Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

There isn’t a day that goes by that ‘67 doesn’t wish that he could be just the same as the others, just another clone that can slip by unnoticed among the thousands of others. Unremarkable and exactly the same as everyone else. But he knows even that isn’t really true; not all clones are decanted equal. If they were, there wouldn’t be Nulls or Alphas or CCs or CTs. There wouldn’t be a Boba.

There are other unfortunate clones that manage to attract the attention of the Long Necks. Most of them manage to scrape by, somehow, by keeping their heads down and keepings to the regs and staying above the performance baseline.

‘67’s knows his performance scores are far above average CT, has consistently pushed himself to the breaking point because he had thought that maybe that would give him some leeway or something, something positive to mark down during his assessment. Because even if he had kept his head down and had been a good cadet, he still has a head full of blond hair.

He can show them that despite his defect, he is still a good clone.

The trainers had taken notice, of course, not of the colour of his hair because anyone with eyes can see that he’s different from the rest, but that his scores are in the upper percentile, almost grazing the CC standard.

But the scientists had also noticed, and a Long Neck’s attention is hardly ever a good thing.

His batch is just breaking for midmeal and they’re all tired and hungry from running drills, heading to the mess. It is one of the very rare times his break time coincides with Kote’s and he’s rushing, looking forward to having some company while he shovels nutrient mush-

‘Come with me, CT-7567,’ Ko Sai says, and her soft voice cuts straight through the chatter of the entire crowd of cadets.

She walks pass him, doesn’t spare him a glance, clearly expecting nothing but his immediate obedience. The cadets hurriedly part for her, shoving themselves up against the walls of the hallways, not wanting to get in the way of the scientist.

His heart is pounding, and all the blood is rushing from his face, but he still manages a studiedly neutral, ‘Yes, Sir,’ exactly like how he has been trained, and steps smartly after her.

‘67 stomach roils, he’s lost all appetite, lost all feeling in his body, feels rather like he’s floating along after the Long Neck, like his legs are on autopilot. The other clones in the hallways give them both a wide berth. None of them would meet his eyes, glancing away and scurrying away quickly.

He swallows hard and tries to breathe evenly through his nose.

He hopes Ko Sai will be quick today. If she is, maybe he’ll get to have a few minutes with Kote and the others.

He hopes Ko Sai finds whatever answers she’s looking for. Maybe then she’ll finally be satisfied and forget about him, move on to something or someone else.

Ko Sai takes hours. She takes from him hair and blood and bone marrow samples, and then watches him intently as she gives him hyposhots, half a dozen of them, down the meat of each thigh. And then she takes down notes as he pants and writhes and cries on her examination table, until eventually she sends him away with an instruction to return before latemeal the next rotation.

But most of today is already gone. He’s missed midmeal with Kote and his afternoon slot in the ground heavy-transport sim. He’s not sure how he is going to get certified at this rate, when he’s missed out on so many practice hours.

But these worries are distant and faraway, when it’s hard to even concentrate enough right now to get back to the barracks, to get his legs to move, one foot in front of the other, hard to even draw breath, when every inch of him feels like it’s been set aflame, burning, burning, burning. He bites his lip, bites down on a whimper, and keeps moving.

‘What are you doing here, cadet?’

‘67 is in too much discomfort to even be properly startled, only twitches a bit, and then he stops and arranges his body to stand at attention, tilts his chin up and picks a spot on the wall to focus on, hopes he isn’t swaying on his feet.

‘Sir,’ he says, wonders if the Null can hear the edge of pain in his dull tone.

A few second passes in silence and then ‘67 belatedly realises that he hasn’t answered the Null’s question.

‘I am heading to the barracks,’ he says, which is true, but it’s not exactly an answer to Jaing’s question. He hopes the trainer will let it go, let him get on with his way-

‘I asked what you are doing here, cadet,’ Jaing says, his tone flat and unyielding through his helmet’s vocoder.

‘67 swallows, throat clicking, wonders miserably if just admitting to Ko Sai’s personal interest in him will make it any worse for him somehow, make the trainers more hesitant to advance his training. It’s pretty karking obvious he’s different from the other clones and all the trainers are already scrutinising his every movement, his every score and assessment result.

The moment stretches a little too long, his hesitation only making the Null’s attention sharpen on him, making his skin prickle and itch further.

‘You said you are heading to the barracks?’ Jaing asks, shifting the weight on his feet, armour plates sliding across each other silently.

‘67’s heart thumps in his chest, like it is trying to move his sluggish blood faster through his body in response, because the Null’s intense focus is like a predator scenting a weakness.

‘Yes, Sir,’ he responds, and he can’t help but slide a glance at the older clone and knows with a sort of dreaded certainty that the trainer will not be so easily shaken off, wishes he could go back to a minute ago to kick himself in the shebs because-

‘It is not even time for latemeal yet, cadet,’ the trainer says slowly, something strange in his tone of voice, and ‘67 has the slightly hysterical half-thought that maybe the small tilt of his helm is actually because he is concerned.

Which is ridiculous; the Nulls don’t care enough about defective clones like ‘67 to waste their time and attention that way. They’re too busy running errands for the Prime and running herd on the Alphas.

Jaing’s comm chirps then, and the Null answers it in the privacy of his helmet. ‘67 watches as Jaing suddenly straightens a few seconds later, presumably to whatever it is he’s hearing, and turns to stride away.

‘As you were, cadet!’ Jaing throws over his shoulder at ‘67.

‘67 sags with relief only after the Null turns the corner and is out of sight, runs a shaking hand down his face. He takes a moment to thank the stars that Jaing had been called away, likely summoned by the Prime.

He makes it back to the barracks with slow and sluggish steps. The cadets that he encounters in his journey edge away from him. He ignores them, ignores their looks of suspicion and pity, concentrates on putting one foot in front of the other.

‘‘67?’ someone says, just behind him and he sways to a stop. A sharp flare of pain burns down his neck when he turns his head to see 3636.

3636's frown deepens and then the older clone is stepping closer, wrapping a hand around his elbow to steady him.

‘You look like osik. Where have you been? Kote was looking for you.’

‘67 flashes him a weak smile and says, ‘Sorry. Was held up by one of the Nulls.’

It’s not his fault if 3636 assumes that he had been assigned extra drills the entire day, he tells himself. Better that they think a Null is on his case, rather than a Long Neck. 3636 presses his lips together tightly, unhappy but accepting. 3636 keeps a hand on him though, guiding and supportive, so ‘67 reckons he really must look like osik.

‘Where’s Kote?’ he asks, and it’s so much easier to walk with 3636 by his side, just letting himself be led through the long hallways cutting through the barracks, his concentration spiralling down to the warm hand wrapped around his arm.

‘Field sim,’ 3636 answers, and tugs him upright when he stumbles.

He blinks and then realises that 3636 has steered him into the section that houses the CCs. The older clone has hooked an arm around his shoulders, taking most of his weight.

‘Move your feet,’ 3636 says, gruff and annoyed, and ‘67 does, as best as he can, shuffling along until they reach the doors of the bunk room 3636 shares with his batchmates. He slaps the controls to get the doors open and then drags ‘67 inside.

3636 tips him into Kote’s bunk and ‘67 sprawls bonelessly across the surface.

‘You eaten any since morning?’ 3636 asks with his hands on his hips and a severe frown on his face.

‘67 manages to rock his head from side to side, feeling the room tilt nauseatingly.

3636 sighs, a sound of deep aggravation and mutters something about not being a babysitter to idiot cadets.

He starts and blinks rapidly, not realising his eyes had slipped shut, when 3636 tosses a wrapped ration bar at him and it bounces off his head.

‘Eat that,’ 3636 orders. ‘Your blood sugar is probably low.’ He makes a face, but the CC has already shut off the overhead lights and is halfway out the door, telling him, ‘Kote’s getting off in an hour or so. So, take a nap or whatever.’

He nibbles at the corner of the bar, makes himself swallow a few bites and then gives up, rewrapping the bar and tucking it under the pillow for later.

Whatever Ko Sai had given him today makes his thoughts syrupy slow and all his bones throb in pain in time with his heartbeat. He closes his eyes and draws in a deep breath through his nose and lets it out through his mouth. The air is warm, and it smells like his ori’vod and it feels safe here, knowing that Kote’s batchmates won’t kick him out, that they actually tolerate his presence with only minimal grumbling.

He slides into wobbly consciousness an indeterminate amount of time later, when he feels the surface of the bunk mattress dip. He tenses at first, and then relaxes and lets Kote manhandle and roll him to the other side of the bed. He ends up facing the wall, his nose an inch or two from it. Kote crawls in and tucks himself along ‘67’s back, the bed just big enough for them both if they lay on their sides.

‘67 closes his eyes again, content to lay limply and let Kote arrange their bodies until he’s comfortable. Kote’s arm winds tight around him, dragging to press him into Kote’s chest. The warm weight of him pressing on ‘67 feels grounding, makes it feel less like he’s going to fall apart if he breathes wrong. There’s a pressure building in his chest that has nothing to do with how hard Kote is hugging him and the next breath ‘67 breathes in is shaky and wet.

Kote doesn’t say anything, just holds him through it.

As he struggles to wrestle some control back over his emotions, he becomes aware of Kote’s chest moving, his breaths deep and purposefully even and ‘67 tries to match his breathing.

Kote eventually breaks his silence, tucking his mouth close to ‘67 to murmur, ‘Everything will be better, I promise. You just gotta hold out for one more year, vod.’

Kote’s words are meant in comfort, that the rough training days are only meant to make them better soldiers. But Kote doesn’t know about Ko Sai, ’67 has been very careful to not to let Kote know that a Long Neck is especially interested in him. So-

That’s an entire year filled with Ko Sai and the burning chemicals she injects under his skin, of laying on her table and her droids holding him still as she comes with laser tools and carves his skin to collect yet more tissue samples, of trying not to scream - she hates it when he screams or moves too much – when she uses that huge needle to puncture into his spine to collect some fluid for her tests.

One more year.

Kote squeezes him tighter when he doesn’t say anything. He can’t, because if he opens his mouth, he might end up throwing up bits of half-digested ration bar, so he gives a jerky nod, if only so Kote would feel better.

No sense for the both of them to be miserable tonight.

Just one more year, Kote had said. ‘67 knows his ori’vod is just trying to remind him that these terrible days have an end, but-

That’s another year of forcing himself to train every day in spite of the things Ko Sai does to him, training and studying every breathing moment so his scores remain safely above average. Another planetary orbit of being ostracised from his own peers because they fear his mutation might be catching, or catch themselves the attention of the scientists.

At least he’ll have Kote and his batchmates, he tries to tell himself, feeling too unsteady to even feel self-conscious about his neediness as he tugs Kote’s arms around him tighter. His ori’vod wordlessly obliges, shifting to curl his body over him like he’s protecting ‘67 from blastround shrapnel.

The older batches are not so wary of being seen with him; they’ve gone through basic and have gotten their full kits. That gives them safety from the threat of decommissionings, because everyone knows that the Long Necks dislike wasting their investment in the time and training spent getting the clones to reach maturity. And most of the older batches has specialised training, which makes them more valuable products.

‘67 is just a CT though, but all he has to do is make it through one more year, make it to his next growth cycle, and then he’d finally qualify for his own armour.

And then he will be able to hide his defect under a bucket; in armour, he will be a clone just like any other.

Just one more year.

He can do it.

Maybe.

He’ll have to.

If not for himself, then for Kote’s sake. Because if ‘67 gets himself decommed – no matter how good Kote is at compartmentalising – he’s pretty sure Kote’s performance will be affected a little, and ‘67 will never allow such a risk.

Kote’s the best of them.

It’s not just ‘67 thinking that because Kote is his ori’vod; he’s the only clone from the batches after the Alphas that the Prime had actually named, and that acknowledgement has to mean something, that the Prime expects only great things from him.

‘67 can't be the reason that Kote falters.

So.

One year.

Just one more year.

He’ll take it one day at a time.

He still feels achy despite his short nap and he can feel Kote’s heartbeat drumming steadily against his back, in the space between his shoulder blades. He lets exhaustion tug his eyelids close, sinks back down into sleep-

‘Osik! Everyone, get up! Kote, get your vod’ika out of here!’ 1010’s sharp tone cuts straight through the restless dream ‘67 is having, and he rolls out of the bunk, limbs getting entangled with Kote’s as they both hurriedly try to get themselves upright.

He winces blearily at the brightness of the lit room and sways, feeling lightheaded. The rest of the CCs are in the room and their sleeping tunics are rumpled, 1004’s hair is sticking up every which way. It must be many hours past lights out.

He only realises he’s listing to the side when Kote reaches out to steady him, frowning briefly at him in concern. Then Kote turns an annoyed look at 1010, looking like he’s about to verbally rip into his batchmate for waking all of them up.

1010 advances on them, looking panicked about the eyes as he hisses, ‘Trainers are coming through our section for a surprise inspection.’

Kote curses and whirls towards ‘67 and grabs him by the shoulder and gives him a little shake and ‘67 tries to marshal his focus onto Kote’s worried face. ‘Right, you gotta move now-’

‘Too late,’ 3636 says, pulling his head back into the room. He had stuck his head out for a quick recon of the hallways beyond. ‘The Nulls are here. They’re a few rooms down. But I caught a glimpse of Sull at the other end of the corridor, so that’s a no go.’

‘The Nulls…?’ 1004 demands, voice going high in his stress. ‘What the kark are they doing running inspections?’

The situation finally catches up with ‘67 and he tugs himself away from Kote. He has to get out of here, get out of their rooms before he’s discovered in here and gets them all in trouble-

‘Where are you going?’ Kote snaps, reaching to grab him again and ‘67 sidesteps away and bumps into 1010 who shoves him right back into Kote’s reach.

The CCs trade a quick series of looks, communicating silently. 3636 grunts and 1004 nods, and ‘67 is passed over to 1010 who gruffly says, ‘With me, cadet.’ Then ‘67 is pulled over to the other side of the room and pushed to sit on the floor beside 1010’s bed. The CC tosses a pair of boots into his lap and then a rag, ‘Get polishing.’

‘67 stares up at him in bewilderment, rag in hand, but 1010 is already grabbing the other boots in the room and placing them in front of him. He makes to get up, but 1004 puts a hand on the top of his head, keeping him in place.

‘Sit! Stay!’

‘M’not a strill!’ snaps ‘67, flicking the rag at 1004’s ankles as the older clone hoists himself up into the upper bunk above, climbing back into bed.

He doesn’t understand what the CCs think they are doing. Surely they know they’ll get punished too, if the trainers find a cadet in their room after lights out. He catches Kote’s eye across the room, hoping for some explanation but all his ori’vod does is nod encouragingly at the footwear and give him a meaningful look. Then Kote slips into his bed, turning his back to the room.

‘67 is tempted to throw the boot he has in his hands at him, but then 1010 raps him on the head as the CC crawls into the bed behind ‘67.

‘What-’ he begins but is cut off by 3636 growling at him to shut up, and he glares at the older clone’s back as 3636 shimmies up the rungs set into the wall to get into his own sleeping space above Kote’s.

The atmosphere in the room is charged and tense, as they all wait for the trainers. ‘67 fingers clench tightly around the rag in his hands, heart thrumming hard in the cage of his ribs. It is far too late now for him to sneak out without immediately getting caught in the hallways. But if he gets caught here-

‘You’ll be fine,’ 1010 says lowly to him and ‘67 ducks his head. He slides 1010 a glance from the corner of his eye, and finds the CC staring back at him, dark eyes steady and a grim slant to his lips. ‘We’ll take the heat, vod’ika. You’ll be alright.’

He doesn’t get the chance to respond. The door slides open then and then there’s Jaing and Kom’rk striding through, crowding the small space with their bulk and armour.

‘On your feet!’ barks Kom’rk.

‘67 jumps to his feet, dropping everything to the floor. There’s a flurry of movement and scattered bedding and ‘67 is being shoved aside by 1010 as the CCs assemble to attention before the Nulls. ‘67 hurriedly forms up next to 1010, hands by his sides, eyes to the front, and his stomach dropping to his feet, as the Nulls turn their helms in his direction and the way they obviously mark the odd CT in the room and the dirty rag and the scattered boots around him.

‘And what,’ Kom’rk says slowly after a long, long moment of tense silence, his tone flat and tinged with something dangerous, dragging his helmeted gaze down the line of CCs and making them stiffen even further, ‘the sweet kriffing hell is going on here.’

Chapter Text

The blank face of Kom’rk’s helmet is turned to the CCs standing before him and he is so still, more like a statue than a living being, as he waits for the answer to his question. ’67 feels the blood drain from his face. None of the CCs offer any words of explanation, and the silence builds and builds, the tension winding ever higher.

’67 can’t help shifting his weight on his feet, anxiety and guilt a coiling thing that wraps around his chest and squeezing tighter. He freezes, when Jaing’s helm tilts in his direction and he can feel the Null’s focus sharpening on him. At the other end of their line, Kote twitches, just a small movement, aborted before it is even anything, but it is enough to attract Jaing’s attention, who swings his helm Kote’s way, pining the CC with a long look.

The Nulls seem to exchange a few words via their private comms, Kom’rk tilting his head just a few degrees to look at his brother.

After an unbearable long minute, Kom’rk dips his helm and Jaing takes a step back. ‘With me, cadet,’ he orders curtly, and turns on his heel and exits the room.

’67 lurches after him, body automatically obeying the order. There is a shivery feeling squeezing his guts and making it feel like he’s about to throw up as he skirts quickly around Kom’rk’s armoured bulk to get out. The door hisses shut behind him and there’s Jaing waiting for him a few steps away, and he hurriedly snaps to attention in front of the Null, locking his eyes onto the trainer’s blue pauldron.

‘At ease, cadet.’

He drops his military-straight bearing at the command, but every line of his body is still tense, his breathing short and shallow as he tries to quell his rising panic.

‘Are you alright, 7567?’ the Null asks, and his voice is low, something like… gentleness in his tone. ’67 can’t help but dart a quick look at the other’s visor.

‘Yes, Sir!’ he replies, a slight delay in his answering that makes Jaing cant his head.

And then, after a long pause, Jaing reaches up and removes his helmet, and tucks it under one arm. His expression is calm, which ’67 doesn’t expect. The Null’s body language back in the room had been all tightly coiled intensity, ready to be unleashed.

‘Are you certain?’ Jaing asks slowly, making ‘67’s heart beat faster in his chest. ‘Do you need help?’

’67 shakes his head, a sharp jerk of his head. ‘No, Sir! I am fine, Sir!’ he says, and he prays that the trainer will not press further, because he knows it would be a mistake to acknowledge he is anything but perfectly capable of handling and performing his tasks, obvious defects aside. If he admits he is tired or just needs a rotation or two to just rest for a little, while Ko Sai’s chemicals finishes burning through his body, he might as well walk himself into the decom chambers.

Jaing’s dark eyes are sharply assessing as he studies ’67. ’67 ruthlessly squashes his rising fear and very carefully modulates his breathing pattern. After a moment, ’67 thinks he hears Jaing sigh softly, thinks there’s a tinge of frustration or disappointment in the sound, but he doesn’t look at the other’s face to check, keeps his eyes fastened onto Jaing’s shoulder.

‘Ba’slanar briirud yaimpar,’ Jaing mutters to himself, sounding vaguely frustrated. ’67 twitches at the unfamiliar words, wonders if it’s something he should worry about. Then the Null is speaking again, this time louder and in Basic, asking, ‘Who is your primary trainer?’

‘Trainer Maze, Sir,’ he replies, feeling shivery with dread as he watches Jaing raises his forearm and comms the Alpha.

‘Maze. Ni mar’eyir gar verd’ika ve’vut gemas,’ Jaing says, as soon as it connects.

Maze’s voice comes through, and though ’67 doesn’t understand what is being said, he can’t hide his wince at the deep exasperation at his trainer’s tone, ‘Tion vaii cuyir sheb’ika? Kaysh eyaytir teh ge’kaan ibi’tuur.’

‘Tion gar nu tay’haai?’ Jaing asks sharply, his gaze is fixed onto ‘67’s face as the Null speaks into the receiver on his vambrace.

‘Vod, gar ganar sur’haaise; kaysh cuyir lenedat ti kaysh gemas. Kaysh nu’linibar ori’osike teh ashi’ade ra Munit’videke.’

There is a short silence as Jaing considers whatever it is Maze had reported. Then Maze speaks again, something like worry in his tone, ‘Me’vaar ti kaysh?’

‘Naas,’ Jaing says, after another quick flick of his eyes up and down ‘67’s frame. ‘Haryc. Kaysh ru’cuyir ti Al’verd’ike; val ja'hailir kaysh nuhoy.’

’67 stands stiffly, back ramrod straight and eyes to the front. He listens hard, trying to pick out sounds that are repeated, trying desperately to understand the foreign words as the conversation between the two trainers continue for a little longer, manages to catch the few curse words he understands, thinks with some measure of apprehension that maybe he hears Kote’s name being mentioned somewhere in there, and then-

‘I’m sending him back to report to you,’ Jaing tells Maze, suddenly switching back to Basic, and ’67 can’t help the quick slide of his gaze up to Jaing’s face. There’s a small hitch of an eyebrow and ’67 holds himself straight-backed under the weight of Jaing’s stare, tilting his jaw up. The corner of the Null’s mouth twitches and then Jaing ends the call after receiving Maze’s confirmation.

‘Get back to your bunk, 7567. Get some sleep. You look dead on your feet,’ Jaing tells him, and he doesn’t sound… unkind.

‘Sir!’ ’67 acknowledges, snapping a salute and turns, feels the burn of Jaing’s gaze in between his shoulder blades as he tries to hurry away as fast as his aching body would allow him to move.

Kamino never really sleeps, there’s always a guard rotation, some trainers on shift, or some security droids roaming the halls. But tonight, there seems to be a facility-wide surprise inspection and roll call, the first of its kind that ’67 is aware off, and most of the cadets are awake, or about to be woken up by the trainers wanting to count heads.

He almost trips over a mouse droid when he turns the corner. It beeps noisily at him and dodges his half-hearted kick. If anything, his attempt seemed to have annoyed it into following and harassing him, pestering at his bootheels all across the CC barracks and back to his own.

‘There you are,’ Maze says gruffly, as soon as he sees ’67. The trainer looks harried, and ’67 wonders if Jaing had chewed the Alpha out for misplacing one of the cadets. The Kaminoans are very careful of their inventory.

’67 falters a little, and the aggressive little mouse droid gives him a bump in the back of his legs before zooming off. He makes himself close the remaining distance to the trainer. The corners of Maze’s lips slant unhappily as he looks ’67 up and down. Maze drops a heavy hand onto the back of his neck and steers him into the bunk room he’s assigned to, closing the door behind them.

The space is meant for a squad, but ’67 bunks alone. And in their training facility where clones are bumping elbows and are practically in each other’s spaces all the time… well, it’s another thing that ’67 tries not to dwell on, tucks it away under the more practical need to focus and demonstrate his capabilities in training.

’67 turns to face Maze, braces himself for a blistering lecture for missing training for most of the day and then the roll call at night.

Maze is looking around the room, a faint frown on his face as he takes in the empty bunks. He stares for a few seconds at the bunk that ’67 has claimed for his own, the one in the far corner furthest from the door. There is a complicated expression on his face when he finally turns to ’67.

‘You alright, 7567?’ he asks, an echo of Jaing’s question earlier. Even the tone is similar, almost gentle, but ’67 is not familiar with such softness, not from any clone that is not Kote or his batchmates, and he feels himself tensing up.

‘Yes, Sir,’ he answers, desperately wishing that all the trainers would just leave him be, would stop trying to press answers from him, would just give him some breathing room and the chance to prove himself.

Maze stares at him for a long time. ‘Anyone gives you osik, you tell me. Understand? Even if they’re CCs, or another trainer.’

The other clones aren’t the ones that make it hard for ’67 to sleep in the dark alone with only nightmares for company. It is the Long Necks. It is Ko Sai and her lab and her never ending testing and her probing questions. There’s no use complaining about the Kaminoans though, so ’67 swallows hard and jerks a nod. He can’t seem to form proper words around the tightness in the chest, but Maze seems to accept his acknowledgement anyway.

The trainer tilts his head at ’67’s bunk and says, still in that strange soft way, ‘Alright, get some shut eye, cadet. Classes tomorrow is still as scheduled. I’ve got a free block before latemeal. Come see me then, and we’ll see if we can squeeze in some sim practice. I’ll even log the time towards your certification.’

‘Yes, Sir,’ he manages quietly, and he’s glad Maze doesn’t comment on the slight wobble in his words. Maze just gives him another long measuring look, and then departs with a ‘Good night, cadet.’

’67 sags, swaying unsteadily on his feet, breath rushing out of his frame. He makes it to his bed and tumbles onto the surface. He’s tired and achy enough to not be bothered by the fact that the lights are still on, that the cool sheets lack the comforting scent of Kote. He falls asleep almost immediately.

There’s a strange tension in the air the next morning, after ’67 has gotten his handful of hours of sleep and has managed to drag himself to the mess hall for firstmeal, still feeling sore and a little wrung out. He’s not the only one who notices the way the tables the trainers usually use are empty. He hears more than one curious mutter of ‘Where’re the trainers?’ when the other cadets also take note of the Alphas’ absences.

He’s already finished most of the food on his tray when the doors open and a group of a dozen Alphas stride in, purpose and intent in every line of their fully armoured forms. The noise in the hall slowly quietens into watchful wariness when they all notice that there’s an Alpha posted at each exit, clearly on guard, while the rest of the group move efficiently between the tables, hardly hiding the fact that they’re surveying each face as they pass, clearly looking for someone.

‘What d’you think is happening?’ a cadet whispers to the others clustered with him at the opposite end of the table they’re sharing with ’67. There’s the usual conspicuous gap between them and ’67, but he can hear them just fine. ‘Who’re they looking for?’

’67 silently chews on his rubbery protein discs and watches from the corner of his eyes. He notes that the trainers are only searching through the older batches, the ones decanted a little after the CCs and who have already gotten their armour. His own batch is passed over and ignored, too young for whatever search criteria they have.

‘Maybe someone missed roll call?’ another cadet speculates.

‘A missing clone? The Long Necks will be pissed if the Alphas misplaced their inventory,’ 6922 says languidly, from over the next table.

’67 ducks his head and tries to swallow his food past the tightening feeling around his throat, wonders if his own truancy last night had been reported to the Kaminoans. To Ko Sai. He doesn’t think so, and remembering the uncharacteristic look in Maze’s eyes yesterday, wonders if he dares to hope that it remains unreported.

He can’t stop himself from glancing towards the currently empty table Kote usually occupies, at the other end of the vast space. The mess hall is ostensibly large enough to accommodate all of the clones dining at once, but their mealtimes are staggered due to the different schedules the different batches have. He didn’t have a chance to meet up with Kote or the rest of his batch this morning, and their schedules don’t line up today.

Despite what 1010 had said about them willing to take the brunt of whatever punishment that was to follow for ‘67’s breaking protocol to bunk in with them, he still worries that they would change their minds, would be angry and annoyed with him instead.

He should have just stepped up and admitted to his own infractions to the Nulls. It was his mistake and the others shouldn’t have to pay for it.

The Alphas quickly conclude their search, apparently without success. They file out, their footsteps loud and echoing in the watchful silence that had fallen over the hall’s occupants. The trainers guarding the doors remain behind.

A pair of CCs try to leave the hall, having cleared their trays, but are turned back by the Alphas, ordered to return to their table. Anxiety coils tightly in ‘67’s gut and he puts down his multitensil, pushes away the rest of his meal.

‘Remain where you are,’ Sull orders from his post at the exit, his voice magnified by his vocoder. The trainer’s helmeted gaze sweeps slowly across the hall, taking in the thousands of faces turned his way. ‘Stay in your seats. No one is allowed to leave.’

‘Sir, what is happening?’ asks one of the CCs rather boldly, actually rising from his bench.

Sull’s helm doesn’t even tilt in CC-8826’s direction. He ignores the question completely. ‘Keep your asses seated until otherwise instructed,’ he says, the edge of a dangerous growl in his words, and 8826 plants himself back into his seat, looking cowed.

The cadets murmurs quietly to one another and the Alpha’s make no demands for silence. The mutterings eventually rise to a comfortable volume again, the cadets openly eyeing the trainers in curiosity as they turn back to their food trays. It’s nearing the end of their mealtime when the doors hiss open.

’67 sits up straighter, craning his neck to get a better view as more cadets are marched in, escorted by other trainers.

‘What the kark is going on?’ a cadet at his table blurts out, looking wide-eyed and apprehensive at this unprecedented change in their routine.

The newcomers file through between the filled tables, making their way to the unoccupied section of the mess hall. A column of them march pass ’67 and he inhales sharply when he catches sight of some familiar CCs. Kote meets his eyes as he approaches, and there’s a flash of relief that flickers across Kote’s face before his lips thin into a scowl when he sees that ’67 is sitting alone at one end of the long table, shunned by his own peers.

Kote breaks away from the line and slides into place next to ’67 on the bench, bumping shoulders with him. Of course, Kote taking a seat at ‘67’s table only means that the rest of his batch follows his lead, 1004 sighing and rolling his eyes as he sits down.

‘What are you doing?’ ’67 hisses at them, eyes darting around to find a lot of faces looking their way. The CCs choosing to sit at a cadet table is hardly inconspicuous, their larger bodies in shiny white armour a stark contrast against the red uniforms of the younger cadets. That it is Kote makes it even more interesting for the others watching, especially because Kote shouldn’t be associating with a defective clone like ’67. He shoots a quick darting look at the trainers, ‘You’re gonna get into trouble!’

Kote ignores him and instead looks him over carefully, and the tense line of Kote’s shoulders eases a little after a long moment of study. Then Kote slings an arm around ’67 and hauls him in for a tight hug.

‘Kriffing hells,’ Kote mutters, sounding breathless and relieved as he wraps himself around ’67. He doesn’t say anything else, just tucks his chin over the top of ‘67’s head.

3636 and 1010 are doing a fine job of silently intimidating anyone into looking away. 3636 has a truly impressive scowl on his face, teeth bared in a snarl. That, and 1010’s cold glare, effectively cows the other cadets into giving them their privacy. Such tactics don’t work on the trainers though, and there’s several visors turned in their direction, observing them.

1004 thumps Kote in the shoulder. ‘Stop it. You’re embarrassing us.’

‘Kark off,’ Kote snaps back, but without actual heat and he does release ’67 after another bone-crushing squeeze. ‘You alright, vod’ika?’

‘Me?’ he asks incredulously, trying to keep his voice low. ‘What happened after I left? What did Kom’rk say?’

Because ’67 knows exactly what the scene the CCs had staged last night had looked like. The Nulls likely suspect that 1010 and the others are hazing him and forcing him to do menial tasks. Jaing had probably reported that to his trainer, and it’s easy to remember Maze’s uncharacteristically gentle interrogation when it is still so fresh in his mind.

‘You gonna eat that?’ 1004 asks, fingers already plucking up the abandoned carb wafers on ‘67’s tray.

‘No,’ ’67 says impatiently, the same instant Kote says insistently, ‘Yes.’

Kote glares at 1004, who doesn’t pout, but he comes close to it, and he drops the wafers back. Kote snags the tray and shoves it in front of ’67. The side of ‘67’s face tingles, acutely aware of the attention of the trainers on their table, as he reaches to pick up his multitensil again. His stomach is tying itself into knots, but he makes himself eat.

After a few bites, Kote finally answers his questions. ‘We got yelled at, a bit, for stealing and keeping a cadet-’

‘-Didn’t seem like his heart was really in it, though,’ 1004 chimes in, rubbing his lips and looking thoughtful.

‘-and got assigned some extra hours doing drills.’

‘We also,’ cuts in 1010 rather drily, swinging his head to give Kote a look full of meaning, ‘received datapackets that we’re to read through by the end of the tenday, about proper GAR procedures and form filing for troop requisitions and transfer requests.’

‘What,’ says ’67 flatly, after a few seconds.

1010 slides his gaze over to ’67 and lifts a shoulder in a slight shrug, looking unbothered, ‘It’s a… thing, Command has to pick up. How to file paperwork and write reports and the like. It’s ridiculous how much paperwork it takes to run an army. We’re supposed to get into that module a little later though.’

There’s something there that ’67 thinks he should grasp, some kind of message, maybe, that the Nulls are trying to impart on the group. Whatever it is, the CCs don’t seem particularly concerned by it. If anything, the relatively light, if strangely pointed, punishments seem to have only embolden Kote into more aggressive fretting over ‘67.

He eyes his ori’vod as Kote nudges his drink nearer, the encouraging look on Kote’s face dips into a frown when ’67 makes no move to take the cup.

‘Do you know what’s been going on?’ he asks, trying for a distraction. Too much of Kote’s nurturing attention in public is making him uncomfortable.

It works, because Kote leans forward, resting his elbows on the table and his voice is lowered when he speaks, eyes darting to the Alphas in the hall, ‘Something’s up, for sure. Our trainers didn’t turn up earlier and we only had some of the droids supervising us. Session was cut short and we got marched here under escort.’

‘A surprise inspection through the entire barracks last night, and now this?’ 1010 says, subtly gesturing around at all the clones gathered together in the hall. While they’ve sat talking, more clones have been brought in and ordered into seats. ‘Those two things are linked.’

‘They’re looking for someone,’ ’67 tells them. ‘They searched through our group earlier. Didn’t find them, obviously.’

The CCs exchange glances at that.

‘If someone’s missing, it’s been hours,’ 1004 mutters. ‘Half a rotation, maybe.’

‘The Nulls are involved,’ 1010 says slowly, like he’s still testing the idea. His eyes narrow as he thinks, head tilting and staring unseeing at the table in front of him. ‘They were part of the search last night with the other trainers.’

He pauses, looking grim, ‘Has anyone seen the Prime today?’

‘It can’t be the Prime they’re looking for, if they’re searching the clone barracks,’ ’67 feels he has to point out, no matter how ridiculous he sounds. Prime is a full grown man, and the trainers are clearly looking for someone a growth cycle after cadet-age, someone fresh into their armour.

1010 is already shaking his head, ‘They’re overturning the entire place looking for someone. They wouldn’t go through such trouble if it was just a missing clone.’

Kote’s eyes widen fractionally in understanding, ‘Boba?’

1010 nods. 1004 curses under his breath and 3636 turns a little pale. ’67 thinks there’s definitely certain cognitive enhancements the CCs have that he doesn't, because he’s still half lagging behind in whatever leap of logic they have made.

‘But the Alphas searched through the older batches; Boba’s too small to hide among that group.’

‘That means,’ Kote says, turning to ’67 and looking very serious and being very careful to keep his voice from carrying further than their little group, lips barely moving, ‘that a clone took him.’

’67 rears back a little and Kote nods at him, a brief jerk of his head. ’67 can’t help the flick of his eyes back to the fully armoured Alphas guarding them, notes with rising apprehension the blasters and other weaponry strapped onto their persons.

Every clone knows that Boba is the Prime’s youngest son, cherished and protected, raised outside of the GAR regime and strict structure that everyone else here is subject to.

If anything had happened to Boba, if a clone had taken Boba…

…

’67 can’t bring himself to finish the thought.

Chapter Text

The seats in the mess hall are steadily being filled with more clones, disrupted from their training routines, and escorted in by Alphas or security droids. The noise of chattering is a dull rumble, the other clones gossiping with one another under the watchful eyes of the trainers.

By silent mutual agreement, ’67 and the CCs have stopped discussing further on what it is they suspect to be happening. The trainers don’t seem incline to enlighten the younger clones on the situation, so it is best to keep their own mouths shut and not speculate. Whatever operation the trainers are currently running, they’re keeping it close to their chests and contained to their private comms.

They’re all training to be soldiers here, so they understand what needn’t be said; some things need opsec and some things are need to know.

Clearly, the clones don’t need to know.

The long minutes drag by and tip over into long hours, and still the trainers stand sentry at the doors, and the gathered clones remain obediently in their seats. The CCs have their datapads on them and are quick to use the opportunity to catch up on their studies.

‘Might as well get started on those readings Kom’rk assigned us,’ Kote says, and he brushes off ‘67’s quiet and useless apology for getting them all in trouble the night before. ’67 must have still looked a little guilty because Kote had huffed and bumped shoulders with him hard enough to send ’67 knocking into 1004’s side. Annoyed, 1004 reaches over ‘67’s head to punch Kote in the arm.

’67 is long done with his meal and has nothing to occupy himself with, during this unexpected down time. He should have been better prepared, should have had his study materials with him. A good soldier is always prepared, always ready. How can he be a soldier, when he’s falling behind in his training and can’t even remember something as simple as to always be equipped with his standard issue datapad.

He needs to be better, if he wants to actually get the chance to do what he was made to do, to serve in the GAR. He knows that his chances – any of their chances – of surviving the Wars are laughably slim. It’s not like he’s really believes in the glory and honour of serving, not in the same way Kote and the others do, anyway. He knows that he and the rest of the CTs are meant for the frontline, to take the brunt of the Wars for the Republic and the Jedi, little more than cannon fodder.

But he’d rather take his chances on the battlefield, than here on Kamino.

If he can just survive and make it long enough to get deployed, get on a transport and get off Kamino…

If he dies on the field, cut down by blasterfire or a swinging sabre…

…at least he dies with a blaster in hand.

He doesn’t want to die here in this facility, peeled apart under Ko Sai’s scalpel and cold scrutiny.

‘Hey,’ Kote murmurs lowly to him and he startles hard enough to jostle 1004. ‘You alright?’

He finds himself blinking rapidly, realises that his breathing has gone short and shallow and shaky. The slight crease in between Kote’s eyebrows deepens as he frowns at ’67. His eyes flick over his head to meet 1004’s, and then back down to 67’s again. 67’s tracks Kote’s hand as he puts his datapad down. He keeps his eyes on the lit screen, pretends that it has captured his interest. He suppresses a shiver, tries to will away the phantom sensation of straps across his body, like the restraints on the scientist’s examination table. He wants to wrap his arms around himself, but ignores the urge, keeps his arms by his sides instead.

‘M’fine,’ he says, and he thinks his voice is steady enough, but it has taken him a little too long to reply and Kote is staring at him with an unreadable look on his face.

3636 slides a quick look at them and then returns his gaze to his work. ‘You look as pale and pasty as the protein mush we had for midmeal yesterday,’ he grunts, poking at his screen. Then he glances at ’67 again, expression as bland as the food they are served daily but there is a glint in his eye, ‘A meal which you skipped.’

’67 hisses at 3636 in annoyance, and the CC bares his teeth in return.

‘Why are you skipping meals?’ Kote demands immediately, eyes narrowing, as he turns bodily in his seat to face ’67.

Osik successfully stirred, 3636 serenely goes back to his reading.

‘I didn’t skip a meal!’ ’67 refutes indignantly, which is kinda true because-

‘I had to feed him a ration bar. He was close to fainting,’ 3636 says, eyes firmly on his datapad. ‘67 opens his mouth, but 3636 gives him a sharp glare, daring him to protest. ‘I had to practically carry you to bed, vod’ika.’

‘Vod’ika, what’s going on?’ Kote asks, and ’67 takes one look at the expression on his face and looks hurriedly away, something twisting in his chest and a tightness at the back of his throat.

‘Nothing’s going on,’ he insists, maybe a bit too loudly because even 1010 glances over. He draws in a short breath and exhales harshly. ‘I’m fine.’

He is. He will be.

It’s just for one more year, anyway.

The combined weight of their silent scrutiny and scepticism is a heavy thing, and he drops his gaze, folding his hands on his lap under the edge of the table to hide their trembling. He locks his eyes on a stray crumb on the table – carb wafer, grey – and steadfastly ignores the concerned looks the CCs exchange over his head, ignores the pressure building behind his ribs and behind his eyes.

Kote touches him, fingers light on his elbow and ’67 sucks in a breath, tenses-

‘Attention!’ Alpha-17 barks loudly as he strides through the doors, his vocoder projecting the order across the space, and every single clone scramble to their feet.

The trainer is silent for a long moment, slowly scanning the room with his helmeted gaze. ‘Your training and classes will resume immediately. Form up,’ he orders them flatly. When no one moves except to shift uncertainly, he snaps impatiently, ‘Do y’all need a personalised gilded flimsi invitation? Get your asses into gear! Move!’

3636 curses and jams his bucket onto his head, the rest of his batchmates following suit and moving off, heading to the other side of the hall where the other CCs are. Kote pauses briefly to give ‘67’s upper arm a squeeze, ‘I’ll find you later, vod’ika,’ he promises, his tone carrying a weight of meaning in those words. And then he’s gone, cutting easily through the swelling press of agitated cadets, all of them rushing to get into orderly rows.

Kote’s touch was brief, and the fabric of ‘67’s uniform is thick, but he thinks he can still feel the warmth of Kote’s hand tingling on his skin. Then he straightens his spine and steps into place near the end of the column of cadets his age. He falls into step with the rest of them as they march orderly out into the hallways, with a dozen droids accompanying them in escort formation. They are led to their training hall and the door seals shut on the heels of the cadet following closely behind him, the last in the line. ’67 and the other boy trade wide-eyed looks; they haven’t been locked in for training before and it feels distinctly ominous.

The sense of foreboding only intensifies when he looks around and realises that Maze isn’t in the room with them. In fact, he hasn’t seen the trainer at all today. A trickle of unease shivers down his spine at the lack of any of the Alphas overseeing their session today. Their orders to form up comes from one of the droids that had been accompanying them, which the cadets obey with only the barest of hesitation and surreptitious exchange of looks amongst themselves.

They hold formation as the other droids busy themselves with scanning their numbered tunics. ’67 finds himself holding his breath as one of the droids draws near, clamping down on his flinch when it flicks a scan down the front of his reds. He knows it’s not the same, that it is not one of her droids, but the cold feeling of anxiety still judders through his limbs.

‘All cadets in CT Series 7 accounted for,’ confirms the droid at the front, once the other droids are done with their tasks and the last cadet is scanned. ‘Cadets, commence warm up exercises for the next quarter hour,’ the droid orders them, its tone flat and monotonous.

They obey, because Maze isn’t here and presumably Alpha-17 had directed the droids to oversee their training today. The main droid gives them further instruction after that, breaking them into smaller groups and starting their training exercises. It feels odd to be receiving orders from a droid, when droids were only ever used as spotters or assistants, but no one dares to question it, not after the irregular morning they’ve had.

They remain under the close optics of the company droids for the day, escorted to-and-fro everywhere. Sometimes, their classes are randomly halted temporarily, and they are scanned again to ensure that all the cadets are present. Even their midday meal is no reprieve from the droids, and is taken with the droids standing sentry over their tables as the cadets eat.

’67 knows Kote’s schedule, knows that he and the others will be eating later, so ‘67 won’t have friendly company until latemeal tonight. Usually, he’d sit at the end of a table by himself. But today, with the droids directing their every movement, there’s no chance for ’67 to sit himself apart from his agemates.

He’s not sure who is more uncomfortable with the seating arrangement, him or the cadet forced to occupy the seat next to him. Fortunately for everyone, ’67 has the end seat of their bench, so there isn’t a need for another cadet to suffer being in his proximity on his other side. He clamps his elbows to his sides and tries not to brush against the other cadet. He keeps quiet and keeps his eyes down and focused on his food tray, as he tries to force himself to swallow food down his tight throat.

It’s awkward at first, then after a few minutes of eating in stilted silence, the other cadets at the table slowly unwind enough to start talking, keeping their voices low.

‘Where’s Maze? In fact, where’re all the trainers? Where have they all gone to?’ one of the other cadets asks around his mouthful of grainy fibre paste.

‘Maybe it’s a test,’ offers another cadet, eyeing with suspicion the droid patrolling past their table.

’67’s fingers clenches around the multitensil in his hand. He listens hard, but he keeps his eyes on his food tray.

‘Of what?’ the first cadet demands, frowning at the other.

The other boy shrugs a shoulder, ‘Dunno. Maybe to see what we’d do, if we’d continue taking orders from a droid. The GAR only has natborn officers, so maybe we’re meant to ignore the droids.’

Everyone at their table pauses to think about it for a moment.

‘No,’ says the first cadet slowly, shaking his head. ‘The trainers wouldn’t construct a test like that.’

But it sounds like something the scientists would do, ’67 thinks.

‘What?’

’67 freezes, darts a glance around the table and sees them all staring at him, turning pale when he realises that he had spoken aloud. He drops his gaze, pressing his lips together.

‘Hey,’ prompts the cadet sitting in front of him, tilting his head and trying to catch ‘67’s eyes, ignoring the way his batchmate elbows him in the side, ‘What do you mean by that?’

‘-Denal!’ the cadet at his side hisses, giving a quick look around to see if any of the droids have noticed Denal talking to ’67. ‘Stop engaging with him!’

Denal ignores him, eyes focused on ’67 and an intense look on his face as he waits for ’67 to answer. The rest of the table falls quiet, and ’67’s skin itches at the attention on him.

‘He’s right, you know,’ ’67 tells him, and it comes out raspy. He clears his throat and licks his dry lips and continues, ‘You shouldn’t talk to me.’

It’s not safe for you, he tries to convey through his meaningful look. The droids might be recording and transmitting, and who knows who has access to the feeds, who might be reviewing them.

The slant of Denal’s lips turns stubborn. ‘What did you mean when you mentioned the scientists?’ he asks persistently and ’67 winces.

‘Shh! You shouldn’t talk so loudly,’ he cautions, and he can’t help but slide an uneasy look at the droids. ’67 draws in a breath, carefully sets aside his anxiety, and meets his gaze.

This is more important than his own discomfort; unlike him, the other cadets are fortunate to have very little direct contact with the Kaminoans themselves and whatever intel ’67 has, he should share it with the others. Information is vital on the battlefield, and this could save lives.

He tries to distant himself from the contents of what he’s saying, tries to pretend it’s like making a field report. They don’t need to know exactly what Ko Sai does to him when she summons him, so he keeps that to himself. He keeps his tone even and factual as he shares his observations of her character and her methods of operations.

‘You really think this is a test?’ Denal asks into the heavy and tense silence that has fallen over their table. Denal’s tone isn’t unkind or challenging, and he’s staring at ’67 with an unreadable expression on his face.

They don’t know Ko Sai like he does, doesn’t know that she makes him run battle sims with horrifying scenarios where he has to watch Jedi Generals command the clones into senseless slaughter, while she takes readings of his stress responses.

’67 can almost feel the brush of her long fingers on his neck, the way she touches him and cradles his head as she presses sensor pads against his temples-

‘I don’t know if it is,’ ’67 says too sharply. He blinks furiously, trying to pull his focus back to the present, aware that his breaths had become shallow and harsh. ‘What I’m saying is,’ he says, fighting to sound calm and normal, but his voice still jumps a bit. He clears his throat before he continues, ‘I don’t think it is outside the realm of possibility.’

‘That would be really kriffed up,’ one of the other boys mutters, a disturbed look on his face.

Not as much as the sim program where ’67 was commanded to fire upon enemy combatants wearing clone armour, only for it to be revealed at the end that the intel had been bad, and he had killed an entire company of clones. Ko Sai had taken a lot of notes then and had only been the slightest bit annoyed when he’d been sick all over the floor.

‘We maintain as we are, until we know more about the situation,’ Denal decides firmly, casting a look around their table. ‘Our standing orders are to continue with classes.’

Some of the other boys mutter discontentedly amongst themselves, but they’re just cadets and they’re trained to follow orders, so they soon turn back to their meals and to other topics of discussion.

’67 pauses when he finds Denal studying him with a complicated expression on his face, with something like the glint of sympathy in his eyes.

’67 doesn't want that, doesn’t need that. He firms his jaw and tilts his chin up.

The corners of Denal’s lips twitch upwards and ’67 thinks, with a strange squeezing feeling in the middle of his chest, that there’s maybe something almost friendly in the smile. There’s a jittery feeling in his guts and he hopes that the smile he manages on his own face isn’t an awkward grimace as he decides to take the risk and he frantically casts about for something to say. He ends up blurting rather clumsily, ‘How’d you get your name?’

He half-expects Denal to ignore his question, to go back to ignoring him now that he isn’t sharing any further useful information on the scientists.

And ’67 is not stupid enough, not desperate enough for attention from the other cadets, to mention anything about what the CCs were speculating about that morning.

The small grin on Denal’s face grows and the furrow between his eyes disappear as he leans forward, ‘So, there’s this huge river on Egips, and it’s the major river that bisects the main continent…’

’67 has no particular interest in potamology, rather thinks that he has had enough of bodies of water, actually, living on a stormy ocean planet like Kamino. Still, he finds himself listening attentively to the other boy’s presentation on rivers, finds himself drawn in and interested by Denal’s charming enthusiasm, nodding along as Denal sketches the network of Egip’s complicated waterways across the surface of their table with his fingers.

The other cadets groan and roll their eyes at his lecture, but there’s no true annoyance from his batchmates. ’67 hungrily watches their interactions, eyes darting from one cadet to another, and tries not to dwell on wondering what it would be like to have such close relationships with the others his age-

He carefully sets aside those thoughts.

It’s better for everyone that he remains apart from his agemates until he gets his armour.

Still, maybe it will be alright if he has this, just for today. He doesn’t have to talk at all, just listen to the easy banter thrown around the table and he ducks his head to hide his smile when the other boys get a little bit too rowdy and creative insults starts getting thrown around.

Slowly, very slowly, the tense and defensive set to his shoulders loosen just a little, and the slant of Denal’s smiles turns just a little bit self-satisfied.

Chapter Text

Maze slips into their classroom in the middle of their Military Modern History flashtraining.

’67 tries to keep his eyes on the information flickering rapidly on the screen in front of him, but the awareness of their trainer returning to them prickles at the edges of his concentration and ’67 blinks and misses the entire section on the Seventh Battle of Sullust. He has to pause and rewind the lesson on his screen. That’s going to show up in his logs, but it’s not like he’s the only cadet who had gotten distracted.

‘Eyes on your screens, cadets,’ rumbles Maze disapprovingly as he threads his way between their consoles, booted feet silent. ‘Concentrate. You get distracted like this on the battlefield and you will get yourselves killed.’

That reminder is all that is needed for the cadets to bend their heads over their lessons and focus.

When the class ends and the other cadets start to leave, ’67 takes a moment to sit back with a sigh, blinking rapidly to clear the spots from his eyes. He catches sight of Denal, who throws him a quick grin and a quirk of an eyebrow. The warm flush of happiness he feels at Denal’s friendliness drains away when ’67 remembers himself, remembers that he shouldn’t endanger the other this way-

Denal’s face slides into confusion when ’67 returns his look with a tight expression and a slight shake of his head. Maybe Denal will still be open to be friends after ’67 gets his armour, but for now, ’67 makes himself look away, clenches his fingers into fists under his console and out of view of everyone else.

When he risks a glance a few moments later in Denal’s direction, he sees that the other boy is already gone. He exhales a harsh breath, ignores the pang in his chest. The classroom is almost empty, the droids rounding up the last few straggling cadets to march them to rec.

A droid comes for him, beeping impatiently. He stands and flicks an uncertain look at Maze, who is standing at the front of the room, helm tilted downwards as he reads from the datapad in his hand.

‘Trainer Maze gave me instructions to see him after class,’ he tells the droid.

The droid blatts noisily, drawing Maze’s attention, who takes only a second to take in the scene. He dismisses the droid and waves ’67 over.

’67 marches himself over to Maze. ‘Sir,’ he says, standing to attention before the trainer.

‘7567?’ There is a question in his tone as his helm tilts to regard ’67. ‘Is something wrong?’

’67 hesitates for half a second, and then replies, ‘No, Sir.’

Did Maze forget that he had offered to supervise ‘67’s sim? ’67 squashes his urge to fidget anxiously, wonders if he’s going to get into trouble for bothering the trainer with something so trivial as this. ’67 will just have to find another way to get his hours in. There’s no good reason for ’67 to take up the trainer’s personal time on a one-on-one when Maze is in charge of hundreds of other cadets. But before he can withdraw and apologise, Maze makes a small sound of understanding and straightens.

‘The certification,’ he says.

It’s more statement than a question but ’67 dips his chin in a nod anyway, ‘Yes, Sir.’

Maze glances down again at the datapad he is holding, gloved fingers flexing around its casing, and ’67 thinks that the trainer is going to dismiss him, to inform ’67 that there won’t be a private session today. Clearly, the changes to routine today have disrupted the trainer’s day and his plans-

The trainer decisively switches the screen off and tucks the datapad away.

‘Alright, cadet. Let’s get going.’

’67 follows on Maze’s heels as the trainer leads him down to the lower levels where the sim decks are housed. He twists his head to look around as they walk, a little unnerved by the unusually empty and quiet hallways. They cross paths several times with security droids on patrol. The heightened security makes him feel uneasy, and ’67 finds himself unconsciously drifting closer to the older clone by his side.

They come across a pair of armed and armoured Alphas, who turn to greet Maze, their voices modulated by their helmets, ‘Me’vaar ti gar?’

Maze waves at them, hands flashing in battlesign ’67 can’t understand.

‘K’ulyc, vod. Ka’gaht veeray su n’utrel’a. Ogir ret’cuyir haaranovor buruke,’ Sull says. ’67 glances at his companion and recognises him as Tavo, from the colour of his armour.

’67 settles his face into a blank expression even as his heart skips a beat when Tavo angles the dark mirrored surface of his visor ‘67’s way. Tavo speaks slowly, as is his usual way, and his tone is very grave when he says, ‘Ja'hailir kaysh. Majyce din’kartay be ad’ika shupur’yc bal buir nau tracinya an Kamino.’

’67 startles when his trainer drops a heavy hand onto his shoulder and squeezes. He twists his head to look up at Maze, but the older clone is looking at the other Alphas when he speaks, ‘Ni kar’taylir.’ There is a strange note to the trainer’s words, a kind of heaviness to them. There is a small pause before Maze asks the Alphas, ‘Din’kartay? Me’vaar ti ik’aade?’

The only answer to Maze’s question is a heavy grim silence of the other two Alphas, and ’67 jumps badly when Maze expels a series of curses, his harsh tone especially jarring in the language they are speaking in. Maze’s helm tilts down towards ’67 and he mutters something that sounds vague apologetic, patting ‘67’s shoulder roughly.

Tavo’s measured way of speaking makes his next words sound particularly ominous, ‘Ibac verd ven’kyrayc.’

‘67’s feels a surge of alarm when he catches the way the Alpha’s hand twitch towards the blaster on his hip, eyes widening as his gaze jumps from one Alpha to another.

What the kark is going on?, he wonders frantically, and has the crazy half-thought to wonder if the Alphas were going to attack each other. He doesn’t know what is happening. Why can’t they just speak Basic?

‘Dar’aliit. Dar’manda,’ Sull growls. ‘Dar’vod.’

The air around the Alphas is tense and unhappy, all three of them bristling with agitation. ’67 tries very hard not to draw attention to himself, holds himself very still.

‘Bal Fordo? Me’vaar ti kaysh?’ Maze asks and receives grim headshakes in reply from the other two.

‘Ori’dush’la. Echoy’la kaysh jaro’la vod’ika.’

Maze makes a pained sound.

Then he draws a deep breath and takes a step back, gives ’67 a small tug as he goes. His voice is a subdued rumble through his modulator, ‘Come, cadet. We’ve got things to do, places to be.’

’67 falls in obediently with the trainer and they leave Sull and Tavo to their patrol. ’67 throws a glance back at the pair as he turns the corner, catches a last look at the way their coloured armour glint in the harsh overhead lights.

The mercurial exchange between the three Alphas unsettles him. There’s a whole host of questions roiling restlessly in his head, but he knows better than to voice them.

‘Keep sharp, cadet,’ Maze rumbles, and ’67 quickens his pace.

The trainer’s helm is sweeping from side to side as they move down the hallway, and ’67 frowns. Maze’s behaviour seems odd, as if he believes that the section isn’t safe. But… this is their training facility. It is probably the most secure place on the planet. The older clone’s caution makes him wary as well, and he shifts to position himself to cover Maze’s back, keeping an eye out for anything out of the ordinary.

They make it all the to the sim decks and Maze has him stay by the doors when he enters first and checks the space.

‘Alright, place is clear,’ Maze says, turning to the door and holstering his blaster. ‘Get yourself set up.’

’67 salutes and hurries over to one of the decks and signs in. Maze follows after him at a more leisurely pace. Maze checks over the sim settings and then waves him in. ‘Two hours,’ the trainer says, authorising ‘67’s usage of the equipment.

‘Yes, Sir!’ he says, before scrambling into the structure.

This is part of the clones’ training, of course, and ’67 has every intention of performing with utmost diligence. But there’s also something immensely thrilling about strapping in and grabbing the yoke and controls and flipping switches as he practices manoeuvring the AT-TE he is controlling, even if the terrain he sees on his screens and every mechanical judder he feels is simulated.

It doesn’t feel like very long at all before Maze is rapping on the outside of the simpod, telling him his time is up, and ’67 acknowledges and carefully runs through the checks and shuts down the sim. There is a twinge of disappointment that the session is over - it had felt so short - but he has taken up more than enough of Maze’s time. The trainer didn’t have to do this for ’67.

He heaves himself out of the simpod and drops lightly to the floor. He barely even has the time to straighten up before something is shoved into his hands. Surprised, he fumbles and almost drops the hydropack.

‘Drink that, eat this,’ Maze orders gruffly and ’67 this time manages to catch the ration bar tossed his way. Maze turns away and goes to the side of the room, to the table that he had been working at while ’67 had been occupied.

Feeling awkward, ’67 trails after him, sipping the contents of the hydropack.

Maze drops heavily into the seat, rolling his broad shoulders. His helmet sits on the table with his datapad, and he reaches for the latter.

‘Take five, cadet. Sit down and eat,’ Maze says, flicking a glance at ’67 before frowning down at his screen as it lights up with a notification.

’67 slides into the other seat opposite the trainer, absurdly conscious of the loud crinkle of the foil wrapper of his ration bar as he unwraps it. He didn’t think he was hungry until he starts eating, and then he’s practically inhaling the dry and tasteless thing, trying to catch every crumb.

The screen of the Maze’s datapad is bright and in its glow, 67’ discreetly studies the trainer. Maze looks tired, which isn’t that surprising since he’s probably been up since yesterday, awake and working for more than a day and a half. There are dark smudges under Maze’s red-rimmed eyes, and the corners of his lips edge ever downward as he reads the missive.

’67 eyes him as the datapad casing creaks slightly under Maze’s tightening grip. Then, as if remembering that he isn’t alone, Maze looks up and catches ‘67 surveying him. ’67 tenses but he doesn’t look away, caught by the complicated expression on Maze’s face, something that is worn and sad and angry.

‘Don’t go missing on me again, cadet,’ Maze tells him, breaking the silence. He looks older suddenly, like he’s suddenly tipped into the middle another growth cycle, hard lines marking his forehead and his shoulder slope as if under a heavy burden.

‘Sir?’ 67’ says, uncertain.

‘You’ve been skipping classes, cadet. And slipping out of the barracks at night after lights out. You’ve managed to maintain your grades, and you’re doing well in marksmanship, but… it has to stop, alright? You can’t just go AWOL as you please.’

’67 swallows, mouth feeling suddenly very dry. He remains silent because Maze doesn’t seem to expect a response. Somewhere in the back of his mind, ’67 had always expected this to happen eventually.

And especially after last night, when he had been caught by the Nulls, it is an inevitability for Maze to address his habit of shadowing the CCs around.

Maze leans forward, closing the distance between them. His voice is pitched low and soft, and it’s like he’s trying to be firm and yet gentle at the same time, but his words still crushes the air from ‘67’s lungs anyway, ‘There are rules in place for a reason, cadet, and it’s to keep you safe. It’s to keep everyone safe.’

’67 tries to keep his face impassive, but something must’ve slipped past his control. He’s not sure what the expression on his face is, but it makes Maze pause and look concerned. That only makes it worse, and ’67 can feel his face flushing under the attention, his throat growing tight.

Stop it!, ’67 tell himself angrily. You’re supposed to be a solder, so act like one! Be brave!

He knows that the other Alphas that had been there during firstmeal had very likely reported to Maze that the CCs had sat with him at the cadets’ table. And while it isn’t against the regs, and that the other clones tend to sit with friends or brothers from other batches… it’s different for ’67.

Because he is different.

’67 knows Maze is right; he is being selfish. He’s a distraction to Kote and his brothers. And it was only a few hours ago that Maze had reminded them in class that distractions can get someone killed.

‘Yes, Sir,’ he manages to choke out, before Maze can say anything else.

The older clone’s gaze drops down to ‘67’s fingers twisting tightly around the foil wrapper, and then back up to his face. The lines around Maze’s eyes gentle a little.

‘Hey. I know it can get hard sometimes, following all these rules the Long Necks have set for us. We’re meant to be soldiers, so we have to train for that. We have to learn how be soldiers. We have orders to follow all the time. Wake up, wash up, stand here, eat now, march there… And they don’t like it when we step out of line,’ Maze says and ’67 makes himself pay attention to the words, still fidgeting with the wrapper in his hands.

‘But I promise you, vod’ika, it will be better one day. Ori’haat.’

There’s something in Maze’s tone that makes something in ‘67’s chest clench hard and painful. He’s only been called “vod’ika” by Kote and the other CCs, and to hear it from Maze now makes him feel a little unsteady.

‘Yes, Sir,’ ’67 squeezes out past his lips and Maze nods once.

’67 sees that way Maze’s eyes drift briefly towards the datapad lying on the table between them, its screen dark, and there’s an expression that crosses the other’s face, too fleeting to be deciphered.

Then the trainer turns back to ’67, ‘Things are going to be a bit… intense, over the next few days. I’m going to need you to keep your nose clean. Lay low, stay off the Long Necks’ radars.’

‘I understand, Sir.’

Maze stares at him for a long beat. ‘Don’t go missing on me again, cadet.’

‘I won’t, Sir.’

‘I mean it, cadet. If the thought of it even enters your mind, I will have your shebs. You want to go wandering off during your downtime, you drop a word with me first,’ Maze tells him firmly.

‘Yes, Sir.’

For a moment, Maze looks like he has more to say but then he huffs deeply and settles back into his seat.

A charged sort of silence falls between them, punctuated by the crinkle of foil in ’67 hands and the restless drumming of Maze’s fingers on the surface of the table, both of them avoiding the other’s gaze.

His heart feels like it’s sunk to his feet, and he quietly sucks in a steadying breath. He’s unlikely to be able to visit the CCs again after this, not after Maze had explicitly told him that he’s endangering them. He doesn’t think Maze will allow it, even if ’67 is stupid enough to dare to ask for permission.

‘Sir, about last night, the inspections-’ ’67 finds himself blurting out, before he can stop himself, unable to stand the taut atmosphere. If he’s no longer allowed to visit the CCs anymore, then it’s best if he reports himself for his own bad decisions that had got them in trouble.

‘Leave it, cadet,’ Maze cuts in, eyes sharp.

’67 almost flinches at the harsh tone, but he rallies stubbornly. He has to at least set the record straight. He licks his lips and tries again, ‘Sir-’

‘That’s enough, CT-7567,’ and this time ’67 does flinch at the trainer’s voice, gone flat and edged with warning. ‘The situation is above your clearance level. Prime and the others are handling it, so don’t worry about it. It is resolved… Or will be, very shortly.’

The last sentence is said very, very grimly.

’67 can’t help but blink, caught off guard and suddenly realises that they are having two completely different conversations, that the trainer thinks that he wants to know more about what the Nulls and Alphas were up to the night before.

He wants to protest, opens his mouth to clarify when Maze snaps.

