Chapter Text
It starts with tiredness. That’s probably why Fox doesn’t actually notice it when it starts—he’s the head of the Corrie Guard, and seeing as that position somehow turned into being responsible for not only the Senate’s security, but also Coruscant Proper’s Judicial and Emergency Response branches, as well as for Personnel Management (because of hut’uun’lacowardly; insult, uppity senators, yes, it now qualifies as entire job all on its own) he’s never not tired. Just managing Judicial alone takes three Commanders—of which Fox has a total of four, including himself. Four Commanders to do the several jobs that they should, in total, have at least ten Commanders for (but since when has the Republic ever cared about making their lives easier?). They’re all run ragged, only managing to function through their chronic sleep-deprivation with stims and out of sheer spite (Stone), stubbornness (Thire), chaotic energy (Thorn; somehow, it works), or via unholy amounts of caff (Fox).
(At least, caff is what Fox cites as his fuel, and considering that an uncaffeinated Commander Fox is someone that only Commander Thorn and the Corries’ CMO, Tracker, interact with without fear of getting their heads bitten off, everyone believes it. Fox himself simply doesn’t let himself think about the fact that the caff is more for his stress-headaches than anything else until he hits the sixty-hour mark, the same way he doesn’t think about the rest of it—)
Thorn, Thire, and Stone are excellent Commanders, but thanks to the fussiness of the Senate—most of whose Senators are outmatched in maturity by toddlers—nearly half of the combined work has to be completed by Fox (or under his immediate direction) and Fox alone, as he is the Highest Ranking Officer and it is His Job to Handle Things (something that Fox hears much too frequently, and that he mockingly repeats under his breath more often than he’ll ever admit). His vod’esiblings; also used to refer to the clones as a whole are aware of this, and they don’t like it, but Fox isn’t going to let them stop him from doing what needs to get done.
(He has to protect his vod’e, no matter the personal cost.)
And if they don’t actually know quite how much Fox has to do, or that Fox gets half as much sleep as they think he does—which is already ‘hours less than the rest of them’—well, he’s not in a hurry to correct that.
So, when Fox starts waking up from his rare hours of sleep feeling like he hasn’t slept at all, he doesn’t think much about it. “Tired to the bones” has been a phrase since long before he came along, and as unnaturally far as he inadvisably but continuously pushes himself, he is well aware that he is still mortal. As long as he can finish what needs to get done, personal discomfort doesn’t matter.
(He doesn’t notice how that sixty-hour window before he actually needs caff to keep running starts shrinking.)
He does, however, notice when holes start appearing in his memory.
It doesn’t—it doesn’t feel like he’s losing time, is the thing. There’s no blacking out in one spot and waking up in another, or going from one place to the next in between heartbeats. His day feels normal, routine, events smoothly progressing from one to the next—and then Thire will reference something that Fox did earlier that afternoon, and Fox abruptly realizes that he has no idea what he’s talking about. Or Fox will return to his office and realize that he has no idea where he just came to his office from. He’ll find reports that he doesn’t remember writing, detailing events that happened in the spaces of his mind where hours are left blank.
(One time, Fox blinks and finds himself cleaning a disturbing amount of blood off of his armor. He freezes—he doesn’t panic, because his brain tells him that it knows how he got here, that it’s logical that he’s doing this, that time has passed, but he can’t remember where the blood came from—)
The holes get worse as time goes on—larger, more frequent. They’d happened once a week at the very most, at the beginning, and the first two or three times Fox had been able to chalk it up to the fact that he hadn’t slept in nearly eighty hours. They’d been things that he never really paid intense attention to, anyways—meetings that the Chancellor had that he was required to stand guard for, that sort of thing. Not being able to remember anything about the meeting at all had been a bit unusual, but not entirely unexplainable. But once a week turned into twice a week turned into every other day, and lost meetings turned into lost missions, afternoons, and a few times days.
