#clone hate

“It’s the way they were created. They are…” she watches her father’s face as he searches the sky above them for words, “...copies of one person. Exact copies. That’s what a clone is.” 

“Oh,” Kandria says, but the answer only makes her think of more questions. 

How are they born? Where do they come from? Who is the man they were cloned from? Why are they here? Are they like regular people? Real people? 

The questions swirl in her mind, but the soldiers move closer to them, and she doesn’t want to sound rude if they overhear her asking. They have their helmets tucked under their arms, their armor white and shiny in the afternoon sun. She feels a warmth of embarrassment when they catch her staring. One of them smiles at her, and it crinkles the edges of his eyes. The other doesn’t smile, but he nods at her, a silent greeting. She doesn’t know what to do, so she smiles and nods back at them.

The smiling one chuckles, and they continue by. 

Kandria decides that at least one of her questions has been answered. 

They are real people.

**

“Dree! Get out here!” Uncle Garo roars from the front room. “Bring the med kit!” 

Shoving her data pad under her mattress, Kandria stumbles to her feet, and runs to the corner where their ill-stocked med kit is kept. Slinging the strap over her shoulder, she goes to the shelf and snatches up the med scanner she’d pieced together despite her uncle’s protests of it being “a wasted use of parts.” If your injuries are that deep, you might as well die and get it over with. 

Kandria tries to imagine what sort of injuries she will face as she moves to the main room, but she stops short when she sees her cousins staggering through the bay door behind their father with a soldier in broken armor slung between them. The toes of his boots drag the ground. 

“Who…” Kandria begins, but Garo grabs her arm and pulls her toward the wounded man. 

“A kriffing clone. Just get him to stay alive long enough to give us any information we can get out of him. Got it? Don’t be wasteful.” 

Kandria pulls out of his grip and takes a few measured steps back. “Take him to my cot,” she tells Bailroy and Jaysha, because she knows full well that none of them will give up their own bed. 

“The floor’s good enough for it,” Bailroy argues. 

“Not good enough for me,” Kandria says, even though she feels herself trembling at her own audacity. 

Her cousins sneer at her, teeth bared; however, a sharp nod from her uncle makes them comply regardless. She follows them back into the storage room, watching disgustedly as they deposit the man roughly onto her thin mattress. Disgust is overwhelmed by a thrill of panic when she hears the metallic thump of her hidden data pad, but neither man seems to notice.

She waits until they have stepped away before she approaches the clone. His face is filthy with dirt and dried blood. His armor, or what remains of it, is shattered, large pieces broken off and missing. He looks like he may already be dead, but when she rests her palm on his forehead, his skin is hot with fever. 

“What happened to him?” Kandria asks, throat tight. 

“We found a railcar that had fallen from the track,” Bailroy says. “It probably fell with it.” 

Kandria bristles, turning on him. “He is not an it. He is a human being.”

Bailroy steps toward her, and it takes every ounce of resolve for Kandria to hold her ground, to not flinch when he leans forward to meet her eye.“Watch your tone, girl,” he growls. 

She curls her hands into fists to keep them from shaking. “I’m not scared of you,” she lies through gritted teeth. 

Bailroy smiles. “I don’t believe you.” 

“We’ll leave you to tend to your pet,” Jaysha tells her, grabbing his brother’s arm and pulling him away. “Don’t get attached. We’re not keeping it.” 

Kandria doesn’t move until they leave the room, the door sliding shut behind them. Her eyes burn, but she won’t let herself cry. She has a second chance, and she won’t squander it with wasted tears. 

**

TECH

“What did you do with Nala Se as a medical assistant?” 

Omega kicks the heel of one boot against the crate they’re sitting on. The methodical thump, thump, thump is distracting, along with the fact that she does not seem to be entirely listening, her eyes focused on the open hatch where they can hear their brothers arguing lightly over supplies and their organization outside. 

“Omega,” Tech prompts. 

She snaps her head up to look at him sheepishly. “I’m sorry, what did you ask?” 

