Chapter Text
"I wear my shadows where they're harder to see, but they follow me everywhere. I guess that should tell me I'm travelling toward light." - Bruce Cockburn
It took him thirteen seconds to crack the door code.
When he stepped over the threshold, the darkness inside swallowed him whole , and he swept the room with a single, practice movement of his wrist scanner. Another agonising three seconds elapsed before a green light pierced the gloom. All clear.
He hadn't realised he'd been holding his breath.
This part was always the hardest; standing in a space that didn't belong to him and feeling its disapproval of his presence in every shadow, tangible as a hand pressed against his chest. It made the hair on the back of his neck stand up. The air smelled like a stranger, and the silence watched him. Waiting for something.
Or someone.
Not him. He was a ghost.
He reached into his pocket for the tiny devices, feet padding over the carpet as he headed for the back room. With his other hand, he ran a thumb over the blaster concealed in his jacket. He was beginning to get edgy, as Mereel liked to say. He'd spent too long in the dark, and he was beginning to realise the longer you spent in the dark, the more you adjusted to the darkness around you – and the things he saw lurking in the shadows haunted his nightmares.
Intelligence, they called it. The more he knew, the less he wanted to.
He ran his hand under the edge of a side table, feeling for a space to place the device, and he paused.
The silence had changed.
He wasn't sure how long exactly his subconscious had been aware, but it suddenly became obvious, like the slow rising of a sun. It was the sound of a room trying too hard, and he knew it well. A burst of adrenaline flooded his chest and straightened his spine. Something whispered over the nape of his neck, and he turned just in time to miss the arm that flew past his shoulder.
A blade glinted in the gloom a split second before it nicked his cheek.
Another surge of adrenaline shot through his gut. He has a knife, he has a knife…His body acted reflexively, and he lashed out with his left arm. His elbow connected with something solid, and an 'oof' spat into his face. Rookie mistake. Now I know where your head is. He balled a fist and aimed in the direction of the sound; the impact of his attacker's jaw shuddered down his arm as something wet splattered his cheek. The attacker stumbled backwards a couple of paces, and through the dim moonlight that peered through the window drapes he could just make out the shape of a man.
His attacker prepared to rush forwards; he only had seconds to reach for his own weapon, but barely managed to draw it before he was bodyslammed against the wall. His head smacked the permacrete and his vision blurred with tiny pinpricks of light, dizzying him, and all he could tell was that his arms were pinned above him in a deadlock struggle, so close he could smell the assailant's breath and sweat.
He aimed upwards with his knee, for the groin, but met solid plates of armour. The grip around his wrists tightened and twisted, and he dropped the blaster as pain shot down his arm. Growling in pain and frustration, he went still – a potentially fatal decision - and in the back of his mind he saw the glint of a blade rush for his throat, but he pushed the doubt away. He needed an element of surprise, and as he stilled, his attacker froze. Another rookie mistake.
In a split second he surged forwards, pushing them both away from the wall and tackling the man to the floor. They rolled, and he reached for the blaster, but a kick from the attacker sent it skittering out of reach. He managed to get on top and pin the man down, having to use every ounce of his body weight as his assailant lashed out in an attempt to roll them.
A bead of sweat trickled down his spine. His attacker's blood was hot on his face. His heartbeat roared in his ears,as he looked down at the man grunting and flailing beneath him.,
What were they doing? Was it really worth more blood on his hands?
And would this man would be in his nightmares tonight?
This time, the mistake was his. In his pause – and it was a pause, not hesitation, because he never hesitated – the man had taken advantage of his break in concentration and threw him off balance, smacking him to the floor. His head hit first, and stars burst before his eyes as he was blinded by the impact. He swore under his breath, and tried to get up, but his legs were pinned. Only training that ran deeply in his muscles told him to raise his arms, grabbing the fist that flew towards his face.
He gripped, hard, and this time he twisted. A yelp tore itself from the attacker's throat, and he used what remaining strength he had to force the man off him and to the ground. He kicked out, his boot connecting with the back of the man's head, and his assailant cried out again. He got to his feet while the other man stumbled, obviously dazed and rubbing the back of his head.
He moved to crouch behind the man and grabbed him by the neck; the pulse hammered beneath the man's throat as he raised his arms and attempted to claw at his victor's face. The man struggled and lashed out, but was now too disoriented to fight, and he placed his hands around the man's jaw and at the back of his head.
No doubt realising he was beaten, the attacker kicked his legs and struggled against the headlock, but his grip was much stronger. The vibroblade the man had been wielding clattered to the floor.
A broken neck is a lot cleaner than a knife.
A muffled cry forced its way out from behind the hand over the mouth, and he readjusted his grip over it and tensed.
The man whimpered.
Five seconds passed, and then he let go.
"Endex!"
The dark apartment suddenly began to shimmer, like the surface of a smooth pool disturbed by a pebble, and disappeared into blocks of too-bright clinical white. He blinked and stood up, releasing the man to the floor, where he panted and probably fought the urge to retch, if the previous recruits were anything to go by. Closeness to death did funny things to the stomach. The walls began to fade. He retrieved his blaster and tucked it back inside his jacket.
