Chapter Text
In the early hours of the morning the halls of the Coruscant Guard Headquarters were at half-light. The orange-yellow glow made the new red paint on his armor look like old blood; dark and sticky.
They were going to get caught. Davijaan knew with cold certainty they were going to get caught. He was terrible at this spy stuff. He didn’t know why Vos had insisted he come. He’d gotten caught last time, and the time before that. He was going to get both of them caught.
A pair of CG troopers marched stiffly in step along their patrol route. He stepped aside to let them pass with a sharp salute, heart in this throat.
Fox ran a tight ship, but the guards didn’t ask what he was doing on this floor at this time of night, or to scan his ID. Maybe after three years in this hell Fox was loosening his grip. Maybe he would be fine.
Ha.
The guards returned the salute and turned the corner in silence. Davijaan peeled away from the wall and continued down the hall, his distended shadow following perfectly in step.
Another hall. A flight of stairs. The hall at the foot of the stairs was empty, and Davijaan smothered a sigh of relief. If he glanced over his shoulder he could see Vos clearly, wrapped in a grey cloak so dark it was almost black, hood pulled low over his eyes. As confident as Vos was in whatever Force nonsense he was doing to make himself invisible Davijaan much preferred just dodging the patrols.
They turned a corner into another stretch of grey, empty hall, and came to a halt. He was getting sick of duracrete.
Ignoring the looming presence behind him and insistent unease in his gut, he took a deep breath and mentally repeated the door code he’d memorized. Maybe for reassurance. Probably to stall.
He was fine. He had backup this time. And the chances of being killed when caught were significantly lower. Never zero, when it came to Fox.
“Third door,” Vos reminded him. He did not need reminding.
With trembling hands, Davijaan punched in the code, and the door to the office of Commander CC-1010 of the Coruscant Guard slid open soundlessly. Davijaan ducked inside and shut it firmly behind himself and Vos.
He flicked on the lights to reveal a small windowless room, dominated by a metal desk bolted to the floor. Six open crates filled with odds and ends lined one wall. Two empty ones—extra seats—were stacked in a corner. The surface of the desk had been polished to a shine but a thin layer of dust had been allowed to accumulate in corners. The ceiling tiles were starting to come loose.
“It doesn’t have to be anything specific,” Vos reiterated, detaching himself to walk the perimeter. “Just something he uses every day. Preferably something he touches with bare hands. Armor or a weapon or a datapad.”
Helmet cams and standard issue wristcomms were wiped at the end of every day, and would be in the barracks besides. Davijaan headed for the desk and its stack of datapads.
Everything was neat and orderly, the desk bare except for a few paper files and the aforementioned datapads. “One of these work?” he asked, taking the one off the top to show Vos.
“Let’s find out.” He abandoned his bug sweep to approach the desk, tugging at one of his gloves.
A cold draft hit the sliver of bare skin on the back of his neck. Davijaan and Vos froze in the same moment. Vos’ eyes locked over Davijaan’s shoulder just as he felt the edge of the knife against his throat.
“Nice try with the paint, but you’re not one of mine,” said Fox. “And you are not GAR.”
Vos took a careful step backwards, hands up and open in surrender, eyes darting from Fox’s blank visor to his knife. Fox gripped Davijaan’s shoulder and pulled him back against his chest. “You have five seconds to tell me who you are and who sent you before I slit his throat.”
Davijaan was tired. So tired. “Hello, 1010,” he drawled. “It’s a pleasure, as always.”
Fox stiffened. “Oddball? You’re dead.”
“Not yet.”
“... Pity.”
He expected to be released, but the hand on the hilt held steady. The hand on his shoulder squeezed tight. Davijaan forced himself to be still and wait.
Fox had carried a handmade shiv on Kamino, and had pinned him like this once in an empty locker room. He hadn’t cut Davijaan, for the same reason Davijaan never told anybody about the incident. If one of their teachers had discovered Fox had a weapon outside of the training halls he would have been removed from command track.
