"Hey."

FN-2187 jumps so badly that he nearly drops the mop he'd been holding. He spins around fast, eyes wide, and jerks back when he sees the ghost-like figure leaning against the wall on the opposite side of the hallway.

"What the…?"

"Cleaning duty?" the ghost asks, smirking. FN-2187 tries to take a deep breath, clutching to the mop like a lifeline. He's not crazy he's not he's not—

"Wow, this is strange!" the ghost says. "It's been ages since I've spoken to anyone who isn't a brother!"

FN-2187 briefly debates ignoring him, because he's… curious. Curiosity typically gets one killed in the First Order, so that scares him more than he'd like to admit. But curiosity wins over fear. He turns to the ghost and looks at him closely, noting the familiar face, but this ghost is new—FN-2187 has never seen his armor before. It's got gold paintwork over the gauntlets and collar.

The ghost looks at him as well. FN-2817 can feel his gaze inspecting him, staring at the white stormtrooper armor with something akin to disgust curling across his lips.

"The name's Boil," the ghost finally says. His eyes are gold and intrigued, and the mustache above his lip twitches as he speaks.

"And I'm Waxer," another voice says. FN-2187 flinches when a ghost steps out of the wall beside him, offering him a friendly smile. "Can you slip away for a moment? They sent us to call you."

FN-2187 swallows nervously. The longer he entertains them, the more trouble he'll undoubtedly be in when he gets caught. Although… he's technically ahead of schedule, in his cleaning route, and there's no one else on these levels at this time of day. He could, theoretically, pause for a few minutes.

Even though there would be consequences if anyone found out.

He glances around and, upon seeing no one, nods before his courage fails him. The acceptance makes his whole body tense almost involuntarily, half expecting Phasma or Kylo kriffing Ren to come rounding the corner. No one appears, and the ghosts beacon him to follow. FN-2187 does so in a daze, biting his lip as he goes.

This is dangerous. But he can't help himself.

"So…" one of the ghosts starts as they move—Waxer, he'd called himself— "What's your name, kid?"

FN-2187 does a double take.

"FN-2187," he recites. Then he winces when suddenly both ghosts scowl and glare—not at him, but at his words.

"Yeah, should have seen that coming," Boil mutters. "You know how it is here, Waxer. They're like the Kaminoans, but less… slimy. And less genetic dabbling."

Kaminoans. FN-2187 has never heard of that species. He racks his brain trying to recall the image to his mind from flash training, but he doesn't come up with anything.

"Yeah, I just… thought that maybe…" Waxer says, trailing off. He shoots a look at FN-2187, who's looking straight ahead and trying to stem down the panic from what he's doing. "But we can discuss that later," he says. "I think our new friend is pretty close to his limit as it is."

FN-2187 can't help but silently agree with him.

The ghosts do an odd mixture of walking and gliding, like holograms who don't actually have any mass but move regardless. FN-2187 is tempted to wave a hand through them, but he remembers the flash of overwhelming emotions that he'd felt the last time he'd done so and shivers, resisting the urge. That's not worth it.

He catches Waxer casting him a forlorn look, as if FN-2187 is a child in need of reassurance. FN-2187 pointedly keeps his arms stiff at his sides and ignores that, too.

"In here," Boil indicates quietly, turning towards a door. He steps through the blast shield, and Waxer hangs back just long enough to see that FN-2187 is fumbling for the door controls before he slips through as well. The door slides open, and the lights flicker on. It's a private hanger, not large enough for the rows of tie fighters that FN-2187 is used to, but meant for two, maybe three shuttles for deliveries. It's completely empty. Waxer and Boil are gone.

FN-2187 shuffles anxiously and makes his way into the center of the hanger, peering around and half-expecting the ghosts to leap out at him from the shadows.

"Waxer?" he asks tentatively into empty air. "Boil?"

It's quiet. FN-2187 clenches his jaw—

Finally, a shape appears in front of him, fuzzy at first, but the image clears. It's not Waxer, or Boil.

"Boo!" Hardcase says triumphantly. FN-2187 makes a face at him behind his helmet, but Hardcase seems to sense it anyway. He laughs.

