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Things were finally looking up.
Things were finally comfortable. Well, not exactly comfortable, but kriff if it wasn’t a thousand times better than before. It was so much easier to live this way, here in the quiet, here in his solitude. This was a win, no doubt about it. Let the Kaminoans act all grim. Let them come at him with their alluded threats. Like he cared. If they were going to do anything, they would’ve done it already, rather than giving him just what he wanted.
Crosshair knew his worth. He knew that he was a valuable asset. He wasn’t like the rest of them. He was way better, far superior. It made them jealous. That’s why they were always acting like such di’kuts.
He couldn’t live with them, those regular types. He’d been through three squads already, each one more disastrous than the last, separated after incidents that would make even seasoned instructors cringe. They deserved it. Kriff, he probably deserved what he got from them, too. The animosity was mutual… and brutal.
What made Crosshair laugh was that the Kaminoans were acting like this separation was some kind of punishment. Oh, boo-hoo, poor naughty Crosshair, dragged away, separated from his so-called “brothers”.
Ha.
Brothers. Yeah, right.
Those regs were no brothers of his. He had no brothers. He only had himself.
And now, he was by himself. This was the best thing ever.
At first, as he’d been led down this corridor inhabited by much older cadets, he’d begun to feel the discomfort he was sure his punishers wished upon him. He’d begun to wonder at their motivations. Maybe, getting stuck over here wasn’t going to be the gift that he’d been hoping for. As he’d trudged along sullenly beside his escort, he couldn’t help but notice just how large the other cadets he passed by were. Given his track record, he’d started to have the sinking suspicion that perhaps the Kaminoans had decided to discard him after all, and that they were just going to let a bunch of big, meat-brained regs do their dirty work for them. Besides, they’d told him he’d be bunking by himself. Where, in a closet?
Things weren’t adding up.
He’d started to feel nervous, his eyes shifting around warily as he continued to trudge down that never-ending corridor. Was this the end?
Finally, his escort stopped before a door.
Was this the closet?
It was not.
It was beyond Crosshair’s wildest dreams.
He’d known immediately what this space was. Shielding his eyes against the light that bounced from the stark white interior, for just a moment, for just one small second of his life, Crosshair gaped in astonishment. It couldn’t be… but there it was.
The little room was mostly bare, holding only two bunks, a table with accompanying benches on each side, two rather comfortable looking chairs, and a couple of lockers. There was an entranceway to what Crosshair knew would be a ‘fresher- a private one. No more communal showers for this cadet. He smirked.
His favorite instructor, a Mandalorian who trained him in developing his already sharp marksmanship skills, had told him about places like this. Though most cadets would live out the entirety of their days housed in sectioned bunking areas within sprawling barracks that teemed with loud and stinking identical boys, some would not. Some, while they’d never be truly special, were just a little special. They were the ones that would form highly specialized teams- in pairs or in fours most often. This included the ones who’d been chosen to train as snipers, sometimes paired with their spotters. They needed to learn to work alone, to be separated- and to be content with that.
Crosshair was already content with that.
He was already training to be a sniper as well, despite being a few years too young to have technically been assigned a specialty. It seemed only fitting that he’d be given a sniper’s space, his own little den, to inhabit as he continued his training. Oh, this was going to be perfect. This was no punishment. This was a present.
It hadn’t all gone smoothly, though. While he now had a private space to call his own, a retreat from the masses of obnoxious regs, he wasn’t kept apart from them completely. He still had to take regularly scheduled classes with them, and there was always the daily joy of going to the mess. How fun.
He knew he stuck out. He was rather proud of that, actually. His distinctive looks were yet another thing that set him apart from the rest of them. Lean and tall, he’d learned early on how to carry himself with swift and smooth grace. His angular features and shining silver hair gave him what he felt was an air of maturity, despite the very limited number of years he’d walked these halls. For a while, he’d been working on projecting an aura of quiet deadliness, silently warning others that he wasn’t someone to be messed with.
They messed with him anyway.
In the beginning, given that this was a new place with new… “brothers”, Crosshair tried just sticking to as normal a routine as possible. Who knew? These cadets were older. Maybe they’d have grown up a little, stopped acting like such womprat-headed buffoons. He’d take his tray and sit apart from them, back to the wall, facing the room. He’d try to eat whatever bland slop he’d been provided with. At least the soup was kind of nice- most of the time. It hadn’t worked out well.
