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Thire left Coruscant less than a week after Fox woke up.

Not running. Not leaving his brother, not abandoning him. Stone and Thorn had deputized this mission to him, with Stone needed at Fox's side, and Thorn still not mobile enough to travel. Thire knew duty, and know what was best for Fox was perhaps not best accomplished by what felt best for Thire.

If he repeated this to himself enough, Thire could pretend he wasn't in some part relieved to be away from that haunted sickbed. His brother's vacant face, eyes locked only on Quinlan Vos, with a desperate, broken devotion that Thire had never before been forced to see.

The ship was small, but comfortable enough in housing Thire and Mace Windu, his companion on their mission. Awkward at first, the company had quickly begun to thaw as boredom set in, and conversation inevitably replaced it. And as helpless as it felt to sit in hyperspace for days at a time, at least Thire could tell himself he was doing something to help Fox. At least he was sitting helpless on a ship, not at a hospital bed.

It took two weeks to reach their first destination. Whispers and rumors had led them there, to a derelict building on a forgotten planet in the Outer Rim. Legends of the inhabitant. Someone who helped slaves that couldn't understand being Freed. Someone who took in lost causes, and returned them more whole than when they arrived. Someone who worked miracles.

The first thing they were greeted with, when they called out to the inhabitant of the little hut on the dust-blown savannah, was a slugthrower to Mace Windu's face.

"Leave."

Thire glanced at Mace, whose gaze was firmly fixed on the gun's barrel between his eyes. Reasonable, Thire thought. Still, the Jedi retained his calm enough to talk.

"We mean no harm," Mace said. "We're simply here looking for someone." He repeated the name the Shadows had uncovered, just as he'd said when they first knocked.

"And I don't come quiet when bounty hunters come knocking." The voice through the door was deep, gravelly, and very strong-willed. "I'll have your brains on the doorstep before you make another move towards carting me back to my dear old Master."

Mace did look to Thire at that, just the briefest flicker of a glance. They hadn't known they were searching for a former slave, though given the person's vocation, Thire supposed it made sense. Still, Mace's priority (reasonably) seemed to be getting the slugthrower out of his face.

"We are not bounty hunters," Mace said, calmly and slowly. "Nor are we slavers, nor in their employ. We're here to ask for your help."

The door eased open at that, though the slugthrower did not waver. Behind it, Thire could see a large man, taller and broader than even a clone, arms well-muscled, face well-lined. He held the gun with a very practiced grip.

The man looked Thire and Mace up and down, appraising and dismissing them in a moment. "I don't help Core-worlders," he said. "And the only place you'd have learned that name you just used, is off a bounty list."

"Then it seems we were poorly informed," Mace said, voice still remarkably level for someone with a gun to his head. Perhaps he thought he could push the weapon away with the Force before the trigger was pulled; if so, Thire thought he was underestimating the man's reaction speed. Their host held the gun like someone who never let it out of arm's reach. And they'd evidently had no usable intel on his threat level, if their sources hadn't even gotten his gender right. "Is there a name you would prefer we use for you, sir?"

A moment's consideration. Then- "Call me Guy. Now, tell me what two Core-worlders are doing at my doorstep, if you're not looking for any bounty."

"As I said, Mr. Guy," said Mace, "we are here asking for help. I am Jedi Master Mace Windu, and my companion is-"

He was interrupted by a derisive snort from Guy. The slugthrower didn't move. "A Jedi? At my humble home? Pull the other one, stranger. It has bells on."

"I assure you, I am telling the truth," Mace said. "If you would allow me to demonstrate without shooting me?"

"Sure." Guy's tone indicated that he did not expect anything to happen, but he lowered the gun slightly, gesturing with its tip for Mace to continue.

Mace waved a hand, levitating a nearby rock. Guy stared.

"Right then," he mustered, finally lowering the gun. "A Jedi. Well, fuck me. May as well hear you out, if only to have a story to get me free drinks at the bar next week. Come in, and mind your step."

Carefully, cognizant of the slugthrower that Guy still very much had in hand, Mace and Thire entered the little hut. It was just as bare as the outside. There were a few sheets of flimsi, one or two mementos, but very little by way of furniture. Thire estimated that the whole house could probably be packed up and vacated in twenty minutes flat.

Still, the table was large enough to seat the three of them comfortably, despite Thire half-expecting the place to only have one chair. They sat, Mace and Thire on one side, Guy on the other. He placed the slugthrower very conspicuously on the table in front of him.

"So. A Jedi, on a shithole planet like this one?" He spoke as though telling a private joke. "What, finally come to free all the slaves of the Outer Rim?"

"Unfortunately, that is a far larger job than two men together could accomplish, even with the Force," said Mace quietly.

"Figures," Guy said, shaking his head. "Well, a Jedi wanting my help is plenty ironic enough for me. What do you want me for?"

"We have heard that you help lost causes. Freed slaves that no one else can help."

Guy paused. His assessing gaze flicked once more between Mace and Thire. "That describes neither of you. So why are you here?"

"The person in need of help is in a rather … delicate state," said Mace carefully. "He cannot be easily removed from Coruscant. We are here to humbly ask you to help ease his condition."

Now Guy's glare was withering. "What, a friend of yours make a purchase he's not happy with? It happens sometimes, you know. Buy used, then find them already broken. Slavers aren't the most honest of advertisers, but of course in the Core, you can't report them without admitting who you just bought. Tell whatever rich fuck you're running errands for to let their damn purchase go. Or just whip them until they behave; Masters usually think that works."

"I am here on behalf of the Jedi Order," Mace said, and was there the slightest hint of sharpness in those calm words? "And as I said, we are here for no slaver's sake. Jedi oppose slavery in all its forms."

Guy snorted. "Don't try that shit on me, thank you kindly. You work for the Senate, don't you? Helped out the Hutts during the war? Now, I've never been to the Core, but I've worked with folks who have 'worked' for Senators. I know what happens in the heart of your lovely Republic."

