#post-umbara

[fallendomino99]

GUYS I just read Wolf-pup by CTKit on ao3. 🥹🥹🥹 Dogma ends up with the 104th, fluff ensues. I love it SO MUCH!!

[toschestationed]

Wolf-pup Ch. 7

Chapter Summary:

Dogma's secrets are like an onion, and they need to be peeled back a layer at a time.

Chapter 7: Bother

Drifting between sleep and wakefulness, Dogma hadn’t felt this comfortable in a long time. Sure, his head was foggy from sleep and his muscles were a little sore, but curled up with his batchmate, he felt almost… normal. Of course, Tup had to ruin it by shifting around, stealing the blankets and getting his hair in Dogma’s face.

Spluttering as some of Tup’s hair got uncomfortably close to his mouth, Dogma forced himself awake with a groan. “Tup…” he complained, rolling over to get away from his batchmate’s hair. He didn’t remember the other trooper joining him in his bunk last night, but it wouldn’t be the first time he’d–

“Who’s Tup?” Comet asked, and all at once, reality snapped back into place. Dogma flinched, going stiff in Comet’s– not Tup’s– arms. Dogma closed his eyes again and let out a long sigh, but Tup was still gone, and he missed his brother like a limb. 

The illusion had dissipated, but at least he’d slept through the night. He hadn’t done that in a long time.

Reluctantly, he opened his eyes again and looked back at Comet, a little surprised that the other had stayed with him all night. He couldn’t have been too comfortable, overheating next to a feverish Dogma under a mountain of blankets. But the other simply gave him a grin before sitting up with a stretch.

“Sleep well, Dogma?” Comet asked, smiling at the name, still exciting in its newness. 

Dogma cleared his throat, nodding. Surprisingly, he felt much better than the day before. A good night’s sleep really worked wonders. 

“Good!” Comet continued. “The others already left for firstmeal, but they’re bringing something back for us. We’ve got the next day or two off while you and Wolffe recover, so I think the others were going to try and play some sabaac, if you feel up to joining.”

Biting his lip, Dogma felt a pool of guilt rise in his stomach. They’d been taken off the mission schedule… for him? If he hadn’t been so close to the cliff’s edge, Commander Wolffe might not have gotten hurt, and– 

“And the Commander?” He asked hesitantly, which Comet took careful note of even as he continued stretching.

“Oh yeah, Wolffe’ll be fine. He’s got a hard head; he came back to the barracks last night, not long after you fell asleep. He’s got orders to stay away from screens for the next 72 hours– would be longer without bacta, but he’s mostly in the clear. Last I checked, he was more worried about you.” 

At that, Comet gave Dogma a searching look. “You look a lot better than you did yesterday, at least.”

Dogma nodded, relieved to be feeling more like himself. “I can actually breathe now, which is an improvement, and my headache’s gone. I don’t know if I still have a fever, but I feel better.” He suspected that after a shower, he’d feel almost brand-new.

At the good news, Comet grinned. “Glad to hear it. Was starting to get worried you’d never stop shivering, vod’ika.”

Rolling his eyes, Dogma responded even while his ears flushed pink. “It wasn’t that bad…” 

“Yeah, and you weren’t using the General’s cloak like a blanket either. Right, vod?” Comet asked, sounding smug.

Dogma cleared his throat, avoiding eye contact. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Sure vod, sure.”

Dogma’s next words were interrupted by a sneeze, and when Comet started laughing, he gave the other a sullen glare before promptly shoving him off the bed.

_______________________

"Hmm… never have I ever… dyed my hair!” Warthog shared, the pilot grinning as Sinker, Boost, and even Comet let out groans of defeat, losing a point in their game. 

The Wolfpack had played a few rounds of sabaac until Fixer had suggested a game of “Never Have I Ever,” and Dogma was enjoying getting to know a little bit more about the rest of the Wolfpack. They each started with ten points, taking turns saying something they had never done, and those who had done that activity lost a point. It was actually pretty illunimating.

For example, Fixer apparently went through several different names before arriving at his current one, and Patch had never gotten a tattoo. Boost had the dubious honor of passing out in a very embarrassing position once, and Comet was double-jointed. Currently, Wolffe and Dogma were winning, with about seven points remaining from their original ten. Boost and Sinker were tied for lowest at three. 

“Who’s next?” Comet asked, smiling in enthusiasm.

“I am,” Sinker leaned forward with a smirk. “Never have I ever… grown out my hair.” His face lit up with maniacal glee as nearly half the group put a finger down, including Warthog, Dogma, Comet, and even Boost, who was quick to protest that, “It was a phase, okay?!” with his face flushing a bright red.

Apparently he’d kept the red-striped pattern much longer as cadets, and it had been quite the look, according to Sinker.

“You too, Pup?” Fixer asked with a grin, using the nickname out of habit more than anything else. He’d been just as happy as the rest of them when Dogma finally shared his name with the rest of the squad.

Dogma grimaced but nodded. During his time after Umbara, he didn’t exactly have access to hair-clippers, so his usual hairstyle had gotten more than a little disheveled before he’d managed to fix it, which technically counted in his book. Couldn’t go around cheating or making excuses for himself, even if he was the only one to know. 

“Still nothing, Commander? Come on, live a little!” Sinker complained; he’d been hoping to get Wolffe to admit to at least one embarrassing choice he’d made in the past.

Commander Wolffe smirked but otherwise refused to respond, taking a measured sip of his kaff.

“I know one that can get him,” Boost started with a grin. “Never have I ever won a fight with a Jedi!”

A long silence followed before Wolffe reluctantly lowered a finger, indicating that he’d lost a point, and Boost gave a victorious cheer.

Wolffe’s voice took on a warning tone. “You know, targeting your superior officers can–” The others interrupted, chuckling and teasing the Commander, but Dogma sat in frozen silence, an empty pit of dread welling up in his stomach as his face went cold. 