‘Haar’chak, ’67! I said to leave it alone. This is above the both of us, do you understand? The Long Necks are involved now and that’s bad news for everyone. So let me make this clearer for you; keep your sheb’ika in line and let this pass over. The scientists are going to be checking through all trooper performance records and I don’t want to have to reassign you elsewhere, if they suddenly decide you’re not meeting their standards. You’re in the top 4 percent for your batch, and I’m karking proud of you. I am. But you and I both know that that’s not the only thing those Long Necks look at. So please, for the love of all the little gods, please do as I karking say.’

Maze glares at him, his tired and bloodshot eyes fierce.

‘Yes, Sir,’ manages ’67, quiet and shaken, after a moment.

He had not expected such an outburst from the normally level-headed trainer. Maze is more patient than most other Alphas, a little more relaxed in his handling of the cadets in his care. ‘67 can admit to himself he might have taken advantage of Maze’s willingness to overlook ’67’s defects, his willingness to look aside when ’67 slinks away to badger Kote.

Maze’s agitated words have confirmed 1010’s theory on the Primes and the Null’s involvement in last night’s situation, and ’67 thinks that the CCs were right on the other parts as well, that Boba is also involved, and that a clone had abducted or had hurt him.

To hear that this has escalated to the Long Necks’ attention sends a terrible shiver down his spine.

That clone must be deviant, must have some kind of mutation or a deficiency in his code. Why else would a clone go rogue? And if that clone can be so defective, what about the batch he was decanted with?

What if there are other such defective clones? The Kaminoans might start culling any that stray too far from their accepted variance standards.

’67 pulls his hands off the table and flattens them on his thighs, tries to pretend they’re not trembling, when he remembers that he still has to report himself to Ko Sai after his session with Maze is over.

Chapter Text

’67 remains silent as they walk through the many hallways back to the residential sector, caught in his own thoughts, as Maze escorts him back to the barracks.

The trainer had shared more intel than he was probably supposed to, but ’67 appreciates the heads up. He knows now to be extra careful, to be extra diligent in his work, because these are dangerous times, especially for a clone like him.

Maze’s new parameters for him feels restrictive, but ’67 knows that it isn’t unfair. The trainers have to train thousands of cadets and they are expected to produce troopers that hold up to GAR standards. Every single trooper counts towards meeting the contracted quantity for the Republic.

They know what they are doing.

I am karking proud of you, Maze had told him, and that… that had been a warm shock to hear, makes his eyes feel hot and tight, and a good sort of squeezing in his chest. It’s one thing to see his scores posted and know he’s near the top of his class. It’s another thing completely to hear it from Maze, for Maze to say it so fiercely, that he’s proud of ’67.

And as Kote had reminded him, ’67 will graduate from being a cadet in a year. ’67 will have more liberties then, study different specialisations, and will be able to finally have his armour.

He can fold back in with the CCs then, if they will still have him.

He hopes they do, hopes that they will understand the need for this temporary separation.

He also hopes that Kote doesn’t push back too hard on the issue. Sometimes he and the other CCs can be too stubborn. ’67 thinks that’s something that is probably encoded in their batch. They’re lucky that their Command designation gives them a little leeway in the way they behave; they’re expected to lead armies, not just follow orders like how ’67 will be expected to.

Maze, uncharacteristically, lingers a little when they reach the entrance to the CT barracks, his blank visor tilted down towards ’67.

‘Remember what I told you, ’67,’ he says and ’67 straightens and salutes him smartly, the blade of his hand touching his temple.

Maze nods at him and curiously, after returning the salute, closes his fist and taps it over the centre of his chest, the gesture seemingly deliberate and carrying significance. ‘67 has seen that gesture being exchanged before between the trainers and even some of the older clones, and it looks like an acknowledgement of some kind, or a kind of salute. But it is not Core standard, and not in the GAR handbooks.

He watches as the trainer strides away and he frowns and wonders what that means.

‘’67?’

He starts and turns, hearing someone call him.

Denal raises an eyebrow at him, ‘You gonna stand in the doorway all day?’

Caught off guard, ’67 stumbles with his words, ‘What? I- … No-’. He clears his throat. ‘No, I’m just… gonna go.’

The other cadet cocks his head, eyes narrowing a little. ‘Where are you going? You just got back.’

Maze’s reminder to not go wandering off without permission is still freshly imprinted in his mind, but this is different; this is an order from a Kaminoan. They’re at the very top of the command chain on Kamino and ’67 has to obey.

‘Gotta follow orders,’ he tells Denal, shrugging a shoulder and flashing a small rueful smile, pretending his heartbeat hasn’t just jumped at the mere thought of going to report to Ko Sai.

He turns and hurries off, ignoring the questions Denal hurls after him. He’s stopped thrice by security droids, but he tells them of his appointment with Ko Sai and they let him go after a quick scan of his numbered tunic.

Ko Sai opens the door, and she’s silent as she tilts her head and blinks slowly down at him, as if she were expecting someone else. ‘Come in, CT-7567,’ she hums eventually after a moment, and she steps back to allow him entrance into her office.

He goes to stand at attention at the front of her desk, as usual, and suppresses his shiver as he feels her circling around him slowly. Her scrutiny today feels more contemplative, somehow. She hums softly as she draws nearer, and goosepimples erupt across his skin at the low thrumming noise.

His body goes stiff and tense as he anticipates her touch and he bites down hard on his tongue when she trails her long fingers through his blonde hair, walking her fingers up from the base of his neck to the top of his skull. He will never get use to this, to her strange fascination with his defect.

He can’t wait to be allowed to cut everything off, shave it all down to his skin-

A chime sounds, and Ko Sai pulls away, turns towards the door and ’67 sucks in a desperate breath and discreetly scrubs furiously at his damp eyes.

It’s fine. He’ll be fine.

This is normal.

He keeps his gaze fixed firmly to her desk as he listens to her open the door and greet whoever it is outside with a mild sounding, ‘Yes? Are you here to escort me to the meeting?’

‘Apologies, Sir. Admin levels have not been cleared so Taun We has agreed to shift to a holomeeting.’

’67 strains his hearing. He can’t quite place the identity of the clone, but it must be a trainer.

‘This sector is still not secured? I am surprised. I had thought that Jango Vhett had trained the clones to be rather more efficient than this,’ Ko Sai hums.

‘There has been some complications, Sir.’

‘Yes, I did hear about the sabotage attempts with the growth towers. What is the situation there?’

‘I cannot say, Sir. I am not privy to that information. The Prime will be able to provide updates.’

Ko Sai hums in reply and dismisses the trainer. ’67 holds himself very still as she brushes past him on her way back to the desk, a datapad in her hand, which she puts down.

‘Come here, CT-7567,’ she says, already moving to the corner of the room where her instruments and scanners are.

This part is familiar and ’67 makes his legs carry him to her, leverages himself up onto the small hard cot tucked away behind the shelving units there. He obediently presents the crook of his arm when she brings out her needles.

’67 finds that he has grown used to the uncomfortable pinch now. It isn’t so bad, anyway, when it is just Ko Sai collecting samples. It doesn’t make him as anxious as the other things she does. He just has to lie there, still and quiet, until the collection bag is full, and she returns.

He breathes carefully, counting each time he inhales, holds, and exhales. He concentrates on the way his chest rises and falls. It helps his thoughts from sliding into more unpleasant things, makes it slightly more bearable to be in the same space as the scientist, as she returns to her desk to work.

He starts when he hears other voices speaking, twisting his neck to look, but then he very quickly realises that she’s on comms.

‘When can we expect for your clones to be done with their sweeps, Jango Vhett?’

’67’s heartbeat stutters when he recognises the voice of Taun We, and he quite forgets to breathe.

‘They are still on-going,’ and that monotonous drawl belongs to the Prime. ‘The lower sectors have been cleared, and the south side has also just been deemed safe.’

‘And yet the administration sectors have not yet been checked?’ Ko Sai clicks, her soft words tinged with displeasure.

‘The rogue would not have been able to access the admin levels; our priority was to secure the cloning chambers and growth towers before more damage could be done.’

‘As it should be,’ Nala Se chimes in. ‘We cannot afford damages to those structures and suffer delays if we are to meet our deliverables dateline.’ The head scientists warbles a few words in Kaminoan, and a brief silence ensues.

‘The clone in question is evasive and… rebellious,’ Taun We says and there is a hint of something in her tone that makes all the hairs at the back of ‘67’s neck stand up. ‘I find this most disappointing.’

‘The unit is clearly defective,’ Prime says, and his flat and emotionless voice sends shivers down ‘67’s spine. ‘It displayed irrational and dangerous behaviour, outside of normal behavioural patterns we’ve previously encountered with the thousands of others before it.’

‘We will have to run our tests to determine the root cause of its subversive behaviours,’ Ko Sai. ‘Perhaps we will find our answers in its coding. We should immediately isolate its batchmates from the general clone population, to ensure it is not something that is affecting its whole batch-’

‘-I don’t believe its batchmates suffer from the same defects. It is obviously a singularly occurring instance,’ interrupts the Prime rather stiffly.

‘Perhaps it would be safer to simply terminate the batch,’ Ko Sai continues mildly, as if the Prime had not spoken.

‘I believe that is a decision that should not be made in haste,’ Nala Se cautions. ‘It would be a waste to condemn the stock as a loss, when so many resources has already been expended on them… and especially now when this recent disruption might have set us back a score of units.’

‘The rogue is clearly very cunning and capable of malicious intent,’ Ko Sai observes, after a moment of silence. ‘Destructive.’

‘Tell me what it damages it has wrought today,’ Taun We orders, clicking in annoyance.

‘It has sabotaged the growth tanks and contaminated the nutrient chemicals of the newest batch,’ and that is the soft warble of Nala Se, who offers the answer.

‘The specimens are lost, then?’ Taun We asks.

’67 fingers, twisting in the fabric of his pants, clenches so hard it is a wonder the material doesn’t rip under the abuse. Are they talking about the tubies? What happened?

There is a short pause before Nala Se answers, and when she speaks, she sounds calm and factual, ‘In my preliminary scans, I have detected that there are irreversible alterations beyond safe parameters.’

The breath punches out of ‘67’s mouth, and in the rush of horror flushing through him, he almost forgets himself, almost jerks upright on the cot.

‘… I see,’ Taun We says, and there is a deep dissatisfied thrum accompanying her curt words.

‘Can any of the affected units be salvaged?’ Prime asks.

Nala Se pauses before answering, clearly taking a moment to consider her answer, ‘I will need to inspect each unit more closely to determine if that is possible. But we will need to move swiftly; the longer we leave the units in their contaminated tanks, the less likely the chances of survival. We must attend to them now.’

‘I will provide you with an escort, for your safety,’ the Prime immediately offers.

‘Send an escort for me, as well,’ Ko Sai says. ‘I will be able to assist Nala Se.’

‘That will not be necessary,’ the other scientist replies. ‘I will take responsibility for this task.’

Ko Sai makes a low sound of displeasure, her sub-harmonic thrum rattling the bones in ‘67’s chest, ‘Surely the task will be completed quicker with my assistance.’

‘Of course, Ko Sai,’ Nala Se acknowledges. ‘However, I had assumed that you would want to lead the investigation into the cause of the rogue clone’s behaviour.’

And this time the thrum the Kaminoan emits is a low and satisfied sound, and it makes ‘67’s stomach clench tightly, and he has to swallow back his nausea.

‘Yes,’ Ko Sai purrs in anticipation. ‘I think I will get started on that as soon as possible, before other factors skew the data. When can I expect the clone to be delivered to me?’

‘It is in a holding cell right now. I will have it sent up as soon as we are done here,’ Prime tells her.

‘Send it to my auxiliary laboratory. It is better equipped to contain it, should it turn aggressive.’

‘As you wish,’ Prime say, his vocoder making his words sound flat.

‘I will take my leave now,’ Nala Se says. ‘Send for the escort, Jango Vhett. Time is of the essence.’

Prime makes an affirmative noise and then there is a soft click when Nala Se disconnects.

‘I want this situation resolved as soon as possible,’ Taun We says, and there is the undertone of threat in her softly spoken words. ‘I do not think I need to remind you to keep this situation from official records. It would bring too many questions to the integrity of the program if the client were to hear about this unfortunate incident.’

‘Understood,’ Prime acknowledges immediately, and Ko Sai hums her own agreement.

’67 doesn’t realise he’s holding his breath as he strains to listen to the conversation, until he hears Ko Sai disconnect, and then he’s sucking in a desperate lungful of air, trying to be quiet.

He can hear her soft footsteps as Ko Sai approaches. He mentally braces himself, but he still can’t help but flinch when her tall form looms over him.

She clicks to herself, and then she reaches out to trace her cool fingers across his brow. ‘Pupil dilation and increased perspiration,’ she notes aloud, her large black eyes staring unblinkingly down at him. Her slow touch trails down the side of his face, down his neck and shoulder, all the way down to the line attached his arm. She unhooks him and says, ‘An interesting response, since the toxins should have been purged from its system already. Tell me, CT-7567, what are the symptoms that you have experienced in the last rotation?’

And this is the part he hates the most, when she interviews him while he lies prone and helpless on her examination surface. But he always answers as clearly and as thoroughly as he can, and somewhere deep inside, he’s grateful that she has never commented on how sometimes his words wobble.

Because this is important. This is the data that might one day help the other clones. They need to know if the clones with their modified genetics can withstand sickness and disease and toxins and whatever chemical warfare their enemies might use. A transmittable virus that can affect one clone can decimate the entire clone army. It’s better to find out now, in the sterile environment of Kaminoan labs, than in the battlefield later.

But today is different.

Ko Sai interrupts him before he even really gets started on his recital of the symptoms that had plagued him over the day – dry throat, chest pains, feelings of thirst, muscle aches, tremors in his extremities – and merely instructs him to write it in a report for her.

‘Submit the report by the end of the rotation, clone. You are dismissed.’

’67 blinks up at her, temporarily unbalanced at the abrupt dismissal, before he hauls himself upright and off the cot, almost shaking with relief, ‘Yes, Sir!’

He doesn’t linger and practically runs out of her office, half-afraid the scientist would change her mind and call him back. He’s a few hallways down before he slows down and stops, bends over to brace his hands on his knees and chokes on a relieved laugh.

He’s fine. He’s fine.

He’s fine.

She just wants a written report from him and ’67 will have to make sure it is the best damned report he has ever written, so she won’t feel the need to call him up again for a debrief. He presses the heels of his palms into his eyes and exhales shakily, stealing a moment a try to centre himself.

The hallways are disconcertingly empty and he doesn’t want anyone to bump into him and ask him questions, so he makes himself move after a few deep breaths. He starts walking as quickly as he can, keeping an ear out for patrols-

Didn’t the Prime say that this sector hasn’t been cleared yet?

He slows into a more cautious stride, biting his lip as he recalls the meeting he had listened in on. The Prime had said other things too, about a defective clone that had gone rogue, and how Prime would send him – it, the Prime had called the clone an “it” – up to Ko Sai for her to run her tests-

’67 jerks upright in alarm, straining his ears because he had thought he had heard-

-he throws himself down a side corridor before actually making the conscious decision to move, plastering himself against the wall, listening intently as an angry voice grows louder, accompanied by the sounds of marching feet. There is more than one trooper, from the sounds of the heavy footsteps.

‘-nothing more than flesh droids! Republic or Mandalore, we are made to die, and you and your buir are the ones with blood on your hands,’ the voice of a clone spits furiously.

’67 freezes, heart hammering in his throat, sure he is about to be spotted, but the group moves briskly past the opening of the corridor he’s in. He had only managed a brief glimpse, but it is enough to sear the image into the back of his head; a triad of Nulls – Kom’rk and Jaing, led by Mereel – in prisoner escort formation. And in the middle, a trooper in his blacks and in binders.

They march past and ’67 listens hard, waiting for the hallway to be clear, they must be about two dozen feet from his position-

The rhythmic thumps of their footsteps falter slightly, their prisoner giving them some trouble.

‘Keep moving,’ Mereel orders, ‘We don’t want to be late to your appointment with the Munit’videk, aruetii.’

’67 shivers. He’s never ever heard a trainer use that tone before, glacial and as implacable as a winter storm. He doesn’t need to understand the strange sounding words to realise the promise of destruction.  

There’s a deep snarl of inhuman rage that makes the hair on ‘67’s arm stand on end, and then there’s suddenly the sounds of a fierce struggle, like the trooper had just thrown his weight into his guards, attacking them. ’67 flinches hard at the brutal sounds of fists impacting on flesh, and then as quickly as the noise and violence had erupted, everything drops into a stillness that is punctuated by sharp gasping wheezes.

‘I’m not the traitor,’ the trooper coughs out painfully, ‘You are. You are all lying to yourselves if you think you’re helping the vode.’

‘Vode An, hut’uunla shabuir!’ one of the Nulls snap, blistering anger in his tone. ‘How could you do this to your brothers?’

‘I did it for them!’ the rogue clone howls.

‘For them…? Those tubies are as good as dead because of what you did, demagolka. A whole batch of them,’ and that is Jaing – ’67 knows that is Jaing, is certain of it – snarling raggedly, his words snagged by rage and grief.

‘Then those little ones will never know what we have suffered, will never have to train or bleed or fight. May they sleep peacefully.’

‘Dar’manda! Have you no remorse for what you have done?’

’67 feels his blood run cold when he hears the clone start to laugh, sounding half-mad, ‘Oh, I am not done yet, brothers! I have so many surprises planned for all of you… and I am not done playing with Bob’ika.’

The Nulls go unsettlingly silent at that, and ’67 thinks with absolute horrified certainty, that he is about to listen to the Nulls kill an unarmed and restrained clone.

‘Nayc, dirycir gar kal,’ says Mereel, tone steady.

The rogue clone chuckles tauntingly, ‘Gonna try to stab me, Kom’rk?’

‘Slit your throat, actually,’ Kom’rk corrects coldly.

‘Dirycir gar kal!’ Mereel repeats sharply. ‘A quick death is too easy for him. He goes to Ko Sai; let her play with him.’

His words seem to trigger a vicious reaction, and the trooper starts fighting against them again, snapping and shrieking, and ’67 suddenly understands that the clone had been hoping to provoke the Nulls into violence, into killing him, because now his snarled curses are tinged with fear and desperation.

‘You had better kill me now, because I will tell that scientist everything, all of Prime’s plans, all your little secrets-’ his words cut off in a pained grunt.

‘Kaysh serim, Mereel,’ Kom’rk says darkly, speaking so lowly that ’67 has to strain to hear him. ‘We should kill him.’

‘Taun We will not be pleased,’ Jaing says, but he doesn’t disagree with Kom’rk.

Mereel is silent for a long moment.

’67 holds his breath. His heart is beating so loudly, he’s sure that the Nulls’ sensors can pick it up.

Finally, Mereel speaks.

‘Any last words, Slick?’

Slick – the rogue clone’s name is Slick – makes a desperate sounding gasp, like he’s been released from a chokehold. He coughs and spits and then says, a sneer in his tone, ‘Yeah, kark you and kark the Prime.’

‘Duly noted,’ Mereel intones flatly.

’67 tenses, finds himself taking a half step forward as if to-

-to what? He’s not sure what he’s going to do, if he should stop them murdering Slick because that sick shabuir had admitted to killing tubies, and he had very likely hurt Boba, who is like five years old, actually five, not like clone-age-five.

‘Hold his head still,’ Mereel commands. ‘Open his mouth.’

‘What-’ Slick begins, but whatever else he wants to say is incomprehensible.

‘Nayc, not with the blade. It has to look self-inflicted. Or an accident,’ Mereel says. ‘Get his tongue out.’

Slick starts struggling wildly then, and ’67 can hear the way his boots scrabble on the floor for purchase and ’67 is shaking terribly, but somehow, despite telling himself not to, he isn’t supposed to be here, he finds himself drifting inexorably nearer towards the intersection of corridors, nearer towards the Nulls and Slick.

Slick is a trained trooper, has graduated from cadethood, and he puts up an impressive fight even though his wrists are bound behind his back. But it is still three fully-armoured Nulls to one.

The four are an entangled mess of limbs and ’67 can’t clearly see what is happening, peering out from around the corner, but it happens fast.

There is a sharp crack, like a punch to the jaw, and then there is screaming, the sound wet and horrifyingly gurgling. And then the Nulls release Slick. He slumps to the ground, doubled over and yowling, the sound bubbling up past the blood gushing out of his mouth.

‘Par Boba, par ik’aade,’ Mereel says grimly, helm tilted downwards at Slick. ‘Dar’manda. Dar’aliit. Dar’vod.’

Slick makes a terrible sound of rage, more animal than man, and tries to spit on Mereel but the blood just dribbles down his chin, down his neck.

‘Let’s go. We don’t want him bleeding out and dying,’ Mereel says, and the other two Nulls haul Slick upright, his feet slipping in the mess on the floor.

A small noise escapes ’67, at the gore. He’s run sims, he’s seen clones getting hurt, but they’re just sims. No matter the scenario Ko Sai constructs for him, it’s just programming and it isn’t real, no clones are actually hurt or killed.

This is real. He can smell the coppery tang of blood in the air.

Kom’rk’s helm starts to twist his way and ’67 jerks back out of sight.

‘I thought I heard something,’ 67’ hears, and the sound of boots taking a few steps in his direction. His heart leaps to his throat, he is going to get caught-

Slick burbles wetly and Jaing curses.

‘He’s gonna drown in his own blood. We gotta move. Now.’

’67 doesn’t dare to breathe, doesn’t dare to move, listening as the Nulls haul Slick away. He counts the seconds in his head, counts to a hundred and then continues beyond that.

It is completely silent, in the main hallway. It is a long time before ’67 dares to move.

Chapter Text

He hears the door slide open.

‘Hey.’

’67 twitches, but he doesn’t emerge from under the dark folds of the blanket.

Maybe if he doesn’t say anything, doesn’t move, they’ll go away.

When he doesn’t respond, they step into the room, letting the door slide close behind them. ’67 listens as they draw closer, and then his blanket is peeled back and then there’s Denal peering down at him, looking concerned.

‘Hey,’ Denal says again and when ’67 does nothing more than blink listlessly back at him, the edges of his eyes tighten with worry. ‘You alright, ’67?’

‘I’m fine.’

Even to his own ears, ‘67’s voice sounds flat and unconvincing.

Denal’s lips slant downwards and then the other cadet reaches out and snags ’67’s covering, ripping it away before ’67 can pull it back.

‘What are you doing?’ ’67 protests, trying to sit up but Denal puts one hand on his chest and shoves him down again. Denal pats him down, checks him over efficiently, and then finding ’67 physically uninjured, lets him up with a grunt.

’67 sits up slowly. He clamps down on a full-body shiver, wishing briefly for his blanket, now lying discarded on the ground. He locks his fingers together and lets his wrist hang loosely between his knees. His eyes slide upward to Denal’s face, and then quickly away.

‘What do you want?’ he asks, directing the words to the wall.

He can see the way Denal shifts restlessly and crosses his arms, and the other boy says rather bluntly, ‘I want to know what your problem is.’

‘I don’t have a problem. I’m fine.’

Denal huffs, sounding irritated, ‘Yeah. You keep saying that, ’67. But I’ve been watching you and I know something is wrong.’

’67 hunches his shoulders at that, keeps his eyes averted.

There is really nothing he can say, nothing he can speak of, to offer to Denal in reply.

Everything feels wrong, but he knows it’s just him being unable to cope with the situation. And he should be able to adapt, he tells himself. Soldiers must be able to adapt on the battlefield or just end up getting killed.

He tries to keep his thoughts framed that way… in the way that’s he’s being trained too, and then he can slowly start to put all of it into a way that he can process, intel that is important but not immediately actionable… and probably way above his clearance grade.

He was not supposed to eavesdrop on the upper level admin meeting between the Kaminoans and the Prime. Ko Sai was obviously aware of his presence, so she must have felt confident enough that CT-7567 would not repeat any of the information to anyone.

And he was not at all supposed to have been there to witness the Nulls escorting Slick across the facility to the scientist-

-He carefully doesn’t think about Mereel’s calm order to “get his tongue out”. Or the wet gurgling sounds Slick had made, after-

’67 just needs to remember what Maze had told him after ’67’s sim session. Maze is his superior officer, his trainer. And if Maze says “don’t worry about it, it is resolved” ’67 will do exactly that and put it out of his mind.

It’s not his task to worry about, or to think about, any of that. He’s just supposed to train hard and graduate cadethood.

The silence in the room stretches and when Denal eventually breaks it, he sounds a little hesitant, awkward, as he says, ‘Do… do you want me to get Maze for you?’ He pauses a beat and then, ‘Or Kote?’

‘No,’ ’67 says, very, very quietly, trying very, very hard not to let his voice wobble. His throat feels tight, and his eyes are stinging, but he hopes Denal doesn’t notice. Or if he does, would be kind enough not to mention it.

The bed dips when Denal slowly moves to sit next to him, close enough to him that he can feel the warmth radiating off the other cadet. Denal says nothing, which ’67 is immensely grateful for, and they sit quietly for a while. ’67 picks at his nails and chews on his bottom lip, a contrast to the utter stillness of Denal, who stares ahead at nothing, a contemplative look on his face.

Eventually, Denal turns his head slightly and ’67 meets his gaze from the corner of his eye.

‘C’mon. We’re already late for latemeal,’ he says, and his tone is so casual and calm, it makes something constrict in ‘67’s chest.

‘I’m not really hungry,’ ’67 mumbles, but Denal is already rolling to his feet and turning an expectant look on him.

‘Well, I am,’ Denal says with a shrug of one shoulder. ‘But if you’re not going, then I don’t think I’ll go either.’

’67 frowns at him, ‘You just said you were hungry. You should go.’

‘I should,’ Denal agrees easily, but his eyes have a stubborn glint. ‘Maze and the droids are taking attendance in the mess. We’re still on Aurek level security procedures.’

‘Then you really should go.’

‘So should you. You shouldn’t be alone.’ Denal says plainly and ’67 suddenly finds that he can’t look Denal in the eye, drops his gaze instead to his clenched fists.

It’s bad enough he’s got the CCs in trouble last night. He can’t let the same thing happen to Denal now.

He pushes himself wordlessly to his feet. Denal falls in easily by his side, matches the slow and reluctant pace ’67 sets as they make their way to the mess hall. There are security droids posted at the door, and they are both scanned before going in. ’67 pauses a few steps into the space. The mess is more crowded than usual, even though the majority of the clones should have finished eating. But after the odd day they’ve had, it seems like most had decided to linger at their tables and gossip.

Thankfully, the serving line is short, and they collect their trays quickly.

‘This way,’ Denal says, with a jerk of his head and ’67 follows the other boy.

Denal is probably wanting to go sit with his batchmates. That’s fine. ’67 can sit a little way from them, giving them their privacy. He doesn’t want to make Denal’s brothers uncomfortable with his presence at their table.

’67’s footsteps slows when he realises that Denal is leading them away from the cadet area. Denal notices and makes a small huff of annoyance. He wraps a hand around ’67’s elbow and tugs him along.

‘Denal, I don’t think we should-’ he starts to protest, before falling quiet when Denal gives him a look and another pointed tug. They are attracting some interest from nearby older clones. ’67 ducks his head, feels a flush creep up his neck at the attention, and allows Denal to lead him away.

‘Here he is,’ Denal announces boldly, once they’ve arrived at the CCs’ table, giving ’67 a little push towards the table.

Kote immediately turns to shove and prod at 3636 to make space on the bench next to him.

1010 looks over the two of them. His expression is as bland as ever, but his dark eyes are sharp and assessing as they survey ’67, narrowing slightly when ’67 looks away and avoids meeting his gaze. Then his attention slides back over to Denal and he quirks an eyebrow, ‘And who are you?’

Denal straightens a little under 1010’s scrutiny, ‘Denal.’

‘What, like the river on Egips?’ 3636 asks, cocking his head to the side and Denal brightens, nodding enthusiastically.

‘How the kark do you know that?’ 1004 demands, turning an incredulous look on his brother.

‘Everyone has a hobby,’ 3636 sniffs haughtily. ‘Come sit here,’ the CC says, motioning to the space beside him. Denal scrambles into the seat, looking excited but trying to hide it.

’67’s grip on his tray tightens and he briefly considers turning around and leaving, but he accidentally catches Kote’s eye, and the look on Kote’s face makes something in his gut twist hard. Slowly, ’67 moves to the empty space between Kote and 3636 and settles in without a word. He’s aware that the other CCs are eyeing him, confused at his continued silence.

‘How was training today, vod’ika?’ Kote asks after a few seconds of awkwardness, clearing this throat.

’67 picks at the food on his tray to avoid looking at Kote. His stomach roils uneasily. ‘Good,’ he says, stilted, and then forces himself to start eating so he doesn’t have to answer any other questions.

Mercifully, Kote leaves him to his meal, and the other CCs turn to interrogate Denal since ’67 seems to be more interested in his carb mash than in carrying a conversation.

‘Did you kids also get droid escorts the whole day?’ 3636 asks Denal.

The cadet cocks his head. ‘Droids supervised us most of the day, even at midmeal. We got scanned at random times too. And then Maze came in halfway through our last study block,’ Denal says. ‘He didn’t stir up a fuss though, he just observed the rest of the lesson.’

Denal pauses and his silence feels deliberate, expectant, and ’67 stills, fingers twitching around the multitensil in his hand. He can feel the weight of Denal’s stare burning into the side of his head. The CCs catch on, and Kote nudges ’67 gently in the side.

‘Vod’ika?’

‘Hmm?’ is the sound he makes around his mouthful of food. He has the vague hope that Kote will turn his question onto the other cadet, but instead Kote patiently waits for him to finish pretending he has to chew his paste thoroughly before he swallows.

‘What?’ he asks, internally wincing at the edge in his tone and the way Kote’s eyes narrow slightly at hearing it and ’67 braces himself, tenses defensively-

Kote shifts, putting a little space between their bodies and his expression smooths into something a little more neutral, and ’67 finds himself subconsciously relaxing when the lines of Kote’s body eases into something more open. Kote tilts his head, and he doesn’t say anything, just keeps looking at ’67 in soft concern.

’67 swallows hard, and feels to his internal horror and shame, the pin-prick sting of tears behind his eyes.

The others at the table politely busy themselves, 3636 drawing Denal into a discussion of the river the boy had named himself after. 1010 turns his attention to the datapad in front of him and 1004 helps himself to Kote’s unattended tray.

‘67 sniffs and then pops a protein tab into his mouth and chews stubbornly, avoiding Kote’s gaze. After a few moments, he hears Kote sigh softly in disappointment, the sound causing a twist of guilt. He makes himself swallow, even though he feels his stomach churning uncomfortably.

‘I’m alright, Kote,’ he says quietly and somehow his voice sounds more or less even. ‘It’s just been a very, very strange day.’

That is such the understatement of the galaxy.

Kote hums, and his tone is low like ‘67’s, the conversation between just the two of them, ‘Want to talk about it?’

The things he had borne witness to rises up like bile at the back of his throat, and he chokes them back, grits his teeth to stop the words from coming up.

He swallows and gives Kote a rather wan smile.

Kote has a protective streak that is parsecs wide, and a stubbornness to match. ’67’s recent behaviour has already made Kote suspicious, and with Denal’s heavy handed hints, there is no way Kote will relent until ’67 gives him something, so-

‘I’m a little behind in my hours in the simpods,’ ’67 says and tries not to fidget under Kote’s unwavering gaze. ‘I was worried I wouldn’t be able to get my certification within the semester. I had talked to Maze earlier about it and managed to get a practice slot booked for today, but well…’ he shrugs and he makes his tone go wry, ‘…it’s just been a very, very strange day,’ he repeats.

‘But you did log your hours?’ Kote asks.

‘Yeah, after class,’ he says.

Kote nods, ‘That’s good.’

The encouraging smile that Kote gives him makes him want to hunch his shoulders and look away, but he makes himself not to.

He gives a quick glance around the hall, marking out the droids and the trainers. He doesn’t see Maze but that doesn’t make him relax. When his gaze finds Kote’s again, he finds the older clone looking at him carefully, a shade of something on Kote’s expression that he can’t decipher.

But Kote doesn’t say anything, and his dark eyes are warm and steady and ’67-

-’67 isn’t sure where he can find the will or the words to tell Kote that this latemeal will probably be the last meal they share together for a long while.

His hands reach for Kote’s, and Kote has his gloves off and the skin of his palms are warm and blaster-calloused and there’s a small scar on the back of his right hand.

‘Kote…’ ’67 says, the name carried on a soft exhale, and the words he has carefully lined up dies on his tongue.

Kote’s fingers curl gently around his, and ’67 stares at their hands, at the way Kote’s larger ones wrapped around his.

‘What is it, vod’ika?’ Kote asks, sounding so calm and steady, and so patient.

’67 draws in a breath before he speaks. ‘After my sim, Maze wanted to talk to me about something... He told me I was doing well – I’m in the top 4 percent!’ he hastens to say, before Kote can grow concerned. A trainer speaking privately to any cadet could be a cause for worry, and especially so for a defective one like ’67.

His eyes rove around the mess again before coming back to Kote. He drops his voice and Kote leans in nearer to catch his words, ‘Vod, he told me that things are going to get hot, that the Long Necks will be combing through our ranks for anyone that is outside their parameters.’

He licks his lips before he continues, tone full of meaning, ‘We have to keep within the regs, and not get… distracted from training.’

Kote cants his head, trying to catch his eyes. ‘We haven’t broken any regs,’ he points out.

And it’s true. It is technically true that there isn’t any regs against getting friendly with other age groups, or sitting at their tables or getting help for assignments from others-

-but with ’67, with his blond hair-

-it’s another thing altogether.

He relaxes his hold on Kote’s hands, suddenly aware that he’s gripping tightly enough to probably hurt the other, even though Kote hasn’t pulled away or complained.

’67 will have to be direct, because Kote will not let this go easily, will continue to press and push and ’67 can’t let him endanger himself, not when ’67 has overheard Ko Sai mentioning the possibility of decommissioning the other clones from Slick’s batch. What if she decides that ’67’s defective nature was affecting the CCs’ behaviour?

‘We shouldn’t do this- we shouldn’t hang out anymore,’ ’67 says, stumbling slightly over the words.

‘Don’t be a di’kut,’ Kote says immediately, and his fingers tighten around ‘67’s.

’67 tugs aways and Kote lets him go, a flash of something crossing his face, something that looks like upset.

‘We shouldn’t fraternise-’

‘“Fraternise?”’ Kote repeats incredulously. ‘Just what the kark are you talking about?’

‘Kote. Kote, please-’

‘Maze said that?’ Kote demands, eyes flashing and looking like he’s making to stand up and march off to immediately find the trainer and take a swing at him.

‘Stop it!’ ’67 snarls, feeling like something snapped inside him and he seizes onto Kote’s chestplate and hauls him near. ‘I just need you to do this one thing, Kote! Why must you always challenge things? Just because you’re a CC doesn’t mean you can always get away with things!’

His fingers curl under the edges of Kote’s armour, shaking him, and ’67 feels something well up inside him, hot and furious and desperate all at once. It leaves him trembling, eyes stinging and lips curled over bared teeth.

Kote’s expression shutters, but not before ’67 catches the hurt that flashes across his face and ’67 hates that he had made Kote look like that.

‘You little shabuir-’ 3636 hisses from beside ‘67, sounding very angry. The CC grabs ’67 by the back of his tunic as if to haul him away, but Kote holds up a hand and 3636 stops and then growls before releasing him. Kote’s eyes bore into his and ’67’s neck prickles with the awareness that their table has fallen silent, watching the two of them.

’67 curls his fists tightly in his lap, keeps his eyes on Kote.

When Kote finally speaks, his tone is flatter than his expression, ‘I am not going to force my company onto you, and it was never my intention to do so. I want it to be clear now; I may be Command class and you a cadet in training, but you have no obligation towards me or to the others in my batch. Answer freely. Do you wish to cease contact?’

’67 flinches at the words, stated so coolly and in such a detached manner, but-

-this is what he wants, right?

He has to keep his distance from them, so that they can be safe.

‘Yes,’ he says, a single word and adds nothing further because if he attempts to say anything else he will crack apart.

‘Kriff,’ the low curse escapes Denal, and he sounds horrified, confused.

’67 resolutely keeps his eyes on Kote, because Kote deserves at least that much from him.

Kote gives him a short nod and draws back. ‘Understood, CT-7567,’ he says, tone clipped, and he turns his body away, shifts on his seat and gives ’67 his shoulder.

It is a clear dismissal.

His face is burning, and he blinks furiously, refusing to cry. There’s a tangled knot twisting painfully in his chest-

He draws in a slow steadying breath and then calmly reaches for his food tray. His hands only shake a little as he gathers his things, and then he stands. He keeps his head high, but he avoids looking at the faces of the CCs at the table, slides his gaze over the top of their heads.

‘’67, wait-’ Denal says, and there’s a clatter as he scrambles to follow-

‘You are staying right here, cadet,’ says 3636 firmly.

‘The flying kark, I am,’ hisses Denal, sounding furious, and ’67 hears the beginning of an argument, voices raised heatedly, and it’s too much-

He hurries away.

Chapter Text

Their lessons say that the Prime was the son of the previous Mandalor of the Mandalorian Empire, and that he himself had carried the title for only an hour. His short reign had earned him the title Mandalor the Brief. Now, his sister Arla Vhett’s is the Mandalor the Avenger and the Empire under her rule is ever expanding its reaches across the galaxy, aggressive and bloodthirsty.

Their lessons say that Jango Vhett is presumed to have been killed on Galidraan, but that’s obviously not true because he isn’t some intangible spectre that haunts the hallways of Kamino. He is real. Living. Breathing. He is the Prime.

If there is an official reason as to why the Prime is helping the Republic make an army of clones of himself… well, his clones are not privy to it. What they have is unsubstantiated speculation, thrilling gossip and dramatic rumours, traded in hushed voices and with furtive looks.

Some think that the Prime had grown disillusioned with the Endless Wars and had come to an understanding with the Jedi and had agreed to work together with them, faking his death on Galidraan to participate in this secret operation to make an army capable of bringing a lasting peace to the war-torn galaxy.

Others think that Arla Vhett had staged a successful coup and seized power of the Empire, betraying her father and brother, that the Prime had been rescued from the politically motivated attempted assassination, had been saved and secreted away off Galidraan by Republic forces. The warmongering Mandalor Arla Vhett has no inclination to treatise with the Republic, so the clone army will be the way to install the Prime as Mandalor. A puppet head of state with the backing of the Republic.

No one has ever seen the Prime himself unmasked, despite the deep irony that his face is worn by thousands of them on Kamino. The younger cadets whisper amongst themselves that he must be grotesquely scarred, face cleaved into two charred halves by a Sith, and that he is too badly battle-damaged and blaster-ridden, that he can’t survive without being fully clad in his life-support suit at all times.

There are rumours that also say that the Prime doesn’t speak Basic at all, and that the Nulls and the Alphas had to learn his language to receive instructions from him.

Out of all those rumours, CT-7567 now knows the last one isn’t true.

But this really isn’t the time or the place to be untangling the myth from the man.

He sights down the scope and takes his time to centre himself, his heartbeat steady. He exhales, and in the space between that and his next breath, he pulls the trigger.

A kilometre downrange, the blaster bolt strikes true, hitting the holo target in the place where the head would be, on a humanoid species. That was his last shot. The light on his charge pack goes out, fully spent.

‘Excellent work today, cadet,’ Maze says, nodding at him when he returns the sniper rifle to the racks.

‘Sir,’ ’67 acknowledges, biting his lower lip to curb the smile curling on his mouth.

The trainer’s praise makes something warm bloom in his chest, makes ’67 forget for a few brief moments, the deep maw of loneliness that is his constant companion now.

It is something to revisit, in the privacy of his thoughts, when the ache of absence turns sharp and jagged, especially during mealtimes when ’67 takes the seat at the end of a table and there’s a score of empty seats between him and the next cadet.

He’s been doing very well in avoiding looking in the direction of the CCs’ table.

It’s been a tenday since he had last spoken to Kote. It hurts to be ignored by Kote, but ’67 knows he had also hurt Kote first.

’67 has had a number of sleepless nights to think over the things he has overheard – Ko Sai, Prime, Mereel, Slick – and that is too many things for a simple cadet like ’67 to know about.

None of that information have been released to the rest of the clones, so ’67 knows that it is not something the Kaminoans or Prime wants being leaked. It has only strengthened his resolution to stay away from Kote and everyone else. If the Kaminoans or Prime ever find out what ’67 knows, he can at least avoid suspicion from falling on the others.

So, ’67 does as he is told and keeps his focus on his training and his studies.

He had been terribly upset after that latemeal with the CCs, a complicated mess of shame and fear and worry. But he still had duties to perform, and he had managed to put aside those unproductive feelings and had written his report for Ko Sai, as concise and as thorough as he could make it, and had sent it off.

At first, he had worried that the scientist would have found his report lacking and had waited with deep dread for a summons from her for him to report to her office for a more personal evaluation. But he had received an acknowledgement ping, and that had been it.

He knows that she is busy.

Busy picking Slick apart.

And ’67 is so shamefully glad that it isn’t him on her examination table, with her clinical and relentless attention bearing down upon him.

Slick has done terrible things - those poor tubies! – but ’67 wouldn’t wish Ko Sai on anyone, especially a Ko Sai that has been given absolute permission in her investigation of clone defects, with blessings from the Prime.

’67 hasn’t seen so much as a glint of armour of the Prime in the past tenday, but that in itself isn’t uncommon. The Prime is already a somewhat rare sight to see in their halls, mysterious and mythical, only communicating with the trainers and some of the older troopers that had been handpicked for more specialised training.

But ’67 suspects that after Slick, the Prime has little attention to spare to see to the clones’ training program, even for those troopers who have been deemed remarkable enough to receive his personal attention; no clone is more important than Boba.

The Prime is probably locked down in his quarters, attending to Boba, to his youngest son.

’67 has never met Boba, has never shared the same space with the Prime’s kid before, but the CCs have. Kote has told him that Boba sometimes sneaks away from his lessons to hang around them, and that Boba is… cute. It is a ridiculous thing to say because they all have the same face, and there’s literally tens of thousands of cadets at Boba’s developmental age running around the place and tripping everyone up, but Kote had just huffed a breath and said, ‘That’s different!’ and 1010 had actually agreed.

He carefully sets aside the memory, and the painful twisty feelings that arises with the recollection.

He isn’t jealous of Boba; there isn’t any point to be.

Boba is made for the Prime, and CT-7567 and the other clones are made for war.

The clones have accepted the late-night inspections and the subsequent rotation of Aurek protocols as being some kind of special security exercise. They have quickly fallen back into their usual routines when there didn’t seem to be any further situation developing. And their training regime had been vigorously intensified in the days after, their trainers working them over harder from dawn to dusk, so everyone’s too tired at the end of the day to gossip.

’67 keeps a wary eye out for anything unusual and he hadn’t missed the way a squad of troopers had been discreetly taken out of the rosters. He had feared the worst at first, thinking perhaps that Ko Sai had had her way after all - despite the Prime’s and Nala Se’s objection - and had the whole of Slick’s squad transferred into her custody for her testing and decommissioning.

But he had caught sight of the troopers a few days after, looking especially sombre and subdued, sticking close together as a group and hovering close to their trainer, Fordo-

And ’67 remembers that when Maze had walked him down to the sim decks a tenday ago, he had asked the Alphas on patrol about something, had mentioned Fordo, and the reply Maze had received contained the word “vod’ika”. It is not hard to put those things together and come to the realisation that Slick had been Fordo’s vod’ika.

’67 has noticed that Fordo himself has yet to remove his helmet in public. He’s here at the mess at mealtimes, but he doesn’t eat at all, just sits silently in the company of that small squad of troopers, the normally strong and confident lines of his body now a tired and wilted cluster of red armour plates.

There will be no chance of redemption or forgiveness for Slick, not when he had sabotaged the growth tanks and hurt little Boba… a decommissioning awaits him when Ko Sai is finished with her testing-

But Fordo’s quiet and helpless misery is hard to watch.

’67 drops his gaze down at his tray. He picks at his own food, his stomach churning uneasily.

Another tray is set down next to his with a near silent click. ’67 refuses to look up, presses his lips together tightly, and he doesn’t return Denal’s casual greeting.

‘Hey, ’67,’ Denal says calmly as he slides into the empty space beside ’67, almost bumping elbows. Denal settles into his seat, just like he has for the few other times he managed to ambush ’67 and sit with him during mealtimes. ‘67’s made it a new habit to force himself to eat as quickly as he can, so he can get going and get away, so that he isn’t tormented by the temptation for company and the regret of the way he had ended things with the CCs.

Today though, ’67 is tired after a long training day and has allowed his mood to slow his eating and so now Denal is here, seizing the opportunity to stubbornly carry a one-sided conversation by himself, because ’67 will not initiate and will not engage. Denal talks about anything and everything, an exasperating stream of wandering consciousness.

Sometimes he talks at ’67 about the things they had learnt that day in flashtraining, elaborates extensively on an observation or a random thought.

Sometimes he goes on a long sermon about his rivers and streams and creeks. This makes ’67 half-wonder if Denal has just found an audience in ’67 who, unlike his batchmates, will not tell him to shut up about his babbling brooks.

Sometimes though, Denal’s meandering musings slide a little too close to topics that are… sensitive, and ’67 can’t help the way he reacts, his attention caught and held as if by some terrible fascination, unable to stop Denal from speaking, but also unable to stop himself from listening.

It seems like this will be such a time, when apropos of nothing, Denal starts talking about Boba.

‘Do you think Boba will grow up to be as tall as us?’ Denal wonders aloud, eyes on his tray as he starts cutting the more solid pieces up with his multitensil, and then crushing his wafers into crumbs. Once he judges the solids to be small enough, he works on steadily mashing everything together with the pastes.

’67 will never get over how disgusting the resultant glop is, of the unappealing swirl of dull colours and lumps. More than once, he had found himself opening his mouth to object to Denal’s habit but manages to stop himself. Denal must know how offensive he is being, because there is always that slight quirk of his mouth, the challengingly raised eyebrow, as if daring ’67 to say something about it.

However, the unappetising mess Denal is making this evening hardly registers, the entirety of ‘67’s focus drawn to the words Denal is saying.

‘I heard that he’s an exact clone of the Prime, without any enhancements. He hasn’t got the mods to flashlearn like us, or any of the physical improvements. And he’s like, what, six? But he’s still learning the basic stuff.’ Denal pauses to scrape down the edges of his tray, corralling his mush into the centre. ‘It’s kinda weird.’

’67 can’t help himself. ‘You’re the weird one,’ he retorts, eyeing Denal’s tray with revulsion.

Denal’s smile is a slow, small thing, with the slant of triumph to it, but he doesn’t glance over at ’67. He eats his first mouthful with exaggerated relish.

‘I reckon the Nulls are actually taller than the Prime,’ Denal says contemplatively, after swallowing. ‘Not by a lot, but just a little bit. And look at Alpha-17! No way he’s an exact match to Prime’s physique. When I grow up, I wanna be just like Alpha-17.’

’67 bites down hard on his lip to keep from giggling. Denal notices, of course, and when he brings his next spoonful of food to his mouth, does an absurd contortion of his arm to flex his skinny cadet muscles.

A snort escapes ’67.

‘He’s so handsome too,’ Denal sighs dreamily, and his breath hitches a little on his own choked down laugh.

‘Kriff, you are an idiot,’ ’67 mutters.

Denal hums, ‘I thought I was weird.’

They’re both still not looking at the other, directing their words to their trays.

‘A weird idiot,’ ’67 amends and he’s grinning down at his fibre sticks.

The smile falls off his face when Denal says, ‘You know what I heard? I heard from 5597 who heard from his batchmate, that Boba might have had an accident. Apparently, A’den been in and out of the infirmary the past couple of days consulting with some of the senior medics. And Boba’s not been joining the training sessions with Bacara’s batch for a while.’

’67 exhales slowly, forcing the tense line of his shoulders down, acutely aware that Denal is watching him closely.

‘Denal,’ he grits out, and he knows he’s just stirring more of Denal’s suspicions with his reactions. Denal isn’t stupid, has been working him over, and has been purposefully throwing all manner of topics at ’67 to see which one would provoke a response, alternating between stories and speculations to unbalance him. It is ’67’s fault, letting Denal slip under his guard. ‘You really should leave this alone,’ he warns Denal, turning a sharp look on the other cadet.

Denal stares back, dark eyes glittering sharply.

‘You know something,’ Denal says.

There’s no use denying it. But ’67 isn’t going to confirm it either. He clenches his jaw and tries to stare Denal down.

After a long minute, Denal sits back slowly and then wordlessly goes back to his meal. That does nothing to reassure ’67, not when there’s that look on Denal’s face, like he’s only giving ’67 a reprieve because he is taking the time for himself to think.

’67 huffs out a frustrated breath and rolls his shoulders in agitation, but he doesn’t say anything either. Denal is too stubborn for his own good. He isn’t likely to drop needling ’67 for some kind of answer. ’67 will just have to be more careful around Denal, since it’s evident that the cadet won’t leave him alone. ’67 can’t let himself be drawn in again. It’s the very basics in interrogation tactics, and he’s annoyed at himself for even falling for it in the first place-

‘The name Slick familiar to you?’

’67’s heartrate jumps and he snaps his head to the side to find Denal is watching him, expression unreadable. ’67 looks away quickly.

‘He was taken away the night of inspections,’ Denal says, leaning closer and dropping his voice low and serious. ‘The scientists found something wrong with him, apparently. There’s been talk that he’s been decommissioned but no one’s really sure, and his squadmates are keeping their mouths shut about it-’

’67 stands abruptly and grabs his tray, still more than half-filled with uneaten food but he has utterly lost his appetite, stomach curdling with unease.

He makes himself walk calmly, not wanting to draw attention to himself, even though the hall is practically empty now, at the very end of latemeal.

Still, as he passes the trainers’ table, Maze waves him down and he reluctantly goes to the older clone.

‘Everything alright, ’67?’ Maze asks, his eyes sliding past ’67 to glance at the table where Denal has remained, eyes boring steadily into the back of ‘67’s neck.

‘Yes, Sir.’

Maze’s eyes dart down to ‘67’s unfinished tray of food and a flicker of what could be concern crosses his face. He jerks his chin at the empty spot in front of him. ‘Come sit with us, vod’ika,’ he invites, and though his tone is warm and friendly, ’67 feels a flush of nervousness. ’67 casts his gaze around the table, taking in the other trainers; Tavo, Mar’ek, Muzzle, Sull-

Sull catches his eye and arches an eyebrow at him. ‘Ke’sheber, vod’ika,’ Sull tells him and looks amused when ’67 blinks at him in confusion. ‘Sit down,’ he says in Basic, patting the seat next to him.

Unable to refuse the direct instructions of two trainers, ’67 sets his jaw and sets his tray down. He slides stiffly into the seat with his head held high.

‘Wayii. Kaysh ori’copikla,’ Sull mutters under his breath. He is shaking his head but there’s a grin on his lips and he gives Maze a knowing look.

‘Bal kaysh ori’jate ram’ser, vod,’ Maze replies, a smugness in his tone that makes ’67 glance at him in curiosity. Maze sees him looking and gives him a quick wink, ‘Just telling Sull about how you’ve got the makings of a sniper. Very impressive.’

’67 flushes. ‘Oh,’ he fumbles, ‘Er…Yes, Sir. Thank you, Sir.’

Sull makes a strange sound at the back of his throat. ‘Copikla,’ he repeats, stressing the word. Maze laughs.

‘C’mon, kid. Eat your food,’ Maze tells ’67, amusement still in his tone, and ‘67 slowly reaches for the multitensil.

The conversation at the Alpha table picks up again around ’67, a hodgepodge mixture of Basic and Mando’a, the Mando’a language a legacy from their training with Prime. The reg cadets and troopers learn Mando’a in bits and pieces, an understanding that is scraped together from overhearing its usage by the trainers, and the trainers are usually very careful when they converse in it, hoarding it to themselves. There are words that ’67 understands, some of the phrases sounding familiar with their repetition, and given enough time and exposure and contextual hints, ’67 thinks he might be able to begin understanding a bit of it.

Sull’s commlink beeps twice and the Alpha glances at the ID and then immediately answers, all levity gone from his tone, ‘Alor?’

The occupants of the table go still and silent, all eyes on Sull.

‘Sull, tion Fordo ti gar?’

The trainers might all sound the same but ’67 knows with a bone-deep certainty that the voice on the other end of the comm call belongs to the Prime.

’67 reflexively turns to look for Fordo, hearing the mention of the trainer’s name, and finds him sitting with his troopers a few tables away.

Sull stands smoothly and is already stepping in that direction as he answers, ‘Lek, kaysh olar.’

‘Kark,’ Mar’ek says with deep feeling, watching Sull stride away.

Tavo pushes away from the table, jamming his helmet on. His hand twists in ARC battlesign as he follows after Sull.

‘Dar’vod taab'echaaj'la ibic’tuur,’ Maze mutters, his eyes focused on the other table. The trainers all shift uneasily at the words.

The clones seated with Fordo go stiff when they notice the two Alphas approaching. Fordo clambers ungracefully to his feet and the Alphas tilt their helms together, conversing in low tones.

Fordo’s form slumps even further and Sull puts a hand bracingly on his shoulder, the tilt of his helm concerned. Fordo nods, and then leaves the mess hall with Sull sticking close by his side.

Tavo is turned towards the table of troopers and he must have given them orders, because they drop everything to stand and follow him out as well.

‘Kark,’ Mar’ek repeats, punching out the curse word with an explosive breath. His face is dark with anger and a twist of other complicated emotions. There are shades of similar expressions on the faces of the other trainers.

’67 bites the inside of his cheeks and looks down at his tray, feeling a cold chill griping his insides.

He might not understand much Mando’a, but he’s been hearing so much of it the past few days and he can guess who Maze is calling a “dar’vod” - has heard the term a few times already - and he can put all the pieces together enough to know that Slick is about to be decommissioned.

Chapter Text

Decommissionings are rare, but they do happen.

Sometimes a cadet just doesn’t perform well enough, even though they’ve been re-tracked a few times. There are only so many times a trainer can pass a cadet around, trying to find them a role that they can fit into; operations, logistics, analysts, engineering, communications… At the end of the day, the Kaminoans are creating an army, and each of them must have a purpose within it, and a cadet still needs to pass the basics of cadet training to even qualify as infantry.

’67 is defective, but it is an aesthetic defect. He’s well above the performance standards for his age, which ’67 suspects, is the only thing that is saving him from an unceremonious and immediate decom.

And as far as anyone knows, there has never been a decom for a clone that is trooper-aged.

’67 has always found that knowledge reassuring; that if he graduates into armour, he’d be safe.

But now…

Now, ’67 has discovered that it will never be safe on Kamino.

Not for clones as genetically deviant as him.

Carefully, he sets his multitensil down, starts to clear his tray. Mar’ek and Muzzle had already left, following after Tavo and the others. There’s only ’67 and Maze left at the table, and ’67 knows Maze would have probably already been gone by now, if he didn’t have to - for some reason - chaperone ’67.

’67 doesn’t want to hold Maze back from… whatever it is. He finds that he doesn’t want to linger on the thought of what is happening right now, somewhere in the facility-

-will it be done in the decom chambers? Or will Ko Sai have… other ideas on how to do it?

‘’67?’ Maze says in a questioning tone and ’67 darts a look at the trainer. There’s concern on his face, which might be for ’67, but ’67 also catches the way Maze’s gaze drifts towards the exits, the way his body shifts, as if ready to launch himself out of his seat to go chasing after the other Alphas, and the only thing keeping him here is his duty to ’67.

‘Just about to head back to the barracks, Sir,’ ’67 says.

At that, Maze gives a quick glance around the hall and ’67 notes the way his eyes goes first to Kote’s table – empty – and then to the cadet table – also empty. Maze frowns, just a quick scrunch of his forehead, and then his attention comes back to ’67.

‘I shouldn’t have kept you,’ he tells ’67, sounding apologetic in a way ’67 doesn’t understand. ‘I’ll walk you back.’

’67 balks, ‘Sir! There’s no need-’

‘Let’s go, vod’ika,’ Maze says, rolling to his feet and ’67 swallows his protests, knowing better than to argue with his trainer.

Maze doesn’t say anything during their walk. There is a look of preoccupation on his face and a kind of restlessness in the way he moves, in the way he keeps glancing at the chrono on his vambrace, like he’s counting down the minutes to something-

’67 bites his lip and finds himself inching closer to Maze, clamping down on the shiver that rattles his spine, knowing these are probably the last minutes of Slick’s life. Maze’s head tilts his way, but the trainer doesn’t reprimand him for the closer-than-standard distance between their bodies. Rather, Maze’s hand twitches like he wants to tug ’67 closer, but the movement is aborted when the older clone’s gaze jerks up, catching on a pair of security droids. He awkwardly uses the movement to bring his vambrace up again to check the time instead, and ’67 feels silly that he feels disappointed.

The thick tension in the air is starting to feel a little too much like the afternoon Maze had walked him down to the sim decks, with all the trainers involved in operations and clean up that ’67 is not supposed to be aware about.

It makes anxiousness curl around ‘67’s chest and he balls his fists at his sides, a sense of foreboding rising within him, making it hard for him to draw breath-

Maze’s comm chirps twice, a shrill, urgent tone ’67 has never heard before, and he immediately accepts the call. A voice is speaking quickly, and ’67 realises it must be some sort of emergency channel.

‘-Vode an, mirci’t eyaytir! Kaysh slanar wasuur teh yamika’demagol. Ulyc kaysh besbe. Baar’ure jiila at yamika’demagol.’

‘Din’kartay shupur’yc ade,’ another voice demands tersely.

‘T’ad vode shupur’yc. Tracy’pur’yc,’ reports the first voice.

‘Baar’ure ru’alaror,’ the other replies, tone curt.

The exchange takes only seconds, a rapid-fire exchange in Mando’a, so fast that their voices almost overlap.

Maze curses viciously and grabs the back of ‘67’s tunic and hauls him into an empty room off the hallway. Maze locks the door and unholsters his blaster, face serious as more comm chatter from the Alphas come in.

’67 stares up at the trainer with wide eyes, recognising that there is a situation. He stills himself, awaiting his orders.

‘Fordo,’ the Prime says, and his commanding tone cuts through all the chatter, ‘Me’vaar ti gar, ner ad?’

‘Naas, buir,’ Fordo says, into the sudden silence of the channel.

‘Jate. Ke’taylir ti gar traat’aliit. Mhi taylir ibic aka.’

‘…Elek, Alor.’

The Prime and his Nulls immediately take command, snapping out orders to the trainers. Maze listens intently, deep furrows on his brows. His sharp eyes flicks over to ’67, pins him in place, and the slant of Maze’s lips turns downwards with worry.

‘Maze,’ hails Jaing, his voice coming from Maze’s comm and Maze unclips his bucket from his belt and jams it on, switching over to the privacy of his helmet. His fingers twitch and tighten slightly on his blaster, the only outward sign of his agitation.

After a moment of conference with the Null, Maze turns to ’67. He sounds calm, but there’s an underlying tone of tension behind his words.

‘There’s been a situation, cadet. You and I are going to hole up here for a bit and let the others handle it. There’s no need to worry, alright?’

‘Yes, Sir,’ ’67 replies, hands clenching uselessly at his sides and wishing he was old enough to be allowed to carry a blaster.

He glances around the room, taking stock of the items in the maintenance closet and their potential to be used as weapons. Maze doesn’t object when he arms himself with a length of steel pipe.

A tense silence falls over the both of them. Maze doesn’t say anything else to him, too busy listening to the commlines for updates, though he does drop a comforting hand on ‘67’s shoulder when ’67 tucks himself by the trainer’s side. ’67 strains his hearing, but he doesn’t hear anything but the sounds of his own quiet breathing and the subtle shift of Maze’s armour.

Pressed against Maze, ’67 is instantly aware when the trainer stiffens as he receives more intel on his comms.

Maze slides onto a knee in front of ’67 and pulls him close, speaking rapidly.

‘’67, I need you to listen to me very carefully. There is someone very dangerous in the facility. Cams are down so we can’t confirm visual, but Command thinks he’s headed to the barracks. It’s likely he will be coming through these hallways, near our position.’

Maze's grip on ‘67’s shoulder tightens in a squeeze. ‘He’s managed to evade the others, and the others are… held up. But we can’t allow him to reach the barracks.’

’67 swallows hard.

Maze doesn’t say it’s Slick but ’67 knows it is. And ’67 also knows what Slick has done and what he is capable of.

’67 straightens and then firms his jaw and nods, ‘Yes, Sir. Shall we move to intercept?’

‘You are not going to do anything but stay here and stay safe,’ growls Maze fiercely, giving ‘67 a little shake and sounding exasperated. Maze unsheathes a vibroblade from his belt and presses the hilt into ’67’s free hand. ‘Just in case. Don’t do anything stupid or I swear will kill you myself.’

‘Yes, Sir,’ ’67 dutifully says, because the blank stare of Maze's visor feels full of judgement.

Maze presses their foreheads together. ‘Don’t unlock the door until I give you this all clear,’ he says, and his fingers tap a quick rhythm on ‘67’s chest, over his heart.

‘K'oyacyi, vod’ika,’ he says before pushing up to his feet. He hits the controls for the door, and steps out beyond, his blaster up.

’67 scrambles to get the lock engaged. He presses his back against the door, heart hammering in his chest. His knees suddenly feel too shaky and too weak, and he slowly slides down to the floor, still leaning against the door. The light hum of the vibroblade in his hand feels like comfort, in the too quiet room.

He sucks in a quiet breath, and wills his heartbeat to slow, for his hands to stop trembling. He’s a cadet of the GAR, and he tells himself he isn’t scared, just… a little apprehensive. With his eyes on his chrono, the minutes slide past agonisingly slowly.

Left alone in the maintenance closet, there’s nothing to do but to think and to worry.

Maze will be fine, he tells himself, and tries not to worry too much that the Alpha has no backup. Surely the other trainers are on their way to recapture Slick – it must be Slick they are after, because who else could it be? Who else would trigger such a response from the Prime and his Nulls?

’67 shivers, wondering what had happened, how the rogue clone could have managed to escape Ko Sai and her lab. In the very back of his mind, tucked shamefully away because he shouldn’t be having thoughts like these against a superior officer, there is the dark hope that something had happened to the scientist.

The vibroblade handle digs into his palm, and he carefully loosens his hold and releases a deep breath. He looks at the down at the blade in his hand – a little too large to be comfortably wielded by his cadet-sized hands – his eyes following the straight edge of one side that swoops with a slight curve towards its tip, and then down again along the other side to the line of wicked looking serrated teeth near the hilt. There are markings on the flat of the blade and he brings the blade nearer to his face to study it, recognising the sharp jagged script of Mando’a. He runs a light finger over the inscription, a thoughtful expression on his face.

It is a vicious looking blade, well-cared for and… personalised, obviously not standard issue.

He has to make sure to get it back to Maze later; it is likely to be a gift from someone.

He is jolted out of his contemplation when he hears someone trying to gain access into the room, the lock beeping flatly and denying them entry. He shoots to his feet and backs away hurriedly, heart in his throat.

They didn’t knock in the pre-agreed signal.

Whoever it is, it isn’t Maze.

And they’re trying the door again.

’67 lunges forward and then with the vibroblade he has been given, prises open the control panel and quickly cuts a selection of wires. That will slow them down, but it won’t keep them out indefinitely. He’s only bought himself a few minutes.

He backs away from the door, thinking furiously.

What he has is a vibroblade and a steel pipe. But if it’s Slick behind that door, ’67 will have to be fast, and he can’t afford to hesitate. Slick is desperate and dangerous and has proven to have no compunctions in killing clones, even tubies. There is no doubt that he will kill ’67 too.

