Chapter Text
FN-2187 started seeing them when he was twelve. Just glimpses around the corners or during late nights when he couldn’t sleep. He never saw them long enough to catch any identifying features about who they were, but he knew they didn’t belong in the training facilities.
He quickly learned to never ask questions about the shifty people that moved in the shadows, always appearing at random times. It earned him a trip to the medical wing where he received a stab to the neck that made him woozy, slow, and sick for days after.
Soon, he learned to forget about the men he kept seeing. For his own safety as he and his squadmates got older.
Sometimes, he’d lay awake at night, on the verge of sleep when he’d remember the flashes of tan skin and warm brown eyes. Then he’d force himself to shut his mind off before he let his mind wonder too much. The last girl he knew that did that ended up in the forbidden sector, never returning to training ever again.
FN-2187 flinched awake at bright lights that flooded the room.
Wake up. Great.
He blinked and sighed heavily, taking stock of his body.
His body ached from yesterday’s training, feeling every microtear in his muscles. The ache spread up his legs to his lower back. He knew his arms would feel the same pain as well as his head.
He slowly sat up, the thin blanket over his legs pooling at his waist. The bright white lights buzzed and burned his eyes. Stumbling, he got to his feet, starting to clip his armor on.
“Headache again?” Seventy-seven asked him from across the room.
FN-2187 just kept his head down, snapped the clips of his armor into place. “I’m fine.”
“You better be,” snapped Sixty-three. The young man had grown strong since their time as children. Strong corded muscles stretched along his body.
FN-2187 had always been on the smaller side, better suited for speed and agility which meant he was a great target for his larger squadmate.
“We have live round training and I don’t need to drag your ass through again.”
He fought back the eye roll. Voicing or even showing his frustrations had never ended well for him, often leaving himself with a bruised body. “Not going to be a problem," he muttered.
They marched to the training wing of their facility. FN-2187 didn’t even know what planet they resided on. They never questioned where they had been raised their entire lives.
His head pounded as they walked, already feeling weak in the knees. He hated live round training with a fiery passion. It left them frustrated and hurt and fearful they’d be taken to the restricted sector.
They entered the blaster locker, selecting their weapons. He chose a standard rifle, not having enough time training with any other blaster. He’d rather not kill one of his own squadmates even if they didn’t get along with each other.
They entered the training arena, the durasteel dull and gray as ever.
“Let’s try not to get killed, please?” Fifty-one drawled, examining her pistols.
Sixty-three brushed past all of them, rolling his neck. “On me,” he ordered.
FN-2187 would rather eat rocks but here they were.
The simulation started and he ducked behind cover, already hearing the zap of rounds hitting the durasteel near his head.
“Eighty-seven, start fucking moving!” Sixty-three snapped at him.
He rolled his eyes. And get killed? Fine, we’ll do it your way.
He popped up and shot at the training droids, his rounds stunning them into limp positions for the remainder of the simulation. Or if their trainers decided to have some fun and turn them back on.
He lagged behind his squadmates, looking over their six while they just barreled through. Their military tactics course had been brief but not enough for the rest of his squadmates to act so stupid.
“This is ridiculous,” someone said. He didn’t know who but he had to agree.
He fired off a couple more rounds, barely hitting his target and even missing at points which nearly made him eat the ground to dodge shots.
But of course his squad leader just rushed through, not even bothering to check corners as the simulation changed the more they walked.
Eighty-seven continued on his way, not even bothering to warn his squadmates about threats. They wouldn’t listen to him anyway.
“Get down!” He yelled as a grenade launched toward them.
The reverb of the explosion rattled his head as he drove to the ground. His ear rang under his helmet, vision nearly going white. His head pounded in his skull. He whimpered in pain.
“That’s not good,” someone muttered like they were far away and with a strange accent.
Or maybe he was going crazy.
It took him a while to recover. He shakily walked, firing off a few rounds at stray droids. He couldn't even catch up to his squad before the simulation went red and shut down, signalling a failure.
He hung his head, headache still pressing against his temples. Fucking perfect. He walked to the rest of his squad, seeing them all arguing.