"The Jedi do not-"

"I know plenty about what the Jedi don't do, thanks." Guy's eyes had gone very cold. "I've seen it. The people who don't dare flee their Masters, because they think a Jedi will come save them instead. Why risk real freedom, when there's an impossible promise right around the corner? Why fight, when there's people out there saying pretty words about 'we oppose slavery in all its forms,' and never doing a damn thing where it matters? I've freed plenty of slaves in my time, Master Jedi, myself included. And the people who didn't come with me, who stayed back, waiting for a Jedi? Well, they're still waiting. Or it's been too long, and they died waiting."

Mace fell silent, which Thire judged as a good move. Guy only got more hostile with every measured word he spoke.

"You said you'd hear us out," Thire said, after it was clear Guy was also not going to break the silence. "I'm not a Jedi. But my brother needs your help."

Guy looked at Thire consideringly. Then he frowned, looked closer. "You a clone?"

"I am."

"So your 'brother'-"

"A clone as well. That a problem for you?" Thire met Guy's gaze levelly. If Guy was going for brusque and tough, Thire could match him all day long.

"That depends," said Guy. He hadn't yet picked up his slugthrower, but that was the only sign of goodwill Thire could see. "Half the folks around here think clones are the author of all their woes. Now, clones have only been around a dozen years, and they've had woes far longer than that, but they still say it, and believe it too. Meanwhile, the other people I talk to think you're all heroes, saved the galaxy and deserve the world, and I'm not so sure I believe that either. Care to tell me which it is?"

Well, Mace's conversational gambit hadn't worked. Abrasive or not, this man might be able to help Fox; another gamble was needed.

"Neither," Thire said simply. "We were never heroes or villains. We were slaves."

Guy went still. "You sure you're using the same word I am? Where I'm from, people don't go around handing slaves weapons en masse." Still, his tone was cautious, a little less gravelly than before.

"We had weapons," Thire conceded. "We even got paid — after the war was over. After there was a new Chancellor, and new laws, and Republic was suddenly afraid what their newly-emancipated army might do without a war to fight. We got backpay, and schooling, and citizenship. A pretty good deal, all told, and better than we'd ever expected."

"But you were slaves." Guy's voice was hard. It was a voice that said, without so many words: I would like to believe you, stranger. Because if you're lying to me, about this, I will kill you.

"At the start of the war, the Republic bought us." Thire's voice matched Guy's, steel for steel. "They paid a bulk rate to the cloners who made us. The ones who trained us for war, and to obey the Republic, and culled anyone not strong or loyal enough to be sold. Cloning is illegal in the Republic; we weren't considered legally sentient until all those reforms at war's end. No pay, no choice to enlist. And disobedience or desertion were treason, which meant death. We just fought, and followed orders, and died."

Guy was silent. Then- "And whose orders were you following, that you couldn't disobey?"

Thire wasn't quick enough to stop himself glancing quickly at Mace.

Guy smiled; there was no humor in it. "So, a slave and his Master, ten years freed. Here at my door, asking for help. You know I can't help a whole army heal?"

"Not the whole army," Thire said quietly. "One clone. One brother. The only one who was never freed when the rest of us were. He just got a newer, crueler Master."

Guy's mouth was thin, but the hostility from earlier seemed to have faded. "And he's never been Free? One Master to another, since — birth?"

"Decanting," Thire corrected mildly, "but yes. Kamino, then the war, then- this. All of us had to learn to be Free for the first time. But he …"

"The newer Master," Guy said. "Tell me about them. I don't know that I can just leave here for Coruscant, but perhaps I could give some advice."

Which was more than they had a few minutes ago. Thire counted that as a win.

"Cruel," Thire said immediately. "Sadistic in the extreme. Enjoyed pain for its own sake, but also liked- games. Tests. Seeing if he could control how Fox thought, what he wanted. Shaping Fox into something for his entertainment."

"He was also a Sith," Mace added softly, the first time he had spoken since Thire took over the conversation.

"Sith?"

"A sect of Force-users," Mace explained, "and the ancient enemy of the Jedi. Think what you want about my Order, Mr. Guy, but our Code is to use the Force for balance, and the good of others. The Sith's creed has them use their abilities only for personal power, and control over others. This one would have conquered the galaxy had we not stopped him. Would have slaughtered billions and enslaved billions more."

"And in the case of Fox?" Guy asked, gaze distant. Not uncaring, just focused.

"Sidious could use the Force to puppet him," Thire said with a shudder. "Move him about like a droid with a word. He let Fox live with us most of the time, then summoned him across the galaxy whenever he wanted. Hurt him, sometimes sent him back with orders that had to be followed. Fox could never be safe."

"The Sith could also read Fox's mind," Mace said. "Thoughts, memories, emotions. He saw all of it, anytime he cared to look."

"That's what he wanted to change," Thire said, voice haunted. "What he did change. The way Fox- what he thought. About himself, about Sidious. Fox couldn't even think a Free thought, by the end."

Guy's face was grim, but attentive. The face of someone who had seen many, many horrors in his time, and stared every one of them down.

"And the end?" he asked. "When and how was Fox Freed?"

"We killed the Sith," Mace said, voice holding just a touch of well-earned pride. "Not quite two months ago."

"Fox spent much of the time since in a coma," Thire added. "He'd only just woken, when we left to find anyone who might be able to help him. We didn't know what state he'd be in. And now- he can scarcely believe that Sidious is dead, much less that he might be anything other than what he was made into."

Guy breathed, long and deep. "You know that you're never going to get him back the way he was before? No help I can provide could do that."

"I know," Thire answered. "I don't-" his throat was suddenly hoarse. "I don't know if he'll even be able to be happy again. If he could just be less scared. If he could just know a little bit of comfort, a bit of safety. If he could know that he's more than someone else's pet."

