Chapter Text
It began with a bar fight. Or at least the beginning of a bar fight, if Fox and his men hadn’t been there to put an end to it.
They had been summoned to 79’s by one of the droid bartenders, all of which had a subroutine to identify “aggressive body language” and “inflammatory speech” among the clone patrons and contact the Coruscant Guard when those parameters hit a certain threshold.
Hot tempers and hands trained for blasters–not darts–meant that the Guard was called into 79's nearly every night. So this particular squad walked a tight beat around the bar and the blocks nearby, looping by regularly enough to be visible and close enough to respond at a moment’s notice.
It was a hot and humid evening, unusual for Coruscant’s tightly-controlled weather patterns, and 79’s was packed. There was a line to get in, full of antsy-looking clones and a smattering of natborns, all of them washed bright pink and orange from the giant sign above the entrance. Tonight was the 212th’s last night of shore leave, and the 91st Nova Corps had just landed early that morning.
Marines always meant trouble.
Fox and the squad accompanying him entered the bar and looked out over the crowd. It was even hotter inside the clone bar than outside, hundreds of bodies packed inside; it stank of sweat and cheap booze. The music pulsed loudly, pounding in Fox’s chest, and the lights from the dozens of screens flashed brightly, reflecting in strange zig-zagged shapes across his red and white armor. He could already feel a headache rising, a dull throbbing beginning at his temples.
Out on the dance floor, clones in and out of armor writhed alongside beings of every species Fox could identify. The lights lit them up in strange colors and made even familiar cloned faces look foreign and uncanny. The dancers heaved and swayed like one large, pulsating organism, individuals swallowed up by the crowd and reborn as part of the whole.
Fox wasn’t really a fan of dancing.
He finally spotted the reason for their visit over by the bar, where he could see two clones in 212th gold arguing fiercely with a small group of Marines; a tense looking Twi’lek woman, pale green and short, stood to one side. Her dark eyes darted back and forth as she watched the argument, her hands nervously stroking one of her lekku over and over.
As Fox and his squad approached, one of the 212th troopers let out a yell and punched the Marine closest to him; the Marine cursed him and threw a punch himself, which connected with the other trooper’s face. The other man from the 212th jumped into the fray, and it looked like all the Marines were about to swarm when Fox’s Guards finally put a stop to it.
His men were old hands at this: they separated the combatants, pulled the two groups apart and placed themselves in defensive positions around Fox, the two 212th boys, and the one Marine who had been fighting. Fox stepped forward and examined his latest catch.
The trooper who had thrown the first punch was sporting one of the worst blond dye jobs Fox had ever seen, his hair an ugly shade of yellow that turned even uglier colors under the bright, flashing lights of the screens above the bar. The flushed red mark above his cheekbone showed all the signs of blooming into an impressive shiner in a few hours. He glared at the Marine and ignored Fox.
Next to Terrible Hair, the other 212th trooper was young; Fox might have called him a shiny if he didn’t have paint on the armor he wore on his lower half. But the paint was remarkably neat and tidy, not a scratch on it; the kid must have repainted it just before shore leave. His hair was shaved on the sides, but kept long on the top in a mohawk style. He was also sporting a new split lip; he kept forgetting and biting it before wincing. He eyed Fox nervously.
The Marine was regulation-everything, crisp Kamino haircut and no tattoos; he wasn’t even mussed from the fight. He had fallen into parade rest when the Guard arrived and stood straight and still, looking right at Fox. His fellow Marines, most of them sporting the same haircut and lack of imagination, milled around outside the protective circle of Guards, looking belligerent.
“What’s going on here, troopers?” Fox asked sharply. Mohawk winced.
Terrible Hair looked defiant. “Nothing, sir,” he said. “Just a little disagreement.”
The Marine turned furious. “He punched me, sir, you saw it! Kriffing—”
“Only after you barged in here, demanding—” Terrible Hair cut in, and then began talking over the Marine, who spoke even louder to be heard.
“—I have every right to be here, just as much as—”
“—scared her, asshole, and if you learned to wait for ten seconds you could have—”
“—not my problem, and you should mind your own—”
“Enough!” Fox barked. That headache had finally bloomed; he could feel it wrapping around the back of his skull and settling in for the night. He turned to Mohawk. “Talk,” he said.
