#frostfics

Well it was impossible to miss. Fliers had been stuck to every conceivable surface – probably a hundred more at the average eye-level alone. There must have been a huge group of people working together to hang up this many in such a short time. Nothing really remarkable about them from a distance, either. 

A closer inspection showed all of them bore the Republic’s eight-spoke Galactic Roundel along with a tantalizing offer. 

“Wishing the nice night you had at 79’s was EVERY night? Take one to find out how!” 

You couldn’t really resist discovering what this was for yourself. Pocketing one of the strips, you hurried home and threw anything temperature-sensitive into the conservator first, thinking this would only be a quick peek. 

Dinner could afford to wait a few minutes. You just have to see for yourself what was being teased about a popular hangout in the Entertainment District from such an otherwise nondescript flyer. Which… maybe you should have used the incognito feature for. The welcome message on the landing page is ambiguous enough to cause uncertainty of the “service” being advertised, but the growing allure proves more powerful than your caution. 

"WELCOME TO THE #1 HOTTEST SITE ON THE HOLONET – GUYS OF THE GAR!

"Looking for a sensitive, sweet or strong soldier to steal your heart? Please sign in or create an account to make use of our services!"

Curiosity nips at your heels. The cursor hovers thoughtfully over “Sign Up!” for a quiet moment. A dating service? For the Grand Army of the Republic? To hell with it, you decide. There’s no harm in looking! 

Clicking in, you’re presented with a small pop-up window after creating a username and password. 

‘Thank you for showing interest in the newly-developed and secretly-run Clone Dating Service (CDS). Be advised that our site is closely monitored at all times and in spite of our last “fumigation” before the site went live, there may still be a few stubborn bugs. They will be squashed shortly. - CDS Sysadmin’ 

Dismissing the pop-up opens the profile editor for you. (Rather convenient.) In the bottom left corner of the page sits an animated, digital “mascot” of sorts. It, or rather he, looks mostly like a standard Clone - granted one who’s been stylized in such a way to appear more “cutesy”. The helmet is slightly oversized, lending to a bobble-headed image, and the visor is very… shiny. 

Inclusion of a digital mascot is unexpected; that kind of quirk is rare these days now that the practice has largely lost its charm. Relievingly, this one is not immediately annoying. He salutes, informs you of his purpose through a small speech bubble, then falls silent and assumes a parade rest position. 

“Clicks, reporting for duty! I’ve been assigned to cover your six in case you run into trouble setting up your CDS profile!” 

For a site that went live very recently, you’re impressed by how many options have been provided. There was a matchmaking service run by “in-house” analysts, or the option to self-match with profiles that fit within selected parameters. Additionally, you could opt for in-person dates, long distance relationships, keep it strictly online, or, curiously, even be pen pals. 

That option creates some pause. Why would a dating service offer a pen pal program? You do a little digging around the site before editing anything. 

Was this something new cooked up by the Commision for the Protection of the Republic - some clever bit of COMPOR propaganda to drum up more support for their literal poster boys? Were they the ones behind this? 

Strangely enough, you can’t find anything that smells like their usual influence. You continue to look around, even trawl through other parts of the Holonet to find an answer while making dinner. (No sense doing detective work on an empty stomach.) There are many varying schools of thought muddying the waters, but nothing that puts a bad taste in your mouth about the Guys of The GAR CDS at the same time. 

Profiles promise to be “pretty painless” to create and deactivate. Militaristic lingo had two possible explanations: the CDS was made by the Clones themselves or it was part of the theming. Naysayers casting doubt on whether or not these profiles actually belonged to GAR soldiers were quieting as the mountain of evidence only grew. Incredibly, there were already multiple reports of dates set to meet at 79’s tonight - of which was rumored to involve one of the Corries. 

And admittedly, those reports looked pretty damn legitimate. Okay, the pen pal thing is still a little odd, but you decide to proceed as planned. 

Beginning with the basics, a few tiny embellishments are added to your lists of interests, hobbies, and personality traits. Not so much that it becomes dishonest, but enough to add intrigue. Then came the oft-dreaded photo selection process. Call it a stroke of luck that finding something high-quality and you liked well enough didn’t take too terribly long. And finally, an optional ice breaker question. 

This you opt to skip for the time being. You’re far too eager to get right into the heart of it and waste no time selecting your preference of services. 

Clicks “speaks” for the second time after you hit ‘Submit and Save’, breaking from parade rest to offer two thumbs up. “You’ll have your boots on the ground in no time! Please just give the CDS a moment to finish filling out the roster. It should be available shortly.” True to the digital mascot’s words, the site offers a batch of eight profiles to start with, labeled RO for Roster One. 

“Good luck!” he adds before assuming formation once again. 

Looking over RO, you feel your heart quickening with excitement. You have a promising listing full of very intriguing prospects. It provides a two word moniker, tagline of sorts, detachment, and the chosen services for every Clone - his likes and dislikes included in the expanded view of his particular listing. A small taste of who he is as an individual person. 

What truthfully grabs your attention the most is a promise of getting the trooper’s name on one fair condition: a successful match. 

The rest of your evening was free and there were no pressing responsibilities to take care of tomorrow. This gave you the freedom to spend however much time you’d like on the CDS tonight with the rest of the galaxy’s hopeful romantics. 

So what were you waiting for?

ROSTER ONE 

Blue Hawk 

Very experienced. 

Deployment: Legion

Preference: Matchmaking 

Gentle Giant 

Date me, and I GUARANTEE you'll have a blast! 

Deployment: Specialty/Commandos

Preference: Self Match, In-Person, Long Distance

Glorious Daylight 

If you think my scar looks bad, you should see the other guy.

Deployment: Battalion

Preference: Other/Hidden

Last Domino 

ARC troopers do it better.

Deployment: Specialty/Commandos

Preference: In-Person, Pen Pals

Lost Eyebrows 

Enough heart and soul to go around! 

Deployment: Specialty/Commandos

Preference: Other/Hidden

Missing Paintbrush

Made a profile because I lost a bet to my brothers. (Thanks, guys…)

Deployment: Legion

Preference: Pen Pals, Self Match

Silver Moon 

Only here to keep my one good eye on my men. Sorry in advance about “Filthy Flower”.

Deployment: Battalion 

Preference: Other/Hidden 

Young King

I’ll be as loyal to you as I am to the Republic. 

Deployment: Legion

Preference: Long Distance, Matchmaking

Taking a moment to peruse this small wealth of choices here within Roster One, you gradually gain a better understanding of the site mechanics available. There are no pictures to look at – conceivably, by design. Maybe the idea is once you match with a trooper, you get more than just his name, but some idea of his physical image. Mildly ingenious. 

Your given options are ‘Like’, ‘Dismiss’ and ‘Maybe’. Results will refine themselves accordingly, steadily supplying the best possible prospects for subsequent rosters. You wonder how large the CDS dating pool is at this very moment. Hundreds, maybe thousands of live profiles? How many more were well on their way - set to join the database by the end of the week? Hopefully the Clone Dating Service had a plan (or two) to accommodate the sheer number of civilians making profiles and the influx of digital foot-traffic they were likely to see... 

Could get hairier than a Wookie for their servers if everyone and their tooka created a profile on Coruscant, alone. A trillion or so people lived here. Turn the scope out to the entire rest of the galaxy and it was nigh impossible to get an accurate sense of the populace. You’d sooner find a way to reintroduce nature to the Jewel of the Core Worlds than acquire such records. 

How long will this ‘Guys of The GAR’ be sticking around, anyway? 

How likely would it be that you, competing with trillions of other sentient lifeforms, find someone who could end being right for you? 

You look again at Roster One. Unsure of what “right” looks like to begin with, you read what little information is provided again and again. Maybe you’re looking for casual, laidback experiences. Or yearning for depth and devotion. Putting what it is you hope for into words is not as simple as you thought. 

Something about the second from the top speaks to you over all the others. It starts first as a whisper. Before long it grew louder. Clearer. What could it be about this soldier who dubbed himself “Gentle Giant” that you return to his profile more than the rest? His non-specific promise of a good time? And in the midst of a war, no less. 

He identified himself as some variation of SpecOps; such a service might come with elevated privileges whenever he’s granted leave (or leisure or liberty or whatever they call it). Could it be that Gentle Giant has special connections and/or favors to collect on – something he hopes to make use of with slightly more select company? 

With another tooka for your curiosity to threaten, you take one final opportunity to consider. 

The bait set on this hook was mighty tempting. You’re willing to take a chance with it. Test your luck. You select ‘Like’, knowing that all you can do now is wait. Hope. Keep your search going. Requesting the next roster, your examination only takes you as far as the third profile before the digital mascot is vying for your attention. 

“Incoming transmission!” Clicks exclaims, his shiny blue-black visor now blinking green. “This is straight from command: you’ve received your first successful match! Shall I patch you through now?” 

For a beat, you do nothing, surprised. Hadn’t been very long at all and you already had an eager bite of your own. 

Curious, you open the notification presented to you by Clicks. The portal for direct messaging opens to some rather sunny correspondence from Gentle Giant - evidence of a social and friendly disposition. 

Giant: Hi miss! Thanks for matching with me. Love your pictures!

You type out a partial reply, half hoping there’s no indicator for Giant to watch. It might show him when you stop to open his CDS profile in another tab and have a look at the expanded information. At the uploaded pictures with… Are those hand-written notes? Aside from the commentary left on each of them, and perhaps the fact he wore (a majority of) his armor in most, there is a more immediate theme throughout all of these images. 

Gentle Giant wore his helmet in every last shot. 

That, you don’t entirely think too much of. He had been upfront about his classification as some variety of specialty soldier; which the unique shape and ominous rancor-inspired design would be very befitting of. You’re more focused (and perhaps even impressed) by the thorough attention to detail everything has been given. 

Safety measures, you would guess, that the helmet is an extension of. Reflective surfaces are covered by large drop cloths. Data screens in the background are set to display little bits of trivia, playful messages or jokes. Anyone in the frame had their face obscured by helmets, hoods, or strategically positioned items such as datapads. (And a whole GNK-series power droid, in one case.) That’s the sort of thoroughness Gentle Giant, and the squad with him, by the look of it, had put into everything. 

You won’t get to see his face or really anything that isn’t carefully curated. Maybe not for a while yet, depending on how the first exchange plays out. That doesn’t mean there isn’t already plenty about him that you can see. 

Showing off for the camera, the black undersuit has been rolled up past his elbows to show off well-muscled forearms in the third image out of the collection. Basked in the light of some midday sun, the familiar warmly tanned and rich brown skin many knew the Clones for almost appeared to glow. You can’t tell what planet he’s on. Nor what he’s holding up to the picture-taker with a pair of firm, dexterous hands. Some kind of quad-eyed fish, perhaps?

From the fourth picture you can infer that he must be strong. This, like the picture before, is also posed. Gentle Giant stands in a typical bodybuilder’s pose against a brushed-metal wall; his legs shoulder-width apart, elbows raised high. With a pair of troopers sitting on each arm you’ll have to settle for imagining the biceps firmly flexing beneath them. No clues come from the small-print annotations about who they are, only that they wear the same set of armor labeled with the following. 

“K-Class armor, 20kg; not that wimpy 6kg stuff!” 

A second annotation states the soldiers stand 1.83m tall, Giant at 1.96m. Damn, wouldn’t that put him at six-foot-five or six-foot-six? Now you see where the ‘Giant’ in his moniker comes from. 

That sets him apart from COMPOR’s typical poster boys. A fairly reasonable assumption to make is he may or may not stand apart from them in other ways as well. But so long as he continued to be pleasant and friendly, what did that matter?

You: Thanks for matching with me too. Didn’t mean to take so long to reply! Got a little distracted taking a look at your pictures as well. Kinda liked the one with the fish-thing, haha. 

Giant hardly seems perturbed by the delay. It appears he expected it, if anything. Given that you had listed your location as ‘On/Near Coruscant’ he had assumed you must be having dinner or taking care of some daily task. 

Giant: No need to worry! If you have stuff you need to do, take all the time you need! I was catching breakfast for my squad after saying hello - more of those fish since there’s a LOT of them here. (And we’re all pretty sick of rations, haha!) You: That’s very nice of you, but I already took care of the most important stuff so I’ll be free to talk for a while. Very kind of you to do that for them, too! Variety once in a while must be extremely nice and/or rare.  Giant: HAH, you have no idea!! 

He signs off the reply with a smiley face. A little thing that lends further credibility to your earlier impression about his friendliness. Makes it easier to talk to him throughout the evening and late into the night. 

Time manages to seriously get away from you. Before you know it, you’ve stayed up entirely too late. The dull burn behind each tired eye seems to flare when you glance at the first available chronometer. Ah, poodoo… You really should have gone to bed long before now. 

But you had been having a pleasant and easy-going chat with Gentle Giant for hours on end. Doing so was almost effortless; taking notice of less-immediate needs became less of a priority as a result. In the natural course of conversation he had shown incredible kindness and genuine interest over everything that was discussed. 

That made it easy to speak a little more playfully and jokingly at times, even when it came to asking one another the usual questions. 

Favorite colors, foods and beverages, what hobbies you had. Learn if you have any in common. Compare the list of planets the two of you know of – where you’ve been, and where you hope to go someday. Determine the farthest you’ve ever been from your respective homeworlds. Then the longest you’ve been away after that. And if it was too long, or not long enough. 

Long before belatedly bunking down and asking your final question of the night – when would he like to talk again? – you had learned his name. 

Wrecker. 

The line between get-to-know-you questions and first-date-together questions blurred somewhere very early on. 

Far sooner than either of you might have expected. Maybe even as soon as the night you had mutually matched on the Guys of The GAR webpage. 

It helped that Wrecker was an incredibly attentive and curious guy. Possessed a well of intelligence tempered by a humble streak. Left no room for doubts pertaining to whether he genuinely cared whenever he got a chance to hear from you. Peppering in little follow-up questions. Reaching out for recommendations regarding more mundane things. 

It hardly mattered what the subject was, either. You could, and often did, talk for hours together. 

Endlessly. Easily. Flirtatiously. 

Wrecker only wished it were more often, were it not for the nature of his detachment. He and his brothers do a fair number of the ‘dirty jobs’ the GAR might require. Getting more specific than that wasn’t something he believed would be wholly necessary. Not at this stage where there were healthy embers between you, to be certain, but no steady flame. 

Not just yet. 

The first dozen or so conversations were strictly text-based. A way of testing the waters before committing to the idea of taking a swim in the shallows. If the temperature between you was too chilly for someone’s liking, then no harm done! Just wade back to shore, acclimate, and try again. Your time in the shallows carried on for a good few weeks, paddling about in the current with cautious optimism. Only once there was more confidence did Wrecker think of proposing the transition. 

Audio only; no visuals to start. That way you could both be in the other’s ear while going about your lives, so to speak. Going to bed with the suns. Rising for a new day with the moons. Catching speedercabs and lunch. Putting away provisions and groceries. Cleaning. Killing time. 

Giddy giggles. 

Boyish laughs. 

Hearts racing, racing, racing. 

Elation, frequent. Excitement, boundless. Crushing all the while. 

Falling for one another. Steadily. Deeply. 

And subject to much teasing. By far, the vast majority of it was dedicated to Wrecker – given the source was his brothers. You often caught snippets of passing remarks and fragments of conversation from them when he tried finding the most private spaces on their small ship to chat with you. Hardly anything cutting. Nor relentless and cruel. Nothing more than standard sibling smack-talk. 

“Don’t forget to get some sleep, loverboy.” 

“Ohh, shaddup. I’m not gonna forget!” 

“Uh-huh…” 

Things were a little different once you graduated to video feeds and hologram projections over the same secured lines. These adjustments were far more intimate. More personal. More real. You were engaged in an exercise of trust and vulnerability by adding another sense - sight - to these real-time interactions previously limited to sound. 

Wrecker would return to the dedicated practice of wearing his helmet facing this change. Assumingly, it was just one of the precautionary measures that would be stubbornly holding on longer than the rest. He had been talking with you for well over two months, at this point. 

You could honestly say these last fourteen weeks or more had truly flown by. In that time, you had grown so incredibly fond of him. So you had asked Wrecker during one of these calls. Once. And not for him to shuck the helmet from off his head. Just about it. 

“I would imagine you’re largely used to your helmet Wrecker, but does wearing it ever get uncomfortable?”

He tugged on the neckline of his undersuit, offering only a guarded chuckle at first. 

“Uh… Yeah. Sometimes, anyway!” 

The careful way he had admitted this to you gave off the impression he would have been avoiding eye-contact had he not been wearing the black, gray and white bucket. The one you sometimes find yourself staring at the red double nines painted over the brow rather than the visor directly below. The aurebesh 99, perhaps unintentionally, functioned like an eyespot or ocellus. Difficult not to feel like the numbers were almost watching you. 

You wouldn’t press the question any further on that particular occasion. 

But it wouldn’t be long until it was brought up again, this time by one of Wrecker’s brothers. 

It was a rare instance where everyone was in the same galactic time zone. No chance of his squad making a ‘friendly pitstop’ on Coruscant, however. They were duty-bound, and it was late into the night. You and Wrecker were on yet another video call in spite of that. 

He’s midway through an animated retelling of a prior operation when the sound of someone yawning as they shuffle closer gets picked up by the audio transceiver. Wrecker’s brother stops just out of frame, voice full of unmistakable fatigue.

“Wrecker. Move already…” he orders tersely, “You’re in my bunk.”

Asking you to give him a second, Wrecker obliges. “Sorry. I’ll move to the hold. Won’t be much longer.” 

“Apologies if my desire to sleep is getting in the way of your little virtual dates… Only, it’s not much of a date if your cyber crush has never seen your face, now is it?”

He had already gotten up from his brother’s bunk by that point, intending to do exactly as he said. But something about his brother’s words provokes Wrecker to stop and protest. “Hey. We all came up with the idea about our helmets. I was-” Perhaps thinking better of whatever he had been about to say, Wrecker stops abruptly. “Forget it,” he says, “we’ll talk about this in the morning.” He bids his brother goodnight before disappearing into the hold. 

A quiet unease sits on Wrecker’s shoulders once he’s alone again. Settled on the floor of their shuttle’s tiny, tiny hold, back propped by a stack of secured crates, he lets out a tense sigh. 

“Sorry ‘bout that, mesh’la…” 

Frowning, you ask if he’s alright. You understand Wrecker couldn’t have anticipated one of his brothers saying something like that, so the thing he’s likely sorry about is you overhearing it. But your more immediate concern is whether or not he’s upset. This is not a candid or thoughtful kind of silence. 

“Wrecker? I’ll understand if you want to cut tonight shor-”

Please, wait, Wrecker insists. Before you say anything else, there is something he should say. His brother is right. That isn’t what upsets him. He should have been the one to bring it up. This was his conversation to have with you, when he was ready. And it would’ve been the next time the two of you talked – would swear to that on his blaster, if you wanted him to. 

Now Wrecker feels like it should be tonight instead. Because, truthfully, he has some really strong feelings for you. Had for some time now, as a matter of fact… Thinking of getting a little more serious, Wrecker might argue you’ve had a few long-distance dates at this point. (Without necessarily calling them that.) Something he would certainly like to continue, but not without taking care of a couple things, first. 

“You’re a nice lady. Real nice, even. Been real understandin’ of my anonymity this entire time,” Wrecker explains. His dexterous fingers nervously fiddle with a short length of spare wire, tying and then untying it. Each loop is roughly the size of his wrist. “I think it’s only fair I show ya what I look like before askin’ ya what you think of… Movin’ to the next step or somethin’.” 

After haphazardly stuffing the wire into a pocket, Wrecker adjusts the datapad he’s propped on the crate opposite from him to make sure he’s in focus and in frame. 

“Welp. Here goes nothing.” 

Wrecker wastes no time after his declaration. Reaching up, the helmet is unsealed before then carefully removed from his head. Wrecker offers you a boyish, charming smile before his helmet is even so much as level with his chest. He grips it tightly in his hands, giving himself something to direct all of his nervous energy into so he has an easier time maintaining eye contact. 

And it would be dishonest to say one could overlook the obvious. His left eye is a pale, blueish white; a stark contrast to the brown eye opposite it. A noticeable smattering of scar tissue sits on the left side of his face. It is a firework frozen in time - wrapping over his ear, spread across his temple and a portion of his hairless head. Several trails cut across his left cheek, even slashing through a healthy five o’ clock shadow. One disconnected band sits over the sloped bridge of his nose. It appears to be an older injury based on the color. An aged souvenir of battle, maybe a crash. 

With a palpable undercurrent of anxiety, Wrecker bravely breaks the silence once he figures you’ve had a good look at him. 

“S-sorry,” he says with a lopsided grin, “I, uh… I haven’t had time to shave this week! Hopefully my beard doesn’t look terrible.” 

You shake your head, telling Wrecker it looks just fine. He sighs in relief. 

“Whew! Was honestly pretty worried about that, haha!” 

“Really? I’m… surprised.” you admit carefully. 

There are implications obvious enough here to avoid putting both feet in your mouth and bring up those features more indirectly without being incredibly insensitive, even by accident. That certainly might sour… whatever it was you wanted to call these little video chats you’ve been having with Wrecker lately. Dates? 

Pre-dates?

They were happening pretty frequently, to be perfectly honest, with more than a few being less, shall we say, “cadet-friendly”. 

“Sorry,” Wrecker apologizes again. “I thought about telling you sooner. Honest. Even asked my brothers how I should do it, but, uh… I-I couldn't figure out how to make it sound like me, heh.” 

He knew showing you his face would be a big step. Huge, even. But… there was always a dash of worry that it wouldn’t go well. A blind eye and a large scar aren’t exactly “little” features he can hide all the time, so Wrecker has developed a strong sense of self-confidence and self-assurance in the time following what he only refers to as “the incident”. And if he wanted to ask you to meet him at 79’s next week or the week following, then…

“T-that’s if you want to, that is!” 

Great galaxies. 

How could you refuse? Wrecker had yet to fail to deliver on his punny promise advertised on the CDS; he truly was an expert not just in explosive ordnance, but in having a great time, all the time. His knack for seeing the silver lining in everything, perhaps with exception regarding his “problem with gravity” (as he liked to explain his fear of heights), had been a great comfort on several occasions when you might’ve otherwise felt glum. He was not shy about being excitable, or sweet, or even vulnerable with you. 

You had been shown Lula, a black-and-red tooka doll he occasionally brought aboard the Havoc Marauder (typically when their assignments were shorter, as he preferred to keep her safe on Kamino), on your very first video call together. And she was a well-loved doll, too. Lula’s fabric was clean and her belly plump with stuffing for “more effective cuddles”, but you could see it was just beginning to thin from constant use. 

Seeing how Wrecker clearly cared for little Lula only further endeared you to him. So no: his eye, his scar, were not going to be a dealbreaker for you. You would love to meet up at 79’s. 

Setting down your own device, you rifle around in search of where you’ve written down important deadlines and appointments for the upcoming weeks. 

“Sounds like fun, Wrecker. Count me in! Did you have a day in mind?”

“Next Taungsday? At, say, twenty-hundred hours?”

Middle of the week three hours after a majority of Coruscant has completed their nine-to-fives. 

It’s a date!

You hitch a ride to the Entertainment District via speedercab forty-five minutes ahead of the agreed-upon time, knowing after years of living on Coruscant that there is no such thing as a “lull in traffic” here. 

Not even in the middle of the week. Not with many establishments offering discounts and buy-one-get-one-s on their services. Something to entice people to abandon the hustle and bustle of the megacity and lighten their pockets of a few credits. Indulge themselves in the spoken and unspoken ‘District Dorns’. 

Dining. Drinking. Dancing. Drugs. Den-fights. Dating. 

Wrecker had thoughtfully informed you that 79’s—which already ran a little warm as an establishment—had reported a shift in temperature ever since the Clone Dating Service hit the Holonet. 

“Should see the way this place GLOWS on the heat sensors, cyar’ika!”  

You chose something to wear accordingly, wanting to keep comfortable as much as possible to enjoy as much of your date as possible. An outfit you believed was equal parts flattering, cute, and stylish without sacrificing anything that wasn’t unapologetically you. A suitable bag was also taken with a few small necessities for personal grooming and styling, including a decent fistful of credits, just in case. Fresh packs of breath mints and bubble-chew were tossed in as well. For the hell of it. But also just in case. 

The cabbie pulls up to the platform in front of 79’s ten minutes early, hesitating to throw the air taxi door’s release because they’re too busy staring at the main entrance in bewilderment. “Huh! Thought this place was just a Clone bar… but I’m seeing more than just soldiers…” they murmur to themselves, a free appendage scratching one of two heads in thought. “Did I take you to the right joint, ma’am?” 

“Yes, I’m meeting a date here,” you answer with a smile. 

Your heart flutters just hearing yourself say it. A date. With a man you had first connected with on the Holonet through a curious dating service. You haven't been able to think of much else all week. Only willing time to move faster. To please hurry up and be Taungsday, already! And now tonight was the night. 

Paying via surface pass, you bid the cabbie goodbye and hurry into the bar. 

It’s already a packed house. Clones and civilians alike are bustin’ it down on the electronic dance floor to energetic remixes of popular jizz-wailers at the moment. A static viewscreen over the long oval bar advises patrons there will be genre changes at every half-hour. 

Special requests can be made for two credits per song. The special tonight is something called the “buddy bucket”; five credits for the bucket, seven with the inclusion of two (non-alcoholic) drinks. 

You look around, hoping Wrecker is already here or not far behind. You consider asking the soldier wearing a volunteer’s name sticker on his chestplate and manning the CDS event booth. While briefly wondering what the story behind his ‘Squeaky Clean’ moniker is, you pay more attention to the scrap of flimsiplast taped below the badge. “Check-in assistant”, it reads. 

Oh good. Less need for guessing games. Presenting your name and profile code, you inform Squeaky who you’re here to meet. Information he’ll likely need to cross-reference any lists of RSVPs, meet-ups and the like. 

“Is Wreck- er, Gentle Giant here tonight?” 

Squeaky sets down the datapad in his hand in order to rifle through a small file box of reservations. Before he can locate it, a boisterous voice calls out your name across the bar. You were early, but it sounds like Wrecker beat you here. 

“Is that you?!”

He calls your name again. You turn to look in his direction. 

And you make eye contact. 

And you know. You know that face. The face that’s not a typical COMPOR poster boy’s. That smile. The gleeful and boyish—yet so charming—smile that drives your stomach wild with butterflies. And finally that laugh. That exuberant, resounding laugh as he carefully makes his way through a sea of partying patrons to greet you. 

In the flesh, at last.

Your greetings overlap once Wrecker has safely made it through the crowd, finding yourself wrapped up in a friendly hug. One long enough for him to say “It is you!” before promptly letting you go. He steps an arm’s length away to stand back and admire your attire, grin never dropping. 

“You look great!” 

You return the flattery. “So do you, Wrecker. Blast, you look good in civvie clothes!” 

He had cleaned himself up rather nicely for tonight. His facial hair had been trimmed, to start. A rather woodsy sort of aftershave was a nice touch too; complimenting the simple, heathered gray button-down and black slacks bought just for the occasion, judging by the slight stiffness of the fabric. Care had been taken to steam out the most egregious of the wrinkles. The manner in which the long sleeves had been tucked and rolled perfectly level with each other suggested assistance. 

The name on the reservation Squeaky Clean locates at long last confirms it. 

“I have a… corner booth set aside for Gentle Giant and the lovely lady; the request was made by Bookish Spectacles. That sound right to you, vod?”

“Oh, yeah,” Wrecker replies, taking the small square of flimsiplast with the corresponding number, “he’s one of my squad mates.” 

“You’re all set then. Hope you both enjoy your evening!” 

The booth is found in no time at all. 

Being slightly more removed from the dancefloor, there’s less need to talk quite as loud as you had near the entrance. A very thoughtful bit of placement on Spectacles’ part. Wrecker explains this where he and his brothers like to sit whenever they have leave close to Coruscant and crave whatever’s greasiest from 79’s. He kindly offers to hold your bag for you while you slide into the booth, being extra careful not to drop it on the sticky floor when handing it back.  

Scarcely a moment after Wrecker has gotten in the opposite side of the booth, an unhelmeted soldier steps up to the table with a wry smile. He sports a neural brace, his right arm is held behind his back at an unusual angle. Obviously trying to hide something. 

“You kids behaving yourselves?” he asks somewhat playfully, not quite sarcastic. 

You recognize the voice from various bits of brotherly background chatter over all the different calls you’ve had with Wrecker, but you’re not sure of his name. 

“We haven’t even gotten started, Ec- Domino.” Wrecker pointedly informs him. He almost slips up. Until it was safe to say that you and Wrecker were looking like a confirmed item, sticking to calling his brothers by their CDS aliases was a more neutral course of action. “You guys promised you’d leave us alone.” 

“I’m only messing with you, Wreck,” his brother chuckles. Moving his right arm—which is mostly cybernetic, to a small amount of surprise—from behind his back, Domino puts a red foil gift bag down on the table. “We fully intend to keep that promise. Just came to give you this like you asked.”

