Archive of Our Own ^beta

It's 20 BBY when the Clone Wars, for lack of a better turn of phrase, get shot to hell. 

The late morning in Coruscant is beautifully miserable. Noisy, smelly, stale, the whole package, but the light glinting off all that metal, peeking around skyscrapers and racing speeders, that is something worthwhile to behold. Some mornings make it seem like the war hasn't touched Coruscant, though anyone there would tell you better. The easiest reminders are the clone-troopers - soldiers on leave, armor blank or decorated with scoring or marked with what seems like hundreds of colors, usually keeping themselves close to 79's and the barracks, the places they're ... allowed, more than wanted.

Then there's the Coruscant Guard, their armor usually more red than it is white, imposingly matte against the polished upper levels and Senate building. All the way up there, they're often the only ones carrying a visible weapon. Faces hidden by helmets, more than their natborn counterparts, making it so only someone familiar with them could discern how they might be feeling.

(The answer is, more often than not, bored and uncomfortable.)

In their offices, like a precinct in a way, they're slightly more relaxed. Enough for most of them to remove their buckets, or the ones staying longer to shed their upper armor. Enough they can talk more freely, voices melding into each other's with an accidental harmony. Enough to drink their caf, which could probably be used for motor oil, swallow back the distastes they've collected. There are some that can't be drowned so easily, especially not by anything they can grab while on duty. Friends of the clones would probably agree that most of them have difficulty shutting up.

Thus, the CG vent to one another.

Forties isn't a shiny anymore, though he's not far off of it. He's got a mug of cold caf in hand as he shoots the shit with two of his brothers. The man's distracted as one of them shoulders a blaster better, grunting with mild annoyance at the bulky weight. Notes of mocking commentary about senators and their wandering hands tunes itself out. Eventually, the other two realize Forties has mentally checked out, and halt, turning to him questioningly. The one with the blaster has a smirk quirking on his lips. Considering the turn and creak of the gears is a nigh-audible thing, it's easy to see Forties is heading toward an idea. The shiny with them doesn't know that sound as well.

Shinies, and the ones outgrowing that unofficial rank (like Forties), usually give great tormenting material when they have ideas.

This is not one of those times.

"We have weapons," Forties finally vocalizes, slow as his full realization starts dawning over him. He lifts his head to stare at his brothers with wide, glittering eyes, ignoring the initial jesting remarks thrown his way. "Why do we let them treat us like that?" Shiny and veteran both halt, brows pinching as their mouths start to fall open. All the clones survived the same rigorous training. Of how to hold their tongues, consider themselves inferior, let their would-be superiors walk over them. Cannon fodder, furniture with a pulse, living weapons, whatever the natborns want them to be that day, that shift. Forties cuts off the monotone repetitions sure to answer his question. "We have the blasters," a smile starts to overtake his unlined face, bordering on frenzied excitement.

There's a long pause, as his observation sinks through their thickened skulls (their bones are denser than most humans). 

The veteran starts to grin next. It's clear on both their expressions, as they fully catch what Forties is suggesting, and the glee is equal parts electric and palpable. 

"We have the weapons."
 

It's a phrase that gets repeated, just through the CG at first, then jolting through the lines of 79's, whose atmosphere is as lively as ever but in a different way now, and from there it mingles with the soldiers in the barracks, before voices are ghosting it across commlines, over staticky holos. Like an infection they're all spreading as far as they possibly can. 

Senator Amidala has a particular knack for always keeping the guard in her sightlines - it's a carryover from her training as queen, and all her handmaidens share it. Not a distrustful sense, Padme considers many of them her friends, and she fights fiercely for all the clones in the Senate. So she does notice, as she talks with a few counterparts, the guards on duty in the hall tilting their heads. Receiving some sort of comm. She watches long enough to see something in their body language shift, but they give no sign of alarm. Padme writes it off as gossip coming through, or something for after-work, or maybe even a Republic victory she hasn't heard of yet. It could be a million things, just isn't anything she needs to worry with.

