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cienie-isengardu · 1 year

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The Funeral Rites of the Clone Troopers - What happens to the body of dead clone, part II

NOTE: Please keep in mind that the following text may include disturbing to some readers source material. Especially quotes about how triage points works with selection of which wounded have a chance to survive and who doesn’t and the general medical care (or lack of therefor) provided by Republic is a sensitive topic. Everything comes from published sources so I count it as “canon typical violence” but I also understand that some people may find the subject of this part uncomfortable and if so, I advise to skip reading quotes (marked in orange color)

What happens to the body of a dead clone? PART II

The previously presented sources focused mainly on troopers killed directly in widely understood action, when the survivors had time and possibility to perform funeral rites. However clones didn’t die only on battlefronts or during quick missions. Some were injured and died at one of medical triage points, Republic Mobile Surgical Units (for short RMSUs or "Rimsoos“), medical ships and Medcentres or died on the way to one of those places.

TRIAGE POINTS were a very important part of the Republic medical procedures. Here the wounded were segregated according to the person’s type of injuries and chance of survival by medical staff. Sadly, getting wounded men to established triage area didn’t guarantee survival, as was mentioned in:

[NOVEL] MedStar: Battle Surgeons by Michael Reaves & Steve Perry

This run was a bad one. There were four full lifters, which meant sixteen wounded troopers. Three had died en route, and one was too far gone to attempt resuscitation - one of the nurses administered euthanasia while Jos, Zan, Barriss, and three other surgeons scrubbed up.

One of the clones was covered with third-degree burns; they had to cut his armor free. He had literally been cooked by a flame projector. Fortunately, one of the three working bacta tanks they had was empty, and the trooper was quickly immersed in a nutrient bath.

The condition of the remaining eleven ranged from critical to guarded, and were triaged accordingly. [Chapter 6]

The multiple-repulsor drone of incoming medlifters filtered into Barriss's sleep, and the siren that sounded almost immediately afterward meant that everybody within earshot needed to get to the OT. Now.

She dressed hurriedly and headed for the triage area. It was only twenty meters from her cubicle, but the humidity was so high today, she felt that she was wading through a pool of heated fleek oil.

When she got to the building, she stopped, momentarily unable to believe her eyes. Thirty-five or forty wounded troopers lay on stretchers, on gurneys, on the floor itself, being tended by doctors, nurses, droids, techs - anybody, in short, who could help. Most of the troops were bloody, and many were burned, with weeping red blisters and scorched black patches. Some were missing arms and legs.

Some were all of those things, and more.

Still more injured were incoming. She could barely hear the whine of the lifters' repulsor fields over the cries and groans of the wounded. Barriss swallowed, nauseated. Even doctors could be overwhelmed by too much gore. Nothing she had ever seen in her wartime experience so far had been anything close to this.

Tolk was calling triage, and it was short and to the point. Barriss watched her for a moment. To anybody outside the medical field and the battlefield, triage would seem remarkably cruel, but she knew it was the most efficient way to save the most patients.

"This one won't make it," Tolk said, rising from the side of a sergeant whose legs had been blown off above the knees. His skin was chalk white, and from the red, ragged stumps the last of his life's blood was dripping slowly. Following behind Tolk was a droid, which attached a pulse-sticker to the dying clone's shoulder. A large, red x glowed rhythmically.

Tolk moved quickly to the next patient, examined him briefly. "Shrapnel wounds to the belly and groin. Surgery, category three."

The droid put a sticker on the man's shoulder. The number 3 throbbed on it.

Barriss bent to examine the trooper closest to her - a lieutenant. He was awake and alert; his only injury seemed to be that his left arm was gone, blown off in a ragged stump just above the elbow. A constrictor around the stump had stopped the bleeding. His gaze met hers.

"I'm good," he said through clenched teeth. "Take care of my men."

"He can wait," Barriss said to Tolk. "Five."

Tolk nodded at the droid, who affixed a number 5 pulse-sticker to the man's good shoulder.

When there were fewer doctors than patients, one had to rank the injured as to survivability and the time necessary to keep them alive. Rimsoo category numbers ran from 1 through 6; category X was reserved for injuries that appeared mortal or very time-consuming to treat. The rating system was more complex than it appeared. The injury, survival chances, and need for immediate treatment all had to be taken into account. A severed artery might bleed out in a minute and all it would take to save the patient would be a simple staple or suture tie, so it would be best to treat him first, whereas a man with his leg blown off but heat-cauterized from a blaster bolt could be left until more life-threatening injuries had been dealt with. Making these decisions, the Padawan knew, was often as much intuition as science.

A 6 meant a patient might survive if treated, but indicated treatment could consume a lot of time and effort, and there were no guarantees he would make it. But 6 could also mean that the injury was not likely to be fatal if not treated right away. Either way, a 6 waited. A 5 meant survival chances were higher and treatment less time-intensive, and so on down the count. The triage caller had to use experience to make the decisions, and thus had to be knowledgeable in treating the kinds of injuries coming in. A droid stepped up to Barriss. "I am to assist you, Padawan," it said. In one hand it held a pad of pulse-stickers.

Barriss nodded, turned to the next stretcher, and gasped. Before her was a terrible sight: a trooper with all four limbs burned down to stumps, and nothing but red, suppurating tissue where his face had been. On Coruscant, or Corellia, or any of the other hundreds of civilized worlds, technology could attach cybernetic limbs and reconstruct his face-he would be a strange hybrid of machine and man, but at least he would be alive and relatively functional. But here on Drongar, they had no facilities even remotely capable of such things. She bit her lip and turned to the droid assigned to her. "Category X," she said.

The droid applied the sticker, then looked at her. "A purgation of fire," it said. Barriss thought it was an odd comment for a droid to make, but she had no time to wonder about it. The wounded were being brought in so fast that she had to keep moving or be overrun.

She had damped down on her connection to the Force as much as she could; extrasensory experience of this much agony at this close range carried a real possibility of synaptic overload. Even closed down as she was, she could still feel the pain, the fear, the horror of it all pounding and scrabbling at her mind. She swallowed dryly and kept moving. There were some here she knew she could heal with the Jedi arts she had learned, but it would take too long. Not even the Force could mitigate the cold and brutal equations of triage.

Ahead of her, Tolk continued moving through the maze of dead and dying, followed by her droid, desig-nating who would live and who would almost certainly die. The fact that they were clones, all identical in ap-pearance, in no way lessened the horror; in fact, in a strange way it increased it-at least that was so for Bar-riss. Seeing the same body wounded and traumatized in a thousand different ways gave the whole scene a sur-real aspect, as if it had no beginning and no end, a per-petual loop of pain and death.

She knew she had to focus, had to utilize the resources at hand wisely.

Tolk moved to the next patient, slipped in a patch of blood, recovered her balance. She veered toward Barriss, who was looking at another wounded trooper. The Jedi shook her head.

Another x, its red glow waxing and waning like the flow of lives all about them, was applied by the droid.

They were dying like wingstingers hitting a zap field, and nothing Jos did seemed to matter. A repaired artery held without leaking, but the patient was too far into shock to come back, even with his blood volume pumped to the max. Another patient, without a mark on him, was smiling one second and dead the next. A scanner showed that a sliver of metal, thinner than a needle, had pierced the corner of his eye and gone deep into his brain.

Despite the floor-level pressor fields, those working in the OT were at times up to their ankles in blood, urine, feces, lymph and spinal fluid. The air coolers and dehumidifiers were still not working, and the stench, combined with oppressive wet heat, overwhelmed the scents of antiseptics and astringents. The surgeons cut and re-sected and transplanted with practiced efficiency, their nurses and what few droids they had at their sides, and yet the patients still didn't make it. Commands, both shouted and whispered, filled the reeking air: "-need twenty cc's coagulin, stat-"

"-rotate the bacta tanks, no one gets more than ten minutes-"

"-keep that field going, even if you have to hand-crank it-"

After two hours' work Jos was five for five-none of them had lived. He was beginning to reel with exhaustion - it was taking nearly all he had just to keep his hands steady. [Chapter 13]

[NOVEL] Jedi Trial by David Sherman and Dan Cragg

But before they could get out of the aid station, casualties from the ongoing assault started coming in and all the pair could do was step aside and wait for the flow of injured to stop. It didn't, and what they saw on the litters bearing the wounded was horrible. [...]

The surgeons established a triage. One had the job of examining each litter case as it came in and, depending on whether he thought the victim could be saved or not, determining where to put the soldier; these decisions were made in a matter of seconds. The unsaved far outnumbered the saved.

The worst were the burn cases, clones stripped of their armor, so badly incinerated that their limbs had been reduced to charred sticks, their faces to blackened skulls, uniform fragments fused to their flesh. Yet somehow they lived. None of these were put into the saved category. Others lay in pools of their own blood, limbs missing, internal organs exposed. Still others had obviously died before they were brought to the field hospital. They lay still on their litters, bodies bouncing as the litter bearers jounced them along. Over all was a dreadful silence; hardly any of the wounded screamed or moaned - they were all in shock, an orderly informed Erk as he brushed by.

[NOVEL] Clone Wars Gambit: Stealth by Karen Miller

Threading a path between hurrying medics and clone troopers and scattered bits of Grievous's destroyed army, Anakin let the Force guide him to where he needed to be.

Obi-Wan and Ahsoka sat side-by-side on crates in a hastily setup triage area, just outside an entrance into the spynet building. [...]

Ahsoka's pain-pinched face lit up. "Master! You're all right!"

"Of course I am, Padawan," he said. "Why wouldn't I be?"

His bored tone was designed to reassure her, but it wasn't working, as the answer to his flip question was lying all around them: triaged clone troopers, most stoically silent, waiting for the next medevac flight to arrive. Beyond them, decently shrouded, lay the bodies of those men who hadn't been so fortunate. And then, of course, there were the men who'd died going up against Grievous and his droid starfighters.

