Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The Executor was a magnificent ship. She had state of the art engines, a hyperdrive that outperformed every other Star Destroyer in the galaxy, and shielding that has taken on an entire fleet of Rebels. She also had many places to hide below the perfectly polished topsides, little pools of shadows and intricate maze of crawl spaces and narrow walkways to traverse the entirety of the ship undetected. And when outside the gutterworks, it only took a little fiddling with security feeds to erase any evidence of existence.

He may not have ever served on a star-faring ship before, but he had been on board long enough to be the Executor’s favorite stowaway to have the luck of having his presence uncontested and uncaptured by the hundreds of medical staff vexing over their missing journals for years- or so he’d like to think from time to time. It was the simple things that kept him going.

He settled into the shadows, breath trained to silence as he waited along a memorized route. He’s learned through years of experience of how to hide, how to wait with overwhelming patience. He was an immovable object in a world of unstoppable forces, and it was nothing to him to simply sit and lay low like an assassin in the night, waiting for the perfect timing for his prey to arrive.

And he did, the familiar lighter footfalls on durasteel floor, a touch slower than the steady, determined gait. Distracted- perfect. His muscles coiled under him, peering through the miniscule gap between the panels. Steady and still as a nexu with eyes on its next meal. The footsteps continued, and Admiral Piett appeared in his narrow field of vision, head tilted down towards his datapad as he flicked through memos while he walked. The shadows under his eyes were atrocious, and he mentally clicked his tongue, displeased but not surprised.

As soon as his target was in the right position, he pounced.

The Admiral’s first instinct was to attack- but he was all too familiar with this tactic. The blanket blinded the man, bundling and scooping him up like a burglar with illicit goods. The instinctual kicks thumped uselessly against the blanket, and- there was the angry hissing like a trapped cat.

“HACKSAW!”

Hacksaw ignored it, already smuggling the Admiral away into the walls in mere seconds. Drastic situations required drastic actions, and his usual methods would’ve taken too long. Brother Tactic #9 always worked- especially when they were least expecting it. Fox also made the furious hissing noises and wiggling like a fish in a net, always so furious for having someone getting the drop on him and being forcibly pulled away from his duties. He’d ignored him too, never letting them realize that spending all their energy pitching a fit and trying to escape was all part of the evil plan.

The path to his room was as familiar to him as his old armor. He could be anywhere on the ship and know the quickest way to his little hideaway. It took him no time at all before he was stepping up to his hammock and dropping down into the sling, pulling the trapped Admiral down with him. The blanket thrashed as Piett kicked and elbowed, trying to untangle himself from the confines of the fabric for several more minutes. Hacksaw endured the occasional jab, instead sneaking an arm under the natborn and loosely holding him. Waiting.

Eventually the energy dissipated, Piett dropping his head down onto Hacksaw’s chest with an indignant huff. His hair was peeking out from under the blanket, fluffy from static.

“I’m going to court-martial you,” the man grumbled against his uniform, cranky and snippy. Fox would’ve either loved or hated this little ankle biter of an officer, both because he was just so similar to the Commander. They both worked too hard, they both would fight tooth and nail for those they cared for, and they both hated how Hacksaw would bully them into taking care of themselves instead of trying to throw themselves in front of every danger and on top of every pile of flimsiwork. The others would flake almost instantly under a single blank look from Hacksaw, instantly going to catch some shut-eye or forcing the smuggled ration bar down their throats. Fox would always try to give his food to the nearest shiny (but in that gruff, I’m-definitely-not-nice way that was solely Fox), or argue that he needed to cover the extra shifts to give everyone else a break since it was his duty as Commander to make sure everyone was taken care of. Piett would’ve done the same, if he’d been a clone. Has done with the Crew down here in the gutterworks in the early days when things were still unknown and they were still trying to build an identity, a purpose.

Fox used to promise of drowning Hacksaw in one of the fresher’s toilets, so the complaint flowed by him harmlessly. Hacksaw patted the strands of brown consolingly. You won’t.  

Hacksaw counted the tiles in his ceiling, every rise and fall of his chest slow and methodical. It was a pattern that Piett was slowly copying without realizing, feeling his lungs expand and contract against the old wardog’s large hand holding him. It reminded him of the times, back in the early days of the Crew, when it was just him and the Captain. The man always worked too hard, unable to sleep under the unknown parameters he was working under. There were no rules or regulations to this job, no set standard or oversight from a higher authority. Piett excelled at rising to the task no matter how bizarre, but he was in a new ship with no friends and no crew to support him. It had taken a single week of watching the man spiral in vain attempts to trying to succeed at a job there was no description for before Hacksaw concluded the man was only going to collapse under the weight of his own stress and if no one else was going to take care of him, then he sure as hell will.

It had been the first time Hacksaw dragged his Captain to his hammock to get some sleep, and it hadn’t been the last. It wouldn’t be the last either, even if the man was an Admiral now.

Someone had to take care of him when everyone was too busy, and while the Empire may have taken away his purpose, Hacksaw was and always will be a medic deep in his bones. He’d taken care of his brothers, even those who had wanted nothing to do with him- a small natborn officer was as good as any.

Piett sighed, long and hollow. Even Hacksaw could feel his exhaustion, the stress and worry fluttering as bird wings trapped in the smaller man’s chest pressed against his side. He scraped his fingernails against his officer’s scalp, the hair thinner but softer than many of the clones’ had been. Fox’s had been coarse and thick, and always attempting to curl away if he’d let it grow out for a day too long. Piett’s also curled, but more in a cowlick than anything, occasional rather than chaotic. He hid it under his cap, but there was nothing hiding it now to keep the wardog from curling his finger around a lock.

“Max’s on radio silence,” Piett admitted with a whoosh of breath. Another similarity to Fox- the man would never admit to anything until he was bundled up like a tubie and cuddled with for a good three hours when he finally lost any inhibitions on his brain to mouth filter due to being too cozy (a weakness Hacksaw would never tell a single soul). Otherwise getting them to admit anything was like pulling teeth, and Hacksaw wasn’t impatient like the rest of the unstoppable forces in his life. He was content being the immovable object, the quiet, patient one, allowing the wild forces to simmer down and having them open up willingly instead of forcing it out of them out or having them shut down entirely.

Hacksaw smoothed his fingers through Piett’s hair again, a silent I’m here.

“Lord Vader’s searching for something,” the Admiral continued into the man’s chest. “Won’t say what. Now he’s got Max all over the place sniffing out Rebels and stars knows what. Shoved him into possibly enemy territory on Yavin with a small crew. Max isn’t a spy. Too big. Walks like one of his beloved AT-ATs.”

Hacksaw huffed out an amused breath.

“He does,” Piett reaffirmed. “He couldn’t even take one with him, planet’s full of trees apparently. I know we can’t be in the same system to keep them safe but… I just want to know if he’s alright.”

His words bubbled down to a sad whisper, and Hacksaw understood. He’d seen the same when Thire was called off planet and Thorn spent his entire absence pacing, or when one of the patrols went silent and Hound nearly drove himself up a wall. It was a brother’s duty to worry and care, even if they gave each other shit. No one of his own clone class treated him as a brother, but Hacksaw had always been there for the shiny who wanted a quiet place to read or when someone received the news they’d lost one of their batchmates and just wanted a good wallow.

Piett worried and cared for his friend and brother, and Hacksaw was here for him.

He’s fine. Hacksaw’s fingernails soothed against Piett’s scalp again, the man practically melting under the touch. The whole Crew was quite the group- between Piett’s rather secretive past beyond the “I served on an Anti-Pirate Fleet”, the Altoro’s family drama, Yuul’s “I don’t want to talk about it”, and Mycalith’s entire everything, it was certainly a jumbled mess of upset. The only people who had happy upbringings was Haza of all people and Pyres who had a family large enough to run a small cruiser. Flintlocke could be included since he had a relatively quiet upbringing but he was an only child and his parents died of old age years ago.

(Piett was still part of the group even if he was Admiral. It was just his crew now included the entirety of the Executor instead of just seven rapscallions and a wardog from a bygone era).

“I know,” Piett sighed, thin and wane. “I know.”

They were quiet after that. Piett slowly dozed off after fifteen minutes and thirty-three seconds, the bone-deep exhaustion from carrying around the stress and worry finally catching up to him. Safe. Hacksaw had carded through his hair, every repetition coaxing the Admiral further and further into sleep. It was when he was asleep and would stay asleep before Hacksaw removed his fingers from his hair, smoothing it back down into place one last time. The fingers went to his pouch instead, slipping out the string of tiny carved remembrance beads that clicked and clacked quietly, wood against metal, metal against plastoid, plastoid against crystal.

Hacksaw kept watch as his fingers traced along the ancient path of names and numbers he’d created, settling into a peaceful calm during his vigilance over his sleeping officer. It was four hours until footsteps approached, Venka’s face peeking in through the doorway in search for the Admiral who had gone missing. Venka merely met his eye, tipped his cap, and disappeared again, his own worries now soothed by knowing that the Admiral was in safe hands.

Admiral Piett got a full eight hours of sleep for once.

Chapter Text

Lieutenant Commander Iza Haza kicked her feet as she stuck her legs out over the edge of the bunk, the ancient comm slowly blinking as it booted up. She's been waiting all week with barely restrained anticipation, flying through her work for the day to have even a few minutes extra to revive the antique that was her only connection to her dad. He was such an old school nerd, but using tech this decrepit had plenty of uses. Aside from the obnoxious wait time, but that was due to the zillion year old communication network left to rot in space while newer ones were installed. 

One being's trash is another's treasure, or something corny like that.

She tossed her cap onto the mattress as she began to untangle her braid, the comm trying to configure itself as she waited. The white was almost blinding in the sharp lights, but she was used to that. It had made it easy for her dad to find her in a crowd, or in a ruins as it was most often not. She always cried foul when the only thing that kept growing was her hair, mostly since it always got that soft, wistful look and ended up on his lap with his hands pleating locks every single time with far too much skill for someone who lacked hair at all. 

Haza made a mental note to do just that the next time she saw him. Mandatory bonding time. She'll even pencil it in on the schedule. 

The comm suddenly chirped, finalizing its booting sequence. Haza dropped her hair to nab up the comm, instantly jumping on the messages. They didn't comm often, between hyperspace hating on the old networks and her dad always being off on some random, almost Wild Space planet. The last messages displayed were from their previous discussions from the week prior, but that didn't bother her much. That was normal for them. Instead she immediately to typing, dangling a leg over the edge of the bunk 

Direct Messages From little rora To tall atda

little rora: u die yet dad?

The message was processing- Haza set it on her knee as she finished taking out the last of the braid. The comm dinged as the message sent, much faster than what she'd typically expected. Her dad must be relatively nearby for the message to go through so swiftly. It only took another few minutes before she got a reply, forcing her to abandon her hair problems. 

tall atda: let me check. Hm. Nope i still have a pulse

little rora: WOW okay dad clowning on me i see how it is.

tall atda: but you still love me thats all that matters :)

little rora: ugh gross i regret it every single day too old man

little rora: so hows the swamp going

tall atda: its a temperate rainforest not a swamp how dare

tall atda: and its fascinating! theres several ruins ive been looking into-

Her dad went on a tangent as always, rambling about his findings in ancient religious temples and abandoned villages. Haza did her daughterly duty and made short comments now and then to keep him going, brushing her hair with her fingers and kicking off her boots. Apparently whichever planet he'd ended up on had several ancient sites dating back thousands of years, but so far no ghosts tried strangling him, so pretty boring then. 

tall atda: you know i met your aunti maxi and her kids just the other day! its funny who you run into when you least expect it

Haza stopped her hands mid-pull, staring down at the message. She didn't know anyone named Maxi. Didn't have an aunt to begin with. Or uncle. She blinked, reread it, and then her hearts jolted. She didn't know a Maxi, but she did know a Maximilian. Wasn't he assigned to scout out a forest moon? Forest planet? Whatever? 

Of course her dad would find his way to trouble since the ruins weren't giving him enough of a challenge.

little rora: aunti maxi?? like the one who looks like she eats steel for breakfast?? that maxi???

tall atda: yes! i havent seen her in ages but shes still such an anxious thing. got spooked goin to the store of all thing. too many people 

"Shit." 

Haza dropped from the top bunk, landing nimbly but nearly tripping over her discarded boots. It wasn't often they dragged out coded messages, but the last time it happened was when her dad was being hunted by slavers and she was on the other side of the galaxy. She forwent her boots, instead diving out of the bunkroom and rushing down the narrow gutterworks. She continued her messages even as she busted out of a wall and terrified a pair of technicians, eyes never leaving her comm.

little rora: like a store on coruscant or like a market stall on naboo? 

tall atda: like a blaster sale on corellia

"KARK." 

Haza squeezed her way through the lift door before it could even open, marching down the corridor with hair sweeping and bare feet on cold durasteel. 

little rora: ugh those are the worst. did she get out ok at least? no kids trampled? shame to not meet by cousins because death by sale chasers

tall atda: oh yes, just a little scare is all. you know how she gets.

Haza stormed the bridge without warning, startling one of the troopers on post. Her entrance drew everyone's attention, Piett lifting his head from where he'd been examining reports. 

"What-?"

"General Veers has found a Rebel base on Yavin IV," she interrupted, sweeping her hair over one shoulder as she kept her eye on the comm "No one's injured and they've squeaked out being undetected, but its possibly one of their main bases if not the main base."

The bridge was dead silent, broken by a rasping, mechanical breath.

"How do you know this?"

Haza glanced up from her comm, up and up to the ominous mask of Lord Vader looming over her. She rolled her eyes as invisible icy claws brushed against her skin in a threat that matched the low tone from the vocoder. Honestly, was this the time?

"My dad's an archaeologist," she retorted with an unspoken and sarcastic 'obviously' in her tone, attention back to the comm. "He's always off on weird backwater planets doing research. The older comms work the best in places like that, less regulated too, but we know how to be careful. He ran into the General while digging some hole, no doubt."

