Chapter Text
The rocky terrain surrounding the coordinates given to them is barren and dusty, the sun hot and harsh. There are no plants, and sparse wild grasses. It’s a stark contrast from the roaring sea of Kamino. But they have been to a diverse variety of planets over the course of the Clone War, and Ord Mantell is not among the most extreme of them. And so, they grab their gear and trek up from the Marauder to look down on the slave camp that they’re meant to be saving a child named Muchi from.
The camp sits at the base of the mountains and appears to be run down, perhaps even mostly abandoned. The Zygerrians have had it tough since the Republic took out their operation on Kadavo, effectively destroying their empire. This camp has evidently been affected by it as well, based on its condition.
Tech falls to one knee and holds his electrobinoculars up to his goggles, adjusting the zoom and sweeping his view across the camp for any sign of movement. In front of him, on his left, Wrecker does the same. Omega’s on his immediate right, copying them. Hunter and Echo await their report, hovering behind the girl.
The camp truly does look destroyed, through the electrobinoculars. It’s as if the place’s been shot up, perhaps even attacked by a local creature. Tech’s not had the time to study what creatures may be native to this planet. His gaze sweeps over torn and collapsed sections of building. He catches sight of a small landspeeder moving between two, and follows the direction of travel to a courtyard. He ignores the fountain in the middle, zooms in, and- aha!
Sitting directly beside the fountain, several chained civilians- slaves- sit. Two are green Falleens, one of them evidently a child. And seeing as there doesn’t appear to be any other children…it must be Muchi.
“I have a visual.” He says. He’s no Crosshair, and he may require his goggles to see clearly, but his eyes can work wonders, sometimes. “I only see one child.”
“Poor Muchi. She looks scared.” Omega remarks.
He ignores her, continues scanning the area. There aren't many hostiles around, and the courtyard is the most heavily armed. Zygerrians, naturally. Nonetheless, it looks as if the numbers are in the squad’s favor. But they are slavers. There’s no telling what other weapons or defenses they may have. The Batch hasn’t dealt with slavers before.
“I’m clocking two dozen hostiles.” He relays, lowering the electrobinoculars to glance at Hunter to make sure he’s getting everything. “Multiple entry points with minor fortification.”
“Simple smash and grab like that time on Kuat.” Wrecker concludes brightly. “Easy enough.”
Let’s hope.
“I’m in.” Omega chirps up. “What are we waiting for?”
Wrecker rises to his feet, beginning to creep down into the valley. Tech moves to follow, Echo right behind him. Hunter halts Omega in her footsteps, being quick in ordering her back to the safety of the Marauder. She relents, downcast, and Hunter follows the others.
The sun is long, just beginning to set as the afternoon grows late. It casts shadows across the side of the mountain, and the drop in lightness allows them a little more cover. They pick up their speed, dashing across the rocky landscape, approaching the edge of the rundown old Zygerrian city. Wrecker has to slow down because of his lack of balance, leaving Tech to lead them in, Echo and Hunter close behind. Wrecker catches up with them at the base of the mountain, as they begin traversing some debris at the edge of the camp.
He slips between two boulders, ducks beneath the floor of a raised building. Here, he pauses, the others stopping behind him at Hunter’s signal. The shadows don’t protect them, here, only the debris and broken structures do. He pulls up a scan for any new life forms as Hunter turns to give a couple of orders.
“Echo, you’re the eyes in the sky.” He informs the others, Tech half-listening. “Wrecker, draw the Zygerrian forces out. Tech and I will grab the kid.”
“Not a problem.” Wrecker complies, Echo already turning away to find a good lookout position.
Hunter cautiously pushes forward, and Tech follows, Wrecker on their heels. He notes Echo climbing up what’s left of a nearby tower, managing well with only one hand. The sergeant holds up a closed fist after a few moments of tense silent travel, activates his comms.
“Echo, sitrep.”
“Two roving patrols on speeders. First guard checkpoint dead ahead.” The former ARC trooper reports. There’s a pause. “Hang on. I think I’ve got company.”
“Well, take care of it.” Hunter warns. “Quietly.”
But when Echo’s comms switch on to respond, there’s the screech of something most definitely not human, followed by the cry of a man caught off guard. Well, that’s our cover blown.
They rise to their feet just in time to see Echo’s limp body crash against a protruding part of the pillar and then onto the debris beneath. He doesn’t move. But the creature shrieks again, and they’re too busy drawing their blasters to worry about the fallen trooper. It’s a long, winged creature that almost resembles a Keeradak. And that’s all Tech gets to observe before it comes swooping down towards them.
“Watch out!” Hunter cries, dropping to the ground just in time.
Wrecker’s not so lucky, his large body not as agile as theirs. Tech’s rarely seen anything with such strength, for the power put into the tail swing is enough to send Wrecker flying and into an unconscious heap.
Hunter and Tech back off, the sergeant firing a few useless shots at the nimble creature. It merely screeches at them and retreats, leaving as quickly as it came. But there’s no time to relax, because Zygerrian guards are suddenly surrounding them, purple-beamed bows locked onto them. The two clones have but a moment to realize it before one of the slavers fires an electric net at them from on hunter’s left. The sergeant staggers into Tech, the net whipping around to touch them both.
Upon contact with the crackling net, Tech’s vision flashes white hot with pain, and he barely has time to so much as gasp before it’s so unbearable that unconsciousness whisks him away.
When he regains consciousness, it’s to a painful, relentless throbbing that bounces throughout the entirety of his skull. His lungs feel dry, and a hacking cough bursts from them, tearing at his throat, when he moans in response to the horrible headache. A concerned murmur catches his ears, but he’s in no position to respond. He cracks his eyes open, only to snap them back shut and raise a hand- well, both hands, as they seem to be connected together at the wrists- to shield them with a whimper at the extra stab of agony within his head. The nerves in his right hand throb as well, and not because of the binders. He lifts his chin, trying to get better access to a source of air, inhaling deeply. His coughs slowly subside, and he can finally begin to regain his breath. He moves to rise to his feet.
“Stay down, skug!”
He doesn’t get far, a sudden current of electricity shooting through his neck, stabbing at his chest, and throwing his settling mind back into a twister. He chokes, collapses back to his knees with the clacking of his duraplast armor. Tears involuntarily prick at his eyes, and his fingers dig into his scalp as he rides out the pain, breathing harshly through his teeth.
Several feet to his left, a snarl sounds. He vaguely recognizes it to belong to Hunter. Then there’s the sound of electricity crackling, followed by a choking groan. As the static dies down, he hears his older brother coughing.
“Stand…down.” Hunter rasps between shuddering breaths.
Tech waits for his own heavy breathing to settle before he dares to open his eyes just the tiniest fraction. The light pierces them, and he squints, but he refuses to back down. It doesn’t take long for his eyes to adjust, though the pounding ache in his skull certainly doesn’t go away. He sweeps his gaze around, taking in the scenery. A rundown base, beaten down and weathered by time. He notes his brothers- all of which have awakened prior to himself- and the civilians, chains around each of their wrists, keeping them strung out in a staggered line. Each of them has a shock collar fastened around their neck. And then he remembers. Oh, that’s right. Slavers. Wonderful. So much for this going just like Kuat.
Why is it that their missions only ever went smoothly under the Republic's command? Why is it that there's a turn in their successfulness now that they're on their own?
At least Omega is not currently present.
