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therisingdarkness · 6 months

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Fortunate Son

So this is a Ghoul fic in his pre-Ghoul days, written for @cloned-eyes. It's very dark, deals with war trauma, gore, and medical trauma, death, etc. I wouldn't call it Dead Dove, but it comes close I suppose. There is nothing happy about it tbh. But I LOVE writing this stuff and I love disintegrating my friends by tormenting their OCs. This is pure, indulgent Ghoul Whump, and also the introduction of three of our shared babies.

If you read, I hope you enjoy!

~~~ ~~~ ~~~

The world was black.

That was fine though. Jenot didn’t want to open his eyes. He was so tired of the blinding white lights of the medbay, so tired of the way the longnecks and medical droids swarmed him the instant they knew he was awake, poking him and prodding him with needles and scanners, asking him questions he didn’t have answers for—How does your prosthetic feel? Is it too heavy? How is the movement? Can you see? Look at this chart. Look over here. Open your mouth. Wider. Wider.

It had been easier when he couldn’t hear. Deafness had been a blessing at the time, but long fingers had pulled at the ragged remains of his ears, measuring and sticking things in the canal until they wedged something hard and foreign inside each one. There was a ringing noise, a piercing buzz that felt like it lived inside his brain, and then he could hear the low murmur of voices all around him, followed by the incessant beep and hum of medical machinery. More stimulation that he had been better off without, but how was he supposed to follow orders when he couldn't hear?

The crook of his arm ached from the thick needle feeding fluids into his veins. It was the only thing he could feel, the only thing he had to remind him he was still alive. They had only spared him so many painkillers before deciding it'd be more efficient to simply fry his nerve endings. Back-to-back surgeries, countless hours spent edging in and out of consciousness, sometimes aware of a tube fed down the remains of his throat as they pieced him back together, and other times so disoriented he thought he was back on the battlefield.

He didn't have the strength to fight. Those first nights were filled with pain, with blood, with darkness and the dying screams of the few unlucky brothers pulled from the muck and the mire. It had almost given him hope to know he wasn't the only one who had been saved…but that hope had lasted only so long as he was blind.

They did something to him, scraped out the ruined, gelatinous mess of his eyes and replaced them with cybernetic implants that allowed him to see better than he ever had before…and the first thing he saw, after opening his eyes and turning his head to the berths next to his were the other survivors of his unit.

The sight of them made him want to tear his implants back out.

His brothers laid there, pale and still, eyes open and glassy, their bodies wrapped in a network of thin hoses. Jenot didn't have to crane his neck too far to see that those hoses were also hooked up to him.

Blood.

They were using his brothers…as living blood transfusions, killing them slowly by bleeding them dry. He watched the life drain out of one of them—he couldn’t remember his name, couldn’t even remember his CT number—listened to his last rattling gasps of breath and saw the tears leaking out of his eyes as the light in them dimmed. Jenot wished there was something he could have said to them, something that would have let them know that he was there, he saw them and was with them. They weren’t alone…he wasn’t going to let them die alone….

But it didn’t matter.

They still died.

They died for him—a choice they hadn’t been allowed to make, but a fate decided for them by the longnecks. He couldn’t stop it from happening, couldn’t protect them or offer them any words of comfort in their last moments. All he could do was just…lie there, hooked up to a dozen machines, and watch his brothers fade away.

“No point in trying to save these units,” he overheard one of the longnecks whisper to their colleague. “They’re too far gone as it is. Salvage what you can from them to ensure the commander pulls through, then dispose of the remains. They’re expendable.”

“The commander is worse off than the other ones we managed to retrieve…why is priority given to him?”

“Orders came through from higher up. I don’t intend to question them. Besides, it gives us the opportunity to…experiment.”

“True. I’ve been meaning to run a few tests. It’ll be easier to use these units as subjects. Less paperwork.”

Resistance was futile. Jenot wasn’t even sure he had it in him to struggle, not when his limbs felt like they were filled with lead. He couldn't even speak to tell them 'no'...the prosthetic jaw and tongue felt too strange. He couldn't get it to work the way he wanted, couldn't feel anything to indicate things moved the way they were supposed to. The few words he had been able to grate out on their demand to make an attempt didn't sound anything like the usual smooth cadence of his voice.

It was all too much.

It was too much.

He couldn't cry, couldn't scream or shout the way he wanted to. His chest felt tight, filled with some emotion that buried itself beneath his ribs, taking hold like thorny vines, choking his lungs until he felt like he couldn't breathe, ensnaring his heart until everything went numb, until the only thing he could feel was the slow crawl of time ticking by, driving him crazy.

He didn't want to die…but was this any better?

What existence he had been forced into…it was a mistake. He wasn't meant to be there, alive, broken and scarred but on the mend, tended to like he was somehow more worthy of being saved than his brethren just because of his rank—the same rank he had been so proud to receive alongside Wolffe and Fox, the same rank he had celebrated at 79's, partying like the world was ending the next day and getting so drunk it was a miracle they had made it back to base unscathed…now the same rank he cursed for drawing an arbitrary line between himself and his men, marking him as somehow better than them.

He couldn't unsee their eyes, unblinking and tear-filled as they exhaled their last, the subtle movements of their pale, chapped lips as they begged not to die, for someone to save them.

“Hurts,” one of them had whispered. “It hurts, Commander.”

Jenot closed his eyes, trying to forget.

“They got us good, didn’t they,” the trooper had kept on, delirious, his voice raspy. “I wish…I wish we coulda died out there…on the battlefield. Bombs on our heads an’ kark…better than…than wasting away here. I don’t…I don’t feel any better.”

Because they hadn’t been trying to make him better…not that Jenot could have told him. The prosthetic jaw and tongue had been too new, and he had been so weak, so tired—all he could have done was lie there, listening to his brother’s voice grow fainter and fainter.

“Commander…I don’t feel good. Th–they gave me somethin’, didn’t they. M’ skin’s burnin’.... Feels hot. I don’t…I don’t think….”