There was a brief pause, everyone collectively holding their breath. Piett's jaw was set and eyes determined despite the polite facade he was putting on while staring at the back of Vader's head. The Sith continued his looming before turning his head to the Admiral. 

"Set course to Yavin IV."

"Setting course, my lord!" 

The bridge was scrambling without Piett ever uttering an order to them, Venka plunking himself down at a free terminal to assist. Vader swept away to stand at the viewport, arms folding and hovering like a dangerous stormcloud.

A warm hand settled on Haza's elbow, vibrant green meeting hazel.

"Please tell them to stay safe," Piett whispered to her. "We're on our way. Coordinates would help but... nothing to give us away."

"Of course, Cap." She paused, frowning. "Addy? Admiral doesn't really have good nicknames."

Piett shook his head, giving her arm a squeeze, but the worry softened a little between his brow before he marched off to oversee preparation and rousing the troops for battle.

little rora: i just ran into aunt fira and she said if maxi doesnt go back on her anxiety meds she'll march over there and take care of it herself. Where did she even lose them to begin with?

tall atda: north part of the store i think, near that cafe i took you to once. the one with the mountain view

little rora: amazing. probably lost herself in the shoe aisle too. aunti is currently cussing while putting her boots on. maxi better be ready for the galaxy to fall on her head wherever she is

tall atda: ha, i'll let her know the next time i see her. Love you

little rora: love u too u big stinky

Dropping out of hyperspace with the Executor and three of her Fleet above Yavin IV was very much like kicking a wasp nest. The Rebels were left scrambling as Imperial forces proceeded to shell them with great prejudice, TIEs swarming around the colossal ships and shooting at every starfighter and cruiser in sight. Dropships landed on planet to chase them out of their hideyholes, and Lord Vader himself joined the ground teams with a dramatic billow of his cape. Several ships made suicide jumps in every direction, using the smaller ships' distractions to flee, but not all of them made it. For six hours it was complete and utter chaos of flashes of light, screaming comms, and scrambling to keep enemy ships from leaving the sector.

If they hadn't caught the Rebels unaware, it may have been a far different battle, but all in all, it had turned into a resounding success. They captured a transport cruiser, several dozen officers, pilots, and technicians, and were currently sending teams to decode the records left behind and repurpose their supplies while making another sweep of the planet for survivors. There was an estimate of the Rebels losing nearly a third of their fighting forces stationed there, the tallying of kill totals still rolling in from the TIE hangars. The latest reports on the ground were stating that Vader had made contact with "an unknown individual" and had yet to return, but considering their lord tendencies, they would give it another hour before they sent out a search party. The bridge was finally breathing out a sigh of relief with the last of the the Rebels being rounded up on the captured cruiser when they got the call-

"This is General Veers, clearance code 67UT901, requesting permission for a BT-7 Thunderclap, callsign Forward March, to dock."

"That's dad's ship!" Haza, who had watched the previous dogfights while being practically glued to the viewport with barely a twitch since the fighting began, shot off towards the door like a bolt, barely registering the call of which hangar they'd be landing in. She ducked under officers and elbowed past troopers on her way through, skidding to the hangar's entrance just as the ramp to the ancient but well maintained ship that was Forward March was lowering.

"DAD!"

Her yell echoed throughout the hangar, jolting the people around her. She didn't give one whit, instead barreling towards the ramp like a charging mudhorn. General Veers managed to get out of the way just in time, his uniform matted with mud and sustained multiple scratches and burns but otherwise hale and whole, but the man who had just ducked through the doorway accepted the stampede with large, awaiting hands, scooping the much smaller Haza up into the air.

"My little rora!"

Her dad was built like a tank of a Zabrak, only a breath shorter than Veers if not including the horns and limbs as thick as beams. It was almost comical to compare the two- he very large and her very small and petite. They bore the same complexion typical of Iridonia and horns to match, but while she had a head full of hair, he sported the traditional family markings that his daughter lacked, the intricate pattern wrapping around his cheeks and across the top of his skull. But his face was impeccably soft and kind, hoisting her up and spinning her as if she weighed nothing more than a cup of caf, causing her to squeal with delight.

"Dad! Stop embarrassing me in front of my bosses!"

He set her down back onto her feet, bending low to bump horns together. Haza couldn't help the happy little rumble in her throat, eyes squinting and pleased as she thumped her forehead against his own, horns clacking.

"Ah, but you're my favorite daughter! I cannot possibly stop showing my love and affection for you, my dear."

"I'm your only daughter," Haza rolled her eyes, giving him a mild jab with her fist which made him chuckle. "And stop being so sappy, old man. Honestly, I can't take you anywhere."

A polite cough sounded behind them, and Haza swiveled on her heels while her dad straightened back up. There stood Piett, all prim and proper as if he too hadn't hurried down several decks to make sure General Veers hadn't died like the worrywart that he was. General Veers himself was trying to wave off a medic, redirecting them to the other people of his group who were making their way out of the ship. Vibrant green and sunset orange eyes snapped to the Admiral, who merely gave them his slow, clam blink, used to Haza's antics to be startled by the twin feline-like stares.

She could instantly feel the moment when her dad figured out who the Admiral was within the first two seconds of looking him over, his entire face lighting up.

"Ah! You must be the dear Captain my daughter speaks so highly of!" In two long strides he was in Piett's personal space, taking hold on his hands in both of his own and ignoring the slight widening of the short officer's eyes. "Veers has also spoken much of you. It's good to meet the person who's taken so good care of my little rora. Thank you."

Haza watched with no amount of hidden glee as Piett's ears turned pink. Veers' lips were quivering at the corners, breaking his near perfect stoic expression.

"I- well, it's nothing to thank me for," Piett stuttered, the subtle glance down to their joined hands betraying his thoughts of whether or not it was rude to attempt to pull them free. "I was merely doing my duty. And it's Admiral now, Mr-?"

"Parus, dear Admiral. Parus Haza." He was shaking his hands now, gentle for a man with such massive hands and sharp nails. "And there is much to thank you for."

The honest gratitude was causing the color to creep across Piett's nose, clearing his throat a little anxiously. "Yes, well, I should be thanking you for your assistance today. General Veers would've risked greater danger being so close to Rebel activity if it had not been for you."

"Sorry for almost shooting you," Veers drawled from beside Piett, causing the Admiral to whip his head around to stare incredulously at him.

"You almost what?!"

"No hard feelings," her dad said cheerily. "It wouldn't time someone's tried, and it certainly isn't the worst thing to try to off me either!"

"I don't think the Executor's ready for two of you," one of the nearby troopers whispered to Haza, who grinned wide enough to flash her sharp fangs. 

"Just be glad he's too big to fit into the vents."

Chapter Text

Lieutenant Elco Mycalith sucked in a steadying breath, hoping in vain to stifle the fluttering nerves in his stomach.

He’d dithered on this decision for quite some time now, rolling the maybes and what-ifs in his head during the quiet hours of his down time. It had gotten to the point where he was fearing Hacksaw was going to steal him away for a few hours in order to make sure he slept, but he knew if that happened, Mycalith would never be able to convince himself to follow through with his choice again. And now that everyone had returned from Yavin IV, he gathered up his courage and decided it was time to get it over with.

“My Lady,” he whispered without nary a movement of his lips, pressing his fingertips against the gentle swirl of color of the bulkhead. “Do you know where General Veers is?”

Mycalith was still trying to figure out the strange blues of the Other Sight, struggling between the Other and normal vision as it flip-flopped without warning. Sometimes he could go all day in one or the other, and sometimes it would switch between the two- sometimes without him ever realizing it until he found himself squinting at wires or shirts in laundry and trying to decipher what color they actually were.

The Other washed everything in blue. Inanimate objects were pale, wispy, translucent things that sometimes were so diminished of color that they disappeared entirely into the background. He had tripped over far too many things as they blended in or became invisible entirely- the barest of outlines a faded glow. Objects brightened if they were used recently, like tables and chairs, soaking in colors from the living and leaving something like an echo, but sometimes things wouldn’t be touched for weeks down in the gutterworks, and so it a tad bit more difficult for him.

Living people were far crisper, their blues vibrant and not washed out. Most were a steady glow of a blue-white, like ghosts. They blended in for the most part, the colors mostly made of tails and wisps that curled and sputtered. He couldn’t distinguish much from them unless they were feeling strongly about something.

However… for people he knew, and knew well, the blues had… well… evolved.

For example, Piett’s blues were like looking at a tropical ocean Mycalith had been to once as a child, the blues light and warm and inviting at the edges and darkening as the waters got deeper- still warm but holding onto that sense of unknown, of what dangers or marvels were hidden in the depths. They were a steady crest and trough of waves, cyclical and calming, and even as Admiral, Piett would let Mycalith hide in his office just to bask in the peace of his blues when the Other became too much.

The Executor was another strange oddity. Mycalith knew from his last times planetside that walls were near colorless in their blues as all inanimate objects were. Even the TIEs and shuttles were not well defined in their colors. But the Executor was almost a shade of periwinkle, the near-purple sticking out in the world of blues. And even more bizarrely, the periwinkle would respond, such as it was now as it pooled under his palm.

(He hadn’t told a soul about it, because he himself couldn’t begin to form the words of what to say. He was already broken for the Other Sight that he didn’t want to become even more of a freak for admitting that Vader’s flagship was purple).

The periwinkle swirled beneath his touch, happy and pleasant before the condensed curl of color began moving down the wall, leading him further through the gutterworks. Mycalith dutifully followed over walkways and down narrow service stairwells, past the laundry room with its army of diligent droids who beeped and chirped at him in greeting, their blues muted but as varied as the thousands of working men and women on the upper decks. He was led all the way to the bottom of a laundry chute, the periwinkle circling around the opening.

“Thank you,” he whispered to the color, where it did some sort of pleased wiggle before dispersing back out along the walls.

He couldn’t make out Veers from this far down the chute, the layers upon layers of blues and periwinkle blotting him out. But he was there, somewhere in the blur of colors. The only thing he could do was to go up and find him.

The laundry chutes weren’t nearly as claustrophobic as they were if he could see it with his normal eyes. Instead of being almost pitch black and losing all sense of direction in the void, the darkness gave way to the colors beyond the chute and into the rooms and levels nearby. He could see several dozen unknown blues sitting around- a meeting room, perhaps, if the faint colors of the furniture weren’t lost in the swirl of the brighter, closer ones. A hallway bumped up against the chute, the patrolling troopers so close he could almost reach out and touch them. A few offices, either empty or the occupant bent over their desk as they worked.

At the top of the ascent he began to reach the living quarters, the chute giving way to hatches and proving more footholds. It was here where he could see the blues he knew, standing out among the rest.

Veers’ blues were a deep, rich, midnight color- a stark contrast to all the pales and bright hues that constantly tried to overwhelm Mycalith. They were similar to Piett’s ocean, except it was the deep swath of night sky, free of light pollution and clouds of smog that choked Coruscant’s atmosphere. His blues were quieter than Piett’s soothing waves, still like the glassy surface of a pond. There were occasional ripples, a peek of starlight, but they didn’t try to reach out and imprint itself on everything like Haza’s vibrant hues that stuck to every surface like paint. Veers’ blues were… polite was perhaps the best way to describe it. They would remain close to his person, only drifting if he was relaxed. If he was friendly with them and it was an appropriate time. The blues tended to drape over others’ colors- not smothering, but more like a heavy weighted blanket.

Mycalith liked Veers’ blues. They were soothing. Quiet. He liked Veers’ too, the man rough around the edges but he was overwhelmingly patient when it came to his stumbling and bumbling about. It was why he was climbing up several decks’ worth of laundry chute, reaching the height where he could see straight ahead and watch the midnight blues stretched out comfortably on the couch, fingers moving as if scrolling through a datapad. He licked his lips, the flutter of nerves back in full force as Mycalith tentatively tapped his knuckles against the hatch.

The midnight blues tense at the unexpected interruption from an unlikely source, balling up briefly before smoothing back out across Veers’ person as the man must’ve realized vaguely who could potentially be in the chutes. Mycalith watched as the man’s blues shifted, rising to his feet and walking closer, large hand lifting the hatch.

“Elco?”

“Hello, sir,” Mycalith couldn’t help but smile at the surprise in the man’s tone despite the anxiety knotting up his insides. “Can I… can I come in?”

He knew what Veers should look like, in the normal world. He was pale and tall and eyes sharp as durasteel. But in the Other Sight the midnight blues made him a consolidated piece of space in a sea of brightness. No, Mycalith realized, as he watched the blues with great interest. The longer he looked, the more he realized there was another blue hidden in the depths, thin and soft that blipped into existence as Veers realized who was in his chutes. It was… Plawal Juniper? Mycalith peered intensely at the strange, blue-green hue, bewildered. That hadn’t been there before.

A noise jolted Mycalith back to reality, blinking owlishly up at Veers. The General was holding the hatch open for him, an amused quirk of the corner of his mouth. He felt heat crawl across his cheeks as he scrambled out of the chute.

“Sorry, sir,” he mumbled, anxiety threatening to choke him all of a sudden. He found himself twisting his hands before he caught himself, smoothing fingers over his uniform to smooth out the creases.

“Don’t be.” Veers let the hatch fall shut with a clack. “Please, sit. Make yourself at home.”

Mycalith glanced around the room, nervous and curious. He’d never been inside Veers’ quarters before. It was quite… well… sparse. There was a couch, an armchair, and an ottoman in the small living space. A kitchenette off on one side had a caf machine and not much else. The opposite wall led to the door to the bedroom, the door shut. The few shelves in the room had some trinkets, a few personal affects, but otherwise the place didn’t seem all that lived in.

Even the periwinkle walls couldn’t make the quarters less… well… lonely.

Mycalith perched gingerly on the end of the couch, folding his hands into his lap. Veers was watching him, he realized belatedly, lifting his shoulders to his ears before forcing himself to lower them.