The examples fit well with the source material mentioned in the previous part. Thus we can assume that clones who died at triage points suited straight on or really close to battlefront will join the bodies of troopers directly killed in fight and be buried when the remaining GAR will have time and opportunity to do so. Sadly there is no explanation how the Republic procedures work, especially since the battle of Kothlis (TCW: Gambit - Stealth) was fought in the middle of the city and the advanced(?) urban space is not exactly the most suited place to bury anyone.

Medstar: Battle Surgeons and its sequel, Medstar: Jedi Healer (both written by the same authors) provides additional information about what happens to the dead bodies of clone troopers. For one, the sequel mentioned that Rimsoo has morgue to where droids headed with patients that died during operation:

Jos glanced at Uli, and then at Tolk, who said, "Uli seems to be doing okay. The orderly droids just wheeled his first patient out and they weren't heading toward the morgue. He's a cute kid." Tos shook his head. "Yeah. Cute."

Logically thinking, the Republic Mobile Surgical Units had an intended place to keep corpses for a certain period of time but the space wasn’t boundless and its contents had to be emptied at some point. Especially when the hospital was overrun with patients that couldn’t be saved - and as sources mentioned, there were days when “the unsaved far outnumbered the saved”.

Morgues in general are a good place to store bodies that were meant to be identified, examined or claimed by authority or family. Star Wars’s advanced technology allows to preserve and transport the remains of people in a very good conditions and from the various sources it seems Republic provided such courtesy, either for

political reasons like for example returning the body of Tofen Vane [The Clone Wars: Hero of the Confederacy, part 3]

practical, like during investigation the massacre on the planet of Devaron, in which Delta Squad brought back the bodies of killed there Jedi

Mysterious deaths! Unknown to the Jedi, a new threat has unleashed on the galaxy: Savage Opress, a pawn in the dangerous game between Count Dooku and his former assassin, Ventress. The victims of his brutal massacre on the planet of Devaron are being returned to the Jedi Temple for evaluation. It's up to the Jedi Council to find this mysterious killer, and eradicate him.... - the opening of The Clone Wars, s03e14: Witches of the Mist

or due to moral (sentimental) duty, like collecting and returning bodies of killed in action Jedi on Geonosis

Weary and heart-sore, Yoda stood in silence with his fellow Master and friend Mace Windu, watching as efficient clone troopers swiftly, methodically, and not unkindly loaded the last of the slain Jedi onto repulsorlift pallets, then pushed them one-handed out of Poggle the Lesser's brutal arena to the Republic transport ships waiting beyond its high walls. They were supervised by those few Jedi who had survived the slaughter and the military engagement that followed it...and who were not as serenely detached as Temple philosophy might dictate. [...]

He watched as Talia Moonseeker withdrew to a discreet distance, so the body of her slain former Master might be decently carried from the arena by the tireless clones who had fought this day, and died this day, so utterly single-minded and fearless that he thought of droids, not men-droids of flesh and blood, bred and drilled to be perfectly disciplined, perfectly lethal. [The Clone Wars: Wild Space by Karen Miller]

or Obi-Wan’s wish to give a proper burial to supposedly dead Asajj Ventress [Star Wars Obsession #5].

Take her to Coruscant for a proper funeral. Her whole life has been lived on battlefield. She shouldn't be buried on one too...

Even the Medstar sequel points out that personal items of the killed surgeon, Zan Yant, were sent back to his family.

When Zan had died, it had fallen to Jos to clean out his friend's belongings. He had packed up most of the stuff-the quetarra, clothes, book readers, and the like - and had it shipped to Zan's family, back on Talus. But hidden away under Zan's cot had been something he hadn't included in the personal effects package: Zan's supply of processed bota.

The difference between mentioned examples and the situation of clone troopers is that clones did not have any “legal” family to which their bodies could be returned to. They had brothers but their comrades at arms weren’t considered the citizens of the Republic, thus did not have any real civil rights to actually exert any pressure in regard to how clone remains were treated.

This leads us to another information provided by Medstar duology - in medical places, organs of deceased clones could be transplanted into another injured soldier, as was mentioned by:

Star Wars: The Essential Guide to Warfare Author’s Cut, Part 7 — The Grand Army of the Republic (III) by Jason Fry (published on starwars.com in 2014)

“Replacement organs and body parts, either made of cloned tissue or taken from dead clones, were close at hand in nutrient tanks. (The surgical ward where dead clones “donated” usable organs for the tanks had the macabre nickname of the discard pile.)

After surgery, soldiers would be taken to a recovery ward or, for more severe cases, a bacta tank. Those who needed more than a few days to recover were transferred to a MedStar– or Pelta-class medical frigate, and often brought to one of the Republic medical stations. Aboard these spoked space stations, medics cared for tens of thousands of soldiers at a time, working diligently to repair bodies and minds so units could return to the battlefield.

and

Medstar: Battle Surgeons by Michael Reaves and Steve Perry:

She stepped closer. The naked body lay on the table, intubated and dotted with sensor lines and drips. He did not appear wounded or injured, but the skin was a mottled purplish color - it looked like one gigantic bruise.

"He's been hit with a disruptor field," Zan said. "Bioscan shows his central nervous system's been fried. I thought we could do something, but he's past that. Autonomic functions are stable on life sustain right now, but they won't last. And even if we could reestablish consciousness, he'd be nothing but meat."

"What can be done?"

He shook his head. "Nothing. We can harvest his organs, use 'em to patch up the next one who needs a kidney or a heart." He started to gesture to the droid, but Barriss stopped him.

and

At GB7 he was directed to a tiny 4.5-square-meter billet, barely large enough for the bunk-and-locker combination that constituted CT-914's home away from-actually, Jos realized, it was just his home. Unless one counted the vat from which the clone had been decanted in Tipoca City on the waterworld Kamino, CT-914 had no place else he could call his own.

The bed had been made to military precision, the blankets as smooth as the surface of a neutron star. The locker was ajar, and closer inspection proved it to be empty.

What was puzzling, however, was the spot over the head of the bed, where the trooper's designation should have been. Instead of reading ct-914, the frame was empty.

Jos spied a Dressellian corporal nearby and hailed him. The Dressellian, surly like most of his species, saluted somewhat resentfully upon recognizing a superior officer. Jos asked him where Nine-one-four was.

"In the recycling vats, most likely," was the shocking reply. "Along with most of his platoon. They were ambushed by a Separatist guerrilla attack two days ago."

The Dressellian waited a moment, then, seeing that the human captain was not likely to be asking any more questions immediately, saluted again and continued about his business.

Jos slowly left the garrison, stunned. In the last hour or so he had come to think of Nine-one-four as exem-plifying all of his newfound knowledge of the clones' essential humanity, and to suddenly learn that he was dead was almost as big a shock as hearing of the death of an old friend or a loved one. He had felt compelled to seek the clone out and apologize to him, hoping that, somehow, such an expiation would simplify some of the challenges of an awareness that now included respect toward more than organic life alone. But instead he'd found that CT-914 had joined his vat-brother, CT-915, in death. And Jos knew that it would be a long time, if ever, before their deaths, and all the others perpetrated by this war, would seem to be anything but senseless and despicable.

None of the presented sources provided a clear answer what happens with bodies of the dead, especially after taking out the needed organs. Who buried them and where? Or were the bodies cremated as a way of fast utilizing? The Rimsoss operated close to frontlines - close enough to save the wounded as fast as possible, not close enough to be in the middle of battle (though Separatists liked to target those mobile hospitals) so in theory, they could have cemetery of sort and for safety of other patience, the dead couldn’t stay forever in morgues or just lay around and take space intended for wounded. Sadly, the Republic procedures for such a scenario weren't explained in much detail.

There is however an interesting potential for “religious” aspect and/or psychological comfort in the transplantation of organs that keeps seriously wounded soldiers alive. A clone carrying a part of their fallen brother, in a metaphysical and literal sense, could be seen as “keeping the dead one alive” too albeit sadly, this subject is barely touched on as far as my research showed.

The above source material was focused on frontline reality of triage points and Rimsoos which provided the first medical aid for wounded. The injured clones were also transported to more advanced medical stations and here the situation of burials may complicate. For one, some hospitals were stationed on the surface of the planets (e.g. New Holstice) while others were literal space stations.

[Source: TCW:S01E03 - Shadow of Malevolence)

In the case of the latter, there is no access to solid ground to perform skeleton burial that seems to be preferred by GAR frontline procedures. This is of course just speculation on my part, but I do think that cremating bodies in space medcenters could be a real possibility if we take into account the limited space and lack of resources. Interestingly, shorty after Clone Wars there was at least one crematorium on Coruscant, as was mentioned in comics Darth Vader and the Ghost Prison:

A few weeks after the end of the Clone Wars, I attended a military council on Imperial Center. Between meaningless meetings and briefings, I wandered outside to escape the drone of Moffs. And saw that. The Imperial Crematorium. Each transport carries twenty dead imperials. In the time we’ve been here, nearly one hundred officers and troopers have been reduced to ash.

Though the source is about Imperial times, the crematorium could exist much earlier and frankly, in the few weeks after the end of the Clone Wars, clones were still the majority of soldiers serving the Empire. Which suggests that some dead clone troopers presumbly killed in action were sent to crematorium instead of buried in the ground.

Additionally, some medcenters were run by Kaminoan doctors and scientists and Kaminoans in general considered clones to be just property. Which is why cremating - as the more pragmatic and relatively easy way to “get rid of unwanted remains” - fits the Kaminoan mindset about clones in my opinion.

Another thing to consider about medical stations run by Kaminoans is how other people have a little control over what is happening there. For one, the safety of medcenters were an important matter for the Republic, thus the applicable precautions such as limited access to communication with the outside world, as was pointed out in the book The Clone Wars Gambit: Stealth by Karen Miller:

With her fractured ribs swiftly and neatly healed and her other scrapes and burns and bruises consigned to memory-the Kaminoans even fixed the slight defect in her central montral, which was good of them, she grudgingly allowed - she was free to wander the unrestricted areas of the uncomfortably white and high-ceilinged medcenter, or keep up with her lightsaber drills along any handily empty circular corridor she could find.

