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Chapter Text

Payment

“Welcome to Tipoca City.” 

Fett stopped just at the edge of the cone of light cutting through the ever-raging storm’s darkness, ignoring the rain spitting and hissing against his armor. Settled just a step outside of the entrance, sheltered from the rain by an awning and a cloak, Tyranus met the bounty hunter’s eyes through the darkness and his helmet’s T-shaped visor, setting his hackles up. The man might be paying him, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t creep the crag out of Fett. 

“I am pleased to see that you could make it.” Tyrannus looked it, too. 

Fett let his eyes briefly sweep over the barely illuminated landing pad carrying Slave I, and past the visible edge of the dome that made up Kamino’s capital city, jarringly white against the driving greys of the storm. 

“The weather’s for shit.”  

Tyranus’ lips curled into a smile. “Adequately put. But I can assure you, Kamino boasts other traits that more than make up for its meteorological shortcomings.”  

Fett shrugged, a barely visible roll of muscles under the thick armor-plating. One finger impatiently tapped against the butt of his WESTAR-34 blaster pistol. “If you say so. It’s not like I’m here to take in the sights.” 

“Indeed. Then shall we proceed?” Tyranus turned towards the doors and the brightening lights, one slender-fingered hand cutting through the driving rain in a courtly gesture that was somehow not an invitation, but a command. 

Fett took a moment to weigh that gesture and the attitude that went along with it, as if commanding one's loyal akk dog to heel. He swallowed down the momentary bitter taste of chains and disappointment, reminding himself that his services were already bought and paid for, and followed in Tyrannus’ wake. 

Once inside, the storm cut out as if someone had hit a mute button. Fett actually had to wait for the filters in his HUD to activate and scrub out the intense white light that broke over them as they entered Tipoca. That's when he got his first good look at the natives. 

Tall and so spindly, Fett doubted they could even lift a blaster, let alone bear the weight of armor, the Kaminoans were as unimpressive as the planet itself. He still kept his hand close to his WESTAR. There were two of them, after all and looks could be deceiving. The Rek also looked like nothing more than tall reeds in the wind, but most of them did just fine as bounty hunters. And while Tyranus might be paying him, credits didn’t equate loyalty. A quick sweep with his helmet’s sensor showed security cams along the slight curve of the long hallway, but no other living beings within easy striking distance. Fett decided he would reserve judgement for now, but he never let his guard down. 

One of the Kaminoans, dressed in long, flowing robes of black and grey and with a tall fin-like crest atop its head, approached the two men.

"Welcome." The Kaminoan said, and although the voice was deceivingly gentle and melodic, Fett identified the speaker as male. "I am Lama Su, Prime Minister of Kamino." The Kaminoan gracefully inclined his head towards the visitors, then gestured to the second Kaminoan, standing a respectful distance away. "And this is my administrative aide, Taun We."

The second Kaminoan also gave a graceful inclination of the head, which created a gentle tinkling sound from the two strands of beads hung from the headband encircling the Kaminoan's white-skinned crown. Even before she spoke, Fett decided Taun We was female. Though the race in itself could only barely be considered humanoid, there was something about the shape of the eyes and the fine-boned face that bespoke of femininity. And of course, only a female could contrive to find a way to bedeck herself in jewelry when lacking either hair, protruding ears or noses.

"It is very pleasant to make your acquaintance." Taun We's voice was higher than Lama Su's, more fluting, with a not unpleasant timbre. "As I have also been made the Project Coordinator for the creation of this clone army, I look forward to our close cooperation." Though her lips did not in fact lift in a smile, there was some kind of facial contraction that seemed to suggest a smile to Fett. But more than anything, he was disconcerted by the Kaminoans black eyes, with their grey irises. He didn't like the way they regarded him.

His employer removed his rain-soaked hood to reveal an aged face with white hair and a full beard and eyes as cool as those of Lama Su and Taun We.

Tyranus gave them both a patrician nod of acknowledgement. "I too am happy to finally make your acquaintance. Master Sifo-Dyas-" and here Tyranus paused, an odd light in the old man's eyes. "Has told me much."

"Will Master Sifo-Dyas be joining us?" asked Lama Su, all politeness.

Tyranus bowed his head momentarily, a shadow passing over his face, before he answered in even tones. "I am afraid that Master Sifo-Dyas will, in fact, not be joining us. I expect he will be-" again that slightest of hesitations. "Rather absent in the future. I hope this does not pose a problem?"

"Not at all," said Lama Su in soothing tones. "The project has already been paid for in full. All that is required is the genetic template and production of the requested units can begin." For the first time, the Prime Minister turned his full, unblinking attention on Fett.

"Am I to assume that this is to be the template for your army?"

Fett bristled at the dismissive words and placed one hand with exaggerated care on the butt of his sidearm, making sure the movement was noticed and followed by the Kaminoan. "The name's Fett. Jango Fett. And you'd better remember that for the future, fishmeal."

Lama Su's head swayed backwards on its long, spindly neck, almost as if caught by a sudden gust of wind. Fett had the satisfaction of seeing those dark eyes widen a mere fraction in surprise and fear.

Before the situation could escalate, Tyranus stepped smoothly in-between the two; placing one firm hand onto Fett's armored shoulder. "Calm yourself, Jango. I'm sure our friend, the Prime Minister, meant no insult."

Fett pulled his shoulder away from the older Human's hand, but he did take his own hand away from the blaster. Too much temptation. He turned away slightly from Tyranus and the two Kaminoans, scanning the gleaming white hallway. He wasn't sure he liked Tyranus calling him by his first name either, but he figured with the amount of credits the man was paying him, he was entitled to some liberties. A few, very minor ones at least.

Taun We stepped forwards slightly, making an elegant sweeping gesture with one pale hand. "Would you like to see our production facility?" And just like that, the minor faux pas had been rectified. The customer was once more appeased.

Fett didn't say much during the tour. Mostly he listened, cataloguing information for future references, creating a mental and holographic map of Tipoca City. From what he had gathered from the earlier medical jargon, his presence would be required for as long as production was to be undertaken. A simple blood donation now wasn't going to cut it. He hadn't understood all of the technical babble, but he had made a recording of the lecture and would research any relevant terms he was unfamiliar with later on. The point was he would be staying in Tipoca City for an extended period of time, not just to train this new army, but to play pincushion for the Kaminoan geneticists on a regular basis. Just karking lovely.

They stopped in one of the corridors overlooking a hall big enough to park two star cruisers. The space was filled with dark towers that sported a spiraling array of glass bulbs. Freak trees for a freak harvest, he thought cynically.

"And these," Lama Su was saying, making another one of those elegant Kaminoan hand gestures. "Are the maturation vats. This is where individual units of the regular clone soldiers will be interned until they have reached a physical growth conducive to the training regime. The vats are empty now, of course. But once our geneticists have isolated the required traits in the genome and have perfected the genetic formula for the clones, mass production will begin."

Tyranus gave a sharp, satisfied nod. "Most impressive."

That it is, Fett thought and tried to imagine these thousands of cold, sterile glass tubes filled with tiny bodies. Bodies that would eventually look just like him. There'll be a whole army of little Fetts running around the place. 

The thought was disconcerting in its connection to other, more homely, ideals. Fett shifted momentarily from foot to foot, glad that his helmet hid his features. His errant thought had brought up memories of Jaster Mereel, his adoptive father, and of Rozatta. Both dead now, both with their own ideas of what he should be doing with his life.

" The strength of the Mandalorian is not solely the beskar'gam. It is the family that stands by his side and watches his back. You should start thinking about that Jango. No man can stand alone." 

Jaster had believed that, just as Roz had believed it. Believed it to her dying breath.

" Meet a nice girl, settle down, have a kid…Just find something…something to live for besides the money. You deserve more." 

Fett shivered in his armor, though the suit had environmental controls and was programmed to the maximum level of comfort for a Human. Ghosts. In this place of sterile air, white walls and gleaming lights he found himself surrounded by ghosts. And he was too old for ghosts. Or maybe, he thought, I'm too old to not concern myself with ghosts. Fett closed his eyes momentarily, trying to banish the voices of the dead. It had to be Rozatta's recent death that was bringing all this up, because he hadn't consciously thought about Jaster in quite a while. But he and Roz would have gotten along quite well. They had both been firm believers in the virtues of family. He supposed that was why they had both been so willing to take an interest in a stray dog like him.

With his HUD's 360-degree vision, Fett observed Tyranus talking to the Kaminoans, going over specifics in the clones' required genetic parameters. He wondered if Tyranus had any family waiting for him. Did he have a permanent home, where he could rest those old bones of his? Or was he like Fett, with nothing more permanent to his name than an old ship given to him by a man long since in his grave? The thought was not a pleasant one and Fett found himself envisioning his own future, old and grey, still living on the Jaster's Legacy, with nothing but space to keep him company. He had never really considered what he would do with himself, once he had amassed enough credits to live comfortably.

And this job was paying enough to make the prospect of retirement a very close thing. And what then? 

"Well, Jango?" Tyranus' voice broke through the bounty hunter's reverie. "What do you think? Do we have a contract?" And the old man was looking at him expectantly.

Fett looked from him to the two Kaminoans standing behind Tyranus, then to the wide expanse of gleaming glass and sterility behind the transparisteel. If he took this contract, then there would be a whole army of men with his face wandering the galaxy. And he would help ensure that they were the excellent soldiers he himself was; pass along the training Jaster had given him.

But it's not the same, he thought. It's not what Jaster and Roz meant. 

He thought of Roz looking down at him, the Toydarian's wings beating frantically as she argued with him about his ship – again. "You ever think maybe you hang on to that ship – those memories – because you're looking for someone to take under your own wing?" 

Fett could see his helmeted face reflected in the transparisteel of the corridor; the helmet superimposed over the images of the vats that would soon house thousands of his clones.

"Yeah," he said slowly, watching Tyranus carefully. "Yeah, we got a contract. But on one condition."

He watched as Tyranus' face tightened in momentary anger, before smoothing into an aristocrat's aloof mask. "And what condition would that be? Not more credits, certainly. You are already being paid more than handsomely for this task."

"No, no credits," he told Tyranus. "I want something else." Something more valuable than credits, he thought, but did not say.

"I want a clone. An unaltered clone," he amended, remembering the details they had discussed earlier.

Tyranus lifted one white eyebrow in surprise. "Whatever for?"

"That's my business," Fett said and his tone warned of any further inquiry. "I get my clone along with the credits and I'll give you the best army creds can buy. That's the deal. Take it or leave it."

Tyranus looked towards the two Kaminoans, who had been watching the conversation in polite silence. "Would this pose a problem for you and your production schedule."

"Not at all," Lama Su said. "Pure cloning is a simple matter and easily done. It would not affect our production of the other units."

Tyranus gave a sharp nod, then turned back towards Fett. "Very well. You will have your money. And your clone."

No, Fett thought. I will have my son. And he would do exactly what Roz had suggested. He would take the boy under his wing, just like Jaster had done for him and he would teach him everything he knew. And he would make sure that his life did not include starvation and life as a slave, nor the bitter betrayal of comrades. The boy, his son, would walk proudly through this galaxy and carry on and improve upon his legacy.

Following the Kaminoans and Tyranus through the white sterility of Tipoca, Fett felt something within him settle. He had been alone for a very long time. It was time he finally had a family once more.

Chapter Text

Author's Note: This OneShot takes place during Season 3, episode 13, "Monster".

Weak

Feral told himself that running from the fight like an anooba with his tail tucked between his legs was for the best. He was doing it for Savage. Without him to worry about, his brother would no doubt succeed and win the favor of the Nightsister. He would become her servant, yes. But he would live and sooner or later return to the village and his clan. That was the way of Dathomir and the cycle under which the Nightbrothers lived. A Nightsister would come and choose a mate, a champion, and when she was done, the chosen one would return to nurse his injuries and regain his strength. And Savage was strong enough to endure. 

But the truth was that Feral was afraid. He abandoned his brother not because he believed in Savage's superior skills and strength, but because he was afraid to be drawn into the fight once more. And because he was afraid to see his brother fail.

It was this hidden knowledge, this truth that brought such shame to him, that made it hard for Feral to look Savage in the eye, when his brother was preparing to leave with the witch. His body still ached, his ribs were still broken and he needed the aid of his fellow Nightbrothers to stand, but even so, Feral sought the strength to look into his brother's eyes. Savage was leaving to become a servant to the witch, because he had sold his life in order to save his brother. It was a noble thing to do, a good thing, exactly the kind of thing Savage would do for Feral, but still….Feral wondered if he would see blame, or anger in his brother's eyes. Would he see that final acknowledgement, the confirmation that yes, he was weak, though a beloved brother?

When their eyes did meet, Feral tried to tell Savage all the things he had no time to say during the Selection. He tried to express his gratitude to his brother, for saving his life; his sorrow to see him go; his guilt for leaving him; his shame for being weak. He wanted to say so much more, but could not. Not in front of the witch. Such open displays of emotion, of weakness, would get him killed. And the fact that he did not dare to tell his brother out loud what he felt was additional proof of his weakness, his cowardice.

He managed to free himself from the supporting arms of the other Nightbrothers, taking shaky steps towards Savage's retreating form. He watched as his brother got onto the witch's speeder bike and cast one last glance at the Nightbrother's village and at Feral. At that moment, Feral wished that, more than anything, he had the strength to run after his brother and pull him off of that bike. He wished he had the courage to take Savage's place, to sacrifice himself as bravely as Savage had done.

Though still disturbed by the arrival of the Nightsister and the Selection, life in the Nightbrother village had to go on. These selection processes happened periodically, were a part of their existence and so most of the Dathomir men went about their ordinary business once more, soon after the witch and Savage had passed out of sight. Their brother would return or he would not. One way or the other, his fate was out of their hands.

Feral stood in the empty square and still looked after his brother, even though Savage had long since vanished in the wilderness of Dathomir. He felt a hand on his shoulder and winced at the pain shooting through his body.

"You need medical attention, Feral," Brother Viscus told him, his voice even though his eyes were kind. Brother Viscus understood. Feral was, after all, not the first man to have lost a brother. The Selection took its toll.

Feral tried to straighten, tried to be the stoic warrior. "I'll be-" His attempt at brave denial was cut short by a cry of pain, as his body protested the idea of standing straight and tall.

Viscus slipped one arm around Feral's torso, holding up the younger Zabrak man. "You will be fine," he told Feral sternly. "Once you've had some rest." With the expertise born of practice, Viscus changed their positions and took most of Feral's weight unto his shoulders, supporting himself in turn on his staff. It was slow going for the old Zabrak and the wounded Feral, but haltingly, they made their way towards Feral's rooms.

Brother Viscus carefully lowered Feral onto the low bed, trying not to further jostle the younger Zabrak's broken ribs. Despite the man's careful handling, Feral gave a low, pained groan as his body came into contact with the thin mattress.

"I'll organize some medical supplies," Viscus told him. "I'll also send someone to tend to those ribs."

Feral gripped Viscus' wrist in gratitude. "Thank you, brother." Viscus was not the brother to whom Feral had originally intended to say those words to, but it felt good to say them at all. As if, through the simple act of articulation, Savage would hear them, wherever he was now.

Viscus gave a nod, as if he understood perfectly Feral's intended meaning. Perhaps he did. The head of their village had many seasons to his name and had seen many a Selection take place.

Feral didn't watch Viscus leave. He merely closed his eyes and pressed his cheek into the cool sheets. His body was nothing more than a single pained throb, echoing the pain in his heart, but the light falling through the window onto his face felt good. So did the slight breeze. He tried to adjust his breathing so as to spare himself further pain from his ribs. The Selection had taken its pound of flesh, in so many ways, and he soon fell into a light doze.

What woke him was the sudden peal of a bell. Feral jerked into wakefulness, his entire body on alert. That bell only rang when a Nightsister entered their village. But surely there could not be another Selection so soon. Feral glanced at the window and gauged the angle of the light. The witch had left with Savage not even an hour ago. Selections might occur at any moment, but generally they were months apart. The Nightsisters only came when absolutely necessary.

He tried to get up, then gasped in shocked pain. His body collapsed back onto the bed and Feral had to bite his lip to keep another groan at bay. He might have survived the Selection, but at this point, he felt almost as savaged as those who had died.

