Chapter Text
“The fuck you think you’re doing di’kut?”
Boil tries to drag a shiny with a small bleeding cut on his forehead away from a leering natborn man but is shoved brutally, all the way until his back hits damp duracrete and he can only just prevent his head from colliding violently on a shelf-kinda thingie bolted into said wall.
He swears he’ll stay onboard come next shore leave. Stupid club – he should know better than to listen to those little shits from the 501st.
There’s a menacing rumble above and humid air hits Boil’s face along with too-bright beams of light as a large vehicle descends onto a small square in front of the club. The natborn is distracted and staggers further and Boil blinks sluggishly at the sight. It’s a GAR gunship. A Coruscant Guard gunship, to be precise. Shit.
Trouble.
The shiny sways on his feet and Boil supports him by wrapping an arm around his shoulder.
Within another blink red and white armoured men surround them, weapons pointedly not set to stun as far as Boil can see. Amongst the eerily identical troopers, one with slightly different paint, wings on his bucket and a Commander by his insignias steps towards the natborn, tilting his head apologetically and drawling out something about insolent frontline bastards who obviously don’t know how to behave themselves around civilised persons.
What?
The man, natborn one, laughs and seems to like the assessment. He clasps the Commander’s forearm like they’re buddies.
Bile rises in Boil’s throat and he’s about to snap something, ask the Commander to arrest the man but he only ever has time to think about it as a gloved hand like steel grabs his neck and shakes, making him drop the poor shiny unceremoniously on the pavement.
A visor faces him and blank nothingness manages to stare him down, despite the fact that he dons a similar one usually. A furious hiss is so quiet Boil strains to hear it. ”Trooper. Shut the fuck up, Commander Thorn is trying to talk him out of reporting you.”
Boil scoffs, collecting his dignity and yanking himself out of the Corrie’s grasp. Behind the two other vod standing guard, the Commander, Thorn apparently, seems to be best friends with the drunken natborn, laughing with him like the man wasn’t just beating a barely-out-of-training 212th shiny bloody only because he didn’t manage to get out of the brute’s way fast enough.
Boil shakes his head, trying to clear it. Coruscant liquor is nothing like the moonshine they sometimes manage to make on ships; it’s sweet and bubbly and treacherous, making you forget everything for a while but leaving a sticky, artificially sugary aftertaste in your throat.
He stares hard at the Coruscant Guard Commander and the way he keeps talking even as he smoothly steers the natborn towards the entrance of the club, managing to attract the attention of two –Boil feels himself blushing, he’d like to say ladies but their profession is blatantly obvious– leaning on the wall. Something changes hands, the girls plaster themselves to the assholish natborn’s sides and they enter the club.
Boil sneers at the sight and lowers himself on his knees, collecting the shiny up and securing them on their own wobbly feet, planning to get the fuck out now that the situation is defused. But suddenly the winged bucket materialises right in front of his eyes, visor giving away nothing and even in his slightly buzzed state Boil takes in the tense way the Corries tighten their formation.
“Into the transport. Disorderly conduct. Harassment of a civilian. Intoxication. Bring them.”
The Commander marches away with a sway of kama and doesn’t glance back. Boil despises the way he ignores his men, starting to tap something on his datapad as the Corries cuff them (the fuck?) like common criminals and not-that-gently escort them into a Guard’s ship.
“Corporal? Are we in trouble?” The shiny looks a bit worse to wear, the cut now more swollen and some of the blood staining his cheek.
Someone laughs, low and mocking until there’s a tiny click and yeah they probably changed into internal channels.
Boil and his shiny are ignored completely. Boil mutters something he thinks is vaguely calming. He tries telling the shiny they’ll probably be dropped off to the barracks and Cody will lecture them a bit tomorrow so there’s nothing to worry about but freezes as he notices the Commander is watching him, the tilt of his head amused in a bored, condescending sort of way.
Maybe that’s a Corrie specialty?
Unlike some troopers in the 212th, Boil used to not dislike the Corries because he thought they were brothers. Estranged and maybe a little soft with their cushy post, but still brothers. After tonight, he really really hates them. Hates that he’s treated like scum. Hates the arrogant way the Commander leans on the wall, still on his pad. Detached and cold. Nothing like his own Commander. In the 212th it’s – good. Boil can feel like he belongs, he can trust Cody tries his very best to look after his men and the General as well.
