गद्दारी करने वालों को पार्टी में नहीं लेंगे, बीजेपी से और लोग आएंगेः ममता बनर्जी #sadahaqurdu #saaddahaq #sadahaqhindi #sadahaq #sadahaqnews #sadahaqpb #facebook #instagram #twitter #google #saaddahaqnews #saaddahaqhindi #saaddahaqurdu #youtube #saaddahaqpunjabi
कोलकाता. बंगाल में बीजेपी को बड़ा झटका देते हुए ममता बनर्जी ने अपने पुराने सहयोगी मुकुल रॉय की घर वापसी करा दी है. इस मौके पर ममता ने साफ कर दिया कि पार्टी में गद्दारों की घर वापसी नहीं होगी, जिन्होंने पावर और पैसे के लिए विधानसभा चुनावों से पहले टीएमसी के साथ गद्दारी की. मुकुल रॉय को पार्टी में पद देने के सवाल पर ममता बनर्जी ने कहा कि इस बारे में बाद में फैसला लिया जाएगा. आइडियोलॉजी और पार्टी…
View On WordPress
Work in process 😮💨
Second drawing is mainly a sketch of an idea I had, I would think Kal is the type of person that carries a fold out wallet with lots of pictures of his boys. Vau on the left joking that mird is his child with delta squad in the background eyeing him. And Jango dismissing having a kid with all the evidence all over stickers, drawing on the fridge and Boba running with the helmet.
Reference for first drawing below
"Day 30: Laar - Song
"VODE AN!" Here's the Delta Squad preforming a Mandalorian dance as they sing Vode An! The dance was written in the books to be an equivalent to the Māori Haka and I LOVE IT. Took forever to find a proper ref, but here they are!! 💕💖
If anyone is interested I would HIGHLY recommend looking up the Haka and watching some videos, it's gorgeous and powerful, and I am SO glad that this part of Mr. Morrison's culture was made to to be added!! 💖
Also ⚠️ Warning ⚠️: If I see ANY use of "feral", "savage", etc. You're getting blocked, follower or not. I've been seeing it happening lately and that's a Nope From Me 🔪."
This is you, tryin' to make the past be everything, mean everything.
You don't even wanna think about the here and now.
Shame ain't worth as much as you think.
Let it go.
luke skywalker IS my most specialist princess
"Days 14 & 15: Atin and Ramidyc - Stubborn/tenacious/enduring, and the Commando Mindset
This is from the book, Triple Zero, in which Atin Skirata gets some well-deserved revenge against Walon Vau!! Vau thought he needed to learn to be "stronger" after he held survivor's guilt post-geonosis, and proceeded to beat the poor trooper into a pulp. And did so so badly that he needed a bacta tank, and yet STILL had a scar after....
Also, bless @clonewarslover55 for the faceclaim for Vau!! John Slattery seemed SO perfect!!??
*Lays across a couch dramatically*
Art is......Walon Vau.
Fish and Fishfood
LOOK WHAT WERE GETTING GUYS!!!!
BOSS IS GETTING A FUNKO POP!!! MY SON IS GROWING MORE FAMOUS
Zinnia: Walone Fashion Group Spring/Summer 2017 Couture
Characters: RC-1262 Scorch, Fenn Shysa, Walon Vau, a smattering of others
Summary: He's a broken man but not a lost cause.
Warnings: Mentions of past Imperial violence. Scorch is angsty boi
Word Count: 6.4K
A/N: Set Pre Soul Lies. May be ready as a one-shot or in the greater Clan Vau AU that floats around in my brain. thank you to @crimson-dxwn and @fractiouskat for being my cheerleaders and inablers
“He’s a traitor to the Empire”
“Since when have you cared one kriff about the empire?”
“I care about doing what’s right.”
“So do I.”
The transport rattles as it enters atmo. Crates - left loose and untethered - jostle in place, sending small clouds of dust into the stale air. The freighter is a pre-Clone Wars relic and like the Republic she was originally intended for, she’s shaky and at risk of falling to pieces at any moment.
Scorch pulls in a sharp breath as the shuttle banks hard to the right. Bracing his back against the hull, he uses his booted feet to keep a crate from sliding into him. Whether the sudden change in course was planned or the pilot’s - a rusty old Weequay from Corellia - error he doesn’t know. He’s not sure at this point he even cares. He wasn’t built to run away from things. It’s against his genetic code - the one borrowed from Jango Fett - to turn away from adversity, but that’s exactly what he’d been doing for two… or was it three standard months? Time’s irrelevant. He stopped counting the days a long time ago.
