Chapter Text
C-click.
Shut up…
C-click.
Shut up.
C-click.
Shut. Up!
Halla tightened her grip on the stylus she was already currently suffocating, attempting to steel her nerves and find some semblance of calm in the face of pure torture. Never in her entire academic career had she been previously exposed to another classmate so oblivious to their own annoying habits as the one currently sitting to her left in the densely crowded lecture hall. The Pantoran had a certain knack for clicking his well-polished heels against the durasteel floor in a way that made Halla want to commit a slight act of aggression against the young man. Maybe she’d yank his loafers off and chuck them across the room in opposite directions – the rest of the room would surely cheer her. It wouldn’t have been the first time she’d felt this way. Halla thought that by the end of the term she would have gotten used to these constant distractions, or better yet, her desk neighbor would have simply cut it the kark out.
It was not meant to be.
Eyes closed. Deep Breaths. C’mon, you know the drill by now…there you go…
Graduation can’t come soon enough.
The breath that escaped Halla’s lips might have sounded exasperated if not for being utterly drowned out by the alto chime that sounded off within the lecture hall, alerting those in attendance that the allotted class time had (finally) ended. Bolting out of her seat, she began to wonder if she had ever moved so quickly in her entire life, heading straight for the exit with her schoolbag in tow after haphazardly throwing her holopad and stylus down into its depths.
Freedom, freedom, Maker freed-
“Miss Ismaren, might I have a word?”
Kark.
Halla froze in her tracks, feeling the excitement drain out of her like an overused astromech’s powerpack as she turned to face her instructor. Reshi Taleel, both a tenured professor of the University of Coruscant and member of the Academic Administrator’s Council, stood much taller than Halla did, as most Togrutas were prone to, and held a certain look upon her symmetrically marked face, as if she knew a secret about to be shared, lips quirking up slightly. Craning her neck slightly to reach Taleel’s eye level, Halla silently admired the administrator’s lekku draped elegantly over her traditional garb before returning an acknowledgment.
“Madam Instructor! How can I, er, help you?” Halla had always appreciated Taleel to a certain degree, both for her poise and prowess as a teacher, but it was a challenge to conceal how much she wanted to finally return home - and never look at a xenolinguistics text again.
“Thank you for staying behind for a moment, this won’t take long.” Taleel made a motion for Halla to step further into the auditorium once again, and with one wistful glance back at the exit she took the required steps to maintain a respectful distance. That smirk was still on the older woman’s face, amber eyes twinkling under the fluorescents. “I was simply wondering…Have you given any thought towards your options? The available paths you might take for your future academic ventures?”
Slightly baffled, Halla opted to purse her lips and adjust the strap of her school bag while mulling the questions over. “Is…is this about my proposal I submitted last term? If it was rejected, I-I suppose I understand, but I can’t just drop all my research like that, I mean – what if-” Cut off, she was met with a perfectly manicured, ochre-colored hand appearing as if to simulate one of those ridiculous Jedi mind-tricks they mimed on the holoshows. “Your proposal was not rejected at all, Miss Ismaren. In fact, it has been considered at length by the Council. They - we - thought it quite brave of you to try and catch our attention with something as, how should I describe, ‘novel’ as the welfare of the Republic’s Grand Army.”
To say that Halla was taken aback was a major understatement. Out of all her peers attending the same program for the last three years, her research endeavors always tended to be the most overlooked, to state it delicately. Halla herself preferred the term “shunned”. Since the war itself was not found to be generally held in high esteem by the denizens of Coruscant, the individual clones found themselves at the receiving end of the anti-conflict protests as well. This never sat right with Halla’s spirit, it was despicable that those being protected rallied against their guardians with such venom.
Since beginning her post-secondary education at one of the galaxy’s highest-rated academies, Halla’s full attention had been devoted to changing others’ minds about how the soldiers should be treated, despite her divergent opinion about whether or not the fighting was necessary in the first place. Healthcare, shelter, and political immunity were all potential benefits Halla spent her waking (and some sleeping) hours aiming to procure for clone troopers across the galaxy; whether they were active, retained on Kamino, or even in the process of decommissioning. The largest obstacle in her quest was, of course, the only viable channel to secure a solution; politics and lobbying. Without the appropriate research to bring forth to the bureaucrats and their committees, she might as well be asking the Supreme Chancellor himself to service her a pedicure while feeding her starcherries off the stem – daunting and hopeless in equal measure. Shaking that somewhat disturbing mental image from her mind, Halla forced herself from her reverie, afraid she would miss a single word of the revelation Taleel was providing.
