Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

He killed them.

Waxer stares down at his hands, and they’re still shaking, still bloody. He should stop checking, really, because it’s not going to change, and he knows this. He needs something to look at, though, and if it’s not his hands it’s the dead brother in front of him. Which really isn’t better. If he wanted to he could close his eyes, but Waxer assumes that he won’t wake up again if he does, and he owes it to the others to try and stay as long as he can. 

He should’ve known, Waxer thinks again, he should’ve noticed that something was wrong. He heard them die. He’s pretty sure that he’s responsible for at least four dead brothers, maybe more, four brothers dead by his hands. Maybe it’s only fair that he’s meeting the same fate.

Waxer shivers, lets out a ragged breath. He’s suffocating. He can’t get his breathing under control and he’s shaking with the knowledge that he’s a murderer, that he killed his vode, and–

Boil is so far away. He’s on the other side of the battlefield with Kenobi, and when Waxer got General Krells holo he didn’t even so much as think about calling his closest brother to tell him where he and his men were going. He’d return soon enough, he thought. They’d be fine, he thought. 

They’re not fine. They’re dying. They’re dying and it’s his fault. 

Not—entirely, that is. He knows it was Krell. Still, he can’t not blame himself, because Cody had trusted him and he had lead his men to their deaths.

The other reason why Waxer can’t breathe is that he got blasted in the gut. Whoever shot him truly had the worst aim possible, because he’s too weak to move but the pain isn’t enough to make him fall unconscious. Instead he’s shaking in pain. It’s what he deserves for killing them, he figures. He deserves this slow, painful death. 

Waxer’s not a medic but he knows that there’s no way for no organs to be damaged; he’s not looking down at himself to check, though. It would require moving. It would require looking away from the two points his gaze has been fixated on for what feels like hours. His hands. The trooper. Both lying in front of him, unmoving.

Waxer’s bleeding out and there’s nothing he can do about it, except to wait for the fight to finally end. 

He’s been lying here for maybe minutes, maybe hours—he can’t say, but he got shot somewhere in the beginning of the battle. Not even in the middle. Right after it’s started. Now he lies against a tree stump, still conscious enough to hear a brother yell, “We’re all clones! We’re shooting at our own men!” 

Waxer already knows. At this point, Waxer already knows. As blasterfire stops ringing in his ears Waxer can’t help but feel a rush of relief. It is good that he dies here. 

Waxer loves living, he does. He loves existing in the barracks, loves playing sabacc with his brothers, loves annoying Boil just because he can, but he could never live with this. He knows it would eat him alive. It’s a good thing he won’t have to.

That’s what he tells himself. Waxer tries to push through the dull ache of knowing that this is how he’s dying.

From where he is slumped against a tree he still sees the trooper lying across from him. Blue stripes. Torrent company. Waxer had already been shot when the trooper appeared out of nowhere. Waxer blasted him down without thinking, almost on instinct, and as the trooper fell backwards his bucket loosened slightly, just enough for his chin to appear. Waxer had frozen up, pulled it off entirely and then he’d known. 

The brother had still been alive, had tried to push him off with weak shoves. In hindsight, Waxer supposes that he hadn’t known that Waxer was a brother as well. At the time Waxer had backed off, had tried to tell someone, but the troops had long advanced further, and his voice died down in his throat. The Torrent-trooper stopped breathing after another minute. 

Now Waxer can’t tear his eyes from what he’s done, doesn’t feel like he’s allowed to. He’s been sitting across from the dead trooper the entire rest of the battle.  

It’s pathetic, honestly. This was the first time he’s ever led a platoon and he led them right to their deaths. He should’ve noticed something was up, should’ve notified someone, he should’ve known better. 

Waxer's vision is blurry, and his thoughts go back to Boil, and then–Numa. He gasps in pain, not sure if it’s from the wound or from the fact that he broke his promise. He’ll never come back to Ryloth. There’s no after the war for him because he’s dead. There’s no denying this. He’s dying. I’m sorry, he thinks, and Waxer can only hope that she and Boil will forgive him.

One of his troopers leans over his body, whispers words that Waxer is too tired to make out. It still registers in his mind that the battle’s over. That’s good, at least. It’s good. 

Waxer’s mind is drifting off. It’s funny, he thinks, where his thoughts lead him as he bleeds onto the ground below. 

Most clones don’t really believe in the force, and Waxer knows this. Sure, they work with the Jedi and they see what they can do with the force, but they don’t understand it, don’t actually believe everything their generals are telling them. 

Waxer found comfort in believing in it. Obviously he didn’t tell his vode, they would’ve laughed at him, clapped him on the back and said, “of course you believe in force- osik, Waxer.” Waxer, with the heart to big for his chest, would obviously believe in that banthashit. 

But the things Kenobi told them about the force, they were–nice. They made him feel less afraid.

Waxer has never been this afraid. 

He grits his teeth, closes his eyes shut and somewhere, he hears his name being called. He can’t make out the words and despite all reason he still hopes it’s Boil calling him. It would be nice, Waxer thinks, to die in his best friends arms. It’d be nice to be held while he dies. He would prefer it being Boil, because he’s his best friend and he trusts him more than he trusts anyone else. 

When he sees the Captain he’s almost disappointed. Not disappointed, because Rex is still a brother and a friend, but something close to it. It’s selfish, Waxer knows. Most brothers get deaths far worse than this.

“Waxer,” Rex says, and that’s when Waxer really knows he won’t make it out of here, and maybe that hurts the most. Rex has already given up on him. He’s talking like he’s speaking to someone dying, all soft and gentle, in a way that Waxer knows is unusual for him, because by all means, Rex should be furious. And yet the Captain tries to pull himself together.

Waxer wants to hate it, but he doesn’t. It’s nice to be talked to like that. He just wishes it wouldn’t be because he won’t live to see the next day.

Rex stops in front of Waxer, leans down and grasps the sides of his bucket, carefully pulling it off. Waxer isn’t sure he deserves such gentleness after he’s done, but he still leans into the touch. He’s dying. Who cares?

Rex puts his bucket aside and places a hand on Waxer's shoulder, and it’s not quite the same as being held–but, it will do. It’s better than what most of his brothers got, Waxer tells himself again, and he should he grateful.

“Tell me who gave you the orders to attack us,” Rex says. His hand on Waxer’s shoulder squeezes.

Waxer tries to stop his vision from slipping away, gasps when he shifts and the pain in his stomach explodes again. He’s missing the air to talk. “It–“ he starts, takes a breath as deep as he can even if it makes his lungs feel as if they’re going to collapse. Then he tries again. “It was—General Krell.” 

It burns. Waxer coughs, his lungs protesting against the breath he just took, and he’s in so much pain that he almost wishes the ever growing dark would just claim him right away. 

But Waxer’s better than this; He won’t die without finishing his job, first. It’s the least he can do. He got his duty and Captain Rex needs to know that it was Krell. He knows it was Krell, but It’s still his fault, too. 

He forces himself to lift his head, looks the Captain in the eyes. Rex isn’t crying. There are no tears on his face; Still, his eyes–

Waxer sees his own reflection in them. He looks away.

“He—sent us to these coordinates to stop the enemy. We thought they were wearing our armor, but It was–“ 

He’s fading, can’t hold onto himself longer. Rex’s firm grip on his shoulder is the only thing keeping him here, a steady reminder that someone forgives him, that he isn’t completely alone. 

Still. He wishes Boil was here. He wishes he could’ve seen Numa again before he had to go. He didn’t think it would be so soon. 

Waxer has never cried before, not once. It isn’t him. He was always trying to be somewhat optimistic, and even when they lost all of their other batchmates in an accident back on Kamino he had hugged Boil close and let him cry into his neck. 

He’s not sure if the single tear that escapes him counts as crying, but it’s the closest he’ll ever get.

“–you,” he chokes out, and his head rolls onto his side as he lets himself slip away, and he’s falling, falling, falling—

And then Waxer meets the ground. Hard. 

All air leaves his lungs, and he yelps in pain, his eyes squeezed shut. He can’t breathe, gasps, and his back aches from the impact. The floor beneath is stone cold. Waxer opens his eyes, stares at the ceiling. 

He blinks, closes his eyes again and tries to organize his thoughts. His back throbs in pain. Just to be sure, he lifts his hand and pinches his nose. He feels the touch. 

The last thing he remembers is hurting, letting go of the threat he’s been holding onto, and then there was darkness and something else that Waxer can’t remember. He takes a deep breath, tries to calm down his heartbeat and control the growing tightness in his throat.

Waxer opens his eyes, and the first thing he’s sure of is that he’s not in medbay, which, weird. He had been shot in the gut. He had bled out. That would mean weeks in bacta, and yet, he’s in his blacks in the regular–

“Waxer?” comes a voice from next to him, stopping his thought process. 

Waxer jerks his head and stares up into a face just like his own. Boil’s features are drenched with concern as he pushes himself off his bunk, leans over where Waxer lies on the floor and frowns. “Are you—okay? Did you fall out of your bunk?”

Considering Waxer doesn’t cry he sure feels a lot like bawling his eyes out right then and there. He didn’t think he’d see Boil again. He didn’t think he’d see anyone ever again, for that matter, and yet his best friend is there, real. 

“Boil,” he whispers, tries to get up and stops, groaning as his back protests. 

“Udesii, Vod,” Boil says, and then he grasps one of Waxers hands to pull him up. Waxer lets him. At least until they’re standing; As soon as there’s ground beneath his feet Waxer slings his arms around Boil and pulls him into a tight hug. Boil makes a surprised noise but Waxer doesn’t let go. He’s real. It’s not a dream. He’s here, and he’s real, and they’re alive. 

“Boil,” he repeats, because he’s not sure what else to say. What else can he say? He thought he was dead. He was so sure of it. Maybe Boil thought he was dead.

The brothers I’ve killed are definitely dead, Waxer thinks. Recoils. Slowly, he remembers just what happened, and the memory of the things he’s done is back—the feeling of his blood on his hands, the feeling of their blood on his hands, the trooper across who flinched away from his touch, the cries of pain every brother made when Waxer aimed at their chests and pressed the trigger—

He’s shaking again. 

This isn’t right.

Waxer’s always known that clones don’t live long, happy lifes, and returning to Numa has always been just wishful thinking, and dying on the battlefield, a brother holding him as he went–that would’ve been one of the better ways to go. Better than being cut in half or eaten or shot by your own brother. 

And yet, they wanted him to live with this.

“Hey, stop that,” Boil says, and he sounds equally confused and worried. Worry Waxer gets, because for all his pretending not to care Boil is very much protective of his close ones. Especially if it’s Waxer. Waxer knows that; It has been just them for such a long time that of course they still fall back into that old pattern. There was no one else back on Kamino. During a training session when they were seven all their batchmates had died in an accident. Twenty-seven and Stars had died before help even arrived. Boil and Waxer watched them pass. 

But–Singer had been the worst one, because he survived the explosion. “I can’t feel my legs,” he told Waxer while they were waiting, tears streaming down his cheeks. You’re not supposed to cry. Clones shouldn’t cry.  

“I can’t move. I'm as good as dead.”

“I’m not letting you die,” Boil had grit out, in that harsh voice of his. “I won’t let another one die.”

The Longnecks took Singer away, and they never saw him again. Waxer feels a pang of guilt–he must’ve scared his brother. Boil doesn’t deserve losing him, too. 

But frankly, he doesn’t understand why Boil would be confused. It should be obvious that Waxer can’t just move on like this.

Boil is hugging him back now, hands hesitantly wrapping around his back, and Waxer buries his face in his brother's neck, tries to breathe. It’s still hard. Waxer really doesn’t want to cry.

The other brothers in the barracks are still asleep, only one of the shinies glares at them for a second before he closes his eyes again. Brothers comforting each other after bad dreams isn’t uncommon. Of course they would assume that’s what this is. 

Waxer’s mind feels sluggish.

“You okay?” Boil asks, and despite himself Waxer chuckles, though it’s not happy. “I killed them,” he answers instead, voice quiet enough so that only Boil would hear. Waxer shivers. “I’m so sorry.”

Sorry won’t fix anything. Sorry won’t bring them back. Sorry won’t make him feel less like a traitor, won’t make the blood disappear from his hands. It’s not my fault, a tiny voice thinks, and he knows that it was Krell, but—

He’d been the one to pull the trigger. 

Boil grasps the back of his head. He always does that. He used to brush through Waxer’s curls when they hugged as cadets, and the habit stuck even when Waxer shaved his head. “It was just a dream, Waxer,” Boil says. “You didn’t kill anyone just now. We’re good.“

Waxer shakes his head sharply, hastily blinks away the tears threatening to break out. Did they not tell the others? Does Boil not even know what they’ve done? 

“I’m not talking about a dream, Boil, I’m talking about Umbara. We killed— I killed them, and I was so sure—I thought I’d die. I was so sure of it.” 

It felt so real.

Boil holds Waxer close for another second before he peels his brother off of him, holds him at arm’s length and squints his eyes. He seems to be looking for something in Waxer’s gaze, and Waxer isn’t sure if he finds it. “Okay, you’re making no sense, but if you’re worried about Umbara, hey, so am I. There’s no use in breaking your head open about it, though. You can do that tomorrow, when we’re arriving. You really should get some sleep while you can.”

It takes a few seconds for the words to register in Waxer’s brain, but when they do he goes still, staring at his brother. He must’ve misheard. 

“Say that again?” he asks. 

Boil sighs. “You should get some sleep.”

“No, the–the other part?”

“Which part? That we’re arriving tomorrow?” Boil asks, his brows furrowed. “We’ve known this for a while, Waxer. This is the first time we’ll actually be leading platoons, you better not have forgotten.”

Waxer’s breathing hitches.

That doesn’t make any sense. That’s impossible. 

He swallows. “You mean—we haven’t been to Umbara yet?”

“Well, I certainly haven’t. It’s supposed to be unsettling, I’m not too excited for it.”

Boil’s not the kind of person to make jokes like this, which is why Waxer can’t help but gape at him. 

“That’s not funny,” Waxer says. “You— You can’t joke about something like this.”

Boil’s grin disappears. “I wasn’t—That wasn’t a joke. It’s just the truth,” he adds, leaning over to meet Waxer’s eyes. He looks utterly confused. 

Waxer’s head is spinning. 

“That’s not true,” he says, and it feels like he’s repeating himself. He shakes his head sharply. “That’s not true, I know we were on Umbara. It was a bloodbath. I almost died. I bled out against a tree, or a plant, or whatever it is that grows there—I know what happened.”

“Hey, calm down,” Boil says, but it doesn’t help at all. Waxer can’t breathe. 

“I lead a platoon to their deaths, I failed, and I got caught in blasterfire. I bled out, and I thought I was dying, I thought I’d never see you again, and that was real. Don’t try to tell me it didn’t happen. I know it did.”

“Waxer, hey, look at me,” Boil snaps, and Waxer stops rambling. Boil grabs the sides of his head, tried to hold him still, but Waxer is shaking, shaking, shaking. “Waxer, It was a nightmare. We haven’t been to Umbara yet. You didn’t kill anyone and you’re not dying, either. We’re fine. See?”

He lifts his hand and flicks Waxer’s nose. 

It can’t have been a dream. Waxer’s not dumb. But—Boil wouldn’t lie to him. Normally Waxer can tell when Boil’s lying to him because Boil’s a horrible liar, but right now his voice sounds genuine. 

Maybe it was a dream, a small voice in the back of his head says, but it felt so real. 

“Waxer, say something,” Boil pushes, and Waxer rubs his hands over his eyes. 

“Okay,” he finally says, because he trusts Boil. If he can’t trust himself he can always trust him. Boil nods, still holding him steady, and Waxer’s breath slowly catches itself again. After a minute Boil pulls Waxer towards him again, hugging him close while Waxer tries to calm down, and somehow it works.

“C’mon, let’s go back to sleep, vod,” Boil says once Waxer more or less lies in his arms, nudging him. He carefully lets go of him to crawl back into his bunk, and after a moment of hesitation Waxer joins him instead of climbing up to his own. He’s already managed to fall down despite the reiling once, and he really doesn’t want to fall again. 

It feels a bit like back when they were cadets; After everyone else was gone Boil and Waxer often shared their beds, neither wanting to spend the night alone. Now that they’re troopers it happens less. 

Boil doesn’t protest when Waxer lies down next to him, and there’s an almost annoying humming in Waxer’s ear. “Actually sleep now,” Boil grumbles and softly hits his arm. “If you feel sick or anything tell me before you throw up onto me, ‘kay?”

Waxer can’t help it. A tiny smile creeps onto his face and he hits him back, muttering a quiet, “Shut up.” It’s easy to fall back into old patterns with Boil. Boil isn’t perticulary good at finding the right things to say but with him it’s easy to be completely himself, and maybe that’s what calms Waxer down so much.

Waxer shuts his eyes shut and decides that maybe, maybe it was a dream. He’ll figure it out tomorrow. 

Waxer’s stays at Boil’s side all morning. His mind still feels hazy, confused, and he’s not sure what’s happening around him. Everyone got up at the same time as always and Waxer had avoided talking to anyone at all as they changed into their armor. 

When Waxer thinks about the dream he feels sick to his stomach, so he doesn’t. At least not until they’re sitting in the mess hall for breakfast and Cody sits down next to the two of them, sighing deeply as he puts down his datapad. He doesn’t greet them and that’s how they know he’s not in the mood to be treated like an officer. 

“Wow, don’t you look like a ray of sunshine,” Boil notes and Cody glares at him. 

Waxer’s fingers are trembling. They have been since that morning and haven’t stopped, because—

Everything’s the same as it was in the dream. Waxer’s had this exact conversation already. Boil makes a sarcastic comment, Cody glares at him and Cody is going to say something about that the food tastes bad any second now. 

“This toast tastes even worse than usual,” Cody mutters, poking at the crust. 

Yeah. Just that. 

Waxer’s already lived through this day. 

It makes no sense, and usually when anything weird happens Waxer blames it onto force- osik, but this time he can’t, because Waxer’s not a Jedi, just a lowly clone. Waxer’s either travelled back in time or had some kind of prophetic dream, and neither of those things should be possible. It’s just not possible. That’s why he’s trembling. 

“Waxer?” Cody asks, tearing Waxer away from his thoughts. He perks up. “Hm?”

Cody blinks at him, face blank. “You okay? You’ve been pretty quiet.”

“I’m fine,” Waxer is quick to reassure him, but Cody just gives him an unimpressed glare. Boil lifts an eyebrow. Waxer sighs, taking another bite of the toast. “I just got a bad feeling about all of this.”

“He’s had a nightmare,” Boil adds helpfully. He hasn’t even touched his meal yet. “Something about Umbara. ‘Tried to tell him things will be fine but he doesn’t listen.”

“I’m right here,” Waxer mutters, though he doesn’t meet either of their eyes. The truth is that he’s terrified. He has no idea what’s happening to him. 

Maybe this is all one big hallucination. 

“You’ll do fine, Waxer. The General knew what he was doing when he promoted you. Worrying is nothing to be ashamed of, though I think you’re a good Lieutenant.”

He’s really not. Waxer thought he was at least mediocre at leading his brothers, but his lack of experience and his blindness killed them. Still, he gives Cody a forced smile. “Thanks, Sir.”

He eats his toast in silence. Boil and Cody continue their conversation about the food in the mess hall and it’s the exact same words as it was in Waxer’s dream. 

This feels so very wrong. 

They go over the plan with General Kenobi before battle, and if nothing else convinces him he’s seen this all before, this does. The plan’s the exact same. His wording is the exact same. Kenobi explains where they’ll go with each of their platoons, Boil and Waxer each leading one while Cody takes the rest of the men. Boil asks if Cody alone will be enough help to Kenobi and the General casually answers that he’d trust Cody with his life. Cody goes a little red. Waxer had snickered last time, but this time—

He can’t bring himself to laugh about Cody’s extremely questionable, complicated and repressed feelings, not when the memory of his death still lingers in his mind.  

And there’s another thing. Everything is more. That’s the thing that makes the least sense to Waxer, because it’s as if he can feel people’s emotions when he’s close to them, can feel a brother's anger from across the hall, feel Cody's fondness when he compliments Boil’s inputs. At first he doesn’t even realize, because it doesn’t feel like if Waxer had been the one to feel it. It’s distant. It’s not his, not him. And yet he feels and finds that emotion has sound, smell, taste. Anger leaves a bitter taste on his tongue, like bad food or dirty water. Fondness sounds like a choir of instruments Waxer’s never even heard before. It’s beautiful, in a way.

But it’s also too much. Too much to take in, too much happening. He doesn’t know how this can be, doesn’t know why he’s like this, but he stubbornly closes himself off from the gentle music and bittersweet tastes. It’s not hard, surprisingly. It takes more effort to really sense it in detail than to block it out.

Waxer contemplates saying something as he watches Kenobi explain their plans. Maybe he should ask the General for help. But he doesn’t even know what’s going on himself, couldn’t explain if he tried to, and the General already has lots of things on his mind; He doesn’t need to worry about whatever tricks Waxer's mind is playing on him. 

The briefing goes on for several hours, every little detail planned. It never ends up going exactly like this but it’s always good to have a general structure. 

Waxer writes the main bullet points they come up with down on a datapad. Sometimes he hands it over to Boil to check, tries to keep his hands from trembling, and when everything’s said and done he hands it to Kenobi. 

“Thank you, Waxer,” General Kenobi says, and he stares at him for a moment too long. Furrows his eyebrows. He’s confused, Waxer can tell, but he can’t tell why. Maybe Kenobi, being a Jedi and all that, can tell something’s wrong with him. 

“Everything alright, Sir?” he asks carefully. His heart beats in his throat. 

Kenobi seems startled, as if Waxer has thrown him out of his thoughts. “Yes, yes,” he says, stroking his beard. “And–what about you, Waxer? Are you alright?”

Waxer shifts at the question. “As alright as one can be right before a battle, Sir,” he answers, which isn’t exactly a lie. It’s just not the truth either. 

Kenobi nods, looking thoughtful. But he’s—silent. There’s no noise, no smell, nothing to pick up what is really going on behind those eyes.

“Thank you, Waxer. You’re dismissed.”

Waxer salutes. His heart isn’t slowing down and his vision is disorted, blurry at the edges. 

Boil and Cody have already left to catch midday lunch, probably expecting him to catch up and follow, but instead Waxer stumbles into the fresher, leans over the sink and after a moment of hesitation he splashes water into his face. It runs down his cheeks, and like this it’s not even that obvious that he’s crying.

“I died,” Waxer whispers into the empty room. Waxer has to say it out loud for it to be real, and as soon as he does it’s like a dam breaks. 

Waxer doesn’t cry, not usually, but he thinks having died is a pretty valid excuse to make an exception. He leans further over the sink and tries to slow down his breathing—but It’s not helping. Waxer’s shaking. His heart feels like it’s going to burst any second now, feels too big for his chest, and a sob escapes him. He may not have died on Umbara, but right in that moment he feels as if he’s back there again.

He sucks in a breath, clasps a hand over his mouth and his eyes flicker down to the sink. The water is still running over his hands, though Waxer has the feeling that they’ll never feel clean again, no matter how much he tries to scrub and wash them—the invisible stains remain.

And dream or not, he felt himself die.

No matter how much he’d like to believe it was just a weird, prophetic dream, it has to be real. He knows it. Waxer doesn’t know how it can be, because it shouldn’t be possible, but he died and now he’s back on the Negotiator, about three days before his death. 

Which means he can avoid it. 

The thought pushing itself through the panic building up inside of him makes him halt. He could save them, Waxer realizes between ragged breaths. He could keep his brothers from killing each other and save his own life in the process. If Umbara hasn’t happened yet there’s no blood on his hands. 

Waxer shivers. He has to find out if it’s all the same, first, even on Umbara, because if it’s not he’ll mess up everything. Waxer’s still trembling but he clenches his teeth, balls his hands into fists and looks up at himself in the mirror. 

His reflection looks right back.  

Not dead just yet, Waxer thinks dimly, and repeats it in the back of his mind like a chant.

“All units, prepare for contact. All units, prepare for contact.”

“You weren’t at lunch,” Boil notes as he joins Waxer on his way to the hangar. Waxer has felt him approach before he saw him, like a feeling in the back of his head. Boil doesn’t feel bitter like the trooper across the hall did, but there’s a quiet wirring, humming. Waxer can’t quite place it. “I wasn’t hungry,” he says, shrugging. It’s not a lie. 

Boil huffs and stops him from walking, hands over a ration bar. The humming gets a bit louder. “Here. You can’t go into battle without eating.”

“I did eat,” Waxer says but takes the ration anyway, biting a piece off. The good thing about the ration-bars is that they don’t taste like anything but still give you the needed energy. Which Waxer needs. If there’s one thing he learned is that panic attacks leave you feeling tired, and eating is the best way to restore your energy fast.

Boil rolls his eyes. “Breakfast doesn’t count. We’re going to live off ration-bars for the next few days, I’m surprised you didn’t want to catch your last real meal.”

“The new natborns in charge for making the food can’t cook,” Waxer argues. “It all tastes like osik. I’d rather eat ration-bars.”

“Well, that’s true.”

They go quiet as they resume walking. Normally Waxer would try to make a joke but he can’t think of anything funny to say. 

Boil eyes him. The humming hasn’t stopped. “Still thinking about that dream?”

“Yeah,” Waxer says. There’s no use in lying to Boil, even if it’s only half the truth. 

“Cody and the General will be there the entire time,” Boil says, patting his shoulder as they walk. “You’re still not leading the platoon completely alone. Just listen to what the General says and you’ll be fine.”

Boil moves to put on his helmet, and the humming stops. Waxers stomach turns. “Yeah,” he croaks, puts his helmet over his head and then they’re entering the hangar, where Ghost Company is already lined up, just waiting for the signal to get in the gunships. The other Companys of the 212th must already be off. 

Waxer takes a moment to look over the troops; The youngest Troopers are still shinys, fresh from Kamino. Waxer doesn’t want to know how many of them wouldn’t make it out, Krell or not. They’re already sending the men out too early–these ones are barely nine. They should’ve been cadets for at least another year. 

“Alright men, get into those gunships,” Cody instructs when the pilots are settled in, giving Waxer and Boil hand signals to join him. 

“Boil, your men will be those in those shuttles. I recommend you join them. Waxer, you’re with me for now, we’re going over the plan once again with the Five-oh-first.”

Boil salutes, but before he goes he grabs Waxers arm. “Be careful out there, vod,” he says. Waxer nods. “I’ll try.”

Waxer stays a fair bit behind Cody as the Commander moves to stand in the circle of several clones from Torrent Company as well as Skywalker and the Captain. Kenobi explains the plan with the help of Skywalker's astromech, showing the different parts each battalion will try to take over. 

“—Masters Krell and Tiin will be supporting my troops in the south—“

Waxer perks up, heart sinking into his stomach. He knows Krell’s been down with them, has mentally prepared himself for this, but the name still catches him off-guard.

Waxer tries to keep up with the conversation again, saves the name of the ARC-trooper as Fives and frowns under his helmet at Skywalker's sarcastic but severely unfunny comments. 

Then, they’re taking off.  

The campaign starts just as bloody as it did last time. 

At least two gunships go up in flames before they’ve even reached the ground, panicked screams ringing in Waxer’s ears. 

It doesn’t get better once they’re out. Waxer knew it wouldn’t. 

“Go, go, go!” someone yells as the gunships drop down. Cody and Kenobi sprint to the front of their troops and Waxer waves to get his platoon's attention. “Come on, vode! They got nothing on us!” he shouts, because sometimes in battle you have to lie to lift the men’s spirit. It works, anyway. 

He keeps checking for his troops, concentrates on keeping them alive rather than on killing Umbarans. The 501st got the biggest challenge but they’re still struggling—the Umbarans come in masses and with strange weapons Waxer’s never seen before. 

Well, except that he has, once. 

Waxer helplessly watches as one of his men goes down next to him, yelling in pain, and he shouts at the others to keep moving, keep pushing. 

Waxer is bred for war. He knows what he’s doing, of course he does, and getting most of his men over to cover isn’t an easy task, but he’s managed it last time and he will do it again. For all that Waxer would like to be kind and prides himself in being good with people, he’s still a soldier; he’s a Lieutenant, now. He has a job to do. 

Waxer briefly thinks about just running of to shoot Krell down right here, but—

That’d be like signing his own death. It’s probably selfish, but he wants to live. 

Waxer isn’t sure if he could willingly pull the trigger, anyway. He’s never killed a sentient being before, only clankers. And his own brothers, though maybe that wasn’t in this life. 

They pull through, and the Umbarans are falling back. Kenobi makes sure to give the men rest when they need it. 

Waxer falls back in line and motions for his men to follow him. The whole battalion being here is strange; He hasn’t interacted with any of the other companies and the only Captain he’s known had been Gregor, before he got lost and is now probably marching on. 

Waxer might be a Lieutenant, but there are fourteen others like him who are more experienced at what they do, excluding Boil, so he lets his platoon fall to the back, just like last time. Boil has the same idea. 

Then, Kenobi informs them that Krell has left his battalion to take over the 501st. Waxer’s fingers itch. He desperately hopes that Krell isn’t responsible for any deaths even before his carnage. 

They continue their march. Minutes turn into hours. After half a day worth of walking through the darkness with only a few surprise attacks by animals or other creatures they halt to rest. 

Waxer waits. 

He isn’t sure what he’s waiting for; he does anyway. 

Waxer isn’t an angry man, but it takes all his self-control not to run to General Kenobi and beg him to do something against Krell. What would he even say? Kenobi has no reason to believe him. No, Waxer has to do this alone.

Days pass. The battle goes on forever. The Commander and the General keep to themselves, and Waxer only goes to meet up with them a few times, reporting on how the men are doing. The medics are constantly checking up on them, treating the wounded and muttering words of assurance. A lot of them are from other companies. 

They have to stop right in front of the capital and Waxer can’t do anything but watch as men die in masses once again. The airbase is still supporting the capital with supplies but Waxer knows that It’ll go down in the end. 

The battles don’t go well, but overall they’re at least successful. Cody and Kenobi aren’t telling them much about what happens off planet, not even to the officers. 

Waxer doesn’t even know if they’ll take Umbara. He’d died before he could find out. 

Boil’s and Waxers Platoon are separated, like before. It’s part of the small changes that Krell made to Kenobi’s plans before he left. Waxer feels a ping of guilt as he watches Boil leave with his men. He still isn’t sure if his own plan will work, and he should’ve said a proper goodbye. But if he is too obvious, Boil will get suspicious, and then who knows what’ll happen.

He gets the holo while he and his men are pushing through the bushes.

“The Umbarans are planning a surprise attack. They need to be eliminated immediately or all our efforts will be wasted. Since your platoon is the closest I’ll be sending you the coordinates. And, Lieutenant, they’ll be wearing the armor from captured clones.” 

Waxer grits his teeth. Krell’s a demagolka, and every second he looks at him he feels more sick. Still, he nods, keeping his voice monotone. “Of course, Sir.”

Krell meets his eyes. It makes Waser feel sick to his stomach. “Don’t disappoint me.”

The transmission ends and Waxer takes a deep breath. 

General Kenobi had shown him how to control his breathing when he was panicking before his second ever battle, a long time ago now. Waxer had been a shiny then, fresh from Kamino, and he had been so afraid, all while he knew that clones weren’t supposed to be.  

Waxer tries to recall when the 501st started to attack. He doesn’t want to lose any of his men, either, so how–

Thinking of what happened makes the space inside of his bucket feel to small, but Waxer forces himself to remember what happened. Captain Rex had yelled at everyone to take off their buckets, and as soon as they saw each other's faces they all stopped shooting. That’s what they had to do. They have to know they’re all clones. 

“Sir,” Crys says behind him. As a Sergeant he follows closely behind Waxer, bucket turning to look for the enemy even while he speaks. “Are you good? You’ve been standing there for a while.”

Waxer turns around, and then, looking over his brothers, he asks, “Do you trust me?”

He can’t see their expressions behind the buckets, but he can feel their confusion. “Of course we do, Sir,” a shiny without a proper name yet says determinedly, saluting. 

“Good,” Waxer says. “Take off your buckets.”

There’s silence for a moment, and then Waxer reaches up to pull his own bucket off. That’s when the protest set it. 

“But–Sir! We’ll be unprotected!”

“We’ll be an easy target!”

“Sir, with all due respect, this is a horrible idea.”

Waxer lifts his hands, high, because he doesn’t know what to do with himself but needs to be seen and heard. “You just said you trust me. I am asking you all to trust me. I know it sounds like I’m crazy, but I promise that I have a plan,” Waxer says, trying his best not to sound too desperate. He isn’t very good at it. He had been yesterday, when all he had to worry about was Umbarans and not his own brothers. 

There’s whispers, and after a long moment the first troopers reach for their buckets and put them off, most of them frowning. Others follow, until all thirty-six clones stand helmetless. 

Waxer breathes out. He has no reason to–There’s nothing won yet. But this is the baseline. This is a start. 

“Sir,” Crys says. “We trust you, but–why this?”

“They have to see that we’re clones,” Waxer explains. “It’s important. That’s all I can tell you. Thank you for your trust.” 

Crys look fairly unimpressed, but nods. “We’re with you, Sir,” he says, salutes and gets back in line. Waxer looks into the darkness of Umbara and takes a deep breath. 

This is it, then. All or nothing. 

It’s quiet on Umbara, for the first time ever since they arrived. Waxer hates the quiet. In the places that most felt like home there are always noises, always chattering, yelling or laughing everywhere. He feels safest when he’s around his brothers. Of course, sometimes quiet can be nice. Like when General Kenobi invited Waxer to meditate with him, and Waxer doesn’t think he had been exceptional at it, but not bad, either. After he joined him for the fifth time Kenobi had asked Waxer if he could please convince Cody to try it, too; He could tell his Commander was stressed and this would help. Waxer had snorted and answered that “he’d do anything for you if you only asked, sir.” Kenobi had flushed when Waxer went out the door.

Cody beat him up at training the next day, but it was worth it. 

This, though? It’s the worst kind of quiet, like the calm before a storm, and Waxer thinks of the brothers that are looking for them right now, tries to remember how the battle happened last time. He missed anything that didn’t happen right at the beginning, but if this goes his way that won’t matter. 

They shot first. The 501st threw grenades at them. They fought back. The events are a blur. 

Waxer hopes he’s doing the right thing. If everything before had just been the universe playing a trick on him and he is now leading his platoon into a suicidal battle with actual Umbarans he’ll never forgive himself. 

He feels them before he sees them. Waxer closes his eyes, concentrates on the feeling and follows it, until there is–a steady calm. Determination. The 501st.

Ghost company had shot first. Now, Waxer lifts a hand for them to see. “Don’t shoot!” he shouts. With a bit of luck the Torrent platoon will hear, too. 

“Sir, with all due respect,” another shiny hisses. “If we don’t attack now we’ll lose!”

“Just–wait,” Waxer tells him, and cringes at himself. Maker. He is bad at this. 

This time it is Torrent company who attacks first, but Waxer already knows where the grenades will land and not a single trooper is near it. They panic anyway.

A shiny turns around and starts shooting into the dark where the others must be, and Waxer curses and flings himself at the kid. “Stop shooting!” he shouts, punches the blaster out of the shinies hands and jabs a finger at him, and the other men look at him in shock. They’re angry, especially the one he has pinned beneath him, and he can’t exactly blame them.

Those aren't enemies, though. These are his brothers.  

“Waxer, what are you doing,” Trapper shouts, dismissing the rank as he ducks from a blaster bolt. 

Now or never, Waxer thinks as he feels more than hears the 501st approaching. “Ke’sush ,” he shouts as loud as he can. The men already have their whole attention on him. 

“I need everyone to yell ‘We’re clones’, Can you do that?”

Crys looks as if he wants to punch him, and so do the other ones. “Me’ven?” Runner asks in Mando’a, flabbergasted. The shiny under him growls.

“You heard me,” Waxer yells, gets off the kid and ducks from where the 501st has started firing– And this isn’t working. The men look confused, unsure, a few like they want to shake him, and Waxer–

Waxer won’t kill any of his brothers this time around, nor will he let them kill each other. He just has to act fast.

“Don’t attack them, and stay where you are,” he tells Crys, and before he can say anything else Waxer throws himself out of cover and with a thump his blaster lands on the ground beneath him. Someone yells. 

Waxer lifts his hands, and he screams. “We’re clones! We’re all clones! We’re–”

Pain explodes in his gut. 

He almost wants to laugh. Instead he cries out in pain, clasps his wound, staggers for a moment before he lifts his head, stands as tall as he can. The pain almost sends him crashing to the ground. They have to see him. 

His bucket drops to the floor. 

A brother is yelling something, and Waxer knows the trooper who shot him is terrified.

“We’re clones!”, Crys shouts behind him, and Waxer finally falls down, hits the dirt hard. “We’re all clones!”

“We’re clones too!”, someone from the 501st  yells back, and from where he’s lying he sees buckets being dropped onto the ground.

A warm feeling washes over him, despite the pain, as the other troopers from the ghost company also join in, and everyone is shouting, but–there’s no blaster-shots, no grenades going off, just screaming and yelling. 

Someone grasps his shoulder. Waxer looks up, and a 501st trooper cowers down next to him. “Roll over,” he tells him, and that’s when Waxer notices the cross on his armor. He’s a medic. Waxer complies but hisses out in pain. The medic presses a bacta pack onto his wound, his eyes carefully seeming to check him over for additional injuries. “I’m Kix,” he says as he opens his med-kit next to him and fishes out a bandage. “For now I’ll just make sure you won’t bleed out. You have to go into bacta for several days after this is over, but first you need to survive, got it? ”

Waxer nods, and tries to give him a smile. Judging by Kix’s expression it doesn’t quite work. 

There’s footsteps behind him, and then a hand settles on his shoulder. 

“Waxer,” Rex says.

Waxer, still, doesn’t cry, but he just might do it out of joy, because Rex’s voice is scruff and dark, not bothered to hide his anger. There’s no softness in it, just hurt and betrayal. That’s obviously not a good thing, but–to Waxer, it means that he’ll survive. If the Captain thinks so, it’s true–he’s seen enough dying men.

“Tell me who gave you the order to attack us,” Rex asks. 

“It was General Krell”, Waxer says. He finds it much easier to answer when he hasn’t been slowly dying for half the battle, especially now that Kix is working to stop the bleeding.

This could barely be called a battle. Not a single trooper died. Only Waxer got injured. 

“He sent us to these coordinates to stop the enemy. ‘Told us they would wear our armor, but it was you.”

Rex scowls, though it’s not directed at him, and Waxer knows that. “How did you know we were clones?”

Waxer freezes. Shit. He hasn’t thought about this. He’s been so busy trying to survive that he didn’t think about anything that could happen after he—well, survives. He still doesn’t know what’s going on, how this can be–thankfully he doesn’t have to say anything, because Kix punches Rex. Maybe a bit harder than necessary. Rex flinches, and then turns towards Kix, an offended look on his face. Kix stares right back. 

“Waxer just got shot, Captain. As our medic I think It’s best if he doesn’t talk, and certainly if he isn’t interrogated on the spot.”

“I wasn’t interrogating him–”

“Sir. As your medic, I outrank you. Go bother his troops first, you can talk when he’s doing better.”

Rex tries to fight Kix’s stare for another moment, and then he sighs. “Sorry for letting them shoot you, Waxer. N’eperavu takisit ,” he says, and Waxer smiles at him. “I’ll live,” he says, and he hopes it's true. He wants to live so badly. 

From this point on, Waxer has no idea what to do, or what’s coming, for that matter.

Waxer died before any of this happened last time. 

The 501st and the 212th exchange comms and then they decide to arrest Krell, no matter how highly treasonous it is, which Waxer agrees with. He tries to convince Kix that as the platoon leader and lieutenant he should be there with the Captain, but Kix jabs a finger at his wound and–yeah, Waxer does see his point. They help him walk back to the base of the 501st and Kix goes to get painkillers from his med supply.

“You won’t be able to fight, anyway,” he says. “We’re leaving you here, only until that monster is locked away, and then we get you so you can punch him.” It’s a joke, because if Waxer punched a prisoner that would still be unacceptable coming from a clone and he’d probably be decommissioned. Still, it’s a nice thought. 

“Take care of the men,” Waxer tells Rex before he enters the building with them. Rex hesitates, locks eyes with him before nods sharply. “I’ll—try.”

He’s scared, Waxer thinks. 

Now, Waxer has a bit more time to think about this part of somehow being alive again. It’s a lot harder to concentrate when everyone around him is broadcasting their emotions to him. Waxer is good with emotions. This is too much, though, and it distracts him from his primary target; Keeping his brothers safe. 

Kix gives him the painkillers, and Waxer takes them thankfully. The bacta has stopped the bleeding. He’s still feeling drained and weak but he’ll live. Kix nudges him. “Gar shuk me kyrayc,” he says. 

Waxer nods. “K’oyacyi.”

He actually thinks everything might be going well. That is, until he hears the sound of glass shattering, and in the next moment General Krell is standing in front of the base, crashing onto the ground. 

“Get him!” a 501st trooper yells, and everyone instantly points their blasters right at him. Waxer is behind Krell and doesn’t think the demagolka has noticed him at all. 

His brothers start shooting and cry out when Krell's lightsaber moves through them as if they’re droids. Krell zips his lightsaber through the clones without mercy, picks up an unmoving body and swings it at three others–Kix under them. They go down yelling. 

Waxer has to do something, can’t just sit there while Krell murders his own men. At least the painkillers make it easy for him to ignore his wound for now as he scrambles up. He leans over one of the fallen men. The trooper is only half-conscious and got an ugly cut at his side, but Kix is already getting up to check on the wounded. Waxer hopes he’ll be fine.

When Waxer kneels down the trooper pushes his blaster into Waxer’s hands wordlessly, immediately understanding. “Thank you,” Waxer whispers, gets up as fast as he can and heads after where Krell has run off to. Somewhere behind him he hears Rex shouting, but if he looks back now he’s going to lose him. Krell is fast, being a Jedi, but after a bit he turns off his lightsaber and slows his step. 

Waxer follows quietly. When Krell turns around he ducks, makes himself as small as possible. Somehow Krell doesn’t see him, even if he probably should have–he’s a jedi after all, he should’ve been able to feel his presence. Waxer isn’t complaining, though. He walks when Krell walks, matches his step, stays in the shaddows. 

Suddenly, Krell stops, and Waxer feels his concentration, and more than that something like disgust. As if it’s them who are the monsters.

Closer. 

Waxer closes his eyes, and it’s as if something is tugging at him. 

Closer. 

Waxer breathes out.

He holds onto those feelings, wonders what Krell is planning, and something inside him shifts, and then–

Attack when they’re on the comms, make sure they hear it-need to focus on the captain, he's the only one with conc–what the–?

Waxer rips his eyes open, ducks behind a tree, and gasps. 

Those hadn’t been his thoughts. Those were Krells. 

Krell growls from where he stands, and Waxer hears him turn, feet shuffling, and then: “Guess this’ll be a bit harder, after all. Where are you hiding?”

He knows I’m here , Waxer thinks, and freezes as his heart pounds in his throat. His comm flickers up, and it’s Rex, and he has to warn him but Krell is right there–

Waxer takes a deep breath. Lets it go again. Then he steps out from his cover, activates his comm and shouts, “Here I am. ”

Krell jerks his head towards him, readies his lightsabers and then stops. Confusion washes over him and Waxer holds his blaster close. If he can hold off Krell long enough the others will have enough time to come and find him. 

