Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Rex is pretty sure that if he ever wrote a biography called “Things My General Did That I Didn’t Like,” it would take him the rest of his life to write. Granted, his remaining life is looking pretty kriffing short with the odds he’s staring down at the moment. He’s gotten through enough bad situations in this war already that he’s pretty sure there’s a chance of survival, but that chance is looking really slim right about now.

If he had a general at his back, that might be okay. But. As per usual. His general has gotten himself firstly, beaten up, and secondly, electrocuted.

So basically, Rex is standing there with blasters in hand, his general lying sprawled somewhere behind him, smoking slightly and bleeding on the floor. And there’s a whole line of clankers across the room, debating Rex’s fate in tinny voices.

This is a really kriffing awesome situation. Rex does not deserve this osik.

“Commander,” Rex says. “This would be a great time to bring in some backup.”

“Sorry, Rex,” Ahsoka’s voice says through the comm. “We’re still pinned down. Where’s Skyguy? I can’t get him to come in.”

“He’s down.”

“Again?”

“Again.”

“Oh—kr—”

“Don’t swear,” Rex says automatically. Oh, wait, this might actually be a situation where she can swear. It’s certainly bad enough. “As soon as you get free, I need assistance. I’m the only one here right now.”

“Uh—that’s not good. Rex, send me your coordinates. I’ll be there in a minute.”

“Sending them now. I’ll try and leave a few clankers for you.”

“I’m coming—just give me a minute or two.”

“Great. Thanks.”

Rex cuts the comm. He might not have a minute or two. Those clankers are pointing at him and still talking. The tinny voices are really annoying, and he can only pick up bits and pieces. From what he can gather, they want to collect his general to deliver him to their leader, and they aren’t sure what to do with Rex yet. Maybe he looks so angry that they’re scared to approach him. That would be fun. More likely, they’re just debating the best way to shoot him full of blaster shots. That would be less fun. A lot less fun.

Well, okay. This is going to be great. Rex takes a deep breath and checks his blasters one last time. Fully loaded. There’s a kriffing ton of clankers out there, though. Fifty? Maybe? That’s a lot of shots to get right.

There’s a bunch of crates to his right, though, and he could make a dash for those. Great. He just has to hold out there—and keep Anakin safe—until Ahsoka arrives.

He takes another deep breath and exhales. Perfect. Here goes.

Dropping one blaster back into its holster, he takes a few steps backwards and grabs Anakin under his arm. One of the clankers calls something to the others, and they turn toward Rex; those blasters are pointing directly at him again. Rex heaves on his general’s arm and hauls him behind the crates just as blaster bolts start coming in his direction.

And the general is heavy to move. Rex drops him as soon as he can and leans around the corner of the crates to start taking out the droids. As he does, he kicks the general. His head shifts, but there’s no response otherwise. Kriff.

The clankers go down under Rex’s returning fire. Some of them collapse in sprays of sparks; others just list sideways. But there are a whole lot more. Messages from Ahsoka are scrolling across Rex’s HUD now. She says she’s five minutes out. Well, perfect. Rex could have all these clankers dead within five minutes—or he could be the one perforated with blaster shots, and Anakin could be in Separatist hands again. Frankly, in that scenario, Rex is more worried for the Seppies than anyone else. But he’d rather avoid that scenario, because it kind of means being dead.

“Hurry! Surround them!” one of the droids calls.

“Roger, roger,” another says.

Rex grumbles a few curses under his breath, shifting quickly to the other side of his cover. He pulls off a few more shots before he retreats into cover again. The clankers are way too close now. Maybe twenty-five or thirty are left; way too many to take out with whatever shots are left in the overheated blasters he’s holding.

“Surrender, clone!” a clanker calls.

“Resistance is pointless!” another says.

“The kriff it’s not,” Rex grumbles. He rises up above cover just long enough to pick off another three clankers; they go down in sparks.

His worry is confirmed when he tries to take his next shots, though. Each blaster clicks and doesn’t do anything. So there’s the last of his ammo.

Cody carries a vibroknife. Rex has thought about it, but never bothered to get one. Kriff, he definitely should invest in one if he gets through this. As it is, he has no weapons. He already used the detonator on his belt that he almost never gets to the point of using. But he had to blow up a Seppie transport, and that was what he had. And now he’s left with two empty blasters; a bleeding, smoking, and unresponsive general; and more than twenty clankers intent on killing him and capturing his general.

Well, he’s not about to let that happen.

Crouching at the edge of his cover, something catches his eye. That’s Anakin’s lightsaber, abandoned maybe ten feet from where he is. Anakin must have dropped it when he got—well, electrocuted. Why does that keep happening, anyway?

That lightsaber could be really kriffing useful right about now.

Well, here’s to hoping.

Rex lunges forward, out of cover. Blaster bolts follow him as he throws himself full-out on the floor to grab the lightsaber. His fingers fumble for a second on the ignition switch, but he finds it, and suddenly the blue blade buzzes to life.

“What? He can’t do that!” a clanker says.

“Lightsabers are for Jedi!” another one says, lifting a hand as though to scratch its head.

“Is the clone a Jedi?” another clanker asks.

“Not a chance,” Rex says, stalking forward with the lightsaber in hand. “I’m just not”—he swings the saber, taking out three droids in a single stroke—“about”—another stroke, another two droids—“to let you”—three more lose their mechanical heads—“capture”—he cuts down two more in quick succession before they can get their blasters aimed at him properly—“my Jedi.”

“Shoot him! Shoot him!” the leader clanker calls.

“Roger!” says one of the droids, but it looks worried even as it aims its blaster at Rex.

Rex lunges forward. There are another fifteen droids here, and he’s going to deal with this.

Blaster bolts come at him from at least four directions. He dodges some, and swings the lightsaber frantically as a shield in another direction. It works when the Jedi do it, right? But he doesn’t have the Force controlling his hands, so he just somehow manages to deflect one bolt, and dodge some, and one finds his knee.

“Kriff,” Rex spits, spinning to take out a whole bunch of droids—five of them?—all standing close to each other. “You do not get to—”

Another blaster bolt hits his shoulder.

Not good not good not good not good—

He scrambles forward, to the side, forward again, and cuts down another trio of clankers.  He dodges another bunch of blaster bolts; spins and runs the saber through another droid; spins again just in time to miss another blaster shot coming in his direction.

How many droids are left, anyway? He leaps forward, taking out another two. He barely avoids another blaster bolt; he cuts down another few clankers—

And as the droids goes down in sparks, a last pitiful “roger” dying in one’s vocoder, Rex realizes that the clankers are all in pieces on the floor now.

“Kriff,” Rex mutters, looking around at the droids.

Well, that’s slightly better odds, anyway. Fifty or so dismantled clankers, one bleeding general, and two blaster wounds in Rex. Perfect.

A comm connection with Ahsoka is flashing on Rex’s HUD. He opens it as he turns off the lightsaber and staggers in Anakin’s direction.

“Rex, I’m nearly there,” Ahsoka’s voice says. “Are you still okay?”

“Yeah. Is Kix with you?”

“Yes, he is. Are you okay? Is Anakin up yet?”

“Mostly okay, and no, he’s not.” Rex stifles a curse as his leg gives out from under him and he has to crawl the rest of the way to Anakin. “We’re in the warehouse that’s next to the blown-up transport. And there are a whole bunch of newly dismantled droid pieces in here as well.”

“Okay. I’ll be there in just a minute.”

Rex groans as he shifts over toward Anakin, shaking his shoulder. Still no response. Well, that’s fair. The general’s face is bruised enough that he probably took a couple hits too many. And Rex’s armor took a fair bit of the trauma from the blaster shots, but his hands are shaking. That is a sure sign of an oncoming adrenaline crash.

But—thank the ka’ra—he can hear the approaching LA-AT.

It only takes a few minutes before Ahsoka is rushing into the warehouse; Kix, Jesse and Fives are close behind her.

“Wow,” Ahsoka says as she crouches down beside Rex. “Did you… or was Skyguy…?”

“I, uh,” Rex says. He holds up the lightsaber still in his hand. “This is really useful.”

“Sure is,” Ahsoka agrees. “Wait—you got shot? Why didn’t you mention that?”

“It wasn’t important,” Rex says.

“Kix,” Ahsoka says, turning toward him. “Rex got shot.”

Kix rolls his eyes from where he's kneeling next to Anakin. “Oh, great. Masterfully done, Captain.”

Those blaster shots are really hurting now. Kriff. They both probably grazed the edge of his armor and through the gaps somewhat. That’s nice. So that extra warmth might be the burn or it might be blood. Or both.

“Is the general okay?” Rex asks.

“Eh, he will be,” Kix says with a shrug. “He’ll—hold up there, Rex, don’t go and do something heroic and then just pass out on me. Soka, grab him before he falls over.”

“I’m not passing out,” Rex grumbles, even though the room definitely is a little blurry. He lets Ahsoka scoot in next to him and help hold him upright. She bumps against his arm, though, and kriff. On second thought…

“You did great, Rex,” Ahsoka says. “Honestly—that was really impressive.”

“I just hope the general doesn’t mind,” Rex says.

“He won’t mind—you saved his life.”

“Great,” Rex says.

He’s probably leaning a little too heavily on Ahsoka at this point, and the room is mostly a jumble of shapes and colors. In the few seconds before he blacks out, he hears Kix say disgustedly, “What did I tell you?” and Fives say enviously, “Oh, come on, I could have been that heroic, too.”

Chapter Text

“Cody, wherever did you get to?” General Kenobi’s voice says over the comm.

“On my way, sir,” Cody says. He plants his boot in the nearest B2’s face and shoves it firmly backward, then loads two blaster shots into its head. “Where are you?”

“The secondary hangar,” Obi-Wan says. “I seem to have lost the troopers with me somewhere along the way.”

“Sir.”

“I am perfectly fine, Cody. There is no one here at the moment. Let me know when you’re able to start making your way in this direction, won’t you?”

“Of course, sir.” Cody mutes his comm. “Waxer, Boil—I’m going to join the general. Get the rest of those clankers rounded up and dealt with, okay?”

“Did he lose his backup again?” Boil asks.

Cody levels a look at him before turning and heading for the exit of the main hangar.

The secondary hangar isn’t placed the same on a Separatist ship as it is on a Republic ship. Cody tries to take a hall that takes him to charging stations for the droids. And that is a whole lot of unused energy that could take out this ship if it were released. Cody frees a couple of thermal detonators from his belt and plants them around a couple of the charging stations.

“Ah, Cody,” Obi-Wan’s voice says in his comm. “Do you have an updated position?”

“Took a wrong turn,” Cody says. “What, did something happen?”

“Nothing I can’t handle. But if you’d like to arrive, that would be appreciated.”

“Sir, what exactly happened?”

“It seems that there are a few local insurgents that have released a number of battle droids in my general direction.”

“How many?”

“Oh… maybe a hundred? Give or take?”

Cody bites back a curse. “Okay, sir. I’ll be there.”

“I do appreciate it, Cody.”

“Of course,” Cody mumbles, turning on his heel and sprinting out of the charging station room.

If his general would admit once—once—that something is actually a bad situation, Cody would pay a whole lot of credits to get a recording of it. But so far, his very own esteemed Jedi General Obi-Wan Kenobi has always insisted that every situation isn’t as bad as it actually is. If he were honest—like Cody is—he would admit that facing down a hundred B2s, even as a Jedi, isn’t a good situation. But no.

He skids around a corner, switching out the cartridge on his blaster as he does. And there’s the vibroknife in his boot as well. Yeah, he’s ready for this. Time to save his general.

He barrels through the door into the secondary hangar in time to get a decent look at what exactly is going on in there.

There are definitely more than a hundred B2s. Maybe a hundred twenty-five. A bunch of those are scrap on the floor now, so at least the odds are a little closer now. Obi-Wan’s saber carves a blue line through the air, deflecting each blaster bolt, but he’s already been pushed back close to the door. All around, parked transports stand in a maze of obstacles.

“Cody!” Obi-Wan calls without looking behind him. “If you would—”

“It’d be my pleasure.” Cody levels his blaster and shoots a B2 in the face. As he shoots a second, he activates his comm and says, “Waxer, get ten troopers together and get to my position.”

“Yes, sir!” Waxer’s voice replies. “Give us five minutes.”

