#commander doom

“But what am I supposed to do with all of them?”

High Kakistarch Dysticus Margeinlis was a twitchy, nervous, anxious wreck of a Mordageen. Unusually bulky, with muscle clearly shaped for looks instead of indicating any level of strength, he wore the regalia of his office (marks of shame on Mordagon, for the most part) very loosely, as if he hoped that they would one day fall off and go away without him having to take any affirmative step to make it so. This could be said to summarize his entire philosophy of ruling and, indeed, of life. The rare times he actually made a decision tended to be motivated by his love of gambling, a love that existed only when he thought he was likely to win; any level of uncertainty, by contrast, made him start to sweat profusely and speak very quickly, his already irritating voice escalating into a shrill whine.

Unfortunately for him, he was also terrible at estimating any sorts of odds.

Having worked with the High Kakistarch a few times on administrative matters that Anacrid had declared himself too junior to authorize, Appo had concluded that Dysticus was perfectly suited to his position as Mordagon’s "worst possible option".

“Nothing,” Appo said dully. Perhaps he would have previously mustered up some level of patience with Dysticus, or at least scraped up the bare minimum of respect necessary for a natborn authority figure, but he had used up all of his available emotions. “You don’t have to do anything with them. They are not your concern. They are free to do as they like.”

“They’re my problem because they're on my planet. As citizens of my planet, no less! A whole dank farrik battalion of clones –”

“A standard GAR battalion is twenty times the size.”

Dysticus paused his rant, not having expected an interjection. “A what?”

“They are not a battalion,” Appo explained. “They are five percent of a battalion.”

“Oh. Well, there’s still a lot of them! An awful lot of them!” Dysticus continued, having clearly realized that Appo (or "Kal" as Dysticus had officiously judged himself intimate enough to call him) wasn’t planning on adding anything of actual value to the conversation. “And I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but they’re not exactly what I’d call the calm and sedate type! I don't care what type of training or engineering the Republic says they've got. In the end, they're still clones of your boss, and, no offense, Jango Fett is the biggest asshole I've ever met!"

Appo genuinely had no idea whether Sergeant Skirata would have taken offense at such a statement. He certainly did not, and would not even if he’d been functioning at full capacity. Since at present he was mostly going through the motions of duty because the alternative was even more unthinkable, he was particularly unperturbed.

Unfortunately, Dysticus took Appo’s silence as agreement and continued enthusiastically to expand on his theme with a number of derogatory epithets covering Prime, clones, the Republic at large, Mandalorians in general (his dear friend “Kal” obviously excepted, being an unusually fine specimen, etc. and so forth), and, for that matter, his own planet of scumbags, smugglers, and ungrateful skrug-suckers that had recently nominated him to stand for a new term of office (his appeal was pending).

“– and anyway, just so you know, Anacrid tells me they’ve already started making trouble!”

“I didn’t say that!” squeaked Anacrid, who was required by both parties to be present for all meetings and utterly miserable with it. “I just said they sent a note!”

“A note asking to do work!” Dysticus threw his hands wide, as if that had made his point. “The only thing more dangerous than a soldier is an unemployed soldier, and the only thing worse than that is an unemployed soldier with a work ethic! Now tell me, Kal, what am I supposed to do with them?”

“Give them work.”

Dysticus spluttered. “Work! Work! I don’t have any work to give out! The only proper jobs on the whole kriffing planet are at your A- your Aurek – Aurek-oh-oh – at your company! And I’ve already promised those to people!”

He paused, as if waiting for Appo to say something.

Appo didn’t see that there was anything in his statement requiring a reply.

The silence stretched on awkwardly for another few seconds, but as Dysticus was constitutionally incapable of winning a face-off with a rodent let alone any higher order species, he unsurprisingly broke first.

“I mean, I suppose I could give them some other work,” he grumbled. “Some shady stuff, if they aren’t feeling too honorable or anything. Sithspit, do clones even care about things like that? How would I even start to know something like that..?”

“I’m sure we could find something,” Anacrid put in hastily before Dysticus could distract himself with another rant. “There’s always a big job somewhere, right? Something someone needs a few bodies for and isn’t feeling too picky…”

He paused, and his already slightly bulbous eyes went even wider as if he had just realized something terribly wrong with what he had just proposed.