What she wasn't allowed to do was contact Anakin with an update, or sit with Captain Rex and Sergeant Coric while they were in their bacta chambers, or visit with any other Torrent Company clones who'd been consigned here. And she hadn't been permitted to bid farewell to those who'd died in this sterile place despite the Kaminoans' best efforts to save them.

And that wasn't fair.

and

“Ahsoka!” Anakin’s hologram jittered and warped, the signal struggling to punch through the nebula’s interference. “What took you so long?”

“Sorry,” she said. “I was right up in the…”

“Never mind. What’s going on? You were supposed to give me regular updates!”

Was it the poor transmission quality or was his face practically black with oil? “I tried, Master, only…” She looked around, but the two Kaminoans sharing the comm center were busy with their own conversations. Still, to be on the safe side she hunched over the holotransmitter and lowered her voice. “They wouldn’t let me, Skyguy. They took my comlink and they won’t give it back!”

“It’s probably procedure,” said Anakin. “How’s Rex? How’s Carie? Have you seen them? When will they be discharged?”

“I don’t know!” She was practically wailing, and she didn’t care. “All I know is that Rex was hurt a lot worse than I realized. The last time I saw him he was talking, he didn’t look like he was…” She couldn’t say it. “But they won’t let me see him, or the sergeant, and they won’t tell me anything except they’re not dead.”

Anakin sighed. “That’s probably procedure, too. But if they’re not dead-that’s something. That’s good, Ahsoka.”

He sounded so relieved. It made her feel better, knowing he was as sick with worry on Coruscant as she was here. It made him seem less far away.”

If a Jedi commander staying at Medcenter or Jedi General worrying about his men weren’t told what was happening to the injured troopers in any great detail - or were not told at all - then logically thinking clones have an even lesser chance to learn about the fate of their injured or dying brothers (beside that they died at some point). Ahsoka even mentions that she wasn’t allowed to pay a visit to hospitalized there clones that served under her and General Skywalker nor to bid farewell to those who'd died.

Similarly to the Kaminoans, the medical droids like the one serving in Medbay on Republic assault ship Leveler also usually bar clones worrying about their comrades from the treatment areas. It didn’t work on Omega Squad though since the machine couldn’t order the commandos to go away. And only because Niner, Atin and Darman were so stubborn to stay and wait for injured Fi to wake up, they managed to save their brother once the droid declared him brain dead and actually disconnected from the life-support machinery.

The senior med droid repositioned the sensors, checked the readout, and then stood back in processing mode for a few moments, the panel on its chest flickering through a sequence.

Then it unhooked the filaments from the breather mask and removed the tube from Fi's throat. Darman couldn't work out what was going on at first. But Fi's chest wasn't moving, no rise and fall of steady breaths, and that was the point at which Darman started to think in terms of going in there and resuscitating like he'd been taught. The droid seemed to be watching Fi intently. Then it turned away to the trolley full of instruments, slipping items into the steribag for autoclaving.

"That's it, I'm going to..."

And then Fi took a long gasping breath and coughed. The droid spun around as if it hadn't been expecting that at all. Fi was breathing on his own again, but he certainly wasn't conscious.

Darman was a stride from the doors when Niner stepped in his way and pushed through ahead of him.

"Droid," he said, "you want to tell me what's going on? What happened there? Is he okay?"

The med droid placed more sensors on Fi, this time on his chest and throat. "He's breathing unaided, and I wasn't anticipating that outcome."

"So why did you take the shabla tube out of him, then?" Darman snapped. He got the picture now, all right. They thought Fi was dead. "What's that about?"

The droid just followed its protocols. It dealt with a steady stream of wounded and dying men every day, and Fi was no more special to it than the next trooper. It was nothing personal at all. "His brain scan showed insufficient activity."

"You mean you pulled the plug on him?"

"I assessed him as brain-dead. That's still my professional opinion. The medical protocol is that we don't continue life support if a patient is still showing isoelectric scans after forty-eight hours." The droid paused. "Flatlining, I believe you call it."

The words hit Darman like a punch in the gut. It wasn't supposed to be like that. Republic medical care was the best there was: prosthetic limbs, bacta, microsurgery, nanophar-maceuticals, you name it, the stuff of which miraculous recoveries were made. Fi couldn't end up like this. Darman refused to accept it.

[...]

"Clones can be very disruptive to the orderly running of this unit," it said. "I tire of explaining our protocols to you, which is why I usually bar your kind from the treatment areas." So this wasn't the first argument the droid had had with a man's comrades, then. "But I have no authorization to transfer a patient in this state to any facility, so what happens to RC-eight-zero-one-five when we transfer the wounded is outside my authority."

Niner stood back to let Darman and Atin steer the gurney across to the treatment bays. They now had an audience of droids and walking wounded. "You mean you don't know what to do with him."

"That's what I said, isn't it?"

The droid let them take Fi. It was a busy droid that didn't have time to argue with RCs who weren't going to take no for an answer, and Darman felt brief guilt for tying up resources when there were wounded vode with less clout in dire need. But Fi was his brother, and if Darman didn't look out for him then the whole fabric of his tight-knit world, the small circle of people who were his life, meant nothing.

Niner pulled the bay shutters across to give Fi some privacy, and the three men crowded in as best they could, shoulder plates scraping one another. They had no idea what to do with Fi, either, except lay him in a coma position, make sure his saline line was clear - Sergeant Gilamar's combat medic course back in Tipoca was ingrained in them - and get on the comlink to someone who'd be able to sweep aside the bureaucracy and osik back on Coruscant: Kal Skirata.

(And even putting Fi into hospital on Coruscant didn’t solve the problem, as he was once again almost terminated by medical droids. This time it was a befriended citizen (Besanny)’s interference that saved the clone commando).

In contrast, in Medstar: Battle Surgeons there was a clone trooper who waited outside the operation room to learn what happened to his wounded batch-mate. Jedi Barris Offee was curious why he was standing in the medical ward if he was healthy as she recognized him as her former patient while the doctor Jos Vondar (surgeon who operated on the wounded) did not withhold information from the soldier nor rebuke for being there in the first place.

Barriss was on her way to the medical ward when she passed a trooper standing in the hall outside the main operating theater. He didn't seem to be doing anything other than simply standing there, staring at a blank wall.

To the unaided eye, they all looked alike, but to one who was connected to the Force, this was not the case. She knew this one. He had been her patient.

She stopped. "CT-Nine-one-four," she said.

He looked at her. "Yes?"

She could feel his question roiling in his mind, and she smiled. "You might all look alike, but you aren't all the same. Your experiences shape you as much as your her-itage. The Force can recognize this."

He nodded. She regarded him. "You have no problems with your blood pressure," she said, and it was not a question - she knew it was true.

"No. I feel fine-physically."

"Why, then, are you here?"

She felt rather than saw Jos Vondar emerge from the OT behind her, was aware of him listening.

"I helped transport another trooper here yesterday. CT-Nine-one-five."

"Ah. And how does he fare?"

"I don't know. He's still in surgery."

Jos drifted over. "Nine-one-five? He, ah, didn't make it."

The wave of grief that broke from CT-914 and washed over Barriss was sudden and strong. To look at his face, however, it was hardly apparent that he felt this deep emotional chord. He said, "Unfortunate. He was" - he hesitated, just a heartbeat or two, - "a good soldier. The loss of someone so well trained is... regrettable."

Barriss could see that, even without the Force, Jos picked up on something either in CT-914's tone of voice or his body language, as subtle as both were. He said, "You knew him?"

"He was decanted just after me. We trained together, were posted here together, we were part of the same cohort." CT-914 hesitated again. "He... I thought of him as my brother."

Jos frowned. "But you're all brothers, in a sense."

"True." The clone trooper straightened. "Thank you for your efforts to save him, Doctor. I'm going back to my unit now."

He turned and strode away. Barriss and Jos watched him go. [...] - Medstar: Battle Surgeons

The CT-Nine-one-four did not ask to see the body of his batch-mate nor what will happen to the remains, which can be interpreted in various ways. Either he wasn’t ready to see his brother due to overwhelming emotional pain or he thought the doctors wouldn’t allow for that (as Kaminoans wouldn’t most likely) or he knew the procedures and assumed the body was already taken to the hospital morgue and there he could say his goodbye to lost comrade - something that if happened, was simply not mentioned to the readers.

Those examples lead me to believe that the more advanced the medcenter was (as in, run by Kaminoans) or administrated by med droids alone, the less control clones have over the fate of their brothers’ wellbeing and in the case of death, their remains. On the frontline, the troopers - if there is time and possibility to do so - may bury them in the way they feel appropriate (e.g. leaving weapons and helmets as a way to mark the graves). In widely understood medcentres however there are a number of procedures that have not been detailed much in source material and for all we know, the clone deceased may be mass cremated, as it seems to be the case in the early imperial era.

Next part: Conclusions

#star wars #clone troopers #funeral rities of clone troopers #tw: graphic depictions of violence #sorry for the amount of medical stuff and talk in general regard to medical care of clone troopers #i'm almost done with this text #my analysis

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bardengarde · 2 months

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movie recs? movie recs please?

I have to be so honest with you when I say I don't have a particularly good or smart taste in movies, so like.... I'm going to give you 3 of my favorite movies. Clicking the titles should direct you to their respective doesthedogdie . com pages for lists of potential triggers.

• Spirit: Stallion of the Cimarron

Rated G, released in 2002

Set in the Old West in the late 19th century, the film follows Spirit, a mustang stallion, who is captured during the American Indian Wars by the United States Cavalry; he is eventually freed by a Lakota man named Little Creek with whom he bonds, as well as a mare named Rain.

• The Princess Bride

Rated PG, released in 1987

Adapted by William Goldman from his 1973 novel of the same name, it tells the story of a swashbuckling farmhand named Westley, accompanied by companions befriended along the way, who must rescue his true love Princess Buttercup from the odious Prince Humperdinck.