The final word seemed to strike a chord in Guy. Something flickered, deep in his eyes.

"That much," he said in a perfectly level voice, "I might be capable of helping with. I can't promise anything. But I will try."

Thire startled. He'd hoped, but he hadn't been sure-

"You'll come?"

Guy gave a very wan smile. "I doubt very much that I'll like Coruscant. But give me fifteen minutes to pack my bags, and we may depart. I will do what I can for this Fox. I presume you have room for me in your ship?"

Thire couldn't stop the tears that fell.

Monasteries, Thire thought with a shudder, were karking terrifying.

He had been to a few, on political trips during the War, if the Senator was feeling particurlarly pious that trip. Sturdy and imposing, the inhabitants were always suspicious of the company Thire was keeping, soldiers and politicians who saw religion at best as a means to an end. These missions were always awkward and left a bad taste in his mouth. It didn't seem right to intrude on a religious sanctuary when he was there to eliminate any and all threats to the Senator. There was blood in the grooves of his boots. No god would want that in Their territory.

This mission seemed to be going in the same direction. Even though Mace had assured him it would be fine, a former soldier and general prying into the delicate business of healing still made Thire feel uneasy. These nuns, especially, were ones whose main job was to find and help other…other beings like Fox. The nuns lived here, healing and working alongside the… Thire still shied away from using the word Battery for what Fox had become, what had evidently happened to others. Sidious might have been the only Sith, but there were others who dabbled in the Dark Side. Using the title those monsters gave his brother, and others like him, felt like betrayal.

If it hadn't been his brother he was here to beg help for, he would have cut his losses as soon and gone back to Guy, waiting patiently for their return on their ship.

But again, it was not himself he was fighting for. Fox was dying in a way Thire had hoped to never see again, drowning without Orders and structure. They had lost too many brothers to the brutal transition to Freedom. Thire refused for Fox to be one of them, not without a fight at least.

Thire sighed and stretched on the uncomfortable bench Windu had parked him on, trying not to jostle the young being praying to his right. He could hear Windu talking to someone manning a grating placed in the wall of the monastery. The alley this small window opened out to was nice, if not a little dingy. He could see the main crossroads from where he sat, but this deep into the buildings, where the shadows drew longer and the snow was encouraged to pile up, the noises and warmth of the bustling people seemed so far away.

He shivered, again, and the being looked up, large black eyes staring at him. They still mumbled their prayers, known only by the rote and devotion they were formed on the lips, and offered a corner of the blanket on their lap to him. Thire hummed, considering it, but Windu's low voice broke the contemplative atmosphere.

"Thire," he said, barely raising his voice above a whisper. "They will see us now." Thire groaned and stood up, offering a soft smile to his bench companion. They smiled back, and made a small sign. A blessing, if Thire understood the context correctly. He bowed his head a little and finally turned to where Windu was standing next to the door inlaid on the opposite side of the now shuttered window.

Windu laughed softly as Thire caught up to him, wiping off some of the snow that had accumulated while he was sitting down. "I see you made a friend," he said cheekily, looking over Thire's shoulder, "Thorn will be very pleased to hear it." Thire flushed red and hissed petulantly, muttering something about "overprotective ori'vod'e and their stupid concern about healthy relationships."

The formidable Jedi Master only offered a serene shrug. Luckily, Thire was spared any more embarrassment by the sounds of deadbolts sliding back. The door creaked inwards to reveal a barren room. Mace nodded to the small figure on the bench before leading Thire inside.

Thire shivered and stamped his boots of snow at the mat placed conviently just inside. The heavily bundled doorkeeper seemed unfazed by the blast of cold wind and the equally frigid alcove they presided over. He had never dreamed of Coruscant, but at this point, Thire would take its tepidity over being cold through four layers and thermals.

Mace entered quickly after, bowing and offering a small "thank you, Sister" to the…woman closing the door behind him. Thire couldn't see much of her besides her eyes, but they crinkled as she sidestepped in front of him.

She lead them down long, featureless corridors that, if Thire had not been trained in the Senate's guady emptiness, would have confused even most vod'e. Finally, they arrived at a door that looked the same as all the others they had passed. Their guide knocked perfunctorily before opening it and ushering them in. From the threshold, she said, "The Sister and Mother will be here shortly, sirs. Please," she gestured at something behind them, "take some food and drink."

Mace smiled as she bowed and pulled the door closed. "Lovely woman, wasn't she?" He said blithely as he turned around. Thire snorted as he moved with Mace, setting out the cups (four of them) as the Jedi Master peeked into the gently steaming pot placed on a lace napkin on the center of the table.

"It would have been nicer to meet her if I wasn't freezing my karking toes off." Thire mumbled grumpily. He grabbed a bright blue pastry from one of the plates and settled a stiff backed chair surrounding the table. As Mace poured the contents of the teapot into his cup, he frowned. "Is this more leaf juice? Please tell me it's not leaf juice."

Mace tutted and said "Thire" in that way that all vod'e knew as a sharp reprimand from a superior's voice. He shrank back, and Mace sighed. "I'm sorry, Thire, it's been a very long day. It seems to be their form of caf, though, which should make this whole conversation at least a little easier to bear."

Thire shrugged off the apology. Him and Mace were running on fumes, both unaccustomed to sharing such tight quarters with foreign bodies, and having Guy with them only exacerbated the issue. Apologies were common and frequent, and that's more than what Thire could say about his ori'vod'e.

They just ruminated and blamed themselves. Thire liked Mace's style much better.

Thire gently blew on the cup in front of him and took a sip. He sighed, appreaciating the smoothness of the drink, even if he wasn't a coffee connesieur like Fox had been. Mace settled in the chair to the right of him, leaving the two chairs opposite free for the nuns. They sat in companionable silence for a while, eating and letting the warmth of the drink thaw the chill in their bones.

