#rep comm

The issue was, while his interests had indeed broadened, the war was still raging, and days off were rarer than a clean debrief, so their chances to just relax were very much limited. And even then, strictly speaking, a lot of what one could choose to do did break the regulations. He was well aware that some of his other commando brothers outside of Delta Squad used to sneak out of the barracks to go to clubs, the theatre, or bars. Obvious rule break: they were supposed to stay in the military complex, nicely stored away, out of the civilians’ sight. 

It wasn’t Fixer’s style, but he also didn’t judge them. For one, who was he to deny any of his brothers a little bit of fun? But more importantly, he, too, was breaking the rules. The clones didn’t get any form of monetary compensation, so he had to pull his HoloNovels from dark corners of the HoloNet, obscuring his trail so that he wouldn’t be caught. Ironic, given that the novels he loved so much all centred around detectives solving crimes, letting him figure out who was the delinquent together with them. He liked the structure of that, the way all the pieces fell into place eventually. So unlike how things tended to go in war.

The door to Delta Squad’s quarters slid open with a smooth hiss, and Fixer came to a sudden halt. His datapad with the sliced novels was lying on the table where he left it, alright, but where were his brothers? And where the kriff was his caf? The one that he’d gotten just earlier, steaming hot and delicious for his reading session?

He checked his chrono. When he had left this room exactly 18 minutes ago, Sev had been sitting on his bunk, tinkering with his deece as usual, Scorch had been watching Force knows what on the HoloNet, datapad conspicuously turned away from his brothers so that they couldn’t see. And Boss had taken a long-needed nap. They hadn’t mentioned any plans when Fixer had left for a loo break that eventually evolved into an impromptu chat with Atin, whom he’d run into, so it was surprising to see them all gone now. He checked his comm, anxious that he had missed new orders coming in, but nothing. Odd.

Even more odd, though, was that his caf was gone along with them. His brothers were free men, after all - or as free as any of them were, anyway - so on a lazy afternoon like this, they could go wherever they’d please, as long as they were staying in the complex. His caf, however, was very much his, and obviously didn’t have legs to walk away with, which meant somebody had stolen it. 

This was upsetting. Not only had he been looking forward to his downtime, but also, along with the caf his favourite mug was gone, one of his very few private possessions. It even kept the caf warm, at precisely the perfect temperature. And he couldn’t just get another one. Not without credits he didn’t have. And even if - it wouldn’t replace the sentimental value. 

And while his brothers knew what that mug meant to him, they were the only logical suspects. Usually, nobody else came to this room, and barely anyone knew the code for the door, so it must have been one of them. Nobody was crazy enough to break into a room in the barracks, just to steal some caf.

Alright then. He had planned to spend a lazy afternoon reading about Cirok U’lms solving a case, but it looked like he had a case of his own on his hands now. So he was going to do what Cirok U’lms would be doing: Looking for clues and deducing what had happened.

He sat down at the table, grabbed his datapad, and opened a new file. “Boss, Sev, Scorch,” he wrote down in a spreadsheet, ready to collect evidence. His eyes examined the table in front of him. There were a few splashes of caf were his mug had been. They had already mostly dried, meaning they must have been there for at least five minutes or so. But Fixer was sure that he himself hadn’t caused them. He wouldn’t ever spill caf. 

Boss, diligent as he was, wasn’t the type to spill drinks either, and Sev had the precision of a sniper. “Splashed caf,” Fixer wrote down in Scorch’s column. So for now, he would focus on him. 

He frowned. Option one, Scorch had walked away with it. Option two, he had simply drunk the caf, and then hid the mug in a feeble attempt to try and cover up the transgression. Either way, he decided, it couldn’t hurt giving Scorch’s bunk and locker a sweep.

Searching Scorch’s bed - which was, contrary to military standards, not made - didn’t yield any results other than the conclusion that his brother should swap out his pyjamas for fresh ones. Thus, Fixer moved on to the locker. Stacked armour plates, a few datapads, fresh changes of fatigues, several pieces of ordnance that were clearly not meant to be stored outside the armoury. And, for some Force-forsaken reason, a paper garland, and a dead potted plant Fixer remembered Scorch had liberated from a diner. But no mug, nor any smell of caf either. Fixer paused. Scorch taking the caf with him had been the more likely option, anyway. But how to catch him red-handed?

The door slid open, and Scorch came in, hair wet, and only a towel wrapped around his hips. Fixer, still at Scorch’s open locker, froze, trying not to look guilty. Scorch stared at him, and Fixer stared back.

“And what exactly do you think you are doing?” Scorch asked. His eyes flickered to the dead plant. “Trying to have a chat with Bob or what?”