The blast doors of the sim room opened and their trainer stalked in. He was a stern man with scars showing his past in battle. And now he looked murderous.
“All of you, restricted sector. Right now. I’m done with your shit.”
FN-2187 trembled as they walked down the halls of the facility, all of them now silent. They took a left turn instead of right, leading them right into dangerous territory.
Once they were in view of the security camera, one of the only in the whole building, the doors slid open ominous. No trooper would ever possess a high enough rank to get access to the cold and dim hallway that graced them. The only way to get through was from the operator on the other side of the camera.
Eight-Seven could already feel the voltage surging through his veins, lighting every nerve ending up. Biting his lip, he kept his head neutral.
Droids intercepted them, separating them from the huddle they had subconsciously made.
He struggled in the metal grip only once because he received a hit to the back of his head that made him see stars. Bile crawled into his throat.
His eyes found a window in the wall, one that allowed him to peer into a medical room lined with machinery. Is that where that girl ended up? Her last moments in that cold room, alone with nothing but pain and fear? Is that how he would go out?
He was shoved into a room. A room with a restraining table. He wanted to cry but he hadn’t done so in years.
“Armor off,” one of the droids ordered.
Mindlessly, he unclipped the pieces and removed his helmet, leaving him in his black underclothes. He couldn’t step closer to the table.
The droids returned, grabbing him by the arms. He fought harder this time, even pleading with the metal bodies. They never let up, lacking any human emotions to do so. They had their orders.
Eight-seven clenched his eyes closed as his back hit the table and the clamps came down over his body. His chest heaved with reserved cries and stress, body going into panic mood. Not ready for the pain that would fall upon him.
He heard the electricity cracking through the air, making the hairs on his neck stand up in warning. He tensed in the restraints and received a quick shock to the knee. Yelping, one tear escaped.
“Perhaps, you will do better next time and this fate will not befall onto you.”
That’s when the electric shocks started coursing through his body, making his jaw lock up.
His head screamed in pain, begging for all of this to stop.
The pain never ended, just a constant stream of torture.
He didn’t want to scream, wanting to prove he could be a good soldier.
He felt a wall in his mind. Something he’d never felt before.
The voltage increased, making the urge to scream grow even more.
He figured it was the line of his psyche, the line between sanity and insanity. He pushed against it, and it only budged a bit.
Something inside of him pleaded for him to give in, to break the line.
And as his body started trembling from the current and pain, his jaw unlocked with a loud scream. One that rattled the room around him, the sound bouncing off the wall.
He felt the line break inside of his mind before he lost consciousness.
…
He woke up alone in the restricted sector.
His body ached with the electricity that went through him, but his head oddly didn’t hurt. Glancing down, his bonds had been released from around his body, making it easy for him to step out.
He groaned as his joints ached once he stepped onto the floor. Starting the painful process of putting his armor back on, he fought whimpers and mumbles of pain. He heard whispering in the hallways but he couldn’t give a damn.
The hallways were empty as he limped through them. He checked the time on his commlink and saw it was nearly lights out time.
He typed in the code for their barracks, signing as the door swung open and saw no one else present. They were no doubt in the medbay receiving treatment. FN-2187 hated the medbay so it never crossed his mind. And his margarine had disappeared so he wasn’t going to tempt fate by going to that damned wing.
He collapsed into his bunk, barely having enough strength to unclip his armor. His cold sheets felt nice against his skin no matter how scratchy they were.
Slipping into a light doze, his body went pleasantly numb with sleep. He saw flashes of light in his dreams, mindless colors in the darkness.
But voices from around the room pulled him back to consciousness.
“Why are we in here?”
“Because it’s finally quiet.”
“We have access to the entire facility.”
“My point still stands.”
Eighty-seven had half a mind to throw a pillow at the idiots in his room. Inside, he went for a “shut up.”
The voices immediately stopped talking.
He shifted around in his bed, trying to get comfortable again. It worked because the next time he woke up it was for the alarm.
He rubbed his eyes. Then he remembered last night. Quickly sitting up, he glanced around for his squadmates. He came up empty—their beds bare.
Then who was in the barracks last night? he wondered.
