Archive of Our Own ^beta

Politics was like poetry. It rhymed. And to Arla, that made it immensely, unbearably childish. Wars were always the same, always bad people doing bad things for good causes on both sides. Always, talk about money from people who had too much and wanted more. Always, the depraved had their moment to act with impunity, and dignity was shot down. 

Arla had seen war, risen from a powerless prisoner to a nameless soldier. In an odd twist of fate, getting thrown into a Republic insane asylum had saved her. Not because she needed the help. She was no lunatic. But a stranger, some benefactor of the place, had offered her freedom and a clean record in exchange for… a DNA sample? How was that even a bargain? She’d taken it, she was no fool. She’d bought her own ship, Ancient Queen . She’d started bounty hunting, making good money with the skills Death Watch had taught her at gunpoint. Her armor, once black and blue, was now silver and gold, with patterns like the lace her mother had made before everything went wrong. 

Sometimes, when Arla encountered savvy mercenaries and beroya’se, she was asked whom she was avenging; gold was the Mandalorian color of vengeance. The answer was herself, and the happy life she could’ve led had Death Watch raided someone else’s farm. And through silver, she mourned herself, the person she could have been. 

Arla lounged in the pilot seat of Ancient Queen , watching hyperspace flicker around her. All the lights were off, so it illuminated the room in blue and white. Her pilot seat reclined. She used it as a bed. Right now, her armor was off in some corner, awaiting a cleaning. Her kute was in another corner, also needing a wash that she’d put off another few days until more of her kute’se were soiled from work. Living alone got lonely, but it gave her the ability to wear only underwear and a blanket without anyone knowing, which she liked. The best thing about having no people around was not having to perform for them. 

Her scars itched. Death Watch had branded her on the neck and back, in case she ever tried to run. That’d been years ago, before they’d decided to let her join. It was a mercy, but one given unfairly. She’d been Mandalorian before they found her, just the wrong kind, and with a bit of force and pressure, they could make her the right kind. Not all of Death Watch’s kidnapped children were Mandalorian, so once they became too much a drain on resources, they were shot like rabid dogs. Its leaders claimed this was merciful; in previous years they’d sell ‘em for good will with the Hutts and Zygs. 

It was weird thinking about how before all this, she’d still been Mandalorian. Mando’a was her first language. Her buir’e had owned armor, leather armor with some steel pieces, the only beskar being their helmets; their sets lived in a closet, gathering dust. In her early days, they’d paid a harvest tax to a local clan: Some grain, or maybe some fine woven tablecloths, or armor towels, or ponchos, always with fine lace edges, made by Mom in her free time. Some chauvinists claimed Mandalorians had no art that couldn’t be used to make war, but Arla didn’t believe them. Her mother had been more Mando than they would ever be. 

Arla did not often think about her little brother. Not anymore. Ja’ika, oh Ja’ika…  She’d once hoped he’d rescue her from Death Watch captivity. That she’d find him as Death Watch ferried her planet to planet. That he’d hear of her capture and break her out of Coruscant. That he’d hear of her through hunter gossip and come looking for her. But he hadn’t. After getting free of Coruscant, she’d been able to find info on him, on his failed stint with Mereel’s Haat’ade, a conflict with the Jedi that inevitably left the entire movement dead in the water. She heard tell of him as a bounty hunter, and maybe a few times, she’d put out summons in the grapevine. But he never responded. And then, she’d realized, when he had the weight of the Haat’ade behind him, he hadn’t come looking for her. He thought her dead. But she wasn’t important enough to avenge, not like Mereel’buir. 

Haat’ade… True Mandalorians? She scoffed at the name. There were no truer Mandalorians than her buir’e, and the little guys who could never do Mando stuff right, who didn’t have enough mandokar, whatever that meant. No one –not Death Watch, not the Haat’ade, not the New Mandalorians, not the Children of the Watch, no one– could claim to be true Mandalorians if they had no respect for the Mandos they trampled on the front lines of their ideological battles.

Mandalorian politics was like poetry. It always rhymed, because Mandos who minded their own business, brewing Tihaar and fishing to make gihaal and mining Beskar and weaving kute’se, were the ones who died first. And no one was in any rush to say their remembrances. 

“Ni su'cuyi, gar kyr'adyc, ni partayli, gar darasuum, Hana Fett, Laari Fett,” she whispered. 