“Not that we’ve got to use them for anything like that,” he said very, very quickly. “There’s no rush, no –”

“That’s a great idea!” Dysticus exclaimed, clearly having (somewhat more slowly) gotten the same idea, only to sail straight over whatever Anacrid’s reservations against it were. “Some of them have got to know how to pilot, right? We can give them the secondary smuggling routes! The more routes we have people on, the more likely the product makes it through the blockade, that’s the way it goes. Am I right or am I right?”

“High Kakistarch, with all respect, I don’t think that job is entirely the right fit –”

“Why not? It’s perfect. They’re perfect! The drop-off’s in Mandalorian space anyway, isn’t it? These clones, they already move like they’re Mandos. Just dig out some cheap durasteel, tart it up, cover the faces, everyone’ll think they belong there – no one’ll ever even have to know we were involved –”

“Boss,” Anacrid hissed. “He’s a Mandalorian!”

Appo continued to wait for someone to address something relevant to him.

“Oh, Kal doesn’t care,” Dysticus declared grandly. “He’s a stone-cold bastard only in it for himself. Can’t imagine he’d have signed up for the Republic army if he wasn’t! We’ll give you a cut of the proceeds, Kal, just as long as Fett doesn’t hear about it. You won’t tell him, will you?”

“No,” Appo said, and cut the call.

He didn’t want to think about Slick right now. Or Prime, for that matter, even if he was too dead to care.

He didn’t want to think about anything right now.

Appo got up and started walking. He had duties to attend to.

Well, sort of. He was technically only on half-days at the moment - that had been the price Kix had extracted from him in exchange for the sedative Appo now required to sleep and not telling command exactly how badly he was doing. Kix had originally wanted Appo to go on full medical leave, but Appo had explained that a complete absence of work, currently his sole motivation for continuing to get up in the morning, was likely have a counterproductive effect.

Kix had not liked that. He had liked Appo's requirement that he come up with a different reason for his leave even less.

(Mourning wasn't an acknowledged reason for leave, not for clones. Anyway, it couldn't be mourning because Appo's boys weren't confirmed dead, Kix. Protocol dictated -

Appo, you are my patient. Please stop making me want to punch you. I know you well enough to know you're doing this on purpose.

Fine. The real reason couldn't be shared because General Skywalker would try to talk to Appo about it, and then Appo would have no choice but to attempt to use the General's lightsaber to put them both out of their respective miseries.)

Kix had put down "post mission stress" as the reason, and he'd looked sour about it the entire time.

While this unfortunately did not prevent General Skywalker from hunting Appo down to provide his misguided form of sympathy and comfort, it did mean that Appo was spared from having to discuss the fate of his boys. The subject of their little chat remained focused on the general untrustworthy bastardry of Captain Tarkin and his overall wrongness on all subjects, ever, and specifically Appo himself – and furthermore, that Appo should, while absolutely taking whatever time he needed to recover from the mission, definitely not lose any sleep over Tarkin’s threats about talking to the Chancellor, as General Skywalker had his own connections there that he would most certainly employ in Appo’s defense.

Appo politely requested that General Skywalker not take any affirmative action on his behalf, as there was always the chance that Captain Tarkin might simply decide to drop it.

“Unlikely,” General Skywalker muttered darkly. “He’s the type of bear a grudge, if I had to guess…are you sure? I don’t mind calling the Chancellor –”

Appo reiterated the lack of necessity. For good measure, he reminded his General that he had stopped talking to the Chancellor for a little while over the whole Senator-on-the-Venator thing.

“Oh, the Chancellor isn’t the sort to make a fuss over something like that. He’s a good man. I’m going to talk to him when we get back to Coruscant anyway, so it wouldn’t be any trouble to –”

Appo firmly restated his position on the subject.

“All right. If that’s what you want.” Instead of leaving, General Skywalker shifted his weight from side to side, for a moment resembling the awkward adolescent he had been at the start of the 501st’s deployment more than his usual present façade of unbridled confidence. “Uh, Rex said that you were going to help on the – uh – internal investigation –”

“I will devote my full efforts to identifying any leak that might put Senator Amidala at risk,” Appo reassured him. “Pending Captain Rex’s approval, I will also share with you any leads that the investigation generates.”

“Thanks, Appo. I appreciate – hey, what do you mean ‘pending Rex’s approval’? Why wouldn’t he approve?”

“Given the narrow group of potential custodians, the identification of any lead whatsoever may be tenuous, implausible, or politically sensitive, sir. It would be inappropriate to risk spontaneous action based on such uncertain footing.”