Technically they still weren’t supposed to have weapons outside of GAR issue, but he supposed with no direct Jedi supervision Fox did what he wanted.
A quick assessment of the placement of the knife, and Vos let his gaze settle on Fox. They studied each other, separated by the bare expanse of the desk and by the gleaming blade against the gap in Davijaan’s unsealed helmet.
Slowly, Vos reached to push his hood back, straightening to his full height. “Commander 1010. Nice office. Bit plain, though. I would have put some pictures up myself.”
“You’re Quinlan Vos.”
“Good guess.” A flash of teeth, there and gone. “Good hiding place, too. Thought you were on the floor above us.”
Davijaan glanced up, and—yes, one of the loose ceiling tiles had been removed, revealing a gaping hole to the left of the desk. “What were you doing in the ceiling?”
“Waiting for somebody to break into my office.”
“Oh? Were you.” Vos was all polite inquiry; even and calm. Dread curled cold in his stomach and Davijaan opened his mouth, to say something, to stop—
Vos’ hand shot out, fingers curled into claws. Something warm flooded the thin space between him and Fox. The knife wrenched away. Fox was forced back and up, hauled roughly into the air with a strangled curse and a kick that caught Davijaan’s back before Vos froze him solid.
“Got a tip, huh?” said Vos, in the same even, calm tone, outstretched arm unwavering. “You complicate things. You clones are good at that, aren’t you?”
Davijaan took a stumbling step away from Fox, towards Vos, mouth dry and heart pounding. “What are you doing?”
“With him? I don’t know yet.”
Fox hovered a meter in the air, rigid, and Davijaan didn’t know if it was from anger or from fear or from the hold Vos had on him. Fox still had his knife held tight.
“It will make my job a lot easier if I pull his memories straight out of his head,” Vos said. “Take the information I need, take any trace of our presence. Too bad I’m trying to do things the nice way.”
There was no chill in the air; Vos' brown eyes did not flicker.
“Put him down,” Davijaan said, even, calm, fighting to match Vos’ tone and fighting not to make it an order. “Please put him down.”
“He was going to hurt you.”
“No he wasn’t! Just, put him down.”
Fox swore, the hand with the knife trembling. “You’re actually working with that traitor?”
Vos laughed.
“No! I’m—Yes? He’s not a traitor.”
“That’s funny, coming from one of Palpatine’s pawns,” Vos spat. “You’re the force destroying the Republic from the inside. All I'm doing is trying to save it.”
Fox scoffed. “You sound like every small-time terrorist I’ve ever arrested. Isn’t that what you spent the last few years doing? Blowing up supply lines?”
Vos’ eye twitched. Fox choked.
“Stop!” Davijaan burst out, panicked, feet rooted to the floor. There was nothing he could do but he had to—he had to— “Stop it, he’s not—Palpatine’s pawn?”
Vos’ wrist twisted, and Fox’s fingers uncurled one by one from the hilt. And as the knife fell Davijaan reached and caught it and wrapped his shaking hand around the hilt.
Vos’ attention slid slowly from Fox to Davijaan. “You should put that knife down.”
“You should just ask him! Whatever information you need, he’ll tell you.” Maybe. Probably. Surely not even Fox would choose his secrets over his life. “I know there’s some kind of Sith plot happening, I know…”
Pieces were starting to fall into place. All the things Vos had said and not said, his insistence on breaking and entering instead of asking. Davijaan swallowed hard. “I know you think the Chancellor is in on it, but I swear on my life 1010 is not.”
Fox was selfish and stubborn, but he wasn’t a traitor. Davijaan knew him better than he wanted to, and knew above all else Fox would never risk his own skin betraying the Republic.
“He shot and killed the key witness in the ongoing investigation. The witness he was explicitly ordered to capture alive for questioning. And Fives wasn’t the first. Dozens of political dissenters have been murdered, or arrested, or disappeared. The CG’s been keeping Palpatine in power since the start of this war.”
