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xtrablak674 · 1 day ago

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Who is your emergency contact?

[Originally published on Livejournal Thursday, November 17th, 2005 at 1:38pm]

I paused and trembled at the question.

The query was simple enough, but as my friend Eric says I analyze things too deeply, so mundane things take on new meanings and nuances. But even simple questions have complex answers.

For years I had put the standard answer of:

emergency contact: Sadie Brown

relation: grandmother

I think even a few times I put:

emergency contact: Adam Melaney

relation: friend

But usually I put my grandmother, the irony of that doesn't escape me. All of my friends know of the shakiness of that relationship over the years and the recent drama of late. Regardless of all of that she is still my grandmother and in an emergency I know she will do what needs to be done, in spite of what is going on in our relationship. #hopefully

A few years ago I had reconnected with my younger brother Chaon, I so enjoyed playing "big brother", and hope that the relationship would last, surfaced for me. At my job at Kirshenbaum I was filling out some paperwork for my 401k and put him as the beneficiary of the benefits in case of my death. I also put him down as an emergency contact on another form:

emergency contact: Chaon Gentle

relation: brother

It seems that anything that I work for disintegrates even if I tried my best, and after one fallout and then another, I was back to my standard:

emergency contact: Sadie Brown

relation: grandmother

Then when I least expected it something magical happened and my hope was renewed again. I met a man who made my heart race, my blood flow and my youth return. This all began with a romantic kiss underneath a starlit evening in Central Park.

Having been alone and lonely for so long I just knew it couldn't last and even three years later I was amazed that I was still in the relationship. I kept waiting for someone to pinch me and wake me up. Happiness has seem to be so fleeting in my life that I had began to think I didn't deserve it, and I begin to dream and hope again.

Is it wrong to hope? Is it wrong to think maybe he will be the "one"? I feel silly even saying that, I was never one to talk in such absolutes and I never believed there could be any "one" for me, and had sort of resolved my self to a life of solitude. This new person made me feel alive again, feel like settling down, feel like being a better me, not just for him but for something else new "Us".

Of course I wanted all the best for him always, and even though my very eccentric choice of being an entrepreneur, I still tried my best to do well by him. I worked so hard on this relationship to be better in it then I had been in any of the ones I had before. I even challenged myself to fight my depression, because I knew it wouldn't be fair to him for me to emotionally check out and submit to my depression, which was a long-time friend and as comfortable as a well worn shoe.

The relationship was so many things that I thought I would never do, one of those being long distance. It presented unique challenges but I think I rose to meet them and even conquer them by staying for periods of a week at a time to be with him, wake up with him, and greet him when he came home from work.

I begin to pick up domestic task like doing his laundry, dishes and light house cleaning and it felt good to do these things it felt good to be accommodating to my man while he was out earning his money.

When it came to Christmas and his birthdays I really shined in getting him all the latest high tech toys from a PS2 to Tivo. I made sure my gifts aimed to not only please him but to show my dedication and commitment to him.

Even when things went south with his indiscretion which wounded my soul. I chose to challenge myself to rise beyond my natural instinct to terminate the relationship and eliminate him from my life, which the old me would have done to someone who had so thoroughly violated my trust. I reached deep into my being for compassion and understanding and I let him back in, and most importantly, I forgave him and moved on.

He has subsequently regained a lot of trust back, but not the same absolute trust that I had given him previously, but that is the nature of relationships sometimes things are lost that can't be recovered no matter how hard you try.

One thing that was very important to me in this relationship was to keep it fresh and new, and keep the passion alive. My partner said how important it was for him to have a lot of physical attention and affection. I made sure that I consistently lavished affection on him even when he slowly stopped giving me the same, and I had to request it, which broke my heart.

But this guy made me happy, he turned me on with the touch of his hands or his soft kisses so when I was presented with another form that asked me who my emergency contact was I happily and proudly put down:

emergency contact: Paul Soave

relation: husband

When folks saw that they would think of all the things going on with gay marriage and that's not what I meant. I wasn't married, but Paul took care of me in ways that a husband would. He set up a bank account in his name so I could have a safe place to put my money away from creditors who had seized my own bank account.

