Chapter Text
White Knight of the Guard
Summary: Every clone, for good or for ill, has a Jedi attached to their unit—with a very notable exception in the group which (unknowingly) needs that protection the most: The Coruscant Guard. The Force decides that this won’t do and nudges Its Favored Child into position to fix this.
In other words, Jedi Knight Feemor unwittingly inherited the tendency of both of his once-Masters to adopt every pathetic lifeform that comes his way. It just so happens that this time the lifeforms are many, identical, human-shaped, and don’t quite know that they’ve been forcibly (but politely!) adopted just yet.
Episode One:
The Force Provides A Knight
For the most part, Jedi Knight Feemor was content to follow the Will of the Force as It directed him to. Ever since he had been a youngling, he had been happy to let Its currents drag him hither and tither as It desired, connecting him with all his most important people and places. It was what had connected him to his first Master, Plo Koon, shoring the not-yet-Counselor's wavering faith in a Force that seemed to rarely care for those under Its banner. It was what had connected him to his second Master, Qui-Gon Jinn, who had needed a boost in his confidence so he could one day train one of the greatest Masters the Order would ever know. It was what had brought him to the many, many sentients that needed his help on the Outer Rim, destroying slave rings left and right with pinpoint precision until his name was as feared and hated by the Hutts as Nico Diath or Jon Antilles themselves.
On the other hand.
The Force also allowed Master Plo to be so grievously wounded in a mental attack that he and Feemor had to dissolve their Master-Padawan bond so neither lost themselves, further forcing Feemor to finish his Padawanship with a very different Master. It allowed Master Jinn to fumble his second attempt at teaching so badly that he outright denied ever having trained a Padawan in the first place, renouncing Feemor in the process. It had led to the deaths of multiple beings Feemor was trying to be a source of safety and comfort to, hundreds of lives that had long left to live, lost in the saving of their enslaved brethren.
This, of course, being a long and convoluted way to say that while Feemor trusted in the Force more than anything, he still found himself feeling overtly wary when nudged in a particular direction. The Force often forgot or ignored that the universe involved more than those It favored, and that was something Feemor had to take into account while following Its Will.
The Clone Wars brought a whole new level to this complicated relationship.
Having been neck-deep in dismantling a particularly fussy Hutt-owned slavery ring, it was almost six months into the Clone Wars that Feemor was finally able to contact the Jedi Council. Although, why the Force insisted he had to do so at what was just before dawn for the section of space he was in and near midnight in Coruscant time, he wasn’t quite sure.
“Masters,” he greeted with a low, sweeping bow as the holocall connected, peering through his bangs to see who would greet him. He was pleasantly surprised to see not only the expected holograms of Master Mace Windu and Master Yoda, but also those of his dear Master Plo and his Padawan-brother Obi-Wan Kenobi.
“Knight Feemor,” answered Mace with a nod in return. Feemor liked to imagine his once-crechemate’s expression softened upon seeing him even though such small details were hard to decipher through long-range calls such as this. “We are glad to see you well.”
Feemor felt his mouth kick up without his input and nodded at each Master in turn. “And it is a relief to myself, as well, Master Mace, Grand-Master Yoda, Master Obi-Wan. Koh-to-yah, Master Plo. I am sorry not to have contacted you sooner, but it took some time to settle things out here, even with Antilles’s help.”
“Koh-to-yah, my dear Padawan,” greeted Master Plo in return, fondly clicking his mandibles. “I can assume, from your words, that tales of Master Antilles’s death were greatly exaggerated?”
“As always,” Feemor wryly agreed; being one of the few Jedi frequenting the Outer Rim who still had semi-regular contact with the Jedi Order, he was often the one to correct those rumors. He tucked his hands into the sleeves of his robes and peered curiously around at the four before him. “I wish we had more time for pleasantries, but the Force has been rather…insistent that I speak to you at this time in particular. Are any of you aware of why that would be?”
There was a general air of surprise from the four Masters, for all they outwardly gave little sign of it. Master Yoda’s ears flexed exactly once, and Obi-Wan reached up to stroke his beard without making eye contact. Master Plo hmm’d in a way that would have been sub-vocal without his antiox mask’s vocoder. Mace was the only one to remain stoic, but it was entirely possible his eye twitched between flickers of the holo.
“Discussing the particulars of certain regiment’s assignments, we were,” Master Yoda eventually offered. He clicked his claws slowly on his grimer stick, one at a time, in a beat only he knew. “The strangeness of how perfect they seem to be, to be precise. Perfectly suited for myself and my mission, Lieutenant Thire was, when to Rugosa we went.”
“Commander Ponds always seems to know when to pull my attention off of the smaller picture into the larger one,” Mace agreed, words slow and precise. Feemor was surprised to see him openly grimace immediately afterward. “He also has the uncanny ability to sense when I am attempting to work through a Shatterpoint-induced migraine, as well as how to either coax me through it or distract me from it.”
