Trigger warnings: brief description of a panic-attack-like reaction
"I hate recon."
"Please shut up," Crosshair says flatly.
Wrecker grumbles something unintelligible under his breath but he doesn't say anything else, just brushes by Echo on his way out of the gear room, so Echo guesses it's probably a win in Crosshair's book.
"He's been going on like that for the last two hours," Crosshair says crisply. He's hunched over a table, calibrating his DC-17. It's a commando weapon, like their blades. Not for the first time, Echo marvels at it. "He doesn't like to do things quiet."
"I remember."
Crosshair glances up at him. His face is placid – unreadable. "Are you up for this?" he asks.
"Why wouldn't I be?" Echo shoots back. It sounds more defensive than he means it to. He clears his throat. "Of course I'm ready."
Crosshair straightens and turns to face him. He doesn't speak for a long moment, studying him with that calm, pensive stare. "Healthy adult human males need between seven and nine hours of sleep per night to operate at their most efficient."
"You sound like Tech."
"He's the one that told me," Crosshair says. Echo wonders how many times. "He's also the one that told me you are not getting that."
Echo might have his own room but he's sure the nightmare sounds carry. More than once he's heard bare feet slap down the hall, pad up to his door, and stop – and wait – and listen – and go. He knows by the gait that most of the time it's Hunter. Sometimes it's Tech. Never Wrecker – he sleeps too soundly. Crosshair is the hardest to detect, but he's there as often as and much longer than Hunter: a silent presence standing sentinel.
Echo finds it comforting.
"I need to know you'll be clearheaded," Crosshair says.
"I am."
"Not if you're not sleeping."
"I fought a war on less."
"This is not the kind of war you're used to," Crosshair tilts his head at him. "We need every advantage."
Echo stares back. Remembers the cold pod. Remembers falling and Rex and then feeling warm again for the first time in forever. "I'll be fine," he says. "I've been through worse."
Crosshair's gaze doesn't waver.
Echo shrugs.
"You don't know how to let Fives go."
It's not a question. Echo stares at him blankly. "I have let go," he says quickly. "I know he's gone."
"Knowing he's dead isn't the same as accepting it."
"I have accepted it. I just…"
Crosshair's eyes are patient: there's no irritation, just simple calm. Waiting.
"It's like there's a piece of me missing," Echo says hoarsely. His hand goes to his heart. "I don't feel right."
"You went through a massive trauma and you woke up to your brother dead."
He doesn't finish the thought, but like so many things with Crosshair, the rest is implied: that would hit anyone hard.
That's what Tech said, too. Echo knows. He asked. And for a while, he believed it. But the ache hasn't eased. It hasn't gone away. He's starting to think it never will.
"I never had to ask Rex if Fives was dead," Echo says, muted. "I just knew."
Crosshair eases to perch on the assembly table, propping one foot up, pulling his knee to his chest, and wrapping his arms around it. He pats the space at his side; Echo joins him.
"He wasn't there when you woke up," Crosshair says, like that explains everything.
Echo grimaces. He's thought of that himself; he spent the hours that Kix wasn't fussing over him staring at the ceiling and trying to puzzle out the missing piece: if Fives had been alive and with the 501st, he would have been by Echo's side. Of course he would have and of course he wasn't, so of course Echo would have known he was gone.
Of course that would explain how he knew.
"That's not it," Echo almost croaks.
Crosshair tilts his head at him.
"When I was in stasis," Echo says slowly, "I – I think I felt it. I felt him die."
"That's not possible."
"That's what I thought." He swallows against the lump in his throat. "I thought I was delirious. I thought it was a nightmare. The machine messing with my head. And then you all brought me back and I felt it again. It hit me so hard it made me sick."
"You'd been in stasis for months. You had to readjust."
"It was more than that," Echo says. He clutches both hands over his chest; his heart pounds, pounds. "There's this piece of me missing."
Crosshair's eyes are kind. "That's grief," he says gently. His hand finds Echo's wrist and he squeezes, once, and holds.