“In other words, I leap before I look and you don’t trust me not to overreact and stab someone important,” General Skywalker said dryly. “C'mon, Appo, I'm better than that -"

"Even on matters relating to the Senator?"

General Skywalker's face abruptly crumpled, despite his best efforts to maintain an insouciant demeanor. He was no doubt remembering all at once that he was no longer in such a privileged position vis-à-vis the Senator now that she had put an end to their romantic entanglement.

Appo ruthlessly quashed the spark of empathy that sprang up within him at the reminder of how much it hurt to be rejected by those you loved, no matter how reasonable, logical, or entitled their actions might have been.

Why do you have to be –

"Yeah, well, maybe so," General Skywalker mumbled, and swiftly made up an excuse to leave. Likely to return to the training salles that he had been haunting in an effort to be so physically occupied that he could temporarily forget about the situation – which had still not been fully resolved, according to a highly bitter Sabé, but which appeared to be rapidly heading to a “once and for all” crescendo as the Resolute’s planned return to Coruscant drew near.

Apparently the “we can still be friends” stage was proving painful to the General and Senator both, and the Senator had proposed a temporary cessation of all interaction to allow them both a chance to “heal”.

General Skywalker had presented his arguments against that state of affairs, insisting that there was no reason they couldn’t simply behave like adults, and the Senator had agreed to take the idea under advisement. The two of them therefore existed in a state of horrifically awkward limbo in which they would alternatively act as though they were either the closest of companions or else total strangers, but in all cases and at all times awkwardly and viscerally aware that they had previously engaged in sexual relations they now wished to deny.

Appo had inquired with Sabé whether now would be a good time to offer his services in navigating bureaucratic systems with respect to processing their actual on-file divorce. She had laughed until she’d cried, said, “I see why Cordé likes you so much”, and then finally suggested, gently, that he give it a little bit longer before raising the suggestion.

Appo suspected she was right.

“Orange rations again? You’ve got to be kidding me,” the clone down the hallway said to his fellow. “Aren’t we near a processing site? They’re doing it on purpose –”

“ – keep dreaming about bugs,” another one confided in a friend. “The big gristly ones –”

" - hear we're going back on the front line after the escort ends. Maybe even join in a counteroffensive -"

“A bounty? On a clone? Echo, I love you, but you’ve clearly been awake for two shifts too long –”

"You won't believe this, but scuttlebutt says -"

Appo continued walking, trying to ignore the people around him. He had been persistently experiencing the feeling that his consciousness was not tied to his body, but rather floated a step or so behind, rendering him overly sensitive to noises and input he would typically have been able to filter out as background. Every single sensation felt like a physical assault: the light was too bright, his perfectly fitting kit somehow too tight, and everyone's voices were far, far too loud.

It was highly unpleasant. But it was still better than thinking about -

Rejected.

"It'll be good to get something real again. Not more of this half-assed barely-even-bodyguards taxi speeder escort shit -"

"- then the Mon Calamari said to the Aves -"

"I don't know, I think the new specs are a beaut. Certainly a step up from the last version -"

"Please, a vigilante protecting clones is less likely than a nerf learning to surf -"

" - seen the holonews? They're saying -"

Appo diverted his path briefly to take several deep breaths.

It was not effective in stopping the feeling of escalating distress, but it was useful in maintaining ongoing equilibrium in the face of ongoing stressors, or so the Mandalorian medic that had originally taught it to Appo had said.

Of course, the medic had said lots of things, and on matters unrelated to medicine had not always been right. Appo had been grateful to them for teaching him how to manage his intrusive thoughts, but confused by the way the medic had seemed to think that providing help (as per their profession) established some sort of standing positive relationship between them. It had not involved any sort of expectation of behavior on Appo's part, at least, which had been a relief - even back then, before everything, Appo had already known that he would only have disappointed.

The medic was one of the reasons Appo had a list.

Thire had helped Appo with the list, the first version of it. He had felt very strongly about it, arguing spiritedly with their batchmates that being a trainer's favorite created no obligation on the side of the clone. Sure, it might generate some feelings, clones were only human and kindness was rarer on Kamino than a day without rain, but a clone should never allow themselves to be so deceived as to think that mere favor indicated genuine care. Certainly not anything as mutual as friendship.

Appo had considered the question at length before concluding, regretfully, that Thire was right. After all, for all their kindness, the medic had never even bothered to tell Appo their name.