She trusts them. And she, at least, is right to trust them, seeing as she's never done anything to break their trust in her.

The first senator whose hand goes somewhere it has no business being - that's a different matter. She isn't in the same pod, but it's close enough she hears the startled yelp, turns to see the senator backed to the edge. Clutching their hand to their chest, staring in alarm at the guard in the pod with them. 

He was the first to do it, and the thrill runs through his blood with more intensity than any spice could. The hand was on his codpiece, and he smacked it off with his idly-held blaster, then angled that blaster so it was pointed toward the senator. No one else could see it, but he was wearing a grin full of teeth under his bucket. "Wouldn't try that again if I were you, sir," the trooper drawls, tone almost friendly, far from the usually detached and emotionless nature the CG adopted. "Trigger finger's gotten kinda itchy as of late." The senator's panicked eyes dart to the blaster, then back up to his black visor, and the man does whatever the orange-skinned equivalent of turning white is.

"You - You wouldn't dare - " The senator stammers, more startled at a trooper fighting back than anything else.

"And why wouldn't I?" The trooper responds, feeling that rush rise higher. He crowds him a little more toward the edge. "You got a blaster I don't know about? Because where I'm standin', sir," he makes a show of looking all around the pod, voice cheerfully contemplative, "I'm the one with power, here."
 

Neyo's blood is boiling, not in the way of anger or fear or, hells, even lust. He doesn't know the name of the feeling, doesn't care enough to learn. He's technically on call still, but no one ever specified where he has to be if he's on call, so he marches up the steps in his full armor, fingers tight around his blaster like it's a grounding point. Because it is. He has a blaster, and nothing that doesn't also have a blaster can even try to do anything about it. 

There's a bell that chimes as he comes through the door. No one really turns, until the sounds of his armored feet are reverberating on the stone. Touches of alarm and curiosity and plain bafflement as he looks around, determines where he's going. 

"Can - " the person at the desk is Bothan, clutching the faux-wood hard enough it ought to crack, trembling as Neyo's shadow falls over them. "Can I help you, sir?" Their sparkling eyes fix on that blaster as they gulp. 

He nods, a clipped thing, words stuck in his throat for a second, too overexcited by what he's about to do. "I'd like to get a library card." There's a kid peeking around a bookshelf just a couple yards away, less fear than the librarian Neyo's hovering over. 

The librarian ... stares, for a long while, head tilting from the door, to the desk, to the commander's impassive helmet.

They swallow thickly. "Well, I - I always encourage a love of reading." With shaking hands, they activate a truly ancient-looking device, adjusting the glasses on their face. There's usually a fee for this sort of thing, but they skip straight past that step, deciding a few credits is not worth the risk of this interaction turning sour. 

Neyo walks back out with an armful of fiction novels, an aura of pride, and a library card.
 

Cody is waiting for Obi Wan when the tent flap opens.

The Jedi is halfway to a saucy comment, especially with his commander devoid of armor, but his mouth snaps shut when he sees the blaster in Cody's hand is not-so-discretely aimed for the general.

"You're taking a nap," Cody says, as smoothly and firmly as an order to break camp may not be.

Obi Wan is already complying by the time he stops, one boot held in hand, fixing his most stern expression on Cody. "There's entirely too much work to be done, and I am not even - "

"You're taking a nap," Cody repeats, accompanied now by an expression of perfect innocence. The Jedi does not buy it for a second. It would take a very stupid person to ever believe it. 

"Last I checked, my darling," Obi Wan half-drawls, leaning forward on the cot, elbows resting on his knees, "the commander does not issue orders to the gen-"

The safety clicks off. Cody doesn't speak a word, lets the sound speak for itself. His scar does ripple from his raised eyebrow.

Obi Wan swallows the last of his argument. For some reason, he thinks Cody actually would shoot him, and Obi Wan can't guarantee it's set to stun. "I'm taking a nap," he agrees now, ducking to work on the ties of his armor. Cody gives a hum of satisfaction and leans back on the trunk-perch. For a half-second, Obi Wan has it in mind to ask what the hell had gotten into his friend. One quick flick of his eyes to Cody's posture makes him push that question aside for a later point.
 