His eyes dart around the room once more, searching for anything that might give him a better fighting chance against the older clone. There’s racks and trays filled with an assortment of tubing and wiring, oils, adhesives, cleaning solutions-

But there simply isn’t enough time to improvise any sort of explosive device, even if he manages to find all the materials he needs to build one. And anyway, he has no intention of being trapped in the room with Slick when it goes off, since the door is the only point of entry-

He whirls his head, turning to look so fast he cracks his neck, and then he darts behind the rows of shelving, eyes scanning along the walls and ceiling and... there!

Tucked at the very top of the wall, half hidden by a box of what looks to be spare parts for a cooling unit, is the louvered panel covering of a vent.

A loud thump comes from the door, spurring ’67 into greater urgency. He abandons his pipe and shoves the vibroblade into the band of his pants, and then speedily scales up the racks. Tray and boxes are upended in his haste upwards, but there’s no time or need for more finesse. When Slick breaches the door, he will only need to take one look at the busted door controls to know that it has been sabotaged, and that there must be someone hiding in the maintenance closet.

’67 needs to get out and get as far away as possible.

He springs up on to the highest rack and shoves aside the box of parts. He palms the vibroblade, wedges the tip of it between the vent panel and its frame, managing to pry it open after a few hard tugs.

The racket he makes in his wake must be heard from the outside, because Slick’s efforts to break in escalates terrifyingly and ’67 can hear him unloading blastershots - how did he get his hands on a blaster? wonders '67 hysterically - at the locking mechanism.

He scrambles into the vent, his body just managing to fit into its dimensions; another few weeks and another growth spurt, and it wouldn’t have been an option for him at all. He squirms and belly crawls, his elbows and knees scraping the sides of the tight space-

His knee knocks something that goes skittering, and he contorts himself to look. It is a small cylindrical object, slight slightly bigger than the palm of his hand and in a shock of cold, he recognises what it is immediately. He grabs for it, checks that the cap on the end is secure and then stuffs it into his pocket, and then keeps moving.

He hurriedly crawls past another grating that services the maintenance closet and he can’t help but peek through the slats.

It is just in time to see that Slick has disabled the electronics completely and is manually forcing the door open. ’67 can see Slicks fingers curled around the edges of the door and frame, as he strains to pry the door open with his bare hands.

In the steadily widening gap, ’67 catches a glimpse of the older clone. Slick’s face is a rictus of effort, teeth bared in a fearsome silent snarl. There’s a wildness in the white of his eyes as his gaze roves over the room beyond him.

The opening is just wide enough now for Slick to stick his arm in, a blaster clutched in his hand. ’67 doesn’t have the time to curse, before Slick squeezes the trigger, swinging his arm wildly and spraying the room in a shower of blaster shots.

A few of the shots land near his hiding place, splattering sparks. ’67 doesn’t waste any further time gawking at Slick. He shoves himself through the tunnel-like space as fast as he can go, taking the first corner he comes across, trying to put as much space between him and the rogue clone, terrifyingly aware of the slight weight of the detonator he has hurriedly shoved into his pocket.

Slick must’ve have made it into the room, must’ve have found that the detonator that he had hidden has been taken, because ’67 hears a terrible wordless scream of rage that echoes around him, the sound bouncing and amplified in the vents, making his ears ring.

He pushes himself to go faster, tucks his limbs closer to his body and wills himself to move stealthily now that he has a little distance from Slick; he can’t let Slick know where he is in the vent systems, he has to keep moving.

A growl reverberates in the air, and carried with it is a hair-raising howl of, ‘Ohm bakk hheh!’. The words are barely intelligible, formed from a mangled mouth and further distorted by the echoing vent space.

Come back here.

’67 feels a shiver judder down his spine.

He keeps moving, forcing himself to mentally map his location and his bearing. He turns left at the next intersection, in the direction away from the barracks, hoping that he’ll run into the any of the trainers, hand-off the detonator device, get to safety-

The sound of his breathing is loud in his own ears. Sweat slides down his forehead, stinging his eyes and he blinks furiously. It feels like the sides of the vents are closing in tighter around his form, slowly getting smaller and more constrictive, but ’67 knows that’s just his imagination.

He manages to navigate his way to the vents above one of the hallways, and from there, he can move faster along the straight stretch. He pauses periodically at vent gratings, listening hard and giving a quick look to check his surroundings, but he hasn’t spotted any of the older clones yet.

Anxiously, he wonders where the trainers are, if Prime will assist in capturing Slick, if the Nulls will kill Slick on the spot if they catch him-

He almost continues past a grating when a glint of colour catches the corner of his eye and his heart jumps. He presses his face against the vent slats for a better look, hardly daring to breathe-

It is.

That’s the green of Maze’s armour just behind the open doorway of a classroom.

’67 swallows hard, throat clicking, and he stares for a few long seconds, willing Maze to get up off the floor, but the trainer stays unmoving.

He bites his lip, darting his gaze up and down the quiet hallway. His gaze goes back to Maze again and he firms his jaw.

Working as quickly as he can with the vibroblade in his hand, he quietly detaches the vent cover. He drops to the ground silently and darts into the classroom.

His breath catches in his throat and then he’s crouching by the trainer’s side, one hand slipping under the collar of Maze’s blacks to press against his pulse point; it’s there, fluttering and weak.

‘Sir?’ ’67 says, bending closer and keeping his voice low. His hands drift over Maze’s chest plate, fumbling with the unfamiliar claps. When he sets aside the piece, his hands come away bloody.

It’s hard to see where the wound is; the dark colour of the undersuit easily hides the source of the blood, and Maze’s suit is already saturated.

’67 has rudimentary medic training, but it's just the bare basics and not nearly enough for… this.

For the collection of stab wounds puncturing Maze’s left side and gut.

Slick must have surprised Maze, ambushed him, and had enough of an upper hand to manage to slip his weapon through the seams of Maze’s armour.

’67 presses his palms onto the injury site. His hands are too small, but he tries to press down on the worst of the damage, tries to stem the blood.

Maze’s comm unit on his vambrace is missing, and he glances desperately around for the Alpha’s helmet, but it is nowhere to be found. Slick must have taken them.

‘Sir. Sir!’ he calls, a crack in his voice. ‘Sir, you gotta wake up!’

’67 frantically tries to recall protocol. The GAR handbook says that the mission comes first; a clone trooper’s life the last concern on the list.

But he’s just a cadet, isn’t he? He’s not even a trooper yet. And his last orders were to remain in the maintenance closet. If he went against orders then, he can do it again now.

He grits his teeth and presses down harder, half-hoping the increased pressure and pain would wake the trainer. ‘Sir Sir Sirsirsir,’ he chants and then desperately, ‘Mazemazemazemaze!’

He almost pulls away reflexively, hands spasming before he hurriedly reapplies firm pressure, when Maze stirs weakly.

‘Me’bana?’ Maze asks, barely more than a whisper, and then he groans softly.

His eyes flicker open and his gaze swoops unsteadily around the room before alighting on ’67. It’s obvious that it takes immense effort to keep his gaze from sliding away.

‘Oh,’ Maze breathes, sounding surprised. ‘Su’cuy gar, vod’ika.’

‘Sir, everything’s fine- …You’re gonna be fine,’ ’67 says, trying to sound confident and assuring, keeping his eyes firmly on Maze’s face, avoids looking down at the way he’s trying to keep Maze from bleeding out.

Maze chuckles weakly, like he knows how useless that attempt is, and then chokes, body spasming under ‘67’s hands.

‘I’m sorry, kid,’ Maze gasps, blood flecking his white lips. His hands reach down to wrap around ‘67’s to try to give him a reassuring squeeze. ’67 resists at first – he has to keep pressure on the wounds - but Maze’s fingers are so, so cold when he tugs, and his grasp is weak and trembling and-

‘Ni ceta,’ Maze says, drawing ’67 hands up to press against his chest, rising and falling with each shallow breath, his words stuttering between each inhale. ‘I wanted to see you-- through your verd’goten-- Wanted you to--’

Maze chokes, and ’67 is helpless to do anything but watch, tightening his grip on Maze’s hand as the Alpha shakes and jerks weakly.

‘-Urcir ner aliit, mhi aliit,’ Maze breathes out, eyes rolling to catch ‘67’s, something desperate in his unfocused gaze. He reaches out to run the fingers of one shaking hand from ’67’s hairline, down his nose, over his lips, to his chin.

‘Mhi dralshy’a tome-- kandosii sa ka'rta-- Vode an,’ he gasps out, the words urgent, pushed up past gritted teeth and bloodied lips.

’67 focuses, concentrating on committing the Mando’a words to memory in case-

-just in case.

Maze is going to be fine, he tells himself, forcing away his rising panic and trying to remain calm.

Maze needs him.

‘Everything will be fine, ‘67,’ Maze tells him, trying to sound reassuring and ’67 stares back with wide eyes. ‘Ven’jate an, Resol’tad.’

Maze repeats himself a few times, over and over, the words slurring and the Basic and Mando’a becoming mixed and muddled together, like he’s forgotten how to tell the two languages apart.

‘Buir?’ Maze calls suddenly, eyes going distant and staring past ’67’s shoulder.

’67 whips around, heart leaping with hope-

But there is no one there. He turns his head back and freezes when he sees Maze already looking at him, gaze unexpectedly clear and steady. Maze’s grip on his hands tightens almost to bruising.

‘Ni taabir,’ Maze tells him solemnly, his words soft and tired, only acceptance in his quiet tone. ‘Taabir kotep, Resol’tad-- Understand?-- You keep marching bravely-- I must march on.’

‘Sir,’ ’67 manages to choke out past his tight throat, eyes burning.

Maze smiles crookedly at him, eyes gentle, the tight lines of pain on his face easing.

His lips move and ’67 pitches forward to catch the murmured words, ‘You’re… a good kid, Res--’

Maze’s last syllable is whispered in a soft exhale. His grip goes slack and then… he doesn’t move.

‘Maze?’ ’67 calls, and his voice sounds so small and scared to his own ears.

‘…Maze?’

Chapter Text

’67 breathes in for two counts and then exhales for two. Repeats it over and over and over again. It’s easier to just narrow his focus on pulling air into his lungs, concentrating on the feeling of his chest expanding, and then breathing out through his mouth in a steady exhale-

One two, one two.

-if he stops counting, his thoughts will careen sideways and then it is so, so difficult to wrest his breathing under control again when everything within his chest hurts, like his ribs are slowly compressing and crushing everything inside his body-

One two, one two.

He swallows down the hard lump in his throat, and blinks furiously. He carefully adjusts his grip on the vibroblade and frowns down at the detonator cylinder in his other hand. It would be easier with a multitool, but he makes do with what he has.

It is a few tense and breathless moments, pushing all his focus down into his task and making sure he selects the correct wires. Then, he exhales shakily in relief and hurriedly makes sure the end cap is secure. Something makes him hesitate as he moves to slip it into his pocket and he frowns briefly before he bends down to tuck it instead into his boot, in the uncomfortable small space between the pleather and his ankle.

He wipes his hands on his pants as he stands – tries not to get caught in the unproductive thought of Maze’s blood, dried and embedded under his fingernails – and inches his way to the door to cautiously look out. His eyes are stubbornly dry as his gaze flits about, taking in the empty corridor and mentally marking all the vent points.

Exiting the ceiling vent system before had been easy, but now that he’s trying to get back in from ground level, he has to find another point he can access. He has to find a room where he can scale furniture or fittings up to the height he needs.

It is too quiet.

Especially since there’s a hostile on the loose.

The Prime and the other trainers should have been here by now. Where are they?

It feels wrong to leave Maze behind, but ’67 has little choice; he has to get to safety, get to someone in command, has to tell them about the explosives Slick plans to set off. He hasn’t heard anything of Prime or the other trainers, haven’t seen bucket or boot of anyone else. Either they’re running silent, or they’re still held up somewhere-

He refuses to consider that Slick could have single-handedly defeat the entire cadre of trainers. There’s no way that is a possibility.

There’s one of the smaller tutorial rooms just around the corner, and unlike the larger learning halls where the seating are bolted to the ground, it will have chairs and desks that can be arranged for less formal study sessions. ’67 hopes he’ll be able to use the loose furniture to form some sort of structure he can climb.

He edges cautiously around the corner, sees no one, and swiftly taps the access panel for the tutorial room. He slips silently into the dark room as soon as the door slides open. He leaves the lights off; a room in use would have an indicator lit outside above its door and the last thing he wants to do is to give himself away.

The door closes quietly behind him, and he gives himself a second or two to let his eyes adjust to the dark, and then he moves quickly to the other end of the room, already deciding on the vent tucked in the top corner of the room-

The lights come on suddenly, bright and blinding.

He whirls around in a crouch, blood rushing in a roar through his body, vibroblade in hand and raised defensively in front of him.

A pair of dark eyes stare calmly back at him from across the room, the older clone blocking access to the only exit. The door had not been used at all; Slick had been waiting for him and ’67 had walked right into his trap.

Slick tilts his head, his eyes traveling over ‘67’s form, barely pausing at seeing the weapon levelled at him. There is a blaster in Slick’s hand, held in a casual grip by his side.

Almost vibrating with tension, ’67 takes the moment to study the older clone in return.

Slick is as bare as the day he had been decanted, but the state of his nakedness doesn’t seem to bother him at all. His skin is covered in large bruises in broad swatches of colours; fresher plum-coloured patches clashing with the mottled yellow-greens of older injuries.

He only thing he wears on his body is Maze’s blood, smeared across his chest and stomach and speckled on his face.

The trooper has lost much muscle mass in the tendays in Ko Sai’s care, his body grown thin and reedy, skin stretch taut over his frame. It shouldn’t be possible to lose quite this much weight in such a short time, but knowing Ko Sai and her scientific curiosity, ’67 suspects that there has been… things that had been done to Slick in her search for her answers.

Sure enough, when ’67 looks, there are long lines of raised bumps, along his thighs and encircling his neck. Ko Sai mustn’t have been bothered to use bacta after administering her hypos, like she does with ’67, because the hypo sites are red and angry looking.

‘67’s skin crawls just looking at the marks, and he feels the cold phantom touch of the Kaminoan at the base of his own neck. He can’t quite suppress the shiver that judders down his spine. He becomes aware that his hand not holding onto the blade had drifted vaguely upwards as if to protect his own neck and he presses his lips together tightly as he stops himself and he shifts to resettle into a defensive stance.

Slick notices and he narrows his eyes slightly, a look of calculation sliding across his expression briefly before it is wiped away.

When he smiles at ’67, it is not a kind or friendly thing, too many teeth and with too much knowing in the slant of his cracked lips.

‘Hehwo,’ he greets, shaping the word with only his lips and his breath, voice raspy and broken.

’67 tries to keep his expression calm but he’s sure something must have slipped through, because something makes the smile on Slick’s face slide even wider.

‘Stay where you are,’ ’67 says, and his voice is firm, blade held steadily in front of him, when Slick takes a step forward.

Slick stops. With his eyes locked on ‘67’s he slowly puts the blaster onto the ground and then makes a show of taking a few steps away from it, arms spread apart, and chest bared. There’s an infuriating small curl to his lips that instantly sets ‘67’s teeth on edge.

Slick says something, and ’67 frowns; the words too garbled to make out clearly. A flash of deep irritation flickers across Slick’s face and ’67 tenses, ready to defend himself, but Slick pulls his gaze from ’67 to cast around the room, looking for-

Slick grunts and nods at the console just off the side of the room.

‘Mayyai?’ he asks, but he’s already moving to it before ’67 can respond.

‘Sure, why not,’ ’67 mutters under his breath, watching the older clone carefully as he boots up the device and activates its projector. It’s not like ’67 can stop Slick.

He flicks his eyes to the door, then to the blaster, and then back to Slick who is watching him just as carefully, the glowing blue cast of the projector light deepening the hollows of his eyes.

He knows won’t be able to make it to the door and get it open before Slick grabs him. And if he goes for the blaster… well, ’67 is fast but he’s sure Slick won’t allow the loss of his weapon so easily, won’t go down without a fight-

The evidence of his last fight is still streaked across his body, the blood, half-dried and flaking off-

’67 eases a slow breath out between his teeth, feels a terrible twist constricting in his chest and the weight of Maze’s vibroblade in his hand suddenly feels heavier.

There’s very little chance of this encounter not ending in violence or in injury; ’67 has to be practical, has to be smart. ’67 will have to try to delay and stall Slick, engage him in non-combative ways and hope for a chance for escape or rescue.

He shifts, turning his body a little more towards Slick, giving him more of his attention. The lines of subtle aggression in Slick’s shoulders relaxes ever so slightly in response.

The rogue trooper starts typing at the console, his words appearing in the holofield above.

YOU HAVE SOMETHING I WANT

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ ’67 says steadily.

Slick scoffs.

GIVE IT TO ME, CADET
AND I’LL LET YOU LEAVE

’67’s heart is beating wildly in the cage of his ribs. He swallows thickly before repeating, ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

Slick’s eyes bore into him and ’67 looks back, and he can’t help the way his gaze dips briefly to the mottled markings under Slick’s jaw; to the small, neat squares of skin missing from his chest, cut from his body with laser scalpels-

He drags his eyes back to Slick’s face, clamping down hard on his fear and horror, trying to stop the way his hands are shaking, the way his legs suddenly feel like they can’t hold his weight-

Slick cocks his head and moans at him, a string of noises and his mouth moving in exaggerated motions to shape the sounds, and ’67 listens hard, parses the words-

You know her. You know what she does.

’67 presses his lips together tightly and says nothing. But his refusal to reply is answer enough. Nausea roils in his stomach as he watches Slick drop a hand to touch those awful surgical cuts with his fingers, the exposed flesh and muscle beneath dark and tacky, drying in the air.

‘Ko Shai,’ Slick breathes, watching him intently and ’67 can’t stop the violent shiver that shudders down his body at hearing the scientist’s name, slightly slurred but recognisable enough. He tears his eyes away from the way Slick’s fingers trails the edges of his wounds, his movements delicate and perverse.

His eyes flicking up to the defect of ‘67’s hair and Slick makes a soft sympathetic noise at the back of his throat. Then, he bends his head to type.

SHE DOESN’T DESERVE TO LIVE
AFTER WHAT SHE HAS DONE TO US

THE OTHERS DON’T KNOW HER LIKE WE DO, VOD’IKA

’67 twitches at the last word, hearing his own breath catch, some unnameable emotion curling painfully around his ribs. He can’t make himself look directly at Slick’s face, knows the expression on the other’s face will be too sharp and too knowing.

Slick types, and ’67 reads.

THERE ARE EXPLOSIVES IN THE LABS

’67 goes still, staring at the words now projected into the air.

I AM TRYING TO STOP HER FROM HURTING OUR BROTHERS
WE CAN STOP HER TOGETHER, VOD’IKA

‘You… want to kill her?’ ’67 asks weakly, incredulous. His voice sounds faint to his ears.

YOU WANT TO KILL HER TOO

Slick stares at him unblinkingly through the glowing projection.

He swallows hard, throat clicking. The tip of his vibroblade dips slightly and he doesn’t see the small smile that curls the corners of Slick’s mouth.

GIVE ME THE DETONATOR

’67 stares at the words shimmering in between them in the darkness, feels his gut turn over in a swoop. He licks his lips.

‘I don’t have it,’ ’67 tells Slick, dragging his eyes away from the text to look at the other clone. His hand holding the blade wavers slightly.

A dark and angry expression flashes uglily across Slick’s face and he growls, the noise low and dangerous. Slick rounds the console, prowling closer, bare feet gliding silently across the space.

’67 falters, takes a half-step back, and then stops himself. There isn’t really anywhere for him to retreat to, no place to hide, and there’s no way to stop Slick’s advance.

This is it, he thinks. This is how I die.

In all his anxious imaginings, lying alone in the dark in his bed in his empty bunkroom, never once had the thought that another clone could be the one to kill him. ’67 had always thought his life would end facing a Sith or a Mandalorian. Or on the more miserable days, when he’s been summoned by Ko Sai yet again, a Kaminoan.

And despite the very real and very present danger of Slick stalking ever closer, he finds his racing mind stumbling and catching on thoughts of the Kaminoan scientist, can feel the ghost of her touch on his skin as she attaches sensors pads to monitor his stress responses-

‘I don’t have it!’ ‘67 explodes angrily, suddenly, like a grenade going off. He throws his arms wide in agitation, his movements wild and erratic. The vibroblade flashes in a wide arc, but not with any real intent or aim, all the fear and impotent anger that has been carefully supressed now just erupts out of his chest, and ’67… just stops holding back, lets all the things he has ever swallowed down rip from the back of his throat, a tumbling torrent of words that is only mostly coherent. He tells Slick how Ko Sai once tried to cycle his blood out for clone-synth, an experiment that had to be aborted when ’67 went into cardiac arrest on her table; of the countless times and things she has put into his veins; the samples she pulls from his body-

‘-She’s been doing it for months and months and months, she doesn’t stop, and I can’t stop her, I can’t-’

‘67’s chest is heaving, short painful gasps, eyes unseeing and distant, as the terrible confession of his silent suffering finally bursts from his lips. He blinks into bleary awareness, the loud buzzing in the space between his ears that has been overwhelming all his thoughts receding a little, when Slick gently touches his face-

When had Slick managed to come so close?

‘-and no one stops her,’ ’67 continues, voice juddering and broken and there’s something trickling down his cheeks, tickling at the corners of his lips and tasting of salt, and Slick’s thumbs brushes softly against his skin and oh, it’s tears-

When had he started crying?

Slick tucks a finger under his chin and tilts ‘67’s head back and ’67 allows it, lolls his head back and bares his throat, bares everything to this dangerous brother-killer, allows Slick to slide a palm to curl around the column of his neck. ’67 closes his eyes and draws in a shaky breath, knows that Slick can feel ‘67’s pulse jumping under the press of his thumb, can judge for himself the weight of ‘67’s words.

‘I want her dead,’ ’67 whispers, opening his eyes and gazes straight into Slick’s, sees himself reflected in their dark depths. ‘I want her dead.’

There is more wetness on his cheeks and Slick shushes him tenderly, his large, calloused hand shifting to cradle ‘67’s jaw and the other one sliding to hold the back of his head-

A vague trill of fear curls up his spine; it would be so, so easy for Slick to twist, to snap his neck, his hands already in such a position-

And yet, ’67 remains loose and languid in Slick’s grasp, looking unblinkingly back at the other, his heartbeat fluttering under Slick’s fingers.

‘I don’t have the detonator,’ ’67 tells Slick, his tone sharp and jagged, a match to the tumultuous thrash of emotions in his chest. ‘I hid it.’

Slick gaze is cool as assessing, flickering over ‘67’s face. He must find what he is searching for because he shifts his grip to pull ’67 closer, carefully presses their foreheads together. Slick hums and releases him, steps back, but he doesn’t go far.

The vibroblade dangles in ‘67’s loosened hold and he doesn’t bother to readjust his grip. He sways unsteadily, knees feeling weak but then he straightens resolutely, and he presses his lips grimly together.

Slick tracks his movement as ‘67 tucks away his weapon.

‘I can show you where it is,’ he rasps, his voice quiet and hoarse, eyes flitting everywhere else around the room, darting to all the corners before alighting on Slick.

The older clone stares at ‘67 for a few long seconds, studying him. For that suspended moment, fear furls around his spine and he thinks that Slick isn’t convinced, is just going to kill him-

He buries those fears under thoughts of Ko Sai’s cold touches and her blank black gaze-

Slick dips his head in a sharp nod and turns away and ’67 breathes out a careful breath. ’67 waits for him to retrieve his blaster and datawipe the console.

They step out into the hallway cautiously, alert for anything. Slick steps behind ’67, drops a hand onto ‘67’s shoulder, in standard breach formation, and he waits for Slick’s double-tap before he moves-

’67 knows that that grip can turn into a restraining hold in a fraction of a second, or it can slip around his neck, quick and fatal-

’67 leads the way quickly, cutting through the hallways to head towards the direction of the maintenance closet from before. If the route he takes avoids the classroom where he had found Maze… it is not a coincidence. He can still hear Maze's voice, with something almost affectionate warming his low timbre, when he had spoken to ’67-

‘Let’s go, vodika,’ Maze had said to him, when he had ushered ’67 out of the mess hall after latemeal not even an hour ago. ’67 painfully pushes away the useless wish that Maze had pulled him in closer to his side then, when they were walking to the barracks together, wishes that the trainer had not been distracted by the passing security droids or the comm he had received.

Everything had fallen apart too quickly after that.

There is no way ’67 will be able to keep himself together if he sees Maze's body and he can’t let that happen, can’t let himself crack apart now. He has to keep Slick from looking deeper.

Face turned away from Slick, ’67 allows himself to bite down on his lip, the brief pinprick of pain grounding him in the present.

He had offered a truth – he really does want Ko Sai dead – but he had used that truth, used his emotions and his body’s stress response… to hide a lie.

He slows at the corner of an intersection, pausing as if to listen, but he takes a few seconds too long and the hand on his shoulder twitches, tightens-

‘67 moves forward and Slick moves with him, and he is hyperaware of Slick’s fingers brushing his pulse point on his neck. He very carefully doesn’t think of the uncomfortable shape of the detonator, tucked away in his boot and hidden from view, pressing against his ankle.

He turns his head to give quick look at Slick before jerking his head to indicate the next intersection, watches as Slicks laser sharp focus slides away briefly-

Slick tightens his grip, fingers turning into claws, but ’67 is already twisting away and throwing himself into a roll in the other direction. He pops back up on his feet and then runs, his boots pounding hard on the ground.

‘Over here!’ he yells desperately, as he takes the corner, heart leaping when he sees the glint of durasteel.

He is correct; the pair of security droids from earlier are still in the sector, predictable in their programmed patrol route.

He can hear the slap of Slick’s bare feet chasing him down, gaining on him with his longer legs and longer strides, his savage snarl sounding too close for comfort behind ’67.

‘Halt!’

’67 dives under the grasping servos of a droid and crashes painfully onto the floor. He pushes upright again and scrambles to put the droids between him and the other clone.

‘Cadet unit is breaking curfew,’ one of the droids blatt at him.

‘Nevermind me!’ screams ’67, voice high and cracking with stress. He points at way he has come barrelling from. ‘Slick’s behind me!’

‘Slick: unrecognised designation,’ the droid intones, reaching for him. He doesn’t manage to sidestep in time and the droid clamps a firm grip onto his upper arm. He squirms in the droid’s hold, tries to tug away. ‘Cease resisting, cadet.’

’67 kicks at the droid, hissing in frustration, ‘You useless lump of metal-’

‘Halt!’ the other droid calls. ‘Identify yourself.’

Cold fear flushes through him and ’67 twists his head to peer around the frame of the droid restraining him.

Slick meets his gaze with an expression that is utterly blank. He barely spares a glance towards the bristling droids, his attention only on ’67.

‘Identify yourself, trooper,’ the droid repeats, the loud crackling hum of its electrostaff activating reinforcing its demand. It flickers a scan over Slick and over the blaster in his hand. ‘Unauthorized possession of Alpha-grade weapon detected. Put the blaster down and identify yourself.’

‘That,’ ’67 gasps, squirming desperately to escape the droid holding him and the droid beeps warningly, tightening its grip to bruising, making tears spring into his eyes, ‘is Slick, you mono-chipped rusty karkers.’

‘Slick: unrecognised designation,’ the other droid rejects, not turning away from the older clone, the hum of its electrostaff buzzing aggressively. ‘Provide designation number.’

Slick’s eyes narrow slightly, still boring into ‘67’s, and a dark expression shades his face.

’67 twitches when he realises his slip; he has revealed that he knows Slick’s name, even though Slick has never given it, that ’67 actually knows more than a simple cadet should.

Slick’s expression turns dangerous, makes the hair stand at the back of ‘67’s neck and a cold shiver runs down his spine. He realises that Slick now thinks he’s not just an unfortunate little defective clone that had attracted the attentions of a Kaminoan. Slick has come to the incorrect conclusion that ’67 has closer connections to the Prime.

And he knows with utter certainty, that no matter what he says or how he denies, Slick is going to kill him for it.

Chapter Text

’67 has no intentions of dying tonight.

He throws all caution away and opens his mouth to let out the things he shouldn’t know, but does.

‘That trooper,’ he tells the droids, words crisp and clear, ‘has been scheduled to be decommissioned.’ Heart pounding crazily, his eyes skitter over Slick before flicking back to the security droids. ‘He has escaped the containment of K-Ko Sai’s labs.’

He stutters a little over the scientist’s name, but he pushes past that, pushing back that instinctual rush of fear.

‘And he killed Maze-,’ his voice hitches, something like a sob catching painfully in the back of his throat, feels a twist like something hooking deep in his chest. He ruthlessly pushes away the sharp stab of grief. ‘-Alpha-26,’ ’67 hurriedly supplements, in case the droids do not recognise the trainer’s name.

‘He killed Alpha-26.’

The droids whirr and beep as they process the information.

‘Threat level reassessed.’

The droid holding ‘67 releases him, and he stumbles a bit, before managing to find his feet. He hurriedly backs away a few steps, gaze locked on Slick.

The droid turns to face Slick and activates its electrostaff, stepping up next to its partner. Their bulk fills the width of the hallway and their weapons crackle loudly in their servos.

‘Trooper, place the blaster down and surrender immediately.’

Slick’s gaze flits to the droids and then locks back onto ‘67’s face, and then the corners of Slick’s lips slide into a slow sharp smile, teeth flashing.

The droid repeats their order, but ’67 knows Slick has no intention of obeying, can track the slow slide of the older clone’s trigger finger into a position of readiness.

‘Do not resist!’ orders the security droid, and ’67 hears the angry snap and crackle of their electrostaff buzzing loudly in his ears, but his eyes are still locked onto Slick’s tensed body.

’67 retreats warily, one step, two-

 -and then Slick moves, blaster swinging up.

’67 spins on his heel and runs, throwing himself around the nearest corner, arms thrown up around his head as blasterbolts start flying.

His heart pounds as fast as his booted feet, as he pelts down the hallways. He doesn’t stick around to see the droids try to subdue Slick; he’s not convinced of the odds in the droids’ favour as they face off against the trooper. Slick may not be armoured or even clothed, but he is armed with a blaster.

’67 is trying to get out of the clone sectors and has orientated himself on the most direct path towards the Kaminoan sectors.

Slick had escaped from Ko Sai’s lab; he won’t be in any hurry to return there. ’67 isn’t exactly thrilled either, but the last intel that Maze had relayed to him had indicated that that’s where Prime and the trainers are.

He prays fervently that whatever situation that had kept the trainers occupied is resolved because he’s realistic about his chances against Slick in an actual fight. Slick will very likely kill him on sight now, and ’67 is not going to let that happen. He can’t let the detonator fall into that crazy clone’s hands.

He runs faster, face screwed up in effort to be that much speedier-

Quite suddenly he’s hoisted upwards, legs still pumping uselessly in the air with the furious motion. Muscle memory from a hundred training spars kicks in and he twists, trying to dislodge the arms wrapped around his torso. He swings his fists wildly, managing a glancing blow before his arms are swiftly pinned to his sides. He snarls, adrenalin rushing through him, and it takes him a second or two to register that the arms holding him are armoured, covered in the coloured vambrace of an Alpha, and that he’s pressed tightly against the hard plates of chest armour.

He gasps loudly and goes immediately boneless with relief. The arms around him relax minutely, now that he isn’t thrashing around like a stuck spike-finned sounder.

Another Alpha steps into his field of view, bristling with weaponry, and ’67 almost wants to cry in relief at the sight.

‘What are you doing here, cadet?’ Spar demands, as the other trainer holding ’67 releases him, sets him on his feet. ’67 throws a quick glance at the trainer behind him, recognising him as Trantos.

’67 opens his mouth, but he doesn’t get the chance to reply. The Alphas’ helms snap up at the sound of blasterfire coming from a few corridors away. They bring their blasters up, and Spar steps past ’67, putting himself between ’67 and whatever danger that lies beyond.

‘Ibic nu veeray par verd’ika,’ he says tersely, directing his words to the other Alpha, his focus on the long open stretch of hallway in front of them. ‘Burk’yc shabuir nu’mircir.’

‘Cadet,’ the Trantos says, and the swift touch of his fingers on ‘67’s shoulder is infinitely grounding in that moment. ’67 looks up and sees his own pale face reflected in the dark surface of Trantos’s visor. ‘You need to get out of here, kid. Get yourself to Room 2187.’

‘Let’s move!’ Spar snaps, impatience and urgency in every line of his body. ‘Get your shebs out of here, cadet!’

The sharp retort of blasterfire stutters irregularly, echoing down the long hallway, and Trantos swings his own weapon up in ready position, sliding past ’67.

‘Yes, Sir!’ ’67 acknowledges reflexively at the stern tone, wincing at his shaky salute, but the two Alphas are already moving away, advancing down the hallway quickly and silently. ’67 anxiously worries his bottom lip, but he doesn’t allow himself to linger.

The pair of Alphas are a better match for Slick than mere security droids, and a cadet will only get in the way of everything.

He’s got orders now, and it would be stupid to disobey. He has to hand off the detonator to a superior, and he can’t chance it falling into enemy hands. He turns and goes, runs, and doesn’t slow down even for breath or for corners.

His body flushes with relief when he sprints past a few Alphas, all of whom give him sharp nods over the scope of their raised blasters. Most of them reinforce the order for him to get to safety.

He makes it to Room 2187, the Alpha standing guard at the door punching the controls to open it for him so he doesn’t even have to slow his mad dash until he’s inside. He careens through the open doorway and tries to go from a full-out sprint to an immediate stop.

‘Cadet?’ a voice sounds suddenly right next to him as ’67 stumbles, almost tripping over his own feet. A gauntleted hand reaches out to steady him and ’67 flinches away reflexively, and then he winces. The hand retracts immediately. ’67 gulps for air, his lungs burning, and feels his knees tremble.

The Alpha who had addressed him sinks to a knee in front of ’67, pulling his bucket off. A twinge of recognition shoots through ’67 at seeing the familiar face, one he had just seen at latemeal. Chest still heaving from exertion, he tries to straighten to attention for the trainer. Muzzle’s eyes are tight with worry as his gaze darts all over ’67. ’67 is suddenly conscious of the dark patches of blood on his sleeves and smeared across the front of his tunic.

‘S’not mine, Sir,’ he tells the trainer, still a little out of breath.

Muzzle’s eyes lock onto his face, and ’67 isn’t sure what the expression on his face is, but it makes Muzzle’s face twist with grief and understanding. The trainer closes his eyes and drops his head.

‘Nu kyr'adyc, shi taab'echaaj'la,’ he murmurs and the quiet sorrow in Muzzle’s voice makes a hard lump swell in ‘67’s throat, makes the breath catch painfully in his throat, and he swallows thickly.

His eyes are burning but he clears his throat, opens his mouth to tell the Alpha about the detonator-

‘Shaadlar shebs,’ someone else snaps sharply, crowding Muzzle away aggressively. ’67 blinks back the blurry dampness in his eyes to see another Alpha, one with a medic emblem emblazoned on their shoulders, sliding into Muzzle’s space.

‘Hold still,’ the medic orders brusquely and ’67 does as he is told as the medscan washes over him, uses the moment to try to pull himself together again.

‘Utrel’a,’ the medic declares, tucking away the scanner. ‘You’re clear,’ he says, pulling a small pack of wipes from one of his belt pouches and pressing it into ‘67’s hands, before bustling away.

’67 fumbles with the pack, his fingers feeling uncooperative and numb, but he manages.

Muzzle returns, now that the medic is gone, and he drops a hand onto ‘67’s shoulder, steering him to the side of the room where they will be out of the way of everyone else.

Room 2187 has been turned into an ops centre, portable consoles and comms equipment unfurled on every available surface and cabled into the data ports in the classroom. A small team of Alphas is managing the nest of operations, relaying long strings of clipped Mando’a to the others over comms. ’67 catches sight of their screens, and he immediately notices the glaring lack of security cam feeds. He remembers Maze mentioning before that those were down. Instead, there are dozens of jerky cam footage from the helmet cams of the Alphas active on the field. A few moments of study and ’67 can tell that they’re moving with purpose, rapidly converging onto the section where he had last seen Slick-

‘Intersection Resh-4,’ ’67 offers up before he really thinks about what he’s saying, tearing his eyes away from the holofeeds to look up at Muzzle. He freezes momentarily, mind racing on how to frame his next words, without making the frown on Muzzle’s forehead even more severe. ‘There were two security droids there trying to apprehend S- … someone,’ he says, stuttering slightly at the end of his sentence.

‘Ne’cuun,’ an Alpha seated at the nearest consoles says, overhearing ‘67’s comment. His eyes slant towards ’67 and Muzzle before going back to the screen in front of him, the glow of the screen casting his face in sharp relief. ‘Nu beskar’ad.’

Muzzle says nothing, his gaze sharp, going over ’67 like he’s checking over ’67 himself, despite the medic already clearing ‘67.

‘You alright, cadet?’ he asks slowly, and ’67 thinks his concern is nice, but unneeded since he’s uninjured.

‘Yes, Sir,’ he says, trying to sound firm and sure.

Muzzle’s eyes drop briefly to the way ’67 twists the wipe between his shaking fingers, before coming up again to rest on his face. ’67 finds that he can’t quite hold the trainer’s gaze, ducks his head and stares instead at his hands, at the rust-brown stains that have rubbed off of his fingers and onto the square of disposable fabric, keeps his gaze shamefully averted as Muzzle slides to a crouch in front of him.

Gauntleted hands drop onto his restless fingers, squeezing gently.

’67 bites his lip and swallows hard.

‘Can you tell me what happened, cadet?’ he asks, and his tone is low and calm, a contrast to the focused intensity of the rest of the other people in the ops room with them. There’s something almost like concern in his words, but ’67 thinks that is his own imagining. The trainer’s gentle tone threatens what small amount of control ’67 has left over his tossing emotions.

Muzzle is trying to debrief him, ’67 berates himself, and the trainer doesn’t have time for ’67 to have a breakdown right now.

’67 sucks in a breath and jerks a nod, trying desperately to ground his thoughts and emotions that are trying to slide away from him, concentrating on the feel of Muzzle’s large hands wrapped around his.

Slowly, haltingly at first, he gives his account of what he had encountered.

He tries to keep it factual, the language military-distant, keeps his eyes locked onto their entangled hands instead. He finds himself wondering distantly at the permitted deviation from protocol, where he should be expected to stand at attention to deliver his report. He doesn’t see the way the frown deepens on Muzzle’s face, the way his lips flatten into a thin line of concern, as ’67 continues speaking in a flat tone.

And he doesn’t know why, but the thought of admitting to Muzzle that he knows of Slick, knows more of the situation than strictly what a cadet should… it makes his stomach clench and sourness rise sharp and burning up his throat.

There is – was… There was only one trainer that ’67 might have trusted enough to not send him for disciplinary action or decom, that he might have confessed to for possession of intel above his clearance grade, but well…

Well.

’67 blinks a few times and takes half a second to wrestle back some form of professionalism to present to the trainer in front of him. His heart is pounding so hard and fast, and surely Muzzle can hear it, surely he can feel how ‘67’s hands are trembling.

Muzzle says nothing, doesn’t press him even when ’67 falters a little, just continues to watch him carefully.

He reports to Muzzle how Maze had ordered him to stay safe, stay hidden, and when the door to the maintenance closet he had been in was being breached by an assumed hostile, he had found an alternative escape path and retreated-

His words come faster, too fast, and he chokes.

‘Easy, easy. Breathe, cadet,’ Muzzle murmurs, his hands wrapping around ‘67’s forearms and giving a squeeze as ‘67’s shoulders shake, and mortifyingly, his coughing fit becomes something that is almost half-sobs, at hearing the low soothing tone the trainer uses.

‘Ne’ori’mishuk adiik, Muzz,’ the Alpha at the comms says, and his expression is deeply sympathetic when ’67 slides a look at him. The Alpha’s eyes go to the blood-stained fabric in ‘67’s hands, to Muzzle, and then back to his screen as he returns his attention to his job. Still, his next sentence is directed to Muzzle, ‘Kaysh r’ogir sha ca’nara Maze taab’echaaj’la.’

Whatever it is that the other Alpha said makes Muzzle snap his mouth shut with a hard click, the edges of his lips slant downwards.

‘Gar serim,’ Muzzle says quietly, eyes downcast, but the other Alpha is too busy monitoring his screens to reply.

‘Alright, cadet,’ Muzzle says, straightening a little and giving ’67’s arms another reassuring squeeze.

And ’67 has gathered himself just enough and has opened his mouth to tell the trainer about the detonator he has found in the vent space, when one of the Alpha’s manning the screens announces something sharp in Mando’a and the energy of the room immediately intensifies as all the other Alphas become more alert, their ferocious attention directed to a feed thrown up on the main holofield.

’67 finds himself drawing closer to the holo, staring up at the projection, a static cam feed at last from one of the security cams embedded in the hallway.

Four squads to handle a single hostile entity might be seen as excessive, if ’67 ever has to read the after-action report of this operation. And ’67 may be biased, after Maze, and after having an up-close and personal encounter with Slick, but ’67 finds himself thinking the number of response teams is justified. Slick is incredibly dangerous and should not be underestimated.

He has escaped custody once, has murdered his fellow clones.

The Alphas have Slick surrounded and have him pinned in a stretch of corridor. ’67 watches as Slick lunges for the panel for the doors of one of the classrooms, attempting to retreat to a more defensible location, but the Alphas in Ops have taken control, and the door remains firmly shut to him. Slick snarls, spittle flying from his lips, and his blaster scatters shots, trying to push back the advancing Alphas.

He has little to no cover, and he makes for an easy target. ’67 watches as he staggers and almost goes down, taking a shot to his knee. But the incandescent rage that is driving his body keeps him upright long enough to squeeze off a few more shots in retaliation, blastershots that scatter across the space and scorching armour.

A shot takes him in his shoulder, and another one grazes the hand holding his stolen blaster, forcing him to drop it.

Slick doesn’t stop fighting even then, uses his fists and feet and teeth, even as the Alphas close in on him, until eventually he is forced into stillness, pushed and held down by five sets of hands.

‘Enough!’ one of the Alpha growls out angrily, putting more of his weight on Slick to keep him subdued when the rogue clone tries to throw himself sideways and out of their hold. Slick rears up at him, teeth snapping right at his visor, and the Alpha drives a hard fist into Slick’s face in response.

Binders are clamped over his wrists and ankles while he reels, stunned from the blow.

The Alphas drag his bound form away from the doorway, stretching him out on his back in the middle of the hallway. The awful skinless wounds on his torso have started freely bleeding again, leaving smears of bright blood across the white floors.

Slick curls his body to the side, tries to tuck his elbows and knees under himself to leverage himself upright, but an Alpha moves forward and plants a heavy boot on the centre of his chest, pressing down on him until Slick stops thrashing and submits sullenly.

‘Don’t move,’ the Alpha orders, his tone hard and deadly.

The Alphas stand alert and on guard over the captured clone, fingers ready on their triggers should Slick attempt anything. A long moment passes in silence in that hallway, and its anticipatory air extends also to those of them watching from 2187, taut and strained, as if everyone is holding their breaths.

What’s happening? ’67 wonders, shifting uneasily on his feet. Like everyone else, his eyes are fastened onto the holofeed. What are they waiting for?

The breath that ’67 has just drawn into his lungs catches, his body jerking instinctively to straighten to attention when on the screen, the Prime strides into view.

Chapter Text

Slick starts to laugh, a sharp taunting thing, when he catches sight of the Prime. His head lolls from side to side on the floor with his laughter, and the sound of it makes ’67 want to throw up, or hit something, or just run away.

He makes himself count his breaths – one two, one two, one two – as he stares up at the holofeed. His nails are digging painfully into the flesh of his palms. He manages to unclench his trembling fists, his heartbeat a loud roar in his ears.

This time, the Alphas do not try to stop Slick when he tries to roll himself upright, but they do prevent him from trying to get back on his feet. Hands grasp hold of his shoulders, holding him down on his knees.

The recording device is sensitive enough to catch the low laugh that huffs from Slick’s mouth. His lips purse into a little pout, and he raises his head and blinks up at the Prime.

From Slick’s mouth comes Mando’a, malformed and with too many vowels that drag through the tense silence.

‘Meh’vaah ee gah?’ he greets the Prime slowly, the tilt of his head insouciant.

The Prime is so still, he might well be a statue. He stands straight-backed, helm levelled like he’s staring straight ahead, rather than at the captured clone at his feet. Just a step behind him, the usually stoic Ordo shifts restlessly like a leashed strill scenting blood, visored-gaze fastened unwaveringly on Slick. A balled fist drifts near his blaster, twitching like he’s one breath away from drawing and shooting.

Slick seems uncaring of his predicament, slouching on his knees, a smile stretched across his lips and a politely attentive expression on his face.

‘Vaii cuyir bic?’ the Prime asks, his tone cold and clipped. His gaze remains locked on ahead, above Slick. The set of his armoured shoulders is stiff, and he doesn’t tilt his head to acknowledge Slick.

‘Meh’vehn?’ Slick’s feigned confusion is thick and obvious in his tone.

Prime moves so fast he is a blur of silver, his gauntleted hand cracking against the side of Slick’s face. The trooper’s head snaps to the side with the force of the blow, his body twisting along with the impact.

Rough hands grab him and haul him back into position before he falls. Slick hangs in the hold of two Alphas, and he tips his head back as he laughs, a low mocking sound that sets ‘67’s teeth on edge.

‘Vaii cuyir bic?’ Prime repeats his question, his vocoder making his words sound flat, the tilt of his helmet like he’s finally directing his attention to Slick.

Slick shakes his head and laughs some more. The Prime hits him again, in the same spot on his face, splitting the skin and very likely shattering his cheekbone.

The Alphas reel him back in. Slick is slow to reorientate himself this time.

‘Vaii cuyir bic?’

The Prime will not stop until he has the answer he wants, and Slick will rather die than give it to him.

‘Vaii cuyir bic?’

A small sound of distress escapes ’67, as he watches the exchange, Slick is laughing so hard he’s choking on the blood welling up in his mouth, lips split and teeth knocked loose, and ’67 shudders at the sight.

Beside him, Muzzle jerks, and turns to him, as if just remembering his presence in the room.

‘Osik,’ he curses, and he moves to stand in front of ’67, bodily blocking ‘67’s view of the feed. ‘Get back, cadet. To the back of the room. You shouldn’t be watching this,’ he says tightly.

‘Vaii cuyir bic?’

’67 stares back at Muzzle, a little too wide-eyed, and he takes a moment too long to respond.

‘Go on, kid,’ Muzzle says, tone gruff. The trainer drops his hands onto ‘67’s shoulders, and starts to turn him away-

The sharp sound of a fist impacting hard-

And ’67 catches a glimpse of the holo, behind Muzzle-

-Slick suddenly snaps, no longer laughing, simmering with impotent anger, snarling and struggling as he throws his weight forward towards the Prime. He doesn’t get far, not when there are Alphas holding fast onto him.

The sound of the commotion over the feed distracts Muzzle, and he half-turns to watch over his own shoulder, his hands still on ’67.

Slick pants hard, his thin chest heaving from his arrested attack, tracks of blood trickling from the sites of the surgical wounds.

Impassively, the Prime meets his gaze. And then, when Slick doesn’t move, doesn’t say anything, -

‘Vaii cuyir bic?’

A wide gleeful smile splits Slick’s face, his teeth coated in blood. He makes a few clicking noises, slow and ominous, shaping the sound with his lips. He pauses for a long moment and then he gives Prime a conspiratorial wink. ‘Boom.’

He starts cackling then, a wild, unhinged sound that falls from the black gaping maw of his mouth.

One of the Alphas in Ops makes a disgusted sound at the display, ‘Dini’la ge’hutuun.’

‘Shabuir’la demagolka,’ hisses another, anger burning bright in their tone.

But ’67 is caught on the implications of Slick’s answer; the Prime is asking about the detonator.

The detonator that is sitting flush against ‘67’s bony ankle and rubbing his skin raw.

He feels the blood rushing from his face, and he flinches hard when Slick’s laughter is cut short by a loud crack and a pained wheezing grunt.

Muzzle turns back to him, deep lines cutting between his furrowed eyebrows. ‘Get going, cadet,’ tension making his tone curt.

His heartbeat jumps, skitters, and as if from somewhere far, far away, hears himself saying, ‘Yes, Sir.’

’67’s body turns and carries him as instructed away from the holo and towards the far side of the room.

What is he doing? He should be handing over the detonator to Muzzle right now. It should have been the very first thing he did the second he stepped into Ops-

But everything feels so strangely distant, as if the edges of reality have become blunted, muffled.

‘Mhi ve’ganir nu haat teh kaysh, Alor,’ he hears Ordo say. ‘Kaysh mirshe shuk’la.’

He wants to scream, but all he manages is a shaky exhale. He arranges himself by the wall, tucks his hands behind his back like he’s on parade rest, eyes to the front. All the while, the dull roar of blood rushing past his ears is like the incessant roiling of Kamino’s oceans.

He can’t see the holo from here, and the single blastershot that suddenly rings out over the audio feed barely even cuts through the loud droning in his ears.

THERE ARE EXPLOSIVES IN THE LABS, Slick had typed, and it’s as if those words are burned into the back of his eyes, he can see them so clearly, clearer than anything else at the moment.

Through the cool numbness that has submersed his entire being, there’s a feeling tickling over his skin, like phantom touches-

-like the brush of long cold fingers running slowly through his hair, and the crook of his arms tingle sharply with the memory of painful pin-pricks, his spine aches at the remembered hot-stabbing pain of punctures-

-like calloused and rough palms framing his face, wiping away the dampness on his cheek with faux tenderness, when he can feel the promise of violence and death just a hair’s breadth away, the scent of Maze’s blood on the other’s hands-

‘Cadet? CT-7567?’

’67 snaps back into his body, winces away from the harsh bright light shining suddenly into his eyes. He shakes his head, and blinks away the spots in his vision, to find the medic from earlier is there in front of him, styluslight in hand and a frown on his face.

‘What’s your designation, cadet?’ the medic asks, reaching to wrap a hand around ‘67’s limp wrist, fingers pressed to the pulse point.

’67 stares uncomprehendingly at the medic for a while. The medic had already called him by his designation, and it is clearly printed over the front of ‘67’s tunic.

He peels his tongue from the roof of his dry mouth.

‘CT-7567, Sir,’ he says slowly, after a few seconds that makes a small frown pass over the medic’s face.

‘Do you know where you are?’

At the question, ‘67’s gaze skitters away from the medic and goes to Muzzle who is hovering just behind the other Alpha. Muzzle’s bulk blocks his view of the rest of the room, and ’67 finds himself relieved at the fact.

‘Room 2187, Sir,’ he replies and stares as the medic flashes him a quick reassuring smile.

‘Yes, that’s correct.’

The medic shifts his hold on ’67’s wrist, turning ‘67’s hand palm up, while his other hand reaches for one of the pouches on his belt. He pulls out two small blue spheres, which he drops into ‘67’s hand and closes his fingers over them.

‘One for now, and one for later,’ the medic orders, sounding kind. Bewilderingly, he winks at ’67.

‘Yes, Sir,’ ’67 says, quiet and unbalanced.

He’s never before seen medication that look like the things he has been given, but then again; the things Ko Sai gives him usually come in hypos.

The reminder of the scientist makes his fist clench and he hurriedly stuffs his hand into his pocket, unwilling to let the trainers see his trembling.

The look in the medic’s eyes soften further. The medic draws out a flat pack from his belt and rips the seal. The silver thermalweave blanket crinkles as he tugs it around ‘67.

‘Get some rest, cadet,’ he says, and his hands linger a while on ‘67’s shoulders before dropping away.

‘Kaysh shuk meh kyrayc,’ the medic says, pushing himself to his feet and turning to Muzzle. ‘Naritir kaysh haav, vod,’ he says, tilting his head to indicate ’67.

Muzzle hums an acknowledgement of the order.

‘Jate,’ he says, and then he slips his bucket on and nods at ’67. ‘With me, cadet. Let’s get you back to the barracks.’

He obeys, falling in after Muzzle and following him across the room, his eyes fastened onto the backplate of Muzzle’s armour. As they weave their way between the tangle of equipment and Alphas, ‘67’s eyes slide sideways to the still-active holofield.

Slick is gone-

Dead, a voice whispers in the back of ‘67’s head. Slick is dead. The Prime decommed him.

-and so are the Alphas. The only ones visible on the feed now are the Prime and Ko Sai, a cleaning droid diligently scrubbing away at a dark stain at their feet. The sight of the two of them in conversation together makes a cold and shivery feeling slide into his gut.

He wrenches his eyes away. He carefully unclenches his teeth, his jaw muscles aching.

Muzzle leads the way back to the barracks, throwing glances over his shoulder every so often to look at ’67, as if to check that the cadet is still following behind. The hallways to the clones’ residential sector are sealed, due to the renewed security protocols.

The Alpha scans his code cylinder and ’67 steps after him. They’ve only turned two corners before they come across a few CCs out milling in the hallways. They straighten immediately when they see the approaching pair, throwing up salutes for Muzzle.

‘Sir!’ they greet the trainer.

‘What are you lot doing out of bed?’ Muzzle asks gruffly, striding through their group and not breaking his stride. ’67 quickens his steps to catch up, having fallen slightly behind. ‘Lights out is in ten.’

They drop their salute as the pair move past, eyes flicking curiously between Muzzle and ’67.

‘Investigating anomalous activity, Sir,’ CC-2801 says, falling in behind and keeping pace without being ordered and answering for his brothers.

‘What anomalous activity?’ Muzzle asks, stopping and turning around so fast that ’67 nearly walks headlong into him. There’s something in the tone of his voice that makes ’67 instantly wary.

Evidently though, the CCs batches are created of sterner stuff than him, because none of them falters in the slightest when faced with Muzzle’s questioning.

CC-2801’s shoulders are a proud line as he answers, ‘Lockdown measures instilled for the entire sector, despite no announcement of Aurek Protocols over general comms. Active jammers are interfering with our cams and comms, and we couldn’t get through to any of the trainers. Taking into consideration of the other disruptions to routine within the last tenday, we thought it prudent to investigate.’

Muzzle stares at the CCs for a long uncomfortable moment, his blank visored bearing heavily down on them.

’67 twitches, eyes darting between the Alpha and the CCs. His fingers worry the fabric of his pants, fidgeting on their behalf.

 ‘Get your shebse to bed,’ he orders the CCs finally, tone flat and patently unimpressed.

‘Sir!’

The CCs salute and hustle off, Muzzle watching them go without a word.

When they’re alone in the hallways, just the two of them, a small, tired huff escapes Muzzle, made a staticky crackle by his vocoder. Muzzle’s shoulders slump slightly.

‘C’mon, cadet,’ he murmurs quietly, his helm canted to look at ’67. He sounds suddenly exhausted.

‘Yes, Sir,’ ’67 says, equally as subdued.

Muzzle moves as if to place a hand on ‘67’s back, in the space between his shoulders, but stops himself when ’67 flinches and leans away, startled by the movement. The trainer is silent for the remainder of the walk to ‘67’s bunkroom.

‘You should sleep, vod’ika,’ Muzzle tells him. ‘Morut’yc ca,’ he says, and as Maze had once done, brings his closed fist to tap on the centre of his chestplate.

The gesture and reminder of Maze makes it suddenly hard to speak, so he just nods at the trainer, eyes burning. When Muzzle hesitatingly reaches for him, he can’t help but shy away, ducking his head. The thought of being touched right now makes his skin itch and burn-

-If Muzzle touches him now, he’s not sure if he’ll attack or crack.

Muzzle drops his hand, a small sound caught in the back of his throat.

‘Alright…’ Muzzle says awkwardly, voice hoarse. He clears his throat and takes a step back, leaving a larger space between them. ‘Go to bed, cadet.’

Limbs jerking, ’67 enters his bunkroom.

He stands there, just a few steps beyond the closed door, and just… stares at nothing. Eventually though, he manages to calm the violent shaking of his body, sheds the shock blanket and floats himself to the small sink to splash some cold water on his face.

It helps, a little.

It’s easier to get the last of the dried blood off his hands with the running water, though the hems of his sleeves are stained badly. He strips off his tunic, stuffs it into the chute; that’s for the laundry droids to worry about.

He sinks down on the edge of his bed, all his thoughts feeling loose and scattered, jittering like they are just out of reach, refusing to settle into place.

Unsteadily, he draws in a deep breath, holds it for a count and then exhales. Repeats.

It helps, a little.

His hands are shaking as he bends down to unlace his boots.

The detonator falls into his open palm.

He swallows hard, staring at the device.

His interrogation of Slick being fruitless and lacking the possession of the detonator, the Prime is probably arranging for a facility-wide sweep for explosives. An endeavour made even more difficult not just because of the sheer size of the facility, or the uncertainty of the location and load of the explosives, but also the fact that with the detonator still missing, all it would take is a curious clone stumbling across it and triggering it, not knowing the device was hot.

‘67 should give it up now, find Muzzle or any other Alpha and hand it over. He’ll be severely punished for withholding it, might even get decommed, but it’s the right thing to do.

But as minutes slip by, he finds can’t make himself move.

The image of Prime and Ko Sai, their heads bent close together in discussion rises up behind his eyes, and his gut clenches.

There is a thought forming – a terrible, treacherous thought – that ’67 is too terrified to let himself actually realise or acknowledge. But it slips in any way, sideways and slowly. And then suddenly, the weight of the cylindrical object rolling between his open palms feels like it is much heavier, burdened by the new threads of thoughts weaving through his mind.

It’s not live now, because ’67 was not stupid enough to be caught running around with it primed when he was escaping from Slick, but those hastily cut wires can be reconnected.

‘67 can easily do it; splice and re-activate the detonator, set off those explosives…

…After all, Slick had implied to the Prime that he had them on a countdown…

No one would suspect ’67.

His heartbeat quickens, skips. He clamps his sweaty hand tightly over the cylinder, thumb just sitting lightly on the end cap.

He could do it.

He can destroy Ko Sai’s labs.

While Maze had no authority over the Kaminoans to stop her, he might have been able to intercede on ‘67’s behalf, get Ko Sai to limit herself to less invasive testing, at least. Maybe.

If Maze had known.

If ’67 had told him.

If Maze were still alive.

But here, CT-7567 has the means to put an end to the experiments, to the tests, and it is in his hands and all he has to do is reconnect a few wires and flick the switch.

I could do it, ’67 realises, and the thought is like lightning striking him, jarring and shocking and his breath catches hard in the back of his throat.

He doesn’t have a multitool, but he had made do with the vibroblade before, and he can make do with it again. He is already familiar with the electrical layout, knows exactly which wires he had cut before, and in which order.

I can still destroy the labs.

I can stop Ko Sai.

He tugs the vibroblade out from his pocket and something clatters onto the floor. The sound of it draws his attention, and he tracks the object as it rolls lazily on the floor.

The small sphere comes to a stop near his foot. It is the medication the medic had given him when ’67’s thoughts and awareness had slipped away from him in 2187.

He bends to retrieve it and stares down at it, at its polished surface that glints in the light, a vibrant blue.

‘One for now, and one for later,’ the medic had told him, and he moves on automatic and when he pats his pocket, yes, the other one is still there, can feel the hard shape of it through the fabric of his pants.

Something burbles up from his chest, bursts from behind his teeth and then he is laughing. There’s a flavour of hysteria in the sound, because it is a ridiculous thought that he’s going to take his medicine like a good little soldier as ordered-

-while in his other hand he’s still clutching the detonation cylinder, intending to blow up and destroy Kaminoan assets.

Oh, little gods, what is he doing.

His hitching breaths from laughing has somehow become sobs, and he’s now curled up, his trembling arms tucked tightly to his chest. He feels like he wants to throw up, but he forces down the nausea, breathes through his mouth until the feeling ebbs.

He huffs out a sharp angry sound, dark and mirthless, and roughly swipes away the wetness on his face.

It is a stupid, stupid, reckless thing to have even considered, and yet ’67 can’t quite move away from the thought, keeps circling back to it.

He’s seen now what Ko Sai is capable of, the depths the scientist would go, digging and cutting through skin and flesh and sinew, the sight of Slick’s flayed body a thing that will forever haunt him and ’67 knows, knows, with icy cold certainty that it can easily be him, he’s already defective-

He doesn’t want to have to report to Ko Sai anymore.
He doesn’t want to have to endure even another session with her.
He wants her to stop.

With a great wrenching cry, he flings his arms, hurls the things in his hands at the wall opposite him. The detonator bounces harmlessly to the ground, but the medication shatters into shards.

He presses the heels of his palms into his eyelids, presses hard enough until he sees stars bursting across his vision. But with his eyes closed, hung across the darkness is a glowing constellation of words: -

SHE DOESN’T DESERVE TO LIVE
AFTER WHAT SHE HAS DONE TO US

Slick was a vicious murdering bastard, but his words have sunk like hooks into ’67, ensnaring him and tugging him along towards this dangerous direction, and the knowledge that Slick has planted explosives in Ko Sai’s labs is too tempting.

But ’67 knows it is simply not enough to just destroy her labs; it would only take a tenday or two before she has another workplace ready again. Worse, if all her data and samples are destroyed, she might want to call upon ’67 for re-testing. Or find other cadets for her projects.

His eyes fall on the detonator cylinder, and he presses his lips tightly together into a white determined line. If he triggers it now, there’s no guarantee that Ko Sai is even in the labs at the moment.

No.

He wants to stop her.
He wants her dead.

He only has one chance at this, and he has to get it right, has to make sure she’s exactly where he needs her to be. And he will only trust the visual confirmation with his own two eyes.

It doesn’t matter if ’67 gets caught in the blast zone.

He will stop her. She won’t ever hurt any of his brothers anymore.

Chapter Text

’67 bends his head over his tray and eats mechanically, barely registering the taste of the things he puts in his mouth.

‘Anyone seen Maze?’ a cadet at his table asks. 7210 cranes his neck as he casts a look around the mess hall. ‘He didn’t update our rosters last night.’

‘67’s fingers spasm and the multitensil in his hand twitches. 

No one notices.

He continues eating. His hand is steady. 

‘Something weird is going on,’ 7045 from the next table pipes up, turning to straddle the bench sideways to trade gossip. ‘I checked the general bulletin, and none of the rosters are posted yet.’

‘What do you mean?’ 7040 asks, mouth full of half-masticated food.

‘Go on, check your pads,’ 7045 says with a grand air of mystery, gesturing with his hand. ‘The schedules and rosters for all the batches have been wiped from the mainnet.’

There’s a small flurry of action as the cadets pull out their datapads to check and verify.

‘What does this mean?’ the first cadet asks, staring down at his screen with a dubious expression on his face. He holds his datapad up above his head and gives it a little shake as if the action might refresh the page with updated information. ‘Do we have classes or not?’

‘And all the Alphas and security droids around the place?’ Denal points out to the group, suddenly appearing out of nowhere and unceremoniously swinging into the empty space next to ’67. He slides ’67 a quick sideways look but he doesn’t comment on the way ’67 had startled badly in his seat. ‘It’s lockdown protocols all over again.’

’67 tucks his elbow closer to his body, pulling away from where Denal is brushing up against him. 

He’s almost done with firstmeal. The food sits heavily in his stomach, but he continues to eat, chewing and swallowing, keeps his gaze down.

Denal isn’t watching him, appears to be in casual conversation with the other cadets, but ’67 knows his attention is on ’67 anyway.

A hush falls over the dining hall, voices dropping away and even the scrape of cutlery ceases. The sudden and absolute quality of the silence makes every hair stand on the back of ‘67’s neck.

’67 forces himself to swallow down his last bite before putting down his multitensil and then turns in his seat towards the main doors, where everyone’s attention seems to be caught.

The Prime steps through the open doorway, a pair of Nulls - Ordo and Kom’rk – at either side of him like a pair of guards. All three of them wear their weaponry in full intimidating display, bandoliers slung across their chests and rifles strapped to their backs.

The clones are silent as they watch the Prime and the Nulls stride between the long tables to the front of the room, the sound of their heavy treads a steady beat in the quiet. 

