Chapter Text
“What do you do, on Coruscant?” Bacara asked, picking at a particularly annoying stone stuck in the sole of his boot tread instead of looking straight on at the comm set on the table beside him. He glanced over every once and a while.
“Why the kriff are you asking me?” Jet asked, aggrieved and buried under a stack of datapads as tall as his collarbone. It was what he got for severing the nerve in one of his shoulders so badly they returned him to training duty with Alpha-Seventeen back on Kamino while they figured out if it could be fixed.
“You've been there,” Bacara said.
“At the beginning of the war,” Jet said. “How's the General?”
Bacara felt like that was a bit of a mean question, compared to his. “He'd prefer you,” he shrugged, not looking at Jet’s hologram anymore.
“I highly doubt that's still true,” Jet said, and Bacara grunted rather than address it. Ki-Adi-Mundi had a decent sabacc face, but Bacara had overheard him talking to his Jedi Council buddies, about how he was brutal, even for a clone.
That had been the first week Ki-Adi-Mundi had the Galactic Marines.
Bacara had maybe decided to prove just how exactingly brutal he could be.
They hadn't really gotten along after that, but slowly they were wearing out the grooves of a mutual respect. If nothing else, they were an effective team, and unlikely to be split apart anytime soon. Maybe, Bacara mused, he shouldn’t have been so effective.
On the other hand, he hardly could stop being who he was.
“So, Coruscant?” Bacara pressed
Jet set a datapad aside and folded his hands on the desk in front of him, settling into lecture mode. “Bacara, it's leave, not a court-martial. It's a reward, and a chance to rest.”
“It's kriffing boring,” Bacara returned.
“You're going to have to find some way to live with that,” Jet informed him, quite seriously, and Bacara scowled.
After all, they had been trained for war. It hardly seemed fair to ask them to learn what to do with free time now.
The fact it was on Coruscant was just the awful bonus round crawl through the Sickener. Bacara had hoped to leave that feeling on Kamino.
“You're of no help,” he told Jet’s hologram.
Jet shrugged, unrepentant. “Some things you have to figure out for yourself,” he said, and Bacara cut the call.
Churlish, maybe, but it wasn't like Jet didn't know him well enough to understand.
-
“What do you do for leave?” Bacara asked, and Lock smirked at him like he knew Bacara wasn't going to like his answer.
“Drink, mostly,” he said.
“Oh!” Blackout added, leaning over Lock’s shoulder with his own smirk. “Or fuck!”
“You save your fucking for leave? No wonder you're like this,” Lock said, glancing up and over at him. Behind them, Bacara heard someone else groan and throw a towel toward the pair of them.
“Shut the kriff up,” the third person said.
“Doom, has anyone told you you need to relax?” Lock called back at him.
After a second Doom appeared in the projection, leaning his hip on the table and glaring down at both of them with his arms crossed. “To my face? Only rarely.”
“Well what would you tell Bacara to do on leave then?” Blackout asked, tilting his head and then wagging his eyebrows.
In response Doom only stared at him.
“I assume Bacara can figure himself out,” Doom said flatly, and Bacara only sighed, too quiet to be picked up by the three in the hologram. “Now will you two shut up and go to sleep? Some of us have been on a mission for five days without rest.”
“Which we pulled you out of,” Blackout said. “Doesn't that earn us just a little leeway?”
“They'll probably give us leave for this,” Lock added. “So which one are you likely to do? Drink or fuck?”
At first Doom just kept staring at him, before he lunged. To both Lock and Blackout’s credit they bolted at the same time without tripping over each other. They had been close, even back on Kamino, but they’d been separated for a while. Plus, Bacara knew Doom was a terrifying clone to be on the other side of, even compared to a full line up of commando droids.
All three of them left the hologram, leaving Bacara studying a tiny bit of desk and hearing them cursing and crashing into things.
With another sigh, he cut the connection.
-
“What do you do?” Bacara asked, head down on the table in front of him. A very passive aggressive note was on the stack of datapads beside him, Ki-Adi-Mundi displeased he'd transferred another clone without warning.
Apparently expressing that his standards were not negotiable meant nothing to the Jedi General, who still expected Bacara to at least pretend to care about the chain of command before dismissing a trooper to some other corps. It didn't seem to mean much to the General, the fact Bacara simply could not go into the thick of things without only the brothers he knew could best survive beside him. Not because he was disgusted by them or whatever else the General thought, but because Bacara could not endure watching more of them die when they shouldn’t have been on the mission to begin with.
“When?” Neyo’s hologram asked, and he had a grease stained rag in one hand, peering at what looked like a droid voice box in the other.