What he did to Krell could never count as winning, not truly– not after all the lives that had been taken, the blood that had been spilled. No, that blaster bolt had been justice; a desperate attempt at triage that came far too late… Dogma may have killed Krell, but some nights, it still felt like Krell had won that fight…

“ –gma? Kid, it’s your turn.” Snapping back to the present with a shudder, Dogma shrank back at the realization that he had the attention of the room.

“You feeling alright, Dogma?” Patch asked, going into medic mode as he took note of his pale complexion and shaking hands. “Not pushing yourself too soon?”

Dogma swallowed around the tightness in his throat, giving the medic a nod. “No, I-I’m fine.”

Fixer raised an eyebrow. “If this is fine, kid, I’m a little worried what your definition of ‘not fine’ is. Did something happen? Or is it about something else?” 

Dogma tried again. “I-I don’t–” “Don’t want to talk about it?” Fixer interrupted, not unkindly. “I figured, but… not talking about it isn’t helping you, vod.” 

“Fixer,” Patch whispered warningly. They’d agreed not to push Dogma for his secrets, and yeah, Patch was worried too, but the kid got so skittish sometimes, and he worried that they’d scare him away for good.

“What? It’s not! The kid’s pale as a sheet, obviously freaking out about something, and we’re just supposed to ignore it?” Fixer fired back, worried.

Meanwhile, Dogma flinched, rubbing anxiously at his wrists. This was it– They’d realize that he was too rigid, too damaged– too much Dogma, b-but he couldn’t– couldn’t be what they wanted, and– 

“ –ey, deep breaths, Dogma. Come on kid, nice and slow.” Surprisingly, it was Boost this time who’d crouched in front of him, gently grasping his wrists so he’d stop scratching at them. 

Dogma nodded, attempting to obey even while his thoughts continued to spiral. He coughed a little as he regained his breath, and was surprised when one of the others offered him a hydropac. After a moment, he’d managed to regulate his breathing a little. He took a few quick gulps before trying to apologize. “S-Sorry…”

Boost sat back on his heels, rubbing his forehead in exasperation. “Kriff, kid, you don’t need to apologize… Fixer’s not the only one who’s worried though. Took a few years off my life when you and Wolffe went over that cliff.”

Dogma opened his mouth to apologize again before thinking better of it, eyes locked on his hands in his lap, clenched into fists. He jumped a little when a small, round object was pressed into them by another hand before looking up and realizing that Patch had handed him one of the stress-balls he kept in his kit. 

He heard a brief scuffle around him, and a quiet “ow” before Fixer spoke again. “Didn’t mean to freak you out, Dogma. Sorry for pushing.”

“I-It’s not your fault…. I didn’t mean to be a bother...” Dogma curled in on himself again, wishing they’d just move on, but to his surprise, quiet footsteps approached before the Commander was sitting next to him.

Wolffe put a supportive hand on his shoulder before drawing him in a little. “You, Dogma, are not a bother.” His heart ached for Dogma and his prying need to go unnoticed; he’d seen it, the little half-flinch every time someone called him ‘vod,’ and the times he’d just shrink into himself. Just what had happened, to make Dogma think he was no longer deserving of brotherly affection?

Sinker interjected, “Please, be a bother! It’s better than bottling everything up– you don’t have to deal with everything alone, vod. Not here.”

Dogma’s ears were a bright red now, squirming under the weight of the Wolfpacks’s protective instincts, but he also felt oddly comforted. Almost… safe. 

He looked up, seeing Sinker’s earnest worry, Patch’s quiet concern, and feeling Wolffe’s presence beside him, steady and supporting, and he struggled to understand it. 

“Why?” The word left him before he could stop himself. 

“Why what, Dogma?” Comet asked quietly.

A million questions raced through Dogma’s head. Why did they care? Why weren’t they annoyed? Why do they want me?

But those questions were too vulnerable, too dangerous to share, so instead he directed his quiet question towards Sinker, asking, “Why do you want to know?”

Sinker gave him a small, almost sad, smile, seeming to pick up on the questions Dogma was afraid to ask. “Because we care about you, Dogma. You’re one of us now, our vod, and it hurts to see you hurting.”

Dogma’s breath caught in his throat, but Sinker’s words did little to assuage the clawing guilt. They had to know– they deserved to know. They’d given him so much trust and affection, and it felt like a lie to keep it from them any longer.

“There’s… I-I– some stuff, I can’t talk about. Not allowed to, without the proper clearance, a-and some I’m not ready to talk about…” and likely never would be, but… 

“G-General Plo wasn’t my first commanding officer,” he started, finally confirming what they already knew; Dogma was not a shiny. 

“B-But my last one… he didn’t like clones very much.” Wolffe’s hand on his shoulder tightened for half a second before the Commander reined himself in, but Dogma felt almost bolstered by his defensiveness.

“He used us as meat-shields in battle strategies that were, b-beyond jareor– He called us by our numbers, threatened us with firing squads if we debated his orders… a-and when my brothers stood against him, I… didn’t.” Dogma’s voice cracked at the last bit, still ashamed of his naivety and ignorance. 

“A lot more happened, a-and that CO’s actions became a danger to the Republic, but even then, I didn’t believe it until he was spitting treason in my face.” He shuddered, Krell’s words echoing in the back of his head.

“And you, Dogma, were the biggest fool of them all!”

A lone tear slid down his face. “I-I don’t deserve to be called a brother.”

His breath hitched, and his grip on his wrist tightened. 

Dogma didn’t expect it when the Commander drew him into a tight hug, almost flinching at the sudden pressure before melting into it. “Let us decide that for ourselves, vod’ika.” Wolffe almost growled in righteous anger, but instead of tensing up, Dogma only felt more safe. 

And as the rest of the Wolfpack joined in, first making sure that he wasn’t overwhelmed, Dogma let his head rest on Wolffe’s shoulder, the ever-present shame and guilt starting to fade, no longer a tight knot in his stomach.

“You’re not getting rid of us that easily, Dogma.” Comet said, voice muffled by the others’ blacks. A round of agreements followed.

