No trigger warnings
Oh, not good.
Skywalker, Ventress and Ahsoka throw their hands forward in unison. The first line of droids clatters back in a whirlwind. Jesse's briefly grateful that they're B1s and not commando units: no magnetized feet.
"Get to cover," Rex barks, and dives left to duck behind a half-repaired shell of a trifighter. Fives and Echo are behind him. Jesse hunches over and follows Dogma to a pile of crates off to the right. As soon as he's clear of fire, he risks a glance around the corner. The bay is littered with the remains of droid ships. Trying to rush the space to reach the door on the opposite side means crossing the length of the bay and dodging obstacles all the way. The good news is that the wreckage could be used as cover.
The bad news is that they'd be surrounded on all sides, so cover wouldn't really matter. The turbolift is situated in the back corner, so theoretically they could stick to the perimeter, keep the saber-wielders in front to deflect the fire, and then push their way around to the door on the far wall, but that would be time-consuming, and with the way this place is wired to blow, Jesse's not sure they'd have time to get to their ship before the reactor breached and took them with it.
Ventress, Skywalker, and Tano split between the two positions, Ventress to the left and Skywalker and Tano to the right. The droids aren't advancing yet, content to corner and kill them from a distance.
At least they have the crates.
"Any genius ideas?" Dogma asks.
"Might not be genius," Jesse says, "but yeah, I do have an idea."
"Care to share it with the rest of us?" Skywalker asks. "We don't have a lot of time."
"Rex," Jesse calls. "You remember Anaxes?"
"What, with Ninety-Nine?" Rex asks.
"Shockwave," Jesse says, and waves a hand at the crates. One of them is at least two heads taller than he stands, so he won't have to worry about getting his brains blown out while crouching behind it. "Commander Tano and Ventress can position the boxes in a 'v' at the front. We'll keep inside the space and use the crates like a barricade to push through. General Skywalker can deflect fire and move wreckage. The rest of us will keep blasting."
"And we can go right down the middle," Rex says.
Anakin's face twists into a smile. Jesse feels a surge of pride. "All right," Skywalker says. "Let's get this done."
"And if they start shooting at us from above or circle behind us?" Ventress asks dryly.
"Then we'll shoot back," Fives says. "It's not that hard."
"You can't shoot back if you're dead."
"Then don't get dead," Echo interrupts. There's a hint of annoyance to his tone. Jesse can't miss the way he's positioned himself between Ventress and Fives; even in armor, the tense set of his spine is obvious.
At least for now, she's on their side.
"Moving," Ahsoka calls, and lifts a crate. It slams down on the nearest droid fireteam, scattering them in a shower of sparks. Ventress follows her lead.
"Moving," Skywalker echoes, hands Dooku off to Ahsoka, and leaps atop the crates. He has one foot balanced on each one, deflecting fire with a speed that, sometimes, Jesse's sure should be impossible.
Jedi or not, Force or not, his reflexes are unbelievable.
Jesse follows the others into the space between the crates and together, they form an arc at the rear. The Force-wielders will push through at the front. All the ARCs have to do is keep laying down fire and stay inside the barricade.
The droids must not have a tactical unit working with them. They blast at the sides of the crates, but never do more than turn themselves ninety degrees to keep shooting after their enemies have cleared a corridor. Jesse's never been more grateful to be battling a predictable enemy.
"How are we looking back there?" Skywalker asks, strained.
Jesse casts a glance at Ahsoka and hopes that whatever Ventress did to knock the Sith out sticks and he doesn't wake up suddenly and start slaughtering them.
That'd put a real damper on the plan.
"Fine," Ahsoka yells back. She has one hand outstretched to shift the crates in time with Ventress; the other wields her shoto, deflecting any fire that makes it past the ARC line. "Keep moving!"
Keep firing. He blasts one droid but there are three more to take its place. Jesse grits his teeth.
They better be close.