Fixer frowned, somewhat distracted by that revelation. It wasn’t a good look being caught snooping around your comrade’s stuff, pod brother or not. But also, who in their right mind would call their stolen, dead potted plant Bob?

The truth, Fixer decided, was the best option. “I’m investigating.”

Scorch’s eyebrows shot up. “Investigating? I think you have read one too many of these Cirok U’lms stories that you love so much, ner vod. Or the ones with that little old lady… what’s she called again?”

“Madame Maar-P’ell,” Fixer said matter-of-factly. “And no. I’m not playing some fun little game imitating literary characters. This is serious. Somebody stole my caf. And my mug. You know very well how much I love that mug! And I am afraid, brother, that you are the prime suspect.”

Fixer hadn’t thought it possible, but Scorch’s eyebrows rose even higher. “Me? Little old me? What have I ever done to give you the impression I’d steal from you? You hurt my feelings, brother.”

“For one, the thief spilt some caf. Fits your profile best. And also, you have stolen from me before. Remember those flashbangs you took from my pack without asking?”

Scorch rolled his eyes. “We were… how old back then? Four? Five? And I have apologised. Besides, I am a demolition expert. I can be precise when I want to, and if I were stealing from you, I definitely would.” He loosened his towel, and it slipped to the floor, leaving him entirely in the nude. “And as you can see, vod’ika, there is nothing on me where I could hide your precious mug. I went straight from here to the refreshers and back. And who in their right mind would bring caf to the shower? I might be a bit crazy sometimes, but not that particular brand…” He walked over to the locker, shoved Fixer to the side nonchalantly, and began dressing in a fresh set of fatigues.

Kriff. Scorch was right. The moist towel and wet hair clearly proved that his claim about having been at the refresher was right, and in the barracks, refreshers not only weren’t any places where you could hide a mug, but a lot of brothers who would take it for themselves on top of that. Fixer had to reevaluate. Massaging the bridge of his nose, he walked back to the table again, looking at the dried spots as he sat down.

“You’re right, it doesn’t check out. But you left the room after me, which makes you my witness. Mind sitting with me and answering a few questions?”

Scorch, now fully dressed again, joined him, sitting down on the opposite side of the table. With a wide grin and his best imitation of a  vaguely squeaky granny-voice he said: “So, Mr U’lms, let’s solve this case, shall we?”

Fixer loved his brothers - he firmly believed he was part of the best squad there was - but sometimes Scorch specifically could be the most annoying creature in the galaxy. “Cut it, di’kut,” he said. “This is a serious matter. My mug is gone, and I want it back. Preferably before our free afternoon is over.” He paused. “Besides, canonically Cirok U’lms and Madame Maar-P’ell have never met. Different authors, different stories. Also, set decades apart. And different vibe, too.” He knew he should be happy that Scorch was even roughly able to name his favourite characters, but it still pained him that his brother didn’t have a clue what they were actually about. “So, when exactly did you leave for the refreshers, and were you the last one to leave the room?”

Scorch tilted his head. “Well, when I left, the others were already gone. But so was your caf, if I recall correctly. I thought you had gotten back and taken it with you.” He paused. “So, who is your new prime suspect now, chief detective? Has Sev finally snapped and gone on a caf killing spree? Or has Boss’ calm demeanour been a farce all these years, meticulously designed to make you feel safe, just waiting for the right moment to snatch away your beloved mug?” His grin was devilish.

It wasn’t always easy for Fixer at the best of times to put up with Scorch’s antics, but now?. “Not funny, Scorch,” he said sourly “For the last time: I just want my mug back. Be cooperative, will you?” He pulled up his investigation file. “When did you leave the room? And why haven’t you seen who took it? Or have you and you are just not telling me?” 

He added to Scorch’s column in the case file: “Former offences: Theft of flashbangs. Alibi: Refreshers - wet hair, moist towel. Locker and bunk: searched, no results.”

Scorch leaned over the table, trying to see what Fixer was writing, but Fixer turned his datapad away. Scorch might have an alibi, but he was not cleared enough to be allowed to see the case files, he thought. “Insight into this depends on what you are going to tell me now, Scorch’ika,” he said.

“Alright. I left the room for the refreshers shortly after you left. Sev was still working on the deece, Boss asleep.” He paused. “I must have been away for about 7 minutes. Maybe a bit more. Didn’t have a chrono on me. Got to the refreshers, queued, realised I had forgotten my shampoo, went back again to get it.” He paused and crossed his arms. Fixer tried to read Scorch’s face, hoping to spot if his brother was lying. “When I came back, the other two were gone. And I think your caf, too? I didn’t really pay attention, though. Grabbed my shampoo, and went back to the refreshers.” Scorch shrugged. “And when I came back, a certain brother of mine was sticking his head into my locker.”