They stayed like that for a little while, until Dogma started to shift, reaching the end of his tolerance for physical touch, so the others settled back in their original spots, if a little closer than before.

“Do we wanna continue the game?” Fixer asked, looking around at the group.

Dogma nodded along with the others, huffing a small laugh as Boost needled Sinker for trying to claim more points than he actually had left.

“Your turn, pup.” Wolffe said, 

“Never have I ever owned civilian clothing.” He offered at last, a shadow of a smile crossing his face as everyone else lost a point.

“That’s something we’ll have to change, vod’ika.” Boost sighed, shaking his head wearily.

They kept playing for a while, and eventually Wolffe was the winner. It was a relief, finally, to understand even a sliver of what was going on in Dogma’s head, and with the Wolfpack invested in him, there was no way they’d let him struggle alone.

[tup-ika-5385]

Umbaran Shadows and Blue Milk Ice Cream

Summary: 

Nearly six months after Umbara, Tup still can’t push away his alarm as he wakes up in a familiar darkness. After a nightmarish encounter, he finds comfort in a quiet moment with his vod.

Inspired by old rp threads with @clonetrooperdogma and @umbaranshadow!

AO3 Link: Here

_______________________

Cold shadows and familiar mist filled Tup’s vision. When he closed his eyes, he’d been safe in the barracks, but now dull purples and neon reds surrounded him on all sides. His stomach clenched with dread, but he knew he was back on Umbara. 

Crouching in a dark trench, he could feel the grit between his fingers, and chills went up his spine as he heard a terrifyingly familiar voice, guttural and irate. With a sharp intake of breath, he muttered, “I-It can’t be–”

Turning around, he nearly came face-to-chest with General Krell, the Besalisk towering over him like always, looking down his nose at Tup. He glanced around, for an escape or one of his brothers, he didn’t know, but he was completely alone. 

“Well… CT-5385… looks like you’re all alone. Run out of brothers to kill?” Voice dripping in cruelty, Krell gestured behind him to a pile of bodies, stacks of armor bleeding with golden-yellow and blue. At the word “brothers,” his lips curled with smug irony.

“G-General Krell, I-I… how–” Tup flinched despite himself, thinking of all the lives he’d taken on that force-forsaken planet, and how many brothers had died by Krell’s hand.

In the back of his mind, a small portion of his subconscious realized that he was dreaming; he had to be. So with his arms still shaking, he curled his hands into fists and turned to Krell, eyes angry.  “You’re not a General anymore, you don’t deserve that honor. And Captain Rex said we’re men! Not numbers! A-And you’re dead! You can’t hurt any of us, not anymore!”

Krell gave a harsh laugh, seeming to get taller as he towered over Tup. “Pitiful… is that what you tell yourself in order to comfort your little clone friends? You are men?”

He leaned down so he was face-to-face with Tup, a harsh hand jabbing his chest. “You are an experiment! An abomination!” 

Knocking aside his helmet, Krell gripped Tup’s head in one large hand, gesturing to his armor and hair. “You think these little trinkets make you an individual? Make you human? They don’t! You and the rest of you clones… are nothing but meat shields! Pawns in a higher game– one that your incompetent little minds cannot comprehend! You were made to die for nothing!”

Tup struggled in Krell’s grip, reaching for his blaster but coming up empty. His feet scrabbled as Krell lifted him off the ground. Chest bursting with helpless rage, Tup grit out, “I-I’m not afraid– Do your worst!” Feeling around his belt, Tup managed to get a hand on his vibroknife.

Krell’s voice took on a sickly-sweet tone. “You should be very afraid, CT-5385... I may be dead, but you are not. You cannot harm me, but I am more than ready to harm you...  Just ask Dogma.. He’s already had a taste.. A small one but, an experience nonetheless.. His real pain will come from killing you.”

Tup’s eyes widened when, all of a sudden, Dogma appeared beside them, gun in hand, shaking and looking as distraught as Tup had ever seen him, and that’s when Tup made his move. With an angry yell, he struck in one swift blow, aiming for Krell’s arm around his neck, but with a simple wave of his other hand, Krell knocked the blade across the room. He smiled cruelly at Tup in a way that sent chills down his spine. “As I said.. pitiful.”

Disarmed but not fully restrained, Tup put all his strength into a last ditch swing, aiming for Krell’s jiggling throat sack like he wished he’d had the courage to do all those days ago. He thought to himself, knowing it could be the last thing he did. “For my vode, who I wish I could have helped when it mattered…”

Rough hands restrained Tup’s, and all of a sudden, a single shot of blasterfire went off. A burning pain pierced Tup’s abdomen and the world faded to black.

____________________

Jerking awake with one hand on his vibroknife, Tup gasped for breath, still feeling the non-existent blaster wound in his chest. He took a few shuddering breaths before standing up, making his way to the fresher. He splashed his face a few times, trying to stop his hands from shaking. “J-Just a dream, di’kut…”

He looked at his reflection in the mirror with a sigh. It’s been six months since Umbara, to the day, and it still shook him up inside. He grimaced at the small bags under his eyes, hair a tangled mess. Shaking his head, he grabbed a hairtie on his wrist and corralled it into a poor attempt for a bun, hands still fighting for steadiness.

With his heart still trying to beat out of his chest, he sighed to himself. There’s no way he’d be able to fall back asleep after a nightmare like that. He muttered tiredly, “Maybe I’ll head to the mess, get something to drink… try to clear my head.” 

Exiting the fresher, Tup made his way to the mess hall. He hoped Dogma was getting better sleep than him; he’d heard his vod muttering in his sleep earlier, but had decided to let him be. As he walked down the halls, he checked his chrono, learning that it was nearly 0200. Rounding the corner, Tup looked up and nearly collided with another trooper still in their blacks. 

The other trooper had been almost racing the opposite direction when their paths met, and Tup started when he recognized their familiar V-shaped tattoo. “Sorry, I– Tup? What are you doing awake?” Dogma jumped a little at the realization, shoulders tense.

