I'm not the one who broke you
I'm not the one you should fear
We got to move you, darlin'
I thought I lost you somewhere
But you were never really ever there at all
Coruscant was the one planet in the war that couldn't fall, the home front to be protected at all costs. Despite it being the capital world of the whole kriffing Republic, the billions upon billions of civilians living there seemed to be beyond oblivious to the war raging throughout half the galaxy. The completely inorganic city-planet felt more foreign to Commander Wolffe now than any backwater forest moon or snow-covered planet he fought on, and each time he had to visit, the displeasure of staying crept under his skin a little faster. Coruscant was loathsome anymore.
The civilians didn't exactly make it a hospitable experience, either. They didn't have a much better understanding of him or his brothers than they had of the war; they saw clones as equipment to be used by Jedi to fight some other equipment on some other planet.
"Why are they here if the war's not here?" was a common complaint Wolffe overheard from the plebs. Usually it was accompanied by distrustful glares before the critics conspicuously distanced themselves from any clones.
The war's not here because we're keeping it confined to other planets, dumbshebs.
Maybe it wasn't Coruscant itself that Wolffe hated. Maybe it was just civilians in general. They grated on his everlasting nerves the way they completely failed to fathom military life. At the very least, they couldn't even appreciate war stories— women in clubs fawned identically over a shiny surviving his first battle as they did Wolffe and his obvious success at cheating death. The men didn't want to acknowledge that clones saved every pleb on the planet from going to war themselves to defend the way of life they took for granted every passing day. The non-clone military officers rarely associated with clones outside of work environments, which only helped slowly drive a wedge between their working relationships with clones during the duty hours.
Wolffe was much more in his element on a battlefield where he didn't have to converse with people. He gave orders and his men obeyed. He didn't have to think; he relied on instinct and muscle memory. Battlefield adrenaline surging through his veins was a better high than anything he had experimented with on Coruscant. He lived with the satisfaction that everything he accomplished made a difference for the whole kriffing galaxy... what did these civilians accomplish in life? They barely kept one oblivious planet afloat.
And he was stuck here for Force knows how long while General Plo observed Padawan Tano's trial.
But at least Wolffe had something with which to occupy his time.
Ever since Ahsoka's capture, Wolffe worked every favor and contact possible, which unfortunately wasn't much outside of the GAR, in order to obtain information. Every intel supplier to ask what he needed this for received the same answer: Personal reasons.
So here he was, strolling through the oft-forgotten lower levels of Coruscant, too low for natural light to penetrate or for a clean breeze to relieve the stench collecting there. Muggy, stale air felt almost stifling against his skin as he eyed the neon signs advertising one hole-in-the-wall cantina after another. Everywhere he walked was covered with a dampness the origins of which Wolffe would rather not fathom. The people in this sector weren't in any better shape, looking too underprivileged to live in a trash heap or to know what sunlight was.
Wolffe wore dark civilian clothes on this personal mission on the assumption he stood out less than if he had come dressed in armor. But if his posture didn't make him look out-of-place, the military grade blasters hanging from his hips certainly did. Luckily for him, most everyone he passed walked with a despondent bend to their backs, heads down, keeping to the shambles of their own business.
Wolffe found the familiar, green sign of the Rusted Spigot blinking uncomfortably fast under poor upkeep, yet one of the few establishments still running on its street. It was the third time he visited this dive in the past two days. By the Wolffe made the ten meter jaunt from the door to the bar, the Weequay bartender already had his glass of Toydarian absinthe poured and waiting.
Wolffe spared a nod, but the Weequay was only interested in the credit chip the clone scanned over a screen on the counter. Wolffe scooped up his drink and retreated to the darkest corner of the cantina, passing through the musty haze somehow even more palpable than the stagnant air outside. Today the small table closest to the leak in the sagging roof with its constant dripping noise stood empty; at least the dripping added some variety to the cantina's atmosphere, otherwise congested with the low muttering of the patrons. Wolffe chose the seat facing the door and waited. Again.
Despite idling on one of the complimentary datapads— possibly cutting-edge a decade ago— every new customer to meander through the doors immediately snatched Wolffe's focus. His gaze dropped half a second later each time before those he spied upon noticed.
