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The verdict comes: reconditioning, not death.
Dogma still doesn't know, when it's ringing in his ears, which one he was hoping for. He stares at the glowing beam of his restraints for the entirety of his transport to the reconditioning facility, until his eyes are filled with spotty blackness, like the damn mist, like blood spatter in the dark.
Did he want to die? A terrible relief, an end to it, and the prickly dread of finally falling, after desperately trying to survive for so long, always knowing it couldn't last.
A traitor doesn't deserve to get what they want. So it doesn't matter.
Which death is he a traitor for - no. He doesn't have to worry about that. They will make sure he knows, very soon. He had to do it. He had to. But he shouldn't have been able to. Like Rex - loyal but not blind. But he can't manage either. He feels like his heart has started rotting inside him, like bodies on marsh planets, bloated with foul pressure. He needs to be ripped open before he explodes.
Too late. Too late. Another trooper could have made a joke of it. But not Dogma. Not stupid, faithless, humorless insufferable Dogma. He wasn't even trusted by his fellow clones, how he could be trustworthy to anyone else? He used to think it was because he was better, more careful, more scrupulous - he can almost hear Master Shaak Ti's gentle reproach.
He's marched into the facility, and he just wants it to happen, whatever it is - wants to be wiped clean, if he won't be wiped out. He can forget all of this, and just be - useful, somewhere. He can just -
The medical technician next to the chair has hair like Tup's. Long and glossy and carefully, pristinely knotted up. It shouldn't hurt so much to see. It certainly shouldn't make him feel a rush of perverse gratitude. It's just medical hygiene to wear it that way. He couldn't afford hair in his face any more than a soldier could.
His escort puts him in the chair, straps him, and leaves at a nod from the technician. He smiles in a far-away sort of way that makes Dogma think of Master Shaak Ti, and his stomach turns over.
"Hello, Dogma," he says, in a low, rich voice. "Do you have any questions for me?"
He hadn't, until the man talked, but suddenly, shocked at being addressed at all, let alone by anything but his number -
"Will I -" his voice croaks, but after a moment he gets it under control. "Will I remember my name, after, sir?"
The smile changes. There's something sneaky to it, something sharply amused. Dogma feels like he's already been cut open by it.
"Yes," says the Technician. "You will definitely still have your name. But many other things will change."
He injects something into Dogma's neck and he is - calm. His limbs feel very heavy, and a little cold at the extremities, which is strange, why would he need - the man unlocks his restraints.
"You've been deemed unfit for this war in your current condition," and Dogma dreams he might have snarled at the man, if he weren't drugged. He knows that already. (Of course he wouldn't have the gall to do any such thing. But he lets himself dream it.) "But there is another situation that requires you exactly as you are. So you are going there." The man is carrying him out through a dull grey disposal hallway, bearing most of Dogma's weight over one shoulder and moving with ease despite his slim build and height a few inches shy of a clone trooper.
Dogma makes a slurred noise of confusion - for the words, or what's happening, he's too confused even to know.
"Won' - betray - again -" because what else could anyone want him for? He tries to kick the man's knee out, raise an alarm, but the man deftly deflects him, barely breaking his stride, and Dogma can't get enough air.
No. No, no, he didn't think something could be worse - but he can't be taken, he can't be used again for all his failures -
"Shhh, no, nothing like that. Please listen, Dogma, because we are on slightly a tight window. There are others like Krell. Very high in the Republic. That's why the war dragged on and on." They do want him to be a traitor again, they want a soldier who can do the worst, the most reviled and forbidden, but work that needs to be done - to protect his brothers - he wants to sob with shame because he doesn't want to do it, not again. But he will.
Very high.
"In the future," the technician, who is probably, actually, a spy for someone, why is he always so blind? Should he believe anything about others like Krell? It's a perfect line to secure his obedience, isn't it. He can't do much more than wobble his arms or legs. He bites the man on the ear, and almost gets dropped.
"Eyefox wept, you are feisty, no one fucking warned me about that," the technician-spy says, in a far younger-sounding tone, although his voice is still almost an octave lower than a clone's. "Tup better appreciate this."
Which makes him pause, at least in his mind where there's any difference between paused and not paused. Mentioning Tup would be a good way to manipulate him too - but only someone who cared to think about the clones as the kind of people with close personal attachments, as lonely people with only one friend even among thousands of brothers - it would only occur someone who could think of such things even to ask for what name would do it, for him.
"In the future, the situation changes. The traitors are revealed, and the clones are - brought under the command of a third power. One that treats them as men, always. And the brothers there may need someone who has walked your path. And even if you just shuck corn and flip them all off, it'll make Tup happy that you didn't get your brain flossed."
"Jzhedi?" he tries to ask, confused and wary, because how else could he know the future?
"Not me," says the man, with an odd vehemence, maybe even gusto. They step out of the corridor. There's a ground transport, oblong, bright red. It extends a ramp, and a tiny woman with yellow hair waves. Dogma is carried aboard, laid out on a garish striped cushion while his vision swims.
"Actually, I think I'll take the long way ba..." he hears, before he loses consciousness entirely.
***
When he wakes up, he's in a shallow bowl of a bed, big enough for five or six clones if they were comfortable draping on each other. Maybe three, if they didn't like him and kept at least a sliver of space. It's warm and messy - too much of both for him to be the only person who uses it. He struggles to his feet, feels a little woozy, but the light headedness might just be - a reaction to everything, as much as the drug in his system
"Am I dead?" he asks the plain wooden furnishings, the pile of soft blankets in many colors, the sunshine in the window. "Is this real?"
The sight of Tup in the doorway does not make him feel any need to rescind either question.
