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Chapter Text

21 BBY, day 374 of the War, 2139

Coruscant Guard Command Chat

2139

Thorn: Fox where are you

Fox: Senate Building

Fox: why are you asking that

Thorn: you’re supposed to be back why are you not back yet

Thorn: also don’t you have another Senate shift tomorrow?? But also that whole stack of datapads that’s on your desk?? So what the kriff is the plan?

Thorn: don’t pretend you don’t have that shift because I saw it

2216

Thorn: Fox I’m serious what are you doing

Fox: I’m busy

Fox: if you have questions ask them later

Thorn: so help me Fox

Thorn: kriffit what are you doing

Thorn: you’re going to kill yourself

Stone: Fox, it’d be better if you just went back to base as soon as possible

Stone: I’m sure the lieutenants on duty can handle it.

Stone: do you need someone to pick you up though?

Fox: I’m fine

Fox: I’ll be back later

Thorn: if “back later” means you’ll be back two hours before you next shift then that’s not enough

Fox: kriff off Thorn

Fox: if you must know it shouldn’t be more than an hour

2341

Thorn: DO WE DEFINE AN HOUR THE SAME WAY??

Thorn: it’s been nearly an hour and a half Fox

Thorn: what the kriff

Fox: ten minutes Thorn

Fox: I’m going to head back

Fox: would you lay the kriff off me until then

Thorn: we have to talk when you get here then

***

The couch in Fox’s office has been there since he arrived on Coruscant. It’s a dusty dark red, faded and worn thin in places from years of use. Fox never complained about the state of the couch. It made his office seem a bit nicer, back when he cared about that kind of thing. It’s seating, sure. It’s also a place to crash on the nights when he doesn’t want to walk into the commanders’ bunkroom and face Thorn, or Stone when he’s there.

Especially not on nights like this, when they’ll be able to see at a glance that Fox can barely walk

He winds up facedown on the couch, arms splayed out, groaning as he tries to straighten his legs out fully. Not happening. He’s twisted something. Well, he hopes it was a twist, but it’s perfectly likely that it’s a break instead. And kriffit, he’s been standing on whatever it is all day. His right leg finally seized up completely halfway down the hall to his office, and he resorted to nearly crawling through the door.

Stars, it hurts. Now that he’s lying down—still in full armor, osik—he’s aware of just how acutely all of him aches.

“Gah,” he mumbles into the cushion, slowly rotating his shoulders in an attempt to loosen the tension. He gives up halfway through and just lies there, arms spread and left leg hanging off the couch, breathing in the must scent of the old fabric. And the sweat that’s soaked into the cushions over the years. And the paint scent that gets into everything. It kind of stinks, but he also kind of doesn’t care.

The comm on his gauntlet buzzes.

He lifts it enough to see who’s trying to comm him. Kriffit, Thorn already? He can’t give Fox at least a bit of a break?

But Thorn did say that he had something to tell Fox, so it’s probably at least semi-important. Gabe doesn’t care enough at this point to worry about what it is until after he answers the call.

He thumbs the button to answer it and says as neutrally as he can, “Fox speaking.”

“Fox, are you back yet?” Thorn sounds annoyed. Fox doesn’t know why, unless it’s some of the general annoyance that’s been hanging around Thorn more and more often in the last year.

“Yeah, I’m back,” Fox says.

“Where are you then? It’s nearly 0000. You’re on shift at 0600, so what’s happening?”

“I’m sleeping in my office tonight.”

There’s silence on the other end of the comm. It stretches on for at least a minute. Fox nearly falls asleep—stars, he doesn’t remember the last time he slept for more than five hours at a time. But before he can properly drift off, Thorn’s voice comes through the comm again.

“I don’t believe you.”

“Okay.” Fox stifles another groan as he shifts his screaming right leg. “Check my comm location if you don’t believe me, Thorn. I’m here. In my office.”

“Are you hurt?”

“No. Just tired.”

“I don’t believe you.”

And with good reason, Fox figures wearily. He doesn’t exactly have a great record with the nights that he spends in his office. Usually if he stays here, it’s because there’s something going on. Or it’s because Fox is trying to work through the endless reports that never seem to even allow a dent to be made in them. In hindsight, he should probably have made an effort to sleep in here on a normal night, before the night when he actually can’t walk.

“It’s fine, Thorn,” Fox says. “Go to sleep.”

“I’m on shift, di’kut. And I’m coming over there.”

“Don’t.”

“Is that an order? No? Good, because I’m coming anyway. I know you’re kriffed up somehow, and if that means you can’t get away from me for once, I’m taking that chance, thanks.” Thorn sounds seriously annoyed. “Give me two minutes and I’ll be there.” The call cuts, leaving the office quiet and still again.

Fox groans into the cushions of the couch again. He lets himself close his eyes again. Thorn will be here in two minutes or whatever. He’ll want to know what happened.

And kriff, Fox will have to tell him that he made a mistake. There’s no other explanation at this point. The part of the mistake that he won’t mention is the part about the reason that he kriffed up his ankle. Because he tripped—he, Fox, the marshal commander of the Coruscant Guard, tripped—because he was fifty-one hours into an awake cycle. That part is the part that he won’t tell Thorn, because it’s not relevant. Thorn currently believes that Fox slept the last two nights—he hopes. In reality, Fox was staying up and working on some of those reports that Thorn was going on about. They’re never done, kriff it all.

The next thing he knows, Thorn is crouching beside him, fairly glaring at him. “Seriously, Fox?”

“Seriously what?” Fox slurs out, very aware that he’s just been asleep. For all of what, thirty seconds? Kriff, he meant to stay awake. Two minutes shouldn’t have been so hard.

“You know what Pol is going to say when he sees you like this,” Thorn says.

“Kriff that. Pol doesn’t need to know.” Fox turns his face back into the couch cushions and continues, muffled. “I’m fine. I’m completely fine. Get out of here, Thorn, before I have to order you to.”

“Like kriff you’re fine.”

Fox can’t really come up with an answer to that. Not with his exhausted brain. Stars, he’s tired. If Thorn would just go away, then he could start sleeping right now and not have to think about anything. At least, not for the next five hours, until he has to get up and shower off his accumulated sweat so that he can put on a semi-clean set of blacks, grab an excuse for breakfast, and get back on duty. Stars. Stars.

Thorn is probably rolling his eyes, but Fox can’t see. He can just see the couch underneath him. There’s a stain next to his face. He’s pretty sure it’s from the time he spilled caf here.

After a long minute, Thorn asks a little more gently, “What happened.”

Fox doesn’t care. He doesn’t kriffing care anymore.

“I tripped,” he said. “Kriffing tripped on a step in the back halls of the Senate building this morning. Wait, it’s 0001. Yesterday morning. Whatever. Twisted my ankle. It’s fine, though—it didn’t stop me from doing anything today.”

Thorn blows out a breath that says more than a lot of words. “That doesn’t mean anything.”

“I don’t want Pol in here,” Fox says firmly, picking up his head a little. “He’s going to try to tell me some osik about not going to my shift tomorrow. I mean, today. But there’s no one that can cover for me, so I have to go. You have the prison shifts and the patrol shifts, and Stone has to leave with some senator again.”

“Then switch with Stone for once,” Thorn says. “You could get off the planet for once.”

Fox shakes his head. He hasn’t been off the planet since that one time he had to go to Tatooine early in the war. “Kriff, Thorn, you know I can’t do that. I have responsibilities here. And Stone is going with Senator Organa, right? That’s the first decent assignment he’s gotten in a month. I’m not going to take that away from him.”

Thorn is silent. That’s fair. This is the first time in a while that Fox has spoken this freely. He should probably care more about what he’s saying. But he can’t. He’s too tired.

“He’ll switch with you in a heartbeat,” Thorn says finally.

“That’s why I’m not saying anything to him. Is he sleeping right now?”

“Kriff no. What do you think, Fox? He’s worrying about what’s going on with you.”

“Stone doesn’t worry about things like that.” Things like Fox’s problems. Stone has enough of his own problems.

“Yeah… just like you don’t get hurt.” Thorn looks pointedly at Fox’s ankle that he’s propped up on the arm of the couch.

“Thorn, would you just kriff off?”

“Kriff no. Either I stay here and make sure you’re not dying, or I call Pol, and I think we both know which one you want. So kriffing choose, you di’kut.”

“Shut up, Thorn.”

“No. Sit up.”

Fox groans, but he does as Thorn says. Kriffing stars, it hurts. He has to clutch the couch cushions and blink hard to keep his eyes from watering. He abandoned his helmet before he made it to the couch, so he doesn’t have that to protect him from Thorn’s scrutiny.

Thorn rolls his eyes pointedly. Wolffe would be proud.

“You look like osik,” Thorn says.

“Thanks loads.”

“When did you sleep last?”

Fox crosses his arms.

“I know you didn’t sleep last night. Was it the night before that?”

Fox tilts his head back and looks at the ceiling.

“What the kriff, Fox?”

“Sixty-seven hours,” Fox says.

“You did not.”

“You asked.”

“Kriff you, Fox. Kriff you.”

“To be perfectly honest, Thorn,” Fox says tonelessly, “I don’t care. So just do whatever you want to do, and then let me kriffing sleep before I have to go back on shift.”

Still muttering curses, Thorn crouches down and drags Fox’s boot off. He’s not gentle about it. Fox bites his tongue and tastes metal.

“That hurts?” Thorn asks.

Fox shrugs. “Yeah. Not too badly.” The lie rolls out so easily, just like all the other lies he’s told people today, and all the days before this one. He’s barely talked to people today though. Told to himself? Stars, he doesn’t remember.

“Like it’s broken?” Thorn asks.

Fox shakes his head. He knows how broken bones feel, and this isn’t it. “No. Just twisted.”

“How many hours since you twisted it in the first place?”

Fox has to pause and do the math. “Fifteen or sixteen. Somewhere in there.”

“You’re a kriffing idiot. You know that, right?”

“I’m a marshal commander. I can deal with my own problems.”

“Clearly.” Thorn snorts and glares at Fox. “Like I believe that.”

“I don’t care what you believe about that.”

“I brought painkillers,” Thorn says.

“Where’d you get them? I thought we were nearly out.”

“Yeah, so did I, but then I walked into the medbay to try and convince Pol to give me something for your inevitable return like this, and he had plenty. Go kriffing figure. Maybe he got the suppliers to finally get their act together. I’m not too worried about that, though, because at least you’re going to get to sleep tonight without your own stupidity bothering you too much.” Thorn holds out two tablets. “Take these, or I’m calling Pol.”

Fox rolls his eyes and dry swallows them. “I’ll ask Pol about that.”

“I can ask him.”

“You’ve got the prisons—”

“And you’ve got the Senate, and I’m on shift, so I’ll be asking Pol.”

“Fine.” Fox sits back and leans his head against the back of the couch again. He closes his eyes and tries to ignore Thorn, but it doesn’t work that well. Kriffing stars, it’s been far too many hours since he slept last. In a matter of seconds, Fox’s thoughts become too thick to even move anymore, and he’s barely aware of whatever Thorn is doing, moving around the room.

“Are you asleep yet?” Thorn asks.

“I might be able to if you’d kriffing leave already,” Fox mutters. He’d like to have a bit more bite in his voice, but he’s too tired for that, too.

“All right,” Thorn says. “Well, you’d better actually sleep. I’m going to come and check on you in an hour. If you’re not sleeping then, I’m calling Pol.”

“Okay. Whatever.” Fox shifts his position to a more comfortable one, not bothering to open his eyes.

He hears the door open and shut, and then presumably Thorn is gone. Stars, Fox is tired. The pain in his ankle is starting to fade a bit. He’ll take whatever he can get, though. He exhales heavily. After sixty-seven hours of nonstop worry and work and exhaustion, he finally falls asleep.

***

21 BBY, day 375 of the War, 0015

Thorn returns to the commanders’ barracks grumbling under his breath. Fox has done increasingly more stupid stuff in the past few months, and there was that lousy day when Thorn caught him talking to Senator Chuchi and they did some yelling at each other. But honestly, he’d rather angry-and-yelling Fox to quiet-and-exhausted Fox, because at least the angry one still acts like Fox. Seeing him like this—tired and hurt and not caring—makes Thorn’s spine crawl and his heart skip a beat.

“Kriffing di’kutla’shebs,” Thorn mutters to himself.

He'll go back and check on Fox eventually. But for the moment, he’s got other things to deal with. Like his own work that he’s trying to finish so that he can appropriate a bit more of Fox’s—though that’s assuming that he can get away with it without Fox noticing. Fox has a kriffing bad habit of noticing each time Thorn tries to take some of his work.

Thorn slips into the commanders’ barracks. The lights are off, and Stone is sprawled in his bunk. He has one arm over his eyes and his datapad abandoned next to him.

“Stone,” Thorn says.

Stone shifts and says hoarsely, “Is Fox back?”

“Yeah. He kriffed up his ankle. And he’s sleeping in his office tonight. I think he was actually planning to sleep, and either way, I told him I’d call if Pol if he didn’t.”

“Good,” Stone says. He rolls over, and a few seconds later, his snores start up.

Thorn grabs his datapad and retreats as quietly as he can back down the hall to Fox’s office. He sits down on the floor just next to the door and powers up his datapad. There are seemingly millions of files on his screen that still require his approval, or authorization, or just his reviewal. Some of them are properly directed to him—thinks about the prisons or the orbital defenses. Some of them he has to forward to Fox, because he doesn’t have clearances. Kriffing stars, why does he not have clearances to take some of the weight of Fox’s shoulders? Maybe, then, Fox would smile again. For the moment, he has no choice but to keep adding them to the workload that will be waiting when Fox wakes up.

Report after report, the minutes of the night shift slip past while Thorn works away.

***

Fox can barely walk when he wakes up. He doesn’t mention that to anyone, though. He’ll force himself through this day, just like every other day. He has a couple of painkillers in one of the compartments on his belt, so he doesn’t even have to go and ask Pol for anything. He can just get out of the base and head straight for the Senate building, to pick up where he left off the night before.

Thankfully, he only has to spend a few hours in the Senate today. After that, he’s free to go about his other business. Today, that takes the form of filling in at one of the checkpoints on the lower levels. Bennor’s latest set of orders made it necessary for the Coruscant Guard to start patrolling several more important locations on Coruscant. The one that Fox finds himself at today is the entrance on level 5100 to Coruscant’s central power grid. If he can get a feel for it for a few hours, then he’ll know what kind of instructions he should give to the next patrols that get assigned down here.

A steady stream of workers moves in and out as they arrive for their shifts. Fox checks each of their passes as they walk through, and gives them the go-ahead once he’s sure that they’re authorized. After that, they’re able to enter the lift and go down the remaining hundred levels to the central power grid.

He falls into the routine easily enough. He’s had to learn things quickly on Coruscant. There are too many kriffing things to do to waste time on learning them for a long time.

“All right, everybody have your passes out,” Fox orders as a handful of workers and a group of droids approaches.

They shuffle into line, just like all the other groups. They’re all just a part of Coruscant’s well-oiled machine. Much like the Coruscant Guard, except that the Guard is running out of oil and doesn’t get paid for being a part of the machine.

Fox checks the passes of the workers, who continue on to one of the lifts. The droids trundle up to him, a whole group of them. They look like another group of maintenance droids. There was already a group that went through half an hour previously.

The droid in front displays a holographic pass and buzzes.

Fox scans it. “Generator maintenance?” He notes the clearance code. It’s valid. He didn’t realize there would be multiple sets of maintenance droids. “Well, everything checks out,” he says. “Good luck down there.”

The droids trundle onwards, leaving Fox with an empty line again. He glances back to check on the droids’ progress and—

What the kriff? Why are they going to the right? The maintenance droid lift is to the left. He thought their programming was supposed to be better than that.

“Woah, woah, woah,” Fox calls out. “Wait a minute. Power generators are that way.” He points to the left.

The droids pause, then turn around and head in the direction that he pointed.

Fox turns back around, muttering under his breath, “Kriffing stupid droids.”

While the line is empty, he can scan the news feeds that are scrolling across his HUD. There’s been an uproar the past few days about possible peace being negotiated with the Separatists. Fox doesn’t believe that the Separatists are going to agree to peace. After all, they’ve killed enough clones and even Jedi already. Count Dooku and General Grievous and whatever other Separatist leaders are masterminding this are senseless monsters.

But strangely enough, today’s news feeds look like peace might not be entirely out of the question. Fox frowns as he reads the reports. There’s no way. No way that they could settle things so easily. Either the Separatists have lost their minds, or they’ve got something else up their sleeve. No one could mastermind something like the Separatist movement for a year and then just decide to give up. Not when the Separatists are kriffing winning this war.

Yeah, it’s not happening. That’s for sure.

The minutes slip by while he goes on keeping an eye on the news feeds and checking credentials of the people that pass. It’s honestly the most peaceful that he’s been in… well, a long time now.

At this point, he should know that it’s too good to be true.

It’s always too good to be true.

This planet is out to kill them, and there’s nothing he can do about it.

And yet, when the ground shakes with an explosion somewhere far below, that was the last thing he was expecting to happen.

“Kriffing—” Fox starts.

Every light in sight blinks out. The news feeds in his HUD disappear.

“—stars,” he hisses. He opens a comm line to the Coruscant Guard’s base and says, “Marshal Commander Fox speaking. Status update, now.”

Only the static of a disconnected line answers him.

“Kriffing stars,” Fox whispers again.

The lights all turned off. Which means that the power grid got disrupted. Fox himself is standing at the entrance of the power grid. There must be a problem down there. But there was an explosion. So something blew up. It had to be an accident or sabotage. Either way, if the central power grid is down, that means that everything is down. That means comms. That means lights. That means lifts. That means every kriffing thing on this planet. The backup generators are housed a thousand levels farther down. They’ll take time to get turned on. Until then, Coruscant is a dark ball of rock adrift in the galaxy. And what the kriff happened down there?

The Coruscant Guard base, including its comm system, has backup generators, Fox knows. It’s only a matter of time until they turn on and he can get comms back.

He unclips the torch from his belt and turns it on. The military-grade beam of light bursts to life, illuminating the street in front of Fox. All the people that were still frozen in shock turn toward him, blinking in the light.

“Kriff,” Fox mutters again. That’s becoming a refrain. He tries opening the comm line again. Static greets him again. “Kriff.”

“What’s happening?” a twi’lek woman asks, hurrying toward Fox with two children in tow.

“What happened to the power?” a Rodian man demands. “I must get to my meeting on time—”

“Hey, it’s all broken!” a human teenager shouts.

Fox ignores them all. The nearest lift shaft is two blocks away. Each one is equipped with a staircase, in case of emergencies. And this, in every sense of the word, is an emergency. Coruscant’s central power grid is never supposed to go down. Fox needs answers. But more than that, he needs to be at the Senate. If he’s not, questions are going to be raised, and others are going to be getting blamed for this. He needs to be there, now.

He breaks into a sprint, dodging everyone in his path. His torch light bounces crazily across the buildings and streets as he weaves his way toward the stairs.

Kriff, kriff, kriff, what’s happening?

Fox reaches the lift shaft and has climbed nearly a full level when his HUD abruptly flickers and turns back on. Next to him, the gears in the lift shaft grind to life again. Reddish floodlights burst on across the top of this level.

Fox opens a comm line. “Marshal Commander Fox speaking. Status update.”

“Sir,” says whoever’s on the other end. “We don’t know, we’re trying to get information. Power is down across the planet.”

“What happened to the power grid?” Fox demands. He’s still going up the stairs as quickly as he can, heading for the next place where he can catch the lift.

“It’s down, sir. We don’t know why.”

“Send a platoon down there and find out why.”

“Yes, sir. Nocturne Platoon is available. I’ll send them down right away.”

Thire’s platoon. Well, at least Thire will do a good job down there, even if he’s a man short at the moment. Fox still hasn’t figured out a replacement. Kriff, he needs replacements for so many troopers now. He knows the number, though, because those are almost all men that have died under his command.

“Good enough,” Fox says. There’s an incoming call from Thorn on his HUD. He switches over to it. “Thorn, I’m en route to the Senate. Get to the prisons.”

“I’m already on my way,” Thorn says. For once, he doesn’t sound immediately annoyed at Fox. “Vector is there right now, and he’s reporting that their generators kicked in right away. They’ve got a few prisoners trying to make a break for it, but they’re dealing with it, and anyway, I’m on my way, so it’ll be resolved pretty soon. I’ll notify you when they’re under control. Where are you right now?”

“I’m on my way to the Senate.”

“You’re not there already?”

“No. I’ll deal with Chancellor Palpatine and whatever else is going on.” Fox stops on a landing as a realization hits him. He’s out of breath after climbing so many stairs. “Kriff. They were trying to vote on peace negotiations with the Separatists today.”

“The kriff?”

“Did you not see those broadcasts?”

“I don’t look at the news in my HUD like some psychos I know. Yeah, I knew they were trying to do something with the Separatists, but I didn’t know they were negotiating kriffing peace today. Did they do it yet?”

“They were going to vote,” Fox says. He looks at his chrono. “Ten or fifteen minutes ago.”

“So just before that explosion knocked out the power grid? If that’s the case, then I’m kriffing suspicious, because you don’t just have something like the power going out planet-wide the same minute that they were going to vote for peace, and then call it a kriffing coincidence. It wasn’t, and I don’t care what anyone says.”

“Nocturne Platoon is going to investigate right now,” Fox says.

“Okay. I’m nearly to the prisons. Update me.” Thorn leaves the comm call.

Fox reaches the next level—at last—and barrels across the platform to the lift. He punches the code into the keypad that will let him override the controls and will bring the lift directly to his position. An excruciating half minute passes before it comes whizzing downwards and settles at his platform. The doors open, and a few confused-looking natborns stumble out.

“What’s happening?” a Kel Dor man asks Fox.

“The lift stopped and then started again,” a hysteric Torgrutan woman shrills.

Fox ignores them, and all the rest of the natborns. He steps into the lift and hits the button for the surface.

Kriffing stars.

The lift whizzes upwards. Fox has maybe two and a half minutes before he reaches the surface.

He pulls off his helmet and takes a few deep breaths. His ankle still aches, but distantly, and he doesn’t have any capacity to care about that anymore. He’s fallen into the middle of another nightmare, and this one—well, Thorn’s right. It can’t be a coincidence that the central power grid got bombed just as the Senate was about to vote for peace. Which means that someone is sabotaging the power grid. Which means someone got down there.

… did the saboteur get down there while Fox was checking clearances?

He thinks suddenly of that second batch of maintenance droids. The ones that went in the wrong direction.

Oh.

Oh.

Oh, stars.

Fox stumbles back a step and finds the wall of the lift. He slides down it to a sitting position, clutching his helmet. He has no evidence yet, but he knows. Those maintenance droids weren’t maintenance droids. They had some other purpose. He checked their credentials, but somehow—somehow—they had the right ones. The Separatists—the same ones that are winning the war and faking peace negotiations—got ahold of those credentials.

Oh kriff oh kriff oh kriff it’s all his fault.

He’s rising past level 5122 now. He gets to his feet, pulling his helmet back on. The lift passes the last few levels, and then settles on the surface.

It’s chaos in the space beyond the doors.

Fox takes one last breath in the bubble of the lift. Then he steps through the opening doors and into the chaos.

There’s nothing he can do to fix the past. He can only face the future and the consequences of his actions now.

Kriffing stars.

Chapter Text

21 BBY, day 375 of the War, 1524

The Senate is chaos. Fox has to make his way through the halls. Everything is lit by red emergency lights. Aides, senators, and staff alike panic as they mill into the hallways. They quiet a little as Fox strides through the chaos, but even his presence isn’t enough to dispel the overbearing confusion.

He reaches Chancellor Palpatine’s office in record time regardless. The two troopers on guard at the doors step respectfully aside as Fox approaches and walks through the already-open doors.

The gathering there is just as chaotic as Fox expected it to be. Chancellor Palpatine sits at his desk, face properly cruel for the first time in the red light. Mas Amedda and Sly Moore stand behind him, conferring over something. Assorted senators stand in small groups, talking rapidly to each other. Bennor is arguing with one of them. Through the middle of it all, Inspector Tan Divo paces.

“Commander Fox,” Chancellor Palpatine says, rising.

The room quiets immediately. Fox stops just inside the door.

“Chancellor,” he says. “I came as quickly as I could. My troops are already investigating the power grid to find out what’s happened. I have more units on their way to the Senate building and the political sector as well. Every trooper is on duty.”

“Very well, Commander,” the chancellor says. “I will turn the investigation over to the Coruscant Guard in that case.”

The kriff?

“Chancellor, I’m not sure that the Guard is equipped for that,” Fox says as carefully as he can. “We don’t have the numbers, the resources, or the training.”

“The Senate Guard is currently occupied,” Inspector Divo says condescendingly from where he’s pacing past. “And everyone else is being scrambled to other positions. You’re marshal commander of the Coruscant Guard—aren’t you aware that looting is breaking out everywhere, at the same time that generators are malfunctioning and causing smaller explosions? Chaos, Marshal Commander, chaos. Your troops will have to handle the initial investigation, until my men can be freed up from their other work. You understand, don’t you?”

Fox bites his tongue to keep from swearing out loud. “Understood, sir,” he says. “Permission to leave?” he adds to the chancellor.

Chancellor Palpatine nods calmly. “Granted. And do keep us updated, Commander.”

“Yes, Chancellor.” Fox turns on his heel and strides back out of the office.

***

Thire has only seen the central power grid a few times before, but it’s clear that this is very bad. The air reeks of the smoke that’s rapidly billowing outwards from the burning core. An alarm blares somewhere in the distance. Red floodlights—those are normal, at least—cast strange shadows and catch in the smoke clouds filling the level.

“It’ll take some time to repair this,” Nuhun says quietly from beside Thire.

“Yeah,” Thire agrees. “All right, we’re going to split up. Commander Fox just informed me that he’s on his way to join us, and that he’s routing another platoon down that should be here shortly after him. Everyone, stay in groups of two at all times. Bramage, you’ll take the core. Don’t get close to anything dangerous. Just report back what you find. Nuhun, you’ll head to the far side and work your way back toward us. Go around the edge, and see if you can find ventilation shafts to open and air out the smoke. Wikki, you’ll stay on this side and work toward the center, opposite Nuhun.”

“Yes, sir,” the sergeants echo.

“Lieutenant,” Wikki says quietly, approaching Thire. “I don’t mean to be a problem right now, but Eddy’s been acting up all day.”

“Oh, stars,” Thire murmurs. Out loud, he says quietly, “How so?”

“He’s nearly started at least three fights, and he’s been talking back to me at every chance. I’m already down a man, and I don’t want to try and force anyone to patrol with that chakaaryc.”

“All right,” Thire says. “Eddy, I need your attention for a second. You’ll be staying here with me, to wait for Commander Fox to arrive.”

Eddy steps up, seeming to loom over other troopers in the dim light. “Why?” he asks.

“Show some respect,” Wikki orders.

Eddy’s head tilts slightly in a clearly sarcastic movement. (Thire knows that too well, now.) “Why, sir?” he asks boredly.

“Because that will work best,” Thire says firmly.

“Right,” Eddy says.

Thire turns to Wikki and says, “Go ahead and start, Wikki. I’ll let you know when Commander Fox and the other platoon arrive.”

“Thanks, Lieutenant.” Wikki strides off, calling, “Lunar Squad, we’re heading out. Find your patrol partners.”

“What was that supposed to accomplish?” Eddy asks. (His tone makes it sound like he’s trying to provoke Thire.)

“Everyone’s doing their best,” Thire says.

“You didn’t let me go with them,” Eddy says.

“If you have concerns, I’d be happy to discuss them later.” (He dreads that, but he’s willing to do it if Eddy truly wants to talk about something. He doubts that Eddy will, though.) “Until then, we have a job to do. You’ll be staying here with me for the moment, and keeping an eye on the entrance here. No one can go in and out right now.”

“Only two people?”

“That’s the decision I’ve made, yes.” (Stars, he doesn’t like Eddy’s tone.)

“Why?”

“It’s not the time, Eddy,” Thire says.

Eddy falls silent at last. The two of them stay near the entrance to the power grid, watching the slowly moving figures of the rest of Nocturne Platoon disappear on their investigations. There were supposed to be workers near the core of the power grid, as well as scattered around. None of them have emerged yet. (That’s very much not a good thing.) Thire would like to do so much more, but Nocturne Platoon doesn’t have the numbers or the ability to do the rescue operation that’s necessary here. Commander Fox didn’t mention anything other than himself and another platoon, so Thire doesn’t even know if any emergency medical teams are coming down. (Probably, they’re just working on putting together a team up at the Grand Coruscant Medical Facility.)

At last, Commander Fox arrives. (He’s moving with a barely perceptible limp.) He comes through the entrance and along the walkway to where Thire and Eddy are standing.

“Commander Fox,” Thire says, saluting. “I’ve sent my men to start working on an investigation, per the orders from the dispatch center. Are they sending down reinforcements for the Guard? I think we’re going to need some medical teams, if any of the workers survived the explosion.”

“This investigation has been given to the Guard,” Commander Fox says.

“Sorry, sir?”

“They’re not sending reinforcements, Thire.” Commander Fox shrugs helplessly. (He doesn’t usually look this lost.) “They made that choice, and there’s nothing we can do about it. I’m having Pol collect medics from fifty platoons, and they’ll be down here as soon as possible.”

“I don’t think that’s going to be enough, sir.” Thire hesitates. (The Guard has been stretched thin more and more for… well, months now.) “Do we even have enough troopers to do the investigation?”

“No,” Commander Fox says. “We don’t. This entire side of the planet has dissolved into chaos, and it’ll stay that way until we get some light to work with. The one thing that they’re sending down here is maintenance droids. That’ll have to be enough.”

“What’s the plan, then, sir?” Thire asks. (Is that too presumptuous? After their last conversation?)

Commander Fox tilts his head at Thire.

(Oh, stars, maybe it was. Maybe he shouldn’t have asked about being a commander. But he needed to ask. He can see just how badly it’s needed.)

“We’re going to try and locate a source for the explosion,” Commander Fox says at last. “We need to know what set it off.”

“A malfunction, sir?”

“I don’t think so.”

“What would it have been, then, sir?”

“Separatists. Today…” The commander trails off, looking at Eddy. “What’s he doing here?”

Thire hesitates. “He’s my backup for watching the entrance, sir.”

“Right.” The commander looks between Eddy and Thire. Then his voice comes through an internal comm line with just Thire. “Thorn told me that you had an unruly trooper that was causing problems. That him?”

(What? How did—why did Commander Thorn tell Commander Fox about Eddy? Thire didn’t even tell Commander Thorn about Eddy specifically. He just asked for advice. And Commander Thorn told Commander Fox?)

(Stars, Thire wants to melt into the ground.)

“I’ve been working with him, sir,” Thire says. “It’s fine. There isn’t a problem.”

(And it’s not a lie, not really. The problem hasn’t actually happened yet. It’s just… looming over him. Stars.)

“Right,” Commander Fox says again. “I have to go in and look at a few things, so I’ll take him off your hands.”

“Sir?”

“I can’t wait for the reinforcements to get here. Stay here at the entrance until they arrive, and have one of them join you then.”

“I—yes, sir.”

(The last time that Thire tried to talk to Commander Fox, the commander shut him down and told him that he had work to do. This version of the commander is… different. Tired and apathetic and quick.)

“All right. What’s his name?”

“Eddy, sir.”

Commander Fox turns toward Eddy, and speaks normally. “Eddy, you’re going to come with me while I do some investigations. Come on.” He strides off, past Eddy.

Eddy looks at Thire, then at Commander Fox, and then back at Thire. The tilt of his helmet is sardonic. (Of course he noticed the long silence while Thire and the commander were talking on internal comms.)

“The commander gave you an order,” Thire says.

“Huh,” Eddy says. He turns and starts after the commander, moving without any motivation behind his steps.

“Oh stars,” Thire whispers to himself, turning back to watching the entrance.

(His stomach twists uncomfortably, but he doesn’t have time to think about that right now.)

***

Fox has the map of the central power grid up on his HUD. He keeps an eye on it as he walks, making his way along walkways that creak under his weight. Probably the supports are kriffed up. The atmosphere isn’t helped by the red emergency lights and the smoke. The core of the power grid still glows with faint flames. It’s a kriffing mess, that’s for sure.

“They should have just blown up the Senate,” Eddy says from behind Fox. “That’d end the war.”

He has a point. But no trooper is supposed to be talking like that. Fox doesn’t care enough to correct him right now, though. No one else is down here to hear them.

Eddy speaks again as they cross between two walkways. “You don’t care about this war going on?”

“I care about it,” Fox says evenly. “Blowing up politicians isn’t the way to end it.”

“It’d be satisfying,” Eddy says.

What the kriff? That’s the kind of thought that Fox has when he’s about ready to throw a datapad at a wall for the hundredth time in the day, but it’s never one that he allows himself to think about.

“Satisfying,” he says dryly, “doesn’t mean the same as moral. That’s a kriffing bad idea, trooper. I know you’re attempting to joke, so I’ll ignore what you said. But watch your mouth. That kind of thing will get you into trouble with a lot of people.”

“Kriff them and their opinions.”

“Show some respect, trooper,” Fox orders. He stops walking and faces Eddy. “I didn’t bring you with me so that you could complain and suggest the deaths of the people we’re sworn to protect. You’re here because, as I understand it, you’re one misstep away from getting yourself decommissioned by an annoyed senator who notices your shortcomings. I don’t want to send you back to Kamino. I don’t want to send any trooper back to Kamino. But guess what? The senators don’t care what I want. If they request a decommissioning, I have no power to veto it.”

He has power to do other things, but those are secrets he’ll march on with if necessary.

Eddy makes a disgusted noise. “Well—”

“I’m not finished, trooper. I’ve heard about you. I’ve seen and heard about enough troopers like you over the years. You’re with me right now so that you can see what it means to do your job and so that you can earn some respect for your superiors. If I hear another word about your problems—I don’t care what the problems are—then I’m going to be seriously considering my options. Because I’m not going to have a trooper that causes trouble risking the lives of the men that are doing their jobs. Staying with the Guard at this point requires you to at least act like you’re following regulations.”

Eddy tilts his helmet. “Huh.”

“Sir,” Fox says.

“Huh, sir.” There’s clear disdain in Eddy’s voice.

Kriff, Fox is too tired to be having this conversation. Once, he would have second-guessed himself about whether he should have said it now. Standing in the middle of his failure, though, he doesn’t care.

And stars, if he can do something for Thire, he might as well do it. He faked the death of one of Thire’s troopers without telling him. And he denied Thire’s request to be a commander. His heart aches every time he thinks of that conversation. If he can get Eddy to quit being a problematic di’kut, he’ll do it.

“So for one thing,” Fox says, “stop making jokes about killing senators. That joke will get you decommissioned, and there won’t be a kriffing thing that I can do to turn that request around. Now that that’s cleared up, come on. We don’t have time to waste.”

Eddy stands there impassively.

“Yes, sir,” Fox prompts coldly.

“Yessir,” Eddy says. His tone is just as warning.

“Walk ahead,” Fox orders. “I’ll cover you and give directions. We’ll swap back eventually.”

Eddy gives it a few beats before he moves. Kriffit, he clearly hasn’t heard a word of what Fox just said. But he does move, and Fox follows him as they continue down the walkway. It’s leading directly toward the secondary control center of the power grid. Hopefully, in there, they’ll get answers. That structure hasn’t been hit by any debris, it seems. Kriffing good luck, honestly. There’s also still no sign of anyone other than a few scattered Coruscant Guard troopers. That doesn’t bode well for all the workers that were down here when—

When Fox failed. And let those droids through.

Stars. He can’t think about that right now. He can’t afford the time or the feeling of guilt.

His head is beginning to pound with an exhausted, fuzzy headache by the time they finally reach the structure. He’s going to push through it, though, just like everything else that he’s been pushing through lately.

A comm line appears on his HUD from Boomer. Finally. He told Boomer to get down here as quickly as possible, with his bomb squad. With all the chaos, they probably got held up somewhere along the way.

Fox answers it. “Boomer, status report.”

“We just arrived, sir,” Boomer’s voice says. “We’re heading for the core. Any further orders?”

“No,” Fox says. “Just clear the area and make sure that nothing else is going to explode. Report to me as soon as you find any kind of evidence about what happened.”

“Yes, sir,” Boomer says. The comm cuts.

“This is pointless,” Eddy growls softly from in front of Fox.

Fox eyes him. “I’m not sure why you think those comments are appropriate after what we talked about. If you have complaints, bring them to me after we’re done here.”

“This is a—” Eddie starts.

A distant explosion cuts him off. Fox instinctively wants to run to wherever it is. But it’s probably just something malfunctioning a level above them. The power grid crashing is going to lead to a lot of messed-up systems. Kriff. Well, reports will be coming in soon enough.

“Let’s get this over with already,” Eddy mutters, heading into the structure that houses the secondary controls.

Fox follows him, slowly, still reading the messages on his HUD. He doesn’t have anyone in the vicinity of the position where he’s pretty sure that explosion just happened. That means no updates. That means more chaos unfolding for as long as there’s no one there. He needs to get someone there—wherever there is—to deal with it. But everyone has already been scrambled

“Commander,” Eddy says in a low voice.

Fox looks up. That’s some respect he hasn’t heard yet. Eddy’s standing frozen in place, about twenty feet into the structure.

“What?” Fox says.

“I stepped on something.”

Osik. Fox stays where he is. “What kind of thing?” he asks.

“I… don’t know.” Eddy’s voice has become almost subdued, but panic hovers on the edge of it. “A thing. I don’t like it. I heard a click, and I think…” He trails off.

Kriff, this is a far cry from the disrespectful chakaar that Fox was dealing with all of two minutes ago.

Fox pulls his glowlamp out and turns it on, scanning the room. Aside from the blank screens and dead controls, there’s not much there. He can see something underneath Eddy’s right boot, though. A line stretches from that point across the floor, half-obscured by a set of packing crates. And if Fox follows the line up, to the control panels on that side of the room…

“Kriff,” Fox mutters.

“What?” Eddy demands.

“There are explosives,” Fox says. “Low along the wall. You just stepped on a trap. Stay where you are.”

“I don’t like this,” Eddy says. His voice is getting louder. “I don’t like this—get rid of it.”

“You’re going to have to wait until the bomb squad gets here.”

“I need it gone now.”

“You have to wait for the bomb squad, trooper. Listen to me, Eddy. Listen. I’m coming Boomer to get his men over here and—”

“I can’t stay here,” Eddy says.

“You don’t have a kriffing option.”

“I’ve seen what happens when people step on explosives. If I move fast enough, I can get away from it—”

“The kriff are you on? Stay where you are, trooper. The bomb squad can deal with it. And you can’t outrun an explosion, not in a space like this.”

“I can.” Eddy’s boot shifts on whatever he’s stepped on.

“Trooper,” Fox snaps. “Stay where you are. That’s an order. I don’t care what you think you can do, or if you’re scared. Kriffing stay where you are.” His comm connects. “Boomer, we’ve found an armed bomb in the secondary control room, and a trooper has stepped on it. I need reinforcements down here as quickly as possible. We’re just inside the door.”

“Copy that,” Boomer says. “I’m coming now, sir.”

“He’s coming,” Fox says as he closes the comm line. “You’re going to stay there for a couple of minutes until—”

“I’m not waiting that long.”

“You kriffing will. I’m ordering you to stay there.”

“I’m not going to.”

“You’ve given Lieutenant Thire enough trouble that it’s gotten up to me. I’m surprised, given what I’ve seen, that you haven’t been decommissioned yet. If you can manage all that insubordination, then you can at least have the kriffing guts to match half of Prime and leave your shebs there for the next kriffing five minutes.”

“I’m not doing it,” Eddy says again. It looks like he’s shaking. “I’m not standing there like—like this.”

“I’m ordering you to, kriffit.”

“I’m not—”

Fox sees the tensing in Eddy’s back, and realizes what he’s about to do. He shouts, “Eddy, no!” just as Eddy takes his boot off the thing he stepped on.

Brilliant orange light expands. Burning heat rushes outwards. An ear-shattering roar fills the hall. Pieces of debris fly outwards.

Fox throws himself to the ground, twisting away from the explosion. Something hits him—and then something else—and then something else—and then a second explosion goes off, nearer; Fox is thrown into something else altogether. He hits it shoulders-first. Pieces of burning debris rain down on him. He smashes into the ground, pieces of rubble still crashing down.

The last thing he sees is Eddy’s helmet rolling toward him.

***

“Thire, I need you here now,” Boomer says frantically.

“What happened? I heard an explosion. Did something blow up?”

“Yeah, with kriffing Commander Fox and whoever was with him in it.”

Thire was starting to move, but he freezes. (What?) He stares at the burning secondary control room that he can just see from where he is. (Commander Fox?) It’s only been a few seconds since the explosion happened, but it’s already burning with an intensity. (And whoever was with him—which means Eddy?)

Oh stars.

“I’m coming,” Thire says. He turns to the two troopers that Boomer left with him. “Report to me if anything happens here,” he says. Then he sprints away.

Stars, he can’t let himself think, or he’s going to panic. (Commander Fox can’t be dead. There’s no way.) He just needs to get there as quickly as possible. (He doesn’t want to think about a reality without Commander Fox there to hold it in place.)

Oh stars, it isn’t even like the commander has given much attention to Thire anymore for… for far too long. Thire has become just another lieutenant among the many in the Coruscant Guard, dismissed more often than not as the commander’s work comes first. He’s given the same resources and attention that the others are (which is almost none). Back at the beginning of the war, when Commander Fox still seemed to be interested in Thire’s work (his chest aches at the thought), it was different. The commander used to smile, but he hasn’t in such a long time. Not since… well, not since the drug bust when Thire nearly died. (Stars, he doesn’t want to think about the commander’s voice when Thire woke up and Commander Fox was so angry at him.)

But that doesn’t matter. The falling apart, the lost… whatever it was… Thire just needs Commander Fox to be okay. He just needs his reality to not shatter.

He sprints along metal walkways that clatter under his footfalls. The control room gushes flame upwards. Stars oh stars oh stars (he has to be okay, he has to be) oh stars—

He reaches the control room structure at the same time as Boomer and four other troopers.

It’s a mess.

(Oh it’s so bad.)

The roof has caved in as a heap of flame and rubble, all of it blazing with heat.

(Anyone standing where that explosion went off would be killed instantly.)

“Kriff,” Boomer says.

“Is he in there?” Thire asks. (He has to force a measure of calm into his voice. It’s almost impossible.)

“Only one way to find out,” Boomer says grimly. He heads into the room, heedless of the flames. He pauses almost immediately, picking up a helmet. “This isn’t the commander’s.”

“It’s Eddy’s,” Thire whispers.

(Stars, he didn’t want Eddy to be dead.)

“And… there’s Eddy,” Boomer says, pointing to the wall.

Thire looks at it, and then looks away. “Stars,” he says quietly.

“The commander said the trooper stepped on whatever triggered the explosion,” Boomer says. “Which means the commander would have been farther back.” He looks at the mass of burning rubble. “Kriff. I need this rubble moved, now.”

The other troopers hurry forward, and Thire joins them. Two of them start spraying the heap of rubble down with flame suppressants. The other two start grabbing pieces of rubble and shifting them out of the way.

Thire grabs a piece that’s less on fire than the rest and tosses it aside. (There’s so much debris here. So much to sort through.) The other two are working in perfect tandem, clearly used to this kind of thing. (The commander must be buried in here somewhere. He must be.) Boomer calls out instructions as he moves further into the room. (The commander could be dying. Or dead.) Thire’s field of vision is rapidly being obscured by the smoke that keeps billowing upwards from the burning debris. (So many pieces of this debris are bigger than Thire himself.)

“We’re going to need a medic,” Thire says, out of breath.

“You sure?” Boomer asks quietly on internal comms from wherever he is.

Thire straightens up. “Yes.” He opens a comm line and waits, moving a few more pieces of rubble—as big as he can carry—while he does. At last it connects, and he says, “Cred, I need you here, please, as quickly as you can.”

“Sorry, Lieutenant, where?”

“At the control room that’s burning. Not the main one. The smaller one. You can’t miss it.”

“Okay. I’m coming, sir.”

“Thanks, Cred.”

Thire cuts the call and returns to moving pieces of rubble as fast as he can.

With each moment that passes, the knot of worry that’s taken up residence in Thire’s throat tightens. Every moment means another moment that Commander Fox has to stay alive (if he’s alive at all right now). Stars, Thire wishes that Hound were here with Grizzer. It would make this search so much faster.

And then, halfway through moving a head-sized piece of the roof, Thire freezes. (Oh stars.) Because it’s not just rubble underneath—it’s a hand, wearing blacks and hand armor—

“Got him!” Thire shouts (his voice cracks, but he’s far beyond caring.)

Boomer’s four troopers and Boomer himself all simultaneously drop what they’re doing and converge on where Thire is. Rapidly, they start moving pieces of durasteel, circuit boards, and parts of the roof and wall. After only a few seconds, Thire’s able to drop to one knee and peer into the space that they’re finding underneath the still-smoldering rubble.

Stars. Stars. The commander might actually be alive still. (Thire can breathe again.) He’s half-buried in pieces of debris, helmet turned away from them and arm thrown out to the side—but a massive chunk of the roof missed him by inches and instead jammed against the also-falling exterior wall, creating a pocket of space barely big enough for the commander to lie inside.

“Careful,” Boomer warns from where he’s standing just behind Thire. “Yeah—hold it right there, vode. Don’t move anything else. Thire, where’s your medic?”

“On his way,” Thire says. “We can’t wait.”

“Yeah,” Boomer says. “Can you grab him and pull him out?”

“I think so,” Thire says. “Give me a second.”

“Move fast.” Boomer turns to his men. “Keep going with the flame suppressants. We need to put this thing out the rest of the way.”

Thire drops to his stomach and reaches into the space. He can just manage to get his hands under the commander’s arms, so that he haul backwards. Painstakingly slowly, he shifts the commander’s body toward him, out of the space in the rubble. (Stars, he’s shaking as he works.) Except for the two troopers working with the flame suppressants, everyone there—Boomer, the other two troopers, Cred out of breath in the doorway—is frozen, watching, like they’re scared a single movement will take down the entire heap of debris. (It probably will.) A few pieces shift, but none fall, and Thire releases a shaky breath as the commander’s body finally comes free.

“Osik,” Boomer mutters.

Cred scrambles forward, joining Thire. “He—he’s alive,” Cred stutters, pulling off the commander’s helmet.

Commander Fox’s face is streaked with blood . His chest rises and falls, but just barely. Blood has never bothered Thire before, but stars, it makes his own breath catch. (He can’t help but wonder if that’s what he himself looked like after that drug bust.)

Thire stands quickly. “Boomer, what else needs to be done here?”

“We need to get the fire stopped and then get the kriff out of here, that’s what,” Boomer says. “There’s nothing to salvage of your trooper. I’m sorry, Thire. We’ve got the commander. I did a sweep and didn’t see any other explosives, so it’s looking like this was designed to blow up anyone who tried to use this control room. And they pretty efficiently destroyed the controls, too.”

Thire shakes his head. “That—none of this makes sense.”

“Kriff, Thire, I wish I had all the answers. I’m losing my kriffing mind right now trying to figure out what they used to so completely blow up the core. If I could talk to one of the saboteurs I might have a better shot at figuring it out.”

“If the saboteurs were anywhere nearby, then they couldn’t have survived this.”

“All I know right now,” Boomer says, “is that I’ve got a night of work cut out for me while we try to patch this place back together and not let anything else blow up. And you know that we’re going to be hearing from whoever that natborn that runs these things is.”

“Bennor?”

“Yeah, and whoever they put on the inspection. If it’s Divo, I think I’d rather… kriff, I’m not going there.”

Thire nods. “I know.” He joins Cred again. “Is the commander okay?”

Cred looks up. “His condition is barely stabilized, Lieutenant, sir, and I don’t think he’ll be okay for long. I don’t have all the equipment that I need, but I’m pretty sure that he’s got internal bleeding, broken ribs, a concussion—the medscanner is giving me so many things, but it’s still broken, so I don’t really know for sure. He needs to be brought back to base.”

Thire nods, getting to his feet. “All right. Boomer, can I leave my men with you? I’ll ask if I can have another platoon sent down here as soon as possible.”

“Yeah,” Boomer says. “Just make sure the commander gets back safe.”

Thire nods. “I’ll do everything I can.”

He looks around the space again. The fallen debris. (He feels shaky again looking at that.) The sizzling control panels. (Sabotage.) Eddy’s helmet discarded on the floor, the only piece of him that they can do anything with. (Thire never wanted him dead, and never like this.) The troopers still trying to put out the last flames. (Has the war come to Coruscant?)

He swallows hard and turns away. “Okay, Cred, we’ve got to get him to the entrance. I’m going to call Pol to let him know we’re coming.”

***

Thorn doesn’t want to think about the messages that he’s been receiving from Thire for the past few hours, because they’re all just going to make him drop dead of a dull terror that wants to eat him alive. Instead, he ignores the implications that Fox is in critical condition from some kriffing delayed explosion, and he goes on working.

The prisons are secured after a few hours. They lost two prisoners. At least they weren’t any of the high-security ones. Thorn goes straight from the prisons to the Senate, to stand in for Fox—they haven’t told anyone outside of the Coruscant Guard that Fox has been nearly blown up—and field whatever questions are happening there. The Senate, somehow, has decided it’s a good thing to go back to what they were doing before the power grid got bombed. They’re running on emergency power, so the whole chamber is red. Like that’s not foreboding.

“The bombing of the power generator has been confirmed as a Separatist attack,” a senator shouts from his pod. “They must pay for what they have done.”

Thorn had to hand that information off, kriff it all. Boomer found the remnants of what set off the original explosion about an hour ago, and confirmed that it was a Separatist-designed bomb, hidden inside some kind of droids.

Senator Amidala—Thorn would kriffing die for her, because she’s one of a miniscule handful of decent senators—speaks up. “But it was the Separatist congress that issued the bill of peace!”

Yeah, Thorn’s been catching up on way too much. But the fact that the Separatist congress moved to settle this war peacefully kind of seemed like a kriffing scam even before the power grid got attacked.

“Obviously a tactic to lower our defenses and launch this attack,” Mas Amedda says.

“No,” Senator Amidala insists. “That’s not true.”

“I move to immediately deregulate the banks,” Senator Burtoni announces.

Chaos erupts in the chamber. Senators call out for both sides of the argument. Thorn, from his spot on one of the top rows, gets the distinct impression that the majority are calling to deregulate the banks. Which will allow for the production of more clone troopers. Which will be more vode forced into this kriffing war.

“We need a bank loan to get more troops—now,” one senator shouts.

Another rises from his seat and shouts, “What are we waiting for?”

It’s kriffing chaos, because all of these senators are too caught up in their own political schemes to realize that they’re signing on to the creation of more lives that will be destined for only death.

Chancellor Palpatine speaks up, and finally the chamber quiets. “I’m afraid we’ve been given little choice,” he says. “To ensure the safety of the Republic, we must deregulate the banks.”

Shouting erupts again. Thorn can’t join them—which just goes to show why they shouldn’t pass this bill, but in the safety of his helmet, he swears vehemently, not just about this bill.

Chapter Text

31 BBY, 9 years before the War

CT-1010 is decanted about exactly a year after the creation of the clone army began. Sitting awake in the nurseries at night, he finds himself staring out the window at the rain that constantly lashes the glass. There must be something out there past the rain. Something more than Kamion’s sterile white hallways. Something more than a world built for millions of identical brothers being engineered and experimented on by the Kaminoans. Something more than the constant churning out of new life, cut and paste copies.

Except that they’re not as cut-and-paste as the Kaminoans would like, and that’s what lands CT-1010 in a command squad.

He spends the first four years of his life as CT-1010. His batchmates call him Tenten. He uses too much of his time to lurk around, watching the Alphas and trying to spy on the Nulls. After he gets into trouble one too many times, his batchmates learn not to hang around him. CT-1010 is okay with that. It’s easier to do what he wants to when he doesn’t have four brothers questioning him constantly.

Only a month after he turns four, he receives his assignment to command squad 38. When he checks the computer records, he finds that his number has changed. He’s CC-1010 now. It means he’ll be a leader. He’d almost be less surprised if he were being decommissioned for his snooping.

He says goodbye to his batchmates—they’re unremarkably unfazed—and heads off by himself to find his new barracks. He arrives to find the rest of them already there, heatedly debating who’s going to get which bunk. They all stop mid-sentence as he stops in the door and turn to look at him. Nine pairs of inquisitive eyes, sizing him up.

“I’m CC-1010,” he says.

“Hi,” one of the others says, offering a wave. “I’m Ponds. Welcome to the 38^th.”

***

27 BBY, 5 years before the War

Ponds quickly emerges as a leader in their group of future officers. He stands just a breath shorter than the standard clone, his shoulders a little broader than the other clones his age and his eyes a little more gold than the Prime’s. He admits to Fox over one midmeal three weeks into the formation of the 38^th that he got his name because he got overly excited in geography class.

“I don’t have a name,” CC-1010 says. He doesn’t like thinking about that.

“You’ll find one eventually,” Ponds says. “Everyone does.”

“Everyone else in 38 has a name.”

“That’s okay. We’ll help you find one.”

“A good one?”

“Of course a good one, vod’ika! What sort of people do you think we are?” Ponds pauses, following CC-1010’s gaze across the mess hall. Somehow, he’s guessed that he’s thinking about two things at once. “No, you don’t get to drink coffee because you have doubts. That won’t help you.”

“The Alphas drink it,” CC-1010 points out impudently.

“And they,” Ponds says, pointing a utensil at him, “get to, because they are six and a half.”

***

Wolffe, on the other hand, is downright feral. CC-1010 isn’t sure what to think of him—that is, until Wolffe wakes him in the middle of the night a few days after his conversation with Ponds about his name. CC-1010 wakes abruptly with someone’s hot breath in his ear. There is only one member of the 38^th who would do that.

“Don’t breathe on me like that!” CC-1010 hisses, rolling away from Wolffe. “What do you want?”

“I need your help,” Wolffe whispers back.

“For what?”

“I’m going to raid the longnecks’ labs.”

CC-1010 sits up, all ears. “Why?”

“For fun, di’kut!” Wolffe jerks his head downwards, indicating someone else. “Keeli’s coming too. Come on, are you going to come or not?”

Keeli has good plans and always figures out a way to make it fun. Wolffe has an energy that CC-1010 finds exhilarating. Even though it’s insanely late. And this is definitely not allowed. But it sounds like fun, and Wolffe picked him. Him and Keeli. Being put on the same level as Keeli is definitely a good thing.

“Okay,” he whispers, swinging out of bed. “What’s the plan?”

Wolffe doesn’t have a plan, but Keeli does. The three of them slip through the halls on a carefully calculated schedule to make sure they won’t run into any Kaminoans out and about that night. They make it to the labs in good time and slip in, the door shutting behind them.

“What now?” CC-1010 asks.

“Dunno,” Wolffe says, shrugging. “I just wanted to get here. What should we raid?”

In the end, they don’t take anything. But the fact that they made it into the labs undetected means something. They return to their bunkroom and slip back into bed. No one else wakes up or notices that they were gone. In the morning, it’s hard to keep the smile off his face as they head into the mess hall. He practically explodes when Wolffe and Keeli come over to join him at his end of the table.

“We should do it again,” Keeli says.

“Yeah,” Wolffe says. “You’re quiet, Tenten. When’d you learn that?”

He shrugs. “I just did.”

“That should be your name,” Keeli says. “Quiet.”

“No,” CC-1010 says firmly. “Not that name. A better one.”

Wolffe rolls his eyes. “Fine. Be picky then.” He attacks his food for a few seconds, then adds, “We should still do that again.”

***

It’s Bacara who comes up with his name in the end. They’re studying Naboo that day. Gree likes the fauna section of the flashtraining, so he keeps talking about it in the mess hall.

“Did you see the part about the Nabooian foxes?” he asks. “They’re the dominant hunters in their territory because of how quiet and vicious they are, and how they can sneak up behind other animals and just take them down.”

“Like Tenten in that battle simulation yesterday,” Monnk says. “Did you see him there?”

“Tenten the Nabooian fox,” Gree says.

“Not Nabooian,” Bacara objects. “Naboo is peaceful, and Tenten’s like the Prime himself. A different fox. A sly Mando fox.”

CC-1010 rolls his eyes pointedly. Is it as effective as when Wolffe does it? Definitely not, but channeling his feral favorite brother is definitely worth it. He sets his tray down on the table. There’s some space between him and the rest of the 38^th. He’s barely started to sit down when Bacara looks over and raises his eyebrows. He looks almost concerned.

“You aren’t going to eat with us, Fox?”

“Fox?” he repeats.

“What, you don’t like it?”

“No, I…” He pauses, looking down. Then he grabs his tray and slides it down the table to join the rest of them. “I like it,” he says. “Thanks.” It’s a thank-you for more than just the name.

***

24 BBY, 2 years before the War

Fox does an adequate job with the flashtraining, but he finds it boring more than anything else. Battle simulations are where he really shines. By the time that he’s six, they’re doing as many battle simulations as they are flashtraining sessions. Their group routinely comes out with top scores among the other command squads.

Finally, when he’s seven, they start training with real weapons during the battle simulations.

The armory has always been reserved for the Nulls and Alphas, and a few of the oldest command squads. Now, the 38^th is allowed through the doors. They move among the rows of weapons, examining what’s there. Rex picks up and weighs every blaster in his hand before selecting two DC-17s. Fox hears him informing Cody that yes, Cody needs to choose a weapon, and that their martial arts training doesn’t count for taking out the simulation’s droids.

Fox finds a DC-17 for himself, and adds a vibroknife for good measure. He’s almost tempted by the riot shields, but it seems a bit much for their first time with live fire.

Ponds gathers them just before the lift that’ll take them into the simulation. Cody and Rex are still whispering a debate over martial arts’ worthiness. Bacara and Monnk are trying to fix something with Monnk’s helmet. Wolffe is leaning on Fox’s shoulders with his chin on Fox’s head—a habit that Fox objects to out loud, but doesn’t actually mind. Keeli is absently spinning a vibroblade the length of his forearm that’ll probably go through his foot sometime during the battle. Gree is doing something with a datapad he produced from somewhere, and Bly is leaning over his shoulder to see the screen.

“Focus up,” Ponds calls. “This is a survival sim. Make sense?”

“Survival how?” Gree asks, shoving Bly off.

“Survival as in, we don’t get out until we complete the objectives,” Ponds says. “It’s going to be simulated terrain, so keep your heads up and be ready.”

“What’s the objective?” Cody asks.

“We won’t know until we get in. And we have thirty seconds to be in. Get on the lift, everyone.”

They crowd on. Keeli sticks out a leg and nearly trips up Bly, who frowns at him with a self-righteous expression. Ponds shoots them as a glare. The lift rises up through the opening gap in the ceiling, depositing them into their first simulated terrain and live fire battle simulation.

Fox has always thought that they’re good. That they’re unbeatable. That they’ll naturally come out on top in anything they get into.

He’s so wrong.

The battle simulation goes from bad to worse to life-threatening in a matter of hours. The first wave of droids splits them into three groups. Fox winds up with Cody and Wolffe, running for their lives as far too many B2s advance on them, lasers just barely missing them on every side. The snow that makes up the terrain hides every uneven patch of ground. Only half an hour into the simulation, Wolffe catches his foot on something and twists his ankle. Half an hour later, he can barely walk, and Cody and Fox have to work together to get him into sniping position in a tree. Half of that is convincing him to get out of danger at all.

The next wave is B1s, and not all of the B2s are gone yet. They practically flood the area that the three of them are trying to lie low. Wolffe frantically climbs higher into the tree while Cody and Fox desperately dive for cover and take out as many droids as possible.

They’re doing fairly well, and Fox is beginning to feel like they might have a chance of wrapping this up in good time, when the third wave arrives.

The third wave is SBDs.

SBDs are notoriously stealthy.

The first Fox knows of it is when a vibroblade sinks into his back up to the hilt.

Cody lets out a hoarse yell and twists, turning to fire at the SBD standing over them. The light in its eyes flickers and dies. The metal falls in a heap on Fox, only shoving the vibroblade in farther.

