Work Text:
They stand in the hanger under the bright hulls of the Venators, the fighters hanging from their docking stations, the men watching from the mezzanine above. The nat-borns have already been siphoned off, it’s just the vod’e now. Cody keeps his eyes down, thumb edging under the first strap of his breastplate. If he starts this—if he starts, that means it’s true. He’s been in a dream-state since they left Utapau, he’s going to wake up any time soon, any time soon.
“Commander,” says Gregor, nudging him with one elbow, “are you —”
“I’m fine.” He undoes the first buckle, then the next. The silent hanger takes a breath and then the 212th follow suit. He wonders where they’re going after this, he can’t believe that it will be back to Kamino, he’ll fight for it not to be back to Kamino. He glances up, past the hull of the Negotiator and the fighters stalactite-ing from the ceiling, and watches the tiny ant people up in the high decks above the hanger and wonders what they’re planning.
Gregor has removed his bucket now and his breastplate and is working on his vambraces when he pauses. “Commander,” he says, “do we leave our blasters, too?”
Cody slings off his own bucket, unholsters his blaster and chucks it in the pile too. The hanger is echoing with plastoid hitting the ground. “Does it belong to you, Captain?”
“No,” says Gregor, after a moment, a moment like he wants to say yes.
“They’re allowing us to keep the blacks.” He sounds angry, he doesn’t want to be angry, not with Gregor. “That’s it.”
“Okay,” says Gregor.
Cody pulls off his boots, feels the cold metal of the hanger floor through his socks.
“Where is General Kenobi, sir?”
Cody closes his eyes. “I don’t know, Captain.”
“Trying to figure out how to fit us all in his Temple rooms, no doubt,” says Boil cheerfully, sidling up next to them in his blacks. “Probably left in such a rush to make sure he hadn’t left any dirty socks lying about.”
Cody bites back something paranoid like: he’s probably gone to barter for our freedom. He looks at the piles of white plastoid and black blasters, like the discarded shells and mandibles of dead beetles, and wonders what they’ll do with it all. Will they decommission it? Will they keep it for the next time war comes calling? He wonders if it’s on the Senate docket with queries about what to do with the clones. One: blasters, two: armour, three: Venators, four: clones. Maybe they’ll pack them all in the same compactor when they’re decommissioned, or slam them in the same cupboard for safekeeping.
“Sounds like him,” says Gregor, like any of them really know General Kenobi at all. Cody doesn’t even really know him that well and he’s been working in close quarters with the jetii since the beginning of the war. “It’ll be alright, won’t it, sir?”
The floor is snow-white with armour but for the yellows and oranges of the 212th in whorls of paint. “I’m not sure I’ll be your commanding officer much longer, Gregor,” says Cody.
Gregor and Waxer and Boil exchange looks, shifting on their bare feet and clenching their fists like they’re hoping to find their holstered weapons still on their hips.
“It’s alright,” says Cody, marshalling and shaking himself—a dog who has done too many tricks, but will do this last one before being put down—and thinking of his batchmates, they must be here somewhere, in another hanger, or maybe having walked out of this one just before the 212th arrived, and Fox must be somewhere below in the warren of the city’s lower levels containing riots, the Guard can’t be done with yet, “it’ll be alright, stay calm and keep the men calm. I’m sure General Kenobi is working something out.” Cody is lying, Cody isn’t sure of anything right now, let alone their future. “We’re going to have to work through this one with our brains, not our blasters.” (He resists the urge to say: not that they’re our property, either.)
Above them, a buzzer sounds. They waver, uncertain. The buzzer sounds again. Cody begins to walk, the 212 th follow, stepping over the mountainous piles of white plastoid. From the dark under the Venators, droids are undocking from their stations—squat ones, fat with old-tech design, holding out their sweepers like grasping hands towards the white piles of lives, daubed paint lives, the crunch as they hit them and begin sweeping tells Cody that the armour is not going to be stored, at least not well, he wonders if that’s a sign. He keeps walking.
Gregor says, “Keep your head on, Wooley.” Cody realises that some of the shinies are crying.
On the assembly line—like they’re tubies again—trudging down one plain, grey corridor and then another, nobody comes for them, there are no signs that anybody has ever walked down here before except the smell of sweat, another battalion before them. Cody thinks about all the other battalions he’s in charge of, the rest of the Seventh Sky Corps, but there is only enough room to worry about the 212 th right now, about Kenobi—wherever he is—and how big Cody can make himself, worry if he can make himself big enough to be a shield between these hundreds of 212 th men and whatever comes next.
“It’s alright,” he says, parade-ground loud, echoing down this blank corridor that winds down and down like a screw and rebounding off the soft, unshelled men. He wants to say keep your heads in your buckets, but there are no buckets any more. “Keep yourselves screwed right, gentlemen.”
