Star Wars-Doctor Who: The Clones And The Daleks

CHAPTER 2: Shift's End

Minutes prior...

Hundreds upon hundreds of identical soldiers with caramel skin and kinky black hair fill the mess hall. At every door, a pair of fully armored Clone Troopers stand guard with long rifles. At every table, scores of clones adorn white armor with no helmet, a tray of food before them. Echoes of footsteps and spoons scraping and troopers talking fill the hall with a mild roar. A group known as Ghost Company sits at a table near the middle, chatting.

"I've had enough of this slop," groans Boil.

"Why, is it too sloppy for your moustache?" responds Waxer, with heavy sarcasm.

"Yes, as a matter of fact, it is," says Boil, "Facial hair such as this requires less-goopy food."

"Boil, you have a handlebar on your face. You look like a Swoop-biker that's addicted to Death Sticks. All you need is a sloppy tattoo on your neck to match."

Several troopers laugh at this remark, embarrassing the prideful Boil. He scowls at his friend.

"You're just jealous because I have more patience to groom myself, and my fine features," he smirks.

"Your features are just as fine as all the rest of us, ya' dolt, now eat," grumbles Beck, punching Boil on the shoulder.

Boil grabs his left shoulder pad, reacting to the blow. He turns towards his no-nonsense brother.

"Maybe so, but I'm the only clone in the whole of this battalion with this setup," Boil responds, motioning to his moustache with his thumb, "So when we take on the Seppies, in the sea of identical faces, they'll know to fear the one with the sweet 'stache."

"Well, if it keeps him happy, I say let him have it," says Yeller.

"Oh, stuff it, Yeller. We're soldiers, for crying out loud, not therapists," whines Zeke, chuckling at himself, "You really think we can cheer the Droid Army into surrendering?"

"Hey, he's got a point, if we're gonna be shot in the field, might as well feel good about ourselves for once before we do," reasons.

"And that's why we call you Yeller, 'cuz you're so happy, and cheery, an-and...yellow," Zeke complains.

"At least I have emotion, and can talk about it."

"All of you, shut up and finish so we can get on with the day," Beck orders.

A trooper, a higher ranking one, approaches the table, disrupting the conversation.

"Ghost Company, you are to report to the bridge for guard duty," the officer says.

"I thought Phantom Company was assigned to guard duty this week?" says Beck.

"We were, and every squad of Phantom Company switched out. And then our shift ended. Ten minutes ago. It's the end of the week."

The troops of Ghost Company scramble out of their seats, embarrassed and excited.

"We're, uh, very sorry, Corporal--," Zeke chides.

"That's Sergeant, trooper," snaps the superior, "Now cut the chatter, and get upstairs and clock in so my men can get food."

"Yessir, right away," Answers Beck, "Ghosts, move it!"

The group rushes off with their food-trays, hurrying to the job they are now very late to. Sergeant Apoc crosses his arms in disapproval.

"Glad those boys aren't in my command," he mumbles under his breath.

He looks around the room at all the faces, all the same. It's like never being alone...while always bring alone.

He removes his helmet, and holds it under his arm while he scratches the black patch of hair on his chin. He starts down the aisle of tables, passing row after row of duplicates. He gazes from side to side, never turning his head, just his eyes.

He thinks to himself, The war takes so many away, but every time they get replaced, the new faces are just as familiar. Why haven't I gone mad yet?

He goes around a corner, and heads towards the double-doors he came through. They should be along any minute now.

Approaching the doors, he stands and waits by the guards, patiently, for his group to arrive. As he stands, he continues gazing over the masses of hungry troops, all doing the same thing. Firing drills, standing at attention, jogging laps, saluting the commanding officer as he enters the room. Day-in, day-out, rinse-repeat.

What else can there be to existing?

"Sir?" A voice interrupts his thoughts.

A pic snaps out of his trance, noticing the trooper before him.

"Trooper Wyssick--yes, is the squad ready for mealtime?"

"Yes, sir. Commander Cody dismissed us, said we could leave before Ghost Company arrived," explains the trooper, "Said nothing was happening anyway, might as well let us slide a little this time."

"Is the squad behind you?" Apoc asks.

"Yes, sir, dropping off their blasters in the barracks."

"Good, good," he says, "You ahead and get in line, I'll wait for the others. There's a table clear in the middle."

He points to the now vacant table Ghost Company was occupying. Wyssick salutes his superior.

"At ease, trooper."

And heads towards the breakfast-line.

And there it is again, he thinks, that customary salute. Mandatory salute. Why can't we be something...better...worse...why just mediocre?

The rest of Spectrum Squad arrives, donning their salutes to their commanding officer. One after another after another. After the tenth man gives his salute, Apoc, too, heads towards the breakfast-line. I know what they all say, but this stuff really is slop.

But just as Apoc gets in line behind his squad, his day of mediocrity changes.

CRRSSSHHHHH

The ship shakes, plunging the mess hall into total darkness. Chatter turns to griping, griping turns to shouts, and trays hit the floor as every soldier in the mess hall stumbles in the darkness.