Chapter Text
Ord Mantell, present day
“No.”
The word’s out of her mouth before she even realises she’s going to say it, voice ringing loud and strange in her own ears, but as the others shoot her annoyed looks and Omega a confused one, Stealth thinks about it, then lifts her chin and folds her arms over her chest, and shakes her head. “No,” she says again, more firmly. “We’re not doing it.”
The glare Cid sends her is direct and narrow-eyed and a lot more than annoyed. “Did I ask for your contribution, Pigtail? No, I did not. Now shut up and let me finish explaining the benefits of this opportunity to you all in a way you’ll understand.”
Stealth shoots the narrow-eyed look right back at her. “You mean a way that gets you what you want no matter what anybody else has to say about it,” she says, and Cid bares all her teeth in a grin.
“Hey, there’s a brain in there after all, who knew?”
Scrag it, she doesn’t want to have to listen to any more of this. Doesn’t want to have to watch the others even think about it. Quietly, as the Trandoshan launches back into her spiel, she slips her helmet on and activates the camo net built into her armour and disappears—into the background, then out of the office and the stupid, grotty little parlour it’s attached to, ghosting through the city streets till she reaches the Marauder in its berth.
She knows how it will go. Omega will be entranced by the notion of treasure and Hunter by the thought of a future of safety and security, and peace for Omega to grow up in as anything but a soldier. Wrecker and Tech will follow where Hunter leads, if not at once then eventually. The only one she can’t predict is Echo, who always has his own motivations and doesn’t always share them.
If Crosshair were still here they could maybe push back on it together, the sniper and the shadow, linked in that weird way they’d always been by their genetically mandated semi-detachment from the rest of the group. But he isn’t, and Stealth doesn’t want to think about that right now any more than she wants to think about the others talking themselves into doing what Cid wants them to do despite everything they know and Omega cheering them on in ignorant excitement. She folds down into her bunk and picks up her headset instead, and puts on a recording—the new one, the one she’d spent a stupid amount of credits on because it was music she’d never heard before, a composer she didn’t know played by some backwater planet’s Royal Opera House orchestra, and one movement sounded the way rain looked when it fell on clear water rushing over stones—so she doesn’t have to. Scrag ’em all.
It’s Hunter who eventually comes to find her, treading heavier than he usually does to let her know he’s there. She waits till he’s right by her bunk, brows drawn down in the strained frown he wears too much of the time these days, to take off the headset.
“We took the job.”
“Yeah, I figured.” She folds the headset up without bothering to take the recording out first. Her braid slides over her shoulder as she moves. It’s getting too long; she should cut it.
“We need to start planning.”
“Better get going, then,” she says, and reaches down to the foot of the bunk for her kit bag to stow the headset away.
He folds his arms with a frustrated huff of breath. “We need you.”
“No, you need to go back to Cid and tell her you’ve changed your minds.”
“Stealth. You have more intel on Serenno than any of us—more than we can put together on our own. You studied that place for years, you’ve—”
“And for all we know the Empire could have bombed every building on the planet to rubble by now,” she says before he can go any further.
“We can’t do this without you.”
“Then don’t do it.” She stands up abruptly, making him back up a step, and reaches into the locker overhead for her battered old bedroll. Slings it over her shoulder.
Kit bag, check. Bedroll, check. Armour, and electrostaff broken down and slung across her back, check. She picks up her helmet, the last thing she needs, and steps past Hunter to head for the ramp. It feels wrong to be staying behind as her batch goes, wrong in her bones in a way doing it the other way round never has, but she also can’t stay.
Hunter reaches out as she passes and grabs her arm. “Why—”
“You know why!” she flashes and breaks the hold—it’s not hard, he’s not really trying—and ducks out onto the ramp, squinting against the daylight.
The others are just coming into the berth as she reaches the foot of the ramp, and even from this far away she can see Wrecker squint uncertainly and Omega’s eyes widen with confusion and immediate distress. “Stealth?” She darts forward and then hovers uncertainly, looking from Stealth to Hunter at the top of the ramp. “What’s happening? Are you—you’re not leaving? You can’t! Stealth…”
She kneels down to the kid’s eye level and takes her hand, small and neat and unscarred and so very unlike her own. “It’s okay, sis,” she says, and puts on a smile. “I’m not going anywhere. I’ll be right here waiting when you get back.” If you get back, she doesn’t add. It’s always a possibility, and none of them need reminding. “But I won’t do this.”
“But you can’t stay behind. We need you!” Omega’s eyes swim with tears. Suddenly Stealth’s throat aches, and all she can do is shake her head and stand up again, her neck bowed.
