Project ARC [RWBY/Star Wars: Republic Commando]

Prologue​

ARC-2447 gazed out of the window of his High Altitude Dropship down to the terrain below. The upper canopy of the forest. Sitting on a metal seat in his Commando Mark I armour with his weapon resting on his lap felt familiar, it was the only familiar thing in his current situation. ARC-2447 looked up from the forest below him to the rest of his squad. Three other soldiers like him, except they weren’t. Outwardly they looked almost identical to him. They all wore the same Commando Mark I armour, but they moved differently, they stowed their gear differently, sat differently in their seats. Their entire body language was… wrong.

ARC-2447 was pulled out of his thoughts when the interior of the HAD lit up in a reddish tint.
“One minute to jump.” The pilot warned ARC-2447 from his helmcom.

“Acknowledge” ARC-2447 reported to the pilot. “Squad, prep for jump.” He radioed to his squad. They all sent back their own acknowledgments. They were all different. All unfamiliar. Each man made the final check on their own equipment before securing everything to their combat webbing.

“Twenty seconds to jump, dropping the Puma.” The pilot said over the squad-com. ARC-2447 felt the clamps holding the box release and slid out of the back of the Dropship.

“Fifteen seconds to jump.” The pilot reported.

“Copy that. Squad,” ARC-2447 started.

“We heard, Squad Leader.” One of the other Commandos said. They all raised to their feet and shuffled forwards towards the rear hatch of the HAD. The next few seconds seemed to stretch on eternally.

Finally, “Five seconds to jump.” The pilot said. ARC-2447 braced himself. He was in the front, the first one in and the last one out. It was his job. His duty. His responsibility.

ARC-2447 saw the red light turn green and, acting on years of relentless training, stepped without hesitation into nothingness.

---

This is the prologue of a story that I have started posting on both SB and SV. The first Chapter is much larger and I will post it when I wake up tomorrow. As it is, it is nearly four AM where I live, so I'm going to pass out.

 

Chapter One
​

Atlesian Ranger Commando 2276 studied every face waiting to board the LATs. Some were helmeted, and some were not. Almost all were strangers.

“Come on, shift it people!” A RegForce Loadmaster shouted to the collection of soldiers. “Move your asses!”

The LAT’s updraft sent snow and tiny shards of ice flying through the air. They had performed this thousands of times in training; extraction from a real battle was what they’d train for. They were told that this wasn’t a retreat. They were simply withdrawing. They were told that surviving had been a victory in and of itself. So what about those who had died?

ARC-2276 removed his helmet and breathed the bitingly cold air of Facility Kilo-Bravo. The base didn’t really have an official name, because officially it didn’t exist. He was pretty sure that was going to change. Covering up an engagement of this scale was logistically impossible. Briefly, ARC-2276 wondered what cover story the higher ups would come up with to explain the bases existence.

“Are you embarking or what?” ARC-2276 was snapped out of his pondering. He chided himself for losing awareness of his surroundings.

“I’m waiting for my brothers.” ARC-2276 told the Loadmaster.

“I have a schedule to keep, so you better get your ass on the ship ASAP!” The Loadmaster shouted irritably. 2276 brought his knuckle plate to rest just under the Loadmaster’s chin, and held it there. He didn’t need to eject the viroblade and he didn’t need to say a word. The Loadmaster swallowed.

“Whenever you’re ready then, sir.” The Loadmaster stepped away and went to hassle a much less lethal group of soldiers. It wasn’t wise to upset an ARC, especially one coming down from the adrenaline high of combat after just over three days of almost non-stop fighting.

But there was still no sign from the rest of his squad. There wasn’t any point in waiting any longer. They hadn’t called in yet. Maybe they were having comm troubles? Maybe they had already caught an airship out and were at the rendezvous zone already waiting for him.

It was the first time in his life that he could remember not being able to reach out and touch the men he had been raised with.

He waited another hour and a half, just to be sure. Until the LATs were less frequent and the only people who were left on the launch pad was 2276, a half dozen other troopers, and the Loadmaster.

It was the last lift.

“You better come now, sir.” The Loadmaster said in a gentle tone. “There’s no one left unaccounted for. No one alive, anyway.”

