Chapter Text
Special Operations barracks, 501st Legion headquarters, Imperial Center.
Niners breath synced with a dozen and a half others just like it and Darman tried to distract himself with its rhythm, staring at the metal frame of the bunk above him. He tried to distract his mind from wandering but he couldn’t.
Again.
As he thought through the details more he realized he may have bit off more than he could chew.
He was dragging his brother and Rede into this without having thought through all the critical details and that reality sunk in painfully. He should've heeded Niner’s advice, not making such a rash decision without a well drafted plan.
There was a reason he had kept this Darman— the grieving husband and father— hidden. Pushed into a place unreachable. This Darman made mistakes and emotionally driven choices that not only affected him but those he loved. Darman the soldier didn’t, he was strategic and methodical, he protected the man at his core that was badly damaged but as the weeks and months since the purge dragged on he couldn’t keep that man down.
The real Darman clawed at his mind and kicked violently at the confining cage of his ribs, demanding to be let out and feel his despair rip through his being. Eventually it did, he couldn't be contained and when that happened he’d made the biggest mistake of his life.
He stayed.
He ruined the chance of Niner’s freedom and that guilt weighed on him.
He missed his family. His brothers. His father. But Darman didn’t know who to trust anymore and the harboring of Jedi and Kyrimorut solidified that. Had Kal’buir not seen what they’d done? The destruction they’d left in their wakes? Darman knew he wouldn't be able to rest until he got his son safe, far away and hidden from any jetii.
Kad.
He’d see him soon, he’d be safe and he wished with every fibre of his being that Niner wouldn't be the one to get in his way.
With the thought of Kad came the thought of the boy’s mother. Of his wife. The image of her pain stricken face as she was struck down, the helplessness he felt in that moment, standing on the other side of the barricades— just watching— was still carved into his bones, burned into his memory to torture him every time he closed his eyes.
But he couldn’t hide from that pain anymore, he needed to feel that grief and get it over with. He feared it was more that he could bear at times, every painful moment by himself he swore he felt the pressure of Etain’s hand on his shoulder and it drove him crazy.
It should've been grounding but it felt more like she’d been tasked to stay behind and push him closer to insanity.
He brought a fist to his mouth to stifle a sob he didn’t realize had been forming.
Who was this man? The man he knew didn’t cry, he wasn’t weak, he was a soldier. One who was trained to withstand grief and bury emotion deep into a place untouchable. But, now, when he needed it most he couldn’t seem to keep them there.
He’d seen soldiers break, even now he knew the signs.
Darman would figure this out. He had to.
Kyrimorut, Mandalore.
Kal Skirata lost himself in the flames burning in the hearth, amber flames reflecting in eyes that hadn’t seemed to dry since the purge. That dreaded day when they finally understood that they never could’ve won, it had all been orchestrated for them to lose.
Staring into the fire for too long was maddening. He saw things so vividly through those bright colors. He saw war and death. He saw battlefields and the disregarded bodies of his sons. He saw Etain's body burning on the pyre, flames licking at her flesh, the sickening scent of smoldering tissue filling the air as her child stared at her, unmoving, unflinching, with the grave maturity of a being far older than himself.
Kal had never been a good sleeper, not since small clones cuddled up to him on stormy nights in Tipoca City, bodies shaking in fear. It was worse, now. He just sat awake for hours, he couldn’t dream of sleeping. Not as he had sons trapped in the Empire and a family to take care of. His face tightened at the thought of Darman’s choice. Skirata understood feeling betrayed more than the other man could’ve known and he’d do anything he could to fix it. He couldn't keep on as he was, keeping things from his children, putting them in painful situations. Making choices for them.
But Darman had made a decision and he tried his best to respect it.
All they could do now was assure Kad’s safety and get the Jedi to Altis.
He spun his triple edged knife in his hand, pricking his finger ever so often to snap himself out of his dwelling, the pain bringing it down to a simmer momentarily.
Kal’s spine stiffened and he held his breath as he heard soft footsteps behind him, his heart beating faster than before and the adrenaline bringing him back from overthinking. He was safe, he knew that, but a soldier’s habits never die. A heavy, strong hand grabs his shoulder and he recognizes the warmth immediately.
Ordo.
Ordo worried, just as he did. Lately he hadn’t slept either.
"Kal’buir,” he said quietly, a firm commandment permanently embedded in his voice from years of leading, “there’s nothing we can do tonight. Try to sleep.”