But eventually his behavior brought attention onto himself. A Human woman slid into the chair across from him, effectively blocking the entrance from view with her styled, large blue hair. "Looking for someone specific?" Her tone turned an innocuous question suggestive.
Wolffe took in her lack of concealing clothing and a face obscured by makeup before muttering, "Sorry, don't think I can afford you."
"I'm not a prostitute!" she cried in a voice that grabbed the attention of all other customers in the cantina. Sentients in these parts were always interested in not-a-prostitutes. The woman stood up with a huff and glided away, her trajectory almost immediately bending toward an alcove table where a well-dressed Devaronian sat alone. All eyes slid back to their previous business, leaving Wolffe in peace.
Nearly an hour later and halfway through Wolffe's second drink, an incoming duo caught his attention. The male, wearing something resembling a shield more than a hat, was from a species Wolffe didn't recognize and quickly veered off to find a table for himself, but the female...
She sat alone at the bar and began downing enough shots to drink a rancor under the table. Eventually, the Weequay bartender just stopped pouring her drinks and relinquished the bottle.
Wolffe left his absinthe unfinished and neared the bar, nonchalantly dipping a hand into a small pouch hanging from his belt where he packed a pair of binders. No one paid him any attention until he jumped right behind the woman, forcing her chest flat against the bar while slapping the first cuff onto her right wrist in the initial confusion. Most cantina patrons leaned this way and that for the best view; the nearest drinkers and the bartender edged away from the scuffle. The woman herself managed to kick one of Wolffe's legs out from under him and twisted to elbow him in the face with her free arm while he was unbalanced.
He regained his footing and threw up a blocking arm in time to hear a stomach-dropping clack! and feel the cold bite of metal. The second cuff fit snuggly around his left wrist, binding him to Asajj Ventress, who was alert enough to glare daggers at him, her blue-gray eyes colder than the binders.
"Hey!" the bartender shouted, one hand falling pointedly on a blaster rifle, quite possibly as old as the cantina itself, displayed in front of the bottles lining the back wall. "Take it outside!"
Wolffe glanced behind to find the green alien who entered with Ventress watching the scene from his two-seater table as calmly and quietly as everyone else in the cantina. Wolffe grabbed the fabric at the back of her neck with his free hand and pushed her toward the door, putting more effort into keeping her on her feet than directing her where to go. She growled and hissed at him like a rabid acklay all the way outside.
Nothing changed along the dingy street in the hour Wolffe spent in the cantina; disillusioned pedestrians still sparsely populated the area, walking about their business with no interest in two unpleasant-looking people bound together.
Two steps out the door, Ventress again tried to elbow him. He dropped her collar in order to block, and the sudden freedom was enough for her to execute a tight pivot and shove her left hand in his face, blasting him with as powerful a Force push as she could muster. At point-blank range, he went flying backwards... and she followed.
Luckily, several haphazardly stacked crates stopped him from traveling too far down the street. Ventress landed right on top of him and besides knocking the air out of him, he heard an unfortunate crack from his back pocket. It took several agonizing seconds to breathe again, and then his free hand was around Ventress' neck in an attempt to either push her off of him or strangle her. Both her hands closed on his wrist in a surprising death grip, her snarling expression turning a pale pink.
Balling her hands into fists, she shoved them into the crook of his elbow and broke his hold. Ventress snagged the lapels of his jacket and shoved him against the crates, looming over him on her knees. Her breath choked with alcohol, she hissed, "Who are you and what do you want with me?!"
Wolffe's eyes narrowed. Her expression was exactly the same as on Khorm, incensed and feral, and the last thing he saw before waking up in a medbay feeling like one of Tipoca City's stilted buildings had fallen on him. Even now, over a year later, that expression startled him from his nightmares.
His left hand gripped the wrist he was bound to; his right hand circled the back of her neck to force her attention to his cybernetic eye. "Don't tell me you don't remember, witch. You did this to me!"
