Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Again!” Ghir Ris’ voice rang across the training room as Quicker hit the mat for the umpteenth time.

The clone lay there, stunned, trying to stop the world from spinning. His lungs burned for air and his entire body ached. A swift kick landed between his ribs, causing him to choke and roll over off his back onto his hands and knees.

“I said again!” Spat his trainer, looming over him.

Quicker swore under his breath as he climbed to shaky feet and settled into a right-foot stance. Ris advanced muscles tense and ready to strike.

The cadet blocked a swing to his face, a fist aimed at his gut, and a kick headed for his hip. He tried to fire back with a punch of his own, but his arm was pushed aside, grabbed, and twisted, an elbow digging into his shoulder, shoving him once more onto the floor.

“Again!” Came the barked command.

He was faster onto his feet this time, wanting to avoid another disciplinary strike, and settled back into his stance.

Ghir Ris began to circle him.

Quicker’s mouth was dry. His heart thundered in his chest; he was unsure if it was because of the fear or the beating he was taking. Sharp pain spiked whenever he tried to move his shoulder and he was sure he had a black eye. He was exhausted. Two hours of getting your ass beat by a man twice as strong as you would do that.

He pivoted on his heel, keeping the Iktotchi in his line of sight. Ris would strike him in the back without a second thought if he got the chance.

He’d also strike him in the face apparently.

The fist he hadn’t noticed was coming collided straight into his jaw, turning the world around him black and knocking him flat onto his arse. He blinked his vision back into existence, only to be greeted with the curled-up face of disgust he’d come to associate with his trainer.

“What the kriff are you playing at!?” Ghir Ris snapped, “Do you think this is a game? You’re not even trying, you brat!”

Quicker averted his eyes and didn’t respond.

“Well!? What do you have to say for yourself?”

It could be a trap. A way to get him to mess up and give Ris an excuse to beat him further. But risking not answering could potentially be worse. He could be written up for disobedience or insubordination and one more strike like that on his record could land him in serious trouble with the Kaminoans. It would be best to play it safe, even if it meant playing into the shabuir’s hands.

“I’m sorry, Sir.” He spat through gritted teeth.

“Sorry. You’re sorry.” The Iktotchi chuckled cruelly and stood up, taking a step out of Quicker’s personal space. “‘Sorry’ won’t save you on the battlefield clone. You won’t last a minute out there. You’ll be shot down within seconds and all my precious time will have been for nothing. Get back on your feet and prove to me that you’re something other than a waste of genetic material.”

Quicker’s chest heaved as he clambered slowly to his feet. If this went on for much longer, he was sure that his body wouldn’t be able to keep up.

Ghir Ris moved before he could settle into a proper stance.

The clone took a kick to his thigh and a punch to his stomach before he stumbled out of range, snatching just enough space for him to block the next swing and strike back with a fist of his own. It didn’t conect but he was prepared for that, dodging out of the way of the trainer’s counterattack and slamming his elbow up hard into the opening it created. The sharp edge of his bone made satisfying contact with Ris’ chin.

It was the Iktotchi’s turn to stagger, briefly stunned by the second successful hit Quicker had made all session and unprepared for the follow-up strike that caught him in the gut.

He didn’t stay shocked for long.

Ris grabbed Quicker’s arm in an iron-like vice and yanked. He went tumbling forwards, completely off-balance, and was pushed all the way down when a palm landed in between his shoulder blades. His face crunched sideways into the mat. A knee was pressed into his neck, shoving him further into the thin padding.

The cadet squirmed, throwing himself against the weight above him but to no avail. The knee’s position shifted, calf pressing into his throat, and suddenly he couldn’t breathe. His flailing became frantic as he tried to desperately twist away from suffocation.

The panic began to rise. Ris was going to kill him.

A ringing started in Quicker’s ears. The world swam before him. He choked and coughed and writhed.

He tapped out.

Black spots danced across his vision.

