This is not an actual story; it is more like a collection of essentially chronological moments in the lives of a commando squad during and beyond the Clone Wars. I will not be updating regularly, and I'll do my best to keep it to the facts. The commandos RC-7156, RC-9934, RC-7533, and RC- 8112 are OCs; everyone else already belongs to George Lucas or Karen Traviss, or someone.
He opened his eyes. It was dark, or at least his senses were telling him it was dark. He blinked a few times, seeing tiny spots of light. He turned his head, the spots dancing and growing larger. He blinked again, trying to make sense of it all. His mind grasped a concept, a thought- he was looking at white.
He knew what it was. He knew the standard colors; red, yellow, blue, black, and white. He didn't know how he knew, but he did.
The voice was soft. His head swiveled, almost of its own accord, to look at the gently swaying head of a Kaminoan scientist. Blinking again, he looked up at her. It was indeed a woman; he could tell by the basic anatomy. How he knew all that, he wasn't sure.
"The vital signs are normal." Gracefully, the Kaminoan turned to another similar sentient, a male this time. "This unit is a success."
His gaze flicked around the room while they talked, their musical voices lifting and dropping occasionally. It was all white; the walls, the ceiling, the floor. Even the bed he was on was white. The sheets were folded over, a large portion of it directly behind his seated portion. He looked down at his hands. His skin wasn't white, a puzzling thought. Everything here was white; why wasn't he?
He looked back up at the Kaminoan, holding her golden eyes with his own.
"Move your fingers." She had picked up a datapad and was studying it now. Slowly, he lifted his arm, surprised to find it as bare as his hand, and began touching his fingers. The Kaminoan seemed to hum to herself, her slender white fingers tapping out something quickly on the pad.
"Now your toes."
He complied with her instruction, arching his bare feet and wriggling his toes. They were so small, he couldn't imagine any practical use for them. But he already knew he was perfectly created, and there was nothing wrong with him. He needed the toes.
"Now stand up."
His feet connected with the cold floor. His sense of touch was awakened; he felt the layer of wax used to polish the tiles, his bare skin squeaking with the movement of running his foot across the surface. He felt his mouth widen, stretching and turning upward. A smile.
"RC 7156," the Kaminoan said, her voice an octave lower. Angry, he interpreted. Annoyed, frustrated. He tamped the smile down. "Your uniform is there. Report to Sergeant Apma immediately."
"Sir, yes sir!" The reply rolled off his tongue smoothly, without thought. He paused to think about it afterward. It meant compliance, obedience. Why had he said it?
The uniform was laid out on a metal table close by; gray with red sleeves. He was shocked it wasn't white. Another smile. He fingered the material; soft. The smile widened. Pulling the shirt over his head, it fit perfectly. He must have been grinning.
The Kaminoans had left; it was just him and the white. He smiled easier now, pulling on the trousers and then the boots. His footsteps taking him outside the room were quiet, tranquil. It must have been the floors. In front of him stretched an enormous glass wall, and beyond, a structure containing his brothers. He didn't give it or them a second glance. They were still encased in fluid, un-breathing, un-thinking. He wasn't. He could think, breathe, move.
He had been born. They hadn't.
He passed another window, on his right. He stopped. The Kaminoans were there. The female was removing a needle from the next unit. A boy. Him.
RC-7156 watched the other boy blink and then sit up. He watched him touch his fingers then arch his feet, much in the same way he had done. The boy stood, stretched his arms out, and twisted his upper body. He hadn't done that; he could imagine the boy's muscles stretching out, warming up. The boy bent over and touched the floor then rose back up, his arms extended straight over his head. One hand clasped around a wrist, the boy stretched to the side, then the other.
His motor skills were fine; why was he still testing them out? The boy rolled his head in a circle, loosening his neck muscles. A cheeky grin spread across his face; the Kaminoan's back was turned. RC-7156 shook his head and turned away as the Kaminoan pointed out a uniform for the boy and then swept from the room, the male in tow.
He backed against the wall, grateful she didn't see him standing there and staring. He was to be reporting to Sergeant Apma, and he would. But not yet. He looked back at the other boy pulling on his gray and red uniform.
The boy straightened and walked toward the door. His eyes fell on him, and a grin spread across his face.
"So which one are you?" he asked.
"RC-7156. What about you?"
"RC-9934. Who are you reporting to?"
"Sergeant B'arin Apma." The grin widened. "You too, huh?"
"Yeah. Come on. We can walk together."
They fell in step beside each other. RC-7156 glanced at his companion.
"Wonder if we'll be in the same squad." RC-9934 grinned.
"I doubt it."
He stopped, staring. "Why what?"
"Why don't you think so?" RC-9934 shrugged. "There's nothing saying we won't be."
"Well, it's highly unlikely. Just because we have the same training sergeant doesn't mean we'll be in the same squad. There will be ninety-eight others with Apma, and we'll be divided up based on your various strengths and weaknesses."
RC-9934 laughed. "I like you. You're funny."
He snorted. "We're not meant to be funny." His tone was sharp. "We're meant to be-"
"Yeah, yeah, I know. Save me the lecture. We'll be hearing it plenty before all this is over."
They continued in silence. He had a thought.
"We're alive, you know."
RC-9934 stopped. "Of course we are."
"I mean, we're born." He made a vague motion toward the structures on their left. RC-9934's eyes widened and he whistled.
"You're right," he whispered. "They're alive too, but we're…"
"Born," RC-7156 finished.
And they stood there, watching the unborn, thankful they had the chance.