Revenchent
Dungeon Master
The past few weeks had been very long, and very arduous. The challenge of leading the Dreadguard demanded charisma, a good attitude, and undying confidence. In truth, Calico really hadn't used any of these qualities to define himself. In truth, he was a simple NCO whose opinion really shouldn't have mattered in the big picture. In truth, he was forever lost in a foreign land; left to guide this new generation of soldiers to achieving their birthright--something the clone had fought long and hard for so many years ago.
Now, however, the Clone Wars were over. They had ended so very long ago, but to Calico, it only seemed like months. The loss of his mentor, his fellow soldiers, and the betrayal of the Jedi had torn far deeper into the Commander's core than he had ever dared to let on. It had not only shaken him; it had forced him to become an entirely different person. It was for these reasons that he found himself wasting away in the ordnance room while the rest of the soldiers--his soldiers, were readying to deploy to Kwenn. That wasn't his battle, he wouldn't participate. There was a far more important war to be fought in the shadows that Calico would take part in, but not yet.
He sat on a massive weapons crate in the typical black army fatigues of his brethren. A scruffy beard and a prickly head of hair helped identify him from the other soldiers--along with splotches of darker pigment along his neck from the carbonite freezing process. His fingers danced over the requisitional datapad; brown eyes twitching erratically as he made sure nothing was unaccounted for.
Four packs for the 'Deece's...that leaves the two that Null asked for...
His brow furrowed as the datapad shut off. The power had slowly drained away while he was busy reading lines of code. "Damn thing." The commander grumbled, setting the datapad gently down upon one of the many workbenches.
He took in a deep breath and made ready to move. Calico was halfway up from the crate when his heart seemed to plunge down into his stomach. The Commander fell down hard on the crate as an immense pain formed in the pit of his chest. At first, he wrote it off as the wound he had sustained a few weeks before; yet, it was too immense to be physical. He rested his elbows on his knees and rested his head in his hands, and the world simply melted away.
I'll do it when I make my way back to Bothuwai. When I have the cure for my boys' aging, and I find Galaar a girl. Then I can do it.
He couldn't help himself. Hot tears pushed against the lids of his eyes as he braced against one of the workbenches; nothing was going right. He didn't belong anymore. His family, the men and women he'd fought beside, the most important woman in his life, were dead. Even his closest brother seemed to be enjoying this torture. Galaar had always been a better person than Calico was, he would make it through. He would thrive, as he already had begun to do. Calico was...alienated.
Everything about Calico was his duty. At first, the duty to the Republic, then his brothers, now, the new batch, but why him? The Jedi already took Visri away. That image burned in his mind--a bright flash of blue and Visri's slender frame falling in two pieces in that dark alley on Coruscant. He felt the weight of the Padawan's hand against his throw, and remembered the smell of burning ozone. Then, nothing more.
The Commander opened his eyes and stared through the blur of moisture around his eyes. His gaze fell on one of the many DC-15s stocked within the armory, and he decided it looked very welcoming at the moment.
I've done enough. Isley will take care of them. I've done my duty. Why should I slave away to have it happen all over again? I'll never have a family, I'll never live a free life. They can, I've made it so they could. Galaar will forgive me.
Calico reached over for one of his beloved sidearms. The pistol felt light in his palm; though he knew it to be much heavier. The room suddenly felt very stale. The drives sounded muted, and the lights became unwelcoming. With a quivering hand, Calico forced the dead weight in his hand up to his exposed temple. The cold metal of the muzzle pressed lightly against his forehead like it had to so many of its wielder's enemies beforehand. This wasn't suicide, this was retribution. No matter what he did, this was the only way to atone for his sins.
The clone closed his eyes tight. Time slowed down. His finger drifted over the trigger. "Live a good life, Galaar." He whispered to himself. Calico stared at the dancing light burned into his retinas in childlike fascination. Such an odd thing to see the moment before death. It was comforting in an oddly familiar way.
