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Hold Your Breath, Give Your Strength

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The second rotation starts with a bang, a repetition of the same gong that had called them to the bunkroom the night prior. It’s much louder this time, at the very back of their bunkroom- just their luck. It’s a rough awakening from the depths of sleep’s sea of dark contentment. 

Tech’s jolting upright the moment he awakes, nearly slamming his head against raised Hunter’s arm. The sergeant’s covering his ears, his face twisted into a painful grimace as the sound  of the gong assaults his enhanced senses. Omega genuinely looks afraid, from what Tech can tell, clinging to Wrecker’s side. The brawler looks simply annoyed at being awoken so rudely. Echo appears to be as startled as the engineer feels, and the pair exchange wide-eyed glances around the pair between them.

The bunkroom remains silent, and so does the Batch. As the others start to head for the door, so do they.

Tech’s muscles scream in protest of every movement. He's genuinely not sure how he manages to simply climb down the ladder. Wrecker's the only one who doesn't seem fatigued in the least, and he envies it, just a little.

“You stay with Echo again today.” Hunter murmurs. “I’ll watch out for Omega.”

Tech nods, because that’s what he’s planning anyway.

When they reach the mines, more gritty bread is tossed to them, and more contaminated water set in pails. This time, Echo keeps it down, and it’s Tech who nearly doesn’t. He thinks he can feel the dust lining his lungs, sucking them dry, and he wonders how long it’ll be before any of them develop the same miner’s cough that most of the other slaves seem to have. He doubts that it’ll be long.

Then, they start working. With stiff, sore muscles, it takes twice the amount of effort as the previous day. But the Batch doesn’t falter. Lift, swing, ching.

Lift, swing, ching.

Lift, swing, ching.

Wrecker passes by briefly, ruffles Tech’s hair and pats Echo’s shoulder, after he empties their minecart. They offer up weak smiles in return, don’t let him distract them long.

Lift, swing, ching.

The fourth candle rotation goes by, then there’s lunch. Echo doesn’t keep it down this time, hurling up both meals at once. The smell is horrible. Tech pretends not to notice it, carries on with working. It’s all he can do, to suffer alongside his brother.

Alright?

Out of the corner of his eye, Echo shrugs. He doesn’t sign back.

Lift, swing, ching.

Lift, swing, ching.

Lift, swing, ching.

Wrecker empties the cart again, with less energy than before.

Lift, swing, ching.

The last set of candles goes out. The gong sounds, and tools are laid aside. Sixteen hours, that’s how long they work each day. Tech vows not to mention it to Hunter, who's teeth will, undoubtedly, grind themselves down to stubs in anger at the cruelty.

They begin to drag themselves towards the door, following the guard with the sole source of light. Echo's trembling, weak from hunger, and Tech supports him to the best of his ability. He's warm- too warm. The engineer grimaces. Fever. It's more than just the food that is affecting the cyborg's body- he's caught something. Tech relays the information to Hunter when they regroup on the walk back.

Echo collapses on the bunkroom floor, unconscious.

Tech wishes he has his gear. He hates feeling helpless. He stays on the lower level of the bunk section with his sick brother.



The gong sounds. On the upper level, Hunter hisses in pain. Tech’s more relieved than annoyed when Echo’s scomp jabs against him as he startles awake- he’d feared that his brother wouldn’t react, that the fever already had that strong of a hold on him. But, no, Echo’s nearly as wide awake as he is. The cyborg’s eyes are bright with sickness, the bags under them dark- but he’s awake, scowling.

“I’m never gonna get used to that thing…” He mutters.

“That is the point.” Tech reminds him, stretching and rubbing at the arm that Echo had accidentally nearly impaled, before stiffly scrambling from the bunks. His legs buckle the moment he puts weight on them, and a pain so intense rushes through his hand when he hits the ground that he almost doesn’t hear the clatter of metal on duracrete. He groans as he sits up, lightly curses under his breath, glancing at the bruising on his knuckles.

“Tech?” He glances up, finding the blurred face of Omega peering down from the top level of bunks. “Are you okay?”

"I didn't know you had a metal finger." She remarks, surprised.

"Neither did the others, until yesterday."

"What happened to it?"

He shakes his head. "That is a story for another time, Omega. Get some rest."

“I am fine, Omega.” He assures her, rotating his aching wrist to recalibrate the malfunctioning finger, then grabbing onto the bunk beside him and beginning to hoist himself up again. “None of us are used to such extended labor. It will take some time to adjust to.”

“C’mon, kid, let’s get down there.” Wrecker insists, pulling the girl out of Tech’s view in order to drag her over to the ladder. “Hunter?”

“...I’m coming, Wrecker. My ears are still ringing.”

“You don’t think we’ll be here that long, do you?” Echo asks the engineer, appearing genuinely concerned about the idea.

His legs hold him up this time. “For your sake, I hope not.”

 

Echo chooses not to eat, but Tech practically forces him to drink, even if the former ARC trooper spits half of it up. They try not to acknowledge the small worm-like insect that they see swimming in the pail.

“You need something to get you through the day.”

 

Lift, swing, ching.

Lift, swing, ching.

The minutes tick by slowly. Each swing takes more energy than Tech has, the pickaxe feels heavier each time he lifts it back up. His spine feels like it's going to snap in half. His hands are the only things properly working, practically stuck in that curled position around the tool's handle. He can taste the grit and metal of the mine in his mouth, but, no matter how much he tries to spit it out, there's nothing to show for it. His lungs are dry, his stomach practically empty. Stale, dry bread doesn't offer much, just enough to live by. It makes him appreciate even joppa stew. Echo must be starving.

