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When his cell door slides open on its own accord, he’s half sure he’s in a fever dream.
CT-113’s footsteps echo dangerously as he stumbles through the prison hallways, through the carnage left behind by some unseen force. He almost trips on a destroyed security droid, their corpses laid especially thick in this corridor. His left hand hits the ground with a dull thud, and his ensuing groan pitches into despair when he sees that the divider in the distance is closed. Kriff.
Fishing through the wreckage of mechanical parts, his bruised fingers curl around a stuttering comlink, but its disturbing static tells him nothing of the state of the prison. What had happened to them?
CT-113 sits on his heels, head turning back towards the way he came, contemplating returning to his cell. Keeping his head down had to be the better option than running into whoever – whatever – had been unleashed on this ship. He rose to retrace his steps to his malfunctioning cell door. Maybe bad luck was masquerading as good luck, trying to trick him into thinking his life could improve. It’s always had a funny sense of humour. The bright pain of the security droids’ electric shocks flash behind his eyes, and his steps quicken. This was definitely a bad idea – he can’t be found outside the cell. He knows he’ll find no mercy on this ship, not that he would have deserve it.
He puts one foot in front of the other, dreading every step he takes back to his cell.
Then the lights go out.
--
Breathing heavily, he curses his faith in luck for leading him astray from his downright peaceful existence rotting in a cell. Why does he always mess things up?
Heart in his throat, CT-113 leans into the nearest curve of the prison’s walls, blinking blearily through the red light. Helplessly disoriented by the flashing white lights in the halls, he’s been stumbling back towards his cell, praying that he would reach his destination before the droids found him. No one would ever believe that he wasn’t in on this – whatever this is. But when he finally turns into the corridor, he knows once and for all that he was utterly and completely doomed.
What seemed like his cell, his corridor – and what did it say about him that the only things he considered his were his terms of imprisonment – was clearly not his, based on the row of perfectly functioning doors, and the torn droid arm on the floor. Or maybe the malfunction had been fixed, and his empty cell was inaccessible to him now. He sags against the wall in defeat, pulling at his stupid black collar that, in this moment, feels more like a noose than ever.
Just my luck – an opportunity finally arises to escape this prison and I’m too cowardly to commit to it, too stupid. Should have known this would happen. His head in his hands, he eyes the droid arm. With fingers shaking with hesitation, he pulls the key mechanism free, knowing that being caught with it would be a death sentence.
CT-113 has, luckily, not encountered anyone yet, neither droid nor officer – if he could just make it back to his cell, maybe the reprimand would be minimal? Fingers curling around the key, his last hope of getting back into his cell, he staggers to his feet to resume his search. He turns a corner, his panicked senses honing in on any and all noises around him. The vent’s faint airflow, a mouse droid somewhere, and the steady marching of security somewhere to the distant left. And is that – yes. Almost-quiet footsteps of a non-droid to the left. The escapee? They might be his only hope of getting out of here, but…CT-113 thought back to the derision in the New Republic soldiers’ gazes as they brought him in. Whoever it is might kill him, but, at least it’s not a desert planet…
No. Idiot. Keep looking for that cell.
CT-113 turns away from the footsteps, walking much more silently in the opposite direction. At least his training was worth something, his subconscious sneers.
--
Wandering through the maze of corridors, CT-113 spots a small comlink, half destroyed, at the base of a wall. Despite the bad light, he can tell it’s not from a security droid. Why would someone wreck their comlink? He nudges it with the tip of his boot, expecting it to burst into sparks at any moment, but he only gets static. Quickly stepping away from it, he tenses as he waits for someone to run towards him now that he’s made a sound. His nervous ears twitch at the hiss of another divider closing. Kriff. He needs to get back before the whole places goes into lockdown.
Yet another divider hisses to a close a couple of halls down, and that’s enough reason to panic. CT-113 picks up his pace, now jogging through the hallways, and narrowly avoids walking into security droids on patrol. More irregular footsteps also scamper in the distance, but he can only hope that he won’t cross paths with them. Unarmed and still in the black, standard issue Imperial uniform, he’s a prime target for anyone the Empire has screwed over.
CT-113 doesn’t even know which way he’s going anymore, completely turned around in the identical architecture and panicked swerves to avoid security. Finding his way back to his cell is seeming more unlikely by the minute. At the sound of the divider down the hall closing, CT-113 scrambles to the ground, pulling a dead droid over his thin frame in the hopes of going undiscovered. He’d thought it was bad luck that his frame had suffered from his distrust of the food served onboard the prison ship, but maybe it had been good luck?
A Twi’lek runs past him with a wicked grin, followed closely by an imposing Devaronian. They step over the dead droids with ease, the Twi with a dancer’s grace, the Devaronian with heavy steps. Seeing the latter kick several aside, CT-113 begrudgingly considers himself lucky when his cover is left alone. He draws in a shuddering breath as they pass him without a second glance. Relief washes over him as he lifts himself up onto his elbows…that is, until he sees something move.