Skirata let out a heavy puff of air as he sat back in his chair, “Unless I drink a few tall glasses of tihaar I don’t think I could come close. Besides,” He paused, chuckling dryly after a lengthy pause, “I don’t really want the headache.” They sat in silence, Skirata already knew the concerned, slightly exasperated look Ordo was giving him without even looking. He opened his mouth to speak finally but cut himself off and laid a reassuring pat on Ordo’s hand.
He tucked his knife back up his sleeve, setting his hands on his knees to push himself up, grunting at the effort. He was getting too old for this. He turned to face Ordo and looked him over for a moment.
The clones were looking older by the day, it felt like every time he looked there was a new line on their face or an even older look behind their eyes. It never failed to shatter something in him.
Ordo gave him a kind nod before walking quietly over to the liquor cabinet, grabbing two glasses and pouring them both a generous amount of the strong scented liquid, the sound sloshing quietly through the room.
Ordo walked back over and offered a glass. Skirata nodded his thanks as he took the glass, sitting down and gesturing to the chair across from him.
“Sit with me just a while, Ord’ika.”
“Always, Buir.”
One.
Kyrimorut, Mandalore.
Ordo and Skirata were still sat at the table by morning, only now they were slumped in their chairs breathing shallowly as they slept. The fireplace was crackling weakly, trying its best to still burn using spent wood. The distinct, and oddly pleasant, smell of smoke and alcohol remained in the air.
Besnay Wennen padded out from her and Ordo’s room and looked at the men lying slack at the table. She shook her head, huffing in amusement at their states. Warmth and humor had almost been a constant the last few months but not without the undertone of mourning that tainted every moment.
Aay’han they called it. The bittersweet feeling of sorrow seeping in through immense joy. It summed up life in a way she’d never been previously able to put words to.
She walked quietly over to the men, wincing silently as her foot hit one of Kad scattered toys. Both men stood quickly in a defensive position, eyes alert and very much awake, until they landed on her and relaxed slightly, Ordo’s softened significantly.
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you.” She smiled ruefully, walking over to Ordo and placing a soft kiss on his shoulder as strong arms came up to wrap around her.
She could feel the quick beating of his heart against her chest but he let out a quiet, contented sigh nevertheless. “Good morning, cyar’ika.” He whispered, his voice barely raspy and if he felt any sort of hangover he didn’t show it. Kal on the other hand looked rough, purple hued bags beneath his eyes and hair sticking up on one side. Through slight concern for the man Besnay had to give a quiet laugh.
“I’ll bring you some caf, Kal’buir.”
She gave Ordo a small, soft smile as he gazed at her adoringly.
“I’m going to help Laseema make breakfast.” He nodded and dropped his arms, watching her wander to the kitchen.
His mind was immediately back on the day's problems. There were many.
Kal’s was too by the looks of it.
“Once Bard’ika gets through with Arla we can start on Zey and Kina Ha.”
Arla had agreed to allow Jusik to try his hand at helping her forget her past. The mind was the most important thing to a being, a person should be able to feel safe within it. Once you didn’t it was a risk as had been clearly demonstrated. Ordo knew a lot but what had hurt Arla as deeply as it had– what could’ve hurt anyone as deeply as that – wasn’t one of them. He didn’t want to begin imagining what could’ve made a woman so scared of men but also willing to do their dirty work.
Have their brand on her back.
Maybe they’d never know.
Ordo eyed his father at the lack of mention about the younger jedi. “And Scout?”
“Jusik said he’d talk to her and sort it out.” Skirata had decided he wasn’t going to be soft on the Jedi, but Scout was a child. She’d found a family in Mij and Uthan and he wasn’t going to strip that away from her. She’d gotten a taste of what she’d been missing and if she’d be willing to give her past up through a little convincing he’d give her what every being had a right to– belonging. “She’s a good kid. If she’s okay with leaving her Jedi-ness behind then I don't see why we can’t give her a home as we did Bardan.”
“Buir,” Ordo looked as if he was debating something, “Where do you draw the line? When does the one exception become a weakness?”
It wasn’t a challenge, it was a harsh reality. At what point does sympathy become something to be exploited?
“The line is drawn at her. Ori’haat. We now have a place to take them and any future Jedi won’t get far enough to become a threat.” Skirata watched his son warily. “You trust me don’t you?”