Of course, he’s tried to convince himself that he wasn’t running away. He was running to where he was supposed to be. Mandalore. It’s like a myth for those of certain mindset within the ranks of the new Galactic Empire. The kind of men - clones - that still believed in the things mercenaries like Kal Skirata and Walon Vau had whispered and outright force-fed into the minds of their cadets back on Kamino.
You’re a coward. Sarge trained you better than this.
The voice in his head likes to argue with him. It’s got solid ground most of the time. It’s getting harder and harder for Scorch to argue back. He’s been through enough flash training, seen enough war, to know that he was balancing precariously close to an edge. Only thing is, he’s not sure what’s just over that edge.
His stomach snarls. He hopes it's food.
“This is your stop.” The weequay, Oberin, is standing over him and Scorch shakes his head. He hadn’t heard him coming and weequay weren’t known for stealth. He needs to focus.
“Lose focus. Lose your shebs,” his training Sargent, Walon Vau’s, voice reminds him.
Scorch pulls the hood of his cape closer around his face. He can see the weequay turning his head curiously. He hadn’t realized they’d docked, but the ship isn’t moving beneath him so they must have. Scorch is ready to breathe air that hasn’t been pulled through the freighter's ancient recycler.
“You got people here?” Oberin’s voice is high and nasal reminds him of an Imp commander he’d known. Scorch pushes up to his feet. He towers over the other sentient. He shrugs.
“I hear Mando don’t take kindly to your kind.” The weequay continues and Scorch wonders if he meant deserters, clones, or aruteii. Maybe he meant all three. Probably all three.
He was blessed and cursed with a familiar face and it had gotten him in and out of trouble in the weeks and months following his terminal leave from the Imperial Army. That being said, the Mandalorian sector was a new boloball game.
“I’m good at making friends. People like me.” His voice comes out harsh from disuse, sounding more like his lost brothers gravel than his own. Oberin laughs. The sound of it grates and Scorch itches to put his hand through the other sentient’s jaw. Another thing he was channeling from Sev, he assumes.
They part on reasonable terms, Scorch with the small bag on his back and Oberin the weequay with the few measly credits he had left to his name. It’s fine. He doesn’t care. He doesn’t have the energy left to care. He doesn’t have a tin cred to his name but he’s in Keldabe. That was all that had mattered the last few months, as if things would get better. As if the streets were paved with credits and everyone would see him as a long lost son of Mandalore and welcome him with open arms. He wasn’t so naive. Still, Keldabe was a step closer to where he needed to be, to who he needed to find.
He wakes up under a bush in a park, the sounds of children ringing clear and bright just beyond the greenery hiding his makeshift bed. He’s drenched in sweat.
The sound of his nightmares drown out the laughter of children with the screams of others. The padawans, the younglings. The last straw.
He sucks in lungfuls of air. His hair - grown longer since the last regulation cut - sticks thickly to his forehead. He doesn’t feel the gentle Spring breeze. He feels the oppressive heat of Jedha stealing his breath.
He closes his eyes tight, grinds the heels of his fists against them. Not again.
Vader rises up behind his lids and demands the death - the murder - of children.
Fierfek! They’re just children!
His brothers are raising their blasters and so is he. And then the bolts fly. Three fall immediately. One shot. One kill. It’s a mercy he tries to tell himself as he watches dust puff around the tiny fragile bodies, but he can’t pull the trigger.
“Fire the karking blaster,” Fixer snarls in his ear. Scorch hesitates.
“Fire Six-Two.” Boss. Ever steady. Ever the good soldier.
He fires one shot. It grazes the green skinned twi’lek boy’s shoulder, sending him reeling. He lands on the ground and he’s screaming and crying. He’s crying for his master like a child would cry for its mother or father. Boss silences it with two well placed beams of light. Scorch nearly retches behind the safety of his shiny new Imperial issued bucket.
One child remains. A bright-eyed blonde girl. The oldest. Standing with her lightsaber held at the ready like he’d seen Etain a dozen times before.
Oh Seven Hells… Etain…
Her voice is crystal clear as she closes her eyes. Bolts bend around her and deflect off the blade of the bright yellow saber she wields. Scorch watches. He hears her words.
“I am one with the Force. The Force is with me.”
Over and over.