Reduced to relying on his ears alone, Feral strained to listen to what was happening outside. There was a commotion in the square, he was sure of that. There were voices, though they were too far away for Feral to make out the words. But he thought he detected a female voice. Unconsciously, Feral's muscles tensed at the sound and he waited with bated breath to hear more.

The voices became lower, then stopped. Feral waited a few seconds, but there were no more words from outside. When he heard the sound of the door to his rooms opening and the creak of the floorboards, he assumed that one of the Nightbrothers had come to check on him. Perhaps they would bring the medicine Viscus had promised.

He turned towards the approaching footsteps, words already forming on his lips. "Vrath? Tormen? Is that you? What's going…" The words stuck in his throat when he saw who was standing in the entrance to his bedchamber.

The two Nightsisters surveyed him coolly, their faces mostly hidden by their hoods, the white of their skin gleaming against the red of their clothes. He tried to rise from his bed, managed to swing his feet over the edge and pull himself into an undignified sitting heap. His body screamed in protest, but he kept his pain silent and his eyes cast down.

"Sisters," he greeted them. "How," he licked his lips in nervousness. "How can I be of service to you?"

"You will come with us," the one on the left said, her voice containing an eerie echo the other Nightsister, the one who had taken Savage, had lacked.

"Immediately," added the second Nightsister.

Feral looked from one to the other, wondering if he should ask what this was about. He decided against it. These two looked to be even less capable of compassion and patience then the witch of the Selection.

He struggled to his feet, feeling sweat bead on his forehead and run down his neck. He struggled towards them, his steps faltering and slow.

The Nightsister on the right gave a hiss of impatience. "Pathetic," she said and stepped towards him. In one smooth motion, her fist came up and planted itself into his stomach. Feral collapsed as the breath was knocked out of him. He tried to get one arm up in an instinctive act of defence, but it was already too late. The Nightsister had come about and all Feral saw was the bottom of her boot before it connected solidly with his temple.

In the few seconds in which consciousness remained, Feral wondered if this meant that Savage's sacrifice had been in vain?

A swift kick to his already broken ribs woke Feral. Gasping, holding his ribs while trying to shield himself from further attacks, Feral tried to take in his surroundings. It was dark, the illumination intermittent and strangely green, but he saw that he was in a large courtyard. With a sickening feeling in his gut, he realized that he was in the hidden city of the Nightsister Clan. Two pairs of red-clad legs closed in on him and he looked up. The witches who had taken him from the village stood before him. One had her hands on her hips, the other's arms were crossed in front of her chest, but both wore the same look of cool disdain on their pale faces.

Silently, they stepped forwards and grabbed him by his arms, pulling him roughly to his feet. He was surprised by their strength and dismayed by his own weak state. His knees buckled almost immediately. There was an angry exhale of air from one of the Nightsisters and Feral found himself being dragged forwards, sometimes contriving to remain on his feet long enough to achieve a few clumsy steps.

"Where…where are you taking me?" he asked. The air in the Nightsisters' village felt oppressive, heavy, as if constantly filled with fog.

"To Mother Talzin," answered the Nightsister on his left.

"For the final test," said the other.

"Test?" Feral whispered. What test could they possibly mean? The only tests he knew were the ones you underwent during Selection. But Selection was over, wasn't it?

"Will my brother….will Savage be there?"

"Yes," said the left Nightsister and Feral shivered at the sudden sweetness of her tone. They entered one of the buildings, came into a long and dark passageway at the end of which more of the strange green light glowed. There was chanting as well and something in the air that made his skin prickle. He suddenly felt very cold.

He was too weak to even try to fight this time. But perhaps, if the Nightsister had spoken true and his brother really was there, somewhere amidst the light, then perhaps he would survive. After all, Savage was strong enough for the both of them. His brother would not let anything happen to him. He had promised.

Chapter Text

Author's Note: This OneShot takes place after Season 4, episode 10, "Carnage of Krell".

Loss

Boil stood in front of the General's door, raised one gauntleted fist to knock, then hesitated. Stop being such a baby, he thought angrily. There are no regs against this. Just think of the alternative and get it over with. 

He did think of the alternative, which was to go back to his bunk and try to keep his grief at bay for the sake of the others and that made him raise his fist again and this time he did knock on the durasteel door. Respectfully, gently, but resolutely nonetheless.

"Enter," came the weary reply and the door slid back before Boil could activate the panel. It was always a bit eerie, seeing this display of the Force. The little things were often far more disturbing than the big demonstrations. As a trooper, you expected the big things, like crushing droids or pushing them away with nothing more than your thoughts. That at least, they had been prepared for on Kamino. The little things, like opening the door with a casual wave of the hand were somehow more…unnerving.

Swallowing his unease, Boil stepped into General Kenobi's cabin, giving the Jedi a crisp salute. From his position seated at his desk, General Kenobi gave him a tired smile and a small, dismissive wave of the hand.

"Please, at ease, Boil. I don't think I am up for formalities at the moment."

"Yes, sir," Boil replied and eased into a less formal stance; back still straight, but his hands behind his back, his helmet already clipped to his belt. He regarded General Kenobi for a moment and thought the man looked about as weary as he felt. There were dark rings under his eyes, a sure sign the man was not getting enough sleep and Boil could sympathize. He hadn't been sleeping much these past three days either.

"What can I help you with, trooper?" Kenobi asked, his voice tired, but congenial.

Boil looked down at the tips of his armored boots for a moment, gathering his thoughts and determination, before looking his general square in the eyes.

"Sir, I have a request to ask of you. Well, more of a favor actually."

Kenobi raised an eyebrow, but inclined his head in encouragement. "Please, go on. I think after saving my life on Geonosis, you have more than earned the right to ask for a favor, though I can't guarantee I'll be able to deliver." He smiled, but Boil found himself going rigid at the reminder of Geonosis. It had been a tough fight and they had lost so many troopers. But we came out of it alive, he thought and felt the immediate, rising bitterness of the realization that this time, they hadn't come out of it alive. Waxer was dead, killed in the eternal darkness of Umbara and Boil had to close his eyes against the threatening tide of his renewed grief. He'd thought he'd had himself under control when he had made his way here, but now he found, much to his horror, that he was very close to bursting into tears in front of his general.

Kenobi must have sensed at least some of his distress, because the Jedi was suddenly standing before him, a comforting hand placed on his shoulder.

"I'm sorry, Boil. That was thoughtless of me."

Boil fought the instinctive reaction of going rigid at the Jedi's touch, trying to concentrate on Kenobi's words and earnest voice, rather than the reminder that it had been a Jedi who had caused Waxer's death. And not even by his own hand, no. Krell had used the 501st to orchestrate a confrontation with Waxer's own men from the 212th. Both patrols operating under the Jedi's faulty information had led to a bloody massacre; brother killing brother and Waxer had just been another tragic casualty. All because of the scheming of a disenfranchised Jedi.

But not all Jedi are like that. Kenobi's not like that. 

He bit his lip and looked up into the General's eyes, brown meeting blue, and Boil saw kindness there, worry and compassion. Kenobi was devastated when he heard, Boil thought and remembered his general's stricken expression when he was informed of the massacre, of Krell's betrayal. He had never seen a man so utterly crushed as Kenobi had been in that moment. As with the weariness before, it had perfectly reflected Boil's own emotional turmoil.

"Thank you, General," he finally managed to say.

"Would you like to take a seat?" And Kenobi gestured to one of the unoccupied chairs in the cabin; the gesture inviting and an honest attempt to put him at ease.

But Boil shook his head. He needed to get this over with, because he feared that if he didn't now, he never would. And he wanted to leave, soon. It seemed he wasn't quite done with crying yet.

"Thank you, General," he repeated. "But I don't want to take up too much of your time."

Kenobi, sensing Boil's attempt to steer the conversation onto more formal – and thereby more familiar – grounds, nodded in acceptance.

"Of course," he said and reclaimed his former seat. "You wanted to ask me about a favor?"

Grateful for the General accommodating his mood, Boil stood a bit straighter.

"Yes, sir. I heard that you were sending some supply ships to Ryloth, with a contingent of the 212th."

Kenobi nodded his head. "Yes, I am. Senator Orn Free Taa has petitioned the Senate for more medical supplies and food to be shipped to Ryloth. I fear that despite our best efforts during the battle, the Twi'leks are still suffering from a Separatist blockade."

Boil found his hand straying to his helmet, the thumb of his gauntleted hand rubbing over the small drawing there.

"With your permission, General, I would like to volunteer for that mission."

That startled the Jedi. He tilted his head to the side, regarding Boil with tired, but intelligent, blue eyes. "May I ask, why?"

Boil weighed his words carefully, before he answered. "I…I would like some time away from the 212th, General. From Umbara." It was not a lie. He did truly want to get away from this planet, where there was never any hope of light. For the first time in his life, Boil wanted to run away; run from his brother's unmarked grave, run from his failure to keep Waxer alive. But it wasn't his only reason. He had business on Ryloth, but he wasn't sure if he could tell Kenobi that. The General was a kind man and Boil thought he would probably understand, but this…this was private.

Kenobi closed his own eyes for a moment, mirroring Boil's earlier actions. His face became grave, the lines on his skin seeming more prominent now than they had before.

"Yes, of course. I perfectly understand. You have my permission, trooper. The supply ships leave at 0600."

Boil snapped a salute, though the man had yet to open his eyes again.

"Thank you, General Kenobi." And he had never meant the words more.

They had won the battle on Ryloth, retaking much of the planet's surface from Separatist occupation, but that did not mean that Ryloth was a secure world. There was still heavy fighting on the surface and a Separatist blockade around the planet made the bringing in of supplies and fresh troops a difficult task.

So Boil was not worried when the blockade-runner he had been stationed on came under Seppie fire. Beneath his helmet he gritted his teeth and kept a tight grip on the controls of the laser cannon he was operating. He might have been a trained ARF, specializing in scouting and recon, but he had had experience with the AT-RT and the ship's crew had been happy enough to entrust him with one of the turrets.

It was good to be back in combat; to not have to think, but simply act. When taking aim at vulture droids and other enemy fighters, he didn't have to think about Umbara and Waxer, or about Ryloth.

But when he caught his first glimpse of the planet, memories overwhelmed him and he was just as glad when the ship ran the blockade and the fighting stopped, as he had been when it had begun.

He stayed at his post until they landed, but he was no longer looking for droids. A clear violation against the regs, but he didn't care. Waxer would have laughed at the idea of anything keeping Boil from his 'by-the-book' point of view, but at this moment, Boil had more important things to consider. He studied a readout in his HUD, words in an unfamiliar language and did his best to memorize them.

It took a few days, but he finally managed to find where Numa had gone off to, after he, Waxer and the 212th had left Ryloth. She and her uncle, Nilim Bril, had been evaced out of Nabat when the city had been turned into a rebel stronghold. With the fighting still going on, most of the civilians had been relocated to a more secured location. Boil was glad for that. Having walked the familiar streets, retracing his and Waxer's steps from that long-ago mission, he couldn't help but notice that the city looked even more desolate than it had before. There were more people here now; hard-eyed Twi'lek freedom fighters, but the walls of houses sported even more blaster marks than before and there were several missile craters in the streets that he had not had to circumnavigate when he had first come to Nabat. The city was now very much a garrison and more so than ever, not a place for children. Waxer would have thought the same. He hadn't liked the idea of Numa roaming the abandoned town before, either.

It had taken some convincing on his part to get the captain in charge of the supply distribution to assign him to the convoy heading in the direction of Numa's camp. It had taken even more arguing and a few promises to take on extra shifts, to receive permission to leave the convoy for a few hours and take a detour to the camp. Judging by the skeptical look the captain had given him, the man probably thought Boil was out to visit some Twi'lek woman he had met here during the previous campaign. Boil didn't disabuse him of the notion. It was close enough to the truth to serve his purpose, though the intent could not have been further off the mark.

It took another two days to reach the camp, but seeing it, Boil felt slightly better. The camp was made mostly of canvas tents and a few lean-to huts made of salvaged scrap. But he could see sturdier buildings towards the centre, recognized the GAR markings and identified the buildings as a mess and infirmary. So the Twi'leks here were at least receiving proper care and food.

And there were children. Following the directions he had been given to the campsite assigned to one Nilim Bril, Boil came across a whole gaggle of them. They were laughing and squealing in delight, chasing each other in some game with rules only children would be able to discern. He watched them for a while, drinking in the sound of their laughter. It was balm to his soul. Waxer would have loved this, he thought and found the reminder of his brother did not hurt quite as badly as it had done back on Umbara. There was pain, but this was a good pain, a healing pain. Coming to Ryloth had been a good idea.

There was a sudden commotion within the group of children and one little teal body detached itself from the wildly colored mass and sprinted towards him with cries of: " Nerra ! Nerra !"

Smiling, Boil went down on one knee and held open his arms, just in time for Numa to launch herself at him. Returning her tight hug, he was careful not to press her too firmly against the hard shell of his armor. Boil was pleased to note that the child felt much more substantial now, then she had the first time she had hugged him. Pressing his hand against her back, he felt that the bones of her shoulders and collarbone no longer protruded quite so prominently beneath her skin. Her dress no longer hung limply on her frame and the garment was new, no longer a filthy yellow, but a bright red and warm brown. Secondhand, judging from the few patches he could make out, but no longer covered in the dust and dirt of days of hiding in the tunnels beneath Nabat.

She disentangled herself from him, chattering at him in her bright, high voice. He couldn't understand much of it, but he smiled nonetheless. She even held out her prized tooka doll for his inspection and he made a show of looking it firmly up and down, as if he were a drill sergeant performing an inspection on a new recruit. He felt silly doing so, but Numa giggled at the overly serious look on his face and that made it easier.

Then Numa's chatter abruptly ceased and she ducked her head to look past him, her brown eyes bright and eager, her short lekku twitching in anticipation. She was clutching her tooka doll tightly to her thin chest, bouncing a little on her feet in her eagerness to catch sight of Waxer. Boil felt his heart sink, because he knew what she would ask next.

Still smiling brightly, but a little puzzled, Numa voiced another string of words in Ryl. He understood little more than " nerra Waxer", but it was enough. Taking a deep breath, Boil managed to explain to Numa that Waxer would not be coming and that he would explain why later. He added hand gestures to his pidgin Ryl, but judging by the dimming joy on the little Twi'lek's face, he was getting his point across. He found his throat tightening up at the look in Numa's brown eyes, the disappointment and worry. Not here, he reminded himself sternly. Not out in the open. Later. 

A casual suggestion that she show him her new residence brought some of the exultation back to her face and she grasped his hand, pulling him towards the northeastern direction of the camp. Then, with a mischievous twinkle in her eyes, she cast one quick look over her shoulders and dashed off, laughing, her lekku flying behind her in the wind.

Little minx, Boil thought, but he took up the chase, ducking and weaving between people and tents. Reliving the memory of the first chase between Numa and the two clones, Boil found himself grinning wildly. It felt good to run, to stretch his legs and test his skills and Numa was a master in creating difficult and challenging chases. It was almost like being back in Nabat, when he had run after Waxer who had taken after the girl, swearing to the heavens that he had no idea why he even bothered trying to keep his partner alive. He could almost feel Waxer running beside him, matching his steps, watching his back, as he ducked beneath a tent line and vaulted over an overturned cart.

Then suddenly, the chase came to an end with Numa popping out from behind a crate like a little ghost. Boil came to a screeching stop, laughing at the satisfied look on the little Twi'lek's face.

"Okay, okay, kid. You win. Again."

Numa didn't leave him any time to catch his breath, but practically dragged him towards one of the large tents, built around a little square. Boil wondered if this amount of energy was normal for children that age, or if Numa was just unusually hyperactive. He honestly could not remember ever being that inexhaustible at her age. Of course, at her age he'd already had the body of a ten-year-old boy and was more concerned with coping with his rapid growth spurts that made him feel awkward and gangly.

The living area was not large, but Boil could see that it would be sufficient for two people. The tent had been separated into sections by salvaged curtains; creating a large space that seemed to act as the main living area, as well as two smaller rooms that Boil guessed were sleeping quarters for Numa and her uncle.

