Summary: "More often than not, they don't get any food once the fighting starts." A day in the life of Tech, before the Batch's deployment. One-shot.
Prompt: Create a "to do" list for a character. Make sure there are at least FIVE things on the list. For each item, let us follow the character as s/he/they complete it. (Basically, each item on the list is like a chapter title for a short chapter in the story of the character's day.)
A/N: Written for school.
A Day In The Life Of An Experimental Clone
I. Try not to stand out any more than usual.
Tech slides onto the table bench beside Hunter, his datapad set aside- left behind in their barracks, really- for once. Around them, the mess hall is full, the yet-to-be-deployed regs already settling down at their own tables, some already halfway done with their food, eager to get to their training. An eagerness that he and his own squad had held, once upon a time. He does his best not to think about it.
"How long do you think it'll take them this time?" Hunter asks, and Tech follows his gaze to the other half of their team, sees how the regs in line with Wrecker and Crosshair have already tensed up, how their eyes boil with rage at one of the sniper's remarks.
"It will not be long." Tech replies, turning to his own food to try to eat as much as he can while he can.
Hunter follows his example.
More often than not, they don't get any food once the fighting starts. It usually is either Wrecker or Crosshair's fault, the two having no filter. Wrecker, because he is prone to saying the first thing that comes to mind; Crosshair, because it's simply who he is- blunt and unforgiving. Of course, every now and again, Hunter or Tech himself will start something- though, that is often accidental- but it usually is one of the other two.
He's only part of the way through his polystarch breadstick when the first yowl of pain comes, halfway between the end of the food line and the tables. Tech glances over, glimpses a reg laying on the floor, clutching his face, and sighs.
"It really is a wonder that we haven't yet been decommissioned." He says to Hunter as he sets his bread down, and prepares to leap up to his other brothers' aid as chaos explodes around them.
II. Complete weekly battle simulation.
Slipping out into the chaos of battle on the training grounds never gets much harder. The Bad Batch has long since mastered it, even before their final puzzle piece had been set in among the first three. They have different strategies, different tactics, different little tricks that they rotate through with each session.
As good as it is to keep up with those tactics, it makes the battles a little less entertaining each time.
But, the war has begun.
Soon, they will be deployed. They all know it- Tech's final piloting assessment is after their next meal, for kriff's sake.
The future aside- Tech shakes his head as he ducks back behind one of the battlements alongside Wrecker, eyes burning behind his goggles in the wake of a training shot flying past his face. He needs to stay focused. Focus, his greatest attribute and his deadliest flaw.
"Tech, Wrecker! You're up!" Hunter calls from behind his own cover, glancing over to the pair of them.
"Finally!" Wrecker booms, his impatience radiating in his voice.
Tech vaults over the battlements as his older brother charges around them, blasters raised and unleashing their wrath upon the droids. Crosshair's cover fire comes from one of the towers above, as precise and accurate as always, and Hunter provides his own from behind, a volley of blue training bolts rushing past them to hit their marks.
Droids fall like- well, Tech doesn't have anything to compare it to, yet. But the droids are falling faster than anything he's ever seen- except for the regs when Wrecker's onto them- and training sessions have never been easier.
He wonders if fighting in the war itself will be as simple as this.
III. Avoid flying tables.
A food tray whizzes by Tech before he's even able to sit down, this time. Fine, he thinks, I am certain that I could fly on an empty stomach anyway.
The white-armored regs converge on the squad's black armor, and the battle for control over the mess hall begins again.
One reg spits out a mouthful of food when Hunter's fist meets his face. Another screams as Wrecker tosses him across the room. Crosshair already has one struggling feebly in a headlock, not wasting a second.
Tech resignedly bites the inside of his cheek as lashes his leg out in a powerful kick. His foot catches on the stomach of one trooper, sending him careening into a group of others, bowling them all down. He's always had a powerful kick.
His head twitches to the side, narrowly avoiding a direct punch to the nose. His own arm raises to block off another punch, sending vibrations through his bones upon impact. He grits his teeth and hooks a foot around a reg's ankles, pulling hard, watching him fall.
A fist flies in from the side, and he turns right into it. One of the lenses of his goggles cracks, the sound of transparisteel crunching ripping through the air. He recoils more in surprise than at the force of the hit, feels a pang of annoyance ripple through him at the thought of having to repair the broken lens. It doesn't hurt as bad as the time Hunter accidentally hit him. He wonders if it'll bruise. But, his biggest problem: he has to fly a ship after this, which is sometimes difficult enough when his vision isn't covered in cracks.
