Chapter Text
CT-3417 wakes alone in a white room. No, not alone after all – chalk-white as the walls themselves, a Kaminoan doctor watches him.
“State your designation and rank, trooper,” the doctor says. She sounds almost bored.
“CT-3417. Seventh-year cadet.” It hurts to talk. His wrists hurt, too. Strange, that – and stranger, too, that he cannot move his arms or legs. (He does not try to.) The doctor stands, smoothing her robes, and walks over to him. He follows her path with his eyes and does not flinch no matter how close she comes.
She presses something on a console. CT-3417 can now move his arms and legs. (His wrists are throbbing and bloody. His ankles feel fine.)
“Follow me,” the Kaminoan says, and CT-3417 follows.
She leads him into an adjoining room. There are others there – Kaminoans, and other species, but no clones. The doctor moves to stand among them. She orders CT-3417 to a table in the middle of the room.
There is a blaster on the table.
The doctor tells CT-3417 to assemble it.
He does.
She asks him to assemble another.
He does.
His hands do not shake.
There are other tests. CT-3417’s head is throbbing. He wants to sleep. He does not ask to sleep.
He completes every test. The doctors confer as if he is not in the room, speaking about “unprecedented results” and “ideal behavior.”
They hand him off to someone else. An old man (though CT-3417 knows, somehow, that he isn’t really all that old) they refer to as 99. They tell him to take CT-3417 back to ‘the others.’ He does not know who the others are, but he follows 99 anyway.
99’s expression is held almost carefully neutral. He does not look directly at CT-3417 when he says: “I bet you’re ready for some sleep, huh?”
“Yes.” CT-3417 is ready to sleep. He feels as if he has been ready to sleep since the moment he was born. He hopes that 99 asking him this means he can sleep when they get to where they’re going.
The lights are dim, but not off, in the barracks, though all the pods that CT-3417 somehow knows are beds are shut. 99 settles CT-3417 on a bench, then raps softly on one of the pods. It slides out of the wall. From where he’s sitting, CT-3417 can’t see the pod’s occupant. He only hears whispers, and then: “I know, I know. I’m sorry, Bact, but- you couldn’t have done more. I have to go. Look after him.”
99 is leaving. CT-3417 does not call out after him.
Other pods slide open, one by one. He hears voices, quiet at first, then rising. Quick feet on the ladder.
He should be looking toward the noise. He should wonder what is wrong.
His head feels empty.
Figures come into his periphery – one, two, three. One, long-haired, hesitates, then rushes forward. The second follows. The third, a little taller and bulkier than the others, hangs back.
There is some attempt to talk to him. He answers questions as best he can. (He is so tired.) The other cadets do not like his answers. (He is so tired.)
One of the boys – the tall one calls him Bact – cleans CT-3417’s bloody wrists with a soft, damp cloth. CT-3417 notices that the other cadets are barefoot. He removes his socks, to try and be helpful, to try and be right. His ankles, he finds, are unmarked.
They show him where his bunk is, three rows up. He feels too tired to climb. He does anyway. The long-haired cadet – Cass – follows behind him. Somehow CT-3417 knows that the tallest one – Tower – is standing on the ground below the ladder in case CT-3417 falls, in case he takes Cass down with him.
He crawls into his pod. He feels cold, bitterly so. He wonders why he is not shaking from it.
“I should be shaking,” he says, looking over at the ladder, at Cass, just in time to watch the other cadet’s face crumple, just in time to scoot over frantically as Cass climbs into the bunk with him.
“I’m sorry,” Cass whispers, pressing their foreheads together. It feels familiar. It feels warm. “I’m so sorry, 3417.”
He does not know why Cass is apologizing. He is far too tired to understand something like that. But he lets Cass help him lie down and does not protest when the other boy lays down next to him, cradling him, even though something in his head screams ‘bad, bad, bad.’ Cass is upset, after all, though he tries not to show it, though he seems to not know CT-3417 can feel him crying silently into his hair. Somehow, CT-3417 understands that he is not supposed to bring that up. He knows that this is something brothers do.