Ordo was quick to reassure the older man. Funny, children are supposed to be the ones seeking validation from their fathers, not the other way around, but it seemed Skirata was terrified of losing the trust of any of his sons and was desperate to mend any doubt. “Always Buir’ika. I just… we need our priorities straight. The Jedi are not one of them.”
“I know, son. I shall handle these ones and they’ll never be an issue again. I promise.”
Ordo knew he meant it but he also knew sometimes life threw hurdles that no promise could deter.
_______
“Mama keeps on giving,” Jaing entered the karyai loudly, waving his grey leather gloves in one hand with a datapad in the other. He spotted Kina Ha’s slightly aghast expression, in that uniquely polite way only a Kaminoan seemed to manage, and gave a sheepish smile.
She waved him off with a severely aged hand and a trilling chuckle. “Keep going, young man. You lot are full of surprises.”
Many of the homestead’s members had gathered into the main room. Levet, Cov, and the remainder or Yayax squad were thoroughly invested in their recently acquired occupations as farmers. They were rather good at it, too. Spring crops emerged from the ground quickly now that the season came in full force.
Mird gave an excited whine at Jaing’s energy, lifting its head from Vau’s lap, getting a placating rub in return. Vau raised an eyebrow, “She’s dead, son, calling her mama doesn't quite have the same condescending effect.”
Jaing shrugged, “I’m the salty type. Anyway,” he tapped away on his datapad before continuing, “The aiwhabait have multiple files about a Dr. Nyrah Vaal.”
Skirata’s brows shot up, “She’s human? I would hope I would be able to remember a human scientist amongst a cabal of xenophobes.”
“Key word: Xenophobe,” Vau chuckled, “I doubt they’d have announced a human working behind the scenes. She was probably just a tool.”
Kina Ha seemed very interested in that revelation as well. She knew just as well as anyone of the failings and bigotry of her kind.
“She was one of the head geneticists working alongside Mistress Ko, actually,” Jaing let the address drag out sardonically. Yes, that was indeed surprising. “She stayed high in rank during the development and refinement of the clone genotype until the whole of Generation One clones were decanted, became more vocal about her different moral beliefs, and then vanished.”
Fi, ever impatient and one to interrupt, “And this matters why?”
Jaing pointed to the data pad with a frown, feigning irritation. “Ko Sai’s report says that she was detained and later prosecuted for research in classified files and restricted archives unsanctioned by Kaminoan council. You need to start letting people finish their thoughts.”
“Forgive me,” Mereel rolled his eyes sarcastically, “but I have a hard time believing she’d have been detained and went to trial fairly while being loudly adverse to such a valuable commission.”
Fi chuckled and puffed out his chest slightly. “Valuable indeed.”
“Oh shut up, di’kut.” Jaing snickered at the sharp elbow Parja gave the other man, “Yeah well, it’s stated in their laws that any prisoner or persecuted being must be held within Kaminoan facilities, but numerous detainment officers reported that they never saw her in any facility. Not to mention she’s never mentioned in any of the prison manifests.” He handed the pad over to Ordo at request, staying quiet while he looked them over.
“Is this all you can find on her?” He handed the datapad back.
“So far yes,” Jaing looked at Skirata, “ I know she was researching something outside of the Kaminoans' interests and they tried to bury her.”
Skirata thought for a moment, “Simply poking around doesn't get you killed. She knew what she was looking for.”
Mereel watched the screen as if he was focusing on an HUD, “It says she was looking into Fett's revised genome.”
Besnay spoke up, “You said she was vocal about moral differences right? Could it have anything to do with the accelerated aging?”
“Whatever it is has to be of some importance considering Ko said held on to the information.”
Bardan rebuttaled, trying to make sense of the new information. It may have been important to Ko Sai, that scum, but that didn’t mean it was of any significant value to them, “She may have been trying to improve it. We can’t assume it’s of benefit to us. Despite motives she still had a part to play in this.”
“People can change, you know that, Bard’ika,” Ordo crossed his arms, “Besides, why would they potentially slot someone that could better their army.”
“She knew something and that made her a threat.” Skirata sighed, “But I'm not going to get involved in the moral politics of a long dead scientist. We have other things to worry about for the time being and unless we're absolutely sure it’s of value to the cause we can’t risk it.”
Cafeteria, 501st Legion headquarters, Imperial Center.