He takes a breath. He wonders which one will be his last.
The corridor comes to an end, the men stumble into each other as the march comes to a halt, whispers hiss like dry grasses, flammable, Cody looks at the doors in front of him. He reaches out, pushes. They are in an auditorium, a giant well of a room, below the dark figures of the vod’e are milling—no longer in impractical white—and Cody leads the 212 th down the stairs between the empty seats. He thinks they must be in the SkyCorps—the university sector, below the docking stations of the starships and destroyers where they come to rest when they won’t be needed, they probably haven’t been docked in this building in years, the Venators must be sleeping now.
In the bottom of the room, where the massive stage the professors and lecturers must project themselves in glowing blue holograms, thousands are waiting. They sit around in the chairs, lounging like students, filling up slowly from the centre of the auditorium, or sit cross-legged like padawans on the cold floor with their chins on their knees, socked toes wriggling their way through pins-and-needles.
Cody stands on the stairs and lets the 212 th pass him and then he goes to sit a little higher up and waits for the command to come to him.
Bly comes first, jogging up the steps like he’s on drill. “Codes,” he says, dropping down in the row of seats below and turning up his head to look at Cody. “Fancy seeing you here, vod.”
“Sitrep.”
He rattles off the battalions that have arrived and those he thought he’d see but hasn’t, mentions that someone went up to the top on the eastern side and laid their ear against the door and thinks they heard another auditorium like this one echoing with vod’e. “They’ve got us like grain in silos,” says Bly, leaning his elbows on the back of the chair he’s sitting in, “what’s the plan? General Secura went to secura us some—”
“Bly,” says Cody, pursing his lips. “I know you’re nervous but that is not helpful.”
Bly grins, nervously.
“Vod, it will be alright,” says Cody, if he says it enough times it must become true. “As for the plan, get me some communications officers up to that door your man heard the others and try and get in contact. Double encoded, Bly, I want them tapping in Mando’a.”
“You think they’re listening, then?”
He feels his mouth twitch, he’s too used to the bucket hiding his tells. “It’s just a precaution, vod’ika.”
“This feels like a POW camp, Cody.”
“It isn’t,” snaps Cody, “we can’t be POWs in a war we just won for them. I won’t allow it. The Jedi won’t allow it, not Kenobi or your Secura or any of the rest.” Neither of them say anything about the futility of the Jedi now the Senate has no need of them. “Get me those communicators.”
He snaps a sardonic salute and then he’s jogging back down the steps, past Wolffe who is on his laborious way up. Cody pinches between his eyes with his thumb and forefinger, he needs to remember the bucket is no longer there, he needs to be little Kote—bare face wet with Kaminoan rain—and be a stone, or a plastisteel hull.
Wolffe drops down in the seat beside him. “Here on behalf of myself and Bacara,” he says, gesturing down at the centre where Bacara is lying on his back with his hands behind his head like they’re sunbathing not facing unemployment or death or something worse. “What’s going on, Cody?”
“Not sure yet, it’s an emerging situation.”
Wolffe pulls a face at him.
“Shut up. Listen, I’ve got Bly trying to get in contact with the next auditorium over. I want you to get your trusted vod’e about and ask how much shit we managed to steal.”
The face morphs into something less emotive. “ Steal?”
“Brother,” says Cody, “I’m not a Marshall Commander any more, we’re just vod’e now. Alright? I know that some of the sneakier ones will have snuck comms units out of their armour or, better yet, weapons. I don’t need a stockpile, I just need to know what we’re working with.” He wishes he could have taken his own, but the command class comms are hardwired to the armour to prevent them being stolen by the Seppies. He pauses, breath squeezing in his chest he’s thinking about—Kenobi comes close on the bridge, Coruscant glows before them and they’ll soon be coasting through atmosphere, not loading up in the LAAT/is and the Negotiator will go cold for the first time in years, Kenobi touches his elbow and says, I’m going down to the hanger now, Commander, it’s going to be alright, I’ll make sure it’s alright—he’s thinking about Kenobi’s eyes, his sincerity. “Get me a comm, though,” he says, “I need to talk to my General.”
Wolffe nods. “Alright. I’m—Do you think—?”
“We’re going to make it out of this,” says Cody. “This is just teething issues.”
“Yeah,” says Wolffe, he pats Cody’s hand. “For the record, Cody, I know that even when you were Marshall Commander you wouldn’t have snitched. I hope you know that about yourself, too.”
“Get me that comm.”
He rolls his eyes and stands, looking down at Cody for a long moment before he starts his descent.
