Chapter Text
~3rd person P.O.V.~
Disembarking from the dropship, the tired clones take a moment to enjoy the din of the command post.
It’s a temporary headquarters comprised of a semi-circle of tanks forming a wall around several dropships which surround dozens of tents clustered around a high canyon wall. Lookouts are visible at the edge of the canyon walls and, just past the tanks, is a line of makeshift barricades where guards stand watch.
Given the impromptu invasion, no one expects anything more permanent than this, but the sight of the lackluster base brings the battered clones of Hurricane Squad comfort all the same.
Nestled between the tanks and the tents, the commandos enjoy the lines of plain white durasteel armor reflecting the desert sun and the familiar din of multiple conversations in Basic.
Not a bug in sight.
All of the clones they can see are regs. No commandos, and no Batch 99 brothers.
Heaving a sigh, CT-9963 turns to his team, his shoulders sagging. “Come on, Hurricanes. Let’s find the medcenter.”
“Want me to look ahead, Boss Three,” CT-9991 asks, standing up just a little straighter.
“No, Nine. We’re in friendly territory. Just spot Seven in case he topples over so I can focus on helping Three walk.” With that said, the sergeant takes CT-9933’s offered hand, helping his brother to lean on his shoulder instead of the dropship.
With as much dignity as they can manage, the four commandos limp their way towards the tents.
Regs pause in their activities to stare at the commandos, their visors making it impossible for the enhanced clones to know if their gazes hold disdain or sympathy.
Passing the barricades, they come to the collection of tents as boots pound on the sand behind them.
“Stand aside, Hurricanes. Let’s let them pass,” Sergeant Six-Three orders.
His squad obeys without argument, taking a few steps to the left and stopping so whoever is running can pass.
“Sergeant!” The holler is loud and clear, but there’s a strange echo to it.
Turning, the commando sees a reg sprinting their way. His helmet has a projection in front of where the mouth would be, with two tubes extending from the sides and down to a pack attached to his chest piece.
A pilot.
Other regs continue to watch, their conversations falling silent at the unnatural interaction of a commando and a pilot off the ship.
“What is it, pilot,” Six-Three asks, not knowing the reg’s number or rank.
The pilot falters, clearing his throat a little. His voice is lower now, tinged with embarrassment now that he’s caused a scene. “Uhh, sorry to interrupt, Sergeant. I was your evac pilot and I just wanted to- Well, I heard that you hadn’t been to this base before, and I thought I’d offer, if you want, to show you, and your squad, the medbay and command center.”
Nine and Seven glance at each other under their visors, their shoulders shaking in suppressed laughter. It isn’t every day a reg shows such open…servility towards a commando. Envy and respect are so common they’re to be expected at this point, but servility, meekness, and humility are not things any commandos are accustomed to seeing. Especially these commandos. The special ones.
To his credit, the Sergeant makes no outward reaction to the pilot’s fumbling. “Thank you, and I’d like to take you up on that offer.” His visor trails down to Thirty-Three, then over to Seven-Two. “Nine, come here and take Three’s other arm for me.”
Thirty-Three straightens his back a bit, though the leg he’s standing on bends a little further at the shift, cutting through the offense he was attempting to display. “Sergeant, I-”
“Aw come on, Three,” Nine says, coming around and pulling his brother’s arm over his shoulder, “I promise my fun isn’t contagious! Your boring reputation is safe.”
Three tries to pry his arm free but Nine just holds his wrist tighter, pulling it a little so Three can’t move.
“Enough.” The clipped order out of their Sergeant has Nine and Three settling down immediately. With them quiet and still, CT-9963 turns to the pilot once more. “I’d appreciate it if you can spot Seven on the way there, pilot.”
The reg nods, “of course, it’s right this way.”
…
Groups of regs stare as the squad and pilot pass by, whispering rumors and questions about the commandos. Some express awe, some envy.
Then someone says it.
“Aren’t they from that bad batch though?”
The squad stops walking.
All four of them.
At the same time.
Looking over his shoulder at the reg who’d spoken, CT-9933 is practically seething. His shoulders rising and falling faster and his shoulders tense.
Before he can speak though, CT-9972 comes to his inevitable rescue, sounding both tired and disarming. “Come on, man, can’t we just…not?”
Nothing but blank stares and confused blinking all around.
“Yeah, I mean,” Nine-One adds, his free hand gesturing between the regs and his own squad in a sort of pointing action. “We just blew up a building, I’m sure you just did something cool. Give us time to heal up and we can all do something even cooler together!” His tone is more of an offer than a question as he shrugs, contorting himself a little so he’s a bit shorter than the regs. Though he straightens quickly to give Thirty-Three proper support once again.