Heavy footsteps mark Wrecker’s arrival. Tech glances up at him in acknowledgement, gives a nod of greeting. Echo doesn’t seem to notice at all, as if trapped in a state of work, work, work by his deteriorating health. Wrecker tilts his head in question. Tech can only shrug, and then he continues back on with his work, his eyes flickering back to Echo every now and again. Wrecker resumes his task as well, concern radiating off of him. He stays around for a moment nearly too long after he returns their minecart. Tech can’t blame him.

Lift, swing, thud

Tech turns to see Echo laying flat out on his stomach, completely still, his pickaxe on the ground beside him. He freezes.

“Echo?” He whispers. Kriff, he’s not even sure the older clone is breathing. He can’t tell, not without his goggles. He takes an uneasy step forward, his chest tight with fear for his brother’s health. “Echo.”

Nothing. Not even a moan or an exhale of air.

A horrible dread squeezes at Tech’s lungs, and he can scarcely breathe himself. Nonetheless, he gets the message to move across to his body, and he does, kneeling down on the fallen trooper’s side, rolling his limp form over onto his back. He feels for a pulse-

“Back to work, skug!” A Zygerrian bellows from halfway across the mine, starting towards them.

Pulse, pulse, pulse, pulse- Yes! Echo’s still alive. He might even be conscious, but Tech doesn’t have time to determine that, because the guard is nearly on top of him, cracking open his electro-whip. Not that Tech has the time or energy to move out of the way quickly enough.

He’s underestimated how painful this would be.

As soon as the electro-whip lashes at his back, cleaving through cloth and ripping at flesh, a jolt of electricity rushes through every inch of him, bringing the ache in his body to an excruciating magnitude and making his vision flash white. He can’t bite back the cry that tears from his parched throat as the collar, too, activates, adding so much to it all. The handle of his pickaxe slamming down on his toes certainly doesn’t help anything either. His finger spasms, the nerves in his weak hand go haywire. The back of his tattered shirt soaks to his skin not by sweat, but by blood. He can just feel the warm liquid dribbling around his sides and dripping onto the inside of the front of his shirt, staining it too. As the pain begins to subside, he’s left on his hands and knees, gasping, blinking furiously to clear his vision.

As his senses ground themselves, he hears Hunter calling out, hears the footsteps racing towards him in the otherwise silent mine. “Echo! Tech!”

One of Tech’s hands flies up in a shaking, closed fist, signalling his brother to stop. And, for some reason, he does. The engineer looks up, at the tense form of the sergeant, at the shadow of Omega peering around his leg. A group of four guards surrounds them, keeping them pinned in the middle of the mine. Further back, Wrecker looks about ready to leap over his current haul, the set of his shoulders familiar. He can’t make out their expressions, but he’s glad they’re obeying, for there’s no need for them to get hurt either.

“What is the meaning of this, skug?” The eyes of the guard towering over him burn into him.

Tech briefly glances back at Echo, who still has yet to move. “He’s…not well. The water-” He cuts himself off as the Zygerrian’s hand tightens on his weapon. He swallows, takes a deep breath to steady his voice, begins again. He regrets his next words as soon as they leave his mouth. “Are you aware that the water is contaminated, or is he the first to fall ill from it?"

The guard’s jaw tightens. “Do not speak to me with such insolence, skug.”

The electro-whip snaps, and Tech hardly has the time to brace himself before the yellow-orange wire is cutting into his back again, crossing right overtop the other slash mark. An electrical current throws him back up into the blinding light, as his body arcs towards the ground, seeking escape. Again, it sets his collar off, cuts off his airway. What little moisture that remains within him is forced up to his stinging eyes. His cybernetic finger digs into the ground, aiding in his desperate battle to remain upright. His hand throbs, and he manages to find a moment to wonder if he will have permanent nerve damage after Kadavo. If there is an after Kadavo.

Just as the agony begins to subside, the whip is slicing at his back again, forcing his belly to brush the ground under the force of it. He’s not quite sure how to describe the sound that escapes him, but it is definitely not a pleasant one. His back is horribly wet and warm, and his sides tickle as that sensation slowly makes its way down them. His shoulders twitch, as, amid the recovery of the third lash, a fourth hits its mark, cleaving away at his flesh, as if trying to tear through to his bones. He pants, pants, pants- Can’t breathe…He’s gasping, choking for air, fighting for breaths that won’t come to him. His cheeks, now, are warm and wet too. Water touches his dry lips, and it tastes like salt. He’s soaking, he can’t breathe, he’s too warm, someone’s yelling-

Something a bit cooler splashes onto his head and back, gnawing at his wounds through the tears in his shirt. He coughs, blinking harshly as he returns from the white void, his blurred vision focusing on the dusty, rock floor of the mine, water streaming from his body to turn the dust to a red-tinted mud. He’s fine, he’s fine, he’s fine- Deep breaths. His throat opens up again, and he drinks in the musty air of the mine greedily.

“Get out of my sight.” The guard growls at him.