Wrecker grins sheepishly. 

“Oh, right. I did ask that. Uh… thanks, Domino.” 

Limiting his reply to “Anytime, Wrecker,” and some encouragement to have fun, Domino takes his leave. 

Now you know what one of his brothers looked like under the helmet. You watch him for a moment, thinking Domino might go back to the others who made up Clone Force 99. No luck. He finds a group of troopers sporting cobalt blue paint and decides to brush his shoulders with them for a while. Wrecker mentioned once upon a time that even after joining CF99, Domino has good rapport with his previous detachment, still. 

A legion. Five-oh-something. It’ll come to you in a moment. 

You’re distracted by the butterflies now that you and Wrecker have the booth to yourselves. There are matching, giddy smiles as he briefly pulls the bag to his side of the table. Just to make a quick check of the contents. “Sorry ‘bout that, cyar’ika,” is all Wrecker will say about the interaction with Domino. No sense dedicating further thought to it when you’re here for a date tonight. 

Your first in-person date. 

So once he’s satisfied there’s no damage and everything is accounted for, Wrecker carefully slides the gift bag back across the table. This is for you, he explains. And you can open it whenever. Now. After something to eat and a few drinks. When it’s time to leave. It’s entirely up to you. 

Curiosity gets the better of you once again.  

And it gives you a tooka. 

A tooka doll, to be exact. 

Carefully swaddled in a bundle of gift-paper, you find yourself face-to-felt with your very own “Lula” doll. The gifted plush looks just like Wrecker’s – key difference being it was made using your favorite colors. All the way down to the thread used to stitch the toy together. 

“Oh, I love them…!” you coo, squeezing the cloth tooka to your chest. “It was really sweet of you to find one in my favorite color.” Oh, you can’t wait to take them home, you add. 

Wrecker is soon wearing another of his boyish grins, saying he’s glad you like it. But… would you believe him if he said he didn’t find the doll? (And before you ask: no, it wasn’t one of his brothers who found it, either.) He had made it. Often spent a large amount of time while his squad had been in hyperspace working on it, lately. 

You’re honestly blown away. “By hand? That’s incredible!” How long did it take him to make the doll? And when did he start? 

That’s easy. 

Wrecker started working on them when he realized he had a crush on you. Luckily, he already had all the material he needed on the Marauder. A lot of soldiers in the GAR had learned basic sewing skills that might come in handy in the event of an emergency, so, if he had to guess how long…? It’d probably taken him three weeks, at most, to finish the toy. 

He sews a lot. It keeps his fine motor skills sharp. Something he needs when it comes to dismantling (or building) bombs. Or, say… 

Adding a little message to a tag on the doll’s back following the night he had shown you his face. 

A heartfelt dedication, of sorts. 

'For: My cyber crush

Love: Wrecker'

A huge thank you to Maniacalbooper for making such an entertaining request and being a part of my 200 follower event, as well as having incredible patience with me in order to complete this story! I hope you and everyone else enjoyed this Wrecker fic. 🩷

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

The two of you—and any respectively laden lunch trays—ran smack-dab into one another in the middle of the busy lunch hour.

To this day, neither of you can (or will) agree on who's truly to blame for kick-starting that encounter. (And neither really care.) It's become part of the frequent, playful banter at this point. Teasing, self-blaming banter.

Maybe it was the hectic shuffle typical of the deli-style restaurant.

Maybe it was your fault. You're fairly sure your head was down when it happened. A byproduct of trying to mentally unwind after a boisterous morning at the library. Trying hard not to think about the four book trucks (by last count) slated for re-shelving. Or the contraband crumb-creating snacks likely hidden around the place. Which you and your coworkers had the pleasure of finding, like the world's worst video game loot…

Several classrooms worth of young, school-age children had been there to prepare for their first research project of the academic quarter. Things were a real mess.

Maybe it was his fault. Coming in straight from an idling company truck in the '5 Minute' spot, Wolffe hadn't bothered with removing his sunglasses when he approached the pick-up counter. The sort of visual cue that gave some people pause should they happen to notice.

Was he anti-social, or simply crunched for time?

He neglected to check for anyone behind him before stepping away from the counter with his order.

Been too focused on wrestling the paper-wrapped sub sandwich out of the thin, staticky plastic bag before he was out the door. Not after.

Regardless of true fault, both of you found yourselves on the ground and wearing the other's lunch. The apologies that followed came out rapidly — almost frantic. These sincere sorry-s segued into self-shouldered blame.

Should have been paying attention.

Should have been more careful.

Should please, allow me to replace the lost meal!

Should, should, should.

The busybodies of Cedar Crest watched every action hawkishly over the edges of their cups. Wondering. Waiting. For the empty-bellied bitching to start. Or for outward blame to seep in.

But it never did.

Wolffe got up first.

All six, well-muscled feet of him loomed over you momentarily before the offer came to help you up. Both hands extended out to you. You accepted with a grateful utterance, and found yourself thoughtfully and carefully eased back on your feet.

"Sorry, ma'am. I should honestly be far more careful with my blind spot by now…"

Largely unhurt, you were willing to accept the man's apology and let it go. You assumed the darkened eye wear factored into this unfortunate meal-time snafu. To his credit, he did appear to be legitimately remorseful.

You thought you might try to lighten the mood with a joke. It ended up being a forward one; but damn. Were you ever fortunate that it worked!

"Ohh… And here I was hoping you knocked me off my feet on purpose, handsome," you said.

Though he shared in your light, friendly laughter, white-hot regret flooded every one of your veins once the sunglasses were finally lifted. The gentleman's apology was far more literal than you first assumed.

His right eye was covered in a dark medical patch, closely flanked by white butterfly closures for added measure. A relatively recent injury by the look of it. One in the very early period of the healing stages. Scar tissue, fresh and pinking, cut across the dark skin of his face. It crept high, stopping close to the black, Polynesian curls of his hairline. And plunged low, falling just short of a soft five o' clock shadow.

You had the distinct impression the vertical scar made one, unbroken line under the adhesive patch.

Really went and put your foot in your mouth, now hadn't you? Words were blurted out before any were fully considered.

"Fuck me! I'm so sorry. That was rather insensitive, wasn't it?"

Were he offended in any way, Wolffe did a damn good job of hiding that from you. He chose to defuse the situation with a little risky humor of his own.

"Whoa there, sweetheart. Don't you think you're skipping ahead to the fun part? Here. Why don't we start with buying each other lunch, first?"

Lunch. Right, of course. Lunch and a proper introduction.

Throw in another apology for good measure, and it should quash the worst of the gossip sure to come at the next town hall meeting… (Some people in Cedar Crest were in desperate need of picking up better hobbies to them them busy. Like maybe a real damn expensive one.) Oh. And you could stand to grab a few napkins.

Now if either of you had a stain-remover pen, there was going to be a lot more hope of your clothing and his new-looking company polo making it out of this in one piece. He was easily wearing a hundred percent cotton with an additional fifty percent deli mustard, sliced cold cuts and assorted vegetables. Those you would have an easy time removing while he dealt with the condiment.

You offered your name and half the stack of napkins scooped out of the nearest dispenser.

"Now… I know of only one company in town with maroon polos," you began, adding an aside that you hoped his shirt was color-fast, "but let's go with the pleasantries anyway, shall we?"

He tried to mask his sudden sheepishness with more light laughter. "Oh, I couldn't possibly… After such a pretty name like yours, I nearly feel ridiculous telling you mine." While that was the truth, you did get his name a moment later. "Wolffe Fett-Koon. From the– Well, I imagine you know, actually…"

Oh, yes. Indeed you did. Having lived in Cedar Crest for a considerable amount of time, you knew.

Knew which company in town was bringing in all those moving trucks for a change. Knew who Wolffe's family was. Knew what Wolffe's family was. What he was.

But now wasn't the time for that.

"I do," you admitted, "and I gotta say it's nice to meet another of Mr. Plo's adopted sons, Wolffe. How you all inspired him to change the name of his company is… let's say something of a favorite town story."

And that was the galaxy's honest truth.

Mr. Plo Koon had owned and operated a sustainable lumber company for well over forty years out of Cedar Crest. Certainly longer than you've been here. And you still remember the loving rebrand like it was yesterday, even now that it's been roughly ten years since Dorin Lumber Co. became Plo & Sons.

Wolffe seemed equal parts relieved and confused not to be bombarded with the same hundred, dreadfully stale questions people always had when first meeting. He was surprised you weren't asking about his eye, either.

"Hah. You're just being nice, I'm sure…" Wolffe managed at long last. "You have to have questions. Damn near everyone does."

You knew what he was getting at. And you pretended you didn't anyway.

"Now that you mention it, I do have one. Would you like to join me for lunch, Wolffe?"

You both pre-paid for the other's lunch replacements after cleaning yourselves up as much as possible. No one had obligations to linger. Or stay to say goodbye after getting the food they came for. To bait any hooks with polite offers.

Forward offers.

Forward offers that beget forward answers.

"I'm not sure what, but I must be doing something right today. Known me for all of ten minutes and you're asking me out on a date, are you?" The words issued past full lips in a purring, honeyed voice. Wolffe quickly looked away with a brief flash of regret etched across his face. A fearful flicker that he'd stepped over an unspoken line.

Rather than balk, you surrendered a flattered smile.

"Not exactly; I only wanted to offer. Though I don't think I'd mind if you thought of it like that. Promise there's no hard feelings if you'd rather decline, too."

Wolffe shifted his weight a bit uncertainly, considering the options. Analyzing alternatives. He was lovingly told to "fuck right off" by Sinker—the third oldest of Plo's boys—when he was sent off to get himself lunch. Wander around town on his own. Get a sense of where he'd be living. The community he'd be a part of before too long, his dad said.

Tempting. But far less enticing than the prospect of taking a forty-five minute lunch break with someone as good-natured and witty as you. Or quite so… good-looking.

"You really wouldn't mind?"

"Hey. Wouldn't offer if I didn't mean it," you laugh carefully.

Concerns and curiosities satisfied, Wolffe finally agrees.

Then in that case, sure. What was the harm? He'd be glad to join you.

One little Wednesday lunch together probably wasn't going to lead to anything.

Oh, Wolffe could not possibly have been more wrong…

One Wednesday turned into two. Two Wednesdays morphed into four. A month evolved into two. Then two months became four. Soon enough, it was six months. Eight. A year.

For an entire year, Wolffe had a reason to look forward to the once-weary Wednesdays of his week. Someone who time and time again gave him a sorely-need boost over that hollow-eyed hump day.

Of all the people he could have clumsily covered in half of their own lunch, Wolffe was glad it ended up being you. Quietly relieved that things didn't end there in the deli. That you didn't (justifiably) hate his guts after making such a mess of your first meeting.

He was grateful that you stayed.

Stayed when you got your lunch remade first. Stayed when you could have scrambled to scarf something down before your lunch clock ran out. Stayed in your lane.

Wolffe knew. He knew you knew his story. The origin behind a hyphenated last name. The how and when and who all factoring into where he had come from. It'd take living in a galaxy far, far away not to know. And still you didn't ask. No why-s. No indeliberate what-s.

Questions like "What's your favorite…?" — which were as mundane as it possibly gets.

And Wolffe had to hand it to you. He didn't expect you to salvage anything more from that awkward wreckage of his first Wednesday in Cedar Crest. Agree to take your lunch to whatever place he had in mind. Or for once, how much he actually relished those kinds of questions.

Being grilled on his favorite car. Favorite movie. Music. Color. Flower. Dinosaur. No one had asked him what his favorite dinosaur was since he was three!

Wolffe still remembers how you reacted when he questioned your question. How you first laughed. Couldn't stop yourself from smiling as you gave a short, gleeful explanation why.

The topic came up at work roughly an hour ago. Must've had your nose buried in the 567.90s for just as long, too. Oh, wait. You should back up a bit: you work as a librarian here in town. At the public library, not one of the schools.

"Shit, really? After lunch, could I maybe… Come over and handle my father's overdue fee?"

"Only if you sign up for your own card," you first teased him, quickly confessing as much.

Then, answering more seriously, you said, "Don't worry about the fee. I might've quietly taken care of it already, after I heard— Never mind. I'm just glad he's okay. Making it go away was the least I could do for your family."

So long as Wolffe put all loaned materials in the book drop—or your own two hands—then things would be squared away. You promised. Swore it on your worker's card, in fact.

A promise he remembers so clearly, Wolffe could trick himself into believing this exchange happened only yesterday. Not that he wanted to. He'd have to find a way to fit a year's worth of Wednesdays into "yesterday" along with the first. And out of fear it would dilute a great wealth of Wednesdays, he wasn't about to try.

From the moment you made that promise, dazzling him with a blindingly confident grin, Wolffe no longer looked forward to weekends, and weekends alone.

A change his adoptive father took notice of a long time ago.

They had a whole routine now — Wolffe could set his watch to it.

Dad had a polite way of pretending not to know his lunch plans over breakfast. Idly flicked through the paper—skimming the business column, the classifieds, comics, and crosswords—while Wolffe juggled his attention across multiple tasks.

Cellphone. Cereal. Dishes. Laptop.

"How is your eye this morning?" Dad asked him.

This was not part of the routine. One of his every-so-often questions honed with a delicate balance. Not too much that it verged on annoyance. And not so infrequent that it tasted like apathy.

Wolffe shrugged. Too soon to tell if he was dealing with significant pain. He was more focused on wrapping up an email — likely the last before arriving at work. Still had to double-check Dad's oxygen before they left, too.

"Hmm. Blind as ever."

His father never liked this answer much.

"Wolffe…"

"I'd tell you if there were problems, Dad."

Dad stayed quiet. Wolffe knew the one and only man who ever felt like a parent to him carried his own pain about… this. The disfigurement he suffered at the hands of a violent trespasser while helping a young autobody mechanic his father knew with an odd job.

If he didn't know better, Wolffe might say she was a trained assassin. (She sure as hell fought like one...) Can't even remember the weapon he was attacked with. If there even was a weapon to begin with. Only the pain to match what would later be a quote-unquote bitchin' scar. Fuzzy moments of someone slumped in the bedside chair at the emergency room. The sound of Comet's keyring jangling up the hall. Squeaking wheelchair spokes. Soft, distant hiss of a nasal cannula.

Wolffe remembers most of all how he could feel his father's hand with perfect clarity, even through the fog of a heavy sedative. I'm here, the gesture said. Comet had driven their father from Cedar Crest to all the way to some hospital Wolffe could only guess was located in the ass end of nowhere. The one person who Wolffe would listen to, without question. Find the most comfort in at that time.

Your brothers are here for you. I am, too.

Dad always blamed himself. Sometimes he blamed "young Skywalker" for not stepping in. Not intervening fast enough. Or failing to protect his son. But Dad never, ever suggested that Wolffe was to blame. Not even once.

"I know," came the awaited and tender promise. "I know you would, my boy…"

The words were soft. Carried unspoken multitudes in every careful syllable. Most of all, pain. So much pain…

Wolffe now deeply regretted his actions. How flippantly he answered his father. The disruption of their routine. He knew better than to sand against the grain with such a damn high grit.

Could Wolffe borrow a page out of his favorite librarian's playbook? Find some way to salvage the rest of the morning while Dad worked on coffee for the four of them?

"Hey, Dad…?"

With a soft "Hm?" his father paused just as he was about to tip the pot into Wolffe's thermos.

Not interested in coffee this morning? The weather segment of yesterday's evening news did say it was supposed to be rather sunny today…

A snippet of the routine. (Their routine.) Out of sequence, but Wolffe took it as a promising sign.

"Am I too old to be surprised by the way you make my thermos anymore?"

He knew the answer by heart. Had heard it so many times, in so many mires and emotional lows, these three words had become another "I love you". Wolffe only hoped his father would say it. It might— no, would do him good to hear that response now.

"Not to me," answered his father with a warm, nurturing chuckle.

Now, if Wolffe wouldn't mind, could he please make sure to remind Boost that he was joining the three of them on the ride to work?

Boost typically took his motorbike to work before Wolffe turned up with Sinker and their father.

Got things warmed up and prepped for everybody. Checked on the mousers — a trio of gray tabbies from the same litter. Unlocked special equipment cages. Gave outgoing orders one of three final checks.

Not this morning. Boost's bike had unfortunately been caught outside in the latest rainstorm. Certainly not a rarity to Cedar Crest, but the forecast fouled faster than expected that particular day.

They could be in for a very stormy season…

With the engine affected, Boost would be joining them until the bike could be serviced. Their father insisted. Strenuously. As the last out the door, Boost had the responsibility of locking up the house this morning.

Just what Wolffe needed. A slow-poke to wait on.

His eye was trained on Boost, praying to some… strange, omnipresent force out there that it would burn a hole in his brother's work shirt. Hurry him along. Locking up shouldn't take this much time.

Was Boost fucking around on his phone or something?

"Spook 'im with the horn," Sinker snickered from the backseat.

"What am I, a giant twelve-year-old?"

"Enough, you two," came their father's voice, "I don't think I need to remind you to be patient. Much like I keep reminding Boost regarding young Skywalker."

Each son muttering apologies, Wolffe fussed with the knob for cabin heating. Something to busy himself. Hold his tongue from sharing any negative opinions regarding how Skywalker ran his buisness. (Or that blonde-haired, neurotic-as-fuck Border Collie nicknamed Three who never seemed to leave Wolffe alone…) If Mr. Skywalker's workload was anything like he remembered, turn-around time was going to be painful, to say the least.

Which mean Wolffe would be a little more dishonest than usual following the rest of his and Dad's routine on the way to the wood shop.

Little white lies turned gray. Some, really gray.

Boost eventually laughed at both brother and father the longer things went on.

"This is precious. You two do this every week, do you? Think I should start hitching a ride a little more often!"

"Fat chance of that! You'd miss your bike too much, Boost," Sinker argued, speaking for the first time since trying to goad Wolffe into honking the horn.

Boost sighed wistfully. "Yeah… Miss the ol' girl already. And speaking of—" Wolffe felt a hand reach around the headrest to ruffle his curls at the next red light. "I think someone misses his!"

Now Wolffe was at the short end of his tether.

He hated having his head scratched by his younger brothers; treated like a damn dog. Having his relationship with you mocked. Misconstrued. You were a friend — a good one, might he add!

The first Wolffe made when he moved into town a year ago. Of course that made your status more unique than most. Rarely did he ever down an offered opportunity to connect, hang out, or grab a bite to eat because he honestly, truly, did not want to.

He was stoic. And he could sometimes be stern, even standoffish. But Wolffe was not stupid. Nor was he wholly blind, either. He knows what people are going to assume—have assumed—when they hear how much time the two of you spent together this year alone.

(Wednesdays were your primary meetings, yes. But there had been other times. Random and pre-planned get-togethers.)

You were a good-looking woman. A stunner. A smoke show. A bombshell. Sex on legs. The complete package. Fit for the spank banks and skin magazines — digital and staple-bound.

Hell: his perfect woman. But he–

Wolffe didn't want to risk his friendship with you. Force you into an awkward position just because he kept thinking with the wrong head. Because he buckled under pressure or expectations external to his own. The guilt would eat Wolffe alive should he alter the way things were on someone's say-so.

Guilt was something he had enough of. Wolffe kept shirking a number of self-appointed responsibilities in favor of seeing you lately. Watching younger brothers pick 'em up and add to their metaphorical toolboxes was… deeply conflicting.

Nice to know they could be counted on to get the necessary work done; but it shouldn't be because of him.

When Wolffe moved into 3636 Dorin Drive within two weeks of his father's hospitalization last year, he had full intentions of easing Dad into a second medical retirement. Regrettably, he couldn't honestly say he was making much progress. Or sharing any less work with Boost and Sinker than he was before.

All the heated discussions they had when Wolffe was running a distant secondary store were done in-person now. Same with the threats about locking him out of the computer system for the weekend. Changing the PIN to the answering machine. "Borrowing" his company laptop, then claiming afterwards it was a simple mix-up because they looked all alike!

Anything that would keep Wolffe from "working himself half to death" — as though he needed the second- and third-oldest of the Fett-Koon sons to look out for him.

The three of them had to look out for Dad, dammit…

His lung health was poor long before he adopted them. A grim souvenir from his time in the service. Dad narrowly survived an aerial dogfight. Bandit got the drop on him. Cockpit began filling with smoke. Wasn't immediately able to punch out. Had no choice but to be medically discharged.

Then of all the hobby-to-occupation pipelines, their father chose one full of sawdust. Dad was smart. Careful. Took precautions long before his advancing age was of greater concern. Always said he had his sons to care for, after all. No matter the nature of the adoption—be it formal or less officially-speaking—all sons were loved the same. Loved more than a dark blue jet Dad named "Electric Judgment" as a young airman. And boy… Did he love that jet.

All it took was one bad P100 respirator filter.

One single part below industry standard.

Had your coworker not dropped by the flagship store when they did… Wolffe might have met you under far unhappier circumstances. But why dwell on what didn't happen — the heartache of a damn "maybe" over the happiness he knows now? Tarnish the enjoyment he's had channeling every bit of his gratitude into building new bookshelves for your workplace?

This long-term project has been generous with it's positive outcomes. Wolffe has been given an opportunity to bond with some of his younger brothers. Watch them develop their skills. He's gotten to see you twice every Wednesday for six months now. A damn good arrangement if ever there was one!

And a damn good reason Wolffe can't keep a soft smile off his face passing by the library.

Today might be the last shelf-swap, but it wasn't the last of these visits. Oh no. Wolffe already had a few excuses squirreled away in preparation for this. Reasons to sustain this arrangement. Just for a little longer. Never a bad idea to plan for something fun to do on a rainy day. Especially living in this mountain town…

Rain started to spatter against Wolffe's company truck around the time father and sons arrived in front of the shop.

Little did Wolffe realize this was only the start of things to come.

'Please pardon our delay - It's bookshelf delivery day!'

This cheery sign hung in the windows of the library's double doors (almost) every Wednesday for the last six months. Sometimes Saturdays. Occasionally, Sundays. Even the rare Monday or two. An unusual choice to schedule a delivery and installment service, perhaps.

Not that you or anyone else was complaining!

The director, Ms. J. Nu, decided since these shelves were a heartfelt gift to this institution of learning—and all it's many employees—Mr. Plo and his sons deserved to enjoy the weekend like everyone else in Cedar Crest.

You volunteered to lead the small team in charge of pulling books from the old shelves between these deliveries. Not the most glamorous or enjoyable process, but the multitude of paper cuts and heavy books you've had to deal with are well worth being here each Wednesday morning. Wolffe and two of his brothers would typically turn up at nine-fifteen sharp in order to get things started.

You were handling a file box of "spine-splitters" when you heard the Plo & Sons box truck pull into the parking lot. Right on schedule. Setting the damaged books down, you hurried to unlock the doors so they wouldn't get soaked.

Where did all this rain come from? The forecast had promised everyone sunshine…

Today's trio reporting for prep duty was made up of Wolffe, Warthog and Comet. You supposed this meant Sinker and Boost were keeping an eye on the store for the time being. Some small chance either of them would filter in with the rest of the crew when it came time to move shelves in.

Comet made it in the door first. Hardly any surprise. For as long as you've known him, Comet always moves like he's in a hurry. Trying to live up to his namesake. Maybe Wolffe brought this particular kid brother along hoping his restlessness and boundless energy would be to their advantage given the forecast.

"Mornin', ma'am. Mornin', Ms. Nu!"

"Volume," Wolffe reminded him, shutting the door.

It was done more out of habit than anything. Thoughtful, but not strictly necessary. Only the library staff were currently present, as opening to the public got delayed on Wednesdays. There were no patrons to disrupt.

"It's quite alright, young man. Though I take it all the time you've spent here lately has perhaps rubbed off on you," Ms. Nu says with a regarding smile.

Half mumbling a short word of agreement, Wolffe gives the director a cursory report that he and his brothers will get started on removals shortly. They'll do their best not to track in too much water. Removing splintery, substandard plywood shelves makes for two things: An easy, three-man job–

"And a huge damn mess," Warthog laughs.

That's what they always bring one of their shop vacs for. Once all the old shelves are taken out, they'll get started on a quick cleaning protocol. Have things ready by the time additional manpower arrives.

Like every Wednesday, you'll be provided one of the best opportunities you could ask for to see Wolffe's natural leadership in action. A "small army's worth" of brothers and other company employees following his every instruction. Working together as one, well-oiled unit to bring in the new bookshelves made of dense, solid oak.

You can only imagine this must be a quiet point of pride for Mr. Plo.

Wolffe, well on his way to taking over his father's company some day, certainly acted proud of them.

Proud in a way that didn't involve haughtiness, arrogance, or boasting.

More rather it was proud of their combined accomplishments. Proud of solid work ethics, the care exercised across every step of the process. Proud of each new hire and young brother for always, often eagerly, learning. Growing. Improving. Proud of each seasoned woodworker and carpenter who led by example — many doing so without being asked.

Pride that far and away diffused Wolffe's slightly more crass moments when working with one's own family.

You understood Wolffe loved his brothers too much to ever remain pissed for long. Knew how greatly he cared for their safety. The amount of responsibility Wolffe felt the need to carry on his shoulders simply because he happened to be the first of the boys born from storage tank 104B.

Now that was a whole story of it's own.

A story you never explicitly asked to hear, but had eventually been entrusted to hear from Wolffe's own mouth the longer you got to know one another. Not all at once, mind. Gradually. Not that there was much you didn't already know, either.

Hundreds—maybe thousands—of news sources had shared just about everything regarding the monumentally unethical stunt K.D.D. Cryobank and Fertility Clinic pulled over twenty-some years ago. Coverage of the scandal was completely inescapable.

Wolffe often wondered if there wasn't a soul on earth—shit, maybe even the galaxy!—who didn't know what happened. Anything he had left to provide were a smattering of details the endless number of outlets were never made privy to. Everything after that was fairly obvious enough, he said.

Long ago, for reasons unknown, a Mister J. Fett donated enough genetic material to Mr. L. Su of K.D.D. Cryobank. And Su's corporation—operating with cryptically vague language as "somewhere overseas"—conducted an astronomical amount of medical malpractice by producing somewhere around 200,000 or more children through their international "services".

Two-hundred thousand children who were predominately male.

That naturally meant Wolffe had a lot of brothers.

And a LOT of teasing from them.

You didn't mind too much. By and large it was harmless, wholesome fun. Anything taken too far needed only a single withering expression. Most of the time from Wolffe. Sometimes, you.

If it meant having an excuse—a chance—of making Wolffe smile more, then you didn't mind some teasing. Or teasing Wolffe yourself.

Especially not if Wolffe teased you back.

Rain continually lashed at the library windows from early to mid-morning.

Good news for the local branch of the forest service.

Bad news for gray-polo-wearing, bookcase-lugging brothers and company employees.

While they had brought a few, there weren't enough waxed canvases to go around in order to protect the shelves against the elements. Some men even sacrificed their company jackets for the cause. Noble and dedicated of them to be sure; however, shirts were soon soaked through in one or two trips.

Wolffe was one such soul.

Watching the weather steadily worsen, he'd thrown his jacket over you rather than one of the bookcases. "If you're propping the door open for us, it's the least I can do," Wolffe said. A remarkably chivalrous gesture considering his jacket was utilized on construction sites for its robust nature and high waterproof rating. Not exactly the kind of outerwear you could buy off the rack at any old store.

You'd be wishing you could, later. A quick peek at your phone reveals this is also a very expensive gesture. A fact Wolffe attempts to subtly downplay by insisting it was no big deal.

Call it… a mutual back-scratching. You helped with the door, remember?

"Could even get you one of your own, if you'd like,"

"W-Wolffe, I couldn't possibly— Don't get me wrong. It's a very generous offer, but—"

"Oh hush. A good friend ought to have only the very best, darling."

He means it, too. Says there's some half-brothers living in a distant city in the construction buisness he can get in touch with. See if any of 'em know a supplier with a lot of color options. Try to get something in your favorite color and less of this fuckin' ugly Hi-Vis, if he can. Will pay for the whole thing himself.

That way you can't trick him and pay for it first. Like the last time you got dinner together.

Comet, eavesdropping, asked, "Wait… You two got dinner together? When did that happen?"

"Hey. Mind your own business," Sinker urged him, whisking Comet back out the door. "These aren't gonna unload themselves, y'know."

Before late morning, the last of the shelves are safely inside the library.

Sidewalk puddles had become lakes and ponds. The rain seems relentless now. Near-torrential. Wind howled through the streets and surrounding conifers. Not quite hurricane- or typhoon-strength, but close. Enough that Mr. Plo called both Sinker and Wolffe to strategize the safest possible return.

It wouldn't be long before the water table was over-saturated. Roads might begin flooding soon. The library was (somewhat tentatively) open to the public by this point, though you couldn't imagine people would be trickling in like any other day. They'd stay home if they were smart.

Or had a vehicle other than a heavy-duty pickup truck, like Wolffe did.