When I took a trip to Puerto Rico with my friend Adam he knew I didn't have a lot of money for the trip and he put some money in the bank account he set up for me. He also did something else that no family member ever did for me, he bought me groceries, when there was no food in the house and I was too proud to apply for food stamps.

He was also there to support me when my cat of twelve years died dramatically and painfully in front of me. He was there to comfort me, and made a very difficult situation a lot easier to deal with. He was also something else I never had in an intimate relationship, he was my best friend. I had seemingly been abandoned by all the people who I thought were my friends in my life, and there he was filling the void.

For all of these things and the intimacy we enjoyed for the three years I loved him dearly. His voice was soothing, his hands healing and loving him was easy. My love for him or towards him never changed.

But it seems loving me was not as easy even with all of my efforts. He stopped having sex with me, stopped touching me, and stopped loving me.

Once again I was alone, abandoned and once again the answer to who your emergency contact is:

emergency contact: Sadie Brown

relation: estranged

[Comment from Dominic Vine - May 15, 2007 at 2:14am:

... but that post wasn't about emergency contact

it was about Contact

(and who's the most reliable?)

(reliable?)

i get irked when i see people so obviously misunderstood or purposefully?

i've left your journal open since the opening reading through posts when i give myself time to

just came to this one shutting down my lap top soon

Love

Loving

being Loved

we can't give up on it

i mean

i have

i know people who have

in that place of safety of sorry

we always recommend

take the Risk

and Love

when i'm alive again

i'm sure i will]

[Afterwords: I had re-posted this piece on my other blog and re-blogged it to this blog, but hadn't really done an examination of the piece from twenty years ago with my much more mature eyes and perspectives.

First of all I so wish I could have been friends with Dominic Vine, I always adored him from a distance and had a few interactions with him even being invited to his home once. I realize that initially I just wanted to fuck him, I can admit that I found him sexually desirable. He is a very handsome man.

He said something to the effect that that isn't what he does, which always sort of confused me. I know he was a sex worker doing tantric massages with his clients that I am guessing lead to other things, I am thinking he was more into an exchange of energies, but also currency. It never entered my mind to attempt to pay him for his services, I don't think I wanted him that way.

I just really enjoyed his mind though, albeit in his writings he sometimes rambled I enjoyed the way he did it. I always wondered about his interior life. For someone who I can't say in any confidence was my friend, he has said some of the most memorable things to me, talking about how glamorous I was, and how just my presence diffused toxic masculinity.

Now I am sure that part of his skill as a sex worker was 'seeing people' and making them felt seen. I bet his intuition was finely honed to assess folks quickly and give them what they need. He was highly empathic and it definitely made him more attractive than the physical beauty he already had in abundance.

But the way he lived was immensely curious to me, the nomad-like quality of always being on the move and not settling down in any one place for too long. Also his freedom with his body, exploring his nude barefooted form in all kinds of outdoor spaces. Dominic was an entire vibe.

I speak of him in the past-tense because folks come and go so quickly these days, and I am reminiscing on memories and feelings from the past. I am sure Dominic Vine of the Owls was a performance artist, I say this having attended one of his exhibitions where I think he had mixed media piece on display.

I think he would not shy away from being called one of those multi-disciplinary artist, he writes, prose and poetry, his entire energy is creative, his modes of dress are uniquely his own, I have seen his photography, and how he models for others. In a lot of ways we are two different sides of the same coin, completely and fully artist but in very non-traditional ways.

There is also one other reason he probably never shared a bed with me, he has a clear and open desire for bears. It was in this context that I met another artist Nayland Blake a very bearish non-binary person who is an established well-known artist. I loosely braided Blake's hair at one of Dominics parties in his short-lived Washington Heights apartment. Sadly I would never be a bear, but I would always stay fascinated by him even as he has put aside his boyish traits and put on his grown man face.

Alas I should spend sometime actually commenting on the piece, Dom did point out something that a lot of folks were overlooking, this piece was indeed about connection and reliability, who are the folks in your life that you can rely on? Are those relationships permanent or more tentative? Is there something to be learned from how transitory they are?

I was also curious that Dom said he wasn't alive, I think meaning not open to a romantic relationship at that time, but maybe he would be later. In his verse he is playful yet so explicit about himself, as I have said before I am just happy to have had the pleasure of knowing him for ever how brief, which seems to be the feeling he leaves with so many.

