Archive of Our Own ^beta

Trainer Bric orders Mishuk to get up, and Mishuk refuses.

It shouldn’t be a surprise. Mishuk has been slower lately. Less responsive to orders, less responsive to brothers.

It’s probably natural, Fives thinks, for somebody to break when they’re treated like Mishuk is. He doesn’t understand, but he realized back in fourth year, counting Mishuk’s bruises in the showers, that Bric tortures cadets for fun.

He doesn’t understand the criteria for who gets tortured, though, because it isn’t all of them. Bric is demanding and punishing and often downright mean to all his cadets, but how far he takes it varies widely. Bravo Squad gets the best treatment, because they have the best scores. Fives’ squad is called Tile Squad, and their scores are unremarkably acceptable, but they had Bric’s attention from the beginning nonetheless – and not in the way Bravo Squad does.

Fives wonders if it would have changed anything, if their sixth batcher hadn’t decanted wrong.

He guesses probably not, because Iira would still be the same ori’vod he is now, and it’s Iira’s tenacity, Iira’s defiance, that Bric loves to play with.

It was never really about Mishuk. He was just the weakest Tile cadet, and Iira is just a bleeding heart. Fives has lost count of the number of times Mishuk has been forced to run until he collapsed or stuck with Bric’s little electrostick until he screamed.

The goal was never really to make Mishuk scream, though. Bric has always just wanted to hear Iira beg.

And beg Iira does, when Mishuk doesn’t lift his eyes from the ground and whispers: “No. I’m done.”

Iira appeals to Mishuk first, and when it does nothing, when Bric lifts his comm to his mouth and turns calling the longnecks into a show, when Iira starts screaming for Mishuk to please get up, that’s when Fives starts praying.

They’re entering sixth year, when the training is supposed to get even harder, and somehow they’ll have to do it without Mishuk, but if the longnecks take Iira, they’re finished.

If the longnecks take Iira, it’ll just be Fives and ’54 and Snaps left.

They can’t do it without Iira. He’s the oldest, he’s the leader. They need him.

But Iira is screaming and pleading, until the authoritative monotone of a Security Force officer cuts through the shrieks, and the barracks goes eerily silent.

And Fives thinks maybe it’s over. But then two of the Security Force are forcing Mishuk to his feet, and Iira starts up again, grabbing onto Mishuk’s uniform and the older clones’ arms, begging and babbling until one of the Security Force clones turns sharply, like he’s going to haul Iira away to the labs too.

It’s then that Bric intervenes, grabbing Iira by the hair, dragging the cadet back.

“I’ll deal with this one,” he says, yanking Iira’s hair to the side and setting him off balance. “Take that waste of space and let the Kaminoans dispose of it.”

They haul Mishuk away, and at the same time, Bric turns toward the other door to the barracks, pulling Iira with him.

Fives will remember, always, Mishuk’s blank expression and Iira’s desperate cries, as the two cadets are pulled in separate directions, out of separate doors.  

It’s just Fives and Snaps and ’54, now.

Mishuk’s getting decommed, probably. Reconditioned at best, and that’s not really different or better, is it?

What about Iira?

Snaps and ’54 are watching Fives.

The two of them aren’t going to do anything.

What if Iira doesn’t come back?

He doesn’t really decide to start moving his feet, but they’re moving anyway. Following Bric and Iira.

If Iira doesn’t come back, Fives is finished. Snaps and ’54 too. Somebody needs to know for sure if that’s happening, so they can…make peace, or something.

Fives doesn’t want to die not knowing what happened to Iira.

So he follows – blending into passing groups of cadets, ducking around corners, and somehow he doesn’t get caught. It is technically recreation hours, so it’s not a problem for a lone cadet to be out of his barracks. He’s probably lucky, there.

What’s strange, what’s maybe lucky or maybe not, is that Bric isn’t taking Iira to the white rooms, where the decoms happen. The cadets they pass are littler, now – fifth-years, like the ones in the barracks where Bric stops, throwing Iira to the ground. Fives doesn’t catch the name he calls, but it’s clearly directed at a trainer – male, probably human.

“Brought you some fresh meat,” Bric sneers. “I know you prefer them older than your group.”

Fives has hunkered down at the entrance of the barracks, half-hidden behind the doorway. He doesn’t understand what’s going on, when the other trainer’s face splits into a sharp smile as he inspects Iira.

“What, you don’t want it? It defective or something?”

Bric laughs harshly. “Sure, it’s got a smart mouth and getting hit doesn’t teach it a thing. But it’ll work fine for what you want. Maybe that’ll teach it something.”