Taq looks around the room as he thinks that this is ... not how he expected his day to go. When the clone officers had marched with purpose up the steps of the temple, reports hadn't even started swirling about odd behavior. The sentinels had brought them to a waiting room, sent for the (rarely used) Jedi legal team, and Taq had mused with his colleagues the whole way what this could be about. Technically speaking, they were at the service of the Jedi Order and Jedi Order alone. But three separate clone commanders requesting their legal services was enough to make them put technicality aside to listen.

And now Taq was helping prepare suits against the Kaminoans and the Republic Senate. Along with personally writing out the demands for basic sentient rights, fair pay, and independence. He still wasn't sure what switch had flipped. Staring at the piece of flimsy in his hands, all he could think about was the borderline sacred ways those troopers held their blasters.

"Have you considered the subject of back-pay?" Taq questions, because this is certainly the most exciting thing to happen in his career. Besides that, the Force was singing like the first spring rain, and this seemed a worthy cause if ever there were.

Master Windu shoots the man a glare that could curdle milk.
 

Anakin still hasn't figured out what exactly is up with the men - Ahsoka had extracted the phrase "we have blasters" from Fives when the chaos started breaking - as he watches, but he isn't going to argue it. Some private comm messages and everyone turned absolutely feral, all but banished the Jedi to the balcony they leaned over now, apparently making their own plans and gathering every weapon they could find. Rex had shot Anakin a pleading look roughly a half hour before, and Ahsoka made a noise of alarm as Anakin shrugged and tossed his lightsaber down. 

"Doesn't look like I'll be using it for much today," the man had justified with another shrug. Then a roll of his shoulders. He'd never admit it verbally, but he had to acknowledge he was tired. Everything was sore, everything hurt to move, and Rex holding onto the saber was an easy way to keep track of the captain. All he has to do is let his eyes flutter shut and listen to the kyber's singing.

The kyber sounds - happy. That's reason enough for Anakin to simply roll with this fit of madness. 

Ahsoka pulls out a couple juice boxes from her pack, resigning herself to just waiting to find out more. Master and padawan watch Artoo eagerly screeching and rolling around with the soldiers.

"It's ... probably safer if we're not involved, honestly," Ahsoka relents. Anakin gives a pained noise of agreement.
 

"This is the craziest idea you've ever had," Bugsy hisses at Ted over the helmet comms. 

Ted's absolutely pounding heart is in complete agreement. His hands keep wanting to twitch toward his blasters, or a rock, anything. He just digs them into the edges of his armor instead. This situation is too precarious to even dream of startling anything. The extremely confused B1 had accepted his offer to parlay. Ted only offered it because, frankly, he felt weird about shooting an unarmed droid. They had sat down to talk, which really only served to further confuse the droid. But they'd gotten somewhere, and the droid called in some of the other B1's, and then the B1's called in their command droid, who is currently silent as it scrolls through the holopad Ted handed it.

He has to take his helmet off. He feels like he can't breathe in the damn thing, suddenly claustrophobic. The droids look at him when he scrambles to rip it away, B1's watching it bounce where he carelessly tosses it, and Ted winces at the knowledge his commander is going to shoot him later. His commander was already going to be inclined to shooting him, on the off-chance the droids didn't do it first.

This wasn't just a crazy idea. It was a terrible one. Ted was now living proof of why shinies should not be left unsupervised.

The command droid hands back the holopad, and Ted tries to slow the rolling of his gut as he accepts it. "So, Rogers," he'd taken to calling them that, "whatcha thinking?" He smiles nervously, even though he knows it's stupid to bother. Battle droids probably aren't programmed to decipher facial expressions. Ted's not sure he himself is, as often as they're in helmets and as little expression as his general can make. 

General. Ted thinks about General Plo, about the murmured words driving this entire banthashit process. Logic can be reasoned with, the Jedi told him once, after his first battle, it is emotion that is unreasonable.

