7567 examines his face in the mirror. His lips are covered in minty toothpaste suds that chill his skin.
"D'you think what the medics said is true?" 7567 has to look over to see that it's 1010 that had spoken. "That our armor's not strong enough?" Flecks of toothpaste dot the once-clean surface of the mirror in front of him.
7567 continues to brush his teeth, refusing to answer the question even for himself. Why would they be given weak armor? Was it to test them? Was it an accident? 7567 wishes he could consider the latter but knows it's the least likely.
"8826 was just slow," 2224 says, which surprises all of the children. "He should have ran faster."
"He was supposed to distract the turrets and droids!" 1010 protests, toothpaste foam flying. "You even agreed to the plan!"
7567 looks between the two worriedly, anxious that a fight would break out—but 2224 only scowls and returns to his morning duties. The bell rings, signifying the end of their time to brush and wash up.
"I hope he's okay…" 1010 mutters, leading the line out of the washrooms.
7567 follows after his squad, equally worried about 8826's health but too afraid to say anything. The group of children follows a small droid to the mess hall and waits in line to receive their breakfast. 7567 is so preoccupied with his thoughts, he forgets to choose what fruit he wants—the only non-battle-related decision he gets to make—and just accepts the cubed muja fruit the droid puts on his tray. The squad files into their assigned seats at the table.
"D'you think he's in bacta?" 8419 says, mouth still full of food. He's not in a hurry to eat, but 7567 doesn't blame him—the food is only mildly flavored and mostly colorless. The only part of every meal they had to look forward to is the fruit, and even that could be disappointing at times.
"Wouldn't he be out by now, then?" 6612 says. He's right—it's been three days since their last simulator, when 8826 was injured and taken away.
"He could be in physical therapy," 7567 offers up, pushing the bowl of muja cubes to the side of his tray.
"He'd still be here by now," 6612 answers. The group of children falls silent, chewing their tasteless breakfast.
3636 arrives to the table just then, his arm and shoulder in a sling. "They had to do a checkup," he explains. "I should be fine within a few days."
"When do you think our next live simulation will be?" 1010 asks, and just like that the subject changes.
7567, however, can't move on as easily as the rest of his group. 8826's condition gnaws on the back of his mind all through lessons that day. The one-hour lesson and immediate quiz all blur together—he barely remembers what he learned, which he knows is dangerous and unfit for a soldier preparing for duty. Forcing himself to focus on his work, 7567 plugs in the proper answers and waits a few seconds to see what his score is. Ninety-six out of one hundred—nowhere near as good as 7567 would have liked. He frowns, chastising himself for allowing himself to be distracted so easily. Distraction would make him a terrible soldier. He goes through the rest of the lessons and final test, forcing 8826 out of his mind.
The buzzer signifying the end of the lesson goes off, startling him mildly. 7567 stands with the rest of his group and files out of the seats.
The droid at the head of the line takes them down halls he doesn't recognize—he doesn't think anything of it though. He's not to question where they're going or what they're doing.
The small group of children—about twenty or so—end up in a room that is only vaguely familiar. There are other groups of cadets standing side-by-side in perfect formation, with only the occasional fidget here and there.
7567's eyes shift from left to right out of curiosity. Where are they? What is happening? He isn't worried—far from it—but the curiosity aimed at something that is very obviously a major event eats him alive.
A tall, slender Kaminoan walks in, the crest on his head identifying him as male. His eyes are a deep, liquidy black, a shade 7567 isn't used to seeing. The Kaminoan is flanked by two scientists, identifiable by their bright yellow eyes with barely perceptible white specks toward the center. The male wastes no time in formalities.
"You have all met the necessary requirements in this stage of your education," he says. He briefly consults the datapad in his hand before continuing. "Based on aptitude scores, agility levels, and overall ability, you will each be divided into new squads. You will remain with them for the rest of your training, unless it is absolutely necessary that you transfer squads."
A little jitter runs through 7567's nerves. He hopes desperately that he'll be placed with batch A2-21; they work well together and have the highest marks out of the all the cadets on their level—he knows because everyone talks about them. Their group even has a sort of walk they do whenever they pass squads or other children they know don't do well—and it infuriates 7567. He can either join their group and learn from them or drastically improve his learning. He knows which of the two is easiest.
"The droids will read of a list of numbers and you will stand in front of them when you hear yours called," the Kaminoan drones, now staring solely at his datapad. "Take care to move to the right place."
Several droids line up in front of the groups of children, and the first one rattles off a series of designations without pausing. 3636 and a few others quickly run to that droid and line up in front of it. Then the second one recites more designations and more children move to their correct positions.
7567's number isn't called until the fifth droid.
