#being monitored

AZI whirs around Hunter. “Omega! You are alive!” 

Omega smiles at the little droid. “Of course, I am, AZI. Just some bumps and bruises.” 

“That is not what Hunter said,” AZI tells her. “He provided me with a list of your injuries.” 

“I’m sure he did,” Omega groans good naturedly. 

Omega is wearing her shorts and one of Wrecker’s old shirts she’d changed into last night. The bandage Hunter applied to her thigh last night still looks clean and undisturbed at least, although in the full daylight, he can see the ugly discoloration of bruising littering her arms and legs, knicks and cuts on her face. The wounds are so reminiscent of his own and his brothers’ during the war that he glances away before he can think about it too much. 

“Omega was just telling us about her TIE Fighter incident,” Crosshair says from his perch on the arm of the couch.

Omega huffs. “Yeah, and now the Empire is down a TIE Fighter and an outpost.” 

“Yeah they are!” Wrecker crows, and reaches over to ruffle Omega’s already disheveled hair. 

“Don’t encourage her, Wrecker,” Crosshair sighs. 

“Why not? She’s fine, isn’t she? You did good, kid!” 

“But we’d rather you didn’t do it again,” Hunter puts in. 

“It wasn’t the original plan, I had to improvise,” Omega says. “Trust me, I never do anything reckless unless I have no other choice.” 

Hunter knows it’s true, but that doesn’t make it any easier to accept, especially when the choice she made could have ended so much worse. 

AZI fusses at the bandage, unwinding it to examine the injury for himself. Crosshair and Wrecker watch, but Hunter knows exactly what they’ll see. 

Omega said that a piece of the ship’s console had embedded into her leg during the crash. She pulled it out and applied pressure, wrapping a piece of her undershirt around it. Another member of her unit saw the collision and went in to retrieve her. She admitted that she had passed out, lost a lot of blood, and spent several days in medical before Hera cleared her to return to Pabu to finish recovery. 

How much of this Omega has told their brothers, Hunter isn’t sure. 

Knowing what will be exposed the moment AZI removes the bandage does not ease the twist of awful of revulsion in his gut when he sees it. Suddenly, Omega is that little girl again, freshly rescued from Kamino, so small and helpless…and hurt. Hurt so badly that she could have bled to death had help not been right there. 

His chest feels tight, the air thick and unbreathable. His siblings are talking, AZI’s mechanical voice rattling off a treatment plan. But the words are just sounds, syllables meaningless. Hunter feels like a coward when he has to turn and leave the house. He knows Omega isn’t a child anymore, that she has made her own choices, with her own risks. 

But his purpose…she has been his purpose for so long. How can he just let her go, let her risk the entire life they built for her? Why does she have to be a hero? Why can’t she just be safe? With them? 

“Hunter?” Omega calls after him, the lilt of her accent so familiar it hurts. 

He knows he’ll be back. He’ll always come back. 

But for now, at this moment, he can’t trust that his emotions will stay in check as he’s carefully arranged them all these years.  

Crosshair and Wrecker will keep her safe until he returns and takes the watch. 

**

Omega shifts, trying to turn her body to watch their brother leave. “Hunter?” she calls again. 

“He needs a minute,” Crosshair says, not able to tear his own gaze from the ugly, uneven gash on his sister’s leg. It could be worse, probably was worse. But it is bad, no matter how Omega tries to downplay it. 

“He saw it last night,” Omega says, “he didn’t react like that at all.” 

“It’s different when you’re not the one responsible for fixing it,” Crosshair tells her. 

Omega’s lips press thin and she nods. He doesn’t like that she seems to know exactly what he means. She was the  one carried out of the wreckage this time, but how many times has it been her pulling a companion from the rubble? He knows she doesn’t tell them everything about her work with the Rebellion. Partially out of obligation to secrecy, and another part a misplaced obligation to protect her brothers from worrying.

As if they’d done anything else since she left Pabu. 

“You will be happy to know that the wound is healing as expected,” AZI says, bringing a fresh roll of wrap from his chassis. “Please continue to keep it clean and dry.” 

“You got it, boss,” Omega says with a sloppy salute. 

The droid blinks at her, yellow eyes flickering. “I am not your boss. I do not know who your boss is.” 

Omega laughs. “I’m teasing you, AZI.”

“Oh,” the droid says, beginning to rewrap her leg. 

