A/N: A new-ish POV in this chapter. It's one we've seen once before, but that was a loooong time ago. Also, keep in mind that this story is AU; it hasn't been so much, so far, but from here on out you'll start to see more evidence of its divergence from canon.

Lyrics: "Spies," by Coldplay, from Parachutes.

Chapter Thirty-Six

I awake to find no peace of mind.

I said, how do you live as a fugitive?

Down here, where I cannot see so clear.

I said, what do I know?

Show me the right way to go.

Someone nearby dropped a hydrospanner. Not an unusual occurrence in a bustling hangar, but the echoing clang made Ares' stomach twist with nerves. He cast as casual a glance as he could manage over his shoulder, but of course there was nothing suspicious, just as there hadn't been in the days since leaving Aruna. Still, he took a deep breath to steady his roiling gut, and looked back at the technician, bent over the open panel of the Raven's left nacelle.

"How much longer?" Ares asked. The Wookiee replied in a series of whuffs and growls that took Ares a moment to decipher, and when he did, he frowned. "Four more hours? You said this would be an easy patch-and-go job, but I've been waiting nearly half a day."

Another growl, this one accompanied by a narrowing of the Wookiee's eyes before she turned her attention back to the ship. That, it seemed, signaled the end of the interaction. Very well. Ares exhaled and glanced around Hosk Station, searching for the nearest credit-transfer booth; there, toward the hangar's entrance, barely visible between the swarm of travelers passing through the Mid Rim outpost.

He put his eyes on the Raven once more before making his way to the booth. Rather, he tried to make his way, but it was rough going with so many beings milling about the hangar. Barely three steps away from his ship and a Bothan stepped on his boot, while an Iridonian family smacked into his shoulder. None offered an apology of any kind, only hurried for one of the dozens of shuttles scattered throughout the hangar.

Hosk Station, orbiting the planet of Kalarba, was one of the designated harbors of the Refugee Resettlement Coalition, and as such was host to the stream of lifeforms Ares had had to fight through. As best he could tell, most who had found their own homes torn apart by the Wars fled through similar ports, seeking a shelter from the galactic-wide storm.

The only semblance of order came from the Republic soldiers tasked with overseeing the loading of each transports. Among the sea of species of all kinds, the clones' gleaming white armor – striped with blue, which Ares had not seen before – stood out rather clearly, and Ares found his eyes drawn their way more than once as he crossed the hangar. It was foolish, he knew, to think of Traxis now, but alas...

None of soldiers seemed to notice him, however, which was probably for the best. In the midst of this chaos was a good place to disappear, at least for a little while.

A smooth, synthetic voice wafted above the bustle. "All travelers departing for Alderaan, please report to Hangar Bay Besh. The Refugee Resettlement Coalition reminds you that no weapons are permitted aboard designated shuttles, and asks that all younglings be accompanied by an adult."

The message was repeated in Basic, Huttese, Pak Pak, and several other languages Ares could not immediately discern as he darted through the fray. By the time he reached the credit-transfer booth, he'd been stepped on three more times, and a Selonian had nearly clawed his right lek in an attempt to dodge a dangerous-looking fellow in dark gray armor.

By some miracle, the booth was unoccupied. Ares ducked inside, slid the curtain closed, and rubbed his poor lek. A necessary casualty of haste, sadly. Well, he'd needed to blend in; he'd certainly picked the right place.

It took him a moment to call up his account information on the screen. The figure that greeted him was expected, but his stomach still sank. Even with the few jobs he'd picked up since leaving Aruna, the sum wouldn't be enough to pay Bane. There was also the issue of the extra ten percent cut Bane had demanded, a figure which was now, unfortunately, zero, given that Ares had returned his payment. It was doubtful Bane would be understanding.

Stupid. Ares ground his teeth and stared at the screen, though the numbers swam before his vision. He should never have given back those kriffing sabers. Damn his foolish, soft nature.