This piece was also clearly about my mourning the end of my relationship with Paul. I love how I talked about him and us for a few paragraphs without even mentioning his name. I told the story in the present tense, making it appear that the love was fresh and new, even though it was long over. This is something I like to applaud myself for, the innate creativity I express, that is still quite surprising to me. I have a way of weaving the reader into my story and having these twist and turns you weren't necessarily expecting when you sat down to read the piece.

It also saddened me that my happiness was indeed fleeting, and once again off to stay with someone new. If I was writing about this today, there was sadly be no one I would put down. The children albeit supportive in their own way are still a bit too young to take on the responsibilities of someone nearly twice their age and of much more financial acuity.

This is what makes estate planning so important for people like me, who are childless, un-partnered and estranged from those we might have called family. We need to make the arrangements for our own emergencies because no one else will be there to take up the reigns and guide us through. The one contact that we can and must rely on is ourself.

emergency contact: Sadie Brown

relation: deceased

[Photos by Brown Estate]

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corellianhounds · 19 days ago

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Aay’han

Chapter 1 - Remains to Be Seen

Media: Star Wars, set during in the era of the Clone Wars

Word Count: 4.6k

Rating: Gen.

Warnings: Topics include canon-typical violence/combat, death, blood and injury, organ transplants and similar medical topics, PTSD, survivor’s guilt, dehumanization of the clones and disrespect for the dead, very brief suicidal ideation.

Dividers: @/saradika-graphics

Summary: There are any number of reasons a man might change his name.

Inspiration came from these posts from @/fox-trot: Here, here, here, and here

There are any number of reasons a man might change his name.

During the war, those with the same face and the same armor who fought on the front lines often chose their own names, adopting different identifying markers for some measure of individuality in a sea of soldiers all crafted from the same man.

Captain Manukura was an adept pilot and commanding officer of 144 men, a man with dry humor and a quick turn of phrase who was consistently levelheaded and in control. His was a steady and reassuring presence in the face of calamity, even those not under his command instinctively looking to him for guidance in the most dire situations. He was a fine man, a natural leader, and the men in his company trusted and respected him, even when the calls he made were the difficult ones to accept. Though he did everything within his power to ensure as many of them made it back as possible, he also understood that he could not risk the lives of many for the lives of the few. That didn’t keep him from being the last one off the field, carrying or supporting whoever he could, and he held a somber reverence and respect for the dead, committing their names to memory and carrying their legacy through stories told of their lives.

There was a familiar parting farewell among many of the clones. The practice had traveled between battalions, a sort of hope for life after the war, but also a sense of honor, camaraderie, and acknowledgment towards their eventual deaths: Clasping one another’s forearms in farewell, one would say “Live free,” to which his brother would respond, “Die well.”

On the day of the incursion, Captain Manukura was at the front of the line when the Separatist ambush attacked. The skirmish lasted far longer than anybody anticipated, and it was only because of their proximity to medical personnel that they were able to save the ones they did.

Captain Manukura sustained heavy injuries in the field. The trooper who found him was fresh from the shuttles of Kamino and nearly vomited behind his mask at the sight of the captain, bloody and incapacitated. He would later recall that the captain had to have been in shock when he found him; Manu was somehow awake and lucid enough to tell the trooper he’d rather be killed with mercy by a fellow clone than by a Separatist, but the trooper refused to comply. There was a brief scrabble where Manu put up a surprising amount of resistance against CT-8956 as the young trooper tried to administer what analgesics the captain’s armor could still provide, and the trooper had to wrestle both blaster and (to his astute alarm) an invis market latheniol injector out of the captain’s remaining hand in quick succession to prevent him from greeting the void himself.

A medical droid had been dispatched as soon as the trooper pinged their location, and CT-8956 provided cover fire, seeing the captain’s transport back across the battlegrounds himself. The RMSU technicians set to work immediately, assessing the nerve and tissue damage to both the captain’s torso and what remained of his arm before determining that he was still fit and worth the trouble of surgery to receive transplants, and Captain Manukura was quickly stabilized and processed through the field’s operating tent, then medevac’d back towards the GAR’s planetary home base.