Ventress scrutinized him at length with hard eyes before a flicker of recognition sparked and her snarl softened into a something of a grin. Her free hand released his jacket to reach for his scar; Wolffe smacked her hand away and pushed her as far back as the binders would allow. They both crawled to their feet in the resulting stalemate, her a little less fluidly.
"Are you angry?" she nearly laughed. "You should be thanking me— I improved you. At least you can tell yourself apart now." Ventress dipped in a mock bow as if he really had thanked her. It ended up a clumsy wobble. "So, what brings the big, bad Commander Wolffe all the way down here?"
"You're a war criminal and I'm here to arrest you."
And then she really did laugh. Ventress leaned back, relying on Wolffe and the tight binders to keep her upright as she shook with drunken cackles. Wolffe, his expression firmly settled in contempt, stood watching her wipe her eyes amid dying chuckles. He took this opportunity to check his back pocket; his hand felt the broken pieces of his communicator, the only device he brought with him to contact his men.
"I needed that," she admitted before switching back into a borderline disdainful attitude. "Now where's the key? Unlock me." She tossed her glance around as she waited, possibly remaining situationally aware despite her inebriation.
A yank from Wolffe unsettled her enough to find her feet again. "Not here." He'd at least thought ahead that much. Between her possible lightsabers and her powers on par with the few Jedi he knew, he wasn't about to carry the means to her escape with him. But now that he currently stood cuffed to his prisoner, not having the key was looking less like a good idea.
"Well, where is it?" she snapped, her normal snarl once again seeping across her face.
"Back at headquarters," growled Wolffe, his own face hardening to match. "So if you want to be free, we're heading back there." He noticed her eye twitch.
A faint whine permeated the vicinity, steadily growing louder as Ventress' gaze was pulled to something behind Wolffe. He glanced back over the tops of the crates to see a floating security droid, small, round, and nosey, putter around the bend in the road maybe thirty meters away. It wore the district police force symbol on its side and shone its own little light on everything its camera lens face fell on— which was every sentient it passed.
Ventress immediately ducked behind Wolffe, hissing, "If we're gonna leave, might as well leave now."
The other pedestrians on the street spared the droid annoyed winces, its sharp little light optically intrusive in a sector so far removed from sunlight. Even from his distance, the searchlight made Wolffe grimace, too.
He looked from the scanning droid to Ventress, still hunching behind him. "Problem?"
"I'm just as wanted by local security as I am by you and your lookalikes. If I'm thrown in a jail down here, I'd never see the light of day again."
"Sounds perfect." He made to walk around the crates, but a quick yank on the binders from Ventress bit his wrist just as painfully as it jerked his shoulder. It almost hurt his shoulder as badly as the time he dislocated it during a particularly rough bout on the mats with the Wolfpack.
Both of her hands closed around his bound arm and pulled him fully behind the crates, her eyes especially harsh. "You don't get it, Scarface: if they find us locked together, they'll arrest us both. The undercity isn't known for their exemplary due process."
"All they have to do is scan my wrist and see who I am." But then again, maybe he should've worn his armor.
"You must think you're some sort of celebrity! Look around. No one in these parts cares about the war— half of them don't even know one's happening." She finally let go of him to gesture to a couple passing Ithorians, clothes dingy and eyes on the ground as they trudged along in silence.
Wolffe grabbed her wrist over the binders and pulled her closer to the street and the incoming droid.
"Fine," she spat, "we'll experience the undercity jail together. I guarantee you'll lose a bit more there than just your eye." She had enough coordination to land a decently hard smack on his backside with her free hand.
Wolffe jumped and just barely reined in his automatic response to whip around and deck his assailant. Instead, he managed to stand there, working all his fury out by repeatedly clenching his fist. The droid flew closer, turning its camera lens this way and that.
The only time Wolffe experienced the undercity was during the prolonged chase of Commander Tano— and if he was honest with himself, it was the most fun he had on this abysmal planet. The deplorable conditions of the lower districts, standing in such stark contrast to where the GAR hunkered, solid and imposing among the law-abiding sectors, made the lower levels seem like a different world completely.
And if even some among the Jedi's ranks couldn't be trusted anymore, Wolffe had even less motivation to trust law enforcement clearly not accomplishing their job in the depths of Coruscant.