Davijaan grit his teeth. “You think he had a choice? In any of that?”
“There is always a choice.”
“He was doing his job.” A hot spark of anger gave him the courage to say— “The same way you were doing your job when you killed Krell.”
Vos' expression hardened, but he didn’t toss Davijaan up into the air to struggle and suffocate.
He didn’t set Fox down, either.
“Ask,” demanded Davijaan. “Ask before you—before—” before you hurt him. “Please.”
“He’s going to lie.”
Davijaan wanted to insist that Fox wasn’t a liar, Fox never lied, Fox was many many things but he would never lie—but Vos probably wouldn’t believe him either. Instead he watched Vos watch Fox, calculating and cold, heartbeat loud in his ears.
Slowly, Vos set Fox on his feet.
He stumbled. Davijaan took a step around the desk and grabbed his arm; braced himself and held Fox upright as he took one harsh rasping breath after another.
Impassive, Vos asked, “Is that the armor you were wearing, the day you killed Fives?”
Davijaan’s grip tightened on the knife. Fox’s shoulders rose and fell as his breathing evened out. “... Yes.”
“Give me a piece of it.”
“Why?”
“Because you will lie to me. The memories you made in that armor will not.”
Fox stiffened, body as rigid as it was in the air. Vos had the nerve to roll his eyes. “Calm down. I’m not going to reach into your mind, I’m—It’s a Force thing. The memories are in the armor, that’s where I’m pulling them from. This is the least invasive way for me to do this.”
Vos’ bare hand on the table, on the keyboard, on his cup. Cold around his neck. Vos’ gaze broke from Fox to flicker over Davijaan, brief and guilty. Davijaan tasted bile.
He swallowed it down and squeezed Fox’s shoulder, pressure in the gap between his pauldron and cuirass buckle. “Just let him. I guess he’s been doing it to me for a while now, and I didn’t even notice.”
The only response he received was a slight tilt of Fox’s helmet.
If Fox refused it wouldn’t change anything. Vos would haul him up into the air again and get his hands all over his armor anyway. Giving in was easier. Giving in and giving Vos what he wanted without a fight was easier, and faster, and safer. Surely Fox would see the merits of giving in.
“Please, Fox,” Davijaan said, soft enough Vos wouldn’t hear across the room. “Please don’t turn this into a fight. It’s going to make things worse if you fight.”
The silence stretched thin.
Finally, Fox straightened; shook off Davijaan’s hand. Brisk and efficient he stripped off one of his gauntlets and threw it down on the desk. Black synth-leather and red painted plastoid hit the polished metal with a clatter. His bare hand, knuckles pink and silver with scarring, clenched into a fist against his side.
Two quick steps brought Vos to the desk. He picked up the gauntlet in both hands and turned it over and around. And then he tugged off one of his gloves.
As bare skin touched the backing he flinched. His eyes slid closed and his jaw clenched, as if in pain, as if the press of his fingertips against cold plastoid was enough to wound. Davijaan wanted to scream at him to put it down. He settled for biting his tongue hard enough to taste blood.
It only lasted seconds. Ten seconds, fifteen seconds, and then Vos’ eyes snapped open and he dropped the gauntlet back on the desk like it burned.
Fox lunged for it.
Vos opened his mouth, stricken. “I—”
“Don’t.”
Fox yanked the gauntlet back on. Davijaan started to take a step away but Fox’s hand snaked out and latched onto his wrist, and he pried his knife out of Davijaan’s cramping fingers.
“What were you going to do with this, eh?” He brandished the knife in Davijaan’s face. “You can’t even hold it right.”
Davijaan sputtered. “It doesn’t take a genius to figure it out!”
“That’s not—”
“No, no! What was I going to do with the knife? What were you going to do with the knife! Against a Jedi!”
“How was I supposed to know it was going to be a Jedi?”
“You—”
“You should have told me you two were friends,” interrupted Vos, subdued and maybe the slightest bit apologetic.