She sometimes said remembrances for Ja’ika Fett as well, because she was sure that the person she’d known as a child had long since died, smothered by a Haat’ade helmet. But enough people remembered the last Mand’alor. It wasn’t like she needed to as well. 

Her comm rang, breaking her from her thoughts. As she was currently armorless and topless, she didn’t answer the call. She had a newfangled ‘voicemail’ system installed in her ship comms, so once the caller gave up, they left a message and she leaned up to hear it. 

You have 1 New Message! 

Sender: [email protected]

It had two components, one video and one textual. She played the video first. 

A prim and proper human lady with ghostly blue eyes and a gray uniform stood in front of her, the blue of hyperspace making the hologram a bit hard to make out. 

“Greetings, Arla Karr. We are pleased to offer you an opportunity with the newly formed Deserter Affairs Commission. We believe your skills would be a great boon to us as we prevent deserting clones from interfering with the war effort. Attached is more information about our offer. I hope to hear back from you soon.” 

The hologram shut off, and she viewed the attached text. 

To: [email protected]

Subject: Available Bounty – Desertion Affairs

To Arla, 

After looking through your history and skillsets, the Republic would like to offer you an opportunity working for us as a clone catcher. With deserters already appearing so early into this war, we are willing to pay any price for your help in capturing them. 

Reply with your decision, and we will send your first warrant. 

Sincerely,

Livo Syksyskyn, Desertion Affairs Commissioner.   

So there was a war now, huh? Great. She didn’t fuck with the Republic. Non-Republic space was more hospitable for bounty hunters anyway, and you were less likely to get in trouble with the big men of the galaxy. Some Republic systems had wanted to form their own version of the Republic; for what reason, Arla couldn’t say. The reasons for doing such a thing were never very original anyway. And the fact that the Republic cared more about its own hegemony, its own so-called unity, than what its constituents wanted left a very bad taste in her mouth. 

A war. She never paid much attention to these sorts of things, there was always a war somewhere, where politicians were greedy and people had no spine. Wars meant more jobs for her, though she never took the ones she believed would have her trampling on the little guy. She’d assassinate your king, you choose how violently. She’d lay traps. She’d decimate the enemy camp. She’d kill dozens of soldiers for you, but the moment you told her to kill a single defenseless villager, the deal was off. 

Deserters? Soldiers. Cowards. Hut’uune. And the Republic would keep giving her more of these jobs. They’d likely want them brought in alive, and though Ancient Queen was small, the cargo hold doubled as a brig. Soldiers were challenging opponents, but deserters wouldn’t have backup, and all she’d have to do was tire them out. 

As she opened a data pad to write her response, she gave herself a small pause to wonder why the Republic was so sure they’d have enough deserters to require a whole government council to be devoted to them. 

Re: Available Bounty – Desertion Affairs

I accept your kind offer. 

Ret'urcye mhi. 

To: [email protected]

Subject: Deserter Warrant for Clone Trooper A-45

To Arla, 

Thank you for joining our team! 

For your first task, we’d like you to track down and return to Clone Trooper Alpha-45. Attached is his warrant and all the information you might need to capture him. 

Please feel free to inquire further, I’m here to help!

Sincerely,

Livo Syksyskyn, Desertion Affairs Commissioner.   

The next morning, Arla read over the information on her mark. 

Clone trooper… She hadn’t known the Republic was using clones. Some early analysts were even calling this conflict ‘The Clone War.’ That’s what you missed by not following the news. 

Alpha-45, or A-45, had a sparse file. No images, just a description: Human, 1.83 meters, black hair, brown skin, brown eyes, round features. He’d be wearing armor, clone trooper armor, which was white and pseudo-Mandalorian in a way that made Arla irrationally angry. That armor had no identity, it was made of plastoid ! The report didn’t have any info on tattoos, armor markings, voice, weapons, a goddamn name . But there was a packet on the specifications of clone armor, the ranking system, stuff like that. At least that included footprints and specifications on clone behavior. What to look for, how they’d move. 

And, at least, she knew that A-45 had been last seen in the J-19 sector, over Saleucami. That’s where she’d look. 

She landed a short walk away from a small town and set to work, asking townsfolk if they’d seen a suspicious-looking human in white armor. None had, though Arla didn’t particularly believe them. Saleucami… This planet was no one’s first choice. She wondered idly how many of these people passing her by had bounties on their heads, and were lying about not seeing the clone, maybe just on principle out of a hatred for hunters. 

