"Visions, they are. Underestimate them, you must not."
—Grand Master Yoda
"I require information on this clone's habits. Personality. Tendencies. Patterns of behavior, in battle and out." The Nalroni rattled off his request with droid-like efficiency and Ahsoka could only stare.
"You're a Jedi. Access his records."
"His records are clean. Impressively so."
Ahsoka leaned forward, eyes fixed on the slowly rotating figure above the holo-emitter. She didn't like the flatness of her companion's voice. "He's a good soldier."
The holo-image in front of her was unmistakably from last night at 79s: Tup sat straddling a chair, a look of amicable humor on his face as he glanced over his shoulder at something, his topknot loose enough that she figured he'd had more than a few drinks by that point. From the looks of it, the image had been taken at her table, either while she'd been wolfing down daro root fries or after she'd nodded off on Rex's shoulder. She could also tell this was not a cut from a security cam; there was a clear-edged definition to the holo that spoke of a handheld imager, rather than a cam. Which meant that this…Jedi had been there, and she hadn't sensed him. At all.
"Then you should have no problem discussing this unit's personality."
"He is not a—I have every problem discussing his personality," Ahsoka snapped. "You were following him?"
The Nalroni—Xyre—leaned forward. "I have seen this clone's future—"
"You sure it's him?" Ahsoka had to ask, waspishly. "He is a clone."
"—and this particular unit will show an unacceptable deviance."
"For one, they're men. He's a man, not a unit."
"That's debatable."
"Uh, no, it's not."
"They are a bred army."
"They are good men!" No Jedi she knew would ever simply dismiss a clone as a unit; they had all worked with clones, fought with clones at their backs, knew them as individuals—even from the heights of command.
"I have seen this clone—"
Ahsoka glanced at the emitter. "Obviously."
He blew out a breath in an irritable huff. "A day ago, you called yourself a Jedi. I doubt much has changed in your bloodstream since then." He tapped the holoemitter with one blunt claw. "But more importantly, I have seen a Jedi die at this clone's hand. And I require information about this unit so that I may take appropriate action."
"Woah, woah, woah." Ahsoka held up a hand and half-rose out of her seat. "You just said he will show an unacceptable deviance and now you're saying he's already killed someone?"
"It is not a present action."
Ahsoka fought the urge to throw the emitter somewhere. Possibly at the Nalroni's head. "A vision."
"Yes."
"And he just...kills a Jedi. For no reason."
"Yes. An ordered execution."
"Wait—for no reason, or an ordered execution?"
"They are one and the same."
"No, clearly they're not—" she started.
"In this instance, they are," he said over her, with a shake of his muzzle.
It was becoming harder not to gape like an overheated nuna. Ahsoka sat back down, but ignored her own instincts—the niggling itch at the tips of her lekku that made her want to walk away. "You do realize how ridiculous you sound?"
"Many Jedi throughout history were scorned or exiled for their visions. It is well-documented."
Ahsoka rolled her eyes. "Well, can't argue there."
His ear twitched and he leaned forward, just an inch. "Will you provide information on this," he hesitated, "man?"
Ahsoka clenched her jaw, then said, "The clones are good men. Loyal men. The only Jedi they've fired on was either a true traitor or one they thought was a traitor." It was odd to defend their actions from three nights ago; just the memory made her skin itch. She could still feel the too close brush of hot plasma. "Even if what you're saying is true, Tup wouldn't act without good reason."
By all the Corellian hells, Tup hadn't even taken down Pong Krell when the Master had been actively treasonous. She'd read the reports and saw the holo footage; the rookie clone had simply stood there—passive bait—as Master Krell charged.
The Nalroni's eyes glittered in the tapcaf's light. "So you're saying it would be acceptable for him to murder a Jedi?"
"No!" Ahsoka snapped. "I'm saying—"
"You know as well as I that the image," Xyre tapped his skull with one claw, along a line of ridged scar tissue where no fur grew, "once seen, will not rest. He will kill one of the Order."