His defeated, "Come on," was more of a rumble in his chest than anything else. He turned and headed down the street, away from the flying probe droid, pulling an uncoordinated Ventress behind him.
He retraced his steps down the damp, dark pavement, under rusting bridges made from connecting buildings, past vents constantly spewing vapor of some kind, though no two emissions were ever the same color. The taxi he had traveled to this sunforsaken level in would be a bad idea for a return trip; taxi drivers were just as eager to make a few credits as any respectable bounty hunter and often memorized the most wanted list. Ventress' face was hard to miss. His brain started scrolling through other means of extration.
Somewhere along the second street, his binder buddy growled, "Slow down; everything's spinning."
"Didn't know Sith can get so clumsy." He slowed his pace only to check over his shoulder, confirming that they weren't being followed down this deserted road, before returning to speed.
"If I had my lightsabers," she hissed, "I'd cut through this and you and be on my way."
"You couldn't; it's made of cortosis. Lightsaber resistant," replied Wolffe, an extra yank on the binders for good measure. Her slight stumbling appeased him.
"You must've spent a year's earnings on these. Oh, that's right, you're not paid like civilized sentients."
Wolffe rolled his eyes at such an old and familiar argument. A strange chuckle from Ventress sent an uncomfortable shiver slithering down his spine.
"I sense such negativity just wafting off of you."
"Probably has something to do with you killing so many of my brothers." Not just within the 104th, but the entire GAR. One lost battle barreled into another, and soon Wolffe remembered painful instances Ventress had nothing to do with. The terror enkindled by the Malevolence sprung to mind, so long ago it could've happened in another lifetime.
Ventress scoffed behind him. "I killed the enemy. It's a war out there, darling."
"They were men." Wolffe yanked her forward to walk abreast of him in order to glare at her, all the names of the clones she killed— even some faces and helmets— bubbling to the surface of his mind. Maybe if he stared hard enough, he could project those same faces into her thoughts and they could haunt her as much as they did him.
Ventress looked at him, unconvinced. "What makes you— any of you— better than droids? Your Republic buys you, you obey their every command, and for what? A pat on the back? Respect? That doesn't get you far in this galaxy."
"I'm doing my duty! Something completely foreign to you."
"You will die for this cause which was never even yours to begin with," she snarled.
Wolffe contemplated her momentarily before asking, "How are you even formulating arguments when you're drunk?"
"I'm tipsy!" she corrected. "Slow down!"
With a roll of his eyes, he obliged. They strolled in silence for a minute or two, just listening to the cortosis clinking between them, until Wolffe muttered, "We're not droids."
"Darling, you have 'Republic' stamped all over your manufactured body." Her gaze slid up and down his profile before she added, "Well, at least they know how to make a body."
Somehow, her gaze made the Human woman's advances back in the cantina seem timid in comparison.
"Stop that. It's weird to have an enemy look at me like that."
"Where have you been? I don't work with the Separatists anymore."
Wolffe eyed her icily. It seemed like a tactical ploy, dropping from the ranks completely as the war grew fiercer. "You can't just change sides like that."
"I didn't change anything. I left."
"You deserted?"
A harsh laugh nearly interrupted him. "You can't fathom having the freedom to choose, can you? You were made to follow the Republic no matter what orders they throw at you. I left the Separatists. The only way they'll have my allegiance now is if they buy it in limited quantities."
Wolffe bit back a snarl. That wasn't how war worked. That wasn't loyalty. But then again, if the enemy fought by the same standards as the Republic, it would be a vastly different war. "And what did Commander Tano pay you to help her?"
Ventress blinked sluggishly at the name. Then realization clicked. "Skywalker's pet? Nothing. I guess I just have a soft spot for lost causes." Again she eyed him appraisingly. It was the most focused attention he'd garnered in months.
"Stay alert for a holobooth. I need one."
"I consider it in my best interests not to follow your orders, my dear."
Wolffe leveled a glare at her only to receive a smug smirk in reply. She reached her free hand across to slide a finger along his jawline before he could jerk his head away from her touch. There was the faintest, strangest, conflicting spark in the back of his mind, because although he still held her accountable for all the injury and death she inflicted, she was also the first woman in months to touch him— brazenly or otherwise.