But there was nothing for it, now. Upon hearing that Bane had been spending most of his time lately in the Core, Ares decided to avoid that particular region, just in case, and focus on gathering as much money together as he could. And really, he wasn't that far away; surely another few weeks, and he'd have it. Of course, to earn credits, he needed a working ship, but the coolant hose had broken loose at last – taking a few other essential components with it – and Ares was not skilled enough to repair this particular problem. Thus the necessity of dealing with the cantankerous – and unusually slow-moving – Wookiee.

Ares checked his chrono. He had hours to fill; he wasn't hungry, but his stores of caf were dangerously low and there were a few other items from the trading post that would be useful.

This in mind, he cleared his information out of the console and stepped outside the booth, where the muzzle of a blaster pressed into his stomach. Glowing crimson eyes, shaded by a wide-brimmed hat, locked onto his, and Cad Bane smiled.

"Fancy meetin' you here, Tabora."

Kriff. Every muscle tensed before Ares slowly began to raise his hands.

But Bane gave a low growl of irritation. "Keep 'em down. I don't wanna draw anyone's attention."

The muzzle pressed closer with enough force to push Ares back into the booth, all the way against the far corner. Though no taller than Ares, Bane loomed over him, filling every inch of Ares' vision. In the small space, the scent of cigarras and tibanna ebbing off of the Duros was strong enough to sting Ares' eyes. It was impossible to take a proper breath, especially with the air suddenly hot and stifling.

Only when they were ensconced behind the curtain did Bane speak again. "You're late."

There was no kriffing way this was going to end well, but Ares tried to postpone the inevitable. Admittedly, he was also quite curious. "How did you find me?"

"I got eyes everywhere. Don't you know that? Now," Bane pressed the muzzle closer, "about my creds..."

Ares took a deep breath. "You have my apologies, but–"

"'But' ain't somethin' I'm interested in," Bane broke in. "Only credits. You remember our agreement, don't ya?"

The pressure of the muzzle increased, such that Ares was certain he'd have a second navel when this was over. Assuming he lived to look in a mirror again. There was a small security cam embedded in the console; even if the cam was functioning, even if some concerned party was watching on the other end, it was unlikely they'd be able to respond in time.

Both lekku twitched. Sweat began to roll down his back but he managed to keep his voice calm. "I have partial payment. You can have all of it now, if you give me a little more time to collect the rest."

Bane's eyes narrowed a fraction, though the slit of his mouth curved into a faint smile. "I'd rather have that ship of yours."

No. Please, no. "Just another few days," Ares managed. "Please."

The blaster lifted; Ares savored its absence for a second before Bane smirked in earnest. "Nah."

It happened too fast for Ares to measure. One flick of the Duros' wrist allowed him to simultaneously reverse his grip on the weapon and draw his hand back, and the last thing Ares saw was the butt of Bane's blaster on an arc toward his head. Then, darkness.

Meanwhile...

Captain Rex waved the next group of civvies onto the shuttle, though his attention was only partially on his task due to the flashing icon in the corner of his HUD. A few blinks called up the incoming transmission. "What's the status of our package?"

"Taking his sweet-shebs time getting off his kriffing shuttle," Fives replied. "Fek. How much luggage does one fellow need? Last time I checked, they have clothes on Corrie, even for Seppie turncoats."

They were on a private comm-channel, but Rex still narrowed his eyes. "Cut the unnecessary chatter, vod. What's your ETA?"

"Fek if I know."

"Fives."

Fives gave a drawn-out sigh that crackled through Rex's helmet. "I dunno, Rex. Ten minutes? Maybe less if I cross my arms. I'm told I look very threatening when I cross my arms."

"Just get it done – but don't antagonize him, for kriff's sake. The general's trusting us to deliver him safely and quietly; we don't want to give the package any reason to change his mind and back out."

The ARC trooper chuckled. "I think we're past that point, vod. He's already defected–"

One of Rex's patented, captainly throat-clears cut off Fives' words. Rex allowed a few weighted moments to pass before speaking. "Comm me when your team is escorting him to the RV point."