Ahsoka hesitated. There was no forgetting the image of Padmé falling to Aurra Sing's shot. But— "Then that Jedi wasn't really a Jedi. If you served with these men, you would know—"
"What you believe you know isn't always the truth."
His words shook loose a memory and it took her a moment to place where she'd heard them before.
Rex. Yesterday.
"Stay away from them and let them do their job," Ahsoka heard herself say, swallowing back the unexpected lurch of emotion that hit with her own words—to admit it, herself, out loud. "That's all they want."
Rex had made that clear over the past year. No matter his own thoughts, no matter the emotions she'd felt rolling off of him—warm as the heat from a hearth fire—he would fulfill his duty to his dying breath.
Anakin was the same way. And she wasn't there to—
No. Don't start, Ahsoka, she reminded herself firmly. This wasn't about Anakin or Rex or...
"Is it." It wasn't a question. Xyre said the words delicately, with a pull of his lips up across his muzzle in a very canine sneer. "Tell me, what do you know of the clones' creation?"
Ahsoka stared at him, at a loss over that particular jump of logic. "How does that even matter?"
"You assume all is a convenient truth."
"Taking after you, apparently."
Again with the ear twitch. At least he found this situation somewhat amusing. "To ignore a possible half-truth is not the Jedi way," he said.
"Walked away last night, remember?" Ahsoka said, with a tilt of her montrals. "And to deny other established facts isn't really a Jedi thing, either." Not that either supposed 'Jedi way' had been upheld during Ahsoka's first trial in the Chamber of Judgment. Irony after irony, she figured.
"It is essential to understand both the past and the present," he pressed, "to fully comprehend the possibilities of the future."
"The future is always in motion," she shot back. "Or did you miss lessons that day?"
"Said by the same master who allowed for your expulsion from the Order?" he asked, voice soft but with an odd edge to it that made her uncomfortable.
"That's not fair."
"The High Council's distinct lack of clarity has been observed for far longer than this war has spanned our galaxy."
Now that was going too far. For all her disappointment in the Council, for all that she wondered how everything could go so wrong, so fast: "This war isn't their fault—"
"Again, fallacy. It is a Jedi's fault. Or should I say, one who was a Jedi."
"You can't blame all of the Jedi for the fall of one." Or two. Or three.
She knew there'd been an inquiry into Krell after his death; unfortunately, that's about all she knew. The Council and even Master Kenobi had been tight-lipped on the matter, enough that it had irritated Anakin into an unusually unorthodox mission, even by Anakin's standards.
Ahsoka's hand clenched at the memory.
And as for Barriss, there wouldn't be any inquiry because she'd already confessed, been convicted, and hauled off, the entire ordeal neatly tied up with the expectation that nothing else was necessary.
Across from her, the flat black of Xyre's eyes somehow sharpened. "Similar situation, yes?"
"Actually, no," she noted.
He huffed, black lips peeling back in either a snarl or an attempt at a smile. "You walked away from the Order for a specific reason," he said, "yet I doubt there is any clarity in your own path, going forward."
"You don't know nearly as much as you think you do." With a flick of her finger, Ahsoka deactivated the holoemitter. The image of Tup gave a half-hearted fizzle, then winked out. She leaned over the emitter and into the Nalroni's space, hands braced on the tabletop. The stench of the Undercity prickled against her eyes and seeped into her senses, as oily as his previous words. "Tup wouldn't do that. Whatever you think you saw, it's not what it seems. And why don't you just go to this...this Jedi? Or is that identity conveniently unknown?"
"No, not unknown. However, approaching the Jedi in question would not be possible."
Ahsoka rolled her eyes again. Of course. "And why not?"
"The High Council is quite particular about this Jedi. He is, after all, considered the Chosen One."
"Fek, no," Kix hissed.