2276 looked at the remaining structures of Kilo-Bravo one last time, still feeling like he was turning his back on someone who was desperately reaching out to him, placed his helmet back on, and stepped onto the LAT. A Ranger Corporal helped haul him up, then clapped him on the shoulder. 2276 knew the gesture was supposed to be one of comrade, but coming from him it just didn’t seem legitimate. They didn’t even know each other.

2276 just nodded at the Ranger and sat down and strapped himself into the LAT’s seats.
He gazed out of the open rear of the LAT as they took off. Their updraft sending ice and snow dancing through the air. He turned his gaze to the bulkhead across from him. He could still search the ship. It wasn’t over yet.

The LAT slipped into its birth on the Invincible. 2276 off loaded and moved into the docking bay. The first thing that struck 2276 when the LAT cut its engines was just how quiet things were.
The Docking bay was filled to the brim with soldiers, the air smelled of sweat and stale fear and dust discharge. But it was so silent that if 2276 hadn’t experienced it himself, he could have believed that nothing substantial had occurred the past couple of days.

The deck vibrated beneath his boots. 2276 stared down at them, studying the patterns of snow and ice that still clung to them.

“Number?” a voice asked. The medic swept him with a tally sensor; he didn’t need 2276 to tell him his number, or anything else for that matter. The sensors on his Commando class armour reported his status silently, electronically. No Significant Injury. The triage team on Kilo-Bravo had waived him past. Concentrating on the wounded; ignoring those to badly hurt to help and those who could help themselves. “Are you listening? Come on, son. Talk to me.”

“I’m okay, sir.” 2276 said. “I’m not in shock. I’m fine. Sir, any news on ARC-Two-Two-Seven-Five-“

“No,” the medic said, who had obviously heard similar questions every time he stopped to check. He gestured behind him. “If they’re not in casevac or listed in this sweep, then they didn’t make it.”

It was stupid to ask. 2276 should have known better. Rangers – especially Ranger Commandos – just got on with the job. That was their sole purpose.
2276 found an empty space by a bulkhead and sat down.

And they were lucky, their training Sergeants told them; outside, in the ordinary world, every person fretted about their purpose in life, searching for meaning. An ARC didn’t need to. ARCs knew. They had been perfected for their role, no doubt need ever trouble them.

2276 had never known what doubt was until now. No amount of training had prepared him for this.
2276 took off his helmet and stared at the ‘T’ shaped visor. Ice blue on snow white.

Just then a Ranger, the Corporeal from the LAT, 2276 recognized. The action of sitting down caused the Ranger’s shoulder pads to bump up against 2276’s. The two looked at each other, sizing each other up.

“Nice weapon.” The Ranger eventually said. He was looking at 2276’s DC-17. Regular Rangers were issued lower level gear. “SDRs, AP-RPG, and DMR?”

“Yeah.” Was all 2276 could say. Every item of his gear was manufactured to a higher spec. A Ranger’s life was less valuable than an ARC’s. And a Regular trooper’s was less than a Ranger. 2276 had never questioned it. It was simply one of the rules of reality and it was pointless to question it.

“Nice.” The Ranger nodded. “Job done, huh?”

“Yeah,” 2276 croaked, throat suddenly dry. “Job done.”

The silence stretched for several moments.

“What’s your name?” The Ranger asked.

“Huh?” 2276 responded.

“A name, man. You got one?” The Ranger asked again.

Name. He had a name. A mere four days ago. But now… now… No one would ever call him by his squad nickname –Jade– ever again.

“Yeah,” 2276 said softly “yeah.”

---

ARC-2447 busied himself by cleaning his weapon. He cleaned the barrel of residue then started on the chamber.

“Sergeant?”

He looked up. Standing to the side of the bunk across from his stood an adolescent teenager. He had short cut blond hair, blue eyes, and was very tall. His readout panel on the bunk identified his as ARC–9277

“I’m Joker.” The teen introduced himself, holding out his hand for shaking. “So you lost your squad, too. Huh.”

“Jarvik” ARC–2447 introduced himself, rising to stand from his kneeling position on the floor. Jarvik eyed 9277’s hand, considering, before looking back into the younger ARC’s eyes and Jarvik crossed his arms. “So, ner vod–my brother– you’re the sole survivor?”

“Yes.”

“Did you hold back while your brothers pressed on? Or were you just lucky?”

