My Star Wars TCW World

Boss:

Boss is really good at noticing when you're getting overwhelmed and if he sees you're in the middle of a conversation and starting to get anxious he'll casually interrupt with a "Need you for a second" and walk you away like he actually has something important to discuss. He doesn't, he'll just ask if you're alright and give you a quick kiss

Whenever you have to do something that's stressing you out, he cups your face, makes you look at him, and gives you a little pep talk. Doesn't matter how small the situation is, he'll give you like clear instructions, outlines how it's gonna go so you feel more confident going in, and makes sure that you have some semblance of confidence about it before he finally lets you go

Also uses really specific intentional contact cues to help calm you when he notices you getting anxious/overwhelmed in social situations, like maybe comes up with a little touch like a tap to your wrist that reminds you to take a breath, and always places a hand at the small of your back when steering you out of a situation

If you ever get like cornered socially he steps in and redirects the interaction onto himself, reaching out and giving your hand a little reassuring squeeze. Like he's just really good at just very smoothly stepping in and making sure you don't get stuck in situations that overwhelm you

Loves when you get all flustered from affection and intentionally catches you off guard with quick kisses because he knows it'll make you blush. Drops his voice low and mutters "There it is" kinda smugly

Fixer:

Fixer's not a big fan of socializing either and would frankly kinda prefer to be a bit of a homebody with you, though it's not for anxiety reasons, he just. doesn't wanna.

Does kinda push you to do little things outside of your comfort zone sometimes. Like ordering something yourself or making a call instead of avoiding it. Afterwards he acts like you've just completed a successful mission and is all dry like "See? No casualties."

If you're somewhere loud, you both can just like glance at each other and know without saying anything that it's time to head out. One look means yeah I've had enough and you're both already heading for the exit

If you're caught in an anxiety spiral he speaks to you really calmly and straightforwardly, listing facts about the situation that seem obvious but are meant to be steadying/grounding. like. nobody's looking at you. nobody's judging you. we're gonna be able to leave soon. nothing bad is happening. nothing bad is gonna happen. I'm right here, I'm sticking close to you.

Also good at speaking for both of you without making it feel like he's talking over you, like if someone asks a question he knows you hate answering he'll reply before you have to think about it

Scorch:

Scorch is the best social buffer cause he is NOT shy. If someone catches you off guard trying to talk to you or they ask you a question and you freeze for a second he's already cutting in and everyone's attention is on him now

Keeps up a running commentary whenever you're somewhere new/crowded so you're focusing more on him than anything else. Just like pointing things out and making jokes

Generally tries to stay touching you in some way in social situations just to try to reassure you. He's good at taking over in social situations but also doesn't want you to feel intentionally sidelined, will just like drape an arm over your shoulders and pull you against his side as he talks, not pressuring you to talk but making comments to you and giving you lots of reassuring squeezes

Also really good at making you laugh in situations he knows make you anxious/overwhelmed. Like if he notices you getting tense he just leans in and whispers something ridiculous to get you to laugh. Doesn't solve the anxiety but he hopes getting you laughing will knock it down enough that you can breathe again

Tbh your shyness gives him so much cuteness aggression. He'll see you getting bashful over something small and can't help but cup your face in both hands like "You're so cute. C'mere." Then presses kisses all over your face. If you laugh and get flustered he just wraps his arms around you and kisses you more.

Sev:

Sev is more on the reserved side himself and he likes that you're not the type who feels the need to fill every silence. You two could spend hours together without talking much and he'll walk away thinking wow that was really nice actually

If he realizes you're trying to think of an excuse to leave somewhere, he'll beat you to it every single time. Suddenly he's "remembering" something the two of you need to do, grabbing your hand, and steering you right out the door before anyone can argue

Takes care of stuff he knows you hate without mentioning it, like making calls or dealing with irritating people or asking someone for information. He just handles it for you without a second thought

Doesn't think about your shyness as something wrong or that needs to be fixed and will get mean to people who comment on it. Like if someone starts the whole "you're so quiet" routine he cuts in with a sharp "And?" and gets argumentative

Not super affectionate generally but if you're having one of those days where your anxiety's just wearing you down, he'll pull you over until you're leaning against him. Doesn't really say anything comforting, just sits there with you until you start relaxing

Your legs went out from under you and you staggered, catching yourself on the bars nearby. Your ribs ached like you'd been kicked by a bantha and your head was swimming. Small scrapes and bruises radiated from one side of your body, the remnants of where you had fallen on the duracrete ground outside of the spaceport. But none of that mattered. You had to find Alpha.

The room was dark and you blinked, trying to orient yourself. A face appeared on the other side of the bars, inches from your fingers. You shrieked.

"It's me, neverd'ika," Alpha said quietly, and you finally recognized him.

Even in the gloom of the cells you were in, you could see that one side of his face was injured. Blood oozed sluggishly from several scrapes and cuts, partially clotting in the layer of grime on his skin. Below that, you could see the bruises that were blooming.

"Oh, Alpha," you said, reaching through the bars to touch his face as gently as you could manage. "Your poor face... But your cybernetics! Are you hurt? Can you move?"

"I'm fine. As far as I can tell, anyway. They got me with a modified prod - no permanent damage even for delicate life-forms. And they stunned you, not me." Alpha shook his head irritatedly. "But no one will talk to me. I don't know why they thought I was going AWOL or when they're going to let us out of here."

"I don't think that's the main concern-"

"What else would we be concerned about?" Alpha's brows were furrowed, mouth drawn into a grim line. "Every minute we spend here is another minute Fives is out there alone. And another minute the Coruscant karkin' Guard could be doing something stupid."

"Alpha, you need to think," you urged. "The shock troopers just happened to look for you outside the spaceport with a low-current prod? No one really thought you were going AWOL. No one outside of Ransom, Nora Czajak, and Nala Se even knows you're on Coruscant. Stars, only Ransom knew that you were on-planet and not in the GAR medcenter tonight."

Alpha blinked at you, his irritation taking on a shade of confusion. "You… think someone set us up. Who?"

"I don't have any idea," you admitted. "Like I said, not many people know you're here and even fewer know that you've recovered enough to look for Fives. Rex didn't even tell the Jedi that you were helping with the search."

Alpha's frown deepened. "Then there are only two options. Either we were being watched tonight or someone high up in the GAR wants this thing kept quiet."

"Or both," you suggested quietly. Alpha nodded once, acknowledging your point. "Something strange is happening."

"And it's an osik sign that we're being detained here," Alpha agreed. "We need to get back out there if we have any chance of figuring out what's going on."

He began systematically testing all of the bars in his cell. Even at his weakest, Alpha was far stronger than you, so you left him to it. Instead, you turned to survey your own cell.

It was an exact mirror of Alpha's and had clearly been built to house a handful of people. There was a cot on one side of the room, slightly askew from when you had leapt up off of it. A small refresher sat in the corner, surrounded by transparisteel that turned opaque when the door was locked (at least, you hoped it did). There were cutouts slightly lower than waist height in the walls, and the indentations formed rough benches that couldn't be ripped off for use as a tool or weapon.

Other than the cot and refresher, the cell was nearly bare. It was difficult to see clearly in the dim light that filled the detainment area of the Coruscant Guard headquarters, but Alpha didn't seem to have any additional tools in his cell.

Though there were other cells set to the other sides of Alpha's cell and your own, everything was empty. In fact, this whole section of the building seemed disconcertingly quiet. There hadn't been another person walking around since you had woken up.

You weren't sure how you and Alpha had ended up as the only occupants of the area, but it seemed too perfect to blame on coincidence. Something was definitely going on.

"Anything?" Alpha called, pulling your attention back toward his cell.

"Nothing," you reported. "Did you find anything?"

"No." Alpha scrubbed a hand over his face, grimacing as his fingertips pulled at the injuries they found there. He went to the front of the cell, the only place where it faced the hallway. The bars were made redundant by a ray shield that stretched the entire length of the hall, preventing prisoners from reaching out or throwing anything between the bars.

Alpha approached the front of the cell anyway, glancing either way down the hall outside and grunting in displeasure when he didn't see anyone.

"Hey!" he shouted, loud enough to make you wince. "This is Captain Alpha-17. I demand to know why I'm being held here."

"Detainees can't make demands," a trooper jeered, appearing from around a corner where he had apparently been sitting, unseen. Any doubts you had about the security of the cells were allayed by the sight of the trooper's bare face. If he had removed his helmet, the trooper was absolutely certain that there was no escape.

"They can when they outrank you in the kriffing GAR, you ori'buyce, kih'kovid di'kut," Alpha replied, voice dripping with derision. The trooper walked down the hall to stand in front of Alpha, tauntingly close. Alpha's top lip curled in a sneer as he ordered, "Get me Fox or Maze."

"They're both busy at the moment." A nasty smile spread across the trooper's face. "And as for outranking me… Guess we'll have to see. From what I've heard, you may not have a rank at all anymore. Think they'll let you pretend to train a few ARCs before they send you for reconditioning? Or maybe they don't want a broken trooper put back into the pool of GAR soldiers."

You were at the bars closest to him before you could stop yourself. Over the roaring in your ears, you heard yourself say, "Ne shab'rud'ni, hut'uun."

The trooper blinked. You were sure which threw him off more - the implied violence in your threat, the grievous insult of being called a coward, or the fact that it all had been delivered in the best Mando'a you had ever managed.

He recovered a moment later, looking you up and down with an unimpressed expression. "We don't let a guurori ganar aruetii speak here. Do it again and I'll keep you stunned until we decide what to do with you."

The words were unfamiliar, though you knew 'auretii' meant traitor. You could guess that the rest wasn't flattering, either. Especially since Alpha's face went pale, then darkened in rapid succession.

Alpha wrapped his hands around the bars and squeezed until his knuckles went pale. His hands were close enough to the ray shield that it started to react, turning white and throwing off the occasional spark.

The trooper's gaze fell to Alpha's hands and he smirked. "Get your hands off the bars or I'll show you why we set them up for electrification. Didn't go well for you the first time, did it?"

Alpha snarled something that sounded uncomplimentary. The trooper - having already started back toward his post hidden around the corner - turned back to say something else, but his face went abruptly serious and he straightened into a salute. "Sir."

You turned to see what he was looking at and found a procession of fully-armored Coruscant Guardsmen filing toward you. At the head of the group was Commander Fox. You almost didn't recognize him - both because he wasn't wearing his distinctive helmet and because he looked so bad.

Fox's brown eyes were wide and held the hollowness most often associated with those who were suffering severe shock. His lips were parted, breaths coming too quickly for comfort. He walked as though he wasn't truly seeing the hallway in front of him. Fox didn't even acknowledge the still-saluting trooper as he passed by.

"Fox," Alpha called sharply. "Fox, what happened?"

Fox didn't react in the slightest. The troopers walking behind him offered sympathetic looks and shrugs in you and Alpha's direction, but followed the precedent set by their commander and stayed silent.

They had passed and the trooper assigned to guard the cells had returned to his post out of sight when another trooper came in the same direction.

Alpha thrust a hand against the ray shield, throwing sparks and startling both you and the new arrival with the suddenness of it. "Stone, I need to know what's going on and I need to know now."

Stone - a commander, if you remembered correctly - blinked at Alpha in surprise. "Alpha, what are you doing down here?"

"I don't know," Alpha growled. "I was at the spaceport when a bunch of Corries showed up, accused me of going AWOL, and dragged me back here."

"AWOL?" Stone furrowed his brows. "Well, I know you weren't, but… why were you at the spaceport? You have to admit that it looks suspicious."

"I was looking for one of my ARCs." Alpha gripped the bars tighter once more. "He's been drugged and is wandering around Triple Zero with no one to watch his back. I need to find him before he gets off-planet without an antidote."

"CT-5555."

"Ye-" Alpha cut himself off abruptly. His gaze zeroed in on Stone with a precision that would have sent a lesser man running. "You know something."

Stone shook his head slowly - not in dissent, but resignation. "We found him on the lower levels. He had trapped his general and captain in a ray shield. There was concern that he was planning to hurt them."

"Fives would never do that," you interrupted, your mind's eye summoning images of Fives laughing with Echo or grinning mischievously as he made a joke about something embarrassing.

"CT-555-"

"Fives," Alpha corrected, voice tight.

"Fives," Stone amended. "He was unwell. Erratic. Kept repeating the same things over and over, things that made no sense. The Kaminoan senator said there was some virus that had affected another 501st trooper badly enough that he shot a Jedi in the field. CT-5- uh, Fives might have been exposed. There was no telling what kind of damage friendly fire could have done."

"It wasn't a virus," you countered, too softly to be heard over Alpha.

"What did you do?" he demanded, squeezing the bars so tightly that they creaked under the pressure of his fists. "What did you do?"

Stone shook his head again and your heart stuttered at the guilt on his face. "The commanding officers said that Fives was a threat. We had to stop him before he hurt anyone. The… the threat has been neutralized."

You stared blankly at Stone, waiting for more of the explanation. 'Neutralized' wasn't 'dead'. He couldn't be saying that Fives was dead, not in such an even, unaffected tone. Surely Fives had been captured, taken somewhere for treatment and eventual investigation. Stone had to be saying that. You refused to believe anything else.

But Alpha's reaction told you that wasn't the case. He bowed his head until his forehead was pressed against the bars between his fists. His face - what little you could see of it in profile - had crumpled in profound grief and he wept for the vod he had trained so carefully.

Stone didn't seem to know how to react. He watched Alpha for a moment, an expression of mingled sadness, guilt, and hesitation on his face. His hand lifted as though he had planned to rest it on Alpha's shoulder, but thought better of it when he remembered the ray shield. Instead, he murmured something to Alpha, gave you a hunted sort of look, and continued down the hallway in the direction Fox and the others had gone.

You were also crying when you attempted to convince Alpha to leave the front bars of the cell. Eventually, you coaxed him over to the 'wall' that your cells shared. He was mourning Fives as much as you were, maybe more. It hurt all the more because you had been so close. You could have saved him. You very nearly had.

All you could do was cradle Alpha through the bars of your cell.

You and Alpha were released later that day. The Coruscant Guard apologized for detaining you, but the bigger surprise was the apology from the Galactic Senate.

The Senate had received the initial report of the incident. They claimed someone had reported Alpha potentially going AWOL and had acted on that limited information. You thought the explanation was insulting to your intelligence, but when you glanced over at Alpha, his hollow expression showed that he wasn't paying attention to anything at the moment.

You and Alpha were informed that you would receive two extra days on Coruscant. The remainder of that day was your own, to "rest and recover from the ordeal of the morning". The next day, Alpha would go get his cybernetics checked.

Ransom had agreed to the schedule change immediately when you commed her. You had explained the basics of the situation to her so she knew what to expect. She promised that she would give Alpha's cybernetics an extra-thorough exam, but told you that he was likely fine as long as he was still able to walk with or without his crutches.

Alpha could still walk, leaning heavily on his forearm crutches. He would also speak and nod vacantly when someone addressed him, but he didn't do anything without prompting. Without the need to act, he simply… was. Alpha hadn't spoken since his breakdown about Fives's death. He had taken it just as poorly as you had expected he would, and no amount of comfort made it better.

In fact, the last time you had seen him so upset was when he had learned of Echo's death.

As long as you had known him, Alpha had only lost two ARCs. He had mourned both like the brothers he referred to them as. It was somehow worse that Fives and Echo had been part of the same battalion and had gone through training at the same time. Stars, if you remembered correctly, they had literally grown up together.

For the rest of the day, it was all you could do to convince Alpha to eat something and get a little sleep. Even then, he had been sleeping fitfully when you dozed off and was awake again by the time you woke up. You had been asleep for less than an hour.

After a painfully quiet dinner and some halfhearted attempts at starting a conversation - none of which were answered by him - you coaxed Alpha into bed. You woke up several times during the night, either because of his restless repositioning or, once, because he had started to weep. Each time, you held him as tightly as you could, often crying yourself.

When dawn broke, it was gray and cold and almost unnoticeable behind the neon signs that flooded the surface of Coruscant. You were awake for the slow leaching of light into the sky. Judging from his breathing, Alpha wasn't sleeping, either.

Still, the two of you laid side by side in the sterile quiet of the hotel room. You took comfort from Alpha's warmth beside you; you could only hope that he was equally as comforted by your presence.

Minutes slipped past like that, until you knew it was time to get up. Reluctantly, you broke the silence. "Alpha, we need to get ready for your appointment. Ransom gave us her earliest time slot so we have the rest of the day to get ready for the trip."

Alpha had already known all of that, of course. You had told him the day before when you made those arrangements with Ransom. But he hadn't seemed to hear you then and he didn't seem to hear you now. His features were hollow with grief even as he got to his feet, gathered his clothing, and started toward the refresher.

You took a hovercab to Ransom's office. Alpha didn't speak, but he typed out a message on his comlink. You didn't recognize the frequency when you caught sight of it, but you didn't read the message. Alpha was entitled to his privacy. He would tell you if it were important.

