Chapter Text
“This is the moment, men. Make it yours.”
Sergeant Crasher’s final words spiraled through Whiplash’s mind as the firespray ship shot away from them. After it went a short distance from the escape pod, it jumped to hyperspace and disappeared. Whiplash and his batchers were alone, stranded in the middle of deep space.
Red and white buttons flickered on the panel before him, fast and uneven like panicked breathing. He stared at them, numbly repeating his sergeant's final command. Make the moment yours. Take control. ACT. But his body felt trapped in stasis, frozen, nonfunctioning, his mind static where plans should be. This was their moment—his moment—and he had no idea what to do.
Next to him, Jax sat in the central chair, glaring at the spot where the ship had vanished. He straightened, face set. “We have to get this pod working. Hotshot, see what you can do about the steering. Whiplash, try to get the power back up. I’ll try to contact someone.”
Right. A good soldier didn’t give up. No matter how low the odds of surviving, he kept fighting. Whiplash forced back the fear twining through his insides. No time to panic. Get the power up. Fix the coms. Contact someone. They could do this—they had to.
What would they do if they couldn’t?
Whiplash‘s console routed power to various systems. They had the fuel; he just had to get it flowing into the engine. From there, he could direct it into the com systems and the locating beacon. Make the moment yours. He got to work, drawing on what he remembered from maintenance training.
The large red button in the center activated the pod’s thrusters. He left it alone. The white one on the right activated the coms; he would use it later. The red one on the left boosted the power—pushing extra fuel from the tank into the generator. He pressed it. Did the headlights flare brighter for a second? Did the airflow grow stronger? Okay. So the emergency power probably still flowed throughout the ship. He could use the smaller buttons above the main three to control where it moved, if he remembered the right combination and if he could distinguish between the identical buttons. If.
Seize the moment.
But as he worked, a nasty back part of his brain whispered doubts. How deep did the damage go? They couldn’t fix everything before the pod shut down. Even if they repaired the coms or the locating beacon, who would be out here to rescue them? There were no other Republic ships nearby, and the bounty hunters had brought them far enough so the Endurance ’s survivors couldn’t find them. Aurra Sing knew what to do with living witnesses; she wouldn’t risk letting them survive. Maybe she would get what she wanted.
Icy water trickled down Whiplash’s spine and pooled in his gut as her voice replayed through his memory. “Well, what do we have here? You boys look lost. ”
A real trooper would have faced her without fear, defied her, fought her. Instead Whiplash had stared, mind blank with terror, edging closer to Jax as his squadmate stood up to their captors. Jax had gotten closest to doing the right thing.
Whiplash hit a button with unnecessary force; the pod didn’t respond. Of course it would be Jax. He always played the good soldier. The moment passed Whiplash as briefly as a gust of wind, but Jax caught it and made it his by defending Lucky. “Lucky,” who had been a traitor, a boy who shared their face but not their loyalties. Boba, who’d thrown them, his own brothers, into space like garbage. His own kriffing brothers. For what—when Whiplash and Hotshot had teased him? They were just having fun.
Anger sparked inside Whiplash, burning away the black dread in his stomach like fire spreading over oil. Traitor, murderer, coward . Boba had killed troopers, destroyed an entire ship, to get at one Jedi. And Jax, in his need to prove himself better than his squadmates, let Boba escape.
Reading Whiplash’s mind, Hotshot spoke from the pod’s other side. “I can’t believe it. A traitor? He was a traitor?”
Jax reached under the steering column. “Yes, well, we can’t worry about that right now. We have to find a way to contact somebody.”
Whiplash huffed bitterly. The fuel wouldn’t flow where he directed—the fuel lines were broken, and without those, nothing would work. By pretending the pod could be repaired, Jax was just trying to dodge the blame.
Hotshot threw himself into his chair, swiveling in a full circle. “We already tried. This pod is dead! We only have minimal life support.” He sat up, looking at Whiplash for guidance.
“Yeah? Well, whose fault is that? None of us,” he snapped.
