I don't know about you guys, but to me, Mondays are always rather 'blah' days . . . especially during February. :)

So here, have some chaos. :D


Quinlan Vos slouched out of the Council chamber, down the hall, around the corner, and tried to move past Anakin, who was leaning against the wall.

Quinlan should have been looking at where he was walking, but he wasn't, so he tripped over Anakin's feet and barely managed to catch his balance.

Anakin was immediately penitent. "Master Vos! . . . I'm sorry, I didn't realize I was in your way." He paused, giving Quinlan a worried look. "Hey, what happened to you?"

Quinlan thought for a moment. "I think I got run over by a speeder?"

Anakin snorted. "Okay. . ."

"It was Fox's," he added. "So I may as well sue him for that."

A prim voice sounded behind them. "Quinlan, you know perfectly well that Fox was not responsible for that little nosedive you took. He wasn't even there."

Quinlan turned to Obi-Wan with a friendly smile and completely ignored his valid statement. "Hey, Obi! New mission for both of us, huh?"

"Yes," said the other Jedi. "Fortunately, our objectives take us to opposite sides of the planet."

Quinlan clutched at his heart. "Oh – now I'm wounded. You still don't like working with me, after all we've been through together?"

Obi-Wan gave him a snide look. "You do realize that most of what we've 'been through together' was your fault."

Quinlan gave him a hearty clap on the shoulder that sent Obi-Wan reeling to one side. "Course it was! Well – I've got stuff to do. See you around, Obi. Ani."

He set off down the hall at a rapid pace, quite pleased when he heard Anakin mutter, "Master, when did he run into Senator Binks?"

"He didn't," Obi-Wan replied grimly. "He thought it up all on his own."

It was true, too.

Quinlan took the lift down, crept through the Archives to bypass the Healer's Wing, and made his way to his quarters. There was a good half-day left before he had to head off for his rendezvous with the Delta Squad, whoever they were. In the meantime, he would pursue some Jedi-related things.

Such as, for example, changing into a tunic that wasn't covered in burn marks from the recent speeder . . . crash . . . which had mostly involved Quinlan knocking himself over with Fox's speeder while trying to re-park it backwards; putting some bacta-enhanced lotion on the multiple cuts and scrapes on his face and elbows, and taking a six-hour nap.

After doing these things, he headed for the kitchens to fetch some supplies for his upcoming mission. Then he annoyed the cooks by swiping samples of icing from the Nabooian cakelets they were making; stopped by the hangar bay to make sure his ship was ready for departure; sent a comm to Aayla asking if she'd caused any interplanetary wars yet and if not, why not; and did a little research into Delta Squad.

Looks like these guys are pretty good, he thought. Cool. Not like I'm really working with them – they get the fun part while I have to hang out at a dinner . . . ah, whatever.

With some time left to kill, he decided to go to the Senate and drop in on Fox.

Not that the commander was expecting him.

Quinlan believed in leaving everyone he met just a little bit happier than before he'd come to see them.

Happier, for Fox, probably meant 'not focused on paperwork'. Therefore, Quinlan was being charitable by distracting Fox from said paperwork.

Whistling tunelessly between his teeth, Quinlan hopped out of the transport at the Senate building and headed straight for the security lift. He reported to the Coruscant Guard a lot – most often when he learned bits and pieces of information about the Coruscant underworld, and on occasion he would work directly with them – so he knew many of the clones here. He had also memorized most of their security codes, but there was no need to tell them that.

He stepped out of the lift just as Commanders Thorn and Stone, looking quite impressive in their red-painted armor, marched past.

"Long time no see!" he called.

His voice echoed in the shining hallway as they pivoted to face him.

"General Vos," said Stone, sounding mildly surprised. "Were we supposed to meet with you?"

"If you were, I missed the memo. He flicked a strand of hair out of his eyes. "How's Senate life?"

Stone, who was rather regulation-oriented, was always a bit offput by Quinlan's casual attitude – whereas Thorn, the crazy guy, just took it in stride.

Stone shifted. "Are you here to speak with Commander Fox?"

Quinlan stroked his chin, pretending to think about it. "Is he alive?"

Stone's helmet tilted in that particular way that meant confusion. "Of course."