It had started with snickering and whispers. Who cared? That was nothing new. After a while, things progressed to snide comments and outright laughter. Oh, so original. Second-years had already thought of that. He ignored them. They weren’t worth his time. Of course, di’kuts that they were, they couldn’t let things go. The larger cadets eventually started invading his personal space, getting too close, egging him on to make the first move. Why should he? He wasn’t an idiot. It wasn’t until the pushing and manhandling began that he’d finally reached the end of his patience.
He couldn’t abide by these simple regs putting their hands on him.
These guys were a lot bigger than what he was used to. Though he held his own well enough, he spent most of his time in these scuffles concentrating on not sustaining a serious injury. This all became too much of a hassle. These days, he usually swung by the mess just long enough to pick up as many ration bars and bottles of water as he could carry then return to his barracks to eat in solitude. Nobody seemed to care- not the regs, not the droids that worked in the mess- nobody. So? Nobody cared. Big deal.
Despite the fact that he still wasn’t able to simply live his life without harassment, things were going well. Overall, things had calmed immensely- he’d calmed immensely- to the point that his improved attitude had even been pointed out to him by more than one instructor. Just having a space, a little solitude in which to decompress, had done wonders for his outlook. Given room to dream, without the constant pressure of those other boys and their demands, he found himself with hopes for the future for the very first time. Alone in his private den, his nest, he would pretend that he was already grown- best sniper the GAR had ever seen, the most deadly weapon in their massive arsenal, stalking his prey with laser precision. He’d be all by himself in some tree, on some mountainside, in some tower, ready to carry out his duties with the help of no one but himself. Alone, he was one of the greatest warriors the Galaxy had ever seen.
He wasn’t always alone in these imaginings, though.
It might never happen, but his favorite instructor had informed him that he might, one day, be assigned his own spotter. At first, he’d been put off by this idea. Why would he need a spotter? He could do everything by himself, thank you. Besides, if he was assigned a spotter, he’d probably have to live with the guy. Ew. Now that he’d gotten a taste of the solitary life, he’d never go back, not if he had anything to say about it.
Who was he kidding? Like he had a say in anything.
After some consideration, Crosshair wondered if maybe it might not be so bad after all. Even if he was assigned some stinky reg, at least they’d have a mutual interest. That might lead to a decent enough relationship as teammates, though he’d never be a true brother. Crosshair didn’t have those.
He didn’t worry about the looming possibility of a new roommate all that often. That was far in the future. He’d handle it then if it came up.
Now, he stretched in his bunk, contentedly reading an intensely fascinating article about unusual sniping techniques used on one of the planets in Wild Space. He listened to the sound of rain pattering against the window, happy to be able to hear it in a space free of the sounds of inane chatter and boorish roughhousing.
Things really were looking up.
A chime at the door, unexpected and unwelcome, startled him out of his deep concentration. As the door slid open, he snapped to attention, discarded data pad clattering to the floor. His eyes fixed on the Kaminoan who stood in the doorway. What the kriff could they want now?
“Good day, CT-9904,” the Kaminoan said as it moved into his sacred, private space. “I do hope all is well with you.”
“Yes, Sir,” Crosshair replied obediently, hiding his discomfort as well as he was able. “How may I assist you?”
“Nala Se has sent me to see CT-9902 to his new barracks.”
What? Already?
It couldn’t be. They couldn’t be robbing him of the only thing that gave him comfort already . Maybe this was the punishment. Let him get comfortable, let him get content and then… BAM! ROOMMATE!
The Kaminoan didn’t notice his glowering, as he was distracted by whatever nuisance they’d decided to stick Crosshair with.
“Come, you. Come out from behind me,” the Kaminoan instructed in an agitated fashion. “No, do not hide there.”
Maybe he was wrong. Maybe this was his spotter. If that was the case, his instructor would certainly have been involved in the selection. His instructor definitely wouldn’t let them choose anyone that would jeopardize Crosshair’s progress. However, if it was his spotter, the guy seemed kind of bashful. Who ever heard of something like that? A bashful reg? What was this?