Eventually, after enough time had passed that Thire had refilled his glass twice, the door adjacent to the one they had entered rattled. Abandoning his bite, Thire rose with Mace. Two women entered, dressed in solemnity and tinkling quietly with the bells and beads stitched to their clothes.

One of them, whose tunic was dappled with elaborate stitching that made Thire's eyes hurt if he stared at it too long, smiled at her guests. "Hello. It's good to meet you. I am a Mother, and this," she gestured to her silent companion, who bowed her head, "is one of our Sister representatives."

Thire didn't quite know why natborns smiled so much, but it seemed to help the tension that seeped into the room. As they all sat down, Mace cleared his throat. "Thank you, truly, for being willing to speak to us. I know our situation is rather unorthodox for your community."

The Mother nodded her understanding. "Yes. When you spoke to us, you said something about a Battery who had recently been released of their service. Did you bring them with you?"

Both Mother and Sister turned to look at him, expectation in their eyes. This was mildly terrifying, Thire thought. Somehow worse than facing Guy down with a gun. Force, he wished he could have stayed in the ship with him. He coughed, taking a quick sip of his weird caf. "Uh no, I-I'm not the Battery. The Battery is my brother, Fox. He's in a really bad spot right now. I'm here on behalf of him."

The still-silent Sister visibly deflated, looking for all the world that Thire had just told her there would be no evening rations. The Mother nudged her gently, brow furrowing. "Your brother? You are family, then?"

Thire stole a glance at Mace. Mace, unfortunately, looked just as bewildered as he felt. That was somehow not one of the questions they had prepared for the Sisters to ask them. "Yes, ma'am." He said, bringing his cup to his lips to gather his thoughts. "Fox, that's who we're here for. He's my older brother and he's-"

Thire's voice cracked, emotion rising in the back of his throat. He coughed to cover it up, face burning. "He's not doing good. We were told about you by one of the Jedi who work in this area, and well," he shrugged. "If it works, I'm willing to try anything."

He busied himself with putting down his cup, throat clicking. It was hard to talk about this. With Guy, it was so much easier. Violence, Thire knew. That passion to protect, it was ingrained in all the vod'e. In that way, it almost felt just like talking to one of his brothers. This place, where silence lay heavy like a blanket, the situation just seemed so much worse. But this was for Fox,and Thire would go through anything to make sure he was safe. It was what got them into this mess in the first place, and Thire was determined to get Fox out to the other side.

Mace rested a hand on his shoulder as he straightened, strength and solidarity in his grasp. When he looked up, the Mother was watching him with a mix of something darker than pity. "I understand where you are coming from," she said gently. "But, forgive me for the intrusion, you are his brother? And this Fox has been a Battery for almost twelve years? I struggle to believe that a Lord, Sith or otherwise, would permit their Battery a family. It is very, very rare." She said, the Sister nodding.

Thire stiffened, opening his mouth to retort that of course Fox had a family, that's the entire kriffing point of him being here was to make sure that Fox survived long enough to be able to see them and not see a group of hostages!

Before he could do so, Mace, whose hand was still on his shoulder, squeezed. "If you permit me, Thire" he said calmly. "I think I could clear up some misunderstandings."

Thire nodded. Mace smiled and let his hand drop. "As you know, Mother, there has been a war going on for a few years." He started. The Mother inclined her head. "The one between the Republic and the Separatists."

Mace smiled. "Just so, Mother. Thire and his brothers, including Fox, were soldiers in the War. The Lord of whom Fox was eventually bonded to was in a position of power in the Republic. Fox leveraged his obedience to ensure the safety of his brothers, and really, the whole of the Republic. This is why he still has a family. It was the only thing Fox had to withhold his obedience with."

The Sister looked stricken, her violet brushed skin pale. She dabbed at her eyes with a kerchief, and when she caught Thire's, she dipped her head apolgetically.

The Mother frowned. "Are you not a part of the Republic, Master Windu? You permitted a Dark Lord your protection?"

Thire looked at Mace for permission to speak, preparing to defend the Jedi. They had done all they could, but they were generals in a war. Only a few of the vod'e still blamed the Jedi. They had done so much after the War for them that most brothers only felt gratitude now.

Mace, however, looked pained. His eyes closed, visibly steeling himself. "Yes, Mother." He said thickly. "We let a Sith, that's what his Order was called, in our midst, and they have irrevocably harmed one of our own. It is a fault that the Jedi will bear forever. Now, we must do all that we can to help him."

Thire gaped, a little. "Well, that's just stupid." He protested hotly, turning to look at the women. "What Mace doesn't tell you is that one of the Jedi is literally Bonded to Fox right now. My brothers may struggle with it, but Master Vos is willingly bearing the evilness of the Sith, and that, to me, is better than anything they could have done." Thire huffed, again, setting back into his chair with a creak. Mace, who had been taking a fortifying sip, choked.

The Mother's eyes crinkled. "I see why you were chosen for this mission." she said lightly. She gestured and the Sister leaned over. The Mother whispered in her ear for a few moments before leaning forward. The Sister rose and quietly exited through the same door she came through.

"Well, it seems that one of our Sisters would be perfect to help both Fox and Master Vos." Thire preened, internally leaping for joy. "I believe there will be ample room for them here. We, after all, have as our main mission the rehabilitation of Batteries such as your brother. He will do well surrounded by others similar like him." She continued.

The leaping very unexpectedly turned to tumbling. Mace spoke up. "With all due respect, Mother, we believe that Fox would be better suited to stay with his brothers. He's spent his entire life taking care of them. To separate them would be disasterous, at the very least."

Thire nodded vigorously. "He wants to stay with us. It's all he asked for, when he was stuck with Sidious." The Mother's brow creased. "Directing a Sister outside of the cloister is highly unorthodox, but…." she tapered off, fingers tapping at her lips. "This case is highly unusual. I will discuss it with the Council. You will hear from us soon."

With that, she rose and nodded at them. Before Thire or Mace could also stand, she left.