“I need to talk to you.” He was proud he managed to say it without stuttering, looking up at Veers’ face.

“…This sounds like a conversation that requires a drink.” Veers trudged across the room- not towards the small collection of bottles on the shelf that Mycalith first assumed, but to the kitchenette. He couldn’t see what the man was doing, the back of the couch was to that side of the wall, and so he busied himself in picking at a loose thread. The clinking of glass and the rummage through the build-in icebox. He started as the midnight colors curled over his shoulders before the hand appeared in front of his vision, the glass offered out. The liquid inside smelled sweet, tickling his nose with faint bubbles.

“Is that fizzy grala juice?” He couldn’t help the startled laugh that escaped his throat, accepting the glass. The idea that the tall, broad general was hiding children’s drinks in his quarters struck Mycalith funny. The midnight and juniper blues fluffed at the edges, amused.

“It can be our secret,” Veers said with the gravity of someone delivering a mission report, taking his own glass as he plopped down onto the couch. There was a respectful gap between them, a cushion left bare in the space as Veers draped an arm over the back of the couch, body angled towards him. “Now, what’s wrong kid?”

Mycalith fiddled with his glass, the humor evaporating like the little pops of bubbles in his drink. He took a sip, the sweet fruitiness coating his try throat. He was dawdling, he knew. Veers knew too, but the General was forever patient, the midnight blues steady and the juniper soft.

“I’m part Miraluka,” Mycalith found himself blurting under the stress of the overwhelming patience, then immediately backtracked. “I mean- I had an ancestor who was a Miraluka. I just got stuck with the recessive genes. It’s why I’m going blind.”

His shoulders were creeping up again, hunching over his glass as he stared into the bottom. It wasn’t the first time he’d told someone- Piett and the Crew had barely batted an eye at the admittance, Piett having access to his medical records and at that point the Crew had a half-Zabrak and a Kiffar in the ranks. It had softened the blow. The only thing he had saving him now was his trust in Veers.

But hadn’t he trusted his own family?

He could feel Veers’ stare on the side of his head, could see the hints of midnight creeping in the corners of his vision.

“…They got this weird… Other Sight, you know?” he found himself continuing on, drawing his fingers through the condensation on the outside of the glass. “It’s the blues. I know you’ve wanted to know, and I just… I can see people in blue? I don’t really know how to describe it. It just… comes and goes. Sometimes I see normally but everything is blurred and sometimes I see clearer than ever but everything is in this weird blue.”

He couldn’t help but laugh a little, sounding a little wet even to himself. “I didn’t even realize until I failed my first test at the Academy. I thought I was going colorblind, y’know? And then I sat in the medbay for hours letting them poke and prod and get all sorts of samples because my vision started going out and I thought I picked up some sort of disease, and it turns out I was just impure.”

That was the word that had been thrown back at him when he had tried finding help from his family. It was bitter on his tongue, his throat thick.

“They didn’t want anything to do with me.” The words came out fragile, unable to stop pouring out his hurt on Veers. He hadn’t even gotten to speak about this with anyone- he was sure Piett knew enough of the situation, the man always had that sense of knowing about him right from the beginning. He never asked, and Mycalith never mentioned it. But with Veers… he didn’t know why, but he just kept on talking after downing the rest of his drink, nearly choking on the now tasteless bubbles. “I was a blight and a stain on the family. They were an upper class family with vast business and political ties. They couldn’t have some… some mistake murking up the waters. My family didn’t want me, the medical staff were getting someone to come look at me like some sort of lab rat, the one relative who did help can’t even talk to me in person because he’s so busy and all I get out of it is seeing stupid blue-“

Juniper settled over him, warm and solid that was backed by the midnight blues of Veers’ arm. The General had slid across the couch without a sound, his glass left empty on the floor. One strong arm draped over his shoulders, pulling the tiny Lieutenant close, the other was taking the empty glass from his shaking fingers. Something wet was dripping down his face, but it didn’t blur the blues like it would’ve with his vision normally. And then he hiccups, the sound tearing through his chest.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, trying to get his hands to cooperate with him and chase away the tears. “I’m sorry. I-I came to explain and I’m just ranting about stupid shit and just-“

“Kid.” The patience in Veers’ tone made him want to weep all the harder, instead forced himself to sniffle. “Elco. It’s fine.”

Veers made it so simple. Mycalith had bottled everything up and weighed himself down by tying himself into so many knots he couldn’t even begin to unravel it. But then Veers just accepted the tangled mess. No upset. No anger. Just acceptance. Steady like the colors of the night sky.

“You really do have nice blues,” he tells Veers tearfully, because that was what he actually wanted to say to him the entire time and not his entire karked-up life story, tucking himself into his side as if trying to disappear from the world. “Not so blinding and noisy. The juniper is new.”

There was a pause. Veers’ ribs were padded by bandages, Mycalith realized belatedly by the texture underneath the uniform, still recovering from his time on Yavin IV. He shifted a little, trying to move away, only the arm around him gave him a gentle squeeze, keeping him close.

“Junipers are green,” Veers picked his words slowly, careful and exact.

“It’s Plawal Juniper,” he mumbled, finding his face smushed against Veers’ side, staining his uniform with salt. “It’s a blue-green. Earthy. It’s nice.”

Veers’ uniform smells faintly of pine, Mycalith decided on. The scent of bacta and medicalness lingers underneath, but the crisp starch washed into his clothes couldn’t remove the natural from him.

“…So,” Veers began after they sat in quiet, peaceful silence for several minutes, allowing Mycalith to calm down to the occasional sniffle. “You can see through walls?”

Mycalith couldn’t stifle the wet snort that escaped him at the genuine curiosity, the juniper and midnight blues blanketing him as he slowly explained the Other to an attentive General.

Chapter Text

Contrary to popular belief, the Altoro twins weren’t always attached at the hip.

Jaqa and Jaqi were brothers. They understood each other’s weaknesses and strengths and cover for the one another when they started to slip. They could anticipate the other’s actions, their thoughts and feelings. They were each other’s balm, their courage and drive. They were bound together by blood and circumstance, and even if the galaxy burned, they could always rely on each other.

But Jaqa and Jaqi weren’t the same person. Jaqi had a temper and a chip on his shoulder a Star Destroyer wide that was only just started healing over since being assigned to the Executor. He was the brash one, the one who’s first instinct was to bare his teeth and fight with words or with fists.  He knew how to hotwire a speeder in three seconds flat, was the one sent in to fix the garbage compactors’ motor when it failed and came back out grinning and covered in grease and oil that would’ve made their mother swoon in horror. He could cuss alongside Haza like a seasoned pirate, and was very slow to trust and an initial attitude to match.

Jaqa, on the other hand, was the quieter one. Jaqi may execute a plan, but Jaqa was the one who developed it, from the various escape routes to the schedules of which people parked where in their daily habitual humdrum. He could do some minor mechanical work, but it took him far too long and it had never been his favorite. He traded grease for paint as he self-taught himself the creative world of art- first in graffiti on the streets during their adolescent years, then to actual paintings on canvas and charcoal on paper. His calmer, passive demeanor made him disappear entirely under Jaqi’s bad attitude, proving very useful in sneaking around everyone’s backs at parties while Jaqi distracted the guests and stole that one VIP’s family heirloom because the man had been entirely too creepy when eyeing Jaqa up and down like a hunk of meat earlier in the evening.

At the end of the day, they were brothers, and sometimes siblings needed time apart before they maul each other to death over something very petty like breathing too loudly or something pointless as all siblings wont to do.

Jaqa’s escape was a tiny lounge on one of the middling decks. It was nothing more than a few plush couches and bench seats, but the entire one wall was made of duraglass that let him see the streaks of stars during hyperspace and the crisp lines of the Executor’s side. More importantly, it was quiet, and Jaqa could go hours undisturbed to allow him to work on whatever project he’d set his mind to for the day. It had become his space to the point where he hid plenty of art supplies under the furniture or in the service panel near the viewport in case he ever chased a different inspiration mid-session (he had other stashes elsewhere around the ship, but this one was perhaps the largest one).

Jaqa was taking up one of the bench seats by the viewport, leaning back against the cool glass. His boots were kicked off and crooked on the floor as he tucked his legs under himself, a charcoal stick shoved behind his ear. Time had melted through his fingertips as he worked on his sketch, the sharp lines of the AT-ATs creeping into existence. Mechanical objects had always been one of his weaknesses, the exact angles and straight lines always looking… not right to Jaqa whenever he sat back and looked over his work. Practice makes perfect, and Jaqa was just as stubborn as his brother, just not as explosive.

He had just gotten the curve of its head just the way he wanted it when a loud bang scarred the drawing with a thick sooty line as he jumped. Someone had invaded his quiet place, shoulders heaving after punching the wall just inside the door.

(It was not an unfamiliar sight- Jaqi used to do exactly the same thing back home, but not so much anymore).

“Fucking dammit,” the person hissed- and Jaqa blinked at the familiar voice.

“Venka?”

The officer whirled around, the young Captain looking half feral between his anger and his guilt of being caught. He looked tired, as exhausted as Piett did in the recent weeks, the lines of stress creasing between his brows. But his eyes were wild, nostrils flaring as he sucked in puffs of air and curdling fury. He was a man ready to combust under the pressure. It was a look Jaqa had never seen on the man- half the time he looked as if he’d spiritually checked himself out of his own body, the other half was in a perpetual state of what-the-kark. This new emotion was entirely foreign on the man's face.

“Altoro.” Brown eyes blinked and searched his face for the tiny details that identified the twins apart (Jaqi had a very faint, blink-and-you’ll-miss-it scar on his nose from when a loth cat hadn’t appreciated being picked up when they had been naught but toddlers), the fire in them cooling but not fully smothering itself out. “Jaqa? What are you doing in here? Where’s your brother?”

“I’m usually in here,” Jaqa shrugged, carefully closing his drawing pad- he’ll figure something out with the new stray lines. “And we don’t live in each other’s assholes all the time.”

Venka let out a surprised snort, but his shoulders were still tense under his uniform, his blood still hot. Jaqa didn’t know the man well- Piett knew him better- but he knew for certain that he did not like seeing the man so agitated. It didn’t suit him at all.

“Sorry,” Venka was saying, subtly trying to rub at the hand he just put a dent into the metal paneling with, glancing towards the door as he took another breath, obviously trying and failing to bottle up his frustrations. “Didn’t think anyone would be in here. You didn’t see a thing.”

…Wow. He was just like his brother in that moment, if Jaqi was a few years older and was forced to be responsible for an entire city’s worth of crew members. He too liked to take it out on inanimate objects and hurting himself in the process, then tried to hide it and pretend he wasn’t on a one-track course to self-destruction.

“Yeah, no.” He set the drawing pad on the seat before gracefully rising to his feet. “Apologies, Captain, but we’re not doing this today.” He had already gone to the wall with his secret stash before Venka could splutter, prying back the metal to grab at the bag within. “Catch!”

Venka fumbled as the box was lobbed at his head, nearly dropping it to the floor. “What the fuck?” the man squawked, but Jaqa was already cracking open his own box, shaking out a few colored balls no bigger than his thumb from within.

“We are going to have a nice, fun session in properly directing your anger in a healthy manner, since apparently you’re just as terrible as my brother,” Jaqa told the man a little too cheerfully, before throwing a yellow ball directly at Venka. This time the man managed to duck, eyes blown wide as yellow exploded across the durasteel wall.

(There was nothing saying in his profile that Jaqa was not also a complete asshole like his brother- he was just better at saving it until his target least expected it).

Venka was cussing him to the high heavens as he jumped behind one of the couches, digging his fingers into the seal of the box. Jaqi splattered his uniform with blue with some flyaway paint from where it hit the floor before his opponent returned fire, hitting the back of a chair with red.

The room descended into chaos then, furniture overturned and a rainbow of paint across every surface. Jaqa used to do this a lot with Jaqi back in the day, but ever since they were assigned to the Executor and to the Gutterworks Crew specifically, the anger had simmered down considerably. Now the paints were used when Jaqa was feeling abstract, but he could sacrifice his stash to a good cause- especially when he got Venka to cackle when the young Captain managed to peg him in the forehead, coating his dark locks with a healthy dose of blue.

The boxes didn’t contain a lot of paint balls, and thus the last of them had been thrown after about ten minutes. They both collapsed into one of the few surviving couches, giving each other breathless grins. The fire in the Captain’s eye was sputtered out, no longer looking as if he’d about to blow apart at the seams. It was progress in Jaqa’s books.

“We made quite a mess,” Venka voiced after a moment of calming down after the impromptu paint fight, smearing purple under his nose with his sleeve as he observed the room.

“We sure did,” Jaqa shrugged, flopping down flat against the couch and shoving his paint-stained socked feet onto Venka’s lap without prompt. The man had put a hand on Jaqa’s ankle instinctively before realizing what the Junior Lieutenant had done and blinked down at the socks with a puzzled look. Jaqa merely wiggled his toes in response. “How’s the hand?”

“Huh? Oh-“ Venka flexed his fingers on the hand that had punched the wall earlier, a slight wince creasing the corners of his mouth. “I’ll be feeling it later, but I don’t think anything’s broken.”

“What made you flip your lid anyway?” Jaqa kept his tone light, distracting Venka from thinking too hard as he dug his toes into the man’s thigh and wiggled them until he swatted at them.

“Vader,” Venka admitted, sounding a little annoyed by Jaqa’s feet antics but his eyes were crinkled with suppressed mirth. “He’s driving everyone up a goddamn wall. There’s this pilot he’s going after- met him on Yavin or something. I don’t know if it’s because the kid pissed him off and managed to run away or because he might be the pilot who blew up the Death Star, but he’s gotten absolutely rabid over it lately. Even the Admiral is having some problems reeling him in. He’s having us run from one end of the galaxy to the other, making all of the crews pull double shifts or more. And Piett and I have to scramble trying to find excuses for the rest of the brass or some important person from the Emperor or whatever. I just know Vader’s going to start throwing Piett off the deep end and do some sort of stupidly secret fieldwork or get Veers to play scout again. Usually I have Qatra to complain to but since he’s on the Chimaera now it’s just-“

Venka ran a hand through his hair, forming rainbow streaks through it as he let out a stressed huff.

