“No Teeth, No Mercy”
Chapter Four: Old Man Beef
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You step into Bacara's room with a stack of mail — mostly junk from outdated war archives and a letter from Master Mundi that somehow still finds its way to him.
Almost immediately, your nose recoils.
The rancid stench hits you like a thermal detonator — that unmistakable mix of rotting fish and swamp water.
"Wow," you say, waving your hand in front of your face, "did you bring the entire Naboo lake in here or something?"
Bacara looks up from his chair, completely unfazed. "That smell doesn't bother me."
You blink. "What? Seriously?"
He shrugs. "Lost my sense of smell in the war. Nothing bothers me anymore."
You squint at him. "Okay, old man, that's great for you — but I still have mine. And it's telling me you need to get rid of that dead fish now."
Without missing a beat, Bacara stands, strides over to the monstrous, slimy corpse of the fish you'd dragged back the other day, hoists it up like it weighs nothing... and launches it straight across the hall.
The fish thuds into the room opposite his, where you know Commander Bly lives.
You raise your eyebrows. "Uh... what was that about?"
Bacara grins like a mischievous kid. "Old scores to settle. Bly and I have... history."
You can't help but shake your head, the chaos never ending.
Just as you're processing Bacara's fish-flinging madness, the door across the hall bursts open and Bly steps out, nose wrinkled in disgust.
Without a word, he grabs the fish, hefts it up — and chucks it back across the hall with surprising force.
The fish smacks against Bacara's wall with a sickening splatter.
Fish guts and scales explode everywhere — sticky chunks splattering across the hallway, the walls, even the ceiling.
You stare, mouth open, as the two old war dogs stare each other down like squabbling toddlers in a nursery.
And then, with no hesitation, they start throwing fish parts at each other.
A bloody scale bounces off your shoulder.
A chunk of fish belly hits the floor at your feet.
The ridiculous battle rages on — until Bly reaches down to pick up another glob of fish guts and suddenly freezes.
You watch as he bends, then pauses.
Then he straightens back up with a slow, painful grunt.
"Guess I'm not as spry as I used to be," Bly mutters.
You step forward and gently offer your hand.
"Here, let me help."
He accepts the support, leaning heavily on you as you steady him upright.
"Thanks," he says quietly, a rare softness in his voice.
You glance down at the mess and groan.
Of course, the next task falls to you — fish guts cleanup duty.
You grab your gloves and mop, bracing yourself for the smell.
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You're halfway through scraping a stubborn chunk of fish spine off the hallway floor when you swear you hear your soul trying to leave your body.
The smell is worse now — every sweep of the mop seems to stir up the rancid lake-water stench until you're gagging through your teeth.
You've got one neat little pile of fish parts off to the side, ready to be bagged and dumped, when you hear boots approaching.
Neyo strolls past, giving you a sidelong glance that makes you feel like you're under some sort of sniper's scope.
He pauses just long enough to say, in the most deadpan voice possible:
"Still the ugliest head of hair I've ever seen."
You freeze mid-mop.
"What the hell is wrong with my hair?" you demand, turning toward him.
He doesn't answer. He doesn't even look back.
He just keeps walking — and as he passes the fish pile, he kicks it.
Kicks it so hard that the pile scatters in every direction, chunks of slimy flesh skidding across the hall you just cleaned.
You stand there, mop dripping, staring at the carnage like a war crime has just been committed.
Neyo doesn't break stride. Doesn't explain.
You close your eyes and breathe deep through your mouth because it's that or commit a murder.
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You're still mopping fish slime when you hear Jali outside yelling like she's herding wild animals.
"Bacara! Get back inside! You're not allowed on the roof!"
You lean over to peek through the door — and there he is, the man himself, halfway up the drainpipe in nothing but his regulation shorts and a stubborn glare.
You're about to watch the drama unfold when someone blocks your view.
It's an old clone commander you don't see often — Monk. He's got that slow, deliberate swagger like he's trying to convince himself he's still got it.
He leans one elbow on the wall, smirks, and says:
"You know... for someone like you, I could make an exception."
You blink at him. "I'm too young for you."
He shrugs. "Technically, I'm only thirty-seven."
Without missing a beat, you deadpan:
"Cool. Let's put you down for your nap."
Jali's still shouting in the background as Monk is immediately intercepted by two orderlies who attempt to steer him back toward his room like he's an overgrown toddler.
You follow — mostly because you want to see if Bacara's still on the pipe — but as you round the corner, you walk straight into another mess.
Fives and Echo are nose-to-nose in the hallway, both looking way too serious for two men still wearing mismatched socks.
Fives is jabbing a finger in Echo's chest.
"I didn't get the recognition I deserved when I saved the Republic! You know I didn't!"
Echo throws his hands up. "You literally exposed the chancellor as a Sith Lord, Fives — what more recognition do you want?"
"A parade! My face on credits! At least a thank-you fruit basket!"
The hallway is already an absolute mess of noise and chaos by the time you try to pass through with Monk on your arm.
He's still grinning at you like you've just offered to elope with him instead of telling him it's nap time. "I'm technically only thirty-seven," he says in that too-smooth voice that makes you wonder if he practiced it in a mirror.
"Yeah, and I'm technically too young for you," you shoot back, steering him toward the rec room. "Let's put you down for your nap before your joints seize up."
"Ah, you're missing the good old days," he yells suddenly, his voice echoing down the corridor as if you've just denied him the secret to eternal youth.
Before you can even roll your eyes, movement in your peripheral vision catches your attention—Bacara, Jali is down below, hands on her hips, yelling at him to "get his ass back inside before she calls the Council."
