Chapter Text
Present day Ryloth, 12 BBY
Two hours on the speeder bike left Boil’s legs sore and his eyes red from the wind and the blowing dust. Nilim’s directions had led him through the forests surrounding Nabat and into a gorge that twisted and turned through the nearby mountains. Long shadows covered the floor of the canyon, forcing Boil to use the old speeder bike’s weak headlights. He followed the narrow, winding passage for two clicks before arriving at the unusual rock formation Nilim had described, a group of reddish-brown rocks in the shape of a gigantic lylek.
Boil dismounted and wiped at his eyes with the back of his sleeve. The canyon appeared empty, and aside from the rocks there was nothing of note here. Certainly no sign of a sentry or even a listening station. But Nilim had said this was the spot, so Boil whistled the little pattern that Nilim had taught him and waited.
The canyon was silent, now that the speeder bike was shut down. The sliver of sky overhead was ablaze with color, fiery orange and red as Ryloth’s sun began to set. Down in the dim canyon it was difficult to see anything with the headlights off; not for the first time Boil longed for his old bucket and its built-in night vision. The stormtrooper helmets had been top-class Imperial garbage, manufactured by the cheapest bidder, but even they had had a little light correction built into the visors.
He could do without the armor, though. The only parts of his original armor that remained after a decade of service were his left arm and shoulder pieces, which he still wore. Everything else had been damaged one way or another and replaced with the flimsiplast the Empire was trying to pass off as armor. Boil had left it all behind when he’d abandoned his post on Vaklin.
Good riddance.
Another ten minutes or so of waiting passed before Boil heard a low whistle from somewhere above him, the same pattern of notes. He whistled back again.
There was a scuffling noise behind him. Boil turned slowly to find a blaster in his face and a frowning Twi’lek behind it. He raised his hands cautiously.
“Who are you?” the man barked. His face was hidden behind a scarf, much like Boil’s was. “How did you know how to find us?”
“I getting the code from Nilim,” Boil said calmly. “I here to see Numa.”
The man frowned. “Is Nilim alright?”
Boil nodded. “Yes, he is fine. I am visiting, bring something for Numa. I know her, long ago.”
The man slowly lowered his weapon but his eyes remained suspicious. “He says he wants to see Numa,” he called loudly.
“Bring him,” someone answered from the cliffs above. “Get his weapons first.”
Boil allowed the man to strip him of his weapons before he was led further into the canyon and then through what looked like a narrow, natural crack in the red stone wall. It led into a winding passage strung with lights which climbed upward at a steep angle through the rock. Eventually the tunnel widened and opened to the darkening sky overhead; they were in a wide open area surrounded on all sides by steep stone walls. There was a bustling camp there, dozens of brown and red tents and some more permanent-looking structures built up along the edges. Boil’s escort marched him over to one of the larger tents and led him inside, pushing back the flap to reveal a small space containing a middle-aged, blue-skinned Twi’lek man looking at a holotable. The man looked up when they entered, his expression neutral.
“Greetings, Human. I’m told you are looking for Numa,” the man said, shutting down the table and turning toward them. Boil’s escort stood behind him, covering the entrance.
Boil was careful to keep his hands visible. “Yes,” he answered. “I have gift for her.”
The man raised his eyebrows. “A gift for Numa? You came all the way to Ryloth, all the way to our camp, to give her a gift?” He huffed a little in disbelief and tucked his hands behind his back. “It must be very special.”
Boil just shrugged. It was special, special to him at least. One last mission. Just like he promised.
“Well, Nilim may not be a fan of ours, but I am certain that he always has Numa’s safety in mind,” the man said thoughtfully, “so you must have convinced him to trust you.” He nodded with his chin toward Boil’s scarf. “Will you reveal your face?”
Boil hesitated. He did not want to show these people who he truly was; Nilim was one thing, but the Free Ryloth Movement had fought clones before. Behind him, he heard the guard shift his weight, probably reaching for a weapon. The man in front of him just watched expectantly, calm and still, but Boil had no doubt that the only way he would see Numa was if this man approved. He sighed, out of options, and unceremoniously tugged the scarf back down around his neck.