The only other member of Numa's family to have survived the invasion of Nabat, Nilim Bril greeted Boil with almost as much enthusiasm as his niece had done. The Rutian Twi'lek spoke Basic quite well and grasping Boil by the shoulders began to express such sincere gratitude for the rescue of his niece and his people that Boil felt himself shift uncomfortably.

"It was nothing, sir. Really. Ghost Company and I….well, we were just doing our jobs."

"Just doing your jobs?" And Nilim's heavily accented words were filled with disbelief, his lekku giving a quiet shudder that Boil guessed was meant to emphasize the other man's emotions. "My dear friend, my name night mean heroic, but what you and your nerras did for our people that day, that was true heroism. And," and here he turned towards Numa, who was standing patiently beside the adults, cradling the tooka doll. "You saved Numa. I can never repay you for that deed. She is all that remains of my family and she is a true teeubo. "

Boil couldn't help but agree. "Thank you, sir. That-it, ahm, it means a lot." He felt stupid for stuttering, but found he was wholly unaccustomed to accepting such praise. Particularly because he shouldn't be the one on the receiving end of such kind words. It had been Waxer who had been adamant in taking care of the kid. Boil had just wanted to follow orders and get their mission done with. To him, the little Twi'lek girl had been a burden at best, a real danger to their lives at worst. He felt ashamed of that now, at how callous he had been in the face of the Twi'leks plight. He supposed he had Waxer and Numa to thank for that change; for letting him see beyond the regs and the order of the military and to let him see the value of people outside of the close group of brothers.

He brought one hand up, stroked his moustache in an unconscious imitation of his general and tried to hide the trembling of his mouth from his host.

Nilim gave a small, self-deprecating laugh. "But here I am, waxing poetics and forgetting my manners. Please, nerra Boil. Won't you join us for the evening meal? It would be a great honor to host one of the firith of Nabat."

"That's very kind of you, really," Boil said, trying to find a polite way to decline the invitation, without implying that he knew very well that food was heavily rationed and Nilim could hardly afford to feed another mouth. "I actually don't have much time. My CO expects me back before nightfall and there is something I still have to discuss with Numa."

"Oh?" And here Nilim's smile faltered and Boil found himself under the scrutiny of a rather shrewd pair of green eyes. Nilim's face took on a serious cast, as he saw something in Boil's face that must have revealed the true nature of his visit.

"I see, yes." The older Twi'lek nodded. "Please, take your time. I will be waiting outside, if you need my help translating."

Nilim gave Boil a last quick squeeze of the shoulder, then stepped past the trooper, halting for a brief moment to exchange quick words with Numa. He patted the little girl on the head, before stepping outside of the tent and closing the flap behind him. Boil was grateful for the man's perception and his understanding of his need for privacy.

Numa looked at him, her big brown eyes solemn and transfixed. Whatever Nilim had told her, it, along with Boil's earlier behavior, must have alerted her to the fact that something was wrong. She was a perceptive little thing. It was one of the traits he admired about her.

He tried to smile, playing for time, trying to delay the inevitable.

"Care to give me the tour, little biter?" He made an expansive gesture with his hand to underscore his question.

Numa narrowed her eyes at him briefly, as if she was very aware of what he had called her, despite the language barrier. Then, tooka doll in one hand and three of his gloved fingers in the other, she dragged him from the living area to one corner of the tent to the next.

He saw Nilim's sleeping alcove, a simple cot with two blankets and a pillow, all sporting the Republic insignia. Refugee fare, he thought and wondered why people who were still living on their home planet had to be refugees at all.

Then Numa brought him over to inspect her little corner of the tent, and Boil was relieved to see some evidence of an attempt to turn this into a child's room. The cot was smaller, but the bedding sported a few, washed out colors. In one corner, carefully stacked beneath and on top of a very small, slightly battered chair, were a few flimsi books and a ball. The few toys looked as old and battered as the rest of the furniture in the tent, but at least they were there. His last concerns over leaving Numa with her uncle fled him as he surveyed the room with a critical eye. Here was someone who truly cared about his niece, even going so far as to try and give her some semblance of childhood while their planet was being torn apart by war. At least he could put that worry to rest. Waxer had been so agitated after they had left Ryloth, citing various cases of Twi'lek girls being sold into slavery by their own family. Not knowing whether or not Numa was in good hands had been a hazardous distraction to his brother.

Was Waxer distracted that day as well? Was worrying about Numa what caused him to get hit by that blaster shot? His mind veered away from that thought. No. Waxer had been too good a trooper to allow himself to be distracted like that on the battlefield. And besides, even if he had been distracted that day, Boil could never lay that blame at Numa's feet. Kripes, she was just a kid. There was only one person to blame for Waxer's death and that was the traitor Krell. Not some six-year-old who had somehow managed to worm her way into two troopers lives.

A sudden gasp and more excited chatter drew his attention away from these dark thoughts and he was ridiculously grateful for the distraction. Looking down, he saw Numa stare in awed fascination at his bucket, clipped to his belt. He followed her gaze and felt his lips quirk up. She had spotted the cartoon drawing of herself on his helmet.

"Yeah, kid. That's you," he told her softly and unclipped his helmet, handing it to her after making sure that all the electronics had been shut off. Numa took the helmet eagerly, having to wrap her arms around it in order to carry it to her bed for a closer examination. He smiled at the incongruous image. The bucket looked comically large next to her small body.

The smile softened as he remembered coming across Waxer, sitting on his bunk and drawing that very same image on his own helmet. They had only left Ryloth a day ago, but Waxer had been moping ever since the ship had left atmo. Boil had only shaken his head at the sight, sighing in exasperation at his brother.

" You trying to make the tinnies laugh themselves to bits now?" 

Waxer looked up, the smile on his face teasing. "I thought that was what you had that moustache for." 

Boil rolled his eyes. "Funny." 

Waxer shrugged. "I thought so." Then he turned his attention back to the drawing, carefully marking out the face of the little Twi'lek girl. "I just thought it would be nice to remember her, you know. To remember that we saved a life for once." 

" We are always saving lives, Waxer. Every time we fight, it saves the life of someone in the Republic." 

" I know that," Waxer said, a little exasperated at his brother's obstinacy. "But this was personal. We never actually get to meet the people we're supposedly saving, but this time…" He trailed off, his face taking on a soft, satisfied cast. "We got to save a little girl, Boil. We even got a hug out of it. That's a good memory and I want to be reminded of it whenever the going gets really tough." 

Boil thought about that for a brief moment, then abruptly held out his own helmet to his brother. "Here," he said gruffly. "Might as well do mine, too. No point in having the Seps laugh at only one of us." 

Boil looked down at his hands and had to work to relax the balled-up fingers. He took a deep breath. He was wasting time. Crossing the tiny alcove in a single step, Boil gingerly sat down next to Numa, waiting for a few breathless seconds to see whether or not the small cot would hold his weight. When he was sure the cot would not collapse and dump them both on the hard-packed, earthen ground, he looked up to find Numa watching him intensely.

" Nerra ?" she asked.

He couldn't look at her, so he focused on his hands splayed out on his thighs, self-consciously rubbing them up and down along the armor plating. Stop stalling. This is why you came here in the first place. Waxer had cared about this child; there had been an almost instant bond between the two. And Numa deserved to know, because she had considered them brothers and not droids and because Boil had known that she cared enough to wonder about what had become of them.

He swallowed and began to speak, carefully, haltingly pronouncing the words he had practiced so diligently on the flight to Ryloth. He tried to be gentle, tried to break the news to her in the best possible way. But when you were explaining that someone you cared about was gone, there simply was no good way. The words were harsh and cruel and heartbreaking, no matter in what language you said them.

At first, Numa was silent. Then sharp little gasping sounds came from the girl, which turned into whimpers until she let out a single wail of misery. That was when Boil looked away from his nervous hands, his own vision blurring from tears. He wasn't sure what came next, but when he blinked to clear the gathering liquid from his eyes, he found himself in a tight embrace with Numa, the girl's head buried against his neck, weeping in great, heaving sobs.

He tightened his arms about her, turned his own face towards her small, warm body and wept with her. Because this was also why he had come to Ryloth. Because here, there would be someone who would grieve for Waxer as he grieved, who had loved his brother as he had loved him.

" Who'mi topi, nerra Waxer," she whispered against his neck, in-between shuddering sobs.

Boil closed his eyes and just held her tighter as the sun began to set. " Ma-allesh, nerra Waxer," he whispered in turn.

And they held each other through the tears, because this was what family did. In times of grief, they brought you comfort and remembrance. And in time, perhaps there would be healing and remembrance of shared joys without the pain.

Chapter Text

Author's Note:  This takes place in 22 BBY, after the battle of Khorm, which took place after the  Malevolence  arc in season 1, and before season 2, episode 9, "The Grievous Intrigue".

Blinded

Grim satisfaction as General Plo sent the assassin flying backward. The witch had killed so many of his men, even beheading two of them right in front of him. He wouldn't forget that, nor forgive and he thought that a few broken ribs on her part was the least she owed him. 

" Commander, the remote." He turned at the sound of General Plo Koon's voice; saw the detonator Ventress had been holding only moments ago and fired. The remote broke apart into charred pieces and Wolffe breathed a sigh of relief. The mine was safe, the Separatists were in retreat; there would be no more casualties suffered at the hands of Asajj Ventress. 

A scream of rage cut through the cold air of Khorm and he turned to see the source, blaster raised instinctively. Ventress was coming towards him, lightsabers ignited; their angry red flare coloring the snow and making it seem like the ground was covered in blood. 

Time slowed painfully. He realized that he was in Ventress' way, the only obstacle between her and escape. In perfect synchronicity, their respective weapons came up to target each other, but she was a Force-user and no matter how well trained he was, he was still only a clone and Human. 

One blade came up to deflect his shot, the other painted a glaring red arc into the air, cut through his blaster and bit deeply into the heavily padded helmet of his arctic gear. Pain exploded through his skull: hot and searing, sharp and numbing all at the same time. Later, he would remember the words 'hot poker,' but in that moment, as the tip of her lightsaber cut through armor and flesh, all Wolffe could think of was agony and scream and scream as his world went dark… 

Wolffe woke up with a start; a heavy hand rested on his shoulder and his first instinct was to lash out in self-preservation. Still in the grips of his nightmare-memory, he had a vague sense that it was Ventress, come to finish what she had started on Khorm.

But his aim was off and it was not because of his still sleep-addled mind.

A kind, but firm hand grabbed his wildly swung fist and pressed it back to his side. The warm, scaly skin told him who his visitor was, even before he heard the distinctive, deep tones of his general's voice.

"Easy, Commander. You are safe here. There is no need for agitation."

Wolffe turned his head to face his general, only to find a shadow blocking his sight. Correction, blocking half his sight. He turned his head again, more to the right, and this time found the form of General Plo Koon materializing before him, as if the Jedi had magically appeared out of the shadow. The General was seated, his tall frame looking mildly uncomfortable in the utilitarian chair.

"Sir?" Wolffe asked, his tongue thick and heavy. There was also an unpleasant taste in his mouth, as if he had just swallowed an entire beaker full of antiseptics. Bacta and anesthetics. He knew that combination. It meant he'd been submerged in a bacta tank and for quite some time, to judge by the sluggishness of his body.

He twisted again, still trying to get a better view of his general and something soft moved against his right cheek. He tried to bring his hand up to the material, but General Koon intercepted it once more.

"I would not advise that, Commander. The Kaminoans were quite adamant that the bandages stay on for at least another rotation."

Bandages? 

Everything fell into place: Khorm, Ventress, her escape from the Republic forces. Images of his nightmare flashed through his mind: the red glow of the assassin's lightsaber flashing over snow; the heat as it pierced his flesh. Except it wasn't a nightmare. 

"Understood, sir," he replied, keeping his dismay at the memories locked behind his trooper's façade. He let his hand fall back and tried to survey the room as much as was possible with half his face heavily bandaged. Glaringly white walls sprung at him, interspersed with a few medical devices that beeped softly. “I was brought to Kaliida Shoals Medical?”

"Very observant, Wolffe." The general folded his hands in his lap. "We are indeed on Kaliida. My apologies for not informing you of our destination, but the medical droid insisted on keeping you under anesthesia for the duration of the journey. For the pain," the Kel Dor added, and Wolffe thought he heard a note of regret in the Jedi's voice.

Regret for what? That he had been in pain? That he had been wounded? Those were the facts of his life, the possibilities he lived with every day. Why would the general feel the need to regret circumstances that were an unavoidable part of a clone's existence?

It would, however, be wholly unprofessional to voice such questions to a superior officer. Still feeling that a gesture on his part was required though, Wolffe inclined his head to the Jedi, though the movement caused a mild headache to start up behind his temples. 

"I understand, General," he said, then hesitated. "Is there…a situation you would like to brief me about?" It was the only reason he could think of why his general would be sitting here, apparently waiting for him to wake up.

Plo Koon tilted his head slightly to the side and Wolffe felt the full intensity of the Jedi's gaze land on him, though he could not, of course, actually see the Kel Dor's eyes behind the protective goggles.

"Nothing that can't wait, Commander," General Koon said, his voice calm, almost placid. "I am merely here as a relief for the dawn watch."

"Sir?" Wolffe had a brief moment of anxiety where he thought he might have been more seriously injured than he had initially believed, because he found no sense in the general's words.

Plo Koon must have sensed his confusion, because he waved one hand towards a door recessed into the far wall, past a drawn privacy curtain that gently shivered in the station's recycled air. Behind the curtain, Wolffe could vaguely distinguish the outlines of the larger medical ward through his impaired vision; the flickering shadows of medical personell and droids and, more distinctly, the sounds of troopers confined to beds, coughing and shifting in the cool whiteness of the ward. "Sinker and Boost were here earlier, waiting for you to wake up. Seeing as they had already stood watch for you during most of your convalescence in the bacta tank, I thought it prudent to offer them the chance to catch up on missed meals and sleep. I assured them that as a Jedi, I would be able to monitor your status quite efficiently."

For a moment, Wolffe had to fight with his feelings, overwhelmed not just with his men's loyalty, but with his general's concern as well. That Sinker and Boost would wait and watch for him while he was vulnerable within the bacta tank was both an honor and a demonstration of their respect for him. But for General Koon to participate in the vigil was unexpected. The Jedi had proven himself both respectful and considerate towards his troops, but this demonstrated a level of concern quite beyond the usual Jedi reserve. Wolffe kept his face straight, though the gesture of support from both his men and his general made his throat tighten for a moment.

"That is…very kind of you, sir."

Plo Koon waved the words off. "Not at all, Commander. I merely wished to express my gratitude and admiration for your actions on Khorm. I know that working with Captain Ozzel was at times," the general paused. "Trying."

Now there was an understatement for the record books. Ozzel had been a pain in the shebs almost from the beginning of the mission; distrustful of both the Jedi and the clones, and ultimately a coward. In the end, he had even been willing to betray the Jedi to Ventress in order to save his own skin. And for that he was promoted, Wolffe remembered. From major to captain with the Chancellor's blessing for nearly getting us all killed. The memory was an unexpectedly bitter one, and momentarily banished all thoughts of his injury. Wolffe and the other surviving clones, along with General Fisto and Plo Koon had stood by and watched while Ozzel, preening with pride, had received his promotion from the Chancellor via hologram. There had been no mention of the Jedi's efforts nor of the clones killed during the battle.

But such resentments were beneath him. He was a clone in the Grand Army of the Republic; he had been engineered and decanted for the sole purpose of fighting and dying for the Republic. That needed no praise. The knowledge of his service, of the success of the mission, was enough.

His mind cleared once more, he turned back towards General Koon, to find the Kel Dor Jedi regarding him with apparent great intensity.

"Your efforts on Khorm are neither overlooked nor forgotten, Commander," Koon said, his voice softer and lower. "You have the gratitude of the Jedi and of the people of the Republic, even if they might not understand what they owe you."

Wolffe wasn't sure what to say to that. Quite frankly, the words were overwhelming and the fact that he didn't know the proper protocol to reply to such a statement unsettled him. Telling the general that he and the other clones had just been doing their jobs seemed somehow ungrateful. So instead, Wolffe attempted to steer the conversation onto more solid ground.

