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Commander Thorn knows something is wrong with Fox when his ori’vod slows down in the middle of the Senate’s western concourse.
Fox never slows down.
He stops, turns, changes direction, or walks straight through whatever unfortunate organism has wandered into his path. He doesn’t drift. He doesn’t hesitate. He especially doesn’t reduce his pace for no obvious tactical reason while wearing full armor on a patrol he technically doesn’t need to be doing.
Thorn follows Fox’s line of sight.
Senator Riyo Chuchi is walking toward them.
That explains absolutely everything.
Thorn looks back at Fox.
Fox’s helmet remains pointed straight ahead. His stride returns to its usual pace, precise enough to suggest nothing has happened.
Unfortunately for him, Thorn has known Fox long enough to spot the microscopic hitch in his shoulders.
Interesting.
Scalper had ordered Fox onto more visible patrols after reviewing the latest medbay reports. Senators were less likely to become bold around Guardsmen when the marshal commander’s armor appeared nearby, which was a bleak way of saying they preferred abusing people when they believed nobody important was watching.
Fox’s armor helped.
Most clone armor was white with battalion colors painted over selected sections. Fox had inverted the Guard standard. His armor was overwhelmingly red, broken by white markings and the dark fittings of his ARC kit. It made him impossible to mistake for anyone else.
That was the point.
If senators saw Fox, they remembered that the anonymous Guardsman they were considering cornering had a commander who read every injury report.
The fact that Fox looked like a walking threat assessment was merely a bonus.
Senator Chuchi notices them.
Her expression brightens.
Not much. She is still a senator in a public corridor, wrapped in Pantoran silks and enough political restraint to strangle a rancor. The change is no more than a lift at the corners of her mouth and a slight widening of her golden eyes.
Thorn notices anyway.
He has investigative training by proximity. Thire never shuts up about body language.
Fox notices too.
His pace changes again.
Barely.
Thorn grins inside his helmet.
The Guard has strict protocols for speaking with natborns. They exist because senators react badly whenever a clone displays enough personality to remind them that flesh droids aren’t actually droids.
Stand straight.
Keep answers brief.
Use titles.
Don’t joke.
Don’t volunteer personal information.
Never give a natborn a reason to report defective behavior.
Fox wrote most of the current protocols himself after the first week of Guard operations produced six reconditioning requests and two attempted decommissions.
He follows them more rigidly than anyone.
Usually.
“Marshal Commander,” Senator Chuchi says as they approach.
Fox stops.
Thorn stops beside him.
Fox inclines his helmet the exact regulation amount. “Senator Chuchi.”
His tone is formal.
Perfectly controlled.
Completely ordinary.
Thorn would believe it if Fox hadn’t used her name.
The official response is Senator.
Not Senator Chuchi.
Using a natborn’s personal identifier is unnecessary familiarity under Guard protocol, unless required to distinguish between multiple officeholders.
There are no other senators within ten meters.
Thorn turns his helmet slightly toward Fox.
Fox ignores him.
Riyo’s gaze flicks across Fox’s armor before rising to the narrow visor. Thorn can practically see her remembering what he looks like beneath it.
She had run directly into Fox during the strategy summit last month and poured caf down his dress whites.
Thorn had heard the story from four separate witnesses, two medics, and a clerk who claimed Senator Chuchi apologized so many times that Fox briefly looked concerned for her oxygen levels.
Then she’d appeared at Guard Headquarters with replacement caf.
The good kind.
Fox had accepted it.
Fox barely accepted caf from his own commanders without checking whether they wanted something.
“Are you on patrol today?” Riyo asks.
Fox’s helmet tilts by a fraction.
“Yes, Senator.”
Thorn waits.
That should be the end of it.
The protocol-approved response has been delivered. The senator has asked a question, and the flesh droid has provided the necessary information.
Fox should incline his head and continue walking.
He doesn’t.
“The western committee halls have had several security issues,” he adds.
Thorn almost turns to stare at him outright.
An additional sentence.
Volunteered context.
Fox might as well remove his helmet, hand her his designation records, and ask whether she enjoys moonlit walks through the Senate gardens.
Riyo nods seriously. “I heard about the protest outside the support committee.”
“It remained peaceful.”
“I’m glad.”
“We increased patrols in case that changed.”
There is another extra sentence.
Thorn begins mentally cataloguing the symptoms.
Reduced walking speed. Voluntary speech. Specific use of a natborn’s name. Information offered without a direct operational need.
Possible brain injury.
Severe sleep deprivation.
Whatever the kriff this is.
Riyo shifts the datapad against her chest. “I hope the increased patrols aren’t putting too much pressure on the Guard.”
Fox is silent for half a second.
Thorn knows why.
There is no safe answer.
The Guard has been running eighty-hour shifts since its creation. They don’t have enough personnel, enough medical supplies, or enough authority to stop half the crimes they witness. Fox could tell her that.
He won’t.
“The Guard will fulfill its duties,” Fox says.
The answer is regulation-perfect.
Riyo’s expression falls slightly.
Fox sees it.
“Our current rotation is manageable,” he adds.
Thorn nearly chokes.
That is a lie, but the lie isn’t the interesting part. Fox has softened the answer because Senator Chuchi looked worried.
This is outstanding.
Thorn hasn’t enjoyed a patrol this much since a senator mistook Stone for a decorative statue and tried to hang a coat on him.
“I’m glad,” Riyo says, although she doesn’t sound convinced. “I’ve been reviewing the medical support requests your office submitted.”
Fox goes still.