“We were getting drinks from the waitress, sir,” Mohawk gestured to the nervous Twi’lek woman, one of the Guard at her side, “when the Marines came up and started pestering her. She gave us her last two drinks because we asked first, said she had to go back to get more, but they wouldn’t stop bugging her, sir. So we tried to tell them to back off but then they wanted to fight with us instead, sir, and then, um…” Mohawk trailed off, looking guiltily over at Terrible Hair.
“Then your buddy here started talking with his fists,” Fox finished for him.
Mohawk pressed his lips together into a tight line. “Yes, sir,” he replied miserably.
Fox regarded the Marine, who had regained some of his composure but looked like he had strong opinions on Mohawk’s version of events. Fox was profoundly uninterested.
“Dismissed,” Fox told him. “But I don’t want to see your ugly mug again while you’re on my planet, understood?” The Marine nodded quickly, looking pleased. Fox leaned in and spoke, low. “And a word of advice? Don’t come after the girls here: they’re all armed and they know what they’re doing.” Fox tilted his helmet downward. “Not all injuries heal with bacta, vod, especially the ones involving… special anatomy.”
The Marine’s eyes widened, his gaze darting down his own body and then over to the Twi’lek and back to Fox. “Yes, sir,” he mumbled.
Fox stepped back and nodded to his men, who shifted to allow the Marine to pass out of their formation; he fled back to his fellows and they disappeared into the crowd. Fox stepped through the gap his men had made and walked over to the waitress; the formation closed behind him, penning in the 212th troopers.
The waitress still looked nervous, her hands ceaselessly stroking one of her lekku. This close Fox could see that she had dark green swirls tattooed along her lekku and a gold ring through her nose. She eyed him warily as he approached so he kept his posture open and loose.
“You alright?” Fox asked her.
She nodded rapidly, biting her lip.
Fox looked at her for a moment. He didn’t recognize her, and she did seem a little jumpier than the other waitresses he’d met. “You new here?” he guessed.
She nodded again. “Yes, I— it’s my first week,” she said. Her accent was not what he had expected. It didn’t sound like she was a native of Ryloth.
“Don’t let these assholes scare you,” Fox told her gently. “Most of them are too riled up to remember their manners, but they’re more interested in hitting each other than anyone else. Still,” he looked around, spotting a bright pink Twi’lek waitress across the way who was berating a sheepish-looking clone in dress grays, “stick with Sheena over there for tonight. She keeps ‘em in line even better than I do.”
The waitress smiled faintly. He nodded at her and turned back to his squad and the 212th troopers.
“Well boys,” Fox said slowly, “I’m going to have you two come back to the RCMO with me and spend some time in the cells while I call Commander Cody.”
Mohawk paled. Terrible Hair cursed under his breath.
Fox turned and trusted his squad to cuff and corral the other troopers and follow him back out to the front. They slowly made their way back through the seething crowd toward the door, shoving and elbowing to make room through the tight knot of bodies.
When they reached the exit Fox commed for a pick up and moved his squad off to the side to wait. He headed to the back of the group, keeping their charges in front of him, before he whipped off his bucket, took a deep breath and squinted his eyes shut. He pinched the bridge of his nose and tried to will away his headache.
“You okay, Commander?” one of the troopers at the back of the squad asked quietly. Hardline, Fox recalled; he was a good kid, just deployed two months ago.
Fox nodded, dropping his hand and forcing his eyes open. “Fine,” he replied just as quietly. “Just the lights in there.”
Hardline seemed to accept that. Fox put his helmet back on and shook himself a little.
After ten minutes the transport arrived and Fox, his team, and the 212th troopers piled in. Terrible Hair turned to Fox from his jumpseat. “I can’t believe you let that Marine go after he was harassing that waitress,” he grumbled. He tossed out a quick “sir” after a defiant pause.
Fox snorted loudly enough for his helmet speakers to catch it. “You think those girls want or need your help? They’re all from the lower levels, trooper, they could carve you up like a bantha steak.” Fox waved a hand dismissively. “They don’t appreciate the white knight act, trust me. I’ve seen too many of you idiots try to rescue them.”
Terrible Hair looked surprisingly crestfallen at that; maybe he really did want to think of himself as a hero. That was cute.
Mohawk looked up at Fox, eyes pleading. “Please, sir,” he said. “Can you just… let us go back to our barracks and not tell Commander Cody about this?”
