Recalling the Guild: Riko

[Darven]

The farm lay on the outskirts of a small settlement, not all that far from where they had touched down all those years ago. A day's march would bring him right to the top of that crater and the remains of the citadel Dooku had tried to bring down on top of them. Alpha-13 had died that day, as well as their mate Riko, the clone commando with the number RC-1987. It had been a black day in the history of Sarang squad: the second time he and Trey were the only ones of the squad left standing. If it hadn't been for Skywalker and Kenobi, the two Jedi who had led the mission, they might have stayed behind then, and given themselves to the darkness.

Darven often wondered what his life might have been like if he'd done that. It had claimed them anyway, not long after, but how different might life have been if he'd been allowed to leave the GAR then?

As he set the Sarang down on the small landing pad a quarter klick north of the farm, he could see it clearly, the two low buildings' metallic roofs refracting the light of the afternoon sun. He only needed to look at it, and think of its owner, to get a glimpse of what that life might have been like.

Five minutes later he walked slowly down the ramp of his ship, having sent a message ahead. Knowing that Riko - who had survived that skirmish in the citadel and had been left behind on Ruhe involuntarily - would send a speeder to pick him up, he nevertheless started walking towards the farm, using the time to reminisce about their shared past.

[Mace Riko]

Riko sat in silence, helmet resting on his knees as he stared into blankness. He had been spending a lot of time like that lately: contemplating his life; his existance; his choices. A quarter of a century he had lived here, left for dead by his clone brothers and stranded here behind enemy lines with no way of returning to the Republic. He'd waited; had hoped that the Republic would come - that they'd try again to attack the planet, or they'd come in search of their dead - but no troop ships came. Of course no one came; he was just an expendable, disposable clone after all.

So, he'd resigned to his fate. Taking up the mantle and guise of deceased Clone comrade Alpha-13, he worked with the enslaved locals to carve out some sort of resistance against the Separatist forces occupying the planet, claiming to be one of the Republic's elite sent to help liberate them. It was a lie of course, but it was one that gave the people of Ruhe hope. Over time, he even began to believe it, and shared that hope.

The war had come and gone without him, and when the Separatist droids were disabled and the Republic - no, the Empire - finally returned to the planet, the Commando designated RC-1987 had ceased to be. Even if the Imperial troops had cared to hear about the brave exploits of the lone Clone and his army of farmers, he couldn't leave anymore. All that time and all that loneliness had changed him, altered his ideals. He'd found a wife; started a family. Blind obedience wasn't in his nature anymore.

So, RC-1987 had taken a name - Mace Riko - and become a farmer. He had imparted his skills onto his children of course, but the old Clone had hung up his guns.

Hearing from Agen had been unexpected. The Clone and his second son had always had a relationship frought with friction, and when Agen had left home it had been assumed that he wouldn't return unless it was for some kind of burial. Mace blamed himself of course, though he would never admit it. He'd struggled to hide the joy at the sound of his son's voice; fortunately the nature of the message had sobered his mood.

Darven; one of the Commandos that had abandoned him. He'd long made it past the stage of hating his brothers for leaving him, but the mention of business gave Riko pause. He had a vague idea of what Darven's business entailed and frankly, he wasn't sure that he wanted that world anywhere near his family.

But then, Darven was family, in a sense. He let out a sigh, and slid his helmet over his head. Darven had arrived already; no sense in leaving him standing out there.

[Darven]

A battered old green covered speeder shot out into the open from behind a copse of Dalloralla trees, not far from where Darven was walking. It made a low humming sound that hinted at it being kept well-maintained inspite of its run-down look. There was no exhaust trail visible behind it, only a slight haze in the air above the leafy ground. The evening sunlight reflected from the tinted screens in a sharp yellow glare, making it impossible to look at the vehicle with bare eyes for more than a few seconds. The bountyhunter's eyes, hidden behind a thick layer of transparisteel and other materials, were shielded from the glare and could look beyond it if he wanted to; it was the helmet's state-of-the-art systems that told him that the speeder had a lone occupant. He hadn't seen it leave the farm, which hinted at a sub-level exit to the building; a shielded sub-level, for his long-range radar hadn't picked up the blinking dot until it was well away from the farm itself.

