The good thing about this entire situation is that FN-2187 learns a lot. The clones tell him about the galaxy before the First Order and the Empire. They tell him about the Republic and the Galactic Senate and freedom. They tell him about Jedi—and it's completely different from what the First Order had taught him. The First Order says that Jedi are bloodthirsty traitors, that they use witch-magic to kill and steal and warp minds. The clones teach FN-2187 that they are brave, that they were champions of peace and representatives of the old Republic. They answer his questions (when he's alone and can speak) and sometimes while he's on duty they tell him stories and describe other planets to pass the time.
The bad thing about it is that sometimes it's just too much.
"You need a name," a clone tells FN-2187 as he emerges from the refresher. FN-2187 is accustomed enough to the clones popping in during random moments that he doesn't flinch. There are always helmets peeking through the walls now that they know FN-2187 can see them.
"It's gotta be something good," the clone says. He settles himself on FN-2187's bed, legs swinging. There's another ghost seated on the floor, too. FN-2187 sighs and shakes his head. He can't talk, his squadmates are here. "Like my name. I'm Wooley. He's Denal. Rex is Rex. Cody is Cody. Trigger, Chopper, Monnk. You need one. You're more than a number. And your squadmates have nicknames, but you don't."
FN-2187 blinks at him. He's never felt the need to use a nickname like the rest of his squad.
"We'll help you think of one," Denal suggests, and as if it's a signal, FN-2187's entire room is suddenly full of translucent soldiers.
"Ooh, are we helping him choose a name?" someone says, phasing down from the ceiling. There are sixteen different colors of armor around him and the clones start suggesting words that FN-2187 barely registers.
"Dur."
"Midnight."
"Drifter?"
"Major."
"Rex?"
"That one's too important to repeat, di'kut—"
"Cannon?"
"No, guys, come on. It has to be something related to him," one of the clones emphasizes. There's a split second of silence before the clones start again.
"Shiny."
"Storm...troop. Stormy?"
"Eighty-seven?"
"That's not a name!"
"Ghost-seer?"
"Too dramatic!"
FN-2187 closes his eyes and tries to tune them out, but it's too much. There's so many of them, all talking at the same time. They're comfortable with it, but he's not.
His squadmates probably think he's absolutely insane by now.
"Stop," he dares to whisper, casting a worried glance the other stormtroopers in the room. Zeroes and Slip don't appear to hear him, too immersed in wiping down their equipment. Unfortunately, the clones don't either.
"Ne'johaa!" a voice thunders from out of nowhere. FN-2187 jumps at the volume. The clones freeze, jaws clicking shut.
One of the high-ranking clones steps into the room. The markings on his armor are yellow, and there are two gold little tattoo patches on each of his cheeks.
"You're bothering him," the new clone hisses. "Get out of here."
There are a few muttered protests, but the crowd of men fades away until FN-2187 is alone with the newcomer. He breathes a sigh of relief, tilting his head to eye his savior. This clone is undoubtedly high-ranking, a pauldron across his chest and a kama swinging by his hips like Rex's. He sits down carefully on Nines' bed, giving FN-2187 a smile.
"I'm sorry about that," he says quietly. "They can be loud when they get excited. They don't mean it, but they don't know any better. You… might want to do something productive so that your squad doesn't get suspicious."
FN-2187 blinks and realizes that his hands are dangling uselessly at his sides. He reaches for his gun and hurriedly starts to wipe it down with a microfiber rag.
"They only bother you so much about a name because that's important to us," the yellow clone explains quietly. "We're given numbers when we're decanted, just like you stormtroopers. But unlike the First Order, we were allowed to build our own personalities. We chose names to remind ourselves that even though we all look the same, we're all different. My name's Bly."
FN-2187 spares him a look and nods in greeting.