Coric waggled the sensor patch in his hand. "You don't really have a choice in the matter, Kix."
Coric had known this would be a hard sell; a medic was always the worst patient in the bay, and Kix was no exception.
Kix, true to form, crossed his arms over his black bodysuit and stared mulishly at Coric. "I am not wearing a monitor."
"You are, actually."
"It was just too many kriffing drinks! We've all been there—fek, you've been there, and I've helped haul your sorry shebs back to base—"
"That's not why, Kix, and you know it."
"Then tell me why!" the younger medic exploded, wrenching himself up off the examination bed to throw the words in Coric's face.
Coric's hand slapped over Kix's shoulder and forced him back down onto the bed. "That right there is one reason. You didn't used to bite everyone's head off, Kix."
"I don't—"
Coric's held a small device up—square, slender, and riddled with small sensor patches and electronics—and let it flash in the stark white light of the medbay. "Two, you show up here at oh-nine-hundred—two hours before you had to—with what has to be a headache the size of Bespin. So," Coric reached for one other item and held up both—a water bottle and the sensor patch—to Kix's disgruntled grumble, "hydrate. And then you endure this tiny, insignificant patch for a week. And then, you can resume your winning streak at sabaac."
Another string of curses followed—muted to a low mumble, at least—but Kix took the water bottle. "I get that I was an ass. But why—"
Coric stopped him with another heavy hand on the younger man's shoulder. "It's not about that, Kix, or the drinking." He sighed and shifted closer, studying Kix with a critical eye. It never ceased to amaze him that his fellow medics could be so undividedly obstinate about their own health, or even their own perceived limits. "It's not even what you said to Ahsoka—"
"Because it was deserved, and no one else had the balls to say it."
Coric narrowed his eyes, letting his silence speak for a long moment. "If you really think that," he finally said, "you never really knew her."
"I thought I did know her. I trusted her."
"Then you need to think over the last three days. Really. Think." Coric emphasized his words with a tap of his fingers, and Kix eyed him with something akin to suspicion. "Now," the lieutenant went on, gesturing at the water bottle and for Kix to slide forward to sit at the end of the bed. "Hangovers don't rate pain meds, but drink up."
"You never answered me," Kix noted after several minutes of silence, as Coric affixed the patch to the back of Kix's neck and aligned the sensors to the datapad he'd picked up from the bed's medical sidestand.
It took Coric several more minutes to answer; the medi-pad blipped with a small line of Aurebesh and a litany of readings flooded first into a set column, then diverted into the rows of data samples he had from Kix's last five physicals.
"Tell me about your nightmares."
"Ahsoka!"
Padmé's exclamation—and the outright relief in her voice—washed over Ahsoka and wrapped her in a warmth that not even the tapcaf had offered. Ahsoka's response, however, was reduced to a lame, "Hey," and a watery smile in return.
The senator was still in her morning dress—casual finery, all in varying shades of sunlit yellow, with her dark hair tucked into a simple bun—and she buried Ahsoka in a tight hug the moment C-3PO escorted Ahsoka into her sitting room, bright with early morning light.
"I was worried that you wouldn't come see me. Where have you been?" There was a tinge of censure in Padmé's voice that warmed Ahsoka even further. Padmé, for all that she was a force to be reckoned with on a galactic scale, was also the kindest, most sincerely caring soul Ahsoka had ever known.
It was one of the many reasons that she was glad to feel the imprint of Anakin on Padmé's unique Force signature—strongly enough this morning that Ahsoka knew Anakin had to have been with Padmé just hours before. Her Master and the senator might've thought their relationship was wholly secret, yet there was no mistaking that particular, gold-bright bond between the two.
At least, to anyone who spent any time around the two of them.
"Master Kenobi offered me a ship."