Jax shot him a warning look, like a sergeant scolding a rowdy cadet. After aiding Boba’s plans, after stranding them here, he wanted to be in charge? Advancing, Whiplash stabbed an accusing finger at him. “That guy you defended left us for dead!”
Jax rose. “Stow it, Whiplash. We need to work together!”
“You’re not in charge here!”
Stepping back, Jax took a deep breath. “Someone has to keep the team together.”
“Oh yeah? And you’re going to be the leader?” Contempt burst in Whiplash’s chest. “Because you’ve made great decisions today, Jax.”
“I didn’t know he was a traitor any more than you did.”
Whiplash pressed him back toward the main console. “You defended him the whole time. Whenever he disappeared, you kept us from telling Sarge.” He saw Jax’s defiance waver and felt a surge of dark triumph. “You never suspected him once . You never thought it’s weird that every time Lucky sneaks off, something bad happens . No, you kept saying, he had special orders or he got lost . He got away with murder because you felt sorry for him!”
An angry flush ran up Jax’s face. “You weren’t the one who noticed him missing. I didn’t know, Whiplash. Just because he betrayed us doesn’t mean you had the right to bully him, you—you...” He gritted his teeth, attempting to control his temper.
Whiplash let his rage burn deeper. Kriffing Jax , ordering them around, forcing them into line and pretending it made him a better soldier. His hands curled into fists. Come on, defend yourself. Give me one more reason…
Jax exhaled slowly. His voice strained, a rope about to break. “I made a mistake. I was trying to help—”
A sharp laugh edged with hysteria broke free. “Yeah, thanks for all your help.” Jax opened his mouth, but Whiplash cut him off. “We’re going to die out here because YOU TRUSTED HIM!”
The air froze. Anger melted off Jax’s face like a wax mask. He shrank, leaning against the pilot's chair with one hand on the backrest. Hotshot mirrored his stricken expression. He seemed so young—not a soldier, not his confident self. Just a clone cadet: small, untrained, and lost.
Reality washed over Whiplash, snuffing his rage and revitalizing the choking fear. Clones died in space battles all the time, but this…this was different. This wasn’t the instant, violent death of being sucked into a vacuum. This was slow suffocation in a broken ship. This was fading ingloriously away, death without purpose. A death that might not come for him before he had to watch the other two… die.
He grasped for the anger from before, trying to turn the void of fear into fire, something he could use. “Well, it’s true,” he snapped. “It’s not like anyone will find us.”
Jax shook his head, voice choked. “We have to keep trying. We have no other choice.”
“Whiplash is right.” Hotshot stared at the floor. “We have no power, no coms, no beacon, and not much fuel. There’s no point.”
Jax set his jaw. “Well… I’m going to keep working.” Kneeling, he removed the panel under the steering column with a clunk and reached into the labyrinth of mechanisms.
Whiplash sat in his hard chair and swiveled away from his squadmates. Behind him, durasteel scraped against itself, and the stiff steering controls creaked over the engines’ feeble sputter. A resentful thought slunk through his head— Of course Jax would try to be the hero —but he didn’t truly feel it. Cold tentacles slithered through him, wrapping around his lungs, his stomach, his throat; Whiplash crossed his arms over his chest, trying to stifle them.
They were going to die. Despite Jax’s stupid determination, they would die out here. Suffocating, starving, dying of thirst, whichever reached them soonest. Whiplash’s gaze drifted from the buttons before him to the star-speckled eternity outside. What would Sergeant Crasher say to him now? “You have the best training in the galaxy. But no one can train you for the moment you look death in the eyes. What you do then, and the soldier you become, that is up to you.” But instead of meeting death’s eyes, he was flinching away in fear.
A slow burn of shame bubbled in his stomach. He’d failed. His moment had come, and not only had he let it slip away, but he’d completely botched it. He would die shamefully, pathetically, clawing for breath in the void. After all his training, he couldn't even die like a soldier.
His throat constricted, and pressure built behind his eyes. He clenched his fists. No, no, don’t cry . Real soldiers didn’t cry, especially not at the end.
But a tear broke through his defenses and slipped down his cheek. Shuddering with misery, he kept his back to the other two so they wouldn’t witness his final failure.