“I am one with the Force. The Force is with me.”
He can’t bring himself to shoot. This is a child. They are killing children. In the name of what? They are murdering children.
The girl stumbles once as if pulled. A blaster bolt grazes her left flank.
“That is enough. I will handle this.” The deep metallic drone of Vader rings through his head. His brother's weapons lower and he can only watch as the lightsaber goes spinning out of the girls grip, falling dark and useless into the Jedhan dust.
Her feet leave the ground as she’s lifted by an unseen assailant. But Scorch knows. They all know. Vader reaches out as if to bring the child into his embrace, as if he would take her hand and bring her to safety. The hand turns to a claw and the child’s toes scrabble against the sand. She chokes and gasps, her eyes bulging as she claws at her throat and then in some small form of mercy Scorch makes out the sound of her neck snapping, the cracking sound like a shiny tearing apart fried Nuna wings for the first time.
Her body, limp and lifeless falls into the dirt as Vader turns. “Our job here is done. Fall in.”
Scorch lets loose bile and protein pack into the bush. Nearby the children scream and giggle in delight.
The Oyu’batt holds court in the middle of the square like a grand old dame amongst young upstarts. She wears her years well. She’d seen some osik, at least that’s how Scorch saw it and she was still around to tell the tale. It’s reassuring. A lot more reassuring than the looks he’d been getting on the short sojourn there.
He’d never been oblivious to poorly disguised (and sometimes down right blatant) disgust. He’d been in urban combat zones. He’d known how the civvies had looked at him. He’d gone out of his way in Hadde to cultivate it.
It’s just that now it’s not because of what his armor represented, it's because of his face - the same face worn by a million others just like him each trying in their own way to stand out but never really doing it as far as civilian standards went. It was one thing to hate a faceless, nameless meat puppet in katarn. It was another thing to hate the man underneath.
He misses his armor a lot these days. He’d never felt right without his katarn, his second skin. When they’d been forced to swap from custom paint jobs on highly specialized, durable alloy to the homogenous white plastoid he’d felt that something had been stripped away from him, like a piece of his soul had been snatched. Fixer had rolled his eyes and locked his new plates in place. Boss seemed to get it, but he hadn’t so much as offered more than a barely there sound of agreement before he was moving on. Scorch had a hard time with moving on.
But even the plastoid was better than what he had now. Somebody else’s used clothes and cape. He was clothed but still felt eyes lingering on him like he’d decided to walk around shebs in the breeze. It was ok, he guessed, he felt the same either way - exposed.
He can’t remember a time his pod hadn’t been together. From decant to now he could only remember a handful of times they’d spent more than a standard day out of earshot of one another. He’d never known what it was like to not be flanked by his pod. Even after Kasshyk when it felt like the cohesion had been blasted to bits, it was still reassuring to know that Boss and Fixer existed in the same space he did. It was tethering when he felt like he’d pull his hair out by the roots, the times when he was looking for any excuse imaginable just to go back.
Pathetic di’kut. It was amazing how much that particular inner voice sounded like RC-1140 these days.
Scorch casts the Oyu’batt an appraising look. This was the place he’d heard about. The tapcafe was neutral ground where information was bartered and things lost could be found. He didn’t like going in without more recce. Taking the lead wasn’t his specialty. He was the guy that cleared the way. He was the guy you called on when you needed doors opened. Those days were behind him now, and if he wanted to find what he’d set off to find he needed to push harder.
“I raised you to survive. Don’t humiliate me by going soft on me.” Sargeant Vau’s words from Mygeeto ring as true now as they had than.
“Copy that Sarge.”
One does not go into a Mandalorian establishment and demand the whereabouts of Mando’ade. He knows that much. There was a certain flow that needed to be entered, a casualness and natural evolving of the conversation that felt neither natural nor casual to Scorch.
“What are you looking for?” the purveyor, a Mandalorian in deep blue and grey beskar asks. Scorch stands straight. He knew what he looked like. He was a Fett clone, but on top of that he was a mess. He’d never had a beard and now he knew why. The thick hair that filled in along his jaw itches maddeningly. He’d hoped it would do something to hide what he was but the way people stared made him doubt it. He’d gotten rid of his razor somewhere outside of Corellia - jettisoning the blade into the blue before they’d left atmosphere. He knew danger, no matter how unassuming, when it looked him in the face. Scruff was better than the other options that had swirled in his mind.
