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It’s getting to the point where none of them can leave the barracks without their helmets. Eventually, Fox knows, one of the other commanders is going to say something. Limited overlapping shore leave can only hold for so long.
Or maybe they already know. Maybe it’s not just a side effect of the Sith Lord’s presence or being on Coruscant or what-the-kriff-ever. Maybe it’s them. Every last clone.
Fox isn’t sure which is worse. They’re already Sith-spawn, a living trap for the Jedi just waiting to spring shut. This would be – so much worse. Or better. It depends on if the Sith can still control those who haven’t gotten the memo about marching on.
A problem to chew over later. They still have time, for now. The galaxy isn’t ripe for the Sith just yet. Too many worlds remain intact. Too many bastions of Light have been untouched by the war. Not enough Jedi have died.
Skywalker hasn’t Fallen yet.
Fox grimaces at the thought, expression safely hidden by his bucket. The Jedi Knight isn’t as bad as Krell yet, but. Chancellor Sith’s plans for him are well known to Guard Command by now. A benefit of the man thinking them fully controlled by the chips in their heads when he activates them, thinking them dead and gone when he kills them. And he does like to brag about his plans for the Chosen One.
One of these days, Fox might have to arrange an accident for the Knight. If he can’t solve the other problem first.
Fox’s narrowed eyes latch, again, on the locked door before him. It would be so easy to open it and fire, to roll a handful of grenades, aim a kriffing rocket launcher or surface-to-air missile or something. But if he does that, what happens to all of them? Is this strange life/not-life bound up in the Sith or in the clones?
That uncertainty alone stays Fox’s hand.
As if sensing his murderous inclinations, the door hisses open. “Troopers,” the familiar, loathed voice says. “Come here.”
Hooks sink into Fox, jerking him – and Stone – forward in jerky fits and starts. As if Chancellor Sith Lord knows not to trust them on their own. Fox bears his teeth in a furious snarl, affronted by the control and shamed that these days he wouldn’t fight regardless. Wouldn’t try to save Stone or any other brother. They’ll come back, after all. Wake up just as soon as their armor has been cleaned and reassembled.
Or at least the Guard does, here on Coruscant and out in the wider galaxy. Thorn and his men proved that on Scipio, even if it took an off-the-books shuttle to recover all of their armor.
Still, that means it’s better to just go along with what the Sith wants and put yourself back together in the privacy of the barracks. It’s not as if the Sith seems able to tell them apart or even appears to realize what’s happening under his nose.
The Force hooks in Fox puppet him into the room and over to the now-familiar altar in the center. The Chancellor stands to one side, a bloody knife in hand. It’s too much to hope the blood is his, Fox suspects, although he can’t see who or what rests on the black stone slab from his current position, can barely tell that the chains are taut.
“Good,” Chancellor Sith hisses, smiling at the two clones with malevolent glee.
Shit. I’m going to die again. Fox braces himself for the knife to slide across his throat but instead one of his arms jerks up. He watches, numb, as his other hand strips off armor and glove, rolls up the sleeve of his blacks, leaving his forearm bare. Across from him, Stone does the exact same, movements equally uncoordinated.
The Sith cuts across their wrists with the bloody blade, one than the other, smoothly controlled movements a sharp contrast to the two clones he’s controlling. Cold yellow eyes watch as blood rolls down the sides of their wrists and drips onto the being chained below. Fox manages to look down at last, takes in the Human chained to the altar. Tall, blond, bleeding from what look like Sith runes, and Fox sincerely hates that he now knows exactly what Sith runes look like.
The Human hisses as the clone blood hits their skin and trickles into their open wounds. Fox stares dispassionately at them, tries to mute his shock when blue eyes, fogged by pain, meet his through his visor. “Run,” the victim whispers. As if Fox can. The Sith right there, holding him in place with the Force, planning to do still more for whatever ritual he’s concocted.
Fox and the Sith’s latest victim stare silently at each other for another heartbeat before the Human hisses, writhing in pain, as Chancellor Sith starts chanting. Barbed, jagged words that dig into Fox’s ears and mind alike. He would wince away if the Sith didn’t still have his physical body in a chokehold. Or punch him square in the mouth to shut him the kriff up.