Fox cocked his head. “You got a good reason for me not to?”
Mohawk blinked. “Uh…” he replied stupidly. “Just—please?”
“Not good enough, trooper,” Fox shook his head.
Mohawk slumped a little. He looked every bit as young as Hardline was. One of his legs jogged up and down, a nervous habit the Kaminoans should have drilled out of him.
Terrible Hair snorted. “Don’t bother, vod,” he said. “The Guard don’t much like us front-liners. The commander here won’t be doing us any favors.”
Fox grinned behind his helmet. “I’m not the one you need help with, trooper,” Fox told him. “It’s your CO you should be worrying about.”
On Coruscant, the Guard operated out of the Republic Center for Military Operations, or RCMO; that was also where the barracks for front-line battalions and the holding cells were. When the transport arrived, Fox left his Guard in charge of processing the 212th boys while he headed to his office to contact their commanding officer. On the way he messaged the medic on duty to come down and patch up the troopers; they were probably just drunk and a little bruised, but it was always good to check. Sometimes Fox was amazed at the trouble his brothers managed to find in just a few short hours on the planet.
Fox’s private office was nearly at the back of the Guard's section of the base, next door to Thorn and Stone's office and the larger shared office used by Lieutenant Thire and the other mid-level officers. There was just one captain in there at the moment, staring at a screen with a bored look, who raised his cup of caf in a casual salute as Fox passed. He nodded but kept walking.
Like the rest of the RCMO, Fox’s office heavily favored shiny black durasteel plating. There were no windows, just hatched white light panels which reflected off the walls and flattered no one. Somebody named Krennic, a supposed prodigy and darling of the upper echelons of the Republic military, had designed the whole base—Fox sometimes wondered why that man hated color so much.
His desk had been built to match, all sleek lines and unforgiving angles, shiny and black and perfect. It showed fingerprints like nothing else and it drove Fox to distraction trying to keep it from smudging. His chair was also black but thankfully nondescript; the custom design budget must have been cut off before Krennic got to the office chairs.
In silent protest against the black sleekness of it all, Fox had scavenged a visitors chair from a second-hand shop he had found in the first few months of the war. It was a plump, overstuffed armchair, lightly worn and softly rounded. And it was bright Coruscant Guard red, a splash of brilliant, defiant color. Fox liked looking across at it from behind his desk almost as much as he liked sitting in it.
But since today he had official business he flopped down into his desk chair and pulled up the holoprojector on his desk. He removed his helmet and ran a futile hand through his flattened curls before he started the call. Cody was undoubtedly already in bed; as the man coordinating his battalion's departure tomorrow, he actually needed to get some sleep instead of stumbling in last minute with stubble and a hangover.
Fox was about to ruin his night, though.
It took two tries before Cody answered, hair mussed and eyelids heavy. Fox knew that if it had been anyone else calling, it would have taken three tries but Cody would have looked picture perfect. Batchmate perks.
"Hey, Two-Four," Fox said with a grin.
Cody hummed and rubbed both his hands firmly over his face. "Ten-Ten," he replied, muffled. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"
"Got a couple of your boys here in the drunk tank," Fox told him. He tapped at the console on his desk and pulled up the information his men had put into the system. "CT-6409 and CT-1346."
Cody groaned.
"Frequent fliers?" Fox asked with a smirk.
Cody nodded with a sigh. "Crys is, the blond idiot. He'll be cleaning freshers the whole way to Moorjhone this time."
That must be Terrible Hair. Apparently he had poor taste in more than just hair dye.
Cody furrowed his brow. "I don't recognize the other number though, must be one of the newer ones."
"Yeah, he's young," Fox replied. "Mohawk and big round eyes. Felt like kicking a tooka, bringing him in."
"Ah, that would be Wooley." Cody made a face. "Wooley got into a fight?"
Fox grimaced. "Sorry vod, caught them red handed. No serious injuries, thankfully; they were getting into it with a group of Marines.”
"Kark." Cody rubbed his forehead, looking resigned. "Well, I'll have Crys clean those freshers with his tongue for dragging the kid into it.” He sighed. “Does this have to be done officially?"
"Yeah," Fox replied. "The Chancellor is cracking down on ‘disruptive activity’ at 79’s, there's worries about our public image. He's got us practically living out of there."