His state made for poor first impressions and he had no credits left to change minds. His hair matched his beard, unruly and unkempt with dark curls that begged to see a sonic.
He tries, tries to act like he knows how to function among civilians. Like he knew how to be something more than another man’s weapon but he feels off-kilter each time he tries.
“I'm looking for a job.”
“I’ve got nothing for your kind”. The Mando doesn’t even pause. He doesn’t assess what he’s seeing or think about if he could find a spot for Scorch. It’s a snap decision, the kind Scorch himself had been trained his whole life to make, only now it’s being made about him like he’s the bad guy. Like he’s the enemy. His hands ball into fists at his side. Months of anger and frustration simmering below the surface.
“His kind?” The voice, rich and woodsy flanks his right, speaking up before he has time to respond. Green beskar comes into view. “He’s a son of Fett come home.”
The man has his buy’ce tucked under his armor, the red highlighting around the tee of his visor making the dark transparisteel stick out starkly. Scorch watches the interaction between the two Mandalorians. The whole thing makes him want to slink back to his bush in the park and hide, rage drained from his system. He can feel the eyes of the room following the situation carefully.
“He’s just a clone”
The man at his side makes a sound of distaste. When he speaks again it doesn’t have joviality of his previous words. No these words hold weight in both their tone and the way they roll off his tongue.
“He’s good by me. He stays.”
“You got a name?”
“That’s not a name.” Fenn Shysa shakes his shaggy blonde head but he seems in good enough humor. “We’ve been seeing more of your kind around lately,” the Mand’alor says without fanfare. Drinks have been set out in front of them and a bowl of smoked and spiced warra nuts. Scorch paces himself, only allowing a small handful that he chews carefully. He swallows after a moment. His stomach protests the slow pace.
“Clones.” Scorch can hear the weariness in his own voice.
“Was gonna say deserters but if the buyce fits…” Shysa shrugs.
The word pings in Scorch’s ears. It burns like a flaming red piece of ordinance that’s wiggled its way in and found a place to rest against his ear drum.
“What brings you planetside?”
It’s Scorch’s turn to shrug. He’s not sure how much information he should give out and how soon to do it.
Fenn Shysa’s brow furrows, “I could compel you as Mand’alor to tell me.”
“Doesn’t that only work if I’m Mandalorian?”
“Are you not? You’ve got the brass gett’se of one walking in here.” A smile tugs at the corner of the Mand’alors mouth. “Beskar or not, it’s not something so easily missed.”
Scorch doesn’t look away. He’d been busted too many times as a cadet for looking away from Sarge’s verbal tirades to do anything but keep eye contact.
“The Imperial Army and I had a disagreement about my scope of practice,” he jokes flatly. Shysa continues to silently watch him until the stretch of silence becomes too uncomfortable, to unbearable to maintain.
“I didn’t sign up to-“ Scorch swallows hard, “never children.”
“From my recollection you didn’t exactly sign up.” Fenn takes a drink. “-now did you?”
Scorch remains silent. The Mand’alors intelligent blue eyes search for something. Scorch doesn’t look away.
“Had a problem with killing younglings did ya? A little soft maybe? Whose cadet were you 1262? Bralor’s? Gilamar’s? Maybe Skirata’s”
Fenn Shysa, the leader of the Mandalorian people, dissolves into a deep hearty laugh that draws the eyes of all of those around them. Scorch holds steady, takes his drink and finishes it.
“You’re not the one he’s been dragging that damn strill all over creation to find, are ya?”
Scorch lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. Sarge was looking for Sev. He cared enough to go back when they hadn’t. Shame sits like a rock in his gut. Sarge was looking for Sev. Not for Boss. Not for Fixer. Not for him.
What would the old chakaar do if he showed up on his doorstep, showed up without the rest of his pod, showed up as an aberrant, a failed cadet unable to cope with the single job he’d been created for? He was close, so close he could swear he smelled the sweet stinking musk of Mirdalan in the air and he was afraid. He was alone and he was afraid.
“What’s your name, ad’ika-“
“I’m not your son.” He snaps at the term, at the man throwing it around without any right. He’d heard Skirata gentle one of his batshit Nulls with that word one too many times not to understand what it meant. He didn’t- he didn’t care who was in front of him. He was no one's son. Fenn Shysa raises his hands in surrender.
“My fault. I’ll try it again your way. What’s your name, Commando?”
“Sarge named me Scorch.”