Fixer wrote down Scorch’s version of events. So far, the alibi mostly made sense, if there hadn’t been one detail amiss. “So you came back to get shampoo?”

“Yep.”

“But when you returned, you didn’t bring your shampoo with you again. How so?”

Scorch blinked. “You do know how shampoo works, right? Or do I have to ask Boss to lecture you about personal hygiene? I used it up. The bottle was empty, so I tossed it.”

“Mhh,” Fixer said, wondering if it would be worth the effort to check the refreshers’ bin to confirm Scorch’s claim. They all got the same hygiene products standard issue, but somehow Scorch managed to smuggle in a different one ever since they left Kamino. He insisted that it made his hair shinier and his curls more manageable. Not that it mattered, anyway, Fixer thought, considering they were wearing their helmets most of the time. 

“You still think it was me?” Scorch asked.

“I won’t make a statement on an ongoing investigation.” To be honest, Fixer was not sure if at this point he should treat Scorch as a suspect, a witness, or maybe even make him an assistant in his quest to find the caf-thief. 

“Yeah. Right.” A pause. “This is fun to you. Admit it. You are not just reading about Cirok U’lms, or Madame Maar-P’ell, or Master Pra Unn, no, you can embody them. Pretend you are them. Or Count Pitor Veem-Zey. Or what’s the other one called? The one with the moustache? Ugh…”

Fixer blinked. He was both taken aback, flattered and impressed that Scorch knew all of his favourite fictional sleuths. “Erkil Poarro,” he said.  

“Yeah. Anyway. Mind if I join in with your little game of deduction? Be the Doctor Uhat Zon to your Cirok U’lms, your… uh… no idea how the others’ friends are called. But you get the gist.” It took Fixer a few moments to consider. Scorch had been his suspect, but he also had an alibi that seemed to work and - truth be told - doing this together did indeed sound fun. Maybe even a consolation for his wind-down-routine being disturbed. “Fine,” he finally relented. 

“Good.” Scorch grinned and got up. “Since you decided to take the liberty to look at my stuff, I don’t know why we should not give Boss and Sev the same courtesy.”

“But Boss is… well, Boss!” Fixer protested.

Scorch raised an eyebrow. “Scared of the Sarge, are you? Fine. You’ll look at Sev’s locker, I’ll do Boss’ - deal? So that way Boss is my problem if we get caught.”

Having a partner in - well, not crime - significantly sped up his progress. Nevertheless, going through their brother’s things didn’t yield any results. The mug was not there, and unfortunately, the only thing they learned was that Sev must have left fully armoured and with his weapons, while Boss left both the armour and the deece behind. 

Fixer, who had noted these things in his case file, wondered what his next step should be. He found himself somewhat distracted by watching Scorch, who was pacing intently back and forth with his hand placed ponderously at his chin. Fixer suppressed a small, fond smile at the sight. Scorch seemed to flourish in the role he had assigned himself.

“So, we are not getting any further here. Maybe, instead of looking for clues in here,” Scorch gestured through the room, “we should look for clues in there,” he said and stopped dead in his tracks, pointing at Fixer.

“What do you mean?”

“Figuring out a possible motive, di’kut. Why would one of them - or me, even, although we know it wasn’t me - go steal your mug? We all know what the thing means to you. You even said so earlier. So. Have you done anything that might make either of them want to get back at you?”

Fixer frowned. Scorch was making a good point here. Of course, there was banter between brothers, teasing, even. And they had occasionally nagged some things from each other, especially when they were younger. In a squad like theirs, what was your brother’s was yours and vice versa - within reason. And strictly speaking, they didn’t even have property in the first place, and all their belongings, just like they themselves, were owned by the Republic. But still. Whenever Boss or Sev - or Scorch, too, most of the time - had taken anything that was Fixer’s, they usually had a more or less good reason. So what could be the cause for one of them tking the mug?

“It wasn’t Boss. It’s - it doesn’t seem like him, does it? And Sev…” Fixer paused, “I mean, he was annoyed about me ‘stealing three of his kills’, as he put it, last mission. Does that count as a motive?”

Scorch grinned. “Oh yes, that very much counts. You know him. If he doesn’t get to shoot or stab enough things, he gets antsy. For him, it must be like you stealing his favourite thing away from him. And what happened to you? One of your favourite things got stolen away from you.” He stabbed the air with his finger, beaming. “Fixer, my man, I think Sev is trying to get back to you, and we have to find him!”