Cody snorted. "Fat lot of good it'll do him when there’s nowhere else for us to go."
Fox nodded tiredly, it was an old sore point. "Anyway, the arrests have to go on record, but I can remand them to your custody tonight and discipline is up to you. If they get into trouble again it might factor in though, so you'll want to keep a tight leash on them."
"Oh sure," Cody replied bitingly. "I'll just tie them to their damn bunks the next time we get shore leave." He shook his head. "Alright vod, I'll head over to the detention block. Meet you there?"
"With bells on," Fox replied wryly before he hung up the call. He stretched his arms high above his head and felt something crack. Then he opened up one of his desk drawers and drew out a battered flask; it was painted with a slightly wobbly Republic Senate seal to match his pauldron—a gift from Thorn last year. Fox had not asked where Thorn had gotten it and he did not want to know.
He took a swig, grimaced at the taste, and put the flask away. He still had another four hours of this shift left and his head was already killing him. He massaged his temples for a moment before pulling on his helmet and heaving himself up out of the chair.
When Fox reached the detention block he found Shay, the Guard’s Chief Medical Officer, standing in the lobby and tapping on a datapad. Shay wasn’t one for tattoos or fancy armor painting, but he had long-since landed on a hairstyle that suited his tastes: a pompadour, slicked back with some sort of fancy product that Shay hoarded like nothing else. It was the sort of hairstyle only a medic could get away with, since he didn’t spend nearly as much time with a helmet on as the rest of the Guard.
“Commander,” Shay said without looking up.
Fox stopped and leaned against the corridor wall, waiting. When Shay didn’t continue, Fox opened his mouth but Shay held up a finger. He closed his mouth and rolled his eyes behind his helmet.
After another minute of tapping with his stylus, Shay signed the datapad with a flourish and attached it to his belt. He looked up, finally, and gave Fox a smile. “What can I do for you, sir?”
Fox crossed his arms. “I’m fairly certain that, as your commanding officer, you’re supposed to treat me with a little more respect.”
Shay raised an eyebrow. “Now why would I do a thing like that?”
“So I don’t reassign you to inspecting body cavities for contraband at the prison.”
“I’d like to see you try.”
“You know I can court-martial you, right?”
Shay grinned impishly. “You don’t have the time.”
“You’re right,” Fox sighed. “But it’s the principle of the thing. At least pretend that you respect the chain of command.”
Shay clicked his heels together, snapped to attention, and gave Fox a regulation-perfect salute, smile never faltering.
Fox rolled his eyes. “Alright, alright,” he said, waving his hands. “Stop that, you’ll strain something. What are you doing on shift right now anyway? I thought you gave all your nights this week to Sharps.”
“He’s sick,” Shay shrugged. “Started puking at 2100 so I’m covering the rest of his shift.”
Fox grimaced. “Contagious?”
“No,” Shay chuckled. “Dumb kid had some kind of epic bender with some of his batchmates at 79’s last night. He was fine earlier but I guess it caught up with him. Sharps claims it’s a bad migraine, but in my expert medical opinion it’s a sneaky hangover surprise.”
Fox shook his head. “I swear none of them can hold their liquor.”
“Not like us old-timers!” Shay said with a knowing look. “And what are you doing running the drunk tank squad, sir?”
“Getting some time in with different squads. This ten-day it’s the drunk tank squad; next ten-day I’m slumming it with Stone’s boys.” Fox tried very hard to prioritize those extra shifts, keeping up with troopers he might rarely see otherwise. He wanted to remain accessible to his men; Coruscant was a harsher posting than it seemed at first glance. The connections were worth the sacrifice on his sleep, to Fox at least.
Shay opened his mouth to offer an opinion, but Fox cleared his throat and continued. “So what did you do for Cody’s boys?”
“Not much,” Shay replied with a shrug. “Put on a bit of bacta, set a broken finger. I ran some blood tests I’ll have to process in the medbay.” Shay pursed his lips. “But I can tell you without seeing the results that those two tried out something that definitely isn’t on the menu at 79’s.”
“Oh?” Fox asked, surprised.
Shay nodded. “They’re both exhibiting signs of stimulant use, and not the sort my colleagues on the frontlines hand out like candy. I won’t know which one until I run the tests but it’s probably some kind of party drug.”