He’s wearing dead man’s armor and he’s heading to a place that roughly translated to the last stronghold of the dead. The irony is not lost on him.
What is lost is his body beneath the ill fitting, large beskar’gam. Fenn hadn’t said where it had come from, only that there was no family left to claim it and Scorch needed something more than his ravishing Fett-provided good looks to fit in. Scorch appreciated the Mand’alor’s sense of humor as he adjusted a codpiece he was incapable of filling.
It was easy to see why Fenn Shysa wasn’t merely respected by his people but also beloved. It had been only a matter of days since he’d shown up in the Oyu’batt and he would gladly go to war if Fenn Shysa was the one asking him to do it.
He’d let Scorch sleep on his couch. He’d not questioned him when he woke up screaming his brothers’ names. He handed him hot caf in the mornings and dragged him back to the tap caf in the afternoons. He’d let him clean up and find a steady footing when he’d been shaky for so long. He'd helped him shave the months of growth off his face when the razor in his hand felt too weighted to bring to his face. The small apartment the Mand’alor kept was a weigh station. It was a place where, for the first time in memory, Scorch had been able to take a breath and not feel anxiety and nerves breathing down his neck.
Fenn Shysa was a great leader, no doubt, but Scorch was sure he was an even better man. That’s why, after he’d woken and dressed for the day in his flight suit and his secondhand beskar’gam he hadn’t questioned Shysa one bit when he’d said they were going for a ride.
Scorch hadn’t said much and his companion didn’t push. The inner works of the new-to-him buyce were a mess and Scorch spent much of the flight soldering and calibrating the HUD upgrade he’d found in the scrap market into the buyce’s existing workings. It wasn’t until they landed at a windswept airstrip that he’d even asked their destination.
The name meant nothing to him. He’d never heard of it, but something about the way it rolled off Shysa’s tongue raised the hairs on the back of his neck and tied his stomach into tangled, unsalvageable knots.
Scorch nods as they move to close down the shuttle. There’s a two person speeder waiting not far from the ramp. A thin layer of dust covered the durasteel body. He draws a smiley face in the grime but he’s not really feeling it.
“Chin up verd’ika. You’ve got friends in the north.”
He’s never been a good brooder but he’s been working on it. Someone had to do it if Sev couldn’t.
Fenn takes his spot as wheelman and Scorch slips into the seat next to him. It’s nice up here in the north. Seems quiet. Seems simple. There’s no thin sheen of haze in the air like in Keldabe.
The speeder eats up ground, bringing them from the windswept airfield quickly into a land with thickening trees on either side. Most are dense with deep green needles from bottom to top but others are bare-limbed with only the promise of budding flowers and leaves to come. Birds flit between the branches. At one point, Scorch catches a glimpse of an amorous pair of ruddy colored swamp rabbits doing what rabbits were known to do best.
“Spring,” Fenn laughs, “They’ll be celebrating Tuur be Arpatir in these parts in not too long. It’s a fun shindig to be here for.”
Scorch nods numbly. Day of Planting, sounds like a riot. He can feel Fenn’s eyes on him as his hew HUD scans into the distance. The processor was still wonky and it flickers between screens and settings when they glide over bumps. He’d have to adjust that when they got back to Keldabe. The forest becomes more dense the further on they travel, squeezing in around them, making the lane tighter and tighter until the speeder suddenly seemed to explode through the almost claustrophobic chute into a wide open expanse of plain. Scorch forgets the faulty HUD and his scanning as he sees the large homestead looming. Round domes of green grass pop up in a circle from the land, smaller ones coming off like spokes from a larger, centered one. Nuna scratch in the dirt and circle around a small coop while penned roba root around in fresh mud. Two Mando’ade in full beskar’gam are converged over the open engine bay of a speeder, leaned in close together seemingly having a discussion about whatever it was they found.
“Welcome to Kyrimorut.”
Scorch nods absently at Fenn’s words as his attention remains split between the man and the place. There’s a familiar feeling to it, something he can’t place but isn’t off put by. there’s something like peace that seems to perfume the very filtered air he breathes. The heads in the speeder pop up as they get closer, putting down tools to watch the Mand’alor come to a stop infront of the vheh’yaim. Scorch waits for Fenn to make the first move and then follows to get out of the speeder. He falls in at the Mandalorian’s side as the main door to the home opens.
