Rude Awakening

He didn’t remember losing consciousness, it was as if he had blinked and everything around him had suddenly changed. The flames from the blast had died down considerably and despite the soft crackling emanating from the charred core of the impact crater an eerie quiet had settled over the hazy clearing.  Muted blaster fire rang out in the distance but it seemed the battle was either running out of combatants to reap or shifting elsewhere for the time being.
As CT-4397 blinked away the pain he was aware of being curled up against one of the Umbaran tentacle-trees, the one he’d been thrown against when the blast had hurled him back.  He felt hot liquid pooling in the top portion of his bodysuit and with it an intensely sharp throbbing sensation engulfing his right side. He tried to move his right arm, resulting only in an excruciating spasm that left him gasping vainly for reprieve.  When it had lessened a small degree, he clenched his teeth and looked wildly about for his blaster.  There!  It wasn’t far and seemed still to be intact.  With his left arm he hastily pulled himself towards it but made sluggish progress.  Just as his hand was mere inches from the barrel, an unfamiliar boot stomped it into the dirt and kicked it out of reach.
He looked up into the barrel of a different blaster and the bitter face of the Umbaran wielding it.
“Surrender, clone.”
The Umbaran spoke gravely, looking more disgusted than angry in the bizarre green light of the helmet.
4397 thought on this – he’d heard horror stories about Separatist POW camps – quickly weighing his bleak options before catching sight of a familiar silhouette rapidly descending towards his antagonist.  Glaring defiantly at the enemy grunt, the vibroblade snapped forth from his clenched fist revealing his decision.
Never.
“Suit yourself.”
The sheer velocity of this third party’s attack was inhuman.  The enemy soldier had barely touched the trigger when an even longer vibroblade impaled his skull with explosive force.  The impact of the collision rammed him bodily into the dirt with a sickening crunch.   The dust settled quickly, revealing his twisted savior.  The trooper before him, partially illuminated by the murky, pulsing red light of the massive tentacle-tree, was still crouched upon the dispatched Umbaran’s back, wriggling the stained blade to free it from the fractured helmet – proving a more worthy opponent than it’s owner – before successfully wrenching the knife from its grasp.
There was something exceptionally uncanny about the lifeless head jerking back and forth with each tug of the blade, colliding with the back of the helmet, a vacant expression on his bloody face as it pressed limply against the cracked visor.  The sight made him nauseous.
“Kriffin’ buy’ce…” the man muttered as he nonchalantly discarded the corpse and started towards 4397, who had instinctively scrambled backwards out of the way and was sorely tempted to do so again.
The mouthpiece of the trooper’s helmet, painted to resemble teeth, was streaked with blood, glistening as it collected on the rims of the helmet’s air filters.  The words “I HUNGER” in Aurebesh were etched above his visor.  If that wasn’t creepy enough the armor plates of his blood-spattered torso were painted like a ribcage and spinal column.  His skeletal appearance combined with the hellish light of the tree-tentacle gave this man the look of death incarnate.
“Still breathin’ flak-magnet?” his rescuer demanded, the distortion of the air filters giving his guttural voice a monstrous timbre.
“Yeah, ah…thanks,” he rasped tightly, eyeing his grisly equal with caution.  “It’s Overkill, right?”
The clone in question nodded curtly and jammed a painkiller sharp into the other’s deltoid muscle.  4397 flinched from the shock but was thankful for the transitory relief, even as someone menacing as Overkill saw to his injuries.  Having witnessed first hand evidence substantiating the man’s reputation as a ruthless berserker, 4397 was surprised as the supposed monster tossed him his own half-empty water pouch.  Questioning this unexpectedly generous behavior, he realized dismally that his own had ruptured from the impact and that he was maddeningly thirsty.
He could only stomach a third of what remained.  The unsettling sight and metallic stench of his own blood combined with the lukewarm water in his mouth made him gag, but Overkill insisted on threat of mercy killing that he should regain the fluids.  He commenced once more with the drinking and felt a fist against the pressure point beneath his right arm. The gauntlet and remaining sleeve tugged free as bare, calloused fingers gently prodded the exposed portions of torn flesh.   Quickly a packet of clotting agent was applied to his shoulder and upper arm, and a snug tourniquet to the latter. Even with the painkiller setting in the clotting agent burned something horrible.  Everything ached but he hadn’t even realized how bad his shoulder was until it had been applied.
“Through and through,” Overkill determined, fastening sterile wraps temporarily cover the wounds.  “But I can’t see worth a damn out here and I’ve not got the tools to dig out whatever’s left.  This’ll hold ‘til we reach the base,” he stated dryly as he carefully eased the arm into a makeshift sling, looping it through the gauntlet and damaged cylinder of plastiod armor for further analysis and tucking the broken pieces into his utility belt.  He then used the discarded sleeve to fasten the sling firmly against the clone’s chest to keep it from shifting.
“Best we hurry though, you look like osik.”
He didn’t know the exact translation of osik, but given the negative context the conclusion wasn’t promising.