He never got to finish his sentence. His next exhale was his last, his breath tapering off into a thin whine as his lungs deflated for the last time. Jenot couldn’t turn his head, but he had felt tears in his eyes, slipping down the sides of his head as he squeezed them tight, wishing he could have blocked out the sound—and what a shameful wish it was. The least he could do for them was bear witness to their last moments.

That was his duty, as Commander. They had looked up to him, followed him with the trust and loyalty that was baked into them from birth. Every decision he made they had followed, blindly, because he had never steered them wrong before and they had no reason to believe this time would be any different.

…and they had been wrong.

Jenot forced his eyes open again, gasping like he had been punched in the gut. There was no escaping what he had done…what had been done to them.

Even with his eyes closed he could see them, their bright faces and their roguish, familiar smiles. He hadn’t deserved them…he couldn’t save them, not a single karkin’ one of them.

Outside, a storm raged and waves hundreds of meters high crashed against the massive pillars supporting Tipoca City. The structures were secure, the noise muted through many layers of durasteel…but he knew the sound of the storm. It brought a strange sort of comfort amidst everything. The wind, rain, even the waves…all were constant, steady. His earliest memories as a cadet were filled with warmth, packed into a room with the rest of his batchmates, curled up in his bunk and listening to the roar of the sea outside.

He wished he could go back to that time, when his future was still undecided. Maybe…maybe there was something he could have done differently, some choice he could have made that would have changed things. Maybe if he hadn’t been a commander…maybe if he had been anyone else this wouldn’t have happened. Maybe his unit would still be alive and he wouldn’t be left reeling with guilt over being the only man to survive the Massacre of Toydaria.

With a groan, Jenot pushed himself into a sitting position. The aches and pains he expected were so dull they may as well have not been there. What should have been a blessing was only another annoyance; he didn’t like not being able to feel. With some effort, he managed to swing his legs over the side of the medical bed and felt around until he felt the solid floor beneath his feet. Pins and needles slid under his soles and toes, but the sensation was as fleeting as it was sharp. He didn’t even have time to cling to it.

He sat on the edge of the bed for a moment, gathering his wits and summoning the strength to stand. His body felt so heavy; the weight of his new prosthetic arm dragged his shoulder down until he felt lopsided. It wasn’t hooked up all the way—the longnecks had mentioned something about needing more time to integrate all the nerve endings. His other hand, swathed in thick bandages, was missing fingers, but at least the prosthetics they had grafted onto his hand actually worked; he couldn’t remember how it happened, couldn’t feel anything anyway. They moved when he wanted them to and that was the only bit of silver lining.

Don’t think about it. Don’t think about it. They’ll keep putting you back together.

Inhaling deeply, he forced himself to stand, swaying in place before grabbing hold of the IV stand he was still hooked up to. He thought about finding a way to rip the needles out of his arm, but…maybe it was better not to push his luck.

The medical wing was fully dark; a chronometer on the wall put the time at a little bit past 2am. Right between the shift change, if he remembered correctly. He only had a small window of time to escape before he’d be missed. They’d find him eventually, drag him back, threaten to strap him down…but it was worth the risk.

The halls were longer than he remembered as he dragged himself and the stand along, its wheels squeaking in protest as he leaned on it for support. Even if he couldn’t feel anything, his body knew that he was injured, knew that he needed rest. Labored breathing escaped through his mouth, hot breath moistening the tongue that he was still trying to figure out how to use. He knew he shouldn't push himself, but the medbay was too quiet and its ghosts too loud. He needed relief that drugs couldn't give him.

Step by step Jenot followed the familiar corridors and passageways until he reached one of the observation decks, where the windows, made of the same thick glass as ship cockpits, stretched from floor to ceiling. Hurricane strength winds lashed against them, hurling rain and waves over and over, but the glass held firm. Jenot stood in the entryway, watching tiredly before shuffling over to one of the windows; he leaned against it almost immediately, hoping to feel the chill from outside…but there was nothing.

Just the sound.

The noise.

His new hearing aids crackled with the low rumble of thunder and he winced as a loud whine shot through his skull. He could scarcely feel anything else, but he sure as hell felt that. With some effort, he managed to sit down, putting his back against the steel wall and sliding until he felt the floor beneath his ass. The hoses attached to the needle in his arm pulled taut, bidding him to tug the IV stand close. It was a relief to be off his feet; the walk, while not far from the medbay, had taken its toll on him. He wanted nothing more than to lean his head against the glass, close his eyes and let the familiar sounds of the storm lull him to sleep.

“Go talk to him.”

“No, you go talk to him, you’re th’ one who wanted to!”

“Then why’d you two follow, huh?”

“‘Cause you’re gonna get in trouble!”

“Don’t be dumb, everyone’s asleep.”

“So? Go talk to him.”

Jenot cracked open an eye and moved slowly, turning his head toward the sound of barely disguised whispering emanating from the entryway. He knew the sound of disobedient cadets when he heard them, having snuck out of his bunk with Wolffe and Fox enough times to understand the allure of defying curfew. There were three of them, he realized as his cybernetic eyes automatically compensated for the low light, enhancing his sight until he could see just as clearly as if it were fully lit.

Three sets of brown eyes stared back at him, continuously shuffling to push one cadet to the forefront of their trio. Shock registered on their faces, still rounded with baby fat they wouldn’t outgrow for another two years or so, before they slowly filtered into the room, hands tucked behind their backs and eyes cast down to the floor like they expected to be reprimanded.

Why should I?

In another time and place…yeah, he might’ve given them a good scolding and sent them back to their bunks on the wings of a light-hearted threat…but why bother? What good did it do him?

I shouldn’t be responsible for anyone else…look where it got me.

Guilt stabbed into his chest, but he was tired—too tired to pull himself off the ground to deal with the cadets, who now stood close enough to reach out and touch, if he had wanted to. One of them, missing one of his front teeth and sporting a little stain on the front of his sleepwear, took a step forward and kept his head bowed.

“Sorry,” he mumbled to his socked feet. “We didn’t mean t’ disturb you or nothin’...we couldn’t sleep.”

“That’s your fault,” one of the other cadets said. “You always keep us up!”