The man’s eyebrows flew up. “You’re a clone,” he said, shocked. He stared for a moment, then looked over Boil’s shoulder and nodded his head. The guard stepped out of the tent, but Boil could still hear him just beyond the fabric flap.
The man stepped closer, examining Boil’s face. “I haven’t seen one of your kind in many years,” he said. He spoke in Basic now, presumably for Boil’s benefit. “The garrison here on Ryloth was changed out shortly after the Emperor took power.” He rubbed his fingers over his chin. “Were you stationed here?”
Boil shook his head. “No, I wasn’t part of the garrison. I fought with the 212th to free Ryloth from the Separatists,” he explained.
“The 212th…” the man said slowly. “Yes, that was General Kenobi’s division, wasn’t it? His forces were in the villages and the southern desert, as I recall.”
It was Boil’s turn to be surprised. “You remember that?”
The man chuckled. “Of course. I fought alongside your brothers to retake Lessu,” he explained. “I am Gobi Glie, I have been serving with Cham Syndulla to free this planet from one threat or another for a long time.” Gobi eyed him critically. “Not so long ago the clones became one of those threats, before they were all replaced by stormtroopers. I never did find out what happened to the rest of you.”
Boil worked his mouth a little before answering. “Not much to tell,” he offered. “A few of us are still with the Empire. Most of us became… obsolete over the years.”
“And you?” Gobi asked a little sharply. “Did you become ‘obsolete’ too?”
“The Empire has no interest in me,” Boil told him firmly, “and I’m happy to stay off their scopes. I wouldn’t bring them to your doorstep, I’m not an idiot.” He sighed. “Look, I just—I have something to give Numa. That’s all. We—I met her when I was here during the war and I—” he cleared his throat. “I agreed to make sure she got a gift. As—as a favor. If you let me see her for a minute, I’ll leave it with her and then I’ll go. I won’t be back.”
Gobi pursed his lips. “What gift?” he asked.
Boil opened his mouth, closed it, and then simply reached slowly for his pack. He pulled the little tooka doll out and held it in front of him. He was suddenly conscious of the years that had battered it; Boil had been careful with it, kept it clean and dry, but the bright colors had faded a little with time and the fur was not as fluffy as it had once been.
Gobi wagged his head back and forth, considering. After a moment, he tsked and shrugged his shoulders. “Well, I don’t know what Numa will say, but I can spare her for a moment I’m sure. Wait here, I’ll send her along.” He circled around Boil and left the tent.
Boil looked down at the doll once he was alone. He ran a thumb over its little ears, the tips more rounded now than they had once been. It was still in good enough shape to give to Numa.
He hadn’t used it that much.
Coruscant, 16 BBY
Storming into his quarters, Boil threw his helmet at the bunk in disgust. He muttered angrily to himself as he began stripping off his kit and tossing it haphazardly in the corner. The garbage that the Empire passed off as armor these days didn’t deserve to be stacked neatly. The only ones that he respected were the pieces for his left arm and most of his right leg that he still had from his original Phase 2 armor; those were left in a neat pile atop his footlocker. The sad, cracked remains of his right vambrace had to be disconnected from his blacks in small pieces, which Boil gladly fed straight into the incinerator chute.
The cloth underneath was torn and charred; Boil had been lucky the shot had been too indirect to seriously hurt him, but the blacks were too damaged to use again. Still angry, he reached up behind his neck to grab the collar and roughly yanked the top off over his head, mussing his hair badly, before it also went into the incinerator.
Boil dropped onto his bunk and rubbed his hands over his face, his head tilted up toward the ceiling. He had lost half his platoon in yesterday's chase and two more today once they had finally engaged the enemy in a proper firefight. Mika had been one of them, the only other remaining member of Ghost Company as far as Boil was aware. The others had been natborn stormtroopers—most of them barely more than kids—who relied on Boil to train them and keep them safe.
Now they were dead. And for what? So the Empire could squash one more tiny group of disgruntled civilians trying to protect their homes from mining interests? So one more planet could be used up and drained dry and left behind to eke out a living from what remained? So the Emperor could stand in front of the holovision cameras and declare another victory against insurrection?
So Boil could come back to a cold, empty bunk with nothing to show for it but a busted vambrace and a half-empty roster?