“This is bad, this is bad, this is bad,” Cody mumbles, frantically fumbling with the straps of Fox’s cuirass to get it off. “Sithspit.”

“Language,” Fox wheezes, in a poor imitation of Ponds’s reprimands.

“Don’t,” Cody snaps. “Not right now.” He gets the cuirass off and freezes. “It went straight through, Fox. No, don’t look.” He twists his wrist and speaks into his comm. “Fox is down. Whoever’s nearest, we need assistance immediately.”

“I’m not down,” Fox protests.

Cody doesn’t say anything, just scoops up snow from the ground and packs it as firmly as he can in his hands. He presses it against Fox’s chest. Even through his self-insulating blacks, it’s cold. And… osik, he’s starting to feel this vibroblade now. Cody’s right. It went straight through his back and the tip came out the front. That’s not good. That’s very not good.

***

He’s told later that the simulation lasts three days. By the end of it, only Cody and Ponds are still able to walk. Fox’s own memories are hazy and scattered. He remembers distinctly drifting back to awareness at some point—it must be nearly the end of the simulation—and lying in the snow flat on his back, aware that there are other bodies scattered around him. Also aware that this might be the last time he ever wakes up. Someone is cursing the longnecks. That must be Wolffe. Someone else—it sounds like Rex—is nearly whimpering in pain while someone else—Bly?—whispers encouragements. He can see, hazily, the shapes of Cody and Ponds where they’re crouched together conferring over something. It looks like Keeli and Monnk are with them, propped up against something and adding comments. Fox is fiercely cold. His blacks’ insulating system is probably dead at this point. The holographic sky is gray with incoming clouds, which means it’ll probably be a blizzard again within an hour.

His next solid memory is waking up in the medbay. Ponds is sitting just to his right.

Fox sits up in a panic, hand going to where the vibroblade came through his chest. “What—” He stares at Ponds for a half a second. Then he scans the rest of the medbay. Yes, they’re here—all of the 38^th is here.

“It’s okay,” Ponds says. “Calm down. We’re all here.”

“We’re okay,” Fox says, voice shaking. “We’re okay, we’re okay, we’re okay–”

“Udesii, vod’ika.”

“How…?”

Ponds shakes his head. “You don’t want to know about what happened.”

“I do.”

“You don’t,” Ponds tells him firmly. “Next time isn’t going to be like that.”

“I didn’t think there was going to be a next time.”

“We’ve got good DNA, vod. There’ll always be a next time.”

***

23 BBY, 1 year before the War

Always a next time. Always another day. Always another chance to prove that they’re the best. And they do prove that they’re the best, over and over and over. They grow from gangly seven-year-olds to still-gangly eight-year-olds. They only start broadening out after that. Fox wants to know if the same thing happened to the Prime.

At eight, they’re given their assignments and their ranks.

Fox doesn’t even realize at first, because he’s in interrogation training late that day. He drags himself back into the barracks, aching and exhausted. He’ll have bruises the next day, that’s for sure.

The barracks is almost empty. It shouldn't be empty, not at this time of day. He heads for his bunk and swings up into it, grabbing for his datapad. The screen is full of notifications. The top one is marked with the highest priority.

He taps on it, flopping back onto his bunk with a groan. Should his bones ache at eight years old? The Alphas say that growth spurts hurt when they’re accelerated. He’s been so tired lately too, and–

The notification on his screen is informing him that he’s been made a marshal commander.

A marshal commander.

What the kriff.

Fox swings himself upright and fumbles for the comm unit on the shelf next to his bunk. He thumbs in Wolffe’s code and waits. It’s only two buzzes before it connects.

“Wolffe. I–”

“Fox, I’m a commander,” Wolffe says. “I’m with the 104th right now.”

“The kriff. The others?”

“They’re assigned too. Did you get your assignment?”

“Lek.”

“What is it?”

“Marshal commander. Of the”--he checks–“591st.”

“Kriff… marshal commander. That’s dini’la, Fox.”

“Where is everyone?”

“With their newly assigned men, di’kut. You should be with yours. Hang on–I’m getting called. K’oyacyi.” He sounds like he means the last part literally as he cuts the call.

Fox stays where he is for approximately forty more seconds before he launches himself off his bunk and scrambles to collect his belongings.

***

The 591st has an osik’la organization that fascinates and horrifies Fox simultaneously. He has only two commanders, Thorn and Stone. The rest of the battalion is made up of platoons headed by lieutenants. There are no captains. Fox gets the sense–from what he can glean from the Kaminoan files he’s allowed to see–that the 591st was formed by pushing together shreds that weren’t used for other units. They’re good men, though, and he gets to know many of them over the next months.

Stone is slightly taller than Fox. He keeps his head shaved but wears his beard long enough that he can twist braids into the side. His shoulders have some of the Alpha broadness. When Fox asks, he explains that he’s one of the earliest clones after the Alphas, and so they hadn’t yet settled the final template. He’s calm in the face of fire, determined in whatever he starts, and never expects more than a bare minimum of resources to be given to him.

Thorn, on the other hand, reminds Fox somewhat of Wolffe. He has his hair and sideburns trimmed closely against his head, except for the top part, which he keeps long enough to be a ponytail when it’s not under his bucket. He has a series of jagged lines tattooed along his jaw that look like a Weequay’s, or maybe badly done fangs.

“What’s with the tattoo?” Fox asks him one day in the middle of a firefight during which Thorn abandoned his helmet to see his shots better.

Thorn shrugs, sniping off a B1 that didn’t need to be singled out. “I wanted a name.”

“What name?”

“Fang. It was a kriffing stupid name, honestly, because half the clones you meet are Fang these days. I don’t know what they’re putting in the cadet vats, but it’s rotting out their brains.” He snipes another unnecessary B1, then holsters his pistol in favor of the rotary canon at his feet. He starts spraying blasterfire across the B1s in their closer vicinity. “I had my batchmate tattoo my face one night. In the morning, they thought it was thorns, and all started calling me Thorn. I kept telling them that it was Fang for about all of three weeks, and then I gave up and just went with Thorn. Batchmates are vicious, eh?”

“You can say that again. Thire and Hound are about to be overrun. I’ll go from the left, you go from the right.”

***

22 BBY, 1 day before the War

Fox has commanded the 591st for a year when all the lights in the sim abruptly go off at the same time. The near-blinding rain that was cutting through them slows to a stop. The lights cut on again a few seconds later, but the sim is silent. The training droids that they’d been fighting are all powered down.

“What the kriff,” Thorn says, wading through fallen B1s to get to Fox’s side. Stone is scrambling down from the rocky outcropping he’d been leading his men over. “Did their power go out?”

“The Kaminoans are too good for that,” Hound says from where he’s standing nearby. He’s a lieutenant, but he keeps putting himself in places to hear the commanders’ conversations. Fox isn’t sure if he’s flattered or annoyed.

“Fair point,” Fox says. “They wouldn’t let their power just go out.”

A few seconds, the city-wide alarm klaxon starts going. The 591st is rapidly converging on the same point. Only a quarter of it is in this simulation, but there are still a thousand-odd men full of questions that Fox doesn’t have answers to.

“Stone,” he says into his comm. “Tell the other men not to do anything stupid. Keep them quiet while I go and find out what’s going on.” He turns to Thorn. “Keep them here. I don’t want to collect them from all across the simulation if we need to leave quickly.”

As Stone’s voice confirms his instructions over the comm and Thorn nods, Fox turns and sprints off across the marshy ground toward the door that they entered through.

As he does, he attempts to connect his comm to the channel that’ll let him speak to the Kaminoans running the simulation. It doesn’t go through.

The door is a klick and a half away. He reaches it breathing heavily and tests it. It’s shut and probably magnetically sealed as well. Fox steps back, gauging the distance up the wall to the observation decks. It’s not worth it, that’s for sure. Is this some trick from the Kaminoans? If so, that’s playing dirty. They know the 591st is up to anything that’s thrown against them. Fox isn’t an verd’ad anymore. They just have to figure out what’s going on and then–

The door unseals with a hiss. A cool Kaminoan voice echoes through the arena and through his bucket.

“This battle simulation has ended. Please return all gear to the armory and return to your barracks.”

“The kriff,” Fox mutters. This is getting more confusing by the second. Is Kamino under attack? Is that what the klaxon is for? He lifts his comm and speaks into it. “Thorn, Stone–gather the rest of the men and get them to the barracks. I’m going to go and find someone who can tell me what this is about.”

***

He doesn’t get time to find someone. He and all the other commanders get called to a mandatory assembly where they are informed that the war has begun. Questions of how and when and what war are muttered rather than spoken. And then Lama Su—Lama Su himself, who has called this meeting–tells them that Jedi have arrived to take them to their first battle.

“Jedi,” Wolffe hisses in his ear. “They have to be kidding.”

“They’re not, vod,” Fox mutters back. “Look.”

A tiny, gremlin-like creature is standing next to Lama Su. He’s green. Fox has seen a lot of different kinds of species–he’s had plenty of varied trainers over the years–but this one does not look like a fighter of any kind. Kriff it. What is he even doing here? Is he going to lead the clones into battle?

***

The answer is yes. But, not Fox and the 591st.

Other battalions are deployed. Wolffe, Ponds, Cody, and Gree are among those. Fox takes his men back to the barracks to keep them out of the way. The commanders’ chat is blowing up with messages from commanders across the army.

CC Updates (Official)

1900

CC-1003 (Bucket): I bet my first credits that the 104th comes back wearing Genoisian shells instead of their kits

CC-9832 (Tryit): my men are telling me they want to be deployed and won’t shut the kriff up yet

CC-0098 (Ooh): sorry vod. mine are doing the same

The constant pinging gets so annoying that Fox finally mutes that channel. Instead, he monitors the official channel that brings news from Geonosis. There are hundreds of vode dying there. Hundreds. He messages Wolffe to tell him to be careful, and Wolffe responds with a quick reassurance that yes, he’s still alive.

Geonosis is a Republic victory. As the news comes that they’ve beaten the Separatists—this is the first Fox has heard of “Separatists,” but it’s not hard to guess roughly what that means the war’s about—the 591st receives their deployment orders. To Coruscant. For a permanent positioning. Rather than being on the front lines, fighting the Separatists next to his brothers, Fox will be guarding the galaxy’s politicians while they talk.

He’s not sure what he’s done to deserve this.

Chapter Text

22 BBY, day 6 of the War, 2300 GST

Coruscant is an ecumenopolis. The city stretches around the entire planet. From orbit, the galaxy’s center of civilization looks like glowing circles and lines. Fox knows about Coruscant’s history from his classes on Kamino. How the city was built up from the ground and dug down into the ground simultaneously, so that there are now thousands of levels of city stacked on top of each other.

Every simulated deployment mission that Fox has ever been on involves being on an LA-AT. But this is a deployment to a civilian planet. They come in packed as tightly as they can into the ten shuttles they’ve been allotted.

“Does Soup mean to fly like that?” Thorn mutters to Fox.

“You mean like he wants to crash? I think so. We’ll be late if he doesn’t.”

“They don’t need to have a whole meeting.”

“Okay, vod, but they want it, and that’s what they’ve got.” Fox grabs for the seat back in front of him as Soup makes a particularly harsh turn to pull into one of Coruscant’s upper traffic lanes.

The meeting takes place in a building known as the Soh Center. According to Fox’s files on Coruscant, it’s where many of the Senators have secondary offices and meetings. Most of those take place in the Senate Building, but what goes on in the Soh Center is slightly less official.

The building itself is nothing like Fox has ever seen. The Senate Guards that are posted at the door look impassively at Fox, Thorn, and Stone as they come hurrying up the front steps.

“Their armor doesn’t look very high quality,” Stone observes through their helmet comms.

“That’s why we’re here,” Fox says. “Because the Republic doesn’t have anything they need to protect themselves.”

Thorn snorts. “I bet they wouldn’t want to hear that.”

“Probably not,” Stone agrees.

They arrive somewhat breathless outside of the door to the office that they’ve been sent to. They made the trip from Kamino in record time, just barely arriving on time. In fact, they’re a minute ahead of time. Fox is a little bit proud of that. But mostly he wants to know what’s going to be said that’s important enough to say at 2300 GST.

The door slides open automatically. That had better not be normal, because that's a security risk otherwise. Fox steps forward into the room, glancing around.

It feels like durasteel under the carpet, which means that the room is reinforced to some extent. Dark red couches curve in a semi-circle with a transparisteel table in the center. The ceiling is about fifteen feet up, with some kind of murals painted on… are those Mon Calan Renaissance like Monnk used to study? The real feature of the room is the people though.

Directly across from the door is a human man with a wrinkled face, beaked nose, and deep-set eyes. There's a blue sentient to his left and a pale white one to his right. Chagrian male and Umbaran female, Fox identifies automatically. Behind the couch the three of them are on are two Senate Guards, looking impassively forward from under their helmets.

And then the others. Kriff, there's a whole audience here. To the left, two human men, a human woman, and a male Ithorian, all of them in various official-looking uniforms. To the right, a massively fat blue Twi’lek, a human woman with short hair and a long white robe, the least pleasant Kaminoan Fox has ever met—and he’s met a lot, so that’s saying something—, a serious-looking human man, a nervously twitching Rodian, and a young Pantoran that smiles a little as Fox glances in her direction. Not that she can see his face. His bucket is firmly on and will be staying that way.

The human directly in front of him rises smoothly. Given the wrinkles on his face, Fox would have assumed that he moved like an old man. He approaches, extending his hand.

“You must be Marshal Commander Fox.”

“Yes, sir,” Fox says. This must be the Coruscanti version of a handshake, because the Mando version he learned involves grasping the arm rather than the hand. He awkwardly reaches out and shakes the man’s hand.

“I am Chancellor Palpatine,” the man says. “I have here my assistants, Mas Amedda and Sly Moore. These here are several people that you will be working with.” He indicates the people on the left. “And we are also honored with the presence of several senators.” His words are polite, but he doesn’t make it sound like he’s actually honored with their presence. “And are these your… assistants, Commander?”

“These are Commanders Thorn and Stone,” Fox says.

The Chancellor nods. “Very well. There are several topics of business that we must discuss in short order tonight.” He returns to his seat and directs his gaze toward the Umbaran. “If you will…?”

***

The Best Lieutenants Club (TAKE THAT)

2314

Hound: please tell me that someone has found out why this base is so kriffing cold

Flora: Unfortunately yes.

Flora: There’s an air conditioning unit.

Flora: It’s on.

Thire: can you turn it off?

Hangover: yES PLEASE

Hangover: WE ARE FREEZING HERE

Flora: It’s stuck on.

Hangover: wHYYYYYYY

***

22 BBY, day 7 of the War, 0230 GST

Thorn is muttering under his breath by the time they’re three steps out the door of the meeting room. He bursts into a full tirade on the internal comms as they start down the hall.

“They want us to run their city for them!”

“Run their planet for them,” Stone corrects tonelessly. “You know, because the entire planet is the city–”

“That’s even worse.” Thorn reaches up to take off his helmet, and freezes as Fox levels a look at him. He slowly lowers his hands. “What, it’s mandated buckets-on?”

“We don’t even know this place yet,” Fox mutters. “Wait until we get to the base.”

Thorn huffs. “How come you’re so calm about all this? Yes sir to the chancellor and no complaining or even a simple how the kriff do you expect us to do this?”

Fox shrugs. “It could be worse.”

It could be a lot worse. He’s been in enough sims to know that. Yeah, it might be hard for a bit, but they’ll figure it out the same as they did with training.

“They want us to do their paperwork,” Thorn hisses.

Fox chooses to ignore that comment. Thorn’s reaction is too much for him to deal with right now. He pauses halfway down the hall, tuning out Thorn and Stone’s continued conversation—Thorn is ranting and Stone is adding occasional commentary—while he checks over the messages from his lieutenants that have arrived at the base… well, hours ago, now. The meeting took far longer than Fox expected. His head aches. It’s not encouraging to see that one of the messages is Lieutenant Thire notifying him that an air conditioning unit has been stuck on and is currently flooding the base with freezing air. Just what they need.

The Chancellor and his aides weren’t much help, either. The Umbaran, Sly Moore, went down a full list of items that would be the responsibility of the 591st. There are prisons that need extra staffing and security. There are orbital bases that need backup on call. There are landing platforms to be secured and monitored. There are thousands of levels of city, increasing full of crime the lower they go, that need to be patrolled and corralled. Granted, they’re not expected to patrol the whole planet. There are police droids and more localized police forces across the planet that take care of a lot of the day-to-day crime and misdemeanors. The territory and responsibilities that the 591st has been assigned to cover are still massive. And as if patrolling part of a planet of quadrillions of beings wasn’t hard enough, the 591st has been put in charge of the security at the Senate Building, the Soh Center, and the political district in general. The Senate Guard will still function, but the Chancellor as good as said that they’re mostly decorative. The actual work is carried out by the police forces. And now, the 591st.

There’s precious little good news to go around right now. Fox thinks that if he had a cup of caf, that would probably be enough good news to cover them all for an hour or two. He just doesn’t know where to get a cup of caf.

He tunes back into Thorn and Stone’s conversation in time to hear Thorn telling Stone to stop calculating Coruscant’s population density out loud.

“--and I left Kamino to get away from math classes, mir’sheb. Save it for someone who cares.”

Stone has the grace not to look offended. “I’ll give you the report when I’m finished.”

“Thanks. Type it up and leave it on my desk so that I can ignore it, would you?”

“All right,” Fox interrupts. “We need to get back to the base and resolve whatever they’re getting themselves into there. We have until 0830 to start our patrols, so that gives us…”

“Six,” Stone supplies.

“. . . six hours, right, to get everything organized. Thorn, are you…?”

“Don’t look now,” Thorn says, “but those senators are all coming out of the meeting room. Are we disappearing or standing here like we belong?”

“We’re–” Fox starts.

His decision is made for him when one of the senators calls out to them.

“‘Commander Fox, could you spare a moment of your time?”

Fox turns to see who it is. It’s the human male. He’s taller than average clone height, wearing a blue robe that looks Alderaanian. His dark hair and beard are neatly trimmed. He comes along the corridor toward them. Three of the senators follow him. The obese blue Twi’lek and the sour-faced Kaminoan depart in the other direction, the Kaminoan’s long strides carrying her faster than the Twi’lek’s awkward waddle.

“Of course, sir,” Fox says automatically. “What can we do for you?”

“I wished to welcome you to Coruscant. This is your first time here?”

“Yes, sir. We’ve just been deployed from Kamino.”

“It’s a pleasure to have you here.” The senator sounds like he actually means it. Fox has never heard anyone sound pleased to see him except for the vode.

“We’re happy to serve, sir,” Fox says.

“I am Senator Bail Organa of Alderaan,” the senator introduces himself.

“He appreciates knowing what happens,” the human woman says with a smile. “That’s why he came here in the middle of the night.”

“So did you,” Senator Organa says with a slight smile. It’s an honest smile. Fox realizes that he’s never seen a Kaminoan smile honestly. If they can smile at all. Humans are a whole different story.

“I did come,” the human woman agrees. Her voice is gentle, but Fox is pretty sure she could sound commanding if she chose to. She tucks a loose strand of hair back behind her ear. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. Mon Mothma, of Chandilra. These are Senator Onaconda Farr of Rodia and Senator Riyo Chuchi of Pantora.”

The Rodian dips his head slightly. He’s no longer nervously twitching, but he doesn’t seem interested in talking. His outfit is made up of jarring colors that don’t seem to go with the skittish demeanor. All of the senators Fox has seen so far have had elaborate outfits, but less vibrant than Senator Farr’s.

On the other hand, Senator Chuchi smiles brightly and says, “It’s so good to see you. It must be quite different for you on Coruscant. How was your trip here?”

And there’s the personal connection trying to be formed. Non-vode never mean anything good by attempting to make friends with the clones. Fox has heard rumors of some of the trainers semi-adopting clones, but he’s skeptical as to how it’s actually gone. Alpha-17 says that some of the Nulls are like that. Nulls are a class to themselves, though, and the same rules do not apply to CCs or CTs. Senator Chuchi is an enigma for the moment. She seems genuine, but Fox has no reason to trust that she means good. Or any of the other senators, for that matter. But they weren’t asking questions about Fox’s opinions. Fox’s opinions are his own, and no one has any business with them.

“We’re happy to have arrived, ma’am,” Fox says.

The silence is awkward. None of the senators seem sure of how to interact with the clones’ helmets. Fair enough; it takes growing up under a bucket to learn how to communicate expressions through miniscule movements and head tilts.

“Well, we unfortunately have many things to attend to,” Senator Organa says. “With the war having started, there will be much to think and talk about in the coming days. We wish you the best of luck as you undertake your new roles.”

“Thank you, sir,” Fox says.

Thorn thankfully waits until the senators are well out of earshot before he starts.

“They treated us like humans, Fox.” There's a dull amazement in Thorn’s voice.

And he’s right. Kriffit, he’s right. The Kaminoans treated the clones like their experiments. The trainers treated them like they were idiots and barely human. That was the whole world on Kamino. But much as Thorn’s hopeful, Fox doesn’t allow himself to be so quick to trust. Yeah, they can deal with this, but that doesn’t mean he’s going to just take it without question. The Kaminoans knew how to lie. The senators are politicians. They’ll probably be the same.

Or maybe they won’t. There’s always the possibility that they won’t. Fox wants to believe that they were genuine, but he needs to meet more of them before it becomes a universal statement.

They head to the base through the early-morning light. Coruscant’s sun is rising above the horizon. The sky is turning yellow and orange. Fox has never seen a sunrise like this. He only saw a few on Kamino, and they weren’t like this.

He grins wryly under his bucket. It seems like an impossible task. But so have so many other things, and the 591st has always come out on top.

This’ll be no different.

***

Command Squad 38

0558

MCCodes: We’ve been assigned our general. Obi-wan Kenobi

MCCodes: I’m seriously impressed. He’s level-headed, for one thing, and not all the Jedi I’ve met these past few days are like that

MCCodes: Sorry @ Rex

CapRex501: Codes get out of this chat please

CapRex501: I have a general to murder and I can’t spare time arguing with you

MCBly: :(

MCBly: that bad?

CapRex501: YES

CapRex501: THE WAR HAS BEEN STARTED FOR SIX DAYS AND HE MANAGED TO LOSE HIS HAND

CapRex501: IN THE FIRST BATTLE

CapRex501: AT GEONOSIS

CapRex501: I AM NOT JOKING

CapRex501: I WISH I WAS

CapRex501: BUT I AM NOT

CapRex501: change the subject somebody he’s coming in here and I don’t want him reading the scrollback

MCBly: is everyone else good?

CommWolffe104: my general is the best sentient I have ever met, vode

CommWolffe104: he introduced himself to everyone and has given the officers all this food from different planets

CommWolffe104: @Fox how’s 000

BACARA: I don’t think he’s on right now?? It’s crazy early GST right now anyway

MCommFox: I am here

MCommFox: I’ve been working

CommWolffe104: AT 0600 GST FOX’IKA ARE YOU OKAY???

MCommFox: tired but we’re fine

MCommFox: don’t start with the fox’ika either

MCommFox: got to go

MCBly: take care of yourself vod :)

Chapter Text

22 BBY, day 7 of the War, 0248 GST

Lieutenant Thire seats himself at the chair behind the front desk and spins it carefully back and forth a few times. Everything that he’s seen so far in the base has been a little bit broken. The chair seems to be okay though.

“It’s good?” Hound asks carelessly from where he’s sitting nearby, scratching behind the ears (no, those are spines) of the massiff sitting next to him.

“It works,” Thire reports. He checks his comm. “Commander Fox says that they’re nearly back to the base. Do you… want to hide the massiff?”

“Are you kidding? She is my best friend now.”

“I thought I was your best friend.”

“You’re second now, vod’ika. I just need a name for her.”

“You don’t even have a name for her, and she’s your favorite now…”

“Don’t be offended. You don’t have spines down your back, and this lovely lady does.”

“You can’t just claim a massiff, Hound. That’s not how it works.”

“She was in the kennels and she needed a friend. That’s exactly how it works. Haven’t you paid attention to any of the Mando culture that the Alphas were always talking about? Mandos make friends, and we’re technically Mandos, so…”

“Technically, they adopt everything on sight.”

“Even better!” He drops his forehead to the massiff’s head (which makes the massiff’s back end move back and forth in clear happiness). “Who’s my best girl?”

“Hound, I–”

Thire’s advice is cut short by the doors sliding open to admit their three commanders. Thire immediately gets to his feet and salutes. Hound scrambles up a moment later, the massiff spilling off his lap and onto the floor. The three commanders pause at the door.

“What,” Commander Fox says, taking off his helmet, “is that?”

“A massiff, sir,” Hound replies cheerfully. “There are kennels on the base, and it appears that a group of massiffs has been living there. They might be former military, but they’re apparently abandoned now. This is the best one.”

Commander Fox appears to consider this for a second before shaking his head dismissively and combing a hand through his unruly curls. “We’re going to talk about that later. Remind me or something. Thire, what's the status with everyone here?”

“The air conditioning is stuck on, sir, and that’s the big issue we’ve been trying to fix,” Thire says. He's made a mental list of everything that needs to be said, and takes in a deep breath to begin. “We've taken stock of the rest of the base, though, and we've allotted barracks by platoon. The shower areas are in poor condition but functional. There's a hall of offices with furnishings that appear to have been left behind. The kitchen and mess areas seem functional but are unstocked. We do have supply shipments that Monkey Platoon is currently unloading. Also, the medbay is partially stocked, though we're waiting on two thirds of the total supplies that should be there. Pol is in there trying to get things straightened out.”

It's a lot. (There's always a lot when it comes to handing off information, which is why Thire works to make it concise.) The commander takes it all in silently, his mouth becoming a thinner line with each item on Thire’s list.

“Stars,” Commander Fox mutters when Third finishes. “All right. Thorn, Stone, we're going to take ten minutes to see what barracks we've got. Thire, have Monkey Platoon get the kitchens started for some breakfast, and alert the rest of the lieutenants that we're going to have an all-officers meeting in fifteen, in the mess. Hound, find a place for that massiff–and then go get some caf started.”

***

The lieutenants gather in the mess, and there are still some filtering in at the fifteen-minute mark. Thire seats himself at a table with the group of Lieutenants in what Hangover has long-since named the “Best Lieutenants Club.” (Thire would call it the Loudest Lieutenants Club, or the Jaro Club.) Hound has his massiff and is sitting halfway under the table so that she's not in view from the front of the mess. Vector, Flora, and Lor’vram are sitting on the table. They all look half-asleep. (Thire can’t blame them. He feels half-asleep himself.) Hangover is nudging Boomer as far as he can to try and push him off the bench, but Boomer’s locked his legs and is refusing to be moved. Thire takes his place, shooting a sympathetic smile at Boomer.

The other lieutenants are gathered across chairs and tables. Only a few buckets are in sight, and most of the troopers are in their blacks or missing half their armor. Usually, they’re fairly bursting with energy in meetings like this (Thire is pretty sure that he got the short end of Prime’s genes, because he almost never feels as energetic as the others), but today they’re quiet. There’s a shellshocked feel about the way they’re sitting.

Commander Fox looks alert enough, but that might be due to the cup of caf that Thire saw him refilling when he walked in. Commanders Thorn and Stone are slumped over the same table, both of them looking nearly drained. (Thire can’t blame them, either. Or any of the other troopers, for that matter. They’re all exhausted after this day. Night. Both.)

Commander Fox clears his throat. “All right, I’ll try to make this brief, because I know that everyone is ready to hit the racks.

“I was just at a meeting with the Chancellor and a few other officials. The Chancellor explained what our duties here on Coruscant will be.”

Thire’s trying to pay attention, but he’s been pretty sure for a minute that there’s a frantic but silent fight going on underneath the table. He glances underneath and sees that yes, Hound has completely tackled his massiff to the ground to keep her from escaping. The massiff is wriggling good-naturedly and nearly getting away.

“Need help?” Thire hisses.

“No,” Hound hisses back. The massiff makes another escape attempt and nearly manages it. “Yes!” Hound amends himself.

As the commander continues, Thire swings off the bench and underneath the table to help hold down the massiff. Who is… definitely going to be a handful.

“Our main duties will center here around Coruscant’s political district,” Commander Fox explains. “There are a couple of main areas that we’ll be focused on–the Senate Building, of course, and the Soh Center, where the senators often have meetings when they’re not at the Senate Building. There’s also the Millennia Building, which has general political offices. There are other buildings as well, but they’re too complicated to go over now. Either way, there’s a lot in this section.”

(The massiff licks Hound’s face, leaving her slobber everywhere. While he gags, she makes another escape attempt. Thire catches her around her front legs and hangs on grimly.)

“We’re in charge of the senators’ general safety as well. Most of them are housed in 500 Republica, which is not too far from the Senate Building. When they go off-world on diplomatic missions or to return to their home planets, we’re also in charge of the security for that.”

(Hound wipes the slobber off his face and grabs the massiff’s back end. He throws his full weight on her and lets out a relieved sigh.)

“We’re in charge of security for traffic going in and out of the political district as well. That means that each landing pad needs to be secured and guarded. Orbital traffic and outposts aren’t under our jurisdiction, but we’ll be on call in case something happens. The same goes for the planetary defenses. We’re not in charge, but we’ll be sending patrols occasionally. And we’ll be ready in case something happens.”

(“Don’t go anywhere—don’t go anywhere,” Hound whispers. “Good girl, good girl—I know you can do it. Just stay here.”)

“Likewise, there’s a lot of Coruscant that we won’t be directly involved with. There are more than five thousand levels of city. There are police droids and more localized police forces in most of that. Parts are unpoliced. We’ll just be responding to any major problems—major criminals, spice trade, smugglers, and so on. A lot of that paperwork will come through us too.”

(“She needs a name,” Hound whispers to Thire.)

“We’re going to run patrols with whatever spare time we have. We’ll focus on the areas that are generally problematic. Whatever those turn out to be.”

(“Not right now,” Thire whispers to Hound.)

“There’s also regular security for the planet that we need to keep up with. Like the prisons. We’ll be running shifts there. Anything vaguely terroristic is under our jurisdiction. Anything related to the war is under our jurisdiction. Anything political is under our jurisdiction.”

(The massiff has finally calmed down and settles her head on her front paws. Feet. Whatever they are.)

“That’s a lot to handle, I know, so we'll be dividing it up. Stone will be in charge of the senators. Thorn will take the prisons and political district. I'll be coordinating patrols, paperwork, and directions from our superiors. You'll still report to your commanders. Make sense?”

Thire joins in with the group’s “yes, sir.” The massiff gives a huge wriggle simultaneously. He adjusts his weight on her and whispers to Hound, “Why did you think this was a good idea?”

“She was lonely!”

Hangover sticks his head down under the table. “What are you two doing under there with that monster? Pipe down!”

Hound splutters. From somewhere, Vector says quietly, “Were you listening, Hangover?” That leaves Hangover spluttering as well. Thire rolls his eyes.

Commander Fox glances over his shoulder at the kitchens. “Flora, I think your platoon is burning something. That's everything we had to go over anyway. Dismissed.”

The commanders head out on their own. Flora swings off the table in pursuit of Monkey Platoon. Thire carefully gets off of the massiff and follows him into the kitchens to see if Monkey needs any help. As he does, Hound lets out a quiet exclamation that sounds despairing. Apparently, the massiff has finally managed to escape.

***

Fox has an office directly next to the commanders’ quarters. The place looks like it was abandoned in a hurry. He doesn’t know what this building was before. Frankly, he doesn’t care to know. There’s a desk, a ratty chair, an even rattier red couch, and several packing crates full of fragile pieces of flimsi so old that whatever was printed on them has faded. He seats himself at the desk, sighing in relief, and drops his helmet in front of him.

“Well that went well,” Stone says reasonably cheerfully, taking a seat on the couch.

Thorn sits down on the opposite end and props his boots on Stone’s lap. “If by ‘well’ you mean that none of the lieutenants tried to punch us in response to that news, I agree. Otherwise, this day has already been a mess. What time is it?”

“Too early,” Fox says. He checks the chronometer on his comm. “0715.”

“The sun’s coming up,” Thorn says darkly. “We have a lot of hours still where things can go wrong.”

“We have an hour and fifteen minutes until I want platoons out,” Fox says. “I want to get things organized before then. Thorn, get over to the prisons today and find out what they need. Check in with the orbital defense people as well and see what they need. Stone, check in with the senators and see if any of them need specific protection immediately or if anyone is planning to go off-planet in the next few days. I’ll see what I can do to set up the first patrol schedule and get everyone organized for that. We’ll be stretched tight until everyone can sleep after this night.”

“All right,” Stone says, mostly to himself. “Then I’d better get started.”

They have about fifteen minutes of relative quiet. Fox pulls up a holographic map of the political district of Coruscant. Then, sighing, he expands it to this whole section of Coruscant and begins plotting out experimental patrol routes. There are one hundred forty-eight platoons to work with here. It doesn’t feel like anywhere near enough. Each lieutenant will need to split up his squads on different, smaller routes in order to cover all the ground that Fox wants covered. He can assign sectors to each platoon. And if they can work out a system for partners patrolling, and then others can be called in if something happens…

He’s halfway through drafting official instructions when Thorn flings his datapad across the room. It hits a stack of flimsi and falls to the ground in a crash.

“Stars,” Stone says placidly from where he’s working on his own datapad. “What happened?”

“Nothing,” Thorn fairly snarls. “It’s just–why did they even give us this assignment? We’re good. We’re one of the best battalions there is. And they just sent us to a city planet. To guard people.”

“I’m the one arranging to guard people,” Stone says. “You’re just…”

“Securing landing platforms,” Thorn snaps. He scrambles up and goes to retrieve his datapad from where it’s fallen. “Look at this—a map of ever landing pad on Coruscant. Want to take a guess of how many there are?”

“No,” Fox says. He has no idea—it’s a lot, anyway—and an answer will just fuel Thorn’s rant.

“Neither do I,” Thorn says. “Because there’s not an official count. Not even every landing pad has been categorized or registered. There are random roofs where people land their ships, unregistered and unauthorized, and as if that isn’t enough, there are full lower levels where no one’s ever bothered to register a landing pad but that I’m sure people still fly into. Maybe they land in the streets, but I wouldn’t even know, because nobody keeps track of any of that.”

“Cool down, Prime’ad,” Stone says.

“We can’t fix everything,” Fox reasons. “It’ll be a process.” That’s what he’s telling himself, anyway.

“A process that’ll take years. There are all the odds against us and nothing going for us. Look at what a mess this planet is–”

“Thorn,” Fox interrupts. “I hate this as much as you, okay? It doesn’t make sense. It seems unreasonable and impossible. But we know that it’s not, because we always managed before. Give it two months, and then come back to me and let me know if you still hate it that much. Two months is a long time. We may have even wrapped up this whole war with the Separatists by then. Two months. Give it that long, then come and tell me again if it’s as bad.”

He doubts that the war will be over. But he’s pretty sure that they’ll have solved most of the problems they have right now. They’ll have new problems, probably. Stars, he hopes not. At least, if they do, they’ll have proved they can solve some problems.

“All right,” Thorn says flatly. “But I don’t think it’ll improve the way you’re thinking it will.”

Fox rolls his eyes and gets up and shoves Thorn back onto the couch, next to Stone. He drops down on Thorn’s other side.

“Are you trying to sleep this out?” Thorn grumbles. It doesn’t sound like he means it. He’s never yet turned down a sleep pile.

“Yes,” Fox tells him. “Get half an hour of sleep, and then we’ll get this day over with.”

“Fine,” Thorn mutters. He exhales deeply and is asleep the next second.

“Told you,” Fox tells Stone over Thorn’s head.

“You didn’t say a word,” Stone informs him.

“It was implied.”

“Nothing was implied.”

“He stopped complaining.”

“I must be sleeping, too, then, and dreaming, because I’ve never seen Thorn stop complaining so easily.”

***

Thire and Hound’s Chat (and GRIZZER)

0755

Thire:

should I take the name change of this group to mean that you’ve decided on a name for the massiff?

Hound:

YES

Thire:

. . . why?

Hound:

I DON’T KNOW

BECAUSE I LIKED IT

I mean why is your name Thire?

Thire:

okay fair

***

At 0915, Fox finally has time to go and check on Pol to see if he's all right in the med bay. He finds Pol directing several of the junior medics to put supplies in various places. He’s got his hair firmly pulled back from his face, the tiny ponytail swishing fiercely each time he turns his head.

“Pol,” Fox says from the doorway. “Am I allowed in here?”

Pol glances up from where he's sorting boxes alongside two other medics. “Yes, but you're not allowed to touch anything. What's up?”

Fox advances cautiously. It's not good to startle Pol, even if he knows Fox is there. He once approached Pol without saying anything and nearly got a scalpel in the eye.

“Just coming to see if everything’s all right,” Fox says. “You've got all the supply shipments?”

“Have you seen the delivery order queue?” Pol counters.

“Yeah, I saw the checklist. There should be three orders in this morning and one more tomorrow.”

“We have one of those orders, Fox. One. And a bunch of the items that should be in this one are missing.” Pol steps away from the boxes, saying over his shoulder, “Keep sorting, and tell me if you find the rest of the parts for that surgical droid.” He strides over to where Fox is standing and throws one hand in the air in exasperation. “We have allergy medications, Fox. Allergy medications. We don't have painkillers, we don't have bacta, we don't have half of one of our surgical droids–what good are two arms and a head going to do us if we're missing half of the internal workings? Tell me that.”

Fox shakes his head. “Is there any sort of delivery form for the missing orders?”

“No. Not a blasted thing. I've already sent two messages to the Coruscant Medical Center, where our shipments were supposed to come from. One is asking for where the missing orders are and one is asking why this order is missing so much of what should be in it.”

“Thanks for handling that. Let me know when they reply.”

“Technically, they already did. And they rerouted our supplies to the front lines.”

“The kriff?”

“Yeah. Because apparently we’re not going to need it, even though we’re going to have a whole bunch of osik headed in our direction starting today.”

“That’s absurd.”

“And that’s… not all.” Pol appears to lose steam. “Fox… I figured this was just the longnecks with their typical osik. But apparently not even the officials recognize us as human.”

“I’m sorry?” Fox holds up his hand-–which, granted, is in a glove and armor. “What are we, then?”

“Sorry—not sentient.”

“Excuse me.”

“Yeah, that’s what I said when I saw it, too.”

“The kriff? Humans are sentient.”

“We’re human clones, though, and apparently that makes all the difference. I know, I know–we breathe, we think, we fight, we live just like the Prime did–and they haven’t decided that Mandalorians aren’t sentients just due to how they wear armor and don’t like everyone they meet. They’re fine with the Mandos. But just because we all have the same face, we don’t count as sentients.”

“We don’t all have the same face. Your eyes are kriffing green—how is that not a dead giveaway that we’re different people? We’re clearly not a hivemind.”

“But it’s easier for them to think of us as non-sentient.”

“That doesn’t make any sense.”

“Of course it does, though,” Pol says. He grabs a set of sheets and starts making one of the beds with a vengeance. Fox has never seen him angry and still at the same time. Pol continues, voice getting progressively shakier. “Because they have to watch us fight their war. They already saw part of it on Geonosis. They’ve seen how many lives will be on their hands. And how are they supposed to justify sending what’s essentially an entire civilization to fight their war on every front? The only way they can do it is if they tell themselves that we’re not sentient. That we can’t… you know… feel it.”

“They think we don’t feel pain?” Fox hands him the flat sheet.

“How am I supposed to know that? I haven’t asked one of them. Ka’ra, Fox, I’m just making guesses. But my guess is that they know perfectly well that we can feel pain. Plants can feel pain. Animals can feel pain. It’s just that they’re not putting us on the… the cognitive level that a sentient would have.”

“That’s di’kutla.”

“You’re telling me.”

“How did you find this out?”

Pol accepts the faded and worn quilt that Fox hands him. “Because when they sent back an auto-reply message about supplies being sent to the front lines, I went and contacted them directly. This was half an hour ago. And whoever answered the call was going on about asking what group of sentients was in need of supplies. I told him, clones from the 591st that just got assigned to Coruscant. He said that because we’re clones, we’re not on the approved registry to reroute supply orders. We have to be sentient to do that.”

“What the kriff. So they have plants calling them asking about rerouting supplies?”

“You’d think the fact that I was calling at all would be a dead giveaway. But nope, it’s not, because everyone on this planet is sharing the same mirsh.”

“We can work through that,” Fox says, shaking his head. There’s getting to be a lot of problems on that list. “I’ll add it to the list. Keep trying, would you?”

“Trust me, I’ve got that on my list. It’s just that I’ve got to get this med bay organized with what we do have before I can worry about getting our sentience straightened out. In the meantime, use your sentience to convince the Chancellor or someone that we could use some bacta.”

***

Thire hesitates before he knocks on the door of Commander Fox’s office. (Is it out of line to knock on his CO’s door when there’s clearly a lot going on? But Thire has something to offer, and this isn’t just a random stop.) Then he shrugs off the doubt and knocks.

“If you’re Thorn, go away,” the commander calls. “Otherwise, come in.”

Thire opens the door. (He’s not sure why Thorn is banned, but the commander doesn’t sound irritated, anyway.) The office beyond is chaotic, filled with flimsi and boxes. The commander is sitting on his desk (on the desk, not in the chair that’s there), surrounded by pieces of flimsi that are covered in illegible scratches.

“Lieutenant Thire,” the commander says. He seems somewhat relieved. (Thire’s not sure if that’s his imagination or not.) “What’s up?”

“I brought caf,” Thire says, offering him the mug.

The commander accepts it with a rueful grin. “Are you angling for a promotion, Thire?”

“No, sir, not at the moment. I actually came to offer my help with anything that needs to be done.”

“Huh. Didn’t I put you on the schedule for patrols today?”

“Yes, sir. For an afternoon patrol in the political district.”

“What kind of help are you offering, then? And why aren’t you getting some sleep before your patrol?”

Thire shrugs. (He’s not bothered by missing some sleep. Neither is Commander Fox, apparently, because he’s been awake as long as Thire—and probably longer.) “I’m not tired right now, sir. I’ll sleep tonight. I just wanted to know if there’s anything I can do with organization, or to get the base into order.”

“That’s a kind offer, Thire.” The commander sets down his pen. “You know, in command training, they used to lecture us about what to look for in a lieutenant. Half of their advice was osik’la. Turns out that natborns aren’t always as great as they think they are. But we all know that. Anyway, long story short, the good advice was to look for someone who always wants to do more. The kind of person who’ll come and ask for the next assignment instead of waiting to be given it.” He eyes Thire sideways. “That’s a compliment.”

“Thank you, sir. I… think I knew that.” The commander gives him another sideways look, so he adds, “I wasn’t sure if that was leading into further instructions, or if it was going to be a longer story. I guess I’ve got a bunch to learn still.”

The commander shrugs. “I haven’t been able to work with all of you lieutenants as much as I would have liked to. You’re one of the lieutenants that doesn’t need checking up on every fifteen minutes. Thank ka’ra for that. There are too few of you like that. But that means I haven’t worked with you closely that many times. Am I remembering that right?”

“Yes, sir. A couple of times, maybe.”

“I should do that more,” the commander says, returning his attention to a piece of flimsi. “What’s Hound doing with those abominations he found, by the way?”

“Massiffs, sir. He’s trying to convince the other lieutenants that his favorite—he’s named her Grizzer—should be allowed to sleep in the barracks. He’s currently arranging for his platoon to bring the massiffs food and water and to start walking them as well.”

The commander looks up with an unreadable expression. “Well, at least the massiffs will be all right. Tell Hound that they should stay out of the barracks, though.”

“Thank you, sir. Several of the lieutenants will be very relieved.”

“You as well?”

Thire grins. “Yes, sir. I wasn’t looking forward to that.”

“But you weren’t going to tell Hound it’s against regulation to have military animals in the barracks?”

(Stars, Thire’s not sure what to think about that question. The commander doesn’t sound angry, but he’s still looking at Thire, like he’s waiting for him to make a choice. Except that Thire’s not quite sure what that choice is.)

“I mentioned something about that to him, sir,” Thire says after a too-long pause. “But Hound is also a lieutenant, so I don’t actually have authority to make him comply.”

“Yeah, I get that.” The commander swings his legs over the side of the desk, tapping the heels of his boots against the side. (He looks relaxed, honestly.) “Have a seat, why don’t you? Just… yeah, shove that out of the way. I haven’t tested that couch yet. The springs are okay? Okay, good. So… I understand where you’re coming from, about Hound being a lieutenant as well. I used to be in situations like that myself, when I was in a command squad. Granted, I usually was doing the dumb stuff right along with my squadmates. But… you know where this is going, right? From officer training?”

Thire nods. “Yes, sir. My instructor said that you should deal with anything as it comes up, even if it’s with a peer or a superior. I mean, if it’s a superior, that’s something to deal with not in public. And I agree with that—I do. It’s just… I haven’t often had a chance to put it to use.”

“Still figuring it out, eh?” Commander Fox gives a rueful smile again. “How old are you, anyway?”

“Eight, sir. I’ll be eight-and-a-half in a few months.”

The commander whistles. “They send you to officer training young.”

“Yes, sir, they do.”

The commander nods, but his attention is drifting. He glances down at his comm. (Thire’s pretty sure that he’s been ignoring the incoming messages for the past few minutes. But… he’s been ignoring these messages to talk to Thire. That’s got to mean something. He actually cares. He must.) Then he looks back up at Thire. “I’ve got a meeting that I’ve got to get to. I appreciate what you’ve been doing, okay? Keep it up.” With that, he grabs his helmet and leaves.

Thire stands up from the couch slowly and returns to the barracks. The commander’s right. He should get some sleep. He’s crawled into his bunk and is half asleep when he realizes that the commander never actually told him whether or not there was something he could do to help.

Chapter Text

22 BBY, day 7 of the War, 0930 GST

Thorn has no interest whatsoever in sitting around on base and trying to organize things. He leaves for the Coruscant prisons at the same time that the first patrols of the day leave. There, he meets the head of the prisons–a brawny Zabrak with a thick accent that scowls at Thorn during their entire conversation. Thorn’s definitely not good at small talk like Fox, or good at personal relations like some of the lieutenants, and in fact, he’s pretty bad at any kind of conversation that doesn’t involve insults or sarcasm. He gets the sense, though, that the Zabrak wouldn’t appreciate knowing his face looks like an overripe meiloorun.

Thorn bites his tongue for most of the time the Zabrak talks, and he even makes an effort to remember what the Zabrak says. Fox should be proud of him for doing that much. Oh, and the Zabrak’s name turns out to be Mawler Uunkazzir. That part requires Thorn turning on his in-helmet comms so that he can guffaw without getting the Zabrak’s fist through his visor.

Uunkazzir finally finishes, after informing Thorn that he wants clone troopers in to boost the prisons’ security the next day. Thorn leaves muttering under his breath curses about Uunkazzir and his entire family for good measure.

His next stop is the orbital defenses, where he meets the orange Twi’lek woman who coordinates the system. At least, he’s pretty sure she’s a Twi’lek, because the majority of her lekku are missing. She doesn’t bother to cover that, and her jumpsuit is covered in smears of oil, so Thorn gets the distinct impression that she doesn’t care what anyone thinks about her appearance–or her personality–anymore.

“Commander Thorn?” she asks curtly as he arrives. “I’m Major Dido Nydiil. We need troops in reserve if something goes wrong, and we need about fifty extra men on a daily basis to staff some of the stations here, starting day after tomorrow at the latest.”

Well, at least she doesn’t go on for half an hour like Uunkazzir did. Thorn is annoyed on principle, but he doesn’t go away cursing under his breath this time.

With the contact information and the instructions that he was tasked with getting, Thorn returns to the base. Stone and Fox aren’t there, but at least they left messages in the commanders’ chat.

Stone: I’m going to meet with senators

Stone: I’ll be at Senate Building/Soh Center/500 Republica

Stone: Or somewhere else if the senators I’m looking for aren’t those places

Fox: leaving to meet with whoever runs the Senate Guard

Stone: where?

Fox: somewhere in the Soh Center

Fox: I don’t even know who it is

Fox: haven’t had a chance to look yet

Fox: okay it seems to be a human named Bennor. he looks stupid in this picture. wish me luck

Thorn settles down by himself in Fox’s office to start working on organizing his own schedule. Except that whatever he decides will also be reliant on the patrol schedule that Fox is working on. He finds a stack of flimsi on Fox’s desk, both sides of each page filled with scrawled notes and ideas to arrange patrols. Aside from the fact that Fox has terrible handwriting—is that a cherek, a krill, or a shen?—, Thorn can’t figure out what the goal is, so he’ll just have to ask Fox when he gets back.

There is no way Thorn is just going to stay on base while he waits for Fox to finish.

That’s how he winds up in Coruscant’s political district, walking the streets by himself.

He gets weird looks. A lot of weird looks. It seems pretty unjustified, in Thorn’s opinion, because there are people everywhere wearing full or partial armor. There’s a Mando over there who must be part of the Way, because he’s wearing a full kit and has his helmet firmly on at midday in the sun. There’s a shopkeeper wearing upper-body armor, a Trandoshan in protective gear, and a Torgrutan woman wearing what looks like cast-off Senate Guard armor, among others. So Thorn’s kit and bucket shouldn’t be weird to them—but for some reason, they are, and he’s not sure if it’s because they’ve seen other clones already today, or if it’s because of the armor design, or maybe because of the wings painted on his helmet, which don’t seem to be a crest that anybody else is wearing. Well, so he’s just another sentient going about his day, and there’s no reason for the strange looks.

No reason, sure, but they’re still giving him those looks, and he wants to know why.

He does pass one of the patrols—Hangover’s platoon, White Wings—on his way towards the Senate Building. They exchange nods as they pass, and Thorn continues on toward the Senate Building.

Huh. That’s interesting.

Thorn’s done a lot of simulations. Most of them have been centered around battlefield situations since he was, after all, designed for the battlefield rather than the city. He’s done some city simulations, and some that specifically include large masses of civilians, but not enough to be completely sure. The patterns he’s seeing though seem hard to miss, though.

It looks like a forming protest that could turn into a riot at a moment’s notice.

He opens the general lieutenant comm line and speaks into it. “I’m just down the street from the Soh Center. Who’s within a klick of me?”

“I am, sir,” Thire’s voice says.

“We’re a klick out,” Hangover says.

“Two minutes north of your position,” Verd adds. “We just passed another platoon a minute ago.”

“That’s us,” Naak says. “We’re a bit more than a block away, just about to head farther north.”

“I’ve got a potential riot forming,” Thorn says. “A protest for sure. Hangover, get your platoon over to the Senate Building for backup. Verd, head down from the north. Naak, loop around and come in from the west. Thire, come in from the south. Do crowd control and make sure that nobody tries to start anything stupid.”

They confirm his orders, but Thorn’s not paying that much attention. He heads on toward the Senate Building, eyeing the people of all different races and ages making their way towards the Senate Building. By the time he’s passed the Soh Center, he can hear yelling. Kriffit.

“Who’s on patrol in the Senate Building?” Thorn snaps into the comm line, starting into a run.

“Orar here. I’ve got the Rotunda and hallways surrounding it.”

“Chase speaking. I have the offices and other hallways.”

“Skid has the exterior.”

“Skid, get your men ready,” Thorn orders. “We’ve got a riot forming. Orar, tighten security in the Rotunda. Chase, nobody goes in or out without your permission. Got it?”

He’s able to see the riot now. That’s definitely a kriffing riot if he’s ever seen one—not that he has, but he’s seen enough food fights in the mess on Kamino, and he knows that a riot is likely to involve less food and more anger. Kriffing, kriffing blazes. This is his problem now, for some reason, and Fox had better not even think about getting involved. Not on Thorn’s watch.

***

“Thorn,” Fox says as evenly as he can, “why did you not tell me that you’re in the middle of breaking up a riot?” He’d like to say a lot more than that, but he figures that Thorn doesn’t need Fox snapping at him as well as everything else happening.

“Because it wasn’t relevant,” Thorn says shortly. “Yes, Skid, move them forward. Fox, I’ve got it handled, okay?”

“Like kriff you do. I can hear the noise from here.”

“Fox. I’ve got this.”

“I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

“Fox, are you listening to me? I’ve got this. I’ve got seven platoons. That’s more than enough to deal with–watch out, Hound, and kriffing stop them–this. Okay?”

Fox cuts the comm call, rolling his eyes. There is definitely such a thing as taking independence so far. Fox isn’t about to let Thorn deal with their first riot with no back-up.

***

Thire doesn’t like crowds of people, especially when he can feel the anger pouring off them. (It’s hard to tell what the anger is directed at–the inhabitants of the Senate Building, or the clones trying to stop the rioters from getting to the Senate Building.) He leads his platoon up from the south, according to Thorn’s directions, and encounters the first parts of the riot a block away from the Senate Building.

“Orders, sir?” Thire asks into his comm. “Do you want us to disperse the crowd or calm them?”

“Get them out of here,” Thorn snaps. “The second they see they have any traction here, they’ll have the rest of Coruscant as their back-up. Get rid of this crowd as fast as you can.”

Thire instinctively calls out orders to his men, splitting them up into pairs. His sergeants will know what to do and where to send the men. Thire himself winds up with Cred—his platoon’s medic—and Sammy.

The crowd is a strange thing. It’s like it moves on its own, growing and swallowing anything in its path. In the time it takes for Thire to split up his men, the crowd has engulfed them. He finds himself accidentally walking into a hulking Devaronian, who growls at Thire as he rebounds.

(Thire’s natural impulse is to apologize, but the Devaronian is a rioter, and so shouldn’t get an apology. Stars, that feels wrong though.)

“Kriff off, Mando,” the Devaronian growls.

“Not a Mandalorian,” Thire says. “I’m a lieutenant in the GAR–”

“I don’t care–”

“--and you are unauthorized to be protesting here. This protest is being disbanded effective immediately. Please remove yourself from this area.”

“I don’t have to listen to you,” the Devaronian says, still in a growl. (Thire’s pretty sure that’s his natural voice.)

Thire’s about to respond (firmly, because officer training is kicking in even though he feels like he’s not properly there) when a hand lands on his shoulder. He spins to see a female Twi’lek. (Pink.)

“What are you?” she asks cheerfully. There’s a too-wide smile on her face. She seems too happy about this protest.

“A clone,” Thire says stiffly, twisting away from her.

There’s another Twi’lek behind her. (Blue.) The second Twi’lek squeals and grabs the pink one’s arm. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

“I think I met my soulmate,” the pink one tells her, still beaming.

“I think they’re harmless?” Sammy says on the in-helmet comms.

They do seem to be harmless (though Thire’s not sure what a soulmate is). On the other hand, the Devaronian is still growling under his breath, and there’s a trio of drunk Weequays staggering into Cred and Sammy. The two of them are occupied with keeping the Weequays upright, and trying to steer them out of the crowd.

Thire turns his attention back to the Devaronian, ignoring the two Twi’lek girls. He’s just in time to duck a punch that goes wild. He straightens, bringing his fist up sharply into the Devaronian’s stomach.

“What are you doing?” someone screeches shrilly from nearby. Someone else is yelling something else that Thire can’t catch.

The Devaronian is stunned for a moment, but not enough for Thire to get his blaster out of its holster. Instead of going for Thire, he lunges for Cred and Sammy.

“Watch out–” Thire starts.

Cred is still occupied with trying to keep two Weequays from crushing Sammy under their weight; he’s entirely unprepared for a massive furious Devaronian to grab his helmet and wrench it off. He drops the Weequays (Sammy goes down) and starts to turn.

“Cred!” Thire shouts, but too late. The Devaronian delivers two quick blows to Cred’s face, dropping him on top of the Weequays and Sammy. Thire hears Sammy groan under the increased weight. Stars, this is not going well.

Thire’s blaster is free now, though. It’s already set to stun. He pulls the trigger twice, bringing down the Devaronian. He tries to turn to stop whoever’s yelling but can’t; the two Twi’leks have caught him either arm.

“Why do they wear helmets?” the pink Twi’lek asks.

“To be mysterious,” the blue one says. “I have to find my own soulmate now.”

Thire twists away and—stars, one of the Weequays is staggering drunkenly toward him while four more Devaronians (who look uncomfortably like the one he just stunned) approach. Thire attempts to stun them; his aim goes off-course as the pink Twi’lek makes another grab for him.

“Thire!” Thorn’s voice snaps over the comms. “What’s going on in your sector?”

“Just a minute, sir,” Thire grits out. “Uh, sorry.”

The Devaronians are shouting at him, demanding to know why he stunned their friend. The Twi’leks are clamoring as well, and Thire’s trying not to listen to them. There are others crowding around as well, of all different species, getting far too close for his comfort. And Sammy is still buried underneath Cred and two Weequays so drunk that they can’t stand.

“Stop!” Thire shouts, ripping off his helmet.

There’s a momentary lull. The pink Twi’lek whispers to the blue one, “I thought all clones would look alike.” (And yes, Thire’s uncut blond hair is definitely going everywhere now.) The Devaronians pause where they are. The standing Weequay stumbles into a passing Iktochi, who shoves him in Thire’s direction; Thire sidesteps and lets the Weequay crash to the ground.

“We’re just breaking up this riot,” Thire says. He gestures toward the Senate Building. “We’re keeping the senators safe. Leave and go back to whatever you’re doing, and this’ll all be cleared up.”

There are maybe three seconds where Thire believes that he got through to them. (Talking almost always does, but Coruscant is a strange place.)

Then the three seconds are over, and the largest of the Devaronians (he’s head and shoulders taller than Thire) lunges forward with his fist swinging through the air, and Thire doesn’t remember hitting the street.

***

“Lieutenant Thire, come in–kriffit.” Thorn cuts the comm line and switches to one for all of Nocturne Platoon. “Who else is here, for kriff’s sake? I don’t know what happened to Thire. Somebody get me eyes on him.”

“I don’t know, sir!” one of Thire’s sergeants calls. “The crowd is–argh, get off–insane here.”

Thorn curses in at least three different languages as he cuts that comm as well and switches back to the general officers’ comm. “I need backup in the south portion of the crowd. I think Thire’s down.”

“Coming in hot,” Fox’s voice says grimly.

Another comm switch, and Thorn’s on a private comm line with Fox. “I thought I told you–”

“I didn’t listen.”

“Ne’jehaat.”

“I’m getting Thire. Don’t bother thanking me.” 

“Don’t worry, I won’t.”

This isn’t helped by the fact that Fox’s voice sounds way too calm and firm about this, and it makes Thorn want to stalk through the crowd to inform him face-to-face that Thorn has this handled–except that there’s no way to get there, so technically he doesn’t have it handled, and this is all turning into a massive mess way too fast. Kriff it all.

***

Fox moves grimly through the crowd of people, stunning nearly every other person. They’re all shouting, nearly ready to explode into full violence. Behind him, Hound’s platoon is following. Hound shouts orders, and his men effectively split up the crowd. Thire’s men are scattered throughout the crowd as well, elbowing through to get to the loudest people and remove them. Slowly but surely, this corner of the riot is being subdued.

And Fox is only twenty feet away from the location indicator on Thire’s comm.

He ducks underneath a besalisk, steps over a fallen Ugnaught, and finally reaches the absolute chaos that is Thire’s location.

A Weequay is drunkenly staggering in circles while two Twi’lek girls giggle and point at him. They’re attracting the attention of more young Twi’leks around them. Kriffit. There are a whole bunch of Devaronians, all of them scowling. One of them is lying on the street. So are two of Thire’s troopers. One is struggling to get out from under a fallen Weequay, and the other is sprawled on top of the Weequay.

And Fox’s… well, Thire’s still his favorite lieutenant, he acknowledges grudgingly. Even if Thire has definitely gotten himself in trouble this time. Kriffit, because his favorite lieutenant’s slack body is being supported between two Devaronians as a third punches him in the face.

“Back the kriff off,” Fox roars, loading the punching Devaronian full of stun shots. 