Tech suppresses a sigh. When he had told Hunter that they should be sure to continue Omega’s education, he had happily taken on the role of instructor. Typically, the girl at his side is an admirably attentive pupil; however, there are occasions when her priorities are otherwise engaged. He remembers what Hunter told him about patience, a pointed warning that Tech had not fully appreciated at the time it was given. 

He repeats himself carefully. “What skills did you attain as Nala Se’s medical assistant?” 

Omega stills, her swinging boot stopping with a final thud. “Oh. I learned how to use a med scanner and some of the other medical equipment. Mostly how to read the data and take notes. Basic first aid, and minor medical procedures like sutures and resetting dislocations. And I know a lot about using bacta, and giving hypos.” 

“Hmmm. Did you practice these skills often?” 

“A little. Usually, the clone medics handled everything. I would help clean tools and bring supplies; however, there were times that I had to do more.” Omega seems reluctant to continue the discussion, her attention once again flagging to the open hatch. 

“I am sure you were of great help,” Tech says, deciding to let the topic shift on what he hoped was a positive note. 

“I tried to be,” Omega says. “I only ever wanted to help…even when it was hard. Sometimes no one could help.” The child’s voice trembles. “That’s what Nala Se said.”

Tech realizes too late that he has wandered out of his depth of expertise. 

“I know that everyone will die someday,” Omega continues, unsteadily. “But it’s still very sad. Nala Se said it was unprofessional to cry.” 

Tech has never wished so desperately for one of his more emotionally intelligent brothers to interrupt at this moment; however, he knows that the odds of such an occurrence happening at such a convenient time is practically nonexistent. 

Tech turns his body so that he is partially facing Omega. “Did you know that the Kaminoans are often wrong?” 

Omega blinks up at him, dark eyes shining. She scrunches her brows, confused. “What?” she asks. 

“That is to say,” Tech amends, realizing he has been unclear, “Nala Se should not have told you that it was unprofessional to…cry. It is a natural reaction to many emotions. While tears may not always be appropriate in a particular moment, they are a valid response.” 

Omega’s expression softens. “Do you ever cry, Tech?” 

The question catches him off guard somehow; although, it is logical in its arrival. It feels strange to answer in the negative, but he has not actually cried tears since he was very, very young, when his emotions were still unregulated by maturity. Tech has never been traditionally emotive. At times it has given the impression to his brothers and others that he is unfeeling, which could not be further from the truth. He feels deeply. He is just not sure how those feelings might translate to behavior that others might read and understand. 

“Of course,” Tech says stiffly, deciding that the when is unimportant in the context of the conversation. “It is a human emotion, and we are quite human.” 

Omega smiles at him and does something else he does not expect. She lurches forward, throwing her arms around his neck, hugging him so tight it is hard to swallow. He makes a noise of protest involuntarily, but Omega holds on for a moment more to say in a soft voice, “Thank you, Tech.” 

But he isn’t sure what she is thanking him for.

**

Tech wakes to someone gently rubbing at his face with a cool, damp cloth. Awareness itself is disorienting, but he is acutely aware of his injuries. His whole body hurts with an ache dulled by mild pain relievers. It is only enough to take the edge off; however, he doubts nothing short of a tranquilizer and a bacta tank would be able to wholly soothe him. 

The only hands he can imagine being so gentle amongst his siblings is his sister. In the same vein that the thought of Omega at his side soothes him, there is an overwhelming sadness. 

“Omega?” he rasps out, throat dry with dehydration and disuse. 

The hands draw away. “You’re awake,” a young voice says. “I didn’t know if you would.” 

It is not Omega’s voice, but it somehow clicks into place the memories of events leading up to this moment. Plan 99. The railcar falling. His goggles, broken. The underground cavern. Rough hands dragging him, a boot pushing him to his back…

Tech gasps, coming fully awake. Panic drives physical pain to depths so that adrenaline might take hold. 

“It’s okay!” the voice says, a frantic whisper.  “Shh, please. You’re alright. I’m not going to hurt you, please, be quiet!”