CT-9972 laughs, light and easy, into the silence that follows Nine-One’s offer. “I’m game! Tell you what, you guys find a target, and we can all go blow it up together. We’ve even got a pilot,” he says, pointing at the pilot walking with them, “so the transportation’s covered.”
The pilot chuckles, nodding. “Sure, why not?” He pauses for a moment before adding. “Though we’ll have to clear it with command, first.”
“Nah,” Nine-One waves off the suggestion like a bad fart. “We’re commandos from the weird batch, remember? We just humor the orders cause we like em!”
Finally, some more of the regs are forced into laughing, some shaking their heads while others elbow each other conspiratorially.
“Let’s table that idea until we’ve seen to Seven’s arm and Three’s leg, shall we,” Six-Three asks with a tilt of his head.
“Riiight,” Nine-One says, shooting the regs a lazy salute that turns into a sort of point, “let’s take a storm check, guys.”
Some of the regs wander off, but most either lazy salute back, nod, or wave as the group heads to the medcenter.
* * *
The medcenter is a large tent with four walls to block out the sand, and a tarp shading the entrance that looks like it can be dropped to form a door.
Upon entering, the medics are quick to swarm the group and usher everyone into their own bed for examination. Even the pilot, until he clarifies that the flight had been smooth and he had seen no action.
CT-9963 nods to the pilot. “Appreciate the help.”
“Alright, Sergeant, helmet and chest piece off,” the medic orders.
“My pleasure, Sergeant. By the way, I’m CT-1111, Ohno. Sorry for not saying so sooner.”
“Not a problem.” Peeling off his helmet alongside his squad mates, the Sergeant nods. “CT-9963, Hurricane Six, if you prefer. I’m the tactical specialist.” Nodding his head to his left, towards his squad mates, he introduces them. “The one with the broken leg is our demolitions specialist, CT-9933, Hurricane Three.”
CT-9933 gives the pilot a nod but otherwise pays them no mind as he works on removing his armor.
“CT-9972, Hurricane Seven, is our security specialist and currently sporting a bum arm.”
CT-9972 waves with his good arm, his wry smile contorting to a grimace as a medic starts working on getting his injured arm out of the armor.
“Last is Hurricane Nine, CT-9991, our search and destroy specialist.”
The man in question grins, waving. “Don’t let Boss Three fool you. He’s only tactics on paper.” Leaning closer to the pilot, he lowers his tone to a conspiratorial stage whisper. “He’s actually our search and rescue specialist.”
Sergeant Six-Three rolls his eyes at his subordinate but doesn’t correct him.
Nodding, Ohno smiles, “well uhh, good to meet you all properly. I hope we get the chance to work together again. And good work on that base. You’ve more than earned this break.”
A medic waves away the pilot, telling him that if he isn’t hurt or able to provide information on the squad’s injuries then he must leave.
Ohno surrenders to the medic’s orders, exchanging his goodbyes with the squad before leaving the, admittedly, crowded tent.
The commandos are halfway through their checks when a Jedi enters. There’s no question about it as they are, first and foremost, a Mirialan and female. The robes and lightsaber only serve as bonus confirmation.
The Jedi in question had seen her share of clones in the past hour alone, but she was surprised to find the commandos to be so easy to identify. She’d been informed of the Katarn class armor they wore and its differences from the standard durasteel set, but it was their physical appearances that truly stood out.
Without their helmets, the commandos of Troop 99’s Hurricane Squad are one of a kind.
The sergeant, CT-9963, is thicker than most clones, though it doesn’t appear to be due to muscle. Rather, she thinks, it appears to come from something deeper and structural. His collarbone, cheekbones, and nose are also more pronounced than the average clone’s, while his hair is in a short buzz cut, and his eyes are hazel instead of the classic brown. All of this serves to make him appear heavier and bulkier than the other clones, to the point where he looks like his shoulders are being weighed down by his own skeleton.
At the moment, he’s sitting on a bench across from his squad-mates, cleaning his blaster and glancing up at every hiss of pain. He never leaves his spot, though, simply providing the brother in pain the knowledge of his attention as it happens.
CT-9933 is leaner than his sergeant, having the same build as the average clone but less muscle mass. His hair is cut short, fading to near bald around the back of his head and thicker in the front. The eyes are what catch her attention, though. Despite sharing their color with the other clones, they’re angled slightly up at the far corners, making his gaze sharper and almost meaner, despite the glimmering curiosity they hold just below the surface.
He’s laying in a medical bed with his left leg propped up and bandaged, likely with a layer of bacta patches underneath, while he types away on a datapad.