Fox mulled that over. These two didn’t seem the type, but then, who could really tell these days. The life of a clone trooper came with too many horrors and too few pleasures; there were a lot of things Fox would like to forget for a night or two himself.
He mostly stuck to alcohol for that particular problem, though.
“You think they were stupid enough to take something like that the night before they ship out?” he asked.
“Oh, I stopped assuming people were too stupid to do something a long time ago, Commander.” Shay shrugged. “But it’s always possible someone slipped it to ‘em. Maybe in their drinks. You remember that dancer who was working for Black Sun?”
“The Falleen one? Yeah. Force, I hope they’re not at it again.” Fox sighed. “You got a counter-agent?”
“Not without isolating the drug, and that will take more time than they have dirtside. They should be safe to sleep it off though, I didn’t see any abnormal reactions. They’ll crash hard in a couple of hours and feel like garbage in the morning, but they should be fine. I’ll send their records and blood samples on to their CMO and advise him to check on them tomorrow once they’re underway.”
Fox nodded. Cody would not be happy about this. “Thanks, Shay.”
“Anytime, Commander!” Shay replied with a jaunty salute as he started walking backwards toward the medbay. “And don’t forget, sir, annual physical exams are next week. I expect to see you on day one!” He pointed an accusing finger at Fox. “Don’t make me chase you down this time, sir, it sets a bad example.” Shay turned on his heel and continued on his way.
Stars above. Fox was going to have to find an excuse to avoid the medbay next week. He hated being poked and prodded.
When Cody was buzzed in a few minutes later, he arrived in his full armor, helmet tucked under one arm. He strode up to Fox with a smile and they clasped arms warmly.
“Glad to see you, Ten-Ten,” Cody said. “Thought I’d missed my chance this shore leave. But these are not the circumstances I was hoping for.”
Fox made a face behind his helmet. Cody had invited him to join him for drinks two nights ago, but Fox had turned him down, claiming to be too busy. He didn’t think it was such a good idea to drink in front of his batchmate these days; it was really something he mostly did in private.
“Well,” Fox replied, “the circumstances are worse than you might think. Your boys aren’t just drunk and disorderly, my CMO tells me they’re on some kind of drug.”
Cody was taken aback. “You think Crys and Wooley were getting high at 79’s?”
“Maybe. Troopers get up to all sorts of things on shore leave, vod, we’ve seen it all.” Fox sighed. “But it’s also possible they didn’t take it voluntarily.”
“Volun—you think they were drugged?”
“We’ll find out. I waited for you before talking to them. Shall we?” Fox gestured toward the holding cells.
Cody gave him a baleful look and started down the hallway. The cell with the 212th troopers in it, sunken below the level of the walkway, had its humming red ray shield activated. Inside the younger trooper, Wooley, was lying on the hard bed with an arm draped over his eyes; Fox could hear him moaning. The other one, Crys, with the bad hair dye, was pacing rapidly, arms clenched tight around his own elbows.
When Fox deactivated the ray shield, the two looked up; when they saw Cody, they both jumped to nervous attention. Both men were sweating now and they were a little twitchy as they tried to hold their posture.
“At ease,” Cody said as he stepped down into the cell. Fox followed him down and stood at the foot of the stairs. The two troopers shifted to parade rest, fingers gripped tight behind their backs. Cody didn’t say anything for a moment, just watched them both in silence. Crys looked resigned and anxious, but Fox thought the young one, Wooley, might actually cry.
“Well!” Cody said suddenly, causing his men to flinch. “This is quite the party. Thank you boys so much for inviting me out. You know, usually I try to get some extra sleep before deployment, keep my mind sharp for the big day. But when Commander Fox insisted I come and join you two, well, how could I resist?” Crys winced. Wooley hunched his shoulders. Wisely, they both said nothing.
Cody stepped up in front of Crys and leaned in close. Crys, jaw clenched, stared resolutely past Cody’s left ear.
“Care to explain yourself, trooper?” Cody asked quietly.
“S-sir,” Crys stuttered. “Wooley and I were just trying to get drinks from one of the waitresses, but these Marines, they shoved in, sir, scared the girl. We told them to back off, sir, but they wouldn’t and that’s when, uh…” he trailed off.
“That’s when you started throwing punches, trooper?”
“Yes, sir,” Crys mumbled.
“And you dragged Wooley into it as well?”