“No one else in the department has ever brought forth such a proposition – before you, at least. The Council is intrigued by your intentions of pursuing this as your post-graduate fellowship study, but requests that you finish your dissertation with additional primary sources that back up your claims – factual, first-hand evidence, if you will. They fear that it isn’t enough to simply include previous research on the Kaminoans from before the war, nor do they think those sources were ever very credible in the first place. Since you are so dead set on improving the welfare of these clones, their mistreatment must first be proven.” Taleel paused for a moment, nodding as if mentally agreeing with the board whose decision she helped form in the first place. “If you successfully complete this educational milestone, the Council believes there may be a position open on the Senate’s Ethics Committee to advocate such a bold conviction and from there…well, the possibilities are endless, it would seem.”
Halla’s eyes had become wider and wider throughout the instructor’s spiel until she felt as if they would fall completely from their sockets. She opened her mouth to speak, then closed it again before trying to coerce her vocal cords into cooperation. Dank farrick, woman! I didn’t know we were a kriffing Mon Calamari choking on air for the first time! Say something!
“I, uh…what?”
Brilliant. Just Brilliant. You should seek out the headmaster and ask him to take the degree back before the Council has even certified you. Maker’s blood!
“I just mean – I’m flattered, but why…they – you all think I can really do this, after all this time? There are so many other fellowships to consider, I just can’t imagine such a controversial project would impress you all so much.” Halla grimaced inwardly, the thought striking her that selling herself short in this particular moment probably wasn’t the best move, all things considered.
Taleel smiled widely at Halla’s obvious discomfort, canines sharp and flashing for a moment before regaining her composure. “Yes, Miss Ismaren. We do think you’re capable of reaching this goal - with some critical thinking and creative measures involved, of course. The only requirements, as you are very well aware of at this point, are that the dissertation must be completed punctually, independently, and follow the academic integrity tenets set forth by the University. You have access to the research labs and archives in the department as an alumna, so do remember to make the best of them, my dear.” With that, Taleel lowered her head in a slight bow before twisting on her heel and walking towards her office, the slide of her feet graceful against the unforgiving metal flooring. She never was one for goodbyes, and the last day of class was no exception. “We expect great things from you, do try not to disappoint us!”
As the back door wooshed open and shut behind Taleel, Halla was left alone in the suppressive silence of the lecture hall. Frozen to her spot, she slowly blinked and dug her nail into her palm to determine if this was all some whimsical hallucination, to see if she would wake up in bed and be able to say for certain that this was all a dream. But it wasn’t, at least according to the crescent moon-shaped mark now left behind from her index finger. Gathering her scattered mind and her courage, Halla finally found the capacity to move towards her original destination: into the Major Atrium, out of the commons, towards the taxi terminal, and down to her student living accommodations in the Runhi District, Mid-Level. The speeder ride was a peaceful one, as peaceful as it could be with the constant traffic cacophony surrounding the vehicle. None of that registered in her mind, however. A numbness crept up Halla’s body as she continued to replay Taleel’s news over and over, reverberating through her eardrums like an uncalibrated protocol droid.
Approved. Her proposal had been approved.
~
The front door was stuck. Again.
Standing outside her apartment, Halla stared at the security console as if that were the secret signal which would convince it to slide open for her. For the third time this month, her clearance code was rejected and left her locked outside in the oxymoronically muggy breezeway.
This is what you get for not filing a maintenance request when you first moved in.
Following her calming breathing routine, Halla waited for the display to clear from the flashing error message and reset itself so she could try again. Typing in the five-digit entry code, the machine seemed to hesitate before begrudgingly accepting the input. Halla could hear the outdated processor whirring as the access sequence was initiated, releasing the locks from the door’s hydraulics. Smiling a little too proudly, Halla stepped forward only to almost be immediately caught in the door as it closed just a couple seconds too early, nearly trapping her foot as a spiteful reward. An undignified yelp was released from her chest as she scrambled to keep her limbs intact. Once safely inside, she swiftly threw her bag down on the nearby breakfast table and rounded about, landing a kick to the offending threshold – an action that only served to harm herself more than it did her intended target. “Kark!”