“We’re not,” they spat back.
Fox glanced between Vos and Davijaan as he disappeared the knife into the gap under his thigh plate. He shifted to face Vos, putting Davijaan slightly behind him. He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “You didn’t tell him much, did you.”
Vos pulled his glove on, eyes on his hands and not on them. “I told him what he needed to know.”
Fox scoffed. “It would complicate things if he were allowed to have opinions on what you’re doing, is that it?”
Davijaan shoved him. “Stop.”
Fox ignored him. “What did he mean by ‘Sith plot?’”
Vos continued to fiddle with his glove.
“You and I both know the Chancellor made some kind of deal to keep himself in power,” Fox continued, as if that was a totally fine and normal thing for a clone soldier to say and not a treason charge in the making, “but what makes it a Sith plot, and not a Separatist one?”
“The Sith, the Separatists, the Confederacy of Independent Systems.” Vos shrugged. “Call them what you like, they’re—”
“Not the same thing. Answer me.”
Vos looked up, teeth bared in a facsimile of a smile. “It’s a Sith plot because nobody but the Sith know the details.”
“You’re not funny.”
“I’m hilarious. It’s my audience that’s lacking.”
When Fox didn’t immediately respond, Davijaan started edging around the desk. They had what they came for, and now they needed to leave. The longer they stayed the longer Fox had to turn this into a fight. If he could get Vos’ attention—
“What were you looking for in my office?”
Davijaan was going to break Fox’s nose.
“Is this an interrogation?”
“This is a chance for you to pay me back.” Fox slammed one armored fist down on the desk. “What were you looking for in my office?”
A moment of stubborn silence, and Vos capitulated. “Something like that,” he said, gesturing to the gauntlet. “Something I could pull memories from. Anything to do with the new security in the Chancellor’s rooms, anything to do with Fives.”
“Found more than you expected.”
Vos looked away, and if Davijaan didn’t know better he’d think he was ashamed.
“We weren’t going to steal anything,” Davijaan added. “We were just going to touch all your stuff and leave.” He’d assumed Vos was after passwords or patrol routes or something. Though he supposed he was, in a way. Now that Davijaan knew what touching all of Fox’s stuff entailed, maybe theft would have been kinder.
They had what they came for, and now he wanted to leave. He simply wanted to leave. He wanted to grab Vos’ arm and drag him out the door.
Fox tapped his knuckles against the desk. “I want to make a deal with you.”
“What?” Davijaan gaped, horrified. “No!”
“Huh.” Vos tilted his head, intrigued. “What kind of deal?”
“You’re trying to end the war, right?”
“Trying to win the war.”
Fox said, “Help me remove Palpatine from power, and I’ll help you investigate your Sith plot.”
“You?” Vos eyebrows shot up. “You help me?”
“Any information you need to get into the Chancellor’s rooms, any memories you need to build your case for conspiracy. Anything.”
Vos considered, and Davijaan fumed. Surely Vos would see this was a stupid idea. Surely he would reject the offer out of hand.
Slowly, Vos shook his head, and Davijaan smothered a sigh of relief. “Palpatine’s corrupt, he’s prolonging the war, but he’s not a priority. He has so much power that removing him from it would destabilize the Republic. Right now the Order can’t afford that. I need to know what he knows, yes, but I can’t waste time on something that would do more harm than good.”
“I have three years worth of treason charges documented and cross referenced. You don’t have to waste time on this. You don’t have to do the work. It doesn’t even have to be a priority, it can wait until the war is over. All I need is for you to get my file to someone who will take it seriously.”
“Three—” Davijaan choked on his own outrage. “Three years worth?”
“You’ve just been sitting on this? For three years?” Surprise was slowly shifting to suspicion. “That’s a little too convenient for me.”