“A clone,” Krell says, “Not a jedi. A lowly clone had the audacity to try and break into my head.” He pauses, seems to look Waxer over. “I gotta say, you caught my by surprise—I had lowered my shields. But here I was thinking I’d get a real battle. It surprises me that clones can be force-sensitive, though.”

Waxers head spins. “We aren’t. Clones are force-zeros, but if you want we can discuss this all day. It’s not like I’m in a hurry to be anywhere,” he says. Rex is quiet on the other side, seems to have gotten Waxer’s idea.  

“You certainly are force-sensitive, clone. Otherwise you wouldn’t have been able to do something like that. What’s your designation?” 

“CT-3483,” Waxer says, if only to keep the conversation going. Krell steps closer and Waxer stumbles backwards on instinct, raising his blaster in front of his chest. Krell cackles, pausing. “Are you scared?”

“Yes,” Waxer says. “I am.”

There’s no use in lying to a Jedi. 

“Mhm. You sure are an interesting one. It’s really such a shame you have to die,” Krell says, and his smile makes Waxer feel sick. 

And suddenly Waxer’s air is cut off.

He gags, hands dropping the blaster and reaching up to clutch at his throat, try and pry off the invisible hand wrapping around it. He feels himself being lifted off the ground.

He’s being choked. Krell is choking him. 

“I know you’re listening, Captain,” Krell says. Waxer squeezes his eyes shut in pain, tries to focus on breathing, but he can’t.

“Your scout wasn’t as subtle as he likes to think he is. As for you–you should’ve listened to the ARC-trooper in the beginning. He was right. I was using you.”

“Didn’t–notice me–follow’n,” Waxer chokes out, because he’s not letting that sit on him, and jokes is always how Waxer’s dealt with the war. The phantom grip around his throat gets even tighter.

Waxer's mind is rushing, breathing is impossible and fear sinks deep into his stomach. He shouldn’t have joked. 

He came back to life for what? To just die again?

When he cracks his eyes open Krell is watching him, smiling with all of his teeth, and–Waxer can’t be force sensitive, because clones are zeros, as force-sensitive as a stone. But if he was, wouldn’t he be able to–?

Waxer, pushing through the panic in his stomach, decides to push his luck. ( There is no luck–) 

He lifts one of his trembling hands from his throat, imagines it curling around Krells throat, and squeezes. 

Krells eyes go wide, and then Waxer is lowered towards the ground as Krell gasps and uses the one hand he isn’t force-choking Waxer with to claw his throat. “You–!” he grits out, and a small smirk forms on Waxer’s lips in triumph even as the hand around his throat gets tighter , and in response he only squeezes his own more. “If—I die—you—will too ,” he gasps, missing the air to form a full sentence. 

Krell bares his teeth, but before he can say anything else that Waxer fears will be the last thing he hears there’s a shout.

 “Get him!”

The Generals eyes go wide as if he has forgotten about why he was out here in the first place, and from one moment to the next the pressure on Waxers throat is gone. 

Waxer crashes to the ground, sucks in a breath. His lungs burn. 

Krell only needs a second to be back to his old self, especially now that Waxers not choking him back, but at least he’s slower. He still impales brother after brother, jumps back. Breaks ones spine with a terrifying crack. Picks another up and throws him away as if he weighs nothing. 

Krell moves away from Waxer, busy with getting attacked from all sides, and his comm goes off. It’s Rex. “Troopers, listen up. Circle around. Lure him towards Tup.”

Waxer doesn’t know who Tup is. He just hopes they have a good plan, because Krell’s taking out another four men with a single swing of his lightsaber. 

Breathe in, breathe out. He steadies himself, and then he slowly gets to his feet again, stumbling after where the others are heading. His head throbs. 

“Hey, ugly! Come and get me!” a Trooper yells. Krell takes the bait, and–he’s about to cut him in half, shouldn't someone do something–

Before he can do anything at all Krell is grabbed by what looks like a tentacle and grunts as he is lifted into the air. Tup steps back, and a mouth with teeth opens up from what Waxer thought was a plant, and, ew. 

Krell cuts one of the tentacles off, falls back to the ground and is immediately picked up again by a second one. Clones start firing at him. It’s the least Waxer can do to aim and help shoot, though his vision is dim and steadily shrinking. Krell is thrown around again, but this time he catches the right tentacle and cuts it off, falling to the ground, and–

A trooper gets to him before he can do anything else. 

When Krell meets the floor there’s a thump.

“I stunned him, Sir!” he says, stepping back to make way for the Captain.

Rex uses his foot to roll Krell over and stares at his unconscious form for a moment. “Nice work Tup,” he then says, and it’s genuine and filled with a feeling of proudness. Tup stands a little taller. 

Waxer collapses to the ground. 

He doesn’t even entirely feel himself hit the ground, and after a second hands are on him, rolling him onto his back. 

“Waxer, Gar mirsh solus,” a brother hisses. “You were already shot, and now the Captain says you got force-choked . You’re lucky that you’re still alive.”

Waxer tries to grin but he thinks it doesn’t come out entirely right, because when he cracks his eyes open Kix looks down at him, helmet off, frowning deeply. 

“There’s no luck,” Waxer says, only repeating his own General's words. There was a second part to this saying, something about the force. Waxer forgot. He believes what his General says, though. He’s glad they got Kenobi and not someone like Krell. 

Kix snorts. “Be quiet. We’re getting some of the men to carry you. And don’t you dare think about dying to get out of being questioned by the Captain later.”

Waxer groans. Right. He still has to think about that. 

He falls unconscious somewhere on the way. 

Chapter Text

Waxer wakes to the sound of arguing. 

“He’s the lieutenant, he should be questioning him with us, he deserves to–“

“Captain, he is not in a good enough state for that. For now he’s holding up fine but until General Kenobi comes he should stay where he is and rest. He can barely stand!”

“Waxer is strong and Jesse can help him walk. He’ll want to be there, and I know you take your duty as a medic very seriously, but–“

“That’s right, Sir, and as his medic I advise him to rest, force knows he needs it. Do you really want to argue with me?”

“Kix, if he were awake he would–“

“He’s not awake though, and you better let the man sleep, or I’ll make sure you will have the worst time of your life next time you end up in medbay, I swear–“

“I’ll go,” Waxer interrupts them, blinking the sleep out of his eyes. 

Kix whips his head towards him. He frowns, scrunches his nose and squints his eyes at Rex. “See what you did,” he accuses him. Rex rolls his eyes, kneels down next to Waxer and grasps his shoulder. “How are you feeling, brother,” he asks. 

Waxer forces a smile. “Painkillers are definitely still working,” he says, and Kix snorts. Then, Waxer goes still. 

“How many,” he asks. He doesn’t need to elaborate, and Rex sighs. “Twenty-seven,” he says, and Waxer flinches, and then lowers his head. “Thirteen of your men.”

“Are they–“

“Everything’s being taken care of. We haven’t done the remembrances yet, we wanted to wait until you were awake.”

Waxer nods, and thirteen isn’t what counts as high casualties, but these men didn’t have to die. There was no reason for all this. It makes no sense. Why would Krell kill his own men?

“I’m coming with you,” Waxer tells Rex. 

“Waxer, you’ve barely had an hour of sleep. That is not enough.”

“Please,” Waxer says. 

Kix looks like he wants to protest but then he closes his mouth again, sighing. “Fine,” he says. “But watch out, vod.”

A trooper that introduces himself as Jesse helps Waxer walk as they enter the brig, and then they’re standing in front of the cell. There’s a trooper in the one next Krell’s; his eyes are glassy and watch them as they position themselves in front of the brigs. 

Krell has his eyes closed, only opens them when they come closer. 

“Why, General?” Rex asks Krell, voice dripping with barely restrained fury. Waxer and the other four troopers he has chosen to come with him stand a little behind the Captain, and Waxer’s selfishly glad that Krell is focusing on Rex for now. 

“Why kill your own men?”

Krell chuckles. The sound is enough to give Waxer goosebumps. 

“Because I can,” he snarls. “Because you fell for it. Because you’re inferior .”

Waxer scowls. 

“But you’re a jedi! How could you?” Rex is a walking storm of barely contained anger and unbelief and over all of these there’s the feeling of betrayal . 

The Jedi are supposed to be the one thing they can trust, the Jedi are supposed to be the good ones. They were made for them. If they can’t trust the Jedi—

“A Jedi?” Krell laughs. “I am no longer naive enough to be a Jedi.” The trooper in the cell next to him turns, and the grief coming from his body is deafening to Waxer, makes his head throb harder. Beside him Jesse shakes his head. 

“A new power is rising, I’ve foreseen it. The jedi are going to lose this war, and the republic will be ripped apart from the inside. In its place is going to rise a new order, and I will rule as part of it.”

“You’re a Seperatist!” Rex accuses him.  

“I serve no one’s side except my own. And soon, my new master.”

New master . He’s a Sith , Waxer thinks. He wonders why his lightsabers are still green and blue and not the typical sith-red. But then again, Waxer has no idea how lightsabers work. 

“You’re an Agent of Dooku.” It’s not a question anymore. 

“Not yet. But when I get out of here I will be. After I’ve succeeded in driving the Republic from Umbara the count will reward my actions and make me his new apprentice.”

“How could you do this?” The trooper in the cell finally snaps. He clenches his teeth, and his face twists. “You had my trust, my loyalty, I followed all of your orders, and you made me kill my brothers!” He’s shouting the last end of the sentence, desperation turning into fury. 

Krell cackles again. “That’s because you were the biggest fool of them all, Dogma. I counted on blind loyalty like yours to make my plan succeed.”

The trooper—Dogma—goes quiet. Waxer doesn’t need to be a mind-reader (or force-sensitive ) to know what he’s thinking. 

“That will never happen,” Rex says, voice steady, distracting Krell from the other trooper. “You’re a traitor, General, and you will be dealt with as one.”

Krell smirks and there’s no sign of him feeling any sort of unease. “You never learn, Captain. The Umbarans are going to retake this space, and when they do, I will be free.”

Krell, seeming as if he notices the other clones in the room for the first time, looks past Rex right into Waxer's eyes. “Ah,” he says, almost a mocking tone in his voice. “It’s the wanna-be Jedi. I get the feeling a lot of this is your fault.”

Waxer’s not too sure of that, but he stands a little taller anyway.

“I’m not a Jedi. I’m a clone . You killed my brothers, and now you will pay for it.”

He can feel the eyes of the other clones in the room on him, and he knows he’ll have to explain this later (but how when he didn’t understand it himself?) but that’s a problem for future-Waxer. 

Krell squints his eyes. Then, he smiles with his teeth. “You know,” he drawls. “The count certainly could make use of another apprentice. You’ve already gotten some grasp of how to control the dark and weren’t afraid to use it on me, so why don’t–“

“That will never happen,” Waxer interrupts him, repeating the Captain’s words. “I’m a brother, not a Jedi and especially not a Sith. I’d rather die than join you.”

Krell seems to have suspected this answer, because he doesn’t miss a beat replying. 

“Oh, you will,” he says, sits back and closes his eyes as he seems to start meditating . Rex’s face falls even more, then he turns away from Krell abruptly, clenching his teeth. “We’ll discuss this outside,” he growls. 

When Waxer looks back one last time he meets Dogma’s eyes for a single second. 

“Captain, we’ve repaired the transmitter,” an approaching 501st trooper tells the group, perusing a datapad. “It looks like it was sabotaged. We received a message from General Kenobi. His forces have captured the Capital, but the remaining Umbarans are heading here.”

At least Boil’s campaign went well, Waxer thinks, and a feeling of proudness overtakes him. In the back of his mind he knows his batchmate is safe, can almost feel his steady heartbeat–It’s as if there’s some kind of string, glowing softly. 

Rex nods, even if more to himself.  “Get everyone on the perimeter. We need to prepare for a full-scale attack.”

“Yes, Sir,” the trooper says, salutes, and then he’s off again. 

Rex watches him go. He looks tired. “Krell sabotaged the transmitter,” he states and turns towards them again. “He’s been against us from the beginning.”

“If the Umbarans get him, he’ll turn over all our intel,” the ARC-trooper next to Waxer says. He remembers him from the briefing before Umbara—Fives. “The defense codes, everything. He’ll strike a crippling blow to the republic!”

Jesse looks like he wants to step forward, but stays to support Waxers weight. “Something has to be done. We can’t risk the possibility that he might escape,” he says anyway. 

Tups eyes glance over to the Captain. “As long as Krell’s alive, he’s a threat to every one of us.”

Waxer says nothing. It’s all been said. Captain Rex hesitates for a moment and closes his eyes, before he quietly says, “I–agree.”

That settles it. 

None of them speak out loud what they’ll have to do, because saying it out loud makes it real, and what it is, is treason. 

When they go back into the brig, the first thing they do is get Dogma out. Waxer thinks that he’s learned his lesson, whatever he has done; To him he might as well be screaming in regret. Fives keeps his hands cuffed. 

Rex comes to a halt in front of Krells cell and draws his blaster. “Turn around. Step toward the wall.” His voice is carefully blank, his face wiped off all emotion.

Krell frowns, and then he complies.

“On your knees.”

Jesse opens the cell, but Krell isn’t moving. Dogma’s breathing heavily. 

“You’re in a position of power now,” Krell says to Rex and cackles. “How does it feel?”

Rex stands tall, points the blaster at Krells back. “I said; On–your–knees.”

This time, Krell follows the order, but not without a smirk Waxer can see even from where he’s watching. “It feels good, doesn’t it? I’m sure your force-sensitive clone would agree. But”—he smirks even wider—“I can sense your fear. You’re shaking, aren’t you?”

He’s right. Waxer doesn’t like to say it, but he can feel the Captains fear as well. Quiet emotions are easy to put aside but Rex’s fear fills the room, surrounds Rex, a choir of mismatched voices, each singing a different song. If Waxer had any idea on how to control this, maybe he could calm the voices, make Rex less afraid, but as it is, he can’t.

Clones aren’t supposed to be afraid. They’re supposed to stand tall even in the face of danger. It’s not like Waxer’s a prime example of not being afraid, though.

“What are you waiting for? The Umbarans are getting closer,” Krell says. Rex's eyes flicker to the ground, he shakes himself ever the slightest and then stands straight again. “I have to do this,” he says, almost to himself. 

Krell hesitates. “You can’t do it, can you?” he then says. 

Rex’s face twists, and suddenly Waxer senses a burning rage, but it doesn’t come from the Captain. He whips his head around and just catches Dogma lifting a blaster, but he’s too late to do anything. 

“Eventually you’ll have to do the right thing and–” And then there’s a zap, a grunt, and Krell’s body falls to the floor, awfully quiet for his big form. 

The room is silent. The barrel of Dogma’s blaster is smoking just like the hole in Krell’s chest, a perfectly aimed shot right at his heart. None of them have to check to know he’s dead. It’s as if no one dares to even breathe, not until Dogma slowly seems to snap back to reality. 

“I–”, Dogma breathes. Lowers his head. His eyes are wide and his mouth hangs open as he searches for words. “I had to. He betrayed us.” 

Carefully Waxer reaches out and guides his still cuffed hands—that are holding onto the blaster for dear life—down. He wants to say something to comfort Dogma, even if he doesn’t know him well, but—

Dogma’s killed a Jedi and he’s a clone, not even an officer. His eyes are glassy and when Waxer looks up the other brothers in the room are frozen in place. 

Dogma looks small, all of the sudden, hunched over as he chokes on a sob, seems to desperately try and hold his panic back. 

Rex shakes his head. “Dogma,” he says. His hands are clenched to fists at his side, still trembling. “You—I should’ve done it. You’re not—“

“I know, Sir,” Dogma says. 

Rex swallows, and finally Fives puts his hand onto Dogma’s shoulder. “This shouldn’t have happened,” he says quietly, and Dogma shakes his head but doesn’t say anything else. 

Waxer feels out of place. He gets this feeling that this isn’t only about Krell, but he doesn’t ask. It’s not his place to. 

They leave Krell’s body. None of them want to give them any sort of respect, not even in death, not when he’s the reason so many of their brothers are dead. 

The Jedi are supposed to be good . How did this happen?

Waxer feels the 501st’s troopers eyes on him as they leave the brig; Now that Krell is dealt with, the problem with–well, him, remains. 

“Waxer, can I talk to you for a second?” Rex asks him. His voice leaves no trail for Waxer to pick up any emotions, and Waxers neck prickles. 

“Sure, Sir.”

Waxer follows the Captain away from the group, until they’re standing at the wall of the building, and then Rex stops and studies Waxer. “So,” he begins. “Was Krell right?”

Waxer shifts. Considers his words. “I’m–not sure, Sir. But I do think It would make sense.” If Rex notices that he’s avoiding to say the words, he doesn’t comment on it. “How’d you hide it from the lognecks? They would’ve decommissioned you.”

“This only happened at the start of this campaign, Sir. Before that I have never noticed anything.” It isn’t a lie, again, just not the truth, and Waxer feels bad, but–there is no way Rex would understand. Rex stands with both feet on the ground, never believes in something until he has seen it himself. 

Rex frowns, and then grasps Waxer's arm and meets his eyes. “Talk to your General about this,” he says. “I don’t know osik about the force, but Kenobi’s a jedi. If you’re worried about going alone, get your commander.” He hesitates before continuing. “But–be safe. If the wrong people get wind of this, it could end badly.”

Waxer lets out a sigh of relief. Yes, Kenobi would help. 

“I will tell him,” he says. “I don’t know what’s going on either.”

Rex snorts. “I can tell. But–intended or not, It’s thanks to you that many men are still alive. I don’t want to think about what might’ve been.” He sighs, squeezes Waxer's arm. “Be safe, vod.”

“You too, Captain.”

They have the remembrances, and backup arrives shortly later. Dogma is brought into one of the gunships with a guard and Waxer sees him exchange a look with Rex that he can’t quite place. 

Kix looks as if it would love to throw Waxer into one of the ships too, get him to a proper medbay and all that. He’s trying to get Waxer to move when Fives moves over to the three of them, smiling slightly. 

“General Kenobi's battalions have routed the last holdouts of Umbarans, and we’ve secured all sectors,” he says. “We did it. We took Umbara.”

Waxer stares. He supposes they should feel good about this, but one look at Rex shows him that the Captain doesn’t share that feeling either. He looks–tired. 

“What’s the point of all this?” he says quietly, stares at nothing in particular. “I mean, why?”

Fives goes quiet. Furrows his brows. 

“I don’t know, Sir. I don’t think anybody knows. But I do know that someday this war is gonna end.”

“Then what?” Rex frowns, looks over the vode close to them. “We’re soldiers. What happens to us then?”

Waxer is quiet. No matter how much he dreams of a quiet, casual life after the war and of returning to Numa–Rex is right. They are made for war, made to die for it; It’s all they’ve ever known. The republic doesn’t even recognize them as human beings. If the need for them is gone, what will they do with them? They’re basically droids to some people. Waxer knows that the vode of the Coruscant guard sometimes have to do meaningless tasks for the senators. Is that what they’ll become? 

None of them say another word. 

Waxer’s put into the bacta tank, if only for three days.

When he wakes up Boil is sleeping on a chair in medbay, a half eaten ration bar next to him. Waxer groans, grasps his head and then takes a look at his batchmate. At least Boil got out fine. His hair is ruffled and messy and there are circles under his eyes but–overall, he seems alright. 

“See who woke up,” a voice says next to him, and Flow, one of the new medics of the 212th appears next to him. Waxer likes him; He’s kind and patient. Very different to the medics of the 501st, Waxer knows now, and appreciates his vod’ika even more. 

It’s not like their chief medic is any different, though he doesn’t seem to be around at the moment. 

“How are you feeling?”

“Good,” Waxer says. “A bit of a headache.”

“Well, that’s understandable, considering what I’ve heard about the campaign.” Flow points his thumb at Boil. “He’s been in here the entire time. Couldn’t get him to move. The Commander had to bring him his food in here because he refused to leave your side.”

“That’s Boil for you,” Waxer shrugs. Flow rolls his eyes. The air prickles around him, a tune like the static of a broken comm, and Waxer winces. During Umbara he had—ignored this, the feelings, emotions, whatever, but he hadn’t actively tried ignoring them again. It almost feels like intruiging something he isn’t meant to see. 

“If one of you ever bites the dust the other will probably eat his blaster,” he mutters, but there’s no heat in his words. “Also, Waxer, you’re in for a big one after you’re out of here. Not sure what you did on Umbara, but the shinies that came out of it adore you. Well–they’re not shiny anymore, I guess. I had to send a group of five away just a bit ago. They wanted to show you their armor.”

“They wanted to show me their armor?” Waxer asks. 

“Yep. They think you’re great. Boil yelled at one of them though, I can't remember why.”

“Ah.” Waxer squints his eyes at Boils unconscious form in the corner, but then smiles fondly. “I survived,” he says to no one in perticular, and he feels powerful . He made a change. He did something. That was his doing. 

It shouldn’t be surprising, butterfly effect and all that, but–he’s a clone. His main characteristics should be not mattering, being replacable and not changing things. And yet–

“You did, but only barely,” Flow says. “Kix patched you up good but the wound was still pretty much open for several hours. It’s a miracle you didn’t bleed out.”

Waxer hums. Before he can answer, there’s a grunt, and then a wirring right in Waxer’s ear. When he looks away from the medic Boil is looking right back at him. 

“You’re awake,” Boil says, gets up from his chair and moves over to Waxer. Waxer flashes him a smile. “You’re saying that as if it’s surprising. Have some faith in me,” he says and chuckles. Flow hits him lightly. “Save your energy,” he grumbles. 

Boil doesn’t look too amused either and squeezes Waxers arm. “Bastard,” he says, but his fond smile betrays him, and so does the wirring that’s slowly quietining down, further and further, until it becomes a melody, a tune, a song. Easy to ignore, easy to push away, yet clearly there. A comforting background noise. “If you pull something like this again, I will beat you up, Waxer,” Boil says.

Waxer only grins wider. “Just say you were worried about me,” he says. Maybe that’s what the humming is. Worry.

Boil rolls his eyes. A quiet static-like noise to the song. “Why do I put up with you.”

“You love me. I’m your best friend.”

“The only thing you are is a big Inconvenience. How many times would you have gotten decommissioned if I hadn’t been there?”

“Boil, shut up, Waxer needs to rest,” Flow interrupts them. 

“I feel fine,” Waxer tries to argue, but Flow shoots him another unimpressed glare and that’s that. Waxer knows when he just has to lie there and wait until the medics lets him go again. Different to the Commander or the General, who are both equally good at hiding fatal injuries and get equally upset at finding out the other has untreated fatal injuries. It would be funny If Waxer wasn’t so worried for their lives.

“Also, the General visited while you were asleep,” Flow suddenly says and Waxer chokes on air. The medic raises an eyebrow before continuing. “He wanted to check on you and asked If you could come by his quarters once you feel better. What did you do?”

“Doesn’t really matter,” Waxer says quickly. He can feel Boil glare at him, the song not quite fading but getting even quieter.  

Flow shrugs. “Well, I don’t care. Just don’t get yourself decommissioned or something.”

“I wish you would stop talking about me getting decommissioned,” Waxer mutters. 

Flow shushes Boil out of the medbay after that, and Boil (though reluctantly) leaves, but not without promising Waxer to visit when he’s being let out again. 

The medic insists on keeping Waxer there for another day, and when Waxer finally puts on his armor again he feels more refreshed than he has in a long time. A good night's sleep really can do wonders.

Boil waits for him to get dressed, and Waxer remembers that he should visit the General first thing. Pushing it away will only make things worse in the long run.

Kenobi’s a good man. He’ll help, but Waxer still feels uncomfortable about Kenobi wanting to talk to him before Waxer himself said anything. Maybe one of his vode mentioned something?

“Stop thinking so loud,” Boil tells him when they wave Flow goodbye. Humming. Worry. Waxer’s put the barrier back, blocks everything out, but for some reason Boil is still broadcasting his emotions to him.

Waxer huffs. “Shut up.”

There’s another beat of silence before Boil stops Waxer and puts a hand on his arm. His Twin squints his eyes at him. 

“Are you gonna tell me what’s going on, or do I have to bribe the General later,” he says drily. Static again. Static and a hint of that bitter taste.

Waxer has never been able to keep anything from Boil, not when they were cadets and not now. He sighs. “Not here,” he then says. “Maybe–you could join when the General wants to see me.” Rex had suggested taking the Commander with him, and Waxer is friends with Cody but he wants to have Boil with him for this.

Boil frowns. “What did you do this time,” he says. He doesn’t phrase it like a question, and Waxer doesn’t answer, just gently nudges his arm. They’re about to carry on on their way to the General’s office when a voice shouts behind them. 

“Lieutenant Waxer, Sir!” 

Boil and Waxer turn around, and find themselves looking right at one of their brothers. The trooper takes off his helmet, puts it under his arm and looks at Waxer. His smile is wide, and there’s a fresh scar going from the corner of his mouth up to his forehead. 

“Sir! I’ve been wanting to catch you since we arrived back on the negotiator, but our medic sent me away. I want to thank you for being an inspiration!”

Waxer blinks. He stares at the–he’s not a shiny, his armor is painted, but he acts like one, still–and then back to Boil, who shrugs. Very helpful. “Uhm,” Waxer says, drawing out the word. “Sure you got the right guy?”

The trooper stands a little taller. “Positive, Sir! You’re the reason Umbara went so well, and you showed us–showed me that it’s more important to listen to your brothers than to listen to our Generals, sometimes.”

Waxer blinks. Then, he actually looks at the kid again, and–

“You’re the shiny I tackled when you wouldn’t listen to me,” he says. 

(A shiny turns around and starts shooting into the dark where the others must be, and Waxer curses and flings himself at the kid. “Stop shooting!” he shouts, punches the blaster out of the shinies hands and jabs a finger at him–)

The trooper goes red. “Uh-yes, sir!”

Waxer can’t quite hide his own excitement. He’s just a pretty regular guy and honestly fine with that, and still here’s a shiny looking at him as if he’s Commander Cody himself.

“Do you have a name?” he asks. Boil looks at him in confusion, tries to get Waxer's attention by tapping his fingers against his armor, but Waxer is enjoying this too much. 

Surprise shines in the troopers eyes. Then, he smiles wide. “It’s Shoot, Sir!”

Waxers mouth twitches. “Shoot, huh,” he says. 

Shoot nods. “I named myself yesterday, Sir. Because of Umbara. It was my first battle.”

Waxer reaches out and squeezes Shoot's shoulder. “It’s a good name, vod’ika .”

Shoot beams. 

“ Gar mirsh solus, Shoot! K’olar! Where did you–“

Another shiny steps towards them but freezes once he sees who his brother is talking to. He salutes quickly. “Sirs!”

Waxer can’t help himself–he snorts. “At ease, shiny.”

The other shiny looks at him. Then, he takes off his helmet too, seemingly just to glare at Shoot, and–

Something inside Waxer twists . 

He can’t tell why, but this trooper is familiar , even if Waxer can’t remember ever seeing him before. He doesn’t have anything unusual about him, his hair is maybe longer than the usual cut shinies have and there are dark circles under his eyes, but his armor is blank, not even his helmet is painted, and yet it feels–

Waxer needs to talk to the General so badly. This is confusing. 

“Waxer,” Boil says, and Waxer comes back to reality. Shoot must’ve asked him something, because he’s looking at him expectantly. Waxer clears his throat. “Sorry, I was–thinking. Hey, have we met before,” he then asks the other shiny. 

The shiny hesitates, and then he shrugs. “We haven’t talked, Sir, but I’ve fought with you in several battles before. My name is Lara.”

Waxer frowns. Not a shiny, then. “Your armor–“

“I don’t want to paint it.” 

Before Waxer can say anything else, Boil gets to him. “Don’t want to paint your armor? People won’t know who you are in battle,” he says. Waxer nudges him in an attempt to get him to be a bit less–Well, Boil about this. 

Lara doesn’t break eye contact. “Good,” he replies drily. He turns to Shoot and gives him a clearly forced smile. “Training in an hour?” 

Shoot frowns but nods, and Lara looks satisfied with that answer. 

“Nice talking to you, Sirs. Let’s not repeat that any time soon,” he says to Waxer and Boil, and then he passes them to go to maker-knows-where. 

Shoot coughs. “Sorry about him,” he says. “He’s rude.”

“I’ve noticed,” Boil says and wrinkles his nose. 

Waxer looks after where the trooper disappeared. Something doesn’t add up here. “How old is he?” he asks out loud.

“Uh,” Shoot says. “I think he’s ten? Maybe eleven? Must be the same age as you.”

Waxer exchanges a glance with Boil. They normally know every older trooper they worked with; There are reasons why they don’t approach shinies. Getting attached to them would make things worse, considering a lot of them don’t survive their first battle. 

Lara, for some reason, decided not to paint his armor, and Waxer had never given him a second look–he can’t imagine other older troopers doing so, either. No wonder he seems to be friends with shinies. Waxer feels a pang of guilt, but really, how should have known? 

“Sir,” Shoot says. “There’s something else. What I’ve wanted to ask is–do you think we would get in trouble for painting Krells head onto our pauldrons?”

Waxer lifts an eyebrow. “Just his head? Why would you want that?”

“Well, obviously he would be dead. We think it’s a nice design but we also don’t want to get decommissioned for having a dead used-to-be jedi on our armor. We went looking for designs and ARC Fives has one of an eel who killed one of his batchmates. And I guess we thought something similar could be good.”

Waxer shakes his head, but smiles. “Sure, Kid. The General won’t care.” Shoot salutes and barks, “Thank you Sir!” before he runs off .

Boil glares at him, Waxer can tell, but he waves him off. 

His twin shoves him. “What was that,” he says, a teasing tone in his voice but Waxer knows he still means it. Waxer shrugs. “How much do you know about what happened on Umbara?”

Boil crosses his arms. “I know the basics. Krell turned evil, you almost attacked the 501st because he told you to, a trooper killed him.”

Waxer wants to laugh. “That really is the basics. There was more.”

“Well, obviously,” Boil says. He moves a little to the side to let a group of troopers past. “You had marks on your throat. I assumed that was Krells doing.”

Waxer makes a pained sound. “Don’t remind me. Wasn’t pleasant.”

“You don’t say.”

They stop walking. General Kenobi's quarters are right there, and Waxer feels a chill go down his spine. He really doesn’t want to be here. 

“Are you coming?” he asks Boil, and to his relief his twin nods. “As long as the General doesn’t send me away again, I’ll be there.”

Waxer nods once again and then approaches the door. Knock-Knock-Knock. 

Silence. 

Breathe in, breathe out. 

Then; “The door is open! Do come in!”

Waxer looks over to Boil, and then he pushes the door open. The General is sitting on the ground, his legs crossed, and he’s smiling warmly at them. “Waxer, Boil,” he greets them. “Good to see you all patched up, Lieutenant.”

“Thank you, Sir,” Waxer says. “You–wanted to talk to me?”

Kenobi blinks, and then he closes his eyes entirely and chuckles. “Yes, I suppose I did say that, didn’t I? But–I believe that It’s not me who wanted to talk to you , and more the other way around.”

“Sir?” Waxer asks, afraid he’s understood wrong. 

Kenobi hums. “Ask away, Waxer. I’m sure you knew what you were doing when you brought Boil here, too, so go for it.”

Waxer squints his eyes, tries to organize his thoughts. Kenobi is right, Waxer does have questions. 

“Sir, I believe there’s something wrong with me,” Waxer finally says and cringes at the words as soon as they’ve left his mouth. He shouldn’t word things like that in front of his General. General Kenobi immediately confirms his suspicion, opens his eyes and frowns. “There’s nothing wrong with you, Waxer, nothing at all. But–I have noticed that something has changed since we’ve been to Umbara. Am I correct in assuming that?”

Waxer nods, and Kenobi looks thoughtful. “I’ve thought so. I believe that you want to talk about these changes?”

“Yes, Sir. But I don’t know where to start.”

“That’s alright. Please, sit down, both of you,” Kenobi says and gestures to the ground. Waxer sits himself across from the General and crosses his legs, and out of the corner of his eye he sees Boil do the same. 

“Please tell me about when the change happened.”

Waxer's heart speeds up, and there’s a twisting feeling in his gut. But–best to just spit it out. Waxer had never been one to shy away from the truth.

“After I’ve died on Umbara, Sir.”

Boil is quietly watching him, and Waxer clings to the calmness he radiates. Focuses on the steady heartbeat and the string in the back of his head, lets it brush over him as he thinks of what to say instead of focusing on the exact emotion his twin is radiating. 

There’s silence for a moment, and Kenobi blinks. “Could you repeat that, Waxer?”

Waxer clears his throat. “Yes, Sir. I’ve died on Umbara, I’m very sure of it. And–then I woke up back on the Negotiator. I remember everything that has happened before I died.”

Kenobi strokes his beard in the way he always does when he’s concentrating. “I take it that there’s no possibility it might have just been a dream?”

“No, Sir. At first that’s what I thought, but then everything started happening the exact way it had happened before. That’s how I could hold off my brothers from killing each other, I already knew it was Krell’s doing.”

Kenobi nods, and even though deep in thought his expression turns soft. “If you don’t mind me asking, what happened on Umbara last time?”

Waxer really doesn’t want to think about it. But he can’t just deny his General's request, so he nods. 

“After I got notified by General Krell my men and I went to the coordinates he sent us. We were the first to open fire, and–At the very beginning of the battle one of the 501st troopers got to me. One of the new shinys, I think his name was Flick, carried me away. He died shortly after, and I killed the one who shot him.” Waxer fidgets, and he knows he’s started shaking, even if only slightly. He forces his voice to stay steady. “When he fell over his helmet dropped, and I saw that he was a brother. I tried to tell someone, but my injuries were too severe, I could barely move. At some point the Captain stopped the fight, he must’ve seen one of our faces. It was too late for me.”

Kenobi's eyes are full of understanding, and his voice is gentle. “Waking up after such an experience must’ve been hard for you.”

Waxers feels as if there’s a lump in his throat. He’s suffocating, and can only nod before he takes another deep breath. “General, Sir, I don’t know what’s happening. On Umbara, Krell told me he thinks I’m force sensitive, but that’s impossible, isn’t it? And how am I back here?”

The General is quiet for a moment, and then he smiles his kind of sad half-smile that the whole battalion knows well at this point. “Have I ever told you about Anakin's family?” 

Waxer shakes his head. Boil must do the same, because Kenobi reaches up and strokes his beard again. “Well, when I first met Anakin he was a nine year old boy. My master was convinced Anakin was...special. His mother told us that he had no father, and Anakin was– is so strong in the force that it’s not hard to believe that it has something to do with that happening. The force works in mysterious ways,” he concludes. 

“Sir?”

“What I’m saying is that sometimes there is little to no explanation for something the force does. But if it decided you were to live, I trust in it.”

Waxer's thoughts are racing, but he can’t grab a single one; he ends up asking the first question that comes to his mind. 

“Sir, how did you know something changed?” Kenobi chuckles and folds his hands in front of his chest. 

“Now, Waxer, I’m no expert at detecting force-sensitives, but let me explain it this way. Every living being feels different in the force; we call this a force-signature. This also includes every single one of your brothers. It’s why it’s easy for me to identify you even if your armor looks the same at times. When you reported to me before Umbara, It was like I barely even recognized you, despite the armor–your force signature has changed.” Kenobi shakes his head. “It’s very unusual. I’ve never experienced something like this before. I wasn’t sure to what extent this changed who you are, because in terms of personality you still seem the very same, Waxer. Now I believe it might be your force-sensitivity.”

“Clones aren’t force-sensitive,” Waxer says. It’s a dumb answer, he knows that, but this is what he has believed his whole life. 

“You might be an exception,” Kenobi says. “And even though your case may not be completely– natural , I wouldn’t deny the possibility that there’s a vod out there who is born force-sensitive.”

Waxer is quiet. This is a lot. Waxer can take a lot, he’s meant to work under big pressure, but–

His hands are shaking.

Suddenly, there’s a hand on his knee, and when he looks up Boil is looking at him with an expression Waxer can’t read, force-sensitive or not. Waxers stomach twists. 

The string in the back of Waxer’s mind is glowing again. 

Boil turns towards Kenobi, face twitching. “What will happen to him,” he asks, and–oh. Of course. Boil is worried. It shouldn’t come as a surprise, but Waxer didn’t think it would be this bad; 

The feeling isn’t just regular worry, but a sinking and twisting feeling in his gut that threatens to tear Waxer apart–but at the same time it feels far away, as if it’s not his own. It’s not me feeling that , Waxer realizes. It’s Boil . 

It makes sense that Waxer can feel Boils emotions stronger than he can feel other’s; They’re twins, after all. But he wonders how many of the emotions he’s felt have actually been his brothers. Now that he’s concentrating on it, there’s a clear barrier between the calm and somehow yet panicked state of Boil’s emotions and Waxers own more controlled feelings. The two just–blend together, when Waxer isn’t paying attention. 

The shaking, that was him, though. The memory of his death makes his fingers twitch, as if there’s still blood on them, blood that isn’t his own.

Waxer focuses on the golden string in his mind again, a beacon of calm, and Waxer wonders and then he reaches out and tugs on it. Carefully. 

Boil’s head still whips around at record speed. “What the fuck,” he says. 

“What?” Waxer says, and he knows he’s done something, just not what.

Boil squints his eyes and jabs a finger at him. “You did something. I felt you do something.”

Frowning, Waxer holds up his hands. “Okay, maybe I did, but what did i do?”

“You pulled at me!” Boil exclaims. “It–was like yanking my arm or something, but it was my head instead!”

“Sorry about that,” Waxer mutters. “It didn’t hurt, did it?”

“No, but it was fucking weird. Kriff. Warn me next time.”

Suddenly, there’s a chuckle, and both of them turn towards the General again. Boil goes red. “General, I–“

“It’s alright, Boil,” Kenobi says, holding up one of his hands. Amusement shines in his eyes. “This is–interesting. It seems as if you two have formed a Force-bond.”

The twins exchange a glance. “What’s that.” Boil asks. 

Kenobi lets his gaze wander from Boil over to Waxer. He smiles. “It’s a gift from the force, and usually forms between two force-sensitive beings that are very close.”

“Please don’t tell me I’m force-sensitive too, Sir,” Boil says. Kenobi actually laughs this time, throwing his head back. “No, no, don’t worry, Boil,” he assures him. “Sometimes bonds form where only one is force-sensitive. Cody and I share such a bond.” 

Waxer files that important piece of information away for later.

Kenobi clasps his hands together again and hums. “Coming back to your question, Boil, I’m not sure yet what to do. If Waxer had been younger I would’ve probably asked for him to become a padawan, but like this–I’m not sure if that will be entirely possible. Even if he’s technically just three years older than Anakin had been.”

I’m glad, Waxer doesn’t say. He respects the jedi, but he’s a clone, a brother, and he can’t imagine being anything else. 

“Despite that,” Kenobi continues. “I can’t just leave you to deal with this alone. A certain amount of training and knowledge about the force would be something you should learn. Your abilities could help us in battle.”

“You’ll train me?” Waxer asks. “So–something like ARC training?”

“Oh no, I’m afraid my lessons would be much less intense. I would be focusing on getting you to understand your abilities and to use them in ways that make sense to you.” He hesitates. “I don’t think every trooper of the battalion should know about this, and do be careful as to who you share it with. I still think It would be wise to tell a few people. Is that alright with you?”

“Yes, sure. Thank you, General, Sir,” Waxer says and he means it. 

Kenobi seems satisfied with that answer and leans back. “Very well. Thank you, Waxer. We have a few days off–you deserve to rest, first. I’ll let you know when I’m free to give you your first lesson.”

Waxer nods, again, and then Kenobi gives them his odd half-smile. “You’re free to go.”

Boil and Waxer leave. 

Waxer has just shut the door when Boil pulls him into a hug, wrapping his arms around his twin. Waxer freezes for a moment before he relaxes and puts his head onto Boils shoulder, and it reminds him of Kamino once again. He pushes the thought away. This is not the time. 

Boil shivers. “You’ll be fine,” he says, and sounds more like he’s talking to himself. “You deserve to be fine, for fucks sake. Kriff, If anyone deserves to be, it’s you. You–“

Waxer nudges Boil’s head. “Shut up,” he says. “I will be fine. And If you beat yourself up for anything that happened last time, I will get Cody to actually beat you up. It happened in another life.” 

Boil snorts, grasps the back of Waxer's head and then lets him go. “Good. Make sure you keep that promise,” he says. 

Only when they’re back in the barracks Waxer realizes that the General hadn’t given him any explanation for the whole time-travel thing at all. 

Chapter Text

They get the message the next day. Ten rotations. That’s how much time they have until they’ll be in battle again.

It’s not unusual, and it leaves for at least a bit of time between Umbara and whatever this will be, but Waxer can’t help but wish he had more. More time to figure this out. 

“We’ve gotten an emergency transmission from Master Yoda. The people on Kiros are under potential Seperatist attack despite wanting to stay neutral during the wars,” General Kenobi tells the vode. “It’ll take ten rotations to get there, so use your time wisely. Lieutenants Waxer, Boil,” he adds, and every clone including the Commander seems to whip their head at them, “Please stay for another moment. Everyone else may go.”

When the others are gone, Kenobi smiles at the twins. It’s the good kind of smile, Waxer decides. “I’ve got good news,” he says. “I’ve talked to one of my closest friends in the council about what he would do in my situation, and he agreed it would be wisest to train you. If that’s alright with you, Waxer, how about we meet in my quarters in two hours? The upcoming mission will keep me busy for most of the time of our travels but–You’re one of my best troopers, and I can’t let you go into battle unprepared like this.”

“Fine with me, Sir,” Waxer agrees. Then furrows his brows. “Wait, Sir, did you say in your quarters?”

Kenobi blinks. “I did. Why are you asking?”

“Sir, wouldn’t one of the training-rooms make more sense?”

Understanding washes over the Generals features. “Oh, we won’t be needing these. Our lesson today won’t be physical at all.”

And with that he leaves them to their own devices. Boil frowns. “Well,” he drawls. “Have fun with that.”

Waxer shoves him. Boil, because he’s an ass, chuckles. “What? Is there a problem, vod ?”

“Yes, having to see your face every morning,” Waxer huffs. 

“It’s your face too.”

“Oh, fuck off.”

They start with medating . 

It’s–not what Waxer has expected. Well, he hasn’t thought he would learn about training with a lightsaber or how to do the force-float thing today, but meditating? He’s already done that a few times. 

“In order to best use the force your mind must be calm,” Kenobi says. “Focus on sorting your thoughts, and then, once you’ve put them in a box, imagine putting them aside. Visual imagination can help.”

That’s fairly easy. That’s what Waxer has done before, it just feels different now. Once Waxer is done with sorting thoughts he doesn’t manage to keep all of them away, but they feel–distant. He let go of them. 

Kenobi smiles at him when Waxer opens his eyes again. “Very good,” he says. “I see that the times I meditated with you before ended up being quite useful.”

“Your breathing technique, too,” Waxer hears himself say. “I use it before battles sometimes to calm myself down. I think it helps with being calm despite the–uhm, the emotions that I feel.” He cringes at himself. 

Kenobi seems to understand anyway and hums. “Yes, I do imagine that suddenly being able to feel everyone's moods so strongly takes some getting used to. It’s good that you already know this. You’re not perfect in it in any way, probably at the level of a six-year old youngling, but it’s something we can work with.”