That's not it, Echo wants to say again, but he doesn't have any more words for the pain. It's lonely and desperate and gnawing, a loss he feels in his soul. There's a ragged void where Fives should be.
It's deeper than just grief and he doesn't know what that means.
"Thank you," Echo says at last. "For standing guard on the bad nights."
Crosshair snorts softly. "Hunter asked me to."
Echo quirks a small smile and shoves his shoulder. "Of course, Cross," he says. "Sure he did."
There's a light flush to Crosshair's cheeks. "We should get geared up," he says, and for all of his efforts to disguise it, Echo still catches the smile in his eyes. "Hunter wants us up top in fifteen to run over the plan again."
"You mean the one Wrecker's gonna complain through?"
"You catch on quick, reg."
Hunter keeps the briefing short and to the point: they'll conduct surveillance on the Chancellor's office for two days after their arrival, learning the routines and habits of the guards assigned to the location. The Chancellor won't be there at night, so the security won't be as heavy. The goal is to determine when the location will be at its most vulnerable so they can get in and determine whether Palpatine keeps the trigger on him or hidden somewhere in his office.
"Do we have a contingency for the less desirable option?" Tech asks. He fidgets with his goggles. "I'll be the first to admit I hope it never comes to it, but if it does, do we have a plan?"
"If we have to shoot him, we'll shoot him," Crosshair says. "No Chancellor, no galactic genocide."
Hunter sighs. "No," he says. "We haven't drawn that plan up yet."
"Are we gonna get to blow something up this time?" Wrecker asks.
"Not this time around, Wrecker."
"You didn't give Echo a role," Tech points out. He tilts his head curiously. "He is coming with us?"
"Echo's on a different mission," Hunter says. "It will be his job to make contact with Commander Fox, determine his trustworthiness, and if possible, bring him onboard."
Tech shifts from one foot to the other, once, twice, again. "That's a lot to ask of anyone's belief," he says, humming anxiety, "let alone the Commander of the Coruscant Guard. He works with the Chancellor personally.
"Rex believes he can be trusted," Echo cuts in. "And if Rex says it, I believe it."
Tech nods, short and snapping. "I need to get back to my lab," he says. "I've isolated some of the commands on our chips but I haven't identified the specific directive that malfunctioned in trooper Tup."
"Just turn everything off," Wrecker says. "If he put it in our heads to make us kill Jedi, anything else that's on there has to be just as bad."
"It's not that – I'll be in my lab," Tech says quickly, and rushes out the hatch.
"Did I say something wrong?" Echo asks, studying their faces. None of them are looking at him with anything like pity or concern, but none of them are talking either.
"He's just worried 'bout you," Wrecker says, one awkward silence later.
"He doesn't think I can do my job?"
"It's not that," Hunter intercedes smoothly. "It's that you're going alone and he doesn't want anything to happen to you."
"It won't."
"If it does," Hunter says, and holds up a hand to stop any protestations before they can start. "If it does, we will come get you. We don't leave anyone behind. You understand?"
There's warmth in his gaze. Echo manages a small smile.
"I understand."
Ventress hasn't come out of the cockpit since she set their course.
Fives checks his chrono. It's been six hours. He's done nothing except sit here with his blaster in his lap trying not to doze off. There'd be no point in sleeping if he was just going to wake up long enough to register a lightsaber cleaving through his spine.
"The hell are you doing in there?" Fives mutters, setting his helmet aside and getting slowly to his feet. His legs cramp painfully and he chuffs a breath. Should have moved around a bit more.
"What do you want?" Ventress asks, before he's even broken the threshold. The cockpit is dark, illuminated only by a glowing blue light coming from somewhere in front of her, out of Fives' sight.
He dares a step more into the room. The air is alive, humming, buzzing; if he strains, it almost sounds like a voice speaking a strange tongue too fast for anyone to understand. Fives winces and shakes his head.
"I opened it," Ventress says simply. It's only then he notices the source of the light: the cube has been deconstructed. It tugs at his chest; he wants to reach out and touch it.