"Then I'm here to speak with him." He turned towards Fox's office and gave a dismissive wave. "Don't let me keep you."

"General," Thorn called after him, sounding very cheerful indeed. "You might want to be careful. Fox has barely left the office the last twenty hours, and –"

"Maybe I can bully him into leaving."

" – and we've been out of caf since yesterday."

Quinlan paused mid-step. "Ah, yeah . . . May the Force be with me."

"Goodbye, sir," said Stone dryly.

The two of them left him to his self-imposed fate, and Quinlan slipped up to Fox's door and rapped against the wall twice, then another dozen times for good measure.

"Come in," growled a voice.

Quinlan waltzed in and slumped sideways into the nearest chair, grinning as Fox failed to look up from his desk.

"What is it, trooper," Fox muttered, running a hand through his dark hair, which was uncharacteristically unruly.

"I want to file a complaint –"

Fox jerked upright, and Quinlan continued unperturbed. " – about that speeder."

Fox recovered his poise. "Do you," he said dangerously.

"No." Quinlan kicked his heels up onto the arm of the next chair over and leaned back, humming under his breath.

He could feel Fox's eyes boring into the side of his head, but he continued to hum the traditional Kiffar melody as though nothing in the universe could irk him.

"Vos," said Fox, one minute and thirty-two seconds (and three verses) later.

"That's my name, don't wear it out. If you do you'll have to call me General Quinlan, or just Quinlan. Awkward. Against regs, right?"

". . . Why are you here?"

Quinlan studied a faint watermark on the ceiling. "I'm heading off on another mission soon."

"And – you need security."

"Are you kidding?"

There was no answer.

Quinlan chanced a quick look over.

Fox was actually leaning on one hand, elbow propped against his desk, as he stared balefully at Quinlan.

Quinlan waved imperiously for him to continue speaking.

"Next guess," said Fox, who seemed to have resigned himself to the fact that Quinlan always made him guess. "You've got more data about one of our cases."

"Nope. Third time's the charm, don't give up now!"

Fox gave him a cold look. ". . . You have a death wish."

Quinlan snickered and sat up, turning to face him. "I actually just came here to say hello, see what was up, ask if any of our cases had advanced while I was gone."

Fox rolled his eyes and went back to his work. "I'd have notified you if they had. I tell you that every. Single. Time."

Quinlan grinned, well used to the commander's griping. "You ever think of trading helmets with one of your guys so that they could fill in for you?"

Fox clapped a hand over his wrist comlink, then relaxed after realizing that it wasn't transmitting. "What are you trying to do, give Stone and Thorn ideas?"

"No, but maybe Thire. . . I mean, you are looking a little run-down there, Foxy."

Fox was unmoved by the observation, though he narrowed his eyes at the nickname. "Did Thorn and Stone put you up to this?"

"Nah. 'S my own idea." Quinlan went back to humming, significantly louder this time, and swung his feet absently.

Fox set his datapad firmly aside and cast a calculating look at the closed and covered window. "Hypothetically, how far can a Jedi fall without being fatally injured?"

"I dunno, never asked." Quinlan sauntered over to the window and flung it open, letting in sunlight and dubiously fresh air, then leaned out. "There's a structural break about sixty levels down, so if –"

A growl sounded from behind him.

Quinlan jerked his hands away from the windowsill.

Fox marched over and slammed the window, but before Quinlan could tell him that slamming windows was against regulations, which it absolutely wasn't, the commander's datapad beeped.

Fox returned to check the new message and brightened. "I have a meeting with Mas Amedda in five minutes."

"There, see?" Quinlan said with a self-satisfied grin. "If I hadn't been here, you'd be irritated about that. Instead, you look more alive."

And really, looking more alive was one way to put it . . . The tired expression was gone, anyway. Of course, on the flip side, Fox now appeared to be seriously contemplating murder. Quinlan had seen the expression before.

The datapad beeped again, and Fox muted it viciously.

Quinlan sauntered around his desk and leaned over Fox's shoulder to check the new message. "It's Thire," he said. "No progress made as of yet."

"Just as well," sighed Fox, suddenly losing his aggressive stance. "That means there's nothing to report."

