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[fic][Star Wars, Delta Squad, PG] The Hue for Which I'd Been Born and Bred
Yeesh, apparently I can't write about clone armor without using it as a vessel for deeper clone concerns. What was originally a fun scene involving Delta and some paint turned into Sev projecting his issues onto it. I just have a lot of thoughts about clones and their armor as a form of expression and extension of themselves, okay? Fun fact: the 'pattern' on Sev's design never the same between sources, that certainly didn't complicate things. Title from Trocadero's That Man in Red.
Title: The Hue for Which I'd Been Born and Bred
Fandom: Star Wars: Republic Commando
Rating: PG
Word Count: 2191
Characters: Delta Squad, minor appearances by Jango and Vau
Summary: Commandos being able to paint their armor was a privilege but not one they were all comfortable with.
Four hundred clone commandos were gathered up, practically vibrating with an anticipation that hadn’t been matched since they were given their final set of armor. No more practice armor, no more temporary gear that fit awkwardly as they constantly grew, the Katarn armor had been the last bit of kit assigned to them as well as the most important and the commandos had been all too eager to wear them, familiarize themselves with them, strut proudly in their second skin. The fact that they’d been allowed to customize their armor- adjusting the configuration of their packs, adding additional containers for ammo and dets, whatever suited their needs and specialties -was a novelty the clones hadn’t had before. While the rank-and-file clones had numerous cosmetic difference from the texture and color of their hair to the shade of their skin, the commando genome had been very closely monitored for as little deviation from the already modified template as was possible.
Therefore it was only fitting that the thing to get them so excited was the fact they’d gotten to customize their armor further with paint.
The ARCs had been the first to paint their armor (technically the Nulls were the first in order to differentiate themselves from Jango’s ARCs but as the Kaminoans relinquished all responsibility of them to Skirata, they no longer considered the Nulls as part of their catalog) and Jango had claimed their morale and performance improved dramatically afterward. The Kaminoans had their doubts and questioned what was even the point of individualizing clones who were designed to be as identical as possible within parameters.
So Jango suggested a test. Each trainer would pick their top squad to design the colors of their armors to their liking. Not only, did he predict, would their scores and sense of unity improve, Jango also believed the other squads would work harder if they believed it would allow them to customize their armors as well. It would be empirical data and the Kaminoans were hard pressed to ever turn something like that down.
It took a moment, after Vau had explained the situation to them, for the realization that Vau considered Delta to be his best squad to sink in. They were barely able to hold it together until their sergeant left before falling over each other, talking all at once about what he’d said, already throwing out ideas about how their armors should look, if there should be some unifying theme.
Something this special, they decided, had to be carefully thought out. This would cause them to stand out from the millions of other clones, this would differentiate them even from their thousands of commando brothers. This was about individualizing themselves. This was about expression and Vau had chosen them as the first of his trainees worthy of that privilege. They gave this the serious consideration they gave any of Vau’s harshest tests.
Except for Sev.
While the rest of Delta spent nearly a month of their free time before lights out sharing and designing and arguing over their mock-ups, Sev barely spoke on the subject. Whenever one of his brothers asked to see his ideas, he blew them off with a snarl or insulting remark. Then, as the deadline to submit their designs neared, he spent all over five minutes slapping something together and turning it in without showing anyone.
It was garbage. He knew it was garbage but Sev just hadn’t been able to get into the idea like his brothers had. He’d seen the designs they’d settled on and it made his guts twist up because theirs were all so fitting. Boss’s was the least flashy of the three but the red-orange was just as bold and steady and commanding as he was. Fixer’s green was more subdued but the design was deceptively sharp, just as so many tended to overlook him in favor of his more outgoing brothers, often to their detriment. Scorch’s gray and yellow scheme matched his own duality, a reminder that he was no less deadly even with an upbeat personality. What did Sev’s basically random splash of color say about him? That he was inadequate. And soon, once they had their armor back and stood next to each other, it would be obvious for everyone to see.
Sev hated feeling like he couldn’t measure up to his brothers, even for something as inconsequential as this. He hated feeling like the weak link, the one dragging everyone down and covered it up as he always did: with dismissive anger.
