Work Text:
Fox only pulls the Toydaria mission transcripts because Rhys won’t shut up.
That is the official reason.
The unofficial reason is that Rhys has spent the last thirty minutes pacing circles through Fox’s office while talking with enough enthusiasm to qualify as a tactical distraction.
“He listened to us,” Rhys says again.
Fox keeps his eyes on the requisition forms spread across his desk. “Most people do that when someone is speaking.”
“No, he actually listened.”
Linger leans against the wall beside the door, arms folded over her chest. She’s managed to look calmer than Rhys since returning, although the slight smile tugging at her mouth gives her away.
Jek sits in the only chair that isn’t currently buried under datapads. He looks exhausted, bruised, and entirely too pleased with himself.
Fox signs another supply denial.
The Senate has rejected the Guard’s request for additional medical scanners because the current equipment is considered operational. Operational apparently means Lex has to hit one of the scanners against a wall twice before it starts reading anything below the neck.
“Rhys,” Fox says, “you’ve already submitted a verbal debrief.”
“That wasn’t enough.”
“You submitted a written one too.”
“The form didn’t have a section for Jedi philosophy.”
“That’s because it’s a military report.”
Rhys plants both hands on the edge of Fox’s desk.
Fox looks at them.
Rhys removes them.
“This tiny green... whatever-he-is,” Rhys continues, quieter now, “he told us we weren’t the same.”
Fox’s stylus stops.
Jek leans forward. “Not in a bad way.”
“He said we’re different in the Force,” Linger adds. “Individual.”
Fox sets the stylus down.
There are six hundred and twelve unfinished reports in his queue. Three Senate escorts are overdue for relief. Stone has requested permission to transfer several CorSec holdovers out of the prison complex after discovering they’ve been selling access to detainees. Thorn needs more patrol units. Thire needs an actual evidence locker instead of a reinforced supply closet with a broken climate control system.
Fox doesn’t have time for this.
He pulls up the Toydaria transcript anyway.
“If I read every word,” he says, “will the three of you leave my office?”
Rhys beams. “Yes, sir.”
“That sounded dishonest.”
“It was optimistic.”
Fox opens the file.
Master Yoda’s speech is transcribed exactly as recorded, strange sentence structure and all. The mission itself is straightforward enough. Escort the Jedi to negotiations with King Katuunko. Encounter Separatist forces. Survive an ambush. Complete the objective.
The personal remarks are not straightforward.
Yoda asks their names.
Not designations.
Names.
He addresses Rhys, Linger, and Jek separately. He comments on their strengths as individuals. He tells them their differences don’t weaken the army. He jokes with them.
Fox reads that section twice because the first time feels like a transcription error.
“Did he know what you were?” Fox asks.
Rhys blinks. “A clone?”
“Yes.”
“Pretty sure. The armor probably gave it away.”
Fox gives him a flat look.
Rhys shrugs. “He didn’t act like it mattered.”
That is exactly what bothers Fox.
Natborn kindness usually comes with a hook buried inside it. Senators smile before they ask for something degrading. Civilians praise the Guard while standing close enough to check whether clones breathe like real people. CorSec officers call them brothers right before assigning them the shifts most likely to end in blood.
The public hates them for reasons that range from irritatingly reasonable to completely unhinged.
Fox understands the fear of a standing army controlled by the state. He has the same fear, and he is the standing army.
Then there are the conspiracy theories.
Clones are replacing civilian workers.
Clones are stealing children.
Clones don’t sleep and recharge through their armor.
Clones are preparing the next artificial intelligence uprising.
That last one had appeared in three different public broadcasts.
Fox still wants to know who poisoned the water supply.
The Jedi are harder to judge.
Some treat their battalions well. Some use clone lives like spare ammunition. Most seem caught somewhere between genuinely caring and never questioning why millions of human beings arrived prepackaged with obedience protocols and no legal rights.
Complicit or reckless.
Sometimes both.
Fox scrolls further down the transcript.
Yoda tells the three troopers they have futures.
His right temple throbs.
The pain arrives sharp and sudden, a phantom drill pressing through bone.
Fox freezes.
“Sir?” Linger asks.
“I’m fine.”
His nose warms.
He reaches for a cloth before the first drop lands on the datapad.
Rhys goes quiet.
The room shifts around Fox, not physically, but memory has never needed permission.
He was twelve when Dred Priest decided ordinary training wasn’t enough.
There had been restraints. Questions. Pain whenever Fox answered incorrectly, although the correct answers changed depending on Priest’s mood.
Then there had been white lights.
A drill whining near his temple.
Afterward, there was nothing.
Not darkness. Darkness is still something.
It was a gap where part of his life should be.
Fox knows he had batchmates before Priest. He knows people remember him laughing, fighting, stealing food, and sleeping in piles during storms when the power flickered through Tipoca City.
He knows because Cody told him.
Fox remembers none of it.
Reconditioning had scraped those years out of his head and left the shape behind.
He wouldn’t wish that absence on anyone.
His brothers and sisters still face it every day.
Fox doubts the Senate understands the term. He doubts most of the public even knows they exist.
The drill presses harder against his temple.
He wipes the blood from his upper lip.
“Medical?” Jek asks carefully.
“No.”
Linger studies him but doesn’t argue.
Smart sister.
Fox closes the transcript.
Yoda’s words remain on the screen.
Names.
Individuals.
Futures.
Fox doesn’t trust him.
He can’t afford to trust one decent conversation from a Jedi he’s never met.
It’s the same with the new Pantoran senator the Guard keeps talking about. Senator Chuchi had defended one of Fox’s troopers in public and escorted him to medical herself. Even Scalper praised her, and Scalper treats praise like a controlled substance.
One good act doesn’t make a natborn safe.
Three good acts might not either.
Fox looks at Rhys, Linger, and Jek.
They came back from Toydaria lighter somehow. Not healed, because war doesn’t heal anyone, but seen.
That matters more than Fox wants it to.
“He really said all this?” Fox asks.
Rhys smiles. “Every word.”
Fox looks back at the transcript.
“Fine.”
Rhys brightens further. “So you believe us?”
“I believe the recording.”
“That’s basically the same thing.”
“It isn’t.”
Jek rises from the chair. “We should leave before he changes his mind.”
Linger opens the door.
Rhys pauses on the threshold. “You’d like him.”
Fox picks up his stylus.
“Get out.”
The door closes behind them.
Fox sits alone with the transcript, the bloodied cloth, and six hundred and twelve unfinished reports.
After a moment, he saves a private copy of the mission file.
Only so Rhys can’t lose it.
That is the official reason.