"Get ready to charge," Skywalker shouts. Jesse glances over his shoulder just in time to see the General backflip off the crates. He lands in a crouch and thrusts his hands forward. The crates fly through the door. There's a loud screech and a burst of explosions.
"And just like that, no more droidekas," Skywalker says, as if that explains everything. He flashes a grin. "Come on!"
They charge after him. Rex stops to snap off a shot into the console to seal the door, then he's back at Jesse's side, racing toward Ventress and Skywalker and Tano.
"Time?" Rex asks.
"Twelve minutes," Jesse says.
"The landing bay is close," Dogma says. He juts his chin slightly. "It's right up there."
"You wanna bet it's crawling with droids too?"
"I don't want to make any bets with you." And Dogma laughs. Actually laughs.
"You're doing a lot for my confidence right now, Dogma," Jesse grumbles. "Never thought I'd see you joking around during an op."
"It's not a joke," Dogma says. "I just wouldn't bet against you. Luck seems to run your way."
If only that was true. Jesse skids to a stop. "Right again," Dogma says mildly, pressing his back to the wall. Ventress and the Jedi stand strong in the doorway, dodging blaster bolts or deflecting them back. "See what I mean?"
"How is this lucky?" Jesse demands.
"I didn't say it was good luck."
"We're gonna have to push through," Anakin says. "They haven't blasted the ship yet."
"Let's hope it stays that way," Jesse mutters, and follows him into the inferno.
It's like stepping into a storm. Jesse crouches low and double-times it, ducking behind a droid starfighter to return fire. Fives and Echo are at his side.
For a second, it feels like old times.
"Eight minutes!" Jesse barks.
Skywalker, Ventress, and Tano are pressing their advance. "We have to go," Rex grits out, and rushes forward. Dogma goes with him.
This is their only chance.
They forge across the bay. The blaster bolts are so close Jesse swears he can feel them searing his face. He wonders, briefly, if they'd have been blasted to oblivion by now if it wasn't for the battle meditation.
"Get ready to run for it," Skywalker orders. "We'll cover you."
Jesse knows better than to ask him What about you? He waits.
Breathes.
Waits.
"Now!"
Fives is the first to reach the ramp. He's barely set foot on it when a cry rings out, clear through the chaos
"Wait—"
It's not Skywalker or Tano or one of the other ARCs. It's Ventress. In an instant, Jesse sees what she must have felt a beat before. There's a droid gunship careening toward the bay, spinning in a death knell.
It's headed right for their boarding craft.
Fives' head snaps up. Jesse's heart is in his throat. It's too close.
It's too late
Fives drops his head and crosses his arms over it like somehow, that small act will save him from a shower of slag and scorching fire. Distantly, Jesse's aware of Echo screaming Fives!, of Rex demanding action instead of frozen silence. The gunship's bearing down. Fives is an unmoving outline. Jesse's heart stops.
For an unbearable breath of a moment, the world stands still.
Ventress whips by, a lithe shadow at Jesse's right. She gathers herself and leaps, somersaulting through the air and landing perfectly on the nose of the boarding craft. It puts her right in the path of the onslaught. She's a silhouette cast against its perilous light.
She stretches her palms forward, braces one foot back – and holds.
The gunship breaches the ray shield; the hull twists and groans; the frame warps, dragging metal against metal in a shattering screech. It rushes toward her, spiraling beyond any control.
Too close. Too close.
Ventress presses against it, silent and straining, and then thrusts her hands further forward and looses a soul-piercing scream. Jesse feels it ripple across his mind like a wave, a shadow of some nightmare power that siphons strength from unfathomable pain. It's there – a sickness like an ache – and then it's gone.
The gunship bends to it, buckling in two. The pieces separate with a shriek, hurling wide of the landing craft and Fives to smash into the back of the bay. They hang there for a brief and unfaltering moment, smoking and seething, then fall, crushing the droid squads beneath them.
Echo rushes to Fives' side, dragging him to his feet and hauling him onto the ship. Dogma's next, then Skywalker with Dooku. Rex shoves Jesse onboard and follows him. Tano's last, hovering at the hatch. Ventress lands heavily on the ramp, breathing hard. She lets Tano put an arm around her shoulders and guide her to a seat.