Not that he really needed the radar out here, but he liked to be certain there weren't any unforeseen obstacles in the way. He liked to get a few moments more to prepare himself for a situation, ever since his health - and his reflexes - had started to deteriorate.

For one moment he wondered how Riko was dealing with advancing old age. The other clone had - like him, and like many others - not taken a shot at the "cure" that Kyrimorut had offered. Darven had often wondered if they even knew about its existence; there were plenty of his brothers out there who still remained suspicious and even set against the "Mando-loving scum", whom they could or would not see as anything other than traitors to all they'd stood for. In spite of everything history had told them to the contrary. Some opinions are hard to change.

The speeder came to a stop 16 feet from his position. Darven's feet stopped their rhythmic, almost automated motion, and he let a complete motionlessness overcome his body. A few seconds later, old habits kicked in and he snapped up into a ramrod stiff posture, feet exactly parallel, legs straight, back upright, head thrown slightly back to get the angle of his helmet aligned with the rest of his body.

Thus he waited. For a sound over the old squad channel. For the speeder to open.

[Saesee Riko]

The rhythmic jostling of the speeder was as familiar to him as the sight of the rolling fields. He loved this place; not in the passionate sense of someone totally consumed with thoughts of something or someone, but in the sense that thoughts of it made him relaxed, happy, and calm. Home brought peace to his mind.

Thoughts of home then brought him to the brother who had left, who was now driving. Agen was an enigma to him, and he didn't care or have time to ponder enigmas, which usually either solved themselves or remained mysterious. Agen had left, and that's all there was to it. He knew that his father blamed himself a bit, but Saesee couldn't help but idly wonder if he'd been better at the discipline, he could have influenced Agen another way.

This was mostly unconscious wondering, though. He didn't have time to ponder all the different mysteries of life; he had responsibilities and duties to take care of.

There he is. He didn't speak it; he didn't need to. Darven was standing at attention not sixteen feet away. This was a glimpse into his father's past, and he ruthlessly quashed the budding curiosity that made him want to start talking. Saesee shifted and opened the door to the speeder, before stepping out in his own stiff manner, his father's armour as familiar to him as the jostling of the speeder and rolling fields and the Dalloralla trees.

“Get in,” he said gruffly through the vocabulator in the helmet, gesturing to the back seat as he stood by the still open door.

[Darven]

For some reason he'd expected Riko to come and meet him - just as soon as he'd realised his error he dropped out of the stiff posture, and walked with a nod around the kid to the seat offered. He found Agen sitting in the driver's spot - apparently things had gone as planned. Or maybe not.

It might have told him something, that his brother hadn't come himself.

But they'd not been first squad's mates together; they'd been a patched-up squad after Geonosis, and even then their time as a full squad had been cut short when they'd come to this planet, so there hadn't been such a close connection between Riko and him as he'd had with Trey, who'd been there since the beginning. They hadn't been as close. And while he and Trey could literally finish each other's sentences - that hadn't been so easy with Riko and Zero.

And when their brother had opted to remain on this planet even after they'd come all the way to rescue him - it had driven another wedge into their relationship. Darven had no idea what Riko might feel - if he was still angry at him, and still as obstinate as he'd been the last time he'd come.

Yet, he had to try. One more time. Twenty years might have made a difference.

"What's your name, son?" he asked Riko's other son, and then remembered having asked Agen the same as he nodded to him now. It was a funny galaxy

[Saesee Riko]

For all his curiosity, all Saesee wanted to do was say, "I'm not your son."

