Chapter Text
“Bes lost his leg,” Cuir, the 212th medic, told his commanding officers in the dim, sun-lit medical tent. As always, his voice was clear and professional. This was just one of an unending sequence of days in this war and it bore no significance to anyone involved, with the exception of Bes.
The General, ever sympathetic, replied, “Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. I know it can be hard.”
The Commander traded a glance with the medic.
“General, regs require a soldier to be... in perfect working order.”
Cuir’s ever-present assistant, Cuyan, shifted slightly where he stood at his CO’s side, not quite managing the impassivity of the other two troopers. Cody could see his general thinking it over and interrupted him before he could say whatever naive and painfully optimistic conclusion he’d come to.
“We’re not worth the cost of cybernetic prosthetics. He’ll be sent back to Kamino and decommissioned.”
While they’d never sat down and talked about it, Cody had noticed as the General came to understand what was behind more and more of the GAR euphemisms over time. This one he must have been familiar with, if the alarm in his eyes was any indicator. The three soldiers waited stiffly as their general worked his way to a conclusion, knowing the Bes didn’t deserve to die, knowing that he couldn’t just leave the military, not knowing where to go from there.
“Surely that’s not necessary?” The Jedi’s brow was furrowed in a concern so straightforward Cuir had to remind himself that his general deserved none of his animosity.
“It’s regulation, sir,” Cody recited.
“Is there any way around that?”
Slowly - carefully - Cuir said, “The only way I can think of would be for the injury to not get reported.”
“In that case, what the Kaminoans don’t know can’t hurt them.” Kenobi’s eyes were so stark in that moment, hard and unmoving, with the kind of confidence that only a Jedi could have.
“Yes, sir,”
And he hated that it required wagering Bes’ life, but that was when Cuir knew he could really trust the general.
Cody and Cuir had an understanding. Cuir knew of all the clones hiding among the 212th. He found corners for them to live in, aids for them to use, jobs to keep them occupied, and comms invisibly cued into the larger system so they could keep up with the rest of the battalion. He told Cody only what the Commander needed to know to bury these vode in the inanity of datawork. A small edit here or there, and no one would ever know about their semi-legitimate stowaways.
The 212th had more hidden numbers than most, no doubt due to personal interest. Cody had once told the medic about a CT who’d imprinted on him in training and how he’d always been at risk on Kamino because of a cosmetic mutation. Cuir appreciated the ally - appreciated having someone who cared, especially in a high command position - but it wasn’t the same. It wasn’t the same as knowing that if you tripped one-too-many times in sight of the wrong people you’d be disposed of. It wasn’t the same as being in training and watching the Kaminoans pull out one or two of every freshly decanted cohort and knowing what would happen to them (and wondering how much it hurt). It wasn’t the same as seeing the empty spaces where there had been grow-tubes just the other day and knowing that the Kaminoans must have spotted some deformity, some aberration, and gotten rid of it before it would even be noted in the first medical exam, knowing that they wanted ranks free of any flaw, knowing the near-perfection the Kaminoans had achieved wouldn’t last long because even genetically enhanced human-variants would get injured in a war, knowing the Kaminoans wouldn’t stop at pre-decanting purges, wouldn’t stop at disappearing tubies, wouldn’t stop at marching cadets off into the hall medics-in-training weren’t allowed in; the Kaminaons would want the ones like Cuir and the CT gone at any stage and if he didn’t do something they might succeed in getting and keeping their ranks variation-free even after the troopers shipped out.
(Lying on patient records became a matter of both personal and professional pride for Cuir.)
Cody and Cuir were the perfect mix of competent and dedicated for this sort of thing. It helped that they suspected (and later knew) that their general would do his best to help should it come to that, so the shadows around the edges of their flagship became dense over time with hidden breaths and, sometimes, footsteps. Cuir liked it. It made him feel less alone.
Most of the battalion didn’t strictly know what was happening - who lived in the empty corridors or why sometimes someone would catch sight of a vod they’d sworn had been decommissioned or why they could never keep the number of shinies straight - but they had to suspect something. Cuir knew that sometimes the only thing between his network and discovery was the fact that very few people could afford to risk their CMO’s ire. He would absolutely abuse his power if it kept his vode safe.
Not that they were ever really safe. A commanding officer could have any one of them sent back to Kamino on a whim, and if the wrong person found one of Cuir’s more obvious charges they would be detained: first as a traitor to the republic for hiding out and not doing their part, then as a waste of resources for being useless this whole time. There were lives on the line and risk at every corner.
It wasn’t just natborns were posed a threat. Some of his own batchmates had never seen through the Kaminoan rhetoric that their value was determined by their utility, their status inherent in bodies and minds and attitudes and skills that lived up to their ‘superior’ genes. He could not trust his batchmates, the closest thing he had to a natborn’s blood-family, and he had never been more grateful for the clones’ bastardized Mandalorian traditions which allowed his to judiciously disown them, no questions asked, and make his family where he chose to.
This was not the war Cuir thought he’d be fighting.
8 minutes ago.
Tessi: Anyone up? I am in pain and so kriffin bored.
Just now.
Neum: Just finishing up some reports.
Tessi: Want to beat me at a game of neerok when you’re done?
Neum: Double-down instead?
Tessi: Alright
Neum’s squad had always had his back, but no amount of supportive vode would make hiding in closets during trooper inspections any more tolerable. It only took a few months after he lost his arm for Neum to decide that something had to change: he didn’t want to do this alone anymore, and he wasn’t sure how much longer he could.