You were several minutes early, but Ransom was already waiting when you arrived at her office. She hadn't heard much about what happened - it had been too fresh for you to discuss openly the day before, and Ransom wasn't informed about the intricacies of GAR politics - but she knew enough that she didn't offer a smile. Instead, she gave a solemn nod and ushered you into the physical therapy area.

Ransom made the examination as quick and painless as possible. She scanned Alpha's implants, then checked them with gentle hands and specialized instruments. Everything must have been in order, because she gave a satisfied nod and instructed him to walk back and forth across the physical therapy area. There were no bars for him to support himself with, but he walked with confidence.

When Alpha got back to you and Ransom, she smiled. "Your recovery is coming along nicely, Alpha. Your implants weren't damaged in… by the stress of the other night. The two of you are going back to Kamino tomorrow, correct?"

"Yes," you answered so Alpha didn't have to. "We leave tomorrow morning."

Ransom nodded thoughtfully. "I don't think you'll need to do any additional physical therapy off-planet. Rest on your trip and make sure to stretch, but you can try navigating around the transport without your crutches."

That made Alpha look at her questioningly, the first real emotion you had seen on his face since you had left the hotel room.

"Only when you're in hyperspace," Ransom clarified. "And only when you feel you can support yourself well enough not to fall if the transport hits turbulence."

"What do you hope he'll gain?" you asked, stepping forward and trying not to look too overeager. "Could he walk without assistance someday?"

Ransom shrugged. "Potentially. At the very least, I believe he'll be able to stand unassisted and walk short distances. Maybe do some training if recovery goes extremely well."

"Potentially and maybe." Alpha's scowl was fierce. "Not much to plan a life on. Who's to say the kaminii don't send me for reconditioning as soon as I get back on-planet?"

"Me," you said firmly. "I'm saying that. I haven't been sitting around waiting for you to be fully healed, Alpha. I've been making sure the Kaminoans know that you'll return as a qualified ARC trainer, with or without a mobility aid."

"A trainer can't use mobility aids."

The snort you gave was loud and skeptical, bordering on rude. "You're the best trainer in the galaxy, Alpha. The GAR trusts you to teach their most elite soldiers how to think critically and adapt fighting styles to fit their strengths and needs. You'll figure out a way to work with whatever mobility aid you may end up using and you'll be able to teach your trainers from experience that they can overcome any obstacles they run into."

The warmth in Alpha's expression was subtle, but clear. "It's a good point. Thank you for reminding me, little one."

Ransom cleared her throat lightly, and you remembered that the two of you had an audience. "And as for daily life, I designed your cybernetics to work with your activity levels. You may need crutches for now, but you'll likely transition to using a cane when your body has finished healing."

"A cane would be convenient," you encouraged.

"More than you know," Ransom agreed. "Cybernetics are designed and implanted in ways that work with and are powered by the body, but they're ultimately mechanical and electrical. With a cane that can release trace amounts of power, your cybernetics can stay running at full strength with minimal energy draw from your muscles."

"What does that mean?" Alpha asked slowly.

Ransom grinned. "It means, when someone relying on muscle alone gets tired, they have to rest. They can push through, but doing so takes a toll on their body. When you get tired, you use your cane for a few minutes - or even just hold it - and you'll be able to keep doing what you need to do. Not indefinitely, of course, but I'd guess your stamina will be better than it ever was before the cybernetics."

Alpha eyed her closely. "What are the specs?"

"With a cane that's calibrated for your cybernetics, you'll be able to get an additional 11 to 12 hours from 30 minutes of using your cane." Ransom paused for a moment, then shrugged. "Dependent on how demanding your activity levels are in that time, of course. That estimate is if you were doing something highly physical, like training, fighting, doing manual labor… If you have downtime, the estimate would be significantly higher."

"Are you saying that Alpha needs to use the cane every day or his cybernetics will die?" Your voice was tight. You didn't necessarily envision that Alpha would go without a mobility device for that long, but you wanted to know exactly what you could expect when you got back to Kamino.

"Almost the opposite," she assured you. "The cybernetics in Alpha's nervous system stimulate his muscles with electrical impulses. Since the implants don't really on his body's power to fuel themselves, they can stimulate his muscles even after he's exhausted."

"So I can run off the cybernetics alone," Alpha summarized.

"For a limited amount of time, basically." Ransom pulled out a datapad with the specs of Alpha's cybernetics pulled up. She indicated the major clusters of implants: along his spine, running down both sides of his thighs, and on the outside of his calves just below his knees. "These all charge when Alpha holds physical contact with the cane. Like I said, 30 minutes would be plenty to charge them up for as long as you needed them, as long as you have the right cane."

"Where do I get 'the right' cane?" Alpha asked.

Ransom stepped away for a moment, rummaging through a tall cabinet in the corner. When she came back, she held a thick piece of what looked to be durasteel, studded with glowing panels along its length.

"This is the right cane." She held it out to Alpha, who made no move to take it.

He narrowed his eyes up at her instead. "How much?"

"It's taken care of," Ransom said breezily.

"We can't let you do that," you protested, watching Alpha take the cane. His expression took on a sense of interest and determination, and you knew you had to get the cane for him no matter what. "I'm sure it's expensive…"

"Oh, it was," Ransom agreed with a mischievous smirk. "But when a senator offers to pay the costs, you go all-out. I doubt he even noticed it on the bill I sent."

"And when this one breaks?" Alpha didn't even look up from the cane, busy weighing it in his hands and studying it from every angle.

"I built a few replacements into Organa's bill." Ransom caught the look you were sending in her direction and sighed. "If he notices and objects to the addition, I'll let you know. You can cover the replacements or the current cane, depending on what exactly he objects to. Better?"

"Much." You highly doubted that Organa would have a problem with providing Alpha a cane, but you didn't like leaving anything up to chance. Both of you had been burned too many times by the GAR and the Republic for any other response.

"Alpha," Ransom announced, holding out a hand. When Alpha took it, she gave a firm handshake. "It has been a pleasure. I'll send you a fully updated schematic of your cybernetics in case you need help with them in the future and can't return to Coruscant for any reason. Please contact me with any additional questions or concerns if possible - I have better insight about your implants than some backwater cyberdoc."

Ransom turned to you next, also offering you a handshake. "Keep him from pushing himself too far, especially for the next week or so. I know you'll be on a transport, but there's still a risk. Maybe keep the cane somewhere safe until he can heal a little more. Let me know if you need anything, okay?"

You nodded, feeling unexpectedly emotional at the idea of saying goodbye to the enigmatic cybernetics specialist. "Thank you, Ransom. For everything."

When you and Alpha left Ransom's office and were waiting for a hovercab, he typed furiously into his wrist comm again.

"You've been contacting a lot of people today," you commented, tone neutral. "Anything I should know about?"

Alpha paused, glancing up at you with eyes too raw, too open, too full of pain. It had been little more than a day since you had gotten the news about Fives. You were compartmentalizing, tucking away the grief until you were safe to feel it all. Alpha was grieving now, the loss too close and sudden to delay until later.

"I'm trying to get Fives's body."

"There are no cemeteries on Coruscant," you said reflexively, feeling idiotic the moment your brain caught up with your mouth. You winced when the awareness of what you'd said hit you. "Sorry."

"We don't usually get to care for our dead," Alpha said slowly. He seemed to be thinking aloud as he spoke. "I'm not really sure what to do with him if we get him. I think the old Mandos used to say cremation was a warrior's preferred method."

"I think the Jedi do something similar."

Alpha glanced at you sharply and you waited for him to say something harsh… or at least sarcastic. Instead, he nodded. "Good. Then they have facilities that can handle the process."

"I don't know if they'll let you cremate a body in the Jedi Temple," you cautioned, moving back to allow the hovercab plenty of space to land. "Especially not if the GAR doesn't want to give Fives up."

Alpha shrugged, opening the door and ushering you inside. "Can't be that hard to break in. There are only a few of those Temple Guards on duty at a time. It's sloppy. Leaves security gaps."

When you got back to the hotel room, you started packing up your things. You hadn't brought much from Kamino, having been fully focused on getting to Alpha, but you had bought enough clothes and toiletries to survive on Coruscant for the length of his treatment. You also packed up the civvie clothes and toiletries you had bought for Alpha. During his time at the GAR medcenter, he had been provided with a body glove and a PT outfit, but you had wanted him to have more comfortable clothes for sleeping. The first time he had been able to get dressed by himself after the accident still ranked high on the list of times in your life you had been the happiest.

You left out pajamas for both of you, along with travel clothes. This would be your last night on Coruscant and you wanted to be ready to make the transport tomorrow morning. If your pilots noticed Alpha's civvie clothing, you were sure they would just shrug it off as a soft-hearted civilian working too hard to make a battle-hardened soldier comfortable.

"You're frowning," Alpha remarked. "What's wrong?"

"Just thinking too hard, I suppose." You pulled your mind away from the ridiculous series of thoughts. "Any news?"

Alpha shook his head. "No one knows anything about where the GAR might have put Fives. Even Maze doesn't know, and he's high up with the Corries."

"Was he… there?"

"No." He snorted. "They pulled Maze away for some osik admin work. Time-consuming and no one will ever look at it again, but it kept him busy. I have to wonder if they did that on purpose."

Giving Alpha an excuse to suspect a grand, overarching conspiracy on behalf of the GAR hadn't been your intention, but you couldn't say that you had entirely ruled out the possibility either.

There was a knock at the door of the hotel room - three sharp taps, executed with military precision. You and Alpha glanced at each other. Reluctantly, he retreated to the refresher while you checked who was knocking - technically speaking, Alpha was supposed to stay at the GAR barracks after he had been released from the medcenter. He could hardly answer the door to a room registered in your name while you packed up his personal belongings in the background.

The cheap hotel room doors offered no way for you to check who was standing on the other side, but the door panel did let you opt to partially open it, keeping the exposed opening to a sliver. You used that feature then, peering through a gap the width of your hand to see who was on the other side.

It took you a long moment to recognize Kal Skirata, especially since he wasn't wearing his gold Mandalorian armor. Instead, he wore a bantha skin jacket and dark trousers. He looked like a harmless old man, someone you would pass on the street without a second glance.

Until you saw the look in his eyes.

Skirata's eyes were full of emotion - sympathy, grief, anger, determination. They were the eyes of a mercenary, of someone who would gladly strike first if it gave him the advantage. And maybe even if it didn't, just for the satisfaction of hurting his opponent.

He didn't speak at first, allowing you time to study him while he did the same to you. At last, he offered you a shallow nod. "Can I come in? I'd like to speak with you both."

You hesitated. Skirata wasn't trying to force his way into the room, but you weren't sure whether Alpha would appreciate you bringing him inside. You wondered briefly if there were a subtle way to close the door on Skirata, check with Alpha, and return to the door to either let him in or send him away. You doubted it.

"I have some intel," Skirata added.

From somewhere behind you, Alpha heaved a loud sigh. "Let him in and we'll get this over with."

Skirata offered you another nod as he stepped inside. You closed the door quickly, but not before you glanced around outside. You couldn't see anyone watching the room, though that didn't mean much. The Nulls had shown a remarkable affinity for following orders from Kal Skirata. With their skill set, they could be hidden just outside the room and you would never see them.

Skirata hadn't moved far into the room. Alpha had come from the refresher and you both watched the Mandalorian study the room. You and Alpha had clearly been sharing a bed - there was only one in the room, after all - but you had finished packing up everything else. It would feel more… revealing, somehow, if he could see Alpha's civilian clothes tangled with yours, heaped up from when you had returned from a laundry service.

It was bad enough that he could probably see where you had rearranged the furniture to make it easier for Alpha to get from the bed to the refresher and back.

"I heard you've been trying to recover Fives's body."

While you were still blinking at the abruptness of that, Alpha nodded once. "You knew him?"

"Knew of him," Skirata corrected. "Enough to reckon he knew something that someone didn't want him to share."

"That's what we think." You glanced between the two of them, guessing that Alpha would be too proud to ask what he clearly wanted to. "Do you know where they're keeping Fives's body?"

Skirata nodded once, the motion tense. "Not that it means much. No chance they'll release him to us. He's being "studied". The kaminii say that something went wrong with him and that they can figure out what."

Alpha snorted. "Handy little trick, that. Pretend to investigate the cause while they cover up the real one."

"Is the GAR at least going to test his blood?" you asked. "All reports indicated that Fives was drugged or poisoned before the transport got to Coruscant. Surely they'll investigate to find out what affected him so strongly."

For two men who were so often at odds, Alpha and Skirata wore exactly the same expression as they looked at each other.

"They aren't going to do any tests," Alpha told you.

You lifted your chin at him. "Then maybe I can convince them that they need to."

The muscles in Alpha's jaw flexed. "You've done enough lately."

"Alpha's right," Skirata agreed. "My boys have intercepted some communications from that chakaar Tohu's office since you came off that prison ship with a trooper."

"What did he say?" Alpha asked, eyes sharpening.

"Nothing actionable." Skirata looked back in your direction. "But you need to keep your head down for a while. Both of you should."

You made a sound of disagreement. "I don't think that will be possible. Alpha's surgeries are to be studied. If a trooper's job is specialized enough, the GAR will consider paying for cybernetic surgeries."

"I'll believe that when I see it," Alpha muttered. "Are you telling me that I should stop trying to retrieve Fives's body, Skirata?"

Skirata lifted one shoulder in a casual sort of shrug. "Just saying that it'll be a waste of your time, Alpha. You aren't going to get him back, not in the next twelve hours."

You and Alpha both visibly deflated at the reminder of your upcoming departure. You could keep working through your sources and connections to bring Fives back for a proper burial, but you were simply out of time.

"Udesii." Skirata rested a hand on Alpha's shoulder. "I can't help you get his body, but I do have something for you. Come with me. Both of you."

Skirata brought you both to a quiet platform overlooking the burning expanse of Republic City's Industrial Sector. You were surprised - and a little dismayed - to see several of the Null ARCs there, but Alpha rested a hand on the small of your back, silently reminding you that he was there with you. There was no safer place to be than beside him, on or off his crutches.

Skirata stood next to the Nulls, looking solemn. All of them removed their helmets in turn, clipping them to belts or tucking them under one arm as they stood at attention. They turned to look out over the Industrial Sector, leaving you, Alpha, and a heat-shimmering stack for an enormous furnace at their back.

At some silent signal from one of them, the whole group began to speak in Mando'a, voices pitched low and thrumming with emotion. "Ni su'cuyi, gar kyr'adyc. Ni partayli, gar darasuum."

You recognized enough of the words to understand that it was a remembrance of sorts. The Mando'a was followed by a list of names and designations, the numbers spoken with just as much reverence as the names. There were so many of them.

Alpha had picked up on the Mando'a with the others, but fell silent during the recitation of names. He looked out over the Industrial Sector, gaze pensive and somber. When the names finally stopped, he turned to glance back at Skirata.

The old sergeant was holding out a kama, angular stripes in a familiar navy blue decorating the stiff , standard-issue cloth. "I couldn't get his body back for you, son, but adding him to the aay'han and burning his kama is remembrance enough for a Mandalorian."

"He was a clone, not a Mandalorian," Alpha decreed, but his tone lacked its usual fire.

Skirata simply watched him, the lines of his face set in an expression that was almost kind. He never withdrew the kama. Clearly, he was leaving it up to Alpha whether they burned it or not.

Alpha took the blue and grey striped material, staring down at it intently. After a long moment, he extended a hand and let it flutter down into the furnace stack in front of you. As he watched it disappear, presumably burned in seconds by the immense heat of the furnace, he said, "Fives."

"Fives," everyone else echoed, sealing their litany of lost brothers with this newest name.

Alpha's eyes were brimming and he turned away, facing the glittering skyline to avoid being seen. You understood - the Nulls probably wouldn't use such an intimate and solemn ceremony against him later, but the grief was so fresh and raw that it felt better to tuck away.

Skirata cleared his throat. "You boys go make sure the Aay'han is ready for departure. We've completed our mission. Best get you boys back off of Coruscant before we start drawing attention."

He clapped Alpha on the shoulder and stepped away, allowing him a moment of privacy. You watched the Nulls leave without a moment's pause. You caught Skirata's eye at the last moment, nodding when he jerked his chin toward the other side of the platform.

When you had stepped as far out of Alpha's earshot as you could manage, Skirata leaned in toward you, voice pitched low as if to avoid being overheard. You got the sense it wasn't Alpha that he was trying to avoid being heard by.

"Something is coming."

You frowned, trying to figure out exactly what he meant. "Why are you on Coruscant?"

"I can't tell you that and you don't want to know," Skirata said firmly. "But something is coming. I don't have details and I wouldn't share them if I did. The only reason I'm telling you anything is because you're important to Alpha. When it happens - whatever happens - you try to find me."

"Where would I start looking for you?" you asked, realizing abruptly that you didn't have the slightest idea of where Skirata lived or worked. You didn't even know who he worked for. The only faction he seemed loyal to were the clones.