Fox can’t explain it. He’s too scared to try to find an explanation, because something like this will almost certainly get him decommissioned.
(He doesn’t think about how he sometimes comes back to himself having to fight back nausea, because it feels like freezing oil is clinging to his skin, to his lungs, to his mind, and his mouth tastes like bile and ash.)
The work is getting done. That’s all that matters, and that’s what he’s immensely grateful for—that somehow, he manages to finish the appropriate paperwork, pass on the relevant reports on what happens during those holes before he forgets. Yes, sometimes he has to scramble for a few minutes to figure out what he’s supposed to be doing, or has to backread reports in his bucket to figure out what the kriff his vod’e are talking about, but the work is getting done. He’s doing his job; he’s keeping his vod’e as safe as he can.
It’s taking a toll on him, though. He doesn’t want to admit it, avoids Tracker and the rest of the Medics like his life depends on it (which it might—they can’t find out—), does his best to ignore the discomfort and the pain and keeps on pushing through. But the stress-headaches that used to assault him on his worst days are a constant presence, now, spiking into full-on migraines after missions that are left as holes in his mind (the first migraine he had was spent curled in a ball under his desk, fighting back whimpers, his hands gripping his arms so tightly that he bled through his blacks). His energy’s dropped—he always needs caff to function, now, and his brain doesn’t process why, because he could last sixty hours without it before—and his stamina’s dropped with it. He practically collapses when he gets the chance to sleep, but when his chrono goes off, he still feels like he hasn’t slept at all.
Fox can feel his body starting to break down, but he ignores it (there’s not another option), hides it from his vod’e. He shortens his interactions with them and stops taking off his bucket around them, eating his infrequent meals and drinking his caff in his office.
(It’s due to this that Fox doesn’t realize that he’s going gray, not until one morning when he’s slightly more aware than normal and glances up at himself in the ‘fresher mirror to discover twin streaks of silver on either side of his face, just above his ears, and threads of silver mixed in with the dark curls that hang over his forehead. He stares for long enough that the water shuts off on its own, and it’s only thanks to his previous skimming of the chat he has with his batchmates—the chat that he hasn’t had time to reply to in months—that he understands where the new color comes from.)
(He’s the equivalent of twenty-five standard years old, and the war has been going on for barely two years.)
Fox can feel his vod’e’s worry (which isn’t good—he’d learned to block all of that out on Kamino, had managed to keep himself separate from the world without a thought through Geonosis. Why can’t he block them out now?) and he ignores it, brushes any fussing off, uses sharp tones and sharper words to get them to leave him alone.
(They want him to rest, to take a break, or even just to catch up on sleep—but he can’t. He has to do the work, has to keep going, because if he stops—)
(If he stops, he won’t be able to start again. And he is not willing to condemn his vod’e that way.)
(They have no idea how much he does to keep them safe.)
At least, his vod’e in the Corrie Guard worry. His other vod’e . . . not so much.
It’s not—it’s not entirely their fault. They don’t know. His batchmates don’t know how much time, how much work, how much stress, how much pain goes into keeping the Corrie Guard safe. They may not be dying on battlefields, but they’re still dying in streets and alleyways and at politicians’ commands, and on top of that, they’re being abused. The Corrie Guard doesn’t have a Jedi to protect them, but even if they did, they wouldn’t be able to put a stop to the verbal abuse from civvies and politicians alike, to the beatings, to the sexual assaults.
(Thire is the one who’s taken the responsibility to teach the shinies how best to protect themselves from those in power who are . . . too interested.)
(It doesn’t do much. They’re objects, not people. They’re not actually allowed to say no.)
(It’s the fines, raised as high as Fox can get them, for damaging government property and sent to the respective offices that actually keep most of those from happening—the price is just enough to sting.)
(Each instance takes over five hours of paperwork, thanks to the specificity of the legalese technicalities that Fox has to use, but it’s worth it.)
(They still happen. But they happen much less often.)