Cody rolls his eyes and shoots another B2. As always, he’s just behind Obi-Wan’s shoulder, using his general as cover in the rain of lasers around them. His general’s saber is a shield and a weapon both, deflecting shots in all directions, but more often than not into the B2s that sent them in the first place.

“You could have called me sooner,” Cody points out.

“Yes, but”—Obi-Wan shrugs—“you did arrive in time.”

“Glad to be of service. But you should say something when you misplace your troopers. Or just not misplace them in the first place.”

“It’s unavoidable sometimes, unfortunately. They were dealing with the last few droids on the bridge.”

“You could have waited.”

“Cody, I appreciate your concern.”

“Then take my advice to heart.”

“Yes, well—”

Obi-Wan breaks off, and it takes Cody a second to realize why. Then he does, and it’s because at least ten B2s just aimed their blasters at the two transports on either side of Cody and Obi-Wan. To be specific, they aimed their blasters at the fuel ports. And, as Cody has lectured his troopers on many occasions, blaster fire around fuel is never a good idea.

“Sir—” Cody starts.

An invisible wall hits Cody, throwing him backwards, a split second before the transports explode.

Cody hits the ground shoulder first and rolls, heat rushing over him, helmet coming loose. He drops his blaster and throws his arms over his suddenly unprotected head; his blaster overheats in a matter of seconds and explodes in a miniature burst of flame that doesn’t match the billowing fire of the explosion in the secondary hangar. Metal flies everywhere. Cody is pretty sure it’s making a whole osik ton of sound, but he can’t hear a kriffed thing now.

When he comes to a stop and cautiously raises his head, smoke and fire sting his eyes. He hacks a cough, wiping soot away from his face. The transports are still blazing in the hangar.

And he still can’t hear anything.

He swipes his hands at the sides of his head, and they come back bloody. That’ll be ruptured eardrums, then. Nothing bacta can’t fix, but a blasted nuisance until then.

He gets to his feet carefully, hissing as he does. His charred armor scrapes against his blacks. His eyes are watering, to top it off.

Slowly, keeping a hand against the wall for balance, he makes his way forward. It’s only a couple of steps to reach the hangar again. Obi-Wan had better be in there—

He’s in there, for sure. As Cody steps in, he glances left and immediately spots Obi-Wan sitting propped against the wall. The lack of missing body parts implies that he managed to hold off the majority of the explosion with the Force. Despite that, he looks battered, and the blood from his hands is staining into the fabric of his tunic. Pieces of debris from the transport are scattered around them, half-burying him in metal.

He shifts to look toward Cody, and his lips move.

“Can’t hear, sir,” Cody says as best he can. He gestures to the blood trailing down the sides of his face.

Obi-Wan makes an undignified face. Then he gestures first toward the hangar, and then toward Cody’s feet.

Cody turns toward the hangar. Only a few scattered B2s are left now. And then he looks down at his feet, and there’s Obi-Wan’s lightsaber.

“I told you to stop losing this,” he says, crouching down slowly to retrieve it. His joints are screaming at him and his head is pounding enough that he might as well be able to hear it.

Obi-Wan shrugs, then nods toward the B2s again, holding up his bloody hands as he does.

“You want me to… get them for you?” Cody asks.

Obi-Wan nods.

“Sir,” Cody says.

Obi-Wan nods more emphatically.

Cody sighs and ignites the lightsaber. The blue blade leaps into life in front of him. It’s probably making the most comforting buzzing noise in the galaxy right now, but he still can’t hear a thing. So he just turns toward the B2s.

“I don’t have the Force, sir,” he says.

Obi-Wan smiles, and reaches out a bloody hand.

One of the B2s flies in Cody’s direction. With a yelp unbecoming of a marshal commander, he sidesteps it and neatly swings the blue blade through the B2. The two halves fly onwards, spitting sparks in loop-de-loops as they fall.

Cody looks back toward Obi-Wan, who nods solemnly at him.

“Four more,” Cody says. “Hurry it up—they’re about to start shooting.”

Obi-Wan nods, and two more B2s hurtle in Cody’s direction. He sidesteps again, swinging the lightsaber in nearly a full circle that catches both B2s. Then he spins again, dodging the blasterfire from the last two. Another one leaves the floor and flies toward Cody; he ducks its blaster arm and decapitates it with another swipe of the lightsaber.

The final B2 flies toward Cody a little more lethargically. He steps deliberately to the side, but throws a kick at it as it passes. It hits the ground obligingly. Before it can shoot, Cody shifts his grip on the lightsaber to be two-handed and raises it up, plunging it down into the B2’s head.

“There,” Cody says, turning the lightsaber off. He walks over to Obi-Wan, clipping the lightsaber to his own belt as he does. “I told Waxer to head up here.”

Obi-Wan nods and smiles. His mouth is moving again.

“Can’t hear, sir,” Cody says, crouching down beside him.

Obi-Wan nods again, still cheerful, and points behind Cody.

Cody turns to see Waxer and his promised troopers heading in their direction. Waxer looks distinctly amused at the sight of their slightly battered general, but more amused at the blood all down Cody’s face.

“Don’t say a word,” Cody warns as Waxer approaches.

Waxer, following the letter of the law as always, signs in battlesign, Blood. Head. Can’t. Know. What. Said. I. Have. Power.

“The kriff you don’t,” Cody mutters.

He straightens up and joins the troopers in moving the pieces of transport off of Obi-Wan. As the last piece comes free, Cody loops a hand under Obi-Wan’s arm and helps him to his feet.

Waxer gestures in Cody’s direction and signs, Complete. Mission. How. Interrogative.

Cody grins. “Oh, trust me, this ship is ready to go. The charging ports are rigged.”

Obi-Wan signs his singular vocab battlesign word, Good.

“Don’t mention it, sir,” Cody says. “And next time, maybe hang onto your lightsaber?”

Obi-Wan turns to Waxer. A minute later, Waxer relays, You. Rescue. Him. Always. And. He. Rescue. You. Always.

Cody rolls his eyes. “Thanks for the vote of confidence, sir. Now, let’s get off this scrapheap and let her blow.”

Chapter Text

“That looks really good, Jesse,” Ahsoka says encouragingly. “Just—the makeup is smudged everywhere. Hang on. You look like the top of your head is dying.”

Jesse rolls his eyes, grinning, as Ahsoka stands on tiptoes to reach the top of his head. “See, that’s what I get for having the best tattoo in the galaxy.”

“I beg to differ,” Fives says. “And, contrary to what the commander said, you are not looking that great, Jesse. It’s hard to, when you’ve got someone of my caliber in the room.”

“Shut up, Fives,” Jesse says.

“Nuh-uh.”

“Airlock yourself,” Jesse says.

Fives snorts and turns back to his datapad. Jesse rolls his eyes emphatically at Ahsoka, but the gesture is kind of lost on her. She’s fully engrossed now in making sure that the makeup concealing Jesse’s tattoo is done right. Jesse did try to argue for a helmet or something, and he’d honestly prefer that. But at least three people pointed out that he might be required to take off his helmet, and it would be really hard to explain why a random inspector had a Republic cog tattooed across half his head.

“Are you done there?” Jesse asks at last.

Ahsoka steps back, squinting at her handiwork. “It still doesn’t look pretty.”

“That’s just his face, Soka,” Fives says. “The makeup looks great.”

“Fives, so help me, I will—”

“Nope,” Ahsoka declares, holding up a hand. “You guys get to argue when we get back. Master’s going to kill me if I don’t get going now, because we’re already half an hour behind schedule. Come on, Jess. Let’s go bust a Seppie base wide open.”

“Ke n’ash’amu,” Fives says, smiling and waving.

“Ni’duraa, or’dinii,” Jesse replies.

“Ooh, sounds like it’s going to be fun when we get back,” Ahsoka says. She loops her arm through Jesse’s and tows him briskly across the room to the door. “Okay, let’s go over the plan, because I, for one, don’t trust you to forget part of it halfway through.” She starts down the hall, leaving Jesse to hurry to catch up.

“I’m wounded,” Jesse says. “And I do remember it.”

Ahsoka grins. “Then say it.”

Jesse sighs and casts his mind back to the meeting that he was mostly listening to. This is going to be fun, yeah, but he also fully trusts the plan to go off the rails five minutes in. Any plan with a Jedi involved tends to do that. The plan is all well and good, but he figures he doesn’t need to remember the finer details of the last parts of it if they’re not even going to be using it at that point.

“Right,” Jesse says. “So basically, we show up at the factory. And we say that we’re there to inspect the quality of the aeromagnifiers. If anyone questions why a kid and a guy in a helmet are doing inspections, you do a funky Jedi mind trick thing to convince them of it. Or I just look intimidating enough that we pass in the first place.”

“I look old enough,” Ahsoka says with dignity.

Jesse eyes her. Yeah, she looks a bit older than she usually does. But given that she’s fifteen, the oldest she can look is about eighteen or nineteen. And that’s still not quite the maturity level that they’re aiming for. At least her dress is professional, and she’s remembered things like keeping her lightsabers under her skirt and her Padawan braid attachment hidden away.

“Right,” Jesse says. “Anyway, once we get in, we sneak into the control center. And we’re pretty sure that it’s Seppie controlled, so we relay that to the general once we confirm it. And then we plant explosives all through the control room before beating a hasty exit so that we don’t get shot at. We can do a bit more blowing things up as we leave as well.”

“Okay, cool,” Ahsoka says. “Sounds good.”

The doors slide open to admit them into the hangar, and Ahsoka heads for the nondescript ship that they’ll be taking planetside to visit this aeromagnifier factory. She drops into the pilot’s seat, and Jesse sits next to her.

“All right, Master,” Ahsoka says, booting up the engines. “Jesse and I are leaving.”

“Sounds good,” the general’s voice says over the comms. “Make sure Jesse doesn’t do anything stupid, Snips. Same goes for you, Jesse.”

“Yes, sir,” Jesse says loudly over Ahsoka’s token spluttering.

The ship lifts up from the hangar and swoops out into the expanse of space. They came out of hyperspace far enough away from the planet that they wouldn’t be immediately visible, so it’s a bit of a ride to get there. That gives Jesse time enough to think about lunch, to think about some new insults for Fives, and to nearly doze off a few minutes before they reach the atmosphere.

The atmosphere itself is thick and muggy. Heavy orange clouds obscure the view out the windows as they descend toward the planet’s surface. Ahsoka lowers the ship slowly onto the landing pad and opens the door. Almost immediately, soft curls of fog start drifting into the cabin.

“Nice place,” Jesse says, wrinkling his nose. “It smells bad, too.”

“Perks of the job,” Ahsoka says, patting him on the shoulder.

Jesse pulls his helmet on—it’s a generic helmet, not GAR-issue, and doesn’t fit right—and follows Ahsoka out of the ship. The factory is barely visible through the fog, but the bulky lines become easier to see as they walk toward it. It’s pretty ugly. And pretty unguarded, too. The only security is a twelve-foot fence that runs around the factory, with a gate. Anybody could land in the space between the fence and the factory, so the fence is probably to keep local wildlife out more than anything.

“Hey, does anything live on this planet?” Jesse asks.

“Sure,” Ahsoka says. “Plenty of stuff. The natives, obviously. But there’s also really nasty fogcrawlers. Like a really massive lizard with too many legs, and way deadlier. They spit venom, too.”

“So that might be what the fence is for?” Jesse asks.

“Probably. I think they live more around the equator, where it’s warmer.”

“Well, that’s good. I don’t think I’d want to meet one of those.”

“Oh, trust me, you wouldn’t. I had loads of lessons on deadly creatures to avoid, and fogcrawlers are definitely on that list. You wouldn’t even think it from looking at them. They usually wait for the fog to get you first, and then they move in.”

“I’m sorry, the fog?”

“It’s only toxic if you’re in it for hours, and we won’t be.” Ahsoka reaches up to pat his arm. “Calm down, Jess. I read all the briefing stuff. Master made me.”

“I kind of wish I’d been given that, too,” Jesse says.

“Oh, it’s fine. The fogcrawlers don’t really live here, and we’re only going to be in the fog for a few minutes. Okay, get ready—time to be intimidating.” She shakes her head so that the headpieces she’s wearing jangles. “Just look broody, and I’ll do the talking.”

“Broody,” Jesse says. “Perfect, I can do that.”

