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Chapter Text

---

Alarm goes off 6AM sharp. Cue, Thire groaning in annoyance and banging on the wall next to his head. 

Get out of bed, make the sheets, shove on slippers because the floor is always too fucking cold. Make his way to the tiny fresher and clean up.

Brush his teeth, brush his hair, wash his face. Poke the growing shadows under his eyes but never look too long in the mirror. 

Get out, dress up, armour on, grab his datapad and move out.

Ah, he backtracks in the doorway, reaching around the corner, Grab your favourite mug from your tiny shelf of belongings. 

It's 6.20. Head to mess for Kaff and bar. Don't forget - bang on Stone's door; he sleeps through his alarm because his mind has grown to ignore it.

"Argh, kark you, Fox!"

"You're welcome. Lucky you; you get first patrol call."

Ignore Stone's resounding groan.

Just another day in the Guard.

---

Commander Fox always arrived in the mess hall before the rest of the Day Shift. It was easier to grab all the prelim debriefs that way, putting him at least an hour ahead of the morning meetings with the security teams across Coruscant, in terms of information. 'Perks' of being head of the Guard, he thought drily,  Grabbing his triple-dose kaff from their ever pitying 'chef', aptly named Cheffer, he nods in thanks as the vod slides across a tray of breakfast. Fox's brow raises when he sees the contents of his plate.

Cheffer grinned mercilessly, all pity gone.

"We got donations, again. Fresh greens, too! Jackpot!" from the tiny Nabooian relief group that Senator Amidala had unrepentantly fostered, that meant, "If you don't eat it, you'll make Kuppo cry again."

Kuppo being their shiny medic who was already so stressed to weekly crying sessions and half-manic in trying to get the Commanders to gain some weight. Eventually, they figured out Kuppo had OCD - when the young medic arrived on the chaotic skughole that was Coruscant, the kid practically cried when he saw Stone's 'schedule' when he was trying to book a physical for the poor Commander. 

Mood, kiddo.

Medii, Fox's favourite medic (demeaning), was helping him, though. It took Fox having to talk to Quinlan (derogatory), but the Shadow got them the datapads they needed. Fox had to thank him, too, which the insufferable Kiffar still hadn't let him live down.

Cheffer was looking far too smug, shuffling the plate full of healthy food closer towards Fox. 

"Eat, Commander," his gaze darted up with a grin that showed just how pleased he was with himself, "Kuppo just walked in - he's hunting y'all." 

Fox sighed, turning to look. The young medic's gaze caught him like a hawk, striding towards him with mission directive in his eyes, wading through the food benches. Fox gave up and stabbed his broccoli. Looks like he was going to have to eat it now.

Cheffer walked away with a cackle as Kuppo plopped down across him, putting down his stack of datapads with his Shiny face full of determination. Fox resigned himself to his fate. He hoped that the infirmary reports would land on Stone, considering it was his shift tomorrow, but oh well. He could get the summaries done on the transport over to the Senate district. Kuppo had 3 datapads; that averaged about 30 cases and maybe some requisitions, which meant, that out of the 5-minute walk-run to catch the transports with today's platoon (reminder, he needs to check that list, too), and then the 10-minute ride over, he should have his notes done in about 7 or so minutes, to sign the forms and get the memos sent over to Stone. But that was on top of his security debriefs that he could already feel pinging on his datapad.

Yeah, and he would have enough spare time to breathe in the Coruscant fresh air.

For all that they split the work - across 11 Commanders and 30 Lieutenants, that's just the paperwork that requires their signatures - somehow, a planet of 1 trillion still had more paperwork for them. Wow.

Note the karking sarcasm.

"You've got 15 minutes before I've gotta run, trooper," Fox sighs as he checks his chrono, shoveling tuber mash into his mouth, "Hit me."

Just another day in the Guard.

---

This isn't my, this isn't my job, this isn't my fucking job -

And yet, here he was, with his not-job.

A Senator's baby in his arms.

No, no, no, n o -!

Aaaaaaand the baby just vomited.

Fox doesn't even bother sighing anymore - he's already filled his sighing quota for the day, and it wasn't even midday. With all his not-dignity, he fishes the spare rag from his belt while he held the finely-dressed bothan kit one-handed, leaning over his shoulder.

"You're lucky you're adorable, you little rancor."

The fluffy baby slaps his tiny hands in joy, smearing pale, stinky vomit all across his shoulder. Fox sighs - kids. Well... at least it wasn't shit (Thire - a story for another time. Jek has holos).