Tup gave him a brief smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Hey Dogma… couldn’t sleep. Bad dreams…” He glanced at his brother, noticing a familiar worry-line on his forehead. “... you okay? You look a little stressed.”

Dogma straightened, biting his lip and looking away from Tup. “No, I’m fine.” He fidgeted with the sleeves of his blacks, a tell they’d both shared since Kamino, so Tup pressed a little.

“Do you mean “no, I’m not fine,” or “yes, I’m fine?” Because it sounds more like the first one to me, vod.”

Dogma hesitated, glancing back at Tup reluctantly, noticing for the first time how messy his hair was. Tup’s hair had two main states: down and relaxed or up and tight, passing any GAR inspection. Unless someone else was trying out new hairstyles on him, Tup didn’t really do messy buns, except for now, that is. Paired with his fake smile and minutely shaking hands, they didn’t give Dogma a good picture. 

Head tilting in quiet concern, he ignored Tup’s question, asking, “What about you? Nightmares don’t usually have you this worked up.”

Tup sighed, running one hand through his hair. “I’ll be okay in a little. It’s just… Krell again…” He wrapped his arms around himself. “I was back on Umbara, and he was there… calling us meat droids and pawns. I tried to fight him, b-but I was useless. Couldn’t even throw a punch at that stupid throat sack of his… a-and then he ordered you to shoot me…” 

Hands shaking as he clenched them into fists, Tup rubbed his forehead in defeat. “... sometimes I wish we could forget Umbara altogether…”

Dogma went pale at the mention of Umbara, breath catching in his throat. “Wait, you– that’s… that’s not possible! He-he can’t–” He broke off, shaking his head rapidly. 

Swallowing thickly, Dogma’s eyes filled with dread. “He… he told me that I was going to hurt you– that your blood would be on my hands… I-I dreamed I was on Umbara, and there was a blaster in my hands, and–” He gripped his head with his hands, eyes shut tightly as he started to hyperventilate.

Tup’s eyes widened in surprised concern. “Woah, Dogma, hey… it’s okay, vod…” He reached for Dogma, putting a gentle hand on his shoulder, telegraphing his movements so Dogma could push away if he wanted. 

Lightly squeezing his shoulder, Tup spoke again. “None of this is your fault, a-and none of it was your fault back then either. Krell’s gone; h-he can’t hurt us anymore.” 

He gestured to his clean blacks, not a spot on them or any sign of injury. “Look, see? I’m okay, Dogma. We’re okay…” Slowly, not wanting to startle him further, Tup leaned forward to tap their foreheads together, like they’d do as cadets, the arm on his shoulder light enough to allow Dogma to escape if he needed space, but heavy enough to ground him back in the present.

Dogma forced himself to calm down a little, fighting to sync his breathing to Tup’s. He leaned into Tup’s embrace until the tightness in his chest started to ease a little bit. Voice hoarse, he muttered, “Yeah, I… Sorry– Sorry…” He stayed like that for a little longer before pulling away, finally managing some semblance of calmness.

Tup let Dogma pull away, looking relieved as he calmed down a little. Focusing on Dogma kept his own worry at bay. “I don’t mind, Dogma… you don’t need to apologize, vod. Especially not for that.” Looking around the empty hallway, he decided to sit down so his back was against the wall, and after a beat, Dogma joined him. “Sorry for scaring you, I-I just… it made me worry too, you know?”

Dogma nodded in understanding, not that he’d ever blame Tup for his own issues. He let out a small exhale, looking away again. “Still, it’s a bit of a coincidence that we both had the same dream.” Dogma muttered, breath slowing as he was reassured by Tup’s presence.

“I heard Kix call it the anniversary effect one time, maybe a month after the campaign. Besides, we’re closer than most vode; it’s not too surprising that we’d share dreams.” Tup gave him a small smile, this one reaching his eyes a little more than the last one.

Leaning back against the wall, Tup huffed to himself as he felt his stomach grumble lightly. He hadn’t been very hungry at dinner that night, with the mess hall unusually quiet. Glancing back at Dogma, he asked, “Have you eaten since training, Dogma? Didn’t see you at late-meal tonight.” 

Dogma hesitated for a beat longer than he should have, knowing he’d been caught. “Wasn’t hungry… why?”

“Well, I was heading to the mess hall before we ran into each other. Do you want to come with me? We could both use a midnight snack. Besides, it’d be nice to not be alone… unless you were planning on going back to bed?” He gave Dogma a slightly smug look, knowing full well that neither of them would be sleeping anytime soon. 

A look of mild annoyance made its way onto Dogma’s face, knowing he was caught. He sighed. “Fine, I’ll go with you. Just because I have nothing better to do. And you’re right, a snack wouldn’t hurt.”

Tup grinned, starting to stand up before offering a hand to Dogma, which he hesitantly accepted. “You know, I think there’s still some ice cream in the stasis freezer. Perfect for a midnight snack– or a 0200 snack, I guess.” He clarified as Dogma opened his mouth, about to correct him on the time. 

They made their way to the kitchen, where they found and easily made their way through a half-carton of blue milk ice cream. And if they sat a little bit closer than usual on the durasteel benches in the dimly-lit mess hall, neither of them said anything.

[clone-medic-patch]

Summary:

Hardcase thought he knew what he was getting into, sacrificing himself for his brothers. What he didn’t expect was to survive, for Fives to pull him away from the explosions and bring him back down to Umbara. He definitely didn’t expect to be refused medical treatment and to be left fighting for his life. Kix says it’s going to be a long road to recovery, and he’s starting to wonder what “recovery” even looks like after something like this...

[secretly-a-trekkie]

"oh ****"

[maulfucker]

rewatching tcw is so sad they keep killing the clones :(

[aliettali]

your bodies seed the stars

[heart-0f-a-rebel16]

see I think like the main problem with tcw is that it has this sitcom energy where everything is set back to zero after every arc which absolutely demolishes any sense of progression or character development

[inkstainedhandswithrings]

you know what’s the most subtle Shitty Thing™️ that Krell has done is?

bad enough he already calls the clones by their CT numbers, but he actually says the numbers different than EVERYBODY ELSE in the show.