Quinlan pulled the new box of caf out of his supply pack and dropped it on top of Fox's datapad. "Don't drink it all in one day," he warned.

Fox stared at the caf, twisted around in his chair to cast Quinlan a suspicious look, and said, "Why?"

"Because I'm a compassionate being. And because you look like you need it." He thought for a moment. "Also, if I'm being absolutely honest, because I don't want to get thrown in the brig next time you see me."

"Can't do that without a charge," said Fox automatically. He got up and headed for the caf machine. It was half-hidden behind a pile of datapads, which the commander brushed carelessly to one side.

Quinlan smirked. "What, annoying you isn't enough of a charge?"

Fox tilted his head, apparently running through the list of various offenses. "No. But bribery is."

"Hey, you accepted it." Quinlan wandered to the door. "Don't move in on the drug syndicate until I get back."

"No promises." Fox powered on the caf machine. "Thanks, by the way."

Quinlan grinned and left, waiting until he was halfway down the hall before hollering over one shoulder, "And that's why I'm the CG's favorite Jedi!"

Feeling quite pleased with himself, Quinlan sauntered back to the lift. He waited there until Thorn and Stone came around from their patrol.

"General," greeted Stone. "How'd it go?"

"I gave him some caf . . . which means you now owe me your lives."

Thorn shook his head. "No, General – but it does mean that I'll forget that I saw you teaching Jek and Rhys how to hotwire speeders."

. . . dang.


Delta Thirty-Eight sauntered into the galley. "Deltas, what's taking so long?"

Fixer raised a confused eyebrow. "Sir?"

Scorch pulled a thermal from his pack, examined it briefly, then tossed it aside. "You only told us to prep for a new mission five minutes ago."

Boss watched as the thermal rolled into the cockpit. "Scorch, go pick that up right now."

"I didn't arm it," Scorch said, but hurried to obey all the same.

Sev snapped the final piece of his rifle into place. "What's the hurry, Boss? We're not scheduled to pick up General Vos for another hour."

"The general decided to come meet us." Boss glanced out the small viewport. The general's starfighter was hovering just outside. The general himself was leaning back, arms crossed behind his head and boots resting on the consol, dangerously close to the emergency ejector.

Fixer glanced out also, then hummed disapprovingly.

Scorch brightened at the sound, looked out, and grinned. "I've heard about General Vos. He's supposed to be good at covert ops."

Boss put his helmet on. "General Vos, we're opening the cargo bay."

"You are?" The Jedi sounded surprised. "Looks closed to –"

Boss pressed the control.

"Oh. Thanks, be with you in a sec." The comm clicked off.

Boss sighed faintly and removed his helmet. "Let's go meet the general."

Sev cast him a sidelong glance. "Nervous, Thirty-Eight?"

"No," said Boss, somewhat untruthfully. He hesitated, then added, "General Vos has a reputation for getting into a lot more trouble than any given mission demands."

"Oh, well," said Scorch cheerfully. "He's working on his own anyway. I read the briefing. All we have to do is perform recon while the general keeps the dignitaries busy."

Boss, who had read the briefing three times since its arrival ten minutes ago, attempted to convey this fact to Scorch through a rather unimpressed glare.

The cargo bay pressurized, and the door into the galley sprang open.

The Kiffar Jedi sauntered into the room and waved. "Hey, guys. Hope you're up for a fun mission, which – Wow, cool armor."

Fixer and Boss exchanged looks.

"Thanks," said Scorch.

General Vos flicked hair out of his eyes. "I'm Quinlan Vos, Jedi Knight. I read about you guys – not sure who's who yet . . ."

Boss opened his mouth to introduce his men, but the Jedi held up a hand. "Wait, wait, I think I got this. You're the sergeant – you've got a sergeant sort of look."

Scorch snickered gleefully. "One point for you."

The Jedi grinned at him. "Well, that and the four circles are a dead giveaway when it comes to rank markings. That would mean that you –" He pointed to Fixer. "Are the corporal. Fixer, right?"

"Yes, sir," Fixer replied automatically.

Sev and Scorch were both smirking and pretending not to. Boss gave them a narrow-eyed look, which Quinlan Vos unfortunately saw.

"Hey, relax, Boss," he said in a friendly voice.