Hunter’s hunched over, nursing his head in his hands, fighting off a sensory overload.
Wrecker’s the one to turn to Tech. “You alright, bud? Rough awakening, there.”
He gives a small nod, swallows to wetten his dry throat, and gives a pointlessly detailed response despite how scatterbrained he feels. “The human body is not meant to withstand electric shocks as strong as these ones appear to be.”
“No kidding.” Echo scowls. “Thought you were gonna pass out again.”
“I would not rule that out just yet.” He opposes his brother’s words, then lowers his voice, leaning towards him. “Has there been any sign of Omega?”
The cyborg shakes his head, jerks it towards a nearby cliff, where their gear- everything but their armor- is piled up on the edge of the clearing. “It’s not like we could comm her, anyway.”
“That is unfortunate.” He huffs shortly, settling himself back again. His throat, head, and chest still hurt. He really shouldn’t be doing too much speaking.
“That’s one word for it.” Echo mutters, gritting his teeth.
Tech glances over at Hunter, who’s on the other side of Wrecker. The sergeant still cradles his head in his cuffed hands, faces the ground. His skin is the slightest shade paler than it normally is, his brow creased in pain. Sweat trickles from beneath his hair, and his breathing is only just evening out. All because he stuck his neck out for Tech, again, as he always does. Sometimes, the engineer really does wish that his older brother isn’t so protective of him, that he isn’t so helpless on his own.
“Hunter?” He inquires softly, his voice just audible, as his brother’s head tilts towards him in acknowledgement of being watched. “Are you alright?”
The sergeant takes his time in responding. “Yeah, yeah, it’ll pass.”
Tech already knows that it’s as good of an answer as he’ll get. He turns his attention away from his closest brother, leaving him to recover, and looks over the civilians captured prior to their arrival. Anything to focus on other than his own pounding skull.
There are only three others captured, outside of the squad. They appear to be in good shape- better than Hunter and Tech are, at any rate. No doubt, they’ve complied out of fear and have yet to be shocked. It’s a relief, really, for it’ll make escaping that much easier. The child, a female, huddles close to the other Falleen, who’s unmistakably her father.
Wrecker tugs at his collar. “It’s getting looser.”
His collar bursts to life, wavering beams of blue energy stabbing into his neck. He jerks, his throat chopping up a pained cry. His eyes almost roll to the back of his head. His teeth clamp shut as the moment ceases, and his head sags below his shoulders. Why would you say that?
“Do that one more time, and you’ll be-”
It’s Echo’s turn. Tech winces at the sound that tears from his brother’s throat, making a reminder to check up on the cyborg’s mechanical limbs and implants later. If there is a later in which they are safe.
He huffs out a resigned sigh. “Save your energy. We are going to need it.”
About as soon as he finishes speaking, a screech pierces the air. He recognizes it before the spots, the creature gliding in- the same creature that had previously attacked them and led to their capture. Hunter flinches, but lifts his head up to look at it as it swoops in. Echo and Wrecker, breathless, watch too. Tech half expects the thing to snatch one of them and fly away, just like the Keeradak on Skako Minor had grabbed ahold of General Skywalker, but it doesn’t, instead merely passing over them and coming to grab hold of one of the overlooking towers, climbing up to make the top its perch. Beneath it, on the topmost level of the tower, a Zygerrian figure looks down at them, then turns and disappears from view. The creature lets out another bellow, asserting its power over the territory to other creatures that may think it safe to intrude.
The Falleen child whimpers.
“Relax, Muchi.” Wrecker insists, his voice steady again. “We’re the cavalry.”
Tech sees Hunter suppress an eye roll. The sergeant looks over to him. “What are our odds out of this, Tech?”
“I am not certain.” He admits. “This is not a standard military operation, and, seeing as how we’ve never been tasked with rescuing a child from slave traders before, there is no data I can compare it to.”
“We need to signal Omega before their scouts find her.” It seems that he’s feeling well enough to think more clearly again.
“Except, our comms are over there with our weapons.” Echo reminds him irritably.
Thoughtfully, ignoring a painful spasm in his fourth right finger, Tech’s gaze slides upwards. He doesn’t mean to, really, but it’s a good thing he does. Because, standing on top of some of the ruins, making her way towards their position, is Omega. “We won’t need a comm to signal her.”
It’s only a couple of minutes later that the Zygerrians are tossing Omega down in front of their leader, furious. She has a travelpack on her back, and it’s nearly the size of her. Tech’s impressed she’s managed to bring it this far, and even more so that she doesn’t completely collapse onto her stomach the moment her hands and knees meet the dirt.
“I found her sneaking around the cage.” A guard reports.
Omega, ever so bold, looks up at the lead Zygerrian, holds up a metal pin. “I wasn’t sneaking. I was unlocking.”
Tech’s eyes snap to the giant cage that he’d somehow let slip by his attention. Something within it snarls, launching itself at the door with strength that rivals Wrecker’s own. The Zygerrians stare at it in horror for a moment.
“Get the girl in line with the other skug!” The leader snaps at one man. To two others, he adds,“Secure the cage!”
The pair leap forward, shoving their full weight upon the doors, trying to get them shut enough to force the pin back in place. But the creature within is too powerful, too quick, and they’re failing. The other Zygerrian grabs Omega over to the other side of Echo, claps a set of binders around her wrists, a shock collar about her neck. He ties her into the chain line. Then, he turns, making a race against time to try to help the other two get the pin back into the cage lock. But it’s too late.
The doors give away with a loud crash, swinging wide open, throwing the Zygerrians aside. The leader disappears from sight to take cover, shouting at a few guards to watch the prisoners, shouting at some more to chase after the beast- the Rancor. It lets out a bellow, unbothered by the amethyst beams of light that bounce off of its tough skin. It grabs ahold of a chunk of rock, angered, and hurls it at them, completely ignoring Clone Force 99 and the civilians in favor of chasing after its captors.
“What did you do?” Hunter looks more than a little concerned as he glances around the whole squad to seek out Omega.
“She released an adolescent Rancor, obviously.” Tech tells him.
The lead Zygerrian whistles, and his own pet flies down from above, chasing after the Rancor at the command of its master, who pauses to climb atop its back. The Rancor rises to the challenge, pursuing them out of sight. The prisoner guards relax a little, even as the two creatures shriek and howl in the near distance. The others stare after it.
“Well, that certainly isn’t something we see everyday.” He remarks.
“You got that right.” Wrecker agrees. “I could take that thing.”
“Which one?” Echo asks dryly.
“Obviously not the big one!”
“It’s not looking like you’re going to get to fight the Rancor, Wrecker.” Hunter points out, once again lifting his cuffed hands.
“We’re trapped.” Omega vocalizes the sergeant’s movement.
“Give the order, Sarge, and I’ll break us outta here.” The larger clone vows. His neck lights up blue and he sputters, coughing through a deep groan. As the voltage dies down, he pouts. “I hate this thing…”
Tech rolls his eyes. “Perhaps if you were more subtle about planning an escape…”
The sounds of the scuffle continue on for some time, both creatures screeching at one another, Zygerrians occasionally crying out in pain. The debris and the rocky terrain block the Batch’s sight of the fight, but it sounds like a rough one. The Rancor is the most vocal, and Tech suspects that it's taking the most damage of the two creatures. He even tells Wrecker so, pointing out the winged-creature's agility and speed in comparison to the young Rancor's. But it's almost impossible to tell for sure which is winning the brawl. It takes quite a while for the action to fall silent.
