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Topic Started: Jul 7 2010, 05:40 PM (460 Views)
Beviin
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Diet Dew Fiend
[ *  *  *  * ]
This is a repost from BA, but some may have not seen it. Just trying to breathe some life into the forum.






You could call it bitterness.
That feeling you get when you see those around you having all that you want. Knowing that the only defining boundary between you two is faceless, implacable dumb luck. It does something to you, deep inside. May make you think things you know you shouldn't.
You could call it a lot of things, I suppose. But if I had to describe in one word how I feel, it would be bitterness. It is a satisfying word. It can fill you, and in a masochistic way, you feel whole, even if in pain.
It's an entire week after the battle of Geonosis. My name is Barrel. I am a pilot, and I am a bitter, lonely clone.
I remember others just like me, during what we ironically call our childhood. In rows beside me, being force fed all we would need to know to be useful little products. Or worse, in the morbid transparisteel tanks where we are grown like human crops. It makes me sick. I recognize a few of them now, in the subtle mannerisms, facial expressions, subtle signs that they are used to sitting in a cockpit. All the same, I don't know them. We lived our short adolescence being impersonally crammed full of flash training and instruction. Some of us got to know each other; I suppose it may be a different situation for fighter pilots, flying as a team. I just pilot a drop ship, picking up and putting down men with my face, yet I don't know them at all.
I sit eating my lunch, surrounded by men physically identical to me, and yet utterly alone. All around me troopers share meals and conversation with their brothers. Whole pods of commandos, and those with losses; they all have something I don't. Gloomy as it is, I think I envy those who lost comrades the most. Or perhaps, I envy the lost. I know that when I die, likely in a fiery blaze as I am shot down, none will shed a tear over the loss. I envy the relationships had by all the clones around me. The joy, the sadness... the attachment. Even the aloof ARCs have friends among the ranks, and among each other. Kark. The jedi, even, have bonds with the various soldiers. But who would claim a relationship with some miscellaneous pilot? Sometimes I wonder why I even have a name. I ponder the philosophy of it for a moment. If a clone dies alone in a battle, and nobody knows who he is, does he really even have a name?
I sigh, and nobody hears me. Suddenly my food has lost all appeal.
I stand, and walk out, and nobody sees me go.
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Beviin
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Diet Dew Fiend
[ *  *  *  * ]
I close my eyes, slide on my helmet. I open them again, and feel as though I am seeing the world for the first time again. I don't know that I could ever live without a heads-up display. With the placemnt of the final piece of my armor, the suit seems to come alive around me, providing temperature, sound, and vision control. It is as if I am living parasitically inside another creature for protection. It is an odd thought. I often wonder if i should have such unorthodox thoughts. Perhaps it is just my mind's attempt at stimulation.
I flex my fingers, enjoying the perfect fit of my armor. One of the few luxuries of being a clone. I have to wonder why I have armor at all; I doubt it would defend me from whatever could get to me through my ship. Makes me feel safer, nonetheless. I don't evny the superior kit of the commandos or ARCs. This armor is MINE. Well... it belongs to the grand army of the republic, but so do I. It has my name on it, at least. That is mine. If anyone ever finds my shattered armor and broken body, perhaps they will know what I called myself.
I receive my debriefing through my helmet comm, as usual. Figures I wouldn't be brought up to speed with the soldiers; If I get captured I could be made to talk. Instead of just giving me my own gun, it is easier to ensure I have nothing to tell them.
I climb into the cockpit of my larty, and fasten myself in. For a few moments I close my eyes, and daydream about another world, another life. A dream of freedom, and family. Of glory, and dying happy. The passenger hatch opens, and the dream is over.
I don't need to look back to know who is in my ship. Feels almost violating, to just open the hatch and pile in, without even so much as introducing themselves to us. I glance back at the four commandos in my ship, having already made themselves comfortable. I don't lie to myself for a moment; I would give anything to be one of them, comfortably chatting in a closed circuit with their best friends and closest relatives. At the same time, I hate them. Hate them for having what I can not. Hate them for being less expendable than me. What can they possibly have to talk about, anyway; they are together constantly, I notice.