Padmé's surprise was genuine, although the strain tightening the skin around her eyes eased immediately and she ushered Ahsoka to a settee. "That is certainly something I could imagine Master Kenobi doing," the senator said, pouring tea into two filigree-etched cups. The heady scent of Naboo spices eased the ache in Ahsoka's montrals as she wrapped her hands around the little cup and let Padmé add a touch of pale blue cream and sugar. "And I'm certainly glad that you'll have more options."
Ahsoka felt a tug of humor at Padmé's words. She sounded disappointed. "You really wanted me around the Senate District that much?"
Padmé's wry smile was answer enough. "Well," she said, holding her own delicate cup to her lips and taking a moment to breathe deeply. "I had my hopes."
A laugh bubbled out of Ahsoka just a second before Padmé joined in, and in that moment, whatever strain that had been left—heavy and listless—across Ahsoka's shoulders since the trial simply...lifted off, as if Padmé's simple acceptance of Ahsoka's choice had been the one thing the ache in her chest had been waiting for.
"Thank you," she said, once Padmé's chuckle had subsided. "For everything."
Padmé shook her head and her smile was gentle and healing in itself. "I did no more than everyone else should have done." Her expression darkened, brief enough that it could've been a passing shadow from the window. "I'm so sorry that it had to be this way."
"Me too," Ahsoka said softly.
And she was. She also didn't want to put Padmé in an awkward position by keeping too close a connection; Anakin would need space to reconcile Ahsoka's decision.
She just wasn't sure how long that would take.
"You're more than welcome on Naboo," Padmé was saying, selecting a sweet-sand cookie from the small spread set beside the tea. "My family would welcome you with open arms. I'll admit I've already mentioned you to my sister, and she and her family are eager to host you, if you're so inclined. Although I'll warn you," she added with a small smile, "Ryoo—my eldest niece—has taken far more interest in court recently and will ask you for everything you might possibly know about Coruscant."
"I appreciate the offer, Padmé." Ahsoka hesitated; she would need to edge close to the truth, but subterfuge of any kind—especially toward Padmé—chafed against every one of her instincts. It didn't help matters that the Force seemed almost stubbornly vague about everything the Nalroni had said, yet still pushed forward toward something. "I...actually have a favor to ask."
The cup of tea had been held close at the senator's lips and she eyed Ahsoka carefully before taking a thoughtful sip. "I admit that I haven't yet asked anyone about Ventress."
Ahsoka barely caught herself from wincing. She'd nearly forgotten the other favor she had asked of Padmé, just yesterday. Not even twenty-four hours and I'm already blasting apart my skybridges.
Padmé took a moment to settle her cup to its saucer with a light clink. "I'm not sure yet how to phrase that request toward anyone else in the Senate. Even Bail would probably think I'm chasing wild yunax." She grimaced at her own words. "I'm sorry, Ahsoka. That was unkind. I will make the requests."
"Um, actually, this is a different favor. Not about Ventress."
Padmé blinked. "Oh?"
"It has to do with the Refugee Relief Movement."
Padmé brightened in an instant, as if the sun had decided to shine its full glory directly onto the petite senator. "Oh, Ahsoka! That's wonderful!"
Ahsoka hid a spike of guilt behind a gulp of tea—which she then nearly choked on. Thankfully, Padmé didn't seem to notice. "The movement would be more than happy to have someone of your unique skills and qualifications to help guide their efforts. They suffered a severe blow when the Jedi withdrew the Agricorps' assistance."
Ahsoka vaguely remembered that; a quick line in a report sent out by the High Council. It was an interesting side-effect of Onderan's success in repelling the Separatists by home-grown Republic sympathizers, and the Agricorps had been recruited into assisting at a somewhat more covert level. Ahsoka hadn't quite been able to push aside the guilt felt whenever she came across another mention of an Agricorps member, meant for the peaceful rebuilding of tragedy-stricken communities, now dead at Separatist hands.
It was one thing to expect a full Jedi—even a Padawan—to fight their way out of an inherently violent situation; no one in the Agricorps would have a chance.