“What did you call me? Palpatine’s pawn?” Scorn and frustration sharpened the words. Fox spread his hands wide, encompassing his office and his position in it. “Nobody will believe me. Nobody would ever believe a clone who brought a treason charge against the Chancellor. But they’ll believe you. Jedi General Quinlan Vos. Ex-traitor, sure, but that means you know the enemy better than anyone else. They’ll believe you.”
Understanding banished the suspicion and resolved into satisfied amusement. “I get your information and you get my recognition. Tempting.”
“So take the deal.”
“I don’t want to involve—”
“I’m already involved. And you need to know what I know. Unless you’re going to rip the information out of my head, you have to work with me in some capacity.”
Vos winced, but didn’t deny it.
“I’m a witness. I know too much. You either kill me or use me, Vos.” Fox leaned forward, bracing one hand against the desk. “Which is it going to be?”
Vos hesitated, deliberated. Davijaan opened his mouth, not sure what to say but knowing he had to say something, he had to—
“Fine.” Vos extended a hand. “It’s a deal.”
Fox and Vos shook hands across the desk, glove in gauntlet, and Davijaan despaired.
***
Fox was going to die. That was the inevitable end to this disaster. He was going to say something horrible and Vos was going to kill him. Or Vos would upset him and he would take his chances with the knife and Vos would kill him. Or he wouldn’t be able to help the way Vos wanted him to help—wouldn’t be able to hold up his end of the deal—and Vos would kill him.
Whether Davijaan would be killed by Vos trying to save Fox’s miserable life, or by Kote when he eventually found out that Davijaan hadn’t tried to save Fox’s miserable life and had instead stood off to the side and laughed, remained to be discovered.
Instead of getting right to business Fox chased them out of his office. He led them down flight after flight of stairs with the odd hallway thrown in, avoiding the patrols with the ease of someone who had designed the route.
As they kept pace with each other through an empty hall Vos nudged Davijaan’s shoulder. “So you can talk.”
“Shut up,” he muttered.
“What was that?”
“Nothing, sir.”
A soft laugh escaped from under the hood, and Davijaan scowled under the safety of his helmet.
***
As it turned out, Fox had his own lair in the CG building basement. Shabbier than Vos’ but bigger, taking up an entire empty storage room, the walls still lined with empty metal shelves. There were no signs of long term habitation. Only two obviously scavenged and repaired computers and a table made from a broken door balanced on empty crates.
Davijaan all but collapsed on the floor beside the table. He sat still and stiff and thought of all the things he wanted to say that he wasn’t going to say.
Vos marched straight to the computers. Fox intercepted him. They eyed each other up and down.
Finally, Fox broke the silence with a sharp gesture at the whole setup. “You don’t touch those computers without my permission.”
“If we’re sharing resources—”
“No. My building, my computers, my evidence.”
Vos’ eye twitched. “Fine.”
“Your gloves stay on when you’re in this room.”
“Gloves stay on. Got it.” His lip curled. “Any more orders, Commander?”
“I’ll let you know.”
With a mocking half-bow, Vos retreated from the computers to sprawl on the floor next to Davijaan. “I’ve got to get into the Chancellor’s floor of Grand Medical, or his wing of the Senate. Or both. Preferably both.”
Fox stayed rooted to the ground next to his secrets. “Why?”
Davijaan groaned.
Vos raised a brow. “Why does it matter? I need to get inside and you’re going to help me.”
“Is your plan to get your mitts all over Palpatine’s things and pull memories from them? Is that kind of evidence even going to hold up in court?”
“I’m after some physical evidence, actually,” Vos drawled. “And whether or not it will hold up is irrelevant, because I will not be bringing any of this to a formal court of law. This is going to the Jedi Council, along with your treason charges. Are you going to hold up your end of the deal or not?”
Fox leaned back against the console table, arms crossed over his chest, considering. After a moment, he said, “If you’re looking for those tissue samples, they’re gone.”
Vos sat up straight. “How—”
“I checked. He’s destroyed them, or sent them somewhere.”
“Palpatine showed you?”