He headed to the mess hall, nearly running into other troopers as he got lost in his thoughts. It made his head spin.
After retrieving his messily portions, he settled at a table. He messed with his food more than ate it. Shoving a few forkfulls in his mouth, he stared around the mess hall, having nothing else to do.
It was mostly scarce, most squads at training. FN-2187’s training rotation didn’t start for another hour.
Two of his squadmates walked in the mess, plopping down across from him. They looked like shit, bags under their eyes and pain pinching their faces.
He gave them soft looks. “You two good?” he muttered, stabbing at his food once again.
“Fine,” Seventy-seven replied. “You seem better than before we got fried.”
Eighty-Seven cleared his throat awkwardly, shrugging. “Guess I finally got some good sleep.” Such a damn lie.
Fifty-one’s short bob brushed against her jaw. “What do we have today?”
“Hand-to-hand then range,” he replied quietly. He’d never admit it but he liked these two the best out of his squad. They knew how much of an idiot Sixty-three was and tried to look out for him when his headaches hit.
He’d had them since he was a child, remembering nothing but debilitating pain splitting through his skull multiple times. Thankfully, it never happened in front of their trainers or he would’ve been taken away a lot sooner.
He glanced up and froze.
Across from the mess sat two troopers that mirrored each other, helmets removed. Both had tan skin with dark eyes and hair. However, one of them had a goatee with a tattoo on his temple while the other was clean-shaven. But their armor was wrong. The most confusing part of it was the blue paint on the white plastoid.
At the same time, they turned to him, sensing his eyes on them. He ducked his head, trying not to stare. Who the hell were they?
Seventy-seven glanced over his shoulder, and then he frowned at FN-2187. “What?”
Now it was his turn to shoot his squadmate a look. “You don’t…”
“There's no one there.”
Fifty-one gave a long groan. “Please tell me the shocks and migraine didn’t melt your brain.”
He scrambled from the bench, practically running from the room. He didn’t check to see if the two men were still there. He just fled.
The race back to the barrack had him winded, panicked breaths leaving him.
What was happening?
His fingers trembled, needing to do something to fix this. But how does one fix hallucinations?
“He doesn’t look too good,” a voice drawled.
His head snapped up, looking for the source. In his rapid movement, all he saw was the bunks blurring together in a mess of grays.
“Wait…can he hear us?”
FN-2187 threw his hands over his ears, going to his knees on the ground. “Stop, please!”
“Osik.”
“Get the al’verdese.”
FN-2187 rested his head on his knees, digging his forehead into the armor of his legs. This was the start of the end. He’d be taken to the restricted sector or the medbay to be poked and prodded. They wouldn’t stop even if he begged and screamed. The First Order didn’t take kindly to weak lifeforms that begged for mercy.
It would be pain and terror and then…nothing. Just nothing.
His trembling increased so he curled up tighter. He sucked in some breath to get his lungs working properly. They spasmed in his ribs, but he evened his breathing out.
He glanced up and saw nothing around the room. Absolutely nothing. Sitting there for another hour, no one else entered the barracks. No one left.
His comm buzzed at his wrist, a reminder that he had places to be unless he wanted to get smoked by his trainers. Like a young trooper scared of the dark, he watched every corner as he left the barracks then he shoved his helmet on.
The walk to the training salles felt like an eternity but he finally stumbled through the door. A few squads were already present but their trainers weren't. A small grace, he decided as he stepped into line.
Three trainers stepped into the room. Three humans, two men and one woman, stood in front of them. “Sparring. Now,” one of the men ordered, his dark skin mirroring Eighty-seven’s.
They all dropped their buckets on the ground before heading to the mats.
He hated hand-to-hand. Their trainers decided the best way to prepare them was for the stronger troopers to throw them around with no sense of critiquing. Just yelling.
He engaged his first partner, a tall woman that had a few inches on him. However, he managed to get her to chase him around the mat for a bit. She landed a few good hits that got absorbed by his armor.
“Stop dancing around!” one of his trainers roared.
On instinct, he sweeped a leg out to land her ass on the ground before putting a knee in her back. She struggled for a bit then tapped the ground in submission. He released her, shuffling back to the edge.