It was giving Bacara a terrible feeling about the pit droid Neyo had already given a red paint job to fit in better with the 91st. Pit droids, as far as Bacara knew, didn't have voice boxes and common speech programming.
He got the bad feeling Neyo’s was going to, sooner rather than later. The little thing already had an attitude, Bacara was a little worried what it would be like with opinions.
“On Coruscant,” Bacara said, the leave creeping closer like an enemy combatant crawling down a trench line.
Neyo only looked at him, unimpressed, before he looked back down at the mechanical piece in his hands, polishing a bit that seemed perfectly clean.
“Fine,” Bacara groaned. “Keep your secrets.”
The corner of Neyo's mouth twitched, but he never truly looked amused. One could only tell he was pleased by the glint he got in his eyes sometimes. “Why are you being such a hatchery spawn about this?”
“There's a war on,” Bacara said.
“Has been for a while now,” Neyo replied blandly.
Bacara considered, because Neyo was not only the one most likely to ask him, but the only one he would have bothered to answer. “I hate being grounded,” he said. “It feels like punishment, to be bored, when I know I could be on the field instead, helping the war.”
Humming, Neyo still didn't look up at him. Bacara was lucky he'd turned on the camera at all, since most of the time he answered with it off. He must have been in a comfortable mood, to accept being perceived. “Even our bodies need rest,” he said.
“I know that,” Bacara grumbled. “But it's not really about when we need it. It's about when it's convenient to the war effort.”
“Well, better to take a break before the war breaks you,” Neyo said.
“Kriff,” Bacara muttered. “Unless the leave breaks me.”
Neyo set the part on the table, folded his hands in his lap, and stared at the wall directly in front of him, allowing Bacara to consider his profile. “Ponds liked the museums,” he said, low and careful, and Bacara felt his stomach drop. “Well, mostly. The Botanical Garden was his favorite, then the galaxy wide art museum, and then the Coruscant Archeological collection.”
“Isn't there a museum dedicated to wars of the past?” Bacara asked, when he could gather himself together enough to speak.
“It was his least favorite,” Neyo said promptly. “I don't know if that was because he was upset to stay behind with General Windu so much, and felt like he was missing out, or because he felt he already knew enough about war from our studies. Either way, he liked the art more. Said the colors made him think of all our paint. Said he liked seeing the ways the different artists saw the world and found ways to show everyone else.”
“Right,” Bacara said, and cleared his throat.
Neyo, he knew, missed Ponds probably every day. It wasn't the same grief, but it was another thing that bound them together, when they were mostly loners among their peers.
They had both loved Ponds, in their own ways.
They both missed Ponds, because he was gone now.
“I don't know if I can do this,” Bacara whispered, the thing he had been dancing around the whole time. He had called brother after brother, and at the end none of them could tell him how to shoulder his grief, because none of them had heard what he was asking.
Neyo turned his head, finally looking at the hologram projector. “It's not the leave that's scaring you,”
“I never liked leave,” Bacara said. “But Coruscant?” He took a careful breath. “Alone?”
For what felt like a long time, Neyo watched him. “You'll survive, Three-Eight,” he said and Bacara swallowed hard. “You always do. Think of visiting one of his favorite places like a memorial.”
“Right,” Bacara said, because he did always survive.
It was just that Ponds hadn't.
Ponds, who'd promised him up and down he would show him Coruscant, the first chance they got. Ponds, who sent him holopics of traffic patterns he liked, and plazas with neon signs, and trees in the Jedi Temple, while Bacara sent him shots of an endless string of grinding, cruel battlefields.
Ponds, who never had the chance.
“I'll survive,” Bacara promised.
“I'll hold you to that,” Neyo said softly.
-
Bacara sat on a supply crate, swinging his legs as he watched the 104th finish unloading the rest of the supplies.
“You ever think you were going to do so many supply runs?” he asked Wolffe, who gave him a long stare.
“The 104th is specialized in rescue and aid missions where others can't easily reach,” he said, solemn. “So. Supply runs to crazy kriffers like you, sure.”
Bacara snorted. “We're not even in the ass end of the galaxy, currently.”
“You will be again soon enough,” Wolffe said, glancing down at his comm. Clearly, he wanted the all clear to come from General Koon sooner rather than later.
Bacara almost wondered what it would be like, to adore a Jedi General the way Wolffe adored Plo Koon.
“Actually, I'm going on leave,” Bacara said, forcibly casual, like it wasn't a punishment for him. “Some of the Marines were overdue, apparently, so they're kicking us all out.”
“And which sorry planet is going to witness that?” Wolffe asked.
“Coruscant,” Bacara said.
“I'll be sure to be on the other end of the galaxy,” Wolffe deadpanned.