"Did that…go well? She left pretty suddenly." Thire asked, slumping back into his chair. Mace patted his thigh. "I think it went as well as we could hope for, Thire. Now we just need to wait and see what their decision is."

Thire groaned dramatically, sliding down his chair. "I karking hate waiting." He grumbled. "Been waiting too damn long." Mace laughed at his dramatics and stood, stretching. "Well, we don't have too much of a choice. C'mon. I hear they have curry, and I bet Guy is starving."

Thire perked up and scrambled after him. Worry could wait after his belly was full.

…

A few hours later, with a belly full of spicy (like really spicy, for a world so cold) curry and finally, blissfully warm, Mace's comm dinged. He read what the message was and grinned. "We will be getting a Sister." He announced. Thire crowed with victory and jumped up, almost upending Guy. He grumbled goodnaturedly, but moved the bowls out of the way of Thire's flailing arms.

"Will she be coming with us?" Thire asked eagerly, peering over Mace's shoulder. "No she will not. That would be highly improper as we are all a group of men. Instead, she will meet us at the Temple." Mace said, grabbing the bowls to wash them. Thire frowned, but the excitement that they finally had all that Fox needed was too much to let the disappointment of not meeting her settle in.

"I can't wait." He said firmly. Fox was going to get the help he needed, and that's all that mattered. Anything else could wait.

Guy should never have come to Coruscant.

He'd been close close to just getting back into the ship and turning it around. He'd been ready to, after the Monastery. Some sort of Force-user expert, because apparently Jedi weren't skilled enough for even that. Some sort of Force-user expert, to deal with the slave-bond that was still active in Fox's head.

Guy couldn't teach Freedom to someone who still had a Master. It was as simple as that. He'd helped plenty run the trails to leave their enslavement. His specialty was the trails within the mind: those who, after escaping their Master, still could not understand how to be Free. And he was good at it. But no amount of therapy would ever make Free someone who was still enslaved. Being owned wasn't something you could think your way out of.

Guy had sworn it, long ago. Mental chains could only be dealt with once physical chains were gone. The only help he could give to a slave was physical: help them survive, and help them escape. Otherwise, he would be no better than what he'd first accused the Jedi of. Healing mental wounds, just so that a Master could exploit them further. Freedom always, always had to come first.

But Thire had begged. Guy, against his better judgement, had grown to at least appreciate the man's company over the long hyperspace flight. Thire asked that he please, at least meet Fox, before he decided to leave.

Guy shouldn't have listened. He should have left on the spot.

Instead, he was here, in a quiet garden in the Jedi temple, approaching a man who'd only come to see the sunlight and green plants because his Master had ordered it.

"Fox?"

The man looked up. Quick eyes analyzed him, making the same judgement Guy's gaze always made upon meeting someone. Categorizing them, by all the invisible tells of behavior and confidence: slave, Master, or neither one.

(Guy always capitalized the title of 'Master' in his mind. Not a holdover from the time he'd once been forced to, but rather for the vital nature of that very categorization. Being a Master, owning another being, was an irrevocable choice. Any being who decided to own another forfeit all rights to moral consideration. Whatever else they may choose do in their lives, 'Master' was who a person was. Conversely, 'slave' was merely what had been done to a person. However much it may define their psyche, it was never the sum total of who they were, or who they might become.)

Fox, very clearly, was a slave. Physically and mentally both. Guy could see it when he looked at him, just as he could see the marks of earned Freedom on the other clones. He wondered if Fox could see the same on him — or if he simply marked Guy as not a Master, and moved on, disinterested and disappointed.

"Your brother asked me to talk to you," Guy tried, hoping to break through Fox's disinterest a little.

Fox did look up from the ground, meeting Guy's eyes once again. His stare was so blank that Guy couldn't tell if it was a mask, or simply brokenness. "Do you have Lord Vos's permission to do so?"

Internally, Guy winced. If this was a protective mask, it was a thick one, and given what he'd learned of Fox's history, he was more than worried that there might be nothing left behind it. Still, he made no outward reaction. "I do," he said simply, carefullying denying the nausea he felt at the words.

Fox blinked once, his only acknowledgement of Guy's words. Still, he kept his eyes on Guy's face, rather than returning his gaze to the ground. Guy recognized the posture of a slave awaiting instruction.

"My name is Guy," Guy said.

No reaction.

"Thire came to find me. He thinks I can help you."

Another blink. Was there the slightest flash of emotion at Thire's name? Guy couldn't tell. Fox was currently giving every indication of a man who only reacted to anything when directly ordered to. Guy had seen those people before, and there was almost never enough left of them to heal. He tried; but the only true help he'd ever been able to give was the final kind.

"Is there anything you'd like to ask me?" he tried, though he knew something so open-ended was unlikely to be successful. Sometimes, though, there was a question hiding under dead eyes, awaiting permission to be spoken.

Fox just blinked. "No," he said, and Guy was certain that if he had come from the slightest position of authority, it would have been 'no, sir.'

"Do you know what Freedom is, Fox?" Guy asked. He wouldn't give an order, but Fox was likely trained to respond just as efficiently to direct inquiry. As much as Guy did not want this job, not with Vos still holding a chain, he had told Thire he would try. But if there was nothing left of Fox that wanted to be helped, then Guy's best efforts would mean nothing, and he was more than prepared to simply wash his hands of this whole affair.

Fox's face and tone remained perfectly, completely blank. "It's what my brothers have."

Kriff. Guy remembered what Thire had told him, of precisely why Fox had remained so long a slave.

"They have it because of you, don't they?"

"Yes." Fox's voice was too toneless for a boast or a lie. Thire said Fox couldn't lie in any case.

Old Man Tribin

Guy couldn't help the thought. It had been decades since he'd seen Tribin, and still his memory lingered, loud and fresh. He'd never known Old Man Tribin by any other name, and couldn't think of him by anything else now. Guy had been so much younger then. Without his own name, still a girl dressed up pretty for her Master. Still a slave.