“Thanks for the confidence boost.”
“Sure thing.  Can you walk?”
“Think so.  Wait, we’ve taken the base?” 4397 asked as Overkill hauled him to his feet. He groaned, latching even tighter onto his comrade’s arm when the pressure and sharpness of something lodged beneath his shoulder blade ground against his ribs as he shifted.  Pinpricks of light danced in his vision and the world spun.  He bit his cheek to keep from crying out.
Overkill steadied him, looking him over.  The kid needed help badly, but by the time backup would have arrived the kid could be dead.  Not to mention he’d have to explain to Rex why he was out there to begin with. With his track record that was something he’d rather not do over the com-link.  His disposition and the Captain’s curdled each other, unsurprisingly, and while Rex had granted him the occasional freedom of scouting the perimeters or gathering intel on his own (perhaps to be rid of him for a spell), this was not one of those times.  Consequences upon his return were inevitable, especially with that bastard Jedi in charge, but at least if he carried the kid back there would be time to think of a more legitimate excuse than the actual reason he was out here.
Yes, option A was still a go.  Wasting no time he shouldered the ailing clone and knelt to pick up his bayoneted blaster before taking off.
“Damn it, mincemeat, how long you been out here?” he panted, sprinting towards the captured Umbaran citadel.
“Loh…longer than I thought,” he managed.
After a few seconds they passed another clearing.  Overkill felt 4397 tense up as they leapt over the bodies of other clones, victims of a similar blast not far from the one they’d come from.  An icy feeling sloshed in 4397’s gut as he glimpsed the patterns on what remained of their armor amidst the blur of debris – the remains of his Kamino squad laying dead in an impact crater.
Victor had been a kind leader and a good friend, and all that remained of him was a burnt heap of melting plastoid, one of his gauntlets, with his unique pinstripe design.  Jek was a hard worker and an avid bolo-ball enthusiast, but now his blackened remains were somewhere in the center of the crater.  The mouthpiece of his helmet with its diamond pattern protruded beneath Seti’s shin guard.  The rest of his leg and some of his torso were laying several feet away.  Mark’s unraveled innards were no longer inside of him but were sprawled around his still form – 4397 fought hard to down the vomit rising in his throat.
They’d vowed to stick together when the fighting commenced.  He’d fallen behind, got turned around in the confusion and caught in the cannon fire.  They must have come back looking for him.  All of them, dead on their first mission - all of their training, their lives had been for naught because of him. The only family he had.  Gone.  He quelled the rising panic by focusing on the immediate present. Time was of the essence and he could feel his strength ebbing away with each second.  The panic laughed at his attempt and returned tenfold.
“Wait!  Go back!” he pleaded weakly, “We should at least –”
“No time,” Overkill interrupted, “Move now, mourn later.  We’re not alone out here.”
After five solid minutes of intermittent jogging and sprinting Overkill hadn’t heard anything from his cargo.  He’d not heard anything but his own labored breathing reverberating in his helmet.  For all he knew the kid was dead.  It was time for a brief pit stop.  He picked a spot up a head with decent cover to check on the rookie.  Gasping for breath, he laid the young man out before him and checked his pulse – it was faint, way too faint.  He was pale too, sweaty and barely conscious but still alive.  His eyes were glazing over and threatened to roll back into his head.  Overkill would have none of it.
“Hey!” he barked hoarsely, startling 4397 and shaking his left shoulder none too gently, “One dead clone, know what that is?”
“Unnghhh…tragic, sir?” he murmured while Overkill made him finish the last of the water before they continued.
What else would it be?
“Acceptable losses.  We don’t mean osik to them.”
The kid’s condition was deteriorating as they sat there and the liquids could hardly compensate for what had been lost.  Despite failing to both formulate an alibi and catch his own breath during their short respite, Overkill decided it was already time to go.  At the pace they’d kept they’d make it to the hangars in another two minutes.
As he struggled to keep his eyes open he noticed Overkill, having briefly removed his helmet, was no less jarring to behold.  The features of his face, namely his cadaverous eyes and prominent cheekbones, were accentuated to the point of macabre abstraction by bold tattoos that gave him the sinister appearance of a Zabrack warrior.  His disheveled hair was slicked back with sweat but random tufts stuck out sharply at odd angles and could have passed for horns, adding to the comparison.  There were elements of the original Jango about him – the ferocity of the eyes, basic facial structure – but he was far from resembling the other clones in more ways than appearance.  Maybe that was the exhaustion talking.  Hell, he had no idea anymore.  This could be a nightmare.  Maybe his squad was still alive and looking for him at that very moment and he was still passed out under the tentacle-tree…
As thoughts and things began to blur he felt himself being pulled over a pair of shoulders once again.
“K’oyacyi, alright?”
As they resumed their journey 4397 deliriously wondered what k’oyacyi meant and whom “them” referred to.  The Umbarans?  The Separatists? The Republic?  The Jedi?  And with that trail of thought he was losing focus again, and before he could fight them the tendrils of darkness dragged him back into their blissful void.