"Sir, if I may ask you a question?"

"Certainly, Commander." And the Kel Dor leaned back slightly, apparently wholly at ease with the sudden change of topic.

"If I could ask you for any updates as to my injury, sir? I would like to know what has been done."

"Of course," General Koon said and raised one hand to his breather mask in a gesture that indicated to Wolffe that the Jedi was collecting his thoughts.  "After you were patched up on Khorm, the medical droid performed some exploratory surgery, to find out the exact extent of the damage, and to see if some of the tissue could be saved. Finding that the eye had been damaged beyond repair, he removed what was left and sealed the wound in bacta. Once we arrived on Kaliida, you were placed in a bacta tank with the hope that the eye could be regenerated."

Wolffe was about to ask the obvious question, but Koon anticipated his request. "I am sorry to say that the damage was too severe for regeneration. A cybernetic implant had to be installed and you were once more placed into a bacta tank for recuperation."

That would explain the sluggish feel to his body and the taste in his mouth. Two submersions in the bacta tank in such a short space of time taxed the body.

"I see, sir," he said, then almost grimaced at the unintended pun.

So now he had a cybernetic implant? The idea was…disturbing? Uncomfortable? Mildly annoying? He wasn't sure. He had never concerned himself before with his feelings about cybernetic implants, though there were some troopers under his command who had received such replacements for lost limbs. The fact that a part of his body was now essentially a droid part evoked feelings of mild disgust, while at the same time, his mind was already coming to accept the rational behind the implant. Obviously, if regeneration had failed, then the usage of a cybernetic was only the logical next step. He was a commander, highly trained and valuable for his skills. He would be needed back on the frontlines and soon, and an implant was both the quickest and most efficient way to achieve that goal. His own personal feelings did not matter. What mattered was that he returned to active duty as quickly as possible and continued the mission.

With that thought in mind, he voiced his next question. "How long until I am able to return to the front, General?"

The General paused. "The bandages will be removed in stages, so that you will be able to adjust to the implant's input. I am told that your vision on the right will now be above a clone's average 20/20 and your mind will need some time to adjust to the change. The implant also has some other features, which the Kaminoans thought would be useful, so you will need to learn to control these."

"I understand, General," he said again, and for the first time, consciously felt the cybernetic eye move within his socket, as he automatically tried to pay attention both to the general and to his surroundings. It didn't feel cold, as he would have expected. Beneath the bandages, the implant felt no different than his biological eye. A small measure of relief flooded through him at the realization.

"There will also be a scar," Plo Koon added, though that information had little impact on Wolffe.

"Scars are an expected part of a clone's life, sir."

"Yes," Plo Koon replied slowly. "I am aware of that."

The tone of the Kel Dor's voice implied some other meaning behind his words, but Wolffe did not feel up to the task of divining the hidden layers of a Jedi Master's musings. He had more questions, more immediate to the task at hand.

"So I am scheduled for rehabilitation. How long should this process take?"

"As long as you need it to, Commander."

"I'd like to get back to my men as soon as possible, sir."

"I guessed as much. Which is why I am making this an order: Take time to heal, Wolffe. The war and I will still be there for you, when you have sufficiently recovered."

The repeated use of his name startled him almost as much as the order. Take his time? To heal? He wasn't even sure how to do that. On Kamino, once a clone was injured, recovery would be planned and executed in the most efficient way possible, to guarantee both peak efficiency within the system, as well as within the clone to be discharged. The general's words seemed to imply something else. It occurred to Wolffe that Plo Koon was expecting him to dictate the rehabilitation process according to his own pace. To tell the Kaminoans when he was in fighting order and not the other way around. His mind raced with the implications, the sudden shift in power in the parameters of a relationship he had thought carved in permacrete. And then, there was the issue of time.

"I'm not sure, sir, what I would do with extra time on my hands." The words slipped out before he could stop them and for a moment, Wolffe worried that he had crossed the line. His words had certainly been unprofessional, if not downright discourteous in the face of the Jedi's generous offer. Luckily, the slight dip of the Jedi’s head indicated Master Plo Koon appeared more amused than offended by his commander's rash statement.

"I'm sure we can find something for you to occupy yourself with, Wolffe."

Wolffe hesitated, then decided to take a chance. The general was obviously not insisting on a formal interview. Indeed, his tone and words so far seemed to be an invitation to drop the military formalities that marked their daily interactions.

"Sir, if you don't mind, I have another question."

The general gave him a look that, despite the goggles and breather mask, suggested to Wolffe both amusement and curiosity.

"More questions about my age, Commander? I thought we’d settled that on Khorm."

Wolffe felt his lips quirk up in the suggestion of a smile, before he controlled the impulse and purposefully restored his mask of dignified command.

"No, sir. This would be concerning a mission of yours. To Falleen. And the truth of certain rumors regarding that mission."

"All in the spirit of information exchange and security, yes?"

"Yes, sir." And now Wolffe had to fight even harder to keep a straight face and his tone neutral. "The spreading of false information could have a serious effect on the morale of the men."

"Ah, I see," Plo Koon drawled, and settled himself more comfortably in the chair. Steepling his long, clawed fingers before his face, the Kel Dor gazed at the ceiling, as if collecting and putting into order the threads of his tale.

"Well, to begin with, the actual mission was not on Falleen. I was, however, in pursuit of a Falleen. She and I had chased each other for some weeks, before our rather clandestine meeting on Zeltros…"

Commander Wolffe adjusted the pillow behind his head and lay back to listen to his general recite tales of some of his earlier missions. For the duration of a few hours, he forgot about the loss of his eye, the nightmare of Ventress or the bitterness about Ozzel. It was good to do nothing but let your guard down and listen to stories being told.

Chapter Text

Author's Note: This chapter takes place in season 4, after episode 10, "Carnage of Krell".

Formation

The two troopers escorting Dogma back to the idling larty made no qualms about their dislike either for him or for their assigned task. Though they never stepped outside of the bounds of their professional bearings, they manhandled him like yesterday’s trash in desperate need of disposal. 

Dogma couldn't blame them. A few weeks ago…no, even a few hours ago, he would have acted the same. Had, in fact, acted the same and worse. These troopers kept their dislike of him private and restrained. He, in his personal disgust for what he had perceived as treacherous behavior from the other men of his unit, had pulled a blaster on his brothers and had been ready to use it.

Dogma did not blame the troopers who were taking him back to Republic custody. He admired them. They acted far more honorably than he ever had. And in his heart, he believed he deserved no better.

A trooper pushed on his shoulder, forcing him into a jumpseat, normally reserved for the wounded. The second of his guards bent down and secured him to the webbing in the larty's hold, to further restrict his movements. Despite being nothing but a regular grunt and a relative rookie still, Dogma was a clone and a formidable opponent in any situation. And he had proven himself a Jedi killer. His guards would take no chances.

The second purpose was perhaps unintentional, but Dogma could not help but be grateful for the accidental kindness. The webbing also provided some stability on the narrow jumpseat during the larty's takeoff and exit from atmo. Oh, he could and did brace his legs against the durasteel deck plates, but with his hands cuffed behind his back he would not be able to balance himself, as he would otherwise naturally do during the larty's flight. Secured to the webbing, he would be spared the humiliation of falling off of the jumpseat into an undignified heap during the rough parts of the flight.

Dogma lifted his head, catching one last glance of dark and shadowy Umbara before the blast doors rattled to a close. The larty’s engines took on that familiar whine, then there was a lurch and they were airborne.

Dogma was not entirely sure what would happen to him now. All he had been told when they had come for him in the brig was that he was to be taken offworld to one of the orbiting Republic cruisers. Against his normal inclinations, he had wanted to ask more questions - not knowing what would befall him next had caused his nerves to go all jittery, as they'd never done even before the start of a battle - but he'd not dared. The men who had taken him from the brig in the captured Umbaran base to the larty wore 501st blue, but they were not Torrent Company. Dogma didn't know them and found himself unable to summon up enough of his old resolve to question them.

Does it really matter? he asked himself. Not really. His final destination had to be Kamino. And going back to Kamino meant only one thing for a healthy trooper: reconditioning.

Despite his attempt at stoicism, despite the empty hole in his chest, Dogma shivered. Either the Kaminoans would completely mind-wipe him, program a new personality into him…or they would euthanize him, and then do who knew what with his body.

Waste not. Simple as that.

The larty lurched again, then began to shudder. The four troopers guarding him grabbed the handles dangling from the ceiling, legs spread slightly apart for added balance. Dogma braced himself as much as he could, locking his knees, but he was still thrown about by the larty clearing atmo. As expected, the webbing turned out to be the only thing keeping him on the jumpseat. As the hull shuddered and creaked, Dogma was thrown back against the wall several times. The impact jarred his already aching shoulders and forced his cuffed hands further into his back. His muscles protested, but the pain meant very little to Dogma. His mind and body seemed unable to synchronise; he registered the physical discomfort, but mentally he was stuck on Umbara, pointing a blaster at Jesse, Fives, Tup and finally Krell.

Where did I go wrong? The question haunted him like his brothers' expression of betrayal.  

It had all been so straightforward when he had first joined Torrent. As a clone, it was his duty to defend the Republic by following orders and supporting his officers. He was one of the many faceless masses of privates; the lowest on the rung and that had never bothered him. He'd been proud of it, in fact. He was among those who made up the foundation for the chain of command; without clones like him – who followed orders, who were loyal and trusting of their leaders – there could be no GAR. He had been vital to the system, because without him and his loyalty, there would be nothing for the Jedi to stand on.

It had been a simple, uncomplicated faith, one that had defined and formed him all his life. It was why he had chosen to distinguish himself from his brothers with the distinctive V-shaped tattoo that ran across the left side of his face.

In the military, there was no simpler or more effective formation than the V-formation. Whether naval or army, the V-formation was recognized and employed, used as a spearhead in almost every confrontation. The tip was always the best fighter – the Jedi, more often than not, in his case. And spread out behind them, in order of descent, were the next best, or the next highest ranking. And at the tail end came the regulars, the backups, those who did the simplest and direct fighting. The forerunners carved a path, creating an upwash that would spare the ones following. And in return, those at the back – like Dogma – watched the leader's six. They did the grunt work of the plan, mopping up most of the droids while those at the front kept up the charge. But it all depended on trust and loyalty and he'd had more than enough of both.

He was Dogma and needed neither his captain's freethinking ways, nor an ARC's criticism and loose attitude. Those things would merely get in the way of the role he'd been meant to fulfil and as a result, he'd come to regard those characteristics with something like contempt. They were dangerous in a trooper, because, as the early stages of the Battle of Umbara had shown, they could sow discontent and discord in a company and make troopers hesitate to follow orders. And hesitation on the battlefield meant almost certain death.

What was that old saying? When staring into the abyss, you should not be surprised when the abyss stared back?

Well, if that was the case, then Dogma, who had thought himself steadfast, had not flinched back from the abyss. In his faith, he had flung himself right into it.

A light jolt brought him out of his thoughts. For the first time since those blast doors had closed, Dogma lifted his eyes from where they had been staring blankly at his boots. The larty's red interior lighting turned green and with a mechanical rumble the blast doors slid open.

Dogma flinched as bright light assaulted eyes that had grown accustomed to Umbara's gloom. He blinked rapidly, trying to give his pupils time to adjust. In the backwash of that light, the clones guarding him were nothing more than indistinct blurs; their white armor allowing them to almost merge with the light.

One of the blurs moved, came to his side and began to unhook him from his webbing, then hauled him to his feet. Dogma stumbled a little, wishing for his bucket. If he'd had his helmet on like his guards, then the bucket's filters would have saved him from the glare of the cruiser's interior lighting. But of course his bucket, along with his blaster and armor, had been confiscated, leaving him in nothing but his bodyglove. The armor would no doubt be rubbed clean, his HUD's databanks erased and then returned to ship's storage, for another trooper to use. Unlike him, his gear could still be salvaged. 

Dogma missed his gear already. Just like he missed his brothers. What was a clone with neither of those two things?

"Keep moving, traitor," one of his trooper escorts said and hauled Dogma along by his elbow. Dogma managed to avoid tripping over the gap as he exited the LAAT/i, the word traitor hitting him like a blaster shot to the chest. 

Dogma stared at the trooper’s blank visor, searching for that familiar feeling of camaraderie and security that another trooper's face usually inspired within him. But all he found was an echoing, hollow feeling in his chest and a curious rushing sound in his ears that reminded him of the ocean on Kamino.

He was a traitor.

Somehow, that knowledge had not completely penetrated his consciousness until now, until he'd heard it said in a voice that could have been his own. He, Dogma, once one of the most loyal troopers of the 501st, had become what he had accused the others of being. It was an epiphany that had the curious effect of both heightening the surreal nature of his experience and bringing it to a terrible, sharp reality.

The helmeted head of his guard stared wordlessly back and Dogma had to turn his head away in shame. He was a traitor. He had no business expecting anything more from the troopers around him than what he was already being given. And he could not bear to look into a clone's face – his own face – and see nothing more than his own bewilderment, disgust and fear reflected back at him. So he kept his eyes fixed on the deck plates and tried to shut his ears against the agitated whispers running through the hangar and the hallways as he was led to the ship's brig.

He noticed little, said nothing and merely did as he was told. Just another wet droid waiting for orders - the perfect trooper. 

When the guards stopped, he stopped. When they told him to step into the holding cell he did. When the binders were removed from his wrists he simply let his arms fall to his side. Dogma stood in the cell, his back to his guards until he heard the slight crackle that told him the laser shield had activated. He cast one lingering glance over his shoulder at the outside; the side of the orange glowing laser shield that he should have been on. Two troopers stood guard at the entrance, driving home the point that he was a prisoner and considered dangerous. To the Republic…and probably to his own brothers as well.

And wasn't that the truth? The memories flashed cruelly through his mind.

… Rex, his face hard and just a little disappointed as he prevented him and Tup from telling Krell about Fives', Jesse's and Hardcase's treachery….

… .Fives and Jesse, their backs against the wall, faces firm as they stared at him; their executioner. And he had not hesitated in that role. Had taken pride in the efficient, precise maneuverings of his squad, as they brought their blasters to bear on the men General Krell had condemned to death….

...Fives' set face as he called on the brothers about to pull the trigger on him to remember that they were men and not droids. Words that had fallen on deaf ears with Dogma...

… Tup's instinctive jerk backwards as Dogma aimed his blaster at his oldest friend, his closest brother…

Something inside of Dogma shattered; the last remnants of the proud trooper he had been. Boneless, he collapsed onto the narrow bunk, his face sunk in his hands.

Outside, the guards stood with their backs straight and their blasters held at the ready, determinately ignoring the clone in the cell behind them and his anguished groans.

"Get up, trooper."

Dogma didn't know how long he'd been in the cell before they came for him. He stood reflexively; obedience to that tone of command so deeply ingrained into him, that even recent events had not been able to cancel out the response.

Dogma raised his eyes tentatively to the trooper before him. He was a captain, but neither 501st nor 212th. The stripes on his armor were red, slightly curved. It took a moment for Dogma to place the design, because he'd never worked with or even encountered one of Commander Fox's men. The Coruscant Guard rarely left Triple Zero, let alone the Core Worlds, unless accompanying high-ranking officials in a security capacity.

Automatically Dogma's eyes flicked to the side of the captain, searching for a whoever would warrant the presence of the Guard. There was none. Behind the captain were only two more troopers, both of whom also wore the Guards' scarlet striped armor.

"One step forward and hands behind your back," the captain ordered. He had not given Dogma the courtesy of identifying himself, nor was he addressing Dogma by either his name or serial number.

Dogma swallowed painfully and did as he was told. There was a snap and the feel of cool, thick durasteel as he was once more restrained with binders. He truly was a traitor now to all his fellow clone troopers, not even worthy of a name.

The captain signaled to his troopers and the two came to flank Dogma, with the captain taking the lead.

Wordlessly, they escorted Dogma out of the brig. In an attempt to distract himself, Dogma for the first time took in his surroundings.

Some claimed that every ship of a certain class looked the same, but to the soldiers who lived, slept, ate and sometimes died in these hulls, each cruiser became as individualistic as a sentient.

