Chapter Text
No matter how often it happened, Thire would never get used to it.
“Marshall Commander CC-4477, please report to the office of the Supreme Chancellor.”
By now, he'd stopped bothering to hope that it would be anything innocuous. Just answered the summons, as much dread pooling in his stomach now as Fox must have felt whenever he got the same command.
Calm down. Don't think about Fox. Never think about him, not until you absolutely must. It only ever made it hurt more, and Thire was sure the Chancellor somehow knew when he did so.
Thire left his office at a perfect regulation march. The Chancellor wouldn't want him to appear out of breath. Would be displeased that Thire was trying to lessen the upcoming punishment.
The elevator arrived and Thire stepped on, sinking as deep as he could into the headspace that seemed to please the Chancellor best. Of course Thire didn't want to lessen the punishment. Thire was a clone, and clones were objects, and objects were incapable of wanting anything.
The doors chimed open on the upper floor. Thire took one deep breath before stepping out. Centered himself. Just a piece of equipment.
He approached the Chancellor’s door. Knocked smartly. Entered with his helmet off, giving a perfect salute.
“Ah, Commander. How lovely to see you.”
Thire said nothing. Stared straight forward, not looking at the Chancellor or anything else in the room.
“Can you tell me why I've called you here, Commander?”
Thire was prepared for this. Spent every waking moment with this question at the front of his mind, making sure he knew, at any given moment, exactly what answer he would give.
“Because we failed to satisfy Senator Apval’s orders yesterday, sir.”
“Correct. What else?”
“Because we failed to capture Spantz Orentee in the required time frame, your excellency.”
“And?”
Thire hesitated for only a fraction of a second. Very little had happened these past few days that related to the Guard in any way. So- “Because we failed to anticipate the building collapse on level 1217, sir.”
The Chancellor gave a pleasant hum. “Rather unfortunate failures, Commander. Shall we say … twenty seconds for each?”
“Yes, sir.” Thire’s agreement was entirely irrelevant. But the Chancellor desired the words, so Thire gave them.
“Excellent.” The Chancellor rose from his chair. Thire finally moved his gaze, watching the man as he walked to the far side of the room. The Chancellor pressed a hidden switch, and a hidden compartment opened. Within it was a selection of lightsabers. Thire didn't know where he'd gotten them, but then, the Jedi served the Republic. The Supreme Chancellor could likely requisition sabers for his own purposes whenever he wished. Even if the purpose was this .
The Chancellor selected one with a metallic sheen and a black handle, carefully testing it in his hand before he returned to the center of the room.
“Fox.” The Chancellor's voice was light, a voice so used to authority that it required none of the usual trappings of command.
And Thire finally allowed his gaze to return to the great desk. To the spot beside it, where a young clone cadet knelt silently on the ground.
Thire didn't see the gesture the Chancellor made. Just watched tiny, young Fox as he stood and walked to the center of the room. Silent and obedient, the movements practiced and smooth, he knelt once more.
The Chancellor approached the kneeling form, saber hilt in hand. He didn't circle the cadet like a hawk. Didn't stalk forward like a tiger, or advance menacingly like a snake. The Chancellor approached Fox like he was a shopper in a grocery aisle, like torturing a cadet was the most ordinary thing in the world. Like he was already bored of it.
Fox was facing away from Thire. In a way, that was better. It meant Thire wouldn't have to watch his face for what was to come. The times he'd had were agonizing, but of course this way, he would have to see everything the Chancellor did.
The Chancellor turned on the lightsaber. Fox didn't flinch, even though he must see the blue glow behind him, hear the thrum of the blade. In a sick way, Thire was proud of him for that. For showing no fear.
The Chancellor leaned down, and held the full flat of the saber’s blade against Fox’s back. Thire didn't know the intensity setting of the blade, didn't know if an errant move would cut Fox in half. Only knew the sound of faint whimpers, and the smell of burning flesh
The first time, Fox had screamed when the saber touched flesh. He'd been facing Thire then, and as smoke twined up behind him, the little cadet had disobeyed orders and looked up, his eyes meeting Thire's.
“Stop! Please, stop it!!”
Thire hadn't realized until too late that the cry came from him. Hadn't understood until the lightsaber blade clicked off, that he'd just dared to beg Palpatine for mercy.