They were called into the gear room and while the other Deltas eagerly pulled on their armor, jostling for position in front of the lone mirror that had been brought in, Sev took his into the back corner and put it on with a growing sense of dread. He’d seen a couple of the other squads already kitted out in their newly painted armor and they all looked sharp and impressive. Even his brothers, as they twisted to admire their new look, were an intimidating sight. Sev just felt like a fool. Under his helmet, he eyed a table of paints- in case anyone had last minute detailing they wanted to do -and wondered if there was any salvaging on this mess.
Before any ideas came to him, however, Scorch finally took notice of Sev’s retreat. “Hey, Sev’ika, what’re you doing over there?” The other two turned and Sev did his best not to shrink as his brothers took in his armor for the first time. “That’s it?” Scorch asked flatly. “Just the chestplate and pauldrons?”
Under his helmet, Sev rolled his eyes. “Who cares, this thing is going to war, not hanging in some fancy art museum.”
“Yours definitely won’t, mine belongs on the cover of a fashion magazine.” Then, setting the snark aside for once, Scorch went over to put his hands on Sev’s shoulders. “Sev- vod -this is not your style.”
“What would you know about ‘my style’?”
“Are you telling me you’re happy with this look?”
Of course he wasn’t but Sev apparently missed out on whatever creative gene Jango possessed because nothing he came up with felt right.
“It’s fine if you wanted to be boring and use one color like Fixer and Boss- at least they managed to make it work for them.” Boss leaned over and scooped up a discarded boot from their loaner armor and threw it at Scorch’s back. “Ow. Point is, color is supposed to give interest. All you’ve really done is highlight center mass.”
“It’s two colors, di’kut,” Sev said, petulant that that was his best defense.
“Right. Gray and not-quite-gray. My mistake. Look, I’ve got an idea. It’s gonna be great.” He went over to a table where paint a previous squad had used was still sitting out. Scorch peered into a couple canisters before finding one to his liking. He pulled off his gloves, poured some paint out into a cupped palm and turned back to Sev with a huge grin. Sev stared as red, deep and striking, began to drip around Scorch’s fingers.
Sev, even though he’d deny it, took a step back.
“C’mon,” Scorch said with an easy smile and a handful of paint, “don’t you trust me?”
“No.”
He paused, genuinely surprised by the answer. Then he shrugged, “Ah, well,” and slapped his hand across Sev’s helmet.
Sev froze in that position as if his brain was so unable to process what just happened that his entire body locked up. Then the moment passed and the other Deltas could all but feel the rage beginning to boil within him. The visor crackled as it wiped the paint clear. “Scorch-”
“No, no, I swear!” Scorch backed up, his hands outstretched. “It’s a good look for you! Right?” Scorch threw a desperate look at his squadmates for support.
“He’s… actually on to something,” Fixer said, voice tinged with amazement. He approached Sev, pulling off his own gloves, not at all bothered by the borderline murderous intent coming off his brother. “It suits you shockingly well, but it’s not enough.” Before Sev could process his words, Fixer dipped his hand into the red paint and pressed a handprint against the gray of his chestplate.
Baffled, Sev looked down at his chest, then at the one brother that had yet to accost him. “Boss?”
Decisively Boss removed his gloves, dipping his own fingers into the can and smearing red all down Sev’s arm. “Trust us, ner vod. We’re about to make you the most intimidating shabuir this side of death itself.”
—
The commandos lined up in rows of a forty each, silent except for the quiet slide of plate on plate as they tried to keep from fidgeting in a way they hadn’t done since they were three and still learning how to be soldiers. Excitement kept bubbling up, everyone wanting to see how everyone else had painted themselves up, eager to find a mirror big enough to see how their entire squad looked together. Most squads chose a color or pattern to unite the four of them and most designs, like Boss’s and Fixer’s, were simple geometric shapes in one color, some choosing dual colors like Scorch. A couple squads used some form of camo pattern, some a logo or emblem plastered over them, at least one squad had chosen writing instead. From what they could see in their position in the middle of the group, no one had done anything as striking as Sev. It made him simultaneously self-conscious and fierce.
Scorch, though Sev loathed to admit it, had been right. When Sev had looked himself in the mirror after his brothers had been satisfied with their work, it felt like something inside of him had been brought out and made visible. He felt seen and undeniable. He felt like an actual person and not just a clone, a number, a statistic-in-waiting. Shab, he was going to have to do something nice for Scorch for being able to actualize what Sev couldn’t.