Tech tries to obey, to steady his breathing. He stares up at the smudged, dim ceiling above him. The analytical part of his mind, always working, tells him that he is in a warehouse of some kind and that it is old. Very old. He puts all of his thoughts to task on that one fact, forcing himself to latch onto its surety, as though it means anything at all. When he finally feels that he has regained control of himself, he turns his head to look at the speaker beside him. It is a girl, possibly a little older than Omega, that stares back at him, eyes wide. She clutches a dirty rag in her hands, stained the rusty color of blood. His blood, he realizes. 

The girl glances over her shoulder. “I don’t think they heard you,” she assures him softly. She moves closer. “My name is Kandria. What is yours?” 

“Tech,” he whispers back. His throat burns. “Please…may I have some water?” 

“Of course,” Kandria tells him, and a canteen appears. 

Tech starts to sit up on his own, but everything - everything - hurts. The girl puts an arm around his shoulders and props him up just enough that he won’t choke, then holds the mouth of the canteen to his lips. Tech is not certain how long he has been without water. However, if the insurmountable thirst that is activated the moment the cool liquid touches his tongue is anything to go by, it has been a while. 

Kandria pulls the canteen away far too soon. “I’ll give you more in a minute. I want to make sure your stomach can handle it. You have a fever. I’ve given you an antibiotic and cleaned any open wounds I could find. I wish we had an IV to get you fluids…” 

Tech’s mind tries to focus on the rattle of words; however, his thoughts are consumed with the canteen in the girl’s hand, just out of reach. 

“Here,” Kandria says, and, as though reading his silent thoughts, she brings the canteen back and allows him another few swallows. “A little more. I just don’t want you to get sick, Tech.”

While his thirst still is not satisfied, he acknowledges the wisdom in her words with a tight nod. 

Kandria smiles and sets the canteen aside before lifting the rag again. “Is it alright if I finish washing your face? It will help me see if there are any other head injuries I should be worried about.” 

Tech nods again, and the girl sits on the edge of the cot and continues her work with soft, short strokes. Tech glances down and notices that his armor has been removed. Not that the plastoid could offer much protection anymore given the state it had come to in his fall. And yet, the loss strikes a deep chord. 

Do you ever cry, Tech? 

“My cousins said that you fell with a railcar,” Kandria says. “Is that true?” 

“Yes.” 

Her eyes flicker up to meet his, but he looks away. If Kandria’s empathy is in any way similar to his sister’s, he does not believe his resolve will be able to withstand the sentiment. 

“It’s a wonder you survived.” 

Tech huffs but cannot find the strength or words to respond.

The sound of raised voices makes Kandria go still. “They’re coming,” she whispers. She leans close, breath warm against Tech’s ear. “You must not tell them anything too important. Please, you have to be valuable to survive, do you understand? I’ll do everything I can to help you, I promise…”

There is a hiss of a door sliding open, and Kandria pushes to her feet, turning her back on Tech. 

“I told you to tell us when it woke up.” Tech recognizes the voice immediately. Prove that you have information we want.

“He just woke up, Uncle Garo. I was just making sure he was stable.” 

A growl answers her first, low and guttural. “Sure, you were. You’re a bleeding heart, Dree. One of the many faults you got from my brother. But he was a better liar. Move aside.” 

The girl does not move, but Tech can see that she is shaking. “He’s concussed. He won’t be able to tell you anything useful yet.”

“Move. Aside. Girl.” 

Every innate instinct in Tech wills him to move, to protect, to put himself between the threatening voice and the girl might have befriended his sister in another life; however, his physical faculties fail him, and he can do little more than struggle to sit the rest of the way up, an agonizing gesture even in its simplicity. He can’t remember if Kandria mentioned broken ribs.

“I will answer your questions to the best of my capabilities,” Tech bites out around a grunt of pain. 

From this distance, the face of the man before him is smeared beyond viable recognition without the aid of his goggles. However, the man’s posture is read easily enough, perfectly in sync with the words and tone this Garo dared use against a child.

Tech comes to a resolute decision then. You have to be valuable to survive…

He will be valuable to this man for as long as it takes to rebuild his strength. 

And when that happens, he will leave this place. He will find his brothers. 

And he will take Kandria with him. 

A/N: Dad-Mode activated…

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