Then another hand drops over Omega’s thin shoulder reassuringly, and Stealth looks up into Echo’s steady, reg-brown gaze.
“It’s okay,” he says quietly, just between the two of them. “I’ll explain it to her later. Take care of yourself while we’re away, okay?”
She manages a nod and a smile. “Thanks. You too.” Then she turns and walks away, past Wrecker’s worried look and Tech’s pinched frown and out into the city streets.
The Marauder’s long gone by the time the sun sets. She sets up camp on a flat rooftop rather than risk accruing yet more debt to Ciddarin scragging Scaleback, running through staff drill and stave forms silently in the deepening dark before opening out her bedroll and lying down, not to sleep but to stare at the stars above the city’s lights. Or one star. The one she’ll always be able to find in any sky; the one that’s engraved on her bones like a betrayal.
Serenno’s star.
*
—Do you mean to say, Master Ti, that the Kaminoan researchers have somehow managed to produce a Force-sensitive clone?
—No, not at all. Cadet 9905’s midichlorian count is, at best, infinetismally higher than that of the average clone. This…ability appears to be simply an unanticipated byproduct of the genetic engineering process the Kaminoans employed to create her enhanced traits.
—H’m.
—With war on our horizon, it is an ability that may prove useful, if master it she can.
*
Kamino, five years previously
It’s been forty rotations since they came back from Group Training Mission 1 and thirty since they were told that Experimental Group 99 was being moved onto commando track a year earlier than any group ever had before when Sergeant Tellori eyes 9905 thoughtfully at the start of their melee combat session and says, “Yeah, you’ve got enough upper body strength for this now, I think. Give it a try,” and tosses her an electrostaff.
It’s not live, of course, but still, the moment her hands close on it she feels whole. She hefts it experimentally, getting a feel for the weight and length—both more than they seem—as the sergeant nods her towards the mats. “Off you go.”
She’s had a handful of training modules for staff combat, of course—they all get the basics in just about every weapon imaginable—and Sergeant Tellori’s been on Kamino long enough to know how clone training modules work, inscribing knowledge and skills directly onto their brains and muscles so that the sergeants don’t have to waste time teaching them the basics, but as 9905 starts walking through a Level 1 solo drill she still looks up from checking 9903’s form at the punching bag to mutter Kriffing uncanny and shake her head.
She comes back over as 9905 finishes the drill. “Go again. Half speed this time.”
She does. The sergeant sniffs. “Again, and firm up that back leg.”
She does, concentrating. “Go again. Full speed.”
Even this basic-as-scrag drill feels like running. 9905 finishes it with a sharp grin on her face, and Sergeant Tellori nods and screws up her nose. “Thought that’d suit you. Keep on working through your weird little drill sets and I’ll come back in a while and see how you’re going.”
She goes away then to harry the second- and third- year cadets who’re constantly shooting them foul looks from the other side of the hall, but 9905 can feel those sharp eyes watching constantly as she works her way through the five basic solo drills. 9901 stops briefly to watch her too, and she can see him thinking about how he’d use his knives against a staff. By the time the session’s over bits of her hair are coming out of their pins and curling around her ears, damp with sweat from how hard she’s working, and her hands and arms are aching, but when Sergeant Tellori comes back up to her and takes back the staff she still says, “Can I try a partner drill tomorrow, Sarge?” When you’re on commando track you don’t learn by sparring against training droids.
“We’ll see. Dismissed!”
They’re late; she has to run to make it to the general’s quarters, shoving pins back into her hair as she goes, but she makes it just in time.
“Come in, cadet.”
She takes a breath and smooths down the front of her tunic as the door cycles open, and steps inside.
The general sets down her datapad and gets up from her desk with a smile, gesturing with one long, fine-boned hand to the mat that now lives permanently on her floor. “Shall we?”
It’s hard to focus on meditation when her whole body’s still ringing with the rhythms of the staff drill—harder than ever to summon up the image of clear water rushing over the surface of her mind and blending her with this Force the general insists is out there for her to hide from Jedi in. After a frustrating, exhausting quarter of an hour the general taps her fingertips on the mat, which is the signal to stop. “You don’t usually have so much difficulty focusing,” she remarks. “What’s different about today?”
It's not a rebuke, despite her slight frown, but 9905 flushes anyway. “Sergeant Tellori let me try an electrostaff in melee combat,” she says, and then hesitates. How to explain how it felt? But the general seems to understand; she nods and rises to her feet in a single flowing movement, and goes to fetch something from the inner room.
It’s a pair of long, light canes as tall as she is. She beckons 9905 to stand up and hands one of them to her, and then says, “Try again, but this time, try with the cane.”