It wasn't the spirit of the comforting words, but. Droids were driven by logic. Battle droids at least, from what he could tell, didn't actually feel emotions. Clones were fed by theirs. Those emotions, unreasonable though they may be, were what made them sentient. But they were also taught to follow logic first and foremost, and they tended to. Logic was what finally set off this whole revolution. 

Logic could set off more. Logic could end a war.

"You have raised a logical argument," the command droid monotones, head tilting to one side. As if it were studying Ted. He forces himself to breathe, straighten his spine, meet its stare as evenly as he possibly can. "I have considered your proposal and made the calculations. It stands less than a 40% chance of success." Ted tries not to visibly deflate. There's a weird comfort, in the way the Roger Coalition shake their heads, nudge each other, like they're displeased with that fact. A local militia fighter told someone in the Pack once that soldiers all share two things; a culture and gods.

Ted isn't too sure about divinity, but he sees the point in the culture thing. Once he thinks of the droids as soldiers, just on the opposite side of the trenches, it's hard to hold onto his grudge against the clankers. They're all brothers, end of the day.

"However," Command Roger declares, having not finished its earlier report. "I have also calculated the odds of our unit's survival to the end of the war." It turns to consider the B1's, and there's ... an almost there. He doesn't know much about droids. But if troopers in full armor can have micro expressions, Ted figures droids can, too. "Those odds are below 10%." Ted's heart and head give a different, synchronized thrum. Command Roger fixates on him again. "I am responsible for the droids under my command. I have decided this objective overrules any mission objective. Therefor, my programming dictates I must do what grants them a higher chance of survival - "

The droid pauses. The whole planet seems to pause, Ted's mind spinning in a thousand different directions but unable to move. 

"We will negotiate peace." Command Roger agrees, holding out one metal appendage.

Ted doesn't care that he probably looks stupid. He shakes that hand like a man dying of thirst drinks a glass of water.
 

Serenno, it turns out, is very easy to sneak into. Especially when someone has inside help. 

Hunter has no idea how they got this mission. Hunter has no idea how it's going so well, thus far.

Hunter has no idea what General Ti thinks he can do with a lightsaber, but he clutches that thing in one hand like his life depends on it, which it very well might. Granted, the Batch took turns playing with the thing the whole way through hyperspace. The humming hurt Hunter's head at first, but it turned into something quieter, steadying, and as they pause for Tech to get camera access, Hunter stares at the passive saber and almost swears he can hear that humming even now. There's a faint pulse traveling from the grip. He breathes through his teeth, removes that glove without actually releasing the saber. With the wrapped metal against his bare hand, he can feel it better, something almost electric but too similar to a heartbeat.

Crosshair taps booted toes to the back of his calf; silent question, direction of his helmet suggesting he isn't even watching for the answer. The sergeant releases that breath the same way it came in, changes his stance and shifts so their pauldrons brush for a split second. Silent answer.

"I'm in," Tech relays over internal comm, gaze fixed to the monitor on his vambrace.

"Dooku?" Wrecker asks. Even Wrecker's tense, visibly wondering what they've gotten themselves into now. 

"Appears to be distracted by a holocall," Tech's head tilts to the side, wide eyes narrowing slightly behind the thick glass of his goggles. 

"Ventress?" Crosshair chimes in, a tone of dark eagerness to his voice, enough to make Hunter shoot the sniper a glare. It would be just like Crosshair to want one of the worst clone-killers to be in their path. 

Tech scans the relay from a few different cameras, then shakes his head, before a holding a single finger up.

All four of them force themselves to remain still, like livewires against the stone wall. That thrum from the saber grows in Hunter's hand until it's nearly all he can focus on. Three droids round the corner at the far end of one hall, one splitting off to go elsewhere, another moving faster and breezing past the Batch without notice. The third is a sentry droid, which stops just across from them and turns. Crosshair's the first to start to react, but Hunter throws an arm across the sniper's chest, eyes never leaving the sentry. He isn't even sure why he stops his brother. They can't confirm how many of the droids are willing to allow them to kill the Sith Lord, or get close enough the Sith Lord kills them. A sentry seems unlikely to have - reprogrammed itself like the B1's. 