It’s really no surprise when the winged-creature glides over the clearing and drops the battered, bleeding body of the Rancor down in front of them, the young brute dead. Its throat has been torn clean open beneath a powerful swipe, and there’s little doubt that it had been the killing blow. Its large jaws hang open, revealing blood stained teeth. The Falleen child whimpers and ducks her head away, and Omega averts her gaze.
The flying creature swoops in to land, following its drop, and its master slips from its back. His men have yet to return, likely all the way across the ruined city after chasing the fighting animals. He scowls as he approaches the defeated Rancor, scuffs one of his boots in the dust to toss some dirt at it. Open, lifeless eyes stare unblinkingly back.
“I’ve been told that Rancor meat is some of the best, anyway.” He remarks. Then he finally lifts his gaze to coolly scan the clones. “Who sent you here for it?”
“We’re not here for the Rancor.” Hunter narrows his eyes.
“Yeah, we’re here for Muchi.” Wrecker jerks his head to the Falleen child.
The Zygerrian chuckles darkly at that. “The Rancor is Muchi, skug. Its death should be a warning that you are now mine, until the transport to Kadavo arrives. You will do well to remember that.” He nods to the guard. “Teach them how things operate under my command.”
And, then, the lead Zygerrian simply walks away, likely to round up the rest of his men. His pet remains behind, however, no doubt meant to help intimidate the captives into compliance. The sun continues to sink in the sky, time slowly trickling by.
Clone Force 99 has just lost their first mission, truly, and he feels strangely hollow about it. Tech takes a moment to reflect on just how haywire this mission has gone thus far. The creature had been onto them quickly, and they’d all been knocked unconscious within moments. And, of course, Omega had seen fit to attempt a rescue and get herself captured as well. Another important matter- Cid had not told them that Muchi is a Rancor. They had incorrectly assumed that the Falleen girl was their target. And, now, their target lies dead in the dust, her blood seeping into the soil, and they are chained up in a slave line. His head still pounds, his hand still throbs. Things really could not be going much worse.
“Tech?” Hunter asks. “Is he right?”
He sighs. “Technically, the Rancor is a child.”
“Great…” Echo mutters.
Their guard barks a warning at them. They fall silent- for quite a while.
Within the next half an hour, the Zygerrians slowly trickle back into the clearing. They’re all quite a bit banged up, some rubbing at their wounds, but there doesn't seem to be any less of them than before. They ignore the prisoners and move on to their posts, casting disgusted glances at the deceased Rancor. A few of them mention that Rancors are a lot more trouble than they’re worth. Tech can’t help but to agree, though his reasoning is quite different.
Hunter’s staring at the ground between his knees, his eyes glazed in distance from the current situation, his lips turned downward, his brow furrowed with worry. His fingers are interlocked, his wrists resting on his knees. He seems to be doing everything possible to keep himself together as his mind works on what to do next, refusing to let his broad shoulders sag as Wrecker's do. Nonetheless, Tech suspects that he's still bothered by his recent sensory overload- they’re always pretty bad.
“Are you alright?” He asks.
Zzzz!
He chokes on a whimper as his airway abruptly seals itself shut, currents of electricity shooting through his body. His uncooperative right finger spasms, jabbing painfully into his palm and freezing in place there. The nerves in his hand throb almost more than his head does. His eyes sting. Gritting his teeth, he shakes his head as his airway reopens, gasping for air. The collar feels heavier around his neck as the heat subsides. He catches the tail end of Omega’s horrified gasp.
“Teach them how things operate under my command.”
Right. I suppose that means that we are not allowed to speak. It’s really just years old advice he should probably be taking.
“Tech.” Echo’s voice is so quiet that he can only just hear it. When Tech looks up at him, the former ARC trooper’s eyes are glued to his hand, his eyes dark with a sudden understanding that sends a flare of unnecessary panic flooding through the engineer.
After rotating his wrist to snap the finger back to life- a difficult movement with binders on- he’s quick to get the cyborg’s attention, directing him the slightest shake of his head. Because Echo has cybernetics- he knows what a malfunctioning one looks like. Keep this between us.
Echo hesitates for a long moment, then gives the tiniest of nods, assuring him that his secret is safe for the time being.
Tech almost sags in relief, gently massaging the base of his cybernetic finger to dull some of the pain coursing through his hand, trying to relieve the incurable agony of a severed digit. Thank you.
Because no one else knows, not as far as he’s aware. Crosshair, wherever he may be, has no idea. Nor do Wrecker and Omega. Not even Hunter- though he may, with his enhanced senses, but...Just Echo, now. Of course, the cyborg would be the first to learn of it.
His hand tightens, unbidden, as the memory resurfaces.
They’re on one of their rare breaks on Kamino- well, it’s a break for everyone but Tech, who’s stuck repairing the Marauder, the cause of their sudden break.
The hangar doors are closed, though he knows it to be dark outside, most of those still in training resting in their barracks- his brothers included. But he’s been up since before their last mission began, several rotations ago, and has been working on the ship ever since their return to Kamino that morning. He’s accidentally skipped his last routine caf, not that he’s noticed.
He holds a fusioncutter, a welding mask currently in place of his helmet, shielding his skin from the heat emitting off of the tool as it forges a couple of the ship’s outer plates together. He can feel the heat through his gloves, but he’s well-used to it by now. He’s been doing this for several years, and has spent the last several hours welding the ship’s hull back together in places where it had been blasted apart.
His fingers ache, and he probably should take a break before switching to the tool’s blade to cut away at the jagged edge of a damaged plate. Because his hands are beginning to shake from the hours upon hours of work. But he doesn’t, and that’s one of his greatest mistakes.
There’s hardly a sound as it happens. There’s a spray of red, a light thump as something hits the floor. After a moment, pain shoots up his arm and he gasps, leaping back as the fusioncutter slips from his grasp. His eyes follow the tool to the floor, freeze at the sight of one of the fingers of his gloves sitting nearby, one end open and leaking blood. Gloves don’t bleed…He feels sick, refuses to lift up his hurting hand to confirm it. Blood drips onto the floor beneath him. He can’t breathe, and he’s certainly far from half asleep now.
“Don’t just stand there!” A reg barks at him. “Get to the medbay!”
"What's going on?" Someone else demands.
With one hand, he somehow wrangles the welding mask from his head and drops it to the durasteel flooring. But he doesn’t really hear the loud clunk it gives off. His legs feel weak, rooted to the ground. He feels like a cadet again, feels just as he had the day he awoke from the operation that ruined his eyesight. His chest is tight with fear and uncertainty. His breath is coming in near-gasps.
A trooper grabs his arm and starts leading him away. There’s a flash of orange, a familiar bright visor, and he recognizes his savior to be Marshal Commander Cody. “Get a grip on yourself before you lose too much blood. Pretty clean cut, there, Tech.” His voice lowers to a mutter, but Tech can still hear it. “The maintenance crew’s not gonna be happy about this one…”
“Don’t tell Hunter.” He automatically blurts, as they exit the hangar.
“It’s going to be pretty hard for him not to notice that you cut off your finger.” Cody points out, before softening up. “You alright?”
“Am I meant to be?” Tech shoots back in disbelief, clutching his injured hand close.
