"Attention, cadets!"
All six cadets snapped to immediate attention as the training sergeant walked into the middle of the room. Unlike most phase one trainers, he wasn't a clone, but rather a mercenary with lines of scars running across his weathered face.
He was human, a former Mandalorian assassin named Kelsor Dunn. Although to every clone cadet in the room, he was Sergeant Dunn or Sir.
"At ease, cadets," the Sergeant snapped, his hard eyes gazing over all six of them. 90 watched him carefully, trying to hide his slight fear as he gazed back at the Sergeant's harsh glare.
Everyone there knew that Sergeant Dunn was far from a light man. He rarely spoke except to issue order or instruction, nor did he show any sort of sentiment. Deaths in training were the fault of the deceased party and everything else would continue with or without them.
90 knew because he'd barely skimmed by with his life in the last test, and he was fearful that he wouldn't make it out of the next one. He didn't want to die yet, he wanted to become a soldier and an assassin. Plus, he was only 10.
"Today we're going to be going over the use of the traditional sword in battle. Regular troopers rely on their blasters in battle, but you are not regular troopers. You are assassins and that means you will rely on this sword because your life depends on it. This is and will always be your primary weapon. Take care of it, and let it become an extension of your body," the Sergeant instructed.
He quickly drew his sword from its sheath, cutting the air before him with a precise arc, stopping the blade an inch from the floor.
"You will master this, or you will die," he said darkly before lifting the blade and turning it flat in his hands.
"First, who can tell me the strength of the Mandalorian curved blade," he ordered, his eyes scanning the cadets closely.
90 swallowed hard as the room was silent. He watched the sword in the Sergeant's hands quietly, looking warily at the gently curving tip as it shone dangerously under the white lights.
It took him a moment, but he mustered the courage to answer, lifting his chin and setting his jaw, stiffening as he kept his hands secured in proper form behind his back.
"--The curved blade allows for greater coverage and speed, Sir," another cadet interjected before 90 could open his mouth.
The Sergeant's narrow eyes darted to the cadet who spoke and softened as he nodded approvingly. "Correct, ACT-67."
90 let his shoulder's sag a little as he glanced over at 67 and he dropped his chin, glancing around nervously at the other cadets. He hoped no one would notice his failed attempt, but it felt like they were all already looking at him.
He knew they'd mock him for it later.
"Who will step forward and demonstrate the proper form of holding your sword at the ready," the Sergeant asked after that, his eyes narrowing again and gazing harshly over the cadets.
90 didn't stop to think this time, but stiffened immediately and raised his voice before anyone else could. "I will, Sir."
Sergeant Dunn's eye's crossed the four cadets in front of him before resting on 90 with a sharp look of doubt, but he stepped to the side and motioned for 90 to step forward. The cadets in front of him parted and 90 walked quickly to the front before his fear got the best of him and he came to face the Sergeant.
The Sergeant carefully handed his sword over to him and 90 took it gingerly, looking at the glinting blade for a moment, feeling the weight and size of it in his hands, practically staring in awe at the new weapon.
He'd seen swords before and used training swords and such in practice, but never before had he held a real sword in his own hands.
"ACT-90, stop fawning over it and stand ready," the Sergeant snapped.
90's head jerked up and he almost dropped the sword, but fumbled for it and got a hold of the hilt before shakily stepping back, executing the ready form and holding it, his eyes focused on the ground in slight embarrassment.
He could feel the Sergeant moving around him, inspecting his form and making note of every detail.
"ACT-90, keep your eyes up. Your enemy will not be on the ground," the Sergeant ordered.
90 lifted his eyes quickly and inclined his chin to the proper position, only to find himself looking into the disapproving gaze of Sergeant Dunn as the man glared at him with annoyance.
"Finished, now return to your place, cadet," he ordered, holding out his hand for the sword.
Stepping out of the ready position, 90 handed over the sword and saluted before making a strict about face and marching back to his position among the others. He avoided their looks, but he could feel their eyes on him, watching him and judging him.
ACT-17 was the only one who he knew wasn't laughing inside his head or judging him. 17 had always been a little kinder than the others, to him at least. When it came to battle, he was just as ruthless as the rest, though.
