#alpha-02

#1

It sounded di’kutla - and it really was, when you looked at the circumstances - but Mij Gilamar finally saw the resemblance between Jango Fett and the boys created from his genetic material.

It was really the expression, Gilamar thought. The cadet standing before him had his chin lowered and his jaw clenched, arms locked tight across his chest. Oh yes, he’d seen that look before. It was generally the precursor to an unpleasant experience for whomever was on the receiving end of the look. Gilamar kept his face deliberately blank while he inquired what the cadet was doing in his quarters at 0300 hours. This wasn’t one of his commando trainees. He wondered how the kid has known to come to him with an issue that was... less than favorable in the Kaminoans’ eyes.

“I’d rather not say it out here,” the kid muttered, glancing over his shoulder warily. “The Kaminiise already have an eye on me.”

It was a plea for help, however grudging. Gilamar stepped back and beckoned him in, making a point to lock the door. It was unlikely a Kaminoan would disturb any of the Cuy’val Dar, but he felt some measure of security would reassure the boy. 

Gilamar led him to the couch in the small living area. The cadet hesitated before sitting. Then he watched Gilamar with narrowed eyes as thought determining if he could be trusted. Another one of Jango’s looks. Gilamar put it out of his mind and said, “What can I do for you... cadet?”

“Alpha Oh-Two,” the kid corrected.

One of Jango’s boys, then.

“I’ve been having these... visions. No, not exactly visions. I don’t know what to call them. Not nightmares, either. More like... flashes, I guess.”

“Oh?”

“I keep seeing things like they’re my own memories, experiences, whatever, but they can’t be,” Alpha-02 said, staring at the floor. He started to draw his knees up to his chest but stopped. “I can’t explain it. But I know they’re not mine, sir.” His voice took on a desperate edge. “I don’t know what’s happening, and - and I can’t stop it.”

Gilamar, while nowhere close to understanding what the boy was talking about, decided he was duty bound as a doctor to help in any way he could. And even if I wasn’t, he thought, this is one of Jango’s boys. The kid needed help wherever he could get it. The galaxy couldn’t afford to be kind to him.

“Tell me more, ad’ika,” he said, reclining against the couch. “I’m here to help.”

#2

“Join us for a drink, Spar?”

The man was a frequent costumer of the Oyu’baat, and although Spar was not, they’d crossed paths enough times for the offer to be genuine.

Spar sat down on the empty stool beside him, shaking his head to ward off the barman. He wasn’t much of a drinker. The man who’d invited him didn’t seem offended, though. He clapped Spar on the back good-naturedly. “Should I be calling you Boba now, Mand’alor?”

Spar submitted to the gesture even though he’d never been the physical type. “Not a chance,” he replied. “I don’t want anything to do with that little shabuir.”

“Aww, no brotherly love?” the man teased. Spar forced a blank grin. If only you knew the half of it. No one here - not even those he considered trustworthy companions - had even the faintest clue about his past. However Shysa had framed it, he’d made the story convincing enough that everyone accepted Spar as Jango’s long-lost heir. 

“There wasn’t much of that to go around,” Spar answered with enough of an edge to close that particular area of conversation.

“Enough to keep the two of ya from each other’s throats, at least,” the man said sagely, nodding to himself. Spar grunted in response, wondered absently how long he could sit here before his bounty hunting earnings would shrink. Against Shysa’s wishes, he’d kept on working as a mercenary. A man had to make his living somehow. Still, Spar wasn’t above receiving payment as long as he continued the Mand’alor masquerade. 

He turned back toward the bar, waving over the man behind the counter. “I’ll take that drink now, ner vod.” 

#3

“What exactly do you and I have in common, ner vod?” 

Sull was in one of his philosophical moods. Spar blew out a long breath, unwilling to venture into a realm that was better left to the Jedi in their temple on Coruscant. 

“We’re both deserters. Clones. Mando’ade,” he listed matter-of-factly. “Oh, and traitors, apparently.”

“Listening to Skirata again, eh? Didn’t mark you as one of his disciples.”

Spar bristled. “Hardly. I’m not one of those dini’la Nulls.”

“Udesii,” Sull said. “Just saying.”

Spar snorted. “Yeah, but your limited vocabulary didn’t allow you to acknowledge that earlier.” 

He sensed rather than saw Sull roll his eyes. “You’re in a real mood tonight, ner vod. But you’re still avoiding the question. How did both of us end up here?” 

“Virtue of being the unfortunate shabuire raised by Jango,” Spar muttered. “Anyway, you never seemed to have enough brains to be a philosopher. What’s with you?” 

Sull knew him better than to be insulted by the jibe, although part of Spar was hoping he’d rise to the bait. It was old restlessness, a result of a having a slow week in the bounty hunting industry. He’d first felt it during the old days on Kamino; it was, in part, the reason why he’d deserted before the war even started. Of course, he’d learned to reign it in since then. 

“Too much time sitting around waiting for Skirata’s magical cure,” Sull said, bringing Spar back to the conversation. “Or maybe we’re just getting old. Heard that’s what happens, anyways.” 

“There you go, then,” Spar said. “There’s the answer to your kriffing question. We’re both old and full of sentimental osik.”

Sull laughed. “Fair enough, ner vod. Fair enough.”

#4  Last one I promise

ARC trooper Alpha-02 thought it was a product of a cruel galaxy that he had the clarity to understand exactly what it meant to be falling apart at the seams while he watched the very thing happen to himself.

The galaxy, he decided, was not inherently cruel; it simply existed on a plane beyond human comprehension. Still, it was easy to cast blame on something so vast. It would come back to bite him in the end, but he found himself hating the galaxy nonetheless. In some cases - including his - the galaxy was guilty of more direct interference.

Circumstance, he decided, and fate.

Alpha-02 wasn’t sure he believed in fate. For one thing, it was such a vague concept. For another, it was perilously close to the Jedi mysticism he’d come to loathe. Sure, he acknowledged that everyone’s fate was predetermined. He just didn’t buy into the Jedi osik about the Force influencing every being’s destiny for the greater good. Shabla mystics. 

Sanity, he’d come to see, was a fragile thing. Easily breakable, only valuable when it was shattered. Forever bound up in regret and what-ifs. His own sanity was a victim of the assumption that it would exist in perpetual wholeness. But nothing in the galaxy was constant. Insanity was inevitable...