Two medics are working in tandem on CT-9972’s arm when she studies him. He’s also leaner than most clones, though unlike CT-9933, his is due to a difference in build. His shoulders are not as wide, but his arms, legs, and hair are noticeably longer than normal, despite the fact the way he’s sitting. It makes him look wiry.
His mobility is what draws the Jedi’s attention though as, despite the medics working on what would normally be a clone’s dominant hand, he’s typing away on his datapad even faster than CT-9933 is. Not only that, but he’s able to pick up his datapad and toss it to his Sergeant, then catch a ration bar from CT-9991 without falter.
CT-9991 was sitting with his sergeant when she’d entered, but got up shortly after to pack away his blaster and distribute ration bars to CT-9972 and CT-9933. His hair is what can only be described as shaggy and his eyes are bright, giving him a softer look than most of the soldiers. When standing, though, there is something inherently lanky about him. Perhaps his disproportionately long legs, or the lackadaisical stance he prefers could explain this as, upon further inspection, he has the same general build as the other clones.
She finds this fascinating. While she knew the clones would be unique, despite the conditions of their creation, she never anticipated such diversity. It brings a soft smile to her face for a moment before it is cooled into a neutral expression. Finally, she approaches to clones.
Sergeant CT-9963 notices her first, standing immediately and giving her a salute.
CT-9991 follows suit, while his brothers in recovery sit up a little straighter in their beds.
She bows her head to them. “Gentlemen, I am Master Luminara Unduli. I understand you have been through an ordeal today, and you are to be commended for your achievement. If you are able, I would like to debrief you now then leave you to rest and recover in peace.”
CT-9963 nods, falling into a parade rest. “Ask away.”
* * *
Hours later, the commandos are settling into their bunks on a cruiser bound for Kamino. For now, Geonosis belongs to the Republic and their job is done. Though the commandos know their work has only just begun.
CT-9972’s arm is in a sling with instructions to avoid using it for at least another day, while CT-9933 is using crutches. His leg may have been reset and even partially mended, but it would take a few days before the bones were strong enough to support his fully armored weight again.
Once again, the commandos find themselves surrounded by regs. But, they take comfort in knowing that they’ll be reunited with their batch when they reach Kamino.
Unable to take the silence, CT-9991 sits up in his bed, starting up a familiar conversation. One they’d been having since basic training. “Hey, what about ‘Sev’?”
CT-9933 doesn’t even look up from his datapad. “Taken.”
Indignant, Seven-Two leans over the side of his bunk to stare at Thirty-Three directly. “What? Who beat me to that?”
“RC-1207. Delta Squad,” Thirty-Three replies, more than ready for this conversation to end as quickly as it had begun.
Seven-Two’s groan dissolves into a whine.
Nine-One chimes in. “I feel you, Seven. I wanted to do ‘Niner’ but apparently the sergeant of Omega Squad already has that one.”
“Great,” Seven-Two huffs. “Oh! Wait, oh kark what’s seventy-two in Mando’a?”
“Tad’eta t’ad,” Six-Three replies, still laying on his back with his eyes closed and his hands folded behind his head.
Seven-Two frowns, a little put out. “Well that sucks.”
“What’s ninety-one in Mando’a,” Nine-One asks, rolling onto his side to look at his sergeant.
Once again, Six-Three doesn’t move or open his eyes. “Shek’eta solus.”
Nine-One makes a gagging sound. “So, Mando’a’s out.”
Sighing heavily, Thirty-Three puts his datapad aside, sitting so his feet hang over the side of his bed. “Perhaps you should avoid numbers altogether.”
“So what do you suggest, genius?” Nine-One’s tone is a bit snappier than usual, but Thirty-Three doesn’t take it to heart.
Thirty-Three tilts his head so he’s staring at the floor, his hands clasped limply between his knees as his eyes narrow slightly.
Nine-One and Seven-Two share a grin, chuckling silently at the rerun of Thirty-Three’s signature ‘thinking pose’. They make no noise though, letting their brother ponder uninterrupted.
When he speaks, Thirty-Three is still staring at the floor, though his hands come up so he can rest his chin on them. “Well, the names less likely to be taken already will be ones not based on numbers and ranks. The regs will have taken most of those at this point along with some of the ones based on specialty.”
…
When he doesn’t elaborate, Nine-One pries. “Soooo?”
No answer.
Nine-One rolls his eyes, looking at Seven-Two and shaking his head at Thirty-Three’s behavior.
Seven-Two presses a little further.“What do you suggest we do, Three?”
Still lost in thought, Thirty-Three answers, much to Nine-One’s irritation. “Our most assured course is to base our names off of our genetic alteration. That way, we are only competing with the rest of our sub-batches for names, rather than the entire army.”