Wrecker, who immediately became more subdued the moment they saw the worst of Omega’s injuries, says, “That’s gonna leave a pretty nasty scar.” 

“Eh, that’s okay,” Omega says, shrugging her uninjured shoulder. “All the best people I know have scars.” 

“Yeah, we do!” Wrecker laughs, and Crosshair smirks at the sappy grin that stretches across his brother’s face. 

Their optimistic little sister strikes again, broken in body but not of spirit. Just like the stubborn kid she was all those years ago on Tantiss, refusing to leave him behind. 

Perhaps she’s been carrying companions and brothers out of rubble for a long time.

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His lopsided grin catches her unaware and the gesture of a space of her own makes her stomach flip.

“What?”

He tries to hand them to her again.

“It’s your space.”

When she doesn’t take it, he unlocks and opens the door for her.

She hesitates.

If he’s annoyed by her actions, he doesn’t show it, instead he enters first and holds the door for her to go inside.

She looks around.

“Where’d Maria go?”

She must have lost time, deep in thought about surveillance.

Clint looks at her strangely.

“She had some more errands to run. She said bye?”

Natasha stays at the door.

He seems a little unsure what to do.

“It’s uh, all shield issued, so a little stark. But it all works. The fridge, the stove, the bed, shower…”

He sees her looking up and around.

“There’s no cameras in here,” he says quietly, as if reading her mind.

He offers her the backpack.

“Here.”

She opens it slowly, unsure what to expect and what he expected of her.

The copy of crime and punishment that Maria had given her sits on clothing.

A smaller bag in the backpack holds a toothbrush and toothpaste, with some shampoo and conditioner.

She stares openly at Clint, who takes it from her and sets it on the bed, unpacking it slowly.

“Maria guessed your sizes so I hope it’s okay. Tshirts, shorts, workout clothes. She said that you needed something that wasn’t in black.”

He offers a rueful smile.

Natasha stares.

“I’ve…”

She stops herself, and touches the clothing.

“I’ve never really had my own clothes before.”

Clint’s face falters.

“Oh,” he says.

She didn’t mean it in a self deprecating way, it was a fact of the matter that she had never had money to spend on clothes and preferred to purchase things that would keep her safe.

Weapons.

Food.

Natasha stares, unsure what to do.

Clint shrugs uncomfortably; for a man who usually seems to have an endless supply of words, he doesn’t seem to know what to say next.

“We talked a while ago, before all this happened about exercise and getting out and doing some normal things. You uh, still have a schedule but it’s a little different. We need to continue with debrief, but therapy might look a bit different now that Olivia seems to have gone awol.”

Natasha sits on the bed, letting his words wash over her.

“They’ve given you a pass to the gym and the sparring mats too. The shooting range, library and the cafeteria.”

She looks up at him.

“You umm… you have to be accompanied… but you can just tell us- me or Maria or Coulson, and we can go with you. And this area, well, you’ll have to be back each night by 8pm. It locks down. It opens again at 7am, so maybe not too restrictive, even if… you know.”

He smiles.

“Oh! And you also get day leave. It’s only for a couple of hours but yeah, you can leave a couple of times a week. That… that has to be accompanied too. But it’s something? Right?”

Natasha feels emotional.

It’s more than she’s ever been given.

“It’s something,” she manages, her voice catching.

.

Clint walk with her to the shield library, the building an expanse of books and technology.

She decides immediately that she likes it here.

The last debrief had gone as well as expected, the fallout manageable and the topics easier than most.

Clint had asked if she wanted to do anything afterwards and at her shrug he had brought her here.

Standing at the door, he looks around and finds the nearest couch, yawning and making a beeline.

“Explore yourself,” he offers and sits with his phone in hand.

She stands still, looking around, thankful that only one other person seems to be milling around.

Walking slowly, she looks at all the books.

Mostly non fiction to start with, rows on rows of books of titles in English, reference books and fiction books.

A real library.

Natasha unconsciously smiles.

She looks back to where Clint still sits and ventures further.

She feels eyes on her, but ignores it, hoping she’s safe in the place of quiet peace.

The stacks seem so tall.

Green books, thick books, books with large text, paper backs and comics. There seems to be no end to the amount of books that live here.

She touches them gently as she walks, trying to keep an eye on everything around her, the feeling of others being around growing.

Clint doesn’t look worried, barely looks at her at all.