And what was with that number?
Couldn’t be.
Could it?
“I am telling you, come out,” the Kaminoan’s measured voice bordered on frustrated pleading, something very rare indeed. “Come meet your new bunkmate.”
Okay, spotter, show me what you got.
Something peeked around from behind the Kaminoan’s knobby knees.
What the kark is that ?
He was too stunned to do anything more than stare as the tiniest clone he’d ever seen slowly stepped into the room, head down, soft waves of light brown hair falling over his face. Crosshair looked up at the Kaminoan. This had to be some sort of mistake.
The Kaminoan met Crosshair’s gaze with its wide, calm, slowly blinking eyes.
“You have a question?” the scientist inquired.
“You said his number is 9902.”
“Yes, that is correct.”
“That’s lower than mine. Why is he so… so tiny?”
“Ah,” the Kaminoan nodded in a contented fashion. “That is a fascinating piece of science, indeed. As you may have surmised, 9902 belongs to the same batch as you sprung from.”
Crosshair only nodded warily at this. Yeah, he’d “surmised”.
“Well, you see,” the scientist went on, clearly quite pleased with himself, “not all of the enhancements that we’d planned for this batch were completed when it came the usual time for decanting. Those that were on schedule were decanted as usual, of course, but 9902 was held back to complete his progress. He was decanted later on, after which he was held in stasis while further work could be completed. Truly a marvel, mastery over the human body and mind. We can craft you very much to our liking now.”
It took everything, everything , Crosshair had within him not to punch the smug Kaminoan right in its passive, ugly face. It took no notice of his rage, as it continued, self-satisfied and grandiose,
“You were held back as well, CT-9904, though not for as long. The abilities we’d been hoping to fine-tune within you hadn’t quite reached their peak.”
He was going to do it. He was going to hit one of them.
How could they talk so casually about such awful things? How was it that they didn’t seem to understand that hearing he’d been robbed of an experience- growing up with a batch, a real batch, an actual batch, true brothers- that could’ve changed the outcome of his entire life would make him feel enraged? Why did they think it was okay to talk about him and this little squirt standing in his room like they were playthings? Why did Nala Se think that it was perfectly alright to casually mention that some amongst her ranks were discussing his decommissioning, as though that leveled the same amount of threat as being put on janitorial? What the kark was wrong with them?
He hated them.
“You will be given a day to adjust to this new situation,” the Kaminoan was informing him now, apparently ignorant of his searing abhorrence. “The following day you will both continue with your assigned classes and training. Farewell.”
It left.
It just… left.
This couldn’t be happening. No, this was just some bad dream. He must’ve dozed off while reading his manual. Yeah, that was it. Crosshair kept his eyes squeezed shut, willing away the tiny little apparition that had come to haunt his place of peace and solitude. This wasn’t his life. He wasn’t a nanny droid. This was nothing more than an undigested piece of mystery meat from the soup he’d wolfed down the night before during one of his rare forays into the mess. Yes. This was unreal. This was a figment.
Slowly, he opened his eyes.
This was a waking nightmare.
The squirt was still there.
He was, by far, the strangest clone that Crosshair had ever seen. Far too thin, his slight frame was hunched a bit, giving him the look of some hollow-boned, flighted creature. His mouth seemed to turn down naturally, which on most children his “age” would’ve resulted in a petulant look. On this peaked little runt, it just gave off an air of stern studiousness. His skin tone appeared to be a bit lighter than usual, his hair a lighter shade of brown. It fell in waves to frame a face that would’ve looked pathetic enough as it was, but there was more. On his nose, slightly slipping, rested an oversized pair of goggles. They magnified his brown eyes, making him look like some kind of animal. Crosshair felt reminded of something, though he couldn’t quite put his sights on it.
What was it?
Ah, that’s right! An owl! Well, to be more exact, the squirt was the spitting image of an advertisement Crosshair had once seen for educational products. The mascot was an owlet. That’s what this kid was- a tiny, weak, squashable little owlet.
And now he was invading Crosshair’s space.
The “older” clone sighed, walked over to his bunk, and sat down with his hands covering his face. This was the worst.