Several streets later, passing a working streetlamp occasionally and establishments still in business even less often, they noticed a graffitied booth nestled among the street litter along the side of a building. Wolffe immediately veered in that direction, unhindered by Ventress' clumsy gait. The booth was horrendously maintained, but the basic operations still worked. Ventress leaned lethargically against the privacy screen as he punched in the com frequency for one of his men.
It took longer than usual for the call to be answered, and when it was, Wolffe was met with a borderline giggling clone, helmetless and drunk. Even through the blue holoimage, his face looked flushed.
"Sinker...?"
"Aye, sir! When y'joining us? The general gave us the night off!" The blond clone flung his arms wide before falling victim to another spurt of laughter. A second later, Boost descended into the call, leaning over Sinker's shoulders wearing a similar grin.
"Commander!" Boost cried. "Done with your thing yet?" He paused to look down at the clone beneath him. "He was doing a thing, right?" Sinker just shrugged.
Wolffe pinched the bridge of his nose with his bound hand, Ventress' hand dangling underneath. "I need transportation. I don't have anyone else's frequency right now." He dropped both their hands to stare at his smiling men.
"Sir, just grab a taxi to the Blue Light sector. We're at the—"
"I need a larty and a security escort," he cut in tersely. "Call one up and send it to my coordinates." His soldiers' smiles turned uneasy at his words; they dropped from their faces completely when Ventress entered the holomessage, her free arm wrapping around Wolffe's waist.
"He's extremely irritable tonight; you might want to hurry," she said before cutting the transmission. The Wolfpack's expressions faded, faces Wolffe hadn't seen so horrified since they floated in an escape pod in the Abregado system.
Ventress looked up at him, choosing to remain pressed flat against him. "You're welcome," she said with a smirk. "They'll probably get here in ten minutes now thanks to me. Although your friends seem much more enjoyable to be around than you."
Wolffe pulled as far away from her as the binders allowed. He speculated it would take at most twenty minutes for backup to arrive. He just had to make it twenty—
"Do you recognize this place?" Ventress suddenly asked, her free hand gesturing to their dark surroundings. It was where Wolffe and a handful of the Coruscant Guard surrounded Commander Tano and Ventress not two days earlier, only to be left in a beaten heap. The worst part was, the women never even used deadly force and the soldiers still had their shebs handed to them.
"No."
A light flared from down the street, and both turned to see a police speeder glide around the corner.
"That's the all-droid unit," muttered Ventress, already slipping behind Wolffe. "They tend to notice things better than their human counterparts."
Wolffe caught himself before a snarl slipped out, but he couldn't stop his lip from curling in contempt at the mention of droids. The idea of meddlesome, barely-sentient martial units only brought battle droids to mind. He spun to face Ventress, grabbed her by the shoulders and pushed her into the corner made by the wall and the holobooth privacy screen. In essence, he was protecting one enemy from another. Their bound wrists hidden between them, Wolffe braced his free arm on the wall above her, completely blocking her from view. At least this close, all he smelled was their combined time in the cantina instead of the stench of whatever it was that rotted somewhere nearby.
Wolffe didn't take his eyes off of her, because at the moment she was still the more dangerous threat. He watched her meticulously inspect him, her eyes landing on his prominent scar. Her free hand followed her gaze, reaching up to slide a finger along it, Wolffe wincing the entire time.
"You don't get to touch that," he growled. The slight jerk of his head wasn't strong enough to shake off her hand. The way she pursed her lips was far too playful for her.
"Why not? I gave it to you. Consider it a love-mark."
"I won't, thanks."
The police speeder slowed as it neared them; its floodlight shone directly on them while it was still twenty or more meters away, casting Ventress in Wolffe's shadow. The engine hummed softer as it decreased in speed.
Ventress' eyes flashed up at Wolffe, a mischievous glint dancing in them that he only saw in soldiers who were clearly up to no good. "If I get us out of this, don't say I never did anything for you, darling." Her words weren't quite as chilling as the conquest in her gaze. She slid her free hand around the back of his head, lacing her fingers through his hair, and curled a leg over his hip. And she pulled him flat into her.