“Look, okay…I need you to calm down, alright? Panicking isn’t going to do either of us any good, you hear?” The commander pats his shoulder, gently shoves it forward. “Come on, keep up the pace. We’re not going for a stroll, here.”
He exhales worriedly through his teeth as he quickens his steps to his companion’s will.
“It’ll be alright, I promise.”
The sky has begun to change color. Ord Mantell has a colorful sunset, though Tech can’t help but to wish that it wasn’t under these circumstances that they get to see it. The setting sun casts a warm orange glow over the ruins of the city, making the crumbling old buildings look like they’re made from flames. In the distance, smoke from the afternoon's destructive chaos can still be seen, slowly billowing up into the sky. He doesn't know what to look at, so he simply watches the sky as it gradually changes from blue or an orange-pink, to the start of the darkness of the night to come.
They’ve easily been sitting in chains for a couple of hours now. It’s been some time since any of them has been shocked- Omega’s the only one lucky enough to have not been at all- and Tech’s headache is finally beginning to subside, though his hand throbs relentlessly. He pities Echo, who’s undoubtedly in more pain than he is, given how much of his body is machine. But the former ARC trooper hides it well. At least most of the time. Every once in a while, Tech can detect a tremor as the other man holds back an involuntary wince, can see it in the set of his jaw. He remains as silent as the rest of them.
It’s Wrecker shifting uneasily in his staggered position across from Tech that causes the youngest original Batcher to force his gaze away from the fading colors of the evening sky. The lead Zygerrian is approaching them, hands clasped behind his back. He stops in front of them, cold eyes glancing over the line of captives- Tech still suspects that he's blind in his right eye, for it's as milky-white as Wrecker's left one- as he surveys the condition of each of them, silently judging how strong they may be, and, perhaps, looking for any sign of defiance.
“A transport will be arriving shortly, bound for Kadavo. I expect that you will behave for your new master. He will not take lightly to insubordination, shall you choose that path.”
Then, the Zygerrian turns and stalks back in the direction of the tower he had been occupying upon their capture. His pet is wrapped around the bottom, deep in slumber after a hard day’s work of ripping Muchi open. The Batch remains silent, as do the Falleen family and the other civilian captive.
Hunter shifts, and Tech catches him flashing an are-you-sure-you-don’t-have-any-ideas look.
He sighs. Sorry, Hunter…
“Kix, get him checked in for me, will you?” Cody asks a reg medic as he guides Tech past, the very moment they enter the medbay.
“Uh, yes, sir. Right away.” The blue-striped clone nods. “What’s his number designation?”
The commander hesitates. He doesn’t know any of the Batch’s numbers- why should he? “Tech?”
Tech shakes himself from the daze that had taken hold of him on the walk, frowns at the uncertain tilt of his companion’s head. Shoving the pain in his hand aside, it takes him a moment to realize what’s been asked of him. “Oh, right...I always forget they ask that. CT-9907.”
“Alright, Commander. He’s in.” The medic reports. “Take him to the fifth door on the right, I’ll send someone in to help him out.”
“What about you?”
“I’m off-duty at the moment, sir. Trying to enjoy my break while it lasts...”
“Apologies for the interruption, then. As you were, Kix.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”
Cody stays with him the entirety of the time, concern outweighing duty. Even as a medic comes in and swathes Tech’s whole hand with bacta and bandages, he refuses to leave. He’s not Hunter, but is a comfort to have a familiar face nearby. Besides, Cody’s not bad, for a reg.
“How’re you feeling?” The commander asks him, helmet tucked beneath an arm.
“Quite humiliated, actually.” Tech sighs.
“Yeah, you got yourself pretty good.” He shakes his head. “A whole finger...How’d you manage that one, anyway?”
“Lack of sleep, most likely.” He admits. “I have not had the chance to rest since before our last mission. It would seem that using a fusioncutter is not the best idea when sleep deprived.”
“You can say that again. You gonna be alright?”
“Oh, yes. Fingers are replaceable, after all.”
He can hear the disapproval in Cody’s voice. “The medic says you should give it a few rotations to heal before you get a cybernetic.”
“We do not have the time. I need to finish repairing the ship, and I need all of my fingers for that.” Tech insists.
“You boys are all kinds of stubborn...” The older clone sighs. “Your health should be more important than repairing your ship. Shove your pride aside for a few days. It won’t kill Hunter to reassign Crosshair to repairs.”
“I cannot do that.”
“Fine. But at least let me help you for a couple of hours, to give it enough time for the skin to, at least, begin to regrow. And don’t touch that fusioncutter till after you’ve slept.”
Tech reluctantly nods, after a moment's consideration. An extra set of hands won't hurt.
The last traces of light are fading from the sky when the deep whir of a ship’s engines reaches their ears, pulling their gazes skywards. It’s almost difficult to tell it apart from the stars, it’s that dark already. But Tech knows it when he sees it, gradually sloping out of its descent and disappearing beyond the edge of the city to wait for them- there’s no room for it to land within the ruins.
“Bring them.” The lead slave trader barks, gesturing to the line of clones and civilians. He turns and orders another few guards to grab the clones’ gear and bring it along.
“Get up.” A guard hisses down to them, fingering a closed electro-whip in silent warning.
Tech’s legs feel stiff as he gathers them beneath him and rises unsteadily to his feet. He takes a moment to stretch as Echo struggles, then offers the cyborg a, decidedly left, hand. It's a strange gesture, each with their hands bound in front of them, but it works. The older trooper flashes him a grateful look as he accepts the help, casting a cautious glance at the armor hiding his robotic legs. They, miraculously, cooperate once they’re properly beneath his body, and Echo’s on his feet in no time.
"Do they know?" The former ARC trooper purposely whispers, eyes flickering down to Tech’s hand.
He gently shakes his head, his voice just as low. He keeps his answer short, to avoid attracting their captors’ attention. "No."
He catches Hunter casting a suspicious glance at them.
Not important, Tech awkwardly signs, wincing as his wrists rub against the binders. Another jolt of pain tears through his hand.
You’re hurt, his brother returns.
Fell on it, he lies. Sprained, at worst. Will be fine.
Hunter’s eyes narrow in understanding that it isn’t the truth, but he doesn’t press it. Tech’s relieved. As much as he doesn’t want to have to confess to his true injury, he has a sinking feeling that he’s going to have to if things keep going in the direction that they seem to be. He needs all the time he can get to gather his thoughts on what exactly he’s going to say when the topic inevitably comes up. Because now that Hunter’s suspicious, there’s no hiding. Not anymore.
Their journey across the ruined base begins. It’s tedious, really. There’s debris everywhere, and they have to take care with each step, lest they fall over like dominoes, thanks to the chains. An escape attempt is out of the question. Their captors know it too. So, they trudge on, the guards flanking their sides to reinforce their hold over them. At the back of the line, Omega struggles to keep up with Echo’s pace, not to trip in her haste. The Falleen girl similarly struggles, and her father even picks her up when he can spare the strength. The shroud of night falls completely, and the single klick and a half of travel becomes treacherous. The day’s heat converts to a chill that nips at their fingers.
About where Tech estimates to be halfway through the trek, Wrecker stumbles and nearly pulls all three clones behind him over with him.
“Careful, Wrecker.” Tech automatically scolds, then all but freezes in the immediate aftermath of his error as the realization dawns on him. But the shock of his collar never comes, and he relaxes as he slowly understands why. He decides to be bold enough to test his theory. “You know, they are not going to shock us again.”