"Well, I'd like to help as much as I can," Ahsoka said, swallowing against the urge to cough. "I know there isn't much that one person can do, but I didn't really want to just leave the war behind."
At Padmé's approving nod, Ahsoka felt relief spread through the tension that had tightened in her gut. "You don't give yourself enough credit, Ahsoka," the senator said. "You are—and always will be—a formidable woman."
"I don't know about that, but I'm not going to forget the last few days." Ahsoka took a breath as she placed her teacup aside. "There's a lot I need to understand, but I want to do something while I'm looking."
It was close enough to the truth that the words came easily.
"Well, in that case," Padmé went on, shifting an inch and somehow sitting up even straighter, an instantaneous change from casual companionship to the essence of senatorial business. "The people of Qiilura, of course, have been and continue to be a sensitive issue. The Refugee Movement has been focusing on evacuating the remaining Human colonists, but they've encountered stiff resistance. There are also rebuilding efforts on Omwat and Christophsis after the latest attack and they could certainly use someone who is accustomed to both command and civilian ways, and who can easily cut through the bureaucratic red flimsitape—"
"Actually, Padmé," Ahsoka interrupted, holding up her hand. "I already had a mission in mind. I think some evacuation efforts are already in place there, but I will need your...good word."
Without missing a beat, Padmé tilted her chin to one side and said, with no change in inflection, "Ringo Vinda."
Ahsoka tried to smile. "Right in one."
Padmé's gaze was appraising. "I believe the 501st is headed there soon."
Well. Two could play that information game, although she'd rather trade secrets with Padmé, than dance around who should know what about the GAR's military movements. "Tomorrow morning. And at the latest briefing, they were still trying to move as many civilians off the station as possible before the battle."
Which had made the whole thing smell like a trap to her, and she'd said as much at the last war council she'd attended—the Separatists had had no problem using civilians as living shields before—but Tarkin had insisted the battle strategy move forward as planned.
"I doubt the majority of civilians were moved off the station, Ahsoka."
Ahsoka furrowed her brow. "Going by our intel, it was a concerted effort."
Padmé's sigh was small, but spoke volumes. "Ringo Vinda has become an extremely popular gambling hub over the last year. I'm sure plenty of other things—sentient or not—are bought, sold, traded, or won there. I'm also sure that most of the evacuees were shipped out at the pleasure and insistence of the station's newest tenants."
Facts that weren't mentioned at all in the briefing. "That...wasn't mentioned in the war council." Something hot and prickly simmered in her chest. Was everything a hatchmark on someone else's agenda? "How do you know this?"
"The war has always been a tangled web, Ahsoka," Padmé said, sympathetic but matter-of-fact. "Every day, every hour spins another strand." Her brows knit together for a moment. "I've learned to listen far more than I speak while I walk the Senate hallways."
Ahsoka took a deep breath and leaned forward, elbows on her knees. She would need to just lay it out. "Padmé, I need to be on that station in some sort of official capacity."
Padmé studied her for a moment. "You need to give him space, Ahsoka, if he is ever going to accept that you both can move forward."
"I know, but—"
"No, Ahsoka. If you made your choice—"
"He's in danger." Ahsoka pushed the words out in one rush of air.
Padmé's eyebrows slanted into a quizzical frown. "He's always in danger, Ahsoka. He lives for—"
"Not like that, Padmé. Remember the conference on Alderaan?"
Padmé broke off with a startled, "Oh!" and leaned forward, eyes wide. "You've seen this? But a bounty hunter couldn't—"
"Not a bounty hunter," Ahsoka quickly said. "I don't think I could explain, but I...have reason to believe his life is in danger in the near future." She hesitated as a sudden tendril of the Force curled in uncertainty in her stomach, but she pushed forward anyway. She'd come this far. "And if I can do anything to keep that from happening, I will."
Padmé took only a moment to decide, searching Ahsoka's face for something intangible. "Well, then. Let's make some calls."
