On the first day Dred Priest met the regiment of clones he was to train, he told them the simplest law of life.
"The strong survive. The weak die. That's the way the galaxy works. The day we forgot that, we became everyone's lackey."
And Dred was no one's lackey. Not the Kaminoan's, not Skirata's or Vau's, not that fool Gilamar's, and especially not Jango Fett's.
Fett can gallivant all he wants on how he singlehandedly destroyed the Death Watch. He should. As much of a nuisance the True Mandalorians were, they had been a worthy foe to combat and inevitably defeat. If anything, Vizsla should have attempted to coerce Fett into their way of thinking, just like his sister. Damn shame it was never meant to be. Fett was too hard set in his ways, perfectly fine in his position as the galaxy's best bounty hunter instead of the galaxy's finest warrior. A damn shame.
Still, his life choices aside, Jango Fett was no fool. He was able to recognize Dred Priest's genius and skills in the art of warfare. It didn't matter to him that some of the Cuy'val Dar believed in the values of the ancient Crusaders. Fett needed hardened experts and military connoisseurs to train the greatest army the galaxy will ever see, and Dred was one among many that were too useful and readily disposed to ignore.
One of those connoisseurs happened to be a fine woman named Isabet Reau. Imparting the next generation of elite warriors the vast knowledge of the great Mandalorians was motivation enough for Dred Priest to spend the next odd years in isolation on Kamino. But Issy… made the stay all the more exhilarating.
Unfortunately, no matter how lenient Fett is with the Cuy'val Dar's choices of training exercises, or how in tune he is with his Mandalorian heritage, those of weaker heart will always interfere with the true way things must be done.
The Battle Circle Dred and Issy had hosted was brutal, yes. It had pit brother against brother, yes. It had costed several young boys' lives, yes, but Gilamar is too limited by his irrational sense of morality. What better way to teach the elite than by hands-on experience in a controlled environment? The clones who had won their matches have proven their willingness to follow orders. The ones with blood on their hands showed that they were ready to do anything to complete the mission, no matter the cost.
But Fett disagreed with Dred and agreed with Gilamar. Fett agreed with Gilamar quite vigorously.
He claims the Battle Circle, an ancient Mandalorian tradition, would be too costly in the long term. If too many clones died as they grew older, more children would have to be reproduced in those tanks, and the Kaminoans' estimates claim more assets would be lost than gained.
It was shabla excuse. These clones, these boys need to experience death and cruelty early in life and firsthand. That is what their entire lives will consist of, because that is how any strong Mandalorian does war.
Even with a lame arm and a broken jaw, as Dred Priest entered his quarters and prepared for bed, he contemplated on how to circumvent Fett's latest "guidelines" on training the troops. Battle Circles may be out of the question, but there were always advanced interrogation techniques that can be simulated.
As Dred lay in bed and closed his eyes, he thought back to his first meeting with his batch of trainees. They were approximately three years old but bore the physical and mental capacity of six year olds. At first, their behavior nearly made Dred believe he was educating advanced androids painted with synthetic flesh instead of humans. They were completely unaffected when Dred spoke of the law of life, showing no intimidation or fear whatsoever.
It didn't speak much for their strength in character. It wasn't tried and deadened experience that was the cause of the clones' inability to show emotion. No, they were too young and sheltered for any such things. It was ignorance that was the fault of their character, and it was ignorance that Dred Priest decided was the first weakness to eradicate.
Dred Priest them told them stories of the many things he did while journeying through the galaxy. He told them of the wars he's fought in, of the glorious battles he departed victorious. He told them of the Mandalorians, how they were once the jatnese be te jatnese, the best of the best, and how they will reclaim that title very soon with the help of the clone army. He showed them his armor, and he showed them the various trophies he had rightly earned and had brought with him to Kamino, from an old jetii'kad to the bloodstained bandoleer he wears around him.
These stories caught the clones' curiosity. They emitted the innocence and hesitant excitement boys their age often show, wishing to know more about this alien and wizard entity before them.
And then Dred Priest told them of the first man he killed.
He was only fourteen at the time. His parents were on the fronts lines of some forgotten war while he was stationed in their command center. Prisoners, enemy soldiers were brought in. Dred's aunt saw thought it fit for him to assist in the interrogation of one of their prisoners. "The kid has to prove his worth at some point," he remembered her saying, and he was all the more thankful for her giving him the opportunity.
Dred recalled being debriefed on the prisoner. He was twice Dred's age and a soldier willing to die for his cause. He was seen often in the battlefield, killing many of Dred's clan and slipping away every time, until now.
Dred felt no anger or vengeance for his fallen clan members. The prisoner had proven his strength. There was respect to be had there.
Respect, and absolutely no mercy. A man of his ferocity had to be met with even greater ferocity if he is to break.
Dred did his aunt and parents proud that day. He did himself even prouder.
The clones were silent after Dred told his story, just as he intended. He left the room afterward, to let all the details of how he tortured a stranger's body, crippled the stranger's mind, and destroyed his soul, settle in.
The Battle Circle was established not long following their introduction.
Perhaps Dred can have his boys take turns interrogating one another, increasing the harshness of the techniques the more eager the interrogator was. Or perhaps when the interrogee becomes more steadfast? He will have to discuss this topic with Issy tomorrow.
He realized he wasn't merely dreaming of interrogation techniques when he felt his body shutter and his eyes snap open.
A light source hung overhead, bright and white and glaring into Dred's eyes. He was lying on his back, just as he was when he went to sleep. Only now he was flooded with a feeling of nakedness he gets when he is without his armor. He lay on something flat and bare, rough and faintly metallic, like an operating table stripped of its cushions.
