HTK-218,666/DC is my designation, I am a clone Horde trooper of the Delta Calos devision. I am 7 seconds old. 7 seconds ago I first opened by optics and I was greeted with a world of toxic waste green. 7 seconds ago my heart started beating, 9 seconds now. I register the concept of time.
My nervous system switches on and now I feel. Cold. I am suspended in fluid. Green. Or maybe not. Not sure. Motory functions engage. First instinct is to pat against the glass wall, no push, no hit, punch, break. I feel fear for the first and last time in my nigh perfect life. I wanted to escape, claustrophobia, an illogical thought process, gone now. 16 seconds now.
The cloning tank I am in fizzes and opens. I fall to my feet. The fluid rushes out, escaping it's cylindrical mold. It pures into the drains infront. The multiple cordes holding me up disconnect from my body. Something's wrong. My body falls dumb. Bones ache. Skin iches. Something is wrong with me. I'm a... a... the word, the thought vanishes from my mind. Erased. The pain is gone. The nervous system is switched off. Strange. Or is it?
I hear a voice in my head, my voice, no, yes, our voice. It tells me to stand. I fell no ground, but I push myself up. I fail over and over again. Why can't I stand? What's wrong with me? Is there someth-... I stand up with the aid of a fellow brother. His hand grasped at my shoulder pulling me up. His claws leave deep marks in my skin. A green liquid drips out in a slow stream. It doesn't hurt. I feel nothing. Why? I do not feel curious to follow that thought process.
My brother shouts at me in my head. I follow him. I am given clothing. Yes, white, grey and green robes. Though they look black and green in my optics. Regulation atire. No differenciation or alteration of the uniform is permitted. To maintain order. Small things such as these cannot slip by, freedom in such a small aspect can snowball very fast. A domino affect.
Freedom is contagious. Infectious. Sickening and an illness. And that cannot be allowed.
'This is a healthy place.'
A quote contructed by my voice, but not ushered from my own lips. An almost mocking tone came from higher above. -Mocking? No. No. Not mocking. Brother loves us. He's the only one who will ever love us. ...I am informed by another brother through my thoughts that I will be punished with whipping for 7 rotations for the statement I thought about my Brother. I apologise. A sign of weakness. 9 rotations are added on to my sentence.
I complete putting on my robes. They do not seem heavy, nor protective. A formality rather than an armour. Armour is equipped during battle. Infact our hide should be protection enough from most firearms. I am given a tray, what is presented on it, I do not know. My brother orders me to take the tray to section A-1. A-1? As in right next to A-0, the throne room? Which Force-General would order such substances? Or perhaps Brother is having guests. Rare. But not unlikely.
I hurry to the destination, walk speedly through the corridors. They all look the same. Every turn lead to an image of a silvery, stark white hallway. An unfamiliar guest would easily get lost in them, but every clone has full scematics of any ship they are aboard to aid with the navigation of troops efficently through the maze-like warmachines. The warships were designed this way on purpose to discombobulate any boarding parties and escaped prisoners. Rare. But not unlikely.
On my way to the guest room, I pass many of my brothers on my way. All our faces are motionless, never moving, never showing weakness no matter what climate or atmosphere. Emotionless, never showing signs of temptation to sin through freedom. Brother says freedom is disorder. And disorder leads to imperfection. And Brother knows all. Brother knows best.
I'm not supposed to be. I ignore most voices around me, just regular maintinance and mission reports. Telepathic communication is highly effective. Far more than verbal communication. And only the highest of ranking brothers were given the authority to breath and vibrate the air molecules in Horde Prime's presence.
10 minutes since my construction. I am now 10 minutes and 3 seconds old as I buzz the door and a youthful alien specimen answers the door. The look in her eyes I do not think I will forget. The expression on her face was haunting. A malestrum of mental states I cannot comprehend plays across her face. Her eyes widened.
The young female organism has a feline DNA base. A thin woman covered in golden brown fur, a damaged theara and a dark, crimson and black uniform covered in cuts and... burns. A lot of close calls with laser weaponary apparently. The guest is, I presume, a native from the planet we are orbiting.
Why have I not recieved any information about life forms or about any invasion proceedures. ...Perhaps it is because I am not asigned to a landing party. Then what is my purpose? Too curious. Not good. I realise she is still staring at me, frozen. It is quite unerving. I forward the tray in her direction infront of her. She seems to snap out of the gaze and takes the tray into her own hands. My mission is complete. I step back and turn to the corridor.
I turn back to face the female. The door slides shut. What an odd statement. I can't recall ever meeting that life form. I have only existed for 12 minutes and 35 seconds. Strange. However, I do not ponder this any longer as one of my superior officers commands me to The Briefing Chamber. And 13 minutes later I'm correct. I am not commissioned to a landing party. Well not for this 'Etheria'. I have a different mission. I am being sent to the frontlines. I am 25 minutes old.