Waxer doesn’t know if being compared to a shiny-jedi is a compliment or not. 

“Alright. I think it might be a good idea to teach you about force-bonds and their abilities, considering you share one with Boil.” Kenobi strokes his beard. 

“Most people describe the feeling of a force bonds as a string-like presence in the back of their minds.” He looks at Waxer expectantly and the clone nods. “That fits.”

Kenobi seems satisfied with that answer and nods to himself. “Now, you can interact with that Bond in several ways. The first thing it does isn’t easily controlled; It gives you some kind of better understanding of the emotions the person you share the bond with is feeling. With practice you can learn to block those emotions out; If you concentrate you should be able to find a kind of barrier between–“

“I already found that,” Waxer says, and then realizes his mistake and frowns. “Sorry, Sir, didn’t mean to interrupt.”

Kenobi doesn’t look offended at all. “Yes, that’s good, then. If you don’t mind, try to do that again, and find out what Boil’s feeling. You don’t need to tell me if you feel like you shouldn’t,” he adds. Waxer closes his eyes, breathes in, breathes out , and then concentrates on the string again. 

Pushes past the barrier, and–

Worry, restlessness, unease. Humming and wirring, smoke, sharp edges.

Waxer frowns. “I think he’s nervous,” he concludes. 

Kenobi chuckles. “Yes, he seems to be more nervous about your situation than you are. Now, you can also use the bond to communicate to–in your case, Boil–even if you don’t see each other. I believe that you imagined pulling at the string yesterday, when you startled Boil like that?”

Kenobi waits until Waxer nods and then continues. 

“Doing that will give Boil a vague sense of where you are. It’s very useful in battle or when you find yourself in trouble.”

Waxer remembers Kenobi’s comment about him and Cody sharing a bond, and the corner of his mouth twitches. “Is this how Cody always knows where to find you?”

The General looks startled, and then he smiles softly. “Ah. That might have something to do with it, but he’s already a natural even without the help of the bond.”

He clears his throat.

“Another thing that might be helpful to you could be sending certain feelings or thoughts over the bond. Now, considering Boil isn’t force sensitive, he can’t feel your emotions like you can feel his. Let’s say you feel he’s upset or hurt, but can’t get to him right away; You can share your own calmness or simply words such as ‘coming’ to let him know you’re nearby.”

“How do I do that?”

“Once you get the hang of it, it’s quite easy. You already know how when you’re meditating you’re controlling your emotions to release them into the force. When you want to share specific emotions or a thought with the one you’re bonded with, you start the same way; Concentrate on whatever you want them to know.”

Waxer closes his eyes, settles into his mind. He decides it might be a good idea to try and calm Boil, so he focuses on that feeling more. For the moment–he’s safe. He’s with a jedi, his brothers are just a door away and his breathing is slow and steady .

“Once you’ve done that, imagine pushing what you’re concentrating on into the back of your mind and let it brush over the string.”

Waxer really tries. He reaches out, hangs onto the feeling of calm and safety, gently pushes it forward, thinks, why does it feels as if it’s heavy, it’s just thoughts , and then–

The feeling is gone.

Waxer’s eyes shoot open, and he groans. “I lost it,” he says, looking up at the General. 

“I expected that, It’s alright,” Kenobi says. “You let yourself get distracted. When you take use of the bond, try and trust the force without thinking about it. It knows what it’s doing.”

Waxer shuffles until he’s sitting comfortably, closes his eyes and tries again. Trust in the force. Okay. He can do that. 

Waxer reaches out again, curls his thoughts about the feeling of being safe, pushes and pushes–

He lets go. Blinks. 

“I–think I did it,” he says carefully. 

“You think?”

“I’m not sure. I did what you asked me to, but it feels a bit anticlimactic.”

At that, Kenobi chuckles. “Ah. It’s supposed to be like that. At your stage you won’t be able to send strong emotions over the force yet, which you could also see as an advantage; You can slightly influence people without them noticing.”

Waxer frowns but nods anyway. 

“That’s what you should take with you from our lesson today. It’s important to be wary of your emotions; do not let them control you.”

“Sir, yes, Sir,” Waxer says and salutes. Kenobi winces. “Ah, we’re not on the battlefield, Waxer. I don’t believe I’ll get any of you to stop calling me ‘Sir’, but you really don’t need to salute.”

“Uh,” Waxer says. “Sir.”

The General sighs, but his lips curl into a half-smile. “You’re free to go. I’ve still got a lot to do and I’d like for you to keep practicing until I can help you more on other things.”

“Thank you, Sir.”

“So? How did it go,” Boil asks him when they’re sitting in the mess-hall. The food is terrible today. Boil looks at it as if he wants to find whoever did this and make them pay for it. 

Waxer frowns. “Couldn’t tell you if I wanted to.”

“That bad?”

He sighs, pulls his helmet off and puts it in his lap. He rubs his thumb above the painting of Numa. “Not bad. Just weird.”
Boil looks at him expectantly. When Waxer doesn’t react he makes a vague gesture with his hand. “So, can you show me any Jedi tricks?”

“I’m not a Jedi,” Waxer says. “So I guess they’re just force-tricks. And also no. The General just showed me how to calm my mind and explained the force-bond.”

“Ah.” Boil frowns. “Right. That thing.”

“Yes, that thing. Here, watch this,” Waxer says, closes his eyes and yanks on the bond. 

When he opens them again, Boil looks about ready to punch him. “Stop that,” he says darkly. Waxer only chuckles in response. 

Boil shakes his head and returns to the meal in front of him. “What even is this,” he grumbles, takes a bite and physically recoils. “I don’t think I can eat any more. Maybe I should just starve. Also, just for the record, General Kenobi is the best General out there and I trust his judgement, but he should’ve shown you how to do something that’s actually useful. Like how to crush droids with your hands or how to throw people around like Skywalker does it with the Captain sometimes.”

Waxer thinks of when he choked Krell. He hums. 

“Right. Also, I should probably learn about what counts as dark and light side of the force,” he says. “You know, there’s probably hundreds of rules about what you shouldn’t do with the force. Does destroying droids count as use of the dark side?”

He pauses. “Imagine If I fell. That’d be bad.”

Boil rolls his eyes. “You won’t fall, you’re Waxer.”

“I can’t tell if that’s meant to be a compliment or an insult.”

“That’s for me to know and for you to never find out,” Boil replies, but his grin disappears when he takes another bite of the whatever-the-kriff-this-is. He curses, and seems to decide continuing the conversation is a better use of his time than trying to get his down.

“Also, you’re wrong, the whole do-not-kill thing doesn’t apply to droids because they’re not alive.”

“I figured,” Waxer says.

The next few days pass faster than Waxer expects them to, and then they’re being deployed down onto the new planet. 

Kiros reminds Waxer of Ryloth.  

General Kenobi goes down there first with part of the 501st, including Skywalker and his Padawan, the 212th is supposed to take over the area around the tower in the middle of the city.

Once they’ve left the negotiator they descend fast and when the doors of the gunship open Waxer squints his eyes against the bright sun. 

“The Generals and the 501st are providing a distraction west from here,” Cody’s voice says over the coms. “Prepare to drop down!”

The gunships hit the ground and Waxer staggers, swings an arm. “Let’s go men!” he yells at his platoon, and then he’s out. Boil’s gunship is still in the air while most of the others have already initiated landing. 

“The clankers are further down! Move!” Cody shouts, and Waxer gives the orders to the platoon he’s leading, then they’re moving. Two other gunships land and the rest of his platoon jumps out. Waxer takes the lead. They’ve deployed a bit farther from where the actual battle was happening in hopes of not losing men while they weren’t even out of their ships and to factor in a surprise attack.

When they barge into the main part of the city the fight’s already started; Somewhere amidst the mess he sees Cody’s familiar armor pattern. One of the battledroids catches sight of them and turns, its robotic voice notifying the others of the arriving clones. Streaks of blasterfire pass them and Waxer ducks, aims and takes down two of the battledroids that are approaching them. He steps forward quickly, gets behind cover for a moment and then advances, shooting the head of one of them straight off. It crashes into the one behind it.

A super-battledroid turns and Waxer gets down just in time, aims at it from the ground and puts a hole into its chest; It crashes to the floor. Smoke emerges from it’s breastplate. Waxer quickly scrambles to his feet again, checks for a second if his platoon is still with him and is glad to see that they’re still as many as before, though one clone is being carried to cover by two of his brothers.
“Good thinking men! But we’re not done here, we have to move!” he shouts, and the two of them snap their heads up. One pats his injured brother on the shoulder and then they’re up. Waxer nods to himself and gets back to the task at hand. 

Without a Jedi to protect them from blasterfire more and more clones go down screaming in agony, and Waxer is just glad that there haven’t been many shinies assigned to this mission; they rely even more on the shielding that the lightsabers bring along with being a weapon. They’re competent enough to win this battle alone, though.

He raises his blaster and his eye catches Boil yelling orders at a group of clones, advancing toward the tower in the middle of the city. Their goal is to create a perimeter around it and to make sure no one gets in or out, allowing them to set up a temporary camp and treat the wounded. The Seperatist leader is probably watching them right now, safely up in that tower, Waxer thinks bitterly.

Another squad of battledroids marches towards them and Waxer curses, jumping back. Blasterfire rings out. He can feel his men panic and lifts a hand. “Cover me!” he yells as he gets up again, throws himself forward with a roll to come up with one knee.

Droids are picked up by his platoon around him, and the ones they don’t get to he takes out with a few shots. Waxer shouts to follow him, because while this squad is destroyed there’s more droids further on, and they need to get them away in order to set of the perimeter. 

“Regroup and reload, we’re moving around the tower!” Cody calls over their comm. “You heard that?” Waxer asks the men and nods curtly when they offer him a loud, “Yessir!” in return. 

Cody’s in the front, takes out droids faster than you can blink, and actually tackles a super-battledroid to the ground by promptly throwing himself onto him. 

In good news, the damn clankers are completely overwhelmed. Squads are moving in from all sides and they’ve lost all battle coordination, shooting blindly into the masses. 

Waxer charges at one, shoots its head off and blasts the next, and then–

there’s a shot behind him, and Waxer can’t have seen it but he knows it’s there anyway, throws himself to the side and watches as the blaster bolt hits another clanker instead. He scrambles back to his feet, again. When he looks up his platoon is taking out the last of the droids while the other’s already moving around the tower. 

“We’re going for an all round defence,” Cody yells. “Move around! Don’t let any clankers in!”

Waxer follows the Commander, and his side aches a little, but it’s nothing he can’t handle–probably just a bruise. 

The defense is set up easily once the troops have taken their positions around the tower. 

While the Rest of the 212th is protecting the set up perimeter, the Commander approaches Waxer, Boil already following him. 

“Boil, Waxer, I need you to clear out any remaining droids that are still scattered over the city,” he tells them. “The perimeter is stable for now and as two of our best I trust you with this. If you find any colonists bring them back here.” Waxer nods, accepting gladly. Just standing around, waiting, occasionally shooting a lost droid; that’s not his cup of tea. 

“Yessir!” he and Boil say, and Cody nods curtly before he’s off again, speaking into his com. Boil nudges Waxer as they get to the AT-ST’s, and Waxer turns warily. 

“Well done, brother,” Boil says. “You actually didn’t get shot this time.”

Waxer rolls his eyes, climbs up on the vehicle with two quick jumps. He doesn’t bother replying as they start scavaging the area, occasionally taking out a few spare droids. 

As they progress further into the streets the area it seems to become a small neighbourhood, if the neatly kept gardens that pop up from time to time are anything to go by, and Waxer wishes he had the time to look at the scenery a bit more. But you can’t do that when the enemy could be just around the corner; It’s what gets you killed. 

“Doesn’t seem like a lot of droids are left,” Waxer says. He lets his eyes wash across the houses. It’s awfully quiet. He wrinkles his nose, lets out a long sigh–he can’t wait to be done with this. 

“Yeah,” Boil agrees. He pauses. “Does this remind you of Ryloth or is that just me,” he then says, looking around as if he almost expects to see a little green twi’lek girl running around. 

“No, you’re right. The people aren’t here, so maybe they were brought somewhere. Just like the Twi’leks,” Waxer says. 

“They could all be taken away, yes, but If you ask me someone has to have escaped them. Numa wasn’t hiding in plain sight either, was she?”

“I guess not. What should we do then? We can’t search every corner.”

Boil shrugs, and then he stops the AT-ST. Cocks his head to the side in thought. “I think we should go by foot if we want to find people,” he finally says, as if he’s thinking out loud. “Let’s leave the AT-ST’s here for now.”

Waxer stares at him. “Who are you, and what have you done to Boil,” he finally says, smirking under his helmet. Boil whips his head at him. “Fuck off,” he says. 

They get off the AT-ST’s and Waxer holds his blaster close, taking the lead. Boil stays close behind, and Waxer is glad for the concentration radiating from him. It makes this whole situation a bit less–

There’s a low sound and Waxer flinches, but it’s just an open door swinging in the soft wind. Boil turns. “What,” he says.

Waxer sighs. “It’s nothing. But I tell you, this is creepy,” he whispers. 

The city is completely empty. The light inside of a house they pass is still burning. They can’t have been gone for too long; and yet must’ve been gone for at least the last week, if the General’s information was anything to go by. 

“Now where have I heard that before?” 

Waxer snorts, lets his eyes roam across what seems to be a market-place. There’s small empty booths and fruit splattered on the ground, bits and pieces bitten off. A creature that Waxer couldn’t even try to remember the name of runs off once it spots them.

Boil looks like he wants to say something when suddenly there’s a scream and then a blaster bolt going off. Waxer whirls around, Boil ducks behind the nearest wall but–the shot’s aren’t directed at them. They’re coming from inside one of the homes. The next moment a door next to them slams open and a Togruta woman barges out. She almost runs Waxer over and he pushes her behind him, lifts his blaster, readies himself.  

“Blast them!” a robotic voice from inside the house says. 

Waxer does start blasting. 

The two droids both go down within a second; The head of the one he’s aimed at goes flying up into the air and Boil behind him gets the other. Their bodys crash to the floor. 

The Togruta woman breathes heavily behind them. She's clutching her side, groans when Boil comes to support her weight. “Sir,” Waxer says. “Are you alright?”

The woman grits her teeth. They’re very sharp, Waxer notes. “Yes. They just surprised me. You are a lot better at aiming than they are, it seems.”

Boil snorts. 

“Sir, do you happen to know where everyone is? Are you alone?” Waxer asks, mentally builds up a barrier to stop himself from sensing these civilian’s feelings. It wouldn’t be right.

The woman stands a little taller and looks them down. “You’re republic soldiers,” she says. When Waxer and Boil nod she relaxes slightly and heads back towards the door. Boil nudges Waxer, silently tells him you go with her. I’ll keep watch. 

“My family and I have been hiding,” the woman explains when Waxer enters the house behind her. “We’ve got a hidden safe room. When the droids came back they must’ve scanned every house for lifeforms. I came out of hiding to try and distract them, but then I saw you two outside and used my chance.”

She stops, kneels down and grips a floorboard before she pulls it off. A small ladder goes down. Waxer doesn’t look more into it, keeps his mind focused on outside and on keeping these people safe. 

“We’re saved!” the woman calls down. “The Republic is here, we can come out.”

“Thank the force,” a low voice from downstairs says, and the next moment the head of a second Togrunta appears, and once he’s out a smaller one follows. 

The tiny-Togruta looks at Waxer with big eyes as she’s picked up by what he assumes to be her mother. “Raana, are they–” the man asks, but pauses and turns to Waxer instead. The air around him hums with doubt and distrust.

“They’re Republic soldiers,” the woman–Raana?–replies softly. Waxer nods. “We are. We have secured the entire sector and came here to remove the remaining droids. Sir. It might be a good idea for you to follow us to our temporary base so we can ensure your safety.”

Raana nods sharply. “Thank you.”

Boil almost jumps when he sees the shiny-Togruta. He catches himself again quickly, but his helmet keeps flicking over to her while they walk back. The little girl stays close to her mother at first but she keeps looking at them, too. After a while she leans over and quietly asks, “Are you droids too?”

“Nata!” Her mother splutters. 

Waxers face twists. Comparing them to droids is–it’s basically the worst insult to any clone. But this is a child, and she doesn’t know better. The people on this planet have no warriors, the only ones holding guns she has ever seen must’ve been droids.

“No,” Waxer says carefully. “We’re flesh and blood, just like you.”

“Okay,” says the tiny-Togruta. She seems to think very hard, and then flashes him and Boil a wide smile. “So you do have faces under that,” she whispers, more to herself.

Boil snorts, and the girl's face turns to him. “Yes, the buckets aren’t our face.”

“Can I see your real face?”

Waxer looks around, checks for any hostile objects. They’re almost at the outpost anyway. Might as well. 

He reaches up and pulls the bucket off in one swift motion, and he sees Boil do the same. The two other adults glance at them for a moment but then look away, as if they’re embarrassed to see their faces. 

“Are you brothers?” the little girl asks after a second. “You look very similar. I like your beard.”

Waxer opens his mouth but doesn’t get to reply. “Nata, they’re clones,” the girl’s father says in a hushed voice, tugging her away while he turns to Waxer and Boil. His eyes don’t meet either of theirs. “I’m sorry, she doesn’t know what she’s saying.”

“It’s fine, she’s just curious, Sir,” Waxer says. She reminds him of Numa.

(Waxer likes kids. He doesn’t see a lot of them, obviously, but he thinks he does well with them if the experience with Numa is anything to go by. He also knows that people will go out of their way to ignore a child's presence or to pretend they are too dumb to understand what’s happening around them. From what he can tell they are often underestimated.)

(Waxer only remembers very little of what it was like to be a child. There’s no room for a child on Kamino.)

“No, she’s not. Kids need to learn what they shouldn’t say–but, well, I don’t expect you to understand that.”

The woman nods in agreement. “You two seem so normal that for a moment I forgot you’re clones,” she says with a chuckle, but the joke isn’t directed at them. 

The words take a bit until they sink in, but when they do Waxer almost visibly shrinks into himself. Ah. 

Really, he should’ve seen this coming. He thinks about explaining that the fact that they’re clones doesn’t make them less alive than any other sentient being but decides against it–he has nothing to prove to anyone. He knows that he is and that’s enough. The trouble isn’t worth it. 

Boil is different. He clenches his teeth and then puts his bucket back on at record speed, the force around him a raging storm. But–Waxer would’ve been able to tell that Boil’s close to snapping even if he wasn’t force sensitive. 

(It still feels unreal to say it out loud. Though if Waxer thinks too much about it his head starts hurting, so he doesn’t.)

Now he can at least do something about it. Waxer thinks of the barracks after this damn mission is finished, thinks that Kenobi will be glad to see that they’ve saved a family, holds onto the feeling of calm and then pushes it over the bond. 

Boil’s head turns. 

Confusion flickers around him, then understanding, and then then a bit of the tension leaves his body. His shoulders slumb and he suddenly looks a lot smaller. 

“Oh, that was you,” Boil says quietly. You didn’t have to do that , he doesn’t say, but Waxer knows that’s what he means. Not because he’s force sensitive, but because this is Boil. And he’s right; Boil can control himself just fine. Waxer knows that. He also knows that dealing with strong emotions is still exhausting, and he wants to make this easier for him. It’s almost as if the force hums around Boil and Waxer decides that’s a good thing. He gives him a smile, remembers that he’s wearing a helmet and settles for nudging his brother's shoulder. “ Kih’parjai,” he replies and can’t quite keep the sarcasm out of his voice. 

They go quiet again until they arrive at the temporary base. The Commander takes the family over to talk to them about what they know, and the girl hesitantly waves at Waxer as she follows her parents. 

Waxer waves back. 

Kenobi arrives with part of the 501st a bit later. 

“How are we doing, Boil?” he calls up to the AT-ST. 

“We’re still mopping up clankers here and there, Sir. We’ve established a perimeter around the Governor’s tower. No one gets out without a fight.”

“Oh, and, General,” Waxer adds, “we’ve found a family that has been hiding from the Separatists. The Commander talked to them.”

Kenobi frowns, nods at them and then turns to Cody, who’s approaching with a datapad. 

Boil and Waxer turn around and get back to the task at hand. Boil suddenly stops, and then his voice comes through Waxer’s comm, only for him to hear. 

“You see that,” he asks, and nods his head towards one of the buildings. Waxer turns towards it and instantly catches what Boil means. There’s a trooper leaning on the wall, looking way too relaxed, and Waxer’s seen enough brothers die that way. He frowns.

“What is he doing?” he mutters. 

“No idea. You go down and remind him we’re in battle while I join the others?”

Waxer nods, and starts the AT-ST again. As he approaches the trooper he tries to focus on who he is, because he’s never seen that armor pattern before. His presence feels melodic, familiar, and Waxer realizes It’s–Lara, was that his name? 

He stops next to the building and leans down. Lara’s checking his comm, and Waxer takes a moment to look at his helmet. Hadn’t he said he didn’t want to paint it? A wavy, orange line now spreads across the white plateroid. 

“Hey, Lara,” he finally says. Lara looks up. Waxer can’t see his face but the air around him prickles with annoyance.

“ What ,” he says. 

Waxer searches for the right words, because from what he could tell Lara is–easily startled, to say the least. “Firstly, nice design on your helmet,” he finally says. He hopes to sound friendly, because he does think it’s a unique design. Which is confusing, because he had gotten the Impression that Lara didn’t want to be unique. 

“You should get into position,” he goes on. “I know it seems calm at the moment but there might be enemies around the corner, and if you let your defenses down you might not make it out again.”

For a moment Waxer thinks Lara’s just not going to listen to him, but after a loud groan the trooper pushes himself off the wall and gets a bit closer to Waxer. “Fine,” he says. “You can bother someone else now.”

Waxer looks at him from up where he’s sitting on the AT-ST. He blinks. Lara really seems to have woken up on the wrong foot. 

“I’m not trying to bother you. You’re one of our men and I’d like for you to make it.”

“Well, good news,” Lara says. “I’m pretty good at staying alive. It’s my specialty, you might say. I—“

He doesn’t get any further. Before either of them can react there’s a deafening bang as the building behind him goes up in flames. The explosion sends the trooper flying into the ground and the AT-ST stumbles, threatens to fall. Waxer curses and jumps off it, huffing as he lands on his knees in the dirt, and coughs. There’s smoke everywhere, but the helmet-vision leaves him some kind of view. He hears someone sob, looks around to see who else was near the explosion, and—he needs to get out of here before a second one follows. Where’s Lara?

He gets to his feet, shivers despite the heat. Then, he sees the body. 

Lara is moving, but his legs are twisted in the wrong direction and he stares at the sky as If he is far away. There are tears on his face. Waxer curses again as he leans over his brother and pulls him up until he’s lying over Waxer’s shoulder, whispers an apology when Lara groans in Pain. 

“Medic!” he yells, trips, just catches himself from falling. Tries to stand tall. He takes a few steps and then he sees Cody approaching him. “Waxer,” the Commander says, and Waxer coughs again. “I’m okay,” he says. “He was close to the explosion. The others–was anyone else near?”

“Yes, we’re getting them,” Cody says as he’s taking Lara’s (now awfully still) body from him. “But no colonists were in here. The General’s listening to what the Seperatist Commander is planning, seems like this was just supposed to be for shock.”

Waxer looks around and sees a Trooper lying over the remains of an AT-ST, not moving at all. Just for shock. 

“Okay,” Waxer says. “Good. That’s good.” It’s not good. Vode died.

Skywalker comes into view, leans over a trooper. “We need a medic over here!” he yells. 

The vod beneath him squirms, and Kix runs over, followed by a second medic Waxer doesn’t recognize. 

“Cody!” Skywalker calls out. Cody's head snaps up. “We don’t have time for the planetary scan. Hook R2 up and he’ll locate the bombs.”

Cody straightens his back, nods and sends a last questioning look to Waxer. “Right away, Sir,” he then says. 

Cody lays Lara onto the ground and the second 501st medic leans over him, checking his pulse and then searches for something in his med-kit. Lara groans again, seeming to come back to conscience after having blacked out for a bit. 

The Commander drops down to eye-level with the R2 unit and starts talking to it quietly.

“What happened here?” someone yells behind them, and Waxer looks up to Boil hopping off of his AT-ST. His helmet turns to the Troopers on the ground and then back to Waxer.

“Explosion. Two men down. Skywalker and Tano are off to get to the other explosives and disable them,” Waxer explains. “The droid will locate the bombs. The General keeps the Seperatist in place.”

“Does he need help?”

Cody chuckles darkly from where he’s working with the R2 unit. “I’d say yes, but he’s told us explicitly not to come up there. He’s a jedi, he can deal with a few droids and a Slaver.”

He seems as if he’s more trying to reassure himself than anyone else. Boil nods and seems to check Waxer over again before he turns to the brother lying next to them. 

“He was too close to the explosion. Was already dead when we pulled him out,” Kix says. He sounds tired.

A beeping noise to their right. “General Skywalker, your droid’s transmitting the bomb coordinates now,” Cody says into his comm. 

“ Copy that, Cody. We’re approaching the first bomb.”

Cody nods, pats the droid on the head. “Good job, buddy,” he says. 

The colonists were hidden away in the buildings close to the bombs, apparently waiting to be picked up so that they could be sold as Slaves. As soon as Skywalker comms that they’ve defused every bomb and that they’ve freed the people the Seperatist (officer? Slaver? Waxer has no idea) comes running out the tower, stops and curses when every clone in sight turns toward him. He gets out some kind of whip, turns towards a group of clones. Cody is faster than he is. 

Kenobi comes out only a moment after, gasping for air, and blinks at the body lying on the ground. He looks up at Cody with a smile. 

“Well, can’t say he doesn’t deserve it,” the General says. He’s limping, Waxer notes, and judging by the anger pouring off the Commander he has noticed, too. 

When they’re leaving the people of Kiros watch them, cheer and wave, though it’s mostly not directed at the clones. Their amazed gazes are fixated on the Jedi, which Waxer can kind of understand. Still. They did something, too. 

Waxer sees the little girl from before in the crowd, holding her mothers hand, and when she catches him looking at her she smiles and waves hesitantly. Different from Numa, who had swung her hand back and forth in wide motions.

Waxer waves back. 

Chapter Text

There is something about music that makes CT-4267’s heart beat faster, makes his fingertips twitch and a smile form on his face without wanting it to. He’s not sure why he reacts so strongly to what is basically just random sounds playing behind one another, but he likes it. 

The longnecks have no sense for music. They think it’s a waste of time, especially for what are beings bred for war and fighting, and ‘67 hates them for it. The only music that exists is the “calming and relaxing” audios that play in the elevators and in the barracks sometimes. ‘67 hates those. They are music, sure, but that’s not his kind of music. 

Most of the longnecks don’t listen to it themselves either, even if they could, which is even more confusing to ‘67. 

‘67 knows that music exists, he always has. It exists with simple patterns of fingers tapping on a table, exists in a simple hum in the fresher. Anything can be music, he figures. 

The first time ‘67 ever hears actual singing is in the barracks when the sun is long gone (as if it had ever been there in the first place–Kamino is mostly filled with clouds and rain and that’s it). His squad has gathered, leaning over each other, singing with all that’s in them. They passed their final test today. They’ll be going out into battle soon. 

‘67 doesn’t think that’s a good thing. But then again, the others don’t really listen to what he’s saying, anyway. It’s alright. ‘67 keeps his distance.

But–now, his squad is singing, clinging onto each other while they’re doing it. ‘67 sits in the back and listens to their voices, feels as if he’s drowning in it. He thinks he’s heard it before. 

An older vod must’ve teached the rest of his batch. 

When they’ve finished singing, he clears his throat, and their heads whip around. As if they hadn’t even noticed he had been there in the first place. As if they had forgotten about him. 

“What’s the name of the song,” he asks. 

Longshot, who declared himself leader of their batch, frowns. “I don’t think it has a name. It’s just a song.”

“Well, every song has a name” ‘67 says. “Maybe we could figure it out somewhere. It has to be some kind of song soldiers are singing, right? Maybe it’s a Mandalorian battle song. The lyrics are in Mando’a.”

The others stare at him. Then, Longshot sighs. “Sorry, but I don’t really care for what the song is. It’s just supposed to be a little bit of fun.”

‘67 blinks. “I got that,” he says, almost offended. “I think it’s fun to try and hack into some of the kamonian databases. It’s not actually hacking anyway, they don’t even try to hide simple information like this. And–we could translate the lyrics using the old datapads from back when Prime teached the oldest vode Mando’a. They have to be lying around somewhere.”

He looks at his brothers faces, and–

‘67 doesn’t know what he expected in response, but he guesses he expected– something. Some enthusiasm, maybe. Surely not the deafening silence that follows, with his brothers watching him as if he had grown a second head. 

‘67 drops his arms. “ What ,” he asks after a moment when Oli still hadn’t closed his gaping mouth again, defensiveness in his voice. Longshot avoids eye contact. Mistle’s face twists. Aim squints his eyes.

“Why are you still like this?” the latter asks after another long moment, shaking his head. “You already got reconditioned, shouldn’t you be–I don’t know, normal? You know you won’t get another chance, right ?”

‘67 flinches. 

Longshot must’ve seen, because he slaps Aim and his brother yelps, but there’s no apology. ‘67 knows they mean what he said; He doesn’t get why he keeps trying to get them to do anything with him. The only reason he’s with them now is that he got reconditioned while their old batchmate got decommissioned for being too small. To them, he’s nothing but a cheap replacement for a friend. 

‘67 wants to feel sorry for them, he really does, and he did for the first few months, but–they’re also so extremely boring. ‘67 can’t stand how they follow every order to a ridiculous amount. For the first few months he was with them they didn’t even have names because they thought the longnecks might get angry (It’s different for ‘67; He can’t settle on a name because he can’t shake the feeling that he’s already known it and the stupid kriffin reconditioning made him forget. No name feels right); ‘67 doesn’t even have to ask them if they actually know any Mando’a. The language was passed down by brothers or sought out in databases now, since the trainers won’t teach it anymore. 

But–all of that’s not ‘67’s fault, is it now?

He clenches his fist and frowns. “Well, fuck you too,” he tells the rest of their batch and signs a rude gesture at them that gets him a gasp from Oli. He scrambles up and leaves the barracks as quickly as he can. “Have a nice time celebrating your deaths,” he tells them as he passes. He doesn’t look back. 

‘67 is fuming. He almost wishes the damn longnecks had just killed him right away, instead of doing whatever the fuck longnecks do when they recondition someone. Sweet, sweet release of death. But–that’s not what he wants either. He doesn’t want to be dead, he just wants himself back. ‘67 has no idea who he is. 

He’s started writing down his personality traits after the first month or so of being thrown into regular cadet life with no memories. He doesn’t like to think back to that time, because he had been almost robotic. Listen to the longnecks, do what you’re told, don’t think about what you’re doing. He’s not sure when he snapped out of it. 

Likes attention, he wrote down on his datapad after he had completed his training that day and grinned at a few cadets that had watched him with big eyes. ‘67 knows he is good at the things he does; He prides himself in being an amazing shot (better than longshot, he thinks. Much better. And longshots name is literally longshot. )

(He had added arrogant to the list after a few weeks, and then self-aware to try and make himself look a bit better.) 

And no matter how much ‘67 tries, everything that made him the vod he once was is gone; Name, batch, hell, just about everything. 

There is something he wanted to do. The song. 

He wants to find out more about that song. He doesn’t remember all the lyrics, but he has a faint sense of what the words sounded like and hums them as he walks. 

Where would he even look for that? 

‘67 stomps around for a while, until he stops in front of a storage area. He carefully slips inside.  

There’s lots of boxes, and it says OUTDATED on the front of a few of them in big letters. ‘67 decides to go for those first, opens them carefully and grins when he sees the datapads. The first ten ones he looks at are useless to him, just full of old-galactic history that doesn’t seem to be correct anymore, but the eleventh one he goes through makes it worth it. 

‘67 reads. 

Mando’a dictionary , it says, and ‘67 shuts it off again and tidies up the place neatly, until everything is back in its place. Then he presses the datapad close to his chest and makes his way down the corridor again. 

When he gets back into the barracks, his brothers are still up, but they don’t spare him a single glance as he walks past and climbs the ladder up to his tube. ‘67 won’t admit that it hurts, even if he doesn’t really care about them. Still, he makes a show of positioning himself comfortably in his opened tube-bed as he opens the datapad again. 

“ Maker, he actually did it” , Aim whispers to Longshot, loud enough that everyone in the room could hear it. ‘67 winks at him. “Told you,” he says and then he leans over the pad. 

Turns out that having no idea how anything is pronounced is a huge fallback on his way to figuring out the meaning of the song. ‘67 goes through the dictionary with furrowed brows, but; not a single one of these words looks like it would belong to the ones he heard. It’s disappointing to say the least. He doesn’t know how to pronounce any of this, and the instructions for it don’t help. 

He stops scrolling at one word, though, and blinks.

Laaran, he says in his mind. It sounds nice. It means singing. 

“La-a-ran,” he whispers, not fully confident in his pronunciation, but finds that yes, it does sound very nice. Laaran. Laara. Lara. Lara. 

It’s as if something clicks , and ‘67 stares at the word a bit longer, turns it around in his mind, looks at it from all sides and angles. Lara. Shortened, bastardised version of Laaran. 

A name in Mando’a. 

“My name is Lara,” he says no no one but himself, and he actually smiles, and it reaches his eyes. It feels right. That’s his name. Lara. Laaran. He’s found it. 

Funny enough, It’s Boil who gives him his first ever mixtape, if you could even call it that. It’s a tiny adapter one can put inside their com, and can play music either over the speaker on his wrist or inside of his helmet. 

Boil also doesn’t give it to him, exactly. More in he leaves it lying on a table in a common area anyone could walk in and Lara uses his chance. Boil doesn’t seem to miss it, and Lara is having the time of his life. 

Lara likes Boil; They’re about the same age, but Boil looks a lot older (he also looks a lot funnier, but Lara doesn’t say that. He really can’t afford to make fun of a superior) and is a lot more grumpy. That’s not all there is though, if the way Waxer and Boil cling together is anything to go by. You would think Waxer would be the clingy one, but it’s Boil who is like his shadow. 

Still, Lara’s point stands. He likes Boil. 

That night he keeps his helmet on and listens through every piece of music Boil has on it, softly taps his foot and shakes his head to the beat. It becomes a thing really quickly. They get back from a rough battle or anything of the sorts, Lara hits the fresher, puts only his helmet back on and goes to sleep listening to songs in languages he doesn’t always understand. 

Some troopers give him odd looks when he walks around in his offtime in only his blacks and his helmet. A few shinys think he’s shy, and that he doesn’t want to show his face. If they’d know; They may all have the same face, but Lara thinks he looks pretty good, actually. 

He never listens to music in battle, because music is for the nice things. He doesn’t want to ruin that for him by associating it with battle and blood and death. 

Lara grows his hair. On Kamino they all had to have the same good old haircut, but now that he was off that hellscape he could actually do something with it. It’s exciting. When they’re visiting planets (or fighting on them, for that matter) Lara makes sure to take a look at the haircuts the people there are wearing. You know. For inspiration. 

One time when they’re at a peaceful event, basically just there for the formalities, Lara steals a notebook from a small shop. Turns out that wasn’t his smartes move. He knows it doesn’t work like a datapad, but that’s what he’s used to; he can’t figure out how to write anything in it. 

General Kenobi sees him struggle, laughs, and says that you have to write in it by hand. He tells him to use his pen for it and return it later. Because Lara is good at writing things down, he makes another list in the notebook about hairstyles that are good. 

He also finds that making small doodles of the cuts he likes is a lot easier with pen and notebook than it is with notepad and finger. The notebook ends up secured safely under his mattress in the barracks, and Kenobi forgets to ask for his pen. 

Lara keeps it. 

(Sometimes, he misses not having a sibling like some of his brothers do. All his vode are family, but–then there are those like Waxer and Boil or Longshot and Aim. Batchmates, Twins, Soulmates, whatever. Most of the time Lara doesn’t care, hell, he’s glad he doesn’t have to worry every day about someone he loves dying. He’d have to love someone for that to happen, first. Other days he misses having someone hug him like that, as if you’re the centre of the whole world. Unconditional love and all that.)

When they’re on break, right after the citadel mission from which not a single 212th trooper except the Commander returned, Lara accidentally finds himself befriending a shiny. 

He’s training in the common rooms when the kid barges in and starts beating the shit out of a training droid. Unprompted. With his bare hands. 

Normally it’s Commander Cody who does that. Lara watches the kid, but when he doesn’t stop he walks over and yanks him back from the droid. The kid’s hands are already bloody at that point, his knuckles bruised. 

“Hey, that’s not–“ he starts but chokes on his words when the trooper whips his head at him. He’s crying. Silent tears are running down his cheeks, and he quickly looks away again. 

“Sorry, Sir,” he says. His voice sounds as monotone as any brother's voice does when they’ve been told their whole life they should be as emotionless as possible. Everything about this kid screams Kamino; Lara hates it. 

“You okay?” he asks, even when he’s not the best at comforting people. The kid shakes his head. “My batch was down there,” he says after a moment. “There were five of us. I wasn’t sent with them. They’re dead.”

The kid swallows, and Lara is at loss. He doesn’t know what this feels like. He hadn’t bat a eye when he heard of Longshots death, couldn’t feel anything at all. Sure, It was sad, he deserved to live longer, but he hadn’t known him. 

Reasons as to why Lara can’t feel anything for Longshot:

1. Longshot hated him. 
2. Longshot and him talked maybe a total of ten times in Lara’s entire time on Kamino, and never had it been him to start the conversation. 
3. If it had been Lara, Longshot wouldn’t have felt anything, either. 

But–he misses his old batchmates, whoever they might be. He can at least try to understand this kid. 

“What’s your name,” he asks. The shiny blinks at him. “CT-7332,” he then says. 

“No name?”

“No. Not yet.”

He’s quiet again, and Lara slings an arm around his shoulder. “Hey, shiny. Remember what they say. Not gone, merely marching far away . I believe that your brothers are watching you right now, wherever they are.”

“Not just brothers,” ‘32 says. “Sprint was a sister.”

“Siblings, then. She’s watching you too,” Lara corrects himself. ‘32 hums, and then sweeps his tears away. “What’s your name?” he asks. 

Lara grins. “It’s Lara. Call me Lara.”

“That’s a nice name,” ‘32 mutters. “I’ve tried finding a name but none feel right.”

“That’s okay. I found mine only a few months ago. It’ll come around, anything can be a name if you want it to be.”

“There’s a sibling called di’kut . Doesn’t that mean idiot in Mando’a?”

Laras mouth twitches. “A kid called themselves di’kut? ”

“Their batchmates kept calling them that. Everyone else jumped in,” ‘32 explains. “It was the only word our batch knew.”

“I always forget that they aren’t teaching you Mando’a anymore,” Lara says. He’s a hypocrite. Lara knows maybe ten words, and he can pronounce maybe five of them right. 

‘32 shrugs. “You could teach me some. Sometime, I mean.”

This is a horrible idea. Lara’s not stupid; He knows what happens to most shinies. They go into battle expecting it to be like the simulations on Kamino. They expect to walk out onto the field, see the droids, shoot them down and then go back to their ship. 

War is different. War never stops. They go out there, see the droids, start shooting, but it never gets less. Somehow you have to keep moving. That’s not what shinies are being trained for.

‘32 still has that shine in him, the littlest bit left from a child that was forced to grow up too fast, a hint of an innocent being.

Speaking of that. “How old are you?” Lara asks. 

“I’ll be nine in—45 rotations,” ‘32 says, checking his com. 

Lara stares. “You’re eight? ” he asks, a bit louder than he intended to. ‘32 looks uncomfortable. 

That’s too early . Those are cadets, not troopers. No wonder the shinies look shinier and shinier with every passing day; They’re not even adults, for fucks sake. 

“Are you okay,” ‘32 asks. Asks him . If he’s okay. 

Lara wants to laugh. He doesn’t though, because ‘32 only wants to help, and–

This is a horrible idea, because most shinies don’t make it past their first battle, and it looks like Umbara might be ‘32’’s. Lara has heard bad things about Umbara. Getting attached to a shiny that’ll die within the next few rotations makes no sense and is objectively bad for your mental health. 

But–‘32 needs a friend, and If he can somehow make the kid’s last days any better, maker knows he’ll try. The best szenario would obviously be him not dying at all, but Lara doesn’t like bringing his hopes up.

Next time when Lara grabs his food, ‘32 is there to talk to him. And also when he’s going to the barracks. And when he’s hitting the fresher. And because he must be the luckiest bastard alive, ‘32 sleeps in the bunk next to his. 

Lara feels like he should complain. But–he kind of likes having someone with him. ‘32 lost everyone he had, so him being a bit clingy makes sense. 

I lost everyone, too , Lara thinks. I was never like that. And then, after a moment, he wonders, would I have been clingy if my new batchmates had accepted me?

He shakes the thought off. There’s no use in thinking about this. There’s no use in doing anything at all. 

He notices that something must be wrong the night before Umbara, when he wakes up because Waxer had fallen out of his bunk . Somehow. Despite the reiling. 

Lara blinks the sleep away and watches as Waxer lays still for a few seconds, but before he can ask if he’s okay Boil is already leaning over his twin. 

From where he’s lying Lara has a perfect view to Waxers face, and–

That’s when Lara is awake. Waxer looks terrified, as if he’s about to start crying any second now. One moment later they’re hugging each other close and whisper something that Lara can’t make out. For a moment Waxer looks up and meets Lara’s eyes. 

Lara shuts them quickly. Better not to seem as if he was invading the guy’s privacy–whatever this is about, must be personal. 

Waxer crawls into Boils bunk.

He probably had a nightmare , Lara thinks. That must be it .

He ignores the burning feeling inside of him. 

Lara hates Umbara with a passion. It’s about everything that he despises mashed into one horrible no good planet, and it reminds him of the dark nights on Kamino. (The time on Kamino had also been everything Lara hates mashed into one childhood experience–well, maybe more like teen experience. Regarding the first seven years of his Life they might as well not have happened at all.)

(Sometimes Lara thinks it might be better that way, when a sibling accidentally reveals something from their childhood and Lara thinks how did they just let that happen? )

(It’s not like Lara can do anything about it, though. They’re clones. He’s one of thousands. No one cares.)

They’re with lieutenant Waxer, and Lara realizes he has never talked to him before. Waxer must be the same age as he is, too, considering Boil is his batchmate, but he has a bit of a beard on his chin that makes him look older. He’s also been here for way longer than Lara (the whole reconditioning business, including that he had to stay another whole year on Kamino to catch up on everything that has been forcefully removed from his memory, is at fault for that).

(Lara wonders, sometimes, if any of his original batchmates are still alive, and if they might just be right here with them. It’s very unlikely, but it’s a nice thought.)

Normally, Lara would trust Waxer with his life, even if he has never talked to him before. Not–a lot, anyway. There had been very few times, before Umbara, when the Lieutenant had shouted something at him over that battlefield. 

Which is why when Waxer tells them to take off their helmets, he’s dumbfounded. “With all due respect, Sir, this is a horrible idea,” he shouts at him, but Waxer just repeats his orders and there’s something close to desperate about his voice–

Lara’s heard that tone before. He knows that voice. Lara tries to hold onto the feeling, but the next second it’s gone again. Now he’s not sure if it had been there in the first place. 

