The Trandoshans—they capture and hunt for sport.
A clone patrol was shot down
Taken.
Prisoners of war
Taken.
Natives or useless slaves
Taken.
It doesn't matter who.
Only that those taken can provide the thrill of the hunt
They were stripped to their blacks, and placed in a room with other clones.
No one was coming for them.
No one cared.
Why would they? They were just clones.
Expendable.
There were millions just like them.
Easily replaced.
There were 14 of them. They all had mostly different hairstyles, a tattoo or two, one even had an earring.
But they all had the same face.
The same blood.
The same body.
The same despair.
Those who had just been captured schemed, strategized, tried to form some plan of action, but they had no weapons. They had no idea what environment was out there.
No idea how strong the enemy was.
How ruthless and cold hearted.
Those who had been there a while had already given up.
The hopelessness was slowly choking every clone in that room.
When they were released into a forest, the clones immediately separated into small groups of three or four.
Fear and desperation was evident in the way they ran.
The Trandoshans followed soon after.
"Clones make for better prey than any animal. And there are plenty of them. No one would notice if one or ten went missing."
None of the clones made it out alive.
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Chronicles of the Desolate
RandomFictional stories from War, to children's tales, to the darkness of space and everything in between, these are Shorts--not stories or one shots, but short accounts, spin-offs, cut-scenes and previews of larger stories or just thoughts written down o...