When his point is proved and the Zygerrians make no move to stop them, Hunter is the first to throw out a follow up question. “Why not?”
“It will only slow us down.” He replies simply.
“Right, well, in that case- how’s everyone holding up?” The sergeant calls over his shoulder.
“My legs could do with recalibration, but I’m alright.” Echo responds.
“My scars hurt from the collar.” Wrecker grumbles unhappily.
“Don’t worry, we’ll get some rest when we finally get to the ship.” Hunter reminds them. “Tech, Omega? How about you two?”
“Hanging in here.” Tech sighs, carefully stepping around a chunk of debris.
“I’m tired.” Omega pants. But she rambles on anyway. “Their leader, he said something about a planet called Kadavo?”
“The Zygerrian Slave Empire had an operation there, back during the war.” Tech tells her, keeping his eyes on the path ahead. “However, it was destroyed by the Jedi and one of the reg battalions after taking a whole colony of Togruta villagers hostage.”
“Did they get them back?” The girl asks.
“Oh, yes. The Jedi are rather effective in combat.” He assures her.
“Have you ever fought with the Jedi?”
"Oh yeah, loads of times!" Wrecker exaggerates, his loud tone earning annoyed glares from a few of the Zygerrians.
“A few times.” Hunter tells her, his voice far lower than the brawler’s. “Echo did the most, before he joined us.”
“That was a long time ago.” Echo mutters. Then he trips, cursing, and Tech half-turns to steady him on his uncoordinated legs. “Thanks.”
“I just don’t want you falling on me.” He half-teases.
“I really appreciate the sentiment…” The ARC trooper sarcastically remarks.
“Quit the chatter.” Hunter advises. “We’re getting close to the ship. Don’t need to draw any more unwanted attention to ourselves just yet.”
“Maps can be wrong. Hunter never is.” Tech obeys.
“Aww.” Wrecker quietly whines. “You’re no fun, Sarge.”
Tech rolls his eyes.
Sure enough, it isn’t long before the thrum of the transport’s engines are audible. It’s not much longer before they can begin to see the light of it through the rubble and ruins. Tech has studied so many ships over the years, and he’s quick to recognize this one as a Gozanti Cruiser. It’s a Corellian model, big enough to hold up to twenty-four individuals and seventy-five tons of cargo. He’s studied his ships- perhaps too well.
They trek the last few minutes to the ship in silence. The last stretch is easier than the rest, the worst of the debris past. Nonetheless, they still stumble in the darkness.
A few of Kadavo’s Zygerrian guards await their arrival, clad in official armor, set up on either side of the ramp up into the ship’s cargo hold. The captives are ushered aboard, forced to their knees along the side of one of the lengthwise walls. Their gear is tossed against the opposite wall, and a couple of armed guards position themselves between all of it and the prisoners. Nonetheless, a few sighs of relief go around now that they can properly see and get some rest- rest meaning not sleep, but a moment of pause. Because, even if their new captors allow it, Tech seriously doubts any of them can sleep, despite how tired they may be.
The ship remains still for a few long minutes yet, as someone pays off the leader of the men who had caught and shepherded them earlier. Then, the rest of the ship’s crew files back aboard, some remaining in the hold, others going elsewhere, and the small cruiser gives a small jolt as the pilot angles them up towards the atmosphere. They begin to ascend, leaving the camp and the Havoc Marauder behind them. No, Tech is definitely not going to sleep.
It’s been a couple of rotations, now. Thanks to Cody’s aid, the Marauder is back in full working condition, every inch of her hull repaired and sealed back tight. The commander is, thankfully, as much of a perfectionist at these things as he is, efficient in his work even outside of leading his battalion into battle, asking questions whenever uncertain about how Tech likes something kept.
Cody also keeps his word. He doesn’t tell Hunter about the incident the other night. Tech knows he owes him one, that the commander isn’t fond of keeping secrets. He’ll make it up to him in the next mission they aid him on, though catching up on his sleep is a good start. No need to repeat that whole disaster.
But the agony in Tech’s hand has yet to subside. Sometimes, he’s certain that it’s growing. It’s not until they’ve taken off and began their course to their next operation that he finds the privacy he needs to examine it without the others’ knowledge.
He sits in the Marauder’s pilot seat, the door locked behind him, and carefully slips off his right glove. He hates how the light reflects off the untouched silver metal of his cybernetic finger, shining it up at him. But that isn’t his focus. There’s a tinge of red to the skin of the stub of the flesh part of the finger, leading from beneath the edge of the mechanical digit. He frowns, testingly tightens his hand into a fist, grimaces and uncurls it as pain flares up his forearm. He knows the signs of infection all too well. He is the team medic, after all. And now he wonders why he hadn’t taken Cody’s advice and given himself just a bit longer to heal.
He resolves to pull his glove back on and head out of the cockpit, to break into the medkit and inject an antibiotic into his bloodstream to fight off the growing infection while it’s only beginning.
“You alright?” Hunter catches him in the act.
“Just fine, Hunter.” He’s never lied to his brother. It feels wrong. “I have merely developed an infection in a cut I sustained working on repairs the other day.”
His brother smiles, fondly amused. “You always forget to take care of yourself when there’s work to do.”
He’s not wrong- that’s how this began, after all.
Tech and Echo are sitting in the Marauder's hold, on Anaxes. A cybernetic leg sits across the engineer’s lap, only halfway put together. The ARC trooper watches as he works.
“You’re pretty…good at this.” Echo mentions.
“Oh, this is not my first time reconstructing a cybernetic limb.” Tech informs him.
“...Do you have any?”
“I do not.” He does. Not that he’ll ever admit to it.
The ship tosses in the turbulence of Kadavo’s atmosphere. The pilot is evidently not quite as skilled as Tech is, for the ship jolts so hard, at one point, that he’s thrown into Wrecker’s shoulder, Echo nearly smashing his other side. But Wrecker’s a rock, and he remains unaffected by it, giving off a comment on how Tech should be in the pilot’s seat. He snorts in response, rolling his eyes. As if they’d let him.
They pull through the atmosphere, the small cruiser’s sloping descent leveling out as it approaches a landing pad, dropping in speed.
“Up and ready to move.” A guard barks at them.
And so, the Batch rises to their feet, the Falleen and other slaves following the lead of the Basic speakers. Once the ship lands, they're herded to the door of the hold, and pushed outside, onto the platform.
Here, on Kadavo, the sun hides behind thick white clouds. The landing platform is oddly shaped, a dip in the middle of it, likely for gatherings of some sort. Though the round spots of durasteel among the duracrete suggests a far more dark history than what’s obvious. And the front of the building before them looks like the prison he already knows it to be, a guard on either side of the front door. But Tech doesn't let himself think about it for too long, follows along after the others as they're guided across the platform, towards that uninviting entryway.
And we used to be afraid of decommissioning. He shakes his head ruefully. Their training days had been rough, yes, but at least they had the comfort of a full meal, of clean water, of medical treatment. Here...they’re lucky just to have each other. For however long that’ll last.
He pushes his hopeless thoughts aside as they approach the front doors of the slaving facility, the guards simultaneously turning and reaching for one to pull it open. The natural light outside absolutely penetrates the poorly lit interior of the building’s entry hall, and he squints as his eyes struggle to adjust to it.