The Resolute's sublight engines—rumbling with the standard preps and tests prior to shipping out—thrummed through the deck plates and vibrated with familiar intensity through the soles of Rex's boots. It was a song he'd long grown accustomed to, comfortable as the curves and weight of his armor or the kickback of his deeces. Despite the delays and the 330th's sudden restructuring, Rex had sought out the Resolute as soon as was feasible, even as his company had scattered to the deepening Coruscant evening: a bloody red beneath a layer of filmy clouds that wreathed the highest spacescrapers.
Oh-nine-hundred was lockdown, and his men would make the most of the last few hours of leave available—and yet somehow he wasn't surprised to find Fives sprawled in Rex's shipside office chair, boots on the desk and a pad in hand.
"What's the occasion?" Rex gave a casual shove at Fives' boots, which the ARC just as casually swung down to the floor as he sat up and handed Rex the datapad. Fives occupying the Resolute's halls during any hour of leave-time meant either one of two things. "Did you lose your lady to an officer?"
Fives snorted and pointedly ignored Rex's jibe. "Latest intel from RI, fresh outta Zey's net. I would've given it to the general himself, but he's still MIA."
Rex fought back a sigh. And he probably will be, 'til we break dock.
"Oh, and I debugged your office. It's clean and we can talk freely."
And that. Of course.
"You debugged my office," Rex repeated, deadpan.
"'S what I said, eh?"
"Do I want to know how many bugs were in here?"
"Probably not."
Rex did sigh then, propping one hip on the edge of his desk and folding his arms across his chest. Fives leaned further back in the captain's office chair, altogether at ease—as he always was—in flaunting authority. This was obviously going to be Option Two. "What did you give her?"
The practiced look of complete innocence looked wholly ridiculous on Fives' face.
"You slipped Ahsoka something, Fives."
At least it wasn't his tongue; the urge to flatten Fives' face had been relatively short-lived, at least once he'd realized Fives' little stunt outside of 79s was about as sincere as the casualty counts mentioned on the daily civilian holonews report. But the fact that Rex hadn't connected those pieces until he'd been well on his way back to base—and Ahsoka holed up in her new ship—bothered him. Just as much as she couldn't slip or let her guard down, neither could he.
There was far more riding on his shoulders, now more than ever.
"Fek, you make it sound like I spiked her drink," the ARC groused.
"You probably did."
"Oh?" Fives' sudden grin was as sharp as his gaze. "Did she plant another one on you? At least one of you has some sense then—"
"You gave her something; something that made her actually accept General Kenobi's offer—and I really don't think she was going to take it, otherwise—but you need to tell me what you threw her into."
At that, Fives sat up fully. "You think I'd, what, just toss her to the vapin' dorax dogs?"
"I think you'd find something that she would find interesting. I think you'd have a vague understanding of its intent or importance, and you'd send her off to figure the rest out on her own."
The ARC shrugged. "Sounds about right."
Rex fought back the urge to thump the man. "Even you have back-up when you're out there. Maybe not immediately, but it's out there—"
Fives held up a hand, one eyebrow ticked up in annoyance. "Ah, no, that's not how it works, and you know it."
"Yes, it is. If you manage to survive—"
"Thanks for the vote of confidence," Fives muttered.
"You have a base to go back to; unlimited resources; everything."
"What do you have against her, Rex? You told me yourself that none of it added up—that none of it made sense. Let her dig."
"It's not—" Rex broke off, rubbing one hand across his face, shaved smooth only hours before but still rough even beneath the thick callouses of his fingertips. "Someone wanted her dead, or at least out of the way. And I don't think it was Offee."
"Yeah, I gathered that." Fives shook his head, though, and studied Rex for a moment. "If you trust her—"
"I do trust her." Of all the shabla osik... This was a concept none of them seemed even willing to accept. "She's not a one-person army. She doesn't need to be, either."