"Sorry," he says good-naturedly, "I couldn't resist! We wanted to make an entrance, after all, and I am a ghost."

"Well you could have been nicer about it," FN-2187 mutters. Hardcase smirks triumphantly.

"He speaks! Finally!"

FN-2187 sighs, and then his brain nudges him—Hardcase had said we.

"Hardcase, stop bothering him," someone says, and FN-2187 turns to face the voice—

All around him, on every side, there are blurry forms emerging from thin air. Lines and lines and lines of them, solidifying into ghosts, so many of them that FN-2187 can't count. Some he's seen before, others he doesn't recognize—and every single one of them shares the exact same face.

"Holy kriff," he says, jaw dropping. "What…?"

He's never seen so many of them in the same place. He's glimpsed them all over the base, chatting amongst themselves in little groups, but this is easily more than three battalions of men, crowding in and manifesting themselves in whatever space is available. A couple form seated on top of the piles of crates by the wall.

"Sorry," a ghost says at FN-2187's elbow. FN-2187 doesn't recognize him, but there's a big cog tattooed on his face. "We like to have space, so we're not manifesting inside each other and getting all mixed up. There's kind of a lot of us, and that gets kind of uncomfortable."

FN-2187 just stares at him. His heart is beating so fast he feels like he's going to explode. What is this?

The ghosts are all staring at him, commenting to the others. They wave and joke and smile as they come in, like a giant family, and FN-2187 wants to shrink with so much attention on him. Attention is bad. It gets you noticed, and noticed is equally bad here. He doesn't—he can't process this. He must be actually insane. He's finally snapped. Something is horribly wrong with him—

A ghost pushes his way to the front of the crowd and grins. There's an excited look in his eyes. His armor is unmarked, but he's accompanied by two ghosts that FN-2187 does, unfortunately recognize—Echo and Fives. The first ones that he'd talked to.

"So this is him," the ghost says, grinning like he's just won a million credits.

"Yup," Fives says. "Take off your bucket, kid. No need for it here."

FN-2187 doesn't move. He thinks he's in shock. The ghosts don't really notice, because they start bickering about something that FN-2187 stops listening to. Eventually, the unfamiliar ghost grins at him.

"So, now that you're here…"

"Hevy, don't overwhelm him!" Echo warns sharply, but Hevy continues anyway.

"...Now that you're here, are you ready to help us destroy this scum-hole of a First Order?"

It's too treasonous for FN-2187 to bear. He goes completely stiff, and feels a wave of dizziness come over him.

"Oh, sithspit," one of the ghosts mutters, realizing that something's wrong. FN-2187 does the rational thing.

He faints.

"...told you to back off, you ugnauts! You won't do him any good like that!" someone is growling. FN-2187 blinks, coming back to himself. He's sprawled out on the floor, legs tucked uncomfortably beneath him. He groans as pins and needles race through his muscles and rolls to ease the pressure. A ghostly gloved hand snaps in front of his face. He jerks.

"Back with us?" the ghost asks gently. "Sorry, vod. Get overwhelmed?"

"I…" FN-2187 manages. "Y-yes. I'm okay."

He sits up and sees, once again, the hoards of ghosts staring at him, quiet. He closes his eyes.

"I couldn't move you to a more comfortable position," the ghost crouched in front of him says. "Y'know, being a ghost, and all. Or remove your bucket to check your vitals… but you're alive, so that's good. The name's Coric."

"Medic?" FN-2187 asks, noting the universal sigil stamped on the ghost's shoulder armor. The ghost nods.

"I'd pull you up, but…" he says, waving a transparent hand pointedly. FN-2187 grimaces and eases himself to a sitting position.

"Stay there, verd'ika," a new voice says. FN-2187 blinks as a new face comes out of the crowd. This ghost is very distinct from the rest. There's a pauldron sitting across his chest and a kama swishing at his thighs. The defining feature is short blond hair on his head. FN-2187 thought they were always dark-haired. "No need to stand. We're not done quite yet."