Iira says something, but Fives can’t make it out, because Bric slaps him across the face halfway through.

“Behave,” Bric snarls, “or I’ll let him keep you. See how you like that.”

The other trainer leers, and grabs at Iira. The cadet struggles against his grip, but the trainer is larger than Bric, practically twice the size of a sixth-year cadet. The fifth-years scattered around the barracks are miniscule next to him – though Fives realizes that while the cadets were initially scattered, they’ve moved into small huddles, in corners and behind benches.

The trainer lifts Iira, slamming him down on one of the benches, laughing as he thrashes and screams. Bric smirks, leaning back against the wall and crossing his arms. Enjoying the show, Fives’ brain supplies. He’s seen other trainers watch Bric have his fun tormenting the cadets, like Bric is watching this trainer now, but this is-

This is different.

Iira has always been loud, outspoken. He’s always fought back, stopping just short of a decommissioning order time and time again.

Pinned to the bench, uniform trousers pooled unceremoniously around his ankles, the only sound Iira makes is a pained whimper as the trainer thrusts into him.

This isn’t something trainers are supposed to do. Fives is sure this isn’t something they’re allowed to do. He’s never seen Bric do this.

But Bric’s not stopping it.

Fives needs to try and stop it.

There’s a light tug on his uniform sleeve. Fives looks down, and finds that one of the fifth-years has discovered his position.

Iira screams, and Fives looks at this other cadet, only a year younger than him but so much smaller, and thinks if it makes Iira scream like that, it must almost rip these little ones apart.

“You can’t stop him from doing that to your friend,” the little cadet says. His tone is strangely detached, but his eyes are sharp and dangerous as he whispers: “But don’t worry. I’m learning about poisons, and someday, I’m going to kill him.”

Fives has never heard such intense hatred, such unwavering intent, from a brother’s mouth.

He believes it.

Iira keeps whimpering, tiny, punched-out sounds, and when Fives forces himself to look again, Iira is crying freely, staring up at the ceiling as the trainer violates him.

Iira wouldn’t want him to see this, Fives knows.

He can’t just leave him.

At some point, Fives looks down, and finds that the little cadet is holding his hand.

When his tears fall, the little cadet reaches up and wipes them away, as steady as if he’s done this a thousand times.

Maybe he has. Maybe this trainer, too, has his favorite victims, and this cadet is the one who comforts them after, like Fives does for Iira. Like he’ll do again, when this is over.

And when it’s over, Iira is gasping quietly, and the trainer glances at Bric, inclining his head at Iira as if to say: “want a turn?”

Bric shakes his head, and the other trainer shrugs, wiping himself off on Iira’s uniform.

The two trainers walk out of the barracks chatting like nothing’s happened. The fifth-years murmur quietly.

Iira doesn’t move.

“Take him back and get him in the fresher.” Fives startles, but it’s just the scary-eyed little cadet. He didn’t even realize the kid was still next to him.

He starts to protest, but the kid holds up a hand, shaking his head.

“Yes, people will see. They won’t care. Nobody around here does. But they will care about sixth-years in the fifth-year freshers.”

It’s hard to argue with a kid whose face never breaks from neutral-scary.

They really have to coax Iira onto his feet and back into his uniform trousers. Fives tries to wipe some of the mess off, but it’s sticky and he just ends up getting himself messy too. The little kid disappears for a bit, then reappears with a damp cloth, which does help some.

“It’ll come off the uniforms in the wash,” he says, slinging one of Iira’s arms over his shoulder as Fives takes the other. “It always does.”

Fives nods. He doesn’t think he’s said a coherent word to this kid the whole time, and when they finally make it back to the sixth-year area, he pauses at the door of the fresher only to find he still doesn’t have anything to say.

He wants to say thank you, he wants to say sorry, he wants to ask this kid how he’s so brave, and is there a way he can teach Fives? Is there a way to learn to be brave enough to survive Kamino with your courage intact?

He doesn’t know how to say any of that.

The little cadet slips away without a goodbye, melting into a crowd of larger bodies as if he’d never existed.

He has no distinguishing features. Fives probably wouldn’t be able to pick him out in a lineup.

The look in his eyes, though, when he talked about poisons – that sticks with Fives as he strips off his clothes, then Iira’s, murmuring reassurances as his older brother struggles briefly.

They’re under the water, and Iira is trembling. There’s blood on his legs, before it washes away.

Fives thinks of the little cadet’s promise, and prays for it to come true.

For years to come, when he thinks of justice, it’s that cadet he thinks of, with his steel eyes and unshaking resolve.

And he prays.