I realize I am staring when, one by one, blue lit visors slowly turn to cast a gaze over me. I turn back to my controls and fire up the ship casually. I could do it in a heartbeat from muscle memory, but I want to look busy.
It is already too late however, as one of the white armored clones is standing right behind me. I try to ignore him, until he raps on my shoulder plate.
"Problem, vod?" I can't discern any inflection in his voice. He is speaking on the open frequency; I make a mental note to turn it off.
"No problems at all", I reply, and slam on the acceleration. The ship launches itself from the hangar with a kick, and the commando staggers, then falls over from the sudden shift. "And I am not your vod."
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Ky'ram Parjai'Kote
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Beviin
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Oh, man this is boring. There is only so much for a pilot to do in getting from point A to point B. I try to count the stars drifting by, and quickly tire of it. I consider doing a roll, just to mess with my passengers but decide better of it. I dont think they would laugh, if I got all of them at once. Eheh.
Geonosis looms in space before us. It hangs in the bleak void like an angry red eye, full of hate and accusation. I stare back, through a tinded visor, unblinking at the silent challenge from this titan, teeming with beings that would kill me given the chance. Not too different from my current situation. I can feel the commandos back there, glaring at me. They must have an important job to do: I am flying in slowly, thrusters dead, just drifting on my own momentum like a bit of debris to avoid detection. Meanwhile, on the opposite face of the planet a small assault is taking place, star destroyers and fighters, bombers and transports... just like me... buzzing around fighting another man's war.
There is a small kick as I push us into the planet's gravity. We go from casual approach, which would result in us orbiting, to a blazing freefall into the atmosphere in seconds. I can't use the thrusters, of course, unless I want to be picked up and blasted out of the sky. Instead, a special compartment opens and ejects a lump of material-- i have no clue what it was-- that weighs enough to cause my ship to be pushed away a touch from the discharge. Clever.
The cabin warms up as we blaze into the lower atmosphere. This larty must have seen some interesting modifications just for this mission. I wonder how I would endure reentry without reverse thrusters in a standard craft. Probably not well. The inky twinkling of space is long gone now, and the rocky ground grows ever closer.  I won't lie; I've considered just spiraling into it, kissing that beautiful red surface like my personal celestial lover, signaling the end of my days with a cornucopia of fire and flying metal.
I pull up hard, as the altometer indicates I am below most radar, and slam on the proper thrusters. The ship levels casually, and slows to a gentle hover. I barely feel a thing, being strapped in properly. I can only imagine the armored wads of machismo in the back are feeling the g's, however. I punch the thrusters and acquire a decent speed, apprroaching a stark mountain rising form the geonosian soil, the landmark to signify the destination. I didnt know what the destination was; I was to put the commandos down and wait for the pickup call. Wait. They seriously wanted me to dawdle on a cliff waiting for some CIS scouts to happen by and slot me. Orders are orders though. I jsut wish they issued me a weapon that I could use INSIDE the ship.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

Meanwhile, on the mountain, a pair of figures stand with their backs to a rocky wall. Their faces are obscured by menacing t-visored helmets, their bodies lined with green metal plates over a red body suit, and brown over green respectively. Armored fabric drapes around  their legs, housing hidden pouches akin to that from which the taller red one produces a pair of binocs. The short, brown figure shuffles his feet nervously, watching the growing dot that is a republic ship. He admires the shiny new CIS insignia freshly painted on his shoulder armor.
"Buir?" He asks of the taller figure.
"Yes ad'ika?"
"Is that the enemy?"
"Yes, it is. Looks like they're coming after the lab."
"You were right, then. That battle is a diversion?"
"Oh, I'm sure they will hold any ground they gain, but I think what we see here is their true objective."

