Crosshair-Ghosts of Tantiss

IDENTITY

"CT-9904. Get up."

Lying prone on the cold, hard bench, Crosshair inhales. His jaw sets in a scowl, irritated with the sudden awakening. "It's not 0600 yet."

The clone commando looming on the other side of Crosshair's prison cell doesn't budge. There's a sharp clang at the door, echoing through the detention block, as the commando slams his armored forearm against the metal door.

"GET. UP. That was an order."

Crosshair opens his eyes now, warily looking to the clone commando.

On the other side of the room, another commando presses a button to open the door. The first one stomps into Crosshair's cell, grabs his shoulder, and forces him to his feet, slapping his rifle across his back to make his point.

"You move when ordered, prisoner."

Crosshair winces, but does his best to not let it show. "Of course," he mutters, tone laced with sarcasm.

The other commando marches towards them, herding three other clone prisoners. Their eyes seem listless and dull, and they move with an unnerving precision.

"Fall in line."

Crosshair glances back to the commando. "Where are you taking me?"

Another smack of the rifle's stock, this time to his face. He reels back from the shock, grimacing, and wipes his nose to check for blood.

The commando's voice is as gruff as ever. "I said, fall in line."

Crosshair gives a pained exhale, holding a hand to his face for a moment, then reluctantly steps in line with the other prisoners.

He follows the line out of the detention block, down winding hallways, and finally, to an unfamiliar elevator. He glances around, eyebrows furrowed.

Something's changed. This isn't the path to the lab.

He leans over to one of the nearby clones, keeping his voice down. "Where are we?"

The other clone looks over at Crosshair, eyes wide like he'd just committed an unfathomable crime. It's a split-second glance, and then the clone's eyes are down back at his feet, like the rest of them.

Crosshair raises an eyebrow at the prisoner's strange behavior, but says nothing else. He sighs quietly and looks back ahead as the elevator whirs open and the commandos usher them all inside. As the elevator drops, he glances left and right, but no one else speaks a word nor moves a muscle.

At the chime, his eyes snap back ahead to take in his new surroundings. It's a dark, dimly lit holding area, akin to the detention level. Two commandos stand guard on either side of a ray-shielded double door.

The escorting commando scans his ID, and the ray shield disappears and the doors swing open. The others admit him and the line of prisoners into a broad hallway, reminiscent of an old Republic capital ship.

Crosshair's sharp eye scans every detail of the new hall. It's rather unnerving, as it feels like he's suddenly stepped back in time.

"Attention."

His eyes snap to the clone commando and he straightens his posture. An instinct from his past, still programmed in there. He hates it the moment he does it.

"I will not speak unless spoken to."

"I will not speak unless spoken to."

Crosshair is slightly startled with the other clones echo the commando's statement. Then, there's a long, uncomfortable silence. He realizes the commando is staring him down.

"CT-9904. Repeat the tenet."

He raises an eyebrow and scoffs slightly, glancing around in disbelief.

There's a flash out of the corner of his eye and he dodges the rifle slap before it connects with the back of his head. He turns a wary glare on the commando standing behind them, and he suddenly realizes all the other prisoners are looking at him, too.

It's clear he's missed a memo somewhere.

"Wait a minute. You're a 99," the commando sneers. "Why are you even here anyways?"

Crosshair gives a nonchalant shrug. "You tell me."

The commando's posture straightens and he steps closer. Crosshair stares down the other man's glowing visor with a hint of defiance.

"You only speak when spoken to, prisoner," the commando hisses.

Crosshair knows he shouldn't say it, but he can't help it. "...I did."

That remark earns a swift rifle slap to the stomach and another to the back of his head. Crosshair grunts in pain and doubles over to his knees.

"That's your ration and break privileges for the day. One more word and you lose your 'fresher privileges, too. Now, on your feet."

Crosshair pants, glancing up at the commando. He grimaces again and clutches his stomach as he forces himself to his feet.

The commando gets in Crosshair's face. "You clearly aren't cut out for this."

The other commando then grabs Crosshair's shoulder and shoves him down the hallway, to another door. The door opens and he shoves him inside a cramped room, no bigger than a closet. He's still a little woozy from the smack to the back of his head, so he catches himself against the far wall and just leans against it for a moment, catching his breath.

"Sit in here and think about your failure. Hemlock will arrive to deal with you shortly."

With that, the commando slams the door, leaving Crosshair alone in this tiny, dark, cold room. Suddenly, a blinding light switches on and he winces, shielding his sensitive eyes. It's then that he realizes the walls are coated with a reflective surface.

There's no shielding his eyes.

Not even closing them offers any relief.

He grimaces, trying to cover his eyes with his hands. He wishes he could sit down, but there's no room— there's barely enough room to turn his shoulders while standing up.

He settles with resting his head against his forearm. It's some protection. But not nearly enough.