They were all ruthless, though. That was the point. They were assassins and their targets weren't supposed to live to see the next day. It was their job to ensure that was the case, by whatever means necessary.
"All cadets," the Sergeant addressed them firmly, returning his sword to its sheath and stiffening as he clasped his hands behind his back. "About-face and report to the sparring room. We will begin training there."
Making the about-face with the others, 90 followed behind the cadets in front of him as they marched in pairs of two down to the corridors to the sparring rooms that lay just behind several of the Phase One cadet barracks.
When they reached the rooms, they filed in and stood three across facing the sparring mats, coming to rest at attention as they waited on the Sergeant. When he arrived all of them snapped completely to attention again.
"Listen up," the Sergeant instructed, and he stepped up onto the mat.
"Today you will not be training with your practice swords made of wood or whatever flimsy material you've been hitting each other with for the past five years. Today you begin with a real sword. Remember, the object is for the sword to become an extension of your body, not just a weapon in your hand," he said, walking over to grab one of the swords sitting in brackets on the wall. It was curved just like his own, only the blade was a little shorter and the handle had no hand guard.
"You will be sparring with each other in Form One today. This is not a test, and I expect all of you to walk off the mat alive--," he narrowed his eyes, looking over them all darkly. "--Today."
Swallowing hard, 90, watched closely as the Sergeant turned over the training sword in his hands and continued to speak.
"Now, find a partner and chose your sword. This will be your primary weapon until the end of this phase of training," the Sergeant instructed firmly and he held out the sword in his hand to the first cadet to step up.
90 looked around the room and moved to retrieve his sword first. He grabbed one off the bottom and turned it over in his hands, feeling that the balance wasn't nearly as perfect the Sergeant's sword. It was a training, sword, though, and of Kaminoan make. It was built for endurance, not the ease of the user.
Turning back to the sparring mats, 90 found one of the cadets standing alone--ACT-67--and walked over there.
"Permission to spar with you, 67?" he asked quietly, holding the sword down by his side, adjusting his grip every now and then.
"Granted," 67 answered haughtily and smirked as 90 stepped onto the mat, immediately dropping into the ready position.
"The Sergeant said I can't kill you, but he never said I couldn't injure you," 67 snickered, firming his grip on the hilt of the sword as he held it ready in front of him.
90 tried not to pale at those words and he just swallowed hard, keeping his face hard as he dropped into a mirror image of 67's ready position. He didn't answer the other cadet, just prepared to defend himself.
Form One of sword combat was the simplest and the most focused on the style of close combat. It assumed both combatants were on the same level and both with the same weapon and used an attack and parry system as the basis of its movement. It was simple, but that didn't make it easy.
"No response? Maybe you've accepted your fate," 67 taunted as he swiftly executed the first attack.
Hesitantly, 90 parried it, but he knew 67 had caught him off guard. That's what all the commentary was for and he couldn't let it get to him or else he wasn't going to walk out intact.
So he blocked out the other cadet as he charged the second attack, lunging forward on one leg as he swung the blade in an arc at 67's stomach. This time 67 parried, but with a faster response than 90 had and he effectively clipped 90's blade, driving it into the ground before he immediately launched into his own attack, bringing the sword whistling past 90's head.
90 ducked and brought his weapon up in the nick of time to deflect the blade before it could clip him but he knew he was slow. He needed to respond faster.
So he immediately lunged into his second attack as well, trying to leave 67 with no time to think, but the other cadet parried flawlessly, then brought his blade up, in the style of Form Three this time, rather than the ordered Form One, and 90 didn't have time to react before the blade clipped his chin, then came around as 67 turned on one heel.
There was a sharp wave of pain as 90 failed to move in time again and 67 buried his blade in 90's leg. 90 collapsed and grabbed at his leg, dropping the sword as he cried out in pain.
67 jerked the blade back immediately, causing 90 to scream as he collapsed onto the sparring mat. That caught everyone else's attention and the medic on standby bolted over as 90 curled up on the mat, the wound in his leg bleeding out rapidly.
"Everyone, get back to training!" the Sergeant snapped at the others before walking calmly over to the scene.
90 was gasping and curled up on the floor in pain, gripping his bleeding leg as the medic tried to get him onto his back so he could inspect the wound. 67 had backed off, looking oddly calm but not making a move to help. The Sergeant didn't comment on it either, just walked over and took one look at 90 before sighing in disgust.
