Author's Note: T/W - there are some implications of drug use in the opening of the chapter, and some references to depression/suicide, but it's nothing heavy or serious. Just putting this warning ahead of time!
X
Coruscant - 14 BBY
Coruscant.
The Empire's capital world.
Imperial Center. Queen of the Core. Center of the Galaxy. Seat of Power. Triple-Zero.
It had its names.
Colloquialisms were more like it.
At first glance, screaming out of hyperspace, the sparkling spider-webs of gleaming light radiation emanating from the planet's vast cityscape would appear as an entrancing invitation. A beacon of prosperity, where dreams began.
Only, it wasn't.
The epicenter of the Empire's consolidated galactic might was lustrous on its exterior, shining like a polished gemstone from the mines of Dinzo.
But that's what they wanted you to see.
Level 5127. The peak of the ecumenopolis. Only the wealthy could boast their affluence there, only those who had their hands on the levers of power could strut about in their divine decadence. Dining on exotic fruits and fine wines, they retired in the evenings to luxurious apartment spires that soared above the endless canyons of permacrete which crisscrossed the planet's surface.
That was the level of society that a newcomer would see upon arrival.
Deep the grimy underbelly of the planet, delving into the kilometers thick urban sprawl, the level number becomes blurred.
3000? 2400? 1100? 500? It didn't matter.
Down there, the light was absent. The only source of luminosity were artificial light installations that hung above the walkways on each level below 5000.
To those at the top, anything below them was irrelevant.
The difference between lifestyles was night and day.
Literally.
In the underworld of the Imperial heart, lay the filth and corruption they worked so hard to purge from the planet's exalted image.
But everyone knew it was there. Lingering, festering, suffering, just a few kilometers down from the gilded opera houses and stately senatorial penthouses on the surface.
The wealthy simply opted to pretend it didn't exist. But they knew.
Down there, the rules were different.
Frankly, there were no rules.
Spice and other narcotics were freely traded on the streets. Neon signs flickered and dimmed in disrepair. Granite slugs slimed their way across alleys. Pickpockets thrived. Coruscant Guard troopers were outnumbered and traveled in packs.
That is, when they dared journey below Level 4000.
The underworld was controlled by various groups, fighting amongst each other to pillage the livelihoods of those that scurried about the dirt-smeared streets. Those that harvested minimum-wage credits in depravity.
At first glance, Coruscant revels in its brilliance.
Peel back the layers, and it becomes its own worst nightmare. A cacophony of voices crying out in poverty. A cornucopia of criminality. A bastion of glittering gluttony.
Depending on who you were, Coruscant could be your own personal heaven or hell. For most, it was hell.
Especially for one CT-4066.
Retiring from military service, and surgically cured of the weapon implanted in his brain, the clone trooper returned to the world he despised the most.
Where he spent nights resting on a hard barracks rack, hardly ever finding sleep. Where his deployments began and ended. Where the condescending politicians connived to prolong his suffering, and push the war to continue.
It was where he met his best friend.
But now, five years on, his best friend was dead.
And he trudged through a sea of his own self-pity, in and out of countless dive bars, back alleys and some of Coruscant's seediest nightclubs.
This night was no different than the last.
Or any of the previous 1,825 days.
The lonely clone simply wasted away on his Republic pension, looking for a way out.
Just as the government who paid him no longer existed in form, neither did he.
Quermia changed him. He returned to Coruscant a different man that when he had left, with his squad in tow, ready to end the war.
The war ended alright. And it dragged him with it into the viscera of an unwaking nightmare.
When he could sleep, he dreamt of when it all changed. The blaster fire, his finger on the trigger, the collapse of the portico. The clinical light blasting his eyes with a rude awakening.
The news of loss.
Tandem.
He reached out with his outstretched hand, murky fog enveloping him. The sound of rushing waterfalls, broken glass, and innumerable explosions rocked his ears.
It never ended.
Chuckles snapped out of the illusion, reawakening in reality to a voice in his ear. Raspy. Nimble. Sultry.
He looked around, remembering where he was. The high from the glitterstims wearing off partially.
"How was it!?" She asked him.
Chuckles looked at her, the woman beside him. A brunette with hazy eyes, she was barely dressed, and for a moment he forgot who she was.
He leaned back against the seat, the nape of his neck finding cold leather.
Their booth was nestled snugly in the backside of The Orbitus, one of Coruscant's most infamous and sleaziest nightclubs.
He swallowed air, blinking slowly. The high was drawing off, and lucidity had returned.