Seventy-Seven stood exactly opposite from Jarvik, with his hands on his hips. He was just so different– so unfamiliar. He spoke differently than Jarvik’s squad. He smelled different. He moved his hands not like Jarvik’s squad at all.

“I did my job,” Seventy-Seven said evenly. “And I’d rather be with them than here… ner vod.”

The two stood off for a few moments longer before Jarvik turned away. He continued to perform weapon maintenance. Seventy-Seven stored his gear in his locker beside his bunk, and in one smooth motion lifted himself on to the top rack. He lied with his left elbow under his head and his right arm resting on top of him.

If he had been Jay or Tayler, Jarvik would have known what he was doing. But Jay and Tayler were gone now.

ARC squads were raised and trained in almost complete isolation. They had cross/multi-squad training, sure, but for the most part ARC’s lived and trained only with their squad. The only common outside presence were their instructors. But beyond that they were completely isolated. Jarvik looked up at Seventy-Seven’s bunk.
Jarvik had lost everyone he had grown up with, and so had he.

Jarvik had lost a brother before. A spinal injury had caused him to be withdrawn from the program. The three remaining squad mates had welcomed his replacement–Oh-Four– although they always felt he was a bit distant. As if he couldn’t quite believe he had been accepted.

But they still performed at the required levels of excellence together – and as long as they did, their instructors didn’t really care how they felt about it. But the Commando’s cared. They just kept it to themselves.

The Commandos and Rav’buir. She had always cared about them, just… in her own special way.

“We shouldn’t have been there.” Seven-Seven said.

“Been where?” Jarvik asked.

“At Kilo-Bravo. We shouldn’t have been there. We’re not trained for an op like that. It was infantry shit, not spec ops.”

“That sounds a lot like–“

“I’m just saying we couldn’t perform at maximum effectiveness.”

Jarvik nodded, “I understand. Still, we can’t do anything about it now.”

He continued to check his gear. It was a ritual so ingrained in him that he barely even thought about it; maintain boots, suit, BDUs, armour, recalibrate helmet systems, check HUD, strip-down and reassemble DC-17, empty and repack survival rucksack. Done. It took him twenty-six minutes and twenty seconds. Give or take two seconds. Life and death could be decided on well-maintained gear. So did two seconds.

He closed his pack and shifted it beside his bunk

“Dry Rations go on the fifth layer.” Seven-Seven sounded from his rack.

“Maybe in your squad.” Jarvik retorted. He took the hint and rolled over away from Jarvik.

After a while he started to sing softly to himself, almost under his breath. “Kom'rk tsad droten troch nyn ures adenn, Dha Werda Verda a'den tratu” They were the wrath of the warrior’s shadow and the gauntlet of Atlas; Jarvik new the song. It was a traditional Mandalorian war chant, designed to boost the morale of normal men who needed a bit of psyching up before a fight. The words had been somewhat altered to fit within the Atlas Military.

We don’t need all that, Jarvik thought. We we’re ment to fight, nothing else.

But he found himself joining in anyway. It was a comfort. He stowed his gear in his locker, rolled onto his bunk, and matched note and beat perfectly with 77.

Jarvik would have given every remaining moment of his life for a single chance to go back. He would have held Jay back, he would have sent Tayler west with the SAW.

But he hadn’t. Couldn’t.

Gra’tua cunn hett su dralshy’a. Our vengeance burns brighter still. Seven-Seven’s voice trailed off into silence the merest fraction of a section before Jarvik’s. He heard him swallow hard.

“I was up there with them, Sarg,” He said quietly, almost whispering. “I didn’t hang back. Not at all.”

Jarvik closed his eyes. He regretted ever implying that Joker might have done anything less.

“I know, ner vod, I know.”

---

 

Chapter Two​

Jarvik stood at ease inside the small briefing room with two other ARCs. One was Joker. They hadn’t spoken since their mutual… introduction. The other was ARC-2276. When Jarvik had asked for his name, the Commando visibly flinched and insisted that he didn’t have one. It was a lie. They all had names. Names that they, or their brothers, had given them. But Jarvik got the feeling that it wouldn’t be a good idea to press the man on the issue. The memories of Kilo-Bravo were still fresh. The ARCs were dressed in their “Work Dress”. White and grey digi-camo combats with white boots and white berets.