"Medic, take him to the medbay and get him patched up," he snapped, turning his back on the two of them and ordering 67 to standby for a match with another cadet.
Halfway to sobbing, 90 let the medic get him up and clung to the older man as he gritted his teeth against the pain in his leg. He'd been hit and beaten up before, but this pain was different. It was a sharp pain that remained even when he wasn't touching the wound, and there was blood everywhere. 90 wanted to gag at the amount of blood, but his stomach was already churning from the shock of the injury.
Thankfully, once the medic got him to the medbay they administered a painkiller, which made the pain more bearable as the medic cut off the pants leg above the wound and dressed it carefully so it wouldn't get infected. 90 sat still for that, no longer fighting the urge to cry, but when the medic finished up he told him he didn't feel well so he wouldn't have to go back to the sparring room.
He never wanted to go back there, and he never wanted to see another sword in his life.
"You rest here until you feel well enough to walk, then, and just comm me if you need anything," the medic instructed as he administered the second painkiller and tapped his comm.
"If you need more painkillers there should be another medic nearby who can get you some," he added, then turned and headed back to supervise the rest of the training.
90 watched him leave, then looked around the quiet room. He'd been in the medbay plenty of times for bruises, black eyes, broken ribs, and a multitude of other training and fight-related injuries, and although he wasn't fond of all the sharp needles and terrifying tools, the medbay had become almost a sort of haven. It was the one place he didn't have to worry about getting beaten up.
Even so, it wasn't haven enough.
Slipping off the bed, 90 gripped the edge and tested his leg. He couldn't put his full weight on it but it seemed he could still walk, so long as the painkiller didn't wear off. How he was supposed to keep training in this state, he wasn't sure, but true soldiers didn't let a little pain stop them, so he assumed it was the same for cadets.
He let go of the edge of the bed and limped to the door, before pausing and turning. He pocketed two of the painkiller pills from the medicine cabinet just in case, then turned back to the door and limped carefully into the hall.
He glanced up and down to ensure no one was coming before he started down the hall quietly, limping badly on his injured leg as he made his way all the way down to corridor to the doors that opened onto one of the rainy pads connecting to an old training building.
It took several minutes to reach the doors, but 90 made it and he paused at the doors, resting his leg and stopping to catch his breath before he stepped through the doors into the pounding rain outside.
It was Kamino, and no matter what time of day, it was always raining or storming. There seemed to be no such thing as a sunny day on Kamino.
Made it perfect for breaking 10-year-olds into soldiers, 90 guessed.
Looking out across the pad, 90 could see the outline of a ghostly building not too far from the pad but well hidden by the curtain of rain pelting down around him.
That was his haven of safety.
90 started towards it, and managed to limp the short distance in a matter of minutes, but not before he was fully drenched, and his heavy training clothes were sticking to his body. It made limping into the dry interior of the old building that much better, though.
90 paused by the door and looked into the dimly lit building that he was so familiar with as he rested his leg again.
No one ever came here. Everyone else believed the place was haunted or cursed. In reality, it was probably true, but 90 had never minded. The building was actually the old training bunker for the Alpha Batch, a special group of elite soldiers that were supposed to be like the assassins, one of the Republic's special weapons to be used against high priority targets. Ruthless, merciless, and obedient. Except that they had skipped out on that last part, and many of them had turned against the Republic and the Kaminoans.
As the story went, they had sent in another team to kill them all while they slept and the vengeful ghosts of the fallen troopers still haunted the place.
90 couldn't say he'd ever believed in ghosts, but the place did indeed have a bit of a creepy factor to it. Everything was pretty normal, nothing was out of place, but the barracks looked like the charred remains of a battle scene. There were scorch marks on the walls and everything was in disorder.
It seemed that it was true that no one had used this place since the Alpha Batch had been taken out. 90 seemed to be the only visitor to the dank place.
He quite liked it that way too. It was a place he could be safe because no one else dared venture close enough to enter. He liked to think it made him braver than the rest, and bolder, but he knew it wasn't true. He just knew that there weren't any ghosts, and they didn't.