"You don't worry about that, just start looking for me." Skirata grinned, but it was vicious. "You won't find me, tayli'bac? But when you look, I'll hear about it. Then I'll find you."

"Did you pull me over here to give a cryptic warning, insult me, and tell me to do what I would have already done?"

"You already would have..?" Skirata trailed off, studying you curiously. "Tried to contact me?"

"Alpha trusts you," you explained, knowing the simplicity of that statement stood on its own. Alpha didn't trust easily and he never put his faith in the wrong people.

Skirata's expression softened into something like a smile. "He's a good lad. You're not bad either, for an aruetii."

You stiffened. "No more insults. I'm no traitor, Skirata."

He laughed, a short bark of it that sounded more surprised than amused. "Seventeen is teaching you? Well, tell him to get the vocab right. Aruetiise aren't necessarily traitors. Just outsiders, and you are one of those. Too many more heroics on prison ships might change that, though, provided you don't end up dead."

You glanced back toward Alpha despite yourself, remembering how worried he had been when you had fought for Dogma's release. Maybe he hadn't been overreacting as much as you had assumed.

Skirata spoke again, voice serious once more. "You two better get back to your room and rest up for your flight tomorrow. Remember what I told you."

"Something's coming," you supplied with a nod.

Skirata nodded back. "Be ready."

And then he was gone.

---

Author's Note - Happy May the Fourth! Or… sad May the Fourth? Sorry for this one. Fives's death is my least favorite of the whole series, but it had to happen here. Though you know the old Star Wars-ism: no body, no death. So there could be hope?

I apologize if the stuff with Alpha using his cane to 'recharge' the cybernetics got a little overly complex. I rewrote that part about a dozen times and I'm still not thrilled with it. If you see me randomly editing this chapter, that will be what I'm working on. From a plot/character perspective, it's important to me that Alpha is still able to do his job as the GAR's ARC trainer, but the damage done to his body can't be hand-waved away the way Anakin's (and Luke's!) replacement hands were in the movies. Mobility aids in the GFFA need to be more prevalent, so I would be editing the EXPLANATION of the cane, not removing the necessity entirely.

He wished he could say the lack of employment was the result of something positive. That perhaps the squad was enjoying a well-deserved break. Lounging on a white sand beach overlooking a sparkling sapphire ocean. Basking in the winds rolling over pastoral fields of grazing shaak. Sampling choice specimens from the galaxy's wealth of alcohol. Corellian whiskeys. Wines from Alderaan and Glova. Testing whether Mandalorian tihaar truly contained the oft-boasted quality of degreasing engine parts.

Things of that nature.

One far and away from their unpleasant reality.

As it currently stands, they were only given jobs deemed most worthwhile to the Trandoshan info broker. And that was regardless of their collective skill sets. Or the base needs of organic life forms to, ideally, consume two to three meals a day. Or, put fuel in one's primary method of transport. OR, the ability to acquire all necessary ammunition and equipment to complete these jobs in the first place…

The longer they went without payment, the larger their debt grew. Again, a situation Tech would hardly classify as ideal. Their current arrangement — or rather lack thereof — was frustrating to be sure. Not only for him, but all three of his brothers.

And perhaps his sister most of all.

Omega has taken the lack of credit-collecting the hardest.

Today is no different.

Every morning for the past fifteen days, Omega goes into Cid's Parlor to ask about available jobs. Any jobs. She'll leave the attack shuttle, sometimes immediately after breakfast, hopeful. Confident. Certain, that today will be the day!

And every morning… she returns more disappointed than the last. This heartbreaking cycle has gotten rather difficult to witness. Today is no different.

If anything, it's worse.

Omega comes back from the Parlor in a dejected shuffle. Head hung low. A soft curtain of blonde curls falling into her face. The red edges of each sleeve splotchy and damp.

Tech wants to say he isn't the least bit surprised to see his sister's eyes glittering with pearl-sized tears rather than their usual curiosity. As well as such an outcome was an inevitability. Bound or even destined to happen. But what good would that do? This is not the most appropriate time for unhelpful I-told-you-so-s.

Instead he meets Echo's eye just as Omega tromps up the gangplank to the Havoc Marauder. Each likely wondering many of the same things. The chain of events. What was said. What to do about it. Which was most appropriate to offer: a soapbox, a shoulder, or a solution.

The grunts of exertion in wrenching off each shoe — and the following THUNK!-s that echo through the shuttle — along with Omega's tearful declaration is answer enough.

"There aren't any jobs and Cid bl-blamed the five of us for the extra Imperial activity!"

Even from the opposite end of the shuttle, Tech knew which brother a particularly stiff sigh belonged to.

Echo took this as his cue to exit the cockpit.

"Don't, Hunter… We'll handle Cid. Later," Wrecker urged in hushed tones. "The five o' us won't be in Cid's good graces if we try to have a little chat about it now…"

"I don't disagree. But–"

"Sarge. We know. Nobody knows why so many Imperials are crawling around — Cid least of all. But that's not important right now."

Make no mistake: someone would most certainly be having words with the Trandoshan about this recent interaction. Strong words. Making Omega the unwitting recipient of such a serious insinuation did not fly right with any of them. But as of yet there was nothing, repeat, nothing to explain the uptick in Imperial activity on Ord Mantell.

So Hunter didn't argue any further.

"You're right, Wreck. Guess I'm still too hot under the collar after yesterday."

Tech would call that statement a half truth. One Echo would agree with judging by the pointed look he offers Tech once he makes a belated exit from the cockpit.

"How nice of you to join us, vod," the ARC trooper says instead in a mock croon.

Tech formulates an equally snide reply. And holsters it immediately after. He asks himself once again what good it would do to act like a petulant little shit at this very moment… When Echo is in the middle of comforting Omega, no less.

He's knelt down to her level, left arm embracing Omega as tight as he dares in hopes it will soothe her. Omega's own arms are thrown around Echo's shoulders in return. Her fingers grip to parts of his armor with enough force to rival even the strongest of magnetized locks. She's simply distraught.

Hasn't stopped sniffling her heart out since boarding the shuttle and throwing her shoes. More like lobbed them, according to Hunter. One landed mere centimeters away from the ladder to the gunner's mount — now Omega's room. When he sets the boots at the foot of his bunk, Hunter takes great pains as to not scold.

"I gotta say; that was some arm…!"

"I'm really s-sorry. Am I in a l-lot of trouble?"

"No. You're not in trouble," Echo promises. "I know Hunter's not the only one dealing with a shorter fuse than usual. I think it's everyone. Imps have a real nasty knack for making folks more than a mite twitchy."

"Wish they'd g-go away."

Echo squeezed her tighter, voice tender. "Yeah. Us too, kid."

"Unfortunately they will not. But we can."

Tech's abrupt suggestion — a declaration, really — garners mixed responses from the others. Surprise. Confusion. Immediate concerns about how they'd get off-world. And remain off the Empire's radar in the process. (Better yet, undetected entirely.) All of which are perfectly understandable reactions.

Including Omega's anxious protests and interjections.

Where exactly would they go? How safe would they be from the Empire? What about their money?

This was too risky. It would be safer on Ord Mantell. They should stay here!

Echo was the first to offer a knowing but patient look. She did have a point. Several, even. But Omega had been bored beyond belief the past fifteen days, and simply miserable the last five. There were only so many hours of staring at study material on her datapad she could tolerate. Same went for further practice with her Zygerrian energy bow.

And ideally they'd run more blaster drills with Omega, too — really get her familiarized with the DC-17 hand blaster and DC-15A blaster carbine models in particular — but their current supply of tibanna cartridges was getting quite thin…

Tech kept all thoughts that it was a shame the plan to acquire more hadn't panned out to himself. Not because he believed himself to be the only one who held these thoughts out of his brothers and sister. But because he knew he didn't.

See, Clone Force 99 had a close call with Imperial forces in the markets less than a rotation ago. And he still couldn't explain it. Not yet, anyway. The prevailing theory was one of three things: old intel, a mistimed patrol unit, or an entirely new patrol unit.

By all accounts no one should've been through that sector for some time.

Hunter and Omega shouldn't have run into any trouble making the run for ammo and various sundries. They made for a quick and methodical team. Were typically two to three streets ahead of the voluntary foot soldiers on a good day. (Four streets, if it was a REALLY good day.) Just not yesterday. Yesterday was different.

Trouble came goose-stepping around the corner and the two of them reacted accordingly. It'd been decided long ago the best course of action was bailing after the first flash of white armor — no matter if it belonged to fascist enforcers or formerly friendly faces. So Hunter and Omega cut and run without a second thought.

They returned without a single item out of the list of provisions Tech sent them with. He wouldn't — couldn't — fault them for it. No one could. Not when they heard about their sergeant and sister's successful escape. Which would have been fairly difficult were it not for Hunter's sharp senses, Omega's quick wit, and the over-sized green poncho they'd borrowed from Wrecker.

A simple rectangle of woven cloth draped in such a way that it disguised two people AND messed with facial recognition software? That was maybe a touch too absurd for Tech to take seriously. (Maybe.) It clearly worked. And it shouldn't be that surprising, either.

Hoods, ponchos and other body-coverings have been utilized by people from all walks of life since the galaxy's infancy. There are enough species and planetary cultures that incorporate these garments into their customs and daily life that they are not immediately viewed as being out of place.

And that often gives the Batch a major advantage over the Empire.

Everyone assumed that these stormtroopers had to know what they looked like by now.

There was no telling what else they knew, too. How many team secrets Crosshair divulged in some perverted performance of loyalty and allegiance. What exploits he hand-delivered. What fail safes and fall-backs were compromised.

What report Cross gave when the Empire extracted him from that isolated landing pad on Kamino before whisking off… somewhere else.

Impossible to say where, really. It's a big galaxy. Yet the Imps have found ways to make themselves appear near-omnipresent. Leave some trace of themselves on a dizzying number of planets — that number growing with each passing week. Meaning Clone Force 99 had thinner and thinner margins of error in dodging detection.

Hence all the careful discussion after a few short games of Wandering Sylop. They needed a partial plan to avoid an aimless jaunt off-world. The idea of which, after she was given some time to calm down, Omega was seriously warming up to.

What truly helped was something of a playful nudge from Wrecker while discussing where to go.

"Since we'd rather not ration out the Marauder's fuel, I say we stick to planets closer to Ord Mantell if we can."

"Awh! So much for a trip to Kashyyyk, eh, Omega?"

"Wreck… Kashyyyk isn't exactly—"

"Oh, I know! I'm only tryna tease 'er, sarge. I mean, you've heard all those Ha Dian videos she's been watching on Galactic Gander, haven't you?"

"The what videos?"

"Ha Dian — you called her the pretty Pantoran lady the one time you walked by while Omega was watching one of her videos in a crash seat!"

"Ohh," Hunter knew who Wrecker was talking about now. More importantly, what videos, too. "Right. Meant to look into her. Just since I've heard bits and pieces and I'm not familiar with what it is she does. Sounds to me she's been all over the galaxy, though."

Oh boy. If only the sergeant's senses were capable of warning him about the can of conduit worms he just opened. At least they're fortunate and it's a very cute can — Omega prattles on about Ms. Dian with the kind of bright-eyed excitement her brothers haven't seen in days.

Apparently Ms. Dian creates educational videos on a number of subjects. Her three biggest subjects are paleontology, pteridology, and batrachology. To quote Omega, many on Galactic Gander cite Ha Dian as the "queen of fossils, ferns and frogs". Not long ago she released a long video of an extended trip to Kashyyyk covering these subjects. (Which also explains Wrecker's earlier comment.) And currently, she's awaiting permission to visit Mikkia and the sacred jungles of Ithor.

Something about showing support for anti-Empire travel restrictions while filming another video on the former Separatist world of Akiva.

It's the first planet Omega brings up the idea of visiting — and the first to be vehemently vetoed by two of the vode.

"Unless I'm mistaken, it's the middle of the Akivan monsoons. We can expect to find heavy rain and flash floods. Which will make jungle traversal difficult, to say the least."

"Can't say I'm terribly excited by the idea of visiting a planet that produced thousands of battle droids during the war…"

Omega frowns thoughtfully. Okay, so maybe not Akiva. Plus the planet was further from Ord Mantell than both Mikkia and Ithor. (And those planets were out of the question for their own reasons.) So what about… something even closer?

Something like Shili.

Shili proved their most promising planet by far.

The Togruta homeworld sits in the Ehosiq Sector of the Expansion Region — putting it far closer to Ord Mantell than other prospects. Temperate climates serve as a backdrop to some of the many planetary ecosystems: grasslands, forests, and scattered jungle valleys. Shili's loyalty to the Republic has been well documented, too. (What this loyalty looked like now with the emergence of the Empire, however, is not…) And, all told, it should be a relatively safe place to visit.

Apart from the local raxshir and akul. These carnivorous megafauna the Batch would benefit to steer clear of. Especially Hunter, judging by the half-serious "hypothetical situation" that Tech's overheard him and Omega discussing these last fifteen minutes.

"You really think you could take one down with just a vibro-knife?"

"Probably could, yeah."

"Buuuut… how? Akul are really big. And it takes whole teams of Togruta working together to kill one! One small knife wouldn't be enough."

Tech may not be there to see it, but he can hear Hunter's cocksure smile clear across the shuttle.

"Don't be so sure. How you use a knife is more important that it's size, Omega. That goes for any knife. Even a two credit vegetable peeler is dangerous in capable hands."

"Only if it's a vegetable-sized akul," Omega countered with a giggle.

"Or an akul-sized vegetable!"

Hunter laughed. "Now that'd be some little ankle-biter's nightmare, Wreck."

Tech tunes out the trio's mock-argument by this point, attention turned to the nav equipment. They were clearly keeping themselves entertained. Good time as any for a systems check. Make sure the way's clear. That the ship's signature is still scrambled. See how much fuel they've burned off.

Ensure they haven't been followed.

This is a concern the ARC trooper understands. Together they share a slowly simmering worry that "one of these days" is today. That they will make THE jump to hyperspace which they get themselves spotted. Or just the opposite — the drop into real-space in front of an absolute behemoth of an Imperial cruiser. Worse yet, multiple of them.

Luck is on their side. Nothing on the radar apart from small specklings of debris. Easy to disregard. Anything remotely ship-shaped is given another inspection, but that's about it. Nobody followed the Marauder from Ord Mantell. No one's in the "localized" hyperspace lane gaining on them, either.

So they should be safe. Shili should be safe.

With any hope, Shili would be fun, too.

Honestly that's what worried Tech the most — the fun factor. Would Omega enjoy this excursion? He had a lot of evidence to support his hypothesis that she would. Or rather might, if he permitted himself some pessimism.

Omega, like Wrecker, had an incredibly affable nature. She was easygoing. The social butterfly of their squad. (Sometimes too social, but there were reasonable excuses and logical explanations that accounted for this.) She had a knack for making fast friends. For sniffing out common ground. Becoming chummy with gangsters, criminals, and thieves — much like Roland Durand — with frighting ease.

But she could also be quite… sensitive. Prone to pouting with disappointment when situations did not live up to her grand expectations. Credit where credit is due, Tech could not recall her pouting for prolonged periods save these last fifteen days. Omega did have a way of bouncing back relatively quickly.

Yes, even today. Where after three weeks of polite — and it was ALWAYS polite — inquiry for money-making opportunities, things can to an ugly, horned head with Cid and Omega returned to the vode in tears.

The gall of Scaleback. Not to mention the sheer nerve of her to reach out with faux concerns about 'unexplained absences' well after their departure. And a half-dozen deliberate(ly manipulative) appeals to "reason" with emotionally-laden if-then scenarios. All of which involve Omega in some capacity.

Tech eyes each of these messages flashing across the communications console with increasing venom.

After the way Cid treated their sister this morning — how very dare she?!

He reaches to respond. Echo slaps his hand away. Like he has a hundred times before. Only this time the back of Tech's hand stings more than usual. A silent and stern warning. Leave it, or else. Not the first time the ARC trooper's slapped a bit of sense into him. Literally, that is. Though Tech will admit it was deserved.

If he reamed into Scaleback now, it would sully their sister's shenanigans on Shili before they even started.

The Havoc Marauder was due to drop out of hyperspace in less than a minute. Then they'd be approaching the planet, calculating where and how to land. Which of course would require a pilot's utmost concentration. What's more, the attack shuttle unfortunately experienced a "technological mishap" while bouncing through the planet's upper atmosphere that corrupted all recent transmissions. Something they failed to mention to Gonky before getting off the ship once they landed.

Otherwise, he would've known not to purge those from the communications log while tasked with guarding the Marauder in their absence. Which was unfortunate, seeing as he only meant to be helpful after all…

Tech didn't know if Cid would come remotely close to buying such an excuse upon the Batch's return. Nor did he care. Neither did Echo, Hunter, or Wrecker for that matter.

All that mattered was here on Shili.