Thorn’s amusement fades at the edges.
Most senators don’t read Guard requests. They deny them, delay them, or pass them to aides who bury them beneath procedural language until troopers start improvising bandages from uniform scraps.
“You reviewed them?” Fox asks.
That is technically a question.
The Guard protocol permits questions when they are operationally relevant.
The surprise in Fox’s voice is not operationally relevant.
Riyo nods. “The scanner replacements and bacta allotments. I don’t understand why they were rejected.”
Fox’s helmet turns slightly toward Thorn.
Thorn recognizes the look despite being unable to see his face.
Don’t speak.
Thorn had no intention of speaking.
He’s enjoying this too much to interfere.
“The appropriations committee considers the current equipment functional,” Fox says.
“Your report says one scanner requires repeated impact against a wall before it reads correctly.”
“Medic Lex included that detail.”
“She attached a diagram.”
“That sounds like Lex.”
Something shifts in Fox’s voice.
It isn’t quite humor, but it’s close enough that Thorn feels the galaxy move beneath his boots.
Riyo smiles.
Fox’s shoulders ease.
Thorn stares forward before either of them notices how hard he is judging them.
“I intend to raise the issue at the next support session,” Riyo says. “There should be enough votes to reopen the request if Senator Amidala and Senator Organa support it.”
Fox doesn’t answer immediately.
A passing aide brushes too close to Thorn and recoils when Thorn looks at him. The man speeds away without apologizing.
Normal Senate behavior.
Fox’s attention never leaves Riyo.
“Thank you, Senator Chuchi.”
There it is again.
Her name.
Riyo’s cheeks darken toward violet.
Thorn sees it happen.
Fox probably doesn’t. His knowledge of nonhuman blushing is limited to medical threat assessments and the time a certain Twi’lek senator nearly asphyxiated during an argument.
“You’re welcome, Marshal Commander.”
They stand there.
Neither says anything.
The silence stretches past professional, moves through awkward, and begins approaching whatever holodramas define as romantic tension.
Thorn has seen troopers defuse explosives with less concentration than these two are applying to not looking interested in each other.
Riyo glances toward Thorn, apparently remembering that Fox isn’t alone.
Thorn straightens.
“Commander.”
“Senator.”
Unlike Fox, Thorn follows protocol.
Mostly because somebody in this conversation has to maintain standards.
Riyo looks back at Fox. “I won’t keep you from your patrol.”
“You aren’t.”
Fox says it immediately.
Thorn’s mouth falls open inside his helmet.
Riyo’s blush deepens.
Fox appears to realize what he said.
He recovers with impressive speed.
“There are no active incidents requiring our attention,” he adds.
Technically true.
Painfully obvious.
Thorn decides to help.
“We have plenty of time, Senator,” he says.
Fox turns his helmet toward him.
The visor reveals nothing.
The threat behind it is magnificent.
Riyo smiles. “I only wanted to say hello.”
Fox faces her again. “Hello, Senator Chuchi.”
Thorn has to bite the inside of his cheek.
Riyo looks delighted by the most basic greeting ever spoken.
“Hello, Marshal Commander.”
She inclines her head, then continues down the corridor. Her pace remains dignified until she reaches the next junction, where she glances back.
Fox is still watching her.
Their eyes meet through his visor.
Riyo nearly walks into an aide.
She recovers, turns the corner, and disappears.
Fox remains motionless for another second before resuming the patrol.
Thorn walks beside him in silence.
He lasts seven steps.
“Hello, Senator Chuchi.”
Fox keeps walking.
Thorn pitches his voice lower, approximating Fox’s tone. “You aren’t keeping me from anything, Senator Chuchi. In fact, the entire Senate District can burn while you tell me about medical appropriations.”
“Thorn.”
“Would you like my full designation, Senator Chuchi? Perhaps my service history? Childhood fears? Preferred brand of caf?”
Fox’s helmet turns toward him.
“Keep talking.”
“That sounded like permission.”
“It was a threat.”
Thorn clasps his hands behind his back. “You used her name twice.”
“I use senators’ names.”
“No, you don’t.”
“When necessary.”
“It wasn’t necessary.”
Fox increases his pace.
Thorn matches it easily.
“You gave her extra information.”
“She asked about patrols.”
“You reassured her.”
“She expressed concern.”
“You told her hello.”
“That is a standard greeting.”
“Not for you.”
Fox says nothing.
Thorn’s grin widens.
He had expected denial, threats, or a sudden reassignment to Representative Binks’s protection detail. Silence is much better.
“You like her.”
Fox stops so abruptly that Thorn takes another step before catching himself.
The marshal commander turns.
Even through the helmet, Thorn feels the full weight of Fox’s stare.
“She is a senator,” Fox says.
Thorn waits for the rest.
None comes.
That isn’t a denial.
Fox starts walking again.
Thorn follows, nearly vibrating with the effort required not to laugh.
“She likes you too.”
Fox’s stride falters.
Only slightly.
Thorn sees it.
Fox sees Thorn see it.
“Representative Binks requested additional security for tomorrow,” Fox says.
Thorn’s amusement dies.
“You wouldn’t.”
“Keep talking.”
Thorn faces forward and resumes the exact posture of a regulation-perfect Guardsman.
The Senate halls stretch ahead of them, bright, polished, and full of people who consider clones incapable of personal thought.
Beside him, Fox walks a little faster than before.
Thorn waits until they reach the next corridor.
Then he opens the private command channel.
“Hello, Senator Chuchi.”
Fox assigns him to Binks before Thorn finishes laughing.