He is reaching out to touch it.
Fives yanks his hand back like he's been burned. "Shab," he hisses. "What is that thing?"
"A holocron," Ventress says. Her helmet is on the console. She tilts her head at him curiously and narrows her eyes, like she's studying him. Fives tenses. "The Jedi and the Sith use them to guard their most treasured secrets."
"What's on that one?" Fives asks. She hasn't so much as glanced away; the piercing blue gaze makes his skin crawl. Fives folds his arms over his chest and juts his chin at her pack. "Something to do with the lightsabers?"
Ventress idly follows his gaze. "Yes," she says calmly.
Fives raises his eyebrows. "Yes?"
"Why don't you take a look at it yourself?" Ventress says. With a wave of her hand, the cube reassembles itself. Fives looks from her to the cube and back again. Really.
Only Force-users can open a holocron.
Fives stares at her. She sighs long-sufferingly. With a few motions, the box clicks apart again. A hologram flickers to life. The woman is older, kneeling, and clad in Jedi robes. There's a dual-bladed lightsaber clipped to her belt that looks a lot like the one they found in the store room. Beside her is another figure in a dark cloak and wearing a Mandalorian helmet. Two lightsabers hang from their belt.
"Bastila Shan," Ventress says, with a wave to the woman. "Though I don't expect you to know who that is."
"A Jedi?"
She blinks, once. "How astute," she says. "Yes. A Jedi. One of the most powerful to serve the Old Republic's Order and perhaps the most powerful Jedi Sentinel in living memory."
"Is there a difference?"
"What?"
Fives hesitates. There's no malice to her expression, only genuine curiosity. "Between a Sentinel and any other kind of Jedi," he hedges. The infernal buzzing is back; maybe there's something wrong with the holocron: maybe it was damaged and whatever wiring it has is corrupted.
He can't get the whispering voice out of his head.
Ventress waves a hand at the copilot's seat. Fives doesn't move. "Please," she says, "if I wanted you dead, I would have killed you on Raxus."
He sits down gingerly, suddenly conscious of how much colder it is in the cockpit than the hold. The smuggler's gear Fox furnished him with functions well enough as light, maneuverable armor, but it might as well be civilian attire with some extra blast resistance: it doesn't have the same insulation or temperature regulation the ARC kit does.
If Ventress notices him shivering, she doesn't mention it. "Sentinels are seekers," she says. "If you translate the oldest texts, the actual term is 'hunter of truth.' They're one of three ancient Jedi classes. It's something the current Order has done away with, of course. They don't like their divisions."
"How does a Sith know so much Jedi history?"
"The better you understand your enemy, the easier it is to destroy them."
"That's it, huh?"
"I wasn't always this." Her eyes are faraway; she looks past him, staring into the fields of stars streaking by on the viewscreen like she's trying to see somewhere far away, long ago.
Fives thinks of Rishi and all the time after, of lying awake staring at the bottom of Echo's bunk and talking until the sun came up. Thinks of the Citadel, and how lonely and quiet the barracks was when he came back alone, thinks of curling up on Echo's bunk and trying to breathe. Thinks of Tup – so confused, so afraid – it'll be okay, it'll be okay – when just a day before he'd been doubled over laughing at one of Jesse's jokes. Thinks of Rex – stay with me, stay with me, Fives – and the dark shadows the war has shaded beneath his eyes.
And for a beat, he wonders what Ventress sees.
Fives wraps his arms around himself and tries not to shake. "I know the feeling."
"And here I thought we had no common ground."
He scoffs at that. "Where are we going, anyway?"
"Coruscant."
"Is that where your algorithm is?"
"That's where my contacts are," Ventress says.
"If they know where the chip is, why don't they just tell you?"
"This has nothing to do with the chip." Ventress rolls her neck; it cracks unsettlingly.
Then it hits.
"Then what does it have to do with?"
"You said your Chancellor is a Sith," Ventress says. "If you're right, then my priorities have changed."