“No. I checked.”
“He means he broke in,” Davijaan interjected, flat, familiar with Fox’s habit of slipping away for a few hours and returning with trinkets from the trainer’s wing, or information on upcoming assessments. Some things didn’t change.
From the tilt of Fox’s helmet he knew he was being glared at. He flipped him off behind Vos’ back.
“You were the tip,” said Vos, soft, comprehension imbued with glee.
“I didn’t take anything.” Fox moved to rap his knuckles against the desk, caught himself, and forced his hand still. “He doesn’t have any kind of cameras or motion sensors or anything set up. I don’t know how he knew someone had been in there.”
“You must have missed something. Something small that only he knows is installed.” Vos settled crosslegged, elbows resting on his knees. “It would still be useful, to get in there and pick up some memories. Exactly what Fives said to him, or what he said to Fives.”
“But the real priority is the chips.”
“… Yes,” said Vos, even.
“Why?”
Vos said nothing.
“Just tell him!” Davijaan snapped, throwing his hands up in exasperation. “This isn’t going to work if you don’t answer each other’s questions!”
Vos’ head jerked around. He stared at Davijaan, shocked, and—and maybe a bit pleased.
“You sound like Cody,” Fox remarked. “Hm. No, Cody wouldn’t yell at a strange Jedi.”
“He’d be too busy kicking your ass.”
Fox scoffed. “He could try.”
“I need to know what the inhibitor chips do,” said Vos, cutting off Davijaan’s retort in its tracks.
… Huh.
“I thought you said they inhibit aggression? It’s kind of in the name.”
“No, that’s what Dr. Se said. She failed to provide any documented evidence in support, and when we looked, the records didn’t exist.”
“ARC-5555 claimed the chips would make the clones kill the Jedi. That’s what he’s so worried about.”
Now it was Fox’s turn to be stared at as if he’d just displayed an as of yet unheard of ability for a clone.
Vos broke first. “That was a classified report.”
“You read it.”
“This is my mission.
“And there’s one of those chips in my head.”
“Wait, wait.” Davijaan waved to get both their attention. “Kill the Jedi? Isn’t that… Just the aggression thing? You take the chip out, or it gets disabled somehow, and then the little voice in your head that tells you how much trouble you’re going to be in if you take a shot at your bastard CO is gone.”
“Fives didn’t attack anyone.”
Fox snorted. “Yes he did.”
“He didn’t attack any Jedi,” Vos clarified, annoyed. “He was chased by Master Ti and confronted by Anakin, and didn’t attack either of them. He wasn’t in his right mind but he wasn’t unusually aggressive.” He pulled himself to his feet. Fox stiffened, but all Vos did was pace a circle around the table. Kote did that, when he was thinking hard.
“There was no autopsy. For either Fives or CT-5385. Their bodies were destroyed. The tissue samples that contained the chips are missing, likely destroyed. Dr. Se and Palpatine must have made a deal—they have some kind of agreement to cover this up.”
All the things Vos had said and not said. All the things that ARC had supposedly said, or maybe not said. Davijaan swallowed hard.
“So.” He looked between Fox and Vos. “The chips are the Sith plot?”
Vos regarded him evenly, calmly. “Yes.”
“And when you told me about them, you already knew that.”
“Yes.”
Davijaan nodded, absorbing that.
It didn’t matter. Vos had been very clear about only telling him what he needed to know to be able to help. Davijaan knew better than to ask questions he wasn’t going to get answers to. The discovery of yet another bit of tampering didn’t mean anything, any more than it meant something to discover it wasn’t only the Kaminoans who’d been tampering. He wanted to laugh. “And you knew the Sith had hijacked the chips because—because?”
“Because the Sith didn’t hijack them. They paid for them.” Vos took another turn around the table, ignoring or not seeing the way Davijaan and Fox had both gone still like hunted things. “Tyranus—Dooku—killed Sifo Dyas and took over the project, poured money into it. There are no records of any requested modifications to the original contract, but all that means is there are no records.”