Darman and Niner sat silently at their usual table, a group of Spaarti clones sat talking nosily at the other end. Rede had opted to stay behind in the barracks. They had the feeling they were unintentionally making the man feel neglected, and without Ennen it must’ve been hard feeling like the third wheel.
Darman shoveled spoonfuls of bland, discolored, oatmeal of some sort into his mouth. It seemed decent food had been cut out of the new Empire’s substantial budget. His eyes felt weighed down from pressure and a subtle, irritating headache fogged his mind. Trying to ignore it, he looked around the mess hall. He hadn’t gotten used to that either. The republic was always clinical, clean, but never like this. There were always pin-up posters of some sort, set up by troopers, or laughter echoing down hallways. Character. But the Empire tightened their grip on all of them. Made everything so much more impersonal than before.
Niner glanced at his brother across from him, brows pulled together in vigilant regard. He could see the slight swelling in Darman’s eyelids and discoloration of his lips. Darman may have been good at hiding emotions but they were brothers, and with millions of other faces identical to yours you learned quickly to pick up slight changes.
He went to speak but stopped and glanced quickly to the table next to them as someone sank heavily into the table’s bench, Darman looked over too. They paused their movement to observe the man quickly, he wasn’t familiar.
He was older than most of the clones there, the non Kaminoan ones—the Spaarti ones. He had pushed back, unregulated hair, grown past his unevenly stubble clad jaw, a few, stringy pieces curled around his ears. He had creases and lines in his forehead and around his nose that were similar to the Nulls’. And their own if they were being honest. Very obviously Generation One. Just like them.
Unfortunately, many of gen one died during the war, even more during the purge, it seemed non-Spaarti clones were rarer than not nowadays.
He must have sensed the silence or felt their eyes on him, because he cast them a fleeting glance, just quickly enough to look both of them up and down, before dropping them back to his tray. His appearance churned something painful in their guts. The clone had dead eyes, lacking light or life, you couldn’t see through them or into them, they were hard and cold. They belonged to a man much older than himself. They were difficult to look away from.
They warranted questions and made a person wonder what the other could have possibly suffered to make them the way they were.
But they were a small part of the man’s overall jarring air. His left eye was bionic. White. The white that his right eye should’ve been. The iris and pupil were as well and slightly too big in comparison to the right one. The middle of his face was dominated by a large, elongated x-shaped scar that ran from above his brow, down to his upper lip, and over the bridge of his nose. The tissue surrounding the scar was puckered and red, while the actual wound was jagged and taut like someone untrained and rushed had stitched him up then left it to be neglected.
They hadn’t a clue what could've caused that. Definitely not shrapnel— a blade maybe?
Darman’s eyes ran him up and down, taking in his armor. The armor was scratched and hints of orange paint showed through, like a bad attempt to scrape it off. He had a kama and pouldron like Ordo and the other Nulls, an ARC trooper. He should've been issued new armor, though they guessed they’d never declined when they were issued their own so perhaps it was more of a suggestion.
They doubted it.
A tattoo dominating the left side of his neck caught their eye. Five thick, black scratch marks, the middle one thicker and longer than the other four. The marks disappeared under his collar, Darman didn’t know how far they went but the clone as a whole chilled him to the bone, but there was something else there too. Reflection. The other man looked how he felt.
Niner let out a breath, “Shab happened to him?” He muttered under his breath, only loud enough for Darman to hear.
Darman wanted to answer but the words caught in his throat, he couldn’t look away from the man. He was intrigued by him, made him uneasy even, but the man’s presence brought a comfort long forgotten.
A group of clones at the end of the newcomers table gave him a look, their noses turned up, and stood to leave. They walked around him warily, purposely putting distance between him and themselves, like he was a detonator set to explode. Like he was infectious. What do these canon fodder Spaarties know? How dare they treat him like that. They don’t know what it’s like to live through what we have—
If the rejection hurt the man, he showed no sign of it, maybe he’d gotten used to it. The man brought a thumb up to scratch the part of the scar that ran across the bridge of his nose, a habitual movement, one Darman didn’t know if he realized he was actually doing. The man then straightens his posture before slouching further, arms resting on either side of his tray. He just sat there staring blankly, unmoving. A soldier's kind of stare.
“I don’t think he’s ever seen a friend.” Niner said quietly, letting out a long breath, before shoving another spoon full of the bland meal into his mouth.
