Chapter Text
Even as Quinlan snuck into the barracks, ducking his head a little as he moved along, he didn’t expect to get very far without being noticed. He was, after all, a Kiffar in a building full of clones, and a rather rumpled Kiffar at that.
He had expected to make it past the first corridor, though, which did not happen.
He had barely gotten both feet across the threshold, the door just beginning to hiss along the tracks to snap shut behind him, when he heard a voice ring down on him like a peal of thunder.
“Hey!”
If Fox had yelled at him like that, in that annoyed of a tone, Quinlan might have genuinely been in fear for his life. Instead, the Jedi just straightened abruptly to his full height and frowned at the wall ahead of him.
The person obviously wasn’t Fox, but it wasn’t anyone else he knew, either. While everyone else might feel justified in considering the clones just so many tools, droid-like implements instead of individuals, Quinlan had never heard of a Lightsider who could entertain that notion for even a second. The clones might have had the same features, the same voice and the same DNA, but in the Force, each and every one of them was unique. Each man among them was his own speck of light against the vast backdrop of the universe, equal with all other sentients, his soul shining as brightly as any star, as recognizable as a rare gem.
The clone who had barked at him was certainly unique, and in some ways he seemed almost too bright and shiny, like he could be blinding if Quinlan lingered on his signature too long – but he didn’t feel familiar. The Kiffar prided himself on knowing each Corrie’s name and personality in addition to their Force presence, and yet he drew a blank when he tried to place this one.
“Hey,” Shiny Trooper said again. His voice was not quite as sharp as before, probably since Quinlan had frozen when he’d called to him the first time instead of bolting. “You with the hair.”
Quinlan snorted and turned his head ten degrees, enough that he could just glimpse the trooper from the corner of his eye, but not enough to send his hurting eyeballs popping out of their sockets. The man’s armor was reduced to little flickers between his thick eyelashes, but the Jedi thought it was mostly white, which was strange for the Guard. “You couldn’t see anything else that might be more helpful in that statement?”
The trooper laughed softly, and the ivory smudges shifted as he seemed to relax. “Yeah, well, that was the first thing that came to mind. Sorry.”
“Nah, it’s fine.” At least this one laughs. Quinlan usually had to wait for weeks before a new trooper, especially one fresh from Kamino, felt comfortable enough to laugh around him. He decided this soldier must be a shiny anyway, though, because of his signature – he was so bright because he was new. “Can I turn around, or…?”
“Oh. Yes, sir. Sorry about that.” Movement clouded the edge of Quinlan’s vision and he heard the clunk of combat boots sound twice against the floor, and then the trooper was standing in front of him.
Quinlan blinked and stared at the clone. Then he blinked again and tried to come to terms with what he was seeing.
For one thing, the man’s voice might have sounded relaxed but it didn’t match his posture, which was ramrod straight and stiff, almost like he was struggling to exist in a new place and wasn’t exactly comfortable yet. For another, most clones had curly hair before they were shipped out and cut, dyed, or shaved it, but this one had a head full of the kinkiest black curls that Quinlan had ever seen. They weren’t long enough to fluff around the trooper’s forehead and ears, but when he moved his arm to clip the restrainer back over his blaster, a few bounced anyway, as if they were all coiled to spring at any moment.
His armor was indeed a stark, unvarnished white, completely undecorated by the Corrie Guard red that the other troopers used to liberally adorn their own protective plating. Painting one’s armor with the colors of a new regiment was important to the clones, Quinlan knew, and he had never seen a new Corrie without at least some crimson splashed onto his white shell by the Corrie’s self-proclaimed armor painting experts, Slip and Sunny. The Jedi had always assumed that those two had left Kamino with built-in new-trooper detection, so if they hadn’t gotten their hands on this one yet, he must have arrived not long before Quinlan had walked through the door.
So this one is really new, he thought. Like newborn new. A little baby shiny.
It wasn’t that far-fetched – the baby part, at least. He had heard Obi-Wan, Mace, and a host of other Jedi mourn the fact that their new troopers were being shipped out younger and younger, some as young as nine compared to the original eleven or twelve, but this clone didn’t even look nine. With that mop of curls and the filled-out, smooth cheekbones, and those stinking big brown eyes that were blinking curiously back at the Kiffar, this trooper looked like a crecheling.
A very squishable crecheling, with bright tooka-eyes that would make Shaak Ti melt like an ice cone on Tatooine.
He should probably introduce her to this one next time she comes to Coruscant. There’d be no time for a new little shiny to grow jaded and weary in the Lower Levels if there were an extremely maternal, slightly frightening Togruta dogging his steps every inch of the way. If half of what Obi-Wan had told him about her mothering her cadets on Kamino was true, Shaak would have this poor doe-eyed thing swaddled in a heated blanket and nibbling a grilled cheese before he realized his blaster was gone.
“Yeah, uh–” Quinlan tried to restart his brain and his mouth at once, but he couldn’t quite untangle his tongue and the attempt just made his temples throb harder. He closed his eyes for a second, then opened them and tried again. “It’s cool. I’m Quinlan.”
Usually, telling newbies his name helped them loosen up. Despite what Fox may tell his troopers about the “delinquent Jedi” he had once pulled out of a dumpster, most of the Guard liked him and passed news of his alright status on to the younger clones who shipped in from Kamino. This one, however, didn’t react at all. The only change in his expression was a faint twitch of his left eye, and that seemed to stem more from trying to decide how to respond rather than recognition of any sort.