She unslung a massive weapon from her back, checked the chamber, and pointed it at the approaching craft. It was close enough, now, to see the republic sigil stamped on every facet.
"Watch hetty'buir closely now, Bev'ika. This is the proper way to shoot down an aircraft without blowing it up; there may be something salvageable among them. And we don't waste, do we?"
Beviin shook his head, his still-too-large helmet bobbling on his shoulders.
Hettyc followed the craft with the front of her weapon until it beeped quietly, then fired.
Edited by Beviin, Jul 22 2010, 09:35 PM.
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Beviin
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Darkness. Darkness everywhere. You clear it away and you find it was just holding a seat for more darkness. Feel better now Barrel?
NO.
Then what?
Just feel...
Alone?
...Yeah...
Pathetic.
Shut up... you dont know me.
If only that were the case.

"Wake up, CT-3470."
A cold, sterile voice wafts into my mind.
My eyes open. Or were they always open? I strain to close them again, to hide behind my eyelids.
I cant. They won't close... why?
The world seems murky, like I'm looking through water. I realize I am floating.
Oh no...
All around me, the harsh casing of a transparisteel tank. To a larger extent, rows and rows of them filled with tiny buds of flesh, floating, twitching, feebly trying to escape the horror of its own existance.
Slender pale figures browse the tanks, inspecting, judging. One stops at me, and its gaze changes.
"It seems this one is inadequate, coos the sickening tenor.
Thin, tendrilous fingers reach through the glass, coming for me.
I try to scream, but I have no mouth. I have no arms to fight back, nor legs to flee.
I have no chance. I have no choice.
The cold white fingers lace around me, crushing me.
The touch is so cold, so hard, so heavy...
I can't breathe.
This is it.

"Think he's dead?"
Did I say that? No...  But it sounded just like me..
Astounding pressure surrounds me.
"We couldnt be so lucky."
There it was again. But different.
My lungs scream for oxygen.
I can feel my fingers. I manage to move my left arm, groping around where my face should be. I feel a mess of ravaged metal. I try to sit up; I manage to shift the captive debris a bit. Slowly I alternate sitting up and pushing with my free arm. Eventually I force myself out from under the rubble, and taste fresh air again. The geonosian sun glares at me through my shattered visor.
"Shab, he's alive. I owe you a drink, bangor."
I roll to my hands and knees, gulping air and coughing red dust. Two of the commandoes stand before me, sillhouetted in the red luminescence.
"You bastards could have helped me."
"You looked like you had it."
I glance to my right. The thrid commando is crouched over the fourth.
"He's dead..."
The other two hang their heads.
"Not the first or last clone to die on Geo." I chide.
"What is the matter with you?" One of the standing clones approach where I half stand.
"Where do I begin?" I stand, looking him directly in the visor. "Spending one minute with you lovely lot, then the next unconcious under the remains of my ship kind of puts a damper on my mood." I don't want a fight with these matching murder machines, but I won't let them walk on me. We maintain eye contact for a moment, before he is pulled away.
"We need to complete the mission." The third commando rejoins the group. He glances at me. "Can you use a weapon?"
I scoff, and make a steering gesture with my hands. "If you've got a gun I can climb inside of and drive around!"
"Im getting sick of your attitude!" Bangor again.
"I'm getting sick of your face."
The trio of commandos stare at me for a moment, unsure what to make of the statement. Clone jokes reach a whole new level of hilarity if you are one.
We stood in silence for a moment, before the silence was broken by the a small tumbling of rocks.
The three commandos stared at the disturbance, as did I. Standing proudly atop a craggy spire, a blood-red mandalorian pointed a missile launcher at us.
"Shab!" shouted one of the clones, as we scattered. The nameless two went one direction, Bangor and myself another. We dove for cover behind a smoldering heap of my ruined ship. There was a hiss, and an explosion. Bangor unslung his weapon and peered over our cover.