The two supporting Thire promptly drop him and take steps backwards. Thire falls in a boneless heap to the street, his face a bloody mess. His helmet is discarded on the ground and his holsters are empty. What even happened here? Fox stuns about half of the remaining Devaronians while Hound and a few of his men deal with the rest, rapidly stunning them or tackling them. In a matter of less than a minute, the riot in this corner has been subdued.

“Osik,” Hound says, stepping through the bodies toward Thire. “Thir’ika, you good?”

“Clearly not,” Fox says. Almost to his surprise, his voice is still a growl. “Get his men out from under those drunks.”

Hound steps over and does so, freeing the one who’s still buried under three bodies. As he does, Fox steps over to Thire, drops to one knee, and tentatively taps his shoulder. No response. Not that Fox expected one. Blood is trickling sluggishly from Thire’s nose and flowing more freely from the shallow cuts across his forehead and jaw. There’s blood congealing in his lose curls as well… and why is his helmet off? Did those kriffing Devaronians take it from him before or after beating him senseless?

“Oh stars,” says Thire’s trooper, making his way towards them. “Commander Fox, is he…?”

“Where’s your medic, Hound?” Fox demands.

Hound shrugs. “Not sure. Thire’s medic’s right here, though. Waking up a bit.”

“What’s his name?” Fox says, getting to his feet.

“Cred,” Hound says.

“Cred,” Fox says, grabbing the trooper’s shoulder. His helmet’s missing as well. “Wake up, vod. We need you.”

Cred’s eyes are half-open and hazy, but he blinks them fully open as Fox speaks. “Commander? Is… what…?” He accepts Fox’s hand to help him sit up. His eyes lock on Thire. “Oh… stars. Commander… what do my eyes look like?”

Fox stares at him. “What the kriff? You’re a clone.”

Cred shrugs helplessly. “Are they… the same size?”

Oh. Sithspit, Fox isn’t thinking straight. Again. “Mostly. Are you okay, able to see if Thire’s okay?”

“Yep.” Cred inhales through his nose. He tries to stand and resorts to crawling to Thire. “Um… Thire? Are you okay?”

***

“Thorn, what’s the update?” Fox asks in Thorn’s ear.

Thorn scowls. Of course Fox is going to ask him for an update after coming all the way out here himself. Ka’ra, Thorn would snap back something completely unprofessional if he hadn’t agreed to give this whole osik’la assignment… however long it was… to work itself out.

“It’s fine,” Thorn says stiffly. “Slow going.”

“The Senate Building?”

“Fine. What’s the status on Thire?”

“Down. His medic’s trying to get him to wake up. Fox out.”

Thorn rolls his eyes and is about to turn his attention back to the Senate Building when Stone’s voice comes through the comm.

“I’ve been listening. Sounds like you’re having a great time out there?”

“It’s a regular party out here. Please tell me you’ve fixed the air conditioning on base, because I’m going to start my own riot if I have to sleep in freezing air.”

***

Fox crouches down beside Cred where he’s kneeling above Thire. Cred doesn’t look up. How long has he been working here? Too long. Thire’s eyes are still closed and his face is even bloodier. If that’s possible. Fox brushes Thire’s curls out of his face. It doesn’t do much, but at least it makes him feel better.

“He’s concussed,” Cred says, eyes not budging from his scanner. “Probably brain damage of some kind as well… I’m having trouble reading this.” He shrugs ruefully. “I’m concussed, too, I think. Can you…?”

He holds the scanner out toward Fox. Fox takes it. “Brain damage, rating 4, non-lethal, and no long-term consequences if he can be put in bacta.”

Cred nods. He shakes Thire’s shoulder. “Come on, Lieutenant… I just need to know you’re okay.” He looks up toward Fox. “Could you…?”

Fox barks, “Lieutenant Thire.”

Thire’s eyes half-open. He moves his jaw slowly, then slurs, “Cred?”

“Thank goodness,” Cred says quietly.

“Are… r’you’kay?”

“Yeah.”

“‘Kay.” Thire’s eyes close again. “I… it was a bad ‘dea. I thought may I cd’cn’vnce ‘em not t’do anything t’you. ‘Cause we’re’umans too an’ all.”

Fox is mostly concerned by Thire’s quiet mumbling. Then he realizes what Thire said. He tried to convince these rioters not hurt people by proving that clones were human… how? Oh. Kriffit, Thire’s helmet is still lying over there. Because he abandoned it. He gave up his protection for a stupid plan that didn’t even work. It doesn’t matter to these people whether they’re humans or not. These people just hate them because they’re breaking up the riot.

“Do you mean to tell me, Lieutenant,” Fox says, “that you took your helmet off on purpose?”

Thire’s eyes snap open fully. “Commander. I–” He tries to sit up and pauses halfway, eyes starting to roll up. Cred catches him and forces him back down. His chest is rising and falling heavily with painful breaths. His eyes are half-open and face twisted.

“Never mind,” Fox mutters. “We’ll talk about it once we’re on base. And once you’ve gotten some bacta.”

***

“Commander,” Thire mumbles when he opens his eyes to see Commander Fox sitting next to him. “I’m sorry, sir. I shouldn’t have… you know. Done that with the helmet and all.”

“You shouldn’t have,” the commander agrees. He’s sitting nearby, one ankle propped up on the opposite knee, and he has three datapads scattered around him. “Good motives, but terrible execution. How’re you feeling? Do you remember being brought here?”

Thire shakes his head slowly. It aches, and his face still feels like fragile bone and gashed skin. (Which… it probably is right now.)

“No, sir. I don’t remember. Is Cred okay? Where is he?”

“Cred is fine. Sleeping off a concussion, because at least he had the good sense to attempt to keep his helmet on.”

“I’m sorry, sir.”

“Yeah, I know. Will feeling guilty keep you from doing that again?”

“I already feel guilty, sir. It was a bad idea.”

“Yeah, yeah. Okay.” The commander takes a deep breath. “We used to talk, in command training, about how an officer should position himself with his troops. Some people say that the officer should be the first into the fight and the last one out of it. But if that’s the case, you make it more likely for your men to lose you. You have to make a choice–are you going to lead from the front, by example, or are you going to lead from the back, by support?”

“Is that a question, sir?”

“Not one to answer out loud. Unless you want to.”

“What… what do you think, sir?”

The commander eyes him. “You want a hard-and-fast answer?”

“Is there one, sir?”

“No.”

Thire shrugs and offers the commander a half-smile. “I figured.”

“You have to figure that out for yourself, in whatever situation you’re in. Right now, defense is better. In general. We’re still getting our feet under us in this city.” The commander moves one of his datapads so that he can slouch down more comfortably in his chair. He runs his hands absent-mindedly back through his hair. (Thire has done that to his own hair, he knows, and he wonders now if it’s a side effect of having longish hair, or if it’s because he’s seen the commander doing it and copied it without realizing.)

“How… how long do we stay on the defense, sir?”

The commander snorts. “There are no hard-and-fast answers about things like this, Thire. I keep looking for them and not finding them, so I might as well tell you that now. Maybe it’ll save you grief later.” He glances over his shoulder. “Pol sees you’re awake. He told me earlier that he wants to run a couple of tests to see if the bacta did everything. You’re lucky that half of our shipment of bacta did turn up just before you got yourself into trouble. But anyway. Looks like he hasn’t come over yet, though. Medic outranks everyone, but not right now apparently.”

Thire shrugs. “He respects you wanting to have a conversation, sir.”

“Yeah, I know.” The commander slouches far enough that he can tilt his head back and call upside-down, “Sorry, Pol.”

“I’ll be there in two minutes, Commander,” Pol calls back dryly from somewhere across the medbay.

The commander looks back at Thire. “I feel like I should say again that you should never do that again.”

“I won’t unless it’s completely necessary, sir.”

The commander considers. “Yeah. That’s as good as I’m going to get, isn’t it? Well.” He stands up and steps towards Thire and gently tips Thire’s chin up so that he can see the extent of the damage. “Kriff, they messed you up good. Does that hurt?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Kriffing stars. Sorry.” The commander settles for a reassuring pat on Thire’s shoulder (which also hurts, but less so). “Come and find me if you want to talk anytime, okay? I can’t guarantee I’ll be awake enough to listen all the time. But there we are.”

“Yes, sir,” Thire says. He attempts a salute, but the commander shakes his head.

“Don’t hurt yourself on my behalf. Pol’ll have my head.” He turns to call over his shoulder. “Yes, Pol, I’m leaving now. Thire’s all yours.” He grabs his three datapads and his helmet and heads for the door, kama swinging with each step. (A lighter gait doesn’t make kamas swing as much, Thire has noticed, which means that Commander Fox is settling into each step more than usual. He must be tired. Has he slept yet? It’s doubtful. The commander is able to figure that out for himself, though.)

And… stars. The commander is friendly. Thire supposes that he should know this, but during their time on Kamino, he never really… interacted with the commander. He received orders, followed instructions, and attended officers’ meetings, and during the sims he came to the rescue or was bailed out of trouble enough times. But the commander has never really talked to him like this. Commander Fox has batchmates, he supposes, and he has the squadmates that he grew up with. Those, and command training, must have taken up a lot of his time. He certainly looked busy whenever Thire saw him. Here on Coruscant, though, he’s… different. Somehow more aware. (“Good or bad different?” Boomer always asks, and this is definitely a good different.)

Chapter Text

21 BBY, day 13 of the War, 1330 GST

Thorn intentionally schedules his meeting with Director Rol Ode of the Department of Senate Transportation at the same time that Senator Padmé Amidala and Jedi Padawan Anakin Skywalker are supposed to be returning. Fox is there as well that day, as part of his attempt to actually meet all the people who are sending him reports to fill out constantly. While Fox and Director Ode start into what’s shaping up to be a conversation of thinly-veiled insults of the other’s competence levels—Fox has a wicked sarcastic streak, so Thorn isn’t worried about him winning—Thorn steps out to join Enders Platoon.

“They’re on time,” Lieutenant Lor’vram reports as Thorn joins him. “They should be landing in about a minute and a half.”

“Good. And they haven’t reported any problems between here and Naboo?”

“No,” Lor’vram says. “Seems like the Seps have given up on targeting Senator Amidala for the moment.”

A Nabooian ship appears out of the light smog that’s hovering over Coruscant today. It lands gently on the landing pad. All of Lor’vram’s troopers have been instructed to keep a close watch on this platform, and it’s been swept at least five times for any kind of dangerous substances or people who shouldn’t be there. No one, and Thorn least of all, wants a repeat of what happened to Senator Amidala when she arrived on Coruscant before the war began. Frankly, if the newly-instated Coruscant Guard let something like that happen, they’d probably all get sent back to Kamino on the spot.

Thorn crosses to join the people coming down the ramp of the ship. It’s easy to pick out Senator Amidala, because her hair is doing something improbable. He’s heard that’s a staple of her appearance or something, but it looks kriffing impractical, because there’s no way she could fit any kind of helmet over there. With the life she leads, she would need it, too.

Jedi Padawan Skywalker is just a step behind her, like a shadow. He has his right arm hugged protectively to his side, as though Thorn isn’t able to clearly see the prosthetic there. Since the war began, Skywalker’s escapades on Geonosis have circulated as common gossip in the general commanders’ chat. Thorn knows all the details of how and why he lost his arm, which is why he’s there to make sure that Senator Amidala doesn’t get caught up in any of Skywalker’s stupidity.

Senator Amidala pauses at the bottom of the ramp and nods at Thorn with a smile. “Thank you for your service,” she says. “Can I ask your name?”

“Commander Thorn, ma’am,” Thorn says. “Of the Coruscant Guard.”

“Commander Thorn—wonderful. You work with Commander Fox, then?”

“Yes, ma’am. He’s marshal commander, and I’m one of his seconds-in-command.”

“I’m honored, then,” Senator Amidala says, smiling.

“Yeah, thanks for being here,” Skywalker says seriously. “Padmé—I mean, Senator… uh, Amidala—has had a lot of heat on her lately. Coruscant is secure, right?”

“Of course, sir,” Thorn says automatically, trying to keep the scowl out of his voice.

Skywalker can’t be more than twenty—which, taking into account Thorn’s accelerated aging, is only a year or two older than Thorn. And Skywalker is the one who lost an arm before the war even officially started, so Thorn’s not sure why Skywalker is supposed to be so cool. Senator Amidala, on the other hand, has a charming smile that makes Thorn believe—after only two kriffing minutes of having interacted with her, no less—she genuinely cares about him and other people.

“Thank you again, Commander Thorn,” Senator Amidala says. “I deeply appreciate what you and all the other clones have done already in this war.”

And there it is, confirmation of Senator Amidala being the nicest kriffing natborn that Thorn has met in all of his nine years.

“Of course, ma’am,” Thorn says. “It’s our pleasure.”

He vows right there and then that Senator Amidala is going to survive the rest of this war, unharmed, so that she can go right on being as incredibly nice as she is right now.

***

21 BBY, day 16 of the War, 2258

Once all of his men are safely back into their barracks (and half of them are already asleep by the time the other half are in), Thire returns to the lieutenants’ barracks. Technically, there are enough bunks for eight of them to stay in this room. They have a little room to spare, though, so only seven of them wound up in this room. (Thire sometimes wonders if he should really count himself as a member of the Best Lieutenants Club, but the others keep including him, and it makes them happy when he’s there, apparently.)

“—and I still thinks she should be allowed in here,” Hound says firmly. “It doesn’t make sense that she isn’t.”

Vector looks up from where he’s sitting on the edge of his bunk and shifts one speaker of his (probably contraband) headphones off one ear. “Who’s she?”

“Grizzer,” Hound says. “Obviously.”

“Oh,” Vector says. “Right.” He replaces the speaker, disappearing from the conversation again. (Thire will need to talk to him and check to make sure that he’s okay at some point. He’s been a lot better for the past year, but since getting to Coruscant, he’s been shutting down more easily and not talking as much.)

Flora is sitting on the floor in front of his bunk, his blaster disassembled in front of him, adjusting something with the scope. “We’ve talked about this, Hound,” he says.

“Yeah,” Hound says. “But she would help me sleep.”

“And she’d keep all the rest of us up,” Lor’vram says, ducking into his bunk. “Leave it, Hound. It’s not going to happen.”

“Commander Fox could totally change his mind,” Hound says.

“Nah, he wants to keep us from waking up smelling like massiff so bad it won’t ever wash out,” Hangover says. “Which I, for one, am okay with. Not smelling like massiff.”

“Wouldn’t be any worse than Hound already smells,” Boomer says, tossing a pillow at Hound.

Hound chucks it back. “Don’t go all high-and-mighty on me, Boom’ika. I saw you skipping the fresher this morning.”

“Yeah, because I missed my alarm,” Boomer says, rolling his eyes. “Thanks for reminding me.”

Thire ducks the next thrown pillow (Boomer has a very good throwing arm) and starts pulling off his armor and leaving it next to his bunk. “Did anything big happen today?” he asks.

“Nope,” Hangover says. “None of you all are on shift tomorrow night, though, right? We should go to that clone bar, 79’s, and see what it’s like. I think it could be lots of fun. Meet some of the other battalions on Coruscant right now, you know?”

“That sounds like a good idea,” Boomer says, catching Hound’s latest pillow (Hound does not have a good throwing arm; Boomer barely catches the pillow before it hits the floor).

“Yeah, we could try it out,” Lor’vram says. “You’d better not try and get drunk, Hangover. I’m not carrying you back to base, though.”

“Oh, come on, you won’t have to carry me,” Hangover says, rolling his eyes.

(Thire doubts that.)

“Or how about exploring the lower levels?” Hound says. “Grizzer and I already did some of that—we were going all over the place. We should totally do this whole tour thing and get to see the lowest levels there are.”

“They’re closed off,” Lor’vram says. “Commander Thorn was talking about that the other day.”

“Still,” Hound says. “We should. Or we could go on a tour and find the best restaurant on every level—”

“That’s more than five thousand restaurants,” Vector says absently, without taking off his headphones.

“Okay, yes, but we should—”

***

21 BBY, day 20 of the War, 0815

“Very good, Commander Fox,” Chancellor Palpatine says as Fox finishes with the report of what’s been done since their arrival on Coruscant. “I see you’ve been very busy.”

“Yes, Chancellor,” Fox says. “We have. We’ve got some more plans we’re also working on implementing to make Coruscant safer.”

“Of course,” Chancellor Palpatine says.

Fox’s stomach twists uncomfortably. That’s weird. This is a perfectly regular meeting. Chancellor Palpatine is even complimenting his work. There’s weird buzzing in the back of Fox’s mind, though, that he doesn’t think is from a normal headache. He was feeling fine today, anyway. It’s probably just stress. Yeah, he has a whole osik ton of other meetings to be at today. That’s what it is.

“Now, Commander Fox,” Chancellor Palpatine says easily. His voice always sounds like a comforting grandfatherly figure. Fox isn’t a fan. “I know you must be stretched rather thin, and that you must be adjusting to so many new things here on a new planet.”

“We’re doing well with that, Chancellor,” Fox says. “We’ve figured out what we need to, and we’ve adjusted to Coruscant.”

“Are you quite sure, Commander? I wouldn’t want you to run into any unexpected problems.”

“I’m sure, Chancellor. We’re clones. We’re good at what we do.”

“Of course. You don’t doubt your ability in the slightest?”

“No, Chancellor.”

The kriff is he on about? Why the kriff would Fox doubt his abilities? The Coruscant Guard has been doing a great job since arriving here. There’s no reason to doubt them.

“Very well, Commander Fox. You are dismissed.”

“Thank you, Chancellor.”

Fox salutes, turns on his heel, and leaves. That was kriffing weird. He’s got other things to think about, though. Like how he’s due at his next meeting in fifteen minutes.

***

21 BBY, day 21 of the War, 0105 GST

Best Lieutenants Club (TAKE THAT)

0105

Thire: hey Hangover are you still at 79’s?

Boomer: yep he’s living there permanently now

Boomer: as in, they had to put him out in the dumpster

Vector: that doesn’t sound accurate???

Vector: they do that??????????????????????????????

Boomer: nope

Boomer: he’s playing a drinking game right now though so we’re going to be here a while

Flora: Thanks for being there, Boomer

Boomer: I dropped out of the game two rounds in

Boomer: I don’t need to be on patrol AND drunk tomorrow

Boomer: Hangover will be though

Boomer: pun 100% intended

0345

Hound: VODE, GRIZZER CAUGHT A SPICE RUNNER

Hangover: yjay

Hangover: S gppd gpt her

Vector: ???

Boomer: Hang on

Boomer: I took his comm away from him. He’s too out of it to type

Flora: I’m manning the base right now. I’ll start some coffee

Boomer: thanks vod

Lor’vram: @Grizzer congrats

Hound: GRIZZER SAYS THANK YOU

0432

Lor’vram: Comm Thorn says MC needs another patrol on the Senate

Lor’vram: I’m here already or I would go

Thire: we don’t have any extra patrols right now

Thire: they’re all out or on sleep shift

Thire: I’m at the Soh center so I could send a squadron if that would help

Lor’vram: that’ll have to do

Thire: I’m forwarding you Nuhun’s comm code

0459

Hound: GUESS WHO CAUGHT ANOTHER SPICE RUNNER

Hound: ONE TO GO

Boomer: until Grizzer is an ace spice runner hunter?

Hound: no until we finish catching the spice runners di’kut

Hound: the dude nearly shot me earlier

Hound: WITH GRIZZER ON THE TRAIL HE’S GOING DOWN THOUGH

0831

Vector: Who is awake right now?

Boomer: I am

Boomer: Flora got off shift 90 minutes ago so he’s sleeping, and Hangover is sleeping off the drinking game until he gets on shift

Thire: I am

Lor’vram: en route to bunk, but technically yes

Vector: poll: who’s the most annoying senator?

Thire: I don’t think we should play this game

Boomer: Only Fat Taa, but Burtoni is annoying as kriff too

Lor’vram: yeah Boomer let’s not talk like that okay?

Boomer: I’m rolling my eyes right now

0904

Hound: I JUST SAW THIS AND ALSO CHASS BES IS A JERK

Thire: Hound

Hound: she frowns every time she sees Grizzer :( :( :( how is that okay??

Thire: I thought you were sleeping Hound?

Hound: let’s just say Grizzer needed the outdoors

Vector: haha

0931

Thire: hey Vector can you turn down your music?

Thire: MC Fox said there was some complaint about faint Corellian alt rap on your hall

Vector: oh come on it’s Corellian hard grave metal

Vector: what the kriff

Thire: can you turn it down a bit?

Vector: yes

Vector: sorry

Thire: it’s okay :) you’ll have to let us listen to it sometime when we’re on base

Vector: yes

1138

Thire: headed back to base

Boomer: thank goodness

Boomer: can you be on duty at the base for a bit

Boomer: Comm Stone got delayed on the way back from Alderaan, so the platoon with him won’t be back for a few days, and the next available plat isn’t on until 1400

Thire: yep!

Thire: it’s probably because Comm Stone has had to run so many missions for the senators

Boomer: yeah

Boomer: you’re a life saver, thanks

1423

Flora: If anyone needs upgrades done to comms, please let me know.

Flora: (I’m working on that right now.)

Hound: Grizzer chewed on mine???

Flora: . . . I can try. I’m going on shift again at 1800, so it might take most of my time depending on the damage.

Hound: it’s not bad

Hound: I’m using it right now

Hound: so

1715

Lor’vram: I’m fifteen minutes into my patrol, and I already have a criminal arrested

Hound: is that a dig at Grizzer????

Boomer: it sure looks like it

Lor’vram: I did in fact just beat out your massiff on the record for catching a criminal earliest in the patrol, which I never counted anyway, by the way.

Hound: KRIFF

Lor’vram: I’m sure she’ll beat me again someday

Boomer: yeah because Hound likes living on the edge

Boomer: just how like Thire’s on the edge of his bunk right now

Boomer: he looks like he’s about to fall off, but he’s somehow staying put

Flora: Is he sleeping?

Boomer: this vod might as well be kriffing dead. You’d never know he’d wake up in a second if his baby medic were in here with a problem

Hound: niiiiiiiiiiiice

1745

Hangover: PROTIP OF THE DAY: don’t go to 79’s before a 10 hour patrol

Thire: do you need caf?

Thire: I could bring you some

Hangover: would you please????

Thire: of course!

1920

Vector: Is anyone available to talk right now?

1947

Thire: Sorry, I just saw this. I’m on my way now

Flora: I already got him to go to sleep, Thire. Thanks anyway.

Thire: is he okay?

Flora: Yes, but he was having a bad day. Coruscant’s really loud for him.

Lor’vram: that’s good

Hound: I can lend a massiff

Lor’vram: do not lend a massiff, di’kut

2331

Hound: okay everyone—craziest part of the day, go

Boomer: I got routed to a bomb scare down in the 2000s and it was this whole factory with a leaky tank and it was just fuel everywhere which is an explosion waiting to happen but not anything I can help with. The factory owner thought my guys could clean up all that fuel I guess

Lor’vram: wild

Lor’vram: there was this older senator (will not say who) that disappeared for a while today and everyone thought they had gone somewhere and straight-up kriffing died but it turned out they just got distracted in the Senate dining area and literally just sat there and ate for three solid hours

Flora: Unfortunately, I think I can guess who you’re talking about.

Hound: Only Fat Taa???

Lor’vram: Hound

Lor’vram: and no, it wasn’t

Hound: yeah that’s fair, OF Taa just eats wherever he wants and whenever he wants without having to go somewhere special for it

Lor’vram: Hound

Hound: ANYWAY the massiffs did a GREAT job catching those spice runners today

Thire: I never realized before Coruscant how widespread the spice problem is

Hangover: yeah I must have seen like twenty people on spice on this single patrol

Boomer: you were on patrol in Spice City, Hangover. I’m surprised you saw that few

Boomer: usually they just drop dead in front of you

Thire: um on that note, I think the craziest part of my day were how good the donuts in the mess were. @Flora was that your platoon on kitchen duty again?

Flora: Yes!

Thire: they were really good. Thank you!!

Flora: Of course!

Flora: The craziest part of my day was when a natborn came into the base with a full petition for us to move out of the base and into the lower levels. She said (quote) that we would be “more useful” and “out of the way” down there. She must have had a couple thousand names on that signature.

Boomer: man Hound you’ve got to keep your massiffs from annoying these natborns

Hound: IT’S NOT THE MASSIFFS

Hangover: ha I doubt that

Thire: the natborns are still getting used to us. It hasn’t even been thirty days yet. They’ll figure out the new normal pretty soon probably :)

Lor’vram: here’s to a short “new normal”

Thire: I’m sure it will be!

***

21 BBY, day 25 of the War, 2334

Stone arrives back on Coruscant late, because he walks into Fox’s office two hours later than even his last estimate. His helmet is tucked under his arm, and he’s out of breath.

“That was a trip,” he proclaims, dropping down on Fox’s red couch.

Thorn groans and shifts away. “Go ‘way.”

“It’s Stone, Thorn,” Fox says from where he’s sitting at his desk. Thorn showed up in his office a few hours previously. Ostensibly, it was to work on some schedules for prison shifts. Thorn fell asleep an hour into the schedules, though. Fox has been listening to him snore since then. Fox himself would like to fall asleep, but he’s got two more reports to finish before he’s cleared his lists of reports to look over.

“Even worse,” Thorn mutters, but he pulls himself upright anyway. “Gah. How was Organa, Stone? Typical natborn, or a halfway-decent one?”

“More than decent,” Stone says, yawning. “Involved in too much osik, but that’s just because he’s so responsible. He’s kind, too. I didn’t realize natborns could actually care about us.”

“That’s good,” Fox says. He submits the report on his datapad and pulls up the last one.

“How’s it been here?” Stone asks.

“Lots of coordination,” Fox says.

“The natborns are mostly jerks here, and everyone’s debating whether they’re going to get nicer or whether they’re just going to stay jerks,” Thorn says. “But we haven’t had any problems, so I think that pretty effectively proves that we’re kriffing awesome at what we do. We’ve coordinated patrols, and we’re even figuring out which ones we can cut so that we aren’t as busy. Actually, Fox’s been doing most of that, and I’ve been talking to too many kriffing natborns to count. This place is bureaucracy personified.”

“It’s literally Triple Zero,” Fox says. He submits the last report and tosses his datapad onto his desk. “There. Done. Until someone else wants me to read their banal thoughts, anyway.”

Stone snorts. “That bad?”

Fox shakes his head. “No.” Some of them are that bad. Most aren’t, though. “I don’t know about you, but I’m going to sleep.”

“Same.” Thorn stands up.

“You weren’t already?” Stone asks.

“Shut up and mind your own business, di’kut.” Thorn rolls his eyes, but he grins as he heads for the door.

***

21 BBY, day 31 of the War, 2025

GAR Communications—Coruscant Guard—High Importance

2025

GARCommunications: Notice to Marshal Commander CC-1010: Senator Orn Free Taa has filed a complaint against an unidentified Coruscant Guard trooper. Complaint: wasn’t there when I called and showed up late saying something stupid about being on the way which is stupid. Please respond to this complaint within 24 hours.

2301

GARCommunications: Notice to Marshal Commander CC-1010: Senator Chass Bes has filed a complaint against an unidentified Coruscant Guard trooper. Complaint: Incompetent wastrel. Please respond to this complaint within 24 hours.

***

21 BBY, day 49 of the War, 1008 GST

Command Squad 38:

1008

captainKeeli:

UPDATE TIME

we’re going to Ryloth

PondsCT411:

Same here

captainKeeli:

38th party

***

21 BBY, day 54 of the War, 0012

“Lieutenant Thire?” Cred says from the door of the lieutenants’ barracks. When Thire looks up, he sees that Cred is hanging one-handed around the doorframe.

“Cred, what’s up?”

“You said to give you updates about Eddy?”

“Yeah, I did. Are there updates?”

Cred straightens up, appearing fully in the door. He’s wearing an oversized shirt over his blacks, which Thire has seen a lot of troopers acquiring since they got to Coruscant. He’s not sure where they got the credits for them. Cred’s is severely wrinkled, but that goes with the lines on his face that look like he was recently asleep with his pillow all bunched up again. (Cred tends to sleep with his pillow smashed into his face, and the other troopers have learned not to steal it due to the silent despair he projects when he doesn’t have it. Cred is seven and a half, putting him at nearly the youngest in the 591st, so they make a lot of allowances for him. Thire’s not sure why he’s out of bed, but it must be something important that brought him here.)

“Um, yes, there are updates,” Cred says. “Eddy tried to start at least three today—one when Nini bumped into him, one in the showers when someone from a different platoon tried to cut in line, and then again in the mess when someone asked why he was glaring.”

Thire sighs. “Any actual fighting?”

“No. The last time, I think it was because Commander Stone was just coming into the mess. But it was close.”

“Okay. Thanks. I’ll talk to him.” Thire pauses, looking more closely at Cred. (Does he look upset?) “Is everything okay, Cred?”

“Yes. I mean…” Cred shuffles his feet before answering, nearly in a mumble. “He was making comments about how I’m not a good medic, too.”

“What? He said that?”

“Yeah. That at the riot and all, I should have done something else. That was ages ago. It doesn’t matter anymore. You said it didn’t matter, lots of times. He still said it though.”

Thire gets to his feet. “Cred… has this happened before?”

Cred shrugs.

“Stars, Cred. You're not going to get in trouble for telling me. Has this happened before?”

“Yeah.”

“How often?”

“. . . a bunch of times.”

“In… what, the time since we got to Coruscant?”

“. . . before that, too.”

“On Kamino?”

“Um. Yes?”

“Cred… why didn’t you tell me?”

Cred flinches. “I’m sorry, I just didn’t… I mean, I didn’t want to make things be a problem. I figured that Eddy would figure things out once he got here, but he hasn’t really, and it’s just… well, I don’t really know what I’m supposed to do about it anymore. He’s just… he keeps doing things that he’s not supposed to.”

Thire sighs and goes over to give Cred a hug. “It’s okay, Cred. Eddy’s… Eddy will figure things out eventually. You don’t have to listen to him when he talks like that.”

“Okay.” Cred’s voice is slightly muffled from being up against Thire’s blacks. He backs up and asks carefully, “And… if Eddy keeps starting fights, then…?”

“I’ll talk to him. Don’t worry about it.”

“Okay.” Cred nods quickly, and too much. “Thank you, Lieutenant.”

Thire gives him a smile. (The smile feels pasted on, and he hates that it feels that way.) “Of course. Go ahead and go back to sleep, Cred. Let Nuhun know if you need anything else, okay? He can let me know if it’s something he can’t solve. Or if you want to come back here, that’s okay too. Whatever you need.”

“Okay. Thanks.” Cred disappears out the door, oversized shirt trailing after him.

Thire returns slowly to his bunk. No one else is in the bunkroom right now (because they’re all of on patrol or working), so he has a little bit of space to himself. Now that Cred is gone (with the simplicity of a hypothetical), Thire has to figure out how to talk to Eddy. He has to tell him (somehow) that he can’t keep trying to start fights.

They’ve been dealing with enough on Coruscant already that they can’t afford infighting. (They really can’t afford it when Eddy is trying to start real fights that will get people hurt.) There have been so many patrols, and so many things to coordinate. Thire has been working to make sure he gets enough sleep, but it’s hard, when things keep happening. The people on Coruscant haven’t yet adjusted to clones being there, either. (Some of them seem like they might never adjust.) It’s so much harder to work when the people don’t want them there. (Thire tries not to think about that.)

He tips over backwards onto his bunk and stares at the ceiling. Stars, he needs to figure out what to say, but he’s too tired to find any words that might work.

***

21 BBY, day 54 of the War, 0234

Command Squad 38

0234

MonnktheSCUBA:

@ captainKeeli @PondsCT411 Ryloth sitrep?

PondsCT411:

don’t ask, vod. 

It’s not looking very good. We’re stuck on one side of the planet at the moment. General Windu is looking grimmer every time I see him.

captainKeeli:

these kriffing clankers keep blocking our supply lines

General Di has a plan to get rid of the blockades

so that we can get the supplies to the Rylothians

wish us luck

CommWolffe104:

k’oyacyi

literally

captainKeeli:

will do vod

Chapter Text

21 BBY, day 54 of the War, 0300 GST

“Thire,” Commander Fox says with dignity (more feigned than usual, Thire thinks), “what are you doing here? It’s”—he checks the chrono on his office wall—“0300. Are you okay?”

Thire shrugs and sets the mug of caf on Commander Fox’s desk. ‘I was just bringing this, sir.”

The commander takes his boots off the desk and sits upright, setting down his datapad. (Thire gets a glimpse of a half-completed form.) “Thire, is that…”

“Black caf, sir.”

“Thire?”

“Yes, sir?”

“You’re a kriffing amazing lieutenant. You know that, right?”

“I hope that my bringing caf is not the only thing you’re basing the assessment on, sir.”

“It is right now.” The commander picks up the mug and seems to be considering drinking it in one massive swallow. Then he sips cautiously and nods appreciatively. “Thanks. Why are you up this late?”

“Early, actually, sir. My shift starts at 0600.”

“Kriffing early.”

“It’s… um, it’s late for you, sir. I figured you might want this while you’re doing… whatever reports these are.”

The commander eyes his mug. “I should go and sleep rather than finishing this, but it feels like it would be a waste since you went to all the trouble of getting it.”

“I wouldn’t be offended, sir. Our CT-level physiology courses on Kamino indicated that sleep is a better source of energy than caf.”

“Thire, that was the politest way anyone ever told me to go the kriff to sleep.” The commander stands up (still holding the caf). “Thorn likes to grab my head and say ‘get the kriff to bed’ in my ear until I listen to him. And Stone likes to just pick me up and try to move me. But this”--he takes another appreciative sip–”this I could get used to.”

***

21 BBY, day 54 of the War, 0316 GST

Coruscant Guard Command Chat

0316

MCommFox:

Thire just brought me caf in the middle of the night

Because he got up early for his shift

his 0600 shift

he just brought me this caf

0601

CommThorn:

Now I want to know why he didn’t bring me any because that’s favoritism if i’ve ever seen it

CStone:

You should offer him a promotion Fox

0744

CommThorn:

It is TOO EARLY for a food fight to start at these kriffing prisons. I should not be cleaning unnamed goop off my cuirass before EIGHT HUNDRED

0857

MCommFox:

Thire’s good as a lieutenant for the moment

I can promote him later

if we need him

not now

***

21 BBY, day 54 of the War, 2116 GST

When Chancellor Palpatine calls Fox into his office at 2100, Fox assumes it’s going to be a big problem. The last thing he expects is for a whole bunch of the most important and most annoying natborns to be gathered there, all clearly talking over some problem or other. There are Jedi there as well, including a couple of the ones that have sent reports to Fox before. He recognizes some—the green one, General Yoda, and the imposing tall one, General Windu. Fox is well-enough trained to not break stride as he enters and approaches the chancellor’s desk.

“Ah, yes, Commander Fox,” Chancellor Palpatine says, turning his half-smile on Fox. It looks condescending today. “I trust you were not delayed?”

Fox was delayed, which the chancellor must know. He got stuck dealing with a couple of rowdy academy students outside the Senate Building before he could get inside. But he just salutes and says, “What instructions do you have, Chancellor?”

“Just a little matter, really. You will be going to Tatooine.”

Tatooine? That dust- and sand-ball at the edge of the galaxy whose only significant feature is some deadly racing game they bet on in bars?

“Tatooine, Chancellor?” Fox says out loud.

“Quite correct. Yes, there’s a situation developing, and I believe your guidance may be necessary there. It will be a short trip, I expect. You need merely go and make sure that everything is under control before returning to Coruscant.”

“Chancellor,” Fox says carefully. He takes a second to get his thoughts in line and to keep himself from spouting some well-placed curses. “Tatooine is a fourteen-day roundtrip. I could send one of my platoons to—”

“Oh, no, Commander Fox. You will be going.”

There’s something very firm about the way that the chancellor says that, despite the lingering half-smile. His eyes aren’t smiling. Kriff. He might as well not be wearing a helmet. The chancellor’s eyes stare right at him.

“Chancellor, sir, I could—”

“Commander Fox, you will be going to Tatooine, leaving as soon as possible.”

Kriff. Fox swallows the whole string of things he wants to say and nods. “Yes, Chancellor.”

The smile returns to the chancellor’s eyes. “Very good, Commander. I trust you will perform excellently, as always.”

Fox practically chokes on the insincerity in the chancellor’s tone. This guy is a kriffing politician to the very core. “Yes, Chancellor.”

***

21 BBY, day 56 of the War, 0931 GST

Command Squad 38

0931

CapRex105: I’ve heard some stuff recently about Ryloth. Is everything okay?

PondsCT411: No. It’s going pretty badly.

PondsCT411: Does anyone feel like dropping by? We could seriously use some help, especially on Keeli’s side. 

MCommFox: I might have an idea

MCommFox: Want a platoon?

captainKeeli: vod we could use a dozen platoons right now

MCommFox: I only have one to spare, but it’s a good one

MCommFox: you can have it

MonnktheSCUBA: I thought Coruscant was supposed to be the easy one? you’re sure you don’t have more?

MCommFox: shut up Monnk

MCommFox: he’s coming with a Jedi, so cut the osik

MCommFox: I’d come myself but I’m on my way to Tatooine

MCommFox: Chancellor’s orders

***

21 BBY, day 57 of the War, 0248 GST

Thire’s comm goes off in the middle of the night. He rolls out of his bunk, lands halfway-upright on the floor, and fumbles for his comm in the dark (the others in here are asleep; he doesn’t want them to wake up). His fingers close around the comm, and he thumbs the button to answer the call. It’s only a second later that he sees that it’s Commander Fox calling. (Stars, why is Commander Fox comming him in the middle of the night?”

“Yes, sir?” Thire says, making his way hurriedly for the door, trying not to bump into anything.

“Thire,” Commander Fox says. “Are you on shift right now?”

“No, sir. Has something happened?”

“Not yet. Listen up. First, you’re going to comm Thorn and let him know that there’s a new patrol schedule that doesn’t include your platoon anymore. Then get your men together and go to the Jedi Temple to meet General Yoda. You’re leaving at 0600.”

Thire makes it into the hall and lets the door close behind him. “Sir? I’m sorry, I think I missed something—”

“You’re going to assist General Di and Captain Keeli on Ryloth,” Commander Fox says. “General Di is a Jedi. Captain Keeli was in my command squad. They’ve been on Ryloth for five days, trying to open up supply lines that the Seps have blocked. They’re not having much luck so far. We’re coordinating to attempt setting up a staging ground on Toydaria to get the supplies through.”

“Okay,” Thire mumbles to himself. (His brain is halfway keeping up with Commander Fox’s explanation. He still feels asleep.)

“The Toydarian king—King Katuunko—hasn’t agreed to the staging ground yet,” the commander continues. “Senator Antilles and Representative Binks are going to try and convince him otherwise. You’re going to be going with General Yoda to the moon Rugosa for negotiations with King Katuunko. I’ve sent you Keeli’s comm code so that you can get in touch with him.”

“Yes, sir,” Thire says. “Are any reinforcements being sent directly to Ryloth to help General Di?”

There’s a long pause. Then Commander Fox says, “No. This is the best I could get to happen.”

“Sir, do the Jedi…?”

“The Jedi know that General Di is there. They believe he’ll be able to hold out long enough for General Yoda to negotiate with King Katuunko and to make it to Ryloth after.”

“Yes, sir,” Thire says. (The commander’s voice is so guarded.) He asks, “Do you have any other instructions?”

“Be ready to leave by 0600, Thire. I’m sending you a few more logistical instructions.”

“Yes, sir,” Thire says. “I’ll get my men together.”

“Thanks, Thire.”

There’s a soft click as the commander cuts the comm call.

Thire takes a deep breath, turns, and reenters the barracks to grab his armor.

The next few hours become a flurry of organizing his troopers and getting them all to the Jedi Temple with the right supplies to meet General Yoda. There, they load onto the frigate that’ll take them to Rugosa, and leave (somehow) on time.

Only a few hours into the flight, Thire realizes that it’s going to be a lot harder to get to Rugosa than he realized. His troopers are fine, and the supplies are fine, and the pilot team is fine. The one variable that Thire has no way of predicting is General Yoda.

General Yoda, Grandmaster of the Jedi Order, is tiny, green, and able to get sidetracked in a matter of seconds. Thire finds himself hurrying after the general throughout their frigate from location to location as the days in hyperspace pass. First, it’s the bridge, giving directions. Then, it’s the conference area, speaking to various Jedi Masters. Then it’s the engine rooms, for some reason.

Thire gives up on asking questions, because General Yoda clearly has a purpose. He seems to be taking in every detail about the people everywhere he goes on the frigate, observing them. (To what end? Thire has absolutely no idea.) Like all the other things he’s seen since leaving Kamino, things that seem meaningless to Thire but deeply significant to others, he doesn’t even know where to begin to question it.

(And General Yoda is a Jedi. The Jedi Grandmaster at that. Thire wouldn’t dare question him.)

Commander Fox comms each day, asking about their progress. His calls are clipped and short. Thire can only assure him that they’re on course to reach Rugosa on schedule.

(He wonders, each time after the commander hangs up, what news the commander must be hearing from Ryloth.)

***

21 BBY, day 63 of the War, 1401 GST

KEELI and Fox too I guess

1401

captainKeeli: You've got those reinforcements coming, right??

MCommFox: they’re meeting General Yoda on Rugosa

MCommFox: like I said

MCommFox: I can’t do anything about what the Jedi organized

captainKeeli: Tell them to hurry the kriff up, Fox

captainKeeli: These supply lines aren’t opening themselves

MCommFox: they’re coming as soon as they can

MCommFox: I keep checking in on them

captainKeeli: The sooner the better vod

***

21 BBY, day 63 of the War, 1458 GST

Commander Fox & Lieutenant Thire

1458

MCommFox: Thire is everything okay?

MCommFox: I just got a message from your medic Cred telling me that you were dropped off in an escape pod over Rugosa

MCommFox: What happened?

LtThire: yes sir

LtThire: complications

LtThire: Banking Clan frigates attacked us

LtThire: will report more fully when we’re out of danger

LtThire: the general is with us

MCommFox: That’s not reassuring Thire

MCommFox: Report in as soon as you can

***

21 BBY, day 63 of the War, 1532 GST

KEELI and Fox too I guess

1532

MCommFox: Keeli there’s been a delay

MCommFox: can you hold out a bit longer?

1545

MCommFox: they were attacked by Banking Clan frigates apparently

MCommFox: they should be there soon

MCommFox: they just have to deal with a few things on Rugosa first

MCommFox: are you even seeing these messages vod?

MCommFox: tell me if you need them sooner and i’ll tell them to go straight to Ryloth

MCommFox: Keeli?

1612

MCommFox: Keeli if you tell me you need them, I will send the entire kriffing Coruscant Guard

MCommFox: just tell me what’s happening as soon as you can

1853

MCommFox: please answer Keel’ika

***

21 BBY, day 63 of the War, 1900 GST

Rugosa is a moon, full of dried coral and Separatist forces. (Thire would like to explore some of it, because it’s so pretty, but he’s head and shoulders deep in a painfully slow rescue mission at the moment.) Even after getting attacked by the Banking Clan frigates, nothing is good, but it just gets worse.

It becomes a full disaster around when General Yoda agrees to a challenge with Ventress. (That seems like a good idea at first.)

Then they’re separated, then Thire is pinned down with Jeck and Rys, and then the general shows up just in time to rescue them. Somewhere in there, Thire gets hit with a stray missile. (He doesn’t even know how.)

By the time that they make it to a cave to shelter for the night, Thire is staggering along, barely on his own feet, and they’ve gotten news that Senator Antilles and Representative Binks were successfully able to get King Katuunko to agree to a supply drop. They got his agreement a day and a half previously. (Thire finds it hard not to think about how pointless coming out here was, and how urgent it still is that they get to Ryloth to help General Di and Captain Keeli.)

“We’re low on ammo, sir,” Jeck says, sorting through his pack. “Only two grenades, and one rocket for the launcher.”

Rys groans softly, lowering himself down to sit on the floor of the cave. “Against a battalion? Forget it. We’ve lost.”

“So certain of defeat, are you, hm?” General Yoda asks. He ignites his lightsaber and makes a neat cut through one of their rifles. (Thire has no idea why, again, but at this point it doesn’t really matter anyway. The general’s clearly confusing plan is better than nothing.)

(They need something, though.) Thire clears his throat. “With respect, General, maybe you should go on. Let us slow them down.”

The general finishes making his cuts, humming a small cackle to himself. He hands the reformed rifle to Thire. Oh. It’s some sort of crutch or walking stick, so that Thire will be able to move more easily. That’s… actually very thoughtful.

“All around us, that with which we need to prevail, is,” General Yoda says. He gestures to the rocks strewn around the cave. “Come, sit. Your helmets, remove them. Your faces I wish to see.”

Thire lowers himself gingerly to sit on one of the rocks. Rys and Jeck glance at him as they take seats of their own. He nods confirmation and reaches up to remove his own bucket. The seals hiss softly as it comes off. He sets it on his lap hesitantly. Mostly natborns don’t ask to see their faces. They don’t care what’s underneath a helmet.

“There’s… not much to look at here, sir,” Thire says carefully. “We all share the same face.”

The general cackles (it sounds a little like a tooka coughing). “Deceive you, eyes can. In the Force, very different each one of you is.” He makes his way over to Rys. “Rys, always focused on the enemy are you. For inspiration, look to yourself, and those beside you.” (Rys shoots a shy grin at Thire.) “Jeck, concerned about weapons you are. Weapons do not win battles. Your mind, powerful it is. Outthink the droids, you can.”

The general makes his way over to where Thire is sitting and pauses there. Thire glances toward him and makes eye contact for a second, but that’s more than enough. He doesn’t want to be disrespectful. And more than that, the general’s eyes seem to see right through him. Thire’s stomach gives an uncomfortable twist. There’s somehow also a dull excitement about it. Like something is… right.

“Thire, rush not into fights. Long is the war. Only by surviving it, will you prevail.”

The general continues on, around Thire. Thire looks at the ground. It’s… not what he expected the general to say. (He expected something encouraging, like he said to Rys and Jeck.) This… just survive? Don’t rush into fights? That’s the same advice that Commander Fox has given him. And now General Yoda is telling him the same thing. There was that slight hesitation before the general spoke, too. Almost like he knew something that no one else did. Thire has no idea what that would be. What does the general know about… how this war will end? Does he know how it will turn out, even now? Does the Force tell him that, or does he just suspect?

“Yes,” the general says. “Clones you may be, but the Force resides in all life forms. Use it, you can, to quiet your mind.”

***

21 BBY, day 64 of the War, 0630 GST

The next hours turn out much better than Thire expected, really. They leave the cave and make their way to where the Separatist forces are. General Yoda goes to face them on his own and single-handedly cuts through dozens of droids. All that Thire does is use their last rocket to bring down a rocky outcropping onto droidekas that were attempting to corner the general. The Sith causes hardly more of a delay. (Is she a Sith? Thire can’t remember how the darjetii work.) General Yoda deals with her, and King Katuunko agrees to allow Toydaria to be used for a Republic base. The Republic frigates they arrived on are finally able to make it back to Rugosa, and they start for Ryloth.

“Marshal Commander Fox has been messaging us a lot,” Nuhun tells Thire in a lowered voice. “Keeps telling us that we should get to Ryloth.”

That’s not good. “What happened?” Thire asks. “Were you not able to get there?”

Nuhun shrugs helplessly. “We would’ve if we’d could’ve. I know you’d’ve wanted us to. But we were getting reports of Separatists all through Hutt space, blocking our way in the hyperspace lanes, and we would’ve abandoned you there with no way to get out.”

“How many times did he tell you that?” Thire asks.

Nuhun, to his credit, doesn’t flinch from the question. “Fourteen, by my last count. I’m sorry, Lieutenant—if I’d thought it was possible, I’d’ve taken us straight there.”

“I trust your judgement,” Thire tells him. “And if it hadn’t been a company at stake, I… well, things would be different.”

“He was pretty insistent,” Nuhun admits.

“His squadmate is the captain,” Thire says.

“Kriffing blazes,” Nuhun murmurs. “No wonder.”

“Yeah,” Thire says. “I’m going to go and find Cred to deal with… this.” He gestures to the explosion-blackened portions of his armor. “Start us for Ryloth and tell me if Captain Keeli messages at all. And stay with General Yoda.”

Nuhun nods. “Yes, sir. Again, I’m sorry, sir.”

Thire shakes his head. “What’s done is done, and you made the best call you could. That’s going to have to be enough. If Commander Fox has complaints, they’ll go through me, and I’ll deal with them.”

“Thank you, sir.” Nuhun leaves hurriedly.

Nuhun doesn’t need to know, and Thire won’t tell him, that Keeli stopped responding to messages hours before they arrived at Rugosa. Commander Fox doesn’t want them on Ryloth to assist. He’s desperate to have them there on the slim chance that there are any survivors.

***

21 BBY, day 64 of the War, 2207 GST

Captain Keeli (General Di) and Lieutenant Thire (Coruscant Guard)

 2207

LieutThire: Captain, we’re on our way. Commander Fox says that you haven’t responded to any messages. If you see this, please message him first. It would mean a lot to him. We’re currently in hyperspace and should arrive on Ryloth in approximately fourteen hours. K’oyacyi

1202

LieutThire: Captain Keeli, we’re nearly to Ryloth. If you see this, please let me know and we’ll head for your exact location.

***

21 BBY, day 65 of the War, 1246 GST

They skim through Ryloth’s sky in an LA-AT, passing downwards through hazy midday clouds. Thire looks down at General Yoda, who’s balancing on his own without the handrails. The general’s face is usually serene. The lines now are drawn, and he looks older.

“Orders, General?” Thire calls, over the rush of the wind.

“Put us down, you must,” General Yoda says. “Find out what has happened to them, we must.”

Thire relays the order through his commlink to Rys. A few minutes later, the LA-AT settles onto a rocky ledge about half a klick away from the place where Captain Keeli’s comm is still transmitting.

Thire sits down on the edge of the gunship, about to swing down onto the ground, but he pauses there and looks back at the general.

“Sir?” he says. “Are you able to… sense whether or not they… you know, made it?”

General Yoda takes a few steps forward and stops just behind Thire’s shoulder. “Yes,” he says, his crackly voice more crackly than usual. “Sense beings, I can.”

“What… what can you sense, sir?”

General Yoda places his three-fingered hand gently on Thire’s shoulder. “One with the Force, they have become.”

Thire swallows hard. (It hurts more than it should, to do that.)

“All of them, sir?”

“Yes. All of them.”

It’s a quiet walk down the canyon toward where Captain Keeli’s comm is. There are clear remnants of the battle fought here. Thire picks his way more carefully than usual, trying not to put too much weight on his bad leg. (Cred did a good job with the bacta, but it’s sore and bandaged under the armor.) He knows that General Yoda is right. Honestly, at this point, Thire would trust General Yoda on almost anything. But… there must be something left behind. Something that he can tell Commander Fox.

There’s nothing left.

They pick among the fallen bodies. General Yoda makes his way to where General Di has fallen. Not far away, Thire finds Captain Keeli. He has blaster holes burned in his cuirass. The droids fallen all around show that they at least didn’t go down without a fight.

Is this what the war is like, all across the frontlines?

(Why does the uncomfortable twist in his core feel the same as when he looks at Coruscant some days?)

“Lieutenant,” Nuhun says quietly, coming up at Thire’s shoulder. “Are we—what—?” He gestures helplessly. “Are we going to…”

Thire works his jaw for a second, trying to get it to move again. “Uh, we’re going to… um. Sorry. We’re going to do what we can for them, and we’ll report back to Commander Fox what’s happened.”

(Thire doesn’t know how he’s supposed to tell Commander Fox. Something like this shouldn’t be said out loud, but… but it has to be, doesn’t it?)

***

21 BBY, day 65 of the War, 1513 GST

Command Squad 38

1513

Captain Keeli’s comm code has been deactivated

CommWolffe104: What happened to Keeli’s comm

MCommFox: Keeli died on Ryloth two days ago

CommWolffe104: What the KRIFF Fox

MCCodes: What?

PondsCT411: I haven’t seen that yet?

MonnktheSCUBA: What??

CcgrEE41: I’m looking for a death notice?

CapRex105: I’m sorry since when?

MCBly: someone please verify this?

CommWolffe104: IF YOU KNEW THEN WHY DIDN’T YOU TELL US?

McommFox: I just found out less than half an hour ago

MCBly: what happened Fox??

BACARA: Woah what’s happening?

BACARA: Fox?

McommFox: look it up

MCommFox: death report just published

MCommFox: Separatists overran them on Ryloth

MCCodes: I thought one of your platoons was going to help them?

McommFox: they didn’t get there in time

1611

PondsCT411: Ni su’cuyi, gar kyr’adyc, ni partayli, gar darasuum Keeli

***

21 BBY, day 71 of the War, 1841 GST

Once they touch down on Coruscant, Thire asks Nuhun to make sure the men get a proper meal (a diet of only ration bars is not sustainable for very long) while he makes his way to Commander Fox’s office. He’s very aware that he hasn’t even properly been able to fix his armor yet. They didn’t have spare paint or plastoid-katarn alloy, so he still has the residue and blackened areas from the explosion he got halfway caught in back on Rugosa. (At least he’s not limping anymore.) He pauses by the commander’s door and stands there for a few seconds. Then, reluctantly, he knocks.

“Come in,” Commander Fox’s voice calls.

Thire opens the door and steps into the room. Commander Fox is sitting at his desk, with his boots propped up on it. There are two different datapads in his lap and three more sitting to the side. The holographic display on the desk is projecting, and Stone is leaning over it, marking intragalactic flight paths. Both of them glance up at Thire briefly. Stone returns to his plotting, but Commander Fox swings his boots down to the floor and straightens, setting aside the datapads.

“Sir,” Thire says, saluting. “We—”

The commander shakes his head. “Are you apologizing, Thire?”

“Yes, sir. I did the best I could to—”

The commander holds up a hand for him to stop and leans sideways in his chair, looking at Thire’s armor. “Are all of your men all right?”

“Yes, sir. I—”

“Thire,” Commander Fox says. “I appreciate that you’re taking responsibility. But I don’t want to talk about this, okay? What’s done is done, and no one’s at fault except the Separatist demoglkase.” He picks up one of his datapads and turns his attention to it, his voice becoming distant. “Your platoon is on the patrol schedule for tonight. Get your kit fixed and get something to eat before then.”

***

21 BBY, day 74 of the War, 0955 GST

Command Squad 38

0955

MCBly: I saw the report from the 104^th about yesterday

MCBly: @Wolffe how are you?

CommWolffe104: Bly’ika I appreciate you so much and please do not express any sympathy to me right now

CommWolffe104: General Plo is spending a lot of time with us so don’t worry about me please

MCBly: that’s good

MCCodes: Ni su’cuyi, gar kyr’adyc, ni partayli, gar darasuum

***

21 BBY, day 84 of the War, 1038 GST

Ponds and Fox

1038

McommFox: Ponds are you going to be on Coruscant any time soon?

PondsCT411: Not for a bit

PondsCT411: Why do you ask?

McommFox: if you want to drop by at any point then feel free

PondsCT411: Yeah that’s kind of you, but General Windu usually has me helping him out with PondsCT411: whatever Jedi business whenever we’re on Coruscant

PondsCT411: If there’s extra time, I’d be happy to drop by.

PondsCT411: Is this about what happened to the 104^th?

MCommFox: yeah

MCommFox: Wolffe is on Coruscant somewhere but he’s not responding to messages

PondsCT411: Give him some time. He’s probably not ready to talk yet.

Chapter Text

21 BBY, day 89 of the War, 0600 GST

Thire forgets how the passage of time works, and by the time they’ve been on Coruscant for nearly ninety days, he’s no longer sure that he understands even the difference between day and night. It just blurs together. He thinks at first that bad days will stand out, but even that is quickly proved wrong. Every day is some kind of a bad day. (No, he shouldn’t think like that. But he does. He does think like that, no matter how hard he tries not to.) It’s only the days where he wishes he was an aiwha rather than a human that stand out (and, thankfully, there aren’t too many of those). Most of those are the ones where Eddy’s name is being thrown around the lieutenant barracks.

“You shouldn’t keep putting up with this,” Hangover asserts plaintively. He’s hanging upside down from his bunk, somehow managing to keep his watered-down moonshine upright. (Thire knows perfectly well that it’s moonshine, despite Hangover claiming that it’s some kind of exotic juice. But because he hasn’t found the place they’re making it yet, he hasn’t been able to pin it down on them. Not that anyone cares. Coruscanti bars are too expensive anyway.)

Flora is at his own bunk, poking at his comm and its loose wires. There are new dents in it from a rough patrol the previous night. “I agree,” he says. “Maybe removing his off-base privileges would help?”

Thire shakes his head. “No, that wouldn’t do any good. Commander Fox is about to take those away from everybody.”

This is met by a moment of stunned silence. (Oops. Thire didn’t realize so many of them didn’t know.)

“I’m sorry?” Vector says, emerging from underneath his blanket. He has his headphones on over one ear. “That seems out of keeping with what the other battalions are allowed to do, though.”

Thire shrugs. “He mentioned it to me and a few other lieutenants the other day. There keep being… incidents.”

“At 79’s?” Flora abandons his comm and starts working his pauldron up his arm and into place. “We can tell them to knock it off.”

“No,” Thire says. “Not clone-started issues.”

“Well, 79’s isn’t exactly the most rule-abiding establishment,” Vector says.

“It has its problems,” Thire says (and there are a lot of problems he sees that probably the rest of them don’t care about), “but that’s not something that’s… you know, high priority with most of the other lieutenants that I’ve talked to.”

“Meaning all of them,” Hangover says. “Because Thire has connections. He’s talked to every single lieutenant, and—”

Thire grins ruefully. “Look, that’s not the point of what Commander Fox is doing, I think. The point is that all these natborns keep picking fights. I can show you the report log, if you want. Random natborns decide that it’s a random clone’s fault that the war is happening, and they try to pick fights. Then whoever they’re picking on is annoyed—which is kind of understandable, really—and things escalate. Over and over. It’s the same sort of thing that’s been happening at the Senate.”

Flora tenses slightly, gauntlet halfway on. “Yeah,” he says quietly.

Hangover looks between them. “What’s happening? Have I missed something?”

“The… animosity.” Thire says.

“The what?” Hangover twists his head so he can get another sip of the moonshine.

Flora sighs. “Hangover, just to make things clear, the senators don’t like us. They keep on throwing troopers dirty looks whenever they pass. A couple of the…”

“What?” Hangover prompts.

“Calling them di’kutse would be accurate,” Vector says, half-muffled by his pillow again.

“I wouldn’t go that far,” Flora says, but there’s a bit of a switch of a smile on his face. “Anyway, a couple of them think that it’s a good idea to intentionally antagonize and harass whichever platoon is on duty that day nearest to them.”

“They’re senators,” Hangover says. “They wouldn’t do that.”

“That’s what you’d think,” Flora says. He finishes with his armor and tucks his bucket under his arm. “But that’s not what happens, especially the more time you spend in the Senate. They just keep being…”

“Difficult,” Thire supplies.

Hangover groans loudly. “Thire.”

“What?”

“You’re being polite again.” He sits upright just long enough to take another draw on his moonshine. “Just say that the senators need to kriff off back to whatever place they came from and leave it at that. We don’t need to care any farther than that. That’s what you’re saying, right, Flora?”

“Not exactly,” Flora says. “But that’s the sentiment a lot of the vode are expressing lately.”

“And that’s why we’re getting some of our off-base privileges removed,” Thire concludes. “It’s because of the senators that you want to tell to leave, and the other natborns as well. It’s our fault, somewhat, but mostly... well, you know.”

Hangover coughs loudly and sits up. (Maybe his moonshine isn’t as watered-down as Thire assumed.) “Okay, okay, whatever. Maybe you’re right. We’ll see though. But we’re getting distracted from our original conversation. So what about Eddy? What are you doing about the little kriffer who keeps making you come in here looking like you’re ready to pull out your hair?”

“Um, well… he’s not little,” Thire says. He swings up into his own bunk and flops down. (He’s just in his blacks right now, because armor gets to be a bit much after covering a shift and a half.) “That’s one thing that’s hard. His personality is big, and there are at least three other troopers in my platoon who’ll back him up. They’re not problematic when he’s not there, but they get into all sorts of trouble when they’re around him.”