He'd known it was a mistake, known before the Chancellor opened his mouth, wanted to babble apologies as if that would do any good at all-
“You object to my treatment of the cadet, CC-4477? I am most terribly sorry. Of course, given how you and your men suffered under his Commandership, it is only natural you would want his punishment to be more severe. Allow me to find something more to your taste.”
Thire would remember those screams for a very, very long time.
“Twenty seconds, sir.” Thire hadn't made a sound since the punishment began. Just watched, unblinking and unmoving, counting the seconds as smoke curled up from the blade.
At Thire's word, the Chancellor flicked off the ‘saber. Little Fox staggered slightly as the cool air hit searing burns, but righted his posture immediately. Thire wished Fox had been allowed to remove his shirt; the synthfabric was melted into the wounds, adding its own pungent smell to the air.
The Chancellor reignited the ‘saber. Fox made the smallest of pained noises, as it was placed lower on his back and held. Thire counted the seconds. He didn't dare shave off even a second off the allotted time, as he announced the cessation of punishment.
The third time, the blade was lain diagonal, crossing both of the previous two burns. Fox did cry out then, but only for a moment. Thire made neither move nor sound, reminding himself over and over that this was the best protection he could give. Clones weren't permitted to care. Any indication that he did would be taken out of Fox’s skin.
The final twenty seconds passed. The blade was deignited, replaced in its compartment, and the Chancellor returned to his desk, before either Thire or Fox was given permission to move.
“CC-4477. Thank you once again for your assistance in disciplining your failed Commander. Fox, leave us.”
Thire was sure he gave the command just to force him to watch Fox as he struggled to stand. The cadet's breathing was ragged, but he made his way staggeredly across the office to the private rooms beside it.
“I must say, Commander, that I am disappointed by the Guard's continued failings. I would have expected better with such clear consequences for your misdeeds. Though I am growing impressed with your stoicism; is it possible that you have simply grown too used to your former Commander's suffering, and it no longer affects you as it once did?”
There was never a way to win with Palpatine. Thire ought to know that, had been taught it enough times in his brief months as Marshall Commander. It still shocked him, every time.
“The next time I summon you, you will bring two of your men with you. Perhaps then we can break through your indifference. Dismissed.”
Thire ran through the lists of his men, choosing lambs for the slaughter. All he could think of was Fox. Not the kneeling cadet, but the real Fox. Thire’s ori’vod . The Marshall Commander whose shoes Thire tried and failed to fill every damn day. Fox had never, ever allowed another Corrie to be hurt by the Chancellor. Not once. And here was Thire, hand-picking the man’s next prey.
His first choice would be Stone and Thorn, of course. Not only could he trust them to withstand the Chancellor’s whims, but he knew the two commanders would be first in line to protect any of their other men from such a fate.
But the Chancellor hadn't asked for commanders. He'd asked for men. And Thire was bound to obey even such oblique commands.
So, he looked through the rolls of his men. No one shiny. No one with even a little bit of hope left to crush. No one with enough spirit left to object, or even hesitate, at whatever the Chancellor might require.
Jek was a good option. One of their oldest troopers, he'd been there since the start of the war, and had his place drilled into him countless dozens of times. This would only be one more horror, for him.
And for another … perhaps Paints? He certainly wasn't shiny, he'd been on Coruscant even before Thire had. Paints still somehow kept a spark of optimism about him, but if it had survived three years in the Guard, Thire doubted even an encounter with the Chancellor could snuff it out. And Paints was largely unflappable, and obedient to a fault. Not mindlessly, but with the careful understanding that compliance was the best route to survival.
So. Jek and Paints. They could be trusted in this. He pulled them aside, gave one of the worst briefings he'd had to give in months, as he explained what they ought to expect. Knew he had chosen well, as grim acceptance crossed both of their faces.
So all there was to do now, was wait.
The summons, naturally, came at the worst possible time. Thire should have expected it, really. He and Paints were in the barracks, easily able to drop everything and attend to the command. But there has been an emergency on the lower levels, and most of the Guard were out on patrol. Including Jek, who was at least a half hour away. They couldn't afford to be late waiting for him, not when the Chancellor knew there were still other Corries nearer at hand.
Thire found Paints in the rec room, teaching a new card game to a group of shinies to keep them calm. He cursed a dozen, hundred times, that he hadn't thought to select backups, that he'd allowed himself the cowardice of only selecting two people for this awful task. And now there was no time to find someone new, not if he wanted time to brief them before arriving, which it would be suicide not to do.