While Jarvik stood, Joker had opted to lean against the back wall about a meter and a half away from Jarvik with his legs and arms crossed. Seventy-Six stood farther away in self-declared isolation. It was only the distance of a few meters but it spoke volumes to the Commandos.

The door to the room opened. “Room!”

The reaction was instant. Immediately the ARCs brought themselves to attention at the proper dressing. Three figures entered the room. First a man with strong features and deep wrinkles. His rank insignia said he was a Chief Warrant Officer. Behind him a women; pale, white haired and with light blue eyes. The final person stepped into the room and Jarvik felt his gut twist. The man who stepped into the room was none other than General Ironwood. If General Ironwood wanted to speak to them, then either they had done something so impressive that he personally wanted to meet them, or they had fucked up so badly that he personally wanted to meet them. And that thought caused Jarvik’s guts to twist into a knot.

“At ease.” The General called. The ARC’s stood at ease. The General circled around to a chair at the head of the room. The centerpiece of the room was a large, ovular table with the rounded edges cut into straight lines. “Please, sit down.” The General said. Jarvik would have actually preferred to stand, but it was from a General, it was an order. The General studies them for a few seconds.

“Where’s the fourth one?” The General asked. Jarvik had no idea what the General was speaking of. He opened his mouth to reply when Lieutenant Schnee answered.

“Unknown, Sir. I instructed him on the time and place two hours prior.”

“Hmm,” Jarvik noticed that the General’s eyebrows scrunched together. “We’ll need him present before we-“

A knock on the briefing room’s door interrupted the General.

“Enter.” The General ordered.

The door opened.

A dark skinned soldier in winter camo combats stepped in. He snapped to attention and saluted smartly.

“ARC-four-four-two-nine, sir. Apologies for being late, medics didn’t want to release me.”

The General nodded, “At ease, trooper.” The ARC brought his hand down and stood at ease. There was a tense moment of silence.

“You may also sit if you wish.” The General motioned towards one of the seats at the table.

“Yes, sir.” The ARC nodded and seated himself.

The General nodded before setting a binder onto the table. “All right men, let’s get the simple stuff out of the way first. The four of you are being reorganized into a squad, designation ‘Sigma’. Do any of you have any objections to this before I continue?”

All four ARCs answered in the negative. Jarvik couldn’t understand why any of them could ever have any sort of objections. If the General needed a new squad he would get a new squad. Besides, if the General wanted a personal hand in the creation of the squad meant that he had a mission in mind expressly for them. After Kilo-Bravo, Jarvik wanted nothing more than to get into the fight.

The General nodded. “Very good, and while I understand it has only been a brief time since your previous engagement, I have a mission for you.”

“Any Mission, Anytime, Any Place, Sir.” ARC-Two-Nine said, reciting one of the ARC mottos. They tended to have a rather large amount.

The General’s shoulders relaxed as he smiled, “Of course, let me brief you then.” The General opened his binder. “Your assignment is to infiltrate Beacon Academy.”

Well, that hadn’t been what Jarvik had been expecting. “Understood Sir.”

The General nodded. Taking a stack of papers from his binder he handed one to each of the ARCs. “These will be your new identities, starting tomorrow you won’t just know your cover, you will be your cover. You will answer to these names and memorize every last detail in those packages. Are we clear, soldiers?”

All four ARCs answered in the positive.

“Good, your cover at Beacon will be the “Special Forces Youth Training” program. The official story will be that you’re part of a cross-kingdom exchange program. Chief Vau here will make sure that you are well schooled in the program.” The General gestured towards the Chief. “Any questions so far?”

“Sir?” ARC-Four-Four-Two-Nine raised his hand.

“Yes, Two-Nine?”

“What will our training schedule at Beacon be?”

The General nodded, “that will likely be determined exactly at a later time, but it is likely that you will continue regular ARC training at a covert base in Vale part time. The rest of your time will be spent at the school.”

“Sir, what’s our loadout going to be at the school? Unless something’s changed since Kilo-Bravo, the existence of ARCs is still Ultra-Classified. Our armour is pretty distinctive, not to mention our weapons.” Joker asked.

“Your armour will consist of slightly modified Ranger armour. The software will be similar to your Katarn armour. As for your weaponry, it’s likely you will just keep your regular Dust Carbines. We were planning on introducing them to the Rangers anyway so we can easily play it off if someone gets suspicious. I have the paperwork and red tape to drown them in if necessary.”