They’re forced to continue on inside, and the doors close behind them with a resounding thud, the daylight cutting off. This is it. They’re slaves, now. Again. Because that’s what they really were under the Republic, wasn’t it? Carrying out the dirty work of the Emperor for him, so he could build up the galaxy’s trust and twist it against them so brutally, so convincingly, with a simple command. “Execute Order 66." It’s truly just so sick, so cruel. So much for finally making our own choices. Because they really are right back where they began, without the mask hiding the truth, all of the dark secrets laid bare.
Tech silently curses his hyperactive mind, focusing on the lingering pain in his hand to anchor himself back to the physical world. Stop thinking and keep moving, for once.
He observes the compound as they’re led through it, taking it in. The lights are yellow-orange glowing beams built into the dark walls. Their hue illuminates the rooms to match, and it’s quite unnerving. It reminds him of Geonosis- he did not enjoy Geonosis. The scent of spice lingers in the air, faintly, and he remembers the reports he’s read about a planet called Kessel, from where most spice comes from. He supposes that they’re lucky to only be on Kadavo. Kadavo merely processes slaves and then sells them off; Kessel works them to death. Though, perhaps, they may still end up there, yet.
Their escorts bring them to a halt before a long, sealable room with a door on each end, a pair of guards occupying each end of the hall-room. Omega and the civilians are disconnected from the rest of the line, shoved forth into the room. Hunter tries to protest, but one of their escorts lifts the hilt of his electro-whip in warning. The sergeant takes the hint and backs down, anxiety radiating off of him. Omega vanishes into the room ahead, the door sliding shut behind her.
“She will be fine.” Tech murmurs, relaying what he already knows. “This is merely a processing facility. They will not kill any of us.” Not that it's very reassuring- their time here will likely be even more unbearable than Kamino. Physically, anyway. Still, anything to keep his brother from being too rash this soon in.
"They wouldn't dare hurt her." Wrecker backs him up.
“Let’s hope you’re right about that.” Echo mutters darkly.
The guards appear unbothered by the chatter, making no moves to silence the uneasy Batch- not that there’s any need to, for they fall quiet themselves. The inaudible worry is as loud as any comm interference that Tech’s ever heard.
When the door on their side finally opens, they see Omega casting a fearful glance back at them as she reluctantly follows the civilians out the other end of the room. She’s practically wearing rags, her previous outfit discarded on the floor. Chains and binders alike are also strewn about the room. The guards practically shove the rest of the Batch into the room before both doors close and Omega’s gone again. It’s deathly silent for a moment, as the guards step forward and remove their bonds, freeing their arms. They don’t dare to even stretch their aching limbs as they cautiously await orders.
“Change.” A guard bluntly points to several other piles of rags on the floor.
And the squad obeys, because there isn’t much else they can do.
Neglected arms pop and knuckles crack as they’re finally allowed to move. Hands rub at raw wrists. Duraplast clacks as it hits the floor, rattling as it settles. Tech struggles, his right hand weak from throbbing nerves and phantom pains. He still manages better than poor Echo, who only has one hand. Nonetheless, they both manage, stripping themselves of their armor and switching out their blacks- save for Tech’s injured hand- for the old scraps of clothing provided by their captors. It feels uncomfortably warm without the thermo regulation of his blacks.
The rags are so worn down that they’re nearly transparent on Echo, showing off the shapes of his cybernetic parts, spinal nerve strip to compact chest respirator. The old clothes don't seem to even irritate Hunter’s sensitive skin, though his displeasure at wearing them is evident- perhaps it’s his unconfined long hair that bothers him the most. Wrecker can’t even manage to find a shirt that fits, so he goes without it, his many scars showcasing themselves for all to see. Not that he minds. Wrecker never has seemed bothered with it.
Tech frowns at his armor, briefly reflects upon how much he’s gone through with it. The battles it’s carried him through, the late nights it’s tolerated. He doubts he’ll ever see it again, suspects that the Zygerrians will sell it, same as his brothers’ gear. He wonders what will become of the Marauder, the ship he’s bled for, left behind at the edge of the camp on Ord Mantell. An odd pang of emptiness tears at his heart, and he shakes it away. He can’t afford to think like that, not right now.
Nails scratch at the skin on his face, suddenly, as hands appear in front of him, grabbing at his goggles, dragging them back, off of his head. A feral sound that he’s always been so certain that only Crosshair or Hunter can make instinctively tears from his throat as he whirls around, right fist flying forward. He later decides to blame it on fear, but he doesn’t think he’s scared, not yet, not as much as he should be. But when his fist collides with the shoulder of one of the Zygerrian guards, agony shoots up his arm and his vision flashes white.
Before he can recover, his throat is aflame, tendrils of electricity shooting up to his head and down through his chest, burning at him with such a terrifying ferocity. His knees slam into the floor moments after they give out on him, and the force of it causes him to double over, feebly clawing at his throat in hopes that perhaps tearing it open will allow air to pass through to his shuddering, closing lungs. He squeezes his eyes shut, trying to ward off the excessive light, to no avail. His weak hand trembles, pathetically clutching the collar of the tattered shirt that hangs just a tad too lightly on his thin frame. He’s gasping, losing the fight for control of his breath.
He’s not quite sure if he’s properly hearing his brothers’ outrage, his blood roaring too loudly in his ears, but he does pick up the warning snap of an electro-whip as it activates. He doesn’t think he’ll ever forget the sound of the electricity crackling, even if they were to escape in a mere instant. He is going to have many nightmares of this place.
Someone- Hunter, perhaps- pleads with the guard to stand down. And he must do exactly that, for the light weight upon Tech’s shoulder that startles him into opening his eyes belongs to Echo’s scomp arm. Wrecker hovers behind the cyborg, eyes round in concern- with Tech’s blurred vision, it almost looks as if the brawler is on the verge of tears. And he may very well be.
“Okay, that’s enough.” Hunter nearly growls, turning his focus from the guard to his youngest brother. “What’s up with you, Tech?”
The engineer’s eyes flicker wildly up to Echo’s, for he’s still catching his breath and can’t evade the question himself. Help?
The former ARC trooper’s scomp arm leaves his shoulder as he takes a step back and gives the regretful shake of his head. “I’m sorry, Tech. They have to know- they deserve to. It’ll be fine, I promise. Just…they need to know.” His voice is soft by the time he finishes. “They won’t look at you any differently, you know. They’re your brothers, always will be.”
In the past, the others have never pressured him about his desire to keep his right glove on, have left it on his person even whilst he was injured, respecting his wish. But, now, Hunter’s reaching forward, grabbing for his forearm, and he can’t hide it any longer. Nonetheless, Tech jerks his arm back, because this is something that he should show them himself. His breath hasn’t yet caught up, but he knows that no words are needed, as he finally, after so many years of hiding it, slides his right glove off. The yellow-orange lights reflect off of the shine of his fourth right finger, revealing it for what it is: a twitchy prosthetic for the flesh digit they hadn’t even known is gone.
Wrecker gasps in that almost-dramatic way of his. He’s the first to speak, too, a few moments later, his voice soft. “Aww, Tech, why didn’t ya tell us?”
“It was an accident.” He breathes, unable to meet anyone’s gaze.
Hunter merely shakes his head, almost speechless. “I’ve always wondered why you favor that hand…” His voice hardens, just a little. “How long ago?”
“Right after Felucia.” Tech mumbles, staring at the floor. He feels like a cadet again, being chastised by Nala Se for doing something wrong.