Sinker was the second to last to leave. He'd taken his brother's truck to the library, knowing Wolffe was going to pull 'some sacrificial stunt'. Again. "Threw a few towels in the backseat for you before I left the shop. Stopped on the way home for a change of clothes, too. Dad's idea," he explained, tossing the keys at Wolffe. Warthog and Comet were sitting in the idling box truck, waiting for Sinker.

"Thanks. Owe you one."

"Ohh, pretty sure it's more than that…"

"Shut up."

"After I took care of that little Comet conundrum? You owe me at least three!"

"Good-bye, Sink. I'll see you back at the shop," Wolffe replied firmly.

He made no mention of when that'd be, exactly. Just let Sinker make his own assumptions. There were a few things to discuss with the director. Insurance coverage. Care and upkeep. Partial payment plans. A real snooze fest of simple courtesies Wolffe was plenty capable of handling alone.

Should take no more than ten, fifteen minutes tops.

"Right, sure. Just do Dad a favor and call 'im when you're leaving. You know he gets worried about you driving in these conditions," Sinker said. He and Wolffe turned to look out the library's double doors, gauging the severity of the storm.

It had gotten worse in only a short time. Rain was coming down in sheets now. The wind made an ungodly sound as it whipped around the building. A bolt of lightning popped, splitting the sky only seconds before an almighty thunderclap.

Wolffe regarded everything only a moment before shaking his head. He tossed the keys back to Sinker.

"We'll make it five favors if you get the stuff from my truck and let Dad know I'm going to try waiting it out here for a while."

"Ms. Nu won't mind, will she?"

Wolffe glances momentarily at you, shrugging. He could probably volunteer to be a volunteer… if it meant the director would agree. Sort of cancel out all those other times he got the feeling he was overstaying his welcome if he helped yo– Er, helped the library re-shelve some of these books.

This minor Freudian slip does not go unnoticed, but neither you or Sinker directly comments on it. Instead, you offer to go dig up the perfunctory paperwork and volunteer badge so Wolffe can take them when he ties up a few loose ends with the director.

And when he's done with that, you invite Wolffe to come join you in the stacks.

Fifteen minutes and a spot of paperwork later…

Wolffe stood beside you among the many rows of shelves with a bright blue "CCPL VOLUNTEER" badge pinned to a new, dry polo. When he volunteered to help with re-shelving, a tote crate full of sticky notes, markers and gel pens wasn't what he had in mind. Though he was beginning to see why the director called it the sticky note stage. Should have guessed it was smarter to map out where future labels were going to go, first.

An easy feat seeing these bookcases kept the same dimensions as the old. Saved everyone a lot of time and energy.

Ordinarily, Ms. Nu would have been slightly more… reluctant to allow Wolffe to work directly with you. But seeing as the library may not have the chance to open as planned, she would tolerate a little overly-friendly fraternizing between you two. Just this once, was the implication. She's seen how the two of you have behaved when he's "dropped in" with the thought of surprising you with something.

"Extra" tickets to a movie you'd talked about seeing. Treating you to this mid-century diner his father told him about just outside the major city — Dex's, down in the foothills. Cold medicine when you were sick. Your beverage of choice when he made a coffee run. Little things like that.

Little excuses to see you, have a quick chat. Five minutes here. Ten there.

Wasn't long before those fives and tens have slowly accrued to several hours' worth of your precious time. Time you should be working. Time he should be working, for that matter.

"I trust your father is aware you're here, again?" Ms. Nu would often inquire with a falsely-sweet tone.

A disguised suggestion she might call Mr. Plo to check. An indirect recommendation it was time for Wolffe to leave.

That wouldn't be happening today.

Instead, she'd be checking on the progress you and Wolffe have made every so often over the next couple of hours. Asking if you were sure you didn't want to go home early. Giving you an opportunity to leave like the rest of your coworkers had. Before it may not be possible, let alone safe.

It was just you, Wolffe, and Ms. Nu at the library now.

But Wolffe had an unexpected excuse to keep the two of you here. Just a "little" while longer.

"I… actually wanted to talk to her about finally signing up for a current library card," Wolffe said, nodding at you to the director. "We were doing a little talking. Safe to say she finally convinced me."

Ms. Nu gasped softly, surprised. "Well! Has she now?"

No. You hadn't been talking about that at all, actually. Wolffe was telling you about the mousers at the workshop—Soapsuds, Orchid and a polydactyl named Thumbtack—when Ms. Nu found you two in the reference texts.

It was probably the first time he'd ever mentioned one of his rare half-sisters; a twelve-year-old girl by the name of Omega. (Nearly all the K.D.D. Cryobank children gave themselves slightly more unusual names in an effort to emotionally distance themselves from such an outrageously unorthodox start at life.) She'd been the one who originally found and named the tenacious tomcats.

"I'm just as surprised as you, Ms. Nu," you say with your best modest smile. "I must have been asking if he'd like to be a patron for months!"

Now that part was true. You've given your friend plenty of lighthearted shit for not signing up when membership was free. But why was Wolffe using it as an excuse now?

And an excuse for what, exactly?

The director interrupted your thoughts with the shrill zhriiiiip! of her emergency jacket fastening itself shut.

"In that case, I trust you can lock up when you're done, dear?"

Yes, you promise. You'll just wrap up this last shelf here in the stacks and then get Wolffe added to the system. Then you'll figure out how to get yourselves home.

"Don't do anything foolish. And I look forward to your patronage here at our most impressive archive, young Wolffe," Ms. Nu concludes.

The main door is scarcely shut behind her before Wolffe is completely at your mercy.

"So, Wolffe. We both lied to my director why, exactly…?"

Wolffe rarely hears you quite so upset—at him, he should clarify—over much of anything when you spend time together.

Sure, you groused about petty work grievances, the same as him. Had what you called a 'Bitch Eating Crackers' moment about a former coworker. Complained about willy-nilly re-shelvers and the fact last year's edition of The Guinness Book of World Records was stolen. AGAIN. But the restrained, chilly tone has only been directed at him a small handful of times since you've met.

If there's one thing Wolffe's grateful for right now, it's his dark complexion. It can't betray the scorching shame in his face to you.

The truth is he made a split-second decision.

"It's not how I was hoping to tell you. Originally planned to do it over lunch today; before the, uh, weather put a real damper on everything… Sorry for putting you on the spot like that, little lamb."

Wolffe hopes the sincerity of his tone will soothe some of these stirring waters. The storm is creating more than enough tension for the two of you. Rattling windows, some stutters in the power, and the relentless drum of rain against the roof has him expecting things to go tits up any moment.

"Tell me when you decided on getting a card, and we'll call it square. Deal?"

Your gentle smile is a welcome blunting of Wolffe's rising worry.

"Last week. One of the days you were off work, actually," he explains.

Had you been working, Wolffe would've gladly paid the library a visit a little before close to take care of it that day. But admittedly he wasn't completely comfortable with the thought of signing up without the help of someone he could trust. Would have felt embarrassed, perhaps, to bring up some… slightly odd questions… with anyone other than you.

Questions Wolffe could trust you to show the appropriate amount of sensitivity.

Maybe by starting with a few here in the stacks, he can get a bead on things. Hedge a few of his bets and recent assumptions. Not all of which are strictly related to the library's inner workings.

"It's a longshot," Wolffe warns you, "but I've been having a real hell of a time locating a specific book. Specific style, I mean."

You nod along. "What sort of style?"

"Large-print. Fuck, I'd gladly take braille. Either would make getting through this otherwise decent, self-help-y reference type book I need for the job even slightly easier."

Wolffe didn't expect you to perform miracles for him. Just hoped you knew what direction to nudge him. Any direction at all. Would he have a chance of finding it here in the reference texts?

With a soft giggle, you pluck the neon orange carpenter's pencil sticking out of Wolffe's breast pocket.

"Well I can start by telling you these aren't the reference texts you're looking for…"

Carefully pulling a book off its respective shelf, you slot the pencil in the empty space left behind. That way you'll know where to re-shelve it at a glance. After pulling back the inside cover, you point out a block letter stamp to him.

"Books with this black stamp here—Library Use Only—means we don't loan it out. Mostly because it's either rare or hard to find."

Wolffe nods thoughtfully, then smiles. "Not even if I use my best manners?"

You give him a playful scoff. "As much as I like you, no. Not even if you use your best manners, Wolffe." If the library ever got their hands on something you call a lectern book, that would never be leaving the building. Ms. Nu would probably kill someone to protect it.

Noted… But now that you've encouraged him, Wolffe's next grin is the lovechild of mischief and a half dose of surprise as he carefully re-shelves the book and takes back his pencil.

"Oh. You like me, hm?"

"Generally speaking, sure."

A teasing smile betrays your apathetic tone. You must be seeing if you can rile him up a bit. A bit of friendly pay-back for putting you on the spot earlier. He deserves that, honestly.

But what if he tried pushing the envelope?

Wolffe follows you and the book truck towards the circulations desk. Almost prowling after. Not wholly paying attention to what you say about getting him signed up for a card as quickly as possible. The power's stuttering is becoming more frequent. The storm, somehow stronger.

"And what about… not so generally, lamb?"

If you're going to tease him like that, he'll return the favor. Like he often has. Why play this little game any differently now? At the same time, Wolffe understands he needs to be careful. The two of you are completely alone. With nowhere to go. Both of your phones have been hit with a barrage of text messages from loved ones and people in town.

The prevailing messages: Stay inside. Roads flooded. Not safe. Have power?

Whatever Wolffe says next could turn out to be a beautiful bolster… or the mother of all blunders should he bloom too boldly.

Not so generally, he asks… What kind of answer might Wolffe be digging for?

And what might he be grappling with when Wolffe hesitates to reply for an unusually long moment following your answer?

"To tell you the truth, Wolffe? I woke up this morning wondering if I've been kidding myself about our… friendly relationship."

You've been doing your best to ignore it all day. Stop yourself from endlessly ruminating on it. Uncomfortable with the idea of confronting your true feelings for a good friend. Afraid speaking perhaps the three most powerful words—and have them mean "and not just as a friend"—will break the spell.

Ruin the routine of meeting up for lunch every Wednesday.

Soil memories of Saturdays and Sundays spent skylarking in the city.

Tarnish your chances of seeing another too-tender smile out of the corner of your eye.

Cause Wolffe to pull away from you because this… all of this… was purely platonic. A whole friendship thrown away because everything was suddenly subject to scrutiny. Would he look at you and wonder: were all those times you called him 'handsome' empty flattery — hoping to get in his pants? Or did you really, truly mean it?

Did you always mean it?

Yes. The answer was yes, of course. Galaxy only knows when or how your usage and meaning behind this adjective shifted… but you meant it. With every last bit of your heart.

Wolffe closes the comfortable distance just as the power begins flickering once again. A few overhead lights remain dark this time when the stutter ends. Thinking he's reaching for the extra-large tool bag sitting on the circulations desk, you side step.

You knew Wolffe often carried an extra light source in there. Something for emergencies. Or to compensate for low lighting — a major issue for his altered vision.

Wolffe catches you by the elbow instead. Carefully holding you in place. Maintaining a very… intimate proximity. He keeps his grip deliberately soft all the while; allowing you a graceful, easy out.

If this is too much…. If this isn't what you want…

"I've been wondering that, too, sweetheart," he confesses at long last.

You've been telling yourselves the same, silly lie. For a whole year. You had fallen for each other somewhere along the way. At some point, between the teasing, silly text messages, and an increasing amount of alone time… good friends exited the fabled friend zone and had yet to notice.

Now that you had, of course, all bets were off.

Daringly, you took hold of Wolffe by the collar of his work polo and pulled him close. So close, he was near-flush against you.

Wolffe offered outs; you, said stay.

Whether maroon, gray, or white, the only thing you wanted to see that polo covered in was Wolffe's own sweat after you made him prove exactly how much stamina he had. Was it worthy of his namesake — an apex predator? Or was he more of a Old English Sheepdog instead?

"Signing you up for a library card can wait," you said, voice becoming low and seductive. "I think I should make sure you hear all about the public library program Cedar Crest has to offer, first…" Just so you can buy yourselves a little time. See how the power holds up.

Your lips graze Wolffe's once.

Twice.

Wolffe beats you to the punch on a third. "I think I'd love that, darling," he says while curling a finger or two under your chin. The gesture offers more stability while you both engage in a first, proper kiss.

Slow. Sensual.

Scarcely pulling apart. Adjusting angles. Another.

Hungrier.

Firmer.

Finally.

Hands begin roaming the other's body. Caressing, pulling, leading. Traveling, almost tracing paths from shoulders down to hips. A thrilling crescendo born out of passion. The desire for near-oneness. To come closer, closer, closer.

Sexual energy continually builds. Buttons, belts and bra clasps gradually come undone between kiss after kiss after kiss. Each half-lidded moan is a plea.

Right here.

Right now.

Wolffe's words come out in light, breathless pants between each heated kiss.

"Mmm… Any chance I can arrange to… check something out with the librarian on duty?"

"Specific… titles in mind?"

"I'm open to recommendations," he purrs in the shell of your ear.

A natural first stop would be through the Romance section, in that case.

Eat your hearts out, YA romances.

That was… well fuck, only one of you may have been named Wolffe, but both of you were almost definitely howling.

RE-dressing took twice as long as the UN-dressing. First, you had to find everything. Things had been kicked under the study tables. Discarded near the digital media. Odd, laughable places. Then it was the thorough—and you mean thorough—evidence removal.

You and Wolffe trade little, knowing glances every step of the clean-up process. Curving crescent smiles as the truth settles in. Both of you feeling giddy knowing the high likelihood of getting away with this. There were no cameras in the library; no mechanical eyes to witness your dirty deeds.

The raging storm was the best cover you could have asked for.

The faltering power meant Ms. Nu wouldn't find it odd that Wolffe was added into the system a very long time after she left. More than half of Cedar Crest had been urged to shelter in place by their mutual contacts. Few would think to question the presence of two vehicles in the parking lot by the time the thunderstorm had greatly eased up.

You were helping Wolffe look for a large-print edition of his reference book when someone who would question it sent a string of texts to him.

"Hm. Doesn't look like we have the title you need. Even in a standard format… The good news is that I can file a loan request from a library that does have the book, since you want a physical copy," you explained, using the computer cursor to 'highlight' select text on the computer screen.

Bzz-bzzt!

Wolffe ignored the text. He was far more focused on what was in front of him. On who was beside him, more importantly. Wolffe would much rather continue to sit, your arms lazily hooked together as he rubs little thumb-circles into intertwined fingers. Listening to what you had to say. While he could easily get a digital or audio copy, Wolffe wanted something tangible. Something that wouldn't mean squinting into another glaring screen.

Bzz-bzzt!!

With a soft laugh, Wolffe pointed to a specific library listed under available locations for loan requests. (Again, he ignored his phone.) It just so happens to be one you've filed a number of requests to in the past.

"Wait a minute. That's Omega and Hunter's local library! Heard through the grapevine he might've started dating one of the librarians there."

"Oh really! Any idea who?"

You're curious to know if you've had any contact with her. If she might be the one who likes using characters from The Princess Bride when demonstrating the application process to prospective patrons. Mr. Montoya in particular is the proud owner of one of their oldest, active cards.

Wolffe shakes his head before comfortably leaning against you.

"Sorry, lamb. Only heard the gal's name once or twice. Best I can tell is it has to do with birds."

Bzzt! Bzzt!

"Maybe you should check—"

BZZT!!

Whoever was trying to get in contact with Wolffe was being persistent. Very persistent. This was starting to smell like an emergency. Picking up his phone, Wolffe braces himself only to find it's younger brothers being younger brothers.

Boost: (5 minutes ago) So, big bro… You find a nice chapter book to check out already or what?! Sinker: (3 minutes ago) Naaah. I bet it's more of a VISUAL novel. Boost: (Now) He's not answering. Boost: (Now) Must be real page turner! ;) Sinker: (Now) Or he's stuck somewhere in the stacks.

You read each of the messages over Wolffe's shoulder, giggling.

He pecks out half of a really pissed-off reply before changing his mind, deleting the whole thing. Wolffe knows what the reaction will be if he sends that. Instead, he fudges the truth about his battery percentage. Says its lower than it actually is. (Couldn't leave it charging during the storm.) Believable enough for them.

And believable enough that when Mr. Plo extends a dinner invitation to you, Wolffe doesn't initially catch the tiny yet crucial word strongly suggesting his father had the two of you figured out.

Galaxy's #1 Dad: (Now) Be sure to take care of that low battery soon, Wolffe. I would hate for it to get in the way of you and your nice young lady joining us for dinner tonight.

Well – Wolffe's father HAS been saying he "knows" for at least a year now!

Was coming real close to year since this request was sent in, but I'm happy to say I've finished what has got to be one of my most-enjoyed requests thus far! It was so much fun flexing my creative muscles in order to translate key elements into a Modern AU. Biggest thanks possible goes to Carol; for sending both my first and last requests for my 200 Follower Event. 🩷 I hope you enjoyed this one as much as the first, and all of those references/Easter Eggs I enjoyed sprinkling in there~.

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

One such person—a childhood friend—you’ve managed to remain quite close with in spite of your relocation, and their involvement in the Galactic Senate. Rising through the upper echelons in the political scene to make it into a senatorial position had taken time, but the friend you knew best as Aspen had never been the type who could be easily swayed from their goals, or their sense in doing the right thing. 

Thinking of you often, Aspen liked to send you invitations to some of the millions of events taking place on Coruscant at any given time. Mostly small things, like seasonal markets or something related to various hobbies and interests. 

“A certain someone I know would love the concert they're holding in the entertainment district this coming Zhellday!”

“Blast… I’m going to be busy that day! But you’re the best, Aspen.”

On rare occasions, the invitations Aspen gave you were to much bigger things than crafting workshops or concerts. 

The most recent of these larger invitations is to an upcoming gala being held at the very end of the month, meant to cap off the long proposal period of very important—yet divisive—bills and other legislation to the Republic. You knew from past experience this would be a very, very long month for Aspen with no shortage of headaches. They were probably ready to beg you to attend the gala if it came down to it. 

It took only a short moment of thought before coming to a decision upon receiving the electronic invite; hoping to surprise them with good news, a message was left with a member of their senatorial staff. 

Hey, Aspen, just thought I’d let you know I got your invitation to the upcoming gala. I know you’re busy, so you don’t need to convince me to attend. I’d be happy to come and see you. The gala sounds like fun. Already looking forward to it! 

You’ve attended a few parties with Aspen in the past, but you can’t recall one of this scale or importance. There were the small fundraisers where you ate so many jogan fruit tarts together you were nearly sick. Promotional campaigns where bets were made on how many flutes of champagne Aspen’s competitors would end up sucking back before the end of the night. Public appearances where you stood beside (or in place of) your childhood friend’s family to support and celebrate the hard work they’ve put into the planet you called home for a long, long time. 

Making the kind of differences Aspen hoped for in the galaxy would often be an uphill battle. You’ve regularly joked it was a good thing that they’ve always been a fan of climbing in all the time you knew them. 

By the time you made it to Coruscant, less than a week before the gala, you were faced with the horrible discovery of just how close Aspen had come to falling from those lofty heights.

You’re planet-side for all of five minutes—busy wrestling your things together in the spaceport terminal—before you find yourself face-to-helmet with a pair of white-armored men. By the way they had begun marching in the direction of the baggage claim from the moment you got there and the deliberateness of their stride, you had the feeling they were not simply on patrol. 

These soldiers—Clones—part of the Coruscant Guard, judging by the red paintwork, had been waiting for you.  

The rest of your luggage continued to sit on the revolving conveyor belt as you spoke with the shocktroopers for the next few minutes, trying to figure out what was going on in spite of the travel-fatigue. Anyone who’s spent a significant amount of time on Coruscant has seen more than their fair share of regular commuters and far-away travelers getting stopped by terminal security forces, so that in itself is not out of the ordinary. 

Getting stopped by members of the Guard, those who dealt with riots and political escorts… That was more unusual. It meant whatever was going on was pretty karkin’ serious. (You’re not in trouble, are you?) Comply. Be polite. They don’t sound angry yet when they start asking basic questions to confirm your identity. 

Starting with your name and date of birth, one of the troopers brings up his datapad clipped to his utility belt to verify your answers against information in their database. The other silently gathers the rest of your baggage from the carousel the next time it comes around, preventing some petty criminal from getting their hands on whatever's inside. Between giving the troopers the requested information, a million thoughts race all at once while wondering whether or not you’ll be asked to come with them soon enough. Unless the Corries are hurting for work so badly that they’re now working spaceport security, whatever this is about is undoubtedly serious. 

In a shaken voice, you try to find answers once there is a suitable lull in the questioning.

“Can I ask what this is about…? Am I in trouble?”

The trooper with the datapad in his hand turns to the other, saying nothing, but raises his shoulders and gestures with his free hand as if to say “How much do you think we can tell her?” to his partner. You grow all the more nervous as the silent exchange continues, the partner shaking his head at the first. 

“Not here.” the second trooper says, his head wagging sharply to suggest it isn’t a good idea. 

The first makes a hurried promise before he’s interrupted by the second. “You’re not in trouble-” 

“But you’re not safe, either. We can explain more once you’re about the gunship. We need to ask you to come with us.” (Gunship? Safe? Oh fuck.) The same trooper, nodding to a bag by your feet now says “Sayber, take the duffle bag. I’ve got the suitcase.” before instructing you to follow them. 

Struggling to match their militant stride, you want to do little more than shrink out of discomfort feeling hundreds of eyes trained on you as you march back the way the shocktroopers came through the crowded spaceport. Doing your best to ignore all the many faces glittering with curiosity, you instead focus on the LAAT/i emblazoned with the crest of the Guard lazily bobbing in place as it hovers over a part of the terminal’s platform. 

Aside from the pilot, there are three more soldiers. Two are waiting in the craft itself; another waits on the ground, hands planted firmly on each hip. 

He must be who Sayber and the second, nameless Clone now walking beside you report to, judging by the stance and differences in his armor. On his helmet, you see stylized wings painted above a black visor guard, framing the visor itself. Two ‘capes’ of flexible armor hung from his utility belt, swaying in the downdraft of the ship just behind him, and the left shoulder armor has an antenna of some kind. 

If you had to guess his rank, he’s either a captain or commander. “That didn’t take long at all.” he calls to his soldiers, tone neither impressed or surprised. “Have you and Naran verified she’s who we were sent to retrieve?”

“Yes, Commander Thorn. She matches the descriptions we were given.” Sayber, the trooper on your right, replies confidently. 

All the same, he and Naran show their superior the datapad, allowing him to look at the information for himself. Confirmed with the commander, you’re given the go-ahead to board. Naran and Sayber board first, one securing your luggage while the other helps you into the gunship. 

As soon as you’re aboard, the commander orders the blast shields closed. The sound of which makes you wince, but being so on-edge, you’re grateful for the feeling of extra security it brings soon after. As you’re being shown an overhead handrail to use in case the inertial compensator isn’t enough to keep you from being wobblier than a newborn bantha, you’re advised not to lock your knees once the military repulsorcraft takes off. 

“Flight shouldn’t be too long, but, because even the most routine escorts have surprises we have to ask: do you get airsick, ma’am?” Having met them just a short time ago, you can’t yet tell Naran and Sayber apart, but you’re pretty sure this is Naran who’s rooting through the on-board medical kit for something. 

“O-oh, I-”

Your hesitation and the commander’s interruption is enough for one of them to toss an airsick bag your way, just in case. “Nothing routine about this escort, boys. We’re gonna be wrapped in red tape for a while, so we should start getting used to it.” The pilot is signaled to take off from the spaceport and begin making his way to a coded location a few moments later. 

The word ‘escort’ is nothing unfamiliar to you, having gone through this song and dance one of the last times you came to support Aspen’s senatorial workings. But red tape creates enough dread to ice over your veins before it begins pooling hot and sour in your guts. 

“C-can I ask what’s going on now?” 

What’s happened that’s made all of this a necessity?

Naran, remembering the promise he made back at the terminal, begins to carefully explain the situation with a slight halt in his voice. Each word is chosen carefully, like perhaps he’s unsure just how much he can say, or how you might react. 

“Someone—we’re not sure who—tried to end your friend Senator Aspen’s life shortly before you got to Coruscant… They’re shaken, but ultimately unharmed. We were asked to bring you to the same secure location by one of the other commanders.” 

The remainder of your flight aboard the gunship goes by without another word. The troopers know this is difficult information to process, and you can’t think of a single thing to say about any of it. It’s hard to be afforded a moment of silence to reflect on any of this with the guttural drone of the engine eating up any sound below a stage whisper, but the soldiers around you do their best. It’s a small act of kindness to you. 

Until you step off the gunship, this will be your last opportunity to have any kind of time to yourself before you’ll be so caught up in red tape you would practically be wearing the stuff.

Upon arrival, Sayber and Naran once again wrangle your luggage for you to speed up the process of disembarking. 

The less hindrances you had the better. You needed to see Aspen. And Aspen needed to see you. Having a friendly face by your side made confronting calamity a little more bearable, someone wise once told you. (Or, maybe you read that somewhere on the holonet…) In this state of heightened adrenaline, thoughts become muddled and disjointed as Commander Thorn ushers you past several armed security guards down a long hall. 

You can only imagine your friend will be in a far worse state. 

“Senator Aspen is in here,” Commander Thorn explains, stopping in front of a modified blastdoor. “The two of you will be kept here until a security detail has been finalized.”

“That’s fine… Thank you, Commander Thorn.”

Commander Thorn wastes no time, waving you in ahead of him once he’s completed keying in the clearance code. Inside, you find your friend crumpled into a low multi-seater, face in their hands as the person seated on the other end of the couch appears to be explaining something either to them, or to the other armed guards posted in the corners of the panic room.  

From the armor kit, you know the man is another Clone like Sayber, Naran and Commander Thorn with a singular glance. But you’re less concerned with who he is right at this moment, never having been more relieved to see your friend than you are right now. 

“Once she’s here, I would like everyone to-”

“Aspen!”

The other Clone immediately falls silent as Aspen gets on their feet in a flash, all but vaulting over the caf-table in order to meet you half-way. Mutually crushing the air out of the other’s lungs in the strength of your embrace, neither of you can properly express just how grateful you are to see the other. Jumbled, rapid words give way to tears seeping into one another’s shoulders before long, so occupied with comforting each other that no attention is paid to the troopers being swapped out with Naran and Sayber once they have brought in your belongings. 

In a tight, choked voice your friend begins apologizing to you once they’re calm enough to speak. “I’m so sorry that we had to meet like… like this… but it’s so, so good to see you.” Pulling away, you get a better look at their face for the first time and your heart clenches painfully. They look so scared. So deeply shaken. Yet here they are, apologizing to you for something that’s hardly their fault. 

“Had to be the longest hour of my life, waiting here with the Commander for you to get to Coruscant…” Aspen continues, taking your hand to guide you to sit beside them on the multi-seater where it would be more comfortable than standing. “I wanted to talk to you. So badly. Just to hear your voice and find a little solace after- After everything.”

“I’m guessing you couldn’t?”

Your friend shakes their head no. “Not exactly. We weren’t sure if it would be safe to. I’m sor-”

It’s you who shakes their head this time before explaining why a second apology is not necessary. “Hey. I understand. The important thing was trying to keep you safe after you were almost… hurt. Or worse.” The simple fact your friend was unharmed—still living and breathing in front of you—was an incredible blessing.

“Your friend sounds like a smart woman, Senator Aspen.” 

Reminded of his presence after you’ve been paid a compliment, your friend quickly begins the process of trying to compose themself in order to begin proper introductions. “Y-yes, she very much is… Commander, this is my very dear friend I was trying to tell you about earlier when explaining who your men needed to find.” The second Commander nods in polite greeting, refraining from saying anything until introductions have been finished. 

“And this, my dear friend,” Aspen says in a well-practiced this-is-important tone of voice, “is Commander Fox of the Coruscant Guard. I believe he’s been tasked with security after what nearly happened.”

At this point, Commander Fox has gotten to his feet and taken a look at something on Commander Thorn’s datapad before consulting his own. “That would be correct, Senator.” Holding himself with purpose, this second commander standing beside Thorn differs from him in more ways than just the color-inversion of his chest armor, and the additional Corrie Crimson on his armor alone. “I am here by order of the Chancellor to create a strong security detail for you, and your friend, in light of the attempt on your life almost an hour ago.” His voice, while not too different from the Clones you’ve met today thus far, had strong tonal qualities of duty and seriousness that commanded a great deal of attention from everyone in the room. 

You’ll ask about “that” detail in just a moment. Right now, you’re more surprised there’s no fear or unease when he says he’s here to enact the Chancellor’s will. This comes naturally to him.

“Sorry, I just want to make sure I heard you correctly: you said by order of the Chancellor?”

Nodding stiffly, Commander Fox confirms his orders. “Yes ma’am. As the Marshal Commander, I’ve been asked by Chancellor Palpatine to personally ensure your safety at all times until it is no longer deemed necessary. While he understands the upcoming gala expects to see many high-profile guests, he was rather disturbed to hear what had nearly happened to Senator Aspen, and insisted upon a constant security presence.” 