The little clone didn’t move for quite some time, instead choosing to look around with curiosity at the space he was now spoiling with his unwanted presence. Finally, he stepped forward, straightened up to what Crosshair assumed was the best of his ability, and announced,
“Hello! I am CT-9902. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”
Crosshair said nothing in response to this, instead choosing to shoot the runt a withering look that had sent clones ten times his size packing. The tiny thing seemed not the least bit intimidated, however. Instead, he bounced a bit in place, hands gripping the straps of a pack that was far too large for him, looking like he was anticipating this month’s only pudding snack. Maybe he had brain damage? That was possible, given all the weird stuff that had probably been done to him.
He held up a tiny finger, pointed straight toward the ceiling-or perhaps the stars- above. He spoke once again, softly and distinctly, with impeccable diction.
“Your file shows that you are training to be a sniper, and that you have exceptional eyesight,” the squirt informed, as though Crosshair didn’t already know. “In fact, your scores are so high that the Kaminoans believe that you may become the most valued marksman in the GAR.”
Though his first inclination might’ve been to puff up a bit with deserved pride, there was an issue here.
“They let you see my file?” He demanded angrily, glaring at the runt, who still showed absolutely no sign whatsoever of discomfort.
“Oh, no. Not let .”
Before Crosshair could find out what the kark that meant, a tone sounded on his data pad.
Kark.
It was his scheduled time to go to the mess. Usually, he preferred to arrive early, get in, grab what he needed and get out before too many of the meatheads showed up. Well, that plan was out the window, courtesy of the creepy Kaminoan and the little pip speak. Without a word to the tiny disturbance, Crosshair sprung up and promptly left.
Almost immediately, he heard the thunk of the too-big pack hitting the floor and the patter of tiny boots as the runt followed along behind. There was no way he could keep up with Crosshair’s much longer strides, but he was giving it his all, puffing away behind him. Fantastic.
As they approached the mess, the hallway began to fill up with larger cadets, all on their way to the same destination. It wasn’t long before they took notice of the squirt, hurriedly making his way through the corridor.
“What the?”
“Hey, look! There’s a bug loose in the hall! Better squash it!”
The much larger boy stomped hard on the floor, causing the pip squeak to jump in surprise. Derisive laughter rang out, loud and raucous.
Crosshair didn’t understand at all why his gut clenched at the insulting comment, or why his hands balled into fists as he caught sight of the startled little apparition that followed him. Almost against his will, his footsteps slowed enough to allow the smaller clone to catch up with him. He carefully ushered the little guy into the mess hall, doing his best to give off the aura of cold danger he was trying to perfect.
Kriff, this is going to be a disaster.
“It’s starting to look like a nursery in here.”
Shut up, reg.
Crosshair grabbed a tray for himself, and one for the squirt, noticing with dismay that the thing was nearly as large as he was. He showed the small clone to the counter, where he began absently picking out items, most of his focus on the surrounding meatheads. That was, until he was further distracted by the sound of little grunts coming from beside him. He rolled his eyes.
The pip squeak was jumping in place, desperately trying to peek over the edge of the counter. He couldn’t reach a single thing. Crosshair sighed and shook his head. He picked out a couple of the items that were on offer and placed them on the runt’s tray. He had no idea what the little clone liked to eat, and frankly, he didn’t care. The squirt could take it or leave it. He pointedly refused to look down, and so he missed the sight of a pair of magnified brown eyes, shining with adoration and gratitude.
Once his choices were made, Crosshair walked off toward the beverage station, his runty little shadow following behind, struggling with his overlarge tray. The bigger clone filled a cup with his favorite juice and poured a cup of blue milk for the squirt. Without a word to his tiny companion, Crosshair stalked off toward a table in the back corner, his steely gaze warding off the gaggle of stinky cadets who watched him. He pushed the owlet into the corner and sat directly beside him, preventing any of the meatheads from grabbing him.
“Eat fast so we can get out of here,” Crosshair ordered, and began to do just that.
He bent over his own tray, eating as fast as his body would allow, until he noticed that his dinner companion had completely ignored his order and was instead looking around with curiosity. There were moments when his little face took on a calculating expression that seemed out of place on someone so young. Crosshair was well aware that more than a few of the older cadets were staring at him.
“Stop looking around and eat. You’re attracting attention we don’t need. I’m not waiting for you when I’m done.”