Natasha stops before she disappears from his view.

She turns around to find herself face to face with an older woman.

“Hello,” she greets.

Natasha doesn’t say anything, taking a step back, wondering if she needs to protect herself.

“I’m Maggie.”

The woman says it like she should know who she is.

Instead Natasha nods.

“You’re Natasha.”

Natasha glances to where Clint was sitting, finding him missing from the chair

She takes another step back, worry filling her.

Not here, she thinks idly, I like it here.

“You have my copy of Crime and Punishment.”

It’s not what Natasha thought she would say, and in her surprise a laugh breaks through her lips.

“What?”

Maggie points to a chair, surrounded by paperwork and books.

“Oh. I’m the librarian. And I have a great memory. They put me here because I’m not to be trusted elsewhere.”

She takes a step back, and then, in fluent Russian; “I don’t think they trust me just yet.”

Natasha gawps.

The woman looks to be in her late 50s, hair slicked back, eyes wide and knowing.

“What?”

Natasha thinks for a moment that she’s going insane.

“I’ll be over there if you need anything,” the woman tells her, “but bring back the book when you can, I think we can give you something that is more interesting than Dostoevsky, don’t you think?”

Natasha stares as the woman walks away, looking around to find Clint and ask him who she was, what she was.

Another widow?

She continues to stare, and decides that she’s not a widow, the way she holds herself and the way she walks, not reminiscent of the training.

Clint appears in view, two books in hand, and smiles up at her.

He seems to notice her frozen, and approaches.

“What’s up?” he asks, breaking her stare away.

“Who’s she?” Natasha ask, looking directly at where Maggie is sitting at the desk.

Clint looks over.

Maggie catches his eye and waves.

He waves back and turns his attention to Natasha.

“We should go,” he nods at the door.

“Why?” Natasha feels even more curious now.

“Oh, no reason, it’s getting close to cut off time.”

Natasha looks at Clint’s watch, 6.45pm, and realises she’d been wandering for almost an hour.

She feels she could spend hours there, if not for the scripting eyes of the librarian.

Following Clint to the door, they walk and she memories the way there from her small room.

“Who is she?” She presses, still curious.

“Maggie? I think she’s Australian.”

Natasha stifles a laugh.

“No she’s not.”

Clint smiles good naturedly.

“What language did she talk to you in?”

“Russian,” Natasha answers, as they enter the room.

She opens the door, her own key card, and all of her things are in the same place she left them.

Except on missions, she’s never had a place that’s just hers.

She suppresses emotions, angry at them for curling and threatening so quickly.

“Yeah. She does that.”

“No,” Natasha rebuts, “perfect Russian, she spoke to me in perfect Russian. Like a native speaker.”

Clint nods again.

“Yeah, I know, she does that. She can speak any language. Ask her next time, she’s like got one of those memories, but her parents made her memorise languages and now she can speak anything, and like, perfectly. I’m glad someone cleared her, because as far as interpreters go, she’s our best one.”

Natasha frowns.

“Any language?”

Clint laughs at her consternation.

“Any.”

Natasha thinks of how useful that would be, how much she could learn. The craving of knowledge bites at her.

“Could we go tomorrow? She asked if I could return the book.”

Clint shrugs.

“Sure.”

He turns to leave.

“I’ll be round at 8.30 as usual,” he tells her, opening the door.

“Uh, sleep well?”

Natasha looks around at her own space, returning the sentiment, hearing the door click and returning to her thoughts.

The apartment is small, but to Natasha feels like a palace.

The problem was that they were going to have to disconnect themself from the monitors, and they didn’t know what would happen then. There was no other choice, though. They carefully pulled off the wire, and the room filled with a deafening, high-pitched shriek, sending Whumpee scrambling for the machine. 

A hand gripped their arm, pulling them back onto the bed. “Whumpee! What do you think you’re doing?”

“Sorry!” They winced in apology as they sat back down. “I didn’t mean to wake you up.”

Caretaker leaned over to push a button on the monitor and silence it before turning a glare back on Whumpee. “Why are you up? Have you lost your mind? You just had surgery, Whumpee, you’re going to tear out your stitches and start bleeding again!”

“I’ll be careful!” Whumpee protested. 

“No, you’ll lie back down and stay there until the doctor says you can move.”

They scowled. “I can’t just lie in bed while everyone else is still out there risking their lives. I have to help.”

