» First Casualty

~ by

CT-0117 "Chief" took off his helmet and took a long, deep breath of fresh air. Any clone has gotten used to the sweaty, damp warmth of their helmets, but after a long day's fighting, it was just plain heavenly to be rid off, if only for a moment. The clone sergeant strode through the main camp after getting out of the troop bay of a Republic gunship, still relishing that downright amazing feeling that coursed through him whenever he heard the sound of its engines.

The men under his command, Squad 0419, had given him nickname due to his unblemished reputation as their combat leader. After all they've been through, any one of them would follow CT-0117 into enemy fire without a thought of hesitation.

They had just gotten back from a quick raid on a would-be ambush on the Republic camp on Primus, a lush world once held by the Separatists only recently reclaimed. Now the remaining CIS forces were making vain hit-and-run attacks and were simply being hunted down, their numbers dwindling as each day went by.

Chief took a seat on a fallen log. He closed his eyes in pleasure. The basic luxuries of life, such as a nice drink of water or a simple sit down after labor, were immensely intensified when one fought all day and night for a living. He yawned as his men waved him over to the mess tent. Yeah, yeah, I'll be with you in a second, boys, he thought as he waved back as if to say, "You go on, I'll catch up."

Another gunship came floating down into the militarized village, which proved more than sufficient as a makeshift HQ, for the time being. Instead of more of his white armored brethren, CT-0117 saw a family of begrimed refugees being escorted out of the troop bay. It was quite ironic really, when CT-0117 thought about it. Republic citizens, the people he was born to protect, were walking out of the ship used to ferry their white armored guardians from battlefield to battlefield.

CT-0117 had no doubt that this family was homeless due to the war. He shrugged. Collateral damage, folks, the sergeant thought, jaded to the consequences of war. Not much we can do about that.

A medic pointed to what used to be a library, now turned into a reinforced, militarized shelter for civilians caught in the war. The family of three - father, mother, and son - strode to the building utterly downtrodden. Certainly rightfully so, for what CT-0117 could see, this family must have been caught in a firefight for the father held a bloody makeshift bandage what was left of his right arm; it was nothing more than a red stump now.

Don't you worry 'bout a thing, pal. They'll fix you up. CT-0117 flexed his left hand, a replacement after a escort mission gone awry. They'll fix you up.

The boy came walking up to CT-0117. "Hi, mister. My name is Tirren." He extended his arm in greeting.

"Hey there," the clone replied, returning the gesturing as he shook the boy's hand. "Where you from?"

Tirren's sooty face took a quick look at his feet as if the answer were there. "I used to live over in Mawhen, sir." He closed his eyes and sniffed. "What's left of it, anyway."

"You don't need to call me 'sir', lil' fella'," he said in his Jango Fett inherited accent, ruffling the child's feathery blonde hair. "That's for my ugly mates over there." He made a gesture at the mess tent.

"I thought you were clones, though?"

Chief sighed and resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "It's a joke - ah, nevermind."

"Oh. Father says I need to know my manners."

Good man. "I see. Don't you pay it any mind with me, though. Hell, you're probably older than me anyhow."

"Huh?"

The clone smiled. "Nevermind."

"Oh..." Tirren pointed to Chief's face, indicating a glaring scar across his hardened face. "What happened to your face?"

Chief absentmindedly reached up to rub the anomaly in flesh, a long line from under his eye to under his chin. "You best get back to your parents, kid."

Tirren opened his mouth to talk, then thought better of it. He shook CT-0117's hand again and ran off to the now armored library. Even after he was gone, the utter innocence in the boy's eyes were still in Chief's mind. It was amazing really, that children of any kind could have that aura of innocence and incorruption in their eyes, their soul clean slates for the years to come.

But was age the only thing that affected such things? Tirren couldn't have been more than ten years old. So, in theory, shouldn't he have that same innocence in his eyes?

CT-0117 looked down at his helmet in his hands and saw his face reflected back at him through its cold, dark visor. Despite his adult features, Chief was only eleven years old, thanks to the growth acceleration used by the Kaminoans. For a moment, he wondered just how he should feel about being deprived of any semblance of a childhood.

On one hand, fighting was all he would ever know and was all he was good at. He enjoyed it. He enjoyed victory after victory with his brothers. He enjoyed the fact that with every step he took towards an enemy position, he was making a difference in the clones' unified goal of protecting the lives of the Republic's citizens.

He enjoyed being a warrior. A soldier. A clonetrooper.

A childhood would have only delayed his destined living.

But on the contrary, a part of him wondered what it may have been like had he not been grown faster. Would he be any different? Best not think about it, he thought. Nothing good will come of it - not like you can do anything about your genetic. Be proud of what you are, soldier.

Chief still stared at his eyes through the very thing that protected them. He could see the confidence instilled from winning in combat and fighting alongside damn good men. He could see the sadness that never left him whenever he saw troopers leave and not come back. He could see what the effects of war had on any man, as he tilted his head to get a better look at his scar. He could see the complete absence of innocence.

"No," he quietly said to himself, answering his earlier question. Does age affect such things seen in eyes? "Experience does."

As he slipped the helmet back on, once more he became one of the faceless. Hiding whatever was in his eyes to any outsider. He slung his rifle, his weapon, his tool to wreak death and chaos. This is who he was. He had no objections.

Innocence is the first casualty of war.