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Fives is dead. Some part of Kix just can’t get over that. Sure, clones die all the time. It’s what they were made for. Kix has even been responsible for it, thanks to his work as a medic. It doesn’t get easier.
But it was different, with Fives. They’d been on Coruscant, the one place in the galaxy that wasn’t completely predisposed to hating clones.
He’d been sick, scared—and he’d come to Kix for help.
Some help Kix had turned out to be—he’d sent the man directly to his death.
The 501st had left Coruscant like a thundering storm. Fives was dead, Tup was dead, and yet the war kept on, and so did its loyal soldiers. Months later, this is the first time they’ve been to Coruscant since the incident, and Kix feels like the regrets of that day are stalking him through the city streets.
He doesn’t go to 79s—can’t, really, without the memories overwhelming him, and the others understand. Jesse and a handful of other troopers agree to stay with him, not feeling particularly excited themselves, and now they wander the dark corners and alleys of Coruscant, looking for something to pass the time.
They find it.
A Corrie, armor red with more than just paint—their hand slides against a pool of their own blood, slick against the dark pavement, and Kix moves forward before even thinking about it, training kicking in.
“Hello? Do you need help?”
It’s only when he’s taken a few steps into the alley that he catches sight of the unique armor pattern under all that blood. It’s the typical Corrie pattern, only… reversed.
There’s only one person who that could be.
Jesse’s arm shoots out, pulling Kix back, the group all tensing as one.
Commander Fox barely acknowledges their presence, letting out a quiet grunt of effort as he braces himself against the brick wall and tries to rise.
He fails, hand spasming and sending him crashing down to the ground, and Kix sucks in a sharp breath. He… He doesn’t look well.
“Let’s get out of here,” one of the vode behind Kix murmurs, sounding uneasy. “This is none of our business.”
They start to file out, a clatter of armored footsteps echoing against the sound of Coruscant’s constant traffic, until the CMO is the only one left.
Kix lingers, heart caught in his throat.
Fox—the Commander—he’s gone silent. He’s still moving, legs twitching as he struggles to push himself back up, so he can’t be that hurt, but. But.
“Guys—” he calls back to the others, voice pitching with uncertainty.
Jesse just scoffs, waving a hand. “Leave it! You know those Corries travel in packs. Someone will find him any minute, and we don’t wanna be here when they do. Who knows? Maybe they’re looking for another 501st helmet to mount on their wall.”
His voice is bitter, hurt—this isn’t just any Corrie. This isn’t just any Trooper.
This is the man that killed Fives.
And yes, clones die, and yes, Kix has held that life in his hands more than once and made the choice to let it go, but not like that.
He takes one last glance at Commander Fox, the man’s chestplate slowly rising and falling, and turns around, choosing to leave all those dark and tangled thoughts in the alley with him.
Maybe it’s not fair, but nothing about their lives is fair. Jesse’s right—soon enough, more Corries will come and scrape Fox off the pavement. In the meantime, Kix can get this small bit of vengeance for Fives, as inadequate as it feels.
The next morning, Rex walks up to them in the Mess Hall, brows furrowed.
“Hey, you’ve been asked to report to Guard HQ,” he says, and crosses his arms over his chest. “We’ve only been here for a single rotation. What did you lot do?”
Kix coughs, a bit surprised, and Jesse rolls his eyes.
“Come on, Captain, we didn’t do anything!” he whines, throwing Rex a childish pout. “Don’t you have any faith in us?”
“Not that much,” Rex says dryly, and Kix hides a smile even as a tinge of uneasiness begins to swirl in his gut.
“Did they say who exactly they were looking for?” he says. “And why?”
Rex shrugs. “Not the reason, no. But they were asking for you, Kix.”
Jesse frowns, shifting forward. “I’ll go too.”
His tone leaves no room for argument, bristling protectively.
Rex eyes them both wearily, and when he turns there’s a hint of a grimace on his face.
“Don’t cause trouble,” he murmurs, just on the edge of their hearing. “We don’t need it. Not with the Guard.”
Kix winces and bows his head.
Hopefully this is just something routine, something easy, and not a repeat of… before.
Their journey to the Corrie Barracks is short; none of the Guard troopers interrupts them, not even to ask where they’re going. Kix has no idea if the building is usually this empty, but the few clones that are around studiously ignore the outsiders in their midst, and the two 501st vode head to the location that Rex passed along to them.
It’s an office, small and stifling, with one trooper sitting behind the desk and two empty folding chairs in front of it, clearly awaiting their arrival.
Kix takes off his bucket, resting it in his lap as Jesse does the same, taking the seat next to him.
The Corrie in front of them is one of the Commanders (based on the non-standard armor, at least), though Kix can’t quite remember which. There are a handful of them, and they rarely have reason to interact with the GAR, so Kix is really only familiar with Fox, and another Commander who he vaguely remembered as Thorn. This trooper isn’t either of them; they’re almost perfectly uniform in every sense—Kix may have thought them to be fresh off of Kamino if it wasn’t for the wrinkles beginning to form around their eyes and their pure white hair. Kix assumes that it was bleached, but he doesn’t know them well enough to say otherwise.
He wishes, vaguely, that Rex could have come in with them; their Captain spent a lot more time around the Command Class clones on Kamino, and might at least have an inkling of who this trooper is.