Darman glances towards Niner for a moment, finally looking away from the other man, before dropping his gaze to his own tray. “Maybe it’s just been awhile.” He responded quietly, shoving another spoonful into his mouth, his thoughts racing as he tried to shake them away. “A lack of attachment could do a person good…” The end of his sentence changed tone, he went quieter, and Niner got the first glimpse of the real Darman in a while.
“Maybe, though I doubt it. We’ve all been through it, but being alone when osik gets hard doesn’t do anyone any good. Besides,” Niner paused and looked cautiously like he was considering the words about to come out of his mouth, “you know plenty about that…”
Darman’s angry gaze snapped up to his brother, looking at the man through his brow. Niner had always known how to test boundaries, how to walk right up to the line but not cross it. “Shut up and eat, di’kut.” He growled. The words came out harsher than he meant them to.
“Ner vod, you can push it down all you want. But all it will do is drown you.” He gave his brother a purposeful look, “Everyone needs to come up for air eventually.”
The last part was a saying any Skirata clone would recognize. Skirata. He missed his buir with a passion but he still didn’t fully know if he could trust him. He felt betrayed in the most inexplicable way and the fact that he couldn't hate the man more than he loved him was irritating beyond comprehension.
He hated not having that stability, that surety of the distinctive line between the trusted and the enemy.
Darman let out a frustrated puff of air from his nose before looking down at his tray as he tried to focus on something to get himself under control, the skin around his mouth and nose tight with anger. He needed to be the soldier Darman.
Niner saw the change in his face, the complete relaxing of its muscles and the eerie way his eyes seemed to take on that neutral, clueless look. Like everything he’d suffered was suddenly forgotten and all was well.
He knew it was Dar’s way of protecting himself but it still scared him.
Niner faintly acknowledged the prickling of watching eyes on the back of his neck. Before he could say anything further the distorted sound of the intercom rang out. It was Darman’s saving grace. “IC-1309,1136, and TK-70558 report to Commander Melusar’s office.”
Darman stood quickly. “Let’s grab Rede from the barracks.”
Niner nodded, slipping on his helmet and casting a glance once more to the new clone, catching the man’s eye, before walking in the direction of the barracks.
They didn’t need to walk far, Rede ambled down the corridor faster than he needed to and came to a halt in front of them. “I was coming to meet you, Sarge.”
“Figured we ought to walk together. You doing alright, Rede?” He nodded at them to start walking in the direction of Melusar’s office.
“Sir?”
“Niner,” he corrected again. Rede may have learned fast but he wouldn’t drop the formalities. He must have felt really out of place. He explained further, “You stayed back this morning, I just wanted to make sure you’re doing alright. It’s my job to keep up morale.”
Rede stayed quiet, they couldn't even hear his breath over the helmet's commlink. “Im doing fine… Niner. To tell the truth I was catching up on sleep the best I could.” He gave a weary chuckle, sounding like he was worried about getting reprimanded, “I haven’t gotten nearly enough since I've been deployed.”
Niner hadn’t even taken that into consideration. These men were grown fully in less than a year, they probably aged much quicker than even him and the other Kaminoan clones did. They’d need more sleep, more food, more of everything assumedly and that meant they were probably more susceptible to battle stress and psychological breaks. Tell me how again they are meant to be more efficient? They’re less valued than we are to the Empire. They were created specifically to deal one final blow to the Republic and fade quickly.
Expendable.
Yes, he saw them in a very different light now. He pitied Rede, he really did.
Niner just nodded. “Okay, eventually you’ll learn to sleep just about anywhere, anytime you can.” He chuckled, “Make sure you’re eating enough too, ner vod. And be open please. I don't need you collapsing from exhaustion in the middle of a mission.”
He could hear the good natured smile on Rede’s face, “It’s not that. I’m reliable, I swear.”
Darman stayed quiet the entire walk, eventually tapping the back of his gauntlet to the back of the ID scanner before the hatch to Roly’s office slid open with a hiss. The lights inside were dimmer than the hall lights.
Roly didn’t seem to be a morning person.
He gave them a welcoming smile and gestured to them to sit down, they took the offered seats and removed their helmets without hesitation.
“I'm sorry for the early meeting, I'm not fond of them myself.” He leaned back into his chair, fidgeting with a stylus, looking at Darman. “I would like transparency from you all and therefore will be as well. I’m having some pressure from the higher ups.” He chose his words carefully, eyes focused on the grey exterior of his desk. “I have become… aware of our leaders' dispositions and am therefore under tighter wraps and closer watch.”