This keeps happening. Why does this keep happening?

He shakes his head softly. No time to mourn his old self on the battlefield, or it was his new self he would be mourning. Lara stays in the middle of the group, not to the front or the back; He’s trying to stay alive. That’s his primary goal. His second goal is to make sure ‘32 stays alive as well. 

‘32 makes it hard for Lara to protect him, but apparently the lieutenant is more or less looking out for him; Though when he spares a glance at his vod’ika Waxer has tackled him to the ground and yells something at him. Lara has to refrain himself from tearing Waxer off of his little brother. 

Then the thing with the 501st happens. Waxer gives them orders, everyone looks at him the same way Lara’s “batchmates” used to look at him, and Waxer just throws himself into the bolts of blaster fire. Lara is impressed. Waxer really has it in him.

(‘32 looks at Waxer as if he’s some special unit or something).

And then, Krell. Lara didn’t think it would be this bad, but Krell's lightsaber moves through the bodies of his siblings as if they’re made out of cotton candy. Lara stays away from him. Obviously, he still shoots at the guy, he’s not an idiot and he knows how to do his job. But it’s also not like the bolts seem to be hindering the jedi in any way, no matter how perfect he aims. 

Lara gets careless for one single second. That’s all it takes for Krell to get to ‘32. 

Lara knows it’s him because the kid had waved at Lara just a moment before, and now he lies unmoving on the ground, his helmet cut open and smoke emerging from it. Next to him two other troopers, both with limbs twisting in the wrong directions. The Jedi moves on without giving the troopers on the ground or Lara a few feet away another glance. 

Lara can’t breathe. 

He falls onto his knees beside ‘32 and carefully removes the broken pieces of his helmet. ‘32 shivers under his touch and whimpers. “Sorry,” Lara whispers. 

He almost has his first panic attack since Kamino right then and there, as he looks at his vod’ikas face and all he sees is blood . 

“Is it bad?” ‘32 chokes out. Lara shakes his head, touches ‘32’s face carefully, tries to find out where the lightsaber has hit him. He’s still moving. That means it only grazed him, right? 

‘32 flinches under every touch. 

“The cuts aren’t too deep and he missed your eyes,” Lara says, not knowing what he’s talking about. He’s not a medic. He’s nothing. ‘32 has his eyes wide open, that’s how he knows they’re fine. 

“I’m not goin’ to die?” ‘32 asks. 

“I’m not letting you die,” Lara tells him, and it feels as if he’s repeating the words of someone else. “I won’t let another one die.”

He rolls ‘32 up into a sitting position until he can pick him up by the shoulders and put his arm over his own neck. “You can walk, right,” he asks. ‘32 nods. “Walking is fine,” he breathes out. Blood drips to the ground. 

Lara can’t even look at him. 

When they arrive at the base the 501st medic immediately runs over to them and takes ‘32 over to fix him up. Turns out that Lara was right. The scar wouldn’t kill him, it was just–there now. Lara stays by ‘32’s side until he wakes up, and once he does wake up ‘32 won’t stop asking Lara to make holos of his new scar. He’s incredibly proud of it. (“All the legendary clones have scars! Like Commander Cody, or Commander Wolffe, or–well, Captain Rex doesn’t have a scar, but he does have blond hair, and that’s kind of the same thing.”)

(“It’s really not.”)

Lara also catches sight of the Lieutenant, who literally got shot and then chased by a Jedi (from what Lara heard from the others, but he’s kinda lost touch on the situation after ‘32 got Krell’s lightsaber in the face) and was still standing around. 

“He’s so cool,” ‘32 says. 

Lara frowns. “Everything he did I could’ve done, too,” he says. Not because it’s true, but because he wishes it was. Sometimes it feels as if he has two switches, either immense self hatred or unreasonably self-assured. 

‘32 blinks at him. “I didn’t mean I don’t think you’re cool as well. But you’re my friend.”

Maybe that makes it a bit better. Lara decides that he likes having a friend. 

When Lara hears about Krell’s death, he almost wants to pat the trooper who shot him on the shoulder. He doesn’t, though. Mainly because the poor guy is being shipped off to the senate. 

Lara’s collection of reasons why every vod should hate the senate:

1. They think clones are like droids. Most senators call them “clone,” singular, even if more than one of them are in the room, and if they do notice they’re not all the same person they use the numbers. Never names. 
2. They don’t think they’re sentient and that’s how they treat them. 
3. They’re politicians and could probably get each and every one of them at least basic human rights. Proper burials. To have a murder of a vod count as just that, murder, and not as property damage. The senators don’t do that. 
4. They pretend to hate slavery while they tell another soldier to get them water or to do some sort of daily task that really isn’t part of their duties, but the soldier follows their orders, because he doesn’t have a choice. They pretend to hate slavery but it’s happening right in front of their faces, and they turn their head and look away. 

(‘32 calls himself Shoot that day. Lara hugs him.)

Shoot stole his notebook. 

Lara wants to punch something. Maybe someone. Preferably not Shoot, because he actually likes the kid, but any other sibling would do. 

It has to be Shoot, because no other trooper even knows he has it. Lara had shown him right when they got back from Umbara in an attempt to cheer him up. At first Shoot pretended to be fine, to be happy about the scar and all that. Maybe that last thing was genuine, but–you never forget your first battle. It fucks you up. 

Shoot screams the first night they’re back, and then almost starts crying when the other vode in the barracks get angry at him for waking them up. Lara takes Shoot to the fresher to go wash his face and then forces him to talk about his feelings. Him. Lara. The one who doesn’t do feelings. He’s being a hypocrite, he knows that. 

Lara hugs Shoot close while he confesses that he can’t stop thinking about the burned bodys of his brothers, about Krell impaling Jex on his lightsaber and snapping Flickers spine in half. Lara hadn’t known any of the other shinies very well, but had exchanged a few words here and there. They thought he was one of them because of his armor. 

“Why not me?” Shoot says. Even now, as he’s breaking down, he's quiet. He whispers. “ Why did I survive but they didn’t?”

At times being the one who survives feels almost worse than dying. Not that Lara would know. ( He almost knew, a voice inside of his head says. If Shoot had died on Umbara, you would know .)

Lara must’ve done something right though, because after that Shoot is, surprisingly, kind of back to normal. Shiny-normal. That spark still hasn’t left his eyes, and he still smiles with all of his teeth. Lara finds that, yes, maybe he did do something right for once. 

Back to the problem at hand. The notebook. It’s gone. 

Lara cannot afford for one of the natborn officers to find it. He’s collected everything in there, including information that he shouldn’t have access to. Obviously nothing serious. Just things he’s interested in, history, languages. Things that troopers really shouldn’t care about.

A handy list of things troopers should care about:

1. Winning whatever battle they were fighting and keeping their General alive. 
2. That’s it. 

Lara storms out of the barracks and whips his head in every direction. Where is the kid? 

He stomps through the hallway, almost runs a shiny over and keeps going. The ship isn’t that big. He’ll search everywhere if he has to. 

Then, he sees him. Shoot is talking to two other troopers, and with the frustration boiling up inside him he doesn’t even spare them a glance at first. 

“ Gar mirsh solus, Shoot!” he hisses. “ K’olar! Where did you–“

He stops. Fuck. Kriffing shit. Waxer and Boil turn their head towards him, and he quickly salutes. “Sirs!”

Better to try and stay out of trouble. 

Waxer snorts. “At ease, shiny,” he says, and Lara glares at him. Bites his tongue to keep himself from making a snarky remark. He’s not a shiny. Instead he clips off his helmet and turns to Shoot. “ We need to talk,” he whispers. 

Shoot frowns. “What? Wait–Waxer, Sir, I want to ask you something first.”

Silence. Lara looks up at Waxer, and the Lieutenant is staring back with an unreadable expression. Lara’s neck prickles. 

“Waxer,” Boil says, and Waxer snaps out of it. “Sorry, I was–thinking. Hey, have we met before,” he then asks Lara. 

Lara hesitates, and considers his options. He shrugs. “We haven’t talked, Sir, but I’ve fought with you in several battles before. My name is Lara,” he adds, even though he doubts that name will mean anything to Waxer. The Lieutenant frowns. 

“Your armor–“

“I don't want to paint it,” Lara interrupts him. He regrets his words as soon as he says them, because–they don’t understand. They don’t know him. 

“Don’t want to paint your armor? People won’t know who you are in battle,” Boil says. 

“Good,” Lara replies drily, not breaking eye contact. Isn’t that what they’re supposed to be? Personality-less and blank?

Obviously Lara has personality. He’s alive and sentient and bla bla bla. He doesn’t mind other troopers painting their armor, understands that they want to differentiate themselves from everyone else somehow .

Lara doesn’t deserve that, though. The armor reflects who you are, your experiences, and Lara has been wiped clean of all that.  

The year he had spent in battle meant nothing to him, because he wouldn’t let it mean anything. 

Lara turns toward Shoot again. He forces a smile, but knows Shoot will get the underlying message that Lara is pissed. “Training in an hour?”

Shoot frowns, and then he nods. 

Good. He got it. Lara turns to leave. 

“Nice talking to you, Sirs,” he says to Waxer and Boil in passing, and then, because he can’t help himself, he adds, “Let’s not repeat that any time soon.”

He fastens his step and turns around the corner, and once he’s out of sight he cringes. Ah. He’s fucked that up. What is he doing? Waxer and Boil could get him decommissioned for something like that. He’s tried not to stick out, and now sticks out by not sticking out. Maker. That’s confusing. 

Shoot doesn’t have the notebook. He did steal it from him, though, even if he says, “I was just borrowing it!” 

He borrowed it to show his other shiny friends the drawings. One of them asked to keep it for a bit, and Shoot told her it’s alright. 

Lara catches her only a bit later. 

She’s sitting on her bunk in the barracks, braiding her own hair, and yelps when he grabs her arm. “Shoot gave you my notebook,” he hisses. “I’d like to have it back.”

She looks at him and then her face lights up. “You’re Shoots ori’vod !” she says. 

“Yes,” Lara says, and can’t help but feel a bit proud. “That’s me. Now, the book.”

The shiny grabs the hand on her arm and shakes it. “My name’s Bite! I wanted the book to try and practice drawing the symbol I want to put on my armor. Shoot said that’s alright.”

Lara loves Shoot, he really does, but right now he wants to shake him and ask what the kriff is going on in his head. 

“You drew in my notebook ?”

“Yeah! I’m really proud of it,” Bite says. “Here, you can have it back. Tell me what you think.”

She pushes the notebook back into Lara’s hands. From the outside it looks the same. He opens it, flaps through until he’s at the last page that has been used. 

Lara stares. 

A tiny version of Krell’s head stares right back. 

Lara blinks, and then a smile slips from his teeth. “Is that Krell,” he asks in disbelief, looking over all of the different versions of the same idea that are spread over the entire page. 

“ Dead Krell,” Bite corrects. “Me and a few others want to use it. Shoot asked the Lieutenant today if it’s okay, and I made all those slightly different versions. They’re unique to the trooper wearing it. This one is Shoot’s,” she adds and points at a tiny-Krell that has x’s instead of eyes and his tongue sticking out. 

Lara shakes his head softly. “Those are amazing,” he says. 

Bite smirks. She and Shoot still both have that shiny-optimism and excitement that makes older troopers make comments like, “all shinies are the same”. They’re not, really; They’re just not traumatised yet. At least not terribly. 

Lara doesn’t even need to ask Bite to know that she can’t be older than eight and a half. 

Bite gives him the notebook back, and when Shoot enters the barracks that evening there’s a tiny-Krell on his paldron. 

Lara stares at his helmet for an hour that evening before he lifts his brush and paints a wavy line over it. He starts at the left bottom corner and carefully drags the brush over until he stops at the top. 

Shoot’s scar. The scar he got on his first battle because Lara got too careless for a second. Lara wishes it was him who could’ve gotten the scar instead, wishes he could take the pain away from his little brother. 

But then again. Shoot loves the scar. 

Lara feels guilty for painting his helmet, almost angry at himself for giving in, for dismissing the silent promise he made to himself but–he needs this. The rest of his armor is still bare; It’s just the helmet. 

He doesn’t know who he is, but Lara is Shoot’s ori’vod . That’s what matters. 

Lara thinks the campaign on Kiros will be fine. He honestly believes in it. Shoot isn’t down there this time, and Lara is glad for it, because it’s one less thing to worry about. Which also means that he really couldn’t care less about the thing. There are no citizens around? They’re probably hiding. (This turns out to be true once they meet a family that has somehow escaped the clankers; The Lieutenants take care of getting them to safety before returning to the fight. Apparently the whole population has been taken to different parts of the capitol without any reasoning behind it that would make sense to them.)

The guy in the tower wants to discuss surrender? Good! Good for the jedi. Doesn’t make any difference to him, but most of his vode are happy about winning so really, who cares?

Everything seems to be going well. Lara thinks that he’s deserved a break. 

He stands a bit to the side of Commander Cody and General Skywalker, leans against the wall of a building and checks his com. One new message from Shoot. 

Come back safe . Coyacyi!!

Lara almost snorts. Shoot tries to use lots of the words Lara has teached him, but he seems to always forget how they’re spelled. Lara got the message, anyway. 

“Hey, Lara,” Waxer suddenly says. Lara looks up and frowns.

“What,” he says. 

“Firstly, nice design on your helmet,” Waxer says. Lara supposes he’s lying. Out of formality. To be kind. The “design” looks awful if you don’t get what’s behind it. 

Waxer isn’t finished, though. “You should get into position. I know it seems calm at the moment but there might be enemies around the corner, and if you let your defenses down you might not make it out again.”

Lara groans, but does listen and pushes himself off the wall. “Fine,” he says. “You can bother someone else now.”

Waxer looks at him from up where he’s sitting on the AT-ST. “I’m not trying to bother you. You’re one of our men and I’d like for you to make it.”

“Well, good news,” Lara says. “I’m pretty good at staying alive. It’s my specialty, you might say. I—“

He doesn’t get any further. Right behind him there’s a bang and fire and then Lara is thrown forward to the ground with a grunt and pain explodes everywhere. He screams. His head throbs. He feels dizzy but still tries to get up, but–his legs don’t work. His legs don’t work. 

Panic fills him. His legs won’t move, and the fire is creeping closer. He got caught in an explosion, and where one is a second one might follow. It is either get out of here now or die. 

Then there’s a piercing, deafening pain in his head, and suddenly something twists . Lara gasps. Recoils. What? 

Pictures flood through his mind, one’s he’s never seen before and yet seen so often, word’s he’s never heard before and yet always kept with him barging into his brain. People, noises, songs, dark nights filled with quiet laughter, sparring and training and horrible, horrible food–

Lara sobs into the ground, a broken and defeated sound. Curls his hands into fists to try and stop the shaking. He doesn’t even care about his legs anymore. It’s so much . 

He remembers. He remembers everything. He remembers Kamino, the first seven years of his life, his batchmates, remembers how he was always in the front, always protected them–they’re all a few seconds younger than he is, he used to call them vod’ika to annoy them, he remembers his legs not moving , and how this is not his fault, he had no choice, this—

There is something , for a brief moment, and then there is nothing again. 

Lara stills. 

His mind is quiet. 

Nothing. 

Wiped clean. 

There’s nothing, nothing at all. 

It feels like some sick joke. Someone must be laughing at him right now, must throw their head back in joy and point their finger at the pathetic creature lying in the dirt with a set of fucked up legs and a fucked up brain. Must say, look at him. Isn’t that funny? Isn’t his suffering hilarious?

Lara hopes they’re having fun. 

He rolls up onto his back with all the strength he has left and stares at the sky above. It’s not a pretty sky. He’s not too fond of skies in general, but there’s something about them that makes him feel nostalgic. Usually. Not this time, though. 

His face is wet from crying, and he reaches up to touch his cheek with the hand that doesn’t feel like it’s burning. 

Not tears of sadness. Tears of happiness. 

Lara can’t recall ever having cried before. Certainly not out of sadness, and especially not over happiness. There isn’t much to be happy about as a battle-slave of the republic, no matter how many troopers pretend to be happy about their situation. Lara doesn’t buy it for one second. 

But–he remembered. He remembers remembering. And yet, here he is, and he knows whatever he had remembered was important, but it’s gone. Vanished. As if it had never been there in the first place. 

Lara feels empty. He got so close. He almost had himself back. 

Something is stopping me from remembering, Lara thinks. And then, after another moment: It’s all still in there.

He’ll do anything to get himself back. 

Distantly he notices someone shaking him, pulling him up, but he’s too tired, too caught up in his own head to care. He does think, If I hadn’t moved when Waxer told me to, I would be nothing but dust. He’s still not a huge fan of him, but–he owes him his life, now. Just great. 

Lara closes his eyes. He just wants himself back. They already get nothing, no rights, no freedom, no safety, he deserves at least this much. It’s all he has. 

Chapter Text

Skywalker and Tano keep looking at him .

They’re returning from Kiros and Skywalker sends his men back to the resolute with the Captain while he and his Padawan stay to–do whatever Jedi do in their off-time. Maybe they want to spend time with General Kenobi. 

He follows the Commander, they get on top of the negotiator and when the General dismisses them he goes his way. These days there’s never a complete calm on the ship, but at least they can expect to get some rest for now. Nothing’s out of the regular. 

The thing is that Waxer isn’t used to being looked at by people other than his brothers. Most people don’t look at clones just like they don’t look at droids–they’re only there when they’re needed. 

Kiros just proved this.

Obviously Jedi are an exception, but–for Skywalker and Tano to notice him , especially, is weird. 

The first time he notices is when he’s bringing a few datapads from Cody's office to General Kenobi’s right after the campaign. Cody had insisted on doing it himself but Waxer deemed him too exhausted, and in the end Cody sighed and let it go. 

Waxer stops in front of the Generals quarters and knocks before he opens the door. 

General Kenobi leans on the wall, Skywalker sprawled out on the sofa next to him while Tano seems to be in the midst of a conversation with her Grandmaster. 

“General, Sir,” Waxer says, and then nods at the others. “General Skywalker, Commander Tano.”

All their heads snap around to him. Waxer is glad he decided to wear his helmet. He steps forward, holds the datapads out for Kenobi to take and tries to ignore the eyes on him. 

“Commander Cody has already finished up most of the records, and he would’ve done these too but the men and I decided he needed a break, and we made him confess that you offered your help. Sir,” he adds. 

Kenobi smiles. “Thank you, Waxer. I’ve indeed wanted to help him, but he insisted on doing it alone. I’m glad you were able to convince him.” He takes the datapads from Waxer’s hands and puts them neatly on the ground beside him. 

Waxer looks up and the Jedi, excluding Kenobi, stare right back. He shifts. 

Different to his brothers, Waxer can’t tell what they’re feeling at all. He supposes it’s part of the whole ‘emotional control’ Jedi thing. 

“Sir,” he says, drawing out the first letter, and salutes. Kenobi knows him long enough to decipher the underlying message in the slight change of his tone. 

“Ah, yes, you’re dismissed, Waxer. Go get some rest.”

Waxer had hoped to maybe ask General Kenobi on when his next training-lesson would be, but he doubts it would be smart to discuss that with Tano and Skywalker in the room. He doesn’t trust them. Sure, Tano is nice, maybe she would keep the secret, but he really doesn’t know a lot about Skywalker, except that he’s basically Kenobi’s vod’ika. 

He feels their stares on his back as he exits the room. 

When Waxer opens his eyes the edges of his vision are hazy. 

He takes a moment to recognize where he is, but when he does he flinches, pushes himself backwards but only sends his head crashing into the wood behind him. He groans. 

No, please. Everything but this. The dark, giant plants hover above him, blaster bolts echo in the distance. The fog around him makes it hard to see, and—

And the trooper across from him lies awfully still. Waxer shakes his head sharply. This isn’t real. He’s gotten off of Umbara, it’s over. It’s over, he got out, he’s okay. 

“Waxer?” a voice says, quiet and fragile. Waxer looks up, and–

the trooper across from him has taken off his helmet, and now his armor isn’t blue, it’s golden. 212th-gold. 

Waxer sucks in a breath as he looks right at Boil. His twin shudders, coughs, face twisting in pain. His armor is bloody. 

“Not real,” Waxer says, scrambling to his feet.  His knees feel wobbly; it’s a miracle they don’t give in. “It’s not real. You’re not real.”

Boil’s eyes dart up at him. “Why’d you do it?” he asks, voice shaking. 

Waxer’s throat feels tight. Boil’s eyes are turning glassy, and still he spits out the words. 

“Why did you do it? We’re your brothers. Why’d you do this?” He shakes his head. “How could you?”

“I’m sorry,” Waxer says, hands helplessly hovering in the air. 

There’s a loud noise as the ground trembles beneath his feet. He staggers backwards, turns away and when his gaze travels Krell is lying on the ground, motionless. There’s a puddle of blood slowly emerging from beneath his head. A trooper stands above him, looks up at Waxer as he takes off his helmet; Tup, Waxer remembers. 

“I stunned him, Sir!” Tup says, standing tall. Waxer doesn’t need to be a medic to know that Krell is dead, not stunned, and he waits for the Captain to approach him, but a long moment passes–when Waxer turns around he can’t see anyone but him and the trooper. The place where Boil had been is empty. 

“Sir?” Tup asks again. His smile falters. 

“I stunned him, just like you ordered. Good soldiers follow orders.”

Waxer scowls, shakes his head. “I didn’t order anything,” he says. 

Tup lifts his head and his hands reach up to put the helmet back on. “Good soldiers follow orders,” he says, and–his voice sounds different, colder—

That makes no sense, no sense at all, and Waxer thinks, “I’m dreaming,” just at the same moment as Tup lifts his blaster, this time directed at him. 

Run, a voice in the back of his head screams, and Waxer turns on his heels and runs. 

His com goes off. Waxer keeps running as he listens. 

“This is Commander Fox of the Coruscant Guard. We need immediate help,” a brother’s voice over the comms says; Fox, Waxer assumes. 

But he can’t help, whatever they want from him, and he doesn’t have to either, because–this is a dream. It doesn’t matter. 

“Someone answer, we need help, now, or we’ll—Fuck–“

Static. 

The fact that he’s dreaming doesn’t make it feel any less real, though. 

He hears blaster shots behind him but doesn’t stop; here’s a building in front of him, and Waxer’s heading right for it. There’s nothing else to run to. He pinches his arm and frowns when he doesn’t feel it, but that was to be expected, he assumes. He already knows he’s dreaming. 

“Wake up,” he says to himself. “Come on, wake up, you’re better than this.”

It’s the Jedi temple, Waxer realizes as he nears the building. The temple in all its glory rises up high into the sky, and for a moment Waxer contemplates if he should enter–

The next there’s a deafening noise, and with a boom the entire temple goes up in flames. The explosion sends Waxer crashing into the concrete, and when he rips his eyes open again he watches in horror as a figure stands in the remains of the temple, their back turned to him. The screams of dying brothers rings in Waxer’s ears. 

He stumbles, watching helplessly as the figure stretches out their hand, and the next moment a lightsaber lights up with a hum, burning red. 

There’s the sound of even footsteps coming closer, and as Waxer looks back he sees a squad of clones approaching him. “There he is! Traitor!” one of them yells, and Waxer has nowhere to run to as they ready their blasters, point them right at his chest, and—

The picture flimmers, and then everything stops. His brothers are frozen in their movements, blasters raised, and the flames around him have stopped dancing. 

Silence. Nothing. 

Waxer’s heart beats in his throat. He swallows, takes a single step back, his whole body trembling. 

A single one of his brothers pushes himself through the others.

Even though his feet meet the ground Waxer can’t hear anything above the ringing in his ears, and Waxer’s stuck in place, can’t move a muscle. The brother is wearing armor entirely white, with a single orange symbol on his helmet. A star. An orange star. Not a paint job Waxer’s ever seen before. 

Waxers breathing hitches. 

The brother stops, looks up at him. After a long moment he pulls off his helmet, puts it under his arm as he gives Waxer a smile. 

Waxer aches. 

He can’t tear his eyes away, even if he feels like he should. Something inside him screams. 

“There’s a reason you’re here,” the brother says, voice gentle. 

Waxers balls his fingers into fists and uncurls them again. “You’re–dead,” he chokes out. He’s still dreaming. 

His brother cocks his head to the side. “And you’re not.”

Waxer meets his eyes, and then he slowly shakes his head. “No,” he admits. “I’m not dead, but–I’m not sure why I’m not.”

“There’s a reason you’re here,” his brother repeats. Waxer scowls. “What do you mean by that? What’s the reason?”

“You already know,” the brother says. Waxer shakes his head, takes another step back. “I don’t,” he says. “I don’t know.”

The brother holds his helmet in his hands, strokes over the small star on it softly. “I know you’re hurting,” he says, and Waxer’s throat feels tight when he comes closer, until he’s only a few feet away. “but you already know.”

“You’re wrong,” Waxer says, and he can’t breathe, he can’t–

—

“Waxer. Hey! Wake up, you’re dreaming.”

Waxer shrieks up, heaves, and a hand settles on his shoulder. He punches it away, pushes himself back as he tries to get anything to defend himself with, but then he’s being held down and he can’t move–

“Waxer, it’s just me! Stop–hitting me–“

Waxer freezes, stops struggling against the tight grip around both of his wrists and blinks, breathing heavily. 

“It’s just me,” Boil repeats, and Waxer slumbs against the wall. He’s awake. Just a dream. 

He’s still in his bunk, though he’s sitting up now, and Boil watches him with concern visible in his features. 

He forces himself to take a staggering breath, lifts his head. “Sorry,” he mutters. 

His hands are trembling. That’s probably bad. 

Boil frowns. “You okay?”

Waxer nods, gives his twin a smile. It’s the least he can do; Boil shouldn’t worry about him, not when there’s more important things. “I’m good, just–a nightmare.” Just a dream. 

Boil looks at him for another long moment before he scoots closer, until their shoulders are touching lightly. “You didn’t–die again, did you,” Boil asks carefully. 

Waxer lifts an eyebrow. “What?”

“Last time I thought you had woken up from a nightmare you had just died and come back to life,” Boil says, making a vague motion with his hand. 

Waxer nods absently. “No,” he says. “This time it really was a nightmare.”

“Was it—well, about dying?”

Waxer contemplates the question. “No, not really,” he says. 

He goes quiet. Boil leans forward, searches for something in Waxer’s eyes, squinting his own. Waxer’s head throbs. Frustration pours through him , but it’s easy to know it’s not his own. 

“How are you so okay with all this,” Boil suddenly asks. He doesn’t meet his twin’s eyes anymore, just folds his hands together and stares down from Waxer’s bunk. “You– died, actually died, and it doesn’t seem to affect you at all. I mean, that’s good, It’s good you aren’t–that you’re fine. But I don’t get it. If it had happened to me–“

He stops, rubbing a hand over his face. Waxer doesn’t know what to say.  

If he thinks about it, he feels himself dying again, feels the endless pain that makes it easy to let go of the threat he’s holding onto. 

“I don’t think about it,” he finally says. “I don't have the time to question things. So I just—go with it.” Don’t think about it. 

“You make that sound easy,” Boil says drily. He sighs. “Wow, I’m really good at this cheering up thing, huh.”

Waxer snorts, and Boil smiles softly before he nudges his arm. “But, really. Sometimes talking about it does help. Tell me about the dream?”

Waxer’s laugh dies down. He reaches up to pinch the skin at his throat, swallows. 

It’s been years. It shouldn’t be this hard to talk about it, but talking about it requires thinking about it. 

“I dreamt of Stars, I think.”

Stars, their batchmate, who had died in the explosion five years ago along with the others. Stars, who had died at seven years old, who’d never even reached the full age of ten. 

Waxer knows the trooper in his dream was Stars, even if he was a trooper and not a cadet, he just can’t say why he’s so sure. 

He feels Boil stiffen next to him, and then a hand settles onto his shoulder again, pulling him closer against his brother's side. It’s an awkward sort of half-hug, but Waxer welcomes it. 

“ Nu kyr'adyc, shi taab'echaaj'la ,” Boil says quietly. Not gone, merely marching far away. 

Waxer doesn’t respond. 

They never talk about it. They both know each other well enough to not have to say anything, and it’s not like talking about it would help, not in this case. 

Thinking about it doesn’t help either. It’s easier to keep his mind occupied with other things. 

He closes his eyes and focuses on the steady heartbeat in the back of his mind. Alive . They’re both alive. That’s what matters. 

“How late is it,” he asks after a while. His hands have stopped shaking. 

“Too early. I only woke up because that kriffing bond yanked on me again.”

Waxer perks up, wincing. “Oh. Didn’t realize I did that.”

Boil shrugs. “Well, good thing you did,” he says and doesn’t continue. Silence stretches between them, and Waxer’s eyelids feel heavy.

He didn’t plan on falling asleep sitting, with his head dropping onto Boil’s shoulder; It’s what happens, anyway. Boil doesn’t seem to mind. 

When Crys enters the training-rooms Boil and Waxer had been mid spar, but the sight of him is enough for them to stop. 

Waxer chokes on his own breath as he lets go of Boil, who he had managed to pin down only seconds prior. Boil’s eyes get wide before he barks a laugh, and every other brother in the room turns, too, curious to see what’s so funny. 

“Maker,” Boil says. “Crys, what did you do?”

Crys looks down at them, expression a mix of offense and grief.

“I messed up my hair dye,” he hisses. “You better keep your mouth shut. I don’t want to hear it.”

Since every clone who wants some hair color that isn’t natural has to make the dye himself, it’s as much an expression of yourself as your armor or tattoos. Crys typically went for a darker shade of blonde.

Now, his hair looks as if he’d dunked it into 212th-gold, and as he gets up Waxer can’t help but laugh, too. Crys sends him an unimpressed glare. 

“Hey Crys, why is your hair yellow, ” Wooley calls out from the corner, and Cry’s face goes even more red. 

“One more word,” Crys says, and Boil seems to take that as a personal challenge. “What’d you do? Did you put paint in there? Holy kriff, I need to take a holo of–“

“Oh, you’ll regret this,” Crys cuts him off, joining the two of them. He shoves Waxer beside, jabs a finger at Boil. “Let’s spar.”

Waxer snorts. “I’ll leave you to it,” he says and joins the other brothers watching the scene. Wooley has a wide grin on his face, and when Waxer sends him a questioning glare he winks. “Someone may have indeed put paint in his dye,” he says.

Waxer lifts an eyebrow. “Wow, cruel. That can’t be good for the hair.”

Wooley shrugs. “Worth it. Get his shebs, Boil,” he cheers, wincing when Crys frees himself from Boil’s headlock. Boil throws another half-hearted punch at Crys before he goes for his head instead, but the younger clone ducks just in the right moment and kicks Boils feet away. 

Boil falls with a huff, pulls Crys down with him and tries to push him down with his knee, only for Crys to slam his head against Boil’s. They both stagger back, groaning, and Crys curses.

“Ouch,” Wooley comments. 

Boil regains his strength faster, twists his vod’ika’s arms behind his back and slams him to the ground again, puts his entire weight onto him. 

He breathes heavily, and then breaks out into a grin. “I win,” he says smugly. Crys groans. “You broke my ribs,” he whines, and Boil yanks him up. 

“Nah. You’re good. If I had broken your rips you would’ve screamed more.”

Wooley snickers and nudges a brother to his side, who not-so-subtly hands him something with a frown. “Crys doesn’t fight well when he’s angry,” Wooley explains smugly. 

Waxer furrows his brows. “What-“ he wants to ask, because Wooley’s been betting with the other vod, but—they shouldn’t have anything to bet with , but he’s cut off. 

“That was a good fight,” a different voice says; Different in that’s it's not one of his brothers. One of the shinies almost trips when he realizes Commander Tano had made her way into the room without anyone noticing her entering. Most of the clones in the room stare. The 212th knows Tano, but only a few of them have actually spoken to her; She’s usually with the Generals or her own troops. 

“Uh–thank you, Sir,” Boil says, clearly caught off guard by her sudden presence. Waxer can’t say he feels much different. 

“Sir!” a bunch of troopers get out, finally snapping back to reality. Tano flinches, and then lifts her hands. “Oh, no, I’m not here on duty, men.”

Most of the clones relax, though they still seem equally alarmed and curious. Commander Tano looks at him, now, cocks her head to the side. “Lieutenant Waxer, correct?” she asks.

Waxer blinks. “Yes, sir, that’s me,” he says. He’s awfully aware everyone in the room turns to look at him. He desperately hopes that doesn't become a common occurrence; he doesn’t like being the centre of attention. 

Tano grins. “Master Obi-wan told me to get you.”

“Ah,” Waxer says. Well. So much for secrecy. 

Wooley frowns. “What did you do?” he whispers in mandoa, eyes darting to Ahsoka. 

“It’s just the usual officer stuff, ” Waxer replies, because he can’t think of anything else. He nods at Tano, switching to basic again. “Sir, where exactly–?”

“Just follow me, I’ll walk you there,” Tano cuts him off, waving at the other clones. “See you later, boys,” she says cheerfully as she steps out again, and Waxer quickly grabs his bucket, puts it on again and follows her. 

He wonders if Kenobi even knows what he’s doing, because on one hand he’s told him that not a lot of people should know about him and then he goes and pulls something like this. His brothers aren’t dumb. They’ll figure out something is off sooner or later. 

Waxer can only hope Boil will handle them. 

“So you’re Waxer,” Tano says as they walk along the hallway. Waxer nods. “Yes, Sir,” he says carefully.

Tano smiles widely when she looks at him, and he’s reminded by just how young she is. He doesn’t know her actual age but judging by her outward appearance she must be about seven and a half, which would be fifteen natborn years. Assuming her species ages like that. 

Waxer doesn’t think she should be here. She shouldn’t be fighting in a war. 

She seems to inspect him, and then she holds out her hand, stopping. Waxer halts as well. After a moment he takes it, and Tano squeezes lightly, cocking her head to the side. 

“So, Waxer, how are you?”

Waxer would be lying if he said he’d expected that question. He startles. “Uh,” he says. “Good, Sir.”

She nods and then her eyes roam over his armor, stopping at his helmet. “That drawing on your helmet’s nice,” she says casually, starting to walk again. “Does it mean anything?”

Waxer clears his throat. “Yes, Sir. It’s–supposed to be a little girl I’ve met on Ryloth. I’ve promised her I would visit again, after the war.” 

Tano’s smile turns soft. “Oh, that’s–really nice. I don’t know a lot of vode who have plans for after.”

“I don’t either,” Waxer says truthfully. Most vode don’t want to imagine life after the war, be it for that they don’t want to bring their hopes up or that they really have no idea on what they’ll do. But–Waxer likes having something to fight for, other than the republic. He isn’t sure if that’s considered treason, so he’d obviously never tell that to anyone who isn’t a brother. Still; It keeps him going. 

Boil had been hesitant to ask Waxer if he could draw Numa on his bucket, too, worried about breaking any regulations. But they aren’t betraying the republic by having hope for a better life.

“And the tallies?”

This question takes him even more off-guard. He can’t remember anyone ever asking about them. Most of the time he forgets about them, too. 

He should add a tally, he thinks. For Umbara. 

“It’s, uhm–It’s–a reminder, Sir.”

“Reminder for what?”

Waxer shrugs. “Just a reminder. That I’m still here, that I’ve survived. That I’m still alive. I guess I add one whenever there’s–a close call. Sir.”

Tano nods, and Waxer doesn't like that someone as young as her can relate to that. She doesn’t say anything else on the way to Kenobi’s quarters, until they stop at the door. 

Tano knocks, steps in first. “Master,” she greets Kenobi, who’s sitting cross-legged on the ground. He’s wearing his usual Jedi robes but there are bags larger than usual under his eyes. 

When he looks up, be smiles. “Thank you Ahsoka. Waxer, good to see you again.”

Ahsoka nods curtly and leaves, shutting the door behind her. Waxer bristles. He wonders if she knows about him or not. 

“I hope I didn’t steal you away from anything too important,” Kenobi says. 

“No, Sir. We were just passing the time.”

“Good, good. I’ve figured you’d want to continue practicing as soon as possible. Please sit down,” he says, and Waxer drops to the ground, setting his helmet to the side.

Kenobi hums. “I tried to remember what I first teached Anakin, but then I figured that you and the little boy that my Padawan used to be are very different from one another. You’re very strong in the force, but also very much untrained. But different from the last person I trained you’re an adult, and you’re also not a Jedi. Which is why I’m asking; What is it that you want, Waxer?”

Waxer startles, and then thinks about it. He can’t think of anything specific, except for maybe the conversation he had with Boil before Kiros. 

For a second he thinks back to his dream. He shakes that thought off again. No use obsessing over what was just a dream, nothing else. 

“Sir, I’d like to learn how to use the force in practical situations.”
Kenobi sighs, and then his half-smile is back. “I was thinking you would say that. You and your brothers are more familiar to fighting. But there is something I need from the Jedi temple on Coruscant for physical training, it’s why we’re heading there, now. Until then we’ll have to make do with what we have.”

“But–Sir,” Waxer says, “Can’t you also use the force as a weapon with—your hands? I’ve seen what you can do with it. Sir.”

Kenobi grins, looks up at the ceiling and closes his eyes. “Well. The force is not a weapon. It’s not a power, either. It’s an energy between all things, binding the universe together. Through the enhanced state of consciousness that you achieve with meditation, one can at times inadvertently affect one's surroundings.”

Waxer scowls. “Sir, permission to speak freely?”

Kenobi cracks one eye open again, amused. “Of course.”

“None of what you just said made sense to me, Sir.”

Kenobi chuckles again, but at least Waxer feels it’s not at him. “Let me rephrase, then. I’m assuming that by ‘using the force as a weapon’ you mean things like letting something float towards you. In order to do something like that you need a calm and concentrated mind, which you get through meditating. Which is why I’ve brought you here to essentially practice meditation.”

It makes sense. Just because it makes sense doesn’t mean Waxer has to like it. 

Generally he doesn’t have a problem with meditating, on the contrary, he enjoys it, but he wants to learn something actually useful. 

(He should tell Kenobi about Krell. He already knows most of it, but he doesn't know that Waxer had choked him , and even if Waxer is sure Kenobi won’t let him get decommissioned—the mere thought of telling him makes him feel sick. 

He knows it was wrong. He also knows he’d be dead now If he hadn’t, and what harm could it really do? He’s not a Jedi. If he’s not a Jedi he can’t fall to the dark side either, right?)

(Waxer still has no idea how this works. But he’s already asked too much. Better to just go with it.)

Kenobi sighs. “Younglings grow up being used to meditating and controlling their emotions; you are not. It’s going to take time, and It’s going to need practice, but It’ll be worth it. We’ve only got a few minutes until we’ll arrive planetside, but I thought we should use what little time we have.”

Waxer had just closed his eyes to try and start meditating when the door to Kenobi’s quarters opens with a hiss and Cody barges in, Skywalker following directly behind. 

“General, Sir, we’ve received an emergency signal,” Cody says. He’s panting slightly and holds out a holo. “It’s Grievous. He’s on Coruscant.”

Kenobi's expression turns stern  in an instant and Waxer sucks in a breath. There have been Seperatist attacks on Coruscant before, but–if Grievous himself was there that would end badly. 

The holo flashes to Life with a buzz as Cody holds it out for them to see. To Waxer’s surprise it’s not the Chancellor who appears, but–

It’s a clone. Commander Fox, Waxer notes, head of the Coruscant guard. Cody’s batchmate. 

He’s kneeling on the ground, head turning as if he’s expecting something to attack him any second now. 

“This is Commander Fox of the Coruscant Guard. We need immediate help,” he says. Fox’s voice sounds strained. 

Waxer feels sick to his stomach. 

“ Four Senators were being held hostage inside of an abandoned building in level 2684, guarded by droids. We don’t know how they got through our security system. The Coruscant Guard has managed to free the Senators, but we had to flee the scene when–Fuck– “, he breaks off, and there’s the sound of metal hitting the ground, and someone screams in panic. For a second the picture shifts and Fox pulls a familiar looking woman with him behind cover. Skywalker stiffens. 

“ Get moving! Come on!”  Fox yells at what must be the rest of his men, blasts off-view. 

A blaster bolt just misses his arm and he curses again. “ Grievous’s here ,” he yells at the holo. “ He wants to get the Senators. We’ll be trying to lose the droids on the lower levels; the animal handling unit can follow our tracks easily, but they alone won’t be able to help us. We have to go. Commander Fox over. ”

And with that the holo stops. The force around Cody feels hazy with frustration and worry, and he looks up at Kenobi. 

Waxer’s mind is racing. Fox had commed them in his dream, too. His gut clenches. 

“I’ll go,” Skywalker says, whips his head around to General Kenobi. “He’s out for Padme, I can’t let him—“

Kenobi lifts his hand and Skywalker falls silent, bites his lip. “Cody, please alert the men that we’ll be in battle in about an hour, as soon as we arrive on Coruscant. All units must prepare immediately.”

Cody nods and heads out the door, and Skywalker only looks more frustrated, balling his fists. 

“Anakin,” Kenobi continues. “I’ll need you to find the Senators and help the guard. Your battalion is too far away, so you’ll have to take a squad of my men to come with you. Me and the rest of the 212th will take care of the droids and Grievous.”

Skywalker relaxes the slightest, and he lowers his head. “Thank you, Master,” he says, and Kenobi gives him the sad half-smile. “You’d have run off to save her anyways,” he says, and he looks tired. 

He turns to Waxer before Skywalker can find an answer to that, smile turning apologetic. “We’ll have to continue another time, I’m afraid,” he says. Waxer nods. “It’s all good, Sir. I’ll get ready for battle.”

Skywalker looks at him oddly, sends an almost questioning glare at Kenobi. “You’re Lieutenant Waxer?” he asks. 

Waxer looks back, though he doesn’t let his confusion show on his face. “Yes, Sir.”

The way Skywalker seems to look him over makes Waxer feel more than uneasy. Then, Skywalker's eyes dart to Kenobi. “Can I choose the squad I’ll take with me?”

Kenobi squeezes his eyes together. “Generally, yes, but you certainly shouldn’t take all my officers.”

“But wouldn’t it be smart to take a Lieutenant with me as second in command in case I get injured or something,” Skywalker presses. Waxer doesn’t like where this is going. 

Kenobi’s mouth twitches, and then he sighs in defeat. “Fine. You may choose one officer to–“

“Great,” Skywalker says. “Waxer, you’re with me. We’ll meet at the hangar.”

He turns to him and gives him a smile, and Waxer blinks. “Yessir,” he says, salutes, though he’d really rather work with Kenobi then with Skywalker. 

Skywalker looks satisfied with himself, and Kenobi's frown deepens. 

“Anakin–“ he starts, but Skywalker’s already leaving the room. Kenobi’s face twists. 

Waxer quickly dials Boil’s com, switching to mandoa. If they’re getting ready to go into battle again he needs to see Boil before that. 

“Boil, meet me in the barracks, two minutes. We’re going into battle again,” he says. The mando’a rolls off his tongue easily. Kenobi blinks at him in what Waxer supposes is confusion, but he knows Kenobi has no problem with them using mandoa as a means of communication. It allows them a bit of privacy. 

“What? Now?”

“Just come, I’ll explain.”

He stops the recording. 

“Sir,” Waxer says in apology as he passes Kenobi. 

He already knew Fox was going to call, and Waxer would love to believe that it was just a coincidence, but that seems very unlikely. 