“Right after-?!” Hunter cuts himself off in disbelief. Neither one of the others even dares to attempt to speak. “That was half the war ago! Why didn’t you say anything?”
He can finally breathe again, but his chest is tight with guilt and shame. “I-I was working on repairs after we got back to Kamino. The rest of you were asleep. I was trying to use the fusioncutter to take care of some sharp edges on the hull’s plating, and...it slipped. I almost didn’t even realize it, but then I saw what I had done…I-I couldn’t. Perhaps, if I had lost it in battle. But to my own foolishness, Hunter?” He shakes his head, takes a deep breath to steady himself. You already look like a fool, so perhaps you should stop acting like one. His throat still aches. “It was something I could never possibly fully repair, and it had been severed from my own lack of self care. So, I hid it.”
“That’s why Cody was hanging around…” Hunter realizes.
Tech nods, finally daring to raise his eyes to the blurry form of his brother, who no longer sounds angry in the least. “He saw it happen, and offered to help me with repairs when I refused to allow myself the time to heal.”
“Cody might be a stickler for the rules, like I used to be, but nothing matters more to him than other clones.” Echo voices aloud. “I just wonder where he is in all of this…”
“Under the Republic, the Two-Hundred-And-Twelfth was last known to be on the planet of Utapau, aiding General Obi-Wan Kenobi in a final confrontation with General Grievous. Grievous was confirmed dead not long before Order 66 was declared.” The words flow freely, relief soaring through his chest at the opportunity to change the subject.
“Cody wouldn’t kill a Jedi, would he?” Wrecker wonders.
“If Cut was correct in Captain Rex mentioning clone inhibitor chips, then I do not see any way that he could have avoided it. But General Kenobi’s death was never confirmed, so, perhaps…”
One of their guards growls impatiently, a sign that the conversation has gone on long enough, the vocalization shutting down their discussion altogether. The squad tenses at the reminder of where they are- in a place where the Republic has never been favored.
Tech’s gaze falls back to his hand, which appears frail to even his own poor vision, veins visible through pale skin. His cybernetic finger twitches, reminding him to crack his wrist to temporarily recalibrate it. The weak flesh knuckles are already beginning to bruise from the punch he’d dealt to the guard who relieved him of his goggles. He sighs. A hesitant left hand reaches down to him, and he accepts Echo’s offer to help him to his feet. His vision isn’t clear enough to interpret what’s flickering through Hunter’s eyes. Wrecker conveys his emotion without shame, pulling him into a half-hug the moment he’s on his feet alongside the others. Tech doesn’t have the energy to try to wriggle himself free.
“Tech.” Hunter finally says. “I’m sorry.” What for goes unsaid, but Tech knows. He’s too close to the sergeant not to know what he means. Hunter’s sorry about his hand, that he’s always felt that he has to hide it, that he’s ashamed of what he's done to himself.
I know. He bobs his head once, in a small nod. “We should keep moving. I have no interest in getting electrocuted again.”
“I don’t think I could survive getting electrocuted again.” Echo mutters, as they begin to pick their way across the room, towards the door that Omega and the others had vanished through.
The silence hangs heavy as they pass through the door and into the next room, the tension back in full force as they wonder of their fates. They rejoin Omega and the others, trudging through the facility, armed guards flanking their sides. The security wasn't this high on Kamino, after Onderon. This is a new situation, for all of them. But, at least, their binders have been removed and they are allowed to walk in pairs. Even silent, Echo makes for good company, his eyes revealing all.
The air grows warmer the deeper they go, the heat in even the ground- they had not been provided any footwear, and it’s near-certain that quite a few toes will be stubbed while captive here. But with the heat come the cries and moans of other slaves, working their lives away- bleeding, sweating, crying because of the harsh working conditions. Tech can hear picks chipping away at rock, shovels scraping away at dirt. It’s only a few moments after these sounds are audible that they turn into an open mine, illuminated by wax candles that hang from the ceiling. Well, this is certainly a downgrade from moments ago. It’s in this mineshaft that so many innocents work, hacking at rock, tossing chunks of ore into minecarts that others pull across the underground quarry.
Lift, swing, ching.
The rough flooring bites into the feet of the new arrivals as they are led to certain different work sites, split up. Hunter and Omega are left alone, Wrecker is thrown on cart-hauling duty, and Tech and Echo are escorted to another mining station, pickaxes shoved into their hands. They have no choice but to work. And they do.
Lift, swing, ching.
It’s grueling work. It doesn’t take long for their skin to shine with sweat, for their energy to run out. But they keep working nonetheless, lifting their picks and bringing them down to chip away at the rock- while this is a spice mining facility, the Zygerrians still have them mining regular metal ores as well, not passing by any chance at a little more money. Unfortunately, since they’re fresh from the outside galaxy, they’ve been thrown into spending their strength on those ores, the hardest work of it all.
Zygerrian guards pass through every now and again, monitoring their work. They whip those who do not perform to their standards, hence why Tech and Echo refuse to stop, even if it hurts to breathe and their mouths taste like metal. Tech has quickly realized that he needs to hide his near-sightedness, lest he attract unwanted attention to himself. Between that and his injured hand, he is having a rather tough time. Echo’s not much better off, half-droid himself, with only one hand. But he works just as hard as everyone else does. Those who have been here longest moan pitifully, their abused bodies struggling to keep up.
They speak little, and only when there are no guards near. And even then, they still speak in low tones, just in case. Nonetheless, there's so much that goes unsaid in the exhausted looks they throw at one another between swings. I’m glad you’re here is definitely among them. So, despite the constant pain in their arms and legs and backs, their fingers and palms burning, their throats dry, their lungs raw, they carry on. Because they have to, because they have each other to silently draw courage from.
Lift, swing, ching.
When they fill their minecart after several hours of work, Wrecker's the one to come along and haul it off. He doesn't say anything to them, he can't say anything to them. But his sad eyes tell all, just as Echo's do, and he pats Tech's shoulder just a little too gently. He almost doesn't leave them after he brings the cart back, empty, but a Zygerrian snaps a warning at him and he's quick to obey.
"Good soldiers follow orders."
Tech certainly doesn't feel like a soldier, and he knows the others would agree.
Lift, swing, ching.
By the time their first meal rolls around, the engineer’s stomach physically pains him. It’s concerning- to him, anyway- because he has rarely felt hunger so strongly before. But when the guards toss loaves of bread down onto the dusty floor besides pails of decidedly unhealthy water, his appetite all but vanishes. It’s no wonder that the others here are so weak, so ill. But it’s not like there’s any other option. So, Tech eats. And tries not to think about the taste of dirt and rock and metal mixed in with the food. The water is just as foul-tasting. Echo can’t keep it down, takes a moment to heave it up as soon as they’ve set back to work.
The former ARC trooper’s pale body shakes from lack of food and from too much work. And there’s nothing that Tech can do to help him. He flashes his brother apologetic looks in the moments that the feeling of helplessness is too much. He’s the medic. He’s supposed to look out for Echo, has since they rescued him from Skako Minor. And, now, he can’t.
How are your cybernetics? The candlelight catches the movement of his hands, creates a shadow of the signs on the wall. It’s the easiest way to communicate without speaking aloud or looking directly at one another. The Zygerrians don’t have a clue.
Echo’s response isn’t as smooth, for he’s still uncertain about communicating this way. It’s something he’s never quite gotten used to. Tech squints to make out what he says, and his eyes ache. Holding up. Yours?