“You need an outlet,” Jaqa told him seriously. “A hobby. Do you do anything other than work and the occasional card game?”

Venka blinked owlishly at him and the Junior Lieutenant definitely did not roll his eyes.

“No wonder you and Piett work so well- you’re both workaholics.”

“I am not!” Venka spluttered, offended.

“Come here and paint sometime,” Jaqa told the man without mincing any words. “Or do yoga or write your biography or work out until you’re buffer than Veers. Go knit for all I care. You got to do something that isn’t wallowing in paperwork.”

“You sound like Qatra.”

“Probably because we’re the only two on this entire ship who knows what a therapist is,” Jaqa quipped right back, burying his toes under Venka’s leg. “He has a near-death experience and a sudden transfer after to work through and I got family issues. I have yet to convince my brother to talk to someone, but at least the doc's kind enough to give me tips to help the rest of you chuckleheads. You owe me onion rings for my service, by the way.”

Venka’s indignant complaints were worth it. So was seeing him a few days later after the droids came and helped clean and reset the room, looking a little anxious for breaking into Jaqa’s stash of supplies to make a very… interestingly abstract work. Having an art buddy was surprisingly nice, and a friend outside of his brother and the Crew was an added bonus- especially when he and Qatra tag-teamed Venka when the Commander called in during their sessions, much to the Captain’s chagrin.

Now, if only he could get Venka to tell him where he was getting these onion rings from- he’d murder the Emperor for them and wouldn’t regret it.

Chapter Text

“You go talk to her-“

“No, you go talk to her.”

Commander Valhalm Yuul ignored the whispers as she slipped from one form to the next, the staff in her hands curving as it transitioned from Uuth to Vaas in a graceful arc.

The Path of Unrelenting Earth was about footwork- setting your feet firm and unyielding to the ground behind you. The Path of Roaring Waves was roll of the torso- hands gripped in the middle of the staff and giving up reach for unforgiving power from the core and shoulders-

She had to admit to herself that she had been a touch out of practice- the Rebel intrusion into the gutterworks had proven that much. It wasn’t as if she had been expecting the Imperials to put any sort of training into staves, and their hand-to-hand was almost laughable in the officer’s track of the Navy. It was as if they expected a sidearm to save them in the event that they needed to defend themselves, and while she knew how to shoot a blaster, it was with a distant disinterest. She didn’t have the passion for it like Flintlocke, and she preferred the hand-to-hand training Piett had worked into their sparse training regimen when they had the time between the chaos of their job.

But Piett was stolen from them. Made bridge Captain, then Fleet Admiral. He’d earned every pip on his badge since he’d stepped foot on the ship, but he didn’t show face as often anymore, far too busy running around with the impossible tasks Lord Vader seemed to be setting up for some unfathomable reason.

“I wish I knew,” Piett had admitted to her when she walked into his office and asked (because speculation and gossip was a waste of time and energy), his face wane and the shadows under his eyes dark. It was only because her Admiral pulled an oath from her lips that she didn’t go straight to Lord Vader and shake him down for answers, and the thought made her lips press thinly as the staff hit air with a sharp twist at the hip with perhaps a tad more force than necessary.

(“He was the one who made you take up the bridge captaincy,” she’d told him, the words sharp on the tip of her tongue. “He could at the very least take care of you.”

The distant, lost look in his eye when he turned away, unable to look at her made her fists clench and craved to take a leaf out of Haza’s book, but rather than threatening treason go straight up and punch the idiotic Sith Lord in the stupid helmet. Instead she’d looked up Axxilan songs on her datapad and learned how to play a hymn from some sort of enclave on the planet by ear to have her violin sing back to him while she sat directly underneath the ventilation going to his office to lull the man to sleep.

It worked, but only the one time before he grew wise and moved his office hours when she was scheduled on shift. Next time she was sending in Haza through his laundry chute and putting hajj leaf into his tea stash because she was a practical woman and was not above drugging her Admiral to give him one last chance to learn to sleep on his own before she sent in the old wardog).

Something dangerous was afoot. Bigger than smoking out Rebels. Bigger than the confines of the Executor. And like a black hole, stood Vader in the center, pulling into his orbit anyone who got too close. It put her teeth on edge like the shrill of strings, and when the boarding party of enemies took a tad too long to be put down, Yuul ended up here in one of the many training rooms, brushing off her Thyr-Usha.

But her usual ease of sinking into the rhythm of her breaths was interrupted today by an intrusion of troopers, lurking at the edges of the ring and whispering to each other. She may not have signed the room out, but no one had bothered to take this one before. The last session it had been used officially was well before even Alderaan, and so she had been comfortable in not leaving a trace of her presence by filling in the proper time slots. Unfortunately, her luck had run out, but not one of the troopers were brave enough to come forward and say something about it.

Keeping one ear on them, she continued on with the steps of Vaas, the motions slow and steady in the stretches. She had decided she would not move to address them until they approached her first, and her visible disregard of their presence made them nervous. No spine. She mentally tutted at the thought as she caught one in the corner of her eye simply lounging against the wall arms crossed. Lazy, too. 

A quell in the whispers warned her of a higher authority now present in the room. She ignored that too until the heavy feet stepped across the white lines of the sparring ring and made their way towards her. 

"How good are you with that?"

She didn't pause when she slid easily from Vaas to Kikiro the Frenzied Flames, the staff slipping from middle to grasp the very end and swinging it fast and furious until halting it just a breath from the man's throat. The man- Commander from the yellow markers on his leg armor, stripped down to the blacks for the top half and a clone from seeing Hacksaw on the semi regular, the sides shorn short and the top left to curl a little as sharp eyes more brown than amber stared at her. The difference in height was perhaps only an inch or two in her favor, but he didn't appear to notice it as he stared unmoving at the display. 

"Not as I like," Yuul admitted bluntly and without shame, staff jumping down her grip towards the middle once more, held easy at her side. "The ones on board are shorter than what I am used to."

The twitch of the clone Commander's eyebrow was a strange juxtaposition for Yuul, used to Hacksaw's eternal impression of a wall. It made this clone almost obnoxious in his expressions despite having a similar serious visage as her own. She could read his curiosity in the most subtle movement of his eyes, taking in the staff and her stance. He himself had picked up one of the staves off the practice weapons rack and was holding it against his shoulder in a way that made him appear larger, chest out and shoulders squared. She gave him a bland look and was rewarded with a hint of a twitch in the corner of his mouth. No one else noticed since the rest of the troopers were frozen stiff along the fringes of the room- except one, the same lazy one from before who was definitely taking a nap along the far wall, sitting on the floor and chin to their chest and helmet still on their head.

Clearly the man had a reputation for being a hard ass.

"It isn't my favorite," the Commander told her with the same serious droll as before. "But these guppies couldn't tell you which end of the stick was which. So what do you say, sir? How about we give them a show?"

There was something about his eyes that bothered her. Yuul searched his features, quietly pinning down what it was. His words were intoned without too much inflection, but his near-brown eyes were hard and tight around the edges. He had instinctively leaned closer just a hair, as if he only just caught himself before he loomed entirely into her space. He was angry, she put a name on it. Maybe not at anything specific, but fire was burning in his veins. He wanted to hurt someone, which was why he was here with his troops in an ulterior motive to alleviate his rage, but with her presence, he could salvage his troops and instead hone in on one Navy Commander instead. It wouldn't demoralize his men if he roughed up a third party, and maybe by then the stress would've eased from his shoulders.

Unfortunately for him, Yuul was smoldering charcoal one breeze away from starting a forest fire.

"Alright," she agreed to with a single slow blink. She took several steps back before setting up her feet into the starting position of Uuth and holding the staff parallel to the floor before her, her fingers loose and spread along the middle. "At your mark, Commander." 

There was space between them now, the pair of them steady and at the ready at opposite ends of the ring. The Commander was holding his staff almost in a sword pose, and his feet were set firm as if he were in a duel with a blade than with a polearm. It wasn't a rookie's mistake either- the stance was too perfect to be anything but trained into every fiber of his being. It wasn't a traditional starter either, but it wasn't as if Thyr-Usha was taught even in most clans anymore, let alone a relic from the Clone Wars.

Said relic was currently boring holes into her head, his body coiled and ready to strike. She merely quirked an eyebrow at him, keeping her pose as purple gazed steadily at dark amber. Aren't you going to move?

The man finally lunged, taking firm strides to meet her. But Yuul wasn't going to play his games. Instead in a quick flick of her wrist, had moved the staff from parallel to a one-handed over-the-shoulder and launched it like a javelin directly at his face.

The harsh crack of his nose was louder than the thump to the floor.

"What the fuck," someone whispered from the sidelines.

"First rule of fighting against Clan Yuul," she began as the Commander stared up at her, honest surprise flitting across his features while blood dripped from his nose. She couldn't help but let her lips curl into a rare smile, sharp and full of dangerous promise lurking in the near future. "There are no rules."

The Commander slowly grinned back, a wolfish thing with all teeth and eyes blazing as he swiped the back of his hand across his nose and leapt back up to his feet in one fluid motion.

"That," he said with more genuine emotion than he'd expressed since entering the room, kicking up her fallen staff up to his hand and tossing it back to her, which she deftly caught. "Is something I can get behind."

It became a bloodbath after that. The troopers were huddling at the walls as staves clacked and cracked in hopes to stay out of the line of fire. The Commander was all strength and power, using his bulk to throw her around, but Yuul had speed and agility to make up the difference. Together they were both ruthless, viciously taking swipes at each other as their spar devolved into dirty fighting. Yuul had used a flurry of quick jabs of Hjaka the Whistling Winds between the legs after the Commander caught her in the gut and nearly slammed her into the wall. He had swiped her feet out from under her and she decided to lunge low for his legs while she was down there, staves forgotten momentarily as they pummeled each other. She was certain she had fractured a rib as fire flicked up her side with every breath, but it didn't slow her down as she wheeled her staff into Kikiro and charged him with it whirling in her grasp. He leapt at her with staff over his head, and they both went down back onto the floor in a tangle of weapon and limbs. Thick arms went around her neck and she pulled a Haza in sinking her teeth into the meat of his bicep, the instinctual jerk away from pain followed by her twisting to punch him in the side of the head.

"What in the hells is going on here?!"

They froze mid-swing, blinking owlishy at the door. Major Kalvine stood there utterly baffled, gaping at them both as if they had suddenly morphed into porgs before his very eyes. 

"Training," the Commander grunted thickly in his throat. Kalvine stared at him.

"Commander Appo, I don't think it's training if you both keel over."

Appo spat a glob of blood onto the floor and shrugged, unrepentant. 

"Commander Yuul-" now it was her turn to fall under the Major's despairing look. "I thought you were the responsible one out of the lot."

"You thought wrong," she retorted primly despite the blood dribbling from a split lip and the impressive bruise forming on the side of her head. That duty had always fallen to Hacksaw; Yuul was merely second place. But compared to the likes of the Altoros and Haza, she was practically a saint, so she forgave the poor Major's misconception. It was an easy mistake to make. 

Appo snorted beside her and shot her a wry grin when she glanced at him, coaxing a bloodied smile of her own. The fight was well fought, and there was truth in the camaraderie borne from bloodshed. This was the makings of a strong alliance between clans of different lives, and she could see that Appo was equally pleased with the turn of events.

The troopers were all staring at them like they've never seen their Commander in their entire lives and didn't know whether to be horrified or traumatized with this new realization. Kalvine had closed his eyes and was silently praying for mercy from a god that was laughing at him for his mistake of thinking any of Piett's kids were normal.

The trooper in the corner snored.

Chapter Text

The late Balmorran sun hung high over the towering smokestacks and industrial structures, smog intensifying the heat of an already blistering summer day. The street markets of Bin Prime never stopped for anyone or anything, however, and so bodies bumped along colorful stalls with sellers harking their wares. It was made worse with the shift change- people leaving the factories and their replacements heading in. It was crowded, smoky, hot, and very much a typical Balmorran day in the capital city.

For one Captain Gregory Flintlocke, it wasn’t a typical day. He had been requested to join his Admiral planetside for a mission he knew nothing about and was better off not knowing to keep the man from instantly being pegged for an Imp and getting jumped. It was some undercover hokey from Lord Vader himself, and that told him exactly everything he didn’t want to know. Still, Flintlocke had done his job, approving his Admiral’s impeccable sense of style in “Outer-Rim Vagabond” which blended in with Balmorra’s more rustic every day beings that crowded the city with only a few tweaks to make it more like Flintlocke’s own attire before herding him out into the streets to show him the general layout of the place before he had to secret mission stuff.

But Flintlocke had hit a minor snag: he’d lost Admiral Piett in the crowd.

Honestly, he wasn’t even surprised.

Flintlocke leaned back against the wall in a leisurely slouch, arms crossed loosely over his chest. He found the easiest way to find Piett was pick a spot and wait for him to find him. It had only been a few minutes, and the man most likely found his way to his secret meeting by now. It was only a matter of time before Piett scuttled back onto the scene, he just had to be patient.

 He hadn’t stepped foot on his home planet since being conscripted, and Bin Prime had never been his usual haunts whenever he ventured back to civilization out of the outback (Sobrik had always been his go-to), but the city hadn’t looked as if it hadn’t aged a day. It was the same scummy shithole as it always had been, full of hard working folk and dirty businesspeople, criminals in suits and criminals in rags. It was a balm to an ache he didn’t recall having, but it wasn’t enough to complete ease it. He would need to go out into the wild plains and mountains, down the steep canyons and across thin streams on a colicoid hunt to truly feel at home. There wouldn’t be time for that, but perhaps at a different time he could coax Piett out on a hunt when he wasn’t stressed out of his mind.