"NOOO!" He roared. As I peek over the ravaged hull, I see what had befallen the pair who had not found a shield.
Bangor fired his weapon at the mandalorian who had killed his brothers, and I turned to run. I dont know where I am going. Only that I needed to escape.
I skirt along the cliff face, hoping to find a way down, a place to hide until I could possibly salvage my radio. Behind me, the sound of blaster bolts echo frmo the mountain face. I round the corner, and come face to face with another mandalorian. I jump back, before realizing he is half my height.
"Wow you guys come in all sizes don't you?"
In his hands he grips two blades, the one in his right reversed.
"Good luck using those surrounded by rocks!" I look for a way around him, as he raises his right hand and drives the butt of his sword through my ruined visor.
For the second time in a few short minutes, things go black.
* * * * * * * * * * *
Hetty meandered around the wreckage, both human and vehicular.
"Bev'ika. There you are. Did you get the pilot?"
He hung his head. "No, buir... I accidentally knocked him off the cliff."
She laughed. "Thats my little verd'ika. Don't worry son, mine got away too. For knockoffs of Jango, those guys are pretty quick. Now help me gather up anything useful, and let's get back to the lab. We can likely be expecting company soon."

* * * * * * * * * * *

I awaken, hours later, a ways down the mountain. My body is throbbing. I take stock of my surroundings; I seem to have rolled down the side of the thing and under an outcropping. My ankle seems strained, but I can make myself stand. The geonosian sun has set, and it is growing cold.
I am all alone, stranded on an enemy world with no supplies, no applicable training and no hope.
...
I could really use a vod right now.
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Ky'ram Parjai'Kote
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Beviin
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Bangor sat alone in the middle of Geonosis' dry, red surface. He stood up in the trench he had dug himself, and peered from the camo tarp covering it. Nobody out there. Nobody in here. For the third time in his life, Bangor was entirely alone. He sat, and popped a food cube into his mouth. It was coated in the red dust that blanketed the planet, as was he. He closed his eyes, tried to numb himself from his loss. The food cube was gritty, and tasted foul. He decided it was better than the nothingness of food cube classic. It took his mind off the loss of his mates, and his rage at their pilot. Between his unamicable attitude to piloting them to their dooms, he blamed the worst of it on Barrel.
This was the third time he had lost his squad. The final survivor from a horrific training accident left him alone, until reassignment and acceptance by another squad. Then not once, but twice, this infernal planet had taken his entire unit from him. One would think that such events would make one numb to the loss, but it only seemed to dig a deeper gouge in a wound that would not heal. He closed his eyes, tried to remember what his mandalorian training sergeant told him: "Don't waste your time mourning your comrades on the field of war. Their deaths leave you with that much more responsibility to the mission. The best way to honor them is to put all of your attention towards that to which they gave their lives." Bangor slid his helmet back on, opening his eyes as the blue T lit up the dark trench. He had a job to do.

* * * * * * * *

The stars sure are lovely. I lay on the rocky outcropping on which I landed, staring up at them. I have tried for hours to sleep, but it won't come for me. My leg feels better already; I stand and stretch. I am loath to leave the still-warm rock surface, as the night air is bitter cold and my damaged helmet seems to have set my climate control haywire. My face and torso are stiff and numb from chill, while my legs and feet are like plastoid containers of warm clone soup.
I sigh, and begin looking for a way back up to my ship. There has to be something there I can salvage, some way I can call for help. My comm is useless. The mountain is an infernal spire of red stone, jagged points and, I would imagine a few traps. They know they have company now.
I haul myself over ledges, up slopes and around cliff faces. This is grueling. I remind myself that if I ever make it back to safety, I am requisitioning a jet pack. That has to be how these mandalorians are getting around. I've overheard the stories, even saw Jango Fett once. Something like that would certainly be ideal for traversing this crimson hell scape. I crane my head around, straining my eyes and ears for any sign of armored death wafting in like a malevolent odor.