The Corrie Guard was spread thin today. Aside from the medbay (and Thire fully refused to bring with him either medics or patients), the nearest off duty soldiers were three levels down and several long corridors away.
If Thire wanted two men, they would have to be ones who were in this room right now. Which left Paints, and a group of shinies. Kriff.
Tree. Jare. Infra. Orto. They were all so kriffing young. Tree still smiled at potted plants. Orto’s laugh was still cheerful, not hollow or bitter. How could Thire possibly hurt them?
But he had to pick one. The Chancellor required it.
Jare, perhaps, would be best. He always did stupid things to sacrifice himself for the others. Perhaps he could survive this. (Nevermind that “sacrificing himself for others” was likely the exact opposite of what was required here. If the Chancellor had taught Thire anything, it was that obedience, not self-sacrifice, was the highest virtue in a clone.)
Time was short. There were no better options.
“Paints. Jare. Come with me, you're needed.”
The two rose and followed Thire readily, and Thire wasted no time explaining what to expect.
“The Chancellor has requested our presence in his office immediately,” he told them, watching Paints’ face set and Jare’s go pale.
“I don't know what he wants. He may hurt us, he may hurt Fox. Whatever happens, you'll stay silent and obey orders, understand?”
“Fox?” asked Jare, looking stunned. “But I thought he was-”
“A cadet, yes. The Chancellor will hurt him anyway. There is nothing we can do except obey. Any attempt to protect him will only get him hurt worse. I hate having to bring you into this, but there was no one else to ask.”
Paints, who'd already been briefed on his, only nodded, putting his hand on Jare’s back in comfort.
Jare looked torn. “You would have to bring someone else otherwise?” Thire nodded, and Jare set his jaw. “Then I'll do it. Better me than anyone else, right?”
Thire hated being Marshall Commander of the Guard. Jare was so painfully young, not a year off Kamino. Already, he spoke like this. Already, Thire had to let him.
Thire closed his eyes, then opened them again. This was no time for weakness. “Just remember, when you see Fox up there. The very best thing you can do for him, is obey. ”
“Understood, Commander,” they chorused, and the three Guards set off.
“Ah, Commander, do come in. And who is it you have with you?”
Thire grit his teeth against the Chancellor's all-to-familiar friendly tones. Nonetheless, he answered smoothly. “This is CT-5415 and CT-2216, your excellency, as requested.”
“How delightful,” he replied with a pleasant smile. "CT-5415, CT-2216, please, do come forward.”
Paints and Jare did as they were told, walking in perfect lockstep. Thire was desperately grateful that Fox wasn't in the room yet, not sure how the troopers would react. Thire would, he was almost certain, find out soon enough.
“Now tell me, have the two of you been on Coruscant long?” asked the Chancellor.
“Nearly three years, sir,” replied Paints.
“Just over six months, sir,” said Jare.
“I thank you for your service, gentlemen. And that would mean you both had the misfortune to serve under the former Marshall Commander CC-1010, or ‘Fox,’ is that correct?”
“Yes, sir,” they both replied. Even Jare wasn't shiny enough to editorialize.
“You have my condolences, then, for all the indignities you surely suffered under his mismanagement. Fortunately, however, you will now have a chance for redress, as will your current Commander.”
No. No no no no no.
“Of course, young Fox is at a most impressionable age. Please do be careful in what you say to him. I would not want him to get an inflated sense of self worth; otherwise I would be forced to cut his ego back down to size.” The emphasis on ‘cut’ was delicate, but very obvious in its promise of violence.
Something deep in Thire’s mind laughed itself hoarse, at the thought that Fox of all people could have an overinflated self worth. Better to laugh, than to dwell on what was coming. Just salute. Trust his men to obey. Breathe.
Fox entered the office, head down, looking impossibly small.
Paints and Jare barely flinched at the sight of him. Thire wished he could be proud.
“CT-5135.” Paints stood to attention. “You will be first. Tell Fox the things he has done that you blame him for.”
Obey, Thire willed him, despite the horror that was rapidly taking root. Please, obey.
Paints stepped forward towards Fox. Looked down at that tiny vod'ika face.
Thire didn't dare breathe. You can't have pity on him. Please, vod, he'll only be hurt worse.
“Hundreds of our men died since the start of the war,” Paints said, voice barely shaking. “You were their commanding officer, and you didn't save them.”
