#alpha 66

99: “Can you please open this spaghetti sauce?”

Alpha-17: “Yeah, sure.”

Alpha-17: *smashes jar on the side of the counter and cracks it open like an egg then pours it into saucepan*

99: “…this is why Jango doesn’t love you.”

Stec: “There’s glass in it…”

Alpha-17: *shrugs* “It adds flavor.”

Maze, begrudgingly stirring the sauce around picking out the glass: “And texture apparently.”

Fordo, eating a spoonful of it: “Mmmm, extra crunchy!”

Muzzle, slapping the spoon out of his hand: “For the last time, stop eating glass!”

Sull: *is secretly grabbing the glass shards Maze is picking out for his collection*

Spar: *Actually ended up eating a piece of glass accidentally while they were eating*

Muzzle is feeling something he’s mentally relating to claustrophobia from being in this system so long. For the first year of the war, Maze and Fett tossed him at little problems, letting him go solo at first and then assigning him a babysitter of a LT after the little incident with Admiral Tarkin—the bastard deserved to get his jaw broken—and then a few missions later he’d gotten stuck here, leading an offensive against one of the most annoying generals the Separatists must possess.

The men that are, somehow, under him no longer cower to his glares. They ask him how he’s doing. They cheer him on.

Who do they think he is, Spar?

Speaking of that particular mess, Spar and his Jetiise should be arriving any minute. It’s hard to rail against his fate, stuck here, when this was supposed to be Spar’s life. Instead he’s stuck playing Fett’s political game, trying to keep the other Alphas from worrying too much about him. Muzzle knows better, though. Hell, even Sull and Tavo and their little clique who tried to not pay too much attention to Spar back on Kamino know.

He’s sick. Even if he mostly looks better, he’s still sick.

“Sir, the proscribed ship is approaching. They’re being directed to the docking bay,” Muzzle’s LT, Dennis, says, looking more anxious than usual.

Muzzle barely spares him a glance and heads off to the docking bay. “Medics on stand-by?”

“Yes sir, just like last time.”

Spar’d come by last on one of Muzzle’s first missions with Dennis. Muzzle may have…overdone it, if his LT’s remembering it so well. “Good.”

Muzzle waits in an appropriate parade rest as the ship ramp comes down, but any view of him as a stern ARC is absolutely smashed by the way Spar comes flying down the ramp and nearly tackles him to the ground. It’s absolutely done in when he hugs Spar back. “Su cuy’gar, shebs,” he mutters.

Spar laughs, loud and joyful and a little forced. “Su cuy’gar, al’verde,” he retorts, dropping back to the metal floor of the docking bay.

Muzzle grimaces. “Who are you calling al’verde, eh?”

According to our information, nothing has come in.

But Alpha 17 went to General Tii and the Kaminoans to "ask" about new informations.

Muzzle / A-66

Fordo: *Bolts upright* “FUCK!”

Maze: *Falls out of his bunk* “SHIT!”

Stec: *Jumps up from where he was asleep at his desk* “Oh god, oh force, Prime’s gonna hand us our asses on a plater for this one!”

Tavo, Aven, Nate, Mar’ek and Sull: *Feverishly getting their things together from around the barracks*

Spar: *Staring down at the floor in a forlorn haze of sleep deprivation* “Would it be wrong to throw myself off the highest platform into the ocean?”

Muzzle: “Wait a second, hold on, we graduated arc training 2 years ago! We’re grown troopers! Plus Fett’s dead We don’t go to training anymore!”

Everyone: *Nods and murmurs in agreement before going back to sleep.”

Trantos: *Bolts up at mock speed* “WE’RE THE TRAINERS!!!”

The other alphas: ???

Spar: “I saw a beetle.”

Muzzle:”…”

Muzzle: “…And?”