I clamber over another ledge, and spot something in the gloom. I freeze, trying to further acclimate my eyes to the darkness.
"A ladder?" I wonder aloud.
I could be wrong about the jet packs, I decide. The ladder is made of a heavy rope, tied several feet up. Convenient. I am all to aware that the overhanging cliff looms far out of my reach. One hand over another, I make my way up. My fingers are freezing cold; I hate this planet. Finally the ladder ends, and I climb up, grateful for not being molested while climbing.
It takes less than a second to realize I am right where I stood a few short hours ago: the smouldering wreckage of my larty is still filling the area with black smoke. I glance up to the peak where the red mandalorian stood, with the rocket launcher. I have never been so relieved to find myself all alone. My eyes drift involuntarily in the direction the unfortunate two commandos ran. Katarn armor is certainly durable, but anything that could drop a transport from the sky certainly made a bigger mess of a wet, no matter the armor. Nothing they had would be useful.
I wander over to my ravaged vessel, and find the third commando, the first death. I can see that the missile hit us in the front right. That explains why I took the second most damage, next to the unfortunate commando before me, his body a mess of plastoid, blood and rent metal. I waste no time mourning him; he is lucky to have lived as he had, with friends to die beside. I begin turning over rubble, frantically searching for his weapon. My luck has apparently run out, as everything useful has been liberated from his body by his killers. With not even a food cube to my name, my situation grows more grim.
I tentatively climb back inside the husk of my ship, in hopes of finding a boon. The entire thing has been cleaned out, even going so far as removing the components of the console. I never knew mandalorians could be such scavengers. I turn to leave, hopeless, when a metallic glint catches my eye. Beneath my seat sits some forgotten item, passed over by my attackers. But what is it? It is not immediately recognizable as something from the ship, perhaps it is a container left behind by the commandos.
I drop to my hands and knees, straining to view the mysterious object. No sooner do I reach for it, than it opens with an audible pop. Only then do I realize that in my fevered search for salvage, I stumbled onto something left behind intentionally.
With a hiss, the tempting trap sprays a slimy blue liquid all over my face, my hands, even my knees where they touch the floor.
"Awarrghaablaaarb"
I shake my head, straining to spit out the foul goo and shake it from my face. However, it does not show any intention of releasing me, and I soon find I am rapidly growing more adhered to the floor of my ruined craft. In my struggle, I have now attached my forehead to my forearms, trapped in an embarrassing fetal position.
I can hardly breathe, as the substance locks me in place, can not hear the gentle fwoosh sounds outside, nor that of four boots on geonosian stone. I can, however, hear a surprisingly female voice nearby, growing closer.
"--can hardly believe, you clever little shabuir. You were right. We caught one. I wouldn't think these clones would fall for that. I'll be back shortly, with a guest. Tell them I said to prepare a force cage and my usual implements."
I fought to break free of the incarceration I brought upon myself, but will not budge. There is a hiss, as a spray canister dispensing something, and suddenly I can remove my face from my arms. A pair of hands none-too-gently tear my helmet from my head. I open my mouth to speak, but don't know what to say. I feel the bite of a hypodermic in the back of my neck, and swear.
I am possessed by a floaty feeling, as though I flew again without a ship, coasting above the ground with out worry. Then there is darkness.
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Ky'ram Parjai'Kote
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Beviin
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Bangor scanned the wind-blasted surface of the mountain, searching for any sign of the mandalorians. Intel was determined that the enemy lab was located in the premises. He had no idea whether it was on the mountain, under it, or sitting in the open on the other side of the thing. The wind blew, and for a moment he thought he saw something. He centered on the area, waiting.
There it was again. A flash between obscuring crags, a maroon offset on the flat red of the planet. Through brief flashes of movement, Bangor quickly determined the being's destination to be the cliff on which they crashed and his brothers died.