From the end of the crimson hallway, a kriffing Mandalorian is stalking towards him. Their soft footfalls imperceptible even to CT-113’s adrenaline-spurred hearing – or maybe he’s just too terrified to hear them. The steady set of the imposing helmet tells him that he can’t hide, that he can’t run. And yet, there’s a part of him that’s glad that his death will be dealt by a legend. Is this luck?
His executioner’s armour reflects the red of the lights, glinting like lightening every time the white hazard lights flicker. In a blink, the droid is ripped off of him, and CT-113 is looking up a blaster barrel at the dark T-visor. He doesn’t even get a chance to raise his hands in surrender.
There shouldn’t be a reason for them to pause, and yet, they don’t shoot. The helmet tilts to the side, and the blaster prods his cheek. Think , he tells himself through the haze of panic and terror and...
“A-a Twi and a Devaronian ran that way,” he finally stammers, pointing with his chin for fear of startling the Mandalorian by moving his hands.
The blaster stops prodding, as if the Mandalorian is considering his options. Their helmet jerks to the side, a quick dismissal, and CT-113 watches them stalk off with the same catlike grace. The tattered cloak billows out of view, and after a long pause, CT-113 gets back up, and resumes his search.
--
He thinks he recognizes a notch in the wall ahead of him, from where he slammed his head when he was brought in. Too high for the mouse droid to repair? He muses, gaining confidence as he draws nearer, noticing the faint traces of desert sand and blood still present on the wall. It’s almost invisible, with the white wall shining crimson in the light, but he knows it’s there. And as grim as it is, it’s a welcome sight.
He steps into the row of cells, just as depressing as all the others he’s seen in his desperate wandering, and he can’t help his soft, downright glad laugh as he spots his cell.
CT-113 eagerly steps into his cell. It takes him more tries than his pride is willing to admit to make the key work, his blood thundering in his ears as he imagines the clank and whirr of the security droids stumbling upon him before he manages to close the door. When the key turns, and the door slams shut, he raises his hand to the small window, and chucks the key into the hallway. His shame wraps around his heart in a vice-like grip, loudly whispering coward, failure, but he can’t bring himself to care.
He just wants to survive.
--
Much later, long after the lights were fixed, he wakes to the clamouring that always accompanies a new addition to the prison. Bleary-eyed, CT-113 sits up and approaches the door. From the window, he can see the security droids threatening the surrounding cells, his included, with the shock bars ready in their hands. One of them pushes a man into the cell next to him, and CT-113 winces with their final kick before the cell door shuts. That’ll hurt for a while – he knows.
The droids march back out in formation, ignoring the man’s insults, and CT-113 sighs when his neighbour doesn’t shut up once the droids are gone. Trudging to the back of his cell, CT-113 curls back into his scant bedding, and tries to drown out the echoing shouts, all too similar to his nightmares, but sleep doesn’t come for a long time.
The man does eventually, blessedly, get bored of hearing his own voice echo through the empty halls. The return of silence does remind CT-113 of his aching hunger, but, having seen the hatred in the eyes of the man in charge, he still can’t bring himself to trust the ration bars stacked by the cell door. He knows he’s not being rational, that he’s trusted the water and that would have been enough if they’d wanted to kill him here, but…something keeps him from eating. He returns to his bed, where he spends most of his days trying to sleep the pain, the fear, and the hunger away. The nightmares have almost returned when he hears the first thump.
Thump. Thump. Thud-thump. Thump.
The steady impact against the wall nearest his head makes him groan out loud. Adjusting his position, he tries to edge as far away from the offending wall as possible, but his cell is like a drum. Clutching his head, CT-113 has no choice but to listen and wait for the pain to stop.
Through the cloud of the mind-numbing rhythm, CT-113 comes to a realization so clear that his pain is forgotten for a moment. He sits up, one hand still on his temple as he stares at the wall in horror.
His neighbour is ex-Imperial.
No one else has noticed yet, CT-113 is fairly certain – and he won’t be the one to tell them. The man’s clothes, his speech – they’d put up an impressive façade, frankly. But that rhythm…CT-113 remembers the academy, the endless drills, and the thudding of rows upon rows of feet. They were practically his nursery songs, after his mother died. How could he ever forget the Imperial Army’s cadence calls, even a lesser-known one such as this?
Pushing himself to his feet, CT-113 taps his knuckles against the durasteel. He matches the rhythm quietly, and before long, his neighbour joins his softer knocking. He whispers from the door, hoping the man – and only the man – will hear him.
“Stop that.”
And thankfully, they listen.
--
The piece of shit planet they’re dumped on as cheap labour reeks like nothing CT-113 has encountered before, but it does come with its perks. One, he knows the slop he’s being served comes from the same pot as that serves everyone else (and he hopes that their labour means enough to the New Republic that they wouldn’t kill the whole camp), and two, he gets to work until he’s so tired that he doesn’t dream. He doesn’t even have to kill anyone. Honestly, it’s better than any arrangement he’s had before – some of the older members of the camp even hint at winter on this planet. It’s practically a paradise.