“I may or may not have tried politely refusing the Chancellor’s offer.” Aspen explains to you, chuckling somewhat shamefully. “And he was right to insist upon my refusal; it was fifteen minutes after the attack and I certainly wasn’t thinking clearly… I… Well, I think Commander Fox or Thorn has the pictures.” 

Nodding less stiffly than before, Commander Fox takes one of the datapads and shows you a collection of the holo-stills and frames taken from nearby security feeds of the destruction left by the attack. While you look at the horrible state of Aspen’s senatorial office, the main window broken with thick shards of transparisteel strewn across the floor, your friend explains that they managed to escape the attack unharmed by sheer, dumb luck. 

“I survived because I tripped, if you can believe it.” 

Blaster marks have burned the back of Aspen’s chair and several spots in the floor. The main desk, made from a much heavier, more-solid material, is riddled with blaster burn in comparison. While you’re not an expert by any means, the window pane’s shatter pattern suggests that the weapon used by the would-be assassin was likely high-powered, or of uncommon caliber. 

“It was just a split second before the first shot. After that, I hid in front of the desk as best as I could until members of the Coruscant Guard showed up. All that Corrie Crimson surging into my office must have scared them off because the firing stopped almost as soon as the Guard got there.”

Dumb luck. Dumb luck saved your friend before the Corries came to protect them. 

Facing the whole emotional gamut as you view these stills, Commander Fox puts the datapad away the very second you cannot stand to see more, shaking your head no, no, no. 

Outrage and disgust blooms in your chest, acidic and bitter-hot. You had too many questions to ask all at once. Crime scene analysts had cordoned off Aspen’s office, currently combing over everything for the most minute of clues. Would they be able to figure out who could have possibly wanted to kill your friend? Did anyone see who it was before they got away?

What was the motivation?

Uncertain of the answers to the other questions, Aspen could only offer partial answers as to ‘why’ someone might have tried to kill them with much hand-wringing. 

On one of the planets the Republic has been hoping to change the neutrality status of, there had been a riot almost a month ago now that’s still so tightly wrapped up in red tape largely in efforts to keep details away from the press while investigations are still on-going. Because of that, Aspen can’t say who they believe started the riot, or for what reason. But they can tell you that several Clones were nearly beaten to death as a result, and the rioters responsible have been charged with destruction of government property for the time being. 

Aspen was spearheading an effort to re-file those charges under a different crime that they believe more accurately reflects the rioters’ intentions that day. Attempted murder. While the effort has seen a lot of support in the Chambers, there are a fair number of senators still dragging their feet on making a decision. 

A small handful of influential senators have had a far less positive reception to this effort the longer Aspen has encouraged these changes. Matters that were becoming complicated when some of them were beginning to react in ways that suggested hostility have now become even more complicated with the introduction of a botched assassination. 

Planning for the gala has gotten a whole lot more complicated as well. If it’s even going to happen at all…

“Did the Chancellor say anything about cancelling the gala at the end of the week?”

“Too many high-profile guests coming from across the galaxy to change anything at this point, I imagine. Some of them have been making preparations for half a year, or more.” Aspen explains, fruitlessly massaging their temples over the thought of it. “Great galaxies, I do not envy whoever is in charge of organizing security for that mess…” 

Commander Thorn politely clears his throat. “Will likely be me, now that Commander Fox is overseeing your security, Senator.” He quickly adds, “Or, it could be Commander Thire. We’ll get it sorted.” after sharing a fleeting glance with his fellow commander. 

Aspen winces sympathetically. 

“I’m so sorry…” 

“Don’t be, Senator.” Commander Thorn says. When he speaks again, his voice is a little softer than before, careful sympathy lacing every spoken word. “We’re sorry that your plans to get ready for the gala are going to have to be changed.”  

“How soon will that be?” Aspen wonders.

“Once Commander Fox has your security detail finalized.” 

Your friend makes a low sound in their throat, smiling grimly. “Very soon then, I imagine… May I ask what we can expect, Commander Fox?” 

In a calm and deliberate voice, Commander Fox explains that as investigations are being conducted, he and other members of the Guard are going to be accompanying the two of you everywhere leading up to the gala. They’ll be your security as well as your escort force; you’re going to be spending a lot of time under their watchful eyes and ready hands.

So if there are any reservations, now is the time to say something. 

You look to your friend and make a quiet offer after considering the Commander’s words. “You’re the one who invited me here, so I’ll follow your lead, Aspen.” You’ve known each other long enough to trust their judgement. If it was decided it would be safest for you to go home, then you would take a rain check on this visit and come back to Coruscant another time. 

While you’re prepared not to create more trouble for everyone, Aspen’s selfless nature rears its sweet head even in the wake of an attack. Turning to Commander Fox, who stands straight-backed as he is patiently awaiting a verdict before the two of you, your friend asks one final question of him. 

“I know plans will change, but will the security detail mean I can still help my friend prepare for the gala, Commander?”

Commander Fox takes less than a moment to think before deciding that would be a reasonable use of the service. “If that’s what you wish, Senator.” He nods politely not only to Aspen, but to you as well, you notice. A small gesture of professionalism, as well as respect. 

“Then we accept.” Aspen says, sealing your shared fate for the rest of the week leading up to the gala.

Though the two of you have only just met, the feeling that you’ll come to like this man has already begun to spark.

From the moment Commander Fox put the security detail into action, you decided for yourself that you would make the most of this situation and make conscientious efforts to get to know everyone making up this task force better going forward. Not only would it be polite, but it would make it easier to remain in close-quarters with these men for a long period of time when they were no longer strangers. 

The full team consisted of two parts: Clones who had been hand-picked to be stationed with Commander Fox full-time, and those who would be rotating through the force on an as-needed basis. That meant there would likely be more than a few soldiers you would get to know very well by the end of the team’s lifespan. 

Maybe even become friends. 

Already, you and your friend were making great progress getting to know Naran and Sayber in particular. These two soldiers—who were part of the permanent assignment—are not merely patrol partners like you had initially assumed when you first met them. They explained they were batchmates, meaning they had been created and trained together at the same time on the world known as Kamino, out in Wild Space. 

Naran and Sayber completed their training six months ago; stationed on Coruscant for five. It explains why their armor looks so new, and why the paint lacks much chipping, fading or transferring. They’re young, and have only begun breaking it in. There’s a term Clones like to use that pretty much means the same thing as “rookie”. 

“We’re not exactly a couple of ‘Shinies’ anymore, but we’re still fairly inexperienced compared to other brothers in the Guard… I’m not exactly sure why Commander Fox assigned us permanently.” Sayber confesses to you in a moment of quiet. 

Commanders Fox and Thorn are busy, following protocol to secure the room where you and Aspen will be sleeping; the batchmates are supposed to be focused on keeping their eyes on the two of you in the meantime, but Sayber’s curiosity is stronger than his worry over being “caught” bothering you by his superiors. 

Something that Naran quietly fumes with frustration about. (“You’re going to get yourself in trouble, di’kut…”) He much prefers to stay on task and engage only when addressed. It might take more time before he opens up to the two of you compared to his brother and patrol partner, who happily does more than enough talking for the two of them. 

You can expect to meet more of the Guard starting tomorrow; the rest of the day will likely be focused on getting the two of you settled in before any of the pre-gala preparations and errands can be conducted. Some will have to be done separately. Others can be done together, such as the shopping for a dress (on Aspen’s insistence), given that they are performed during set hours. 

And they will always involve an escort of no less than two troopers. 

You will not be permitted to wander around Coruscant, alone, at any given time. 

“Dammit. Sounds like getting some Hyellian musical noodles around two in the morning is out of the question, then.” you remark softly in jest during the first review of the safety plan once the Commanders have completed their protocol, shrugging animatedly in an oh well fashion. Won’t be the end of the galaxy. 

His review disrupted, Commander Fox’s dark T-shaped visor lifts from the screen and fixes itself upon you, quietly regarding you over the top of the datapad in his free hand. 

The thought that you just karked up strikes you in an instant. 

Thinking you’re being serious, Fox speaks seriously in turn. “I was unaware this was something I needed to account for. Forgive me, ma’am.” Your hammering heart skips a beat rather uncomfortably as he begins to pull up the keyboard on the device’s HUD, and your face grows hot with embarrassment. 

“No, I-! I was only making a joke. I’m sorry, Commander, I shouldn’t have.” 

Asking him to accommodate a silly little tradition of yours every time you made the trip to Triple Zero would create more work for everyone. Taking unnecessary risks. It would be selfish. 

Fortunately, you won’t have to worry about making fewer jokes just because Commander Fox has a stronger no-nonsense personality than you might be accustomed to for very long. Members of his own Guard have a way of softening the tension to keep things from getting quite so abrasive. 

“Grizzer and I could always make that run for you, ma’am.” There to listen in on the review, the ARF trooper that was assigned to guard the perimeter of the ‘safe house’ by the name of Sergeant Hound drops the lead to the massiff in question after issuing a command word. “Su!” The quadrupedal reptilian settles on their hindquarters, long tongue lolling between dagger-sharp teeth. 

“It’ll help her earn a turbodog once this is all said and done. Tradition of ours, for the big jobs.” 

Maker: it will take some getting used to being called or considered part of a “big job” like this. 

After a long moment, you decide to accept. “I’ll keep that in mind, thank you.” Since he was kind enough to offer, you make sure to give Hound an especially grateful nod. 

Commander Fox adds the offer to the approved actions he’s compiled once the exchange has finished, and moves swiftly on. There has been a lot of ground covered, and he intends to cover more before someone will be sent to collect that night’s dinner order. It’s evident enough that he’s a serious and hard-working man. He would have to be, seeing as he’s the Marshal Commander appointed to lead the Coruscant Guard. so…

So it comes as little surprise that any offer or invitation for a breather, a single moment off his feet has been turned down time and time again as the afternoon bleeds into the evening. Even in the securest of spaces, Commander Fox turns down reprieve and refreshment with the same four words. 

“No thank you,” either followed by Senator or ma’am. 

Your kindness refuses to falter in the face of his stoicism, but you’re smart enough to recognize when to let it go at the same time. 

“Okay. May I offer it to Naran and Sayber instead, then?”

Dinner had been sourced from 79’s in the entertainment district; largely finger foods made in outrageous portion sizes, meant to be shared between large groups. Aspen had ordered a slider for each of you, and a basket of protato wedges to share. There had been a slight mix-up, and the two of you ended up with a third slider and more than double the wedges that you could possibly hope to eat by yourselves. Trying to sort out the error was met with the offer to go ahead and keep the food as they were pretty slammed tonight. 

“If you wish, ma’am.” Fox replies, voice as politely disinterested as before. “I’m certain they won’t object.” 

True to form, the batchmates eagerly unseal their helmets before gratefully accepting the offered food, granted unspoken permission by their commander. It’s the first time you see any of the Clones’ faces since the start of all this unfortunate excitement. “Thank you, sir. And thank you ma’am!” Sayber exclaims. His broad grin brings out a dimple in the tanned left cheek, adding to how he looks far, far too young for this armor. 

He and Naran carry the food to the only other table in the room in order to eat, wasting no time in coming up with a way to halve the slider and wedges between them. While his men eat, Commander Fox discreetly consults the datapad he has clipped to the utility belt from which his dark kama hangs. What he’s reading is a mystery, but you could probably assume it had to do with either you, Aspen, or his shocktroopers. Maybe it was the safety plan and security detail for tomorrow. Maybe it was unrelated. 

Regardless, this seems to be the only sort of reprieve he allows himself. Once he’s finished, the tablet returns to the Commander’s hip and he reassumes position. 

His posture is meticulous, yet somehow almost elegant. Hands folded behind his back and chest high, the crimson commander does not budge so much as an inch from his post in the time it takes Naran and Sayber to put everything away. Only once they clean up and reseal their helmets will Commander Fox drop this extra rigidity. 

Fox’s earlier refusal now appears more purposeful than before when this time it is Naran who thanks you and his superior for the food. The shocktrooper’s words are met with a “Don’t mention it.” so softly spoken, it would be hard (but perhaps not impossible) to mistake it for a command. 

From this singular display of momentary tenderness, Fox has told you more about himself that he might realize: if you hope to have a better chance of befriending the commander, how his men are taken care of will likely be very important over the coming days.

Following that first night on Coruscant, you fell into a routine within a short couple of days. 

Waking up an hour (sometimes more) before Commander Fox arrived with the day’s security detail, you would quietly prepare for the day ahead of you just to have a small bit of time to yourself. Just you and Aspen. Together, you’d take this opportunity to have more intimate conversations without your second shadows in red and white armor present; to reflect on the days behind you.

And puzzle out a curious pattern beginning to develop… 

It was hardly surprising that there would be the most to say of Commander Fox out of all the Corries. You spent the most time with him. Not only was Fox the lynchpin to your collective safety, but the only time he was ever away from your side (save for using the ‘fresher) was to allow each of you to sleep for the night. 

He was by far the most reserved member of the Corries you’ve had the pleasure of meeting; the most aloof and strictly professional, all for good reason. Not only was he dealing with the Chancellor’s orders for a very serious situation, there was so much red tape for him to navigate through on a daily basis. It wouldn’t feel right to either of you to ask Commander Fox to behave in a more-friendly manner for the sake of protecting your own feelings. 

But more recently he was starting to become more warm with you, no longer just his soldiers. 

You’ve seen how he is with the younger soldiers in particular, like Naran and Sayber. Reminding them again and again to not tense their shoulders quite so much. Answering their many what-if questions. Encouraging the two of them to play a bit of holochess against you or the senator in his stead. 

Now Commander Fox was thanking you for your offers when turning down the invitation to take a short break or have something to eat. He was no longer passively listening to conversations you would have with the other Clones, but joining in on the rare occasion. You were no longer just ‘Senator Aspen’s friend’ or simply ‘ma’am’ when speaking of you, or being addressed. 

When Commander Fox began to use your name, that’s when things became a little more interesting. 

Aspen started to gently tease you after that, suspecting you were becoming somewhat charmed by the crimson commander. The gala was in two days. Your friend had promised to help you buy a formal dress here on Coruscant in order to save you luggage space. Neither of you certainly expected to have an audience, and Aspen wanted to make sure that you’d be okay with potentially being seen by Fox and a dozen or more Clones in a fancy dress or two.

Yes, the Guard was always, always very respectful of you both, but perhaps it might be a bit embarrassing. Or feel strange. Maybe you would feel self-conscious in front of Fox in particular… Something they promised was perfectly normal while you were busy getting ready together this morning as you waited for Fox and the Guard to arrive. 

“You’re saying that you think I have a crush on the commander?” 

You take a brief pause from tidying things on your side of the room, wondering whether or not you’d heard your friend correctly. Commander Fox was by and large what you might consider a “strong and silent” type of man, slow to let someone into their comfort zone, teasing the other person along inch by inch. Did Aspen really think that’s what was going on with you? That you were intrigued by some kind of thrilling mystery in interacting with someone like that?

“Well… Sort of.” Aspen admits with a soft laugh. “This kind of thing happens a lot.”

“What do you mean?”

“It doesn’t matter if it’s Baby’s First Bodyguard, or you’re a seasoned professional when it comes to dealing with armed escorts. A lot of senators and diplomats tend to form some kind of feeling for the people who are there to protect them.”

You try to mask your doubt with a joking accusation. “Are you trying to feed me banthashit right now?” Is this truly as common as Aspen says it is, or are they trying to help you feel better in their typical selfless fashion? 

Sensing your doubt, Aspen promises they are telling the truth. “It really does happen all the time, sweetheart. It’s happened to me too! You know I wouldn’t lie about that. And you know I’m not going to judge you for feeling things for the commander, or possibly having a crush, either, right?” Before you can answer, you hear the sound of a distant LAAT/i, followed by several soldiers speaking at once. 

You’re going to have to wrap this up, quick. “Of course. I’ve known you for a long time, Aspen. I trust you.” They’ve always been a good friend to you; there’s never been a reason for doubt or distrust. 

Briskly getting up, Aspen helps you tidy and put away the last of your things not a moment too soon. Just as everything has been put away, Commander Fox makes himself known with four firm raps on the other side of the door. Here forty-five minutes exactly before the first of the boutiques is set to open, as discussed. 

The usual pleasantries are exchanged after Aspen has gone to answer the door. The ‘good morning’s and asking if the two of you slept well. Asking if there was anything either of you needed before joining the others back at the gunship and getting on your way. 

“That won’t be necessary, but thank you. Nice to see you, Commander.” 

Perhaps surprised by your choice of greeting, Commander Fox has a brief moment of pause before he’s able to reply. “You as well, ma’am. Very well. No need to inform our pilot of anything, then. We can be on our way.” Nearly positive you’re not imagining it, while still rather factual, there seems to be more warmth in Fox’s voice this morning. 

He’s still all-business, encouraging everyone not to waste any time getting to the gunship, but now his tone is less stern and terse compared to the days before. He almost sounds… friendlier. Maybe Fox just needed three days to thaw out before warming up to you. Could be that he’s in a good mood because his men are in a great one this morning, most of them comfortable enough around you by now to talk about last night’s boloball victory in whispers. 

Whatever the case may be, it makes you a little less nervous about the prospect of going shopping with such a large security detail. 

Commander Fox’s brightened demeanor hardly changes for anything. 

Even Sayber can’t ruin it by forgetting his training and speaking out with excitement while you and Aspen steadily shop around the first of the formal boutiques for a suitable dress. His reason for doing so was more than forgivable: right around the time you began reaching for a gown in a sort of pomegranate red, the young shocktrooper cried out “HAH! Eat your heart out, Police Inspector Dan Tivo! I knew the Corries would find a lead in the investigation before him!”, much to the disturbance of the other patrons. 

There would be much apologizing to do—Sayber for breaking protocol and to the shop for causing any additional inconveniences—before this would start to become the point where things really began looking up. 

The red tape would not yet loosen itself from you, but with any luck it should soon begin to lift.

Whether you believed it was a curious coincidence or not, you decided to go with the red gown you had been reaching for around the time news broke of the lead in the investigation. By cleverly pairing it with a few ivory accessories, you curated an overall image that would come close to matching with much of the Coruscant Guard. 

This way, you could quietly sort of “mark” the time spent in their company in the week leading up the gala without outright wearing any one Clone’s personal markings, or the iconography that belonged to both the Guard and the Senate. 

You also can’t pretend it was no small relief to have so many of these big decisions taken care of so quickly, or all at the same shop in a busy fashion district. What had been planned to take nearly all day was completed in the span of less than two hours. 

And the next two days went by in a feverish blur with Commander Fox working harder than ever to truly make sure your security at the formal event would be nothing less than ironclad. 

His men even claimed he was aiming to be better than beskar: creating plans for every possible situation and even going so far as to form redundancies. Mapping out where and when you would arrive at the gala venue. Choosing who would be watching over you and Aspen separately, and who would be watching both of you. How he can continue to take care of your needs. Until the time comes and the suspect behind the botched killing has been caught, Commander Fox has sworn to remain at your service, no matter how trivial the request. 

Or how foolish you feel to ask. 

With hours to go and anxieties rising, there are times that involving him in the hustle-and-bustle process of getting dressed up becomes simply unavoidable. With every instance, your gratitude for this man only continues to grow stronger than before. 

Dropped an earring under the dresser and it’s too far for you to reach? Naran and Sayber will need to lend him a hand, lifting the furniture aside so he can search for it on his hands and knees.

Hands shaking too much, and the clasp on your necklace giving you trouble? He’ll help you put it on - he only asks that you hold your hair out of the way for him. 

Turning over the string of delicate Castilon pearls, you move to stand in front of the commander. The most straight-forward way to secure the necklace will be to turn your back to Fox and allow him to fit it from behind. “Thank you, Commander. I can’t seem to get my nerves under control at the moment...” you explain, grateful he won’t see the soft flush breaking across your face as his dexterous fingers latch and unlatch the tiny set of claw clasps with relative ease. 

In his voice you hear the very same tenderness he imparts to the youngest of his brothers as he softly encourages you to relax. By the time you take a deep breath and count to five ‘battleship’s, he’ll have this taken care of. You’re going to be just fine. Ordinarily you would be, were it not for the electric ripple in your skin every time you feel the smooth material of his raven-dark gloves brush against you. 

Understanding the tensing under each feather-light touch is only a reflex, the Marshal Commander casually remarks that you’ll be hard-pressed to find a senator, dignitary or diplomat that isn’t a bit on edge or nervous about the gala. Fox says it in hopes of it serving to soothe you, rather than make you more nervous. 

“There you are,” he concludes once he’s finished securing the three-strand necklace. You allow him to check the matching earrings to make certain they won’t come loose for good measure. “I admit I may not be the best man when it comes to these kinds of things, but I give it my best effort.” 

Fetching your ivory clutch, you can at last turn to thank him once Commander Fox reports the ivory accessories are both secure. “Thank you, Commander. Fortunately I’m not looking for the very best, only a bit of help. I would say that it’s hardly a contest that you’ve been among the very best in providing an immense amount of help this week.” Your favorite pair of shocktroopers share in Aspen’s giggling amusement as Commander Fox maintains his professionalism rather than fully internalizing the compliment you’ve tried to pay him. 

“Thank you, ma’am: but I don’t believe I can take all the credit. My men have shown around-the-clock commitment to this assignment that I couldn’t be more proud of.” 

With a boisterous laugh, Sayber bravely advises his superior officer on what to say. “Now’s not the time to be all modest and humble, sir! No buts – just tell her thank you!” He’s close enough to still being considered a Shiny that Sayber can get away with speaking to a brother of higher ranking in a semi-teasing manner, and he knows it. 

Commander Fox knows it too. “You’re right, you’re right…” he relents, beginning to fix parts of his armor in a bid to stall for more time. Starting with the vambraces, he straightens them out like he’s adjusting a pair of cufflinks. “Thank you, ma’am. It is my hope that both you and Senator Aspen have felt nothing less than complete assurance in the security force I have tirelessly maintained.”

Finding it satisfactory, Sayber quickly concludes with “That’s better, sir!” after you and your friend confirm there have been no concerns in your armed escorts at any given point. 

There isn’t much time you can afford to waste, having to take alternative transport that would be kinder on any formalwear than a gunship. While helping you board the other transport, Naran politely comments on the care you’ve put into your appearance for tonight and offers his hope that you have a nice time. Doing so now just in case he doesn’t get a chance later. The same sentiment is then offered to Aspen as they are helped aboard after you. 

Fuck. You’re really gonna miss these guys when all of this is over. 

You’ll miss Naran and Sayber’s playful bickering, the way they shout “Ulyc, di’kut!” at each other when the other does something foolish. You’ll miss the pilots who have flown you over the more beautiful parts of the upper-city when there’s been time to kill; like Umate and Monument Plaza, even some of your old haunts from before. 

Miss the games of fetch with Grizzer to reward her for a good job, the meals that have been shared, and the stories of how these boys got their names. 

But most of all, you’ll miss the crimson commander.

It didn’t matter that he was rather aloof and distant. How he kept things almost strictly business. That he’s never once taken off his helmet in front of you. Only ever nodding, never showing you if his smile dimpled his left cheek like most of his brothers. Or that he never told you how he came by “Fox” for his name. Whether it had been one he claimed, or something he earned. 

Because that wouldn’t be what you’d miss Commander Fox for. 

You’d miss him for never drawing more attention to himself than he had to, shying from such spotlights in the interest of giving them to his brothers instead. Miss him for the unwavering politeness he’s had for you, treating you no differently than he would for another galactic senator, or even the Chancellor. 

All this security, all this red, had been the most reassuring feeling you’ve had all week. And it won’t be easy to say goodbye, to any of it. 

Or to Commander Fox. 

Between the sound of spirited chatter, ceaseless pop-and-chop of photographers’ camera shutters and lively, swelling music, entering the formal venue before the official start of the celebration proves easily-overwhelming near-instantaneously. 

Getting here early offers you time to acclimate. Elation and excitement should eventually find you, but there will be time to find somewhere to cool off, if necessary. It also serves as a chance for the Chancellor to visit with Aspen, hoping to speak and hear how they’ve been since Commander Fox had been appointed for protection, as well as to ask about his performance. 

The visit is kept brief, but your friend stresses the shared satisfaction you have in all Fox—and the rest of the Guard for that matter—has done for you before agreeing to speak more privately and at-length the following morning. The Chancellor is not here to detract from the hopeful enjoyment of the occasion for either of you; soon enough you are left free to enjoy the entertainment and pursue the available catering. 

It became apparent most of the music played tonight came from Naboo, much like the Chancellor - written by some of her people’s most respected and well-known composers. And much of the food was extravagant, tables showcasing what your own credits could never hope to see with plate after plate of hors d’oeuvres beyond your ability to even name. Same went for the drinks when you were unable to locate any cards or signage. 

The Commander quickly proves rather knowledgeable when you blindly select a sparkling crystal flute, scrutinizing the bubbling contents with a puzzling expression after it fails recognition by smell alone.  

“What’s this…?”

“Prized champagne provided by Pantora, ma’am. It’s recently proved rather popular.” Fox explains, hands moving from carefully held at his side to folded neatly behind his back as he approaches closer to the table. 

“And what about the tall and skinny glass, or the one with a short stem and large bowl?”

An erroneously-named Mantell mixer in the highball glass, supplied from a different planet in the Mid Rim. The snifter is a robust brandy reportedly of Wayyl origin. Commander Fox can only tell you what he’s heard when it comes to if they are any good, refraining from making any kind of decision for you or presuming what you would like. There are other drinks reported to be stationed throughout the venue, if none of them appear to be to your liking. If you would prefer something non-alcoholic, he knows where the sparkling cider can be found. 

You decide you’ll be starting off safe with the cider, for the time being. Less decision fatigue than coming up with an unfamiliar, strong drink to try. He again helps with identifying the human-suitable foods for you and Aspen to sample. That’s when you realize Fox is utilizing sensors and scanners built into his ‘bucket’ rather than strictly being knowledgeable upon a sharp pause in his explanation. 

“The cured meat is supposed to pair best with… no, wait. Damn artificial intelligence pulled up a recipe blog.” 

And rather than pressuring you to engage every instance, Aspen encourages you to go explore the venue instead of listening to them catch up with many of their fellow senators. Knowing who you’ll likely prefer for company (but might be too bashful to openly say), they give you their “blessing” to take Fox as your escort in the meantime. 

“Why don’t you go exploring for a while, dear friend? Just so I don’t bore you; I promise I’ll let you know if Senator Amidala or Chuchi are able to stop by before I catch up with you so you can decide if you want to say hello. I’ll ask Naran and Sayber to stay with me in the meantime. Perhaps the Marshal Commander can go with you… If he doesn’t mind?” 

The commander offers a cordial nod prior to replying. “Not at all, Senator Aspen.” He would be happy to, in fact. And though he will not be leading you, Fox is even offering to take you by the arm. 

You can attribute it to his work ethic and find it applicable etiquette for such a grand event. Considering there is both a chivalrous and protective tone to such a gesture, this is not a measure of control through the imbalance of a power dynamic. He is not here to dictate where you are permitted to go. 

Simply put, he’s here with no other intentions but to accompany you no matter where you go, and to comment as necessary as he listens to whatever you have to say. So when Commander Fox finds you quiet after some time, he surprises you by asking what’s on your mind. 

“Thought you would be making a small amount of commentary, ma’am. Something weighing on your thoughts?” 

Blinking in surprise, you chew over the thought of how honest you should be. “Well… there is something.” Unable to see through that impassible visor and faceplate, the hope of seeing this particular Clone’s face flickers anew. 

“S-someone…” comes the clarification. 

“Senator Aspen?” 

It’s less of a risk for him to hazard this guess, but it doesn’t make the mark. 

“No. No, not my friend.” 

After a pregnant pause, you confess that it’s him that weighs on your thoughts when he does not ask. “I can’t… I can’t get you out of my mind.” Your reasons are innumerable, and strange even to yourself. You’re not sure what explanation you can give Commander Fox that would likely not be found comforting, innocent or even sane. 

So you expect him to politely pull away. To put up walls of professionalism stronger than before. To kindly but firmly establish some boundaries. (Hell: it would hurt, but you could understand if he didn’t do it so kindly.) If you were slowly stoking the fires to a potential friendship, you might’ve just gone and done the one thing to completely stomp it out. 

And by hearing yourself say it, it sounds far more romantic than you might have intended it to. “Wait, sorry- I… I meant that very generally.” Attempting to clarify this now feels like a weak excuse to cover up that you’re backpedaling, but it’ll keep you up at night far longer if you don’t at least try. 

Commander Fox, surprisingly, does not suggest he is the least bit perturbed. Not by your admission. Not by your apology. Not even by the way you try to create distance from him yourself and begin to anxiously attempt to pull your arm free. 

An earnest “I believe you.” is all that is needed to stop you in your tracks. The gala, now well in full-swing, feels as though it is slowing down around the two of you as you feel very foolish – just staring at the red-armored commander. “I know what that sounded like. But I believe you.” he continues, now with insistence. 

“You-? You do?”

Starting with the soft use of your name, he again promises that he does - even going on to say why. 