"Keep an eye on him," Skywalker says, slapping at the ramp controls and stabbing a finger at Dooku. He's settled the Sith in a corner; someone put energy binders on him.
Even surrounded and restrained, Jesse knows he's still a threat.
The landing craft roars to life, ripping out of the bay with enough force to throw them all back against their seats. Jesse's teeth are rattling. Beside him, Dogma's clutching the seat's grips so hard Jesse's sure his knuckles are white beneath his gloves.
"Still don't like flying?" Jesse asks, and Dogma chokes something like a laugh.
"Only General Skywalker's."
Jesse's been on enough missions at his side to know that's a lie, but there's really no point in calling him on it now. "Hang in there," Jesse says, wrapping a hand around his wrist. "We're almost through."
The ship shudders; Skywalker throws them into a roll and Jesse's suddenly grateful for the straps secured across his chest. Dogma's muttering beside him, a three-word mantra: ijaa o'r gett'se. Honor in courage.
It's what Rex told them when they finished his ARC training regime and earned their pauldrons and kamas. It was one of the proudest moments of Jesse's life.
"Ijaa o'r gett'se," Jesse murmurs, and squeezes Dogma's wrist.
He knows the second the command cruiser's reactor blows. The wave rages from the epicenter, engulfing the surrounding Separatist ships in a scarlet blaze. Their own craft strains and screams as it shoots away. Jesse presses his back to the seat and holds on to Dogma.
"We're almost through," he repeats. "We're almost through, Dogma."
The boarding craft doesn't touch down in the Resolute's bay as much as it shrieks in and slams to an abrupt stop, but as long as he's still breathing, Jesse doesn't really care how ugly the General's landing was.
"You okay?" he asks, and waits for Dogma's nod before he lets go.
"Everyone in one piece?" Anakin asks. Jesse chimes into the affirmative chorus without really thinking about it. With the way his ears are ringing and his head is spinning, it takes him a minute to believe it's actually true.
It's only Ventress that doesn't speak or stand, hunched double in her seat with her arms braced on her knees.
"Hey," Fives says, stopping beside her. "Thanks for the save."
"I didn't do it for you," she grits out without raising her head. "If that gunship had hit, it would have killed me too."
"Still," Fives says. "Thank you."
She snorts at that and slowly straightens. Fives holds out a hand. She stares at it warily for a beat then lets him pull her to her feet. Jesse helps Dogma hoist Dooku and together, they drag him after Skywalker into the bay.
"Admiral Yularen, how are things looking up there?" Skywalker asks, pressing a hand over the comm in his ear.
"Well done," Yularen says, crackling through Jesse's helmet. "The command cruiser has been successfully eliminated. The Separatist fleet is in disarray."
"Are they pulling back?"
"Not yet. I've had the men ready your starfighter. As soon as you've regrouped, I need you out there."
"We've got Dooku," Anakin says. "I need a full trooper escort to secure him in the brig."
"I will dispatch one immediately."
"He won't wake up until I tell him to," Ventress says. There's a note of uncomfortable unease to her voice. Maybe she just realized where she's standing.
If Skywalker notices, he doesn't mention it. "Jesse, Dogma, get Dooku secured. Rex, get all the men you can together and get down to the surface. They're gonna need reinforcements to capture Grievous."
Anakin's gaze stops on Ahsoka. That confident smile cracks a little. "Ahsoka," he says hesitantly.
She offers him a shadow of a smile. "I'll give you my help," she says. "But when this is over, I'm going to need yours."
"Anything," Anakin says. "Just name it."
"Not that this hasn't been fun," Ventress interjects, "but I think I've done my part."
Her posture is coiled, shoulders set back. Her hands rest at her hips, close to her sabers. Fives tilts his head at her. "You've come this far," he says. "Why bail now?"