Manukura remembers floating somewhere in the indigo, star-filled space between life and death, surrounded by the lights of those who’d marched on before him. Two other troopers were there with him, though he didn’t recognize them. One it appeared had been part of the second battalion stationed on Engatuu, his armor demarcating him as a medic. The other was a gunner for one of the light utility speeders in the third company of Manu’s own regiment. Both of them had sad smiles, but they were warm in their regard of him, the gunner resting a hand on his shoulder.

“You’ve still got some fight left in you,” the gunner said. “I’m afraid you can’t follow us yet, little brother.”

“Take care of the rest of us out there,” the medic bid him solemnly, and Manu nodded. Of course he would.

“Until we meet again,” the gunner said. Manu desperately wanted to ask their names but couldn’t find his voice. “Remember us. We’ll have your back.”

As the ink-filled void bled away into black, the lights winking out around him, the two men he hadn’t known in life faced him in a bid goodbye.

“Live free,” the gunner told him, pulling Manu in to press his forehead to his own.

But when Manu turned to the medic, the medic took hold of his right forearm and instead followed the farewell with a modification to the customary parting line.

“Live well.”

When Manukura awoke it was to dim lights and Kamino-white walls. The stark smell of antiseptic told him he was in the infirmary before the hum and beep of machinery did, and he flexed the pins and needles from his toes. One of the longnecks appeared above him, greeting him in that infuriatingly impassive voice, asking him standard questions regarding his vitals. His right arm was leaden and it felt like there was a weight on his stomach; he answered mechanically, wondering back at what had happened.

In the two weeks that followed Manu recovered remarkably well. He was visited by a few others in his company who had also been medevac’d, expressing their relief and well-wishes, and as his progress with the brief amount of physical therapy he was given improved, he was met by one of the Kaminoan mentops and one of the very few clone medics cleared in psychiatry who asked after his mental faculties, assessing his capability upon returning to the field.

“Any dietary, mood, or sleep cycle changes?”

“None I’ve noticed.”

“How’s the nerve damage? Do you feel any disconnect between the integrated pieces?”

Manu fought back a grimace at the word ‘pieces,’ shaking his head. “Everything seems normal.”

“And the arm?”

The captain rolled his shoulder experimentally, unimpeded. “Right as rain.”

The engagements on Engatuu proved to be a series of bitter, gruelling victories over the Separatists in the following months. Nearly a third of the original clone force stationed on the planet had been decimated, and Manu’s insistence on powering through his recovery would have been met with pushback if it weren’t for the fact he’d physically improved more rapidly than anticipated and his skills on the ground were in high demand. The captain appeared as alert and capable as ever and was cleared for active duty once the medical leave came to an end; the organs that had been replaced either in part or in full showed no signs of rejection or taxation under stress, and his right arm proved to be a seamless incorporation with very little cybernetic involvement.

Captain Manukura of his own volition made extensive and excruciatingly delicate inquiries tracking down the identities of the two men he now carried as part of himself. The topic of “recycled” clone bodies was a sensitive one and wasn’t openly discussed between the clones— It was at best considered to be in extremely poor taste to go digging into the medical practices used to sustain the GAR. Manu had always been as tactful as he was sharp though, and his rank and file afforded him the chance to call in a few favors, get behind some closed doors, and ask the right people the right questions. Through some carefully cross-referenced medical data, some off-the-books access to chief medical officers’ logs, and more than a few “acquisitions and losses” reports, he was able to narrow down the platoons of the two donor clones and made covert plans to meet with those close to them.

Warren was in his fourth tour and was incredibly well-liked by those in his company; his lieutenant said there had only ever been positive words spoken of him in his time on and off the field. His skill manning the artillery for the light utility ground speeders was notable even among the rest of the gunners, and while on leave it wasn’t uncommon to find him tinkering with equipment and vehicles. When asked why he put so much effort into fixing things that could easily be taken care of by droids, he’d jokingly respond with “If they don’t find you handsome, they should at least find you handy!”

At the end of the day Warren was frequently the one center stage mixing drinks and singing raucous songs that had the room laughing until last call. Utility and entertainment, it seemed, were as woven into his bones as fighting was.