But he didn't. Instead he pulled the helmet off and let it settle in his lap while Agen pulled away. He knew pride in his father's past; and he was equally happy as well as proud that his father stayed here to raise him and take care of his mother. That pride transferred over to his father's teachings and discipline. He knew some might have railed against the strictures and rules, but Saesee wasn't motivated purely by the desire to make his father proud. It also wasn't efficiency that motivated him - though the feeling of doing something right and easily was something that he liked.

It was blood. Some might have called it fate, or even destiny, but Saesee didn't really care if it was or not. He'd been dealt to be born of his father, and so it was. If his father asked him why he followed every command, every rule, he would have to reply, "Because you are my father."

Now that he thought about it, it wasn't as simple an answer as it appeared. There were... layers... in that answer. All the connotations one could think of were wrapped up in that answer. But Saesee, never one to multiply entities beyond necessity, stuck with one. Blood. He shared a common genetic heritage with his father, and the knowledge of that was a more stengthening bond than he could ever relay into words.

So, drawing on his father's teachings of discipline, Saesee disregarded his annoyance at this far removed family member (who had not ever acted on that bond in a meaningful way; sure the genetic bond existed, and because of that Saesee would help the man as far as he was able, but there still existed some boundaries and walls) calling him 'son', and replied simply:

"My name is Saesee Riko."

[Darven]

Mace, Agen, Saesee. Weird idea, for a clone, to name himself and his sons after Jedi. He'd never understood that.

Now that he had the name to this one, his brain managed to dredge up a memory of watching this one as a little kid of possibly three or four, expertly and reverently cleaning his dad's blaster. Following in his dad's footsteps.

Oddly enough, the thought gripped his heart with an icy touch for a moment, and awoke faint stirrings of longing for a life he - and his brothers - had all missed out of: being part of a family, having a father, and a mother. Then the moment passed, leaving him feeling a little guilty; the sarge had been the closest thing to a dad he'd had, and had cared about them more than anyone. Yet - when it came down to it, there was no ignoring the fact that he was their training instructor; and that from time to time that gaping abyss of loss and dread and loneliness he had at the core of his heart would rear up and reassert itself.

It had never been more apparent than now that Riko clearly didn't tick the same way. If he did, he certainly wouldn't have raised his own kids like this: a second generation miniature clone army.

Within the privacy of his helmet, he grimaced. It was going to be bad, this meeting. Maybe it had been the wrong idea, after all. They were too different.

He had no idea what to say to the kid, who seemed testy. Finally he gave a simple nod, and crossed his arms over his chest.

If this boy's attitude was anything to go by, his stay on Ruhe would be short.

[Saesee Riko]

Agen had remained silent so far, he'd noticed. He felt curiously torn about that; one part of him was sad that he and his brother didn't even dislike each other that much, but another part was grateful that any awkwardness and irritation could be passed by. Everything was much more efficient this way. It would be easier to work as a unit.

Beside him Darven the mercenary seemed a bit more recalcitrant than before. Saesee was struck with the sudden urge to say something, anything, to learn more about the War, and the clone sitting next to him, and his father. He wished he hadn't taken his helmet off. Then he could grimace at his own lack of foresight without being seen.

Damn it.

Saesee kept his mouth shut resolutely despite all the questions that were blazing through his mind.

[Agen Riko]

Guiding the speeder from point A to point B and back again was not difficult, yet there was a gleam of focus in Agen's eyes that suggested otherwise. His back and shoulders were set so straight that there might well have been iron rods holding him in place, whilst his knuckles grew white as he tightened his grip on the speeder's controls. His eyes flicked up to the rear-view mirror for an instant, where he saw his brother's face reflected as a mask of... what? It was difficult to say, when the strength of their fraternal bond had become so stretched and warped over time.

