the hull, shifting from a relentless assault to a rhythmic thrum.
Around you, the tension loosens. One by one, the troopers relax their grips, adjusting their stances, rolling their shoulders like this is a normal part of the ride.
You follow their lead, easing your hold on the bar. Your hands ache. You hadn’t noticed that until now.
From the cockpit, the pilot’s voice crackles through the comms again. “Congratulations. We survived.”
A few snickers ripple through the hold.
“Storm’s breaking. We’re in the clear for now.”
Someone drops back down onto the floor nearby. Another pulls off his helmet with a sharp exhale. Everyone’s back to normal. Well, not everyone.
The trooper who had been sprawled against the wall earlier makes it exactly two steps before stopping abruptly, one hand braced against the wall.
“Oh great,” someone mutters.
You’re already moving before you have time to think about it.
“Hey, are you okay?”
He doesn’t answer.
You catch his arm as he sways, guiding him down gently before he falls to the floor. He fumbles with his helmet, pulling it off. And yikes. He’s pale, clammy, eyes squeezed shut and holding his breath like that might help somehow. With his helmet on, you’d never have known he was so ill.
Another trooper is there almost immediately. Blue markings, same as the others with a red medical symbol stamped on his shoulder. His hair is buzzed short, a lightning bolt shaved into the side, and a tattoo reads A good droid is a dead one. Fair enough.
“Breathe, trooper,” he says, already dropping to one knee beside you, simultaneously lowering his medpac and reaching inside for something.
“Bag,” the pale trooper snaps.
One appears immediately. From where, you have no idea. The half-dead trooper groans, clinging on to the spacesick bag like it might float away. “I hate flying.”
“We know,” someone calls.
“Quiet,” the kneeling trooper says, not looking up. He glances briefly at you. “You good?”
You blink. “Me?”
“Yeah.”
“. . . Yes?”
“Good. Shake this until it’s cold.” He presses something into your hand, an ice pack, and turns back to his brother to whom he hands a canteen.
“Small sips,” he instructs. “Don’t argue.”
“I’m not arguing,” the trooper mutters weakly.
“You always argue.”
You glance between them while shaking the ice pack. It gradually becomes ice cold in your hands. “Is he going to be okay?”
The kneeling trooper finally looks at you properly. “He’ll live. Probably.”
You stare at the pale trooper for a beat. “Green,” he supplies.
“What?”
“That’s his name. Green.” the kneeling trooper adds. “And you can relax. Happens to him every time we hit rough air.”
You smile at the name—very on the nose. “You’re. . . the medic, then?” You ask.
“Kix.” He gestures for you to hold the ice pack on his brother’s neck, so you do.
“Thanks.” Green mutters weakly after a sip from the canteen.
A voice cuts in from your right. “If he throws up on my boots, I’m filing a formal complaint.”
You turn. A clone leans casually against a crate, arms crossed, watching the whole situation unfold like a holodrama.
“Against who?” you ask
“Him,” he says, pointing at Green.
Green lifts his head just enough to scowl. “I will aim for your boots specifically.”
“See? Hostile work environment.”
You snort.
“That’s Blink,” Kix says dryly.
“I can introduce myself, thanks,” Blink shoots back.
He strides over and drops down beside you and Green, loose energy, cheeky grin, fluffy hair that’s a shade lighter than his brothers’, a small scar cutting through one brow.
“Hi,” he says. “I’m Blink. I’m the entertaining one.”
“Debatable,” Green mutters.
Blink ignores him. “And you’re Cadet, I recall?”
“Is that name permanent?” you ask.
“I like it,” Green says, reaching for the ice pack so you don’t have to hold it anymore.
“That would make one of us,” you say, which earns a laugh from all three troopers.
You shift, sitting back. “So, Green,” you start, “this happens every time you fly?”
“Yes,” Kix says.
“No,” Green says at the same time.
You glance between them.
“He’s exaggerating.”
“I’m not.”
Green exhales sharply. “It’s not this bad every time. . .”
You smile and try changing the subject for Green’s sake. “So, Blink, how’d you get your name?”
“Ah,” Blink says, straightening a little. “Oh, this is a good story.”
Green rolls his eyes and shifts the ice pack to his forehead.
Blink ignores him. “It was during advanced combat training,” he starts, slipping into something more dramatic. “Final evaluation. Live-fire simulation. High stakes.”
Kix doesn’t look up from reorganizing his medpac. “It wasn’t live-fire.”