The Havoc Marauder touched down in a quiet and sparsely-populated corner of the Togruta homeworld. Save for disturbing a small herd or two of kybuck, landing had been uneventful. Clone Force 99 would have complained about such a thing once upon a time. But times have changed. The galaxy has changed. Uneventful landings were a blessing nowadays. A big one at that.

The hardest part was over. The Batch successfully made it off Ord Mantell and through hyperspace without being spotted by the Empire. And provided the Imps hadn't yet found a way to put skittish horned grazers on their payroll, the vode wouldn't face the usual concerns about snitches and paid informants. Kybuck were more than welcome to eavesdrop on them seeing as they had no understanding of Basic.

Not that the five of them have had any particularly riveting discussions within the last fifteen minutes. Unless one counted topics like supply checks and the best time to have lunch. Or discussing splitting up versus staying together.

Though it meant any hope Tech had of gathering unspoiled audio recordings was slim to none, he'd much rather remain with the others than take off on his own. No one could dispute safety in numbers. Nothing would make up for missing a fleeting opportunity to bond quite like this. Or being absent from the fun of an afternoon adventure — the same kind they once had in the GAR's glory days.

All the boyish nonsense they got up to could fill a holo-novel (or two). And what bittersweet chapters those had become. Because now that Crosshair had sworn his service to the Empire, he was no longer here to pen new chapters with the rest of them. A shame, really… Tech thinks he would have enjoyed coming to Shili. In his own, quiet way, of course.

The Clone Wars never had the chance to send the squad here. Not even Echo when he served under the Jedi and cobalt captain of the 501st. A rare first for everyone! So though this trip would prove to be a relatively brief alleviation of Clone Force 99's collective cabin fever, it would solidify itself as the most positive excitement they've had in fifteen days. A desperately needed distraction.

From all of it.

From the echoing death throes of the Republic. From the dreadful, sweeping arm of the Empire far darker than any Kaminoan thundercloud. From the devastating loss brought by the bombardment of the closest thing they — Clones — ever had to call home.

From the bantha in the room that is Crosshair's absence.

Of course distracting themselves from that is easier said than done. Save for Omega, none are quite ready to discuss it. The other side of that credit is willingness. Who would want to prod a wound of that nature — especially one that is fresh and festering? It is all but impossible to ignore in it's current state. Even still, the vode have (and will) done their best to. Repeatedly ducking, shimmying and climbing around that big, woolen brown beast of burden. Until they well and truly can't anymore.

Every last one of them knows damn well the bantha is there. Yet so long as the squad had a distraction — specifically the employment Cid provided prior to this drought — they could all go to great lengths pretending otherwise.

Today was rather different indeed. The Batch were charged with supplying the distraction for themselves for a change. And with any luck, it'd become a fond memory for all of them.

A trot through the scrublands, a kilometer hike downhill, and a sock-soaking river crossing later, the Batch had officially reached a small stretch of Shili rain forest while the day was still young. It would be a good while before sunset. More than enough time to stretch their legs and bask in unspoiled sunlight.

Perhaps they would stay long enough to witness the awakening of Shili's six (or so) moons. Maybe even overnight, provided they could. It would come down to multiple factors. Whether or not staying would put a strain on food and water supplies. Or the battery life and ammunition to their equipment. How much fun Omega had overall.

Splashing through riverbeds, and looking for frogs would provide hours of entertainment so long as they had enough Swat Shield repellent to deal with any pesky bugs. Omega insisted upon checking every little river, creek, and puddle she came across for potential critters while Wrecker looked for a dry place to picnic. Nothing could be done to rush her. Tech was privately amused to see her being so meticulous and thorough.

He would wager the "edutainment" style of Han Dian's videos were responsible for influencing Omega's behavior. She had even declined her brothers' offers to overturn some of the larger rocks they came across for her. Going so far as to directly cite something from the Pantoran woman in question against disrupting too many micro-habitats and "respecting littler lives".

Thank the galaxy for positive role models — they were in short supply these days.

Eventually Wrecker's hunt for someplace to have lunch brough them to one of the rain forest valley's widest, deepest rivers. It positively teemed with all manner of life. Aquatic vegetation. Buzzing hoverwing birds. Congregations of mammals and fish both near and in the water. Dazzling, multi-winged insects that bumbled, soared and glided through the air. Even a few reptiles sitting statue-still to minimize their detection.

Finally: frogs — lots of them.

Omega could scarcely contain her excitement. This is the brightest smile her brothers have seen in fifteen days. Three miserable weeks of unemployment and increased Imperial presence is now the furthest thing from her mind. Giggling in unfettered glee, she bolts for the river. A certain ARC trooper has the privilege of being pulled along after her to witness the first of many froggy finds.

Echo's a great sport about the whole thing, including the eager arm-tugging when Omega asks about catching it.

"Look, look!! It's a rufous-bellied lily-trotter! Aren't they pretty? Want to see it up close?"

"Sure. We'll look for one first thing after lunch, Megs. Sounds like Wrecker's getting everything ready."

"But– But– That one's reticulated!"

Omega's protest has Echo's full attention. Tech's, too.

"Did she say reticulated?"

"Okay, you two. What's special about the reticulated ones?"

"They're rarer than the spotted trotters!"

"Ninety-five percent rarer, to be exact."

"So can I catch it? Pleeeease?"

Echo chuckles. He knows he's in a sticky situation here. Were the frog in question a more common variant, saying no would be much easier. But this is a special situation involving a special frog. So why not meet her halfway?

"Tell you what, Omega. Tech and I'll help you catch this frog since it's so unique. Then we can show 'im to Hunter and Wrecker, and have ourselves some lunch. Deal?"

"Deal!"

The hours spent near that river went by in a blink.

A creature-catching, mud-wading, water-splashing blink.

And Tech did all that he could to capture it. Create a digital collage of these precious, candid moments. Sound bites of boisterous laughter. Images of his brothers securing some sneaky shut-eye. Short videos starring his vode — with only one or two co-starring himself.

Some of these records were for Tech's eyes and ears alone. All of it admittedly random yet innocuous material. (Perhaps a bit embarrassing at the very most.) Snippets of data largely removed from the greater context of events. To an outsider, these lacked a clear pattern. But for Tech, they were moments he was fond of for one reason or another.

Hunter pointing out a near-endless parade of animals to the others. Diligently watching their surroundings, scanning the horizon. Tending to his trusty knife. Or Wrecker's. Or the spare blade Omega had been outfitted with for emergency use only.

Echo doing little favors around the crude camp fabricated for the afternoon. Proving why he was made an ARC trooper. Clambering into towering trees with ease — limb difference be damned! Sitting for a spell where brilliant sunlight had infiltrated the sprawling viridian canopy.

Wrecker taking stock of the uneaten lunch rations, factoring them into the meal later tonight. Mock-sparring with Hunter. Coaching Omega's rock-skipping technique. Moving upstream to fish without a pole or net (or rather try to).

Finally, there was Omega. And she had dozens upon dozens of these candid little moments. Several hundred snapshots to showcase the girl's sweetness and shenanigans. Digital documentation of every trooper's envy: getting to act like a proper kid. Living free. Safe. Happy.

Little could spoil such a golden mood. Nothing could dim the pearl-white radiance of her smile. Not so long as she had (supervised) free reign here on Shili and all its many, fertile environments. Or her brothers' encouragement to fabricate a game for herself — one she bases on numbers and facts. And pictures.

So many, many pictures. These make up a majority of Omega's individualized file, in fact. Visual, high-resolution records of every last fish, frog and fanged lizard she caught. Tech gives special emphasis to the more unusual, rare, or even dangerous specimens. Together the two of them call her game Find, Catch, Record, Release.

It's not the most creative name, granted, but the game is rather self-explanatory. As are its rules, which are few and flexible. (If you could call them "rules" in the first place.) Omega was allowed to catch almost anything. If she came across something risky, Omega typically fetched one of her brothers for back-up. Other times she settled for watching from a safe distance.

An errant cinnabar leaper, for instance, was a prime example of the adage "look, but don't touch". A truly stellar specimen to demonstrate aposematism — the evolutionary art of cautionary coloring — in Tech's personal opinion. The diminutive amphibian had the most remarkable, riveting raiment comprised of romantically rusted reds and wobbly white markings. An appropriate advertisement of the frog's sheer lethality.

Tech and Omega observe it together, limiting their time to "just" forty-five minutes. By then the day was creeping from mid into late afternoon. A smidgen too early for a crepuscular frog such as this to be out in the open, let alone active. But there's no chance in hell either would pass up an opportunity to witness the leaper's natural behaviors.

Or, to fudge another of the game's "rules".

Catch a creature, redeem a fact.

This is the part of their game Tech enjoys the most. All this rowdy river-romping — whether Omega did so intentionally or by accident — doubles as an educational opportunity. Its given him another bead on Omega's current knowledge of the galaxy. An updated sense of her intelligence. Where she flourished and where she might benefit from further study. More importantly, it gives him precious one-on-one time with Omega.

For the most part.

Hunter, Echo and Wrecker would occasionally wander over to whatever muddy patch of riverbank the pair were currently mucking in to ask how they were getting on. If they caught anything interesting lately. What they were looking for next. The most recent fun fact she'd learned.

And Tech didn't mind. In fact he found it refreshing. (Refreshing not to be teased for these intellectual interests like Hunter and Wrecker had back when all of them were no older than obnoxious little cadets.) He would even say he's pretty damn grateful for the additional reinforcements for Omega's positively ravenous curiosity.

Not to mention their company.

At some point everyone more or less stopped giving real attention to the precise passage of time.

No one quite cared. Hours and minutes became meaningless measurements. The late afternoon discreetly bleeds into evening. Hundreds of rain forest shadows gradually blue and lengthen the lower Shili's sun slinks across a once azure sky. And the brothers had yet to hold a serious discussion about making their return to Ord Mantell.

Certainly wouldn't hurt to do so, not that there was real need for one. Their minds were largely made up in advance. Well before tropical songbirds put on one final performance and the nocturnal choral frogs — like the all-female crimson peeper — began their vocal warm-ups. Still, where was the harm in sharing a few of their thoughts with each other?

"I think it'd be good for her if we stayed. Good for all of us. Just for another day," Echo said.

"The idea being we return on Centaxday? I dunno if we got enough rations for that…"

"Fair point. I was mostly thinking along the lines of returning sometime late Primeday. Camp here overnight, explore some more in the morning, and have ourselves a bit of a lazy afternoon before hitting good ol' hyperspace. If we wanted to, of course."

"Ooh! Ooh! Can we camp under the stars?!"

Hunter had the unenviable honor of letting Omega down gently. It sounded like a fun idea, but they'd recently sold off the last of their Swat Shield! bug netting in order to make a few emergency credits. And all they had in terms of the next-best thing was a small supply of repellent; otherwise he'd totally have been on board with her idea.

It would be a lot more comfortable if they slept inside the shuttle. Not to mention she'd have more energy, too. Energy to catch more frogs. Or maybe go rockhounding. Or birdwatching. Or tree-climbing. Or whatever it is she wanted to do.

After Hunter put it like that, Omega was inclined to agree.

They would enjoy the quiet splendor of Shili's blue hour then make the return trek to the Havoc Marauder. It feels twice as long thanks to fatigue. Especially to Omega after all her many frog-catching, river-fording forays.

It's no surprise she's fast asleep minutes after Wrecker makes an offer to carry her. "Someone clearly had lotsa fun today C'mere, kid. I'll getcha back to the shuttle." All that energy she spent finally caught up with her.

Yet even in her slumbering exhaustion, Tech swears she looks happy. So much lighter and carefree given the opportunity to shed all of her disproportionate burdens. Successfully wrestling her attention from the vice-grip of news tickers filled with endless galactic woe. Granted the security and space to act no different than children her age. To even act like a child at all.

No concerns of contending with the Empire. Or a sixteenth day without a job, without credits. Nor facing the start of another week since leaving their brother behind on that platform; sorrowfully stomaching the complex guilt and grief that comes with a parting of ways. With missing — or better yet mourning — the living.

But for the first in a long time Tech looks at his sister unable to find evidence for any of it.

And he hoped that tomorrow would look much the same.

Author's note: Thank you all very much for reading! I started this story many months ago (roughly Nov. of '25) while taking a long and much-needed hiatus. I felt some of my favorite fictional characters deserved a little dose of escapism while enjoying some of my own. 🩷 Heavily inspired by the multiple Sunday evenings my dad and I just sat out in the wash by a well-hidden pond to go birdwatching when my seasonal depression was at its worst.

Taglist: @callsign-denmark @dukeoftheblackstar @dreamie411 @dystopicjumpsuit @msmeredithrose + @returnofthepineapple @lonely-day3636

His feet take him in your direction. Like it's so natural. Just like how he ran to the rescue once you fell off your bike a long time ago in front of his yard that he happened to catch a sight of. You look beautiful tonight, in your very own sister-of-the-groom dress, in your brother's favorite earth tone. You'd look brilliant and would simply turn heads, but apparently not tonight. Something bothers you, Rex can see that.

“Hey, you,” he says, his voice pulling you out of your indiscernible gloom. Your eyes light up at the refreshing sight of him, but only for a second.

“Rex.” You turn your body to acknowledge him. “Hey you, too.”

Your best friend nods at your glass of punch. “Wishing it was spiked or something?” He catches your weak smile at his joke attempt. “You okay?”

At the question, your guards totally crumble and are all bare for him to see. “I don't know,” you groan, slumped shoulders stripping you of grace. “Feel like lighting one up.”

“Oh come on now, none of that.” Rex’s tone turns from friendly to sharp caution. “You've quit. We've quit altogether. Don't start again.”

“I know, I'm kidding.” Despite the glam meticulously painted on your features, you still quite look like his most favorite rebellious person. You seem to take his warning seriously, your tone full with guilt for even saying that in the first place. “Sorry, though.”

“Nothing to be sorry about.” Thank god you didn't actually do it, though. Rex senses the disrupted, nervous air fuming off of you. His protectiveness kicks in, causing him to sweep the entire venue with a single swift glance before gently throwing an arm around your shoulder, slowly directing you to a quieter spot in an attempt to shield you from the world. Accustomed to his closeness, you immediately seek for his comfort, snuggling close to his person. “Why don't you tell me what's going on? You're supposed to be having fun.”

“My ex's here,” you murmur dejectedly. Rex freezes. “Turning my happy-go-lucky night straight down like”—your fingers spread mimicking a bomb going off—”kaboom-fwoooshh.”

“No way Hayden's here.” He wants to groan along with you, but he's trying to keep it low-profile here. “I didn't see him.”

You huff. “He's bringing his new girl. Pretty sure you'll see them soon. She's wearing lilac which is pretty catching to the eye, and I don't know what the hell's gotten into her head because—”

“—you’re not supposed to wear shades of purple tonight.”

“Damn right.” Rex is quite taken aback at this information that the both of you stop right by the dessert table. You take a slow, slow sip of your remaining punch. “They're so dumb.”

“Well,” he blurts out, a strange spirit of sarcasm and determination to support you in every way he can possessing him somewhat. “Fast fashion is a thing.”

“Rex…”

“I'm just saying that she's probably broke—”

You snort into your drink.

“—hence wearing something she already owns.”

You carefully wipe spilled drops of punch from your lips so as to not ruin your makeup. “Repeat wear is the hot trend, Rex.”

He shrugs, though with a tiny hint of smirk on his lips—satisfied to see you entertained, even for a second. “Whatever.” And yet he's sweeping around again to look for the cheating bastard who left a dent and nasty scar on your heart a couple of years ago.

Quick shuffles on grass signals both of you of an incoming. Rex opens his mouth to say something but Cody's smug-ass, hard slap to his shoulder shuts everything in him down.

“Evening, you two,” Rex's older brother grins.

“Hey, Codes.” You wave a little, but Cody presses a fist into your open palm. He's the same age as your brother, and both of you have a unique connection, but not as deep as how it is with Rex.

“So.” As soon as Cody opens his mouth, Rex wouldn't get a chance to say anything anymore. He just stands there. Cody persists with his domineering, sun-like presence; his tone and expression turns conspiratorial at you. “You seen the asshole devil yet?”

A deep knit forms between your eyebrows, cautious. He's definitely talking about the aggravating presence that is your ex. “As a matter of fact, I have. What’s—”

“Right, perfect.” He inhales. “Girl’s Betsie Parker—Excelsor Scholarship awardee, uncle’s in Canadian parliament, red hair's fake, and—probably deals in the streets, I don't know. Lives in a lux apartment downtown, definitely showers in daddy’s cash. Talks shit behind your back. That elegant facade is just a facade, lady and gentleman. Now, you don't hear this from me.”

You blink, still trying to absorb all that information, but still catch his drift. “What?”

Cody nods once, pleased. “Excellent. Have a rowdy evening.” He pats Rex's shoulder once again in parting, but not before throwing you a warm smile. “Congrats to your brother and his wife, anyway.”

You raise your glass at him. “Thanks, Cody. See you later.”

The moment seems to float again while the DJ resumes his slow dance mix.

