As Palabar, the medical droid, and the Weequay guard converged on Domino's hyperventilating form, Quinlan wrenched his cuffs angrily against the durasteel bars. He was tempted to just forget the whole 'don't lose your cover!' rule and use his Force-powers, but there wasn't much point. Even hurling the gangsters against the wall and severely injuring them wouldn't do much, long-term.
He thought through a possible plan anyway before giving up. Even if he knocked out the gangsters and destroyed the droid and broke free and managed to get Domino on his feet within fifteen seconds, more members of the Twisted Star would come before he could find a way out of the hall. They'd stun and re-secure both prisoners and keep an even closer watch on them, and call in any customers interested in buying a Jedi. There were a surprising number of people who thought that owning a Jedi was a good idea, the idiots. Though, in all fairness, those people were often extremely hard to escape from.
If Quinlan had been alone, he might have risked it regardless of the consequences, maybe. But right now, there was no chance at all, and therefore no point. Despite the Force, he couldn't act at this point without making things worse. Didn't mean he had to like it, though.
Then Domino, who was still out of sight behind Palabar and the Weequay, shakily whispered, "I'm not going back . . . I'm not."
Quinlan swore under his breath, directing his anger at the Twisted Star gang in general, Palabar in particular, and the whole situation at large. Then he glared at the Trandoshan, who snarled back and put the point of the knife blade against his cheekbone.
"Shut your mouth," the lizard rattled. "Or I'll carve my name in your face."
Quinlan almost asked if the Trando could spell well enough to carry out his threat, but stopped himself. This was no time to take stupid risks. Domino would be needing his help.
Already needed his help, actually . . .
Letting out his breath, Quinlan shot another glower at the Trandoshan and shifted to the right as much as he could. This not only moved him away from the towering alien with the sharp pointy blade, but it also gave him a clear line of sight to Domino.
The Jedi reached out in the Force, easily sensing Domino's half-conscious state of terror. The clone's mental shields were in pieces right now, and it was easy for Quinlan to project a sense of calm towards him –
At least, it was easy until Domino tried to fight it. He seemed to be fighting anything and everything that he was even aware of right now, and – impressively enough – he seemed extremely sensitive to and aware of any mental influence.
Quinlan waited a moment, then sent him a strong sense of reassurance, trying to combat his state of panic. Domino's half-closed eyes flickered towards him, vaguely, but at least he didn't outright fight him this time.
A metallic click made Quinlan glance down to where the medical droid had finally figured out the prosthetic locks. It was unscrewing Domino's scomp arm from an implant just below his shoulder. The clone had fallen silent, but was shuddering convulsively.
"Excellent," said Palabar, reaching past his prisoner to take the prosthetic from the droid. The Quarren's voice was back to its usual timbre despite the fact that his left eye was completely swollen. Given how hard Domino had slammed the scomp into his face, Quinlan wouldn't be surprised if the gang leader ended up losing sight in that eye.
"Is the prisoner conscious?" Palabar asked.
The medical droid put a metal hand under Domino's chin and tilted his head to one side. "The prisoner is exhibiting signs of psychological shock," it announced, which didn't actually answer Palabar's question.
Domino was conscious, but it sure didn't look like it; and either way, Quinlan saw no reason to inform Palabar of this.
"Psychological shock," repeated the Quarren, the long tentacles on his face twitching in displeasure. "If he does not function reliably, it will lower his value to the prospective buyers, perhaps by as much as twenty percent."
Why, that worthless k'lor'slug –
Quinlan thought it, but didn't say it. Contrary to popular belief, he did know how to keep his mouth shut. He bit his tongue and stared at the wall and hoped Palabar would fall down a random flight of stairs and knock himself out for a good three days. Bonus points if the Quarren then woke up behind bars, courtesy of the CG or CSF. Quinlan wasn't too particular.
"Still worth researching the prosthetics, though," a Weequay was saying.
"Of course." Palabar turned the scomp link this way and that, studying it. "Let us track down the manufacturer. Put the prisoners back for now."
Domino was untied and pushed into another small cell. As soon as he was released, he dropped bonelessly to his knees and stayed there, curled in on himself.
The Trandoshan removed Quinlan's cuffs, grabbed him by the back of the neck, and threw him into the cell. The Jedi slammed into the opposite wall and tumbled over ungracefully, landing on his side next to Domino.