"Copy that, Captain Rex, sir," Fives replied, though his tone was a little too official. Rex knew when he was being mocked, but he let it slide. It'd been a long couple of weeks, after all.

Rex signed off and oriented his full attention back to the task at hand, nodding to the next group waiting to board, a trio of furry Selonians. After these, the shuttle would be at capacity, so he gave Tup a signal to block off the rest of the refugees in line until the next shuttle arrived. This earned him a few muttered swears from the waiting civvies, but nothing more serious. They weren't pleased at the clones' presence, but no one seemed inclined to do anything more than curse and shoot dirty looks Rex's way.

Civvy traffic control was simple stuff, really, but it was necessary to justify Torrent Company's presence on Hosk Station, and the Refugee Resettlement Coalition had agreed to allow the Republic troops to help.

General Skywalker and the Chancellor had arranged the whole thing; all Rex and his men had to do was see that Passel Argente was transferred safely into Republic custody. Even accounting for the high stakes of escorting the Separatist defector to Coruscant, the mission was a relative blue milk run.

Which was a good thing, as Torrent was still recovering from the losses on Umbara. Other troops had been brought in to supplement the company's numbers, but they were basically shinies. And even if they'd been battle-hardened soldiers, nothing could fill the void Umbara had created. General Skywalker and Ahsoka had done their best, naturally. But the darkness lingered in the back of Rex's mind.

Another incoming transmission caught his attention, and he blinked into his HUD to open the channel. "What's up, Jess?"

"We've got a situation, sir."

Rex frowned. "Serious?"

"Er..." Jesse paused. "Hard to say. I think you should come to mine and Hardcase's coordinates. Bring Coric or Kix, too. There's a wounded civvy."

Though Jesse was not often the most solemn of troopers, he was a good soldier and better man, and Rex trusted his vod. This, at least, was the one constant in his life. His brothers. "Copy that, Jess," he said, signaling Tup that he'd be right back. "I'm on my way."

After a brief stop to collect Kix, Rex found himself in one of the nearby hangars, where the process of loading civilians onto transports was being repeated. If anything, this hangar was more crowded than the one where Rex had come from, and for a moment he couldn't find Jess or Hardcase, HUD be damned.

"There," Kix said, indicating a credit-transfer booth across the hangar. Rex and the medic darted through the sea of civvies, reaching the other troopers a few minutes later. The clones had managed to cordon off the space immediately before the booth, though barely, given the insistent press of beings. A male Twi'lek lay upon the ground, coat spread behind him, coral-colored lekku bent at odd angles, and there was a rather nasty gash on his temple.

Kix was already pulling out his medkit before he reached the Twi'lek's side. "Is he alive?" Rex asked.

"Yeah, just knocked out." Hardcase indicated a small pile of metallic bits and pieces. "We think he lost a fight; his comlink's all smashed up."

Rex nodded and glanced back at the medic. "Do you need help?"

"No, sir," Kix replied as he pressed an antiseptic pad to the wound. "Just keep the area clear while I try to wake him up."

Indeed, after getting the Twi'lek upright, leaning his back against the booth, and tapping his cheeks, the fellow's eyes opened. At first he only blinked a few times as if trying to clear his head, then winced as if he were in pain.

Rex knelt beside the Twi'lek and pulled off his bucket. "Are you alright?"

The Twi'lek stared at him, mouth open, then nodded once. "I...yes, I believe so."

"What's your name?"

"Tabora," he replied, wincing as Kix smoothed a bacta patch over his temple. "Efficient as your fellows, I see."

An odd thing to say, but Rex let it slide. "Did you see who did this to you?"

"I did, but..." Tabora's eyes widened and he swore, jumping to his feet and nearly knocking Kix over in the process. "My ship," he said, glancing in one direction as Rex stood as well. "Where is she? Where is the Raven?"

Some of the other civvies had cleared out by now, so Rex and the others looked in the same direction, and saw...

An empty hangar.

