#post-o66

[commanderfoxtheshield]

When Bly wakes, he knew what was wrong.

When Bly wakes, he knew the whole damn galaxy was wrong.

When Bly wakes, he did not want to be awake.

He jumped from his makeshift cot, hoping that his blaster would be nearby and he could make waste of someone's delicate work just to show them there was no point to saving clones. Why curse them with free will after everything they had done? Any good clone would put their blaster to their head if given the chance.

Bly could not find his blaster, but instead in the moment he made his decision he found himself tossed to the far wall. Pinned by nothing but will. It was then that Bly noticed he was not alone. A man sat beside the cot, holding out his hand and his knees with the other. A jedi, no doubt. Whether he could be called one of the lucky or unlucky ones was hard to say. The jedi did not look at him, but in the long seconds between them, Bly did not wish his gaze.

And then, the jedi slowly began unfolding himself. One leg fell, revealing Bly's blaster on his lap. His other leg dropped, the few gold ornaments in his hair caught the light briefly. He stood, a weathered yet towering man who was more ruins of old.

The man held Bly by his hands and in that moment Bly knew who he was. Despite never meeting him, he knew that once long ago he could turn any nightmare into a gentle dream. He knew he was a man for celebrations of life persevering. He knew this man only by stories and he could only see frozen death in his eyes.

"It's not your fault."

Bly tried to fight him, but before he could utter a single sound, Quinlan gripped his wrists tighter and repeated "It's not your fault."

All Bly could do was stare up at him, unable to find his will.

"Say it." He demanded.

Bly knew a losing battle when he saw one. And if her happy memories in quiet moments meant anything, Bly knew Quinlan was a very patient man. "It's not my fault."

"It's not your fault. Say it again." It was hardly a demand, but a plea. As his few remaining gold bands shined, so did the tears gathering in his eyes.

"It's not my fault."

"It's not your fault." Quinlan nodded and once again said, "Say it again."

"It's not my fault." With that, Bly fell into his tears. If it was not for Quinlan's hand, he would have collapsed to the floor. Heavy pounding sobs rattled his chest. He was pulled into Quinlan's chest, enveloped completely. For the first time in years, Bly could weep. And that he did. He wept and wept and wept. His knees wanted nothing more than to give up; his heart wanted nothing more than to stop beating. But Quinlan held him tight as he wept and wept and wept.

[lbibliophile-sw]

Traitor

Also on AO3 [330w] @foxquinweek - quote-altprompt 8: "how are you still alive?" & quote-altprompt 7: "I don't want to be like this forever"

For a long, frozen minute, CC-1010 and Vos lock gazes. The Commander and the Jedi. The Commander and the Traitor.

Vos should know better. He must realise that every second he spends here, he is that much closer to more of the Guard catching up. That much closer to being dealt with as the traitor he is. CC-1010 isn’t sure how he managed to corner him, they worked together often enough to know just how wily the Shadow can be.

Perhaps it has something to do with the way he looks – not older, it has been a bare few months since they last shared a case, mere weeks before everything changed – but tired. Worn down in a way that not even three years of war and gruelling undercover missions could achieve. The Commander knows well how grief can make one careless, and that everyone has a breaking point.

Movement, and a small face peers around Vos’ back, reshaping the answer even as it forms.

Oh. Of course. It shouldn’t make a difference, their orders were clear: the Jedi are traitors and are to be executed on sight. No allowance was made for age. Vos pushes the child back behind him, and he can’t help but fixate on the protective curl of his hand.

He should raise his blaster, he should shoot. Instead he just watches. Good Soldiers Follow Orders, but Fox is so sick of orders.

Quinlan starts backing towards an alley, and without ever consciously deciding to, Fox lets him go.

Even so, the delay costs him.

Commander Thire – CC-4477 now – arrives. Too late to take aim at the fleeing Jedi and his charge, but not too late to see Fox step to block the line of fire, buying the fugitives a few extra precious seconds.

CC-4477 is a Good Soldier, and takes the appropriate steps to secure the traitor before him. Fox accepts that he will face the consequences of being a good man instead.

[isorottatime]

do you ever think about the last padawans? the generation of kids forged by two consecutive wars? barely-teens on the run, everyday, from both their hunters— their once-friends— and their own ghosts. we see how ahsoka tries to delude herself into somebody else, somebody whole; how kanan runs away from every little reminder of caleb, and drowns himself in alcohol and stuff of the like; how cal surpresses his force-sensitivity until it’s life or death. they were kids. arhh 

[tiend]

viewer discretion advised

Prompt: Family

Commander Fox Week

@loving-fox-hours

TW: dead children

Appo has no appetite for Rex’s grudges. There will probably be a few scuffles, regardless, but he and Fox thrash out the logistics between them in double time; boys in blue will secure the perimeter while the red-and-whites move into the temple complex.  Corries know how to work a crime scene, and that’s what the Jedi Temple is, from the highest spire down to the maintenance corridors in the sub-basements.

Quite a number of layers under that too, probably, because Fox has never seen an architectural drawing on Coruscant that matched reality. They’ll have to map it as they go, as per, and file the amendments - Thire’s good at that, can wheedle bureaucrats, will do it whenever he gets back from where ever the Chancellor absconded to. 

Fox trusts his men. Gets them the resources they ask for, enjoys himself a little playing the heavy with supply coordinators. Cows them into dropping the usual internecine posturing. Blocks out time - where is Thire? - to pitch in and get his hands dirty. Especially with the bad jobs.

Which is how he ends up in an impromptu mortuary, helping Scabs and Blowie try to correlate the latest round of decrypts with leftover bodies. The Senate, in its boundless wisdom, has voted to send the dead children home with all appropriate ceremony. Some florid proclamation about returning the only innocent Jedi to their grieving families.

For once Fox agrees with his political overlords. The contents of the chilled cabinets should go somewhere else, and become someone else’s problem. Preferably their verifiable family if it can be found, because it’s not as if he’s unaware of the thriving black market for high-midichlorian body parts. 

Most of the corpses have left already; tiny biers draped with a roundel flag, surrounded by an entourage of professional mourners. The holonews loves spectacle, and it’s been gorging itself on performative shock and horror since Windu snapped. It seems like every network in the galaxy has had that security footage on loop since it was leaked; the way the children had drawn towards the taller figure - whoever the murderer was, they’d trusted them - and then the blue light of a drawn saber, and the screams.

“Think that’s all,” says Blowie finally. Scabs nods agreement, flicks a glance over to his commanding officer. Scabs was on Kamino for post-invasion clean-up and is taking this hard. He’s said goodnight to the dead children every time Fox has been here and now Blowie’s started chiming in with him.  Even pats the front of a cabinet drawer in farewell on the way out. They pitch it low enough that Fox doesn’t have to acknowledge it. Tonight he does.

“Ka'nuhoy jatne, vod’ike,” Fox mutters as he locks the door behind them. Hopefully the Mando’a will disguise just how maudlin he’s gotten about a room of undersized Jedi corpsicles. 

He claps Blowie on the shoulder, curls a hand around Scabs’ neck, and tells him he’s doing a good job. Now he’s done his duty to his men, Fox hurries to the turbolift, to the roof and his waiting swoop bike. He’s been itching to open up the throttle and empty his head of distractions for hours. Outrun his thoughts, leave them behind somewhere in the slipstream. Whatever it takes to stop imagining the children he can’t, won’t have. Fox’s lips pull back from his teeth. He would’ve loved them so much.