"Why would you help me?"
She turns to him with eyes like ice. "You're not the only one who's been betrayed," she says. "I have my reasons. And you don't look like you can afford to refuse the help."
"Why believe me?" Fives asks.
Ventress snorts softly. "These are strange times," she says, like she knows something he doesn't. There's an aura to her voice he wouldn't know how to put into words, the same tingling sense he'd get when Skywalker and Tano exchanged a look and he knew the mission was about to go straight to hell. Cryptic. Ominous. Unexplainable.
Shabla Force.
The holocron's buzzing spikes – louder, louder, a thrum rippling across his eardrums and through his brain. It feels like his head is vibrating from the inside out. "What's on that thing?" Fives asks, doing his best not to flinch.
Ventress glances at the holocron, at Fives, and back. "Bastila and Revan's teachings," she says.
Revan must be the other figure. "The helmet is Mandalorian," Fives says. "Why would a Jedi have Mandalorian kit?"
"That is a very long story."
He shrugs. "It's going to be a very long trip."
For a beat, Fives is sure she's ignoring him. For a beat, she doesn't speak. She passes her hand over the holocron to seal it; the buzzing goes blissfully silent.
Then Ventress tells him about Revan and the Mandalorian Wars – about how Revan took up the helm of a Mandalorian woman slain for standing against genocide, how she swore a vow of vengeance and went against word and bond to beat the Mandalorians back. How she began with her feet planted firmly in the light and how the war tore at her until its seeping black sickness wound its way into her soul, how she raised her chin high and marched into the dark and came back to rule as a Sith instead of serve as a Jedi. How the Council dispatched a team to destroy her and how, of that team, only the Sentinel Bastila survived. How she saved Revan from certain death and how that salvation forged a Force bond that stretched across the stars. How the Council took Revan's memories. How Revan was reborn. How Revan lost herself and found her darkness and chose the light.
"And in the end," Ventress says, "she destroyed the Star Forge and they heralded her as a hero again. Do we call that redemption?"
Fives starts. Dimly, he realizes he's been sitting raptly for hours. He rubs at his neck. His hands, despite his gloves, are freezing. "I don't know," he says, and wonders if she really wants an answer. "What do you think?"
Ventress considers it for a moment. "We are who we make ourselves, trooper," she says. "Betrayals aside."
"ARC trooper. The name is Fives."
"I'm sorry?"
"My name," he says. "It's Fives."
"We're past the point of introductions," she says, "but at least now I'll know who to blame the next time I hear an alarm."
She turns back to the console. He pulls his knees up to his chest, wraps his arms around them, and drops his head down. The ship hums on through the silence.
At least he doesn't have to worry about a lightsaber to the spine if he closes his eyes.
Fives sleeps.
He doesn't dream.
Coruscant seems so much louder than he remembers.
Fives guesses it shouldn't come as a surprise, given the company he's been keeping for the last two weeks: Asajj Ventress isn't the chatty type and he didn't ask her to be. After he woke up, he spent most of his time in the hold calibrating his weapons, maintaining his helm, and whispering his remembrances.
In desperate need of allies or not, it's still Ventress. Reformed, maybe. Different, definitely.
But still Ventress.
He shakes his head. She has the holocron open again, he knows; every time she cracks it, the buzzing comes back – and lately, it's almost always buzzing. It sounds more like a voice now, a whisper on a distant wind he can't quite make out but is too afraid to try.
Just old echoes and ancient ghosts.
"We'll be landing soon."
The first time she did that, he jumped out of his skin. Now, he just gives her a grudging glance over his shoulder.
There's a lightsaber in her hand.
Fives turns slowly. It's not one of her usual sabers; it's the dual-bladed one from the box, the one that belonged to the Jedi Sentinel Bastila Shan. He spent the last week tinkering with and fussing over it until it thrummed a steady pale gold. He never thought he'd have the chance to learn the ins and outs of a Jedi weapon.
Echo'd be so jealous.