Shab. Rex glanced back at the civvy. Now, Tabora's expression darkened; it was not quite a frown, not quite a scowl, but it did not bode well. His lekku twitched and his hands clenched into fists, and he let loose a string of virulent swears in several languages, only some of which Rex recognized. Rex exchanged glances with his men; none of them seemed to know quite what to say or do. And none of them really had time for this.

"Sir," Rex broke in, "would you like one of us to escort you to the Port Authority? I'm sure they can–"

He was cut off by a horrific boom that shuddered through the entire hangar with enough force to send himself – and everyone around him – to their knees. Civvies screamed and began to swarm for the exits. Without his bucket, Rex registered the temp change as a bloom of heat that swept out of the eastern corridor, though thank the Force there were no flames. One of his men swore, but all of them recovered instantly, scrambling upright and readying their weapons, while Rex shoved his helmet on once more.

Before he could begin barking orders, his HUD alerted him to a transmission from Fives. "He's kriffing dead!"

Rex's stomach dropped to his knees. He knew, but had to confirm. "Who..."

"Our fekking package," Fives snarled. "I tried to get him to hurry; he got uppity and told me and my men to get off his ship and let him be, so we did. I mean, we were right by his ship; there was no effing way someone could have tampered with it. But the next thing I know, the fardling thing's lit up like Corrie on Republic Day."

Biting back a swear of his own, Rex tried to keep his calm. "Your team...?"

"Two dead; Cato and Dust were caught in the blast," Fives said grimly. "Blackout and Pliny got away, but barely. The fire crew's here. Kriff it all, Rex..."

"I know." Rex glanced at Jess, Kix and Hardcase, whose visors were fixed on him. "I'm sending some troopers your way. We've got to keep the civilians from panicking any more, and figure out who did this."

After Fives' acknowledgment, Rex signed off and signaled to his men to assist Fives and what remained of his team. The hangar buzzed with frightened civilians, many of whom had decided to rush the transports in lieu of rushing the exits.

So much for civvy traffic control being simple.

Rex glanced at Tabora, who stood with his back pressed to the booth. "Mr. Tabora, I advise you to clear the area and get to safety."

The Twi'lek's coral-colored skin had paled considerably, but at Rex's words he nodded and slipped off. Rex didn't watch him go. He had work to do.

Minutes ago...

Shadow watched the clones that stood before the Seppie's ship.

Why the fek were Republic soldiers guarding a Sep? Prisoner transport? Protection detail? What the kriff was going on?

Four regular grunts and – if the kit and swagger were anything to go by – an ARC trooper. Shadow didn't have access to their comm-channels, so he couldn't hear their voices, but the way they stood, the way their buckets inclined toward one another made him think they were talking amongst themselves. About what? The mission was the most likely guess, but perhaps they had post-mission plans. Probably a trip to the mess and a hot shower. Maybe a few rounds of sabacc.

Laughter filtered through his mind; an echo of a memory. For one moment, he could feel thin sabacc cards in his hands, hear the sound of other voices, his but not, surrounding him... Then the feeling drifted away, as if snagged from his grasp by a current of air.

Heedless of their observer, the other clones gesticulated – only slightly, as they were on duty – but Shadow recognized the casual motions of hands and shoulders. Banter was probably being exchanged on those closed comm-channels.

While he stood alone, surrounded by darkness and filled with a void.

Yes, he had orders. No doubt they did as well, for all of his own ignorance. But they also had each other. What did he have?

Nothing.

Beneath his own bucket, Shadow clenched his jaw. He was spec ops, a breed apart from the men that stood so close, but were as far away from him as the outermost edges of Wild Space. It was not his place – or purpose – to work with other clones. Had it ever been? Before, perhaps, but trying to cast his memory down that flimsy line was futile, so he shucked the thought away before it had a chance to grow.

Shadow turned his mind to the present; he had a job to do. His mission parameters had not changed. If the other clones got in the way, then so be it. There was probably more going on here than he knew. He had shown mercy once, and was no better off in the three weeks since he'd left Milo alive. He'd depleted his supply of feks to give.