Usually the numbers are spoken individually, right? So Rex (CT-7567) is CT-Seven-Five-Six-Seven. Or Echo calling himself CT-One-Four-Zero-Nine. Even AZI-3 says each individual 5 in Fives’ CT number.

But Krell says shit like “CT-Seventy Five-Sixty Seven” or “ARC Trooper-Fifty Five-Fifty Five”

Not only does he not use their chosen names, he also deliberately uses an abbreviated form of their birth numbers because apparently a bitch CAN be bothered to learn them all, he just can’t give the clones the satisfaction of at least hearing their full number the way it’s familiar to them. Like he somehow found a way to make their depersonification WORSE.

the bitch.

[doepiss]

You know what? I could talk about the Umbara arc for ages. AGES. It’s my Roman Empire.

It’s this perfect blend of every single emotion and plot piece of Clone Wars. It covers character arcs for new and present characters perfectly in the perfect amount of episodes and times.

It closes beautifully in one arc while subtly hinting at future moments.

It perfectly sums Rex as a character, as a man, as a soldier.

It shows what the Jedi Council and the entire karking war is, its vulnerable side. It’s dark side.

The Umbara arc is my Roman Empire.

I could talk about it for ages.

[crowleychild]

DAY 27: POST-VICTORY COLLAPSE

Fandom: Star Wars

Rating: T

Warnings: mention of death, character death, panik attack, war

Pong Krell is dead.

Pong Krell is dead and Rex's instincts kick in. He begins to think about the procedure: he would have to write a report, the Council would probably want him to testify, (surely a lot of paperwork was ahead of him), he would have to tell Anakin and Ahsoka about what happened…

It is this what makes his train of thoughts stop.

He hadn’t thought about his General and his padawan since that moment. What would he tell them? Anakin would be furious of course, and Ahsoka will be too, but also worried about them. Anakin had only been away for a few days, and this happened. It was not his fault, obviously, but to Rex’s surprise, he finds himself blaming his general nevertheless.

He had abandoned them, left them in Krell’s hands. He went away and this happened.

“There was no way he could have known”, the rational part of him tells him.

“He is a Jedi, he should have known” the impossibly hurt and damaged part of him tries to justify. And it’s a part of him he knows it will never heal, not completely, so Rex listens to it because it is louder. Pain is always louder.

He knows it is not Anakin’s fault, but he is their general and he wasn’t there when they were being massacred. When they were being used as toys in an imaginary war. “Maybe it was the will of the Force” the voice says, ironically, and Rex hates that it sounds like Anakin’s.

“Maybe you deserved this” and now he can’t tell if it is his general’s voice or his own.

All the memories he had been trying to keep away are right there, ready to haunt him, and he can’t run away because the voice is too loud.

He stops feeling the ground under his feets, or his surroundings, or even his body.

He sees them, all of his fallen brothers. He is familiar with death but they didn’t deserve this,, dying for a mere game, for Krell’s amusement. He sees Waxer. He had died by the hands of one of his brothers. Damn it, he could have died by his hands even, he could never know.

“He told us they were wearing our armour”

The pain in his eyes will be forever carved in his soul, his pain was his pain too.

“You have killed your brothers” the voice says.

He hates autocompassion, but the voice is too loud.

He hears gunshots, and he knows each one means one more of his men, his brothers, is dead. He yelled to stop firing, he shouts it now once again, or so he thinks, because the voice is telling him it is not enough, Krell’s plan has worked, he has fooled you, it’s your fault.

The voice is too loud.

- Capitain?

“You have killed your brothers. It’s your fault”

He blames Krell, Anakin, the Jedi, this war, and yet there's nothing it can be done about it, and that thought is even worse than all his hate and loss.

“Capitain”

Someone or something touches him, and he snaps back to reality. With his anger making his blood boil, he reached for his guns. No one will ever hurt him or his brothers again. They will have to go through him.

Before shooting, he looked at who was before him, with his hands up, palms facing him, showing there was nothing on them.

“Kix”

Terrified, he puts the pistols down. All he could think of was his brother, kneeled down next to the wounded men, healing them, talking to them, comforting them.

-I’m… I’m sorry… I- I don’t know w- what…- he made himself say, even though he still doesn’t feel his body and all he can see are dead bodies.

-It´s okay- he cut him, which Rex thanked, because he had no word to explain what had happened.

Apparently, Kix had.

-A panic attack. It’s quite common after traumatic events, just as the one we all just lived. Don’t worry about it, just listen to me, focus on what is real, it will soon be over I promise…

Rex did focused on his voice, because it was nicer than the one on his head, and started to sense his body aging. It felt uncomfortable at first.

-Just… don’t blame yourself, don’t listen to your guilt, okay?- Kix continued.

Rex wondered how many times Kix had felt guilty when one of his patients died, or how many times he had had a panic attack. He guesses far too many. His advice had described what he had felt too accurately for it to be casual.

Rex began acknowledging his surroundings past Kix and himself, hearing more than just his pain and anger, and feeling his body completely.

The wounds were still there, the part of him that was forever destroyed.

So he just collapses. He falls to his knees and he is crying, begging, and falling apart.

Kix touches him again, hugging him, but this time it doesn’t matter.

He has failed his men because too many are dead, and he is failing them again by not being strong, by crying his eyes out for what he has lived, for what he has to remember forever.

But he can’t stop because it is his fault, he knows it, and nothing could ever make him change his mind.

link to my ao3 work

tags: @febuwhump

[toschestationed]

Wolf-pup Ch. 4

Chapter Summary:

And after everything, Dogma is tired— so tired. And he's tired of saying no, so even if it was selfish of him to accept the Wolfpack’s invitations, he didn’t have it in him to keep refusing.

