#i'm sorry i did this to our sweet sunshiny boy

[dangraccoon]

I Don't Know Anymore

Day 29 ~ "who said you could rest?" ~

Wrecker

Word Count: 1399 Content: DARK CONTENT: 18+ Minors DNI, Slavery (Zygerrians), Abuse, Starvation, Dehydration, Electrocution, Hopelessness, Giving Up/In, Resentment, TBB's Chips Activate, Implied Completion of the mission to Onderon in s01e01

“Good work on Onderon, sergeant,” Tarkin hummed with a smirk. “I must admit, given the extensive documentation of your unit’s deviance, I am somewhat surprised by your loyalty to the Empire.”

“Thank you, sir,” Hunter said. “I hope it’s a… pleasant surprise?”

“Indeed. Your unique squad will be quite an asset. Your next orders should arrive soon.”

The door slid shut behind the Admiral, the squad falling out of their rigid formation.

Tarkin was right; their orders arrived only a few hours later. 

“‘CT-9903 is to report to Hangar 21-D at 1800. All other members of Clone Force 99 are to report to Conference Room K-02 at 0600 tomorrow,’” Tech read out.

“Awh,” Wrecker grumbled. “Why am I different?”

“Does it matter?” Crosshair rolled his eyes, flicking his toothpick toward him.  

“You’ll probably just get to miss the briefing,” Hunter assured him. “You’ve always hated those anyway.”

The few short hours passed uneventfully until Wrecker stood at the doors, ready to head to the hangar. “See you later?”

Hunter only nodded. 

As he walked into the seemingly empty hangar, something deep in the back of Wrecker’s mind whispered that something wasn’t right.

That same voice practically screamed as the door shut behind him, boxing him into the room.

“Someone there?” he called. “I think I’m supposed to be here.”

“Yes, you are,” Admiral Tarkin said, stepping out of the shadows. “Place your armor and gear in this crate; the associate we’re meeting should be arriving soon.”

The outer doors began to open as Wrecker deposited the last of his armor plates.

Wrecker narrowed his eyes at the incoming ship. “An Aurore-class freighter?”

Tarkin ignored him, moving to greet the Zygerian that stepped down from the lowering ramp.

“Prime Minister Molec,” he said.

“Admiral,” Molec purred. His eyes fell on Wrecker. “Is this the… specimen of which you spoke?”

“Yes,” Tarkin nodded. “As I previously mentioned, his unit will be used for stealth missions, and he is the… weakest link in that circumstance.”

Wrecker frowned but remained silent as the Zygerian prime minister circled him.

“Yes, I think he will do well,” he hummed.

Tarkin nodded. “I assume you have the sum of credits we discussed?”

“I do.”

—

He coughed harshly, the dryness in his throat stinging. He glanced over his shoulder at the guard glaring at one of his crewmates as she swung her pick at the wall. 

The sharp groan of metal breaking rang out and he could hear the young nautolan woman’s tremors.

“P-please, it- it was an accident,” she pleaded, her voice rough from disuse as the guard approached her, his electro-whip crackling in his hand.

He turned his face as the whip cracked and the woman cried out. Over the 11 months he’d been chained to the walls of these mines, he’d earned his share of new scars and felt the all-encompassing despair that racked his body as the electricity surged through. 

Most of his so-called “transgressions” were in defense of his crewmates, but it always ended the same way: both he and the original victim were beaten until they could barely stand. He’d stopped standing up against the guards for others about a week in, realizing it to be hopeless. His crew would be punished if they didn’t reach the minimum weight, and if he wasn’t taken down, they stood a greater chance. Passing the minimum weight meant their rations wouldn’t be reduced.

He’d tried to escape once. He waited until the guards changed shifts, easily breaking the chains and shock collar that trapped him, and he made a run for it.

He didn’t even reach the door before being caught, subdued, and punished.

He tried to tune out the woman’s cries, but he knew he’d hear them echoing in his mind. He lowered his pick to the ground, his ribs still sore and burning from his last beating.

“Who said you could rest?” another guard snarled, having appeared behind him.

His body fought to speak, to raise his fists against the slaver, but instead, he simply turned away, lowering himself to his knees to accept the inevitable punishment.

It hurt, of course. It hurt every time. Idly, he wondered if he was here long enough– if he endured enough cracks of those damned whips– if he willed his heart to just stop caring, would it stop the pain? Would all the nerves that screamed out for help finally die away, leaving him blessedly numb? 

The volume-sensitive shock collars had stolen that strong-willed, boisterous personality from him and left him with more time to think than he’d ever allowed before.

He had heard the prayers sent on hushed breaths to gods he couldn’t comprehend believing in. He’d never held an interest in religion or belief but found that as he looked around at the chained souls around him–hurt, starving, forsaken–he couldn’t bring himself to believe in the idea of any benevolent, loving maker. If one were real, how could they let their believers suffer like this? Where was the divine retribution for their torturers? No, he didn’t believe in their gods but he found more and more that it was just that he was here. 

The thought of his brothers with each lashing he received. He remembered their fierce, defiant natures and the way each one of them would stand up for what they thought was right. Because of this, he found himself thinking more and more of Onderon. 

Every sleepless night, every scrap of food confiscated, every drop of water denied–it was for them; for the souls he and his brothers deprived of the rest of their lives by some senseless order. They’d defied orders for less, but that one? They followed that order to the letter. 

So yes, he thought of his brothers. He thought of their final mission together. He wondered if they still lived, untethered and free beneath the millions of stars that dotted the sky. He wondered if the Empire sold their souls like they’d sold him. He wondered if they were paying for their sins or committing more. He wondered if they knew what happened to him. He wondered if they even cared.

Bitter resentment had long been brewing in his gut. He no longer wished for the flashes of comforting armor. He couldn’t picture the twirl of Hunter’s blade as it flew through the air into a guard's neck. He couldn’t imagine the careful dance through the enemy forces Tech would conduct as he set up a chain reaction. He couldn’t hear the even, steady beat of Crosshair’s rifle as his captors were picked off one by one. He couldn’t dream of Echo helping him to his feet, steadying his breaking body. 

He couldn’t feel the thrill of imagining his squad–his brothers–coming to save him from the relentless oppression he’d been sold into. 

He wasn’t an idiot; he knew that curiosity would have gotten the better of Tech. He knew his brother would look for him, and that between Tech and Echo, they could’ve found him if they cared to. 

But he knew they didn’t. 

He groaned as he lifted himself back up from the ground, back still stinging. 

An alarm sounded, indicating a shift change. He looked toward the woman whose pick had broken. She was out cold on the ground, the meager, so-called “clothing” they’d dressed them all in was all but disintegrated where it had laid across her back. The remnants of his heart ached for her. 

He turned her over, gently nudging her shoulder. When she didn’t wake, he snaked his arms around her back and beneath her legs, lifting her to rest against his chest. 

Her large, dark eyes opened slightly. Her lips moved, words softly carrying across her breath so only he could pick up through such careful practice. Any volume higher and the collar would activate. “What is your name?”

He hesitated with a scowl. It had been so long since he’d had any name, let alone the one he and his brothers had chosen. The very, very few times he had been referred to by anything beyond the harsh insults hurled at him by the guards and masters, it had been by his birth number or the number they’d branded to the back of his neck. Which would he give her? One slave number or the other?

His jaw shook as he mouthed his response. “I don’t know anymore.”

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Thanks for reading! - River

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