For a long moment, the Prime’s visored-gaze surveys them all, the hall full of clones… the product of his genetics and his training program.

His armour gleams in the lighting and ’67 can pick out the differences in his armour, compares that to the armour assigned to the clones. There are a few things that are different; like the vambrace, far bulkier than clone-standard; the vertical transparisteel line of his T-visor that goes all the way to the bottom edge of his helmet; the elongated hexagonal piece tucked in the centre of his breastplate… 

The Prime’s armour looks like the traditional armour worn by Mandalorians, made of steel rather than plastoid. Not for the first time, ’67 wonders why the Prime chooses to wear no paint, choses instead the silver sheen of polished steel.

‘Troopers! Attention!’ Ordo barks, taking a half step forward in front of the Prime and every clone jumps to their feet to stand stiffly to attention.

Then Ordo turns his helm slightly to regard the Prime, and the Null steps back when the Prime gives him a curt nod.

‘Troopers,’ the Prime says, his voice emanating from his vocoder.

The Prime has never come before them like this before, has never addressed them directly like this. Ordo and the other Nulls have always been the Prime’s emissaries, handing out orders on his behalf. There is a ripple of surprise among the clones that is quickly suppressed. The sound of his voice makes all of them straighten up even further, hands by their sides and their backs straight. ‘67’s shoulders are a stiff line of conditioned discipline.

‘69’s heart pounds at hearing the Prime’s voice and a jolt of adrenaline rushes through his body. He can see the shock plain on many faces, the widening of their eyes, when they hear the Prime speaking in fluent, if heavily accented Basic.

‘It is my duty to inform you that there had been a training accident yesterday evening. The incident happened at approximately 2030 hours and involved a CT squad that was undergoing specialised training and the trainers that were supervising them.’

The Prime speaks succinctly, and each word feels like a hard blow to ‘67’s chest. Training accident-- He can feel the blood draining from his face, his hands fisting tightly in the fabric of his pants as he listens to the lies that come from the Prime’s vocoder.

‘Several CTs were injured. Regrettably, the accident had also claimed the lives of CT-1332, CT-1333 and Alpha-26.’

Shocked gasps echo through the hall and a low murmuring breaks out. The cadets around ’67 trade stunned looks and more than a few of them start sniffling quietly at hearing the news about Maze. Maze had been their trainer, the one who rode herd on them every day, a steady presence in their lives from dawn to dusk since their decanting.

And now he’s gone.

The back of ‘67’s throat burns and he blinks his stinging eyes rapidly.

Standing beside him, Denal shakes his head, looking pale and as shell-shocked as the rest. ‘What?’ he whispers, voice full of disbelief. ‘What the kriff?’

Denal jerks, snaps his head to look over at ’67, eyes widening. ’67 goes tense, braces himself-

‘Weren’t you with him last night?’ Denal hisses, leaning closer, his wide brown eyes darting all over ‘67’s face. ‘Latemeal—You were with him at latemeal—’

Denal stops himself, his mouth clicking shut at the fiercely quelling look ’67 gives him.

‘There will be changes to your training schedules and groupings, as we make adjustments to the rosters,’ the Prime continues. ‘The Alphas will continue in their diligent duty in training you. I will also be stepping in to personally oversee some aspects of the training.’

The low murmurs which had dropped into silence when the Prime was speaking, erupt again at this announcement.

‘He’s going to train us?’ 7040 asks, his hushed voice sounding both terrified and awed all at once.

7045 scoffs at him, ‘Prime’s not gonna bother wasting his time with us kids. He’s probably gonna train the CCs or the older batches.’

‘I can’t believe Maze is dead,’ murmurs 7210, shoulders slumped. His quiet comment sobers most of the cadets.

The trainers have always seemed to be an indisputable constant at the top of the command structure here. Maze’s absence from their lives now is a hard thing to understand, to comprehend, to internalise.

’67 swallows shakily. He can’t believe it either, and he had been there, had watched Maze die, had held his hands as he gasped for breath-

‘Performance assessments will be held as previously scheduled; the upcoming evaluation will be next tenday,’ the Prime informs them, cutting through the start of ‘67’s collapsing self-control. ’67 pushes aside those thoughts, swipes his eyes quickly with the back of his hand and forces himself to pay attention to the Prime.

There is a hint of warning in the Prime’s tone when he continues, ‘We expect continued excellence from all of you.’

And then, the Prime leaves, as abruptly as his brusquely delivered speech. He ignores the rising burbling of voices, gaze fastened straight ahead as he strides purposefully for the doors.

‘Troopers!’ Kom’rk snaps sharply, calling for their attention and taking a step forward, a datapad in hand. The clones quickly remember themselves, straightening once more.

‘As your regular training exercises have been suspended pending the new rosters, we will be conducting a facility-wide simulation instead. This exercise will involve all units. Check your mission briefings on your datapads and familiarise yourselves with the objectives,’ Kom’rk instructs, pressing something on his datapad. There is a cacophony of noise as every pad chirps with the incoming message. Kom’rk tucks his own pad away and swings his gaze from one side of the hall to the other.

‘You have fifteen minutes to form up. Get to it,’ he says.

Everyone immediately pulls out their own pads, frantically scrolling to the new assignment. The air is buzzing with barely suppressed anticipation; they’ve never done anything like this before and no one knows quite what to expect.

’67 ignores the squeeze of grief in his chest. He skims quickly through the briefing packet, feels the expression on his face tighten as he reads. His hands are gripping the sides of his datapad so hard his knuckles turn white.

‘Where’d you get assigned?’ Denal asks distractedly, his eyes glued to his own screen.

67’s mind races as he tries to scramble for a plan, tries to figure out what to do. He manages to rouse himself from the tumultuous tumble of thoughts enough to answer Denal.

‘Fynock-One,’ ’67 says curtly, tucking his datapad under one arm and using the other to clear his tray.

Denal says something else, but ’67 doesn’t hear him, is already walking away, footsteps fast and clipped, almost like he’s fleeing. He needs to move, he needs to get away, he needs to think.

He needs to figure out a way to get out of the trap that he can feel slowly closing around him.

The special training exercise is a clever way to use the clones as a resource of manpower to clear the facility. The simulation is for a search and secure operation... for planted explosives and detonating devices.

Around him, he can hear the muttered disappointment and discontent when the other clones discover that they have all been randomly assigned into groups, separated from the familiarity of their own batchmates. This discomfort is nothing new to ‘67; he has no batchmates. He doesn’t quite belong anywhere anyway.

Everyone’s been sorted into something that vaguely resembles the working hierarchy of the GAR, for this exercise. CTs like ’67 have been assigned the roles of regular troopers, with older CC clones acting as officers. And while on the surface level, having the squads be formed up by a mix of individuals from all the age groups from different CT batches might seem like a test of adaptability and cohesion, ’67 suspects it is more likely a method to reduce the likelihood of the chances of collusion between the troopers during the exercise.

‘67’s eyes flit to all the hall’s exits and he clenches his jaw. There is no way for ’67 to neatly extricate himself now without attracting the attention of all the trainers. Not when the doors are locked and guarded, and everyone is expected to report for training.

He makes his way to the area of the mess hall that had been designated as the gathering point for Fynock-One. There is already a large crowd of clones clustered around the tables there, organising themselves into squads after reporting in with the designated overseer.

Moving on autopilot, he steps into the line, waiting his turn to report in. He looks around at the other clones, eyes darting from one armoured CC to the next, and wonders with a heavy feeling in his stomach if he might have the misfortune of being assigned to Kote or his vode.

The line he’s in grows steadily shorter very quickly, the ARC trooper who is processing them, swift and efficient.

Tension tightens ‘67’s shoulders briefly as a thought occurs, and following his hunch, he pulls out his datapad. He scrolls further through the briefing packet and checks, and yes… each regiment has a designated senior trooper as an overseer. He tabs through the list of overseers and coldness slides into his guts when he recognises the designations there; ARC troopers that have been trained by the Prime himself.

A space has opened up in front of him while he is preoccupied, and someone pokes him in between his shoulder blades, prompting him. He hurriedly takes a step forward, mumbling an apology to the cadet behind him.

‘Pay better attention!’ the cadet reprimands, sounding annoyed, his young voice bossy in a way that instantly sends a hot flash of deep irritation through ’67, who is already wound up and twisted by his thoughts.

He whirls around and glares down at the younger cadet but CT-6922 only puffs his chest bigger.

‘What?’ the kid demands, jutting his jaw out.

Neck prickling at some of the interest the pair of them are garnering from others within earshot, ’67 merely scowls fiercely at the cadet. 6922 lifts an eyebrow in a curve, challenge flashing in his dark eyes. ’67 grits his teeth and turns to the front, telling himself to ignore the other boy.

It’s not the right time or place to start kicking shebse and shins.

6922 huffs, the sound profoundly unimpressed, but ’67 won’t let himself be drawn in, won’t let himself be distracted. He keeps his expression blandly neutral as his thoughts resume their chase of each other around his head.

He soon finds himself at the front of the line and it is his turn to report in. He steps forward to the desk, snapping a smart salute for the overseer.

’67 is not sure if he’s imagining the small twitch of the ARC’s helm, and ’67 can feel his face flushing, knowing the ARC is noting his defect.

ARC-1140 cants his head slowly, like he’s taking in ‘67’s designation on his tunic and then the ARC looks down at the datapad in his hands, and types something in.

Heart beating loudly in his ears, ’67 can’t help but wonder if the ARC would just send him straight to decommissioning now, instead of wasting further time on him; Prime’s ARCs have a reputation for a certain ruthlessness.

And Maze isn’t here.

‘67’s datapad beeps with an incoming notification and the ARC dismisses ‘67 with a wave of his hand. ‘Next!’ he barks impatiently, and ’67 scuttles out of the way of the next cadet.

His hands shake only a little as he clutches the device tightly when he checks his datapad. There’s no decom order waiting for him, only a single line of text containing his unit assignment.

‘You’re kinda in my way,’ says a deeply exasperated voice from behind him, and when ’67 casts a look over his shoulder, he sees 6922 staring back with a hand propped on his hip.

’67 locks eyes with the cadet, silently holds his gaze until the younger boy falters slightly and looks away, face flushing.

’67 huffs and watches as the younger cadet retreats. He turns, and then it is his turn to falter, a swoop of complicated feelings knotting up his stomach.

Kote stares back at him, his bucket tucked under an arm. And because he’s Kote, he’s the one that forges ahead to be the one who breaks the silence that is growing awkward between them.

‘Hey.’

Kote’s voice is soft, almost gentle, and it makes ’67 feel awful. He doesn’t think he deserves soft and gentle from Kote.

’67 swallows hard.

‘Hey,’ he murmurs back, and he’s staring so hard at Kote. He’s almost afraid to blink, to look away. What if he does and Kote disappears?

‘You’re assigned here?’ ’67 asks, stomach flipping, and he wonders how he’s ever going to shake Kote off if he is, but Kote is already shaking his head.

‘67 catches himself before he sways forward, drawn subconsciously to the older clone.

‘What happened-?’ ’67 asks, his hand reaching up to his own face in indication before he gestures at Kote. There’s a wicked-looking scar curling around Kote’s left eye, the scar tissue still red and shiny.

One of the edges of Kote’s mouth curls upwards, revealing a hint of teeth. ‘Ask, 1010,’ he says, his tone too bland and casual, and it’s obvious neither Kote nor 1010 will share any details even if ’67 does ask.

Worry carves a line between Kote’s eyebrows, and the look in his eyes softens.

‘You alright, ’67? I’m sorry about Maze.’

’67 gives him a small smile that feels far too brittle, far too hollow.

‘I’ll be fine,’ he says quietly. ‘I’m sure we’ll have another trainer soon.’

Something flashes across Kote’s face, an expression too fast for ’67 to understand, there and then gone. Slowly, a frown deepens on Kote’s forehead and the corners of his lips dip downwards. He tilts his head, eyes never leaving ‘67’s face. Kote’s gaze sharpens, calculating, and-

‘Run into any trouble last night?’ he asks and ’67 doesn’t quite manage to stifle his reaction, the small flinch. Kote’s scrutiny intensifies. ‘What happened?’

‘I don’t know what you mean,’ ’67 replies, trying to sound calm but the pitch of his voice is just a little off, a little strained, and he’s a little too quick to answer.

‘Oh, I think you do,’ Kote says sharply. ‘Where were you? Why weren’t you in your bunkroom when the lockdown was initiated?

‘What happened?’ Kote repeats. ‘Last I saw you, you were with Maze at latemeal. The next thing I hear is that Muzzle’s the one escorting you in, and that you might’ve been injured. And today Prime tells us that there’s been a training accident and three vode are dead, and one of those vode was your trainer.’

Kote takes a half step closer, voice dropping low and serious and worried, ‘Vod, were you there? Involved somehow? Are you hurt?’

’67 stares at him, wondering how Kote had heard about Muzzle before his face scrunches in abrupt realisation. He silently curses.

The cadre of CCs that he and Muzzle had come across the night before; CC-2801 or one of the others must’ve told Kote.

‘Nothing happened,’ he says baldly. ‘I’m fine.’

‘Vod-’

‘I said; nothing happened,’ ’67 insists, his voice edging louder, more agitated.

‘I’m not here to interrogate you-’ Kote starts to say, sounding frustrated.

‘Then stop asking questions!’ ’67 hisses back, fists clenching. ‘It’s none of your business!’

Kote’s mouth snaps shut with a click, hurt flickering across his face before being wiped away. He narrows his eyes at ’67.

‘Right. Fine.’

Kote breathes out a sharp breath, nostrils flaring. He visibly releases his annoyance and when he looks back at ’67, he looks calmer, but only slightly. There is a stiffness in his body language, and his gloved hands flex restlessly.

‘Look, I was worried about you. I just wanted to check in on you, make sure you’re alright,’ Kote grits out, and he’s glaring at ’67 as if he’s daring ’67 to take offence, the look on his face fierce and frustrated and worried, all at once.

’67 looks away from the weight of that gaze, almost recoiling from the intensity of it. His breath hitches a little and his own eyes are burning, and there’s a painful clench around his heart.

‘Thank you,’ he says quietly, sincere and raw, ‘for your concern.’

He makes himself look back at Kote’s face, to the face that had been so fond and familiar, tries to memorise the curves and jagged edges of Kote’s new scar.

‘I will be fine, Kote,’ he says simply.

He shouldn’t have let himself be drawn into conversation with Kote. He doesn’t want Kote to get into trouble later, doesn’t want him to be implicated in what ’67 is planning to do.

Something must have slipped through into his tone, though, because Kote straightens in alarm.

‘Vod’ika,’ the term slips from Kote’s mouth in his concern, ‘What’s going on?’

‘Don’t worry about it,’ says ’67, taking a step back.

‘So, something is going on?’ Kote demands, taking a step forward to match.

’67 can’t let the situation escalate any further, has to avoid calling attention to the pair of them.

‘Not now. We don’t have the time for it,’ he says.

‘I’ll tell you about it later,’ he lies, and holds Kote’s gaze steadily as the older clone studies him carefully, eyes darting all over ‘67’s face.

Kote’s comm chirps with a notification and he moves automatically as if to accept the message, before he hesitates, throwing ’67 a look.

‘You should get to that,’ ’67 says, nodding at Kote’s comm unit, which beeps again with another new message. He jerks his head, indicating to the squads assembling around them while they were having their conversation, ‘And I should get going.’

Kote stares at him and ’67 can’t quite read the expression on his face.

But ’67 is right; they don’t have time to talk further right now because they both have the training sim to run.

’67 stands his ground when Kote steps in close and presses something into ‘67’s hand.

‘I have more of these,’ Kote says, giving ‘67’s hand a squeeze. ‘Come find me later and I’ll give you another.’

’67 nods at Kote, gives him a smile.

‘Yeah. Sure. See you later, Kote,’ he assures and gently pulls his hand away from Kote’s warm grip, his skin tingling from the touch.

And then he turns and walks away.

Chapter Text

‘Clear!’ 5160 calls, stepping out of the server room he had been checking with 9191.

‘All clear here too,’ 6922 reports, on behalf of himself and ’67. ‘No sign of tampering on any equipment either.’

‘Right,’ Hindsight says, and he does a quick headcount of their squad, making sure they’re all accounted for. The CC’s nose crunches a little as he consults with his datapad for a moment and then he says, ‘Alright, boys. Looks like we’ve cleared this subsector. Let’s move on to the next area.’

‘Can’t we just sit down for a while? Have a short break?’ 9191 doesn’t quite whine, but it’s a near thing. He looks a little grey, a sheen of sweat on his skin. He sways slightly where he stands, a fine trembling in his small limbs.

At two-and-a-half years old, 9191 is the youngest of their squad and is just about to enter his first growth cycle. The other clones exchange glances over 9191’s head, quickly and easily coming to an agreement.

‘Good idea, 91s,’ Hindsight says, smiling kindly down at the cadet. ‘I need to update ARC-1140 with our progress anyway, and we’ve made good time already. Everyone, take five.’

9191 has already sunk to the floor and flopped onto his back with a quiet shaky groan before their squad leader has even finished speaking, his eyes sliding shut in relief.

’67’s body aches with sympathy. He remembers the terrible pain in his jaws at that age, when all his permanent teeth had erupted at once; the awful migraines that had made it feel like his head was being slowly pried open; his skin feeling too tight and too thin, as if the organ is lagging behind the growth of the rest of his body.

Growth cycles always hit hard – their cells pushed into overdrive to make them grow faster, mature faster – but all the older troopers claim that their first cycle is only the second worst of them.

Looking at 9191 lying with his limbs splayed, limp and miserable near his feet, ’67 finds himself feeling some measure of… not relief, exactly… but he doesn’t feel much trepidation now, at the thought of puberty cycles.

It’s not like he’ll have a chance to experience it.

He wanders away from everyone else and finds himself a seat on the floor, stretching out his legs in front of him. The data server tower at his back emanates a pleasant warmth through his tunic. He closes his eyes for a moment, listening to the hum of the server, low and almost soothing, droning through the back of his head.

They’ve spent their morning meticulously combing through server rooms, walking the long lengths in between the server racks, looking for anything suspicious. After the novelty of the situation has worn off, and the slight awkwardness of learning to work with the other squad members has been smoothed, it very quickly becomes a boring task. They have started chatting quietly amongst themselves, eager to befriend clones from other batches. Hindsight doesn’t bother to reprimand them for it, just reminds them to make sure they’re doing their jobs properly despite the gossip they are trading, and ’67 notes that the CC does check in on them frequently.

‘What kind of data is stored here anyway?’ he hears the question, and ’67 peels his eyes open to see 5160 peering curiously at the flickering indicator lights on a data tower, as if he might find his answers there. ‘D’you think the Long Necks keep their research here?’

At the mention of the Kaminoans, ’67 finds himself straightening up, blood pumping a little bit faster. He himself had considered something similar but had dismissed it; the security around the server rooms was… not lacking, certainly, but it didn’t feel like the sort of high security the scientists would insist upon, to guard their intellectual property.

Another squad member seems to feel the same. 4004 glances up briefly from picking at his nails. ‘Probably stuff about our training,’ he guesses, sounding bored and uninterested. He shrugs a shoulder. ‘Grades and modules.’

’67 has surmised much the same and then set aside further contemplation of the servers. He has a lot of other things to think about.

5160 perks up at that and starts eyeing the ports, ‘Hey, do you think we could scomp in?’

Out of the corner of his eyes, ’67 sees it when Hindsight starts paying more attention to their idle discussion, listening more closely.

‘Why would you want to do that?’ ’67 cuts in, disdain heavy and exaggerated in his tone, and he twists a face to match. He catches 5160’s eyes and he hopes the other cadet wouldn’t say something stupid and get himself in trouble.

5160 falters, suddenly seeming to realise that his current squad mates are not his batchmates, and he flushes a deep red, looking awkward.

6922 chooses that time to butt in, repeating ‘67’s question, ‘Yeah, why would you want to do that?’ The cadet is leaning forward, and it doesn’t seem like he’s purposely trying to entrap 5160, his young face earnestly confused.

5160 slides a slightly panicked glance at Hindsight, but apparently, the CC didn’t want to make the younger cadets anxious and is looking down at his datapad. His expression of deep concentration is enough to fool 5160 and the cadet relaxes slightly.

‘Oh… I was just joking, you know…’ 5160 mutters, voice pitched low and giving them a weak grin. ‘Like we could hack in and give ourselves better grades…?’

6922 blinks at him, looking genuinely perplexed. ‘But why?’

Now it is 5160’s turn to look confused, and he repeats uncertainly, ‘So… we could have better grades?’

‘But that would be falsifying the data,’ 6922 says sharply, almost like an accusation, straightening up.

‘Alright, squad!’ Hindsight suddenly says, just a little too loud, and some of them startle. There’s a crinkle around his eyes that looks like it might be amusement, although ’67 thinks he must be mistaken. ‘Form up!’

’67 falls in next to 6922 as the squad heads to their next assigned sector. The younger cadet still has a moue of dissatisfaction on his face, even after they’ve stepped out of the turbolifts a few minutes later and have split up in pairs again.

‘I don’t see why he would’ve wanted to hack our grades,’ 6922 finally says, breaking his long silence.

’67 hisses a long breath out between his teeth and tries to temp down on his irritation. ‘I can’t believe you’re still thinking about that,’ he grits out, exasperation and stress making his words come out tense.

6922 casts him a look over his shoulder and ’67 exhales a sigh.

It’s not the kid’s fault ’67 is so snappish.

They’re only two floors and a link bridge away from Ko Sai’s lab and the proximity is making his skin itch. There is a flutter of unease growing inside his chest, curling along his ribs and tightening ever inwards, and he can’t help but have the vague feeling as if there is something he is overlooking.

They pause in front of a maintenance hatch and ’67 jerks his head at it, ‘Your turn,’ he tells the other cadet, hoping the task might distract him from his previous topic. 6922 pokes around for a moment inside the distribution board before shutting the panel, calling it clear.

‘Why would he say something like that?’ 6922 asks, apparently unwilling to forget so easily and ’67 bites back a groan.

He returns with a question instead of answering, ‘What are your grade scores like?’

It turns out, 6922’s grades are perfectly average.

‘Well...’ says ’67 slowly, trying to frame it in a way the cadet might be able to understand, but ’67 is starting to suspect 6922 is one of those clones who have adopted to live by the regs to the letter, perfectly content to exist within its parameters.

A small part of ’67 wishes that he had been allowed to do the same, but he knows that just isn’t possible. Will never have been possible, as long as his defect is on display. And tucked away, deep inside, there had been an even smaller part of him that had suspected that even if he had been normal, he would never have been satisfied to follow orders forever, even if that was what he was made for.

He had tried his best to hide that yearning, had tried to mask it with placid subordination, but nothing he ever did seemed to satisfy Ko Sai, or to make her lose her interest in him.

The past few rotations have transformed that small flickering feeling into something else entirely, something that burns through his body from toes to fingertips, something that lights up his insides with thoughts of scouring heat and flame-

6922 is staring at him, an expectant expression on his face and ’67 realises that he had lapsed into silence, consumed by his own thoughts.

’67 picks his words carefully, feeling his way around the topic, ‘The Republic ordered for our creation. They want soldiers that can fight and win the war for them. The Kaminoans have to make sure that we’re up to standards, to fit the Republic’s specifications. But you know, there’s so many of us, so there’s bound be some…deviations,’ he says and tries very hard to ignore the way 6922’s eyes flick up his light-coloured hair.

He lets out a rough, strained breath.

‘So,’ he says, the word punching out of him a bit louder than he had intended and he clears his throat before continuing, ‘there’s a lot of pressure there, to perform better, to get better grades… to fit those standards.’

To be safe from being decommissioned.

‘Well, yes, I know all that,’ 6922 says. ‘But what I don’t understand is why 5160 would want to change his grades. That’s dishonest-’

’67 starts to say something but 6922’s next words make him stop cold.

‘-It’s cheating the Republic, the ones we’re supposed to defend and protect. We have to be good enough for the GAR. We can’t be less than what they need.’

6922 frowns severely at him, the serious expression almost comical on a face that has the last vestiges of tubie fat still stubbornly clinging to his cheeks. His eyes dart around ‘67’s face, and he must read something there, some evidence of disagreement.

He narrows his eyes.

‘Your performance scores ever drop below accepted standards?’ he asks, almost demands.

When ’67 shakes his head mutely, 6922 draws back slightly and blinks at him.

‘Then what are you worried about?’ he asks, sounding genuinely confused. He gives ’67 a look as if ’67 is complicating things unnecessarily. ‘The trainers have their jobs to do, and we have ours. Our job right now is to graduate. The GAR comes after. Just take it one step at a time, 7567,’ he says, as if it is a simple thing.

And to 6922, maybe it really is that simple.

‘If we do things right, we’ll be alright,’ 6922 says, with such easy confidence in his tone that ’67 can’t help but wonder at.

’67 doesn’t reply, not in words. He has to look away, but he hums, a neutral, acknowledging sound, and then turns sharply into the next server room to get away from the other cadet. ‘67’s strides lengthen but he doesn’t get far as 6922 scrambles to keep up after him, taking four quick steps and a half hop for every three of 67’s.

After all, they’ve been instructed to not split up and 6922 seems to be very good at following orders. The perfect cadet.

Unlike ’67.

‘Hey, did I- … Was it something I said?’ 6922 asks cautiously, after a few minutes of tense silence, where ’67 tries somewhat unsubtly to keep himself a step ahead of the other, a vain attempt at avoidance.

’67 pauses and when he slides the other cadet a glance over his shoulder, he sees the downward slant of 6922’s lips, the uncertainty in his dark eyes.

6922 catches him looking and offers him a smile that is more grimace. ‘I’ve been told that I can be annoying sometimes. And that I get on other people’s nerves a lot.’

‘Who told you that?’ ’67 asks, instead of answering the other cadet’s question.

‘My batchmates,’ 6922 mutters, looking away briefly and then back again. There’s a small wry grin on his face as he says, ‘Actually, they say a lot of other things too… but that’s just how batchmates are, right? We talk osik about each other all the time.’

‘I wouldn’t know,’ ’67 says coolly, turning to face 6922 fully. ‘I don’t have any batchmates.’

He watches as 6922 cringes, looking extremely uncomfortable.

‘Oh,’ 6922 says meekly, quietly. ‘S-sorry,’ he stammers awkwardly, ‘I didn’t know.’

It’s the slight slump in the line of the other cadet’s shoulders that makes ’67 relent a little, and he finds himself saying, ‘But from what I’ve seen of Kote and his batchmates, talking osik is the least of it.’

Kote’s new scar is a testament to that fact.

6922 perks up at the mention of Kote, swinging his head to look up at ‘67, ‘You and Kote are close, right? Saw the two of you talking this morning at assembly.’

The reminder of that conversation makes ’67 almost want to retreat, rather leery of the subject. ‘We’re alright, I guess,’ he says, tone bland and noncommittal, directs his own gaze away in a sweep of their surroundings, as if he’s too busy doing his job to spare too much attention to their conversation.

Something tugs painfully inside his chest, remembering the feeling of suddenly seeing Kote again. After that disastrous fallout all those tendays ago, ’67 has never allowed himself to spend much time dwelling on thoughts of Kote and the rest of the CCs.

I have been so ungrateful, he thinks, his lips twisting in self-loathing.

The CCs have always treated him decently, have never complained – never with any sort of genuineness, anyway – about the little CT always awkwardly hovering at their periphery, haunting their limited downtime. Kote might have been his ori’vod then, but the others had adopted him in their own way.

They had helped Kote cover for him with the Nulls when he was caught out during inspections; 1010 was the one who volunteered to attract the trainers’ ire – and all ’67 had done was throw it all back in their faces. He had pissed them all off, had hurt Kote, had made 3636 so angry…

It didn’t feel like there had been any way back from that.

But then, of course ‘67 should have known that Kote better, should have known that the older clone would reach out to check on ’67. Kote would never have let his personal pride or his hurt eclipse his care and concern for others.

Kote is everything a Commander should be.

’67 can’t compare to him at all.

There’s a part of him that is selfishly glad that Kote had ambushed him this morning. It had been terrifying to face him, but it had also been so, so good to talk to him again, even for however briefly.

Even if ’67 had to lie to his face to assuage his worries.

There is a little feeling of regret that their last parting contained such deception, but he consoles himself by telling himself that it had been necessary to protect Kote. The less he knows, the better.

He hopes Kote will be alright, after this. He knows Kote will have his batchmates, but he still can’t help but feel worry curling around his thoughts.

There’s nothing he can do about that now, so he tries to set that aside, tries to worry about other things instead.

The quiet click of his bootheels is a steady metronome as he paces through the server space. He tries to calculate the amount of time he has, aware that each step he takes is another second slipping away from him.

6922 moves with him, his footsteps in sync with him, though he follows just behind. He has thankfully fallen silent, though ’67 can feel the weight of the other cadet’s stare burning between his shoulder blades. His intense attention prickles uncomfortably across the back of ‘67’s neck.

They finish their sweep and step out again to the corridor.

‘Anything to report?’ Hindsight asks, as soon as he catches sight of them.

’67 shakes his head, ‘Negative, Sir.’

The CC nods at them, ‘Right. Take a few while we wait for the others to finish up here.’

‘Sir, what’s our next assignment?’ ’67 asks before Hindsight can turn away. Despite the internal roil of his feelings, his voice sounds normal, with just the right blend of idle curiosity and respect. ‘We heading to the next sector over?’

Hindsight huffs, the sound crackling through his speakers. He gives a slight shake of his helmet, ‘Next assignment is midmeal, kid.’

The casual tone and address makes him pause a little, but since Hindsight doesn’t seem annoyed, he dares to press on with, ‘And after? Will we be picking up here? Moving to the next sector?’

The tilt of Hindsight’s visor pins ’67 and there’s a frown in his voice when he replies.

‘Next sector over is the Long Necks’ domain, cadet,’ he says slowly, as if that is an explanation in itself, as if ’67 has somehow forgotten the layout of their training facility.

As if ’67 isn’t acutely aware of where the laboratories are.

A swell of some undefinable emotion rises in him, makes him bold. Maybe it’s the fact that ’67 knows his time grows ever shorter.

It makes him care less about being punished for questioning orders.

‘Yes, Sir,’ he says, his eyes meeting the visored gaze of the CC. ‘The briefing provided indicated this exercise was to be conducted facility wide. The Research and Development sectors are part of the facility. Will we be checking those areas also?’

By his side, 6922 shifts his weight restlessly from one foot to the other, probably scandalised at ‘67’s insubordinate behaviour.

But trailing behind this crest of recklessness is a niggling disquiet stirring at the back of his mind, not about punishments or demerits, but about something else-

‘Cadet,’ Hindsight says, ‘you know that area is off-limits. It is definitely not within the scope of our exercise today.’

Hindsight’s helmet cants to the side as he regards ’67 for a long moment and ’67 gazes steadily back. ’67 isn’t sure how successful he is with keeping his expression neutral.

Probably not very successfully since Hindsight’s voice is hard when he warns, ‘The Kaminoan sector is restricted. Only those with the proper authorisation are allowed there. You might be curious to see what the Long Necks get up to all day, but if you think you can sneak into that area without security immediately crashing down on your shebs, think again, cadet.’

’67 swipes his tongue over his lips, feeling a chill of apprehension icing down his spine at the steely tone the CC has taken.

The CC lifts his hand, a pointed finger jabbing first at ’67’s face, and then at 6922’s, ‘Don’t try it.’

Hindsight is not done, ‘If the thought of it even enters your little skull, you should just march yourself straight to the Prime instead and tell him you would like to hand-scrub the freshers. It’ll save him the bother of hunting you down and assigning punishment detail.’

’67’s fists twitch at his sides. He doesn’t think the Prime would be content with anything less than an immediate decommissioning if he ever caught a clone acting out of regs.

‘Actually… you know what? If you’d like to try it, you should do it right now,’ the CC says, snapping his fingers, and ’67 blinks at the sudden about-turn. Then Hindsight’s next words make ‘67’s stomach drop and his heart skip a beat, ‘Since the Prime’s there at the moment, he can immediately dissuade you from further idiocy.’

‘…The Prime’s there?’ ’67 asks, and his voice sounds weak, faint. He swallows hard. He almost sways unsteadily, but he locks his knees. He doesn’t have any other words to offer, every coherent thought snatched away at this revelation.

He should have anticipated that the Prime would be there, giving the Long Necks his personal protection.

When ’67 had laid on the cot in Ko Sai’s office and eavesdropped on the discussion between the Kaminoans and the Prime, didn’t the Prime send his trained troopers to guard them? He had immediately offered Nala Se a security escort for her safety when she went to inspect what damage Slick had done to the tubie growth tanks.

He has a close working relationship with them, with Ko Sai, evident by how he was consulting with her just minutes after decommissioning Slick.

‘He’s overseeing the sim there,’ Hindsight replies, and ’67 has to scramble to recall that he had asked the CC a question.

He stares numbly at the older clone, trying to understand.

‘Wait,’ says 6922, speaking up for the first time in many minutes, and Hindsight’s gaze swings his way, ‘I thought you said that sector is restricted?’

Hindsight makes a short sound of frustration that comes out even more garbled through his helmet. ‘I also said that you need proper authorisation, cadet. You are not authorised. I am not authorised.’

‘Oh,’ 6922 says eloquently.

‘Yes, “oh”,’ Hindsight responds, dripping sarcasm, his fists coming up to rest on his hips. ‘That’s the ARCs’ training area, today.’

‘Oh,’ breathes ’67 softly. He shouldn’t, but-

‘How’s… uh… how’s their sim going?’ he asks tightly, voice hoarse.

Have they checked Ko Sai’s labs? Have they found the explosives?

Hindsight huffs, ‘They’re done. Intranet updates say Prime’s wrapping up with a debrief.’

‘What? So fast?’ 6922 demands and ’67 is glad he doesn’t have to. He’s as surprised as 6922.

‘They’re ARCs, cadet. They’re in their own teams and they know what they’re doing. The rest of us are a patchwork of different batches.’ The last sentence is uttered lowly, slightly tinged with aggravation, likely because half of Hindsight’s team are still cadets, and it probably feels more like babysitting duty for the CC.

At that moment, as if summoned, the other members of their squad turn up to report to Hindsight and the CC turns his attention to them.

’67 stares at the ground, mind racing.

The ARCs must not have found anything; if there had been explosives, disabling them would have taken considerable time.

And there is no way the ARCs could have missed finding them; the ARCs have been trained by the Prime and are fiercely competent.

But what does this mean?

Where are the explosives Slick had planted?

A coldness settles over ’67’s shoulders and he shivers, stomach contents curdling, and he swallows down the rising sick at the back of his throat, as a horrible suspicion occurs. ’67 had been too quick to take Slick at his word that the explosives are in the scientist’s lab, had never stopped to question it.

But… Slick’s plans had been long in the making; camfeeds sabotaged, detonators hidden in vent spaces…

The Kaminoans had never really been the target of his ire. He had developed his hatred for them after he had been handed over to Ko Sai’s research… He wouldn’t have had the opportunity or resources to plant explosives in her labs.

Slick had clearly taken advantage of ‘67’s own feelings towards Ko Sai in an attempt to retrieve the detonator to execute his own plans.

So…

Where are the explosives Slick had planted?

Chapter Text

They get ambushed on their way to the mess.

’67 stops short, 6922 almost running into his back, when he turns the corner and sees Kote lying in wait for him. Kote straightens when he catches sight of ’67, and his dark eyes flit over ’67’s form, checking him over.

’67 bites his lip and internally curses himself when Kote’s eyes immediately narrow at the anxious tell.

‘We need to talk,’ Kote declares firmly, his gaze locked onto ‘67’s. His eyes flicker to 6922, who slides forward to stand by ‘67’s side. ‘Alone,’ he emphasises meaningfully.

’67 twitches slightly at the tone, feeling a twist of anxiety winding his gut. He is aware of 6922 darting a quick look at his face. He’s not sure what the expression on his face shows, but it makes 6922 tilt his jaw up and step closer, almost protectively, bumping shoulders.

‘CC-2020 says we have to stay with our partners at all times,’ 6922 says, suspicion heavy in his tone as he eyes the older clone in front of them. His gaze flicks to ’67, then back to Kote once more.

‘I’ve spoken to Hindsight,’ Kote says. ‘He’s aware.’

Kote arches an eyebrow at 6922 when the cadet doesn’t leave, and his expression turns a little bit impatient as he snaps, ‘This conversation needs to happen in private, cadet.’

Still, 6922 hesitates, darting ’67 another glance, clearly unwilling to abandon his side when he thinks ’67 doesn’t want to be alone with the CC.

’67 feels… oddly warmed by the display.

He catches 6922’s eye and jerks a nod and the other cadet’s face scrunches in a frown.

‘I’ll go check with CC-2020,’ 6922 says before he grudgingly leaves, a warning in his tone. The look on his face makes it clear he has every intention of reporting this to their CO. He hurries away, casting one last look at the pair of them over his shoulder.

Kote huffs as he watches the young cadet’s back, his face an odd mixture of annoyance and amusement. ‘That kid is really something, huh?’

Then his gaze slides to ’67 and his expression tightens, the amusement falling away.

‘Come on,’ he says and ’67 can do nothing else but follow after him as Kote leads them to an unused tutorial room.

’67 tries not to feel trapped when he hears the door sliding shut behind them. He barely stops himself from flinching when Kote drops a hand on his shoulder and steers him into a chair, and then takes the seat opposite him.

Kote says nothing, just stares at him from across the small table, his dark eyes glinting.

The silence stretches between them and ’67 tries to hold out, fisting the fabric of his pants, but he can’t sit still no matter how he tries, his knees jittering restlessly under the table. ’67 tries to keep his gaze averted, tries to stare at that point just above Kote’s ear, but his eyes keep getting drawn to the shine of that new scar, the ridges of it curving around Kote’s eye.

‘What did you want to talk about?’ ’67 says, breaking first. His eyes accidentally catch Kote’s.

‘Whatever you’d like to share, vod’ika,’ Kote says calmly.

’67 jerks at hearing the diminutive.

That isn’t fair, he thinks, the wave of emotion the word provokes threatens his composure, and he blinks rapidly, looks away. He feels a flash of hurt that Kote had resorted to such tactics but quickly shoves away that emotion too. He swallows thickly, takes a slow calming breath, but he knows he has already lost. Kote knows exactly how to unbalance him.

He doesn’t address the endearment, ignores it.

‘My squad didn’t find anything today,’ he tells Kote, a stab of vicious defiance making his words sound sharp. He’s not going to tell Kote anything he wants to know. ’67 is going to waste his time and tell him about everything else. ‘We spent hours searching the server rooms. They keep the temperature really low there, but the heat from the servers made it comfortable enough.’

Kote doesn’t rise to the bait, doesn’t even look annoyed at 67’s obvious attempt at evasion.

‘Servers, huh?’ he says, and he gives ’67 a small grin, ‘Sounds nice and boring. My squad got assigned to the landing decks; the cadets got soaked through despite their wet gear. One of them almost fell into the sea.’

’67 can’t help the way his head whips up, heartbeat quickening, at the mention of Kote’s search area, at the possibility-

Had Slick-?

‘Were there any explosives?’ he asks, tilting forward in his seat. He notices the way Kote’s eyes narrow slightly at the urgency in his question, but there isn’t anything he can do about that now.

Kote shakes his head, ‘No.’

He doesn’t realise he has been holding his breath until he sucks in a lungful of air, slumping over slightly, feeling shaky.

Not in the server rooms. Not in the labs or at the landing deck.

So, where? Where are the bombs?

Slick had sabotaged the tubies the first time, had attacked Boba Vhett. He had linked both of these targets – with his own twisted logic – directly to the Prime.

His target would be something personal, something that would affect the Prime.

’67 has been incredibly stupid and has put countless others in danger.

Because he believed Slick.

Because he wanted revenge for himself.

Karking Stars, he thinks somewhat hysterically. There’re karking bombs somewhere out there and the clones are collateral-

‘Hey. ’67,’ Kote says sharply and ’67 startles, looking up at Kote, breaking out of his panicked thoughts. Kote frowns at him, deep lines of concern creasing his forehead, and ’67 realises that he must’ve spoken aloud because, ‘It’s just a sim. The explosives aren’t live,’ Kote says, his tone reassuring and firm, but there’s also confusion in his eyes, like he thinks ’67 should know that.

He stares back at Kote helplessly, unable to form the words to defend or deflect.

A few second passes, Kote watching him carefully and then Kote says, ‘My squad didn’t turn up anything, but 1004’s did. His squad found a cache in one of the classrooms.’

‘What?’ ’67 asks faintly, suddenly breathless.

‘The area is cordoned off now, while the EOD unit gets it sorted. Again, it’s just a training exercise,’ Kote stresses because there must be something showing on ‘67’s expression that makes Kote feel the need to remind him. ‘Nothing is going to happen, vod’ika.’

‘Where? Which classroom?’ ’67 demands, feeling hot and cold all at once, and he is clenching his fists hard enough to break the skin of his palms.

‘Room 2187,’ Kote says, pushing back his chair to stand. He comes around the table, and it is only then that ’67 realises that he is standing as well, having risen to his feet in his agitation.

Kote places his hands on ‘67’s shoulders, firm and grounding. He doesn’t say anything, just looks back at ’67, worry plain across his face.

And yet, Kote presses his lips into a tight line, holds back his concerned questions.

’67 feels a pang of some difficult emotion at that. He knows that it is his fault that Kote is so careful to not ask questions now, when ’67 has only ever responded by snapping back. He pushes aside his feelings, focuses on the conversation.

‘That’s impossible,’ he tells Kote. ‘It can’t be 2187. You must be mistaken.’

Kote’s eyebrow twitches upwards. He lifts his hands away from ‘67’s shoulders, and ’67 tells himself he doesn’t mourn the loss.

‘Vod,’ Kote says, speaking into the receiver on his vambrace. ‘What’s the situation?’

1004’s voice comes through, sounding distracted, ‘Bomb techs are picking through the place. The place is rigged with traps.’

‘Room 2187?’ Kote asks, seeking clarification, his dark eyes pinning ’67 in place.

‘Yeah. Almost lost one of the cadets on my squad when the kid misstepped. Techs got him out fine, though it took them forever. At the pace they’re going, I’m going to miss latemeal as well.’ The last sentence is a mumbled grumble.

Kote snorts. ‘I’ll save you something,’ he promises solemnly, though there is a spark of amusement in his eyes.

‘Thanks, Kote. This is why you’re my favourite.’

’67’s eyes stay on Kote’s vambrace, even after the CC has ended the call, as if he can find his answers there.

‘I don’t understand.’

The words escape his lips, sounding small and confused.

‘Whatever it is, I can help you figure it out,’ Kote offers quietly.

‘67 drags his stare away from the floor to meet Kote’s, swallows thickly at the expression on Kote’s face, at the shade of helpless concern he sees there.

‘The bombs aren’t supposed to be there,’ he finds himself telling Kote. ‘They shouldn’t be there. That’s where the trainers set up Ops last night. Why would-?’

His voice sounds distant to his own ears, unsteady.

A breath shudders out of him when Kote steps closer. He closes his eyes briefly when Kote curls a palm on the side of his neck, his touch warm and familiar and comforting, making something ache in his chest and he feels a rush of hot dampness in his eyes.

He sucks in a breath. And another. Tries to hold himself together in Kote’s steady presence.

‘Talk to me, vod’ika,’ Kote murmurs, and he must be close because ’67 can feel his words carried on his breath, fluttering against his cheek-

It’s the gentle press of Kote’s forehead against his that breaks him.

He surges forwards, head clacking into Kote’s chestplate, throws his arms around Kote and digs his fingers into the gaps between armour plates. ’67 can’t speak, can’t find his words, can’t breathe-

Kote’s arms wrap around him, gathers him close, holds him as he quietly shakes apart.

‘What’s wrong?’ Kote asks, slightly alarmed. He’s almost crushing ’67, with how tightly he’s curled around ’67. ‘Tell me what’s wrong, vod’ika.’

He does. He can’t stop himself, can’t stop the deluge of words that comes tearing out past his teeth, sentences disjointed and half-coherent, ‘Last night, it wasn’t a training exercise. Slick – he’s a trooper and there’s something wrong with him; he’s killed tubies and he killed Maze. The Nulls caught him, gave him to Ko Sai but he broke out, and he had planted explosives somewhere and I-’ ’67 chokes, shuddering violently at the cold rush of horror that rushes through him at the thought that he could’ve accidentally killed tubies, if Slick had planted the explosives there, if ’67 had pressed the trigger-

‘Kote,’ he cracks out desperately, ‘I don’t know what to do.’

Kote manoeuvrers him back into his seat and ’67 lets him, his legs refusing to hold his weight. A noise escapes him, and he latches onto Kote’s arm, his fingers spasming, when Kote moves as if to stand. He swallows shakily, thoughts and emotions a tangled twisting jumble, but it settles, eases a fraction, when Kote sinks down on a knee in front of his seat, staying close.

‘Start again. From the beginning.’

It’s not just the voice of his ori’vod, fierce and protective, it has the steel of a Commander in it, an order. It has ’67 straightening instinctively, but it is Kote’s hands wrapping around his forearms that stops him from standing to attention. Kote gives him a reassuring squeeze, so firm it edges on being painful, but it helps ’67 focus.

Under Kote’s touch, he gathers his scattered thoughts the best he can, tries to prioritise what to tell him, tries to decide what is time sensitive, which information is important.

‘There are explosives – real ones – somewhere in the facility. The sim is a cover to have the entire place searched.’

The sound of the mocking clicks Slick had made – smacking his lips grotesquely as he had grinned at the Prime – like the count of seconds on an analogue chrono, haunts his ears.

Mmck. Mmck. Mmck.

Boom.

‘It could be rigged to a timer,’ he tells Kote.

Slick could be lying about that as well, ’67 realises faintly, feeling sick. To hide the fact that there’s a detonator. Or it could be that both are true, and Slick had constructed the explosive device with multiple ways for it to go off.

The next words aren’t so easy to get out past his tight throat, ‘There’s… there’s also a detonator.’

He can see Kote’s razor-sharp mind racing ahead, calculating all the ways to contain and remove the threats to the facility-

Kote’s attention snaps back to him when he shifts slightly. ‘67’s heartbeat is thudding in his ears, almost loud enough for him to miss Kote’s sharp intake of breath, when ’67 starts to pull out the disassembled pieces of the detonator - tucked away in his socks, in the hems of his tunic, the small battery rod in the side piping lining of his pants – and laying them carefully on the table.

‘7567,’ Kote says, standing slowly, his wide-eyed stare on the knoll of parts before them, ‘Where did you get this.’

It’s not quite his full designation, but ’67 still wants to cringe away. And when Kote turns his gaze to ’67, his expression shuttered and mouth a grim slash on his face-

’67 flinches, swallows hard.

Kote’s hard expression eases a fraction, his eyes going to the table and ’67 can see Kote trying to fit together the information ’67 had given him. And when he looks back at ’67 again-

‘Where is Slick now?’

‘Decommissioned,’ ’67 tells him, feels a full-body shudder and he can’t help the way his hands drift up to his neck as if to ward off the memory of how Slick had touched him. Kote’s eyes flick to the movement and narrows.

‘We need to hand this over to the trainers-’ Kote says, and ’67 knows he doesn’t just mean the detonator, he means the entire situation.

‘No,’ ’67 vehemently rejects, cutting him off and surging to his feet. ‘No, we can’t. I can’t.’

Kote looks at him, the corners of his eyes tighten when he darts a glance at ‘67’s light-coloured hair, and then Kote firms his jaw.

‘I can,’ Kote says.

‘No! Listen to me. You can’t tell them about it!’ ’67’s voice pitches and cracks in his desperation. His fists are trembling at his sides, his chest heaving in uneven breaths.

Kote starts to say something, but then he stops himself. His eyes are dark and intense when he says tightly, ‘I’m listening. Tell me why I can’t report this, vod’ika. Because if this gets out, this osik will get us both decommissioned, or worse, get others killed.’

The air in ‘67’s chest punches out at that, because Kote is right.

But handing the detonator in would mean too many questions that ’67 would have to answer. And never mind the biasedness already stacked against him with his visible defect; the Prime won’t let him live if he knew that ’67 had acted in such a deviant manner, that ’67 had acted outside of procedures.

How had Ko Sai described Slick?

… Cunning and capable of malicious intent.

Destructive.

’67 is all that. And maybe more.

Ko Sai had been so eager to take Slick apart to find out what had made him go rogue, convinced it was something in his genes, a mutation, or a defect-

And the Nulls had silenced Slick, had made it impossible for him to speak or to defend himself, against the fervour of her scientific pursuits.

They had done that to protect the Prime and themselves, and ’67 doesn’t think that they would hesitate to do the same to him, not if they find out that he knows more than a reg cadet should, and that he had been willing to endanger other clones. And especially not if they know that he had been trying to take advantage of the situation to assassinate the scientist.

The mere thought of being handed over to Ko Sai like that makes his knees weaken, makes icy fear clench around him, the image of Slick with neat pieces of his flesh cut from his chest, the mottled bruises of hypo sites on his limbs-

’67 bites down on his lip, but a small sound escapes him anyway, soft and desperate.

It makes Kote move towards him, and even though ’67 flinches, takes a half-step away, Kote doesn’t hesitate, just reaches for ’67 and tugs him closer, pulling him into a careful hug.

’67 doesn’t resist, doesn’t pull away even though he should. Kote wouldn’t touch him again if he knew what kind of person ’67 can be, that he is capable of malicious intent.

But instead, instead… ’67 lets Kote hold him. Because he’s also needy and selfish and craven.

Kote doesn’t push him to answer. But he doesn’t really need to because when he is around Kote… it’s like the words are being drawn out of him. Still, ’67 retains just enough of his senses to stop himself from speaking of… sensitive issues, the tangle of secrets that will get Kote decommissioned.

‘I… I took the detonator,’ he whispers, and it’s easier for the words to come when he doesn’t have to look Kote in the eye, when he can just press his face into Kote’s shoulder and offer his quiet confession there. ‘I was supposed to stay in the maintenance closet while Maze went to intercept Slick, but… but Slick got him. And then he tried breaking in. I had no idea why he needed to get in so badly. He was deranged. I escaped through the vents. That’s where I found the detonator. I took it.’

A small tremor shakes ’67, as the echo of Slick’s angered howl when he had discovered the detonator missing, rings in his ears. Pressed as closely to Kote as he is, even with the armour, Kote feels it. Kote doesn’t say anything, just tightens his hold on ’67, a hand curling around the back of ‘67’s head.

‘I took it, and I never turned it in. I should have, but I didn’t.’

‘Why?’ asks Kote, voice low and quiet to match his.

Because he wasn’t good enough, hadn’t trained well enough, that in that moment of pressure, ’67 had forgotten all his training, had allowed himself to be distracted from his objective. And he had only one objective then, didn’t he? He only had to get the detonator to one of the Alphas.

He couldn’t even do that.

And everything had happened so quickly after, and it wasn’t until he was watching the Prime’s violent interrogation of Slick, did he realise that the intense merciless questioning was for the detonator that he had hidden in his own boot.

‘Because I was scared,’ he forces himself to admit. ‘Because the Prime thought Slick had it and wouldn’t give it up. And the Prime decommissioned him.’

The arms wrapped around him twitch. ‘You saw that?’ Kote asks, horror making his tone tight.

‘I was there, Kote. I heard the blastershot.’

Kote shifts and somehow, the way he clutches at ’67 makes it seem as if Kote is the one that needed comforting.

’67 understands.

A trooper had never been decommissioned before, and never directly by Prime’s hand.

Kote finally pulls back and ’67 uncurls himself just enough to dare a look up at Kote. The look on Kote’s face tells him that Kote knows now, his hesitancy in reporting about the detonator. His head turns slightly, to look at the pieces of the device laid on the tabletop beside them, and his lips press so firmly together that they turn white.

‘It’s too dangerous to leave about,’ Kote says grimly.

An unsecured trigger for an undiscovered explosive.

‘I know. They won’t stop looking for it.’

There is a long stretch of seconds and then Kote says, ‘I will take it. Scatter it and let my squad or someone else’s find it.’

A strange feeling rushes through ’67, something that might be fear or relief or a mix of the two. He makes a feeble sound of protest, but Kote is already standing, swiftly picking through the pieces and tucking them away in different places of his armour.

His fingers freeze as he picks up the tangle of parts that make up the transmitter, and his forehead furrows into a frown when he examines it more closely, carefully teasing apart the wiring and checking the components.

‘What? What is it?’ ’67 asks anxiously.

‘Vod,’ he says, and something in the tone of his voice makes ’67 brace himself, ‘this isn’t set to transmit on the frequency range of heavy loads.'

Kote’s face is tight when he slides a look over and the breath punches out of ‘67 at Kote’s next words.

‘It’s on a specific frequency. Similar to the sort used to trigger much smaller, targeted explosives… Something like what slavers would use, would put in their slaves.

‘The explosives… it’s not a question of where it is… it’s who it is in.’

Chapter Text

‘There you are, ’67!’ Hindsight says cheerily when ’67 reports back.

6922 peers out from behind the CC. The cadet sweeps a quick look over ’67 before shifting his gaze to Kote who had escorted ’67 to the mess, face unfriendly.

‘Everything alright?’ Hindsight asks, glancing at Kote before looking at ‘67. ‘You’d better sit down and eat something. You don’t really have much time left. Mealtime is almost over.’

‘I got you a tray,’ 6922 pipes up and ’67 blinks at him. He didn’t expect 6922 to have bothered, to have cared enough. It isn’t as if they were even friends, and their partnership hasn’t exactly been frictionless. But-

’67 remembers the way, when Kote had come to talk to him, the other cadet had sensed his discomfiture and had stepped forward to provide support, and had to be ordered away from his side.

‘Oh,’ says ’67, a bit awkwardly. There’s a warm feeling in his chest and when he gives 6922 a smile, it is small and hesitant, but genuine. ‘Thanks, 6922.’

Kote touches ’67’s shoulder, there and gone again, a quick reassurance and a farewell.

‘Thanks, Hindsight,’ Kote gives his fellow CC a nod and turns and goes to find his own squad, weaving between the tables. He doesn’t look back.

’67 goes to take the empty seat next to 6922, the other cadet nudging a tray in front of ’67. It is the usual fare of protein discs and fibre cubes and carb wafers, and after the first few bites, ’67 falls to his meal eagerly, finding himself actually with an appetite for the first time in a long time.

He knows that the… situation is not yet resolved and that he and Kote have stumbled upon something neither of them has the clearance to know. There are implications, of course, on what such a small explosive device might mean, and none of them are good. A method of subjugation. Of control. A threat.

Kote’s smart, all his test scores are practically perfect and that, along with the fact that the Prime had actually given him a name… ’67 is pretty sure that he’ll be on the very short list for Marshall Commander.

Kote’s risking everything, helping ’67.

But Kote had also recognised the need for subterfuge in order to resurface the detonator, and quickly.

It will be one less thing for the Prime and the trainers to be agitated about, bristling like a disturbed nest of Kheilwar wasps. It will temper them, deescalate the intensity of their hunt, when the detonator is recovered and secured. Neither Kote nor ’67 can even begin to guess at their identity, but they both know that whoever it is that is chipped will be that much safer.

And it will also be one less thing weighing on ’67, and he’s so relieved, grateful, that Kote had taken lead. There’s a curl of shame too, that Kote had to step in to save his shebs but-

He feels… lighter, as if a huge weight has been lifted from his shoulders, and when 6922 leans in close to tell him a joke, ’67 finds himself laughing a little, even if the joke hadn’t been really all that funny.

‘-been looking in Alderaan places!’ 6922 says, and his face crinkles as he giggles along with ’67 at the punchline.

‘Stars, that’s a terrible joke,’ ’67 tells him and 5160 makes a disgusted sound in the background.

‘It really is, isn’t it?’ 6922 agrees, sounding satisfied.

Hindsight raps his knuckles on the table and the squad looks over at the CC as he tells them, ‘Time to clear up. We’re heading out in ten.’

At his place beside ’67, 9191 makes a tired sound, dragging himself upright from where he had been resting with his face pressed into the cool surface of the table.

‘You holding up alright, 91s?’ Hindsight asks, looking concerned. ‘You’re looking a little flushed. Do you need to see the medics?’

The young cadet blinks watery eyes at the CC, swaying slightly in his seat.

’67 catches him gently by the elbow and sweeps his other hand up to 91s’ forehead, as the boy mumbles a very unsteady and very unconvincing, ‘I’m good to go, Sir.’

‘He’s running a high temp, Sir,’ ’67 tells their squad leader, taking more of 91s’ weight as he slumps against ’67’s side.

‘Get him to the infirmary,’ Hindsight orders. ‘Growth spurt is hitting him hard.’

‘I’m alright,’ 9191 insists, though he keeps his eyes tightly closed.

Hindsight huffs, the sound a mix of concern and dry amusement. ‘You’re paler than a Long Neck, cadet.’

Then to ’67, he asks, ‘Think you can manage?’

‘Yes, Sir,’ ’67 says, and he gets his arms under the smaller cadet, one at the bend of 91s’ knee and the other at his back, and heaves him up.

As he hurries away, he hears Hindsight corralling the rest of the squad, ‘Form up! 5160, you’re with 6922.’

9191 groans, pressing his face into ‘67’s neck, and ’67 can feel the burning heat of his body even through the layers between them. ’67 tries not to jostle the poor cadet too much as he rushes 9191 to the infirmary.

The medic that catches sight of them when they enter assesses the situation immediately, scooping up the cadet from ‘67’s hold.

9191 makes a sharp sound of misery when he is moved, and the sound turns into a retch. He twists in the medic’s arms, hacks and heaves, and spits out a mouthful of blood and saliva and milk teeth onto the floor.

‘Easy there, cadet,’ the medic says, tone soothing and low, unfazed by the mess. ‘You just need to lie down for a while. You’ll feel better by this evening, I promise.’

And then he disappears deeper into the infirmary, carrying his young patient away. ’67 stands there awkwardly for a moment, before being harassed to move to the side by a fussy cleaning droid. He sidles over to one of the seats by the wall to wait for the medic to come back.

9191 is probably just experiencing a particularly bad side effect of the growth cycle hitting him, but it’s best to receive an official diagnosis from the medic nonetheless, to bring back to Hindsight.

A glance around the hall shows more than a dozen beds occupied by cadets 9191’s age looking as miserable as he had been, which was possibly why the medic hadn’t seemed all that surprised at 9191’s state when ’67 had carried him in.

‘7567?’ someone says, and ’67 starts in his seat.

He looks up and into the face of the Alpha medic that had treated him the night before. The older clone – Aven, his name is Aven, ’67 remembers suddenly – his eyes are sharp as he surveys ’67.

‘What are you doing here? I was just about to send for you.’

‘I… Sir?’ asks ’67 uncertainly, a wash of anxiety sweeping through him at hearing that the Alpha wants to see him. He makes to stand but the medic holds up a hand to stay him.

‘You injured?’

‘No, Sir,’ ’67 shakes his head. ‘I am here escorting a Series 9 cadet.’

Aven relaxes slightly, hums, takes a half-step back and jerks his head for ’67 to follow him. ‘Still, I’d like to check you over. I meant to summon you earlier, but well… things are a little hectic this morning,’ he says, tone wry.

They make for one of the private examination rooms, which is… not exactly comforting, but ’67 carefully pushes away his apprehension. In normal circumstances, for a check-up, ’67 is quite sure he would have been directed to a cot in the main area.

Still, it can’t be that bad; nothing can be worse than an examination performed by Ko Sai, and Aven has displayed no interest in cutting off pieces of his fellow clones for science.

’67 slides a glance up at the Alpha, takes in the dark smudges around his eyes and the air of faint exhaustion the medic exudes, apparent in spite of his brusque mannerisms and his clipped pace, and wonders if the medic has had the chance to rest at all since the day before.

‘Ke’laam bat haav, adiik,’ Aven says and points at the cot in the centre of the small room.

The Mando’a makes ’67 pause minutely, but it’s not hard to guess at what the medic wants, so ’67 hurries to obey, perching himself on the edge of the cot.

The medscan is quick and then Aven is looking through the readings, a faint frown on his face.

’You’re a little underweight,’ he says, flicking a quick look at ’67 before dropping back to the scanner in his hands. ‘Are you eating? Finishing your meals?’

‘Yes, Sir,’ ‘67 says, thinking of how he had actually managed to eat his required caloric intake at both meals today, and tries not to fidget.

Aven puts the scanner away and then just looks at ’67, studying him. He shifts his weight, leans his hip against the side of the cot and crosses his arms across his chest.

The other medics on duty in the infirmary wear plain armourweave uniforms, but Aven is also an Alpha. He’s kitted in armour like a combat medic; his helmet is clipped onto his belt, his medkit nestled between it and the blaster also holstered there.

’67 eyes the bright teal of Aven’s armour plates with interest, though he’s careful to mask his curiosity. The trainers all have paint on their armours, eye-catching and unique against the bland white of everything on Kamino, and not for the first time, ’67 wonders, besides serving to denote trainers from troopers, if the colours carry any meaning at all.

The red on Fordo, the blue on Jaing, the teal on Aven…

… the green on Maze.

’67 breathes out slowly through his suddenly tight throat. He flicks his gaze up and freezes to find Aven still watching him, something unreadable in the trainer’s face, something that is tucked away and smoothed under an expression of calm.

‘Now that it’s just you and me, I thought maybe we could talk,’ Aven says.

’67 feels his pulse jump at the words. ‘Yes, Sir,’ he manages to say evenly.

Aven watches him for another long few seconds before pulling out a datapad, and ’67 exhales quietly when the Alpha’s gaze shifts away.

‘Muzzle was the one to receive your partial report last night,’ Aven says. ‘Think you’re up to finishing it now, cadet?’

’67 nods. ‘Yes, Sir,’ he says, wishing he sounds steadier.

‘I know this is difficult,’ Aven says and his tone is almost gentle. ‘If you want to stop and take a break at any point, just say so.’

’67 nods again, the movement a quick jerk of his head. His eyes drift down to the floor, to the scuffed tips of Aven’s boots, unable to bear the look in the trainer’s eyes, something soft and sympathetic.

He takes a moment to sort himself out, to try and remember where he was in his recounting before other things had interrupted him-

He swallows hard, throat clicking in the stillness of the room.

‘I was in the maintenance closet,’ he says. ‘Maze had informed me that there was someone very dangerous in the vicinity and to keep the door secured. Someone attempted to enter the room but didn’t give the pre-agreed all-clear signal. I had to assume they were hostile. I escaped through the vents, and managed to navigate to the main hallways.’

He breathes out carefully, flattens his slightly shaking palms over the top of his thighs. His sentences are short, delivered factually, and he is hyper-aware of the omission in his report. He gives himself a little shake, rushes to continue before the Alpha would think to ask questions.

He doesn’t see the way Aven just watches him silently, concern lining the Alpha’s forehead. The lines carve even deeper when ’67 resumes his report.

‘I exited the vents system when I saw… when I found Maze. He had been attacked, with multiple stab wounds in his side. I tried to provide aid, but-… but there wasn’t-… I couldn’t-…’

His throat seizes painfully, and he has to stop, a ragged sound breaking from his lips.

His vision goes blurry, and he thinks Aven steps nearer. He shakes his head, leans away from that approaching blurry bulk that is the Alpha, as he wipes at his eyes furiously.

Aven stops, keeps his distance.

‘Do you want to stop?’ Aven asks, voice quiet and careful, and ’67 shakes his head again.

He can’t stop now. If he does, he doesn’t think he’ll be able to start again.

‘Sorry,’ he whispers, strained, and whatever he had eaten at midmeal curdles unpleasantly in his stomach. He’s not sure what he’s apologising for, for being so useless, for fumbling his report, for being unable to save Maze-

‘It’s not your fault,’ Aven immediately says and then he’s there, large hands curling over ‘67’s shoulders.