He sighed and leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees and dangling his hands between his legs. He slowly dropped his head and rolled his neck back and forth to stretch his tired muscles. He let the anger slowly drain out of him. Traitorous thoughts might ease his temper a little on days like this, but he knew better than to follow them too far.
It wouldn’t do any good anyway. There was nothing else out there for him.
Boil blew out a slow breath and then rose to his feet. He was already starting to get chilled; Imperial barracks were always freezing. He walked over to the shelves next to his bunk and began rummaging through them. He had squirreled away a spare pair of blacks somewhere after the last time he was left in this situation. Boil reached high for the top shelf—higher than he could see—and groped around, feeling for soft fabric between blaster components and bottles of armor polish. Eventually, his hand landed on something and he pulled it down, ready to throw the top on and then head down to the mess for some well-deserved caf.
But it wasn’t his spare blacks. Instead he held in his hands the little tooka doll Waxer had once bought.
He stared at it, confused. He had kept it, of course, but it had been ages since he had looked at it. The last time had probably been when he had tossed it up on the shelf in the first place, when he first made lieutenant and was transferred to these quarters. The little doll looked much the same, maybe a little dusty. Boil gave it an experimental squeeze and it squeaked, loud and high-pitched, the sound startling him in the cold, silent room.
Boil stumbled backwards, still staring at the doll, and bumped into the wall behind him. It felt like he was looking at an ancient relic from some forgotten age, a time when the galaxy was a different place. A time when Boil was a different person. A time when there were more than orders and training regimes and rebel crackdowns to care about.
A time when he still dreamed about the future.
The doll hung limp in his hands, its empty black eyes staring sightlessly back up at him. It was just a doll. It was just a doll, and a silly dream, and a future that was over before it began. Suddenly angry again, Boil surged forward and moved toward the incinerator chute. He reached out his hand to toss the doll in, but something stopped him.
In a way, Waxer had been easy to bury. There were condolences, of course, and kind words and memories from their friends in the 212th. Waxer didn’t disappear overnight. But it was war, and there was always duty: the first stone on Waxer’s burial mound. There were a slew of missions and battles and skirmishes, non-stop movement between one planet and the next, more and more until sparing a thought for Waxer’s absence was almost a luxury, free time Boil could rarely afford.
Then came Order 66, and everything was buried for a while.
By the time Boil and the few other brothers he had left began to reconsider what they had done in betraying the Jedi there was no longer any reason to bring up the past. What was done was done and they had orders to follow. They served the Republic, and the Republic was now the Empire. What was the point of thinking about anything else? There was nothing else. Not for Boil, anyway. So he did his job, did what he was told, did whatever needed to be done.
Duty, it turned out, was both the first burial stone and the last.
Boil pulled the little tooka doll away from the incinerator and stared at it again. It couldn’t bring Waxer back. It couldn’t resurrect what was long gone, and it certainly wasn’t going to get to some orphaned little girl on Ryloth any time soon. Why did he even still have it?
He dropped back into his bunk and collapsed on his side, holding the doll out in front of him. Boil ran one finger along its yellow ears, stroking the soft fur. Waxer had been so thrilled to find one that matched Numa’s old doll. He used to talk about it, about how unlikely that had been; he got so animated, his eyes bright and his hands waving as he explained that it felt like fate, like a sign they were on the right path. How lucky it was.
Back then Boil had always thought that he was the lucky one.
Something between a sob and a sigh escaped him and he clutched the doll to his chest, squeezing his eyes tightly shut. Remembering Waxer hurt. It hurt like losing familiar faces did, hurt like the feeling of brotherhood slipping away. It hurt because there was no future to talk about anymore.
His future was stuck in the past, along with Waxer and Ryloth and Numa. The only thing Boil had with him in the here and now was the stupid doll. A gift for a child Waxer would never see again. A gift Boil couldn’t let go of, as much as he had tried to bury it too.
He must have eventually fallen asleep like that, still half undressed and clutching the purple tooka in his arms. In the morning, Boil rose at the same time he always did, crusty-eyed and groggy. He sat up and rubbed his eyes, feeling hollowed out and so, so tired. He would be spending the day going over transfer forms to replace his shattered platoon, new faces coming in to replace the old. It wasn’t the first time, and it certainly wouldn’t be the last.