“Charming,” Bacara said, still swinging one leg. “You go to Coruscant a lot, don't you? Your General is more specialized in special strike missions, after all. The rest of the time he's with the Council, right?”
Wolffe arched a brow over at him, bucket in the crook of his arm.
“What do you do on leave?” he asked, a last ditch effort to make the inevitable more palpable.
At first Wolffe only blinked at him, before he shrugged. “I don't know, I usually go and pester Fox.”
Opening his mouth, Bacara stopped when Wolffe's comm beeped, the message he'd been waiting for. Immediately Wolffe swung back into motion, popping his bucket back on and turning. “That's our call. Good luck on leave, Bacara. Try not to burn down the planet.”
“I promise nothing,” Bacara said dryly, and was rewarded with a chuckle, but then Wolffe was gone, leaving Bacara surrounded by his supplies, and more on edge than ever.
Technically accepting the supplies was the last thing he was supposed to do before boarding a shuttle himself and heading off to his mandated rest. He stretched it out as long as he could, checking each crate personally until his Lieutenants banded together and kicked him out of the supply depot. One of them escorted him personally to the shuttle that had only been waiting on him, and saluted smartly when he glared back at them from the top of the ramp.
Bacara already knew exactly which drills he was going to make those idiots run when he got back.
-
At some point since the war started, a series of bars popped up on Coruscant, all purporting to serve clones specifically. It was flattering enough, Bacara supposed, but even the supposedly clone friendly spaces weren't always that friendly. Only one consistently took that honor, and that was 79s.
Sometimes he wondered if any of the cadets that would become the Grand Army of the Republic could have imagined a bar like 79s, when they were on Kamino and marching in perfect sync. He certainly never had.
His only consolation was that Ponds had rarely frequented said bars, for few of the Commanders did. After all, one couldn't let loose after a grueling campaign if your Commander still had his eyes on you.
It was one reason he didn't want to be there. The Marines that came with him deserved their own time, without worrying about his standards. They suffered through enough of that already.
But he had gone to the archeology museum, had spent the whole afternoon standing in front of glass cases and thinking what he would have said to Ponds about any of the trinkets inside them–and what Ponds might have said to him about them–and he needed a drink.
Or five drinks.
Or enough drinks the hole in his chest felt a bit less like a black hole, constantly sucking in all the matter and light around it and crushing them inside him.
He wasn't actually sure that many drinks existed, but, well, Lock had recommended drinking on leave.
Bacara did his best to listen to the opinions of those he solicited.
Except.
Drinking wasn't helping at all.
In fact the hole might have been getting bigger, and he was starting to wonder at which point it would be big enough to swallow him whole.
Maybe one more drink would reveal the answer–
“Are you here alone?” the Twilek with blue skin and yellow eyes asked.
“What's that matter?” Bacara asked, very slowly, because for the first time in his life articulation seemed difficult. His head stayed propped up the palm of one hand, elbow planted on the bar. If he moved, he thought he might topple over, a building hit with a bomb from orbit.
“How are you planning on getting yourself back to bunks, when you can't even stand?” the Twilek asked. “You're already further gone than I realized. I'm cutting you off. Unless you can find a friend to carry you out.”
“Back to bunks,” Bacara said, and then giggled, because that sounded ridiculous coming from someone who wasn't part of the GAR. “This is a clone bar, huh?”
The Twilek arched a brow. “You're not impressing me with full sentences. You're still cut off.”
“That wasn't,” Bacara started, and shook his head. “What friend would carry me, anyway?”
He'd never been carried anywhere in his life, not even off the battlefield.
“That's a more extensional question than I can answer,” the bartender said, and then left him there.
For a long time Bacara sat without moving, staring at the wall. No clones approached him, and he didn't mind that.
What he wanted was the burn of more alcohol, and he considered the bar he leaned against, thought about it he had a chance to crawl over it and swallow some of the brightly colored liquid on display in front of him before any of the barkeeps noticed.
Perhaps it was luck that had a commotion start by the door, Bacara turning his head to find a pack of clones calling and whistling at a newcomer as he walked through the door.
It was not in greeting, nor was it friendly, and Bacara watched as the newcomer picked his way across the floor, ignoring the boots and waving limbs of the clones around him.
“What do you want today?” the Twilek barkeep asked, suddenly in front of Bacara again because that's where the clone in red’s angle would intercept the bar. His bucket's visor faced the bar without wavering to either side, Bacara a mere afterthought to him.