Still, that didn't mean Appo wasn't grateful. On medical matters, the medic had been most helpful.

"Hey, boys, I've got a datapad! Come look -"

Why did people have to be so loud?

Appo diverted his path and avoided the group of troopers crowding around each other to more effectively gawk.

It wasn't just the painful noise or mourning-induced misanthropy. Appo had duties to attend to. Important duties.

When he had nothing else, he still had duty.

Take Rex's investigation, for instance. Appo had positioned himself in an important supporting role primarily with the goal of acting as an impediment, but in fact the work had proven unexpectedly compelling. With such a limited group of suspects to focus on, Appo had been able to really devote himself to diving into previously unexplored levels of detail, tracking every outgoing call or communication or possible leak.

None of it had gone anywhere, not unless there were unexpected legs to Rex's latest harebrained suggestion that the Chancellor's personal Chief of Staff had actually been pursuing a side line in Separatist information dealing instead of the more probable, albeit more horrifying, possibility of carrying on a flirtation with the head of the Senator's personal bodyguard. Still, studying the way information flowed - like water seeping through all defenses to reveal unexpected cracks - was interesting, insofar as anything was, and Appo had the suggestion noted down to target in his next deep dive search.

Of course, that wasn't all he was doing.

Not A000040. That project, precious as it was, was being left untouched at the moment. Appo had briefly entertained and then dismissed the self-indulgent lie that he was avoiding it to minimize the risk of drawing Rex's attention to it during this time of heightened scrutiny. He had known too well that that was false.

No, Appo was avoiding it because working on it made him think of his boys, and thinking about his boys was enough to trigger a panic attack. Quite literally, even: Appo had been rendered nearly insensate with sobbing the one time he had tried to open up the files, only to discover a new program the enterprising Chopper had developed that was designed to identify, locate, link-up with and reallocate funds from inactive project accounts (anything not drawn upon for the duration of the war, at minimum) that had presumably been given a source of funding and then forgotten. It was precisely the sort of creative thinking channeled into practical ends that Appo most appreciated, and he had known at once upon looking at it that Chopper had made it for him.

So no.

No A000040. Not right now.

At least not until Appo had received final confirmation of his boys’ fates. Official verification had been oddly elusive to date, tormenting Appo with the infinitely miniscule sliver of hope that at least some might have survived - he did not dare contemplate the possibility of all. Hope and then disappointment would only strike him all the worse. Though even a partial loss would be devastating, as he cared so much for them all…

"Riven," Appo said, catching sight of his fellow sergeant. "Walk with me."

He didn't bother asking if Riven was free. It was clear that he was, given the way he'd been tucked in a corner with Hester and Oodles. They were all standing next to the caf machine holding cups of what should probably have been caf in their hands, though noticeably the smell emerging from the mugs was suspiciously closer to the output of the Resolute’s illicit sill.

Anyway, Appo's schedule had Riven listed for downtime right now.

Riven peeled himself away from the others and jogged to catch up with Appo, who had continued on his way down the hallway.

"Hey, Appo," he said. "Have you heard -"

"I've arranged transfer orders for your boys," Appo interrupted, not at all in the mood for the inanities of standard small talk. "The new squad."

The half-smile on Riven's face disappeared at once as he settled back into sober focus. "Transfer orders? To where? They're doing better, but they're still not battle ready. You've seen it yourself."

Appo had indeed observed it with his own eyes. Riven's new squad – Lief, Rocket, Max, Aspic and the gaping hole where their fifth, Ironside, had once been – was no longer unable to get up in the morning, and no longer gazed at each airlock as if wishing they could just walk out, but the fighting spirit had thoroughly gone out of them. They grew fretful at the sight of their standard issue weaponry, training brought them no joy, and panic attacks or depressive episodes remained common. Despair and the exit ramp were only a few small steps behind them, and Appo knew too well how often a recovery took you backwards before you could continue forward.

Appo could hardly blame them. They had been a mixed squad already: all of them survivors, the whole batch recombined from the remnants of their original squads. They had overcome that dreadful hurdle, dug themselves out of the pit of low morale and managed to rebuild a bond with others who had similarly survived, only now they had once again lost their sergeant and a fellow batcher, too. And under particularly terrible circumstances, too…

Just like -

Intrusive thought. Rejected.

Focus, Appo.