There is a deep, painful twist in his chest to realise that Aven had been there last night too, had most likely been the one to check Maze’s body, to confirm his passing-

‘It’s not your fault,’ Aven repeats, voice rough, and ’67 thinks about how Maze and Aven are both Alphas, had been decanted together, only 99 of them, the kind of close bonds they would’ve formed training together under the Prime-

‘I was with him,’ he tells Aven, suddenly desperate to tell him that, ‘Maze wasn’t alone, at the end. I was with him.’

The fingers on his shoulders tighten before releasing, along with a long fraught breath from Aven’s chest. Aven sits heavily beside him on the cot. ’67 is tense, at first, when a heavy weight settles across ’67’s shoulder, but the tension winding through his limbs loosens when the Alpha curls his arm and tugs ’67 into his side.

‘Thank you, vod’ika,’ Aven says raggedly, grief sharp in his words, glimmering in his eyes. ‘Nu kyr'adyc, shi taab'echaaj'la.’

’67 makes his own soft sound of devastation; he misses Maze, can’t believe the trainer is gone.

It should feel awkward, tucked up against the Alpha’s side, but it is clear Aven is grieving, hurting deeply, and that he’s drawing comfort from the closeness-

And ’67 can’t deny that he isn’t finding some measure of solace either, and they sit together under the weight of their grief, heavy and solemn.

Eventually, Aven collects his composure, compelled by duty to continue the debrief, though now he sounds immeasurably tired, subdued, ‘What happened after that?’

He keeps his arm wrapped around ’67, his gaze somewhere in front of him, unfocused and sad.

’67 has had long minutes to think about what he is going to say. Still, he hesitates before he speaks, ‘I tried to find a trainer, or somewhere safe to shelter. I entered a tutorial room. There was someone already there.’

Beside him, Aven stiffens, swings his gaze down to ’67. ’67 bites his lips and then meets the Alpha’s eye, ‘It was a trooper. He was… injured.’

Slick’s surgical wounds were left untreated.

‘He indicated he needed my help, which I gave.’

Slick had told ’67 that he wanted to kill Ko Sai, and ’67 hadn’t protested.

‘He turned hostile, shortly after, but I managed to escape and sought assistance from a pair of security droids. They engaged him when he would not surrender. I attempted to find a trainer. Trainers Spar and Trantos found me. I was instructed to proceed immediately to Room 2187. There were no further incidences until I reached my destination.’

‘He didn’t hurt you?’ Aven asks, and he’s running an eye over ’67 again, like his medscans might have missed something when he had run them last night, and again a few minutes ago.

‘No, he didn’t,’ ’67 says because Slick’s light touches on his neck – perverse and unpleasant – had not left bruises on his skin. ‘I am alright.’

Aven shuts his eyes briefly, looking relieved. He rolls to his feet, and he looks even more tired than before, eyes rimmed red, but his shoulders are straight, and his movements are sure and steady when he turns away and updates the report on the datapad.

‘Here,’ Aven says, holding something out and ’67 reflexively holds out his hand to receive it.

‘What’s this?’ ’67 asks, looking down at the thing dropped into the centre of his palm. It’s the same size and shape as the blue medication the medic had given him the night before, glossy and catching the light from above when it rolls in his palm. This one is a different colour, bright yellow just like the one Kote had slipped into his hand at morning assembly, the one that is still sitting in his pocket. ’67 frowns, a bit uncomfortable at Kote’s casual attitude of dispensing what could be prescribed medication, and he wonders what it is supposed to treat.

The medic glances over at it. ‘That’s meiloorun.’

‘What?’

It’s most definitely not a fruit. And it looks nothing like the fruit ’67 has seen in pictures. His confusion must be evident in his tone because the Alpha looks up from his datapad again. But what the medic says next does not give him any further understanding.

‘Sorry, kid, that’s the only flavour I’ve got right now. Gave you the last of the bluefruit ones already.’

He raises an eyebrow when ’67 just stares at him in mute uncertainty, ‘Give it a try before you tell me you don’t like it. It’s one of my favourite flavours.’

With the Alpha watching him now with an expectant expression on his face, ’67 has no choice but to hesitantly put it in his mouth.

Aven snorts, looking amused at the sound of surprise ’67 makes.

‘It’s sour!’ ’67 blurts out, wide-eyed and shocked at the sudden burst of flavour across his tongue. There’s sweetness, too, chasing after the sourness, and the riot of flavour of it is nothing like ’67 has ever experienced. ‘And very sweet!’

‘Yes, it is,’ the medic says drily, though his lips are twitching. ‘Most candies are.’

What?

‘Do you like it?’ Aven asks, looking serious, but the corners of his mouth curl slightly upwards as he watches ’67.

Something twists in his chest even as his thoughts roil in confusion and uncertainty. Candies? Had the Alpha been giving him candies before, only for ’67 to mistakenly assume those little blue spheres to be medication?

Why-?

’67 carefully tucks the… candy in the space between his teeth and cheek to tentatively answer, ‘Yes, Sir. It’s good.’

The Alpha huffs and goes back to his work. ‘You’re only getting the one, cadet,’ he says, firm but not unkind, maybe even a little teasing. ‘The Series 9s need it too.’

Aven’s comm chirps and the medic glances at the message before snapping his head towards the closed door. He moves swiftly to it but then pauses for a second, hand already outstretched over the controls, to glance back at ’67 as if suddenly remembering his presence. And then in the next moment, he’s opening the door to stick his head out.

‘Come in,’ he orders whoever it is outside, before pulling back into the room.

’67 almost chokes on his candy when A’den steps in, the Null’s visored gaze immediately swinging to focus on him.

‘Me’vaar ti kaysh? Shupur’yc?’

’67 jolts at the sharp tone, goes to belatedly jump to his feet to salute, but stops and sits back, at the hand gesture from the Null and at Aven’s protesting noise.

‘Stay where you are, cadet,’ Aven says and then to A’den, ‘Nayc. Kaysh shi udes olar.’

Whatever Aven says appears to satisfy the Null, because A’den turns his full attention instead to the medic.

‘Vod, mhi ganar bic,’ A’den says and Aven inhales sharply, looking immediately alert. ‘Morut’yc. Kote mar’eyir bic.’

‘67’s breath catches in his throat, a soft hitch in his breathing at hearing Kote’s name. He holds himself still when A’den’s visor tilts his way at the small noise. He tries to look guileless and calm, even though he almost wants to vibrate out of his skin with nervous energy.

After a moment, A’den turns back to Aven and lifts his hands. The teal of the Null’s gauntlets flashes in quick battlesign that has Aven nodding once before sliding his own bucket on and the two trainers continue their conversation privately over internal comms.

’67 sits tensely on his cot, awkward and silent, stilled by the knowledge that Kote must’ve alerted them to the detonator, that the device must be secured already.

A’den nods and reaches out to briefly grasp Aven on the shoulder, and ’67 absently notes that the colour of A’den’s gauntlets is the same shade as the medic’s armour. A thread of thought curls at the edges of his mind, something that traces the shape of that concept, of armour colour and their meaning-

’67 slowly breathes out, his heart kicking in his chest and meiloorun candy slowly melting on his tongue, the realisation breaking over him like a storm over the ocean, a phenomenon that only brings only more turbulence.

A’den is here in the infirmary to consult with the Alpha medic, a fellow medic–

And suddenly ’67 all too easily recalls when Kote told him, ‘The explosives… it’s not a question of where it is… it’s who it is in.’

‘It will be small,’ Kote had said, his quiet voice unbearably loud in the silence of the small tutorial room, ‘It could be either an explosive collar or a subdermal implant, and would carry a charge just large enough to be fatal for the person, but not enough to cause damage to the surroundings. It could be inserted anywhere; tucked along the spine, beneath the shoulder blade, under the collarbones, between the ribs…’

‘That’s… horrible,’ ’67 had breathed, feeling chilled.

‘Yes, it is,’ Kote had agreed quietly, looking down at the transmitter parts in his hand, his dark eyes shadowed by something terribly grim. ‘A collar can be disarmed and removed; dangerous and extremely risky without a secured detonator. But if it’s a chip, it is not something that will be easily extracted. They will need surgery, and… there’s no real way to fully disarm the chip until it is out.’

Chapter Text

He can’t sleep.

He’s been tossing and turning for hours but there are just too many thoughts, too many worries, snarled together in his head, impossible to unravel, and the more he tugs at the threads of it, the more it becomes an entangled mess, catching and snagging on other things.

The weight of his blanket feels too heavy, pressing down on him, and he kicks it off with a huff. He doesn’t think sleep will come for him any time soon. The anticipation of getting a new training group and trainer makes him feel too wired, too jittery, too awake, for him to settle down to rest.

He rolls upright and sighs, puts his back to the wall and his knees to his chest, giving up on sleep entirely. There’s only a little over two hours before he’s expected to get up and get ready anyway.

A sharp blade of light slices through the dark when the door eases open silently and ’67 squints against it, blinks rapidly a few times to adjust his eyesight, heart rate jumping.

His hand drifts away from the vibroblade he has tucked in the space between his bedding and the wall, shoulders slumping a little in a release of tension, when Kote slips inside the room.

The door shuts behind the CC, plunging the room into darkness again, but ’67 can make out the pale shape of Kote in his armour crossing the space.

Kote doesn’t say anything, but he pauses for a fraction of a second with a strange sort of loaded hesitancy, before he is sliding in to sit next to ’67. He sits with his legs outstretched, the lower half of his calves cantilevered off the edge of the mattress, and he tips back his head to thunk against the wall with a long sigh, closing his eyes tiredly.

‘It’s bad, huh?’ ’67 says eventually, breaking the long stretch of silence, a dark sort of dryness threading his tone.

‘An absolute clusterkriff,’ Kote agrees, tone mild, slitting his eyes open briefly before closing them again. Another moment passes and then Kote draws in a deep breath and turns his head to look at ’67. ‘You got any other detonators stuffed into your socks that you’d like to turn in?’

’67 snorts, not much real humour in the sound, hugging his knees tighter and resting his chin in the valley of his knees.

‘Just had the one, sorry.’

Kote grunts and then twists to face ’67 a little more. ’67 slides him a look from the corner of his eye.

‘Vod’ika,’ he says, sounding somehow deeply exasperated despite the flat tone, ‘you di’kut.’

’67 doesn’t bother to defend himself; it feels like every decision he has made has been wrong.

Kote huffs at whatever expression he has on his face, and the older clone groans and rolls his eyes before slinging an arm around ‘67’s shoulders and hauling him in roughly.

‘Di’kut,’ Kote hisses again, for emphasis, and even gives him a little shake.

‘Sorry,’ mumbles ’67, throat suddenly gone tight and burning and he ducks his head, lets Kote manhandle and rattle out his frustrations on ’67.

The CC makes an inarticulate sound, a complicated rumble of exasperation and fondness, and throws his other arm around ’67, hauling him into a tight hug. It feels beyond good to be crushed into Kote’s chest, even pressed against the hard plates and edges of armour. ’67 tucks his face into the crook of Kote’s neck and then goes slack in Kote’s grip, an aching pressure building behind his closed eyes.

‘Thank you,’ ’67 rasps, ragged and soft, and he suddenly finds it impossible to say anything more. His choices and actions had endangered so many people – had put Kote at immense risk – and there’s no way to take any of it back and all he can do now is to make sure to never allow himself to be weak again, to make mistakes like that again, to need Kote to swoop in and fix his problems.

He has to be better.

The arms around him tighten briefly, and then utterly serious, ‘You pull this kind of osik again, and I’ll dropkick you off the landing decks.’

‘Alright.’

‘I will dump your dikutla shebs into the ocean. I mean it.’

‘I know, Kote.’

Kote tips them both sideways onto the bed, his back against the wall and ’67 still trapped in his arms. ’67 bumps his nose rather painfully on Kote’s pauldron, but he doesn’t complain.

A moment passes in quiet and ’67 bites his tongue and lets Kote have his peace, even though he’s dying to ask how Kote had managed to subtly let the detonator parts be found; Kote must’ve been successful, because he’s here, and hasn’t been decommed by the Prime.

It’s the least he can do, he shouldn’t badger Kote, and Kote must be tired-

‘Did you know that despite being an open space for ships to land, landing decks actually have plenty of places to hide incriminating items?’ Kote pauses, and then amends, carefully light and relaxed, ‘To unsuccessfully hide, I guess, in this case. My squad did a great job in finding everything, down to the last piece of wiring. And no one even fell into the ocean.’

There is a longer pause, more deliberate, and ’67 braces himself-

‘Which would’ve lost us some points with the Prime, I’m sure-’

‘The Prime was there?’ ’67 demands, trying to twist out of Kote’s hold but the older clone just clamps down harder, half-rolling his weight onto ’67 to keep him pinned underneath.

‘Oh, yes,’ Kote says, tone mockingly casual, though ’67 can hear the grit of his teeth and he can only imagine the stress Kote must have endured for his sake. ‘He was very interested in observing our sim. He came immediately, once we called it in. Even brought along Ordo and Prudii to watch.’

’67 jerks, startled. Two Nulls being there indicates how serious the situation had been, and that Prudii had also been present only further highlights the fact. The head of the spec ops training program is infamously elusive, seemingly able to step out from any suggestion of shadow, a silent and intimidating figure in matted dark blue and black armour against the brightness of the facility.

Kote finally rolls off him, and ’67 scrambles to escape, rolling off the edge of the bed and landing in a crouch before jumping to his feet. Kote settles himself more squarely on the mattress, flat on his back. He turns his head slightly to take in ’67 hovering at his side.

‘I got the very distinct feeling that the only reason the Nulls didn’t evict everyone from the scene was because the detonator was in pieces,’ he tells ’67, the slant of his lips grim and serious. ‘Can’t blow someone up when the trigger isn’t primed.’

’67 moves to perch himself on the edge of the bed, smooths the creases of his sleep pants with his palms, ‘I think the Nulls are planning to remove the explosive soon.’ He looks down at Kote, meeting his eyes. ‘A’den met with Aven today, in the infirmary.’

Kote gets his elbows under him, half-rises from the bed, a narrowed-eyed look on his face as he asks, ‘What were you doing in the infirmary?’

’67 can’t help but huff at the display of overprotectiveness, rolls his eyes, even as something warms in his chest, ‘I’m fine, Kote. I brought in a CT-Niner who was having bad side effects of his growth cycle. And Aven had me for a follow-up check and debriefed me for last night.’

He doesn’t pull away when Kote brushes the back of his hand with his. There is a look of sympathy in Kote’s eyes and ’67 swallows hard against the sudden lump in his throat, sniffs hard, and tries to wrench his thoughts away from Maze’s green armour, the glimpse of it caught in the darkened doorway of that classroom.

The curl of Kote’s hand over his, warm and comforting and firm, helps to separate him from that moment when Maze had grasped his hand, cold and trembling and weakening-

’67 exhales, the sound rough, takes a second to gather himself, ‘Aven and I were in a private examination room. And when we were done, A’den came in to talk to Aven. Dunno what was said though – they spoke over private comms – but it wasn’t a short discussion.’

‘What made you think it was about the explosive?’ Kote asks carefully.

It’s a fair question, but ’67 doesn’t have anything solid to base his answer on except, ‘A feeling.’

It is the way A’den had seemed so focused, so intense, barely sparing ’67 a glance beyond the first few seconds of him walking into the room, shoulders a tight line of worry.

It is the way ’67 suspects that there’s meaning behind the colours the trainers put on their armours, something maybe even based on Mandalorian culture, but he can’t confirm that, can’t find anything on it on the intranet. The only thing he knows about Mandalorian armour is a small detail that ’67 remembers from their Military Modern History module that mentions that Mandalor Arla Vhett had presented in armour of solid gold at her coronation ceremony.

At Kote’s flat look and arched eyebrow, he sighs and relents, ‘It’s a few things; the timing of it... and I think A’den mentioned your name.’

Kote rolls to sit upright at that, a complicated expression on his face.

’67 tips his head at the CC; ’67 can somewhat sympathise, though of course, the attention he gets from the trainers is because of his defect. To be noticed by the Prime and his Nulls is another thing entirely. Troopers who attract their attention are usually quickly tracked into the ARC program, joining the ranks of the elite group.

As far as ’67 knows though, only CTs have been picked for the specialised training.

This… strikes him as a bit odd; shouldn’t the CCs have the cross-training too? CCs are stronger, faster, smarter than the average clone and would benefit from such instruction. But really, what does ’67 know of training an army? Prime’s training program has clearly been approved by the Republic, and there must be a reason for the separation of roles.

’67 shifts, drawing Kote’s attention back to the discussion, and ’67 leans in closer to speak softly. It doesn’t sound right to say these things aloud.

‘It’s not a collar,’ he says, quiet and sure, and Kote doesn’t disagree. ‘If it is, they would’ve found a way to remove it already, even if they didn’t have the detonator.’

He draws in a breath, tugs on the hems of his sleeves. He only has a handful of suppositions to present and trying to voice them makes him uneasy in a way he can’t explain, but Kote risked himself for ’67. He deserves to know more, has the right to know what ’67 does.

‘It must be Boba,’ he finally manages, after a few more seconds of restless fidgeting. Saying it aloud brings no relief, just makes him feel ill in the pit of his stomach – Boba is so young, slightly smaller than the Niner ’67 carried to the infirmary. The thought that anyone could hurt someone cadet-sized fills him with something hot and sharp-

‘The night of the inspections; Slick must have taken him then. Slick had Boba for hours, who knows what he did to the kid? A few days after that, Denal told me that he heard Boba might have been in an accident or something. And that A’den had been consulting with the senior medics in the infirmary.’

Kote tilts his head, a small pinch in between his eyebrows as he listens. ‘The Prime and the trainers didn’t do a search for the detonator then, though,’ he points out.

’67 nods, already having considered it, ‘They didn’t know about it yet. If they did, they would’ve. I think… I think Boba was hurt. Or something really bad happened to him. He’s been missing from training, hasn’t he? No one has seen him recently.’

And… when ’67 had been sitting at the Alpha table for latemeal, Sull had received a comm from the Prime, had a message to convey to Fordo, who had been escorted out of the mess and Slick’s squad had followed shortly after.

He can still remember the mix of emotions the trainers and troopers had displayed, the complicated tangle of anger and grief and acceptance. They must have known about the scheduled decom, had been allowed to say their final goodbyes. And Slick had used that chance to attack them and escape; Slick had killed a squadmate too, hadn’t he? There was another CT who had been killed the same night as Maze and Slick, in what the Prime had called a “training accident”.

‘Slick must’ve told the trainers about it… taunted them about it.’ ’67 shudders and then mutters, more to himself than for Kote to hear, ‘He was capable of really malicious intent.’

‘Vod’ika?’ Kote asks, sounding concerned and ’67 gives himself a little mental shake.

‘The Prime only knew about it last night,’ ’67 says firmly, abruptly loud, as if he can drown out the echoing in his ears, the memory of the sounds the Prime’s fist made, striking Slick’s face, the Prime’s flat inflection of ‘Vaii cuyir bic?’ repeated again and again and again.

If the Prime had known any earlier, there wouldn’t have been anything left of Slick for Ko Sai’s testing; he would’ve taken Slick apart himself.

Kote moves to sit beside him, the press of his body close and ’67 can’t help but lean into his side, drops his head onto Kote’s pauldron and closes his eyes. There’s a pinprick burn behind his eyelids when Kote shifts to wrap an arm around him, and the squeeze in his chest is not just because Kote hugs him tighter.

Maze isn’t here anymore, but his warnings still hang over the horizon like a laden dark storm cloud. ’67 knows that the Long Necks will always be looking for imperfections among the clones, looking for a reason to decomm anyone. And Kote won’t be safe, now that the Nulls have taken notice of him, and ’67 can’t – won’t – let them doubt Kote's capabilities due to his association with a defective clone.

It’ll be fine, he tells himself, and tucks himself closer to Kote. Just… just for tonight.

And anyway, Aven had told him he shouldn’t be alone tonight. ’67 didn’t try to tell the medic that he hasn’t got bunkmates. It’s such an inconsequential detail. The Alpha has far more important things to handle, clearly. He doesn’t need ’67 behaving like a tubie and coming to disturb him in the infirmary just because ‘67 can’t sleep.

There’s a curl of some difficult emotion twisting in his chest, something that is a bit wistful that ’67 shamefully pushes away.

Aven had been… kind. Kinder and more patient than what duty required of him.

Kote grunts when ’67 suddenly shifts his weight to lean across Kote’s lap to feel the space under the pillow. The CC eyes him curiously when he finally pulls back. Kote’s eyes drop to the offerings in the centre of ’67’s hand when he asks, ‘D’you want the meiloorun or the bluefruit?’

‘Who gave you candy?’ Kote asks, deliberating between the two flavours.

‘Aven did.’

Kote huffs as he reaches for the yellow one, ‘It’s your cute face. The medics never gave me any.’

‘We have the same face,’ 67’ retorts, rolling his eyes.

‘Yeah, but mine’s kriffed up now, ain’t it?’ Kote says cheerily, popping the candy into his mouth with a grin wide enough that the scar around his eye crinkles.

‘Well, who gave you candy before you got ugly?’

Kote makes a sound of offence. ’67 neatly twists to avoid the punch to his shoulder, smirking as he eats the bluefruit left to him. He pauses for a moment to consider the taste; this flavour lacks the sharp sourness of the meiloorun, the sweetness somehow mellower on the tongue. It is, he decides, after a few more seconds of deliberation, the superior flavour.

‘Boba.’

‘What?’ ’67 blinks at him.

Kote’s head is bowed, looking down at the lace of his fingers between his knees. The look on his face is complicated, lost in thought.

‘He’s six, you know. It’s so strange to see how different he is, from the rest of us, even though we’ve all got the same genetic base. He grows slow, like a natborn. He’s got a different lesson plan and since he can’t flashtrain like us, he has to actually read all of his materials. I was doing live fire exercises when I was three.’

’67 plucks absently at a loose thread at the hem of his sleeve, ‘He’s not been in training sessions with Bacara.’

‘Where’d you hear that?’ Kote asks, sliding him a glance and ’67 shrugs a shoulder.

‘Denal mentioned it the other day.’

Kote huffs at that, the sound something between exasperated and amused, ‘That kid is a gossip menace.’ Then his expression sobers a little as he goes on to explain, ‘But he isn’t wrong; none of us has seen Boba since the first lockdown.

‘We were hoping, at first, that it might have been a coincidence. Boba ages slowly, so he can’t exactly keep up with us. When the batch he’s training with eventually outpaces his abilities, he gets folded in with the next batch.’

’67 feels a twinge of sympathy for the Prime’s kid; it must suck, to have to stay back while others move on without you. ’67 at least is surrounded by fellow clones from the same batch, familiar faces since their decant day.

‘We thought that might’ve been what happened,’ Kote continues, ‘that he was joining in with the younger batch.’

‘Who is “we”?’

‘Denal isn’t the only gossipmonger, vod. And Boba’s not exactly hard to miss in that blue tunic of his. The rumour mill has been churning quite a bit over the past few weeks. The most prevalent theory is that he got injured in training and is recuperating, and with the way the Nulls have been acting, most think that some unlucky cadet might’ve been the cause of it.’

Unlike the CCs, ’67 doesn’t have much contact with the Nulls. ‘What d’you mean? How’ve they been acting?’

‘Pissed off. On edge. They’ve always been intense, but this was on a whole different level.’ Kote turns to pin him with a look then, something full of meaning, full of promise, ‘I don’t blame them. I can relate. If someone hurt my vod’ika, I’d be pretty pissed off too.’

’67 can’t bear the weight of that gaze, looks away, some undefinable emotion twisting uncomfortably in the cage of his ribs. Thankfully, Kote doesn’t press.

‘Boba’s a good kid. He sometimes sneaks out of his lessons to come to us, looking for company,’ Kote continues on like everything is normal, like ’67 isn’t trying to discreetly wipe at his suddenly stinging eyes. There’s a small curl at the edges of Kote’s lips, fond, ‘He hands out candy all the time. 3636 loves him.’

‘You said you think he’s cute,’ ’67 says, and he doesn’t mean for it to come out slightly accusatory, but it does.

Kote grins at him, wolfish, with a flash of teeth, ‘Don’t be jealous, vod’ika. You’re still my favourite.’

In the dark, Kote probably can’t see the way his face flushes.

‘I’m not jealous-!’ ’67 immediately denies, his protest cuts off with a squawk when Kote gets an arm around his middle and pulls them both back down onto the bed. There’s a brief and animated scuffle until Kote unfairly uses his larger size to pin ‘67’s arms to his sides. Kote’s chestplate presses firmly into his back, and he briefly considers throwing his head back to bruise Kote’s nose.

In the end though, he subsides with an aggrieved huff that makes Kote chuckle. Kote loosens his hold, but he doesn’t release him, and ’67 doesn’t pull away.

Dawn is still a while away and with Kote with him, he finds himself relaxing in slow increments, listening to the sounds of Kote’s breath evening out, and slowly slips into sleep himself.

Chapter Text

Kote hasn’t relinquished his grip on the back of ‘67’s neck since they’ve left the barracks, firmly steering the younger boy all the way to the mess hall and then through it. He doesn’t even release ‘67 to collect trays for themselves, just single-mindedly propels ’67 straight to the table occupied by Kote’s batchmates.

The hand on his neck squeezes in warning when ’67 tries to protest, so he falls silent, apprehensive, and barely stops himself from falling automatically into parade rest in self-defence when he finds himself under the combined scrutiny of a table of CCs.

‘Good morning, vode,’ Kote says, working his tone into somehow sounding sweet and sharp at the same time, and the flash of his bared teeth is more a threat than a smile.

There’s a long drawn-out moment while the CCs trade looks and glares between themselves, a whole argument conducted in silence over ‘67’s head. ’67 tries to take the opportunity to slide away – it’s clear the others don’t want him here, and he doesn’t want them fighting about it, doesn’t want them fighting Kote about it – but Kote hauls him back.

The look on Kote’s face turns stubborn as he tries to glare his brothers into submission-

1010 shifts in his seat, the movement slight, but that seems to be a signal of some sort and the other CCs settle, pull back a little, though 3636 looks rather mutinous. Kote’s gives ’67 a reassuring squeeze before his hand falls away and he goes to take a seat, eyes glinting fiercely with victory.

’67 hesitates, unsure if he should leave or sit, but then 1010 nods at him, just a slight arch to his eyebrow as he says, ‘Good morning, ’67.’

Something unknots in his stomach, a loosening of tension he didn’t even know he had.

1010’s tone isn’t exactly warm, his dark eyes are sharp and assessing, but… ’67 hadn’t really expected to be welcomed after all the things he had said. He doesn’t quite know what to do, how to respond to the fact that 1010 seems willing to accept his presence at their table again. The other two CCs remain silent, watching 1010 and ’67 with razor-sharp attention.

‘Morning,’ ’67 says trying to sound firm despite feeling deeply awkward. He makes himself tilt his chin up and meets 1010’s eyes.

‘Come sit down, vod’ika,’ Kote says, like everything is normal, cutting straight through the tension. He pats the space next to him and ’67 scrambles to obey, finding himself bracketed by Kote and 1010’s armoured bulk.

‘You are an osikhead,’ 3636 tells him bluntly after a moment, in lieu of a greeting, after ’67 has taken his seat.

‘I am an osikhead,’ ’67 agrees readily, completely agreeing with the assessment.

3636 glares at him for a moment longer before grunting. He turns back to his tray, grumbling something under his breath.

A tray filled with food slides into place in front of him and he glances up, bemused, only to see 1004 handing Kote a similarly laden tray-

Had 1004 been anticipating ’67 joining their table? Something in his chest does a funny twist at the thought that the CC had collected his meal tray for him.

Kote gives him a sharp jab with an elbow and a pointed look, and ’67 flushes as he clears his throat and says, ‘Thanks, 1004.’

1004 gives him a wide smile as he croons, ‘You’re welcome!’

When 1004 turns an expectant look at Kote though, the CC just gives him a very rude hand gesture that makes 1004 bark a laugh before he manages to stifle it.

‘Oh, is that how it is?’ 1004 asks, sounding wounded, his expression arranged into one that is wrought with disappointment. ‘After everything I’ve done for you, clothed you, fed you-’

‘You’re not my real buir,’ Kote says snidely, spearing a protein cube and popping it into his mouth. ’67 snaps his head to look at Kote, but Kote only has eyes for 1004 sitting opposite him.

‘No, but I’d really like to be, if you’d just give me a chance,’ 1004 says, tone hopeful, and he reaches a hand across the table towards Kote, palm up and entreating-

He snatches his hand away. A fraction of a second later and it would’ve had Kote’s multitensil stabbed through the centre of it.

1004 tsks, shaking his head slightly with disappointment. ‘Sometimes, I worry that you’re too much like your buir.’

’67 can’t help it. An incredulous giggle escapes him, even as he suffers a wistful kind of pang. Oh, how he has missed witnessing these absolutely absurd exchanges. Briefly, he remembers his conversation with CT-6922, and wonders if the cadet’s batchmates are as ridiculous as Kote’s, if they tease and banter amongst themselves like this.

‘You know the rules, no violence at mealtimes,’ 1010 says drolly.

‘Oh, you’d say that now, vod,’ Kote says, pointing the multitensil first at 1010, and then casually taps at the side of his head where his scar is. His tone is light and there’s a hint of something under the playfulness, something that makes 1010 smile sharply in return.

1004 straightens in genuine alarm. ‘No. No no no. No fighting allowed at the table.’

Even 3636 tenses, looking ready to intervene, darting looks between Kote and 1010, and ’67 wonders if he’s going to get caught the in the crossfire.

‘So, what are they fighting about today?’ Denal asks, suddenly appearing at their table and sliding in next to 3636. He shoots ’67 a bright grin that ’67 returns after a moment of hesitation.

‘…About not fighting at mealtimes,’ 3636 says, eyes not leaving the pair of CCs who are locked in a staring match.

Denal cocks his head, hands already busy breaking up his cubes to be mashed into his pastes. ‘They’re fighting about not fighting?’

’67 watches the exchange, the ease and familiarity of his fellow cadet with the CC. ’67 had noted 3636 automatically scooting over to give the cadet space at their table when Denal appeared with a tray. And now ’67 can see the way 3636’s body is turned subtly towards the cadet-

Denal is lucky that he’s normal, that he doesn’t have to worry about the Long Necks like ’67 does; his connections and relationships with other clones would not be scrutinised for possible corruption of standards.

‘You should eat your food, ’67,’ 1010 says, tone mild, finally looking away from Kote to slide his gaze over ‘67. ‘You’re looking a little skinny.’

’67 gives a put-upon sigh when Kote immediately looks him over as well. The warm feeling in his chest when Kote starts his fussing very quickly slides into exasperation.

‘I can feed myself, thank you,’ ’67 says drily, when Kote reaches over to start cutting up his fibre discs like he’s a nanny droid and ‘67’s a tubie just starting on solids.

‘Can you, though?’ Kote snipes back, and ’67 has to defend the rest of the items on his tray when Kote attacks them too. ‘Your skinny stick arms probably aren’t even strong enough to lift that multitensil.’

’67 is too busy fending off Kote’s multitensil to notice 1004 suddenly attacking from the front, the CC’s hand snapping out lightning fast.

‘Hey!’ cries ’67 indignantly, expecting to see some of his food stolen because 1004 is always flicking things off their trays. Instead, he finds a few more protein cubes than he had before.

‘Airdropped supplies,’ 1004 says with a wink when ’67 looks up at him in surprise.

‘Now, open wide for the freighter--’ Kote says, waving his multitensil aggressively in front of ‘67’s face, a cube speared on it.

’67 reaches out to shove Kote’s arm away, but the older clone weaves the multitensil through the air in what would be physically impossible evasive manoeuvres if it was actually a freighter. Kote starts making embarrassingly loud engine noises, that draw the attention of the other tables around them.

‘Stop it!’ ’67 hisses, caught between mortification and amusement, trying to swat Kote’s hand. ‘There must be something wrong with your engines if it’s making that kind of racket.’

‘Best to let the freighter land then,’ Denal tells him and ’67 flashes his fellow cadet a look of betrayal.

‘Before it crashes,’ 1010 adds gravely. There’s a slight twitch at the edges of his lips.

’67 makes an aggravated sound and Kote takes the chance to shove food into his mouth, the multitensil clacking painfully against his teeth.

‘Ow! Kote!’

‘Don’t talk with your mouth full,’ is what he gets in reply, from more than one CC.

‘Right, so what do we have on our schedules today, then?’ 1004 asks, after they’ve all had their fun bullying ’67 and have turned their attentions back to their own firstmeals. His question is directed to 1010 who has started scrolling through his datapad as he eats. ‘More sims? Lockdowns? Drills?’

1010 hums before replying. ‘Back to our regularly scheduled programs. We’ve got Tactical Ops today, before physicals. Management and Administration tomorrow. Looks like everything is back to normal…’ he trails off as he scrolls a further, suddenly going still. He sets his datapad down with a click, eyes catching the other CCs’.

‘Prime will be handling our assessment.’

‘Kriff,’ 1004 swears, immediately going a few shades paler with stress.

‘We’ve got eight days to prepare for it,’ 3636 reassures him but 1004 looks even more nervous.

‘What about you guys?’ Kote demands, swinging to look at Denal who has pulled his own datapad out.

He frowns down at the screen. ‘ARC-1262 has been assigned as our temporary trainer for now, so he’s gonna be doing our assessments. We’ve got some changes to our groupings, though.’ He flicks ’67 a glance and says, ‘We’re in the same group, so we’ve got the same schedules.’

‘At least Denal can help keep an eye on you,’ Kote mutters, stabbing at his food a little bit more forcefully than needed, making ’67 wince. He didn’t mean to make Kote so stressed.

3636 scoffs. ‘Pretty sure it’ll take an entire squad just to keep the little osikhead outta trouble,’ he grumbles, giving another glare at ‘67, but it is more annoyed than actually angry.

’67 tenses slightly in alarm, suddenly wondering if everyone at the table knows about Slick-

Kote nudges his foot against 67’s ankle and gives a slight shake of his head, flicking his gaze to 1010 and then back again, somehow easily reading his momentary panic and knowing the cause of it.

Just 1010, then. But it doesn’t make him feel much better knowing that the other CC knows; this is information that could easily get them decommed. 1010 catches his eye then, and as if he can read ‘67’s concerns on his face, gives him a small nod, dark eyes serious and intense.

‘Hey, I heard you found something in the sims,’ Denal says to 1004 around a mouthful of paste, and ’67 has the fleeting thought that it’s a little unfair that none of the CCs jump on him for talking and eating at the same time.

‘Yeah. Missed midmeal and latemeal because of it,’ 1004 says grumpily, and he gives Kote a baleful look as if it is his fault.

‘Sorry, vod. I had my own hands full supervising my own recovery,’ Kote defends. ‘I missed latemeal too.’

‘Wait, you found something too?’ Denal asks, perking up in his seat. ‘I didn’t hear anything about this!’

Kote shrugs a shoulder. ‘Nothing particularly exciting. Just a sad handful of loose wiring and what’s supposed to be a disassembled detonation device,’ he says blandly, looking far more interested in his food. ‘1004 on the other hand, had a whole room stuffed full of booby-traps to disarm.’

It works perfectly to redirect Denal’s attention. The cadet turns to give a wide-eyed look to 1004, who puffs up and starts talking without needing any prompting.

The retelling is well underway – with Denal listening to 1004 with a sort of rapturous expression on his face, and 3636 scoffing and rolling his eyes in the background – before 1010 turns to ’67.

‘You alright, kid?’ he asks, voice low to not draw the attention of the other trio. There’s concern threaded through his tone.

’67 jerks a small nod.

Kote hums. ‘Already told him he is a di’kut, vod,’ he tells 1010.

The serious expression on 1010’s doesn’t change. ‘I think it bears repeating, nonetheless. You really are a di’kut, ’67. A dangerous situation like that is not something anyone should have had to handle alone, let alone a cadet.

‘You didn’t have to try to face that karked up situation on your own, ‘67. You shouldn’t have needed to. Kote’s here. We are here.’

’67 ducks his head, shoulders hunching up. It would’ve been preferable if 1010 had been shouting, raging, but he just speaks measuredly, and his quiet words sting. 1010 sighs after a moment and bumps his shoulder then, gentle, and ’67 makes himself look up at the CC.

‘We’re all in this together, vod. We look out for each other.’

Kote makes a fierce agreeing noise, having been listening in, bumping ‘67’s other side.

’67 looks between both CCs and jerks his head in another small nod, his throat too tight to try to squeeze words through, to tell them he understands.

An army is more than an individual soldier. They’ve all memorised the rules and protocols. They have command chains.

’67 should have been able to fall back onto his training, should’ve reported in to an older, more trained clone or a trainer. Instead, he had utterly screwed up. He’s incredibly lucky that something worse hadn’t had happened, and that Kote had been there.

1010 nudges against him again and 1010’s thin lips, usually pinched and stern, have the smallest of encouraging smiles. It softens 1010’s face immensely, warms the look in his eyes.

‘Now’, he says, glancing down at ‘67’s tray and the edges of his lips curve even more, ‘make sure you finish all your freighters.’

There’s a flash of green at the corner of his eye. ’67 almost turns towards it before he catches himself. ARC-1140’s armour isn’t painted in the same pattern, isn’t even in quite the same shade of green, but sometimes ‘67 glances up and there’s always a tiny split second when he thinks that it’s Maze he sees. He ignores the brief twist of emotions he feels, pushes it away, tries to concentrate instead on his footwork as he drills.

Troopers are made in batches of thousands, made to be replaceable, interchangeable. The Alpha trainers, on the other hand, are infinitely more valuable. The loss of Maze causes changes; a ripple that expands to affect them all, even if it’s not enough to cause a wave. What was once a smoothly running operation is now missing a piece, a slight stuttering in the established rhythm of their days.

There are adjustments to their groupings, a little tightening of their schedules, a few more droids as minders, and a rotation of ARCs that step in to take over the training for the 7 series batch.

Their training for this month now falls to ARC-1140, the same commando who had been their overseer during the search sims. ’67 finds the laconic ARC intimidating; he never seems anything else but singularly unimpressed by his new duty.

‘Again,’ ARC-1140 commands their training group when they reach the end of the sequence. His is voice flat and the expression on his face is a match to his tone.

They start again.

Sweat stings 67’s eyes and makes his tunic stick uncomfortably to his body, makes his damp hair curl on his forehead. He advances a step, shifts his weight, elbows tucked close to his body and his hands up in front of his chest. He jabs his fists out, a series of quick punches delivered to an imagined enemy and then takes a step back, forearms up and defensive to protect his head. All around him, the other cadets move in unison, stepping and turning and punching and blocking, the sounds of their feet uniformed, not a beat out of sync.

‘Faster,’ he tells them, after their set. And, ‘More intense,’ for the set after that.

‘Eurgh,’ complains Denal, a great depth of feeling conveyed in the sound, when they finally hit the showers. He’s got his face upturned towards the fall of water, eyes closed, and his shoulders are slumped. ‘ARC-1140 is the worst.’

‘I thought you said Scorch was the worst,’ ’67 says, reminding him of his complaints of the other ARC who had the training rotation before ARC-1140. ‘67’s tone is more tired sounding than amused. His muscles are sore and aching, and he never wants to step out from under the pressured shower.

Denal rolls his shoulders and slits his eyes open to give ’67 a glance.

‘ARCs are the worst,’ Denal says firmly after sparing a bare moment of thought.

’67 grunts his agreement to this conclusion.

The commandos training them seem to be unaware of the fact that their trainees are still only cadets, and CT series at that, and are holding them to what seems to feel like an impossible standard.

‘By the time we hit trooper, we might graduate ARC training the same time too,’ Denal says.

And isn’t that a fanciful thought; the whole graduating batch of CT Series 7, all of them ARCs and getting fitted out with the kama along with their trooper kits-

‘Yeah,’ ’67 says.

Never mind graduating ARC. He’s trying to imagine, trying to hope, that he makes it through the last few months of cadet training. A trooper bucket would help hide him, would finally give him the anonymity he craves in a facility full of clones.

There must be something in the tone of his voice, something strained and uncertain, because Denal shoots him a look.

’67 avoids his gaze and steps fully into the fall of water. He washes slowly, trying to stretch the activity to the very edge of the time allotted to them to get cleaned.

‘67’s scores had dipped a little, at the last assessment.

Kote had tried to convince him that it will be fine, that he just needs to score well the next time, and that it’s normal that he’s unbalanced, and after all the things he has been through recently… well.

His fingers shake only a little as he works to rinse out his hair. It’s the worry and the stress, and all the things he has to avoid thinking about because if he lingers too long, he gets shivery, and it gets a little hard to breathe.

Denal is done by the time he resurfaces from pummelling of the shower, gone from the stall beside him. The other cadet is already dressed and waiting for him in the locker area and ’67 hurries to stuff his limbs into his own uniform.

He runs the towel quickly over the top of his head, but he doesn’t attempt to dry his hair beyond a quick squeeze. Dripping wet from the shower, his blond hair looks darker – not as dark as the other clones, no – but it becomes something that doesn’t stick out quite as much, a dampening of the pale gold beacon that is his defect. The collar of his tunic very quickly becomes wet.

‘C’mon! I don’t wanna be late and get assigned punishment circuits!’ Denal frets and ’67 jogs over, if only to stop Denal from flapping his hands at him.

‘I’m coming, I’m coming! You could’ve just gone on ahead,’ he points out to the other cadet, only to get an exasperated huff in return.

‘Hurry up,’ Denal commands, seizing ’67 and tugging his elbow. ‘We’ve still got a few minutes to cram for the test.’

‘I don’t know why you’re even worried, Denal. I’m the one that needs to brush up on the section on hydrogeology.’

‘Then stop wasting time!’ Denal snaps, pulling him along faster.

Admittedly, Denal’s last-minute revision session does help, and ’67 steps out of the testing booths a few hours later, feeling fairly confident that he will score well. He’s one of the first few to exit the hall, having finished all his questions faster than the others. He loiters in the hallway outside, torn between deciding to wait for Denal to appear or to just head to the mess-

‘Come with me, CT-7567.’

Ice shoots down his spine, his breath catches painfully in his chest. Luckily, even though his thoughts have crash to a cold stop, his feet are already obeying, turning smartly to follow. It buys his mouth a precious split second to acknowledge the order, more trained response than a conscious decision.

‘Yes, Sir.’

Chapter Text

The thought is there to turn and hurry away, to avoid uncomfortable questions, but it is too late; Denal clocks him immediately and starts shoving his way through the throng of hungry cadets to reach ‘67.

‘Where have you been?’ Denal demands, reaching out to grab ‘67’s elbow, as if he can read the urge to flee in ’67’s frame. ‘I couldn’t find you after the test. Did you skip latemeal yesterday? Where were you at firstmeal?’

‘Hello, Denal,’ ’67 says and manages a smile for the other cadet. He gently extricates himself from Denal’s grip, holding back a grimace as hot pain flares across his ribs when he moves wrong, the shock of it drives the breath from his lungs.

Denal doesn’t notice, too occupied with snapping angrily and swatting at a cadet who had crashed into his side. The other cadet is too driven by hunger to care, lopping off for the mess hall. Denal huffs and then seizes ‘67’s wrist, ‘C’mon, I’m so hungry I feel like could eat a whole bantha.’

And despite the pain carving its way up and down the ladder of his ribs, ’67 feels the stirrings of hunger – he had missed two meals – so he follows after Denal, swinging his limbs to move faster to keep pace with the other cadet.

‘You alright?’ Denal asks, sliding him a look. ‘You’re a little pale.’

‘I’m fine,’ ’67 assures Denal, and he maintains his pace even when Denal slows a little, forcing the other cadet to half-jog a few steps to catch up again. ‘A bantha actually sounds great right now.’

Denal snorts, a grin taking over his face. ‘Don’t think there are any banthas on the menu; only freighters.’

’67 huffs a laugh, lips tugging upwards and finds his mood lightening.

It’ll be good to see Kote and the others and allow himself to be distracted for a while.

He swallows down the jittery feeling in his belly, laughs at something Denal says, and then tells himself that he’s a good cadet, that his scores are good enough, that Ko Sai is just doing her job and making sure that he’s up to GAR standards.

He lies down on the cot and stares up at the large panels of lights bearing down on him. They’re bright and intense enough to leave afterimages burned to the back of his retinas. But to close his eyes is not a possibility he entertains.

He won’t close his eyes.

Not when Ko Sai is in the room with him, drifting about in the periphery of his field of vision, clicking and trilling softly to herself in her own language.

He clamps down on his shudder when she touches his neck, the pads of her fingers are a shock of cold. There’s a small bite of pain, a small pneumatic hiss, and then she pulls the hypo away.

He blinks rapidly but his vision remains stubbornly blurry. He’s been told that it should clear up by this evening, and the condition has been fading in and out the past few hours, but for now…

…the target is a smudge in the far distance.

The temporary blurriness of his vision is not the only thing hampering him at the moment.

His attention is split between aiming at the centre of the target, and consciously regulating his breathing; if he doesn’t, if he forgets, his breathing stutters, stops. ’67 has never really consciously thought about how he breathes before – it’s a thing that just happens – but now, it’s something he has actually to actively think about and control.

It’s absolutely terrifying and he prays that the scientist is right; that the side effects will only last for only a few more hours. Even when it does wear off, he doesn’t think he’d sleep at all tonight, afraid he would just stop breathing in the middle of the night.

He swallows – uncomfortably aware that he has to briefly cease breathing to do so – and tries to work past all of it. He can feel sweat beading on his forehead, the tight coil of anxiety winding through his body making all his muscles tense.

He’s taking too long between shots, and he knows it, can feel the weight of the trainer’s attention bearing down on him. The other cadets in his group have already finished their charge packs and have been dismissed.

He blinks hard again, grits his teeth, wills his eyes to focus—

From the flat noise that blatts from the scoring system, he knows it didn’t strike anywhere near the centre, that it had instead grazed the edge of the holotarget.

The swell of frustration he feels makes his hands shake, and he fumbles his safety checks.

‘Easy now, cadet,’ the ARC trainer says, from over his shoulder. ‘Check your weapon again.’

‘Yes, Sir,’ ’67 says, flushing with mortification, double-checking the cartridges and chambers.

ARC-1207 watches him as he secures the rifle back on the rack before beckoning him over. The ARC tilts the screen of his datapad ‘67’s way, and ’67 can’t quite hide his wince when he parses the results of his shooting.

‘Your grouping is a little wide today, cadet. Drifts a little left, too,’ ARC-1207 says, tapping the screen. ‘And that last one was a flier.’

‘Yes, Sir,’ says ’67, staring at the blurry numbers on the screen and trying not to crumple in defeat.

The trainer hums, ‘I know you’re usually a better shot than this; your past records were exemplary. Could be just one of those days. Don’t worry too much about it, CT-7567. And I’ll check the rifle you used later; it might need some recalibrating.’

‘Yes, Sir,’ ’67 says again, not knowing how else to respond, and stares when the trainer gives him a quick smile.

The ARC jerks his head, indicating the other side of the room, ‘You’ve got someone waiting for you over there.’

’67 whips around so fast he almost falls, feet getting tangled together, heart in his throat—

The ARC catches and steadies him with a soft huff of amusement, but ’67 hardly hears it, too busy being relieved that it isn’t Ko Sai, too busy trying to catch his breath.

‘Sull’s been waiting for you.’

’67 had been too focused on his task to even notice the Alpha entering the range earlier. The Alpha is watching them now, though he straightens from his lean against the wall when he notices their attention.

’67 jogs over to the other trainer and offers a crisp salute, ‘Sir!’

‘At ease, cadet,’ Sull says, and his gaze roves over ’67. ‘I wanted to check in on how you were doing.’

’67 bites on the insides of his cheeks and remains quiet; it is too much to hope the Alpha hadn’t witnessed his dismal performance earlier. It feels terribly like he’s letting Maze down, especially since Maze had once praised his sharpshooting skills to the other Alpha. Sull had probably expected something better than the awful showing ’67 had managed.

There’s a stretch of awkward silence and then Sull clears his throat. ‘How are you doing, ’67?’

‘I’m fine, Sir,’ ’67 replies instantly.

’67 tenses slightly when Sull raises a hand, but the Alpha is only exchanging some battlesigns with the other trainer. ‘67 keeps his posture straight, carefully modulating his breathing.

‘Jate, Sev says there’s still some time left on the range and I’m free for the next twenty minutes or so,’ Sull says and ’67 looks up at him uncertainly. ‘Do you want to practice a bit more? I can help you figure out what’s affecting your aim.’

Sull sounds kind and patient.

He sounds a lot like Maze, actually.

’67 blinks, but this time, his blurred vision is not just because of the side effects of the scientist’s new compound. ’67 isn’t sure what twisty thing his face is doing, but it makes the expression on Sull’s face slightly panicked.

‘Oh, osik,’ Sull breathes, wide-eyed. ‘K’uur, verd’ika. Udesii.’

’67 drops his gaze, sucks in a sharp painful breath – he had forgotten to breathe – tries to wrest his emotions under control, tries to remember to keep breathing—

‘—It’s alright, cadet,’ Sull is saying, probably trying to sound soothing but there’s a stilted awkwardness in his tone. ’67 makes himself listen to the trainer. ‘There’s no need to be so stressed and upset. We’ve all been there. Some skills need a little more time to perfect, and there’s nothing wrong with that.’

He draws in a shuddery breath, manages to make himself nod, but he can’t quite make himself meet the trainer’s eye.

His chest is aching.

The Alpha shifts awkwardly and when ’67 still remains silent, finally says, ‘We can practice another time, cadet. When you’re feeling up to it. You can go get cleaned up.’

‘Yes, Sir,’ ’67 says quickly, feeling a rush of relief and a tangle of other difficult emotions. He gives the Alpha a salute and then flees the shooting range.

Sull watches his retreating back, a complicated expression on his face. He shakes his head and his shoulders slump when Sev signs a question to him.

It’s no use trying to hide when he’s so different, so defective, but the instinct is still there and ’67 still tries anyway. He ducks his head, as if that will help make him less noticeable.

It doesn’t.

Ko Sai always finds him easily.

It’s like she knows his training schedule.

‘Did your sim get rescheduled?’ Denal asks, turning to him when he doesn’t follow their smaller tutorial group into the turbolifts. The other cadets have already filed into the cabin, and Denal is holding the doors open.

‘It got shifted to this afternoon,’ ’67’s mouth says, barely any hesitation when he answers. He grips the fabric of his pants; the material is rough and grounding between his fingers. He blinks, opens his mouth to say something more, but Denal is already stepping into the turbolift.

Denal sighs, looking disappointed. ‘I was looking forward to running that sim with you.’

’67 stops himself from swaying a half-step forward.

‘Yeah,’ ’67 rasps and gives Denal a weak smile, just as the turbolifts doors start to close, his throat feeling tight. ‘Me too.’

‘Come with me, CT-7567’

‘Yes, Sir.’

‘Me and the others have got our Survival module coming up the rotation after,’ Kote reminds him, sounding distracted. The CC is busy reading over the assignment packet, scrolling with one hand as he eats quickly.

’67 nods, keeps his eyes down and on his meal tray. His fingers still feel clumsy and numb. It’s difficult to even grasp his multitensil in a proper grip and he struggles awkwardly with the needed dexterity.

‘Vod… what are you doing?’ 3636 asks, his tone laden with suspicion. ’67 freezes, but when he slides a glance up, it’s 3636 talking to 1004.

‘Prepping,’ 1004 answers primly, tucking away a few protein cubes into his belt pouch.

‘You’re hoarding. And you know we can’t bring in anything else except the supplies they give us,’ 3636 tells him, sounding exasperated. ‘It’s just gonna get confiscated.’

‘Don’t come crying and complaining to me when you get hungry,’ 1004 retorts.

‘That’s the point of the module, di’kut; it’s to train through tight rations. And to learn survival skills.’

’67 tunes out their bickering when Kote speaks to him, ‘I’ll see you in a month, alright? Don’t do anything stupid, eat all your fibre cubes, study hard, and don’t set anything on fire.’

’67 swallows down his nutrient paste, mouth feeling suddenly very dry. ‘See you soon.’

Kote glances over at ‘67’s mostly untouched tray and frowns deeply. ’67 doesn’t really try very hard to stop him from fussing, from cutting up the fibre discs into smaller pieces.

At least, he thinks, shuddering involuntarily and feeling the hot slide of tears creeping down the sides of his face, she isn’t using her laser scalpels.

The memory of Slick and the squares of flesh cut from his chest makes him dry heave, body jerking.

At least he’s strapped down securely. Ko Sai’s readings might’ve been otherwise disrupted, and she would have to start the procedure all over again.

Denal checks the updated rosters on the intranet and groans loudly, looking frustrated. Beside him, ’67 only feels numb, a faint sort of buzzing in his ears.

‘I don’t understand why they have to reshuffle us around like this,’ Denal grumbles, flipping furiously through the tabs to find his updated schedule. The other cadet wrinkles his nose in annoyance as he continues, ‘They could’ve at least waited until ARC-1138’s month was up before reassigning us new groups again.’

Denal glances over at him then, and ’67 belatedly makes an agreeing noise because he seems to expect some sort of response.

‘Do we have any shared sessions now?’ Denal asks him and frowns with discontent when ’67 shakes his head. ‘Kark. That sucks.’

‘67’s own schedule is open on the datapad in his hands and Denal catches a glimpse of it. Denal manages to stifle his jerk of surprise, but his lips press briefly together in concern. As quickly as the expression flashes across his face, it is smoothened out and he tucks away his own datapad. He gives ’67 a small carefree grin, as if he hadn’t just seen ‘67’s chance of graduating the program sliding away slightly.

It isn’t fair.

His scores and physicals are good, far better than average. But it’s evidently not enough to overcome his glaring defect and they’re pivoting his training more towards intelligence and analysis instead. He puts away his own datapad, aware that his hands are shaking and that Denal is watching him with something like worry.

Denal seems to hesitate a moment before rallying himself, ‘D’you think they’d let us be in the same group if we requested? I know the trainers would sometimes approve transfers for troopers who want to join a different squad; I wonder if they’d let us be together. I could request to transfer…?’

It’s so, so stupid of Denal to offer. Everyone knows it’s not exactly a good sign when the trainers start adjusting a cadet’s track when they’re not even done with the more all-rounded basic training; it means the cadet has deficits in certain areas.

But ’67 is not thinking about Denal attending statistics and analysis classes with him; what he is imagining is Denal being selected by Ko Sai, Denal lying next to him under the bright lights of the scientist’s lab and has to swallow down the sick that immediately rises to the back of his throat.

‘No,’ he bites out harshly, and Denal looks a bit startled at his sharp tone. He swallows again, throat clicking, and then steps around the other boy. ‘I’ve got to go.’

‘I’m heading to midmeal too,’ Denal says, turning to walk beside him, and ’67 knows Denal is just trying to help, but he can’t deal with that right now, doesn’t want a witness to his breakdown.

‘I’ve already eaten,’ ‘67’ lies, quickening his pace, his heartbeat thudding in his ears. He needs to get away. ‘I’ve got range practice to get to.’

‘Oh,’ says Denal, sounding uncertain, falling back. ‘I guess… I guess I’ll see you later, then?’

‘Yeah,’ ’67 throws another lie over his shoulder and doesn’t look back. ‘Later.’

His heart is beating so hard and so fast it’s like a drumming in his chest, the beats strung together into a loud droning behind his ribs.

The monitor beside him is screeching urgently, some of the numbers rocketing upwards as others plummet dizzyingly.

Ko Sai tilts her head as she peers at the readouts, chittering to herself as she taps out careful notes.

He pants, gasps shallowly for breath, because it feels like his lungs can’t fully expand. All his nerve endings feel like they’ve been set afire, the sting of it harsh and flaying and unrelenting, overwhelming all his senses and then his vision goes white—

‘CT-7567,’ the training droid beeps as it nears his learning console.

’67 looks up from his sprawling calculations, the spread of information and data scattered across the surface of his screen. The training droid holds out a datastick that ’67 automatically takes.

‘This assignment is for you. It is to be completed by the end of the day.’

The droid moves on to the next cadet, handing out another datastick loaded with another assignment.

’67 sets aside the new assignment for the moment to concentrate on the one he’s currently working on. There are correlations he has to tease out of the dataset, calculations to run, conclusions to compile, and it all needs to be completed within the next two hours.

He makes a list of observations as he wades through the data, jotting down notes to remind himself of the things that he will need to follow up on, possible solutions to the problem at hand.

His focus is again disrupted by the training droid. ‘CT-7567. This assignment is for you. It is to be completed within the next thirty minutes.’

’67 immediately saves and clears his current digital workspace and loads the new assignment in. There are gigabytes of data packets to sort through; maps and weather reports and survey plans and reports of troop movement and local infrastructure plans and building plans and lists of government officials—

He can already imagine the headache he’s going to get, but time is of the essence, and he loads all the files into the flasher. He keeps his eyes opened and his mind focused as all the information strobes and flickers rapidly across the screen, one after another.

His eyes are stinging after the flashbrief, the insides of his head feeling sore and bruised. He checks the chrono and immediately straightens to start writing up a summary report. He only has eighteen minutes left to get it done.

He gets it in with seconds to spare on the chrono countdown, hitting the “submit” button with a rush of adrenalin. He grimaces; he didn’t even have any time to spare to double-check some sections of the report.

Eyes closed, he slumps in his chair, taking a short moment for himself. There’s a low-grade headache building at his temples, which he futilely tries to massage away with his thumbs.

A sharp blatt jars him out of his short break, and he twists in his seat to glance over at the cadet sitting at the console next to him. CT-7007 cringes in his seat, his wide-eyed expression further exaggerated by the thick corrective lenses he wears.

‘CT-7007, you have failed to submit your analysis within the stipulated timeframe. This results in an automatic fail grade for the assignment,’ a training droid informs flatly.

CT-7007 swallows hard, his throat bobbing. ‘Yes, Sir,’ the cadet says shakily.

‘Proceed with your next assignment, CT-7007,’ the droid orders.

The cadet gives another acknowledgement and loads up another datastick. His face looks pale in the wash of light from his screen.

’67 bites his lip and turns his attention back to his own screen and loads up his previous workspace. He has an hour and six minutes left to complete his assignment.

The soft chime of an incoming message jerks him straight into wakefulness with a shivery rush of coldness. On the side table next to his bed, his datapad flashes with a new notification. Nausea lurches through him when he reads the missive. He gives himself a second or two to pull his composure together, and then he sends an acknowledgement to the summons.

His hands are shaking, so he tucks them into the pockets of his sleep pants as he walks. He is required to report in immediately, and he hadn’t been spared any time to change. The halls are quiet; it’s late enough that everyone else are already in their bunks asleep.

Ko Sai hums with pleasure when she opens the door for him. ‘Come in, CT-7567,’ she clicks.

’67 obeys.

Her hand wraps around the back of his neck to guide him deeper into her lab, long fingers curled proprietarily around the base of his skull, threaded through his hair.

‘Lie down there.’

‘Yes, Sir.’

Chapter Text

He surfaces to consciousness sluggishly, a slow and arduous struggle to wakefulness. And even then, it is a disorientating effort to cling to it, when everything feels so heavy. He tries to move, limbs twitching as he tries to remember what happened, where he is, who he was with—

’67 hasn’t yet been trained in the physical aspects of interrogation and resistance training, but he has read all the material on it. And it has been helpful to have something to hold onto when everything gets just a bit too much.

He isn’t strapped down this time, but it does little to calm the racing of his pulse. He can hear the soft whir of a droid nearby through his thundering heartbeat. He tries to swallow but ends up gagging instead at the dryness in his mouth.  He braces himself before splitting his eyelids open against the harsh lights overhead.

He lies still because she doesn’t like it when he does things without her instructions.

Now that he’s awake, he’s determined to keep his eyes open, staring doggedly up into the searing lights.

He counts the seconds in his head, seconds that turn over into long minutes, the soft hum of machinery and droids are a low background noise until eventually, he hears a soft, more organic clicking.

He tenses.

The thrum Ko Sai makes when she’s pleased vibrates through his sternum and her touch is cool against his forehead. She chirrs and clicks, long strings of lilting Kaminoan that is directed to her droid assistant that gets her equally long responses in binary. ’67 doesn’t understand Kaminoan and his binary is elementary at best, but the rapid-fire blatts from the droid are simply too complicated to decipher. He bites the insides of his cheek hard enough to taste blood, holds himself unmoving under her caress as she cards her fingers through his hair, the movement slow and distracted. After several exchanges, the droid gives an acknowledging beep and then ambles away.

‘Stand up, CT-7567,’ she tells him, same as always, finally turning away and moving towards her work console.

He fights off the rush of vertigo when he surges to his feet. He stumbles a little but he’s already orientating himself towards the exit, shuffling his feet as fast as he can to get away—

‘Where are you going, CT-7567?’

He stops so fast, his limbs seize, and he almost falls before he catches himself. He arranges himself upright and turns to attention towards the scientist.

‘Sir,’ he says, heart fluttering like a panicked thing in his chest. ‘I have field training.’

Ko Sai regards him quietly, her head canted, and a sense of foreboding shivers through him at the expression on her face.

‘There’s no need for that anymore, CT-7567,’ Ko Sai tells him, and each word makes his stomach drop even further. Her stare is unblinking, her black eyes glittering and fathomless, and something in her tone makes all the hairs at the back of his neck stand on end. ‘You have been specially selected to assist me in my research.’

There’s a second or three before he manages an acknowledgement, and it sounds small and distant to his own ears.

‘Yes, Sir.’

‘Stand on the scanning deck. You are not to move unless otherwise instructed. Am I understood?’

‘Yes, Sir.’

He obeys. He’s shaking, fine tremors wracking his body no matter how hard he tries to be completely still for her. He tries to keep his mind blank, ruthlessly pushing down any thought, because he can’t afford to lose control now.

He’s a good cadet—

—Is he still a cadet? It… sounds like he has been removed from the training program—

—He can follow orders.

He just has to stand still for Ko Sai.

He can do this.

…

…

…

…

…

He blinks, a slow shuttering of his eyelids that pulls the room back into focus, drags his awareness back from the safe unfeeling haze he so often retreats to these days, draws himself back under his skin. The movement of his arms doesn’t falter even as the state of fugue recedes further, driven by muscle memory alone as he strips his bed. Quietly, he continues to fold the sheets and blanket, edges crisp to inspection perfection. He stacks the bedlinen carefully at the head of the bed and smooths his palms down the length of the bare mattress.

He sweeps one last glance around the room. Everything has been cleared away already. Everything that he has, has been packed away into the crate by his feet; standard issue uniform and underclothes, toiletries, datapads, a handful of broken styluses… a vibroblade stuffed into one of the rolls of socks.

“You keep marching bravely,” and it’s Maze’s voice he hears, quiet and soft and fading—

He bends down to fasten the cover of the small crate on, the sound the snaps make is sharp and jarring in the silence of the room. He draws in a deep breath, and it shakes only a little on the exhale.

There’s nothing else to do but wait. He sits on the edge of his cot, flattens his sweaty palms on the top of his jittering knees.

He is a clone, and this is what he is made for.

It is still dark out, his droid escorts an hour away, and dawn beyond that. Everyone should be bedded down and asleep in the barracks.

Which is why when his doors suddenly slide open noiselessly, ’67 leaps to his feet – no, it isn’t time yet, it can’t be – but the surge of dread is arrested when he sees the Denal’s silhouette outlined in the doorway.

‘’67?’ Denal yawns, swaying his way inside, eyes half-slitted and sleep-crusted.

‘What are you doing here?’ ’67 asks, a little sharply, his pulse still racing.