"Half of the vod are ready to perform the gai bal manda already and claim you as a brother, so they're anxious for you to pick a name," Bly says, amusement coloring his tone. FN-2187 doesn't know what that means. "They see something special in you. We all do—you can see us, after all. And names are good, but there's no rush. I didn't choose a name for a long time. My Jedi ended up giving it to me, actually." His eyes go very far away. FN-2187 sees grief and fondness flash across his face. It piques FN-2187's interest. He raises an eyebrow pointedly, and Bly hums.
"There's a question in your eyes, verd'ika, but I'm no jetii. I can't read your mind."
FN-2187 frowns.
Tell me about your General, he wants to say, and dares to mouth the words as Zeroes stands up to put away his gear, briefly hiding FN-2187 from his squadmates' view. Bly arches an eyebrow at him.
"My General?" he repeats, and then the edges of his lips curl upwards. "Believe me, kid, you've never seen a more incredulous sight than my Jedi." He says my Jedi with an unholy amount of pride. "Jedi Master Aayla Secura, in command of the 327th Star Corps. She was a blue-skinned Twi'lek that could tear droids apart with her bare hands if it came down to it."
FN-2187's eyes widen as he tries to imagine that. He's only seen pictures of Twi'lek in holos during flash training.
"Her lightsaber was blue, just like her skin," Bly describes. "Sometimes she would leap from a gunship into a raging battle, and it was like watching a shooting star fall from space. I told her so many times that she needed to stop, because it just about gave the men a heart attack every time, but she didn't listen. Too many lives at stake, she would tell me. And then she would jump, and spend hours breaking clankers up into little tiny pieces like a hurricane. She was untouchable. We struggled to keep up during every mission."
His voice goes low and lazy as he describes her, in a way that FN-2187 doesn't hear very often. It's clear that Bly had cared greatly for this Jedi woman.
FN-2187 fixes Bly with a look and shrugs his shoulders to get the clone's attention.
What happened? he mouths. He knows that Bly understands, because he sees Bly's eyes widen, but then the clone turns his head away without answering. His form flickers unsteadily for a long moment. FN-2187 doesn't know what that means but he doesn't like it.
"Story for another time, kid," Bly grunts, tone so closed-off all of a sudden that FN-2187 flinches. He'd been plenty willing to share a moment ago. "Your gun."
FN-2187 swears inwardly and scrubs the rag over his weapon a little harder than necessary at the reminder. Kriff, he'd gotten distracted again. He has to be more careful. This had been his initial fear about acknowledging the clones in the first place, because if someone finds out that FN-2187 is hiding something, it won't end well. It never does.
"I'll let you focus," Bly tells him, rising up without a sound and drifting a little even though he doesn't move his feet. His voice is light again, and he offers FN-2187 an apologetic look. "I can keep the others away from you for a bit, if you want some space. It probably isn't normal for you to have so many people around, is it."
FN-2187 jerks his head in a tiny nod. At last, someone notices. Bly chuckles.
"Thought so. Yeah, I'll tell them to back off. And if they don't listen, you tell them they'll answer to me."
It sounds like a good threat. FN-2187 suppresses a smile and nods again. He flashes the number three at Bly with his fingers. Bly tilts his head.
"Days, or hours?"
Hours, FN-2187 mouths, because Force, he doesn't want them gone for that long, just for a few hours so that he can clear his head and focus. Bly tosses him a two-fingered salute as he heads for the wall, disappearing through it in an instant.
He's true to his word. FN-2187 has his three hours of peace, and when it's over, the clones don't just appear in hordes like they'd done beforehand. Instead, they send a young-looking clone named Tup to ask him if he feels ready to see them again. Tup's feet don't make any noise, but they shuffle involuntarily on the floor as he speaks. FN-2187 likes him immediately and nods his agreement.
There are so many stories that the clones can tell him, but there's plenty of things that they're hiding at the same time. FN-2187 has always been too curious for his own good.
Waxer and Boil are wringing their hands nervously. FN-2187 isn't alone—he's on a shift at a control terminal, watching over security cams and tapping the panel in front of him in boredom. There's another stormtrooper next to him, but FN-2187 thinks he's asleep. He hasn't moved in a half-hour.