"I've made arrangements with a division of the Coruscant Guard," he said, opting not to explain that the arrangement in question consisted only of his original high-level discussions with Fox, who was very unhelpfully not answering his comm for even long enough to arrange anything more concrete or specific. "I anticipate that we will be returned to the front line after our leave on Coruscant, and it would be best to get them out before that happens."

Out of time and better options, Appo had input the authorization for the transfer order under the symbol that was meant to indicate a Guard captain (they didn’t seem to actually exist). It was shoddy work, by his standards, since it presupposed the existence of the Strategic Redeployment Procurement division before he’d managed to confirm that it had been formed. Still, the Guard records were in such a disastrous state following their decimation that any timing discrepancy would undoubtedly be assumed to be an error and rapidly wiped clean the next time Guard command did their reconciliations.

He still wished he'd done it better, though. Cleaner, neater, more accurately. Though that would require Fox or Thire or any of the Guard to answer their comms already…

They're avoiding you on purpose. They have bad news, and they know it'll trigger you - that's the only reason for their silence. Because they know you can't handle it. They know –

Intrusive thought. Rejected.

"The Guard? Are you sure?" Riven chewed at his bottom lip. "I never got the impression they were having an easy time of it back there - and they're usually pretty elite, too. Shock troopers, mostly. Would they even be willing to take them?"

"Yes."

"Yes as in - oh, yes to both. Right. Right, you said the orders were already being processed…” He shook his head. “The Guard. Right. Hey, you know someone in the Guard, don't you?"

"My batchmate."

"Right." Riven exhaled. "You sure about this?"

"The Guard is in charge of supporting the Senate and HQ in addition to their standard duties. Your squad will be primarily or even exclusively focused on flimsiwork support, at least in the first instance," Appo explained. "And afterwards, once an appropriate interval has elapsed, I have arranged for them to be retransferred to a more appropriate deployment."

Namely, Mordagon.

Mordagon, and freedom.

"That sounds - yeah. That could work." Riven looked deeply relieved. "Thanks, Appo. Both for putting it together and for the heads up. I'll go tell them that this is in the pipeline…and what about you? You doing okay?"

"No." Appo observed Riven's frown. "I've already spoken with Kix."

"Yeah? And what'd he say?"

You know this doesn't work if you refuse to talk to me, right? I'm trying to help. But you have to let me.

"Nothing of value," Appo said shortly. He had explained to Kix that the full issue causing him such distress was highly classified (unlike what had happened with his boys, which was public enough for speculation), an argument Kix had found particularly disagreeable but which was nonetheless true.

"How about your batchmate? The one on the Guard, what's his name -"

"Thire."

"Thire, right, Thire - wait, like the commander?"

Appo decided not to answer that. It wasn't that Riven was foolish or oblivious; he'd just gotten so used to rooming with Appo that he'd forgotten about the whole CC thing.

Leaving Riven behind, Appo continued on his path, trying to review all the things he had to do. It was oddly difficult. Everything kept slipping away…he was tired, perhaps. He was sad, and he was tired.

He briefly considered the mess hall, but decided against it: there were too many people in there, most of them crowded against the projection screen that was supposed to be used for mission critical internal comms but which had been sliced and tuned to a holo channel instead. It would be unbearable.

Though surely Appo should be getting used to the unbearable by now. Hadn't everything lately been unbearable? Had he done anything recently except suffer, and worse, suffer alone?

No boys. No plan. Not even Thire. No calls from anyone on Coruscant: not Thire, not Fox, not even Boba…

Appo diverted his steps yet again.

This time, though, he went deliberately to a private room, locked the door, and called Doom.

He had expected a wait - Doom was a commander, after all, and far too busy to casually answer personal calls - but to his surprise, Doom answered almost immediately.

Equally surprising was the fact that he wasn't wearing his bucket.

Doom almost always preferred to wear his bucket. He'd broken his nose during a training accident. The medic reviewing it had nonchalantly told him that it would never be the same again, a permanent disfigurement; it had caused their whole batch quite a few sleepless nights, all of them terrified that Doom would be decommissioned as a result of his irreparable injury. In the end it had all been fine, as the medic had undoubtedly known and told the Kaminoan supervisors: it had healed without any impairment in function, with the only difference being that it was no longer quite the same shape.

Of course, among clones, a (permissible) difference from the standard like that was immensely prized. Doom had immediately been catapulted up to the top ranks of the clones deemed the most attractive by the wider clone population, a place he continued to occupy and disdain. Unfortunately his refusal thereafter to casually show his face had not helped. Doom had reported, resentfully, that it had only been seen as adding an appealing "mystery" to him.