“So,” Rex starts, scratching his pale short buzz. “Did all that juicy stuff make up the rest of your evening yet?”

“I don't know, Rex,” you sigh once again, not in the position of figuring out what to do with your ex situation. “I just don't wanna know about anything anymore. I just wanna get out of here and get my beauty sleep, okay?”

Rex can finally see the exhaustion that drips off of you, and the desperation to be anywhere but here. Probably taking you out to a McDonald's just outside the neighborhood. “So,” he shrugs, “Let's get out of here.”

You perk up, taking him seriously. “You bring your car?”

“Uh-huh.” He shrugs, smirking at ease. “Technically Wolffe’s, but yeah. Technically Cody's the one drivi—”

“They'll look for me, though,” you scowl, coming to realization, but not meaning to cut him in the middle of speaking. “I don't wanna ruin my brother's night by going MIA.”

Rex exhales. “Crap, you're right.”

Couples have begun to slow dancing in the center of the venue, a slow r&b tune now playing over the speakers. He watches you for a moment, your hand gently placing down the empty punch glass on the table and in turn picking up a cup of chocolate pudding. Wordlessly, you offer him a scoop of the goodness with the tiny plastic spoon. Rex hums his thanks while parting his lips to receive it from you.

“Have you danced yet?” he asks, quietly chewing behind his hand.

You chuckle, mindlessly scooping another of the pudding in the cup. “I'm not planning to.”

“But what if your brother's taking you to dance?”

“That’d be very sweet. Of course I'll dance with him.”

Rex chuckles fondly. “Of course—you’re his baby sister, after all.”

You spare a bitter smile, your eyes glancing up to get a view of the room before quickly looking back down at your pudding. You scoop one for yourself glumly. “I just don't wanna be in the same room as Hayden, that's all.”

Rex crosses his arms and steps in front of you so you wouldn't get a chance to see your ex—and the other way around. “But why'd you let your brother invite him?”

“They went way back, remember?” They're the same age as Cody, after all. You shrug, as if it's not a big deal at all. You too meet his warm amber eyes for a second, the spoon in your hand mindlessly stabbing into the pudding over and over. The forlornness in your stare remains to be seen. You sigh, not entirely giving up but probably feeling a headache already. “I don't know, Rex. I don't wanna overthink this.”

“This is the only thing I don't really like about your brother.” Because imagine if Cody would ever get married and he’d just let him invite his ex just because his brother and said ex are friends. “Just speaking honestly here.”

“It’s okay, I get it.” Your forehead tips forward to his chest, resting just right over his jacket so you wouldn't cake his white shirt with your makeup. “I know you're trying to make me feel better. I appreciate that.”

“I just like it when you're not scowling and all,” he speaks lowly, while rubbing your bare arm. Gently, his fingers tend to your askew hair. Sounds of destruction struck upon the dessert are still heard. “And um, you're ruining the pudding, by the way.”

“Oh. Oh no.” You draw yourself away from him to get a better look at the crime scene, gasping and half giggling airily at your doing—yet your eyes are genuinely apologetic. “Sorry.”

Rex stifles a smile of his own. “That's okay. Here.”

He pries the plastic cup and the plastic spoon away from your hands, and he gazes at it. A wondrous form of chocolatey mud with an unnatural scent of vanilla paste. He’d still eat it though, and he does. Passing two large scoops of chocolate pudding-slash-porridge into his mouth right in front of you to prove that he's not scared, nothing's damaged, and it's all okay.

“You’ve known me tonight,” you suddenly say, apparently intending to keep to his side. Rex is your knight in shining armor for the evening, after all—always has been, too. “How about you? Enjoying yourself?”

Rex smiles amusedly at your tiny attempt of being a host. Small talks, small things—but at least you're initiating the conversation this time. “Well, thanks for inviting me—us. Everything's great so far, until, y'know.” He eyes you knowingly, sympathy hooded over his gaze. “Seeing you sulking.”

You roll your eyes, quietly watching him tossing the empty dessert cup into the nearby bin. “Hope me sulking is not ruining your night.”

He releases a small, airy chuckle. “Come on, you? Never. Never have and never will.”

I can tell that the grass is greener On the other side, with you

They happen to be playing one of his most repeated songs now, he realizes. Rex gazes at you. Then he directs his attention at some more couples filing into the center of the venue to dance. Then at you again. It's simply unfortunate that you can't really go anywhere outside the venue unnoticed—your family would be looking for you. And he can't really shield you from all these people who knew that both you and your ex had dated each other, and now both are in the same room. They'd certainly talk, and you'd go back to your shadowy corner wishing it all to end swiftly.

It's sad. It's making him sad to see you like this. It's not about that you've moved on from Hayden after all—apparently the anger remains. Deep, hidden, and covered so well that it hasn't immediately clawed out of the depth of your emotional trench upon seeing the bastard. It's not about that, but being reminded of all that quite physically exhausts you.

Good thing he's invited. He's here right now. He's here with you. You know that Rex always wants to make things good with you, just as long as you both are happy. That's why you've never separated from each other for twenty years of friendship. You lean on to him, and he provides.

I know you care about the faults in my life Just promise me this, stay with me

“Wanna dance?” Rex blurts out and before letting the second thought get the best of him, he pushes through the unusual warmth in his stomach and offers you a hand. “It's my favorite song.”

You raise an eyebrow, amused. “Your favorite song is Strawberry Guy?”

“Hey, I listen to Strawberry Guy,” he says defensively.

He shakes his hand in front of you. You stare at it, pondering that you should take it at all. You want to, of course, but considering your mood tonight…

“Come on,” your best friend pushes again, a smile tugging on his lips. “You’ll forget that you're ever here at all, I promise.”

A choir sings an encouraging tune in your head. His offer is enticingly warm as a promised escape you so crave. It's coarse from outdoor activities like climbing and scout movement that he regularly does, but you always find the comfort in his grasp that you need that no other people has ever given you. Physically his hands are much larger than yours, and they encapsulate yours every time they are to provide you whatever that you need.

And then not to mention his hugs, you always like his harmless hugs. Either he tackles you out of nowhere, protectively snatches you from guys looking at you too long, or he just simply holds you there. You're grateful that he's always there. You wouldn't know what to do if he'd move out. You'd miss him for sure.

“Rex…”

“Everything’s gonna be okay.” See, his promises are never hollow. He always works hard to make it come true. “Just one dance. Or a couple. It's up to you.”

You blink away the wet sting in your eyes. “Promise this'll be one good dance, huh?”

His reassuring smile draws you in. “I'll try to make it to be.”

After another second of pushing away your hesitation, you let your trust in Rex take its place. Finally you lay your hand gently on his open palm—and as soon as you do, he keeps a firm grip on you, leading you slowly but surely to the dancefloor without another word.

What would I do Without someone like you?

“Just to make sure,” Rex says suddenly in your ear, once you’ve arrived, before turning around to face your front. He’s hesitating for a bit. “Just… sway, right?”

You let out a genuine laugh for the first time that night. “Yeah, just sway.” As if it's the thousandth time you've danced together, you close a considerable distance between you and place your hands on his shoulders. “It’s all about following the rhythm.”

“I know that,” Rex scowls, playfully pinching your side. You slap at his chest, giggling. He shushes you to silence, his hands finding a firm purchase on your waist. “Just not sure if I should've spun you around earlier,” he murmurs truthfully, swaying slowly to the rhythm.

Following his motion, you bury your cheek into his shoulder, your hands sliding downward to linger on his chest. “I wouldn't mind that.”

“Noted for next time.” Rex pulls you closer, leaving no space between you. “Practice makes perfect, y'know? This is, what, our second dance together?”

“Third.” Your voice is a little muffled, but even under the music he can still hear you loud and clear. “There was Aayla’s wedding, remember? First time was high school prom because neither of us could find a partner.”

He stifles a laugh in recollection. How desperate the two of you were that the both of you shared a lit blunt in joint stress, sitting on the hood of his battered car while parked on the side of some dirt road. “We were both such losers,” he says.

“Aw.” You giggle into his jacket, your fingers clinging onto its flap. “You’ll always be my loser, Rex.”

He chuckles quietly into your hair. “I’m not gonna let anyone replace you as my loser ever.”

“M’not leaving my post,” you reassure him, humming in content as he tightens his embrace.

You rise to meet his gaze and now have the courage to come up, your hands slipping upward and joining behind his neck. He can't lie that he's relieved to finally see you up and about, encouraged, natural blush smearing against your cheeks once again. The song now switches to a blend of oldies and R&B, certainly by another pop artist whose pet peeve he's familiar with. Perfect for a wedding atmosphere, a romantic ambience that he likes.

You stand on your tippy-toes (and in your heels as well) to whisper into his ear, “Thanks for being here.”

Rex stifles his grin. “What would you do if I hadn’t been here?”

“Don't be smug.” Your cheeks burn in embarrassment. “Rex. You're making me feel embarrassed.”

“Then don't be!”

His boyish chuckles rumbling off his chest causing you to cling onto him tighter. His laugh should’ve annoyed you, but for years you've had him around you makes you feel at ease. It'd be empty if he doesn't laugh at all, even. Something would be very wrong.

“You know,” Rex mumbles after a moment. “You could repeat that, if you want.”

It's not that he’s trying to embarrass you further. But he's giving you another chance to toss your intentions across. His fault. He teases you a lot and you hate him for it.

All that I can say Is that you belong with me And a dreamer should dream How else would dreams turn reality?

You lift your head so you can meet his gaze again, embarrassed flush still smearing across your cheeks, your lips pouting. “Thank you, Rex.”

Your long-time friend leans in to kiss you on the cheek, and he stays there, body swaying with yours to match the soulful music. “Anytime.”

You hum, inhaling deep in content, in the safe bubble that he creates. Safe in his arms. So far it’s only been Rex to make you feel that way—no past ex of yours could ever. Velvety deep musk flows into your nostril as you breathe his cologne, and your brain registers it as strange. Foreign, alien even. Rex is always more into vanilla and spice guy, and definitely not into Dior Sauvage FOMO thingy. He’s always found a way to be original, to be himself.

“This is not your cologne.”

Rex pauses at your protest. You can see a faint flush across his tawny cheeks. “I spritzed Wolffe’s cologne on me, don't judge.”

You scowl into his jacket, but you make sure you mean it with your stern tone. “Doesn't suit you.”

“I said don't judge,” he reciprocates, but you're quite positive he’s pouting. “I just wanna smell nicer for the evening.”

“Okay, you did 5 out of 20 for the attempt.”

“Wow. Ouch.”

No, I'm not sorry For the way that I am I'm not sorry for the way that I love Or the heart that I have

“Don't wear someone else's cologne next time,” you demand, after a while, mentally banishing the uncharacteristic musk that’s emanating off his skin. “Just be you with yours, y'know?”

Rex slowly nods, his jaw shifting against your hair as he does. “Okay, I hear you.”

A movement from him startles you—he draws himself away from you, only beginning to lift your arm. You catch his cue, steadying yourself as you spin around and land back to both your feet and into Rex’s arms.

“Nice,” he praises, grinning and somehow out of breath, perhaps from the early nervousness that you wouldn’t catch his cue and you’d embarrass yourself again—tripping over your own foot—with the music still playing.

“I want Wendy's so bad right now,” spouts out of your lips.

Rex snorts a chuckle. “Why’s there always random stuff coming from you? But hey, I can relate.”

You grin. “See? We're made for each other.”

He squeezes your waist fondly. “So true.”

No, I'm not sorry For the dreams that I dream Or the life that I live  And that's all I can say

“So,” Rex starts, softened amber pools observing you closely with a tinge of concern, still. “Is this making you feel better?”

You don’t think. The wedding is still going around you, people still make conversation with one another, the happy couple still celebrating. All you could do is to focus at the moment, at how your best friend is sacrificing his time just to be with you—to keep you safe and uplifted, to keep you from standing out in a happy crowd.

“Much,” you decide.

“Yay,” Rex says with a breath of relief, grinning, before planting yet another kiss on your cheek. The gesture positively drives a wide smile into your lips. “You’ll always be my girl, y'know?”

“Mhm.”

At the end of the night, you feel exhausted, yes—what else would you expect when hitting the bed right away after a major celebration that is your own brother’s wedding?—but Rex’s pleasant company lingers on your mind.

As well as his spur-of-the-moment promise to take you out to Wendy’s tomorrow.

🎵 Songs: What Would I Do - Strawberry Guy | All I Can Say - Kali Uchis

Taglist: @yoursrosie @hellfiresky @filamentlights @msmeredithrose @heidnspeak @lucyysthings @emmaw18 @leiopython-rat @gh0st-c0mpany @br00kthe0takuuuu @ct7567329 @returnofthepineapple @gloriousinthebattle @nymphali-dae @leannathespacewerewolf @remotelyhauntedstatue

A/N: You can request for x reader in my askbox! If you're interested in my clone x reader oneshots you can sign up as well to be tagged of future works. (Link provided ⬆️)

It came down over much of the city in a comforting, steady drizzle. Nothing at all like the "Rain on Tipoca" track she's taken to using since Mrs. Helios gifted her the amber and wood sound machine. That recording was a relentless and marching rain. Perfectly suited for covering up the constant crawl of Coruscanti (night)life beyond her bedroom window — all the speeders, air taxis and hollow hum of neon signage.

Freshly roused from a dream of trickling tide pools on Glee Anselm, Ravena hadn't taken immediate notice of the weather. She first mistook it for another track from the sound machine. Maybe she forgot to set "Tipoca" to LOOP last night. Or knocked one of the NEXT buttons in her sleep. In which case, thank goodness it changed to something so tranquil and life-like, right?

Reports from the Weather Control Station state the rainfall started somewhere in the early hours of the morning.

Not a bad start to the fifth Centaxday of the month.

The skylanes Ravena could see through the rain-streaked transparisteel panel were the slowest she'd seen them. People puttered about—no faster than Hutts—on walkways far below. Their movement looked more methodical. Felt more deliberate in light of the weather. Some walked straight, unyielding lines. Others swung around puddles on the permacrete. An unexpectedly entertaining display while she slowly rid herself of a sleepy stupor.

Sparing her bedside chrono a glance informs Ravena it's roughly half past eight. Another round of neighbors should be stirring soon. Hurrying off to work or educational academies, most likely.

She hasn't met anyone new to confirm that theory. Not yet at least. Which wasn't all that unusual. If anything, that was normal. Normal for an apartment complex. For a planet home to trillions — nearly all of whom were granted this uniquely near-sleepless environment to live by a schedule of their choosing. When to work, when to eat, when to sleep.

Ravena could freely choose a set rhythm to follow, or conduct her own. Neither option would be "wrong", per say. Wrong would be picking a schedule incongruent to her lifestyle. A topic she'd need to revisit in the near future, having moved out again. The day-to-day spontaneity can't last forever. Best to enjoy these semi-lazy mornings while she can. Ravena reckons she'll be busy and miss 'em before too long — paying for those impulsive inspirations behind not only the (eventual) change in career, but the scenery.

Half the time she looks out any given window Ravena still expects the hypnotic blue hues of hyperspace to fill her vision.

It's a humorous little hiccup after living so much of her life on a ship with her father. She's grown so used to looking out view ports. Staring at the mechanical mishmash of a clumsily-named spaceport when they needed to refuel. Mapping foreign constellations from the observation decks of whatever station welcomed weary hyperspace travelers. Those were temporary, impermanent sights. Oftentimes a 'blink and you'll miss it' type of moment.

Now Ravena has a far longer adjustment period at her disposal. The various landmarks and waypoints are, theoretically, something she can truly acquaint herself with.

Call home.

And speaking of calling home, Ravena reasoned she better get a move on if she wants to collect the new comm she ordered through Hasher before morning's end. Wash up. Find something nice to wear. Fix her something to eat.

No sense embarking on anything on an empty stomach.

Today's breakfast is simple.

And it doesn't get any simpler than instant. Ravena fills her favorite thrifted kettle with enough water for caf and porridge, and sets it down on the hotplate. While waiting for it to come to a gentle boil, she roots through her conservator. A bit of pre-sliced fruit would offer a nice flavorful punch when stirred into the porridge. Help it "stick to her ribs" as Grandmama Atea had been fond of saying. Keep her fuller, longer.

A full stomach was a focused mind.

One can't fly a ship on half a tank and expect it to perform Boonta Eve miracles. Thankfully Ravena wasn't relying on miracles. Not this morning, anyway. There's no rush to get out the door. No one place to race to. No hard-set buzzer, counter, or any other kind of deadline to beat. She plans to drop by Hasher's store before morning's end, yes, but that's about it.

Ravena knows she'll get there eventually. After she sees Hasher and honors the "silly favor" he asked for, she'll pay the Breezeway District Career Center a visit. Neither are going anywhere or due to close anytime soon. There's plenty of time to get ready. Mull through what she can reasonably accomplish before she's out the door. Think things over.

Such as looking over her lease for any renter's customization clauses. Researching the most cost-effective public transit passes. (She'll hold off on committing to one for some time — maybe until she has a fairly secure job.) When to wash her hair in the next three days. When to get it cut, too.

