He’s not sure he’s ever been so desperate to be touched. It’s not something he likes, most of the time. Physical contact is unpleasant at best and painful at worst, but right now, Dogma thinks he might kill again if it meant he could hug Tup one more time.
There was a saying he heard once, something natborns made up about absence making the heart grow fonder. Maybe this is what they meant. Dogma doubts it. Natborns aren’t reconditioned. How would they know?
He shivers. His bruised elbows and shoulder blades ache where they touch the metal exam table. He wonders if he’ll still feel cold after it’s done, or if he’ll be too numb to feel the chill, too numb to bother squinting against the bright medbay lights. He casts his mind back to his last reconditioning, perhaps six years ago, but the time immediately after is foggy and he can’t remember how long it took his senses to come back, or even if they’d ever left. Will he be ready for duty soon?
Behind him, he hears a door swish open and then closed again. It won’t be long now. He closes his eyes and wonders why this Kaminoan’s steps are so heavy, and why they seem to be breathing loudly, as if through mammalian lungs.
Wide, calloused hands settle on either side of his head, bracing and cradling, warm and steady. Dogma’s eyes shoot open.
“Hey, kid,” Alpha-17 rumbles. “Didn’t think I’d just leave you here, did you?”
Dogma bursts into tears.
“Alright, kid, let’s get you cleaned up and in bed,” Alpha rumbles, one hand firm on guiding on the back of Dogma’s neck and the other gentle on his arm. He’s warm through Dogma’s reds, though that might just be the lingering cold of the medical facility. Dogma’s not sure. He’s a little fuzzy in the head right now. Maybe a shower will warm him up. Here on Kamino, they always have enough water.
He opens his mouth to verbally respond, then nods when the words don’t come. Alpha squeezes the back of his neck just once, gently, and then gives him a push towards the ‘fresher. At least Alpha’s is semi-private.
It’s the middle of the night-cycle, too, so Dogma’s not surprised to find himself alone when the door hisses closed behind him. Dazedly, he strips out of his reds and deposits them in the laundry chute. He wonders if he’ll see them again. No matter. They’re not his, really, just the set he’d been given upon arrival. All his things are still aboard the Resolute. That is, unless someone’s disposed of them already. How long has it been? Not long, he doesn’t think. He still feels tibanna residue on his fingertips.
The water that runs into his mouth is salty.
He doesn’t have much in the way of hair left, but he runs soap over his head anyway, scrubbing at the scabs and scrapes left behind by the razor. They’d done a few experiments already, cutting him open and stitching him back up along the crest of his skull, and he imagines they had more planned for after his death. He wonders what damage has been done. He doesn’t feel different, but would he even know? He’ll have to ask Alpha.
He shuts the water off. It’s started to go cold, and he needs to get out at some point.
Toweling off is an exercise in not looking. He goes as fast as he can, ignoring the scars and the bones. He dresses quickly, blaming the bagginess on the fact that the reds in this ‘fresher are cut for the Alphas.
17’s waiting for him. Not on the other side of the door, but sitting on the bed, datapad in hand and clearly watching the door. When Dogma steps out, he shifts, pulling his legs up and patting the new space next to him. “Come’ere, kid,” he says.
Tentatively, Dogma perches on the edge of the bed.
“Do you want to talk?”
He shakes his head.
“Okay. That’s fine. You should try and get some sleep, though.” Alpha stands, making as though to leave, and a small noise tears itself from Dogma’s throat. Alpha raises an eyebrow.
“Can you,” Dogma begins. “Can you stay?”
“Of course, kid. Of course.”