"So lucky."

Just another day in the Guard.

---

After another painstaking 10 hour shift surrounded by politicians and problems and politicians and their problems, Fox can finally clock out. Of course, even as he's trying to escape leave the building, he's dragged back for one thing or another that somehow needs his attention, and by the time he actually leaves, he's already lost 57 minutes of his off-shift. 

Those minutes are precious, you f u c k e r s -

Breathe. Fox roughly inhales, clenching his fists tight as he exhales, Breathe.

It's just another day in the Guard, you know this.

A Corrie's off-hours are important - even if your shift is booked, it's more likely that that timetable will be completely ruined by the time you get to the lunch rush hour. The few, meager hours of break, so painstakingly organised by Fox and his command's rearending, are more likely to be stolen away by incessant duties. You're really, really not supposed to be demanding off-duty hours from the army but... here we are.

The galaxy never cares. Apparently, the clones are fucking invulnerable and time-bending celestial beings. It's either that or their work demands are horrifyingly overestimated. So there you go. Guess the answer.

Fox had this internal rage all the time. Every day, every hour, every minute, every second.

A clone will rest when they're dead. The vode pick up the slack.

It was treasonous thoughts... when you're a clone.

It's called rights when you're a person.

Fox knows what he is. Knows what his Vode is.

The rest of the galaxy doesn't.

---

He still has three hours before he has to clock back in, so he makes his way out of the Senate District and drops by HQ to change out of his armour. Here, at the south outbound-inbound delivery entrance at 2100 every Taungsday, Fox waits for the triple-tap-knock on the side of the huge flimsi waste container he's sitting cross-legged in. Him, and three others. 

Rover, scout trooper sergeant of Gant Platoon, Ton, heavy/riot officer of Gant Platoon, and Loop. Everyone loves Loop. Loop is a 'butterfly trooper' - jumps to whatever squad they need xir in.

They all wait silently in the bin of crinkly flimsi trash, wearing civvy clothes, sitting with no light but out of their comms and trying to move as little as possible. They can't sign because it's too dark, but they do mutter in almost silent Basic or Mando'a when needed. The metal container was just thick enough that they could whisper, if they dared.

A minute passes by, orders echo outside, and the thump-thump-thump from the side of the bin finally knocks beside Fox's resting head.

Fox knocks back, once.

Hardly a minute later, the transport is moving with a rumbling roar louder than any of their whispers. It's safe enough to increase the brightness just enough for their enhanced eyes to be able to sign in Hand-speak Shorthand more clearly in the dark. The outbound trash transport carries the bins towards the outskirts of the sector the Corrie HQ sits in, and its fairly slow journey, wading through Coruscanti traffic. The planet never sleeps.

'L(oo)p, how (is) U-l-t-a?' Ton signs cheerfully to the whimsical vod.  

'Good,' Loop replies, hands waving with expressive joy, 'how (is) N-o-d-d-y?'

Fox can see the flicker of Ton's proud grin in the dark.

'Growing,' he replies, 'so big!' He waves his hands wider in expression, '(their) Birthday (is) tomorrow, (but I) have (the) present today, (theyre) colouring pencils.'

Loop and Rover pat and shake Ton's shoulders with unrestrained happiness. Fox feels himself smile, too.

'Amazing!'

'IKR!'

'Must have taken a long time to get!' A long time saving up, sneaking about, digging through the commercial refuse.

Ton's smile is more subdued, shoulder's weighted by a tiredness all of them know. 

'Yeah,' he signs more softly, 'But (its) so worth it.'

They think about all they do, what they're doing, who they're doing it for and-

'Yeah,' Fox signs, gently nudging his foot against theirs. They listen, as ever dutiful, to their Commander. 'Yeah. It's worth it.'

So, so  worth it.

-

They can feel the transport slow as two thumps echo from the top of the bin this time. Fox looks at his vode, and they nod firmly when Fox asks if they're ready. 

It's at this part, when the transport has entered the blindspot, the waste center entrance only a few hundred meters ahead, that Fox and Ton can push open the bin lids and climb out as quickly as possible. The pilots, Rank and Hill, give them pats on the shoulders as they jump down from the transport and onto the shadowed roof of a disused building.

"Have fun, vode! Say hi to the kids for us!"

"We will!" Rover shouts back with a grin, "Now get outta here, you slimeballs!"

Fox sighs in exasperation as the transport pilots drive off in mock outrage, shouting obscenities as they go, regardless of their Marshall Commander.