He finally decided that reciprocating the greeting was the most logical thing to do. “I’m CT-4747,” he replied.
After being around the clones for as long as he had, the Jedi was so used to having to ask the next question that it was leaving his lips before he even thought about it. “Yeah, but what’s your name?” He winced when he heard how rough that sounded in his sleepy, gravel-filled voice. “Not that you have to tell me – I just don’t like using the numbers. Feels wrong.”
The shiny’s eyes widened a little in genuine surprise – good Force, how could they get any bigger? Quinlan had seen newborn bongo fawns with less endearing faces.
“Silver, sir.” The trooper reached up and swept his palm over his hair, brushing it back from his face in what had to be a nervous gesture, judging from the little spike of uncertainty that rippled through the Force around him.
“Nice to meet you, Silver.” Quinlan felt his teeth vibrate as he spoke and realized that his hand was throbbing now, too. Funny – he hadn’t even noticed it over the thumping in his skull. “Say, uh, you know where Commander Fox is?” That nap in a commandeered recliner was sounding even better than it had before.
“If you don’t mind me saying so, sir, I think you might need to see a medic before the commander,” Silver ventured. “You’re, um, bleeding on the floor.”
Quinlan glanced down at his injured hand just in time to see another crimson drop splatter to the tile, with another one threatening to do the same as it clung to the very tip of his tightly bound fingers.
He huffed in annoyance. That strip of tunic was going to have to find a different career.
“You mean Stitch?” It was strange to hear someone call the redheaded clone a medic. He hated being called a medic – he preferred the term fixer, for some reason. Probably too many mafia movies, Quinlan thought, though with his eyes about to cross, he forgot to mention that to the shiny. “Yeah, Stitch might be better, actually. I’ll talk to Fox later.”
“Oh, that’s the medic’s name?” Silver looked down and turned his arm out, revealing the small comm unit that was nestled on the inside of his gleaming white vambrace. His curls bounced back forward again, rebelling against his earlier attempt to push them back, and the way his nose scrunched when he concentrated on the minuscule blue screen made Quinlan think of a frustrated gerbil.
“Stitch…” he muttered, almost as if to himself, typing on the tiny keypad on his gauntlet as Quinlan watched on in confusion. He glanced up when he felt the Jedi’s eyes on him and gave an embarrassed shrug. “I found his number in the roll, but I’m trying to learn everyone’s name, too,” he explained, clicking another key and then letting his arm fall back to his side.
Quinlan quirked one eyebrow up in confusion. “You don’t know Stitch?”
“No, sir. I got here right before you did. Reassigned from my original post.” Silver was looking at him funny. Quinlan couldn’t figure out why until he saw the wall tilt a little to the right and realized he was swaying just a little bit. “Sir, I really think you should go to medical.”
“How ‘bout –” Quinlan frowned at himself for slurring the word, but his brain was having a hard time catching up with his disappointment. “Why don’t I introduce you to Stitch, and then we go find Fox?” That sounded better than yes, that’s a great idea because I can’t feel my head anymore and I need a baby to help me walk ten steps.
At the sound of the Commander’s name, Silver drew himself up even straighter than before, as if he were trying to add every bit of height to his stature he could. Quinlan almost snorted at the shiny’s eager expression, but remembered at the last moment that it would probably be impolite.
He really needed something for this headache.
“Yes, sir!” Silver closed the distance between them with a single stride and, without another word, slipped an arm around Quinlan’s chest to help hold him up. The Jedi squinted at the arm for a moment, then simply accepted it. This kid was friendly and open, but at the same time there was a kind of shadow hanging around him, something…murky. The initial burst of brightness Quinlan had felt from his presence in the Force had drawn his attention away from the dark spot for a few moments, but it was palpable now, even though the glow was still there. It felt heavy and sad, almost like…
Grief?
Before Quinlan could dig deeper into that, Silver was turning him away from the front desk and down the corridor. The certainty that directed the shiny’s step was weirdly confusing, given what he had just said about his recent arrival.
“How do you know where medical is, if you haven’t been here long enough –” Quinlan’s vision clouded up and made the hall look funny for a second, but he managed not to trip. “–to meet Stitch?”
“I’ve been studying the roll and the building schematics,” Silver answered brightly.
The Jedi gave an impressed grunt. “Smart kid.”
“Not really.” Quinlan could sense Silver’s grin as the shiny turned left and steered him into a shorter offshoot of a hall that ended in stainless double doors. “I was so busy memorizing the blueprint that I got lost on the way here like, six times.”
In spite of the pain that was hammering between his ears, Quinlan chuckled and felt his wincing grimace twitch into a smile. “Sounds like something I’d do.” He had been holding onto Silver’s ivory pauldron with his left hand, but now he flattened out his palm so he could give the shiny an affectionate shoulder pat. “I think me and you are going to be great pals.”
Silver’s signature was back to the almost too-bright shine. “I hope so, sir.”
Quinlan's smirk turned into a beaming grin – then Silver pushed open the double doors and all the happy was completely sucked off the Kiffar’s dark face, melted into oblivion by the gruff and irritated bellow that was immediately blasted in their direction.
“Quinlan karking Vos!”
Quinlan felt Silver flinch at the echoing roar and latched his fingertips into the groove beneath the shiny’s pauldron. He didn’t want to sacrifice an innocent, but he also didn't want to be left alone either.
Holding onto the soldier, the Jedi took a deep breath and infused his voice with as much cheerfulness as he could muster with numb fingers and a bruised and aching head.
“Well, Silver the shiny,” he quipped. “Meet Stitch.”