The whole ride is silent, if one ignores the sound of sirens and traffic outside. The shiny shivers and burrows closer to Boil as the ship lurches, sways and dives through buildings and vehicles until it lands smoothly on a brightly lit platform.
“Out.” One of the identical red-white fuckers snaps and Boil grits his teeth.
He doesn’t dignify the nameless Corrie with an answer. They are walked into a low building and Boil is just beginning to realise they may be in more of a trouble as he’s frog-marched to a desk with another Corrie, or is it the same one actually –seriously didn’t anyone tell them it’s possible to make variations into the paint– who quickly scans their identifications from their wrists and waves them along.
Then there’s a leashed massiff who sniffs their clothes, slobbering all over Boil’s boots. Because he’s heard some nasty tales about the attack beasts the Coruscant Guard utilises in crowd control he suppresses a kick. There’s a grunt from a different (?) Corrie and then Boil is in a cell, with the shiny now close to tears by his side and he’s not that wiser about the situation.
Ray shield activates and they are left alone. Along the corridor, someone sings drunkenly and someone else retches.
Nothing much happens after that. The shiny falls asleep. More people are brought in, some drunk, some not. In the morning, they are escorted to the same desk as last night with someone (same, new, no way of knowing with identical gear and controlled body language) snaps at them to wait until they are collected.
Like pieces of cargo.
Boil is furious by now but the shiny is scared so he reins it in, settles to wait for someone from the 212th to come and collect them. The Corries amble about, doing their business. Through an open doorway Boil gets a glimpse of a backroom, a restroom maybe? One of the irritatingly identically painted Corries removes his bucket and leans on a counter of some kind, a mug in his hand. He’s–
He is–
– very much not ugly. Boil would prefer him being ugly and mean-looking. Like Prime come to life would be good.
The not–ugly Corrie looks tired but then someone probably says or does something funny and he tilts his head and smiles, a lopsided small grin that makes something in his cheek twist and Boil notices he has a scar, actually several, on his cheek. His hair is buzzed short, despite some intricate shavings on the sides. Small symbols and a cleverly shaved tooka that’s–
–kinda cute. Oh no.
With a blink, Boil tries to shake off sudden dizziness. Gods, he really can’t be found checking out a Corrie of all people (not that he’s checking him out as such, he’s just… what?). Boil doesn’t know..
Abruptly, a larger figure obscures Boil’s view as it pushes itself through the door and towards the desk. Another Commander (no wings, so it’s not Thorn) with a datapad saunters towards Boil. He doesn’t flinch, but the shiny shifts minutely, like they’re trying to hide behind Boil.
”Troopers.”
Boil straightens his back. He desperately wants to be bucketed as well because in the harsh light of day he feel stupidly small. ”Sir.”
”So. You’re Cody’s. Should've known.” Boil doesn’t want to, but he jerks his head in a nod – no need to make this more difficult.
The Commander’s visor radiates detached disapproval.
”I’m Commander Fox.”
Boil bites his lip. Oh. This is his Commander’s batchmate. Not that Cody talks about CC-1010 –Fox– that much. But Cody did specifically order the 212th to behave themselves while on leave and also very specifically ordered them to not give the Guard any reason to dump ’his men’ into a drunk tank.
Something about them being better than the 501st (not that’s usually difficult) and something else, a low and angry muttering about not risking the life of his men for a night of stupid drunken fun (Boil had huffed. They risked their lives daily. Whatever some spoiled natborns or pencil-pushing bureaucrats could even scare them with).
Well. Drunken but not that fun, the night had been. Either way, Boil could swear they hadn’t started anything – and the Corries had a very twisted idea of justice. No loyalty.
Under the hard stare of the visor, Boil bites his lip and settles for ”Yes, Sir.”
*
Cody and Commander Fox are still in the Guard’s office and even through the closed door it’s clear they are shouting. Cody calls Fox Fox’ika amongst his insults in a way that betrays their familiarity with each other. Ugh.
Boil might just call the bastard a bastard in the privacy of his mind. Might make him feel better. He sighs. The shiny wilts a little but jerks back at parade rest as a Corrie emerging from another office faces them with now-familiar blank visor-stare. Boil won’t disrespect the vod but he’s very slow in the way he straightens his back.
