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Fox was smaller than a baseline CC unit. He always had been. Not by much, but then, it never took much for the Kaminoans to label you as defective.
And he wasn’t defective. Not enough to merit decommissioning or demotion. But every millimeter off Fox’s height still mattered. It still affected his price.
The clones were products, after all, and the Kaminoans were businessmen. They had an order to fulfill, and each clone in each rank was worth a precisely calculated number of credits. Fox, as a particularly high-scoring CC unit, was worth substantially more than a standard CT.
But Fox was physically non-standard. Every millimeter of imperfection brought his price lower; every perfect test score brought it higher. Fox’s price was his life. He had to keep it always, always above zero.
Which was why Fox was here, hiding in a supply closet, bleeding through improvised bandages, praying that no one would notice.
It had been a simple training accident, something Cody or Wolffe would not have hesitated to bring to a med droid for treatment.
But Fox was not Cody or Wolffe. Their prices were high, and always had been. But after his kriff-up in the training drill last month, Fox’s was dangerously low. Treatment by the med droid would cost, he guessed, around thirty credits worth of bacta. Thirty credits that Fox could not afford, not if he wanted to remain a profitable asset.
He’d gotten used to it by now. Gotten used to hiding his injuries, to trading in contraband medical supplies passed around by cadets like him, ones who the Kaminoans wouldn’t bother treating much longer if they got hurt.
Because if Fox got hurt too badly, if the cost of treating his injuries ever rose higher than his current sell price, the med droids would simply leave him to die.
So Fox trained. He studied, and practiced, set records in every training sim and tactical exercise. Hid his injuries to build up spare credits, so that if he ever got hurt in a way that might spiral – injuries that impacted his scores, that lowered his price, that reduced his allowable medical care in turn – then he would be able to get it treated quickly and completely.
It was the only way to survive.
“Commander Fox, I swear, if I have to drag you down to medical one more time -”
“I told you, it’s nothing. Don’t waste the resources.”
“What happened to you, Fox? You look like the entire senate ran over you in a speeder race.”
“Oh, just the usual. Nothing to worry the medics over.”
“I swear, Fox, you are the most stubborn shabuir I have ever had the misfortune to have in my medbay. Is there anything on this scan that you were going to tell me about?”
“The broken ribs,” Fox said mulishly. “I can’t perform optimally with broken ribs, and I can’t treat them myself. Don’t spend bacta on the rest.”
“Fox-”
“Waste resources and this is the last time I’ll come down here without needing sedation first, understood?”
“Under duress, sir.”
Marshall Commander Fox was the most highly decorated clone in the GAR. The Kaminoans didn’t track his sell price anymore, but if they did, he knew it would be high. High enough to pay for as much bacta as he might need. As long as he held that rank, there was no need for him to deny himself medical care. He knew that.
Fox sat, alone in the darkness of a senate supply closet, and bled through his improvised bandages.