[Centre][h2][color=silver][b]Tipoca City Military Complex, Kamino, 22 BBY[/b][/color][/h2] [img]https://i.pinimg.com/736x/f8/71/be/f871be362b2d992a43fa0dc3cf070999.jpg[/img] [@The Whacko][@CaptainBritton][@Deadnaut][@f0un][@Ibzan][@Bastian][/centre] [i]"We all knew that [i]something[/i] was happening, we just couldn't fathom what, don't think even our flat-faced Kaminoan handlers or even our training instructors did either; it wasn't long after that Jedi had come to visit, the man who was our genetic template leaving us for the wider galaxy without so much as a word – I suppose his job was done after all – a feeling of agitation... of an oppressive but intangible sense of cogs turning over the galactic horizon... It was barely a week before Geonosis that we began to be trained all that much harder by those we – at least some of us – had come to see as surrogate parents, completely unaware that soon we would be engaging the Separatist Army across a dust-filled hellscape, muzzle-to-muzzle, programmed robot against their organic opposite, a literal baptism by firepower. How could we have known, how could any of us have known, that very soon the most mature of us would be taken from our barracks with barely a fraction of us returning to Kamino?"[/i] - Anonymous Clone, 105th Journal CT-6619, considered to be one of the more thoughtful (though still within parameters, of course) soldiers of 4/2nd Battalion – a mere designation without meaning, at least until they were called upon to fight in an official capacity – field stripped his Deece once more, taking apart and laying out each separate component with as much ease as one might consume protein rations in the mess hall; of course it had been implanted into all of them, just one of a hundred necessary skills to function as elite soldiers in the Grand Army of the Republic, the maintaining of ones weapon wrote in genetic code which could not be removed. He had been at it for hours, yet he was paying as much concentration to act as a child might, his focus turned inwardly as it usually was and his mind working faster than his hands. Ever since the departure of their progenitor he had been pondering on things he knew the Kaminoans would find unsightly, well aware of what happened to those clones found to be anything less than perfect and perfectly obedient, unable or unwilling to shake the thoughts and feelings that it was only a matter of time now until... until... well, he didn't know! All he knew was that the long-necks were getting more worked up in their attitude, more strenuous in their perfection of the next batch of clones, the cadre of Mandalorians and others becoming more savage in their methods and the little trips to the Citadel Challenge course more regular – slowly he reached up and traced one of the many scars he had received recently, a grim expression on his face. Instructor Jendri had imbued he and his brothers with the customs and culture of his people, in a genetic sense of [i]his[/i] people though he was a clone, but even the father-like giant had been more unforgiving and brutal over the last couple of months. Six-six-one-nine didn't blame him however, believing that he had most likely been instructed to by those above him in the hierarchy, the training they received from their [i]alor[/i] nothing in the way of 'soft' at the best of times, although usually accompanied by some form of moral or psychical lesson to go along with it. Speaking of which... The other members of Rawl Squad would in all likelihood already be at training room 7-2-12 by now, six-six-one-nine having just snapped out of his reverie to realise where he had to be, scooping up his yellow-visored practise helmet and returning his blaster rifle to the barracks armoury. Time for training... again. [i]Such is the life of a clone.[/i]