The arm across Crosshair is the one clutching the saber. The thrum travels through the skin of his palm, down to his bone, through him, settling all his senses down so everything's clearer. 

The sentry considers them a moment longer. It makes a low noise, almost an ah, before turning very purposefully and continuing.

Wrecker and Crosshair are both breathing like they've run marathons. Tech doesn't start breathing again until Hunter's still-gloved hand smacks his chest-plate.

"Either that was a friendly," Hunter starts, gaze flicking from one entry point to another. They're too exposed here. The whole damn palace is exposed. "Or we're officially walking into a trap, lads."

Wrecker shoulders the grenade launcher. Even with his decorated helmet fully on, Hunter can feel his little brother's wicked grin. "Hope it's the latter. I'm ready to have some fun!" His voice is booming without any care for discretion.

Hunter doesn't share that opinion, but by the way the saber's pulse jumps, it apparently does. 
 

It, of course, doesn't take long before the CG commanders are having a sit-down together, while the rest of their men are on organized strike. The senate is in session, and having a field day at that. But these officers are otherwise preoccupied. 

It similarly doesn't take them long to figure it out, and they collectively decide, seeing as they're not recognized sentients of the Republic, much less citizens, they are not obliged to follow its laws, such as breaking and entering.

Even Sith lords have blind spots. And Palpatine's, of course, is in his own arrogance.

The 501st came back from the fastest, most efficient, and possibly most entertaining campaign in the GAR's history just in time for this. Anakin, Ahsoka, and Captain Rex tote the stolen evidence directly into the Jedi Council chambers, unconcerned with it being in session. (Obi Wan was still on bedrest without a functioning comm, and unaware this meeting was occurring.) They drop their collection directly at Yoda and Mace's feet, Rex still with a lightsaber clipped to his hip. 

"What," Ki Adi Mundi asks with extremely forced patience, "is this?"

"Proof Chancellor Palpatine is the Sith Lord behind the war," Anakin relays what Fox told them. 

He should probably be angry, or scared, or shocked. Maybe he is the last one, since he can't seem to wipe the expression of infectious amusement off his face for long. It helps too, the way the Force is singing. Like the way it did when he was a child, a way he'd forgotten it's supposed to, its presence something almost as palpable as his memories of his mother's touch.

There's been a Sith Lord in his head, most likely, and he's barely not laughing. His wife is going to hit him with a pillow. 

She'll probably have to hit Rex too, because Rex is filled to the brim with dark amusement and smugness, like he was at the start of the war, and Anakin's saber doesn't seem inclined to be parted from the clone captain yet.

"Fuck," Master Yaddle declares, at the exact same time the entire - present - council likewise reach their breaking points.

"Skywalker, Tano," Mace Windu snarls out, kicking aside one box of flimsy so he can roll onto his feet, cloak swirling, stalking for the doors, saber already in his hand. "You're in charge of temple defense. We - " the Head of the Order pauses long enough to check the rest are following him, which they are, " - will be back."

The trio swap looks and fight back rounds of laughter and giggles - well, Ahsoka and Rex manage to, Anakin is swiftly being overtaken by a giggling fit. 

"I think you'll find that unnecessary, Masters." Ahsoka bites her lip as she issues the polite advice.
 

No one will ever prove which bolt hit first, or which one actually killed the man.

Half the Senate pods, if not more, very suddenly had clone troopers at their front, in varying degrees of armor and with contrasting weapons, and by the time anyone even registered their presences, they were firing right at Chancellor Palpatine. At the same time, Senators Chuchi, Amidala, Organa, and Mothma all fire their own blasters, having been forewarned of this plot, and having also reached their breaking points. 

Of course, it's chaos in the aftermath, not least of all for the show of force-lightning the dying Sith lord releases. It conveniently turns his closest allies into bacon. Padme points out later how polite it was of him to spare them extra murder charges. Not that much of anyone really bothers to try and prosecute anyone for Palpatine's death. 