As he climbed out of bed, the tooka doll fell down and landed on the floor at his feet. He picked it up and stared at it for a moment. He glanced up at the high shelf where it had been before, out of sight and out of mind. He ran a thumb over its soft belly and gave it another squeeze, huffing something like a laugh when it squeaked loudly. It felt strange to laugh. Boil turned and, trying not to think too hard about it, placed the doll on his pillow.
Maybe some things didn’t have to stay buried forever.
Present day Ryloth, 12 BBY
Boil waited in the tent for what felt like a long time. He put the tooka doll back in his pack for safe keeping then spent a few minutes idly looking around. The tent served as some kind of command center, he assumed, and though the holotable had been turned off there was enough information scattered around on the map boards and tactical screens that Boil could get a picture of how the Free Ryloth Movement was doing. Not very well, was his professional assessment; they were harassing the local Imperial forces and generally being a nuisance but they weren’t making the best use of the resources they had.
After a moment, Boil frowned and pulled himself away from the maps and went to stand in the center of the room, falling into parade rest through old habit. It was none of his business what the Ryloth rebels were up to; as soon as he finished his errand here he would leave, and it was likely he would never set foot on this planet again.
He stood there for some time, just breathing slowly in and out through his nose and letting his mind wander, when someone approached the tent. The flap moved aside, and a teenaged girl walked in; too short to need to duck underneath, she simply strolled through the gap in the tent and stood in front of Boil, her arms crossed. She had teal skin and a skeptical expression on her face.
Boil could only gape at her.
When he didn’t say anything, she shifted her weight and raised her eyebrows. “You asked for me?” she said.
“Numa?” Boil asked tentatively.
“That’s right,” she replied impatiently. “What do you want?”
“You—you so big grown,” Boil stammered out in his ugly Ryl.
She furrowed her brow at his comment. “I speak Basic,” Numa said with a huff, tossing her lekku over her shoulder. “What do you want?” she repeated, her Rylothi accent wrapping strongly around the vowels but perfectly understandable.
It was probably for the best if they spoke in Basic. Waxer had always been better at Ryl anyway, and now that he—well, without Waxer to practice with Boil had gotten pretty rusty.
There were a lot of things that Boil didn't do very well without Waxer.
“Look,” Numa continued as the silence stretched, “if my uncle sent you then you should turn around and tell him not to bother. I am not coming home. The work we are doing here is important.”
“No, I—” Boil shook his head. “Your uncle didn’t send me. I met you a long time ago, when the Separatists took over Nabat. My, uh, my partner and I, we found you wandering in the streets.”
Numa’s eyes widened in shock. “You—you are a clone?” She squinted at him. “I… I don’t remember it well, I was little when Nabat was attacked. There were gutkurrs, I think?”
Boil nodded rapidly. “Yes, you showed us to your home; then gutkurrs attacked us and we escaped into the tunnels.”
Numa shrugged a little. “Uncle Nilim told me I helped lead the clones and the Jedi through the tunnels to rescue everyone from the droids. I—you do look a little familiar.” She cocked her head to the side. “Where is the other one? The bald one?”
Boil looked down for a moment and bit his lip. “He, ah, he didn’t survive the war.”
“Oh,” Numa replied. “Sorry,” she said awkwardly.
Rather than get into it, Boil slung his pack off his shoulder and reached in to pull out the tooka doll. “He, um,” he hesitated for a moment before saying, “Waxer, he wanted you to have this. Since you lost yours when the gutkurrs showed up.” He held out the doll to Numa.
She stared at it, frowning, then looked back up at Boil. She didn’t reach out her hand to take it. “You… you came out here to give me a doll?” she asked, disbelief clear in her voice.
Boil pressed his lips into a thin line, a little embarrassed. “Waxer” —and what a shock that he could say that name aloud again, that his lips weren’t cracking and bleeding with it— “Waxer bought it after we left Ryloth. He—we always planned to come back, but he was—I lost him, on Umbara. And then after that the Empire rose and I—it was just—” he cleared his throat. “Well, it took a while, but I finally managed to get back and find you.”