“What can we help you with, sir?” Kix says stiffly.
“Mm, nothing much,” the Commander says, seeming mildly distracted with the datapad they’re flipping through. Kix can’t help the jolt of annoyance that goes through him—can’t they even pretend to not be wasting his time? “Just your helmcam footage from yesterday.”
Kix goes cold.
It’s like all the air gets sucked out of the room. Next to him, Jesse’s fidgeting immediately halts, going stock-still.
“Yesterday?” Kix says carefully. He doesn’t have anything to hide. He didn’t do anything wrong , technically. Maybe he should have—maybe he should have helped, but it wasn’t like he’d actually hurt anyone.
“From your encounter with CC-1010,” the Commander clarifies, glancing up. Kix barely resists a flinch; their eyes are so cold, despite their affable tone of voice. “Marshall Commander Fox, as you may know him.”
Jesse swallows, the sound audible in the tiny office space. “Listen, we—”
“You’re not in trouble,” the other trooper assures them, lips quirking up in a smile that doesn’t reach their eyes. “We’re just trying to figure out the timeline for our report.”
“...Report?”
It can’t be. Kix feels dizzy—is the room spinning? It can’t possibly be what he thinks it is.
“The death report,” the Corrie clarifies, leaning back in their chair. “CC-1010 was declared killed in action late last night. A lot of his equipment ended up busted, though, including the monitoring. We have the footage, but no audio or timestamps, so we need your footage to help clarify some things for us.”
Jesse is gripping his bucket so tight it seems like it would take a whole squad to pry it away from him, so Kix numbly hands over his own helmet instead, though it nearly slipped from his suddenly sweaty fingertips.
The Corrie takes it, pulling out a cord and attaching it to their datapad, making some quiet sounds of appraisal as they begin to fast-forward through yesterday’s data, and Kix—
Kix waits for the moment when it happens, because he knows it will, and when it does—
Will they attack him? Will this entire base of troopers turn on him and Jesse, punish them for leaving a Marshall Commander to die?
(Oh, god. Fox is dead and Kix left him there, Kix might as well have killed him—)
He knows the exact second Fox shows up in the footage, because the Commander stills. They don’t say a word, but they slow down the footage and begin to methodically go through it, leaving Kix and Jesse sitting there in silence as the sound of their cruelty echoes through the office.
“Do you need help?”
“This is none of our business.”
“Leave it!”
Leave it. Those words seem to reverberate through Kix’s skull, smashing up against every vulnerable part of his mind.
Fuck. Fox was a Marshall Commander, a clone, a vod, and they left him to die.
Fives would never have wanted that.
The Corrie (Why doesn’t Kix know their name? Why didn’t he care enough to ask?) carefully disconnects the helmet and returns it to Kix, who doesn’t even have the courage to look up at them.
“Are—Are we going to face disciplinary action?” He’s going to be sick. Kix almost wants to be sick—wants to expel all the vile and disgusting things inside of him that allowed this to happen.
The Commander just snorts, casually flicking through their datapad. It’s almost like the footage they just witnessed didn’t leave an impact on them at all. “Disciplinary action? For what? It’s not like you were the ones that beat him half to death. And besides, this is Coruscant. Clones die all the time. Nothing to do but replace them and move on.”
Kix stares, shocked, and he knows Jesse is doing the same.
“Just—replace him?” Jesse says, sounding befuddled and mildly offended. “He—Commander Fox is a Marshall Commander! He’s not easy to replace!”
“Fox was the Marshall Commander,” they correct sharply, giving a sharp grin. “Now it’s me. What a time for a promotion, huh?”
They both flinch. Kix can tell, looking at Jesse, that he wants to say something; to ask how this could have happened, why no one seemed to care about their involvement in it, but—this isn’t the time to ask.
“That’s all I needed. You’re free to go. We won’t need a statement or anything from you, since there’s no investigation,” the Guard says, gesturing vaguely towards the exit.
That can’t be right. It can’t be, because if it is, that means that no one is going to get punished for this, not for Fox, not for Fives—
Slowly, hesitantly, they begin to gather themselves, but Kix blurts out a question before they can get too far.
“Is there really—I mean, isn’t there anything we can do to help? We could talk to General Skywalker, or maybe even get an audience with the Jedi…” Kix trails off as the Commander merely stares at him, an eerie smile still plastered on their face.
“No,” they say, so soft and mild that it sends a shiver up Kix’s spine. “I think you’ve helped enough.”
Kix nods, biting his lip as he pushes past the lump in his throat. He jams his helmet back on and moves towards the door, before he pauses when the Corrie clears their throat.
“Hey, ah, just so you’re aware,” the new Marshall Commander says, voice cheery. Kix turns, obligingly, Jesse lingering by the doorway. “I know you’ll all come back to Coruscant eventually for leave, so I figure I should make myself clear. Don’t cause trouble. Because if I ever have to see your faces again, I’ll rip off your head and shit down your throat. Okay?”
Kix nods, swallowing heavily, before he turns and bolts, Jesse following behind.
Fives is dead. And now Fox is too.
What grand justice he’s been given. Surely, Kix thought, eyes burning, Fives would be proud.