They approach the gatehouse briskly. Ahsoka raps on the window. Jesse gets enough time to shuffle his feet before it opens.

“Sstate your bussinesss,” the ugly green Trandoshan there hisses.

“I’m here for an inspection,” Ahsoka says. Her voice has become suddenly clipped and professional. She flashes the badge pinned to the front of her dress. “I’m with the Glass Safety and Hazard Reduction Administration.”

“We don’t have any insspectionss sscheduled,” the Trandoshan says flatly.

“Surprise inspection,” Ahsoka informs him. “It wouldn’t be much of a surprise if we were to message ahead. And I am on a strict schedule, so please hurry up and get whatever issues there are resolved. I’d like to go ahead with this inspection.”

The Trandoshan eyes her. “Give me a few minutess.” He slams the window shut again.

“Very unprofessional,” Ahsoka says disapprovingly.

“Yeah,” Jesse says.

He gets more than a few minutes to shuffle his feet this time. But finally, the window opens just long enough for the Trandoshan to lean out and say, “Go on in. You can’t misss the door. It’ss the firsst one, directly ahead.”

“Thank you,” Ahsoka says primly.

She turns on her heel—that’s more impressive than it usually is, given that she’s actually wearing heels today—and minces off toward the gate. It rattles slowly open, allowing them through into the factory compound.

“Nicely done,” Jesse says.

“Now for the inspection,” Ahsoka says.

They approach the building there. It’s just as ugly up close as it was from a distance. The door is utilitarian metal, with a control panel to the side. Ahsoka walks directly up to it and hits a button. Slowly, with a groan of metal, the two halves of the door part to admit them. They step into a narrow hall. The most distinguishing feature of that hall is a female Ugnaught standing there, arms crossed, beady eyes trained on Ahsoka and Jesse.

“Surprise inspection, eh?” she says.

“That’s right,” Ahsoka says. “I’m with the Glass Safety and Hazard Reduction Administration. This is just a—um, a routine check to make sure that all your safety protocols are in place.”

“And who’s that?” the Ugnaught asks, pointing at Jesse.

“My bodyguard,” Ahsoka says. “You’d be surprised at how many glass manufacturers get upset when I show up for these surprise inspections.” She clears her throat. “Uh, anyway, let’s start with whatever sort of factory floor overview you have?”

The Ugnaught stares at Ahsoka, then at Jesse, and then back at Ahsoka. Finally, she nods curtly. “Fine. Follow me.”

Ahsoka flashes a thumbs up at Jesse as they follow the Ughnaught down the hall. The flight of stairs that they take upwards has eight switchbacks before they finally reach a door that the Ugnaught swipes a badge at to open. They step through into an observation deck, glass-walled and glass-floor, filled with flashing diagnostics on every screen. It smells pretty gross—like the fog from outside came in here and died, plus unbathed Ugnaught. Jesse has to resist gagging.

“Lovely,” Ahsoka says. She steps to the front panels of glass, looking down onto the factory floor, buzzing with activity. “Um—so, who do you primarily sell these aeromagnifiers to?”

Jesse has to resist rolling his eyes. Ahsoka might have gotten them in here by playing the part, but she’s clearly losing it. It’s kind of hard to pretend to be an inspector when she’s anything but an inspector. Child war commander and Jedi doesn’t translate well to professional conversation.

“Lots of places,” the Ugnaught says. “All over.”

“Huh,” Ahsoka says. “So… both sides of the war?”

“Anyone who will buy,” the Ugnaught says. “Are you here to inspect, or not?”

“To inspect, of course,” Ahsoka says. She makes a big deal of looking out at the factory floor. “Just making conversation. And… um, of course, I’d like to see the floor at some point as well, but this is such a lovely room. So… um… with such a great view.” She visibly composes herself. “Anyway, is there a reason there are B1 battle droids down there?”

“They’re security,” the Ugnaught says flatly.

“They’re Separatist,” Ahsoka says.

Jesse clears his throat as loudly as he dares.

The Ugnaught glares at Jesse, and then at Ahsoka. “Let me see your credentials.”

“Tell me what the B1s are doing down there,” Ahsoka counters.

“I don’t believe you’re doing an inspection,” the Ugnaught says.

Ahsoka shrugs. “Not really. Jesse, get the door, would you?”

He’s quicker than the Ugnaught, not that she doesn’t try to reach the door before him. Jesse loosens the blaster in his holster meaningfully, using his entire mass to form a block between the Ugnaught and the door.

Ahsoka retrieves one of her lightsabers and holds it in her hand without igniting it. “Let’s talk,” she says. “What’s with the aeromagnifiers being shipped out to Separatist bases around the Outer Rim? Because while I might not be an inspector, I did read up on the business that you do before coming here.”

The Ugnaught sidles sideways, away from Jesse and Ahsoka, which leaves her up against one of the glass walls. “It makes money, and isn’t that what everyone is doing in wartime?”

“Well, selling these to the Seppies is helping them,” Jesse counters. “And you’re enabling them. Plus, you’re allowing yourself to be a possible staging point for any Seppie movements through this area.”

“No, I’m not,” the Ugnaught says firmly. “You can’t prove—”

“We probably could if we looked at whatever security footage you have,” Ahsoka says. “Which we can access from in here, right? All these central databanks? Jess, cover me, and I’ll take a look.”

“No, you won’t,” the Ugnaught says, and lobs a flashing grenade into the middle of the floor.

Jesse opens his mouth to shout “get down!” There’s not enough time, though. The grenade goes off, and glass walls and floor shatter.

They plummet downwards, all four floors toward the factory floor. Jesse barely manages to avoid the machine that definitely could grind him into pieces. Instead, he lands in a heap of glass shards, and manages to lose his helmet in the process.

“Kriff,” he groans through gritted teeth, rolling to his feet. He grabs his helmet from where it fell and jams it on again. “Ahsoka?”

“Here!” she calls, appearing around the corner of the grinding machine. “Where’d that Ugnaught go?”

“No idea. Hopefully not in there.” Jesse gestures to the machine.

“There.” Ahsoka points to a rapidly-disappearing figure on the factory floor. “Come on, after her!”

Jesse breaks into a sprint. Ahsoka keeps pace with him, speaking into her comm. “Master, she attacked us and made a run for it. We’re in pursuit. Feel free to show up.”

An alarm starts blaring, and the lights flash red. Somewhere, an automated voice announces, “Factory lockdown. Intruders. Factory lockdown. Intruders.”

“Ooh, this’ll be a story for you to tell Fives,” Ahsoka says.

“Yeah, I’m sure it will,” Jesse mutters.

The Ugnaught skids around a corner and disappears. Jesse and Ahsoka reach it at last and sprint around it. There’s no sign of the Ugnaught—but blaster shots hiss around them from behind as they keep running.

“Okay, time to go!” Ahsoka calls. “This way—this is the way we came in!”

“Got it.”

Jesse speeds up and keeps running for the door out of this place. He can barely hear his own thoughts over the noise of the alarm, and he’s very aware of the buzzing of Ahsoka’s lightsaber as she deflects the blaster bolts headed in their direction. It’ll be a story to tell Fives, for sure, as long as they can get out of here intact.

He skids left around another corner, nearly slamming into the machine on one side as he does. Whoever designed this factory floor missed out on a career of designing those fancy maze things that the rich Coruscanti people like to occupy themselves with. Actually, those things are stupid. Jesse would like to see the posh Coruscanti idiots in this factory, running for their lives with a couple of glass shards lodged in them. Now that’s something that he should suggest to Fives. Fives would get a laugh out of it, for sure.

Finally, Jesse spots a door. It’s not the way they came in, but it’s good enough. He barrels right around a corner and toward the door, firing at the control panel as he does.

The control panel explodes into sparks, and the door seal loosens. Jesse skids to a stop in front of it and hauls on one side of the door. Slowly—painstakingly slowly—it comes open. Behind him, Ahsoka is still deflecting blaster shots.

The door comes open. Jesse sprints through, Ahsoka close behind him, and turns toward the gatehouse.

“Not that way!” Ahsoka calls. “Head for the wall!”

“It’s too tall!” Jesse shouts back. “And there’s barbed wire on it!”

“Trust me!” Ahsoka calls.

“Okay!”

Jesse sprints for the fence, Ahsoka close behind. There are way too many blaster bolts coming in their direction now.

“Keep running!” Ahsoka calls.

Oh, great. It’s going to be one of those Force tricks that Fives loves and Jesse does not love. It’s not that it’s not cool, it’s just that his stomach tries to throw itself up every time someone tries to grab him with the Force. Oh, well. This is the plan now, apparently. And he didn’t even have to remember most of the last part of it!

“Go!” Ahsoka shouts.

Like an invisible hand has plucked him up, Jesse finds himself soaring through the air. He rises past the level of the barbed wire, still hurtling forward, and—

Drops abruptly, straight into the barbed wire.

Tiny barbs dig into his skin. He’d do anything for his armor right about now. And why did he fall--?

He struggles up, gasping as the barbs jerk free from his arms and legs. He can see Ahsoka below, stumbling, clutching her torso. So some of those blaster bolts must have gotten through.

“Ahsoka!” Jesse shouts. “Come on!”

“Coming!” she calls back, stumbling a few steps more. “Catch me!” She throws her hands downwards abruptly, soaring up to join Jesse. She lands lightly on the edge of the wall, but wobbles.

Jesse lunges forward and grabs her, before she can fall back into the factory compound. Struggling the rest of the way upright, he leaps backwards off the wall; they tumble downwards. A snap rings through the air as they land in a heap.

“Oh, kriff,” Jesse says. “Are you—”

Ahsoka groans, sitting up. “Wasn’t me.”

“Then what—”

Jesse stops, looking down at his leg. Is that bone outside of his skin? Possibly. Kriff.

“Oh, wow,” Ahsoka murmurs, looking as well. “That’s not good.”

“Tell me about it.” The edges of his vision are threatening to go wobbly, but he refuses to let that happen. Instead, he blinks fiercely a couple of times and says, “We’d better get away from here before they find us.”

“Yeah.” Ahsoka drags herself to her feet. “Can you walk?”

“Can you?”

“You answer first.”

“Uh, yes.”

“Then the answer’s yes.” Ahsoka holds out a hand toward him. “Come on. Let’s walk ourselves out of this situation, shall we?”

He grabs her hand and hauls himself to his feet. Well, he puts his weight all on one leg and not the other. Putting weight on that leg would be a supremely bad idea right now.

“We should be able to—” Ahsoka starts.

“Hey!” the Trandoshan’s voice shouts from somewhere. “Sstop right there, intruderss!”

Ahsoka hisses a word that Jesse would like to think he hasn’t influenced her to say. She grabs her second lightsaber, but doesn’t ignite it. “Okay, let’s move.”

Blaster fire breaks through the trees and underbrush, aimed directly at them. Jesse can’t see the attackers yet, what with this fog. But there’s a lot of blaster fire, and Ahsoka’s grip on her lightsaber is loose. Her face has drained of most of its color. Looks like the shock of being shot is finally catching up to her.

Jesse fully tackles her. It’s not the first time he’s done that, but it’s the first time in a life-and-death situation. She goes down in the underbrush, not even protesting. Jesse’s blasters are missing—of course—so he grabs for the first thing at hand.

A lightsaber. One of Ahsoka’s lightsabers.

Kriff. He’s used one of these, before, but only as a joke. He fumbles at the hilt to get it to ignite. It leaps to life, the short yellow blade glowing in the orange fog.

“Sorry, Commander,” Jesse says. “Do you mind?”

He doesn’t wait for an answer. He just waves it frantically through the air in front of him. It catches a few of the bolts headed directly at him and deflects them into nearby trees. Better than nothing, honestly. A crashing sound is getting closer, too. It’s only a matter of time until—

The Trandoshan bursts through the underbrush, followed by another, uglier, Trandoshan.

Jesse hollers one of Fives’s latest insults and thrusts the lightsaber forward, into the Trandoshan. He stops running, eyes widening and then going blank. Jesse jerks the lightsaber out of the Trandoshan, stumbling back a step; the other Trandoshan stares for a few seconds.

“Go,” Jesse orders, holding up the lightsaber again.

The Trandoshan backs away slowly, disappearing into the fog again.