Talus, the medic, had been in the GAR nearly as long as Manu had. He was described as having a commanding authority and no-nonsense personality, but he also had the most steadying presence and calming bedside manner his patients had ever seen. When his unit lost half their men his first mission off Kamino, Talus had taken charge as interim commanding officer, keeping the remaining men’s heads on straight, and was after that cross-trained as a ranger, gaining valuable skills in tracking and recovery. More than one of his fellow soldiers and superiors noted that they would have liked to see him as a commissioned officer, but Talus declined the promotions and negotiated against reassignments the entire time he’d served as a soldier, insisting that he was best suited for battlefield triage and casualty care.

Manu took in everything and thanked the soldiers for their time and willingness to indulge his questions.

Captain Manukura continued to serve active duty. He wasn’t one to remain idle and the men of his cadre needed him. He slotted back in place among them, spearheading ground operations for the most dangerous missions, fighting more fiercely than before with a vicious precision aimed at every Separatist battle droid and encampment. It became steadily apparent that Captain Manu’s strategy, perseverance, and fighting style was geared towards hitting first and hitting fast in an effort to see as many of his soldiers returned to him alive, and his dedication yielded visible results: more of Manu’s company survived to fight another day than any of the other captains’, and his men’s already-steadfast loyalty to him was stoked into aggressive hope and determination. Seasoned men and new additions alike grew tight-knit, working together as one unit, and their collective vigor and solidarity carried them, alive, through the battles that followed. Engatuu’s eventual surrender was a pyrrhic victory for the GAR, but it was a victory.

And the war carried on.

The captain didn’t speak much about his near-death experience. He had no arrogant sense of prideful heroism, flaunting his scars as a badge of honor, and it was only in glimpses that other soldiers saw the grafts covering a significant portion of his torso— They weren’t inclined to speculate as they normally did about fellow soldiers’ battle scars, rightly assuming that if Manu hadn’t addressed them in boast, he didn’t want them addressed in rumor. He was neither a self-conscious or vain man and he didn’t shy away from genuine questions they might have had regarding his injuries— they knew there was always the possibility something similar could happen to them and Manu had never believed that ignorance was bliss— but he rarely volunteered the information, unless to make the occasional macabre joke at his own expense. In addition to his blunt, clinical honesty was the subsequent gratitude he showed for all the brothers who had gone on before them. Talus and Warren were spoken highly of, their names gaining their own respect and mythos in stories passed between the ranks.

There were nights around the fire, though, when the stories the captain told of ghosts walking between them felt more like they came from first-hand experience than imagination.

Though it’s not often, Manu can just barely sense them sitting beside the fire or resting a hand on the shoulder of another weary soldier, or standing behind him and bolstering his resolve while running point. He feels a pull at his arm or jolt in his stomach when recklessness starts to run roughshod over his decisions, and as it brings him back to center he’s able to broaden his scope beyond impulsively jumping headlong into the fray. More than once he’s moved out of harm’s way without will or reason why, and sometimes he’ll stop in the middle of marching, sensing something none of the other men can feel before giving new orders that prove to be of vital benefit when all is said and done.

The only time Manu ever beat somebody within an inch of their life was on leave: someone overheard part of his story and had spat derisively, calling him minced meat.

The fight had to be recounted to him by others in the aftermath. In the moment, he’d felt nothing; the fugue state that took over blocked out his memory and emotions until he came to, streaked with blood and aching from adrenaline and exertion as his brothers finally wrested him off the bloodied civilian. The men hastily worked to minimize collateral damage as the Coruscant Guard was called in, but a crowd of bystanders had already gathered as they held the dazed captain back. They quickly crafted a scenario they hoped was believable enough to convince those present in the aftermath that it was a needlessly provoked fight both men were active participants in; it was the first time Manu realized his men were not only willing to follow his orders, but that they were prepared to go far beyond that just to protect him.

The trooper who’d done most of the talking hadn’t actually been there for the initial attack— He’d been drawn by the sound of shouting down one of the alleyways and came running when he recognized the voices. CT-8956’s assessment and informed mediation was the only thing to break Captain Manukura from his single-minded focus, and his remarkably quick thinking gave those present enough of a story to somehow convince the Guard the issue was not as severe as it appeared to be, in the hopes that Manukura would be granted leniency.