There’s dirt grinding in the metal knuckles of Tech’s finger, but he knows that the other man is suffering far worse. Likewise.
Lift, swing, ching. Lift, swing, ching. Their pickaxes slowly wear down the rock, and their cart slowly begins to fill up. The guards replace the dying candles with some new ones for the fifth time. They need changing every two hours, Tech’s noticed. And that means that they’ve been here for at least ten. He wonders for how long the others had been working before their arrival- thinking of the math of it all is easier than focusing on the pain echoing through the mine around them.
Lift, swing, ching. Lift, swing, ching. The motions repeat like a mantra- an endless mantra. The grit coats every inch of sweat-coated skin, buries itself into the rags covering their bodies.
Lift, swing, ching.
Lift, swing, screeeech, thud. Tech flinches, automatically turning in Echo’s direction as the cyborg’s pickaxe falls to the ground with a clatter. His brother stumbles forward, off balance, but he’s quick to leap to his side and aid him into leaning against the minecart for support. For a moment, the rest of the mine is silent, too, eyes fixated on the pair. Then, the guards spring up with as much ferocity as ever, and everyone’s quick to return to their work. Lift, swing, ching. He catches someone gazing at them for a moment too long, black hair framing his face, and he thinks it’s Hunter. The sergeant looks away before the guards get onto him, and Tech does the same, retrieving Echo’s pickaxe and reluctantly offering it back to him. He takes it. Lift, swing, ching.
Lift, swing, ching.
The sixth candle rotation comes and goes, and when that set burns out, a distant gong goes off and the other workers put down their tools and drag themselves in the direction of the exit, a battery-powered lantern in one of the guards’ grasp. The Batch tags along, following the crowd, regrouping at the back of the pack. Omega’s already drifting off into sleep, her small body tucked up against Hunter’s chest in his arms. Wrecker slings an arm around Tech’s neck the moment he’s within grasp, pulling him close as they walk together. He's much too tired to shove his older brother off, his muscles too sore from hours of labor. The other slaves gradually break into murmurs among themselves, despite the guards flanking them, a sign that they are safe to speak until their retrieval at the start of the next rotation. The tension among the squad dissipates a little.
“Is your foot alright?” Tech asks Echo, absently squinting at his cybernetic finger as he picks pebbles and grains of dirt from the knuckles.
“Yeah, it’ll be fine. It might have a hole in it, I can’t tell- but it’s still working.” The trooper assures him. “...Better than my stomach is, at any rate. The smell of this place is worse than our barracks on Kamino!”
There's no denying that.
“Try dusting the bread off the next time we eat. That may help.” He suggests.
“I’ll keep it in mind.”
“At least, we have food.” Wrecker points out, looking on the bright side. “Hey, Hunter, wanna trade?”
“I am perfectly capable of walking on my own, thank you.” Tech retorts, rolling his eyes. But he lets Wrecker hand him over to Hunter anyway, if only to humor them. He’s really just too sore to properly object to it- and it feels good to finally have his closest brother near again.
“You alright?” Hunter murmurs into his ear.
He nods. His brother's enhanced senses in mind, he returns the question.
“If we’re here long enough, I’m sure I’ll get used to it.” The sergeant mumbles, not doing so great at withholding a tone of foreboding.
“Don’t worry- we’ll probably get there, with our luck.” Echo’s scowl reaches his voice. “I’m starting to think that we’re destined to be slaves.”
“Let’s hope not.” Tech says, when Wrecker nervously stiffens, his hold on Omega tightening.
Their walk takes them through some of the halls nearest the mine, where the overall group is split among several rooms and shoved into them to sleep for the night. The Batch is miraculously intact and thrown into the same room, along with a good number of others. The dimly lit room is filled with bunks, shoved together and separated at intervals of four. The bunks appear less comfortable than the ones back aboard the Marauder, even. But they’re tired, and they’d be fools to pass up on the opportunity to rest.
Hunter picks a section of top row bunks for them and begins climbing. “Alright, everyone up.”
After holding a pickaxe for the entirety of Kadavo’s sun hours, Tech’s aching hands easily curl around the rungs of the ladder. Once he’s up, he moves aside so that Hunter can take Omega from Wrecker, who then boosts Echo up, before climbing up himself.
It’s a tight fit, but it works. Wrecker tucks Omega under one large arm, holds Tech close with the other. Hunter rests against the engineer’s back, one hand protectively resting on his arm. Echo squeezes in on the other side of Omega, as if guarding her.
“We all cozy, then?” The sergeant asks.
“Quite.” Tech murmurs.
Wrecker has already dozed off, and Echo remains silent.
“Good.” Hunter hesitates, a silence stretching between the squad for a long moment as the other slaves whisper among themselves. He heaves a heavy sigh, his chest puffing out against Tech’s side. “You all did good today. I hope you know that.”
There’s no way to respond to that.
Wrecker’s head lolls to the side, his deep breaths turning into snores as his mouth opens, and Hunter reaches across Tech to shut it. Echo mumbles his thanks.
It’s finally quiet enough- Tech’s finally idle enough- to think without fearing the repercussions of getting distracted. It’s been quite some time since they’ve slept, easily the entirety of Ord Mantell’s rotation. But they’re not on Ord Mantell anymore, and the Marauder is. He worries for the ship, of what may become of it. He worries about how long they may be captives here, forced to work until they’re near the verge of collapsing. He worries for Echo, who is easily going to struggle the most here, with so many cybernetic limbs and implants. He worries for Omega, for this is one of her first experiences with the cruelty of the galaxy. He worries about them all, really. And for himself, his own inability to see properly. He wishes he isn’t too tired to think of a plan of escape. Is there even a way to escape?
“Tech.” Hunter murmurs, because he always knows, one hand rising to gently card through the engineer’s hair. “Try to sleep, vod’ika. We'll figure something out, I promise."
I hope so, Hunter. Unconsciously, Wrecker’s hold around him tightens, and he draws minimal comfort in it. He misses the war. Everything seemed so much clearer, then, and the work less draining. He misses the war. He must be finally losing his mind. He certainly wouldn't be the first clone to.
"Sleep." His brother's voice is soft.
Tech lets his eyes drift shut.
It’s quiet for a long time, the others’ breathing slowly urging him to succumb to his exhaustion for the night. His mind begins to slip, and he instinctively nestles further into Wrecker’s side, his battered body basking in the contact, relying on it to function. He’s so tired. He's so warm, so comfortable. Safe, between his brothers. Nonetheless, when he hears them begin to speak, his mind latches onto their voices, keeping him just aware enough to listen.
“Is he gonna be alright?” Echo asks quietly.
“He’ll be fine, so long as we don’t let him think too much.” Hunter assures him. "He's always thinking too much...It does him more harm than good, sometimes. You should've seen him in our cadet days, back when we were real young. He was anxious like this all the time.”
“Because of the regular clones?”
“Partly. But also because he was afraid of being decommissioned because of his eyes, and because he worried about Wrecker and I. He got better as he got older, but…”
“Old habits always come back." Echo finishes for him, his voice almost mournful.
“Yeah.” Hunter agrees. He’s silent for a moment. “I just wish he’d told me.”
And then Tech’s finally drifting off, succumbing to the warm temptation of unconsciousness, temporarily safe between the two brothers that have been at his side the longest.