“Shhhh!” hissed the third, shoving at his batchmates. “Not so loud!”

Jenot watched them with waning disinterest. They were trying not to stare at him and failing miserably. Their big brown eyes kept darting up and down, fixating on his face before shifting elsewhere. They weren't subtle about it either, but cadets didn't know any better. Not this young, at any rate.

He knew why they were looking.

The edges of his neck and jaw stretched tight against the prosthetic, skin red and raw where blood crusted against the seam. It would be slow to heal, slow to integrate, they had told him. He was lucky, they said, that he had been brought back to the facility. Who knows what would have become of him had a battlefield medic gotten his hands on him.

The black carbon metal stood in stark relief against his skin, ugly and frightening. Unnatural. He didn't like catching his reflection anymore. It was surreal, to see the metal and silicone in place of where he once proudly wore a mustache and beard (because he looked good with it, and because it set him apart from his brothers, most of whom chose to remain

clean shaven).

So yeah, he knew why they stared…and though he didn't blame them, it rankled something inside of him, inspiring a special brand of annoyance that curdled into something deeper, darker. It hit him, suddenly, the striking desire to reach out and tap the three of them against the top of their heads, flick their noses, hurt them in a way that would make them stop.

Make them leave.

It faded as soon as it came, leaving him with more guilt—he would never hurt his brothers, not on purpose.

But…they wouldn't stop staring.

"Th' hell d'you want?" Jenot rasped, finally focusing enough to force the prosthetics to work. He couldn't feel them, but the medical droids had coached him to just…move by instinct. Just don't think about it. Talk like you were whole.

Good advice…but easier said than done.

The three cadets flinched as though he had snapped at them, even though his voice amounted to little more than an aggressive whisper. For some reason their fear registered as cowardice—ugly and pathetic, what were they fuckin’ teaching the cadets these days, where was their fuckin’ spine—and Jenot sneered to himself. He would have given anything for a pack of smokes, anything to quell the irritation quickly rising inside of him.

On some level he knew it wasn't normal, feeling the way he did; he had never snapped at cadets before, had never given himself over to the minor annoyances they caused. It was just bad timing…he had wanted to be left alone, just for a moment, just long enough to gather his thoughts and wrestle his emotions back under control. He had just wanted some peace and quiet…and he couldn't even get that.

It wasn't their fault, though.

They were…fuck, they were just kids.

They won't be kids for long, a mean little voice whispered inside his head, distinct from the other tumultuous thoughts running rampant. A few more years and they'll be grown, kitted up and on their way to die on some backwater planet for a cause they don't really believe in.

Jenot closed his eyes, but in the darkness he saw the mutilated faces of his brothers, bloodied and broken, eyes wide and pale as they stared back at him, waiting for him to give their next orders.

“Are you okay?” one of the cadets asked. There was a slight pressure on his shoulder, barely perceptible, and when he looked the cadet gasped and yanked back his hand, his eyes just as wide as those of Jenot's dead troops. Bile rose to the back of his throat and he forced himself to swallow it back down, forced himself to look away, back out at the storm raging just outside the window.

His translucent reflection stared back at him, his new cybernetic eyes glowing faintly. They had shaved his head to attach electrodes to monitor his brain activity while he had been in a medically induced coma prior to and following the extensive surgery required to clean up his jaw and throat and attach the prosthetic. Sticky residue clung to his skin where some of the patches had been.

He felt…different.

He looked different.

He…he wasn't okay.

He wasn’t okay and he was never gonna be okay ever again.

“Either tell me what you want,” Jenot growled, “or get lost.”

The cadets huddled together closer, two of them clinging to the brassy one Jenot mentally labeled as the ringleader of their little trio. He gulped, throat working hard to swallow past the ball of nerves stopping his words, before stammering out a small apology.

“We just w-wanted t’ know what it's like….out there….”

Jenot made a noise that wasn't a laugh, but wasn't really anything else.

“Out there?” he asked, nodding toward the window. “Or you mean th’ war.”

Silence, but three pairs of big eyes watching him closely gave him the answer he was looking for.

“Eager t’ get out there and’ show th’ world what you're made of?”

“Y-yessir. We wanna do our part.”

Do our part.

It struck him, suddenly and with a clarity that bordered on blinding, that there was a madness to this war that he had overlooked until now.

Or maybe…maybe that was just the way he had been brought up, trained—conditioned—the way all of them were taught not to question things. Regardless, the idea that they had any ‘part’ in the war beyond the fact that they were, quite literally, made for it, was laughable.

The Republic he and so many others were so proud to serve remained just out of reach. As clones they had no birth certificates, no citizenship, nothing beyond their CT numbers cataloging their decanter dates. What identities they forged among themselves held tenuous, at the mercy of sympathetic Jedi and the odd senator who referred to them by chosen name rather than number; there was always the sense, deep down, that despite the courtesy they were sometimes shown, they were still just tools of war.

Their ‘part’ was in their existence. Their ‘part’ was the armor on their backs and the blasters in their hands, their blood on the ground as they pushed back against the Separatist armies, fighting a war for a government they had no part in, fighting for worlds they'd never belong to.

“Careful what you wish for,” Jenot said, looking back out the window. “It's not th’ honor you think it is.”

“But…the Republic needs us,” the biggest cadet spoke up. His hair was a little wild and his teeth looked a little too big for his mouth. Despite his size he stood firmly behind the ringleader, hand fisted up in the other’s tunic. Jenot stared at him and watched as the kid dropped his eyes to the floor, unable to meet his intense gaze.

“You think they need you?” Jenot asked, unable to stop himself from sneering. “Like it just won’t end without you? Like you’re special?”

Uncertainty crossed his face, because why wouldn’t it? They were taught to respect their superiors, both those who came before them and outranked them. Jenot knew their natural instinct would be to believe every word he said, regardless of how treasonous it sounded. Funny…not even a month ago he had always made sure to watch what came out of his mouth. The longnecks had impressed upon him and others that they had a responsibility to the cadets, to set good examples for the kind of soldiers they were meant to be.

Now though…he just couldn’t think of a good reason why he should bother.