"We have a favor to ask," Waxer tells him quietly. FN-2187 sends him a look. There's not much he can do by way of favors. Waxer raises a hand.
"I know, I know," he says. "You can't call attention to yourself. But this… means a lot to us, and it's small. There's someone we want you to look up. It's a girl… a Twi'lek, by the name of Numa."
"We don't know her family name, or anything," Boil comments dully, like he doesn't expect anything out of this. "I bet there are thousands of Twi'lek named Numa. And we knew her when she was a kriffing child, little more than an ik'aad. It's been fifty years. She could be dead by now."
FN-2187 frowns and pulls out his datapad. There isn't much he can do to search for civilians. His datapad contains some records, but the galaxy is big. The records he has are enemies and allies to the empire, people that stormtroopers need to recognize and know whether to arrest or kill on sight. He types the name in doubtfully anyway, acutely aware of Waxer's hopeful eyes.
His datapad pings softly. A file pulls up of an older Twi'lek woman with turquoise skin. The icon over her head blazes the word wanted in unforgiving red letters.
Waxer makes a small noise of shock. FN-2187 lifts his gaze from the datapad to see the clone reaching forwards desperately as if he could enter the image, eyes wide. At his side, Boil is completely still, not even breathing.
"Y-yeah. That's her, all right," Waxer says, breath catching as he attempts to scroll down on the datapad, forgetting that he can't. When he makes a frustrated noise, FN-2187 reaches out to do it for him, allowing Waxer and Boil to cram themselves closer and read the information.
"Ha. Wanted for resisting arrest, association with Rebel forces, and protesting against the Empire in her youth. More recently wanted for speaking out against the First Order and rallying Rebel cells on Ryloth to take a stand against it." Boil grins, mustache jumping. "The little biter's still alive and biting. Doesn't surprise me one bit."
Waxer chuckles softly.
"Boil. Look." His voice nearly breaks as he points to the screen again. It's another image of Numa from when she was younger, a gun raised and teeth bared at the camera. The position puts her upper left arm plate into view, and there are four aurebesh characters written across it.
It spells BOIL. FN-2187 watches as Boil's eyes mist over.
"Dunno why she didn't put Waxer. She liked you better," he says roughly. He crosses his hands over his chest and shifts his weight, not looking anyone in the eyes in a poor attempt to appear casual. Waxer smiles and knocks his shoulder against Boil's gently.
"Not true. She's doing just fine, vod," he says happily. "She's a fighter, just like we knew she'd be."
Boil nods proudly. He reaches for FN-2187 but stops before his ghostly hand can connect with FN-2187's armor.
"Thanks, kid," he says softly. His fingers twitch in midair, like he wants to touch, but he doesn't. "We really appreciate it."
FN-2187 nods.
"You're welcome," he whispers, and feels a pang of jealousy that he isn't expecting. He wants to care about someone like Waxer and Boil care about Numa. He wants someone to care for him like that. He has his squad, but there's one thing that the clones have consistently shown him that he can't get out of his mind—unshakable loyalty and love. They call each other brother. They joke and laugh together like one big family, and FN-2187 wants even though that's not possible.
Stormtroopers aren't siblings. Not like the clones are. It's a silent competition of who can be the most obedient, who can be lucky enough to go up in rank the fastest. Camaraderie is lost in a violent struggle to stay alive.
Waxer and Boil are still looking over Numa's file delightedly. FN-2187 sighs as he turns his gaze back to his watch, keeping one hand on the datapad to scroll whenever Waxer and Boil tell him to.
He may not have a family, but the least he can do is help these dead clones reconnect with theirs.
A/N: I know these are short, don't kill me for it! Eventually this will get updated with more frequency and the chapters will be longer, I promise!
Mando'a-
Ne'johaa: shut up
Di'kut: idiot
Ik'aad: child under 3.
Gai bal manda: adoption ceremony
Thank you for your never-ending support! I appreciate the kind words! Thanks for reading! Come follow me at 'meridiansdominoes' on tumblr for more!