* * *
The eternal night spread outside the viewport before Hotshot. The headlights were dying, but instead of letting him see the stars better, it made the pod darker. He felt sleepy. Sleepy and numb and blank, useless and unable to save them.
He thought, once he’d been allowed off Kamino, he could put his training to use. He thought he would pull out some clever idea or useful skill and fix whatever situation they faced. He thought his soldier’s blood and the lessons drilled into him would be enough for anything. He thought he would know what to do.
He was wrong.
Jax was working on the navigation console on Hotshot's side of the pod, so he sat in the middle chair by the pilot controls. He examined them, misery stirring beneath a thin layer of exhaustion. Once, he might’ve been excited at being in the pilot’s chair, just as he might’ve been excited to be in real danger—it let him prove himself a soldier. He never dreamed he’d be completely helpless.
Had it really been less than a day since he’d been on the frigate, watching with CT-1151 for the first glimpse of the Jedi Cruiser? His own words came back to him: “I can’t wait to show everyone how good I am at target practice.”
1151 shot him a side glance and grinned. “You sure about that?”
Hotshot nudged him. “Of course. I’m going to make even Sarge impressed.”
“Yeah, he was really impressed yesterday when you hit my target instead of yours.”
“Hey, he said to pick our targets.”
“And how many times have you picked someone else’s?”
“I hit it better than you did, anyway.”
1151 rolled his eyes. “You hit the outside . I hit the center at least twenty times.”
“But I hit the outside accurately. ”
“Shut up.”
They laughed, and Hotshot had prepared another comeback, but then Sergeant Crasher called for their attention. They were approaching the Endurance . After that, everything happened too fast—the tour, the hit to Windu’s quarters, the evacuation.
The space where 1151 should be gaped. He’d stayed at Hotshot’s side as naturally as the planets rotated—chatting with him and Whiplash in the mess hall; sharing secret smiles during their classes; cheer blending with his as they broke through line after line of simulation droids. The last time Hotshot saw him, he’d disappeared into the other escape pod, terrified.
The last time I saw him.
His chest squeezed, lungs collapsing and heart crumpling in on itself. He would never see 1151 again. No more training together, no more stolen laughter. By distance, and soon by death, they would be separated completely. And he hadn’t had the chance to say goodbye.
He swiveled toward Whiplash, who idly traced the control panel with his fingers. Instead of comforting Hotshot, the sight of his brother worsened the pressure in his chest. Whip was always talking, bantering with Hotshot and teasing their brothers. But now he was silent. Hollow. As if inside, he was already dead.
Whip noticed him and lifted a hand in half-hearted greeting. “Hey.”
“Hey.” His voice faltered, though his heart raced. He motioned to Jax, who had wandered nearer to read the ship's diagnostics. “Do you think he can get it to work?” They had time, right? A few rotations’ worth of life support?
Whiplash sighed. “I…maybe.”
An unspoken I don’t think so hung between them.
Hotshot visually traced the Republic symbol on the hatch, thinking of the blank future. After the cruiser tour, their squad was planning to do hand-to-hand training. He’d hoped for a rematch with Whiplash, who wiped the floor with him last time, and a chance to try some new moves on the others. That wouldn’t happen now. “Whip?” he breathed.
“Yeah?”
From the back of his throat, the forbidden words emerged. “Are we going to die?”
Whiplash looked away. That was a yes.
Hotshot swallowed, but a lump had formed in his throat. He could feel it now, how the air grew stale and the temperature dropped. The pod was flimsi on the verge of ripping, dropping them into space. But they wouldn’t fall. They’d float, lifeless bodies in starry emptiness. And the void would smother their screams.
He closed his eyes, feeling sick. “What do we do ?”
In the still air, Whip whispered, “I don’t know, Hotshot.”
* * *
The rest of the cycle passed in a haze. Despite the timeless darkness of space, their bodies retained the schedule drilled into them. Each used the ‘fresher, a small airlock which released their waste into space. The pod had rations, but no one ate. They drank some water and the other two went to sleep. Jax continued working.