Oh. Her hands close on the thin wood, finding the right positions automatically. She breathes in and out and in again, slow and sure, and imagines clear water flowing around her hands and across her skin as she begins to move.
“Well done,” says the general softly as she finishes the first drill and flows on into the next.
She does all five of the basic drills in sequence, her feet padding lightly on the mat, and it’s only when she comes to a stop and grounds the end of the cane on the mat and the water flows away into nothingness that the general stirs and steps forward, and places a hand on her shoulder. “Yes,” she says quietly. “Very well done.”
But there’s something shadowed in her eyes. 9905 looks up at her uncertainly. “Ma’am?”
After a moment, the general shakes her head. “I don’t know why I didn’t think of moving meditation before,” she says, and smiles her serene smile. “But never mind. Now, would you like to try a partner drill, or shall we leave that for tomorrow? We have a little time left.”
She can’t help but smile back. “Now, please, ma’am,” she says eagerly, and they move to the middle of the mat together, face to face.
*
She’s never really tried to explain to the others what she does when she’s with the general. She hasn’t got the words. And anyway, when they meet up again at their usual table in the mess, in the farthest corner from the door, all they want to talk about is the staff.
“It’s not a practical weapon for a commando,” notes 9902 without looking up from his datapad.
“You barely even bother to show up for melee combat, you don’t get to have an opinion,” drawls 9904.
“In that case, neither do you!”
As they devolve into a squabble about whether punching people in the face with the butt-end of a rifle can be considered a valid form of melee combat, 9901 shovels stew into his mouth and shrugs.
“He’s got a point, you know,” he mumbles. “Try crawling across a no-man’s-land with that thing strapped to your back….”
He gets leadership training while she’s with the general and 9902 does his pilot training and all that; he’s supposed to think about this kind of thing. 9905 still makes a rude face in response. “I could make it collapsible. Or—” She waves her hands vaguely above her food “—maybe split it in two? I could use it as batons as well if I did that.”
“It’s an electrostaff, though,” objects 9903. “You want it to stay live.”
“So I put a power source in each half so they can work separately. Plus a, a really solid locking mechanism so there’s no weak point where they join…hey, 9902, would that work?”
“Would what work?” he snaps, but when she explains it again his eyes light up and he reaches for his datapad again. “I will let you know!”
9901 looks mock-proudly down the table. “Look at you all problem-solving like good little soldiers. Not you,” he adds to 9904, who flips him a rude gesture back.
9905 grins. “I saw you watching me, you know. D’you still wanna spar with me now?”
He looks thoughtful. “You’re gonna be a menace with that thing, aren’t you?”
“That’s the plan,” she says and scoops up a mouthful of stew.
“Then yeah, I do.”
*
It’s a solid ten rotations before Sergeant Tellori lets 9905 even do partnered drill, never mind free sparring—time enough for 9903 to start and finish a growth spurt 9905 swears she can hear whenever he stands next to her. In three rotations flat he’s taller than she is and twice as broad, his voice cracking and booming on every other word as he complains about the pain in his bones. She heats up towels in the steam from the showers for him to put on his shins at night and gives them to him with a sympathetic been there, done that fist-bump to the shoulder. It’s not much, but it’s better than having him beg illicit painkillers off 99 and bring the wrath of Nala Se down on all of them when the stuff shows up in his daily lab tests.
She’d be scragged off about the drill if it weren’t for the fact that’s she’s already moved on to sparring with the general. But it’s still so scragging boring, crawling when she could sprint. When 9902 shoves his contraband datapad under her nose in the barracks after she gets back from a late track session and she sees an exploded diagram of an electrostaff scrawled all over with notes, it’s a relief.
She peers closer at the notes. “So we can do it?” She’s okay with technical stuff, but some of this is beyond her.
“Well.” His mouth purses up in the way that means he’s about to say something he doesn’t like. “Not straight away. I know it can be done, theoretically, but I don’t think I know how to do it yet. I may have to ask some of the technicians for help. Electrostaffs are surprisingly complex.”
“Scrag it, I was getting ready to launch a night raid on the armoury,” she says lightly, and bumps his elbow a little to make sure he knows she’s joking. “Let me know when you’ve got it figured out and I’ll be ready to go.”
The next rotation, when they all arrive at melee combat, Sergeant Tellori barks, “All right. 9905, 4871, pair off. You’re on partner drills, basic one through five, three repeats.” They both say Yes, Sarge obediently, but as soon as they get onto the mats 4871 gives her a hard grin and says, too softly for the sergeant to hear, “You ready for this, shadow?” and a cold chill runs down her spine.