Dogma still doesn't know, when it's ringing in his ears, which one he was hoping for. He stares at the glowing beam of his restraints for the entirety of his transport to the reconditioning facility, until his eyes are filled with spotty blackness, like the damn mist, like blood spatter in the dark.
Did he want to die? A terrible relief, an end to it, and the prickly dread of finally falling, after desperately trying to survive for so long, always knowing it couldn't last.
A traitor doesn't deserve to get what they want. So it doesn't matter.
Which death is he a traitor for - no. He doesn't have to worry about that. They will make sure he knows, very soon. He had to do it. He had to. But he shouldn't have been able to. Like Rex - loyal but not blind. But he can't manage either. He feels like his heart has started rotting inside him, like bodies on marsh planets, bloated with foul pressure. He needs to be ripped open before he explodes.
Too late. Too late. Another trooper could have made a joke of it. But not Dogma. Not stupid, faithless, humorless insufferable Dogma. He wasn't even trusted by his fellow clones, how he could be trustworthy to anyone else? He used to think it was because he was better, more careful, more scrupulous - he can almost hear Master Shaak Ti's gentle reproach.
He's marched into the facility, and he just wants it to happen, whatever it is - wants to be wiped clean, if he won't be wiped out. He can forget all of this, and just be - useful, somewhere. He can just -
The medical technician next to the chair has hair like Tup's. Long and glossy and carefully, pristinely knotted up. It shouldn't hurt so much to see. It certainly shouldn't make him feel a rush of perverse gratitude. It's just medical hygiene to wear it that way. He couldn't afford hair in his face any more than a soldier could.
His escort puts him in the chair, straps him, and leaves at a nod from the technician. He smiles in a far-away sort of way that makes Dogma think of Master Shaak Ti, and his stomach turns over.
"Hello, Dogma," he says, in a low, rich voice. "Do you have any questions for me?"
He hadn't, until the man talked, but suddenly, shocked at being addressed at all, let alone by anything but his number -
"Will I -" his voice croaks, but after a moment he gets it under control. "Will I remember my name, after, sir?"
The smile changes. There's something sneaky to it, something sharply amused. Dogma feels like he's already been cut open by it.
"Yes," says the Technician. "You will definitely still have your name. But many other things will change."
He injects something into Dogma's neck and he is - calm. His limbs feel very heavy, and a little cold at the extremities, which is strange, why would he need - the man unlocks his restraints.
"You've been deemed unfit for this war in your current condition," and Dogma dreams he might have snarled at the man, if he weren't drugged. He knows that already. (Of course he wouldn't have the gall to do any such thing. But he lets himself dream it.) "But there is another situation that requires you exactly as you are. So you are going there." The man is carrying him out through a dull grey disposal hallway, bearing most of Dogma's weight over one shoulder and moving with ease despite his slim build and height a few inches shy of a clone trooper.
Dogma makes a slurred noise of confusion - for the words, or what's happening, he's too confused even to know.
"Won' - betray - again -" because what else could anyone want him for? He tries to kick the man's knee out, raise an alarm, but the man deftly deflects him, barely breaking his stride, and Dogma can't get enough air.
No. No, no, he didn't think something could be worse - but he can't be taken, he can't be used again for all his failures -
"Shhh, no, nothing like that. Please listen, Dogma, because we are on slightly a tight window. There are others like Krell. Very high in the Republic. That's why the war dragged on and on." They do want him to be a traitor again, they want a soldier who can do the worst, the most reviled and forbidden, but work that needs to be done - to protect his brothers - he wants to sob with shame because he doesn't want to do it, not again. But he will.
Very high.
"In the future," the technician, who is probably, actually, a spy for someone, why is he always so blind? Should he believe anything about others like Krell? It's a perfect line to secure his obedience, isn't it. He can't do much more than wobble his arms or legs. He bites the man on the ear, and almost gets dropped.
"Eyefox wept, you are feisty, no one fucking warned me about that," the technician-spy says, in a far younger-sounding tone, although his voice is still almost an octave lower than a clone's. "Tup better appreciate this."
Which makes him pause, at least in his mind where there's any difference between paused and not paused. Mentioning Tup would be a good way to manipulate him too - but only someone who cared to think about the clones as the kind of people with close personal attachments, as lonely people with only one friend even among thousands of brothers - it would only occur someone who could think of such things even to ask for what name would do it, for him.
"In the future, the situation changes. The traitors are revealed, and the clones are - brought under the command of a third power. One that treats them as men, always. And the brothers there may need someone who has walked your path. And even if you just shuck corn and flip them all off, it'll make Tup happy that you didn't get your brain flossed."
"Jzhedi?" he tries to ask, confused and wary, because how else could he know the future?
"Not me," says the man, with an odd vehemence, maybe even gusto. They step out of the corridor. There's a ground transport, oblong, bright red. It extends a ramp, and a tiny woman with yellow hair waves. Dogma is carried aboard, laid out on a garish striped cushion while his vision swims.
"Actually, I think I'll take the long way ba..." he hears, before he loses consciousness entirely.
***
When he wakes up, he's in a shallow bowl of a bed, big enough for five or six clones if they were comfortable draping on each other. Maybe three, if they didn't like him and kept at least a sliver of space. It's warm and messy - too much of both for him to be the only person who uses it. He struggles to his feet, feels a little woozy, but the light headedness might just be - a reaction to everything, as much as the drug in his system
"Am I dead?" he asks the plain wooden furnishings, the pile of soft blankets in many colors, the sunshine in the window. "Is this real?"
The sight of Tup in the doorway does not make him feel any need to rescind either question.