“He has to listen to you,” Vector says. (He’s completely hidden under his blanket again, clearly blocking out the rest of the room.) “He’s supposed to listen to you.”

“He should,” Thire says. “But I don’t think his training never stuck, because he’s got an attitude and an ego like the Prime. He keeps making sly comments about not having to listen to me.”

(Those comments have been more and more frequent, lately. They make Thire want to just keep his distance and ignore it all for as long as possible, but he knows that isn’t really an option.)

“Report him,” Hangover suggests.

“To who?” Thire asks the ceiling blankly.

“To Commander Thorn, di’kut. He’s your commander, isn’t he?”

“Yes, but that’ll just tell Eddy that I can’t deal with him.” Thire leans over the side of his bunk, resting his chin on his arms. (This is the same thing that he’s been working through for the past weeks, in his head.) “Look—I have to be able to deal with this on my own, or otherwise Eddy will never respect me.”

“And if it gets to be too much?” Flora asks. He’s at the door now, ready to go.

“I’ll tell Commander Thorn then,” Thire says. “But not until then.”

Flora shrugs. “I agree with Hangover, though. Tell him sooner than later. Before it’s too late.”

***

21 BBY, day 113 of the War, 2234 GST

Corrie Guard Command Chat

2234

Stone: I have an update on the situation on Florrum

Stone: Let me start by saying that I am alive and unharmed, but I am ready to commit a crime

Stone: Count Dooku was captured by a Weequay pirate type by the name of Ohnaka. Ohnaka is apparently very resourceful, because he also managed to capture Generals Kenobi and Skywalker. When we arrived, we were immediately shot down. Senator Kharrus is dead. Representative Binks took the lead, somehow, and by a series of events that I will not explain here, destroyed a power line. Which, somehow, allowed the generals to escape. We lost two pilots in the crash, with the Senator. The rest of us are unharmed.

Stone: We are on our way back now

Stone: I will not answer questions until I have had a shower and a minimum of six hours of sleep

Fox: what the kriff Stone

***

21 BBY, day 121 of the War, 1900 GST

Thire doesn’t mention his problems with Eddy to the other lieutenants again. Instead, he waits and keeps working to reign Eddy in, day after day. It’s a good thing that Thire doesn’t wind up on Senate patrols very often right now (once every three or four days, usually), because he wouldn’t trust Eddy around the senators. (As it is, he barely trusts him to go on regular patrols. )

It’s becoming steadily more of a problem, but… that’s just not something that Commander Thorn needs to know yet. The second Thire gives in and tells him, he’ll have to deal with no respect from Eddy rather than some respect. (And he doesn’t even know that Eddy will respect Commander Thorn.) So he might as well keep doing this. Whatever this is. He has to break up some fights, and keeps telling Eddy to keep to himself and stop aggravating other clones and natborns. (None of it seems to stick.)

He writes his reports, does his platoon evaluations, and makes sure that his men are where they need to be.

(At least he can be one reliable piece in this mess of a planet.)

***

21 BBY, day 129 of the War, 0428 GST

Fox leans back in his chair, contemplating the screen of his datapad. He’s finished half of the reports tonight, but it’s been a miserable four-hour slog so far. He’s not sure he’s up to the remaining four hours. Kriffit, he doesn’t even have that long. He only has an hour and a half before it starts getting light and he needs to get out to the Senate.

His comm chimes and he glances at it briefly. A message from Gree, mentioning something about whatever campaign he’s on now. Asking for advice. The comm indicates that someone else is writing a response.

Fox watches the dots that are slowly spinning. Somewhere in the galaxy, one of his brothers is actively responding to Gree. If Fox put a message in the chat right now, he’d be joining them. In whatever capacity he can.

He hesitates, rereading Gree’s question. Troop placements. Supply chains. Battle tactics. Things that Fox studied, but hasn’t used in what feels like an eternity. 

Text appears—Cody has written a short paragraph explaining how he dealt with a similar situation. The dots are going again, meaning that someone else is typing.

Fox mutes his comm and sits back upright, grabbing the next report. Only an hour and a half left before he needs to be on shift. But at least he can make his load a little lighter for later.

***

21 BBY, day 180 of the War, 0710 GST

Thire groans his way awake. Somewhere across the room, his comm is beeping with the reminder he set himself to wake up. How long has it been going off? Probably a couple of minutes. He swings down from his bunk and stumbles across the room to grab something to make himself halfway presentable while he heads down the hall to the showers. (Nobody cares at this point, honestly. They head to the showers in blacks, armor, shirts, whatever they have on hand. They’re too tired to care. But Thire’s a lieutenant, and… well, that’s got to be at least somewhat different, right?)

He gives up after discovering that his singular shirt is still stained in blood from… earlier this week, he guesses. He steps into the hallway, dragging fingers through his hair—

And walks directly into Commander Fox.

“Commander! Sorry.” Thire takes a quick step backwards, steadying himself against the wall.

Commander Fox glances up from his datapad, unperturbed. “Lieutenant Thire. Are you occupied?”

“I’m on patrol in forty-five minutes, sir.” Thire glances down the hall, at where two of his sergeants are having a whispered discussion. That doesn’t look good. He directs his attention back toward the commander. “Is there something you needed?”

“Come by my office tonight when you’re off patrol,” the commander says, and walks away.

Thire has to take a minute before he can head to the shower or talk to his sergeants. The commander was back in the regular barracks because… why? Why does he want to talk to Thire? Did he do something wrong? Why would the commander make him wait to hear it? (Stars, he does not like the idea of having to wait all day for that information.) He groans under his breath and heads toward the sergeants. He manages to get a smile on his face before they turn to look at him.

***

21 BBY, day 180 of the War, 2007 GST

“Well?” Fox asks when Stone walks into his office, muttering a steady stream of curses under his breath.

“They said no,” Stone says. He drops down on Fox’s couch in a clatter of plastoid. He chucks his datapad onto the desk as he does. “Rejected the request. Didn’t even put a reason for the rejection. All that for nothing. Kriffing natborns. Kriffing Kaminoans. They give us osik to work with and then think we’re incompetent when we make the osik into something slightly better. Kriffing dumbshebs.”

Well, if Stone is cursing like that, it must be bad. Fox picks up the datapad and opens the file that Stone had open. “. . . trooper requisition forms?”

“Yeah. For those NCOs that we were talking about ages ago.”

Fox scrolls farther. “You requested… three captains and their companies? What kriffing good would that do us? And I thought Thorn was supposed to be requisitioning troops?”

“I figured it was the least they could do, three captains and their companies. And yes, Thorn was supposed to be doing it, and he has. He just asked me to try as well, because they haven’t done anything for him yet. I’ve got plenty of time sitting on those escort mission transports.”

Fox skims down the form on the datapad. There’s a lot of information required just to submit it. And at the very bottom, a rejection form. Like Stone said, there’s not even a reason listed. That box is empty.

“Who rejected it?” Fox asks, tossing the datapad back.

“I don’t know. It doesn’t matter, does it? This is the fourth time.”

“Fourth? And Thorn’s requisitioned them more than that?”

“Yeah.”

“Sithspit.”

“My feelings exactly.” Stone drags himself to a respectable sitting position. It seems to take some effort. “I’ve been off-planet half the time for the past two weeks, Fox. I’m losing my mind. What’s happened here? Any good news?”

“No. Chancellor Palpatine keeps telling us that we’re doing wonderfully. His smile’s slick as oil, though. Gone the second you turn your back. And Bennor—he’s the di’kut in charge of the Senate Guard—keeps telling us that our work is osik’la. I had the gentleman who runs the prisons in here trying to tell me that Thorn’s doing a bad job. As though I don’t know that Thorn is there half the time, trying to get all that stupid paperwork organized. I told him to kriff off as politely as I could. Ten minutes later, I got called to the front desk because there were two dozen natborns in here trying to fight troopers that they blamed for the war.”

“Lovely.”

“Isn’t it just.”

Stone exhales loudly as he shifts to lie down flat on his back. “I don’t think I can move.”

“You can stay if you want. Thire’ll be in here in half an hour.”

“Meetings, Fox, always meetings. Have you commed your squadmates recently, by the way?”

“No. Too busy.”

“Fair. Neither’ve I.” Stone groans and gets to his feet, moving slowly. “All right. I’m on shift when?”

“In nine hours. Three hours in the Senate Building before Senator Taa goes to Ryloth. He requests a full escort this time.”

“Greedy slug,” Stone says wearily. “All right. Thanks, Fox.”

He disappears out the door. Before it can even shut, Pol is coming shouldering through it. He has a stack of flimsi in his hand. He must be really upset then. Usually his organized files are kept strictly in the medbay. He slams them down on Fox’s desk.

“There,” he spits. “Look at that.”

Fox resigns himself to another conversation. He picks up the top one and reads it out loud. “CT-23-4446. Name: Jam. Reason to visit the medbay: Slugthrower wound. Report: On patrol looking for a gang’s HQ and got shot by a gang sniper on level 1391. Severe bruising, but mostly protected by armor. One night in the medbay. Cleared to return to duty in twelve hours unless complications occur.” Fox looks up at Pol. “I’m not sure I’m following.”

“Those are all medbay reports,” Pol says flatly.

Fox thumbs through a few. “Sorry, Pol. Help me out. I’m not a medic. Is there a pattern, or…?”

“No,” Pol says. “No pattern. Just look at the dates. All of these are from the past five days.”

Fox eyes the stack. “That’s a lot.”

“That’s some of the ones from the past five days,” Pol says. “Have you even been reading my reports, Fox? Do you know how many I’ve sent you?”

“Yes. I read a lot of reports, though, so I don’t remember a kriffing number right now.” He grimaces at the ceiling. That stupid light is flickering again. “Uh… we’ve been on Coruscant for half a year now. Nearly every trooper has showed up in the medbay, some of them multiple times. At least, that’s what it feels like.”

“Three thousand, two hundred and sixty-two of them,” Pol says. “Some of them multiple times.”

“Pol.”

“What, you’re tired and can’t think about numbers? Fair; everyone’s tired. Let me break it down for you here. If every single trooper that I just talked about visited the medbay once, we’d be dealing with about 18 troopers a day. Those are only the ones that I have someone look at—not the ones that I send away because it’s just another one of those kriffing headaches. But when you look at the total number of reports, we’re at over five thousand already. That’s nearly thirty troopers in my medbay every single kriffing day, and sometimes way more. And with twisted joints, slugthrower wounds, blaster shots through their kriffing armor, knife wounds, concussions—the list goes on and on. Do you know how many men I’ve had in there nearly dying? How many nights I’ve stayed up to be next to one of them, so that if he died in the middle of the night, at least he wouldn’t be alone?”

Pol is waiting for an answer. Fox says carefully, “No, I don’t know.”

“Nineteen nights, I’ve stayed up. Twenty-four troopers who’ve come into my medbay who I thought would be dead before the next morning. Only five of them pulled through. Do you know how many have died, since we got to Coruscant?”

“Forty-two,” Fox says flatly. “You know I know that number, Pol.”

“See? Forty-two. And this”---Pol slams his hand down on the stack of reports—“is just part of it. In the last five days, Fox. Well over a hundred reports. And I’m going to be sitting up again tonight.”

“What happened?”

“Trooper named Feathers was attacked before his patrol partner could get to him. He’s in critical condition. I’ve tried to contact his batchmates, but the two that are still alive are in the Outer Rim. It’s no good, anyway. He’s only got a couple of hours left.”

“Kriffing stars,” Fox says quietly.

Pol stands back, arms folded.

“What do you want me to do?” Fox asks at last.

“Nothing,” Pol says. “There’s nothing you can do unless you can convince some incompetent natborn to route more supplies and more men our way.”

“Thorn and Stone have been trying to get more troopers. Nothing’s happened.”

“I know. I’d expect some new kriffing faces if something had happened.” Pol picks up his flimsi and grabs the one in Fox’s hand as well. He hesitates at the door, and when he speaks, his voice is subdued. A faint despair has taken over the anger. “Fox… if I don’t get a proper shipment of bacta in the next week, I don’t know how I’m going to keep running this medbay. We can’t function without bacta.”

“It’s that bad?”

“Yeah. We’re already rationing. I have Feathers in our second-to-last refill of the bacta tank. Once the last one’s gone, that’s it.”

“Kriffit.”

Pol shrugs. “What the kriff, you know? We’re not sentient, so it doesn’t even matter.” He walks out the door, but he’s coming back through it only seconds later. “Oh, and Fox? Cut back on the caf and get some sleep tonight. You’ve got circles under your eyes.”

“I have for weeks,” Fox says dryly.

“No osik. That’s why I’m telling you to get the sleep.” And Pol’s back out the door.

Fox rolls his eyes. Circles under his eyes are the least of his problems. It’s not like anyone can see that when he’s wearing his bucket. He sits back in his chair, breathing out slowly. Pol’s right, though. He’s tired. He’s seriously considering just flopping down on the couch and sleeping right now. He still has twenty minutes until Thire gets here, right? But that’s twenty minutes that he could be using on reports instead.

Thire walks in when Fox is shoulders-deep in a way-too-detailed report about a single base in orbit around Coruscant. So it’s one man short most shifts—who the kriff even cares, when Fox’s patrols are consistently dozens of men short?

“Sir?” Thire says.

Fox jerks his head up. Thire’s standing in front of the desk and Fox didn’t even hear him come in. Well, great. He’s getting really distracted. But—well, it is good to see Thire. He looks tired, but his hair is neatly combed. For once. And he looks like he doesn’t entirely mind being there. There’s something about his face that doesn’t look completely worn down yet. That’s something they could all use more of.

“Good to see you, Thire,” Fox says. “Have a seat, why don’t you?”

Thire pulls up the crate that Fox uses as the chair on the opposite side of his desk. “Sir, you said this morning that you wanted to see me—”

“Yeah, I did.” Fox turns off his datapad. “I wanted to ask you something.”

Thire hesitates. “Yes, sir?”

“What does it mean to be a lieutenant?”

Confusion flickers across Thire’s face. “A lieutenant, sir?”

“It’s not a trick question,” Fox clarifies. He’s too tired to be having this conversation, honestly. But here he is anyway. He needs to pull it together for Thire. “What does it mean to you to be a lieutenant?”

Again, Thire hesitates. “My answer isn’t the same as the lieutenant training handbook, sir.”

“Thire.” Fox snorts. “This isn’t an official evaluation, okay? I don’t care what the Kaminoans think a lieutenant should be. You’ve been one; they haven’t. What do you think it means to be a lieutenant?”

Finally, Thire answers. The hesitation is less, too. “It means being there for your men, no matter what they need, sir.”

Fox grunts. “Okay. And what do the Kaminoans say?”

“You’re sure this isn’t an official evaluation now, sir?” Thire asks, and there’s a bit of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“For kriff’s sake, Thire.” Fox laughs—how long has it been since he did that, properly? “I just want to know.”

“Have you asked anyone else these questions, sir?”

“No. You’re the first one.”

“Can I ask why, sir?”

“I thought I was asking the questions, Thire.”

“Sir, when the Kaminoans chose me to be a lieutenant, it was because they noticed I scored higher on the written tests than most of the other troopers. But you calling me in here has nothing to do with written scores on tests. I just was wondering why… why me?”

“If you answer my question, I’ll answer yours.”

“Yes, sir. Ah… sorry, what was the question again?”

“What do the Kaminoans say…”

“Oh, yes, sir. The Kaminoans would say that being a lieutenant—or any other ranking officer—is about controlling your men to follow your orders for the good of the larger army or movement.”

There’s a long pause. Fox looks at the ceiling. His brain feels so slow. He checks his mug, but there’s no more caf in it. Kriffit. He’ll have to go and get some once this conversation is done. He finally decides not to sugarcoat it and drops his gaze to lean forward and talk properly.

“I asked you here because you’re the best of my lieutenants, Thire, and I wanted to hear why you think that is.”

“I’m sorry, sir?”

“There’s nothing to be sorry about. Being good at what you do is a good thing.”

“No, I mean, sir… I’m not the best of the lieutenants is the thing.” Thire twists a hand in the back of his hair like it’ll make the words happen. “There are lots of lieutenants who are better than I am. Like Flora. His men are so well trained and never give him any problems, and he’s really effective whenever he’s put on patrol. Or Vector. His men can handle anything that they’re given. Or even Hound. He’s confident and never doubts himself.”

Fox considers for a moment. “Thire… what are your goals with life?”

“I don’t know, sir.”

“No goals?”

“I’m a clone, sir.” Thire’s smile is rueful now. “Natborns wouldn’t give me a job, or even a chance to try to join them as a part of their society.”

“Fair enough.”

“The others do have goals, sir, so…” Thire shrugs. “Maybe they have better hopes for the future. Like Flora—he wants to go to the Coruscant Academy and study advanced mathematics. And Hound wants to breed massiffs—he decided that a few weeks ago—and Vector wants to be a freighter pilot.” He stops, looking at Fox. “Is something wrong, sir?”

“You know what all of them want to do?”

“Yes, sir. We talk about that kind of thing sometimes.”

Fox picks up a datapad and pulls up the roster of Thire’s platoon. He scrolls down the list and pauses at a name that sounds familiar. “Who’s Cred’s best friend, Thire?”

“Sammy, sir. They’re inseparable. Always have each other’s backs.”

Now Fox remembers why that name sounds familiar. Those were the two that were with Thire during the riot, back when they first arrived on Coruscant. They always have each other’s backs? That’s not a coincidence, then, that they were the two with Thire and that he knows they’ll watch out for each other.

“Sir, can I ask a question?” Thire asks.

Fox realizes belatedly that it must have been at least a minute since he said anything. “Yeah, go ahead.”

“What do you think it means to be a lieutenant, sir?”

“There’s no right answer,” Fox says absently.

“You wanted my answer, sir.”

Fox snorts. Third time, now, that Thire’s said something that’s made him laugh. He’s losing that pain-the-shebs edge that he used to have, it seems.

“I don’t know, Thire. I just wanted to know what you thought. If I had to give an answer…” He sighs. “There’s so many things to think about. Kriffing stars, I don’t even know how to define it. But what you were saying, about knowing your men…”

“I didn’t say…”

Fox waves a hand. “I proved it, though. You know your men. That makes them loyal.” He thinks he sees a flicker of something else across Thire’s face, but he figures it’s probably not important since Thire doesn’t elaborate. “Anyway, gaining that loyalty? That’s something, for sure. And your points about the other lieutenants were good, too. Confidence. That’s something that makes a captain or a commander. Of course, Hound doesn’t have the self-control to pair with it. You do, though. And Vector and Flora—to be perfectly honest, they rarely wind up in here, because I don’t have to check up on them. Their success rates are about the same as yours, though. Their men are good, and loyal, but there’s something… not there with their interactions. But all the good lieutenants—they’re the ones that get things done. Makes it easier for me, and it’s doing their jobs right in the first place.” Fox glances at the chrono. “I’m taking up your time, aren’t I. Have you eaten since you got off shift?”

“No, sir. I’ll go and do that after this.”

“Go ahead, then, and make sure to get some good sleep tonight, trooper.”

Thire salutes on the way out and closes the door gently behind him.

***

21 BBY, day 197 of the War, 2135 GST

Chancellor Palpatine doesn’t usually call Fox to his office late at night. Fox has been in and around the Senate Building and Soh Center plenty of times at this time of night. But the Chancellor doesn’t usually do business at this time. Neither does anyone else. No business other than the under-the-table variety that Fox despises. Regardless, he’s got to go and talk to the chancellor. Kriff, he was just about to sleep, too.

Fox drags himself to the Soh Center, where Chancellor Palpatine said he was. The door is sitting halfway open when Fox arrives. Kriffing security risk. He’s going to have to talk to whatever patrol is on duty in the Soh Center today. Probably the Senate Guard. Bunch of di’kutse, the lot. He’s going to have to talk to Bennor again about his men’s incompetence.

“Ah, Marshal Commander Fox,” Chancellor Palpatine says cordially from where he’s sitting behind his desk, visible from the door. “Do come in.”

Fox shoves the door the rest of the way open and enters. This office looks practically identical to the chancellor’s main on in the Senate Building. In color, anyway. Fox has scoped the security of them both multiple times. The Senate one is way safer. This one is a bad day away from a fatal security breach, given Bennor’s men’s typical performance.

“What can I do for you, Chancellor?” Fox asks.

“I wanted to ask you a few questions,” Chancellor Palpatine says. “Merely administrative questions, you understand. I assumed you would still be available, even at such an odd hour.”

His smile is weirdly patronizing. So is the faint hum that seems to have taken up residence in Fox’s ears. Kriffing helmet malfunctioning again.

“Of course, Chancellor,” Fox says.

“Are you familiar with Khiimza Dru?”

“No, Chancellor.”

“Very well; I did not expect you to. She is a close friend and political ally of Senator Onaconda Farr, and is currently visiting from Rodia. She is staying in 500 Republica while she confers with Senator Farr and several others.”

Chancellor Palpatine pauses, and his eyes narrow at Fox. Fox opens his mouth, and shuts it again. The kriff is he supposed to say?

“Yes, Chancellor,” he says at last.

“I would—”

***

21 BBY, day 197 of the War, 2341 GST

“What the kriff, Fox?” Thorn’s voice says from somewhere above him. “Did you seriously give up on walking to the bunkroom when you have twenty steps left to go, vod? Pathetic. Absolutely pathetic. Are you sleeping, too?” A hand grabs Fox’s shoulder. “Come on, get up, and get your shebs back inside before some lost trooper wanders in here and trips over you.”

Fox inhales sharply, feeling as though he’s filling his lungs for the first time in a while. He opens his eyes. His visor is totally blocked by Thorn crouching in front of him.

“Back off, di’kut,” Fox grumbles. “I’m fine.”

“You’re napping in the hall at nearly 0000,” Thorn says.

“Yeah? So what?” Fox gets to his feet and sways so badly that he nearly falls over. He grabs the wall to steady himself and says, “I was just meeting with Chancellor Palpatine.”

“Sure, and you decided to take a nap on the way back—which, by the way, Fox, wasn’t cool since you were a cadet. And again, what the kriff? Why would you do it here?”

Fox drags off his helmet. “I don’t know. I’m just out of it, I guess.”

Thorn has his own helmet tucked under his arm, so Fox can see his eyes widen. “The kriff?”

“What?”

“You’ve got blood all of your face.”

“No, I don’t. Knock it off, Thorn.”

Thorn snorts and steps up, running a thumb under Fox’s nose. He holds it up. His glove is damp with what Fox recognizes immediately as blood. “What’s that, then, all-knowing Marshal Commander?”

“The kriff?”

“That’s what I said, remember? Vod, you are one distracted marshal commander if you fall asleep on the way to your office and get clocked a solid one without even noticing.”

“I didn’t get punched,” Fox says absently. He puts his hand to his face. Yeah, there’s blood under his nose and smeared across his chin. “That’s kriffing weird.”

“Better wash it off.”

“Yeah, because I was planning to just leave it there. Still better than your stupid tattoo.”

Thorn snorts and heads down the hall for the bunkroom. “Keep telling yourself it’s not cool, because one day this’ll be the most popular tattoo in the GAR. Just you wait and see.”

“In your dreams,” Fox scoffs.

Thorn disappears into the bunkroom. Fox stays in the hallway, looking at the blood on his glove. There’s a strange tugging feeling in his stomach, and an ache in his head. On instinct, he pulls his blaster out and checks it. His blaster power pack was full when he left the base to meet with Chancellor Palpatine. Now, it’s been fired a couple of times.

And he doesn’t remember returning to the base.

The kriff happened?

***

21 BBY, day 199 of the War, 0912 GST

GAR Communications—Coruscant Guard—High Importance

0912

GARCommunications: Notice to Marshal Commander CC-1010: Representative Khiimza Dru of Rodia has been found dead in her quarters. Presumed to have died over twenty-four hours ago. Inspector Tan Divo requires a minimum of one platoon of clone troopers to assist in investigations.

Chapter Text

21 BBY, day 220 of the War, 1902 GST

Fox steps into the bar, hand on his blaster, and grabs the Twi’lek bartender by the front of his shirt before he can get to the street. “Marshal Commander Fox,” Fox says. “Coruscant Guard. Like you requested. Where is he?”

“Oh,” the Twi’lek says. He points with one shaking hand toward the bar counter. “There, he’s there. I swear I didn’t mean any harm—I was just trying to check if you were coming or not, because it’s been such a—”

Fox releases the Twi’lek’s shirt and strides into the bar. There’s only one patron the bartender could be calling about. That’s the hulking Zabrak sitting at the bar, a female Torgruta hanging off one arm and a female human trying to get his attention from the opposite side. No one else is sitting nearby. That’s fair, given what Fox has heard. Fifteen minutes ago, the bartender put out a frantic request for help to arrest the known arms smuggler that had just taken up possibly permanent residence at the bar counter.

Fox tabs the human female’s shoulder. She half-turns; he grabs her shoulder and shoves her away. Fox plants one elbow on the bar counter and leans forward far enough that he can see the Zabrak’s face.

“Go away,” the Zabrak growls into his shot glass.

“You going to walk out of here on your own?” Fox asks.

The Zabrak turns narrowed eyes on him. “Are you?”

“Kriff yeah,” Fox says. “Stand up.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Last offer. Stand the kriff up.”

The Zabrak’s hand drops from the shot glass toward his belt.

Fox fully grabs the back of his head and slams it forward into the bar counter. The shot glass skids sideways and shatters on the floor behind the counter. Fox switches his grip to the Zabrak’s neck and slams his head into the counter twice more. The Zabrak groans and slumps into the counter, mumbling faint curses. The Torgruta girl backs up fast. She’s kriffing wringing her hands, like this was a big surprise.

“Well?” Fox says. Not that he expects the Zabrak to answer.

He drags the Zabrak’s hands behind him and cuffs him. Then he hauls him off his bar stool. “Come on. You’re going in the drunk tank to sleep off these shots before we incarcerate your shebs.”

“Wha—wha—ah—huh?” the Zabrak says incoherently.

Fox propels him toward the door, through the now-silent bar. The lights still flash between sickly green and sickly blue. The air still smells of cheap booze. The patrons, once chattery di’kutse, stare at Fox like they’ve never seen a clone. A few throw dirty looks his direction. Kriff them, too.

“Wait—wait!” the Twi’lek bartender exclaims as Fox brushes by him to get to the door.

Fox half-turns. “What?”

“He—he hasn’t paid his bill yet.”

It’s one of those moments where Fox is grateful for his bucket. Where the kriff do natborns come up with this osik? Rolling his eyes vehemently at everything in this stupid bar, Fox turns out the Zabrak’s pockets. There’s nothing there. Unsurprising. The Zabrak probably has his credits hidden in some inner pocket.

“He hasn’t got anything,” Fox says.

“But his bill—”

“He doesn’t have anything,” Fox interrupts. “Sucks to be out of a few dozen credits, but that’s life. Figure it out, and count yourself lucky that you still own the bar.”

Fox steps out the bar door, shoving the Zabrak in front of him. His speeder is parked just outside. It’ll be a simple job to get the Zabrak back to base with enough time left over to go and work on some of those reports that are kriffing stacking up again. Before he can even start for the speeder, though, an incoming call shows up on his HUD.

Kriff, that’s Mas Amedda.

What the kriff? Amedda never comms Fox, ever.

Fox opens the line, leaving his comms in-helmet. The Zabrak doesn’t need to hear whatever osik is going down somewhere a couple hundred levels up.

“Commander Fox,” Amedda’s voice says. “Your presence is required at the Republic Science and Technical Center immediately.”

“Yes, sir,” Fox says. “Is—”

The comm line cuts out.

“Kriffing politician,” Fox says under his breath. He switches back to outside comms. “Come on, di’kut. We’re going on a ride to the surface.”

***

21 BBY, day 220 of the War, 2352 GST

“No, no, no,” Thorn interrupts. He crumples a piece of flimsi in his hand and aims it at a point on the opposite wall. “You’re telling me that they found some crazy, dangerous, Jedi-can’t-kill-it creature on Malastare, and that they decided to bring it here? To Triple Zero? To the plane that’s only the heart of the galaxy, with important people and things all around where it’s being kept, on the off chance that it’ll all be okay and nothing’s going to go horribly wrong? Come on, what is it that they used to say in training—if something can go wrong, it will.” Thorn tosses the flimsi and misses spectacularly.

“Yep,” Fox says. He says it mostly to the desk. He has his face resting on his gauntlets right now, which in turn are resting on his desk. “That is kriffing exactly what happened.”

“No way. No way, Fox.”

“Natborns,” Fox says, “are so di’kutla.” He means it, too. Means it more than he can figure out how to say.

“Oh, sure, but they’re also suicidal and unthinking.” Thorn stands up and grabs another piece of flimsi from Fox’s desk. “For one thing, what are they going to do if that thing gets loose?”

“Zillo beast,” Fox says.

“Zillo beast, or whatever it’s called. If the Jedi can’t kill it, then it’s something out of a nightmare, and it has no business being on Coruscant. But that’s aside the point. What are they going to do if the thing gets out of the science facility? The Jedi can’t kill it, and I sure haven’t heard about them bringing those weapons from Malastare here, so that they can use them if necessary. They’re keeping it here on the statistically improbable chance that they’re going to be able to get away with this, no harm done.”

“They’ve done that with everything else in this war, too, Thorn. It’s nothing new.” Fox picks up a mug to check if there’s any caf left. It’s empty. Kriff.

“Yeah, but—but what do they expect us to do, Fox? Are we in trouble if it causes problems?”

“Yep.”

“How much trouble?”

“A lot.”

“It’s their fault, Fox! Their fault!” Thorn balls the flimsi up in his fist. Then he drops it on the floor and crumples it even further under his boot. “If this thing gets loose, it’s going to cause so much kriffing damage that it makes Geonosis look like basic training. Osik. Osik.” He grabs the flimsi and twists it in his hands. “Kriffing osik, Fox, why are they doing this?”

“That’s a great question.” Fox stands up. “I’m going to get caf.”

“Is caf going to make it any better?”

“It’s going to make my life a whole kriffing ton better.” Fox grabs two mugs from his desk. “Are you coming?”

“Yeah, I might as well. I need a drink, though.”

Fox stops by the door and levels a look at Thorn. “Don’t you dare think about leaving base for that.”

Thorn glares back at Fox. Fox can’t really blame him. Fox hasn’t let up on enforcing the rule about no drinking off base. It made him pretty kriffing unpopular for a while. It doesn’t help that the complaints about clone presence haven’t gone away. Doesn’t seem to matter that they’re only seen out and about doing their work now. Natborns keep filing those kriffing complaints. They’ve been submitting a whole lot with vague descriptions of troopers’ armor paint that leave Fox cursing for hours after dealing with them. He’s about one bad day from mandating identical paint jobs at this point.

“Yeah,” Thorn says at last, following Fox out the door. “I wasn’t thinking about going off base. Do you still have that moonshine in your desk?”

“Yeah. Don’t touch that.”

“Why the kriff not? You only drink caf, anyway.”

“That’s for the next time I need to do emergency surgery,” Fox deadpans, turning onto the main hall.

“You’d better not mean that literally.”

“Of course not,” Fox says.

It’s only a half-lie. He doesn’t intend to have to do any more emergency surgery. He’s only had to stitch himself back together once since getting to Coruscant.

It was a day when everything seemed to go wrong all at once. The medbay was swamped with troopers after an explosion on a patrol in the lower levels. There was a riot at the same time, so half of Pol’s medics weren’t in the medbay. Fox showed up on base sporting a knife hole in his side, bleeding everywhere. He stopped just before walking into the medbay, though, and continued to his office. No way was he going to try and get involved in all of that chaos. Pol had enough to deal with already.

So he pulled out the moonshine he’d confiscated the previous week, knocked back enough of it to take the edge off the pain, and sewed his side back together. He stayed in his office that night. He figured he’d probably do something stupid like pass out if he tried to get back to the bunkroom. The next day, he wrapped it up tightly and went back to work. It’s healed reasonably well. There’s a scar, and it’s ugly—lack of bacta does that—but he hasn’t had any bad side effects.

“Right,” Thorn says. “I totally believe you.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence, vod.”

“You know what, though? I could really go for a drink right now. Where does Hangover brew his osik’la… whatever it is. I’d call it gal, but it’s too bitter to be proper gal.”

“No idea,” Fox says.

“Sure you do—you know everything about this base.”

“If I know where the moonshine gets brewed, then I have to stop it.” Fox smirks. “And there goes my supply of seized alcoholic beverages. Plus, I might as well let them have something with all the osik that goes on here. Try some black caf instead. If you keep putting sugar in it, you’re going to vibrate out of orbit.”

“Kriff that. I’ll put as much sugar in as I want.”

***

21 BBY, day 221 of the War, 0600 GST

Fox drags himself out of his bunk early the next morning to start working on the insane amounts of paperwork that he’s going to have to get filled out about the kriffing Zillo beast being on Coruscant. He rewrites patrol schedules. He pulls as many platoons as he can from the lower levels to assign them to the surface instead. He has meetings all day. Thorn keeps comming him to update him on the status of various security measures that are being put in place. Fox has to go in the middle of the day to accompany the Chancellor himself while he goes to the Republic Science and Technical Center. For whatever kriffing reason.

As if to top it all off, some drunk crashes into his speeder on the way back from base.

Fox picks himself up from the ground, every muscle screaming in protest, and gets to his feet. His speeder is definitely wrecked. It’s a good thing he saw the incoming, much larger, speeder just in time to throw himself clear first. The other speeder is currently sitting on top of his, smoking.

Fox swears under his breath, pulls his blaster, and heads for the speeder. “Coruscant Guard,” he shouts. “Put your hands where I can see them.”

The Gungan in the speeder might as well be on another plane of existence. She makes a face at Fox, garbles a couple of insults. She tops it all off by producing some kind of long knife from the passenger seat of her speeder.

Fox levels his blaster at her face. “Put that down, now.”

Her head bobbles. She slurs cheerfully, “Yousa dirty clone nerf herder.”

“Put the knife down. Now.”

“Ha,” the Gungan says. “Make meesa.” She starts to climb out over the side of the speeder.

Fox takes a single step back. “Knife down, or I shoot.”

“Yousa too”—she belches—“scared. Silly, silly clones. Thinking theysa can take our—”

Fox switches his blaster to stun and pulls the trigger. The Gungan goes down, knife clattering away across the street. Fox holsters his blaster, rolls her onto her stomach, and cuffs her hands behind her. Then he picks up the knife and opens a comm line.

“Marshal Commander to base. Send me a transport, and get someone to clear a spot in the drunk tank.”

It’s Lieutenant Flora who shows up. He has the decency not to make any stupid comments, or even to talk at all. Thorn would, if he were here. That’s for sure. He’d have a whole kriffing bunch of osik to say. Flora, though, just pulls up long enough for Fox to load the Gungan onto the speeder and climb on behind her. Then they’re headed back for base.

Fox drops the Gungan off at the drunk tank and heads for his office to start on the new mountain of paperwork. It’s going to be a long night.

The entire next day is another fog of the same things. Rerouted patrols. Meetings. Keeping an eye on the Chancellor. Fox drinks enough caf that Pol would probably yell at him if he knew. But somehow, miraculously, by the end of the day, he’s able to just go back to base. The paperwork has diminished from a mountain to a pile.

Fox sits behind his desk, looking blankly at the door. He should be working on paperwork. He’s pretty sure that he’s been asleep for the last few minutes, though.

Well, kriff. He might as well just go and get some sleep while he has time for it, then. It’s 2100. He needs to be back on shift to keep rerouting patrols at 0600. That’s time for a solid eight hours, though. How long has it been since he’s had that?

Fox heads for the bunkroom, showers in record time, and pulls clean blacks on. He’s practically asleep by the time he crawls into his bunk and curls up underneath the blanket.

Kriff, he needed this.

***

21 BBY, day 221 of the War, 2259 GST

GARCommunications: Notice to Marshal Commander CC-1010: Report to Republic Science and Technical Center to respond to a security breach. Zillo beast has broken containment and is roaming loose.

***

21 BBY, day 221 of the War, 2300 GST

It seems like he’s barely closed his eyes when he’s jolted awake again.

“Osik, osik,” Fox breathes. He heaves over in bed and grabs his comm unit.

The first thing he sees is the time. Kriff, it’s 2300. He’s been asleep only an hour or two. The second thing he sees is a message waiting for him about the kriffing Zillo beast escaping, and the hundreds of notifications pouring in on his other channels.

Fox drops the comm to the floor and rolls onto his stomach, face pressed into his pillow.

“Kriffing stars,” he says to no one in particular. “Why me?”

Why him? Well, because apparently, he’s the only clone in the entire kriffing galaxy who’s trusted enough for this. And this is, apparently, getting out of bed to deal with someone else’s problem. Again. It wouldn’t be so bad if it were something simple. If Bennor wanted to be a di’kutla bureaucratic mess again, that would be one thing. Fox could deal with a riot. He could go and talk to whatever natborns are trying to protest in the lobby again. Any of those things, he could deal with, as long as he has a cup of caf and in-helmet comms to cuss on.

Dealing with an escaped monster from Malastare that got brought onto his planet?

Yeah, that’s not a problem that he wants to deal with, kriffit all.

Fox rolls out of bed, straps his armor on, and steps into the hall. No time for caf. He’s going to murder someone, probably. Kriff, maybe two people. He can make one of them whoever decided to bring the Zillo beast here.

Fox opens a comm line to the Coruscant Guard coordination hub.

“Marshal Commander Fox. Get ready to relay a message to the whole base.”

Whichever vod is manning the other end just then says, “Understood, Commander. What message?”

“Tell every vod on this base to get his shebse out of bed and kitted up. We’ve got a security breach on the surface. Put Lieutenants Lor’vram, Flora, and Thire in charge of making sure that everyone goes to the right places. Tell them a kriffing Zillo beast got loose. We’ll be figuring out how to bring the kriffer down, and doing crowd control.”

“Yes, sir.” The comm line goes dead.

A second later, the vod’s voice echoes through the base, relaying Fox’s message. Fox is already halfway to the hangar to grab his speeder by then.

***

21 BBY, day 221 of the War, 2315 GST

The night has turned into chaos. Fox comms Bennor every few minutes to demand updates, but Bennor keeps not answering his comms. The Guard evacuates buildings, blocks off streets, and keeps people out of the way of the massive beast that’s currently terrorizing this section of the planet.

Fox has no kriffing way to know what’s going on. The thing seems intent on getting somewhere and destroying something. It heads toward the Senate Building and Soh Center, and there’s chaos there. Fox isn’t there, though. He’s still at the Republic Science and Technical Center, dealing with all the di’kutse there. By the time he gets out, there are LA-ATs flying in from somewhere, and tanks. Where the kriff did those things come from? Fox has never kriffing never had any of those things other than a couple of defunct LA-ATs. Now, tonight of all nights, with this monster? Where did they come from?

There’s no warning when the Zillo beast goes down. It just does. Fox is halfway from the Republic Science and Technical Center to the Senate Building. He brings his speeder to a stop in midair.

“Kriff this,” he says to the handlebars of his speeder. “Kriff this.”

A comm from Thorn appears on his HUD. Fox answers it, continuing toward the Senate Building as he does.

“The kriff just happened?” Thorn demands.

“I have no idea.”

“Has Bennor responded yet?”

“No.”

“That kriffer had better be dead,” Thorn says. “If he’s alive, and knows what’s going on, and keeps ignoring your comms after telling you that you’re supposed to do something, I hope to anything that he and his osik get shoved out an airlock tomorrow morning at the latest. Kriff him.”

“Yeah, I’ll do my best to get that for you,” Fox says. “I’ll comm you as soon as I figure out what the kriff they did to this monster.”

“Great.”

Fox brings the speeder to a skidding halt near the front of the Senate Building. There are people beginning to congregate there, familiar faces and builds.

“Thire, get one other platoon and bring it and yours to the Senate Building,” Fox orders into the general comm.

“Yes, sir,” Thire responds promptly. “Lieutenant Verd and I are headed in your direction now.”

Fox approaches the group of people gathered out front of the building, cursing under his breath. There’s Chancellor Palpatine. Where was he during the attack? He was supposed to be in his office, in the Senate Building. That’s according to his schedule. No one from the Coruscant Guard was assigned to that section of the Senate Building tonight. It was supposed to be the Senate Guard. Sure enough, Bennor is there, too. So’s General Skywalker, Senator Amidala, General Kenobi, General Windu, General Secura, and a handful of Senate Guards that look like their typical decoratively useless selves.

Bennor turns as Fox approaches and barks, “Marshal Commander.”

Well, kriff him too.

Fox salutes and says, “Director Bennor. My troopers—”

Bennor interrupts, “Where were you, Marshal Commander?”

“I was at the Republic Science and Technical Center, per your orders, sir. I came here as soon as I finished there.”

“You were not here—”

“Sir, I was where you told me to be. I attempted to reach you and ask for instructions. Communications must have been down, because none of my comms went through. My troopers successfully kept the populace from being harmed. What further instructions do you have?”

Bennor stares at him. “You realize that it is your responsibility to ensure the wellbeing of the Chancellor?”

“Yes, sir. The Senate Guard was on duty tonight, and I routed troopers to try to cut off the Zillo beast’s path to the Chancellor.”

As if hearing his title, Chancellor Palpatine himself approaches. Kriff. He’s clearly been through it. He looks like an old, shaken man. Fox has to bite his tongue to keep from saying some things he’d regret. There’s no need to make the Chancellor think he’s more incompetent than Bennor is already implying that he is.

“Why, Marshal Commander Fox,” Chancellor Palpatine says, no hint of a smile on his face. “Wherever were you tonight?”

“I was responding as per Director Bennor’s orders—”

“Marshal Commander, let’s not throw blame, shall we? Merely answer the question. Wherever were you tonight?”

Fox gets the distinct impression that Chancellor Palpatine is able to see through his bucket. Fox doesn’t shift his head, but he looks upward so that he doesn’t have to see that face. He didn’t realize before right at this moment how much he despises the chancellor’s voice. Fox bites his tongue for all of the three seconds he can take before answering.

“I was at the Republic Science and Technical Center, Chancellor.”

“Whyever not at the Senate Building?”

“I was following—”

“Marshal Commander.”

Well, what the kriff does Chancellor Palpatine want him to say? He went to the place that the Zillo beast had been, and tried to figure out what was going on from the only people that would talk to him. So he’s not able to be at two places at once. Osik, there’s no good way to answer this the way the chancellor wants him to that’ll also tell the truth.

“I have no excuse, Chancellor,” Fox says as evenly as he can. “It’s my fault that I wasn’t able to get to the Senate Building in time.”

Chancellor Palpatine’s face crinkles in a frown. “Marshal Commander, you do realize how many people rely on your ability to do your job, yes?”

“Yes, Chancellor.”

“And yet, you did not complete your job tonight.”

“Yes, Chancellor.”

Fox glares over Chancellor Palpatine’s shoulder, at the other people there. The Jedi are all gathered together, discussing something in low voices. None of them seem to care in the slightest about the conversation occurring just behind them.

“Do you know something?” Bennor demands. “The only guard left to the chancellor was a Senate Guard, who is now dead. That should have been one of your troopers.”

“Sir, the Coruscant Guard—” Fox cuts himself off when Chancellor Palpatine’s eyes narrow. He fairly chokes on his words for a few long seconds. Finally, he manages to grit out, “I’ll make sure they’re stationed there next time, sir.”

“Next time,” Chancellor Palpatine says slowly. “Do you anticipate there being a next time, Marshal Commander?”

“No, Chancellor.”

“Why not?”

“Because I will not allow a security breach like this to happen again, Chancellor.” Fox turns off his out-of-helmet comms. He wants to say something. He wants to curse until he feels like he can breathe again. He can’t find any words. It takes an uncomfortably long few seconds before he manages to turn his comms back on and say, “Apologies, sir.”

Chancellor Palpatine nods slowly. There’s still no trace of his normal condescending grandfatherly smile. “I agree,” he says. “You will not allow this to happen again.”

“Yes, Chancellor.”

The chancellor’s smile finally returns, and Fox has to resist the urge to curse right then and there. Kriff, he hates that smile.

“Very well, Marshal Commander. You may go.”

Fox salutes, turns on his heel, and walks away as quickly as he can.

***

21 BBY, day 222 of the War, 2000 GST

Fox doesn’t get to go back to base until he’s worked the entire night, his entire regular shift, and a couple of extra hours to boot. He walks into his office at last at 2000. His stomach is growling, and his legs hurt so badly from standing that he probably won’t be able to stand up if he sits down. He picks up his datapad and checks it.

Well, kriff his life. The number of forms he needs to complete or sign off on has grown exponentially in the past twenty-four hours. He had many two hundred pending reviewal when he went to bed the previous night. There are now somewhere in the upper three thousands. Fox looks at the datapad for a long minute before he sets it down carefully. He’d like to chuck it across the room. A broken datapad is one problem he doesn’t need, though. Kriff, he could do without all of his problems, actually.

“Fox,” Pol’s voice says from the doorway.

“Yeah.” Fox turns around. “What’s happened now?”

“Want to tell me why I just got told our latest shipment of medical supplies got cancelled for performance-based reasons?”

Fox stares at him. “The kriff?”

Pol stalks forward and shoves his datapad into Fox’s hands. “Look at that.”

Fox skims the form that’s open on the datapad. It’s a typical supply order, except that it’s labeled as rejected. He scrolls down and finds what Pol’s talking about. Right down at the bottom, where it might get missed.

“Great,” Fox says, quietly. He gives the datapad back. “They’d better cut the osik before they run us into the ground.”

Pol throws out his hands. His hair is down, so it must be really bad. “What the kriff, Fox? What happened? I know that Zillo creature got loose and terrorized the Chancellor. It was all over every news source this morning, apparently. They were saying that the Senate Guard did some osik, and that we weren’t there in time. Is that why they’re cutting my supplies? They do realize that they’re putting troopers’ lives on the line here, right?”

“Yeah, probably.” Fox steps behind his desk and picks up his own datapad again.

“Performance-based reasons, Fox? You had this entire base out of their bunks like it was Geonosis all over again, all of five minutes after the thing escaped.”

“Tell me about it, Pol.”

“Fox,” Pol snaps. “I’m already low on medical supplies, and this is going to cut into what reserves I’ve managed to scrape together since getting here. You need to talk whoever can make this stop happening, before troopers start dying left and right. More than they already are.”

“Yeah, well, I’d try that if I could,” Fox snaps. “Chancellor Palpatine is blaming this on me, all right?”

Pol pauses. “What?”

“He’s blaming it on me.”

“He’s blaming the Zillo creature on you?”

“Its escape, anyway.” Fox grimaces and starts sorting the flimsi that’s scattered across his desk. “And not being there in time. Bennor’s the one who usually gets on the GAR communications to tell me things. He told me to go to the Republic Science and Technical Center when the Zillo escaped.”

“And?”

“And I went there.”

“And?”

“What do you think, Pol?” Fox crumples pieces of flimsi together in his hands, as tightly as he can. “No one told me anything useful. I commed Bennor over and over, and he didn’t kriffing answer once. I went to chase down the Zillo myself, and they took it down before I could get there.” Fox gives the flimsi one last vicious twist, then hurls it across the room. “That’s what happened.”

“Kriff.”

Fox looks up sharply. Pol’s voice sounds defeated, for the first time since Fox has known him.

“Hey,” Fox says. “We’ll figure something out.”

“Yeah,” Pol says. “In the meantime, I’ll keep this troopers alive if I have to resort to pulling apart bedsheets for bandages. Kriff, don’t look at me like that, Fox. I’m not giving up. Neither are you, apparently.”

Fox snorts. “Are you kriffing kidding me? I’m not giving up. I’m going to sleep for as many hours as I can get away with, and then start on these reports. Tomorrow, I’ll see if I can figure out how to stop the chancellor from comming me every hour with some stupid order.”

“Sounds amazing, vod.”

“It is.” Fox tosses another piece of flimsi across the room.

Pol salutes. “K’oyacyi.” He disappears out the door.

Fox shoves the last few pieces of flimsi off the desk, into a spare box. He doesn’t want to think about them, now or ever. He needs to sleep, is what he needs to do.

He makes it two steps toward the door before a comm message from Bennor appears on his HUD. Fox is supposed to report to the Soh Center for a meeting with Bennor and Inspector Divo, in fifteen minutes.

Fox looks back at his couch. He could take one of those pillows and scream into it until his lungs are raw. If he speeds, he could still make it to the Soh Center on time. Possibly.

“Kriff,” Fox mutters, and walks out the door.

Chapter Text

21 BBY, day 265 of the War, 0500 GST

“I found it,” Thorn declares.

“Really?” Stone leans over to look at the datapad that Thorn is holding. “I don’t follow…”

“Okay, but look,” Thorn says.

He slaps the datapad down on Fox’s desk and connects it to the holoprojector. His movements are slow and he messes up at least once. Well, it’s 0500, so that’s to be expected. Fox puts down his own datapad and sits a little more upright. Not too much, though. It’s overkill this early. Late. Whatever. The projector leaps up into 3D, showing a spinning projection of one of Coruscant’s portals to the lower levels.

“Isn’t that the portal that they’ve been doing construction on since we got here?” Stone asks.

“Sure is,” Thorn says. “I don’t have the construction parts on the holo. But this is where that gang’s smuggling the spice out of.”

“Great,” Fox says. “Why do you say that?”

“Because of the evidence,” Thorn says, punching Fox’s shoulder plate and rolling his eyes. Wolffe would approve. “Give me a second to explain it, di’kut. Look, they need a base to operate out of, and of course they can operate out of the lower levels, but these are the ones trading to the surface. Getting spice to the lower levels—no problem, because we never have enough patrols to run down there and the patrols that are already there are useless. But to the surface, with the political district—into the political district, kriffit—they need a different way.”

“And… the portal provides that way how?” Fox asks. Thorn’s logic definitely isn’t making sense yet.

“Because,” Thorn says, “they’re building a new lift shaft complex.”

That makes Stone pause. “I see.”

Fox doesn’t. He grabs his caf and takes another swig before saying, “Thorn, help me out, vod. Lift shaft complex. What’s the deal with it?”

“This new lift shaft,” Thorn says, pointing at a place on the holo emphatically. “It’s a whole complex. They’re going to have multiple lift shafts, but I’m guessing that this one is the one they’re using to transport the spice. It’s in a Coruscant-approved construction area near the surface, so why would we ever think to check it? All of these lifts were constructed at a normal rate up until two months ago, according to their records. Two months ago—the same time the spice started turning up—production slowed way down on all but one of the shafts—and there are no materials currently allocated toward that shaft.”

“What?” Fox says.

“I checked where they’re sending their materials, Fox, and it’s not to that one shaft. We need to get someone in there to see what’s actually going on.”

Fox sighs and leans back. “How sure of this whole thing are you?”

Thorn gives him a cold look. “Marshal Commander, what do you think?”

“Okay,” Fox says. “Well, lucky for you, I have a plan to get someone in there.”

***

21 BBY, day 266 of the War, 1213 GST

“Just like you said, Commander,” Hound reports quietly. It sounds like he’s in a public area, with the passerby noise audible even through his in-helmet comms. “We did the scouting run, and they’ve got that elevator shaft completely built. All the others are still in progress. And—Grizzer, heel—I also remembered—it’s two blocks over that we found that very first spice shipment.”

“Thanks, Hound,” Fox says absently, making a note of it on his datapad. Thorn left for the prisons already, but Stone’s come in from patrol and is fast asleep on his couch for the hour until he needs to leave for the Outer Rim again. So Fox is keeping his own voice quiet. He does ask, though, “How’d Grizzer do?”

“Perfectly.” Hound’s voice is full of pride now. “She caused so much chaos. She should be the designated chaos-creator for every crazy plan now.”

“Yeah, I agree. Thanks, Hound. Commander Fox signing off.” He cuts the call and sets down the datapad. He’ll have to tell Keeli at some point about this crazy plan—

Right.

Keeli’s been dead for months now.

And it’s not like he could just waltz into the comm channel that the old 38^th command squad used. He hasn’t messaged anything there in months. First because he forgot, and then because it was too awkward. The others were all checking up on each other anyway, and it’s been… a while since Coruscant was even mentioned as more than another passing component of the war.

He always thought they would be so inseparable, before the war. But things have changed now, he knows. They have the real world, now. Most of them made snide comments about Coruscant being just paperwork and fancy desks. Jokes, maybe, but not funny ones. He glances at his comm, seeing the 99+ that’s been displayed beside the messages for a long time now. He hasn’t even entered the chat since… when?

Kriffit. That doesn’t matter. He has a spice ring to bust. Seeing as Thorn’s practically living at the prisons now, and Stone’s about to leave again, Fox’ll deal with this himself.

***

21 BBY, day 266 of the War, 1545 GST

Before he can deal with anything, he winds up back at the Senate Building. Again. Fox despises the place at this point. He makes his way briskly to join Bennor for a meeting, though. And. It’s unnecessary. Again. He answers Bennor’s routine questions about the Coruscant Guard’s operations and the patrols that they’re running today. He assures him that they’re making progress on the spice situation and listens to him explain—again—how bad it would be if this spice source kept operating.

By the time Bennor’s done, Fox has been biting his tongue for about fifteen minutes. He heads down the hall to the elevator and waits until the doors close before he rips his helmet off.

He chucks it at the floor and drags his hands through his hair. The elevator is descending; he has less than a minute to himself. But despite that, he slides down the elevator wall to sit on the floor. Osik, he aches. And for no particular reason, either. He drops his forehead to his knees and groans. He just has to deal with this spice source and then—

There’s a soft ding and the doors slide open.

Fox jerks his head up. He probably looks as surprised as the young Pantoran standing there. Her arms are full and her mouth is slightly open as she looks down at him.

And Fox isn’t even wearing his helmet.

Didn’t he lecture Thire about always wearing a helmet? This is a different problem. But kriffit, he didn’t even follow his own advice?

There’s that split second during which Fox’s under-caffed brain deserts him. Then he grabs for his helmet and leaps to his feet in a clatter of armor. He grits out, “Sorry, ma’am,” as he goes to shove the bucket back on.

“Um… wait just a moment, please.” The Pantoran holds up a hand and glances behind her. “No one else saw. If you’ll just let me…”

And, ka’ra above, she steps into the elevator with him and hits the button to close the doors. She turns to him with a shy smile. “I’m sorry. I don’t even know what happened, but you look… upset. Is… is everything okay?”

Fox nods mutely. Why does this senator care?

“You’re Commander Fox, right?” she says.

“Yes, ma’am.” He’s frozen with his bucket still in his hands.

“I’m Senator Riyo Chuchi,” she says. “From Pantora. I think we met before, when you first arrived here. And I’ve seen you around.” She smiles. “There aren’t many of you with different paint on your armor.”

Well, she’s correct about that. Fox mandated that about the same time he banned off-base leisure.

“Yes, Senator,” he says. “I don’t think—” He reaches for the buttons that will start the elevator going again.

“Please, do wait,” Senator Chuchi says. “Something’s wrong. What happened? Are you okay?”

He’s insanely tired right now. He needs caf before anything else. Punching Bennor in the face would be good as well. And there’s a spice gang that he needs to go and catch.

“Yes, I’m oka—”

The words die on his tongue. Kriffing—kriffit—what is he doing?

“Difficult day,” he says with a shrug. “There’s a lot going on.”

She nods and asks casually, “You know that there’s blood on your face, right?”

“Kriffit,” Fox mutters. “I mean—uh, sorry, Senator.” He shoves his disarranged curls back from his face. He should cut those. But she’s right—the cut across his cheekbone has reopened. Well, that’s what he gets for not using bacta. “It’s nothing. I just hit my face on something. The other day.” Well, that sounds like a lousy excuse. But it’s not like he’s going to tell her that he barely avoided getting blown up and just got a scraped face and bloody nose instead.

“I have bacta in my office,” she offers.

Did she read his mind? Kriff, what’s happening?

And as if this whole thing couldn’t get more surreal, he hears himself saying, “Uh… thank you, Senator.”

“It’s three floors down.” She smiles and finally presses the button.

The elevator descends while they stand in awkward silence. Before the doors slide open, Fox shoves his bucket back on. He stays at her shoulder and follows her along the hall to a door. She unlocks it and leaves it open as she hurries in and drops her pile of books on the low table immediately inside the door. She steps over toward a drawer unit and searches a few drawers before producing a mini bottle of bacta spray.

“I don’t use it very often,” she admits as she returns. “I don’t wind up in as many life-threatening situations as my father assumed I would when I came here.”

“That’s… good of him to think of you though,” Fox says.

She nods. “He cares a lot about my safety.”

“It’s a good trait.”

She nods again. “You know the bacta spray won’t work on top of your helmet, right?”

Kriffit, he’s an idiot. He doesn’t know how to talk to a normal person. He nods and takes the helmet off. “Sorry, Senator. I just… sorry.”

She nods sympathetically as she stands on tip-toes to reach his face. “I know. It’s hard to think when so much else is going on, isn’t it? Sometimes I’m surprised that I even manage to sleep at all when there are so many new problems every day. And the Senate… it just… doesn’t inspire me with confidence.” She pauses to inspect her work, then shakes the bacta bottle and continues. “I suppose you have your own opinions on the Senate?”

“I’d do better not to say my opinions out loud, Senator. Most natborns don’t appreciate it.”

“If you had something complimentary to say, they’d be so ready to hear it.” She laughs quietly. “They do love being complimented.”

Fox would shake his head, but he doesn’t want to mess her up when she’s focusing. “No, I don’t think they would, Senator. They tend to discount clone opinions in general. I’ve been in enough Senate sessions to know that.”

She pauses. “They… well, I suppose they do. I’m afraid that the discussions about the troops aren’t the ones that I find myself paying the most attention to. What do they say in general?”

Fox shrugs. “Nothing much, and that’s the problem. They just commission more troopers, or talk about how to allocate supplies.”

“Do you… want to be discussed?”

Fox has let his tongue get loose, but that’s a bit too far for his comfort. “I’m not able to talk about that, Senator.”

She tilts her head slightly. Kriff, she looks young, but there’s a glint of… something in her eye. Determination?

“Okay,” she says at last. “I understand. I shouldn’t keep you, Commander, but please do feel free to come back any time. If you need to talk, or more bacta, or caf—” She pauses, looking at his face. “Oh. You want caf, don’t you?”

“Thank you, Senator, but I’ll get some back at base.”

He puts his helmet back on, salutes, and leaves the room. He relaxes at last as the familiar HUD comes to life. There are messages scrolling somewhere to the left, tactical information to the right, heat signatures outlining people through nearby walls, news headlines from three of Coruscant’s prominent news broadcasts, and a transcript of the Senate Guard radio channel. Information, all coming at him so rapidly that he can barely take it all in. But it’s creating the comprehensive picture that allows him to keep track of what’s going on. The tightness in his lungs doesn’t feel quite so bad now.

***

21 BBY, day 266 of the War, 2035 GST

Fox coordinates what needs to be coordinated and organizes everything to make sure that osik’s not going to go down while he’s gone breaking up a spice ring. He chooses Aiwha Platoon to accompany him to bust the ring. Lieutenant Lor’vram accepts the mission with a prompt “yes, sir” and goes to get his men gathered together. Fox assigns Nocturne Platoon to be on standby. Lieutenant Thire has dark circles under his eyes when he shows up in Fox’s office five minutes later to ask if they’d like to get more assistance sooner than later, just in case.

Fox raises his eyebrows. “Do you think you’re in any state to do that, Lieutenant?”

Thire frowns. “Sir? I… I’d like to do whatever’s necessary.”

“You look tired, Thire.”

Thire shrugs. “I’ve been pretty busy, sir.”

Fox is too busy himself to bother to fact-check Thire’s statement. “Well, I appreciate the offer, but that won’t be necessary. Stay on base, listen for any messages, and get some sleep.”

***

21 BBY, day 266 of the War, 2346 GST

“Sir,” Lor’vram says over the comms in a harsh whisper. “We’ve got at least four groups of confirmed hostiles now. One is moving toward your position.”