“I’ve spent all week watching how you treat and interact with my brothers. Hearing how you speak to my men. And you’re always kind. You make honest efforts to remember their names and have a friendly word to say. Always expressing appropriate gratitude. All of it shows that you care about them, that you’re a good person.

“And good people are often honest people.” 

The work Commander Fox does for the Chancellor, the Senate, all of Coruscant… it’s thankless. What work he is thanked for is done with insincerity, often disingenuous and callous and empty. Senators like Aspen are a rarity. Ordinary people, people like you, are the most likely to thank him for his work outside of his bonds within the GAR. 

But you’re different even among ordinary people. You have truly meant your thanks each and every time he’s done what’s been asked of him. And you wouldn’t yet know it, but it has led to Commander Fox becoming so hopelessly wrapped around your little finger in the reddest thread in hopes of tasting such genuine kindness. Such a response couldn’t be conditioned or trained out of him. 

He may be a Clone, but he was not a perfect copy. Not of Jango Fett. Not of any of his brothers. It was part of that Factor H as described by Fett more than a decade ago to the Kaminoan cloners, likely before the commander’s own creation. 

‘H’ for ‘Human’. And humans… they have a base, instinctual need for forming connections with the people around them. It’s why isolation proves so detrimental. As a soldier, it was an unspoken expectation to simply not acknowledge those kinds of consequences to his formative years. 

Created in a high-tech petri dish. Decanted from a tube. Together forged by fire with a living sea of brothers. Getting planted on the singular-most crowded planet in this entire kriffing galaxy, where his failure to protect the heart of the Republic meant having to listen to more reports of dying vode. 

But tonight, he’s here, thinking of asking to dance in all of his blood-red armor with one of the most beautiful women at the gala. Having lost a complete sense of elapsing time, the two of you had been standing just on the inside to a respectably-sized dance floor when the venue appeared to be cueing up for either the first, or another of the largest shared dances. 

There’s no time to be coy about asking if you want to join your friend waiting off to the side, now that they and his shocktroopers have found the two of you. It appeared Aspen intended to have joined you, but it was now too late to step into the designated floorspace. There would still be time to step out. 

“Would you like to join your friend?” Fox politely offers. 

Historically, you and Aspen had platonically partaken in these duo-dances together owing to your closeness and long-stand friendship. Usually at some point during the night if Aspen was preoccupied with other senatorial attendees, but often at the first available opportunity. Dare you ask for another of their blessings to break a long-standing tradition?

“Aspen, I think I-”

“Go. There’ll be other dances!” Aspen urges, interrupting. They’re smiling, a promising sign you had worried for nothing. 

Hopeful, Commander Fox extends his hand out to you. A quiet offering. An implied invitation. If you’re going to accept, it has to be soon. “Another dance, then.” you promise to your friend, carefully trading off items like the ivory clutch in order to free up your hands. 

Naran suggests a crucial change before you can take the commander’s outstretched hand and join him further into the showfloor. 

“Sir! Your helmet!” 

“Right, right.”

This song with a famously long lead-in allows for the ordinarily simple unsealing and removal of the commander’s headgear to transform into something a bit more preformative, if rather hurried. With a polite doffing befitting of the high-class nature of the event, Fox removes the recently-polished helmet and allows you to see his face for the very first time since meeting earlier that week. It is then directly taken by Naran away from the dance floor, surrendered to his care and subsequently forgotten not long after. 

Following Fox, he leads you slightly deeper into the dancing crowd with a rhetorical “Shall we, ma’am?” where the two of you assume the appropriate starting position just before the lead-in concludes, and the dance number finally commences.

As a ballroom piece common to the Core Worlds, you’re given more than enough time to study the charming face of your dance partner as the two of you step through the poised and elegant choreography. 

While there is perhaps some truth to the erroneous adage “If you see one Clone’s face, you’ve seen them all!”, you are wholly committed to determining what little traits set him apart from his brothers while you have the chance. And kindly, the commander allows you to do so, encourages you to do so. 

“Do I look like you imagined?”

Mostly yes. But also, no. 

While he had the same round ala to his nose, there was faint scarring across the bridge you hadn’t yet seen in any of his brothers. (You would find others; one cutting into the arch of his right brow, and a freshly-pinked nick that tucked under his jaw on the left.) Fox’s eyes were the same, soulful brown; with an additional intensity that was hard to completely identify. A soft five-o-clock shadow along his jaw, now that you hadn’t expected. Or the touches of gray blending out in the dark waves and tight curls of his hair. 

You admit you’re starting to wish he’d taken off his helmet sooner, even though he was only doing his job… A long-suffering job that allowed you to even be here to begin with. If it wasn’t for him, your long visit home just to see Aspen would never have happened. Not the way it did. Without him, without the Guard, your friend would have asked you to take the first shuttle returning to your new home. 

You can’t even begin to fathom how you could possibly thank him enough for everything they’ve done to protect Aspen and get you to this point. 

“That won’t be necessary,” Fox pledges, both his voice and his smile tender. The dimpling in his left cheek is the most pronounced amongst any of the Guardsmen. A golden warmth that softens the watchful depths in his eyes. All of it brightens your heart with euphoria, pulse already keeping time to the soaring peaks of the strings’ music. 

When the song calls for those assuming the position of the dance’s “gentlemen” to pull their partner close, the Marshal Commander fits you so perfectly against his armor in order to make himself heard. 

His voice becomes softer—fonder—in the delicate shell of your ear. 

“But I know you’ll probably try...”

As the music begins the winding-down, Fox’s vambrace begins to squeal - an abrupt, demanding tone disrupting the pleasant, vulnerable moment between you. Needing to answer it, you assist him by depressing the instructed buttons after lowering the volume per his instructions. 

“CC-4477 to Commander Fox! We have the suspect behind Senator Aspen’s attempted assassination in our custody!” 

Fox does not reply right away, but rather he eyes the open comlink with a degree of great pride. But there is also great reluctance. After everything you’ve told him, after everything he’s told you, the long-shot he’s taken in asking to dance with you amidst all this formality and decorum, he has to leave now?

“Well done, Thire. Tell Commander Thorn-”

No. 

No, maybe just this once, he can get away with not answering a summons instantaneously. His duty may be to the Republic, but as a man of his honor his duty is also still to you. As of now, he is still charged with protecting you and the senator. It becomes socially acceptable to leave the gala without staining one’s reputation fifteen minutes from now, after these large, shared dances. His men can handle the suspect until then. 

Fox will not allow your standing to suffer now simply because of him. 

“Sir?”

“Tell Thorn I’m still wrapped up pretty tight here. Might take fifteen minutes to disentangle her and Senator Aspen from the gala. Maybe more.” Fox’s focused expression changes to one of warmth when the word “her” parts his lips, while his voice retains its authoritative tone. 

There’s a long silence on the other end of the comm before Thire comes up with a reply. 

“Understood, Commander. Thire out.”

Breathless and head light, you’re reeling with relief and elation that they’ve captured their suspect. This is the beginning of the end of Aspen’s nightmare. Your nightmare. But where there is joy, there too comes sorrow, knowing your time in Commander Fox’s company is coming to an end. Maybe not tonight, maybe not in the morning. But soon enough, you will part ways and return to your regular lives…

“I can’t believe they got the guy… Thank the stars, it’s finally over. If we need to leave so you can-”

“No, mesh’la,” Commander Fox interrupts you before his voice turns almost pleading. The song may now be over, but there is still music that can be danced to. Still time that he can spend with you. “Let me be a selfish man for once… Fifteen minutes is all I ask.”

Maybe fifteen minutes… can be a good place to start. 

Everything will still be there after fifteen minutes. The suspect, his men, the senator… but the clock will start to run out with you after fifteen minutes. And he’s not ready for that. 

“Okay. Fifteen minutes. We’ll… work out what comes after that.” 

When you’ve spent most of your service dealing with red tape, it’s going to take more than fifteen minutes to unwrap all of it. 

So you’ll make those minutes a very good place to start…

Thank you for making a request for my 200 follower event, Pina! Ended up longer than I initially anticipated even after everything I cut out of it, but I hope you enjoyed it! I apologize for the unexpected delays, so I hope this was well worth the extra time it took me to write it in order for you to read it! And in case anyone is curious why I chose the name "Aspen" for the name of our senator friend here, I took inspiration from the Greek word for shield, 'aspis'. I thought it felt fitting for a story focused around Fox working hard to protect even a complete stranger, being the dutiful and brave man he is. ❤️

Taglist: @callsign-denmark @dreamie411 @dystopicjumpsuit

@dukeoftheblackstar @msmeredithrose @lonely-day3636

The Mandalorian heard no small amount of them. Long-time members were all too eager to share and compare. To mock, jeer and otherwise poke fun at the ever-growing waves of egotistic hotshots looking to make a name for themselves. Better yet, make people too afraid to say their name at all. Guild veterans delighted in knocking down the brashest-tongued from their imagined perches of perfectly polished pedestals.

And they predicted, with rather unnerving accuracy, who would not live to see their first Guild pay-outs.

Ceton. Besalisk. Too many hands, not enough ears. A temper more explosive than Mustafar.

He took a job for a powerful client known to be very particular. Story goes it was for a spoiled son of one of the Devaronian crime families. A son who made a very poor decision in selecting an opponent in his little coming-of-age pissing contest AND the gun he hired for said contest.

Ceton versus the Pykes — a stacked death match.

His opinion of Centon had always been poor. Privately, he believed the Besalisk was an extraordinarily arrogant bastard. A true miracle nobody, including the Empire, had done the galaxy an incredible favor.

But even the most unpleasant scum can be pitied every once in a while. Including Ceton. That quadruple-handed fool never stood a chance; botched the job right from the jump. Missed both his marks. Even missed the window to make a clean escape. These Pykes were then gracious enough to return Ceton to his employer after they captured him.

Personally.

More accurately, rather, what little was left of him.

The "lucky cuspid" talisman made from an unspecified animal native to Ojom. All four of Ceton's blasters; rendered inoperable by being half-melted. And a single hand — still clutching the Guild's (active) tracking fob.

Unmistakably a visceral and bloody example of what could befall the bounty hunter whose luck soured, the job went belly-up, and they lacked the sense to get out fast enough.

Fortunately the Mandalorian is a fast learner and an attentive student. Blood was the best and most equal teacher of all; indiscriminate of or to any one source. Blood cared little for personal details of each of its innumerable students. Of wealth or social status. Where these students came from. Where they will go. Not even whether it dealt with the lauded law-abiding, or masses of merciless miscreants. Blood is simply blood. So whether it belonged to you or that of another, there is a lesson to be learned.

Blood spared no time for sob stories. For Guilds, or Tribes, or solemnly-sworn creeds. Nor for hungry foundlings.

And certainly not for pain — like the kind he's in now. White hot and emanating somewhere around his left knee.

Damaged armor. Torn cloth. Stinging skin.

Step. Stumble. Step. Stumble. A desperate hobble down a dirt and durasteel passage ablaze with emergency amber lights. Shrill alarms denoting someone unwelcome is present pierce his eardrums unrepentantly. Again he wrestles the clumsy weight of a trusted IB-94 blaster.

Several frantic buttons. Snapping hydraulics. Barbed words. Sticky controls. A misplaced explosion. Another. And a third.

The Mandalorian should have known he was certain to enter a real nexu's den of a situation given the lack of intel. He should've been choosier with the pucks offered to him by Greef Karga, Guild Master and expediter of the Nevarro Hunters. Karga tried to bait him with something bigger, flashier than the first handful of jobs.

And damn him: it worked.

He'll be damned himself if he failed to make it back to the ST-70 class ship known to him as the Razor Crest in time. If he died on this stinking, sorry excuse for a moon because he failed to eliminate his mark. AND her avenging bodyguard. Damn him a thousand times over if he led this many armed warriors back to Nevarro. Back to the Tribe. For putting so many members of the Children of the Watch in harm's way — particularly the foundlings.

The Mandalorian has mere moments to make a decision once he throws himself into the pilot's seat and makes a desperate break for the upper atmosphere. Working out what went wrong will come later. As will how he'll patch himself up. But for right now finding a remote planet is top priority.

Odds are he'll be forced to lay low for a while if that is in fact blood pooling inside his boot…

Dank farrik.

It doesn't take an expert to know nothing about the injury he sustained in the middle of an unexpected escape sequence remotely qualifies as good — but he'll have to hope he did half as well in terms of treatment. And with half as many tools and pharmaceuticals compared to any med center fallen a smidgen or two south of remotely reputable.

The Mandalorian should count himself lucky. But only just. His luck as of late was forming (or perhaps revealing) an unfortunate looking pattern… He couldn't be sure what to call it, really. Fool's luck?

A disastrous success?

No. On second thought, he can't be sure its remotely appropriate to call what happened a success. The target had been eliminated, technically speaking. But the trouble was it was accomplished by accident. At the wrong time, and in the worst place. He had not meant for there to be quite so many witnesses when the Nautolan woman known by the moniker Lady Mai met her ironic, bitter end.

Satisfied shoppers of the galactic black market were taken with calling her the Princess of Poison. And she certainly carried herself with the baring of one.

As brilliant as she was beautiful. Formidable as she was flirtatious. Yet her one fatal flaw had been the fact she was a braggart. A show-off. A permanent spectacle. Lady Mai simply could not resist a good flaunting, no matter the occasion. Nor the object present in her hands — a vial of maitotoxin from which she derived her name.

Lady Mai was eagerly giving her latest customer a demonstration. An incredibly risky one. Thin golden bangles tinkled merrily with each teasing tip of the vial over her tongue; a single drop of her 'trademark solution' held in place through nothing but surface tension. That was until the Mandalorian knocked into a small crate hidden by the visor's blind spots.

Foodstuffs from Aq Vetina.

He missed the moment the surface tension broke and he fulfilled half of his contract. How he'd given Lady Mai enough of a spook to—

Well, it wasn't pretty. Not that pretty ever really comes with the profession. And this profession had a way of weeding out the weak, the unwilling, the cowards.

One didn't gain notoriety within the Guild by being gutless. By not having what it takes. Though if you, somehow, skated by without possessing either, you sure as hell weren't about to earn decent payment for doing a half-assed job. So he killed his target, yes. But he failed to collect any proof of that killing — as was stipulated by the client's ironclad contract.

Just his luck it came from the very same unit of the Pyke Syndicate that had brutally eliminated Ceton some many weeks ago…

Or that he had barely enough medical supplies to stem the bleeding and treat the pain upon removing a diving-knife compliments of the late Mai's bodyguard.

Now he would be forced to ration. Left with nothing but a quarter of less-than-steril gauze, five foil sachets of Humanoid-grade disinfectant and a single pain stim to his name. Dressing the wound ate through his entire supply of bacta gel. Not to mention the strongest of two available pain stims. Had the hired gun known of the two doses and their vastly different strengths, he might have kept the most potent for later use.

But what's done is done.

"Note to self: move medical supplies aboard the Crest to centralized location. Ideally near the sleeping rack. And if I make it back to Nevarro in one piece, buy more supplies…"

Should he have fashioned a tourniquet? Quite possibly. Pain and blood loss have a uniquely nasty way of messing with one's baseline rational thoughts. Sound logic is discarded for dizzied desperation and a fervent demand for relief — the more immediate, the better.

The Mandalorian wanted nothing more than to nod off for an hour or two, knowing it would be some time before he was preciously free from a significant deal of pain. But unfortunately there were still matters he had yet to attend to. Matters requiring another climb up the ladder leading into the cockpit.

A pity he couldn't check the nav system from here in the now-bloody sleeping bunk. He'll want to make sure he's still locked into and heading for the correct coordinates. Ensure the Razor Crest is operating as she should. There's nothing to compromise her integrity or space-worthiness. The gunship's still quite new. That is to say, new to him. Predates the Empire. He's still learning how well (or poorly) she handles understanding these ST-70 assault ships were once utilized in military patrols.

She's been a good ship thus far. Reckons she'll be even better once she's been rid of that sticky throttle — yet another thing he notes the need to take care of once he's gotten paid.

Now in order to accomplish that, he'll need proof for the Pykes.

Only a fool would go to them empty-handed.

Something tells him he would share Ceton's fate. Or worse yet, he doesn't… Instead they keep him alive in order to disgrace him.

Pykes would be all too happy to keep his gleaming gray helmet — the only face he's shown the galaxy since partaking of the Tribe's most sacred ritual — and reveal the man underneath.

To the Guild. To the New Republic. To the Empire. To everyone.

Even backwater planets such as Cylar would come to know his face.

His true, unconsenting face.

And that was a paralyzing thought. Proper motivation to make sure he sees this job through. Just so long as infection, or blood loss, doesn't kill him first.

Not a minute out of hyperspace, and he's beginning to wish it had.

Dank farrik. This was just terrific. Cylar sent a little "welcoming party" out to meet him from one of a dozen space stations orbiting the planet before he had the chance to slip by or cloak the Crest's unique signature.

"Razor Crest, Mern-One-Eleven. Come in, Razor Crest. Do you copy?"

If he could get his limbs to cooperate, he might just reach the very edge of the expired glue stat and fulfill that morbid wish… Only he can't. The Mandalorian's finding it increasingly hard to focus on his flight path, nevermind the multiple demands for his attention. (Blast, his head's spinning!) He spits out a reply as best he can instead.

His own voice sounds distant. Strained. Stilted. Weak and wavering.

"I… copy. I-I think. Need to land… An emergency."

Two ships swoop and fall into formation alongside the Crest. Ships he's never seen before. They resemble something like an X-wing starfighter. Only it's… like an awkward-looking lovechild of one, the father being an Allanar N3 light freighter (or a distant cousin to it). A real scrapyard special complete with local insignia.

It sure as hell ain't Republic. Not the Empire's cog, neither. Best he can make out is— That wasn't a tentacle tied in a ball knot, was it? Doesn't seem like the friendliest of symbols. The Mandalorian may be in trouble, here. More hot water than he's already in.

Though of course he's already revealed things aren't in the best shape, but not what those things actually are.

"Pilot, please confirm: you're requesting an emergency landing — is that aboard one of the pleasure planet's orbital stations or Cylar herself?"

Is this guy kriffing serious…? What difference does it make? He's bleeding out again and he needs to land. NOW. And nothing in his nav system said anything about this ocean world of Cylar being a pleasure planet!

This was supposed to be a quiet, neutral planet just out of reach of Hutt space.

"Uh, pilot… your mic is still hot," cackles the pilot from the mysterious starport ship. They pulse their engines twice before maneuvering well ahead of the Razor Crest's bow. The port side ship peels away in similar fashion, only they fall behind the gunship's stern and keep an appropriate distance from both of the dual engines. "But not to worry! Your info's a little outdated, but we're still a neutral planet. We'll escort you to Cylar and get you taken care of. We've got medical droids who can—"

"No. No droids."

Pilot number two sighs quite sharply.

Sounds like that'll be complicated to comply with. But regardless, he does his best to insist between a renewed woozy feeling and repeated correction of the Crest's "nodding off" pitch. He needs to land, and soon. If he doesn't, well, Cylar might be retrieving him from an unexpected fishing orbit. Or the maybe the mangled remains of a lithobraking maneuver instead.

On the plus side: no more worry about the Pykes.

Now for the negative: one less member of the Tribe to look out for the future of the foundlings — and with them, the future of the Tribe. The future of the Way.

And so… he relents.

"No droids? You sure, pal?"

"I don't trust 'em. But I'm not sure I have a lot of… o-options."

Given how he sounds, the first pilot reckons not. (Pilot two shares no opinions.) The Crest punctured Cylar's upper atmosphere by the time he came to that decision. No turning back. No shaking his escorts. No guarantees he can turn away any and all automatons which he found so abominable — but the Mandalorian will try.

Same way he'll try not to make a mess out of his landing. The pilots are directing him to a particular sector on the surface that should prove a solid middle ground. A modest fishing village by the name of Reefen Krin. Far from many of the major tourist hot spots, yet not so remote. Healthy population. Quiet, well-kept sense of community. And welcoming to… mysterious outsiders.

Neither pilot succeeds at prying a name out of him. None have uttered it since he came of age. No living being has seen his face since he swore the Creed.

Not even other observers.

The Razor Crest lands — none too gracefully, but she's still in one piece. Still capable of steadfastly safeguarding her wounded and ailing pilot.

The knee injury the Mandalorian sustained shows early signs of infection. Far too early. He obtained the injury only hours ago. It should be closer to a full rotation before any kind of sickness set it, shouldn't it? It's difficult to make sense of in this beleaguered state. Perhaps the blood loss or something about the knife Lady Mai's bodyguard had thrown at him was to blame.

Or better yet, both.

Dank farrik… Suppose it serves him right.

You're meant to leave knives where they are in the event of a stabbing, which he knew. Even still, he removed it. That sort of behavior went against everything the Fighting Corps and the Tribe taught him. He knew better. Had extensive practice in proper combat injury dressage. (Priceless knowledge passed down to him that was attained from the many sacrifices of his people's ancient ancestors.) He had even been injured far worse than this many times before.

But what did all of that matter, really? Foolish mistakes were always costly ones; another lesson built out of blood. The debt he'll ultimately owe the people of Reefen Krin for saving his life is not yet known, though it was sure to be vast.

The Way demands all promises, pledges and debts be kept and repaid lest its followers are found dishonorable. And when you have no name nor face to present the galaxy with, all you have is your honor, your weapons, and the weight of your words.

One does not speak unless one knows… or, is otherwise spoken to.

Local medics speak with the Mandalorian through the first escort pilot's channel. Gauging the severity of all reported symptoms without boarding his vessel — because he won't let them. At the same time, they can't well advise him to leave the Crest under his own power. Someone should come to him instead.

A Weequay's volunteered for the task of carrying out the initial assessment. They have the most experience with people in his line of work — certainly more than anyone else in Reefen Krin — and have no issue honoring the hired gun's request.

"Just him. No one else for now…" The Mandalorian's teeth are so tightly grit his jaw's left with an increasing ache.

He's begun to shiver, too. Another detail he can make little sense of. Systems show Cylar is a warm costal planet. (Was it a planet? Seemed a little small to be one…) The longer he sits here, his stomach becomes its own swaying sea.

Climbing from the pilot's seat — nevermind down the ladder — is out of the question. The stinging sensation has renewed itself. Skin grown warm beneath the gauze and glue stat both so poorly applied. The swelling's more pronounced. Symptoms are doubling from "some" into "more"… with a few already crawling beyond that and into the next lazy classifications. His leg cannot safely bare his weight. His left knee was sure to buckle should he try.

It all makes for a position of significant vulnerability.

Vulnerability he can easily rectify with one pull of the trigger and a well-placed blaster bolt.

The Weequay is granted entrance to the Razor Crest. He does not blink, cower, or flinch to find an IB-94 trained on him the very moment he enters the cockpit. He grins, in fact. Appears to have expected this. It certainly explains much of the Weequay's behavior: always keeping his hands in sight, seldom makes sudden or rapid movements, and speaks with full-chested confidence.

It might be mistaken for flippant sarcasm were it not for his sloppy, half-charming grin. "Ahhh… A blastoh — haku du warm chowbasa!" [A blaster — what a warm welcome!] The Weequay nods sort of approvingly and approaches the injured man before him. When the Ninety-Four lifts, he stops in his tracks.

Smart man. Proves he's got enough sense to heed threats whether or not they've been spoken. Should mean he can be trusted to come closer. Just not too close; there's something the Mandalorian needs to make sure he understands, first. So his blaster is lowered only by a single degree or two.

The Weequay approaches again. Slower, this time. Speaking in Basic, he asks, "Hmm. Despite obvious blood loss, hand's still rather steady. Seems like a good sign. Folks here call me Old Nusk. What are we to call you while you recover, murishani?" The Huttese word for bounty hunter serves as another buffer. A momentary gauge.

No lowering… but no lifting, either.

"Nothing," he breathes, answering Old Nusk with some difficulty, "I'm just a Mandalorian. Names have less importance to us compared to… our c-culture, our customs. Our helmets cannot be removed under any circumstances. Not even to save our lives." If Old Nusk promises to respect this — call it his dying wish — then he'll allow the Weequay to treat him. If not, or if he goes back on his word, he's going to be very sorry indeed.

Either the most cliché of threats work best, or Old Nusk really is smarter than most would assume of his kind.

"I can do you one better than my word alone, just a Mandalorian… Plenty 'o honest people in Reefen Krin. And lucky for you the most trustworthy of all of 'em is a friend of mine. She'll be looking for seaglass in the surf right about now, but I'll call 'er ashore. Have her vouch for me. Whaddya say, murishani?"

The Mandalorian finds it an acceptable offer.

"That we have ourselves a deal…"

Taglist: @your-slutty-gf @msmeredithrose @dukeoftheblackstar @dystopicjumpsuit @callsign-denmark

If I missed anyone or tagged the wrong people, I sincerely apologize! It's been a long time since I've posted any Mando stories and the taglist information I have may be outdated.

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

You swear — you only entered this out-of-the-way greenhouse to "acquire" a TINY branch from a mature Grave Thorn. The tiniest! From one of the trees way, WAY in the back. No one would ever realize it was missing given how crooked and gnarled they grew to begin with. And if by some miracle they did, your cutting would likely have grown into a proper sapling in that time! (Assuming those reference texts were as credible as they claimed.) In the city-planet that never sleeps, ordinarily it wouldn't raise much suspicion for a lone woman to enter a public-access greenhouse in the dead of night.

Not to a majority of the other shadow-slinking citizens, apart from one.

Hound: massiff-handler and Sergeant of the Coruscant Guard.

You've managed to evade him for three months. That's twenty-one standard weeks of successfully giving him and his massiff the slip. Throwing the duo off your trail. Foiling attempt after attempt to follow you — bring a stop to your "sampling" sprees and five-finger-discounts.

Tonight, however, you weren't careful enough. Had grown too cocksure. Too complacent.

Some clue you neglected to conceal had been caught by the sergeant's watchful eye. Set off his radar and a subsequent pursuit. Hound had long since proven he possessed a very particular set of skills. Had the means to follow you into the subterranean greenhouse undetected. The advantage of frightening you half to death by beseeching a belay of your botanical burglary.

"You there! Stop!"

Caught off guard, it was impossible to prepare yourself for what transpired next.

And there was no better way to describe the speed than by making use of a cliché — it all happened so fast. Too fast! With Sergeant Hound rushing forward, the grafting knife dropped from your hands. He was ducking under low-hanging boughs. Issuing further commands. Celebrating premature victory.

You will surrender!

You're not getting away this time!!

The foraging bag hanging off your shoulder up to that point dislodged, crashing into the dirt with a fragile crunch as you desperately backpedaled.

There was only one avenue of escape: past the sprinting sergeant. Who was almost certainly going to catch you.

Knowing there were only seconds left to act, words to an improvised incantation came tumbling out of your mouth.

A masterclass spell spoken with the sputtering confidence of a novice — well, you're quite lucky that it worked.

… in some regards.

It very well could have killed you.

A pity, really.

Because death-by-fiery-explosion would at least been quick and painless compared to the way you're likely going to die instead.

There were few things worse than a pissed-off Corrie.

If one were to take a poll, odds are the average, slightly-more-law-abiding Coruscanti citizen would reporting finding the following more frightening than an armed, 1.83 meter-tall Clone running after you in a full armor kit.

The carnivorous grin of a "re-homed" nexu skulking through damp back alleys the deeper one traversed Triple Zero.

An unchecked infestation of stone mites.

And a young dianoga crawling out of the toilets in a public refresher.

You were now face-to-face with the newest contender to that question. The only thing worse than a pissed-off Corrie was one inexplicably transformed into an animal. Not just any common and cuddly animal either. A roaring pillar of fire and thin clouds of sulfuric gas were your first sign things had gotten too hot to handle.

When the pillar vanished as suddenly as it appeared, Sergeant Hound's human form had been replaced for one that hailed from his namesake in a bitter twist of irony.

He had to be the largest charhound the galaxy has ever seen.

Angriest, too.

Hound's four-legged form was entirely wreathed in flame. Fire burst from the cranky canine's mouth with every frenzied, booming bark. Blazing yellow eyes fixed themselves upon your every shaky step.

Looks like you'd be cooked to a crisp after all — rapidly running out of room for a comfortable retreat. For every bit of your backpedaling, Hound took two steps forward. There had to be something you could come up with. Create a daring diversion and make an escape. A growth spell on the bony bramble sprouting along the trunk of a Grave Thorn to make a snare? That would work, but you'd have to douse Hound's blazing body with enough water first! The greenhouse's solitary hose is too far beyond the reach of your powers. And you see no irrigation lines. That leaves only the sprinklers!

A hopeful glance at the roof reveals a ridiculously inadequate fire suppression system. Explains why the pillar of fire never set anything off. Honestly it might as well not exist at all. Any hope of bending the water to your will with a clever spell finds itself dashed to pieces.

You never envisioned this game of cat and mouse coming to an end—if it ever would—with one of you becoming barbecued…

Your back makes abrupt contact with the greenhouse wall.

Should you bother bracing yourself? Or should you embrace your fate of being flambéed?

Winged goddess — this is it.