Tech resists sagging in relief. Instead, he braces his shoulders as he forces himself to move, a biting pain rippling through his mutilated back as the slightest motion. He watches through blurred vision as the guard stalks away, barking at the other captives to get back to work. He takes another deep, shuddering breath of air and sits back on his haunches, gives Echo another quick examination. Still alive, still unmoving- no change.

His gaze flits to Hunter and Omega, who are still in the middle of the mine, frozen in place. The guards surrounding them have disappeared, off to put others in line. Neither of them move, not quite willing to get close enough to check on his and Echo's conditions, lest they get lashed by the whip too, though it's obvious that they'd like to pop over for a moment.

Will be fine, Tech signs, pausing halfway through to recalibrate his finger. Work. Save strength.

Omega silently glances up at Hunter to gauge his reaction, unable to interpret the meaning of his hand signals herself. The sergeant’s shoulders sag in defeat- he knows better than to attempt to sign back, what with Tech’s vision and all- and he turns to head back to their station, guiding the girl with him.

Tech takes a moment to regain himself, catching his breath and wiping at his eyes, then pauses, contemplating the least strenuous way to carry Echo back to the bunkroom. He’s incredibly weak himself, hand and toes throbbing, back screaming, limbs aching. He'll likely have to drag the other clone. It’s definitely not an appealing thought, but it’s not as though he can snag Wrecker from his task. He sighs. He’s only going to lose more blood before he gets Echo anywhere. It’ll have to do.

His legs tremble as he rises from his crouch. For a moment, he feels a tug of nausea, and his head spins, but it doesn’t last long. He doesn’t let it. He can feel blood trailing down the length of his back, grimaces. Then, he bends over and grabs Echo under the arms, moves to hoist him up. The wounds on his back stretch, and he hisses through his teeth. He elects to continue on anyway, begins to drag the cyborg towards the exit. Metal feet drag on the ground. He’s forgotten how heavy those cybernetics are.

Tech’s legs wobble, his arms shake, but Echo is his first priority. Work continues on around him, the familiar rhythm of the pickaxes rising, swinging, clinking against rock and ore, the sound of spice being shovelled, the sound of the strongest slaves heaving minecarts to and fro, the wheels squeaking in a way that he’s sure bothers Hunter.

Before he realizes it, there’s an arm stopping him from continuing on, a firm hand resting on his shoulder in a familiar manner. He looks up, and is unsurprised to see that Wrecker has snagged himself from his work. His mouth opens to protest, but his brother cuts him off.

“I’ve got him.” His voice is a quiet rumble.

Tech shakes his head, his voice a soft rasp. “Do not risk it, Wrecker.”

“You’re hurtin’ too, bud.” The brawler jerks a thumb towards a cart just behind him. “I was bringin’ this one down there anyway. I can carry ‘em both.”

He reluctantly nods, allows Wrecker to hoist Echo over one of his powerful shoulders. He’s too weak to turn down such an offer. He can only hope that the guards don’t notice- they seem in the clear so far. But he knows how quickly that can change. 

Wrecker backtracks for the minecart, and Tech leans some of his weight on it as they head through the length of the mine. No one pays them any mind, guard or otherwise. Only Omega and Hunter glance up at them as they pass, the sergeant’s body twitching, no doubt with the urge to rush forward and pull them close. But he doesn’t, and they don’t stop. Dirt clumps on Tech’s wet feet, and he hates the sensation. Kriff, he’s really a mess. He doubts that there’s any allowed form of cleaning here, though. He’ll manage, Hunter’ll adapt. The others’ll come to stop complaining, once they’ve been here that long. Because, now, he is quite certain that it will be quite some time before they leave.

With Wrecker helping, it isn’t long before they reach the mine entrance, and the brawler is carefully handing Echo back over to him. “You got him?”

“I think so.” Tech murmurs, delicately balancing the cyborg against his side. He glances up at the other, for a moment, allowing a bit of his concern to bleed into his tone. “Stay out of trouble.”

“Yeah, you too.” Wrecker ruffles his hair, turning back to his work. A more solemn don’t die goes unspoken between them. Not that the Zygerrians would kill them- this is a processing facility, after all.

“Wrecker.”

His brother glances over his shoulder at him.

“Thank you.”

 

Tech gently lays Echo on the bottom level of the bunk section that they’re occupying, sits down on the edge beside him. He checks his pulse once more, finds it just as strong as it was back in the mine. He sighs, leans forward to rest his hands on his knees. He peers at the guards who stand at the doors like statues, the Zygerrians watching over him even now. The security here is much stricter than on Kamino. He misses Kamino- he knows it doesn’t miss them. Everything’s always made more sense there. It’s the one place in the galaxy that does make sense- before the whole Order 66 thing, that is. Now, Tech’s not quite sure that there’s any sense anywhere.

He shudders as a wave of pain ripples up his spine, winces as his instinctive reactions strains his wounds. He absently reaches for his goggles, to adjust them, scowls when his fingers meet the skin of where they should be. He cradles his head in his hands, massaging his temples, occasionally runs his fingers through his dishevelled hair to scrape some of the grit out of the short brown locks. He sinks further into the bunk- and, perhaps, himself- as it finally, truly clicks into his mind: We are stuck here. A pang of fear seizes this chest, stealing his breath away. We are stuck here. We’re stuck here, we’re stuck here, we’re stuck here, we’re stuck here-

“Tech?” He whips around to find a fever-eyed, mostly delirious Echo lifting his head. “You look awful.”