It wouldn't have pinged against Bacara's mind at all, except the newcomer had kama on, which meant he was probably command class. They had just switched to their Phase II armor, and he was still learning who had changed their paint, and who had just recreated their already established symbols. Cody, having long since committed to his bit about sunshine, hadn't changed a stroke of it, but Monnk had taken the opportunity to stick even more aquatic life on his gold and white.
Red, Coruscant, kama, working–
“I need to know if this clone has passed through,” the clone in question said, Bacara peering at him still. For his part, he was out of armor, in his dress greys, because he'd been hoping not to be immediately recognized by his troopers. Assuming they were even coming to this bar.
It seemed a lot of the GAR was at this bar.
It miffed him a little to be completely ignored, however, as the clone showed the barkeep a holo image.
“Y’all getting another mission?” the Twilek asked dryly. “Thought you didn't hunt down wayward clones in the Coruscant Guard.”
“We don't,” the clone said flatly, and Bacara sat up straight. “Unless they fall into another category. So, Renn, have you seen him or not?”
“Don't recognize the tattoo,” Renn said. “Who knows? Hand over the image, I'll ask the others,” and the clone hesitated, before complying.
Immediately Renn retreated, leaving Bacara staring at the red armored clone. The Coruscant Guard had previously used a dusky shade of red, he thought, but he remembered seeing the bright red when he disembarked earlier that day, mostly hidden behind security checkpoints. The Coruscant Guard were not known to greet their brothers often on arrival.
There were certainly a lot more of those manned security checkpoints, since the bombing of the power grid.
But the others had been more white than red, and the clone in front of him had reversed that. When he moved, the kama slid back, and Bacara noticed he'd painted the thigh stripes in white there too, making him a perfect mirror for the others. That was, except for his helmet, which had a white spot on the front that did not match his fellow Guards.
“Fox,” he guessed, and the clone looked over at him, bucket tilted a little quizzically.
The clone had not removed his helmet, either while walking into the bar, or speaking to the barkeep. Still, Bacara got the sense he wasn't particularly happy to be addressed by a drunk clone in a bar while he was, from all evidence, working.
“Is that a greeting or a question?” he asked, tone mild.
“Both,” Bacara decided.
“Yes,” Fox said. “To the question part of it.” But he did not ask Bacara who he was, and he did not seem to recognize him either. Instead, he turned the instant Renn came back.
“No one remembers him,” they said. “We'll keep the image, if you like, let you know if he comes around. What'd he do, anyway? Usually you hunt traitors.”
“And Separatists,” Fox said with a harsh jerk of his head, and something strange in his tone. “Keep the image. You know where to call.”
“Aye,” Renn said, and Fox was already turning away.
Bacara slid off the stool and went after him. At first, Fox did not seem to notice or care, but a little ways out onto the platform outside the door of the bar, he stopped and turned. “What do you want?”
“You know, I was told to pester you.”
Immediately Fox's already perfect posture went ramrod straight, so quickly Bacara winced. His back would not thank him for that. “Is that so?” Fox asked, voice cold enough Bacara thought there might be ice crystals inside his bucket when he breathed out.
“No, I mean, by Wolffe,” Bacara said. “When I asked what to do on leave.”
Fox's bucket tilted, but at least he no longer looked like he was about to snap his own spine through tension. “By Wolffe?” he asked, and his voice changed, almost warming back up to room temperature at Wolffe’s name. “The 104th doesn't have anyone on leave.” He gave Bacara's bare face a long look. “The Marines are here, though.”
“Do you keep track of us, Fox?” Bacara asked, a little surprised, because that was outside the Coruscant Guard's purview. Clones on leave technically fell under the Coruscant Security Forces, as the Guard's main mission was to protect the Senate and government buildings.
Though Bacara heard that had recently been expanded to the prison on Coruscant as well. He supposed that was a government building, if you stretched the definition past the point of good sense.
The question seemed to make Fox uncomfortable, though nothing like he had been earlier, when Bacara stupidly said he had been sent to pester him. “Sometimes,” he said, an attempted dodge.
“Has it really been that long since Kamino?” Bacara asked.
“We talked three times,” Fox said. “It's not like we were close, or have gotten any closer since.”
“Oddly specific and accurate memory of the times you talked to someone you weren't close to,” Bacara said dryly.
Fox shrugged. “Have a nice leave, Bacara,” and that time when he started walking, Bacara stayed where he was, swaying slightly on the platform outside the club. Brothers were everywhere, taking taxis and speeders, and he eyed some of the speeders up, vaguely comparing them to the BARCs he and Neyo ran in the field.
But standing there wasn't getting him anywhere, and he still was alone on Coruscant. The drinks hadn't helped at all.
The next time he was up for mandatory leave, he was going to insist on Scarif. The tiny resort there could surely handle half a battalion of clones.