Pure, uncut joy, that’s what I’m feeling right now.
Can’t see it under the helmet, though.
Their loss.
They wouldn’t get it anyway.
And it’s not just me either, the rest of the Alphas are reacting to this in their own way.
Sorry, not just Alphas, ARC troopers too.
A whole company plus change, by my old world’s standards.
The entire A series, plus a handful of standout mixed recruits pulled in from other batches.
We’re flying.
You really have to feel this one, words don’t quite cover it.
There’s an actual village down there.
Grass.
Less rain than usual.
And a genuinely blue sky.
And best of all, no more durasteel walls, no more ceilings lined with light fixtures.
Which means, no more paste synthesizer pretending to taste like something it isn’t.
Which means real MEAT.
SPICES.
GRILLED MEAT ON A STICK.
AAAAAAA!
Honestly, I’m ready to forgive the week in the brig, or whatever the local equivalent’s called, that Fett handed us the second we landed back.
That was the moment I truly understood the whole concept of punishing everyone involved and rewarding absolutely nobody.
Look, I get it from his side.
He had to stash us somewhere out of sight, couldn’t parade us in front of the rest, because if the other Alphas found out that a batch of green recruits from a mixed set of series had pulled a fast one on seven dozen seasoned Mandalorians, we’d have been dismantled for spare parts out of pure jealousy.
I’m not the only one who’s noticed this either.
With so little else to react to, clone emotions, even genetically dampened, still run stronger than you’d expect.
Especially among the Alphas.
No real limits on them at all, which is exactly how you end up growing a batch of moral extremists with full blown hero complexes.
No wonder they soak up Mandalorian culture like sponges.
On the way back, dead silent the whole trip, Jango simply told us to keep quiet and let any questions go straight to him, Fett had personally pulled us out, whatever that meant, where and how were his business to explain, not ours.
No idea who tipped things off, but security got ramped up dramatically after that.
Every corridor in the training center got camera coverage, and for our whole batch specifically, the earliest, most experimental group, they added mandatory night patrols and monitor duty alongside a floor security officer.
Keeps one person alert and the other one honest, apparently.
Turns out we weren’t the only ones who’d managed to get our hands on armor, or worse, live weapons.
Anyone caught even attempting to grab a set of training lining from the Citadel got personally promised extra instruction from Jango Fett himself, delivered liberally to anyone caught sniffing around the warehouses.
We got through it relatively unscathed.
Mostly because we’d flown clear to the other side of the planet.
Literally.
Nobody could even reach us out there.
Not that any instructor would have guessed we’d manage to get outside at all, which made our tiny, quickly disbanded team’s little stunt land even harder.
We spent a full week cleaning the parade ground.
All of it.
Something like a square kilometer, maybe more.
By hand.
Every single day.
Dench seemed genuinely thrilled about it, I used the time to work on my patience, and the rest just did what they were told without complaint.
Grumbling, sure, but they did it.
The parade ground, for its part, had seen its fair share of vomit and occasionally blood over the years.
A lot of the Mandalorian instructors clearly believed a calm tone paired with creative, borderline incomprehensible insults got better results than just barking orders.
We scrubbed away the evidence.
Back in our quarters, people mocked us at first, then pitied us, but nobody actually bothered us over it.
Small mercy, I managed to find a flavor combo close enough to chocolate again.
On a brand new synthesizer this time, someone had wrecked the old one.
Honestly, I’m hopeless with this stuff.
Turns out this one takes voice commands too.
We’re so used to just pressing buttons.
Anyway, I asked it for the chocolate milk combo KS-8851 had loaded in the day before.
After the machine cycled through basically every dish it thought I might want, practically down to my last nerve trying to get Alpha’s actual task done, I finally remembered the flavor name and number.
Some garbled string of syllables.
Ordered a mix of that with something close to cow’s milk, and got an actual, honest to god cup of cocoa.
More like pudding in texture, weirdly swamp green in color, but hey.
Life’s looking up.
Would still kill for a real bowl of stew someday, but that dream feels pretty distant right now.
Based on what the instructors are hinting at, we’re headed into survival training, tactical exercises, the works.
Honestly, this is exactly where everything I remember from my old life finally gets to matter.
But the real kicker, and this part’s non-negotiable apparently, our little group of five got designated permanent platoon leads.
Let me explain that properly.
Squad leaders rotate constantly so everyone gets a turn in command, but we’re the ones actually commanding those squad leaders.
Not that we were the only ones considered, but Fett didn’t budge on it.
Dench got assigned to demolitions, Nest got shipped off to headquarters as a coordinator, planning and directing the rest of us, Fifty-One went to assault infantry, and Drill, well, that one turned into a genuine mystery.
Nobody, including Drill himself, fully understood how a hacker-slash-technician-slash-driver ended up assigned to the medical corps.
Probably his wound had something to do with it.
Me, after they read off which unit I’d be attached to, and getting clearance to modify my own armor for the duration of training, I walked straight to the quartermaster’s, where I’d apparently earned instant access.