Nine-One frowns, looking mildly disgusted. Before he can reply though, Six-Three chimes in again. “Hurricanes.”
All three straighten up at the familiar address, turning their full attention to their sergeant, who’s still laying down. His eyes are open though, just staring at the ceiling.
They’re quiet but alert, waiting for their leader to speak.
After a minute of silence, he gets off the bed. Coming to stand in front of his squad, the sergeant studies each of their faces in turn. “That’s who we are. Mind, body, and soul.” Another pause as he hums. “Why not in name too?”
Seven-Two smiles, breaking their psuedo-formation to look at Thirty-Three. “Know any synonyms for hurricane?”
Thirty-Three rolls his eyes. “I’m going to assume that’s a rhetorical question. To name a few, there’s gale, monsoon, tempest, typhoon, cyclone, and squall.”
“I think Three should be squall,” Nine-One pipes up with a grin.
Thirty-Three grimaces in disgust.
“Well I think Six should be cyclone,” Seven-Two says, diffusing the situation as he draws attention to their sergeant.
Thirty-Three’s face relaxes as he considers the match before humming, “I suppose that works. Cyclone describes the actual formation of a hurricane as well as being a synonym for the hurricane itself. Fitting.”
Six-Three glances at the datapad. “What does tempest mean?”
Snatching up his datapad, Thirty-Three taps the screen for a minute before answering. “Technically? A violent windy storm.”
Six-Three doesn’t look particularly disappointed or pleased with this news, just contemplative.
Grinning, Seven-Two punches Nine-One’s arm. “You’re gonna be typhoon, ‘cause you’re a buffoon.”
Nine-One lunges for Seven-Two, who only narrowly manages to dash out of reach, laughing the whole time.
Thirty-Three nods a little. “I agree, Typhoon suits Nine.”
Nine-One rounds on Thirty-Three, wholly intending to tackle him, but stops short at the sight of the crutches. Instead he sighs heavily, shaking his head, though he’s trying not to smile. “I’m stuck with that one, aren’t I?”
Seven-Two nods, bumping his good shoulder against his brother’s. “Yup.”
Nine-One hums, “maybe you should be tempest, or gale?”
Tapping Thirty-Three on the shoulder to get his attention, Seven-Two asks, “Three?”
Thirty-Three looks up from his datapad, blinking quickly. It takes him a moment, and several taps on his datapad, to answer. “I suppose either can fit. Gale technically means a very strong wind. Neither one is particularly contradictory or complimentary.”
Nine-One rolls his eyes. “Very helpful, Three.”
Thirty-Three isn’t impressed with Nine-One’s reply but he doesn’t comment on it. “Between the two, I would vote for gale. Tempest has a lot of hard consonants which make it sound harsher than I think is appropriate for Seven. Gale, on the other hand, is a softer word which better fits how Seven is usually the one diffusing confrontations rather than adding to them like you and I.”
Nine-One blinks twice. “Did you just admit to being a delinquent with me?” He doesn’t give Thirty-Three a chance to answer before he’s giving Seven-Two a little shake and a smile. “But that sounds like it’s settled.”
Grinning, Seven-Two holds up his good hand. “Then I wanna change my earlier vote. Three should definitely be cyclone. He said himself that it describes how the hurricane forms and the hurricane itself. It’s perfect for the demolitions specialist of the demolitions squad!”
Thirty-Three hums, taking a few moments to repeat the word to himself, trying it out.
“He didn’t say no immediately so it’s a yes!” Nine-One looks very pleased with himself as Thirty-Three shoots him a judgemental stare.
“As usual your logic is horrifically flawed, Nine, but-”
“Ah-ah,” Nine-One interrupts with a grin. “It’s Typhoon now, Cyclone .”
Thirty-Three rolls his eyes. “Fine, though you will likely have to shorten it to ‘Cy’ during missions.”
“Well now we’re never doing that,” Seven-Two chimes in with a grin, leaning his good arm on Nine-One’s shoulder. “Isn’t that right, Typhoon?”
He grins, nodding, “of course, Gale ,” he chuckles. “We’re all stuck with the full versions now.”
“Both of you are impossible.” Thirty-Three says, shaking his head.
“You love us, Cyclone.” Gale shoots back.
Another eye roll. “Don’t be so sure.”
“Monsoon.”
Once again, the voice of their sergeant brings a hush to the room. Smiling, he nods. “Sergeant Monsoon. I like the sound of that.”
Gale and Typhoon nod, grinning like the idiots they are.
Cyclone nods. “A fitting choice, sergeant.”
“And best of all, it’s official now.” Monsoon pats each of his squad-mates on the shoulder. “Cyclone, Gale, Typhoon, and Monsoon. Hurricanes in mind, body, soul, and name.”