He tapped out again.

Several agonising seconds later the weight across Quicker’s windpipe was removed. He barely registered Ghir Ris climbing off of him, too caught up in the relief of being able to breathe again.

He went limp. Ghir Ris walked away, leaving him to melt into the mat.

Something hot and wet was touching his cheek. Shifting himself onto his elbows, he gazed down at the red puddle on the mat. It was blood. His blood. His nose was bleeding.

He hurt. He was tired. He missed his batch mates. He wanted to cry. His nose was bleeding.

Ghir Ris came over to him and kicked him once again in his ribs.

“Again!”

Chapter Text

“Okay,” Vice hissed, staring down at the supplies he had arranged before him, “We have two hydro packs, three ration bars and my entire med kit. Which would be more helpful if one of us was actually injured.”

Sticks leaned forward and fiddled with the torch on his discarded helmet.

“There’s seven hours of battery left on our light.” He muttered.

Vice dragged a hand down his face and cussed.

“Is your locator still broken?”

“No. It’s miraculously fixed itself in the two minutes since the last time you asked.” The captain deadpanned.

“Vod. Your sarcasm is not helpful in this situation.”

“Neither’s your repetitive fretting.”

Vice huffed and went through his med kit again. Its contents hadn’t changed and he knew they hadn’t but he had to check. Everything that was supposed to be there was in there. He glanced at their rations. There were still two hydro packs and three ration bars. He turned to Sticks. The other clone was sitting opposite, cross legged on the floor, leaning against the jagged wall of stone behind him. His arm was limp in his lap and his eyes were shut.

“How does your head feel?” Vice asked.

“Kriffing baar’ur, I’m fine!” Sticks snapped. “My name is Sticks, your name is Vice, I can’t see how many fingers you’re holding up because my eyes are closed, the current Chancellor is Sheev Palpatine and we’re stuck in a horrible, dark little cave on a planet that was sent from the deepest pits of the Sith hells specifically to kriff us over. I don’t have a concussion.”

Vice went quiet.

“I’m just worried.” He whispered. “A concussion-”

“Is your job to diagnose and you have already cleared me for it. Twice.” Sticks cracked open an eye to watch his brother hunch in on himself. He suddenly felt bad for being so short with him.

“Vice,” He said, softly this time, “I’m fine. I feel fine, you said I’m fine, it’s fine. If that changes I’ll tell you. I promise.”

“...Okay. Thanks Vod.” Vice gave him a smile.

The cave was filled with silence for a minute. It was stifling.

Vice cleared his throat and shuffled forward so that he could run his fingers over the crinkles in the wrappers on the ration bars. He frowned down at them.

“We need to think about rationing. Water’s easy, one each, and we can split one bar in half-”

“I’m not eating.” Sticks cut him off.

Vice blinked.

“The kriff you mean you’re not eating?”

“I mean that I won’t be eating. The ration bars are yours. So’s the water.” Vice started to protest but Sticks cut him off again. “Think about it Vod. We are stuck in an unknown location. The others will be looking for us but they don’t know where we are. They won’t even notice we’re missing for a while yet. The collapse stole your helmet and broke mine so they can’t locate us, and your comm isn’t picking up any signal down here. Rescue could take days.”

“Which is why,” Vice said slowly, “We have to ration our food-”

“You have to ration your food.” Sticks corrected.

Vice stared at him. He was joking right? He had to be joking. He couldn’t seriously be thinking of sacrificing himself so that Vice could stay alive longer.

“Sticks...” The medic croaked, “That isn’t funny.”

“I’m not joking.”

“I’m not about to let you dehydrate-”

“Better me than you.”

He was certain this was a joke. Or not real. Maybe it was a dream. A really, really horrible dream.

“If you think I want you to die trying to save me, then you have another thought coming.” He hissed.

Sticks looked at him with tired eyes.

“It doesn’t matter what you want.” He said firmly.