And from that anger beating through his blood, he drew strength and focus. It was a simple thing to cloak himself in the Force, slip past the ARC and his grunts, and enter the Sep's ship. Four dets were more than enough to obliterate the thing, but he dropped twice that, scattering a few near the ship's loading ramp, closest to the clones who stood outside. No matter how close you stood to another, everyone was alone in their final moments. He'd seen proof of that in Tibor's eyes. These men would learn what it was to be on their own, as he had.

The thought left him hollow, so he turned his attention to adjusting the timer on the final det before leaving.

In and out in three minutes.

Easy.

Shadow exited the ship as as he'd entered: undetected. By the time the chaos and fire took over, he was safely away. Argente was dead; it was time to leave Hosk Station and head to his next check-in.

But something urged him to remain. Within the sheltering layers of his unique armor, he would not be recognized as a clone, and as long as he didn't run or do anything else to draw attention to himself, he would not be marked as the one who'd caused trouble. There was no better place to hide than in plain sight. He stood outside a 'fresher, leaning against the wall as if waiting for someone, and watched the clones scramble to contain the damage. The explosion had effectively shut down the transports' departures, which meant the soldiers had a station full of angry, frightened civilians on their hands.

Shadow's ship had several transponder codes so he wouldn't be tracked. He had nothing to worry about.

A fellow with a captain's insignia and jaig eyes on his bucket was speaking to a group of Selonians. Judging by the clone's body language and the furry Selonian's raised hackles, it was not a pleasant conversation. The same scene looked like it was repeated across the hangar, and the Force-presences of most beings in the area were ripe with frustration and fear.

Buffeted by the emotions of the civvies and clones alike, Shadow's previous, sharp-edged focus faded, and he winced behind his bucket. This mess was his fault.

He'd only been following orders. He'd done the Republic a service.

But the question remained: why were the clones here in the first place? Why couldn't they have handled the destruction of Argente's ship? Why was he brought in? Yes, he had the Force, but surely an ARC trooper like the one he'd seen could have managed to toss a few dets aboard a ship.

At a break in the civvy traffic, the ARC trooper emerged from the crowd and approached the jaig eyed captain. Both clones removed their buckets, and after a little tweaking of his HUD settings, Shadow could hear their conversation.

"Report," the captain said.

The ARC trooper sighed. "No sign of our attacker. Security cams didn't pick anything up, either. I'm starting to think the ship was rigged before it even docked. Any news from the general?"

"He comm'd a few minutes ago. The Chancellor has been informed, and will begin his own investigation, but Skywalker didn't seem to think much would come of it."

"It's a damn shame. We were so kriffing close."

Captain Jaig Eyes nodded. "Argente's intel could've saved a lot of lives. I doubt another Sep will defect after this debacle."

Shadow's stomach dropped to his knees. Argente had been...defecting from the Seps?

Fek. What have I done?

"We tried, Rex," the ARC trooper said quietly.

Rex. The name struck a chord in Shadow's mind, as did most things that reminded him of Before. But he couldn't call up an accompanying memory and he ground his teeth as he debated. Should he risk approaching Rex, if only to ask, have we met before? He'd not spoken to another clone since leaving Kamino, barely a week ago. Felt like longer.

No. He had his orders to work alone, and orders were never given without reason, even if it wasn't immediately clear. Besides, there were too many unknowns. Even if Shadow was privy to the larger picture behind his orders, Rex would likely only think him dangerous, and once they learned of his involvement with Argente's death, he would probably get thrown in a containment cell somewhere.

So Shadow remained where he stood.

Rex placed a hand on the other fellow's shoulder. "I know you tried. This is just a loss we'll have to swallow and move on. We've done it before."

The ARC trooper nodded, but his head dropped too low. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be," Rex replied. "You did your best. You always do, vod."

If the name Rex was a familiar note, this word, vod, was a symphony. Shadow's breath caught as an unanticipated dizziness swept over him. He was reminded of being crouched on the side of the mountain back on Iktotch, looking down to see how far he had to fall if he made a misstep.