He could not see atop the cliff; the outcropping obscured his vision. He checked his equipment without looking, began unfastening his cover without looking away.
Before long the figure reappeared, standing at the edge, staring down. Something white was slung across what was obviously the red mandalorian. Bangor absently ran his fingers over the various charred areas of his armor. So much fire. He had no choice but to retreat. He wished he had died instead; if the squad sniper were in his place, he could plant a shot right in the t-visor from here. Poor Joker, he thought glumly. Poor everyone.
The mandalorian, much to his surprise, stepped lightly from the cliff, plummeting straight to a larger ring of rock, which surrounded the mountain's bottom in an effect not unlike a felucian mushroom turned upside-down.
Halfway down the separatist warrior lifted its legs and activated a jet pack, illuminating a small sphere in the umbral sandscape. Bangor immediately recognized the figure carried as his pilot, Barrel. He was obviously alive, but unconscious. His limbs were slack and swayed gently; were he dead, early decomp would have rendered him rigid.
Bangor stood in a crouch, his head peeking up from the trench. One hand was on his binoculars, the other on the edge of his camouflage tarp.
His blood pounded in his ears, barely checked fury screaming like a mental patient in the back of his head. It spurred him to lurch from his hole, attack the arrogant mandalorian whilst it was unsuspecting. He forced himself to wait, to find out where it was going.
The jet pack cut a few feet from the ground; the mandalorian landed in a crouch, squatting to minimize the impact.
"What the shab are you doing?" Bangor wondered aloud. He was aware of the irony of the situation: swearing at his enemy in mando'a.
As if to reply, the red figure turned to face the rock wall, still with Barrel over its back, and walked calmly forward as a section of wall gave it berth. The enemy, with hostage, calmly walked into the fissure, which closed immediately.
Bangor sprang from his dug-in position and broke into a dead run toward the mountain. Now he knew where the target lay. His mission was clear: kill the mandalorian, destroy the facility, and possibly rescue Barrel. Now was his chance, to fulfill his duty to his squad, the republic, and a clone he did not even know.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
My name is Zero. I am a reasonably mellow, cheerful clone. I am five years old in galactic standard years, and learning to be a pilot for the republic. I am calmly enjoying my lunch. One of the rare days when we had free time on Kamino, was when the cuy'val dar have a meeting and the kaminoans were all busy. I took the time to get an extra meal, a small catharsis for my lot in life.
"Zero!" I turned my head as Barrel came racing in. He looked panicked.
"What is it?"
"Follow me! Quickly! We need to get to our dorms, fast."
Barrel was my only friend on Kamino; another pilot, like me, the only company I have had in the five years of my existence. We would often sit together for meals, try to sit near one another during flash training. I can't imagine what it would be like to live here alone. He was always stern and serious, and acted a bit sardonic. His cynicism went right over me though, and I often forced a smile from him when nothing else could. He always told me I need to calm down, to 'act my age'. I reminded him that we were only five; this always brought the argument to a stalemate, but never a conclusion. He still insisted I should be more serious.
Today however, his stoic disposition is overridden by a palpable aura of panic.
"We need to hurry, Zero. There's no time."
I follow him back to the dormitories, where he begins stripping off his uniform. I open my mouth to speak, confused.
He interrupts me first: "Take off yours too. Quickly!"
I oblige, filled with anxiety and fear. "What kind of game are you playing at, Barrel?"
He hands me his uniform with identification insignia inscribed, and snatches mine from my hands. He begins redressing in my clothes, the garment that verifies my identity.
"I'm not Barrel now, you are."
"What?"
He grabs me by the shoulders, and gives me a long hard look. "Whatever happens, no matter who asks, you are Barrel. Act like Barrel, think like I would, talk like me. You know me well enough to become me."
"But why, Bar-- er, Zero?" I asked, playing along.
Just then, as if to answer my question, a kaminoan technician glides into the room, gazing about with its large, haunting eyes. They settle on the pair of us.