"Thanks for your hospitality," he called from the floor.
The yellow-skinned Trando slammed the door and locked it, tongue rattling in displeasure. "You think we are inhospitable?" he taunted. "Just wait. You won't like the buyer we found for you. You're going to be sold."
"Good," said Quinlan, pushing himself to his feet. "At least I'll be out of this joint."
Then, dismissing the lizard from his mind, he moved over to the door. "Hey, Palabar? I've got a question for you."
The Quarren turned back, annoyed. "Oh? What do you want?"
"Well," said the Jedi thoughtfully. "A life of freedom, for one thing."
Palabar and the Weequay turned to stare at each other. After a long moment, the Weequay lifted both hands in a confused shrug.
Smirking, Quinlan folded his arms. "In the short term, I'd settle for some drinkable water, and – if you can be prevailed upon – a blanket or cloak."
The Weequay laughed. "Whad'ya think this is, a hotel?"
"Don't be stupid," Quinlan answered shortly. "I know it's a ridiculously luxurious request –"
"Luxurious?" said the Weequay, sounding confused.
" – which is why," Quinlan went on, "I'm asking Palabar about it and not you. After all, he's the one who's worried about 'market value'."
When the Quarren's remaining eye narrowed, Quinlan gestured to Domino. "You really want to sell someone who looks like that to your customers? They'll never believe he can stand on his own, much less fight or work for them."
Palabar considered, one hand running thoughtfully over the blue armor plating on his right arm. "You raise a good point," he said. "Very well, there should be no harm in those items. Droid, bring water and a blanket. Tell the security team to watch closely."
Quinlan snorted, glancing up at the camera. "Don't worry," he said. "I don't have any bright ideas about drowning or strangling either my cell mate or myself."
With another squinting look, Palabar left, followed by the Trandoshan and the Weequay. The medical droid, which had gone over to a locked storage compartment in a different cell, returned with the requested items.
Then, of course, it dropped them a few feet outside the door before trailing after the gangsters.
If the stupid security team hadn't been watching through the equally stupid camera, it would have been easy for Quinlan to pull the blanket and canteen into the cell with the Force. As it was, he had to lie on his side and reach as far as he could before finally managing to touch the blanket.
Once he got his fingers closed on the edge of the fabric, he pulled it carefully through the bars, snagging the canteen on its way.
As he stood, he turned back to Domino, who was staring blankly at the floor. He was quiet, face expressionless, and would have looked almost calmly contemplative if it hadn't been for the way he was still trembling.
"Domino," said Quinlan.
The clone didn't even blink. "They can't have it," he mumbled, one hand lifting to the headpiece he wore. "Rex – gotta stop them. The algorithm."
What the heck had happened to this guy? Quinlan looped the canteen over one shoulder before edging closer, careful to move slowly. He really didn't want to scare Domino, for both the clone's sake and Quinlan's.
"Hey," the Jedi began. "Domino. I don't know where you think you are, but – well, you're not. You're with me in a miserably cold prison cell, which . . . granted, isn't great, but I'm guessing it's a lot better than whatever situation you think you're in."
No response. Just that constant, blank-eyed trembling. Wherever he was in his mind, talking didn't seem to be helping; and, based on his expression, Domino wasn't coming back to the present any time soon without help.
Huh, if this was what it looked like when Quinlan went into psychometric trances, no wonder everyone freaked out.
Not that Quinlan was freaking out. Just – it was weird, and kind of alarming. And it looked miserable for Domino himself.
"I'm moving closer," said Quinlan, suiting the action to the word. It wasn't hard, in this tiny cell. "So kindly don't hit me. . . or if you have to, try to avoid my eyes, I guess?"
No answer.
"I'm just going to stand next to you, and – here."
Quickly, he draped the blanket over Domino's shoulders and held it in place with both hands as he sent him another feeling of calm reassurance.
"You're not there," Quinlan said, lacing his words with a strong Force suggestion.
"I'm not there," repeated Domino dazedly. "I'm not . . . Rex? Tech?"
"It's Vos," said Quinlan. "Uh, sorry to disappoint."
Finally, Domino stirred, twisting a little to look at him. Recognition, swiftly followed by relief and then embarrassment, flickered in his gaze before vanishing, shuttered over along with everything else. He cleared his throat and said, "How long has it been?"