The kid reached for a utensil and began picking at his bland dinner. Crosshair began hastily to eat his own soup. He ate so fast that he’d probably end up with indigestion again, but he loved soup and hated when he wound up having to throw it at someone.
After some time, he bent his head down toward the little clone and informed him,
“One minute, I’m leaving. If you want to avoid trouble, move fast and try to keep up with me.”
The pip squeak replied,
“Hm. If stealth and a speed back to the barracks is the objective, I would suggest you follow my lead.” He waved a data pad in his tiny little hand. Where the kark had that come from? “I suggest we duck under the opening in the counter, head through the kitchen, out the back door into the maintenance hallway, through Hangar 3, into Hallway 72, enter the third conference room on the right, through the door leading outside, then head east for about 25 meters to the entrance to another hallway. Our barracks will be around the corner on the left.” He looked up at Crosshar with the tiniest of smirks. “Oh, and try to keep up with me.”
Crosshair was so dumbfounded that for a while all he could do was stare down at the little clone. When he finally found his voice, he asked,
“Suppose there’s a meeting in the conference room?”
“It’s free,” the pip squeak assured. “I checked the schedule and the security cameras.”
Crosshair shook his head in disbelief. Who was this kid? He was probably making it all up. Well, if it turned out to be a disaster, he could always ditch the little runt along the way. That’ll teach him to play pretend at inopportune times.
The two carried their trays to the disposal station, watched by the older cadets all along the way. Crosshair took notice of a number of them gathering at the exits. A bolder group was headed toward them.
“Now,” the squirt whispered and took off immediately.
He slipped deftly under the counter, with Crosshair hot on his heels. They scurried through the kitchen, with Crosshair startled to see how gracefully the runt wove his way through the chaos, darting expertly around serving droids and Kaminoan staff. It was only a matter of seconds before they’d burst into the maintenance hallway, their footfalls echoing in the gloom. Fortunately, theirs were the only footfalls. Looked like the plan was working so far.
They made their way quickly to the hangar. Hugging the walls, they crept around unnoticed by the mechanics who were obliviously toiling away. They found the conference room as empty as the squirt had said it would be. Without a word to one another, they exited onto the outdoor catwalk.
There was a cool breeze blowing, some gentle relief for all this exertion. Though it was overcast, none of the frequent lashing rain poured down to hinder their progress as they dashed along, growing ever closer to their goal. They made it to the doorway that would enter onto the hall nearby their barracks.
For a brief moment, Crosshair congratulated himself for following his instincts and never revealing the location of his living space to any of the others that inhabited his area. After all, a sniper protects his nest. They arrived to find the corridor deserted, no squads of stinky regs to welcome them home. The squirt unlocked the door remotely and the two slipped inside. Winded, Crosshair fell to his knees and the little runt leaned against the table.
When Crosshair could think again, he nearly told the little fellow “Good job.” However, some stubborn emotion prevented him from offering praise to the pip squeak.
Instead, he made his way over to his bunk and stretched across his bed, sighing and picking up the manual he’d been looking at before life got complicated, paying no mind to the tiny clone who was still leaning against the table. Eventually, CT-9902 straightened up, picked up his overlarge pack and brought it over to the bunk across from Crosshair’s. Silently, he began to transfer items from the pack to a locker or the bins beneath the bunk. He had a standard kit, a couple of clean cadet uniforms, some sets of pajamas- all the usual stuff. Then came the not-so-usual stuff- a set of wire tools, a hammer, a few wrenches and some tools that Crosshair couldn’t identify. He watched the runt through the corner of his eye, pretending to ignore him.
The little clone removed his boots and placed them neatly beside the bins underneath the bunk. He then settled down on the bed, legs crossed, poking away at his data pad. After a while, the owlet started to fidget- wiggling about, twiddling his thumbs, bouncing a leg. Kriff, he was distracting.
Crosshair sighed with annoyance and got up to take a shower. At least he’d have some privacy in there.
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CT-9902 watched in silence as CT-9904 emerged from the ‘fresher, absently rubbing a towel against the back of his head. He was so tall. Of course, CT-9902 had been aware of this pertinent fact about his bunkmate already, but had still been taken aback in the moments he’d found himself beside the bigger clone. It could’ve been mildly intimidating, but he was used to standing beside tall beings. All of the Kaminoans were tall. He stood beside them all the time.