It gives her pause. "If you help us," Ahsoka says, "you'll get your full pardon."
"I've heard that before," Ventress says coolly, and folds her arms over her chest. "What guarantee do I have this time?"
"I'll lobby for you," Fives drawls.
"You're legally dead."
"That just means I have the element of surprise."
She scoffs at that, but she doesn't protest any further. Jesse guesses that's about as much of an agreement as they're going to get.
People do funny things when they're desperate.
"Fine," Skywalker says, with a glance at Fives. Fives shrugs helplessly. "Ventress and Ahsoka will accompany Rex's teams to the surface."
Echo stiffens at that. Behind him, the door to the bay swishes open and the escort Yularen dispatched marches through. Skywalker sweeps his gaze over the group a final time, flashes them a confident smile, and races for his starfighter. Jesse has no doubt R2-D2 is already aboard it.
"You heard the General," Rex says. "Let's get moving."
Coruscant looks different from down here.
"Fox, you better not be dead," Wolffe says, an irritated voice and a blurry outline swimming above him. Fox blinks until the ringing fades and his eyes focus.
"Stealing a tank," Wolffe grouses, pulling him to his feet. "What kind of a plan was that?"
"One that got us results," Fox says.
Wolffe chuffs a disbelieving laugh. There's no mirth to it. "No, it was one that could've gotten you killed," he says. "You're lucky you got out in time."
Fox snorts. In the distance, the Bad Batch is running reconnaissance on the surrounding area, searching out any droids that might have escaped the original onslaught. The rest of the Guard and 104th are hauling the wounded back to the makeshift triage center set up at the Senate building.
"Do we have eyes on the Generals?" Fox asks.
"No," Wolffe says. "And long-range comms are still down."
Fox grimaces. There's no way to know how much of the enemy's forces they've depleted. The armada never seems to end, and their own battle-ready men are fatigued and failing fast. "When was the last time anyone saw Grievous?" he asks. "Maybe he's already dead."
"If only." Wolffe kicks at a piece of rubble. "We're never that lucky."
"If we fall back to the Senate building, we'll be less exposed," Fox says, and hits his comm; short-range, at least, is still functional. "Squad leaders, gather up the wounded and regroup at the Senate building. I don't want us out in the open if they send bombers through."
"Yes, Commander," Thire says promptly, and directs his squad back. All around him, the other squad leaders begin the same maneuver.
"Heads up, Commanders: you've got incoming," Hunter says.
Fox dives for cover, conscious of Wolffe at his side. He holds his breath without meaning to, waiting for the screams to start.
Despite the explosions in the sky, the air down here is suffocating and silent. No bomber's shriek. No fiery trail.
No massacre.
"What's incoming?" Wolffe hisses over the comm. "Sergeant, what's incoming?"
"The next wave," Crosshair supplies. "They're headed your way."
"Great," Wolffe mutters. Fox dares to peer around the edge of the tank's shattered hull. The corridor is clear of live hostiles – for now.
"Squad leaders," Fox says, "get your men back to the Senate building now."
"Have you seen the generals?" Wolffe demands. "Where the hell are they?"
"Unknown," Tech says. "We'll have to manage without them."
"Grievous most likely doesn't know about the Chancellor," Hunter says. "The Republic's been jamming all long-range communications since the incident. He's still out here somewhere."
"He doesn't know what about the Chancellor?" Wolffe asks.
No time for that. "What's he been doing this whole time, then?" Fox asks.
"Engaging the generals, maybe," Tech says. "Or waiting for his troops to clear a path to the Senate building before he made his attempt."
It's not much of a strategy for an expedient extraction, but then, maybe Grievous wasn't counting on this kind of resistance.
Or maybe he circled around behind while his forces marched on the front. The assault would draw all available units to support it, save a skeleton security crew. It would minimize resistance – and it would explain why they haven't seen the Generals.
"Wolffe," Fox says tensely, "I think we've been outflanked."
"What?"
"Grievous has to have circled back," Fox says. "That's why we haven't seen him yet. He's already in the Senate building."