This chapter includes one character experiencing a panic attack and discussions of self-injurious behavior.

Fic Summary:

“There’s something odd about one of the shinies.” Sinker mused over his morning rations.

“Odd how?” Boost asked, always ready to hear the latest gossip. Wolffe rolled his eyes but listened in, taking in the last dregs of his morning kaff.

“Well, he’s not a shiny, for one."

Dogma joins the 104th after Umbara and undergoes the terrifying ordeal of being known.

Chapter 4: Selfish

With another jaw-cracking yawn, Dogma settled deeper into Fixer’s bunk, relaxing despite himself in the Wolfpack’s quiet bunkroom. 

Last week’s invitation to play Sabaac with the Wolfpack had quickly turned into a twice-weekly standing invitation. Sometimes they’d play cards, but other times Sinker or Comet would suggest a holovid. This time, they were just sitting around doing routine armor maintenance and talking amongst themselves, and Dogma could feel himself being lulled closer to sleep with their easy familiarity.

Slowly, he’d found himself being drawn into their circle more and more, and he wasn’t quite sure how to respond. A large part of Dogma was still waiting for the other foot to drop, for them to realize that he didn’t belong, but so far they’d kept asking after him, and they noticed when he was gone. The Wolfpack seemed to actually like him, even though he’d done absolutely nothing to deserve it.

He rubbed at his wrists, deep in thought, as he puzzled over it. Why him? There was literally no reason that they’d like him more than the next trooper. He wasn’t the kind of trooper that others sought out just for company, and he knew that for a fact. Back when he was in training, he’d done an experiment, of sorts, to see if he could go the entire day without anyone talking to him, and the only uninitiated contact he’d had was with Tup… he’d been too afraid to try it with the 501st.

People didn’t…  like vode like Dogma— and that was okay. He wasn’t everyone’s cup of tea, and after his month-long… hiatus between Umbara and joining the 104th, he’d been more than a little anti-social, so he didn’t blame his new squad when they stopped inviting him to spend time with them, or when they ignored his sharp gasps after waking up from a nightmare… he’d been having a lot of those lately.

And after everything, Dogma was tired— so tired. And he was tired of saying no, so even if it was selfish of him to accept the Wolfpack’s invitations, he didn’t have it in him to keep refusing.

Dogma jolted out of his thoughts for a moment when he realized his nails were digging into the rough scar tissue around his wrists, skin pink and irritated from his abuse— it really was a bad habit. It wasn’t— well, it was, but it wasn’t intentional. 

After Umbara, he’d been in electro-cuffs for days at a time, and in solitary confinement even longer than that. At some point during that month, he’d been more than a little delirious, and had scraped his wrists raw in an attempt to be free. To be able to breathe without smelling the sharp tang of Krell’s blood in his memories, uncaring of the damage he wrought in the wake. 

The Jedi had healed his wounds the best they could once they finally managed to remove him from Senate custody, but the damage had been done, and his wrists still twinged in pain sometimes when he’d been training for too long. He was probably still regaining the muscle mass he’d lost during his time living in a space no bigger than a storage closet, but the alternative had been placing him with the general prison population, and he didn’t blame the Guard for doing what they did to keep him alive in there…

“Hey Pup, you alright? You’re a little quiet over there.” Patch asked, reaching out to rub his shoulder with an expression of quiet concern. He felt Pup tense under his hand for a moment before leaning in slightly, almost going limp at the brief contact, so he left his hand where it was.

He knew Pup was a pretty quiet vod with more than a few skeletons in his closet, and he couldn’t help but worry for the kid. Patch knew a touch-starved vod when he saw them, and Pup fit that description to a T.

At Patch’s question, Dogma looked up questioningly before stifling another yawn. “Fine, just tired.” 

He hasn’t been sleeping well since… probably since he joined the 104th. Between his nightmares, the different ambient sounds of the smaller cruiser, and even the absence of Tup’s obnoxious snoring, it had been hard to get his brain to stand down, to see this new place as safe. He hadn’t realized how soothing his old squad’s familiar presence had been until it was gone, and now his sleep schedule was paying for it. 

He’d even been getting tension headaches from everything recently; he wasn’t prone to them like Tup, but every now and then he’d have to suffer through, like he was right now.

Patch hummed in understanding, squeezing his shoulder again. “You know, if you wanted to take a nap for a bit, none of us would mind. Fixer’s on duty for the next couple hours anyways, so his bunk is free.” The kid looked practically dead on his feet.

“I-I’m fine.” Dogma tried to argue, rubbing his face in an attempt to look more awake, but Boost was quick to add his two-cents.

“Kid, just looking at you makes me wanna fall asleep. Why are you so tired anyways?”

Dogma scowled grumpily, earning a grin from Boost, before answering reluctantly. “… the barracks are too quiet.”

“Too quiet?” Boost asked incredulously.

Dogma nodded, fiddling with the cuffs of his blacks again. “…One of my batchmates broke his nose back in training, and since then, he’s always snored. Trying to fall asleep without it is…” he trailed off.

Boost winced sympathetically, sharing a look with Patch. “Well, if it’s ambient noise you need, we’ll be right here, vod’ika.”

Dogma pursed his lips for a second, considering the offer when another gaping yawn overtook him. Finally, he shook his head, replying. “…I guess a short nap wouldn’t hurt.”

Patch huffed, ruffling Pup’s hair a bit, earning a grumble, before setting down a pillow for the kid to use. And with Boost and Patch continuing their quiet chatter, it wasn’t long before Dogma’s breathing deepened into peaceful sleep.

Patch shared a relieved smile with Boost. The kid looked so much younger without the stress lines on his face, and as Pup’s limbs flung out haphazardly in his sleep, tangled in Fixer’s blanket, Patch couldn’t help but chuckle at his rather unwieldy sleeping position. 