"Your repairs are impressive, given the materials you had to work with," Ventress says.
"One day," Fives says, "someone's gonna teach you how to give a compliment that isn't backhanded."
She snorts. He just barely has time to catch the saber. "I don't need five lightsabers," she says. "This one might be of some use to you."
He's never fought with a lightsaber before. Well, that's not completely true. He's never fought an actual enemy with a lightsaber before. Skywalker and Tano spent a fair share of time letting them spar with the sabers set to sting instead of slice.
"What am I supposed to do with it?"
She shrugs. "It never hurts to have a backup plan," she says.
"Ret'lini," Fives mutters. She blinks at him and disappears back into the cockpit. Maybe she doesn't know Mando'a. Maybe she doesn't care.
He's pretty sure he'd be as good as dead if he found himself face-to-face with a Sith in single combat, but it might be enough to block a few blows and then get the hell out of there. Fives turns the hilt over in his hands and powers it on.
It feels right in his hands. Balanced. Soothing. Peaceful. He twirls it a few times.
He can just hear the vwoom-vwoom noises Hevy would've made.
Fives smiles and stows the saber in his pack.
"I'll meet my source," Ventress says, once she's set down on a pad in a less-than-savory sublevel of Coruscant, "and then I will contact you in a few days to establish a rendezvous point."
"Right," Fives says, hoisting his pack onto his shoulders and tightening the straps.
She arches an eyebrow elegantly. "And where is that you will be?"
"I told you already. I have my own contact I need to talk to."
"You're leaving your helmet and your body armor onboard?"
"Like you said, I'm a clone. Just another face in the crowd."
"Not quite." At his look, she taps her temple and looks him up and down. "A clone loose on the upper levels of Coruscant in civilian clothing. I'm sure you'll draw no extra attention."
Can't really do anything permanent about the tattoo. Hair's fine; he keeps it clipped. The clothes are another matter. "Don't worry," Fives says. "I won't be in this for long. Besides, I have a hat."
If she wants to know what that means, her face doesn't show it. "Keep an eye on your communicator," she says, raising her hood. Then she strides down the ramp and disappears into the crowd.
For half a second, he's sure he's made a grave mistake. For half a second, he can feel the crushing weight of Rex's disappointment. Then he breathes, squares his shoulders, and tugs on his hat so it covers his tattoo.
He doesn't trust Ventress any more than she trusts him but if working alongside her is what it takes to save his brothers, then that's what it takes – whatever Rex would think of it aside.
Besides, she said she'd been betrayed, too – and vengeance is a hell of a motivator.
Fives makes his way to the upper levels, tucking himself into corners and keeping his face turned from cameras until he makes it to the GAR base. It's on the same block as the Coruscant Guard's headquarters.
And it's got plenty of spare suits of armor.
Fives waits. It's not long before a patrol returns and the gates to the base clatter open to grant them entrance.
Showtime.
Fives stumble-sprints after them, wobbling from side-to-side until he's made it past the gates and into the courtyard. He can feel the guards' eyes on him, but more importantly, he's caught the attention of the nearest man in charge.
"Trooper! What the hell are you doing?'
"Little late getting back," Fives slurs, slowly coming to a stop and holding his arms out to his sides like he's about to lose his balance. "Was s'posed to be here hours ago but, eh…you know."
He shrugs, more one shoulder than the other, and just keeps listing until one of the nearby clones gives him a little shove to keep him upright.
"Where's your unit?" the officer demands. Now that he has the chance to look at his armor up close, Fives recognizes him as Thire. "Trooper, where's your unit?"
Fives makes a helpless face. Thire stares at him for a long moment and then seems to decide that that's the best he's going to get for an answer. "Report in to your CO and then get back to your barracks and sleep it off," he says. "Understood?"
"Yes, sir!" Fives snaps off a salute. Thire moves by. He doesn't say it loudly, but Fives hears him anyway.
"Unbelievable."
