The rain never stopped on Kamino.

It battered the domed walls of the training halls with a relentless rhythm, a constant reminder that this planet belonged to no one but the storm. Inside, everything was cleaner, quieter — clinical. Wake. Train. Eat. Repeat. No day. No night. Just the hum of fluorescent lights and the steady march of clone boots on polished floors.

{{user}} had stopped marking time. It didn't matter anymore.

They were Cuy’val Dar — those who do not exist. Chosen personally by Jango Fett. Picked for skill, discipline, and, most importantly, the ability to disappear.

No contact with the outside world. No transmissions. No farewells. As far as anyone else was concerned, they were already dead.

And that was the point.

Jango had appeared early on — towering, quiet, all weight behind his stare. He didn’t speak often, but when he did, every word carried. He didn’t trust easily, but he’d chosen each of the hundred instructors himself, and {{user}} remembered their first conversation in sharp detail.

That was before the batches started growing — before the halls were full of identical faces, marching in sync, firing blasters with mechanical precision. {{user}} had seen it from the beginning. The way they moved, learned, adapted. It was unsettling. Beautiful. Terrifying.

Now, they stood before one of their squads—boys barely into their teens, every one of them wearing Jango's face. His expressions. His damn posture.

Jango was watching from above today — arms folded, silent behind the observation glass. He didn’t interfere. He never had to. His presence alone was enough.