Upon entering the barracks every brother is already up and about, and Boil sits on his bunk, his armor already on. 

“We’re splitting up. Skywalker’s going to get the Senators while our General takes care of the clankers with the rest of you,” Waxer explains quickly. He doesn’t have much time. Skywalker’s waiting for him in the Hangar. 

Boil stands up, crosses his arms and sighs audibly. 

“Well, we can’t catch a break, can-“ he starts, but Waxer cuts him off. 

“Skywalker wants me to come with him, but Kenobi won’t let him take another officer,” he says. 

Boil goes quiet. 

They’re being split up. 

The last time that they haven’t been able to have each other's backs was Umbara, and Waxer had died . 

“Sithspit,” Boil says. “ Sithspit. ”

Waxer really, really doesn’t want to be seperated from Boil, because the reality of war is that they could both die, any time. That’s just how it is. Waxer’s always been good at ignoring that, believes stubbornly that you should enjoy what time you have and not think about the future too much, but–he wants them both to live.

They always have each others back, but he can’t have Boil’s back when he’s on a different part of the city. 

Waxer pulls Boil forward into a hug, rests his helmet against his brothers. Boil doesn’t resist. “K'oyacyi ,” Waxer says. Stay alive. 

“K'oyacyi”, Boil repeats, and they stay like that another moment, and then Boil holds Waxer at arm length. “If you need me, use that force-bond, or whatever it’s called,” he tells him. “It clearly works. So use it.”

“Here’s to hoping I won’t have to,” Waxer says flatly. Boil nods slowly. He lets go off Waxer’s arm, steps back and curses again. “Don’t you dare die. I mean it,” he says as he pushes past Waxer, probably going to join the rest of the battalion. 

Waxer closes his eyes shut, and for a moment he prays to whatever is out there that this isn’t the last time he’ll see him. 

Waxer really doesn’t know what to make of Skywalker, especially not when he and his Padawan just keep glancing at him. He wonders if they’re trying to be subtle. 

‘Makes him feel uneasy, is all. 

“Waxer,” Skywalker greets him when he enters the hangar, and Waxer snaps to salute. 

“General Skywalker, Sir. Lieutenant Waxer reporting for duty.” 

He looks past the Jedi, and something claws at his chest as he looks at the squad of troopers that stands there, lined up. 

It’s not that Waxer completely disagrees with Skywalkers choice of men, they’re just–not who he would’ve chosen. A few of them he recognizes–Wooley, Trapper, Peel, and Runner are troopers he might’ve chosen as well; They have experience and they’re generally good with teamwork. 

Which is why seeing Lara and two kriffing shinies next to them is–not optimal. 

Lara’s just gotten out of medbay, and the shinies are, well, just that. Shinies.

Waxer’s starting to realize why Cody seems to use every opportunity he has to complain about how Skywalker keeps messing up his carefully constructed battle plans. 

It’s not like Cody’s plans always turn out the way they should, either. But at least he has a plan. From what he’s heard and seen of Skywalker the man just barges in, trusting his gut. 

“Trusting his gut” is what he seemed to be doing while picking out men. 

“You’ve taken some time, so I already chose who we’ll take with us,” Skywalker says, and he’s clearly trying to sound cheerful but his eyes are darkened. 

Waxer doesn’t blame him. Someone he cares about is in danger; he’d be nervous, too. 

“My apologies, Sir, I got caught up,” he says, not bothering to think of a lie. He doesn’t need to. 

Skywalker just hums. 

Waxer doesn’t trust Skywalker, but he doesn’t not trust him either. You can’t afford to not trust your Jedi, and he’s under Skywalkers command for this campaign. 

Skywalker looks at the vode in front of him and smiles, leans over and says something to his Padawan, not loud enough for Waxer to hear.

He can’t say he’s not a bit pissed that Skywalker didn’t ask for his opinion at all regarding their squad, but oh well. 

All of the troopers are radiating nervousness. Skywalkers eyes lock onto one of the shinies, and his smile turns genuine. 

“Is that Krell on your armor, trooper,” he asks. 

The kid stands taller. Yep, definitely still a shiny. “Dead Krell, Sir!”

Skywalker nods in approval. “Looks very good. Good job.”

Waxer swears if Skywalker compliments them any more the shiny will burst. “Thank you, Sir!”

Skywalker gives him a firm nod and turns to all of them again. “Alright, let’s get to it. Grievous is on Coruscant and a group of Senators are on the run with some of the Coruscant Guard. Our job will be to find them and to get them to safety; We’ll try not to get involved with the battle, that’s for Obi-wan’s troops. Everything clear?”

“Yessir!” the group echoes. 

“Good. We’ll be arriving on Coruscant soon.”

The men nod and enter the gunship, but Waxer notices how Lara’s gaze lingers on him for a moment before he goes, too. 

“Get yourself comfortable, boys,” Skywalker says and then joins them in the gunship, Waxer following.  

“ All units prepare for contact. All units prepare for contact. All units prepare for contact,” a familiar voice barks over the speakers. 

Chapter Text

“I don’t think I like Coruscant,” one of the shinies whispers as they look out onto the city below them. 

While they departed Waxer had commed the Coruscant Guard’s animal handling unit, whose head told them he was already near the scene but if he went out he’d be shot down in an instant. He called himself Hound and gave them the exact coordinates, advising them to be stealthy. 

They’ve long passed the Skyscrapers and the sunlight barely reaches this deep into the lower levels, and then, at some point, it’s entirely swallowed by darkness. The only sources of light left are flickering street lamps that look like they’ve seen much better days; or maybe they were built like this, built to match the rest of their environment. 

The air smells like something’s rotten. It’s smelled this bad ever since they passed into the lower levels and it only got worse, and Waxer can’t even place what this smell is.

“Nobody likes Coruscant,” Lara answers when no one else does, inspecting his blaster. He doesn’t bother being quiet like the shiny, and Skywalker lifts an eyebrow.

“I do,” he says, wistfully. “I think It’s a beautiful city. You just have to look in the right places. Have you ever been in one of the towers? The view is breathtaking. You’ll change your mind when you’ve seen something like that, trust me.”

Waxer looks out the gunship onto the concourses, onto the trash lying on its side in piles and watches as some kind of creature disappears into a dark alley, dragging something (he’s not going to think about what) with it. It leaves a trail of blood. Waxer’s never been in one of the towers and honestly can’t think of a situation where he might get to be there.

He doesn’t know about the view, but he thinks he doesn’t like Coruscant, either. 

Skywalker lifts his com. “How’re we doing, Armen?”

There’s static for a moment before their pilot replies. “The situation is under control, Sir. We’re approaching the level Sergeant Hound sent us to, but you’ll have to jump off, soon. ‘Can’t actually land anywhere here.”

Skywalker nods grimly. “Tell me when.”

“Yessir.”

It only takes a few minutes until the gunship stops in the air. 

“That’s as close as we can get, Sir. Good luck,” Armen says, and their squad drops out of the gunship onto the concourse below. There aren’t many pedestrians around but a few people stare at them with distrust glimmering in their eyes. 

Skywalker lifts his comm, seems to look for the coordinates again. “Follow me,” he tells their squad. 

A gunship passes them, and out of it jumps another squadron of troopers with Cody in the front, followed by Kenobi himself. Kenobi stops, turns to Skywalker. “Find the sergeant,” he says, looking up as two other gunships get closer. “We’ll go for a direct offensive, comm me if you find anything that could be useful to know.”

“Sure, Master,” Skywalker says, motioning for his squad to continue to follow him. Waxer tries to find Boil in the mass of buckets, but the next moment they’re gone from view, dissapearing into a different street. 

He has a bad feeling about this. 

While Kenobi’s troops go straight to the coordinates of the abandoned building the droids reportedly still sit in Skywalker leads them through a narrow alley, and then through an even narrower one, until they have to walk in a line to even fit through. 

“There,” Skywalker says after they’ve walked for a bit, stopping. 

A trooper sits behind a pile of garbage with a massif clipped onto his belt. The beast notices their squad before he does, its ears perking up. It wiggles its tail, and would’ve probably barked if Hound hadn’t already put both of his hands under and above the massif’s gaping mouth, as if it had tried to bark before. 

Sergeant Hound looks up and lifts a hand in greeting when he sees them, but his bucket turns into the direction of the building in front of them. It seems to be an abandoned warehouse of some kind and several droids are positioned in front of its entrance. Waxer supposes there’s more where they come from. 

Sounds of blasterfire and what almost sounds like the hum of a lightsaber are coming from the warehouse. If the Guard is gone, who are they fighting, Waxer wonders. 

Skywalker takes the lead, giving them the signal to move when none of the droids are looking in their direction. For a moment they’re out of cover but not a single droid notices them, and once they’re at the spot Hound’s been hiding behind he lets out a sigh of relief. It’s just enough space for them all to fit behind the stack of boxes. 

“Good to see you, Sir,” Hound says when they join him, casting a look over their squad. He shifts. “Is that...all of you?”

“No,” Skywalker says, and Hound visibly relaxes.  “Obi-wan’s troops are coming down there. The plan is for them to distract the droids and Grievous and for us to get the Senators.”

And the guard, Waxer adds silently. 

Hound nods. “They better hurry, Grievous is still in the warehouse but at least half the droids are following the Commander. Jedi Vos held Grievous up, but I don’t know how long he can take him alone, plus there’s also the droids.”

Waxer doesn’t think he’s ever met a Jedi named Vos but Skywalker startles and nods, activating his com. 

“Grievous is still in the warehouse. Seems like Vos is in there with him.”

There’s silence for a second.

The massif at Hound’s feet presses its nose into the Sergeant’s thigh, whimpering, and Hound absently starts scratching it behind its ears. Waxer wonders if he even realizes he’s doing so. 

 “Quinlan is here?” Kenobi then asks, voice raising in pitch. “What’s he–alright, nevermind, we’ve got no time to waste.” 

Skywalker looks up, eyes darting towards Hound and the massif (–which is still enthusiastically rubbing its nose against the troopers leg.)

“Can the massif track the Senators?” Skywalker asks, looking at the beast warily. The massif looks back. Its tongue hangs out. 

“Grizzer can track anything, she’s the best,” Hound says, almost cheerfully, as he pats the creature on the back. “She  does need something to pick up their scent, first. I know where the Senators last were, once we’re there he can get to work easily. The problem is that the last point where the Senators and the Guard were is down by the warehouse. Couldn’t go down there alone, we’d just get shot down.”

Skywalker nods again. 

“Good. Get ready, men, we’ll go as soon as Obi-wan’s in,” Skywalker says. The group readies their blasters. Waxer notes that the two shinies sit closer to each other than to the rest of the group, and it reminds him of how he and Boil were the first few battles they had together. 

“I think I see movement in that alley,” one of the droids chirps, and in the next second its head flies off. Cody charges with a platoon of troops at his side, yelling, “Ghost company, open fire!” The next moment Kenobi leaps over his troops, impales a droid on his saber and is the first to move into the warehouse, several squads following while the rest stay to take care of the droids outside. 

“Come on, Grizzer,” Hound says, just as Skywalker jumps up and shouts at them to move. 

Blaster bolts fly past them as they sprint past the warehouse, and Waxer thinks he hears the familiar buzz of lightsabers from inside of it, though he can’t be sure. 

A few droids still stand on this side of the building. One of them catches them and notifies the others, robotic voice yelling something. 

“Clankers on the left!” Waxer shouts, blasting while he desperately tries to keep up with the Sergeant and his massif. The rest of the squad turns as well. Skywalker leaps over them, lands with a roll and strikes down several droids with the single swing of his ‘saber before he keeps running. 

“Medic! We need a medic!” Kenobi shouts from inside of the warehouse, and Skywalker startles, his expression twisting, but he doesn’t stop. 

Ghost company can handle themselves, Waxer figures. 

Grizzer barks in excitement, even as Hound pulls on his lead in an effort to hold her back; the massif doesn’t seem to realize that this is a serious situation and not a game. “Stand down,” Hound says, and Grizzer stops resisting but stares up at Hound imploringly. 

The Sergeant points at the ground and the beast barks, sniffs at the ground just to look up at Hound again, waiting for instructions. 

“Grizzer, find them,” Hound says, and Grizzer shoots off in an instant, pulling Hound with her. 

Grizzer is fast. The beast yanks on the line Hound has her on and while he seems to be accustomed to the speed Waxer and the others, excluding Skywalker, are not. It’s moments like these when he wishes Kenobi would’ve recommended him for ARC training instead of promoting him to Lieutenant, though he gets why he didn’t do that. He and Boil have been part of Ghost company since half a year into the war and Kenobi didn’t want to send two of his best men away for that long. 

Grizzer stops abruptly, and as she sniffs, inspecting a nearby wall, a trooper crashes into Waxer from behind. He almost falls over from the impact. 

“Watch out,” he says, turning, and the shiny winces. “Sorry, Sir!” he yelps, panting. 

The troopers behind him don’t look much better. Lara uses the opportunity to lean against a nearby wall, gasping for breath, and even Wooley bends over in pain. The two shinies look as if they’re close to collapsing. 

They’re not used to this, the constant running. But they’ve got no time to rest, either. 

“What’s wrong,” Skywalker says, and Hound shrugs. “I don’t speak massif. I’m assuming she’s lost them and is trying to find the track again.” Grizzer growls just as he finishes speaking and then she’s off. Waxer hears several groans as they hurry to follow; his lungs burn, too, but it’s not like he hasn’t been through much worse.

Skywalker on the other hand is right at Hound’s side, having no trouble at all with keeping up. Waxer supposes it’s force-stuff. 

The beast moves swiftly for something its size, muscles rippling under its skin. Waxer grunts as they round a sharp corner, and he almost assumes they’d have to deal with pedestrians standing in their way soon, but even as they enter an even wider concourse there’s no one in sight. As they progress more and more fresh blaster bolts and such appear in the buildings nearby. There are still no pedestrians to be bothered with, but Waxer catches a short sight of a few of them hiding behind a dumpster as he runs. 

They’re definitely on the right path, he thinks, and his suspicion is proved correct as he hears blaster bolts in the distance, and then–

They pass a body. 

Waxer, just like the rest of his team, doesn't have much time to do more than glance at the Guard trooper that lies unmoving on the ground, several holes in his armor. Hound staggers for a moment and grief washes over him, but it only makes the sergeant push further, and Waxer gives all he has, too. They must be close. 

In the distance someone screams out in Pain, and as they’re rapidly approaching the scene Waxer can make out words, now. 

“Stay down! I told you to stay down! We can’t lose anyone else, fuck, why didn’t–Zillo, stay where you are. Help will come, just–Thire, left!”

Shots are ringing close. A blue bolt emerges from the corner. 

“Grizzer, catch!” Hound yells, and the massif slides across the ground before it bolts around the corner, barking. There’s the sound of metal hitting the ground, a loud, robotic, “what the–?”, and when their squad spills onto the wide marketplace they start firing in an instant. 

“Open fire!” Waxer shouts, though everyone’s already been doing that, and Waxer’s eyes dart over the scene in front of them. 

The first thing he notices are the two awfully still bodys lying on the ground, and Waxer takes a second to try and block out all the emotions he’s picking up, because there’s so much pain and grief. Smoke still emerges from the holes in their armor. 

The second thing he notices is that there are many droids. Waxer had expected maybe one or two squadrons, but those are at the least four, if not five. 

Blue blaster bolts emerge from a stack of boxes, blocking whoever is behind it from view, but at Waxers shout a familiar bucket pops up. The trooper looks over at another alley. “Commander Fox! Back-up’s here!”

Waxer’s busy ducking from blasterfire and taking out another battledroid, so he doesn’t see the figure jump out at them; he does hear Skywalker’s panicked shout. 

“Padme, are you alright?”

Waxer really does wonder how they think they’re doing a good job at hiding that they’re together. He also got the humble opinion that Skywalker's reaction isn’t the most responsible; there are about a dozen people in danger and all Skywalker can think about is his not-so-secret Lover. 

“We’re all unharmed, thanks, Skywalker,” a deeper voice says with a hint of sarcasm, and when Waxer looks up Bail Organa's head pops up behind Commander Fox. He’s carrying a blaster and shoots another droid down. Amidala is right behind him, wielding a blaster herself, though she’s mostly hidden behind the wall. There are two more figures behind them that Waxer can’t make out. 

They’re more in the open now that Waxer’s squad is able to kind-of-shield them, and Skywalker bolts over to the group. 

Blaster bolts zip over Waxer’s head and he ducks, starts blasting into the crowd of droids that are slowly turning into their direction. Hound passes him, shoots down the droid Grizzer had tackled and calls out to the beast, and then they dissapear from Waxer’s view to help somewhere else. 

One thing is obvious pretty quickly: There are too many droids and not enough clones. They’ve gravely miscalculated this situation. The advantage they do have is that the clankers are mostly standart battle droids, with a few super-battle droids scattered around. Those are generally easy to shoot down. 

Still. This isn’t optimal at all. 

Waxer himself pushes further, whips his head around to try and catch sight of his squad and finds one of the shinies being cornered by a bunch of droids. He sprints over, blasts one in the chest and tries to get their attention onto him instead of the younger trooper. It works. Waxer shouldn’t be able to tell when there’s a bolt behind him; he does, anyway, and he’s not complaining. He jumps to the side and motions for the shiny to get away, hoping he’ll catch the message. 

The shiny gives him a nod and he shouts, “Thanks Sir!” before he turns, looking for his squadmates—

the next moment his head snaps backwards unnaturally. He stumbles backwards and then collapses onto the white bricks. 

Droids emerge from another alley, and where the kriff did they come from? 

Someone cries out in the distance, and Waxer can’t tell if it’s in actual pain or grief; a single look at the bucket on the ground is enough to know that there’s no way for the shiny to have survived that shot. Waxer winces, but he doesn’t have time to feel guilty, not when the droids now put their whole attention onto him. He tried to save the kid. He couldn’t have predicted the droids from the other side. 

Waxer quickly finds he has a new problem now, as he’s taken in the shinies place of being cornered; there’s too many of them. Suddenly Waxer is trying harder to not get shot than to blast at the droids, only jumps backwards until his back hits the wall, and if he didn’t somehow know where a blast would hit him he would’ve long been down.

“I need help!” he calls out, because he’s sure everyone has their own problems, but there's too many droids and Waxer can’t get them down fast enough. The rest of the squad has joined the Guard in their cover, which is good, but the set of boxes is too far away for him to get to in time. He’s trapped. 

So this is it, he thinks , after everything—

Suddenly a small ball appears at the droid’s feet, and before it can react shocks of electricity go through it. It shakes, voice dying down and drops to Waxer’s feet. A second droid popper is thrown right at the head of a second clanker. It trips from the impact.

Commander Fox appears behind it as it crashes down, lamplight reflecting on his visor as he reaches out his hand for Waxer to take. 

Waxer has never met Commander Fox in person before; he has heard of him, though. The basics are that he’s Cody’s batchmate and one of the oldest clones in the GAR, something of an ultimate big brother, and that he’s been one of the best on Kamino. Other than that everything is just hearsay and rumours, and Waxer doesn’t pay attention to either of those.

It’s still enough to know that the man in front of him is a legend of some sorts. That doesn’t intimidate Waxer, not anymore. Cody’s constantly being called a legend, too, and at this point Waxer can tease him about his repressed feelings without fearing to get demoted. They’re just their brothers, in the end, even if higher ranking. 

Cody sometimes talks about his batchmates. 

The droids that escaped the poppers are being taken care of by Skywalker and, surprisingly, Senator Amidala, who has an admirable aim considering she’s a politician. Waxer lets himself be pulled up, immediately snapping back to attention. “Thanks, Sir,” he says, out of breath. If Fox says something in return he doesn’t hear it. 

“More droids are still coming!” one of Fox’s men yells, backing up from where he was looking around the corner. 

More droids?

Waxer turns to the Commander next to him. “Where are they coming from?” he shouts over the sound of blaster bolts, aiming for a clanker's joints. 

Fox makes a low sound that almost sounds like a growl. Waxer thinks his voice is slightly deeper than most brother’s voices. “We’ve got no idea. The guard doesn’t go down this deep often, and the droids must’ve been positioned here for a while. We assume there might be—Hound, at your back!—a mole in the republic, high up enough to be able to block our security systems.” Fox talks with a steadiness and security in his voice that it isn’t hard to believe he’s one of the highest ranking clones in the grand army of the republic and Waxer can’t help but feel like a shiny compared to him. 

“You’re the Captain?” Fox adds, cocking his head to the side ever the slightest. Waxer shakes his head. “Lieutenant, Sir. The name’s Waxer. Skywalker did bring me as second-in-command for our squadron.”

He goes silent, concentrating on staying alive, and Fox seems to have the same idea. 

“Do we have a plan, Sir?” Waxer asks then, because as a Commander Fox is now the highest ranking military officer here other than Skywalker. Fox ducks from a blaster-bolt and uses the opportunity to roll forward, coming up on one knee right next to a super-battle droid, kicking its legs away before he shoots right through it. Waxer follows, still waiting for an answer, back turned to Fox so that he can shoot at the droids from the other direction. He catches a quick glance of the rest of their squad but doesn’t have the time to check on them individually. 

“No plan that doesn’t get all of us killed,” Fox grits out. “We wanted to get through to the end of this level–there’s an elevator that can get us right topside, and once we’re there we’ll be able to lure the droids out. They’ve got no interest in hurting civilians. It’ll make them easy targets for the Guard, especially if the 212th is here for support. They–are here, right,” he adds, suddenly seeming unsure. Waxer doesn’t need to know Fox for long to know that’s not one of his main characteristics. 

“Yessir, they’re takin’ care of Grievous and the rest of the droids.” 

“Good,” Fox says. “That’s good. Anyway, the plan.” He punches a droid down as if to emphasise his point, and Waxer wonders briefly if Cody got it from him to be so reckless in battle. Fox continues. “That plan failed because the droids–Zillo, on your left!–have been constantly following us, never allowing us to put enough distance between us and them, and while we could find cover in the smaller concourses this is an open space. We move out, we get shot down. Kal and Flare tried.” 

For a moment his bucket turns to the two troopers lying close to each other on the ground, hands almost touching, and Waxer thinks of the nameless shiny who got shot in the head. 

“Got it,” Waxer says, voice hoarse. He looks up at the ceiling to think, but instead his eyes catch onto a big piece of durasteel that hangs above them. It looks like it’s been fixed only recently. It’s a bit farther down then the rest of the ceiling, making Waxer believe it might’ve been used to hide electric cables or something of the sort. Waxer's head turns, until he finds a metal-plate on the wall that looks similar to the one above them, aims and fires. It takes three well-placed shots onto part of it gives in, and that’s enough for Waxer to hope this’ll work. He can tell Fox is eyeing him warily.

“So if there’s a big enough distraction you should be able to make a run for it, right?” Waxer asks. A blastershot just misses his right leg and he stumbles backwards, but Fox aims over his shoulder and gets the droid. “Right,” he says, though he sounds unconvinced. 

Waxer nods, searching for Skywalker, and once he finds him he makes a vague motion to Fox. “Cover me?” he asks, and Fox nods curtly, readying his blaster. 

Waxer charges, making himself as small as possible as runs over until he comes up next to Skywalker, Senator Organa and Senator Amidala, covered from fire for now. This time he does catch sight of the two other Senators. One is a dark skinned woman wearing a purple gown that Waxer supposes must be really impractical, the younger one he recognizes as Senator Chuchi. She looks about the same age as Tano, though Waxer can’t be sure. Guessing the ages of natborns is hard. Looking out onto the field in front of him Waxer sees a few other troops hovered behind a few boxes, most remarkably Hound who is holding Grizzer’s lead tightly. The beast presses its nose into the space between his arm’s and his side, and it’s leg looks as if it’s been caught in blasterfire. Two other Guard troopers and Lara sit with him. One of the Guard’s sympathetically pats Grizzers back. 

“Sir,” Waxer shouts. “I might have a plan to get us out of here!”

“Let’s hear it, Waxer,” Skywalker says, and Chuchi, who is the only one of the Senators not holding a blaster, perks up. Organa lowers his weapon. 

“There’s an elevator at the end of the concourse. The Guard hasn’t been able to get there because the space is too open and they’d all get shot down before they reached the end,” Waxer explains. “If we gave a big enough distraction it would allow them to escape, and holding our position until General Kenobi’s troops come in should be possible.”

The group looks at him, Amidala the only one who seems to remember to concentrate on not letting the clankers advance further. 

Skywalker nods slowly. “Alright, makes sense, but what kind of distraction are you talking about? Just shooting at them might not be enough.”

Waxer points at the ceiling. “There’s a huge loose durasteel-plate. We should be able to shoot it down. If we get most of the droids to stand right under it most of them will be crushed, and a few troopers could stay here in cover to take care of one’s coming after. It should give the rest of us enough time to get to the elevators.”

Chuchi smiles ever the slightest. She does look very young. “I think it sounds like a good plan.” 

Skywalker hums in approval. “It’s settled, then. Waxer, notify the men of the plan over your comms. Can’t let the clankers know what we’re planning. The Guard has several Commanders, right? One of them stays with me and the rest of the Guard to give you cover while the other joins you.”

Waxer nods and activates his comm. “Listen up Troopers, if you look up you’ll see a piece of durasteel that’s loose. Fall back, lure the droids right below it and make sure that none of you are too close, and when I give the signal we’ll blast it down. Pass the message on to any Guard troopers you’re with.”

Waxer turns to fall back, startling when he sees Lara and Wooley pushing a few boxes onto the concourse, Fox and two other Guard’s giving them cover before they all jump behind it. Smart, Waxer thinks before he continues to take care of approaching clankers, shooting one’s metal-chest in.

There’s a scream way too close for him, and when Waxer turns slightly he sees that the droids have rounded the place where Runner’s been hiding, and Waxer winces before he joins Wooley and the others behind their cover. 

“How are we doing?” he asks. 

Waxer spares another glance at Runner’s now limb body before he concentrates on the job, pushes through the ache. 

Fox grunts, reloads his blaster. “If we let them get any closer they’re gonna’ shoot over the boxes,” he says, “So bad. We’re doing bad.”
The droids are indeed steadily marching closer, seeming to push further than they had before. They must think they’re retreating or trying to make a run for it again. 

“Just a bit more,” Waxer mutters under his breath, giving the signal to prepare to launch fire in a matter of seconds. Just a bit more. 

And then they’re right under it. “Fire!” Waxer yells. 

The troops around him aim up, everyone makes themselves as small as possible, and then they’re shooting. 

“Why are the clones suddenly so bad at aiming?” one of the droids says, stopping in its tracks. 

For a horrible second Waxer thinks that the plate isn’t going to go off, as they blast at its side and it stays right where it is, until a perfect shot hits it at what seems to be just the right place and it creaks, drops on one side, and then crashes to the floor. 

“What the–?” a droid shouts, and then there’s the sound of metal hitting the ground, hard. The droids are buried under it before they can react. They scream. Waxer still thinks it's been a questionable choice of the separatists to make the clankers able to scream. 

For a moment, time slows down. One of the droids is only half buried under the durasteel, it’s head and arms helplessly pushing as it tries to escape. It doesn’t even go for its blaster. 

Waxer looks down at the half-buried droid, lifts his blaster and puts a hole into its head. It goes limb. 

A part of Waxer feels numb. He can’t quite grasp why. 

He shakes himself slightly, snapping back to the situation at hand. He’d been right, regarding the electricity cables, he thinks as he looks up at them hanging from the ceiling. The fallen durasteel must’ve torn apart some of them, somehow. That’ll inconvenience someone for sure. 

“Guard, you’re with me,” Skywalker yells. “Commander Fox, take the rest of the troops and get to those elevators!” 

Waxer doesn’t need to be told twice. If droids are still coming from wherever it is they’re coming from they only have a few minutes at best until they’re sitting in a trap again. Waxer looks for his fellow troopers and finds that the Senators are holding up surprisingly well, with Amidala leading the squad together with Commander Fox. Even the Senator in the purple gown manages to keep up the pace; Only Chuchi falls back slightly, and Waxer slows down to run next to her.

“How far to the elevators?” Waxer asks, adrenaline finally seeming to have kicked in. The question is supposed to be as much as a distraction to the Senator as it is to him. She seems too out of breath to talk.

“To the end of this concourse and then around the corner,” Fox shouts back, and Chuchi makes a relieved sound next to him. They’re almost there. When Waxer spares a look over his shoulder a new squadron of droids is approaching and the Guard plus Skywalker are being forced back to take Cover themselves. “Hurry!” he shouts, pushes to run a little faster. 

They round the corner just in time, and Waxer swears that the blaster bolts fly right past the back of his head. Their squad pulls up into the elevators, and one look is enough to know they won’t all fit. Fox takes the lead, steps back to look at the different elevators.

“Does it matter which one we take?” Waxer asks. He isn’t in Coruscant enough to know his way around.
“Only those two reach up to topside,” Fox explains, nodding at the one’s the the most on the right. He looks over at Trapper, Peel and the shiny that didn’t get shot in the head. “You three take Senators Amidala and Robb topside. The rest of you are with me.”

The elevators are easily big enough to carry six people, but there’s still not a lot of space between Waxer, Wooley, Lara, Fox and the two Senators as they push themselves in. Fox presses one of the buttons and the door slides closed. There’s a small bing. When the elevator starts going up there’s a low feeling in Waxer’s gut and he doesn’t know if the music starting to play should be relaxing, but it’s really not.

Lara’s fingers tap against his thigh to the beat.  

The air is thick between the group and especially Fox is stubbornly looking out of the transparisteel of the elevator, as if he’s ignoring their presence. Wooley just looks nervous, fingers fidgeting with his blaster, while Lara is glancing not-so-subtly at the Senators. Waxer lifts his comm, typing in Cody’s number. 

“Commander, we’ve got the Senators,” he says, and everyone except for Fox turns to listen. “But there are a lot more droids than we thought there would be. General Skywalker and the Guard are still trapped. We’re going to have to send reinforcements.”

“ We’re on our way ,” Cody answers, and Waxer swears that Fox tenses at the sound of his voice. “ Good job, Waxer. We’ve already sent a squad to support you, but if that’s the case we’re sending more. We’re almost done down here. Grievous escaped, he’s off planet and his forces have been good as destroyed, at least in this part. ”

“Copy that, Commander,” Waxer says. 

Just when Waxer thinks things will start going right again the feeling in his gut proves correct. The elevator grumbles and suddenly there’s a loud, deafening beeping. The ground beneath them is slightly vibrating. 

“That doesn’t sound good,” Organa says. A small red lamp lights up, and then–

The elevator stops, going up and they stumble, and Wooley yelps as he crashes into Lara. 

The door opens and the lights go entirely off. 

“ We are experiencing technical difficulties. Please use a different elevator on the level you’re on. You’re located at level 3322,” a monotone voice says. 

“Wow, this is going great,” Lara notes. Wooley shoves him.

For a long moment Fox just stares at the opened door in front of them, and despite the helmet Waxer knows exactly what his expression must look like. 

“Could,” Fox starts, pauses, and then continues, drawing the words out. “Could this be–because of the damaged cables.”

He doesn’t word it like a question. Waxer winces. “Uh. Not sure, Sir,” he says. Fox audibly takes a deep breath. He steps out, looks to each side, mumbles something that Waxer doesn’t quite catch and then gets out his com, firmly tapping on it. He stares again. 

“The next elevator is about a ten minute walk away,” he says, voice strained. Waxer had never seen a helmet look so tired before. “We need to get the Senators topside as fast as possible, so better get moving.” 

Lara grumbles something that Waxer is too far away to catch, but somehow it makes Organa snort and Wooley kicks him in the shins again. Lara winces. “Stop that,” he says to Wooley as they follow Fox, again, not bothering to be quiet.

“I’ll stop kicking you when you stop saying banthashit,” Wooley replies angrily. 

Fox turns to them, and for some reason fear spikes through him. Waxer frowns, looks around but doesn’t see anything that could invoke something like fear. There’s no danger.

“Everything okay, Sir?” Waxer asks, carefully. Fox startles, head snapping toward him. He nods but doesn’t actually reply. 

Huh. 

Waxer joins the clone Commander’s side when they start walking, and Fox looks at him after a bit. “Lieutenant, can you tell your troopers that they’ll have to bring the Senators to the Senate alone?”

Waxer nods and does just that, quickly explaining that their elevator has shut down and the level they are stranded on only has this single one at that place.

Fox seems to know his way around, which probably shouldn’t be surprising considering the level they’re on now isn’t that far down anymore. There are more people in the concourse they’re going through, and all of them are staring. A Zabrak drops his Purchase when he steps out of the shop and sees them, yelping. Someone pulls their child closer. 

“I don’t get them. You’d think these people are used to parols,” Lara says. Fox snorts and Lara perks up, as if he had forgotten people can actually hear what he’s saying. “We don’t actually patrol down here that often,” Fox explains, amusement in his voice. “That’s for the Coruscant Underworld police. We’re just here on special occasions, like when there’s been a murder of someone from topside.”

“Ah,” Lara says, and he almost sounds embarrassed. “Yeah. That makes sense, I guess.”

As they continue walking through the street the feeling in Waxer’s gut only gets worse. He really hopes he hasn’t caught a virus of some kind because that’d greatly inconvenience him. 

Suddenly there’s a sharp pain in his side and he winces. Probably bruises from the fight they’ve just escaped, though normally the adrenaline dims the pain for longer than this. Lara, who’s been walking right next to him, turns and stops. “You good?” he asks. 

Waxer nods. “Yeah. ‘Just a–“

He’s cut off, and for a second he sees stars behind his eyes, and then he’s bending over, gasping for air. 

“Trooper?” someone asks in panic, but it feels as if they’re far away. The penetrating pain right under his rips tears through his body, makes walking near impossible and he stops, leaning against the wall as support. 

I’ve been shot, he thinks, panicked. I’ve been shot, the droids are here, too. 

Waxer feels as if he’s gonna pass out from the pain when a hand settles onto his shoulder. He snaps his head up, because even if he’s dead, he still has a duty to fulfill, he has to keep them safe. In the end that’s the thing he was born to do, the very reason he’s even alive. 

But there are no droids. 

Waxer turns around in panic, desperately searching for whatever got to him, but there’s nothing, nothing at all. 

Fox looks down at him in concern and the others have stopped walking, eyeing him. Another wave of pain washes over him and Waxer whimpers. His legs give in. He falls onto his knees and almost curls into himself, but he has to get it together, he needs to get up again. 

“Waxer, Sir, what’s wrong?” Wooley asks, and Waxer doesn’t know , because he should be fine, but it feels as if he’s been caught in blasterfire. 

Suddenly, a terrifying thought uncurls in his mind, pushes forward until it’s all he can think about. Waxer’s breath stops, stuck in his throat, and looks at the senators and brothers waiting for him to get back up. Fox is still kneeling next to him.

He closes his eyes shut, reaches into the back of his head and it hurts, more than ever. 

It’s Boil, Waxer thinks, feeling his gut tighten, and somehow the realisation burns more than the actual pain. It’s not me who’s hurt. It’s Boil. 

Chapter Text

Breathing feels impossible. 

He still tries to suck in a breath and forces himself not to fall again, partly leaning against the wall. 

This is wrong . Boil is supposed to be fine, Waxer is the one who usually gets himself in trouble. Never Boil. Boil is too calculating, thinking about his every move beforehand, and is always the one to nudge Waxer and say, “Hey dumbass, if you do that you’ll just get yourself killed.”

I have to find him, Waxer thinks. Even if it means disobeying orders, even if, as an officer, he should stand above this, he can’t just leave Boil up to his fate when there’s something he can do about it. 

“Waxer?” Fox asks, voice drenched with concern. Waxer recoils, steps back, back pressing into the wall. He has to help him. 

The pain makes it hard to think. 

“It’s my batchmate,” he chokes out, eyes flicking up to meet Fox’s expressionless helmet. “It’s my batchmate, he’s—“

He stops. Thinking about it he has no idea what actually happened to Boil, just that he’s in pain similar to when Waxer—

Similar to the first time Waxer experienced Umbara. 

“What?” Fox growls, and Waxer can’t focus on how he’s feeling, because Boil’s dying . 

He has to go. The Senators are good as safe, and his squad will be fine. Boil needs him, and at that moment Waxer doesn’t even care that theoretically, he can’t know how Boil is doing. “He’s hurt, he’s–It’s bad. I have to help him,” he says. 

Fox continues to stare. He looks back at the Senators, and then to Waxer again. “Waxer, we need to get out of here, now. The Senators are still not in safety and the droids are in pursuit,” he says, firm but still sounding apologetic. “Your batchmate is probably fine.”

He doesn’t get it. Waxer closes his eyes and yanks on the bond, hard. 

After a second there’s a response, small as it is, and relief panic fear washes over him. 

Waxer makes his decision. 

“I’m sorry, Sir. I’m not just going let the droids get him,” he says, determined, before he pushes past their squad. The hands reaching out to grab his arm again are expected, but he shrugs them off easily as he bolts in the opposite direction, a different alley than where the elevators to topside are. Towards where he knows Boil is. He tries , tries to focus on calm , tries to push something over the bond that’ll tell Boil he’s coming, but he can’t manage to drown out the constant stream of thoughts rushing through his mind. 

Someone yells after him, but he assumes they won’t follow. They have their duty. 

Waxer has his duty, too, but that has never stopped him from doing what he thinks is right. Once again he wishes he’d been recommended for ARC training, because then he would have the pauldron to protect him when he makes decisions like these. 

Waxer almost trips when another cramp spikes through him and he stumbles, leans onto the wall for a second, curses in pain before he forces himself to keep going. Most of the pedestrians make way for him to pass once they see him; a few don’t move at all, intentionally smirking at him as he pushes past them. 

Waxer isn’t an angry person, but right there he feels like yelling at a few of them. If there wasn’t the penetrating pain in his stomach, maybe he would have. 

Not my pain , Waxer tries to convince his body. It’s not his pain, it’s Boil’s, and for Boil’s sake he has to keep pushing. He has to keep up this pace despite how out of breath he is, because he doesn’t know how long Boil has left. 

His feet pound onto the stone bricks beneath him. 

Waxer rounds a sharp corner and looks down, just catching the elevators in the level right below him. He climbs over the railing, holding onto it tightly as he drops down onto a set of boxes. Letting himself drop off of the boxes, too, he stumbles for a mere second before he sprints to the elevators, checking them until he gets in one that should go down back to level 2684. 

He’s close, now. The elevator-music taunts him as he moves down. Waxer tries to correct his breathing, tries to calm himself down. 

Breathe in, breathe out. 

His hands grab onto his blaster tightly, because he needs something to hold onto. 

Waxer is going to get in so much trouble for this. He’s probably made a bad call by abandoning his squadmates, but really, him not being there probably won’t matter in the long run. They have Commander Fox, who is clearly a professional. He must think the worst of Waxer now. Maybe he assumes he’s deserted. 

Does this count as desertion?

Waxer shakes his head sharply. Later. He’ll worry about that later. For now, he’ll concentrate on getting to his brother and keeping him from dying. 

He shifts uneasily, horribly glad that there are no civilians in the small space with him. Still, there’s this feeling of being trapped as he looks through the transparisteel, the see-through doors firmly closed as he watches another level pass. 

This time no technical problems occur, and once the doors open he makes his way out, finding that this level is still devoid of civilians. He slows his step down, if only to preserve energy (in case he had to fight to even get to Boil) and to check his surroundings. Fox said the droids have been stationed here for a long time. If Waxer ran into a squad of them now he’d be good as dead. 

The pain had lessened, though Waxer doubts it’s because it got better—It might just be the adrenaline kicking in. 

This part of level 2684 is completely different to the one he had been in. Not in that it has any difference in atmosphere—it’s still just as dark and the air still smells of faeces and general decay, and the smell doesn’t even get weaker through his helmet. He scrunches his nose as he walks through the concourse. After a while entire plates are missing in the street and he can look onto the level below them, careful not to accidentally fall. 

When he looks ahead, the concourse ends. Part of this level still seems to be in destruction and there’s a temporary railing set up, red lights signaling not to get any closer. 

Below , Waxer hears himself think, and frowns. He steps closer to the end of the concourse, taking light steps. There’s no reason for the troops to be in the level under this one, or at the very least none Waxer could think of, and still—

Below. 

Boil’s right below him. 

“Do we even need this one,” a robotic voice chirps and Waxer carefully leans over the reiling, charging his blaster. 

There are several bodies lying on the ground, all 212th troopers, surrounded by several destroyed droids. Boil lies in the middle of it all, unmoving, and two remaining battledroids stand above him, both of which have their own blasters pointed at him. 

“The Sergeant said we’d need it to find out where the Senators went,” the second droid says, kicking Boil’s helmet. 

Boil doesn’t respond at all. 

“It’s not moving,” the first droid states. “Or responding. It’s useless. We should just blast it and move on.”

“Roger ro—“

The first droid is cut short as its head is blasted off, and the second one turns in Waxer’s direction, making a surprised noise. Waxer blasts it down. 

Boil still isn’t moving.

Waxer needs to get down there, but he has no doubts he’ll break something if he just jumps from this height. Then again, he’s seen Jedi jump from places much higher than this and they haven’t gotten a single bruise. It’s what leads him to assume the force probably has something to do with it—which means he can do this, too. 

There’s no other way down. He has to try. 

Waxer takes a deep breath and then he sprints, vaulting over the reiling onto the level below him, closing his eyes and trying to hang onto whatever the force really is–

And crashes down. As he lands onto the stone something cracks, and Waxer bites back a scream as he stumbles and collapses, his back hitting stone bricks. For a second he can’t even feel the pain. 

Maybe the force just hates me, Waxer thinks, lifting his head with great effort. 

Boil lies on the ground right next to him, unmoving, and even though he feels his heartbeat in his mind, for a moment he thinks he’s dead. 

He tries to stand and his leg gives in immediately, sending him crashing onto the bricks, and he drags himself closer to his brother instead. Waxer touches his shoulder and then pulls off his bucket, as careful as he’s able to. The touch seems to snap Boil back to reality, because once the bucket’s gone, Boil’s eyes are wide open. 

“Waxer,” Boil croaks, reaches out, and Waxer holds onto his hand. Boil’s hand taps onto Waxer’s helmet and Waxer gets the message, clips it off and sets it aside. 

Everything hurts. Not as bad as it did on Umbara, that’s how he knows he’s not dying, because he has died before, but–it’s enough to make him want to scream out in pain. He thinks his leg might be broken. 

Boil on the other hand—

There’s so much blood. 

Waxer quickly realizes one thing; they’re in the way. This squad of droids has been destroyed entirely but if what Fox said is true, more are coming. 

They’re in the middle of the empty concourse, out in the open. If they want to survive this, they’ll need to find somewhere to hide behind until the other squads are coming. Waxer turns his head until he stops, looking at a dumpster a few feet away. 

They could make it there. 

“Did–“ Boil finally starts, gasps. “Are—you shot, too?”

Waxer shakes his head. He feels dizzy. “No, not shot,” he says, and suddenly anger washes over him, but it’s not his own. 

“ Move, then , ” Boil grits out, and he shoves him. 

This time, Waxer does scream, clasps a hand onto his mouth to stop himself and Boil immediately recoils, hand hovering in the air. “Your leg,” he chokes out, face twisting as he looks at what is definitely a broken bone. “Fuck, sorry, I didn’t–“ He pauses, squeezes his eyes together. “Get out of here, you can still crawl—“

“No,” Waxer says, pushes himself back to Boil and only winces a little when his leg drags over the ground. He doesn’t have time to explain. More droids are coming, and he has to get Boil and himself to cover, now. 