So he’d come to figure out– or suspect at least– the nature of the Empire’s top dogs then. Darman couldn’t imagine he’d been happy to hear that, had he been ignorant to it before. Saber-jockies targeting other saber-jockies and getting ignorant subordinates with deep seated prejudice to be the instruments of their disdain. Yes he had slowly started to understand politics Not that it mattered or that he had a say but it felt nice to at least understand the extent of his utility. “Meaning what, sir?”
“Im afraid I’ll have to hold out on your request to visit Mandalore for the time being. Only shortly. Until I can prove myself as a leader— because apparently they don’t appreciate camaraderie between ranks— I’m kept under a quota and need my troopers to complete enough missions in a time frame. That includes you unfortunately.” Something must have given away Darman’s disappointment but Roly read it incorrectly,
The news was an incredible relief to Niner though. Rede just barely hid his confusion.
Roley huffed an irritated chuckle, not in their direction, “Don’t worry, Altis isn’t going anywhere, the galaxy is only so big. Apparently, Intel is on top of that until we can jump back on it,” His face gave way that he wasn’t pleased with that in the slightest, "Fortunately, there’s never short supply when it comes to things to do, I should have an objective for you within the next few rotations.”
Darman wasn’t happy at all. He needed to get to his son. But he also needed to make sure he didn’t get killed for insubordination. There was nothing he could do except plan and obey. That was his next goal, just like Skirata taught him. Make a goal towards the next step, the next meal, the next morning. Make goals until he could finally get through it.
"Yes, sir.” Niner nodded, “Is there anything else ?”
Roley looked down to a datapad, seemingly to check notes, before he took a deep breath and looked him in the eyes, “Yes. A transferred ARC trooper is being assigned to your squad.” He seemed to grasp that wasn't the most ideal situation even if he didn’t understand clone archetype conflict. “Again, I’m incredibly sorry for the loss of Ennen, times are trying and unfortunately things like this happen, but I understand it’s difficult.”
Niner was used to losing brothers but Ennen was different. It was painful and chilling in a way that was unnatural. Though he guessed the way he died was unnatural. But so was every being that had died during the war.
My entire life I've been told that death is a part of living. There can't be life without death. It's natural. But I can't recall one instance where the death I've seen hasn't been brought upon by another thing. There's nothing natural about that. Niner shook off the thought.
Mesular stood to see them out, gesturing to the door. “CT-2109 is assigned to your barracks. Enjoy some much needed R&R, men.”
"Thank you, sir.” Rede gave a proper salute before sliding his helmet back over a very bemused face, falling into a neat line behind Darman and Niner.
“I believe I’ve missed something.” Rede finally said after a few moments of silence.
“Yeah.” Darman was still stuck on the fact that they’d assigned an ARC trooper to a commando group. Not to mention said ARC trooper was referred to by a CT number. He didn’t think they had those.
The Empire needed to get its osik together.
Darman mustered up the focus to answer Rede, “Sorry, ner vod. Roley had wanted us to track down a group of Jedi and I had requested to be stationed on Mandalore for some contacts of ours.”
“Why would you have contacts on Mandalore? I wasn’t aware the war had made it over there.”
He lied before he could think about it, “You make unlikely acquaintances during war.” At least that much was true.
Rede said nothing. He tended to do that when he was storing away new information or checking databases. There were still major gaps in his knowledge that had to cause everlasting confusion or the feeling of being un-privy to basic sense. Niner stayed quiet but Dar caught the irritated click of his teeth. “Well, R&R huh? You can sleep it away, Rede.”
“I might have to in order to keep up with you two.”
Niner huffed a laugh, “You sound old.”
“I feel old.”
That stung Niner with revelation once more. These clones were nothing but a short-lived tool to mass genocide and he suddenly didnt feel so bad about his own predicament.
They entered the almost empty barracks and Darman immediately stripped his armor to head to the freshers. Ennen’s suicide made Niner a lot more fearful when it came to Darman’s habit to wander off alone but he also understood that being his brother’s shadow would do nothing beneficial.
He nodded to Dar as he made his way to the shower, pushing down the feeling that earned him the nickname of worry-guts.
Weighted footsteps from the adjoining corridor caught his attention and looked to the hatch just as someone walked in.
It was the clone from the messhall, posture straight and rigid— Ordo said it was caused by the weight of the pauldron— as he looked around with an almost vacant expression. Niner took a step forward in acknowledgment, extending a hand.
