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Finding One's Peers(CIS)

Jaxton Ravos

Mindwalker of the Outer Rim
Writer
Dorsk 256 had spent a good portion of his life in the service of the Jedi Order, before leaving and deciding it wasn't for him. He joined what was called the Silent Conclave for a while, but never joined really joined their meeting or their actions, only truly being there in name only. The Silent Conclave had moved on from it's silence, forming a Sanctum near the Tingel Arm, but Dorsk was not ready to go to them. He had his own issues he needed to sort out. Dorsk, though not yet in his middle years, was having a bit of an identity crisis. Who was he really, besides another template and product of the Khommite people? Was he a person himself, or was he merely a droid, organic in construction? These questions laid heavy on his mind, his spirit, and he needed to figure them out before he could join the Sanctum in confidence. He couldn't bring himself to protect people when he wasn't sure if he even was a 'person' per se.

Thus, he made his way to Tatooine, a blisteringly hot world full of little of specks of glass and stinky heard animals. In the city of Mos Eisley he made his way to a bar, rumored to be frequented by the fame-rising 117th brigade, an assortment of clones, rumored to be 'force-dead'. True to their rumors as he entered the room he tried to sense all of the men inside, but he could only feel a fraction of the people around. If he were to find his origins, come to peace with himself and his creation, he figured this would be the best place.

"What'll you have stranger?" The duro barkeep asked.

"Something light, and the attention of the 117th. I have some questions that need answering."
 

CC-420 "Doc"

_/----*+++
Character
Doc had just returned from his eventful leave on Bothwaui to his small apartment in Mos Eisley, given he still had quite a while left before the unit returned to duty. The clone proffered the harshness of the planet and the various hunting opportunities it offered over the other worlds the growing Nation had to offer. As such he was where he almost always was when he wasn't hunting or otherwise getting into trouble. A cantina.

Fellow commandos were in the building, made him feel better about where he was. He was sitting there, having a beer when a strange looking alien entered and began asking the bartender about the now famed unit.

What the hell did he want?

So doc, slightly inebriated asked with the tact of a graceful diplomat.

"What the hell do you want?"

@[member="Dorsk 256"]
 

Galaar Tal'Verda

Just one more butchered soul.
Character
Galaar turned just in time to hear about the Alien asking about his Legion, and the fact that Doc was being a complete pain in the shebs. They were here on the desert rock awaiting deployment and reassignment after their party nights on the CIS capitol. He walked over and gave Doc a light slap up the side of head.

"Vod! What did I say about being a pain in the shebs anyone, or everyone, who utters our names?"

Galaar was in his full Katarn rig with his helmet strapped to his side. The Mandalorian crest proudly painted on his camoflauged chest piece. It would be noted that he an Doc looked very much so alike, other than a few scars, the fact Galaar had a goatee, and different hair cut.

"Su cuy'gar... What do you want?"

This clone also had a disarming grin constantly on his face, and let his shoulders slump rather casually.

@[member="Dorsk 256"] @CC-420 "Doc"
 

Jaxton Ravos

Mindwalker of the Outer Rim
Writer
Dorsk's bartender shrugged, but got mixed him a little something and handed it over. He took a sip, and before he knew it a man, only slightly drunk far as he could tell, came over, asking "what the hell he wanted". A quick look at him and the crowd around him revealed his face though not identical, was remarkably similar to the other soldiers in the cantina. It seemed he had found his clones.

The next man to greet him was a bit more friendly, little more smiling, and overall more polite. Though his haircut and mannerisms were different, his question was the same. "What do you want?" Not that Dorsk blamed either of them, a man wandering into a cantina looking for you often spelled trouble. Dorsk opened his pocket and tossed a few credits to the duro barkeep.

"A round for the two mem who saw to me first." He said, before turninf to them. A sign he wasn't going to cause trouble, but also something go keep them around, if only to finish their drinks. "I am the 256th incarnation of Dorsk, my people continue our lines through cloning rather than reproduction. When I had heard of a clone regiment I wished to see how it worked. How community was formed, how identity is preserved or evolved with a hundred your genetic equal. More than anything, I wish to learn."

@[member="Galaar CC-252"] @CC-420 "Doc"
 

CC-420 "Doc"

_/----*+++
Character
@[member="Dorsk 256"] @[member="Galaar CC-252"]

Doc smirked at Galaar after he smacked 420 in the back of the head after his initial flash of anger. Self control wasn't one of the clone's strong points but he resisted the urge to punch Galaar squarely in the jaw. Why his fellow clone had such a cheery damn disposition when he'd seen what he'd seen 420 would never know. The galaxy was just a bunch of scum. Mostly.

Hmm. Alien clone. Something new.

He smiled after the Dorsk ordered him another drink and said.

"Maybe we can be friends green one." With a hearty chuckle.
 

Galaar Tal'Verda

Just one more butchered soul.
Character
Galaar would grin even wider as the drink was ordered, moving to sit down on the seat next to Dorsk. It wasn't long before a pungent, musky scent would fill the air, signaling the arrival of Galaar's Strill, a long, wrinkled skinned, six-legged Mandalorian hunting animal with grey fur which sat down next to Galaar and stared up at the green alien with an oddly intelligent gaze.

Galaar ran his hand rather thoughtfully through his goatee as Dorsk spoke, another clone, not one of their brothers or the Dread Sisters, nor once of Isley's Templar goons. "Well! We're like any other culture really! All the same, yet all different in our own ways, some of us like to huff spice, some like to shoot things, other like to flaunt their devainces, some are happy, some are dreary sacks of worms who need to find more fun in the Galaxy," he looked over at Doc, "we all have names, and most of all, they're all my ade, or sons, in basic. Whilst Calico, Jackpot, and Kage are my brothers."

"By the way, don't us the osik-excuse of 'freshers on this planet, they're disgusting."

@CC-420 "Doc" @[member="Dorsk 256"]
 

Jaxton Ravos

Mindwalker of the Outer Rim
Writer
The free drink had scored him a few points. The first clone, while still not necessarily 'friendly' was happy to take the drink, and at the very least seemed open to suggestion. The goatee'd clone actually took a seat with him, and was happy to speak. The way he described the 117th was above all, typical. Not typical as in it was what he expected, but typical as in typical military camaraderie. They were bound to each other like brothers, or sons even, yet he described many of them as having different hobbies, outlets to blow off steam. It was all so . . . normal. The normalcy sounded, well, comforting? He wasn't sure if it was quite the right word, but it did the job well enough.

"I'll remember that." He said, as the clone spoke of the refreshers. "If I may, could you two tell me more of the 117th? How were you trained? What did they tell you? Is there only one template for the entire Legion?"

@[member="Galaar CC-252"] @CC-420 "Doc"
 

Galaar Tal'Verda

Just one more butchered soul.
Character
"More about the 117th? Oh! We're the karkin' best, baddest, cooliest, and most fly boys in the Galaxy carrying around repeaters, huffing spice, drinking, and waving the banner of freedom!" His voice though with a hint of Mando to it. He took a deep swig of the drink that was offered to him.

"We were all trained differently, for example, I was trained 900 years ago. These guys..." He pointed at Doc. "Are rather new."

@[member="Dorsk 256"] @CC-420 "Doc"
 
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