What was he supposed to do while sitting there, looking like a freak?

“You’re not special,” he said before the cadets could protest. “Not a single one of you. You’re nothing more than numbers t’ them. All th’ kark they feed you during’ training sessions doesn’t mean a thing. Not a damn thing.”

“You’re a liar,” the third cadet finally spoke up, his eyebrows drawing together angrily as he bravely scowled. “Suda Mo says we’ve all got potential. We could become Arc Troopers if we train hard!”

“‘Course they want you t’ train—th’ harder you work th’ better you make them look. You die out there in th’ field they gotta start all over from scratch. But they don’t care, that’s why…that’s….”

They’ll just make more of us, Commander.

Jenot shook his head, trying to rid himself of the ghostly whispers of his dead comrades. His stomach twisted with every word he said, like something inside of him was still decent and unspoiled by all he had seen…all that had happened. That part of him that kept fighting was the part he wished would just give up and die. He didn’t want to owe the Republic for saving him. Hell, he hadn’t asked to be saved and still didn’t know why, out of all his brothers, he was the one they thought worth the effort with half his body blown away.

You know why.

You know exactly why.

No…stop…don’t think about it.

“I used t’ think th’ same,” he growled, forcing to speak in the hope it would drown out his thoughts. “I used t’ be like you, daydreaming how I’d make a difference if only I could get out there sooner. You see what that kinda thinking got me?”

He gestured roughly to his jaw with his bandaged hand. The cadets flinched, but couldn’t stop themselves from staring in the face of an open invitation.

“What…what happened?” the ringleader asked, taking a step closer. He tilted his head to the side and wrinkled his nose, unable to hide what had to be…it was disgust, wasn’t it?

“Bad orders,” Jenot said. “Intel was wrong. You’ll be surprised how often it is. But we were arrogant. We had Jedi with us an’ thought nothing could go so wrong that we couldn’t make it out alive. We were wrong.”

“You were ambushed?”

“Slaughtered. Like animals. It wasn’t even a fair fight. Not even th’ fuckin’ Jedi could save us.”

“That’s…that’s kark.”

The other two cadets gasped as their fearless little leader cursed back, clinging harder to him like they had half a mind to drag him off. He stood there, anger radiating off of him with his hands balled up into fists as he stared at Jenot, his expression openly defiant.

It was a good look. Maybe he should have just let the kid impress him a little and been the bigger person. He could have just let it go because at the end of the day, they were still snot-nosed cadets who knew nothing about anything and especially not about the world beyond the safety of Tipoca City. All they had to go on was rumor and simulations.

“Say that again?” Jenot hissed, leaning close. He didn’t care about being the bigger person. His heart was pounding, blood rushing through his ears at the thrill of going against everything he had ever been taught. The longnecks would send him straight to reconditioning if they could hear the way he was talking, and he didn’t give a damn. He wasn’t going to keep their precious secrets. He wasn’t going to protect their ‘investments’ any longer. He owed them nothing. He never asked to be born and he didn’t ask to be saved. They had gone and made a monster out of him so that was how he was going to act—monstrous, until someone came to shut him up for good.

“I said you’re full of k-kark!”

“2020, shut up!”

“Man, you’re gonna get us in trouble!”

“Yeah, Cadet 2020,” Jenot jeered, “you should listen t’ your friends. Would hate for your precious caretakers t’ find you wanderin’ out of bed so late.”

“Y-You’re out of bed too!” the one called 2020 shot back. “You won’t say nothin’ ‘cause you’ll get in trouble!”

He had guts to talk back like that. His peers weren’t cowering either, though they weren’t exactly backing him up. At least they had the good sense to keep their traps shut. As much as he wished he could rip them a new one and send them back to their bunks, he didn’t want to run the risk of attracting attention himself; not only would he have to listen to their inane lectures, they’d probably sedate him again. He was so tired of the drugs.

Jenot reached out and snagged the front of 2020’s tunic, dragging him close; the others, hanging on for dear life, stumbled forward as well.

“You got a lotta nerve telling me I don’t know what I’m talking about,” he said, his voice eerily soft and calm. “You think th’ Republic’s so great? You think th’ Jedi are so powerful? Look at me. They wouldn’t let me die.”

2020 blinked hard and fast, leaning away but not quite resisting, still trapped in his training that forbade him from disobeying a direct order, or fighting back against his superiors, who’d only ever try to better him. Stupid, naive little fools, all three of them.

“Y-You should be grateful they s-saved you! They’re only tryin’ to help!”

Something inside Jenot went numb with that—whatever had been burning inside him, keeping him from diving too deeply into territory he’d come to regret, was suddenly snuffed out.

“Grateful?” he seethed, ignoring the burning numbness in his hand as he dragged 2020 closer, til they were almost nose to nose. “You think I should be grateful? For making me look like a monster? I can’t feel anything anymore! I had t’ lay there an’ listen…listen t’ them kill my brothers!”

“Th-they wouldn’t do that!” 2020 insisted, pushing back finally. “They wouldn’t! The Jedi wouldn’t allow it!”

“SHE’S TH’ ONE WHO GAVE TH’ FUCKIN’ ORDER!!”

He hadn’t meant to yell—rather, he hadn’t been able to control himself. His voice echoed off the arched ceiling of the observation room and back down the hallway leading back to the medbay. The cadets were practically cowering, but he didn’t have it in him to care, not when they had the gall to act so condescending to him.

Jenot had spent days slipping in and out of consciousness. Before they had fitted him with hearing aids his world had been dark. Sleep was the only escape he had, yet he could only pretend for so long before the murmur of voices woke him.

He couldn’t unhear the things whispered between the doctors and aides. Had they known he was listening in, perhaps they would have taken their gossip elsewhere, but what better place to trade secrets than a ward of death? It was there he heard them admit the only reason he was alive was because the Jedi who had accompanied his unit—even the thought of her name made him want to retch; what good were they if they couldn’t keep his men safe—the one who had kept him alive through the mystical powers of ‘the Force’ or whatever, had ordered the longnecks to do everything in their power to make sure he pulled through.