Hound had you right where he wanted you. Backed into an impossible corner at long last. And he'd done it without his loyal massiff to boot. Damn you! Out of all the Corries stationed on this planet, why did you have to taunt a karking massiff-handler all those months ago?!

He certainly wasn't the only military personnel who responded to the 'strange woman with sharp blade' report Coruscant Security Force had been too scared to handle on their own. (Hardly your fault a knife was often the most efficient tool to harvest much-needed botanical ingredients.) You could've picked one of the shivering shock troopers to taunt instead.

Had you known challenging an Advanced Recon Force trooper with a sing-song "Catch me if you can!" would lead to THIS, you would have!

The scorching, snarling sergeant was now so close, he could easily—

Wait a minute.

Aurek-Resh-Forn spelled—

Finding your voice with a bout of nervous laughter, you blurt, "Holy shit. You're an ARF trooper. Named Hound. And now you're a— I guess some jokes really do write themselves! Things can possibly get any more literal than… THIS."

That was, without a doubt, the dumbest possible thing that one could've said in this instance.

Yet in spite of their ridiculousness, it successfully stops the colossal charhound in his tracks. Sergeant Hound no longer growls. Or snarls. Or even barks. He falls silent for the first time since his doggone transformation. You have no idea whether he's puzzled or unimpressed by your observation. Focus has been given to something else entirely.

His enveloping flame rapidly sputters out.

For the first time, you have an unobstructed idea of what Hound looks like beneath the raging inferno.

While a typical charhound's coat is an imposing black, the sergeant's is more of a sooty gray. Slightly darker than that of the breast plating on his armor. And further unlike a normal charhound, some armor markings were able to translate themselves through the short fur. The red stripes adorning Hound's white kama appeared as isolated brindling along his hind legs. Same could be said for the helmet markings — though these were only slightly more approximate.

You'd have to be forgiven for not making estimates of his size. Staying clear of that pointed maw full of terror-inspiring teeth took a higher precedent. As would be finding a way to fix this fine mess…

No one, not even a Nightsister, wanted to stick around and find out how much worse an entire delegation's worth of pissed-off Corries would be compared to one.

Leaving would not be so easy — naturally.

Stepping forward, you're met with a low, warning growl from Sergeant Hound. Short, smoking, and sans singeing fire.

Another step. Another growl to match.

Step, growl, smoke.

Step, growl, smoke.

"Easy now…" you utter softly, eyes flicking to your bag slumped a little ways behind the Clone-turned-charhound.

Maybe, if you go slowly, Hound won't pounce. Won't bring down those massive (and likely hot) paws with the intention of knocking you off your feet. Who knows how easily the sergeant could scruff you by the back of your clothing in this form. The sheer strength of his bite-force. Or his strength in general! Perhaps Hound was capable of dragging you down to some detention center and mete out long-overdue punishments.

Again, it was better if you didn't find out.

Same way it was better that the Coruscant Guard remained none the wiser to this magical mishap until you could find a way to reverse things. Make no mistake; you were thoroughly wiping any memory of this night from Sergeant Hound's mind once the enchantment was erased.

Praise the sisters for teaching you that spell.

You continue stepping forward. Inching closer. Hound's growls peter out into soft, almost crackly chuffs.

"That's it. Not gonna hurt you. Just need to–"

Your eyes flick one too many times behind him. Hound notices. (Of course he notices.) Trotting to it, the sergeant's keen nose susses out the rough canvas sack of horticultural goodies you've gathered tonight in the semi-darkness. He positions his lithe body between you and your pilfered property.

Fuck.

"Be a nice doggy… Leave it," you beg.

One hind leg starts to lift — a warning. Charhound urine is hot enough to ignite the right material. Which would be damn near everything in that bag. A newly-gained sense of intuition is the only explanation you can think of to answer how Hound knows what kind of bargaining power he has over you. Dog-form be damned.

"W-wait. Look. Yes — stealing bad, I'm under arrest, blah, blah, blah! But if you pee on my bag, there's a chance you'll burn something I can make into a— a cure to a crisp! Then it'll take me even longer to turn you back to normal!"

Hound lets out a begrudging huff. While he wouldn't exactly call himself your biggest fan, especially right now, you had a point. The leg is lowered… But not before you see every bit of his absolute annoyance in a roll of his eyes.

Doesn't take much of an imagination to hear the unspoken word in your head with near-perfect clarity.

Fine.

You breathe a cautious sigh of relief. Even utter a short thank you—sincere and uncomplicated—as you skirt past the charhound Corrie. Carefully scooping up the bag, you apprehensively gauge the amount of damaged goods inside.

Its a total loss.

As you suspected, the bulbous jar full of granite slugs had shattered open. The jar specifically charmed to contain them. An hour or two's worth of digging, plucking and pruning arcane-applicable foliage… gone the way of corrosive goo. Fucking fuck! These silica parasites introduced generations ago by the Republic to undercity levels of Coruscant to act as a creepy-crawly clean-up crew don't even eat any of this stuff! And yet — it's ruined all the same. You can't even bring yourself to think of salvaging the bag.

Great.

Just great.

Having to start at square one will set things back by a Hutt's pace. But that's not all. To really top it off, it's occurred to you that you don't know what 'square one' for your first predicament is either. You hadn't yet gotten as far as learning the counter-spell. Or a reversal method.

Or— Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck!!

You'll have to take Hound with you. Back to where you lived. So far as you were aware, he knew neither hide nor hair of your domestic dwelling's location. But what other choices did you have? You can't send the sergeant back to his brothers in this condition. At the same time you're not sure you can leave Hound out in the open.

If he was same size as a regular charhound, maybe. Maybe it would be possible. The average length for a charhound was something like 1.14 meters from the canine's snout to the end of their tail. Sergeant Hound's hellish form on the other hand? Far bigger. Roughly 2.10, if you had to guess. Nary a clue how many kilograms he weighed compared to the 39.9 average… Fat chance an overnight kennel would take him.

Assuming one would be properly equipped to handle a charhound in the first place.

"C'mon, trooper… You better come with me," you murmur.

Locating your grafting knife, the two of you exit the greenhouse. The remnants of your bag are pitched inside the nearest refuse bin with a murderous grumble. You'd always be able to collect more granite slugs, but good foraging bags are so hard to come by… As are sturdy jars. Next time, you're adding a shatterproof charm.

You dust off your hands. Then take a deep, calming breath. Mood affects magic, as the sisters say. The same goes for time.

"I don't like the idea any more than you do. But we don't have all night."

With Sergeant Hound hot on your heels, you start on the path back home.

This was going to be an incredibly long night… First of many, in fact.

But you're getting ahead of yourself.

You first tried leaving Sergeant Hound outside your apartment building with a mocking "Stay, boy," — thinking you could just nip inside and collect what you needed. Grab your next-best bag. Look at the spell. Scribble down a list of materials required to break it. Then nip out.

Only the sergeant followed you inside. And apparently, not by choice. You were able to walk maybe 4.5 meters away from Hound before the tell-tale tik-tik-tik! of long black nails came to a trot behind you. Trying again, you held the outside door open and Hound eagerly loped through it.

You really did not want him to know your apartment number. Hound knowing the building was as far as you were willing to compromise. But then it happened again. As soon as you got four and a half meters from the door, Sergeant Hound found a way inside. His body stiff. Ears held high and still. Tail swinging faster than a scythe at harvest.

Hound was regarded with half-lidded eyes. This was not amusing in the slightest. You would be inside five minutes, tops.

"You're fucking kidding me, right?"

No, an extra vigorous slashing of his long tail seemed to say.

His body began to smolder only seconds later, his apparent outrage equal to yours (if not more). "Then go wait outside! I'll never forgive you if you burn down my building," you snapped. If Hound could work his way inside, then surely he could do the same getting out.

You kept walking. So did he.

Owing to the nascent nature of the spell, how exactly it worked remained unclear. But it was becoming plainly evident that Hound had to follow you. And you didn't like the strongest possibility that was going to answer why. "What, you're like my familiar now or something? Rabid rancors, this is just perfect…" You can't exactly stand each other. Does he know just how many potent herb clippings you burned to confuse his quadrupedal companion? Good clippings that could've been used for healing salves? Or medicine!?

You do your best not to gut every grow bed you come across, knowing the plants you harvest from aren't your own. That the folks living in the undercity levels have put great care into foliage with low-light needs. All for something organic to make these urban canyons feel less… barren. More natural.

So taking too much is wrong. You know taking any is wrong. And that you're going to have to do it in front of Sergeant Hound, repeatedly. (The spell doesn't leave any luxury of staying any further from him than four and a half meters!) He's just going to have to tolerate it.

You're not a bad person, y'know.

Reaching your floor, you curse bitterly. With so much going on, you had forgotten your apartment is at the very end of the hall. Now Hound will have to do more than just see the door number.

Things keep getting better and better.

"Kriff me…"

I'll pass.

You look down, meeting the large charhound's eye. Did he just–? Are you…? HAVE YOU—?

"Did you just… say… 'I'll pass', sarge?"

Say wasn't the right word. But it was accurate enough. Those prior instances you heard Hound's voice in your head had in fact happened. Now things were getting far more interesting. Extra complicated, too. Not only could Hound understand what you were saying to him, but he was capable of responding. How was that even possible? Was that part of the dark magicks you performed — forming some kind of telepathic link with your unwitting familiar?

(Force forsake you: it better not be a two-way process.)

Hound whined. Growing impatient. Antsy. You had been the one who said you didn't have all night. Now you were standing there, wasting time. Precious time he now had to worry about someone being sent out to look for him when he failed to report.

'If I say yes, can we get this over with? I'd like to get back to my proper body. My brothers.'

Yeah. That makes two of you. Sooner he's out of your apartment the better.

You usher him inside. "Hope you're housebroken…"

'Bite me.'

You enter your tiled kitchen, instructing the overgrown charhound to wait here for the time being. At least here he's less likely to burn any holes through the floor. (You'll never hear the end of it if Hound ruined the carpets…) It takes a bit of rooting around the cabinets in order to find what you're looking for. You just so happen to have ONE bowl made of Elphrona crystal. This, you know can withstand a charhound's heat.

Hating Sergeant Hound (…sort of…) is no excuse to be a terrible host.

"I'm teasing. Obviously," you say, gingerly using the hem or sleeve of your clothing to wipe dust from the dishware. "This'll be a lot more fun if you're less grumpy."

'What are you doing with that? Nightsister stuff?'

Using the faucet, you fill the bowl and set close to Hound.

"Thought you might be thirsty. Just… be careful with it, please. That's the only Elphrona crystal I have."

Hound eyes the bowl warily. Then you.

With a slight sigh, you pinch the bridge of your nose. "Hey. You watched me fill it from the sink. Promise it's not the Waters of Truth, or something."

'That's not what I'm worried about… Won't it evaporate if I try to drink?'

Hmm. A good question, honestly. You can't say you have any idea. But not to worry. If Hound needs more water by the time you've gathered everything, then you'll give him more. After all… the sergeant will be stuck in this form for… a while.

Looking at the notes you were given for the spell proves there IS a cure. A reversal. Whatever you want to call it.

But the reversal-cure is much like baking bread — it requires time to proof.

Four weeks; assuming your ingredients are fresh.

Twenty days of doggy daycare.

You're doomed.

Right…?

You've known rusted-over cargo freighters to have smoother flights than your first five days forcibly cohabitating with Sergeant Hound…

To say things were tense was the understatement of the era.

The tension (re)started before the two of you returned to the undercity streets. Before you even exited your apartment, for that matter. The ARF trooper was not thrilled with your plan to repurpose an old bantha leather belt. Not if it meant doing so would better sell the story he was your massive mutt. Planet-wide leash laws be damned! This damn spell be damned!

You were not above throwing Hound's own regulations—or the exact city ordinance—in his face in order to fit him with a collar.

"You want some underpaid animal control team on our asses? Or CSF? Or worse yet, your brothers?"

… no. He didn't want his vode to see him like this. And Tanivos Divo of the Coruscant Security Force gave Hound a headache. (Though that was nothing special; Divo gave everyone headaches.) He'd wear the kriffing collar. Only because he had to. Not because he was your "familiar". Or because it'd make whatever yarn you'd have to spin about him being a "pet" make sense. It was simply a matter of law.

Hound made it very clear he would not be entertaining the rudimentary collar for long, either.

"It's only temporary," you promised while fitting it for the first time.

'I'd prefer a harness. More secure.'

"Might be tricky, finding one that fits… And works for charhounds. But I'll see what I can do. Okay?"

Hound only chuffed. You took it to mean "fine" — at least in a neutral sort of way. Both of you had to work together and make the best of a bad situation. That didn't mean either had to like it. You told yourselves the truce was only temporary.

And you quickly learned what did and didn't work over the course of the first three days.

The first time the sergeant heard the familiar lockstep of patrolling Corries, he pulled you by the wrist into deeper shadow to keep out of sight. Hound's method worked… but it also left you with minor burn and bite injuries. Healing them depleted what was left of your last batch of salve. Safe to say you started wearing longer, thicker sleeves going forward. Just until you found and ordered—then later magicked—a harness large enough to hold onto instead of the flimsy leash.

"Sorry about the glitter. It was the first one that I found with express delivery…"

Hound's blazing eyes were fixed on the harness, leash and collar set you held in your hands after pulling it free of the courier package. Everything looked about the right size. Sturdy, too. Now… the glitter color scheme oh-so-creatively dubbed "Mustafar Magma"… Finding microplastics in his fur and on his skin (and around your apartment) for years to come were the least of Hound's concerns right now.

But should he be… thanking you?

When Hound didn't answer, you returned everything to the package. "I can try finding something else. But it'll take longer to get here than–"

'My masculinity isn't so fragile that I can't handle a little black and red glitter. I've been sleeping in your bathtub the last three nights, after all.'

You pull things out a second time.

Trying to think of the right words to bring this next topic up. Speaking of your bathtub… Were the two of you still ignoring the bantha for now, or could you talk about what happened?

You weren't just talking about a thin layer of soot you had to sweep out each morning, lest it enter the pipes. Nor the fact you were already feeling sorry for Hound for having to sleep there. You had pity for him, even, after hearing how much he missed his loyal massiff… She had been sleeping at the foot of Hound's narrow bunk back at HQ every night since the two of them were stationed here.

Emphasis on had been. Turns out the reason Grizzer wasn't with Hound the other night in the greenhouse was she had a litter of three pups less than a week before. Some deeper massiff instincts emerged after Grizzer had her litter. Became more territorial. Started sleeping under Hound's bunk instead. Snapping and growling at anyone who came too close while the pups were still vulnerable — the characteristic armored hide slowly finished thickening after birth.

Hound almost sounded like he was trying convince himself more than you while cautiously pacing your kitchen.

'I'm sure we both just dreamed it. The- The refresher gets pretty dark! We were seeing things!'

"Hound. I've crept in to use the refresher while you were asleep. Evening a calm, sleeping charhound throws a bit of light from right here—" You point to the pattern of glowing red, orange and yellow lines that have a vent-like appearance and cover his body from throat to underbelly when he's close enough to touch, "—no different from a freshly-started fire! There was no light when I snuck in last night!"

'You were seeing things,' Hound insists, louder this time.

"Oh. I saw things alright. I got an eyeful—"

'You did not!'

"—of a grown, naked-ass man in my bathtub!!"

Your argument got more and more heated until eventually Hound was thrown under a ripping cold shower head.

The rest of that night was spent in slightly smoky silence.

Eight straight nights of venturing deeper into Coruscant—level by level—elapsed before you and Sergeant Hound looked like things might be turning a corner.

You were arguing less. None of your other cabinets or kitchen chairs were subjected to sudden blazes. And you had taken a little inspiration from a holofilm you heard about once. By using a visible in-ear communicator, you were able to talk out loud to Hound without raising too many eyebrows.

'What are we looking for tonight?'

"Be nice if I could find some mushlings…" you murmured thoughtfully, looking about.

The two of you were carefully passing through a low-level market. Doing some more honest shopping for a change. If you walked normally, and Hound kept close, then people generally gave you a wide berth. Hound bristled nervously when someone came close. While you took precautions against his ambient heat, others had not. Any herb stalls the two of you came across meant you'd have to let go of the harness loop and use the longer leash instead. Couldn't very well peruse the cultural imports if Hound simply standing near the herbs and fungi caused them to wilt. So long as you were not separated by more than that 4.5 meters, then Hound could safely stand back a ways to give the vendors peace of mind.

'What's so special about mushlings?'

"They're typically boiled down to make the tattoos Nightsisters and Nightbrothers have come to be known for, but you can also use them for other things. Natural paints… Spells… A hearty Dathomirian stew I haven't had in a while…"

Hound's impatient comment that you weren't here for that kind of grocery shopping goes unaddressed. The vendor in front of you asks who the hell you're talking to, not noticing the ear piece. Fortunately, you have a canned response. (But it could do with some refinement.)

"Sorry sir. Just a, uh, friend of mine. Only time I have to talk to him lately is in the middle of Sergeant Smokey's late-night walks!"

There's a pointed huff behind you.

'Sergeant Smokey? You can do better than that…'

With a soft oh sound, the vendor nods. "I see! And, uh, what's with… his… red stripes there?" He gestures to Hound's brindling. You're just going to ignore the fact that a total stranger felt the need to glance at Hound's private bits.

What? In a galaxy where your nextdoor neighbor has three heads and you can surgically install cybernetics for the hell of it, he's going to get critical about needlessly narrow gender norms on a dog because of a glitter harness? What a pointless thing to give oneself a headache over.

You resist the urge to roll your eyes. Or laugh over Hound's biting sarcasm.

'Someone's jealous of my whimsy…'

"Pet dye. Turned out a little darker than I thought it would… Helps me identify Smokey in the event some sicko tries to take him. Again, I mean. We were… separated… for something like three months."

You're lying through your teeth. You know it. Hound knows it. But people tended to be pretty distrustful of Nightsisters. Even on the lower levels of Courscant, if one could believe it. Knowing how, and when, to show you weren't as dangerous as people thought you were was often enough to successfully disarm certain preconceived notions. It was invaluable, really.

"Huh! Real smart idea that is. You sound real glad to have ol' Smokey back."

You're not quite sure what to say, so you merely settle on a nod. Hound waits for the vendor to answer how fresh the mushling pods are before commending you on your believability. Credits change hands. The produce bag of mushlings is carefully added to the rest of your possessions.

'Damn. Think a few brothers could stand to learn a thing or two — you made that sound so convincing I could've fallen for it myself!'

"Thanks," you say.

Both Hound and the vendor think you're talking to them. Truth is you're not sure yourself. Taking hold of the harness loop, you and Hound weave yourselves back into the crowd quieter than creep vines. You're still not sure what to say. The faux sincerity of your tone, making yourself sound like a true pet-owner recalling a distressing situation, had been startlingly… easy. But Hound wasn't your pet.

You're talking about a person who's taken on a canine form because of a fuck-up. Your fuck-up. It would be nothing short of naïveté to think Sergeant Hound wouldn't have hauled you in were it not for the aforementioned fuck-up. That had been his almost single-minded goal these past three long months. He, an ARF trooper, was not going to allow the likes of a Nightsister to best him. Not without a fair fight.

But one can hardly call it "fair" when your opponent cheats, now can you?

Not only did you cheat, you… further stripped the sergeant of his finite autonomy.

Hound can't go anywhere without you. Hasn't slept in his own bunk. Hasn't seen his massiff and her three pups. Doesn't know if someone's been taking care of them in his absence. Has had to hide himself from his own brothers. Hide YOU from them, too. If you're caught before the cure is finished, then the sergeant may be stuck like this. Likely forever.

And you'll be no closer to puzzling out why he sometimes reverts back to human form — often in his sleep.

Maybe the two of you should consider shifting your collective focus for a night or more.

Determine whether Hound can change forms on command, so to speak.

Better add a stop to your late-night shopping plans.

"Hey. What size clothing do you wear?"

Hound's golden gaze turns to you.

'Why do you ask…?'

He'll see soon.

Well… hopefully.

The morning of the ninth day started with buying emergency supplies.

After hunting through the Holonet for pet-friendly stores—entirely too late last night might you add—you found one that had what you needed in order to safely test some theories.

Never mind that nine straight cycles of ridiculously late nights were beginning to catch up with you. Or that the store was located on the surface. At the very least, Sergeant Hound's brothers deserved to know he wasn't dead. Honestly both of you should have thought of that sooner. Or tried to figure this out sooner. Whether Hound had to be asleep to revert back to human form, or if it was tied to some commonly-used magical mechanic.

Perhaps through an emotional component. Or, say, moon phases.

The latter was the current prevailing theory. Coruscant's four moons and their asynchronous lunar cycles could potentially explain why Hound reverted to human form on select nights. It would take a bit of checking reputable astrological records against his known transformations to know for sure, of course. Getting the exact phases of Centax-1 through 3 and Hesperidium will eliminate a ton of guesswork.

And Hound knew just where to look.

'The Guard has access to the data logs from the Weather Control Station. They have the most accurate readings, which we occasionally need for high-profile reports. The infiltration of Ziro's Palace in the Federal District, for example.'

"Careful, sarge. Sounding a bit boastful," you teased.

'Nothing to boast about, except for the gett'se of my brothers. That was a bit before I got here and properly joined the Guard.'

The what of his brothers?

'GEHT-sey. Means courage.'

Hound would go so far as to use the word to describe you at this point. Took no small amount of daring to do any of what you did. To leave your home vulnerable and exposed to him. Tempting fate—even literally playing with fire—by keeping a charhound of his size somewhere a charhound was never meant to be. By waiting so long to buy fire blankets in various sizes and as many canisters of expanding fire retardant as your arms could carry.

It took guts risking both safety and peace when you first crossed paths. Not to mention each of the previous eight nights putting yourself in repeated jeopardy. The trust you had to put in Hound fighting training, fighting instinct, not to reach out to his brothers. Call for help. Give them a signal. Some proof of life.

And your back-up plan? Well Hound didn't know what that was.

Trying to determine if he could voluntarily transform—and for how long—was of course going to be… risky. Hopefully none of the attempts would set off any smoke detectors. But you had a lot of confidence in a second theory. If provoking Hound set him ablaze, then maybe if he was calmer, chances were he MIGHT revert to human form.

Fully nude human form, granted — but still positive progress! That's what you had gotten more than one pair of clothes in his size for.

It was the next step you had in mind that Hound had issue with.

Arranging a secretive meeting with his commander.

Was that gumption; as gett'se as it gets?

Or was it sure suicide?

Hound was no closer to deciding what your plan was as much of the ninth day practicing the reverse transformation gradually bled into the ninth night. Now, you were only a night away from completing the concoction simmering on a hotplate in your kitchen. Then came leaving it to "proof" for the remaining two weeks.

Ten days.

That was a significant amount of time to Clones.

A significant amount of time to be absent. To… miss and be missed. Blast, did Hound miss Grizzer. His best girl. His crime-stopping partner. He missed the shitty GAR food. The too-stiff mattress of his bunk. His armor, his weapons, his brothers. He missed having hands! And two feet!

Missed racing through the winding streets. Chasing after criminals and thugs. The thrilling challenge as he—

Wow.

It's been nine nights.

And Sergeant Hound isn't sure if he misses it or not. You have one night before you're supposed to meet Commander Fox behind Hasher's Corner Market on the surface. This may be his last chance to figure it out.

You find Hound urgently nosing you awake, harness in his mouth, at 0200. You had fallen asleep in the living room, too exhausted to take yourself to bed. (Fuuuuck… you'll be paying for that in the morning.) He lies and says he has to pee again in order to get you up. Next going through the trouble of finding laced footwear. You learn why soon enough.

'Run, ■itch, run,' Hound urges you with a sharp bark.

You're confused why he's led you so far from your apartment so early for the morning if not to do his business. If it was to insult you, surely Hound could have taken care of that in your apartment…

"Excuse me…?"

Hound adopted a play bow. Tail twitching. Long, ember-speckled tongue lolling from his mouth.

'I said run, witch!'

"Dammit, sarge. This is a really inconvenient time for zoomies…" With another groan, you begrudgingly break into a jog.

Within minutes you're awake enough to entertain a proper chase, giving Hound his answer.

If it was the pursuit of a petty criminal that he missed, then his tail shouldn't be wagging.

Turns out it was the fun all this time.

Night ten.

Ten nights of the sergeant being a charhound a size worthy of the underworld.

You were no closer to working out how Hound could successfully revert to human form only half the time.

The concoction would take another ten days to proof.

And Commander Fox was to meet you in this back alley fifteen minutes from now.

What might happen next, only the Force truly knows. Not even the sisters of your coven gifted enough to read the imprecise nature of the future could say. Would you catch a fatal case of blaster poisoning — shot on sight? Be arrested? Believed?

If Hound couldn't change back in front of Fox… what was going to happen to him?

The thought of him being stuck like this, forever, weighed on you heavily. You only meant to defend yourself and picked the worst possible spell. Okay; not actually the worst… That didn't mean it wasn't pretty damn bad on its own. There was no way to know if you dying tonight—as grim as that thought was—would undo your spell. No way to know if you'd be allowed to return home.

Or if you'd find yourself in some kind of… VIP guest suite courtesy of the Corries until you rectified this large, four-legged mistake…

For the first time in ten days, you were quite scared.

Scared enough to experience more than a tiny spook when the crimson commander turned up ten minutes early. He came melting out of the shadows. A single blaster drawn. Trigger finger tucked beside the barrel. Voice firm and venomous.

"Hands where I can see them, Nightsister. Don't try anything funny with that leash."

Panic was capable of poisoning even the cleverest of minds. The most courageous, too.

"Like what…?"

Words came out in a tremor. Fear for your safety, for Hound's safety, beat against your ribcage. The leash was held firm.

"Consider yourself lucky I met you alone as the message asked," Commander Fox answered cryptically. "Now where is Sergeant Hound?"

The ARF trooper whined behind you. High. Shrill. Hound's ambient heat began to climb as he pulled at the harness. Everything was falling into place at the worst possible time. The nature of the spell—the linchpin of the transformation—was emotional. Looking up the business end of his brother's blaster proved that.

Being in danger proved that.

You couldn't let the commander shoot his own brother.

Hound couldn't let his own brother shoot you.

He managed to wrench the harness loop free of your hand with a sharp lunge.

A warning, or a plaintive cry, punched itself free of someone's lungs.

"Don't–!"

WOOF!!

The DeeCee never had the chance to fire.

More than that, it was rendered inoperable.

Commander Fox's blaster—torn from the palm of his hand—now sat clamped in the charhound's maw, where it rapidly melted the firearm down to a useless hunk of metal.

Using only a single bark, Hound had created a small tongue of flame. Enough of a distraction to catch Fox off-guard and successfully disarm his superior of one of his blasters. Keep the two of you safe. Buy you time.

Get Commander Fox to look at him.

Really look at him. That's when the top dog of the Guard's composure begins to slip. Not far. Just far enough to keep him from drawing his other blaster on you. Hound paces forward, gradually driving Fox back. Creeping further and further away.

Two meters. Three meters. Four. Four and a half.

Five meters.

Commander Fox is stunned. "Why does your charhound have Sergeant Hound's armor markings?"

"He's not my charhound," you answer honestly.

"Then whose is he?"

"Wrong question, Commander…"

Fox looks down at Hound — really looks at him.

"It's you. Isn't it, vod?"

The sergeant's tail wags in answer. Slowly to start. Then faster than a scythe at harvest.

Oh yes.

It's really him.

Commander Fox carefully kneels into the permacrete, bringing himself eye to eye with his brother's charhound form.

He then removes his helmet. It's eased off his head. Perhaps afraid that, if removed too quickly, Hound will be spooked off. Vanish before his eyes. Something. Wisely, Fox keeps his gloves. He'll need them to scratch behind the charhound's ear longer than a few seconds as he works through his disbelief.

"We thought you were dead, Sergeant… That the witch you've spent so much time chasing might've finally killed you."

Wag slowing, Hound glances back at you. You've stayed where he left you. Five meters apart. The spell's tightly enforced proximity has loosened. It's anyone's guess why. Another emotional component? Some safety measure? Yet another thing to figure out. If you can.

Or better yet — want to.

"Hound," the commander scoffs softly, now looking at you too, "don't tell me you're suddenly friends after spending ten days with her! She turned you into a charhound—somehow—for blasts sake! I'm hoping by accident…"

It wasn't exactly an accident, you admit. Maybe Fox should hear the whole story somewhere other than this damp back alley. You've taken one Corrie too many back home as it stands, but it might help if the commander was shown proof that you've been working on reversing Hound's transformation.

Together, that is.

You're normally a one-Nightsister-show of course. But given the circumstances, there have been more than a few necessary changes. It will certainly be quite some time before you're keen to stretch your magick beyond the known limits again after… all of this. Having an unwitting familiar. Pulling together a time-consuming cure and leaving it to brew for ten days. Forcing Sergeant Hound and his brothers apart. Not reaching out far sooner.

Or being more forthcoming in that message.

"I wasn't sure you'd believe anything I told you, Commander Fox. Certainly not about turning Hound into a dog. Or the– Oh, how should I put this...?"