“My dear Wolffe is a blessing I do not deserve,” said Master Plo, smile crinkling the skin around his goggles as his mandibles once more gave a few fond clicks. “He has an attention to detail I often lack and his blunt words are so very refreshing.” The smile slowly dropped and the clicking slowed to something more mournful. “He has given much of himself and his men since this dreadful war began, and I cannot help but admire his resolve to continue despite that.”
There was a brief breath, Obi-Wan visibly hesitating as all four of the others on the call turned to him. “I have often said that Commander Cody is a good man, and a good soldier; I am lucky to have him at my side,” is what he eventually volunteered. With how much the Stewjoni Jedi tried to downplay his attachments to others (Feemor felt a brief flare of frustration at their once-Master Jinn, which he carefully cataloged, worked through, and then released into the Force over the span of a breath), it was practically a glowing endorsement.
“It is very good to hear that you have such trust and love for your men,” Feemor offered (he had to once more work through the frustration that bubbled at Obi-Wan’s near-panicked look at the word ‘love’), quirking a brow, “but I’m not quite sure I understand how this ties into why I needed to call. Unless you have a spare Commander lying around for me?”
It was meant as a joke, but Feemor was nearly bowled over by the Force’s reaction, the sense of yesyesYESyesYOURSyesyesyesYESYESyesYOURCOMMANDERyesyesYES making him physically sway. He shook his head once, twice, thrice before he was able to focus back on the Council members. Mace was rubbing at his temples with the familiar, pinched look of a cracked Shatterpoint, Master Plo had lifted one hand in an aborted attempt to reach out, and Obi-Wan looked a bit dazed in the way those gifted with the Unifying Force did after a minor vision. Master Yoda’s ears perked forward and up in excitement, a familiar, mischievous grin on his face.
“Spoken, the Force has, hmmm?” said the Grand-Master, more than a little sly. “A Commander, for you, there is. Find them, we must.”
“I will speak to Wolffe immediately,” Master Plo offered, having lowered his hand and now smiling again behind his mask. Feemor found himself matching it without really meaning to, a little punch-drunk and riding off the joy in the Force that swelled only slightly less intently than It had before. “One of his batch-brothers, Commander Colt, is a trainer on Kamino and will likely be able to gather a list of those not yet assigned to a Jedi with all due haste.”
“Don’t bother,” Mace said on a grunt, still rubbing at his temples, as the sound of a door clattering open and an accented ‘Sir!’ echoed from his end. He had a wry sort of ‘see?’ look on his face, obviously referencing his earlier statement about his Commander’s ability to know when he was reeling from a Shatterpoint, and after quickly schooling his expression called over his shoulder, “Commander Ponds, as always, you are precisely on time. Please join us.”
There was a pause before a new holo formed in the call. It was the first time Feemor was seeing one of the cloned soldiers outside of blurry pictures off of scant news articles he was able to find on the Outer Rim, and the first thought he had was surprise at how tall the Trooper was, practically towering over his Padawan-brother and coming up to Feemor’s own shoulders—a rare feet for any human-or-near, given his own species’s natural height (there was a giggle from the Force of …little short for a stormrooper… that was such pure nonsense that he could only ignore it; it wasn’t the first time the Force sent him an echo of a non-sequitur and it certainly wouldn’t be the last). His second thought was that he really should have looked into whom the troops were cloned from, because seeing a younger, taller, bald and unscarred Jango Fett looking at him was very unnerving, considering. Well.
Fett had often taken contracts from the Hutts, who did not take kindly to Feemor and his ilk’s tendency to break their supply lines. He tried not to think too hard about that.
“Generals,” greeted the man who was not Fett, saluting quickly once he realized who all was on the call.
“At ease, Commander,” Obi-Wan said, openly amused, “and thank you for joining us.”
“You’re…welcome, Sirs.” It was obvious the Trooper didn’t quite know what to say, considering his inclusion was not planned, but he obediently dropped his salute and shifted into parade-rest. “What can I do for you?”
“Introductions first, I believe,” Master Plo interjected with a little bow. “I do not think we have met. I am Jedi General Plo Koon of the 104th Battalion, he/him, and the being before you is Jedi Knight Feemor, who has no preferred pronouns but often goes by he/him for convenience’s sake.”
“Commander Ponds, designation CC-6454, of the 91st Reconnaissance Corps, Sirs,” the clone introduced, once more going to salute only to stop mid-motion and lower his arm again. “Uh, he/him, I guess?”
“A pleasure to meet you, Commander,” said Feemor, trying hard to ignore the ice on his spine at the introduction. A designation number made sense with the sheer amount of clones there were, given there were only so many names in the galaxy, but it reminded him too much of slaves he had freed who were told they did not deserve a name due to their station in life to make him anything but uncomfortable. “Apologies if we have taken you from your duties.”