There is so little space on Coruscant where Fox’s vod’e are safe. Their barracks is the primary area—their tiny barracks, where squads sleep in dog piles more often than bunks because they have three times more vod’e in the Corrie Guard than they have bunks total. The bunks are reserved for the injured, the recovering, the absolutely exhausted.
(The bunks are almost always filled.)
79’s is the second largest place on Coruscant where troopers are safe, but the Corries are less safe, because the vod’e from the other battalions don’t understand.
(Around eight months into the war, Fox had had to hold Stone back after a shiny, who’d recently been subjected to the attentions of a hut’uun’lacowardly; insult Senator, came back from 79’s crying because some shabuir’emotherkriffers from one of the frontline battalions had heckled them about having the ‘nice, cushy station.’)
(If Fox had been slightly more sleep deprived he might have joined Stone instead of holding him back.)
Past those two places, there are only itty bitty places dotted here and there where the vod’e can relax. The offices and apartments of the few Senators they can trust have been offered to them as sanctuaries—Senators Chuchi, Amidala, Organa, and Mothma the primary ones. The Corries have used them on occasion to hide vod’e being hunted by other Senators, or to get out of sight for a few minutes so they can regain control of their breathing or dry their tears. They have to be careful, though—there are always times when there are people in those areas who would not be pleased to see a stray vod, because as kind as the Senators are, they are still politicians, and they have to work.
The last places where Corries can go and relax are rare, but not too hard to find if you know where to look—small businesses that don’t discriminate against and sometimes even have policies protecting the vod’e, either because the vod’e are good business, the owners are actually kind people who are grateful for the vod’e’s service, or both.
(Over half of those places are fronts to . . . less savory operations, but if they hold to a certain standard—basically, as long as slavery or treason isn’t involved—the vod’e look the other way. Dex’s Diner is a primary example.)
But that’s it. The too-small barracks, the gamble of Senator’s properties and 79’s, tiny businesses specked here and there. Everywhere else, Fox’s vod’e are in danger.
And Fox’s batchmates don’t understand.
(“What’s wrong, vod?” Cody smirks over the holocall as Fox yawns. “Tired?”
“It’s the middle of my sleep-shift, vod,” Fox grumbles back. “Be glad that I’m on this at all.”
“What, you need your precious beauty sleep?” Bly snarks. “The cushy Corrie posting too hard on ya?”
It’s meant teasingly, but they’ve passed the one-year-mark of the war and Fox’s memory has started developing holes, and he’s sacrificing the first sleep he’s gotten in almost five days to talk to his batchmates—he does not have the patience to go through this again.
“Shut up,” Fox snarls.
His batchmates all rear back a little.
“Take it easy, vod—” Wolffe starts.
“The Corrie posting isn’t easy,” Fox growls, knuckles paling where his hand grips his blanket.
Wolffe’s expression goes cold. “I’m sorry, which of us has lost their entire fleet in this war?”
Fox feels a pang of guilt—that’s not what he meant, but—
“So don’t you think that you can compare your nice little posting where you sit in an office all day pushing papers or stop a nice little assassin or two from killing some helpless Senator to what we do.” Wolffe ends by leaving the call, and Fox is left reeling, staring dumbly at where his face had been.
He’s just about regained vocal function when Rex mutters, “He has a point, ori’vod.”
With that, Fox sees red. He disconnects from the call, and were he a more impulsive person, he’d have hurled his comm across the room. He’s not an impulsive person, though, so he just sits there, hands fisted so tight—one around part of his blanket, one around the comm—that he can’t feel them.
He hasn’t joined one of their calls since then.)
(At first, he was too upset. Later on, he couldn’t afford the time.)
Things get worse. Fox hadn’t thought that things could get too much worse, two and a half years in and with half his memories missing and his body breaking apart, but they do.
Something happens to his soul.