By the size of the rivets and their distance to one another, Dogma knew that he was in a Star Destroyer and not an Acclamator- class assault ship. He also knew that this was not the Resolute or the Negotiator. 

The few armored troopers they encountered on their way had distinctive patterns painted on their armors in purple and not 501st blue or 212th yellow. Dogma couldn't place these men, but the ship had a distinctive sheen to it that told him it was new; only a few weeks out of Kemla and in direct contrast to her crew, without much battlefield experience.

Was he on one of the ships that had come to reinforce their fleet, shortly after they'd taken the capital of Umbara? It was the only logical conclusion.

Now that he was finally paying attention to his surroundings, Dogma also realized that the Guard were leading him to one of the smaller hangars, instead of the main one he had entered the cruiser through, initially.

Probably want to avoid as many of the ship's crew seeing me as possible, he thought, disheartened. He had heard that this was how they had done it with another clone traitor, a sergeant by the name of Slick. After his capture on Christophsis, Slick had been spirited away in the middle of the night, never to be seen again, or mentioned by the men who had known him. Slick's betrayal was shrouded in mystery, but of course no amount of cover-up could completely bury the truth. Though the 501st had been decimated on Teth, there were still enough of the original members around to have spread the story in cautious whispers. Besides, Slick had officiated his betrayal in a rather obvious manner and there was no way an entire company could simply forget the damage the man had wrought, nor fail to connect the sudden absence of a previously well-respected sergeant with the destruction of their heavy artillery, which could only have been an inside job.

And now he was going to join the ranks of the likes of Slick. Disappeared in secrecy, his ultimate fate unknown to all involved except him. And the Kaminoan who would more than likely end up dissecting his brain for the deviation that had caused him to kill Krell.

But as he trudged along to the hangar, Dogma also felt the tiniest seed of gratitude for this secretiveness. Like the unintended extra protection offered to him by the webbing, this act contained within it a small kindness that was most likely accidental. By taking him to one of the smaller hangars, the Coruscant Guard troopers were sparing Dogma the shame of having the entire ship's crew see the traitor. He would not have to hear their whispers as he had coming in, or have to wonder about the expressions on their faces. He could face his end with at least some of his dignity intact.

And then they were at the hangar and Dogma saw the small Eta- class shuttle that would carry him away from his brothers once and for all and he couldn't help it; his legs locked into place and he couldn't take another step. There was a horrible finality to that tri-winged shuttle that spoke to a very primal part of him.

He was a trooper. He had been trained never to accept death; to fight for his life until the very last breath escaped his body.

Though Dogma had become more or less resigned to his fate, those two instincts now warred within him and he found his body frozen with indecision. His thoughts raced about in a circle like panicked womp rats in a maze.

I don't want to die. Traitor. I don't want to die. Traitor. 

His muscles tensed in automatic preparation to fight against the restraints; to try and free himself from his guards; to try and escape that shuttle.

The two escorts from the Guard must have sensed at least some of his inner conflict, because instead of simply propelling him forward – which would have surely triggered his fight reflex – they stopped with him.

The Guard holding his left arm leaned towards Dogma and spoke to him, so softly that only the two of them could hear, "One step at a time, trooper. You're a clone, so act like one."

The words were not kind, but they steadied him; enough at least for Dogma to recall that last, brief interaction with his captain.

Wanting nothing more than to catch sight of his brothers for the last time, Dogma had looked back at the milling troopers on the landing pad. Captain Rex had been there, along with Fives, Jesse and some others, overseeing and helping the loading of the wounded. Dogma's eyes had caught those of Captain Rex and his captain had given him a single nod; a sign of respect, of brotherhood, but also of acknowledgement. Captain Rex understood Dogma had avenged their lost brothers and paid Krell back for using the clones as instruments of slaughter. For using him and his beliefs. He had eliminated a threat to the Republic. It was something Rex had wanted to do, but found he could not. Rex had been too good a man to go that far. 

But that nod from his captain had helped him back on Umbara, had made it easier for Dogma to board the larty. And the memory of it made it possible for him to unlock his legs now, take a shuddering breath, straighten his spine and move towards that lowered ramp of the Eta- shuttle with his head held high. Captain Rex had recognized his sacrifice. What more could a trooper ask for than his brother's respect?

His boots rang against the durasteel floor, reverberating in his ears like thunder. It was a bright sound and when his boots stepped down on the waiting ramp of the shuttle, the sound deepened. C olors brightened and smells intensified and lines were so clear that he thought that if he touched them, they would be tangible things.

In that second between his boot hitting the shuttle's ramp and his next step, the red of the Guards' stripes was almost painful to look at, the white of the plastoid glowing with a luminescence of its own. The ship's engines, usually nothing more than a background hum, sang in his ears. He could smell everything, from the troopers walking next to him, to the shuttle's lubricant oil. Dogma thought that, if they would open the hangar doors at that instant, he would even be able to smell space itself and it would be cold and clean.

Then the moment was over and Dogma realized he would have to take the next step towards oblivion. He looked up the ramp, saw the Guard captain waiting at the top, arms crossed over his chest and one finger tapping against his armored bicep impatiently. But he did not rush Dogma, nor did the two troopers at his side. They would let him take those final steps in his own time.

Dogma's eyes fell back down to his boots; he took another deep breath and willed his legs to take the next step. And the next...and the next...

Chapter Text

Author's Note: This continues the events of chapter 5, and still takes place during season 4, after episode 10, "Carnage of Krell." 

Formation II

"Captain."

The voice cut through the still air of the hangar, shattering Dogma's concentration. Even the troopers from the Coruscant Guard were startled. He could feel the trooper on his left - the one who had spoken to him - flinch a little in surprise.

Everyone, including Dogma, turned towards the voice. It was, perhaps, the most surreal thing of all to happen to him since Krell denoted himself a Separatist spy and an apprentice to Count Dooku.

There, in the entrance to the small hangar bay, stood High General Mace Windu.

The captain straightened reflexively and gave the general a salute, but Dogma could tell the man was confused. He had clearly not expected the general to be here.

"General Windu, what can I do for you, sir?" the captain asked.

General Windu stepped into the hangar, his dark eyes sweeping the space like a vine cat taking in its territory. That and the surety of the general's steps gave Dogma the clue he needed to identify the cruiser he'd been brought to.

This was the Repute, just returned from its refitting at Kemla Yards and the troopers with the purple markings on their armor were the 187th Legion; General Windu's own.

Dogma had known that Coruscant had sent reinforcements to relieve the 501st and the 212th from Umbara, but he'd had no idea that the Jedi had sent the likes of High General Mace Windu to mop up what was left of the Umbaran militia.

General Windu had by now come up to the edge of the Eta-shuttle's ramp. His stony gaze landed briefly on Dogma and then pinned the captain. The fact that the general had to look up to do so made absolutely no difference. Dogma thought that even kneeling and chained the general would still strike fear and awe into the people who were on the receiving end of those dark, austere eyes.

"I am afraid, Captain," the general began, "that I am here to cancel your mission."

Stunned, the captain asked, "Sir? I don't-"

"You are to turn over the prisoner to me," Windu went on smoothly, as if the captain had not spoken. The general turned his attention towards the troopers who were still holding Dogma by the arms. "You may remove those binders, troopers."

"Sir," the captain protested. He was attempting to be polite, but there was a definite thread of impatience in his voice. "I must protest."

Windu's eyebrows went up, almost to the top of his shaved skull, as he regarded the captain as if he were an undisciplined cadet arguing with his training sergeant.

"Really?" Windu asked. "You must protest?" The words were spoken almost flatly, with no particular inflection, but Dogma felt himself trying to duck his head, as if seeking protection from a blast of cold air straight from Hoth.

The captain quickly tried to rectify his mistake. "What I meant, General," he said, his tone much more deferential, "is that my orders came straight from Captain Tarkin. I am to bring this man to Coruscant for a military investigation and trial."

Dogma blinked in astonishment. He was guilty. He had killed General Pong Krell, who at the time had been a prisoner of war and a possibly valuable, though dangerous, source of information. What did there need to be a trial for?

"I am aware of that, Captain," Windu said. "However, the prisoner stands accused of killing a Jedi Knight, which makes this a matter for the Order to resolve." From a pocket of his beige tunic, General Windu pulled out a datapad. "I have just received confirmation of the orders from the Temple. This trooper's actions are for the Order to deal with. We will decide what will happen to him and not Captain Tarkin and the Grand Army." He held out the datapad to the captain, who would either have to bend down awkwardly to take it or come down the ramp. 

Coming to stand next to the general, the captain took the datapad and quickly scanned the contents.

"Everything…appears to be in order," the captain said, the words slightly reluctant.

The general said nothing, merely stood there with his arms crossed over his chest, an overly patient expression on his face. Dogma only knew General Windu by reputation, but he thought that that look did not bode well for anyone who would think to stand in the general's way. Apparently the captain came to the same conclusion.

With a wave of his hand, he gestured towards his two troopers. "Alright gentlemen, you heard the general, remove those cuffs."

One trooper complied and before Dogma knew it, his hands were free and dangling at his sides. Astonished and confused, he looked first at his Guard escort and then, tentatively, at the general.

But Windu wasn't paying him any attention. He gave the captain a perfunctory nod, a clear dismissal. "Thank you, Captain. Have a safe journey back to Coruscant. Trooper," and he turned the full power of his gaze on Dogma, "follow me."

Dogma thought of asking for clarification, but once more, habit proved too strong for him. He fell into parade-rest and gave the general a salute and a quick, "sir, yes, sir." And when General Windu wordlessly turned his back on the small group of clones and made his way out of the hangar, Dogma followed him, keeping the prerequisite arm’s length between himself and the general.

Dogma had no idea where they were going. He was half expecting to be brought back to the brig. What exactly did it mean, to be turned over to the Jedi? Was that any different than to be taken back to Coruscant to face a military tribunal? Would it change the outcome, or would he still be sent back to Kamino?

Once, he'd simply followed in the upwash of those at the front like a good tail end in a formation and trusted he and his brothers would be led to victory. Now there were so many questions in his head that his teeth ached from keeping them all from popping out.   

Was this how Rex and the others had felt at first, when the blinders set on them from their sheltered existence on Kamino had fallen away? Had they experienced these moments of doubts where question after question piled itself in their heads, until they were paralyzed with indecision? Somehow, Dogma did not think so. They had gathered experience and doubt in the war one battle at a time. Dogma's blinders had been ripped away in the backwash of that mocking, echoing laugh of Krell's.

General Windu stopped to key in a code into a door lock and Dogma realized that he'd once more spaced out completely, losing track of time and his location. It frightened him that this would happen again and again. Perhaps there was something wrong with his brain after all and he should be sent to Kamino, for scientists to prod at his corpse.

The doors swished open and the general stepped inside. Dogma scanned the space before stepping over the threshold, a simple instinct to catalogue all possible ambush and exit points in a new environment.

They were on one of the private observation decks on the uppermost levels. One side of the room was a single, large piece of transparisteel. The darkness of space was visible beyond but not, Dogma was relieved to see, the outline of Umbara. They had to be on the port side of the ship, facing away from the planet.

General Windu took up a stance before the transparisteel viewport, his hands loosely clasped behind his back, his stark figure thrown into light and shadow by the interplay of starlight and the darkness of space.

Not knowing what was expected of him, Dogma simply remained standing where he was; close to the door and several steps away from the general. He began to slide into the familiar parade-rest, stopped, then tried standing at ease. That didn't seem appropriate either for this situation. He dearly wished he even knew what this situation was. At least then, he would not have to worry about the appropriate manner in which to stand.

Silence reigned between the anxious clone and the Jedi, who stood as rigidly as a stone statue.

As the minutes ticked by, Dogma found his mind wandering again, bringing him back to his better days on Kamino, where everything had made sense and no one had ever called him a traitor or a fool.

"Trooper."

The word nearly made Dogma jump, but it also brought a great relief with it. He knew that tone. It was the tone of command, of a superior officer addressing a subordinate and his body responded without his direction. Easily, he slid his feet a little apart, his hands straight at his sides and his eyes facing forward, staring at the back of General Windu.

"Yes, sir," Dogma said, his voice once more trooper steady and not the confused, halting one he had used since he'd tried to explain to Rex why he'd shot Krell.

"Explain your actions on Umbara," Windu demanded. His face was still turned towards the viewport and all Dogma could see of it was a partial reflection. But he thought the features had remained smooth, unyielding. Even the general's tone held no direct clues as to his feelings. There was no accusation, as far as Dogma could tell; nothing more prominent than mild curiosity, as if the general had asked him his opinion about the weather.

"I…" Dogma halted, all of his surety from a moment ago evaporating like a raindrop on Tatooine. "My actions, sir?" He searched his mind for an answer. "I believe the general has been informed of my actions and has read Captain Rex's report?" He couldn't help it, the words came out as a question.

The eyebrow of the partial reflection rose ever so slightly. "I have indeed. But that was not what I asked for. I asked for you to explain your actions."

Dogma glanced about the empty observation deck, feeling trapped by the order and almost claustrophobic as a result. How could he possibly explain to High General Windu what he had not even been able to properly explain to himself? 

Dogma looked down, unable to keep his attention on the general, though it was a terrible breach of protocol. His naked hands clenched and unclenched with his mounting anxiety.

The general said nothing, did nothing; merely remained standing at the viewport like some silent, immovable witness to the passage of the stars, while Dogma struggled.

And then, as if a cork had finally been wrenched free from a bottle, the words began to tumble out of Dogma.

"I'm a good trooper. That's why I never questioned Krell. It didn't matter to me that his style of leadership was different from that of General Skywalker. General Krell was getting results, his strategies were the quickest and most efficient means of capturing Umbara and if some of us died during those maneuvers, then it wouldn't matter. Because the faster we could subdue Umbara, the fewer troopers had to die later. I thought…I believed…" Dogma closed his eyes in pain at the memory. "I thought that, in the long run, Krell was saving lives. So I defended him. I argued with the others when they complained about his orders; I stood with my superior against my own brothers, because I believed in him and in the natural order of things. I thought that General Krell knew what he was doing, more so than we did. And I was right," he added bitterly. "He knew exactly what he was doing."

"He was betraying the Republic," General Windu said. Dogma jerked his head up in surprise. He'd been so concentrated on getting all of the words out, that he'd forgotten there was someone else on the observation deck with him, listening.

"Yes," Dogma replied. "But he was also betraying my brothers and he was betraying me." His voice was beginning to grow husky, his throat tightening. "And he used me to do it. I…" The words were so difficult to say out loud. "I was ready to…to execute two troopers who'd been willing to give their lives in an effort to find another way to Krell's strategy. Krell…he…he used my loyalty against my brothers; made me a traitor to them, while making me think that they were the traitors."

His eyes burned but he refused to cry in front of the general. Act like a proper trooper one last time, he thought desperately. He wanted to hold on to at least some of his dignity, as conceited as that might be at this point.

"That," Windu said, his voice sounding heavy, "is what the dark side does. It twists good intentions until they are nothing more than a perversion of themselves."

It was like a shaft of light through Umbara’s darkness; Dogma had to lock his knees or else risk collapsing at the sudden revelation . Perversion. Yes. How easily the general had put into words all the confusion and despair he’d felt since that day in the brig. 

"You thought," Windu went on, "that you were doing the work of the light side, when in truth, you were obeying the commands of the dark side and in turn, your actions were corrupted." There was a note of knowing in Windu's voice, as if he spoke of something he himself had experienced.

“I….I’m not really sure I understand, sir.” Dogma licked his lips, trying to get some feeling back into them. His whole face felt numb. “That sounds like something that would apply more to a Jedi than a mere clone trooper, sir .”

Whether it did or not was obviously not something General Windu wished to debate further. Instead, he asked: "Is that why you shot General Pong Krell?"

The question made him flinch. No one had asked him that so directly, not even Captain Rex. Not even himself. Because that question led to an answer he was not proud of. But he could not decline to answer a question from a Jedi general and there was no use in hiding the truth any further. General Windu was a Jedi and he would know and besides, Dogma had nothing more to lose.

"It was sir," he said. "Partially."

"Really?" For the first time since coming to the observation deck, General Windu turned to face him, his dark eyes meeting Dogma's own. Those eyes pinned Dogma to the spot, making it impossible for him to look away.