Navigation and steering refused to function, so the coms were his best hope. Kneeling, he removed the panel below the communications console, wincing as it thunked onto the floor. Underneath, wires and cables formed a nest of hanging snakes, connected to outlets Jax couldn’t see. He reached in carefully. If he could direct power from the emergency life support supply into this system, he could reach a Republic channel. Possibly. Did that make sense? Bowing his head, he leaned against the cavity’s edge. His mind felt like a wrung-out rag, most of his thoughts squeezed out, the remaining information dim.
What else could he do? His batchers had given up; if he stopped now, he was giving up too—on them and on himself. He couldn’t do it, not after his failures landed them here. While hope endured, a sliver of a chance they could survive, he had to fight for it. For his batchers.
Jax traced a wire with one wavering finger. Plugging this into the right outlet—ringed with blue, he was pretty sure—could cause the power surge they needed. Yes, he was almost certain. If he turned out to be wrong, well…could it really make things worse?
Breathing deeply, he sat up. Finish the mission. He reached into the dense curtain of wires, relying on touch to follow the thread through the maze. Hundreds of strands rasped against his skin. They felt alive, moving of their own volition, preparing to strike him with electrified fangs. Not that the power should be active, right?
Maybe he should work faster.
There—the outlet for his wire. Jax unplugged it and reeled it out of the black hole, letting out a held breath. Leaning closer, he peered through the darkness. The blue outlet should be close to the front, since it connected to the emergency power. Was that it—the one to his left? It seemed blueish, as much as he could discern color in the shadows. His vision swam; he blinked, then squinted. Yes, that was the right one.
The plug rested in his hand, a weight greater than he’d expected. Would this work? Nothing else had. This tiny wire, this shaky plan was their last chance, and time was running out. If he failed again…
No. He couldn’t give into despair now. He had to be focused and decisive, put this last hope into action rather than convincing himself the battle was already lost. Finish the mission, cadet.
Brushing aside the cluster of wires with one hand, Jax reached in with the other, blurring vision fixed on the small blue circle. His hand wobbled, plug missing the socket. He braced himself against the opening and carefully, carefully, snapped the wire into place.
The pod rumbled. Jax withdrew, hitting the back of his head on the entry point. Hissing in pain, he rose. The communications panel blazed with life, glowing vibrantly, machinery purring in its core, static humming from the speaker. Heart leaping in his chest, Jax pressed the button. “Any Republic vessel, come in. This is Escape Pod D-Two requesting assistance. I repeat—”
The hum of machinery faltered. The light flickered and faded.
Jax’s stomach plummeted into his toes. “What?” The terror he’d dammed up surged over the barriers, a tsunami crashing over him. “No, no, no. Come on!” He slammed his fist against the panel. Machinery spluttering in a final breath, the light returned. Then it went out.
Jax stared, barely noticing the throbbing in his head and fist. But…it had worked. It was working; they were going to get out of this. He was going to save them. What happened?
According to the diagnostics, his plan had technically worked—power had surged from the emergency generators to the coms. But the console consumed it too fast, all at once rather than at a normal, measured pace. Now, instead of three rotations’ worth of life support, they only had one.
He collapsed into his chair, desperation fading to exhaustion. Under him, the cold headrest pressed against his skull, not enough to soothe the pain. Before him, the distant stars glittered. He’d failed. Hotshot was right; this pod was dead, and soon they would be too. Worse, in trying to save his batchers, he’d deprived them of more life. This was his fault.
We are going to die.
Who would go first? Would it be him? Or would he be the last, watching the others fall into a sleep from which they would never wake?
Were they dead, even now? He froze, straining to hear some sign of life. Yes, they breathed—Whiplash sighed, Hotshot rolled over. Still alive. But the void of space crept into the ship, stealing their precious oxygen, consuming their warmth. And he couldn’t stop it.
His eyes felt heavy from inspecting wires and buttons and screens, but Jax refused to let them close. Through the night, he listened to his squadmates’ breathing, the engine’s ever-fading rumble, and the aching silence. He couldn’t fix his mistakes, but he could keep watch—after failing them so completely, it was the least he could do.