The chanting drones on and on, sinking deeper into Fox – and, presumably, into Stone and the Human chained to the altar, given what he can see of their reactions. It winds tighter, tighter, tighter –
Fox’s ears pop. The hooks holding him in place vanish and he sways for a moment before catching himself. He shakes himself out before he reaches up and pulls off his bucket. His ears are bleeding, he notes distantly. Ruptured ear drums? But not completely since he can still hear himself pant for breath and other background noises. Across from him, Stone stares back, eyes glowing brightly in the dim light of the Sith ritual chamber.
Slowly, it occurs to Fox that Chancellor Sith Lord hasn’t said a word about unprofessionalism or killing them or the chips not working right. He turns to the side, looks down. Legs threatening to buckle with every step, he rounds the altar and crouches down, checks for a pulse. After several heartbeats of nothing, he takes the bloody ritual dagger and saws through the corpse’s neck, decapitating him. Just to be certain.
And maybe, a little, for the pleasure of fulfilling one of his murderous fantasies.
A groan from the altar draws his attention back to the final person present. He stands up and leans down, staring at the blond stretched out. They’re unfamiliar, which doesn’t mean much. Not on Coruscant, certainly. And, more importantly, that means they’re disposable if they don’t react well to everything that’s just happened, or to Fox and Stone’s glowing eyes.
Blue eyes blink up at him, still foggy with pain but clearly present and alert in a way that speaks to someone used to dealing with shitty situations. Fox watches as they catalogue his face, lingering on his eyes and the blood dripping from his ears. “Hello,” they rasp, smiling slightly.
It’s an unfairly gentle smile, far too soft and kind for someone who was almost ritually sacrificed by a Sith Lord. Fox frowns down at them, which only makes their smile grow. “Who are you?” Fox demands.
“Jedi Master Feemor, he/him,” the blond says, bowing his head forward, as much as he can with the way he's been bound supine on the black stone slab. “And you’re one of the Coruscant Guard.”
“That’s right,” Fox says, frown deepening. A Jedi. “What was he doing with you?”
Feemor’s eyebrows go up a bit before he looks pointedly about. “Sacrificing me,” he says, an amused curl to his lips. “The Sith Lord didn’t bother to explain beyond that. Is he dead?”
“Very,” Fox confirms. If the Jedi is willing to confirm that the Chancellor was a Sith, maybe this won’t end with all of them being decommissioned. Or decommissioned and then experimented on, if that whole ‘unkillable’ thing is still working. He reaches over and starts undoing the cuffs holding the Jedi in place.
“Thank you, Guardsman,” Feemor says with another one of those disturbingly bright smiles. “I’m afraid I don’t have much experience with this sort of thing – my Padawan-brother is usually the one who finds himself in these sorts of situations.”
“Ritual sacrifice or the bondage?” Fox asks without thinking.
It startles a laugh out of Feemor, deep and resonant. Fox’s lips twitch in automatic response to the genuine humor. “Both,” he says, winking. “I’m afraid he’ll never let me live this down.”
“Well, General, you’re the one who helped kill a Sith Lord through a ritual gone wrong, so I’m not sure how much room he’ll have to talk,” Fox points out dryly.
“Obi-Wan always talks,” Feemor replies, just as dry.
Fox double-takes, giving the Jedi another look. “You’re in the same lineage as General Kenobi?” He sure doesn’t look or act like Kenobi or Skywalker. Too bright, too open, too straightforward.
Feemor smiles again. It’s weird, how free he is with such vulnerability. Fox fights down the urge to wrap the man in a blanket since there aren’t any visible Jedi robes. “It’s a little complicated,” he demurs. “And I think we have better things to do right now than discuss the curlicues of my lineage.” He looks pointedly over at the dead Sith.
“We can discuss it later,” Fox allows. The Sith is dead and the rest of the Guard hasn’t immediately followed. That’s enough to sort out for now.
“I’ll look forward to it, Guardsman,” Feemor says with yet another one of those smiles.
“Fox.” He meets that blue gaze head-on again, holding it firmly.
“Fox,” Feemor repeats easily. His name is one karking syllable and yet the Jedi’s voice lingers over it. “It’s very nice to meet you.”
“Yeah,” Fox says as several other Corries pour into Chancellor Sith’s hidden ritual chamber. “Good to meet you, too.”