“And what the actual kriff does that mean?”

“What matters right now is that you can get back to the others. Right now, I am the secondary priority.”

“My life is not more important than yours!” Vice cried.

“It is actually.”

Vice gaped. Maybe Sticks was concussed. Whatever it was his brother was not making sense.

“Sticks, you’re being ridiculous.”

“Am I?” If Sticks continued being so calm about this, Vice was going to start screaming.

“Yes you are. You’re the Captain, you’re more important-”

“You’re the medic.”

A horrible, bitter taste erupted through Vice’s mouth at the same time his blood turned to ice. He tugged his leg up to his chest and hid his face into his knees.

“I’m sorry Vod...” Sticks tried. Then he sighed and Vice heard his head fall back against the cave wall. “Look, the only person more important than you in the Thirteen-and-fourth right now is Torr.”

“Stop.” Vice muttered from between his knees but Sticks continued anyway.

“You’re our medic. You’re our only medic. We don’t even have anyone with reserve training. You are literally irreplaceable. Without me, we lose morale. Without you, our chances go from kriffed to zero.”

“Stop it. Just stop it.”

“You know I’m right.” He did know it and that was the worst bit. “We have to think about this logically right now. I have one arm and karked up hearing. I don’t add much to the team. This is a scenario where the chances of one of us making it out are a lot higher than both of us making it out. The best option is to make sure that our medic survives.”

Vice curled tighter into his ball and just tried to breathe. Sticks was making so much sense and yet every single word falling out of his mouth was so wrong. He hated this. He hated this situation and he hated this cave and he hated this planet. He hated the Republic for putting him here, he hated the Force for forsaking him and he hated Sticks for being right.

He pulled his head back and scrubbed at his face with his palm.

“Please don’t make me do this.” He begged quietly into the darkness.

“I’m sorry Vice’ika.” Sticks croaked.

“Don’t... Just don’t right now.”

The captain nodded silently.

“You seriously can’t be asking this of me.” Vice groaned, digging the heels of his hands into his eyes. “I can’t do this, Sticks.”

“I’ll order it if I have to.”

“Kriff you.” Vice spat.

Sticks didn’t respond. Vice pressed down harder on his eyes until the stinging pain of tears was replaced by dull pressure. He dropped his hands away from his face and picked at an edge on his greave. The paint was dull and flaking. It needed a new coat.

“Y’know, we’re probably overreacting.” He tried. “They’ll find us. It’ll only be a day at most. They have our rough location. Torr’s got the force. We’ll be fine. This whole conversation is unnecessary.”

“You were never one for baseless optimism Vod.” Sticks had the nerve to kriffing chuckle.

“...Maybe it’s realism.”

“Maybe it is.”

Vice sunk his head back into his knees, “Now you’re just lying to me.”

“Well, you didn’t seem to like it very much when I was telling the truth.”

“Maybe I just don’t like you very much.”

“Nah,” Sticks smiled softly, “You love me.”

Vice sniffed and rubbed at his face again. He stretched his legs out, carefully placing them both side of the small pile of supplies, and let his posture slump. His hands found a sharp edged stone to roll though his fingers.

“I’ve... I’ve had to do a lot of osik’la stuff. You know that. You probably know it better than anyone else. I’ve prioritised lives before. I’ve had to let a lot of people die because there was just no point trying to save them. I’ve killed vod’e. Mercy killings, sure, but still killings. I’m a kyramud.”

Sticks shuffled over to Vice’s left side. He wrapped his arm around his vod and pulled him in close, letting him rest his head onto his shoulder.

“You’re not a killer, Vice.” Sticks whispered. “You’re a baar’ur. You’re a medic.”

“I think they might be the same thing.”

“No. You’ve had to kill because you’re also a soldier. A verd. Ner verd’ika.”

“I am two months younger than you.”

“The key word in that sentence was younger, kid.”