Fox grunts in response. He’s grappled halfway up the side of a lift shaft, next to the control panel. Beside him, Sergeant Barn is also grappled on. Barn is carefully using his vibroblade to get the panel open while Fox hangs onto it, not letting it drop. Everything is shadows where they are, but bright floodlights illuminate much of the ground below them. It’s quiet. Maybe too quiet, which is why Fox would rather get this part done fast before anything else happens.

“Sir?” Lor’vram says again.

Fox engages his comm. “Report.”

“Four groups of confirmed hostiles, sir. Two are still in the lower levels of the facility. We have eyes on one of them, and the other group is being hunted down. One group in the control center building, which we’re working on surrounding. And one group heading toward your location.”

“Send the data to my HUD.”

“We lost track of them, sir. Last we saw, they were headed toward you.”

“Above or below?”

“Below, at the time. Group of about eight.”

Fox shifts his weight, rotating to look out at the ground below better. They’re a hundred fifty feet up. There’s a whole shipping dock down there, with two seedy-looking transports docked. He doesn’t see any people. It’s fifty feet up to the top of the lift, where it disappears into the platform above. He can’t see a kriffed thing in that direction. Just the place where his and Barn’s grappling hooks are closed tight around some pipes.

“Okay. Let me know if anything changes.” Fox switches his comm to speak to Barn. “We’ve got potential hostiles incoming.”

“‘Kay.” Barn carefully shifts sideways, pushing off the wall to allow himself to slide a little higher as well. He hauls up on the vibroblade, arms straining. “This is—kriffing—solid.”

“Yeah.” Fox shuffles backwards, adjusting his grip. “Nearly there.”

“And—got it.”

Barn’s vibroblade slips through the last bit of metal holding the panel in place. It comes loose, the full weight falling into Fox’s arms. He sits backwards, allowing his center of gravity to catch the panel.

“All right,” Barn says, walking himself slightly sideways. “Time to take down this entire grid. Let’s see. Power switch…”

“Way back there,” Fox says, nodding toward the furthest-back part of the cavity in the wall.

“I can’t quite reach it. Hang on.” Barn gives himself a little more slack on his grapple line and steps downwards. “Can you…”

“Yeah.” Fox steps sideways, giving Barn more room to move. “Now?”

“I think so.” Barn twists, reaching his full arm into the cavity. “I can… just…”

There’s a shout from below.

Fox twists, looking down. Kriff. There are the hostiles that Lor’vram was talking about. Eight of them, and four of them are pointing blasters up, at him and Barn. The other four are running for the lift shaft.

“Barn, hurry it up,” Fox barks.

“Working on it—and—nearly—”

Blasters fire. Fox ducks his head, but the shots all go above them. Twisting, he flings the panel downwards, aiming for the hostiles. He has no idea if it’ll hit or not, but it’s worth a shot. And now his hands are free to grab his own blasters from their holsters.

There’s a faint hiss from beside him, and Fox looks over to see Barn frantically grabbing for the edge of the cavity with his other hand as he starts to fall.

“Sir!” he shouts.

Kriff. They cut Barn’s grapple line with one of the blaster shots. Barn’s arm is in the cavity already, buying him some time, but he’s scrambling to try to haul himself higher. And failing.

“Hang on,” Fox orders.

There are more blaster bolts coming in their direction. He returns a few shots before shuffling sideways along the wall—

Everything happens in a rush. Three blaster bolts hit Barn’s free left arm. He gives a choked scream. Loses his grip. Starts to fall. Fox dives for his hand. His fingers slide through Barn’s. Frantically, he returns a few more blaster bolts at the hostiles as he lets his grapple line out, swinging down the wall far faster than he should. There’s a series of crashes as Barn hits the ground. Fox is halfway down from their position now; he gets a few more shots off before his own grapple cord snaps. He doesn’t know if it’s the stress from his use. Or if it got hit by one of the stray blaster shots. Doesn’t matter.

He falls the remaining twenty feet. Lands on his shoulder. It kriffing hurts. And all the air is knocked out of his lungs.

Groaning, he rolls to his front; drags himself to his feet. Barn’s body is barely visible in a pile of packing crates. Injured, for sure, though Fox doesn’t know if he’s dead or just knocked out. Not too much of an immediate concern, given that there are four hostiles swarming Fox now.

And yeah, they’re the spice dealers for sure. They have that look about them. Fox fires off a few shots before they reach him, and then they’re all on him. All four. Kriffing stars.

“Lor’vram!” he shouts into his comm. The helmet is being ripped off his head. He snarls “get off” at the three sentients holding him down. One’s a Trandoshan. That’s not helping things.

“Is ‘e valuable?” the human standing in front of him asks.

Fox twists, but the Trandoshan digs clawed fingers into the back of his neck. Fox flinches and reluctantly stops struggling.

“Yeah,” says the Devaronian that’s practically sitting on Fox. “I recognize his armor. This’s the Corrie Guard head honcho guy.”

“So get the kriff off,” Fox snarls from where his face is smashed into the ground.

He doesn’t expect it to work. And—big kriffing surprise—it doesn’t.

“Huh.” The human steps over and grabs Fox’s hair, twisting his head so that he can see Fox’s face. “Yeah. We’ll take him.”

“You will not—”

The man holds up a hand. “Hey. You were the one trespassing in our territory.”

“You’re trading spice, di’kut,” Fox spits back.

The human rolls his eyes, freeing a stun baton from his belt and turning it on. “Yeah, yeah, I know. But you can’t stop us, can you?”

He shoves the crackling baton up against the side of Fox’s face, and that’s the last thing he remembers for a while.

Chapter Text

21 BBY, day 266 of the War, 2357 GST

Thire is jolted awake only minutes after he’s fallen into bed. Panicking, he grabs for his comm and thumbs it on. “Lor’vram—what—?”

Lor’vram’s voice comes fast. “Commander Fox has either gone radio silent or got himself caught, and I’m thinking the latter.”

Thire sits frozen for only a second before his swings out of bed, grabbing for the first pieces of his armor. “What—what happened?”

Lor’vram’s voice is still tight and rushed. “We’re in the spice dealers’ territory. We knew that hostiles were heading for Commander Fox and Sergeant Barn, but didn’t know where they were. The commander was trying to call me, but that’s where communication cut off. I’m at his last known position now, but he’s gone.”

“What about Sergeant Barn?” Thire asks, tightening the straps on his cuirass.

There’s a long pause before Lor’vram says, “He’s alive for the moment.”

Oh. (Thire knows Barn—he’s wound up on enough of the same patrols as Thire was on before. But he can’t think about that now.) He takes a breath before going on with his armor. “I can have my platoon there in twenty minutes. Can you wait that long?”

“We’ll make it work,” Lor’vram says. “Kriff, Thire, I’m getting the sense there are a lot more sentients to deal with in this place. This is spice territory. They’re bound to have a whole bunch of messed-up regulars hanging around that we’re going to have to deal with.”

***

21 BBY, day 267 of the War, 0020 GST

Every part of Fox aches. Especially his shoulders, because his arms are twisted up and his wrists are cuffed above his head, around a pipe exposed in the wall. His head hurts with a vengeance, too, and his face is on fire from the direct contact with that stun baton. Kriff. He’s really kriffed right now, isn’t he?

He really has no idea how much time has passed, but he can only think, Not anyone else. Keep your hands off them. Not anyone else.

***

21 BBY, day 267 of the War, 0024 GST

“I’m splitting up my men,” Thire says in a low voice. Even though he’s wearing his helmet and the comms are internal, he doesn’t feel right being any louder. “We’re going to scout the entire area and figure out where they took the commander.”

“Copy,” Lor’vram says. “We’ve neutralized a couple of spice dealers. Hard to tell how many more there are, though.”

“Okay.” Thire switches off the comm and glances at his men. He’s split them into groups of two. Eddy is with him—though not because he wants to work with Eddy; just because he doesn’t want anybody else to have to work with Eddy. So he’s stuck himself with the most annoying—

Nope, he’s not going to think that way. He’s got a perfectly competent trooper with him, and all he has to do is make sure that that trooper stays focused and doing what he needs to.

“Head out,” Thire says. “Report in as soon as you find anything.”

As the groups of two split off, Thire heads off in his own chosen direction. Eddy trails behind him. Thire can hear bits and pieces of what he’s saying over their comm line, but he tunes out as much of it as he can. It sounds like Eddy’s mostly just grumbling about having to be awake at this time of night, which is a complaint so irrelevant that Thire doesn’t care. Their commander is in active danger and Eddy is complaining about how much sleep he’s getting?

No. No. Thire needs to stay focused himself. “Eddy,” he says quietly. “Quiet down, please. We need to be able to hear what’s happening.”

“I think it’d be pretty obvious if something happened,” Eddy mutters. “Because nothing has so far.”

“Wait,” Thire says, holding up a hand. “Is that light up there?”

It was just a flicker, in the tower built next to the lift shaft that Lor’vram said Commander Fox was at. Well, it’s… a pillar? A support for the portal that’s not far off? It’s hard to tell. But there was some sort of light in there, for just a moment, before it disappeared again. That’s nothing if not a lead.

“Come on,” Thire says. “We’re going to get up there.”

***

21 BBY, day 267 of the War, 0035 GST

Commander Thorn and Lieutenant Lor’vram

0035

CommThorn: Lor’vram, how’s the patrol with Fox

LtLor: we’re working on it sir

CommThorn: Fox isn’t replying to my comms

LtLor: give me a minute and I can explain sir

CommThorn: is Fox in danger

LtLor: yes

LtLor: please give me a minute sir

LtLor: I’ll explain

CommThorn: you had better, because I’m coming from the prisons otherwise

***

21 BBY, day 267 of the War, 0041 GST

“This seems right,” Thire breathes. “See—they’ve got the wiring done properly in here. I guess Hound couldn’t see it when he was scouting, but they’re still building in this section. It’s probably being actively used for something. Maybe just construction, but the dust is too thick right here and too thin comparatively right there.” He glances back at Eddy. “Get your blaster out, Eddy. It’s pretty likely there’s someone back here, and I’d really rather be ready for whatever happens.”

“Seems unlikely,” Eddy mutters, pulling his blaster slowly from its holster.

“It’s pretty likely.” Thire steps cautiously forward, blaster in hand, set to stun. (He wishes he could trust Eddy to have his back, but he honestly doesn’t really trust him for that.) “And—”

He’s cut off as he steps into the next hall and blaster shots erupt from somewhere. He leaps back into cover, then takes aim and fires. There’s a thud as one of the hostiles down there falls.

“Eddy, I need—”

“Forget it,” Eddy says. There’s an edge of panic in his voice, and one that Thire hasn’t heard before. (Maybe because there’s almost no light and it feels so wrong in this half-finished place.) “It’s like a death trap in here.”

“Eddy?” Thire half-turns, just in time to see Eddy backing up. “Come back,” he orders, dragging his attention back to the renewed blaster bolts from down the hall. He fires twice more; hits someone on one of those shots. The blaster bolts are a single steady stream now. He takes a deep breath before leaning out a final time and pulling the trigger three times in quick succession. The third one connects with the remaining hostile just enough to bring him down.

Thire lets out a sigh of relief and glances back toward where Eddy was.

And no longer is.

Stars. This isn’t good. He opens the comm line—when did it shut?—and says, “Eddy, come in.”

No answer. A few seconds past before the comm line closes again.

“Stars,” Thire mumbles. He’s on his own now, isn’t he? But he can’t just stop. He’s given away his position. He might as well finish this thing. He switches to his comm with Lor’vram and says, “Lor’vram, my patrol partner is gone.”

“What? Did he get shot?”

“No. Just left.”

There’s a pause before Lor’vram says flatly, “Eddy?”

“Yeah.”

“Get out of there, Thire. Wait for someone else to show up.”

“I can’t do that. They know I’m here. I have to just figure out who’s here.”

There’s another, longer pause. “I’m sending troopers in your direction.”

“Okay. I’ll try not to get too far before they show up.”

“Be careful, Thire.”

“I will.” He turns the comm off again, takes a deep breath, and advances around the corner.

No new blaster bolts meet him. That’s a good start. The hall is full of shadows. He can barely see. But he can hear a faint echo of voices. So he walks slowly forward, blaster held in front of him. Down the hall, expecting to meet a blaster bolt to the face at any moment. None comes, and he turns left at a perpendicular hall. Toward the direction of the voices. He can see light, now—that must be the source of the light he saw earlier. He can’t see into the room, though. It’s to the left. This hallway is falling apart, the metal panels on the wall removed in some places, and pieces of durasteel scattered across the floor. Sparks hiss occasionally from some wires that look like they’ve been partially ripped out.

And there’s the room with the light. Thire can see three humanoid figures facing away from him. Checking to make sure his blaster is set on stun, he steps forward—

Two of the figures spin toward him simultaneously and two blaster bolts punch through Thire’s cuirass.

***

21 BBY, day 267 of the War, 0048 GST

“No!” Fox shouts, forcing himself up onto his knees. The cuffs dig into his wrists as he strains to break free. “No! Get away from him—get away!”

Thire, in the doorway, staggers back a step. His free hand goes to the smoking holes in his cuirass. They’re low, to the left. Bad. Very bad. Not instantly fatal, though.

“Don’t move,” the human—the head spice dealer, Fox has realized by now—orders. He points his blaster at Thire, but addresses Fox. “You know I’m not afraid to kill him.”

“Drop your weapons,” the Devaronian says to Thire.

He releases his grip on the blaster and raises his hands slowly. Fox can see them shaking.

“Thire,” Fox says. “Run.”

“No,” the dealer snaps. “If you run, clone, I’ll shoot your commander. Maybe nobody else cares, but you care. Enough to show up here. Now take off your helmet and walk forward. Slowly.”

Thire’s hands go to his bucket and pull it off. Fox’s heart sinks. Thire looks wretched. Hair messed up from being in the helmet. And from sleeping on it, too, probably. Dark circles under his eyes that are more prominent in the low light here. Sweat on his face that might be from being under the bucket, or might be from the still-smoking holes in his armor.

“Thire,” Fox says again.

“I can’t do that, sir,” Thire whispers. He steps forward, into the room, hands still up.

Kriff, Fox wishes that Thire didn’t have to see him like this. He’s sure that there’s blood on his own face, from where the Trandoshan decided it would be a good idea to punch him a minute or two ago. The electrical burns on his face are definitely noticeable. Thire isn’t looking at him, though. He’s looking at the dealer.

“What are you doing here, clone?” the dealer asks.

“I’m here for my commander,” Thire says. His voice is firm, but there’s a hitch in it. “I want him back.”

“Thire, leave,” Fox hisses through his teeth. “That’s a direct order.”

“I can’t follow it, Commander,” Thire says. He doesn’t take his eyes from the dealer. “They’ll kill you.”

“If you stay, you’ll be dead,” Fox snaps. “Go, Thire.”

“No, sir,” Thire says. He swallows, still not looking away from the dealer.

That’s not Thire’s normal behavior.  It’s like he’s trying to wait this out. Like he’s got someone else coming. Ah, of course he does. Kriffing idiotic, magnificent di’kut that he is, Thire is trying to pull off a plan here. Not that it’s a good plan. At least he’s got some plan, however bad.

Except that now the dealer is realizing there’s something going on, and he lifts a hand, nodding at the other two in the room—the Devaronian and the Trandoshan. “Go. Find out who else is here.”

The two of them nod and slip out, past Thire. The Trandoshan gives Thire a dirty look as he does. Like he wants to give Thire cuts on his face that’ll match Fox’s. Slim chance of that, once Fox gets his hands on the chakaar.

The dealer grunts once the two are gone and glances toward Fox for a second before turning back to Thire. Thire’s face is distinctly paler than normal.

“Well,” the dealer says coldly. “Now that you’re here, I have to deal with you, don’t I?”

“This won’t work,” Thire says.

“Won’t it?” the dealer asks with a half-smile. As he lifts his blaster and shoots Thire; Thire ducks just in time, and the bolt hits his shoulder rather than his chest.

“Thire!” Fox roars, straining against the cuffs. They won’t give. He needs to get free. Needs to be there for Thire—

Thire isn’t frozen anymore, though. He dives for the dealer, grabbing for his blaster. The dealer fires again, and again. The shots slam into Thire’s shoulder, and then his leg. He tackles the dealer, dropping him to the ground. The dealer rolls; gets Thire flat on his back. Holds him down, blaster pressed up against Thire’s chin.

“Get away from him!” Fox shouts, jerking on the cuffs. He can feel the biting strain on his hands. He just needs to break something—cuffs, pipe, fingers, it doesn’t matter—to get free.

“Where’s the rest of the rescue?” the dealer demands.

“I didn’t bring anyone,” Thire chokes past the blaster. “It’s just m-me.”

“You’re lying.” The dealer jerks the blaster toward Thire’s shoulder and fires again.

Thire screams, writhing under the man. “I didn’t bring anyone—I swear—gah!” He sobs with pain as the dealer fires again. “I didn’t—I didn’t—”

“Leave him alone!” Fox throws his full weight against the cuffs. It’s not working. It’s not working. He’s only broken his own hand on purpose once, and he’s shaking too hard to do it properly right now. He tries anyway; strains his hands against each other to get a grip on his thumb.

“Tell me,” the dealer snarls. “Who—”

Thire bucks desperately, and manages to throw the dealer off. He rolls away, grabbing for his own blaster—

The dealer fires twice into Thire’s back—

Thire’s fingers close around his own blaster as he rolls to his stomach, aiming up at the man. And, kriffing stars, Thire stuns the dealer. Doesn’t kill. Stuns. The first shot brings the dealer to his knees. The second tips him over onto the ground.

“What the kriff, Thire,” Fox snaps into the silence. “You—”

His words die on his tongue as Thire turns his head to look at Fox. And he can see the blood. And the smoking armor. And the dust. Most blaster bolts will cauterize themselves at least partly. But four shots to the same shoulder, and Thire’s arm is covered in blood. It’s staining into his armor. The same color as the paint.

“Commander,” Thire whispers, forcing his good arm underneath himself so that he can push himself up.

Fox’s tongue is like lead. “Thire—”

“Give me—a—” Thire pauses to shake his head, like he’s trying to clear it. “Give me—a—second. I’ll—I’ll get—”

The words slur thickly into one another. Thire stares at his hand on the ground, like it’s the only thing in the world that exists. He wavers. Fox’s chest is ice when he sees the light go out of Thire’s eyes. He sags sideways, and lies still.

“No—no—Thire—wake up.” Fox throws himself against the cuffs again. “So help me, I will kill you myself if you don’t wake up. Thire. Come on, Thire. Wake up.”

No response. Thire lies motionless, smoke still drifting from the singed holes in his armor.

Kriffit. No. No. No.

He has to get himself out of this. The cuffs are connected to the metal pipes that run along the wall, half-installed, but firmly locked into place. Fox twists himself so that he’s facing the wall, shoulders tugging even more painfully with this angle. He braces his boots against the pipes, rises up slightly, and then heaves as hard as he can to pull himself away from the wall. The pipes don’t give. Fox tugs twice more before he gives up and sinks back down to sit.

He twists over his shoulder to look at Thire. There’s blood pooling under him now. This is bad. This is very kriffing bad.

There’s a join in the pipe, at about floor level, where two pieces must have been connected. One of the screws looks loose. Not that he can reach it. But he has to try. Fox plants his boot against it, feeling the spot. Then he draws the leg back and slams his heel into the place. Again. And again. And kriffing again. It takes three kicks for it to dent. So he keeps going, raising himself up again so that he can kick it better. Over and over. His shoulders are screaming in protest from being twisted this way. His face still throbs. He barely seems to be making any progress—

—until the pipe splits and he sits down abruptly.

The cuffs are still twisted in the wiring back there; it takes only a quick jerk to rip the wires apart. Sparks spray everywhere. He twists his head away, but a few still sting his face. He jerks the cuffs away once and for all, and finally he’s released from the wall. His hands are still cuffed. But he can move.

He stumbles toward where Thire is lying and takes stock in a matter of seconds. A lot of blaster wounds. Blood soaking his shoulder and running in lines down his armor.

“Thire,” Fox says, shaking him. “Thire, come on.”

Thire’s face remains slack and unresponsive.

Fox scrambles up and across the room to Thire’s helmet. He shoves it onto his head. It’s… well, it’s a whole kriffing lot less information than is in Fox’s, but it’ll have to do. He accesses Thire’s comms quickly and opens one to Lor’vram.

“Thire!” Lor’vram says. “What happened—”

“It’s Fox,” Fox interrupts. “Thire’s down. I need evac, now.”

“Sir. We’ll work on it, but we’ve got a firefight happening right now. I lost contact with the troopers I sent after Thire. So—”

Fox doesn’t listen to anything after that. If he lost contact with the troopers heading their way, then that means the Devaronian and the Trandoshan got them. Which means they’ll be headed back, ready to attack.

“Lieutenant,” Fox interrupts. “Call Commander Thorn and tell him to get down here as soon as possible. Call in four more platoons as well. And route as many men as you can spare toward my position. I want this place wiped out.”

“Yes, sir, and—”

Fox jerks off the bucket and stumbles back toward the dealer. He grabs the blaster from the floor, checks to make sure that it’s set to kill—because he’s kriffing not going to just allow for the possibility of this demagolka ever walking free after this—and fires at the dealer. One shot. Clean. Through the head. And then that’s done.

He returns to Thire, shaking him again. “Thire. Wake the kriff up.”

Maybe it’s the urgency in his voice that finally gets through to Thire. His eyes crack open. He whispers, “Commander?”

“Can you walk?”

Thire shakes his head slightly. His eyes are trying to close again.

“Stay awake,” Fox says. “That’s an order.”

“I—sir—” Thire draws in a ragged breath. “I can’t—can’t—not able to—to—”

“You’re kriffed up,” Fox says flatly. “I know.”

Thire nods. It’s almost imperceptible, but it’s there. “A little.”

“A lot. But you’ve got to stay awake. I told Lor’vram to send us people. Until then, we’re going to get out of here. I can’t drag both of our shebse out, so you’re going to have to hang on.”

Thire flinches slightly. Fox grimaces. His voice is too sharp. Too angry.

He takes a deep breath and forces it to have the same calm that Ponds always used to have. The calm that Thire himself always has. “Thire.”

“Sir?”

“It’s going to be okay.”

Thire nods. His eyes are barely focused.

“I know it hurts, and—kriffit, you probably shouldn’t have come here on your own, but what’s done is done. You’re an idiot. We’ll talk about that later. And that kriffer’s dead now. I need you to keep holding on for long enough for us to get back. Okay? We’re going to get you back and get Pol to put you in bacta as soon as possible. Until then, we’re on our own. So we’re going to start with you getting these cuffs off me. Thire, listen to me. I need these cuffs off.”

Thire nods. He forces his eyes open. He takes the blaster that Fox hands him and gets a bolt through the cuffs. Fox’s hands come free, and he hastily takes the blaster back from Thire before he drops it out of his shaking hands.

“Come on,” he says, sliding his arm around Thire. “Get on your feet so we can get out of here.”

***

21 BBY, day 267 of the War, 0103 GST

Commander Thorn and Lieutenant Lor’vram

0103

CommThorn: Lor’vram, I need answers now

LtLor: we’re working on it sir

LtLor: Comm Fox was working with Sarge Barn but we lost contact. Lt Thire went to find him. Just got word from Comm Fox through Thire’s comm that they need evac

CommThorn: I’m on my way

CommThorn: get Fox and get out

CommThorn: we’ll torch the place later

Chapter Text

21 BBY, day 267 of the War, 0106 GST

“What—what happened to Barn, sir?” Thire asks when they’re halfway down the hall.

“The kriff, Thire?” The commander sounds annoyed. (Because he’s asking? Because he chose now to ask? He’s not sure.)

“B-barn, sir. What h-happened to him?” Thire’s steps falter for a second and his grip around Commander Fox’s shoulder tightens. (No. He has to stay strong. Has to get out of this.)

“He fell,” the commander says shortly. “I don’t know. I got stunned in the face before I could find out.”

“O-okay.”

Thire decides then that he’s probably not going to talk anymore. (His voice keeps shaking, for one thing.) He tightens his grip again and forces his bad leg to take his weight for a second so that he can take another step. It hurts. It really hurts. (Not as much as Barn is probably hurting, though.) And he knows that the… multiple (he doesn’t know how many) blaster shots that punched through his armor are bad. Especially his shoulder. It’s on fire, throbbing in time with his heartbeats. If he had his way, he would be passing out on the floor (or preferably bacta, except that Pol says they don’t have enough) right now. But that’s… really not an option. So he ignores the way the hallway sways with each step and keeps on taking them. He has to stay moving. For Barn. For everyone.

And for Commander Fox.

The commander is… quiet. His face is tight. His helmet is missing, so Thire can see all the lines that are drawing it tight.

Thire needs to do something. Say something. He can’t just walk here in silence when the commander is clearly worried. It isn’t that bad. It really isn’t—

Thire’s bad leg catches on something and it’s like it’s bursting into flame. He chokes on his own breath; he locks his arm around the commander’s shoulders to keep from falling.

“Thire—what?” The commander stops and turns toward him.

“I-I’m fine,” Thire chokes. “J-just a—a second.”

“You’re not fine, Thire.” The commander tries to get him to sit down, but all that happens is that Thire’s legs give out and he crashes to the ground in a heap.

He curls around himself, wrapping his fingers around his shoulder. It’s mostly numb. But it feels wrong. His head is floaty, and his face is cold. Distantly, he registers that that probably shouldn’t be happening.

“Thire, talk to me,” Commander Fox orders. “What’s going on?”

What’s going on? He’s fine. (He’s not fine.) He’s fine. He has to be fine. (His shoulder is numb, but it also isn’t moving properly anymore, and he’s pretty sure that something’s wrong with the bones.) He can’t compromise the commander this way, when they still don’t have backup here. (His leg is burning.) He has to stay strong. (His chest is still stinging with the overheated plastoid alloy that got melted by the blaster burn.) He has to keep going, keep walking, keep pushing, and get out of this place before they get into more trouble than they’re already in. (His entire abdomen feels perforated.) He’s able to do this, because he’s been trained for this.

He’s okay. He’s okay. He’s okay.

He opens his mouth and all that comes out is a croaked, “It—it hurts.”

“Kriffit. Kriffit.” The commander’s hands reached for his cuirass.

Thire flinches away. “D-don’t. P-please d-don’t.” He drags in a breath—stars, stars, there are tears in his eyes—and forces out the rest of the words. “I’m okay.”

“Thire, you’re—”

He hacks a cough that drags all the remaining air out of his lungs; he has to curl in on himself as tightly as possible to keep from passing out as his chest constricts with blinding pain.

The commander is staring at him like something’s wrong.

“I’m okay,” Thire whispers. “Really. Just—just give me a second.”

“You just coughed up blood, Thire.”

“. . . oh.”

The commander shoves Thire’s bucket onto his own head. His words are muffled. “Lor’vram, come in. No, I don’t kriffing care. Get me a med evac up here. No—listen to me, Lieutenant. Thire is actively dying—”

“Not dying,” Thire gasps with some of the air that he’s managed to drag back into his lungs.

“Thire, you’re shot to pieces,” the commander snaps. “Shut the kriff up and let me do my job. Lor’vram, get me men here, now. I’m not—” He cuts himself off. “Now, Lor’vram.”

The commander throws the bucket off again. “Thire, listen to me. I need you to keep breathing.”

“W-what? Why—why would I—I s-stop?” Thire curls himself a little more tightly. (It’s like something is eating his insides.) It’ll pass. He just needs another minute. He closes his eyes and—

The commander shakes his arm. “No, Thire. Don’t you dare. Don’t you kriffing dare.”

“I’m—I’m okay, sir.” Thire forces his eyes back open. (It’s nearly impossible at this point.) “It’ll be okay.”

“You’re not dying here.”

“I’m n-not d-dying—”

Another cough rips through him. He nearly sobs, twisting himself even tighter. He doesn’t want to let the commander see him like this. He can’t just writhe here like he’s in pain. (He is. Stars, he wants to give in to the buzzing fuzz in the corners of his mind.)

He cracks his eyes open again and sees the blood on the floor. Not from his shoulder. The commander is right. He’s coughing it up.

That’s… not good, right?

He’s okay though.

(The commander is right.)

It’ll be okay.

(He is messed up, pretty badly.)

He chokes on another cough, and this time he does sob, twisting to face the ceiling. There are tears mixing with the blood on his face now.

(He has to do this. Can’t stop here.)

“Thire,” the commander says, voice cracking. He grabs for Thire’s hands. “It’s going to be okay. It doesn’t kriffing end here, okay?”

(He’s dying, isn’t he?)

The buzzing is fading to silence. The ceiling is fading. Even the fire is going out. Fading.

(Yes. He’s dying.)

The commander’s voice is far away. “Thire—you’re not allowed to kriffing die. You hear me? You’re not allowed to.”

(He doesn’t know what he’s supposed to say.)

“Okay, sir,” Thire whispers, through iron lungs and numb tongue.

And it’s not that he wants to die. It’s not that he wants to disappoint the commander that way. It’s not that he wants to just let go. But it’s not really like he has any choice, because despite the fact that he’s holding onto this (life? The commander’s hands? Both?) as tightly as he can, it’s not enough to stop his sluggish thoughts from slowing and his dead grip on the commander’s hands from slipping away and everything muting to dark silence.

It’s the first time in a long time that he’s felt so calm. The commander has this, now. There’s nothing else for Thire to do.

(Is it over?)

(He doesn’t want it to be over.)

***

21 BBY, day 267 of the War, 0125 GST

Thire is barely even breathing by the time the med evac team arrives. Fox doesn’t go with them. Much as he wants to. He has other business to attend to. Like tracking down the rest of the kriffing spice runners that nearly killed Thire. He makes his way downwards through the tower and arrives on the main platform where he was earlier. The remnants of the fights that happened here are being cleared away now. The air stings with the scent of overheated blasters. And for good reason. There’s a line of spice runners kneeling together, with various troopers standing around, blasters at the ready.

“Lor’vram,” Fox snaps, stalking toward him. “What the kriff—”

“Sir,” Lor’vram says. “I can report.”

“Report, then.”

“We’ve got it under control, sir. Other platoons are arriving. Commander Thorn is here somewhere—I don’t know where exactly, because he disappeared with some of the troopers that are grabbing the rest of the dealers. We’ve killed or apprehended about seventy-five percent of the ones that we know about.”

Good news. It should be good news. Captured spice dealers are good news.

Except that Thire is actively dying right now. It’s Fox’s fault. For not forcing him to leave. And he knows exactly how little bacta they have. Kriff this.

“Comm Pol,” Fox orders. “And tell him to get Thire in bacta as soon as he arrives. And where’s my helmet?”

“Here, sir,” says one of Lor’vram’s troopers, handing it to him.

Fox shoves on his bucket. The swirling world of information surrounds him again. He opens a comm to Thorn. As soon as it connects, he snaps, “Thorn, I need you here.”

“I’m tracking down the kriffers that are trying to get away, Fox,” Thorn snaps back. “What happened here?”

“That’s a great question, Thorn. Get up here and we’ll talk about it.”

“You were the one who got them into this mess—”

“The spice dealers were the ones who got them into this mess. Get up here. Now.”

“Coming.” Thorn cuts the comm.

Fox turns and starts pacing down the line of spice runners. He wants to finish this. He wants to lock them up in the prisons so that they’ll never get out. Or, failing that, he’ll just put a blaster bolt through the skull of each one. He’s not picky. Anything to make sure that they’ll never try this again. Because they were the ones to get this whole wretched situation started. They were the ones who—

Well, the ones who overpowered Fox.

Kriff. He’s supposed to be the one who can handle everything. And he can handle everything. He can handle Chancellor Palpatine’s banal requests and fake, fatherly smiles. He can handle Bennor’s annoying requests, and his infuriating demands. He can handle Mawler Uunkazzir’s stupid complaints about what Thorn is doing with the prisons. He can handle the shortages. The complaints. The piling-up paperwork. The sleepless nights. The endless questions. The endless demands from every front. He can handle all of that.

But his lieutenant dying?

His lieutenant who’s so promising? So eager to get to do things?

Yeah, that lieutenant is the one who’s currently got a fifty percent chance of surviving getting back to base, according to the med evac team. That lieutenant is dying.

Keeli died. There was nothing Fox could do then. He tried. But there was nothing that worked in the end. Gone, probably before Fox even knew that he was in that much danger.

Thire should have been different. Fox was right there. This should have been prevented.

No. He can’t think like that. Delving into his own grief won’t do anyone any good. Keeli is dead. Thire might survive, but there’s no guarantee of that.

But all of that doesn’t matter. Fox is marshal commander. He doesn’t doubt himself. He just needs to make changes. Changes so that this’ll never happen again.

Fox felt trampled-on before. The cuffs that kept him restrained to that pipe are still on his wrists. But now, the feeling that he’ll break apart at any moment is gone. His resolve is back. He’s got a job. He’s going to kriffing do that job. No matter what it takes.

***

21 BBY, day 267 of the War, 0312 GST

“I’m telling you,” Thorn says as they walk into the medbay. “I know something’s wrong. You were about ready to murder every dealer down there. Come on, I’m not stupid—I see all the messages in the general commanders’ chat. I know your squadmate died not so long ago, so is this about that mess of osik? Because if it is, we need to talk, and—”

“It’s not about that, Thorn.” Fox stops walking and turns to face Thorn. “Go and get everything put back together. We just accomplished something. Our base doesn’t need to look like a kriffing disaster zone.”

Thorn’s helmet dips slightly. Ah. So he’s furious, then. He just says, “Yes, sir,” and turns on his heel to leave.

Yes sir. Thorn almost never calls him that. Well, kriffit. Fox has bigger things to worry about.

He strides through the medbay, pausing briefly to check on the medics around Barn. They’re still doing triage. It looks bad, though. His left arm looks mangled. There’s blood everywhere. It turns Fox’s stomach, but he lingers a few seconds longer anyway. Barn deserves that much. Then he keeps walking, toward the room at the end of the medbay where he knows Pol will have put Thire.

He steps in to see Pol by himself, rapidly making notes on his datapad. He doesn’t bother to look up when Fox walks in.

The bacta tank is faintly glowing. Thire is suspended in it, strapped into the harness halfway. If the other straps were done, they’d mess up his shoulder even worse than it already is. His curls float lazily in the bubble stream. The lines on his face are relaxed. But without blacks and armor in the way, Fox can see just how bad the blaster wounds are. Thire’s shoulder is barely even a shoulder anymore. The holes in his abdomen look raw. Fox can’t see his back, but he’s pretty sure it would be similar. The leg isn’t quite as bad. That’s pretty much the only good news, though.

“Well?” Fox says, from the doorway. “What’s the status?”

Pol looks up, dropping the datapad onto the cart next to him. “Status, Fox? You’re going to ask me about the status of a soldier that arrived here about five minutes away from marching on?”

“Yes, Pol. What’s his status?”

“He’s kriffed up, Fox. Kriffed up something bad. Lost a lot of blood, perforated lung, overall trauma to his body—look, if he manages to make it back on his feet ever again, I’ll be happy. Bacta can do miracles, but it can’t resurrect a dead body. So be glad he got here when he did.”

“Not that status.”

“You want to know if he’ll live?”

“Yes, Pol.”

Pol snorts. “Well, I can’t kriffing answer that now, can I? I’m not a Jedi. I can’t see into the future. All I can tell you is that he’s got the last of our bacta, and that’s the best I can do for him.”

“How much will the bacta be able to fix?”

“Not enough. I can tell you that much. His shoulder is so kriffed that I’ll be happy if he can survive without some sort of internal reconstruction.”

“Can you do that?”

“No.” Pol starts sorting what’s on the cart. Sorting. It looks like he’s just aggressively moving things from one side to another.

“Send him to the Grand Republic Medical Facility,” Fox says.

“Can’t.”

“Why the kriff not?”

“Because,” Pol says, turning to Fox. He has an air of barely-restrained fury. “Thire, and all of us, are not legally sentient. If I walk into the Grand Republic Medical Facility and say that I’ve got a trooper in dire need of assistance, they’ll tell me that he has no legal rights to anything, and therefore isn’t able to be helped.” Pol turns back to his cart and picks up a scalpel. He looks at it like he wants to hurl it across the room. “Maybe I should bring him to a kriffing animal doctor. They deal with non-sentients.”

“Thire is a sentient,” Fox snaps. “They won’t—”

“We had this conversation already, Fox. We’ve gone over this. We’re not sentients. Not legally. Just in every other way that matters. They don’t care how many of us are injured, maimed, die—just so long as it doesn’t cost them too much money. And you know what? Keeping Thire alive costs them more than it does to get another clone off of Kamino.”

***

21 BBY, day 270 of the War, 1345 GST

Fox checks, re-checks, and secures the area that the spice runners were caught in. He barely sleeps. There are too many kriffing things to do. Three days after the spice raid, he joins Thorn at the prisons to check on the runners that have been caught. There are twenty-four runners captured, which just goes to show how big of a ring it was. Good thing they caught it sooner than later. But looking at those runners, Fox can only watch them mutely. The frozen feeling that’s been living inside his chest for the days since the raid doesn’t go away. Kriffit.

“Well?” Thorn says. “Did you see what you wanted to? They’re all locked up, perfectly securely, and I’m running all the normal patrols despite the fact that we’re starting to stretch thin on our original schedule. They’ve all been questioned, and we’re following a few on-planet leads to other, smaller spice dealers.”

Fox turns away and walks back down the prison hall.

Thorn follows, taking his bucket off. “Come on, Fox.”

“What?”

“You’ve been moody for days, all silent and annoyed like you think you’re going to fix something by stalking around.”

Fox stops walking and turns back to Thorn. “So what?”

“Thire’s going to live. Pol said so.”

“I know.”

“He’s been kriffing optimistic, Fox. Pol is never optimistic. And sure, your favorite lieutenant still looks like he got run over by a herd of banthas. But he’s getting better, okay? Relax for half a second—not that we get many of those here—and give yourself a kriffing break.”

“Not an option right now,” Fox says, starting to walk again. “The Chancellor wants to meet with me tomorrow to discuss new responsibilities.”

“The kriff? We don’t have enough already?”

“I’ll deal with it, Thorn.” Some of the ice in his chest makes it into his voice.

“Fine.” Thorn shoves his bucket back on. “I’ll be here, so call if you need anything. Kriff, what am I saying? I know you never call. I’ll tell Pol to let me know if you land yourself in the medbay because you worried too much.”

Fox has always argued with Thorn over anything, big or small. It’s as natural as breathing.

He leaves without saying anything.

***

21 BBY, day 271 of the War, 1812 GST

“CC-1010,” Pol says when Fox walks into the medbay.

Fox rolls his eyes. “I’ll sleep once I’ve seen him, Pol.”

“That is not the answer I want.” Pol groans and adjusts himself a little more comfortably in his chair behind his desk. His boots are propped up on the edge of it, and he has a cup of caf in his hand. “He’s down there—no, that room. I’ve been taking him off the sedatives for a few hours. He might be coming around. Or not. Don’t make him wake up if he isn’t on his own. And don’t panic if he’s in pain, because he will be. I’m taking him off the painkillers temporarily as well, to gauge how well he’s doing.”

Fox nods and heads down the line of beds toward the smaller room at the end, where the critical care patients are kept. The fact that Pol isn’t down at that end is good, anyway. If he were, Fox would be worried. As it is, his breath feels tight. Just not as tight as it would if Pol were down there.

He steps through the door quietly, glancing around the dim room. There’s only one occupied bed. Barn was in here up until yesterday night. He’s gotten stable enough to be moved to the regular medbay area, though. Thire’s the only one left.

And kriff, he looks small. There are two IVs taped into his left hand. Bandages wound around his shoulder, holding his arm still. Dark circles under his eyes. A heart monitor quietly beeping. His curls still have bacta in them, spread out across the pillow. The lines on his face look tired.

There’s a chair. Fox ignores it and sits on the edge of Thire’s bed, reaching for his free right hand.

He should probably say something.

“Hey, Thire,” he whispers hoarsely. “Do me a favor and… just, don’t…”

He doesn’t know how to finish that sentence.

Thire’s eyebrows pull together. He mumbles something, and his fingers twitch weakly in Fox’s. Fox’s breath catches. A moment later, Thire’s eyes half-open.

“Hey,” Fox chokes quietly.

“C’mmnd’r,” Thire mumbles. He breathes in deeply and flinches, twisting slightly to get his shoulder away from the mattress. “C’mmnd’r, I… sh’dn’t—” He stops, eyes becoming slightly more lucid. “Barn. What h’ppned to Barn?”

“He’s okay. Better than you.” Fox gently forces Thire’s fingers to relax. “I’m just here to check that you’re alive.”

“Apparently.” Thire’s mouth twitches in a half-smile. “I mean… apparently, sir.” He takes another deep breath and flinches again, tears now appearing in his eyes.

“What?” Fox asks.

“Hurts,” Thire mumbles. “I mean… sorry, sir. It’s fine.”

“Pol took you off the painkillers. He’s trying to see how well you’re doing.”

Thire nods shakily. His eyes close again for a second. There’s sweat on his face now. “How… how bad…?”

“It’s been four days, if that answers your question.”

“Oh… okay.”

“Thire, that was really stupid,” Fox says. “I can usually trust my lieutenants not to be di’kutse. But apparently not anymore. What made you think that you could walk in there and do some sort of rescue all on your own?”

“Wasn’t alone, sir,” Thire says quietly. “I split my men up. Wanted to find you faster. Didn’t work out the way I thought it would.”

“You were on your kriffing own, Thire,” Fox snaps. “Don’t give me any osik. Why’d you think that was a good idea?”

Thire’s eyes come open again. He looks even smaller and more hurt now. Good. He needs to realize what a big deal this is.

“Sir?” Thire whispers. “I—I was trying not to do something stupid. I didn’t want to be there on my own. It just happened. Had backup coming. Just didn’t get them in time.”

“We’re already stretched thin. What am I supposed to do if one of my lieutenants intentionally walks into danger?”

“It wasn’t intentional, sir,” Thire insists, trying to shove his good arm under him to push himself up. “I didn’t want it to be like that. I’m not trying to be a martyr—” He cuts himself off.

“Who said anything about being a martyr?” Fox says sharply.

“I thought you were saying I was trying to be one,” Thire says. “I wasn’t, sir. I know that if I’m not able to do this, it gets worse. I know how much we need everyone to be able to keep doing what they do. And I promise, I didn’t want anything in that raid to work out how it did. I just wanted to do what I could. So I did my best.” His face is three shades paler now, and he’s shaking.

“You have to learn that not every situation is one that you can get involved in.”

“I wanted to help, sir. I’m sorry. For scaring you and making bad choices and everything else. I didn’t mean to.”

“Scaring me?” Fox snaps. “Thire, you nearly died.”

“I’m sorry,” Thire whispers. He looks like he wants to sink through the floor.

“Kriff,” Fox says, standing up. He paces to the opposite side of the room and back. “That’s not okay, Thire. You just need to do your job and not do di’kutla osik. Kriffing stars, I don’t have the time to think about something like this.”

“I’m sorry,” Thire whispers again.

“Then act like it. You don’t get to—”

“Sir, I—”

Fox barrels onwards. “You don’t get to make choices the way you want every time. Sometimes you just have to accept the hard things. I tell you that you need to leave me to figure something out, you kriffing do it, Lieutenant.”

“Sir—”

“I’m not leaving this up for debate. You follow orders, kriffit, even if you don’t like them.”

Thire flinches away. “Sir—”

Fox opens his mouth again just as Pol appears in the doorway. His eyes are locked on Fox, furious. “Fox. Get the kriff out.”

Fox stares at him. “What—”

“Get. The kriff. Out,” Pol repeats.

“You—”

Pol strides over to him, dropping his hands onto Fox’s shoulders roughly. “You have no right to walk in here and start yelling at a trooper who saved your life. Get the kriff out and leave him alone.”

It feels like Fox has forgotten how to breathe. Not because his chest hurts. Because it feels so kriffing numb.

Fox turns on his heel and strides out.

***

21 BBY, day 271 of the War

“I shouldn’t have done that,” Thire whispers as Pol adjusts the IV in his hand. (His voice sounds listless.) He forces himself to focus and goes on, “He… he’s right.”

“He’s right that you’re a di’kut,” Pol says. “But what you did was the right thing.”

“No, it wasn’t. I should’ve… waited. For backup. If I’d waited, then it wouldn’t be like this.”

“If you’d waited, there’s no telling what would have happened. You made a choice under stressful circumstances, and you lived to tell the story. Sure, it wasn’t the best idea.”

“I’m supposed to have the good ideas,” Thire says. (That was drilled into him on Kamino. A lieutenant needs to know what he’s doing. But he doesn’t. Why is he even a lieutenant? How did he survive this long?)

“What, so Kaminoans can engineer genius now? Or common sense? Kriff, Thire, you’re beating yourself up too much.”

“But he’s right.”

“Fox,” Pol says firmly, “is stressed as kriff right now. The Chancellor is about to hand down some new responsibilities. Give him a few days to work through it, and I’m sure he’ll be okay again.”

“How long has he been…” Thire trails off. (He’s not supposed to say something like what was about to come out of his mouth. That’s insubordination.)

“A grumpy di’kut? Forever. A ticked-off, stressed di’kut? Since before the spice raid. All this osik from the Senate isn’t making anything better, either. He’s running a planet, and I don’t think anyone here has realized yet quite what an impossible task we’re dealing with. Not even Fox.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.” Pol nods grimly. “So while he did just now was inexcusable, it’s not out of nowhere.”

“I figured. That it wasn’t out of nowhere, I mean.”

(Thire’s insides are uncomfortable. It doesn’t feel right that Pol should talk about Commander Fox like that.)

“Anyway.” Pol rolls his eyes (like he’s trying to forget what he saw Commander Fox doing), and picks up his datapad. “How’s the shoulder?”

“… I’m not sure.”

Another eye roll. (This one looks a little gentler.) “On a scale of one to ten, Thire, how likely is it that you would flinch if I touched your shoulder?”

“… nine.”

“Ten, then.” Pol marks something on his datapad. “Look, vod, I can’t give you any painkillers unless I know how bad it is, okay? Give me an actual rating of the pain you’re in right now.”

Thire sighs. “Eight and a half.”

Pol gives him a third eye roll. “Not even a solid nine?”

Thire shrugs his good shoulder. “There’s always something worse.”

“Fair enough.” Pol stops and pauses in his work. He sighs heavily, shoulders rising and falling in a weary inhale-exhale. (Thire understand that feeling.) “Fair enough,” Pol repeats, and he starts moving again.

Chapter Text

21 BBY, day 282 of the War, 0500 GST

Fox rolls out of his bunk, grabbing for his comm automatically. It’s not even going off. He just needs to know what’s happened while he was sleeping. Only four hours, but kriffit, this planet isn’t going to run itself. He skims the messages. Bennor sent him all sorts of osik. Does the man ever sleep? Di’kut. Nydill and Uunkazzir are comming him again, as well. There are a couple messages from senators. A request from Chancellor Palpatine for a meeting that day. Messages from Thorn and Stone, and various lieutenants. And there, at the bottom, nearly buried under all the other messages, is a single comm from Ponds. Fox can see part of the message. It looks like some kind of generic checking-in message.

Kriff, Fox hasn’t talked to his ori’vod in how long now?

He doesn’t have time right now. He’ll deal with that message later, once he’s dealt with the senators and directors and the chancellor himself.

He could shower, but he doesn’t have time. He just needs caf, and then he needs to get to his office to start working on reports.

The day unfolds normally, unfortunately. He goes to meetings. He notes down the new instructions. He organizes patrol shifts. He gets distracted by an urgent call from Bennor’s secretary in the late afternoon, and spends the entire evening at the Senate Building sorting out some osik about half the Senate Commandos being deployed elsewhere for a month.

It’s only once he’s already rolled into his bunk at nearly midnight that he realizes he never responded to Ponds. Kriffit. His datapad and comm are on the floor near his bed. He’s too tired to reach down there. He’ll get to it. Eventually.

He rolls over and drifts into an uneasy half-sleep.

***

21 BBY, day 282 of the War, 2355 GST

“He hasn’t… he hasn’t been the same,” Thire tells Hound. He’s barely awake at this point (eating a proper meal after a long shift does that to him, and he’s been tired ever since getting out of the medbay). Hound is cuddling his massiff with one arm (Grizzer, he’s named her), and Thire is leaning against Hound with his head on Hound’s other shoulder.

“Commander Fox is a different breed,” Hound says easily. “Always has been. Are you worried he’s not okay?”

“No… I mean, it’s just… he’s quieter, and doesn’t seem to want to talk.”

“You’ve been quieter, too,” Hound points out. “I guess nearly crikking dying does that to you, or watching someone nearly—”

“Hound, please don’t,” Thire says. (He’s not going to deny that everything that happened did happen, but he so badly doesn’t want to think about it. Not yet. Not while Commander Fox is still so closed off.)

“Well, he’s probably dealing with lots or something,” Hound says.

“It was out of nowhere,” Thire says. “Except for… you know.”

“That’s not nowhere,” Hound says, and laughs (there’s no amusement in it, just acknowledgement). “Don’t worry about it, Thire.”

“I used to bring him caf a lot,” Thire says.

“What, you think he’s quieter because you’re not bringing him caf? That’s got to be the least of his worries.”

“No, no—he got quiet before I stopped bringing him caf. I tried, but… he didn’t seem to want it. He barely even looked at me. And back before… before all of the things around the spice raid, he asked him to meet with him, and then he asked me just… just what I think it means to be a lieutenant.”

“Like he wanted to promote you?” Hound adjusts himself to sit more comfortably against the wall that they’re all leaning against and scratches Grizzer’s head absently.

“Maybe. Not sure.” Thire adjusts himself, too, so that Hound’s shoulder isn’t digging into the side of his face so badly. “I don’t think so. He didn’t seem to be asking if I… wanted it, or anything.”

“Then what did he say?”

“Just… asked me about it. And I told him, and asked him what he thought. He didn’t really have a solid answer.” Thire shuts his eyes and goes on talking, because that’s a little easier to do (when stars, he would like to be asleep right now). “Just talked about… confidence… loyalty… caring about your men.”

“Huh,” Hound says. “I do those things. And I could use a promotion. Think they’d pay me if I was a captain?”

“Probably not.” Thire smiles at the idea of Hound as a captain. “You’d need to be more… dignified.”

“I’m dignified enough.” Hound shifts again, and Thire guesses that he’s probably wiping massiff slobber off his armor again. “Are you awake, by the way?”

“Yes.” Thire doesn’t open his eyes.

“Okay, well, I need to get going, so you should go to bed.”

“I’ve got to finish those reports from my patrol today. Eddy… he… um, he messed it up a bit.”

“Kriffer.”

“Hound…”

“Thire,” Hound says, and his voice is a little harder, so Thire opens his eyes and picks his head up. “Eddy is a problem. He abandoned you when you were on that spice raid, and you nearly crikking died. If something had gone just a little bit differently, you would have died, and Eddy would be the one responsible for it.”

“I’m managing it,” Thire says.

“Yeah? Then why’s he still causing problems.”

“People don’t change overnight, Hound.”

“Yeah, well, we’ve been here for going on a year now, haven’t we?”

“Hound, I… I’m working with him, okay? It’s just slow. He’s gotten better about starting fights. I mean, he still does it sometimes, but he’s learned that he can’t get away with it, because I’ll be there and prevent him from doing something dumb.”

“What about when you’re not there?” Hound asks.

“He’s getting there, okay? It’ll take more time.” Thire shrugs.

“Have you talked to him about what happened on the raid?”

“No.”

“You should do that.”

“No, I shouldn’t. Not yet. It’s still…” Thire swallows. “Well, I wouldn’t do a good job of it yet.”

“Okay. Fine. But you should sometime.”

“Okay. Sometime.” Thire sits up a little straighter. (He doesn’t want to stand up and drag himself down the halls to his bunkroom yet.) “Hound, did Fang ever get in trouble with those senators the other day?”

“Huh? Oh, no, he didn’t. I made up some osik excuse and got away with it, somehow. Luck’s on my side for the moment, I guess.” Hound stops scratching Grizzer’s head. She rumbles in protest, and he starts up again. “How’d you remember that, anyway? That was before you got out of the medbay. I didn’t even remember that that happened until you mentioned it.”

“I don’t know. I was just thinking about it, I guess.” Thire shrugs. “You’re right, though. I should go to bed. Don’t let Grizzer in the bunkroom tonight, okay?”

“No guarantees,” Hound says with a grin. “And don’t you dare spend too long on those reports, Thir’ika. You know I can get mine done in an hour, right? You don’t have to spend as much time as you do on them. No one reads them, anyway.”

“You write as little as you can get away with,” Thire says, rolling his eyes. “That’s not how the reports are supposed to be done.” He gets to his feet. “And I’m serious—don’t let Grizzer in the bunkroom.”

“No guarantees,” Hound repeats with a cocky grin.

***

21 BBY, day 285 of the War, 0500 GST

Fox rolls out of his bunk and gets through the fresher in record time. It feels far too much like the previous morning, and the one before that, and the one before that. Ever since the spice raid, he’s been sleeping only about five hours each night. Time has turned kriffing strange. He barely even feels alive as he leaves the fresher and goes to pull on his armor. He scrolls through his messages as he does. There was someone he was supposed to respond to, right? Right, Ponds. That was days ago, now.

He opens the messages on his datapad. Pond’s message has sunk down far below the more recent messages. He’s got an osik ton of stuff to deal with today. He scrolls absently through the messages and groups. Pol’s isn’t there.

He looks again, more closely. No, he’s not imagining it. Pond’s comm code is no longer in his contacts, either. He thumbs in the memorized number, waiting for it to connect.

Nothing happens.

Slowly, half-dressed in armor, hair dripping slowly onto his back, Fox sinks down to sit on his bunk. Kriffit. He doesn’t want to do this. He doesn’t kriffing want to do this. It has to be okay. It has to be okay. It has to kriffing be okay. Fox can’t do this. He can’t do this. He can’t—

He accesses the list of every clone in the Kaminoan databases.  It takes three minutes before he can get his hands to stop shaking for long enough to search for Ponds’s number. He wants it to take longer to load. It loads immediately.

Ponds’s record lists him as deceased.

Fox slowly turns off his datapad and sets it aside.

Ponds messaged him. He was going to try to talk to Fox. How long has it been since any of Fox’s old squad messaged him specifically?

He commed Fox.

He commed him, specifically. To ask how he was, probably. In the middle of this kriffing war. Probably before a mission.

Something must have gone wrong.

Ponds didn’t get to come back from whatever that mission was.

Very carefully, Fox moves his datapad to the floor next to his bunk. Then he curls up on his side and buries his face in his pillow.

Nobody needs to hear him.

***

21 BBY, day 285 of the War, 2341 GST

2341

Thorn: where’s Fox

0032

Stone: he’s working in his office

Stone: working on paperwork, I think? He has that whole stack of datapads again

Thorn: tell him to go to sleep

Stone: I tried to.

Thorn: how many times

Stone: he wouldn’t listen.

Thorn: kriff

Stone: he’s been very closed-off today.

Thorn: pre-spice raid closed-off or post-raid

Stone: I’ve never seen him this bad.

Stone: he didn’t even swear when he told me to get out of his office.

Stone: and I was just there to drop off a datapad, not to talk.

Stone: but I think he would have forcibly removed me if I hadn’t been leaving right away anyway.

Thorn: what the kriff happened now

Stone: I’d tell you if I knew.

0618

Thorn: I’m headed back to base after patrol

Thorn: what time are you leaving

Stone: 0800

Stone: have to be there at 0715 to clear the landing zone. The senator I’m going with is a real people person, you know?

Thorn: i’m coming to talk to you when I get to base

Stone: should I be worried?

Thorn: it’s about Fox

Stone: understood

***

21 BBY, day 286 of the War, 0716 GST

Thorn finds Stone in the commanders’ bunkroom, buried under his blanket in his bunk as though he doesn’t need to ship out in less than an hour. Well, Thorn can’t blame him, because honestly, he himself would rather be dead asleep on his own bunk instead of half-dead on his feet and in dire need of a shower and food. As it is, though, he’s got limited time to talk to Stone face-to-face before Stone leaves on another mission with some disgusting, undeserving senator.

“Stone,” Thorn says, poking him.

Stone rolls over, dragging his face out of his pillow. There are creases on his face, and his beard is a complete mess. He hasn’t braided it yet today, apparently, which just goes to show even more what a weird dad this is.

“Hey,” Stone rasps, sitting up. He rubs his head absently, then reaches for the first pieces of his armor. “What did you want to talk about?”

“About Fox. It’s been—what, not even twenty days?”

“Since… which thing?”

“Since a whole kriffing lot of stuff. It’s been nearly twenty days since that mess with the spice raid, and then… what, maybe fifteen days since Chancellor Palpatine started talking about that whole new load of osik?” Thorn snorts, sitting down on his bunk. “It’s so kriffing stupid.”

“It’s probably because of what happened with the Zillo beast,” Stone reasons.

“Don’t justify it, Stone. Just don’t.”

Stone grimaces. “Yeah, okay.”

The chancellor’s newest load of osik has been the most kriffing annoying thing that Thorn’s dealt with in a while, now, and it’s probably driving Fox even more crazy. As though it wasn’t enough that the chancellor wants the Guard on call to investigate the bigger problems that happen in the lower levels, he’s told them that they need to start running their own patrols in the lower levels regularly. Their patrol schedule was already osik’la, too few troopers stretched across too many hours and locations, but now it’s an absolute nightmare. Kriff, t’s the reason that Thorn got three hours of sleep before his double shift at the prisons. He’s got to draft some more schedules for his platoons once he finishes this conversation, and before he can go to sleep. Double kriff.

“Right,” Thorn says after a moment, forcing himself to focus on the matter at hand. “Well, however many days it’s been, Fox has been all closed off and weird.”

“Yeah,” Stone says again. He frowns as he tries to twist his arms back to tighten his cuirass. “Stars, that still hurts.”

“What happened?”

“Landed wrong during a chase yesterday.” Stone tries again and shakes his head. “Would you—”

“Yeah,” Thorn says. He stands up and joins Stone to start tightening the buckles on his cuirass. “So Fox has had time to process the mess with Thire and the chancellor’s new orders. He was even starting to get his feet back under him, a little bit. Sure, he’s been grumpy, but what’s new? He was sleeping in here again, anyway.”

“Not last night,” Stone says.

“Yeah, no osik.” Thorn finishes with the buckles and steps back. “So he’s in his office again—and I sure hope he tried to get some sleep, because working reports all night is the last thing he needs to be doing. He should be over the raid by now, at least enough to start acting like a rational sentient again.”

“Should is… well, it doesn’t happen that fast.”

“He’s still walking around like a vengeful shadow assassin,” Thorn says flatly. “And I don’t know what to do about it, because he’s clearly not planning to open up to us.” He starts pulling off his own armor. “I told him to come to me if he needed something—I told him that multiple times—and I’ve been trying to get him to take care of himself for once. So have you, for kriff’s sake. And he’s still acting like that.”

“Yeah,” Stone says, tightening one of his gauntlets. “We’re just going to have to keep trying.”

“I want Thire to talk to Fox.”

Stone stops. “You what?”

“Thire is the one he listens to.”

Stone shakes his head. “No, he doesn’t.”

“He used to keep talking to Thire and checking in with him, way more often than any of the other lieutenants. I thought he might have been considering Thire for a promotion or something. But Fox would listen if Thire went and talked to him, because—”

“No, he wouldn’t,” Stone says, shaking his head. “Haven’t you noticed? He’s barely even mentioned Thire’s name. He hasn’t been talking to anyone—not us, and not Thire.”

“But he did, before,” Thorn insists.

“Look,” Stone says, “Thire’s nearly dying in the raid is part of what set him off onto… this.” Stone gestures vaguely, then grabs his comb to start working through the tangles in his beard.

Thorn grumbles a couple of general curses under his breath as he picks up his datapad and starts scrolling through the messages there. He pauses by the general commander chat. He doesn’t often read that one, because it’s just a bunch of clueless commanders scattered across the galaxy, talking about the important work they’re doing. None of them have any idea what it’s like in the very heart of the galaxy, on Coruscant, and probably none of them would even care. He opens it now, though, because he might as well check and see if there’s anything that’s happened in the galaxy that’s stressing Fox out more.