“You already risked your life, and almost lost it, remember? You’ll be of no help if you collapse or bleed to death. You have to heal first.”

Whumpee shook their head. “There’s no time for that.” 

They stood again, but Caretaker did, too, grabbing them by the shoulders to stop them. “Whumpee, please. Don’t fight me on this.”

Raising their arms, Whumpee attempted to push them away. “Let me go! I need to help!” They could feel the surgery site pulling, but paid it no attention. 

Unfortunately, they were still weak from blood loss and sedatives. It took Caretaker very little effort to push them back down onto the bed, only letting go briefly to punch a button before pinning them down again. “I didn’t want to have to do this, but you’re giving me no choice.”

“Let me go, Caretaker!” They were so busy fighting to get up that they barely noticed someone rushing into the room. It definitely caught their attention, though, when the nurse picked up a syringe and held it to their IV port. 

Somehow they had a feeling they knew what was in that syringe. “No…no no, don’t!”

“I’m sorry, Whumpee,” Caretaker sighed. “It’s for your own good.”

Seconds after the drug was dispensed, Whumpee’s eyelids began to grow heavy. “Please,” they whispered, the fight leaving their body. “I need…I need to…” 

The servants liked scurrying around as if they were rats or squirrels, and were currently keen on making as little eye contact with Yuu as possible right now.

As if they weren't the head servant, and so technically their boss. It was the influence of the master of the house, who was Yuu's boss, and had given then all strict instructions to keep them locked in this room, to bring them anything they asked for (except for work), and to not let them out.

It was maddeningly boring. All of their friendships, the hard-fought and sorely won respect they'd earned in the six months they'd been here had vanished in the face of a moonstruck man who so rarely flexed the nature of his superior status in the household, except for Yuu.

No one would help them. Ace and Deuce, the mortal servants Yuu had hired, had been carefully instructed not to enter this wing, and the other servants could teleport, eliminating the chance Yuu could simply force their way out when someone opened the door.

Having used up all their leads with Sebek, they instead called upon a different one of their coworkers.

"Silver!" they hissed into the darkness, practicing the words they wanted to say in their head.

He appeared with supernatural speed, but by now, it didn't frighten Yuu. "May I fetch you something?" he asked, eyes glowing in the darkness.

"Yes," they said, trying to make their voice sound as sugary-sweet as possible. "The key to this room!"

"I'm sorry," he replied without much emotion, clearly coached. "You know why you cannot leave."

"The surgery was on my hand! One hand! All of my other limbs are fine!"

"I- I am aware," he said, his composure breaking a bit. Good, he was recognizing the absurdity of the situation.

"I just wanna go downstairs," pleaded Yuu. "I can feed myself now. I don't need any more rest"

"Oh, you're hungry?" said Silver, grabbing onto any detail he could. "Let me make you a tray."

"Wait, no!" But Silver was already gone.

"Arrgh!" shouted Yuu.

They got up and used their good hand to lower the blinds, and now, most of the light in the room was gone, and then, thought about him as hard as they could.

He hadn't answered their calls all day, and it was really starting to hurt their feelings. The least- the very least! He could do was keep them entertained.

Instead, Lilia had explained that Tsunotaro would be out with him on some expedition, and had vanished without another word.

Yuu turned to face the side of the bed that had grown heavy, seeing nothing but another pair of glowing eyes in the shadows.

"Hello," the pair of eyes said smoothly. "Are you enjoying your rest?"

"Let me out of here!" exclaimed Yuu, not messing around with any pleasantries.

"I don't think that's a good idea," he said placatingly. "Why don't you rest a little more?"

The voice and eyes belonged to the master of the house and their current jailer, Tsunotaro.

"No! I'm sick of resting. Where have you been? Why can't I leave?" they said, their tone coming off more desperate than they'd intended.

Yuu cared. A lot. Their relationship started and stopped at his whim, or so it often seemed, and it was wearing fast on Yuu.

He blinked at them, and Yuu felt embarrassment rising in their cheeks.

They opened their mouth to play that statement down a bit, but Tsunotaro beat them.

"I apologize," he said. "I had not realized I was isolating you so much. Lilia may have taken my orders too seriously..."

"Don't blame this on him! You were the one that was gone!"

Tsunotaro pondered this for a moment.