Numa gestured at the doll but still did not try to take it. “What am I supposed to do with this?” she asked incredulously. “I’m too old to play with dolls. Why would you even bother coming back here, after ten years? Have you been carrying that thing around for that long?” She scoffed at him. “I don’t need some—some child’s toy.” She shook her head and began backing away toward the entrance. “I’m sorry you wasted the trip, but I have more important things to be doing.” She lifted the flap and looked back at Boil. “Tell my uncle not to send anyone else here. I am not a little girl anymore, I don’t need him.”
And then she was gone.
For a moment Boil just stood there, the doll still held out in front of him. Waxer’s words echoed in his head.
We wouldn’t want her to be lonely!
It’d be nice to see her again…
You’ll make sure it gets where it needs to be, won’t you love? In case I can’t do it myself?
Boil took a slow, shaky inhale and pulled the tooka doll back to his chest, cradling it gently and tucking his chin over its ears. He hunched over and slowly, slowly sank to the floor on his knees. He stared blindly at the tent flap in front of him, lost.
Numa didn’t need anything from him. From them. She had… she had grown up. While he and Waxer were away fighting a war, after Waxer—after Umbara, while Boil was letting the Empire run his life so he didn’t have to think, Numa was here. Living, changing, becoming too old for childish things.
Waxer’s little dream, his sweet, naive plan to come back to Ryloth and make a little girl happy again—it had disappeared when they weren’t even looking. Waxer was—was gone, and Boil had been drowning, and Numa had moved on before he had come to the surface and gone after Waxer’s dream himself. Too late.
Always too late.
Boil sat there for long moments, just breathing, shivering. He raised a shaking hand to his face and was surprised to find it wet. He blinked, clearing his blurred vision, and came back to himself as he heard footsteps approaching the tent. Boil climbed hastily to his feet, turning away from the entrance to wipe at his face with the back of his wrist.
Someone entered and cleared their throat. Boil sniffed, once, then turned around, trying to find his composure. It was Gobi, who gave him a look filled with pity after he spotted the doll still in Boil’s arms.
“I apologize for Numa’s attitude,” Gobi said with a pained smile. “I hope you won’t take it too personally. She’s young, and the young struggle to see past their own troubles.”
Boil didn’t know what to say to that, so he just twisted his mouth and shrugged. He felt raw, exposed like a stripped wire and likely to touch off a spark.
Gobi gestured back toward the camp. “Come,” he said warmly, “it is too late to return to town tonight, it’s not safe even on a speeder bike. We can find a cot for you here and you can head back in the morning.”
Boil wanted to protest, but he felt strangely adrift. Numb. If he tried to head back to Nabat now, like this, he’d probably become prey to some wild beast in his distraction. He shrugged again and nodded. “Thank you,” he croaked out, his throat still thick. He cleared it and tried again. “Thank you. If it’s not too much trouble.” He forced himself to loosen his hold on the doll and tucked it back into his pack.
Gobi smiled and lifted the tent flap, ushering Boil through. “Not at all. We don’t get many off-world visitors, but Rylothian hospitality is important to us.” He clapped a friendly hand on Boil’s shoulder and steered him toward a campfire nearby ringed with stones and crates. “Here, have a seat and I will find you something to eat. You look like you’ve been running all day.”
Boil didn’t protest. He plopped down onto an empty crate and stared blindly into the fire, his shoulders slumped. Around him, the camp buzzed with life, dozens of Twi’leks moving around this fire and others, shouting and laughing and passing plates around. Eventually someone came by and dropped off a bowl for Boil; he didn’t bother asking what it was, just acknowledged that it was hot and it was free and dug in. He didn’t really taste anything anyway.
Eventually, things died down; the night grew deeper and quieter as the day shift went to bed and only the night sentries remained. Gobi swung by to give Boil directions to the tent that he could bunk in—Boil probably replied and thanked him and said goodnight, but he was only moving on autopilot, only going through the motions. The fire in front of him began to die, but there were logs piled nearby so he tossed a few more on and continued staring at it. Smoke stung his eyes but he didn’t look away. Stars slowly turned overhead in an unfamiliar sky.
Of course, you should come with me. Maybe we’ll even stay a while, who knows.