• Glory

Rated R, released in 1989 (Please review the trigger warnings with this movie.)

Glory is a 1989 American historical war drama film directed by Edward Zwick about the 54th Massachusetts Infantry Regiment, one of the Union Army's earliest African-American regiments in the American Civil War. It stars Matthew Broderick as Colonel Robert Gould Shaw, the regiment's commanding officer, and Denzel Washington, Cary Elwes, and Morgan Freeman as fictional members of the 54th.The film depicts the soldiers of the 54th from the formation of their regiment to their heroic actions at the Second Battle of Fort Wagner.

#i know these are basically not anything like one another I'm sorry #but um..... three different ratings to choose from #i appreciate this ask thank you #but seriously with glory- review the triggers #i highly recommend the movie it's something i think everyone should watch at least once but #it covers very serious topics like war + slavery + racism #there are racial slurs used in the film and graphic depictions of violence and (brief) gore

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chocmarss · 2 years

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Sharp and Glorious Thorn (1/9)

Summary:

She was given a Prince Consort to end an eight-year war. He was the second son of the Manda’lor, the beloved prince of House Fett.

The Commander.

She asked for this. He did the same. It was as if this wasn’t the person who sliced his axe through her armour like melted butter, or how she destroyed his chances of an easy winter with that leg.

When they were brought together as allies in this new age, she could have sworn the ghosts of their ancestors howled with rage.

tcw. rexsoka. royalty au. marriage of convenience. enemies to lovers. 1.7k+ words. rated M.

WARNING: Graphic Depictions of Violence

Rexsoka Week 2022, Day 1:— Trope: Revenge; Prompt: Rebels

Notes: Happy Rexsoka Week 2022! Please enjoy this mess <3

This was what she saw.

First, fresh white lilies lined up the halls.

They were beautiful, carefully picked by the best of their gardeners, and they bloomed spectacularly for her alone.

Then came the rich red runner, rolled out from the giant wood and steel doors that weighed heavily in its latch to the elevated throne that sat at its end. The narrow carpet was swept, washed, and resewed with the finest thread they own until it glinted under the glowing streaks of pure morning sunlight.

There was a rostrum, benches, a low platform; when the time came, they would start filling them with people who were paid to do the same bidding they had been vowed to comply with from the very moment they stepped into this space. They’d follow instructions, those that they were best with, to run through each tune and tone with the same vigour as breathing.

This was what she saw.

READ MORE ON AO3

#rexsoka week 2022 #rexsoka week #rexsokaweek #rexsoka #captain rex #ahsoka tano #royalty au #marriage of convenience #graphic depictions of violence #star wars #the clone wars #star wars rebels #star wars the clone wars #swtcw #marswrites #marsrb

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nimata-beroya · 8 months

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Rating: Mature

Warnings: Graphic Depiction of Violence, Graphic Torture, Water Inhalation, Water Torture, Waterboarding, Interrogation, Xenophobia, Homophobia, Fascism.

Fandom: Star Wars Rebels

Characters: Alexsandr Kallus, Garazeb Orrelios, Original Imperial Character(s)

Chapter: 1/3

Days: 14 & 18 (chapter 1), 2, 13 & 25 (Chapter 2); & 31 (chapter 3)

Prompt: Water Torture for @badthingshappenbingo || Feed Me Poison, Fill Me ‘till I Drown, Tortured for Information & Water Inhalation for @whumptober-archive

Whumpee: Alexsandr Kallus

Words: 2,872

Summary: Kallus gets captured in a mission gone wrong by someone from his past, who is determined to break him. Across the galaxy, Zeb is willing to do whatever it takes, even defying orders, to bring his mate back, safe and sound. But time is running out.

FEED ME POISON, FILL ME 'TIL I DROWN

Chapter 1

As soon as his torturer, an ensign according to the insignia on his uniform, stops pouring water on the cloth covering his face, Kallus resists the powerful urge to breathe in. Instead, he exhales as hard as he can to expel the water trapped under the rag and clogging his airway. Once his mouth, nose, and throat are clear, he gives in to the instinct and inhales deeply, providing his burning lungs of precious oxygen. Each desperate intake that comes after is labored and interrupted by painful hacking. The way the wet rag sticks to his face doesn’t help either.

Despite his best efforts not to inhale water, it’s inevitable. Kallus has been slowly drowning for some time now. The ensign knows his waterboarding technique well. But why shouldn’t he? The junior officer is following the orders of none other than ISB Agent Prumell, with whom Kallus has a long-standing enmity. Their quarrel started at the Academy and continued throughout their ISB training and work for the Bureau.

Prumell is enjoying taking out all the grievances they’ve had along the years on Kallus, coupled with the fact that he’s a defector. His face says it all —a smug smirk and cold eyes that show how happy he is for catching Kallus.

When captured, Kallus knew he was in serious trouble when he found out that Prumell would interrogate him. He had been the only one during the ISB training to break a fellow trainee during their first interrogation practice. And that student had been Kallus. Kallus never expected back then to Prumell to dredge up the most sordid details of his past, things that he’d told nobody, and use them to get under his skin and break him.

Truth be told, he should thank Prumell for it. The incident prompted Kallus to work tirelessly on his mental and physical resistance to torture. By the end of the training, Kallus was the only one who didn’t break, not even when they brought an inquisitor in. He outlasted all his fellow trainees, including Prumell. It’s one of the many things that allowed him to graduate at the top of the class.

Prumell understood that using protocol techniques alone during interrogation wouldn't work on Kallus. He began by bringing an interrogation droid in to inject a cursory round of truth serum and pain-enhancing drugs, before switching to the brutal method of waterboarding, worthy of ancient and less civilized times. Kallus has difficulties maintaining his mental acuteness thanks to the psychotropic agents running in his bloodstream. However, Kallus gathers strength to resist the torture, holding on to the thought that his silence assures the safety of the rebellion and those who he loves. If he dies, it’ll be for a good cause. But as things are, Kallus is unsure how much longer he can withstand the torture. He’s at a breaking point.

Keep Reading

next chapter >>

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dnfao3tags · 5 months

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dnfao3tags' bookmarks #6 - ongoing

Je te laisserai des mots (I'll leave you words)

by ShiloBarns

mature | wip | 27k+ | Graphic Depictions of Violence

American fighter pilot Clay ‘Dream’ Bennett is stranded after being shot down by a rogue German plane over rural France. In the midst of a Nazi occupied state, Dream’s savior comes in the form of a pretty Frenchman named George, who despite speaking limited English, could prove to be the difference between life and death. For both of them.

Heartbeat deafening, Dream stared through the trees, and a face stared back.

admin: this is a favourite of mine and i await every update eagerly. it just recently updated a couple days ago so i was reminded of it. please read it and support the author !!! it has an absolutely criminal amount of hits and kudos.

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shadowofwar-goober · 9 months

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How Pushkrimp and Horza First Met

They are my OCs and a new favourite couple between me and @space-arsonist. I love them so much 🥺

Warnings: Slavery, Living Sacrifice, Typical Uruk Violence

It was no secret as to why he was purchased from his previous master. Horza struggled to understand what the black-clad uruks were speaking about, but he really didn’t need to in order to know what was about to happen to him.

He was small in his cage, but an orc couldn’t possibly be big when uruks were involved. His body was still chilled from the icy bath that his new masters had given him the moment he was dragged into their little coven. It was hostile but quick and they didn’t linger on his body any longer than they had to. If he wasn’t due to be sacrificed, Horza could have been overjoyed about being clean for the first time in years, perhaps even happier that a robe had been thrown over his head, as ill fitting as it was. But he couldn’t feel anything, not even terror or revulsion that he was about to be sacrificed in the name of their Dark Lord. He felt nothing.

Nothing…

Already, the thin white linens that he wore were covered in dirt. Horza stared at his knees and rested his cheeks against them. His wrists were sore from the chains he wore daily, even though the Mystics had removed them before he was shoved into his new cage. He didn’t want to listen but his ears picked up on what they were saying. Their dialect was nearly incomprehensible but he could manage a few words even though he was hardly paying attention to begin with.

“...something, something Dark Lord.”

“...something, something hunting- no, killing-”

“....something about food or being hungry-”

It all blurred into white noise. Horza buried his bruised face into his knees, thankful that he had at least a small amount of his once bountiful hair left. It provided him the comfort of hiding his crying face… He knew he was pathetic but a part of him didn’t want the uruks to see his sorrow or fear, even if it was futile. Maybe he should put up one last fight just so he could die a true orc’s death. Maybe he’ll just let it happen though… Horza was tired and knew long ago that his life was forfeit. It was from the day his village was razed and he was captured and sold into slavery. If he could just manage one more slight against them-

There was a commotion on the other side of the coven that pulled Horza out of his fantasy. Someone was shouting, which led to others shouting, though what really got his attention was the caragors that ran past his cage. His heart skipped a beat. Wild beasts? No, that’s not it. These beasts were starved and mangy… caragors take much better care of themselves out in the wild. One caragor skidded to a halt as it passed the orc and turned to sniff in his direction. Horza immediately threw himself to the ground and froze. If the beast decides that he’s worth it, there’s nothing that will stop it… A flimsy cage will do nothing to stop a starving caragor, but the beast's own survival instincts did. It ran off in the same direction of the other two that had passed Horza moments ago.

Shouting continued, though it was joined by something akin to a roar. Horza was shocked and didn’t move from his prone position on the ground. What is this?! A raid?! He feared the unknown and he feared changing hands to new masters again, regardless of the fact that he would die either way should the Mystics have their way with him.

It can always be worse… It can always be worse-

Horza again became numb to his surroundings. He could hear shouting, no, screaming, and the crackle and brightness of a fire that was spreading through the coven. He closed his eyes reflexively in response to the bright light, but quickly reopened them when he heard a strangled cry and the thud of a body hitting the ground. A spear was lodged in his back and in spite of his dark clothing, Horza could clearly see a dark patch of blood spreading underneath the cloth. That weapon was longer than Horza was tall… The Mystic was dead before he hit the ground, something vital was hit, his heart or a lung. Horza’s stomach twisted into knots.