Old Man Tribin must have died still a slave.

There were plenty of people like him, on slave-worlds. People too old or frail to flee, who'd managed to survive long enough to become a fixture, no longer worth beating or selling off. Slaves who'd managed not to break too badly, or offend too loudly. Quiet, unnoticed, and of no importance to anyone.

Guy had gotten to Freedom because of Old Man Tribin. Too old to be noticed, he'd known the escape routes, how to keep slave chips from exploding. Where to run and when and how fast, when his own old knees could no longer carry him.

Guy had called Tribin a coward, once. The memory ate at him. How hypocritical, he'd spat, to work so hard for freedom without reaching for it himself. To let fear rule, let others take the risks, over and over again. To cower and accept the slow death of slavery, even knowing every step of the road to Freedom.

Guy had been afraid, then. So alone, so terrified of running without his one confidante at his side. Tribin had been the first to tell him of Freedom, and Guy hadn't been able to imagine it without him. He'd been so sure that he was the center of the universe, he hadn't bothered to imagine those who would need to escape after him. Guy's last words to the Tribin, spoken in the panic of the Master's wrath and the sudden need to run, had not been kind.

And in the years since, Guy had helped so many others escape. From a rare few, he'd heard of Old Man Tribin. Some of them had been helped the same as he'd been. Freed, and never would have been if Tribin had run away in his youth. Guy never would've been freed, if Tribin had run away in his youth. And Guy had no way to get word back to the old man. No way to apologize, or thank him properly. No way to know, except through the long drought of escapees with his name on their lips, that he must by now be dead.

He'd died in slavery. He'd chosen it, to help so many be free.

"Your brothers sent me," Guy repeated, here and now, to a slave long-since broken. Who'd chosen that life to protect so many others. Still enslaved, but then, so had Tribin been, up to the very end.

"I would like to help you," Guy said.

Fox blinked once, and watched him, eyes blank.

It was foolish to make promises. Guy, of all people, knew that. But by all the stars, by every soul Guy had ever saved, and all the ones he'd failed to, he swore to himself, and to the memory of Old Man Tribin: Guy would find a way to make this man Free.

Sister's first introduction to the man who was supposed to be her assistant (nevermind that she had been out of training for almost a decade), as well as the Master, Vos, was one of heated tempers. They were squabbling about slavery and Freedom and other such frivolities, and she very quietly slipped past them, leaving her luggage at the door. Introductions could wait until when they were calmer and Sister had met the Battery properly.

This was precisely why Mother had advocated for this Fox to be given over to the Sisters, with his new Master if it was completely necessary. Those not privy to the brutal conditioning that Sith Lords put their batteries through always reacted so strongly. It wasn’t slavery, as the young man…Guy she believed his name was, if what the Master said was true, if the victim could not survive without the Bond that kept the Energy from burning them up. It was simply a dependent relationship, not unlike a herding dog needing some sort of job to prevent its anxiety from destroying their owner’s things.

But it did not matter, in this case. Somehow, Fox’s family had survived the ever increasing onslaught of terror produced by the formation of a battery, and they were loath to send him to the Monastery. Instead, one of his brothers, who knew precisely the conditions that Fox had been put through, had begged and pleaded, in the dim parlor where they received all their visitors, to allow one of the Sisters to leave the walls that had ensconced them since the dawn of their vocation and take on the curious case of one former Marshall Commander Fox.

It was unorthodox, to say the least. There were Seekers, to be sure, to heed the call of discarded Batteries and usher them into the safety of the monastery, but they only knew emergency stop gaps. To requisite a Sister, like she was some sort of calling-doctor, to take care of a battery for however long the owner demanded, was highly unusual. It had never happened in Sister’s lifetime.

Until now. Mother had been intrigued, of the battery that had survived ten years, with his sanity (mostly) intact and, more surprisingly, almost a full support group, was miraculous. And thus, a Sister of the Weaving Lineage, was called forth to tend to this tragedy. Mostly for the physicality of her profession, for this battery was a soldier, at some point, but also for her ability to take those most broken and make them whole (or as whole as it was possible) again.

She stepped out into the careful neutrality of Coruscant evenings. The small garden attached to the receiving room was a beautiful sprawl of tended paths, flowers, and a few trees sheltered by the walls, absorbing the frantic noise of the city planet. She found her intended quickly, sitting on a bench, staring out into the expanse of lovely, non-offensive greenery.

He did not move as she approached. She hummed, making a mental note to discuss with Master Vos the wording of his Orders. It would not do to immobilize a battery in a pursuit of obedience, even one riddled with good intentions. Master Vos had seemed rather skittish of his duties, which made sense, for someone who had so long eschewed most aspects of the Dark Side of the Force.

It did not matter, though. Sister was quickly approaching the statue-like figure and it was not good to be distracted when first meeting a battery. These first impressions were some of the most important in this journey. She settled next to him, careful to avoid eye contact. Her dark clothing, bespeckled with the embroideries of her Sisters, seemed to blend with the soft cloth of Fox's pants. Everything here was designed to be gentle and bland, and yet here they were, like some childish form of a brutal murder.

She hummed, letting the breeze tease the fabric of her veil. She extended the reach of her conscious, gently brushing up against the mind of the man next to her. Sister poked a gentle hello into the form of the high walls that surrounded him, keeping her mental presence polite, yet firm, gauging the volatility of the battery.

It was the first step in acclimating a Battery to the Sister assigned to them. Accepting the unique touch as something not quite painful, and understanding the capacity the Sister was there for them. It would not be good for a Battery to become too attached to the Sister, after all, for both the nature of the work and the Bond was often too volatile to let even the barest affection grow uncorrupted.

He gasped, the first noise she had heard from him, high in his throat. He trembled, ever so slightly, in his hands especially. And then — his mind shuddered. Changed.