When he turned around again, a uniform line of clone soldiers stood to attention beside the simulation box. Behind them screens were replaying moments from the fight minutes before, and the clone he had been fighting – Five-Three, he was called, because none of them seemed to have names yet - was on his hands and knees in front of them.
He moved to stand over him. "Get up."
Five-Three struggled to his feet, and he let him struggle. As Five-Three stumbled back into line with the others, he folded his arms and surveyed the troops with a critical eye meant to unnerve them. He checked his wrist-mounted chrono. Five-Three had been the best, and he used that term with irony. He'd held out for just under three minutes before being 'killed'.
In the silence,someone swallowed.
Now the adrenaline had ebbed; the cut on his cheek throbbed and his wrist ached, and no doubt a lump was forming where his scalp prickled.. He fought back a wince, because at least he was the better-off. He was an ARC. He caused more damage than he suffered.
He gave each man before him a three-second glare, something Kal'buir liked to do before he took someone down a few pegs. To their credit, none of them flinched, but looking at them now made him think it was due to nerves more than...emptiness.
Prudii had said that before they could be made into black-ops men, operators in the shadows, they needed to be broken down to nothing. But having spent the past week training with these men, he couldn't help but feel that they were already nothing. They already felt like ghosts. Their faces were as empty as those of dead men.
It...unsettled him.
Eventually, he cleared his throat. "Your first month of training is complete. I would give congratulations, but there are none to offer." He glanced over Five-Three, hoping for some kind of reaction to this failure, their failure, but the man stared straight ahead like the other recruits, not even a blink out of sync with them. Blood pattered onto the floor; the only sound in the room.
He continued, opting for a different tactic to elicit a reaction. "The easy part is over. You are now officially shadows, men with no identity, no purpose beyond the task you are given. Dar'manda. You have been broken, and rebuilt into the most effective weapon the Republic has." He paused to look each one in the eye, individually. The irony of his last comment would be lost on them. "But do not be disheartened. It is easy to get lost, but look around you. You have brothers." They did not move, and so he repeated himself, barking, "Look."
Their heads turned at the same time, glancing left and right.
"The shadows are dark places, but you are only alone if you chose to be. Vode an. Good luck, men. Dismissed."
They disbanded, more informally than their other actions, falling away in twos and threes towards the mess. He turned, wiping blood from the side of his face with his sleeve; fantasising about a hot shower and trying to squash the voice in the back of his mind that told him they'd all be dead within the next few weeks.
He trained men to die. He wondered if he'd ever have the gett'se to calculate his personal body count.
Someone cleared his throat behind him, and he turned slowly to fix Five-Three with a weary stare, eyebrow raised in silent question.
A frown furrowed Five-Three's brow. The image brought to mind a memory of Ordo as a young boy frowning as he absorbed one of Kal'buir's teachings, and he softened a little as if tasting the sweetness of uj cake tingling on the tip of his tongue. It was the taste of home. Where Ordo was now? He hadn't heard from any of his brothers in months.
"Yes, Five-Three?" he prompted.
"Sir, what is 'darmanda'? I'm not familiar with...this word."
He didn't know how to explain – how did you teach someone what they were? He gazed at Five-Three for a moment, recalling Kal'buir's patient yet heartbroken words – a man who has lost his soul, his identity, a man who is lost; barely a man at all – yet finding them somehow too hard to bring down on this man who looked at him with eyes like Ordo's.
He sighed, placing a hand on Five-Three's shoulders. "It means someone who has lost himself."
"Is that what we are? Lost?"
He paused, taken aback by such astute words and the clarity behind them. Five-Three looked at him with a question in his gaze.
"No." He shook his head in an attempt to block out the empty eyes of the men he sent to war. "Not yet," he said, and turned to walk away. As he reached the door and turned back to see Five-Three still standing there, he took pity on him and called out, "Five-Three...start by choosing a name."
Five-Three jumped to attention. "Yessir! Will do, sir."
He took his leave, hoping, not for the first time, that he'd taught them enough.
Static crackled across the long distance line.
"Kal'buir?"
"Yes, son?"
"I've got a lead on our flitnat. He's on Utapau."
A pause. "Kandosii, son. Take a break for a couple of days. Did Ordo mention we're meeting-?"
"He did. I'm coming."
"Good. I miss my boys."
Another pause.
"Are you alright, ad'ika? Everything okay?"
A sigh, shakier than he'd intended. Weary eyes falling closed. "I lost a man, buir."
"Tell me."
"He didn't have a name. He didn't have time."
"Doesn't mean we can't remember him."
Swallowing. Voice hoarse. "Okay."
"Together?"
He took a breath, and they began.
"Ni su'cuyi, gar kyr'adyc, ni partayli, gar darasuum…"
"…Five-Three."
"Five-Three." His father's voice was like a hand resting on his shoulder. "I'll add him to my list, son."
"Mine too."
Static silence. I remember you, so you are eternal. No longer lost.
"I have to go dark again soon."
"Okay, son. See you soon. K'oyacyi, ad'ika."
"K'oyacyi."
That night, he turned off the light, and in the darkness he saw those empty eyes. Ghosts in the shadows, with faces as empty as dead men's, and no one to remember them but him.
Living in the shadows had its price.
Finis