Jedi, he thought and his stomach cramped.

"Tell me, trooper," General Windu inquired, his voice firm, but still with that edge of polite curiosity. "What was the rest of your motivation, if betrayal and misuse were only the partial reasons for your actions?"

The words were difficult to utter, but Dogma forced himself to push them out, to lay his shame bare in front of the general. Someone at least should know the truth.

"He laughed at me." The admission was even more pathetic out loud. To Dogma's own ears, he sounded like a whining cadet, protesting the unfairness of some test he had failed.

General Windu said nothing to his revelation; his eyes merely continuing to hold Dogma's and the trooper found himself expanding on his explanation.

"After everything that I did for him, after everything that I sacrificed, that I was almost willing to sacrifice, he mocked me. I stood against my brothers who were trying to do the right thing and he laughed . He laughed at who I was, what I was made for, what my brothers and I stood for. We lost so many," he swallowed, thinking of that terrible massacre, where brother had killed brother, "and all he did was laugh in our faces."

"I see," was all the general said. 

A treacherous thought – that the general would never see – surfaced in his mind. Dogma fought the urge to physically shake it away. It seemed that not only were questions beginning to cloud his judgment, but now he was starting to have the same doubtful thoughts about his superiors as Fives, Hardcase, and the others.

He wasn't sure if that was a good thing or not. He'd been happy in his beliefs before Krell, but his willful blindness and naïveté had cost so much.

General Windu took two steps towards Dogma, closing some of the distance between them, while still keeping eye contact, forcing the trooper to look at High General Mace Windu with an almost proud tilt to his head.

"And what punishment do you believe would fit your crime?" 

The question threw Dogma momentarily. "I-I was expecting to be shipped to Kamino, sir. For…for reconditioning."

For the first time, Dogma could discern some emotion crossing General Windu's face, fleeting as it was. Was it displeasure? Disgust?

"Yes," Windu said slowly. "A most likely outcome."

A shiver worked itself up Dogma's spine. So the general knew what reconditioning meant. Dogma was surprised; few Jedi did.

"However," Windu continued and he titled his head slightly to the side, his chin coming forward fractionally in a stance that was almost defiance, "we of the Order do not ascribe to capital punishment." Then his eyes flicked to the side, as if he were remembering something. Dogma wondered if the general was thinking of the same thing he was: General Krell ordering Fives and Jesse to be executed.

"Or at least," the general amended, "we are not supposed to."

"Then…I am not to be sent to Kamino, General?" Dogma could hardly believe it.

"No," was General Windu's crisp reply.

Dogma found he had to wet his lips before being able to continue. He felt lightheaded. 

"What will happen to me then, if I will not be sent to Kamino?" Dogma could hardly believe how much he’d changed since the days when he had quietly accepted his fate to ask such a question of the general.  

General Windu’s hard features changed. Not softened, but they became less rigid and controlled. "There has been much debate among the High Council concerning just that issue," General Windu admitted. Clasping his hands behind his back again, the general once more turned towards the viewport and the stars.

"There is no denying that the actions of Pong Krell were deplorable. He willingly chose the dark side and became an instrument for Count Dooku, wreaking havoc wherever he went. His actions were no more than willful murder and have brought…great shame upon the Order."

It sounded to Dogma as if the general had had to force the words out into the open, as if even admitting this much to an outsider was undesirable and contrary to his nature.

"Nevertheless," Windu went on, "your actions have caused equal reactions of dismay. While there is no one on the Council who can truthfully blame you, I believe you can understand that a trooper killing a Jedi is a…disturbing development."

Dogma could see. The clones were famed for and prided themselves on their unquestioning loyalty to their Jedi superiors. It was one of the reasons why cooperation between the clones and the Jedi had been so successful in the past. Unlike many of the non-clone naval and military officers, the clones had no prior superstitions or reservations against the Jedi. From infancy, obedience and respect for all Jedi had been drummed and flash trained into the clones. It was why they had followed the commands of Jedi unused to commanding during the first Battle of Geonosis, despite the heavy loss of life. That, in turn, had cemented the trust the Jedi had in their armies' loyalty and competence.

But look where that loyalty led you, a snide voice inside of his mind whispered. You were loyal like a good trooper and it caused you to raise your blaster at Tup. The memory of that moment still made Dogma cringe.

When General Windu continued speaking, Dogma forced his concentration onto those words, banishing the memories and that new voice in the process.

"The Council cannot, in good faith, order your death, trooper. But neither can we ignore the fact that you killed a Jedi, when he was unarmed and restrained."

And taunting Captain Rex to pull that trigger himself. It occurred to Dogma that maybe Krell had wanted to die. Not just to corrupt the clones and corrode their faith in the Jedi, but also a means of escaping the punishment the Order might have dealt him. Punishment that Dogma was likely to suffer now in his stead. The irony of this did not escape him.

"The Council did not reach its verdict easily or quickly," General Windu added. Somehow that did seem to matter, though Dogma had a hard time wrapping his head around it all. His life was changing so quickly that he found his comprehension lagging behind.

"I understand, General. Thank you. May I ask, what the Council has decided to do with me?"

"Simply put, trooper, you will disappear."

Despite himself Dogma felt his heart skip a beat and that eerie rushing sound returned to his ears. Disappear? Dogma knew of only one way for a trooper to disappear and it was behind the shining white doors of a Kaminoan laboratory. But…but hadn't the general just told him that the Jedi objected to reconditioning? Or had his actions convinced them that a traitorous clone such as himself did not deserve the Jedi's consideration?

Dogma wanted to bash his head against a wall in an effort to beat all of these questions out of himself.

"Sir, I-"

"Your name and serial number will be erased from the files," General Windu smoothly interjected. "You will be given a new identity," his eyes briefly touched on the dirty bodyglove Dogma had been left in, "as well as a new set of armor. You will then be shipped out to a new posting, one that is unlikely to intersect with your former company. And which will not be under the command of a Jedi officer." This last part was delivered with an edge to the words, but Dogma could not find it in himself to analyze the meaning behind it.  He was too afraid that his knees were going to give out. There was a definite lightheadedness to him now, like when he'd overexerted himself during a battle without replenishing his fluids. He was…they were going to…

"You'll let me live?" The words were barely above a whisper. "I…I can stay a trooper?"

"Yes, under the condition that you do not reveal yourself to others. You are not to speak of what you did on Umbara, to anyone."

Dogma rubbed at his face, his fingers lingering a little over his tattoo. He was not to reveal himself, but live solely by his new identity? That would mean that Dogma would cease to exist. He would have to live as someone new, someone who had never been to Umbara. Could he do that? Leave everything he was behind, including the name he had so proudly chosen for himself?

He would be able to stay a trooper and that was still important to him. More than that, he would be able to be a trooper who had never betrayed his brothers; a man who had not actually felt satisfaction at the thought of executing two of his comrades.

In some ways, it would be a clean start. He would carry with him the burden of the memories, the shame, but he would not have to look Fives or Jesse in the eyes every day, knowing that if he'd had his way, the only reward they would have reaped for their courage was an execution at the hands of fellow clones. An action that would have negated Hardcase's sacrifice. If he went somewhere where no one knew him, where he would not have to be Dogma, then he would not hear the whispers of "traitor" as he walked through the corridors. And maybe, just maybe, he could find some redemption as well. He was a good trooper; maybe he could become a good brother again, if only he put his whole being into it.

"I don't know what to say," Dogma finally admitted.

Windu nodded, perhaps in understanding or perhaps in acceptance of his words. The Jedi Master pulled another datapad from his robes and handed it to Dogma.

"Here are your traveling orders and new ID," he said. "You are leaving the Repute in two hours on a transport shuttle that will take you to Coruscant. From there, you will be assigned to a new company in need of replacement troops."

Wordlessly, Dogma took the pad and stared down at it. He couldn't really believe any of this was happening. Could all this just be an anesthesia-induced dream and he was already lying on a Kaminoan operating table, breathing his last? It seemed the most likely explanation. After all, he had killed a Jedi. He had tried to stop his captain from capturing a dangerous criminal. How had he deserved this second chance, this…this kindness?

"I will not disappoint you, General," Dogma vowed, as he gazed up from the pad that contained his new life to look at the still stoic Jedi. "I'm a good trooper, you'll see."

"Indeed," General Windu said and Dogma didn't know if it was a question or a sarcastic rejoinder. It didn't really matter. Either way, he swore he would prove himself worthy of this gift. And worthy of his brothers' trust.

I'll make you proud, Tup. You'll see; I won't raise a blaster to another brother ever again. 

The flight to the cruiser was anything but peaceful.

The replacement troops in the shuttle were a mixed lot, shinies and experienced clones, though the former definitely outnumbered the latter.

The shinies were chattering eagerly amongst themselves, speculating about what their post would be like, their commander and when they would see their first real action.

The more experienced clones were half-listening to this enthusiastic exchange with mixed emotions of indulgence, exasperation and amusement, while talking more quietly amongst themselves, swapping war stories.

One of these troopers turned towards the man sitting next to him. He'd been quiet for most of the trip, mostly listening instead of talking, but he'd caught the attention of some of the battle-tried troops. His armor was white, unmarked by either paint or scratches, but the trooper could tell that this brother was no shiny. The way he carried himself, the alertness in his movements, the shadows in his eyes; this brother had seen combat, no doubt about it. The armor was an anomaly, but one easily explained. Kit got damaged during a fight and had to be replaced with a new set. The trooper figured this poor guy probably hadn't even had the time to put his stripes on, before he'd been shipped out.

"So what's your name?" he asked, deciding to be friendly.

"Hmmm?" the other man looked at him, a little startled. He'd clearly been elsewhere in his thoughts.

The trooper studied the face for a few seconds, memorizing all of the tiny indicators that differentiated one clone from another. This trooper had hair that he'd shaved to a fine fuzz, barely covering his skull. There were a few lines around his mouth, as if he did not smile often. There was also a stretch of skin across the left half of his face, roughly V-shaped, that was a few shades lighter than the rest. A newly healed injury, most likely. It had been well treated, the trooper noted with an experienced eye. Another few weeks and you'd never be able to tell that there'd been something there in the first place.

"Your name," the trooper repeated, smiling indulgently at the other man. "I asked you who you were." Deciding to start things off, the trooper stuck out one gauntleted hand in greeting. "I'm Burc."

The other trooper regarded his outstretched hand for a moment, as if he weren't quite sure what to do with it, then tentatively reached out and grasped it. He had a good, strong grip.

"I…" the trooper hesitated, ducking his head, "I don't have a name yet."

Burc's eyebrows rose almost to his hairline in surprise. A trooper who'd seen combat who did not yet have a name? That was certainly unusual, but it would explain the man's reaction. Burc guessed that the other trooper must be embarrassed.

"That's alright," Burc told him, trying to make light of the situation. "I'm sure if we put our heads together, we can figure something out."

The nameless trooper searched his face for a moment, then gave a tentative nod in acceptance. "I would like that," he said slowly.

His manner reminded Burc of someone walking through a minefield with a defective HUD, his steps cautious and testing. Burc decided he liked this man.

"So," he said, deciding to bring their conversation to a different track, "what do you think our new assignment will be like?"

The nameless trooper didn't answer right away, but glanced towards a bulkhead, his gaze intent, as if he could already see their destination.

"I don't know," he finally said. "But I will do my best to be worthy of the trust placed in me."

To Burc, it sounded like a vow. He thought it was a good one.

Chapter Text

Author's Note:  This chapter is set in season 2, before episode 20, "Death Trap". 

Lucky

"You sure this is gonna work?" Aurra Sing asked.

"Yes, I'm sure," Boba told her, practically having to push the words out from between his clenched jaws. This was not the first time that the bounty hunter had voiced her doubts about his plan. Weren't employees supposed to go along with whatever the boss told them to do, no questions asked?

Aurra, of course, didn't miss the thinly hidden anger in the teenager's voice. One spindly white arm draped over the pilot's chair, she leaned even further forwards until she could bend her long frame enough around the chair to look at Boba's profile. The effort made her look like a monga snake and just as deadly.

"Listen, honey," she told him, "you'd better learn to watch your tone, before I give you a lesson in manners."

Boba didn't even look at her; he simply turned Slave I sharply to port side. The sudden listing of the ship, as well as the general heavy buffeting from one of the many storms that were the norm on Kamino, caused the infamous bounty hunter to momentarily lose her balance. Not enough to send her sprawling, of course. Aurra Sing was far too skilled for that. But it was enough to get her out of his personal space and that was good enough, for now.

Eyes still determinedly fixed on the viewport, Boba said to the fuming Aurra, " I pay you. And quite well in fact. So don't lecture me about manners, because I'm the boss in this operation." He diverted a moment of his attention away from the storm raging outside of the ship, letting her see just how unamused and unafraid he was. "So if you want to see even a single credit chip, I suggest you go down to the hold and make sure that Bossk and Castas are ready."

Their eyes met; frosty green against unyielding brown. This was a huge risk he was taking and not just because his attention should be on the storm trying to dash Slave I into the tumultuous ocean that covered Kamino's surface. Aurra Sing was an unpredictable character at the best of times and vexing her was like playing a game of scared nuna with a tuk'ata. And she had years, height, weight, reach and experience on him, not to mention the fact that he was stuck, seated behind the steering yoke of Slave I. But if there was one thing his father had taught him, it was that no one had the right to disrespect him. He was Boba Fett, the son of the greatest bounty hunter the galaxy had ever seen and well on his way to besting his father's legacy. And she worked for him. 

The moment stretched like a starscape during a hyperspace jump, with neither bounty hunter willing to break off the staring contest first. Then, abruptly, Aurra laughed. It wasn't a full-hearted laugh denoting true amusement, but more like dark ripples that spread from her and through the cockpit.

"Alright, honey," she said, her voice almost, but not quite fond. "Agreed, you're the boss." She waved one long-fingered hand in acceptance. "I'll go check on Bossk and Castas." And with that, she was gone.

Boba breathed a sigh of relief, then hastily turned his attention back to his instrument panel, correcting the slight divergence their course had taken during his confrontation with the female bounty hunter. Well, he couldn't really call it a confrontation; more like a testing of his strength. She did that, and it reminded him a little of his father. Not that Aurra Sing and Jango Fett had anything in common, but…these days, practically everything reminded him of his father. Perhaps h i s nostalgia did make sense, in some way. Aurra Sing and Jango Fett had been both rivals in the trade, as well as occasional compatriots. She'd known his father fairly well, or as well as any living being had known the enigmatic bounty hunter, aside from Boba. Since his escape from the orphanage on Bespin, Aurra had taken an almost proprietary stance towards him. She seemed content with cashing in and helping him get his revenge on the man who had killed his father, occasionally teaching him tricks of the trade that his father…Boba swallowed…that his father had not had time to teach him.

It had been over a year and still that loss at times threatened to overwhelm him. It hadn't been fair. His father had been a great man, the best of the best in the trade. He had deserved a better death…a far more noble death, than being decapitated by a lucky strike from a skrag Jedi. He should have had better…he should have had more time… they should have had more time.

Angrily, Boba quickly wiped at his eyes with his sleeve. It wouldn't do to be caught with tears on his cheeks by Aurra and the others. They might be willing to help him now, Aurra might even feel some vestige of loyalty towards him, but they were still the scum of the galaxy. One show of weakness and they would think they could take advantage of him as if…as if he were some kid. 

And he had work to do. Sniffing once, Boba deftly turned Slave I into the raging winds. If he squinted, he could already see the shadowy outline of Tipoca City through the torrents of rain and flashes of lightning.