"You're right," he said, and before they knew it, he was dragging them onto the bed.

"Allow me to make up for it now," he said, gazing into their eyes with an intensity that shook them.

He brought their bandaged hand up to his lips, and gave it a soft kiss. "How are you feeling, by the way? I know surgery can be intense on the human body."

"I'm feeling ok," they said, a quake in their voice.

Thank goodness they weren't standing.

"Good. now-"

Just then, Yuu heard Silver appear behind them.

"Ah, hello Master. I had not heard you return, am I interrupting something?" he said.

Yuu tried to jump away from Tsunotaro, not knowing if he wanted everyone to know of their relationship, but he wouldn't let them go.

"Thank you for bringing us food, Silver," said Tsunotaro, leaning closer against Yuu. "Set it down on the nightstand."

Silver nodded, and did just that before vanishing.

"Now, come," said Tsunotaro, summoning the tray to his lap. "Let us eat. You need as much of your strength as possible, for your delicate nerves to stitch themselves back together."

Tsunotaro held up a cracker, with a thin slice of preserved meat and bright orange jelly spread across.

"Open up," he said. "You aren't quite healed enough to feel yourself with such minute movements such as these, so I will do it for you."

Dull pain throbbing near the lower left of his ribs is the first sensation to trickle in. The cold, rough texture of concrete on his back is the next.

With this, he's able to understand three clues: He’s injured, he's on painkillers, and he doesn't know who helped him.

While the bandages wrapped around his torso and the medication indicates his savior doesn't wish him death, it doesn't indicate what they do want with him. They could be a friendly (which is its own cup of fuckery and headaches), or they could be keeping him alive for some nefarious purpose.

He concentrates on what he can hear with his eyes slid shut. Multiple people breathing. Over ten. The sound of water sloshing against a hard surface.

For a moment, Tim continues to just lie there. He should be dead. The sword did too much damage for him to have survived it.

For a moment, he’s disappointed he survived.

Thoughts of Bruce, his mentor, his dad, center him back into reality. Tim may have proven the man is alive, but his work isn't done. No one else believes this. Tim is the only one with the evidence otherwise. Even if he sends it to them, there's no guarantee they'll take it seriously. Tim has to spearhead the rescue or it won't get done.

A soft sigh escapes his lips at his predicament. There's so much to be done before he can rest. He can lament his life then.

Peeling his eyes open, he sees a person dressed head to toe in black. Their eyes, the only portion not covered, widen.

Ninja.

Tim glances to the side only to see wispy green smoke.

Lazarus Pit. Oh gods.

He shouldn't have survived. He should have died. He was going to die. He must have died. There's a Pit. He's been resurrected. Fuck. He's been dipped. Fuck!

He springs to sit up and ignores the stabbing ache in his side. A foot collides with the face of the ninja previously peering over him as he uses his hands to propel him to his feet.

His body automatically counters and attacks as his mind spirals and spirals.

The League put his dead body into a Pit. What the fuck is he going to do?

As he chokes one of Ra's men out, his other arm steals the man's sword. His eyes frantically dart between the threats.

Think… Think! What is he going to do?

More people fall to his antics, but they don't try to lash out. They merely defend Tim's attacks. The teen's brows furrow at this.

Is he already going insane? His body is on fire and they aren't fighting back. He must be losing it.

As Tim brings the sword up to swing like a baseball bat, a shout rings out.

“Stop!”

Tim, despite the fear and panic thrumming in time to the pain in his chest, freezes. A man with what appears to be a white mask strides closer to the teen.

“For your own sake, you must stop!”

With a snarl, Tim continues to maintain a defensive posture. “You bring me back from the dead and just expect me to-”

With an exasperated sigh, the man cuts the teen off. “We did not resurrect you. You did not go into the Pits for healing. You have ripped open the stitches from your surgery.”

Tim relaxes from his tense stance as his eyes drift down to the white bandages that now have red soaking into them.

“Oh.”

The man nods along as if Tim's a kindergartener finally figuring out he needs to raise his hand in class.

As they go over what led to Tim's emergency treatment and what happened to Pru, exhaustion starts to settle further onto his shoulders. He's weary and in pain, but he focuses on the debriefing.

The major points? Tam is being threatened and Tim has no choice but to lead the League. Just another task piling in before Tim can be done.

