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“ Execute Order 66 ”
Pup never heard the Orders himself, too far down the official line of command, never mind what General Silver - the Traitor- thinks of him. The Order comes through all the same, his brothers’ voices echoing in a din within his helmet, snug over his still-growing rat tail. He is the closest trooper and currently not under fire, so he alone is tasked with completing the Mission. The Traitor turns toward CT-2002 in a slightly shell-shocked quality. CT-2002 has never seen the Traitor look so stiff.
“Pup?” The Traitor’s voice sounds small, unsure.
CT-2002 usually makes a dry remark every time he enters a space his general- the Traitor- is occupying before settling at his customary spot to the man’s right. A strange routine, CT-2002 thinks to himself, given that the Shistavanen is a Traitor to the Republic. Why would CT-2002 be friendly enough with such a character if he had known he was a Traitor?
The Traitor is looking at him in open concern now, prosthetic eye scanning over CT-2002’s scuffed crimson armor for hidden injuries. He steps forward hesitantly, flesh hand open and searching as it reaches for CT-2002’s stiff form. In one smooth motion, ingrained into him since decantment, CT-2002 draws his blaster, pointed sharply at the larger man.
Before the Traitor can say another word, a shot rings out in blood red quickness. The Traitor drops to his knees, clutching a wound cauterized before it can truly bleed in earnest. Betrayal, pain, and shock war for dominance on his furred face.
CT-2002 drops to his knees at the same time his general does, blaster falling to the side in a clatter, smoke drifting up from the muzzle. He tugs off a suddenly too tight helmet, terror clawing up his throat as clarity snaps him to reality.
The battle continues without them, brothers shooting down droids, distracted for the time being. A shot narrowly misses both trooper and general, hitting a nearby downed tank, engulfing the machine in a blaze of fire. The air around the two swirls with smoke and regret in the aftermath.
CT-2002 - Pup, his name is Pup - the Traitor, NO, his general, gifted him the nickname on a mission gone wrong, his voice coated in a fond affection directed at him for the first time in Pup’s short life, and Pup took the nickname as his own much to Silver’s eternal bafflement, the insecure shabuir - stumbles to his general’s massive form as it crumples to the ground. Apologies and sobs choke the trooper’s throat, hands fumbling over leathers and soft-comforting-home brown robes and crimson painted armor, searching to staunch blood he will never find.
His shot hit true: his general will die. Pup’s stomach heaves.
His hands are caught not unkindly within cold prosthetic fingers, clasping his trembling hands with a gentleness that would be surprising if Pup didn’t know his general - who he just shot , Force what has he done - was secretly a softie on the inside.
“Pup,” his general chokes out from blood stained lips, straining to be heard over the roaring din of battle around them, “I know you could never shoot me, pup. You're too much a’ your father’s boy, you are. I know you don’t mean it, now.”
His muzzled face smooths out after the statement, something in the Jedi’s presence easing as he lays back into packed blood-red dirt, perhaps accepting of his fate. Perhaps he sees something in his son’s eyes. Perhaps he senses the truth of the statement with his all-knowing Force.
Pup’s sobs wrench free from his chest in a stuttering, drawn out tempo. Unable to look his adopted father in the eye, the trooper curls further into his prone side. His hands are now wrapped within his father’s larger paw, claws catching slightly on the gloves of his blacks. Pup is overwhelmed with the urge to shed the layer, instinct demanding the comfort of his father’s fur as if he truly were a Shistavanen pup, searching for the texture of stiff fur and the smell of home-safe-home, but knowing in his soul he has lost the right to the man’s comfort and love forever. How could Silver even stand to look at him, much less hold him as he is now?
As if sensing his distress, Silver shakes his captured hands, forcing Pup to look into his remaining eye. The Jedi spoke with the finality of a dying man and the certainty of a father:
“Pup,” here his voice cracks from sorrow filled awe and utter, baffling love, “Look at you, glowing like a solar flare. You’re gonna rattle the stars, you are.”