And so did her name.
"Inia, was it?" Chuckles murmured, bringing a glass of Corellian whiskey to his lips. He purred as the toasty liquor rolled down his esophagus, savory to the last drop.
"You forgot my name already?" She cried out. The droning of the nightclub's music had simply drowned out her voice.
Chuckles was left struggling to hear a word she said, his senses gradually recovering.
The club was plunged into dance, patrons slinking about in melodic rhythm as the crowd became soaked in the deep aura of a pulsating lightshow.
Inia stared at her companion, waiting for him to speak. His stare was lost in the crowd, fragmented into pieces of reality and trance.
The coordinated lights transformed from a cool blue to a frighteningly attractive red, which scattered across Chuckles' features and left half of him illuminated in an artificial crimson.
The other half, in unlit shadow.
His stare prolonged and eventually became lost in the throngs of clubgoers, and she spoke louder.
"Do you wanna dance or somethin' sweetheart?"
This time, he heard her just fine.
"What makes you think I wanna dance with you? I just wanted the stims."
"Excuse me?"
"Buzz off."
Inia, wordless, propped herself from the booth and teetered her lithe figure into the crowd, looking for someone new to attempt to please. Her efforts were wasted on Chuckles' unwillingness.
A woman of the night was not his answer, it never had been, despite the pleas of his inebriation to give in.
Because he knew it would never give him what he wanted.
He took a final swig from the whiskey and tossed it across the table. Clarity returning in full to his drug-addled vision, he pushed himself to stand, eyeing the exit.
The booming of the club's bass made every footstep Chuckles took even louder, as he weaved about dancers and couples aiming to frolic the night away in a mass of hedonistic indulgence.
Finding the exit, he bumped into a pair of Rodians enthralled with each other.
Not bothering to apologize for his alcohol-induced clumsiness, he stumbled out into Coruscant's midnight streets.
Staggering for a few feet, he approached the rails that guarded one from falling off the durasteel walkway to their death. He gripped the frigid steel with both hands, wringing it fruitlessly and gritting his teeth in silence. The railing groaned against his fingers.
Chuckles looked up, seeking stars to rest his eyes on.
He was met only by endless urbanity. Artificial light. Gray hulks of permacrete that ascended another two-thousand levels to Coruscant's cosmopolitan surface.
Trapped. Claustrophobia closing in around him. He felt stuck, wrapped up in dense urban rock that surrounded him, with no escape.
Drug-induced? Perhaps. Alcohol? He doubted it.
The glitterstims were known to do it to those who weren't one-hundred percent devoted to the high.
Chuckles just wanted to forget. The nightmares that plagued him. The war that felt unfinished, stripped away from him. His only purpose. Gone.
Even the most potent of spices could not assist him in forgetting.
Death, perhaps, was a natural remedy for that. He had hoped to see his fallen brothers again someday.
But Chuckles admitted even he was a bit too cowardly to put a blaster in his mouth. His willpower was too weak. Broken.
He had nothing. He wanted to scream.
No one would bother to hear him anyways.
Reluctantly, he released his grip on the steel. Sighing in dissatisfaction, he decided to end his club crawl prematurely.
For the thousandth night in a row, he resigned himself to just going home.
At dawn he woke abruptly, having dozed off for a mere hour or two, sleep interrupted by scattered nightmares.
He reached out of his cramped bunk to his chronometer, slapping it on his wrist and rolling out of bed. His feet met the frigid metal floor and he winced at the shock, before his skin attuned and he maneuvered around his tiny tenement block to the kitchen.
A drip of water in the corner interceded his thoughts.
Not again.
The tenant above him had a leaky shower room, with a crack in the floor that the district maintenance crews had yet to fix.
The water bucket returns, for today.
He had grown accustomed to the daily drip, but lately it had driven him near-insane, and he needed to escape the constricted living space.
He poured a cup of lukewarm caf, pausing halfway to top it with blue milk and cream. Delicately stirring it with his finger, he took a taste from the leftovers that dripped from his pointer and sighed.
Throwing on a bomber jacket that hung near the door, he stepped outside with the caf, taking a few sips as he eyed the environs of Level 3164. He needed a quick sober-up.
An airspeeder zoomed wildly overhead, what looked to be a taxi. He paid it no mind. Nobody could drive down here. He didn't even attempt to, the cityscape was too constrained.
The caf disappeared from the cup faster than he realized, and he decided he needed to do something. He wasn't sure what, just anything. He had to get out of that apartment.
Considering his options, Chuckles was left with few.