Standard disciplinary action would follow Manu’s evaluation, regardless: he was set to be shipped off to Kamino shortly after his detainment. Before he left, however, he managed to find the trooper who’d covered for him in the wake of the fight.

“Hey, shiny.”

The young trooper turned, glancing away from his datapad and around the hangar. A clone captain in white and maroon armor approached from the bay doors, escorted by two shocktroopers not far behind.

“Sir?”

“Are you the one responsible for intervening in the altercation caused by a clone officer against a Coruscanti civilian?”

The trooper went very still, his complexion paling even as his expression fought to remain neutral. “There was no clear instigator in the fight between the captain and the civilian,” he said diplomatically. “I believe the captain involved is facing a court-martial following his evaluation—”

“That’s not what I asked. I asked if you were the one who put a stop to the fight.”

“… Aye, sir. That was me.”

Manukura removed his helmet and tucked it under his left arm, extending his right to the trooper. The trooper gaped, recognizing Manu despite the recent haircut and shave returning him to regulation standard.

“What’s your name?”

“CT-8956, sir,” the trooper said, much more confused as he shook the captain’s hand.

“No, kid,” Manukura said. “What’s your name?”

“… It’s Benni, sir.”

“Thank you, Benni,” the captain said. “I’m… sorry that all your efforts have to show for their involvement is this.”

The assessment to determine whether or not Captain Manukura’s actions would be a one-time offense was conducted by the same Kaminoan and clone mentop duo who had assessed him post-op. It was only because of Manu’s recent military accomplishments and the clone medic’s initiative that Manukura hadn’t been subject to the involuntary reset immediately: the medic cited an interest in analyzing the captain’s behavior, wanting to see if it could be corrected less invasively first, if only because every reset came at a loss of a trooper’s experience tied to his memories, and Manukura had been a valuable asset prior to this one, outlying infraction on his record.

That’s what the medic told the Kaminoans, anyway.

They sat across from one another, silent in the observation room. Captain Manukura felt nothing and had refused to speak.

The clone, a man by the name of Caius, suggested that the captain might be more cooperative if it were just the two of them for a time. The Kaminoan was clearly opposed to the idea, but notated the request in the medical file before adjourning to the adjacent room. Manu wasn’t under the impression the mirror making up the entirety of the left wall was there for decorative purposes.

Manu watched Caius impassively, apparently unbothered by the tenuous position he was in. Caius wasn’t as out of touch with the soldiers serving on the ground as one might’ve thought, though— He was familiar with the resistance many of the older ones had towards being evaluated like the lab rats they were. He had a vested interest in seeing his brothers genuinely cared for, and he’d spent long enough navigating the Kaminoans’ regard of them to know what to say to keep the longnecks from picking up on what went unspoken between himself and his patients.

Caius sighed, leaning forward to rest his forearms on his knees as he spoke. “Manu— If they suspect you don’t have control over your emotional responses, we both know how it’ll end.”

“I have nothing to report,” Manu said quietly. “Recon me or don’t. Seems a shame to waste that much investment though.”

The medic resisted the urge to snort. He knew what the captain was doing.

“There are worse ends,” Caius said.

He lowered his voice. “If you’re only here out of obligation despite your recklessness or a lack of will to live, that’s your prerogative.”

“Thank you.”

“However,” Caius said. “Before you leave, I’d like to know what you think your brothers would say.”

Talus’s words echoed at the back of Manu’s mind, and his jaw worked in agitation.

The observation room was quiet for a long moment. Manukura remained rigid in his chair, otherwise unwavering.

“… I reacted poorly to the Republic civilian insulting the sacrifice so many of our soldiers have made, including the sacrifices they have no choice in making after their deaths,” he said finally, clinical despite the accusations in his words. “I apologize for my actions and accept whatever the consequences may be.”

Caius wasn’t happy with the deflection. He was doing everything he could to balance the tightrope walk between the Kaminoans’ assessment and Manu facing a mind-wipe or termination, but if Manu was capable of diplomacy and Caius could convince him to put in the work, he’d do everything in his power and then some to get the captain truly back on his feet.