He's one of the cadets from the training moon. Taller than her, with more reach and a lot more upper body strength and experience, and he’s bearing a grudge. And he’s set this up.
Not much she can do about it now, and scrag it, she is not going to show him she’s scared. She steps into guard position and puts up her chin. “Sorry we showed you up like that,” she says with a smile of her own that shows teeth. “Wanna see if you can do better today?”
The first time through the drill isn’t so bad, but then the sergeant stops paying so much attention and 4871 starts putting more power behind his strikes. 9905 tries to move like the general does, light and swift, never in one place for more than a fraction of a second, so his strikes will have nothing to land against and he’ll start to unbalance himself. It’s hard, but she gets them circling, which puts her in control and also ups the odds that Sergeant Tellori will spot what’s going on and call him off.
It just makes him madder. His strikes get faster, harder, more precise; he’s taken control of the fight away from her again and he’s not just aiming to teach her a lesson, he’s aiming to hurt and he’ll do it too if she can’t end this fast—
There, a gap. She flashes three quick strikes at knee, jaw, ankle, then steps in and reverses the staff and punches the butt of it hard at his breastbone before he can parry. He stumbles back gagging, only barely not dropping his staff to the mat, and gathers himself for a strike in the second before Sergeant Tellori’s voice cracks over them like lightning: “What in the name of every god ever invented do you two think you’re doing?”
His staff slams down, too fast for him to stop or her to block, and her right arm explodes in pain. She staggers; suddenly she’s down on one knee with no idea how she got there, swaying queasily.
4871 has enough spite left to shoot her a filthy, triumphant glare before he straightens up and grounds his staff. “Little freak went off drill, Sarge.”
9905 chokes and pushes her back straight. Distantly, she notices the loose arc of bodies closing in behind 4871: 9901 with his dummy knives ready in his hands, 9904 with a baton propped on his shoulder in a way that looks nonchalant but really isn’t, 9903 pressing his newly huge fists together hard.
Her lip peels back from her upper teeth. “Sore loser here couldn’t keep his hurt feelings off the mat,” she gets out. “I did what I had to do to protect myself.”
The sergeant’s read the report on Group Training Mission 1. Scrag it, she was part of the team tracking them in real time. 9905 sees the knowledge of how she got played darken the woman’s eyes an instant before she snaps, “Off the mats, 4871. You’re confined to quarters till further notice. Move. And the rest of you, get back to work!”
Then she turns to 9905 with a narrow look. “That little combination isn’t in your fancy training modules, cadet. Care to tell me where you learned it?”
Oh, scrag. She pushes herself to her feet, leaning hard on the staff as her stomach lurches. “I—learnt it from—the general, Sarge.”
“Really.” The sergeant closes her eyes briefly like she’s asking the entire universe for patience, and then shakes her head. “Well, looks like I’ll have to have a word with the general about pre-empting my lessons. Till then—” She scoops up 4871’s discarded staff and steps onto the mats “—drills one through five, three repeats, with me.”
By the end of the session 9905 can barely raise her right arm at all. Her head’s swimming; she makes it out of the hall on gritted teeth and stubbornness, and barely notices the scuffle that breaks out behind her till suddenly 9903’s voice booms out, “You wanna come at somebody over that flash-bang, you come at me. I made it!” and the older clones go quiet again.
“You should go to medbay,” mutters 9904 on her right, and she realises muzzily that he’s shielding her arm with his body so no-one can target it.
“He doesn’t get to win that way,” she snarls and swings away down the corridor that will take her to the general’s quarters. But she has to use her left hand to open the door, and when she tries to take the next step forward the world slips sideways around her and she falls.
*
A sharp scratch on the back of her hand. She flinches, her breath coming out in a whine, and tries to roll away, but she can’t. Her head’s propped on someone’s knee.
Cool fingers brush lightly over her forehead. “Hush, now, lie still.”
The general? She has to force her eyes to open a crack, but it’s not the general she sees leaning over her. Regulation face, regulation haircut and a regulation white tunic: a clone medic.
“That’s better. Now, what’s happened here, cadet?”
She has to answer. They get angry if you don’t comply with instructions. “I—” Her breath catches and she coughs, weakly. Pain shatters her arm all over again. She closes her eyes. “Melee combat. Electrostaff strike to—upper right arm.”
“You’re a little young to be doing melee combat, aren’t you? Or am I just getting old.” Medics, ugh, she thinks as a scanner whirrs. But at least he’s not a lab droid. “Ah, there we are. Well, someone whacked you good and proper, didn’t they? Just a bone bruise, though, nothing broken. I’ll strap you up with some bacta and pop on a splint and you’ll be back hitting people with heavy objects again in no time.”