Dred focused on the pain in his arm. He lifted his head to see both pairs of arms and legs outstretched, so his skull and limbs pointed in the same directions as the points on a star. His wrists and ankles were bound by knots on black columns standing nearby the table. It was sturdy workmanship, too, as he couldn't immediately break free. Restraints seemed to be placed over Dred's stomach, throat, and knees as well.
Shadows surrounded Dred, and shuffles and whispers echoed from those shadows.
"What do you want?" Dred shouted. This was no dream, so the only conceivable perpetrator that could have taken him so easily would be one of the Cuy'val Dar, and considering that he was on an operating table…. "What game are you trying to play, Gilamar?" Dred had expected some sort of personal retribution from the doctor himself, but he never would have imagined –
The shuffles grew louder. Midgets stepped into light all around Dred. He could see their vague red garments, but what captured his attention were the masks they wore. The masks were the fronts of Republic Commando helmets, the lines where they were separated from the rest of the armament jagged and coarse. The bottom halves were excluded, as was the blue glow. As they were, the masks mimicked the Mandalorian black T-visor.
Vau had requested Fett to bring in painting materials for the clones to decorate their armor in Mandalorian tradition. Soon after, everyone seemed to be requesting for armor paints, and these paints were splattered on the masks of Dred's kidnappers. From the mild orange of a sunset to the dark blue of Kamino's ocean, each mask paraded a unique color, each and every single one of them silently taunting Dred.
"Soldiers," Dred hissed, glancing between each young costumed clone who came into his view, "what in haran's name do you think you are doing, di'kute? Take off those disgraceful masks and –"
One of them threw a punch across Dred's face. His jaw exploded a thousand fold, but it was a familiar sensation. What had shocked Dred into silence was the clone's audacity in laying a hand on his drill sergeant. All of these clones seemed to have gone mad, making Dred their prisoner while playing pretend as Mandalorians when they are so far from earning that name.
Then all of them started hitting Dred. They punched, kicked, slapped, elbowed – whatever and however they could, the clones were beating him. It wasn't just one arm and his jaw that were impaired and broken anymore. It was every limb, every joint, and every bone the clones – these children intended to fracture and shatter.
Pain provided only a small comfort. It convinced him that this was not some sick dream or nightmare. The way the T-shaped visors enveloped Dred so it was the only thing in sight appeared too surreal to be reality, but it was, and two questions kept prodding his cranium all the while he was being beat into submission: How? And why?
The beating stopped. The masks still stared into his soul, but the beatings stopped. The clones took a collective step back as one of them climbed over Dred's body and kneeled over his chest.
This clone's mask was different from the others. His was painted a striking gold color along with distinct carvings sinking into the façade. Lines were drawn from the visor to the edges of the mask, the material between these lines looking worn and wrinkled.
This boy's mask was an amateurish yet strikingly accurate recreation of the long lost Mask of Mandalore.
The boy held a knife – one of Dred's combat knives. All Dred could do as he watched the boy raise the knife was wonder who it was behind the mask. Dred desperately wanted to know the boy's name before he died. The clone had to be one of his, and he had to have listened closely and intently to how Dred made his first kill to replicate the event so closely this night.
However, the knife never churned its way into Dred's sternum and dig into his heart as he expected. Instead, the rest of the room's lights turned on. Dred was right in his initial suspicions that he was put in a medbay, and all of the clone's heads turned to the door.
Isabet marched in, screaming obscenities and death threats harsher than the ones she used during training sessions. As the clones around Dred dispersed, they stood at attention as Fett entered. Gilamar came next. He and Dred stared at one another, one filled with utter confusion and the other too shocked to speak.
The next morning, Dred was explained that his torturers were members of his RC regiment. Fett was still figuring out how long they had been playing this little escapade, but he estimated that it must have taken at least some months to create the masks, schedule Dred's capture, and successfully restrain him on Gilamar's vacant operating table between training and the Battle Circle.
Gilamar treated Dred's latest injuries without word or question. Once he was done, he and Fett left to handle some other business of theirs. Dred was thankful that Isabet stayed with him for a while, but soon she too had to leave. She had her own troops to deal with, and she promised to discipline Dred's boys while he was recovering to the fullest extent possible that Fett would allow.
Before she left, Dred asked her lovely Issy who was it that was mastermind of this whole act. Who was the boy in the Mandalore's Mask?
"RC-1134," Isabet said. "It was that little piece of osik who planned the whole thing."
Dred asked Isabet to avoid disciplining RC-1134 yet. He claimed that he wanted to take care of him personally. Isabet obliged before leaving.
1134. That boy remembered everything, didn't he? He remembered each and every detail of Dred Priest's first kill. He remembered the designs of Mandalore's Mask when Dred was teaching them on their history. He remembered Dred's first words to him, how he must give a show of strength as he lets the weak die.
RC-1134. Dred remembered that number. It was the number of the first clone to kill a brother in the Battle Circle.
They were only five years old, physically ten, and already, Dred was more excited than he had been in decades.
The boy proved his worth. He deserved a name. An actual name, not some nonsensical number.
Bev. RC-1134 will be known as Bev. The Mando'a word bev translates to spike, and he nearly spiked one of Dred's knives into Dred's chest. Seems appropriate.
Bev was going to go far. He was going to become one of the strongest, driven warriors the Mandalorians will have to offer. Dred Priest was going to make sure of that, whether the boy liked it are not.