Fire from the explosion behind them illuminates Pup in a yellow-gold blaze as Silver says this, armor and clone-same face and tiny rat tail so similar to a typical padawan's cut that Silver, for a brief, infinite moment, can pretend that he is peering at an unknown Jedi padawan and not his son - his son whose eyes are breaking because it was his son in all but law and blood who shot him point-blank and yet Silver never once thought to draw his ‘saber to deflect, let alone redirect, the shot that will surely end his life because he loves his son in a way utterly unbecoming of a Jedi. But since when has Silver ever wanted to be a proper Jedi, especially once he lost his leg and arm and good eye and any respect he had left for the Jedi Order.
But Pup, his beautiful pup, is looking at his trembling hands like he wants to end his own life, like he no longer trusts his own body not to continue a slaughter he never wanted to start, and Silver cannot allow his charge to follow after him. Pup must live. He clings to this wish, this statement he demands the Force ensures, before he joins It in Its living infinite.
Pup has quieted his sobs, tears still streaming down tanned cheeks which are now coated in fresh soot from the still raging fire behind them. He looks at Silver with quiet dread and regret and shame. Silver has never seen Pup cry so openly. His resolve only strengthens.
“Live, son. Fight. You do that, lad. And no foolin’ about, now.” His voice takes on an authoritative tone near the end, reminiscent of a general’s command but more so the jokingly stern voice he often adopts to get his normally reckless trooper to behave when other Jedi generals are present. Despite the circumstances, Pup manages a weak smile at the familiar tone. The smile withers into determined resolve on the trooper’s face.
“I will,” he says, like a promise between gods, like he isn’t a child terrified out of his mind of living, “I swear it, Silver.”
Good, Silver thinks groggily, message delivered.
He’s slipping, he can feel it. Pup’s warmth against his side grounds him in the moment, but the pain of his wound is slowly creeping into the darkness around his remaining eye. Death is just a matter of time, now. How small his son’s hands feel within his own, Silver thinks. He’s just a child. Silver wishes he had more time- Pup deserved a few more hugs.
The battle is winding down, troopers turning their attention to helping fallen brothers and scanning the fields for any remaining enemies. Father and son, shielded as they are from the rest of the battle by a now-waning fire, are safe. Attention from other troopers would mean Silver’s swift end and Pup’s labeling as traitor for not immediately ending the Jedi’s life.
Slowly, softly, the Force wraps around Silver, lapping at his presence like the endless seas of Kamino. If It was sentient, It would feel almost apologetic at separating the small family. Pup wraps his arms around Silver’s shoulders, holding his forehead to the Shistavanen’s in a reverent kov'nyn , sensing the man’s coming fate.
As Silver fades from awareness, he looks his son in the eye and smiles.
—
Pup shudders one final time and straightens from his slump. His fingers brush his father’s remaining eye closed as the prosthetic dims to a dull grey. He has a new mission, and his brothers will soon be looking for him and their general. He refuses to fight this pointless war any longer.
Finding a small, empty ship feels like a gift from his father’s Force and Pup chooses to not question it. Best not think about who once owned the vessel. Exiting the planet is harder said than done, but the ship is equipped with a surprisingly quick set of thrusters and a hyperdrive just faster than the hail that comes through when he is spotted. Pup flounders for a split second before typing in the coordinates of some seedy Outer Rim planet he and Silver had planned to escape to before the end of the war. He mourns that he will experience this freedom on his own. Hopefully no one will look for him, traitor as he is now. The blue swirls of hyperspace feel like returning home.
—
If, in the coming years, Pup adopts the name Jim Silver, to cover the painful memories of his original name and to blend in better, and if, true to his father’s final wish, he joins the Rebellion, and if, one day, he leads a squadron of fighters sporting crimson-red paint in battle above a certain moon-but-not, well. Only Silver would understand his dry remark that he was taking after his father. After all, he would say, you don’t fool around with a Shistavanen’s pup.