Davijaan focused on breathing. Evenly. Calmly. “Sifo Dyas? Am I supposed to know who that is?”
Vos blinked. “You don’t?”
“Of course he doesn’t. Why would he?” Fox shook off his fear and turned to Davijaan. “Sifo Dyas was the Jedi who placed the order for the GAR.”
Commissioned by the Jedi, but paid for by the Sith.
Jedi or Sith, his life was pretty much the same after all.
Vos eyed Fox. “You knew.”
“I know a lot of things I’m not supposed to.”
“Why let me believe there was a virus?” It came out too soft, even through the helmet. Davijaan cleared his throat. “Was all of that a lie? Or a cover, or whatever?”
“I didn’t lie. Dr. Se claimed there was a virus that degraded the chips. But Palpatine claimed it was a parasite, and had the gall to suggest an inoculation. Neither of them offered any kind of physical evidence to support their claims.” His expression soured. “Palpatine didn’t even give us the name of the supposed parasite.” He came to a halt next to Davijaan, looking down at him with something like regret and then away, back to Fox.
“They don’t care that we know the Sith are out to kill us, because the Sith have always been out to kill us. They don’t care that we know the chips exist. What they can’t let us find out is what the chips do. How they are activated and deactivated. Who controls that process.”
“There is a very simple solution to your problem." Fox tilted his head. "Take one of ours out.”
The silence was sudden and shocking.
Vos broke it first with a firm shake of his head. “I don't think that's a good idea.”
“You think we're going to attack you?” Fox sneered. “What? You think you won't be able to defend yourself against two clones?”
“Let me rephrase.” Vos’ eyes narrowed. “I don't think removing a biochip from your brain—a chip that was implanted before you were born—without more research, and some kind of recovery plan or medication or something to help with the side effects, is a good idea.”
“I agree,” said Davijaan.
“You agree? He's a Jedi. He doesn't have one of these in his head.”
“Maybe Dr. Se is right. Maybe they are inhibiting something. Regulating something.”
“Maybe Se is wrong. If she’s being paid off to cover this up then lying about how dangerous they are to remove seems pretty obvious to me.”
“Both clones who had their chips removed died,” Vos reminded him.
“Not from natural causes.” Fox stepped into Vos’ space. “Or don’t you remember?”
Vos glared down at him, and Davijaan lurched to his feet and latched on to Fox’s shoulder. “Why would you go through all the trouble of brain surgery for something that might not need to be removed?” he said, all in a rush, maybe to placate, maybe to distract.
“That might not need to be removed,” Fox repeated, flat.
“Did you miss the part where we don’t know how these things work? They might not need to be removed. It would be faster, easier, safer, if we can just find a way to disable whatever activates them. Or deactivates them, or whatever.”
“If it can be disabled, it can be repaired.” Fox tried to shake him off, but Davijaan held on tight.
“Don’t turn this into a fight,” he said, low, urgent. “We’ll figure out how the chips work, and if they can be removed we’ll find a way to remove them.”
“I know where to get a droid that can handle that kind of surgery, if it’s necessary,” added Vos.
Fox looked between the two of them. He was outnumbered, and Davijaan could see he knew it in the shift of the set of his shoulders. “Fine,” he said.
And that was that.
Davijaan allowed himself to be shaken off at last, and Fox turned to face Vos with his arms crossed once more, chin tilted up. “Then what’s your lead, if you won’t follow this one?”
Vos held his gaze. “Grand Medical. No physical evidence, sure, but picking up some of Palpatine’s memories is bound to yield interesting results. We take what we can get and go from there.”
“Fine. Grand Medical.”
Uneasy silence settled. A decision, a direction to move in, but not one Fox liked, and maybe that was how he was going to die. By being an ass about having his plan rejected.
Instead of starting a fight, he pushed past Davijaan towards the door. “I have a shift. I’ll be back to get the planning started when it’s over. You two can sleep in the next room, if you want.”