Vod. Brother.

The two clones continued to speak, but Shadow didn't listen. It was all he could do to simply take a proper breath while his heart hammered against his ribs like it was trying to break free. Another memory, faded and torn, hung just below the surface of his mind, but he could not reach it, only recognize the longing it stirred within him. His vision swam and his eyes stung. Vod. Brother.

This was too much. He had to get away from this place, these clones. It was time to run.

The Force helped him reach his ship unseen, and a lack of concern for the station's lockdown allowed him to jump to hyperspace without further delay. After changing out the transponder codes and setting the nav for his next check-in, Shadow leaned back in the pilot's chair and meditated.

Save a few occasions, he'd repeated this process every day since he'd woken up on Kamino: settle down, quiet his breathing, steady his heartbeat. With these things would come a place of calm, a place where he could reflect on the day's events; then, without fail, he would see the wall.

As always, he could do nothing but skim his palms over the cold, unyielding surface. As always, he could not find a fissure, or anything close to a weak point. Within his mind, deep in meditation, Shadow pressed his body to the stone wall, throwing all of his weight against it, begging, pleading for it to give, even a little.

The wall remained firm.

Eventually he drew away and turned his focus to Rex, trying to recall where he'd encountered that clone before, but this, too, was a lost cause. To add insult to injury, the only thing he was able to dredge up from his mind was her face – the dark-haired, dark-eyed woman lodged within his fekking memory. Somehow, she was related to his memory of Rex, but beyond that, he knew nothing.

Nothing.

Shadow opened his eyes to the blue ribbons of hyperspace, and ran his fingers through his hair. Too many unknowns. He'd committed a criminal act, but he'd had orders from Lord Tyranus. Why would a Jedi act against the Republic? Were other Jedi working with Tyranus?

For that matter, did anyone else know of his own existence? Surely a Force-sensitive clone would warrant some kind of investigation – at least a trip to the Council – but such a thing had never been mentioned. What the fek sort of special ops program had he gotten involved with?

His breath came shorter and his palms began to sweat as panic set in. What the kriff was he doing?

Why couldn't he fekking remember any-kriffing-thing from Before?

Any calm Shadow had gathered disintegrated with this thought. Before. All he knew of it were bits and pieces of memories, none of which fit together. Nothing in his life made sense. Even his armor didn't fit right.

At first he confused the buzz of his comlink with the furious lash of his heart. Hands trembling, Shadow fumbled in his belt and withdrew the little device, his only link to his commanding officers; this, too, was so bizarre. But it was all he had. He took a deep breath to steady himself and read the most recent message.

Another assassination.

Shadow's stomach twisted and he fought for his next breath. More blood on his hands. It was wrong. It was all wrong.

But what was right?

The answer bubbled up from someplace deep inside. Orders. Training. If nothing else could be trusted, he had to trust these things. This brought him a measure of calm, which he latched onto as he worked to slow his racing heart and steady his nerves. He was a soldier; he was supposed to obey orders, even if he didn't always know why. His memory was spotty, sure, but he had not forgotten his training. It was impossible – and unwise – to give every soldier every piece of the larger puzzle. Little cadets could accept this truth, so Shadow had to as well.

Calmer now, he took another deep breath, stowed his comlink, and reached for the navicomputer to reset the coordinates. Perhaps his anxiety was the result of whatever injury had brought him to Kamino in the first place. If he was so worried that he was having panic attacks, he should find a kriffing medic. Maybe he would ask Lord Tyranus about it, later.

For now, he had orders to follow.

Random note: The previous chapter, (35), marked the official half-way point of this story. Fearless totals 70 chapters, and at one chapter per week, that puts "The End" in early January of 2016. I may have to take a week off here and there, but I'll let you know beforehand if possible.

Thank you to anyone who's reading along, and a super extra special thank you (with cupcakes!) to those of you who have left reviews. :) Stay awesome, everyone!