Chapter Text
Trip sure had a way of getting into trouble by accident. Why didn’t this one feel like an accident? No. We’ll discuss this later, okay brain? Trip could —imagine vividly, as he always did with just about every thought and auditory input—a brain nodding back. It had a face.
“CT-9981, we are done.”
“Oh, yes. Sorry AZI.” The clone hopped from the table.
“Hmm…Do you often have troubles with your attention span? Perhaps I have a solution for a—“
“Nope. Thanks, AZI.” He quickly diffused. This was a skill a lot of clones needed whenever they found themselves in the medical wing. The AZI units are a little more insufferable than the Kaminoan doctors, but Trip generally tried to avoid any Kaminoans—Ironic, since he lived on Kamino.
“Well, I must say you are not like most clones in my memory banks.”
“I would think so.”
“Think…what, exactly?”
“Never mind.”
The AZI unit only understood the spectacularly dry and unfunny humour when Trip left.
Here he comes. Duck. Trip’s mind flashes. A thud can be heard after Tough’s predictable attack that turned into an unexpected game of leap frog.
“Ohhhh! Heeyyy!” He says, unphased, and striking a pose on the ground, legs kicking and chin propped up on fists.
“Nice one. It’s almost like it works every time you try.” Trip jabs.
“Hey, it did the first time.”
“Trooper, you’re blocking the hall.” One of the Kamino guard in their grey armour scolded Tough.
“Yes, sir. I’m off to my barracks.” The short clone answered.
Tough never said anything to ‘non-ninety-nines’ with any respect. He likes to test their limits and out their war-hardened tendencies to start fights, for all those in audience. Despite his stature, only about as tall as he was after cadet year 2, he always proved them wrong.
“I should hope so. Don’t you have dignity for your superiors, cadet?” He was getting angry now. Which meant Trip had to find a way out of his freeze response to control his squad member.
“HAA.” Tough guffawed in one breath, “cadet is a first, I’ll be honest.” He held up his hand to glance at, like he had a new manicure.
Trip was getting ready to be the sergeant, as he had been from the earliest possible age. Trip had graduated as the youngest clone to complete basic training. Clearly, that was a huge role to fill, so he had to push through feelings more often than not. No matter how terrifying it is to break up a fight with a Kamino guard.
The guard reaches to grab him, pulling him towards the brig. Tough doesn't move an inch.
“Tough, that’s it. Enough.” Trip states firmly.
Tough backs off. The guard however, doesn’t.
“You won’t win.” Trip shakes his head at the guard. He tries anyway. The guard lands a punch to Tough’s chest, and he laughs at the sensation. The guard tries again with a jab to his shoulder. Tough blinks. Trip grabs Tough by the back of his neck to push him ahead, and gives the confused guard a sympathetic Pat on the shoulder plate.
“We’re defective. Please ignore his inability to follow orders.” Trip states as calmly as he can. He turns back to his brother, being pushed by the neck. “Tell me why I don’t kill you right now?”
“You said as long as I only fight back for a good reason—“
“Because you started an underground fight club at the ripe age of two, killjoy.”
“He was asking for it. Someones gotta put him in his place.”
“No, he wasn’t. And what do you expect? He’s a Kamino guard. Mind your business and then make sure he minds his.”
“Whatever.”
Trip pinches the back of his neck, increasing pressure.
“OKAY, OKAY!”
“I’ll stop when you realize we get to be stuck on Kamino the rest of our lives if you don’t stop.”
—————
The two brothers arrive back at the barracks, Trip lets go of his shorter brother’s neck. He felt like he had been pushing him down the hall like a prized racefathier on the way to the stable. How many people saw that? Wren had a migraine, so he was taking a nap on his bunk, the implant that surrounded the back of his head likely set to silence. Sixer wasn't there yet. Either he was getting a mission brief, a snack, or was hiding simulation injuries again.
“Where’s Sixer?”
“Hiding his limp again.” Wren said in his usual smooth, quiet voice, apparently conscious. Of course he sounded like every clone, an infamous bounty hunter’s accent and all, but Wren always spoke quietly. Any louder is a death wish. He had already experienced hearing loss from his “tubeday” according to medical records (that Trip had no business in).
“Ah. He’ll be sharing with the class, then.”
The thought of the day’s simulation and Trip’s wrong move visually replayed in his head in a flash. No. Was what Sixer did on purpose, too?