“That would be good,” said Vos, catching up to him in a few long strides. “Save on travel time.”
Davijaan took a deep breath and followed.
***
The next room was another storage room, this one full to bursting. Crates and boxes lined the walls, and towering metal selves of all the supplies necessary to keep a battalion running marched in straight rows across the floor.
Fox jerked his head at shelves. “Oddball, with me.”
They left Vos staring blankly at an open box of floor cleaner and worked their way deeper into the aisles, passing more cleaning supplies, armor repair supplies, and shelves stacked with armor. Chestplates and vambraces and helmets all lined up in a row. Just past the last stack of gleaming white pauldrons were spare undersuits, boots, and neatly folded grey uniforms.
As soon as they were out of hearing range Fox grabbed Davijaan’s arm and spun him around, and slapped a comm into his hand.
“Talk. To. Kote,” he growled. “He’s going mad, and he’s driving me mad in the process.”
Davijaan shoved the comm back with a scowl. “I’m supposed to be dead!”
“He knows you’re not dead! He’s not stupid! He knows Kenobi would have been way more broken up about his long lost lover returning to the Order only to die via untraceable sabotage months later if any of this was real.”
Not a brother, exactly.
Maybe Vos was like Fox. Not a liar, but pathological incapable of telling anybody the whole truth.
Davijaan stared at the comm in Fox’s hand. He just wanted to sleep. He didn’t want to have to think about any of this anymore. He didn’t want to have to feel like this anymore. “What has he been saying?”
Fox’s hand tightened into a fist. “He’s been trying to get me to investigate for him. As if I don’t have enough of my own work to do.”
“And you’ve been telling him to forget about me and move on.”
Fox shrugged.
“I can’t, Fox. I just…” He shook his head. “I can’t.”
Fox returned the comm to his belt pouch. “What do you want me to tell him?”
“Nothing.” He felt a little bit like he was underwater. Like he was surrounded by something cold and crushing. “We wait until this is over, and I tell him myself.”
Without a sign of acknowledgment Fox turned on his heel and continued down the aisle.
The bedding was next to the uniforms. White sheets and black blankets, the Republic cog printed in grey in their sharply folded centers. The whole aisle stank of bleach.
“Why did you do that?” he asked, picking absently at a corner of a sheet while Fox ignored him to count out blankets. He tugged two sets off the shelf and smoothed them over his arm. “Hey. Fox. Why did you make a deal with him? You have a death wish?”
Fox shoved a stack of blankets into his arms. “Somebody has to make sure he doesn’t try that suffocation shit on you.”
Davijaan winced.
Fox stilled, and turned back to the shelf. “Too late for that?”
“He didn’t hurt me. And it feels—the Force doesn’t always feel like that. I don’t know what it felt like to you but it feels good sometimes. Like a hug.” He pressed the pile of cloth close against his chest. “He’s not cruel to be cruel. He’s desperate. He’s doing this for his family.”
Fox’s back was rigid, his movements sharp as he stacked and re-stacked the blankets. “He could have killed me.”
He will kill you. “He just wants to win the war.”
“Win, not end.”
“Is there a difference?”
“One requires significantly more work.” Two pillows joined Davijaan’s pile, and then Fox was off down the aisle again. Davijaan blinked and followed at his heels.
He stopped paying attention and let Fox lead him through the storage room, focusing on the fact that he would get to sleep soon.
Fox came to an abrupt halt in the middle of the aisle and Davijaan almost ran into his back. “Having something in your head regulating what you feel, what you think, what you do… That doesn’t bother you?”
Davijaan shifted his feet, shifted the bedding in his arms. “… I don’t know.”
Turning to the shelf on his right Fox snatched up a small can of paint stripper and dumped it on top of the bedding.
“Take that red off. It's an insult,” he said, and strode down to the end of the aisle.
“It wasn’t my idea!”
Fox ignored him, and disappeared around a corner.