Because Commander Fox isn't here right now; Fox the Vod is.

"Let's move it, boys," he nods to them, checking his chrono, "We're a couple of minutes ahead, for once, so let's use that time well. We've got exactly 2 hours and 34 minutes before Rank and Hill get back."

"Gotcha, Sir," Loop grins cheekily, giving him a happy salute, "Let's get out of here, then."

"Oh man, I can't wait to see Noddy's face!" Ton cheers as he runs down the rusty fire escape and into the alleyways. The rest of them follow suit, not wasting any time.

Tracking their way through the familiar alleyways into the semi-residential sector, they slow down inconspicuously as they approach their target, wading through the thin night crowd, hooded and masked up, looking like any other Mid-level group of traders. A cube, grey, utilitarian building, covered in a brilliant paint array of colours on the ground floor, made Fox's heart just swell at seeing it.

Tuvana's Orphanage of Yupai Sector, Level 211, Coruscant.

--

 The moment the caretakers see them, they're ushered straight inside the sea of colour, lights, and the faint familiar smell of dust in the old building. The matron, a Zabrak with wispy braided hair and a hunching back, Yuna, glares at them and they quickly take off their coats and boots. The older woman nods firmly.

"Good," her smoke-roughened voice crackles out, "Now, wash your hands and you can go up. How much time you boys got?"

Fox takes a peak at his chrono again. Ton and Loop furiously scrub their hands clean, practically running up the stairs and into the rumbling cacophony of the floors above. Rover follows at a slightly more sedate pace, laughing at his vode.

"2 hours, 15 minutes."

She nods again, patting his arm as he dries his hands off, politely arranging his trooper's civvy's.

"She's waiting for you," Yuna says, as wistful as Yuna could ever be, if she were capable of it, "Been waitin' all day, boy. As usual."

Fox can't help the swell in his chest or the weight on his throat.

"Sorry."

I would never leave her, if I could.

Yuna eyes him somberly.

"She needs her father, boy," the woman's gnarled hand squeezes his elbow. A shadowed look overtakes her gaze. "It ain't fair, on you, on her, or any of us. Remember that."

Oh, Fox's soul echoes furiously, I know.

"You never let me forget it."

Yuna grins sharply, and it's all crooked teeth and old fangs. She pats his arm with the finality that only an older person can exude. 

"Go to your Daughter, nakka tal. She waits too long."

Fox doesn't need to be told twice.

---

Fox bounds up the stairs, past the child floors, where Rover, Loop and Ton are initiating chaos amongst children that should be going to sleep soon, and arrives at the Blue floor - the nursery.

He knocks on the painted door of soothing blue, bowing his head in greeting as the twi'lek wet nurse, Satra, answers it. She smiles, bowing her head in return.

"Commander Fox," she says lowly, opening the door further to let him in, "It's lovely to see you again. Busy day?"

Fox smiles in a way that isn't too forced. Hopefully. Though it still feels like a grimace.

"Merciless," he replies, "As always. Just another day in the Guard."

Satra nods in solemn solidarity.

 "She's exhausted herself in excitement, but I bet she'll wake right up again, now that you're here-"

"Bu!" a voice squeals, and Fox's head whips around to the voice he knows in his soul, "Bu, BU!"

"Rhea," Fox can feel his face shine. He marches into the sleepy nursery without hesitation. The lovely yellow and pink twi'lek baby bounces even more furiously in her cot, arms up and grabby hands demanding, "Ner ikaad."

The tiny 2-year-old is practically vibrating in sheer joy, and Fox's tired heart revitalises in reciprocation. He effortlessly scoops up his baby out of her messy cot, one arm under her and the other around her.

"Ne' bu!" the baby slaps her tiny, pudgy fingers on her father's face, and Fox can't even complain as she squeezes his smiling cheeks. He lands a big fat kisses on the crown of her stubby, wriggling lekku, and she squeals at the tickle of his day-old stubble.

"Bu, stop!" she growls adorably in reply, furiously pinching his face more, and Fox can't help but laugh. He pokes her milk teeth canines and Rhea immediately attacks his hardened hands with bites.

Just another day in the Guard, where he's still alive to see his daughter another week.

Fox wouldn't waste it for the world.

Chapter Text

---

3 days later, it's Primeday. 3 days since Fox's last visit to Tuvana's and he got to go see his daughter. But it's been 2 days since he's had this fucking headache. No matter - His merciless alarm still wakes him at 6AM sharp, and he's this close to punching his chrono through the wall. 