His eyes are burning, and he can’t help it. A hysterical sound- a mix between a sob and a breathless laugh- bursts from his throat, but his words are as dry as Crosshair’s. “I wonder why.”

“You shouldn’t have stood up for me.” The trooper’s voice is already a murmur, unconsciousness already calling him back. Was he even unconscious to begin with? He struggles to find words, his voice slurring. "Your back- You...you could bleed to death. I don't deserve- you shouldn't have to...shouldn't have to..."

You shouldn’t keep thinking about what you were forced to do on Skako Minor. You deserve my loyalty as much as the others do.” Tech cuts in when his brother fails to complete his sentence, not wanting to hear any more of it. He sighs. “Rest, Echo. You will feel better soon.” I hope.

Echo doesn’t need any more encouragement, his system weak from fighting the sickness within him. His head falls back to the mattress, and he says no more. Tech checks his pulse, then lays down on his side himself. There’s nothing he can do for either of them, nothing but to rest and let nature run its course.

But he can't sleep, not yet. His body is tired, beyond exhausted, but his hyperactive mind is running too fast, and his eyes are moist. He hates Kadavo, hates how helpless the facility makes him feel. Echo's sick, with Force knows what, possibly dying. He's slowly bleeding out, every movement eliciting a wince, every wince eliciting shame and humiliation and that same helplessness. Because he doesn't have his gear- his gear, which could save Echo from the possible fate of death; his gear, which could save himself from the risk of infection and blood poisoning. He’s usually either too busy or sore- or injured- to even begin to piece together a plan, and he hates it more than anything. Because they're trapped, and he can't do anything about it. He’s beginning to spiral, kinks forming in his mental coil. He can’t handle this.

“So much for being smart.”

And for once, Tech agrees with those words. What use is he to Omega and his brothers if he cannot get them out of this place? What use is he if he lets himself crack under pressure? He should be able to come up with a plan, should have a long time ago, but he hasn’t been able to do so. Perhaps, he thinks, the Kaminoans should have given this ability to someone else. Because he definitely doesn’t deserve it.

“Waste of good genes, that one.”  

The regs are right, always have been. He’s useless, he’s useless, he’s useless-

Metal, warm to the touch, bumps an unmarked spot on his back, startling him. He glances at Echo over his shoulder, wipes at his eyes to dry them. His brother’s prosthetics are not normally so warm, he knows. Usually, they’re actually cold. But, in these working conditions, and the fever gripping him- he should remove them, to help cool him. It’s not much, but it’s something, and Tech needs to do something. Anything.

So, he sits up, turns towards his brother, tries to ignore the red stain left behind on the mattress. The more ignoring, the less thinking, the better. If he had a sedative, he would have definitely used it on himself by now, if only to quiet his mind. His mind- his greatest asset, his greatest foe. He wishes there’s a way he knew to control these dark thoughts. But it’s not something the Kaminoans ever taught him. Mental health was never something they expressed interest in maintaining.

He starts by removing Echo’s head implant, the device that helps the former ARC trooper sort through information when he’s plugged in. It’ll be the warmest, what with it being directly connected to the back of his skull and all. Thankfully, Tech had designed the cybernetics so that he doesn’t need his tools to remove them from his brother’s body. He goes for the scomp arm next, for it’s closest to the older clone’s heart. He sets it aside, with the head implant. His weak right hand fumbles as he removes the legs, moving them out of the way too. He even strips his brother of his shirt, the tattered old cloth not helping in the least.

Looking at Echo now, stripped of the majority of his cybernetic parts, as bare as the day they found him on Skako Minor, he looks so small, so vulnerable. Tech hates it. Hates that it’s true, hates that he knows it’s how Hunter sees him. Vulnerable. He doesn’t like that word, because that’s how the Batch has always been, how it always will be, all thanks to the Kaminoans’ desire to experiment, to alter, to make better- better for war.

Stop. Leave me alone. Tech harshly exhales through his teeth, looks away from Echo. He presses his palms into his wet, burning eyes. He doesn’t know what to do. He needs Hunter. But Hunter’s not here- just Echo. Poor, sick, feverish Echo. And he doesn’t make for good company, not right now.

Sleep, his logical side supplies, surfacing for but a moment. The guards are not going to move, and there’s over ten hours before the others return. He has nothing to do, and he is injured- yes, sleep is the most reasonable option.

He takes a deep breath and lays back on his side, closing his eyes, focusing simply on Echo’s presence behind him. Sleep...



Bong!

Tech startles awake, twisting to bolt upright at an unreasonable speed that wrenches his back and stretches the tears in his flesh. He cries out, briefly, before the sound of the gong carries out over him, making him flinch back into silence.

Bong! Bong! Bong!

The last chime drags out, gradually ebbing away into the deathly silence of the empty bunkroom.

He sighs, letting his tense shoulders relax. He rubs the sleep from his eyes, turns to squint down at Echo. The cyborg is still asleep. His fever’s running deep. His skin is hot to the touch, even though his body is as naked as can be. Tech frowns. He only allows himself to vaguely remember that he can’t do anything, then scoots to the edge of the bunk section, letting his feet rest on the floor, awaits the others’ return. He picks at the grit beneath his fingernails.

It’s hard to stay focused on something so miniscule, when Echo is suffering beside him.