"CT-seven-five-six-seven," it drones in an oddly nasally voice. "CT-six-six-one-two, CT-one-zero-one-zero…"
7567 only barely manages to resist the urge to turn around and see who exactly is in his new squad. He recognizes 6612's and 1010's numbers, but nobody else's. When the droid is done reciting numbers, there are ten children in 7567's line.
The eighth droid calls a number, and 2224's is first. So, they wouldn't be near each other. It doesn't bother 7567—he wasn't that fond of 2224, not after what he said about 8826 being slow. He doesn't think he'll ever like him.
It's a few more minutes before every child is sorted and grouped. From what he can tell, none of the children from batch A2-21 are in his new squad. He's disappointed but obviously can't complain.
Once all of the children are organized, the Kaminoan speaks again. 7567 places him as a bored younger scientist or higher-up displeased with his job. The flippancy with which he dismisses everyone is a bit jarring. "Follow the droids and head to your bunks for your hour rest. You will proceed with lessons as normal afterwards."
And with that, the new squads file out of the room. 7567 wonders who's behind him as the squad makes its way to their new assigned bunks.
The large room they enter is new, smells different from what he is used to—like cleaner and some kind of laundry detergent. The capsules lined up in rows up and down the length of the room are a bit large. The clear glass is shiny and reflective. They're stacked like double-bunks and divided into sections. 7567 doesn't see any blankets or pillows readily available.
The droid stops in front of a section of the new bunks. "After your nap, you will head to your next lesson as usual," it says, it's voice soft and smooth. It turns without a word and leaves.
So they aren't assigned bunks. 7567 is about to assign them himself—he was at the front of the line, so that made him the leader—when two of the children walk ahead of him and one starts to climb the short ladder.
"Do you even know how to open it, 37?" the first one asks.
"I'm sure I can figure it out," he responds, poking a keypad. A drawer opens with a soft hiss, and in it is a pillow and small blanket. He randomly jabs another button and is awarded with the clear plastoid hatch cover gently easing open. The child quickly kicks off his boots and hops inside.
Once the rest of the squad realizes how easy it is to get into the pods, they all scramble for their own places. There's a short fight for the top bunk before the issue is resolved and everyone is sealed up, save for 7567. He's the last one to get to a bunk and settle down.
But sleep doesn't come easily. For no discernible reason, his stomach is tied in knots. Is it fear? Nervousness? Did he eat something that disagreed with him? He can't tell, and he knows he won't be able to sleep until he figures it out.
Experimenting, 7567 goes over his day: shower, breakfast, lessons, squad assignment, nap. Afterwards, they would have more lessons, lunch, even more lessons, dinner, and then go to bed. The next day would be a carbon copy of the previous one, unless there was the same fiasco that was their first simulation. Nothing stands out about his day—except for his new squad. Does being line leader make him the squad leader? And if it does, would he even be a good leader? Can the other children overthrow him?
7567 can't figure it out, and his brain is too exhausted to let him think anymore. After a few minutes of staring through the beveled interior of the capsule ceiling, he falls asleep.
Several months later…
The elevator ride up is shorter, but 7567 isn't sure why. Maybe it's because he already knows what to expect—or perhaps it's because he's just gotten better at zoning out for the minute-long ride.
A female Kaminoan's voice filters through the speakers set into the walls. Her tone is monotonous clipped, just like the last three Kaminoans who had read them their mission objectives.
"You have all already been debriefed." Despite this, she continues. "This is an escort mission simulation. Your squad is to safely escort a carrier droid to the other end of the coarse. Once you cross the line, the simulation will be terminated. Any damage that comes to the droid will count against your team's overall score."
It sounds simple enough. 7567 doesn't expect much difficulty with this simulation.
The voice continues. "Are there any questions?"
One cadet, 21-389, raises his hand before realizing what he's done. There must be cameras installed in the elevator because the Kaminoan doesn't speak. Embarrassed, 21-389 rushes forward with his question. "Will we have to carry the droid?"
"The carrier droid is self-propelled on a set of wheels. It will follow whoever you tell it to," she supplies.
"How will we be graded on this?" 7567 asks, looking up at nothing in particular.
"Time, team efficiency, and damage sustained by the carrier droid will all factor into your overall score," she answers. "Remember to remain in formation." And the intercom clicks off.
The familiar jitter of adrenaline races up his spin and settles in his fingertips. 7567 takes a calming breath. He hears a clicking sound behind him. "'83, knock it off!" he hisses, not bothering to spare a glance behind him.
"It helps calm me down." And the clicking noise intensifies.
7567 squashes down his aggravation when the elevator gives a small lurch. The hum of the motors kicks in, and then the group is taken up—or down, he's not sure—a level to their training arena. The moment the doors open, 7567 knows that this will be different from their other training exercises. They're met by a small, open area that surrounded on all sides by walls. In the center of the white grid floor is a black stand with what looks like the carrier droid.