We wouldn’t want her to be lonely!
We can do anything we want, love. That’s what’s so beautiful about it.
Some time later, a noise nearby broke Boil’s reverie. He glanced up to find Numa tentatively taking a seat on the next crate. He lurched and sat up straighter, surprised to see her again. He had assumed she’d avoid him until he left.
“Hi,” Numa said in Basic, a little awkwardly. She tugged at one of her lekku. “I, um. I wanted to apologize. For earlier. That was rude.”
Boil blinked at her. Then he shook his head. “No,” he said. “No, it was—it’s okay. I didn’t think… I guess it didn’t occur to me how—how you would feel about… about the doll.”
Numa shrugged a little self-consciously. “Still. It was… it was a nice thing to do.” She bit her lip and glanced down at the pack at Boil’s feet. “Can I see it?” she asked quietly.
Boil’s eyes widened in surprise, but he bent down, his movements stiff and jerky, and pulled the little doll out of his pack. He held it out to her.
Numa took it gingerly and examined it, turning it back and forth and inspecting its ears. “It looks just like the one I had when I was little,” she said. “It was named Tyri.” Numa looked up and smiled self-consciously. “Not very original, but I was pretty little.” She glanced back down. “My uncle got me a new one after I went to live with him. I called it Feen—it was orange, like the fruit. And I liked it, but it didn’t…” She gave the doll a little squeeze, but nothing happened. Numa looked up at him.
Boil winced. “It… it used to squeak. Like—like your old one did, but it just stopped one day.” He stared at the doll in her hands. “I took good care of it, I think maybe it was just… old materials.” He huffed, embarrassed. “I guess ten years is a long time for a kid’s toy.”
“You’ve been… holding onto it?” she asked. “All this time?”
Boil couldn’t help but notice the condition of the doll in her hands. It was still clean and in good shape, but it was all-too-clear it hadn’t spent a decade in storage. Boil had had it in his bunk with him more often than not, once he let himself remember. The fur had lost some of its fluff and was matted down, despite Boil’s attempts at washing it. Or perhaps because of too many washes. The colors were a little faded, the purple not nearly so bright and the yellow darkened toward brown. The plastoid eyes had scratches and they were a little dull.
It looked—it looked well-loved.
“Yeah, it’s, uh, it’s really the only thing I have left of—of Waxer,” Boil replied stiltedly. “I wanted to keep some of his armor, but no one was able to save it for me, and everything else was just… standard issue.” He shrugged. “Clones didn’t have personal possessions. I don’t—I don’t even have any holos of him.”
Numa looked uncomfortable at that, like she didn't know what to do with Boil's pain.
That was alright. He never knew what to do with it either.
“Anyway, he wanted you to have it,” Boil continued doggedly. “We used to—we used to talk about coming back here, after the war. Never expected it to take so long.” Boil gave her a sad little half-smile. “We figured you’d still be a kid, even if the war took a while.”
Numa frowned down at the doll for a moment, considering. Then she held it out for him, dangling from the end of her fingers. “Here,” she said.
“That's for you,” Boil replied, still a little numb.
“No,” Numa shook her head. “I think it's for you,” she told him, not unkindly.
You’ll make sure it gets where it needs to be, won’t you love? In case I can’t do it myself?
It must be nice, having a little friend you can carry around.
“Oh,” Boil said dumbly. He reached out and took back the doll, cradling it against his chest. The tops of its little ears tickled his chin. “Thank you.”
Numa offered him a smile. “I still have some things from my parents. My uncle had lots of holos, and we were able to go back to the house and find a few things that hadn’t been broken.” She tucked her hands under her thighs and crossed her ankles. “But mostly I like the stories best. I remember some of my own, but I like to hear other people talk about them.” She tilted her head to the side. “Do you… do you have any stories about Waxer?”
Boil almost gasped out loud. It felt like a punch to the throat to hear Waxer’s name on someone else’s lips. It had been years since anyone had asked him about Waxer; years since anyone had even known to ask. And for all the ways Waxer’s memory plagued his thoughts, for all the constant little aches at every moment Waxer wasn’t there for, it was a private, quiet thing.
He didn’t share Waxer with anyone.