Hound whined to get your attention.

'Just rip the bacta patch off.'

Well… If the ARF trooper insists.

"Don't hate me for making your brother sleep in my bathtub. It's the most fireproof place I have that I could offer so he'd have a place to sleep. I had to use the refresher one night; found a Clone instead of a charhound sleeping in it. No armor. Or anything, really."

Trying to give Hound blankets to sleep on top of after that—in case it happened again—went up in flames the one and only time you tried.

Commander Fox chuckles softly before standing.

"And has it?"

"Only seems to work half the time we've tried triggering the transformation voluntarily, but, yes. So I— we left that part out in the message," you explain.

Better that you told Hound's superior in person. Someplace neutral. Keep it between the three of you to start. You knew there was a non-zero chance you had set up your own trap. That the commander would come with backup. You'd be placed in stun cuffs. Hauled away. Questioned. Or he, Fox, would save everyone the trouble with a single, well-placed shot.

And you can't decidedly lie — say you wouldn't blame him. Were you the one in those scuffed white boots, who knows. You might do the same. It's a dog-eat-dog galaxy out there. Anyone would eagerly attest to that; especially those on Coruscant.

No amount of glitz and glamor could ever hope to gild over the grime.

Folks like you living in the undercity understood that perfectly and were just doing what they can to get by.

Hound chuffs, thinking the same thing as his commander. "Ah. So that's how you rationalize petty theft."

"To help people? Yes. Whatever I take I use to make medicines. Curative salves. Ointments. Pain relief. Those are the requests I hear most of the time," is your almost pitiful explanation. You promise turning Commander Fox's men into charhounds is NOT part of the regular program.

Now… if you're going to be arrested, that's fine. Could he at least make it a matter of eventually? When his soldier is back to normal (hopefully within the next ten days)?

Hound again chuffs. It almost sounds laugh-like this time. He seems far less surprised than his commanding officer. With nothing but time on his paws, the sergeant has paid close attention to the herbs poking out of grow beds. The ones you've glanced at, hummed almost regretfully, and walked away from.

Fox couldn't help but chuckle, if only briefly. You had some damn nerve asking that. After your actions left the Guard in a tizzy for two weeks. Wondering what foul fate befell their ARF trooper. Imagining the worst. Working out how in the hells they could possibly track you down when you've given a man trained in stealth and reconnaissance a run for his (metaphorical) credits. Not for three hours. Or days. Or weeks. But three months.

Here you are, asking for another two weeks.

Commander Fox smiles. Soft and lazily. Dark brown eyes become drawn half-lidded in thought.

"Tell me, if you can, Sergeant Hound. She's been taking care of you, has she?"

The colossal charhound purrs. A vocalization the breed is capable of personally left unheard. Until now, that is. And it's warm. Slightly fond. Uncoerced.

"Good care?"

Hound's tail wags.

The strongest spell man's best friend can cast — solid endorsement.

Commander Fox reseats his helmet with a short nod. That's good enough for him. If his sergeant not only signaled he was being cared for, but stuck out his neck for you in spite of your… tense history… earlier, then he could graciously overlook the theft. Maybe for the time being. Or, maybe, for good.

Better that you not count on anything just yet. Forgiveness had it's limits. Whether that would apply to forgetting remained to be seen. You created quite the headache, y'know.

The commander is going to have a hell of a time figuring out how to explain this, starting with the other Corries.

Might not be something so easily covered up with a bit of clever paperwork like usual.

Sergeant Hound looked at you, head tilted. First to the left. Then the right. Considering something. Scheming.

Maybe there was.

Some time later…

Rabid rancors — if the sisters of your clan could see you now!

A simple plan to obtain a branch from a mature Grave Thorn tree grew into something wholly unprecedented. And what flourished first was not without it's share of biting briars, much like that tree. An unchecked domino effect between a Nightsister and a Clone who once couldn't stand each other. Each locked in a drawn out dance of pursuing law-enforcer versus evading law-breaker. By utilizing an untested spell, those became some of the wildest weeks of your life.

Never in a million lightyears did you imagine things would end up quite like this.

Though you will say you're glad they had.

Things as they are now are a marked improvement. You're worrying less about your supply stores drying up as quickly as they once did. Living free of concern about untimely run-ins with the Corries. And the Guard now has some unique bragging rights among the whole of the GAR. Not every detachment could say they had a Nightsister graciously making use of her many talents and assisting their ranks.

All it took was a bit of clever paperwork and Commander Fox leaping through one of the largest (and legal) loopholes he could find before anyone had the chance to close it.

A modest greenhouse was requisitioned for the Guard by using the "Other" category of the GAR's medical supplies order form. Fox explained, through careful and precise language, his carefully thought-out decision in branching out to natural remedies. Bleed off some of the straining demand for precious medical supplies, he claimed — supplies which were sorely needed by the vode on grueling frontlines scattered across the galaxy. The commander argued at length with the pencil pushers. First on the legitimacy of his use of the form. Then, the matter of who to hire (and the party responsible for the hiring).

"The Coruscant Guard feels quite strongly that we should be the ones to determine who will be filling the so-called "GARdener" position. Sergeant Hound's discovery and proposal of a Nightsister living in the Lower Levels, one with vast experience in many plants and their medicinal properties, will eliminate any need for a lengthy candidacy process. Furthermore, it already has my full support."

"And this is the same Nightsister who you say… I believe the words you used were 'cared for' this same trooper when he was, and again I quote, 'sick as a dog' those four or so weeks he was presumed M.I.A.?"

One and the same, was Commander Fox's reported reply. When pressed for further reasoning why the Guard had chosen you, the answer was limited to two words.

"Who better?"

Now for the low price of a little dirt under your fingernails, the relationship between the Corries and a Nightsister was no longer akin to hunter and prey. It was symbiotic, save for a single Corrie. In the time since curing Sergeant Hound of his four-legged predicament, your cat-and-mouse rivalry has been retired for something more romantic. You wouldn't say the change happened immediately. There was still a bit of refinement to go through. Learning what the other liked, loathed and longed for. Making it past the puppy stage of your love.

And now?

You were lucky if you could make it through most of your chores in the greenhouse before Hound inevitably came to "help" you these days. More accurately, it ought to be called "getting in your way" half the time. You didn't need a second set of hands—sometimes massiff paws—to dig holes in bigger and bigger grow beds, but you certainly won't turn them away, either. Brushed by gilded fingers of late afternoon sunlight, you and Hound worked between the rows together, as often as you could. Weeding. Fertilizing. Pruning. Plucking. Grafting.

Laughing. Teasing. Playfully taunting.

"Ah! There's my favorite witch," Hound called from the entrance. He was dropping by a little earlier than normal today. Must not be due to patrol. Your back was to the entrance, meaning you miss the cheeky smile currently playing across Hound's full lips.

"Was wondering if Grizzer and I had to make sure you weren't sneaking around the grounds of the Jedi Temple. Again."

"Now why would you think that, wags?"

That had only happened once, as Hound well knows. And while the Temple Guards who had sleeping spells cast on them feel differently, you had taken extreme care not to hurt anyone — or anything. It wasn't going to hurt the big tree in the courtyard so long as you shaved off the bark as thin as you possibly could. Nor did you need a lot. Being spotted by a yellow-eyed youngling ultimately meant none of that mattered, of course.

But… you can't possibly forget: that was how you met Hound to begin with. You're also the only witch he knows, you remind the sergeant from where you kneel in the greenhouse. Pouring over a sizeable swath of seed labels has taken up most of the afternoon. Some of these you do remember ordering. Others, less so.

"That makes you my favorite by default, doesn't it?"

You chuckle, smiling as you feel Hound take great care to wrap an arm against you while still keeping your dominant arm free to work. Hound stamps a chaste kiss into the space behind your ear. Then another, trailing lower this time.

Seeing as he was your favorite charhound — yes.

That certainly made you Hound's favorite witch.

If you made it this far, I want to quickly take a moment to thank you for reading the fic! 🩷 My original plan for an October/Halloween 2025 story would not be completed in time, so this was the "something short" backup plan! Hope you enjoyed~.

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

It was rather befitting that the designation for the Venator-class Star Destroyer worked not only for one of the many, positive qualities of the Jedi Order, but for the intergalactic transport of this particular deployment of soldiers as well. They were all hard-fighting, admirable and courageous men. 

Men that you greatly valued the friendship of; learning to be more comfortable in one another’s company when the war demands their attention, and even when it does not. 

You initially think nothing of it when early this morning, in the pre-dawn hours, Captain Rex steps into the starport bridge where you are working alongside Admiral Yularen and the rest of the crew. He carries his modified helmet at his left side, leaving his face visible and free. An expression of focused professionalism is softened with a warm, patient smile as he draws nearer, seeing you diligently complete this morning’s work. 

Recently, you had begun training in one of the Republic’s many programs to become a navigational officer. The captain encouraged you to ‘change course’ when he noticed that you were facing growing dissatisfaction in your current position, hoping it would inspire you to remain stationed here. 

It’s hard to resist reflexively returning that smile, or to remember the usual phrases of formality as you turn to address him. 

“Good morning, Captain.” Anticipating that he must have a message from General Skywalker or Commander Tano to give to Admiral Yularen, you offer to help him in case the matter is an urgent one after Rex echoes your greeting. “I’m afraid the admiral is a bit busy at the moment,” you say, speaking of the ship’s captain, “but I’d be happy to help you with whatever it is I can.” 

Chuckling politely, Rex first expresses his surprise to hear you sound so… formal. “Starting to sound just like a deck officer already. But it’s funny that you ask how you can help when that’s exactly what I came to see you about.” When you give him a puzzled expression, yet nod for him to continue, he adds, “I have… a really big favor I wanted to ask of you.” His voice, often so coherent when issuing even the most chilling or unpleasant orders, is full of uncertain halting. Hesitation. 

You assume that whatever he’s going to say, he understands he’s asking a lot of you. “Sure. What is it?” Making up the difference, there is no delay in seeking to determine what Rex’s big favor is. 

Gently tossing a nod in the direction of one of the nav-tables, your friend signals for you to follow him so the two of you will be more out of the way. Shifting the helmet off his hip and onto the edge of one of these consoles, Rex frees up both of his hands so that he can speak to you. This way, both you and himself can speak and behave less like a soldier and a member of the crew, and more like friends. Foregoing the formality of titles and the like without worry for the eavesdropping presence of higher-ranking associates. 

Trying to find the words to say, the captain takes a deep, quiet breath. It must be something serious on top of being a lot to ask. 

“We- I understand that you’re not yet a navigational officer—officially speaking—but I thought it would be best to find all the help I could get. You’re still training; but Commander Tano believes you show great promise. I think she was even trying to suggest she could sense it,” Rex carefully explains, making a nod to common abilities Jedi utilized of and through the Force with an uncharacteristically timid expression. 

“And, both from what I’ve heard as well as my trust in Commander Tano, I certainly believe her.” 

Giving it considerate thought, you allow yourself time to process. Then, nodding slowly, you ask what the mission is. 

“Okay… Well, that’s, uh, sweet of you and Commander Tano, and all, but… I guess what exactly do you need so much extra help for, Rex?”

“We’ve been asked to scout out a planet that it seems nobody can recognize, or name.”

It could prove to be a potentially dangerous mission, but it would—should—be far less dangerous than some of the other missions they’ve been assigned. The astrological body had been picked up by Republic scanners from one of the many fleets as it was passing by, and all of the data fields had returned with very sparse information. No known, recognizable name, peoples, or even local climate beyond an estimate this was an ice giant. They couldn’t even be certain there was even animal-life down there due to perpetual, shifting storms. 

The only thing anyone has been able to confirm of the planet is its size: 7,010.08 kilometers, a bit oddly specific… 

Speaking to you with the same amount of respect he would show any of his brothers, Captain Rex further explains, “I’d like you to join us as an extra set of eyes out there once we make it planetside. Situational awareness and communications will be crucial down there. I’m asking if you’ll join because you get along well with my men. They trust you. And I think we’ll need all the trust we can find.” General Skywalker and Commander Tano were busy with making preparations before all of you were due to exit hyperspace, but they had already provided the necessary permissions to Admiral Yularen and Captain Rex to temporarily add civilian crew under his command for the mission. At this point, it came down to your choice to join, or stay aboard the Resolute. 

“Well, uh…”

The reasoning seems sound, but you’re not wholly sure about jumping to accept just yet. A chance for real field experience? That would be the kind of thing that would look incredible on your training record. (Especially if it was with the 501st!) But you needed to make sure you had good-fitting gear before anything was made official. If you needed to scramble to borrow something, you’d want some extra time to take care of that.

“I just need to check that I have all the necessary equipment, first.” 

There are more than three rapid blinks in surprise. “You’ll-? You’re agreeing to join?” Rex asks, his voice brightening with hope. 

You can’t help a friendly chuckle before correcting him. 

“Well only if I either have or can borrow all the necessary gear. Won’t be any good to the team down there if I risk becoming half-frozen, now will I?” 

“Would you like some help?” Rex kindly offers. 

You graciously accept the captain’s offer, figuring it’s only fair. After all, you’re going to provide quite a lot of it once you’re on the planet’s surface, now aren’t you?

Once all of the appropriate gear has been collected, you and the rest of Torrent Company touch down on the unrecognized planet less than an hour later. 

Together, you’re set to embark on the lengthy process of surveillance and charting the findings. Accepting Captain Rex’s help in finding everything you needed pays off the instant your boots crunch down into the fresh, wind-driven snow. Great galaxy and all her stars… It’s well below freezing down here. The low temperatures prove a great concern to the well-seasoned pilots—General Skywalker among them—with the gravest reserved for the landing gear and engines. 

If it was necessary to make a hasty escape, they couldn’t very well do that when half of the most critical components were turned to ice. “Worse than I thought down here… Captain Rex - a word, please?” General Skywalker quickly asks to confer with Rex in order to shake out the last few details of his plan, who had been in the process of helping you properly fit the supply pack you were instructed to carry over the rest of the thick, cold-weather gear. 

Though he seems regretful to leave you, Rex wastes no time answering. Duty calls. “Of course, General.” He summons the 501st’s medic to take over for him. “Kix, mind helping our good friend here for me?”

“Consider it done, captain.” Kix responds. 

Taking over for his commanding officer, Kix finishes appropriately tightening the last shoulder strap. It needs to straddle that delicate knife’s-edge of ‘sturdy’ and ‘loose’; and who better than the man who you’ve heard has performed more than a few life-saving surgeries out in the battlefield if it’s not Captain Rex to finish what he’s started?

“How’s that feeling?” Kix asks after giving the other strap a final cinch. “Give it a wiggle for me, kid.” 

Kid: It was one of the Clones’ most common terms of affection when it comes to who they care about; shared both among themselves and those they had grown close to. 

Sure, it could be paired with a stinging insult on occasion, or used for a bit of mean-spirited teasing. But it had never been weaponized like that against you. “Kid” was used with less reservation and far more freely than the words the GAR had adopted into their speech from the language of Mando’a. When the moment called for more intimacy, more impact, these sons of Kamino called you ‘burc’ya’ - the Mandalorians’ word for friend. Your bonds with them were ‘burcyan’. The one applicable word they did not share with you was ‘vod’ika’ - though their reason for withholding it was understandable.

While half of its significance meant ‘close friend’, too often the Clones used it for the other half: sibling. 

For that reason, it was a precious word to them. And precious few things truly belonged to them. You would be “kid” if it meant they could have something to hold on to, just between brothers.

“Fits great. Thanks, Kix. Appreciate all your help.” 

Kix chuckles softly. “Wasn’t all me. But you’re welcome, kid. Excited to have you with us for this mission as one of our navigational officers.”

“Navigational officer in-training,” you’re somewhat firm to clarify. “It’s not official yet. I’m honored by Commander Tano’s level of trust in my training, and grateful that both she and General Skywalker signed off on the necessary data-work to give me permission to be here. But Captain Rex-”

“Thought it would be best to recruit all the people we can trust. I know.” Kix finishes on your behalf. “Sorry, kid; it’s not ideal to put together this plan without involving you first, but I’m afraid you’re the last one to find out about it.” 

Seeing as what’s done is done, all you can offer is half a shrug. “No, not ideal. But oh well. Honestly, if it had come from someone other than Captain Rex, I don’t know that I’d’ve agreed to do it.” It’s not like you didn’t have the choice to say “no” either. While he strongly suggested he wanted you to, Rex did ask you if you would agree to join when he spoke to you on the starport bridge. 

You were here by your own choice. It would be the responsibility of others to help make sure you would remain safe in the meantime. 

“Snips, I’m going to stay behind with a few troops and the pilots to make sure our ships remain operational. I want you to take command of the operation and assist Captain Rex with making sure Admiral Yularen’s future navigational officer makes it back to the Resolute in one piece.” General Skywalker, addressing his padawan, speaks loud enough to be heard by everyone over the subarctic winds lazily snaking through the landing zone. A rather efficient way of signaling to the troops they’ll be on the move soon, quite honestly. “You should take Artoo so he can help her boost the signal through the planetary storms.”

Commander Tano accepts the altered assignment. “Understood, Master.” The silver and blue-plated astromech demonstrates his excitement by rocking side to side on his two primary legs, chirping and warbling in a high, rapid pitch. “I’ll make sure Artooie doesn’t get into too much trouble.”

“And Lieutenant Jesse,” Skywalker adds, scanning the surrounding company for the trooper in question. “I have an assignment for you, too.” 

There’s some commotion near the back of the company before a clear, loud “Sir! On my way!” can be heard, the preceding rapid footfall announcing he’s hurrying forward to be properly addressed. 

“Very good,” General Skywalker replies once Jesse has moved in-sight of him, “I’d like you to be our third point-of-contact in charge of her safety. Can I count on you to do that?”

Opposite to the Republic crest tattooed over the left part of his face, Jesse promises with a firm salute both him and Captain Rex can count on him for this assignment. A loyal soldier and patriot, not to mention one of the Legion’s oldest soldiers, the ARC trooper is someone in whom you have absolute trust. He’s fun-loving and possesses an adaptable sense of humor; but when push comes to shove Jesse’s among the first to shove back. Just like his captain. 

You’re in good hands. 

“That settles it then. Ahsoka, you and Torrent Company can set out whenever you’re ready.”

Officially assuming command, Commander Tano issues the necessary orders to button up the last of the landing and preparation procedures before anyone sets foot beyond the landing zone, where together you’ll begin heading up a ridge to the north-northeast, first thing. 

“Carry only what’s necessary. We’ll make a plan once we have an idea of what we’re looking at from the ridge, so we won’t be deploying any speederbikes until then, understood?” Several soldiers around you reply in the affirmative, while you’re a little more unsure about a few things. What was considered necessary? 

Everything you had seemed pretty necessary since it was supposed to help you communicate between Commander Tano’s team and General Skywalker, and the crew aboard the Resolute, if it was needed… Should you ask?

Maybe she could sense it, but Commander Tano was quick and sweet to assure you not to worry after asking a trooper to help with a particular task. “Here, Tiethis. Looks like they need you to do your thing.” He’s handed a rope and pointed in the direction of a couple of crates full of gear that will be left behind at the landing zone, where his brothers are struggling to keep it all in one place due to the persistent winds. “Hey,” the Togruta padawan greets you kindly once Tiethis trots off, “If it helps, you can lighten your pack by caching a few things between me, Captain Rex and Jesse, to start out with. I know this is your first field exercise and you must be nervous. But you’re gonna do great, I know it. The three of us will be here to help if you get stuck.”

You chance a light, disbelieving laugh. “Thanks; but I think you mean “when”, Commander Tano.” You’re training, bound to make mistakes. 

She counters your pessimism with optimism. “Well, if or when you do, the three of us will still be there to help.” The promising reminder that you’re not going to be left to struggle by yourself is a comforting one. 

No, you’re certainly not. Not under the captain’s watch. 

Rather than take the entire company up to the ridge in order to put together a comprehensive plan of action, a small scouting party is created to get the lay of the land first before the whole company embarks anywhere by speederbike. 

Marching up there by foot would be the easy part, seeing as that’s the first and only clear step to this plan. After that, it’s anyone’s guess: the Republic was unfortunately a little too vague on what exactly the 501st had been deployed here to look for. (And that was more than a little frustrating.) You would be joining them to perform a bit of land surveillance before plotting out any kind of path, or opening a com-line to General Skywalker to report visual findings. 

And you’ve found what—right now—looks like a barren wasteland. 

Below the ridge, the landscape is made up of wind, snow and ice. In the distance, tall, craggy mountain ranges jut out of the snowfields - ominous, gray dorsal fins cutting through an otherwise serene surface. 

It’s a start. But you’re not sure you’re going to find more than that without retrieving some equipment from your pack. Maybe these shapes in the mid-ground obscured by snow-flurries will come into sharper focus with the borrowed pair of specs. A higher-end datapad than the one you own is added to your belt as you’ll be needing that next for a written sitrep. 

“Don’t forget: explain what you see.” Captain Rex helpfully reminds you. “Once you get the scopes properly calibrated for snow-based environments, of course.” It’ll make it harder to see what’s out there otherwise. 

Right, right… How do you do that?”

“I’ll help you with that, little miss.” Jesse offers. He fiddles with them for some time before declaring, “Here! Try that.”

While you surveilled, Rex and Commander Tano were going to talk over the next steps. Cook up ideas of what the Republic might have wanted them to look for. One brave soul breaks the weighted, nervous hush as you make a minor adjustment to the newly calibrated scopes. “What do you think they call this iceball?” the unmarked trooper asks. In an act of boredom or restlessness, he kicks his boot through the fresh-fallen powder as he speaks to the thus-far nebulous idea of potential inhabitants. 

The 501st learned their lesson after Orto Plutonia and the Talz: never assume a planet is uninhabited.

Carefully looking out into the vast stretch of snowfields, you now see the shape in the mid-ground are tors. (That’s the name for a geographical feature of free-standing rock formations created by weathering and erosion.) You note they look a little taller than ordinary. Maybe too tall to be a recognizable structure like a hut or other architectural dwelling that would suggest civilization. And though it was a long shot, you find yourself disappointed that it wasn’t. There are no foot-tracks to be seen (that can be picked up by the scope), nor navigational markers - save those left by Republic forces behind you. 

The instinct in your gut tells you this planet seems truly uninhabited. “I don’t think anyone calls it anything…” you murmur more to yourself than anyone in particular. “So far, the only thing I see down in the snowfield are a few spread-out tors. No plants, animals or people.” 

Unless someone among you (who isn’t one of the Jedi) knows how to “talk” to whatever wildlife you find here, any name this planet may have once had will remain unknown until there is contact with native inhabitants. For now, the written report will have to include a few placeholders until you can come up with something better (or find someone who can give the company answers). 

Expedition ICEBALL Carried out on the planet WHOKNOWS Led by Commander Ashoka Tano of the Jedi Order, and Captain Rex [CT-7567] of the Grand Army of the Republic 

That’ll have to do. The scouting party shouldn’t keep the others waiting for too much longer. 

Rex calls in the first report to General Skywalker so he can show you how it’s done for next time. Skywalker promises to help the men get the swoops and speeders ready by the time those who went to scout return; from the landing zone you’ll be heading north to investigate a point of interest near one of the distant mountain ranges you picked out with your scopes. It’ll prove safer to travel that way. Just somewhat inconvenient when it comes to securing a very vocal astromech on an improvised cargo rack on the back of someone’s CK-6 swoop or BARC speeder while covering greater distances. 

Given the chance, you think R2D2 would try to race some of these shinnies to help them learn a little humility by leaving them in his dust. He’d also probably race the older soldiers just for the sake of fun. Little guy certainly has been keeping things entertaining and spirits high around here. 

It'd be criminal not to mention how Artoo has proved he’s an invaluable resource to the company on this mission. Like he has many times before. On one of the many stops the company has made to check the surrounding area, the blue and white astromech scuttles off on his own for a time before coming back, whistling and beeping up a storm. 

Bw-woop! Woop!

“Artoo? What’s going on, little guy?” 

It looked like he’d just gone over a small hill, what could have happened to get him so worked up? Being careful not to stumble through the ankle-high snow, you make your way over. You could be wrong, but he sounds like he’s trying to get your attention specifically. This was as good a time as any to brush up on your Binary. 

“You got something to show me?”

Scuttling around to nudge you from behind, Artoo urges you to crest this relatively non-descript hill with a surprising amount of eagerness, even for him. 

Woo-WOO! Wheeee!

It won’t take being fluent in Droidspeak to understand this blue and white unit from the R2-series sounds pretty damn pleased with himself about finding this. 

Gathered together in a shallow depression, there are maybe six dozen creatures of some kind. They’re small, and coated in thick, puffed wool. Antlered. This is the only wildlife you’ve seen on the surface thus-far. They look like they could be ruminants; when one bleats, the mouth reveals the grinding molar teeth found among herbivores. 

“Artoo… Go get Rex and the commander. They’re gonna wanna see this.” 

The whole damn company will want to see this. There’s life down here! 

Comms become absolutely necessary if you have any hope of being heard over these forceful gales of wind and snow out in the open like this. 

A voice comes in on the short-range channel. “Think there’s a farm somewhere?” The question largely receives a rippling of uncertain murmurs in reply, though there is one unmistakable complaint among it all. 

“Not this again…” 

You offer a laughing retort. “Just because there was a farm on Saleucami, doesn’t mean there’s a farm here, Jesse.” There’s another laugh when the ARC trooper looks over to you and performs a highly exaggerated shrug. 

Rex had asked you to stay and watch from a distance as he, Jesse, and several brave troopers took as many pictures as they were safely able upon the young Jedi’s request. The captain would never order his men to do anything he himself would not do. As the nav officer in-training, Rex was not fond of the idea of you being involved, though you had asked if you could help.

“There’s no guarantee. They could just be wild.” 

This earns you another shrug. Less exaggerated this time. “Can’t rule it out, though. Look how docile they are!” Jesse replies, referring again to the possibility of farms. 

Farms would be an incredible clue of civilization. It’s one of the most solid markers in planetary exploration - proof that someone is being provided for, more than likely nearby.  

“No,” you agree simply, “Can’t rule it out yet.” 

Jesse did have a point. These creatures do seem relatively docile; none have shown the least bit of fear towards any of the troopers snapping stills around them. Maybe that means there is a farmer not far from here, someone who’s trained or gradually desensitized them to complete strangers. 

But tame behavior and looking friendly—perhaps aside from the wide, branched horns—is not enough to guarantee that they are threatless and domesticated. These creatures, whatever they are, may genuinely be wild, potentially feral…

For that reason Kix stands just as watchfully beside you, using a medic’s trained and critical eye to give his brothers stern warnings to give these ruminants breathing room. 

“Zipp, if you wanna be a pilot, your eyes need to be sharper than that. It keeps stamping its left hoof because you’re getting too close.”

“Sorry!” the rookie yelps, stumbling back. “I wanted to get a better look at the dirt in its wool…”

Almost a hundred heads turn in the trooper’s direction upon hearing the four-letter word. 

Did Zipp just say he found dirt?  

Over the open channel, Rex can be heard asking his soldier to repeat that several times, looking to be sure he heard correctly. Cautiously pinching a small amount out of the animal’s wool confirms this is, in fact, soil of an unknown composition. Where had the dirt come from? The company had been calling the planet by the nickname “Iceball” for good reason; there was no bare ground to be found, only ice and deep snow drifts. 

“If our hooved friend here has dirt in its wool, then they must have come from someplace else…” Rex hypothesizes. “Maybe there’s more of them.”  

When he lowers his rangefinder to search the horizon of this winterscape, the impression he’s looking for the wrong thing comes to you rather suddenly. He should be looking for something else. 

Something lower than the horizon. 

“Captain Rex! What about tracks?!” you call out to him on the channel. “We can follow tracks or where they’ve pushed through the snow back to where they came from!”

Impressed by your suggestion, Rex gives you a deserving mark of his respect. 

Thrice, he knowingly taps the blue emblem of the jai’gaalar’s eyes adorning the top of his helmet. Like the ancient avian of Mandalore, Rex sees the big-picture stuff when it comes to this war against the Separatists. When it’s not literal, it’s in the abstract sense. Thinking. This is part of what makes a man like Rex a triple threat and why you admire the blue-brushed captain so much. 

For his brains. 

Before he summons Artoo, you are left to imagine if that special smile given to someone you care for is under Rex’s helmet when he surprises you with a compliment. The kind that’s fond, tender, and makes you feel warm inside. “I knew I requested the right person for this mission: we’d probably feel pretty lost without you here, kid… Come help us look for tracks before the wind covers them all, little guy!” Rex could just be saying that in order to be modest, but… something tells you he isn’t. His words sound like they are more than just genuine.  

Apart from potentially covering the tracks, the wind brings concern of growing chill. Weather sensors in the second-generation Cold Assault armor worn by the men searching around the divot for prints trill out multiple, impatient warnings that temperatures are taking a slow, steady plunge. Best guess is a forming storm spotted from the gunships in the planet’s northern pole prior to landing has matured enough to start creeping further south. 

If it fledged, then you’re all going to have to move quickly. 