It took Sister a moment to recognize what had happened. To realize what this poor, neglected Battery had tried to do, the moment he felt the mental touch of anyone even slightly prepared for control.

His mental walls, high and strong a mere moment ago, were gone. The internal walls that all minds had were nowhere to be found, surely lowered as well, his mind held beautifully open like a rolling landscape before her. A museum display, with no glass to keep her from touching any part of him she should wish to lay claim to.

It was truly, deeply impressive. Sister marvelled at the skill Fox showed in doing so, holding the mental state with no hint of strain. How well he must have been trained. Such a lovely gift he was trying to give her, total trust and openness, just because he'd recognized in her mental touch some echo of his dead Master. How he must crave having someone to properly obey. Sister knew she could be that person, if she chose. But she had her assignment, and it was not that.

She felt a tug, almost imperceptible. It was too easy, open as Fox was, to see the cause. Impatience, mingled with hope. The thought that she might at least punish his presumption. Waiting for an Order, and preparing to lunge for it. Sister withdrew, tutting slightly, before he could.

That was both disappointing and hopeful. Disappointing because they had been depriving Fox of any kind of proper ownership, leaving the man starved for someone to take control, take charge. This was dangerous, and something to be rectified quickly.

He was like an abandoned dog, so desperate for a Master he'd roll over at the slightest hint of command. Like he had as soon as she'd demonstrated any sort of confidence in entering his mind. Who knew how poorly Vos performed the same task, for the reaction to be so extreme to Sister's basic competence. Stars knew how Fox hadn't simply been taken by any aspiring Dark Sider on Coruscant these past few months — the Bond was practically loose and flapping in the wind.

But Fox had reacted, and in a way typically impossible for those newly freed. Many of these batteries just laid there, limply, for months before even thinking of biting her extended hand. Somehow, Fox, who had been battered and broken for a decade, still had the mental capacity to grab for what he wanted. Sister could see why his brothers refused to give up. He had the teeth of a predator in the startle reflex of a prey animal.

This was a good start. But first:

She stood, skirts fluttering around her as she stooped to examine some of the flowers scattered at the base of bench. He followed her with his eyes, some sort of desperation burning into her back.

"To whom do you belong?" she asked, ignoring his flinch.

He swallowed. "You, my Lady?" he asked, an almost painful hope in those quiet words. "If you wish it."

Well, that would just not do. Sister could understand the confusion, maybe. Fox had been treated here like he was some sort of bomb to handle, not a Battery trying their best to be good for their Master. Vos had shuddered in revulsion when he spoke about Fox and the Bond, and so no wonder Fox had scrambled to submit to the first person showing any sign of want. Still, a Battery atteching themselves to a Sister when there already was a Master holding the chain was both messy and dangerous. Something best to be nipped in the bud, before it could strangle them both.

She turned, staring him down, his eyes blown in surprise, a question and offense in her posture. He cringed, cutting his eyes away from her. "Apologies, my Lady," he muttered, knowing that if she wanted, she could have taken him. Sister was designed for these cruelities, not Vos or his brothers. Fox would be much better with her than anyone in this building. But they were both bound by obedience, and she would not let him forget that.

"There was no offense given," she spoke, waving away his crumpled begging. "I am Sister, bound by my own bond to my Mothers and Sisters. You yourself are under the care of Master Vos and your Brothers. I will not take you unless they deem it so beneficial. I am here only to teach you how to be a good battery for your new Master. For however pleasing you were for Master Sidious, there are different rules here. You must learn to be good. Do you understand that, Fox?"

Clear, concise. Not completely a lie, but the truth scattered in a few obfuscated sentences. It seemed to settle Fox. He straightened, nodding, as if she'd spoken the first sane words since his Master died. Sister hummed. It would have to do for the first time they had ever exchanged words.

"Stay here until Master Vos comes to retrieve you," she spoke. It was not an Order, she did not have that power and never would, but he would obey her for the expertise she embodied. He stiffened impossibly further, recognizing his own incapability to follow his new Master's Orders.

Sister nodded and turned toward the open doors to the Temple, where raised voices could still be heard. She stepped back into the cheerful lighting of the recieving room, leaving the door to the garden open just enough that the occupants would not be disturbed.

Well, she mused, looking upon the scene that greeted her, she could have probably started screaming, for all that it mattered. The man that had greeted her at the private hanger was flushed red, standing protectively over two others, one in a hover chair. They were identical, down to the same protective anger that stretched across their frame. She believed they were clones, created for a war that had been ultimately fabricated, if the scraps of information that floated through the monastery from the Seekers was correct.

(And there was a curiousity there that Sister quickly squashed. It did not matter if Darth Sidious had a personal hand in the making of Fox. Her job was to teach Fox about his new Master's wishes, not to dwell on what had created him and his siblings)

On the other side of the room, scattered between toppled chairs and shattered porcelain, stood two men. One was the new Master, Quinlan Vos, a man whose physique suggested a fighter wasted from grief, his warm skin grey and waxy. Another, the cause of all the noise, was quite possibly the most physcially fit person Sister had ever had the pleasure of meeting. Guy, for all the creativity must have gone to his muscles rather than his name, was a man whom life despised. His skin was burned and pockmarked from years spent out in the grueling sun of some wasteland, and his hair looked as though someone had taken multiple razors on the shortest setting to it. He shed sand like it was going out of fashion, and his clothes were the rugged utilitarian of a man who spoke more with his fists than his mouth.

Not that it stopped him from hurling abuses at Vos. Currently, Guy was screaming about "-Freedom, damn all of you! Have you all grown so sun-blind that you would willingly fucking imprison your brother?"

One of said brothers, the one not in the hoverchair, for he looked like he was about to defy both gravity and the Healers and jump in defence of Guy, opened his mouth to retort. (Stone! that was his name! From the reports! Sister thought with triumph)

She stepped in smoothly with a, "Well, this is certainly one way to make an impression."