The only thing running through Wolffe's mind at the moment was the ardent hope that none of the Wolfpack show up anytime soon, because he would never be able to live this down. Especially when General Plo caught wind of it.
She kissed him with a passion lacking anything remotely resembling affection. It felt more like an outright challenge— a fight for dominance. Her bound hand grabbed his open jacket while her free hand combed through his hair, bringing to mind the last person to actually like him doing that.
The spotlight dropped from them and the speeder drifted along. Wolffe slowly leaned back to watch it from around the holobooth, only to realize his lower lip was painfully stuck between Ventress' teeth. He gave her a quick shove into the wall and earned a scornful bite, but she released him.
"Was tongue really necessary?" he muttered, running a thumb across his mouth.
"Better from me than jail inmates," she said with a shrug.
"Debatable."
The speeder turned a corner and they were left alone once more among the litter and the dark dampness. Wolffe led her toward the street to check the area for any signs of a gunship, ignoring the faint taste of blood in his mouth.
Just as they passed a tall, roadside pole, the remaining half of what was once a holoadvert projector, he heard an odd clack before Ventress yanked him into it. His shoulder took the brunt of the impact. She grabbed his right arm and pulled it around the other side of the pole; barely a second later warm cortosis closed around his free wrist. And he was stuck there, bound around a pole over twice as tall as him while Ventress stood there smirking, completely free.
"How did you get out?!" he snarled, rattling the binders to no avail.
"Just put my mind to it, dear," she said. Her smile broke into a gloat at his glower. "I've been working that lock for ages." Ventress cast a glance around before descending on him and rifling through all his pockets— thoroughly. She ignored his blasters but was very interested in finding the credit chip in his jacket.
"Your charity is all too kind," Ventress acknowledged before slipping it into her own pocket.
Wolffe glared at her with all the insolence he could muster. "I'll have you in binders one of these days."
"Promises, promises," she said, smiling. "This was fun, my dear commander. We should do it again sometime." She finished her pocket search on his right side with no further loot. When her attention turned back on his face, Wolffe slowly leaned away from a distance all too similar to a couple minutes prior. She snaked a hand under his chin and yanked him back. His only self defense was to wince, face screwed tightly in apprehension of whatever was to come next.
A kiss fell on his cybernetic eye.
Wolffe, braced for something painfully worse than a kiss, waited a moment after she released him to open his eyes. When he did, he was alone in the street. Rattling his binders against the pole still did nothing.
He only had to wallow in his frustration for the better part of ten minutes before an open-doored gunship decorated with the familiar nose art of his Kel Dor general landed on the street. Once the larty touched down, the red-painted security element he requested all disembarked to set up a defensive perimeter. There was only one gray-clad soldier among them.
Comet nearly tripped out of the larty he was laughing so badly.
Wolffe rolled his eyes.
"Sir, you're gonna have to tell me this story on the way back," chuckled Comet as he dug around in his utility belt.
Wolffe only grunted, "Lock it up."
"Yeah," replied Comet, helmet bobbing. "I'd say that's how you got in this situation to begin with, Commander." The sniggering trooper withdrew a master key from one of his pouches and freed Wolffe, who immediately stashed the binders on his own belt. He then took a moment to wipe a hand over his scar.
"Round up!" he barked, all helmets turning in his direction. "We're heading back."
"But really, sir," persisted Comet, right on his commander's heels, "what happened?" They loaded into the larty and it easily lifted off. The sparse lights of the undercity soon blurred together beneath them and the cool air that whipped through the open door was the best thing Wolffe had felt in hours.
"Ask me that one more time and you'll be airborne qualified, runt."
終わり
A.N. Song: "Here is Gone" by the Goo Goo Dolls.
You'll be airborne qualified threat= Wolffe will push him out of the flying gunship. More thanks to Starcrier for beta'ing!
From a scale of 1 to Atlas, how much do you support this ship?
A fair warning to those who submitted ship suggestions: I've got about 20-some oneshots already lined up, so if I like your pairing, it won't be posted for like half a year still.