Fixer was still miffed about his afternoon plans having gone down the drain, but something about Scorch’s excitement was contagious. Yet, he tried to suppress that feeling. With a sigh, he noted down Sev’s motive on his datapad. He frowned. Where could Sev have gone? With his blaster and armour, he might have gone to a shooting range, but there were several ones at Arca barracks. Or he was out and about scaring either shinies or civvies. Fixer started typing on his datapad. “I will try and locate him by slicing into the system and locating his armour tally.” 

“Do that if you want, but I think I have a better idea. A faster one,” Scorch said. 

“Which is?”

“Buy’ce,” was all Scorch said, before, with one large step, he reached his locker, got out his helmet and shoved it on his head. “I’m just gonna link into his HUD, and I’ll see where he is… ah, look at that. Sev’ika is at the sniping range up on the roof. How very Sev of him.” 

Fixer couldn’t help but be impressed. Scorch had been fast. With all his focus on having to find Sev, he himself had forgotten about the easy, obvious solution of just utilising the link between the squad’s gear. How embarrassing. He would have to pull off something similarly shrewd to even the scores with Scorch.

It was odd that Sev hadn’t mentioned having a range slot today. Fixer pulled up the sniping range’s schedule with a few swift clicks on his datapad, and frowned. “Suspicious. You know what? He isn’t scheduled for the range today. Right now, one RC-1259, a man called ‘Mark’, Rho Squad, is scheduled to be there.” He frowned.

“Mark…,” Scorch echoed. “Never heard of that guy. Rho Squad, you say? Mark… Mark… Marksman…? I mean, it makes sense for him to be Rho’s sniper, and Sev might know him from specialised sniper training, but that doesn’t explain why Sev is up there and Mark… well, we don’t know if he is there, too. Anyway, the plot thickens, ner vod.”

Fixer nodded. He added a new column to the case file and titled it “Mark, Rho Squad”. He also filed this new information under Sev’s column. He smiled. Finally, they were making progress, and that made him very content. 

Scorch had no such issue with showing his joy more openly. With a wide grin, he flung an arm around Fixer’s shoulders. “What are we waiting for? Grab your gear, and let’s go pay Sev a visit!”

But on this mission, Delta Squad was, for once, not alone. “Scans indicate her hull is weakening, Delta Squad,” General Vos’ forward air controller informed them. “We’re coming in for a strafing run! Keep firing!”

Sev did as ordered. Having air support was nice, he figured. They could have finished the job without, though, if they had to. They were competent enough, and Sev knew that.

“Target acquired!” The FAC’s disembodied voice said. Sev kept firing the turbolaser at the ship, completely immersed in his cold, hard focus. “Target locked!” The FAC added. Soon, they’d get some nice fireworks. Scorch was gonna like that. Then finally: “Missiles away!”

An instant later, the flash-protection of Sev’s visor kicked in, but his helmet was nevertheless flooded by blinding light. They had done it. That separatist ship was gone. 

“Nothing like a little precision teamwork, Deltas,” he said.

He heard Scorch huff. “And that was nothing like ‘a little precision teamwork’.” His brother was right. It had been the opposite of precision, but effective nevertheless. In war, only results mattered, not how you got there. All that mattered was that they had gotten the job done, even if it was not the kind of covered ops they had been trained for.

He was about to climb off the turret control and reply with another dry remark when something hit his helmet, hard. His HUD glitched. Shab, what had snuck up on him? He tried to turn around in his seat to get a good look at the enemy, but the same object slammed into his head again. He had to cling to the controls of the turret to not fall. His HUD was stuttering, the lights dimmed. The next strike sent static across his vision. This time, he had gotten a glance at the object, though. An electro staff. Fierfek, he was dealing with another one of those shabla MagnaGuards. 

And then, as if that wasn’t bad enough on its own, the shooting started.

Judging by the direction and number of bolts, he was facing at least 4 opponents with blasters, in addition to the MagnaGuard. 

“... the chatter, commandos. … now, sir?” He barely heard Fixer’s voice, both because he had to focus on his situation and defence, but also because the comm kept cutting out. 

Boss’ reply was just as disrupted by static. “Awaiting… Forty!” So the issue was most likely on his end, no surprise given that his HUD was still acting up. The impact and current from the electro staff must have messed with his helmet’s electronics.

“Boss, I’ve got a problem here!” He said, hoping his transmission went through.

Sev finally managed to maneuver himself off the turret stand, at least, dodging both the MagnaGuard’s rapid strikes and the blaster fire coming from what he now could identify as six B2s, and opened fire in turn. He quickly analysed his position. Less than ideal. Other than the turret itself, the turbolaser viewport didn’t offer any cover, which was a real problem with seven hostiles targeting you. There was one lone exit, but that door was blocked by the B2s. He needed a plan, and he needed it quickly. Alone, he wouldn’t stand a chance, that much he knew.