“Play opossum for a bit,” Caius said quietly, switching to Mando’a. Manu’s eyes narrowed in suspicion; Caius estimated they had about twenty seconds before one of the Kaminoans interfered. He continued, keeping his tone light and inquisitive despite the fervent message he hoped would come across. “Convince them that you’re not a threat to others. Follow their instructions exactly as they’re given and don’t deviate from your duties. Keep your head down—” (and here Manu’s lip curled in disgust before he heard Caius power through) “— and you’ll be able to protect more of our men once they’re satisfied they can put you back in the field and trust you around civilians. Stop risking the life returned to you and find another way to honor the men who are gone, at least until they’ve cleared you again.”

“I know how to run the maze.”

“Good. Prove it.”

The Kaminoan mentop reappeared with obvious disapproval, but Caius switched back to his regular clinician’s persona before they could affirmatively detect that anything was amiss.

“You’ll have to go through the post-op program again,” he warned.

“Affirmative.”

“I might have some folks who can help, though.”

The group is much smaller than anticipated, and the infrequent meetings and occasional change of location help keep it from feeling obligatory. There’s about seven of them, give or take, depending on the day. Manukura does his best not to take his frustrations out on them. He’s candid about his emotional state in a detached sort of way, and it’s here he reveals that he actually had been experiencing some changes due to the transplants, despite what he’d told the Kaminoans. He now preferred black caf, and he was still working on evening out the callouses on the right palm. The medic’s hand seemed kinder than his own.

Despite the camaraderie he finds with the other clones, he keeps the near-death vision and the echoes of the fallen to himself.

As the days and meetings pass Manukura is evaluated up close and from afar by the Kaminoans. He knows they think they’re being subtle, but his insight and acuity on the battlefield has extended to a vigilance at camp, on base, and on leave. His awareness of his surroundings is constant— being able to tell when he was being watched was almost child’s play at this point.

Though his bonds with those in his company have grown stronger, the general barracks are a nightmare to navigate when he finds himself responding to every sound or disturbance. The battlefield was almost preferable because at least there he was assured that his paranoia was warranted. Sleeping in the outer rooms of the facilities on Kamino with the unending white noise of rain was worse than the barracks because then he couldn’t hear anything that might cause alarm, and that concerned him more.

Battlegrounds where he’s provided constant work give him focus. Though he’s been able to return to his leadership position with aplomb, he almost feels itchy and restless, wanting to do more— Piloting either on the ground or in the air feels too far removed from his men, and at the next meeting he’s able to make with the other transplant recipients, they’re the ones to suggest he put in for a transfer to search and rescue or battlefield triage. Manu mulls the idea over, thoughtful.

During a few of his stints on leave, he follows up with Caius’s instructions and schedules several meetings with one of his lieutenants; Markem was a strict and somewhat severe officer who often had to be reminded that field operations required flexibility as circumstances changed around them, but his fastidious nature made him a punctual man with a good work ethic and steady hand; there was a reason the men tolerated him with minimal grumbling and why Manukura didn’t overly criticize his fussiness. His precision in everything made him the ideal choice for Manu’s request.

“Are you hydrated? Did you bring something to keep you occupied?”

“Yes.”

“The front will take four sessions,” Markem said, outlining his sketches. “It’s best not to do all of it at once because it’s going to hurt to carry your full kit regardless of how long you have to recover. If you do the whole back you won’t be able to carry anything without—”

“I was blown to pieces, Markem. This will be fine.”

The lieutenant coughed, awkwardly clearing his throat. “Right. Okay. Uh, of the three, which do you want to start with?”

“The arm.”

“And you’re sure of the placement?”

“Positive.”

At his final evaluation with Caius, the captain answers the assessment questions succinctly and completely. Caius has his suspicions that Manukura hasn’t told him everything, but he doubts he could force anything more out of the captain without resorting to use of a Mairan bor, and he wouldn’t want the information under those circumstances anyway. What was most important was that Manu appeared to be more even-keeled and adjusted, and Caius made it clear to the captain that if he needed anything at all in the future, he need only ask.

The captain nods, thanking him, and Caius shows him to the door, where the captain casually mentions, “I’ve also decided to change my name.”

