"He'll know when he needs to. This is our secret, for now." Calico grunted; moving over to his desk in the back corner of the room. Datapad and documents were littered across the surface; though no pictures of personal objects were visible.
Even with all these clones, all these years, all the things you've learned, you're still the guy making sure no one calls the cops while everyone enjoys the party.
He smile sadly to himself, opting to dive into the mountain of requisition reports tat were demanding his attention. His soldiers could party; have their fun, find nice young ladies to settle down with. That's what he wanted of each and every one of them, including Galaar. He'd always been the older brother--it seemed that wasn't going to change.
Looking out for the cops is a damn lonely existence.
The Commander wrote off the uncomfortable knot forming in his stomach as pain from his wounds, and cut himself off from the party, the fireworks, the celebration. It wasn't his place to partake. He made a mental note to give Sigma a call and send the boys a bottle of wine: to take Galaar out shopping for new furniture, to give Bluejay some sort of token of thanks, to embarrass Doc when he took his new lady friend out for a date, to find Jackpot an apartment, and finally get Sawtooth inducted into the Mando'a family.
He set to work.