‘Wanted to see you. Haven’t seen you around in a while, ’67,’ Denal mumbles, rubbing tiredly at his eyes. Denal looks around the room and frowns. Then slightly clearer, a little more awake, ‘Where’d all your stuff go?’

’67 settles back awkwardly on his stripped bed.

‘I got assigned elsewhere,’ he says.

Denal’s face flickers through a series of emotions. ‘Is this because you’re in a different track now?’ he asks, his tone careful, like he’s afraid of upsetting ’67.

’67 fiddles with the edge of his sleeve, not looking up. ‘Yeah,’ he says quietly. He wants to say more, but he’s not sure what to say, or how to say it. So, he says nothing.

Denal exhales a long heavy breath and then comes closer, sinks onto the mattress to sit by ‘67’s side.

‘Well, we can still share mealtimes together, right? And I’m sure some of our downtime should line up. It’s not like we won’t run into each other; the facility is only so big,’ Denal says, trying to sound light.

There must be something in ‘67’s silence that makes Denal turn to look at him, eyes narrowing slightly.

‘’67?’

‘I…,’ he starts, slow and uncertain, throat tight, ‘…I got selected. To assist the scientists.’

Confusion cuts across Denal’s face, ‘What do you mean? To do what? Like a lab assistant, or something?’

’67 shrugs a shoulder helplessly, ‘I dunno, I haven’t been briefed, exactly. But… I don’t think I’ll be continuing within the GAR program.’

Denal stares at him and this time there’s consternation in the lines of his face. ‘No offence, ’67, you’re smart as kriff but I didn’t think you’d be scientist material.’

That makes ’67 laugh, but it’s not a humorous sound. It’s something sharp, filled with something darker, something desperate and cornered.

‘No,’ ’67 says rather breathlessly. He’s laughing too hard to talk properly and he’s aware of Denal staring at him. His eyes are wet from laughter, from hysteria, and he presses his clenched fists against his eyes and tries to choke out his grim-humoured words around his laughter. ‘No, I don’t think I’m scientist material either. More like scientist’s material.’

‘’67,’ Denal says, clamping a hand down on ‘67’s to give him a hard shake when ’67 just continues to laugh, the sound on the edge of manic. ‘What the kriff are you talking about?’

The worry on Denal’s face is sobering, and ’67 swallows down on a laugh, swallows down on a sob. He tries to bring his scattered self back together.

But see, Denal is a smart cadet too, and ’67 can see the pieces clicking into place for him, can see the realisation strike him. Denal sucks in a sharp breath, and his grip on ’67 turns almost bruising.

‘It’s one of the scientists, isn’t it? It was during the time when we had the droids take over our training, and you were saying that it might’ve been a test by the scientists to see what we would do, if we could accept taking orders from the droids.

‘I thought it was such an odd opinion – why would anyone devise such an experiment – but you seemed to know a lot about what the Long Necks might do. And there was one scientist… you mentioned her name…’

’67 can see Denal’s mouth shaping the name, watches it take form.

‘Ko Sai.’

’67 can’t help the tremble that sweeps through him, the sound of the scientist’s name enough to bring terror rising up his chest.

Denal presses nearer, voice dropped into a fierce urgent whisper, ‘Is it her? ’67, is she doing something to you?’

‘I…’ ’67 starts, and then stops.

He doesn’t know why he can’t use his words, why everything gets tangled up and lodged in his throat.

Maybe the expression on his face is enough, maybe Denal just makes his own deductions, but the other boy sucks in a sharp breath. ’67 looks at him – at the grim slant of his mouth, at the bright burning of his eyes – and something twists inside his own chest.

‘How long?’ Denal asks him, his voice unsteady with anger. ‘How long has she been experimenting on you?’

’67 baulks at that, at the tone, something inside him instinctively wants to protest—

‘It’s not like that,’ he says, but it sounds weak. ‘I’ve been… assisting in some of her research.’

‘How are you assisting?’ Denal asks intensely, like he’s fighting to stay calm. ‘What exactly does she have you do?’

The words dry up in ’67 mouth.

Denal stares at him – at his face, drops to his clenched fists, takes in his shaking shoulders – and the look on Denal’s face darkens even further, and ’67 finds himself speaking.

It feels like finally admitting he’s defective out loud, accepting it, and knowing that he can’t be anything but.

‘I’m different,’ ’67 says. ‘There are tens of thousands of clones, but I’m the only one like this. There’s something in me that makes me different—’

‘It’s just your hair—’

‘No. No,’ he says. ‘There must be something else, something wrong with me,’ he insists, shaking his head almost violently.

Because his scores are good, well above average – or they had been, until recently – but he still has been tracked into Analysis, the soft track for cadets who can’t keep up with their peers, so there must be something he’s lacking.

And there’s further concern too, because what if whatever it is, makes ’67 a danger to the others?

Something had been wrong with Slick, for him to have acted the way he did, for him to have attacked and killed other clones. The Prime himself had acknowledged that Slick was defective.

’67 has had sharp and dark thoughts, mutinous thoughts, and it terrifies him.

He’s a clone, and he’s meant to follow orders.

Maybe Ko Sai can sense that conflict in him. She knows all their genetic codes inside and out; she knows the clones better than they know themselves.

‘There’s nothing wrong with you!’ Denal growls.

’67 looks back at him.

‘Yes, there is,’ he tells Denal.

The other boy makes a noise of frustration and then very visibly changes tracks. ‘Who knows about this? That she’s been experimenting on you?’ he demands, and ’67 can’t help but flinch at the emphasised word. Denal jolts as if a thought has occurred, and then asks sharply, ‘’67, did Maze know?’

‘It doesn’t matter if he knew or not,’ he points out and the expression on Denal’s face tightens further. ‘He was just an Alpha. Ko Sai’s authority superseded his.’

Denal takes in a deep breath and glares at ’67. ‘You should have told him.’

‘Why,’ ’67 says more than asks, his tone gone utterly flat, feeling abruptly tired and drained, ‘would I have told our trainer – told anyone – that a scientist thought that I was defective.’

That would’ve gotten him decommed faster than anything.

‘67 turns away from Denal then, unable to look at him.

‘Everyone already thinks it. No need to reinforce the idea. No need to remind them of it. I don’t have batchmates. No one wants to do partner work with me, unless they’ve been assigned. No one wants me to sit at their table.’

There’s a long stretch of silence.

‘I do,’ Denal says quietly, and ’67 squeezes his eyes shut, something twisting in his chest. ‘Kote does. And 3636, and 1004, and 1010.’

‘They’re CCs,’ ’67 says roughly. ‘They can do what they want and get away with more.’

‘And me? What about me?’

‘You shouldn’t,’ ’67 tells him. ‘It isn’t safe for you.’

There’s a moment of quiet and then Denal explodes, startling ’67.

‘Kark you!’ Denal seethes, the expression on his face sliding into anger and insult. ‘You don’t get to tell me what I should or shouldn’t do, osikhead! We train, we eat, we fight, we study together! Aren’t we friends?’

And then, slightly quieter but no less intense, ‘We are friends, aren’t we, ‘67?’

Denal’s words make something twist under his ribs.

‘Yeah,’ ’67 says, sounding a bit thick. He swallows and repeats, ‘Yeah. We are.’

Denal nods decisively and then jumps to his feet. He reaches for ’67, ‘C’mon, let’s go. The CCs should be coming back soon from Survival. 3636 told me they’ve got a rotation of downtime today. We can go wait for them at their bunkroom. Kote or 1010 will know what to do about Ko Sai. Come on, ’67.’

The last sentence is emphasised with an urgent tug and Denal’s lips slant into annoyance when ’67 doesn’t budge.

‘Dank farrik! Listen to me, you di’kut,’ Denal hisses and seizes ’67 by the shoulders. ‘Whatever that Long Neck is doing to you, it’s karked. She’s karked you up, kriffed up your head. You aren’t defective and you don’t deserve to be put to the scalpel. She’s wrong. What she’s doing is wrong. Do you understand?’

’67 doesn’t, not yet, but he’s afraid he might be starting to allow himself to consider what Denal is trying to tell him.

Ko Sai and her tests had always been part of his life. He still has memories of being small, still a tubie, and her droids would come to collect him from the creche; remembers all the times he has to stand before her while she goes through his assessment results; has lost count of the hypos used on him—

’67 has always told himself it was because the scientist was being thorough, was doing her duties, was making sure his variance wasn’t affecting his performance.

But some of the things she has done… aren’t just with the cool detachment of scientific methods. Some of the things are… beyond uncomfortable curiosity, something that slides more towards calculated cruelty.

He has found himself wondering – struggling to put himself together after being put through some of the sims she had designed – why he was being made to watch Jedi cut down legions of clones, why the orders the clones received were to kill each other, why he has to endure witnessing the murder of an entire clone fleet—

Why.

He has already tried to tell himself that Ko Sai must have her reasons, even if he doesn’t understand them.

There is a feeling like a vice slowly tightening around him, an unhurried crush of an enormous weight of tangled thoughts and emotions. ’67 draws in a careful inhale, and then just as carefully sidesteps some of those thoughts, just enough to skirt the edges of a complete collapse, treading along the knife edge of it.

Somehow, with Denal’s crushing grip on his shoulders, he manages to hold himself together.

The soft beeping of his chrono threatens to undo his composure and he feels all the blood drain from his face. He shakes Denal off, and his hands shake as he grasps for the chrono.

‘You have to stay here,’ he croaks, and he dodges Denal’s hands when the other boy tries to reach for him again. ‘Don’t let them see you. Stay in here until morning call.’

‘What’s happening?’ There’s something like alarm in the tone of Denal’s voice. ‘Where are you going? Who is coming?’

’67 bends down to pick up the crate that holds all of his belongings. He can feel his heartbeat jumping erratically in the back of his throat.

‘I have to go,’ he tells Denal, and his voice sounds very far away to his own ears as he turns to walk towards the door. ‘The droids will be here any minute and we can’t let them know you’re here.’

Denal is on his feet in an instant, darting around ’67.

‘’67, what the kark are you talking about? Where are you kriffing going?’ and it isn’t really the right time, but ’67 can’t help noticing that Denal really does have a tendency to curse a lot when he’s stressed.

When ’67 steps around him without answering, Denal grabs the crate, tries to wrestle it out of ‘67’s hands.

‘Denal! Stop it!’ ‘67 snaps, sharp and angry and desperate. It makes the other boy pause. Denal swings his attention to him and ’67 meets his angry and confused gaze with his own desperate one.

With a cold sort of flash, ’67 recalls the way Kote had once wanted to confront Maze when ’67 had told him that they shouldn’t continue to meet. Then, ’67 had been trying to protect his ori’vod from attracting the unwanted attention of the Long Necks.

Denal isn’t Kote, but he’s brave, and protective, and so reckless in a way that ’67 both admires and laments, and ’67 is so afraid of what Denal might do, how he might lash out and react, how he might get himself into trouble. Denal is a good cadet, and ’67 can’t give Ko Sai any reason to want to requisition another cadet and he can’t stand the thought of Denal under the scrutiny of the scientist.

‘I’ve been selected, remember?’ he reminds Denal jerkily, and the words send a shiver down his own spine as they leave his lips. ‘Ko Sai is waiting for me. I have to go.’

‘You can’t—’

‘I have to go,’ he repeats firmly, gritting his teeth. ‘Tell Kote. Find him and tell him for me.’

He holds Denal’s gaze. He knows he’s asking a terrible thing of Denal, to tell Kote that ’67 is as good as gone, but Kote deserves some sort of explanation when ’67 stops turning up at meal times, even if none of them can do anything about it.

Whether or not what Ko Sai is doing is right or wrong doesn’t matter. Not really. She’s a Kaminoan, and ’67 is just a clone.

Denal clenches his jaw so tightly ’67 can hear his teeth grind together, his chest is heaving and his eyes burn brightly. Rigidly, Denal steps back, his gaze locked onto ‘67’s face, and when ’67 continues walking away, Denal doesn’t stop him.

March bravely, he tells himself fiercely. With his shoulders pulled back and spine straight, the click of his boots are a steady metronome.

There are a pair of droids just approaching his door when he steps through the doorway.

‘CT-7567,’ one of the droids says, ‘You have been requisitioned.’

He tilts his chin up. ‘I’m ready,’ he says, although he’s really not.

One of them steps in to walk beside him and he tries not to flinch or shy away. The other security droid turns to lead the way. His face is wrestled into a blank mask, his feet keep time with the pace the droids set as he walks with them, leaving Denal behind in ‘67’s emptied room.

March bravely, he repeats to himself.

Chapter Text

They’ve been told, over and over again, every single day of their lives, that their ultimate purpose is to fight. There’s the Endless Wars raging across the galaxy for centuries.

But with them, with the clone army, the galaxy will finally know peace.

Like the other clones, ’67 has never been under any impression that his life is to be dedicated to anything but in service of the great and noble Republic. They were made for it, made for the Jedi.

’67 has drilled, studied, and trained with the rest of his batchseries, and has pushed himself harder than the other cadets, because he has always been singled out by Ko Sai.

He had convinced himself that it must be because he is different, and so the scientist must perform quality testing. He had told himself that if ’67 isn’t fit to be a regular trooper, or even useful enough to be given a role in one of the softer training tracks, then he can at least serve a purpose by assisting the Long Necks with their research.

He had never before allowed himself the space to question his orders or his purpose.

There is no place for doubt in war, and there shouldn’t be doubt in his heart.

But Denal has managed to drag to the surface all the things ’67 has always kept ruthlessly buried, all the doubts he has ever had.

His thoughts are tossing and twisting and tangling, even as his feet keep up the steady march the droid escorts have set. There’s bitter bile rising up the back of his throat that he forces back down. His grip is tight around his crate, the edges of it cutting into his palms. He doesn’t loosen his hold, grips it tighter against his chest like it can shield him from what is happening.

He knows he is being requisitioned to assist Ko Sai and maybe it should also feel no less honourable than serving in the GAR itself because she’s one of the lead scientists of the cloning program, her work is so important, and he should be content with his small role in her research—

But there’s a terrible feeling icing its way through his bones, a dread clawing up his gut and constricting his chest and instead, it feels like how he’d imagine being sent to decomm would be.

The feeling doesn’t go away when they step into a turbolift, and the cabin doesn’t stop at the level where the scientist’s lab is located. His heart drops further and further, the higher they go. He’s never been in these upper levels before, has never even really wondered what they might hold. The highest level he’s ever been to is Ko Sai’s office and laboratory, located just beyond the fringes of the designated clone sector.

’67 casts his gaze about when the turbolift doors open and he’s led out. The hallway beyond is as white and as bright as the hallways that he is used to, but the elegant arching height of it here stretches for many meters overhead.

He takes in his surroundings as he walks, wide-eyed and heart hammering in his chest.

These are not the utilitarian structural forms or finishings of the training facility. The walls here are delicately fluted, inlaid with some kind of subtly shimmering metal that has light bouncing off them and spraying shifting opalescent speckles of light off the pale polished floor. The effect is beautiful, if dizzying and disorientating, like floating through the kaleidoscopic star-stretch of hyperspace in slow-motion.

It makes him feel uncomfortable and small, out of place and insignificant, a clone, more aware than ever that he is stepping into literal unknown territory; this is clearly deep into the Kaminoan sector.

The droids walk him to a tall arched doorway and the narrow doors slide silently open. They leave him to enter alone, and he steps in with a not-insignificant measure of trepidation.

Inside is a large dimly lit circular room with a domed ceiling, with several doorways leading elsewhere. The area is echoingly empty, bare of any physical furniture or decoration. The cavernous space is filled instead with a myriad of glowing projected holofields; holographic data and diagrams overlaid over each other and intersecting with complicated looking helixing calculations written in the Kaminoan script, glyphs that flicker and twist and rotate in confusing ways—

All of ‘67’s attention, however, is drawn instead to the centre of the room, where Ko Sai is waiting for him, watching him. Her long fingers are threaded together in front of her, her head canted to the side. There’s a glint in her dark eyes as she studies him, a kind of anticipatory intensity in her gaze.

‘Sir!’ he says, twisting to deposit his crate by his feet, before straightening and giving her a sharp salute.

’67 becomes aware of the slight vibration in his chest and in his jaw, realises that the low frequency of her purring is making his bones thrum in resonance.

‘CT-7567,’ she intones slowly, her tone soft and satisfied sounding. She hums again and then she shifts slightly, neck twisting and her tone suddenly goes hard, underlaid with intimidating subharmonic Kaminoan that rattles his teeth. ‘As my research assistant, you will have new operating parameters. You will no longer be attending any of the training sessions. Instead, your new duties will be here with me. You are not permitted to leave these quarters. You will obey all my commands and all my instructions. Defiance or disobedience will not be permitted and will be swiftly punished. Do you understand, CT-7567?’

‘Yes, Sir.’

Ko Sai clicks, pins him with a long stare before she pulls back a little, and ’67 draws in a careful breath, tries to keep the rest of his body still.

‘Come,’ she says, turning away. She doesn’t look back at him, as he scrambles to obey. He is forced into an awkward half-trot to match her long strides. ‘Your new duties will begin immediately. I have already sent you your new schedule and responsibilities. I expect you to familiarise yourself with it.’

She leads him down one of the hallways. There’s a door, which would have disappeared seamlessly amongst the wall panelling if it wasn’t for the control panel next to it, at a height too high to be installed for ‘67’s use.

Ko Sai enters a code, and the door slides open. ‘Store your things,’ she orders and ’67 hurries to obey, dropping his crate just beyond the threshold and immediately backing out. The doors slide shut with a low beep of locks engaging.

’67 follows after the Kaminoan, keeping two steps behind her tall figure as she leads the way deeper into what must be her private residence. They pass several shut doors before she stops in front of one to enter a code.

’67 stands momentarily struck at the doorway, blood rushing past his ears, before he manages to make his feet move him into her laboratory. There’s a fine trembling to his limbs when he finally makes his way to stand before her and he tries to keep his eyes locked on the scientist’s torso, tries to keep his wide-eyed gaze from skittering across all the many pieces of equipment he recognises, familiar with some of them in ways he wishes he really isn’t.

Ko Sai remains silent as she watches him expectantly. He swallows hard, mouth dry and throat clicking, and carefully climbs onto the cot, arranging himself flat on his back. He’s tense, and he tenses up even further when she sweepers a scanner over his form.

She taps on the readouts on the screen and warbles to herself in her language, sounding dissatisfied.

‘I need the readings to be Human-at-rest baseline. Currently, stress hormones and blood sugar are elevated; heart rate and aspiration need to be at normal levels,’ she informs him in Basic, like she expects it’s something he has control over.

She sets her scanner aside and reaches for the straps on the cot. He bites back on a whimper of dread as she starts fastening the ones on his wrists and across his shoulders, before moving down to secure his legs.

There’s a neat row of intravenous catheters on the cart by her elbow and she reaches for the first one.

‘I will have to chemically adjust before I begin,’ she says.

The steady drip of inhibitors and regulators flowing into him marks the slow seconds that turn to minutes that turn to hours that turn to days. It is a strange sensation, ’67 thinks later, to be able to lie languidly on the cot, his body artificially suppressed into relaxation, and yet still have to mentally endure through the next several days.

’67 isn’t sure which is better or which is worse; the long absences when she leaves him to attend to her daily duties, or the short segments of time when she’s there and all her attention is on him.

There’s nothing to occupy or distract him and ’67 finds himself having little choice but to confront all the things he has so carefully and so successfully avoided before. The forced calm of his body makes him feel… detached, but in opposite ways that he’s so accustomed to. It had always been ‘67’s self that had retreated into that small space within his mind, hidden and safe from whatever was being done to him, waiting carefully for the time to resurface when reality isn’t so threatening. But now it is his physical body that feels safe, calm and relaxed, and his mind a tumultuous thing that thrashes against one frightened thought to another, memories dragged to the surface when ’67 would rather them just remain buried in the deep.

When ’67 was a tubie, his brain sparking with developing synapses, he had a moment of sonder when he looked around the creche hall. Every clone had been dressed in identical jumpsuits. Every single face he had seen was the same.

Every single one of them had dark hair.

He could not find any others like him.

And when ’67 learnt to read, learnt his aurebesh and his numbers, the knowledge of it flashed into his tender brain, he had tried to find the CTs that had the designation number before or after his.

He could not find them; there is only a gaping void of two missing vode before and after 7567.

He was different. He was alone in a batch of thousands.

There had been a very brief span of time then, that he thought that there might have been something special about him, that he had been made special. It’s hard not to covert for something like that, being chosen to be special, when there are clones all around, tens of thousands with the same destiny, and then there’s one of Boba, special and singular.

Of course, it very quickly became apparent how useless that quiet yearning and hope was; CT-7567 is nothing but an aberration, a blight upon the otherwise spotless cloning program of the Kaminoans.

’67 can remember being brought by a nanny droid to stand before a panel of scientists, their tall and slim forms towering above him as they stared and clicked at him, prodding and pinching with their instruments. It had been terrifying and painful, but even at that young age ’67 knew that crying would only annoy them. He had tried to distract himself with the only being there that had not been a Long Neck, locking his eyes onto the silent figure of The Prime who was observing from the back of the room.

Taun We, he remembers, had been agitated, glaring coldly at him the entire time while the scientists ran their battery of tests. And in the end, Taun We had accepted Nala Se’s judgement when she had pronounced him fit for the program despite his defects – and oh, that was when ’67 realised that he was special after all, but not in a good way.

‘Notwithstanding the pigmentation of its hair, CT-7567 is a perfectly healthy clone. Its defect is purely cosmetic; I see no reason for it to be terminated.’

Nala Se’s endorsement might have allowed him to live, but it did not save him from further testing.

They needed to know what triggered his mutation and how it happened.
They needed to know why CT-7567 survived the decanting when the other four CT clones with the same defects didn’t.
They needed to ensure that CT-7567’s mutation was stable, that it wouldn’t suddenly degenerate his condition.
They needed to verify that CT-7567’s defect wouldn’t interfere with his enhancements.

They needed to do a lot of things, really, and eventually, his outlier nature became the justification Ko Sai used to continue other sorts of testing.

He told himself it was so that if something in his mutation was to suddenly become active, the scientist would know immediately.
He told himself that the vaccines and treatments the scientist was developing would work on all the clones, between standard and the deviant that is CT-7567.
He told himself that the scientist was making sure that he was still a viable product.

He told himself a lot of things, really, but now those self-comforting reasons are being slowly eroded away under the constant drip, drip, drip, drip, drip, of the calming cocktail being administered into his veins.

Now, he thinks, CT-7567 is different, is defective, so perhaps it didn’t really matter to the Kaminoans if he never made it to the end of the production line for the Jedi to receive.

Perhaps it never mattered if he had been a good cadet or not, if he had studied hard or not, if he had one of the highest scores on the range or not.

Perhaps CT-7567 was never intended to graduate cadethood.

Perhaps Ko Sai never had any intention of stopping her testing, ever.

Perhaps… her experiments never had any other intended result than to see how far she can push a clone before they break.

Perhaps… she might be closer than she thinks.

He wonders what Ko Sai reads from the recordings of his brain activity – the clash and clarity of his thoughts – whether her hypotheses are proven or disproven by the erratic spikes and jagged graphs and starburst fractals of imaging scans.

Ko Sai doesn’t say anything at all when she finally removes all the needles and loosens the straps holding him down. She doesn’t bother to watch as he tries to clamber off the cot, limbs weakened from being pinioned for so long.

’67 finds himself missing the regulating effects of her suppressants, the flesh along his back feeling blistered and raw from bed sores from lying immobile for days. He is shaking from the agony of it all, half-folded on his knees on the ground, trying to keep his gasping cries behind his gritted teeth so as to not disturb the scientist. He has made a mess of himself, made a mess on the floor, and all he can do at the moment is to try to breathe through the pain. He hisses when the assistant droid cuts open the back of his tunic, the fabric tugging on his skin when it is pulled away. The cold air stings his skin, goosebumps rising on his arms, as the droid removes his clothes.

He yelps, jerking in surprise and shock when the droid clamps a servo around his neck. It’s instinct to try to kick it, try to twist out of its grasp, but ’67’s legs are wobbly and won’t even hold his own weight, and the hit he lands is only glancing.

The droid ignores his struggling and ’67 is quickly steered into a decontamination tank. The harsh cleansing sprays feel like his back is being flayed open and a scream is torn from him. He thinks the booth might be soundproof because Ko Sai doesn’t look up at his wail. He tumbles out onto the ground when the door he’s leaning on slides open, jarring his shoulder painfully.

He lies there, face pressed into the cold floor, trying to make sense of anything and only half-aware of the droid standing over him, but too disorientated and in too much pain to do anything—

The cold shock of bacta, the relief it brings, makes him choke on a sob.

‘Take it away and clean up,’ Ko Sai orders the droid, sounding irritated at the noise and ’67’s heart constricts in fear at her voice, but thankfully she is already looking away, already busying herself with charting out her new data.

The droid drags him out of the lab, and ’67 lets it, hangs limp and shaking in its servos and tries to swallow down every whine and every whimper. It takes him back to that hidden room where Ko Sai had him store his things. He didn’t get the chance of more than a glance then, too anxious to follow Ko Sai’s orders.

The droid unlocks the door which slides open to reveal a space that is barely big enough for the mattress that had been stuffed into it. The walls and ceiling are a flat utilitarian grey, and with not even a privacy screen for the vacc tube in the corner, it seems more like a cell than anything.

His crate is where he left it, and the droid very nearly steps on it when it tugs ’67 into the room and dumps him onto the mattress. ’67 manages to half-catch himself on his elbows, but his breath is still driven from his lungs from the rough treatment.

He jumps, startled, the movement sending pain lancing down his back, when the door closes behind him and he is immediately plunged into darkness. All he can hear is his own breathing, hitching and catching, getting shallower and more rapid as seconds slide by.

He starts trembling, limbs shaking uncontrollably. He curls into himself, moving slowly because of his aching muscles and sore skin. It’s utterly dark and he can’t see anything, not even his hands when he passes them in front of his face to brush away the wetness on his cheeks.

Chapter Text

The utter darkness of the tiny room had terrified him before, when he had first experienced it, when he had first been thrown into it, disorientated and dazed from pain. He has since learned to like the dark, to prefer it to the white searing brightness beyond the door of his cell-room.

He finds it comforting now.

Darkness means a reprieve from Ko Sai.

Darkness means mealtimes of ration bars and a chance to catch some rest.

He lies on his back on the thin mattress, nibbling on his ration bar. He swallows, grimacing at the powdery feeling coating his tongue. Ration bars have become his staple now, and he thinks he might actually miss the food they serve at the mess hall; there are at least different textures and flavourings.

He might even actually be agreeable to the mixed mash Denal creates.

The empty wrapper slips from his listless fingers to the floor, scattering crumbs. The cleaning droid whirrs as it clears away the mess.

He gives himself a few counts of breaths before he twists sideways to shove his hand under the mattress to find his datapad.

The battery level is still slightly more than half and ’67 keeps its screen at its dimmest setting to conserve its charge, since there isn’t any way for him to charge it. He still makes a habit to check its intranet connection, even though he knows Ko Sai has had his access revoked.

Some of the applications, however, do not require intranet access and ’67 taps open the document he has been working on every night in the dark, for the past tenday.

It had started off as something to centre himself, after a particularly bad day, something to occupy his mind and his hands. At first, he started transcribing the GAR reg manuals from memory, the long list of rules and regulations. But he had quickly found himself unable to continue, the code of conduct making the feeling in his chest tighten uncomfortably for some undefinable reason. Why bother transcribing that part of his life from before?

He’s not a GAR cadet anymore, he doesn’t know what he is, and even the new tunic that he has been given doesn’t have his designation printed on its front, just a blank stretch of fabric across his chest.

So, instead he just… types.

Types whatever he wants, really.

Though at times, he finds it hard to even start typing, just stares for long minutes at the screen, not sure where or how to begin, what to say. But he makes an effort to never delete anything he writes, just starts a new line when the sentence he’s writing becomes too difficult to finish.

His document has become a collection of disjointed sentences, thoughts half-transcribed, half-explained, sentences that run overlong, sometimes over-detailed, meandering and twisting, as he tries to find his meaning, things that he sometimes wishes he had found the time or courage to say—

but anyway im trying now, right? im trying. it might not be the most coherent thing ive ever written down but

sorry. sorry ive never really been good at find the proper words and this isnt like anything ive ever tried writing before. its so strange to not have any structure to it and it’s definitely not like writing a report or an essay at all. reports are easy in a way, cause theres a purpose for them and a standard format and theres an intended audience but who is going to read this? who the kriff is going to read this messy

i miss going to the range. it has always been my favourite thing to do. i like it there. its not like spars where i need a partner, or running drills or laps where everyone is there. at the range we all get our own stalls and it’s nice. i dont feel like everyone is watching me. and i like it when i sight down the scope and line up the target. thats when everything in my head quietens down, goes still, and its like all the calculations and adjustments for distance altitude humidity are all happening on instinct. i just know what to do exactly how to take the shot it’s like the whole galaxy just compresses down into that one spot that is dead centre of the target. when i pull the trigger its like the blaster bolt itself is an exhale of breath and

kriff it sounds so stupid when i put it down in words like that i sound like a dikut

He huffs a small self-deprecating laugh and then starts anew on another topic.

i think the protein discs are better than the cubes
red fibre cubes tastes way better than the green ones
blue candy tastes better than the orange ones

’67 pauses after writing that last sentence to wipe his suddenly stinging eyes. He presses the heels of his palms to his eyes, sucks in a tight breath. It wobbles on the exhale.

its late, he types, im tired and i should sleep, and then signs off with the time and date before tucking away the datapad.

He squeezes his eyes shut tightly and tries not to think about how many more writing sessions he will have. The battery on the datapad will only last for so long.

kote, he types, pecking slowly away at the on-screen keypad. Every movement he makes hurt, every joint feels inflamed, but he’s determined to do this anyway, determined to write down something every night. His entries never had an addressee before but tonight, his entry is addressed to Kote. ’67 finds himself entering his ori’vod’s name, his hand moving on its own.

Maybe it isn’t really a surprise; he was thinking a lot about Kote today.

Kote and the others would’ve been back from Survival for several rotations already, would’ve found out that ’67 had been permanently pulled from the program. He wonders how Kote is taking it, hopes that the older clone hasn’t done something rash. But Kote has 1010, and 1004 and 3636. ’67 is sure they will help and support him; they are good vode.

todays been a badday

i wish

itdoesnt matter

i miss u

His breath hitches and he catches the sound of misery in the back of his throat, and he swallows it down.

sorry

There are mottled bruises littering his arms, scabbed over constellations of needle marks on his skin. His wrists are encircled with angry red lines where the restraining cuffs had bitten into him today. Distantly, he wonders if it’s a good sign or not, that the droid hadn’t bothered to treat him with bacta after the session today.

Is that another part of Ko Sai’s test, or has she finally grown tired of him?

kote, he starts, because after that first time, he finds can’t stop addressing each new entry to Kote now. He stares at Kote’s name for a long moment, until his eyes burn and blurs. He takes a moment to swipe away the wetness on his cheeks.

The brightness of the screen dips a little, the battery charge dropping another level, and ’67’s heart with it. It spurs him to start typing.

i finally finished my programming assignment. its weeks late and not like i can submit it or anything since im not

anyway

i had mostly finished coding it before so there wasnt much to do with it except proofing it. which i did. i read every single line of code. would be kriffing easier if i could just execute it to test it

it looks like it works though

i dont know what id do with it now but it was nice to have something to do for a little while

He has never found the will or the want before to write about his days with Ko Sai, preferring to escape in wandering reminiscences and tangential thoughts.

It is a ritual that has become something of a coping technique, especially so for the bad days, something to divert his attention just for a little while, distract him from the reality of his situation. The days have started to bleed together, with more bad ones than tolerable ones, but writing a few lines has helped him a little, eased slightly the tightness in his chest, eased the pressure building inside him. But it is growing increasingly impossible to sidestep those difficult thoughts completely, so easy to trip himself up.

weve lived our lives through sims

what is it actually like out there?

i think id like to try bluefruit in real life one day

and real people food

do you think we are real people

are we real

we are clones but are we real

There’s a tightness in his chest, a clenching of some undefinable emotion when ’67 pauses and rereads his latest entry. Whatever that feeling is, it makes the slant of his lips turn grim and he can hear his heartbeat suddenly roaring in his ears. His movements become jerky as he continues typing, jabbing far harder than he needs to on the touch-sensitive screen, only distantly aware of his breathing turning rough and ragged.

we are made to die but we havent lived

we havent been allowed to live

allowed

why must we be allowed at all

why are we made to die

dont we deserve to live

she doesnt deserve to live

He jolts, staring wide-eyed down at his screen, his breath rasping harshly in his throat. The pounding of his heart is loud and he’s shaking, not with fear, no, but something else. Something sharp and hot and slicing, something that drags his eyes to the silhouette of his crate, small and half-emptied.

He licks his lip and then pulls his gaze back to the screen. His fingers are stiff when he eases his tight grip on his datapad.

He hasn’t ever deleted anything he’s written since he started, an unspooling stream of consciousness put down in words.

The screen’s brightness dims just a little bit more and after a long moment, ’67 slowly deletes the last sentence. His gaze slides over to his crate again, mind picking through the short list of items inside.

Those words were Slick’s.

No, ’67 will write his own.

It’s different today. Something is happening. The routine he’s grown used to, as awful as it is, has changed.

Her touch and her gaze had lingered far longer than usual on him this morning, trailing over his face and hair like she had been… committing him to memory. There was also something in the glint of her large black eyes, that had made the skin at the back of his neck prickle first with unease, and then it had sent a of a sort of realisation shivering through him.

When she had the droid deliver him back to his cell-room before the rotation was even half-over, he had followed after the droid quietly and obediently, his mind racing and twisting ahead through all the possibilities of what it could mean – this deviation from routine, this behaviour from her – and he can only arrive at one conclusion.

He immediately retrieves his datapad from under his mattress the very moment he is left alone in his cramped and unlit cell-room. The datapad in his hand is a familiar comfort, even if it has been three nights since he has last updated his datapad, stuck instead rereading his own writings over and over, and over again.

He had made himself examine the thoughts that flowed from fingers to screen, made himself pull apart the feelings behind the words, the meaning between the lines, follow through and finish tracing out every abruptly dropped sentence that had hurt.

Each time he had opened the document, his eyes had been inexorably drawn back to the blank space of that last line he had typed and then deleted, imagines he can still see the letters, like he is haunted by the screen burn-in of Slick’s words.

For three nights, he couldn’t find any of his own words to write. It hadn’t felt right to go back to the easy tone of meaningless meandering musings, not after exposing something of himself that was so raw and so angry.

Even now, and especially after this morning, that blank space still sends a hot shivery rush through his body. He decides to skip a line before he starts his next entry, a memorial to that moment in negative space;

i was right, is what he leads with. There’s an energy buzzing and snapping under his skin, a dull roar in his ears, but his hands are steady as he types.

i think i knew it when the droid stopped giving me bacta

It hadn’t given him a ration bar for firstmeal either but that’s alright; ’67 isn’t hungry and he still has the half from last night, tucked under his mattress.

But the lack of the staple meal – on top of the lack of bacta for the past several days – was what had ’67’s mind racing through various possibilities and reaching the inevitable deduction. Still, he had needed confirmation.

The thing with droids is that you had to be direct with them if you wanted answers. And ’67 had to consider that the droid very likely had standing instructions to keep certain information from him, to keep him calm, keep him docile. The question had to be framed correctly.

So just before the droid locked him in his cell-room, ’67 asked it, his voice wrestled into even steadiness, ‘When am I to be decommissioned?’

The droid’s response in Binary had sent an unpleasant lurch through him.

It wasn’t exactly like he wasn’t expecting it – he can’t imagine this situation holding forever, no. Ko Sai is one thing, but… he has his limits too, and he knows himself well enough to know he can’t endure this for very long, with no respite and with no end in sight.

But still… to have it confirmed is an entirely different thing.

He thought he would have felt… relieved, maybe. But he hadn’t. The feeling winding tight around him feels nothing like the complacency of easy acceptance; it feels like crackling discontent, sharp and snarling, something with claws and teeth.

He seizes that feeling, directs that energy into his task. He hunches over his datapad in the dark, typing furiously, his shoulders growing tense with concentration, compiling first the code and then his thoughts. The room is illuminated only by the dim glow of the lighted screen of his datapad, turned down to its lowest brightness setting to conserve its battery.

He has some time, but not nearly as much as he would like.

He can make it work.

He has to.

He will.

That three nights that he hadn’t been updating his private document had been spent on another project, on a plan that had been shaped by half-defiance and half-desperation, driven by the deconstruction of his carefully crafted self-denial.

When the battery level percentage sinks to the single digits, he allows himself one last chance to scan through the code he has written. Then he puts the datapad into standby; not exactly optimum to save whatever charge he has left, but he will need to be able to activate it quickly later. Without the soft glow of the datapad the cell-room plunges into a darkness so absolute, he imagines it is similar to the inky void of space between stars.

He moves confidently despite being unable to see anything, a sense of purpose directing his movements. The aches and pains of his body are ignored, even the pain twinging through his rib on his right side is pushed aside for the moment.

The foil packet crinkles loudly as he works open the packaging of the ration bar. He breaks the bar into smaller pieces, flicks the crumbs off the mattress, scattering them onto the floor.

Ears pricked, he settles in to wait.

He has become very, very, very good at holding still, a skill developed and perfected under duress for Ko Sai, so it isn’t hard at all to hold his position.

Finally, after several long minutes, he hears the soft whirrs and clicks. He slowly shifts his weight, eyes intent on the service hatch. One hand slaps the datapad to wake it up, while the other hand snaps out to snag the small cleaning droid the second it rolls through the small opening.

It beeps in alarm, and then in agitation, its wheels spinning uselessly when ’67 flips it onto its back.

‘Shut up!’ ’67 hisses at it.

’67 ignores the insults it blatts at him in Binary, trying to find the edges of its bottom plating. He pries open the panel, cursing when his thumb gets pinched between the droid’s wheel and its casing. He quickly cuts the power supply cord, deactivating the droid.

He listens hard, barely daring to breathe, hardly daring to move, but it seems like the ruckus had not attracted any attention. His heartbeat is hammering in his chest but his hands are steady as he works. He works as fast as he can, the battery on his datapad dropping to critical levels and the screen dims even further. It would’ve been easier and quicker, of course, if he had proper tools and scomp cables – but he doesn’t, so he makes do with what he has. He cuts and reroutes wires and digs out chips with the vibroblade, as the code he has written is sideloaded. He pulls out the boards and drives the droid won’t need for the task.

There’s enough space now in the little droid’s chassis, to slot in a datapad. His light source dims even further – the sideload is complete, thank the kriffing stars – and he has just enough time to take one last glance to commit to memory the positions of everything laid out on the floor before him before the datapad goes dead and the cell-room goes dark.

He exhales a breath and reaches out, movement sure and precise, and takes hold of the datapad. He uncables it and then carefully slots it into the cleared space within the droid’s casing, using his fingers to nudge aside the wires that catch slightly on the datapad’s corners. His hands find the droid’s power cable next, and he reconnects the sliced wires by touch alone.

There’s the low hum of machinery as the droid starts to power back up, its light indicator panel flashing in bootup sequence. In the flickering lighting, ’67 closes the droid’s panel, clips that back into place with the fasteners.

The bootup takes a few minutes. It’s something ’67 anticipated since he’s had to gut a lot of its hardware, and he settles back on his heels to wait, feeling jittery with nerves.

Finally, the droid beeps, a simple query in Binary, [DESTINATION?]

The breath rushes out of ’67 and he huffs a soft laugh, his success making a wide grin split his face.

The droid is waiting for his reply and it will continue to wait until he gives it. With much of its higher programming and chips removed, it doesn’t even protest when ’67 brings his vibroblade to bear against its plating, carefully scratching out four letters on its side. The letters are small, sharp and angular, and they look more like runes than aurebesh, but they’re still legible:

ᛕᛜīᛊ

He pets the top of the droid and leans in to speak to it, tone low but words clear, ‘Clone Sector 4, Level 21, Bunkroom 1138.’

There’s a long beat before the droid beeps in acknowledgement, its processors laggy. Then it turns and trundles away slowly.

’67 watches it slip back through the service hatch and refuses to let himself worry that the droid will get lost, won’t find Kote, gets intercepted by another droid or by someone—

There’s also the very high chance that the droid’s unstable system will just gutter out somewhere between him and Kote. Cleaning droids are small and their components compact and ’67 had had to disembowel a lot of its hardware to make room to conceal his datapad.

He draws in a deep breath – as deep as he can before his breath stutters at the sharp flare of pain in his side – and pushes away his worries; the droid will find Kote or it will not. There’s nothing he can do about that now. He has to turn his focus now to his own situation, and what he can do about it.

He stands and, in his hand, the vibroblade ignites. The hum of the weapon is low and soothing, the pitch of it a harmonic dyad to his heartbeat drumming in his ears.

He will carve out his own fate, write his own destiny, embody the last words in his message that he had sent off in the datapad to Kote:

i deserve to live

Chapter Text

The burning edges of the activated vibroblade don’t do much to dispel the dark, but ’67 uses the light it emanates to orientate himself, turning his head this way and that.

He eyes the door of his cell-room and immediately discards the idea. The moment he breaches the panels housing the controls for the door, he has little doubt that it would trigger all manner of alarms. Ko Sai’s droids will be on him in an instant.

His gaze slides to the ventilation grate, but he passes over it with a wry twist to his mouth. Using the ventilation systems to escape from Slick had been possible then, all those weeks ago. Now though, he is simply too big, his shoulders too broad, his limbs too long.

The little hatch the cleaning droid used is not an option for him either for the same reason as the vent shafts; too small for his frame to fit through.

But ’67 thinks there is another alternative.

His stint in Analysis actually made him notice things that he wouldn’t really have paid attention to before, but he has had countless floor plans flashed into his brain and been tasked with finding patterns and correlations and solutions.

See, buildings and structures have a certain logic to them, their layouts and configurations are governed by architectural programming; a fresher easily accessed from a sleeping area, a kitchen or a cooking space near a dining area.

He turns slowly in place as he contemplates his mental map of what he knows of Ko Sai’s residence. He is certain that the cell-room he is kept in is not part of the original layout of Ko Sai’s quarters.

There are implications there; between all the careful organization and stringent protocols and rigid rules of Kamino, an ad hoc and ill-planned cell-room like this doesn’t seem like something the administrators of the facility would approve or would even be aware of.

But whether or not Ko Sai’s actions had been authorised or not, that is something to think about later. He can’t afford to spend any more time wondering about that part of it, when time is something he’s running short on.

’67 wrestles his focus back to the present; his cell-room is an added afterthought to the original floor plans. The location of it, the narrowness of its floor space, the lack of lighting fixtures, even the location of the vacc tube… All this is something that she had ordered to be added, a space carved out from the existing maintenance corridors that exist in the liminal spaces between her quarters and the main hallways.

Which means, he thinks, turning to one of the walls and rapping his knuckles along the panels near the service hatch the little cleaning droid used, that I am only a few inches away from accessing the maintenance corridors.

One of the panels produces a slightly deeper sound and he pauses, leans closers to peer at the seams. Thank the stars for quick construction methods; the panels are only bolted in place rather than welded on. He will have to do it quietly, but he will be able to get it open.

The vibroblade fits better in his hand now, better than it had back then, when he had last been locked in a room and had to use it to make an escape route for himself.

Unbidden, he recalls Denal’s question, the sharp inflection in his words, the tight expression on his face when he had asked, ‘’67, did Maze know?’

‘It doesn’t matter if he knew or not,’ he had said. ‘He was just an Alpha. Ko Sai’s authority superseded his.’

But, ’67 thinks, staring down at the vibroblade in his hand, something twisting in his stomach, a feeling that makes his throat squeeze and his eyes sting, maybe that wouldn’t have mattered to Maze at all. Maybe Maze would’ve tried to protect him somehow, shield him from the scientist.

‘You keep marching bravely,’ Maze told him.

‘I will,’ ’67 promises aloud. The length of the handle is a solid and reassuring weight in his palm. He licks his lip, feels the raised ridges of the scab there, where he had bitten himself the day before, trying to keep silent under Ko Sai’s attention. ‘I’ll keep marching until I can’t anymore.’

It is slow and careful work and it actually takes far, far longer than what he is comfortable with but it can’t be helped; he can’t risk alerting the droids.

Finally though, the panel comes free.

He peers into space revealed, holding the lighted vibroblade up in an effort to see better. The tall and narrow service corridor beyond stretches into darkness. What little ’67 can see of it is a claustrophobic chasm despite its height, lined with cables and piping.

’67 steps into the opening and is instantly swamped by heat. The air is uncomfortably warm and stale, tinged with the scent of grease and other chemicals. He moves as quickly as he dares, careful to keep himself from brushing up against the pipes radiating heat.

Sweat drips into his eyes and plasters his hair to his neck and forehead. His tunic very quickly becomes damp with perspiration and the sharp salt-sting of his sweat and the chafing of the fabric on the injuries across his body is distractingly painful, especially when the fabric rasps against his numerous half-scabbed over wounds. But when his arm accidentally rubs against one of the uninsulated pipes, he jerks back and hisses at the burn of it even through the cloth, he knows it’s better to keep his tunic on.

There are snarls of wires underfoot, traps that can trip him if he’s not careful as he shuffles along. And above, loops of thin fibrecables hang from overhead, like garrottes ready to catch his neck.

It takes what feels like forever – 138 paces by his mental count – before he finally reaches a junction. He is breathing heavily by then, the hot and stuffy air doesn’t help at all, each breath sending pain lancing down the right side of his chest. He reaches for the hem of his tunic, carefully tugging it up, exhaling slowly through his gritted teeth.

He can’t tell if the rib is fractured or not. He knows he couldn’t help it at the time, but he still can’t help but think he shouldn’t have bucked so hard against Ko Sai’s restraints. The ache of it now is getting harder and harder to shove aside.

He presses gently down on the area—

‘Kriff!’ he gasps and immediately regrets it when his exclamation aggravates his rib even further.

He opens his eyes – he didn’t even notice he had squeezed them shut – and wipes his face on his sleeve, damp from tears and sweat both.

Fractured or not, or just bruised, that is a problem for later.

He firmly catches the slide of his thoughts and steadily redirects it to tell himself that there will be a later.

He swings his head first one way, then the other, trying to use the glow of the vibroblade to pierce the darkness of the two corridors available to him while he mentally consults the layout of Ko Sai’s residence.

138 paces. He should have just about cleared her laboratory. Despite the suffocating heat, a cold shiver curls down his spine at the mere thought that her lab lies just beyond a handful of wires and a few inches of wall panel from him. It makes him want to flee immediately, get as far as he can.

He crushes the instinct and swallows hard, swallows down his fear past the rapid heartbeat in his throat, forcing himself to think, to analyse—

The Mando’a letters on the blade catch his eyes and his grip tightens briefly, squeezing the hilt, and then he feels something settle inside him. He doesn’t know what the inscription reads, but the low hum of Maze’s weapon and the way it sits in his hand is grounding.

He considers his choices. If he goes right, the path will take him deeper still into the Kaminoan sectors, into dangerous and uncertain territory.

The corridor on the left will lead him in the direction of the clone sectors, to the CCs, to Kote, to Denal.

And even just thinking about them brings up the memory of 1010’s rebuke, which had not been meant unkindly in the least.

“You didn’t have to try to face that karked up situation on your own, ‘67. You shouldn’t have needed to. Kote’s here. We are here. We’re all in this together, vod. We look out for each other.”

Something aches sharply in his chest, and it’s not his injured rib.

‘67 thinks he understands now, what 1010 had actually meant then.

He has never allowed himself to rely on others, not even when he had needed it the most. There’s something inside him that fears it as being seen as a weakness, something punishable, something that will just get him closer to being decommed.

He’s been an idiot. An osikhead, as 3636 had called him.

He had been too busy trying to push everyone away, that he couldn’t see that they weren’t fighting him, they were trying to fight for him.

The CCs had tried to shelter him from the Alphas’ wrath, willing to take the blame for him being out after lights out. Denal risked everything because he considers them to be friends. Even 6922, whom ’67 had found abrasive and rather irritating, displayed a loyalty that ’67 doesn’t think he deserves.

And Kote.

Kote who looked ready to fight the entire galaxy, barehanded if need be, when he said, “If someone hurt my vod’ika, I’d be pretty pissed off too.”

He doesn’t really understand it, doesn’t understand why any of them would want to continue to associate with him, want to be his ori’vode, be his friend. It’s so, so humbling and ’67 is selfish enough to want it, now. He wants it so badly that it hurts.

He knows now that they would help, would fight for him. And in a better world, maybe they could actually help him, and ’67 won’t be decommissioned and the others along with him for their defiance and mutiny.

Reality doesn’t work like that.

Kamino doesn’t work like that.

Kamino has a hierarchy.

He’s still not sure where exactly the Prime falls in that hierarchy, but ’67 knows that Maze, an Alpha, wouldn’t have been able to stop Ko Sai, even if he had wanted to. If ’67 wants the chance to appeal his decomm order, he has to go higher up the command chain, someone above Ko Sai.

So.

Left or right, he thinks, looking at the maintenance corridors that stretch on either side of him. And then, There’s no choice at all, really.

He can’t go back. Not yet. This is his mission, alone.

He starts moving again. As he shuffles along carefully, he finds himself thinking that he’d be able to move faster through the maintenance corridor if he only had sturdier garments and gear. Like armour and a helmet with night imaging and filters.

He shakes his head, feeling his mouth twist wryly.

The next time he pauses is 42 paces in, when he reaches a riser. His eyes trace the vertical pipe, taking a step closer to study it. This system supplies water, moving it from one floor to another, and there is a large enough gap between the pipe and the floor slabs that he thinks he might be able to shimmy through.

The pipe feels blessedly cold against the palm of his hand when he reaches out to touch it, and he can’t help but take a short moment to press his face against its surface, curling closer in an effort to find some relief from the relentless heat around him. It may be the stifling heat, or dehydration, or something else, but ’67 is starting to feel a bit faint, a bit unsteady.

He tucks the handle of the vibroblade between his teeth and gathers himself. He has to scale the pipe if he wants to get off Ko Sai’s floor, but karking hells it’s going to hurt. It’s going to strain his rib and he knows, he can feel, that some of the scabs on some areas of his body have been worked loose, but this is surely going to rip the rest of them open.

There’s nothing for it. He wraps his hands and legs around the pipe and starts to climb. The air gets even hotter, the higher he goes and sweat and tears sting his eyes. He has no breath to spare to curse aloud, so he does it in his head, cursing the unnecessarily generous ceiling height of the Kaminoan levels. There’s a heart-stopping moment when his sweat-slicked palms slip and he slides down a few feet.

When he makes it to the top, it’s tight a squeeze to wriggle through the space between the pipe and the floor slab above. He has to exhale, expelling all the air in his lungs to make himself fit. After, once he’s through, he lays on the floor for a few minutes, trying to breathe shallowly through his mouth to ease the ache all over his body.

Groaning softly, he pushes himself to his knees, and then his feet.

He has to keep moving, keep climbing, keep marching.

He’s only a floor away from Ko Sai, and it is not anywhere enough.

He needs to go higher.

He tips his head back and pushes back the sweat-soaked hair on his forehead with one hand, the vibroblade aloft in the other. The maintenance corridor on this level is much the same as the one below, including its immense ceiling height.

His mouth slants grimly at the route before him. Stars, just climbing up one level has left him winded and aching all over, and he has more levels to climb, more corridors to traverse until he finds his target.

But ‘67 has the skills, has trained for similar, on the obstacle courses and in sims, and even if he might not be in the best shape right now, he knows he can do this.

He put his hands around the cold pipe, takes in another lungful of hot air, and starts to climb.

Up, up, up, he chants in his head, one hand in front of the other. Up, up, up.

How high up the chain of command must he go? Who must he seek to plead his case? The head of the scientists; Nala Se? The director of the program; Taun We?

Taun We, he decides grimly.

Nala Se is a scientist.

’67 wants nothing to do with any more scientists.

It’s impossible to keep any track of time in that warren of wires and pipes, taking corridors at random until there’s a riser, weaving his way ever upwards. Most of his thoughts get broiled away in the terrible heat and all that remains is the need to keep moving, keep going, keep climbing—

He’s driven to stop only when his legs collapse under him and he pitches dangerously close to an array of heated pipes. All at once, once he’s on the ground, everything comes swamping back over him and he curls onto his side, alternatively gasping for breath and dry heaving from exhaustion, agony licking at every limb, feeling every injury afresh.

Perhaps that is why he doesn’t hear it at first, the low trundle of wheels lost in the miserable haze of his pain and tiredness, and in the ambient hum of services around him.

He only notices the cleaning droid when it runs into his shins.

Blearily, he rolls himself to sit upright. He looks at it, blinking back a wave of dizziness, and he has the half-moment to wonder if it’s the same droid he had sent off to find Kote before he dismisses the idea. He’s skulking around in the maintenance corridors; he shouldn’t be surprised that there are cleaning droids using it to get around the facility either.

It isn’t the first droid he’s crossed paths with so far, but all the others have ignored him completely, swerving around his feet, intent on completing their tasks. His forehead slowly crunches into a frown as he surveys the droid, and he can’t help the feeling like he is being surveyed in turn.

‘What d’you want?’ he rasps at it, and he’s surprised at how hoarse his voice sounds to his own ears, how painful the words feel, forming in his throat. His mouth feels sticky-dry, his tongue like sandflimsi. He swings his feet away, thinking perhaps that the droid had been attempting to pass him, ‘M’I blocking your way?’

It doesn’t make any attempt to leave, though. It stays idling for the few long minutes ’67 spends looking at it, gaze unfocused as he becomes more aware of the pressure building in his temples, a painful throbbing in time with his heartbeat.

The realisation rises over him in slow sluggish inches and he tries to clamber to his feet, limbs uncoordinated and heavy, thoughts disorientated and strangely distant.

How long has he been in here? He has to get out. The heat is too much. It’s too dangerous. He needs to go. He needs to get out. Has it been hours? He had been trying to go somewhere. Was he trying to get out? Is he trapped? It is too hot. He needs to keep moving. He knows he has to keep going. He has to keep climbing. He can’t stay. The heat is dangerous—

Something runs over his boots. He tilts his head down and stares at the cleaning droid and vaguely wonders if it’s the same droid he had sent off to find Kote—

’67 stumbles and this time there’s something that might be a wave of panic that washes through his body, when he realises the cyclical nature of his thoughts, but even then, the feeling quickly loses its urgency, attenuated by his slipping focus.

His lack of coordination and concentration isn’t a good sign. Without temp-regulating armour, he has been slowly broiling alive without even realising he’s slowly succumbing to heatstroke and dehydration. He should have paid better attention, should have recognised the warning signs and been conscious of the limits of his cadet-body.

The narrow maintenance passage seem to close in on him, compressing, squeezing tighter—

He staggers, sinks to a knee.

Kriff. He has to get out. Now. Before it is too late.

The cleaning droid collides with him again and he wonders if perhaps the heat is causing its sensors to malfunction.

‘We gotta get outta here,’ he tells it, words mumbling and slurred. To his surprise, it beeps back a fervent agreement, bumping against him. It’s an effort, but he manages to get to his feet again, though he sways slightly. ‘C’mon then.’

It’s terrifying to admit to himself that he’s not sure which way to go, so he doesn’t, just sets the fear aside. He stumbles along, trying to find a wall not cluttered with cables or pipes, a space where he can try to pry open the panelling to escape. Once or twice, the droid blocks his path, forcing him down another section and he can’t help but feel like the droid is herding him. Eventually, it seems easier to just let the droid lead the way, ’67 concentrating instead on shuffling along after it, dragging one foot in front of the other.

A cool kiss of air makes him drag his head up, eyes catching on an opening in the wall, spilling light and fresh air into the maintenance corridors.

He’s already moving towards it, overtaking the droid, feet automatically shambling faster to escape the cursed furnace-space ’67 is lost in, chasing after the relief of cool air.

He tumbles out and the shock of cold of the room beyond is like a solid hit to the face, like he’s been dumped headfirst into the ocean. He gasps like he’s been drowning, sucking in blessedly cool air, lungs burning something fierce—

Suddenly, there are hands on him, on his shoulder and pressing onto his neck—

His eyes are stinging, not yet adjusted to the brightness after so long in the dark, but there’s a vibroblade still clutched in his hand and he’s operating on mostly instinct, really – ‘67 has had enough of people touching him… and he’s just has had enough, in general – rational thought and higher function left behind and cooked away some levels below.

The only thing his subconscious knows is that the hands on him are unfamiliar; too big with callouses in all the wrong places to be Kote or any of the CCs.

He lashes out, feels the blade sink into something, someone, hears them curse viciously—

‘Shab!’

Chapter Text

The hands holding him fall away and ’67 tries to scramble away, but it’s more of a desperate scooting action, pushing himself along on his behind, the heels of his boots trying to find purchase on the floor. He keeps the vibroblade up and levelled at the perceived threat.

Rapidly, he blinks his watery eyes, trying to acclimatise his eyesight, but all he can make out is an indistinct blue-grey blur with smudges of the colour of clone-skin—

Belatedly, he recognises the timbre of the voice, low and gravelly like any clone, but with the rolling edges of an accent belonging only to the Prime.

He almost drops his weapon, fingers suddenly gone nerveless. He fumbles as he tries to readjust his grip, unable to hear anything the Prime is saying over the sudden roar of his terrified heartbeat.

It’s too late, he thinks, fear chasing away every desperate half-plan he had. ’67 had been determined to speak to the Kaminoan in charge, to find Taun We, but that is impossible now.

The Prime has caught him.

The Prime is here to decommission him.

There is a rumour that trickles through the clone ranks, whispered to each other in the dark after lights out, of how when there is a decommissioning, the Prime is always there, by the clone’s side.

‘67 hadn’t been sure then – actually, he’s not even sure if any of them knows – if that is meant as a comfort or as a warning—

—But having witnessed the Prime stride coldly towards a bound and subdued Slick, the detached violence of his interrogation… And Slick’s decommissioning by the Prime’s own hand—

—’67 is pretty sure now that the Prime is there at decommissionings to make sure the clones slated for decom don’t run. ’67 can only guess at why the Prime hadn’t been present when Slick had been scheduled for decom —Boba, maybe? Boba had been recovering then — but Slick had managed to escape and had wrought such devastation.

He might not have been there, but he’s here now, and ’67 is utterly certain it is because the Prime is making sure ’67 doesn’t escape his fate.

There’s a feeling like something like hopelessness, telling him to surrender, to put down his blade.

Slick had been bigger, had more advanced training.

’67 is just a washed-out cadet; there is no way he’d be able to fight his way out of this.

Somehow instead, he finds himself raising the weapon higher, some part of him not yet willing to give up the fight. He’s been decanted for war, trained to fight.

He deserves to live.

He wasn’t going to just lie there and let Ko Sai decommission him, and he’s not going to let the Prime do it either.

He gets his feet under him, gets himself upright, willing himself to be steady.

‘Stay back,’ he snarls out harshly, squinting against the light. He glares down the line of his arm, through to the tip of his blade, at the blurry shape of the Prime slowly resolving into clearer detail, each blink clearer than the next.

He tenses, braces for an attack for his defiance, braces for impact…

… But it never comes.

The low sounds filtering past his ears become recognisable words, though ’67 doesn’t understand any of it—

‘—you’re safe. No one is going to hurt you. I won’t allow them to. You’re safe, cadet. I swear it, by beskar, blood and bone.’

‘Stay back,’ ’67 repeats, sounding only a little bit unsure. ‘Don’t come any closer!’

‘Alright, cadet. I won’t. I’ll stay right here.’

’67 starts, not expecting his demands to actually be acknowledged.

And by the Prime, no less.

He stares, wide-eyed at the man before him, suddenly tongue-tied and flustered. The Prime gazes back at him, dark eyes steady, a furrow creasing his forehead. He holds his arms loosely at his sides, hands empty. Bewilderingly, the Prime isn’t wearing any of his armour, not even his undersuit, though there’s some kind of comms gear wrapped tight around his neck. He’s cladded in a simple tunic and pants, the material worn and soft looking. ’67 can tell with a glance that it is not armourweave.

There are dark smudges of exhaustion under his eyes, a worried slant to his lips, but there isn’t any horrific battle-scarring like what’s been speculated by the clones.

He looks… ordinary.

He… looks just like any other clone.

And he is speaking so, so carefully, tone low and gentle and firm, ‘You’re safe, cadet.’

’67 continues to stare at the Prime, thinks uncertainly that maybe his blinding headache is interfering with his ability to comprehend the situation. He doesn’t understand.

… Or maybe it’s the Prime that doesn’t understand.

He squares his shoulders, ignores the ripple of pain it causes his body, forces the words past his tight throat, past his painfully dry mouth, sentences hacking and haltingly formed, his heartbeat still hammering in his chest, ‘I need to— I formally request to— to defer the decommissioning order— pending an appeal— I wish to seek an audience with Taun We— with the director of the cloning program to— to file such an appeal.’

Something flickers across the Prime’s face, something like surprise and alarm, and then something else, an expression too fast and too complicated for ’67 to read. The edges of the Prime’s eyes tighten, his mouth pressing together tightly briefly.

‘You’re not going to be decommissioned, cadet,’ the Prime says seriously, like it’s a vow, but ’67 knows the Prime can’t promise something like that, not when it’s the Kaminoans that decide such things.

‘67 exhales slowly, soft and shaky, but his blade doesn’t waver. ‘I want to file an appeal for the decommissioning order,’ he says, trying to sound assertive, trying to maintain eye contact. He didn’t climb through literal levels of hell to be stopped now.

‘You are not going to be decommissioned,’ the Prime repeats, and this time there is an edge of a growl to his words, a hint of bared teeth at his lips. ‘I will make sure of it. And I will kill Ko Sai if she tries.’

The way the scientist’s name is snarled, full of fury and hatred, makes ’67 startle and draw back half a step. He would retreat further to put wary distance between himself and that sharp anger, but the next thing the Prime says stays his feet.

‘Ordo has made a report to Nala Se of Ko Sai’s actions, and Nala Se has countermanded the decom order. You are safe, ad’ika.’

’67 struggles to make sense of what he’s being told, too many questions crowding his skull, making the throbbing in his head worsen.

Why did the Null report to Nala Se?

Why did Nala Se cancel the decom?

And what did it mean, that Nala Se did?

Was Ko Sai’s initial order authorised?

Were her actions, her experiments?

They must have been, mustn’t they?

Surely the head of the team of scientists knew what her subordinate was doing?

He opens his eyes, unaware that they had slipped shut, realises that his free hand is gripping the side of his head, that he is gritting his teeth so hard his jaw aches. The hand holding the vibroblade is trembling and it won’t stop shaking, no matter how hard he tries to steady it.

‘Cadet,’ the Prime says and ’67 drags his eyes up from the floor where they had drifted, forces his gaze back up to the man’s face. There’s a deep line between the Prime’s eyebrows, making him look like he’s concerned. ‘You need medical aid. Can you put your weapon down?’

It’s not an order, and that fact alone has ’67 wavering. The Prime hasn’t ordered him to stand down or surrender yet, and ’67 isn’t sure if he’d even obey if the Prime did.

His knees buckle quite suddenly, legs just giving up on holding his weight even when ’67 himself is not yet ready to yield.

The Prime darts forward and ’67 reacts instinctively, bringing up the vibroblade to defend himself—

But a hand clamps firmly around his wrist, forcing him to drop the weapon. An arm wraps around his shoulders, catching him before he falls. His breath comes shakily, nausea souring up the back of his throat and his vision blurs. He thinks that the tight expression the Prime is wearing looks genuinely like worry as the Prime eases him down onto the ground.