There are a whole kriffing lot of remembrances as he starts scrolling back through the chat. All of them today. All of them with the same name.

“Kriffing stars,” Thorn breathes. “Stone.”

Stone takes the datapad from him and reads the chat, frowning. “Is that…”

“Ponds,” Thorn says. “That’s Fox’s squadmate.”

“Holy osik,” Stone mutters. “They’ve been talking about this since… for a day? This just happened. And they’re saying that bounty hunter, Aurra Sing, killed him.”

“Kriffing stars,” Thorn says again. “No wonder.” He turns and starts for the door.

“Where are you going?” Stone asks.

“To find out if Fox is okay.” Thorn leaves without bothering to shut the door behind him.

Fox’s office is only a minute’s walk away through the base. Thorn has never walked so fast, but the halls have never seemed so long. He reaches Fox’s office in either his record or his worst time, and he opens that door without knocking as well.

Fox’s office is a disaster zone, as always. The desk is piled with its usual assortment of datapads, pieces of flimsi, and mugs. Half the floor is covered in the mess, too. Fox himself is curled up on the couch, wearing a couple pieces of armor, his back to the room. He looks like he’s asleep for all of the two seconds it takes him before he sits bolt upright and faces Thorn. His face is as bad as the room, eyes dark-circled and hair a wreck. He looks like he just lived through three Battles of Geonosis, back-to-back.

Thorn could say a million things right now. The ones he wants to say would probably just make Fox angry. So instead of saying them, Thorn swallows the urge and says, “Are you okay?”

“Get out,” Fox rasps, swinging his legs over the side of the couch.

“I saw the news.”

“Get out, Thorn.”

“Your squadmate died, and that’s—”

“Get out, Thorn.”

Thorn stares at him. Fox’s eyes are narrowed, even though he’s still clearly half-asleep and barely aware of what’s going on. There’s a strange desperation hanging around him, something that Thorn hasn’t seen before, and something that he doesn’t kriffing like.

“You should—”

“Out!” Fox shouts, standing. He takes a breath that seems to reach the very bottom of his lungs. “It’s not your business. I don’t care how you know. Just get out.”

Thorn stares at him. “You’re dini’la.” He spins on his heel and stalks out into the hall. Well, kriffit, if Fox won’t listen to him, then Thorn will just keep a close eye on him to make sure that he doesn’t go off the deep end like those troopers on Geonosis who saw their batchmates die on the first day of the war. Kriff, maybe it’d be better if Fox just keeps doing this, if he’s so determined to make this harder on himself and every other vod on this planet.

***

21 BBY, day 296 of the War, 2041 GST

Thire and Hound’s Chat (AND GRIZZER)

2041

Hound: where are you?

Thire: patrolling

Hound: where?

Thire: lower levels

Thire: lost track of which number

Thire: we’re trying to track down a drunk trio of Weequays who might be involved in instigating that protest from yesterday

Thire: their insults are interesting

Thire: you would like them

Hound: like what?

Thire: I said interesting, not printable

***

21 BBY, day 296 of the War, 2232 GST

Thorn and Stone (aka Rants About Fox)

2232

Stone: how’s Fox doing?

Thorn: take a kriffing guess

Stone: okay. I’m going to try and think of some things to say to him when I get back.

Thorn: it’s been twenty-four days now, Stone

Thorn: since the chancellor’s new orders

Thorn: what the kriff is going to get through to him

Stone: I don’t know

Stone: I’m going to think though

***

21 BBY, day 296 of the War, 2301 GST

Commander Stone and Lieutenant Thire

2301

CStone: all right, I have a few ideas for what to say.

CStone: this should be basic, but just telling him that it’s not his fault would be good. As would telling him that we’ll be by his side for whatever choices he makes to get this worked out.

CStone: we also need to make sure that we actually get those NCOs, because ka’ra know we need them.

CStone: and I’m also thinking that maybe revisiting your other idea would also be good.

CStone: thoughts?

2342

LtThire: sorry sir but did you mean to send this to someone else?

CStone: I’m so sorry Thire.

CStone: yes this was for someone else.

CStone: please disregard any messages in here that you saw.

LtThire: yes sir

LtThire: can I ask if it was Commander Fox you were talking about though?

CStone: I’ll let you know if we need anything, okay, Thire?

LtThire: understood sir

***

21 BBY, day 297 of the War, 0810 GST

“Hey,” Hound’s voice says from somewhere below Thire. “You’re alive, right?”

Thire forces his eyes to open (he’s so tired) and rolls over to lean over the side of the bunk. “Hound? What—?”

“Oh, good, you’re alive. I was wondering, you know. You’ve been sleeping really heavily since… all that, you know.” Hound steps on the edge of the bunk under Thire’s and hoists himself up so that he’s at the same level. “Also, I want to bother you. I’m tired of these patrols. Crikk, Thire why do all these senators treat us this way?”

“I don’t know,” Thire says. He yawns and stretches his right arm. (His left shoulder is still sore.) “Did you just get off patrol?”

“Yeah,” Hound says. “Hey, are you okay? You look terrible.”

“Um… yeah, I’m okay.” Thire rubs his head absently. (He can’t stop thinking about those messages that Commander Stone sent to him last night. He wasn’t able to fall asleep for a long time, thinking about it.) “It’s just… you know, it’s been a long couple of days.”

“It’s been a long year, vod’ika.” Hound hops down from the bunk he’s standing on and starts pulling off pieces of his armor. “What’s the commander situation like now, by the way?”

“The… what?”

“Commander Fox. Has he… you know, stopped being all closed off or whatever it was that was the problem?” Hound throws his blaster at his bunk.

“I hope the safety was on,” Thire says.

“I think so?”

Thire sighs. “Anyway, there’s no situation with Commander Fox. There’s nothing to tell. I’m a lieutenant, and he’s a marshal commander. He’s busy. It’s no wonder that he doesn’t have time to spend with me, like he used to. Things change.”

“So you’ve made up after he yelled at you?”

Thire stares at Hound. (His stomach feels cold. How does Hound know about that.) “He… what?”

“So he didn’t yell at you? That’s what they’re saying.”

“Who?”

“People.”

“I didn’t… I didn’t tell people that, Hound.”

Hound shrugs, not turning around. “I might have asked Pol.”

“Hound…”

“Look, are you just going to pretend like it didn’t happen? So he just came in and had a nice, polite chat with you about how you got yourself into a nearly fatal situation? Because that’s what happened, apparently, and you’ve been all quiet and worried ever since then, even though it’s been—what, a month?”

“That’s not… that’s not what happened.”

“Then what did happen?”

Thire pinches the bridge of his nose. “Hound, please. Everything that happened that day… I was in the wrong, okay? I shouldn’t have done what I did. I’m lucky to be alive.”

“Oh, come on, vod.” Hound gets the last of his armor off and sits down on the floor, cross-legged. “Don’t talk like that. If Commander Fox is still being a jerk to you about it, I can go and yell at him—”

“Hound. No.” Thire sits up and dangles his legs over the edge of the bunk. “Commander Fox is completely justified in his reaction to what I did. Don’t try and say he wasn’t, because I know he was. I’ve thought about it enough, and… well, I didn’t do what I should have. There were a lot of poor choices made that night, on a lot of people’s parts, and the result of all of that is that I got shot. That’s all there is to it, okay? I got shot, Commander Fox was reasonably upset, and since then, he’s been too busy about anything other than… you know, running the Guard.”

Hound rocks back and forth for a few seconds before saying, “You were his favorite.”

(Were. Thire has to resist flinching.)

“I really don’t want to talk about it, Hound.”

“Okay. Suit yourself.” Hound gets up and crosses to his bunk. “Don’t do anything stupid, though. Oh, and by the way, count yourself doubly lucky that Flora caught me trying to smuggle Grizzer in here and sent her back to the kennels.”

“She’s not supposed to be up here,” Thire says, rolling his eyes, but he can’t resist smiling. (Maybe it’s because, now, they’re not talking about Commander Fox.)

“Eh, come on, you know you love her,” Hound says.

“Hound…”

(Grizzer, despite her many flaws, does make a nice warm pillow. Thire won’t tell Hound that, though.)

“Well,” Hound says, swinging into his bunk, “Good night. Good morning, Crikk, I don’t care what time it is anymore. Go out and conquer.” Hound rolls to face the wall and is snoring within seconds.

***

21 BBY, day 299 of the War, 1251 GST

Best Lieutenants Club (TAKE THAT)

1251

Vector: Hi vode.

Vector: I hate to inform you that it’s an osik show down here right now.

Lor’vram: what happened?

Vector: I have three men with minor injuries and we’re still chasing down the kids who thought it would be funny to pretend to attack a Senator two hours ago.

Thire: that sounds rough

Hangover: kriff, you always get it bad

Boomer: watch the language, Hangover

Boomer: Thire’s in this chat

Hangover: no rules against swearing, di’kut

Thire: do you need assistance Vector?

Vector: No we’re okay now.

Vector: We just caught them.

Vector: One of them has this very cool old Mando helmet

Hangover: dibs

Flora: You can’t call dibs if you’re not there, Hangover.

Hangover: stop me

Hangover: I WANT THAT BUCKET

Vector: I will be keeping the bucket.

Hangover: AHH NO :(

***

21 BBY, day 299 of the War, 1415 GST

“You sent that to Thire?” Thorn snorts, handing the datapad back. “Vod, you must be tired out of your kriffing mind. Get some more caf before you send messages to anyone who can’t keep a secret.”

Stone smiles wryly. “You know that too much caf is bad for you, right?”

“What the kriff do I care, when I’ve got as much work as I do and my marshal commander won’t talk to me except for giving orders?” Thorn hands Stone his second mug of caf and leans against the ladder of his bunk. Despite Stone’s practical know-it-all attitude, he immediately takes a pull of the caf, proving Thorn right. “Anyway, Stone, you apparently think we should solve this whole fiasco of our grumpy—”

“Depressed and overwhelmed,” Stone says.

“—commander by telling him that it’s not his fault?”

“Well, it’s worth a shot.” Stone takes another sip of caf. “Stars, that’s good.”

“Okay, well—look, we can’t just walk up to him and talk to him like that, you know? ‘So, Fox, I’ve noticed you’ve been moping around base, and anyway, I just wanted to say it’s not your fault all this stuff is happening.’ Yeah, that would go ever real well, just as soon as he gets done telling us to find the nearest portal and jump down it without a jetback. He knows he’s overwhelmed as kriff, but he won’t admit it.”

Stone shrugs and sips his caf. “Yeah.”

“You’re being a real help here,” Thorn grumbles. It’s bd enough that he’s been running around trying to keep up with everything while Stone was away and Fox was still all grumpy. Not having any ideas isn’t helping.

“I’m sorry,” Stone says, shaking his head, “but other than talking to him or getting Thire to talk to him, I think that’s what we’ve got. Unless we want to get his squadmates involved?”

Thorn snorts. “And let them see the penpushers whining about their so-called cushy jobs? Yeah, that wouldn’t work. I’ve seen what they’re saying about Coruscant on the general channels.”

“Well, we’ve got some pretty blasted limited options here, then,” Stone says, setting his mug down. “I wish I could help more—I do—but have you seen what I’m dealing with already? Half of the senators are trying to take a trip back home or to some planet or other for negotiations. I have to assign men to each one, and I don’t have enough to keep doing that. If the workload gets any larger, I’m going to have to start pulling men from patrols here, and ka’ra knows we don’t have enough for that. As soon as I’m done talking to you here, I need to go to a meeting with Bennor so that he can tell me about some new standard for any group that accompanies a senator. And after that, I need to look at my overflowing inbox of requests and start allotting men to each one, hoping the whole time that I don’t run out of breathing bodies.”

“Tell me about it.”

Stone laughs humorlessly. “Do you think they’d noticed if we sent empty sets of armor?”

“Yeah,” Thorn says. “Because empty suits of armor aren’t kriffing disrespectful enough to match what they say we’ve been doing.”

Stone groans. “They’re crazy, Thorn.”

“It’s no better here,” Thorn says. “There are a couple of them that I’d shoot, and I’d enjoy it, if I didn’t have to worry about being decommissioned. They deserve it.”

“And that’s why Fox is overwhelmed.”

Thorn huffs a sigh. This conversation might be cathartic, but they’re not solving any problems. Thorn can talk about the senators’ issues and insanity all day if he wants to hear about those. What he needs right now, though, is a solution—honestly, anything that’ll fix the problems that keep steadily stacking up in front of them with no sign of stopping.

“Okay, look,” Thorn says. “I can’t keep working like this if Fox is going to keep ignoring me except for official kinds of conversations, you know? Do you know how long it’s been since he told me that my hair looked stupid? Or told me about some new sweet thing that Thire did? Or since he talked to Thire? Look, I know that Thire is still doing that stuff where he goes and helps people, or fills in for them, or brings them caf, but I’m the one seeing him doing that, apparently. Fox used to mention it all the time, and now he doesn’t. It’s like he doesn’t care about anything except getting this job done.”

Stone pauses for a long second before saying, “Can you blame him?”

“The front-line commanders get kriffing leave.”

“We’re not front-line commanders.”

“We might as well be.”

Stone shakes his head. “Maybe he should talk to his squadmates. That might help him. I know I wish mine would talk to me, but they’re all too busy in their blaze of glory or…” He trails off.

“They’ve marched on?”

Stone nods. “A few of them. Three of my batchmates, too.”

“Kriff, I’m sorry. You should tell me about that stuff. Fox is kriffing himself up by not telling people.”

Stone shrugs, not meeting Thorn’s eyes. “I found out when I was on a mission, and I haven’t had much time to think about it.”

***

21 BBY, day 299 of the War, 2237 GST

Coruscant Guard Command Chat

2237

Thorn: when was the last time you talked to your squadmates Fox

0245

Fox: does it matter?

0412

Thorn: I just wanted to know

Fox: it doesn’t matter

Thorn: so you haven’t?

Fox: why the kriff do you want to know?

0428

Fox: Stone, Bennor just commed me to tell you there are an osik ton of senators waiting for urgent trips to planets

Fox: their requests aren’t filled

Fox: what’s going on?

Stone: just woke up and I’m getting ready to leave with one of them right now. I emptied my inbox before I went to sleep. Give me an hour and I’ll get it sorted out.

Fox: make it less than an hour

***

21 BBY, day 300 of the War, 0530 GST

Fox’s brain itches. He’s got more reports to read and sign off on in the next hour and a half than he physically can. He’s still doggedly working his way through the pile. If he thinks about the reports, he doesn’t have to think about Ponds. He doesn’t have to think about what might have happened to him. He doesn’t have to think about what would have happened if he’d messaged Ponds right away. He doesn’t have to think about the messages that are surely pouring into his comms right now.

His datapad is siting right over there.

Kriff.

He picks up the datapad and opens his messages. He has to scroll a long way down before he finds any of his squadmates’ messages. He muted the comm channel that includes all of them long ago. He doesn’t remember when anymore. The message indicator sits stubbornly at 99+. He’s willing to guess that there are hundreds and thousands of messages in that chat now. Messages he hasn’t read. Messages he isn’t a part of.

Kriffit.

He scrolls down further. His chat with Ponds is long gone. He’ll never get to see that again. But there are messages from the others, from ages ago. Ones he never responded to. Wolffe, asking how he is. Rex, ranting about his general. Cody, saying something about coming to Coruscant soon. That would have been months ago. Fox missed it, then. The others—Monnk, Gree, Bly, Bacara, not Keeli anymore—are down there somewhere as well. Not that Fox has opened or even paid attention to their messages in ages.

Well. It’s not like they’ve bothered to comm in ages, either.

He tosses the datapad aside and turns backs to his reports.

***

21 BBY, day 300 of the War, 2158 GST

Thorn and Stone (aka Rants About Fox)

2158

Stone: how’s Fox been doing today?

Thorn: he’s been in his office all day except for going to see the chancellor

Stone: he needs to get out of his office for once.

Thorn: kriff, really?

Stone: before it goes too far.

Stone: whatever it is he’s doing to himself.

Stone: isolating.

Thorn: yeah trust me, I tried to get him to take a break and get some sleep or even just go and get some food but he said he wasn’t hungry

Stone: I’m so close to calling in his squadmates Thorn.

Thorn: kriff no

Thorn: we can’t admit that we can’t handle all this on 000

Thorn: not yet

Stone: then call in in Thire.

Thorn: so you agree with me now

Stone: unfortunately, yes.

Stone: I think we’re getting to that point.

***

21 BBY, day 301 of the War, 0600 GST

Thorn throws out a hand and silences his beeping alarm as quickly as he can. Everything in him just wants to go back to sleep and stay buried in his bunk for the next twenty-four hours, so that maybe he won’t have to deal with grumpy Fox and ticked-off Uunkazzir and too few troops and more kriffing problems than he has time to deal with. But that’s not an option right now, because his shift starts in an hour. And before that starts, he needs to get a shower, drink as much caf as humanly possible, and make another kriffing request for more NCOs.

He does the first things in quick succession. Once he’s kitted up and drinking caf, he grabs his datapad and pulls up the requisition form for NCOs.

How many kriffing times has he stared down this form already in their time on Coruscant? Too many, that’s for sure, because he doesn’t even have to think as he goes down the list, filling out all the blanks. And then there’s the section where he can type notes.

He’s done this so many times. And those blasted Kaminoans or senators are whoever they are keeping denying the requests. Even though they clearly need more troops. Osik, Thorn would take any troops at this point, just so long as they can breathe and follow orders.

He types out a brief note. It’s to-the-point. If he takes any more osik about this, he’s going to chuck his datapad down a portal.

He shoots off a message to Fox as well, informing him that he’s submitted another round of requisitions. When he checks back hours later, the message is marked as read, but Fox hasn’t bothered to reply.

Chapter Text

21 BBY, day 302 of the War, 1841 GST

Pol takes satisfaction in the fact that everyone knows exactly how well his medbay is organized. It’s the eye in the kriffing storm, so it had better be organized. Sure, there are occasional piles of stuff, but those piles are organized. Pol knows where everything is, and half of what he needs at any given moment is in a pouch on his belt anyway. After nearly a year on Coruscant, he knows perfectly well at what short notice he’s going to be called on, over and over.

The medbay—and Pol’s own mind—being so organized means that none of the three commanders bothers to check to make sure that he’s got a handle on things. He has the entire place laid out the way he wants it: desk near the door, general beds on the main ward, critical ward immediately behind the desk, scanner room next to that, bacta tanks next to that, freshers next to that, storage next to that, and Pol’s office with the secret incident report map at the very end.

He doesn’t get a lot of time in his office usually, but the medbay is finally calm enough one afternoon that he’s able to slip in and properly look at the mess that’s in there.

It’s like his brain got copied onto the room itself. Three walls are covered in his diagrams and notes. He can see the scrawled notations, the threads connecting things, the maps that diagram his slow pinpointing of where exactly these smugglers are operating from.

He’s eliminated an osik ton of potential sources for what he needs. Obviously, it has to be an illegal source, but it can’t be any run-of-the-mill dealer. Pol needs someone who actually knows how to actually work with spice, not just sell it to the nearest spice addict who’s willing to pay.

There’s a knock on the door. Pol goes to it and opens it halfway, standing in the gap. It’s Lieutenant Lor’vram there, looking worried for once.

“Pol,” Lor’vram says quickly. “I need you to come and look at Barn.”

Pol steps out of his office, closing the door behind him. Great. “What happened to him?” He starts along the medbay, pulling gloves from his scrubs pocket.

“He’s—” Lor’vram can’t seem to get the words out. “I’d say he’s catatonic, but he’s shaking.”

“How long?” Pol asks, lengthening his steps along the medbay.

“Ten minutes. I brought him straight here.”

Pol grimaces when he sees Barn sprawled on the nearest bed to the door. Lor’vram’s right. Barn’s gone through too kriffing much ever since that spice raid. He doesn’t need whatever this is on top of it. Pol snaps on his gloves and heads over.

Lor’vram says something, but it’s a question, so Pol doesn’t pay attention right then. He’s too busy taking in Barn’s status. Eyes are half-open but not lucid; face is pale; breathing is shallow and rapid; hands are shaking something awful; on his face, and even through his blacks, Pol can see the sweat.

“Mild seizure,” Pol says.

“Is that bad?”

“Depends. Make sure he keeps breathing.” Pol goes to his desk and rifles through the drawer until he finds an antiseizure hypo. Thankfully, those haven’t been in high demand. He returns, breaks the cap off, and injects the hypo into Barn’s neck. “Okay, Lor’vram,” he says, dropping the hypo onto the nearest medical cart. “Has he been sleeping?”

“Yes. He’s not on duty yet, what with that prosthetic not arriving. He’s been sleeping more than half the time.”

“Eating?”

“I’ve been making sure he eats. He’s not having problems with keeping it down or anything.”

“Stress?”

Lor’vram makes a helpless gesture. “I’ve done the best I can, Pol. He hasn’t been on duty since the raid, so any stress would be in his thoughts, not real life.”

Pol absently picks up Barn’s wrist and feels for his pulse. Too high, but he knew that. Not dangerously high. “Has he talked about everything that happened with the spice raid?”

“Sure. He told me what happened, and hasn’t talked about it since.” Lor’vram’s voice is taking on a bit of a desperate edge.

“Calm down,” Pol says. “He’s going to be fine. Has he been having nightmares?”

“I don’t know. I’m sorry—I’ve been checking up on him as much as I can, but I’m in the lieutenants’ barracks. None of the others in the platoon have mentioned it.”

“Okay.”

Pol turns and glances up at the ceiling. He doesn’t have time to deal with a medical issue like this right now—just urgent enough to need his attention, but not urgent enough to be a matter of life and death. Right now, what he needs to do is locate a dealer so that he can go and get some illegal medical supplies so that this medbay doesn’t shut down altogether. But apparently that’s not a kriffing option. He doesn’t even have time to research where the safest areas are, so that he doesn’t get himself into trouble in the lower levels. Kriff. Well, unless…

“Do you need me here?” Lor’vram asks. “I have a patrol that I need to lead in fifteen minutes. If you’ve got Barn…”

“I’ve got him,” Pol says. “Don’t worry about him. Commander Thorn is your commander, right?”

“Yeah,” Lor’vram says.

“Comm him and tell him I need him here as soon as he can.”

“Will do.” Lor’vram throws a last glance at Barn’s now-still form and heads out the medbay door.

Pol spends the next half hour making sure that Barn isn’t going to die imminently. And, as far as he can tell, he isn’t. He’s just unresponsive, for whatever reason. A quick brain scan indicates that he’s okay, just… he’s not. Granted, that scanner is just about shot, but they all are at this point. Pol’s working with a defunct medbay, and it’s a surprise that the people in here aren’t doing that well?

Thorn finally walks through the medbay doors like a specter of death. His face is thinner than when they arrived on Coruscant—not as thin as Fox’s though, thank the ka’ra—and his hair isn’t even properly put up. He walks straight to Pol’s desk.

“You need me because of Barn, Pol?”

“No.” Pol sets down the report that he was trying to write. “Barn’s fine. My junior medics are about to come back on shift anyway, so they’ll dealing with anything that might come up. Let’s take a walk to my office.”

“The kriff?” Thorn follows Pol, still talking. “Look, Pol—I’ll to come if you need something, you know that, but it would be nice to know what it is that I’m being called for. Is it something medical?”

“I’d rather not talk about it out in here.” Pol opens the door to his office and gestures Thorn inside.

“Kriff,” Thorn says, looking around at the walls. “That’s… a lot of flimsi.”

“Yeah, tell me about it.” It took Pol months to assemble this, adding a piece or two each day. “That’s related to what I’ve got to say. Does Fox show you the supply orders?”

“He’s mentioned that they’re not being filled.”

“Right. We’re running low on everything. Bandages, bacta, painkillers—you name it, we don’t have it. The only things that we do have are the ones that I don’t actually need given the variety of injuries that walk into my medbay. I have no idea what the kriff those suppliers are doing, but they need to get their osik together. I’ve contacted them, and it’s still not doing any good. And the fact is, without supplies, this medbay can’t run.”

“How low are we getting?”

“I have no bacta, Thorn.”

He starts. “The kriff?”

“No bacta, Thorn. That means none for the bacta tanks, and none for hypos. None.”

“Vod, that’s impossible.”

“It’s entirely possible, because I’ve seen it with my own eyes. The supply shipment that came in this morning had none of the bacta that I ordered. They say sometimes that the front lines need it more, which is the only justification they’ve ever offered.”

“Have they seen this planet?” Thorn demands.

“Apparently not, because they haven’t sent any bacta in six days. I’ve been running steadily lower since we got here. When Thire got shot like a punching bag during the spice raid, I could barely give him painkillers to get over it because we were running so low. He’s lucky that I still had enough bacta to put him in a tank, because otherwise he would have marched on that night.”

“Osik.”

“Tell me about it.”

“So what do you want, Pol? What am I here for?”

Pol reaches up and undoes his ponytail, pulling the hair down and dragging his hands through it. “I’m going to go and get supplies if they won’t send them.”

Thorn snorts. “You mean you’re going to go to the supplier and steal them?”

“No. I’m going to the lower levels, and I’m going to get whatever they’ve got down there.”

“The kriff?” Thorn’s face goes through a whole range of confusion to irritation to doubting to annoyed.

“I’m dead serious, Thorn.” Pol sits down behind his desk. Kriff, his knees are about ready to give out if he stands anymore today. “I need supplies, and I need them now. I need more of them than the suppliers can hand out, apparently. So I’m going to the lower levels, I’m finding a dealer who can get me anything that works without negative side effects, and kriff the consequences.”

Thorn paces the length of the office twice before wheeling and demanding, “Does Fox know about this?”

“No. It’s none of his business how I run my medbay unless he specifically asks me.”

“You know he won’t do that.”

“So what? If he wants to stop me from getting something to keep his men alive, he can. But I’m the CMO, remember? I have to make calls about what I’m going to do in the best interests of these men.”

Thorn paces to the opposite wall and back again, and stops in front of Pol’s desk. “Why am I here, then?”

“I want you to go with me.”

Thorn drops his bucket on Pol’s desk and plants his palms on it. “Pol, you’ve told me a lot of crazy stuff in the past year. But what the kriff? I don’t have the time to go to the lower levels with you to track down some dealer.”

“Fine. Then I’ll go alone.”

“You’ll get yourself hurt.”

“I’ve gone through the same training that every trooper has.”

“There’s a reason we don’t patrol alone down there.” Thorn pauses, apparently losing his annoyance for a second. “I’m kriffing tired. I’m sitting on your desk.” He swings up onto it, propping one leg up and leaning his chin on it. “Pol—you can’t go down there alone.”

“Then send someone with me.” Pol raises his eyebrows, waiting for Thorn to say something. When he doesn’t, he adds, “You know your men. Choose one.”

Thorn stares icily at the wall in front of him. He grumbles finally, “There isn’t one. I wouldn’t put one of them at risk like that.”

“Then we’re at an impasse.”

“Fine. I’ll go with you.” Thorn rolls his eyes emphatically. “I don’t condone this. You know that, right?”

“I’m not asking you to condone it. I’m asking you to come.”

“I know,” Thorn grumbles. He sighs and finally looks back at Pol. There are lines on his face that weren’t there a year ago. No ten-year-old should have lines like that, even with accelerated aging. “At least you’re working with me,” he says. “You know, compromising, because apparently Fox has forgotten how to interact like a human and how to make a compromise. You know about that load of osik, right—you’ve got to know about it.”

“Trust me, I hear everything.” Pol smiles wryly. “It all comes through the medbay.”

“Then you know he’s being a pain in the shebs with just how controlling and stand-offish he’s been?”

“Most of the troopers who complained had a bit more respect for their marshal commander than that. But yeah, more or less.”

“Okay, good. Have you talked to him?”

“I told him to sleep more.” Pol leans back in his chair, propping his boots on the desk. “Actually, I tell him that pretty much every day. He responds once in a while. I’m pretty sure he takes the opposite of my advice.”

Thorn rolls his eyes. “Yeah, I know.” He stands up, grabbing his bucket. “Nice to have this conversation and all, but I’ve got work to do. When are you going to the lower levels.”

“Tomorrow night.”

“Brilliant.” Thorn heads for the door. “I’ll see you then, vod. Let me know what happens to Barn.”

***

21 BBY, day 303 of the War, 2205 GST

“What’s this guy’s name again?” Thorn asks in an undertone.

Pol waits to answer until the stragglers of a decidedly shady group finish stumbling past. They’re probably on their way to the bar—and with the quality of the alcohol down here, they’re probably kriffing up their insides. Well, they’ve been kriffing up their insides since they were much younger, probably, so it’s not like Pol could do anything for them even if he had the time. Too many messed-up people on Coruscant.

“Pol?” Thorn says sharply. “You with me?”

“Yes.” Pol glances over at him. “You’re on edge.”

“And you should be too. Anything under level 3000 is automatically a high-alert zone.”

“And you run how many patrols down here?”

“Too many.”

“It’s not good to stay that alert for so long.”

“It’s not like we have any kriffing choice, is it?”

“Yeah, but that explains part of why the men are having trouble focusing.” Pol checks his blasters again, just in case. They’re in order. “A couple of them have mentioned nightmares, but never remember enough details. They’re probably dreaming about being on high alert down here constantly.”

“Sure.” Thorn shrugs. “But I’m pretty sure you got distracted yourself earlier, so anyway, what’s the name of the guy we’re going to see?”

“Drosselmeyer.”

“Funny name. What species?”

“No idea. Does it matter? As long as he can make the drugs I need, I don’t care. He could be an insane half-cyborg Hutt for all I care.”

“And you found him how?”

“Read reports, triangulated, and came up with a probable base of operations. Don’t worry about it, okay, Thorn? You’re just here to be a bodyguard.”

“Dead weight, then.”

“Not dead, hopefully.” Pol points ahead. “That’s the place.”

Thorn huffs. “An out-of-business bar?”

“Like I said, Thorn.” Pol stops and turns to him. “I don’t care who this guy is, where he operates from, how he gets his materials, or why the kriff he made any of the decisions he did the way he did. I just care that he can get me the supplies that are going to keep your men from dying. I’m leading this, I’m doing the negotiating, and you’re not interfering. You’re here to carry stuff and watch my six. Make sense?”

“Yeah. And keep moving. Doesn’t help to stand around down here.”

Pol rolls his eyes, even though Thorn can’t see it.

The bar ahead of them is tucked between what looks like two seedy tenement buildings. The windows and door are all sealed up. Pol stands back for a second to look at the mess of scrap metal there. Then he steps forward, hooks his fingers around the edge of a panel, and pulls. There’s a soft click, and a whole portion of the metal sweeps open to reveal a gaping doorway where the actual door isn’t.

“Kriff,” Thorn says. It sounds almost appreciative.

Pol draws his blaster and steps through the hole. Thorn follows.

“Shut the door,” Pol says.

“I don’t—”

“Shut the door, Thorn.”

Thorn grunts and reaches back to pull the door closed. It clicks shut. Inside, there are only a few beams of light that illuminate the trashed furniture and debris all over the ground.

“Classy,” Thorn says.

Pol ignores him and steps through the mess on the floor to go behind the counter. Thorn is only a few paces behind him. Pol shoves open the swinging door to the back room and walks in.

There’s a click, and an accented voice says from somewhere to the side, “Don’t move.”

Ah, great, so they’re going to have to go through this first. Pol raises his hands and says, “I won’t shoot.”

The light on the ceiling flickers on, revealing that the back room is significantly tidier than the front one. Sitting on the edge of a battered table to the left is a blue-skinned sentient with red eyes and unkempt black hair that falls to his shoulders. Chiss? There aren’t many of those in this part of the galaxy. He’s fully outfitted in armor—some Mandalorian, some that looks suspiciously like a clone trooper’s, and other pieces that Pol can’t identify. The most important part is that he’s holding a blaster, leveled at Pol.

“Pol,” Thorn says sharply from behind him.

“Calm down, Thorn,” Pol says. He turns his head toward the man. “You’re Drosselmeyer?”

“What are clones doing, looking for Drosselmeyer?”

“Can I put away my blaster and take this helmet off?” Pol asks. “We need to talk.”

One eyebrow rises. “You may need to talk. I don’t have to unless I want to.”

Well, that’s a good enough cue as any. Pol puts his blaster back into its holster and takes off his bucket. “I’m Polio. Pol. CMO of the Coruscant Guard.” There’s no recognition in the red eyes, so he adds, “That means Chief Medical Officer.”

“I know what a CMO is. Tell your friend to come into the room and take off his helmet as well.”

“Come on, Thorn,” Pol says.

Thorn steps past Pol and into the room. At least he has the good sense not to have his blaster out. He pulls off his helmet, glowering.

“Cheery one, huh?” the Chiss says.

“Yeah,” Pol says. “Are you Drosselmeyer?”

“Why do you want to know?”

“I need to buy some… things… and I heard that Drosselmeyer is the one to go to.”

The Chiss snorts. “What sort of things?”

“Bacta, if it’s available,” Pol says. “Any kind of painkillers. Any kind of anesthetic. Whatever antibiotics are available. Any kind of blood clotting medication. Kriffing rubbing alcohol, for that matter. Do you want me to go on?”

The Chiss raises both eyebrows this time. “This is for recreation?”

Oh, come on. What the kriff? Pol bites back what he wants to say, and instead grits out, “I’m a CMO. What do you think?”

“I think you’re desperate, and I’m not.” The Chiss flicks the safety on and returns his blaster to its holster. “And I also think that you may be genuine. Why else would you be here?”

“I need supplies,” Pol says.

“How badly?”

“Badly enough to be here, apparently.” Pol grimaces. “Our supply source isn’t sending us what we requisition. Officially, it’s because they say they need it on the front lines. Unofficially, I think there’s something else going on. Whatever it is, my medbay is pulling the last of its supplies, and the number of troopers coming in injured or dying isn’t letting up. I need supplies, and I need whatever I can get. Can you get that for me?”

“I might be able to. What can you pay?” The Chiss raises an eyebrow again. “They don’t pay you, do they?”

“No,” Pol says. “But if you get us supplies, no one will shut this operation down.”

“Pol,” Thorn hisses.

“Shut up, Thorn.”

The Chiss smirks. “Blackmail, then?”

“Not blackmail,” Pol says. “I don’t care that you do whatever it is that you do. We have bigger problems to deal with up at the Guard headquarters. The only reason I’m here and not somewhere else is because I heard that you sell quality drugs, and I don’t need some osik that’ll hurt the troopers more than it helps them. I’m offering to not turn you in because I don’t have any kriffing thing else to give you.”

The Chiss nods consideringly. “I’ll do it on one condition.”

“What?” Pol asks.

“I want your blood.”

“What the kriff?” Thorn snaps.

The Chiss snorts. “Not all of it, idiot. Just enough to study.”

“Why do you want clone blood?” Pol asks carefully.

Because. Well. He’s got plenty of his own records and questions that he wants answered about clones. Their creation is mostly Kaminoan secrets, but Pol’s fairly sure that he could reverse engineer large portions of the process. He’s got a whole file of various scans and tests that he’s done along the way in the past nearly a year on Coruscant.

The Chiss shrugs. “I have my reasons.” He jerks his head toward Thorn. “Both of your blood. He looks older than you.”

“What does that matter?” Thorn snarls.

“Closer to the original donor’s DNA,” the Chiss says to Thorn with another shrug. “Besides, I can see that you’re obviously closer to the original than your CMO. He’s too short, and his eyes are the wrong color.”

Okay, so Drosselmeyer clearly knows something about clones already.

“Fine,” Pol says. “We’ll do it.”

“What the kriff, Pol—”

“Do you want your men to live or not, Thorn?” Pol snaps, wheeling on him. “Give him some of your blood, and we’ll get the supplies to save some lives.”

“I don’t trust him.”

The Chiss smirks. “Smart. So you’re the one that’s spent time in the lower levels? Yes, you have that look about you. And your armor looks used, whereas your CMO’s armor looks like it’s barely seen a day of use since he got here. He probably spends his days stuck in his medbay, doesn’t he? Too busy with the chaos that is war. Well, let me tell you something. First, I am Drosselmeyer, and that means that I keep my word. Second, me agreeing to help doesn’t mean that I’m happy about helping you, but I’ll condescend to do it if you show me that you’re willing to work with me. Third, your hair is ridiculous and your tattoo is stupid. Now, who’s going first?”

***

21 BBY, day 303 of the War, 2345 GST

Thorn is silent on the way back. Pol lets him be, focusing on just getting back through the maze of streets to the portal, so that they can head back up to the surface.

It isn’t until they’re back on the surface, goods loaded into the back of the speeder that Pol picked up from where he left it, that Thorn finally speaks.

“This was the stupidest plan anyone ever came up with, and I work with Fox.”

“You came anyway,” Pol points out.

“Yeah.”

“During the time you would have spent sleeping.”

“I’m not going to ask to know why you know that.” Thorn sighs and leans his head back against the seat. “I also don’t want to think about what Drosselmeyer is doing with that blood.”

“It doesn’t matter, does it? If he’s trying to do something stupid, it’ll take anyone years to put together the process that the Kaminoans used to make us. I don’t know about you, but I don’t have enough energy to give a kriff. Drosselmeyer is clearly not… you know, normal. But we get enough osik from our superiors. He’s at least willing to make a compromise.”

“Yeah.” Thorn shifts again. “Kriff. Pol, what do you think about what Fox is doing? Not just the way he’s closed off, but the way he’s running this place?”

Pol’s hands tighten on the controls before he can remember to stop himself from a reaction like that. Kriff. His thoughts about the commanders are supposed to be his own. They’re not supposed to get spread around like that. But frankly, Fox has always been a di’kut, and it’s only getting worse.

“He’s killing himself,” Pol says at last. “Not actively, yet, but he’s setting himself up for it.”

“What do you propose doing?”

“Doing? It’s not a medical issue, yet, so I don’t outrank him.”

“Kriff. You have to give him advice.”

“Kriff you too, mirsheb. You think I haven’t?”

“Well, he’s not changing, and—”

“CC-2668,” Pol snaps. “I’m a medic, not a miracle-worker. You want Fox to change? You figure out what his problem is, and you fix it. I have other issues to fix. I would work on it if I could, but I’m too busy making sure that the rest of the men don’t die. Whenever I get the chance, I try to get through to Fox, but it hasn’t worked yet—and big kriffing surprise, because you know as well as I do that he’s a stubborn di’kut.”

“Yeah, trust me, I know.” Thorn grumbles something inaudible, then adds, “You’re not telling him about this, right?”

“Kriff, no.”

“Good. Keep it that way.”

“Oh, trust me,” Pol says, laughing hollowly. “I know better than to mention it.”

Chapter Text

21 BBY, day 324 of the War, 2300 GST

To be honest—which he isn’t—Fox hurts all over. His knuckles are probably bruised; he hasn’t taken off his glove to check. But that’s what he gets for resorting to punching a criminal in the face when he didn’t have his blaster ready in time. His shoulder and leg are sore from falling on them at least twice, in the same fight. His ankle was twisted somehow, at some point. Not badly enough that he can’t still make it work. He took some more hits beside those and can’t really pick those out from the general ache that he’s felt for days now. His eyes sting from being open for too many hours at a time. His brain is melting on him, which sure doesn’t kriffing help.

Regardless, here he is, patrolling. At 500 Republica. At 2300.

Thorn called him last-minute, telling him they needed a platoon at 500 Republica as soon as possible. It was something about the one en route being directed somewhere else to deal with a more immediate crisis. There was no available platoon, so Fox pulled half of the troopers on watch at the Guard headquarters and led them himself to 500 Republica. They’ve been here nearly four hours now. Only ten minutes left until the formerly scheduled platoon should show up.

Fox doesn’t bother to stifle the yawn that nearly pulls his face apart. He’s under a bucket. No one can see him. As soon as he gets back to base, he’s getting caf. Or he should sleep. He can probably spare half an hour to sleep before he needs to keep going with reports. And he’ll definitely need caf once he hits those reports.

A flicker of movement ahead of him catches his eye. He drops his hand to his blaster automatically, but relaxes when his HUD identifies the figure as—

Well, that’s interesting. Interesting in the way that Fox knows it’ll be a whole load of osik for him to deal with if something goes wrong.

Senator Riyo Chuchi.

As she approaches, she lifts a hand and waves slightly. “Hello, Commander!” she says brightly. “I didn’t realize you patrolled around here.”

“Not usually, Senator.” Fox stops as she does, as they come even with each other.

He keeps his hand on his blaster. He’s not going to risk the life of a senator, even if she is doing something unspeakably foolish at the moment. He doesn’t need the headache of writing a report on why a senator got hurt in any way, shape, or form while he was present. She doesn’t look like she’s about to cause trouble. She’s just there. That in itself is a problem.

“Oh,” she says. She hesitates. “I… I don’t think you want me here. Is there a reason that you’re here? Has something bad happened?”

“No,” Fox says. “You shouldn’t be out this late on your own, though, Senator. Not with the way things have been going lately.”

“Sorry,” she says. “I didn’t realize that we’d gotten to that point. It’s not that dangerous here, is it? Not if I’m being alert?”

Fox resists rolling his eyes, because she genuinely seems to not realize how kriffing messed up this planet is, even on the surface.

“Being alert is good for a start, but it’s not enough.” Kriff, why is he correcting her like this? It’s her business where she is. But she’s the only senator he’s seen tonight that didn’t just go straight into the building. It’s different. And distinctly not safe. And kriffit if he’s not going to make sure she’s not going to get into trouble. “Look, Senator, I’d like to say that you can wander around. And there’s technically no rule against it. But I’d recommend not doing it. You put yourself at risk when you do.”

“Do you get in trouble if I do put myself at risk?”

Fox snorts. There’s a naïve outlook. “No. But I get in trouble if any senator gets hurt.”

“Really? That seems… harsh. Especially since some of them deliberately do things that put them into danger.” She shrugs sheepishly and adds, “Including me, I guess.”

“They do worse,” Fox says. “Trust me. But still, a senator is a target, even on the patrolled grounds. Don’t you have a bodyguard or anything that you could take with you?”

She shakes her head. “No. My aides are trained, but this is their evening to go out and take the night off, and I wanted some fresh air.” She smiles ruefully and says, “You’re right, though. It’s probably not the best idea, and I should be heading back to my apartment anyway. I have plenty of work to do tomorrow that I need to prepare for.”

Fox is not going to let her walk back unguarded. Mustafar would freeze over before he lets a security risk like that happen under his nose.

“I’ll walk you back, Senator. I’d rather not risk you not getting to your apartment safely.”

“Of course!” She turns and starts back the way she came. “Well, my work tomorrow will probably be very dull, but you probably have more interesting work. What do you have to do tomorrow?”

By 0030, he needs to be starting on reports. His own shift for tomorrow starts at 0600, and he should probably get another hour or two of sleep in-between. So by 0330, he should be sleeping. His shift is at the Senate, and lasts until 1700, when the Senate lets out. He has a meeting with the Chancellor at 1730. At 1900, he has a meeting with the lieutenants that most often do the escort missions, to let them know about the new regulations. At 2000, he needs to go up into orbit and meet with Major Dido Nydiil, who runs the orbital defenses. By 2100, he should be working on reports again, and getting schedules put together for the next day, and looking over the supply orders—

Kriff.

“I have a Senate shift,” Fox says.

“Oh, yes! I’ve seen you around in the Senate a couple of times recently. Is that where you work most often?”

“Usually.” Why is she still asking questions? “They prefer to have me near the center of action if I can make it happen. I do other things occasionally. Standing around in the Senate isn’t that interesting, though.” He finds himself at the end with nothing else to say, and casts about for a frantic second before producing, “What… do you plan to do at the Senate tomorrow?”

“Oh, well, my most important work right now isn’t while the Senate is in session. I’m meeting with some of my friends—other senators, you know—to talk about some things. Senator Padmé Amidala and I are working on a project together.”

“Uh—what sort of project?”

She laughs. “Well, I’d like to tell you something mysterious, like that it’s confidential, but it isn’t really. And it involves you, actually.”

It kriffing involves who?

“Sorry?”

“Not you specifically, but the GAR in general. We’re working on a bill to route more money to medical supplies for both clones and civilians in some of the areas of heaviest fighting.”

“My CMO would be eternally grateful if you could get that to apply to the rest of the GAR as well.”

She stops walking and look at him. Kriff. He’s been too forward. He shouldn’t ask for things like that.

“Do you have the supplies you need?” she asks curiously. “I thought, being on Coruscant and all, you would have everything necessary.”

“We ran low a little while back,” Fox says carefully. “We’re all right now, though.”

“More consistent supply chains, then,” Senator Chuchi says. “We can work that in. See, this is why I need someone who’s actually in the GAR involved in this! I can’t help the way I want to if I don’t know the problems that need to be solved.”

They’ve reached the doors by now, which open automatically to admit them. The senator heads across the lobby to the lifts and pushes the button to call one. She turns back to Fox to continue.

“Anyway, we’re working on that bill. And I’m also meeting with Senators Bail Organa and Mon Mothma for dinner. We’re going to work on some actually confidential work. And then I’m going to be calling my family back home on Pantora and catching up with them for a little bit.” She smiles. “A lot of meetings. You probably know what that’s like.”

“Yes,” Fox says. Kriff, yes, he knows what a lot of meetings is like. “I have plenty of those. Comes with all the responsibilities of getting the Guard to run halfway decently.”

With a soft chime, the lift doors sweep open. The Guard facilities are nowhere near as nice as this place. Even the lifts here are nicer than the nicest area in the Guard HQ.

“I’m up near the very top,” Senator Chuchi says, entering the lift and pushing one of the buttons. “I was a little disappointed at first, but then I realized how nice of a view I have. It’s nearly above the smog line, so some days, I can see the sun rising properly. It’s beautiful, from up there. It reminds me of home. Pantora is a little like this, anyway.”

“Not Kamino,” Fox says. “It always rains there.”

“I know! I remember hearing about that when they first started talking about Kamino. You know, back when the war began. It sounds dreadful. No sunrises or sunsets?”

“They come occasionally. All the vode celebrate like it’s the best thing that’s ever happened.”

“The… vode?” She glances up at him. Her nose wrinkles when she’s confused, it seems.

“Uh,” he says. Kriff, how is he supposed to explain. “The… brothers. It’s a Mando’a word.”

“Brothers?” She smiles. “That’s amazing. You think of yourself as brothers?”

He shrugs. “We grow up together and do everything together, and we all come from the same starting point. So yeah, pretty much.”

“Oh, I love that so much.” And it sounds like she actually does. Her eyes have lit up. “My siblings and I are pretty close, but I’ve been away so much for so many years that it’s hard to keep up with everything that they do. I would love to get to be with them every day.”

The lift chimes again and stops. The doors slide open onto a kriffing fancy hallway.

“My apartment is just down here,” Senator Chuchi says, starting out of the lift. “I know you have work to do, but do you want caf or anything? It’s getting late.”

“No, thanks. I’ll get some caf back at base.”

“Well, you should definitely come and try some of mine sometime. Pantoran caf is very good.” She stops by a door. “It was good talking to you, Commander Fox.”

“You don’t have to call me Commander,” he says without thinking.

Kriff. That was a stupid thing to say. He’s not friends with her. She’s just a senator.

“Fox, then.” She smiles. “By the way, do you… you know, ever forget you’re wearing a helmet?”

He doesn’t. It’s his mask. And his source of information from all corners of the galaxy, all swirling on his HUD. He doesn’t forget that he’s wearing it.

“I’m on duty right now, which is why it’s on. It’s not to be rude. Sorry, Senator.”

“Oh, no, I didn’t mean it like that. I was just curious, but I didn’t want to imply that you were being rude or something like that. I know you have a job, and I have a job, and we both have to do those jobs, and… well, I guess I asked it badly.” She smiles brightly. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Have a good night!” She disappears into her apartment.

Fox stands there for a solid minute before turning and walking back to the lift.

What.

What the kriff?

Why did he tell her that she didn’t have to call him commander? Well, she’s the first senator who’s bothered to talk to him like he’s an actual human, and that’s a start. Is it her smile, too? The way it pulls on the corners of her mouth and seems to take over her face is…

Well, it makes his chest feel a bit looser and he doesn’t feel like he’s quite as old. Kriff, he’s even forgotten that his ankle was throbbing from earlier. It still is, but… that doesn’t seem quite so important right now.

He calls the lift and waits.

Senator Chuchi said that she’ll see him tomorrow. Does that mean that she intends to find him? Or that she’s just acknowledging that they’ll both be at the Senate?

The kriff? What is he doing, getting distracted by the words of one senator?

He needs sleep, that’s for sure.

***

21 BBY, day 325 of the War, 0045 GST

Fox sits down to do reports with a cup of caf close at hand. He thinks he’s doing pretty well, and making pretty good progress getting through the list. At least his list will be shorter whenever he gets back to it next. Not that he has kriffing time for that anytime soon.

He wakes up to someone poking his shoulder.

“Hey,” Thorn’s annoyed voice is saying. “You know you’re on shift in ten minutes, right? Fox? Vod, are you even alive?”

Fox jerks his head up fast enough that he nearly smacks into Thorn. “What?” he rasps.

“Your shift? In ten minutes?” Thorn is standing there, a new black eye standing out around one eye, bucket tucked under his arm. “Come on, Fox. I know you didn’t intentionally fall asleep at your desk.”

Wait. Fell asleep? What time is it? He turns his wrist so that he can see his chrono, and—

0551.

“Osik,” he says, shoving his chair out and jumping to his feet. “Thorn, remind the lieutenants on the list for the meeting that the meeting’s tonight. And—”

“What, no thanks for waking you up? Come on, Fox.”

“What the kriff, Thorn?” He pauses for a half second to glare. “Don’t interrupt. You have to get back to Uunkazzir by 1200 today. He’s on the war path again. I forwarded you his message.”

Thorn frowns. “Which I already saw, because you forwarded it four hours ago. You’ve been asleep since then? If you have, then I’m going to tell Pol, because I think we should start a sleep tracker for you and make sure that you actually do—”

“Cut the osik, Thorn. Just make sure you talk to the lieutenants and Uunkazzir. If you have any other mirsheb comments, comm them to me. I’ve got work to do.”

He stalks out of the room, grabbing his bucket on the way. Thorn remains behind.

He should probably feel sorry for snapping at Thorn. But since when does he have time for any luxuries anymore? If time is money, so are emotions. He’s got enough to spend his emotions on without worrying about regret as well.

***

21 BBY, day 325 of the War, 0900 GST

With the four unplanned hours of sleep under his belt, Fox should be able to stay awake at the Senate. He’s definitely done it with less. Still, standing in his place for hours at a time makes his attention waver. He’s better than this. So he occupies himself in watching the news feeds scrolling through his HUD. He catches a glimpse of Cody and Rex’s names in the same news broadcast. Something about another mission where the unbeatable duo did something impressive. As if he hasn’t seen dozens of other similar broadcasts. No one ever mentions that the Senate still hasn’t been attacked. None of the protests have even gotten close since that first day on Coruscant.

He’s lost enough in his thoughts that he doesn’t notice someone approaching.

“Fox?”

He glances over and—well, that’s interesting. That’s Senator Riyo Chuchi again.

“Good morning, ma’am,” he says automatically.

“It’s mid-afternoon,” she says apologetically. “Long day?”

“Yeah,” he admits before he can think better of it. “The Senate’s still in session, right?” His HUD is telling him that it is.

“It is, but I honestly needed a break. I was going to make some caf. Do you want some?”

“Ah… sure.”

What? What’s he saying? He’s on roving patrol, sure, but… accepting caf from a senator is definitely something that he shouldn’t be doing. But what the kriff, right? He made the rules about how to interact with senators. He can break those rules if circumstances are different.

“Wonderful! You’ll love the caf that I have.” She starts off along the hall, and Fox falls into step next to her.

He hasn’t properly looked at her before. That’s probably an oversight, but he sees so many new faces every day that he doesn’t have time to catalogue most of them properly. She’s blue, obviously. Pantorans are. And she has yellow tattoos on her face—also Pantoran. Her purple hair is braided in a crown around her head today. She almost always wears a deep shade of red or pink, as far as Fox can tell. Today, that takes the form of a dress that fits snuggly through the top and is loose in the skirt. She could definitely hide weapons under the skirt, given its fullness. Her leggings are slightly darker, and the boots… are those metal toecaps? Impressive. So she does know a thing or two about practical defense.

And her eyes are gold. Why did he never notice that before?

“How’s it been today?” Fox asks.

“Oh, you know,” she says, shrugging. “The Senate always… likes to Senate.”

“Did you just use ‘Senate’ as a verb?”

She laughs quietly, putting a hand up to cover her face. “No one ever noticed that before. Fox, I didn’t know that the Kaminoans taught you all grammar.”

He grins under his helmet despite himself. “Well, they mostly taught us war skills. It won’t do us much good to go and talk to the Separatists about their word choice.”

“No, but I think you could! Just find General Grievous and lecture him on his vocabulary. He might be so ashamed that he gives up the war on the spot. And then you’d be the hero of the Republic, and there we have it—the war is over!”

“That assumes that General Grievous knows the meaning of the word ‘vocabulary.’”

“Oh, well we can assume he can, right? For this? This also assumes that you could just walk up to him all casually and talk to him. He’d probably be doing his creepy spider walk thing, like they say he does, on the holos.”

Fox snorts. “First of all, you need to check your sources on the holos. Those are probably the horror flicks they put out so that parents can scare their kids into doing what they’re supposed to. And second, you doubt that I could walk up to General Grievous and talk to him?”

She laughs again. It’s a good sound.

“No, I don’t doubt it. He’d probably back off the second he saw you striding toward him.”

“Striding toward him? What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Well, you know.” Senator Chuchi glances up and down the hallway. “There’s no one here, so I might as well.” She takes a deep breath. The smile on her face is barely contained. Then she sets off walking again, swinging her shoulders and hips aggressively with each longer-than-usual step.

“Okay, okay,” Fox says, striding to catch up with her. “I don’t walk like that.”

“Oh, yes you do! I’ve seen you doing it ever since you got to Coruscant. You’re doing it right now! Your skirt always sways a little when you walk lightly, and sways more when you walk more heavily.”

“I’m sorry, skirt?”

“Your… well, what is it?”

“It’s a kama. It’s battle armor.” He grins again. “A skirt? Some of my brothers would like to hear you say that. They’d probably lose their minds.”

“Vode, right?”

“Yeah, that’s right.”

She remembered?

She stops by a door and reaches out to tap her ID. “This one here is mine. But you knew that, right, from last time you were here? Anyway, take a seat—anywhere works—perfect, just don’t sit on the datapad—and I’ll grab the caf.”

Fox doesn’t usually sit during his shifts, so this is definitely out of the ordinary. His legs are thanking him for the break. He also isn’t usually inside one of the senators’ areas. Yeah, he’s been in Senator Chuchi’s before, that time when she found him in the elevator.  And yeah, he’s been in plenty of others to respond to banal calls that could have been solved without him. But never as a guest. Never for caf. That’s… that’s new. It makes his heart skip a beat, and he doesn’t kriffing know why.

Senator Chuchi has disappeared into the next room of the area, which he knows has some cooking facility. She reappears in the doorway now, wiping her hands on her skirt.

“The caf is going now,” she says. “You can take off your helmet if you want. I assume you have to, to drink caf?”

“Uh, yeah.”

He tries to remember if his face is presentable. There are definitely some semi-healed cuts from when he smashed his face into the ground during a fight earlier in the week. He didn’t tell Pol about those, so no bacta was involved. Kriff. And he didn’t wash his hair this morning, either. Well, caf is more important.

He unseals the bucket and takes it off, setting it on the low table in front of the couch that he’s sitting on. When he glances up, Senator Chuchi is looking at him oddly.

“Is… something wrong?” he asks carefully.

She’s going to mention the cuts, isn’t she?

“No,” she says at last, shaking her head. She has her arms crossed, and looks more pensive than he’s seen her before. “I just… I forget sometimes that you all have real faces under your helmets. I just think of the helmets as though they are your faces.”

“We do have faces,” Fox says, shrugging. “They’re nothing much to look at. And they’re all the same. But they’re there.”

“I think they’re something to look at,” she says.

“What do you mean, Senator?”

“Riyo,” she corrects absently. “And… well, faces tell our stories, don’t they? On Pantora, our tattoos identify us as belonging to one family, or being loyal to one family. They’re a form of poetry, too. Anyone who knows what they mean can look at my face and know who my family is. And… well, your face tells your story, too, doesn’t it? You have someone else’s face, but you made it your own.”

Fox knows there has to be a name for the weird feeling twisting his stomach and warming his face, but he can’t remember it.

“Yeah,” he says at last. “I guess so. The Kaminoans always focused so much on teaching us about war that they never…”

“Never taught you how to think about things?”

“No, they taught us how to think. Just… not how to think about this kind of thing.”

“What it means to be a person, you mean?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, you are people, helmets or not. No matter what anyone says or thinks, you are people.”

“Not legally.” Kriff, he shouldn’t have said that. He adds quickly, “I think I hear the caf trying to overflow.”

“Oh—oh, stars, you’re right.” She whips around and disappears.

She returns a minute later with two mugs of caf in her hands. She hands one to him, then settles on the other end of the couch, pulling her feet up under her as she sips on the caf.

Fox takes a cautious sip. And kriff. He takes another sip, quickly, and says, “This is good.”

She smiles. “I told you.”

“Yeah, you did.” He takes another sip. “Osik, I didn’t know they made caf this amazing.”

“Osik? Is that Mando’a again?”

“Uh, yes, but I’m not translating that one.”

“Is it rude?” She’s practically beaming.

“Uh.” Fox looks at the floor and laughs. “Possibly.”

“Oh, this is news! I didn’t know that the marshal commander of the Coruscant Guard swore in polite company.”

“In my defense, I’m not often with polite company.”

“Oh, then we have to change that! I know you’re so busy with everything going on—all the meetings and organization and work to make sure that everything is okay here. But you need to take a break sometime. Would you like to come to the next gala with me?”

“I’m sorry?”

“The next gala. The big parties that they have for all the senators and various important people? They’re kind of a waste of time, but if I could bring you, then I would have an excuse to show you around, and you would get to socialize and eat good food.”

“I… I’m a clone, Senator—I mean, Riyo.”

“So what? I can invite anybody that I want to. I haven’t gone with anybody yet, since my friends all have their own dates already, but I’d love to get to go with someone this time.”

“Dates?”

“Oh, stars, I’m making this weird, aren’t I?” The Senator—Riyo—sets her mug down on the table and reaches over to put her hand on his. “I’m not implying anything, okay? I just want to let you have a break from your work. You look like you need one.”

“I…” Fox takes a deep breath and sets down his own caf. His thoughts are spinning faster than he can speak. “I don’t think that would work.”

“Because you’re busy? Or for another reason?”

It’s for so many kriffing reasons.

“Because I’m busy.”

“Okay. I’m sorry for asking, if that made you more stressed. It’s fine if you don’t want to come. If you do change your mind, though, let me know. I’d be happy to have you.”

“Thanks. I do appreciate the offer.” He glances at his chrono. Kriff. He’d better get out and continue the roving patrol if he doesn’t want his absence to be noticed. “And thanks for the caf, but I’d better get going.”

“Of course! If you’re ever tired, or need someone to talk to because it’s been a long day, you’re always welcome to drop by for caf or anything else that you need. Here, let me give you my comm code, too—just in case something comes up.” She grabs a scrap of flimsi and a pen and scribbles out the code. She hands it to him.

“Thanks. Riyo.”

She smiles again. It crinkles the corners of her eyes and makes the gold catch against the gold of her tattoos when she does that. “Of course! It was good talking with you, Fox.”

When the door shuts behind him, his hands are shaking for some reason. He can barely fold the piece of flimsi and tuck it into his belt.

***

21 BBY, day 327 of the War, 0122 GST

Coruscant Guard Command Chat

0122

Thorn: Fox I heard that you got hurt breaking up a fight

Thorn: what happened

0131

Thorn: don’t try and pretend nothing happened

Thorn: I know you’re hurt

Thorn: Flora said you got knocked around

Stone: what??