The team creeps out slowly. Their entrance into the arena doesn't trigger another set of instructions the way it normally is supposed to. 21-389 is the first to dart forward, scampering down the small ramp before being roughly yanked backwards by 7567.
"We don't know if it's a trap!" Is he the only one that's thinking this? The others stand just behind the pair, jittery with adrenaline they want to expend.
The intercom clicks. "It is not a trap." It shuts off again.
7567 feels stupid for even suggesting it was a trap—this doesn't stop him from racing down the ramp first, though. The rest of his squad follows behind him, and he feels like the leader again. They form a circle around the black box, examining the droid that rests on top. It's similar to an R2 unit, but much smaller and with two trapezoidal wheels instead of three. The hull is dark green with silver markings on it. The ID tag reads "A3-D4".
The droid doesn't move.
"A3, wake up!" CT-2134 says—Yappy, as the rest of the squad secretly called him because he's so talkative. Yappy waves a tiny hand in front of the droid's yellow eye-camera. "Wake up!"
"I don't think that's how you get it to work." CT-8415 circles the black podium. "Try looking for a button or something," he advises.
7567 is the first to start examining the most marked-up part of the droid, but his searches bear no fruit. Just when he's about to call on another plan, '89 cries out. "I found something!" he exclaims, and he lifts a small panel on the droids left side, pushing the first button. The machinery in the droid hums, and lights on its dark green hull flicker on. The thing vibrates, and without warning, its stocky dome of a head spins around and glares '89 straight in the eye.
"Blrrp, blrp!" it chirps rather churlishly, like it as just been woken up from a nap.
"You're coming with us, buddy," '89 says. The droid seems to understand; it rolls off the stand and lands on the ground with a loud clunk. The thing isn't very graceful.
The team of cadets then faces the white wall separating the staging area from the rest of the arena. There's a break in the wall, just wide enough for them to slip through two-by-two and not touch shoulders.
What they're met with is another wall and two passageways, one branching to the left and the other right.
7567 doesn't have to tell anyone what to do; childlike curiosity gets the best of '89 and Yappy, and they rush down either passageway to look around the corner. They come back, confused.
"Mine just keeps going," he says bemusedly. "All there is are white walls."
"Mine turns eventually," '89 says. "But past that, I don't know."
7567 takes a moment to relish in the fact that both of them are turning to him as a leader. After internally gloating for a few more seconds, he speaks, "I say we investigate as far as we can, see whether one leads to a dead end. Then, we just turn back and go the other way."
The rest of the squad doesn't say anything, so he assumes that they all agree with him. "What we need to do is—"
"Hey, where's the droid?"
"'89, don't interrupt me—"
"No, where is the droid?"
7567 looks to his feet, as does the rest of the squad. The small green droid is nowhere to be seen. It hadn't left obvious tracks on the ground that they can follow. Yappy darts back into the first area but soon returns empty handed. "It's not in there," he says almost apologetically. Panic momentarily sets in; before 7567 can stop them, '89, Yappy, and 8415 rush down one corridor and disappear around a corner. Not wanting to let the group split up, 7567 and 8583 dash after them, following them as they make blind turns down new corners.
Every wall is the same monotonous white—or maybe it's light grey. There's nothing, no marking or otherwise, to separate one pathway from another. This doesn't stop '89, who's leading the group on their blind run.
"'89, stop!" 7567 yells. "Stop! You don't know where you're going."
'89 finally slows to a halt. He's huffing slightly, a look of bewilderment and mild panic settling on his face. "We have to find the droid!" he pants.
The group gathers in a huddle, completely silent, listening for some sign of the droid deep buzzes and trills. "Is it possible it went back? This is a maze, guys…" Yappy says, apprehension growing in his voice.
"H-How do we get back to the beginning?" '83 mumbles to no one, ever the frightened one.
The small squad of cadets immediately begins to huddle together, surrounded on all sides by the same white barriers with no physical breaks save for corners. 7567 takes '83's hand. "Follow me; we need to stay in a chain so we don't get lost. The ones at the end can help keep track of where we're going." He's terrified himself, of course-the child has absolutely no clue what he's doing-but the rest of the squad follows him anyway, linking hands til they're a chain of five small bodies, weaving and winding their way through the white maze.
They can all tell they're getting closer to something when they hear an increase in...noises. 7567 can't tell what they are til they nearly blindly turn a corner. Yappy is the first to make a sound, physically bouncing up and down.
"There it is!" he hisses, despite not actually seeing anything. "He's just around there!"
'89 has to tug his hand to hold him back. "Hold on, buddy. '67 has to look first."
And that's exactly what he does. Very careful, so as not to startle the activity happening just outside his vision, 7567 peers around the corner and sees their little, cantankerous droid-surrounded on all sides by droids.