The surrounding ghosts seem to think the opposite, slipping to attention as the blond ghost passes them. They're soldiers, and they obviously treat him with very high respect. FN-2187 has to resist the urge to do the same, because yeah, commanding officer. FN-2187 recognizes the walk. But he's been ordered to stay seated, so he does so, feeling slightly dazed.

The blond ghost sits next to him, an easy smile on his face. He gestures to FN-2187's helmet.

"Take off the bucket," he coaxes. "It doesn't count as a face."

FN-2187 obeys. The ghost stares at him for a long moment.

"What's your name, kid?" he asks.

"FN-2187."

There's a sudden tension in the air. FN-2187 can't shake the feeling that he's done something wrong, but he doesn't know what.

"Okay," the blond says with an air of patience. "That's okay for now. My name's Rex. I take it you've got lots of questions for us, yeah? I'm here to answer them."

There's a massive movement behind him. The assembled ghosts are finding spaces to sit down, to wait and listen. A few more push to the front to be closer, armor very decorated and obviously higher ranking. FN-2187 gulps.

Questions? Sure.

"Am I… am I crazy?" he breathes out. Rex laughs.

"No, vod. I don't think so. I'm fairly certain we exist."

"What… are you?" FN-2187 tries next, blinking in an attempt to comprehend. Rex smiles again.

"We're clones. The clones, really." When FN-2187 doesn't react, Rex sighs. "We're genetically bred soldiers. We were created to fight in a war that… ended a while back."

"There was a war?" FN-2187 repeats blankly. "How long ago?" He'd thought that the rebel resistance to the First Order was the first case of opposition in a long time. There are a few whispered swears from the battalion of onlookers. Rex raises a hand, and they peter out.

"Yes," he answers. "Maybe… fifty or so years ago. It's a story for when you're more comfortable."

FN-2187 frowns. Maybe it had been a civil war, on some backwater planet in the outer rim, and that's why he's never heard of it.

"Now you're ghosts," he points out slowly. "You were terminated?"

A ghost in the crowd to his left flickers suddenly. It catches FN-2187's attention. He turns his head just in time to see a high ranking clone with red paint all over his armor twitch, image changing for a heartbeat—FN-2187 sees glowing blaster wounds all over his chest, gaping and horrible—

And then the clone stabilizes, and his armor is flawless once more.

Force. FN-2187's throat goes dry.

"Yeah," Rex confirms grimly. "Don't worry, though. We've had plenty of time to get used to it. We're together, at least, so it's not too bad."

"And… how, exactly, are you here?" FN-2187 asks, confused. "And why can I see you? And why the kriff did he ask me if—if I wanted to destroy—?" He cuts himself off. He can't say it.

Rex is staring at him, pity visible in his eyes. FN-2187 doesn't know why.

"I don't know the answer to the first two questions," he answers. "I have no clue why we're here on this planet. Nor do I know why you can see us. You're the first to be able to. That's why the vode are so excited. But there's one thing I do know—it's meant to be. And we need your help."

This sounds like something from a bad holo. FN-2187 sees a high-ranking clone in orange armor, similar to Waxer and Boil's, nod with a determined look on his face.

"But before we explain that, we need to tell you a couple other things first," Rex says. "The First Order isn't exactly… up to date, in their education system. How long do you have before someone will miss you?"

FN-2187 jumps. How much time had passed when he'd fainted? He whips his head around to look at the holoclock on the far war and exhales in relief when he sees that he's still okay. Regardless, he doesn't have very much time.

"Five minutes, maybe," he answers quietly. Rex nods, gaze sharpening. It's the look of someone well-versed in quick, efficient briefings.

"It's enough time to start," he says, and begins to talk.

FN-2187 learns a lot in five minutes.

A/N: HELLO THERE

Due to everyone and their dogs telling me I need to update this, I wrote another chapter. I didn't realize so many people wanted more, so here it is! I'll be coming back to this story in between Dominoes updates.

The clone that fizzes out for a moment to reveal the blaster-wounds is Thorn!

I'm trying to remember how to write Finn lol hope it's okay. right now he's just a poor terrified stormtrooper so yeah.

There will be more! Come follow me on tumblr at meridiansdominoes for more on this fic or on 'Dominoes'!