Fox prides himself on his self-control, but he's had a pretty shitty week - when has he ever had a good one - and he actually, truly believes he's finally reaching breaking point. 

Wow.... it almost feels... momentous.

Sarcasm; his actual breaking point was one week after being stationed on Coruscant. 

He needs to send a message to Medii, to document it. It'll be great. Manda knows whether it'll be the anxiety attack or the kaff intake that finally kills him. The long necks can take his corpse and study it - maybe they'll finally overturn their studies on 'clones in stressful environments'.  Oh yes, Fox has read them. Fox has read all of the Kaminii studies on clones... well, all the ones his slicers could find, AKA, all the ones that the Jedi had access to, AKA all the files the Kaminii aren't hiding on purpose to make it look like they aren't hiding anything at all. 

He's been hacking Tipoca's server for oooooh, say, 4, maybe 5 years now? Idle hands and devils and all that.... anywho.

He gets up, gets dressed, knocks on whining commander's doors, ignores said whining, and heads towards the mess hall with his datapad, favourite mug, and his maker-damned headache.

It's 6.30AM, where's my goddamn kaff.

---

As the midday rush rolled around - so pretentious, this is Coruscant, all day every day is a rush - Fox didn't even bother mourning his poor, abused timetable that no one had any minutiae of respect for. 

His day began fairly peacefully. By 10am, nothing major had yet interrupted his schedule, which, really, only made him incredibly suspicious. It was just one of those days. A feeling. At this point, by 11:18 on a Primeday, he was just waiting on his kaff break, waiting for the proverbial fire. A Techie, Matti, a maths whiz amongst his original squad, once calculated the chances of each command trooper's 'day being ruined', ordered by weekday, comprised of all the reports over the years. Those reports were compiled, quite excellently in Fox's opinion, in order of severity and filed by the hour, day, and month. From Matti's funky-wunky, how the hell does he read it, it's just a squiggly graph, I will never understand it, mathsy-thingy algorithm, Fox's numbers came out ugly. That was the word he used: ugly.

Fox wasn't going to lie, oh no, he very much agreed. From Thorn's 15.1% on the average Primeday, to Sergeant Taffy's 45%, Fox had the absolutely disgusting statistic of a 67.8% chance of his day being ruined by an incident, regardless of severity.

Ugly. Ugly. Ugly little karking number, he hates that number, despises it with all his squishy, bloody heart. It wasn't as bad as his 74% chance on a Benduday, but this is Primeday - it's already an ugly day.

Why. Why him. Why him? 

What the hell did he do so wrong to deserve that loathsome, pathetic number? 

Regardless of the approximate 30% chance of something major not going wrong, deep inside, Fox's guts disagreed vehemently.

Fox looks at his chrono and narrows his eyes at the time reading 11:21. 

Where are you, you little shit? Come on, I know you're hiding somewhere, you karking disaster. Come out, I've had my fifth kaff today, try me. 

The shiny on duty with him and Private Rook walks into the break room, giving Fox a dutiful salute. 

"Sir."

Fox nods over his own huge mug.

"Ease," he mutters. Inhaling his high sweetener, high content kaff, he sighs. "Grab a jug, kid, and pocket a bar or two."

"Yes, sir," The shiny nods, pulling off his bucket and revealing his painfully young and unmarred face and that horrible regulation haircut that tries to fight their natural curls.

It doesn't get easier on his soul, seeing the troopers that they're sending out, younger and younger as the grueling months of war drag on. It's a gods-damned farce. This kid was what, 9? 8? With how Kamino seems to be trying to speed boost their cadets through training, Fox was appalled by the finished product, and it was a sentiment shared amongst the whole GAR. It takes so long to throw these Shinies into the best places he can fit them, pairing them up in the right squads, the right sectors, because he can't just pull them up in new squads or half-half them, either. With how many troopers there are practically wet behind the ears, Command has to do its best to shove individual troopers into squads, so that they don't imbalance their carefully catered effectiveness and instead gain some experience and karking finish their training.

Handling Coruscant required finesse, and most of the time, Shinies had literally never even heard of the word. 

Throwing Shinies in with other Shinies? On Coruscant? Yeah, not happening. They could go to their Batchmates in downtime, but by no means were they to really interact with each other on the job until they understand why. 

That lesson usually came quite quick. Sad, painful, but Fox believed in that ripping off a plaster philosophy bullshit, when it came to Coruscant.