Looking back at the dying fire, Boil sighed and dropped the tooka doll into his lap. He toyed with one of its ears. “I don’t, um. I don’t really talk about him much. It’s been a long time. No one who remembers him is still around.” He glanced over at Numa, who was also staring at the fire.
She nodded without looking up. “Gobi says…” she began as she bit her lip. “Gobi says that when we tell stories about people we have lost, we give pieces of them to other people to carry for us. Each person that we tell will help us to remember and the dead will live a little longer.” Numa lifted her chin and took a breath, the flames reflecting in her eyes as she watched. “So. We should exchange stories. You give me a piece of your Waxer to carry, and I will give you a piece of my parents. Then we will help each other to remember.” She looked over at Boil and raised her eyebrows expectantly.
He looked away, blinking back at the dying fire. Boil took one slow breath, then another. Then: “Waxer had… a terrible sweet tooth. And the rations we got were anything but sweet, so whenever we had a chance to go down to a planet or trade with someone Waxer was always angling for sweets…” he trailed off. The fire was starting to go out again, so Boil leaned over and tossed on another log from the pile. He grabbed a nearby stick and poked at it, encouraging the flame. “This one time we docked at one of the Republic command space stations above Carida,” he continued as he coaxed the fire back to life. “Waxer brought all the moonshine he could find to barter with the 327th. He eventually managed to trade for some chocolate thing someone had picked up on their last visit dirtside; none of us could read the packaging but the other brother swore it was chocolate, he had eaten some at the vendor’s stall before buying them.”
Boil’s eyes darted over to Numa, but she was watching the fire too. He relaxed a little, let the stick fall to his side and resumed fiddling with the tooka doll’s ears. “So we get back to our ship and Waxer tears open this package and is really savoring this chocolate stuff. He said it was filled with something crunchy, nuts maybe; he offered me some but I’ve never been much for sweet things.”
Boil smiled wryly to himself. Waxer was sweet enough for him, he used to whisper in their bunk, just the two of them in the dark. That piece he would keep, though. Just for them.
He continued out loud: “So after Waxer had eaten about half of the bag, one of our bunkmates comes in, Backchat. He worked up on the bridge, in communications. Spoke a lot of languages. Backchat takes one look at the writing on Waxer’s bag of chocolates and makes this awful face, like he was going to puke.”
Numa looked over at him. “Why?” she asked, a little intrigued.
Boil chuckled. “Backchat backs up a little, and then he says to Waxer, ‘You know you’re eating chocolate-covered Vagadarrian mudbugs, right?’”
Numa made a horrified face. Boil laughed outright, louder than he meant to. “Yeah,” he said, gesturing at her. “That’s exactly what Backchat looked like.” He shook his head fondly. “Waxer turned absolutely green and dumped the rest of the bag in the incinerator. He couldn’t eat chocolate again for months.” He looked down at the doll and ran his thumb over one of the eyes. “I had to buy him some fancy stuff on Coruscant just to get him to try it again, guaranteed not to contain any bugs.”
When he looked up, Numa was smiling. “I liked that story,” she told him. “Would you like one of mine?”
Boil took a deep breath. He felt—lighter. Remembering Waxer always hurt a little, but telling that story had felt… different. Maybe Numa really had taken up a piece for herself. “I would like that,” he told her. He shifted, turning to angle his body toward her.
They exchanged stories, back and forth, for a long time. Funny ones, and sad ones, and some that were just a way to tell you the shape of someone. Who they were in the quiet moments. The way Numa’s mother used to sing to herself in the kitchen, or the way Waxer always checked Boil over when they got back after a campaign. Pieces to share.
Eventually, the sky began to lighten above them, the stars fading a little as Ryloth’s weak yellow sun began to rise somewhere beyond the canyon walls. Boil looked up and grimaced. “I’ve kept you up too late,” he said regretfully. “We should both find our bunks and get some shuteye while we can.” He offered Numa a little smile. “I’m sure you have duties to attend to here, and I’ve got a long trip ahead of me.”
“Back to Nabat?” Numa asked with a yawn.
“Yes,” Boil nodded, “and after that…” he trailed off. Ryloth had been his only destination since he left his posting on Vaklin. One last mission.