A few minutes passed of spars before the woman locked eyes with him. “Nines!” she shouted for the large clone that just slammed a trooper on the ground, nearly knocking him out. “You’re with Eighty-seven.”
The redhead had a wicked smirk. FN-2187 wondered what the medbay would be serving for rations that evening.
He slowly walked onto the mat. Nines just glared at him with that same smirk, always looking for an opportunity to pummel him. He could never find a weakness in the older man’s fighting style, never on the mat long enough without seeing stars.
Nines launched at him, giving him no time to even think of what his strategy was. Eighty-seven’s lungs cramped painfully as he sluggishly tried to move the man off of him. He grunted as a fist found its way into his side, pissing him off. He lashed out, landing a few hits.
But Nines still pinned him to the ground. FN-2187 wanted to tap out.
“Don’t you fucking dare,” one sound from the side lines.
“Use your damn legs,” another nearly shouted, sounding just a bit different from the first, more gentle.
Eighty-seven obeyed, using his legs to bridge himself up. It took him a few tries but he managed to knock Nines off of him.
The redhead blinked before throwing a punch for his face. He ducked out of the wall, aiming a kick that landed on the man’s back.
Nine gave a frustrated yell before throwing him into a wall.
FN-2187’s head snapped back, slamming right into the steel at his back. Sparks flashed in front of him, spots blurring his vision.
His trainers just shook their heads in disappointment. The dark skinned man waved a hand. “Get this fucking failure to the medbay so he stops bleeding all over my floor.”
He flinched as hands grabbed him, heaving him upward in tight grips. Fifty-one mumbled a few things under her breath as they dragged him through the hallway.
He could feel drips of blood trailing down the back of his neck. His head spun as they entered the bright medbay.
A medic approached, brow pinched as he sighed. “What happened?”
“Sparring accident. He got thrown into a wall,” Fifty-one explained in a dry tone.
The medic led him to a bed, having him sit.
“Number?” he asked in a bored tone.
“FN-2187,” he answered quietly in the busy medical wing.
“Hold still.”
He flinched at the hypo in his neck. The medic rarely gave warnings before they did anything. He just sat there clenching his teeth as the medic pressed on his head to stop the bleeding before giving him a spray of bacta.
“I’ll be back in thirty minutes to discharge you,” the man clipped and that was that.
He lowered himself on the cot onto his side, avoiding the tender area of his skull. His vision still danced, making his stomach swoop.
He heard a few whispers around as he slipped into a light slumber until he was shaken awake.
The medic had returned, pulling him back up sitting. He poked and prodded at his injury before doing a double take when he looked at Eighty-seven’s face. He took a pen light, flashing it in front of his eyes. FN-2187 flinched.
“You’re concussed. No more training for the day. You can return to normal duties tomorrow.”
Just what he needed, another reason for his trainers to target him. For his own squadmates to do so as well.
The medic discharged him without another word, shooing him away.
His head screamed at him every step he took. He could just grit his teeth, not having the protection of his helmet to block his facial features.
The barracks door was a welcome sight for his tired eyes. No one else was present, thankfully, so he could crumble in pain on his bunk without any comments.
He made a soft noise as he laid down, head spinning.
“You got busted up, huh verd’ika?”
FN-2187 flipped over and nearly fell off his bunk. A man sat near his hip with brown eyes and cropped blond hair. His sharp features were betrayed by the softness in his eyes.
He got to his feet, slowly backing away toward the hall as he stared at the man. And his blue armor, just like the two he had seen in the mess.
“Who are you?” he asked him quietly.
“The question is,” another man spoke, “who are you?” He stood on the other side of the room, shoulder propped on the rails of a bunk. He took in the wicked scar that sliced through his right eye and his grey painted armor. And behind him was another man. And the more he looked around, the more men he noticed in the barracks. At least twenty of them.
He put a hand on the wall, putting his other hand to his head. “I’ve lost it,” he muttered to himself, matter-of-fact. “I’ve officially gone crazy.”
“Not crazy, verd’ika,” one of the men spoke toward the back.