His enthusiasm for the monotonous physical labour of the camp is unquestioned by both his disheartened, disinterested peers and the security droids. Sure, he’s got a sharpened bit of plastisteel under his thin bed after a near-miss with one of the more… persistent inmates, who followed him back to his cell, but the food and the exercise means CT-113 is almost back in shape, so he’s not too worried.
After a particularly gruelling day of working in the scrapyard, he approaches his neighbour. Setting down his tray with a bit more force than necessary, he joins his table.
“Hey, Seven.”
He’s met with an annoyed roll of eyes, 34667’s arms curled around his bowl defensively.
“Whaddaya want, Nine?”
Seven’s eyes flick to his brow, where he knows he has a small bruise from an earlier scuffle with some of the newer inmates that didn’t know better than to bother him. He wouldn’t have bothered dealing with them, he certainly wouldn’t have risen to the occasion back in the Academy, but…those scuffles remind him of a happier time, of brothers in arms, protecting him. And sometimes, he can almost feel Dee’s arm around his shoulders as he walks away from the fight. No one messes with our team. If he just so happens to step in when someone dares to say something about Seven, well. Maybe he’s just bored.
CT-113, or, 34669 now, scratches his cheek, pulling himself out of the memories.
“I’m glad you got out, you know.” 34669 stirs his food, looking down. “Of Burnin Konn, of…everything,” he avoids, aware of the others in the mess hall. “I didn’t know anyone did.”
Seven looks at him with a strange look, his thumb tapping absently as their eyes meet. Deep blue meets light blue, as they nod to each other. He’s already shared his stories, how could he not, after Seven shared his. They’ve seen enough of the world, between the two of them. Of everyone there, he’s sure Seven is the only one who understands his eagerness for the peaceful misery of the Chop Fields.
But as much as they share with each other, 34669 will never call him anything more personal than the lackluster abbreviation of his neighbour’s inmate number. Numbers are easier to forget, or so he tells himself. He doesn’t want any more names to remember.
Seven huffs, not quite succeeding in his attempt at nonchalance. He doesn’t ask about his bruise, but his eyes keep flickering to it, and 34669 tries his hardest to not recognize the familiar look of concern in that gaze. Just a number. Only a number.
“I’m glad you got out, too. I guess.” Seven murmurs, surreptitiously sipping his food loudly. 34669 hums. Their conversations are never long, but their shared silence is a comfort, and 34669 can’t help the small smile as he turns back to his food.
This is better than just surviving.
--
He can’t find Seven.
He’s not at his post when he goes to meet up for lunch. His equipment is cast aside, but there’s no other trace of him. He’s just vanished. His panicked search reminds him of that red-tinted nightmare aboard the prison transport, but this time it’s worse because he can’t find what he’s looking for.
Everyone he asks just shrugs. One even said that he was taken. Taken? Where? No one knows, not even the security droids, who reward his prying with a few decent shocks – but he doesn’t care. He can take the pain. Because despite his attempts to not get attached, despite his adamant refusal to call him Migs, despite everything he’s tried to prevent this – he’s scared. He’s scared that his…his friend is hurt, or in some mess, and he doesn’t even know how to help.
He can’t focus on any of his tasks that day – he can’t even remember eating, or walking back from the field. He barely remembers the reprimands, the pain in his chest clouding all else. The desperation claws at his throat, and he gulps down the panic the best that he can, and it’s the first flicker of relief he’s had all day when he realizes he’s somehow made it back to his cell.
Welcoming the privacy the cell offers, 34669 holds his knees in bed, and stares at the wall he shares with – with Migs. He hadn’t even dared to share his real name, or his old designation with Migs, knowing the bad luck he brought to his friends. But despite his efforts, his luck has ruined things, again. He breathes out and he can feel his lungs shudder.
His first sob tears at his throat like stretching a scar, and Corin lets the fear swallow him.
--
Mayfeld doesn’t know what’s happening when they start talking about him dying. The realization of what’s happening comes slow to the ex-Imperial, hardly daring to believe it, and his head whips rapidly between Dune and Mando.
“D-does that mean I can go?” He asks, half-convinced this is all an elaborate ploy to shoot him dead. He did jeopardize their mission, shooting Hess like that – and he’s seen Mando’s face. It would make sense for them to kill him.
He takes two slow steps away from them, his escape from captivity so tantalizing, so close – but he can’t. He turns around, with a heavy but determined heart. Holds his hands back out. It takes a moment, but he says the words, because he knows he won’t sleep another night if he doesn’t.
“No. You have to take me back to Karthon.”
Internally, he shares his companions’ incredulous expressions. But he has to. He won’t leave his team behind, not again, not if he can help it. He was brave enough to shoot Hess, to destroy the rhydonium. And maybe, just maybe, he can be brave enough to save Nine – brave enough to convince Mando to help him with another prison break.