Thorn: answer me Fox

Thorn: di’kut

Stone: he might be sleeping

Thorn: that is your one and only excuse Fox

Thorn: or if you’re in the medbay

Thorn: anything else is not an excuse

Stone: Fox, vod, it’ll give Thorn peace of mind if you respond

***

21 BBY, day 327 of the War, 0135 GST

MC Fox and CMO Pol

0135

CMO_Pol: I’ve had reports from Flora that you got injured in the fight that you broke up. Thorn says you’re not responding to his comms. If you don’t kriffing message me and update me on your status by the time that your next shift starts, I will personally march into your office and drag your shebs to the medbay, hang the consequences

CMO_Pol: I am not bluffing

CMO_Pol: just try me if you think I am

***

21 BBY, day 327 of the War, 0145 GST

Could Fox respond to the messages that Thorn and Pol sending at him? Yeah, absolutely. Does he want to? Absolutely not. He’s dealt with enough osik tonight. Besides, when he walked into his office, he decided the couch wasn’t worth it. He’s lying flat on his front on the floor right now. He’s pretty sure that he couldn’t get up if he tried.

And kriff, he’s tired. He’s been running on caf for… forty-three hours now?

The whole situation tonight was osik’la, from the start to the end. He was on patrol with Flora’s platoon, only a couple of levels down, when they got a call about a situation that had escalated from bad to worse quickly. Of all the kriffing stupid things, some Twi’lek girl was breaking up with her Zabrak boyfriend. Fox walked in thinking the Zabrak would be the problem. It was the Twi’lek. She’d already shot the Zabrak a couple of times. So after they dodged blasterfire long enough to get the blaster away from her, Fox was ticked off. To cap it all off, the Twi’lek girl got in a lucky kick to his ribs—which were sore from a chase the previous day. And then, the Zabrak blamed the Guard for complicating the situation and punched Fox soundly enough. Even with his helmet, the punch cracked the visor and drove a hard edge into Fox’s face.

Which is why there’s dried blood in a line that goes straight across the bridge of his nose and meets the black eye from yesterday on one side. The helmet, with cracked visor, is abandoned on the floor next to him right now.

He should get to the couch. He should. He’s going to regret it in the morning if he doesn’t. And his shift starts at 0600, which means that he has to comm Pol before then to keep him from showing up and being a pain in the shebs.

He twists and gets his elbows under him. Kriff. His eyes are watering with the pain. He just wants to fall asleep right here. Maybe it’ll hurt less if he sleeps first.

Grunting, he heaves himself to his knees and grabs the edge of his desk for support. His datapad is there. He stares at it blankly for a few seconds before grabbing it and shakily making his way—on his knees—to the couch. Getting up onto it is a whole separate problem, but he makes it at last and collapses as comfortably as he can without getting out of his armor.

He fumbles at his belt for whatever painkillers he might still have there. Osik. Those ran out ages ago. He knows that.

But there’s a piece of flimsi. He pulls it out, squinting at it in the dim light. That’s Riyo’s comm code.

He thumbs the code into his comm code without thinking and waits. It takes at least four buzzes before the call connects.

“Hello?” Riyo’s voice says faintly from the other side.

“Riyo,” Fox says. “Uh—this is Fox.”

There’s a pause. Then she says, “Oh—oh, Fox! I didn’t realize it was you. Um, did something happen? It’s the middle of the night. Are you okay?”

“Yes—yes, I’m okay.” Osik, he didn’t even think that she would be sleeping. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have called you—”

“No, no, I know that you wouldn’t have if it wasn’t necessary. What happened, Fox?”

“I… nothing terrible. I just need to hear someone’s voice who isn’t going to yell at me.”

“Who’s yelling at you?”

“No one. Yet. My CMO would if he could see me.” He realizes after saying that that it sounds bad. Again. So he adds, “I got hurt again, that’s all.”

“Oh, no—badly?”

“Some Twi’lek girl kicked me. She’s a good kicker apparently. And her ex-boyfriend has a mean right hook. Cracked my visor. It’s not terrible. It just looks bad.”

“You should get someone to look at it, then.”

“Pol—my CMO—he’ll just tell me that I shouldn’t get into situations like that. Which is stupid, because I was wearing my armor and didn’t ask to get punched like that.”

“That’s terrible. I’m sorry.” There’s a pause, and then she says, “My father used to say something whenever I got hurt, when I was little.”

“It was probably wise.”

“I guess so. I haven’t thought of it in years. But he would tell me that when we get hurt, we just have to take it as a learning opportunity. He would say that when I was sad, or if I had hurt myself somehow. And whatever happens, we have to take what we can learn from that, and apply it to the rest of our lives. That way, we’ll always be growing, even in hard times.”

“I guess I’m growing tons, then.” That sounded bitter. Kriff.

“War is like that.” Her voice, through the comm, is sober. He can’t quite picture her face right now, even though he’s trying. “We all have to grow a lot. But we have to actually learn from what happens. If we keep trying the same thing, over and over, and it keeps not working, then maybe we should stop doing it that way.”

“Huh.” His throat is tight. “I… I guess so.”

Except that there is no other way to do things. They just have to keep slogging on. They don’t have enough slack to change anything. He should make that slack. But he doesn’t have a way to.

Kriff. He’s so useless about making things better. Here’s Riyo, talking to him in the middle of the night, offering advice. And what’s he doing? Being depressed because he’s a little tired and a little hurt. What the kriff does it matter that he’s almost nodding off in the middle of this comm? What does it matter that his face is throbbing still? He’s a kriffing marshal commander. He can do better. That’s the change they need. He’ll—

There’s a noise at the door. Fox jerks his head up. That sounds like Thorn’s voice.

“Riyo, I have to go,” he says.

“Okay. Is everything all right?”

“Yeah. I just need to talk to one of my men. I’ll see you later.”

“Okay. Take care of yourself, Fox.”

He cuts the comm just as the door opens.

“Oh, there you kriffing are,” Thorn says. His voice trembles with anger. “Found the di’kut, Pol. So, Fox. Why didn’t you bother to comm and do me the courtesy of knowing where you are when Flora is coming and telling me that you got kriffing punched and kicked by a couple of random civvies? What am I supposed to think about that, huh? Am I just supposed to be like ‘oh, Fox can handle it, because he’s our invulnerable marshal commander and he’ll heal overnight because he’s just that amazing’ or am I supposed to actually care about your wellbeing?”

“I’m fine,” Fox says, trying to shove away Pol. Pol has absolutely no respect for personal space, apparently. “It’s not that bad. Pol, you have other problems to deal with, right? Naak’s platoon took a lot of osik in that patrol this evening—”

“They’re dealt with,” Pol says sharply. “Fox, where did these other cuts come from?”

“What cuts?”

“The ones on the side of your face here. Not the one that’s actively bleeding all over the middle of your face.”

“I don’t remember.”

“Oh really?”

“I’ve been busy,” Fox says flatly. “I don’t have time to write down every time that I get bumped around. And they’re healing, anyway. It doesn’t matter.”

“Di’kut,” Thorn mutters.

“You can leave,” Fox informs him.

“And let you just get off easy? Fat chance, Fox.”

“Get off easy for what?”

Thorn throws his hands in the air. “Fine. You know what? I have better things to do with my time than stand around in the middle of the night when I could be sleeping to argue with a di’kut. Listen to Pol for once, okay? I am going to bed and remaining stationary for as many hours as possible. The only acceptable reason for you not to show up in the bunkroom within half an hour is if you’re sleeping on your couch instead, and only then if Pol approves it. Got it?”

“I’m marshal commander,” Fox retorts. “I can sleep where I want.”

“Fine, just so long as you sleep.” Thorn stalks to the door. “Pol, I don’t want to find his sorry shebs in here in the morning trying to do more reports. I know there’s a kriffing mountain, and I don’t care. Convince him not to, okay?”

“I’ll do my best,” Pol says.

“K’oyacyi.” Thorn turns on his heel and leaves.

Pol raises his eyebrows and turns back to Fox. “You’ve ticked him off. Again.”

“I know.”

“Do you want to talk, Fox?”

“I did talk.”

“I’m not a kriffing therapist, and I don’t hold to their sappy feel-good sayings anyway. But I do know that saying what bothers you helps you figure out your own thoughts. So do you feel like sharing today, or would you rather stay a taciturn brick wall?”

“I’ve already talked it out,” Fox mutters.

“Great. With who?”

Fox shuts his mouth and looks away.

“To the air is a valid answer, too, I guess,” Pol says, rolling his eyes. He starts using a piece of cloth that smells like it has antibacterial something on it. It makes Fox’s eyes water with the close proximity. “Thorn’s worried about you. So get your act together, okay? At least project the image of a marshal commander who can take care of himself. Or actually do take care of yourself. That’s the better option, actually, but I know you sure as kriff won’t follow it.”

Fox ignores him, looking up at the ceiling instead.

Pol sighs, sitting back for a second. “Much as I want to, I’m not going to pull medic rank on you. I’m too tired to do that.”

“You don’t have to do that.”

“The lines on your face rival General Yoda’s.”

“Kriff off with the analogies and finish up so that I can sleep before my shift.”

Pol rolls his eyes again and goes back in with the antibacterial. “Sleep for, what, the next four hours? Small victories, I guess.”

Chapter Text

21 BBY, day 331 of the War, 2241 GST

Thire and Hound’s Chat (AND GRIZZER)

2241

Thire: Hound, can I ask you a question?

Hound: yeah sure

Hound: can’t guarantee I can answer it haha

Thire: this is a hypothetical question, okay?

Hound: sure

Thire: Hypothetically, what would you do if one of your men disagreed with you and nearly came to blows over it?

Hound: is that actually hypothetical??

Thire: please don’t question me and just answer

Hound: is it Eddy?

Hound: don’t ignore me Thire

Hound: I know you’re there

Thire: yes it was Eddy

Hound: KRIFFING PUNCH HIM BACK

Thire: you know I can’t do that

Hound: yeah

Hound: sorry

Hound: uh have you tried taking it to C. Thorn yet?

Thire: if I do that, I admit that I can’t handle Eddy

Hound: what’s the worst that happens?? It’s not like he’ll demote you. They can’t spare any men right now

Hound: this is literally the best time to tell him

Thire: to maintain my rank maybe

Thire: but that’s not my ultimate goal

Thire: I just want to resolve the situation in a way that isn’t going to hurt someone else

Thire: Comm. Thorn doesn’t need my issues on top of his

Hound: he’s literally your commander Thire

Hound: just tell him

***

21 BBY, day 332 of the War, 0714 GST

Commander Thorn and CMO Pol

0714

CMO_Pol: I could use your help this morning Thorn

CommThorn: if it’s important I can probably get away

CMO_Pol: it’s for an hour

CMO_Pol: I want a commander with me for it

CommThorn: what is it?

CMO_Pol: I’m going to talk in person with the medical supply people at the Grand Republic Medical Facility to see if I can get them to route us more supplies

CommThorn: getting illegal drugs was plan A and this is plan B?

CMO_Pol: correct

CMO_Pol: this one is more difficult

CommThorn: Drosselmeyer asked us for our kriffing blood

CMO_Pol: I do not take back my previous assertion

CMO_Pol: are you available?

CommThorn: yes but I’m not happy about your difficulty measuring skills

***

21 BBY, day 332 of the War, 1000 GST

The Grand Coruscant Medical Facility is absolutely, without a question, big enough to house a couple of clone troopers. Pol might have appreciated the architecture or the organization once, but right now, sitting in the waiting room of the facility’s Secretary of Health, he wants to know why exactly they’re not able to open their doors and save a few clone lives rather than just taking care of natborns. The vode are the ones fighting this war, after all.

“I’d warn you that you’re about to crush the arm of that chair,” Thorn mutters, “but I can’t really blame you.”

Pol forces his fingers to loosen. “Yeah, thanks a lot, Thorn.”

“Always happy to help.” Thorn leans back in his chair. “Anyway, getting to sit down on shift is always a bonus.”

Pol snorts. “Yeah, that’s why we’re here, definitely.”

“I’m looking for the silver lining, because apparently I have to be the optimist now.” Thorn glances over. “I’m not the optimist, Pol. That’s Fox’s job. He knows perfectly well that I’m supposed to be the one bringing up objections and being difficult, and he’s decided that he’s going to take my roll apparently.”

“I think I’ll let you two sort that out,” Pol mutters.

It’s a kriffing good thing that they’re on internal comms, because otherwise they’d be raising some eyebrows. As it is, the receptionist keeps throwing glances at them.

“Okay, but—” Thorn starts.

“CMO Polio?” the receptionist calls.

“Follow up on that thought later,” Pol says, getting to his feet. “Come on, let’s do this.”

He heads across the waiting room and through the door that the receptionist indicates. The office beyond is definitely not what he was expecting. The lights are dim to the point that he can barely see. There are a couple of faintly glowing tanks on the back wall with some kind of creature floating in them. All the furniture looks like it could be impromptu weapons if necessary. There’s a faint hiss of air from somewhere, and the air smells… sour?

But even in the generally unsettling room, the most unsettling feature is the man sitting behind the desk.

His hair is slicked back, shorter on the sides than the top. Cold blue eyes measure up Pol and Thorn from under dark eyebrows. It’s hard to tell how old he is—maybe twenty, maybe thirty, maybe forty. The lines around his mouth that suggest he smiles frequently, but it doesn’t look like a smile that Pol would want to be on the receiving end of.

“What a pleasure,” the man says quietly. His voice is low, almost a whisper, but projects. “Chief Medical Officer Polio?”

“Pol, sir,” Pol says carefully. “And this is Commander Thorn.”

“Excellent,” the man says. “I’m very interested in hearing what you’ve come to say. I’m… not… the Republic Secretary of Health, I’m afraid. He is currently… otherwise occupied with his duties. In addition to my responsibilities with the Republic Science Corps, I do manage whatever GAR requests that come through the Grand Medical Facility, however, so I will be… happy… to assist you.”

On the internal comms, Thorn mutters, “What the kriff is this guy’s deal?”

“Shut up,” Pol mutters. He switches back to external comms and says, “I’ve come to talk about the supplies being routed to the Coruscant Guard.”

“Of course. Take off your helmets, wouldn’t you? I prefer to see who I’m… talking to.”

Yeah, well, Pol would rather kriffing not look this guy straight in the face. But it’s not like he has a choice. He takes off his helmet and tucks it under his arm stiffly. Behind him, Thorn does the same. Pol can only hope that Thorn will be able to keep his face at least somewhat neutral.

The man stands up from behind his desk, hands clasped behind his back. “The name is Doctor Hemlock,” he says. “Now, what can I do for you?”

“Like I said, sir, we need more supplies routed to the Guard,” Pol says. “I’ve been placing supply orders that haven’t been properly fulfilled ever since this war began, and—”

“Ah, yes, the… supplies,” Hemlock says. His gloved left hand moves to the desk and adjusts a piece of flimsi ever so slightly. “I’m afraid I can’t do anything for you.”

“Sir, we don’t have the supplies that we need.”

Hemlock rolls his head on his neck. Again, the movement is as small as possible. “There is a war, CMO,” he says quietly. “Do you suggest that other troops are… somehow… lesser?”

“No, sir, not that. I’m just saying that we don’t have enough supplies.”

“Is that… correct?”

Pol has to bite his tongue for a second before saying, “Sir, if I have no bacta in my medbay for days at a time, I’d say that merits a reconsideration of the allocation of supplies.”

“I don’t think you are… listening, CMO,” Hemlock says. He sits again. “There are… not currently supplies to reroute to the Coruscant Guard… nor are there expected to be. The supplies that are sent will… be adequate. Now, I wish you the… best… on your… work.”

***

21 BBY, day 332 of the War, 2215 GST

Thorn has barged into Fox’s office most of the rest of the times he’s needed to talk to him lately. And, much as he doesn’t want to face it, he knows perfectly well that those encounters haven’t gone well. Fox just keeps shutting down too quickly, over and over, and Thorn might as well be another piece of furniture at that point. So he’s going to try it differently this time. This time, he’s going to go in with news first, so that Fox doesn’t just completely reject him before he can get going, and then he's going to start into the part where he points out that Fox had really better start communicating better with Thorn and Stone and stop taking all these new developments so emotionlessly.

“Fox,” Thorn says from the doorway of Fox’s office, and waits until he looks up.

“Yeah?” Fox says. There are at least three datapads open in front of him as he works. His face looks like he’s been running a twenty-four hour commander survival sim.

“I have an update from Pol.”

“Okay.” Fox doesn’t look back down at his datapads, which is at least a start, right?

“Pol and I went to talk with the guy at the Grand Coruscant Medical Facility who deals with clone requests. Theoretically, he should have been able to solve the supply problem we’ve been having.”

“I thought it was resolved,” Fox says.

Well, technically, it was partially resolved, and that’s because Thorn went with Pol to meet that kriffing spice alchemist type. Drosselmeyer gave them just enough supplies to be a solution, but not the solution to their problem. But that whole situation is not being told to Fox, so Thorn can’t exactly explain that.

“It wasn’t,” Thorn says instead. “We went from zero bacta to some bacta, but that’s not a solution. Pol wants a steady stream of everything that he orders.”

“Okay, and?”

“We went to talk to the guy. Doctor Hemlock. First of all, he’s the kriffing weirdest administrative person that I’ve ever met on this planet, and that’s saying something. But the big news is that he told us that the supplies we’re currently getting are going to have to be enough.”

“Kriff,” Fox mutters, running a hand through his hair.

“Yeah,” Thorn says. Fox is agreeing to him. That’s good. “Can I hang out here for a bit, vod?”

“Yeah, whatever.” Fox turns back to his datapads. “I’ve got work to do, though.”

“About that.” Thorn drops onto the couch and props his boots up on a crate. “Look, Fox, we’ve got to talk, okay? There’s been a lot going on, and… you know, we’ve got some catching up to do, right?”

Fox eyes him. “What are you doing, Thorn?”

“Sitting.”

“I meant, what are you getting at? You’re not a chatter. Never have been. Knock it off with the pretenses and tell me why you’re here.”

“We’re kriffed, Fox,” Thorn says, shrugging. “The entire Guard is absolutely kriffed, and we all know it, and we’re just sitting here and taking each new set of rules and regulations like it’s a punch and we’re the punching bag. That doesn’t work. It doesn’t work when my lieutenants are strained beyond their limits. The patrols are constantly short men because we’re trying to cover too much ground, the men are pulling longer shifts, every time someone is wounded it becomes a whole new load of osik to deal with—”

“Thorn, please tell me something new.”

“So you agree that we’re kriffed?”

Fox’s hands tighten on the datapad he’s holding. “I didn’t say that.”

“But we are, and you know it.” Thorn sits up a little straighter. “It’s no use trying to deny it, because I see your face whenever old Chancellor Palpatine calls you in for a conversation.”

“That isn’t relevant.”

“It isn’t? Okay, Fox, then tell me what is relevant, why don’t you?”

“You want to know what’s relevant?”

“I do know what’s relevant. I want you to tell me.”

“What’s relevant is doing our jobs.”

“When we got to Coruscant,” Thorn retorts, “our job was to deal with a list of stuff. And we did deal with it. Sure, we didn’t have quite as many men as we might have liked, but it was doable as long as we did it carefully. That’s what we sat down and planned out, remember? But ever since then, the Chancellor and Bennor and Uunkazzir and everyone else has been handing us increasingly more duties. We weren’t sent here to police the lower levels of Coruscant. We weren’t sent here to provide almost the entire staffing of the Coruscant prisons. We weren’t sent here to die. And we’re doing those things anyway.”

“I know that, Thorn. What’s your point?”

“You aren’t all-powerful, Fox.”

“Oh, osik, he’s being profound now.”

“Don’t you throw sarcasm at me like that.”

“Why the kriff not? If you’re going to come in here and criticize me, deal with what you get.”

“When was the last time you interacted with a world that wasn’t the Guard, Fox?”

“You’re bringing up irrelevant points again.”

“I’m busy as kriff, and even I find time to go and comm my squadmates once in a while. Or I would go and get a drink, back before you banned us from going to bars. That’s what keeps me sane. What do you have that keeps you sane?”

“What are you implying?” Fox snaps.

Thorn throws his hands in the air. “That you should lighten up on all this!”

“I don’t know if you’ve forgotten,” Fox says. The temperature in the room might as well have dropped to freezing. “I haven’t, that’s for sure. But we’re at war. We don’t get the privilege of lightening up.” Fox holds up his datapad. “I have reports to finish. Maybe you should go and do something useful rather than lecturing me about things that I already kriffing know.”

***

21 BBY, day 333 of the War, 0355 GST

Thire doesn’t want to be woken up right now. (He doesn’t want to be woken up ever.) But there’s a hand on his shoulder, shaking him, and a voice saying, “Thire” way too insistently for whatever time it is right now. (Any time before his alarm goes off is too early.) But he forces himself to roll over onto his back and slurs, “What happened?”

“Lieutenant Thire, it’s Thorn.”

Thire’s eyes snap open. (Stars, he didn’t realize. Oh, stars, it’s his commander in his barracks.)

“Sorry, sir. I’m sorry, I didn’t realize—”

“Calm down, Lieutenant.” Commander Thorn rolls his eyes. “Nothing’s immediately gone wrong. I’m leaving for my shift in a couple of minutes, and I wanted to say this in person. I’m using my caf-brewing time for this, so listen up, okay?”

“Uh, yes, sir.” Thire swings his legs over the side of the bunk.

(Oh, stars, he must look so unprofessional in his blacks with the rolled-up sleeves and his messed-up hair. It doesn’t help that Commander Thorn is fully kitted up and has his hair done properly. This is why Thire doesn’t usually have meetings right after he wakes up.)

“I need you to go and talk to Fox for me,” Commander Thorn says.

(What?)

“I—I’m sorry, sir. You want me to talk to Marshal Commander Fox?”

“That’s right. Specifically, I need you to go in there with whatever it is that you usually bring—kriff, I guess caf and a smile or whatever?—and just get him to talk about literally anything other than the work at hand.”

(What?)

“You look confused,” Commander Thorn says.

“I’m sorry, sir, but I am. That’s all you want me to do?”

“Yeah. Can you do that?”

“Yes, sir. I can try.”

“Thanks, vod.” Commander Thorn claps him on the shoulder. “Let me know how it goes, would you? Specifically, tell me if he talks to you or boots you out of his office.”

“Uh, yes, sir. I can do that.”

“K’oyacyi.” Commander Thorn smiles wryly and disappears out the barracks door.

Thire could probably go to sleep for another hour, if he wanted. But after a conversation like that, his stomach is twisted up tightly enough that there’s no way he could actually get to sleep. Well, he might as well get some caf and drop by the medbay to see what he can do to help there before his shift starts.

***

21 BBY, day 333 of the War, 2040 GST

Thire is about ready to fall asleep on his feet by the time that he gets back from patrol. The lower levels seem to be as nasty as possible each day, and then the next day it turns out that they can be nastier. His throat is scratchy from yelling orders when their comms decided to go down for all of the fifteen minutes that it took to deal with an issue, after which they promptly came back up again. Thire doesn’t know why that is, he’s too tired to question it right now, and oh stars he just wants to finish up the last things for today and go to sleep.

One of those things is talking to Commander Fox. (He’s kind of trying not to think about that right now.)

Thire drops by his barracks for long enough to drop off his armor and grab his towel. At least three of the others are sleeping in there right then. The lump that is Hound is suspiciously large (so probably Grizzer is in there somewhere). Flora is lying on the floor with a blanket tossed over him like an afterthought. Hangover is sprawled on his back and snoring.

Thire slips back out and heads for the fresher. Flora meets him halfway.

“Oh, stars, Thire,” Flora says. “There you are.”

“Wait—what’s wrong?” Thire says.

Flora falls into step beside Thire. “Your troublemaker is making trouble.”

“Stars, not again. Where is he?”

“The showers.”

“Stars,” Thire hisses, breaking into a lethargic jog.

He has to dodge around the various troopers that are heading to and from the showers, acutely aware of the noise that he can hear now. He steps through the door into the somewhat foggy outer room of the freshers, scanning the area to locate the source of the near-shouting that’s got to be what Flora was talking about.

It’s not too hard to pick Eddy out, since he stands a little bit taller than the rest of the troopers. (His arrogant bearing also helps, because Thire’s only met a few troopers who carry themselves as though they’re that important.) He’s surrounded by a number of other soldiers—no others from Nocturne Platoon, but a few each from several other squadrons. The only other person from Nocturne there is Cred, but he’s the one in front of Eddy, being nearly shouted at. (Why is he taking fault with Cred?)

“—just because they all think you’re so special,” Eddy’s voice proclaims, breaking through the chatter. “Little squeaker—”

“Eddy,” Thire calls, stepping farther into the room. There are puddles of water on the floor, even this far from the actual showers. (The water is cold.)

Eddy doesn’t turn. He just goes on, “You’ll learn one of these days—”

“Eddy,” Thire says again, louder. “Stop that.”

Everyone in the room turns to look at him at once. Way too many seem to be have been invested in watching Eddy rail down annoyance at Cred without bothering to step in. (Stars, Thire hates it when that happens. They should know better than to do that.)

Eddy glares at Thire, then down at Cred again. Cred, small and tired-looking, manages to look defiantly up at Eddy, ignoring Thire’s presence.

“I am not,” Cred says evenly, “doing anything special. I’m just doing my job. Which is being a medic. Maybe you should do your job, and then Lieutenant Thire won’t have to tell you to get into line every other hour.”

Eddy’s hand leaps out and grips the collar of Cred’s blacks. Cred grabs Eddy’s wrist with both hands and twists, arms trembling with exertion, but Eddy’s arm doesn’t even shift. (Thire needs to work with his medic on freeing himself from bad situations, apparently?) And anyway, Cred is too small to properly break away from anyone Eddy’s size.

“Say that again,” Eddy growls.

“Trooper Eddy!” Thire snaps, striding forward. He’s barefoot, his hair is doing the thing it does after he’s worn a helmet all day, and he probably still has blood on his face and scratches on his hands from the bar fight he broke up today. People actually move for Thire. (That’s kind of a first.) He doesn’t stop to consider that as he marches up to Eddy. “Release Medic Cred, now.”

Eddy glares at Thire, but Thire looks him back straight in the eyes. There is absolutely no way that he could take Eddy in a fight right now, and they both know that. But regardless of that, Thire’s the one with the power here, and they both also know that. (Eddy doesn’t really respect that power, of course, but that’s a problem for a different day.)

So he waits, arms crossed, as Eddy slowly releases Cred’s shirt and steps back. The men around the edges of the room exchange glances.

“Trooper Eddy and Medic Cred,” Thire says. “If I find out that you’re in another altercation, there will be consequences, to be determined based on the circumstances.” He addresses the room at general. “As you were. Make sure you’re not late to report for your shifts.”

***

21 BBY, day 333 of the War, 2204 GST

Lieutenant Thire and Medic Credit

2204

CreditWhereIt’sDue591: Lt. I’m sorry about what happened earlier Eddy was picking a fight and I shouldn’t have responded that way and I know that I should have made better choices so I’ll make sure to do that next time but also I feel like I should tell you that I promise I didn’t provoke him or anything and it was just him picking a fight again and I’m so sorry that it had to be that way I’m sorry it won’t happen again

LtThire: it’s okay Cred

LtThire: please don’t freak out over anything, okay?

CreditWhereIt’sDue591: I know it’s just like I didn’t want that to happen and I feel like it’s my fault anyway because I didn’t respond well I’m sorry

LtThire: did you say anything to Eddy other than what you said when I was there?

CreditWhereIt’sDue591: no sir I promise I didn’t it was just the one thing when you were there

LtThire: okay

LtThire: don’t beat yourself up about it

LtThire: it wasn’t your fault

LtThire: I just didn’t have time to fully ask questions and figure out what to fix at the time

LtThire: come and find me if you want to talk, okay? I’ll be happy to figure something out with you

CreditWhereIt’sDue591: okay thank you sir and I’m sorry again

***

21 BBY, day 333 of the War, 2210 GST

Nocturne Platoon Officers Chat

2210

591_Lunar_CTWikki: Lieutenant did I hear correctly that Eddy was causing trouble again?

LtThire: unfortunately yes

LtThire: he was provoking Cred again

SargeNuhun: I swear if he doesn’t leave Cred alone I will be first in line to file a report to get him out of the 591st

591_Lunar_CTWikki: you’ll have to get behind me for the honor

LtThire: calm down vode

LtThire: I just need you to make sure that you keep as close an eye on him as possible

LtThire: if he keeps causing problems, I need to know as soon as possible, okay?

591_Lunar_CTWikki: understood sir

BRAindaMAGE: yes sir will do

SargeNuhun: it would be my pleasure sir

LtThire: thank you so much vode

LtThire: keep up the good work

LtThire: pass on the encouragement to everyone else please

LtThire: they really need it right now

***

21 BBY, day 333 of the War, 2315 GST

Thire stands in the hall outside Commander Fox’s office, eyes closed, one hand bracing himself on the wall, a mug of caf in the other. He’s so tired right now, but Commander Thorn asked him to do this. So it has to be important. (Thire knows why it’s important.)

He takes a deep breath and knocks on the door.

“Come in,” the commander calls. (He sounds annoyed already.)

Thire hits the button to open the door and steps in. “Um. Hello, sir. I brought caf.”

Commander Fox’s eyes follow him as he sets the caf down on the desk. Then he looks up and says, “When was the last time you slept?”

“Uh—I woke up around 0600 today, sir.”

Commander Fox glances at the chrono on his gauntlet. “Fine.” He glances down at his datapad again, then looks up to say, “Has Pol given you any instructions about your shoulder?”

“Yes, sir, and I’m being careful.” Thire swallows hard. (He has conversation topics, but he seems to have forgotten most of them. “Uh, sir, I wanted to ask you—do you happen to know Commander Thorn’s decanting day?”

Commander Fox stares at him. “What?”

“It’s just that, he’s my commander, sir, and I wanted to do something special for him for his decanting day. It would spoil the surprise if I asked him, and I know that you’ve always been close with him, so I figured you might know.”

The commander picks up a few pieces of flimsi and carefully organizes them on a corner of his desk, taking his time.

At last, he says, “I don’t know his decanting day, Lieutenant. It’s public knowledge, though. Do you know how to look that up?”

“No, sir. Could you show me?”

Again, a long stare.

“The instructions are on our intra-holonet.”

“Oh. I didn’t realize. Thank you, sir. Do you want me to let you know when I’ve found out so that you could join in when the time comes?”

Another long stare, and this one cuts right through Thire and into the wall behind him.

“Lieutenant, why are you here?” the commander asks at last.

Thire flinches. (He shouldn’t flinch. His breath shouldn’t feel choked suddenly.) “I’m sorry to disturb you, sir. I just wanted to bring caf and ask about… you know… the decanting day.”

“I’m busy,” the commander says, “as always. So maybe take that question to someone else next time, all right? Because in case you hadn’t noticed, there is a war on, and we do have a lot going on every single day. Consider others’ time before you use it up. And close the door on your way out.”

Thire nods. “Yes, sir. Sorry to disturb.”

He leaves, closing the door. (Oh stars, oh stars, there’s a sob choked in his throat somewhere and he doesn’t want to think about that.)

He makes his way slowly to the commanders’ bunkroom. He memorized their schedule earlier, so Commander Thorn should be in there. He knocks and waits for Thorn to call “k’olaro” before he opens the door.

Commander Thorn is sitting perched on what’s presumably his bunk (it’s the top one on the left) and holding a datapad. He looks up when Thire steps in.

“Sir, I went and talked to Commander Fox,” Thire says.

“Great. What happened?”

“He, uh.” Thire clears his throat. “He kind of didn’t want to talk, sir.”

“Well, what’d you ask him?”

“I… asked him when your decanting day was, sir. Like I was planning a celebration or something. He told me to look it up myself. I did bring him so caf, too.”

Commander Thorn sighs and rolls his eyes. “Di’kut.”

“Sorry, sir.”

“Not you, vod.” Commander Thorn rubs his eyes with the back of his hand. “You’re free to go.”

Thire nods. “Sir, can I ask you a question?”

“Yeah, go ahead.”

“If I were to… at any point have an insubordinate trooper who continually picks fights in my platoon, what would you recommend?”

Commander Thorn snorts. “You mean, since you have that kind of trooper, what should you do?”

(Oh, stars, Thire didn’t want to have to say this.)

“Yes, sir.”

“Enforce what you tell him, Lieutenant. Keep a close eye on him, record anything that happens, and follow through on any consequences that you tell him will happen. No good in threatening something if you don’t do it, you know, because then he’ll just think that he can get away with it again the next time. Kriff, I don’t care if you have to knock a couple of his teeth out. Just do what you need to and show him that you don’t care what osik he throws at you, you can handle it.”

(That’s easier said than done, but Thire bites his tongue.)

“Thank you, sir.”

“Ba’gedet’ye. Tell me if anything comes up.”

“Yes, sir. Thanks.”

Thire leaves and shuts the door behind him. It’s going to be okay. He’ll figure something out. (Stars, he doesn’t know what, though.)

***

21 BBY, day 334 of the War, 0035 GST

Fox’s comm goes off when he’s about to climb into bed. Kriff. He was about to follow Pol’s advice, too. And now there’s another emergency. He could ignore it, if he really wanted, probably. It would go to Thorn next. But he might as well see who it is. So he reaches over and grabs the comm—

It’s Riyo.

He thumbs the button to connect to the call and answers automatically, “Marshal Commander Fox of the Coruscant Guard.” Okay, he’s more tired than he thought. He corrects himself, “Sorry, it’s Fox.”

“Hi, Fox.” Riyo sounds like she’s smiling. “Long day?”

“Yeah, you could say that. How was yours? Any shorter?”

“No, each day just gets longer, unfortunately. I just wanted to call and check to make sure you’re doing all right out there on your base.”

Are they doing all right? Well, Pol put another unfulfilled medical supply order on Fox’s desk. The proper amount of food supplies was finally delivered, but three boxes of rations were spoiled. Two troopers are in critical condition after the transport they were trying to secure was blown up around them. There are at least a half dozen empty caf mugs also on Fox’s desk. A Separatist ship was spotted near Alderaan and shot down, but Coruscant is on high-alert to make sure there aren’t any more coming. There have been pictures of Rex’s commander all over the holonet because she rescued some Pantoran girls. Right, he was meaning to ask Riyo about that, because she was apparently somehow involved as well.

“We’ve been fine,” Fox says. “Tell me about that rescue thing that happened a little while back? I only just realized that you were involved.”

“Oh, that.” Riyo sounds like she’s talking about something casual. As though she wasn’t just involved in resolving a kidnapping situation “Yes, I’m so glad those girls re all right. They were terrified when they were kidnapped, and their father and brother were so worried. They’re okay now, though.”

“And you helped rescue them?”

“I didn’t do anything, really.” Riyo makes a noise that might be laughing. “It was mostly Ahsoka.”

“You’re selling yourself short, I’m sure.”

“I’m not, honestly. She’s very good at what she does.”

“Sure. Keep telling yourself that.”

“Okay, okay,” Riyo says, and she’s definitely laughing now. “But I didn’t comm you to be asked about what I did. You’re sure you’re okay?”

“We’re okay, yes. Thanks for asking.”

“Okay. Let me know if you need anything.”

“Will do. Have a good night, Riyo.”

“You too.”

He drops his comm on the floor next to his bunk and climbs into it. Kriff, he never realized quite so much before Coruscant how amazing sleep is.

Chapter Text

21 BBY, day 334 of the War, 0205 GST

Fox wakes to his comm going off. He throws an arm out and grabs it from its place on the floor next to his bed. Kriff, he’s barely slept, has he? What time is it? It was only minutes ago that he was talking to Riyo, wasn’t it? Kriff. Kriff. Who needs him, and why?

He manages to get his hand around his datapad—not his comm, but whatever—and pull it close enough to his face to read. He has to squint. If Thorn were here, he’d probably grumble some mirsheb comment about Fox suddenly brightening the room in the middle of the night. But Thorn isn’t here, Fox is alone in the room, and he’s able to blink the datapad into focus after too many long seconds.

It's a message from Director Bennor. He wants to meet.

In twenty-five minutes.

“Kriff you,” Fox mutters, rolling out of his bunk. Does Bennor ever sleep? Well, Fox won’t ever sleep, at this rate.

He pulls on his kit, strapping each piece down more tightly than he needs to. Maybe it’s spite. Or maybe it’s just the certainty that he needs his armor to be a firm seal between himself and the world today.

Tonight. It’s still night, kriffit.

He pauses by the fresher to scoop water into his mouth from the sink and to run his hands through the tangles in his hair. Why does he bother at this point. Pulling his gloves on, he leaves the fresher, grabs his helmet, and heads out.

The meeting is Bennor’s office, deep in the bowels of the Soh Center. Fox has been there more times than he wants to think about. It’s windowless, but strictly organized. It sets Fox’s nerves on edge. It’s not much like his own office; the only similarity is the lack of the window. Fox’s office, though, is filled with crates and boxes that have been there since before the Coruscant Guard arrived. And countless empty mugs. And pieces of flimsi. And datapads. And an actual couch. And the stylized Nabooian fox painted on one wall. Thorn did that, just after they got to Coruscant. Fox would rather not see it anymore, though, so he’s taken to tacking pieces of flimsi that he needs to remember to that wall. Thorn hasn’t commented.

Fox’s office feels like an extension of his brain, where he can think straight without his bucket on. Bennor’s office, though, is like a bureaucratic torture chamber.

When Fox knocks on the door and Bennor calls, “Enter,” Fox is as ready as he’ll ever be to see Bennor.

He’s not ready to see Senator Chass kriffing Bes there.

Fox has interacted with Senator Bes a handful of times. That’s plenty. She’s a massive besalisk, stocky and scowling. Her backhand is vicious. She’s part of the reason that he mandated identical armor paint jobs for the majority of the Guard, because she kept picking out specific troopers to harass. And here she is, at 0230, sitting in Bennor’s office and looking over her shoulder at Fox in the doorway.

“Marshal Commander,” Bennor says. “Have a seat.”

There is no seat; Bes is sitting in it. Fox steps inside and closes the door behind him.

“Director Bennor,” Fox says. “Senator Bes. What can I do for you?”

Kriffing stars, the words come so easily. They’re so insincere. His helmet is like a mask, though, smoothing out the difference between the words and the bitter tongue that speaks them.

“Senator Bes has a complaint she would like to address with you,” Director Bennor says.

Fox might be imagining it, but Bennor sounds irked beneath his fancy robe, heavy rings, and slicked back hair. When Fox eyes him more closely, Bennor’s eyes look red. Maybe he, too, was pulled out of bed. Not that Fox cares. Bes might be a disgusting waste of oxygen, but Bennor’s nearly as bad. Fox is too tired to direct his own ire at multiple people right now. He just points it at Bes as he salutes briefly and says, “Yes, Senator?”

“Remove your helmet,” she says. Her voice is nasty, as always. Fox makes sure he wipes the revulsion off his face before he releases the seals and takes the helmet off.

Kriff, he’s going to have to work hard to keep from saying something he’ll regret later.

“Your troopers are incompetent, Marshal Commander,” Bes says.

“I hate to hear that,” Fox says automatically. “Is there a specific issue?”

“I just returned from a diplomatic mission with an escort of troopers. None of them took their jobs seriously.”

Yeah, well, Stone knows better than to send anyone other than his best troopers on the escort missions with the worst senators. Bes is definitely one of the worst senators, right up there with Orn Free Taa. Mustafar would freeze over before Stone would send sub-standard troopers with Bes.

“I hate to hear that,” Fox says again. “What actions were unsatisfactory?”

“All of them.”

“I hate—”

“Don’t you say that again, Marshal Commander,” Bes says sharply, before he can continue. “Maybe you do hate to hear it, but that is not the answer you give to me.”

Kriffing stars, Fox would pay good money to get a single chance to punch the senator in the face. Before he responds, he imagines himself sinking his fist into the already ugly features. Multiple times. Maybe, if she were to do a minute of actual work in her life, she’d have some kind of sympathy. Maybe she’d have the respectability not to have Fox out of bed in the middle of the night. Maybe she’d be a halfway-decent sentient being.

Riyo’s face appears in Fox’s mind for no reason. Unexpectedly. He was calling Riyo earlier. That was only a few hours ago. Her voice was so kind. And, something in Fox’s mind whispers, she wouldn’t respond to Senator Bes with the same kind of righteous, flippant remark that Fox so badly wants to spit out.

Fox tamps down on the anger bubbling in his chest and says evenly, “What can I do to resolve the issue, Senator?”

“Decommission the clones responsible.”

Fox’s mouth almost drops open before he can stop it. Kriff. She did not just suggest decommissioning his clones.

Decommissioning only happened on Kamino. He hasn’t seen anyone over six years old get decommissioned before. That only happens to the cadets. Fox didn’t realize what decommissioning was until he was at least five years old. But it’s murder. It’s murder, straight-up and simple. It’s taking the undesirable clones out of the ranks and quietly getting rid of them. They’re cadets. They don’t know any better. Fox himself never faced it, or even worried about it happening to himself—he was always top of his class—but he remembers Rex being terrified of it. Rex was kriffing amazing at everything, because he worked so long on it all. He had to, to keep the Kaminoans for decommissioning him for something as little as the color of his hair. That’s why he’s always kept it shaved, to keep from attracting attention. Decomissioning has been a whispered threat for as long as Fox can remember.

But decommissioning doesn’t happen after cadets turn six, and certainly not after they’ve been sent into the war. They’ve been tried and proved, now. There’s nothing to decommission them for.

Except that Senator Chass Bes—kriffing monster that she is—has just proposed it.

Fox very nearly says something that he wouldn’t regret in the slightest. But it wouldn’t be wise. Not right now.

Instead, he tries to force his voice into neutrality. It comes out icy. “I don’t think that’ll be necessary, Senator.”

“Don’t you talk to me that way, Marshal Commander.”

“Apologies, Senator.” Fox swallows. He forces his face not to betray the furious, angry pounding of his heart. “Decommissioning would be impractical for the budget of the Republic, since it would mean organizing a ship to Kamino specifically for that purpose.” Not to mention that it would be murder. He’d be signing his men up for their deaths. His vode. “I will speak to them and ensure that the errors do not occur again.”

“See that you do. Clone.” She spits the last word.

“Yes, Senator,” Fox says.

Bes hauls herself up from her chair and leaves the room without another word. The door closes heavily behind her.

“Marshal Commander Fox,” Director Bennor snaps.

Fox turns toward him. He’s going to murder someone if he has to deal with any more osik in the middle of the night. Failing that, he’s going to find a wall to punch. Multiple times, imagining Senator Bes’s face there each time. Maybe if he goes over some more forms in his office until morning, the monotonous activity will calm his raging thoughts. If he even wants them calmed.

“Yes, sir,” Fox says.

“I don’t want this meeting to happen again.”

“No, sir.”

“She contacted me in the middle of the night.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Is that clear?” Bennor snaps. “Your clones are to do their jobs, correctly, the first time, and I don’t want to hear a single complaint from a senator. There’s no point in keeping clones around that can’t do the job the way it’s supposed to be done without reminders and talkings-to and second chances. Understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

Bennor’s face has stayed impassive, but it splits for a second as he bellows, “Is that understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good.” Bennor points to the door. “Now get out.”

“Yes, sir.” Fox salutes and turns on his heel. As he steps into the hall, he slips his helmet on.

His restraint is kriffing amazing. He’s so kriffing good at this.

And he’s exhausted, each movement pulling on his dwindling reserves of energy, but he couldn’t set foot on base again tonight if he wanted to. He’d lose control if he did. Patrol it is, then. He swings one leg over his speeder and jets off into the night, swearing under his breath. Kriff. Kriffing, kriffing stars. He’s so kriffing good at this. He’s so kriffing good at his job. He’s so kriffing good at walking the line. At refusing to feel anything. At keeping emotions at bay.

If he’s so kriffing good at this, then why does he feel like such an absolute failure right now?

***

21 BBY, day 334 of the War, 0315 GST

Thire wakes to an incessant beeping that won’t go away. It takes him too many (far, far too many) confused seconds before his half-asleep brain manages to realize that that’s a fire alarm. The one on Kamino sounded so different, so that’s what he’s used to, but this is what they have here, and—

Right, a fire. False alarm or not, he needs to get out of bed.

(Stars. He needs to focus. People could be in danger.)

Thire throws back his blanket and swings out of bed. He nearly crashes into Lor’vram, who’s falling out of the bunk under Thire’s.

“What’s happening?” Hound moans from under his blanket.

“Wake up, Hound,” Thire says. “Fire alarm.”

“It’s got to be a fake,” Hound says, half-raising his head. There’s a low growling from somewhere beside him. (Grizzer apparently doesn’t like the commotion.)

“We don’t know yet,” Thire says. He clambers up onto the edge of the bunk under Hound’s. “Come on. You have to get up. And Grizzer needs to get out of here. Um, you know you’re not supposed to have her in here, right?”

“You’ve told me a half a crikking million times,” Hound grumbles, sitting up. Grizzer pokes her head around him, baring her teeth in a way that clearly shows she isn’t serious about it. “And are you going to tell me again in the middle of a fire alarm?”

“I—sorry, look, can you just come on?”

“Yeah, yeah, coming,” Hound says, swinging out of bed. “Come on, Grizzer—jump down, girl, you can do it. No, not on me—!”

Thire hurries out the door. The hall is already chaos. There are two lieutenants’ rooms on this hall, which means that several lieutenants are already out amid the chaos, trying to either keep people moving at a normal pace or trying to get out to figure out what the source of all this trouble is.

“Lieutenant Thire!” someone calls from behind him. “Lieutenant!”

Thire turns to see two of his troopers, Dep hurrying through the crowd with Sergeant Wikki close behind him.

“What—is something wrong?” Thire asks.

“It’s Eddy!” Dep says.

(Eddy? Usually Eddy’s not the one in danger in a situation like this.)

“Why—what happened? Is he okay?”

Dep shakes his head frantically, coming up to Thire. “No, no, he’s okay—he’s the one who started the fire! He’s the one who set off the alarm!”

“What?” (Thire catches himself. Too panicked. Stars, he needs to get it together.) “I mean—what makes you say that?”

“He said he was going to cause chaos tonight,” Dep says breathlessly. “And I thought he just meant the argument he started in the mess in the evening, but I think that this is what he’s doing, because he’s not in the barracks, and no one remembers seeing him come in! I don’t know where he is, but I think it’s him!”

“I agree, sir,” Wikki says. “I had to break up a fight between Eddy and Dep already tonight. I’ll explain that part later, but Eddy was the one at fault there.”

“I don’t know where he is, sir, but he’s doing this!” Dep says.

“Okay,” Thire says. (His mind is tumbling, but he’s played scenarios like this out in his head before.) “Wikki, find every sergeant that you can and start sending them around to look for the source of the fire. And figure out where the first alarm went off. Dep, make sure you get out as quickly as you can with the others.”

***

21 BBY, day 334 of the War, 0322 GST

Coruscant Guard Lieutenants’ Broadcast Channel (Official):

0322

Thire: one of my troopers is telling me that another of my troopers, Eddy, is behind this fire alarm. We don’t currently have any confirmation. Please let me know if you see Eddy and send him directly to me

Skid: seriously????? A vod did this??????????

Hound: you don’t know this particular vod

Hound: crikk

Thire: don’t say that Hound

Hound: it’s crikking true vod’ika

***

21 BBY, day 334 of the War, 0327 GST

Thire could tell Commander Thorn that he shares Dep’s suspicion about Eddy setting off this alarm. Commander Thorn is Thire’s commander, and he’s supposed to bring issues to him. That was always very clear during lieutenant training, that they’re supposed to bring issues that look like they’re going to escalate to their superior officers—not so that the superior officers can deal with them personally, but so that they can be aware of what’s going on if or when the situations escalate. (Thire knows that Commander Thorn has also said multiple times that they’re supposed to tell him at the first hint of something going wrong, because he doesn’t want to deal with accumulated fallout.) Thire knows all of this very well. So he should tell Commander Thorn about this situation.

For the moment, though, he’s heading at a lethargic run toward the first place that the fire alarm went off.

He could pause and comm Commander Thorn. He could. But he’s got to find Eddy first, and deal with the first part of the fallout.

He reaches the door to the lower levels of the Guard headquarters and slips through it, onto the staircase that goes down six more levels of barracks.

(If he tells Commander Thorn, he’s going to get questions about why he can’t deal with Eddy. He’s going to be asked if he needs help. He’s going to become a burden on others, both because of Eddy not doing what he’s supposed to and because of his own incompetence.)

He hurries around each switchback, hanging onto the rail to keep from slamming into the walls. All the other vode there are heading up, mumbling complaints, a whole flood of them moving like they’re half asleep. (They are.)

(He’s supposed to tell Commander Thorn, though. He knows he’s supposed to.)

The fire alarm first went off on the second-lowest level, according to the comm that Wikki sent him a few minutes ago. Eddy’s barracks aren’t down there, but that would make sense if he’s trying to throw them off his track. Or, if it’s not Eddy, the lower barracks are generally more rowdy anyway. It’s perfectly likely that someone did something stupid.

(It’ll be okay, though. He’ll get this situation with Eddy resolved before it gets to the point where Commander Thorn would need to know about it.)

He reaches the second-lowest level and slips past the emerging vode to get onto the hall there. Most of them have already crowded out. Enough are on patrol at all times that the barracks are never anywhere near full.

(This whole thing with Eddy has been an issue for long enough that he should have told Commander Thorn a while ago.)

The lights are dimmed, but the red fire alarm lights are pulsing in time with the sound. There’s no haze of smoke, though.

(It’ll be fine, though. He’ll be able to deal with it today, and then he won’t have to worry about telling Commander Thorn at all.)

Thire needs to focus. He shakes his head to clear it and starts looking into each door that he passes. Row after row of empty beds (half of them are unmade and look like someone leaped out quickly), but no fire. He makes his way along the entire hall, checking each part of it, but…

Well, there’s no fire there.

This was the place that it originated, right?

Thire’s comm buzzes in his hand and he raises it to speak into it. “Hound, what’s the update?”

“You good down there?”

“There’s no fire. The alarm did originate on the level 6 barracks hall, right?”

“Sure did. Any sign of your crikking trooper?”

“No. I don’t see anybody down here. Tell the other lieutenants to check for him wherever the men are congregating, please? I’m going to keep checking down here.”

“But there’s no fire?”

“Not that I can see. There’s no smoke or anything.”

“What the crikk—”

“Just look for Eddy, please, Hound. And get the lieutenants on this hall to verify with all of their men that none of them did anything that would accidentally trip the fire alarms, okay?”

“Okay, sure.” Hound’s voice is still disgusted. “Also, you know that Commander Thorn is messaging you, right? Because he asked me where you are, and I didn’t know, and he wants to know where you are, because he knows that you run headfirst into situations with no backup. Do you have backup, by the way?”

“No. I’m sorry. I’ll comm Commander Thorn in a minute.”

“Okay. You’d better. I can’t take any more messages from him.”

“Okay.” Thire cuts the comm and takes a deep breath. Then he thumbs in a comm to Commander Thorn. It connects way too fast.

“Lieutenant Thire,” the commander says flatly. “What’s going on?”

“Fire alarm, sir,” Thire says. “I think it was a malfunction, because there doesn’t seem to be any sort of fire.” He glances at the messages that are still coming in on the lieutenants’ channel. Yes, other lieutenants are confirming that they aren’t finding any source of fire on any of the other floors of barracks. (That’s good.) “As soon as we’ve made sure that there’s no fire anywhere, we’ll have the men return to their regularly scheduled activities.”

“Any idea why the alarm went off?”

“No, sir,” Thire says. (Eddy doesn’t count. Not yet. Not until he has evidence bigger than just being almost sure of it.) “There are a lot of things that could have happened. I’ll see what I can find out, and I’ll send you the report as soon as possible.”

“All right. Make sure that this doesn’t get to Fox, understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

Commander Thorn cuts the comm. Thire doesn’t let him think about the abruptness of that as he makes his way back down the hall. There’s still no sign of anything that might have set off the alarm. At the end of the hall, he deactivates the alarm. The silence is almost deafening.

He pauses there, hand still on the fire alarm controls. For having been asleep less than half an hour ago, his brain is knotted with as much stress as it would be after a full shift.

So maybe Eddy didn’t do this? (But it’s still something that he would do.)

Thire forces his hand to leave the controls and his feet to take him toward the door. He makes his way up the stairs again, but it’s slow. By the time he reaches the top, a few of the half-asleep vode are making their way back down to their barracks. Thire works his way through the crowd and meets Hound and Lor’vram abruptly as he comes around a corner. And they’ve got Eddy with them.

“Oh,” Thire says. (His stomach seems to drop to his knees.) “Eddy, there you are.”

“Found him outside,” Hound says darkly. “Feel free.”

“I don’t know what this is about,” Eddy mutters.

“You didn’t show up to the barracks last night,” Thire says. “According to multiple witnesses.”

“Which witnesses?” Eddy demands.

(The edge in Eddy’s voice makes the back of Thire’s neck prickle.) He shakes his head and says, “That’s not important right now. What happened last night?”

Eddy’s eyes don’t shift. His jaw is set firmly. He doesn’t speak.

“Eddy, I need an answer,” Thire says.

“I fell asleep in a supply closet,” Eddy says flatly.

“Is there anyone who can vouch for you?”

“No. Why am I here, anyway? Are you just giving me osik because I didn’t make it back to the barracks one night? What about all the troopers that sneak out? They don’t count? And I’m getting the osik?”

Thire shakes his head. “A fire alarm like this—even though it seems to have been a false alarm—just shows that we need to be careful with how we manage ourselves. If it had been an actual fire, we wouldn’t have wanted to leave you behind because you were missing.”

Eddy rolls his eyes.

“Dismissed,” Thire says. “Tell Wikki when you get back to the barracks, and have him comm me.”

Eddy starts to move.

“Eddy,” Thire says. “I need you to—”

“I heard,” Eddy says without turning. He disappears into the crowd of troopers walking past, heading back toward their barracks.

“He’d better shape himself the crikk up,” Hound says, shuffling closer in the stream of troopers that’s parting like flowing water around where they’re standing.

“I know,” Thire mumbles. “I’m working on it.”

Lor’vram looks between the two of them. “So… it wasn’t Eddy who set off the alarm?”

Thire shrugs. “There was no sign of a fire down there. It got set off somehow, though. It’s very possible that he’s lying about the supply closet. There’s just no way to tell, though, so there’s nothing that I can do about it. If he doesn’t show up to the barracks another night, though, that’ll be a problem.”

“It’s a problem right now,” Lor’vram points out. “He’s having an influence on other troopers, whether or not he realizes it.”

“And he probably does,” Hound says. “Given his crikking attitude.”

Thire holds up a hand. “It’s okay, Hound.”

“It’s not okay! He can’t just give you an attitude like that and expect to get away with it.”

“It’ll be okay. It will. I’ll deal with it. For now, though, I need to go back to sleep. I’ve got to be on shift at 0400.”

“It’s 0351,” Lor’vram says.

“Oh, stars,” Thire says.

“Kriffing awesome,” Hound mutters. “I’d stay and chat, but I’ve got to go and make sure the massiffs are okay. Thire, you tell someone if Eddy gives you trouble, you understand?”

“Yep,” Thire says. “Thanks.”

(And he does understand. He honestly does. He just… doesn’t want to do it. But that’s something to think about when it actually happens, not when it’s still all guesswork.)

***

21 BBY, day 334 of the War, 0405 GST

Coruscant Guard Command Chat

0405

Fox: why did the fire alarm go off

Thorn: false alarm

Thorn: we’ve got it handled

Fox: get someone to fix it

***

21 BBY, day 334 of the War, 0407 GST

Thorn and Stone (aka Rants About Fox)

0407

Stone: there was a fire alarm?

Stone: how did Fox know, anyway?

Thorn: yeah there was a fire alarm, and like I said, it was a false alarm

Thorn: no idea how he knows

Thorn: probably more of his monitoring-every-system-in-existence thing

Stone: he’s got to stop doing that

Thorn: no osik

Thorn: that’s why we’re here

***

21 BBY, day 335 of the War, 0345 GST

The Coruscant Guard headquarters has a speaker system to broadcast announcements in emergency situations. Like almost everything, it’s half dead. Thire knows this, because Lieutenant Pickle told him that he tried to broadcast something when the fire alarm went off, and nothing happened. It’s taken him three days of intermittent searching to find what’s wrong—a faulty control box in the wall of the mess hall that blew a whole section of wire.

And, since Thire hasn’t been sleeping very well, he might as well spend a couple of hours fixing that system.

The last few troopers in the mess hall filtered out by around 0100. It’s 0345 now, and Thire’s sitting cross-legged under a table, bent over the panel in the wall that he’s putting back into place. It was a relatively simple fix, but the old wires were so bad that it took him longer than he expected to get them out. (He’s still not sure why somebody decided to give them a base that’s falling apart so badly.) But now that it’s fixed, he can test it (later, not while so many people are sleeping), and hopefully it’ll be back in working order.

As he finishes tightening the last bolt, Thire hears footsteps. He twists around and gets a glimpse of a pair of boots and a kama walking through the mess hall.

Stars. That’s Commander Fox.

Thire shifts sideways, out from under the table, and gets to his feet. The commander doesn’t seem to realize that he’s there. He just walks over to the caf machine, pours the last bit that’s left into a cup, and knocks it back like a shot.

(That… does not look like it tastes good, and yet Thire is pretty sure he’s done that himself a few times, with sugar added. Caf doesn’t do much for him, but he’s tried.)

The commander turns around and starts slightly as he sees Thire. But he doesn’t say anything. (Back when they first got to Coruscant, he would have said something.) He heads toward the door.

“Commander,” Thire says. (His voice sounds too loud in the big, empty room.) “Can I talk to you for a minute?”

Commander Fox turns around. He’s still in his kit, his hair greasy and lank and his face drawn. He looks tired (and if he were one of Thire’s troopers, Thire would tell him to use the fresher to clean up before his next shift).

“What is it?” the commander asks. (He just sounds subdued. Not angry. That’s good, right?)

“Sir, I know that everything is… chaotic.”

Commander Fox snorts humorlessly. “Really? Yeah, I hadn’t noticed.”

Thire forages on. “And I just wanted to say that if there’s anything I can do to help, I want to do it, sir. We’re all so busy, but I know you and the other commanders are busier than anyone, so I want to be able to… you know… make it easier.”

The commander’s face is like rock. (Something flashes briefly in his eyes that Thire can’t identify.) “You’re doing enough, Thire.”

“I could do more, sir.”

“You’re in here at kriffing 0400, doing something. Fixing something?”

“The broadcast system has been having problems, sir. I think it should work properly now.”

“Fixing the kriffing broadcast system at some unethical hour of the morning, exactly. You’re literally proving my point. It’s enough, Thire.”

“But I could—”

“Lieutenant.” Commander Fox’s face hardens into a glare. “Are you listening? I said you’re doing enough. Worry about what you’re assigned to do, and don’t try to force your way into work that isn’t your own business. Understand?”

“Yes, sir,” Thire says quietly.

“And get some sleep,” the commander says as he turns to leave.

Slowly, Thire crouches down and gathers up the tools he was using. He piles them back into their box and sets them on the table.

It would make a really good sound if he just threw that box on the floor right now. (No. People are sleeping, and he doesn’t need to… he can’t let the commander’s strangeness get to him.)

Thire sinks down to sit on the bench that goes with that table, burying his face in his hands. “Stars,” he whispers, because that’s the only word he can find to say right now. “Stars, stars, stars.”

***

21 BBY, day 336 of the War, 0600 GST

Privately, Thire starts a list of the things that he’s observed Eddy doing. It starts with the false alarm for the fire, even though he doesn’t really have evidence for that.

The list quickly grows.

There are numerous almost-fights. Eddy has apparently realized that Thire will get him in trouble if he comes to blows with another trooper. But that doesn’t stop him from arguing, insulting, and using his words however he can to aggravate other troopers. Too often, he’s picking on the younger troopers—Cred, and just as frequently, Dep. Multiple times, Thire walks into his troopers’ barracks to his sergeants hastily making sure that no one is going to start fighting. Whenever Thire asks, his sergeants report grimly that Eddy is making himself as much of a nuisance as possible without actually doing something that Thire’s said not to do.