Vice snorted and leant more of his weight onto Sticks. He was tired. He was very, very tired.

Everything about the last five months had been hopeless. They should have high-tailed it off this planet from that very first battle. They should have left after the massacre. They should have all piled onto the Respite, before it had a chance to crash, and flown away into deep space where neither the Republic nor the Separatists could reach them.

But they didn’t. They had been good soldiers. Even after their first resupply never came in. Even after they found out communications had been cut. Even after General Ti had died. They’d stayed on this stupid kriffing planet, obeying their orders because they were good soldiers.

And now Vice was stuck in a cave, facing a horrible death from dehydration, knowing he might end up killing his Captain.

He was so very tired and so very angry.

“Sticks.” Vice said suddenly, grabbing the other’s attention.

“Yeah?” Sticks asked.

“I’m not letting you die. I will force feed you if I have to, but you are not dying for me. ”

“Vice-”

“No one is dying for me. That’s not how being a medic works.” He glared at the walls of the cave, at the very crust of Pranah itself. “We are both going to survive and we are going to get out of here. Then we’re going to leave this planet, and I don’t care what it takes. We will be okay.”

Sticks was quiet for a very long time. Then squeezed him tight and buried his face into short fuzz on his head.

“Okay Vod.” He muttered. “We’ll be okay.”

Chapter Text

Statement of transfer concerning the 134^th Clone Battalion

This is a formal report stating what will become of the 134^th Clone Battalion after their campaign on the planet ‘Pranah’. Report filed by Commander CC-3636 ‘Wolffe’, and authorised by Jedi General 'Plo Koon'.

Personnel report of the 134^th Clone Battalion

Member count: Six

Commanding Officers:
-Padawan Commander 'Torr Verrum'
-Captain Ct-9449 ‘Sticks’

Medical Officers:
-Ct-5620 ‘Vice’

Details of transfer

Padawan Commander Torr Verrum is the commanding officer of the 134th battalion. She is a fourteen year old, Human, female, and a member of the Jedi order. Reports have labelled her to be ‘Calm’, ‘Patient’, and ‘Strong in the Force’. She is noted to be a capable fighter who excels against battledroids. After the loss of her Jedi Master ‘Vaas-Ti’ during the campaign on Pranah, she has been transferred for guidance under Jedi Master Plo Koon’.

Transferred with her are the individuals listed below:

Clone Captain Ct-9449 ‘Sticks’ is the second in command of the 134th battalion. His behaviour report labels him as ‘Level-headed’, ‘Reasonable’, and ‘A Quick-thinker’. He is noted to be a competent leader who keeps an easy command over his men.
Medical Note: During the Pranah campaign, Sticks suffered the loss of his left arm, having it severed from the elbow. A decommissioning request from Kamino is currently under contention from the Jedi Council.

Medical Officer Ct-5620 'Vice' is the medic of the 134th battalion. His behaviour report labels him as 'Determined', 'Kind', and 'Honest'. His medical ability is notable, and he is recommended for a promotion to Chief or Senior Medical Officer.

Clone-Trooper-3602 'Blowover' is a private in the 134th battalion. His behaviour report labels him as 'Aggressive', 'Unstable', and 'Dangerous'. Upon a personal inquiry into his character, I would instead remark him as loyal and dependable, if a bit stubborn.

Clone-Trooper-3603 'Quicker' is a private in the 134th battalion. His behaviour report labels him as 'Disrespectful', 'Lazy', and 'Dishonest'. Upon a personal inquiry into his character, I would instead remark him as a highly talented and positive individual.

Clone-Trooper-1112 'Dar' is a private in the 134th battalion. His behaviour report labels him as 'Intelligent', 'Quick-witted', and 'Passive'. There is evidence to suggest that he is more nervous than his behaviour report implies.
Medical Note: Dar developed a minor pigmentation defect during the cloning process. It appears to be an aesthetic mutation only and has no effect on his performance, unlike other defective members of his batch.