He doesn’t know what. He doesn’t know how. All he knows is that it hurts, that everything that he’d built in his mind to separate his soul from the rest of the world has been torn apart, and now it feels like his soul has been torn into a thousand pieces that aren’t anchored inside his body, and somehow it’s even more agonizing than the fact that his body feels likes it’s been flayed and left for dead.
Curled up in his bunk, the pain slowly dulls. It doesn’t leave—his very being has been torn apart, been left exposed, and that’s not something that just stops hurting. Fox isn’t something that just stops hurting.
He doesn’t remember what it’s like to not hurt.
And that’s why when Thorn comes to check on him—because Fox is twenty minutes late for his shift, which has happened exactly never—Fox forces himself to his feet, forces himself to the door, forces himself not to sway (even though Thorn’s anxiety and worry slams into him like a dozen blaster bolts, making his stomach twist and his throat catch on the need to scream—).
Fox opens the door before the panel even chimes, glaring at his vod. (He refuses to let his hands shake, which is why they’re gripping the doorframe above and to either side of him. He ignores the way the barracks are assaulting him with information from every side, his vod’e’s emotions painful to his soul like salted citrus juice on gashed skin.)
Thorn has gone pale. “Vod . . .”
“I know I’m late,” Fox snaps. “Things happen. I’ll be out in a minute.”
Thorn startles, shaking his head a little. “Wh—Fox, you look like osik.”
Fox doesn’t have the energy or the focus to respond to that, but thankfully he’s saved by Thorn’s comm chiming.
Without looking away from Fox, Thorn raises his wrist and answers, audio-only. “Commander Thorn.”
“Uh, Commander?”
Unnatural dread curls through Fox’s stomach, and it burns. Fox grits his teeth against the additional assault, but a much-ranted-about-line from the group chat curls through his mind unhindered.
I have a bad feeling about this.
“What is it?” Thorn snaps, irritation flaring. Fox suppresses a flinch as the emotion slams into him—hot and sparking, leaving behind an invisible burn.
Honestly, Fox is a little bit surprised that he can tell that particular pain apart. He’s in agony—he swears his bones are screaming.
Kriff. He can not be getting delirious.
The vod’ika on the comm is quiet for another moment before they blurt, “A vod just tried to assassinate the Chancellor.”
. . . What.
Thorn’s shock is mirrored by Fox’s own as they both stare at the comm, and somehow, that makes it hurt less. Or maybe Fox is just hurting too much to tell.
Thorn’s mouth opens and closes a few times before he finally manages to get out, “A Corrie?”
“No. An, uh, CT-27-5555?”
Kark. Fox knows that number. “Fives.”
Thorn glances up at him, questioning.
The dread in Fox’s gut gets stronger, and he bites back a hiss. “He’s one of Rex’s.”
Thorn swears under his breath. Fox can feel Thorn’s emotions rearranging themselves, certain thoughts being shoved aside—it’s nauseating, but Fox doesn’t let his expression change.
At this rate, Fox is going to end up puking before the call’s even over.
“You’ve got him in custody?” Thorn asks.
Fox can practically hear the vod’ika’s wince. “No sir. He escaped.”
Fox and Thorn swear in tandem, this time.
“Why didn’t you lead with that?” Thorn barks as Fox bolts back into his room, staggering as pain tears through him.
“Kriff,” he hisses. It hurts, it all really karking hurts but he’s been ignoring it so far, so he’ll keep doing so.
“K’atiniIt’s only pain; similar in intent as ‘suck it up’,” he growls at himself when the room starts spinning. He winces, shaking his head, and it feels like his soul’s getting pulled out of his body, pieces getting dragged in every direction—
“Will you pick a type of pain and stay like that?” Fox snarls, jamming pieces of armor on.
“Fox, what the kriff do you think you’re doing?”
Fox hasn’t forgotten that Thorn is there—how could he, when his emotions are stabbing into Fox’s exposed soul—but he startles anyways, almost dropping his pauldron.
“What do you think I’m doing?” Fox snaps back.