“It felt like live-fire,” Blink shoots back, then continues smoothly. “Anyway—the whole squad’s pinned down. Our instructor says we’re done, acting like we’d failed—”
“You did fail,” Kix adds.
“—but,” Blink presses on louder, “I refuse to accept defeat!”
You bite back a smile.
“I break formation,” he says, gesturing wildly. “Push forward alone. Dodging fire—precise, calculated—”
“Panicked,” Green mutters.
“Strategic,” Blink corrects. “I have the shot. Perfect line. Perfect timing.”
He pauses for effect.
“. . . And?”
Blink exhales. “. . . And I blinked.”
You grimace.
“Once,” he adds quickly. “Just once.”
“Six times,” Kix says.
Blink points at him. “You weren’t even there!”
“I didn’t have to be. Word gets around.”
Green repositions the ice pack to balance between his neck and the wall. “He blinked so much they thought he was having a seizure.”
“That’s not—”
“They almost benched him from our next exercise,” Green continues. “Said he was a hazard to the entire squad.”
You laugh, covering your mouth.
Blink looks back at you, a little desperate now. “I still made the shot.”
“You hit the wall,” Kix says.
Blink freezes. “. . . Near the target,” he amends.
“You hit the wall.”
“It was a ricochet setup.”
“It was not.”
You’re fully laughing now.
Blink exhales, dropping the act slightly. “. . . Okay, fine. I blinked.”
“Repeatedly,” Green adds.
Blink points at him. “You throw up during flights.”
Green sits up a little. “That is a medical condition.”
“You took a nap mid-ascent.”
“I was conserving energy.”
“You were drooling.”
“I was dying,” Green snaps, then gestures vaguely at the ship. “Which, by the way, still might happen. I don’t think I’ve fully recovered.”
“You’re fine,” Kix says.
“You always say that,” Green mutters. “One day I won’t be, and then what?”
“Don’t worry, I’ll make up a story for ya—really play up how brave you were.” Blink says shoving Green’s shoulder.
Green shoots Blink a deadly glare.
Blink leans toward you slightly. “For the record, I don’t blink anymore.”
You raise a brow.
He immediately blinks.
You double over now, laughing uncontrollably.
“Not when I’m handling a blaster!” he defends. “They wouldn’t let me leave Kamino if I did.”
You’re still smiling when the moment settles.
Beside you, Green shifts, looking significantly less like he’s about to pass out. “This your first time in a gunship?” he asks.
“How’d you tell?”
“You were attached to that bar like a mynock on a power cable,” Blink says.
Green nods. “And you collapsed into Jesse.”
You cringe. “Don’t remind me of that, please. Not my proudest moment.”
“He liked it,” Blink says.
“Did not,” Jesse calls from somewhere behind you.
“He did.”
Your cheeks warm, but the tension in your shoulders loosens. Time passes, though not all at once. Green recovers enough to sit up properly, keeping the spacesick bag close just in case. Blink keeps talking about everything and nothing. At some point, Sketch drifts back over, settling easily into the space beside you. You weren’t necessarily expecting it, but you like them. And you find yourself hoping they like you too.
The comm crackles again. “Alright, listen up.” The pilot again. “We’re making good time. Don’t lose it back there before we land.”
“Too late,” Blink yells.
“Doing my best,” the pilot shoots back. “Complain to the weather.”
Green groans.
“Who is that?” you ask, indicating the comms.
“Pilot,” Sketch says.
“Really,” you say flatly.
He snorts. “His name’s Klick.”
Eventually, the noise settles again. Not silent, but comfortable. Some more time passes. You’re not sure how much, but the sun’s shining bright now. Sketch hands you a ration bar. You eat it. Blink and Jesse rope you into a game. You lose immediately. Green recovers enough to be embarrassed about earlier.
Then, a shift. The tension is tangible, almost electric. Conversation fades, helmets are donned, gear is checked.
From the comms: “Fifty klicks out.”
And just like that, the squad’s ready. You’re not. Nervousness creeps in before you can stop it. Unconsciously, you smooth your braids.
Sketch steps beside you. He places a gloved hand on your shoulder, warm and grounding.
“Hey,” he says. “You’re gonna be fine.”
You glance at him. “How do you know?”
You can’t see his face under the helmet, but you can hear the wide smile in his voice when he says: “I just do.”
It helps. A little. But not enough to stop your pulse from picking up as the gunship begins its descent.