Additional information concerning transferees

After the disastrous losses faced by the 134th Clone Battalion on Pranah, it has been propositioned that the battalion is dissolved and the members are reassembled as the 134th Aid and Relief Squadron, under the 104th Clone Battalion. This decision is in consideration, reliant on the fate of Clone Captain 'Sticks'.

Chapter Text

When he had first been shoved into the cupboard, Blowover had screamed and kicked and pounded at the door. Then something in his right hand had cracked and it had hurt too much to even close it, let alone hit something with it.

So he reverted to yelling. He hurled insults and curses at the door, hoping one of them would be heard by the bastard who threw him in there. Then his mouth went dry and his throat became hoarse.

He resigned himself to pacing in his makeshift cell. Although it couldn’t really be called pacing. He could only take two steps before he hit the wall and had to turn around to face the door again. The cupboard wasn’t even wide enough for him to side step properly.

It was dark in here too. There was barely enough light filtered under the door for him to see the silhouette of his feet.

It was making him nervous.

His hand hurt.

Blowover huffed angrily. He stormed the two steps over to the wall and sat down, cradling his injured hand to his chest. He shuffled his feet closer to his torso, drawing his knees up, and pressed his back against the cold durasteel. Everything in this damn city was cold.

The only thing he could hear was his own breathing.

He wasn’t sure how long he would be left in here. Ghir Ris had made it very clear that this was a punishment. He was to ‘stay in here until he’s learnt his lesson’ whatever the hells that meant. It was unlikely he’d be let out until the morning.

He didn’t know how long he’d already been in here. He’d been attacking the door for a long time. Maybe it was already night and he didn’t have that long to wait?

No. The automatic lights were still on outside. When the night cycle came, they would turn off and he would be plunged into true darkness. He had been here for a few hours at most.

He didn’t tear up at that. He didn’t. He wouldn’t let Ris get to him like that.

His left hand found a groove in the floor and he picked at it.

He hummed the tune to an ancient war song, one that the Cuy’val Dar would sing sometimes.

He went through all the battle codes that he knew in his head. Then all the tactics covered in his lessons. Then all the Mando’a and Huttese words he’d picked up. He even listed as many regs as he could remember.

He began to count.

He wasn’t sure what he was counting or why. He was going too fast to be counting the seconds so he couldn’t be trying to keep time. He wasn’t counting anything he could see because he couldn’t see anything to count. But at least counting was something to do.

Blowover got all the way to 236 before he lost count. Then he made it to 134. He counted to 6 and burst into tears.

Heaving sobs wracked his small frame and he shoved his face into the crook of his arm, sleeve immediately becoming soaked. He couldn’t help it. It was dark and cramped and he had been here for so long. He was cold and scared and alone.

His hand hurt.

It was throbbing like crazy, dull spikes of pain that came in time with his heart beat. Trying to flex any of his fingers caused fresh waves of agony.

He wished that the room was even the slightest bit lighter so he could see if there was any damage done. Though he wasn’t bleeding so whatever he’d done, it had probably happened under the skin.

Not that he could help himself, even if he knew what was wrong. He had no advanced medical training. He had been deemed ‘too volatile’ and ‘too emotional’ for any of that.

He could clean a wound and tie a tourniquet but really that was it. He had no clue about what to do with a broken hand.

Blowover sobbed into the darkness.

He wanted his brothers.

He wanted Dally to fumble his way through the cupboards lock and break him out. He wanted Six-And-Three to swing him up over his shoulder, the exact way he hated, and carry him all the way back to their bunkrooms. He wanted Hole to sit there and talk at him, even if he was talking about something totally boring like ants or whales or whatever. He wanted ’02. He wanted his twin to come and rescue him.

He didn’t want to be here anymore.

Blowover wrapped his body around his injured hand and cried.

~*~

To say that ’02 was worried would be an understatement. ’02 was terrified.