“I—” Wooley began, but cut himself when Cody held up a hand without even turning to look at him.
“Yes, sir,” Crys said.
Cody nodded slowly. “Tell me, Crys. What did I tell you after your last shore leave?”
Crys visibly swallowed. “Not to get into any more fights, sir.”
“And?”
“And—and not to scuff up any of your shinies, sir.”
Cody hummed. “It seems you do remember our conversation. After your behavior tonight I thought perhaps you had forgotten.” Cody cocked his head slightly, dark eyes sharp. “And what did I say would happen if you couldn’t hold up your end of the bargain, trooper?”
“Y–you said you would let the ARCs use me as a practice dummy for all their training sessions.”
Cody smiled. It wasn’t nice. “Yes, I’m rather proud of that one. I think we’ll follow through on that plan.” He turned and walked over to Wooley, who was breathing hard and trying to hide it.
“Wooley,” Cody said warmly. “Your very first shore leave, what an occasion. Tell me, trooper, what lessons have you learned from this visit to Triple Zero?”
“Not to get into bar fights, sir!” Wooley nearly yelled, eyes fixed at the far wall.
“And?”
“Not to drink too much, sir!”
“And?”
“I—uh—” Wooley faltered, his gaze darting to Cody’s face before looking away again. “Not to… trust Crys, sir?”
“Very good, trooper,” Cody told him. “How are you feeling, Wooley?”
Wooley grimaced. “Dizzy, sir. Like I could run fifteen clicks but also like I need to take a nap.”
Cody leaned in close, squinting as his gaze wandered over Wooley’s features. Wooley licked his lips but did not move. Sweat was beading across his brow.
“You take in anything besides alcohol tonight, trooper?” Cody asked quietly.
Wooley’s eyes widened. “N-no, sir!”
Cody looked over his shoulder at Crys and raised an eyebrow.
“He’s telling the truth, sir,” Crys told him quickly. “We bought all our drinks from the bar, we didn’t talk to any of the dealers at the—” he cut himself off, looking shiftily at Fox. “Just booze, sir,” he went on. “I wouldn’t pull that on the kid.”
“You know you’re not just drunk, Crys,” Cody told him.
Crys nodded miserably. “Yes, sir, I can tell something’s wrong. But I swear, sir, we only drank from the bar.”
Cody glanced over at Fox, who offered a tiny shrug. He could confirm it once he had the security footage from 79’s, but these two didn’t seem like they’d gone looking for anything more than a good soaking tonight.
“Well boys,” Cody told them, “it seems you’ve had quite the night. Commander Fox,” he turned and addressed Fox, who nodded back. “Has your medic cleared them to return to the ship?”
“He has,” Fox replied.
“And,” Cody said, turning back to regard his men, “did he bar them from any physical activity until this wears off?”
Fox crossed his arms. “He didn’t specify.”
“So what do you suppose might happen,” Cody continued, “if I had them run those fifteen clicks Wooley is itching for?”
Fox hummed. “I suppose they might vomit all over their boots.”
“Well, it’s a start,” Cody said, eyes hard. “You boys sit tight while I finish up your processing with Commander Fox. Then I’m taking you over to the running track and you’ll give me those fifteen clicks before sunrise or die trying. And after I finish getting the entire battalion in the air on three hours of sleep you will report to me so we can start your real punishment. Understood?”
“Sir, yes, sir!” the two troopers shouted.
Cody grinned, all teeth. “Excellent. Don’t go anywhere.”
He turned and followed Fox back up the stairs; Fox reactivated the ray shield and they headed back down the hallway. He began leading Cody out of the detention center and back through the maze of hallways toward his office.
Once they were out of earshot, Fox started chuckling. “Force, vod,” he said, “I’m glad you’re not my CO.”
Cody snorted. “Don’t tell me you never have to knock some sense into any of your men the hard way.”
“Oh no,” Fox replied. “My men have more time than you front-liners to experience the wonders of the Republic so I make sure they get this sort of stupid nonsense out of their systems early. The first two tendays they spend on Coruscant are a free pass to do whatever they want: drink, smoke, get high, get laid, gamble, fight, anything that they couldn’t do on Kamino.”
Cody raised his eyebrows. “And none of them die?”
“Oh, some of them end up wishing they had. But after they get through their bender most of them are content to keep things pretty low-key. Some even refuse to ever drink again.”