Toeing her boot off, Halla collapsed onto her loveseat, feeling around the wall for the lighting panel. Once the overheads were switched on to an acceptable brightness level, she glanced down at her now un-socked foot. The damage wasn’t too bad, just a little resulting soreness – it was her pride that was damaged far worse from almost being bested by a metal slab with a binary brain. At least the rest of the living space wasn’t so malicious towards her.
It was sparse to be sure; at least when it came to the furnishings the complex provided for her: the barely-comfortable black leather two-seater she now occupied, the kitchenette and ‘fresher appliances, a bedframe, and side table were all that were originally provided. The highlight of it all when she first signed the lease was the inclusion of laundry droid services; besides that, there wasn’t much to speak of.
That was, until Halla added her own personal touch to every surface available - thanks to the datarie-a-dozen second-hand stalls set up around every corner of the district. Now, dozens of scarves and tapestries hung on each wall between the common area and bedroom, no particular color motif to be spoken of: teals and golds and lilac among them. Resilient indoor plants hung suspended from the ceiling and rested on shelves that were hand-bolted to the durasteel plating. Glowing string lights and holopics and mismatched rugs were arranged tastefully, as opposed to the alcove workbench/vanity, which sported an array of scattered cosmetic supplies, holotexts, and a tiny Dac’arian tank housing an even tinier guppy swishing around inside. Paint supplies were kept on a rickety three-tiered cart beside an antique jewelry box which itself rested on an actual wooden dresser, not something all that common to find in the marketplace - purchased as an absolute steal in Halla’s opinion. Needless to say, the “fashionable” minimalism that pervaded the higher classes was noticeably absent here, instead replaced by electronic fragrance diffusers and prepackaged pastries in the pantry. It was home.
As Halla propped her foot up onto the low caf table, reality began to settle a little more intimately around her shoulders. Her project was approved. The council is now asking her to provide proof of mistreatment towards the clones. Proof…what more did they need than to be reminded of the fact those men were bred specifically to die in the haze of battle? They weren’t recruited patriots, they were basically drafted before they were even fertilized cells! It was unreal to think that most did not consider the clones to be deserving of the most basic of civil rights. Rights that were flagrantly flaunted about by privileged, ignorant sycophants on a daily basis. Since the Coruscant Guard was never seen without their helmets, most natborns they encountered thought them to be no better than the battle droids they were fighting – faceless, emotionless sentients that only knew how to hold a blaster. It wasn’t true. It wasn’t fair.
But finding proof? It’s not like Halla could just walk up to some random patrolling trooper and ask for an interview over lunch! That’s not how any of this worked, it wouldn’t be that easy…right?
Halla stood and begin to pace slowly despite the dull throb in her toes. She needs to talk to someone. Someone who is out there, experiencing everything and – but who would agree to that load of banthashit? It was laughable. They were too busy fighting for their lives to help source her ridiculous academic research. And why would they want to help? If Halla were a clone and a civvie walked up and tried to talk her out of nowhere, her first thought would be to turn tail and ignore them.
Just…we’ll have to be a little more creative than usual with all this, that’s all…think now…
The Corrie Guard wasn’t her only option, she knew that. There were others. Others scattered throughout the galaxy, hundreds of thousands of them. One of out the multitudes would have to be sympathetic to her cause.
Halla came to an abrupt halt, retrieved her holopad from her schoolbag, and returned to the settee. Logging in to the University Archives, she began to search through some recent news stories exploring the Core Worlds escapades. Swiping through each article and recording, Halla made sure to keep an eye out for anything that would stand out. It wasn’t until almost an hour later that she made her first worthwhile discovery: a search and rescue occurring on Skako Minor, followed closely by a victory on Anaxes performed by the same squad of troopers: Clone Force 99.