Eventually, the sound of the speeder's engine died away. “We're here,” he said blankly. There was only the wind then, and the distant chirrup and cry of animals. agen let the door slam as he slid out of the drivers seat, hesitating a heartbeat whilst the others climbed out. He wasn't waiting for them so much as he was putting off heading back into the farm itself. Part of him railed against every step he took towards it, whilst his eyes shifted irritably here and there, never quite settling on any part of the homestead.

[Mace Riko]

A hand rose and flipped the monocular viewfinder away from his right eye, and restored it to its almost aerial position standing vertically aside his helmet: with the speeder well within easy grenade-throwing range, having an electrically-magnified image with which to target seemed needlessly excessive. He might be getting old, but his eyes and hands were still good enough and steady enough to take out any of the speeder's occupants, even if they'd been three times as far from the homestead as they now were.

Of course, the standard-issue blaster pistol he currently carried hadn't ever been rated for that sort of distance, but Sergeant Koine hadn't stood for pansy excuses like "range" during training back on Kamino.

The trio of arrivals - Agen a good few paces behind the others, Riko noticed - worked their way up the boot-trodden path towards the house; the old Clone plucked the helmet from his head and tucked it beneath his arm. Boots - distressed was probably the kindest way of describing their battered nature - reverberated against the hard-trodden dirt as he paced towards them.

He came to a dead halt in the bounty hunter's path, shoulders squared off against his genetic twin. His eyes narrowed; his mouth was a grim line. "Darven," he said gruffly. "I'd say it's been too long, but frankly it hasn't been kriffing long enough."

[Darven]

It had been so long since he'd seen one of the others that standing opposite Riko now gave him a weird sense of wrongness. The face he stared back looked so much like the one he saw in the mirror whenever he cared to look at it, yet - it was so different. Twenty years of living different lives, and their shared genes failed to have the upper hand.

At least the grim expression was still something they could both share - for a moment. Then Darven's stony expression turned softer. For all they didn't have in common anymore - they were still brothers. They still shared ten years on Kamino, and a handful of missions during the war.

"Long enough for men of our lifespan, brother... I suppose I should be thankful you're not welcoming me with a blow to the head, this time."

After they'd managed to sneak up to the farm the last time, on their mission to find and recover the remains of their "dead" brother, Riko had managed to surprise them both with a couple of well-aimed blows that'd knocked them unconscious for a while. It was only when they'd regained consciousness that they'd fully grasped the fact that their brother was not only very much alive but also apparently considering them his deadly enemy.

[Mace Riko]

A crack of smile managed to break its way through Riko's stoic mask and spread faintly across his lips. "That's what you get for sneaking up on the recon expert, di'kut," he threw back with a gruff edge, but a little of the tense hostility fell away from his posture. It was like every other encounter with relatives, he assumed - the apprehension could often be far worse than the actual experience.

His eyes strayed to Agen. Then again, sometimes it can be even worse.

With a sigh that mixed frustration with reluctance, he unfurled arms that he hadn't even realised had folded across him, and let them hang loosely at his sides. "Inside," he instructed, not for a moment allowing the notion that Darven's old authority as Squad Leader might be respected: not here; not in his home; not on his planet. His gaze expanded to encompass both his sons, knowing he only really needed to address one of them, but speaking at both in the interests of diplomacy. "You two had better come, too."

Without saying more, he drew back a few paces and rotated in mid-stride, taking the steps that led up to the main entrance two at a time, with an unexpected surge of energy. Facing away from his guest, he allowed a shred of the grim frustration to slip back into his eyes. Darven being here was weird enough, and Agen's presence compounded that. He'd grown accustomed to the distinct absense of his problematic son; their combined presence made for an unusual day, and unusual days made him grumpy.

Damn it, he mused, stepping into the homestead's rustic kitchen. I'm an old man: everything makes me grumpy.

[Darven]

If he hadn't been much mistaken, that had been the beginnings of a smile on Riko's face.