Carefully, he scanned the instruments in front of him, keeping a close eye on the power outlet readers. Due to its importance to the Republic, Kamino had come under direct Separatist attack twice now. Since the last attack, a bare month ago, security had been impossibly tight. Impossible, that is, unless you were the son of Jango Fett. His father had made sure that Boba was familiar with all the major starship configurations in the galaxy and particularly, with the ones that were closest to Kamino. As a result, Boba knew the routines and functions of the Acclamator and Venator -class assault ships and Star Destroyers as well as the clones that worked on them. He had bypassed the blockade around the planet by coming out of hyperspace well out of active sensor range, then letting the ship simply drift; the forward motion of their initial exit from hyperspace enough to keep them moving towards the ring of warships. The Firespray- 31 was a small craft in comparison to most and with everything but life support shut down, the sensors of the big ships hadn't picked up more than a drifting object that had a similar consistency to an asteroid and which could be easily deflected by the passive shields. That, his father had pointed out to him, was one of the major faults of modern ships. Sensors were often pre-programmed with the general identification markers of enemy ships. The orbiting Star Destroyers were primed to scan constantly for any configuration that matched a Separatist warship. Anything that didn't match those immediate parameters was scanned, then compared to onboard files. If the automated system matched the scanned object to something in the files marked as non-lethal, the ship's computers wouldn't even alert the crew on duty that the scanners had picked up something.

" You need to be able to trust your gear," his father had told him. "But don't trust it to the point that you forget to double and triple-check everything." 

The clones aboard those Star Destroyers had not had a father to teach them that lesson. Slave I had drifted beneath the orbiting cruisers undetected and all Boba'd had to do then was wait for the next garbage dump. Every ship had recyclers, but for some of the more bulky trash – unusable parts of the small starfighters, or the big fuel cells – recycling was too costly. So that trash was collected in a garbage compactor. Once full, the compactor would be emptied into space and the trash left to burn up in the atmosphere of the nearest planet. It was clean, efficient and cheap. And useful for anyone who wanted to run a blockade.

That was how Boba and his crew had gotten into Kamino's atmo. They had followed the trash, the quick spurts of the engines Boba had had to apply hidden by the general mass of the trash being evicted. Not a particularly difficult maneuver – he'd practiced it a number of times on the simulator under his father's watchful eye – but a lot depended on timing. Not just when slipping undetected through the blockade. Boba had had to time the entire operation, from start to finish, with unerring precision. Because once in atmo, he'd have to fire up Slave I to full power and that would be detected by planetary sensors. Unless, of course, there were other energies at play that would run interference. Which was why, with gritted teeth, Bob was now maneuvering Slave I through a class four storm, his knuckles white as he gripped the steering yoke and fought for control over the ship.

Up until a year ago, Boba had spent all of his life on Kamino. He was no stranger to the often violent storms that raged across the planet and was well familiar with the havoc they could play on Tipoca's exterior sensors. The Kaminoans were good engineers, some of the best, and they'd been battling the storms for centuries. But no amount of tech could compensate completely for atmospheric conditions in which lightning could strike an area of maybe a mile a good dozen times in less than twenty minutes. Boba had kept Slave I drifting long enough in space until he was sure that a major storm front was moving towards Tipoca. Then he'd had to hope that a garbage dump would take place about the same time, which it had. As long as he kept the ship abreast with the storm and just a few meters above the ocean, the atmospheric conditions and the energy dispersals created by the oceanic tides would hide any of Slave I 's energy outputs; keeping them essentially invisible to the sensors on Tipoca. As long as he didn't activate too many of the ship's functions, like weapons and shield arrays.

A particularly big gust of wind caught the ship, pressing down on the hull with enough force that for a moment, the waves caught the tip of the Firespray's elongated hull. Slave I gave a tremendous lurch and Boba fought to keep the ship from keeling over into the storm-tossed ocean. There was shouting from the hold, demands to know what was going on, but Boba ignored them. The ship's engines strained, the stabilizers fighting not just the winds, but the ocean's pull as well. Finally, with another lurch, Slave I freed itself from the ocean's grasp and rose once more into the air. Arms still shaking from the strain, Boba heaved a sigh.

There was the sound of hasty steps, then Aurra swung herself into the cockpit. "Boba, what's going on?" she demanded, scanning the cockpit for obvious signs of threat.

"Nothing, Aurra. Just got caught up in the storm. It doesn't matter; we're almost there." He jerked his chin towards the viewport. Aurra came to stand next to the pilot's chair again, her eyes fixed on the shadowy outline of Tipoca. It was close, and getting closer.

A near-smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. "We're almost there," she repeated the words quietly. She cast him a quick, searching look. "Are you ready?"

Boba nodded grimly. "As ready as I'll ever be," he told her. Then added, in a voice so quiet he wasn't sure if it wasn't just meant for him, "I want Windu dead."

A spindly, long-fingered hand descended onto his shoulder. The fingers gave a squeeze and lightning played off of the inhumanly white flesh. "I know, Boba," Aurra told him, her voice almost kind. "I want him dead, too." There was poison behind her words. Aurra Sing had no more love for the Jedi than he did. Another reason why their partnership had worked out so well. That and the promise of a minor fortune in creds from his father's bank account on Aargau.

With Aurra hovering next to him like a poltergeist, Boba maneuvered Slave I through the storm until they were directly beneath the stilted city. With a few deft turns of the steering yoke, Boba turned the ship onto what would be considered its back. The maneuver caused a shift in their spatial alliance, were straight ahead was suddenly straight down. Gravity pressed Boba against his safety webbing, while Aurra had to jam her feet through the weldings keeping the chair to the floor, stretching her unnaturally long body until one hand had a firm grip on the back of the pilot's chair and the other was braced against a bulkhead. Down in the hold, Boba knew, Bossk and Castas would be firmly strapped into the jump seats.

With the viewport now pointed directly at the restlessly dark waters of Kamino's planetary ocean, Boba had to rely on the ship's sensors to see him through this next piece of tricky maneuvering. There was a hatch at the underside of the city, one that led directly into the underlevels and which had been forgotten by the Kaminoans along with most of the rest of the city's underground. This was a part of the city that had been built just as the catastrophic climate change that had turned Kamino into an ocean world had overwhelmed the last bit of land. The Kaminoans, only partially aquatic, had erected these stilted cities in a panic. The contemporary Kaminoans did not like to think of those times; hating to admit that mere nature had bested them. So it was that this hatchway remained overlooked by the new security measures installed by the Republic. Now all Boba had to do was align Slave I's hatch, without having the ship dashed against the curved durasteel underbelly of the city.

There was a clang, then a squeal as durasteel scraped against durasteel.

"Boba." Aurra dragged out his name in warning.

"I got it, I got it," he told her, working furiously at the controls. Another clang and then the indicator light went green. The hatches were connected.

As one, Boba and Aurra breathed out a sigh in relief. With a swift movement of her long fingers, she unclipped his safety webbing, nearly sending Boba hurtling towards the viewport. But those same fingers gripped the hem of his shirt, pulling him bodily out of the pilot chair and setting him on the now vertical floor. Boba scrabbled for a purchase, quickly flinging himself to the side, so that his back pressed against the back of the pilot chair. He glared at Aurra.

The bounty hunter simply arched an amused, practically invisible eyebrow at him. "No time to dally, honey." Her eyes, accentuated by the black strip of camouflage paint surrounding them, glinted in the darkness of the cockpit. "You've got a transport to catch and I would hate for you to miss it. After all, we paid good creds for the information."

"Don't you mean I paid good creds?" he growled at her, but it was mostly for show. Just a means of reminding her that he would not allow himself to be pushed around. She was essential to this plan. Boba might have supplied the cash, but it had been Aurra who had scouted the cantinas frequented by the non-clone Republic navy officers. It had been her who had finally hit upon one petty officer, a chatty drunk with a liking for Toydarian whiskey. Aurra had been the one who had gotten that one golden nugget of Intel out of the man: High General Mace Windu was scheduled to travel with the Star Destroyer Endurace, a visit that just so happened to coincide with an educational tour of a Clone Youth Brigade. A Clone Youth Brigade whose members just so happened to look exactly like Boba.

And she was right about something else. Timing was everything in this and he only had a limited window in which to infiltrate Tipoca and get where he needed to go. He hauled himself along, Aurra close on his heels, from time to time giving him quick, but powerful, shoves to keep him moving.

He passed Bossk and Castas, both of whom were still safely strapped to their seats. Castas, as usual, was complaining. "E-eh," the Klatooinian bounty hunter said, his nose sniffling as if he had a perpetual cold. "What's the hold-up here, eh? I want to get off of this roiling puddle already."

Aurra hissed at him, her green eyes flashing like firegems. "Shut your gob, you slobbering piece of flab. We'll leave when everything is in place and not a moment sooner."

The Trandoshan Bossk had the good sense to remain silent.

Boba ignored them and kept climbing until he reached the hatch. Typing in the override lock codes, Boba waited for the pressurized clamps to cycle shut against the underhull of Tipoca. When the light at the lock panel glowed green, the hatch slid back with a hiss of escaping, pressurized air. The security caution wasn't really needed; they were in atmo after all. But the system had been designed for boarding captured vessels and the security measures could not be overridden; a safety precaution against potential saboteurs. “You don’t take chances in space,” his father had told him .

The opened hatch revealed another locked door. This one led inside Tipoca. Now came the tricky part. The hatch, of course, was locked tight. Boba wedged himself into a corner between two bulkheads and pulled out his slicer spike. He felt Aurra shift, one hand coming up to brace the underside of one of his feet. He glanced down at her quickly, wanting to thank her for the courtesy, but she only narrowed her eyes at him.

"Get moving, Boba," she warned.

He understood. In this business, there was no time for thanks. He inserted the spike, watching as the device went through several sequences, trying to unlock the ancient mechanism. Boba was pretty sure that no one had used this access hatch in at least a century and it had probably been that long since the codes had been updated. He was right; the slicer spike didn't even need more than three seconds to unlock the hatch. Boba could only marvel at the general arrogance of the Kaminoans. Did they really think they were so secure, so safe behind their Republic blockade, that they didn't have to bother locking down every single access way?

What does it matter? he reminded himself, as the hatch swung open and very bright, almost blindingly white light filtered into the darkened interior of the ship. Bossk hissed as the light hit his more sensitive eyes, protective membranes descending in an instinctive reaction. Boba hauled himself through the access hatch, helped along by a powerful boost from Aurra. For so spindly a creature, she was amazingly strong.

For a moment, Boba was blinded by light. It had been over a year since he had last been in Tipoca and he had forgotten just how penetrating that light could be. He raised one arm protectively, blinking rapidly as his eyes tried to adjust.

"Boba," Aurra rasped, trying to keep her voice down. "Boba hurry up. You don't have time."

She was right; he had to get moving. Scrambling to his feet, Boba instinctively scanned the wide, curving corridor for any sign of movement. Nothing. He hadn't expected anything else. Leaning towards the ground hatch, he looked back down into Aurra's face.

"I'm clear," he told her.

"Good." Keeping a firm grip on the hatch with one hand, Aurra pulled a small comlink out of a pocket of her skintight orange jumpsuit. "Here, take this."

Boba took the comlink, carefully turning it over in his hands. It looked like any other standard comm unit, the type that was ubiquitous on practically every Republic installation.

"It's a modulated SoroSubb Hush-98," she explained. "It'll piggyback a signal on any outgoing frequency, with a security encryption coded specifically to my brainwave patterns." She tapped the bare part of her skull with the tip of one finger, where a long, slim antenna grew out of the bone and flesh. Boba knew that the antenna was connected to a Rhen-Orm biocomputer implanted deep inside of Aurra's skull. Along with improving the bounty hunter's reactions and general awareness, the biocomputer also allowed her to receive direct transmissions into her brain. It was about as secure a means of communication as you could get. "Once the plan has been executed, contact me immediately." She leaned a little more forward, the bright light of Tipoca half catching her alabaster skin, creating a glare that was almost as strong as the one created by the sterile white walls on the upper levels. "Same for if anything goes wrong. And I do mean anything, Boba. Windu isn't just some sun-dazzled Padawan. Something goes wrong, you call for backup."

Boba nodded, for a moment, feeling like he was back in the apartment he had shared with his father on Tipoca. "A good bounty hunter works alone. But there's no shame in calling in for backup when things get tough. The goal is to survive, not to prove that you can take on the galaxy single-handedly. Only fools do that and I am raising no fool." 

Clutching the comlink in his fist, Boba gave a second, more determined nod.

"I understand, Aurra. I'll contact you as soon as I get onboard the Endurance. "

"See that you do," she snapped back and let herself drop back into the shadowy hold of Slave I. The ship's hatch cycled shut and Boba waited until Slave I had fully detached itself from the city's outer hull, before he closed the access hatch on his side. The hatch swished shut and Boba was on his own. Again.

For a moment, he felt a wave of near panic overwhelm him. He didn't want to be alone; not now, not again.

Stop being such a baby, he reprimanded himself. Clutching the modified Hush-98 in trembling fingers, Boba shook off this sense of forlornness. He had no time for such emotional foolishness. Luck had been on his side so far, but luck was not something you could rely on forever. He had a transport to get on and…casting a quick glance at his wrist chrono…only another thirty minutes to get into position.

He shoved himself away from the access hatch and began working his careful way through the abandoned undercity, getting steadily closer to the populated upper levels. He had to be careful. Officially, the Kaminoans had abandoned the lower levels over a full century ago. As such, signs of neglect were everywhere. The white walls were not quite as shiny and perfect as those of the upper levels and while there was no dust, per se – maintenance droids were still sent down here routinely twice a month – the air had a dry, musty quality to it. But that didn't mean the undercity was empty. During his time spent in Tipoca, Boba had been aware that the underlevels had served many of his father's former Cuy'val Dar members as a meeting place. His father had often used the abandoned kilometers of corridors and rooms as a training place for Boba. Boba remembered hours spent in these corridors, playing games with his father, all of which had helped to sharpen his tracking abilities and his sense of direction. There had even been rumors that some of the more unruly clones had come here from time to time, as a means of escaping the constant surveillance in the levels above. So while he knew he could move with relative security through the undercity, Boba also knew that he could not do so with impunity. He might encounter others; not Kaminoans, but no less dangerous to his mission.

By the time he reached one of the entrances to the upper levels, a good twenty minutes had passed. Boba had come up through one of the service corridors, meant to be used by droids and the lowest caste Kaminoans. As such, the corridor had terminated in a door that opened up into one of the maintenance closets on the fringe of the inhabited section of Tipoca. The lighting in here was the dim glow cast by a reddish glowtube. Pressing his back against the wall of the tightly packed closet, Boba padded down the front of his tunic, making sure that Aurra's comlink and his other tools were safely hidden. Next, he checked  that his clothes were neither wrinkled nor stained. His shirt, tunic and pants were in the exact same shade of red and blue as the uniforms worn by the clone cadets and of the same cut. They wouldn't hold up to close scrutiny, but Boba hoped that they would help him blend in until he got to his goal: the supply stores.

Pressing one ear against the maintenance closet's door, he listened for activity on the other side. By his calculations, it was very early in Tipoca's morning cycle; early enough that foot traffic wouldn't be too heavy, but not so early that the clone cadets would still be in their prescribed sleep cycle. This was the crux of his plan; the fact that he looked exactly like any other clone cadet. Boba might be the same age as the clones already out in the field, but without the advanced aging, he still looked twelve. Which, in clone terminology meant that he should be around six Standard years old.

Hearing no noise from the outside, Boba palmed the closet's door open and slipped back into the world he had called home for the first eleven years of his life. It seemed that nothing had changed. Walking down the grey-carpeted corridors, keeping his back straight and his strides purposeful, Boba walked past the same gleaming white walls; he breathed the same sterile and recycled air. Past the transparisteel windows, he could see the training areas, the mess hall and the spiraling towers of maturation chambers. It was all so achingly familiar that, for one dangerous moment, he found his feet automatically taking the path that would bring him to the apartment he and his father had shared. When he realized, Boba froze like a struck puffer turtle. Grief rose in him once more and broke his paralysis. He almost ran in the opposite direction, before he reminded himself that running would draw unnecessary attention. It was early, but already there were Kaminoans and squads of clones in various stages of development about. If he ran now, then they would catch him. And then he might never get his revenge.

Boba breathed deeply, controlled his racing heart and purposefully strode back into the main corridor that circled the entire circumference of Tipoca. He rejoined the flow of foot traffic, respectfully nodding to clones who bore the insignias of officers in training, even saluting those who had graduated and had returned to Tipoca to pass on their experiences to the next generation. He kept his eyes carefully averted from the Kaminoans. It was odd, doing the things a regular clone cadet would do. He'd spent most of his life living right next to them, but he had never been one of them. He'd never participated in their training, hadn't even talked to them, aside from his occasional encounters with those lunatic Nulls. And those had never ended well. But still, the act of blending in with them came to him so easily, it felt almost natural. Boba could almost believe that he was once more part of something, part of a family unit. Until he reached the nearest supplies stores and then it was back to the business at hand.