CT-9902 surmised that this must be the order CT-9904 preferred for their evening ablutions. That was fine. He didn’t really have a preference either way. Still, perhaps it was best to clarify.
“I suppose it is my turn now,” he announced as he shimmied his way off of the bunk.
He was met with nothing but silence from the other clone. As he was not hindered, he assumed this meant an affirmative.
Reaching into one of the pouches of his pack, he pulled out all the necessary accoutrements for the care and hygiene of his little human body- various soaps, a toothbrush, a comb. Carrying the lot, he made his way to the ‘fresher to begin his evening ritual.
Once inside, he went about the task of finding places for all of his varied items. He placed his small red toothbrush in the holder by the sink. There it stood proudly, beside the larger grey one that had already been there- a small thing beside a tall thing. This toothbrush had once occupied a solitary cup, alone in its state of waiting for duty. It now had a companion.
As did he.
He’d been surprised when they’d informed him that it was time he integrated with other clones. Of course, he really should’ve predicted this. By now, there would have been some concern about his lack of socialization. Though it didn’t really bother him so much to live in the labs, surrounded by Kaminoan scientists, he did often look forward to the day when he’d be living with his own brothers. While the labs offered the perfect space to cultivate his mind, he really wasn’t cultivating much of anything else. It was painfully obvious.
Perhaps most of his surprise had actually come from the fact that he was being placed with a bigger clone, already advanced in his training schedule. After some consideration, this too made sense. After all, had CT-9902 been placed with other cadets roughly his own age, he wouldn’t have been able to take any courses with them. He’d surpassed those quite a while back. In a sense, his life could’ve ended up more lonely, as he’d be living with the others, but separate from them at the same time. Yes, this was much better.
Besides, it seemed CT-9904 would prove to be a more than adequate companion.
Not surprisingly, he behaved in a manner akin to all the other sentients that CT-9902 was familiar with- taciturn, rather chilly, serious and frank. However, there had been a few instances that really set him apart from the rest. When CT-9902 had been startled in the hall, CT-9904 slowed his natural gait, purposely allowing the smaller clone to catch up and walk beside him. He’d reached all the items on the counter that CT-9902 could not without being asked. He’d allowed CT-9902 to formulate the plan for their egress that evening without insisting that he was far too little to know what he was doing. CT-9904 was wonderful, actually. He’d never known anyone so caring in all his life.
When he’d finished his shower, CT-9902 carefully, carefully combed his hair. It wouldn’t do to look a mess in front of his new bunkmate.
After he’d emerged from the ‘fresher and climbed back into his bunk, he noticed that CT-9904 was smirking at him.
His face had so many expressions- certainly many more than the Kaminoans.
“Yes?” CT-9902 inquired.
“Your hair.”
“Yes?”
The other clone just stuttered out a small laugh before going back to ignoring him.
He must’ve done a really good job.
When the chime sounded for lights-out, rather than walking over to the lightswitch, CT-9904 picked up one of his slippers and launched it with impressive precision, flipping the switch and plunging the room into darkness. This action seemed to be habitual, given the casual attitude with which it was performed.
Fascinating.
Now, it was time to do something that CT-9902 had been looking forward to from the minute they told him he’d be moving out of the labs and in with a bunkmate, something he’d never done before. Wriggling a bit with anticipation, he grinned and uttered a quiet, simple phrase.
“Goodnight, CT-9904.”
He received no answer. Well, that was interesting. He’d been under the impression that the addressed was meant to reply in kind. He pondered this revelation for a bit, until a gruff voice cut through his musings.
“Crosshair. My name is Crosshair.”
Oh, how delightful!
“Goodnight, Crosshair.”
He was met with more silence. He must’ve been mistaken about the call and response nature of this bedtime communication.
It was very dark, and very quiet. The storms that so often raged outside were absent for a change- no pounding rain, no howling wind. CT-9902 settled into the peace around him, snuggled into his bunk, his eyes closed and mind finally tired enough to set aside its constant ponderings. He was just beginning to drift off, when out of the darkness came two very quiet words.
“Goodnight, squirt.”