“Clever,” Cody replied. “I can’t help but notice, though, that you’re not surprised by my men's claims about the drugs. You believe their story?”
Fox sighed. “We’ve had a handful of druggings over the last couple of years since 79’s opened. Most were at the beginning, but it slowed a lot when word spread that clone troopers don’t have any money. Still, it happens occasionally.”
“Why?” Cody asked, brow furrowing.
“Information,” Fox told him with a shrug. “The ones we’ve caught have had ties to smuggling rings and crime syndicates; they’re looking for deployment schedules, blockades, any kind of ship movement that will help them plan routes.”
“Is this something I need to tell my men to watch out for?”
“Well, it couldn’t hurt to keep a closer eye on their drinks. But this is the first instance we’ve seen in two months, I don’t think you’ll need to worry.”
They reached Fox’s office and Fox waved Cody toward the red chair while he walked around his desk and sat behind it. Cody gave him a strange look but all but flopped into the soft cushions. He threw a leg over the armrest as Fox leaned down and pulled a couple of datapads out of a drawer.
“Take the damn bucket off, Ten-Ten, where are your manners?” Cody grumbled, leaning his head back wearily.
Fox reached up with one hand and pulled his bucket off while he used the other to scroll through a datapad. He put the helmet down on his desk, scuffed white and red plastoid stark against the shiny black durasteel. He picked up his stylus and glanced up at Cody.
“Better?” he asked.
“Ugh, no,” Cody made a face. “I changed my mind, put it back on. Force, you’re hideous.”
Fox sneered at him and thrust out one of the datapads for Cody to fill out. His batchmate took it and curled further into the chair, pulling a stylus from his belt and tapping away. His bright orange armor paint clashed horribly with the red chair.
“Seriously though, vod,” Cody continued as he typed. “I thought I was sleep deprived. You look like shit.”
“I’ll sleep when I’m dead,” Fox replied casually. He didn’t look up for a moment, until he noticed the silence and found Cody giving him a look. He sighed. “I’ve got a lot on my plate. And… trouble sleeping lately.”
“Nightmares?” Cody asked gently.
Fox shrugged. “Sometimes.” He looked back down at his datapad. It was the truth: when he did try to sleep, which wasn’t very often, sometimes he had nightmares. But Cody didn’t need to know all of that. Talking to his batchmates was harder these days. They had all changed since Kamino. “I had a good one the other day, actually,” Fox continued casually.
“A good nightmare?” Cody asked skeptically.
“Yeah,” Fox replied. “I dreamt I was in an all-terrain sim back on Kamino but I had shown up without any clothes. So the trainers made me run laps around the course, buck naked, dick flapping, while everyone laughed at me.”
Cody raised his eyebrows. “Huh. That is a good nightmare.”
“Best one I’ve had all month.”
They worked in silence on their datapads for a few more minutes, before Cody tossed his on the desk, forms completed. He yawned, big and leonine, and stretched, arching his back into the chair. He stood, coming around the side of Fox’s desk. “All right, brother, you need anything else from me before I collect my troublemakers?”
Fox shook his head, setting down his datapad and standing as well. “No, you’re all set. Be safe.” He stuck out a hand.
Cody rolled his eyes. “Give me a hug, you asshole,” he said, beckoning with his hands.
Fox sighed but stepped into his batchmate’s arms. Cody hugged him tight and Fox couldn’t help but squeeze back. It was nice, being held by someone who cared. It had been… too long, since Fox had had that.
“Don’t make me come down here at 0300 next time I’m dirtside, okay?” Cody said into his ear. “Just come have dinner with me like a normal person.”
Fox nodded against Cody’s shoulder. Cody gave his back a couple of thumps and let go, stepping back. Fox held himself still so he didn’t try to pull his brother back in.
“Be safe,” he said again.
“You too,” Cody replied. He patted Fox on the cheek, just a little too hard, before turning and heading out the door. Fox leaned a hip against his desk and looked down, not watching him go. Instead he stared into the empty black eyes of his own helmet.
Fox could never bring himself to watch any of his batchmates leave. If he let himself he was certain he would memorize every detail, embed that image in his mind as insurance in case they never came back. Perhaps it was just superstition, but Fox couldn’t help but think that, if he didn’t actually see them go, they would always have to come back so he could have that last image to preserve.
So far it was working.