Much to his relief, he heard Boss’ urgent reply on the comm cut through the noise of battle: “Where… you, Sev?” It was slightly interrupted by static. 

“Sector D. I’m facing multiple hostiles. Need reinforcements, sir!”

But there was no reply. The MagnaGuard was still chasing him around, and he couldn’t fully evade the blasterfire, either, but so far, the Katarn armour had protected him from the majority of the damage. To make things worse, the overall space was too confined for his sniper attachment to be of any use, and by using his deece’s grenade thrower, he wouldn’t just blow up the enemy, but himself, too.

“Boss? Do you copy?” Nothing. Kark. His HUD was fully down now. Sev was on his own. Cold dread twisted his guts, but he tried to ignore the sensation and to keep focus. 

Sev wondered if he should try to rappel down from the viewport’s edge, to… he chanced a quick glance downwards… to Force-knows-where, but not only would that bring him further away from his squad and the evac point, but the MagnaGuard would certainly cut him loose, and he’d fall to his death. Not an option. He would have to fight his way out.

He ejected an empty magazine and slammed another into his deece, his last one. 300 shots left. Just him, one clip, and seven enemies. A matter of life or death. Then again, was it ever not? He took a deep breath. Oya ! 

He charged at the B2s, firing to keep his path open, grabbed one of the battledroids, and shoved it into the MagnaGuard with all his might. It was heavy and sturdy, but adrenaline could work wonders when it came to strength. The two droids slammed into each other, sending them tumbling. 

Sev couldn’t see much - with his HUD down, the helmet heavily impaired his field of vision instead of amplifying it - but even with its built-in shields down as well, it offered too much protection to get rid of it. 

A blaster bolt smashed through Sev’s armour and pierced his shoulder. He gritted his teeth, trying to ignore the pain shooting through his arm, while ramming his vibroblade into one of the droids, trying to hit its sensitive wiring through its joints. He didn’t have to down all of his opponents, he just had to get through the kriffin’ door. Then, he could at least outrun the B2s.

But before he could finish off the B2 he was now clinging to, Sev was jerked back. The MagnaGuard had gotten up again and flung his electro staff around him, trapping him in prime position for being shot at. Sev wished desperately he still had an EMP left, but he didn’t. He struggled against the MagnaGuard’s grip, but the droid didn’t loosen it one bit. Instead, it slid its weapon even higher, choking Sev. He gasped for air.

Quickly, hoping to catch it off-guard, Sev switched from wrestling his opponent to letting himself go slack. He tried to let himself drop to the floor to escape the grapple, but the MagnaGuard went down with him. It twisted its body around itself in the sickening way only droids could, and landed on top of him, pinning him down. As he hit the floor, his HUD came back online for a fragment of a second.

“Boss?” He tried. Still radio silence, as he’d feared. 

His ankle, bent unnaturally under the droid’s weight, ached horribly. Sev knew he was running out of time. His heart was hammering against his armour plates like a war drum. Shab, he didn’t want to go out like this. In the past, he had looked down on troopers who feared death, or even cried for their Sarge in their final moments, but now he found his own thoughts returning to Vau, too. 

He did not want to die, and he did not want to let down Walon Vau. Vau had made him a better soldier than this. He just had to try hard enough, and he would live. Sev slammed his head into the droid on top of him, over and over again, while blaster bolts rained down around him. He managed to free one arm, slamming his vibroblade against the droid's plating until he found a weak spot to shove it into, trying to damage its sensitive circuits. The MagnaGuard rolled off of him and jumped back up on its feet with ease. So did Sev, though with difficulty, and under tremendous amounts of pain shooting up his leg. 

He tried to clear his thoughts. His squad was probably already on their way to get him. He just had to push through long enough. At this rate, he would last for about one more minute, maybe two. Then he’d not only be out of ammo, but probably also injured enough to not be able to fight back any longer. 

He swallowed. If the chances of dying were high anyway, he might as well do something drastic, something that might either help him by taking the enemy out, or kill him. A gamble, his life as the wager. He knew that Fixer and Boss would strongly advise him against his idea, and that Scorch would like his thinking, but that he would be scared to lose him. However,  they’d definitely lose him if he didn’t try.

He pictured their faces, one by one. “Sorry lads. I have to. We’ll see each other again,” he mumbled into his dead helmet. They would be here soon. They had to. He knew it.

Then, he switched to his deece’s grenade thrower attachment and aimed at the turret. He closed his eyes, held his breath, and pulled the trigger. Immediately, he went flying backwards. He could sense the heat of the explosion through his armour, and he felt himself slamming into a wall, and then to the ground. His ears were ringing, but other than that, he heard nothing. He could hardly breathe. But the pain in his legs was gone. A nice surprise.

