Chapter Text
“Take this one to the back to… verify the goods. In the meantime, I’ve got a proposal for you.”
Tech cast a wary glance back as the leader of their suspicious business acquaintance addressed Hunter across the table, offering him a drink he didn’t touch. These people were all masked with voice filters, so there wasn’t much visual information to gather, but something about their behavior set the clones on edge.
Tech was led into a room a bit further away than expected and found several somewhat familiar-looking droids waiting inside. His hands inched near his blasters as his suspicions rose. He stopped near the now-closed entrance and tried to keep all the occupants of the room within his field of vision and not behind him – an impossible task, given they seemed to be intentionally ensuring the opposite.
“I do not see a console in here,” he said flatly.
“Ah, very perceptive,” the organic’s accented voice purred through the filter. “That is because we are not here to verify your virus. We believe you have… misplaced something of ours. Something hairy, toothy… and with a wooden laser sword.”
“The Wookiee,” Tech muttered, intentionally avoiding using Gungi’s name as a security precaution. So that’s where I recognize these droids from.
“Yeees, the Wookiee. I am glad you understand.” Even through the filter, the accented voice seemed to be grinning. “Now, you have two options. Either tell us where our cargo is, so that we may secure him, or replace him yourself.”
Tech stayed silent. In theory, he could tell these slavers to go to Kashyyyk and trust in the locals to pummel them into submission, but that would be more of a risk than he was willing to put on the Wookiees. Besides, he had a hunch that they weren’t going to let him leave this room either way.
“...It seems you have made your choice.”
The organic produced a weapon, but Tech was a faster draw, catching them with a stun bolt and causing the unidentified weapon to clatter to the floor. He managed to stun two droids and activate his comm before several mechanical limbs restrained him from behind. When he tried to knock himself loose, what felt like an intense serpentine flame coiled itself around his arm and torso and seared into the gaps between his armor plates. Something wrenched off his helmet and stuffed what he could only guess was a moldy rag into his screaming mouth. His chest seized from the combination of the searing and the foul odor, and he collapsed.
He found himself squished between several other sweaty bodies of various species with electric binders around his wrists and only his blacks covering him. The burning sensation from before, likely caused by an energy whip in hindsight, was still there as a lingering pain. Were the traffickers really such penny pinchers that they couldn’t sedate him with a fast-acting drug? Surely this takedown method would affect his market value?
It is an… advantageous trade. We clones are far more accustomed to being slaves than the Wookiees are, he thought with a tinge of sarcasm.
At least they let him keep his goggles, probably incorrectly assuming that he needed them to see. In truth, they were robust eye protection for the field, a rudimentary analysis and recording tool, and also a personal comfort. The others never truly understood his attachment to the old goggles, but did recognize the fact that his mental and emotional faculties took a hit during the rare occasions where he had been denied them. He chose to take the fact that they were still on his face as a sign that he was in a winnable situation.
With a pained hiss, he managed to squirm into an upright position and took note of the prisoners surrounding him as best he could with their cramped proximity. Many of them looked like they still had some fight in them; perhaps they were all new prisoners like himself.
A middle-aged Twi’lek next to him addressed him in a hushed tone. “That body glove is Imperial-issued, isn’t it?”
Tech tilted his head, surprised that the apparent civilian recognized the clones’ inner wear. “Republic-issued, actually.”
“Are you a soldier, then?”
“Yes.”
“Think you could help us break out when we get to the next planet?”
He glanced around at the tight metal walls around them. The slight changes in inertia that he could feel told him that they were currently traveling in hyperspace. “Where are we headed?”
“We don’t know. They didn’t say anything revealing before they shoved us in a box.”
The anxious and hopeful faces of several physically weaker prisoners fixed on him. He paused before answering carefully. “There is the possibility that we can break out, but we must be patient and wait for the right opportunity to strike.”
“How do we know when the right opportunity is?” a younger-sounding voice piped up, reminding him a little bit of Omega.
“It should be obvious when it presents itself.”
Or perhaps I have too much faith in the intelligence of strangers.
“...Actually, just act on my cue.”
The prisoners speculated and spewed their anxiety for a while longer before the cabin fell into silence again. Tech could tell that the others didn’t have much confidence in him, especially as he had been introduced to them as an unconscious heap of limbs, but that was fine for now. He would just have to conserve his energy and wait for events to unfold.
“I want these crates sorted quickly. We need them appraised before the traders leave at fifteen hundred. Get to work! Start unloading!”
Crosshair resisted a strong urge to growl and complain. It was an insult to everyone involved that the Empire was pawning war prisoners off to some lowly slavers because some dimwit elsewhere couldn’t be bothered to do their logistics properly. It was particularly an insult to Crosshair that the best elite sniper in the army was currently hauling mismatched crates of stolen belongings that were meant to compose part of the payment for the war prisoners.
As if the slavers didn’t even have the respect to pay them in real credits, or even work according to the Empire’s schedule instead of their own. As if they knew that the Empire’s jurisdiction out here wasn’t real and substantial. By all rights, they should be putting plasma bolts in those slavers’ heads right about now.
The numbness of acting as an automaton allowed him to wordlessly crack open the crates alongside the others. He glanced across the area as one of the regs said a short word of praise for some armor he found in the cargo. Crosshair only caught a partial glimpse for a fraction of a second, but it was enough to make his heart skip a beat.
He could’ve sworn that was Tech’s helmet.
He shook his head to himself and put his face down again. Surely the reg wouldn’t be stupid enough not to recognize commando armor, even if it was highly modified. Besides, how would a bunch of sloppy slavers get their hands on Tech?
I’m seeing things. Probably dehydrated. And annoyed. Very annoyed.
Annoyance had long since failed to describe how he felt about being tossed between the hands of increasingly idiotic natborn officers after Rampart was removed from the admiralty. He had always hated Rampart, but at least the snooty young admiral had the sense to put him on missions that fit his skill set.
His rumination was quickly interrupted by a fuss in the distance. Was that the sound of blasters firing?
“The prisoners are escaping! Requesting backup!”
Finally, something to do.