“Kriff,” Jesse mutters, thumbing the ignition switch again. The blade retracts. He tucks the hilt into his belt and crouches awkwardly beside Ahsoka. His leg is beginning to throb badly enough that his ears are kind of ringing, but that’s a problem to be dealt with once he figures out whether or not Ahsoka is okay.

“Hey, Commander,” he says. “Are you okay?”

She groans. “Never been better.”

“Okay, great.” Jesse grabs her second lightsaber and shoves it into his belt as well. “Let’s get out of here.”

He helps her to her feet, and together, they stagger through the fog and the underbrush. The fog still stinks, and he can’t see anything in this. Each step makes him wish that his leg would just fall off already, because bone is really not supposed to go outside of his leg. Between the fog around him and the fog in his brain, he doesn’t notice much, and especially not the steep drop off that he only notices as they walk directly onto it.

The loose dirt shifts under Jesse’s boots. He doesn’t even get time to warn Ahsoka before the two of them are skidding down the hill.

He loses his grip on Ahsoka and just falls. He slams into at least two trees shoulders-first before his broken leg catches on another tree. His vision flashes white for a few seconds before his leg comes loose and he tumbles headfirst into something else that’s hard. The white vision and buzzing dissipate into a dark silence.

***

Jesse’s head is pounding. His leg feels like a minefield. When he shifts his fingers, he wants to throw up. And he has the distinct feeling that something is very, very wrong.

Slowly, he forces his eyes open. Everything is splintered into geometric shapes and pieces of color. He can’t see much with the fog, anyway. There might be a tree above him. He’s definitely lying with his head and shoulders lower than his legs, and his bad leg is twisted underneath him somehow. He can’t see Ahsoka in this fog…

Right. The fog. The fog that’s toxic when they’re in it for a few hours.

Wait. Has it been a few hours? The light is dimmer, for sure. He has no way of telling easily how long it’s been, though. He could have been passed out on the side of this hill for hours, for all he knows. In that case, where’s Ahsoka? And where…

There’s a rustling noise in the underbrush somewhere to his right, like a lot of legs moving all at the same time.

Wait a second. What about those fog crawlers?

“Kriff,” he mumbles. As loudly as he dares, he calls, “Ahsoka?”

“Jess?” he hears from somewhere to his left.

He struggles to get upright. The world spins around him, but he’s pretty sure that’s partly from the aching in his lungs. The fog is getting to him, for sure.

“Are you okay?” he continues at the same volume.

“Mm. I think so.” There’s rustling there, and Ahsoka comes crawling awkwardly out of the fog. She frowns when she seems him. “How… how long has it been, Jess?”

“No idea.” He twists to look behind him. “Were you hearing something… out there?”

“I don’t know.” She shrugs helplessly. “This fog makes it hard to hear. Hard to do anything, actually. And I don’t know where my comm is. I must have dropped it. So I can’t even call Master to tell him where we are.”

“Okay, well maybe we can—look out!”

A massive creature emerges from the fog behind Ahsoka. Yeah, that’s got to be a fog crawler for sure, because it looks sweet except for the massive fangs in its mouth. Those fangs are currently bared, and it’s moving directly at Jesse and Ahsoka, legs moving in a rapid pattern.

Jesse fumbles at his belt and whips out one of Ahsoka’s lightsabers, igniting it; without thinking, he scrambles to his feet and swings the lightsaber at the fog crawler’s head.

He misses.

The fog crawler barrels onwards, directly into Jesse, bowling him over. He falls, nearly losing his grip on the lightsaber.

“Jesse!” Ahsoka shrieks.

The fangs are directly above Jesse, and the fog crawler’s front few pairs of legs are planted on him. He twists frantically, turning the lightsaber off. He shoves it under the fog crawler’s jaw; he ignites it again.

The sound of lightsaber in fog crawler is kind of like the sound in the kitchens when the cooks are being generous and cooking something that tastes good. It’s like sizzling grease. It smells like it, too. A few drops of liquid fog crawler skull drip onto Jesse’s front before he can get the lightsaber turned off again.

“Oh, kriff,” he moans indistinctly.

Ahsoka swears again, and the fog crawler comes off from on top of Jesse. It collapses heavily to the side, smoking hole still visible in the bottom of its head. Ahsoka drops to her knees beside Jesse. She reaches for his hand, but misses, and has to try again.

“Thank you,” she says.

“Anytime,” Jesse says.

Ahsoka nods. “Hang on, okay? We’ve just got to—” Her head jerks up. “Master! Master! We’re here! Master!”

Jesse finally hears what she must have heard—or sensed with the Force, he guesses. The sound of approaching feet in the underbrush gets closer, until Anakin bursts through the trees, followed by a couple of 501^st troopers. Rex is leading them, and the tilt of his helmet looks very unpleased.

“This fog is toxic, Snips,” Anakin says, crouching down next to her. “You know that, right?”

“Yeah,” Ahsoka says, leaning into him. “Sorry. I kind of got shot. And I kind of let Jesse get hurt, too.”

“Nah, that was on me.” Jesse twists. “Rex, please tell me Kix is here.”

“Sure am,” Kix says. He skids a few steps down the hill and drops to his knees next to Jesse. “Kriff, Jess, what’d you do to yourself?”

“Nothing worse than what you’ve dealt with before,” Jesse says. “Come on, Kix’ika, don’t freak out. I fell off a wall, okay?”

“Fell off a wall?” Kix repeats, rifling through his pack.

“And then killed a Trandoshan—with the commander’s lightsaber—and walked a bit and fell down a hill and hit my head. Oh, and then I killed that fog crawler that you’re sitting next to. Nasty kriffer, isn’t it? That was also with the commander’s lightsaber. I’m on a roll.” He pauses. “I’m rambling. This fog does things to you, you know? Don’t recommend it. Not unless you want to see double.”

Kix smirks. “Okay, Jess. You can stop talking.” He presses a hypo up against the side of Jesse’s neck and depresses the plunger.

“Wow,” Jesse says. “That’s nice.” It really is. It makes the white-hot pain in his leg go kind of numb, and his thoughts are all swimmy.

“Yep,” Kix says, patting his shoulder. “Hang in there a bit, okay? We’ll get you fixed up.”

“Cool,” Jesse says. He reaches up and grabs Kix’s hand absently, squeezing it as tight as he can. “This’ll be a really cool story to tell Fives.”

“Sure will,” Kix says.

Jesse lets go of Kix’s hand and lets his eyes close, whatever was in that hypo pulling him under. He’s going to be telling this story for months, and Fives is not going to be hearing the end of it.

Chapter Text

Wolffe has six things at the moment. Considering that this mission has been some hot osik for the past three hours, he’d say that he’s doing pretty kriffing well to even have those six.

First, he has his own sanity. That’s a pretty big one. He’s not sure he’ll have that much longer, honestly, but at least he has it for the moment. And sanity is something in short demand on most missions.

Second, Wolffe has about half of his kit. He discarded the rest of it since it was basically hanging together by threads. At this point, he still has his cuirass, backplate, one leg of armor, his belt—empty holsters, though, since his blasters fell into a reactor core on the Seppie ship they were supposed to be taking down—, and his vambraces. The rest of the beaten pieces are stashed in some out-of-the-way corner, where Wolffe will probably never see them again. Osik, he just painted that helmet, too.

Third, he has his comm. It’s kind of busted, but he’s pretty sure he could fix it if he had a couple of tools and some uninterrupted time where he doesn’t have to worry about Seppies shooting him in the back.

Fourth, Wolffe has a scrap of gray-painted plastoid on a thin metal chain, currently hanging around his neck. Probably no one would think anything of it, but that particular scrap came from General Plo. Specifically from the general, to Wolffe, from the general’s first set of Wolfpack-painted vambraces. And that means he wouldn’t give it up for anything.

Fifth, Wolffe has Comet. For all the troopers he could wind up with, Comet is a pretty good one. He also managed to hang onto his blaster, which is a plus. Half of Comet’s armor is with the missing half of Wolffe’s armor, so that part is kind of osik’la.

Sixth, and finally, Wolffe has his Jedi’s lightsaber.

And that part is the worst part of this whole kriffing situation. The Separatist they were actually after, Passel Argente, beat a quick retreat once he realized that General Plo and the Wolfpack had arrived. He left his assistant, Denaria Kee, who turned out to have remarkably good luck. After setting off an explosion that injured thirteen of the fifteen members of the Wolfpack that were there—not fatally, but Wolffe is about ready to murder her anyway—General Plo was defending the wounded, and was captured. Wolffe and Comet, trying to infiltrate the bridge at the same time, were the only two that got away unscathed. That’s why they’re the two sitting in the cockpit of this one-man fighter, magnetized to the bottom of the Seppies’ escape ship while they hurtle through hyperspace.

“Okay,” Comet says at last. “What’s the plan?”

Wolffe checks his comm again, even though he knows there won’t be new messages. Sinker already commed to say that they’re dealing with the wounded and will be following as soon as possible on Hand of Justice.

“We’re going to get in there and free General Plo,” Wolffe says.

“Great,” Comet says. “I have one blaster, no extra clips, and one grenade.”

“Well, I have General Plo’s lightsaber,” Wolffe says. “I think that gives us an advantage.”

“You’re going to go full General-Plo-when-his-troops-are-insulted on the Seppies?”

“Exactly.”

“Without the Force?”

Wolffe levels a glare. “That’s my general, and I’m getting him back.”

“Great,” Comet says. “I’m going to steal a couple of blasters. That’ll make me feel safer.”

Wolffe rolls his eyes and elbows Comet over enough that he can see the controls better.

“Want to take a bet on how long we’ll be in hyperspace?”

“Hopefully not that much longer,” Wolffe grumbles. “You haven’t hit the showers since the beginning of our last campaign, have you?”

Comet sighs long-sufferingly and smooths his unkempt hair back from his face. “You too, Commander.”

Wolffe has, in fact, showered more recently than the beginning of their last campaign. But sneaking around, getting shot at, trashing his armor, stealing a fighter, and managing to magnetize to the bottom of a Seppie ship seconds before it goes into hyperspace tends to make him smell like a rancor immediately after feeding time. So he just rolls his eyes emphatically and goes back to watching their coordinates.

It takes about an hour for the Seppie ship to come out of hyperspace. In that time, Wolffe and Comet manage to hash out part of a plan that at least doesn’t involve dying. If everything goes well, they might even have a halfway decent chance of pulling it off. If not—well, it would be kriffing shameful to be pulled out of this mess by Cody, but Cody owes him one anyway.

The stars finally settle into regular pinpricks. The Seppie ship now lies on the edge of a whole ring of ships. If Wolffe had to guess, he’d put every credit he has on betting that those other ships are full of clankers and other things that want him dead.

“Fun,” Comet says wryly.

“Yeah,” Wolffe agrees. “Ready?”

“Yep.”

Wolffe wriggles out of the pilot’s seat as much as he can, cramming himself into the space behind it. Comet shifts over and grabs the controls.

They come free from the bottom of the ship with a dull clank and sweep up to where the hangar doors are just opening. A few smaller Seppie ships cascade out, and Wolffe and Comet’s ship slips in. They just miss at least two Seppie ships that come far too close for comfort.

“Watch it,” Wolffe hisses.

“I am watching it!” Comet says. “Hang on.”

He lands them gently on the hangar floor. Wolffe raises himself up just long enough to get a decent look at the hangar. It’s pretty much deserted.

“Clear,” Wolffe mutters.

Comet pops the hatch, and together they swing out and scramble under the ship. Wolffe checks one last time to make sure that General Plo’s lightsaber is clipped to his belt. It’s there.

“Okay,” Wolffe says. “On my count.”

“Got it.” Comet adjusts his grip on his blaster.

“One. Two. Three.”

Wolffe scrambles out from under the ship and runs along the far side of the line of ships, heading for where two B1s are manning the door control panel. As he does, he can hear Comet shouting indistinctly from somewhere behind him.

“Wait, what’s that?” one of the B1s asks, pointing at the ship that Comet’s still under.

“I don’t know. We should probably check it out,” the other one says.

Wolffe is approaching rapidly from around the end of the line of ships. He’s being pretty quiet, but it’s hard to run in a dead-quiet hangar and not make some sound.

“Wait—what’s that?” the first B1 says, swinging to point at Wolffe and raising its blaster.

“I don’t know—we should—”

The B1 never gets a chance to finish its thought, because Wolffe takes that opportunity to rip its mechanical head off. And then the head of its companion.