The others’ return is perfectly timed. Unsurprisingly, the rest of the squad is in the lead, moving briskly despite sixteen hours of straight work. Hunter’s nearly running, and Wrecker has Omega up on his shoulders, moving just a tad slower, only to be careful with his passenger. Their faces are strained, creased with concern. Tech only looks up and spots them when Hunter calls his name, his voice a mix of relief, concern, and anger all at once. The engineer pays no mind to the crowd of others who file in behind them.

“What were you thinking?” Hunter hisses, gripping his shoulders, the moment he reaches him- he looks livid, the way his loose, matted hair frames his face.

“Echo has already attempted to give me that lecture, and I do not wish to hear it a second time.” Tech informs him.

“Sorry, I just...” The sergeant deflates, his grip easing up as he shakes his head. He takes a pace back, glances at Echo as Omega looks up from the former ARC trooper’s pale body.

“He looks so small.” 

Tech winces. Right. Omega’s never seen Echo without his cybernetics.

“How is he?” Hunter murmurs. He knows better than to ask Tech how he is.

“Burning up.” He replies, unable to hold his gaze.

“There’s nothing you can do for him, Tech.”

“I have noticed that already, thank you.”

His brother sighs, exasperation briefly taking precedence over concern. He glances down at his worn feet, shifts his weight, looks up at Wrecker and Omega. "How about you two get settled in up there? I'll stay with Tech and Echo tonight."

"Sure thing, Sarge." Wrecker concedes, moving to usher Omega up the ladder.

But the girl hesitates. "Will he be okay?"

"I don't know, kid. But Echo's strong- if anyone can pull through, he can." Hunter tells her.

"I meant Tech."

“What?” Tech blurts, eyes snapping up to Omega in surprise. The others remain silent, watching, waiting. He realizes that he's drawn their attention, that the next words must be his now that he's spoken. He makes a cautious, evasive approach. “Are you referring to Echo's wellbeing or my own?"

"I was talking about you." She says, her soft voice almost trembling. He squints to make out the expression on her face. She's about as perceptive as Crosshair, and it unnerves him, makes him uncomfortable. It’s never bothered him with Crosshair, and he’s not sure why it’s bothering him now. "You keep acting like you think you're the one who's supposed to fix everything. You don't have to try and fix everything, Tech. Sometimes things happen, and there's nothing anyone can do about it. And maybe you should let someone else help you. We're here too, you know." Her voice is a murmur that he can barely hear, yet she forces herself to finish anyway. “Everyone gets scared sometimes. You don't have to hide it, Tech. We're worried about you."

Oh, kriff, it is so much more than Crosshair’s perception. Omega has Wrecker’s heart, Hunter’s courage, and Echo’s loyalty. All of them make him weak on their own, but together…Tech doesn’t even know how to begin a response to his sister’s words. He swallows, glances at Echo’s still form, stares into the floor at his feet. His left knee bounces in that way that’s always irritated Crosshair and Echo. Because Omega sees right through him- though the tear tracks cutting through the grime on his face might be a dead giveaway themselves. His cybernetic finger twitches, the spasm of wires and metal reminding him of his own faults, and it's enough to make him drop his heavy head into his hands, fingers working into his hair. He's so kriffing tired, so drained by all of this...There’s nothing that he can say.

“Thank you, Omega.” One of Hunter’s hands is back on his shoulder, squeezing gently. “Now, get some shuteye. I got this."

“But-”

“C’mon, kid.” Wrecker gently cuts her off. “You heard ‘im. He’ll take care of Tech for us. He knows what he's doin'.”

It's silent for a long moment, then the ladder creaks under the girl's weight. The bunks shudder when Wrecker climbs up after her. Hunter's feet shuffle, then step out of view. The bunk dips behind Tech as Hunter settles himself on it. Even with normal senses, he can feel the sergeant's hands hovering over his back, unsure of what to do. He closes his eyes, feels Hunter pause, waiting for some sort of permission. For a moment, he really does consider turning down the offer of comfort. But he doesn't.

His brother doesn't push, doesn't pressure, doesn't demand to check on his wounds. He merely pries Tech's hands from his head, cards his fingers through the mess of tangled brown hair. It's a familiar old motion. Chunks of dirt and rock bounce off the back of the engineer's neck, falling away from his body. He doesn't fight it. Hunter's always been the one person capable of settling his whirling mind.

“There you go.” Hunter murmurs, his voice soft and soothing. “That’s it, Tech. Just relax, now.”

A small spark of irritation at being told to relax brings forth energy, warming the cold cavity in his chest. The flare of irritation itself is short lived, ebbing away quickly, but he doesn't feel quite so lonely, quite so singled-out anymore. His shoulders slowly sink, the tension slowly leaves his tight jaw. Despite his extended nap, he can feel fatigue coming to catch up with him, now, gravity tugging at his eyelids. It's relatively quiet in the bunkroom now, the majority of the other slaves having settled down for the night.

“Your back looks pretty bad, Tech.” His brother approaches the subject cautiously, hesitantly.

His back still hurts. He can feel the crusting blood irritating his skin, can feel it shift with every slight overly-done stretch. He knows it’s still bleeding in some places, just a little. But, he merely offers a small shrug. “It does not feel as bad as it did earlier.”

“I’m still gonna look at it, alright?”

“What is the point of doing that, Hunter? We cannot do anything about it.”

“That doesn’t mean that I still don’t want to know how bad it is.” Hunter points out.

Tech sighs. Arguing is pointless, takes too much energy. “Very well, then. Do as you please.”