It wasn’t just the paint job itself that was a source of pride, it wasn’t even just the fact his brothers helped with it. It was because they, literally, left a mark on him: Scorch’s unpredictability and his consideration for his brothers, Fixer’s calculation and unwavering support and Boss making sure everything came together, that they were more than just the sum of their parts. His brothers would always be with him now and Sev felt like he could take on the whole damn galaxy.
One by one the squads were called forward where Jango stood to appraise their choices, the training sergeants flanked behind him. In a rare display not only was Jango without his helmet, but he grinned openly, giving each squad some complimentary words before dismissing them with a sharp nod. The squad and their sergeant then left together, presumably to get back to training.
Finally Delta was called forward and Vau stepped up to stand behind Jango’s shoulder. Jango’s grin was toothy and proud as they approached. “Fierce. Striking. Shouldn’t expect any less from Vau’s troublemakers.” He actually reached out and clapped a hand to Sev’s shoulder. “Anyone lucky enough to survive you boys’ll likely have nightmares for life.” Jango nodded and Vau moved toward the door, Delta fell in behind him.
Once out into the hall, Vau muttered disparagingly, “A day wasted on a pageantry. Why Jango insisted on such a spectacle, I’ll never know.” He paused and turned to his squad and they, on reflex, fell into a parade rest. “There not enough time for any reasonable kind of training but that’s no excuse to slack.” He held out a stack of tablets for Boss to take. “I expect a full breakdowns and analysis on every scenario from each of you ready to be turned in first thing in the morning.” Delta, as far as they knew, were unique in not having a terminal in their quarters but that was as much a point of pride to them as it was an annoyance. “The remainder of the evening is yours.”
“Yessir,” Boss said on their behalf. Under their gloves- and out of Vau’s sights -their hands were still caked in red paint. Hopefully the paint had dried enough they wouldn’t need to replace their gloves, it was going to take some time to scrub their hands clean. They didn’t need to waste more trying to ‘creatively requisition’ replacement gloves while they were at it.
Finally Vau turned to them full on, taking in their new appearance with a critical and leisurely air. “Bold choices,” he said, voice detached as his head moved slowly down the line. “I expect your performance to reflect that. Especially you, Oh-seven,” a note of something like approval colored Vau’s words, “you better live up to that paint job.”
His spine straightened and his voice fairly burst with eagerness and aggressive pride, “Yessir!”
Title: The Hue for Which I'd Been Born and Bred
Fandom: Star Wars: Republic Commando
Rating: PG
Word Count: 2191
Characters: Delta Squad, minor appearances by Jango and Vau
Summary: Commandos being able to paint their armor was a privilege but not one they were all comfortable with.
Four hundred clone commandos were gathered up, practically vibrating with an anticipation that hadn’t been matched since they were given their final set of armor. No more practice armor, no more temporary gear that fit awkwardly as they constantly grew, the Katarn armor had been the last bit of kit assigned to them as well as the most important and the commandos had been all too eager to wear them, familiarize themselves with them, strut proudly in their second skin. The fact that they’d been allowed to customize their armor- adjusting the configuration of their packs, adding additional containers for ammo and dets, whatever suited their needs and specialties -was a novelty the clones hadn’t had before. While the rank-and-file clones had numerous cosmetic difference from the texture and color of their hair to the shade of their skin, the commando genome had been very closely monitored for as little deviation from the already modified template as was possible.
Therefore it was only fitting that the thing to get them so excited was the fact they’d gotten to customize their armor further with paint.
The ARCs had been the first to paint their armor (technically the Nulls were the first in order to differentiate themselves from Jango’s ARCs but as the Kaminoans relinquished all responsibility of them to Skirata, they no longer considered the Nulls as part of their catalog) and Jango had claimed their morale and performance improved dramatically afterward. The Kaminoans had their doubts and questioned what was even the point of individualizing clones who were designed to be as identical as possible within parameters.
So Jango suggested a test. Each trainer would pick their top squad to design the colors of their armors to their liking. Not only, did he predict, would their scores and sense of unity improve, Jango also believed the other squads would work harder if they believed it would allow them to customize their armors as well. It would be empirical data and the Kaminoans were hard pressed to ever turn something like that down.