He wasn't much mistaken at all - he still could read any minute change in his brother's attitude. Much like Riko could probably still read his. As he watched the tenseness in the other man's stance ebb away - not wholly, but at least some of it, he reminded himself to stay passive as much as he could. He'd been the sarge of the squad - but the squad was long gone, and it was important for Riko to see that he didn't expect anything from him. It was important for this meeting, more than anything.

He knew it was one of his failings, not being able to let go of playing the sarge.

So, falling in behind Riko, he followed his one-time squadmate into the kitchen of his home. It looked like a downsized version of the one he'd left Nya in, when he'd abandoned her in Kyrimorut, to Jusik's care. Looking around, he tried to find things to remind him of the differences, but Kyrimorut had been a soldier's farm just like Riko's was.

Fierfek, not now!

Pushing the thought away as hard as he could, he looked at Riko whose back was still turned to him, and forced himself to say, "Nice place you've got, brother. Well organised."

[Agen Riko]

Taking orders from his father wasn't something that sat well with Agen. The invite into the farmstead probably wouldn't have been extended if Darven hadn't been present – than again, in that same situation Agen wouldn't have been there either. He followed roughly alongside the Mandalorian, his eyes still wandering about the place.

The farm didn't look as if it had changed much, but that was no surprise. Seasons came and went, crops grew and died, and Mace Riko remained, like an oaken sentinel. Memories of childhood crept up on him as he noted things others might not have – a patch of earth that would never yield, a mismatching gate that the kids had built from wood they'd cut and cobbled together themselves. There was no consistency, in his mind, between the boy he saw then and the man he was now. The most he carried with him were the well-worn lines in the palms of his hands.

[Mace Riko]

Nice place. Well organised. Riko bit down a snort of laughter. As if that was his choice. In isolation out here in the wilderness of Ruhe, most of what he'd heard was rumours about what Chancellor - Emperor, even - Palpatine and that Jedi, or Sith, or whatever he was got up to, striking fear into the hearts of the citizens of the galaxy and what not. He'd heard some pretty terrible things - destroying entire planets, even. All of that paled into insignificance in the face of the wrath and fury of his beloved Mailia, were he foolish enough to leave even the slightest thing out of place.

"I'll pass your compliments along to the woman in charge," he responded cryptically, leading the way around the hand-carved dining table - he'd made it himself - that seated and was set for one more than they ever needed. He'd always told his family that it was a Mandalorian tradition; set a place for 'the visitor', so that you would always be prepared in case he ever arrived. In truth the seat was for Zero: Riko's twin in effect, closer to him than any of his other brothers. Zero had died here on Ruhe; there were times when Riko wondered how different life might have been had he not.

He cleared his mind, pushing those rambling thoughts aside. He was turning into an old man far too much of late: letting such trivials cloud his thoughts and attention for far too much of his day. Now they had business, though of what nature he wasn't entirely sure; it would be dealt with, and focussed on.

He halted as he reached the end of the kitchen, two doors leading into separate halves of the house. He gestured vaguely towards the left, glancing over his shoulder towards his sons. "Agen: go find your sister, and see if you can't get some caf brewing. Saesee: with me." His gaze shifted slightly, settling upon his brother. An arm indicated the right-hand door. "This way."

[Agen Riko]

The chance to get away from the others should have been a welcome thing to Agen, yet a bull-headed part of him resented the casual way with which his father gestured towards him. The loyalty and obedience Mace Riko had instilled in his children was no mean thing, however, and Agen left the kitchen without any protest.

Although he had no desire to further explore the Riko farmstead, Agen spent a minute or two sticking his head through doorways, scanning too familiar rooms for just long enough to see if his sister was there. Wherever she was, it seemed she did not want to be found. Irritated, and more than a little suspicious as to whether he had been sent on a pointless errand, Agen decided to take a different tack and set a pot of caff to brew, knowing that in all likelihood the warm, rich smell of the roasted beans wafting on the air would bring Kit Riko to him.