He still isn’t used to it… How can a slave not be used to the sight and stench of death? His heart stuttered in his chest when the spear’s owner approached to reclaim his spear.

Though he was flat on the ground, Horza was sure that this was the tallest uruk he’s ever seen. He was taller than the cage he was imprisoned in, as was the shield he wore on his left arm. With one foot on the Mystic’s back, he removed the weapon with little effort. He flicked his wrist and wet blood shocked Horza’s face. He jumped and gasped, which got the attention of the uruk that was only a few feet away from him. No. No, no-!

His eyes were as intense as the fires that engulfed the Mystic coven. Horza shrank even further, whimpering softly as his eyes narrowed. For a brief moment, Horza could swear he saw the uruk’s brows falter, but as quickly as he noticed, his face was stone again and he couldn’t gauge what he was feeling. Disgust? He hoped it wasn’t anger… Another uruk, one similar in dress to him, asked in the common tongue-

“Are we takin’ prisoners?” The other uruk’s gaze drifted over to Horza then snapped back to the bigger uruk. He scoffed and bared his teeth. He barked something that Horza couldn’t understand, seeming almost offended by his subordinate’s question. And when the other uruk nodded towards him-

“‘im too?” His stomach dropped. The intense uruk looked him over then grabbed a hold of the cage door, ripping it off its worn and rusted hinges with such little difficulty that Horza nearly fainted.

Whatever he said, he said it over his shoulder as he walked away. The other uruk shrugged and walked towards Horza. The orc instinctively tensed and held his breath as the back of his collar was grabbed and he was forced to his feet. He was all but dragged through the coven and he held witness to the horrors that the raiders had inflicted onto the Mystics in the minutes their ambush had taken place.

Slaughtered, butchered, tongues removed and throats slit… Perhaps it was a mockery of the ritual that would have taken place with him in their place. Horza felt himself fading fast and he had to look away, gulping down the bile that threatened to surge up from his empty stomach. He was picked up, again by his collar, and dragged towards a group of saddled caragor. There was one uruk standing there, looking annoyed and bored. Horza was practically thrown at him and he fell onto the ground and remained there out of fear.

“‘ere, boss said this ‘un’s going with us.” The other uruk curled his lip.

“Eh? Why?” He looked down at Horza with disgust. The uruk that threw him shrugged.

“Dunno. Wanna be the one to ask him?”

He shook his head ‘hell no’.

#middle earth shadow of war #shadow of war #my ocs #uruk ocs #orc slavery #graphic depictions of violence #Horza is terrified #Pushkrimp is a rabid starved beast #The Mystics didn't stand a chance #there's a lot of bad blood between Pushkrimp and the Mystics #Pushkrimp the Raid Leader? More like Pushkrimp the Merciless

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lifblogs · 1 month

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Fandom: The Bad Batch Rating: Teen and Up Audiences Word Count: 1294 Summary: Crosshair has been activated, turned into an operative of Hemlock, and he has tried to kill Omega. This is what happens next. WARNINGS: Graphic Depictions of Violence, Major Character Death

#star wars #the bad batch #tbb #tbb crosshair #crosshair #star wars fanfiction #the bad batch fanfiction #tbb fanfiction #fanfiction #writing #my writing #script format #graphic depictions of violence #major character death #mcd

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rexsokaficquotes · 2 months

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"It doesn't have to be like this." Korrē sinks down on her haunches, perches her chin on a closed fist. "All the Emperor wants is to reunite with His family. He would never hurt them. Padmé has nothing to be afraid of."

Sabé's face shifts and her fire returns. "He almost killed her!" she snarls. "He strangled her nearly to death while she was eight months pregnant with his children!"

"He apologized," Korrē says, rolling her golden eyes. The Captain remembers when they used to be blue. "You must understand how betrayed He felt when He saw that she had brought Obi-Wan. He didn't realize that he'd stowed away. He admits He was wrong."

— lamaenthel, from Rope Burns

#fic: rated e (18+)#dead dove do not eat #graphic depictions of violence #imperial captain rex #sith au #emotional incest #implied vadersoka #rexsoka #rexsoka fic quotes #captain rex #ahsoka tano #star wars #the clone wars #star wars the clone wars #swtcw #star wars rebels #lamaenthel

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ifonlyweknewwhatiwasdoing · 2 years

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These Are Lies We Tell Ourselves (#19 Whumptober 2022) [1/3 of TALWTO]

Prompt: Knees Buckling | Repeatedly Passing Out | Head Lolling

Fandom: Star Wars- All Media Types, Star Wars - The Clone Wars (2008)

Pairing: Jango Fett/Obi-Wan Kenobi

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: Assumed Major Character Death, Graphic Depictions of Violence

Summary: Jango knew.

Obi-Wan was a Jetii.

He’d been taught how to escape any situation. He’d been trained how to fight, had been given a saber for that very purpose. He knew how to defend himself.

Obi-Wan was a Jetii.

He’d been taught to defend those who couldn’t defend themselves.

There were still people in the camp.

When the shiny silver metal caught his eye, Jango’s legs gave out from under him.

--- Fic Under the Cut ---

“We don’t have to bail her highness out of every single firefight that she and the Jetii find themselves in, you know.”

Jango looked up at Myles, who wasn’t even looking at him but at the fire that they’d built in their camp for the night.

He’d been Jango’s right-hand man since his father had died on Korda Six and one of his most trusted friends. As such, he wasn’t one to mince words and Jango knew that the seemingly innocent sentence would soon end up in whatever lecture the man felt like giving him.

“We don’t,” he agreed, taking a stick to poke at the fire so that it wouldn’t jump the ring that they’d dug for it, “And more often than not, we leave them to their work, but I’m sure you can agree that if she were to die for some reason, it would be bad for us. Like it or not the New Mandalorians are our best shot at defeating Death Watch. If we’re not careful and Death Watch rises, we’re going to have more problems than a little blaster burn from a missed shot.”

Myles tightened the bandage that he was working on, making Jango hiss and his arm jerked in Myles’ hold.

“Maybe the pain will remind you not to do stupid shit,” Myles told him blandly, “Since the memory of what happens when you think you know better than you do doesn’t seem to stick with you, no matter who has to die for it.”

“Don’t talk about him like that!” Jango snapped angrily, “There was no reason to know that Death Watch would be there. He wasn’t-!”

“It doesn’t matter what he was or wasn’t,” Myles cut him off, voice low and angry, “Because he’s dead, Jango. It doesn’t matter whether he was being cocky or if he couldn’t have known or if Death Watch had been too far ahead of him for him to be able to see because he’s gone and you’re here and you’re the last shot we’ve got at this.”

Jango’s mouth snapped shut at his words, the ache in his chest that he seemed doomed to carry around forever making him feel hollow.

“We need her alive,” Jango repeated, “Or we’ll be doomed.”

“If it were just Adonai’s daughter who needed saving would you have stepped in?” Myles asked, looking at him critically, “Or is there someone else that you’ve decided you need?”

Jango knew what he was asking.

The young man that had been accompanying Satine had captivated Jango since the moment that he’d first seen him during the peace talks.

He was beautiful, undeniably so, with copper hair and a piercing blue stare that was impossible to forget. He’d only been accompanying an older Jetii who’d been sent to assist in the peace talks and yet, Jango couldn’t remember a single thing that the older man had said.

He could remember how the younger Jetii—Obi-Wan, he’d said his name was as Jango had kissed down his neck—tasted, how he smelled, how his legs had felt wrapped around Jango’s waist and how he’d felt around Jango’s dick as he pressed into the man. He couldn’t forget how he’d eagerly sucked Jango until he’d gotten hard a second time and then slid into his lap to ride him until he couldn’t remember his own name.

He could remember all that, but Myles spoke as if Jango couldn’t live without the man.

He could. It’d only been one night. Obi-Wan hadn’t been that good in bed. He hadn’t been that excited when Obi-Wan had agreed to spend the night beside him.

He hadn’t been that disappointed to wake up alone.

But, if Satine needed saving, and Obi-Wan happened to be with her, then it was just a coincidence that the man was saved with her.

And he told Myles as much.

Myles look said all that it needed to.

“Then next time they need help we don’t need to go,” Myles said simply, “They’ve entered a camp with other New Mandalorians, who will surely keep Satine safe and they definitely won’t welcome our interference.”

“If she is camped with others there is no reason for us to follow,” Jango agreed, “We will wait for them to leave before following them further.”

“Good. It’s decided then,” Myles said.

---

For a moment, Jango thought that he must be dead.

That must have been the feeling of not being able to breathe that was overcoming him. There wasn’t any way that his heart could still be beating when his chest was just one, hot spot of pain that made it feel like it’d burst in his chest.

The only thing he could hear was the blood rushing in his ears, the ice in his veins so thick that he was sure it wasn’t possible that he was on Mandalore, where the sun always ensured it was sticky and hot.

It was a nightmare.

It had to be a nightmare.

The camp that had stood in front of Jango couldn’t possibly be as burned to the ground as it looked. It must have been an illusion of his overactive mind.

But he could feel the heat from the embers on his body, could see the debris from the tents that had probably once housed people.

There was no armour to be found—since Satine herself had staunchly opposed it—but Jango thought that it would have only served to cook the burnt remnants that laid eerily across the ground.

Someone had burned the camp that housed Satine to the ground.

Someone had burned the camp that had housed Obi-Wan to the ground.

And if people’s bodies were still there—if there had still been people to save, no matter how hopeless the situation was—Jango knew.

He thought he might be sick as he started to walk through the camp, towards the spot where he’d last seen Obi-Wan.

Jango knew.

He knew and yet, he wished he didn’t.

“Jango…”

Myles's voice sounded like he was trying to speak from underwater somewhere. It was like they weren’t on the same planet anymore.