He has to cut her tunic sleeve off to get the bandages onto her arm because it’s so swollen, and she nearly spews her guts when he props her upright to fit the splint. “There. Good lad. Now.” He waggles a tube of pills at her. “I’ll put you on light duties for the next five rotations, then you’re to report to medbay to be cleared for active duty. And take one of these every six hours till they’re gone—they’ll help bring the swelling down and take the edge off the pain for you. Got that?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Don’t sir me, I work for a living,” he says easily as he stands up, and okay, that’s actually almost funny, especially with the general sitting right there and holding a cup of water for her to sip from, so 9905 takes the first pill without resentment.
As he leaves, waving a hand in the general vicinity of his forehead in something that might almost count as a salute if you squinted right, the general holds the cup to 9905’s lips again, and oh, no, that’s just wrong. She braces her good arm and pushes herself to sit up properly, straight-backed, and turn to face her, even though it makes her head swim and she can’t focus enough to meet the general’s eyes.
“I’m sorry, ma’am.”
“For what?” The general’s long fingers close around the cup, tighter than usual. 9905’s heart sinks.
“Wasting your time.” She has to lock her elbow to keep herself upright. “I didn’t realise how bad it was,” she adds, which isn’t really a lie. She hadn’t been thinking about how bad it might be at all. “I should’ve reported to medbay.”
For a moment, the room is quiet. Then the general gathers up her robes and stands, and turns away. Heat stings 9905’s eyes; she has to bite the inside of her lip to keep the tears from spilling. Stupid, useless scragging idiot…
“Ma’am?” Her voice wobbles on the word.
The general puts the cup down very gently on her desk. When she speaks, her voice is soft and strange. “You push yourself so hard.”
9905 frowns. That doesn’t make any sense. “There’s a war coming. I have to be ready. We all have to be ready, or what’s the point of us?” She braces her good arm against the wall and pushes herself to her feet. “I won’t let you down again, ma’am. I promise. Word of a soldier!” she adds desperately, like she’s heard the very oldest clones say—the ones who aren’t cadets any more—and that’s it, that’s the right thing to say, the thing that makes the general turn and come back across the room to her, and fold both her hands around 9905’s one good hand.
“There is still time, child,” she says quietly. “Time for you to heal and grow and learn in, for a while at least. So. I will see you again when you are recovered, and back on active duty, yes?”
Her head feels light with relief. “Yes, ma’am.” She nods carefully, seriously, and the general smiles.
“Straight back to barracks with you, then. You need to rest.”
Her eyes well up with tears again, but she’s smiling too. “Yes, ma’am. Thank you, ma’am!”
The painkiller’s kicking in at last; she drifts through the corridors in a pleasant haze, and when she finally gets back to barracks all she can do is loll on a bench staring at her little vial of pills until the others arrive in a rush halfway through mess.
“Are you all right?”
“We saw your duty status had changed. When you didn’t make it to mess 9901 was ready to launch a raid on medbay till 9902 confirmed you weren’t there.”
“He made me check six times. It was quite ridiculous.”
“Here.” 9903 hunkers down in front of her and puts something in her hand. She blinks at it: it’s a roll of bread, stuffed with…whatever the protein and vegetables had been today and already starting to get soggy. “You need to eat so you can heal up properly.” His face is so worried and kind it makes her throat close up again, and she sits propped against 9904’s shoulder, smiling drowsily as they plot epic and ridiculous revenges on 4871 and nibbling at bits of bread till the pips go and they all of them, including her, have to head off to tactics and strategy.
Light duties isn’t bed rest, after all, and she has a promise to keep.
*
—Master Yoda, she is a child. Not even seven years old yet. Developmentally barely more than twelve. She does not understand what you would ask of her—none of these young clones could possibly understand—but she will destroy herself trying to do it if we do ask. We cannot use a child like this!
—Now, no, we cannot. But in the future, if Sith there are again, perhaps no other choice will we have. Train her you must.
*
Ord Mantell, present day
Morning’s usually the nicest part of any rotation on Ord Mantell, though to be fair that doesn’t take much. The air’s a bit clearer and cooler, the sky’s a nicer colour, and the streets are dotted with ordinary, reasonable people going about their ordinary, reasonable, un-criminal lives. Stealth sits in the long shadows on the rooftop eating a ration bar that’s probably been in her kit bag since before the end of the war and watches them come and go, resolutely not thinking about anything at all, then washes her face and hands with a dash of water from her canteen and drapes her dust-coloured wrap round her shoulders in a way that will break up the lines of her armour to any casual eye, and goes down to walk among them.