Fives moves carefully until he makes it to the barracks. The clones that occupy it must be out on patrol or otherwise occupied drilling in the courtyard under Thire's watchful eye. It doesn't take long to grab a spare suit of armor and slip outside with his helmet firmly in place and his civilian clothes tucked into his pack.
He looks like a shiny, but no one gives him a second glance when he leaves the base or when he walks into the Coruscant Guard's headquarters. Fox lives and works here. It's the best chance he has to catch him.
They really should've set up a better means of communication.
Fives bypasses the door lock to Fox's quarters and ducks inside. The door hisses shut behind him. He flicks on the lights.
The place is impeccably neat: the bunk is perfectly made and the desk is tidy. He glances in the closet, curious, and finds that it's equally well-kept.
Honestly, he should've expected no less.
Fives drops down into the desk chair and sets his helmet aside. There's no way to tell when Fox was last here or when he might be back. If Fives is lucky, he's not involved in some drawn out chase through Coruscant's lowest and most dangerous levels, he'll back sooner rather than later, and there won't be any need to actually track him down.
He has a schedule to keep.
Fives has been sitting there all of ten minutes when he notices it: the corner of clothing sticking out of the side of the dresser's top drawer. It's something he'd easily overlook if this was Rex's room, but it's Fox's – and everything else in the place is so immaculately clean.
There's a sinking feeling in his chest.
The drawer clicks open with a wave of his hand. The fatigues are folded neatly, square corners and all.
It reminds him of Kamino.
"You know what else we had on Kamino?" Fives mutters, and pats at the back of the drawer until he feels a panel click. He fumbles around inside; his hand closes around a small scrap of flimsi.
There are two lines. Fives' throat tightens.
Alor.
Ret'urcye mhi, ner'vod.
The Chancellor got to him. His blood runs cold. Fives stares at the note for a long beat and then hastily shoves it in his pack, closes the drawer, and pushes the desk chair in. The room should look exactly as it did when he stepped into it. It might be monitored.
They might be watching right now.
Fives replaces his helmet, takes one last look, and slips back out into the corridor. He looks just like everyone else, there's no reason for anyone to stop him, let alone a reason for anyone to think he's even still alive in the first place. He just has to go back the way he came, slip out the door, and make his way somewhere safe to figure it out.
Fives barely makes it two steps out of Fox's room before he runs straight into a wall and goes sprawling.
No, not a wall. Another trooper. An ARC – though not with any armor configuration Fives has ever seen. The dual pauldron, the kama, and the helmet's vertical stripes are the deep blue of the 501st, but the rest of his armor is crimson and dark gray. His right arm is mechanical from the elbow down, ending in a prosthetic hand that's much more sophisticated than any of the standard-issue-GAR limb replacements.
On the right side of his chestplate is a royal blue handprint.
Fives can't breathe.
The ARC tilts his head at him. "Sorry, trooper," he says, crouching down to hold out a hand. "I didn't see you there."
Fives stares at him. There's a sudden thrum in his mind, shooting down his spine and ripping through his veins like a shock that doesn't cause any pain. Every nerve is on fire. There's something familiar about the voice and all he can think is Echo, but that's ridiculous, there's something familiar about every clone's voice and Echo died months ago and he couldn't have been the only soldier in the entire GAR that thought a handprint on the chestplate looked cool.
"I'm okay," Fives says, easing to his feet on his own. It hurts to speak. "Sorry about that…sir."
"Are you sure?"
He sounds so much like Echo. He even cocks his head to the side when he's concerned. There's a lump in Fives' throat. Tears prick at his eyes. He blinks fiercely. "Yes," Fives says quickly. His voice is hoarse. "I, uh, I have to go, sir. I'm – I'm late. Very late."
The ARC doesn't stop him from hurrying out of the base. Fives doesn't stop to look behind or around.
As soon as he makes it to the back streets, safely out of sight, he runs. His chest burns. Every nerve ending screams. His vision is a blurry haze. Get out of here. Get back to the lower levels. Breathe. Breathe.
Just breathe.
He never sees the hit coming.