She was the reason he was still alive, but she was also the reason he had to lie on a bed surrounded by his dying brethren, listening to their tearful pleas for the pain to stop, listening as they slowly lost their minds to the agony wracking their bodies after being denied painkillers, or the drugs pumped into them when the ‘doctors’ decided they were no longer worth keeping alive even as experiments. The moment they lost their worth was the moment they became nothing more than faulty products.

Jenot stood up, ignoring the protest his body made.

He couldn’t stand it, couldn’t fucking stand the way these brats thought they knew better, because they couldn’t comprehend a world in which the shiny reputations of the Jedi were so tarnished. They were still too young to fully understand what they were, that the Kaminoans didn’t regard them with fondness or affection. They sat in their bunks, warm and dry and well-fed, complaining about the minor aches and pains of training, with no idea of the horrors they would face on the outside.

“You wanna know th’ truth?” he asked, releasing 2020 to grab hold of his IV stand. “Follow me. I’ll show you…since you think I’m a liar.”

“2020, no,” the small one whispered fiercely. “We hafta get back to the bunks! Suda Mo is gonna do his rounds soon….”

“Yeah, forget about ‘im, he’s just a mean ol’ clone mad ‘cause he lost a fight!”

“No,” 2020 said firmly, “I wanna see for myself. I don’t believe anything he says, so I hafta go. If he’s wrong, then I’ll know.”

“And if he’s right?”

“...then I guess I’ll know that too.”

To their credit, the other two refused to leave their batchmate’s side. They kept close, creeping along the wall in complete silence as Jenot dragged himself back to the medbay. He kept imagining he heard footsteps behind them, the gentle swish of fabric and the slow breathing of their ‘keepers’. He knew shouting would bring security down on their heads sooner rather than later, but rage filled the void left behind by propriety and he didn’t give a flying kark who had heard. They were bound to get caught eventually, but he wasn’t gonna let those brats go without teaching them a lesson the only way he knew how.

The corridor grew darker the closer they got; staff turned the lights off in order to make the patients more ‘comfortable’, but he was beginning to think it was probably to conserve energy. It’s not like they actually cared. Jenot paused to listen, but the only sound was his own labored breathing and the sniffing from one of the cadets—just a little further, however, he picked up the faint beeping of medical equipment.

“We’re not supposed to be here,” the smallest cadet whispered, squeezed as tight as he could possibly be to the larger one, who was shivering in place. 2020 swallowed nervously and Jenot noticed the way he glanced up, but said nothing.

“No one’s gonna know,” he said raspily, just as the doors slid open.

He stepped inside, dread washing over him as the unfortunate familiarity of the room caught up to him. Behind him, the trio hesitated. They couldn’t see inside from where they were standing…which, if he was still the kind of man who wanted to protect the younger clones from the harsh realities of the world for a while longer, he might have stopped them there, told them he was only kidding and they should head back to their room now.

But he was angry, and they had hurt him with their accusations, sharpened their words into little blades and stuck them deep, into the soft parts of him that were still vulnerable and fragile. The parts of himself he’d have to kill before he ever let anyone else use them against him in this way.

“What’s th’ matter?” he asked. “Too scared?”

“I-I don’t wanna go in,” the big one stammered. “I’m good.”

“Y-yeah, me neither. I-I’ll believe anything he says.”

One of the machines kicked off, buzzing as an EKG monitor spat out a printout of one of its patients’ heart rate from the past hour. The cadets gasped as a single unit and jumped in place, looking for all the world like they were ready to bolt back down the hall. The only thing keeping them there was 2020, who stared with wide eyes at Jenot, his face pale and drawn and his expression one of pure, childish regret.

“Coward,” Jenot hissed. “And you think th’ Republic needs a big hero like you?”

His taunting did the trick.

2020 took a deep breath and took hold of his brothers by each of their hands.

“C’mon, I’ll protect you,” he whispered, meant only for their ears; Jenot heard everything though, heard the smaller one’s little whimper and the way the big one swallowed. He grinned, though it didn’t feel like the right kind of smile. The prosthetic was still too stiff, didn’t let his lips move the way he wanted them to. He watched, waiting patiently as the kids took their first few tentative steps past the threshold of the medbay and into the dimly lit room.

“Over here,” he said, gesturing as he released his IV stand to let it trail after him, holding fast by the hoses still attached to his arm. They pulled again but he didn’t feel it and so didn’t care. The berth he led the cadets to was still occupied, one of his men clinging to life with the help of machines.

Fetch, Jenot remembered, so named because of how eager he was to help, so willing to run and fetch anything anyone asked for.

“Hu-who’s that?” 2020 asked as he crept closer.

“One of mine,” Jenot said. “One of th’ ones who wasn’t so far gone he couldn’t be of use.”

“What d’you mean?”

He should have just let Fetch die with dignity. He should never have brought the kids into the medbay, and maybe later he’d regret his actions…but in the moment, Jenot pulled back the thin sheet covering his squad mate, revealing the extent of the carnage underneath.

The ‘wound’, if it could be called that, had been cauterized and sterilized in the field—ropes of intestine laid across the bottom half of the berth, resting over the remains of his hips and legs. Melted armor fused with blackened skin and bone, skeletonizing his lower half and the only sign of life was the shallow rise and fall of Fetch’s chest; just inside the cavity of of his torso his lungs inflated and deflated with the help of the surgically attached ventilator. They hadn’t bothered closing him up, declaring he was too far gone upon arrival…but that hadn’t stopped them from bringing him back anyway at the first sign of life. He still had something to give after all.

The cadets screamed and scrambled back, or tried until Jenot snatched 2020 by his arm and shoved him closer, forcing him against the edge of the bed.

“Take a good long look,” Jenot snarled. “This is what they do t’ you when they’re not ready for you to die. Th’ only thing keeping him alive right now is that machine, an’ it’s doing’ all th’ work. Th’ second they take him off th’ oxygen, he’ll die.”

2020 thrashed in his hold, but even injured Jenot was bigger and stronger, and filled with so much righteous fury that he didn’t think there was any way any of the kids could have stopped him. He had a point to prove after all.