Click.
@[member="Darth Metus"]
Now, however, the Clone Wars were over. They had ended so very long ago, but to Calico, it only seemed like months. The loss of his mentor, his fellow soldiers, and the betrayal of the Jedi had torn far deeper into the Commander's core than he had ever dared to let on. It had not only shaken him; it had forced him to become an entirely different person. It was for these reasons that he found himself wasting away in the ordnance room while the rest of the soldiers--his soldiers, were readying to deploy to Kwenn. That wasn't his battle, he wouldn't participate. There was a far more important war to be fought in the shadows that Calico would take part in, but not yet.
He sat on a massive weapons crate in the typical black army fatigues of his brethren. A scruffy beard and a prickly head of hair helped identify him from the other soldiers--along with splotches of darker pigment along his neck from the carbonite freezing process. His fingers danced over the requisitional datapad; brown eyes twitching erratically as he made sure nothing was unaccounted for.
Four packs for the 'Deece's...that leaves the two that Null asked for...
His brow furrowed as the datapad shut off. The power had slowly drained away while he was busy reading lines of code. "Damn thing." The commander grumbled, setting the datapad gently down upon one of the many workbenches.
He took in a deep breath and made ready to move. Calico was halfway up from the crate when his heart seemed to plunge down into his stomach. The Commander fell down hard on the crate as an immense pain formed in the pit of his chest. At first, he wrote it off as the wound he had sustained a few weeks before; yet, it was too immense to be physical. He rested his elbows on his knees and rested his head in his hands, and the world simply melted away.
I'll do it when I make my way back to Bothuwai. When I have the cure for my boys' aging, and I find Galaar a girl. Then I can do it.
He couldn't help himself. Hot tears pushed against the lids of his eyes as he braced against one of the workbenches; nothing was going right. He didn't belong anymore. His family, the men and women he'd fought beside, the most important woman in his life, were dead. Even his closest brother seemed to be enjoying this torture. Galaar had always been a better person than Calico was, he would make it through. He would thrive, as he already had begun to do. Calico was...alienated.
Everything about Calico was his duty. At first, the duty to the Republic, then his brothers, now, the new batch, but why him? The Jedi already took Visri away. That image burned in his mind--a bright flash of blue and Visri's slender frame falling in two pieces in that dark alley on Coruscant. He felt the weight of the Padawan's hand against his throw, and remembered the smell of burning ozone. Then, nothing more.
The Commander opened his eyes and stared through the blur of moisture around his eyes. His gaze fell on one of the many DC-15s stocked within the armory, and he decided it looked very welcoming at the moment.
I've done enough. Isley will take care of them. I've done my duty. Why should I slave away to have it happen all over again? I'll never have a family, I'll never live a free life. They can, I've made it so they could. Galaar will forgive me.
Calico reached over for one of his beloved sidearms. The pistol felt light in his palm; though he knew it to be much heavier. The room suddenly felt very stale. The drives sounded muted, and the lights became unwelcoming. With a quivering hand, Calico forced the dead weight in his hand up to his exposed temple. The cold metal of the muzzle pressed lightly against his forehead like it had to so many of its wielder's enemies beforehand. This wasn't suicide, this was retribution. No matter what he did, this was the only way to atone for his sins.
The clone closed his eyes tight. Time slowed down. His finger drifted over the trigger. "Live a good life, Galaar." He whispered to himself. Calico stared at the dancing light burned into his retinas in childlike fascination. Such an odd thing to see the moment before death. It was comforting in an oddly familiar way.
Click.
Nothing happened. What the hell? Calico pulled the trigger four more times, yet nothing happened. With a look of mired confusion, the clone checked the weapon. It's charge pack was empty. "Kriff..." And with it, so was Calico's courage. The Commander slumped forward, letting the pistol hang lazily in his hand as he forced the tears back. If he was destined to live out more of this torture, then he would do it like a soldier, not a child.
@[member="Darth Metus"]