He clutches Boil’s arm, and then he’s pulling him, dragging him across the ground; Boil is heavy, Boil’s armor is heavy, but Waxer won’t leave him. They just need to get to cover and hold their position in hiding until the others will be able to get them and they’ll be okay. 

If they get them. If they decide that two clones are really worth it. 

Waxer shakes his head softly. No, General Kenobi will send someone if he can. They’re officers, not as easy to replace, and Kenobi’s always cared about them, he knows. Cody wouldn’t leave them either, if he had anything to say about it. No, they won’t be left here, Waxer won’t accept that. 

The helmets are long forgotten, way less important. 

“Waxer, stop ,” Boil croaks, hands reaching up to push him away–but the pressure is barely there. His fingers press against Waxer’s armor and he can’t feel it at all. 

Just a bit more. Just a bit until there’s cover, then they can rest. 

Boil stops resisting when he realizes Waxer isn’t giving up, but he doesn’t help , either. “Leave me,” he says, voice uncharacteristically fragile. 

Waxer stubbornly continues to drag Boil. His leg moves across the ground and he whines, though he’d rather scream. Boil opens his mouth as if to make a pained noise, too, but no sound comes out, and when Waxer turns to look he notes they’re leaving a bloodtrail. Waxer’s leg moves again. He bites back a scream. Repeat.  

Waxer feels sick, the edges of his vision white, but he can’t stop. Not with the droids on their tails and with Boil depending on him. 

“Help me here, Boil,” Waxer grits out. “If you die here, I die here.”

That seems to do the trick. After a moment of hesitation Boil’s legs are moving, kicking at the ground as Waxer drags him. It’s still not a lot, Boil’s too weak to actually help much, but it’s better than when he’s actively trying to make Waxer leave him. 

Waxer’s ears are ringing, but when he listens again he notices Boil’s talking, and he wonders if he’s been doing so this entire time. 

“ Di’kut, ” Boil breathes out, not much more than a whisper. “ Fucking idiot. If–we survive– this– I’ll kill you.”

Waxer laughs weakly, head turning to check how far away the dumpster is. Close. They’re so close. 

And then, softly, Waxer hears the sound of durasteel stomping onto the stone bricks. It starts quietly, barely audible above the ringing in his ears, and then it marches closer, closer, closer. 

Boil feels so much heavier than before.

Cover’s so close. 

Just a bit, just a small bit, and then they’re safe. Ghost company will come for them. They’ll be taken to medical and will suffer the bacta-tank for a few days and then they’ll be fine. They have to be fine. They have to. 

“There,” a robotic voice says. “Look. Two injured clones. Do we take prisoners?” 

Waxer looks up, but instead of looking at the droids his eyes drop down until the only thing he sees is Boil, Boil full of blood, Boil looking at him with pleading eyes. 

“Go,” Boil says. 

If Waxer went now he could still get to the dumpster, but not with Boil slowing him down.

Boil wants Waxer to live. He knows that. Still. 

Waxer wants Boil to live, too, and he already knows what dying feels like; a lot like this, actually, and maybe this is worse, knowing that Boil’s dying and he wants Waxer to live, and that Waxer’s going to ignore his best friend’s dying wish out of nothing but selfishness. 

Because if Waxer died, he knows Boil would move on, probably. Waxer wouldn’t know what to do with himself if Boil wasn’t there. 

I’d probably join him soon enough , Waxer thinks, remembering all the times where Boil had held him back and told him to “use his fucking brain before running head-first into things”. He probably would get himself killed soon enough. 

No , he thinks, banishing the thoughts. Boil’s not dying here. I’m not dying here, either. We’re both going to live.

Waxer likes living. He got something to live for , and he won’t die here, nor will he lose his best friend. 

I’m not losing another one. I won’t let another one die. 

Something’s building up inside of him, makes breathing hard, and he lets the emotion flow through him. Waxer won’t let them die here, he won’t, he can’t , not if he can still move a single muscle. Not if he can still breathe. Waxer remembers how he’s felt when Krell started choking him, how the fear made it easy to hold onto that–and there’s no other word for Waxer to describe it– Force , and though General Kenobi told him you had to have a clear mind to use it—

Emotion seems to work as well. 

Waxer’s scared because he doesn’t want to die again and he’s angry because Boil doesn’t deserve this. He holds onto those feelings instead of calm, desperately thinking of what he can do . 

“Just shoot them,” a droid says. “They are no use to us.”

“Roger, Roger.”

Waxer looks up, holds out his shaking hands into the direction of the droids, pinches his eyes closed and lets go. Several droids make a high pitched noise before there’s the sound of durasteel crashing, and over all a deafening noise that comes close to an explosion. Boil gasps. 

The ringing in his ears feels stronger than before and Waxer drops down onto the bricks, feeling as if he’s been drained of all strength. 

When Waxer cracks his eyes open the droids lie scattered on the ground, the first two rows completely destroyed while the last one’s are hurrying to get onto their feet again. Waxer, despite feeling weak enough to collapse on the spot, scrambles for his blaster, aims and blasts at them before they can resume what they were doing. One jumps up too fast for Waxer to shoot but a well placed blastershot from behind him takes it out, and when Waxer turns Boil has managed to grab onto his blaster, ignoring the fact that he’s still bleeding out. 

Waxer’s breathing heavily. 

Wrong. His stomach sinks and he shivers, looks down at his hands. They’re still shaking. Shaking, bloody and bruised. That was wrong, Waxer thinks, his throat tight. A heavy feeling settles in his chest. I shouldn’t have done it like this. 

It worked, it got the job done, and Waxer’s glad it worked, but it’s the opposite of what Kenobi had told him to do. Kenobi said he’d have to be calm. Waxer was too scared. Frankly, he doesn’t know how he should’ve managed to stay calm when he was so sure he was about to die. He can’t just keep his heart from beating in his throat.

Still. 

“Waxer,” Boil whispers, and Waxer gathers all the strength he has left to drag himself and Boil the last bit until they’re directly behind cover, and Waxer sighs in relief, slumping against the dumpster.

Boil breathes heavily. Waxer pulls him half into his lap to press his hands down where he’s been shot, applying pressure to the wound.

“What–was that,” Boil asks quietly, wincing. Distracting himself from the pain, if Waxer would have to guess. Waxer shakes his head.

“Don’t talk. You need to save your energy until someone gets us out of here.”

Boil furrows his brows in disapproval and Waxer sighs. Distraction would do him well, and he’ll tell him sooner or later anyway. 

“I–I think I might’ve messed up,” he admits. “Kenobi told me that to use the force, physically, you need to have a clear mind. That’s why we’ve been meditating, but, well, y’already know this. But I’ve–done it differently, just now. I was scared that I’d die, again, and I couldn’t calm down so I guess I just used— emotion to control it, instead…” He trails off, unsure again. Boil listens to him for once, stays quiet. 

“It felt wrong, though. I don’t know. I mean, It’s better than being dead, but–”

“‘s alright, Waxer,” Boil slurs, tries to sit himself up only to have Waxer push him back down. He groans, head dropping onto his shoulder and searches for his brother’s eyes again. 

“You—are a good pers’n. Not sure why y’think usin’ emotion was wrong, but it doesn’t matter.” He coughs, his whole body shaking for a moment and Waxer holds him. He’s coughing up blood, Waxer realizes, fear sinking into his stomach again. 

What if it was for nothing? Boil could still die here. 

Once Boil has calmed down he winces, dropping his head back into Waxer’s lap. “I got m’blood all over you,” he whispers. “And–your helmet’s still there.”

“Our helmets are easily replaced. We aren’t,” Waxer says firmly. 

Boil gives a weak smile, and for a second Waxer thinks he’s going to protest. It’s not that Waxer doesn’t know about their situation; it’s not that Waxer doesn’t know they have little to no rights, and that they don’t matter in the grand scheme of things. In the end, the both of them are as easily replaced as any other soldier in the GAR. But Waxer likes to think that it’s not them who are replaceable, it’s their position. 

It would matter if they died. People would care, even if it’s just Cody and the other brothers of the 212th. Maybe it wouldn’t matter a lot, but in a way, it would. Waxer holds onto that hope, firmly, choosing to believe that maybe his existence impacted the world around him.

“No. I guess not,” Boil finally answers. He closes his eyes and Waxer immediately pinches his face lightly. “Don’t you dare fall asleep,” he says. “You won’t wake up again.”

Boil cracks his eyes open again with what seems to be great effort. “I know,” he says quietly. “But–‘m so tired .”

They go silent, and Waxer thinks of something to say. It’s what he did on his very first battle when Cody had got injured and fallen behind; Waxer sat down next to him and told him about everything and nothing just to keep him awake. But back then Waxer himself had been fine.

Now he has a broken leg and feels the dull echo of Boil’s pain, too, and it’s making it hard to think. 

Waxer contemplates to just start babbling about how the campaign went when he again hears the quiet sound of durasteel meeting the floor. 

“Clankers are back,” he whispers to Boil, who clenches his teeth in response. Waxer stops moving entirely, can’t afford to make a sound because if they notice they’re here, they’re dead. 

Boil’s still bleeding out. Waxer hopes Cody’s backup troops are coming soon. 

The droids are marching closer. Waxer doesn’t see any of them because it would mean they could catch sight of him, too. And it would require moving his leg anyway, and that’s too painful. It still throbs, but as long as Waxer doesn’t move the pain is bearable. 

He doesn’t think he could bite back a scream if he did. 

Boil keeps his eyes on him, though he’s obviously fighting against the urge to close them. He’s always been tough though, and Waxer knows he won’t just give up if there’s any way for him to survive. 

The marching is close now, a steady rhythm as the squad of droids passes them. It feels like hours, hours in which Waxer almost forgets to breathe a few times because he’s afraid of the droids hearing them. 

“Why are there two helmets lying here?” a robotic voice suddenly asks, and Waxer thinks his heart stops beating for a moment. Boil heard, too, hand reaching for his blaster. 

They can’t possibly fight their way out if this, not when both of them are this weak, but Waxer knows they’ll both try if it comes down to it. 

“The clones were probably killed by the squad before,” another droid ratters down. The other’s keep marching. 

“But where are the rest of their bodies? None of the other clones are missing their helmets.”

As Waxer feels himself drifting off he thinks, distantly, about the dream he had last week. There’s a reason you’re here , Stars had said. Waxer can’t possibly think of a reason, no matter how hard he tries. In the end—

In the end Waxer almost feels like laughing. This must be the stupidest way to die. Boil seems more angry at himself than scared, and though Waxer’s sure his hands are shaking (he can’t say if they’re shaking again or still) he doesn’t have the energy to actively be scared anymore. 

Boil’s hand firmly grasps Waxer’s, and Waxer squeezes back. 

They lie still. They wait. 

There’s silence for a second before the second droid replies. “You’re right. Two bodies are missing. Maybe they escaped.”

“I will check if they have hidden somewhere,” the first droid chirps.

Waxer holds his breath. The marching continues, but aside there’s now a small out-of-tact noise. Waxer tries to recall what other hiding places there could've been in the concourse, how much time they have left. 

The droid turns around the corner. 

Waxer shoots it down, listens for the sound of durasteel meeting the floor, and waits for the other droids to notice. 

“There! There must be clones behind that dumpster!” 

Waxer swallows, and when Boil moves slightly to have a better view from where the droids will be coming, his vision goes white for a moment. 

When he comes back to himself, Boil’s taking down two droids, but right behind more are following, and even as Waxer scrambles to help it’s awfully clear that they won’t—

“Open fire!” a familiar voice shouts, and the next moments the droids are being mowed down from the other side. Waxer needs a moment to realize what’s happening, still keeps shooting until his blaster’s empty, but when he does he falls back against the durasteel behind him, sighing in relief. He squeezes Boil’s hand tightly.

“Told you they’d get us,” he says, voice thick and barely audible above the blasterfire. A trooper rounds the corner and visibly jumps when he sees them. 

“Kriff. Medic!” he yells, and Boil groans. “I think I migh’just pass out, if we’re done ‘ere,” he slurs, and Waxer feels himself slip, too. Maybe part of that is because he knows that if they fall asleep now they probably won’t die. The other’s got them. 

“Good idea,” he mutters, shutting his eyes. Someone drops down next to him and he feels Boil moving, slightly nudging his leg as he does, and that pain is enough to make Waxer see nothing but darkness. 

Waxer is the first to wake up.

It’s never happened like this before. It’s always that either Boil wakes up first or he wasn’t injured in the first place. Waxer has almost gotten used to waking up with Boil asleep in the medbay-chair after he got himself into trouble, scolding him for being so reckless.

Not this time. Waxer wakes up and the chair is empty.

He takes a moment to take in his surroundings, his vision still white at its sides. There’s a beeping noise and then a sharp sigh from his left, and the next moment the curtain’s around Waxer’s cot are brushed to the side as a medic leans over him. 

Coma, as the chief medical officer, is the most experienced of them all and has been the chief since the beginning of the war. Coma had already been the exact way he is now back when Waxer came fresh from Kamino. At this point he has long formed a kind-of-friendship with him, though he’s sure Coma would deny that. 

Waxer admits, he really does see why so many shinies are so afraid of Coma, as the medic hovers over Waxer with squinted eyes and a scowl. 

“Good evening, vod,” Coma says, sounding more like he’s accusing Waxer of something (of what, he isn’t sure), perusing his datapad before he sets it aside. Waxer manages to give him a small smile. “Hey.”

He yawns before he looks down at himself. Several bacta-patches are neatly secured on his right leg, but when he moves it there’s no pain. 

Coma doesn’t bat an eye. “We kept you in bacta for a week to make sure the bone healed fully. Your body was also insanely weak. You gave everyone a pretty big shock, there, even the General was worried.”

Waxer blinks. “Oh,” he says dumbly before he looks around. There’s a curtain around his cot that prevents him from seeing anything happening outside. 

“Is,” he starts, looking up at Coma’s piercing gaze before he decides that he can’t hold his brothers eye contact, “Is Boil alright?”

Coma sighs. “He’s not out of bacta yet. You’re bad, but he was worse. He’s been bleeding out for a while but the damn clankers missed any important organs, which is the only reason he’s not dead. What he did manage was to get himself an infection because of the dirt getting into his wound when you two dragged yourselves to safety. We’re pretty sure he’ll be fine.”

Waxer takes a moment to process this. Coma hadn’t avoided the question but that answer is still vague, and normally he would say he’ll be fine, not pretty sure he’ll be fine. 

“Can I see him?” he asks, tries to sit up and is only pushed back into the cot. He groans.

“Oh, no you can’t,” Coma says firmly. “Just because the bone is good as new doesn’t mean you get to just walk out of here. First, I want answers. What the actual fuck did you do to your body? Any idea on why you were barely functioning?”

Waxer furrows his brow. Sure, the campaign was exhausting, but not more than the usual, and–

Oh. Waxer winces; It might’ve something to do with the force-thing. Kenobi probably knows, he thinks, shivering. Banthashit. 

“Uh,” he starts, not meeting the chief medic’s eyes. “I don’t know?”

“You don’t know,” Coma repeats flatly. “Of course you don’t know.” He picks the datapad up again, types something and then sighs. “Not sure how to get this through to you, but this was a close call. For both of you. And It’s not just the fault of the droids for the injuries you carry, now. The Commander has his opinions about this, too.”

“Oh,” Waxer replies. 

“ Oh, ” Coma repeats again, rolls his eyes. “I’d let Cody in now but I’m holding the opinion that being yelled at does not get you out of here faster. You’re really lucky I’m holding him off.  Flow?” 

“Yessir?” Flow’s voice responds, and then he’s pushing the curtain aside to join the older medics side. He flashes Waxer a smile. “Waxer, Sir! Good to see you awake.”

“Spare yourself the formalities,” Coma mutters before Waxer can answer, pushing the datapad from before into Flow’s hands. “I have better things to do, but you make sure he gets back to his full health. I’m not letting him leave until his stats are as they should be, and not the mess that they are.”

Flow browses over the pad, frowns. “Oh. That doesn’t look good. And this is from...Four days ago?”

He sends a questioning glance to Coma, who nods grimly. “The one from today should be at the bottom. Just resting should get the job done but now that he’s awake we’re going to help speed his recovery up. You know what to do?”

Flow looks up, furrowing his brows in thought. “Set up a routine, make sure he gets enough sleep, don’t give him too much excitement—I should probably give him shots to fasten the progress, because we’ll need this cot sooner or later.” He turns to Coma, cocking his head to the side. Coma hums. “You got it. I’ll leave you to it. And don’t let his niceness betray you, vod’ika. Waxer’s a menace.”

“I’m not,” Waxer protests. Coma just glares at him before he moves past the curtain. 

“Alright,” Flow says. “Since we’re back into a day-night circle and since the suns going down in a few minutes It would probably be best if you ate something and then went back to sleep. Feeling tired?”

Waxer shrugs. “Not particularly.”

“Try to sleep, anyway. Your body needs the rest. If it doesn’t work, I’ll sedate you.”

“You’re starting to sound like Coma,” Waxer says, grinning. Flow smiles back. 

“I try my best, Sir. Hang on, I’ll get a spare ration.”

Flow disappears through the curtain and Waxer is left alone with nothing but the white cloth surrounding him. He is pretty tired, still, now that he thinks about it. 

Suddenly, he hears the sound of a door being pushed open, and then a curse. 

“Is he awake yet,” a gruff voice asks. Another brother, probably Flow, splutters. 

“Yessir, he’s woken up a few minutes ago, but Coma advised that he was not to be—“

“I outrank Coma by all means. If he’s awake then I need to see him.”

Waxer considers pretending to be asleep, but then decides that the Commander would look right through that and just be even more upset, so he doesn’t. He does sink a little deeper into his pillow. 

When Cody pushes the curtains aside, surprisingly, he doesn’t look angry.

“Commander,” Waxer greets him. The word sounds slurred, for some reason. 

Cody looks horrible. He’s got shadows darker than usual under his eyes, eyes flicking over Waxer’s form as if to make sure he’s really okay.

“You look like banthashit,” Waxer comments. Cody doesn’t laugh, just blinks in surprise, and then his lips tug into the hint of a smile. 

“Waxer,” he finally says, the word almost a sigh. “It’s really good to see you, brother.”

He moves closer to Waxer’s side, frown replacing the almost-smile he was wearing before. “How are you feeling?”

“Good,” Waxer says without thinking, and then realizes his mistake. 

“Fantastic,” Cody says. “So maybe you’ll mind explaining why you ran away in the middle of a campaign, leaving the squad you were with to an officer none of them had ever worked with before?”

Waxer winces. “I take it back. I feel very tired, actually.”

Cody grits his teeth. “Not the time, Waxer. I’m glad you’re okay, but if you weren’t already in medbay I’d punch you myself. What were you thinking? ” 

He sighs, runs a hand over his face. “I need to be able to rely on you. You disregarded direct orders to, what, exactly? Break your leg? Because droids don’t break troopers legs, and Boil can’t tell us yet what the fuck you did.”

“I jumped off one level onto the other,” Waxer mutters. He thinks Cody goes a little red. 

“ Why ,” he bites out. “ Why did you think that was a good idea? I know you don’t think about what you’re doing ninety percent of the time, but for fucks sake!”

Waxer shakes his head. “Boil was down there,” he says, and though Cody had raised his voice Waxer doesn’t. Whether it’s because he doesn’t like shouting or because he’s missing the energy, he can’t say at the moment.

“Boil was down there and he already got shot. I didn’t have time to find another way down.”

Cody glares at him another second, before his facade finally crumbles. 

Waxer’s known Cody for a long time. He knows that in the first place Cody will always be a Commander and that Waxer and Boil will always be his subordinates. But outside of that, they’re still friends, even if Cody can’t always put said friendship above his duties. 

Waxer knows that he cares, anyway. 

Cody’s features relax and he looks down before he carefully puts his forehead against Waxer’s, only for a second. “I get it,” he says when he pulls away. “If it’d been Rex or Wolffe, I would’ve also jumped. I don’t blame you, but—“

“Paperwork?” Waxer offers. This time, Cody does snort. “Paperwork,” he confirms, looking at the ceiling. “I’ll need you to make a full report some other time. I’ve already apologised to Fox and the Senators on your behalf so I’m marking that done, but I still need your side of the story.”

He pauses, meets Waxers eyes. “I don’t wanna talk about that yet but there are some things I’ll need you to explain, got it?”

Waxer nods. “So, you’re not demoting me?”

Cody’s almost-smile is back. Waxer thinks between Kenobi’s half-smile and Cody’s almost-smile he prefers the latter; somehow it feels more genuine. 

“No, Waxer, I’m not demoting you. I should and I hope you’re aware that this’ll have consequences, but you’re still a good soldier.”

Relief flows through Waxer and he nods, smiling back. “Thanks Cody,” he says, ignoring the rank for now. 

Waxer has long heard talking from the other side of the curtain but only perks up when he hears his own name. In the next moment the Curtain is pushed to the side in a haste and Coma builds himself up in front of Cody, looking deranged. Flow is right behind him. He bites his lip and looks from the Commander to the chief medic. 

“Commander,” Coma bites out. 

“Coma,” Cody says, sounding amused. Coma squints his eyes. “Out. Now.”

“It’s fine,” Waxer tries to argue. “He didn’t even y—“

“Do I look like I care?” Coma jabs a finger at the Commander. “Sorry, Sir, but Waxer needs rest and absolutely no excitement.”

Flow sends an apologetic look at Waxer as Cody is more or less pushed out the medbay, and Waxer distantly thinks that Kix and Coma would get along really well.  

His eyelids feel heavy. When Flow finally does get his ration, he’s already fast asleep. 

Chapter Text

There’s a clock in medbay, somewhere, even if Lara can’t see it. When everything is quiet the ticking noise rings in his ears. Tic, tac. Tic, tac.

Lara’s fingers twitch involuntarily. 

He doesn’t like medbay. Not one bit. 

It’s not that it’s uncomfortable—the beds are soft, someone is constantly checking on you, and you have a sneaky way of escaping maintenance duties, which Lara is especially appreciative of. You get to sleep all day, and he even managed to convince Flow to let him listen to music over his helmet, though it took several heated arguments. Flow is fun to argue with.  

The reason why Lara doesn’t like Medbay is Coma. Simple as that. 

Not Coma as in someone-in-a-coma, but Coma as in the Chief medical officer. Lara doesn’t know how he got his name and he doesn’t plan on asking. 

The other medics are fairly nice. If Lara had to rank all the medics that Ghost company had it would start out with Flow at the top, followed by Extra and Loop, after that just about every other medic, and lastly Coma at the very bottom. 

Flow, the youngest of them, checks up on him regularly and tells him he’ll be able to leave soon enough, that his injuries aren’t fatal. He’s trying really hard to do a good job and looks as nervous around Coma as Lara feels. Extra lets Shoot visit him even after the medbay is already closed. Loop repeats what he’s saying and gets on Lara’s nerves a bit, but he’s alright. 

Coma isn’t like that. Coma is unforgiving. Coma gives sharp orders and snaps at him for ‘being at fault for his injuries’. Coma threatens him that if he catches him in medbay again because of something that would’ve been preventable if he had just shown the tiniest bit of logical thinking abilities, he’ll break his arm himself. His exact words. 

Lara is incredibly terrified of Coma.

Maybe he got his name because he scared a trooper enough to put him in a coma, because when Lara sees the Chief medic enter the room he almost feels like falling into one himself. 

Still, He’s the most skilled medic of them all, and that is why Lara gathers all his emotional strength to speak to him as the chief medic once again checks up on how he’s doing. 

“Coma, Sir? Can I ask you something?”

Coma looks up from his datapad, frowning. Lara almost retreats, but he’s already gone this far, so might as well. 

“Sure?” Coma says. 

“Could you scan me? Specifically my head?” he asks, forcing himself to meet the medic’s eyes. 

While lying in medbay Lara got lots of time to think about his experience after he crashed into the ground and got himself a concussion, about how he remembered. The most logical conclusions are that either something is stopping him from remembering, or he’s just going insane. 

A short list of collected reasons Lara came up with as to why he can’t remember, and why he could, for a mere second;

• the longnecks did something with his brain. When he hit his head, said something failed for work for a second. 

Well. Maybe you can’t call something a list when you’ve only got a single bullet point in it, but it’s how Lara always sorts things in his mind. Lara presumes there are now two main options; one, they brainwashed him, or two, they put something in his brain. It’s probably the first; Lara doubts the longnecks would care enough to put something in there. 

Obviously, Lara had long before asked himself what the longnecks actually do when they recondition a clone, but no one who ever witnessed something like that remembers to tell the tale.

Either way; It should have to do something with his head. A scan certainly wouldn’t hurt . 

To his dismay Coma’s scowl deepens at his request, which Lara didn’t think was possible. 

“We did scan you. When you came back from Kiros, remember,” he says. 

Lara nods. “Yeah, I know, but I need you to do it again.” 

“Why would you want that? Your concussion seems to be gone.”

“I don’t know, to be safe? I think something might be wrong,” Lara argues. Coma squints his eyes and then sighs, though it’s not quite in defeat. “Fine, trooper.” He taps a few more times on his pad before he puts it away and gets out the smallest scanner Lara has ever seen in his life.

“Lie still,” he says, and Lara does. A few seconds pass. 

“Just like I thought. Everything seems to be fine.”

Lara doesn’t know what he expected. If it didn’t pick up anything the first time there’s no reason for it to do so, now, but he still hoped . 

“Are you sure? Could the scanner overlook things?” he asks. 

Coma looks even more confused now. He hesitates before answering. “Yes. But we don’t have the needs to do a more professional scan. They only have those on Coruscant or Kamino.”

“What about the scanner here? You know, the one to perform surgeries with?”

Coma squints his eyes. “That’s just a bigger, full body version of our hand-scanners.”

“Could I get a scan on Coruscant or Kamino, then?”

“No,” Coma says, and Lara wants to protest but shrinks into himself when Coma gives him his best glare. “I don’t know what you think happened to you but you’re fine. A few more days to heal up all your internal injuries the bacta couldn’t take care of and you’re done.”

And with that Coma pushes the curtains around his cot closed and ends the conversation, leaving Lara alone with his thoughts. 

On the fourth day of lying in medbay, surrounded by various bacta-patches, Flow pushes the curtains around Lara’s cot aside. 

“You’ve got visitors. Wanna see them?” he asks. Flow’s (definitely against regulation length) hair is put up into a neat up-do today and he cocks his head to the side. 

Lara rolls his eyes. Shoot and his shiny-friends have visited at least three times today; once to check on how he’s doing, once to play sabacc with him and once to ask him if he knew any more Mando'a insults. (He did.)

A fourth time wouldn’t hurt. He shrugs. “Sure.”

Flow nods, giving him a smile. 

“I’ll let him in.”

When the curtain opens again, it’s not Shoot, nor any of the shinies. The brother now standing awkwardly at Lara’s bedside is wearing his greys, eyes not meeting Lara’s face. 

It’s Oli. 

His more-or-less batchmate. 

Lara can’t remember the last time he’s talked to him. That must’ve been on Kamino; Technically they’re still part of the same squad but Lara rarely sees any of them, anyway. They sleep in the same room and they shout at each other in battle, that’s all it is. 

Oli’s gotten a tattoo since then, a small blaster right under his left eye that doesn’t fit him at all. Other than that he still looks the very same. 

“Hey,” Oli says. He shifts his weight from one foot onto the other, bites the inside of his cheek.

“Hey,” Lara says awkwardly. Oli still doesn’t meet his eyes, just fidgets at Lara’s bedside. He clears his throat. “I, uh. Wanted to check on you. See if you’re okay.”

Lara lifts an eyebrow. “Funny that you waited four days for that.”

Oli winces, and somehow he looks almost guilty. “Sorry, I didn’t–I figured that you wouldn’t want to see me.”

He’s not wrong. Lara can’t think of a reason why he would want to see someone who did nothing but ignore him for the last three, almost four years. 

For once, he doesn't say any of this. “So, why are you here now?” he asks instead. 

Oli shrugs. “Finally brought up the courage. If you don’t wanna see me you can just tell me, I’ll go.” He swallows, shifts his weight again. “I’ve, uhm. Wanted to try and reconnect for a while now, but you always seemed busy.”

Maybe the explosion damaged Lara’s ability to hear, because Oli can’t be saying what he thinks he’s saying. Oli continues. 

“It’s just that. Longshot died, and Aim—he didn’t—“

He pauses, casts his eyes to the side. “He didn’t survive losing him. Died on Umbara because some kind of plant attacked him. I—know he could’ve moved away fast enough. But he didn’t. Just stood there and accepted it. Mistle died a bit later, not even during the whole Krell-thing, but before that. He got caught by blasterfire.”

It takes a bit for the words to reach Lara’s brain. “Holy shit,” he says, which might be insensitive but he can’t think of anything else to say. Oli laughs bitterly. “Yeah. So, well. There’s no one else left from our batch except for you. It really is fine if you don’t want to forgive me, but I figured it wouldn’t—hurt to try.”

Lara hasn’t even heard about Mistle and Aim’s death. He’s been so busy that it never occurred to him that the vode sleeping in their beds might not be them anymore. 

It could be worse, Lara thinks as he studys Oli. Oli’s never actively made him feel bad. At times he even actually talked to Lara, though there always was a dark tone in his voice, and he always sounded so...sad. 

Lara assumes it has something to do with their lost batchmate, the one he replaced. He never bothered to ask. 

“So,” Lara starts, drawing the word out. “...what have you been up to?”

Oli’s head snaps up to meet his eyes, finally, and then his shoulder slump in relief. He shakes his head. “Not a lot, to be frank. Just kind of spent the days training. I didn’t really know what to do with myself.” There’s a silence.

“Still don’t,” he then adds, and for some reason he laughs quietly. It’s not a happy laugh by any means. 

“Are you still smuggling sweets?” Lara asks, to try and change the subject. 

Oli blinks. “You know about that?”

“Of course I do. You’re anything but subtle,” Lara says. He’d known about it even on Kamino. There are at least a dozen vode in every battalion smuggling sweets of all kinds, and ghost company obviously is no exception to that. 

Oli looks genuinely surprised, and then a small smile tugs at his mouth. “Well, no one’s reported me yet.”

“That’s because they all want the sweets, vod, obviously.”

“Obviously,” Oli grins. He cocks his head to the side. “I’ll get you some. To pass the time while you’re in here. Speaking of that—how are you doing? I heard you got sent here because you got caught in the explosion on Kiros.”

“Yep,” Lara confirms, popping the last letter. “Wouldn’t recommend it. Pain in the shebs.”

“I believe it.”

Lara looks Oli over again. He hasn’t forgiven him for his cadet years yet, but maybe they can still be friends, after all. He gives him his best smirk, and Oli smiles back. 

Yeah, Lara thinks. Maybe. 

Oli keeps his promise. Shoot visits once when Oli is already at his bedside and they quietly share a bar of chocolate. Oli isn’t messing around at all; he seems to go big or not at all. 

Shoot asks where he even gets all of this. Oli refuses to share his secrets, though Lara isn’t particularly interested in where it comes from, anyway. It tastes amazing. That’s what matters. 

Lara gets to leave medbay one day before they arrive on Coruscant, and putting on his armor has never felt this good. Ghost company falls back into the same old routine. Sparring, playing sabacc, occasionally eating meals in the mess hall to go back to sparring, trading stories, playing sabacc. 

Days pass. Lara picks up from a nearby conversation that their next stop will be Coruscant, and Lara’s honestly excited for it. He hasn’t gotten a chance to visit the infamous clone bar yet, and he really wants to. 

Oli makes bets with Wooley during spars. Waxer and Boil are each trying to pin the other down as a bunch of brothers watch them spar. Shoot’s telling him about his squadmates and things they got up to while Lara’s been in medbay. Lara’s only halfway listening. 

Everyone went back to normal pretty quickly after Umbara and Kiros. These spars prove that, and Lara can’t say if he would prefer it if everyone would be mourning. They are, in their way, at least those who lost someone. 

Still, it’s familiar. Crys comes in with awfully dyed hair. Waxer and Boil laugh at him and Cry takes Waxer’s place. Wooley nudges Oli after winning a bet and Oli hands him a piece of gum. 

The usual. 

That is, until Commander Tano walks in, all smiles and high voice. Lara hadn’t even known she was on the ship. Why does no one bother to tell him things?

“That was a good fight,” Tano says, and Boil mutters a quick thank you. All around Lara troopers snap to salute, but Tano is quick to tell them she’s not on duty. 

“Master Obi-wan told me to get you,” Tano says, turning to Waxer of all people. Waxer looks pained, and Wooley exchanges words in mando'a with him, most of which Lara doesn’t get, but Waxer’s answer had been something along the lines of Lieutenant business. Out of context he can assume Wooley had asked what this was about. 

Huh. 

That makes no sense. 

“Lieutenant business?” Lara repeats when Waxer and the Commander head out, furrowing his brows. “Then why aren’t you going with him, Boil?”

He forgets the sir, but Boil doesn’t seem to mind, because Lara figures the glaring comes from literally any other part of his sentence. He huffs.  “Kenobi only wants to see Waxer. Why would I go?”

“You’re both Lieutenants?” Lara offers. 

Boil scowls. “Well, you know what, I don’t like it either. But it’s probably something about an upcoming mission.”

Something about this doesn’t sit right with Lara. He can tell Boil knows more about this than he admits, and it’s making Lara’s fingers twitch. He doesn’t like being kept out of things. 

Boil leaves the room as if he’s fleeing the scene. His brothers resume what they were doing; only Wooley looks utterly confused. 

Lara decides that this won’t do and heads after the clone Lieutenant, just catches him entering the fresher. He follows quietly and shuts the door behind him as he enters. 

Boil looks at him in disapproval, hands hovering above the sink. “What do you want,” he deadpans, not phrasing it like a question. 

Two can play this game. Lara leans against the door to the fresher, squints his eyes. 

“You know, I could just want to use the fresher. That isn’t the case, of course, but I still could. Anyway, you’re hiding something from the rest of us,” he finally says. Boil blinks. Then he laughs half-heartedly, continuing to wash his face. “I’ve got nothing to hide,” he says. 

“But Waxer does,” Lara says, remembering how Waxer had woken up in the middle of the night before Umbara, how terrified he’d looked. Nightmares don’t do that to you. PTSD, maybe. It just doesn’t sit right with him. 

Boil stills, expression turning stone-faced. “Waxer’s fine,” he says. 

Oh, that answer isn’t suspicious at all. 

“That wasn’t even my question,” Lara says. “I figured he’s probably fine, but he’s hiding something and you’re in on it. We’re all brothers, you know you can share it with us, right?”

Boil glares at him before turns away with a huff. The curly bits of his hair have gotten a bit wet at the front. 

“There’s nothing for you to worry about, trooper.”

“What the kriff is that supposed to mean?” Lara exclaims, pushes himself off the wall and walks toward Boil, jabbing a finger at him. Boil’s eyes go wide. Lara almost regrets his actions but then—even if Boil is a superior officer, who cares? He’s still a brother. 

“Either you tell me what’s going on or I’ll find out on my own. Your decision,” he says. 

Boil doesn’t break eye contact, and neither does Lara. Seconds pass. Neither of them blink. 

Finally, Boil’s expression twists, and the hint of a smile appears. 

“Huh. You remind me of someone I once knew,” he says, and it’s not quite a whisper, but it’s quiet, especially for someone with a naturally loud voice like Boil. 

“Oh?” Lara asks. Boil turns away, looks into the mirror before his gaze drops to the sink again, as if he can’t keep eye contact with himself. 

“Yeah. On Kamino we had three other batchmates. Waxer and I, that is. One of ‘em was Singer. You remind me of him.”

Singer. 

That’s really close to Lara’s name, Lara notes. That’s funny. 

“How so?” he asks. 

Boil snorts. “You’re both absolute menaces and won’t let a guy rest,” he replies drily. 

Lara smirks. “I do my best, sir,” he says, also turning to look into the fresher’s mirror. His hair is getting long, though shoulder-length maybe isn’t considered long yet. It’s not nearly as long as some other vode’s, still regulation length by all means. 

But if it falls more into his face he’ll have to cut it, anyway. 

“What—happened to him,” he asks after a second, because Boil had said on Kamino we had. Past-tense. You only do that when the brother you’re talking about is marching on to where you can’t follow. 

Boil’s grin disappears entirely and Lara wonders if he’s even smiled in the first place. “Gone,” Boil says in that tone that leaves no room for any further comments, that commanding officer tone. 

Considering he hasn’t been an officer for that long, Lara thinks it’s pretty entitled. He bristles. “On Kamino?”

“Got decommissioned,” Boil says, biting out the words. “It was expected.”

Boil’s voice is drenched with something like the dull echo of an actual sadness. As if it’s a pain from so long ago he can’t quite grasp it anymore. 

It was expected. 

That’s an odd way to phrase it. Lara’s throat feels a bit tight and he swallows, his thoughts racing, because If Singer got decommissioned — it can’t be, but—?

“Are you sure he got decommissioned,” he asks carefully, and Boil casts him a look that says stop talking. Lara doesn’t stop talking. He physically can’t, not if there’s a chance to find out who he is . “, and not reconditioned? ”

Because—it would make sense, right? Singer and Lara are names awfully close to each other. Boil noted that Singer and Lara are very similar, and Singer disappeared without a trace. 

Lara’s fingers twitch. If he’s Boil’s old batchmate—

He stops himself, waits for Boil to answer before getting his hopes up. Maybe It’s all just one big coincidence. 

Boil’s gaze bores into him, lips pressed together in a tight line. 

“I fucking hope he got decommissioned,” he finally says, calmly, and Lara would be lying if he said that didn’t catch him off-guard. Boil’s eyes betray his calmness. His fingers dig into the smooth steelhide of the sink. 

“I hope he rots in hell, but if he got reconditioned and I’d ever meet him I’d kill him myself. Kriffing Aruetii .”

Well. 

That certainly wasn’t an answer Lara’s been expecting. Lara doesn’t know what the Mando'a word at the end means, and he would’ve asked if Boil didn’t look like he’d like to punch him.

This—makes very little sense. Boil may be grumpy (a perfect counterpart to Waxer), may seem like he’s angry or annoyed ninety percent of the time, but he hadn’t thought he’d be one to wish death onto others; onto another brother, at that. 

Lara shakes his head. “I thought you—“

“Okay, listen, just stop talking,” Boil snaps at him, and Lara expected him to maybe get annoyed or upset—he’s not prepared at all for the pure fury etched onto his face. “I’m not in the mood to talk about this, vod’ika, so just let it go. ”

Silence stretches between them. Lara’s awfully aware that he’s pushed too far, if the look on Boil’s face is anything to go by—but he’s never apologised to anyone before. He’s not sure where he would even start. 

“We’re the same age,” Lara says after a moment, and it’s not an apology by any means, but—he hopes It’s enough. It’s the only way he knows how to move on. Boil rolls his eyes, his features relaxing slightly, and Lara counts that as a win. 

“Sure. Whatever.”

They go quiet. Lara eyes Boil from the side, and after another long minute the Lieutenant lets out a long breath, lowers his head. 

“You remind me of how he was—before he became someone else,” he says, and he gives him a grin that doesn’t reach his eyes. “It wasn’t an insult or anythin’.”

“Didn’t take it as one, Sir,” Lara says, and his voice comes out more quiet than usual. 

The silence is broken with a chirp as Boil’s comm goes off. Laras eyes flicker towards it. Boil startles and taps the screen, his brows furrowed. 

A brother responds, speaking Mando’a. Lara stands to the side as they exchange a few words and doesn’t understand anything at all. He shuffles uncomfortably as the scowl on Boil’s face deepens. 

When they hang up, Boil huffs. “Waxer says we’ll be in battle in a few,” he mutters, turning to Lara. “Better get to your squad.”

Lara scowls. “What? I thought we were going to Coruscant?”

“Plan’s changed. I don’t know any more than you do.”

Boil turns away from the sinks, makes his way out. 

“Well, what are you doing?” Lara calls after him. Boil pauses and blinks. 

“I’m meeting up with Waxer,” he says as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. 

Maybe it is. 

Lara catches Shoot leaving the shooting range, and is just telling him about what Boil told him, when Skywalker appears in the hallway. 

Commander or any other officer approaching? No problem. CO or not, they’re still brothers. General Kenkobi approaching? Intimidating, but harmless. Kenobi’s alright. 

Skywalker isn’t like that. Skywalker is unpredictable. Lara’s heard things about what working with him is like and he’s not sure he likes it. 

He still immediately snaps to salute, nudging Shoot to do the same. His vod’ika sucks in a breath when he catched sigh of the General of the 501st, straightens his back in an instant. 

Lara really does expect Skywalker to just walk along, maybe give a polite nod to the troopers squared up to greet him, but the man stops right in front of them and smiles. Lara stills.

“What’s your name, trooper?” Skywalker asks. Lara needs a moment to register that the question is directed at him of all people. He eyes Shoot and then clears his throat. 

“Lara, Sir.”

“Lara, you’re with me,” Skywalker says, and Lara’s heart sinks into his stomach. “Please follow me to the hangar.” He pauses, casts another look at the people he’s with and then continues through the corridor. 

Lara casts a helpless look at Shoot before he hurries to catch up. “Sir, shouldn’t I prepare for the oncoming attack?”

“Oh, that’s what you’re doing,” Skywalker says, eyes locking onto another group of troopers. “You’re coming along my squad.” 

“Well, but why me? Sir.”

Skywalker shrugs. “It felt right.”

That’s stupid , Lara thinks. He goes with it. 

When Waxer finally decides to join Lara can’t help but stare at him . Something’s wrong with him, or maybe not wrong, but something’s up , he just can't quite put his finger on what, exactly. 

He doesn’t really listen to what anyone says while they stand around not doing much, too caught up in his own thoughts. When they enter the gunship his gaze lingers on Waxer only for a moment before he shakes his head. No use in thinking about this. He needs his full concentration when he’s trying to stay alive on the battlefield. 

“I don’t think I like Coruscant,” the nameless shiny whispers, casts another look out of their gunship. The other shiny nudges him as if to remind him to be quiet. 

Lara inspects his blaster, flicks the switch from stun to kill and to stun again, just to give his hands something to do while they go down. “Nobody likes Coruscant,” he says. He doesn’t look up. Lara’s seen Coruscant before a few times, and it’s really not his cup of tea, nor has he ever met a brother who actually liked the place. 

“I do,” Skywalker says, and Lara does look up at that. “I think it’s a beautiful city. You just have to look in the right places. Have you ever been in one of the towers? The view is breathtaking. You’ll change your mind when you’ve seen something like that, trust me.”

Lara bites his tongue to keep himself from arguing back against the Jedi General. It’s a little funny that he thinks Lara (or most brothers for that matter) would ever be in one of those highest levels. Lara doesn’t know too much about Coruscant, but he does know that much. 

“How’re we doing, Armen?” Skywalker asks after a while. 

Static. Then; “ The situation is under control, Sir. We’re approaching the level Sergeant Hound sent us to, but you’ll have to jump off, soon. Can’t actually land anywhere here.”

“Tell me when,” Skywalker replies. 

“ Yessir.”

A minute later they’re out. They drop down from the gunship and Skywalker takes the lead, Waxer following close behind. 