"Not long," said Quinlan.
Domino nodded and tried to stand, because of course he was as stubborn as Crosshair and Tech and Hunter. Wrecker was the only one who wasn't a deliberately difficult patient, and it looked like Domino was not following his good example.
Quinlan put the slightest ounce of pressure on his shoulders, and Domino sat down instead.
"You should rest," said Quinlan.
". . . rest?"
He had an odd habit of repeating things, a fact which Quinlan had noticed several times during their conversations so far.
"Yeah, rest," Quinlan answered, holding out the canteen. "Have some water."
Domino stared up at him, and then at the canteen. "Thanks," he said. "But I'm not thirsty."
His usually direct gaze flickered away as he said it, and Quinlan was sure he wasn't telling the truth. But why wouldn't he take water, if he –
Then Quinlan noticed that the canteen was closed, and he huffed at himself in mild annoyance. He opened the twist cap and tossed it aside. "There," he said, holding out the now-usable canteen. "Now are you thirsty?"
Domino's pale face took on a slight hint of color, and he mumbled something inaudible, but he did accept the canteen. Several gulps of water later, he handed it back, still avoiding eye contact. He gripped at the stump of his right arm with his left hand and frowned darkly at the floor.
Quinlan slouched on the floor next to him, considered, and said, "Hey, Domino, if you're on that team and all, why don't you have red on your armor?"
Despite his panic attack, Domino clearly hadn't forgotten about the camera in the hall. He hesitated, then looked at Quinlan with his serious, pale eyes. "I just didn't want to yet," he said at last. "Switching from blue and white to grey and black and red all at once felt too different."
"Why switch at all?"
"I just – wasn't that person anymore." Suddenly, Domino lost his faraway look and glanced away, grumbling, "Why am I telling you this?"
"Because I'm a naturally trustworthy person," Quinlan answered.
"Trustworthy," scoffed the clone.
"I'm also naturally trusting, which is why we've both exchanged our real names without any trouble. Right, Repeat?"
"What?"
"I'm trying to guess your name," Quinlan reminded him. "And you repeat stuff a lot, so . . . hm. Copy?"
The clone narrowed his eyes at the wall, carefully not moving in response, and Quinlan began to mentally consider all words that meant 'copy'. "Reiterate," he said. "Or is it something like 'Repeater'?"
"No," scoffed the clone.
"I'm getting close, though, aren't I?"
"Just –" Domino stared at him, features tense with worry before he glanced back at the camera again. "Just shut up for now, okay?"
"Fine," said Quinlan. "But I'll get it before the day is out."
The two prisoners were quiet for a few minutes, while Domino stared at everything except his right arm. Twice, he adjusted the blanket to hide the empty, shortened sleeve of his blacks from view.
Then he shifted too much, fumbling to catch the rough grey material with one hand as it slid off again.
Quinlan adjusted it for him, this time tugging the blanket forward on both sides so the clone could hold the edges together with his left hand.
"Thanks," mumbled Domino, turning suddenly away from him. Quinlan let go at the same time, and as his hand dropped, his fingers barely brushed the metal spinal column that extended partway up the back of his neck.
For a moment, the world completely dropped out from under him, and he was bombarded with numbers and metal and images and implants and pain and codes and cold flashes of Skakoans and that small, icy room and – the Algorithm. Battle strategies, Republic defeats, the Algorithm. CT-1409. No, no, he wasn't – he had to remember. He wasn't just the Algorithm. 1409. No, no, not – CT-1409. NO. He was Echo. . .
Quinlan came back to himself with a violent start, only half-noticing that he was now lying on his side on the floor, one hand clasped against the back of his own neck as he dragged in a shaky breath.
Domino – no, Echo – was staring at him. "What in the galaxies," he hissed, and Quinlan wondered what he had said.
"Um . . . what?" he muttered, still feeling the roots of icy pain in his jaw and spine.
He got to his feet, and Echo grabbed him by his right wrist and twisted, pinning his hand against his left shoulder. Before Quinlan could react, Echo shifted his weight, shoving the Jedi back against the wall and trapping him there with a forearm across his collarbone as he hissed, "What did you just say?"