“Will the Beacon headmaster be aware of our true identities?” Jarvik asked. There was a strained silence for a moment. Jarvik could see the General bit the inside of his cheek for a second before answering.

“That’s a negative, Four-Seven.”

“Rodger that, Sir.”

“Is there anything further?” The General asked. None of the ARCs said anything. “Very good. You four may return to your quarters.(")


Jarvik sat in his rack. The whole of Sigma squad was resting in their quarters. They had all been given a portfolio on their new identities and had been ordered to memorize their own and each other. 2447 read over his new name again, “Dominik Ursel”. 2447 said the name a few times, testing how they felt when he said them. They still felt unfamiliar, awkward. He was about to go over it again when he heard Joke-Jäger! Speak.

“I can’t be the only one thinking that we shouldn’t be doing this?” He dropped his papers onto the foot of his bunk and stood up.

“In what way?” Seven-Six asked. It had been the fourth time Jar… Dominik had heard him speak since he met him.

“All of this! This undercover… osik! We’re not ASIS, we’re not meant to do this shadow stuff!”

Dominik noted how J-Jäger used his hands while he talked. Maybe he picked it up from one of his Sergeants?

“You saying that you can’t do it?” Two-Nine accused in his telltale gravel-like growl.

Seven-Seven turned to Two-Nine. “You implying something?”

Two-Nine rolled out of his rack and stood opposite of Joker. “I’m implying nothing, you’re the one saying he can’t do it.” Despite Joker being several inches taller than Two-Nine, the dark skinned soldier evenly stood off against him.

“Copaani mirshmure'cye, vod?” Joker uttered.

“How about I-” Two-Nine started.

“Ne’johaa!” Jarvik cut in, jumping down from his rack. The two Commandos turned to him. “Mashukir!” Jarvik ordered, pointing to opposite sides of the room. Joker complied and stood by his rack. Two-Nine stood fast. “Mashukir!” Jarvik ordered again. Nine stood still for a moment before acquiescing and moving to the opposite side of the room.

“All right,” Jarvik said, his mind racing for something to say. He had never been in this sort of situation but squad cohesion was in the fucking ditch and as Squad Leader is (it) was his job to fix it. “Clearly we all have some issues to deal with. We’re all new faces, new people, new comrades. But as much as we don’t like it ner vod, vi cuyir a traat'aliit jii. No one want’s to be here right now. But it’s where we are and it’s what we have and that’ll just have to do.”

Jarvik looked around to find that everyone was actively listening. Taking a breath to steady himself he continued. “I get that you all miss your brothers, I do too, but this is not the way to honour their memory. Aay'han?” Jarvik beckoned to the rest with his hands. Slowly, they approached him. Standing together in a small circle, they lowered their heads.

“Ni su'cuyi, gar kyr'adyc, ni partayli, gar darasuum; Jay, Tayler, Verk.” At saying their names, the full reality sunk in. Jarvik’s brothers were dead, and nothing could ever bring them back. He could only ever remember. One by one they all said the names of their fallen vod. Jarvik found that a small trail of tears had made lines down his face. He did not brush them away, this was the time for tears. Eventually, all names were said. Jarvik lifted his head and managed to choke past the knot in his throat; “Nu kyr'adyc, shi taab'echaaj'la.”

With that, the squad separated into their own personal tasks. Joker checked over his armour, seven-six cleaned his weapon, two-nine analyzed an impressive collection of knives that had come from… somewhere.

“Names, we need names,” Jarvik stated. There were sounds of confusion.

“Uh, Four-Seven they already gave us our names.” Seven-Six indicated to the packages the General gave them.

“No, not their names, our own. I know for a fact we had names before, even if we don’t want to be reminded of them. So we’ll need new names.”

Seven-Seven shrugged; “I’m fine with being called Joker.”

Jarvik nodded, “I’d like to keep my name as well. What about you two?”

Two-Nine smiled, “I think ‘Kaden’ fits.” Jarvik raised an eyebrow. The Mandalorian word for anger was an… interesting choice. Jarvik turned to look at Seven-Six.

There was a short silence before he sighed, “I suppose Sixer will do.”

Not exactly inspired or original, but it would do. Jarvik looked at his watch. “Good, now with that sorted it’s time to get our gear on. Chief wants us in the Killing House in fifteen.”