Cody watches the thousands of milling men. The room feels small all of a sudden, like slowly constricting lungs. There must be millions of them in this building, packed into the empty university auditoriums or left in the hangers above with the silent Venators. It would be easy to kill them all, right now. Cody would smoke them out, if he was in the boardroom right now where they’re discussing what to do with the unforeseen influx of a new population; it would be easier to smoke them out.
Someone gets him a comm, a shiny comes rushing up the steps and hands it to Cody and Cody thinks they’re probably being watched, conceals it in his palm and enters the number Kenobi had made him memorise for some op over a year ago. He doesn’t try calling, he imagines there’s some stuffy room in the Senate right now where Kenobi is trying his best to be heard.
He types: glory.
He gets a reply within a minute: sabre.
Codes fulfilled, Cody says: being kept in an auditorium in skycorps, battalions spread out in building. sitrep?
Kenobi replies: senators are trying to slow proceedings, keep you updated—food, water?
Cody: negative
Kenobi: war crimes already, brilliant
Cody: worked out what’s going on yet?
Kenobi: chancellor and amidala still mia, anakin got in touch an hour ago but not very forthcoming
Cody: lovely
Kenobi: going to make another bid for your freedom now, dear, clear comms
Cody: understood
He waits, imagines how impassioned Kenobi must be, wishes he could be there doing something rather than sitting in the cold seat, waiting for the birds to pick him off like an insect without a shell. The paranoia is—it isn’t rushing away, but it’s remembering its place, sits faithfully taking stock and planning and leaves any thoughts of Kenobi alone, Kenobi is Cody’s lifeline, Kenobi is probably Cody’s closest friend, Kenobi isn’t some unknown entity.
Kenobi: getting somewhere maybe
Cody: any word on corrie guards?
Kenobi: useful at the moment and so still at their posts—heard there was some trouble when they heard you’d all been detained but commander fox is keeping them in check
Cody: good
Kenobi: ah anakin is here, perhaps to illuminate us
Cody: keep in touch
Kenobi: im going to kill him cody
Cody: ???
Kenobi: twin children, padme almost died, chancellor a sith
Cody personally feels that the information was delivered in the wrong order of magnitude.
Cody: sith, general, SITH
sitrep, threat level??
do not care about skywalker’s dick wetting give me real info, plan of action??
can get troopers mobilised, we don’t have weapons but im sure i can rustle something up
Kenobi: threat null, anakin did something right
Cody: youre the one who brought him up, does padawan training not cover safe sex?
Kenobi: please shut up
He drops his comm in his lap and folds his arms, looking down at the troopers in the auditorium pit and set up around one of the doors at the top with their ears against it. He takes a deep breath again, for the millionth time that day, feels his ribs expand—the war was all for nothing. He inputs Fox’s comm ID.
Cody: this is kote
we’re fine, vod, stop biting your underlings heads off or whatever you’re doing
Fox: fuck yourself
whole place in panic
ceasefire my fucking shebs
whats going on
Cody: some real shit, fox, but it’s probably going to be alright
Kenobi: bail organa might be taking regent chancellor
we’ll get you out of there tonight commander
try and fit you all in the barracks
or in some upper level hotels
it’ll be alright
Cody takes another breath. It feels like it might burst the fragile webbing of his ribs.
*
The night air is cool through his blacks, the concrete of the pavement hard on his socked heels, he waves the 212 th and the 327 th and the 104 th past him like a speeder traffic warden, the flood of vod’e piling out of the auditoriums seems too deep, a tide, a sea. There are people watching them from the speeders above and the walkways latticing the Coruscanti upper levels, Cody can almost see the stars watching them too. The Corrie Guard are up ahead, the white shine of their armour like a flood wall around the muddy river of their vod’e.
Kenobi appears, hurrying out of the watchers on one of the bridges and pattering down the stairs so fast he looks like he’ll trip. The 212 th turn their heads, smiling and whispering to each other and someone—Boil, probably—raises a fist and shouts, “Oya! General!” It echoes around the silent concrete walkways and all the watching eyes narrow. Cody feels tense and sweaty and he can feel something brewing.
Kenobi just smiles, waves, hurries to Cody’s side like he’s not one face in a million right now, no more armour signifying him and his importance. “ Commander,” he says, entirely nonchalant like the world didn’t just almost— but not quite—end. He looks down at Cody's bare feet, but he doesn't say anything, just frowns like it's a personal affront.
“General,” says Cody, “I’m no longer your Commander.”
His mouth twists tightly. “I suppose not.”
Cody realises it probably sounded ungrateful, it probably sounded like he doesn’t want to be Kenobi’s at all. He’s still wearing his Kote-face, like a stone. “I suppose you’ll just have to stick with Cody from now on,” he says. “Or dear.”