"So we're surrounded." Wolffe snarls something vulgar under his breath. "That's great."
All of the wounded are in the Senate behind a barricade. Grievous won't hesitate to cut right through them in his rage. If he made it to the Chancellor's office and discovered his target has already been dispatched, he'll be furious and looking for a way to settle the score; outflanking the Republic lines is the most immediate and obvious option.
Any clone in his path will be as good as dead.
"We've got to get the wounded out of here," Fox says. "They won't stand a chance."
"Where are we going to take them, Fox? We're pinned. If we move them out into the open, they'll get blasted. If we leave them here, Grievous massacres them."
"Then we have to stop Grievous."
"Ninety-Nine," Wolffe says. "Get down here. We're gonna need you."
The next wave is marching down the corridor. Fox darts back to the Senate building, leaping over the barricades and rushing toward the triage area. Wolffe is on his heels.
The grand lobby is empty and dark, littered with the remains of a few droids that made it this far. There are deep scores scarred into the elegant stone. One corner houses the medics and their charges.
"Tell me you have a plan," Wolffe says.
"I do," Fox says. "When Grievous shows up, I'm going to tell him I killed the Chancellor."
"Did you?" Wolffe asks. He sounds unfazed.
"Long story," Fox says. "I'll explain later."
"You keep saying that."
"Sorry." He's not. "I'll draw Grievous away. Once Ninety-Nine's set up, I'll lead him back around."
"Just so we're clear," Wolffe says, "your plan is to run for your life."
"Only until Ninety-Nine is set up," Fox corrects. "Or the Generals get back."
"This is a stupid plan."
"Do you have a better one?"
Facing Grievous head-on is suicide. Wolffe tilts his head. "No," he says at last. "I don't."
"Great," Fox says, and claps him on the shoulder. Wolffe blows out a long-suffering breath.
"Don't get killed," Wolffe says. "And don't get too far away. Your comm'll cut out."
At least he has the decency not to ask what'll happen if Grievous starts tearing through their lines like a whirlwind instead of taking a second to consider Fox's taunt.
Having some chance is better than having none at all.
In here, the din of the battle is dimmed and distant. Fox can hear the shuffle of his own steps through the rubble; his breath is a harsh rasp in his ears. In his peripheral, the medics are quickly tending to injuries, sending the men who can safely manage it back to the fight. The others they sequester in the corner. Fox can't miss the way they've arranged their charges; if anything makes it into this chamber, they'll have to go through the medics before they can touch the wounded.
Exon should be here.
Fox pushes the thought away.
He hears Grievous before he sees him, a skittering metal screech that stands every nerve on end. Grievous clatters into the grand hall and stops short, separating and contorting his limbs until he stands at his full height. A deep laugh rumbles out of his chest, stuttering into a rattling cough.
"Clones," he seethes. His sabers ignite.
"Sorry about the Chancellor," Fox blurts, before he can think of a better line.
Grievous wheezes what must be his take on a snarl. "The Chancellor?" he growls. His sabers twirl at his side. Fox risks a glance to the corner; the medics have formed a barricade around the wounded.
"Yeah," Fox says with a helpless shrug. His heart is pounding. Maybe it's the stims. Four sabers. Cody told him the stories. That's still a lot of blades to dodge. "I beat you to him."
Grievous's eyes burn. Beaten by a clone. "You executed your own Chancellor?" he sneers, and coughs another laugh.
"I did," Fox says. "Personally."
A rumbling roar builds in Grievous's chest. The sabers spin, faster and faster. Fox stands his ground. Not yet. Not yet. "Coruscant Guard emergency protocol sixty-six," he says. "I wrote it myself."
The roar builds to its breaking point. Grievous lunges. Fox darts back and away. The stone that makes up the lobby's floor offers little traction when it's clean; covered in a thin sheen of dust, it's perilously slippery. He skids his way into the hall more than he sprints.
He glances over his shoulder. Grievous followed him.
It worked.