Could it be that someone was harboring him? She considered going through all the buildings, searching every corner for her mark. But as she thought to do so, a busy mother corralled her three kids as she tried to buy fruit, and an old man dozed on his front porch, and a shopkeeper left out some meat scraps for a stray Tooka. The idea of harming them in the name of her bounty left a bad taste in her mouth. 

And anyway, if there were wanted criminals here, wouldn’t they be more likely to turn in another as a bid for freedom, a reward from the Republic? A-45 would likely be avoiding settlements. He was a warrior, he’d take his chances in the wilds, with the Nexu that roamed this planet. 

So she changed her approach. She asked a few townsfolk at the local docking port if there had been any strange ships sighted. When she heard news of a gunship crash from a few days back –which roughly lined up with the start of the War– she knew where to go next. She flew out of town, leaving the people unharmed. 

The gunship was easy to find. It left a trail in the ground where it had crashed, debris thrown hundreds of meters away. The thing was absolutely totaled. It would never fly again, it was better as scrap. If she went back to the town, she’d tell the local scrap-men its location so they could have a payday.  

There’d been a battle at the site. Droid footprints encircled the ship, as did scorch marks and dropped weapons. She caught sight of a few crumpled corpses –in the gunship’s holding area, and in a patch of grass a good distance away– but she chose to ignore them. Because as she turned her head away from a corpse that’d clearly been feasted on by Nexu and vultures, she caught sight of a single trail of clone footprints heading away from the ship, with no sign of interruption. 

As Arla flew those miles, following the trail, she thanked the Ka’ra that there hadn’t been rain, or much wind. The prints were mostly untouched, and A-45 had been in too much of a rush to hide himself in any way. After about half an hour of flying, there appeared a white figure moving in the distance, along the bank of a river. 

She landed a good distance away and hid behind some plants, putting her viewfinder down. A-45’s back was to her, his face couldn’t be seen. He’d just finished bathing in the river, and was putting his clothes back on. A two piece, skintight black kute, followed by that fake Mando armor. A-45 had embellished it with pale, pale green, but did he even know that it meant duty? 

As he nearly completed putting on his armor, he went stiff, turning his head very slightly. Arla realized he’d seen her, and sprung from her hiding spot, using her jetpack to cross the distance. A-45 put his helmet back on and took off running, he was meters away by the time Arla arrived at his original spot. 

Arla took to the air, hovering at about fifty feet while she got her bearings. Viewfinder down, she spotted the white streak moving across gray-green ground. She gave chase and shot down at him. But he dodged swiftly, showing no signs of tiring. And he shot back, too, blue bolts forcing her out of the air. He had good aim, he could’ve hit her. 

As she landed, she switched approaches. She fired a small projectile missile, aiming for the ground close to him. When it hit, it forced him to flee from the debris. With him distracted, she shot stun rounds, and the third clipped his leg. He fell to the ground, but his armor prevented the blast from taking full effect. He was paralyzed from the waist down, but still conscious. 

That was good enough to end the chase. He crawled a few meters to a large tree and leaned against it, trying to push himself back onto his feet. Arla landed in front of him, blaster in one hand and binders in another, and he fell back down, defeat and failure washing over him. 

“A-45,” Arla announced, “You’ve violated your duty towards the Republic, and you’ve betrayed your fellow soldiers. I’m taking you back to Coruscant. You’re in no position to flee or fight, so I’ll give you two options. I can bring you in conscious by your own choice, or I can stun you and dose you up with drugs, let the Deserter Commission deal with waking you up,” she flicked her gun, “So?” 

“D–don’t hurt me, please,” he said in a soft voice, about to cry. “I’m sorry. I’ll do whatever you want–”

That voice… 

Ja’ika? 

She took a step back out of shock, keeping the gun pointed at A-45. Though she hadn’t seen Ja’ika in years, she knew what he sounded like, even as an adult. She knew it viscerally. So why did this clone sound almost exactly like him? 

“Take off your helmet,” Arla ordered. A-45 cowered, backing further against the tree in a vain attempt to escape her. She leaned down, ignoring how he trembled as she approached, found the locking mechanism under the jaw, and slowly pulled the helmet off his head. 

