ahead on points
It took Etain barreling through the door in righteous and sleep deprived wrath before any of them began to understand just how scared Thjuyera was. Mereel had told her they were going to ‘pick up’ the slicer; a process which didn’t, in Etain’s opinion, include binder cuffs and a wave of terror so intense it had woken her from her nap. At least the baby was still asleep, said Etain, in a voice so grim even Mereel’s charm wilted.
Thjuyera had tried for the window nearly as soon as they’d put her in the armchair, and Sev had landed on her with the grace and weight of a crushing LAAT/i. That was going leave bruises for sure, but at least they were rigged out as ordinary whitejobs. Full katarn probably would’ve have snapped her ribs like dry twigs, and Jaing just wanted to get to debrief so he’d finally know how she’d compromised their setup.
There had been one wrenching sob before she was quiet. Even after Sev rolled off her - to stand in front of the window, smart lad - she’d stayed on the floor, an unmoving crumple of black. Jaing, with increasingly uneasiness about her possible injuries, had just started to kneel beside her when Etain had arrived, the Force rolling in front of her like a pressure front. He felt like his ears needed to pop, impossible in the closed environment of his helmet.
“Ma’am,” Jaing tried, crouching down beside her head. “Excuse me, ma’am.” Her prosthetic eyes flickered open, disconcertingly blank. The artificial iris was a pale grey, only slightly darker than the sclera. Whatever they were made of - something glossy and ceramic - was slightly reflective. Maybe it was the reflection of his helmet, looming over her, or Etain asking Mereel to explain how they’d gotten her here, but Jaing had a sudden, very unwelcome realisation about how casual they’d all gotten at exerting force. Thjuyera was a civilian - or close to it - and she’d been snatched off the street, cuffed and hooded, only to end up in a strange room surrounded by men in full armour staring down at her. He’d spent so much time in armour talking over helmet comms he’d half-forgotten how intimidating they looked.
“There are so many rumours about clones,” said Etain, still in Mando’a. “Laseema’s heard them all.”
“How terribly careless of me,” said Mereel with awful dignity. “Not keeping up with the lies the mongrels tell themselves about us.”
“Don’t,” said Etain, impossibly tired. “Please.”
“We - ” started Mereel, and checked himself. “This is how we do things, Etain. You can’t pretend this is a surprise.”
“It’s not for me,” Etain replied. “But it is for her. And there were four of you.”
Thjuyera wouldn’t have a chance against a single clone even if her hands were free, and she clearly knew it. Currently she was worrying her lower lip badly enough that he could see blood welling up between her teeth. Her eyes were frantically scanning the room, over and over; Jaing was the imminent threat, but Etain and Mereel were arguing in a language she didn’t know, and she didn’t have line of sight to Fi or Sev. He was reminded, uncomfortably, of being very small, of the Kaminiise towering over him and his brothers. Of their serene faces as they discussed reconditioning the defective units.
Fierfek. A clone face wasn’t any help with identification, and it might help if she could see it. Jaing popped the seal on his helmet, and put it aside, halting Etain and Mereel in their tracks. Thjuyera was watching him now, closely, and he smiled as reassuringly as he could.
“I’m going to take those cuffs off you now, ma’am,” he said, and heard the baby start crying as he reached forward.