Jango knew.

Obi-Wan was a Jetii.

He’d been taught how to escape any situation. He’d been trained how to fight, had been given a saber for that very purpose. He knew how to defend himself.

Obi-Wan was a Jetii.

He’d been taught to defend those who couldn’t defend themselves.

There were still people in the camp.

When the shiny silver metal caught his eye, Jango’s legs gave out from under him.

Myles wasn’t quick enough to catch him as he collapsed into the ash and embers and debris of-.

“Obi-Wan,” Jango managed to bite out, one hand coming to wrap around the dirty saber hilt that was half-buried in the ground.

“It’s a Jedi’s life,” Obi-Wan had explained, chin tucked up against Jango’s neck, his arms and legs wrapped around Jango as Obi-Wan held Jango.

He was smaller than Jango, but it’d been nice to be held by someone, even if Jango had protested being the small spoon while Obi-Wan just laughed, telling him he didn’t have a choice because Obi-Wan had been kriffed so it was Obi-Wan’s choice who was which spoon.

Jango had held the saber, thinking it probably shouldn’t be allowed, unable to help but open his mouth to ask, “It almost feels…alive. Like you, sort of. Like it’s got a life of its own though. It’s strange.”

“It’s an extension of me,” Obi-Wan informed him with a smile against Jango’s shoulder, “So I should hope it feels a bit like me. The crystal inside of it that powers it chose me.”

“It chose you,” Jango repeated, “Did you- did you chose it as well?”

“I did,” Obi-Wan agreed, “I choose a lot of things.”

“Like what?” Jango asked, closing his eyes as Obi-Wan kissed his shoulder.

“Like you,” Obi-Wan had told him, with a glint of amusement in his eyes.

The saber was half-buried in the ground.

The saber was Obi-Wan’s life.

Obi-Wan was a Jetii.

If Obi-Wan’s saber was buried in the ground…

Jango thought he would be sick.

Because the only reason his saber would still be here is that Obi-Wan himself was still here.

He looked around the burned camp, suddenly feeling like he’d be sick as his eyes locked onto every burned husk of a person that had been left on the ground.

“Jango I’m sorry,” Myles murmured behind him, “I didn’t think…”

He didn’t think. Neither did Jango.

They hadn’t thought.

He should have been there.

They should have been there.

For a man that didn’t seem to want anything to do with the Jedi, Jango Fett seemed to crop up too often for it to be a mere coincidence.

Satine seemed to dislike the man, which Obi-Wan supposed wasn’t surprising, seeing as how the man was seemingly on the other side of the war of her, but still, whenever something happened where the pair of them were in trouble, the man would appear, with a few Mandalorians in tow, to bail them out of whatever they’d gotten themselves into.

#whumptober2022 #no.19 #knees buckling #star wars #fic #major character death assumed #graphic depictions of violence #nsfwhump #jango fett #obi-wan kenobi #alternate universe #jangobi #kenfetti #star wars fanfiction #musicsoul1982 whumps

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xinambercladx · 2 years

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"Figment" Ch3: Persuasion

Rating: T Characters: Cad Bane, Anakin Skywalker, Ahsoka Tano, Obi-Wan Kenobi, Mace Windu, Soopan Summary: When three of the most powerful Jedi try use Force Persuasion on the best bounty hunter in the galaxy, he resists. His subconscious barricades itself in a childhood memory, back to another time when he was equally helpless. It was a time he had tried to forget. Word Count: 5,500

Chapter warnings: Psychological Torture, Gang Brutality (Full fic tags in the # section). ----------------------------------------------------

“For the greater good” is too often the excuse for acts of evil.

“You will take us to the Holocron.”

Is he serious? Bane thought. Skywalker had his hand out in front of him in a failed attempt to penetrate his mind. Bane’s previous opinion that the young man was clever vanished. Bane leaned forward on an elbow, and let the disdain soak his words. “Jedi mind tricks don’ werk on me.”

The Jedi Kenobi on the right raised his hand, eyes closed in concentration as well. Both him and Skywalker repeated the phrase together,

“You will take us to the Holocron.”

The voices somehow echoed in the small holding cell. The words repeated in his ears, then in his mind. The Jedi were his clients. Their outstretched hands offered a deal. The assignment seemed a reasonable one… except that sense of danger that crawled around Bane’s skin intensified. Something pressed against his temples, his chest. He shook his head. They weren’t his clients. They were Jedi, he reminded himself. “Forget it!” he hissed. They were asking the wrong question. Why were they suddenly on about the Holocron? Why weren’t they asking about the children? The children that were already in danger? It was always like this with the Jedi. Sacrifice the few for the good of the many. Sacrifice human clones instead of enlist citizens of the Republic. The high and mighty Jedi, Mace Windu, raised his hand last.

All three repeated the command, “You will take us to the Holocron.”

The voices echoed louder in the room and in Bane’s head. The pressure on his temples was becoming unbearable, and his chest was becoming heavy. He tried to remember to breathe. Why wasn’t his breathing apparatus functioning? It should have kicked in with the air so thin. The Jedi minds grabbed at him now, pulling him. He resisted their pull, scrambling for a foothold. He panted, “I won’t!”

Mace Windu commanded, “And you will take us…”

“NOW!” they all commanded, and the word speared through Bane.

Suddenly Bane wasn’t in the ship’s holding cell. He was in the Descent Ghetto. The planet Duro hovered in view of the orbiting space station, New Teyana. There was nothing new about it. It was still the scrap heap he remembered. The hatched together building blocks of the city was as tall as he remembered. The foul smelling, recycled air was as thin as he remembered. It was as though he had never left.

Skywalker and Kenobi had him on his knees in a side alley. His tiny, child sized arms were arrested painfully in their iron, adult grip. The humans were the aliens here on a Duros colony. He had picked a fight with too many. They were bigger than him, stronger than him, and he was now at their mercy. He struggled to breath. His head and chest hurt from where they had beat him. Windu’s hand tightened around Cad’s throat. The message was clear. Give them the score or die. Cad didn’t want to relent. He had worked so hard for it. But was it worth dying like this? They’d leave him in the gutter like the others. He’d never be able to leave off this stink hole. He just needed time to grow taller, to get stronger, then he would show the galaxy his capabilities. Then it would be his turn to teach them a lesson. Just not yet.

The young Duros relented, hanging his head. He relaxed from their tightening grip, even though his arms were bruising beneath it.

“I… I will take you…”

Cad heard his own voice. It was deep and resonant. It was not the voice of a child. Bane blinked and his vision flashed between alleyway and holding cell. He pushed himself away from the table, “NO!” He shook his head, the pressure squeezing like a vice. When he closed his eyes, the alleyway waited for him and the smell of trash and rot ruptured through his cheek nostrils. All the while, the voices repeated the demands, bouncing off the brick and rusted iron beams. The Jedi were forcing him to relive a terrible memory so vividly it was horrifying. He had sworn to never return. The bounty hunter found himself begging, “GET OUT OF MY HEAD!” His plea was answered with more pressure and pain. It hit him like a kick to the face.

***

There was a loud metal crunch. A small body impacted the dumpster so hard it left a dent, and fell to the ground nearly as hard. For a moment Cad couldn’t move, the wind knocked out of him. He tried to put his hands under him. He tried to get up. He tasted iron. Out of his good eye he saw green blood drooling on the dirty duracrete where his face had been. He spat it out of his mouth.

“Stay down, grubbie!” came a threat.

The boy’s lips curled, showing fang. He put his hands underneath and pushed. He put one foot under him and then the other. He rose, clutching his ribs, but he rose. He growled, but it only sounded like a childish “Grrr!” The three adults laughed at his face. They had broken one of the unspoken rules of the space station’s streets: pick on someone you’re own size. He had taken it for granted. He had been naïve to think outsiders would be expected to know or follow it.

“Listen to that. He can’t even rattle yet!”

“Pathetic little grub.”

“What’s wrong? Blue balls haven’t dropped yet?”

The three men all snickered, towering over him. Their foreign accents annoyed Cad. These alien creeps didn’t belong here. The Descent Ghetto was Duros territory. The leader tossed a package to their fourth member. “Take this to the hideout. We’ll meet you there after we-”

“My score! Dat ain’t yours, off-worlders!” he spat, green blood spraying the Human’s nerf hide shoes.

The leader looked down in disgust, his weirdly pink lips curling away from his blunt human teeth. “You green-blooded gutter trash!” He kicked at Cad’s stomach, but Cad sidestepped and the man nearly sprained his ankle. The man grunted, regaining his balance. Cad cursed himself for not taking that opportunity, even though he himself was struggling to stay standing.

“Whatever, let’s go, Bleak,” asked the brunette human. “We got what we came for. I’m starving.”

Bleak kissed his teeth, making a clicking sound with his pink lips as Humans could unlike a Duros did with their throats. “Nah. I don’t think we will. I think I’ll teach this grub a lesson. See, that package was never yours,” Bleak said, now addressing Cad. He reached and grabbed Cad by the throat, slamming him against the dumpster again. Cad coughed, more blood spattering the human’s sleeve. “You messed up by getting unreliable backup. A fatso, dumbass kid like him stands out too much among all you skinny poor folk.”

“Don’ you talk about Soopan like dat!” Cad shouted, struggling against the man’s grip. He wished he had claws to scratch the man’s face.

“Shut your mouth!” Bleak punched him in the gut. Cad would have buckled if he weren’t pinned. “Soopan is a fatso and you’re nothing but skin and bone. All of you are. You think we couldn’t notice him staking out the place for you? We might have different eyeballs, grubbie, but we’re not blind.” Bleak shifted his weight to one hip. He stuck his face closer make sure Cad was listening. “Your second mistake was having a shitty escape plan. You didn’t check your exits, otherwise you would have seen us watching. You didn’t have a getaway vehicle waiting except for your own two, short, scrawny legs. And you expected Fatso Soopan to keep up with you?”