He created a private chat and asked Cuir to pass it along to the people he knew had to be out there. Later, when things get worse, he’d look back at the first few public messages sent and read them over and over until they made up the dialogue of his dreams.
I had to drag my corpse up and down stairs today.
I want to be seen but it’s not safe and even if it was I’d really just be stared at.
Tomorrow I have to avoid a maintenance crew for a few hours. Not sure where I’ll hide out just yet.
Wait, any change you’re referring to the level 4 sweep on the Perseverance?
Maybe, why?
I have to avoid that one too! I have a nice spot in the walls with some cards and blankets if you want to be stowaways together.
Yes please! It’s been way too long since I’ve really spent time with anyone.
I’ll have to show you the way. Where do you want to meet?
Everything hurts all the time and I hate it.
I miss my batchmates.
Neum had never known what it was like to have people who were like him, not in this way. He didn’t think any of the others had either. Together they kept track of who and where was safe, of ways to sneak around flagships when they weren't supposed to be seen, how to cope with the way fellow clones treated them and with isolation and with despair. He had no idea what the future held for them (and he tried very hard not to think about it because the possibilities scared him: war casualty; execution for treason; decommissioning should the war end and they still be around, no longer useful), but is was easier to have hope when he wasn’t alone. After just a few months, Neum found that he could picture a better life for himself. He could imagine a future where he was a vital part of a community, where he was wanted.
Tessi: Thanks for keeping me company.
Neum: No problem. Hope you can get some sleep tonight.
Tessi: Thanks.
Cuir had been to the Jedi temple once and seen the disabled members of their order; had seen a Kiffar using a hoverchair in the mess, a Nikto and Kel Dor signing in the water fountain room, a Togruta missing the lower part of one of their montrals rocking a tubie jedi in their nursery, a Cathar with sound-canceling headphones working in the archives, a Trandoshan with a red-tipped cane who gave him directions to a meeting. Kenobi has introduced a humanoid who wore braces on their knees and wrists as ‘a healer friend of mine’.
It scared him, how they seemed to flaunt their disabilities, because it was dangerous to let anyone and everyone see the ways in which they didn’t meet standards.
For all the well-placed trust he had in Kenobi, his general lived in a community in which being identified as faulty or different or wrong was not a death sentence. There was something almost threatening about the utopian reality that was the Jedi Order’s acceptance, and he couldn’t explain why. For some reason, the idea of a world where he didn’t have to hide himself and his brothers away was frightening.
Or maybe he’s just bitter.
That could be it. Bitter that the Jedi can be who they are and the vode have to forge documents and quietly reassign people so that no one knows.
When he was still training on Kamino, there had been a trooper a year younger than him who had started to lose their hearing. They told someone in their batch and word got around to a command class. There was a whole system for keeping it off the records and maintaining a good facade (it wasn’t so hard to impersonate each other when the need arose). The vode already knew field signs and they could make the movements a bit more subtle so none of the trainers noticed anyone translating. Some more mechanically inclined cadets could mod buckets to turn the volume up. Eventually, someone who was slated to ship out volunteered to trade places with the deaf trooper to get them off Kamino sooner with only minimal slicing required. Their commander carefully kept them away from natborns and their medic casually didn’t mention hearing in their health records.
This was how Cuir learned how to keep his vode safe.
(The deaf vod, who named themself Pumpkin, was forced to construct most of the rest of what is necessary for a language on their own. No one had ever realized how insufficient the field signs were until Pumpkin, who preferred to use their hands instead of AAC or writing, had to explain this or that complex topic. Though the lore of the much-improved sign language that spread throughout the GAR would never reach Cuir - a necessity to keep it’s creator from scrutiny - its use would.)
The medbay was always busy after battles, all the fighting action happening on a bit of a delay in the sterile halls. Sometimes, if he had the time, the General would stop by and offer to help. He followed directions well enough and knew his way around a medical environment, so Cuir felt comfortable putting him to work.
When Bes stirred up, Kenobi was the one nearest his bed. Cuir was across the room, checking the constantly-updating vitals of a pilot who’d sustained a pretty bad brain injury and wondering how much longer he should wait before slicing the system and inputting more ‘normal’ recovery data.
Bes woke in a panic and Kenobi was there in an instant helping him calm down. There was something about his voice - the tone, the timbre, maybe even the core accent - that worked wonders at this sort of thing. Cuir made his way over.
“Vitals are good. I need to take a look,” he gestured at the injury site and watched Bes’s face tighten (he hated the fear that he saw there but knew that the few reassurances he could give were things that would have to wait until they were behind closed doors).
Kenobi placed a hand gently on Bes’ arm. “Why don’t we try something while Cuir does that. Have you ever meditated, Bes?”
Bewilderment seemed to serve well as a distraction. Bes humored the General, practicing unusual breathing patterns that only just suppressed his anxiety as Cuir poked and scanned and made notes.
As soon as he had the chance, he’d tell Bes not to despair, that there really is hope.
Only, hope has a tendency to hurt. While Cuir can imagine a better future, it comes with the knowledge that it will ever be his.
It hurts.
Some never made it off Kamino.
Clones who were found out by the Kaminoans late enough got assigned to work maintenance, if their flaws didn’t interfere with their productivity. After all, it did take quite a lot of resources to raise these clones, and it was always preferable to get back some of their losses. But if the Kaminoans caught on early enough, they’d often have the clone decommissioned. They’d accounted for a certain number of faulty products in their projections and could afford to terminate a few.
The Kaminoas prided themselves on their cloning. Their products were perfect, flawless, completely identical, optimally productive, exactly as dictated.
Their products disagreed.