The quicker you learn, the lesser chance you get decommed. Simple.

Fox just watches the clean, unrecognisable Shiny fiddle with the half-busted kaff machine out of his periphery. They've got about 3 more minutes of break, and the kid won't get that precious fuel in his body quick enough to be worth it, at this rate. 

He smacks the side of the plastic-metal, poor, old monstrosity, and with a grinding whirr, Betty the kaff machine of Senate floor 05 dispenses her brown sludge, life-saving, bean water into the pathetic plastic cup. The Shiny's eyes widen in that way every Shiny's does, and takes his cup with a grateful nod to Fox.

"Thank you, Commander."

Rook snorts from where he puts out his smoke against the dented ashtray, closing the window ventilating them of the stench and downing the rest of his own plastic cup.

"Betty's tempermen'tle," Rook scoffs, "Give 'er a light bash 'n off she goes. If not, ring the Engies to fix 'er later."

Fox tips his head to Rook in agreement.

"Finish your jug, kid," he looks down at his chrono again, placing his mug into the sink. Duties will clean it up later. He shoves on his helmet. "You've got one minute."

The Shiny's eyes squint in that determined way Shiny's be, and does as ordered.

He drinks the sludge as quickly as possible, wincing at the taste as he crushes the plastic cup and chucks it into the waste. Shoving on his red and white helm, he chases after Rook and Commander Fox. 

---

Stone would take patrol over office rotation any day. Doing paperwork for a whole month? Someone just throw him a riot, please, it'd be a kinder death.

Grey walls, grey halls, the dreariest of nat-born secretaries with the dullest of gossip, litte gods, Fox's office was more exciting than this.

Taking calls, filing reports, signing forms, definitely not looking at the hush money being passed down from Senators to their Aides to give to their one-night-regrets. 

Gods, it was like those soap operas Thorn's troopers all had a terrible taste for. 

How the Republic was still standing before the GAR had arrived? Stone thought it an active ironic miracle in a slowly collapsing void. Thire was pretty much convinced that there was no logical way the Republic even properly functioned before they arrived and Fox spat on all the 'organisation.'

The rampant nepotism, the rabid pandemic of corruption, the state of decay of the whole bloody system, Stone thought it a bastardisation of chaos theory, even though Fox sneered every time that that's not how it works. 

Coruscant is chaos incarnate. Therefore, chaos theory. Quite simple, in Stone's eyes.

Ah, Stone sighed, and speak of the son of the devil, and he shall appear.

"Stoner! My man," Quinlan Vos sauntered into the office floor, winking at the fluttering twi'lek receptionist, bandaged and bruised but otherwise in clean robes, speaking of some recent mission that must have run awry. Other troopers look up, registering the familiar figure with simple smiles or nods. Too much interaction while on duty was dangerous for any of them. "It's been too long! What, a month? Since we've last spoken - a pity." 

Not long enough.

"General Vos," Stone looks up with a raised eyebrow, watching Quin's eyes dart at his terminal. "You looking for something, sir? Marshall Commander Fox is still on shift on the Senate floors."

The kiffar pouts, and Stone doesn't believe it for a second.

"A disappointment - I was hoping to catch our illustrious Commander," Liar, he knows all of Command's timetables, especially Fox's. Just what is he up to now?  "Perhaps you could help me, instead, Commander Stone?"

With a flick of his gaze to the terminal, Stone realises the Jetti is looking for something. Again. Why not just hack us, like a regular nuisance? 

The hardness in his gaze gives Stone a level of seriousness he hasn't seen in a while from the Jetti. So it was one of those kinds of days.

With a nod, Stone turns back to his terminal and plugs in a drive, hidden in the compartment of his gauntlet. These drives that he and the rest of the Commanders have allow for... backdoor access, let's say, to their GAR systems. Whatever they did while these drives were plugged in would not appear in any log or cache. Ghost riding, hacking, really, of their own GAR accounts. Just coding these drives in the first place was grounds for treason, and Fox did well to remind them of the fact. But hey, what's one treason, compared to everything else they've done?

Quinlan hovers over his shoulder, blocking any view of his terminal, just in case.

"I need you to find me a place and name, at a certain time," Vos mutters low and close to his ear. Stone's fingers fly over the keys, opening their criminal databases and opening the filters. "2 days ago, Dusio Tratt disappeared between 11 and 11:30pm in the Tarash district. Last I saw them, they entered a red light district, and somehow, I lost them in a bar. Disappeared. I felt one faint echo, but nothing substantial."