There’s the day that Nocturne Platoon’s barracks are somehow locked. There’s the day that they’re missing a third of their blaster clips. There’s the day that Eddy and his patrol partner mysteriously get far off of the route they’re supposed to be on, requiring another hour on patrol while they’re tracked down.

Finally, Thire’s comm goes missing one day, and he can’t prove anything, but he’s willing to bet that Eddy was involved. It reappears that evening. But the damage has already been done; Thire’s faulty replacement comm decided to die in the middle of a bad situation on the lower levels. He drags himself back into his barracks with dried blood on his face and aching ribs (maybe fractured or broken, but he can’t tell) to find his comm sitting on his bunk. Where it wasn’t that morning.

“Stars,” Thire whispers to himself when he sees the comm. Then he turns around and goes back out the door to the medbay.

Pol is there, as always. He’s overseeing one of his assistants, who’s checking in on Sergeant Barn.

(Thire has to try not to get caught up in the guilt of that. If he’d been there, maybe he could have changed things, but he wasn’t. But he should have been there. Stars, he wishes he had been. He only got there too late to do anything. He doesn’t even think his actions saved Commander Fox’s life anymore. He didn’t do any good that day at all.)

“Thire,” Pol says when he sees him. “What’re you doing here?”

“I, um, got caught in a bit of a fight between some civilians,” Thire says. He gestures at his face. “This isn’t too bad, really. My ribs hurt, though.”

“Kriffit, Thire. Sit down there.”

Thire sits down on the indicated bed. “I’m sorry, Pol. My comm died in the middle of the patrol.”

“No excuses, di’kut—I know how you are when it comes to making sure your troopers aren’t the ones getting pummeled, and I know how often that lands you in here.” Pol returns with a scanner and shakes it up and down. “Kriff. These things are osik’la. Break all the time.”

“Just like my comm,” Thire says, shrugging one shoulder.

“Mir’sheb.” Pol smacks the scanner on the rail of the bed that Thire’s sitting on, and the screen comes to life. “See, if I could hit people the way I hit my equipment, and just put them back to normal, I’d pay kriffing good credits for that. Get your cuirass off.”

Thire manages to get half of the buckles, but his hands are shaking too badly to do the other side. Pol helps him without comment, and then holds the scanner up. Thire holds still. (Part of that is habit. Part of it is that he’s too tired to do anything else.)

“You know,” Pol says at last, “I’d pay even more credits to get a scan back on a single trooper that says they’re taking care of themselves.”

“Sorry,” Thire says. “I’m trying, honestly.” (Well, he’s doing as well as he can with himself while also trying to make sure that he doesn’t abandon any responsibilities.)

“Don’t like to yourself, vod’ika.” Pol rolls his eyes and tucks the scanner under his arm. “You have a fractured rib, and some nice bruising. Any chance you don’t have a shift tomorrow?”

Thire shakes his head. “Twelve hours in the Senate.”

“Don’t do any heroics. You want that rib to heal without it getting worse.”

“Okay. I’ll do my best.” (Well, he’ll do what he can, anyway.)

“Good. I’d offer you some painkillers, but we’re working supply order to supply order here. You’d have to be in critical condition for any bacta right now.” Pol grunts. “I’ll talk to Thorn about that, though.”

“Thorn does something with supply orders?”

“No. Don’t worry about it.” Pol hands him his cuirass. “Go get some sleep, vod’ika, and don’t you kriffing dare mess your rib up without my express permission. Got it?”

“Yes, sir.” Thire gives him a smile and heads out of the medbay.

(But oh, stars, he feels heavy all over.)

Chapter Text

21 BBY, day 349 of the War, 0900 GST

GAR Communications—Coruscant Guard—High Importance

0900

GARCommunications: Notice to Marshal Commander CC-1010: Senator Chass Bes has requested the decommissioning of CT-03-9777. File report to confirm CT-03-9777’s return to Kamino within 48 hours.

1009

MCommFox: request denied

GARCommunications: The above request cannot be denied.

MCommFox: override security code 11282459

GARCommunications: The above request cannot be denied.

MCommFox: marshal commander clearance security code 11282459 deny request for decommissioning

GARCommunications: The above request cannot be denied.

***

21 BBY, day 349 of the War, 1015 GST

Fox has been in a whole bunch of kriffing bad situations on Coruscant. At this point, he might as well accept that he’s not going to get a life apart from this planet that’s trying to kill him. But he’s not going to accept that. Not yet. And he’s also not going to accept some decommissioning request from a di’kutla senator who probably doesn’t realize what decommissioning is. Or maybe she does. Probably she does. She’s sick and insane enough to think it’s a good idea. Because anyone in their right mind knows that decommissioning is unimaginable.

He's not really paying attention to what Bennor is saying during most of their hour-long meeting, because he’s busy trying to get the automated GAR communications line to accept his denial of the decommissioning request. It keeps not working. So when Bennor finishes spewing out hot air about how the Senate Guard is competent and it’s the Corries who are the problem, Fox jumps in.

“How does a senator create a decommissioning request for a trooper?”

Bennor glances up from his screen. He’s been colder than ever since the middle-of-the-night meeting with Senator Bes.  “Our meeting is over, Commander.”

“I asked a question. Sir.”

Bennor sighs. Like it’s an inconvenience to answer Fox. Utreekov. But he says, “If they deem that a trooper is not satisfactorily performing the required duties, the senators can fill out requests for decommissioning. You should know this, Marshal Commander. Senator Bes suggested it only the other day.”

“Decommissioning means sending them back to the Kaminoans. Sir.”

“Yes. Get to the point.”

“They’ll be experimented on until they die.” Fox barely manages to bite out a “sir” a second later without growling.

“The senators make the choice on whether or not they deem the troopers’ work satisfactory.”

“A senator should not be able to spell life or death for a clone,” Fox says. “I need access to be able to deny decommissioning requests.”

“That’s not possible.” Bennor looks back down at his screen.

“I need access,” Fox repeats. “I’m not going to let my troopers go back to the Kaminoans. Just because a senator thinks that something is wrong. Sir.”

“As I said,” Bennor says, “that’s not possible.”

The hutuun doesn’t even look up from his datapad.

***

21 BBY, day 349 of the War, 1500 GST

“Hi, Fox!” Riyo says when the comm connects. Her voice makes Fox just want to sit down. He seriously considers it. He feels suddenly like he’s able to relax a little bit. “How’re you?” she adds.

“I’m okay.” He swallows hard. Tries to clear his thoughts. It doesn’t really work. “Can I ask your opinion on something?”

“Of course! Hang on, let me just—okay, there we go. Yep, go ahead.”

“It’s about… something ethical.”

“I know the feeling. I had so many classes back on Pantora about ethics.” It sounds like she’s smiling. “My teachers never liked when I reasoned through every detail of the situations they gave me. Sometimes questions are hard to answer, though. Is it a real-life situation, or is it something hypothetical that you’re just curious about?”

“Hypothetical,” Fox says.

He hates himself for lying to her. Maybe it’s good that he feels like his whole world is falling apart, then. He deserves that much, if he’s lying to her.

“Okay, I’ve got it. What’s the question?”

“If you were in a situation where… where you had to choose if someone could live or die,” Fox says carefully, “and you had to choose, what would you…” He trails off.

“Well, I’d choose for them to live,” Riyo says. “But there must be something else?”

“Yeah,” Fox says. He sits down on his couch, groaning softly as he gets off his feet. “In this situation, you… you’ve been told that you have to do something that won’t directly result in the person’s death. But it will. Soon. And for sure. So if you make that decision, you know the person will die. But you’re following orders, and there’s no way to get out of it.”

“Well… did the person do something wrong?”

“No.”

“Well, you can’t choose to kill a person who’s done nothing, I suppose.”

“But if you choose to let them live, you endanger lots more people.”

“Endanger?”

“You… take away something that’s protecting them, and put them in a place where they might wind up the same as the one person that you didn’t make that decision for.”

“But none of them did anything wrong?”

“Yeah.”

“Is it certain that the other people will die if you let the one live?”

“No.”

There’s a silence on the line. Then Riyo says, “War has hard decisions, I suppose.”

“Yeah,” Fox says. “But, regardless of war. What are you supposed to do?”

***

21 BBY, day 349 of the War, 1515 GST

“We have to just do it, right now,” Thorn says flatly. He points at the door of Fox’s office. “Stone, if we don’t say something soon, then we’re going to lose him altogether, because if even Thire can’t get through to him, then we have no kriffing chance. You’re here, I’m here, and I think we should just go ahead and tell Fox that he needs to kriffing work with us, or this is going to turn to osik really fast.”

“Yeah,” Stone says. “But if you just barrel in there like a hotheaded cadet—”

“I won’t. I’ll talk to him.”

“Okay.” Stone puts a hand on Thorn’s shoulder. “Let’s do this.”

It’s a good thing that Stone agreed to this, because honestly, at this point, Thorn would go ahead and just demand to have this conversation with Fox, regardless of anything else. If necessary, he will force Fox to sit down and turn off all his datapads so that he has to listen to what Thorn has to say. Because kriffit, he’s not going to let Fox keep isolating like this. Fox hasn’t even been in the barracks the past two nights. So either he’s not sleeping or he’s trying to avoid Thorn. And whichever one it is, Thorn is not kriffing standing for it.

Thorn raises a hand and knocks.

No answer.

Because, of course, even though Thorn knows that Fox is in there—he saw him go in—their stubborn di’kut of a marshal commander still doesn’t want to talk to him.

“Fox,” Thorn calls, rapping again. “Open up.”

“Maybe he’s sleeping,” Stone says sardonically.

“If he is, he’s excused. If not—”

Thorn hits the button to open the door. It’s not locked, for once, which is kind of amazing, because Fox has been locking his office more often than not for a while now.

The office, typically enough, looks like a Kaminoan storm hit it. The desk is covered in flimsi, datapads, and empty caf mugs. One of Fox’s blasters and at least two droid poppers are there as well. The mess flows over to the floor, too, and worse than the last time that Thorn was in here. The Nabooian fox head that Thorn painstakingly painted on the wall when they first got here now has pieces of flimsi stuck up over it, forming a kaleidoscope of notes and fractured pieces of something, which is a pity, because the thing was honestly a pretty good work of art before Fox went and messed it up with his incessant need to be surrounded by his problems.

And Fox himself is sitting on the couch, bucket next to him, holding his comm. He freezes as Thorn stalks through the doorway, followed by Stone. He’s not talking anymore, but Thorn heard a couple of the words as he stepped through—“hypothetical, Riyo, but—”

“Fox,” Thorn says, crossing his arms.

“I have to go,” Fox says, and cuts the call on his comm. He drops it back into place on his gauntlet and stands up. “Thorn, what the kriff—”

“We need to have a talk,” Thorn says.

Stone clears his throat and taps Thorn’s shoulder. “Fox, did we interrupt a meeting or something?”

“No.” Fox crosses his own arms. “What kind of talk?”

“A normal one, so have a seat already.” Thorn gestures at the couch.

“It’s my office,” Fox says. “I can stand if I want.”

“Fine.” Thorn drops down to sit on the crate in front of Fox’s desk. “Who were you comming?”

“None of your business.”

Thorn glances at Stone. Stone is frowning at Fox, and there’s something on his face that makes Thorn think he’s missing something. But what, because—

Wait a second, who was Fox talking to? Who would he be talking to at all? From everything that Thorn’s gathered, Fox hasn’t really been talking with his squad. He seems to be trying to isolate himself from them as well. In fact, at least four of Fox’s squadmates have commed Thorn to ask what’s going on with Fox at various points—Bly and Wolffe more than the others. Thorn’s replied to all of them that the Coruscant Guard is, as always, busy with their work, but that Fox is doing fine and probably has missed their comms in the business of completing other work. That other part is a kriffing lie, probably, but it’s the best Thorn can do. The last thing they need is a bunch of egotistical front line troopers coming in here and thinking that they can just take over the Coruscant Guard’s work without problems. It takes more guts to take on this planet and the filthy senators than it does to blow up a couple of droids.

But regardless, Fox wouldn’t be comming his squadmates. He wouldn’t be reluctant to say who it was if the person were in the Guard. Actually, it’s possible that Fox is just being stubborn.

Well, except for one thing that Thorn knows he heard, now that he thinks back. Because why the kriff would Fox be talking to the only person Thorn knows with the name Riyo—Senator Riyo Chuchi of Pantora. What the kriff?

“What?” Fox says, looking back and forth between Thorn and Stone. He looks more tired—and older—than Thorn has ever seen him.

“Wow,” Thorn says, with as much sarcasm as he can.

Fox’s face flickers with confusion, and then a kind of weary resolve. “If you want to have a talk, we can have one, okay? Kriff. I don’t want to, but I know—”

“Woah, woah, hold up,” Thorn says.

“Thorn,” Stone says.

“You hold up, too,” Thorn says. “Who were you comming, Fox?”

“Does it matter?” Fox asks wearily. “If you want to talk about that later—”

“No, I want to talk about that now.”

“Look, di’kut, I know what this is about,” Fox says. “I know I’ve been making some bad choices—and kriffing stars, haven’t we all? So if you want to talk about it, then do. Kriff, I don’t care. I’m too kriffing tired for this.”

“No, I think we have a new problem,” Thorn snaps.

“Stick with the old ones,” Fox snaps back. “Do you want to talk or not?”

Oh, no way is he going to just try and deflect Thorn’s questions. Because he’s been avoiding them for way too long to try and pull that anymore.

“Thorn,” Stone says again. “Calm down and—”

“You were talking to Riyo Chuchi,” Thorn snaps.

Stone freezes. Fox’s face turns to rock.

“What?” Stone says. “I mean—Fox, were you?”

“It’s not—”

“Were you or were you not talking to the Pantoran senator?” Thorn demands.

“Yeah, I was. So what?”

“She’s a girl.”

“Brilliant, Thorn. Kriffing brilliant. What are you going to tell me next—that Chancellor Palpatine is old? This is pointless. Just have the conversation you wanted to have.”

“You don’t get to just talk to her like that.”

“What the kriff, Thorn?” Fox throws his hands up. “What are you on?”

“You’re—what—trying to have a relationship with her?”

“What?” Fox says. “The kriff, Thorn? Where you are you getting these dini’la ideas?”

“You’re chatting with a girl. Who also happens to be a senator. That’s like trying to date a kriffing Jedi. What, if this falls through, are you going to walk into the Jedi Temple and find a nice Jedi girl and invite her for a night out at 79’s?”

“Thorn,” Fox snaps. He stalks to his desk and takes up a place behind his chair, gripping the back of it. “I don’t know where the kriff you’re getting these ideas. Yeah, I was talking to the Pantoran senator. That shouldn’t kriffing matter. You’re just being a di’kut all around. The Prime would be kriffing ashamed of whatever logic you’re coming up with right now. Losing your kriffing mind. If you think I have enough time to sleep, let alone chat up a girl, you’ve clearly lost it. Now say what you came here for, or get out of my office.”

“Fox,” Stone says, holding up his hands. “Please, give us a minute. And Thorn, shut up. Don’t talk osik for a minute.”

“What, Stone, you’re in on this, too?” Fox tears a hand through his hair. “I can’t kriffing believe it,” he says to no one in particular.

Yeah, well, Thorn can’t believe it, either. Fox is in here talking to a senator, on a first-name basis, and he’s trying to claim that there’s nothing wrong with that, like he doesn’t remember that there’s no kriffing way they’re supposed to be talking to senators like that? Kriff, he doesn’t even allow the troopers to go to 79’s anymore, and he’s trying to go behind their backs anyway? So Fox is just trying to be a massive hypocrite now?

“It’s not that we’re trying to tell you to stop,” Stone says. “It’s just—we have a lot of concerns, Fox.”

“Well, you know what? So do I. So kriff off and leave me alone.”

“We want to help, Fox,” Stone says.

“Help? If by help, you mean coming in here and getting involved in something that isn’t your business, than yeah, I’m good, thanks.” Fox throws his hands up. “I have enough people kriffing yelling at me every day. I don’t need you in here kriffing—kriffing—”

Thorn has never seen Fox at a loss for words before, but this is a first. Well, that’s a good thing, to be perfectly honest, because Fox has spent far too long being able to just make up whatever excuse he wants to get out of talking to Thorn and Stone or even bothering to update them on what’s kriffing happening. So yeah, that’s a good thing.

“Okay,” Thorn says flatly. “Are you going to let us offer help or not?”

“I was going to,” Fox snaps back. “But I think you kriffed that up, didn’t you?”

“I think you kriffed up your own life, di’kut.”

“Get out,” Fox says.

“Not a chance,” Thorn snaps.

“Thorn,” Stone says. “Fox.”

“Out,” Fox orders.

“No,” Thorn says.

“Get the kriff out, Commander,” Fox says.

And osik, Thorn has never heard his voice this low and dangerous, either. Not even when talking to criminals, or when ranting about the Kaminoans’ inhumane actions, or condemning what the Separatists are doing, or anything. And pulling rank? Pulling his kriffing rank, like Fox is somehow better than Thorn and Stone, just because he holds that title and they don’t, despite the fact that they’re the ones that aren’t cutting everyone off? Yeah, the kriffing end of what Thorn is willing to take.

“Fine,” Thorn snaps. He turns on his heel and stalks out. Stone is right behind him. Thorn slams the door on Fox’s office. Good kriffing riddance.

“Well,” Stone says.

“He’s a di’kut,” Thorns snaps, and strides down the hall before Stone can say anything else. He needs to find something to throw.

***

21 BBY, day 349 of the War, 1600 GST

Fox sits at his desk with his head in his hands. His lungs hurt. His shoulders ache. His eyes are burning from being open for so long. He doesn’t want to think. He doesn’t want to do anything. He already sent a message to Riyo, apologizing for his abrupt end to their conversation.

And he sent a message to Dep, asking him to come and meet with Fox as soon as possible.

So now, Fox is waiting for Dep. He should be filling out more forms. But right now, it feels like that’s not even a kriffing option.

Thorn and Stone were—

He’s not going to think about that.

If they’d kriffing listened, he would have told them about Dep. But they didn’t. They just walked in and started telling him that he shouldn’t be able to talk to Riyo. Like he’s got a relationship with her. He’s not sure he’s ever heard anything more di’kutla. Riyo is the only friend he’s found here on Coruscant. He’s not about to give that up just because Thorn and Stone have some di’kutla idea about what’s happening—

And now he’s thinking about it.

Kriffing stars.

There’s a knock on the door. Fox looks up and says, “Come in.”

Dep steps into the room and shuts the door behind him. There’s something guarded about the way he approaches Fox’s desk, helmet tucked under his arm.

“Sir, you… uh, you asked to see me?”

“Yes. Have a seat.” He waits until Dep settles himself before continuing. “You’re not here so I can get you in trouble.”

“Thank you, sir?”

“There’s no easy way to say this, Dep,” Fox says. “But I’m on your side, no matter what. There’s a situation that came out of nowhere that involves you. Are you familiar with Senator Chass Bes?”

“Uh, yes, sir. The besalisk senator.” Dep shifts uncomfortably. “Sir, whatever she said about me, I know it isn’t true. I got assigned to her detail for one of her public appearances, and, uh, she just, she was really difficult. She kept telling us that because we weren’t by her side the entire time, she was in danger. And I, uh, I told her that our orders were to guard the entire area. And she said I shouldn’t be talking back, so I, uh, I told her orders were orders, and that we’d make sure to keep her safe no matter what. And she just, well, she seemed really mad about that, sir. And she seemed like she wanted to make trouble. So if this is about that—”

“She requested that you be decommissioned,” Fox says.

All the color drains out of Dep’s face. “What?”

“She’s wrong.”

“But that’s—that’s—I can’t—does she know what that—what that means?”

“I have no idea. Maybe. I’ve tried to deny the request, but there’s no way to do it.”

“So I’m”—Dep swallows hard—“going back to—to Kamino?”

“Not if I can kriffing help it.”

“Sir?”

“I’m not letting you go back to those kaminii’se monsters. I’ve lost enough kriffing men to this planet. I’m not going to lose one because some di’kut of a senator thinks she has the power over life and death. Kriffing stars.”

Dep opens and closes his mouth. He looks like Thire when he does that. Kriff, Fox doesn’t need to think about that, either.

“Sir, I… won’t the Kaminoans be expecting me back? If Senator Bes submitted the—the request?”

“Yeah, they will. But that’s only if you can go back.”

“Sir?”

“You can’t go back if you’re dead.”

***

21 BBY, day 350 of the War, 0900 GST

GAR Communications—Coruscant Guard—High Importance

0900

GARCommunications: Reminder to Marshal Commander CC-1010: Senator Chass Bes has requested the decommissioning of CT-03-9777. File report to confirm CT-03-9777’s return to Kamino within 24 hours. Respond to confirm acknowledgement.

1200

GARCommunications: Reminder to Marshal Commander CC-1010: Senator Chass Bes has requested the decommissioning of CT-03-9777. File report to confirm CT-03-9777’s return to Kamino within 21 hours. Respond to confirm acknowledgement.

1500

GARCommunications: Reminder to Marshal Commander CC-1010: Senator Chass Bes has requested the decommissioning of CT-03-9777. File report to confirm CT-03-9777’s return to Kamino within 18 hours. Respond to confirm acknowledgement.

1800

GARCommunications: Reminder to Marshal Commander CC-1010: Senator Chass Bes has requested the decommissioning of CT-03-9777. File report to confirm CT-03-9777’s return to Kamino within 15 hours. Respond to confirm acknowledgement.

1827

MCommFox: Acknowledged

Chapter Text

21 BBY, day 350 of the War, 2200 GST

Pol steps into the supply room and murmurs his regular, “Kriffit,” without even bothering to look at the shelves this time. He already knows just how empty the room is. At least with the next round of supplies that he just went and got from Drosselmeyer a few days ago, troopers walking into his medbay will be able to have bacta and painkillers.

There’s a trooper in the medbay at the moment who got hit by a reckless speeder a couple of levels below the surface. He lost a lot of blood before he got back. It took way too kriffing long for the bleeding to stop, probably because the quality of the coagulants has been getting progressively more osik’la with each new shipment that Pol has gotten from the official GAR suppliers. If they’re giving the same osik to the frontline troops, Pol has questions. If they’re not, he wants to know why the Coruscant Guard is the only one getting this osik.

Pol ducks into the refrigerated section of the supply room, where he keeps the units of blood. He just restocked with the supplies he got from Drosselmeyer, so the shelves should be reasonably full again—

Pol freezes in front of the units of blood.

“What the kriff?” he mumbles, sifting through the contents of the shelf.

He knew there was more blood on this shelf. He restocked it. And now there are at least five units missing from his careful organization. He keeps this place perfectly organized. That’s how he knows the missing units are clone-donated blood, rather than Drosselmeyer-provided blood.

There’s nobody on this base that would want blood. What the kriff?

“Blasted if I know,” Pol mutters to himself, grabbing the units of blood and leaving the refrigerated area. That’s too many problem to deal with today.

***

21 BBY, day 351 of the War, 0230 GST

There are a lot of things that Thire wishes would happen, but the only reliable one that he can count on is his own interactions with his own men. (At least, it always was reliable, but now, when he talks to them, his smile feels fake more often than not.)

The last thing he wants to tell them is that they have another extra patrol. This one is in some of the very lowest levels of Coruscant, only a few above where it’s altogether uninhabitable. Patrols down there are nasty business, and the Guard has lost men down there before. And now it’s Nocturne’s turn to go down. Thire wakes up with his alarm, as he always does, but he stays in his bunk for an extra five minutes before making the slow walk down the hall to talk to his men.

“We’ve got a patrol on level 14,” he announces to the barracks (some of the troopers apparently know about the patrol already, because they’re getting ready without being told). “We’re leaving at 0300 to get down there on time. Before then, make sure you have your supplies stocked, and get yourselves some caf if you can.”

“Level 14,” Eddie mumbles. “Yeah, right. I don’t think so.”

“The patrol assignment came from Commander Thorn,” Thire says. “And all of the platoons have to take a turn at the lower levels.”

“Yeah, right,” Eddie says again.

“It wasn’t a question,” Thire says, shrugging. “We leave at 0300.”

Eddie snorts. At least one other trooper does as well, though Thire can’t tell who. He’s enough used to it now that he doesn’t flinch. (Dep flinches, though, at any sudden movement as the troopers get ready for the day. Thire doesn’t know what to think about that. He’ll have to ask Dep later.)

***

21 BBY, day 351 of the War, 0300 GST

Fox was planning to work on reports through the night regardless, but now he doesn’t think he could sleep if he wanted to. The plan is in Dep’s hands now. He’s done all that he could for the trooper.

He would have switched Dep to a different unit if he’d had time. Thire doesn’t deserve to go through what Dep is about to do. And he doesn’t deserve being given an extra patrol for this purpose. But Fox had no time. Thire’s probably going to come and try to talk to Fox as soon as they get back from patrol. Fox is going to have to isolate, to avoid giving away what he’s done.

He’s been doing that anyway. He can’t remember the last time that he talked with Thire properly. Thire’s tried to interact with him a few times, and Fox has dismissed him each of those times.

He kind of misses the caf that Thire used to bring.

Well, it’s too late to go back on any of that now. What’s done is done. He’s isolated from Thire—and a lot of other people, for that matter, but those are even more deserved—, and he’s helped one of Thire’s troopers fake his death.

Stars, he’s pathetically bad at his job if he’s come to this.

***

21 BBY, day 351 of the War, 0515 GST

“Lieutenant,” Wikki’s voice says in Thire’s comm. “Lieutenant, come in please.”

Thire, sprinting down the street after a criminal (who’s getting away anyway), gasps into his comm, “What’s happened, Wikki?”

“I’ve lost Dep.”

Thire stops running, waves for his patrol partner (Eddy) to stop, and stands for a few seconds, heaving for breath. “What did you say, Wikki?”

“I’ve lost Dep, Lieutenant.” There’s an edge of panic in Wikki’s voice. “He was my patrol partner, and we were going down an alley after some possible suspicious activity, and when I looked behind me, he was gone. He is gone, I mean. I’m back in the alleys. There are so many places he could have fallen behind or gotten attacked.”

“Stars,” Thire mumbles. Then, louder, “I see your position on my HUD. I’m not far from you. Give me a minute.”

“Thanks, Lieutenant.” Wikki’s voice hasn’t calmed at all.

Thire looks to Eddy. “We have to go and assist Wikki.”

Eddy scoffs, and the way he turns his head looks almost mocking. “What’d he do?”

“His patrol partner is missing. Come on, we’ve got to make sure that Dep is okay.”

“Dep? That pathetic excuse for a clone probably decided to find out what his blaster does and ate laser.”

(Why? Why?)

“That’s not funny,” Thire says flatly. “Come on.”

He turns and starts walking without waiting to see if Eddy will follow. (Is that stupid?) For the first couple of seconds, he doesn’t hear any footsteps behind him. (Last time Eddy abandoned him, he nearly died.) He doesn’t allow himself to stop walking, though. He needs to find out what happened to Dep. He needs to make sure Wikki’s okay. (When Thire nearly died, that was when he first started noticing how closed-off Fox has become. He hates that he’s thinking of that again, especially at a time like this.) He needs to do this.

He lets out a breath when he hears Eddy following at last. (Stars, he didn’t know what he was going to do with him if he didn’t.)

He’s only two or three minutes’ walk from the area where Wikki is. He makes it in a minute and a half, reaching the entrance to an alleyway between two buildings. The building on one side is an apartment building; the other one looks like a store on the bottom level and something else above it. A few lines of clothes hung out to dry in the lower levels’ artificial air circulation block his view. There’s also a dumpster full of rubbish that looks (and smells) like it hasn’t been emptied in years. Loose graffiti loops across the walls in various alphabets.

A blaster shot goes off somewhere nearby.

“Kriffing stars,” Eddy mutters behind Thire. “It stinks.”

“I think there are bigger problems,” Thire says quietly.

 He steps forward cautiously into the alley. His blaster is already in his hand, but he tightens his grip on it. (He’s not going to be caught off guard this time.)

“I don’t think anyone came this way,” Eddy says.

“They came this way,” Thire says. He steps around the end of the dumpster. There’s a sharp right bend in the alley just ahead.

“There’s no one here,” Eddy insists.

“They came this way,” Thire repeats. He steps around the corner.

And stops.

(Stars.)

(Oh, oh, stars.)

There’s the sound of footsteps from ahead, and Wikki comes into view. He starts to say something, but then he looks down at the ground as well, and all three of them look at what’s there.

Blood. Blood everywhere, in small pools on the ground and splattered across the walls. In the middle of that blood, perforated with a blaster burn to the center of the visor, is Dep’s helmet.

“Ka’ra above,” Wikki whispers hoarsely. He turns and takes a quick step toward the wall, catching himself on his arm. He cuts off his comm, but Thire can see the way that his shoulders shake. (All of them, every clone in this war, have long since learned how to close their grief into their armor.)

The seconds stretch on. Thire tries to reconstruct Wikki’s and Dep’s movements in his head. (He can’t. His mind is tumbling too fast for him to process.) It’s so quiet in this alley, closed off a little bit from the street.

“Huh,” Eddy says. “Where’d he go?”

“The kriff did you just say?” Wikki hisses barely audibly, straightening. Everything about him is tense. (And tired. And grieving.)

Thire holds up his hand. “Wikki.”

“You do not get to kriffing—”

“Wikki.”

Wikki nods tightly. He steps forward and picks up Dep’s helmet. “This has to be clone blood,” he whispers. “There’s—there’s so much—”

Thire’s throat is tight and his brain is too slow. He has to clear his throat before he can say, “We should look around.”

“He’s gone,” Wikki says.

“Yeah, no kidding,” Eddy says.

“Not now, Eddy,” Thire says.

“Well—”

“Eddy, I said not now.” Thire clears his throat again. “I, um—"

(Oh stars, he wants to tear these buildings apart and find whoever put a blaster bolt in Dep’s helmet and not let them go until they explain why. He wants to tell whoever it was about the way that Dep is quiet and kind. He wants to tell them about how Dep smiles crookedly. He wants to tell them about how Dep tattooed jellyfish across his arms because he liked the swirling lines. He wants to tell them all that, and then demand answers, for why Dep deserved to die like this.)

“Lieutenant?” Wikki says.

(Stars, he wants to know why. He wants to know why he’s lost his first trooper now. He wants to know how he’s supposed to feel anything other than nothing.)

“He’s gone,” Thire says at last. “You’re right.” He clears his throat again. (He still doesn’t feel like he can talk.) “We need to finish this patrol.”

Wikki looks down at the helmet in his hands.

Thire walks over to him, skirting around the blood. He puts a hand on Wikki’s pauldron and says barely above a whisper, “I’m so sorry.”

“There’s nothing you could have done,” Wikki says. His voice is empty now.

“I… I could have… have done something differently,” Thire says.

Wikki shakes his head. “I should never have lost him.”

“It wasn’t you.”

“It was me. I was his patrol partner. I was the one who didn’t notice when he fell behind.” Wikki chokes over that last part. “I—I should have been watching better. I know what the lower levels are like.” He tilts his head back. “Kriff. Kriff, kriff.”

“Wikki, it was inevitable—”

“You said before it isn’t inevitable. That we have a choice.” Wikki turns on Thire. “You always tell us that. That we can keep being positive and figuring it out. And I have done that, I have, and he’s still gone. And I want to believe you. I do. But it doesn’t work when this planet is a death sentence.”

“I’m sorry,” Thire says again. “For everything.”

“It’s not you I hate,” Wikki says. He turns away. “It’s the Kaminoans. And the natborns. And everyone else who thinks that it doesn’t matter every time a Dep dies.”

The silence between them stretches on. Somewhere, distantly, someone shouts, and another blaster goes off.

Thire steps forward, until he’s facing Wikki. “It matters to me,” he says.

Wikki nods. “Yeah, I know.”

“I’m sorry,” Thire says again.

“I know,” Wikki whispers. “I’m sorrier.”

(There are so many things that Thire wants to say, and not enough words to say any of them.)

“All right,” he says at last. “We need to finish this patrol before we…”

(Before they go back. Before they let the weight of this pull on them. Before they grieve.)

Wikki takes a deep breath. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah. Let’s finish this patrol.”

***

21 BBY, day 351 of the War, 1745 GST

There’s a knock on Fox’s office door. He looks at the ceiling briefly before he sets down his datapad and calls, “Come in.”

The door opens and Thire steps in. And stars, even expecting this conversation, Fox has never seen him like this before. Thire’s unruly hair is breaking records, and his eyes look haunted. That’s Fox’s fault. Dep was in Thire’s platoon, and Fox didn’t tell Thire. How could he tell Thire? He would have risked failing the entire plan if he did. So now he’s stuck here, sitting behind this desk, and knowing that Thire’s palpable grief is his fault. Oh stars it’s all his fault.

“Thire,” Fox says out loud.

“Sir,” Thire says. He salutes.

“I heard the news,” Fox says.

“I’m not here about that, sir.”

“You’re not?” Fox honestly expected Thire to come in here and want to talk about it. That’s what he was gearing himself up to deal with. So what does Thire want?

“Sir, I’d like to request a promotion to be a commander,” Thire says.

What.

What the kriff?

Fox opens and closes his mouth a few times. Finally, he manages, “The kriff, Thire?”

“I’d like to request a promotion to be a commander, sir,” Thire says. “I know that maybe it’s unexpected, but I’ve been thinking about this for a little while now. I know that I could make a difference. I just need the rank to be able to do more. I keep not being able to do the things that I want to because I’m just a lieutenant, but if I was a commander—or even a captain, but I think I could do more as a commander—then I could change things.”

The kriff?

It’s like Fox can see the future. He knows the inevitable if he allows Thire to be a commander. Kriff, Thire would be an amazing commander. He already has the kindness and compassion to work with his men, no matter how many of them are there. He has the dedication.

And kriffing stars, being a commander would destroy him.

There’s so much pressure. The pressure would drive Thire to the edge. And while he’d never fall off—he’s too determined for that—he would be crushed under the expectations. He would complete his job or die trying. And since this job can’t be completed…

No, Fox can never allow Thire to be a commander. Never.

“Sir?” Thire says at last.

“No,” Fox says.

“Sir, do you mean…?”

“No, you can’t be a commander.” Fox picks up his datapad again.

“Sir, I know it’s sudden, so I’d be happy to give you time to figure out details if—”

“I said no, Thire.”

He opens the report he was working on and starts to type. A full two minutes pass before Thire speaks again.

“Sir, can I… can I ask why not?”

Why not? Well, maybe because Fox can’t kriffing bear the mental image stuck in his head. The one where Thire has a blaster bolt through his helmet because he wasn’t good enough for some arbitrary standard that some natborn put into place right that second.

“No,” Fox says.

Another silence where Fox looks anywhere but Thire’s face. He can’t bear to meet his eyes.

Then Thire says quietly, “Yes, sir. Permission to leave?”

“Granted.” Fox looks back at his datapad.

The door shuts quietly behind Thire.

Fox stays where he is, not taking in a word of the report for several minutes. Then he puts the datapad down very gently. He drops his head to the desk, wraps his arms around himself, and gulps in air.

Stars, he’s drowning. His lungs are full of water. He’s shaking, and he doesn’t know why. Each breath feels ragged.

Stars oh stars oh stars oh kriff what am I doing what am I doing what am I doing—

***

21 BBY, day 351 of the War, 1800 GST

GAR Communications—Coruscant Guard—High Importance

1800

GARCommunications: Reminder to Marshal Commander CC-1010: Senator Chass Bes has requested the decommissioning of CT-03-9777. CT-03-9777’s departure from Coruscant has not been reported by the designated time. Respond to explain failure to follow orders.

MCommFox: CT-03-9777 reported deceased on duty at 0530

GARCommunications: Confirmed. CT-03-9777 is reported as deceased on duty.

***

21 BBY, day 352 of the War, 0904 GST

Thire and Hound’s Chat (and GRIZZER)

0904

Hound: Thire I don’t want to pry but is everything okay?

Hound: I could hear you crying when you got back to the barracks last night

1237

Thire: I’m okay

Hound: are you sure??

Hound: I know I’m not usually that serious but seriously please tell me if you want to talk

Hound: I don’t have anything smart to say

Hound: but I mean I could listen if you want

Thire: I really appreciate that Hound but probably not right now

Thire: one of my men died on patrol a night ago

Hound: I’m so sorry

Hound: who was it?

Thire: Dep

Hound: nu kyr’adyc shi taab’echaaj’la#

Thire: vor entye

***

21 BBY, day 352 of the War, 1315 GST

Thorn and Stone (aka Rants About Fox)

1315

Thorn: did Fox go to bed last night

Stone: he might have slept in his office again?

Stone: not sure

Stone: I got in really late last night.

Thorn: I saw him when he was heading to the fresher this morning and I don’t think he’s okay

Stone: how not okay?

Thorn: I don’t know but he was almost dragging his feet and he looked miserable until he saw me and then he just nodded and kept walking

Stone: to be fair that’s how I feel as well.

Thorn: kriffing straight

Thorn: I think we should keep a closer eye on him

Stone: I’ll do my best.

Thorn: kriffit

Thorn: sorry Stone I know you’re not on Coruscant that often

Thorn: I’ll keep a closer eye on him myself

Thorn: see how I’m apologizing unlike our kriffing MC

Stone: no, I’ll do the best I can. As many pairs of eyes as possible would be good.

Stone: is there any news from his squadmates? Any chance that we could get one of them involved?

Thorn: to be honest I don’t think he would kriffing listen to any of them anymore

Stone: that’s really not good.

Thorn: yeah but what are we kriffing supposed to do about it?? There’s nothing we can make him do, so we might as well just kriff off for all the attention he would give us

Stone: we’ve just got to keep trying and being there if he needs us.

Thorn: yeah

Thorn: we can try

Thorn: kriff I hate this

Chapter Text

21 BBY, day 375 of the War, 1930 GST

Thire sits in a chair in the medbay, helmet abandoned on the floor, knees pulled up to his chest so that he can rest his head on them. Stars, he’s so tired. He’s supposed to be sleeping right now, but he can’t just leave Commander Fox here. His commander just nearly died in a trap explosion set by the Separatists (and Eddy did die, oh stars), and there is no way that Thire could sleep with... that looming over him. Commander Stone is offworld now, on a mission with a senator, and Commander Thorn is keeping Coruscant running. That means that there are no (conscious) commanders at the Coruscant Guard base at the moment. That’s another reason Thire wouldn’t be able to sleep.

Commander Fox lies quiet and still in the medbay bed. He hasn’t woken up since he got partially exploded in Coruscant’s central power grid secondary control center. (Thire wasn’t even sure if he should hope that Commander Fox was still alive when Thire pulled him out of the rubble.)

Thire has been sitting here two hours. Pol said that the commander is going to be okay, with time. He hasn’t woken up yet, though. (Thire’s heart still skips a beat occasionally when he thinks of a world where Commander Fox doesn’t pull through.)

Slowly, Thire shifts, putting his feet down on the floor. Pol tried to convince him to take off his armor, but Thire couldn’t bring himself to do that. (Something could happen, and then Thire wouldn’t be immediately ready to help with it.) Pol also tried to give him a blanket, and Thire turned that down as well.

Commander Fox looks so tired lying there. (How hold is he, anyway? Thire can’t remember if he ever asked. The commander is probably ten, eleven? Maybe a year older than Thire?) Scrapes litter his face from the explosion. It looks rough and raw.

Thire reaches slowly for the commander’s hand, then hesitates. It feels wrong to just grab the hand of the marshal commander. (It’s not like the commander will remember this, though.) Commander Fox has been stand-offish and annoyed for so long now, not like how he was when they first got to Coruscant.

But stars, Thire wants to believe that the commander will be okay. (That they’ll all be okay.)

Before he can think better of it, Thire grabs the commander’s hand and hangs onto it.

The commander’s fingers are loose. His face is slack and expressionless. (That bothers Thire.) The commander’s hand is warm, though, providing some kind of weak assurance.

It’s only seconds before the commander’s fingers twitch slightly. Thire lets go quickly, retreating.

It’s a good thing he does.

The commander’s eyes snap open and he screams, shoving himself to a sitting position. It isn’t a normal, startled scream. It’s frustrated, and hurting, and terrified, and it cuts straight through Thire’s thoughts. The commander’s wild eyes dart around the room, clearly not seeing anything as he scrambles to throw himself out of the bed. He crashes to the floor in a heap; Thire jolts to his feet.

“Commander,” he blurts as he scrambles around the bed. “Sir, it’s okay, it’s okay—”

Commander Fox thrashes away from Thire’s hands. He screams again, and it sounds more like a sob. He clutches for anything, but his hands only tangle in the blanket that he’s half-dragged off the bed with him.

“Sir, it’s okay, it’s okay,” Thire says, reaching for the commander’s shoulders to steady him. “Pol,” he adds in a shout. “Pol, where are you?”

Pol’s voice shouts back, “I’m coming, kriff it all!”

Thire tries to force the commander down, to get him to relax. “Sir, please, it’s okay. It’s okay.”

“No—no—no—can’t—” Fox gasps raggedly. His eyes are still blank. “Please—I don’t—I swear—”

Pol appears at Thire’s shoulder and drops to his knees beside Fox. In a practiced motion, he catches both of Fox’s wrists and pulls Fox’s hands to his chest. “Fox, so kriffing help me, snap out of it. You’re in the medbay. Calm the kriff down.”

The abrupt order cuts through whatever fog holds the commander in his personal prison. He gasps, staring at Pol. “What—where—what happened?”

“You nearly got blown up. And then you woke up and freaked out.” Pol hasn’t released the commander’s hands yet. “Do you feel my heartbeat?”

“Yeah,” Commander Fox says. “Yeah, I can feel it.”

“I want yours to match mine.”

“Kriff. Okay.” The commander closes his eyes for a second. When he opens them again, he stares at Thire. “The kriff are you doing here?”

Thire recoils before he can stop himself. He gets to his feet quickly and backs up. “I’m sorry, sir,” he says. “I was here in the medbay, and you started screaming, and… I’m sorry, sir.”

The commander closes his eyes again. “Right. Screaming.” He opens them. “Pol, where’s my comm?”

“The kriff you do not,” Pol says, but he releases the commander’s hands anyway. “Kriff you, Fox.”

Commander Fox ignores him and shakily gets to his feet. He reaches for his comm, which was left in a stack with the rest of his armor. He scans it for only a few seconds before all the color drains from his face. He staggers back a step and catches himself one-handed on the edge of the mattress.”

“Osik. Sit down.” Pol catches Commander Fox and forces him to sit. “What happened?”

“Chancellor Palpatine wants to meet with me.” His voice hitches as he adds, “The kriff happened to me, Pol? Where’s Eddy?”

(Oh, stars, the commander’s voice is never supposed to sound that desperate.)

“He’s dead.”

Commander Fox drives his fist into the mattress. He tilts his head back and whispers, “Kriff him. Kriff him and his stupid stubbornness.”

“You have three broken ribs,” Pol continues. “And a concussion, and a dislocated shoulder that I had to set, and a twisted ankle. No serious blood loss, so you’re fine on that count. But when the kriff was the last time you slept?”

“Chancellor Palpatine called me.” Commander Fox takes a deep breath. “I’m going to see him.”

“Stop telling yourself this is okay, di’kut.”

“Shut up, Pol. This isn’t the time.” The commander stands shakily. “Thire, I don’t know what you’re doing here. You should leave. Pol, how many painkillers do I have to take to stay conscious for the next six hours?”

“You’re going to pass out regardless if you try that.”

“No. Not if I can kriffing help it.”

Thire picks up his helmet slowly. (He can’t leave. Not yet. Not until he finds out what the commander is going to do.)

“I’m your CMO. I outrank you when you’re injured. You need to stay here.”

“The chancellor outranks you, Pol. I need painkillers.”

Pol glares (Thire would hide if that were directed at him, but Commander Fox doesn’t flinch) and reaches into his pocket. He produces a few pills and slaps them down into the commander’s hand.

“Get back here as soon as you finish talking with the chancellor.”

“I can’t guarantee a kriffed thing, Pol. You should know that by now.” The commander swallows the pills. He picks up his armor from where it’s sitting and walks off, as though he wasn’t just five minutes ago unconscious in a medbay bed.

“Stars,” Thire whispers as the commander disappears.

Pol grumbles, “I’ll be dragging his shebs back in here two hours from now, mark my words.”

“I need to go after him,” Thire says.

“Don’t. Let him do this. You won’t do any good to him when he’s like this.”

“I have to do something,” Thire insists.

“Then go sleep. The best thing you can do for him is to be awake enough to work when he inevitably crashes and burns. Trust me, you’ll have plenty to do in the next few days.”

***

21 BBY, day 375 of the War, 2000 GST

Fox has been to Chancellor Palpatine’s offices far too many times before. He’s been in there at all hours of the day. With all manner of people. Being criticized, mocked, and ordered to do things that he has no desire to do. It isn’t reluctance that makes him walk slowly, though. His ankle throbs with each step that he forces it to make. His ribs are on fire. Every breath hurts. His head pounds. The hallway sways and shimmers a little with each step. Every other part of him is sore. Pol told him about his injuries, but Fox didn’t bother to mention just how acutely he’s feeling each one of them. It’s hard to even tell the difference from one injury to the next when everything makes him want to crawl into a corner and…

Well, he doesn’t want to crawl into a corner and die. He’s far from that. But he’d like to stay there, for days, and just let the world turn around him for once.

He knows what he’s going to face when he talks to the chancellor. Maybe that’s the reason his boots catch on the carpet over and over, slowing him down. More accusations. More blame. More responsibilities. More veiled threats.

Kriffit. Kriffing stars, he’d rather work a solid twenty-four hours in the lowest levels than walk into this office.

But he does walk into the office. Somehow. Because he has to.

Every time—every single time—he thinks he can’t handle this job anymore, he still does it somehow. He has no idea how. Probably he’s insane. Or stupid. Or both.

Or, as a third option, it’s because he wouldn’t dare hand this to anyone else. He doesn’t need any more blood on his hands.

Chancellor Palpatine’s office is empty except for the chancellor himself. The chancellor’s tone is positively icy. Fox tries not to sway on his feet in front of him. He also tries to ignore how blurry the room is.

He answers all of the chancellor’s questions and accusations as best he can. As usual, he shifts the blame for everything neatly to himself. No, of course it was Fox’s fault that the droids got through. No, of course they had no warning. Yes, it’s possible that he missed something on the clearances. Yes, he checked them thoroughly. Yes, of course they’ll tighten security on Coruscant going forward. Yes, of course he’ll institute new procedures that will take up so much more time and effort—

“Marshal Commander, are you quite all right?” the chancellor asks at last.

Fox forces himself to focus. His vision is gray at the edges. He says as steadily as he can, “Yes, Chancellor.”

“Do I need to speak to another member of the Guard, perhaps?”

Oh, kriff no. Never. Fox will never allow anyone else in this office if he can help it.

“No, Chancellor.”

“Are you quite capable of doing your job?”

“Yes, Chancellor.”

“Any job at all?”

“Yes, Chancellor.” Fox closes his eyes for a second, taking deep breaths. He wills the grayness away. He can’t afford to pass out now. He can’t afford it. He can’t afford it. He can’t afford it. He can’t—

“Are you quite sure, Marshal Commander?”

“Yes, Chancellor, I—”

The floor tilts violently, Fox’s head seems made of air, and he crumples into the rushing darkness.

***

21 BBY, day 375 of the War, 2020 GST

He gasps awake. There are cold fingers on his forehead. He doesn’t remember taking his helmet off. He blinks away the blurriness and stares, bewildered, up at Chancellor Palpatine’s face. The chancellor is kneeling next to him, hand on Fox’s forehead.

“Are you quite all right?” the chancellor inquires coolly.

“Yes, sir,” Fox whispers hoarsely.

“I believe you are quite capable, Marshal Commander.”

“Yes, sir.”

Fox’s lungs are ice, and his head screams a warning at him. There’s a high-pitched humming beyond the range of hearing that makes him try to tighten his skull, to hold it out. His mind is his own, and he knows instinctively that if he lets the humming in that he’ll lose control.

“Very well, Marshal Commander.” The chancellor rises, looming above Fox. “Execute order 38.”

Fox screams, raggedly, as the humming takes over. His mind is lit on fire, and his skull is wrenched open—

He blacks out.

***

The lift descends.

***

Dark streets and flashing neon lights.

***

A scope lined up.

***

No no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no—

***

Blood.

***

No evidence.

***

Screaming that he can’t stop.

***

21 BBY, day 375 of the War, 2300 GST

“He should have been back by now,” Commander Thorn says flatly. He looks between Thire and Hound (but Thire can only shrug helplessly, and Hound shakes his head with just as much confusion).

“Haven’t seen him, Commander,” Hound says. “I’m sorry.”

“I need you two to track him down,” Commander Thorn says. “He should have been in the Senate Building, but it’s like he disappeared. I’ve got Lor’vram keeping an eye out for him in the Senate. You two are going to head up the search operation for Fox. We have no leads. Figure something out, and let me know as soon as you find anything.”

“Yes, sir,” Thire says.

“Yessir,” Hound echoes. “No leads at all, sir?”

“None. He was last with the chancellor, but the chancellor says he left, and we haven’t seen him on the security footage yet. He can’t have disappeared into thin air. He probably got halfway back and collapsed.”

“Yes, sir,” Thire says. “We’ll do everything we can and update you as soon as possible.”

Commander Thorn nods. “Dismissed.”

Thire leaves as quickly as he can without running, and shuts the door gently behind him.

“There’s no way Commander Fox disappeared,” Hound says. “No way. Maybe he’s off doing something important for the chancellor?”

Thire shakes his head. “Commander Thorn said that the chancellor said he left. The chancellor would have mentioned something if Commander Fox had been sent on a different mission. I’m going to go and talk to Pol. He—um, he was talking to me and Commander Fox earlier. He might have some ideas.”

Hound shrugs. “No leads is dini’la, is all I have to say. And, Thire?”

“Yeah?”

“Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.”

“Eddy was a jerk. You can say it, if you want.”

Thire looks away. “He didn’t… it shouldn’t have been that way.”

Hound looks down and shuffles his feet. Then he says, “You’re sure you’re going to be okay?”

Thire shrugs. (He has to work for a second to get his voice to come out steady.) “What matters right now is finding Commander Fox. I can talk later, if you want.” Thire hurries down the hall before Hound can ask any more questions.

***

21 BBY, day 376 of the War, 0500 GST

By 0500, when Thire takes over for Lor’vram in the Senate Building, they still haven’t found Commander Fox. He and Hound have spent the entire night with their platoons, searching every place they could think to look where the commander might have wound up. Even with six hours of searching, they didn’t find anything. (Thire tamps down the way his insides are twisted up in all the wrong ways.)

“I heard Commander Fox didn’t get back to base?” Lor’vram says quietly to Thire when Thire arrives at the Senate Building.

Thire shakes his head. “Hound and I looked. Hound had his whole team of massiffs out, but they couldn’t find anything. The last place they found the commander’s scent was in the Senate Building, but they weren’t allowed in to search or anything.”

“They should have been allowed to,” Lor’vram mutters. “This is something of an emergency.”

“I don’t think Commander Thorn has told anyone yet,” Thire says.

Lor’vram nods. “Yeah, they’d probably send the lot of us back to Kamino if they found out.”

Thire swallows and nods. “I’m sure we’ll find him somewhere, though.”

“Yeah,” Lor’vram says. “We can hope.”

Lor’vram leaves, and Thire starts his patrols of the Senate Building. The senators aren’t meeting today, because of the previous day’s events. (No one wants to risk it, it seems.) There are still plenty of senators in the building, though, and more arrive as the day goes by. They go about their business and confer with each other quietly in the halls or in their offices.

Thire is used to getting annoyed glances whenever he walks through the Senate (he rarely notices it anymore), but today, that doesn’t happen. The senators or aides that look at him either look relieved or angry. Thire can understand why they might feel either of those ways. (Angry, because the Coruscant Guard failed to stop the attack. Relieved, because even a faceless failed entity is better than no protection at all.)

Thire’s with Cred today, and Cred is quieter than usual. Thire doesn’t push him to talk. Sometimes it’s better to just patrol in silence.

Just before 1000, Thire and Cred’s patrol route takes them through the halls nearer the Chancellor’s office. (Thire’s head always aches when he walks through those halls. Maybe it’s the fear curling dully in his mind. He shouldn’t fear the halls, though. They aren’t what can hurt him.)

“Hey,” Cred says abruptly, stopping in his tracks.

(It’s the first word Cred has said for the entirety of the patrol.)

“What happened?” Thire asks, stopping as well.

“That’s blood,” Cred says, pointing to the wall of the hall, just down from where they’re standing.

“How…?” Thire says, starting toward it.

“It’s fresh,” Cred says.

“That’s not good,” Thire says.

He walks straight past the bloodstain on the wall, sparing it a second for a glance. It’s at chest-level, smeared downwards, as though someone’s fingers caught on the wall and dragged toward the floor. The blood drops still glisten. (Oh, stars.)

Thire walks past a decorative pedestal with a bust of a previous chancellor on it, just before the next intersection of hallways, and stops dead as he sees the clear outline of a bloody handprint on the wall just beyond the pedestal.

“Cred,” he calls. “Come look at this, please.”

“Coming,” Cred says (after a second’s pause) from where he’s still standing and looking at the other blood on the wall.

Thire steps forward into the intersection of the two halls and looks down. There, lying in broken plastoid and blood, is a far-too-familiar form.

(It can’t be.)

(Someone would have noticed on one of the patrols.)

(It’s been nearly twelve hours since Thorn told Thire and Hound to start searching.)

“Commander Fox,” Thire blurts out, dropping to his knees beside the commander and automatically fumbling for a pulse. It’s there, but it’s not regular. “Cred!” he shouts over his shoulder. “I need you here as quickly as possible!”

(This doesn’t make sense.)

Cred appears around the corner and stops, staring. “What?”

(But what does make sense anymore?)

“It’s Commander Fox,” Thire says. “I need you to stabilize him as quickly as you can while I call for backup.”

Cred drops to his knees beside Thire, already feeling out the commander’s pulse. “How—how—how’d he—”

“I don’t know,” Thire admits, the words tumbling out faster than he can think through them. (He’s trying not to panic; he is.) “I’ll tell you when I know, but for now, just—just—” He stands up quickly and takes a few steps away, to distance himself from… all of that, as Cred hurries forward. Instead, he opens a comm line to Pol, which connects immediately. “Pol, I found Commander Fox, and I don’t think it’s good.”

***

21 BBY, day 376 of the War, 2100 GST

Thorn gets back to base after his all-day shift commuting between the prisons and the Senate like aiwha migratory cycles on fast-forward, and he heads straight for the medbay. He hasn’t been able to open his mouth without nearly yelling all day, and kriffit if it isn’t justified. He’s got some choice things to say, just as soon as he gets to see high-and-mighty Marshal Commander Fox.

Just as Thorn reaches the medbay, Pol appears in the doorway, effectively filling it.

“Pol.” Thorn nods. “Let me in.”

“No,” Pol says.

“The kriff?”

“If you’re thinking about trying to talk to Fox, that’s off the table.”

“Why the kriff—”

“Well,” Pol says loudly, over Thorn, “for one thing, it’s because he hasn’t woken up yet. For another thing, this is my medbay, and I won’t have you storming in here like you’re hot osik to shout down our commander. If you want to talk, you talk to me. In my office.”

“Pol—”

“My medbay, Thorn.”

“Fine.” Thorn glares at Pol, but Pol meets his gaze with just as much anger.

Pol turns on his heel and strides down the medbay toward his office. Thorn follows, not so much because he wants to as because he needs to get answers from someone, and apparently Fox isn’t in any condition to be talking. Pol’s going to try and spout some sort of it’ll-all-be-okay nonsense, but Thorn is going to get an actual answer. Pol ushers Thorn into his office and shuts the door firmly behind them.

“I’m going to kill you after I kill Fox,” Thorn mutters, sitting in the seat in front of Pol’s desk and dropping his helmet onto the desk.

“Yeah, right,” Pol retorts, sitting down behind the desk and shoving pieces of flimsi aside so that he can get to the caf mug underneath the mess.

Thorn glares around at the wild notes and scattered supplies and boxes. Pol’s office is always a mess, which would be fine on a normal day, but this is not a normal day. Not by a long shot. Fox was supposed to be meeting Chancellor Palpatine, and somehow wound up dying in a hallway, hours later. Thorn needs explanations, but more than not, he needs a kriffing apology from Fox, and for a whole lot more than just the patrols that have become a logistical impossibility to organize after dealing with the damage to Coruscant and mounting the manhunt for Fox simultaneously. Not a single trooper more than necessary is on base right now, and it’ll stay that was for the foreseeable future, and Fox is apparently unavailable.

“Something needs to change,” Thorn says.

Pol finally locates his caf mug and takes a swig from it. “This is cold.”

“Are you listening?”

“Yes.” Pol sets the mug down again. “I’ve heard it all before. And you think I haven’t thought about it? Yeah, something needs to change.”

“The planet is a mess right now.”

“No osik.” Pol starts stacking pieces of flimsi.

“As soon as Fox wakes up, I want to know.”

“Fine.” Pol shoves pages together more roughly. “But you don’t get to talk to him.”

Thorn jabs his hands up. “Why not, Pol? Why do you not want me to talk to him?”

“You’re going to try to fix it, but you’re going to go about it completely wrong.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Oh, trust me, I know that.”

“Fox is the one that runs this city, which he can’t do right now,” Thorn snaps. “So maybe you’d just better accept that things don’t get to stay the same. We need to make changes, now, so that this city doesn’t dissolve into chaos.”

“We?”

“What are you implying?”

“What are you trying to do, Thorn?” Pol scowls at Thorn.

“I’m trying to make sure that we don’t lose everything we’ve worked for because of this, di’kut. What the kriff are you trying to do? You’re not helping anyone by keeping Fox in here and making it out like he’s going to have a perfect recovery and go back to things just like we’ve always done them.”

Pol crosses his arms. “Yeah, well, Fox’ll be back on his feet soon enough.”

“Not soon enough.”

“Soon enough. I’ll guarantee that.”

Thorn scoffs. “Like he’s not going to be back in here within two weeks.”

“You think I don’t know that?” Pol demands. “Of course I know that. Of course he knows that. Right now, he’s about one bad meeting away from a spontaneous combustion, or shooting a senator. Just like you. So believe me when I tell you, the only way of doing this is getting Fox back on his feet as fast as we can. And you going in there and raging at him is the last kriffing thing I need to make that happen.”

Thorn gets to his feet and stalks across the room to glare at the nearest pieces of flimsi tacked up on the wall. “Kriff you.”

“I know you’re mad, di’kut. Stop pretending this is rational.”

“You think I haven’t thought about this?” Thorn demands wheeling on Pol. He’s about to kriffing punch him, CMO or not. “This whole situation could have been avoided if—”

“If what?”

“If we’d done things differently.”

“How, Thorn? Tell me how.” Pol’s voice is somehow gentler than Thorn has ever heard, but at the same time, just as annoyingly flat and uncompromising.

“I’m getting to that,” Thorn snaps.

“I’ll wait.”

“Fox is going to kriffing die,” Thorn says.

“Not until I let him,” Pol says grimly. “Like I said, he’s staying on his feet long enough, no matter what it takes.”

“Long enough,” Thorn repeats. “What—”

“Stop right there,” Pol orders. “Thorn, just shut up. You need to go and sleep before you try to do anything else.”

“I don’t have time.”

“Take an hour.”

“Kriff you.”

Pol sits back in his chair, adjusting himself to what must be a more comfortable position. He looks entirely too calm about this. “You haven’t realized yet, have you?”

“Realized what?”

Pol shakes his head and says quietly, “Get out of my medbay, Thorn. I’ve got it handled over here.”

“You’re as bad as him,” Thorn snaps.

“Go, Thorn.”

Thorn grabs his helmet from the desk and stalks out of Pol’s office. Whatever Pol wants him to realize can’t be any more osik’la than what he’s already dealing with. It’s like he’s carrying Fox’s empty office with him, and kriffit all, that office is heavy.