He feels his brother's hands withdraw from his hair, senses them hovering over his back in a brief moment of uncertainty. Then, his hands are taking a hold of the bottom hem of his bloodied, tattered shirt, pulling it up. Tech stiffens, clenching his teeth again, at the painful sensation of ruined strips of fabric in his wounds, struggling to pull free from the confines of his torn flesh.

Hunter curses. "This is worse than I thought."

“Yes, and it will likely grow more so until it gets properly treated.”

“But...that’s not possible.”

“I know.”

“We have to get out of here.” His brother’s voice is a mix of a murmur and a growl.

"That may not be possible, with the conditions of both myself and Echo growing worse." Tech dares to point out, tone hushed for the others’ sake. "This..."

This might be it. They might die here.

"It wouldn't kill you to be a little less of a pessimist, for once." Hunter mumbles, finally letting the younger clone's shirt fall back into place, pulling him against his chest.

While Tech’s tired, he doesn’t let himself lean completely into the embrace. Because his wounds still sting, a bit more so, even, now that Hunter’s accidentally pulled at them. His brother seems to understand, not holding too tightly, just enough to tell him that he doesn't want to let go, that he doesn't want to lose him. Tech returns the sentiment, gently grasping his brother’s arms and letting his own hang. His mind is silent, for once. Hunter's isn't.

"We shouldn't have taken that job." The sergeant quietly muses, his voice laced with regret.

"No, we should not have. But Wrecker was not the only one who thought it would go like Kuat."

"You don't say. The kid was a Rancor." Hunter shakes his head. "Do you think it was a trap? That Cid set us up?"

"I do not believe that it was." Tech replies. "We definitely walked into one, but I do not believe that any of it was Cid's doing."

"You think she knew the kid was a Rancor?"

He can only shrug. "She may have, she may not have. I cannot be certain." Consideringly, he adds,"Not everyone is out to turn us in, Hunter. Despite what you may believe, I do not think that our getting captured was in Cid's interests."

Hunter doesn’t respond.

 

Tech wakes several times during the night, rolling onto his back having ignited the pain of his wounds just enough to do so. A few of those times, he finds Hunter hovering over a delirious, muttering Echo, comforting him, easing him back into sleep. Their eyes meet once, but neither says anything to the other, because Tech knows that his brother has things handled for the moment. So, he sleeps, as well as he can.

 

Bong! Bong! Bong!

Echo’s whimpering about the Citadel, mistaking the gong for the explosion that disabled him so long ago. Tech jolts up from the painful position of laying on his back, falls from the bunks in his haste to scramble to Echo’s side. He grunts at the impact with the dusty duracrete flooring, clenches his teeth and grabs onto one of the bunks for support as he makes for his brother’s side in Hunter’s place, the sergeant holding his hands over his ears as the gong’s final boom dies out, easing away to the complaints of the other captives, Wrecker among them. Omega tries to sound enthusiastic as she chirps a morning greeting to the rest of the squad.

"General Skywalker…This is our only chance. We've got to stop him...No, no-" Echo's pale, partial-body is thrashing where he lays. His face is twisted in anguish. "...Fives...Don't leave me, Fives...Come back.”

Tech’s stomach twists uneasily. This is not his area of expertise.

But it is Hunter's. The sergeant, concern masking his face, is at his side beside Echo in an instant, having recovered quickly from the gong this time around. His voice is easily mistakable for a reg's, which seems to be a benefit to Echo in this state.

“Hey, Echo, relax. Lay still. Fives is fine, you hear? Rex’s got an evac coming to pull you out of here. It’s going to be alright.” A lie, in every way. Nothing is fine, here, and the ARC trooper known as Fives is long dead- and, as far as Tech knows, Rex is too. He’s seen the reports about the Tribunal crashing on a moon, Captain Rex and former Jedi Padawan Ahsoka Tano onboard the Venator. No survivors, the reports say. Everyone was killed in the crash. Hunter’s words are complete lies- they’re lies, and Echo believes them.

The cyborg’s thrashing stops, his body falling still.

“That’s it, Echo.” Hunter soothes, lightly pats a thin, pale shoulder. “I’ll come check on you when we get back from this one, alright? We won’t be long, I promise. Hold tight.” With that, the sergeant returns to his down-to-business facade, glancing up at Wrecker and Omega, who have yet to climb down. "What are you doing? Get down here."

Somehow, Tech finds the energy to roll his eyes, pushing away from the bunks to stand on his own. He’s relieved to find that his legs hold him up- a small victory, amongst such dire circumstances. The other slaves are making their way for the door, heading for the mine, and Tech follows along after them, leaving the rest of the Batch to do the same.

 

Lift, swing, ching.

Lift, swing, ching.

As much as Tech hates to hear it, the familiar repetition drives away the persistent, maddening words of his mind, the harsh claims of his worthlessness. He focuses solely on the sound of the pickaxes chipping away at the rock- he himself has been reassigned to spice shovelling, deemed too unfit to lift anything heavier than a simple spade. He doesn’t complain, because there’s a new rhythm to work too, one far quieter than the sound of shattering rock. Lift, swing, ching continues on, unable to be tuned out, but now there’s lift, angle, stab.

Lift, swing, ching. Lift, angle, stab.