He recognizes the beskag’gam that he greets them immediately. How could he not? He’d been on too many ops with Kal Skirata at the helm to not recognize the golden beskar or the old merc’s short stature. He glances over at Fenn. The other man shrugs, his buyce hiding the amusement Scorch knew was shining in his eyes. It didn’t take knowing Fenn Shysa more than a few days to know that this was the kind of thing that he would find funny.
Scorch isn’t sure he feels the same.
“You brought a friend,” Skirata says. The former Cuy’val Dar member looks him up and down and Scorch feels acutely aware of how poorly his own armor fits and what he must look like.
“Yeah, he’s new. I figured I’d give him the grand tour of the place,” Fenn jokes good naturedly. “Your partner around? I got a surprise for him.”
Skirata doesn’t take his eyes off of Scorch. Still the same Skirata, assessing everyone he met for strengths and weaknesses; assigning a score of how much trouble they were vs. how much they were worth.
He’s never been so happy to see the Sha’buir in all his short life.
“Yeah he is-“
Scorch’s good humor disappears faster than a Tusken in a Tatooine dust storm. He’d know his training sargeant’s voice anywhere, but he turns his head anyway. The matte black beskar only solidifies what he already knows. Sarge, Walon Vau, is standing not two meters away from him and he feels like a shiny cadet all over again.
Vau’s buy’ce turns to him, assesses and moves back to Fenn.
“Mand’alor,” he greets coolly, “it’s a pleasure as always.”
“Walon. I brought you something.”
Panic flutters like a startled tak tak in his chest, beating against his ribs. He wasn’t ready for this. He hadn’t worked out what to say. He didn’t have the words to tell Sarge what had happened. Kal’s eyes haven’t left him. He must know already. Know that he was a deserter, a defective that couldn’t hack it. He must already be thinking of the quickest way to put him down he-
The flash of golden fur startles him. Quick like always, Mirdalan is a blur as he jumps and dances, whines and cries as he circles around Scorch. He’s not sure the strill has ever been excited to see him in his life. Mird must not remember because it’s drooling, toothy head is whipping from Scorch to Walon and back. The former mercenary is staring at him now and Scorch knows what he has to do.
Reaching up, he unclasps his buy’ce. The seal is weak and it only gives a faint abbreviated hiss as he pops it loose. He closes his eyes as he brings it over his head. The sun is so kriffing bright here as his eyes try to adjust to the change. He hears the intake of breath but he’s not sure if it’s Skirata’s or Vau’s. Both are staring at him as if he were an apparition when he’s able to see again.
Vau’s jaw twitches and Scorch wishes he could double over and vomit out his nerves all over the fresh spring grass. He doesn’t though because this was Sarge and that would get him in trouble. He forces a smile.
“Hey Sarge, was getting a little bored. Figured I’d take some leave and come for a visit. Miss me?”
There’s a lot of questions from Kal. Feels about right, but Walon- Sarge stands back and watches. Scorch has flashbacks to his short-lived childhood with the same man standing over him, imposing and larger than life and now… now he’s just horribly, eerily in the background. Not in his best nor his worst imaginings of how this would play out had he once imagined Sargeant Vau as a passive man in the matter. Fek, he’d take a good beating now if it meant the man was saying something to him. His ribs ache happily at the thought. The old bastard loved a good rib shot. He almost smiles but Kal asks something else and his attention is pulled back.
I’m getting sloppy old man. Say it. Scream at me about how I’m no better than the Bantha on chewing its cud. Do something. Say something.
Still Vau says nothing and Fenn elbows him in his side. Kal clears his throat as he offers bottles of Ne’tra Gal around the table. Scorch takes his but doesn’t drink immediately. His eyes follow the trail of condensation as it gathers, beads, and rolls down the side of the bottle.
“Sit up straight Six-Two!”
It’s a barked order that is both startling and comforting all at once. The others at the table rankle as do the other former commandos milling about trying to catch the latest gossip. Scorch pulls in a deep breath. So the chakaar hadn’t gone completely mute in his presence.
“Yes, sir.” The words slip out. The standard call and answer demanded for a minor correction, as if they were still training Sargeant Vau and RC-1262. There is solace to be found in old routines, in rank and structure.
“I was saying,” Kal begi,,s repeating what Scorch had missed, “You are welcome to stay here. This place-“ the greying merc looks around with pride and maybe not a little bit of wonder. “This place was our gift to you and your vode. This is a soft spot to land.”