Red Robin does what he must. He hunts spiders and plans. Every move is monitored and Tim can feel Ra's breathing down his neck. Assassins line the halls, the training grounds, and the missions he sends them on. He’s surrounded by enemies and doesn't have an inch of privacy.

Yet, he still manages to worm his way into the League's computer systems. When it comes down to it, he viciously destroys his own cage.

It's freeing. It's petty.

He has mere minutes before detonation.

For a moment, just one, his feet slow down. He can't help but ponder if he truly needs to escape the base. He could just stay here, feign some inexplicable obstacle, and let the time run out. He could be done.

Yet, as his eyes dart from Pru to Tam, he knows he can't. Pru could save the other woman, but there's still no one left to save Bruce.

Tim needs to keep going. He can't stop now.

Soon, though. It's only a matter of time. Soon, there will be enough reason and enough of an excuse that the teen can finally let go.

He just caught the tail-ends of light hair, long, curly, and barely kept orderly. 

There he is, Hunter thought somewhat smugly.

Hunter took off in that direction, unable to keep from noticing the way the transparent plastoid on the face of the training helmet fogged slightly with each heavy breath. He hated this damn thing. 

His trainer growled over the PA system. “CT-9901, if you take your helmet off one more time–”

Tech’s eyes darted over to him. “Hunter, don’t–”

“I can’t breathe or hear anything!” He’d barked back, helmet tossed to the ground. “How am I supposed to use the osik’la abilities you gave me in this thing?”

The simulation stopped, his brothers all looking back toward him in surprise. Hunter didn’t blow up like this.

The trainer walked into the room, storming to Hunter. He scooped up his helmet, taking a deep breath to start berating him but was stopped by Nala Se saying his name over the intercom. 

The ex-bounty hunter scowled as he shoved Hunter’s training helmet back onto his head roughly. “It’s for your own karking good, clone,” he growled. “Take it off again and I’ll make sure your head goes with it.”

His gear felt heavy as he finally began to encroach on his target’s location. 

Just over the ridge were several gunships in a small clearing. Even in the darkness, he could see that this could easily be a trap, but that didn’t bother him.

As he walked towards the gunships, his steps nearly silent and his practice blaster drawn, he could hear his heart rate pick up. Relax, he told himself. Too many beats per minute and it would affect his score. 

He got to the edge of the first gunship, body stilling. He listened.

The light, misty rain hitting the metal roofs threatened to distract him, but he pushed past it. 

His target was too used to him, but he knew a weakness. He glanced down at his belt, finding the knife he’d found himself becoming fond of. Gripping the blade, he reared his hand back and flung the knife through the air, hitting the metal of another opening just right for the doorway to deflect it. The knife fell to the ground, sticking up in the dirt. Hunter’s movements stilled once more as he listened for that inevitable sound.

There, he thought as his senses honed in on one particular sound he’d heard before. A small huff akin to a taunting laugh.

He tread to the second gunship, dirt shifting almost imperceptibly beneath his boots, though he could hear it. 

His gun led him around that last corner, finding Bugg in his sights with a smirk.

Bugg’s eyes rolled back as he held in a curse. He held his hands up in defeat as Hunter attached the elimination puck to his uniform. Hunter chuckled at Bugg’s dramatic sigh.

“Well done, CT-9901,” the voice of his trainer called through the comms in his helmet. Hunter’s eye twitched at the volume. “Now, complete the mission.”

Hunter blinked. “Sir?”

“Are you stupid like that monster you call ‘brother’? Your mission was to track and eliminate the target. What are you waiting for?”

“I already gave him the puck,” Hunter reasoned. “The mission is over.”

His trainer sighed. “There aren’t any stupid little pucks in war, little clone. You have live rounds. Use them.”

Bugg’s eyes went wide as he searched Hunter’s face. “H-Hunter?”

“It’s gonna be okay, kih’vod,” Hunter assured him, his scowl deepening. “I won’t shoot my brother.”

“You don’t have a choice,” the trainer taunted. “Obey the order, soldier, or it’s two weeks intensive solo training, no rations. Good soldiers follow orders.”

Hunter growled as he threw his rifle down. He stared up into the simulated sky, where he knew the room he was being monitored from was situated.

“Guess it’ll be the solo training then,” he spat, throwing his helmet on the ground. “Ke’gyce lo’shebs’ul narit, because I will never hurt my brothers.”