He’d checked the bunk rooms, and the training grounds, and the armoury, and the entire Southern side of the city, and he’d even risked sneaking into the trainer’s personal area. He couldn’t find his brother anywhere.

The last time he couldn’t find Blowover, Ghir Ris had dragged his brother back in the next morning and he had been shaking and pale and had flinched away from touch and hadn’t said anything for two rotations afterwards. Blowover had never spoken about what happened and, even today, would shut down at any mention of the incident.

’02 never wanted his brother hurt like that ever again.

Curfew was closing in on him as he rushed through the halls of Tipoca city. He would keep searching all through the night cycle if he had to, but it would be so much easier to find Bo if he wasn’t having to avoid the Kaminoans everywhere he went.

He ducked left as the corridor split, knowing that Hole was already searching the right half of the intersection, and palmed open the first door he found. It was an empty medical suit, void of any movement, not even a droid.

The next room was a storage cupboard. It contained mops, bleach, buckets, and no Blowover.

He kept opening doors and bursting into rooms, startling a scientist in one of them – who he ran from – and his searching kept turning up nothing.

’02 was beginning to feel sick.

When he opened yet another door to a dark and empty room, he felt almost ready to drop to his knees and cry

 He reached up, digging his fingers into his curls and pulled. Deep, steadying breaths, like the ones they were being taught in training, did very little to calm him down, and the pain of tugging on his hair was just painful, not grounding.

If he didn’t find Blowover soon, he was going to explode.

’02 went to leave the room when the faintest sound caught his attention. It sounded like someone was trying to breathe with half a ration bar stuck in their throat.

A second passed, and ’02 thought he might have imagined it, but then another noise happened. He stepped further into the room and heard it again.

It sounded like crying. Someone was crying.

Without a second thought, ’02 slammed the lightswitch and rushed into the room.

It looked like a trainer’s rec room – and wasn’t he glad it was empty now – like the one near the training centre only much smaller. There was a small table and a short sofa that he didn’t care for, and a few cupboards on the wall well above his head height.

He heard the sobs again and zeroed in on the sound.

It was coming from a durasteel door set into the wall opposite him.

‘02 sprinted straight for it, jumping over the table in his way, and, rather embarrassingly, ran into it. He hit it with a loud bang, bouncing off it and falling onto the floor, grunting as he went. There was a short, strangled shriek from behind the door, one that ’02 would know anywhere.

“Blowover!” He cried, scrambling to his feet and thumping on the door with his fist.

Why wouldn’t it open?

Behind the door, his twin began to cry louder, breath stuttering and wavering, seemingly unable to form words.

“Blowover, it’s me, I’m going to get you out!” ’02 shouted, even if he had no clue how he was supposed to do that.

He took a step back and looked at the door. It was tall and grey and probably slid into the wall when opened. It didn’t have a handle, but it did have a little control panel, mounted at eye height, right next to it.

Tapping away at the screen revealed that the door was locked.

Haar’chak.

Dally was the slicer, not him. He didn’t have time to fetch Dally right now.

How hard could getting into a measly little cupboard be?

The screen was asking for a password and ’02 ignored it; there was no point in him trying to guess and he didn’t fancy tripping any alarms or locking himself out.

Instead, he dug his fingers into the top of the screen and tugged.

His nails slipped out of the tiny crack, scraping horribly across the glass and he ignored it, going back in for a second try. He took out several small chips from the top of the screen before the entire thing gave out and he managed to rip it from the panel. The glass fell to the floor and smashed but he didn’t care because he could still hear Blowover crying.

A neat mess of wires and fuses lay underneath the screen. Three wires ran into the side of the panel and into the door. If ’02 wasn’t careful, he’d pull the wrong one and lock his twin in the cupboard forever.

He took almost a whole minute to consider the circuitry. Then he couldn’t take the sobbing anymore, so he grabbed the yellow wire and yanked.