Every point was on point. Cad hated it, but had to agree. He had retrieved the package, but failed the escape due to lack of foresight. But he couldn’t have done it without his friend…

“Your third mistake,” Bleak continued, his voice darkened, “was running passed cops and bringing heat toward us.” He motioned to himself and his gang. His free arm retreated and then swung low. His fist contacted Cad’s ribs with a sickening crunch. Cad’s wind was gone. The boy opened his mouth, but his diaphragm refused to pull air inside. Bleak sneered with his blunt, yellow human teeth. “I don’t like unwarranted attention to my dealings. But you’re just a stupid amateur. We were kind enough to dispatch them for you. And for that, you owe us blood and money.”

“Looks…” Cad wheezed. Cad looked him straight in the eye and shrugged, “Looks like we’re even den. Your man took a package with five thousand credits inside,” he coughed, “and my blood is decoratin’ yer fancy shoes.”

The statement took Bleak a second to process. His head reeled back, and he cackled. “Hahaehaha! The grub has a point!” Bleak exclaimed. Bleak laughed some more and his goons joined him. “Five thousand, you say? That’s not bad at all. That’s worth more than your scrawny hide ever will be. Take my advice, grub. If you’re going to steal, never do it for yourself. Do it for other people and get paid to do it. Then you’re less likely to wind up dead.” He released Cad’s throat. Cad leaned heavily against the dumpster, legs shaking but refusing to falter.

Cad barely noticed they had left. It wasn’t until smaller footsteps pattered down the alley did his vision refocus.

“Cad! Cad, you’re alive!” Soopan exclaimed, waddling up to him. “I saw dem come out of de alley and thought dey…” He round cheeks sniffed, “You’re bleedin’ everywhere.” Soopan put his hand on Cad’s shoulder, and the other braced his arm, trying to help Cad walk. Cad showed fang and smacked his hands away.

“No thanks to you! What took you so long?!” Cad wheezed.

Soopan back-stepped. “What? I tried! You know yer faster than me! You took off runnin’ and when I saw dem chasin’ ya I tried to keep up, but I-”

“But nothin’!” Cad seethed. “I was countin’ on you to have my back.”

“Cad, you ain’t breathin’ right,” Soopan said, voice full of worry, not caring about the accusation. “Let’s go to the medical center. We can pay for it wit’ de money we stole!” Soopan yelped in surprised when Cad snatched his collar and shook him, fangs fully bared. Soopan could see what Cad went through. The boy’s left eye was nearly swollen shut with bruises already turning a dark blue-green. His lip was cut and bruised from a punch to the mouth, and green blood stained his teeth. His breath was labored, each intake a wheeze. He could smell a distinct irritating odor of Cad’s rib organs releasing oil from extreme stress. Soopan’s bottom lip quivered, guilt overcoming him. Soopan blubbered, “Cad… I’m so sorry.”

Somehow the genuine apology hurt worse than everything else. Cad let his friend go. His small arms clutched his ribs and he walked away.

“Cad!”

“The credits are gone,” Cad admitted. “Bounty hunters took’em.”

“Cad!” his friend called after him.

The beaten and bloodied boy didn’t listen. He kept walking and disappeared into the crowds beyond the alley. It was a long walk back to his block, a lot longer than it should have been. His legs felt like sand. Everywhere hurt. One good shirt was torn. He only had one spare. He realized the space station was already orbiting the evening cycle. The streets slowly filtered out as people headed home or to restaurants for dinner. The planet Duros above now only showed a sliver of the daylight side, making a crescent like a moon. It loomed above the patchwork buildings. Most days he found it a beautiful sight, comforting almost. Tonight was different. He felt it was mocking him and how small he was. What’s wrong? Blue balls haven’t dropped yet? the goon’s voice mocked in his head. It wasn’t Cad’s fault. He was still stuck in the grub stage for likely a few more years. It wasn’t his fault he couldn’t get the food needed to grow properly. His lip twitched because he knew that wasn’t entirely true. Soopan had offered to feed him from his parent’s table, but Cad had always slapped suggestion away. How could a middle class grub understand? Call it poor man’s pride. He had to earn it. He had to take care of himself, by himself.

You will take us to the Holocron, the goon’s voice said in his head.

… what?

Cad looked up and saw he was nearly to his hideout.

A Duros woman across the street exited her house with a bag of trash. Her features were soft and gentle. Unlike a male, Duros women had much less pronounced brow ridges, and rounder eyes. She was slight of build, but had perfect egg-laying hips that swayed as she stepped down into the street to deposit the bag in a rubbish chute. The thing chimed and the bag was blown through the tubes to the back alley dumpsters. She wasn’t the ideal beauty, but a beauty none-the-less. The woman turned back to reenter the house, but stopped. She noticed the someone observing her. The woman saw the boy across the street. It was not the first time she had seen him in the neighborhood, but it was the first time she had seen him bearing such injuries. She gasped and a hand went to her mouth. The poor thing… The boy looked around nervously, having been caught watching her. He scampered off with his head down before she could stop him.

Later, Cad had crawled and climbed up to his hideout, which is what he called it anyway. He pulled himself through the grate and shut it behind him. The attic served him well. It was warm, being above a used apartment. He had found the place a year ago during his initial wanderings of the area. Exploring the urban ladders, alleys, and rooftops was fun. This place was a bonus on a particularly cold few weeks when the environment control center had malfunctioned aboard the station. He had cleaned the attic out of the critter nests and dust and had pawned off most of the items found in the forgotten space. The couple that lived below were none the wiser. As long as he kept quiet and moved carefully as not to make the ceiling creak, he lived rent free. Cad crawled to his bed mat and lay down. He crawled around here anyway due to the cramped space and low ceiling. Next to him were a few things he had pilfered on previous “heists.” A small cooler kept his food cold. A jug of water. On an old ammo crate were stacked several tools. His prized possession was an old poster showcasing a human gunslinger from the days of the Old Republic, wearing a wide brimmed hat like the Durosian grim reaper of legend. He was dual wielding antique blasters and the barrels smoked from the heat of rapid use. It was wizard. There were two other grates besides the one used as a door. One was like a window that filtered city light onto that poster. The smell of a home cooked meal filtered up through the grate on the floor nearby.

The smell of it drew him out of his daze. It smelled much better than the blood in his mouth, or the irritating odor of his own rib cage oil sacs. Cad became self conscious, worried if it were odorous enough for the residents downstairs to smell. He pulled off his shirt, gingerly, and used it as a rag to clean himself of blood and oils. He used water and soap, bathing as best he could. Cad decided he’d have to visit a public shower at the mall’s gym to bathe more thoroughly. He stuffed the ruined shirt in a trash bag. It was summer cycle on the station. Tonight he wouldn’t have to use the blanket, but he draped it around his scrawny shoulders anyway.

The scent of the food downstairs drew his attention again. Cad pulled himself to the grate and peered down, ignoring his pained ribs. Below, there was the woman from the street. She hummed a random tune as she stirred a pot of soup. There were chopped vegetables and meat cooking in the thick broth. She wafted her delicate, long fingered hand over the top to smell before ladling some to taste. Displeased, she pinched some salt from a bowl and added it. Cad’s stomach growled loud enough he almost feared she would hear it. He hid from view, even though it had happened many times before and the woman had never noticed. The grate over the kitchen was the only view he had into the lives of the family below. He feared losing his hideout, but couldn’t resist glimpsing the charming domestic scenes playing out in real time. The front door opened and boot steps entered the kitchen. Cad peered down again to see the husband had returned. The man approached his wife from behind and wrapped his arms around her in a tender embrace. She leaned her head against his, returning the gesture.

“Where’s our little grub? Is he sleepin’?” the man asked with a raspy, yet kind voice. He was much taller than the woman, had a strong chin and broad shoulders, at least for a Duros.

“Yess,” she cooed. “In the crib by de table.”

He hummed an approval, and touched her collarbone. Silver scars circled the small of her neck. They didn’t mar her perfectly blue skin, they marked it with beautiful declaration. A claim. She had been bitten by her husband in the old fashioned Duros way. The husband bent and kissed the sacred spot. She made a soft rattle sound in reply.

“Smells good,” he said, resting his chin on her shoulder.

“Thank you. Set the table, it’s ‘bout ready.”

The tenderness made Cad’s heart ache. If only his own parents were like them. If his father had been gentle, would he have run away? Cad frowned when the husband let go and started setting the plates and utensils on the table. He wondered if he’d someday be able to hold and kiss a woman like that. It seemed like it would be nice.

Cad reached inside the cooler and grabbed a wrapped bit of mealcake. He filled a cup with water and took a sip. He swished it around his mouth and spit it out into a bin. Then he took a drink with less blood taste involved. He shuffled back to the grate and ate as the couple ate, imagining himself beside them. The first bite made him flinch. A tooth was loose. He checked it with his tongue and was glad to find it was his last remaining grub tooth. The bounty hunters must have knocked it. He chewed on the other side of his mouth.

“Did you have a talk wit’ dem?”

The man nodded. “I don’t think he liked finding out there were criminals working behind his back, but I think he respected what I had to say. We’ll see how it goes.”

“I’m sure it’ll work out,” she assured him. “You’re a man of integrity. He can’t afford to lose a man like you in the business he runs. Who will keep people from embezzling if someone doesn’t hold them accountable?”

“Exactly.” After another bite he trilled, “Good soup…” he threw a hand signal of approval.

The conversation faded to the background as the boy drifted off to sleep. The first few days were the hardest, and he had great difficulty breathing. They soon passed and his wounds began to heal, and his bruised eye opened up again. His ribs still screamed whenever he climbed to and from his hideout, but that couldn’t be helped. In the street where he had botched his latest heist, cops were everywhere. Wanted posters plastered street light poles and news billboards. The bounty hunters were now in hiding since they had killed four cops. He was glad of it, since that meant they weren’t likely to jump him.