It wasn’t actually him. Ja’ika had died old, this was Ja’ika in his prime. And yet different. No sun marks. Weary circles under his eyes. Chapped lips. Frayed hair that hadn’t been washed right possibly ever. 

The Clone War. 

 She stepped back again. “Jango, what have you done?” 

He was just like him. He was just like the brother she’d lost. 

He was just like the men that got trampled in bigger men’s wars. 

She couldn’t. 

She stowed her gun and the binders. “I’ve changed my mind,” she announced. “I’m gonna turn my back for one minute. Be out of my sight by then, or I resume the chase. Once you’re gone, I’ll say you got a lucky shot.”

A-45 didn’t respond. He continued shaking, eyes wide, breath rapid and shallow. Arla was fairly sure he was too high on anxiety and dissociation to’ve comprehended the favor she was doing for him. And also, she remembered too late, his legs were still paralyzed. What kind of a sadist was she, asking a temporarily zero-legged man to ‘be out of her sight in one minute’ or she started chasing him again? 

Great! Not only was she giving up the bounty, she had to be nice about it! 

She took off her helmet and set it on the ground, then tossed her guns, vanguards, and binders beside it. A-45 barely reacted. 

Arla crouched in front of the clone, then eventually sat, resting from all the high octane chasing. She took a sip of water from a canteen, then tried to offer it to A-45 –he’d seen her drink from it, he had to know it wasn’t poisoned– and when he didn’t respond to her offer, she nonchalantly spilled a bit of water on his face just to break him out of his stupor. It didn’t work. 

She ended up waiting a while. She paced around the tree-stalk fifty times. Then she checked her gear. Then she checked his gear; his grip was slack enough that she easily pulled the blaster from his hands. It wasn’t a model she recognized, and it was almost brand new. And she supposed there was a perverse artistry in his pseudo-Mando plastoid armor. 

A few times, she caught herself staring at A-45. It felt wrong, him looking so much like Ja’ika, and yet being a whole different person. 

She’d heard that Ja’ika had spent his teenage years a slave. In a way, A-45 was too. 

And she could help with that. 

Arla collected her things, grabbed his helmet, and shot it, leaving a scorch mark on the white dome. There, now she could tell the Republic that he was dead, if they asked, and it wouldn’t be a complete lie. She crouched next to him and pulled him into a standing position, throwing his arm over her shoulders. He was still unsteady from the stun blast, he probably couldn’t walk very far even like this. He didn’t struggle, but his shallow breaths turned to deep ones. 

Haltingly, he said, “S–so that’s it? You’re taking me in?” 

Arla shook her head. “The Republic can stand to lose one clone, can’t it?” 

She activated her jetpack and took to the air, holding A-45 tightly so he wouldn’t fall. He held onto her as well, though Arla knew it was nothing more than a safety measure, him not wanting to fall. This was not Ja’ika. A-45 would probably not want to see her ever again. 

Then again, the same had been true for Ja’ika as well. 

After two miles in the air, she saw a fence. Then, trees different from the flora surrounding them, growing in too planned a formation to not be a farmer’s fields. Finally, she saw a homestead; a small house and a nearby barn. She lighted down in the fields and placed A-45 against one of the fruit trees. It was Nexu season, it wasn’t safe for him to be out at night, but this homestead had good fences and A-45 was probably hungry. If he needed shelter, the stables were nearby. 

“Again, I’m sorry about this,” she said, “I hope you manage to find a good life, far away from their war.” 

A-45 nodded. “Thank you.” 

She walked further into the fields, far enough away that the sound of her jetpack activating wouldn’t alert the farmer. She jetted back to Ancient Queen , took off her armor, and left Saleucami. 

There were other clones like A-45. If there weren’t, there wouldn’t be a reason for the Deserter Affairs Commission. There were others like A-45, just looking to get away from a bigger man’s war they had no say in. There were other hunters less scrupulous than her, who wouldn’t be stopped by a sad, familiar face. There was more money to be gained. There were more deserters to hunt. 

But she , at least, wouldn’t be doing this again. She couldn’t live with herself if that was even an option.

To: [email protected]

I encountered A-45 on Saleucami and accidentally killed him in the struggle. 

Due to personal circumstances, I am unable to continue working for the Republic. Thank you for understanding. Do not contact me about deserter warrants again. 

Ret'urcye mhi. 

Sent!