The simulation faded around them as the trainer stormed in, stopping directly in Hunter’s face. “Is that how you talk to a superior, clone?”

“Sorry, sir.” Hunter feigned a retraction of his attitude. “I meant ‘ke’gyce lo’shebs’ul narit, sir’.”

Mando'a Guide: kih'vod - little brother ke’gyce lo’shebs’ul narit - you can shove your orders up your ass

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Thanks for reading! - River

Whumptober 2024 Masterlist DangRaccoon Masterlist Taglist Form Read on AO3

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Wow, you made it this far down? Have my OC 99s made in @squad-724's picrew (found here)!

This is Bugg (CT-9905), who is mentioned in this fic

And Fixer (CT-9906)

Well, that's what they would look like if they had survived to adulthood

Flinch opened his eyes, squinting at the bright lights. He went to lift his left hand to cover them, but it didn’t move. When he blinked away the intrusive radiance, the first thing he saw was a clone medic standing over him. 

“Can you hear me? Flinch?” 

Flinch stared at the owner of the voice, taking several moments to process. He glanced around, vision still bleary from heavy sleep. The walls were gray durasteel, they looked like the thin sheet metal like the ones at his last base, designed to fold up and pack into containers. He was on one of many half a dozen cots that lined the wall, a mirrored set on the opposite side, several other soldiers laid nearby.

“Where is this?”

“You’re at the aid tent. You went down in the field, do you remember?” 

“I, I don’t know.” Flinch’s head swam, his thoughts drifting away before they could finish. 

The medic wrote something on his datapad; then began reading off it. “You’ve been fighting off septic shock for a day now, due to a wound in your arm. He gestured to Flinch’s right arm, which was wrapped in a thick bandage around his bicep. 

Flinch took stock as he listened. He had several intravenous lines. A scanner array hovered over his bed, monitoring who knows what inside his body. Most confusingly, his left hand was tied loosely with a cloth to the side of the bed. 

“From what I can tell, it's a wound originating from your tattoo healing wrong. Your personnel report says you had an encounter where you were submerged in the swamp at your base, does that sound correct?” 

Flinch nodded absently, moving his right arm to undo the knot to free his left hand. The movement sent shocks of pain through the deep muscles in his arm, he felt like he could feel his bones. The medic simultaneously leaned over to stop his hand “Don’t move your arm.” He demanded, too late, then worked to untie the cloth. 

“You’re a terrible sleeper. Even on sedatives you were talking in your sleep, and you kept reaching for your injury. So we had to do this, sorry.” 

Flinch’s hand was free, he was self-conscious enough to not instinctively start grabbing at his arm. 

“You were even telling the droids to ‘shut up’ constantly, kept putting them in audio-off mode. We had to have someone whip up a code just so they’d stop obeying you.” He laughed, humored bewilderment in his expression. 

The words entered Flinch’s head but barely registered. He smiled back, even though he wasn’t sure what they were laughing about. 

The medic cleared his throat. “Anyway, the bacteria from the water created a serious infection in your soft-tissue, and it went on long enough that it led to sepsis. Flinch, why didn’t you get help earlier?” He asked, as gently as he could with obvious irritation in his tone. 

Flinch was barely keeping up with the words, his gaze drifting around the room. “You know my name?”

“Your buddy Hanni made sure we knew it when we came to pick you up.” 

Flinch’s eyes finally focused on the medic when he heard his patrol partner’s name. 

“Anyway, we opened your wound and flushed out as much of the bad stuff as we could. The edges have been stitched up but we can’t close it until we’re sure the infection is gone, which is why it’s so important to not touch it.” He raised his eyebrows in emphasis. “ The antibiotics are working for now, but… greater measures may have to be taken once we get you to an actual medical station.” He paused, his face went concerningly serious. Now he had Flinch’s full attention. “I don’t want to alarm you, but I am obligated to prepare you for the possibility that amputation may be on the table.”

Flinch’s blood went cold, he clenched his jaw and looked away, eyes unfocused. The medic gently grabbed his good arm as it reflexively went back toward the bandage, then grabbed his hand. “So, if you don’t want that to happen, you have to listen to everything we say, got it? You have to heal as much as possible before we send you off, then you’ll have the best chance, okay?” He patted Flinch’s forearm gruffly, driving his point home. 

Flinch nodded, suddenly exhausted again. 

“Okay?”

“Okay.” He closed his eyes.