What came after the last mission?
“After that?” Numa prompted, leaning forward a little.
“I’m… not sure,” Boil replied hesitantly. “I don’t really have a plan. It’s not a good idea for me to show my face on a lot of planets these days.” He twisted his fingers together in his lap. “I’ll probably head further Rimward, try to find work somewhere out of the way.”
“What about your brothers?” she asked curiously.
Boil shrugged. “Not a lot of us left anymore. I haven't seen one in more than a year. I’ve heard rumors here and there about clones holed up somewhere, but nothing worth chasing.” His mouth twisted wryly. “We’re a dying breed, I guess. Nearly extinct.” He sighed bitterly. “Maybe they’ll start stuffing us and putting us in museums.”
Numa frowned at him, her brow furrowed. “Well… it might not be so safe, but… why don’t you stay here?”
“Here?”
She nodded. “Yes, we are always looking for strong fighters. I am sure you could help. I—” she looked down and shrugged. “Gobi doesn’t want me to fight, he says I am not old enough yet.” Numa looked up. “But you could, and maybe you could help me learn.”
Boil furrowed his brow, thinking. “I have some tactical training, that’s true, but I’m not sure…”
“You could—” Numa cut in hesitantly. “You could help us free Ryloth again.”
He chuckled. “I didn’t do it alone last time, you know. I don’t exactly have a battalion at my back now.”
Numa shook her head. “Everyone can do their part. Even one of us can make the difference.” She bit her lip. “And anyway, I still need to learn to shoot a blaster. Gobi says the clones were some of the best, when he worked with them. So at least you could stay and help me with that?” she asked tentatively. “Then decide what to do.”
Boil stared at her, indignant. “You can’t even shoot a blaster?” he asked incredulously.
“Well, I can,” Numa hedged, “but I’m not very good and no one will teach me properly until I’m sixteen. I’ve been sneaking off to practice but I don’t think I’m getting any better.”
Boil shook his head, annoyed. “That’s just unacceptable. You may not be old enough to be a fighter, but you should at least be able to defend yourself.” He stood up from his crate and stretched. He looked over Numa’s simple, civilian outfit as she rose as well. “And you should really get some armor,” Boil told her.
Numa gave him a skeptical look. “You’re barely wearing any,” she replied, pointing at the single arm left of his Phase 2 kit.
Boil tapped his vambrace with two fingers. “This is quality stuff, they don’t make it like this anymore. And it’s still better than nothing.” He picked up his pack from the ground and kicked some dirt over the remains of their fire. “I’ll talk to Gobi after I get some sleep,” he said. “Maybe I can stay for a few days, help train you and some of the other recruits.” He pointed a finger at Numa. “But I’m not making any promises about sticking around.”
She smiled back at him, bouncing on the balls of her feet and nodding rapidly. “Yes! Thank you. It will be good to have you stay.”
“Temporarily,” Boil corrected her.
“Temporarily,” Numa agreed easily. She glanced down at the doll Boil still held in his hand and stilled. “Thank you for coming,” she said quietly. “I still think you should keep that, but it was nice of you to worry so much about me.”
Boil shrugged self-consciously. “You were a scared little kid. Waxer… Waxer had a big heart.”
Numa smiled at him. “Not just Waxer,” she said. She started heading toward the other side of the camp. “See you later,” she called over her shoulder.
Boil gave her a little half-wave before he turned and wandered into the maze of tents. After a couple of false starts he found the one Gobi had set aside for him, a little pup tent that barely had room for the low cot squeezed inside it. Quickly and quietly Boil stripped off his armor and his outerwear, tucked his boots under the bed, and climbed in. He was bone-tired from the long day and the even longer night, but he felt lighter than he had in years.
He turned on his side and pulled the tooka doll up to his face. It had only changed a little since the day Waxer bought it; it was a little faded and worn out, yes, but the stitching was still sound. Slowly Boil leaned forward and brought the toy to his face. He planted a little kiss on its forehead and then tucked it against his chest, wrapping his arms around it.
It must be nice, having a little friend you can carry around.
Boil smiled to himself and took a short, shaky breath.
“Thank you for the friend, love,” he whispered, alone in the dark.
But never completely alone.