There was a split second of terrifying nothing, but then the door beeped and slid open.

’02 cried out, rushing into the doorway and into the cupboard, zeroing in on the huddled up ball of blue and red. He leapt on Blowover, wrapping the other up in his arms, pulling him close and squeezing.

Blowover tucked his face into ‘02’s shoulder and cried.

Hot tears soaked into his shirt and he didn’t care because he’d found him. His brother was safe.

’02 pulled away, moving his hands off Blowover’s back to cup his face. He brushed away tears with his thumbs, and gave his brother a glance-over, trying to discern any injuries.

“Are you okay?!” ’02 asked frantically. All Blowover could do was sit there and shake. “Did he hurt you?”

Blowover shook his head, face screwing up tight as more tears dripped down his cheeks.

’02 shifted to his knees, one hand snaking round to hold the back of Blowover’s head, nails scratching at the short fuzz of his hair, the other hand balling up into its sleeve and then dabbing the red fabric into the other’s face, trying to soak up the tears.

“Are you okay?” He whispered.

Blowover raised a shaky right hand with fingers that looked red and swollen.

“Hand-” He croaked.

“Okay, c’mon Bo, let’s get back to the barracks.” ’02 stood, scooping his hands under Blowover’s armpits and tugging him to his feet. “Then Six-And-Three can look at you, right? And, and we can get a medic if we need to.”

His brother sniffed and nodded, leaning his weight onto him when ’02 wrapped his arm over his shoulders. He steered them out the cupboard then out the room and into the corridor. The hurried down the sterile halls, ’02 all too aware of the ticking of the clock. Curfew was creeping closer and closer after all.

They were a few minutes away from their barracks when they heard a shout behind them.

“Blowover! Oh-Two!”

They half-turned just in time to watch Hole thunder towards them and pull Blowover into a hug.

“You’re okay!” Hole cried, nearly picking his brother up off the floor in his enthusiasm.

“His hand’s hurt,” ’02 informed, “Be careful!”

“Oh!” Hole dropped Blowover almost as suddenly as he grabbed him and stepped back. “How badly?”

Blowover silently offered out his hand to be looked at, and Hole gently held the wrist, turning it over with his fingers.

“Well, kriff.” Hole swore. Under any other circumstances, ’02 would scold him for his language, but he felt rather inclined to agree with the sentiment right now. “Let’s get back. I think Six-And-Three’s already there, he can help.”

Hole intertwined his fingers with Blowover’s left hand, and ’02 clung onto his right bicep. Together, they dragged their batchmate the rest of the way to their bunkroom.

They entered and Six-And-Three ran at them, short ponytail bobbing at the base of his neck.

“Bo!” He yelled, “They found you!”

He gripped Blowover’s shoulders, scanning him up and down for injuries.

“Your hand!”

He pulled Blowover over to their bunks and sat him down on the floor, whirling around to dig in his locker for the medkit. Six-And-Three wasn’t a medic, but he was being trained as a reservist and that was the best they had.

’02 glanced around the area, looking for the fifth member of their squad.

“Where’s Dally?” He asked as Six-And-Three sank down next to Blowover, flicking open the medkit’s clasps.

“Not here yet.” His brother muttered distractedly.

“He’d better hurry up,” Hole said, crossing his arms, “If he’s caught after curfew again, they’ll turn him into fish food.”

’02 swallowed down this fresh new anxiety and lowered himself down to his knees next to his twin. He watches as Six-And-Three gently prodded and poked the swollen fingers, and nudged Blowover comfortingly when he whined at the pain.

Six-And-Three rooted around in his medkit. He came back with a little tube of bacta and squeezed some onto Blowover’s knuckles. He began to rub it in and Blowover hissed, wrenching his hand back.

“Hey,” Six-And-Three scolded, “I’m trying to help.”

“...It hurts.” Blowover whimpered.