Lift, swing, ching. Lift, angle, stab…

 

By the time the mid-rotation meal rolls around, he’s exhausted, his feet dragging. He finds himself beside Wrecker, choking down what he can of the bread, swallowing every milliliter of unfiltered water that he doesn’t spit back up. He thinks he only manages it because he thinks of Echo, who's cut off from these basic necessities, laying back in the bunkroom. He much prefers to think that he's eating for Echo, if not for himself- he's well aware that it doesn't quite work that way, but it's the thought that counts.

He’s seeking out Hunter and Omega to check on them when he freezes, a familiar voice reaching his ears from the mine entrance. It’s a young voice, one that he’s only heard a couple of times- aggressive and fearful the last time- and really not all that long ago. Could it be…?

“Let go of me!”

Tech finds Hunter, then, the sergeant gazing at the entrance with his mouth hanging ajar, his strong feet planted to the ground. Tech follows his line of view to the entrance, squints to make out the figure being led in by a whole team of guards. That light brown- almost red- hair, the violent display of protest as the newcomer jerks at his arms, trying to pull him free from a couple of the Zygerrians…it all matches the voice. Kriff. He knows who the boy is, but he still asks anyway- he could be hallucinating, however unlikely that is.

“Is that the Padawan from Kaller?” The words aren’t even a whisper on his breath, but his brother hears them- he always does.

“Yeah…Yeah, it is.” Hunter tells him, sounding equally as mesmerized as Tech feels. “The kid’s still kicking.”

The Padawan chokes on a yelp as his throat lights up blue. Tech can’t help but to flinch, remembering only all-too-well how much it hurts when one of those shock collars activates. The boy falls to his knees at the guards’ feet, and the familiar orange-yellow blur of an electro-whip makes the air glow as it’s activated. The boy cries out as it slashes at his back once, twice, three times. His screams remind Tech of those of his Master. The engineer shudders, pain tearing through his own back as it tenses up at the memory. He can hear Hunter’s harsh exhale.

Tech carefully lays a hand on the sergeant’s shoulder. “I know what you are thinking, Hunter, and I do not recommend it.”

“I know. I’m not going to, but…he’s just a kid.” His brother murmurs.

“Yes,”He agrees,“but he has also survived worse.”

Because, there’s nothing worse than Order 66, nothing worse than the Republic transitioning into an empire and ordering its army to hunt down those who have protected it for generations, to slay those they have fought alongside in hundreds of battles. There is nothing worse than watching many men with the same face gun down one’s own mentor, and all else they have ever known alongside them. And this boy, this Padawan- Caleb Dume- has gone through that and more, living in the shadows of his old life. How did he end up here?

“You’re not a Jedi here, skug.” The guard with the whip growls. “You will do as we tell you, or we will alert the Empire as to your survival. Wouldn’t like that now, would we?”

“Fine- I’ll do what you want, but don’t touch me again. You’ll regret it.” Dume snarls, rising to his feet and glowering up at the Zygerrian in what is undoubtedly meant to be a gesture of intimidation. The pain of the whip doesn’t seem to be bothering him nearly as much as it bothers the others it has touched. Tech suspects it has something to do with a Jedi’s connection to the Force. He has heard of it doing such things as this.

But the boy’s defiant action only elicits a snort. The guard nods to a couple others. “Throw him on spice scooping. Perhaps some of his own flavor will bleed into it.” His gaze rises to the watching crowd, at whom he sneers in contempt. “The show’s over, skug. Back to work!”

Tech bids Hunter a quick parting word, slinking- almost dragging himself, really- back to his station, the group dispersing behind him. He bites back a sigh, grabbing his spade from where it leans against a cart of spice. He stretches, painfully, moves to plunge the end of the shovel into the pile of spice before him, trying not to inhale any of it-

There’s a familiar grunt as someone collapses beside him, and he sneezes at the cloud of dust that springs up. He recovers quickly, spares his new work partner a glance- oh, kriff, it’s the Padawan. Of course...Well, this is going to be interesting.

Tech only spares Caleb Dume a quick glance, catches sight of torn fabric and bloody welts cutting into his back, not unlike his own. But the Padawan seems almost unbothered by his wounds, and now Tech knows that the boy is suppressing them with the Force’s power. Dume flashes the pile of raw spice a distasteful glance as he climbs to his feet and retrieves a nearby shovel.

And then, the boy turns to scrutinize him. He freezes, his breath halting in a gasp, his sea green eyes widening in fear, flickering over across the rest of the mine for a moment. Then, his face sets into a scowl. “Oh, great...And on top of everything, there are clones here. I don’t suppose you plan on trying to kill me while we’re at it?”

“Killing is not within my best interests, at the moment.” Tech assures him, hefting the shovel over the minecart to empty it. “It would not be of benefit to any of us.”

“Tell that to Master Billaba.”

The General’s own men killed her, not us. He huffs out a sigh, because arguing won’t do them any good either. They really should not be talking at all. He simply shakes his head, throws his full attention into his work.

The Padawan takes the hint, sulking in silence, awkwardly trying to get into the motions of the work. He refuses to look at him, and Tech doesn’t mind.

Lift, swing, ching. Lift, angle, stab.

Lift, swing, ching. Lift, angle, stab.

Lift, swing, ching. Lift, angle, stab.