It took a moment, after Vau had explained the situation to them, for the realization that Vau considered Delta to be his best squad to sink in. They were barely able to hold it together until their sergeant left before falling over each other, talking all at once about what he’d said, already throwing out ideas about how their armors should look, if there should be some unifying theme.
Something this special, they decided, had to be carefully thought out. This would cause them to stand out from the millions of other clones, this would differentiate them even from their thousands of commando brothers. This was about individualizing themselves. This was about expression and Vau had chosen them as the first of his trainees worthy of that privilege. They gave this the serious consideration they gave any of Vau’s harshest tests.
Except for Sev.
While the rest of Delta spent nearly a month of their free time before lights out sharing and designing and arguing over their mock-ups, Sev barely spoke on the subject. Whenever one of his brothers asked to see his ideas, he blew them off with a snarl or insulting remark. Then, as the deadline to submit their designs neared, he spent all over five minutes slapping something together and turning it in without showing anyone.
It was garbage. He knew it was garbage but Sev just hadn’t been able to get into the idea like his brothers had. He’d seen the designs they’d settled on and it made his guts twist up because theirs were all so fitting. Boss’s was the least flashy of the three but the red-orange was just as bold and steady and commanding as he was. Fixer’s green was more subdued but the design was deceptively sharp, just as so many tended to overlook him in favor of his more outgoing brothers, often to their detriment. Scorch’s gray and yellow scheme matched his own duality, a reminder that he was no less deadly even with an upbeat personality. What did Sev’s basically random splash of color say about him? That he was inadequate. And soon, once they had their armor back and stood next to each other, it would be obvious for everyone to see.
Sev hated feeling like he couldn’t measure up to his brothers, even for something as inconsequential as this. He hated feeling like the weak link, the one dragging everyone down and covered it up as he always did: with dismissive anger.
They were called into the gear room and while the other Deltas eagerly pulled on their armor, jostling for position in front of the lone mirror that had been brought in, Sev took his into the back corner and put it on with a growing sense of dread. He’d seen a couple of the other squads already kitted out in their newly painted armor and they all looked sharp and impressive. Even his brothers, as they twisted to admire their new look, were an intimidating sight. Sev just felt like a fool. Under his helmet, he eyed a table of paints- in case anyone had last minute detailing they wanted to do -and wondered if there was any salvaging on this mess.
Before any ideas came to him, however, Scorch finally took notice of Sev’s retreat. “Hey, Sev’ika, what’re you doing over there?” The other two turned and Sev did his best not to shrink as his brothers took in his armor for the first time. “That’s it?” Scorch asked flatly. “Just the chestplate and pauldrons?”
Under his helmet, Sev rolled his eyes. “Who cares, this thing is going to war, not hanging in some fancy art museum.”
“Yours definitely won’t, mine belongs on the cover of a fashion magazine.” Then, setting the snark aside for once, Scorch went over to put his hands on Sev’s shoulders. “Sev- vod -this is not your style.”
“What would you know about ‘my style’?”
“Are you telling me you’re happy with this look?”
Of course he wasn’t but Sev apparently missed out on whatever creative gene Jango possessed because nothing he came up with felt right.
“It’s fine if you wanted to be boring and use one color like Fixer and Boss- at least they managed to make it work for them.” Boss leaned over and scooped up a discarded boot from their loaner armor and threw it at Scorch’s back. “Ow. Point is, color is supposed to give interest. All you’ve really done is highlight center mass.”
“It’s two colors, di’kut,” Sev said, petulant that that was his best defense.
“Right. Gray and not-quite-gray. My mistake. Look, I’ve got an idea. It’s gonna be great.” He went over to a table where paint a previous squad had used was still sitting out. Scorch peered into a couple canisters before finding one to his liking. He pulled off his gloves, poured some paint out into a cupped palm and turned back to Sev with a huge grin. Sev stared as red, deep and striking, began to drip around Scorch’s fingers.
Sev, even though he’d deny it, took a step back.
“C’mon,” Scorch said with an easy smile and a handful of paint, “don’t you trust me?”
“No.”
He paused, genuinely surprised by the answer. Then he shrugged, “Ah, well,” and slapped his hand across Sev’s helmet.