The metal bodies go down. Wolffe loops around the back of the control panel and checks to make sure that no alarms were set off. It looks clear, anyway. He scoops up the two blasters and pulls up the holographic map of the ship. With hangar clearances, the map isn’t all that detailed. Kriff. But, as he looks closer, he notes that the holding cells are definitely marked on this map.

“Where are we going?” Comet asks as he jogs up.

Wolffe points to the holo. “We’re here. Three levels up, and aft about half the length here. Somewhere in this area.”

“Great.”

Wolffe hands Comet one of the blasters, shoves the other into his holster as best he can, and heads for the lift. They’re nearly to the doors when an alarm starts going off. The lights in the hangar turn red, and an electronic voice says, “Units to hangar 2. Units to hangar 2. Units to—”

“Shut the kriff up,” Wolffe growls. “We’re going.”

“Further into the—”

Wolffe slams his fist into the button to call the lift. The doors hiss as they slide apart. Wolffe and Comet barrel into it. Comet rapidly scans the controls and finds the right button to push. The doors slide closed again, and the lift starts upwards.

“Be ready,” Wolffe says, flicking the safety on his new blaster off.

“Sure thing.” Comet hefts a blaster in each hand. “Ready for anything.”

The lift slows and stops. With a soft chime, the doors slide apart again—

To reveal a whole crowd of B1s heading for the lift.

“Kriff!” Comet yelps, slamming his fist onto the button to close the doors.

A few stray blaster shots get to the back of the lift, but the doors block off the rest of them. Wolffe and Comet stare at each other for a split second. Comet’s eyes are wide, but Wolffe knows that he’s seen combat a hundred times before. This is nothing new. But still, that gut instinct. That instinct to just stand there and think about it. That’s the instinct that he can’t listen to, because he has to be the one making the decisions, and he can’t afford to spend time on thinking each kriffing situation through until the eopies come home.

Wolffe slams his hand against another button. The one for the floor directly below them.

“We’ll loop around,” he says.

Comet nods. “Kriff,” he says again, but quieter.

The lift starts down, but jerks to a halt. Wolffe nearly loses his balance; he regains it and steps to the doors. He tries wedging his fingers into the hairline crack and wrenching the two halves apart, but they’re not budging like this.

He drops his blaster. “Comet, get the kriff over here.”

Comet drops his own blasters and joins Wolffe. Together, they heave on the lift stores. Half-inch by agonizing half-inch, the kriffed doors slide open. They’re somewhere between the floor of the third level and the ceiling of the second.

“Go, get out of here,” Wolffe says. “Before those clankers start trying to shoot at us.”

Comet grabs his blasters and leaps out of the lift. Wolffe follows him a second later, landing lightly on the hallway floor. No clankers in sight.

“Follow me,” Wolffe orders.

He leads the way at a sprint down the hall, toward the aft. There’s a flight of emergency stairs thirty feet from where he estimates the holding cells should be; he turns and bolts up them two at a time.

“I’ll cover you,” Wolffe says. “Get to the holding cells and find General Plo.”

“Got it.” Comet is out of breath, but still behind Wolffe.

Wolffe barrels out of the emergency stairwell and into the hall. The clankers from earlier are still down there. Comet sprints out past Wolffe and on toward the holding cells.

For the moment, surprise is their most valuable asset. Wolffe backs slowly toward Comet, watching the B1s as they talk to each other and try to figure out what happened to the lift. B1s are the stupidest things he’s ever dealt with, and that’s saying something, considering that he was in the same squad as Gree.

“It’s locked,” Comet hisses. “I can’t even get into the holding cells. The blast doors are shut.”

“Osik,” Wolffe hisses. “Keep trying.”

The clankers are nodding now, and shuffling around to move out. One of them turns its robotic head to look down the hall and pauses that way. And then that kriffed tinny voice rings out. Wolffe can’t make out the words, but he sees the pointing arm, and there goes secrecy.

He opens fire, letting the blaster bolts fly at random. There are enough droids there that every shot should be hitting one. They’re slow to get their blasters up in return—they always are—but then blaster fire is coming back toward Wolffe.

“Hurry it up, Comet!” he shouts without taking his eyes off the approaching B1s.

“It’s locked! It’s not letting me into the system!”

“Kriff the system.” Wolffe nearly runs the last few steps backwards. “Start shooting those clankers.”

“Yes, sir!” Comet grabs his blasters and starts firing into the mass.

Wolffe drops his own blaster back into the holster on his belt. These blast doors are solid as kriff. It’s going to take more than a few well-placed kicks (Cody), or a hacked system (Bly), or an impersonation of a clanker (Rex) to get them open.

Wolffe stares at them for all of half a second. Then, as if by instinct, he grabs General Plo’s lightsaber from his belt.

“Wolffe!” Comet shouts.

“Give me a second.”

Wolffe ignites the lightsaber. It’s not any heavier. It should be heavier, but it’s not. Well, there’s a lot of Jedi osik he doesn’t understand. As long as this thing does what he needs it to, that’s good enough.

He draws the blade back, and then shoves it directly through the blast doors. It moves slowly, like a knife through a year-old ration bar. But it goes through. Wolffe hauls down on it, forcing it through the unyielding metal. Slowly, he carves a semicircle of molten metal.

“Wolffe!” Comet shouts again, panic in his voice.

“A kriffing second, Comet!”

Wolffe shoves the lightsaber back into the top of the semicircle, where he started; he drags downward again. It’s a little faster this time. He puts all his weight behind the hilt, forcing the blade to move through a rough line that corresponds to the first one.

The two lines meet. The doors shift.

Wolffe turns off the lightsaber and slams his shoulder into the cut-out circle in the blast doors. It falls slowly inwards, ringing on the floor beyond so loudly that Wolffe can barely hear his own thoughts.

“In!” he shouts, grabbing his blaster again and unloading it into the remaining B1s that are far too close.

Comet scrambles backwards and into the opening in the doors. Wolffe swings through as soon as Comet is out of the way. They’re on a hall of holding cells.

“Wolffe?” he hears a voice calling.

“Coming, General!” Wolffe shouts.

“Run!” Comet says, pointing to the hole in the door.

Wolffe doesn’t bother to look. He turns and sprints down the hall. General Plo is three cells down, to the right. Wolffe aims his blaster at the controls and shoots them out. The ray shield flickers down, and Wolffe practically throws himself into the cell.

“General Plo,” he blurts. “Are you all right?”

“Yes. Yes, I am, Wolffe.” General Plo’s arms wrap around Wolffe—it’s the middle of a fight but does Wolffe care about that right now? No he does not care, because it’s General Plo—and hold him for a second. “Are you ready to leave?”

“Yes, sir,” Wolffe says. “And here’s your lightsaber.”

General Plo takes it and looks at Wolffe for a long second before nodding approvingly. “Very good, Wolffe. You never cease to amaze me. Now, let’s go find the rest of your Wolfpack, shall we?”

Chapter Text

Bly loves his brothers dearly, but he has to admit that the reckless adventure missions they always find themselves on aren’t really his forte. Can he do a roundhouse kick to rival Cody’s? Almost. Can he roll his eyes like Wolffe? No, not really, but he can do a decent imitation. Can he carry himself with as much confidence as Fox? Yes, but he doesn’t feel it the same way. Can he hack any system? Most of them, but Gree is better. And so on.

What Bly can do better than any of them is a diplomatic mission. He won’t start firing shots because he gets bored, or get in trouble for snooping on people that don’t need to be snooped on. He just does what he needs to.

Also, being on diplomatic missions means that he and General Secura get to spend more time working together without having to fight something.

He reminds himself firmly, on at least an hourly basis, that she is General Secura. Not Aayla.

Which is why, one sunny day on Felucia, sitting on a balcony and working on reports with her, he almost falls out of his chair when she says abruptly, “You can call me Aayla, you know.”

Bly avoids falling out of his chair, narrowly. “Uh, thank you,” he manages after a minute. “I guess we’ve worked together for a while now.”

“A year and a half,” General Secura—Aayla, oh stars, he can call her Aayla now—agrees.

“Yeah,” Bly says, nodding. Quick, change the subject. Don’t make it awkward. “I’m glad we’re on such a nice planet for a change.”

“Yes—if you can get past the war.” She smiles, looking up at the sky. “It’s not much like home, but it feels like home anyway.”

“Yeah.” Bly pauses. “I know what you mean. Everything yellow. Like a big hug.”

“Is that why you painted your armor yellow?”

“Uh, no, I just liked the color.” Bly pauses again. “Maybe that is why I liked it.”

Aayla nods and leans over to see his datapad. “How is it going?”

“Nearly done.” He tilts the screen toward her. “See, I’ve nearly finished this update on the mission, and I’m going to be sending it back to GAR headquarters pretty soon. Do you want me to add anything else? I think I’ve got pretty much everything.”

Aayla takes the datapad and reads it, nodding. “Yes, I think that—”

She stops as Bly’s comm buzzes. Instinctively, he thumbs the channel open. It’s Commander Deviss. If Bly remembers correctly, Deviss was running patrols around the compound that they’re at for this diplomatic mission. The perimeter has been quiet for the three days that they’ve been here so far, except for local wildlife.

“Yes, Commander?” Bly says.

“Sir, we’ve got incoming clankers.”

Aayla stands. Bly does the same, and he says, “How many?”

“Not sure yet, but it’s a lot. I’m scrambling my men, but we could use you and the general down here.”

Bly glances at Aayla, who nods at him. “We’re coming, Deviss,” he says. “Hang on, and we’ll send as many men as we can in your direction.”

“The sooner the better, sir,” Deviss says.

Bly shoves his comm into his belt and grabs his helmet. Aayla starts off at a jog into the building, and he follows her. “Why do you think they’re sending the Separatists here?” he asks.

She shakes her head, lekku bouncing against her back. “I don’t know. The Separatists only want to fight, so I suppose it must be that.”

“But here—we’re just doing a diplomatic mission. Unless they want to stop it… because they want the Felucian government to accept the Separatists rather than the Republic.”

Aayla nods this time. “Yes, that seems likely… though I doubt that they will do much. The Felucian government is too apathetic to join either side.”

“You can say that again,” Bly says. He shoves his helmet on and activates his comms. “I need as many men as possible to the perimeter, now. Two platoons, join Commander Neviss to counter the droids where he is.”

“As fast as possible,” Neviss adds. “Get down, Tor! Yeah, Commander, we could use some men now.”

“We’re on our way, Neviss. Hang in there.”

Aayla has led the way down a flight of stairs, Bly in close pursuit. They burst out into the mezzanine of the building, and from there out into the open courtyard. Neviss is north of their position, about a minute’s run away.

“Ready?” Aayla asks, freeing her lightsaber from her belt.

Bly nods, taking his DC-17s from their holsters. “As ever.”

They charge forward, through the courtyard, and toward Deviss. The sound of blaster fire and shouting is already audible. Felucia’s thick, sweet air muffles some of it until they get closer, and can see the troopers crouching and ducking behind cover as the battle droids fire on them.

“Forward!” Aayla shouts, dodging obstacles as she passes the troopers.

Blaster fire flies in Aayla’s direction. She deflects each bolt neatly with her lightsaber and finds a place to stand her ground. Her blue blade becomes a blur in the air, catching each laser like it doesn’t take any effort.

Bly skids to a stop behind a large, faintly glowing piece of vegetation. He leans around it to fire off a few shots at the droids approaching.

“We’re looking at a couple hundred, Commander!” Deviss says through the comms.

Bly fires a few more shots. “Can you see us?”

“Yes—over here!”

Bly glances over and spots Deviss waving briefly from a place maybe a hundred feet to his left. That’s good. All of the other men seem to have cover as well, but the droids are advancing more quickly than Bly would like.

“Bly!” Aayla shouts from somewhere to his right.

Bly starts and whips around to face her, just in time to see at least half a dozen droids coming around the side of the vegetation he has cover behind. They all have their blasters aimed at him.

“Stars!” Bly hisses, unloading shots into them as he scrambles backwards.

Three of the droids go down under Bly’s shots. Two more fly backwards, meeting Aayla’s blade as it sings through the air once more. The final one fires its blaster, nearly hitting Bly’s outstretched arm; he falls full on his back as he fires up at the droid. Two shots in its head send it down in a sizzling heap of metal.