Brow furrowed as she read, Halla made her way to her cluttered workspace, clearing off the miscellaneous makeup applicators to pull up the information on the larger monitor. Four original members, all of which included some sort of attached profile to their CT designations and respective monikers. A fifth member was also mentioned from a recent edit, but no pictures nor a description were provided. Enhanced clones, the profiles detailed, each with his own unique abilities and attributes. 100% Success Rate.
Halla’s eyebrows rose slightly.
Interesting.
Sorting through the files, Halla began to memorize their names and CT numbers the more she began to switch between tabs. Hunter, Wrecker, Tech, Crosshair, and the new, imageless member Echo. It wasn’t their accomplishments that caught her eye, though they were all certainly impressive, it was their faces. All unique, all different. It was weird. And yet, they were all somewhat similar, the way regular natborn brothers were. Their dark eyes, warm skin tones, and sturdy bone structures made the Fett gene still somewhat recognizable despite the mutations. Halla had never seen anything like it – like them before.
Leaning back in her chair for a moment, she began to consider the immediate options available: Hunter seemed a good enough choice if a little cautious based on his profile’s designation as Sergeant. Halla wasn’t sure if he’d be willing to trust her right off the way she needed him to, even if he already seemed to speak for the rest of the group. Wrecker seemed to be, well…a lot. Not in a bad way, but something told her that maybe someone else would be able to provide a bit more insight on the rest of the crew and how they function. She also wasn’t sure how her introverted nature would mesh with his obviously outgoing personality. There was almost next to no information on Echo other than he was a semi-retired ARC Trooper, and Crosshair’s profile caused a shudder to travel down Halla’s spine while reading through his aptitudes, causing both profiles to leave her unsettled in two very distinct ways. That left only Tech.
Halla stared at the bespectacled individual’s portrait for a solid five minutes before she gave in. This had to work. She could make this work. Tech’s introduction mentioned abilities of which relied heavily on increased neural activity and finely tuned deduction skills – maybe he would be aware of the injustices that were committed against his kind. Halla just had to convince him that she wasn’t using his field accounts as some sort of entertainment or commodity, that something worthwhile would come of communicating with her. Befriend him, be honest with him. Maybe this could work.
Maybe. It was worth a shot.
With a little more digging through the database and a quick comm to an acquaintance enrolled in the interstellar radiography department, Halla was able to locate Tech’s GAR assigned frequency and pulled up the holo-transmission platform on her console. Without a second thought, she dove in, afraid that if she stopped typing she would lose all her built-up courage. The message read:
Date of Transmission: 1,013:04:05
Recipient: Specialist-Commando CT-9902, “Tech” of CF-99
Subject: Requesting Assistance
This may be an unwarranted message, so I apologize in advance if it burdens you in any way. My name is Halla Ismaren, soon-to-be graduate of the University of Coruscant, college of Interplanetary Law & Relations. I wouldn’t blame you if you believed this was some sort of solicitation, but I assure you it isn’t - at least not in the way you may be expecting. I’m writing to you to ask for your assistance with my post-graduate fellowship dissertation – a long way of explaining that I am writing a monograph to further my education. My research for the past three years has been focused on the welfare of all Clone Troopers and their participation in the war. You seem like a promising candidate capable of offering crucial insights from an insider’s perspective. If this is untrue, or you do not want to engage in my study, I completely understand. I only wish to advocate for you in any capacity I’m able – I know not many outsiders would say the same. I sincerely hope you accept: though you owe me absolutely nothing, you would be performing a great service for me, yourself, and the rest of your brothers. I hope you are staying safe out there and I’d like to thank you for taking the time to read this in the first place. Please remember that at least one person cares about your well-being, even if they are thousands of parsecs away.
All the best,
Halla <hismaren.uccore.holo>
University of Coruscant
College of Interplanetary Law & Relations
Capital Campus
The “Transmit” button was selected after proofreading the message dozens of times. It was professional. It was to the point. It was as good as it was going to get at that point, and Halla’s head began to ache after staring at the screen for so long. The only thing left to do now was wait. After an indicator flashed that the message was successfully delivered, she stood up and made her way to the kitchenette, rifling through the conservator to find something to eat. Pushing the seal shut again with her hip and placing several ingredients on the counter, two conflicting notions waged a war of their own within Halla’s frazzled thoughts.
I’m doomed.
Have faith.