Ponds looked genuinely startled at his words. “Kih’par—I mean, no problem at all, General Feemor. Serving the Jedi and the Republic is my duty. What can I help you with?”
Feemor couldn’t help but make a face at the military title. “If you could…please not call me ‘General’. Just Feemor is fine, or, if you must insist on formalities, Knight Feemor or Jedi Feemor are acceptable.” His grimace turned into a wry smile. “I do not take titles I have not rightfully earned.”
There was a little cough from Obi-Wan that sounded suspiciously like “Master Feemor,” but the Knight graciously ignored him. He had not finished the final requirement to take that step and wasn’t planning to do so any time soon, no matter what his Padawan-brother attempted to conjole him into.
“As you say, Gen…ah, Knight Feemor,” said Ponds, looking a little sheepish at his immediate mistake. Feemor just smiled and nodded in appreciation of the effort.
“Called you for a reason, we did,” Master Yoda cut in, tapping his gnarled cane pointedly on the ground. He was notably leaning heavier on it than he had before the Commander’s introduction to the call, but none of the Jedi dared to comment on that. “Tell us, you will, of your fellow Commanders, hmmm?”
Ponds visibly startled and then—curiously—his expression, previously somewhat open, closed off. “Sir. Permission to speak freely?”
“Granted, as always, Ponds,” Mace said, his eyes slightly narrowed. Immediately, Ponds leaned forward, form visibly tense even though he was covered neck-to-toe in armor.
“Did one of my brothers do something wrong?” he asked bluntly. All four Jedi startled at the question, but Ponds either didn’t notice or ignored them, continuing to speak before they could answer. “If they did, Sirs, I respectfully request that we be allowed to correct this behavior on our end before a formal complaint is filed. Some of them are still freshly off Kamino and don’t understand how natborns interact yet, so any error they commit is likely an accident rather than a sign of disrespect…”
“None of your brothers have done anything wrong,” Obi-Wan interrupted, looking a little overwhelmed. “If they had, we would have brought it up to them or their direct superior officer, not gone behind their back to—to tattle on them, if you excuse the word.”
The relief was immediate, betrayed by the slight slump to Ponds’s shoulders and loosening lines of his face. It almost immediately returned, however. “Apologies for the assumption, then, Sirs, but if not that, why do you ask? …so I can most efficiently give you the information you need.”
The Jedi exchanged brief looks, but did not comment on the tacked-on reasoning. None of them seemed to know where to start, so with a silent sigh and a small smile, Feemor took over the conversation.
“Commander Ponds, I do not know how familiar with the Force you are,” he began, smile widening slightly at the involuntary twitch on the soldier’s face that suggested not very much at all, “but I am particularly gifted in an aspect of It called the Cosmic Force. This gives me a…unique insight that my fellow Jedi do not have, by allowing me to receive more direct messages than the vaguer feelings and premonitions most others in the Order experience.”
“Oh…kay?” said Ponds, slowly, visibly turning that information over in his mind. “And it’s telling you that…I need to tell you about the other Clone Commanders?”
Feemor nodded, a bit sheepish in the face of the Commander’s not-quite-hidden incredulousness. “Specifically, It is telling me to find…well.” He pulled his hands out of his sleeves and rubbed at the back of his neck, grateful that none on the call could see his blush through their holos. “To be blunt, It has made been made very clear that I must meet one of them in particular. We simply need to find out which one.”
There was a beat of silence as Ponds digested that. “Permission to speak freely?”
“Still granted, Ponds,” Mace said, now slightly amused at whatever he was sensing from his Commander.
“Why can’t it just tell you who you need?” asked Ponds, with the particular brand of skeptical exhaustion that only those who worked closely with Force-gifted individuals could achieve. “If the Force speaks directly to you, why do you need me involved at all?”
“In mysterious ways, works the Force,” Master Yoda offered, ears wriggling in amusement. “Attempt to speak to us, It does, but easily understood, It is not. Gifted in interpreting Its messages, Knight Feemor is, but understand only so much can he. At times, a nudge is needed. Your words, this nudge will be.”
“The only bit that is clear is that our Commanders are right where they need to be,” said Master Plo serenely. He almost immediately ruined the image of untouchable Jedi Master when he chuckled and smiled, openly creasing his face. “Which I personally find a relief. I am not sure I would be able to give up my Wolffe so easily, no matter what the Force may Will.”
Ponds looked sharply at Mace, who stared back silently with a raised eyebrow and an agreeing duck of his head. Feemor was amused to hear the Force humming contently at both Master Plo’s possessive words and Mace’s obvious agreement that he, too, would not give up his Commander without a fight. He was just as amused to see Ponds look flustered, but pleased, before he schooled his face and cleared his throat.