Skirata must be rubbing off on him because he feels something catch in his throat, an unwelcome emotion that he doesn’t wish to share with the class. Instead he lifts his bottle and downs half of it. The sweet ale distracts him. He glances at Fenn Shysa. He most certainly does not look to former training sargeant Vau. He’s not sure he wants to know what the other man is thinking - like could ever figure it out to begin with.
“My couch is old and you snore. Loudly.” He’s got that twinkle in his eye. “Stay.”
Walon never knew his father as a gentle man. No, the Duke had never nurtured more than his own overly inflated self worth. The man was a sadist who ruled his home with an iron fist. Ma Vau escaped the worst of it, falling into her religious studies and keeping up the appearance that the entire family was as pious as she. The servants and help saw some of it, the cruelty that bled through the Duke’s polished veneer. It was Walon who had drawn the short straw before his stubby little baby fingers were even capable of grasping. It was Walon that bore the brunt of his fathers twisted version of parenting.
Spare the rod, spoil the child. His father's favorite saying still rang through his head all these years later. The Duke decided he was going to raise an heir that met his his lofty standards. His son wouldn't be soft like his contemporaries. He wouldn’t be spoiled like the other children his age.
From a young age Walon appreciated each breath he took without pain, each movement he could make without the lancing residual ache that echoed in his bones. He grew up quick. He grew up smart. He grew into a survivor out of spite and he passed along those traits to his cadets.
It’s the only reason he can find that the shadow of one of his prized pupils is even in front of him. Still more of a specter than the cadet he’d raised and trained. He wasn’t entirely sure what he was now supposed to do with that.
Warm days were upon them, but the nights in the north still bore a cold icy note that called for full hearths. The sound of the fire is the only thing that spans the distance between them.
Fenn hadn’t let on when he scheduled his visit that he had anything of interest and then he’d shown up with one of his lost boys. His gaunt-faced visage looked nothing like the man he’d last seen fighting for the Grand Army. No, he more resembled a lost cadet then he did a grown man. It left Walon speechless. So focused on Sev and Kasshyk he’d regrettably put little thought into the rest of Delta. They were together and they were safe. How foolish he’d been. Nothing about the lad’s appearance spoke to security among the newly formed Imperial ranks.
The quiet spoke volumes. He’d never known Scorch to be silent in all the years since the kaminii had plopped the four little round faced cadets in front of him. He bites back a smile remembering their wide eyes, the way they’d fidgeted in front of him. He was getting old and soft.
Scorch makes a sound, swallows hard, takes a drink of the ti’haar in his hand. Walon watches him curiously. Mird lays by the fire between the two, occasionally raising his fearsome golden head to look toward his master and then back toward the commando. If only communicating with Scorch was as easy as Mird. Things would be so much simpler.
Scorch clears his throat again. Walon had worked hard to beat ramikadyc into his pods. Delta had been his pride and glory; the attitude, tenacity, and confidence were everything he felt a commando should have. Now Scorch couldn’t even string two words together in his presence.
“If you're going to say something, say it.”
Like a fish out of water Scorch opens and closes his mouth but no sounds follow.
Finally words and then… nothing. Again.
Of all his cadets Scorch had always - always - had his finger strumming Walon’s last nerve. At least some things never change, he thinks as he feels that old ire brought to life.
“Speak or leave,” he snaps, feeling many things but choosing to cling to irritation, “I’ve got more important things-“
“Sarge-“ panic flares to life in Scorch’s eyes, exploding out like one of his dets. Walon reels. This was new. This is like something he’s never seen before. “Sarge please… I- I-“
Walon offers reprieve, “Easy Six-Two. Udessi....” The wild-eyed commando rolls on, his sense of hearing shot to osik by whatever panicky beast had taken him over - and there was no doubt it was panic-fueled. His bouncing knee, hands clutching at the borrowed beskar’gam was a dead giveaway. The armor jangles loosely, only adding to the feeling that he’d lost the little control of the situation and himself that he actually had. Only something extreme would make one of his cadets break the form he’d beaten into them.
“I karked it up bad, Sarge. I know that. I get it but- but-” His speech is pressured, voice rising. “I’m defective sir. I get it. I should turn myself in. Recondi-“ he cuts himself off mid word with a brutal shake of his head.
Walon watches in thinly veiled horror as his cadet detonates in front of him. He’s heard of a time or two when the red mist had taken one of his boys somewhere their brains shouldn’t have gone but he’s never seen this. It’s a meltdown. A complete loss of capacity brought on by sheer terror. Terror that Walon would turn him away.