‘K’uur, ad’ika,’ the Prime says, pressing fingers to ‘67’s pulse point. ‘You’re safe. I’ve got you. You’re going to be fine.’

’67 blinks at him a few times, his vision swimming, unaware of the small noises of distress that he is making until the Prime hums comfortingly, murmuring in Mando’a. It really shouldn’t, but the gentleness of the hands checking over ’67 and the soothing sound of the words makes something in his chest hurt, something deep inside him splintering apart.

The sound of pain that escapes him makes the Prime stiffen slightly, his body curling almost protectively over ’67, and the Prime runs another careful check down ‘67’s arm, likely thinking ’67 had cried out because of an injury there.

‘You’re fine, you’re fine,’ the Prime says, though he sounds a little strained, like he’s trying to convince himself as much as reassure ’67. ‘We need to get you to the medics.’

‘Bral’baar tsikala, alor,’ another voice says from somewhere beyond the Prime, tone modulated by their helmet.

’67 twitches in alarm, not realising that there is someone else in the room—

‘Jate,’ the Prime rumbles, the words for the other clone though he keeps his eyes on ’67. ‘Ke’slanar mhi.’

— and he tries to rise, but then the Prime is slipping one arm under his shoulders and the other at the bend of his knees and is hoisting him up.

Panic surges through him and it shocks him from his strange stupor.

’67 punches the Prime in the throat.

The Prime wheezes but doesn’t drop him, shifting his grip in such a way as to pin ‘67’s flailing limbs.

It also puts his ear dangerously close to ‘67’s teeth—

‘Oh, no, you don’t!’ someone exclaims, clapping a gloved hand to the front of his face. ‘He’s been bitten once tonight already, vod’ika.’

The Prime curses, rearing away, but whatever dredges of energy or defiance ’67 had left has been spent. He slumps in their hold, breathing heavily through his nose. When ’67 remains pliant, the gloved hand that is still pressed against his mouth is cautiously removed and ’67 catches an identifiable glint of green and orange armour.

‘We’re taking you to Medical, vod’ika,’ Mereel says, from somewhere above ’67, and his voice is calm, warm, even. ‘Clone medics,’ the Null clarifies. ‘We’re not going to hand you over to those karking Long Necks.’

‘Ori’haat. I promise; no Long Necks,’ the Prime says solemnly.

His arms around ’67 don’t feel quite so constricting anymore, but maybe that’s because ’67 is starting to feel rather unmoored from his own body, finding it incredibly difficult to even focus on the words being spoken to him. ’67 must have drifted in and out of consciousness, because now he’s been hoisted up again, tucked against the Prime’s chest and being carried somewhere. The hurried and slightly uneven gait of the Prime feels like the jostling of the ocean, makes ’67 feel like a buoy bobbing out at sea.

Nausea rises, sudden and sharp and sour. He clenches his fists, desperate for something grounding, and belatedly realises he can feel fabric bunching between his fingers, the material of Prime’s tunic caught in his grip.

‘It’s alright,’ the Prime murmurs, and pressed against his chest, ’67 can feel the rumble of his words. ‘We’re almost there. We’re going to Medical. You’re going to be fine. You’re safe now.’

The words wash over ’67, over the pounding ache in his head, the meaning of it slowly trickling in, and it…

… It really doesn’t sound like they’re sending him to be decommed.

… And he doesn’t know what to do with this fact.

‘K’uur,’ the Prime soothes, and he doesn’t seem to mind when ’67 presses his face into the man’s shoulder. If anything, the Prime shifts to hold ’67 closer to his body, his voice calm and steady as ’67 starts shaking. ‘Ni taylir gar, verd’ika. Beskar, tal bal taakur, ni kelir cabuor gar.’

There are no tears on ‘67’s face; he’s too wrung out, too dried out, for it.

More Mando’a is offered softly and ’67 can only guess at the meaning, but the tone is comforting, assuring, and he lets the sound of the foreign words calm him, ‘K’oyacyi, ad’ika. Ven’jate an. Gar atin’la bal ramikadyc. Kotep’la bal mandokarla.’

‘Ko’r olar,’ another voice says, voice clipped and commanding, ‘Through here!’

’67 becomes aware that they’re back within the clone sector, the utilitarian walls a familiar comfort after the strange and delicate quality of the Kaminoan areas, and the breath that shudders through him is a painful gasp of relief.

The Prime lays him down onto a cot – and oh, they’re in the infirmary? In one of the private wards, it seems like – and for some reason, ’67 can’t make his hands let go of the Prime’s tunic, even as medics try to usher the Prime away. His grip is locked tight. The Prime wraps his large hands over ‘67’s smaller ones, but he doesn’t try to pry ’67 off, just holds him, his palms warm and squeezing reassuringly.

‘You’re going to be alright,’ the Prime says, dark eyes intense on ‘67’s. ‘Ori’haat.’

It’s the Mando’a word that does it, that allows ’67 to finally begin to tentatively trust that what the Prime is saying is true, that he might actually really be safe. It’s enough for him to loosen his grip, to uncurl his fingers one by one.

Maze had used that word before, in a soft and understanding tone that had been complicated by something that ’67 hadn’t understood then, “But I promise you, vod’ika, it will be better one day. Ori’haat.”

’67 still doesn’t understand fully, but he trusts Maze, trusts him still even though he’s gone, enough to put his faith and his fate in that memory of the trainer.

So, he trusts the Prime.

The very second he relinquishes his grip on the Prime, a Null takes his place.

‘Alright, cadet,’ A’den says. His voice is low and warm, drawing his attention away from the Prime who settles himself only a few paces away, still within ’67’s field of view. A’den offers ’67 a small smile. ‘I’m going to check you over. Is there anything that particularly hurts, right now?’

‘No,’ ’67 rasps, he swallows, throat clicking and then amends after a second or two, ‘M’head.’

A’den hums, telegraphing his moves clearly as he passes a scanner over ’67, ‘That could be the dehydration. Heard you had disappeared into the maintenance areas. Those service corridors are like a brutal furnace and you were in there for hours, without gear.’

His tone is light as he speaks, but there’s tension at the corner of his eyes when he puts away the scanner. The Null bends a little to catch ‘67’s eye as he says, ‘I need to get a line in to get some fluids in you. Do you think you’ll be able to hold still for me? You will only feel a small pinch, I promise. It will hardly hurt at all.’

’67 stares at him wordlessly as he slowly extends his arm to the Null.

The Null’s lips tighten briefly when he sees the uglily bruised and scabbed skin on the back of ‘67’s hand, the marks Ko Sai left on his skin there.

‘Yes,’ ’67 says hoarsely, voice barely louder than a whisper, ragged and almost too soft to be heard. ‘I can hold still.’

Maybe there’s something in the way he says it that causes the look of utter devastation that threatens A’den’s composure, but only for a split second, before the expression is wiped away. The Null nods and turns away to prepare the line.

The Null is right, though; ’67 hardly feels it at all when the needle slips in and he sets the drip.

A’den quietly informs him before he begins his physical examination. His hands are firm and gentle and careful, as he runs them over ‘67’s limbs and torso, checking each bruise and each hypo site. He murmurs a soft apology when he presses against ’67’s rib and ’67 hisses sharply. He lingers over the raw and inflamed skin around ‘67’s neck, wrist and ankles; the restraining points of Ko Sai’s cot.

’67 endures the medic’s touch even if he can’t help flinching at times. It helps that A’den’s hands feel nothing like the scientist’s; warm and rough and calloused instead of the silk-smooth coolness he had suffered under.

It also helps when he locks gazes with the Prime, easier to remain dry-eyed and maintain a mental distance and not feel like crawling out of his skin at the idea that someone is touching him.

’67 watches as another medic approaches the Prime, only to be waved away with a grunted, ‘Later.’

A’den huffs, spares a glance over his shoulder to snap, ‘You’re karking bleeding all over the floor, buir. Let Stitch do his damn job and patch you up.’

’67 stiffens, quite suddenly remembering—

‘Don’t worry about it, ad,’ A’den says, like he can read ’67’s mind and ’67 slides his panicked gaze to the Null. One side of A’den’s lip quirks up in a wry smile and he adds, ‘Stars knows Prudii has stabbed him more than a few times. Hazard of raising someone like us, I guess. We tend to get stabby when startled.’

This… is not what he has been expecting at all. He has never seen the Prime or the Nulls acting like this, cracking small jokes and being comforting and warm and strangely soft… It’s the farthest thing from the image of strict military trainers less than half a breath away from sending an entire batch running punishment laps around the entire facility.

‘Oh,’ ’67 croaks awkwardly, not really sure how else to respond.

A’den tilts his head at the sound. He draws out a hydropack and pulls open the tab before handing it to ’67.

‘Sip it slowly,’ he says warningly, firm but not without care. ‘And don’t drink it all at once.’

It’s the best thing ’67 has ever tasted, cold and fresh, slightly sweet and salty and he has to force himself to not inhale down the entire thing immediately. All of his focus spirals to the coolness flooding his mouth, trickling down his parched throat. He barely acknowledges A’den when the Null starts wiping him down, cleaning him off and treating his injuries, lets the stream of A’den’s words wash around him.

’67 isn’t sure if A’den’s steady narration is for his benefit, or maybe for the Prime, who has still remained hovering nearby, but he finds it helps when he is told what the Null will do next, makes it vastly easier to remain calm when he can anticipate A’den’s hands on him. He braces for pain, but there isn’t much, really, since A’den has loaded him up with painkillers and he’s feeling pleasantly floaty.

He is clumsy, limbs feeling too loose and too long, when A’den helps him into medical scrubs.

‘You’re gonna be just fine, ad’ika,’ A’den says, collecting the empty hydropack from ‘67’s slack fingers. ‘Nothing some bacta, some food and a long rest won’t cure. Lie down and rest for a while.’

‘No.’

’67 didn’t even realise that he had spoken aloud until he sees A’den mouth dip into a frown.

‘No,’ repeats ’67, and feels the exhilaration his defiance gives him despite the effects of the drugs he’s on. ‘I don’t want to lie down—’

‘Ad’ika,’ and that is the Prime stepping in, ‘you’ve been through a lot. You’re injured and you need to recover. You need to rest.’

His tone is firm, brooking no argument, but ’67 brooks it anyway.

‘No. I don’t want to lie down,’ ‘67 says, louder and more stubbornly. ‘I want Kote.’

Chapter Text

‘What?’

There’s an almost comical expression of confusion on the Prime’s face.

’67 tilts his jaw up and repeats himself, ‘I want Kote.’

He clenches his fist in the thin fabric of his scrubs. He hopes he sounds steady, confident. He watches the Prime and A’den exchange a glance between themselves before the Prime subtly flashes some handsigns at A’den.

A’den makes a grumbling noise and then slaps a nutripack into the Prime’s hands saying, ‘At least make sure he eats something, buir. And then make sure he actually gets some rest.’

He gives ’67 another look, something unreadable in the set of his face before he leaves the two of them alone.

’67 meet’s the Prime’s gaze readily, bolstered by painkillers and made brave by his continued existence – if they had gone through the effort of retrieving him and then treating him, surely they’re not in any hurry to march him off again. Besides, the Prime had sworn it. And even if he doesn’t have the absolute authority of a Kaminoan, the word of the head of the clone training program has to count for something, right?

The Prime doesn’t look uncertain, not exactly, his eyes still sharp and assessing, but there is a hint of wariness there. There’s tiredness in the slope of his shoulders, deep worry in the lines on his face, and his dark hair is messy in the sort of way that betrays the fact he’s the sort of person who worries at their hair when they’re stressed.

’67 can’t help but stare at him, eyes darting all over the Prime’s frame, trying to reconcile the man standing in front of him with the intimidating armour-cladded figure of authority that strides around the facility.

The Prime casts a glance about the room before pulling up a stool, settling onto it, his injured leg stretched out before him. ’67 notes that it is probably deliberate that he stays a comfortable distance away, far enough away to avoid looming over ’67…

… and it is also far enough away that he’d be able to react in time if ’67 tries to attack him again.

’67 pulls his eyes away from the white bandage tied tightly around the Prime’s thigh, to find the Prime watching him in return.

‘I think,’ the Prime says, and then pauses like he is taking a moment to gather himself, gather his courage, ‘before we can bring Kote in to see you, there are some things we need to talk about first.’

’67 worries his lips, stops when he tastes the fresh tang of blood anew on his split lip.

He needs to let Kote know he’s not been decommed, and he wants to see Kote, wants to see his ori’vod, wants to be seized and grappled into a bone-bruising hug, wants to just curl up with him and listen to Kote’s breathing—

’67 sniffs hard, trying to set aside his upset and disappointment, tells himself the Prime hadn’t denied him outright — a private debrief after an… incident… doesn’t seem too far from standard protocol, even if there’s nothing standard about anything that had happened.

‘67 still can’t help but feel a rising tide of anxiousness tightening his chest.

There are things he has carefully forgotten, the little bits of information that he’s stumbled upon the past few months, so many things that he has quietly put aside because he’s just a cadet—

Sitting here in this room with the Prime and with all of the man’s intensity bearing down upon him, ’67 wonders if the Prime can sense that about him, can sense that ’67 knows the shape of some of his secrets.

Whatever it is that the Prime has going on behind the scenes, plans and secrets, they are more than just minor misdemeanours or small defiances. It is something that has driven the Nulls to enforce its secrecy with swift and violent efficiency—

Slick had been… physically silenced by the Nulls because he had threatened to expose the Prime to Ko Sai, and the horrific sound of his wet burbling is something that still sends shivers down his spine whenever that memory intrudes ’67’s thoughts.

And despite the Prime’s unexpected retrieval and assurances, despite the considerably gentle handling and low soothing Mando’a, ’67 finds it impossible to forget that the man before him is as dangerous without armour as he is within, the very same man whose interrogation of a deviant clone had ended with the clone being terminated.

‘If I do what you want, can I see Kote?’ He hates that he is asking this way, quiet and raw and closer to begging than bargaining, his earlier confidence shaken… but he needs Kote.

Something twists across the Prime’s expression, something pained and complicated.

‘Ad’ika,’ the Prime says, and it’s soft and gentle in the way that makes ’67 brace himself to be denied but instead, ‘I promise, you can see Kote. And I promise, you will not be decommed. Haat, ijaa, haa’it.’

It’s too much – the way the Prime looks at him, the intensity of his expression – that ’67 has to look away, something squeezing in his chest in a way that makes him slightly breathless, makes something inside him ache despite the painkillers A’den has given him.

It’s all ’67 can do to nod stiffly. And it’s probably far, far too late, and he’s already stabbed the man and punched him and almost bitten him, but ’67 should maybe attempt at something like protocol—

— ‘Yes, Sir,’ ’67 says and he catches the way the Prime shifts slightly.

There’s a small pause and the Prime nods. He reaches out to offer the nutripack and when ’67 accepts, after a hesitant second or two, he says, ‘You may call me Jango if it will make you more comfortable.’

’67 almost drops the pack.

‘… Yes, Sir.’

’67 fiddles with the nutripack, dutifully sips on the nutripaste when it appears like the Prime is waiting for him to start on it. It’s an awkward few minutes before the Prime shifts in his seat and ’67’s eyes dart towards the man at the movement, instinctively checking for an attack or for weapons, but the Prime’s hands are open and empty.

‘I need to ask you some questions, ad’ika,’ the Prime says. ‘And I am sorry to have to ask you these questions and under such difficult circumstances, but… we need to find out what happened. Please, if you need to stop for a break at any time, let me know.’

The Prime’s tone is warm and steady and gentle and it just slips under ‘67’s guard; he hadn’t been expecting such a soft opening to the interrogation. Caught off-balance, it’s all ’67 can do to clutch at the nutripack in his hands, raising it like it’s a shield, sipping from it to buy time to try to find his composure again—

‘Can you tell me when Ko Sai started summoning you?’

—’67 chokes and suffers a painful coughing fit.

Of course.

This is not the direction ’67 had thought the questions would go, but it makes sense that the Prime would want to know when ’67’s defect started to affect his performance, started to attract the attention of the scientist. Except the thing is—

‘I have always had to report to Ko Sai,’ he says. His tone is harsh and not just because he accidentally inhaled some nutripaste. ‘There was periodic testing every few months before my first two growth cycles. After my second growth cycle, the summons became more frequent, and on a less predictable schedule.’

’67 watches the Prime flex his hands before the man carefully flattens his palms on the top of his thighs.

‘And this year alone? Do you remember how many times she has summoned you?’

’67 remembers every single time he ever had to report to Ko Sai, and his heart starts to beat harder.

‘Yes,’ he answers. He starts to say more but then falters, suddenly unsure. His first instinct is to try to frame his answer in a way that would make it seem like it was just purely routine, that the tests are simple, and that ’67 is not a faulty product.

But.

But the tests aren’t always… simple.

And there’s the suspicion that ’67 has always kept buried deep, deep, deep, under all his twisted and tangled lines of thought and self-rationalisation, his doubt of the actual veracity of Ko Sai’s experiments. He knows that’s something not-quite-above-board, the way her summonses were always on the edges of his schedule, always sent directly to him, and never through his trainer—

—it’s confusing because she has the higher authority, but all the regs say that any summons or orders should be sent through the trainers if they pertain to cadets—

—but she’s a Kaminoan—

—and he’s just a cadet.

He’s been silent too long and briefly wonders if his hesitance has already revealed too much to the Prime but he pushes away that anxiety, tries to remind himself that that Prime had sworn that he will not be decommissioned, that he is safe, no Long Necks, ori’haat.

So…

So maybe ’67 doesn’t have to defend himself to the Prime, doesn’t have to prove that he’s not defective.

’67 sneaks a glance up at the Prime, finding him looking back at ’67 with patience and something like compassion in his eyes.

Maybe the Prime is not seeking for ’67 to entrap himself, to twist and trip himself up in his words.

Maybe he wants to know all the… the karked up osik Ko Sai has done because—

‘I need to stop her, ad’ika. I need to get her removed from the training facility. It would help if I had a place to start to build a case against her.’

It’s a good thing the nutripack is mostly empty because ’67 is squeezing it so hard, a little of its contents have started leaking out the tab. He startles when large hands gently pry his hands open. He stares at the lines of raised scars that cut across both of the Prime’s palms, injuries that have long healed, as the Prime removes the mangled remains of the nutripack from his tight grip.

The Prime silently cleans his hands with a wipe and it’s… it’s soothing, steadying, even as it also somehow makes ’67 feel shaky at the same time. ’67 keeps his gaze locked on their hands, at the point of contact so kindly and so easily offered, and finds something that had been twisted up tight inside him unknotting under the gentle ministrations.

He had been brave before, hadn’t he? He had been alone when he faced Slick, and he was alone in Ko Sai's lab. He had managed to find his courage then. He just needs to find it again. But it feels infinitely harder to do so now though, because now he has to be brave enough to be vulnerable with the Prime.

‘Forty-two,’ he says quietly, the answer to the earlier question, and he briefly flicks his eyes up at the Prime before down again.

‘Can you tell me more about those incidences?’ the Prime asks softly, and ‘67’s hands are clean now, all traces of the sticky paste wiped away, but the Prime allows ’67 to clutch at his hands, even gives ‘67 a comforting squeeze.

’67 swallows hard and blinks away the blur of tears. He nods jerkily. ‘Yeah. Yeah, I can.’

It’s not at all like what a debriefing should be. Those are supposed to be detached and professional. His recounting hitches and halts, unsteady at parts, rushed in others, with long painful moments where all words are lost in silent gasping cries.

It is at such a moment when ’67 is too distraught to speak when the Prime moves to gather him close, curling his broad shoulders around ’67. He presses his wet face into the space at Jango’s neck and just tries to breathe. The warm palm that wraps around the base of his neck is grounding, an anchor to the present so he doesn’t get swept away by dark recollections.

‘K’uur. Udesiir. Easy, cadet. You are safe. Morut’yc. Ven’jate an. Everything is alright,’ Jango murmurs, a mix of Mando’a and Basic meant to comfort, but it only makes him sob even harder, a terrible rendering feeling in his chest.

‘M-Maze,’ ’67 manages to squeeze out, as if Jango will understand when ’67 can’t even form a complete thought properly, more a mess of emotion than anything coherent, because the mix of the two languages just makes him remember Maze’s last moments with him.

Maybe Jango does understand, maybe he even recognised the blade that ’67 had stuck in him. Jango must understand enough, understand his grief because the man sucks in a sharp breath and then holds him tighter still. Pressed tightly against Jango’s body, ’67 can feel the way Jango’s chest rumbles as the man continues his soft litany of comfort for ‘67, even though ’67 can hear the pain and loss in his voice. And Jango must grieve deeply for Maze, must have been close to the Alpha, must have trained him—

’67 clenches his eyes shut, curls himself smaller, tries to burrow deeper into Jango’s hold, grasping desperately for comfort, protection, security, warmth, kindness… kriff, anything, he’s just so tired, so tired of being scared, so tired of pretending that he isn’t—

Jango holds him, makes soothing noises, runs a hand up and down the length of ’67 spine and it’s… it’s nice.

So ’67 clings tighter, presses closer, and just… just lets go, allows himself to approach the turbulent currents of his emotions at last, trusting that Jango will not let him drown, that Jango will reel him back in to safety.

’67 must’ve been more exhausted than he realised, must’ve fallen asleep between one wet hiccup and the next, because the next thing he’s aware of is muzzily trying to wake up, trying to make himself conscious again.

He feels so tired, mind foggy from exhaustion, that the mortification of having fallen asleep on the Prime has not really sunk in yet. He blinks blearily, body aching and limbs heavy, eyes swollen and stinging in the way after a hard cry, and finds himself tucked into bed, a warm blanket around his shoulders.

‘Hey,’ someone says softly and ’67 twists towards the sound.

A’den tilts his head in greeting at him. He frowns back.

‘Whes Jango?’ ’67 asks, the question slurring out of his mouth before he’s really thought about it, still feeling rather dull and disorientated.

The corners of A’den’s mouth curve upwards. ‘Jango isn’t here, unfortunately,’ the Null replies with a sort of pleased emphasis on the name. ‘He’s gone to get some things sorted. He told me to tell you that he’ll be back to see you later.’

’67 just blinks slowly at him and A’den gives him a small, kind smile, ‘How are you feeling, ad’ika?’

‘M’fine,’ ’67 says automatically and then bites his lip. The Null’s expression doesn’t change much, but the curve of his eyebrow arches just a little sceptically. ’67 clears his throat, which clears the raspiness from his voice, and also buys him a few seconds while he tries to assess the situation.

Jango… had sworn ‘67’s safety. The man isn’t here himself; A’den is. And A’den is his son and had been the one to treat ‘67’s injuries and had been rather kind to him so far.

’67 takes a deep breath and tries to tamp down on the instinct to tell the trainer that he’s fine when he isn’t.

‘I feel… better,’ he says carefully, cautiously eyeing the other clone. A’den doesn’t actually try to stop him, when he struggles into an upright position, though the Null steps closer, hands twitching like the older clone very much wants to fuss but is holding himself back. ‘Headache is mostly gone. My side still hurts a little, though.’ Every part of his body aches too, actually, but those other aches are bearable, low-grade and constant, rather than the sharp and unignorable throb of his head or chest.

A’den makes a huffing noise and crosses his arms across his chest. ‘Ad’ika, you are basically one big bruise and a mess of innumerous dermal injuries,’ he tells ’67 bluntly. ‘I am praying you won’t get an infection, because Stars knows how filthy those maintenance areas are. If I thought I could get away with it right now, I would be dumping your sheb’ika into a bacta tank for at least a few hours.’

‘I don’t want the tank,’ ’67 says, too fast and a little too sharply, but he can’t help it. The bacta A’den had applied earlier had helped a little, the gel dry and slightly tacky on his skin, but it is clearly not enough at all. He knows he’s a mess, his body mottled with bruises and dappled with areas of barely healed, still tender skin, unsightly spots where his scabs had been ripped off—

But he’s not anywhere ready to allow himself to be sedated and medically manhandled.

He tenses minutely, expecting the Null to get annoyed at his disrespectful tone. Instead, when he glances up at the Null, the expression on Aden’s face only looks understanding, a cast of empathy in his eyes. Something in it makes ’67 swallow thickly.

It can’t have been easy for the Nulls either, to have been the very first clones of Jango Vhett. To be the first batch the Kaminoans produced as a proof of concept that their cloning technology is compatible with human baseline, and the score of rigorous tests that A’den and his brothers must have endured later to prove themselves viable products.

The depth of horror that realisation brings leaves ’67 breathless, chest tightening. Something of it must show on his face - like recognising like - because it has A’den reaching out to place a hand on his shoulder, the movement obvious and telegraphed, giving ’67 ample opportunity to stop him or shy away if the touch is unwanted.

‘Peace, vod’ika. I wouldn’t force you into the tank,’ A’den murmurs, terribly gentle and full of understanding. ‘The danger of a heat stroke is passed and the rest of your injuries aren’t life-threatening. It will take a longer time to heal properly – and we would need to watch closely for infection – but a bacta dip isn’t a necessity.’

It is the softness in A’den’s tone that makes tears spring up in his eyes, and the relief he feels at hearing A’den’s words is immense.

‘Thanks,’ he sniffs quietly, a strangled whisper from a too-tight throat. The single word feels inadequate, and he’s not even really sure what he’s thanking A’den for exactly; for the recognition of their similar experiences with the Long Necks, the acknowledgement of ‘67’s fears, or for the comfort being offered. Maybe it’s all of it at once.

A’den’s expression softens even further as ’67 sniffs harder, ‘K’uur, vod’ika. Buir and my vode are making it so that the scientist will not harm you again. You are safe, I promise. Beskar, tal bal taakur. By beskar, blood and bone.’

Beskar, tal bal taakur.

He’s heard this first from Jango, when the man had sheltered ‘67 in his arms, carrying ’67 to the infirmary. Now he hears it from A’den, and this time, he is also offered the meaning.

By beskar, blood and bone.

There’s a certain… weight to the words, something heavy that settles over him reassuringly, steadying the part of ’67 that always feels ready for fight-flight.

He’s missed so many before, but ’67 thinks he can recognise a pledge of protection, now.

And for whatever reason, the Prime and the Nulls have extended it to him.

He doesn’t quite know what the expression on his face is, but it has A’den tugging him closer and he allows himself to be gathered into a hug, slumping against the Null’s chestplate. For many long minutes, ’67 just breathes, sharp and shaky at first, and then slowly, very slowly, his breaths come steadier.

Chapter Text

He manages to keep his breathing steady as his thoughts start to slowly unspool again, and even though he wants to stay in the safety and the warmth of the moment, he can’t help the way his thoughts scrape away at the rare feeling of ease he is experiencing.

He finds his thoughts prickling at the similarities of being held like this first by Jango, and now by A’den—

He considers the armour pressing against him. Absently, he traces with his fingers the teal paint that stripes across the front of A’den’s chestplate and he remembers his half-formed theory, easily picks up the thread of those thoughts again, about the colours the trainers wear on their armour and their potential meaning—

—there had also been the same shade of colour on Aven and on Stitch, hadn’t there?—

…they’re medics. All three of them. It can’t be a coincidence.

’67 is edging towards a surety of what the teal means although that’s not the colour the medical personnel in the GAR uses at all. In fact, he’s sure he’s read somewhere that it’s the colour the medics use in the Mandalorian Empire.

What, exactly, are troopers commissioned for the Republic doing adopting Mandalorian conventions?

What do the other colours mean? Are they signifiers of other specialisations? Of rank? What does it mean when the only colour that Jango Vhett, Mand’alor the Brief, chooses to leave his armour unpainted?

He chews his lip, but in all honesty, he’s feeling so tired and drained still, the sharper edges of his emotions dampened by exhaustion and painkillers. He just doesn’t have much energy left over to muster anything like proper apprehension. The most he can manifest at the moment is mild concern.

’67 isn’t dumb, although he concedes he’s certainly made a lot of dumb mistakes recently, but he’s just managed to escape one conspiracy by the skin of his teeth, and he’s not really in any hurry to tumble headfirst into another.

Even just ghosting just one of the tiny sections of its bare edges, on the outermost rings of its web, he can tell that it is something that will have far-reaching consequences across the galaxy. The sheer scale of it, just dancing out of his full understanding and perception, is breathtaking, leaves him feeling a little dazed.

He can feel the base shape of it, that there is an army of clones, and not all of its elements are loyal to the Republic.

And not all of their obedience is willingly given.

Filled with heavy trepidation, ’67 feels his eyes being drawn down to the neck of A’den’s blacks, and he’s half-expecting to find—

—But no, there’s no electroshock collar around the Null’s neck, and ’67 breathes out, feeling sharp relief.

’67 had done a lot more research into detonators and explosives, in the aftermath of the incident with Slick. Kote managing to determine the kind of explosive the detonator was actually for just by looking at the dissembled parts of the trigger had been karking impressive, and something ’67 had berated himself endlessly for not recognising. ’67 had been careless, inexcusably ignorant, and he still cringes at the way he had not checked over every part of the detonator himself when he had been handling it, and especially so when he had been planning to use it.

He had downloaded all the study material he could find, hundreds of diagrams, schematics, and calculations. There had been a particular section, as dry and factual and detached as the rest of it, but ’67 found himself reading in between the lines, all the terrible ways cruel beings had invented to keep other beings subjugated and submissive.

Slave chips. Electroshock collars. Explosive collars.

His brain might have been half-cooked at the time, barely conscious and mind scattered, but when Jango had rushed him to the infirmary with ‘67’s face tucked into the space between his shoulder and neck, it had been impossible to ignore that what he had first assumed to be Jango’s comms gear was actually something else.

There can be no mistaking a laryngocomm for an electroshock collar, not when the device had only been mere inches from his nose.

But what does it mean, that Jango Vhett, Mandalor the Brief, clone template and head trainer of the clone army, the karking Prime… has such a terrible device clamped around his neck?

’67 feels like he’s on the cusp of something big, standing on the edge of it, and to tip forward is to plunge in with both feet, a knowing of something that cannot be un-known and it will never, ever again allow him to continue on as before as only a simple cadet, and—

—He’s not sure he wants that at all, doesn’t think he wants the burden of knowing.

‘What is it, ad’ika?’ A’den asks, and ’67 starts, realises that he has made some sort of sound, a small whine of uncertainty that escaped him.

‘The Prime,’ ’67 says quietly, after a too-long moment of silence and A’den starts to frown in concern. ‘Jango. He… wasn’t wearing his armour.’

And that’s the thing, isn’t it? The Prime is never without his armour. If there had ever been a single occasion in the past for the man to be seen without, ’67 is sure every single clone on Kamino would have known about it within minutes.

The Prime, their laconic and intimidating genetic template, who had once commanded the Mandalorian armies…

…

…is what, some kind of prisoner on Kamino? His blood harvested against his will to make a Republic army? That he had been forced to train his clones to one day fight his own people? To fight his own sister?

It sounds utterly implausible.

And yet if it’s true… well, ’67 cannot even begin to comprehend what it really actually means—

A’den draws back slightly. ‘He wasn’t,’ he agrees slowly and there’s something in his tone that has ’67 looking up at the Null. 

‘Why?’ ’67 asks carefully and his hand drifts up as if to touch his own neck, a subconscious movement that makes A’den’s eyes narrow slightly at first, and then widen with realisation. There’s a whole host of micro-expressions that flicker across A’den’s face before it settles into something neutral.

‘Oh,’ the Null says deceptively bland, but there’s a tension at the edges of the quick reassuring grin he gives. ‘He was just caught out of his hardshell, is all. It was very late at night, and armour isn’t exactly comfortable to sleep in.’

’67 makes a scoffing sound before he manages to stop himself.

A’den takes one look at ‘67’s face and then sighs softly, like he knows exactly what mix of thoughts has been rattling around ‘67’s mind but has decided to not address it. He carefully disentangles the both of them.

‘I think,’ A’den says, tone serious but still kind, his expression arranged into something soothing, ‘that perhaps Jango should be the one to explain further, vod’ika.’

‘No, it’s fine. I was just curious,’ ’67 says hurriedly, very much regretting ever saying anything at all. Didn’t he just tell himself that he didn’t want anything to do with the Prime’s plan? He doesn’t want to be inducted into this at all, doesn’t want to be entangled in whatever web they are weaving beneath the Long Necks’ noses. He doesn’t want his life further complicated by conspiracies.

A’den goes to say more – something placating, ’67 doesn’t doubt – but then his comm goes off with an incoming message.

’67 can’t help but stiffen at the shrill two-tone beep; he’s heard it before, recognises the tone as the emergency alert the trainers use. He watches A’den’s face as the Null reads the missive, sees the expression on his tighten and when his head snaps up to look at ’67, it is grim and worried, and ’67 doesn’t even have the time to brace himself—

‘Nala Se is inbound,’ he says tightly and ’67 freezes, a cold flush of fear seizes his body, wrapping like bands around his chest, curling like the brush of long fingers through his hair—

Why is the Kaminoan coming here?

Is she going to send him to the decomm chambers?

Or worse, coming to take ’67 back to the labs? Send him back to Ko Sai?

He’s unaware he’s made a tight sound of terror, the background sounds of the beeping of the med monitors and the sharp clinical smell of the ward he’s in suddenly evoking a much more sinister memory, suddenly making the room seem much less like an infirmary and more like a laboratory—

A’den’s hand lands heavily on his shoulder, starting him back into awareness of his body and his breathing stutters, restarts because he had utterly frozen in fear. ’67 locks his too-wide eyes with the other clone. A’den’s touch is the only thing that keeps him seated, the only thing that keeps him from bolting. The older clone gives him a squeeze and ’67 clutches at A’den’s hand, grasps desperately at it and the look on the older clone’s face is all pain and apology.

‘We’ve managed to delay her so far and have tried diverting her attention elsewhere but she’s insistent. Jango is running interference and playing escort to her right now, trying to give us a little more time. We have a few minutes.’

He crouches down in front of ’67, catching his eye, his gaze intense. There’s frustration and urgency woven into the Null’s tone even though ’67 can tell he is striving to sound calm and commanding and comforting all at once.

‘Udesii, vod’ika,’ he says and he’s still holding onto ’67. ‘You’re going to be fine. She won’t harm you. Jango won’t let that happen. We think that she’s… not happy with Ko Sai… and what’s been done to you. She wants to see you. You won’t be alone with her. Jango and I will be right here with you.’

’67’s heart is hammering in his chest, like the rapid retort of a heavy repeating cannon. But at A’den’s next words, his heart stutters, skips several beats.

‘She going to ask you some questions, cadet. And you’re going to have to be very careful in what you say to her,’ the Null cautions, looking utterly serious. ‘She’s a Long Neck and anything you say to her can be used against any of us clones. Please, vod’ika. Watch what you say around her. For all our sakes.’

’67 inhales sharply.

‘Suvarir? Do you understand, vod’ika? Can you do this?’

Can he? Part of him wants to curl inwards, the sting of betrayal piercing and painful, and the other part of him wants to lash out, hurl some kind of bitter accusation at the Null. They had sworn him protection and yet, they are immediately ready to present him to a scientist—

But it is the look in A’den’s eyes that arrests him, the terrible conflict there, and ’67 remembers sharply that the Nulls must have faced similar situations before countless times, forced to play obedient and pliant soldier for the Kaminoans, no matter their true feelings; that Jango himself has an electroshock collar around his neck—

’67 doesn’t know what Jango and the Nulls have planned – a revolt, a mutiny, an uprising – and ’67 should say something, report it to the Kaminoans, because this… this is trouble, this is dangerous. Clones planning an insurrection when they should be training and fighting for the Republic is treasonous, and ’67 has a duty, a responsibility to warn the Kaminoans.

There’s sour bile rising up the back of his throat and he swallows it back down and finds himself thinking instead about the bitter words he had pecked out in the dark on his dying datapad;

why are we made to die

dont we deserve to live

’67 can’t deny his own treasonous thoughts though, can he? Can’t deny his own rebellious nature when he’s made a mad and desperate attempt to escape his decomm order.

’67 won’t report it. He can’t.

The Kaminoans have already shown themselves willing to consider the decommissioning of an entire batch because of the actions of a single rogue clone.

If there is even a hint of a rebellion, ’67 has no doubt at all that the Kaminoans would not hesitate to order the clones to be destroyed. A lot of clones are going to be hurt, going to be killed, culled, whole Series of tens of thousands sent straight to the decomm chambers—

—and ’67 cannot let that happen, feels sick at the thought of such a mass marching. He isn’t going to be the one who betrays brothers to the Long Necks. He won’t be like Slick, won’t be- won’t be dar’vod, he won’t.

He takes a little too long to reply, staring wide-eyed at A’den in front of him, has the wild stray moment to wonder what the Null would do, what he would say, if ’67 says he doesn’t think he can do this, that he will surely say the wrong thing the second he opens his mouth.

He is already a defective product. If he misspeaks, missteps, he could accidentally send the entire 7-Series to the chambers. Or worse, doom them all, from the Prime all the way to the zygotes free-floating in their little tubes—

’67 sucks in a sharp breath and tries to wrestle down his anxiety. He jerks a nod and his tongue feels clumsy and uncooperative but he manages to croak a reply, ‘Yeah. I understand.’

A rush of relief sweeps over A’den’s face before the older clone pulls together a mask of calm and gives him a short nod in return.

‘Taabir kotep, vod’ika,’ A’den says. ’67 jolts a little, at hearing those same Mando’a words once uttered by Maze, soft and strained on the trainer’s dying breath. ‘March bravely. I am here with you.’

Something tightens in his chest, coiling together with the confusion and conflict twisting inside him, a tangle that he has to set aside for later consideration, when a Long Neck isn’t bearing down on them.

There is a low two-tone whistle and ’67 swings his head sharply towards the sound. There’s a small cleaning droid tucked away unobtrusively beneath one of the side tables and it flashes its lights at him when it catches him looking.

Bewilderingly, A’den half-turns towards it to flick it some battlesign with his hands. The droid beeps back a reply. The series of short and long tones isn’t anything ’67 is familiar with; neither Binary nor Republic tap code.

’67 feels a flash of suspicion; after all, hadn’t ’67 also hacked a droid recently? ‘67’s had been a rush job, a task done in the dark with only a vibroblade, some creative programming, and a prayer to the stars. It’s not improbable at all to think that the Nulls have their own cadre of hacked and modified droids that they use to track and spy and surveil.

He is proven correct when A’den nods sharply in acknowledgement and a ‘Vor’e, Prudii,’ directed to the droid.

’67’s breath catches in the back of his throat, sudden understanding striking him.

In the maintenance corridors – that odd little cleaning droid hadn’t been malfunctioning at all. It had been sent by Prudii, guiding him and herding him straight into Jango.

A’den shifts slightly and ’67 finds himself reacting to the Null’s tension, straightening up. A’den slides him a glance. He tilts his head at the door and says, ‘Fifteen seconds.’

’67 exhales sharply and nods, throat too tight for words. His heart is thundering loudly in his chest, filling the space between the seconds. 

When the door opens, it opens silently and then Nala Se is stepping through with Jango close on her heels.

’67 would surge to his feet, would have offered the Long Neck and the Prime a salute, if not for A’den dropping a hand onto his shoulder, an implicit order to remain on the cot.

‘Sirs!’ A’den greets the two newcomers, taking a step in front of ’67 and snapping off a crisp salute.

Nala Se waves him away, a casual unfurling of her long fingers that bellies her expectation to be obeyed. Even Jango is stayed with another flick of her hand, when the man made to move further into the room.

‘67 is bared to her scrutiny, completely exposed, no barrier left between himself and the Long Neck.

Nala Se cuts a tall and slim figure, all pale skin and long limbs and smooth, graceful movements. He tries not to flinch when Nala Se glides nearer, but his tension is impossible to mask when the medical monitors are displaying every one of his stress responses.

She stops, her gaze flicking over his readings before coming back to him. Some kind of expression ripples across her face that ’67 can’t parse. She clasps her hands together in front of her and ’67 starts, a flush on his face, when he realises that she’s watching him watch her, watching how he’s tracking her movements, how he’s instinctively checking if there are any hypos or laser scalpels in her hands—

She hums, a tone that is softer and mellower than anything he’s heard from Ko Sai, and maybe its purpose is meant to be soothing but all it does is make him feel more anxious.

‘CT-7567,’ she says, her words still threaded through with her thrumming, ‘how are you doing?’

‘Fine, Sir,’ he replies immediately, so quickly that he almost interrupts the scientist. He winces internally. ’67 expects her to be annoyed, like Ko Sai would have been. And especially so when she cants her head a little and her gaze slides to the side, just a slight movement, and it’s obvious that she’s taking in the monitors that are betraying him.

But instead, Nala Se says, ‘I have been told of what has been done to you, cadet. That you have been the target of testing of an extended and… unusual nature, that those tests have been done with neither oversight nor knowledge of the research committee. That a scientist had you illicitly transferred out of the program without administerial approval. Such is a breach of procedures of egregious proportions. Further, a decommissioning order had been filed for your case. What is alarming is that there were no records of such of your transfer, or of the decommissioning order in the systems—’

Nala Se’s stare is intense, roving over every inch of ‘67’s form as she speaks. Her gaze lingers on the bacta-soaked bandages wrapped around his neck, then flicks down to the similar wraps around his wrists and ankles, before coming back up again.

He straightens his spine under her scrutiny. He bites down hard on the insides of his cheek, wondering if he is expected to say anything, to present his case to her because she does not believe what she has been told about her fellow scientist, that she thinks it is all false allegations and that she is about to overturn his no-decomm order for his insult against her colleague.

‘—I am deeply troubled by the reports and to have heard of your experience. While you have truly suffered greatly and unjustly, I can only be glad that you have managed to escape Ko Sai before she had you decommissioned.’

Whatever it is ’67 had expected Nala Se to say, it is not this. ’67 stares at the scientist.

Judging from the look on A’den face, standing just behind the scientist, he is also caught off-guard, eyes wide with shock and mouth hanging agape.

Even Jango is radiating shock with every line of his armoured body.

‘Oh,’ ’67 says inadequately, after a too-long pause.

Nala Se dips her head at him, the cluster of trinkets hanging at the side of her temple chiming delicately at the movement.

‘Ko Sai has committed a serious abuse of authority, and a planned and malicious circumvention of protocols. She has had her access to research materials immediately revoked and is currently confined to her quarters. At the very least, I expect her to be removed from the program.

‘This should never have happened, CT-7567. And I will personally ensure such a thing will not happen again,’ Nala Se says gravely.

Still a bit stunned, there’s nothing ’67 can do except blink back at the scientist and offer a cautious, ‘Yes, Sir’.

She warbles a few notes softly as if she’s trying to reassure him. ‘You are one of the top performers of your Series. Your records show that you have been an exemplary student. You are not going to be decommissioned.’

Not going to be decommissioned.

The room slides sideways a little at hearing those words, the immense crash of relief making him feel faint. Nala Se chirps in alarm when he tips to the front, her hands reaching out towards him as if to catch him but Jango is quicker, surprisingly fast even in his armour. Jango darts forward, steadying ’67, his broad form curling over ’67 and shielding him from Nala Se’s view.

‘Easy, cadet,’ Jango says. His tone is gruff but his hands are gentle.

’67 tilts his head back to look up at the blank visored gaze, sees his own wide-eyed and pale face reflected in the surface, something pleading and helpless in his own expression—

‘I think,’ Jango says, turning his head just slightly to direct his words to the Kaminoan, ‘that we should leave the cadet to rest and recuperate. Anything further regarding CT-7567, you can discuss with me.’

‘Actually,’ Nala Se says slowly, collecting herself to her full height, ‘there are some things I wish to discuss with CT-7567 directly.’

Chapter Text

’67 freezes. He almost makes a frightened noise, but just manages to swallow it back down.

Jango gives him a brief squeeze before his hands fall away.

‘He’s a cadet. As the head trainer of the program, he falls under my purview,’ Jango says stiffly, turning fully to face the Kaminoan, still shielding ’67 from view, his fists clenching at his sides. ‘Whatever you have to say to him, you say to me first. Whatever you want of him, it goes through me first.’

Jango plants his feet and keeps his position but says nothing further. There is a long pause as the scientist eyes the man, takes in his challenging tone.

’67 fidgets with the hem of his scrubs, barely daring to breathe, his heart pounding in the cage of his ribs as the tension in the room winds ever higher and he wonders what is going to happen, what Nala Se would do to Jango for his insubordination. He can’t help but stare at the back of the man’s neck, where the electroshock collar is now hidden beneath the high collar of Jango’s bodysuit and hooded under the shadow of his helmet—

‘Technically,’ Nala Se says, finally breaking the taut silence, and a low growl erupts from Jango at the word and ’67 flinches, but Nala Se continues, unbothered by the aggressive display, ‘he is no longer enrolled in the program. His serial designation has been recorded as deactivated within his Series and he has already been removed from the list of active units.’

‘Then put him back in,’ snaps Jango.

Despite the bite in Jango’s words, her tone is mild as she replies, ‘That could raise inconvenient questions, should the client demand an audit in the future.’

‘That sounds like a problem for the administrators to sort out,’ Jango points out through what sounds like gritted teeth. ‘Our respective jobs here is to make clones, and to make sure the clones can fight. You said he’s “an exemplary student”. He doesn’t look exactly like the others, but CT-7567 is a karking good cadet.’

‘A minor cosmetic deviance has no bearing on a clone’s ability to perform,’ Nala Se says sharply, sounding almost offended that Jango had brought up ‘67’s defect, even though ’67 doesn’t know why she would be since her entire job, as Jango had mentioned, was to make clones. And clones shouldn’t have unpredicted variances.

‘It doesn’t,’ agrees Jango rather aggressively, fairly bristling in anger, a snarl in every syllable.

There is a very definitive pause.

The head scientist and head trainer regard each other for a moment, and the long stretch of silence feels different, though ’67 can’t exactly say why it is. The air still feels charged, still keeps his heart racing miles a minute, but it feels like its intensity has shifted, like there’s been a shift of perspectives, like they’re both reevaluating the other.

Finally, Nala Se says, ‘Please step aside, Jango Vhett. You may remain in the room while I speak to CT-7567.’

Her words and tone are polite, and it’s gracious that she allows even such a concession when she doesn’t have to, but ’67 knows just as well as the rest of them that Jango has no other option than to obey the implicit order.

There is a short beat before Jango steps away, his movements jerky and dissatisfaction in every line of his body.

But even when Jango is no longer standing between them, Nala Se makes no move to come closer to ‘67.

’67 fights away the impulse to scramble behind the cot, fights the need to have something between him and the scientist. His is body rigid as he clamps down on his fear. He locks his gaze onto the glittering strings of charms hanging from the side of the scientist’s head, tries to keep his eyes from seeking out Jango or A’den—

‘CT-7567,’ Nala Se says solemnly, ‘I will first stress the fact that you need not feel as if you must agree with me. Understand that you have a choice here and you should not feel pressed to accept.’

’67 flicks his wide-eyed gaze to her. Nala Se stares back at him patiently and waits for him to acknowledge her before she continues.

‘Kamino’s cloning technology is at the forefront of its field in the entire galaxy. It is our planetary and professional pride. No other beings can come close to what we have accomplished. It is not arrogance that I make such a statement, it is mere fact. It is our way of life here; it is how we reproduce and it is how we have survived as a species for thousands of years.

‘Even so, the cloning technology we use is not always a hundred percent perfect; there will always be a small fraction of a percent that represents some unexpected variances, some unaccounted-for deviations, some randomised way of biology that insists on manifesting and which simply cannot be predicted.’

’67 shifts uncomfortably, more than aware of his own deviances, expects her to point out his defects but Nala Se doesn’t.

‘Our population is strictly controlled and the unauthorised production of clones of oneself is not permitted. Kaminoan clone clutches are regulated and only a single clone from a clutch is allowed to emerge from the chamber to mature. Indeed, before we took this Republic contract, we had never had more than two cloned occurrences of a being existing at the same time.

‘Now, we have hundreds of thousands of clones of a single being, and hundreds of thousands of data evidence to show how even in the most structured and standardised of environments, there can be so many differences in how one clone behaves and thinks and acts, from another. And that data sample size only grows by the day, with the more clones we decant.’

Nala Se makes a low thoughtful sound before continuing, ‘I suppose, in a way, this contract has made me ponder on what is nature, what is nurtured, and what is engineered.’

Out of the corner of his eyes, ‘67 notices the way Jango shifts uneasily at her words, the visor of his helmet twisting towards Nala Se. The man’s wariness only serves to heighten ‘67’s own.

‘You have demonstrated great skills and acumens, CT-7567, that was not designed for you, for a CT Series. I feel that you have the potential to surpass even the highest of all our expectations,’ she tells him, pinning him with the intensity of her large black eyes. ‘And so, I would offer you an opportunity to continue your education with me, as my ward, under my personal tutelage.’

Jango makes a protesting sound. He starts forward—

‘Once the position is formalised, it will mean that you will be recategorized as a charge of Kamino, rather than a property of the Republic. As such, you will be granted certain rights and protection.’

—and then jerks to a stop suddenly, going very still.

‘W-What do you mean? What kind of r-rights and protection?’ ‘67 asks. And if it sounds like he’s gasping out the words, it’s because his chest is so tight with anxiety, his mind spinning so wildly, it’s hard to even form sentences properly.

‘What do you mean, “once the position is formalised”?’ Jango demands.

Jango’s question makes Nala Se pause and slide him a glance.

‘There is no precedence for such a guardianship,’ Nala Se says, sounding a bit reluctant to admit as such. ‘A case will have to be made and presented to the Kaminoan government. I am willing to petition for CT-7567’s guardianship.’

‘My clones are not considered sentient,’ Jango says, tone gone utterly flat in a way that makes all the hairs stand at the back of ‘67’s neck, something in his hindbrain that the Kaminoans had not edited out warning him of danger.

His words make ’67’s stomach twist and drop to the floor and sourness rises up his tight throat. ’67 swallows hard and tastes his own bitter words that he had written before: we are clones but are we real

‘No, they are not,’ Nala Se agrees.

’67 drops his head to hide his expression, stares at his fists, clenched so hard they’re shaking, the bruises around his wrists still dark, still ugly, despite the bacta.

‘You plan on taking him and putting him in your sole care and calling him your “ward”, but you and I know your government will never grant him sentiency status,’ Jango bites out, words sharp and stilted. ‘It would throw the whole contract. What rights, what protection, will he have then when they decide he isn’t sentient?’

‘They may grant him semi-sentiency status—’

‘Semi-sentiency?’ Jango hisses angrily. He takes a step towards the scientist, hands twitching like he’s about to pull a weapon.

Since the moment she had first addressed ’67 directly, the scientist had been facing him and only twisting her long neck slightly to answer Jango. Now, she turns her body towards the man, her height towering over Jango, and she still seems unafraid of him, despite Jango radiating a sense of danger.

’67 shivers.

He knows the true reason for her unconcern is wrapped tight around Jango’s neck, and he knows also that Jango cannot, will not, attack her.

‘Semi-sentiency will allow CT-7567 to have a future that does not lead to the GAR,’ Nala Se says.

It’s like everything stops when she says that. Jango has gone statue-still again, and even ‘67’s heart stops, skips a beat or two, restarts.

‘He will be given the chance to learn other things that are not just military studies. He will be able to develop other skills. He will not have to run endless drills or memorise weapon manuals; he could be free to study whatever field that interests him.’ Nala Se spreads her long arms slightly, ‘He will not be sent to fight the Wars. He could have something close to a civilian life with me.’

‘You are trying to steal him,’ Jango accuses her coldly. ‘You’re attempting to take advantage of a technicality in this situation to steal him for your own experiments, just like Ko Sai. CT-7567 is a patented product of this research facility, created under contract for a client. He belongs to the client, he belongs here, despite the inconveniences to your accounting.’

His words cut ’67, even if they’re aimed for the scientist, even if the man might be working in secret to subvert the Kaminoans, it stings deeply, grates over the frayed nerve-endings of ‘67’s own struggles with self-perception.

There’s a loaded sort of quality in the way Nala Se considers Jango, her black eyes unblinking. ‘I had thought you would have jumped at this opportunity, Jango Vhett,’ she says softly, almost too low for ’67 to hear. ‘He would not have to fight, would not have to grow up to be a soldier for the Republic. He could be safe from all the violence of war. He could be safe with me.’

‘And what safeguards will there be for him, from you?’

The bold question is pure insubordination, recklessly confrontative, and dangerous.

There’s a twist of terror inside ‘67’s chest, his fear for Jango, and fear for himself, and fear for all of them, all the clones, intertwining together inside him.

’67 had braced himself to witness Jango’s electroshock collar to go off, for security droids to burst in to subdue the man, or to drag him away. He had expected something to happen, something explosive and violent.

But there’s nothing of the sort. Nala Se doesn’t deliver a punishment or even a reprimand.

He finds it most concerning that she allows it, wonders at why she doesn’t impose her authority by force.

‘I only have CT-7567’s best interest in mind,’ Nala Se insists. ‘I have no intention of using him as a test subject.’

‘So, you won’t be collecting any data on him at all? No private notes? Not even to form a psychological profile?’ Jango asks pointedly, sounding darkly bitter.

That seems to make the scientist draw short.

Her silence makes ’67 tense up. A shivery rush of fear, of fight-flight, shoots through him at the thought of another scientist allowed unlimited access to his person.

‘Perhaps we should just put it to the cadet to choose,’ she says at last, after long a moment or two.

It is hard to read Kaminoan expressions, but ’67 thinks she doesn’t look particularly optimistic when she turns to him for his answer.

‘Do you wish to be my ward, CT-7567?’ she asks, her tone pitched low and a thrum in her words.

’67 bites back his immediate and vehement refusal, does not want to offend the Long Neck, so he takes a short breath before he speaks, trying to sound as even and polite as he can. He even manages to look her in the eye when he answers.

‘No, Sir. Thank you, Sir.’

He has a split moment to wonder if she would insist anyway, would just use her authority to order him to accept, and that he never actually had a choice—

Nala Se warbles and the long strands of her jewellery clink together when she inclines her head in a nod. There is something that could be disappointment that flashes across her face, but she doesn’t press the issue further.

‘Then I will see to it that you are reinstated into the program. I wish you a speedy recovery, cadet.’

She leaves them swiftly after that, gliding out of the room and she doesn’t look back.

The tension in the room only eases slightly after she’s gone, though.

Jango takes one look at ‘67’s face and then he’s half turning to A’den, fingers flicking in battlesign. There are a few return handsigns and then A’den make an acknowledging noise at the back of his throat, and then the Null leaves them also, Prudii’s little droid following him out.

Jango’s visor is an unreadable expanse when the man turns his attention back to ’67.

There is a slight hesitation before Jango reaches up to remove his helmet.

Jango looks tired, eyes red-rimmed like he hasn’t had a chance yet to rest in the hours since ’67 has seen him last.

It is not the tiredness of the face that draws ‘67’s attention, though. He finds his gaze immediately going to the man’s neck, to try to spot the electroshock collar. Tucked in the shadows under the hood of the helmet, it would’ve been impossible to notice. But with the lack of the helmet, ’67 can see it. It isn’t obvious, the shape of it is mostly hidden by the high collar of the bodysuit, but it’s definitely there.

When he manages to drag his eyes away and up to meet Jango’s own gaze, he finds the man studying him intently in return. ’67 licks his lips nervously, suddenly extremely conscious that Jango has seen every emotion that has flickered across his face. He wonders how that will be interpreted, and what Jango will do.

… What Jango does is hand him a nutripack and a hydropack.

It’s difficult with his wrapped hands and it takes some inelegant fumbling, but ’67 manages the tab on the hydropack. It’s a small success, disproportionate to the relief he feels that he can do something for himself, feed and water himself at the very least.

‘Are you feeling better?’ the man asks, his tone is careful and he’s still watching ’67.

‘Yes, Sir,’ ’67 says, and he doesn’t miss the way Jango briefly frowns at the formal address.

‘I’m sorry that we could not stop Nala Se from coming here,’ Jango says after a short pause, and the downward slant of his lips deepens. ‘We told her that you are resting, that you are still recovering from your ordeal, from everything you have suffered under her subordinate’s hands—’ Jango bites himself off abruptly, hands flexing at his sides.

‘I am sorry,’ Jango says after a moment, quieter.

’67 stares at him.

How was Jango supposed to stop Ko Sai? No one can stop the Long Necks, not even the Prime.

‘It’s fine,’ he tells Jango.

‘It’s not—’ Jango starts to say vehemently, taking a step forward before he stops himself. A harsh breath punches out of his mouth and then he collects himself, takes two steps back to give ’67 more space.

’67 uncurls his shoulders slightly.

‘I am sorry,’ Jango apologises again, but this time he continues with, ‘for scaring you.’

‘I’m not scared,’ ’67 says immediately, even though the jump in his heart rate is clearly displayed on the blasted med monitors. He tries to straighten his spine and meets Jango’s eye anyway, setting his jaw.

Jango just inclines his head, ‘As you say. But I shouldn’t have lost my composure.’

’67 isn’t sure how to reply to that, so he says nothing.

‘And I am sorry, ad’ika, that we did not stop Ko Sai before. That we were not aware of her abuse is no excuse. You should have been safe, should have been made to feel safe enough to come to us trainers for help. We should have made you safe, made sure you were safe.’ Jango says and his solemn words make something twist inside ‘67’s chest.

‘Ni ceta,’ Jango says and ‘67’s breath stutters a little, catches in the back of his throat, when the man takes to both knees before ‘67 and dips his head low. ‘Ni ceta,’ the man repeats, and then he looks up. His expression is lined with anguish and he says, ‘I kneel, and I dare to ask for your forgiveness even though I do not deserve it.’

‘I— It’s not your fault,’ ’67 tells him, swiping at his blurry eyes and sucking in a shaky breath. ‘There’s nothing you could’ve done anyway, against them,’ he pushes out.

He bites his lip briefly and takes a moment to consider, but well, there’s not much use avoiding it any longer, so he just throws his caution away to address the krayt in the room, his hand drifting to touch his own neck and then jerking his chin towards Jango, ‘Not when they’ve got you in that. I know that’s an electroshock collar.

‘…You’re a prisoner here, aren’t you? You’re trapped here. You must’ve been here for years— since the Battle of Galidraan. The whole galaxy thinks you’re dead, but the Long Necks have been keeping you here, taking your blood and making clones of you. And they’ve been forcing you to train us for them, for the R-Republic.’

’67 stutters a little at the end, catching on the last word. His mouth had been a little faster than his mind. He’s circled around and around this terrible thought before, though he has never quite managed to accept the conclusion; that the Republic, bastion of democracy, a system of government with vaunted principles, standing in proud opposition against two war-mongering Empires… could ever do anything so…

…so unethical…

…so vile…

And yet, here’s Jango Vhett before him, and ’67 tracks the way Jango’s hands flex on his thighs, and the way the concealed electroshock collar rides the bob of Jango’s throat as the man swallows hard.

Chapter Text

There’s a long stretch of silence before Jango says anything, his expression shuttered and his dark eyes watching ’67 intently in return. He doesn’t look particularly surprised that ’67 had broached the subject.

When he does speak, he doesn’t try to deny his captivity on Kamino, that the Long Necks have him collared, forcibly tamed to their hand.

‘There are many things I cannot do. I cannot leave Kamino. I cannot stop the Kaminoans from making clones. And I cannot stop the Republic from commissioning clones to fight the Wars for them.

‘But this, ad’ika, if I had known about that demagolka Ko Sai, I would have found a way. Nothing would have stopped me,’ he tells ’67 and there’s such gravity in his words, delivered so steadily while Jango keeps his gaze locked onto ‘67’s face, never looking away.

It makes ’67 wonder what Jango would have done if he had known, what he would given of himself, what the man would have personally sacrificed to save ’67 from the scientist.

It feels like it’s too much, hearing that Jango Vhett, once Mandalor and the Prime, would have actually cared enough for someone like CT-7567, the odd little clone—

‘Ibic haar Manda,’ Jango says like he can read the conflict and doubt on ‘67’s face, like, ‘This is the Way of Mandalore,’ is all the reason Jango needs.

’67 looks away quickly, swallows once, twice, before he can find his words. He’s trying to understand, trying to trust Jango, but—

‘But clones have been decommissioned before. Cadets have been sent to decomm,’ ’67 says quietly. ‘You didn’t stop that from happening.’

The words aren’t really accusatory, just soft and cautious, and very, very small.

The noise Jango makes is pained and he rocks back onto his heels like he has taken a blow.

‘No,’ he says, breathing gone tight and ragged, but he keeps his head up and his eyes are shadow-casted, ‘No, I didn’t stop that from happening. That is something else I cannot do.’

He makes no excuses, makes no attempt at deflecting.

His plainness should make ’67 rear back in horror, in disgust.

But ’67 can hear the self-loathing simmering beneath, can see the way the man’s body shakes with fine tremors of guilt, of pain, of helpless rage.

‘You are always there,’ ’67 says, feeling jittery himself, hands twisting as restlessly in the fabric of his scrubs as his heart is twisting in his chest, ‘The others say you are always there at the decomms. With the cadets. When you f-found me, I thought you were there to bring me to the chambers.’

A rough sound escapes Jango. When ’67 darts a look at his face, the man’s eyes are too bright, red-rimmed and wet.

‘Elek,’ Jango says, a sharp jerk of his head accompanying the Mando’a. ‘Taabir tome, akay taab’echaaj’la. I stayed by their sides, until they were marched away from me. I held their hands and spoke to them and gave them comfort. It was all I could do for them. Ni karta taylir an ade. I know each of them, I know all of their designations, their names, and I keep them in my heart and in my Remembrances.’

The realisation that the Prime, Jango, had been trying to comfort those terrified cadets in their last few minutes makes ‘67’s heart tighten painfully in his chest. The terrible tangle of emotions squeezing him makes him almost breathless.

It feels wrong for Jango to remain kneeling in supplication to ’67 when there’s that terrible collar around his neck.

‘I was too scared of being different, too scared to ask for help because I was different. I never told anyone about Ko Sai. Not even Maze,’ ’67 tells him quietly, tears escaping and slipping down his face. He brushes them away with shaky hands.

It’s… not quite an absolution, but something like it. ’67 catches the flash of grief on the man’s face at the mention of the trainer’s name, before Jango dips his head. ‘But… I wish I had.’

Jango slowly climbs to his feet, and he looks like he’s feeling every ounce of weight of his armour.

‘Maze was a good kid,’ Jango rasps, tone heavy with sorrow.

’67 starts a little but he shouldn’t be surprised, really. Maze had always been someone ’67 had viewed with respect and admiration, one of the older clones, an Alpha, a trainer. But to Jango, they’re all kids, aren’t they? Some of them he even considers his kids.

Jango huffs a short laugh, bitter and sad and proud all at once, ‘He would’ve gone after the demagolka himself, if he had known.’

‘H-he called for you,’ ’67 chokes out. ‘When he was— He called for his buir.’

The sound Jango makes is awful, but ’67 can’t regret telling him.

‘67’s eyes sting and he sniffs hard, swipes the back of his hand across his face but the tears won’t stop flowing. He doesn’t pull away when Jango steps nearer, instead leans closer to the man when Jango drops a hand onto his shoulder. The cool plates of armour under his cheek are comforting despite its hard and unyielding surface. ’67 closes his eyes as Jango folds himself around him, wrapping ’67 in a hug.

‘He tried to keep me safe, told me to stay in the maintenance closet. He gave me his vibroblade and told me not to do anything s-stupid,’ ’67 tells Jango, words hitching first on his sobs, and then on a completely inappropriate, slightly hysterical giggle. ‘B-but I did many stupid things. He would’ve been s-so mad.’

Jango huffs a small broken laugh himself and squeezes ‘67 tighter.

‘You did your best,’ Jango says, his own voice rough. ‘And you survived it all.’

‘And, I think,’ Jango murmurs much later, when ‘67’s tears have finally stopped, ‘that Maze would have wanted you to have this.’