"I honestly don't know." Quinlan blinked away the afterimages of a medical table and three Skakoans. "What happened to you?"
"What did you do?" demanded Echo, eyes blazing. "You just –"
"Stop," said Quinlan. "I have no idea what I just said, I can't tell sometimes."
"You –" Echo clenched his fist and lowered his voice. "You said 'CT One-Four-Zero-Nine. You knew!"
"I didn't," Quinlan told him, then ducked and twisted away as Echo made a grab for his throat. "Hey! Calm down, I'm not going to do anything to you."
The clone – an ARC trooper, Quinlan realized now – stared at him, breathing hard as his left hand opened and closed at his side.
"I swear I didn't know," Quinlan told him. "And I wasn't trying to find out anything about you. It was completely accidental."
"What was?" demanded Echo, moving as if to fold his arms. He gave up and glanced around instead, looking strangely out of place. "You just had this – this weird seizure and started mumbling . . . things."
"Um," said Quinlan, awkwardly. He put one hand on the back of his neck again. "It's a Kiffar thing. I can see memories sometimes. . . kind of like I'm the one living them? They come from strong emotions attached to certain objects –"
Echo scoffed.
"Not you," said Quinlan. "Your implants. It happened with your scomp link, earlier, but nothing at all as clear as just now."
The ARC trooper glared at him, then took two steps to get to the opposite corner of the tiny cell, clearly wanting as much distance between him and his fellow prisoner as possible.
Honestly, Quinlan couldn't blame him.
Echo put his back against the wall and slid down to huddle in the corner. He was shivering again.
After a moment of hesitation, the Jedi picked up the blanket from the floor and held it towards him. "No point freezing," he pointed out.
Echo's eyes narrowed, as if wondering what trick Quinlan was trying to play on him, but then he snatched the grey blanket and got it clumsily around his shoulders. He tugged and straightened it fussily until he was – apparently – happy with the whole arrangement, shot Quinlan another warning glower, and turned deliberately to stare out the bars and into the hallway.
The conversation was clearly over.
Quinlan sat down in the opposite corner and started unraveling a loose thread on the hem of his black tunic.
It was nearing oh-four-hundred when Hunter jabbed the comm button for the twelfth time and, without identifying himself – for the fifth time – asked to speak to one of the CG commanders – also for the twelfth time.
On the other end of the comm, Warden sighed in loud exasperation. "Is this Sergeant Hunter, by any chance?" he demanded sarcastically. "Sergeant, I have to tell you: disguising your voice isn't doing you any good. You're the only clone who's called in the past forty minutes."
"I need to talk to one of the commanders," Hunter said stubbornly.
"And I'm telling you they aren't available!" Warden sounded like he was at the end of his rope. "They're out on active duty!"
"Even Fox?" asked Wrecker.
"No," grumbled Warden. "But also, I'm not getting him. He is unavailable, both officially and unofficially."
"Then make him un-unavailable," hissed Crosshair.
Warden actually growled. "What is wrong with you?" he demanded. "Don't you have anything better to do than pester me? I will call you whenever I have a chance to talk to one of the commanders. Got it?"
"No," said Crosshair.
"You do not understand," Tech hastily interjected. "Our teammate is missing, and possibly in dire need of rescue. Quinlan is also missing. If we can determine where precisely he was working, we may have a clue."
Warden let out a heartfelt groan, and Hunter thought he was even more dramatic than Echo when he was annoyed. "For the last time," the clone said. "I understand the situation. I really do. Your teammate is missing, you're worried. I get it. And I will get the information, as soon as I can, if there's any to be had, and contact you about it immediately. Understood? Now – in the meantime – keep this comm channel CLEAR!"
The call cut out with a heavy boom, and everyone jumped.
"Ow," said Wrecker, rubbing his ear. "That was loud."
"Yes," said Tech. "That is what happens when you hit the transmitter with a closed fist. I suppose that at this juncture, speaking further to Warden is pointless."
Crosshair huffed, flicking his twenty-third toothpick across the cockpit. "It was pointless from the beginning. Are we really going to stand around and wait for him to get his act together?"
Hunter frowned, trying to come up with another plan. His squad needed to talk to Commander Fox, but short of somehow forcing their way into CG headquarters, which was very likely impossible . . .