Then, without warning, the drainpipe creaks ominously. Bacara drops with a thunk and a very loud string of Mando'a curses, landing square on his back mid-argument between Fives and Echo.
You glance over just in time to catch Echo gesturing emphatically. "Fives, you did get recognition. You got a medal. You got a formal commendation from the Senate."
"That wasn't good enough!" Fives snaps back, gesturing so wildly he almost smacks Bacara in the face. "I saved the entire Republic and all I got was some cheap tin badge—and Fox tried to kill me before the ceremony!"
From down the hall, Fox's voice booms like an angry deity. "At the time, you were a traitor! You're lucky I didn't crawl into your walls and make creepy noises at night!"
The entire hallway freezes.
Fives blinks. "What the hell does that even mean?"
Fox doesn't even hesitate. "You wouldn't understand."
You open your mouth to intervene, but the opportunity is stolen by Kix storming up with a med chart in hand, looking like he's seconds away from strangling you with it. "You. You gave me the wrong medication yesterday."
You hold up a hand. "Kix, I'm literally in the middle of—"
"No, no, you don't understand," he cuts in, jabbing the chart toward your chest. "If I hadn't noticed, I would've been running on enough stimulant to kill a bantha. Do you know how fast I’m already wired on a normal day? I would've started speaking in binary."
You pinch the bridge of your nose, wondering if you can fake a fainting spell to escape all of this, when Monk—still being dragged toward his nap—shouts over his shoulder again, "YOU'RE ALL SOFT NOW!"
The worst part? He's probably right.
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Dinner time at the retirement home for war veterans is always chaos, but tonight... tonight is a new level of unhinged.
You're making your usual rounds, dropping off trays and trying not to inhale whatever unholy stew the kitchen's cooked up. Some of them are actually eating like normal human beings, but others? Others are poking their food with forks like it's going to jump off the plate and bite them back.
In the middle of it all, Sev—a retired clone commando—has is circling around the dinner hall in his wheelchair. He's not sitting in it. Oh no. He's in it like a predator stalking prey, slowly circling other clones while staring them down.
You decide you'd better check in. "Hey, Sev. You doing alright there? Need any help?"
He doesn't blink. "Hold onto your guts while I rip out theirs."
Right. Totally fine. Normal retirement home talk.
Before you can respond, Sev suddenly stands up, which is alarming because you were under the impression his knees didn't work anymore, and then—without warning—he throws the wheelchair at a random clone across the room. It hits the wall with a loud clang, the poor victim flinching like he just got shelled.
Sev wipes his hands off on his trousers like that's the end of his evening workout. "You might wanna check on Scorch," he says casually, as if he didn't just commit light assault with mobility equipment. "It was his wheelchair I borrowed."
You're about 80% sure this means Scorch is now stranded somewhere in the home without wheels, probably causing his own brand of chaos. And somehow... you already know finding him is going to be worse than this.
You set Sev's dinner plate down—because obviously he's not going to eat right now, too busy living out his Predator fantasies—and start the search for Scorch.
You don't have to go far. The trail of chaos is immediate. First, you spot a tipped-over chair in the hallway. Then a clone helmet with bite marks in it. Then a pudding cup, half empty, smeared along the wall at about waist height.
You follow the evidence until you reach the recreation room, where the noise is coming from. Sure enough—there's Scorch.
He's not in a wheelchair. He's on the pool table. Flat on his back, using one of the cue sticks like a spear to keep three other clones at bay while yelling,
"THE FLOOR IS LAVA AND YOU'RE ALL DRIED OUT WOMP RATS!"
One of the staff droids is trying to coax him down in the calmest possible monotone, but every time it gets close, Scorch whacks the stick at it and shrieks like a feral tooka.
"Scorch," you try, stepping forward cautiously. "Buddy, do you need a wheelchair?"
He freezes, then slowly turns his head to you. His expression is deadly serious. "It's gone. He took it."
"I know Sev took it—"
"He didn't take it," Scorch cuts you off, eyes darting wildly like he's expecting an ambush. "He stole it. And when I get my hands on him, I'm gonna roll him into the mess hall freezer and lock him in."
A clone in the corner pipes up, "That's what he said about you, actually."
You're about to tell Scorch to just wait a minute when he suddenly leaps off the pool table—except "leaps" is generous. His knees give way mid-air, and he crashes to the ground like a sack of wet sand.
"Oh, right..." you mutter. "Wheelchair."
It doesn't stop him. Oh no. Scorch immediately flips onto his stomach and starts army crawling toward the hallway like a determined swamp creature, dragging the pool cue behind him like it's a blessed relic. Every few feet he hisses at imaginary enemies, whispering,
"They'll never see me coming. They'll never see me coming."
You try to step around him to help, but he swats at your ankles with the cue stick. "You're in my kill zone, civvie."
Before you can argue, Sev appears from around the corner, standing tall with a dinner knife in one hand and a cafeteria tray in the other like some unholy gladiator. He locks eyes with Scorch.
"Give it back," Scorch growls from the floor.
"Come take it," Sev replies, tossing the tray from hand to hand.
The tension builds. Other old clones in the mess hall start crowding around, chanting "Fight! Fight! Fight!" like it's high school all over again.
Then—chaos.
Sev hurls the tray—not at Scorch—but at you. It smacks you in the side of the head with the dull metallic "thunk" of every bad decision you've ever made. Your vision whites out. You stagger back into a table, knocking over someone's nerf stew.
As you're going down, the sounds around you turn into muffled echoes:
Scorch screaming, "CHOKE ON YOUR OWN BOLTS, SEV!"
Sev laughing like a war god.
A staff droid in the background repeating, "Please remain calm" on loop.
And then—blackness.
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