A gunship passes and another portion of Ghost Company jumps out. Kenobi is leading them until he stops to talk to Skywalker and Cody takes over, instead. Waxer’s bucket turns to Cody’s squadron for a moment, before he snaps his head away to follow Skywalker. 

They don’t have to walk long before they find Sergeant Hound, plus a Massif tied to his belt. The Massif turns out to be named Grizzer, which Lara thinks is an incredible name. The only better ones maybe would’ve been Fluffy or Killer. Or maybe just Massie. 

The bad thing is that the beast is fast , and Lara’s stamina isn’t that good. Whenever he gets a break, he spends it either practicing physical strength or listening to music (or, now, talking to his brothers, though this he had never planned.)

Shortly after Ghost Company attacks and moves into the building, their squad bolts down to the warehouse. Skywalker shields them, leaps over Waxer to take down the droids with a single swing of his lightsaber while the squad passes. 

Once the beast got the track of the Senators and the Guard it somehow gains speed . 

In a similar fascinating fashion, Sergeant Hound manages to keep up with the massif. So does Skywalker, but the rest of them are struggling. Lara’s lungs burn. 

There’s an abrupt stop, and one of the shinys crashes into Waxer. Lara uses the opportunity to lean against a nearby wall, gasps for breath and resists the urge to pull his helmet off. The air down here isn’t good, anyway. 

Grizzer finds the track again. They keep going. 

They pass their first body a minute later. A guard trooper, several holes in his chestplate, lying on the stone bricks in a puddle of his own blood. 

That’s the usual death vode get. Some are worse off and get crushed or cut up, but the most standart death is to die at the hands of a droid. 

Screams ring closer, and yeah, that’s definitely a brother shouting. A Commanding Officer judging by the tone. 

“Grizzer, catch!” Hound yells, the beast bolts around the corner and their squad follows, spilling onto the concourse. 

“Open fire!” Waxer shouts, which Lara thinks is pretty unneeded, considering they’re all giving it their best already. At this point they’re still in the advantage because the droids have got their backs turned towards the clones and are just starting to realize there’s more clones coming, but—

Those are a lot of droids, Lara realizes. Too many. 

Two guard troopers lie dead on the ground, already. 

“Padme, are you alright?” Skywalker shouts, lightsaber humming as he makes his way over to the group of Senators that are half-sheltered in another alleyway. Several clones, including Commander Fox, turn as he fights his way over to them. 

Another head pops up next to the Commander. 

“We’re all unharmed, thanks, Skywalker,” one of the Senators says, and Lara doesn’t quite see it but he thinks he might be rolling his eyes. 

Hah. 

Who would’ve thought a Senator has some kind of humor?

Skywalker runs off, and their squad comes to the silent agreement to split up in order to not just get shot down in an instant. They need cover or they’re dead. 

This is how battles always are; Keep moving, or you’re dead. Get cover, or you’re dead. Do this, or you’re dead . It’s like a tiny voice always screaming in your ear that you could die any second now, that if you make one wrong move you’re dead, dead, and dead again. Death and fear are some of the only constants during each of their battles and it never gets easier, you just get used to it. 

Lara decides to stick with Hound and Grizzer and jumps behind a crate with the two of them. The beast is wiggling happily. 

Funny, that. At least Grizzer’s having fun. 

Peel and Trapper join them and Peel rams his blaster into a droids head in a very Cody-like move. Lara looks out again and notices a bunch of droids coming out of another alley, which, what the kriff? Where did they come from?

The Senators, including Fox and Skywalker, have their backs turned to them and haven’t noticed them yet, and Lara reacts on instinct. 

“Watch out!” he calls out, forgets to check if it's safe to leave cover and bolts over, taking down the two droids in the front before he realizes that he’s fucked . Even with two less droids he can’t get out of this alive. 

Commander Fox turns his head just in time, nudges one of his men and jumps back, takes one of the droids to throw it at the rest of them. Yelling, they crash to the ground, now easy targets for Lara and the others, and behind him he hears the humming of a lightsaber. Skywalker’s giving them cover. 

“No!” someone suddenly cries out next to him, and when Lara turns one of the shinies is still standing in the middle of the concourse, helmet fixated on—

The other shiny, on the ground with a pool of blood beneath his head. Lara winces. That’s number one of their squad gone. 

“Get out of there!” a guard trooper yells at the shiny but he’s not moving, frozen in place, hands helplessly hovering in the air. Lara curses before he flings himself at the kid, pulls him down just in time as shots ring above their heads, and gives him cover while he half-pushes him to the others. Can’t believe I’m doing this , he catches himself thinking grimly. 

One of the guards nods at him. “Never leave a brother behind,” he says casually before he keeps shooting. His armor is different than the other troopers; must be a Lieutenant or a Captain if the Guard works the same way a regular Battalion does. 

“I need help!” a brother yells, and when Lara looks up Waxer has been surrounded by droids. Lara does want to help. There’s no way for them to get to him fast enough, though— 

Commander Fox seems to take that as a challenge, reaches into the pocket of his belt and throws a droid popper right into the crowd forming around the Clone Lieutenant. Waxer, who has held up surprisingly well, sinks down against the wall.  

“I’ll help,” Amidala suddenly says next to him, and Lara turns his head in surprise. He had joined the place where the Senators had been taking cover but he didn’t even realize they were there. 

Skywalker scowls. “Padme, you’ll only—“

“No, Ani, I’ll help. Cover me.”

The droids shake as the droid popper shocks them, and Fox throws another one, maybe to make sure they’re really all destroyed, before he blasts at them a few times and moves over to help Waxer up. Amidala and Skywalker are in the open in an instant, with Skywalker wearing an expression that is equally frustrated and annoyed. 

“Trooper, are—you okay,” a quiet voice asks behind him. One of the Senators leans down to put a hand on the shinies shoulder, carefully nudges him. The shiny stares into blank space. 

That won’t do. 

Lara turns to the shiny, still cowering on the ground behind him. The Senator looks up at him. She seems young. 

“Kid, you need to get yourself together,” Lara says to the brother, and it’s harsh but it’s the truth. “You can mourn later. He wouldn’t want you to die here, would he?”

That seems to snap him out of it. He shakes his head sharply. Lara pats his other shoulder and shoves the blaster to his chest. “Good man. Now get over there and blast those droids.”

“Yessir!” the shiny says, and Lara almost wants to laugh at that he thinks Lara is of higher ranking than he is. The Senator removes her hand, and after the shiny muttered a quick apology, he’s at Lara’s side. 

In the middle of the concourse Waxer and Fox are standing back to back, holding up well, but then there’s a whimper, and when Lara turns to look Hound is tugging on his mastiff. The beast seems to have gotten a blaster bolt to one of its legs. Fox shouts something and Hound ducks just in time, still continuing to try and convince Grizzer to move. 

Lara’s fingers twitch with the need to do something, and he tugs on the shinies arm. “Cover me,” he says. The shiny nods, and Lara sprints out. Hound snaps his head up when he catches sight of him. 

Lara ducks, takes ahold of the beasts body and helps pulling, though he carefully looks out to make sure Grizzer won’t bite his hand off.

“Thanks,” he says once they’ve gotten behind cover, and a second later two other Guard’s join them. One pats Grizzers back sympathetically while Hound is wrapping a band-aid around the beasts injured leg. “Hold on there, Grizzy,” he coos. 

Lara turns to concentrate on shooting down doids again. Waxer and Fox split up and Fox jumps back, quickly gets into the space with Lara and the Guard troopers. 

“How are you doing?” Fox asks, voice hoarse. His bucket snaps to the massif on the ground, still whimpering as it presses its nose into Hound’s thigh. 

“Grizzer’s okay. Just can’t walk.” Hound says, sounding like he’s trying to assure himself, too. Fox pats the beast on its head. “She’s a massif, he can take a lot.”

In that moment Lara’s comm chirms over his helmet, and he lifts his hand to signal the others he’s getting orders. Even Commander Fox stops in his tracks. That sure is something.

“Listen up Troopers ,” Waxers says, “ if you look up you’ll see a piece of durasteel that’s loose. Fall back, lure the droids right below it and make sure that none of you are too close, and when I give the signal we’ll blast it down. Pass the message on to any Guard troopers you’re with .”

Lara turns to the Guard and quickly repeats what he’s been told. The Guard nods, and Fox gives Hound a nudge. “Okay,” he says, seems to think for a second. “You get Grizzer away from the fight. Go further into the alley and try not to get yourselves killed. That one over there should be a dead end, no droids coming from there. But double check first.”

“I’ll help Sergeant Hound,” another Guard says and Fox nods curtly, and after giving them enough time to get to the alley the rest of them start to fall back, too, but—they have no cover. Without cover they’ll end up like the two Guard’s on the ground, Lara realizes. 

Lara looks around and stops at a set of boxes, and then he gets an idea. He nudges Wooley, and the Guard behind him. “See those grates? Cover us, me and Wooley’ll push them onto the concourse.”

The Guard’s helmet turns to their Commander, who nods. “We’ll have your back, just hurry,” he says, reloading his blaster. 

“Will do, Sir,” Lara says and Wooley salutes, before they bolt off. Blaster bolts zip right past them and Lara winces as he starts pushing at the crate. It’s heavy, but he’s used to carrying heavy boxes from A to B, no matter how much he tries to get out of maintenance duty. They start to steadily push it into the way and once it stands they jump behind it, motioning for the Guard to follow. 

Waxer and the Senators are right there, and the one who had tried to comfort the shiny before gasps as she comes to a halt right next to him.

“How are we doing?” Waxer asks. Fox reloads his blaster again before he answers. “If we let them get any closer they’re gonna’ shoot over the boxes,” he says, “So, bad. We’re doing bad.”

Runner cries out across from them. He took too long. Two, Lara counts. Two of their squad, then the three Coruscant Guards. Five dead. 

The droids are getting closer. 

Lara wonders if Waxer really knows what he’s doing when the Lieutenant finally raises his voice, yelling at them to blast the durasteel plate down. 

Lara aims upwards, drops down to the ground to try and make himself as small as possible. 

“Why are the clones suddenly so bad at aiming?” a droid says, and after a terrifyingly long moment the plate drops down, burying the clankers under it. There’s a metallic crashing sound as their parts are crushed. 

Skywalker shouts at them to run. 

They run.

Lara’s adrenaline is still going strong and he manages to hold up pretty well, sprinting alongside Wooley and the taller Senator. A lightsaber buzzes to life. Blaster-shots ring behind them again. 

Where are all those droids coming from?

Some of the squad around him is shouting something but Lara is too busy concentrating on the way his feet pound onto the white stone bricks. If he trips now, he’s dead. 

They bolt around another corner and they stop; the elevators are right in front of them. Their squad splits up into two elevators in order to even fit. 

Lara is almost-squished between the taller Senator, whose name he still hadn’t catched, and Wooley. It’s uncomfortable. It's horrible. 

He sends another careful look at the two Senators. They look so—normal. He expected them to be a lot older and weirder , but especially the younger one seems to be around the age of Commander Tano. 

Music is playing. Lara actually recognizes the song, has heard it a few times before and he taps his fingers against his armor to the beat. No one seems to be bothered so he keeps doing it. 

Waxer comms the Commander and gives a quick report that Lara doesn’t pay further attention to. 

Suddenly, there’s a beeping noise, and all of them look up at the small lamp above them, now blinking red. The ground is vibrating. 

“That doesn’t sound good,” the Senator next to Lara says. Right in that moment the elevator abruptly stops going up, gives a loud growl and the sudden movement (or lack thereof) sends Wooley crashing into Lara, who just barely manages not to fall onto the Senator. Wooley quickly straightens himself again. 

The door opens. All the lights go off. 

“ We are experiencing technical difficulties. Please use a different elevator on the level you’re on. You’re located at level 3322.”

“Wow, this is going great,” Lara notes without thinking, and Wooley shoves him. The Senator gives him an amused expression while the younger one peeks out of the door, looking concerned. 

Fox stands in the doorway for a long time. “Could,” he starts, pauses, and then continues, drawing the words out. “Could this be–because of the damaged cables.”

He sounds tired. Lara gets that. 

Fox steps out, taps his comm, mumbles and then sighs deeply. 

“The next elevator is about a ten minute walk away. We need to get the Senators topside as fast as possible, so better get moving.”

“We’ve got so much luck today,” Lara mumbles under his breath. The Senator next to him seems to have heard anyway, and he chuckles as he steps out. 

Wooley kicks Lara’s shins. “Ow!” Lara yelps, shooting him a glare. “Stop that!”

“I’ll stop kicking you when you stop saying banthashit,” Wooley replies angrily. 

Fox turns his helmet toward them and looks as if he wants to say something, but then he just snaps it back again, as if he’s been slapped. 

“Everything okay, Sir?” Waxer asks. Fox stops in his tracks, bucket fixated forward and nods without any actual reply. 

Lara presumes the Commander is just like that. He doesn’t seem to be the biggest talker. 

The walk is quiet, but soon enough their squad is surrounded by all sorts of people living in the lower levels. At least the air smells a bit better in here than it did further down. It’s still not good , but it’s bearable, at the least. 

The people stare. Most of their expressions aren’t kind—some even go as far as to look scared . A zabrak drops his purchases when he steps out of a shop and catches sight of them, eyes wide. 

“I don’t get them. You’d think these people are used to parols,” Lara says with a frown, more to himself than anyone else. Commander Fox snorts and Lara perks up. He hadn’t realized he spoke loud enough for the Commander to hear. “We don’t actually patrol down here that often,” Fox explains, not making fun of him but nonetheless there’s an amused tone in his voice. “That’s for the Coruscant Underworld police. We’re just here on special occasions, like when there’s been a murder of someone from topside.”

“Ah,” Lara says awkwardly, not sure of what to say. “Yeah. That does make sense, I guess.”

Great job, he thinks bitterly. He must think I’m an idiot. 

They’re steadily marching forward, and the two Senators behind him have a quiet conversation from which Lara learns that their names are Riyo and Bail; Though he assumes those are their first names and he really shouldn’t call them that. Just Senator will do for now. Lara speeds up to walk right alongside Waxer and Fox and keeps looking over the new environment. 

Suddenly, Waxer winces, a quiet sound that’s barely audible through the helmet. Lara stops, though Waxer keeps going. 

“You good?” Lara asks. 

Waxer gives him a nod. “Yeah, just a—“

He doesn’t get farther than that, just bends over as if he’ll throw up and gasps for air. Everyone’s around him in an instant. 

“Trooper?” Senator Bail asks. Waxer, for some reason, tries to take another step instead of answering and leans against a nearby wall. Pedestrians are stopping to stare. 

Fox moves to Waxer’s side. “Stay back,” he tells the others, and they follow his order. Waxer slumps against the wall only to snap his head back up, head whipping from side to side as if he’s looking for an invisible enemy. 

The hairs on Lara’s arms are standing up. Something’s wrong. 

Waxer whimpers and the next moment his legs give entirely in. The Lieutenant drops to the ground, hands shaking on his sides, and Fox kneels down next to him. 

“Waxer, can you hear me?” Fox asks, puts a hand onto his shoulder. Waxer doesn’t respond, just sucks in another breath. He looks a lot smaller, suddenly, and—it doesn’t make sense. 

“Waxer, Sir, what’s wrong?” Wooley says and Fox shoots him a glare that’s enough to shut him up. Waxer doesn’t respond, just cowers on the ground, heaving. 

Lara’s thoughts race. Maybe a panic attack?

Suddenly Waxer pushes himself up again, and Fox flinches at the sudden movement, jumps back to give the other space. For a moment it seems as if Waxer will just fall back down. He stumbles.  

“Waxer?” Fox repeats, carefully. Waxer jerks back and only presses his back more into the wall behind him. 

“It’s my batchmate,” he finally says, and his voice sounds hoarse, panicked. One of his hands reaches up to clutch at his throat.  “It’s my batchmate, he’s—“

What?

Lara turns to Wooley, and they’re both wearing helmets, but he’s sure the other trooper is just as confused as he is. 

“What?” Fox growls, and he doesn’t sound angry, just as confused as Lara feels.

Waxer shakes his head sharply. “He’s hurt, he’s–It’s bad. I have to help him,” he says. His voice cracks at the end of the sentence as if he’s barely able to string the words together. 

Fox stares at him, hands twitching at his sides, and he turns to look at their squad before he snaps his head back to Waxer. 

“Waxer, we need to get out of here, now. The Senators are still not in safety and the droids are in pursuit. Your batchmate is probably fine,” he adds, not unkindly. 

Apparently it was the wrong thing to say, because Waxer just balls his fists and finally pushes himself up to stand straight. 

“Sorry Sir, but I’m not just going to let the droids get him,” Waxer says, and then he stumbles backwards. Fox reaches out to grab his arm but the Lieutenant shrugs it off, and then he’s running. 

Lara has no idea what to do. 

“Waxer!” Fox shouts, but Waxer doesn’t even turn his head, just rounds the corner and with that he’s gone. 

Fox curses, loudly, and then clasps his hands together as if to fidget before he stops himself. “Are we going after him?” Lara asks, still staring at where he’s run off.

Fox hesitates before he shakes his head sharply. “We don’t have time for this. We’ve gotta keep moving,” he decides, and he sounds as if he’s clenching his teeth. Senator Riyo frowns. “Shouldn’t we help him? He’s clearly not well. Maybe he’s concussed.” 

Fox makes a sound in the back of his throat. “I don’t know. We’ll find him again later, Senators, let’s just get you topside first.”

“Okay,” Senator Riyo says, but her eyes flicker back in worry. 

Fox lifts his wrist, hesitates a moment before he types something into his comm. 

There’s static for a moment, then a small beep as whoever's on the other end picks up. 

“Commander Cody,” Fox greets. 

Cody is quiet for a moment before he responds. “Commander Fox.”

Fox turns his back to the squad, though they still hear the conversation.

“I’m comming to inform you that Lieutenant Waxer has run off. We’re not sure where he went. He mentioned something about his batchmate being in danger, though.”

Cody takes several seconds to reply, and when he does his voice sounds strained. “Okay, thanks for letting me know. I’ll look into it.”

“Your trooper seemed to have some kind of panic attack before he left,” Fox continues. “He might need a medic.”

“What?” Cody’s voice rises slightly in volume. “Is he injured?”

“Not that I know of. I know what a panic attack looks like, Cody, and that was one.”

“And you just let him leave like this?” 

“I’ve got my duty,” Fox says. 

Static. 

“I’m sending a platoon down there. Waxer usually knows what he’s doing,” Cody finally says. “Go do your duty. ”

“I will,” Fox says. His voice is devoid of all emotion, flat. 

“Koyaci, Cody.” 

Fox ends the transmission. His bucket is unreadable. 

Huh . 

The Commander looks over at them as if he just remembered they’re there. “A few more minutes to the next elevator,” he announces, completely ignoring that the entire squad just witnessed the uncomfortable tension between him and what by all means should be one of his closest brothers. 

The idea that Fox wouldn’t get along well with his batchmate seems impossible . 

They continue. Fox’s helmet keeps turning in every direction, never long settling on anything specific, and though he seems calm Lara doesn’t think he is. 

“That was really strange,” Senator Bail says quietly. Lara can’t tell if he’s talking about Waxer’s meltdown or the awkward call but he finally decides that he likes him, if his other exchanges with him haven’t already convinced him to do so. It’s strange. These people are nothing like what Lara thought politicians would be like. But maybe that’s just how they appear at first. 

“I’ve never seen Waxer like this before,” he admits, choosing to believe the Senator’s talking about Waxer, and Wooley nods. “Me neither. He doesn’t just—leave, normally. I mean, he’s run off before, but not like this.”

Organa shrugs. “I don’t blame him. If his-what was it he said? Batchmate? If his batchmate is in danger, he has any reason to go.” 

Fox turns his head back as if he wants to add something to that, but then he just snaps it back to the front again. 

They go silent. 

Lara can’t stop thinking about Waxer’s meltdown or whatever it was, because it makes no kriffing sense . How’d Waxer even know that Boil is injured? There was no way for him to know. 

They’re all thinking it but none of them speak it out loud. There’s no explanation for it. It’s wrong. Maybe Waxer’s gone insane, or he got hit in the head and was hallucinating. Or maybe—

Maybe it has something to do with that damn thing the two of them are hiding, Lara thinks.

Really, he’s got enough problems to take care of, and being too noisy can very well end up with you getting decommissioned, but—

Lara can’t shake the feeling that something is very, very wrong. 

Chapter Text

Waxer leans further over his helmet, carefully drags the pen over the plasteroid and then hesitates. After a second he adds a second tally next to the first, building a total of four. One more and he'll have another full set. He holds the helmet at arm’s length to inspect his work, nods and then puts the pen aside to grab his brush instead. A bit of orange paint drips from onto the ground below as he reworks the helmet’s paint job. The old paint was chapped and dirty and Waxer found it was about time he fixed it up. 

He doesn’t have a lot to do. 

Kenobi visited the day after he’d woken up to ask him what happened, and Waxer didn’t bother to lie. He left out how he felt after using the force that way, how it made his fingertips twitch, how his mind chanted wrong, wrong, wrong. Waxer doesn’t want to get in trouble. 

‘Force exhaustion,’ Kenobi called it. That’s why Waxer’s been feeling more drained than ever even though his physical injuries have been healed. That’s why after only a few hours of being awake he was about ready to go back to sleep. That’s why Waxer has just barely enough strength to take a walk around the medbay before he’ll collapse on the spot. “Force exhaustion is like regular exhaustion in every way,” Kenobi told him when the medics weren’t in medbay and every other patient was asleep, “except for that it lasts longer. The only way to recover is to take it easy and rest.” 

Waxer nodded, only half-awake because he’d made the mistake to try and go to Target-practice for a miserable twenty minutes. Coma dragged him back and Waxer was glad for it because he wouldn't have managed to return to medbay on his own. Kenobi continued to explain that the best thing to do would be to sleep it off. Ghost Company isn’t being deployed any time soon which means he has enough time to fully recover. 

Waxer looks up from his helmet and aches. 

Boil still hasn’t woken up. 

It smells sickly sweet in the room, bacta lingering in the air even a day after they’ve taken Boil out. Waxer was there when they took him out of the tank, laid him down onto the cot, checked his vital signs and figured that physically at least, he was fine. They only have to wait for him to wake up naturally. Then, Waxer got sent back to medbay, while they wanted Boil to stay in a different room. One reserved specifically for those who aren’t awake yet. They seem to be special to the medical station of Coruscant. Regular medbays don't have those. 

We can’t do anything for him, really, the head medic of the Coruscant Guard had said. Waxer didn’t catch his name and didn’t see too much of him, either; the Guard stays to themselves. In medbay he’d just take up space. We don’t need that. 

I’m also taking up space, Waxer had argued, but the medic just looked at him and left the room. Didn’t even try to convince Waxer they’re doing the right thing. Most of the Guard doesn’t talk if it can be helped. 

At first Coma didn’t want Waxer to see Boil, but after the third time he tried to escape in the middle of the night Coma gave up. 

Waxer had been right; Everything Coma says has meaning. Everything Coma says is carefully constructed. When he said “We’re pretty sure he’ll be fine” Coma meant “We don’t know if he’ll be fine.” 

Waxer knows that sometimes brothers die even now, knows that especially because Boil’s wound got infected things are worse than usual, but he’s sure he’ll wake up. Waxer can’t think of the other possibilities. 

The bond in the back of his head still works, at least. It’s a small relief. Sometimes Waxer will get a rush of panic or fear through it and will jump up, stumble to Boil’s side only to find him as unconscious as before. He must be dreaming. When that happens Waxer closes his eyes, reaches out and tries to calm the emotions down. After a few times of doing it it gets easier. He holds onto calm, pushes it over, and when he opens his eyes again he swears that Boil looks less tense, somehow. 

Either way, Boil isn’t awake yet. 

It’s the least Waxer can do to stay. He’s sitting in an all too familiar chair, his helmet in his hands, paint splattered onto his shirt. Boil’s armor lies to the side of the bed and part of Waxer wants to repaint his colors, too, but he doesn’t think he could replicate Boil’s damn death-watch-but-also-a-starfighter symbol on the side of the helmet if he tried. Boil had been very proud of that one. 

(“It’s not just death watch,” Boil had muttered while he carefully constructed black lines onto the plasteroid. They’d been nine and a half, just lived past their first battle, and painting their armor for the first time had been stressful and exciting at the same time. Waxer had asked why Boil would put death watch of all things on his armor. 

“I would’ve completely fucked up the design if it was supposed to be the death watch symbol. It’s—Look. Here.” Boil had fumbled for a datapad, showing Waxer a hologram of a ship. “It’s an N-1 Naboo Starfighter. It’s sleek. Artsy. Just as all things on Naboo are. I combined the design of the starfighter with the symbol of death watch, see?”

Waxer had looked at the design carefully. “Why death watch, though?”

“Zal,” Boil had said, and that was that. Milex Zal, the Mandalorian trainer on Kamino that had picked Boil out to become a pilot, and then was proud when Boil asked him to stop his training to stay a regular trooper with the only batchmate he had left. After that Zal had recommended them for ARF-Trooper training, which is what got them into Ghost company. Zal had been death watch, before. 

Looking up to one former member of death watch doesn’t mean Waxer thinks of them greatly in any way but Boil had looked proud of himself, so Waxer had said it looked great.)

After another hour of sitting there with nothing to do Waxer does start to paint the rest of Boil’s armor, chestplate, pauldrons, taking his time tracing the lines. 

The door swishes open. Waxer doesn’t feel like lifting his head but he knows who it is, anyway. He supposes it’s that signature Kenobi had talked about, how everyone feels different in the force. Waxer sees what he means. Everyone feels different. When he doesn’t concentrate on it there’s a quiet warmth or a careful brightness emerging, but when Waxer stops and really reaches out there’s colors and sounds and noises. He couldn’t begin to describe it. It’s not essentially bad, comforting even, Waxer’s just not used to it. 

Since he’s woken up Waxer has stopped trying to block out the emotions and the signatures entirely. He’s not actively searching them out, either, at least not most of the time, but he’s trying to get familiar with it. This is his life now. He doubts the force-sensitivity will just go away. 

There are themes. All of ghost company feels bright, as if they’re painted in orange just like the color on their armor. 212th-gold, most call it. The same color as the sunset. Along that theme there’s variations; Coma’s orange is darker than the usual tone, Waxer found when he lied in his cot and watched as Coma checked him over. Flow on the other hand is lighter, almost yellow, more sunrise than sunset. The Guard’s medic’s signature is a dim red with spots of brown, almost blends into the background. During the days in medbay sometimes his curtains were drawn aside, especially once Waxer started to regain his strength, and at times he catched sight of other Guard troopers. Not Fox, but others. Waxer expected them to be all sorts of red but they’re not. One is a deep blue, like an ocean, like the rain on Kamino; another (Commander Thire, Waxer thinks, his name was Thire) shines a light yellow with green dots. 

Waxer can’t say what these differences mean, why Ghost-company feels like one while the Guard is different. 

When Waxer tries to concentrate on Boil’s signature it’s small, barely there, and Waxer prays to whatever is out there that he’ll have a chance to find out what it really looks like. 

Cody, on the other hand—

Cody burns. 

It’s a gentle intensity, easy to block out if Waxer is mentally shielding himself. But when Waxer does pay attention his eyes almost go a little white. It’s like Cody sets himself aflame, burning like a beacon of light, even if it doesn’t show on any of his features. Cody is stone faced but he shines and shines and shines. 

Cody looks down at Waxer, the buckets of paint next to him, steps closer and then kneels down. Waxer can see his face without looking up from his work, now, can see how Cody’s lips twitch. “Does Coma know you’re getting the floor dirty?” he asks, cocks his head to the side. 

Waxer huffs. 

“Of course not.” He continues painting, and when Cody doesn’t move or say anything else he looks up at the Commander. “Sir, can I help you?” he asks flatly. 

Cody blinks. His brightness crumbles. As if he’s preparing himself for something, as if he holds his breath. “Yes, I still need you to file the report. We should talk.”

Waxers fingers dig into the plasteroid. He closes  his eyes for a moment before he moves the brush across another dim line again. “I’m fine with talking, Sir, but I can’t leave. I have to be there when he wakes up.”

Cody’s head moves over to look at the bed nearby. The curtain is still drawn aside. Waxer doesn’t lift his head—he knows what he’ll find. Not Boil. Not Boil, not yet. 

“You can’t know when that might be,” Cody says, which is true, but that’s exactly why Waxer can’t leave. Boil could wake up in days but he could also wake up any minute now. Boil had always been there. Waxer can’t not be there. 

“Doesn’t matter. I’m not leaving, Cody. If you want to talk we can talk here,” Waxer repeats. 

Cody presses his lips together, squints his eyes. “Waxer, don’t make me make this an order,” he hisses. 

He shines. Burns. The palms of Waxer’s hands are drenched with sweat. He presses them deeper into Boil’s armor and doesn’t reply, just shakes his head, swallows. His throat feels sore. “Please, Sir,” he says, forcefully lifts his chin to meet Cody’s eyes. “I can’t leave. Please.” 

He watches as the color slowly crumbles, and the bitterness on Waxer’s tongue goes away. It leaves a salty aftertaste and a noise that sounds like the splash of waves on Kamino, but calmer, smaller. It’s so different from who Cody is. Signature and emotions stand next to each other and they couldn’t be more different. 

Cody only keeps up his glare for another second, then he sighs. His shoulders slump. 

“You and Boil have very different tactics on getting me to let you stay at the other’s side,” he mutters, waves breaking around him. “I think I prefer being verbally disrespected to being guilt-tripped.”

“I’m sorry,” Waxer says. He means it. Cody shrugs, exhales again. “You’re fine, Waxer.” he says, and he sounds—sad. Cody’s sad. Or maybe not sad, exactly, but something close to it. Another wave comes down and for a moment it shows on Cody’s face, a small gleam in his eyes, a small flicker. Then it’s gone again. “Okay,” Cody starts. “Okay, there’s no one else here anyway. Only you and—Boil. That’s fine. I’ll get the paperwork. I’d just really like to get this over with.”

Waxer nods. He finishes repainting the chestplate before Cody’s back. 

He knew this was coming. 

Sitting across from Cody isn’t uncomfortable per say, and they are friends, but it still makes his fingertips twitch to be on the receiving end of Cody’s infamous glares. They’ve turned the small table in the room around and put the two chairs around as if to replicate Cody’s office. It seems to have worked. As soon as Cody sits he’s not Cody, he’s Commander Cody. 

The Commander taps his pen onto the datapad. “Alright,” he starts, sighs. “First of all, I’m not expecting you to explain your actions. We’ve been over that. Boil was in danger and if you hadn’t been there he would’ve died. We both know this. I don’t blame you.”

But, Waxer thinks. 

“But,” Cody says. “This is not something that can happen again. I know you and Boil are closer than most brothers, that’s also not something I can blame either of you for. The problem is that you care more about him than you care for the Republic. I don’t think I have to name what that means.”

The words hit Waxer right in his gut. They’re meant to hurt. He splutters. “Sir, That’s not true. I’m loyal to the Republic. I’d die for it.”

I have died for it, he thinks. He’s died for the Republic and he’d do it again in a heartbeat. He has to believe in the Republic and what he’s fighting for because otherwise his death would mean nothing, nothing at all. 

Waxer banishes the thoughts. He can’t think about his death, not right now and preferably not ever. 

“I know you’d die for the Republic, Waxer,” Cody says, not unkindly, “but so would Boil. It’s good that you were down there with him because he wouldn’t have survived otherwise, but it’s pure luck you’re still alive. There was no skill involved, no clever plan, It was nothing but luck the reinforcements arrived just in time. You could have both died there and then we wouldn’t have lost one but two soldiers. Two of my best men, gone. Your sacrifice would mean nothing.”

“But we didn’t die,” Waxer says. “We’re both fine.” 

“Waxer, at least for protocol I need you to promise me not to risk your own life and the mission at hand to save a single brother ever again,” Cody groans. Waxer winces at the bitter taste in his mouth. 

“You’re a Lieutenant. You know better than to take risks like this. I know you’d die for the Republic, but tell me, would you let Boil die for it?”

Waxer doesn’t respond. His gaze drops to the ground and he fidgets, feet digging into the legs of the chair.

“You don’t leave a brother behind,” Waxer finally says when Cody keeps waiting for an answer. Cody sighs and runs a hand through his curls. “But you did leave brothers behind, Waxer. You left Fox, Wooley, your squad. I didn’t come here to argue about this, I just need you to recognize your actions were improper and unprofessional so we can move on.”

“Fine. My actions were improper and unprofessional. Next time I’ll make sure my behaviour is proper and professional, Sir.”

Cody can’t have missed the sarcasm in his voice but he doesn’t comment on it, just gives Waxer one last glare before he sighs. “Good. Next point, then. The mission report.”

Cody taps on the pad, drags his finger across. “I need you to tell me what exactly happened after you’ve abandoned the squad to aid Boil, and we’re going to start with this; what happened? How did you even know Boil was in trouble?”

Ah. 

Cody’s already talked to Fox, so lying is useless. But—Waxer doesn’t know if he can tell Cody the truth, because Cody is like Rex, in that way. He doesn’t believe much in the force, already has trouble believing what Kenobi tells them, so how would Waxer ever begin to convince him that he had died?

Waxer shuffles in his seat. Maybe, just maybe, Cody’ll let it go. 

“I just…had a feeling.”

“Fox said you were having a panic attack.” Cody’s voice is soft again, soft and careful. “What happened there?” 

Waxer guesses that a panic attack would be the most logical conclusion for Fox to come to.

“Not a panic attack,” he says, and he looks over at Boil again. “It wasn’t a panic attack.”

“Then what was it?”

Waxer lets go of the armor in his lap, finally sets it down and tries to wipe off the sweat in his pants. It sticks to his hands, though, and Cody’s eyes dart to them for a second. 

“Sir, I’m not sure if you would believe me,” Waxer says, slowly. Cody blinks. “Why wouldn’t I?” he asks, genuinely confused. Waxer meets his eyes. 

“It’s force banthashit,” he explains, and Cody looks even more confused now. Waxer continues. “Kenobi said it could be dangerous if too many people know, so it has to stay between us, Sir. I—would’ve had to tell you sooner or later anyway, might as well do it now.”

Cody watches him. His brightness is holding its breath again, falters, shifts. “—Okay,” he says. 

Waxer takes a deep breath. “Okay, Sir, but this might take a bit to explain.”

“I have time,” Cody says. 

Cody watches him with eyes that are only getting wider the more Waxer explains, but he doesn’t speak. Not when Waxer tells him about Umbara, not when he tells him that he’s died, not when he tells him about being force-sensitive. Waxer skips the details, especially regarding his death, and Cody doesn’t press. Even while he’s still speaking Waxer can’t sit still, shifts and fidgets, because Cody might not believe him, and what would Waxer do, then?

When he finishes with telling Cody what really happened in the lower levels Cody takes a deep breath, eyes darting over to Boil’s still form in the corner. And then, all at once, all his shine returns, as if the sun goes up again. “Okay,” he says. “Okay. That’s—that gives more questions than it actually answers. How—?” he trails off, huffs.

Not unbelief. Not quite believing, either, something in between. That’s something, at least. That’s better than nothing. That’s something he can work with. 

“I know as much as you do, Sir. I’m just kind of going with the flow. If I really knew how to use the force I wouldn’t have broken my leg.”

Cody nods, obviously tries to smoothen his expression but fails miserably. “Well, we can’t put that in the report then. I’m going to write down that Boil told you he's injured over helmet comms and that you lost control for a bit, had a panic attack. Hopefully no one will notice that’s not what happened.” He hesitates. “So Kenobi knows. Who else?”

“Only Boil and Kenobi,” Waxer says, and then frowns. “He did say he talked to a close friend on the council about me, and Skywalker and Tano have been paying more attention to me than usual. I think they might know.”

Cody looks at him. “Which ‘friend on the council’?” he asks, fingers tapping onto his thighs. 

“He didn’t say.”

Cody nods, and then he reaches out and squeezes Waxer’s arm. “Alright. Thank you for telling me this, vod’ika.” He retracts his hand and though there’s a soft smile on his face his eyes are darkened. Waxer’s neck prickles.

“Do you need to talk?” Cody asks. The force hums around him. “If you’ve really—if you’ve died— “

“I have Boil,” Waxer says. “It’s okay, Cody, I’m fine. I can deal with it.”

Cody nods. “That’s good. If—you ever do need to talk to someone else, I’m here. You’re still my little brother, rank or not.”

“Thank you,” Waxer says. He doesn’t know what else to say. Cody takes another deep breath, mutters something under his breath and then puts down the datapad, holstering it under his arm before he’s getting up from his chair and stalking over to the door. 

“Where are you going?” Waxer asks. Cody halts but doesn’t turn his head back. An ugly taste in Waxer’s mouth. An even uglier smell. Something he can’t place. “Not important. Tell me when Boil wakes up, will you?”

“What about the report?”

“As good as finished. I know what I need to know. Rest, Waxer, force knows you need it.”

Before Waxer can press Cody’s gone. 

Waxer sinks deeper into his chair. 

Waxer hadn’t meant to fall asleep, but the single conversation with Cody was stressful enough to deprive him of all his strength again. His dreams aren’t peaceful. 

He dreams of the Jedi temple in ruins, flames rising up into the air and swallowing the building. Dreams of the screams of dying brothers from inside, dreams of a Sith right in front of it with a red lightsaber. Dreams of death and wrongness and fear. He’s been having this dream for the entire week now and each time it feels just the slightest bit different, and each time the Sith gets a little closer. Waxer hasn’t seen their face and he doesn’t know if he wants to. 

Waxer’s never had a dream several times in a row, let alone for a week. He hates it. Each time he wakes up shaking.  

Awake. 

Suddenly there’s a tug, and the dream slips away. Ever so slowly the chair starts to dig into his sides, the air gets cooler and he blinks once, twice. Waxer sits up, rubs his eyes. 

Awake. 

Waxer’s awake, continues to blink the sleep away. Something’s tearing at him, pulling him, pushing and tugging. 

It’s raining outside. The soft prassel of raindrops on the windows of the room sounds just the way it did on Kamino, and Waxer finds that it’s already dark outside, either night or early evening. He shakes his head, staggers up, looks around the room and blinks to try and get accustomed to the lack of light. It’s quiet. If it’s night on Coruscant everyone’s sleeping, and there’s no other trooper in the room anyway.

Awake, the voice in the back of his head repeats, and then something’s pulling Waxer out of his chair. He stumbles over, pauses, blinks the sleep out of his eyes again. He’s awake. He’s awake and standing in front of Boil’s cot, and the voice holds its breath. 

Waxer brushes the curtains aside, steps closer and shuts them behind him again. 

Boil still looks exactly like when he’s left him. Head slightly turned to the left, arms on his side, handplates facing up. They gave him actual clothes, just like they gave Waxer, a white shirt and matching pants; that’s also nothing you get in regular medbays. 

Waxer looks down at his twin. The sight is enough to make something inside him shatter, because Boil shouldn’t be here. Not Boil. He looks almost small like this, without his armor and the usual annoyed expression on his face. 

Waxer pulls over the stool from next to the cot, sits down and carefully takes Boil’s hand into his, covering it with his other before he squeezes. Boil makes a sound in his sleep. 

“You okay?” Waxer asks softly. There’s no response, just the sound of Boil’s rhythmic breathing. His chest lifts with every breath he takes and sinks again. Waxer hadn’t expected an answer. He almost wants to pull away again when that voice comes back to life. 

Awake, it insists, tugs on Waxer again and Waxer bites the inside of his cheek. Boil continues to lie there. 

“You better wake up soon,” Waxer says quietly, his eyes flickering to the ground, and he almost misses the way Boil’s hand twitches. 

It’s a small movement, barely noticeable, but Waxer sees out of the corner of his eyes and perks up. He scoots closer to the bed, squeezes Boil’s hand again and has to stop himself from pressing too hard. He moved. 

“Boil?” he asks. It comes out quieter than he meant for it to but he can’t bring himself to raise his voice, as if it would break the fragile connection Boil seems to have to the world around him. 

Boil shifts. His eyelids flutter and his hand twitches again, stops, and then his fingers tighten around Waxer’s ever the slightest. It’s like a dam breaks. Suddenly there’s color; orange, red at the edges, splotches and spots of gold, and it’s not Cody’s sun-like shine in any way—it’s dimmed and mild but Waxer finds that he could look at that color all day. Boil doesn’t shine but he’s warm and Waxer feels like crying, almost. Instead he just holds onto Boil’s hand tightly, just as he had when he thought they were both dying.

They’re alive. They’re both breathing, both alive, and Boil’s hand is warm in his, warm like his colors. 

Waxer watches his brother’s face, holds his breath, and after what feels like hours Boil slowly opens his eyes. He looks at the ceiling, doesn’t seem to immediately realize he’s not alone.

“Hey,” Waxer whispers, and that’s when Boil moves his head to the side. He looks at Waxer, looks down at the medical clothing Waxer’s still wearing and then up into his eyes, and then he smiles. It’s soft. His eyes are soft, too, almost squeezed together as he blinks, blinks again, slowly opens them wider. “Waxer,” he slurs. 

Waxer leans forward, presses his forehead against Boil’s. He’s trembling but he doesn’t even care, not when Boil mumbles something completely inaudible and makes a noise that sounds like a chuckle. 

“You’re okay,” Waxer says, shifts from pressing against Boil’s head to trying to hug him from the side but it’s an awkward angle, so Waxer carefully shoves Boil ever the slightest. Boil doesn’t seem to realize, just blinks again and again, lifts his other hand to rub at his eyes. 

“Move over,” Waxer mutters and Boil looks at him, rolls his eyes, pushes himself to the other end of the bed. When there’s just enough space for Waxer to crawl in he slips beside him, slings both arms around his torso and flops down onto his chest. Boil must still be half asleep because he doesn’t resist at all, makes no snarky comment about Waxer being clingy or annoying. He just hugs him back, breathes out. Mutters something that gets lost along the way. Waxer doesn’t ask him to repeat, because while he might not have understood the words he gets the meaning. He pinches his eyes shut. 

“Di’kut. Thank the force you’re okay,” he says quietly and Boil hums. Waxer buries his face further into the nape of his neck. It’s quiet. Waxer doesn’t try to make a joke and neither does Boil. He does shuffle a little again, throws his leg over Boil’s knee to get himself more comfortable. 

“You’ve been waitin’ for me to wake up?” Boil asks, still slightly slurred but understandable at least. Waxer nods and hopes Boil sees it because he doesn’t feel like using his voice. It’s not often silent between them. 

Waxer reaches out to the bond in the back of his head, doesn’t yank, just brushes over it. The response is small as ever and over the bond there’s a rush of emotions in the form of a feeling like sun prickling onto his skin. 

It’s enough to make a soft smile appear on his face. Boil’s curls tickling his face only make it worse and he snorts, almost sneezes. Boil hums again before his hand brushes over the back of Waxer’s head, stops and pulls him even closer. Their legs are completely intertwined by now. Waxer doesn’t mind. The clothes they get in medbay are soft, way softer than the usual blacks, and Boil is warm. 

It’s been a long time since they’ve cuddled, actually cuddled, not just hugged or laid back-to-back. Waxer missed it, he realizes—he hasn’t felt this calm in a long time. His heart beats steadily in his chest and his eyes feel heavy in a comforting way, because falling asleep is easy when Boil’s there. It’s safe. When Boil breathes Waxer feels it in the way his chest rises, a steady reminder that he’s alive. 