He idly wondered if he was dead. But if he had died, why was his shoulder still hurting? He hadn’t ever believed in any sort of afterlife. If he was dead, he shouldn’t feel anything, he shouldn’t be at all. So, he tried opening his eyes, and when he did, he saw the inside of his helmet. Above him, he could only see dark smoke. No blaster bolts. Good. But why were there stars twinkling inside his helmet? 

He tried blinking them away, but nothing happened. Then, he realised that he still could not feel his legs, and the realisation sank in as to what that meant. No. That mustn’t be. Sev ran a quick mental catalogue: No pain, no sensation, and no movement either. Shab. Panic ran through his body like a cold flash. He coughed, tasting blood.. 

Trying to move his arms worked alright. He pushed off his helmet, gasping for air, hoping to see if the droids were gone. That there was no shooting anymore had been a good sign, but hopefully the droids weren’t just temporarily down. 

His field of vision was oddly narrow, and the stars still came flying in from his periphery. He turned his head. Half the platform was missing, the edges jagged and torn. He saw the lower half of the MagnaGuard on the floor close by. None of the B2s were still standing either, nor were they moving. At least something. He coughed again, the confusion and strain dousing any potential feeling of triumph. Where were his brothers? What was taking them so long? He knew he wouldn’t make it without immediate medical attention. And even more now that the enemies were down, he did not want to die, not here, not now, not like this. Not alone. 

He realised that he was tearing up, and embarrassment rushed in along with the tears. But he couldn’t stop it, and a violent sob shook through his body. His vision was narrowed to a tiny point now. He closed his useless eyes, fully aware that this was likely the last time he did so. Again, he pictured his brothers in his head, grasping at memories. Boss, Fixer, Scorch, all together, all younger, uninjured, not yet disillusioned by war. “I’m sorry,” he whispered hoarsely. “I didn’t mean to let you down. I … I love you, ner vode. Always have, always will.” Words he had never spoken aloud before, let alone to them. Another sob wracked his body as he realised that they’d never hear it. He felt something touch his arm. It was comforting. Was it one of his brothers? Had they finally come for him?

It took Sev all the remaining strength he had to force his eyes open again, and for a glimpse of a second, he saw a pair of very hairy feet right next to him. He felt like something was pulling him up. He didn’t know if that now, at last, was the sensation of dying. He didn’t care anymore. Not even for that did he have any strength left. And then, the world went dark. 

Just to be clear: In my mind, Sev makes it. I do have ideas about what happens after, who the Wookiee is that finds him, why Vau can't track him down, and why he doesn't show up again before the end of Imperial Commando, but I can't promise that I'll get around to writing that any time soon. Just be assured that this fic, while the end is ambiguous, is not meant to say that he's dead. I want him to live just as much as most of you do.

I tried to match the beginning of the fic as closely as possible to both the game and the book version of events, trying to find something that would make sense from the snippets we hear/read.

“All good here,” Sev heard Boss reply, “Oh-Seven, Four-Oh, status?”

“Four-Oh here. All good, Sarge. No injuries sustained. Standing by.” 

Sev was trying to get up, watching as the couch and several walls vanished into the floor. With every breath, there was a dull yet intense pain throbbing through his side. When he put weight on his right foot, his ankle screamed so loudly he had to clench his teeth. 

“Sev? Do you copy?” There was the faintest hint of worry in Boss’s voice. 

“Yeah. Sorry, Sarge. Green and ready. No issues, sir,” Sev said. 

He wasn’t alright. Not by a long shot. But his squad didn't need to know that, and Sergeant Vau even less so. Fixer came around the corner, and Sev tried to look as normal as possible. 

“All objectives achieved. Clean up. Debrief in ten. Move it, Deltas,” Vau's voice snapped through the comm. 

Sev's jaw tightened as he started moving, trying his kriffing hardest not to limp. He wouldn't give himself away. He mustn’t. 

Half an hour later, the Deltas were on their way to the mess hall. Sev’s side was still aching, and the pain in his ankle flared up with every step he took. 

“Clean op! Did you guys see that droid dispenser go boom?” Scorch gleefully asked. 

“Nice one. Just give us a warning next time before you blow up half the wall, yeah?” Boss said. 

Scorch rolled his eyes. “Will do, Sarge. It was totally worth it, though.” 

“Sergeant Vau seemed happy with our performance. We rank well above average,” Fixer pointed out. 