Returning to his armor maintenance, it wasn’t more than 30 minutes before the rest of the squad entered the barracks, including Wolffe, Comet, Sinker, and Warthog. Warthog had met Pup about twice now, and had even offered to teach him to fly until Wolffe shut him down, not that the kid would’ve accepted. Rules meant a lot to Pup, he was starting to discover.

Gesturing for them to be quiet, Patch whispered, “Pup’s asleep,” earning a few looks of interest and concern.

“Kriff, are you sure he’s not a shiny? He looks so young!” Warthog asked Sinker, who nudged him with a finger to his lips. 

Patch scooted over on his lower bunk to make room for Wolffe. “He said the barracks were too quiet; that he’s been having trouble sleeping…” 

Patch looked back at Pup affectionately; he’d always been a sentimental vod, and nothing pulled at his heartstrings more than a vod’ika. “Apparently, his batchmate used to snore.”

At that, Wolffe let out a quiet chuckle. Between Patch and Sinker’s own snoring, the Wolfpack’s barracks had quite a bit of ambient noise themselves. “Should let him know that he’s more than welcome here.”

If it were up to Wolffe, the kid would be a part of the Wolfpack already, and it seemed like the rest of the squad was in agreement. Surprisingly, it was Patch that had told him to wait, to give Pup a chance to settle, when he’d approached the medic about it earlier.

“It’s like trying to pet a lothcat. Move too fast and you’ll scare it away. Slow movements, friendly gestures, and it’ll warm up to you in its own time.” Wolffe had rolled his eyes at the metaphor, but he understood the point behind it. 

Pup hadn’t given away much about his previous posting, but from what Wolffe could tell, he’d been traumatized badly… maybe even by other vode, given the kid’s general twitchiness. But seeing him now, probably the closest to vulnerable he’s ever been around them, it settled something inside him. ‘Although, lothcats sleep a little more gracefully than this kid did, apparently,’ he thought to himself, taking in Pup’s splayed-out limbs with a huff of amusement.

“You sure he’s not uncomfortable, sleeping like that?” Sinker asked incredulously, thinking the same thing.

Patch shrugged, “As long as he is sleeping, I don’t care what kind of position he’s in… his back might not thank him later, though.”

Dogma grumbled slightly at the noise, shifting in his sleep so that his blacks were bunching up a little bit, and the kid’s head fell completely off his pillow. Wolffe rolled his eyes and went to adjust it, only to stop short when his gaze fell on Pup’s wrists and the scars there, an irritated pink and much newer than his own.

“Patch,” he called, tone alert. “Is that…?” He reached for Pup’s wrist on instinct, to check for more recent injuries, but the moment he touched him, Pup snapped awake with a gasp, limbs flailing for purchase as he scrambled away. One desperate fist caught him in the jaw, and Wolffe grunted in pain, only to watch helplessly as Pup pushed himself back, only to hit the bedpost with a thunk, quickly careening towards a panic attack.

___________________

When Dogma opened his eyes, he didn’t see the dim lights of the barracks, turned down to mimic planetside evening. No, he saw stark, gray detention cells, and ray-shields, and a pressure on his wrists that burned–

He tried to get away, but his legs were tangled– trapped, and he couldn’t– couldn’t breathe! Someone was standing over him, reaching, and– his limbs lashed out, and they were gone, so he scrambled back, desperately trying to escape and– something hit the back of his head with a metallic thunk, and he–he couldn’t–

“Udessi, vod’ika! Just breathe, kid.” A calm, but worried voice broke through the wall of panic, and Dogma found himself taking a deep, gasping breath in response. Finally, his scrambling brought him to a wall, so he knew no-one was behind him, at least. He choked back a whimper– when had he closed his eyes– and tried to make sense of his surroundings, but all he could feel was the pounding of his heart.

Suddenly, there was another voice beside him, and his tear-filled eyes could make out the blurry silhouette of a brother with longer hair. ‘Tup?’ he wondered between desperate breaths.

“Hey, you’ve got a blanket wrapped around your legs. Can I help, vod?” The intonation was slightly different, but Dogma nodded shakily and allowed them to help untangle him, flinching at the contact. Vaguely, he became aware of the first voice counting a slow rhythm, encouraging him to breathe, so he tried to follow their instructions, wheezing a little from the effort.

“That’s it, kid. You’re okay, Pup.” The voice said, and the haze of panic finally started to fade enough for Dogma to realize what was happening. He was safe, here in the Wolfpack barracks– and he’d just punched the Commander of the 104th in the jaw.

That thought almost sent him careening into another panic, but a gentle grip on his shoulder brought him back, and when he didn’t fight, pulled him into a keldabe so his forehead was touching theirs–

“Co–Commander?” Dogma wheezed, feeling warm tears on his cheeks, and he just couldn’t stop shaking, even as his senses came back to him. His eyes darted around anxiously, noting Patch on one side, still counting and– 

“Eyes on me, kid.” Wolffe murmured, and Dogma glanced up instinctively, although his eyes flitted away after a moment. He took another breath, inhaling shakily, and Wolffe’s low voice responded, comfortingly. “That’s it, keep breathing, Pup.”

Dogma nodded in Wolffe’s grasp, and focused on Patch’s instructions again, just breathing in and out, breath hitching somewhere between panic and tears, but eventually, the raw dread and tension under his skin faded to a dull ache, and he stuttered a quiet apology, pulling away. “S-Sorry…”

His ears flushed red, thinking about the scene he’d made– this wasn’t even his own barracks, he thought, bringing a hand up to rub at a sore spot on the back of his head.

“You did nothing wrong, Pup. I shouldn’t have startled you.” Wolffe gave him a look that allowed no arguments, although Dogma’s gaze faltered as he saw a growing bruise on the Commander’s jaw. He’d done that.

“B-But, I–” He started again, only to be interrupted by Sinker. “You heard the Commander, Pup. Besides, he probably had it coming.” Sinker teased, earning a sigh from Wolffe and a shocked, broken laugh from Dogma.