Trip sat on his lower bunk. The coolness of having a lower temperature bunk helped his many sleeping issues. It was also useful if the seizures ever came back. He took it upon himself to have some recreational thinking time. His brothers stopped questioning it when they realized it was just how Trip functioned.
He began to imagine the first real mission his squad went on: Pantora. It was about four months ago. It was a very simple, lower-risk mission that still required training. The purple and orange-clad soldiers were a good fit for the task. He tried remembering that face again…the first friend he had ever made. A young Togruta, sky blue skin. Yellow markings on his face and lekku. He worked at an antique shop.
He had frivolously calculated and double-checked on multiple occasions how old Trip and him would be the next time they met. It felt horrible being a clone. If anyone even had the slightest speech about a girl in basic training, there was always someone telling them “a girl at a bar one night might not live on Coruscant” and “I bet she’ll be in her 30’s when you die of old age”. Despite his self-degrading thoughts— like he has about everything that goes slightly wrong—all he could think of since that day was going back. He just wanted to ask about his day. Oh…what I would give to live anywhere but here… He thought.
Since most of his squad were experiments for some project the kaminoans were working on, they were all unique in the way they aged. Trip was a young adult—close to what a 21-year-old human would normally be. He didn’t feel so old, though. How time had flown. The theory was that Tough’s aging had stopped doubling at year two, and instead purely aged when faced with stress. Clearly, he did not stress very much. Although he aged mentally the same as his brothers, he never had the stress most clones had. Tough would live much longer than any of his squad. He would be on his own one day.
Tough’s name arose from his inability to feel pain. Normal, non-cloned or modified humans could get the same rare condition. It seemed like the Kaminoans’ theory was they would make even better soldiers if added to the new gene pools. Trip had to be one of the most unique clones without the help of tattoos. His hair was a very dark shade of maroon. The red hair came with a purpose, too, which Trip discovered later— to have higher pain tolerance. Tough was designed to be a tank, and like most of Halloween Squad, he was made for finding additions to the newest generations, creating the most unstoppable soldiers for the Republic. Tough was extremely strong, he didn’t feel any of the same sensations such as hot, cold, pain, or otherwise. This meant every time they did training, he would not know the pain of gaining muscle. He could swim through a frozen lake and not know he got hypothermia. He could quickly maneuver through a fire and not feel the burns. Heat exhaustion, hunger, all of these are alien to him.
Wren, the eldest of all of them, had the super-hearing. His DNA was used for the later project, however, his advancement was too sensitive. He could hear insects crawling in a field, conversations through durasteel walls, the silence of space inside a shuttle. That meant he made a great spy, but a horrible soldier. Wren was their master of stealth, and often did classified solo missions for the higher ups.
Sixer was the tallest (by a decimeter), and the only clone the same age as Trip in the squad. CT-9966 was his number, and his name must have been decided when the squad was very young, since Trip couldn't even remember how it happened. He was even more stubborn than Trip, refusing to take breaks, always keeping Tough in check, and insisting on doing the heavy lifting. He was strong, tall, and grumpy. He led their training days, since he didn’t need to exercise much to keep his strength. Trip and him were a part of the same experiment to combine old experimental clones’ enhancements.
Some of his DNA would be used in newer generations, but not to his degree.
Patch was the 223rd Arc Trooper they reported to and assigned their missions. Patch was born on his Tubeday with vitiligo, leaving a pale patch of skin around his right eye and eyebrow, and one leaving a patch of his hair silvery blond. He was made fun of as a cadet, but “learned to bully them right back”. He mentored Halloween Squad on it as well.
Arc Trooper Bai, who the squad had only met once before his battlefield death, was the clone with the next batch number to patch, and born with albinism. His poor eyesight that came with it unfortunately led to his death. His promotion was from his ability to perform despite it. It was a tragic death.
Finally, Trip’s full name was “Triple Threat”. Three things made him unique to the kaminoans and from other clones: intelligence—although Trip argues vehemently against the subject—, electromagnetic senses, and above-average vision. Having all three came with complications, of course. Migraines, seizures (which were more common when he was younger), chronic headaches, fatigue, and although the kaminoans did not recognize it, severe anxiety. The plan for him because of this was to be trained as fast as possible to see how early a trooper could be promoted. Apparently, he was an expensive clone to make, considering they did not use any of his DNA for new generations. Trip was promoted while his brothers were still in strategy training.
Sixer entered the room, diverting Trip’s attention. The limp he had gotten was nowhere to be seen.
“Foot got hit by a stun bolt.”
“Fine. Tell me next time.”
Trip received no response. It was likely going to be a long night.