The door swished open before him and Boba hurriedly stepped inside, then dashed behind one of the many durasteel shelves, filled with cartons and crates. Just in time; he could hear shuffling steps come closer.

"Is someone here?" The voice was the familiar one of a clone.

Boba peered through a space between two crates and saw the quartermaster – the clone in charge of this section of supplies stores. The clone had the face of a man in his mid-twenties, but there was something wrong with his back. The spine twisted unnaturally to the right, the shoulder on that side slumping, giving him an overall lopsided appearance. The quartermaster was a bad batcher; a clone that had survived to maturity, but had not perfectly developed. Probably one of the Kaminoans's earliest attempts. Boba'd heard they had made quite a few mistakes before getting the genetic sequencing right.

The quartermaster turned his head from side to side. He had clearly heard the door opening and was now searching for the cause. When he swung around to Boba's hiding place, he could see that the quartermaster's face wasn't right either. One side of the face sagged oddly, as if the clone had suffered a stroke. And one eye was green, while the other was the same as Boba's own brown. But despite his physical deformities, those mismatched eyes were sharp with intelligence, wary now with suspicion and alertness. Bad batcher he might be, but he was far from stupid. The man obviously possessed a soldier's keen awareness of his surroundings and he knew that something in his environment had changed. He just couldn't see what it was. Boba breathed slowly and quietly, keeping very still. The seconds seemed to stretch until finally the quartermaster turned around and shuffled back into the endless rows of shelves. Boba suppressed a sigh of relief.

With another glance at the chrono – only five more minutes – he searched along the racks of shelving, looking for a spare set of cadet uniforms. He hoped he wouldn't have to venture too far into the stores. He didn't want to have to waste more time playing hide-and-seek with the quartermaster. Luck was with him. The third set of shelves he came to was entirely stacked with uniforms for cadets about his age. Quickly, he pulled down a new set of shirt, tunic, belt and pants. He changed, keeping one eye out for the quartermaster, before grabbing a pair of boots. The good thing about being a clone was that everything here fit him perfectly. He carefully replaced the various small items he carried with him, tucking them into the folds and pockets of the uniform; all except a datapad, which contained falsified orders for one CT-4403 to join the Clone Youth Brigade heading for the Endurance. When he was done, he bundled up his old clothes and stuffed them into a crack between a shelf and the wall. He picked up the datapad he'd brought with him from Slave I and tucked it beneath one arm. Making sure the coast was clear, he slipped out of the supply stores and back into the main corridor.

Now that he was dressed in the proper cadet's uniform, Boba could breathe more easily. There was nothing left now that could physically distinguish him from the other clones on Tipoca. It was time for the final stage. With quick steps, he made his way to one of the many launch pads that dotted Tipoca City.

He found his goal at launch pad 4.5 A and he was just in time. The two-row column of the Clone Youth Brigade was just making its way onto the wind and rain swept launch pad, hurrying in a synchronized quick-step towards the waiting transport. The transport that would take them to the Venator- class Star Destroyer Endurance for a hands-on educational tour. The same Star Destroyer that carried High General Jedi Master Mace Windu. The man who had killed his father. The man he was going to kill in revenge.

"Where do you think you're going, son?" A tall, straight-backed figure stepped into Boba's way. It was a clone, the sergeant in charge of the Youth Brigade, judging from the insignia on his uniform.

Boba steeled himself for the moment of truth and looked the clone squarely in the face, something he'd been avoiding thus far. It was his father's face that was peering down at him, of course. His father's face…and yet, not. The clone before him had the same features, but there was a sternness that had been lacking whenever his father had looked at him and lines around the mouth and eyes that differed from those Jango'd had. And the clone's hair had more grey in it than there'd been in Jango's at the time of his death. Actually, the clone was bald on top, his hair no more than a ring at the side of his skull. Was that a choice of hairstyle or was this clone simply older than most of those out on the battlefield?

It didn't matter. What did matter was that there were enough differences for Boba to cling to, so that when he met the clone sergeant's eyes he didn't see his father, but simply a man that bore a striking resemblance to him.

Keep it together, he told himself. You've come too far to screw this up now. Boba gave the sergeant a smart salute, handing him the datapad he'd kept tucked under his arm for just this scenario.

"Sir, CT-4403, reporting for the scheduled tour of Jedi cruiser Endurance. "

The sergeant frowned as he took the pad. "I wasn't told of an addition to the Brigade," he said, more to himself than to Boba.

"It was very last minute, sir," Boba told him, watching carefully as the sergeant scanned the contents of the pad. This was the part of the plan that he and Aurra had argued the most about.

Aurra had wanted to simply snatch one of the cadets, eliminate him and have Boba take his place. She had argued that it was the safest route to take. Direct and straightforward, there had been little that could go wrong. After all, he looked exactly like any other clone and could pass himself off as one.

Boba had argued against it. He'd told Aurra that clones were part of a tight knit community, where the smallest of personal ticks and characteristics served as identifying markers. If they kidnapped and killed a clone, he might be able to imitate that clone's outward appearance, but he would never be able to fool his comrades. They would know that he wasn't who he was pretending to be. Creating a false rank and serial number would be more complex and time-consuming, yes, but ultimately, Boba had argued, there was less of a chance of discovery. He hadn't voiced his more private objection of course; namely, that he didn't know if he could bring himself to kill another clone. Aside from the fact that each and every one of them was…his brother, for lack of a better term… Well, they just didn't have anything to do with this. He wanted Windu dead, not some poor clone who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Now all I have to hope is that I was right, he thought nervously and fought the impulse to shift guiltily from foot to foot. He had to act confident, as if nothing were out of place. If he believed the falsified orders on the pad were real, then so would the sergeant.

Time seemed to stretch as Boba watched every twitch of the sergeant's face with the intensity of a shriek-hawk. His eyes flicked towards the door that separated him from the landing pad and the idling transport outside. If this didn't work, then that was his closest exit. He had no hidden weapons on him, except what he needed to booby trap Windu's private quarters. If the counterfeit documents on the datapad didn't pass the sergeant's scrutiny, then he couldn't fight. He would have to run. His muscles tensed in preparation…

The sergeant gave an exasperated sigh. "Alright, everything seems to be in order here." He shook his head. "Really wish they could have given me a bit more warning, though." Tucking the pad into a belt pouch, the sergeant turned his attention towards Boba, hands clasped behind his back. "Alright soldier, my name is Sergeant Crasher and I'm in charge of this Clone Youth Brigade. What I say goes, is that understood?"

Boba went into classic parade-rest. "Sir, yes, sir," he replied, his voice crisp.

Sergeant Crasher gave a satisfied nod. "Good enough." He nodded towards the door and the transport outside. "Time to catch up with the others. We don't want to get behind schedule."

"No, sir, we don't," Boba said, and meant every word.

The sergeant ushered him outside and Boba leaned into the howling wind and rain, making his way towards the transport. He was on his way. In no more than a few hours he would be on the same ship with Mace Windu, the man who had killed his father. Only one of them would leave the ship alive.

And Boba truly believed that it would be him. After all, he was the son of Jango Fett, the greatest bounty hunter in the galaxy. The plan was well thought out and had been expertly executed up until now. And so far, luck had been on his side as well. What more did one need for revenge?

Once he and the sergeant were inside the transport, the passenger ramp closed and the engines began to rev up. Boba strapped himself into the jump seat, feeling the drag of gravity against his bones as the ship ascended. Around him, the other clones from the Youth Brigade chattered excitedly. They were on their way at long last. The Endurance awaited them.

Chapter Text

Author's Note: This story takes place in season 5, episode 15: "Shades of Reason"

Similarities

As she watched the Zabrak who called himself Maul and a Sith Lord explain his plan for taking Sundari, Bo-Katan had to admit that it was a good plan. The knowledge galled her. As if it weren't demeaning enough to be reduced to hiding out in makeshift camps on backwater planets like Zanbar. Now they had to ally themselves with ge'hutuun scum, like Black Sun and the Pyke Syndicate. Nothing but thugs, the lot of them, and she wouldn't trust them as far as she could spit.

But the thing that truly made her have to bite her tongue in the meeting, was that Pre Vizsla's authority was being usurped by that chakaaryc Maul. The Death Watch were the last of the true Mandalorian way, followers of the warriors code and Vizsla was their leader by right. He had proven himself the strongest among them, the most cunning of tacticians and the last member of a clan well known and respected. The Darksaber that Vizsla carried with him was not just for show, nor a family trinket passed down to him. He could use it, Bo-Katan knew that, and use it almost as effectively as any Jedi. That was why he led the Death Watch and why she and her Nite Owls followed him; because he was a true Mandalorian and, in her opinion, the true Manda'lor. 

So the fact that he would have allied himself, allied them, with an aruetii and his monster of a brother, had shaken her. She was still loyal to Vizsla; he was Mandalore's best hope for returning to its glorious past. But his insistence on needing the so-called Sith Lord's power disturbed her. She believed in the Mandalorian superiority, so the fact that Vizsla deemed it necessary to seek allies outside of their ranks had startled her. She never would have believed he would do something so…political. It had reminded her unfavorably of her sister. Satine had this annoying tendency to seek outside help, whenever a shadow dared to blight her sparkling vision of a pacifist Mandalore. Most notably, she would run to the Jedi for said help.

True, in the past, the Mandalorians had often sided with the Sith against the Jedi and the Republic. But those alliances had never ended well for the Mandalorians and besides, Bo-Katan was sick of having the Mandalorian name associated with mercenaries for hire. Alright, so technically, the Death Watch and the two Sith were allies in this venture, but the way that Maul had seized control over the meeting made it seem as if he were in command and everyone else, including the Death Watch, mere pawns in his scheme. And that brought her right back to her original grievance.

As Maul talked over the details of their deception of the Mandalorian people, Bo-Katan briefly closed her eyes, forcefully shaking herself out of her circular thoughts. She was a skilled tactician and soldier. Such thinking was counter-productive. She needed to approach the situation from another angle.

In a perverse kind of way it did make sense that Death Watch would now be allied with a Sith, just as their cause was at its lowest point. Losing Carlac had hurt them and she knew that Vizsla had been shaken by their defeat at the hands of a mere Padawan and a spoiled senatorial brat.

Yes, there was a twisted logic in the events of recent months. Satine called in the so-called peacekeepers of the galaxy to solve her corruption problems for her. So why should the Death Watch not bring in the aid of dark side warmongers? Bo-Katan was sure that, to her sister, the alliance would make perfect sense. She would only be able to see the similarities between the Death Watch and the Sith; or, at least what she believed were similarities.

As she listened to Maul explain the Death Watch's role as the 'saviors' of Mandalore, Bo-Katan was barely able to contain a snort of derision. She supposed that was what it all came down to in the end: perception. The perception of a people guided by their duchess or their own, frightened selves. No one was above the power of perception, not even her saintly sister.

Satine perceived all those willing to take up arms and fight for a cause to be, at best, misguided and at worst evil. She had never understood that there were differences in how violence was applied. And had she forgotten that the only reason she was still alive today was because her precious Jedi had been willing to fight and kill others to save her? Or that it was only due to the strength and willingness of the soldiers fighting for the New Mandalorian cause to use violence, that she was now sitting on her pretty throne? There were times when Bo-Katan really believed that her sister could be so willingly blind and self-deluded.

Of course the Death Watch fought and killed for their convictions. In this galaxy, what else was there? The strong took and flourished, while the weak were left behind to be grinded into the proverbial dust by the heel of the uncaring masses. But the Death Watch were more than an assemblage of terrorists and armed thugs. They operated under the warriors' code, believing in haat, ijaa and haa'it : in truth, honor and vision. That was what made them different from the criminals surrounding them now and from the Sith heading their strategic meeting. The Death Watch had something more than violence and creds to believe in, more even than visions and power.

A Mandalore that was once more the centre of the galaxy: a respected power and home of a great people. And to achieve that goal, was it not admissible to let some virtues slide away? Maul had come up with a good plan, had managed to organize resources of weapons and men for them. Did that not make their alliance, if not tolerable, then at least bearable?

And did that not also excuse the need to deceive the very people they were planning to save; to gain power not through honorable combat, but through deception and trickery? The logical part of her, the strategist and tactician said yes. But the leader of the Nite Owls, the Mandalorian warrior inside of her snarled at the very idea in outrage. It was wrong. If they could not lead their people back to their proper place through honorable means, then what was the point?

Even Satine had, in some respects, earned the right to lead Mandalore. She had, after all, survived the war and come out the victor. All right, so she had done it with the help of the jetiise, but Bo-Katan knew her sister. She might be a pathetic idealist, but she was not passive. Satine would defend herself and her precious ideals, but she would do it in a manner that involved talk and negotiation and compromise. Weak alternatives, but effective.

And that was the real reason why Bo watched the planning session with narrowed eyes and clenched fists. Why her comment about getting the troops ready had been so short and abrasive. Because Vizsla was using the exact same methods as her sister, to get what her sister possessed. Control over Mandalore through the means of political maneuvers and schemes, instead of clean warfare. Bo did not like the similarities. She had endorsed Vizsla because she had thought him different from the New Mandalorians; in complete opposition to her sister's faction of pacifists. The events unfolding around her were shaking the foundations of her beliefs and she did not like it in the least.

So she stormed out of the tent with the convenient excuse of overseeing the preparations and left Vizsla alone with their – with his – new allies.

Of course, she did not spend the rest of the time idle. Bo-Katan was never one to spend free time doing something as frivolous as pout or whine, just because the galaxy was not arranging itself to her liking. She was a Mandalorian warrior, not some laandur sarad, to be pampered and coddled and welt at the first sign of opposition. So she did prepare the rest of the Death Watch, ensuring that her Nite Owls had all the equipment they needed and were thoroughly briefed on the plan. She may not like either the situation or the plan, but there was no way in haran that her people would be responsible for any failures in its execution.

So she was in the midst of giving orders when the meeting broke up and Vizsla exited the tent, following on the heels of Maul and Oppress. That too made her burn. By rights, Vizsla should lead in all things, no matter how small.

And though it was hardly respectful, she couldn't keep silent about her misgivings any longer.

"It's a risk to trust those monsters," she said to Vizsla, as the Death Watch leader came to oversee the preparations that had already been made. "How do we know they'll keep their end of the bargain?"

It was a well-known fact that you couldn't trust an aruetii, particularly not a Force-using one. Whether Jedi or Sith, the saber jockeys had a history of reneging on any deal, as soon as they considered it more profitable to their private cause. And there was no way that Maul didn't have some private agenda. His kind always did.

"We need those Sith and their thugs to cause some pain and show the Mandalorian people how weak Satine really is. After this is done, no one will doubt why we're the ones in power. Most will welcome us." Vizsla leaned towards her and she could see the light of conviction in his eyes even as she heard his words ring with truth. He believed this. Truly and whole-heartedly believed that this was the best way to show their strength.

But she wasn't convinced. She had lived most of her life surrounded by those convinced in the righteousness of their ideals, and she had become inured to their enthusiasm. She was no longer a girl, to be swept away by the force of someone else's drive. She had a drive all of her own.

"Then what?" she asked, daring to question him, even going so far as rolling her eyes. For a brief moment, she felt like she was back in her old homestead, arguing with Satine, trying to show the older girl the depth of her naïveté.

"Then we execute Maul and those thugs. Those criminals will scatter and Mandalore will be ours."

The words made her smile; a smile of true pleasure. That was no politician's answer, not the answer of a pacifistic idealist too wrapped up in her dreams to see the true shape of the galaxy around her. No, that was the answer of a warrior who knew just how dirty a fight could get and who wasn't afraid to reach right in and do the job. It was the answer of a man who would do what needed to be done to return Mandalore into the hands of its proper protectors, even if it meant momentary subservience to a lesser.

Satisfied, she turned back to the job at hand, of getting the fleet ready to make the journey to Mandalore. It was time for the Death Watch to take its proper place in the galaxy once more.

And the sooner they got started, the sooner Darth Maul and his brother would die at the hands of true warriors.