Battles Leave Scars

Chapter 18: Battle Hymn of the Republic (Part 1)

T/W: Canon Typical Violence (Order 66, nothing incredibly graphic until part 2)

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     While Depa had spared him, Stance had not. How the clone had learned of Caleb's less than brilliant trade with the Kallerans was anyone's guess—Styles, it was Styles— and his reaction was so strong, a land mine would likely have shied away from him. Though his words were harsh and should never be repeated again, they came from the small fraction of the clone's being that was allowed to be scared and, when paired with his cultivated paternal instincts, Caleb could do nothing but apologize, duck his head, and succumb to Stance's bone crushing hug for a dreadful twenty-six seconds.

     Unfortunately, all of Caleb's suffering would be in vain if the battalion was killed at the hands of the Separatists. Somehow, yet unsurprisingly, the tactical droid heading the legions stationed on Kaller got wind of the battalion's final frontal advance against them and had moved all forces to meet and, likely, obliterate the clone forces that were afflicted with every manner of emotional and physical exhaustion. They were all so strained that the clones' adrenaline did little for them, and a single hit had the forces out of commission. With all but one distress call for reinforcements ignored, the straits were looking dire, and had, against everyone's better judgement, left Caleb sprinting across the snow drifts to meet with the reinforcements—if they hadn't been shot down by unwitting Kallerans that was. 

     His excursion had led Caleb to make a new discovery; he really hated snow. It had soaked through his fabric boots, he also had a bone to pick with who ever had the nerve to invent those, causing his feet to go numb—just like the rest of him. He could barely run in the fine powder, and the wind blew up little flurries of snow that whipped directly at him. Caleb groaned and glanced down at the holodisk on his wrist, observing his coordinates in accordance with the reinforcement's. Caleb also hated these 'solo' missions because it gave him the unwanted time to think. Thinking was a truly terrible use of time when you were a soldier—especially for a soldier that was only fifteen. As his feet left their unmistakable trails in the snow, his thoughts drifted away from the battle behind him that he desperately wished to forget about—who knew which of his brothers were dying at that very moment?—to the few friends he had from the temple. He knew that Cal was still stationed on Bracca, which had forced the boy's communication to be limited. Nevertheless, Caleb and Cal had forged a remarkable friendship built on acquaintance, shared experience, and their lack of other friends. Caleb racked his mind to try to come up with anyone else that could qualify as even an acquaintance, failing to do so, he mused over if Morai was ever a friend at begin with, which led him down the bitter trail of regret.

     Caleb shook himself before that path led him straight into a black hole and forced his eyes to focus on the little dot that, in his need, could pass off as a ship. Caleb raced toward it, his surroundings and impeding thoughts no longer important. He slid on the sides of his feet down the snowbank, a shower of powder pluming as he surfed toward the vessel. From what Caleb could tell, the ship was a strange kind of omicron-class attack shuttle; a very, very well loved, modified omicron-class attack shuttle. Caleb glanced around for the rest of the armada that, surely, must have come with this little, inconspicuous ship—there were more ships—right?

     Caleb internally groaned as he understood that there were no more reinforcements than whomever would walk off the ship before him.

     Caleb carefully approached, reaching for his saber, the idea that the shuttle was a ruse not yet banished from his mind.

     "Boys, we've got company!" A voice called from inside the ship, the gangplank lowering.

     Caleb startled upon observing the clone that stepped from the ship. The clone was not recognizable in the way that all clones looked the same, in fact, this clone was so very different than any clone Caleb had ever seen, so-much-so that he momentarily doubted if the man was a clone at all. Chestnut hair was held back by a bandana that tried, and failed, to keep the wayward strands out of the clone's eyes, and a brazen tattoo covered half his gauntly chiseled face, "Huh. I was late in sensing you." As the clone mused in his hushed, southern accent, Caleb put two and two together. This clone was the leader of Clone Force 99, this was Sergeant Hunter.