"You think I'd just give her something if there wasn't a backup to fall to?"
Rex stared at the ARC, torn between wanting to punch the man or buy him a drink—or twenty, to actually get all the facts—and settled for sitting in the chair across from his own, one boot propped against the desk's edge. "Give me the facts, Fives."
Fives snorted in disbelief. "No can do, Captain."
"Kriff it all, just tell me—"
Fives leaned forward abruptly, elbows resting on Rex's desk and face suddenly lined by the weight of far more than just two years of war. "You think I just left behind Umbara and forgot about what happened out there? Or what Krell said while he was busy cutting us all apart?"
Something icy hot prickled at the back of Rex's neck and he grit his teeth. "Please say you haven't been doing what I think you just said you're doing."
"Rex, it's not like it's treason or anything—"
"Fekking hells, Fives!"
"Look, networks are approved by RI." Fives spread his hands wide. "It's what I do as an ARC. You may think I'm as shabla-brained as a gassed Gungan, but you need to trust me."
Silence held between both men for a long moment, tense and taut with the pressing weight of the engines' thrum against their ears.
"Fine," Rex sighed. Against his better judgement and every instinct that just wanted her off Coruscant.
For once, Fives' half-smile was sincere. "I appreciate the support, Captain."
"You don't report to me," Rex noted.
"Not officially." And as if he'd decided all was settled, he pulled a narrow bottle of clear glass and amber liquid from somewhere and plunked it on the desk, followed by two collapsible plasti-cups, easily slotted into something far more generous than shot glasses.
"Oh, for fek's sake."
"You're not going out," Fives said. "I'm not going out; we're drinking to good health and battles and all that osik."
"Do you even know what a reg manual looks like?"
Fives gave a noncommittal shrug. "I had Echo as a vat-brother. Didn't need to."
"Let me introduce it to you. Looks a lot like the bottom of my boot."
"Ha. Haha. Where'd you grow the sense of humor?" Fives turned the bottle, letting the label flash in the bland light of the overhead glowrods. "Toydarian. The good stuff."
Rex sighed, and with a shake of his head, leaned forward to pluck the bottle out of Fives' hand. "From you? Wouldn't expect any less." With a quick twist of the cap, he took the first pour, splashing a healthy amount of whiskey into what was ostensibly Fives' cup, then his own. "To brothers gone."
Fives lifted his plasti-cup to the toast. "And a sister not forgotten."
And to the war's end, Rex added silently, before upending his own cup. With the fire that lanced his throat, all the way down to his belly, came the thought that—just maybe—there would be a future past every battlefield.
And just maybe...
His fingers clenched the thin plasti hard enough to bend and he slammed down the thought before it could take root and grow. That particular path had already been walked, and he'd fekked it up with all the finesse of battle droid tip-toeing through the starflowers.
But it wasn't long after the first downed shot that a familiar half-grin twitched at the corner of Fives' mouth. The man was utterly incapable of staying silent for longer than thirty seconds.
"Maybe that's all we really need." At Rex's furrowed brow, he went on. "Maybe instead of a one-man army," Fives crooked his finger between the two of them; as alike and different as they could be, "the Republic just needs a one-woman army."
"Fives."
Fives' grin deepened. "I don't know about your stubborn shebs, but I'd surrender in a fekking nanosecond. Flat on my ba—"
"Out of my office. Now."
Fives, of course, ignored him, and laughing, poured another shot for them both. Rex hauled him up by the back of his pauldron, regardless, and shoved him toward the door.
"Get. Out."
Fives swung back around like a glitchy hoverball. "Oh, come on, Captain." Fives swiped the cup back when Rex nearly sent it flying, then managed to grab up the bottle, sloshing with a wet thwick against the half-twisted lid. "Fek, Rex," he snapped, his temper showing for the first time. "Get laid if you're going to be this karking pissy at Vinda!"
"OUT!"