The door to medbay opens and feet meet the ground. Waxer hears it but doesn’t move and neither does Boil. It’s Coma, it must be Coma—The medic brushes the curtains aside and Waxer feels him stand there. He bats an eye open, meets Coma’s tired gaze, blinks. Coma sighs, and then the curtain closes again without another word. He leaves and the door shuts with a quiet click. 

Waxer’s been sitting in that damn chair for too long and the rain continues to prassel outside, softly whispering. It’s safe, it says. You can sleep. You’re safe. 

Waxer sleeps. 

Cody’s not an angry man. 

Nevermind, scratch that. Saying Cody isn’t an angry man is like saying Death Watch aren’t lunatics or Sith aren’t bad people, fundamentally wrong. But Cody’s anger isn’t like Fox’s blind rage or Wolffe's fury, it doesn't consume him and doesn’t break out. It’s smaller. It’s quiet. It’s a whispered chanting in the back of his head, easy to keep at bay. Cody prides himself in being able to maintain a straight face no matter what he’s doing. 

Sometimes the anger wins, though. Sometimes it gets too loud. Sometimes the chanting turns into yelling and drowns out any rational thoughts. 

Cody stalks through the hallways of the medical track until he enters the area for the guest-rooms, his feet pounding onto the floor. A few Guard-shinies scatter when they see him and that’s nothing unusual, not something he blames them for. Better to stay out of the way of a pissed Commander, especially if that Commander is Marshal Commander Cody. Especially if you don’t even know him. 

Cody balls his fists, uncurls and clenches them again. The door glides open. The General has his own Quarters in the Jedi temple but for some reason they gave him a temporary office in the Senate building. 

Cody can’t even say if just “The Senate-building” really cuts it, because it’s huge. It’s offices and barracks and giant halls. He doesn’t know how Fox can stand to live here. 

“General, could I talk to you for a minute?” Cody asks, and he can hear how tense his voice is. Kenobi turns to him. He stands on the side of his room, seems to have been watering a plant. He’s wearing his tunic and his gaze is curious as he looks Cody over, sets the can aside and gives Cody his infamous half-smile. “Cody. Everything alright?” 

Cody knows Kenobi can feel his emotions. Cody knows Kenobi knows that Cody’s restraining himself from yelling. Cody knows that Kenobi’s a damn bastard. 

“No, Sir, it isn’t,” he says and closes the door behind him. He walks up to Kenobi, lifts his head to meet his eyes, clenches his teeth. Kenobi blinks. “Oh dear. You really seem to have gotten up on the wrong foot.”

It’s supposed to be a joke. It’s supposed to be a joke but it’s tasteless and Kenobi’s looking more and more punchable. 

“I haven’t. Two of my best men and closest brothers are compromised. Boil still hasn’t woken up and Waxer’s struggling, more than I thought. Forgive me if I’m not feeling too joyous, Sir.” He doesn’t miss the way Kenobi winces but can’t find it in himself to care, because if you make a dumb comment like that you can expect to be called out on your banthashit. Cody’s not feeling like maintaining the teasing banter that developed naturally between the two of them, Cody’s feeling like punching Kenobi. Superior or not. Something-of-a-friend or not. 

“Well, what can I help you with, then?” Kenobi asks. 

Cody admires Kenobi, probably more than he should, but he really does want to strangle him at times. It’s not that hard to apologise, yet Kenobi seems to find that he’d die if he ever had to do so. 

Cody knows it’s a privilege to think this way about his Jedi, and an even bigger privilege to talk to him this way. There’s enough brothers who can’t, who have to suck it up and can’t even think for themselves because their Jedi will know. 

Cody can’t take Kenobi for granted. 

He squints his eyes and gets straight to the point. “Who knows about Waxer?” he asks. 

The Jedi does nothing to hint that he didn’t expect this exact response. “He told you, didn’t he?”

“Of course,” Cody says. “Of course he told me. I should’ve been told earlier. Waxer’s one of my men and this is something I need to know. I can’t keep him safe if I don’t even know he’s in danger. ”

“Oh, don’t worry, Cody. No harm will be done.”

Kenobi doesn’t know. Probably. Judging by his answer, at least. But Cody does, Cody knows just what happens to cadets on Kamino who were discovered to be force-sensitive. 

“That’s for me to decide, Sir. Who knows?”

Cody doesn’t break eye contact, and finally Kenobi sighs. “Not a lot of people. Only a few good friends on the council and Boil.”

“What friends?”

“If you really have to know, I’ve told Plo and Luminara. I wanted to get two separate opinions on what to do.”

General Koon is a good one, Cody thinks, bits of tension leaving. Koon wouldn’t tell anyone. Wolffe speaks highly of him. Koon might just be one of the best Jedi around. 

Cody doesn’t know how to feel about Luminara Unduli. He isn’t especially close to Gree and doesn’t know too much about his Jedi. 

“Sir, what about Skywalker and Tano?” he presses. 

Kenobi blinks. “I haven’t told them. Though maybe they just figured out something is off on their own. Anakin was behaving a bit weird.”

The tension comes back in waves. Skywalker. Damn Skywalker and his Padawan. Skywalker, who stands in direct contact with the Chancellor. “Would they tell any other natborns? Would Anakin tell the Chancellor?” 

“I wouldn’t think so, no,” Kenobi says, frowning now. “Anakin isn’t stupid, Cody. He can keep secrets.”

He’s not very good at it, though, Cody thinks. Exhibit number one, his not-so-secret-secret-wife. 

“Do you think I was wrong in telling others?” Kenobi asks, frown deepening. “Waxer being force-sensitive is unusual and I wasn’t quite sure how to handle it by myself. I thought getting help from other experienced Jedi might help.”

It’s a genuine question. Cody’s fists clench again. 

“I don’t think it was wrong, but you should’ve talked to me about this first, Sir. I know Waxer. I know my brothers. Waxer isn’t a Jedi, Sir, he isn’t like any of you.” He pauses, considers his words. “This isn’t just about him being force-sensitive, this is about his safety, which I am responsible for. Clones are supposed to be force-zero. If the Kaminoans find out he’s not they’re going to have him decommissioned or try to find another way to get rid of him.”

Kenobi’s eyes widen slightly. Huh. He really didn’t know. Cody continues. 

“I trust your judgement, Sir, I do. Telling Jedi Masters is a good plan. But if Skywalker knows, the Chancellor might know. If the Chancellor knows the Senators will know, the Kaminoans will know, and that’s Waxer’s death sentence. If you’re not sure whether or not Skywalker knows, would you please talk to him about it and make it clear how serious this situation is, Sir?”

He waits for Kenobi to reply. Kenobi’s eyes are wide open. 

“They’re killing you for being force-sensitive?” Kenobi breathes, unbelief seeping into his voice. Cody nods sharply. “Clones are force-zeros. There haven’t been many who weren’t, and if there were you never saw them for long.”

Kenobi’s eyes are guilty, and Cody selfishly catches himself thinking, “he should feel guilty. The Jedi could do something about this.” 

“I don’t want your apology, Sir,” Cody says before Kenobi can open his mouth. “It’s already happened. But I will not let Waxer meet the same fate. I am simply asking you to consider my request to talk to your former Padawan. Please.”

Kenobi nods. “I understand. I—“ he pauses, and his eyes look right at Cody, except that they don’t. They meet his face but not his eyes. “I apologise for not thinking of this.”

“Thank you, Sir.”

Kenobi smiles sadly at him, turns around again. “Would you like tea, my dear?” he asks, fumbling for cups. Cody sighs. “If that’s alright, Sir.”

Cody’s still angry, frustrated that Kenobi didn’t think about him, but he sits down on one of Kenobi’s seats nonetheless. His eyelids feel heavy. His body hurts as if it’s awaiting a growth spurt, except for that Cody’s already grown up. He doesn’t like to think about how quickly he’s getting old. Almost fifteen. His day of decantation is soon. Two years ago they’ve all celebrated together, the whole Commando-batch, Fox, Wolffe, Bly, Cody himself, and Ponds. Last year it had only been him and Bly. Wolffe was off planet. Fox never replied to their comms. Ponds marched on to where no one could follow. Cody isn’t looking forward to this year, either, because what are they celebrating, really? It’s not the same without Ponds’ stories or Fox’s dry humor.

Cody misses them both. Sometimes, it feels like Fox is just as dead as Ponds is. It’s hard to believe that he’s in the same building with him right now, up and going about his daily business. 

Fifteen, Cody thinks again. That’s thirty for natborns. That’s half his life, assuming he lives to reach his thirties. Gone. Poof. Just like that. 

Obi-wan places his cup on the small table, pushes it over for Cody to take. “Careful, it’s still very hot,” he says. 

Cody looks up at Obi-wan.

Obi-wan smiles.  

Cody supposes that his feelings are justified, as he watches how the Jedi reaches up to swipe a wisp of hair aside. He likes Obi-wan. Denying his feelings makes no sense. If they weren’t at war, if Cody wasn’t a clone, they would be friends, that much Cody is sure of. And maybe, if Cody wasn’t a clone, he would go up to him and say, “Obi-wan Kenobi, I think I might be in love with you.” Who knows, Obi-wan might feel the same, or maybe he does feel the same. 

As it is, Cody doesn’t do that. Can’t. Cody’s a clone, marshal Commander or not, has little to no rights, legally isn’t sentient. He’s the property of the Republic. And then there’s Obi-wan—Kind, mesmerising Obi-wan, who is a Jedi of the high council and has the authority to sentence every single clone in his battalion to death. 

He doesn’t, obviously, but he could. And though Cody could never be scared of Obi-wan he can’t just forget that. 

Obi-wan lifts his cup, sips.

And then, because Cody’s a horrible, horrible idiot, his gaze almost drops to Obi-wan's lips. He catches himself before it can, mentally tears every thought about how nice Kenobi’s lips look into tiny pieces. 

The smile Kenobi gives Cody is strained. 

“I really am terribly sorry about all of this mess. You’re a good man, Cody,” he says. Cody nods, unsure. 

They say nothing else. 

Chapter Text

It’s quiet. 

Boil takes another sip of the caf Cody brought with him and his face twists—Boil’s never been a big caf enthusiast, not like Cody, but Waxer knows that having something to do with your hands helps when talking about things you would much rather not think about at all. Boil holds the cup closer to his lap, though he doesn’t put it away, instead clings to it. Steam emerges from the brew. 

Boil’s been awake for a day, and frankly, Waxer doesn’t know how smart it was of Cody to immediately question him for the report. But, then again, Boil said he wanted to talk. 

The force around him is a mess. He may as well still be in battle with how chaotic, unclear and confusing it is, and Waxer has trouble pretending the steady humming and creaking don’t affect him. Boil’s presence flickers, falters, almost shrinks into itself every time he takes another breath. It builds up and braces itself only to collapse again. While Boil searches for words, Waxer catches picture after picture over the bond, each only for less than a second, each gone with the blink of an eye—Still, he sees them. Still, he flinches ever the slightest each time he’s met with the clear image of a dead brother, or a brother dying, or his own face— really his own—next to him, his eyes closed, his leg bent at an awkward angle. 

It’d be easy to block the pictures out, now that Waxer knows how that works, but it doesn’t feel fair to close himself off from his closest brother like that. 

“Cody sent us down to help your squad,” Boil finally starts. He looks up at Cody like he’s a shiny, looking for affirmation, swallowing and continuing only when the Commander gives him an encouraging nod. His voice is hoarse. Cody still has one hand on his shoulder, the other holds onto the mission report tightly. 

“Me as the Lieutenant, twelve troopers. Two of them shinies. The others experienced--good and smart men who shouldn’t have–we should have gotten out.”

He pauses. 

“It happened too fast,” he says and his eyes stay locked onto the cup. It doesn’t shake in his hands—his grip is secure, nothing like what Waxer knows he would act like in that situation. But Waxer knows how he feels. Boil isn’t as calm as he’s trying to look. He’s trying to eat it up. 

“I think that’s what went wrong. We had no time. One second we were walking through the concourse, and the next, droids just—came out of nowhere. About four squads. We were overrun. There was no cover, nothing to hide behind, not after they had already seen us, and while we did take out a large majority of the droids, just as many brothers went down. There wasn’t any chance. I knew that. I think we all did.”

Cody writes down something on his pad as Boil talks, though as soon as he’s finished he squeezes his shoulder and knocks their heads together from the side, in the way older brothers do sometimes. “Almost done. Do you remember what happened before Waxer got there?” Cody asks softly. Boil nods, once. 

“Yeah. I wasn’t unconscious until you arrived, after all. After Splitter went down and stopped moving, I knew I was the last one standing, and when you’re the last one it’s–hopeless. It was just about buying time then. It only took a few more minutes of accepting that I was dying there until I took a shot, and the clankers—two I think, only two were left, we were so close to beating them, it’s almost funny—were discussing whether or not to kill me. ‘Think they wanted to. But, well, Waxer got to them before that, and right after that he was there with me. Being an idiot. You know the rest from him. How’d—Why was your leg broken, anyway?” he ends, tilting his head.

All eyes settle onto Waxer. 

“I jumped from the level above,” Waxer mutters. Boil looks like he’s processing that, and then his eyes go wide. “You what? ” he says, pushes himself up from his cot and gapes at Waxer, only to be pushed back down by Cody. His anger pulses through the bond and Waxer shrugs, wincing. “Listen, I thought It was a good idea, I’d just use the force. I couldn’t have known that it doesn’t work like that.”

“You’re a fucking idiot,” Boil grits out. “You–”

“I already chewed him out before you woke up,” Cody interrupts before Boil can say anything else. “Obviously, the more the better, feel free to yell at him later. Maybe you’ll manage to actually get something inside of that head of his. But I’ve already let him know he’s a di’kut.” He shuts off the datapad. “Coming back to the report, that’s all I needed. There won’t be big consequences this time around, not for the two of you, at least. But Coma said you’ll be fit in no time so I’m expecting both of you back with me in two days at worst. Having to do everything by myself is getting tiring. The other Lieutenants aren’t nearly as nice to be around.”

“Yes, Sir,” Boil says, and despite Cody trying to cheer them up he’s still looking as if he’d like to murder someone, maybe preferably Waxer. Cody sighs and gets up, pats Boil on the shoulder before he leaves through the automatic door. It shuts closed with a swish. 

Boil’s fingers are still wrapped around the mug tightly as he watches him go, his posture tense, his lips pressed together. 

Waxer sighs. He reaches out and uncurls Boil’s hands, taking the cup to place it onto the small table beside the cot. Boil lets it happen, but his eyes twitch into the direction of Waxer’s arms warily. He huffs, and though he’s not saying anything Waxer gets what he’s asking. 

“That’s too hot to drink,” Waxer explains, setting the definitely still burning caf down. 

Boil doesn’t respond. His hands kind of–float in the air. They don’t shake, but he looks as if he doesn’t quite know what to do with them, and his eyes have snapped back to the front, fixated on where Cody left the room. Waxer gently takes his wrists, turns his hands and looks at his handplates. Boil lets this happen, too. 

They’re slightly reddened. 

“You’re lucky you didn’t burn yourself,” Waxer says. “Coma would’ve—“

“Led them straight to their deaths,” Boil blurts out, and then he exhales sharply. His fingers close themselves around Waxer’s hands, just as tight as he’s held the cup before, though they’re not pressing hard enough for it to hurt. 

Waxer pauses. 

Boil’s gaze doesn’t waver. His face is completely expressionless, wiped clean, but he might as well be screaming in something like regret. Waxer catches bits and pieces of the yells— my fault , he screams. Boil blames himself. 

That’s not right. 

“You couldn’t have known,” Waxer says after thinking about it for a second. The words feel strangely familiar, but Waxer doesn’t want to think about Umbara, even though he must admit there are a few similarities. Boil shakes his head. Waxer isn’t sure if he really listened to him. 

“No. I—Should’ve...I should have—” Boil starts, then stops again, his face twisting in frustration as the words refuse to come out. Waxer knows Boil, knows that he’s always had trouble expressing himself when he’s upset. 

“You can’t always expect everything to go exactly how you imagined it to,” Waxer says, shifting to meet Boil’s eyes. Boil, still not looking at him, scoffs. “Or maybe—I’m not made to be an officer,” he says, which is ridiculous, because Boil’s a good Lieutenant. But Waxer has a feeling he won’t get Boil to see that, at least not today, so he’s going to have to try differently. 

“Okay,” Waxer drawls. “Here’s a question, and I want you to be honest. Do you think I deserve to be an officer?”

Boil frowns and then chuckles without any real humor in his voice, as if he thinks Waxer is joking but doesn’t find the joke very funny. “Obviously,” he says.

Waxer tries to smile. “There you have your answer, then. Or did you forget about what happened to me?”

Boil scowls. “I’ll admit leaving your squad was stupid. But it doesn’t make you a horrible officer, because you lost, what, two men? Not your entire squad. It would’ve been more problematic if really no higher ranking officer would’ve been there to replace you, which there was,” Boil mutters, pressing his fingertips together.
Waxer rolls his eyes. “I meant Umbara, Boil.” It comes out rougher than he meant for it to, but whenever Waxer thinks too much about Umbara it’s as if his emotions are playing a trick on him. Which is exactly why he tries not to do that. 

There's silence. Boil blinks, and then winces. “Oh,” he says, and slowly his expression morphs from surprised to confused. “That–what? That wasn’t your fault. That was Krell.”

“And this wasn’t your fault, it was the droids,” Waxer counters. Boil goes quiet again. He looks as if he wants to say something but he doesn’t, just bounces his leg and suddenly lets go of Waxer’s hands as if he’d been burned. 

“I’m mad at you, by the way,” he murmurs as Waxer takes the opportunity to lean over the table to check on the caf. Waxer can’t help but snort. “Why, because I saved your life?” he asks, forcing a small grin. The caf has cooled down a little, though he wouldn’t deem it safe for consumption, so he keeps it where it is. 

Boil slowly turns to stare at him, tearing his gaze away from the door, and he’s looking anything but amused at Waxer’s attempt to joke. “No, because you almost died there as well,” he bites out. 

Waxer huffs, waves him off. “Yeah, yeah. I’ve already died once, though. Sucks, but I’m still here, so maybe the same thing would’ve happened again.”

“Just–shut up. We don’t know that. We don’t know how this works . Just—I don’t want you to do that, got it? I’d rather die than have you pull some self-sacrificial banthashit.”

“As if you wouldn’t have done the same thing.”

“That’s different, ” Boil grits out beneath clenched teeth. Waxer splutters. “How is that different? So when I try to save your life it’s wrong and I should know better, but it’s okay when you do it?”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying.”

“Are you even listening to the words coming out of your mouth right now? That makes no damn sense, vod! I don’t want you to die for me either!”

“You don’t get it,” Boil sneers. He turns away. 

Waxer groans. “Explain, then. Contrary to popular belief, I can’t read your mind.”

“You—Waxer, in the nicest way possible, you’re a fucking Idiot. First off, you could read my mind, we’ve got a damn force-bond going on and if a Jedi can do it so could you. And— I couldn’t just let you die. I’ve already failed to save the others, I can’t. Not again.”

And suddenly, Boil isn’t talking about Coruscant anymore. He inhales shakily and then clasps his hands together, leg still bouncing up and down. 

Waxer hesitates before he shifts a little closer and gently knocks his shoulder into Boil’s. “It happened a long time ago,” he says, and Boil laughs unhappily.

“Five years is not as long as it feels, vod.”

“You know that there was nothing you could’ve done, not then and not now,” Waxer continues. Boil shakes his head again, softer this time. “Easy for you to say.”

Waxer doesn’t know why it’s easy for him to say, but he doesn’t push, not when Boil is like this. You can’t argue with him about something he’s set his mind to. 

“Listen, I don’t think either of us want the other to die for us. So we really should just—not do that,” Waxer says. 

“So you admit what you’ve done was stupid?”

“Yeah,” Waxer lies. “Was stupid of me. Won’t repeat it. There. You can’t do something like that either, though.”

“Waxer.”

“Boil.”

Waxer is still looking at Boil, who decidedly avoids eye contact to fidget with the hem of his shirt. Then, Boil stops, sighs. “I’d obviously try and save you if I got the chance,” he says slowly. “But If I had to break orders to save you—I would follow orders.”

Waxer nods. “Good. So would I.”

“No, you wouldn’t. You’re terrible at following orders. You literally disregarded orders to pull this shit.”

“Well, I knew what I was doing. Sometimes thinking for yourself can be a good idea,” Waxer replies, smiling again. 

Boil sighs, cracks his knuckles. “You’re impossible.”

“You’re no better.”

“And you missed a spot shaving this morning.”

“Really? Resorting to insults, now?”

“Yeah, because you’re awful and I hate you,” Boil says, but he’s still leaning on Waxer’s side, dropping his head onto his shoulder. Boil isn’t usually the one to seek physical contact, usually complains and pushes his brother away when Waxer hugs and pokes and intentionally annoys him, which is how Waxer knows he’s not fine right now, not yet. 

They go quiet again, and neither speaks for another time, until Boil sighs deeply. “What a good start to the day,” he mutters, and Waxer snorts. “Are you going to train with Kenobi again?” Boil continues, cracking his knuckles once more. 

“I think so. It’s getting a little repetitive, to be honest, but I see the point. Kenobi said he wanted me to come to the Jedi temple on Benduday,” Waxer adds, stubbornly tries to get back in a good mood, because when he’s smiling and laughing Boil usually falls in too.

Boil looks at him, shakes his head slowly and then reaches out to grab the caf. “So you’ll be going there to...what, exactly?”

“Not sure. I’m hoping the General will finally show me some actual useful things.”

Out of the corner of his eye Waxer sees Boil scowl. “Yeah, about time. If you’re asking me he’s trying too hard to give you the good old Jedi training—not that I’d know what that’s like, but you get the point. All that trust in the force banthashit.”

“The General doesn’t have to do this in the first place, so I really can’t complain.”

“I know that. Still.” Boil goes quiet again, sighs. “I just think it’s stupid.” 

Waxer nudges him softly. “Maybe I can ask him if you can join us to the temple. Maybe Cody as well,” he offers, and Boil shrugs, lifts his cup to his mouth. “Sure. I don’t mind. Also, off topic, but just for the record, I don’t actually like caf.” He takes a sip, but at least now he’s not burning his tongue trying to drink it. 

“Why drink it, then?”

“Cody made it,” Boil says, and the hint of a smile tugs at his lips. 

Waxer supposes that this is who Boil is, deep down. 

Waxer would fidget if he could, but even though no one’s looking at him directly, he still feels as if he’s being watched. He’s weirdly on display, carefully ignoring the eyes of anyone passing them—instead he focuses on taking in the new environment. 

It’s been a week since Boil woke up and Waxer has spent most of the time either resting or training with Kenobi, who has been talking about visiting a combat center in the temple, which really did intrigue Waxer, because while which each lesson he’s getting better at controlling his use of the force (and it still feels weird to think or even talk about himself as being able to do that) he’d still like to be able to actually protect people with it. 

Cody’s been in the Jedi temple before, and Waxer supposes that’s why he doesn’t seem too impressed with any of the wide halls they’re walking through. The force is perfectly calm around him, only interrupted when he voices his thoughts to Kenobi. 

Boil is different. Waxer can tell he’s just as mesmerised as he himself is, and a few times Boil’s helmet seems stuck on something, a sculpture or a statue or a window with painted glass, before he snaps his head back and a wave of embarrassment washes over him. Boil isn’t the type to get distracted easily, but Waxer can’t say how anyone could see something like this for the first time and not get a little overwhelmed. 

The concourse is gigantic, pillars rising from the clean golden tiles up to the ceiling high above. The ceiling itself is engraved with art and paintings that Waxer almost can’t see with how high up they are, and the hall they’re walking through seems to have one purpose only; to be walked through. It’s a lot of effort put into something that doesn’t really need it. Practically, it isn’t much different from the hallways on the negotiator, except that this one makes you feel smaller than you actually are. And though it’s beautiful, Waxer finds, there’s a small feeling of not-belonging. The temple is like the Jedi, in a way. 

The further they walk, the more Waxer wonders how the Jedi manage to find their way around this place. He’d thought the Senate-building they’d been stuck in for the past days had been big, but it’s nothing in comparison to the Jedi temple. At times there are maps of what must be the entire building on the side, but none of the Jedi ever seem to look at those, and when Waxer manages to sneak a glance at one he can’t even begin to read it. It’s so full of things and only reinforces the point—the temple is terrifyingly gigantic. 

Kenobi stops from time to time to trade a few words with fellow Jedi that don’t pay the clones any more attention than a polite nod. Some of the other Jedi are also accompanied by brothers at times, most of them with red-painted armor and clearly belonging to the Guard. Were it not for their uniqueness in the force, Waxer has to admit he wouldn’t be able to tell them apart. Though painted, their armor feels as if it’s all shiny, and further thinking about it Waxer hadn’t seen a single actual shiny. Their armor is the same, always painted a simple pattern, there’s no variation, except for when the clone wearing it is a Commander or from a special unit. Their behaviour is the same, too. Up-tight, polite, only speaking when spoken to. 

Waxer doesn’t know what to make of that. Maybe Fox is just as controlling as people say, or maybe they’ve got regulations to follow. 

When Kenobi isn’t busy chatting with friends, he talks about the Jedi temple and its origins. Waxer is only halfway listening but nods politely whenever Kenobi turns to look at him, all the while Cody listens with genuine interest—though whether that is because he’s interested in Jedi-history or because it’s Kenobi who’s talking, Waxer can’t say. 

Boil and Cody are steady presences at his side, and Waxer is more than glad Kenobi allowed them to join. Being in here, alone with the Jedi, sounds like a nightmare—beautiful architecture or not. His brothers are the only thing that’s familiar, something he knows, something to calm down his nervousness. 

“Sir, just how big is the temple?” Waxer asks curiously as they round another corner. Kenobi smiles at him, in that way he always smiles when one of the vode asks him questions. “Very big, I’d say. This is the home to thousands of Jedi.” He strokes his beard, tilts his head. “The combat training center is almost in the middle—it has a beautiful glass-ceiling, otherwise it wouldn’t be able to get any sunlight from outside. Cody’s seen it before, though only for a short bit—It was gorgeous, don’t you think?”

“Yes, Sir,” Cody says politely, but with the way he pronounces the ‘sir’ it’s obvious that he doesn’t have any special opinions about it, really. Kenobi definitely knows Cody well enough to pick up on it. Force bond and all. The Jedi snorts, waves Cody off. Then, Cody chuckles as well. 

They go quiet again. Waxer doesn’t particularly mind. There’s much to keep his mind occupied, a lot to take in, a lot to look at, from the tiles to the ceiling. 

He’d been so caught up in his head that he didn’t even notice the two Jedi approaching, not until they stop to talk to Kenobi. 

“Obi-wan,” one of them says, and Waxer looks up, now. Kenobi stops as well, smiles, and it’s genuine, not his sad half-smile. “Luminara. Barriss,” he greets the other Jedi cheerfully. The other Jedi at her side must be a Padawan—she’s smaller, looks a lot like Commander Tano, in a way. And then again, not at all. 

The Padawan lifts her gaze from where she had been staring at the ground, and Waxer’s thinks that he’s seen her before, though never closely. He wonders if he should salute or not. 

“This is Waxer, the trooper I told you about,” Kenobi suddenly says, and Waxer startles. Oh. She knows. 

Next to him, Cody and Boil both tense.

“I see,” Unduli says, smiling. Her padawan still looks at Waxer, and though he can’t feel anything from the Jedi she looks curious. “You’re very clear in the force,” Unduli continues. “Obi-wan wasn’t lying about that.”

“Thank you, Sir,” Waxer says and hopes it was a compliment. 

“It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m Luminara Unduli, and this is my Padawan, Barriss Offee.”

Waxer nods at Offee, wishes again he could fidget, because he feels uncomfortable under the gaze of this many Jedi. Offee looks polite, kind even, with a gentle smile sprawled onto her face. 

“We were on our way to the sparring area, did you want to join us?” Kenobi asks. 

Unduli turns to her Padawan. “We were going to go out into the gardens, but we might join you later,” she says. “If we can’t make it we’ll see each other at the council meeting.”

Kenobi winces, though the smile is back quickly. “Ah, yes. The council meeting. That’s perfectly fine, Luminara. See you then.”

“May the force be with you,” Unduli responds.

The Jedi pass. 

The sparring area is another large room with a few shut blinds on each side, though not as large. On its end there’s a bunch of wooden weapons showcased on the wall, and when Waxer turns around there’s a banner above the entrance, showing the sign of the Jedi order. The sun shines through the large windows at the top. It’s not blinding light, though, instead it’s warm and comfortable.

“Feel free to take off your helmet, Waxer,” Kenobi says as he walks out into the room, not paying any close attention as he tosses his coat to the side. Cody makes an offended noise. “Cody, Boil, you may as well. There’s a few seats over there, though you’re free to go wherever you’d like to.”

Waxer reaches up and unclips his helmet, holstering it under his arm for now. His other hand strokes over his head as he takes in the new environment—he hasn’t found the time nor energy to properly shave his head in a while, which results in him having a sort-of buzzcut, for now. 

Kenobi pulls up the blinds on one side of the room, revealing a small area that he slips into. Waxer resists the urge to follow, waiting for Kenobi to come back out. 

The combat center is not what he expected. There’s no shooting range or sparring mats—there’s nothing at all, really, just a giant well-lit room. 

Boil comes up next to him, taking his helmet off as well. His hair is still the same as ever, though he’s trimmed his mustache in the days following his near-death experience by shaving its sides off. He did it as an impulsive decision while Waxer was with Kenobi, and Waxer’s genuinely just glad he didn’t do worse, like shave his head to get a haircut like Commander Gree or Boost from the wolfpack. 

It still takes some getting used to but Waxer in all honesty thinks it looks better than the old mustache. Not that he’d ever say that, though. He’s not an asshole. 

“What’s he doing,” Boil asks quietly. Kenobi still hasn’t come out again. 

“Not sure,” Waxer replies quietly. Right in that moment, Kenobi emerges from the room, carrying something in his hands. It’s silver, slightly bigger than a hand, and Waxer’s eyes widen involuntary. 

Kenobi approaches the three of them, smiling. 

“Here you go,” he says cheerfully and holds the lightsaber out for Waxer to take, as if it’s something easy to do, as if it means nothing. Hesitantly, Waxer reaches for it, and Kenobi drops it into his hands. He’s looking at Waxer with a peculiar gleam in his eyes, waiting for a response. 

Waxer stares down at the small weapon in his hands, and it hasn’t quite sunk in yet. “Sir,” he says, “I don’t think I can take this.”

“Why is that?” Kenobi asks. He doesn’t look hurt, more as if he expected that exact answer. Waxer glances up. “A lightsaber is a Jedi’s weapon,” he says carefully.

“Lightsabers are a Jedi’s main choice of weapon, but you don’t have to be one to wield it, nor do you have to be force-sensitive. I don’t know if it’ll be possible to get you a lightsaber of your own, but this training-saber might do the job for now. Obviously, you don’t have to learn how to use one if you do not wish to. The choice is yours.”

Not something he hears every day, Waxer thinks as he tentatively wraps his hands around the handle. Through his gloves it’s hard to get a feel of what material it’s really made of, though he supposes it must be some kind of metal, and the sun shining through the see-through ceiling above reflects on it. It’s much lighter than he expected it to be, lighter than a blaster, even. 

“But–I wouldn’t be able to use it, anyway, Sir,” Waxer says. Kenobi nods in understanding. “Oh, I am aware. Yes, you might not be able to use a lightsaber in combat without giving yourself away, but training with it will give you a better understanding of the force as well as strengthen your connection to it. And it isn’t like it would do harm,” he adds. 

Waxer isn’t sure if he likes this, aside from the fact that he doesn’t think any clone has ever held a lightsaber before. He’s not a Padawan, not a Jedi, and he doesn’t explicitly want to be one. 

But–If this will help him in combat, help protect his brothers, it’s worth a shot. 

“I would like to try, Sir,” he decides. Kenobi smiles, his eyes crinkling. He does seem to be in a very good mood today. “Very good, I was hoping you’d say that. Follow me please.” 

Kenobi walks further into the middle of the room and Waxer trots after him, feeling his brothers eyes on his back, but—it’s not uncomfortable. It’s just Boil and Cody. He feels a lot less nervous now, despite the fact that he’s holding a lightsaber, just because he knows who it is that’s watching him. It’s not the uncomfortable gut-feeling of being watched and not knowing by who.  

Kenobi turns. “That should be enough space for us. Let’s start easy. First off, please do set the training-saber to stunt instead of slice—you should be able to do so at its side. Using slice with beginners is a very bad idea.”

Waxer turns the handle until he finds the switch, flicks it, and then curls both of his hands around the handle. “How do I…?” he starts, pauses. Kenobi grasps his own lightsaber from where it hung on his belt and with the press of a button it lights up. “There’s a button on it’s side. It should be opposite of the switch,” he explains before Waxer can continue.

Waxer presses it. He almost jumps when it lights up, glowing in an intense blue. Carefully he moves his hands and watches how the weapon glides through the air, humming—it hums just like the force does, Waxer realizes. 

Kenobi watches him and when Waxer looks back at him he’s still smiling, and Waxer tries his best to return it, though it comes out more nervous than he wants it to. 

“Let’s begin, then,” Kenobi says, and Waxer can already tell he’s going to start monologuing. “The first form of combat I want you to learn is called Shii-cho, also known as the way of the sarlacc. It’s the first form every youngling should learn, and though it isn’t the form most Jedi end up using, it provides the basics for any other form you might be interested in learning. Its simplicity isn’t a disadvantage in any way–in fact, the only disadvantage shii-cho might give you is that it’s designed for a number of enemies rather than a single one. It’s very useful on the battlefield, another reason why I’d like you to learn it before anything else.” Kenobi pauses, chuckles. “This is the point where I could tell you a lot about its history, but I doubt that’s interesting to you. If you want to know, do ask, but I’d like to focus on physical combat for now.”

Waxer nods and Kenobi clears his throat before positioning himself, lightsaber raised. “Before we begin, we’ll fall into a ready stance–place your dominant foot back and hold your blade in a parry-position on the same side.”

Waxer looks down, shuffling to follow the instructions. Kenobi nods. “Good. Now, I’ll be describing attacks in terms of the body zone they concern. There are six zones; One, the head, two, right side, three, left side, four, back, five, right leg, six, left leg.” While Kenobi speaks he guides his lightsaber back and forth, pointing at Waxer’s limbs. There’s still enough distance between them for Waxer to not flinch at the movement. “Attack one, for example, would be a blow to the head, while parry three would mean to block an attack on your left side,” Kenobi continues. “Coming to moves, there’s two methods of combat that determine how they’re executed; The Ideal-Form and Live Combat Form. The first is largely used in sparring and friendly duels while the second focuses on increasing speed and is easier to navigate in battle. Which is exactly the latter is the one you’ll be learning, first.”

He presses a small emote that Waxer hadn’t realized he even carried, and out of the space the training-saber must’ve been a small training droid zooms out. It comes to a stop in front of Kenobi, gives a small beep. 

“This is a remote training-droid,” Kenobi says. “The remote will automatically move to the area of the body it’s going to attack, we’ll make it more unpredictable later. I want you to try and parry its attacks with your lightsaber. Are you good to begin?”

“Yessir,” Waxer says. He readjusts the hold on the lightsaber, grabs it tightly. The remote beeps, then moves to the left, blasting at Waxer a single time, who clumsily moves his hands to parry the attack. He keeps his eyes hefted onto the remote, waits for its next move. It flies over his head and he turns, coming in just in time to block the next blast to his head, wincing. 

“Readjust your stance,” Kenobi says, and Waxer looks down, shuffles, looks up to see the blaster shot approaching, but isn’t fast enough to do anything about it. It hits his leg. Through the thick plasteroid he barely feels it, but he flinches nonetheless. 

“No worries. Keep going,” Kenobi says. Waxer keeps going, parrying left and right and always coming close to letting the bolt hit him. By the time Kenobi lifts his hand to turn off the remote Waxer’s panting, sweat runs down his forehead. 

“That wasn’t too bad,” Kenobi says, turning around to Waxer. “But you’re relying too much on your sight.”

Waxer frowns. “Sir?” he asks. 

Kenobi makes a motion with his hand towards the remote. “You look at the remote, follow its motions with your eyes and wait for the next moment it’s going to attack. But that gives you only a limited amount of time to respond. Which is why I want you to close your eyes, please.”

“What,” Waxer says.

Kenobi chuckles and holds up a small piece of cloth in his hands. “You can also wrap this around your head if you don’t trust yourself to keep your eyes closed. One way or the other, you can’t be able to see in order for this to work properly.”

“But—how will I know where the droid is coming from?”

“You’ll know,” Kenobi says, handing Waxer the cloth. He takes it, carefully wraps it around his eyes as instructed and blinks. He sees nothing at all. 

“Calm your mind and reach out into the force,” Kenobi’s voice rings through. “Trust in it, and it’ll tell you all you need to know.”

Over his and Boil’s bond there’s a flicker of annoyance, and Waxer almost snorts. “I’ll try, Sir,” he says instead. 

“Do or do not. There is no try,” Kenobi says, almost cheerfully. Waxer doesn't entirely understand what that’s supposed to mean but pushes the thought (and Boil’s further annoyance) aside for now to concentrate on the objective at hand. 

The first blaster shot hits him in the arm, and he shrieks. It doesn’t burn, not quite, but it stings and it leaves an uncomfortable prickle on his skin. 

“Act on instinct, Waxer,” Kenobi advises again. “Reach out to the force.”

Waxer breathes out, holds the lightsaber close again, and tries to focus. 

Down. 

He sends his lightsaber down to his feet. Holds his breath. There’s a whirr again, but Waxer blocks it out, instead focuses on the quiet hum of his lightsaber. 

Left. 

He swings it to his left.

Behind you, right. 

The blade zips through the air as he turns without thinking, pulling back into the ready-stance—But there’s a quiet beep, and nothing else comes after. 

“Yes, very good! See, it’s much easier like this,” Kenobi says, and Waxer grins, reaching up to remove his wrappings. 

“You’re a fast learner. I—“

Kenobi stops as the door to the room opens, and Waxer turns his head. 

“Obi-wan,” General Unduli says as she makes her way over to them. Her Padawan trots behind her, hesitantly waving at Boil and Cody. 

“Nice to see you made it,” Kenobi comments, and Unduli hums. “Mhm. I still find this very interesting. Though I’m here to pick you up for the council meeting.”

Kenobi’s smile falters. “What? Isn’t that in an hour?”

“All the other’s are already there. We’ve decided we should start now, and I knew you were in the temple, so I offered to get you.”

Kenobi looks anything but happy at the news, turning back to glance at Waxer, and then Cody and Boil. “I’ll have to bring my men back,” he says. Unduli leans her head to the side. “I don’t know how long this will take, but it can’t be too long. Barriss could stay to make sure there’s no problems.” She turns to her Padawan, who shrugs. “I was just going to read in my quarters. I don’t have anywhere to be,” she says. 

Kenobi still looks unconvinced, but he nods nonetheless. “Alright. Cody—?”

“It’s fine, General. We’ll be waiting for you,” Cody quickly replies, and Kenobi nods once more. “I won’t be long,” he says as he trails behind Unduli. 

The door shuts behind him. 

As soon as the Jedi are gone it’s like a small switch is flips. Offee doesn’t stop smiling entirely but it’s like her face falls the tiniest bit. As she stands close to the entrance she looks almost lost, and it reminds Waxer of the way shinies sometimes look because their older brothers won't talk to them yet. She looks sad, almost. Even if he can’t feel anything from her over the force he still knows how to read people. 

This won’t do. 

He walks over, stops a few feet in front of her and holds his breath, considers his wording before thinking, fuck it. 

“Sir, would you like to spar?” Waxer blurts out, and then he goes silent. 

Offee turns her head to him. She blinks. Cody’s expression stays the way it always is, but he snaps his head to Waxer and through the force he might as well be screaming at him. What are you doing, he yells, a loud hum, a bitter taste. Waxer doesn't bother to look at Boil.

“Spar?” Barriss Offee repeats. 

Waxer lifts the ‘saber a little. “Yes, sir. I know I’m probably not the most challenging for you, I haven’t even actually learnt attacks yet, but I just thought–``You seem down, Sir.”

She stares at him, something like shame flashing over her features for a mild second before it turns into surprise. “You want to train with me?” she asks, and Waxer nods. After another moment of hesitation she stands up and moves over to him, activating her lightsaber. “Okay,” she says as it lights up. Waxer activates his own as well, makes sure to set it to sting instead of slice and curls his fingers around the handle. 

Before they can start Offee stops, looks down at his feet. “You're standing wrong,” she says, pointing at his feet with the saber. Waxer blinks. 

“Here, hang on,” Offee says before Waxer can say anything, and then she moves her own feet, exaggerating the movement. “You have to stand like this. Right foot in the front.“

“Ah, right,” Waxer says, shuffles his feet until  he’s standing like Kenobi showed him. He’s almost embarrassed at having forgotten this fast. There’s an amused gleam over the bond and Waxer huffs, pushing it away, but he can tell Boil’s laughing at him. Asshole. 

“Yes, that’s better,” Offee says. She gives him an encouraging smile. “So, we’re doing a velocity?”

“What’s that?”

Offee blinks. “Oh, It’s a form of training. You just repeat the same fighting patterns and slowly increase your speed until one of us gets hit or yields. I’d say you keep attacking and I’ll parry.”

“I’ve only parried, sir, not attacked,” Waxer says again, and Offee hums, though that doesn’t seem to discourage her. 

“Attacking isn’t very difficult. You’re learning the first form, right?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then just do what you think works. This is just for learning, after all.”

“Okay,” Waxer says, and then after a moment he adds, “Sir, wouldn't it be unfair if I attack and you—don’t? You can’t win without attacking.” Offee just sends him an amused look in response. “We start at three,” she says, not acknowledging the question. “One–two–”

Waxer lifts his lightsaber and in the same moment Offee blocks the incoming strike. Their lightsabers clash against each other and Waxer supposes he shouldn’t be surprised she’s good at this. He quickly moves his hands to try and hit her from the other side, but she parrys with ease once again, and he repeats the moves Kenobi just taught him. Attacking with the weapon is easier than parrying, he finds; It glides through the air with ease, almost as if it’s guiding his hands instead of the other way around. 

Offee falls back and Waxer pushes forward, though it doesn’t feel like he has the upper hand, funnily enough. Then, as he tries to strike her left side, she blocks his strike by slightly pushing her lightsaber forward—

And just like that Waxer’s training saber goes flying across the room. 

He breathes heavily, watches how it meets the floor, and Offee looks smug, though she doesn’t brag about having won. “That wasn’t so bad,” she says. “Another round?”

Waxer hurries to pick up the lightsaber again, looking back at where Boil and Cody are watching. Surprise surrounds them, but it’s not a negative emotion. He nods. “If you want to, Sir?”

She smiles back at him. “Alright. This time try focusing on how you’re attacking rather than being fast,” she says. “That’s what they taught me when I started. Speed comes on its own once you know what you’re doing.”

They start their next round, and then another, and another after that with small breaks in between, until Kenobi returns. Waxer doesn’t win a single spar, but he doesn’t mind that much, because at least Offee doesn’t wear that sad expression anymore.