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.’