It was shame, Flintlocke mused as he watched a passel of kids scramble off with cheeks smeared with dessert and fingers sticky with sugar, that they wouldn’t be staying for the festival. It would explain why everyone seemed so happy- Balmorrans did like having an excuse to get rip roaring drunk, and companies learned to simply let them have the following day off instead of dealing with the utter vitriol that was hungover locals. There had been more than one revolt centered on the very issue in Balmorra’s long history, and hopefully the Imperials were wise not to press the matter.

A group of young men were on the opposite end of the street as him, the matching colors of their bandanas that any native could spot being a call to one of Bin Prime’s many gangs as they laughed and jostled each other. One elbowed another, jutting their chin further into the market as the scoped out a potential target. Flintlocke followed their gaze without moving his head. It was a young woman- a teen really, petite with a blue scarf hiding her hair with fabric that was a tad too silky even at this distance to belong to any of the locals. An off-worlder, one who tried very hard to blend in but the style was a tad wrong. The scarf promised money, and the starving zeldrates of the city could smell a stray bormu a mile away. The cityfolk kept on walking as if nothing was amiss as the group shoved off their perches and began their prowl, leaving the prey to her own defense.

Flintlocke suppressed a sigh. Gods he hated cities. They let themselves die faster than any kill by a colicoid. At least the bugs were honest in their disregard for others’ wellbeing. In the wilds, the folk were hardy folk with harsh edges, but they took care of each other. Kindness paid in kindness, a favor for a favor, a pack of smokes for a bottle of Serenno gin. He couldn’t let this lay to rot, even if it got him involved.

The young woman was coming closer, her eyes flicking around the crowds around her. Her posture was tense- at least she knew she was being stalked. Flintlocke pretended to only just notice her, forcing on a smile as he pushed off the wall and approached.

“There y’ are!” he called to her, watching her stutter in her step as wide brown eyes jerked up to him. “Thought y’ got tagged! How’d I explain t’ m’ husband if I lost his favorite niece?”

“I’m you’re only niece,” the young woman instantly jumped on the fake train, batting her lashes as she reached out to him. He quickly bent down, allowing tiny arms to wrap around his neck as he gave her a friendly squeeze.

“How many?” she whispered into his ear in lieu of a familial kiss to the cheek. Her accent was quite noticeable now, the softer rolls of High Alderaanian in her inflection. Well, certainly someone with education and wealth- she’d be scooped up by any hungry sod in town for a quick cred.

“Six young’n’s. They’ll shake off once we get goin’.”

He straightened up, putting on his most I’m-serious-Haza-and-I-totally-don’t-find-it-funny face, wagging a finger at the lass as he tutted.

“Now, how many times I’ve told y’ not t’ take the side streets! It’s from spaceport t’ public transport t’ here, not take a stroll. Now y’ either get t’ hold m’ hand or m’ arm. Y’r choice.”

“I’m not a child.” She somehow made it sound both snotty and polite, sticking her nose up a little in the air while a dainty hand curled around the crook of his arm when he offered it. It hid the movement of him taking the safety off the blaster on his hip closest to her for easier access than the one hidden under her tunic. He was rewarded with a pretty smile that was sharp at the edges. She reminded him of a miniature tusk cat, poised and elegant but with claws thick enough to gouge durasteel and teeth that could chew through bone.

Flintlocke wondered what his luck was to keep finding all these ankle biters.

“Of course not sweetmeat,” he patted her hand consolingly as they picked their way through the busy market, using the hundreds of bodies to disappear into the crowd. “Y’r a strong an’ wonderful woman, but y’ll always be a kid t’ us.”

“Strong enough to be allowed to join the Colicoid Hunt?” She looked up at him with doelike eyes, and Flintlocke couldn’t help but chuff. At least this off-worlder picked up a thing or two while wandering alone on the streets. Smart woman.

“An’ end up like ol’ Flintlocke and get tagged by Imps?” One of the locals they were passing tripped, head snapping around to stare at them before scuttling off with juicy gossip. Ah, city folk. Of course the news of his death after he missed the last few Colicoid Hunts was greatly exaggerated. “Don’ think so.”

Their tails had gotten lost in the busy streets by then, losing interest in a difficult catch. Flintlocke started to drop his arm, but the small hand latched on in a vice grip and yanked him into the nearest alley with strength belied by her tiny frame. His own blaster under his chin really wasn’t all that much of surprise- he was just fortunate the lass hadn’t decided to immediately jump to threats in the middle of the streets when he first approached.

“Who are you? What do you want?” Her eyes were narrowed into sharp lines, a slight crinkle of her nose while the blaster was steady in her hands (the Fireflight 5 wasn’t a small blaster nor a light one, and her hands were made dwarf wrapped around the weapon). She was suspicious- rightly so around these parts, and he didn’t doubt for a second that she wouldn’t shoot him if given a sliver of a chance.

“Who says I wan’ anythin’?” Flintlocke held his hands up in a surrendering gesture, mouth curled into an amused quirk despite the situation he’d found himself in. “Us outback folk ain’t ones to lie low when trouble’s afoot like these city folk. And y’ll want t’ bend y’r arms more- y’ll knock y’r nose off if y’ shoot me like that. Might break y’r wrists too- has a nasty kick”

The young woman stared him down for a heartbeat before she slowly shifted her stance, the blaster lowering from his chin and more towards his chest as she corrected the grip, arms no longer bent straight out and up. She eyed him for a moment, the barrel lowering just a tad more as the suspicion faded to tentative wariness.

“I believe you.” She sounded so certain of it, and Flintlocke didn’t find it as naïve as it would’ve been from another’s mouth. The blaster dropped entirely then, heavy in her petite hands. She looked a tad abashed as she held the weapon back out towards him, allowing him to take the Fireflight and reholstered it. “I’m sorry, it’s been- well-“

“Stressful?”

She gave him a small, thankful smile. “Yes, exactly that.”

“I don’ doubt it. Y’ accent’s pretty noticeable. Ain’t like Alderaan, Balmorra. Culture shock for sure. Y’ better take y’r scarf off if y’ want to keep low- glows in t’ dark in these streets.”

Surprise flitted across her face before she reached up, touching the scarf. “I was told it would be fine.”

“Yeah, if y’ were in Corellia. Balmorra ain’t got no money ‘cept the businessfolk an’ those sold themselves t’ suckin’ off whoever got th’ biggest paycheck an’ clout.”

The back of her hand slapped against his ribs, her face both amused and scandalized at the same time.

“Don’t be so crass,” she chided, moving her hands back up to her head. She slipped the scarf off the coils of her thick braid pinned neatly around her head almost similar to what Haza did with hers, looking a tad sad as she ran her thumbs over the soft fabric before folding it into her pocket out of sight. “I’ve been to plenty of… colorful places. I was not expecting it to be this busy. And don’t think I didn’t notice you never introducing yourself.”

“Ain’t like you ever introduced y’rself either. ‘sides, it’s a holiday comin’ up,” Flintlocke explained, tilting his head in a silent question for her to accompany him as he stepped out of the alley. “Everyone an’ their mother comes out t’ the festivals. Well, it’s more like a ‘congrats on th’ victorious rebellion number thirty-three, let’s get drunk’, really. An’ th’ name’s Gregory.”

“Antilles. There can’t truly be thirty-three festivals.”

Well, that’s a lie of a name if he ever heard one. “Fine, keep y’r secrets. An’ y’r right- there’s forty-two.”

The lass laughed, hiding it behind a hand as her brown eyes glittered with mirth. Flintlocke gave her a crooked grin and shrugged.

“It’s true. Ain’t m’ fault Balmorra wants t’ rebel every time there’s a change ‘n management. Goes back years. Ancient Sith, th’ entire Jedi Order, th’ Hutts on occasion, that one pirate fleet, th’ Republic- hells, we’ll even fight ourselves. An’ then we get rip roarin’ drunk after th’ dust settles.”

“That’s quite a history.” Antilles’ smile faded a little as she turned her gaze around the streets, watching a potential buyer haggle with the stall merchant over the price of a power converter. She then spoke with a soft somberness, not once looking back to Flintlocke as she spoke. “Do you think Balmorra will rebel again?”

“You talk dangerous words there, Antilles.” But he wasn’t offended, not in the least. He worked with four who were under the age of twenty-five- he’d probably heard an entire plot to murder the Emperor with a tuber, a knife taped to the top of a mouse droid, and three hats at this point. Mildly treasonous thoughts were practically an everyday occurrence considering the people who worked under him. Still, he wouldn’t answer outright, instead hooking his thumbs into the loops of his holsters with a hum. “Balmorra will do what Balmorra does best.”

There were only three things Balmorra was known for- colicoids, weapons, and rebellions. And they’ve already covered the first two. It only takes one mistake to blow an arms factory sky high, and Flintlocke knew in his bones it would only be a matter of time before the whole planet falls apart at the seams. Hells, it was already starting, if this probably-a-Rebel was here (there was no way she was ISB- he trusted his instincts on that), possibly hunting for intel or even blackmarket deals on weapons- not a rare thing on Balmorra despite being the Empire’s backbone for weapons manufacturing.

Whatever happens on Balmorra stays on Balmorra was the motto for any native, and if tiny Rebel lasses wanted to play the big leagues and make backroom deals with weapon thieves and shady businessfolk, then that was fine by him.

Also, it was well above his paygrade.

They rounded a corner into a narrow side street which was suspiciously empty, and instantly Flintlocke dropped his hands from the loops to his blasters, posture straightening. Even Antilles tensed despite the hint of surprise flitting across her face.

There in the street was Piett, his already rough and dusty clothes of a vagrant spacer even more rumbled and his face set into a grim blankness. Another man walked beside him, brown hair much darker and unkempt in the hot summer breeze, failing to look casual with the serious set of his mouth and hand a bit too tight around Piett’s elbow. On his other side and just a step behind was a very familiar large, black and white piebald twi’lek despite not in the usual get up aside from the flash of vambraces under the sleeves of his tunic.

Piett caught sight of him and blinked, hiding the recognition expertly. The human beside him perked up when he noticed the young woman, the hard lines melting into a near goofy smile.

“There you are-!”

The approach was stopped by the twi’lek, a strong hand grasping Piett’s other elbow to stop the pair of them. The younger man shot the twi’lek a look, but he was ignored as the broad alien gazed directly at Flintlocke with his mismatched eyes.

“Gregory Flintlocke,” the twi’lek spoke, his voice low and blunt with the Mandalore brogue. “I thought you’d been bagged and tagged.”

“Olimar.” Flintlocke gave the man lazy a two-finger salute. “Naw. Just tagged.”

Olimar was an old soul around the outback. He’d arrived to Balmorra when Flintlocke had been still a young man, his armor already scraped and dented with countless battles. They didn’t meet much, both of them making their own way on opposite sides of the planets. There wasn’t any doubt that if Olimar had any interest in the Colidcoid Hunt that Flintlocke would have steep competition, but the twi’lek never entered. It was possibly how he managed to escape the Imperial roundup- that and the man would’ve murdered everyone if he ever did get caught. The Great Purge had been catastrophic, and it was no wonder the man had gone to helping the Rebels.

Flintlocke respected the man, and it had been mutual. Considering he hadn’t been mowed down yet, he had hopes that the respect still lingered despite both knowing full well they were now on opposite sides.

He could feel Antilles tense even more beside him, giving him a sideways look.

“Well,” Flintlocke said casually, removing his hands from his blasters on purpose and instead placing them on his hips. “This is a bit o’ a pickle.”

“Indeed.” Olimar’s gaze raked over him for a moment, his expression giving nothing away. “Caught you good, they did. Must be quite lucrative to keep you pinned down for long.”

“Eh, they put m’ in charge o’ kids,” he shrugged back. “Small group o’ rascals, I got. Four under th’ age o’ twenty-five. Two with non-human parentage, one a full-blodded Kiffar. I have t’ deal with an’ honest to gods herdboy, y’know? Y’ try look’n’ at ‘em and say they’re cold-hearted curs. They’d be quite cross with m’ if I don’ bring back our ol’ boss. Who else are they t’ call Uncle Addy?”

He jerked his head towards Piett, who was actually allowing him to keep towing the line of giving away Imperial intel with almost a fond, if resigned look that he quickly tried to stifle when Antilles and the man at his elbow looked at him. Olimar only turned his gaze momentarily towards Piett before his attention was fully back on Flintlocke.

 “So, what y’ say? Trade for trade? I got y’r little lass here, after all.”

“You’re outnumbered,” the young man was quick to point out, offended and defensive for even suggesting such a thing.

“Wedge,” the woman reprimanded, causing Wedge to flush around the ears.

“He is an Imperial officer,” Olimar stated simply, and how he figured that wasn’t Flintlocke’s concern. “Two, including your new friend.”

She lifted her chin, dignified and unrepentant.

“We do not have the resources to detain them,” she told her colleagues in a similar manner Piett would directing the Crew back when he was their Captain. “And Gregory has been quite helpful. There is no need to make a scene.”

“An’ it ain’t like he’ll tell you kark all,” Flintlocke pointed out. “He’s stubborn and slippery. Y’ll be chasin’ him ‘round from escape attempt t’ escape attempt ‘til he drove y’ mad.”

“Thank you for the thrilling recommendation, Uncle Greg” Piett told him primly that had far too much hidden sass.

The corner of the young woman’s mouth twitched. Oh no, the ankle biter was acknowledging the other ankle biter. Flintlocke was regretting everything.

“Just let him go,” Antilles told the two men. Wedge let go in difference to the woman, but Olimar didn’t let go of Piett’s other elbow, his attention fixated on the tiny lass.

“You could shoot them.” There was no hint of malice, simply a mere statement, and Antilles took the look from the much taller twi’lek head on with steady, defiant calm.

“They won’t say anything.” Again she was so certain about it, without any doubt in strangers- in enemies she had only just met.

“He was asking about Skywalker.”