“Being a jare’la di’kutreckless idiot—Fox, you should be in the Medwing!” Thorn nearly shouts. He’s radiating distress, which Fox very much does not like for multiple reasons, but unfortunately there’s not anything Fox can do about it.
Well, will do about it.
“I’m fine.”
“Like kriff you are—”
Fox jams his bucket on, kit-up complete. It does absolutely nothing to help with the emotional assault that’s tearing him apart. “Thorn, my vod’ikababy sibling; sometimes denotes a closer relationship’s vod’ika just tried to assassinate the kriffing Chancellor. I am going to be involved in this no matter what you do.”
Thorn has reared back like he’s been punched, surprise and hurt pulsing, and Fox shoves past him and into the hallway before he can recover.
Chasing Fives through Coruscant is . . . saying interesting would be an incomprehensible understatement. As would saying painful. Every being Fox passes is another dagger, another jagged gash in his soul, and this is Coruscant so there is a karking lot. By the time they’re tracing Fives out of 79’s, Fox’s head is pounding with the force of Vernator, his vision keeps winking out, his blood is on fire, he’s not entirely sure if he’s breathing (he has to be, to still be moving, right?), and he definitely would not be able to tell up from down if gravity wasn’t present. All of that pales in comparison to the way his soul is screaming, though—at this point, he legitimately cannot tell where he ends and his surroundings begin, and all he knows is pain. It takes every scrap of his will to remember what he’s doing, much left to keep moving.
(Did he fall over? He might’ve fallen over a few times, but he can’t remember.)
Then he’s leading his squad into a warehouse. There’s a supernova of emotion inside that Fox automatically wants to shy away from, as well as two smaller sets of emotions, but he can’t put together what that means.
Fox crouches as he reaches the edge of the crates, squinting. The world’s swimming in his vision and everything burns and—
And something’s wrong.
He doesn’t know what it is, but something’s wrong.
“Sir?” a vod’ika asks through the comms.
Fox is so tired. He’s tired, and he’s hurting, and his soul is screaming and he just wants it all to end—
But he has to move.
Get the work done.
(Something’s wrong.)
(He’s forgetting something.)
Protect his vod’e.
“Move,” he orders.
Then they’re moving, and Fives is shouting, then he grabs a blaster and Fox fires—
Fives doesn’t—Fives doesn’t crumple like he’s supposed to. Oh, he collapses, but he’s not stunned.
(He’d forgotten something.)
Rex is kneeling over Fives, and Fives—Fives is—
Flickering.
There’s a hole in his armor.
(No.)
Everything is still spinning, but Fox’s gaze drops down to his blaster.
(Please, no.)
It’s not set to stun.
(He’d forgotten something.)
But he’d changed it in—in the Chancellor’s office—
(When was he in the Chancellor’s office?)
(Why can’t he remember?)
Fives’ emotions sputter out.
(Fox can’t breathe.)
He’s dead.
Fives is dead.
(I killed Fives.)
(I killed a vod’ika.)
Rex looks up, and there’s tears on his face even as his expression hardens. “You.”
(Fox can’t breathe.)
Rex climbs to his feet. There’s anger radiating off him now. “I thought you cared, you shabuirmotherkriffer—”
“Rex,” General Skywalker says suddenly, surprise and warning drifting off of him.
(I killed a vod’ika.)
The Corries behind Fox shift a little—most of them are shinies (why are they all shinies?), and they’re still recovering from their shock.
Rex steps forward, rage in his posture, his expression, and pulsing out of him—
It slams into Fox the same way that every other emotion has, tearing agonizingly at the pieces of his soul, but this time Fox can’t find the will to keep pushing. He staggers, falling to one knee, and the world spins.
(I killed a vod’ika.)
(Fox can’t breathe.)
Rex’s face twists in surprise. “What—”
One of the Corries drops down next to Fox, and the klak of his armor against the durasteel ground sends knives of fire through Fox’s head. “Sir?”
(I killed a vod’ika.)
And everything goes dark.