“You’re our ARC trooper, then.”
“Hettir, sir.” Hettir took his forearm in a firm grip, mando style.
Niner wasn’t sure why that surprised him. His name meant to burn, it usually meant to signify sensitivity, the act of a soul bleeding in pain for another.
It didn’t seem to match him well.
He had a thicker mandoa accent than any of them did, voice thick and gravely, speech almost slurred like he’d already taken a few strong shots of tihaar that morning.
Up close his scar was even more jarring but he noticed that it was two overlapping scars of different ages instead of one.
“Well, Hettir, luckily you’ve been dumped on us while we have a pleasant few days off.”
The other man just nodded, eyeing an observing Rede with a subtly raised eyebrow but saying nothing.
ARCs weren’t known to play nice with others— one man armies they were called— but Niner hoped that wouldn’t be a problem. How he missed the Nulls.
Darman came out with a towel wrapped around his waist, pausing on his way to grab a clean pair of fatigues. He acknowledged Hettir with a dip of the chin. “What got you dumped with us lowly commandos, huh?”
The other man just huffed humorlessly, watching him blankly “They put me where they want me. That much hasn’t changed.”
Dar hummed, yes they’d done the same thing to Maze, stuck him as the errand runner for Zey. While he should’ve been out doing ARC things— infiltration, reconnaissance, black-ops, specialized combat— he was trapped behind a deskjob. Either the higherups didn’t know what they were doing or simply gave a mott’s shebs worth of care to assign tasks accordingly.
There wasn't an inkling of contempt in the other man, just the drawn out resignation of a survivor.
“Well make yourself at home, ner vod.” Darman grabbed his red fatigues as went back to change, escaping the other man's scrutiny.
Kyrimorut, Mandalore.
Scout lingered around Jusik, radiating unease. He could tell she had things to say but was hesitant. He knew it had to do with the possibility of her having to leave. She didn't want to, in the short time she’d been at Kyrimorut she’d found a belonging unknown to her and he could feel the way she grasped desperately for it, willing it not to slip between her fingers.
He wasn’t cruel enough to let her stay stewing. “Scout?”
She seemed to be snapped from an internal conflict, looking at him with a tilted head.
Jusik gestured to her to take a seat in front of him. “Why do you want to stay a Jedi?”
The girl looked to her lap, thinking hard with furrowed brows. She couldn't seem to come up with an answer and that told Jusik everything he needed to know. He allowed her time to speak anyway. She met his eyes finally. “I know what you’re asking. Why can’t I leave behind that part of me? Can I sacrifice it to become one of you? Well, Bardan, it’s all I've ever known. I have a hard time imagining life without it.”
“It’s all I had ever known, too.” Yes he understood perfectly. But she was just a kid, she wasn't involved with the war, she didn't understand the politics, nor the unethical practices and hypocrisy the Order had adopted. Jusik had seen it all first hand— had taken a part in it— and that made his ultimate decision to leave the Order that much easier, he knew she didn’t have that experience. “I’ve come to understand that I can't shut out my connection to the Force. That’s like asking someone to walk around blind when they have the ability to see.” He sighed,
“But, there’s a very fine line between exploiting your gifts and using them to better those around you. And I can tell you without a shadow of a doubt that I’ve saved more lives as a mandalorian than I ever did as a jedi.”
She didn’t know what to say to that. It was hard to accept that corruption was the root of everything she’d dedicated her life to.
Scout tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and looked at him. “Yes, I'm coming to realize that. I was so angry when they put me into the AgriCorps, did you know that? I know I shouldn't have been, but I felt so betrayed.”
“You have every right to be angry.” He grabbed her arm, “The Order made a choice for you before you were even old enough to object. You were taken from your family, indoctrinated into a hypocritic system, and then dismissed when those same people decided you didn’t meet their own set standards.
“Why do you so desperately want to hold onto that life?”
She slumped slightly as if he’d told her something that had never fully sank in. It did now. “I know no other way.”
He nodded. “Scout, we're in a time that requires adaptation and sacrifice, if you can't do that here then we can take you somewhere where you’ll belong. Altis is what a Jedi should be and I think you’d really enjoy them.”
“I don’t want to leave. I really like it here.”
“I know,” Jusik smiles gently, “I love it too. I get to love and be loved in a way that was prohibited before. I want that for you. But I need you to make a difficult choice, are you willing to let go of your past identity and embrace a new one?”