Talked them into a set of paints, a couple sheets of polyplast for stencils, and worked out a full digital camo pattern for the armor.
Plus a bat symbol on the shoulder plate.
Didn’t show anyone yet, figured we’d wait until we’re actually planetside to celebrate.
Heh.
Just wait, I’ll paint that bat symbol everywhere I possibly can.
Assuming I don’t get myself killed in the process.
Well, I’ll at least try not to.
Nest, meanwhile, has drifted a bit from the rest of us, understandably, clean uniform now, staff officer, practically a stranger already.
Fair enough, let him have it.
Funny enough, his callsign stuck as Drill somewhere along the way, and now he’s insufferably proud of it.
Our transport, also worth mentioning, a CR90 corvette, hauled all the way out just for us from Rishi.
Basically a shuttle bus with delusions of grandeur.
Anyway, first things first, I got completely stumped and wedged into a corner of my own thoughts again.
Why?
Because sometimes you just need to ask the right question.
So I went and asked the med droid in the infirmary straight up, how does this whole growth thing actually work.
Got a full breakdown about amino acids, thiamine, cobalamin, way more than I needed.
Cut through the science and got the actual answer, our maturation period wraps up in about a year, roughly our eighth birthday by count.
Until then, unless a clone series is fully genetically stabilized in a particular direction, all kinds of developmental quirks are still possible.
That explained a lot, honestly, though I’ll dig into it further eventually.
Still missing pieces of the puzzle.
I can already picture it, marching in neat columns down the landing strip, getting actual leave time in the city near the spaceport, also called Rishi apparently.
Already loving this place sight unseen.
And then we hit the drop zone.
Wait, what?
What does “combat ready” actually mean here?
I snap into motion instantly, activate the comlink, lock my helmet, clip the power cell onto the harness.
Waiting on a signal, either through the datapad, there it is, tucked into my webbing, or over comms.
Right then, the PA system crackled to life with Master Walon’s voice.
“Cadets!
Your training at this new location begins now.
Congratulations.
Full briefing data goes to your commanders once you’re on the ground.
Good luck.
Vode an.” “For surface deployment, line up for jetpack distribution!” Another voice, sounds like Master Isa this time.
Guess I’m running point on this one.
Well, if we’re jumping, we’re jumping.
Back in my old life I’d done exactly four jumps.
Two training, one combat, one drunk.
Quit drinking entirely after that last one.
And honestly, I’ve always hated heights.
Not here though.
Not anymore.
Let’s find out.
Orders coming from every direction.
Stand up, straighten the line, report to your squad leads.
I fall right into it.
Line up my scouts, hand out packs from the container wedged between the benches lining the cargo hold.
Double check every harness personally, and we take position at the folding ramp.
Everyone needs to know how to work these things.
Nest feeds me instructions over the company channel almost immediately.
Objective’s simple, land, form a defensive perimeter, adjust from there based on whatever intel comes through the datapads.
Genuinely impressive gear, by the way.
Like our old tablets, but way more capable.
I run one more gear check, tighten everything down, secure every strap.
Our job as the assault element is holding the perimeter, we jump first, hit the ground, and spread out immediately.
However secure that landing zone and rally point turns out to be depends entirely on us.
Everyone set?
Good.
First jumper goes, second goes, fifth, seventh, twenty third…
I go last.
I step to the edge of the ramp and can’t help smiling.
Below me, the terrain looks almost like rugged highland country back home.
Almost familiar, if you ignore the fact that these ridgelines run for what looks like hundreds of kilometers, tangling into lowland jungle and swamp mixed with deciduous forest.
Not even fully in my own voice, I shout “Geronimo!!” and jump.
Five seconds in, clean fall.
Yes!
Beautiful!
What height did they drop us from anyway, about a kilometer?
Not taking any chances here.
This tactical helmet is genuinely incredible tech.
Altimeter, artificial horizon, everything built in, so long as it actually locks onto gravity properly, otherwise it’s known to latch onto the nearest strong geomagnetic source instead and treat that as “down,” which is exactly as bad as it sounds.
I lock my arms at my sides and drop straight toward the ground.
First jumper’s already landed.
Fine, emotions later, focus now.
Breathe in, breathe out.
Work the problem.
Whoever’s already down provides a beacon for the rally point, coordinates given ahead of time, landing error’s minimal.
No smoke signals here, just radio direction finding, same helmet doing double duty again.
Wish I’d had gear like this back in my old life.
A red flash lights up across the visor, time to deploy.
I trigger the pack, flip upright, feet down, a couple seconds of hard deceleration, touchdown.
Sprint to the beacon, unclip the pack.
Expensive drop gear.
Very expensive.
“Squad leads, report to me!” I call out.
I assign sectors and send everyone scattering.
Ten minutes on the clock.
I leave one fighter on the beacon, push out to set the second and third markers as we spread.
Glancing up, the transport’s already circling for another pass, more troops dropping already.
Recon reports rolling in.
Everyone’s in position, all quiet, holding steady.
We wait.
I look up at the sky.
They’re coming down beautifully.
You really do have to see it to believe it.
com/Hezzario