“Are you all right?” Aayla calls, still deflecting blaster bolts.

Bly rolls over and crawls back under cover. “Yeah,” he shouts back.

“Commander!” Deviss says. “The droids are heading toward General Secura. They’re abandoning this side of the field.”

Bly hisses under his breath. He should be seeing this. But, then again, he was just flat on the ground defending himself after nearly being ambushed, so he’ll cut himself a little bit of slack. Regardless, those clankers are headed for Aayla now, and he’s not about to let them attack her while she doesn’t have any backup.

He rises to his feet and breaks from cover, sprinting toward where Aayla is. She’s clearly aware of the droids congregating on her position now, because her movements are becoming more economical and less artistic.

Bly’s only a few seconds from her, now. Aayla is getting backed toward another tall piece of vegetation. She glances from side to side, then launches herself up in a backflip over the droids that are closing in. The droids aim their blasters upwards, still firing.

“Aayla!” Bly shouts.

Somehow, she manages to twist in the air to avoid the blaster shots. That must be the Force, because nothing else could allow her to react so fast and so accurately. Her landing is a little clumsy, and she sits down hard, lightsaber rolling away from her hand.

“Stars!” Bly says, grabbing the lightsaber up, about to toss it to her—

There are suddenly way too many blasters pointed at him at practically pointblank range.

Without thinking, Bly ignites the lightsaber in his hand. The blue blade hums to life. He grits his teeth and swings it, left-to-right, right-to-left, and then thrusts directly into the droid straight in front of him.

They come apart so easily.

“Bly!” Aayla calls.

“Yes, General!” He chucks the lightsaber in her direction without looking and opens fire on the droids again.

Aayla leaps forward, blade flashing much faster than Bly was able to wield it. It slices through droid after droid. Bly’s blasters take down a few more droids, the majority turn to scrap as Aayla neatly works her way through them. Within a minute or two, they’re surrounded by still-sizzling pieces of cut-up droids.

“Sorry, General,” Bly says. “I kind of didn’t think, and just…”

She shakes her head. “Aayla, remember?”

“Aayla. Sorry.”

“There’s nothing to apologize for, Bly.” Aayla smiles. “You know, if it were any random trooper taking my lightsaber, that would be something different. But you never have to ask. We have worked together this long, haven’t we? If there is anyone or anything in this war that I trust to remain constant, it is your loyalty and your judgement.”

Bly snorts ruefully. “Thank you. I’m glad you think that.” He holsters his DC-17s and follows her as she starts to make her way out of the brand-new scrap heap. “You know, the Kaminoans always told me that I was ready to be a marshal commander because of my test scores, but I always felt like there should be some real feedback. Something more than just talking about my statistics.”

“The Kaminoans only see things in statistics, Bly. They don’t see the men behind the numbers.” She touches his shoulder lightly for a second. “For all their scientific genius, their lack of emotions is their weakness.”

“You can say that again.”

“Indeed. Now, let us check with Commander Deviss and then return to those reports, shall we? I would like to see how you describe this encounter.”

Bly grins, taking off his helmet and tucking it under his arm. “I don’t think I’ll mention using your lightsaber.”

“Oh, no, but you should!” Her eyes dance with amusement. “That was the best part, I think. If you don’t include it, then I certainly will. Your brothers should know all about it.”

With that, she speeds up and walks ahead of him, toward where Commander Deviss is. Bly shakes his head, grinning to himself, and follows her.

Chapter Text

Fox has been awake since, what, 0400? It’s now 2330. 79’s is buzzing with talking and over-excited vode showing off for each other. They’re intoxicated with the freedom of shore leave as much as they are with the alcohol. Fox has got to admit, though, there’s nothing quite like sitting directly between Wolffe and Cody, Wolffe’s arm around Fox’s shoulder and Cody’s knee constantly bumping Fox’s as he shifts. Their own conversation never sticks on one topic—it drifts from subject to subject, since none of them feel like structuring a conversation like a mission brief. They have enough missions and briefings to let that creep into tonight.

“So, how many more Sith has your Jedi killed, ori’vod?” Rex asks Cody slyly.

“None,” Cody says. He snorts and takes another drink. “It was just that one, way before I knew him.”

“Ventress, though,” Bly says. “Doesn’t she… you know?”

Cody groans and bangs his forehead on the table lightly. “I have no responsibility for what my general chooses to do.”

“He’s still flirting with her?” Rex asks, shuddering. “She’s nasty.”

“You can say that again,” Wolffe mutters.

“He’s not flirting with her that way,” Cody says. He continues loudly, clearly trying to change the subject. “Okay, Fox, and how’s Coruscant? No Sith? Nice and safe?”

“No Sith,” Fox says dryly. “Safe, we can debate.”

“Okay, we need more explanation,” Monnk says, setting his empty cup on the table and leaning his head against Bly’s shoulder. “Because you, vod’ika, keep not mentioning anything about what’s happening on Triple Zero. Makes us wonder what all’s happening.”

“Monnk,” Bly says reprovingly. “Fox’ika, if you don’t want to—”

“Too kriffin’ busy to update you all the time,” Fox says, shrugging. And yeah, maybe he’s been avoiding telling them about how lousy it is. But that’s a different conversation. Now that they’ve asked… well, kriff, he might as well tell them. “I mean, it’s a heap of osik, isn’t it?”

“Politicians,” Wolffe says, nodding sagely. “All that osik.”

“And everyone else, too,” Fox says.

“Not everyone,” Bly says.

“They don’t like clones here,” Fox says dryly. “Why do you think we’re at 79’s? If we could go anywhere else, we would, but there’s this one bar on this side of the planet for all the clones that are on Coruscant. Natborns don’t want us in their areas. They just want us to do our jobs—perfectly—and not say anything. And they give us too many responsibilities to handle with the number of men we have. So when we talk about the Senate bombing, or any of the other osik that’s happened on this kriffing planet, bear in mind that I’m constantly running short on everything.”

This is met with several seconds of silence. Frankly, if Fox had known that that would happen, he wouldn’t have explained.

“You should have told us,” Rex says at last.

“So what am I going to do? Tell you that we’re depressed and exhausted? You’ve got Sith to deal with, remember? All I’ve got to deal with is a curmudgeonly old chancellor, a bunch of irritable and demanding senators, and however many trillion unruly sentients.” Kriff, that sounds like he’s complaining again. "Look, somebody else talk now. We don't need to talk about Coruscant any longer.”

“Later,” Cody says firmly. “Because we’re going to be discussing ways to make it better for you.”

“Okay, sure. Whatever. Now somebody else talk.”

“Speaking of feeling depressed,” Rex says.

“Skywalker too much for you?” Monnk asks.

“Skywalker,” Rex says with dignity, “is unlike anyone you have ever met or will ever meet. Thank the ka’ra you haven’t met him yet. But, as I was saying—have you ever noticed that Sith just make you feel worthless?”

“Sure have,” Wolffe mutters, spinning the contents of his cup.

“How so?” Bly asks.

“Well, you know.” Rex shrugs. “When I came across Ventress on Teth, and she was trying to get me to tell her what she wanted, I just felt like there was no point in resisting because I was so much cosmically smaller than her. I did resist, though—I’m not about to give information to any random Sith who wants it, thanks much. And then on Umbara…” He trails off.

“Krell was the same,” Cody says. “Demagolka.”

“Yeah,” Rex mutters.

“When Ventress—” Wolffe clears his throat and tries again. “Ventress was like that. I agree. Just… hopelessness, all around her. Like nothing mattered. And I know she was trying to manipulate the way I felt. I don’t know… I don’t know how much she did. But I felt her trying.”

Fox frowns. “Sith can do that?”

“Sith can do a whole kriffing lot of things,” Rex says.

“They can… manipulate people? And make them feel worthless?”

“Same as the Jedi can,” Cody says. “Haven’t you ever seen a Jedi do that?”

“I’m barely around Jedi.” Well, he’s barely around Jedi, except for one, but that Jedi is annoying enough that Fox chooses not to count him. In fact, said Jedi has been trying to comm Fox off and on for the past few days, though Fox keeps not picking up.

“They can,” Cody says. “They’re freaky good at it, too. Nothing more unsettling than watching someone’s mind just get turned in a circle and bent to a Jedi’s will.”

“Sounds like a kriffing nightmare,” Fox mutters.

“I bet it is—for the people getting turned in circles,” Monnk says. “But if it’s for the greater good, that’s when the Jedi can get away with it. You’d want a bounty hunter to leave your trail, wouldn’t you? Or some stubborn witness to tell you where your target squirted off to?”

“And… if it’s not for the greater good?” Fox says absently.

“With the Jedi, it’s always for the greater good,” Cody says. He leans forward a little, coming more into Fox’s range of vision. “You okay, Fox’ika?”

“Yeah,” Fox says. He’s not; his head feels a little lighter than it should with the alcohol he’s consumed. But it’s not a lightheadedness where he thinks he’s about to hit the table face-first; it’s one where his chest feels cold and his stomach is twisting.

“You look like you saw a ghost,” Monnk says.

“He’s right,” Bly murmurs.

“Rex,” Fox says, ignoring the rest of them. “What does it… what does it feel like when a Sith is trying to get into your head?”

Rex frowns. “Like Ventress?”

“Sure.”

“Like… like my brain is getting pulled out? Like everything hurts? Like I want my skull to be ten times thicker?” Rex shrugs. “And like I said, that feeling of just being worthless. Look, you’ll understand if it ever happens, but I hope to ka’ra it never does happen to you.”

Wolffe’s arm tightens around Fox’s shoulders. “It had better kriffing not. That’s why you’re here, vod’ika. Why, are you worried about a Sith infiltrating Coruscant or something? Because let me tell you, the Jedi are more than enough out there to—”

“I have to go,” Fox says, standing up.

“Wait, what?” Bly says. “Is everything okay, Fox?”

“Yeah, everything’s great,” Fox says, rolling his eyes. “Look, there’s something I have to go and look into. Don’t worry about me. I’ll comm you later.”

He turns and walks away as quickly as he can. He knows they’re staring after him, and that there’ll be a million messages on his comm asking if he’s okay. Asking what’s happened. And truthfully? He doesn’t know what’s happened. That’s the problem. There are questions he needs to ask. And given that a Jedi has been trying to comm him for days, he has a pretty good chance of running into that Jedi soon. And given that he’ll probably run into that Jedi, he can get… some kind of confirmation. Something. He just needs more evidence to go on.

***

As usual, there are way too many reports to complete. Fox sits at his desk, working through them despite the fact that he’s only half awake. There’s another incomplete food supply order. He sends a message to their suppliers, demanding answers on why they haven’t gotten a full food supply in a year. There’s a medical supply order that seems to have gone missing. With the report on that is a note from Pol informing Fox that they’re almost out of any kind of painkillers again. Fox sends a message to the Grand Coruscant Medical Facility—Thorn and Stone have already sent plenty, but one more wouldn’t hurt apparently—to point out that they can’t function without a stocked medbay. Another report says that two troopers got in trouble with a senator for pushing her to the ground while defending her from a group of angry civilians. Fox adds notes to the troopers’ files and signs off on the report to acknowledge it. He won’t mention this to the troopers in question; they don’t need to deal with this senator’s osik. She probably yelled at them in the moment anyway. The next report—

Fox must fall asleep, because he wakes up to someone tapping his head.

“Hey, Fox, my guy. Wake up.”

Fox groans. And doesn’t bother to move. There’s only one person who wakes him up like this. “Stop walking into my office without knocking.”

“I did knock,” Quinlan says petulantly. “And you were asleep.”

Fox groans again. “Well—wait, is that caf?” He picks up his head.

“Yep.” Quinlan is sitting cross-legged on Fox’s desk, holding caf. He hands it to Fox. “Here, I figured you’d need it to have one of our fun early-morning discussions.”

“What is it this time?”

“Just checking to make sure you’re okay. Hey, don’t look at me like that. You’ve been ignoring my comms again. And when I commed Pol—”

“Why do you have Pol’s comm code.”

“To check on you. Mir’sheb. That’s the word, right?”

“You’re a mir’sheb.” Fox sits back in his chair, propping his boots up on the desk. He takes a sip of the caf. Still hot. Kriff, that’s good. “Quinlan, jokes aside, I need to ask you a question.”