Hair bonnets made from silk or satin weren't substitutes for a proper wash day. Neither were her favored protective styles. Certainly not for the hair type Ravena inherited from her father and his side of the family: curly, thick, and voluminous. Not to mention a slight pain to secure under a waterproof showering cap. Ensuring every long, black curl stayed secure was often easiest when she left her sleeping bonnet in place. (Though, sometimes, only just.) There was no such struggle this morning. Ravena's hair felt cooperative for a change and it wasn't long before the second bonnet was fitted over the first.

"Whew. Glad that worked out… Wonder how much longer I can push my luck."

She knew she was at least a month overdue for a proper cut and style. Ravena meant to ask for one final appointment with her favorite cosmetologist before the big move. Gather some pointers, product lists and notes for herself. It never ended up happening. With everything going on, she simply forgot to schedule one. Ah, well…

Aunt Wyan would laugh about it with her when Ravena reached out to her later. She always had good tips to share, and never minded doing so by comm. On more than one occasion Aunt Wyan dropped whatever she was doing to coach a young niece or nephew through a hair emergency — including Ravena, many years ago. She was roughly seventeen at the time.

The first and last time she thought of giving herself a "little trim" hours before a big date. Or any important event, for that matter. (Kark, what a mess!) Her aunt walked her through fixing the "damage" over video transmission; patient and reassuring for every step of the process. She could look back and laugh about the over-liberal lock lopping now thanks to Aunt Wyan's help.

That became one of many lessons Ravena won't soon forget about a lapse in concentration.

If she was brave—or foolish—enough to attempt another home haircut, likely once she found somewhere to work, that would get her full attention.

Much like how to get the shower running and the temperature adjusted. Ravena got it running once, albeit by accident. Bumped the middle tap with her elbow on the first night here. So getting the water started was no mystery — but how would she avoid boiling herself like a fish? All of the taps were new-looking, yet unlabeled. Ravena quietly hoped she wasn't about to break anything.

Can't imagine the Troig superintendent would be too happy about that when she's lived in 4550Cresh for all of five days.

She pushes the central tap towards the tiled wall. The remaining two dials light up red and blue once the shower head is fully activated. Hot water on the right. Cold the left. An experimental twist of the right-most tap makes the light brighter. Ravena gives it a moment before testing the temperature. Barely above lukewarm.

Another twist. Another pause. A second test. This time was perfect. The warm water felt simply divine for the next five or so minutes as Ravena planned for the rest of her morning.

Once she was out the door, her first order of business was picking up the new comm. She, Hasher and Mrs. Helios were all in agreement it might be needed for the intake form at the Career Center. And since Ravena would already be at Hasher's store, what was she going to do about the shopping? There wasn't much to get. Merely a few odds and ends. Loose handful of essentials. Should she stick to the essentials? Non-perishables?

Maybe after she's been the the Center was best. Unless something truly interesting caught her eye, Ravena planned on coming straight home otherwise.

While choosing something to wear, she wonders what to expect on the intake form at the Career Center.

Did these sorts of places even use intake forms? This, admittedly, would be her first time going through one rather than simply passing by. Ravena's curiosity was far from satiated by the Breezeway District Career Center's landing page on the Holonet. She found it more than a touch too vague. Many questions left unanswered.

Was a career center similar to a Holonet café? Someplace full of assigned and impersonal terminals to use in place of paying by the standard half- or full-hour? If that was the case, then Ravena figured she may as well conduct her job search here. At her largely undecorated apartment. Save on the air taxi fares and all that.

Now on the other hand… if it was set up in such a way that Ravena was (semi)actively working with a career consultant, that was a major point in the center's favor to consider.

She quietly mused there was one way to know for sure while gathering up her things.

Crossbody bag. No comm. Credit chip to pay Hasher. Loose change. Apartment keycard. Shopping list. Rain repeller.

Before she leaves, Ravena grabs an oversized jacket after one last glance out her bedroom window. Her knitted sweater dress would keep her plenty warm indoors, but be rather inadequate at keeping her dry should the rain pick up later.

Kind of a pity she didn't have a balcony — her houseplants would've loved sitting the rain while she was out.

Safe to say the half-Dathomirian woman wasn't the only one who thought to use the morning's weather for botanical benefit.

Ravena saw a fair amount of foliage and watering cans sitting on the street along her walk to Hasher's. For the most part, potted plants had been left out in the open. Meanwhile cans, buckets and other vessels were positioned to catch the rainwater coming off the awnings. It was quite clever, really.

A curious pattern emerged street by street. Those appearing predominately commercial, a vast majority of the plants came from closely related genus or species. Oftentimes two. Three at the very most. Streets that were obviously more residential held greater variety — not just in terms of species, but also in successful care.

Ravena did stop here and there to admire a few rather remarkable leafy friends that caught her eye, but never lingered for long.

Nysillin hybrids. Ornamental shrubs. Flowers she recognized visually; their names unknown. Prickly, bioluminescent things from Umbara. Shivering saplings bearing pods the length of her forearm. Whistle-reeds and dragonsnake ferns from swampy planets like Nal Hutta. There were flickerings of quiet envy for every rare or uncommon houseplant she saw, too.

Oh, how she'd love to own a pearlescent pothos some day…

Those have been a favorite of hers since Ravena was little. And the vibrant, cascading curtains of velvet ivy — simply incredible! She lacks experience in the more delicate ivies such as the velvet and has to settle for daydreams of it instead. It's simply too expensive to ever justify buying one on a whim.

A single cutting would easily sell for two to three times the cost of a view-comm (which is 3,500 credits). A mature ivy plant on the other hand? Ravena doesn't have a doshing clue. Her best guess is that she'd need some pretty deep pockets. And they would certainly need to be deeper than those stubbornly added to the pattern for her sweater dress.

Oh, Ravena could not wait for the galactic trend of gutting a garment's function in the name of fashion to die the bitterest of deaths! Having a bag is helpful, make no mistake. She'd never say "no" to having other avenues of securing personal effects and small valuables. But pockets. Pockets are just too damn useful!

It was nice not to juggle her keycard, credit chip and her rain repeller when she strolled into Hasher's roughly a quarter after nine for an abbreviated visit. Something Hasher seemed rather disappointed yet appreciative of. The store's positively bustling with all manner of customers. Well dressed office workers. Ship mechanics in oil-spattered coveralls. People like her who skipped in off the street to pick up an item or two.

Ravena is appropriately mindful of all her pockets while also being quick to get what she needs. Just two items for the time being. She grabs a datadisc from the electronics section and heads straight to the counter once she's certain it has more than enough storage for her needs. Her new comm will be collected at the register.

The rest will wait until she's finished her visit to the Center.

Following Benduday's close call, Ravena wasn't running further nail-biting risks with her storage chip. The thought of gambling with the safety of so many messages and memories is intolerable to her. She got lucky once. And every thought of that emotionally-charged "what if…?" left a horrid taste in her mouth. The blank datadisc would become a safety measure. She could work on making copies of the chip's files by this afternoon at the earliest. Then copies of copies.

Hell, Ravena might even triplicate the most precious ones — simply for extra peace of mind.

One can't be too careful when luck is a finite resource.

Or dealing with forces beyond one's control.

Hasher is hardly shy about giving away thick plastic bags to each customer in line for this exact reason. There's no telling how the elements will behave themselves an hour from now. Rainfall can sometimes increase in bursts. Winds tend to shift unexpectedly. So the bags are meant to offer additional weatherproofing. On that note, Ravena asks if there's any chance she can get two.

In case her rain repeller ends up stolen at the Career Center, or something.

The Dug obliges. While finalizing Ravena's transaction, he draws another bag from under the counter and gives it to her along with a curious grin. "O-hoh…! This is why visit this morning is so short? And why today?"

"Thought it was best to st-start looking for a job before needing one became an urgent m-matter. Plus I wanted to see what t-the Center's like for myself. See if I like the place."

Ravena collects her things, thanking Hasher for everything. She'll pay the Dug another visit. Get the rest of her shopping list and tell him how things went. (Hopefully well.) Hasher says he's already looking forward to it.

He offers one final bit of encouragement before she makes it out the door.

"Best of luck, Vena!"

Though the landing page was an arguable atrocity, the Breezeway District Career Center itself is a well-oiled machine.

And well-oiled machines often garner themselves very loyal and dedicated fanbases.

Ravena's no exception.

She makes it to the Center by late-morning, where it comes as no surprise to find the most immediate room off the entrance at full capacity when she trickles in. What surprises Ravena more is the relative quiet. Some light conversation and electronic chatter can be made out, and not too much else. Being mindful, she stows away her rain repeller as quietly as possible. Seems only polite.

Looking around, everything is styled rather like a Holonet café. Damn close to what she expected, in fact. A large, carefully arranged room full of impersonal terminals; some longer ones had six while most were four to a table. Posters and digital marquee boards adorn the walls at median eye-level. The boards appear largely informational — many cycling through multiple languages.

Galactic Basic. Bocce. Dosh. Huttese. Pak Pak. Some Togruti. Lots of Twi'leki. Many others Ravena doesn't recognize.

All the posters are art. A few are modern and trendy. Colorful contemporaries that stand out against the muted blue paint found on the walls. The majority are landscapes. Verdant fields. Sunny orchards. Towering mountains. Swaying seas. Things of that nature. No quasi-motivational tooka kittens precariously dangling from tree branches to be found.

Upon venturing further in Ravena picks up the scent of caf and fragrant teas. Must be some beverage and snack services elsewhere in the building. Hologram signage on the intake desk, situated a little ways off the entrance, mentions something about unlimited free refills on drinks. (Good to know one could source any and all necessary caffeine here.) Positioned above the desk itself are multiple viewscreens — each displaying dedicated information.

Green Zone: 25 AVAILABLE TERMINALS Blue Zone: FULL Purple Zone: 20 AVAILABLE TERMINALS Micro Zones: CLOSED UNTIL 1300 Eatery: 15 MINUTE LIMIT

By themselves, these were a major point in the Center's favor. Everything laid out in plain Basic. It's quite refreshing, honestly. No wasting anyone's time with guessing games about availability; not when job-searching is enough of a time-sink on its own.

The Center scores a few more points at the intake and information desk. A worker seated there not only gives Ravena a promising sales pitch, but a fluorescent orange data stick, too. It contains all the on-boarding forms necessary for today's visit. Nothing too tedious. All the Center requires of her will be the first three forms — even then, they aren't looking for 100% completion.

Day one is all about easing people in. Helping folks familiarize themselves with the system. Figuring out what "square one" looks like for them.

"Wow. I g-gotta say… Almost s-sounds too good to be real."

The worker meets Ravena's understandable skepticism with a disarming smile. "We hear that a lot. So here's the second shoe. Sign-up is free. The Center only charges for three things: caf, snacks, and a small fee to duplicate and/or replace data sticks enrolled in the Lost and Found program we run. Sympathetic consultants tend to 'eat' the single credit that covers first-time losses." Even the most diligent job-diggers have a bad day here and there, they explain. Furthermore, that fee caps at five credits. The Center aims to avoid creating further financial hardship on their customers wherever possible.

Ravena now has one final question.

"How soon can I join the Lost and Found program?"

As soon as she likes, she's told. The process is a cinch! Pick any free terminal, insert the data stick, and click the big button that says 'Call Consultant'. Someone will be by shortly to walk Ravena through it. Registering with LaF increases the odds of getting the data stick back to her — galaxy forbidding it ever ends up somewhere it shouldn't.

After what happened to her old communicator, Ravena won't pass on a free safety net.

It's anyone's guess just how hellish this job-hunting process will be in the end.

Having decided where she'll go, Ravena makes her way through the Center with a flurry of emotions.

Excitement. Nervousness. Optimism. Worry. Curiosity. A twinge of embarrassment. Unrepentant wonder.

How difficult would it be to find work in a new career field here in the Core? Were requirements lax? Stringent?

From lived experience Ravena knew there were no cemented requirements, no single method to hiring in select parts of the Mid to Outer Rims. Handshakes replace contract signatures. Many conducted business by ear and intuition. A day's wages could be something other than credits. Oftentimes it was material goods, any local currency, or food. (On some of her previous trips to Tatooine Ravena had been paid with water, wupiupi, and the occasional black melon.) Knowing how to barter was invaluable. Reputation was built or broken with every (dis)honored agreement.

There was a certain kind of structure to everything that some tend to mistake for disorganization. An unregulated, lawless free-for-all. But comparatively, she lacks a solid frame of reference for how structure looks so deep in the Core. Especially on Coruscant, the heart of the Republic — no, scratch that, the heart of the galaxy.

At least the Career Center vows to withhold any judgment… Assuming the digital poster declaring as much when she walks into Green Zone is far from an empty platitude.

Ravena hoped that candid pledge was also capable of transcending any… cultural conflicts.

The career consultant currently minding Green Zone is a Dathomirian Zabrak. He's tall; perhaps taller than the troopers from two days ago by several centimeters. Arms and face covered with thin umber tattoos. Orange-skinned. Brown or black deep set eyes. And a blunted crown of short, cranial horns.

Each look at the other in uncertain silence.

Not for long, but long enough that Ravena thinks it would be best to leave. There were plenty of terminals in other parts of the Center. She'd rather not cause any tension or discomfort for the consultant if it can be helped. She turns back to the door.

"Looking for someone, miss?"

Well shit. Leaving without giving an answer would be impolite. She'd been raised better than to do that.

"No, s-sorry," Ravena began, turning to face the consultant, "I'm, uh… Well I thought maybe I s-should go to a different room."

"You're welcome to sit wherever. Devices aren't assigned." The consultant remains rather quiet and short-spoken.

People were beginning to look away from their terminals, wondering what was going on. One or two offered polite little waves. Most only stole a quick peek away from their screens. None of them appear to pick up on any kind of unspoken wariness to his and Ravena's interactions. While true neither knows the other personally, some things remain clear no matter how far away one finds themselves from Dathomir. The raspy quality of his dialect gives away he was born to a clan of Nightbrothers — thus recognizing her dialect would be second nature.

He knows. He knows she knows. And he doesn't give a damn. There were more pressing headaches to grapple with.

Literal ones, in this case.

"One small favor before you join us, if you don't mind."

"Whatever you n-need, Mister…?"

"Tah Resk. But Tah will do just fine. Shut off half the lights — controls are to your right."

Ravena obliges before taking a seat behind an idle terminal. Muttering a flat 'thank you', Mr. Resk follows it up with an apology for not shaking hands or welcoming her sooner. (The former's more of a personal thing, apparently.) He's been fighting a stubborn rancor of a migraine two days in a row. Not so serious it prevents him from working, fortunately. Symptoms will simply come and go hour by hour.

He'll help however he can, provided it isn't urgent. That said, before he takes something for the photosensitivity, are there any questions he can take care of for her now?

"Nothing that c-can't wait," Ravena promises.

Mr. Resk nods. He'll let her get settled in, then. Recommends setting a password on her data stick whenever she'd like to get started. Keep it meaningful but easy to remember.

Odds are she'll be using it a while.

I promise, unlike the real world, I won't drag out Ravena's job-hunt forever. :') Hope you all enjoyed the chapter, and thank you for reading! 🩷

Taglist: @callsign-denmark @cw80831 @delicioustacocollector + @dreamie411 @msmeredithrose @returnofthepineapple

You’re sprawled out on a hovering creeper with grease and dirt up to your elbows. The influx of clients from the latest pod racing event has tripled your workload, and while you feel the need to complain, the steady flow of credits coming in certainly makes it worth your while. Though, you’ve been hard at this since the races ended, that was nearly a week ago and people are becoming impatient to get their vehicles back.

The glimmering flash of polished steel catches your eye. You scan around the room to see where it’s coming from, noticing its source walking right up the floor of your bay. You recognize the pristinely forged beskar at first glance, knowing for a fact this guy is quite literally made of money. You turn up your nonchalance, imparting to your new client that whatever he may need, he’ll have to answer to your schedule.

“Ahem.” The new client audibly clears his throat, but the sound is slightly distorted by a modulator. You push yourself out from under the repulsorlift engine, adjusting your eyes on the T-visor above you. His arms are crossed over his chest plate as he peers down at you, and it is in this moment that you realize you should have gone the extra mile to greet him at the door.

“Oh!” You jump up so fast you end up a little light headed after recognizing who he is. “I-I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you come in.”

You try to offer your hand for a shake, but immediately retract it when you realize it’s slathered in grease, opting to wipe it on the back of your pants.

“I know you’re busy, but I was hoping you could take a look at something. My starship is making some… odd noises.” He attempts to coax you to his ship, but you’re rather keen on testing out a theory.

“You’re right on the first part, I’m not so sure about the second.” You respond flatly, hoping to haggle a little.

“Don’t make me beg.” Those words coming from him make you weak, but you stay strong.

“C’mon, the begging is the best part of my line of work.” You explain with a dry chuckle.