"He was likely as incapable of action as we are," said Tech. "If Warden does not have access to the information, it is either above his clearance level or it does not exist in the records. At least we learned that Quinlan was likely working in the Senate sector."
"That doesn't narrow it down nearly enough," said Crosshair. "We need to talk to the commander. He's the only one Quinlan's really mentioned working with."
"Guess we'd better find Fox, then," said Wrecker. "But how're we gonna do that?"
Something clicked in Hunter's mind, and he stood up. "We're not," he said, grabbing his helmet. "We're going to have him find us."
Crosshair went still, watching him for a moment. A sharp gleam crossed his eyes as he said, "Oh? How?"
"Well. . ." Hunter folded his arms, a smirk tugging at his lips as he considered his idea further. "Follow me, and I'll show you."
Tech squinted curiously at him through his tinted goggles, then followed him outside, musing aloud to himself. "In order to have Commander Fox find us, we would need to be somewhere that he is also likely to be."
"Yeah," said Hunter, heading to the road that was level with the landing pad and opposite the lift.
"The most likely place for him to be is in CG headquarters."
"Mm-hmm."
"And . . . he would only look for us if he had a reason to. If, perhaps, Warden reported our request to him?"
"You heard Warden," said Hunter. "He's not going to do it yet. And we don't have another trooper to speak to, because Warden's always the one who picks up incoming calls."
"So we need another trooper," said Crosshair. "So – what, we're headed to the Coruscant Guard's headquarters to catch someone on patrol? Hostage situation? We return the CG's reg if Warden reports to Fox?"
"Uh . . . no," said Hunter. "Pretty sure kidnapping a trooper would remove any chance of cooperation."
"Sarge, I don't get it," said Wrecker. "What are you planning?"
Hunter's destination was about eight levels below him, and the sergeant decided he didn't want to waste time walking. "Cables out," he said. "We're going down."
His squad mates obeyed, but not without a quietly uncertain mumble from Wrecker.
"Is this thing gonna hold me?" he whispered loudly, firing his cable into the metal street's edge.
"It always did before," said Crosshair.
Wrecker looked unconvinced, and the sniper hopped off the edge of the road, swinging to a halt a couple meters below.
"Better get a move on," he taunted, looking back up. "Or I'm going to win. Again."
"No fair!" Wrecker yelled, and dropped over the side. "You cheated last time, you tied a knot in my cable –"
"That was your own incompetence –"
Hunter and Tech glided past them, and Crosshair and Wrecker suddenly extended their cables, zooming past their teammates and beyond the level Hunter wanted them at before he had a chance to even notice.
"Wrecker! Cross!" he hissed into his comm, stepping off at the eighth level. "Where do you think you're going?"
They promptly jolted to a halt, helmets upturned to stare guiltily at him from four levels below.
Tech let out a tolerant, dismissive sigh and primly hopped off his own cable and onto the road next to Hunter.
"Get up here," ordered Hunter.
He rested his hands on his waist, watching while his erstwhile teammates clambered up to join him, hissing insults and comments at each other all the way. When they got near the eighth level, they shut up.
"Okay," said Wrecker, climbing onto the road. "Here we are. What's the plan?"
Hunter turned and looked at his intended destination. The others followed his gaze, past the parked speeders and airbuses to the brightly lit building and the number that flashed on top of it.
"Seventy-Nine's?" said Tech. "But Hunter, we have been permanently banned from that establishment."
"Yeah," said Hunter. He took out his gun and clicked on the safety, then holstered it before dropping his helmet outside the door. "We've been permanently banned."
Crosshair took off his helmet, wearing a knowing expression. "And if we go in there, we might be arrested."
"By the Coruscant Guard!" Wrecker added excitedly.
"Exactly," said Hunter again. "Check your weapons, lads. Safeties on, and leave them here."
"What for?" Tech asked, complying all the same.
"Crosshair said it himself," Hunter answered. "If we go in there, we might be arrested. We need to make sure we get arrested."
"Ah," said Tech, a smirk on his face as he tossed his helmet into the growing pile outside the front door. "Shall I destroy their serving droids, or shut down their electricity?"
"Neither." Hunter flexed his fingers and tilted his head from side to side. "I figure the best way to get arrested is to go inside, get ourselves kicked out, go back inside, and start a bit of a war."