“Bet.” Quinlan produces a stick of what looks like some kind of candy from his belt and takes a bite off the top of it. “Want some?” he adds.

“No. Quin, what’s it take to keep a Sith out of your head?”

“Huh?”

“When a Sith is trying to break into your head for whatever reason—for information, or to make you do something, or whatever it is that they want—what do you have to do to keep them out?”

“Mental shielding.”

“What’s that?”

“It’s like mental walls.” Quinlan shrugs. “It’s mostly Jedi who do things with mental shielding, but other people certainly can. With practice, you can tell when someone’s trying to get into your head. It’s like pressure on your brain, but not from anything you recognize. Like the difference in a seatbelt and being handcuffed. You might have a headache or be tired or confused—that’s a seatbelt. Someone trying to break into your head is like being handcuffed. But it’s like getting hit, too.”

Fox’s stomach is doing the twisted thing again. “Okay, so—how do you do mental shielding?”

“Well, you have to practice it.”

“Assume that it’s been practiced.”

“Uh, sure. So in that case, it’s different for everyone. But what’s consistent is that you find a way to get away from the intrusion. Maybe that’s dodging, or building walls, or just having a mind that’s so impenetrable that it’s like walking into a wall.”

“Mental walls?”

“Yep.” Quinlan takes another bite of his candy. “Why, you want to mentally shield from someone?”

“I’m doing research.”

“You want to keep me out of your head? Come on, my guy, I’m hurt. I’m a Jedi. I don’t mess with people’s heads unless they’re the bad-guys.”

“I know you don’t.”

“Good.” Quinlan yawns and stretches before going back to his slouched position. “So, why do you want to know about mental shielding?”

“For reasons.” Fox abandons his chair and starts rifling through the drawers of his desk.

“Are you researching someone you need to mentally shield from?” Quinlan asks, leaning over the desk to watch Fox.

“I’m doing my job, Quin.”

“Okay, well do some sleep as well as your job, okay?”

“Sure.” Fox finds what he’s looking for and shoves it into his belt. “I’m going to.”

“Should I be worried about what you’re planning?”

“No.” Fox turns off the datapad that he fell asleep over. “I’ve got everything handled.”

Quinlan rolls his eyes at the ceiling. “You’re a lousy liar, Fox. Anyway, I’ve got other people to go and drop in on, so I’ve got to go. They’re all people that I’m researching, because unfortunately, I, as well, have to do my job.” He swings off the desk and makes for the door. “Oh, and Fox? I’ll be checking in on you again soon, to make sure you don’t do anything stupid.”

“Sure thing. Get out.” Fox points at the door.

Quinlan holds his hands up. “I’m going, I’m going.”

***

Chancellor Palpatine calls Fox in for a meeting at 0800. The meeting request is sent at 0740, which Fox kind of kriffing hates. Regardless, this is the opportunity that he needs, and he double-checks all of his gear before he goes. He’s fully kitted up. He touched up the paint on his armor only a few days ago. He has both blasters. His belt is fully loaded. He has the vibroblade in his boot. He has the miniature camera he tracked down the night before in his belt as well. That should be everything. Now all he has to do is go and talk to Palpatine.

It's a regular conversation. In other words, the chancellor tells Fox that he needs to shape up in five more areas, because there have been complaints about more things that aren’t worthy of getting complaints about. Only one of the five things is something that Fox has the power to change. He assures the Chancellor Palpatine that yes, he’ll work on making changes immediately.

“See that you do,” Chancellor Palpatine says. His voice sounds like it should be comforting, but it’s kriffing not. It makes Fox’s stomach twist worse than ever.

And Fox is definitely not imagining it. He can feel pressure in his head that isn’t from lack of sleep or any of the other things he’s dealt with for months on end now.

… and, like Quinlan said, it feels almost like being handcuffed.

The pressure just gets worse as Chancellor Palpatine outlines a few last instructions. Instructions that Fox wants to focus on and—

—kriff, he’s swaying.

Why is he swaying? And what is the chancellor talking about? He’s completely lost track. His head feels heavy, like his mind itself has hardened. But some of the pressure has gone now, and he feels… cold. Like durasteel. Like a wall.

… huh.

There’s a hint of annoyance in Chancellor Palpatine’s voice when he says, “Marshal Commander, do you understand?”

“Yes, sir,” Fox says automatically.

He doesn’t have a kriffing idea what the chancellor has been saying, actually, but it can’t be that important. His hands are clasped behind his back, as they always are when he’s talking to the chancellor, so it’s hopefully not that obvious as he extracts the camera from his belt compartment.

“This war must be ended,” Chancellor Palpatine says. “The Separatists are coming, and you must be ready. Do you understand that?”

“Yes, Chancellor.” Fox doesn’t dare shift his feet, but he turns the camera over in his hand.

Chancellor Palpatine looks at him for a long minute before saying, “Dismissed.”

Fox salutes and turns to go. As he leaves, his hand brushes against the doorframe. There’s a brief flash of heat as the camera fuses to the durasteel and camouflages itself. Then it’s gone, and Fox’s plan is set in motion.

***

Fox’s day quickly turns into osik, and then worse-than-usual osik. There was the 0200 conversation with Quinlan, a few hours of sleep, and then the 0800 meeting with Chancellor Palpatine. He spends a few hours in the Senate, checking on patrols and making sure that everything is in order. He checks in with Bennor as well, who stuffily informs him that the Senate Guard is of course quite capable. Fox informs Bennor that a few of the Senate Guards got drunk at a bar in the early hours of the morning and tried to break into the Coruscant Guard’s headquarters. Bennor dismisses that, even though Fox has video and testimonial proof, plus four Senate Guards in the holding cells back on base.

“That’s irrelevant,” Bennor says. “The Coruscant Guard is falling short in many of its—”

“The Coruscant Guard isn’t under the command of the Senate Guard,” Fox says dryly. “And the chancellor himself has already updated me this morning. Sir, feel free to drop by any time to pick up your guards.”

By 1200, Fox is kriffing hungry. He would go and get something to eat, but a large group of academy students decide that they’re going to mount a protest two levels below the surface, so Fox has to check that out. That’s followed by a brief investigation about a thousand levels down, because they have a few more leads on the latest spice gang that the Coruscant Guard has been trying to track down. On his way back, Fox breaks up a barfight that’s threatening to spill over into the school next door. Just another example of Coruscant’s kriffing awful zoning regulations. With a possible spice runner, three drunk Ugnaughts, and two even drunker Besalisks, he returns to the surface and heads back to base.

Thire’s in his office already, sleeping on the couch. He wakes up when Fox comes in, and updates him on the goings-on of the Coruscant Guard. Plus more incident reports. Thire is supposed to be sleeping, but he’s kriffing not. Fox doesn’t bother to argue, but lets him stay and check reports before Fox signs off on them. Technically against regulations, but Fox doesn’t kriffing care anymore.

At 1800, Thire has to go for patrol and Fox has to spend the rest of his day going to meetings and dealing with problems. Thorn comms Fox with a disgusted rant about Mawler Uunkazzir’s latest demands with the prisons. That’s immediately followed by Uunkazzir’s own complaint. And then a message from Dido Nydiil to inform Fox that more Corries are going to be needed for the  orbital protection system if they can’t get some natborn recruits

At this point, Fox has been lectured by far too many people in the span of too few hours. When 2100 finally rolls around and he’s off duty, he returns to his office.

It’s time to see if the chancellor is a Sith.

Fox settles on his couch, pulls up footage from the camera on his secure datapad, and starts reviewing it.

Most of it is boring. The chancellor leaves to go to a Senate session until 1500. Then he returns and has meetings with various senators. Fox perks up when he sees Riyo Chuchi in Chancellor Palpatine’s office, clearly debating something with him. The audio quality is terrible, but he’s pretty sure that it’s something about clone rights.

Kriff, he wants to tell that woman how much he loves her for what she does.

The time moves faster on the recording than in real life. Before long, it’s gotten dark outside in the recording. The chancellor is still in his office, working on something or other. He gets up to turn on the holoprojector to have a meeting or something and—

Fox drops the datapad.

No way.

No kriffing way.

He picks the datapad back up and rewinds it. Kriffit. He’s right. The person in the holoprojector is Count Dooku. And Chancellor Palpatine…

Chancellor Palpatine has pulled up the hood of the robe that he’s wearing. His face is barely visible under it. And there’s no mistaking that there’s a very different tone of voice coming through the audio.

Why the kriff is Chancellor Palpatine talking to Count Dooku?

Well…

Fox did learn some facts about the Sith in the past few years. Hazard of the job. And one thing that he distinctly remembers is the Rule of Two. That whenever there’s one Sith, there’s an apprentice, and any other dark Force-users aren’t properly Sith. Or something like that.

All this time, Fox has been assuming that Count Dooku has an apprentice out there somewhere.

But… is Count Dooku the apprentice?

In which case…

Chancellor Palpatine would be the master Sith.

Kriff.

That would explain a lot of things. If Chancellor Palpatine is controlling both Count Dooku and the Republic, he’s literally running this kriffing war. That would explain, too, why Fox has felt like he’s never able to accomplish anything. Partly because he can’t—the chancellor is controlling both sides of the war—and partly because the Sith influence is messing with Fox’s head.

Kriff. Kriff.

Fox turns up the audio as much as he can, straining to hear the words, but he can only make out bits and pieces. It’s enough, though, to confirm what he’s thinking: Chancellor Palpatine is giving orders to Count Dooku. And there’s something clenched in the chancellor’s hand—something silvery—

Is that a kriffing lightsaber?

Fox has dealt with a lot of osik today, but this is the biggest load.

The chancellor—that demagolka—has been running this war. He’s the reason that so many vode have died. And Jedi. And civilians. It’s his war that killed Keeli. His war that killed Ponds. His war that killed all the vode that Fox has worked so hard to protect. His war that Fox is burning himself out on. It’s Chancellor Palpatine who’s caused all this hurt and pain. It’s Chancellor Palpatine who’s the reason for every sleepless night Fox has had. Every impossible decision that Fox has had to make. Every brother Fox has had to mourn.

Oh, nuh-uh.

No kriffing way.

That’s not happening any kriffing longer.

Fox swings his legs off the couch and stands. He gathers what he needs in the matter of a minute: blasters, an extra vibroblade, extra grenades, and his datapad. He uploads all of the camera footage to a second datapad and leaves it in his drawer of important files. Thire knows which one that is. Finally, he scrawls a note on a piece of flimsi and leaves it on his desk.

Thorn, Stone, Thire—I’m going to see the chancellor. I’ve got questions that need to be answered. Quinlan—check in on me when you hear about this.

***

Fox has stood outside Chancellor Palpatine’s office many times. But never with so many weapons. Never uncalled. Never so furiously angry. He could take on the entire Separatist army right now. But he doesn’t need to, because he’s got a kriffing Sith to kill.

The doors slide open at last. Fox strides in, directly toward the desk in the main part of the room, where Palpatine is sitting.

“Why, Marshal Commander Fox,” Palpatine says. “What brings you here tonight?”

“Questions for you, sir,” Fox says. He throws his datapad down on the desk. “Care to tell me what this is about?”

The chancellor takes the datapad, his face creasing with genuine confusion for a second. That’s replaced with something like surprise for the next half-second. And then it goes back to calm.

“What is this?” he asks.

“Footage of your office from tonight.” Fox crosses his arms. “Why were you talking to Count Dooku?”

“I can assure you—”

“I have audio too.” Kriffing bad audio, but Palpatine doesn’t need to know that.

“I see.” The chancellor sets the datapad down slowly. “I don’t suppose you would allow me to offer you an explanation.”

“I’d love to hear what kind of excuse you can come up with. Because you do not”—Fox slams his fist down on the desk—“get to play everyone like this. Least of all to play me like this.”

“I don’t believe I need to make excuses,” Palpatine says coolly. “Because if there are no witnesses to this—”

His hands shoot out from his robe. Before Fox can react, blue electricity streaks outwards and slams into Fox; half a second later, he hits the wall behind him and is held there. He can’t breathe to do anything—to move, speak, scream—until the crackling lightning abates. He crashes to the floor in a heap of plastoid, gasping.

“You see,” Palpatine says, like nothing happened. “I don’t believe—”

Fox wrenches a blaster from its holster and fires three shots before it’s ripped from his hand. It falls somewhere across the room, far out of reach. Fox grabs his second blaster without pausing, and gets two shots out of it. Then he’s out of blasters. Kriff.