His days were filled with several activities. Sleeping was to help himself heal. Pick pocketing was to refill his coffers so he could eat. Afternoons, provided he had gathered sufficient money for food, he’d spend at the public holonet tables. He’d play a few free games, but mostly as a reward for keeping up with his studies. Cad, like every Duros, had dreams of space travel. He forced education on himself so he could leave one day and be a pilot, an engineer, anything. He had a photographic memory, a blessing of his species, but he also liked puzzles and couldn’t help finding patterns where math and physics met with mapping courses in hyperspace. It was fascinating. He would lose himself for hours until his stomach would remind him of necessities. He’d purchase dumplings or meat mash on a bountiful day, and then race to his hideout because evenings were his favorite. Evenings were spent pretending he was a part of the couple’s meals. He knew it was a silly pass time, but what was the harm? He always took care to never use the same route home twice. Evading Soopan was proving difficult. Cad was slower than normal and his friend knew their romping grounds just as well as he. Soopan no doubt wanted to make up for what happened, but Cad didn’t want to hear it. He didn’t begrudge him, he just wasn’t ready yet. Soopan did catch him eventually.

You will take us to the Holocron.

Cad stopped and looked around. There it was again. Did he imagine it? He didn’t find the origin, but he did see someone he recognized. There he was, his friend, waiting for him less than a block away from the couple’s apartment. While Cad had the agility and stealth to break into places, his friend had always been good at scoping them out and tracking down targets. He had a knack for it. He would have found Cad’s hideout sooner or later. Soopan ran, as best he could, up to him. A frantic expression was on his face.

“Cad!”

“I’m fine! Nothin’ some sleep couldn’t cure,” he lied.

“That’s not it at all! Don’t go home. They’re waitin’ for you!”

“Who?”

“The bounty hunters! The ones who took our score!” he pointed at the apartment.

Cad shook his head, “We’re even. Bleak said so himself.”

“But I heard him threatenin’ your father!”

Cad rose a brow. “My father? My father don’ live ‘round here, Soopan. He lives in de factory district on level Seven.”

“Den... who’s de family you live with? Ain’t he the manager at Curious Bizarre?”

“I don’ live with dem. And what do dey have to do with-”

A scream filled the air. They both looked to the origin and saw a Duros woman on the ground. Two alien men stood over her. The two more humans pointed weapons at her. Cad was running toward them before he realized it. As he got closer, he recognized the men as the ones from the alley. They were the four bounty hunters. Cad stopped dead in his tracks and hid in a store entryway. He peeked out at the scene that was actively drawing a crowd. Blue and green skinned, red eyed Duros onlookers were attracted to the violence, but also the off-world collection of aliens.

“Tell your husband that the game is over. His boss isn’t happy with the stir he’s caused, and now his company is being investigated. If he turns himself in, maybe we’ll be more lenient. You have until midnight.”

With that, the bounty hunters left as though nothing had happened. Cad backed as far as he could into the entryway as they passed. They didn’t notice him. He watched them leave and saw Soopan nearly piss his pants, knees shaking. A bounty hunter laughed at him and pushed a finger roughly into the boy’s nose-less face. His head jerked backward and the boy lost his balance, landing on his large rear. The whole group laughed at the boy’s expense. Then they were gone.

The woman picked herself up onto her knees, upright but still in shock. A hand went to her cheek where they had struck her. Tears welled in her eyes. Confusion haunted them, trying to understand what had happened. Then she saw a small pair of worn shoes standing before her. She looked up and it was the same boy from weeks earlier. The boy’s injuries looked both better and worse. His eye was no longer swollen, but the bruises had turned that ugly shade of deep, purple-green as they did before the body cleared them out. He looked at her with… was that sympathy? Anger? Shame? He took in a breath as though to speak, then hesitated. He looked around them at the dissipating crowd and found he was the only Duros to approach her.

Cad said, offering a hand, “Dey beat me up too.”

She replied in horror, “They did that to you? A child?”

Cad shrugged, “I survived. Can’t say I’ve had worse though.” The woman took his hand and he pulled her up. He was almost two heads taller than her. He looked up at her kind, crimson eyes. He realized this was the first time they had spoken. He felt suddenly awkward and guilty. He had spied on her family, innocently, yes, but it was still spying. He had invaded their privacy for… some reason. He turned to leave and said, “You and your family should ditch town. Bounty hunters like dem mean bid'ness. Wanted posters everywhere warn ‘bout ‘em. If you leave, den they’ll have no more reason to hunt you.”

“We have no where else to go,” she said. “Dis is our home. We’ll fight for it.”

“Sounds like a good way to wind up dead,” he said angrily. The bounty hunters would slaughter them. It wasn’t just his experience that told him this, but the records he had looked up about them on the public holonet. Altogether the men were wanted in twelve systems and worked for the Bounty Hunters Guild. He sighed when she said nothing. “Suit yourself. Don’ say I didn’t warn you.”

“Wait!” she said, grabbing his hand. She pulled him toward her apartment. She stopped at her door. “Wait here a moment.” She let go and rushed inside. Cad stood there and awkwardly obeyed. She returned a moment later with a package wrapped in a cloth. “Please take this. I wanted to help you, when I saw you last in the street? You looked so broken… but I didn’t know how to find you. Well. Dat’s it, I guess. Please take care on your way home, okay?”

Cad clutched the warm package in his arms. The gift felt wonderfully warm against his chest. He looked up and said, “I don’t have a home.” He left her speechless on the porch just as he had last time. Cad returned to his hideout in the attic. He didn’t have the heart to peer into the kitchen that night. He smelled the soup boiling and it made his stomach growl. He made a face.

My stomach rattles better dan I can, he thought.

He placed the package on his lap and stared at it with curiosity. He undid the knot and saw a tub of soup and a spoon placed on top. It was the same soup he was smelling coming through the grate on the floor. The one he had watched them eat so many times. Cad snatched the lid off and dipped the spoon and brought it to his mouth. It was heavenly. The young Duros enjoyed every bite. He alternated between a spoonful of seasoned broth and chunks of vegetable or meat. There was so much of it. It was piping hot. He realized his mouth was too heated. He sprawled across the floor to pour some water into a cup. He took a drink and it cooled his tongue down some. He didn’t stop eating until the tub was near empty. There was just a few pieces of ingredients left and a couple spoonfuls of broth. He recapped the lid and set it carefully inside the cooler. It would be cold the next day, but it was very worth saving. Cad laid back with a very full stomach, happy as could be. Sleep found him quickly.

He dreamed of the planet Duros looming overhead. Soopan and he played a game of chance in the one park the neighborhood had to offer. There was no grass, but just a dirt lot with a few basic play sets and benches. The trees were real, though stunted from lack of care. They didn’t play to win anything, but purely just to play. The chance cubes rolled and they were both red. Cad won. Another roll and they were blue, and Soopan won the bet. Cad snatched the dice for his turn. He shook them in his hand and teased that he was going to win with first red and then blue. The cube rolled. One turned up red. He laughed. The second cube rolled and then began to spin. Cad and Soopan watched in wonder. The cube had never done that before. The cube grew in size. The surface blue tiles expanded until the whole thing was blue. The cube slowed down and opened its shell. It glowed. A crystal within shined brightly, angrily. It was a Holocron.

Cad jumped back, but hissed as his arm touched an ember. The trees were on fire. The park around him was engulfed in orange and red light, it seemed to swallow even his shadow. His mouth stung with the taste of sulfur. Suddenly it was difficult to breathe. He coughed, calling out to Soopan. Where did he go? His eyes searched the flames for his friend. He heard a scream. It wasn’t his friend. It was smaller, a far younger scream, a Duros baby’s scream. Voices echoed,

“You will take us to the Holocron!”

Cad woke up coughing. His eyes stung from smoke billowing into the attic. Fire. It had to be fire. The apartment was on fire! It wasn’t a dream. He needed to get out. He heard more screams. The couple’s grub below was screaming. He crawled to the exit, trying not to inhale more smoke. Voices echoed around him.

Take us to the Holocron!

Where were the voices coming from? They sounded malicious. His eyes watered, trying to see. It was getting hotter the further he crawled. He reached the exit grate. He flinched from the metal surface. It was incredibly hot. He shifted his legs first and kicked it open. Cad needed to pull himself through.

I need to get out! He kept pulling himself but the exit seemed so far away. He pulled himself and pulled himself until finally he fell from the attic to the rooftop below...

*** Cad Bane thrashed in his chair, wrists cuffed and hands clawing at nothing. The Duros’ cries sounded like someone dragging a board across duracrete. The Jedi concentrated even harder. Despite their best efforts, Kenobi only had flashes of images telling him useless information. He saw more Duros, other bounty hunters, soup for some reason, a sea of rolling grass, and a rolling chance cube turning into the Holocron. Kenobi sensed unease behind him and he let go. Anakin Skywalker and Mace Windu did as well. The bounty hunter collapsed forward on the table with a gasp. His chest heaved desperate for air, clearly exhausted. The bearded Jedi Master Kenobi looked behind him and saw that Ahsoka was shaken. Perhaps it hadn’t been a good idea to let her witness the Mind Persuasion technique, though she would need to use it one day herself in the future. To his side, Anakin Skywalker’s focus was only on the bounty hunter.

“Perhaps we should try again,” he threatened the prisoner.

Cad Bane panted and raised a hand in plea, “I… I’ve had enough o’ dat.” Bane realized he was back in the holding cell. The voices and echoes were gone. The screams of the Duros child were gone. The taste of blood, ash, and sulfur was gone. He could breathe again, but the pain still lingered at his temples like a migraine. He hadn’t given in like a zombie, as he had seen so many other, weaker minded fools in the past when it came to Jedi Mind Tricks. He had never experienced it himself until now, and it had taken three Jedi to … do what? He didn’t know what to make of that experience beyond the pain and awful memory. Was it because he resisted so furiously? It didn’t matter. He had fought this battle, and won it, in his opinion. Now he needed them to think they won too. “You’ll get your children back,” he promised.

He needed to play this game for just a while longer.

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