It had been half a year since he last went to a meeting, but perhaps this would be the day of his return. Triumphant? Far from it. Begrudgingly more like it.
His destination wasn't far, only a few minutes' pace. A dilapidated office space near the turbolift station, underneath a maglev line and an assortment of various utility pipeworks that gave it a rather damp atmosphere.
The sounds of airspeeders whizzing in the air had drowned in the distance as the district quieted with each footstep. This side of 3164 had been long emptied after a tibanna gas leak a few years back.
Until the Imperials showed up with their paperwork.
Stepping inside the office, the poorly lit space revealed rows of half-empty chairs, with one standing at the front of the room, back turned.
A few turned around to notice the latecomer, while Chuckles kept his head down and ducked into a seat on the back row.
Turning back to face the meager audience, the man at the head of the room addressed them.
"Glad you all could make it."
Chuckles took a deep breath. He tried to think of an excuse as to why he should get up and leave. It's not like he wanted to be there. But nonetheless, there he was.
It beat listening to the drip, drip of the water.
"How's everyone feeling today?" The man asked, sporting a rough and tough goatee dotted with incoming gray strands.
One hand raised.
"Yeah?"
"I met someone yesterday," came the voice.
"Oh really? That's great, Duke. Who is it?"
"Well, she uh.. she uh.. doesn't quite speak Basic."
"So you.. don't know her name?"
"Not yet.. but I have a feeling we'll get there soon," Duke beamed, and the one in charge let a smidge of a sigh escape him.
This is already ridiculous, Chuckles thought. I can't do this.
He stood to leave, hoping to reach the door before-
"Chuckles."
Dammit.
"Glad to see you again, brother."
Chuckles turned around slowly.
"Right, uh-.. thank you sir. It's good to be here."
"Were you just about to step out?"
"No, I was um-.. fetching some water. But it can wait."
"Right.. so tell me, how have you been?"
Terrible.
"Just fine."
"Any new events in your life lately?"
Yeah, I tried glitterstims last night.
"Nope, everything's been quiet."
The clone addressing him nodded, his smile was clearly fake. Chuckles tried to look away but felt drawn back to his seat.
"Anyone else?"
None of the other clones raised their hands.
"Right. Well, let's get started on today's agenda."
Why do I do this to myself? Chuckles mused. Every time I show up, I always regret it.
"Clone Trooper Adjustment Program, day six-hundred and forty-four."
CTAP. Some Imperial wise-ass up on the surface thought it was a good idea to gather up all the retired clones on Coruscant and indoctrinate them with some propaganda about their "true purpose," and how to integrate into the greater galactic society.
Chuckles thought it was a load of crap.
Yet he attended anyways.
It wasn't like he had anything better to do.
"Today's agenda consists of the traitors to the Republic and to the Empire, the Jedi."
The Jedi.
Chuckles found his eyes lost in the opposite wall, the already dim lights shattering, and the world around him spinning.
His feet were planted on a marble floor. Blown out debris was splintered across the floor like a dusty mural of combat.
The hologram appeared. A raspy voice crackled and gave the order that would change the galaxy.
Sixty-six.
He felt dizzy. Nauseous. The trigger clamped against his finger, unrelenting. The hailstorm of blaster fire, the cries of the fallen. The rocket.
Death. Death. Death.
His last look upon Tandem was one of remorseless duty, sworn to Lord Sidious to uphold it against all else.
They pressed on against the Jedi, unrelenting, unwavering. Pursuant to only one end. His death.
However, his final real look upon Tandem, his best friend in the long war, was of a giddy clone, standing alongside him for a photo with the disabled droid commander. The happiness would be cut short.
Then, the image of Tandem turning to face Sidious, confusion and worry in his eyes. Unsure of his own future. Putting the helmet on as if nothing was wrong, and carrying it out.
That's when he lost him.
But was it really the Jedi's fault?
He had wondered that for years.
"Chuckles?" The voice called.
Chuckles returned to the room. He looked at the officer beyond the podium and blinked.
"I'm here."
"I asked you a question. What do we call the Jedi Order?"
He remembered what the others were programmed to say, and in the moment felt compelled to diverge.
Traitors.
"Misunderstood."
The officer dropped his pen.
"Say what?"
"Permission to speak freely?"
"You're no longer in the service, I'd say you can speak whenever."
"Were they really the traitors sir?"
The officer stood agape, the other clones ogled at Chuckles in disbelief.
"Careful brother, those are treasonous thoughts."
"It's a simple question."