“So how should I do this?” he asked, turning back to Feemor. He was notably more relaxed than he had been since before Master Yoda’s ill-received opening statement. “Should I just start listing names and designations, or…?”
Feemor hummed quietly, reaching to the Force to see what It had to say. He received a quiet anticipation in return, still with the background hum of yoursyoursfindhimYOURcommanderFINDHIMfindYOURS, and tried to reach deeper for a better answer. An exaggerated cough from Obi-Wan interrupted him before he could get a response—which was almost certainly for the best. Sometimes Feemor reached too far and lost himself for minutes to hours at a time when riding the Eddies of the Force, and this was not the time nor the place for that.
“I suppose it would be as good a place to start as any,” he said, blinking a few times as he came back to himself. He was a little flattered to see Ponds looking concerned at his brief break from the ‘Here and Now’, which both Master Jinn and Master Yoda repeatedly reminded him to stay in.
“Alright,” said the soldier, slowly. “We’ll start with those from my Commander batch, I suppose.” He cleared his throat, as if to prepare himself in some way, before settling more firmly into his parade rest. “CC-1134, Marshal Commander Bacara, is the highest-ranked in our training batch.”
The Force swelled a firm negative, making Feemor frown. “I believe he is already where he is meant to be.”
Ponds blinked at the immediate dismissal, but nodded. “CC-1004, Commander Gree?”
A much firmer negative, nearly a shout this time, and Feemor winced. “No, no. He’s with his Jedi already.”
Another blink, this time with Ponds narrowing his eyes. “CC-7016, Commander Monnk.”
The Force’s almost terrified screech made Feemor full-on stumble, and he quickly waved his hand at the concerned jolts from his holocall companions. “I’m fine, I’m fine, the Force is just…very, very insistent that Commander Monnk is not to be removed from…whomever he’s with.” He took a moment to taste the sensations still cooling in his mind, parsing the individual parts to the screech now that it was dying down, and spoke again. “Actually, Masters, it may be best to ensure that Commander Monnk keeps an eye on whomever he is assigned to even when not on the front. It seems…” He paused, careful, and only after receiving a confirming hum did he continue. “It seems that in some relatively near future, it may be a matter of life and death.”
The assembled Jedi looked grave at the warning, Obi-Wan in particular pale even through the washed-out blue of the holo. “I can get a message to Master Fisto at once,” he offered, already pulling a spare commlink from his belt. The Force purred, the last echoes of Its warning shout finally dying away, and Feemor let out a silent breath of relief at the sensation.
“While we appreciate the Force’s warnings, if Its reactions continue to be this strong, perhaps we should stop for now,” said Mace, eyes tight in concern.
The Force did not like that suggestion.
By the time Feemor came to, having collapsed to the ground on his hands and knees, head aching and his nose stuffed with blood, Master Plo was rapidly talking to someone about redirecting his ship, a voice that could have been mistaken for Ponds’s if not for its lower register and the slight extra roll to its ‘r’s suggesting another battalion closer to the Rim would be able to get there quicker.
“’M fine,” Feemor gasped, trembling a bit, but already using a technique Master Fay had taught him to siphon off the residual pain. He carefully climbed back to his feet and raised his gaze to meet those around him, now including another clone, this one in military greys with grisly scars down the side of his face and through an eye that was shadowed from the hologram. Likely a high-grade cybernetic, then; holo technology always had trouble with those. “’S fine, jus’…”
Feemor took a few deep breaths and reached into a pocket on his belt that was full of tissues and bacta specifically for instances like this, wiping away the blood dripping under his nose. “The Force is clear,” he said, relieved to find his voice steady again, “that I must find identify my Commander now.”
“In danger, he is?” asked Master Yoda gravely. The Force whispered as if overcompensating for the strength of Its previous reaction, but that whisper may as well have been a gunshot for how strongly Feemor believed and understood its message.
His smile, if it could have been called that, was the sort of thing that usually only slavers were gifted. “Always, Grand-Master. He finds trouble like a vulptex finds mole mice, and currently, he’s trapped in a pen of them. But the ones he’s hunting this time are hiding venomous fangs, and should I not be there, he and everyone he has sworn to protect will be destroyed.”
There was a sharp inhale, and Feemor found his gaze snapping to the new clone, who was staring back at him with wide eye(s). The Force swelled in anticipation, apparently finished feeling bad about nearly knocking him out, saying, shouting, screaming, YOURSfindhimYOURCOMMANDERyoursyoursNEEDHIMyoursFINDHIMyoursYOURSYOURS—n O W
As if through a tunnel, Feemor could hear the scarred soldier demand to know, “The hell d’you need with Fox?”
But the world had already shattered, and Feemor couldn’t quite manage to catch himself this time. He was unconscious before he hit the ground.