Grievous is gaining.
"Shab," Fox hisses. His heart is beating wildly. "Shab."
He knows the Senate building like the back of his hand; Grievous doesn't. That gives him an advantage, albeit a small one. All the schematics in the world won't save him from being cut apart by a quadruple swing.
Grievous is gaining.
Grievous is laughing.
He's never going to shut up. Cody said that too. Fox throws himself into passage after passage, all-too-conscious of the ominous cackle scuttling along behind him. He swears he can feel the sabers' searing heat at his back.
Don't get caught.
Don't get cleaved.
Don't get killed.
Fox flings himself into the stairwell, scrambling up the steps. He has three thermal detonators on his belt; he sets the first and slings it over his shoulder as soon as he hears the door being broken down. It explodes in a rattling wave. Grievous coughs. Fox thinks he might have heard a thud.
It would be too much to hope Grievous went down that easy.
Grievous rasps a threat Fox can't hear over the blood pounding in his ears. He's getting closer. He's too close.
Fox can't outrun him.
Fox slams through the closest door, heedless of the level, and triggers his comm. "Wolffe," he calls, and hopes he doesn't sound as desperate as he feels. "How's that plan coming?"
All he gets is static. Don't get too far away, Wolffe said. Well, he's already failed that part.
He still has a shot at 'don't get killed.'
This is a maintenance level. Usually the door would require a security swipe, but with all the damage done to the Senate building by the invasion, the lock must not have engaged properly. There's a service turbolift at the end of the hall that'll take him up until he or the building itself tells it to stop.
Assuming it's still working. Assuming he doesn't get skewered before he makes it that far.
Fox clutches the second thermal detonator in his palm and sprints for his life down the corridor. He doesn't have time to turn around. He doesn't dare try. When he feels the terror shoot down his spine, he lets the thermal detonator roll out of his palm.
The explosion throws him forward. Fox lands flat on his chest. It knocks the air out of his lungs, and for a second his only focus is whether he can even manage his next breath after the resounding crack that rattled through his ribs. It's your armor. It's just your armor.
You have to get up.
There're four hisses behind him: Grievous's sabers reigniting. Fox scrambles forward, flailing to stand and stumble-sprinting the final feet to the turbolift. He slaps at the trigger until the doors groan open, then dives inside and demands they close just as quickly. Grievous is charging after him, bellowing his triumph. Fox whips out his pistol and snaps off a few shots. He can't stop him, but maybe he can slow him down.
The door struggles shut. Fox releases a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. The lift rattles up. He almost sags in his relief.
Almost.
If he had, he'd be dead.
Fox jolts away from the seething green saber searing through the back wall and nearly impales himself on the blue one breaking through the front. Two more stab down from the ceiling, a flurry of fury, and it's left, right, duck, down, dodge, hold, breathe. Don't move. Don't move.
Go.
It feels like a dance. Somehow, he knows where to step. Fox doesn't have the chance to question it. Call it luck.
And run.
The lift's door clatters open and Fox rushes out, dimly aware that that nightmare clattering is closing. This is the highest level of the Senate building; it's reserved for Senate security forces and the Guard. It's meant to be an observatory, but it also houses a safe-room in the event of an emergency. If he can lure Grievous into the room, maybe he can trap him. Stall him. Something.
His plan lasts as long as it takes him to turn the corner.
The corridor only runs halfway as far as it should. Beyond that is a ragged hole and the burning Coruscant skyline. The wind whips through the space. An entire chunk of the building has been blown away.
Fox skids to a stop.
He can't stop.
Grievous rounds the corner too. The rush of the pressure change gives him pause. He straightens and twirls his sabers, slow, then faster – faster. Fox inches backwards.
"Nowhere left to go," Grievous says. His eyes gleam murder. Fox glances over his shoulder and shudders a breath.
Grievous charges. Fox spins. One step, two, and he's at the edge. His heart's in his throat. Grievous is close. Too close.
Hold
Hold.
Go.
Fox throws himself into the freefall.