"Yes, they really were the traitors, Chuckles. You best start believing that or else you'll have a hard time adapting out there."
He turned back to the program holoscreen, which flickered slides. The next topic was identifying a Jedi in public and reporting him to authorities.
They're all brainwashed.
Or are they?
He had never questioned what had happened to him on Raxus Secundus. What Laeda and her team did inside his head.
Did they plant Separatist propaganda? Cause me to question the very traitors to the Republic?
That can't be right, he thought. Something changed, like a light switch. He had gone from following General Kara like an obedient puppy, to gunning him down like an attack dog.
Why? The biochips?
Was this to cause us to turn on the Republic? Or to turn on the traitors?
Were we the real traitors?
He grappled with the thoughts as the officer droned on about public safety protocols on Coruscant and reporting Jedi sightings.
"-remember, all Jedi are to be approached with the utmost caution and extreme prejudice. Do not attempt to take on one alone, call for the proper authorities and those equipped to deal with Jedi will be dispatched promptly."
They were being hunted down.
One by one, little by little, the Empire gained traction against the Jedi, and within a few years, had reduced their entire Order to ashes.
More like a few hours.
Chuckles thought about Orren. Not a common occurrence for him, but he floated the man's image in his mind.
I wonder if he's still alive somewhere.
Pointless thoughts, he knew he was never going to see him again.
But he felt he was owed the truth. Was Orren the real traitor? Or was he, and everyone else in that room?
Being the only one present with a removed biochip, he felt he had gained extra knowledge over his former compatriots. He had a better sense of understanding, a wider world view, and a less limited outlook on the powers-that-be in the galaxy.
Yet he still questioned it, every day. Whether it was all a lie.
He needed someone to blame.
Tandem's death was a tragedy, and could have been - in his mind - entirely avoided. As could all of his brothers' deaths.
But Orren led them to that planet. His plan backfired spectacularly, and they paid the price.
But what if Order 66 was going to happen anyways? He wondered. No plan, good or bad, of General Kara's, could have changed or stopped that.
And ultimately, that was the order that led to Tandem's perish. Trapped under rubble while firing on the very man that had fought and bled alongside them.
Chuckles knew deep down Orren could not betray them.
He just couldn't.
Then who is to blame?
No one, perhaps? Fate? Himself?
The mere mention of the Jedi at the meeting had sparked a long dormant flame within him.
Retribution.
He raised his hand again.
"Officer?"
"What is it, Chuckles?"
"Where does the Empire store records on criminals or those convicted of high treason?"
"That's archival records, off-limits to the public."
"What if one had military clearance?"
"Then perhaps. But it's up on the surface in the Imperial Archives." He stared quizzically at the question, but proceeded on. "Anyways, back to the agenda."
It's time to find some answers.
After the program had finished, the officer broke the leftover clones into one on one groups to discuss what had been taught. Chuckles hadn't paid attention to almost any of it, so was left to fend for himself during the personal discussion.
He sat across from Skyrocket, a former shock trooper who served under Aayla Secura on Felucia.
Most of them just called him Rock at this point, as he was far from his old self. A messy, unkempt beard fell from his jaw, scraggly and in need of a comb. His eyes were weary and tired, and scars adorned his left cheek, as if the wildlife of Felucia was unkind to him. The only maintenance he performed on himself, was the weekly shaving of his head. The baldness, he felt, was still central to who he was, the rest be damned.
"So," Rock began.
"So," Chuckles replied.
"You really think they didn't do it?" He asked.
"Do what?" Chuckles said.
"Try to overthrow the Emperor. That was a real big accusation you made."
Chuckles took a deep breath, and lowered his tone.
"To be honest with you Rock, no, I don't." He took a moment to watch his reaction. "Do you?"
"Sometimes I question it. Sometimes we all do, whether or not the Jedi really were the ones in the wrong."
Perhaps the programming was wearing off, he thought.
"You just don't say it aloud here?"
"We would never. Officer Bridge would have our heads if we said what you did."
"He didn't seem to come for me in any way."
"He knows you're different."
"Different? How?"
"He sees the way you act, hears the things you've asked before. He thinks the Jedi brainwashed you. Thinks you're beyond his help, honestly."
"Is that what he says when I'm not around?"
"Yeah." Rock fiddled with his fingers, a blaze of shame rising on his cheeks.
"And do you agree with him, Rock?" Chuckles inquired. Damn, he needed a drink.
"Sometimes."
There was a brief silence.
"Sometimes, we think you're right. Each day is different. It's strange how that works, yeah?"