“Can I take a look at your head, vod’ika? You hit it pretty hard back there.” Patch asked, stopping his counting now that Dogma’s breathing was more or less steady. Dogma nodded minutely, wincing slightly when the medic prodded at the bump on his head, flashing a light in his eyes before determining him good-to-go. 

“You should be okay. You’ve got a pretty hard head there, vod’ika…” Patch paused for a moment, trying to figure out how to ask his next question. “...Is it alright if I check you for other injuries? It doesn’t have to be here, if you’d rather do this without an audience.”

“W-What?” Dogma asked, confused, at least until Patch gave a pointed look to his wrists, which weren’t covered quite as well as he’d like them to be.

Heart in his throat, but not at the level it was earlier, Dogma looked around the barracks expecting judgement or even anger, but all he saw was support, concern, and even worry from the vode around him. So he pushed down his trepidation, looking down at his hands as he mumbled a response “...here’s fine,” and pushed his sleeves up like ripping off a bacta-patch.

Patch responded with an air of calm professionalism as he examined the scars, unmistakeable now that they were uncovered. Other than Comet’s sharp intake of breath, the barracks were near-silent. With a look towards Warthog to grab his medkit, Patch rummaged around for a moment before finding a small tube of some sort of lotion. “I keep this on-hand for Wolffe’s scar, but the di’kut never uses it. If it starts looking this irritated again, come see me and I’ll get you some of your own.”

Nodding jerkily, Dogma watched as the medic applied some of the lotion to his wrist, relaxing a bit as the near-constant stinging-pulling-itching pain started to fade. 

“Is it alright if I ask how you got these scars?” Patch asked as he finished up, keeping his tone intentionally light. The last thing he wanted to do was pressure the kid, but he needed to make sure that Pup wasn’t… at risk.

In an impossibly quiet voice that Patch could just barely hear, Dogma admitted, “Stun cuffs… I-I don’t want to talk about it…” 

“That’s alright, vod’ika. You don’t have to.” Patch smiled sadly before packing up his kit again. 

Offering Dogma a hand, the two stood back up, and made their way back to the rest of the squad. Comet was quick to grab Dogma’s arm and pull him towards his bunk, so Dogma let himself be manhandled until he was sitting on Comet’s bunk with a blanket on his lap, much more comfortable than the floor had been. 

Despite his recent panic attack, or perhaps because of it, Dogma can feel himself starting to fade as the last of the adrenaline leaves him, and he finds himself leaning heavily on Comet’s shoulder. He knows he should get up and go back to his own bunk, but that bone-weary exhaustion from earlier is back in full-force, and honestly… he’d rather not be alone right now.

“You know, we have an extra bunk here, if you wanna crash, Pup.” Comet offered, looking wistfully up at the bunk above his, and Dogma could see the moment the atmosphere in the barracks shifted, suddenly heavy with loss.

“A-Are you sure?” Dogma found himself asking, selfishly, instead of turning it down politely like he knows he should. 

“Yeah, I’m sure. Not like it’s being used anyways.” Comet said, the set of his shoulders sad but familiar in the way that grief always was, and Dogma wondered how long it’d been since Comet lost his last batchmate.

Still, Dogma hesitated, at least until Comet gave him another nudge and he almost toppled over from sheer exhaustion. “I mean it, it’s okay, vod. Unless you’d rather pass out on my bunk; that’s fine too.” 

He smirked slightly at that, and finally, Dogma stumbled into a standing position before pulling himself up onto the top bunk. 

Blearily, he felt someone pull the blanket back over him once he’d settled, with a faint, “Sleep well, kid,” before he was completely out for the count. The next morning, he woke up with a pillow-crease on his face and a full twelve hours of sleep, but he took a moment to just lay there and listen to the quiet chatter-snoring-breathing of his new vode, and for once, he didn’t feel alone.

_____________

AO3 Link:

[rochenn]

Do you ever think about how the vast majority of clones never had the experience of seeing the blood of their enemies? Like. How often did they shoot at non-droids? Jedi use their lightsabers, those immediately cauterize wounds. Was Umbara jarring for them? Were they surprised to see the clear transparisteel of their helmets? Had any of these men ever seen fear in their enemy’s eyes as they leveled a blaster at them? Had any of them ever had to reconcile with that thought? Did most of them feel like the war was just one big training simulation until that first moment they had to fire on a sentient (if they ever had to fire on sentients at all)?

oh THIS!! yeah i think the troops who get the most combat with sentients are pretty much the coruscant guard.

and umbara is a curious case. the 501st at least takes prisoners there (i don't remember droids ever being made prisoners), but outside of that fives and rex have no issues double-tapping umbaran soldiers who are already down.

i think when it comes down to it, the clones are all professionals. they've seen what blaster bolts and shrapnel can do (and have been doing!) to their brothers and the people they are defending, at which point the simulation effect would well and truly be gone.

that being said! there's a unique dilemma to be had here for people like the clones (who are largely perceived to be made for war, who would not exist without it) about killing people who were not made for war and who would exist without it. that's a very special sort of existential crisis.

and the ones who have shot at sentients will carry that with them one way or the other. umbara was ultimately overshadowed by the whole krell affair taking up most of the trauma, but people are people so i'd say the boys definitely remember the faces they saw behind the enemy visors. war sucks like that

[clonehub]

episode 18 of 32.....season 3 is the weakest season *so far* I think. s1 at least had humor even if it was doing anything, and s2 had some good arcs and plotlines in there, but s3 is bogged down by both the ziro arc and that mandalore corruption arc. mortis was ok to me.

[oddball216]

Thinking about how we as Americans are headed towards our own Umbara Arc except now Krell is back with a vengeance

[aquaticflames]

Last Line Challenge

Thanks @shortcuts-make-long-delays and @shootingstarpilot for the tags – apologise for the delay. I always appreciate the kick to get my WIP doc back open! 🫶

enjoy @shootingstarpilot :)

...sorry? 😆 💕

no pressure tags for @anaclastic-azurite, @codythecheshirecat, @coline7373, @dontbelasagnax, @notthestarwar