Chapter Text
“To the vode!” Wolffe cheered, taking the lead in saluting their first run ashore together in a year.
“Vod’e an.” Bly hummed.
Bacara would have toasted to that if he still had his shot. It’d taste bitter, and dry like the smoke of the battlefield, and scratch his throat like the screams in his ears when his men died around him. But someone else was twirling the potent tragedy in their fingers.
“Yes-yes, to the GAR...” the thief sneered, raised his bucket over his lips and tossed the biting liquor back, relishing the afterburn with a slight quirk of the marred corners of his mouth.
Bly glared at the intruder, who tossed himself onto the hard blocky pillows of their booth, nipping at the amber liquor in his glass to gain the patience Wolffe had long run out of.
“Why are you always here? Are you some anxious little Massif waiting for your master’s return?” The insult bounced off the back of the helmet. Fox was too ingrained in his steady patrol around the room — proud of the mood he’d murdered and daring any GAR trooper to try and resurrect it.
It was, undoubtedly, a disappointing evening so far. The flowing tap Wolffe and Bly had promised him was a barely dripping one, and Bacara could have sworn he heard the Vod in the booth next to them order a glass of water. He waved the waiter over.
“A Tsiraki —”
“— and a bowl of nuts,” Fox interjected, giving a dismissed flick.
“I’m not paying for your food again.”
Bacara pinched down on the snigger trying to weasel itself from between his lips remembering the long rant Wolffe had gone on the first time Fox ordered a feast for him — a sticky brown cake he called Uj, 4 bowls of something called Baha, and foamy spicy-sweet tea. Fox had splurged with credits he didn’t have and ran, leaving Wolffe with a bill larger than the measly pocket change the GAR called a salary. Wolffe was not able to get drunk that leave.
“You’re not. You're paying for his.” Fox nodded towards Bacara as his words flicked Wolffe on the forehead with a teasing smile, thwarting the incoming glare. Before Wolffe could get into a futile stare down, Fox’s com chirped.
“Sir, I’ve got eyes on the first hostiles. Five of them, Eta 3 minutes, coming up from the south. Shall I give them a little welcome gift?” The corries' manic grin strained to be heard over the wailing jazz singer. Fox snapped from his relaxed charade, and slammed his hand on the table, causing the commanders and their glasses to jump in surprise,
“I want their charred heads on my desk before the end of shift,” he snarled,
“And the bodies?” the guard asked,
Fox let out a cruel chuckle, “As you like.” The call ended and he eased back into his little charade. The patrol was stiffer; clinging to the exit a little too long and pointedly avoiding the burning gazes filled with questions next to him.
Bly tentatively called for his attention but received a cold shoulder. Likely, Fox’s mind was too loud, running a click a minute with what-ifs. It was common knowledge that most of the medals of the decorated marshal commander were made from flimsies — any report he sent was impeccable, and any reports sent to him were returned with corrections, and condescending encouragement — and therefore, no surprise that he’d be on edge. He bounced his nerves out in his leg briefly before the stares and the pressure became too much and with a tap on his wrist, he changed channels.
“Forr, be a dear and send down riot squads 7 and 29.” An affirmative was bit back, and Fox’s nerves returned, spreading to the table and causing the drinks to slosh dangerously close to the rims of their glasses.
“Fox, if something is about to happen, I need to know.” Bly’s urgent tone finally cut through to him and Fox regarded him with a long look,
“Nothing too big, finishing up a little game.”
“Stop bullshiting us 1010, tell me what's happening!” Bly wasn't about to let him drift off again and Fox tipped his head back to let out an exasperated sigh.
“There’s been a bit of an... ongoing discussion. A debate, if you will, about our right to exist and the opposition decided to be a little too bold. All you need to know is the following: Stay sober, and don't go outside until we give the all clear.”
Bacara couldn't help it, he rolled his eyes to the high heavens, begging for any deity to throw down a new brain for the Coruscant guard. Four commanders and none of them bothered to notify the GAR that they were bait. Fox stretched under the scrutiny of his fellow commanders, unperturbed once more, as if his little spiral of nerves never happened.
“Well,” Fox said with a happy groan as his back popped, “Thire and Shriek planned it, so it shouldn't take too long. I’m just here to keep angry drunks off the streets.” His trailed off with a huff. Wolffe’s jaw flexed as he desperately tried to keep a hold on his anger, Bly was breathing his out into his hands, and death’s hollow knocks at the 79’s doors had scared away any amusement Bacara previously found in Fox’s behaviour. Bacara lashed out,
“What, in your abysmal mind, made you think this was a good idea? What if you fail?!”
“Oh yes, we’ve thought about that, we die.” Fox chided. That was it? Just rip out a steel panel in the floor, have everyone climb in nice and snug to make Coruscant's first mass grave?
“You karking Chakaaryc —”
“— Oh, do go on, Bacara. Your criticism means the world to me.” Fox snapped at him, “Tell me, how the coruscant Guard can improve their service?”
“Well for starters —” Wolffe grumbled,
“We are not getting rid of the Jet Juicer's Paradise” Jet Juicer's Paradise, as the corries called it, or, the pit, as the GAR called it, was essentially a torture chamber for happy Vode. The main room held rows of benches bolted to the floor. Evenly spaced Steal rods growing from the ceiling stabbed through their centre. Vode were shackled in place and forced to wait their turn for a freezing cold shower before being frog-marched to creaking bunks to sleep off their fun.
Safe and efficient, Fox claimed when the first complaints rolled in.
Inhumane, cruel and a buzz kill, the others had called it.
Just as Bacara opened his mouth to give a retort, Fox’s comm let out a low hum and he answered it,
“What does that Karking wrinkly, shaven, and boiled bantha with eczema want at this kriffing hour? It says off duty! I’m going to shoot him one of these days…” He hoisted himself from the booth snarling colourful curses in his wake.
“Oh yeah, you lot can leave the Bar now, the games over!” he called over the music, the ruby smog of Coruscant's nights waltzed through the open door carrying in the pungent stench of charred flesh. A corrie stood at the entrance. The light barely caught the red paint of his armour as he dangled 3 round bundles out to his commander in greeting. The draft of the bar tugged some strings loose to curl under the cheekbone of a head forever frozen in a scream.
The metal barrier slammed down between them, bathing Bacara once more in the familiar melodies of 79s: with its candied air, liquid promises and purple haze of memories shared with people who’d come and gone.