Jango presses something into his hands. ’67's fingers automatically curl around the familiar shape, recognising the hilt of the weapon before he even lays his eyes on it.

‘Oh,’ he breathes, holding tighter onto the sheathed vibroblade, bringing it closer to his chest.

He didn’t think he’d see it again, not after it had been taken from him after he had… stabbed Jango. Guiltily, he slides a glance at Jango’s leg. Jango catches his look and a corner of his lips twists up a smirk, like the man knows what ’67 is thinking about.

Jango doesn’t mention it though, just nods at the weapon in ‘67’s hands, ‘I gave that to Maze shortly after his verd’goten, after he’d gotten his armour.’

’67 looks down at it. He pulls the blade slowly from its sheath, watches the way the lights catch on its edges and on the Mando’a script—

‘Atin tengaanar goyust,’ Jango says, voice gone low and he’s gazing down at the weapon too. ‘Persistence reveals the path. I had that etched for him after he had found his own name.’

‘It suited him,’ ’67 says, equally softly, fingers trailing along the words.

Maze.

‘Nu kyr'adyc, shi taab'echaaj'la. Not gone, merely marching far away,’ Jango says, sounding just the littlest bit unsteady.

’67 makes a soft sound. He’s still studying the blade, runs a light touch along the sharp edge, as he considers what to do, what to say next.

He’s lived so long feeling like he’s been balancing on the edge of a knife, never knowing when he might slip and get hurt. The biggest of fears have been allayed; he’s not going to be decommissioned. But there’s a whole host of other things that have burdened him, that he has always pushed to the side to avoid addressing.

And Maze… Maze wanted him to keep marching bravely, taabir kotep, had wanted him to—

‘—"Urcir ner aliit, mhi aliit”,’ ’67 says slowly, the Mando’a shaping clumsily on his tongue. ‘That’s what Maze said to me. He wanted me to… “urcir ner aliit, mhi aliit.”’

His eyes slide up to Jango, a wordless question for its meaning.

The expression on Jango’s face is stricken.

‘He wanted you to meet his family. Our family,’ Jango tells him, after a short beat the man takes to gather himself together. His voice is shaking like he’s unbalanced, but for ’67, it utterly devastates ‘67’s world, makes ’67 feel like he has been cut open to only now know that Maze had wanted him, had wanted to claim him, but Maze is gone—

Jango’s hand is trembling when the man slowly raises it up, and when ’67 doesn’t pull away, he traces his fingers down the centre of ‘67’s face.

The same way Maze had done that night.

From forehead, nose, to chin.

‘Su’cuy gar, ad’ika,’ Jango breathes, something reverent and heartbroken in his tone. ‘Well met.’

‘67 sucks in a wet breath, first one, and then another, and then tries to speak.

‘S-su’cuy gar,’ ’67 stutters back, overcome with emotion, eyes burning and blurring.

Jango’s own eyes are damp and the smile he gives ‘67 is soft and crooked, ‘I bet the rest of the boys can’t wait to meet you. It’s not often someone stabs me even before they’re made part of our aliit.’

The man’s words send a jolt of strange emotion through ’67.

He hadn’t considered that he would’ve been so easily and readily accepted; that the rest of the clones who are close to Jango – the Prime’s inner circle, the Nulls and Alphas and ARCs – would actually want to know him.

He’s never imagined he’d ever have anything close to this.

He’s told himself that being a cadet and training hard and dutifully doing his coursework had been enough. He didn’t need friends. He didn’t need anyone else.

He just needed to graduate Basic training.

He’s always tried not to be greedy, to not want so much. It didn’t matter how he felt, that complicated feeling that twisted and warmed and stung something deep inside him; he shouldn’t need Kote or 1010 or 1004 or 3636 or Denal. He shouldn’t need anyone. He should be capable on his own.

Jango’s simple acceptance of ’67 into his aliit is disorientating, and despite himself, and in spite of everything Jango has said and done so far, there’s still a no small part of ’67 that still feels jittery and unsettled, and he knows the cause of it.

’67 licks his lips, reconsiders for only a fraction of a second but then decides it just needs asking, and now is as good a time as any if they’re going to be talking about family.

‘Can I see Kote first? Before any of the others?’

And because he’s watching closely for it, he catches it. There’s that flicker of expression across Jango’s face, that slight tightening of his brow and thinning of his lips, there and gone again, and it makes ’67 rush to anxiously explain.

‘He’s my o-ori’vod,’ he says, tongue tripping over the word in his haste. He suddenly finds himself wondering if it’s wise to be bandying that term around Jango. It has always been obvious that the use of Mando’a is closely guarded amongst the trainers and the ARCs, although there’s been some inadvertent trickling down to the rest of the clones. Still, ’67 can’t tell with any certainty how the man really feels about the reg clones stealing bits of his language.

The small stubborn seed of bleak wariness blooms in his chest when Jango takes a moment or two, clearly considering how to craft his reply.

‘Please,’ ’67 says, voice small. ‘You promised.’

Jango’s shoulders sag, as if suddenly crushed by the weight of ‘67’s quiet plea.

‘It’s not that I want to keep the two of you apart, ad’ika—’ Jango starts.

‘He doesn’t even know I’m alive! He thinks I’ve been decommed!’ ’67 hisses, frightened for how Kote must be feeling, frustrated and furious that Jango could be so cruel—

‘He knows you’re alive,’ Jango says firmly, before ’67 can work himself up any further. ‘He was informed the very moment we knew your condition to be stable.’

‘Then why won’t you let me see him?’ ’67 demands, voice inching higher in his agitation. But even as the words leave his mouth, he is struck with sudden understanding—

‘—I won’t tell him anything. I swear.’

Because that must be the reason for Jango’s reticence; why else would he and the Nulls be so reluctant for ’67 and Kote to reunite? They must be concerned about what he might share with Kote.

The Prime being a prisoner and secretly planning an insurrection is dangerous and valuable information.

Jango goes silent, his dark eyes fixed onto ‘67’s face for a few long seconds.

Then, Jango breaks the tense moment by huffing out a breath, a hand reaching up to rake through his hair.

‘I don’t think not telling Kote anything is going to work,’ Jango says, but it isn’t meant unkindly. ‘It won’t be fair to either of you to have this between you. Right now, however, we need to come to an understanding of what Kote needs to know, and what he cannot know.’

’67 must have made some kind of face because it has Jango looking very serious.

‘It’s for his own safety, ad’ika,’ Jango says and there’s a shade of something in his voice, in the grim slant of his lips.

Jango pauses, clearly trying to decide if he should say more. When he speaks again, his tone is different, something difficult and complicated straining the edges of his words.

‘When the CCs were mature enough to begin their physical training… the Alphas themselves were just barely past their verd’goten, fresh into their shiny armours, and were not yet ready to be the primary trainers for the young ones. Their numbers are nothing to the size of batches that the Long Necks decant now, but it was the very first time that any of us had seen so many Eyayad’ike – so many clones. It was beyond comprehension, overwhelming, to have thousands of little Eyayad’ike looking to you for instruction. Such a responsibility should not be shouldered by my sons alone. Mhi ba'juri verde tome; we raise warriors together.

‘I trained them, those first batches of CCs. Taught them basic formations and watched them drill,’ and there’s something in the way Jango says that that ’67 thinks sounds almost wistful. Jango falls silent, his gaze drifting off to the side of the room, as if he can stare through the walls, stare back into that past.

‘What happened?’ ’67 asks quietly, almost afraid to know the answer.

Something must have happened because the Prime isn’t in charge of any of the cadet training now, his attention reserved only for the more advanced and specialised training of the ARCs.

Something must have happened to be the cause of that expression on Jango’s face.

‘I made a mistake. And a child almost died for it,’ Jango says grimly, turning to face ’67 once more.

His fists are clenched tightly at his side. Jango draws in a slow steadying breath, releases it in a long exhale and flexes his shaking hands.

‘Boba was my first son,’ he says and ’67 blinks, slightly thrown at what seems to be an unexpected segue. ‘He was only a few months old when he came into my care. Ordo and Mereel and the rest of the boys… they’re older and they came to me after Boba.

‘It… displeased the Long Necks that I was adopting what they saw as their product, their property, especially when I continued to do so with the Alpha batch. I had no interest in pleasing them, either, but it was… unforgivably reckless.’

’67 inhales sharply, feeling the blood drain from his face.

Jango sees the understanding on ‘67’s expression and jerks his head in a stiff nod.

‘Kote,’ ’67 breathes.

It can be no one else. There is only one clone in the generations after the Alphas that Jango has ever given a name.

‘Yes. Kote. He was such a handful, even at that age,’ Jango says, closing his eyes briefly and dropping his head. ‘He was always sneaking out after curfew to try to break into the simpods. He never could get enough of the flight sims. Crashed his ship mostly, but that’s more because his arms were still too short for the controls,’ Jango huffs, fondness in his broken-sounding laugh, and when he looks up again at ’67, his eyes are overbright.

It’s so strange to hear of Kote’s antics as a child, behaving like that. ’67 himself had never acted like that. None of the CTs did.

He can’t imagine it at all. It’s the sort of indulgent leniency that is only afforded to someone like Boba.

Jango’s affection for Kote is clear to see, but there’s so much pain and grief and horror on his face, too.

’67 feels something twist inside his stomach, dread and anxiety coiling inside him.

And… Jango doesn’t train anyone cadet-aged anymore.

Something must have happened.

Something must have happened to have made him stop training the cadets and had made him keep his distance from the rest of his clones.

‘He used to follow me everywhere. The Long Necks didn’t like it. I didn’t encourage the behaviour, but I didn’t really try to stop it, either. That was foolish of me. As it was for the Alphas, I had thought that as long as the CCs were achieving all their performance targets – being trained to be soldiers, to be commanders – that there would be no issues for the Kaminoans. In my blind complacent confidence, I called him Kote. Gave him a name.

‘And they took him away because of it.’

Even for something that has happened years in the past, even though he knows that whatever had happened, Kote didn’t get decommissioned, his first instinctive reaction is a bone-deep terror for Kote.

He has to remind himself that Kote had graduated cadet training. Got his armour… And also that only a few hours ago, had been told by Jango or the Nulls that ’67 hadn’t been decommissioned.

He's fine. He's alive. He's alright.

‘What did they do to him?’ ’67 asks, trying to calm the rapid-fire of his heartbeat, trigger fingers of both hands tapping anxiously on his thighs. ‘Kote has never mentioned anything about this to me, has never talked about this at all.’

‘He wouldn’t have,’ Jango says, and there’s sharp bitterness in his next words, ‘He doesn’t actually remember any of it.’

Something in the way Jango says it makes ice crawl down his insides.

Clones have near-eidetic memories. Forgetting something like this doesn’t sound likely.

And Kote isn’t like ’67; he wouldn’t try to pretend his problems didn’t exist if he just stopped thinking about them.

‘What do you mean? Why doesn’t he remember?’ ’67 forces out, trying to keep the sour sick from coming up the back of his throat together with his questions.

‘They took him away and they made him forget. The demagolkase Long Necks called it Reconditioning.’

Chapter Text

Reconditioning.

The term isn’t familiar but it fills the entirety of ’67’s being with absolute dread.

‘It’s a mindwipe,’ Jango explains quietly, subdued, and the lines on his face are carved so deeply, his eyes shadowed. ‘It was a classified experimental procedure.’

’67 feels like throwing up. He clamps his lips tight and then his hands over his mouth. His eyes burn, and he blinks and blinks, but there are just too many tears.

‘Taun We has always been displeased that the young clones behaved like children. She dislikes the display of rambunctiousness. She finds it… disruptive towards their professional image.’ He says it like he’s quoting someone, and his voice is unsteady from helpless rage and frustration.

‘She expects them to be more droid than people. The creation of soulless shells of beings, perfect little soldiers straight from the tubes. Even Nala Se told her that modifying genetics alone would never achieve that, not if they wanted an army that could still think creatively, strategize and make tactical decisions. So instead… Taun We ordered the scientists to find a way to edit the behaviours of decanted clones, to remove or modify the behaviours that Kaminoans found offensive.

‘Kote was a child and he acted like one, and Taun We did not like that. She was the one who ordered the Reconditioning to be trialled on him.’

‘67’s fists tangle white-knuckled in the fabric of his scrubs and his lips feel bloodless and numb when he says, ‘I’ve heard some of the other CCs saying that Kote had been given further enhancements when he was a cadet… but Kote always acted like he didn’t hear them, and I always thought that they were just jealous of him.’

1010 and Kote’s other batchmates have always been protective, and they are swift to end such gossip with fists and kicks on Kote’s behalf.

It’s an awful thing to realise that those other CCs are under the impression that Kote’s excellence in his combat training and studies was only due to a classified experimental procedure he received as a cadet… when it had actually been a kriffing mindwipe.

A quiet sob escapes ’67 at the look of devastation that crumples the rest of Jango’s composure.

It’s a long moment before Jango is able to speak again.

‘When they brought him back to me, he wasn’t the child who loved flight sims, the one who submitted his assignments with doodles of banthas in the margins. There wasn’t anything left of that kid. There was no trace of any emotion, no hint of a personality… Everything had been scraped away. CC-2224 was an empty shell that obeyed every order.’

Jango makes an ugly sound, something pained and hurting. ‘But they found that he obeyed too well. There was no thought before the action. He couldn’t problem solve creatively and had to be given very exacting instructions to complete a task.’

‘But they reversed it, didn’t they?’ ’67 demands desperately. ‘Kote isn’t like that now. He’s the smartest in the batch, has near-perfect scores in everything!’

‘They didn’t,’ Jango says, shaking his head grimly. ‘They didn’t develop a way to reverse the procedure. But the Reconditioning did not produce the outcome Taun We wanted and further research into the procedure was suspended. She deemed him a damaged product and wanted to have Kote decommissioned, but she was persuaded otherwise by Nala Se. The scientist felt the answer lay more within genetic manipulation, rather than psyche modification and she wanted to observe him. She was sceptical about the long-term effectiveness of such a procedure, and especially since he was so young—’

Jango stops abruptly, his breathing harsh and rapid.

‘And she was right. Manda curse and bless her, but Nala Se was right,’ Jango bites out bitterly, after a few beats of quiet. ‘It was almost unbearable to witness, and it took months, but… slowly, little by little, there were shades of the little CC cadet I knew slowly resurfacing.

‘I had already recused myself from training the CCs. I didn’t want to give the Long Necks another excuse to experiment on another child. I stayed away from the cadets and I gave their training over to the Alphas and the Nulls.’

There’s a terribly complicated expression on his face when he continues, ‘And then one day, he came to me. Broke drill formation and just… walked right up to me. And then he gives me a salute and tells me that his name is Kote.

‘I told him to get his shebs back in line,’ Jango’s huffed laugh is pain and fondness in one breath. ‘They took everything from him, scoured his mind bare, but… they couldn’t take that. They couldn’t take his name. He found it again, eventually, took it back.’

There’s an air of ache in the silence that falls after that, Jango and ’67 both caught in their own emotions.

’67 squeezes his eyes tightly, tries not to break down crying again at the thought of what had been done to his ori’vod.

Kote is obviously aware that a… procedure had been done to him, but he’s never made any mention of it to ’67. The more ’67 reflects on it, the more he finds himself wondering if the reason for Kote’s drive to excel is similar to his own; that they both felt like they needed to achieve perfection because anything less is dangerous, could mean decommissioning.

And… It also changes ‘67’s perspective on Kote’s batchmates.

It almost makes him breathless, the realisation of the depth of loyalty and protectiveness they’ve displayed for Kote. They must have known that Kote had been courting an unfathomable risk, associating with a defective clone like ’67, but they had never once made ’67 feel unwelcomed, only ever tried to facilitate his inclusion in their group.

’67 recalls that it had been 3636 who had herded ’67 all the way to the CC barracks when he had been too disorientated and in too much discomfort to manage on his own, after his appointment with Ko Sai; and 1010 had been the one to stage the scene – as if ’67 was being hazed, made to polish their boots – when the trainers surprised them all with a late-night inspection, entirely prepared to take the blame for Kote and ’67 both; their willingness as a squad to break ranks from the rest of the CCs to have firstmeal with an ostracised CT, because Kote had wanted to sit with ’67.

It also gives ’67 another layer of understanding for their reactions when ’67 had treated Kote so callously when he told Kote he didn’t want to see him anymore.

Kriff, he thinks, feeling even more miserable.

Maybe he really does deserve to get his shebs kicked by 3636. He really didn’t deserve to be welcomed back to their table with a tray laden with food prepared by 1004.

Jango rouses a little, scrubs his hand roughly across his face. ‘Kote cannot know about our aliit, ad’ika,’ he says, finally returning to the original matter at hand. His eyes are still damp but his voice is steady, firm, ‘Or the things our aliit is trying to do, or my true role here. We are trying to find our way to freedom for all of us... You cannot tell him about any of this.’

‘I won’t,’ ’67 says, whisper-quiet and shaken.

‘It’s not just that our plans might get exposed because he’s at a higher risk of being observed by the Long Necks,’ Jango continues unhappily, as he explains further. ‘It’s the Reconditioning itself.’

There’s a deeply troubled expression on Jango’s face, ‘We don’t exactly know what had been done to him, but we suspect— we fear, that there are triggers implanted in his subconscious.’

Jango’s expression twists further and there’s a quiet kind of agony when he says, ‘Please believe that we tried, ad’ika. Ori’haat. We tried to help him remember our aliit, tried to regain or regrow what was taken from us but… the mention of certain things seemed to cause him terrible mental strain. We could not do that, could not make Kot’ika suffer like that. And it is too dangerous for his mental well-being, and the risk is too high that the Long Necks would notice and have him decommissioned.’

Kriff.

Kriff kriff kriff.

Never in his most horrible imaginings did he think of anything like this.

War is serious business, and for the Kaminoans, a military contract for the production of combat-capable clones is incredibly lucrative.

’67 knows CT training can’t compare to the standards expected of a CC, but he doesn’t think he’s ever really considered the weight of expectation they shoulder. The Command class clones are under immense pressure to perform well in their current training, labouring under the looming future burdened with a duty and responsibility that they are to carry. Knowing they were created to help lead the Republic clone army.

But learning that Kote had been Reconditioned, had almost been decommissioned, when he had been just a cadet… because he was too childlike—

—what does that even mean? he has no real point of reference for such behaviours except for the second-or-thirdhand stories he hears of Boba’s mischief—

—and that Kote might have some kind of mental conditioning, some kind of programming, due to the Reconditioning—

—fills ‘67 with a horrible mix of revulsion and helpless horror and a deep crushing grief.

…

It is no wonder that the trainers are so harsh with them, so swift to dole out corrections at any small infraction. Any hint of play, of childlike-ness, drilled out of them… because strict discipline is what keeps the cadets safe.

’67 squeezes his eyes shut and takes a long steadying breath, trying to work past the ache in his heart.

‘I understand,’ ’67 manages to say to Jango, and his voice sounds so subdued to his own ears, low and quiet in a too-small way.

Jango takes one look at ‘67’s face and he stops pressing the matter.

‘I’m sorry, ad,’ Jango says, sounding as helpless as ’67 feels.

’67 presses the heels of his palms to his eyes and jerks a nod, not quite trusting himself with speaking just yet. There’s a hand on the back of his neck and the weight of an arm wrapping around his back, and ’67 lets himself be pulled into a Jango’s chestplate, pressed close to the hexagonal piece set in its centre.

He is grateful for the comfort being offered, desperate for it, but he still can’t help tensing up when Jango’s fingers brush through his hair—

—Jango immediately notices and drops his hand, murmuring apologies in Basic and Mando’a both.

The gesture and consideration make ’67 feel even more unsteady, makes him cling tighter to the man.

Eventually, when his stuttering breaths have even out into something that doesn’t hook and hitch painfully at his ribs, Jango bends his head to murmur to him, ‘Do you think you’re ready to see your ori’vod now, ad?’

‘Yes,’ ’67 says immediately, certain of this if nothing else.

He draws a short breath and pulls back to meet Jango’s gaze. ‘Elek,’ he says, a wealth of meaning in that single Mando’a word, an assurance and an acknowledgement of the situation and all the things in between.

The Mando’a makes something flit across Jango’s face, something like pride and relief and an apology all at once, and then Jango nods solemnly.

‘Vor’e, ad’ika,’ Jango says, voice low, and he leans in to press their foreheads together. ‘Thank you. I know this isn’t easy.’

Jango gives him another hug before releasing him, though he doesn’t move away yet. He just stands there, looking down at ’67 for another long moment before he lifts a hand to ’67 face. His touch is light, running a line down the centre of his face.

And then Jango is donning his helmet again, and the bulk of the electroshock collar is hidden once more. Then, it’s the Prime standing before him; a familiar and intimidating figure in full armour, steely strength and confidence in every line of his body.

He gives ’67 a sharp nod before he turns and leaves, striding through the ward door, his footsteps clipped and purposeful, and he doesn’t look back.

’67 doesn’t have to wait long at all for his next visitor. He’s alone for barely even a minute before the door opens again—

—has Kote been waiting just outside the infirmary? Just how long has he been there?—

—and before the gap between door and frame is even wider than a few inches, Kote is already pushing his way in, the paint on his armour getting scratched.

‘’67!’ Kote gasps, eyes immediately locked onto ’67, hands outstretched and grasping as he lunges towards ’67.

Kote crashes into him, his long arms grabbing him up into a crushing hug so tight that it actually hurts a little, but ’67 doesn’t care. Kote doesn’t say anything else, just holds him close for a handful of heartbeats. It’s only when ’67 finally notices the tremor running through the other’s limbs does he realises that Kote is crying.

‘I’m alright, Kote,’ ’67 squeezes out past his own quiet sniffles. ‘I’m alright.’

‘You were almost decommed!’ hisses Kote, holding ’67 even tighter, anger and worry making his tone sharp. ‘What the kriff, vod! I got back from Survival and then I was told that you were gone!’

Kote makes an inarticulate sound of fear and frustration and draws back a little, only to lean in again to press his forehead to ’67’s. The rims of Kote’s eyes are red, eyelashes wet and glimmering, and he glares straight into ‘67’s eyes.

‘CT-7567,’ he says seriously, actually using ’67’s full designation and ’67 winces, ‘I am going to pummel your shebs into the training mats.’

‘…I thought you said were going to dropkick me off the landing decks, into the ocean?’ ’67 finds himself asking, mouth forming the words before his brain can really filter them. He pauses, feeling a little affronted at his own self-betrayal.

‘Yes,’ Kote agrees vehemently, even gives ’67 a small headbutt to drive in the promise with a little percussive agreement. ‘That will happen after, vod’ika.’

’67 huffs a laugh, despite what he knows is Kote’s very real promise. It’s weird that there’s a warm feeling in his chest, especially knowing that Kote will absolutely kick his shebs. Not that ’67 has any plans of making it easy for the CC.

Kote finally loosens his grip on ’67.

’67 watches his face as the CC turns to intently study the stats on the med monitors, taking the time to examine the older clone.

The Survival module that they’re all expected to take once they’re old enough has a certain notoriety – it can’t be easy, obviously, it’s designed to push the troopers to the very edge of their limits – but Kote’s been done with that for more than two tendays already. All the literature ’67 has on the subject has always reassured him that weight and some muscle loss are expected from it and that with a strict diet and recovery regime, the troopers should very quickly regain their normal body weight again.

Looking at Kote now, it’s obvious that Survival is really hard. Kote’s much thinner, since ’67 saw him last—

—’67 spares a brief moment to wonder how 1004 had fared, if he had actually managed to successfully smuggle food in his pouches, or if he had been caught by the trainers—

—but the CCs have completed the module more than two tendays ago and Kote really should be well on the way back to a healthy weight.

He looks thin and tired, and it doesn’t help that he also looks like he hasn’t slept in days, his gaunt cheekbones worsening the effects of the dark smudges beneath his eyes.

Kote’s always been good about maintaining a tidy appearance, fastidious about keeping his hair in regulation buzzcut, his armour and boots polished to a shine.

Now, though, his hair is longer, long enough to start curling at the tips, and his armour scuffed and boots dirty. Alarmingly, there is also what looks like dried blood on the edges of one of his poleyns—

’67 doesn’t have a chance to ask about that because Kote turns his attention back to ’67. Kote looks ‘67 over, the corners of his lips slanting ever downwards as he takes in the bacta patches stuck all over ‘67’s body, at the thick coat of tacky bacta gel that is slattered on everywhere else.

There’s something in the expression Kote wears that twists his insides when Kote’s eyes linger on the bandages around his neck and wrists and ankles. Kote sucks in a deep breath and his eyes are glimmering, tears unshed, and then he exhales slowly, the sound shaky and wet.

The edges of an awful thought curls around ‘67’s mind and he is unable to stop himself from wondering if the vod looking at him now is the same as Jango’s Kot’ika, who loved flight sims and banthas; or if it’s CC-2224, who regained his name but not his aliit—

When Kote reaches for ’67 again, he moves much slower and he’s careful to avoid the bandages wrapped around ‘67’s wrists, cups his hands instead around ’67’s elbows. And when he pulls ’67 close again, it is with a little more care, though the embrace is no less desperate. He tucks ’67’s face into the crook of his neck and his long arms wrap around ’67 again.

—or if he would have always been like this. Kot’ika-CC-2224-Kote would have grown and matured into this shape of a person, fierce and strong and kind and caring because that’s just who he is.

‘Kark,’ Kote says, the word punching out of his mouth, a whole galaxy’s worth of difficult feelings in the word, puffed into ‘67’s hair.

‘Yeah. Kark,’ he agrees, unsteadily, and even with his eyes tightly shut, his tears still slip out somehow. He slumps, just goes boneless against Kote’s chest, cradled in Kote’s arms.

‘I got your messages,’ Kote tells ’67. His voice wobbles dangerously, his breath hitching, and his fingers spasm where they’re clutching at ‘67’s scrubs.

‘The droid found you?’ ’67 mumbles the question into the collar of Kote’s blacks, half-surprised at the fact. Frankly, he hadn’t thought the droid could’ve actually navigated its way across the entire facility to Kote’s bunkroom, running on only its most necessary hardware and held together by the barest of programming and desperate prayer.

‘1004 found it. Almost broke his neck, tripping over it. It was in our fresher, deactivated. I saw my name on its side and tore it open.’ Kote draws a deep breath and when he speaks again, he sounds thick, ‘Found the datapad. Started reading and I realised it was yours, and that those entries are recent and kark, vod’ika—’

Kote breaks off, breathing heavily and shaking so hard. His words sound ragged as he continues, ‘I find out through that kriffing datapad that you’ve been experimented on and that you were going to be decommed.’

‘I’m alright,’ ’67 says, trying to soothe the older clone, but he’s probably not doing a good job of it, since he’s also shaking as much as Kote. They’re already pressed tightly together, but ’67 tries to curl closer into Kote anyway. ‘I’m here. I’m alright.’

Kote tightens his hold on ’67 briefly, as if to reassure himself that ’67 hadn’t been marched off, and then he’s tipping them both onto the surface of the cot, the manoeuvre far slower and gentler than the usual wrestle-grab and flop.

Jango and A’den had been immeasurably kind and comforting in their own ways when they had spoken to ’67 and offered hugs, promised safety and protection.

But this is Kote.

This is his ori’vod.

There’s nothing like being squashed, sheltered, covered by Kote’s weight when he uses his own body to hide ’67 from the world. The tight embrace should be uncomfortable, pressed on all sides by all the hard plates of Kote’s armour when his injuries are still healing, but it isn’t. Instead, it’s grounding and settling and it’s the safest he has felt in a really, really long time.

Chapter Text

Kote shifts, the movement slight, but it disturbs the smooth tranquillity of ‘67’s thoughts. ’67 had started to drift off, almost falling asleep in Kote’s comforting hold. Now awareness ripples back in, threatening to clear away the fog of sleep. ’67 sighs deeply, stubbornly keeps his eyes shut, and curls into Kote, dragging his ori’vod’s arm over himself. Kote shifts obligingly, rolling more of his weight to bear down onto ’67.

‘67 trails a touch along Kote’s arm, over hard armour and soft bodysuit, all the way down to the wrist, finds warm skin and a calloused palm where Kote’s blacks ends.

Kote wraps his larger hand around his, gives him a squeeze.

‘You should be resting,’ Kote rasps hypocritically; he sounds exhausted, like he’s crashing too.

’67 huffs at Kote’s bossiness, but he’s comfortable so he doesn’t protest too much, content to let himself drift into the sort of liminal state between sleep and wakefulness. He lies still and quiet but doesn’t actually manage to fall asleep.

Kote shifts again, but this time it is less a fidget, it is something more intentional.

‘You awake?’

’67 makes a snuffling sound of discontent, ‘M’kriffing tired but I can’t sleep.’

‘I can’t sleep either,’ Kote admits quietly.

’67 frowns into Kote’s shoulder and it’s not like he wants Kote to leave, he hasn’t seen his ori’vod in what feels like too long, the stretch of days in Ko Sai’s care making those tendays feel like a terrible eternity, but it’s waking hours and, ‘Don’t you have training or classes to get to?’

He doesn’t want Kote dealing with a punishment on top of everything else.

‘Prime gave me leave for the day,’ Kote says, and there’s something in his tone of voice that gives ’67 pause, something tight and brittle.

‘That’s…nice of him,’ says ’67 with a little hesitancy. He’s not sure what Kote is feeling at the moment. And in light of…well, everything, ’67 doesn’t want to accidentally say something to make everything worse.

Kote doesn’t say anything but ’67 notes the way Kote stiffens minutely, and kriff, he’s said the wrong thing hadn’t he?

He feels cold suddenly, feels the absence of the warm press of Kote’s body when the older clone rolls away.

‘Where are you going—?’ ’67 demands, twisting upright and falling quiet when he sees that Kote hasn’t gone far.

Kote is perched on the side of the cot, shucking off pieces of his armour. ’67 watches him in silence, his eyes on Kote’s shaking hands, his clumsy fingers fumbling with clasps. Kote pulls off his chestplate and lets it clatter to the floor with an irreverence that makes ’67 wince.

‘Kote?’ ’67 calls quietly, and he knows Kote can hear the unasked questions on ‘67’s lips.

The rest of Kote's armour follows. Down to his blacks, Kote avoids ‘67’s gaze even as he turns back towards the cadet, hands reaching out again for ’67. He exhales, the breath shuddering out of his chest and this time, when he tips them back onto the cot, he rolls onto his back, dragging ’67 to sprawl half across his chest. His arms come up to encircle ’67, holding the younger boy close.

Without the plastoid between them, Kote would make for a comfortable pillow except there’s too much tension in the line of his body, muscles tense and jumping. ’67 feels Kote’s fingers spasm, his breathing hitch, and then Kote flattens his palms against ’67's shoulder blades, the movement deliberate, like he’s wrestling for control.

’67 doesn’t hesitate, just shifts so that more of his weight presses down on the CC and Kote makes a small grateful sound. Pressed with his cheek to Kote’s chest, ‘67 hears the juddering of Kote’s heartbeat against his ear. Still, Kote remains quiet and ’67 waits him out, counting handfuls of erratic heartbeats before Kote gathers himself enough to try to speak.

‘I’m sorry, ‘67,’ Kote finally says, after several aborted attempts at speaking. ‘I’ve been the worst vod to you—’

’67 makes a sound of protest but doesn’t manage to actually voice his dissent because Kote’s arms wrapped around him squeeze hard, the force of it expelling the air out of his lungs.

‘—I shouldn’t have let you walk away from me all those months ago. You looked so tired all the time and you were so quiet and withdrawn. You were pulling away and I knew something wasn’t right but I let you go anyway—’

‘I was trying to protect you!’ ’67 cuts in. He tries to sit up, tries to twist to look Kote in the eye but Kote just clamps down tighter and ’67 gives up with a huff after a few ineffectual wriggles. ‘That thing with Slick… it riled up the scientists and they were going to scrutinise everyone, every record, every thing, and I couldn’t risk you getting in trouble because of me.’

‘You don’t have to worry about me,’ Kote says, and his tone sounds harsh but there's no real heat in it, it’s something else. Something defensive and frustrated.

‘But I do! You’re my vod! And you’re a CC and I’m me, and if the Long Necks think that I’m affecting your performance or something—’

‘They wouldn’t do anything about it,’ Kote interrupts impatiently, sounding so absolutely certain that it draws ’67 up short.

‘What? What do you mean?’ ’67 demands, and then when Kote doesn’t answer, he presses, ‘What do you mean by that? Kote?’

Kote makes a rough sound and then says, ‘“Just because you’re a CC doesn’t mean you can always get away with things”. Do you remember saying that?’

Of course, he does. It had been said in the heat of the moment and it had hurt Kote deeply, had been the words that made Kote withdraw his companionship.

’67 feels the blood drain from his face and the hot rush of shame he feels makes him stutter, ‘I-I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it—’

Kote continues like he hadn’t heard ’67, ‘You are right, you know. In part, anyway. Sometimes, it seems like I’ve got a lot more leeway than almost anyone else. Kark up a sim, do a remedial. Get in a fight, get a lecture. Steal a cadet, get some reading. Things like that don’t get written up on my records. If it were anyone else? Punishment detail at the very least!’

He’s right, ’67 thinks with a sort of twisty feeling in his gut. The scientists are always insistent that the trainers keep meticulous notes on all of them and any of those things would’ve immediately been entered into a clone’s records. But after what Jango had told ‘67 about Kote’s… experience with the Long Necks, he has a feeling he knows why the trainers would rather keep any mention of infractions or demerits out of Kote’s records. No need to give the Long Necks any more reasons to scrutinise the CC more closely.

‘Change the parameters of a test, get commended,’ Kote adds as an afterthought, and he sounds baffled, almost disgusted at being rewarded when, ‘CC-6431 tried something similar and got put on maintenance for a tenday.

‘When you had that kriffing detonator, I knew I had to be the one to get rid of it. I couldn’t risk you like that. You know, I half-wondered what the Nulls would’ve done, if they had found the detonator on me,’ Kote muses, something twisted in his voice. ‘They’ve never even given me so much as a written reprimand before.’

A thought slides into ‘67’s mind, making him feel a sinking sort of hollowness at the thought of Kore trying different ways to test the boundaries of the trainers’ tolerance, trying to see how far he can push before he catches consequences.

‘Is that why you chose me?’ ’67 asks quietly before he can stop himself.

‘What?’ Kote asks and he sounds so confused.

There’s an ugly riot of fears and insecurities writhing in his chest and ‘67 takes a moment, takes a short breath, to centre himself. He somehow manages to calm those feelings, blunts the sharp edges of them enough so they don’t cut him up inside before he sets them aside. It’s more of his mouth running ahead of his mind again, he doesn’t think it’s true, not really, but maybe they both need the reassurance of clarification, ‘Is that why you chose me, chose to become my ori’vod? Because you wanted to see if the trainers would react, would try to stop you from associating with someone like me? Someone defective?’

There’s a stunned sort of silence and then Kote explodes angrily.

‘No, you di’kut!’ Kote hisses and it’s immensely gratifying, really, that Kote sounds so genuinely affronted. But he’s also seized ’67’s by the shoulders and is giving him a frustrated shake that is hard enough that it rattles the teeth in ‘67’s head. ‘That’s got nothing to do with any of it! Stars! How is it that can you be so smart and yet be so dumb at the same time?’

‘I am great at multitasking,’ ’67 manages to squawk out through the turbulence and the stupid grin on his face. Kote makes an irritated noise that just makes ’67's grin stretch wider, makes the warm feeling inside him grow bigger. He thinks he’s beginning to recognise when his thoughts start to slant and slide, when his perspective skews, and he thinks that with enough practice and support, he’ll be able to maybe hold steady one day.

’67 attempts to twist out of Kote’s grip, which only makes Kote growl and cling tight to him again, though he’s careful of the fact that ’67 is still recovering. ’67 tries to take advantage of Kote’s mindfulness but the resulting tussle ends with ’67 in a headlock.

‘Stop wriggling about! You should be resting!’ Kote admonishes and he uses his long legs to further pin ’67 into submission.

After a few more seconds of struggling unsuccessfully to break the hold, ’67 huffs and taps out on Kote’s arm, going slack.

Kote immediately hauls ’67 up against his chest again, sets about fussily rearranging their limbs so that they’re both comfortable. Kote allows him some minor adjustments as he lies on his back on top of Kote, and he lolls his head into the dip between Kote’s neck and shoulder. He breathes out gustily, feeling rather winded from the short wrestling.

‘67’s question and their brief grapple doesn’t redirect Kote from his strange mood for long.

‘Your datapad—’ Kote starts then stops, swallowing hard. He clears his throat, but he still sounds unsteady when he speaks, ‘I didn’t know what to do, vod’ika.

‘I wanted to go to Taun We, but the others – 1010, 3636 and 1004, I mean – they said the Kaminoans had already signed off on the decom. They’ve never rescinded a decom order before. There wasn’t much time left and we didn’t know what to do… and then… and then like a karking blessing, Boba found us in the supply room.’

‘What were you doing in a supply room?’ ’67 asks, finding himself a little confused at the scattered narrative and thinking it highly unusual of Kote, when he knows the quality of the CC’s concise reports.

‘Trying to strategise a way to save your shebs!’ Kote snaps impatiently as if it should have been obvious.

‘Oh,’ ’67 says softly, feeling rather unmoored that Kote’s batchmates had done that, had tried to find a way to save him. He would wipe at his prickling eyes, but Kote’s got his arms pinned and is too busy giving him another squeeze.

‘Boba had come looking for 3636 to pass him something, and I— I just grabbed him. I thought maybe he could— He’s just a kid, but he’s Prime’s kid— I asked— I begged Boba to help save you, to convince the Prime to try to stop the decommissioning from happening—’

‘67’s eyes widened at the implications of that, that little Boba Vhett had been involved in his rescue. He has no idea what to think of that.

‘I can’t believe Boba actually did it,’ Kote continues, hushed, something like wonder in his tone. ‘I didn’t think he would. But he did it. He got the Prime to save you.’

’67 finds himself feeling slighted on the man’s behalf, almost wants to tell Kote that Jango would’ve stopped it if he had known about any of it at all. He stops himself in time, wondering if it’s wise to share such things with Kote after being advised by Jango to be cautious in sharing information.

There’s also a sort of ironic bitterness when ’67 realises that both Kote and himself had the same thought to go to Taun We to appeal ‘67’s decommissioning order. ’67 cannot imagine what would have happened if they had gotten Taun We involved. He finds himself actually feeling afraid of even considering what could-have-been, now that he knows that the Long Neck is the kind of being that would order a cadet to be mindwiped.

No wonder Jango had looked so alarmed when ’67 had tumbled out half-cooked from the maintenance corridors and had demanded an audience with Taun We to defer the decommissioning order.

Taun We is not a being with any sort of compassion.

Kote must notice something in ‘67’s silence, in the way ’67 had twitched and the way his breath had hitched. The CC shifts to murmur into his ear, ‘Are you really alright, vod’ika?’

‘I’ll be fine, Kote,’ ’67 tries to reassure the CC. ‘Prime and A’den say that I just need bacta, bed and food.’

‘You didn’t tell them anything, did you?’ Kote asks, quiet and urgent. ‘Not the stuff that you had in that datapad? Please say you didn’t tell the Prime anything. The contents of the datapad, the things you had written— vod’ika, those things could really get you in trouble.’

There’s something in the flavour of wariness sliding into Kote’s tone that makes ’67’s heart sink, and he thinks despairingly that it isn’t fair.

It isn’t fair that Kote can’t know that the Jango cares, so, so much, for his clones. That Jango had once cared – and still cares – about Kote.

And given what ’67 knows of what Jango is actually fighting for, Jango wouldn’t give a flying kark about ‘67’s ramblings on the datapad, wouldn’t be angry the way Kote thinks he will be. His anger won’t be at ’67 for writing about his struggles, his self-loathing, or for his search for self-worth; but for the Long Neck who had twisted him into thinking that the terrible things done to him were justified.

‘’67, did you say anything to him?’ Kote presses when ’67 doesn’t immediately answer. ‘Did you tell him?’

He’s so unexplainably fixated on this topic and he sounds even more agitated now, voice gone tight in a way ’67 hasn’t ever heard before, strain in every syllable like he’s in pain—

‘67 realises with a horrible lurch that this could be what Jango had warned him about when he had spoken of the lingering effects of Kote’s Reconditioning. The man had mentioned that some things would cause Kote terrible mental stress.

‘67 hadn’t really thought he’d see evidence of it quite like this, though.

It’s awful to witness Kote’s focus twisted down, tied onto a subject like this, suffering and unable to tear free, the shape of his thoughts pushed too hard.

‘No,’ ’67 says hastily, speaking so fast he almost bites his tongue. ‘No, I didn’t tell him anything.’

‘Good,’ Kote breathes out and his whole body goes lax under ’67.

He’s unnerved by Kote’s behaviour, at the way all of his tension had bled out in an instant after ‘67’s answer. The hair at the back of ’67 stands when Kote continues speaking, words soft and rasping, like he’s exhausted.

‘Good. That’s good,’ repeats Kote. ‘We’re supposed to be good soldiers. We’re supposed to follow orders.’

‘67’s heart is pounding in his chest and he swallows hard, throat clicking, and he manages to make a sound that he hopes Kote will take as an agreement.

They lie in silence for several minutes after that, for long enough that even the one-sided tension on ‘67’s part cannot be sustained, slides into something less alarmed. When Kote speaks again, he still sounds tired but… somehow also a little more alert, more like his usual self.

‘Don’t worry. Everything is fine now. Your batch graduates in a few tendays. You’re gonna get your armour,’ Kote says and there’s a hint of a smirk in his next words, ‘My vod’ika. All grown up.’

He’s still a little unbalanced himself, but ’67 tries for normal anyway. He huffs and then says, ‘This vod’ika is gonna kick your shebs after his next growth cycle. You won’t have your heavy shebs advantage for much longer, vod.’

He can’t deny that it is entirely satisfying, to hear Kote’s growl of mock outrage, the sound driving away most of ’67’s uneasiness.

He’ll be fine, ’67 tells himself, while trying to fend off Kote’s fingers that are going for his neck, trying to tickle him into retracting his statement. He manages to twist away just before Kote grabs him in another headlock. He stages his own attack, taking advantage of the fact that Kote’s just in his blacks and therefore has a lot more surface area to pinch and poke.

’67 will have to learn where all the traps are in Kote’s head, learn to sidestep those issues, learn to avoid upsetting them.

It’s a daunting task and it’s something that ’67 faces with grim determination. He won’t shy away from it.

And he knows he won’t be doing it alone.

There’s 1010 and 3636 and 1004, Kote’s batchmates, who have been looking out for Kote all this while.

’67 can help them keep his ori’vod safe, now.

They just need to keep holding fast, keep this holding pattern, until…

…until the time comes.

He’s not sure how Jango will do it, or even when, but he knows in his bones that Jango will free them all.

Thinking of that future makes something jump in his chest, and he’s not sure how to describe how he actually feels about it. There’s a lot there to think about. A lot of things to consider about himself, about Jango, Kote, the Long Necks, the other clones, the Empire that Jango was stolen from, the people he’s trying to get home to—

It’s kriffing a lot.

It’s too much for right now.

He’ll think about that terrifyingly exciting and nebulous concept of such a future another time. Maybe tomorrow. Or the day after.

At present, however… Kote decides to end their current bout of grappling when ’67 misjudges the size of the cot they’re on. Kote saves him the indignity of tumbling off the edge of the cot by grabbing the front of his scrubs and hauling him back in, rolling himself on top ’67 with the same movement.

And ’67 makes a grumbling noise, like he sometimes does, like he’s having a minor griping fit that Kote’s squashing him flat and not actually settling more comfortably under Kote’s protective bulk. Kote pauses at the sound and pulls back a bit to squint down at him, concern clear on his face.

‘Did I hurt you?’ Kote worries, eyes darting all over ’67 and yeah, he’s slathered in bacta and covered in patches but—

‘I’m not made of transparifill, Kote,’ ’67 says drily, rolling his eyes. ‘I’m fine. Your heavy shebs isn’t gonna break me.’

Kote flicks him on the forehead for that before draping himself over ’67 again.

‘I don’t know why I put up with you, di’kut,’ Kote huffs like he’s annoyed, but his voice wobbles a little and one of his hands finds ‘67’s, gives him a squeeze.

‘It’s 'cause I’m your favourite,’ ’67 returns half-jokingly, squeezing back.

‘Damn karking right, you are,’ Kote whispers fiercely. ’67 inhales a sharp shaky breath at the tone, at the aggressive sincerity in his ori’vod’s words, and he can’t help the snort either, or the helpless grin on his face, when Kote continues, ‘My favourite di’kut.’

Chapter Text

The hall is buzzing with excitement, a constant low hum of chatter and scatterings of laughs, and he thinks maybe he should have taken 1004’s advice and eaten a little something for firstmeal because he’s feeling a little lightheaded, a little jittery, and he’s aware of how his thoughts just keep circling back to fixate on how close-fitting the blacks feel. He’s alternating between scattered attention on his surroundings, and spiralling into a hyperawareness of the kute he’s wearing.

He’s looked forward to this day all his life, but he’s never imagined it would feel quite like this.

It’s odd, but he almost feels vulnerable in the kute, a little exposed, despite the material covering almost every inch of his skin.

Denal bumps against his shoulder and ’67 stirs from his inwards contemplation to glance over at the other cadet.

‘Didn’t think it would be itchy,’ Denal complains, foregoing a greeting completely to launch straight into whining. He scratches furiously first at the collar of his blacks, then at the crooks of his elbows. ‘I can’t believe this is what we’re supposed to wear from now on! How do you stand it?’

’67 shrugs a shoulder. ‘S’not so bad,’ he says, one side of his lips tugs up in an amused smile when Denal makes a disgruntled sound and does a vigorous shoulder shake. ‘You’re acting like a strill with fleas,’ ’67 tells him.

Denal gives him a baleful look, a sharp retort no doubt ready on his tongue but 17 strides into the Hall right at that moment.

A squad of ARCs enter next, marching in step. Scorch, Fixer, Sev, and Boss; the ARCs who had stepped in to take up their training after Maze.

‘Fall in!’ the Alpha bellows.

’67 steps into place next to Denal as the rest of the 7 Series scramble to obey, forming into neat formation that fills the entire hall, thousands of cadets in dozens of columns, in hundreds of rows. They snap to attention at 17’s command, straightening up, hands falling to their sides and eyes forward.

The ARC trainers have assembled themselves at the front of the hall and they too, stand at attention. Their polished eyayad’game gleam in the light, an eye-catching line-up with their colourful paint and kamas in contrast to the hall filled with cadets in just their blacks.

The quality of silence that falls is charged, the anticipation of the coming events tempered by the discipline of soldiers awaiting their next command. They’re made to wait. Long minutes that drag by only wind them up even more, though they are all too well-trained to fidget.

Beside him, ’67 can hear Denal grinding his teeth and ’67 can’t help the way his lip twitches as the other cadet struggles to stay still and unmoving against the sensory assault of the itchiness of his bodysuit.

Denal catches the slight smile on ‘67’s face out of the corner of his eye, and his expression grows pinched and suspicious. 

‘’67,’ Denal says quietly, soft enough that his irritated tone doesn’t carry beyond the two of them, ‘Did you do something to my kute?’

‘I have literally no idea what you’re talking about, vod,’ ’67 returns smoothly, voice low to match the other cadet, all casual innocence that doesn’t do anything to convince Denal at all.

Denal sucks in a hissed breath, hands curling into fists.

‘I am going to kill you,’ he says flatly.

’67 hums, a politely disbelieving sound that makes Denal growl, and ’67 wants to tease him further, wants to rile up his vod even further, but the sound of the main doors opening has them both falling silent and straightening up.

The Prime enters the room, his pace steady and unhurried as he makes his way to the front. He walks at the head of a long column of droids who are leading in hovercarts, piled high with crates. As the procession progresses towards the front of the room, the droids and their hovercarts split off from the main column, going down the rows of cadets.

’67’s heart kicks in his chest when a crate gets dropped at his feet with a muffled thump. The droid attending his row trundles on to the next cadet in line.

The droids are fast and efficient, barely pausing as they deposit crates in front of each cadet, and it is the work of only a few minutes before they are done with their task.

The Prime surveys them for a moment longer, flanked by 17 and the ARCs.

‘Stand at ease!’ he commands and every clone instantly obeys, from Alpha to ARC to cadet, widening their stances and tucking their hands behind their backs.

‘Series 7,’ the Prime addresses them, his voice carrying clearly across the hall. ‘This rotation marks the end of your cadethood. It marks the end of your Basic training. The end of your time as cadets ushers in a period of new challenges as you go on to further your training as troopers.’

It’s like every cadet is holding their breaths in anticipation, hungrily hanging on to his every word, and ’67 can tell exactly what they’re thinking:

The Prime is actually here, actually addressing them. He’s speaking to them directly, when he has always passed them over for the older clone troopers. It’s like they finally matter to him enough to be acknowledged.

(They matter. They matter so much, but they don’t know it because Jango cannot show them how much he cares and how much he aches for every single one of them.)

‘At this level, you will receive more advanced training and learn to apply yourselves to an occupational speciality. Being a trooper means nothing less than displaying the utmost in discipline, and to be prepared for military assignments and to be ready for duty.’

The Prime sweeps his visored gaze from one side of the hall to the other and ’67 wonders what the man is thinking in that moment, as he takes in the thousands of faces looking back at him.

‘Upon this hour, you are troopers,’ the Prime declares firmly and he jerks his buy’ce in a sharp nod. ‘Gear up!’

The order snaps them into action, the cade— the troopers immediately reaching for their crates.

The snap on the crate’s lid pops easily and ‘67 tries to keep his hands steady despite the nerves and excitement as he reaches in.

He’s watched the instructional videos countless times, has seen the CCs putting on their armour. 3636 has stuck his bucket over ‘67’s head a couple of times before, and Kote has even shown him where all the clasps are, pointed out where the straps go…

… but it’s nothing like putting on his own armour.

… To be honest, ’67 didn’t really think he’d actually see this day.

It feels a little surreal to be here and snapping the greaves around his calves, to be strapping on the cuisse, and clipping the knee plates on.

He works methodically up his body, from boot to chestplate to backplate; then down his arms, pauldron to gauntlet.

And yeah, his hands are definitely shaking a little when he pulls out the helmet from the crate.

He’s distantly aware of some of the other troopers around him who have rushed through their own armouring to jam on their helmets, impatient to customise their HUD interface and spam the comm channels.

He stares down at the T-shaped visor. The dark surface reflects his own face back at him, the complicated expression he wears, his eyes maybe a little damp and just a little too-wide. He can’t help but take a moment to reach up a hand to scrub it over the top of his head, relishing in the feeling of his hair shorn short, so much shorter than regulation requirement, cropped as close to the skin as possible.

It feels good.

It feels amazing.

… He has probably looked forward to getting his hair shaved as much as he had ever anticipated getting his first armour set.

‘67 breathes out a shaky breath and swallows past the lump in his throat, a twist of mixed emotions in his chest. He lowers his hand then, to trace the centre line of the helmet, from the dome down the middle of the visor to the vocoder, and feels something settle further inside him.

He squares his shoulders – feels the plates of armour shifting around him with the movement, and that’s going to take some getting used to – and then slides on his buy’ce.

He enters his designation into the interface, and then navigates a little clumsily through to the comm controls and carefully keys in the channel ID he’s memorised. He enters a passcode and then his authentication code and then—

‘Su’cuy, ad.’ Jango’s voice is warm in his ear, ‘Me’vaar ti gar?’

‘Sy’cuy,’ he greets back and he’s sure Jango can hear the wide grin in his voice. ‘Ori’evaar, alor. Ibi’tuur cuyir ner verd’goten.’

Jango chuckles, ‘Lek, ner ad. I’ll see you later tonight.’

’67 perks up. He’s heard about how the verd’gotene usually go, from the Alphas and the ARCs. It’s a mostly straightforward affair. ’67 knows what he’s supposed to say and do and is confident he won’t kark that up, but he’s also curious about the other thing the vode had mentioned—

‘Uj'alayi?’ he asks hopefully.

Jango huffs but it’s a sound of amusement, not annoyance. It’s a little jarring to hear Jango sounding so relaxed and teasing over comms when ’67 can see him standing stiffly at the front of the room, barely moving at all.

‘Lek, lek. There will be uj’alayi,’ he says indulgently.

‘Oh, ori’jate,’ says another voice enthusiastically on comms, freshly patched in and just catching Jango’s promise of cake. ‘Can’t wait to eat some of that!’

‘Su’cuy, Denal,’ Jango says, sounding a bit wry.

‘Su’cuy, alor!’ Denal returns brightly, and then in the same breath and in the same tone, threatens ’67, ‘I am gonna punch your face, ‘67.’

Jango doesn’t admonish Denal like ’67 half expects him to, though. Instead, the man barely pauses before he says, ‘Don’t do it where any of the trainers can see you; we’d have to take disciplinary action if we catch you.’

‘Elek, alor!’ Denal says, an edge of manic cheer in his voice.

‘But I didn’t do anything—!’ ’67 tries to protest his innocence but Jango cuts him off.

‘Ad’ika. I’ve raised so, so many ade. Whatever it is, I don’t want to hear about it. Settle it between the two of you.’

And then Jango closes his end of the comms.

‘Right,’ ’67 says. ‘Well, I’m kinda busy now. I’ll talk to you later,’ he says to Denal and closes the line before Denal can say anything else, because he knows exactly how to rile up his vod even further.

He keys into another channel, one that isn’t encrypted and it goes through almost immediately.

‘Hey, Kote,’ he says, calm and casual like it’s just another Taungsday and not his cadet graduation day or anything.

‘’67! About kriffing time. What took you so long?’

’67 rolls his eyes, relishing in the privacy of the buy’ce and knowing that no one can see him doing it—

‘I can hear you rolling your eyes, vod’ika,’ Kote says. ‘And don’t make that face at me.’

’67 wrinkles his nose anyway, because Kote has no right to comment on the face ’67 is pulling when the comms is audio only.

‘Keep doing that and your face is gonna stay that way,’ Kote warns, as if he’s prescient. ‘Then you won’t be cute anymore—— Oi, shabuir, you’re supposed to wait for the signal! Karking dammit! Move move move!’

’67 blinks a few times. Kote had told ’67 to comm him as soon as he received his armour, but— ‘Is now a bad time? Is that blasterfire?’

‘Field sim,’ Kote says curtly by way of explanation and then he bellows to his team, ‘Heavy cannons! Get down!’

’67 winces at the volume of Kote’s yelling, his ears ringing a bit. ‘I’ll call you back later,’ he says hurriedly and then ends the comms.

‘Troopers!’ the Prime barks out, apparently having deemed that they have had more than enough time to fully kit up.

This time, when the 7 Series snap to attention, it isn’t as smooth, just slightly out of synch. There are sounds of armour plates catching, clattering against other plates, and muffled curses when the plates pinch at sensitive areas.

’67 feels a little clumsy himself, his eyayad’gam a novel sensation and a new weight that he’s not yet accustomed to.

The Prime says a few more words, brief and perfunctory, something just shy of outright congratulations for the clone troopers. He sounds like it is only his duty that obliges him to be present at their graduation.

’67 knows it must sting, that he cannot acknowledge their accomplishments more personally, that he cannot do more than give them the rest of the rotation off – ostensibly to have a little time to get used to the weight and feel of their armour before they’re thrown into live fire exercises – to celebrate.

He gives himself a little shake, trying to shrug off those heavier thoughts, if only for today.

Today…

He’ll have to test how fast he can move in his eyayad’gam, if he can outrun Denal’s quest for revenge for his little prank. He’s pretty confident he can get away. And if he can’t outrun his vod, he’ll hide in the maintenance corridors if he has to. The heat of the maintenance corridors might even be a good way to try out his kit’s thermoregulating properties.

There’s midmeal to look forward to with Kote and the CCs and Denal. He arrives slightly late, having had to wriggle out of some tight spots in those corridors – eyayad’gam makes him bulky in a way that he had underestimated. Kote sighs exasperatedly when he catches sight of ‘67, while 1004 makes a dismayed sound at the state of him, at the grease and dust and scraped paint, saying how he’d hoped to take a nice holo of ’67 in his new kit.

He’s not sure he wants spar with 3636 in the afternoon, though he’s not sure how to get out of that yet. 3636 says he wants to “break in the new armour” but from the almost manic glint in his eyes and the flash of too many teeth in his sharp grin, ’67 thinks it’s more that he means to break ’67 himself.

And Kote is no help at all, even when 1010 had looked interested in the idea of throwing ’67 around for a bit. Kote blatantly refuses to provide an excuse or an extraction, seemingly entirely content with the idea of his batchmates grinding his favourite vod’ika into the mats.

Fortunately, not all of the CCs want to make ’67 suffer. 1004, ’67 is fast realising, is actually a mother nuna, whose love language is feeding the people he cares about. 1004 slips him some extra protein cubes at latemeal, because apparently “he’s a growing boy”.

After that he’ll have to fend off Denal, who has taken it upon himself to invade ‘67’s new bunkroom as his roommate despite it not being rostered. ’67 is… grateful for the company. It’s easier to sleep at night when he can hear Denal’s snores, loud as the rumble of a LAAT, and knows he’s not alone.

… He should maybe ask 17 to make the room assignment official, before a Munit’videk notices.

And sharing the room with Denal will make it easier for the two of them, when they need to slip out at zero dark thirty and make their way to the other side of the facility to meet Jango and some of the other members of the aliit.

‘Su’cuy, ade,’ Jango greets them when they turn up outside his quarters. He’s still in his armour even at this late hour, his helmet clipped to his side. His eyes are warm and there’s a smile on his face as he ushers them inside.

’67 looks around the space curiously, taking in the large central area that combines the living, dining and kitchen spaces.

Although he’s been made to study hundreds of different types of plans across all manner of uses across the galaxy during his time in Analysis, the only sort of residential quarters he’s actually ever seen and experienced are the clone barracks – which are succinctly ergonomic for their needs – and Ko Sai’s quarters. And that demagolka’s living areas had been all light colours, pale on pale on pale, with a theme of vertical design elements that had stretched upwards towards the tall arched ceilings… her rooms had made ’67 feel small and scared, like being caught in a cage with the bars pressing in on him from the sides, unable to escape and unable to hide.

Jango’s quarters aren’t anything like hers.

There’s still the framework of the familiar utilitarianism of the clone sector, pure function rather than anything spared for the frivolity of form, but there’s… a sort of softness to the space as well, the warmth of a place that’s lived in. It’s clean and neat, with some odds and ends strewn about in a way that speaks of multiple people sharing the same space. In the living area, there’s an array of styluses and datapads scattered atop the low table; a toolbox and a tray of half-disassembled electronics shoved underneath it. A flimsiplast drawing of a kom’rk-class fighter, outlined in the simple and wobbly lines of a child’s hand, rather than the precision of an engineer, is magnetised to the door of the cooling unit in the kitchen area.

‘Su’cuy gar,’ Ordo greets them, appearing in one of the doorways that line the periphery of the living area that ’67 presumes leads to the private sleeping areas. The other Nulls follow after him into the living area, calling out their own welcome.

’67 returns their greetings, Denal half a beat behind, the both of them a little awkward and barely managing to stop themselves from throwing up salutes to the Nulls brothers. They manage to mute the instinct to small, aborted twitches of their hands, their years of training and conditioning have ingrained the habit too deeply into them to be given up so easily.

The stilted conversation between them smoothens and flows after a few minutes and ’67 finds himself actually huffing a laugh at something Jaing says, settling himself more comfortably on the couch. There’s no small part of ’67 that marvels at the novelty of it all, at the easy conversation he’s engaged in with the Nulls, at being settled in the living area of Jango Vhett with an honest-to-Ka’ra tasselled cushion pulled across his lap, a warm mug of what’s apparently spiced milk pushed into his hands.

There’s uj'alayi to try, offered on a small tray, cloyingly sweet, crunchy and gummy and, ‘Fantastic!’ he enthusiastically tells Jango.

Jango laughs as he reaches over to brush crumbs off Denal’s chestplate, the other CT making a noise agreeing with ’67 and already reaching for his third piece.

‘Pace yourselves, ade. There’s plenty more.’

There’s a softness in Jango’s expression as he watches them eat, and it lessens the lines around his face, the tightness around his mouth. After a moment, he abruptly stands and murmurs excuses, disappearing into one of the rooms.

‘Buir’s gone to get Boba. He fell asleep waiting for the two of you but he’ll be an insufferable brat if we don’t wake him up for this,’ Mereel offers as an explanation, catching ’67’s concerned gaze as he watches Jango leave the living area.

‘Give them a few minutes. Bob’ika gets really grumpy when he gets woken up,’ Jaing says lightly, one side of his mouth tugging up into an assuring smile.

’67 doesn’t doubt that’s true, but he had also caught the fraction of a second where Jango’s expression had fractured, and he had looked so utterly raw and unbalanced.

’67 thinks he knows why; the Eyayade are still being raised as verd’ike and Jango is helpless to do more.

Jango might feel that spiced milk and uj’alayi make inadequate offerings in recompense, but ’67 understands. He understands that there’s so much to lose and so much to gain, and nothing about this is easy… so he nods in acceptance of the Nulls’ reasons anyway instead of pressing the issue, and takes another piece of cake when Prudii offers him the tray.

Jango’s gone for long enough that there’s time to learn the Miite, passed from vod to vod, from Null to Alpha to ARCs… and now to ’67 and Denal.

It’s not the Resol’nare of the Empire that they’ve already learned about; that is the creed that binds and drives the Mandalorians.

This is something else, something different, something that had been shaped here, by the clones on Kamino. It is the Miite of quiet resistance, of endurance, of brotherhood.

Mhi dralshy’a tome.
Kandosii sa ka'rta.
Vode an.

It’s been several tendays since ’67 had tumbled out of maintenance corridors and into Jango, and then headlong into everything else.

Still, he’s had time, between then and now, to learn some Mando’a.

And he’s had more than a little time to think about things, especially since he finally has enough of the language to piece together everything Maze had tried to tell him that night. 67’s heart drums loudly in his chest when he realises he recognises that these are the same words that Maze had spoken then, when Maze had tried to claim him as kin and clan.

It reaffirms ’67’s decision to honour the trainer, taabir kotep.

When Jango finally reappears again, the tension is gone from his face and frame, and there’s a kih’vod curled against Jango’s chest, his eyes scrunched stubbornly shut.

‘Tenn gar sur’haaise, Bob’ika. Sirbur su’cuy bah gar vode,’ Jango coaxes, his tone is warm and indulgent, his hand rubbing circles on Boba’s back as he tries to gently bring Boba into a state of consciousness.

‘Su’cuy, Boba,’ ’67 says. ‘I’ve heard a lot about you.’

‘An jehaate,’ Boba retorts reflexively, before finally opening his eyes and looking around the room. He brightens immediately when he catches sight of the pair of CTs on the couch, becoming a wriggling lump that Jango has to quickly deposit on the ground before Boba falls out of his arms.

Blast it, but Kote is right; Boba is cute – all wide eyes and tousled hair and childish enthusiasm as he bounds across the room towards them.

‘Su’cuy gar!’ Boba says happily as he greets first Denal and then ‘67. ‘Tion gar gai?’

‘Denal,’ Denal introduces himself with a grin, carefully clasping Boba’s forearm before releasing him.

Boba’s small hand can barely wrap around ‘67’s kom’rk when the boy turns to him next, looking expectantly up at him.

’67 doesn’t immediately offer up his designation in reply. Though he keeps his gaze firmly on the younger boy, he’s aware of the attention of everyone else suddenly sharpening onto the pair of them.

Names are important among the vode.

And although he doesn’t use the name Lucky anymore, ’67 had heard that Boba had taken that name from Kote.

’67 thinks it’s fitting then, in a way, that Boba should be the first to hear his name.

‘Ner gai Res.’