Flintlocke blinked. Antilles stood firm, but there was a hard edge to her shoulders now. Her gaze shifted to Piett, who stared back without qualm.

“I learned nothing,” the disguised Admiral admitted plainly. The lass’ nostrils flared a little- protective over this Skywalker, as she then whipped her head towards Flintlocke who was wise enough to lift his hands back up in a mild, surrendering manner once again (because he was smart, unlike some people who kept heckling the folk no larger than a pint and ended up getting hit. Or bit. Or awoken with glowing eyes staring right above him from his bunk and giving him a heart attack).

“First time I ‘eard o’ it.”

Her lips thinned, taking in a steadying breath through her nose before letting it out again.

“We do not have the resources to bring them in,” she reiterated slowly. “And quite frankly, we do not have the luxury to draw attention to ourselves now. They’ll keep their word.” She stared Piett readily in the eye, who nodded just once.

“Y’ know Balmorra,” Flintlocke had to add, glancing over at Olimar with a lopsided quirk of his mouth. “Shit disappears all th’ time. An’ I don’t get paid ‘nough for this.” The underground network of weapons trading was astronomical- no one wanted to drag Imperials into looking deeper than the crates they were given, after all. That itself would incite a riot.

Olimar watched them for a heartbeat longer before his fingers loosened from Piett’s elbow. Piett took the time to straighten out his clothes as if he were still in uniform rather than dressed like an Outer-Rim nobody.

“Thank you,” he told the Rebels, giving them a polite nod. Wedge blinked at him as if he’d never seen him before in his life until now. Antilles looked as if she was contemplating something, but her expression eased into a slight smile. Olimar merely nodded back before looking over at Flintlocke once more.

“If you ever need a career change, we could use someone like you.” That was as much as a glowing review, coming from Olimar. Flintlocke huffed, shrugging.

“Ain’t ‘bout t’ leave my Crew, but thanks f’r th’ offer.”

As soon as Piett was by his side they were turning on their heel as one and walking off in the familiar motions of the Crew, when he was a Lieutenant Commander following after his Captain. Now it was the Captain following alongside his Admiral as they disappeared back into the crowd, leaving Rebel forces in their wake. It seemed even enemies could part on peaceful terms here on Balmorra, and the planet would keep their secrets.

“That was the princess,” Piett murmured quietly as they turned back into the market district, causing Flintlocke to stutter in his step.

“Princess of what?”

“Alderaan.”

Flintlocke froze.

Piett paused just steps ahead of him, turning to look up at him. The man looked so tired, his face stained with traces of dust and soot and his ears were starting to sunburn from the hot Balmorran sun. Flintlocke had never seen him look so… ragged and old before, the weight of his station roped so heavily around his neck and dragging him under the water. And everything made so much sense now, why a clearly noble Alderaanian native was here on Balmorra, running league with the Rebels. After the Death Star? The planet hadn’t entirely rebelled yet- at least not officially, but he’d read enough to know of Imperial occupation increasing tenfold since the incident and things were getting heated for a supposed “passive” planet. And if their princess was here, with Rebels? With Olimar now on her side?

There were days Flintlocke wished he’d never been tagged by a forced Imperial conscription. Today was one of those days.

“I don’t blame ‘er,” he admitted quietly after a minute, the crowd curving around them like a river around rocks. “Gods, I couldn’t. Want a slurp?”

Piett blinked at him, brows furrowing.

“A what?”

The only good thing out of the entire mess of a mission, Flintlocke had to tell himself, was that he got to introduce his Admiral to the wonders of thinly grated and flavored ice that was known on Balmorra as a slurp.

Chapter Text

“I can’t believe you convinced me to do this,” Junior Lieutenant Jaqi Altoro grumbled, squeezing himself through what had to be the tiniest vent in existence, the wire harnesses catching on his tool belt as he shoved it forward ahead of him.

“Come on, it’ll be great!” Captain Sinclair’s voice crowed from his earpiece, the quality crackling sharply in the depths of the Executor’s gutterworks. “Piett will love it once he gets over the initial shock. You’ll see.”

“The only see I’m seeing is this damn ship’s asshole.” He yanked a screwdriver from his belt, shoving it in the tiny gap between the seams of metal and popped the grate off with a loud clanging clank as it dropped onto the floor beyond. The belt was shoved out next, freeing his hands to wiggle and squirm his way out of the narrow space. “Fucking hells is this what Mom felt giving birth to us?”

“Birthing you? I bet she had a great time getting your big karking head out.”

“Oh, shut, you bitch.”

Sinclair laughed in his ear as he tried to get his hips from not being wedged in the gap.

“I’d rather have the Executor as a mom anyway,” he groused, twisting himself half around as his hips continued to be a bane of his existence. “I wonder if me and Jaqa can contest that. ‘I’m sorry, your honor, but we’ve had a second birthing and she’s a nineteen kilometer warSHIT.”

He had finally freed himself from the tiny opening, but lost all balance and grip. Jaqi pitched forward, slamming shoulders first into the unforgiving durasteel floor ten feet below. A wheeze escaped his chest as his legs flopped back over his head to lay flat, struggling to remember how lungs worked.

“Congratulations,” Sinclair’s voice drawled, amusement thick in her words. “It’s a boy.”

“Fuck. Off.”

He took a moment to breathe normally again before he dared to move, groaning as he sat up. He was going to feel like a giant bruise the next few days, and he wasn’t looking forward to it. Hopefully Hacksaw didn’t notice and bundle him up like a burrito and leave him in his bunk until the bruises healed- or stars forbid, if he had to heal something that broke. A quick roll of his shoulders and a few deep breaths told him he was pretty sure there wasn’t anything broken, and let out a sigh of relief as he picked himself up off the floor.

“Right. Third panel?”

“Third panel.”

Jaqi found the correct panel in the tiny, cluttered room filled with nothing but panels and servos. He dropped to his knees, deft fingers already unscrewing the cover to access the wiring inside. “So, will this work or will it blow us all up?”

“Well the Bloodhound hasn’t gone into catastrophic failure yet if that’s what you’re asking.” Now that he was outside the vents, he could hear the Captain rustling on the other side- flimsiwork from the sound of it. “He’s a beautiful ship. Fast, but he isn’t the Pandora. I bought her, you know.”

Jaqi froze mid-turn, the backed-out screw tipping out and clattering to the floor by his knee. “You what?”

“The Pandora. I bought her!” Sinclair sounded pleased as punch, the faint clicking of her fingers on her datapad. “It was the first mission we did as a crew, actually. She was shot to hell and back, and your people did amazing work gutting her of anything of use in such a short time, but we towed her back to Kuat. Paid scrap weight, and since she was an older model- they would’ve decommissioned her in a few years anyway just to spite me- and I know a person or two, I got her damn cheap. They’re fixing her right up, so when I get out of the Navy, I can step right back onto her bridge.”

“And what are you going to do with a Star Destroyer as a civilian?”

“Become a pirate, obviously.”

Jaqi thumped his head against the panel he just cut the power off from so he could work without dying, groaning out a curse. Why was he not surprised?

“Aren’t you, like, some minor royal or something on Kuat? I don’t think they’d let you become a pirate.”

“Yeah, but when I explained it to the Archduke he thought my goals “charming” and “noble”. Resurrecting a ship from the dead and going off to fight injustice in spite of rules is practically the most gentlemanly thing a Kuatii can do if we aren’t building ships outright. Almost half my crew are on board with the plan, and the other half are supportive. Most of them are Outer Rimmers, and we’re going to heckle the Hutts until they shrivel up like a prune. Rob slaver ships, break up spice rings, resell black market weapons at exuberant prices, that sort of thing. Be a general nuisance. We’re still working on the logistics of it all, but no one in their right mind would go toe-to-toe with a Star Destroyer unless they have a death wish or get the Empire involved. The only reason nothing has happened against them now is because the Empire profits off slave-made goods in Hutt Space. And the prostitutes.”

“Fucking politics,” Jaqi grunted, splicing a wire into a new connection.

“Everything usually boils down to two things: money and money.” He could hear the shrug in her tone as a chair creaked in the background as she sat back. “Anyway, you and your brother are welcomed to join. You two are a riot. You’ll fit right in with the rest of the chuckleheads. Wathor misses his dejarik partner.”

“I’m not making any promises for something that might not even happen in the next five years,” Jaqi flipped the power back on, watching the lights flicker on and inspecting for shorting or sparks before reinstalling the cover. “But I’ll let him know. Hell, maybe he’ll paint some pretty nose art on her before you set out.”

“Now that’s a good idea. I could commission him at the very least. You got that panel done?”

“It ain’t spitting fire at me.”

“Good! Now to the engine room. We’re on the last stretch!”

Jaqi grumbled under his breath as he scooped up his tools. He hoped this worked, or else Piett will have his hide, if Lord Vader didn’t get to him first. Performing unsanctioned ship upgrades on the flag ship was just asking for trouble, but if there was one thing Jaqi liked was a challenge. Spurning the rules was just a bonus.

He hated to admit it, but Jaqi actually liked being on the Executor. He had plenty of things to turn wrenches on and tinker with uncontested and even supported with- both by Piett when he had been Captain and Flintlocke. He and his brother were treated like individuals despite being trouble together, and no one ever forced them to try to ‘make up’ with their family. The Gutterworks Crew was a jumble of batshit crazy characters that would’ve made his parents swoon in horror over the disgrace, but despite it all they were more family to him than he’d ever thought of his own blood relations. He and his brother were not dragged to parties, attempted to be foisted on the nearest single girl roughly their age, forced to wear stuffy clothes that cost more than over the quarter of the population’s yearly intake, and at least the orders they were told to do were “do your job” and not “do what we tell you because we know what’s best”.

Mom and Dad never knew Jaqa was a damn good artist, too busy telling him he was wasting his potential and trying to get him to go to university for some hoity-toity degree without once looking past their noses. They never knew Jaqi would rather find himself covered in grease and dirt at the end of the day than he’d ever wanted to see himself sweet talking snooty rich bastards. They didn’t want to know that their children had been so unhappy with their lives, because then it would ruin the perfect image they put up of themselves.

Jaqi was really considering if he could make a warship his actual mother on his files now. It’d be hilarious to see his birthparents try to argue custody in court with a nineteen kilometer, Executor-class Star Dreadnought Super Star Destroyer. Maybe he could squeeze into the official flimsiwork that Piett and Flintlocke were his uncles and Pyres’ entire family tree were distant relatives. Get the whole crew involved. He should run this by Jaqa the next time he had a chance.

“You know,” Jaqi commented after he squeezed himself through a tiny gap between power converters and into a narrow walkway. “Piett will probably kill you if he ever found out you’re thinking about turning to some weird noble piracy shit.”

“Oh, he would,” Sinclair sighed, but there was a smile in her words. “Stars I love that man.”

Jaqi wrinkled his nose. “Gross. Aren’t you like, ten years younger than him?”

The Kuatii choked on the other end of the line before snorting so hard he was pretty sure she’d cleared out her sinuses for the next year.

“Yeah, but I never said I wanted to jump his bones!” Sinclair wheezed in his ear. “I can’t look at that man without instantly thinking ‘wow, he has the biggest dad vibes and he doesn’t even know it’. I love and respect him dearly, but what your Admiral needs is someone who won’t give him a heart attack.”

“You do a fine job of that without being involved.”

“That’s because he’s fun to tease and flushes under any sort of genuine affection,” Sinclair said cheerfully. “He’s a good man, that Piett. No wonder you lot adopted him.”

“And we’re keeping him.” Jaqi stuck his tongue out before remembering it was audio only and sucked it back in again. “We already called dibs.”

“I’d be the last person to get in the way of a ship, her crew, and her Admiral. On your left.”

Jaqi turned and climbed over the narrow walkway’s railing. Clinging to the rail, he stretched a leg out to wedge the toe of his boot into a gap in wall panels, working it open wide enough for him to jump through. He ducked to fit into the tiny space, the rumbling of idling engines almost deafening over his head as he squatted down next to a wall of switches and ports.

“Alright, I’m here.”

“Good, good. There’s a dial on the right near the bottom that has a blue arrow on it. You’ll need to turn that ninety degrees counterclockwise and then flip the yellow switch below it.”

Jaqi hummed as he searched the chaotic wall. He spotted the dial after a minute, turning it the ninety degrees as directed with no problem. But then when he reached for the yellow switch that was between a white and red one, a jolt of electricity jumped to his fingertips right as he touched it.

“FUCK!”

He jerked his hand back, shaking out the tingling in his hand.

 “Damn static.”

Ignoring the laughter in his ear, he reached into his tool belt, swiping his hands across the antistatic pad he kept for these occasions. That done he tried again, but this time he didn’t even touch the switch before the bright little bolt leapt out at him, causing him to rear back and drop hard onto his rump like a complete moron.

“Karking what?! Stop zapping me, you-!”

“Hey! Be nice to your mom!”

Jaqi closed his eyes and mentally cursed every single member of Sinclair’s family.

“I think we made a short somewhere, and I do not want to go through this entire mess again trying to find where it went wrong.”

“I don’t think it’s a short.”

If she had been physically there with him, Jaqi would’ve glared at her. Instead he scowled at the yellow switch.

“Please don’t go on another drivel about haunted ships. It’s a short. It’s the only logical thing. Not a damned ghost ship.”

“You should try apologizing anyway. Compliment her! Goodness knows you need the practice.”

Wow, okay. He stood corrected- Captain Sinclair wasn’t just a bitch, she was a raging bitch.

“Look, I’m sorry,” he told the switch (the ship?) in the most petulant tone he could muster. “You are the most beautiful, magnificent ship in the entire Navy, but we want to make you even more efficient in protecting our Admiral by making you slightly faster. So can I please finish this reroute before someone from Engineering thinks I’m trying to rig you to explode instead of trying to surprise Uncle Addy?”

He felt completely stupid, talking to a ship. Sometimes he spoke to other projects, mostly to cuss them out when things didn’t work as he planned or threaten them into submission, but this was a Star Destroyer, not a speeder.