They all turned to look at her, looking as though they had been unduly caught with a spoon in the soup. She smiled, faintly. "You do realize that voices carry, and these doors had been open for quite some time now? And that the person on whose behalf you are squabbling for has been sitting out there for quite some time, not knowing what is going on?"

Sister sighed quietly as the implications of what she was saying sunk in. Truly, this is why Batteries no longer needed by their Masters, drained of most everything good or ill in themselves, came to the Monastery where the Sisters had trained their entire lives to care. It was too easy to get caught up in the morals of slavery, forgetting that many of these people, Fox himself included in that assessment, had nothing more than the Bond tethering them to a Master that had tossed them aside like so much garbage.

Fox may have more going for him than most of the Batteries she had worked with, but right now, all that mattered to him was the Bond. A philisophical debate about Freedom did him no good.

She stepped more fully into the room, addressing Vos. "Go," she gestured to the garden just outside. "Take care of the one who is dependent on you. You are Bound to a slave, and it is unacceptable to be ignorant of what is demanded of you. Fox should be your priority, not some petty quarrel over the state of Freedom."

Chastised, Vos ducked his head and left, sweeping by Sister with a murmured apology. When the door had clicked shut, she pivoted to the rest of the room, disappointment radiating off her. "And of you?" she asked to Guy. "Do you have an excuse for your actions?"

Guy spoke, chest puffing full of righteous rage. "What is happening here is wrong. We should be attempting to rehabilitate Fox, not let some other thug dictate his entire life. He is Free now, but he's being held back by this stupid bond. He's suffering, and no one here seems to give a damn about whether or not Fox even understands what the fuck is going on with himself!"

Stone uttered a noise of outrage, but before this could dissolve into the petulant brawl it was before, Sister said, "Do you know what happens when a Battery's Bond is dissolved when it is still fully alive? Have you held a woman down while she screamed and thrashed and cried in a thousand different ways for the Master that had only ever used her? If she was lucky, she would have died during the dissolution. Instead, we buried her alive, her skin burning with the Energy building in her. We wrapped her in Binding cloth to make sure the explosion did not level the city. She is dead now, just a few remnants of Dark soaked into a burial shroud."

She shhok, almost catatonic with the anger threatening to bleed out of her skin. "Do not speak to me of suffering, child," she spat, "for you have only known the slavery of the mind and body. The soul is a wretched thing, and it takes a cruelty known to very few to break it."

This was, evidently, a poor thing to say. Guy scoffed, throwing his hands up. "Oh I see," he spat sardonically, "So it's just you, dear Master, that could ever understand the agony of holding someone while the literal bomb that lives inside of them fucking detanoates?"

Sister rankled at the vitriol the title was spat at her. He had no idea what he was speaking about. "I am no Master, Guy, and I refuse to permit you to call me that. Call me Sister, an nothing else." she said hotly.

"Of course you're not, Sister, just a willing instrument to keep slaves subjected to their Masters." Guy shot back, gesturing to the doors that lead outside.

"What do you want us to do, Guy?" Stone interjected, coming to stand between the two of them. "He's going to die without the Bond, and maybe even still with it intact, and Sister's the only one we could find who could make sure we didn't fuck up my brother any more than necessary." His voice broke. While his back was to her, Sister could see the muscles trembling and jumping underneath his shirt.

"You shouldn't've offered me a place here before telling me this," Guy said coolly.

"I did, you asshole! I said it was going to be complicated." The third clone, Thire, protested. "Complicated is not the same as literally having someone here," Guy swung out a hand, gesturing to Sister partially hidden behind Stone. Stone, the coward, shifted so Guy could see her better. "Whose job is to teach slaves how to be comfortable with their Bonds." He said, eyes afire with passion.

Now it was Sister's turn to laugh. "You only know the kind of slavery that ensnares the body and mind. When someone's soul is trapped behind a complex spiderweb of bonds, it becomes dangerous to set them free without first teaching them to untangle themselves." She stepped forward, shrugging off Stone's hand that came up to prevent her, until she stab her finger into Guy's chest.

"Don't call me a slaver." She whispered, some kind of bone deep anger of being so thoroughly mocked making her words shake. "You know nothing of the Bonds that tether him. You would only kill Fox with your pretty ramblings about Freedom." Guy pushed her back and she went willingly. He looked at her distrust, chewing on his words before spitting them out.

"Fine," he spat, drawing himself up. "I'll let you do…whatever it is you do. Use the Force to keep him from dying, however much harm you cause in doing so. I will stay here for the fractured pieces. Not for any of you." He looked over her shoulder to the clones. "But for Fox. Someone here has to be convinced he's going to be Free one day."

With that, he turned and stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind him. She sighed, tension releasing from her frame.

"Well, that went as well as a speeder wreck." Thire said wryly behind her. Thorn thumped his fist on the arms of the hoverchair in agreement. Sister turned to see Stone with his head in his hands. "Kih'vod'e, please." He mumbled pleadingly. Sister smiled. "I think it went extrordinarily well." She agreed. Stone groaned, the sound coming from some deep well inside of him. "Not you too," he complained, but dropped his hands. "Alright, let's get you settled in your rooms, Sister, before latemeal. Hopefully, none of you try to kill each other before then."

Sister laughed and nodded. Stone smiled, faint and tense, before ushering her out of the room. She went, already drafting up a list of what she needed as she picked up the few cases she had left at the doorway. Sister had only brought what she could carry onto a transport, and there was much to do before they could begin to untangle Fox and Vos' Bond.

Guy may have had a point, but it has been Sister's duty since her Vows that he so callously spat on to help Batteries. He didn't understand the gravity of the sitation, as most men failed to do, and that was fine. Bonds could not be made healthy with pretty words and gentle hands, only the ugly practice of repetition and labor, and they couldn't be dissolved by wishful thinking. Fox would never be Free, no matter what Guy postulated, but with Sister's help, he might be able to Heal.