Chuckles knew exactly what he meant.
"Yeah, it's strange, Rock."
"We were just followin' orders. When 66 came, we all felt compelled to-.. I dunno, save the Republic." Rock frowned. "Good soldiers follow orders I guess."
"Yeah," Chuckles uttered painfully, "good soldiers follow orders."
At the end of the session, Officer Bridge told them to be well, and to always obey the law when going about their daily lives. With that, he dismissed them, giving a sharp side-eye to Chuckles as he took to the exit alongside Rock.
"I'm going to look into it more, Rock," he said as they moved out onto the open street.
"Wh-.. what do you mean?"
"I'm going to see if the Jedi really did it. I'm going to find out."
"Be careful, Chuckles. I don't think you should be doing that. It might be treason."
Treason. He's heard enough of that word tossed around lately. It didn't bother him anymore. He needed to know. For Tandem's sake.
"I'll be fine, Rock. I promise."
"Alright then.. see you around."
"See you."
They parted ways, Rock heading deeper into the industrial sector of the district, while Chuckles eyed the turbolift station just beyond the intersection.
It was time he finally got some answers.
But first, he needed something.
Taking a detour back home, Chuckles ventured into his personal locker and dug out some old belongings that he wished to keep hidden.
With an exasperated sigh, he put them back on.
Feeling more secure in his attempted endeavour, he journeyed back to the turbolift station, clad in his full trooper armor, helmet secured and locked around his head.
A few passerbys glanced his way in suspicion, but none tried calling him out. It was frankly, none of their business.
Awaiting the turbolifts, he eyed a somewhat dirty couple sitting awfully close together on a station bench. They were watching him intensely.
"Can I help you?" His suit vocalizer emitted.
"Fancy suit ya' got there," one of them said.
"Yeah," the other added.
"It's not for sale," Chuckles replied. He knew how people were down there, and couldn't risk losing his armor right now.
"Could fetch a nice price for those pearly whites, once ya' buff out the scars," the man called.
"I said, it's not for sale," he shot back, irritated.
"Whatcha hidin' in there anyway? Nobody wears those suits anymore. You're outta' date," the woman retorted.
Chuckles didn't answer. The turbolift grinded to a halt at his feet, and a crowd of lower-level residents swarmed out around him like buzz-droids on a starfighter.
He stepped into the turbolift, and punched in the destination.
Not bothering to wait for anyone, he allowed the doors to close.
Until a pair of hands grabbed them, seizing them open again.
"I think it's in ya best interest to hand over that suit!" The dirt-ridden man spat.
Chuckles, thinking on the fly, delivered a swift kick to the man's midsection, driving him to the ground, and leaving him rolling about in pain.
As the doors glided to a shut again, the clone noticed a trio of Imperial guards approaching.
Damn it all.
The lift ascended, leaving them all on the platform below.
But they had seen him.
He began devising a plan to keep a low profile upon arrival, but his suit was a dead giveaway. Shedding it now would be suicide for his plan, however, as he needed the chain code embedded in it.
All of the clones, upon retirement, were forced to hand in their gear to be deprogrammed and discarded.
Chuckles never opted into that idea, finding comfort in keeping the armor himself.
Today was a hell of a day to bring it back out.
The turbolift soared through the levels of permacrete that made up Coruscant's residential districts, passing slum after slum, with the occasional glitzy street of clubs and marketplaces zipping by.
The darkness from the lower-levels pervaded the turbolift car, until he reached higher levels in the sprawl. By then, the smallest filters of light had begun to appear.
Reaching an abrupt stop at his destination, the doors opened once more. He had reached the surface level of the ecumenopolis. Level 5100.
This time, he wasn't greeted by a couple of vagabonds, or inquiring Imperial guards.
For the first time in five years, Chuckles was greeted by the warm rays of sunlight.
Author's Note: This chapter was the original idea I had for this story when I first thought of it. A depressed clone living out his days under the influence of drugs and alcohol in some grimy clubs on Coruscant. I eventually expanded it to include other clones, Jedi, and overall more Star Wars oriented stuff so it could be a bigger story. But when you read this chapter, just know that my first ideas for this story came from what happened in this chapter! A bit of trivia, haha.
I've been trying to speed up my chapters to get through everything so I can focus on other things in my life, so I can hopefully put out ~3 chapters a week if I stick to this schedule. I've now covered all of the original surviving clones from the first act, so things are steaming along pretty well now. I'll be cycling back around to each one before I move into the final act.