A little spark crackled in the gap behind the switch as if doubting his words. Jaqi sighed, deciding to plead a bit more honestly and feeling utterly ridiculous about it.

“Please?”

It was silent. Tentatively he reached for the switch, curling a finger under the tab.

It clicked as he flipped it into the opposite direction.

Jaqi stared at it for a long moment, mind suddenly very blank because, uh, what?

“…Thank you?”

A little beacon light that had shut off after he hit the switch blinked once at him.

“Oh god,” he breathed out, the empty fog in his head suddenly full of complete and utter terror. It was supposed to be a joke-. “I think the ship is haunted.”

“Told you. Now, the next step is to locate the relay on the top. There’s six wires going to it-“

Chapter Text

Lieutenant Benji Pyres was practically vibrating in his boots as he waited for the lift to finish its ascension, the brown paper package in his hands crinkling slightly against his fingers. It had only just arrived not even an hour ago, and Pyres may have ran all the way to the receiving hangar to retrieve it before Supply could parse out the remaining mail. Maybe he was a little impatient, but he couldn’t help it- he’d been waiting for weeks and thought it wouldn’t come in on time! Now it was here and in his hands, and it deserved a special delivery.

The lift doors slid open with a silent hiss, and the young herdboy stepped out, looking around with honest curiosity. Pyres had never been on a bridge before, not even during simulations. He’d been trained more on transport shuttles, the trainers and professors at the academy taking one look at him and deciding he wasn’t worth the effort in training for such a prestigious position as working in the crew pits. The Executor’s bridge was very large and spacious, with her pit crews set far down and dozens of men hunched over their terminals and making hushed whispers to each other if they needed to speak at all.

Standing in one of the pits was Captain Venka, who openly gaped at Pyres as if he’d appeared out of thin air, his mouth opening then closing without words ever coming out. Pyres beamed cheerfully at the Captain before he spotted his target at the wide viewport, standing alongside the inky form of Darth Vader himself. Both their backs were to him, outlined by the pretty planet they were hovering over while conducting supply runs.

His Admiral looked so at home there, up front on the bridge. Pyres’s heart warmed with pride at seeing him, a goofy grin making its way onto his face. It had been such a short time since Piett had come into command of the bridge, but Pyres couldn’t be any happier for the man that had once been his Captain down deep in the gutterworks.

He ignored Venka’s frantic head shaking as he loped across the deck and towards the viewport, the package tucked behind his back as he made to stand behind them (at the appropriate distance for one of his rank in regards to his superiors- he remembered that training well).

“Sir, my lord?”

Lord Vader had already half turned towards him before he ever said a word, the mechanical rasp filling the silent bridge as Piett turned as well. Oh- Flintlocke had been right, the man did look tired. In the contrast of space outside, the bright colors of the planet seemed to wash the man out. But he seemed alert, his eyes widening a smidge as he took in Pyres’ presence, a flicker of surprise smoothing out the stressed crease between his brows.

Pyres slipped him a smile before looking up at Lord Vader, observing the man(?) with interest. He’d only ever seen the ominous Sith Lord when he’d turned up in the bunkroom to recruit Piett into becoming bridge captain, and even then he’d missed a good part of it because he’d been asleep. He was a lot taller than the lad had been expecting, bigger and bulkier and far more dangerous looking up close. Supposedly he could choke people from a distance without touching them, which was rather cool in the same, terrifying way forest wraiths were.

Belatedly, Pyres realized he was outright staring at Lord Vader and could feel himself turn pink.

“Sorry my lord, excuse me my lord, but can I borrow the Admiral for a minute?”

“Is it vital to our current tasks?”

He… he couldn’t tell if Lord Vader was annoyed or not, the vocoder making it difficult to decipher irritation. It did sound suspiciously like a trap, though, and Pyres blinked several times as he mulled over his words.

“Er, not particularly, but it is… time sensitive?” The paper crinkling behind his back was as loud as a blaster shot- goodness, it had gotten quite silent in here hadn’t it? And a bit chilly, now that he was standing in the space. The poor Admiral must be freezing. “It’ll only take a minute.”

“My lord.” It was Piett who politely stepped in then, his hands clasped behind his back as he angled himself towards Lord Vader- almost hiding Pyres’ larger frame behind one small shoulder. “It won’t interfere.”

…That was both ominously vague and foreboding. Was he… was Piett on mission right now? No wonder he looked so haggard! The poor man barely had gotten back from Balmorra! Had he eaten anything lately? Gotten proper sleep? He was going to need to get Hacksaw on the Admiral’s case again, and of all days to be run through the wringer-

Pyres opened his mouth to apologize, feeling very much as if he had interrupted something important, but Lord Vader’s rumble cut through any protest he had, partial turning back towards the viewport.

“Make it brief.”

“Come along,” Piett murmured to the Lieutenant, and yet again they were interrupted.

“You are to remain here, Admiral.”

A muscle in Piett’s jaw twitched.

“Of course my lord.”

Pyres and Piett stood there awkwardly for a moment, the young man shuffling on his feet as he cast a sideways glance at Lord Vader. The man was still facing the planet, but the way he positioned himself allowed him to keep an eye on them both from peripheral. Oh well, Pyres was used to making do.

“I’m very sorry,” Pyres mumbled to his Admiral weakly. “I just wanted- well, I got excited and a bit carried away. I didn’t think you’d be on mission so soon after you got back, and-“

“Benji.”

The gentle tone jerked him out of his rambling, taking a deep breath. Piett, despite his exhaustion, his shadowed eyes, his thin face, was gazing at him with such overwhelming patience that Pyres almost wanted to cry and hug the man half to death because he was still so kind despite the stress he was under. Instead he slipped the paper package from behind his bag and shoved it out to the Admiral with a small but so honest smile, bouncing a little on his toes as the previous excitement bubbled back to the surface.

“Happy birthday, Admiral Piett, sir.”

Lord Vader’s hand twitched in the corner of his eye. Someone dropped a datapad in one of the crew pits where it clanked against the floor like a war bell.

Piett, meanwhile, stared at Pyres and the package, looking quite a bit gobsmacked as he carefully took the package.

“I- is it that time of year already? It slipped my mind.”

He had never been particularly good at remembering his own birthday, despite being able to recall every single one of the crew on the drop of a hat. Except, maybe, Hacksaw, because clones were a bit weird like that, but that never stopped Piett from finding something small to give the stoic man one day a year that seemed innocuous to everyone else but was important to them. The crew always made it fact to remember his birthday for him, never once missing a day, and neither would they start now while the man was Fleet Admiral.

“That’s fine! You’ve been busy. Most of the others put their gifts in your office, but I only just got this from home and I got mucking duty next shift and it might take a little explanation since Granmama Flowerfields made you a sweater-“

Piett’s head jerked up from where he’d been carefully running his fingers over the paper, his usual calm face open with surprised shock.

Pyres had explained to Piett when he had been his Captain about the Craft from back home after he had gotten so upset at Jaqi for upending an entire can of Jaqa’s paint into his storage crate and splattered it all over his sweater that he’d given the crankier twin a concussion in one hit that put him into the wall. Knitting, quilting, weaving, anything with textiles- they weren’t simply a hobby or a means of income. They were a Craft, an art form of woven tales and truths into the patterns of handspun yarn and cloth and homemade dyes that wasn’t meant for off worlders. They told stories of old, of family history and their heritage, of their very heart and soul that made them unique. But for every hundreds of Crafters was someone whose Craft was more. Granmama Pyres, his granmama on his father’s side, could make a mean sweater, but her passion laid in quilting, stitching each highlight of her grandchildren’s young lives to bestow upon them for when they hit their maturity. Granmama Flowerfields, however, was a Shama- someone who closed her eyes and let her hands guide the needles in every purl that spoke of more rather than what looked good or was pretty. And she only made sweaters when there was something more to say.

The last person who had gotten one was Benji Pyres himself, right before he had stepped onto a transport ship to take him to the Academy. It’s why he’d been so upset when it had potentially gotten ruined- it was more than just a simple sweater.

Pyres hadn’t asked Granmama Flowerfields to make Piett a sweater, because no one just asks her to make one. He tentatively asked Granmama Pyres, because it was getting close to the winter season and she always whipped out the needles to clack away for her growing grandkids. Something plain would do, if she was willing to make an outsider anything at all, even though she and the rest of the family had heard him gush about how good of a man Captain Firmus Piett always was (especially days later after the Paint Incident where he found his autumn-colored sweater perfectly cleaned without running any of the natural dyes that was almost nigh impossible outside his home planet and not a spot of paint to be seen). But when a Shama makes someone a Craft, there was no choice but to give it to them.

“I can’t take this.” Piett’s eyes were quite round as he whispered to Pyres, trying to offer the package back with great care as if it were made of glass. “I couldn’t possibly take something that means so much for you back home, Benji.”

“That’s why you’re getting one, I think.” Pyres said honestly, pushing the package back until it was pressed against his Admiral’s chest. “Outsiders don’t get Crafts, especially from a Shama but you’re practically family now. Have been for awhile.”

Lord Vader had turned to watch them fully again, but Pyres paid him nor the crowd of gawking pit crews any mind. His attention was completely on Piett, who took a long, steadying breath, eyes glinting almost wetly for a brief moment before he blinked and made it go away. He did pull the package away from his chest, fingers carefully peeling back the paper.

It was a deep blue and earthy green- a simple color scheme made in contrast with the array of patterns that was knitted into being. Pyres silently took the empty, torn paper as Piett unfolded the sweater, displaying its high collar and how it would perfectly fit the tiny officer despite Pyres not once telling anyone exactly how tall the man was besides a vague ‘on the smaller side’.

He leaned forward, the paper crinkling as he shoved it under his arm and looked over the patterns on the main body of the sweater.

“May I Read it for you, sir?” he asked softly, eyes trailing over the familiar patterns. Piett merely nodded, clearly unable to speak right now, but that was fine, Pyres understood- he bawled his eyes out when he got his sweater before he ever Read what was knitted.

“I’ll make it short, I don’t want to cut too much into your time.” But he’ll be happy to Read it again to him in depth, when the time and place wasn’t now and on the bridge. There were many tales and truths that could be weaved and interpreted, and he wasn’t exactly comfortable in sharing everything with the general populace of the Executor in regards to their Admiral. Piett only knew the basics himself, but he also understood that this wasn’t something the usually open and happy-go-luck lad would discuss in front of everyone.

Pyres ran his eyes over the sweater again, taking in the patterns as he carefully held onto the bottom to view the whole Craft. Granmama Flowerfield’s work always had the same sequencing- three tales, three truths. Past and future. He had always gotten a little pat on the head from the wizened woman when he had been younger and regaling her the stories woven into the rug made by Shama Owla. He had always been the Reader of the family, probably to make up for the fact that he hadn’t a creative bone in his body. He didn’t mind, even if his six-year old sister could texture leather like she’d been doing it for six decades and made him two hats already.

Carefully he reached out, tracing a finger over the top of the sweater right below the collar, where little asterisk of stars lived in between the swooping sideways swirls. He took a breath, letting it out as he ceased bouncing on his toes to concentrate. Three tales. Three truths. Past and future, to be worn by the constant present.

“The Boy from the Stars Who Fell into the Sea.”

…And the Boy reached out towards the heavens, reaching and reaching in hopes to latch onto the glimmer of stars. But no one reached back for him as the storm roiled and blotted his passage, the sea’s cold grasp dragging him deep beneath the waves. Down and down into the depths, where not even a single speck of light could guide him home-

His fingertip slid over soft fleece to the jagged lines with a singular symbol in the middle which curved like horns. A different style, a different tale.

“The Witch and the Lord General.”

“Come with me,” the Lord General said, clawed fingers reaching out in an Offer to the Witch, molten eyes staring from a hood weaved of void. The Witch gazed at the Lord General with a calm knowing, as many an Offer had been given and not once had the Witch Accepted.

“At what cost?” the Witch asked.

“Everything,” the Lord General replied.

And it was this honesty that the Witch considered on, for many an Offer had been given and many more was given with lies on their tongues and greed in their hearts. But here was the Lord General of the Scorching Sands, a gaping maw of the abyss confined into being, the first who spoke Truth.

And so the Witch reached out and Accepted.

Further down was another change, these patterns soft as the curl of feathers depicted.

“The Blue Gravebird.”

…And clutching the feather in his hand, the Man, the Slave, struck down his chains with the quill, speaking not to the one who would betray him to the Master but forgave him in his heart (for he was just as Blind as he had once been and could not See the weight he was bearing), followed the Unknown Path through the mountains instead of along the river like so many others before him, trusted the Winds to guide him even as Night fell upon him-

Three tales. One past. Pyres tried not to choke up, because these tales put together was…

It hurt. His heart hurt. He wanted to hug his Admiral, but instead he took a shaky breath and forced himself to look back down at the next pattern.

Three truths. One future.

He stroked his finger along the straight line of circles, the colors inverted in the middle and the two middle most circles a blend of both green and blue. This one makes Pyres pause, frowning at it. Traditionally a line of opposite color circles had one middle circle with the mixed colors meant a wedding, but with the context of the tales and the additional circle meant something else.

“A union?” No, that wasn’t quite right. He frowned at the circles, the niggling sensation of the correct word just on the tip of his tongue but struggling to find it for a moment. “An alliance.” That sounded right in his ears, and he nodded to himself. But what was Piett going to ally himself to was beyond Pyres, nor was he here to make assumption. It simply will be.

The next pattern made him freeze, staring at it in near disbelief. The viciously sharp zigzags that marred this part of the sweater was almost too much even for him, because rarely was it a good thing.

Instantly his eyes went to the bottommost part of the sweater, hoping to fully interpret the previous pattern as some wont to do. The sweeping limbs of the tree was curling up beyond its borders and along the seams, rooting together the layers and trapping the zigzags in their place along the sweater.