(The sky is perfectly clear and impossibly blue. It looks lonely. It looks empty. The sea does not reflect the sky. He floats, sitting on something that he cannot look at. It cuts his fingers if he does. He doesn’t want to bleed.
It scares him, the way the blood disappears into the water, as if he had never bled at all.)
3417 learns. There are things he knows and things he should know but does not anymore, and most of the things he lost were things he thinks he might have needed.
His batchers do not explain what happened to him to make him like this, but 3417 puts it together. He remembers, after all, that he woke up in the white room, and he learns, as he watches brothers outside his batch, that there are others like him. Hollow-eyed, backs held too straight. Some move just a bit too stiffly, as if they are remembering how. Others are too slow to respond to their numbers, by just a fraction.
The stiff ones, the slow ones, they make the trainers and doctors frown with disappointment. 3417 does not want to be a disappointment, but he does not have to be, because:
When he stalls at the entrance to the mess, Bact reminds him how the line works. On the first clear day, Cass takes him to one of the outdoor platforms during free time. He catches Tower straightening his locker, after, because in 3417’s excitement to tell the others about the sun and the sky he had forgotten that shoes must be placed side-by-side, and socks must be neatly folded next to them.
Even Bright, the youngest of their batch, sees how he feels distant from the others’ laughter at meals, and directs his next joke at 3417 specifically.
To them, it doesn’t matter that he does not remember everything. They help fill the gaps, and never complain.
His batchers, 3417 learns, are kind.
(Something shines, off in the distant sea. How strange, he thinks, with distant curiosity.
He looks down into the water and realizes – it isn’t deep. 3417 takes a breath and pushes himself off the raft.
The water only comes up to just above his ankles. The sand feels – sharp, but sort of nice, too, the way it pushes between his toes.
He sees the glint of that shining thing in the distance.
He begins walking.)
3417 thinks he may die, and that if he does, it will be Tower’s fault.
He says as much, and Tower huffs a noise that is trying to be a laugh, but doesn’t quite come out right.
“Get better at sparring, then,” he says, rolling his eyes. “Everybody knows if you pair with me, you better be quick, or I’ll beat you into the mat.”
3417 did not know that. Having been recently beaten into the mat, he feels a bit stupid for this fact.
“Maybe I won’t bother,” he says. “Might improve your personality to win a fight every now and then, huh?”
This time the laugh is genuine, and Tower reaches out his hand to pull him up.
“You’re still a moron,” he chuckles. He seems like he’s going to say something more, so 3417 waits. But when the silence stretches on, Tower only says, with a strange twist to his smile: “Some things never change.”
(He reaches down to grasp the glittering thing. It cuts his hand, and he drops it with a yelp.
It shatters into the water, but:
“Cadet CT-3417 displays an extraordinary ability to put patients at ease,” says one trainer to another. “With further training, he will prove a valuable asset to the Republic.”
He isn’t supposed to be listening to the trainers, but he is and so is Bact, who claps him on the shoulder with a grin.
“Hear that? They’re saying you’re a natural.”)
He has his training shifts in the medbay at the same time as Bact. A little third-year cadet comes in sobbing, broken arm cradled against him. 3417 helps the doctors where he can, but mostly he makes funny faces at the younger clone, folds a bird out of scrap flimsi for him to play with when he gets fidgety. By the end of the visit the little boy is laughing, and, strangely, as he leaves with the flimsi still clutched in his chubby fingers, Bact smiles warmly after him.
Bact doesn’t smile much. He always seems- just a little tired, just a little guilty, when he looks at 3417. But today his smile is as warm as it is in 3417’s fragmented memories, and it’s 3417 who made him smile like that.
3417 loves making his batchers smile.
(Another fragment dissolves into the waves, and 3417 lets out a quiet sigh. So few of the pieces mean anything. So few tell him anything about the person his batchers loved. Searching makes his fingers bleed and his feet ache. He wants to lie down and let the gentle waves wash over him.
But if he did, he would never see any of them smile again.
He sees a glimmer in the distance.
He sets off searching.)
