Chapter Text
There was nobody there for them. That's how it started.
Their brothers in the GAR had all but divorced them, laughed away at their plights and all the deaths simply because they were supposedly safe. To them they were paper pushers, with cushions to relax on at a given moment. They never had either of those. They always wished that they did.
The Jedi never cared for them. No generals could be spared from the warfront, they had said when petitioned for a Coruscant leader. Besides, the general on the holocomm had stated, they were close enough that nothing could be done without their notice. Either they were naive, or they were liars. Nobody knew which would be worse. They never left their stone temple to prove the former or the latter true.
The senate treated them as meat droids. Of the possible options for them to turn to, not even the shiniest shiny would ever turn to ask them for help. Even those that advocated for them couldn’t fully be trusted. No senate natborn could be. It would only bring pain.
Natborns outside the senate didn’t care for them at all, either. Not that they could be faulted. Being fed senate propaganda about them being meat droids did them no good. Some guard lumped them into the senate natborn ring, not giving them an inch where they would take a mile.
In the end, who was there for them to turn to? What was even worth attempting to reach out to? What was left for them, except acceptance of destruction?
What was left except for death?
According to all the corries, Commander Fox had changed only a few months into the war.
Commander Stone estimated he changed about six months in, after escorting the chancellor to some secondary location after a riot broke out in the lower levels.
Commanders Thorn and Thire believed he changed after getting shot in the chest by a stray slug in a black sun raid 4 and a half months ago.
CMO Mab (“Mediocre-at-best” to everybody outside the guard of course) knew the changes started exactly 5 months, 4 days, and approximately 17 hours ago when his heart first stopped for ten minutes. And then again two months after the fact, when Fox stumbled back into the medbay without a pulse. He didn’t have a pulse for several days after either. Mab never found out how, or why. After a while, they found they never wanted to know. Certain mysteries are best left alone. Or perhaps they already knew, and were ignoring it. It wouldn’t be the first time.
If Fox was asked, he wouldn’t answer. He didn’t talk to anyone much anymore.
A couple months ago, Fox traveled down to the lower levels with the Chancellor, to one of his sith hidey holes. The chancellor only wanted to, and Fox quotes, “see how far he could drag CC-1010’s puny life force.” Admittedly, he didn’t remember much of whatever ritual he was a part of, save for the dagger being plunged and dragged around his chest, probably breaking something. It all hurt too much to tell. The only thing he knew was the small vital tracking implant Mabs had put into each of the commanders wrists was probably going haywire. If he weren’t going to die, it would probably be a little funny to watch Mabs freak out over him.
Usually he’d be fine anyways. He idly wondered, while everything became fuzzy and dull to his eyes, what Mabs face looked like right now. Did they have the little furrow on their brow, or the wide eyed tubie look? Hmph, it didn’t matter. He wouldn’t see it ever again. Right?
Right?
Wrong.
‘This has to be one of the strange things that came with death’, Fox thought to himself as he stared down a statue in a weird void space, with its arms open wide and a doorway behind it. He didn’t know how it was a door, he just knew it was. He didn’t have time for this. He knew that with the same conviction that he knew the statue was holding open the door, and that he could probably just walk back to his body…
Fox ran that thought by himself again. And again. And again and again and again.
And then he did it. Just, straight back. No more void, statue, door. Just his broken, bloody, pulseless body. He’d deal with that eventually. Right? Right.
Fox had one, just one, objective right now. And that was to get to his comm. Which was on his vambrace. Which was discarded at the sith shrine entrance, which at least had the downside of Palpaprick being gone from the premises. Stars, his chest hurt. Blood loss didn’t seem to be affecting him as much as it should. That probably wasn’t good, but it would be Mabs problem later. Right now, Fox was just breathing through the sheer excruciating pain that was radiating out from his chest. He was absolutely going to get some infection. He trusted Mabs.
After crawling for what felt like an hour, a trail left behind him like a geonosian desert snail, Fox finally made it to his comm and bucket.
Turning them both on was a hassel. Fox cursed the poor sob who made the damn interface. Probably some shitface kaminiise bastards. The hud of his bucket sputtered to life at the same time as his comm, inbox full and messages overflowing. Mostly from Mabs, Thorn, Thire, and Stone. Hound mustn’t have found out yet. Must be his morning shift. Fox managed to just barely get his shaking (when did he start shaking? must be the pain has to be the pain) hands to input somebody's number.
“Fox? Fox, where are you? We've been calling you for hours!” Thorn’s voice crackled over the internal speakers. It was loud. Where was the volume button again?
“Hhn?” Fox coughed, voice raspy and barely there. “S-stuck-k.”
“What? Fox, what?? Where are you, what's your location?” Thorn practically shouted into the comm, voice lulling as he said something to somebody out of range.
“L-lower… hi-hi-hideout… chancell–” Fox devolved into another coughing fit, voice finally giving out as something blinked in his HUD.
[CC-7401 Is Requesting Your Location. Authorize? Y /N]
Fox hummed softly before clicking the flashing Y. Thorn's voice grated against his ears again, but it wasn’t processing anymore. Fox was just, floating really. It probably wouldn’t be long until they were here with him anyways. The guard was competent like that. Fox just laid there, waiting.
Hopefully he wouldn’t wait for too long.