His brother visibly softened.

“I know.” He took Blowover’s hand again, smearing the bacta around infinitely more carefully this time. “These two fingers are broken. And this one might be dislocated.”

Blowover glared down at his hand and sniffed.

“Bacta’s not gonna help stick my bones together.” He muttered.

“Well, I don’t have a bone knitter,” Six-And-Three huffed, “And it will help with the swelling.”

Blowover made a little unhappy noise but let Six-And-Three continue with his work undisturbed.

The sound of the door opening echoed through the bunk room and ’02 shot to his feet, chasing after Hole as they rushed to see who it was. It was Dally, stumbling in looking scared. He saw the two of them and froze.

“Did you find him?” He asked tentatively, fearful of the answer.

Hole continued rushing forward until he could grab Dally’s hand and yank him in the direction of their bunks.

“Yeah, we got him, now come on!”

Hole ran back, Dally in tow, grabbing ’02 as he passed, dragging the two of them back to the pair on the floor.

“Bo!” Dally cried out, then he halted suddenly, “What happened to your hand?!”

Blowover shrugged as nonchalantly as he could with red eyes and a tearstained face.

“I punched a door.” He said.

Dally cocked his head.

“A door...?”

“Di’kut.” Six-And-Three huffed.

Then he reached out, resting his fingers on the back of Blowover’s neck and pulling him in to press their foreheads together, the way some of the trainers did.

’02 sank back down next to them, pulling his twin into a tight hug. Dally plodded round to the other side where he sat down and leant his weight onto Blowover, crossing his legs and closing his eyes, sinking his face into the crook of the other’s neck. Hole was the last to join them on the floor, throwing his arms over his batchmates protectively.

“We’re glad you’re safe.” ’02 whispered.

“Yeah, we thought that Ris really was gonna kill you this time.” Hole chuckled in a weak approximation of a joke.

Blowover let out a little snort and leaned deeper into the touch of his brothers.

“He couldn’t kill me if he tried. I’m like one of those bug things that we learnt about last week. The ones that don’t die.” He muttered, grin audible in his tone.

“A Coruscanti roach?” Six-and-Three asked.

Blowover nodded.

“Yeah, you look like one too.” Dally grinned slyly.

Blowover pushed him and he toppled over with a yelp. ’02 laughed, Six-And-Three rolled his eyes, trying and failing to hide a smile, and Hole huffed.

“Y’know we all look the same, right?” Hole pointed out.

Dally groaned from where he was sprawled out on the floor.

“Yeah, but Blowover still looks the worst.”

“Hey, what happened to being nice to Bo time, huh?” Blowover asked both indignant and amused, “I say we go back to that.”

“Well of course you would.” ’02 smirked, tugging Blowover into his lap now that the others had pulled (or been pushed) away.

Blowover went willingly, with little more than a huff in protest, and ended up resting his head on his twin’s chest, nuzzling into the worn-soft fabric of his shirt. ’02 readjusted to lay his arms over Blowover’s shoulder, rubbing a hand up and down his arm, making sure there was plenty of space for his brother’s injured hand to rest unbothered on his knee.

Hole smiled fondly at them as he helped Six-And-Three pack up his medkit. Dally crawled towards the pair and tucked himself into Blowover’s side, hugging him around the middle. Six-And-Three laid down on Blowover’s other side, pressing their backs together and dropping his head onto ‘02’s free knee. Hole completed the vod-pile by coming up behind ’02 and draping his arms around his neck, pressing his face into his back.

The batchmates cuddled up together, simply relishing in the soft warmth of knowing their brothers were safe.

Then the lights turned off and, realizing they’d missed curfew, they scrambled up the ladder into their bunks.

Blowover couldn’t climb up properly, not with one broken hand, so ’02 pulled his twin into his bunk and let him lie back down on his chest. He shut them both into the tight tube and slept easy with the warm, comforting presence of his brother so close by.