“I don’t ever dream,” he comments to Cass one night. 3417 couldn’t sleep to begin with, and, near midnight, heard Cass’ pod slide open. He knows a lot of things, now that he’s almost eight, so he knows Cass must have had a nightmare.
(He knows everyone has them but him.)
“That must be nice,” Cass grits out, and 3417 flinches. He doesn’t know why he said it. He felt like he had to. But then Cass looks over at him, his expression half sad, half relieved.
“I’m glad,” he says. “You’re- lucky, ’17.”
He vows not to mention his dreams – or, rather, the lack thereof – ever again. But as it turns out, it doesn’t matter, because:
They have been practicing sutures in the medbay. 3417 likes sutures, and he’s good at them, but Suture is the name of another one of the medic cadets and he doesn’t want a name enough to steal from a friend-
They use needles, for the sutures, and while the others are talking and laughing around their table, 3417 thinks “Needle, Needle, Needle,” and it feels nice. He wouldn’t mind being named Needle, he thinks, so when they go back to the barracks, as everyone is getting ready for bed, 3417 takes a deep breath and says:
“I think- Maybe I’d like you guys to call me Needle from now on?”
Every single one of them freezes.
He has made a mistake.
“But you’re not him!” Bright blurts, and bursts into tears. 3417 (NeedleNeedlepleasepleaseplease) takes a step toward him, and Bright dives into his pod, slamming his hand down on the close button so hard that the ladder next to him shudders.
There is a moment of silence. Then:
“We are not,” says Tower, grabbing his shoulder, too rough (pleaseIdidn’tknow), “calling you that. You have no idea-“
“Tower.” Cass’s hands are on both of them, trying to push them apart. He’s crying. “Tower, don’t.”
They lock eyes with each other. Something is exchanged which 3417 thinks he should once have understood, but he doesn’t now. He doesn’t understand, because he isn’t their Needle (butI’mstillme? please?).
Tower lets go of 3417.
“Pick something else,” he growls, and stalks away.
3417 looks at Cass, pleading. Cass stares at the floor.
“I’m sorry,” he begs. “It was the only thing that stuck.”
He wants to say he needs this. He wants to say if he can’t steal the name of his batchers’ dead brother he will die. He will hurl himself off one of the outdoor platforms like he heard a brother in the year above them did when the longnecks came for him. But he can’t say that, not to Cass, who held him after he came back even though he wasn’t his Needle anymore.
Cass looks up at him. 3417 knows that nothing in his smile is genuine.
“I’ll talk to them,” Cass says, with false bravado. “Get some sleep, ‘17- Needle. I’m sure they’ll come around.”
And in the morning Cass has kept his promise, because Bact calls “Needle, we’re going to be late!” when he dawdles putting his socks on. And of course Tower will not look at him, and Bright’s apology is stammered and scared and addressed to ’17 instead of Needle. But he tells himself he doesn’t care, that this is enough, that he can make himself more like their Needle and if he can do that they will love him as much as he loves them.
It has to work, he tells himself. It has to, and it will.
(He doesn’t even feel it when his hands bleed anymore, but this time he can feel the noose around his neck, razor-wire-sharp – or is it a green-bladed weapon, humming inches away from ending his life?
“Do you really think,” says the besalisk, voice booming in the darkness that has encompassed the blue sky, “that any of what you are doing matters?”
The besalisk swings the blade, and Needle chokes, falling to his knees before he realizes the blade passed through his body without harming him. The besalisk laughs.
“Did you forget, ARC trooper? Everyone you love is already dead.”
Droidbait and Cutup and Hevy and Echo and Hardcase and Dogma and Tup and “Echo-!”)
Things are- they are okay, Needle tells himself, as days turn to weeks. He is remembering more and more, taking what he remembers and trying to piece together a version of him that makes his batchers smile. Sometimes he fails, makes them draw away from him, just for a second. But sometimes he makes a joke or goes in for a hug at just the right moment, and one of his brothers’ grins and hugs him back, and he is home, home, home.