"Dusio Tratt?" Stone mutters, finding only 3 beings with the name entering the district during that day. Aggravated assault, parking ticket, and accessory to petty theft. Vos points to the aggravated assault.

"That one," he mutters, "That's them, Bothan, middle-aged. The assault charge was a self-defense claim they lost, after punching a CorSec during a protest."

"Yeah," Stone squints, "Reporter? What's up with them? They disappeared?"

Quinlan nods, face grave.

"They were supposed to be my informant."

Stone stares.

"Huh," he breathes, "Yeah..."

Jedi Shadow informant disappears? A reporter, at that? Yeah, it happened often enough, naturally so when someone wants to blab their mouth. But if Quinlan was here looking for information? Then it wasn't just a regular silencing act.

Quinlan stares over the information as Stone pulls up what security feeds he can of the area. He rifles through the hours until he finds the timeline specified, and they sit back and watch the double speed feed.

"Look," Quin mutters, pointing at a grainy, hooded, hunched figure making their way through the crowd, "Dusio. I'm right there, not far behind. And look... we go in, but Dusio never comes back out the front door. I went through all the exits after, but I only found one echo, and that was at the bar where Dusio sat."

"Huh," Stone rubs his chin, sitting back in his chair. He stares in thought. "Theres no cameras in the alleyways, no way to confirm. That bar was a virtual blindspot."

"Ach, I know," Quin curses, running a hand down his face, "I should have been more careful. But too late now. Pull up all the video you can and put it on here. I need to analyse it."

Stone doesn't even blink as Vos passes over the inconspicuous little stick drive and plugs it in, immediately downloading the data the kiffar needed.

"Thanks, Stoner," Quinlan grins, and Stone grumbles at the horrid nickname. "Say..."

Stone hums, disconnecting his own drive and tucking it away in his gauntlet.

"You don't happen to know where Foxy went on night downtime 2 or 3 days ago?"

Stone stares at the kiffar. 

Kark. What is he talking about? He can't know about the kids, and 2 nights ago Fox's migraines kicked up again, so he was sentenced to bedrest, courtesy of Medii.

"I wanted to ask the old boy out, again, you see," Quinlan grins wolfishly, "Tenth times the charm."

Thank Manda. Stone scoffed. 

"Then good luck. Fox's migraines kicked up again. Maybe he'll finally throw you out of that window he promised."

Quinlan laughed, patting his shoulder as he stood back up from where he was leaning.

"I wish," he sighs dramatically, "Oh to be thrown by those wondrously strong arms -"

Stone pinches the bridge of his nose.

"Please stop, I don't wanna imagine your kinks, Vos."

Quinlan pokes the gap in his armour at his armpit, making him jump.

"Oh, you haven't seen kink, Stoner," Vos leers.

"Please just go already, I've got work," Stone doesn't hesitate to beg. "You owe me a burger. A Dex burger." or barter, for that matter.

Quinlan walks backwards as he makes a lazy salute to the Commander.

"Anything for you, my sturdy Stone!"

Stone sighs in relief as the Jetti finally disappears behind the closing elevator doors with a flourishing bow.

And just like that, it's back to dull, boring work. He might just wish Quinlan back.

---

It's 2pm and the end of their shift on the Senate floors that Fox's comm goes off with a primary notification.

C.Stone::  Priority alert - suspected robbery reported in Sector 65b, Level 308. Anyone free? struggling to find troopers nearby, CorSec dumped this call on us

65b? That was a 5 minute ride from the Senate station, if they take a speeder. They were coming right off their shift, how perfect. 

Fox sighed, keying in his answer.

C.Fox:: Rook, our shiny and I can make that. 

C.Stone:: thanks. currently amber warning, proceed with vigilance, witnesses report they could be armed

C.Fox:: got it. en route, eta 7. send coords

A clear ping, Fox sees the coordinates posted.

"Privates," Fox barks at the troopers trailing him, "Potential robbery, we got a call dumped on us from CorSec."

Rook groans loudly before picking up the pace.

"CorSec, sir?" The Shiny's eyes are wide as he grips his blaster tighter, "Coruscant Police? They can't do that, can they?"

"And yet they do, kid," Fox sighs, patting his shoulder, "Now lets move."

As they run to Corrie speeder, Fox jumps into the driver's seat as the other two barely have a moment to breathe and buckle in. Lurching and racing through the usual horrific, terrifying Coruscanti traffic, the Shiny feels his nerves grow.

I have a bad feeling about this.