For if the bough breaks, the seams will unfurl and the sweater will be unmade-

Pyres found himself looking up from the sweater, staring his Admiral in the eye with such intensity that Piett was staring back at him.

“I would die for you, sir,” he told him with so much conviction Piett blinked rapidly at him, bewildered.

“I’d rather you didn’t,” Piett replied, confusion thick. It made Pyres smile, because of course the man wouldn’t want to see any of his crew hurt. Did he know that the entire Gutterworks Crew would do anything for him? Half the Executor’s crew would probably commit treason for their Admiral without a second thought, even go so far as to shove Lord Vader out of the airlock if it came down to it.

Instead of acknowledging, well, anything (because if he thought too hard about it he would certainly cry), Pyres decided to take hold of the sweater and shove it over Piett’s head before the Admiral could realize what was happening.

“You should wear it!” he said with glee as Piett spluttered, arms trapped in warm knit. “You can’t be mad at Jaqi if you’re cozy.”

“What did he do now?” The Admiral’s head popped out of the neck hole, hat lost somewhere in the back and hair fluffy with static. His ears were tinging pink, which was a success in Pyres’ books.

“Oh, he and Captain Sinclair bypassed some limiters and managed to get enough power to the engines to gain maybe an extra thirty knots of speed to the thrusters without overtaxing the system or something.”

“They did what.”

Pyres jumped at the rumble beside him, blinking up at the looming form of Darth Vader. Oh, he forgot he was there. He took a quick glance around, realizing he was still on the bridge and everyone was gawking, craning their necks over the lip of the crew pits to look.

“Uh, oh! Would you look at the time! I got to go! Dreadfully sorry! Happy birthday, Addy!”

“Pyres!”

He managed to leg it back to the lifts without being magically strangled with a manic grin, only feeling a little bad when the lift doors shut on Piett’s face. He slumped against the back of the wall, a breathless laugh in the back of his throat as he clutched the torn packing paper in his hands. Smoothing out a crumpled corner, Pyres’ smile faded to a soft look as he ran his thumbs over the coarse paper.

“We’ll be there for him,” he whispered the oath to himself. There was so much riding on one small Admiral’s shoulders, and Pyres would be there to help hold the weight. He, the Gutterworks Crew, and the Executor’s crew. A soft flicker of the lights made Pyres pause, blinking up at the ceiling before grinning, amending the thought to include the Executor herself to the case. There was no harm in it, whether it be ghosts or something more, Piett needed all the help he could get.  

It took a village to raise a child- or a ship to care for their Admiral, after all.

Chapter Text

The lights flickered on as the office door slid closed behind him with a soft hiss. They weren’t as intense as they usually were, shadows stretching long in the space, and Piett couldn’t help but be quietly thankful as his headache laced pain down the back of his neck with every heartbeat.

Vader had been in a… peculiar mood after Pyres’ bounded away. Not exactly brooding as he had been the past few weeks and months, but not quite lost in thought either.

“Keep it on,” was what he told Piett when he had tried to get himself out of the gifted sweater (a Craft he did not deserve, with its uncertain meaning a pool of dread in his stomach as Pyres’ fingers stroked across the patterns reverently, his young face so stricken but so determined. Pyres had told him briefly of the significance, but simply seeing his Lieutenant look so far away made him worry for what he had Read and what it would mean). The tone Vader used was lost in the vocoder, but the ominous Sith Lord was almost distracted, turning back to the viewport. And Piett… well… he wasn’t a big man. He always got chilled for prolonged periods of time on the bridge, in most places of the ship really. He had learned early on that keeping himself moving always staved the worst of it, but there were countless hours of sitting in his office, both here and in the gutterworks, pouring over flimsiwork where the icy tendrils of space crept into his bones.

And so with pink ears, Piett had put his arms tentatively through the sleeves, his mind running through all the protocols he was breaking before shooting a glare at the still gawking pit crews. He still had it on now, the fleece comfortably warm even above his uniform, subtly burying his chin into the high collar as exhaustion seeped from every pore of his being.

Piett rarely had time for his old crew anymore. Rarely had time for any crew. Lord Vader had been running him ragged searching for someone who was as slippery as a razormaw eel. It was like trying to find Hacksaw when the old wardog didn’t want to be found- you heard whispers, a ghosting of a hint, but always left grasping at thin air. The Sith had dwindling patience, and the Admiral had hundreds of thoughts, dozens of ideas, but no matter how many clever tricks and traps he weaved in his head, there was only one with any possibility of getting concrete answers instead of relying on luck or the Force or the amusement of whatever higher being was listening. But it was also the one with the highest risk, the one where Piett would lose the most if it went wrong.

He had made the mistake of voicing the idea to Lord Vader, right after arriving back from Balmorra.

Piett hadn’t slept more than an hour since then.

There were gifts on his desk, as promised when Piett pulled himself back to reality with a little shake despite the needles that raced from forehead to spine at the movement. He couldn’t help but let out a small huff, a wane smile creeping onto his face as he moved towards his desk. Never once had his old crew forgotten, and it seemed even now they refused to do so. He was theirs and they were his, and not even Lord Vader or a galaxy falling apart at the seams would change that. It made his heart break just a little bit more at the care his crew continued to exude for him, the guilt chewing on his insides as he reached out to gently touch a sketch of the Executor in all her glory set in a sturdy frame.

A drawing from Jaqa. Unsanctioned upgrades from Jaqi. A strange cube trinket from Haza with intricate patterns along its sides. A knife from Flintlocke. His Xadaai sea moss already moved into a much larger, but delicately shaped jar with colored glass pebbles on the bottom from Yuul, the moss glowing a soft sea green as if sensing his headache. An actual paper book on old seafaring vessels from Mycalith, the note stuck to its cover in Veers’ handwriting bossing him to get some sleep telling Piett that Mycalith may have had a little help in the endeavor. The sweater on his back from Pyres. A small wooden box was set off to the side, the scent of herbs tickling his nose as he carefully slid the top off to view the tea inside. Where Hacksaw got it was beyond him, but Piett couldn’t help but hold it close, the almost floral undertones soothing the throb of his head if only for a moment.

They were his, and he was theirs. His heart swelled and his heart cracked, twisting and knotting in his chest as he set the box down. The sweater was suddenly hot despite the chill along his arms, and he wanted to yank it off and shove it in the darkest corner of his wardrobe and wrap himself in it until he couldn’t see the light of day in the same thought.

“I can’t do it,” he whispered, a lump in his throat that he tried to croak around. His eyes were burning, and he blinked them away, taking a breath in attempt to chase the tangled mess away as the shadows beside him curl into a familiar large frame as he stepped into the dim light. Piett took another breath, the air sharp like glass in his lungs as he turned towards Hacksaw’s silent form. “I can’t just choose any of you. I can’t ask that of the crew. Play spy on the Rebels? I can’t- I’ll be sending you to your deaths.”

But it was one of the few choices of plausible success they had. He himself had come up with the idea- harebrained and tugging at the threads of his sanity under the sea of soul-weary exhaustion, and Vader had approved it on the condition that Piett decided who it was. And it couldn’t be himself, no matter how hard Piett had argued it. He may not have the publicity as some of the admiralty and brass, but the Rebels would know of him enough to connect the dots, especially after the near-miss on Balmorra. And while there were a number of people Piett could trust to go in deep undercover, most of them weren’t in any position to even pretend to defect, especially for a long period of time.

They needed someone unknown to infiltrate the Rebel ranks and find the real answers without grasping at straws. Someone who wouldn’t be missed or affect the operation of the ship. But they couldn’t just pull a random private or ensign and force this upon them- it was a delicate matter, Vader had made no short terms of that- and Piett needed someone he could trust.

That only left the Gutterworks Crew.

His mouth was dry, the taste of something bitter in the back of his throat as the sea moss turned a sorrowful grey. This was a punishment, Piett knew it. Lord Vader had told him on his first day as bridge Captain to not let them interfere with his work, and yet Piett continuously did so over and over. Now he was making him choose between his duty and his people, his family, and he… he couldn’t-

Warm hands engulfed his own, large and scarred but holding his icy fingertips with a steadying presence. Piett sucked in sharply, blinking through a haze behind his eyelids at Hacksaw. The silent giant of a man had settled down onto one knee, allowing Piett to look down at him instead of craning his neck to look upward. Strong thumbs stroked the back of his hands, amber eyes looking at him with that bulkhead calm that Piett himself couldn’t seem to grasp hold of at the moment.

“Haza.” The rusty rasp from the wardog made Piett shudder, air catching somewhere in his chest, but the amber gaze never once wavered, hands holding fast without entrapping them.

“Haza.” Piett swallowed around the rock in his throat, but the choice had always been obvious, hadn’t it? “Yes… she… she’s creative enough to worm her way in without suspicion. Her half-zabrak nature could be used to her advantage, in this case. They won’t be expecting her to be the enemy.” And she’d be the least likely to break cover- Veers would probably kill him if he even had an inkling thought of putting Mycalith out in the field under that kind of pressure, and the twins would probably kill each other before ever stepping foot onto a Rebel base. Flintlocke had already been recognized by one Rebel already, and it would be far too suspicious for him to turn tail now, and Yuul, despite her stoic patience, had a mean streak a mile wide and it wouldn’t end well. Pyres was a terrible liar, even if his farmboy charm would be useful.

Haza was crafty. She could be sneaky and had a confidence to roll in and out of places she shouldn’t be in. She also had sense to run if things got too hot, and her small stature would make her unassuming to most.

She had always been the obvious choice, but Piett hadn’t- no, couldn’t- say it out loud. Not until Hacksaw gave him the answer he’d always known.

“Me.”

The air in Piett’s lungs seized as the gravelly voice punched a hole into his thoughts, scattering the certainty he thought he’d found and was trying to clamber onto like a lifeline. Hazel stared at amber, words rising and failing to curl off the tip of his tongue as he gaped at the wardog, who merely gazed back.

“You- you’re… volunteering to go with her?”

Hacksaw studied Piett for a moment his expression unwavering.

“Someone needs to keep an eye on her.”

It was, perhaps, the longest sentence Hacksaw had ever said to anyone- let alone his fracturing Admiral. His voice crackled painfully through the slow, choppy words, but he forced them out all the same without a flinch. Piett closed his eyes, the knife in his skull twisting around his brain painfully as his heart ached.

He couldn’t refute it, though. Couldn’t tell Hacksaw no, not that the man would’ve listened to him anyway, not on this. He simply didn’t exist, living in perpetual uncertainty since he had stepped foot onto the Executor, possibly since the Clone Wars ended. He wasn’t even sure if Lord Vader remembered the man from the brief visit so long ago, when he had become bridge Captain. There was no chance anyone outside a select handful board who knew of his presence, and as a clone he could possibly be anyone regardless of the size differences between the Alpha and the Command/Troop classes. They were uncommon enough now that the Rebels wouldn’t press too hard for one to crawl out of the woodworks, especially under the guise of making sure troublemaker Haza wasn’t getting herself blown up.

If anything went wrong, if they were caught, Piett knew Hacksaw would bring Haza back home.

“Thank you.” Piett’s hands twisted, squeezing Hacksaw’s fingers in attempt to convey the sincerity of his gratitude. Guilt still chewed him raw, but a weight that was crushing him was alleviated, if only a little. Haza would be safe with Hacksaw- he had far more experience and was an endless well of patience and she was a ball of unpredictability and energy. All Piett could do was trust in his crew and trust he didn’t kark it all up by opening his mouth to Lord Vader in even suggesting sending in an undercover operative. And for what- the pilot that destroyed the Death Star? It was a cover for something, it had to be. Vader hated the planet-destroying station, so what was it that had piqued his interest? What had turned him devolve into madness in his one-track mindset of finding one person?

Piett was missing parts of the puzzle. Piett also had a headache that was probably well beyond the realm of migraine at this point. He hadn’t slept more than an hour in several days, and his appetite had been well and truly shot. He had to sign off on one of his crew to go into enemy territory to find answers with no guarantee of backup or retrieval and no time limit other than getting answers sooner rather than later, and now he had two to worry about.

It wasn’t the worst birthday he’s had, but it was up there.

Hacksaw squeezed his hands in return, a quiet there’s nothing to thank me for before unraveling their fingers. Whatever gratitude Piett had vanished in an instant, however, when the blasted man picked him up like a toddler as he rose to his full height, one thick arm tucked under the Admiral’s legs to keep him steady.

“I’m forty, not five,” Piett groused, feeling his face turn hot as he clung to the unranked uniform he was leaning up against, although made no move to struggle free as he closed his eyes to keep the room from spinning and nausea roiled in his gut. “I can walk.”

Hacksaw didn’t say a word, nary even a blink as he carried his Admiral out the door, the hallways silent this late into the cycle as they made the trip to Piett’s quarters. He didn’t mention how Piett eventually dropped his cheek against his shoulder, eyes closed as his headache pounded in his skull and the sweater sucking in the heat from the furnace of a man carrying him. He was warm and safe, no longer having to think for the moment or concentrate on standing or moving or think about his embarrassment of being lugged like a child. His whole body ached when he was set down onto his own bed, forcing himself to reluctantly peel off the sweater and his uniform coat while steady hands tugged at his boots.

“Goodnight, Hacksaw,” he mumbled out once he was laying down on cool sheets, or perhaps he simply grunted a single syllable. Piett was already dozing off when warm fingers carded through his hair and a soft pressure against his forehead, a flutter of touch in his dreams.

Tomorrow he’ll wake up with his thoughts clear and the Executor empty of both Haza and Hacksaw, his signature he did not recall making on Haza’s files as Temporarily Reassigned and a shuttle documented to have left hours ago, signed off by Lord Vader in truth. Tomorrow he’ll be angry and guilty all over again and bottling it up like a fine wine, working through his tasks while the emergency comm weighed like an anchor in his breast pocket. Tomorrow he’ll make time to check on everyone, Vader be damned, and then wrestle his way through a training session with an understanding but unrelenting Veers.

But that was for tomorrow Piett.