And yet: Tower will not even look at him, and it is breaking their batch apart. Cass sits next to Needle at every meal, and sometimes others make a point to sit with them instead of Tower. But Needle sees Cass’ eyes flicker to Tower over and over, sees the longing there and instead of telling Cass that it’s okay, he doesn’t have to do this, he holds on tighter, tries to make him laugh more, because if he just tries hard enough surely he can fix it, surely-
He is sitting with Cass and Bact right inside the door to an outside platform. It is raining too hard for any of them to want to go outside, but sometimes there is nothing better to do than sit and watch the lightning. The rain echoes on the metal all around them, and Needle so badly wants to remember when it was that he had a brother who hated the rain, who choked down terror when anyone got too close to the ocean, who he loved more than anything, that he says: “Hey, do either of you know who Echo is?”
Bact inhales sharply. Cass goes very, very still.
Needle waits, fidgeting a little. Somehow, he doesn’t realize anything is wrong. He thinks that his batchers are just thinking, that maybe this is good, that maybe-
“I can’t do this,” Cass says, voice hard. “I can’t do this, 3417.”
“What-?” Needle starts, but then Cass is hauling him to his feet, pushing him against the wall, and Needle is technically stronger than him but Cass is so angry, suddenly, teeth bared, and Bact is on his feet but instead of helping he just stands there, watching, silent.
“I don’t know is telling you this stuff,” Cass snarls, “but you need to stop pretending!”
“I’m not-“ I’m not pretending, he wants to say, I’m me, I’m Needle, I love you-
“Recons never remember anything!” Cass screams, and lets Needle go only so he can punch him in the face. Needle staggers, but there’s nowhere to go, so he sinks against the wall. He doesn’t want to hit back. He doesn’t want to hurt Cass, even as Cass rips him apart.
“You will never be our Needle,” Cass tells him. “He’s dead. He’s dead, and you’re- I can’t believe you can stand there and pretend to be him, when they wiped away everything he was-!”
“Cass, Cass, please-“ He reaches out, and Cass smacks his hand away so hard it sends Needle off-balance completely.
“Don’t touch me!” So much rage in a voice usually so gentle. “Don’t come near me anymore! Just go away!”
But it’s Cass who goes away, feet pounding as he runs. Needle, on his knees, looks out at the rain and-
“Don’t even think about it.”
Bact hauls him to his feet.
“Bact, I-“
“Don’t talk to me,” Bact says. He sounds exhausted. “I can’t let you- I couldn’t protect him, so I can’t let you off yourself. But Cass is right. We can’t keep pretending you’re him.”
He wants to beg for understanding, for forgiveness, for mercy, but- He sags against Bact, letting him hold him up, holding onto the warmth against his body. He stays like that until they get back to the barracks. Bact dumps him on the ground without a word, and Needle curls into a ball there, hugging his knees to his chest as the feeling of being loved at all seeps away like blood running between his fingers.
(“Do you know,” says a young brother’s voice, “that the last kindness I ever felt was how gentle you were when you took your gun back from me?”)
His batchers pretend he does not exist, except: Tower kicks him awake the next morning and tells him if he ever speaks to Cass again, he’ll make Needle wish he was dead. Needle already wishes that, and the feeling only grows as hours stretch all the way into months, when none of them reach out to him except to kick him to his knees, to cut with words that aren’t even directed to him, but to each other.
Except: they will not let him die. If he tries to go off alone, at least two of his batchers follow: at least two, so that they can keep ignoring Needle while keeping his head above water all the same.
He wonders if this is the way they’ve decided to punish him for what he did. He wonders if it helps their grief.
He stops trying to remember anything except his training.
Maybe if he survives Kamino, they will finally let him be alone long enough to die.
(There are three colors of glass. The black ones are false memories. Some of them are kind. Some of them are deadly.
There are three colors of glass. The blue ones belong to the ARC trooper. Very few of his memories are happy, but he loved his brothers, and they loved him.
There are three colors of glass. So many of the first Needle’s memories have blue and black carved into them like wounds, but beneath the wounds, they shimmer: a blinding kaleidoscope, made up of all the colors.)