Fierfek. If they knew. If Vau knew how badly Sev screwed up, he wouldn’t be so pleased. Sev was only half listening to his squad’s chatter. He kept replaying the op in his mind, looking for the split-second he failed. 

He had been charging at an HK-series assassin droid, ancient yet lethal, aiming to disable it with his vibroblade. He had been alone in that room with the droid, dodging its blaster fire. Then, right before he had closed the distance to the droid, an explosion – probably Scorch’s droid dispenser – had shaken the arena. Sev could recall Scorch’s whoop over comm. The explosion had distracted him. 

That, and the adrenaline flooding his system had led to him misjudging his momentum and angle. His blade had found its target, alright, but he had slammed harder into the droid than he meant to, and they had both gone tumbling. He had tried to catch himself, but had tripped over the droid's legs. His ribs slammed into the edge of a crate. He also strained his ankle, which had still been caught under the droid when he fell. 

Sev had been lucky that his blade had taken it out, or he might not have survived the exercise. He hoped he had managed to make it look like a calculated take-down. Afterwards, he’d had the presence of mind to quickly overwrite the medical readout of his armour. The spoofed bio-readouts showed the baseline-values he was expected to have. He could live with the pain, but being seen as incompetent, weak – or, much worse, being decommissioned for falling short – was an entirely different story. 

“Hey! Kamino to Sev! Do you copy?” Scorch's voice cut through to Sev's consciousness, while he waved a hand in front of Sev’s face. 

Boss regarded Sev with a frown. “Lights are on but nobody’s home,” he mumbled. 

Sev blinked. “Sorry. I was mentally rerunning the op. Trying to improve. Did you say something?” 

“I asked you if you are down for a round or two of Sabacc tonight,” Scorch said. Ever since Skirata’s lot had introduced the game to commandos trained by other Sergeants, it had become a popular pastime. 

Sev paused. Act normal, he reminded himself. He had a hard time breathing regularly and not suspiciously flat. He equally struggled with not letting the pain show on his face. It took him a moment to mentally steady himself before replying. “I think I’m gonna hit my bunk after dinner.” He looked at Fixer. “How about you?”

 “Negative,” his brother replied. “Still working on that HUD mod.” 

Scorch groaned. “Naw, cards are no fun with only one vod.”

Boss shrugged. “We can always ask another squad. Upsilon maybe. Or Yayax.” 

They reached the door to the mess and were greeted by the ambience of hundreds of voices almost identical to theirs and the clacking of spoons meeting the food trays. They joined the queue for the serving counter. 

As soon as they got their food – some grey, tasteless, yet nutritious slime – they sat down and dug in. All exercises made them hungry, but, in Sev’s experience, the Killing House made him extra hungry. His squad was chatting again, but Sev didn't listen. He was too focused on keeping a straight face and not flinching with every breath. His brothers’ voices blended in with the background noise. 

Suddenly, he felt something touch his arm. It was Scorch, his hand on Sev’s sleeve. There was worry in his eyes. Boss and Fixer were looking at him, too, equally worried. 

Sev realised his fist was clutching onto the edge of his tray. For a moment, he stared down at his white knuckles before he managed to loosen his grip. 

“Wanna tell us how you are really doing? What really happened?” Boss asked. 

Sev tensed. “I have no idea what you are talking about, Sarge. I’m alright. Everything noteworthy was mentioned in debrief.” He suppressed a shrug because he knew it would hurt.

 “We're not fools,” Fixer said. “You might be able to fool our supervisors or even Vau, but we have known each other all our lives. We know when something is up.” 

Sev frowned, displeased that his facade was failing, yet unwilling to give in. “No, I'm just exhausted. That’s all.” 

Boss looked him up and down. “You’re hurt.” 

Sev felt his stomach tense and anger boil up inside him. He didn’t want to admit what happened. It was his business and his alone. And he would deal with it by himself. “ Fierfek , how many times do I have to repeat that I am alright before you guys believe me? I'm good. Not hurt. Okay?” 

Boss and Fixer exchanged a glance. 

Scorch hesitated. “Uh-hu. Sure. Not hurt,” he said, and with one smooth, deliberate motion, he gently pressed his elbow into Sev’s side, right where his ribs had met the crate. The pain flared up. 

Sev let out a long, sharp hiss. “Haar’chak!” he pressed out. 

“Language,” Fixer warned. 

Scorch's eyes widened in surprise, and he grimaced. “Kriff, I’m sorry! I didn’t think it was that bad!” 

“So,” Boss said, “now that we have established that you are indeed injured, care to share with us what happened?” 

“Don’t worry, we aren’t gonna rat you out to Vau or something,” Scorch added. 

