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Wolffe couldn't get the words out of his head.
“I had to do what was best for my vod’ike, for my brothers. I didn’t have a choice. My job is to protect them.”
He'd seen the security footage. Rex's vod’ika had been erratic and armed, but a simple stun would have protected his troopers, unless...
Fox’s words hadn’t been the only thing that had concerned Wolffe, his vod had been reluctant to remove his bucket, and when he had the bags under his eyes and hollows of his cheeks had stunned Wolffe. And how baggy his blacks had been, kriff, Wolffe was pretty sure his armour had been altered.
Fox looked exhausted, and he looked thin, too thin, starved.
And there was no way that had been since Fox had shot Fives.
“To protect them.”
What was Fox protecting them from.
Fox looked starved, and looking over the security footage again for the dozenth time, so did a lot of the corries.
Wolffe used his codes to log into the supply shipments and distributions. He usually only looked at it for making requisitions for his own battalion, but with a little navigation, he landed on the Guard’s page.
The shipments weren’t regular, not even close. There were almost three months between the last one and the one before that. On the surface, he’d have written it off as their being given more than they needed, but flicking through a few of them, there wasn’t nearly enough being shipped here. Not medical, not food, not anything. No wonder Fox looked so starved.
Then there were the requisition requests, there were so many, and they were rarely answered. Fox’s had been sounding desperate, even within the clinical request style, and then they’d been answered, a larger shipment than any other...
And two days after Fox had killed Fives.
They'd been given food and medical supplies, things they’d been begging for, begging for months, right after Fox had killed Fives.
Fox, who’d never wanted to harm a vod, who Wolffe knew would have rather died.
But if the Corries had been starving, if Fox’s vod’ike who’s lives he was responsible for were at breaking point, if Fox killing Fives had been the life or death for his troopers, well, Wolffe hated that he knew which choice he’d have made.
The same choice.
But why were the Corries even in that position. What could have been happening that they were so close to death that this was even a choice their commander had been forced to make?
“This is so wrong.”
“Wolffe?”
“General, I... I hadn’t realised you’d come in.”
“You’re concerned about something?”
That was his general, always worrying. And he honestly wasn’t sure if he could manage something like this on his own. His rank just wasn’t high enough.
“I... I’ve found some disturbing discrepancies in the supply shipments, sir, for the Coruscant Guard. They aren’t getting enough, and... and I'm worried they’re being forced to ‘earn' it.”
“Let me see.”
While he showed General Buir the very limited supplies the Guard were getting, he compared shipments to mission records, and did not like what he saw.
Every single shipment was predated by an awful mission, some were completely classified, but there was always something.
And it was always Fox.
And Fox was always in the med bay afterwards.
That was terrifying.
Fox was being forced to earn them food, medical supplies. Nearly dying for it again and again.
So desperate he’d been forced to murder a vod.
Not hateful or detached or uncaring.
Just desperate. Painfully, horribly desperate.
And they hadn’t known.
They hadn’t known how bad things were or that Fox was in this position or that the Corries were that close to dying. They hadn’t known.
They'd been calling Fox dar’vod, but where had they been.
As their vod’ika was forced to do horrible things to keep himself and his vod’ike from starving to death, where had they been.
Mocking them for the safe job, laughing at them.
Making them feel totally alone.
He couldn’t understand why they hadn’t called for help. Why they hadn’t asked?
What if they had.
Whoever had control of supplies and missions might also have had control over their comms.
What if someone hadn’t let them call for help.
The same person who was holding food and med supplies over their heads. Who had that kind of power?
Who could do that?
Wolffe needed to ask someone, but if they were being watched, he couldn’t risk it being a Commander.
They needed a shiny.
Besides, if a shiny was that underweight or injured, they’d need a medic. And good food.
Something with flavour, which the files said they didn’t get given.
They needed a shiny.
They could easily grab a shiny.
He wasn’t sure if he’d tell General Buir his plan yet though.
“Wolffe, I'm going to bring this to the Council, we will see the bottom of this, and reopen the case on Fives. If someone wanted him dead, I doubt it was the virus the Kaminoans claimed it was that had caused his behaviour.”
“Thank you, General. I'm going to see if I can talk to some of the Guard.”
“Stay safe.”
“You too sir. And sir... if this is coming from the Senate, what does that mean?”
“I do not know, Wolffe, but we will not involve them before we are certain. We will do what we must to keep your siblings safe, I promise.”
“Thank you.”
Wolffe left the base just before dark, wondering how he was going to find a shiny alone, but an hour later he literally bumped into one.
“I... I'm sorry sir.”
His vod’ike were not supposed to bow their heads around other vode.
“It’s fine. You have a name, vod’ika?”
The vod seemed to tilt their bucket in confusion at something, before replying with a quiet, “Sixy-Four, sir.”
“We’ve been looking into the Guard, into why you haven't been given enough supplies and what happens and medical issues. We want to help.”
“Why... sir?”
“Because you’re our vode. And we lost that but never again.”
“I... will it help my vode, can I help them?”
“Lek, vod’ika, and I can also promise food, and a medical check up.”
“Food?”
Wolffe wanted to be sick at the idea that access to food was what convinced him to come.
Access to food.
Only as a prisoner had he been without food. As a prisoner or pinned with no way to get to supplies. Never on base... never on Coruscant.
This was so wrong.
But Sixy-Four was coming with him, and he was going to get good food and soon, soon they’d be free.
.
The note was posted through his door the next day. Two sheets of flimsi.
The first was a simple note.
‘If you really Care about the Coruscant Guard, you’d do well to leave this alone and stop looking.’
The second sheet was worse.
A death certificate and report. Detailing a death, a vod who was ‘officially’ killed in an attack on patrol, beaten and tased to death.
CT-6464.
He'd returned Sixy-Four to the base, and Sixy-Four had gone to bed with pockets of rations to share out, not back out on patrol. He'd been on base. And the file had no location, no other details. Nothing that it should have had.
Kriff.
No.
The papers slipped from his hands to the floor.
Sixy-Four was dead.
Last night he’d been in Wolffe’s rooms getting checked over by a very worried medic, given food and comfort and promises that he’d be ok.
This morning he was dead.
Murdered
Because Wolffe had looked where he wasn’t supposed to.
Someone hadn’t wanted them to see this, and Sixy-Four, who barely looked old enough to even be here... Sixy-Four had paid the price.
Kriff.
Kriffing hell.
But he couldn’t quit.
If someone had the power to take their lives like that, they had to be stopped. They had to be stopped because if they weren’t their vode would die, be killed. For any little thing.
He couldn’t let that happen.
He had to save them.
He would not stop looking.
He needed to talk to General Buir.
.
The second note came only a day later.
This one was much more graphic, the fate of the Guard if they didn’t back off, and Fox’s fate was heavily implied.
Of all the threats listed, the detailed list laid out of torture and murder and horror, Wolffe wasn’t sure he’d ever get the words ‘water boarded in the blood of a shiny who’s throat was slit in front of them’ out of his head.
This monster had to be stopped.
Not just stopped, destroyed.
Fox would never be forced to do something to make sure his vode had basics like food and medical supplies again. Never be forced to starve or grovel or kill for it.
Never again.
His first act would be to get this threat to General Buir, then to work out who was sending these anonymous warnings, who was threatening their vode, and who specifically they had to kill.
And then he’d hug his vod’ika and never let him be forced into anything or tortured or starved or harmed ever again.
Ever.