Something about a Jedi calling him 'Boss' was very strange. "Delta Thirty-Eight," he corrected.

"That takes too long to say," complained the Jedi. "I could call you 'Eight' . . . which reminds me, which of you is Sev . . ." Vos rested both hands on his waist, then pointed to Sev. "You're the sniper, right?"

"Yes, sir."

"And that means that you're Scorch." The Jedi clapped his hands together. "Unless there's anything else, I guess we should get started. I mean, I'm all for delaying, but . . ."

"The mission will take place as soon as we get the go-ahead," Boss said neutrally. "You're here early, sir."

Vos snapped his fingers. "Nuts. Isn't there a chance we could have unexpected engine trouble or something?"

"Negative, General Vos," said a new voice in an impressively dry tone. "GAR shuttles are kept to the highest standards of maintenance."

"Advisor," said Boss, thankful for the intervention. "You have new intel?"

"Who's Advisor?" asked the Jedi. "Your advisor?"

Scorch chortled, and Sev apparently felt the need to put on his helmet.

Boss sighed at their antics, but then Fixer cleared his throat softly, and Boss felt a prick of alarm. Fixer was sounding amused? That was a very bad sign. "Keep it together, Deltas," he muttered.

The Jedi looked among the four of them and grinned brightly.

Boss shut his eyes briefly. "Advisor is our tactical coordinator."

"Unfortunately," agreed Advisor. "Thirty-Eight, General Kenobi has just made contact from the opposite side of the planet. You're free to start your approach at your discretion. From here on out, I will be unable to provide support. We're too far out for any scans."

"Understood," said Boss. "We're headed planetside."

He went to the cockpit with Fixer, watching while his corporal set their landing trajectory and contacted the airfield.

He could hear Vos joking around with Scorch and Sev, and he let out another, louder sigh.

"Something wrong, sir?" asked Fixer, in the flat tone of voice that meant he knew perfectly well what was wrong.

Boss looked sideways at him. "I was thinking it's just as well we're starting this mission early."

Fixer smirked. "It's been a long few days."

It had been, too. Back-to-back missions involved a lot of work, since the squad had to obtain, analyze, and use information for one mission, then turn around and memorize different information for the next; plan for both missions simultaneously without mixing up the intel . . . and then, of course, they had to carry out both those missions.

At least this mission was about as simple as it could get. All Boss had to do was lead his squad into the Trade Federation information center and download every scrap of intelligence they could find on the Federation leaders.

On the other side of the planet, General Kenobi would be carrying out negotiations of his own.

Quinlan Vos, in the meantime, would be keeping the Federation leaders occupied at a formal dinner.

"I still can't believe I got this job," complained the Jedi from the galley.

"Why not?" Scorch asked.

"Kenobi's the one who's good at making polite conversation . . . or pretending to make polite conversation while he backhandedly insults people. But the Council wants me there because I've got a reputation as an investigator. While you guys hopefully find records of the Neimoidians' dealings with the Separatists, I'll be in the dining hall, making them nervous by my very presence."

"Sounds fun," Sev said.

"Okay – it is kind of fun." There was a short pause. "Apparently, having you guys along will be easier than me getting the intel by myself."

"It will be," said Scorch, with an utter lack of humility. "We're the best for a reason."

"Starting approach now," Fixer said.

Boss went back to the galley. "You might want to strap in, General. We're on course for the landing field."

"Long as Fixer doesn't fly like Cody, I'll be fine," Vos said. "Thanks, though."

What is he talking about? wondered Boss, then shook his head.

Quinlan Vos was watching him with a smirk, as though he knew he was being confusing and didn't care.

"Scorch, Sev," said Boss with a feeling of resignation. "Report to the cargo bay. As soon as the airfield is clear, we'll head in."

Quinlan bowed slightly. "Good luck, may the Force be with you, have a great time, kill lots of droids, et cetera," he said, then rubbed his chin. "I don't know if you guys have a special saying."

"Don't die?" suggested Sev.

"That's always a good one," agreed the general. "I'll add that to the list."

"We've landed, sir," reported Fixer.

Boss nodded. "Let's get moving, Deltas." Thank the Force.


There will, of course, be a part two. . . possibly even a part three. :D I hope you enjoyed!