“Let me go!” 2020 yelled, digging his fingers into the bandages wrapped around Jenot’s forearm. “What’s wrong with you?! Let me go!”

“You wanted proof,” Jenot snapped, shoving him against the bed even further, his hand on the back of 2020’s neck, practically rubbing his face into the bare skin of Fetch’s chest. “Here’s your karkin’ proof. They won’t let him die ‘til they’re done with him. They won’t stop ‘til they’ve bled him dry of every resource they can scavenge. How else do you think they keep th’ rest of us alive when we fuck up?”

2020 screamed again—it would have been a little funny if Jenot hadn’t been so furious. He didn’t notice how the other cadets fled, abandoning 2020 to his fate. He didn’t notice anything at all until he looked up at Fetch’s face and saw the skin around his eyes, wet from something—tears? Was it possible for a man to be aware when he was so far gone? Was he scared of dying? Did it hurt?

He looked down at 2020, still struggling against his hold and crying hysterically, begging now to be released.

“I’m sorryI’msorry’msorryplease–pleaseplease lemme go I’m sorry,” the boy sobbed, twisting and squirming.

In that moment he looked…he looked so young. So vulnerable. He was…he was just a child.

What am I doing?

The lights came on and Jenot looked up, blinking as two of the medical droids floated over, followed by the on-duty aide. She looked him up and down, making him feel so very small and worthless, before reaching for 2020. He released the cadet immediately, and watched as the kid flew into aide’s legs, hugging her tightly and wailing into her skirt.

“What…is going on here?” she asked calmly, resting a long fingered hand on top of 2020’s head.

Jenot opened his mouth, but his words had dried up. Anything he could have said in his defense would have only incriminated him more. He never should have left the medbay, never should have engaged with the cadets, and he certainly shouldn’t have allowed his petty rage to take over in bringing them back. He stood there, silent, blood pounding through his head and in his ears in a way he didn’t need his hearing aids to be able to hear. It was an ache that transcended pain, but at least it was something he could feel.

“He brought us here!” one of the other cadets yelled from the medbay entrance, peeking around the corner with tears running down his cheeks. “He said he had somethin’ ta show us!”

“Is this true, CC-1313?”

His number hit him like a sledgehammer to the gut. What wind he had left in his sails was stripped away, leaving him feeling weak. Blindly he reached back for the railing on his bed, set up next to Fetch’s, and sat down heavily on the edge of the thin mattress.

“Y…yes,” he said, staring at the floor.

“I see. There is no excuse for this behavior. You are expected to set an example for the cadets. I will be speaking with the prime minister about this ghoulish incident.”

“I understand,” Jenot said robotically.

The medical droids fussed, one of them carefully rearranging the sheets to cover Fetch back up while the other hovered around the electrodes still attached to Jenot’s chest and head, taking measurements with its instruments. He sat there and let it happen, wishing there was a way he could have just…ended it, out there in the field. He…he didn’t want this life, didn’t want to share a room with Fetch, watching him die slowly. He didn’t want to face his reflection in the mirror everyday, knowing he looked like…like that. He didn’t want to face her again, knowing she had survived Toydaria as well.

But he would.

He didn’t have a choice.

They’d make him.

#commander ghoul #cloned-eyes #friend's oc #clone oc #star wars clone wars oc #bad batch oc #ghoul whump #the mun writes

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lyricsofravensong · 3 years

Text

The beat of a longing heart

• Jake x MC • hurt/comfort, fluff • ~ 1 675 words + a chat•

• request by Anon: hey, i don't know how to start this ask but... well i got the news that my favorite drummer has passed away and i can't deal with it without thinking about jake comforting MC... i think this is weird and I must be mixing things up, but it's a comforting thought...you are my favorite writer on tumblr out of all the blogs and i am always happy to read your works so if you are accepting requests could you please write something about jake and mc? thank you😢❤️

• Your evening was supposed to be a sad song until the end, but then an unexpected melody appears from the rain.

A/N: Here it finally is! 🌠 Thank you for the request dear anon, I hope you're doing well. 💕 Sorry again for being so slow! 😖

I wasn't sure if you wished for a chat or a written story, so I combined them a little. :) I was really struggling with the editing but this is the best I can offer at the moment and I don't want to make you wait any longer. I hope so much I'm not letting you down and this story gives you the comfort you were missing. 💚

And thank you @dreamer-writer-fangirl for the encouragement! ❤

When you're happy, the beat of the music resonates with your cheerful heart; it dances and flutters in every corner of your body, making you feel powerful and alive.

When you're sad, the lyrics of the songs portray the pain your heart is aching with; they poke and stroke every inch of your bleeding soul, challenging and healing.

The song of your evening starts with a heavy sigh escaping from your lungs. Disappointment burns in your throat, but you swallow it down painfully. It's not Jake's fault that the theme of your day had been nothing but a repeating chorus of a sad song, and it seems like the evening is going to continue the manner. But you can't deny that the absence of his presence is one note more to the chord of your grief.

Rain sets the tune by hitting the roof with a sound that's reaching the rumbling measures of a thunderstorm. The ambience of it is making you even more anxious.

The beat comes in as a pulse of your longing heart, echoing in every cell of your body. Your mind is helplessly out of tune and can't keep up with the racing tempo.

You give up on tears as the rain makes a crescendo that covers the voice of your sobbing. Your thoughts are a swirling mess of unsettling beats, counting every person there is for you to miss. A wave of sorrow floods over your soul and the pouring rain invades your brain until your tears turn to raindrops.

You cry for a long time and the static rhythm of the rain is like a stereo to your feelings.

At first, the careful knocking on the door gets lost in the mixed concert of percussion going on in your head. When it comes again stronger, you sit up slowly. You have no intention of answering it, a single glance at your tear-stained face in the mirror confirms that. You're sure that the intruder will give up quickly since who in their right mind would be outside in that weather. The doorbell rings once and is followed by the uplifting tone of your phone receiving a message.

Your heartbeat drops tragically as you read the text Jake had sent.