“Oh?” Caius asked. “What did you have in mind?”

“Stitches.”

From the Files of Nala Se, Chief Medical Scientist

> Altered Behavioral Patterns Post-Operation and Recovery Re: CT-5947

— Upon initial recovery, CT-5947 refused further treatment of field-surgery skin grafts which has resulted in cosmetic defections. This appears to minimally impede movement but does not appear to affect overall functionality: when asked to demonstrate various exercises the subject is capable of completing them without issue or complaint.

— CT-5947 has exhibited what we are told is called “gallows humor” among the regiments. Though concerning, his behavior has not been reported to especially discomfit the rest of the units, civilians, or people of authority he has come in contact with. If and when it occurs, it is usually within groups he is familiar with and is done with a controlled turn of phrase, suggesting he means for the joke to come at his own expense with the objective of humoring others. Reports from those who knew CT-5947 prior to his injuries indicate that his behavior is not so far off from his prior personality as to cause concern. Observation recommended, low priority.

— CT-5947 appears to favor his left hand in both active battles and simulations. He has not reported diminished faculty in what was formerly his dominant hand, prior to the Battle of Engatuu, nor have his reflexes or abilities diminished in performance or functionality. When asked to perform various tasks in a controlled environment CT-5947 is perfectly capable of executing the tasks with both his left and right hands. His commanding officers have not reported a deficit in performance. The favoring of his non-dominant hand opposed to the donor limb has been deemed a non-issue.

— It has been well-documented that clone units will sometimes express mild individuality in the form of surface-level changes to their appearance or adornment of their armor. CT-5947 has since acquired tattoos at the surgical sites of his transplants: the image of antiquated stitching appears in a band surrounding his upper right bicep as well as on sections of his torso and abdomen where the grafts have been integrated. It is unclear how he was able to determine the seam of integration on his right arm, as the attachment of the donor limb was done in a more controlled environment than that of his organ transplants, and both the subcutaneous and surface level nano-mesh allowed for complete and perfect transfer and integration of tissue. The donor units were both clones of exact likeness and construction, and there is nothing to indicate a distinguishing separation of anatomy.

Aforementioned embellishments have not resulted in negatively altered behavior and have been deemed a non-issue.

— It has been reported that CT-5947 has immersed himself in the study of various medical topics while on leave, off-duty, and during transportation. He has also assumed the duties of search and rescue personnel after individual battles. Behavior does not supersede designation or duties. Unit does not appear to be operating under diminished quality of performance. Maintained observation recommended; if the clone’s performance can be sustained without impediment, no further actions are required.

— Commanding officers report that CT-5947 has filed for an MOS transition to service in the medical division.

— Request was denied.

A/N

Aay’han: Mando’a. Meaning: Bittersweet remembrance and celebration, the mourning and joy after the death of a family member

All original characters. Engatuu is an original planet.

“Live free,” // “Die well.” comes from The Scorpion King.

There are a lot of themes I ended up identifying/wanting to incorporate as I was writing and it was difficult to edit this down to a one-shot, so it’s likely I’ll write more with these characters in the future. Lots to dig into here.

Next chapter >

#star wars fanfic #the clone wars #clone troopers #Star wars OCs #clone trooper culture #star wars #hounds speaks #my writing #Fic: Aay’han #All of the warnings included are not as detailed as Amidala the Resilient (in case you need a frame of reference)#There’s soooo much more I wanted to get into #But I felt that editing it down to get the right tone consistent and get things in order #took precedence and made it stronger overall #I’ll end up talking more about these characters for sure #The idea that even after they’re dead they don’t get a say in what their bodies are forced to do #involuntary organ donors whose bodies are forced to continue fighting by proxy.#Not given the dignity of a proper burial #There’s just so much to get into when you REALLY get into the clone wars #This was also the fic where I couldn’t decide on a title because I have no less than 20 viable options #Still not sold on this one but it’s in the top five so we’re going with it #I feel like it covers several of the themes and hits on the biggest ones #AO3 link in reblog #OC Clone Captain Manukura #OC Clone Trooper Benni #OC Clone Trooper Warren #OC Clone Medic Talus #OC Clone Medic Caius #clone trooper OCs #my OCs

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