Chapter Text
Ꝿ ꙪǝɹɐɯʇɥƃᴉN sɹǝuolƆ ǝɥ ┴ ꙪꝾ
……….
………
…….
….
…
..
.
The little troublemaker lays all in a corner, in a tarnished crib, in an isolated section of the nursey. His little chest rises and falls with soft, quick breaths. Dressed only in a thin onesie, no aiwha-bait has taken care to bundle him against the cold, though Jango finds it difficult to do even now as he has no intentions of interfering with the life of fodder.
Though currently he regrets disturbing the sleeping ik’aad who has one tiny arm flung over his crown of golden hair.
So innocent, so quiet, so much cause for grief.
The erroko gives a slight shiver as air bursts through the vents into this isolated section of the nursery.
Glancing towards the other room, warm, dim lighting creates a pristine environment geared toward optimal growth for those recently decanted. They’re nourished and cared for as they begin their journey as livestock. A small act of kindness they will likely never meet again in this lifetime.
Looking down at the little erroko, Jango questions if it’s kinder to end his journey here and now. Or perhaps it would have been an act of mercy to have left him for dead when he was decanted. If he doesn’t continue on he won’t know pain or suffering or sorrow. Only a few short hours of chaos and cold before—
Flicking open a blanket gathered from a table in the other room, Jango disturbs the erroko long enough to swaddle him tightly—like wrapping a perfect gift. He notes with amusement all his practice with Boba has finally paid off since it takes nearly no time at all. To add to his triumph, the little one doesn’t shriek or cry. Instead, his caf-colored eyes open briefly to look up at his caretaker before drifting back to sleep.
Tucking the ik’aad against his warm chest, he moves into the next room and marches to the overseer.
“Jango—”
“Find him a crib,” he growls before the aiwha-bait has time to give him a slow, methodical line about why this little one is suffering. Jango has often wondered if those large, beady eyes can widen with shock, and this Kaminoan’s reaction gives a resounding yes.
“Did you not hear me?” he nudges, tone icy enough to make the aiwha-bait shiver.
“But—”
“I’ve seen his charts. He’s met all merits. In fact, there’s potential for leadership.”
“The clone is defective.”
Scanning the room, Jango’s gaze settles on an empty crib in the middle of the room. Gently placing the erroko inside, Jango watches as the ‘pad at the top of the cradle begins chirping with vital signs. “Hair color does not make a clone obsolete or damaged. You may be able to predict with ninety-nine percent accuracy what they will look like, but never one hundred percent. They are still ideal warriors.” When the erroko’s monitor chimes with steady numbers, Jango turns to the Kaminoan. “Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes, Jango,” she says in that soft, melodic voice which grates on his nerves.
“See to it that Ko Sai is informed,” he growls and casts a parting glance at the innocent erroko before marching out.
..
.
ꝾꙪꝾ
.
..
CT-7567 came into this galaxy with only one mission.
Survive decanting so he could die in war.
It was not a request he made nor would have had he been given a choice in the matter.
In a similar fashion, he did not ask to look different. He did not wish for a head full of blond fuzz—though perhaps once grown he’d become more partial to the variation. Regardless, it was not his choice to arrive as an aberrant, to face death and destruction, before taking a true first breath. While it would never be admitted, somewhere in his sequencing lies what the Kaminoans consider a flaw.
An inadequacy that still threatens a much too early grave.
Vhonte, however, cannot stop gazing at him. He sticks out like a sore thumb after all. In the middle of a sea of brown haired ik’aade, his striking fuzz shines like a beacon in the darkest of night. A guiding light for all those who are lost in the abyss.
A lamp to lead the way through a bitter storm.
As she stands before him now, gazing at the striking blond tuft, his little face scrunches before caf-colored eyes blink up at her.
Curious.
Slightly sleepy.
Perhaps amused as if he knows a secret she hasn’t been privy to yet.
Vhonte loses the battle immediately as she smiles at him, so soft and innocent.
Hard to believe Jango was ever benign.