“Please.” He steps closer, altering the mood with his assertion. “My usual guy got arrested.”

“Sounds like a you problem.” You say, wondering how desperate for services he really is.

“It’s not like I was the one who turned him in.” Jango says, but you know better than that, giving him a look. “Alright fine, but it’s not my fault he is wanted in four systems.”

“Then I’m sure the return on your investment provided you with more than enough money to find a new mechanic.” You attempt to dismiss him, making for a crate with some spare parts to peruse through when something remarkable happens.

“It did.” Jango drops a hefty coin pouch just brimming with credits into the piled up crate you’re poring over.

“Now, why should I push you to the front of my queue?” You ask, turning your back on the substantial sum. “You’d have to pay me more than double my going rate, all of which these kind people have already coughed up in advance.”

“Trust me.” His helmet tilts towards you, making you feel small but in a good way before another pouch is set beside the first one in the crate at your back. “Money is no object.”

“I don’t suppose you have a time manipulator that will magically make all the hours I spend working  just disappear so that I don’t get behind on my other projects?”

“Sorry, the only way I’ve been known to lose time is with a fifth of Merenzene Gold and a pretty woman on my arm.” His attempt at charming you works, but you can’t let him know that.

“Nice try, pal.” You push him playfully away from you, walking ahead of him to find a damp rag to wipe your hands “I can’t fit you in.”

A third pouch is dropped on the pile and you realize he’s not going to take no for an answer. Thank goodness you’ve been playing hard to get. You could probably milk him for every credit he’s worth if you kept this act up.

You accept the payment, tossing the pouches into your personal lock box tucked beneath the counter, slamming it shut and resuming your focus on him. “So, what exactly did you want me to look at?”

“Right this way.” You follow him to where his starship is parked. Your stomach drops at the severity of its damage. 

Hull panels are shot clean off, carbon scoring stains it from top to bottom, and there are some components that you’re certain will put you on a planet-wide scavenger hunt to look for replacements. “Aw jeeze. I’m starting to think the weird sounds are the least of your worries.”

“It’s… not as bad as it looks.” 

“I’ll be the judge of that.” You start inspecting, running your diagnostic scanner over every inch. Contrary to Jango’s claims, it’s far worse than it looks, in fact. If you didn’t know any better, you’d think he was part of the races too. “Uhm… about when did you need this to be fixed up?”

“I was hoping within the next few days.” He meekly suggests, knowing the timeframe is tight “I got a gig in the Telos system that I can’t be late for.”

“Even if I happened to have four extra arms, I don’t think that would be possible.” You coldly declare while putting your scanner away

“Well, it’s a good thing I brought six.” He presses a button on his decorated gauntlet and his boarding steps creak to an open. The comedically slow revelation of your new guests causes you to chuckle, and if not for his helmet, you’re certain he’s smiling under there too.

A flock of rusty, chipper little pit droids file out of his ship and you feel the workload quite literally be lifted off your shoulders. What you said before was obviously a figure of speech, but now that you’re calculating it, you have been brought more help than you would have ever predicted.

“Does this change things?” Jango asks, knowing the answer.

“Erm, y-yeah I think I can probably make this work.” You pretend not to be impressed when in reality this is one of the kindest gestures you could ever receive.

“Good.” He immediately makes a break for the exit.

“Where are you going?” You investigate, desperate to know where he’s off to in such a hurry.

“I have another engagement.” Jango tells you steadily before placing a cylindrical comm device in your hands. “This will connect you to my personal channel. Let me know when it’s ready.”

“Sure thing!” And just as fast as he arrived, he was gone and you’re left alone with all his pit droids.

Due to all the newfound assistance, you make incredible time on his ship. You are able to be in two places at once by setting out a couple of the droids on a hunt for parts while you keep things moving in your shop. You work well into twin suns falling and all through the night. It is nearly daybreak, but you’re finished at last and way faster than you thought. 

You reward the pit droids with an oil bath while you wash the day away before heading out to the nearest bar. Your hair is still dripping as you slam a few drinks while standing in your bathrobe. The exhaustion of the day melts away like the grease in the shower. You consider calling Jango, but you leave it for later in the morning, surmising it to be too early right now.

You get dressed, tie your hair out of your face with a clean bandana and head out to your favorite hole in the wall. The walk there was fine. You get a few rounds in and make your way to the counter for another drink when a drunken squad of Nikto bikers mistake you for being a waitress.

“Hey, sexy thing!” One of them hollers but you ignore him. “Bring us another round on your way back, will ya, sweet cheeks?”

As you pass, the one causing a commotion claps your ass, causing you to drop your steel cup. When it clatters on the floor, you pretend to grab for it but reach for a tray off a nearby table instead, weaponizing it across his face. You strike him so hard, you could have sworn you saw his teeth being sent across the room. He doesn’t like this display and forcibly grabs your wrist. He rips the tray out of your hand and is about to use it on you when a whipcord stops him short. “What the-

“Goro Vesh.” A voice addresses him from across the room.

“Who’s askin’?” Goro drops the tray with a tightening of his fist as he fights against the hold Jango has on him from afar, streams of blood leaking out of the corner of his mouth.

“Tyber Zann.” He answers as his other hand hovers by the blaster on his hip. “Wants to know why you walked out on his contract.”

“That’s none of your business!” Goro’s eyes advertise his fear. Cowardice sets in and he spins and does a swift turn on his heels, taking you hostage and bound by the whipcord. 

“I’m paid to make it my business.” Jango’s fingers twitch, ready to draw his blaster. “Now let her go and maybe I’ll let you keep your arm.”

“Nice try, dirtbag!” Just as Goro’s grip on you tightens, he makes the mistake of going for his own sidearm when Jango triggers the whipcord to retract in an instant. 

You’re spun out of his grasp, stumbling a few steps away when the squelching of rupturing flesh and snapping bones calls your attention back to Goro. His arm is hanging by a thread as he screams at the top of his lungs, his voice cracking and going hoarse as he draws out every shred of breath in his lungs. Before the shock of his missing arm could even set in, Jango puts a bolt between his eyes and he falls in a pile on the floor.

The club goes silent. The band stops playing. An awkwardness only hangs in the air for a moment or so before everyone resumes their own merriment; an event that happens often enough no one bats an eye. The only people still in shock are the vestiges of his gang, vulnerable and directionless without their leader.

“Get out now, or join him.” Jango dismisses them and they scatter. He walks over to corpse and throws it over his shoulder without ceremony.

His pauldron brushes against yours and despite being a mere extension, it’s as if you grazed his bare skin. A gruff breath sounds deeper through his modulator. He tilts his head as if to pop his neck and release the tension, pausing as if waiting for you to address or recognize him.

“I suppose I should thank you.” You mutter under the cacophony of the club’s noise.

“Are you alright?” You can feel him staring down the impressions his whipcord left on your skin, feeling at fault for any modicum of discomfort.

“Oh, it didn’t even hurt.” You attempt to rub the irritation away but it lingers, giving him a torturous distraction. “I’m fine.”

“I’d love it if you allowed me to repay you.” Jango insists, adjusting his hold on the corpse over his shoulder.

“Oh please.” You scoff. “It’s not like you intended to interrupt my time off.”

“Does that mean you’re through with my ship?”

“As a matter of fact, I am.”

“How would you like to come work for me?” Jango poses the question and you truly weren’t predicting such a turn. “Personally.”

“Do I get to keep the pit droids?” You answer his question with one of your own. “I was already starting to think up names.”

“You can name them whatever you want.” Jango brushes his curled index finger just beneath your chin and you can almost hear a smile come through that helmet.

“What about my other clients?” You can’t possibly leave them high and dry.

“I never said you had to give them up.” Jango’s reassurance tells you this really is the job offer of a lifetime.

“Well, why don’t we head down to the bay and you can inspect my work, then you can see if I’m fit to work for you.”

“Good idea.” Jango glances at the body he’s holding with a demeanor of disgust. “He’s starting to smell.”

Once you both stroll your way to the shop, Jango’s boarding steps open so that he may load the corpse into his ship where it will be placed under karbonite suspension and filed away with a stack of other stone subjects in the preserver.

“Not bad.” Jango examines his ship and notices that you even matched the paint to its original shade despite certain replacements. You really went the extra mile. The intricate detailing makes it seem fresh and good as new. “I’ve never seen it look this good.”

“It wasn’t easy.” One of the pit droids rolls out from around the corner, its head compressed down the rest of its body. “They helped a lot.”

The little guy pops out to full size and takes a few steps to join the others.

“I guess you’ll be heading out to your next gig in the Telos system, right?” You declare, sad to see him go.

“I could think of a few reasons to stay.” His helmet cranes over you, an unbreakable steel barrier between and yet it’s so intimate. His breathing grows heavier. As does yours.

His hand raises slowly, pushing the strap of your top off your shoulder, his leather glove stroking your skin. When you lie your hands across his chest plates the cool steel disrupts the broiling heat growing between you. His thumb strokes the impressions still marking your skin from the incident at the club. “You know, you looked really beautiful fending off my bounty with that tray back there.”

“You should see what I can do with a spanner wrench.” You wink at him with a grin and he chuckles lowly, pulling you closer into him.

“I’m serious.” Jango’s voice turns slightly as you trace shapes into his armor, admiring each other.

“I am too.” You venture out of your comfort zone, hands trembling as they reach for his helmet. The weight of its unmoving frame shifts and a depressurizing hiss emits from the base when the seal is broken. He gasps and you flinch thinking you’ve overstepped, but he doesn’t object to your advances.

“Can I… kiss you?” You ask, feeling it necessary before you proceed.

He nods, allowing that to suffice for an answer.

You lift the helmet only halfway, stopping at his nose. There lies stubble on his chin in a chiseled shadow of facial hair. Scars paint his features. He’s incredibly handsome and you haven’t even seen his eyes yet. So strong and sturdy. His bottom lip trembles with the need so badly to kiss you. Sensing his desperation, you reach up, meeting him halfway with a perch on your tip toes.

His warm lips are soft as they mold to your mouth. It’s as if he’s not felt this close to someone before. While trying so hard to hold himself back, you can tell he wants more. An inner battle ensues with that urge to remain emotionless. Distant. Cordial.

“You know, you don’t have to pay me to do this part…” You joke, acknowledging his rigidness.

Your remark breaks the ice and he laughs. His lips crack into a smile, a set of bright and perfect teeth making a glorious appearance. “So she’s gorgeous, and funny.”

“That’s not all I am.” You push him into the nearest wall, cornering him but he’s exactly where he wants to be and immensely appreciative of your candor. “Can I see you?” 

The cinder blocks he’s stacked in his mind are giving him a cold sweat when prompted by this additional inquiry, claustrophobic amidst the unshaken restrictions he’s fortified for himself. He sits high atop his tower, estranged from others while secluded in the foothills of regret.

Though he’s convinced himself he wants for nothing, the one thing he feared the most is beckoning at his gates. His avoidance has made this harder than it has to be. His heart beats with a rhythm of its own, testing him when he thought the instinct to survive was all there was to live for. It is only now, seeing you in front of him, that he realizes there is something more. 

As his deep brown eyes peer right into your soul from beneath his beskar veil, you want to just rip this helmet off the rest of the way, but you’ll abide by your patience and wait for his admission.

He nods again, tucking his chin slightly so that he could escape the shroud before you even make another move. You are finally greeted by each other’s gaze, true and passionate. As the helmet descends, you feel Jango take it from your hands, to set it down on a slightly cluttered workbench while his unoccupied hand crawls up the length of your back. 

His hand meets the nape of your neck. His powerful grip upturns your head so that his lips could fall over your mouth. His tongue ventures past your teeth, intertwining with yours until your flavors are indistinguishable from one another. 

His leather gloves creak in your ears when he takes fistfuls of your hair. You wish to climb atop of him, pushing him harder into the wall when he thinks up an even better idea.

He reels back his kiss so that he could speak to you, struggling to enunciate through your peck placing all over his jawline and down his neck. “I hope you won’t mind my making a mess, darling.”

“You can do whatever you want...” You whisper against his lips, misconstruing the meaning of ‘mess’, thinking he meant something completely different. 

“In that case…” He starts before momentarily directing his attention to the sturdy-looking counter space within arm’s reach. He uses his plated arm to clear a space large enough to accommodate the both of you, sending all your tools, parts and components over the edge.

Everything clatters to the floor in a loud crash. His ability to take control is invigorating and your stomach is all aflutter when he deposits you directly atop the workbench surface with a frenzied slam. You’re breathless from being manhandled so aggressively, gasping for air when he starts to peel off your clothes. Thank goodness you showered. He’s wasting no time in putting his head right between your thighs. 

The cold plates of his armor sting against your bare flesh, but you’re soon acclimated when the radiating heat from your core spreads all through your body. You cannot believe this is happening. It’s all going so fast, and yet you don’t want things to slow down. He keeps your legs caged by his arms, both palms digging into your hips. He flashes a wickedly sinful look your way, before his hot mouth familiarizes itself with your other lips. His tongue spreads your petals, lapping up your nectar as it slickens its source. 

It’s a fight to hold your head up. You want to keep watching him, but every touch of his tongue on your entrance has you crying out and gripping the workbench for dear life. 

“You’re delicious…” He tells you through his southern make out before diving back in for another taste. You’re nearing the stratosphere, so high on this elation that you begin to see stars while he remains anchored to your clit.

His fervent devouring takes a thrilling turn when you notice one of his hands moving. His fingers trace the contours of your curves as they make their way to your plump cheeks. Without removing his mouth from your steaming sex, he circles your soaked entrance with his gloved middle finger, tempting the unthinkable while you lie there vulnerable at his mercy.

Your hips begin to gyrate at the notion of his invasion. You wish for him to breach your walls and claim you as his from the inside out. His stare is locked on you, that furrowed and darkened brow just burgeoning with concentration in getting you there.

Enough of his teasing. He plucks his mouth off of you, using his teeth to remove the glove from his hand. He bites down on the very same middle finger he used on you, letting not even a smear of your flavor go to waste. He sucks it clean, clenching his glistening jaw around the digit so that he can pull the glove off. All through this, he doesn’t stop looking at you for even a second.

His tongue finds your clit again. Jango shoves his articulate muscle against that little bud like there’s no tomorrow, only this time, he’s slowly sinking that salaciously used middle finger into you.

Your eyes cross at the displacement you feel within, mouth hanging wide open as he inches in a little deeper. Your hips move more erratically, and Jango takes that as your blessing to turn things up a notch.

In and out. In and out. Your walls clench and dilate around his finger while he steadily feasts on your pussy. You’re being simultaneously filled and played with so thoroughly, it’s in no time at all that those stars you see turn into fully formed galaxies as you yourself go supernova.

Your thighs clench around his head, suffocating him relentlessly as you come hard on his mouth. The curl of his finger inside presses your button at the right moment and you’re left quivering on the workbench. It’s like static ripples pass in waves over your entire being. And just when you start to catch your breath, he rescinds his contact with you.

You’ll not mourn the departure for long, watching in real time as he scrambles to rid himself of his utility belt and holsters. The chiming metal of his blasters falling on the floor advertises the weight of his ordinance and he hasn’t even dropped his codpiece yet.

As you wait for the inevitable, you beam at him with your lower half exposed. As if things weren’t hot enough, you think this is a good time to lift your shirt over your head.

“Oooh… Now that’s a sight to behold.” Jango licks his lips at your appetizing display, ripping his codpiece off once and for all and tossing it aside with a loud clang.

You prop your heels at the edge of the workbench while reaching out for the other sides, your arms apart to showcase your chest. He steps closer, hooking your leg over one of his arms to yank you closer. The creak of the workbench shifting startles you with the way it causes your heart to jump, but you feed on the spike of adrenaline and the thrill of this encounter. As he holds you in place, he undoes a clasped opening in his undersuit, freeing his cock from the confines of his clothes.

He needs not stroke himself as he’s already hard as a rock. Holding it at the base like a wand, he guides himself to your entrance, collecting some of your wetness on his plump and girthy tip. You cannot handle his constant teasing, softly begging him to spit you in half. “Fuck me… Please…”

“As you wish.” Jango ceases his intermission, knocking himself up against you so that he may immerse himself within your walls. The stretch puts his fingers to shame as he goes all the way in on the first thrust. You feel him punch the base of your stomach, igniting a burn that is impossibly scorching. Jango surrenders to his lustful desires and slams one of his hands beside your head on the flat surface for support. He’s hovering above you now, eclipsing the light that surrounds you to cast his shadow along your form. His hips roll into yours, sliding himself in and out just like his fingers, but with far more gratification. 

As he thrusts into you, his head descends farther until he’s suckling on your breasts. He’s hunched and panting and all you can do is lie there and take everything he has to give you. His suckling on your breasts morph into kisses and love bites climbing up your collar bones until he finds a home at your lips. You kiss him back while wrapping your arms around his neck. He plunges as far as he could possibly go, bracing himself against the workbench with every push and lunge. The mechanical creaking’s pace quickens and you can tell Jango is about to experience the same euphoric experience with you following suit again and again.