Sev froze in that position as if his brain was so unable to process what just happened that his entire body locked up. Then the moment passed and the other Deltas could all but feel the rage beginning to boil within him. The visor crackled as it wiped the paint clear. “Scorch-”
“No, no, I swear!” Scorch backed up, his hands outstretched. “It’s a good look for you! Right?” Scorch threw a desperate look at his squadmates for support.
“He’s… actually on to something,” Fixer said, voice tinged with amazement. He approached Sev, pulling off his own gloves, not at all bothered by the borderline murderous intent coming off his brother. “It suits you shockingly well, but it’s not enough.” Before Sev could process his words, Fixer dipped his hand into the red paint and pressed a handprint against the gray of his chestplate.
Baffled, Sev looked down at his chest, then at the one brother that had yet to accost him. “Boss?”
Decisively Boss removed his gloves, dipping his own fingers into the can and smearing red all down Sev’s arm. “Trust us, ner vod. We’re about to make you the most intimidating shabuir this side of death itself.”
—
The commandos lined up in rows of a forty each, silent except for the quiet slide of plate on plate as they tried to keep from fidgeting in a way they hadn’t done since they were three and still learning how to be soldiers. Excitement kept bubbling up, everyone wanting to see how everyone else had painted themselves up, eager to find a mirror big enough to see how their entire squad looked together. Most squads chose a color or pattern to unite the four of them and most designs, like Boss’s and Fixer’s, were simple geometric shapes in one color, some choosing dual colors like Scorch. A couple squads used some form of camo pattern, some a logo or emblem plastered over them, at least one squad had chosen writing instead. From what they could see in their position in the middle of the group, no one had done anything as striking as Sev. It made him simultaneously self-conscious and fierce.
Scorch, though Sev loathed to admit it, had been right. When Sev had looked himself in the mirror after his brothers had been satisfied with their work, it felt like something inside of him had been brought out and made visible. He felt seen and undeniable. He felt like an actual person and not just a clone, a number, a statistic-in-waiting. Shab, he was going to have to do something nice for Scorch for being able to actualize what Sev couldn’t.
It wasn’t just the paint job itself that was a source of pride, it wasn’t even just the fact his brothers helped with it. It was because they, literally, left a mark on him: Scorch’s unpredictability and his consideration for his brothers, Fixer’s calculation and unwavering support and Boss making sure everything came together, that they were more than just the sum of their parts. His brothers would always be with him now and Sev felt like he could take on the whole damn galaxy.
One by one the squads were called forward where Jango stood to appraise their choices, the training sergeants flanked behind him. In a rare display not only was Jango without his helmet, but he grinned openly, giving each squad some complimentary words before dismissing them with a sharp nod. The squad and their sergeant then left together, presumably to get back to training.
Finally Delta was called forward and Vau stepped up to stand behind Jango’s shoulder. Jango’s grin was toothy and proud as they approached. “Fierce. Striking. Shouldn’t expect any less from Vau’s troublemakers.” He actually reached out and clapped a hand to Sev’s shoulder. “Anyone lucky enough to survive you boys’ll likely have nightmares for life.” Jango nodded and Vau moved toward the door, Delta fell in behind him.
Once out into the hall, Vau muttered disparagingly, “A day wasted on a pageantry. Why Jango insisted on such a spectacle, I’ll never know.” He paused and turned to his squad and they, on reflex, fell into a parade rest. “There not enough time for any reasonable kind of training but that’s no excuse to slack.” He held out a stack of tablets for Boss to take. “I expect a full breakdowns and analysis on every scenario from each of you ready to be turned in first thing in the morning.” Delta, as far as they knew, were unique in not having a terminal in their quarters but that was as much a point of pride to them as it was an annoyance. “The remainder of the evening is yours.”
“Yessir,” Boss said on their behalf. Under their gloves- and out of Vau’s sights -their hands were still caked in red paint. Hopefully the paint had dried enough they wouldn’t need to replace their gloves, it was going to take some time to scrub their hands clean. They didn’t need to waste more trying to ‘creatively requisition’ replacement gloves while they were at it.
Finally Vau turned to them full on, taking in their new appearance with a critical and leisurely air. “Bold choices,” he said, voice detached as his head moved slowly down the line. “I expect your performance to reflect that. Especially you, Oh-seven,” a note of something like approval colored Vau’s words, “you better live up to that paint job.”
His spine straightened and his voice fairly burst with eagerness and aggressive pride, “Yessir!”