Thire had found it hysterically funny.

Doom, being a stubborn bastard, had refused to change his approach one bit.

"What happened?"

That was Doom all over, Appo reflected appreciatively. No time wasted on small talk.

"Doom," he said. "You're not wearing -"

"I am at dinner," Doom cut him off with the explanation. "But what about you? You are not well."

"No," Appo said, surprised. "How did you know?"

"You called me."

Right. Appo - generally didn't do that.

How strange. Normally whenever Appo thought about reaching out to anyone, especially his batchmates, he agonized over the decision. He questioned and second-guessed himself, reminded himself that he was only a sergeant and they commanders, tormented himself with the knowledge that they were better off without him and he was simply too selfish to let them go - but not this time.

Appo had felt bad, he had wanted to talk to Doom, and so he had called him.

No more thought to it than that.

How strange.

"Appo? What's wrong?"

And all of a sudden Appo was choking on the flood of feelings that welled up from his chest and filled his throat.

"I am -" The words wouldn't come. "It's not -"

"Tell me."

"There's nothing you can do." Appo's hands were shaking again. Unhelpful. "I don't know why I called. There's nothing you can do to help me."

Doom hated being helpless. He hated it. Appo didn't want Doom to feel bad.

"I am pleased that you called," Doom said. "Even if I can do nothing. Even if I will feel frustrated. I do not care. Tell me. Please."

"They still haven't sent the official confirmation," Appo blurted out, because that was the easiest. "They still - I have to have it. I can't file anything for them without official confirmation. And it has to be me that processes it, I have to be the one, I want to be. It's the least I can do for them before he reports me and - "

"Hold up, stop. Appo, stop. You're spiraling. Official confirmation of what?"

"My boys," Appo said, and he had been numb all morning and he wished he still was. It would be better than this. "My boys. My Aurek and Besh squads. I assigned them - I ordered them - they were on Coruscant. As Senator Amidala's escorts -"

"The explosion," Doom said, and his face twisted with grief. Grief and understanding. As a commander, Doom lost men every day. Good men, beloved men.

Knowing that didn't help.

"There's no official confirmation," Appo explained. "So I can't process it. The flimsiwork, I mean. I haven't - I'm going to be reported. There was a mission. The Citadel, Lola Sayu -"

"I heard about that. You, Cody, a handful of troopers and three Generals escaped an inescapable prison and reconquered an entire Seperatist planet."

"I stalled," Appo said miserably. "Captain Tarkin - he ordered me to sacrifice my men, and I stalled, and he knows I stalled, and now he's going to report me to the highest levels. They will punish me. And then I won't be here to process the death notices and I need to be here to process the death notices -"

"The overall mission was wildly successful," Doom pointed out. "Any accusations of malfeasance on your part, which I supremely doubt, will not be heeded given the overall result. They don't court-martial people after a victory, Appo. They just don't. Not for anything less than active treason."

Was Appo engaged in active treason? It seemed unlikely, given everything he knew about himself, but at this point he was so distraught that it didn't seem completely out of the question. Maybe he was and just hadn't noticed, somehow. But then it wouldn't be active treason, would it? Passive treason at best. Was passive treason even a thing? Had standing by and letting Bossk hit Tarkin count? What about all he was doing with Slick and the others –

"Appo. Focus. I can see that you're spiraling again. You need to stop."

"I can't," Appo said. "Stop, I mean. I can't stop thinking. Not like normal. Normally I stop thinking and keep moving, but this time it's the opposite. I can't stop thinking. I know it's highly unlikely that they survived, but no one has confirmed they haven't. So there's hope. But on the other hand, if they survived, why won't anyone confirm it? It's good news. People like to share good news. So why won't Thire take my calls? Which means it's got to be bad -"

"Thire?" Doom interrupted. "Thire won't take your calls?"

Appo nodded, despondent.

"Now that is simply not right," Doom said firmly. "Thire would never reject your calls unless he was in crisis or under orders."

Appo considered this. The notion seemed seductively accurate.

"Yes," he agreed. "But then it must be orders. From Fox, perhaps? Fox hasn't been answering either -"

"Which Generals are located on Coruscant right now?" Doom asked.

Appo stared at him blankly. He had no idea. He supposed he could go look it up -

"That was not directed at you, Appo," Doom clarified. "I'm asking my Jedi."