Fox had gotten better at hiding his feelings since that first, horrible day. Thire could still read him like a book.
“Good.” The Chancellor's voice had finally dropped that faux politeness. Now it held a deep, rich satisfaction. “Now strike him for it. Fox, you are free to defend yourself, if you feel you deserve to.”
Thire wished he was wearing his helmet. Wished he could close his eyes, wished he was permitted to look away. He didn't dare wish for anything greater than that.
He watched Paints tackle Fox to the ground. Watched Fox not even try to fight back. Watched Paints do as he had been trained to. As they'd all been trained to. Obedience was, after all, a clone’s highest virtue.
“CT-2216. You are next.”
Paints was allowed to step back. Fox was allowed to stand. Jare was forced to come forward.
Jare, who always sacrificed himself for his brothers. Thire prayed he could do the opposite now.
“We never had enough rations.” Jare’s voice was low and miserable, and Thire had never been so grateful to hear it. “The medbay was never stocked. You were our Commander, and you left us hungry and injured.”
Again, the one-sided spar. Again, the blows. Again Fox, allowing himself the punishment. Believing he deserved it, as the clones all danced like puppets to Palatine's tune.
“CC-4477. I am certain you have much to admonish your predecessor for.”
Thire could barely feel his body. Walked forward numbly.
There were tears on Fox’s face.
All of the ways the Chancellor had hurt him. All the times he'd whimpered or screamed. All of that, Fox still hadn't cried since the very first day.
Fox believed them.
Of course he did. Every time Thire has stood silent in this office, every rote “yes, sir” he'd been forced to give: to Fox, it would seem like Thire wanted this. Like Thire blamed Fox, even as he killed himself trying to protect him.
Thire had to say something. His mind had gone blank, all thoughts driven away by Fox’s silent years.
He had to say something. Paints and Jare were watching, waiting. He couldn't let their actions be wasted.
The Chancellor made a small noise of impatience. He would reprimand him in a moment, and Fox would be hurt all the worse.
Thire had to say something. Too bad all he could think of was the truth.
“You left me.” The words were quiet. Thire worried they might not carry. That the Chancellor wouldn't count them as enough.
“You left me in charge of everything. You left all of us. Even the shinies! Even me!” Thire's voice cracked, and he noticed distantly the start of wetness on his cheeks. “ How could you just leave us like that, Fox?”
Fox’s expression shattered. Thire's vod’ika suddenly looked two full growth cycles younger as tears flooded his face. He cried the silent, shuddering cries of every vod , frame wracked with helpless sobs.
Behind Thire, Jare gave an aborted half-step forward, before Paints frantically signaled him to stay back. Thire himself was frozen, paralyzed. It took every ounce of will he possessed just to stay still. To not reach out and comfort and hold-
The Chancellor laughed.
The sound filled the room, echoing off the walls and windows. Surprised, genuine, full-bellied laughter. A sound of deep and unbridled pleasure.
“Well done, Commander Thire.” The Chancellor had never used his name before. Hadn't given any indication he even knew it.
“Very well done. Fox has, indeed, abandoned you. Such a terrible betrayal that you feel. Now, punish him.”
And Thire obeyed.
It was with strange emptiness that Thire left the Senate building that night. He'd returned to the barracks with Paints and Jare. He’d cleaned his armor. He'd washed Fox’s blood from his hands. He'd taken to the streets of Coruscant, all without a single conscious thought coming through the fog of his mind.
His feet moved him, towards a destination even his subconscious didn't dare name. The streets were dark and empty and familiar.
He passed guards without noticing it. Navigated hallways, all unseeing. There was a door in front of him. He knocked.
If this failed, Thire was dead, and Fox and the Guard would suffer. But how different would that be, to the way they all suffered now?
The door opened. A question was asked, but Thire couldn't hear it.
Never ask for help, Fox had said. How far had that advice gotten him?
Thire knelt. He remembered the position Fox had taken beside the Chancellor's desk, but that still left Thire taller than the figure in the doorway. So he bent down further and pressed his forehead to the ground, a keldabe to the tiles that had, at least, never hurt him.
It was the only person Thire could think to go to. The only one who'd ever acknowledged him as a person, on that distant battlefield so long ago. A remote and distant hope, and Thire was grateful to be staring at the ground so he would not have to see his chances drain away. But there were no other options. All he could do was kneel, and beg, and pray.
“General Yoda. I’ve failed my men. Please, help them.”