Sev sighed. He still didn’t want to talk, and he absolutely didn’t want to admit what happened. But these were his brothers, and they had caught on. He knew that after Scorch’s little stunt, they wouldn’t just leave him be. The tooka was out of the bag now, and there was no point in denying it. 

“I went after a tinnie,” he explained, trying to play it cool, “tackled it a bit too hard. We both fell. I hit a crate and sprained my ankle. Still made a clean kill though.” He felt the blood rush to his cheeks as he admitted to what had happened. 

“And why didn’t you share that earlier?” Boss demanded to know. 

Sev lowered his eyes. He hated having to admit to his failure, even if it was only to his brothers. “Didn’t want Vau to notice. It was a rookie mistake, and I don’t wanna get the whole squad into trouble.” And I don’t wanna be decommissioned for failure, he added in thoughts, still stuck on that worry. A thought too frightening to voice aloud. 

“But you know that you can always tell us, right?” Scorch asked. 

“Just ‘cause I can, doesn’t mean I want to,” Sev mumbled. 

Boss frowned but didn’t say anything. 

“How did you know, anyway?” Sev demanded to know. 

Fixer raised one eyebrow. “Easy. Your movement is slightly off. When standing, you suddenly favour your left foot, and not the right one as usual. Also, your breath is a bit more pressed than it should be, and you are careful not to touch your left side with your arm. Overall, you are tense. And then, there is your face. Shall I carry on?” 

Sev glared at him. He hadn't thought he was being that obvious. “My face? What's that supposed to mean?” 

“Even more grim than usual,” Scorch said, mouth full. “Kinda like this,” he added, scrunching up his face into a caricature of anger. 

“We will get you some bacta patches,” Boss said. “I know you won't want this to go on record, but there are ways to get them off the books.” He paused. “And before you protest, try to see it like this: we need you at full health ASAP if we don't wanna blow our next drills and negatively impact the whole squad’s performance.”

 Sev hated to admit it, but Boss was right. He nodded. Then he frowned. Fixer had started shovelling some of his own nutri-slime onto Sev’s tray. 

“What exactly do you think you are doing?” Sev asked. 

Fixer shrugged. “If you’re gonna heal quickly, you'll need more nutrition than usual. So I thought I’d share.” 

Sev pressed his lips together. The concern of his brothers was moving, yet he hated that there was a reason for it in the first place. 

Boss, too, started loading some of his own food onto Sev’s plate now. 

Scorch, who had been watching Fixer and Boss for a moment, smiled at Sev and started rummaging around in his pockets. “Oh, you know what, Sev? I think you need this more than I do.” He pulled out a wrapped candy bar, clearly not military standard issue. The wrapper said that the chokolate bar contained candied nuts. 

“Where did you get that?” Sev asked, eyeing the candy bar. 

“Oh, I won it in a bet with one of Skirata’s boys a couple of months ago. Theta’s demolitions guy. You know how Skirata spoils his batch.” Scorch waved around his hand. “Anyway, I saved it for bad times. For when I need it. But now, I want you to have it. And also eat it, that is. Because you do need it. Both for the energy and the cheering up.” 

Sev looked at the candy bar, and then hesitantly took it. He was worried Scorch might try to force-feed him if he didn’t accept the gift. 

Scorch smiled, warm and familiar. “Now eat up and let us nurse you back to health. We are a squad, after all. Brothers. We belong together. And,  like it or not, nobody gets left behind in this squad.” 

It felt like the knot that had kept Sev’s stomach in a chokehold ever since they left the Killing House loosened as he looked at his brothers’ faces. He unwrapped the candy bar slowly. That small act of acceptance, not only of the treat but of his brothers’ care, was harder for him than taking out half a dozen battle droids. He didn’t feel like he deserved it. 

“You know,” he said, examining the brown surface of the bar, “I could have pushed through the pain. I will push through it.” 

Boss nodded. Sev knew he understood. In their world, pain was temporary, but failure was permanent. All commandos knew that, or at least, those training under Sergeant Vau did.

“Next time,” Boss said, his voice firm but gentle, “you tell us right away. That’s an order.” 

Sev’s eyes met Boss’s, and he gave him a slight nod. “Copy that, Sarge.” 

He finally took a bite off the candy bar. The flavour that spread in his mouth was sweeter than anything he had ever tasted in the Tipoca military canteen, a firework of different spices. He paused to take in the intensity and complexity of the flavour. 

Just like the flavour of the special treat spreading across his tongue, he felt a rare feeling spreading through his chest: the sense that maybe, just maybe, weakness shared among brothers wasn’t really weakness at all. And also the unshaken knowledge that his brothers would always have his back, no matter what. 

As Scorch had said: in Delta Squad, nobody was ever going to be left behind.