She looked at him with parted lips before slumping slightly, “I don’t know.”
He felt her turmoil and accepted it would take time.
“It’s alright, it took me time to make that decision too,” Jusik stood and offered a hand to help her up. “I need to start working with Arla, you’re more than welcome to tag along, the others will, just to know what to expect. I’m guessing it’ll be a long process.”
She nodded and followed as he made his way to the main room to collect Kina Ha and Zey.
Jusik didn’t know exactly how he would go about this. Arla’s time with the Death Watch was long, painful, and unfortunately played a large part in the creation of her adult self. He didn't know how he’d manage to maintain enough of her essence but rid her of her trauma. Maybe there's a way I can soothe the emotions around those memories. Help her see the situation from a softened lens with sympathy for that child in her that was broken.
She did what she had to survive.
The mind learned to love what kept it alive. Even to its own detriment.
He already knew Kina Ha and Zey would be much easier to influence as long as they allowed him to do it. They didn’t have years of information that needed to be erased. He also knew he couldn’t do anything of the sort anywhere near Kyrimorut. It would need to be en route to Altis.
Skirata and Zey sat quietly at a round table in the karyai. They seemed to have reached a mutual agreement to focus on a solution rather than argue about the problem and it was a great relief to everyone.
“Where’s Kina Ha?”
“Meditating.” Zey and Skirata stood almost simultaneously, though the Jedi seemed to tower over the other man, “She seemed to want to pass on observing your works with Arla, she said it seemed intrusive.”
“Admirable, but I think Arla cares more about getting fixed rather than privacy.” Jusik looked to his father with a smirk, “You sure you want to come, Kal’buir? I know you find our mysticism repulsive.”
Skirata could tell that, despite the joke, Jusik was afraid of being seen as a backslider. But the Force was part of him, Kal understood that now, if he could heal Arla as he did Fi then it was welcome. It wasn’t fair to the young man to use his power for his own gain— like erasing Kina Ha and Zey’s memories— while prohibiting it otherwise.
He couldn’t have it both ways.
"I’ll try not to stare too hard, ad’ika.”
They made their way to Arla’s room and Jusik knocked gently on the door, the others in tow, entering after hearing her hum of acknowledgement.
She felt more subdued today, the dark vortex of despair still ripped violently through her mind but she was too exhausted to do anything about it. Gilimar kept her supplied up to her eyeballs with a healthy dose of muscle relaxant at her request.
“You’re still up for this, right?”
She nodded, moving into a crosslegged position as he sat in front of her, "I'm serious though, don’t let me live as a vegetable.”
He chuckled nervously, “Have a little confidence in me, will you?” Jusik placed a careful hand on her chest, its rise and fall quickening slightly, while he placed the other against her scalp, taking a deep, reassuring breath, “Relax. You’re safe, if you need to stop, tell me.”
She was nervous, he could feel the animalistic sense to run slam repeatedly through her signature, and he tried to match his breath to hers to keep her calm. Zey and Scout closed their eyes after a moment, reaching out to touch her mind with a sure feeling of safety.
“Close your eyes, bring vague memories to the front of your mind, if it gets too much Arligan will help you.”
Arla closed her eyes and Jusik slowed his breath, posture statuesque as he focused on her energy, exploring the pain and guilt that leeched through every pore of her being, shredding apart her rationality, and hammering agony constantly like a second heart beat. He couldn’t see what she was thinking or the scene that played behind her eyes but he didn’t need to, he felt it all.
He worked his way through her conscience, soothing sharp edges and deep tears with an almost paternal compassion. He needed her to view her own past actions as she would a child grasping desperately at scraps of achievement and validation, praying it would be enough to earn survival to the next day.
Because ultimately that's what she was— what she’d done.
Skirata watched it all with astonishment. He couldn’t feel what the others could but he could see it. Arla sobbed silently, clutching the sleeves of Jusik’s tunic hard enough to wrinkle the fabric, heartbroken relief etching deep lines into her face.. He stayed focused but Kal could see the toll it took on his son.
Scout occasionally gave a slight flinch and Zey’s face had taken on a solemn but determined expression.
Jusik was a better man than Skirata could dream of being. He selflessly gave this woman everything he could to get her better. The Force wasn’t the problem, it was its users, and he knew that had they all been as this young man in front of him the galaxy would’ve been in vastly different condition.