Millions of a Face

Chapter 2

Being a clone was not all it was hyped up to be. They weren't just the infallible soldiers of the Republic they were all told they were. No, instead they had to sit through Flash training, information being literally downloaded into their brains, leaving you with a headache for hours afterwards. They had to suffer through grueling hours of physical training everyday, striving for perfection, lest there be a negative mark on their performance sheet. They ate bland rations for every meal, got strictly eight hours of sleep every night. But those things were all manageable.

The worst thing? The decommissioning.

"'87, stop it! You can't be saying those things." CT-5485 hissed, looking around frantically for any trainers or Kaminoians that could be overhearing.

The CT-5480 batch were crowded together in the mess, secluded in one of the corners. It was their last meal as one before being sorted into squads, which means emotions were running high.

"Why should I '85? You know I'm right! It's stupid to split us all up after training together for six years." '87 gestured with his spoon. "I'm just saying that the long necks are di'kuts for doing that."

Their batch was one of the smallest, with over half of them being culled in their early years due to some medical abnormality. It was just the four of them, '83, '85, '87, and '88. That made for them being closer than normal.

"Faces, tell him that he needs to stop!"

'85 and the others turned towards CT-5483 expectantly. He blinked, mouth full of ration slop.

Oh, right. He had a name now. That morning, as he was scratching portraits of his brothers onto the inside of his cadet armor, '88 told him that he made a bunch of faces. It might have been his scrunched up face, or it was the drawings. Either way, the name stuck.

Swallowing, Faces turned towards '87. "As long as no one hears you." As the 'oldest' of the batch, the others look to him for the final decision. "Just remember what happens to the vode that speak out."

Decommissions don't happen quite as often to cadets before being sorted out into squads, but they are still common enough to be wary of every little move you make. Practically every vod has had a batchmate that had been decommissioned, the long necks' was of enforcing obedience. The ones with the most skill, the most leadership qualities, often end up becoming cocky and less cautious when they speak or act. It's the most common way to lose a brother.

Rather than spell all that out to his batchmate, Faces just gave him a warning look. Paleling, '87 stiffly nodded, "Right, yeah, sorry Faces."

Content that his brother got the point, Faces went back to eating the gruel on his plate. Though, '85 seemed to want to make the point stick.

"Little gods, '87, why do you have to be so reckless with everything you do?" Huffing, '85 turned away back towards his plate and began shoveling rations in his mouth. Late-meal was almost over, after all.

"Reckless, huh. I like it," '87 says, brightening up a bit. "That'll be my Name!"

Reckless, it fit him perfectly. He would always cause a ruckus at the bunks, and would pull di'kutla stunts out on the training fields. Hopefully some of those tendencies would calm down once he was sorted into a squad.

Clones may not be treated well, by their trainers, the Kaminoians, or later by the Republic and its citizens, but they were more than just mindless soldiers. They had a culture, a way of thriving under any outsider's sight. The little bits of Mando'a they'd steal from the Prime or trainers. The way they'd expand on their internal relationships in the populace. Intimacy was free game, except for batchmates, that'd be weird. With that, many vode<i/> began pairing up, or more in some cases. Troopers that would be inseparable were more and more common. They'd name themselves, often a gift from a brother or a remark from a trainer. Vod may have meant sibling, but it also meant comrade, someone in a similar situation. And they all knew their situation wasn't great.

Though, none knew quite as well as Faces. Having lived another life came with experiences that none of the others had. And sure, maybe this world was just purely fantasy in his first life, but that made it even more real now, living it.

It was so very easy to forget what had been taught to him as a clone, and what he already knew. So, he stayed quiet most of the time. Not to say that he didn't love and care for his brothers, no, just let them know that with touch rather than voice.

Smiling, Faces looked at the newly dubbed Reckless, pressing his leg against the other's under the table. That was how he showed affection, with little taps and touches.

A few minutes of congratulating Reckless for choosing his name later, the alarm signifying the end of Late-meal was sounded. Under the noise of thousands of bodies shuffling to put their trays away, faces hummed in thought. Tomorrow they would be assigned squads.

How exciting.