It happens before he knows it. Things elevate much too quickly when he realizes he’s deprived himself of this level of bliss. The power behind his thrusts grows as he buries himself into your neck, but the hot air of his breath proves to be suffocating. He pushes off of you, peering at your whole body as he makes it jiggle and shake at his will.

This is what sends him over the edge faster than your tools on the floor. Your expressions, your half-lidded eyes love-drunk on him and no one else, the way you lie there repetitively getting impaled on his cock. 

With one of his gloves missing, he uses booth hands to hold onto your stomach and concentrate on its distention as he pushes himself inside. As an added benefit to his view, you straighten your knees so that your feet are pointed to the ceiling. He’s fucking you so hard, the workbench can hardly keep up with the shifting back and forth, that is until Jango’s ballooning warmth starts to drip over the counter’s surface.

The friction inside ceases as his spend coats your inner walls. It’s sweltering as it combats with your own body temperature. Jango lets out his own shuddered moans and grunts at this climax. The cadence of your breathing matches his as you both ride the surge of ecstasy. 

Even though this is the most fun you’ve had in years, you can’t help but think that an arrangement like this with any one of your clients would harbor the possibility of making things difficult. You leapt for desire and didn’t consider the consequences. 

“Still want me to work for you?” You ask, thinking this engagement couldn’t possibly be fit for business, but you can’t deny wanting to spend the rest of your days by his side. Regardless, you’re eager to clear the air lest your heart be broken.

While still inside you, micro-thrusts keep the fire alight as if he’s ready to go another round, he asks, “When can you start?”

∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆

You hear the door zips open, and you hear firm, steady stomps of trooper boots. At first you probably think it's Rex, or perhaps Howzer. Or maybe Kix even, wanted to check in with his brother who's gone to rest at your behest.

“Mesh’la…”

Caught.

Fireball sighs loudly, a sound of disappointment and yearning just behind your person. “What are you doing?” The distance between you and him recedes with each step. His hand falls to your shoulder before it slides across your collar bone and entraps you in a sloppy hug. “You need to be in bed.”

You're almost, almost swayed by the drowsy drawl in his voice to actually hit the bed again with him in tow. But your damn brain still wants you to be awake. You set your tea mug down, and rest your hand on top of his on your shoulder, squeezing. “I can't sleep, Fireball.”

“Apparently,” he remarks softly, and you can smell more disappointment coming off of him in tiny, tiny waves of it. Your beloved plants little kisses to your temple, as if begging you wordlessly, his voice drawls adorably when he speaks. “Something bother you?”

“No, nothing bothers me.” You tilt your head, his cool skin brushing against your flushed cheek, and capture his lips with your soft ones. The notion tugs a soft, drowsy whimper out of him. “I don't know,” you whisper, honest. “I just can't.”

“Maybe just feeling a bit restless.” Fireball’s warm amber eyes meet yours for a second before he kisses you again, pouting and murmuring against your lips. “Missed you. We should be sleeping together right now. We don't get night shifts today.”

You give him a noncommittal smile, which makes him pull the chair next to yours and root himself on it. Fireball yawns. His eyes are determined when he sets his eyes on you again.

“Do you want me to fireman carry you?” Although he's smirking, there's a hint of patience in his voice. He drags the damn wheeled chair to your side and holds your hand. “Hm? Knock your lights out and drag your unconscious body to bed?”

“I will hit you,” you chuckle heartily.

“Nah.” He leans into your space again and kisses your cheek. “Not gonna hurt anyway.”

Your sweet, sweet Fireball can be very clingy when he lets his guard down. Not to the point of being insufferable as he's still got dignity to upkeep, though. And yet secretly you also crave this side of him at all times—touchy, clingy, a one-minute silence away from dropping everything and falling asleep. His hair isn't as styled as it looks during the day, looking like he only jabbed his fingers through and combed it roughly to keep it away from his face not five minutes ago. Nevertheless, he looks adorable.

“Why are you wearing armor?” you ask, scratching at a slight dent on his dark green chest plate with your nail.

“Because my armor is me, and I am nothing without my armor.” Fireball’s warm, gloved hand squeezes yours. “You know that.”

You hum, reclining back against the chair. Your mug of tea is abandoned. “It’s so quiet tonight.”

“Preferable Teth situation on a normal basis.” If not for his lingering drowsiness, it would sound like a deadpan. Fireball clears his throat, his tone quirking. The gleam in his eyes tells you already. “I have a few ideas, if you're bored. All of them include this interactive and persuasive human connection called ‘let’s head back to bed and sleep'.”

Your guilt sinks to your stomach. “Fireball…”

“Mesh'la, please.” He squeezes your hand again, using his hold as leverage to pull himself into you. The tip of his nose nudging your cheek, lips dragging lazily across your jaw to persuade you to the very best of his abilities while sleepy. His breath is warm against your skin, murmuring, almost inaudible. “Please?”

All you want to do now is to grab his face and place soft kisses on his lips. Wordless sorry’s in every touch. Fireball deserves that after you left him alone. Deep pools of glistening amber plead to you, and you can no longer resist the proximity. You kiss him, capturing his lips between yours, holding a couple of seconds longer while putting your apology at the forefront of your heart and willing to let sleep engulf you at last.

“Okay,” you concede, holding him upright by the shoulders when he seems to fall asleep for a second. Your heart sinks further. “Fire?”

He blinks sleepily. “Hm?”

“I'm sorry if I hurt you somehow.”

“You didn't.” Fireball's smile is slow and dopey with all the amount of power he's got in order to fight the sleep as he gets up and towards the door. “I'm gonna find someone. Stay here.”

And it isn't long when your private midnight solitude is breached with the sound of the door opening. Your knees prompt you to stand upon the anticipated declaration of freedom—from the impromptu comms supervision, that is—and you're just as much as taken aback as Rex is when he lays his eyes on you. Fireball is absent anywhere near him.

“Oh it's you,” the blond captain muses, eyebrows raised upon the discovery. His eyes scan over your station for a nanosecond before returning to you with a flash of concern. “Everything okay so far?”

“Um, yeah, good.” You scramble out of the vicinity of your previous seat. You're still caught off guard by the sudden presence of Rex, suddenly feeling cornered. “Ahem. Next check-in is due in 8, though.”

Rex nods his head taking that in, though he seems like he still can't put what's missing, aside that you're not supposed to be on the hour yet. “Isn't Jesse supposed to be here?” he asks then, remembering.

You swallow. “I, uh, sent him away.”

Rex visibly relaxes. An audible sigh through his nostrils, sounding almost grateful for one less thing to worry about. “Yeah, he needed a lot of rest from the last one.” He runs a hand over his face, tired. “You? Can't sleep?”

“Yeah,” you let out an awkward chuckle, cheeks flushed from the embarrassing story starter bit that put you here in the first place. “Got busted, though.”

Rex takes the information kindly with a fond laugh of his own. “Yeah?” he asks, a clear-as-crystal teasing hint in his tone. “Where is he, then?”

As if everything's on goddamn cued that makes you regret even more than twenty seconds ago—you really should've never gone out of your and Fireball's shared quarters—your boyfriend saunters into the room with another trooper behind him, the confidence in his steps is put to an abrupt, almost alarmed stop when Rex pivots toward the door.

Fireball's eyes widened, as if the drowsiness melts away entirely from his body. “Rex.”

“Fireball.” Rex arches one eyebrow, craning his neck over to catch a glimpse of silver hair just behind your boyfriend. “Sinker. What, you got pulled out of duty?”

The 104th vet sighs, turns to a defeated Fireball with a gaze that says I told you so, and pats him firmly in the shoulder. “Sorry, dude. Busted.”

Fireball pats Sinker’s back with a lazy swing of the arm, in the process of slightly shoving the other trooper away to make space in the cramped doorway. “Yeah. Seemed to be the main theme of the episode,” Fireball mumbles, nowhere near grumbling but hilariously accepting. Once Sinker's fully gone out of the vicinity two seconds later, Fireball shrugs apologetically. “Sorry, Rex.”

Rex shakes his head, arms crossed, a tiny hint of a fond smile daring to stretch his lips. He tilts his head back at you, and then at the door. “Why don't you two get some rest since neither of you are supposed to be here anyway? I’ll watch the comms.”

Without wasting time to ponder over the generous permit and volunteer, you slip past Rex and join Fireball at the door with a quick shuffle of your feet, eager to escape the teasing glance the captain is throwing at the both of you as you go.

“Night, Rex,” you wave a little, the other hand already held by Fireball to drag you out of the damn comms room. The tips of his ears are also red. “Thanks. And uh, sorry.”

Rex makes a little shoo-ing gesture at you just before the door slams in your face when Fireball finally drags you away, and swift, in the direction of your shared quarters in another wing.

“Seriously.” Fireball squeezes your hand instead, wishing that he'd grab your face and smoosh your cheeks together out of aggression. “It needed to be Rex to get you out of there.”

You slap at his shoulder blade. “Whatever.” No matter how close and casual both of you are with Rex, it's still embarrassing to go through all that literally in the face of a leadership, for kriff’s sake. “Let's just go to bed.”

Arriving at your door, Fireball pokes your flushed cheek, grinning. “Oh so you wanna go back to bed now.”

You let out a whine against his deep chuckles, ducking underneath him to key the door open, cool sheets and thin pillows waiting for the both of you. “Would be nice if you shut your cake hole.”

“Been itching to say it, mesh'la,” Fireball grins, pulling you to his chest once both of you are inside and kissing your flushed cheeks and pouting lips with a sleepy yet intense brush of his affection.

Taglist: @yoursrosie @hellfiresky @filamentlights @msmeredithrose @heidnspeak @lucyysthings @emmaw18 @leiopython-rat @gh0st-c0mpany @br00kthe0takuuuu @ct7567329 @returnofthepineapple @gloriousinthebattle @nymphali-dae @leannathespacewerewolf @remotelyhauntedstatue

A/N: You can request for x reader in my askbox! If you're interested in my clone x reader oneshots you can sign up as well to be tagged of future works. (Link provided ⬆️)

Fox stared at the data pad. It had been over a thousand rotations on this planet called the Heart of the Republic and each one of them had felt like spiraling deeper into a void.

He had come to terms to never seeing an end to this war, to never receiving the support of the people they were created to guard, to be a face shared with millions of men so forgettable they never bothered to show it in their propaganda.

Fox always assumed he would march on with the knowledge he did everything in his powers - limited as they were - to create a current washing his brothers ashore when he would eventually drown. His lungs were already refusing to draw a deep breath with the realization that he would drag them to the bottom of the ocean with him.

There was no good or bad choice, only consequences someone would have to bear. The only way out for anyone was through. There was no time to craft a plan and wasn’t that ironic, the Marshal Commander with contingency plans for contingency plans had not prepared for this. He really didn’t deserve to lead the home front. His troops would turn it into a battle field.

He read the list of orders programmed into every code’s brain one last time before hitting an unassuming little button on the bottom right corner of the com. He just signed the Guard‘s death sentence.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

Quinlan Vos had come to know the Guard as an integral part of Coruscant‘s security forces. They had filled the gaps when more and more Jedi were called away to the war fronts which were spanning to the furthest corners of the Outer Rim. They had communicated with the Temple Guard dispute the Temple being out of their jurisdiction. They had tried to create and hold up a network of support.

It was obvious the clones cared about the natborns, about the force sensitive beings, about the stray tookas and massiffs inhabiting Coruscant. They cared about protecting civilians and did an outstanding job guarding those who saw themselves above them. The commanders were courteous, competent and closed off - by extension their troops were efficient but evasive when approached about internal matters.

Similarly Quinlan hadn‘t any place on the stage filled with too many actors trying to outshine eachother. As a Jedi shadow he didn’t show up to dissolve a conflict and save the day. Sometimes he even instigated it. But he had dug deeper into the scripts the wide audience was unaware of playing out in front of their eyes. He had build connections.

When he had first dropped into CC-1010‘s office unannounced and uninvited the man had shot at him with a blaster set to stun. Without the force and anticipating this kind of warm welcome from studying the Marshal Commander‘s demeanor in the field he was sure he wouldn’t have had a chance to get a word out.

Revealing his affiliation to the Jedi Order without detailing any of it further had turned a hostile greeting into a professional talk bargaining for information. Sharing intel and crafting contingency plans turned into begrudging respect. One day Quinlan brought food to their meetings and was rewarded with a name. And that had been the start of a tentative friendship. Now Quinlan was about to lose one of his only friends.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

Bly stared at the holo screen depicting a fight he couldn’t make any sense of. The images weren’t flickering because of a weak connection to the central signals of the GAR on their side, the transmissions had been cut from the side of the home front before they had been able to reestablish communications. The blackout had lasted less than half a rotation. How had this happened in such a short time frame?

His General had felt a disturbance through the bond shared with her Master shortly before the communication had cut. She had reached out to another Jedi Bly had not heard her mention once before. He was a bit taken aback watching the image of an older man with dark hair pulled into a low ponytails comforting a clearly agitated Aayla. She trusted this man and in turn accepted trusting the force was prevalent to anything. Bly couldn’t understand the force but he understood trust so he would follow Aayla‘s lead.

The man named Tholme encouraged her to follow its guidance instead of enacting a command from a war council. Bly wouldn’t agree but when the holos from Coruscant came to live on their displays Aayla had taken one look at them, one look at Bly frozen up in his place next to her and charted course to Triple Zero.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

Fox opens his eyes slowly, he wouldn’t consider this waking up because his mind hasn’t caught up with his surroundings. He hadn’t expected to be here. He hadn’t expected to be alive. The last thing in his muddled thoughts he can clearly name is cutting signals from Triple Zero just before his comm activated without him picking up.

He tries to listen to his heart beat sure it would rush the blood through his veins on high speed but it’s strangely hard to notice. A hand grips at his fore arm and when the fuck did he lose his vambrace? His head snaps towards the hand and it’s clear the person holding on to him isn’t one of his brothers. Still some kind of recognition sparks in heart and he drifts off once more.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

The moment they enter the orbit and descent to Coruscant air space the pressure feels unbearable. Bly starts drumming his fingers on his thigh plate eyes never leaving the view outside the ship‘s windows.

The Temple is belying little of the battle that had taken place on its grounds. There’s some rubble and stains on its warm stones but it doesn’t feel as monumental as it should. The Coruscant Guard had tried to storm it not even three rotations ago. The 327th was the first battalion to make it planetside after this betrayal.

Aayla projects a calm he’s sure she doesn’t feel. She had told him over a shared meal she knew Quinlan was alive but she still felt a sense of loss. He hadn’t know how to comfort her and he still didn’t. Her companionship always anchored him so he hopes he is at least able to return the favor now.

When they finally have their boots on the ground both of them rush into the Halls of Healing. Aayla all but runs to a cot tucked out of view and Bly stays close. First he registers the vod’s missing hand. Then he registers his gaunt build and it takes another second to register the red shine to the dark curls matted to the ashen skin.

Just as Aayla reaches out to the man slumped next to the cot Bly reaches out to his brother. He was alive. They hadn’t killed him for his treason to the Republic and the Jedi. His fingers clamp down on Fox‘s shoulder and he’s overcome with the urge to shake him awake.

Taking a deep breath he looks up to the pair on the opposite site of the cot and notices the Kiffar awake. The man smiles at Aayla in a way that makes him look more alive than any other of the few time the Marshal Commander had seen him. His long locks are tied back from his face and Bly spots a read bead in one of them. He would needle Fox for details later.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

On paper the vode had been lucky, the Republic had won. But many of the Guard had been killed during the attack of the Temple. And they couldn’t hate the Jedi for defending themselves. They could mourn the loss and harbor the guilt of being unable to cut the strings puppeting them. They could blame themselves and the Commander who had chosen to protect other vode above them.

Logically it made sense to prioritize the GAR. There were millions of vode deployed and only thousands of them planetside. The Jedi in the Temple had been warned by one of their Shadows. There simply hadn’t been enough time to destroy external and internal communications because this shouldn’t even be possible to begin with. Of course the Guard had direct contact to the Supreme Chancellor and cutting it would have alarmed him. The order had come too soon for Fox to warn his Commanders and troops.

A split decision had probably turned the Galaxy’s fate in their favor but they would never be able to follow Fox blindly again. Trust once broken can never be the same. Thorn had been the one who they turned to in their confusion. Thorn had been the one to hold them together even when Fox figured out a way to defend their crimes. They didn’t receive a death sentence for being stripped of their little autonomy and used as a weapon. Still Fox wasn’t their shield anymore.

Fox had never believed in making it through the war. He had never planned for a future. Thorn had always hold on to the thought of getting time to share his life with his closest brother. Now he let go of that hope. They had won the war but still lost each other.

Leaving the flimsi note on Fox bedside in the Halls of Healing Thorn walked away and never looked back. The Guard was his to protect now.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

„For old times sake sentiment, for the love I once held for you and the honor to once have been loved by you: I will cherish the time we had. And not resent the time we lost.“