Tension builds up as you hurry to the door without a second glance at the mirror. The beat of your heart drums in your ears when you yank the door open. And then - every sound goes silent.

There's Jake, standing in the rain outside your door. His black hair is dripping wet as well as his hoodie of the same color. In contrast to them, he's holding a white plastic bag in his hand, phone in the other. Your eyes meet his and you stare at each other equally shocked. The shaken expression on Jake's face indicates that you look as awful as you felt a second ago.

"I can't stop the rain, but… here I am. Ready to hold you," Jake says and a hint of embarrassment appears on his face. You follow his every move as he puts his phone in the pocket of his hoodie and then - trying to figure out what to do with his freed hand - runs his fingers through his wet hair.

"I hope you're not bothered by me intruding like this," he mumbles awkwardly, making a shy glance towards you.

Words get caught in your throat and come out pitifully feeble, "Or course not, but… how?" Your voice breaks and you have to gasp for breath. "How? Why?"

There's a clear twitch on Jake's face by the tearful sound of your voice. For a minute he looks almost panicked as he struggles to find the next words.

"I was getting this when you texted me." He lifts the plastic bag so you can see the logo of a nearby Chinese restaurant. "Rain offers some cover so it's safer for me to be out. I was so insanely worried about you that my legs just carried me here."

Your mind is gradually catching up with the new tempo of this turn of events. Another wave of tears is blurring your eyes and you slap a hand over your mouth to cover the weird grin spreading on your face.

"And I'm glad they did," Jake continues, pulling the corner of his lips into a sympathetic smile. "I'd hate to think of you being alone like that."

You shake your head in disbelief at this unexpected change of key in the earlier flatness of your emotions. You let out a trembling breath. A new verse in the song of your evening starts when you sprint out in the rain and throw yourself into Jake's arms. You bury your face into his chest and let out the forceful sobs. Jake drops the bag on the ground and wraps his arms tightly around you.

The drumming of the rain fades to the background as you stand in its shower, crying the whole record of your sorrows over Jake. He listens to it quietly and doesn’t let go even when you raise your hand to wipe your nose on your sleeve. Gradually your weeps quiet down along with the rain which is throwing the last separate drops on your already damped clothes. You rest your head on Jake’s shoulder and squeeze the back of his hoodie.

“Have I ever told you why I like the rain?” his voice asks softly beside your ear.

“No,” you sniffle. “I don’t believe you have.”

“I like it because it reminds me of you.”

“Why is that?” You raise your head to look at Jake’s face, forcing him to loosen his grip which he fixes by resting his hands behind your lower back.

“It was pouring when I contacted you for the first time,” he smiles. “That was the day my life changed. For me, rain symbolizes the unpredictability of life. I feel like anything is possible on a rainy day.”

“That’s something you just proved to be true,” you laugh and brush a strand of hair aside from his forehead. Jake stares at your face with such intensity that you suddenly become very aware of your swollen eyes and runny nose. You blush and lower your head.

“I’m sorry about crying so much. I know I look hideous.”

Jake sets his hand gently on your cheek, making you look up at his face again as he examines yours even closer.

“No, you’re still fascinating.” His whisper makes your heart sing with emotions you have never heard so vividly before.

“My face is all swollen and full of tears…” you splutter in loss of words.

Jake’s smile only widens and he wipes your cheeks tenderly with his fingers. “They’re just raindrops.”

You chuckle, “Then you can stop the rain after all.”

Tears of the sky are still dripping from the trees and corners of the roof all around you. They form an uneven rhythm of a harmony you’re now hearing differently; not as an echo of your pain, but more as a ballad for sadness.

But sadness is not the theme of your feelings anymore when you share the Chinese with Jake on the couch in your living room. No food has ever tasted so delicious as this slightly soaked and chill portion of noodles eaten straight from the container, taking turns of using the one pair of chopsticks Jake had with him.

The second verse of your evening is composed from comfort. After the food is finished and Jake’s drenched hoodie is drying on the back rest, you lean against his shoulder and slowly give lyrics for your sadness by telling him all about your previous distress. His t-shirt is wet too, but you forget it when his arm wraps around you, pulling you closer to his side.

Jake's presence is a lot like music; without saying much he still makes you feel understood and healed. His comfort is mainly instrumental but filled with so many soothing nuances of warm touches and thoughtful nods. He is the melody your evening missed. He is the lyrics for your love and the stereo for your desire; resonating stronger than the drumming of the rain. He makes you believe that just like music, your feelings are also made to be shared with your loved ones. And as you let your head fall to his lap and turn on your back to meet the softness of his eyes, you realize that this one you love very much.

Rain starts a new solo on the roof with full force as the song of this evening comes to the bridge. Jake bends down to you, his intention written clear on his face. Still he stops hesitantly right above your mouth, pausing the music just before the beat drops. But your heart is singing and you hit the play by reaching your hand behind his head and pulling him down to your lips. The kiss launches a full symphony inside you and every note makes you yearn for more.

On a short rest between kisses you caress Jake’s cheek and say, “Now I hope it will never stop raining.”

“I thought you hated it,” Jake points out.

“Not anymore,” you mumble while your attention is drawn to the way Jake’s mouth forms the words he speaks and how his lips are tuning into an amused smile.

“What made you change your mind?” he asks.

“No one in their right mind would go outside in that weather, so you have to wait here until the rain is over.”

When you're in love, music understands your every feeling; the fluttering happiness, the aching yearning, and the healing comfort. All the lyrics tell the story of the two of you, of every smile and tear you’ve had.

A perfect harmony is formed when two beats of two longning hearts meet each other in a beautiful duet.

This song of your evening does not end yet, the music of your hearts continues beating in the calming dusk of a rainy day.

_____________________

It was actually raining every time I wrote this. 🤭☔

#duskwood #duskwood everbyte #duskwood jake #duskwood mc #duskwood fanfiction #duskwood jake x mc #iamjake #my writing

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redrose-arrow · 3 years

Note

hi Duncan x halt anon here and you have NO IDEA what you’ve just unleashed (IVE BEEN WANTING TO TALK ABOUT THESE TWO FOR SO LONGN) but you said to go ahead and I will until it gets annoying!!!