Eighty-seven slammed his eyes closed. “Not real, not real.” Maybe he was in integration training and they drugged him too high.
“Verd’ika,” the man on his bunk called.
He didn’t know why but he responded to the name by lifting his head just a bit. If it was even a name. It didn’t sound like any word in Basic he’d heard. He just shook his head. “Not real .”
He centered himself and noticed that he felt as if a person stood close by, just a few feet away from him. Peering through his fingers, none of them had disappeared. In fact, one of them had moved closer.
He wore the same white armor as the others but instead of blue paint, red streaks on the white and his pauldron looked like blood. He crossed his arms over his chest, and FN-2187 could see his muscles twitching, as if he was keeping himself from moving. The man had a few more lines on his face, painting him as older.
FN-2187 moaned, leaning his head on the wall. “Why are you still here ?” Then he paused. “Why the hell am I even entertaining this?”
“Because we need you to pay attention,” the man spoke, his voice radiating authority. It made him cower away from him, wanting to stand at attention. The man sighed when he noticed his minuscule movements. “ This is real.”
He shook his head. “I’m going crazy. Fuck this.”
He started to make his way to the doors, needing to get out of here.
The men’s voices overlapped, a mess of “stop” and “don’t leave”.
Then FN-2187 ran into something solid that was a wall or door.
All the other men had moved out of his path, not trapping him in the room which he found odd, except for one in gold armor with a hooked scar around his right eye. And they were the ones that had collided.
Eighty-seven just went to move around him, too distracted, but then the man’s right hand shot out to grab him. He fought his grip until he saw the absolute disbelief in the man’s amber brown eyes.
“Are you… touching him?” The man’s armor had a green stripe down the front of his chestplate.
FN-2187 tried to fight more but his concussion caught up with him. And so did his anger. “No fucking shit,” he snapped at the man, feeling like a chained massiff bearing it’s teeth. “You have eyes don’t you?”
The blond man came up to him, and FN-2187 blinked.
Why do all of them look the same?
The man gently laid a hand on his back, making him shiver at the touch and the slight coldness seeping through his armor.
His eyes went wide.
One of the men, this one being the only one with fully black armor with red stripes, grumbled, “Stupid Manda magic osik.” His tattoo face pulled into a deep frown.
Eighty-seven blinked, no longer fighting. Why couldn’t they just speak Basic?
“Hit me,” the blond said to him, stepping back one pace.
The hand around his arm slipped away.
FN-2187 gaped at the man. “No! Why would I do that?”
The man just gave him a smile, gesturing toward his chest. “Come on, just go for it.”
He just shook his head.
“Trust us, you won’t hurt him,” a man said from behind the blond, armor mostly white except for a red stripe through his brown pauldron.
Instead of throwing a punch, Eighty-seven aimed a shove at his chest. He expected to feel the armor that was so similar to his but he watched as his hand just went straight through his chest.
He gave a near scream, ripping his hand away. He stumbled back into the man with gold armor, feeling his arms hold him steady.
The blond had a weird face, between discomfort and pain.
“Rex?” came from a man that looked slightly older than most of the men, armor with lighter blue marks.
Rex , he repeated in his head.
The blond, Rex , waved a hand in his direction. “It’s fine. Felt the same.” Then his eyes wandered over FN-2187. “Well, verd’ika, you have no idea how important you are.”
Eighty-seven just stared at where his hand had gone straight through . He couldn’t breathe. “What…how?” he stared at his hand.
Rex stepped closer, a hand hesitating before reaching out. He held in the flinch when his cold skin grazed against his chin, lifting his head. “This is going to take some explaining,” he said to him gently, like he was glass about to be broken.
“Who are all of you?” he asked, not knowing what the answer would be.
Rex struggled to find the right words.
So the man with red armor and ancient eyes that had stood at the wall with him spoke up. “We’re the Clone Troopers of the Grand Army of the Republic. More like were .”
FN-2187’s stomach bottomed out. He was going to be sick if he would ever breathe again.
The man with gray armor and the scar gave him a smirk. “Nice to meet you.”
FN-2187’s knees buckled which sent him toward the floor.