“My favorite marshal commander,” Palpatine says, “will tragically have an accident while on patrol. It does happen rather often, does it not?”

“Because of you,” Fox grits out. “Your war.” He pulls himself to his feet and steadies himself against the wall. “You’re playing both sides of it, aren’t you?”

“Whyever do you believe that?”

Well, for one thing, Fox believes it because of the ice in the chancellor’s voice. There’s no hint of the fake-comforting tone that he’s so used to. For another thing, he believes it because he’s got kriffing evidence now. And for a third thing, he believes it because he can feel the handcuffs trying to tighten around his mind right now. Well, too kriffing bad, because Fox has dealt with this chancellor for too long to not know how to deal with whatever Sith mind tricks are being thrown at him.

“Kriff off,” Fox snarls, lunging forward.

He’s caught before he can take more than a few steps. Not lightning, just an immovable grip on him. He can’t move. He can’t shift. He just crashes to the ground, paralyzed, internally screaming. There’s so much pressure on his mind and he can’t move and he can’t think and he can’t hold it off—

But yes he can hold it off, because he is not going to let this demagolka continue this war and keep killing his brothers—

He finally wrenches his jaw open to scream. He tries to thrash away from whatever invisible force is holding him. He can’t. He just drags his limbs in, curling up on himself. He clutches his head with both arms, like that’ll do any kriffing good. There’s a knife in his mind, trying to cut down every barrier he can muster against it. Blood is streaming down his face from his nose. And ears. Both. He wants to black out under the onslaught. He wants it to end. He wants to kriffing shake it off and go strangle Palpatine.

It stops.

Fox rolls onto his back, gasping and choking. His helmet is missing, and he doesn’t know when he lost it. He can barely see. There are involuntary tears in his eyes. And—

He’s furious.

“Fight me,” Fox snarls, dragging himself to his feet. His shaking legs barely hold him. “Come and fight me instead of trying to break into my mind. Hu’tuun.”

“I believe I will,” Palpatine says, voice cold but maliciously happy. “You must understand just how out of your depth you are.”

“Out of my depth?” Fox demands. “You’re the one out of your death.”

“Do enlighten me,” the chancellor mocks.

“I,” Fox says, drawing both vibroblades, “am a clone of the Jango Fett. Engineered by the Kaminoans for nigh-on perfection. Trained by the best. Entrusted with the most valuable location in the galaxy. I have run this living nightmare of a planet for two years, with no support from the ones who should have been supporting us. I keep winning, no matter how thin the odds. And you think that just because you have a kriffing lightsaber, you’re going to win?”

“You, Marshal Commander, are at a distinct disadvantage.”

“My ancestors,” Fox snarls, “killed Jedi for fun.”

“Oh, but did they kill the most powerful Sith of all time?” Palpatine’s laugh sounds like a frog choking.

“No,” Fox says. “That’s my job.”

“Your job?”

“My job,” Fox says. He continues, voice rising with each word. “I was entrusted with the safety of this planet, and you are coming between me and that safety. I’m protecting this planet, and if I have to kill you to do it, so be it.”

He charges forward, vibroblades clenched in his hands. A red blade springs to life in Palpatine’s hand. That red blade carves through the air, and just misses Fox as he ducks.

Kriff. This’ll be close.

Fox drops to one knee and spins away from the next strike. He has split seconds to act. He comes back to his feet in a single motion, vibroblades aimed upward; one aimed at Palpatine’s arm; the other aimed for a killing strike.

Both miss.

Fox’s hands are knocked away. Palpatine’s grin widens, cracking his face into a monstrosity of hateful enjoyment. One vibroblade hits the floor. Fox sweeps the other one around, aiming for Palpatine’s torso again. And again, it’s caught by a swipe of Palpatine’s blade.

Kriff.

Fox scrambles back just enough steps that he can rip a smoke grenade from his belt and set it off.

Thick, gray smoke rapidly billows outwards. The red blade still shines through it, headed for Fox. Because, of course, a Sith can sense where he is. Fox stands his ground, willing himself not to shake. Until Palpatine is in range, and he lunges.

The invisible force catches him again, and throws him backward.

But this time, Fox’s hand has closed firmly around the hilt of the red blade, dragging it with him.

He slams into another wall and collapses to the ground, trying not to choke. Something broke. Something definitely broke. His left shoulder is on fire, and his ribs are screaming at him. He drags himself back to his knees, lightsaber still clenched in his hand. The blade has disappeared. It’s just the hilt, and his fingers wrapped around it with a death grip.

“Very good,” Palpatine sneers. “A pity you aren’t Force-sensitive. I could use one such as you.”

“You’ll never use anyone again,” Fox gasps out. Kriff, it hurts to breathe. He clutches at his ribs with his free hand.

“We’ll see about that.”

Palpatine stretches his hand out. Fox feels the lightsaber being pulled. And he doesn’t kriffing let go.

He’s pulled to his feet with the strength of Palpatine’s Force pull. On his feet, he can’t stay where he is. He stumbles forward a few steps. The pressure in his mind is back again; blood is running down his chin; he just wants to die right now. But his grip on the lightsaber doesn’t waver.

Well, kriff it all.

He stops resisting and just lets himself be pulled. He speeds up abruptly, being dragged with the lightsaber toward Palpatine—

And only an arm’s length away, he ignites the blade.

The red blade leaps to life just as the lightsaber hilt reaches Palpatine. The red cuts through his arm, and directly into his chest, bursting through the back of his robe.

There’s a moment of frozen silence. Fox loses his grip and falls backwards. The pressure on his mind is gone, and his head is spinning. He does not want to sit up. He twists his head enough to cough and spit out the blood that’s gotten in his mouth.

The red blade disappeared as soon as Fox let go of the hilt, but the damage has been done.

Slowly, the Supreme Chancellor of the Republic and the Lord of the Sith collapses to the ground.

Fox sits up, clutching at his ribs. The room is spinning worse now. His mind feels like it’s been battered beyond belief, but… is somehow still intact.

And the chancellor is dead.

The mastermind of this war is dead.

Wait, that means the war is over, right?

Fox doubles over laughing. It kriffing hurts. His ribs are on fire, and he’s probably not going to make it back to base without some serious help. But hey, now that Chancellor Palpatine got a taste of his own lightsaber, Fox can just nap here… right?

If he’s fair, he should probably get back to base. Thire will be scared for him. Stone will send worried messages. Thorn will yell at him once he does get back.

But he’s kriffing tired.

And he hurts all over. And his ears are ringing. And the room is tilting.

So instead of doing anything logical, or practical, like he should, he collapses sideways and blacks out.

***

“Fox, my guy. Don’t scare me like this. Come on. Talk to me. Fox. Please.”

“Go away,” Fox slurs, trying to push away the hand that’s on his head. “Get off, Quin. I’m—kriff—fine.”

“You told me to come and check on you,” Quinlan retorts. “And what am I supposed to think when I walk into the kriffing chancellor’s office, where you shouldn’t be, and when I find you lying in your own blood and the chancellor dead? And a lightsaber? What the kriff, Fox?”

“Thought you didn’t swear,” Fox mumbles.

“I think I’m justified doing it right now! Come on, Fox, you’ve got to explain this. Please.”

Fox lifts his head—kriff, it hurts still—and gestures vaguely toward where Palpatine is lying. “Lightsaber.”

“What about it? Where’d you get this thing from, anyway?” Quinlan gets up and goes to retrieve the lightsaber. He turns it over in his hands. “I’ve never seen this one before.”

“Gloves,” Fox says.

“What—you mean…?” Quinlan looks between Fox and the lightsaber. Then he slowly pulls off one of his gloves and wraps his fingers around the hilt.

A second later, he drops it like it burned him. His face is whiter than Fox has ever seen it.

“Stars,” Quinlan whispers, hastily pulling his glove back on. “Stars. What was that?”

“His lightsaber.”

“The chancellor’s lightsaber?”

“The chancellor’s lightsaber.”

“He has a lightsaber?”

“Yeah.”

“And it…” Quinlan stares at the hilt in his hand. Fox can see the thoughts struggling to form into words. “Fox, I’ve touched a whole lot of awful things, you know. Nasty stuff. Psychometric feedback that knocks me off my feet, sometime. And memories… the memories are always the worst. And this…”

Fox groans and rolls over onto his back. His head is slowly stopping spinning. “Yeah. I bet.”

“It’s evil,” Quinlan whispers. “Just pure evil. You have a name for someone like that, right? Someone who’s just… so full of evil… and who’s done so many bad things?”

“Demagolka,” Fox says. “That’s what he was.”

“And he…” Quinlan looks at Palpatine’s crumpled body. “He was…”

“Sith,” Fox says.

“Dooku’s…?”

“Dooku was his apprentice. I think.” Fox tries to sit up. He stops halfway, clutching his ribs and gasping. He’s usually able to deal with this; it’s just that his head hurts so much still. “Kriff,” he mumbles.

“What’d he do to you?” Quinlan asks, returning to Fox. He clips Palpatine’s lightsaber to his belt as he does.

“Lightning,” Fox says. He lowers himself gingerly back down and gestures vaguely at the ceiling. “A lot of it. Don’t really remember. And Force pushed me. My shoulder’s kriffed. Hurts to breathe. And…” He gestures at the blood that he can feel all over his face and cuirass. “He didn’t get past my shields, though.”

Quinlan stares at him. Then he crouches down. “Fox, you mean to tell me that you held off a mental attack from a Sith?”

“Yeah.”

“Stars.”

“Also, he’s running both sides of the war.”

Quinlan sits back on his heels and whistles quietly. “Kriff.”

“Language.”

Quinlan rolls his eyes. “Shut up. When did you get here?”

“Uh…” Fox closes his eyes, trying to remember. “2200?”

“Well, it’s 0300,” Quinlan says.

“Kriff.” He didn’t realize that he’d been out of it for so long. “Comm Pol, and tell him I’ll be there in an hour. And tell him to comm Thire and Thorn and tell them that I’m okay.”

“Less than an hour,” Quinlan says firmly. “You look like a mess.”

“I need a drink first.”

“You do not need alcohol in your system on top of all of this.”

“Caf, not alcohol. Mir’sheb.”

“That’s not what most people mean when they say they need a drink. And you don’t need caf either.”

“Quinlan,” Fox says. His voice is plaintive, and he doesn’t even care. “I just killed a Sith, okay? And probably ended this war? And killed the chancellor that was at the head of the Republic I swore to serve? And had my mental shields beaten within an inch of their lives? It’s been a kriffing long day. I need caf. I will go directly to Pol if you guarantee that there will be caf provided.”

Quinlan rolls his eyes. “You can’t even walk. So you don’t get any say.”

“The kriff I can’t.”

Which is a blatant lie. And Quinlan knows that. And Fox knows that he knows. But Fox is not about to ask Quinlan to carry him out of here.

Thankfully, he doesn’t have to ask. Quinlan just finishes sending a message to Pol, then scoops Fox up like he doesn’t even weigh anything. He heads for the door of the office, pausing briefly to look back at Palpatine’s body.

“It’s over,” Fox says quietly, shifting his head so that Quinlan’s shoulder armor isn’t so hard against it.

“Yeah,” Quinlan says.

There’s a long silence, while Quinlan heads for the lift that will take them out of the Senate building.

“Thanks,” Fox grumbles at last.

Quinlan snorts. “There it is.”

“Don’t get too excited. I just did a whole lot. My standards have gotten really low.”

“Trust me, I’m not thinking about that too much,” Quinlan says. “I mean, stars, Fox, you killed a Sith? My clone commander killed a Sith?”

“Not your clone commander.”

“Not officially. But come on. I totally get bragging rights when I tell Obi-Wan, right?”

“Kriff no.”

“But, uh,” Quinlan says. “I was there, okay? And it was hard to tell who actually killed our favorite resident Sith-masquerading-as-good-guy, right? I mean, so much going on. So confusing. But I’m glad we could team up on this one.”

Right. Because if it comes out that Fox killed the chancellor, there’ll be a lot of questions, and a lot of consequences.

“Yeah,” Fox says.

“Good,” Quinlan says. “Wouldn’t want your head getting too big.”

“Quinlan, shut up.”