Kenobi shoots him a quick look, a private grin growing from his eyes. “I see,” he says. “The GAR is being disbanded so I suppose I’m no longer your General, either.”
He looks away, at the passing vod’e, gathers himself to keep his eyes on them, can’t look at him, not now. “Obi-Wan, then,” he says, not daring to look at his face, “how are your grandchildren?”
“Hale and healthy,” says Obi-Wan, his fingernail touching the back of Cody’s hand, brushing a vein, perhaps an accident but probably not. “Padmé is looking a little better, she’s in the hands of the medidroids, now.”
“And Skywalker?” Cody asks begrudgingly.
“I’ve put him on the naughty step,” says Obi-Wan with a sigh, but Cody can tell there’s some pride budding underneath the sarcasm. “He’ll probably be kicked out of the Order, not that I’m certain he minds. He seemed—he seemed happy, he’ll be a good father.”
“Did you see the twins, then?”
“Leia and Luke,” he says, and there’s that pride, “a girl and a boy. He held them better than he’s ever held a lightsabre, if that makes sense.”
Cody thinks about all the times he’s seen Skywalker fight, the fluid, savage grace of it. He can’t imagine it.
Obi-Wan says, “I think he’s going to ask Rex to be one of his kraytguardians—it’s something from the planet where he was born, a sort of fail safe in-case of the death of a parent—hopefully it will help enormously with the Clone Rights Acts.” Cody lets any of the anger he’s ever felt at Skywalker for his lax battle strategy fade. “The first thing Padmé asked when she woke up, apparently, was what was happening to the vod’e— that’s why Anakin showed up when he did, she’s too good for him.” He laughs. “Are you alright? You must all be hungry.”
“I’ve told them to start on the ration packs as soon as they get into the barracks,” says Cody.
“Are you alright?” Obi-Wan repeats.
“I think so.” He swallows, watching the last dregs of vod’e seep out of the SkyCorps building. “Where are you going now?”
“To the Temple,” he says, “there’s a lot to do.” His finger taps the back of Cody’s hand again. “Would you like to come?”
Cody finally looks at him again, in the half-light of the street lamps he looks very tired. He’s tired because he’s been protecting everything that Cody holds dear, and he feels such a rush of affection and a bone-deep fondness that he’s been trying to keep under his ribs for two years now, he feels light-headed. “I would,” he says.
“I know you’ve probably been driving yourself up the wall,” says Obi-Wan, shaking his head at Cody like he’s being particularly endearing, “not able to do something useful. Come on.”
Cody follows him, marching past the shuffling lines of troopers towards the tram station with every cobble cold and aching through his socks. He pretends he doesn’t hear the muffled words as they pass the 212 th —pretends he doesn’t hear Gregor saying, “Waxer, you owe me when we get that mythical backpay”—and ignores the look that Fox manages to convey through his bucket where he’s commanding the Corries.
“This is—” says Cody, trails off, unable to say exactly what it is.
“Yes,” says Obi-Wan anyway, “it is.”
He nods, tries not to trip over his own feet in happiness, and holds out his arm.
Obi-Wan laughs, takes it.
Cody feels the silent eyes of the Coruscanti catch on them, can only imagine the looks on the troopers faces, but he doesn’t care. He left behind Marshall Commander Cody in the white piles of armour, shed him like a crustacean leaves shells or a reptile sheds skins. Now he’s just Cody and General Kenobi is just Obi-Wan and the work might not be over but the war is, he’s not waiting any longer for this.
“About this Rights Bill,” he says.
“One step at a time,” says Obi-Wan, squeezing his arm, “we’ve got to stabilise the Senate first, they aren’t taking the news about the Chancellor very well. I think Master Windu might have some ideas, but I’m hoping you’ll be able to shed a little light on the clone perspective on all this. It’s a bit of a mess.”
He thinks about saying something like we’ll get through this, we always do— but it’s pointless, they both know it’s do or die. “Once more into the breach, Obi-Wan?”
“Something like that.” Obi-Wan grins at him, his battlefield grin. “After you?”
Cody gets onto the waiting tram, watching the lines of his brothers watching him back. He salutes as the door closes, sees them rustle like a field in a breeze . Obi-Wan takes his hand as they stand by the door, watching the vod’e rush out of sight—the Corries in white, the battalions in black—and the twisting warren of the lower levels overtakes them as the tram ducks back under, out of sight of the richer districts, rumbling past houses in which Cody might one day live and exist and—and write poetry or whatever it is that sentients do. Somewhere, Cody’s armour is being decommissioned, but not Cody—oh no, not Cody—the body inside the armour, it is not dead, it is merely marching on shoeless—on to the next war.
He rubs his thumb over the back of Obi-Wan’s hand, gets a squeeze back, and readies for the next wave.