Tech moves in to throw a punch at the reg, only to leap back in mild alarm when a screaming trooper crashes into him and takes care of him instead. He rolls his eyes. Wrecker.
Clear for the moment, he jumps to Hunter's aid. The two of them find themselves back to back, an effective tactic against the inexperienced regular clones. Whenever one takes a blow that slows him down, the other is practically on top of him to provide retaliation in his defense. They're doing well, even having the numeral disadvantage.
Then, Crosshair calls out a warning, his voice rising above the chaos of Wrecker and the regs. "Table!"
Not again. Tech groans, dropping to the floor alongside Hunter. He half-expects someone to stomp on their heads while they're down.
Instead, a lunch table sails over them and mows down many of the regs.
Wrecker whoops with joy.
"Thanks for the warning this time." Hunter says, popping back up.
One of the downed fighters moans.
IV. Report for piloting assessment.
Tech thinks he's doing well for flying on an empty stomach. And for flying with the cracks splintering out across the left side of his goggles. Given the squad's track record, this definitely isn't his first time flying hungry. He thinks he's quite good at it.
The Omicron-class attack shuttle seems to sing beneath his hands, following his commands with a gentle ease. When he maneuvers it so, one wing cuts through the water of Kamino's infinite oceans, sending up a fine white spray behind the ship.
It's not a rainy day, for once, the skies that uncommon shade of blue that they are. The waves are small, reflecting the bright gleam of the sun. It's a beautiful day to fly.
The droid the Kaminoans have representing them in the cockpit commands him to take the ship up, through the atmosphere, into orbit around the planet.
Tech obeys, bringing the shuttle into a rising slope, leaving the surface of the water far below. He wonders what the droplets on the wing look like, trailing behind as the ship climbs, what the rushing air would feel like on his skin if he were outside the ship.
He's done this a few times, flown the ship out into orbit and brought it back into its assigned hangar. He's good at it, too.
And, so, the ship breaks into the atmosphere with the mildest turbulence, a slight jolt that he hardly even feels. A twang of satisfaction ripples through him at that, the ship breaking through the final layer of protection and out into the dark, star-filled void of space.
Space- vast, full, just asking to be explored.
Soon, he tells himself, already preparing to bring attack shuttle TC-159 back through the atmosphere. He wonders what his brothers will name it if they are allowed to keep it.
V. Try to eat something before the mess hall blows up.
"Did you pass?" Hunter asks, dropping down beside Tech, across from Crosshair, at their self-designated table. Maintenance had set everything back up after the chaos of the last meal had dispersed.
"Of course I did." He replies. "After all, I have been practicing for months."
Crosshair gives an appraising hum around a mouthful of his food, and Hunter smiles. "Good job."
"Are they letting you keep the ship?" Crosshair asks.
"They are." Tech confirms. "I have already begun planning some modifications to improve its performance."
"Glad to hear it." Hunter pats his shoulder and turns to eat the food he had brought with him, silently prompting Tech to remember about his. He chuckles. "Wrecker's going to exhaust us coming up with names for the thing."
"Oh, look, he's actually going to make it over here this time." Crosshair quips, jabbing his fork past the other two.
Tech turns and glances over his shoulder, spotting the larger clone lumbering over to them, a full tray firmly set in his grasp. His eyebrows raise in light surprise- normally the fights start before Wrecker even nears the table- before he allows them to settle.
As Wrecker rounds the table to sit beside Crosshair, Tech catches the faintest grimace in Hunter's expression, no doubt a reaction to the implications of Crosshair's jest.
Their demolitions specialist places his tray on the table with an unnecessary force that only he has, then drops himself onto the bench in line with it. He begins shoving his face with food as soon as he's settled, just as hungry as the rest of them- no thanks to his earlier actions.
"So, how'd it go?" He asks, eagerly, still chewing. "Did they let you keep the ship?"
Tech refrains from rolling his eyes at his brother's lack of manners. "Yes, Wrecker, the ship is ours."
"Oh, yeah! Good job, Tech. I knew you could do it." As if there was any doubt. "We should call her...hmm...what should we call-"
"-Hey, Sergeant Lab Experiment, muzzle your massiff." A reg barks to Hunter.
"How about you mind your own business, reg?" Crosshair sneers, before Hunter can so much as draft up a response. "Wouldn't want someone to mess up that normal, boring face of yours."
The first punch flies.