Face morphing into a yawn, his mouth opens wide with a soft coo before he slowly blinks. Despite being hours old, those eyes search all he can see around before returning to gaze at her.
Placing a hand over her heart, Vhonte wonders if the crack in her chest is audible. She’s been around ik’aade before; held them, cared for them, knows a bit about developmental stages. Newborns are never able to focus as this little one does. Their aimless eyes gaze ahead or drift around taking in all and comprehending little. This little one, however… Even now, he shows signs of accelerated growth. If he’s lucky, he won’t make forty years to face a painful and agonizing death at the hands of intense degenerating cells.
Jango told you not to get attached, she reminds herself. Though, she’s not certain she is attached.
Merely saddened for him and all his vode.
Shaking the thought, Vhonte concentrates on duracrete facts.
CT-7567 may not look identical to his brothers, but that does not mean he will fail to be just as capable of completing his mission. It doesn’t mean he won’t grow and transform into the perfect soldier the aiwha-bait desire. A slight aberration does not mean his life should be taken from him.
All young deserve the chance to survive.
CT-7567 merits no less.
However, Kaminoan culture does not agree. They revere perfection above all else, which encompasses their entire culture. It is so engrained in every fiber of their being that should any of their kind bear green eyes, they will be terminated.
Movement catches her attention.
Chief Scientist, Ko Sai, eases her way over like shifting seaweed far below the ocean’s surface. Despite the grace and gentle moves, this quiet—even passive at times—predator is a force to be reckoned with. Those black, emotionless eyes target the little one in his crib as long, slender fingers run across a syringe in her grip ready to silently strike.
“Jango said no.”
The Kaminoan pauses her hunt with a flash akin to anger dashing through her solemn gaze. “You are here to train, Master Tervho.”
Drawing up to her full five and a half feet, Vhonte notes the Kaminoan, still towers over her. The aiwha-bait’s black and white uniform is as unyielding as her personality which has sent tremors through those serving under her. Her presence instills dominance in every room she enters. But unluckily for Sai, Vhonte is not a stranger to intimidation tactics.
She’s also no stranger to games of Dejarik—which is all this is.
The Kaminoan before her is easy to read. Sai’s wants and desires shine through those inky, deceitful pools of malice intent on claiming the life in the crib. Ko Sai may not have been born a rancor, but her life’s work charges through others like one. Without regret, remorse, or contrition, her only drive is to experiment and improve on her units. If that means terminating them and shucking them, so be it.
And Vhonte plays the only piece available on the board.
“You have yet to see another such as he. Study him. Observe him. Spare his life for now. See what he is truly capable of. If he proves incompetent, you will have an argument for why all aberrants should be culled.”
A flicker of something darker sparks within her gaze, and Ko Sai steps forward to look upon the ik’aad who’s drifted back to sleep—completely unaware of his impending doom. Unblinking eyes scrutinize his flaws, his charts, while those slender fingers—lethal fingers—continue to caress the instrument of her venom. And then, if the Kaminoan could smirk, Vhonte swears Sai does…
“Very well,” she says all too readily and relinquishes her mission without objection. “Perhaps something can be learned from an aberrant.”
Without another word, the Chief Scientist retreats.
Turning to the ik’aad, Vhonte lets out a shaky sigh. Brow furrowing, she considers the monstrous beings she’s faced as a Mandalorian, as a mercenary, as a huntress—and even as a bounty hunter. She has stared death in the face countless times and never once felt as she does now.
A curious and unfamiliar feeling, one of icy cold, lingers in her spine. Looking down at the ik’aad, Vhonte considers his near-death experience, and the icy cold explodes into shivers across her entire body.
With a deep breath, she steadies herself against the unknown emotion threatening to possess not only her body but mind. For now, the ik’aad is safe. There will be many battles ahead, but those cannot concern her. They cannot be allowed to take root for they’ll feed the foreign tendrils of terror creeping in the corners of her mind.
Vhonte smiles down at the precious life who sparks hope in the depths of her and combats the monsters hiding there.
“You will do great things, little one.”