Appo felt a faint chill run up his spine. "Doom," he said. "They're not in the room with you, are they?"

"No," Doom said, and Appo was just about to breathe a sigh of relief when he continued: "I know you prefer privacy, so I went into the sonic to take your call."

Appo didn't even know what to do with that. Doom had been having dinner with his Generals and he had interrupted it just to take Appo's stupid useless call that didn't even have a military reason to use as a pretext -

"Appo. Spiraling."

"Justified spiraling."

"Not justified. Trust me to know how to manage my Generals - you have the list? Let me see…" A thin very obviously non-clone hand and arm briefly dipped into the holocall view range, holding a datapad. Appo wondered if having a heart attack was a reasonable reaction. "Gallia, Mundi, Vos…Vos? What’s Faie's general doing on Coruscant?"

"Knowing Master Vos?" A softly accented voice replied. "Being a jackass, probably."

"Tiplar, that's not kind."

"No, Tiplee, but it is accurate."

"Generals," Doom said firmly. "Please. This sonic isn't big enough for the three of us."

The two Mikkians laughed. A moment later, Appo heard the sliding sound of a shutting door.

"They're gone now. You can stop looking like you're going to keel over."

Appo wondered what it was like, knowing a General that well and not wanting to kill them. Or maybe Doom did and just suppressed it better? Or maybe close quarters made him want to kill them more. It seemed impossible to say. Appo mostly didn't want to kill General Skywalker these days, or at least not with his conscious mind. But the occasional intrusive thought seemed inescapable…

"I worked with Faie's general before," Doom said, and Appo dragged his scattered thoughts back together to focus on him. "Do you recall? With the -"

"I recall," Appo said hastily. He didn't want Doom talking about the Emberlene mission, or the origins thereof, when his Generals were within earshot. "What about him?"

"He's a maniac for confidentiality. Everything under highest levels of secrecy. You remember, I told you. If he's back on Coruscant in his capacity as investigator, I would wager he's gone to ground with the Guard, and locked down all their comms just in case."

Appo thought of Tarkin and winced.

"How would we know?" He asked. "If that's the case…"

Maybe Thire wasn't avoiding him. Maybe it wasn't because of bad news. Maybe his boys -

They're dead and you know it and it's all your fault. It always is. Why do you always have to be -

"Leave it with me," Doom said, even as Appo savagely chased away the intrusive thought. "Just don't – it would be superfluous to tell you not to let it bother you, so I will instead request that you avoid thinking about it until I can get some results. Doom out."

Appo hadn't even had a chance to tell Doom about the rest of it.

Not about Tarkin, about lying to Generals and Cody, Rex's investigation and Appo's role, Slick and how he might be the first addition to Appo's list in forever, Prime…

Maybe Appo should have led with that.

No, then the Jedi might have heard it, and Appo wasn't sure he was quite ready to face up to actually talking with another General after his chat with General Skywalker. Really, it was very rude of Doom to not tell Appo that he'd been just a room away. How was he supposed to strategize without intel?

Appo would just have to find someone else to tell.

In the meantime, he would go start working on that deep dive for Rex. Or maybe he'd take Kix's advice and take some downtime. He could do some training, perhaps, or get in some blaster range practice…

Or maybe not.

The range was full to the brim with troopers, all of them cheerfully congregating and chattering with one another. No one was being especially loud, but the sum total was deafening. And no one was even shooting!

Ridiculous.

Appo resentfully hunted for another quiet place, only it seemed that nowhere was safe. General Skywalker had clearly authorized far too much downtime in the lead-up to their leave on Coruscant. Just because there was nothing much to do right now – the 104th was taking point on Lola Sayu, with the 212th and 501st present as support, and even the stupidest Separatist general wouldn’t take on three clone battalions all at once – didn’t mean that all discipline had to be set aside. The victory party (an especially rowdy joint effort with the other battalions) had already been held. They should be paying attention to their duties. What would command think?

Appo caught sight of Rex in the middle of one of the crowds of clones in the war room. He was standing at the least professional version of at ease Appo had ever seen on him, splitting his attention between gawking at the screen, scanning the room at large as if to confirm everyone else was also seeing what he was seeing, and nodding along as Fives waved his hands frantically in Echo’s face as if to convey his meaning more effectively. Commander Tano was there, too, hanging on Hardcase’s shoulders to get a better view of the holonews presenter floating over the main table.

Appo sighed.