Walon’s stomach lurches violently. He’d thought his boys knew. He thought they understood that he’d always cared, in his own way.
“I can’t- won’t go back. If that’s what you're gonna tell me, put a bolt through my brain and call it a day. Sev’s gone…” Scorch’s breath hitches. “We left Sev and nobody cared.”
Before his eyes, Scorch collapses in on himself, elbows digging into his knees and hands cradling his face.
“Six-Two… Scorch” he uses the boy’s actual name and waits while he sucks in quick gasping breaths. “Ad’ika.”
The word catches them both by surprise. Walon sits frozen as his former cadet looks up through unruly locks of hair. Walon swallows.
Never has he admitted to himself or anyone else what Delta meant to him. Not even when he was slogging waist-deep in the muck on Kashyyyk had he allowed himself to think of his boys as his sons. He was not Kal Skirata, a sentimental fool with a savior complex. He'd trained his cadets, raised them so they didn’t need one. Except they did. The broken shell of Delta’s demolitions expert sitting in front of him proved something Walon hadn’t set out to find when he’d begun his search for Sev. His cadets, his boys, his sons were not done with him yet. They still needed him, only now it was for something he wasn’t sure how to teach them - how to live.
“Sarge?” His voice is hesitant, wavering.
“You are not going anywhere. Am I clear Six-Two?” Walon rubs his hand over his face pulling at the fine lines around his mouth.
He hadn’t planned for this turn of events. He wasn’t ready. Though, he supposed, no man was ever really ready- or at least that’s what Kal had blathered about one night after a bit too much tihaar.
At the very least he’s gotten the boy’s attention. He could work out his own issues with this all later. For now Scorch was the priority. Walon can already see him slowly reining himself in, even as he sucks in breaths more quickly than the older merc would like.
“You have a home now and no one can take that away from you.”
Scorch nods slowly, his eyes still wary, but just like when he’d been a small cadet there is that spark of something that lets Walon know he believed.
“Now that that’s settled, let’s discuss this poor excuse for beskar’gam.”
It’s surreal, like the world’s been upended and he’s the only one not flipped around with it.
Scorch sits across from Ordo and Besany Skirata, the latter heavily pregnant with their second child. The former proudly holds the first on his lap, feeding the small boy bits of his own meal. Every now and then he glances up and catches Scorch’s eye and gives what amounts to an Ordo version of a reassuring smile. Unsettling as it was, Scorch appreciates it.
Laseema makes a sound from behind him, and he leans toward Sarge to his right while the Twi’lek woman spoons out some more stew into his empty bowl. Fi tosses a crusty end of bread his way without any warning and it’s only years of finely honed training that has him catching it before it smacks him in the face.
No one asks questions about why he’s there or how he’d gotten there. No one acts like this is anything out of the ordinary, like he’d never not been part of the dinner table.
He sops up broth with a bit of bread and takes a bite. He’s full, but the bowl is bottomless and he can’t get enough. The nerf stew is heavily spiced and it burns at the back of his mouth in the most pleasant way. He finishes the dregs of his Ne’tra gal, chasing the burn with the sweet ale. A new bottle replaces it the instant it’s set down. Atin nods politely from his spot on his left and takes the old bottle out of his way.
The conversations around him continue to flow from one thing to the next and he lets the normal act of it wash over him. Sarge was right. He didn’t need to worry about what his next move was. He didn’t need to wonder what hurdle might await him next. He was home. He was safe.
Scorch glances at Sarge out of the corner of his eye. Now he could focus on what truly mattered.
“Hey Sarge, I hear Kashyyyk is nice this time of year.”
Mando'ade- Son/daughter of Mandalore
Mand’alor- the leader of the Mandalorian people
Chakaar- Corpse Robber/Thief
beskdar’gam- Mandalorian armor
ramikadyc- Commando state of mind. Informally a very determined person
Udessi- Take it easy
taglist: @bylightofdawn @leias-left-hair-bun @skdubbs @passionofthesith @haloangel391 @fractiouskat @peacelandbread @clonewarslover55 @cherry-cokes-world @nelba @jedi-mando @shadylightbearherring @poppunkdee @iamassbuttkingofhell
@royalhandmaidens @wolfswing @generic-geek-girl @captainrexwouldnever @kesskirata @ahhrenata @apathetic-catastrophie