Tech’s back aches. He can feel some of the wounds received the previous morning reopening, the crusted almost-scabs splitting with ease. He wonders how much dust- how much grit and spice- has gotten in them already. Perhaps, the anticipated infection has already started developing. In this environment, he seriously doubts that he’ll go long before one forms. It only makes sense. And he’s not that lucky- he was never lucky to begin with, really. But despite the pain, despite knowing that soon he may be the one spending all of his time in the bunkroom, he works, and works, and works. Because he has no choice.

Lift. Angle. Stab. The cart is almost full, he thinks. A shame, really, that Wrecker is assigned strictly to the ore miners. He could use a reassuring pat on the shoulder right about now, given everything. Especially with the tension between his new work partner. But it’s an old Wookie that comes by, listlessly dragging away their cart, emptying it, and hauling it back.

“How long have you guys been here?” Caleb quietly inquires, catching him off-guard.

Tech blinks to recover himself. “About four planetary rotations.”

“Really? Looks like you’ve been here for four weeks.” The boy shakes his head, and his voice grows even quieter, a darker undertone rejoining it. “But it hasn’t been that long yet- my Master was still alive four weeks ago.” He pauses, sounds warily hesitant when he begins again. “When you said that the war was almost over, did you know what was going to happen?”

"That the other clones were going to be ordered to kill all of the Jedi? No, I did not know." He answers, pausing for a few spadefulls of spice- because, apparently, that’s now an increment of the passage of time. “This is something that we have only just recently discovered, and we are not yet completely aware of the way it functions: The whole clone army was programmed with inhibitor chips placed inside their heads. That, I presume, includes us, though ours appear to have malfunctioned- except for in Crosshair. These chips, they have the ability to control the actions of any clone when the right commands are given. Evidently, the order to terminate the Jedi is one of them. Under the Republic, we were not aware of these chips. It was only after we returned to Kamino that I discovered them.”

“That can’t be true.” The horror of the idea is evident in the Padawan’s voice, mixed in with the denial and disbelief. He speaks a bit too loudly. Nearby guards stir. “You’re people, not droids.”

“Yes, well, it would appear that we are more like droids than we originally thought.” As sickening as that is after years of pointlessly fighting droids, it comes out much too easily. Nonetheless, Tech still offers a shrug, even though Dume is half-turned away from him. "What other explanation is there for it? The mass population of clone troopers has fought alongside the Jedi for years. What reason is there for us to suddenly decide to kill you?"

“If you think I believe that…” He shakes his head. “Well, I still don’t trust you. You didn’t do anything to help me when they killed my Master. It’s your fault as much as it is theirs.”

But we did, he wants to say. Hunter and Crosshair followed you, tried to help. You would not let them. Not that Crosshair had helped, but…Hunter had tried. He’d even lied to them, had told them that the Padawan had died, though he hadn’t. But Tech doesn’t blame the boy for seeing it differently. After all, his Master had been gunned down moments before they’d split up to assess the situation, moments before Hunter and Crosshair had followed him. It’s no use trying to change Dume’s mind.

Tech doesn’t hear the electro-whip activating behind him, but he does feel the fire lancing up his back, tearing up his spine to his collar, activating it too. Through the white fog clouding his eyes, the agony in his back branching out to the previous day’s wounds, he’s vaguely aware of his companion grunting as well, the guards dealing the punishment out to each of them- evidently, this conversation had been a mistake in more ways than one.

When all’s said and done, the guards heading off to sweep over the other slaves, his finger doesn’t respond to his natural recalibration method.

Soldiers suffer their pain silently.”

His head hangs for the rest of the work hours.

 

It’s a pleasant surprise to find that Echo’s not only awake, but aware when they return to the bunkroom. The worst of his fever has finally passed, and he’s on the mend. He will live! It’s certainly the victory that Tech’s needed, with everything going on. But it’s still not quite enough to chase away the other concerns that hold him captive. While Hunter catches Echo up on things, tells him of the latest addition to the slave collective, the engineer heavily drops onto one of the bottom bunks, squinting as he carefully works off the cybernetic extension to what remains of his fourth right finger.

Wrecker attempts to invite Caleb over to join them. “Hey, little Jedi- you can bunk with us, ya know. We won’t hurt ya.”

But the Padawan ignores him, his face impassive, as he instead climbs up to the top of the set of bunks on the immediate left of theirs. He settles on the one farthest from them, his knees to his chest, his gaze distant.

Omega watches the boy with awe, asks the brawler some questions about the Jedi.

Tech ignores all of them. His cybernetic finger becomes looser on the stub of flesh that had been lucky to survive his fusioncutter’s hunger. The mechanical digit curls in on itself as the nerve replacement system- it’s just a wire that connects to his nervous system through a port on the end of the stump, really- grows taut. The flesh finger that he no longer has aches, remembering the brief pain that it had felt upon the moment of separation. He ignores it, to the best of his ability. When the cybernetic digit pops off with a light sucking sound, he detaches that wire, and he’s left with but four fingers. A small part of him can finally breathe, now that he doesn't have to worry about further effects that the electric shocks will have upon his weak hand. One less problem, ninety-nine more to go. Or so it feels.

"When we left Kamino, I didn't think we'd end up somewhere like this..." Omega distantly remarks, sitting above the others with Wrecker.

Tech frowns.

Echo calls his name. “Could you hook me back up?”

"Very well." All distractions are welcome.

But this distraction does not last long, and he can feel chills starting in his legs, tearing through the empty void of his stomach, diving deep into his chest, seeping out into his arms. His back burns, his head pounds. Something’s infected.

 

He doesn’t sleep well.