"Ah, there you are, ct-1042." I realize it meant my designation, currently displayed by my only friend in the world.
Zero glares at me, conveying a silent message to say nothing. When his face turned to the kaminoan, it transformed into a portrait of devil-may-care nonchalance. 'Is that what I really look like?' I ask myself, scowling.
"Yes ma'am!" He replies.
The kaminoan's voice is like a surgical knife. Cold, sterile, and precise. "You have been selected for reconditioning," it coos softly the horrible phrase, "please come with me."
My only friend in the world looked at me sorrowfully, then stood up straight and marched out of the room.
I am Barrel. And I am a bitter, lonely clone.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I wake with a start, and scream involuntarily. I am sweating profusely, despite being, as I notice, naked. I am strapped to a metal table, surrounded by bare rock walls. Any curiosities I have are drowned out by the tremors of my nightmare. Whatever I was drugged with, it dredged up things I'd rather leave buried. The lighting is low, but not so much as to obscure the details of my environs. That is not to say, however, that there are any finer details. Just rock, all around me. Occasionally a power line snakes across the ground, but by and large there is only the metal table to which I am affixed, and a large metal door.
I wonder what they did with my armor? Not that it matters, really. It is not as though I would have any use for it, damaged beyond practicality. I feel a pang of mourning when I recall the state my craft was in. It is funny that as I lay naked, likely waiting to be tortured and killed, my thoughts are for my armor and ruined ship.
My time to think is short, however, as the metal door slides open. I expect to see one or both of the mandalorians that assaulted me, but instead am approached by a battledroid, in turn escorting a medical droid. The cylindrical medical unit glides over to my table, sinister implements twitching in a disconcerting manner. One mechanical arm raises, brandishing a readied hypodermic.
"What is that?!" I shriek.
The battledroid's vocabulator croaks: "It is just bacta."
"Are you serious?"
"Roger roger."
With no choice in the matter, I accept the injection. The med droid jams the syringe into my neck; I flinch, not bothering to act tough for some tinnies.
"Why are you bothering to let me convalesce?" I inquire at the sentry droid. It stares back with its empty, dead photoreceptors. I have to wonder if, somewhere in its complex mind of metal and electricity, it is the same as I am. A conscript in another man's war, a pitiful existence that never asked to be.
"Answer me!" I gurgle at the droid, straining my bare neck against my restraint. I finally look like I have always felt: the republic's trained beast, collared and restrained. "Are you going to torture me? Keep me healthy as I have to be to maximize your liberty? Well have fun you separatist bastards, I don't know anything! This infernal republic has us grown like crops, harvested to be thrown like expendable ammunition at their foes! Then they can't be bothered to tell us even why we're doing it! So come on, have at me! Just make sure I'm dead when you're done finding out nothing, I am getting out!"
I realize I am ranting at a pair of droids. I don't expect a response.
"Roger roger." The droid replies.
Before I can verbally lash out at it again, the door slides open, and the mandalorians partly responsible for my current position stride into the room. To my surprise, the taller one removes its helmet. I am shocked to see the cascade of brown hair that emerges, taken aback to find that my attacker and captor is not only a woman, but a fairly young one, and more than reasonably attractive to a clone.
She clips her helmet to her belt; the shorter one beside her shifts his feet. He doesn't move otherwise. The female mando looks me up and down; despite having spent countless hours nude among other clones, republic officers, and kaminoans, I felt suddenly naked for the first time.
"An interrogation is still on the menu," she begins. I have never heard a voice like hers. So full of warmth, and ice, simultaneously. So human. I have heard female jedi speak, but they are invariably monotonous detached. As if they are so afraid of commitment as to conform their tone to their garb. Suddenly my neck and wrist restraints are loosened; I am more comfortable, but still immobilized. "But I think we have more important things to talk about first."
Without warning, the shockwaves of an explosion rock the entire room.
"We will have to talk fast," she adds, "it looks like your friend finally followed the bait."
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