Unwilling to stay lest Rex catch his eye and gesture for him to join, an invitation he would be obligated to accept regardless of his lack of interest, he turned away once again. Perhaps he should just go catch up on some rest. If nothing else, it would make Kix happy…

His comm buzzed just as he returned to his (blissfully empty) room.

He checked it and frowned: he was being hailed by someone from – the 21st Nova Corps? What? Did Appo even know any Marines?

Still, there was no reason not to answer. At this point, Appo would talk to just about anyone to avoid having to deal with the hubbub, so he might as well talk to a Marine.

But the figures that appeared on the projection were not Marines.

Appo’s heart rate abruptly kicked into high gear.

“– I can’t believe he went through our window,” Thire was complaining to Fox. “That window is supposed to be reenforced!”

“And he’s a Marine,” Fox retorted. “He probably did it using nothing but his hard head.”

“Don’t let Bacara hear you say that.”

“Bacara can suck my – Appo!”

“He’d better not,” Thire growled, and turned to look at the projection. “Appo, did you have anything to do with the Marine that threw himself head-first through our window in order to give us this comm?”

“Only indirectly,” Appo said. “I spoke with Doom. He said you not answering my calls was likely due to a comm silence order –”

“Of course it was!” Thire looked almost offended by the suggestion that it might be anything else. “General Vos put us under external blackout, internal calls only. It's been an absolute nightmare. Do you know how many messages we process for external battalions in the normal course – ?"

"Thire."

Thire blinked, having not expected an interruption, and looked back at him. "Appo?"

"Thire," Appo said again. "Thire, tell me. Tell me -"

His voice cracked.

"My – my boys – the explosion – are they – "

"No!" Thire stood up abruptly, leaning forward across the desk as if he could reach out to grasp Appo. "No - Appo - they're okay. They're alive."

Appo's legs gave out. With a clatter of plastoid he found himself somehow on the ground.

"They're alive," he echoed stupidly. "Alive. All of them? Are they - were they hurt?"

"Their ship diverted before the platform exploded," Fox said. "They were in full kit. Even had jetpacks. They were all fine - well, Slick got a cut on his head, but it was nothing. He's fine. They're all fine."

"Your boys are still on mission," Thire said. "Undercover, so they’re not on our approved comm list. You want to talk to Slick, maybe? We can get you Slick."

"Yes," Appo said. "Please. I - Thire - they're really okay? All of them?"

"All of them," Thire reassured him. "All fine, all alive. I'm sorry, Appo. I didn't realize word had spread. I would have -"

"Done nothing," Fox interrupted. "Don't blame yourself. First you were in the Senate, then we were both with the Chancellor, and after that there was Vos breathing down our necks. There wasn't any time. Appo understands."

Appo did. He nodded.

Thire still looked dissatisfied.

That was because Thire was wonderful. He always was, but he was even more wonderful today, because Appo's boys were alive. Alive! Alive and well!

For one blissful moment, nothing else in the galaxy mattered but that.

Then the comm flickered briefly, and the projected figure of Slick shimmered into view as he joined the holocall.

"Fox," he hissed. "There are so many people here.”

“No shit,” Fox said. “Hall of Records’ front hall is open to the public and it has a big screen. You’re probably getting half the layer in there.”

“More like the nearest three layers – oh, hi Appo. Have you heard the news?”

“Yes,” Appo said gratefully. “You and all the boys survived.”

Slick blinked owlishly at him.

“Oh, yeah,” he said, and then grimaced. “Oh, no. Have you thought we were dead this whole time?”

Appo nodded.

“I’m sorry,” Thire said again, and kicked Fox when he opened his mouth. “I can be sorry even if there was nothing I could have done to change it.”

“I’m not sorry because I had no idea,” Slick said. “Anyway, I wasn’t talking about that. Appo, have you seen the news news? About Chancellor Palpatine?”

Ah.

Yes.

That.

“A consortium of journalists just published an exposé accusing him of embezzlement!” Slick waved his hands, briefly looking exactly like Fives had earlier. “Embezzlement and corruption and conspiracy – Chancellor Palpatine! Of all people! They’re saying they have evidence, too, though the details are still pretty light –”

“You don’t need to worry about that,” Appo said. “It’s fake.”

Fox snorted.

But Thire sat up somehow impossibly straighter in his chair.

“Appo,” he said. “Appo. Would you like to elaborate on exactly why you think the allegations against the Chancellor are fake?”