He was still the runt of the batch, but at least here he didn't have to worry about being mocked or beaten up for his failings.
90 made his way across the main room to sit on one of the couches and rest his leg more as he looked around. He'd pretty much memorized the building in all of his visits, but he still liked discovering new things and trying to piece together the real story about what might have happened. It was his personal project, and it kept him distracted from all the negative things in his head.
After his leg was rested, 90 got up and started limping to the back where he'd started looking last week. There were a few rooms he'd discovered behind the barracks that were entirely empty, but there were signs that something had once been in the rooms and they'd recently been cleaned out.
90 made it back there and peeked into one of the rooms. They were as he'd left them, and after a little hunting around he eventually got bored and made no new discoveries, so he limped back to the barracks. The most interesting rooms in the complex.
He limped into the first set, marveling at the damage and the evidence of a real fight before he started looking around. There was something off, though. Some of the beds were made, unliked the others which were left in disarray like their occupants had been startled out of their sleep.
90 looked at one of the neat beds and concluded it had been recently made.
Had someone been sleeping there? Or was this one of the other cadets playing tricks on him and trying to freak him out with "ghosts".
90 assumed it was the latter before he heard a heavy thunking noise from the room beside the barracks.
Sneaking out as best he could, 90 peeked around the corner into the other room, but he didn't see anything at first.
The room was pitch black, though, and he dared not venture into the darkness, so instead, he started back to the barracks. Only now he was looking around nervously. What if someone was there and they discovered him and he got in trouble? What if it was one of the cadets and he got in trouble with the Sergeant?
Or what if ghosts were real after all?
He looked around the room now, imagining vengeful ghosts watching him invade on their barracks and wander around their training complex, plotting to haunt him or harm him.
He backed up a little, limping badly, and started to turn to the door.
Then all of the lights went dark.
90 froze. The lights going out was a common thing as the building was working off of a deteriorating generator grid, but the pitch blackness still froze him up every time that he failed to avoid the occasional blackout and so he stayed where he was, his eyes darting around fearfully in the dark.
He tried to breathe slowly, but it felt as if the darkness was closing around him, clamping down on his chest and restricting his breathing.
He had to get out, but he couldn't move. He had to breathe, but the darkness wouldn't let him.
He tried forcing himself to move but he didn't know where to go, and all he could manage was an undecisive step back as he clenched his hands into fists to keep them from trembling.
Then finally the lights came on, flickering back to their dim state, bathing the formerly dark room in a pale glow again.
90 almost bolted for the door right then and there if not for one thing.
The clone standing five feet in front of him, staring at him.
Both of them stared back at each other, 90 still frozen where he was by this new shock and the older man staring back at him as if he were seeing a ghost.
In fact, both of them looked like they were seeing a ghost.
It was 90, however, who finally broke the shocked silence and stepped back again, trembling. "T-They were right!" he practically screamed, starting to scramble back and catching his injured leg on a helmet left haphazardly on the ground.
He tripped, yelping as he fell, but before he hit the ground the older man bolted for him and grabbed him, lowering him carefully to the ground.
90's eyes darted up to him in terror, then in confusion and he looked at the older man with wide eyes. "W-wait...y-you're not a ghost?" he stammered.
The older man backed off, crouching down and shaking his head. "No," he whispered hoarsely. "I'm alive, just like you," he said.
90's eyes darted around the room. "B-but what are you d-doing here?" he asked, genuinely confused.
The man followed his gaze with his own, then settled back on the floor. "I live here," he sighed quietly.
Furrowing his brow, 90 gave him an odd look. "Here? Don't you have barracks on Kamino?" he asked curiously. After all, no one lived here. After the incident, individual training complexes like this one had been shut down or changed to storage and all elite groups were moved into the larger Tapioca complex.
The older man looked up at him again, his hazel eyes seeming to note the confusion in 90's eyes before he answered. "I don't. It's hard to explain, but the Kaminoan's don't know I exist. They used to, but now they think I'm dead."
90 frowned and watched the man curiously. "Why would they think that?" he asked.
For a moment the man didn't answer, then his hazel eyes turned back to 90, a hint of sadness resting behind them as the man offered a bitter smile.
"Well, my name's Haze, kid, and I'm the last of the Alpha Batch."