Quite simply because - they have the blasters.
 

Serenno is, of course, a pile of rubble by the time the Batch has finished with the palace, Crosshair having herded all the droid occupants out while Wrecker and Tech set the explosives. Dooku's body quit moving a while before detonation, but Hunter decided a full burial was the safer bet. A bunny droid brings out a few bags of marshmallows from who-knows-where. 

The four clones shrug and make camp on the rubble. Roast marshmallows over lighters and take turns trying to describe s'mores to things that can't eat in the first place. 

It's a very lovely afternoon, actually, and they so rarely get to just enjoy the planets they're on. 

Then; "Hunter," Crosshair begins, slow and steady, sniper's gaze locked on his literally burning treat, "that ... thing you did back there, when we were battling the Sith?"

Hunter thinks back with a mouthful of sticky sweetness. Everything's a blur of frantic energy and adrenaline still, but it isn't difficult to figure out what Cross is referring to. He remembers, like some gut instinct, reaching out, something in Dooku's saber physically shattering. The clone turns Shaak Ti's borrowed saber over and over in his hand, the satisfied hum it sends back. He swallows before he nods.

"Great." Crosshair's nose wrinkles as the lighter flicks off, apparently satisfied with the charred remains of the marshmallow. "Would you mind explaining to us what the sith-spit you did?"

"I was wondering about that as well," Tech muses, looking up from whatever recalibration he was performing on their campground companions. One wayward thumb adjusts his goggles along his nose as he studies their leader more intensely than normal. "While none of us are traditionally acquainted with the Jedi ... The only logical conclusion is that you manipulated the 'Force' ." 

He makes a face at that suggestion.

"No one else was in that room," Wrecker offers, apparently feeling similarly to Hunter. The other two look at each other for a moment, finally shrugging, acquiescing to that. 
 

Plo watches idly as Commander Wolffe, more temperamental than ever after spending a few days surrounded by Jedi lawyers, shakes the poor shiny known as Ted around like a child's sock-doll. 

"He's going to hurt the kid," Sinker gripes to their general, "and he's going to rip his wounds open, so we'll have to sedate him and chain him to the medbay, again."

Command Roger turns to examine Wolffe and Ted. They turn back to the game of sabacc without a second glance. "By my calculations, neither will occur before we have finished this round." They make their move, visual sensors refocusing on Comet, their opponent.

"Let Wolffe have his fun," Plo translates, full of fond amusement and relief. 
 

When Cody drops Grievous's - unmasked - head beside Obi Wan's cot, Obi Wan lets out a very shrill shriek, having awoken to the thumping of approaching boots.

"What - " The Jedi starts, back now against the tent's wall. One of his hands is clutched over his heart, the other reaching for a saber he's yet to realize was borrowed, eyes flickering back and forth.

"In some areas of the Mandalorian Empire," Cody says, conversationally, sinking one knee onto the cot without hesitation or self-consciousness, "this would be considered a very romantic marriage proposal." His helmet is off and his hair looks like a wreck. He also has streaks of sweat and dirt and blood and oil across his face, his armor, his gloved hands, the only things clean being the blaster he laid on the side-table and the saber hooked to his belt. The self-satisfied smirk he gives the Jedi shows a glitter of teeth.

Obi Wan places a foot against Cody's breastplate and uses that to nudge the commander back off the bed. "And we are, quite thankfully, in none of those." With a stronger push, Cody has to stumble back across the tent space a bit. The general leans forward enough he can peek with disgust at the head of his former enemy. Then he levels Cody a look that nigh equals it, pointedly dragging his gaze up and down the man's unwashed armor. "Get a bath and some flowers and perhaps we can revisit this."

Cody thinks for a moment. Revisiting sounds good enough for him. "You wait here, in that case." He barely gets two steps before he's being stopped by Obi Wan's pinched voice.

"Cody, take that hideous thing with you - "