Current exploratory protocol dictates that so long as the duration of time that soldiers stay in-field does not exceed more-than-reasonable thresholds, Torrent Company and the remainder of the 501st aboard the Resolute are permitted to make as many expeditions as necessary in order to find their answers. The insulated gear dramatically increased a trooper’s tolerance for such extreme weather. The second gen of the HT-77 gear was better, and had seen great improvements that was worth the price increase from the 4,000 credits of the first. 

But as the Clones had been told by their trainers, they couldn’t expect the ‘77 to work miracles.

If the weather becomes so severe, or the risk of injury to you or the soldiers becomes too great, then this exploration must be curtailed and everyone will be instructed to leave this iceball behind until it is safer. 

Artoo makes his second incredible discovery of the day just when others vocalize their fear: maybe it’s too late to find anything, and the company should head back. Locating the creatures’ trail coming down from the north, he urges everyone to get back to the swoops with a garbled staccato of chirps and half-whistles. At six-dozen in number, the animals collectively cut a deep furrow through the snow. It would potentially be wide enough to use it like a makeshift road.  

“Good find, Artooie! Let’s not waste any time!” Commander Tano instructs her men. 

Tano leading the way, every bike races down the animal-made path to a mountain range with an unusual crescent-like shape. 

There in the deep belly of the curve, a cave’s yawning mouth awaits the explorers. Evidence of the same cloven hoofprints belonging to the ruminants can be found in abundance, here. While it must be safe enough for them to live inside—judging by the odor alone from standing outside—there are still many potential dangers to be found in any given cave system. 

So you think it would be best to call in another sitrep before anyone sets foot inside. 

This would end up being the last sitrep you make; the signal is thready even with Artoo boosting it for you. 

“General Skywalker? This is the nav officer with Torrent Company.” 

“I read you; go ahead.” the Jedi Knight responds. 

“Your resourceful little astromech found some kind of creature out here. Large group of them. Some kind of small herbivore. We followed their tracks back to a cave. It’s in the middle of one of the north…west mountain ranges relative to your position at the landing sight. Just disembarked our speeders, sir.” 

There’s a contemplative hum. “So you haven’t explored it, then. But I’m guessing the company is getting ready to.”

Commander Tano and Captain Rex, who had just conducted a short deliberation, have reached a decision. Flashing a thumbs up, everyone is given the answer that they’ll be proceeding inside shortly once the bikes have been dealt with. 

“Affirmative, General.”

“Understood. Tell Commander Tano and the captain that I trust their judgement to keep everyone safe. Thank you for checking in.” 

You promise to honor this request and sign off before the signal gets lost completely. Now full of worry and uncertainty, you turn again to your friend and ask in a fraught tone what the plan to explore the cave is. If Rex and Commander Tano don’t have one, the hope is they’re working on one… You and many of the rookies who had been listening in would really feel better knowing there’s a plan to deal with something Wampa-like living in the cave system, at the very least. 

“What are we going to do, Rex?”

With a comforting hand on your shoulder, he says, “Everyone’s going to stick together. We’ll pool half of our rope supply to mark our route, to start with, and use it as a guideline.” Beginning with the rope from Commander Tano’s pack, Rex hands Jesse a few tools to start from the mouth of the cave. Given several pitons and a hammer, the rope will be secured to the cave’s walls or floor. 

A tube of concentrated colorant is also offered in the shade ‘GLARE RED’ - the GAR uses this stuff as a visual aid to mark important items. It behaves more like a paste than paint, and as the name kind of implies it shows up as a visual glare in most optics equipment. It works just as well with the naked eye; such a stark red is rather impossible to miss. 

“This will keep us from getting lost. And I’ll be right there the entire time.” Rex promises you. 

So long as one one’s blasters froze to the inside of their holsters, you should have nothing to worry about. 

Moving as one group, exploring the cave and its rootlike system of passageways is done one cautious step at a time. 

Somewhere after the thirtieth iteration of “Piton, rope, color.” carried out every fifteen feet you’ve ventured through the mountain, you began losing track of time. The direction you seemed to be facing. Now, you’ve lost complete sense of both. With each light source building off of another’s radius, much of the passageways you’ve walked through have been well-lit. That serves as a great comfort; the blooming sense of trepidation knocking your heart against your ribcage lessening the better you can see.

No matter what may be skulking around in the dark, other than Artoo bravely scouting ahead, Rex is never more than half a step away from you the entire time. 

Walking beside you with his hand on your shoulder once more, nowhere in the galaxy feels safer than this. 

Following R2D2, Commander Tano walks further ahead than the rest of the company. The yellow-green blade of her activated shoto lightsaber bathes the walls of the passageway in a slightly eerie light, something that makes the medic’s cryptic observation all the more disturbing. “What the- Commander Tano?” Kix calls in a voice hedged by discomfort, “Take a closer look at the sides of the passage walls. Doesn’t that seem a little… unnaturally formed? They look too smooth; almost like the tunnel is man-made.” The Jedi’s attention drawn, Kix demonstrates his finding voluntarily. Sweeping his hand along the wall, he locates very few spots that have a rougher texture than the rest of it. 

“Maybe it’s an old magma tunnel, or something?” someone suggests. 

Kix shakes his head, uncertain. “No. No, I don’t think so, vod...” He looks behind the expedition team down the passage they’ve already explored, murmuring. “I think the tunnel’s width is too uniform to be natural.”

Unable to confirm any explanation for the time being, the 501st agrees to continue on lest they begin to lose their nerve and folks start to get that ‘eopie in the headlights’ look about them. (Perhaps you, most of all.) First, though, everyone takes one calming, centering breath to negate the surging anxiety they feel. Steady heads and grounded nerves will provide the best protection against the unknown, the unseen, and the unexplained. Your trust in one another must be absolute, here. All should have faith in their brothers, their friends, to rise to the occasion and have their six in times of peril and need. 

There must be five more repetitions of “Piton, rope, color…” before Torrent comes upon a large, inner chamber close to the heart of the mountain. 

Here, soldiers find a few items of interest yet not quite of note. 

Shed antlers are strewn throughout. Many are small. Perhaps a younger buck’s de-antlering at the conclusion of the year’s mating season, or an unlucky yearling who did not see the end of the revolutionary cycle. Some are larger. These are brittle; potentially due to age, deficiency, or lack of preservation against the cold. 

Jesse nabs one set - small, still attached to a skull by the pedicles. There’s a smattering of material with a soft “mossy” appearance peeling from the calcified bone that makes several shinies groan uneasily. You can visualize the disgust under their helmets from the way it exudes in their voice. 

“What are you doing with that…?”

“Collecting something for the vode in Analysis.” the ARC trooper replies matter-of-factly. 

“I-Is that a good idea?”

Jesse shrugs. “Don’t see why not.” If he’s told to return or ditch them later, he will. 

“Where are you gonna carry it? That won’t fit in your pack.” 

Kix is requested for assistance. Once the medic has gotten a series of pictures of how the antlers connect to the skull, Jesse snaps the skeletal remains apart with a few swift motions. “Just the antlers should be enough.” he concludes decidedly. The sickening kra-chik! of each antler coming loose makes one rookie gag. 

Artoo warbles with concern, scuttling to the trooper as fast as he can when they double over. 

Woo-wooh?

“I’m okay, little guy. Eeugh… It just sounds like breaking plastoid.” 

Hooo…

Torrent continues to explore this chamber for a few minutes more. No stone has been left unturned before the company proceeds through a tunnel found in a recession of the southern wall. The behavior of this slightly narrower tunnel differs from those prior - you climb in an endless, upward spiral, altitude alarms chirping all the while. Just before the spiral ends, the sound of high wind can be heard before this passage connects with another open space you predict is just below the summit. 

Everyone finds themselves in one final, upper chamber with a pair of naturally formed “windows” in the mountain rock to explain where the sound comes from. These sizable exposure-points have allowed a significant amount of snow to accumulate within, making it colder than the rest of the cave system previously explored. 

And here, you find proof of what you’ve been looking for at long last. 

Carved into the chamber wall is a series of messages kept safe and sheltered against the relentless gales and freezing of the elements. All of them have been written entirely in Domabesh, curiously; this creates a buzz amongst the Clones with linguistics training as they set to work on transcribing these for the mission reports. 

You feel the palpable high in everyone’s spirits now that there is evidence of life somewhere on this planet. Life that’s been here for a long time! This script has existed for at least a thousand years. Likely more. It may have potentially less prevalence than Aurebesh throughout the galaxy, but it’s not quite so forgotten that making heads or tails of the lettering will be a fruitless task. 

The elation sours before long, however... A soldier by the name of Chatterbox postulates that these messages may very well be ones of woe when Captain Rex asks what the messages say. 

“I’m not positive if it’s an earlier form or off-shoot of Domabesh yet, sir, but… I don’t think we’re going to find anyone here.”

“What makes you say that, Chatter?”

“The messages are all warnings, Captain. This one is a kind of farewell.” 

Chatterbox shares what he’s pieced together of an initial transcript with the company, and hearts grow heavy with unease as he reads. 

We humble, surviving people of Dethellum, leave a short series of accounts so that all this planet may know this is no habitable world. We have sought other planets after the Sky’s Great Shaking dis-anchored our beloved home from its place in the galaxy and flung us out among foreign stars.  For a time our people lived by burrow and cave, but there were too few for our vast number when the Lasting Hibernation bore down on us. We lost many. In desperation we made great scores in the Most Sacred Bow in hopes our stars would show us more favor.  But it was not to be. We leave by star-boat. May the Great Weaving guide us to greener worlds. If you have found our parting message, we implore you do the same. None will be here to bury you.  This world is lost: do not allow Dethellum to take your life along with it. 

While nearly sick with dread, you cannot recall ever hearing of a planet by this name. Nor can anyone, perhaps other than Commander Tano. 

Recognizing something from her lessons at the Jedi Temple, the Togruta asks to borrow Chatter’s device and highlights a selection of words. “Could the ‘Great Shaking’ be the Legacy Run disaster…? That was, er, 7745 by the Coruscant Reckoning Calendar?” Commander Tano’s pause as she reads something is brief, but heavy. “For more than two centuries and thirty years… The Republic and Order assumed this planet was completely destroyed by the Run’s near-collision with another ship. There was so much debris ejected from hyperspace, so many anomalies. But it’s… still here.” Many troopers have questions about the bewilderment and awe in their commander’s voice, but they will have to wait.

“We should keep looking… See what the other inscriptions say.”

Every last one is full of despair. Laments that their most frost-resistance crops could no longer grow. Sorrow that the last “fourtusk” had been slain and eaten. Great grievings that become too distressing to read any longer. Dethellum had become another victim to the Emergences, a name given to those further disasters in the aftermath of the Legacy Run tearing itself to pieces when the ship’s age caught up with it. They had probably become one of many civilizations that were just… wiped out. 

Apart from Dethellum’s accounts of woes, Torrent does find more items left behind by its people that suggest a potential connection to the ancestral heritage of another member of the Order (one that General Skywalker would need to confirm), and acknowledgement of the Force and its wielders. 

Three stone slabs that have been arranged to make a triptych have been found and dug out of the snow. Each sport rudimentary depictions of people with long hair and bright, yellow eyes. Among these, figures in long, hooded clothing stand opposite one another, a series of thin rectangles used to convey crossed blades. 

One blade had been painted blue. The other, red. 

It seems the concept of the Jedi—and a… precursor to the Sith?—was familiar to them. 

“Do you think they found another planet like they hoped? Still live somewhere, out in the galaxy?” Jesse wonders aloud, gingerly tracing the grooves and lines in the stone. 

“Can’t say for certain. But I’m betting there’s a decent chance. Get a few more stills, and then we should be on our way.” Captain Rex advises, looking to the northern pole of this frozen astrological body from one of the mountain’s natural windows. “Storm seems to be growing in strength…” Rounding his shoulders, he symbolically shakes the sense, the worry, of danger creeping on the horizon off of himself. 

Right now he needs to be level-headed; sitting and fretting is something the company doesn’t have time to afford if his instinct is to be believed. The soldiers that are charged with securing the samples in their personal packs should be offered help first. Ahsoka expressed that it would be important that the utmost care should be used to insure any located artifacts made it back to the Resolute in as close to one piece as possible. Something Rex certainly agreed with. 

Once he’s finished with them, Rex moves to check in on you. You’re knelt in the snow, looking for a way to stash something in your bag for the return trip. Torrent’s been advised they’ll need to move fast, so everything that isn’t critical to navigation is best stowed away.

“Can I give you a hand with that?”

“I’d love that,” you answer with a grateful smile. “Packing gets trickier the second time around, somehow.” 

Rex shares a hearty chuckle with you. “That it does. And how are you holding up?”

“Good; just eager to get back to the Resolute.”

The snow gear was doing an excellent job of keeping you warm, but you could really go for something warm to eat or drink right about now. And a thick blanket of some kind to burrow under until Dethellum’s chill had been forgotten. And a hot water soak in your personal quarter’s refresher.

You’d decide on what to do first once you got back to the gunships. Right now, you need to be more focused on not tripping over something while following the way back through the mountain using the rope left behind earlier. Jesse and the other ARC troopers collect the rope as the company makes its way back outside, seeing no sense to leave it behind. 

“What if the Republic plans to make other trips to Dethellum and explore the same mountain we did? Wouldn’t it help them find that chamber near the top?” 

Your confusion is reasonable, in his opinion, but Jesse has his own rationale for undoing the rope and piton system. 

“It would! But having this rope would be a good idea in case of an emergency.” 

Whatever kind of emergency would necessitate the use of this much rope is not something you wish to think about, so you utter a short “Oh, okay…” sort of phrase and turn your focus on helping the company round up the bikes. They had been left not too far from the cave entrance outside, though some of the speeders that had not been equipped with landing skis had managed to drift a little ways off. 

Something that would have a massive domino effect on what was to come when the mountain began to thunder.

A distant crackle and rumble starts from the very peak. A terrible sense of dread comes over the captain—the hair on the back of his neck standing on end—as the sound carries downhill, intensifying. His armor’s early warning system bleats panickedly in his ears. Then whoops. Finally, wails. 

This great noise is not from the storm. It's from something started by the storm. 

And you’re all sitting mynocks down here. 

Barreling down the mountainside is a lethal wall of snow, rock and debris, pressing down on all of Torrent Company. 

But most importantly: you. 

Rex throws open the comm channel and wastes no time; there is precious little of it to make his most crucial set of orders on this mission.  

“Everyone, double-up on the bikes! It’s an avalanche – get out of the path!!” 

Plunging into panic, you throw yourself into the rider’s saddle of the nearest swoop and punch the throttle forward. Running on base instincts, you’re fleeing southeast rather than following the flash-training on natural disasters. Escaping an avalanche means traveling in a direct, sideways route whenever possible if you’re not already caught up in one. 

Fortunately Rex is not far behind on his own speeder. He’s able to catch up with you quickly, signalling for you to follow. 

Unbeknownst to you, Captain Rex is the only one who followed after you in the commotion. 

When disaster strikes, there’s no one there to help you.

Everything happened so fast. 

Whether taken by surprise or dangerously distracted, two shouts of great alarm are made when Rex is suddenly launched forward, thrown from the speeder above the controls. 

He lands a short distance ahead, and some part of his armor makes that sickening KAR-CHIK! on impact. 

“REX!”

Punching the accelerator, your heart yo-yos between your throat and knees as you race for him. The two of you are still inside the avalanche's path, within its outer skirts, so you fervently pray to any galactic deity out there that he might be alive. To the Force itself. 

Crumpled but stirring in the snow, you dig Rex out and lift him into the saddle of your speeder at record speed. Owing to hysterical strength, you escape the snow-slide’s torrential course in the nick of time as you ride ahead in search of shelter. 

Reaching the eastern end of the ‘Sacred Bow’ mountain range, you locate a small cave in the foothills. After disembarking and finding nothing inside, you take the time you didn’t have before to carefully ease Rex off the speeder and keep him upright as you help him inside. With the winds blowing their hardest since your arrival and the fear of a second or even third avalanche, this is going to be your best bet for shelter. 

The pain that comes with such dramatic, repeated exertions of energy begins settling in as you carefully prop the wounded cobalt captain against a part of the wall deeper in. You’ll have to push through it for now. Rex needs you more. 

You hope to coax a few words out of him beyond pained groans. “Rex? Oh Force… Please talk to me. Just let me know you’re not dead, or something.” Momentarily stripped of their gloves, your hands carefully feel up his armor for fracturing or other damage to the plastoid. Panic stings through you when nothing is found on the first pass and Rex remains too still for your liking. “Please, Rex - I don’t know if you’re hurt, or-!”

“Been in… w-worse shape…” he bites out at last. It takes great effort to form every word, he’ll have to be forgiven for the lack of enunciation and the heavy slurring of his voice. “Are… You… okay?”

You’re relieved and stunned (and in pain) all at once. No. No, you’re really not okay, truthfully. Heart become a wild dove, you’re struggling to remain calm in a critical situation where you cannot afford to lose composure. You try to brush it off and insist to him that you need to make sure he is okay before you call Torrent Company for help, but Rex won’t let it go. “Are you okay?” he repeats, speaking with more force this time. 

You’ve read enough holo-novels and mags to recognize what’s happening here: Rex is more concerned about you than himself. If you tell him that you’re fine—or at least in better shape than him—he’ll stop resisting your efforts to look over him. Rex’ll allow himself to drop his vigilance, his worrying and protective nature, and relinquish himself to your care. 

You suck in a shaky breath. “I’m cold, and scared, and worried about the others. But I’m mostly okay... S-somehow.” Until you make contact with the company, there’s no telling how many troopers have been hurt. Or worse. Musculature injuries will be chump change compared to the loss of Rex’s men. 

“Good…” comes the soft, relieved sigh. “Good.”

“We should try to reach the others once I take care of your injuries,” you say. Carefully, you resume patting down his armor for damage, even carefully removing his helmet since you’re sheltered from the wind’s reach. This is the first time his helmet has been removed since boarding the gunships and touching down on Dethellum. A moment that becomes so overwhelming by how much quiet pain you find in that warm, deep tan of his handsome face. 

You incorporate these “tells” into your assessment, repeatedly asking “How badly does it hurt?” as you carefully prod along. 

Thick brows buckle and bunch together when you’ve brushed over developing bruises. A sharp wince as each arm is examined. Whiskey-dark eyes flaring in alarm before you determine the large patch of red staining his thigh armor comes from a punctured tube of GLARE, not a nicked artery. The short, labored breath when you find an injury on his upper back that he couldn’t tell was there. 

Not without you removing the back section of his armor, lifting part of his thermal bodysuit away, and pressing down on it with a glob of bacta and a glue-stat that you’ve pulled from the medkit in your supply-pack. 

“You really don’t feel that?”

“No, I don’t,” Rex admits in another pant, “probably from the adrenaline.” Or from the throw. Or how he landed. Or the cold. There were probably a dozen rational explanations for why he couldn’t. But those mattered less to him than making sure you had enough material to take care of yourself, too. 

Having lost his own pack, likely when he was thrown from the speeder, Rex refuses to take the singular dose of painkiller in your autoinjector. 

“No, cyare… Keep it for yourself. It’s your medicine.” 

“W-what? Why?” 

You’re not on Drongar; this isn’t a rare medicine like bota. Rex needs this now. The muscular pain you feel is growing more unpleasant, but you can wait. Typically his altruistic nature was downright admiral; hell, even attractive. Right now it only creates a surprising amount of guilt. Rex got hurt because of you. 

“I’m sorry, but I can’t do that. I panicked and now you’re hurt, and now I-” You have to make this right. You have to put him at ease, and then find a way to get in touch with the others. There’s so much that has to be done to ease this guilt and give the two of you the best, fighting chance at survival. “I made such a mess…”

When he takes your hand, you know the captain is going to kindly—nobly—try to shoulder the blame instead. 

Rex has a little more than that in mind, however. 

“No, kid… I’m sorry I got you into this mess in the first place. I’m the one who asked you to join the ground crew. The one who made the call not to send you back to the Venator before the storm started getting worse… You shouldn’t be here. I care about you, and I put you in harm’s way.” 

“What are you talking like that for? We’ve been friends a long time; of course I know you care about me.” 

He shakes his head gently. That isn’t what he means.

“If you don’t already, you should know I mean I care about you in another sense…”

Oh no: he didn’t get hurt because of you. Rex got hurt for you. “I-I’m going to spoil the moment by asking if you’re freezing to death on me, talking like this, aren’t I?” Quickly easing him forward, you return the back plating and wrap him in the emergency blanket for good measure. A short dig through your pack finds an extra knitwear cap smooshed down at the bottom. 

It’s pulled over the naturally blond, close-shaven curls of his hair before Rex can get another word in. “S’okay, cyar’ika…” he murmurs comfortingly. A thick-gloved hand reaches just high enough to cup your cold-stung face, his thumb brushing over the apple in your cheek. “You couldn’t possibly spoil anything… And I’m not going anywhere.” Rex promises tenderly. 

Not when he has the General and the Republic to fight for. His brothers. 

You. 

You'll find a way to make it out of this together. He's sure of it. 

It'll just take a little hope that someone is there to answer the emergency transponder once the device has been activated. 

Bundled together under the emergency blanket, you and Rex have never been more grateful, or happy, than you are now to hear so many voices at once when the signal goes through. 

 Rookies and experienced soldiers alike speak at speeds that would put hyperspace to shame. 

“It’sthecaptainonheremergencybeacon! They’rebothalivethanktheForce!” 

Kix laughs apologetically, trying to move further away from the triumphant ruckus, and not for the first time. “Sorry, Captain! Jesse’s having a hell of a time settling them down. We’re just relieved to hear from you. You two were the last we needed to hear from after the snow slide!”

“The last?” Rex asks in worry. “Did we lose anyone?”

“No! I’m relieved to report we didn’t lose anyone, sir - everyone’s alive!” That news is more miraculous than a miracle. (Thank the stars. Thank the Force!) Knowing it’s nothing a long dip in the bacta tanks can’t fix for the brothers caught by the flow kept the medic’s spirits high while they worked with Skywalker’s astromech through the storm. Every available trooper was determined to locate the final two members of the company. And now they knew you were okay. “How’s the kid holding up?”

“I’m in better shape than the captain, Kix,” you reply, adding that it’s great to hear from him. “He’s injured, and shaking more than a nervous tooka; this sweet di’kut insisted on sharing a few parts of his armor to keep me warm. Scared me half to death because I thought it was paradoxical undressing at first.”

“How injured?”

An uneasy chuckle bubbles up out of you. “Can’t say for certain. I took care of what I could with what I have.” Better than nothing. You’re training to be a nav officer, not a medic. Basic and portions of emergency aid is all you’d be capable of without Kix on the comlink to walk you through a far more dire situation. “Should I check again for something I may have missed?”

Kix admires your willingness, but encourages you to holster it for the time being. “Wait on that for now. Focus on keeping sheltered, okay? Adjust the warming function so we have a better chance of finding you two nice and toasty.” He waits patiently for confirmation the advanced thermo-regulator sensors are sending more power to the heat-coils carefully strung through the plastoid armor split between the two of you. “Really couldn’t convince him to take turns?”

“He told me “Not a chance, cyar’ika”... So I compromised.”

It’s not difficult to imagine the smiles from his brothers when you hear Jesse join Kix on the comm. 

“How sweet of you, captain!”

“Jesse…”

Ignoring the warning, the ARC trooper assures you they’ll find you before long. “We’ll get to you as fast as we can, kid. Just hang tight. Keep your beacon on.” 

“Safely. Don’t forget safely, please.”

“Heh. You got it, ma’am. Jesse and Kix out.” 

Now came the impatient agony of settling in to wait for rescue. Not knowing how long it would be before seeing the faces of friends and brothers. Or how long you would need to keep each other calm, warm, and safe. But at least it could start with setting aside the transponder and moving closer together. Once adjusted, you and Rex each pull your ends of the first aid blanket tighter around yourselves. Locking in whatever warmth you can now will nudge the odds in your favor. 

You’ll be able to wait out until nightfall, if you have to. 

Rex feels there’s more he has to tell you before there’s any planning for that, first. More he should’ve said when you had cleaned and bandaged up his final injuries of blood earlier. Speaking in a sorrowful tone that threatens to cleave your heart in two, he again apologizes for getting you into this mess. 

“I’m so sorry it all happened like this, ner burc’ya…” He never meant for you to come in harm’s way like this. Never. Never in a million lightyears. Nor did he want to confess to you like this. Confessing something so important—so heartfelt and personal—in a horrible or dangerous situation was a scenario he had always hoped to avoid. “On today of all days, no less.”

“I don’t follow,” you confess softly. “What’s so special about today, Rex?”

“It’s Life Day.” 

You stifle a gasp of surprise. Having been so preoccupied with your work aboard the Resolute and the training to become a proper navigational officer, you had lost track of the holidays and didn’t even notice. It takes a little clever reflection to add truthful sentiment to your apologetic explanation when Rex, curious, asks why. 

“When every day I get to spend with you feels like Life Day, it’s hard to notice when the real deal comes around, Rex.”

With or without his brothers being included, it’s easy to lose track of time in his company. Hard to miss the way he makes you feel. Or ignore how much you care for him. About him. The way he helped you out of a few back scrapes when the Venator was under Separatist attack thrice in one standard week had just been the beginning. Now, you… 

You love him, undeniably. 

It’s for his brains, his brawn, and even his beauty, too. It’s for the Triple-B-Threat and so many other, innumerable reasons. Ones you would prefer not to share in such harsh conditions. 

In the light of your own confession, Rex has another he feels would be appropriate to share. 

“Well in that case… I got you a gift. I’d like to give it to you when we make it back.” When you ask if he really did, Rex answers with an unbelievably tender nod. “Can I tell you what it is, cyare?”

It may be a while before Jesse, Kix, and the others in Torrent find your beacon; trying to keep one another talking in the meantime would be the smartest idea. Not just for morale, but to ensure the other was fairly cognizant. 

So you agree. “Mhm.”

“It’s a book. Chatterbox got into book-binding recently… Asked him if he wouldn’t mind helping me make something special for you.” 

“Awh, Rex… You made me a book?” 

His head bobs beside you, the movement small. “Finished it last night. Haven’t wrapped it yet.” 

Putting together a hand-made book just for you is such a thoughtful gesture that you could practically swoon. “Kark the wrapping paper - I’d love it even if you gave it to me in a pillowcase!” you declare. You can feel Rex starting to chuckle before he quickly regrets it, spurring a new swell of pain. 

“Oh no,” he says with a decided shake of his head, “you don’t want one of our pillowcases… Deserve far better than that. More than a book, even.”

“Rex-”

“Mesh’la… You deserve the whole galaxy. And someone who has the power to give it to you.”

This is no time for humility. You panicked, and your friend put his damn life on the line to keep you safe. Not because you’re one of his brothers. Or because you’re part of the company today. But because he loves you. 

“I don’t want the whole galaxy, Rex.” Pulling him closer, cold-trembling lips crown his forehead with a row of kisses before finally locking his lips with his own. “I’d rather have you.” Such a tender declaration would ordinarily embolden the injured man now in your arms, but collective pains and freezing temperatures keep each of you from doing something a little more reckless. Maybe even sensual and passionate. 

So he finally agrees to take the painkiller when you offer it again from your medkit. The combination of the puh-chunk! and hissed release has never sounded so good. Immediate relief ebbs over him when the pharmaceutical enters his system, drawing a gentle sigh out as the tension fades away. 

“Practically a natural.” Maybe you should think about helping Kix, if you ever grow tired of being a nav officer. 

You rebuke him with a gentle laugh. “Hush. It’s so simple a B1 could do it.” That may be giving them too much credit. It makes Rex smile, at least. 

A welcome disturbance to the comfortable quiet fallen over you, the emergency beacon begins to ping in a steady rhythm. Someone has a lock on the signal and opened the one-way channel to communicate with you. 

“Captain Rex, this is General Skywalker. We have a lock on your beacon and we’re approaching you now. Heard that you had a little more excitement than the others from Artoo. How’s our nav officer doing; is she okay?” 

Hah. Figures there’d be a few details lost or omitted in just a few rounds of Holo-call. 

Spirits high, Rex smiles as he picks up the transponder, “Good to hear your voice, General. It’s a helluva Life Day miracle that she’s largely unharmed! I took the worst of it; but I should live to fight another day.”

“It’s a Life Day miracle that you’re both still with us, Captain. We’ll have you picked up and taken back to the Resolute in no time.” the Jedi promises. “Skywalker out.”

It was hard to argue with that. A shame you’d be leaving before determining whether or not Dethellum possessed any sort of atmospheric light phenomenon like many other polar worlds, but…

What better Life Day gift could there be than to make it out alive of a perilous set of circumstances with the people you loved and cared for most?

You may not believe me, but this is the abridged version of LoLD! I'm an over-explainer + writer by nature, I'm afraid... But I hope you all enjoyed this fic! A huge thank you to Kim for making a request and becoming a part of my 200 follower milestone celebration with everyone's favorite cobalt captain. 🩷

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