ANYWAY so these two are...pretty different, right. But in the books Duncan lets Halt get away with a LOT and genuinely values him & Halt does have at minimum SOME respect for Duncan, bc I don’t think Duncan would tolerate just straight-up disrespect, but their dynamic is “very good friends friends who’ll tease/bully each other” more so than “loyal follower & royal leader”. SO what I’m thinking: after Crowley & Halt rescue him from the castle & they’re on their way to the tournament, Duncan realizes Halt is That Guy From The Ball That Duncan Totally Wasn’t Crushing On From Afar, and he’s like....BUT THEY SAID YOU WERE DEAD so Halt yanks him aside while Crowley’s distracted and is like “SHUT UP ILL TELL YOU LATER.” Duncan won’t tell Crowley or the others even if Halt doesn’t wanna explain but he IS very confused & Halt knows he won’t stop pestering him for an explanation...So he tells Duncan the story, late one night by the campfire, when Crowley is fast asleep. Halt keeps his voice low and he’s kinda reluctant to tell it at first but he gets through it, tells Duncan all about how his own brother resented him for being heir to a throne he never wanted in the first place, how he saw Ferris change and become more distant and manipulative over the years, how he witnessed firsthand how power could corrupt a man (and has the scars to prove it). Duncan asks about his parents, because surely they would’ve recognized the attempts on his life? “They fought too much to notice,” Halt says dismissively. “Even if they didn’t, I was hardly the son they would’ve wanted on the throne—Ferris was more charismatic, more amiable. I was the firstborn but he was their favourite, and I couldn’t quite bring myself to ruin that for them.” And he talks, eventually, about his little sister Caitlyn; the only one who saw what was going on and believed him when he told her, fever-ridden and delirious from a batch of “spoiled shrimp”, that Ferris was trying to kill him. The words come easier when Halt talks about Caitlyn and there’s something like a smile curled on his lips, and Duncan’s heart sorta skips a beat in his chest because Oh Right, I Used To Have A Crush On This Guy And It Turns Out I Still Kinda Do!!!! And then Halt talks about how Pritchard found him and how his mentor is the only one besides his terrible family who knows the truth about him & why he left, and maybe he doesn’t say it outright but he 100% implies that Pritchard is just so important to him. Like “father that I’ve never had, except I did have a father but he sucked and Pritchard was just so much kinder & better” kind of important

I took the liberty of copy-pasting your second ask so that no one else has to wait for the rest :)

"part 2 bc that was getting long,,,, ANYWAY, so Duncan and Halt stay up a bit longer talking—they move away from Ferris’ assassination attempts and just chat about other stuff for a bit. Duncan enjoys having another person to relate to abt the tediousness & honestly? the loneliness of royal life, and Halt honestly doesn’t expect to enjoy talking to someone else this much. The only other person he’s really connected to since coming to Araluen is Crowley, but Crowley is just enough of a bastard for Halt to tolerate (and maybe even like), so it’s a surprise that the other person he can connect with is a straight-laced prince. Also Duncan’s basically like “okay so this guy is an (ex?) crown prince, he’s INSANELY skilled & actually very funny in a deadpan, sarcastic way, AND he’s helping me take back my kingdom from an evil baron....yeah I can get behind this”. So yadda yadda they get through the confrontation with Morgarath at the tournament, and, true to his word, Duncan doesn’t tell any of the others about Halt’s background. At the end of the book when Pritchard is murdered, Duncan hears about it from Baron Arald and he’s like....oh, shit. He tracks down Halt and Crowley, both of whom are appropriately enraged and grieving, and makes proper funeral arrangements for Pritchard & allows them some time off to process their grief. Afterwards he goes to Halt privately, bc now he’s the only one who knows abt Halt’s childhood & he knows Halt lost more than a dear mentor—and Halt’s in his cabin being very short-tempered and snappy with him but Duncan just sits and waits. And eventually the anger kinda drains out of Halt, and he sits down at the table w Duncan and over ale they share stories about man who’d been like a father to Halt; Duncan didn’t know him all that well, but Pritchard had been around the castle enough when Duncan was a child for him to remember some of the chaos the man had caused. Halt tells a tale or two of his own and explains, a lottttt later when he’s drunker than he should be in front of the almost-king, that Pritchard had saved his life—they’d met while Halt was still at the castle and Pritchard had taught him how to swim some months before Ferris tried to drown him. But it was more than that, Halt tells him, it was so much more than that. Pritchard had been a safe haven, had given him refuge, had given him hope when he needed it most. And now he was gone and Halt was just..... he doesn’t finish the sentence but Duncan nods and says “I know”. Because yeah, he does know. And they sit in silence for a while longer, not as an (almost) King and Ranger but as two men who know what it’s like to be alone.

And now they don’t have to be!!! AND THIS ONLY COVERED THE FIRST TEY BOOK I have,,,, so many more things to say about these two but I THINK this has gotten long enough so 💀 I’ll leave this here. Ty for listening to my rant abt medieval middle-aged gays :D (also disclaimer: at this point, I think Duncan would be more or less the only one with some developing romantic feelings. But then again this only covers the first book, so Halt’s own revelation would come later)"

ANON YOU'RE RIGHT ABOUT EVERYTHING.

Their dynamic is indeed just that. Duncan recognising him out of the blue and Halt having to physically shut him up? Legendary. Duncan feeling his crush return? Amazing.

I never thought about Duncan and Halt relating about royal life but it makes so much sense??? especially just talking about the lessons and the trouble having friends etc etc. The resulting whole no-longer-alone thing has me *this* close to tears. Duncan then tracking down Halt -- he 11/10 w o u l d. Halt being angry and then just almost sobbing while Duncan has no idea wtf he should do but the fact that he's there and he's listening means everything to Halt.

Anon, I have absolute 0 regrets unleashing this. Awfully bold of you to assume that it'll get annoying. You fully got me now, I'm shipping them hard. I'm invested. Please do elaborate whenever you wish. I will gladly listen to more rants about medieval middle-aged gays. Go ahead.

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