It’s humid and the overhead lights are too bright. Air conditioning is useless but keeps whirring annoyingly loud anyway. There’s a steady flow of troopers, other sentients and droids milling about the atrium and no one bothers to take notice of them. Boil leans on the wall and tries to help the (even more) exhausted shiny settle a bit more comfortably against his shoulder. No one seems to be interested in them anymore so he makes an executive decision to cut the poor vod’ika some slack. He’s also fairly certain he’s about to collapse soon too, himself. He was too tense to sleep in the cell and that says a lot considering he sleeps in trenches and tents in active war zones regularly.
He wonders if Corries have nice bunks.
Sighing, he hopes the Commanders won’t take too long anymore. Longer.
He also wonders what the issue is. They were a little drunk last night yes but the natborn had been rude beyond measure. And violent. Boil had done as he should, not gotten provoked but removed the shiny from the scuffle.
After the shouting turns into hissing he only gets fragments of ‘...too risky,’ and ‘...they’re lucky Thorn distracted the Senator,’ and ‘...unable to help your idiots if there were official charges.’ Ugh. Like that pampered asshole from last night could even remember their faces. Or be able to recognise them, because, hah, clones and all that.
His back aches and the old injury on his hip is really starting to be a bitch again.
There’s a soft noise behind him. Silent steps?
”Hey there. Um – Want to sit down for a moment? I just mean those two might take a while and your shiny seems dead on his feet already?”
Red-white someone materialised by his shoulder and Boil flinches (the vod is too quiet for his own good), is just about to snap an irritated no because they are fucking fine and about ready to leave the Corries and their precious city in peace) until he suddenly realises he recognises the way this particular Corrie tilts his head, even with the bucket now on. A bit of a lowering of his jaw, with the tiniest raising of his left shoulder. Unfathomably cute, for someone wearing stupidly identical red-white gear.
It’s the one from the backroom, last night. The one with a mug in his hand, bucket clipped on his utility belt. The one with a tooka shaved onto the side of his buzzcut.
The one with a smile that made something flutter in Boil’s chest.
How come he’s still on shift – no Boil is stupid with his sluggish tired brain, the trooper must’ve gone to their barracks and slept some.
Sternly, Boil reminds himself he hates Corries. Cute shaved tookas on their heads on not.
“No thank you. We’re fine.”
The bucket tilts the other way, something sad in the way the trooper’s shoulders sag.
“Um. I’m sorry. It’s just, I really think your friend is about to fall asleep on his feet.”
Embarrassed, Boil collects the shiny on his arms and manages to prevent him face-planting the floor.
“Maybe…”
Ears burning, Boil nods. Just what he needs. To start rumours about frontline soldiers passing out on the polished Coruscant carpets. Well, not that he’d call the duracrete he’s standing on a carpet.
It’s a figure of speech.
Is he bright red now?
The Corrie keeps looking at him and it’s expectant. Shit. Boil realises he got lost in his mind and uh now the not-ugly (cute) Corrie is probably laughing at his stumbling in the secrecy of his bucket.
He wishes for his gear. He feels out of place and stupid, like a cadet in the middle of trainers, in his fatigues and he shuffles his feet as he manages to nod again. “Um. Alright, sitting down would be – good. Nice. Thank you?”
The Corrie nods and gestures for Boil to follow after him.
They are led into a small room, more like a closet with a ratty sofa and a couple of chairs. Boil dumps the shiny on the couch and watches him curl in on himself and sighing contentedly. He side-eyes the man by his side, frozen in place or maybe he’s just used to standing still.
He’s heavily armed. Even more so than Boil and his vod’e in the 212th, with different weaponry. Vibroblades, hidden and in plain sight. Electrostaff and blasters. Boil thinks he sees explosives strapped on his belt. The vod looks like a commando but he’s supposed to be the one with an easy, comfy duty of protecting the spoiled populace of Triple Zero.
Actually.
Those scars on his face looked very similar to those he's seen on his fellow frontline soldiers; burns caused by blaster, cuts from a hand-to-hand after the bucket has fallen off.
Who was the one who first said the Corries have ’the easy job’? Somehow those rumours started and spread until they became a fact.
A chilly uncomfortable tingle runs along Boil’s spine.
Propaganda is a thing he knows a lot about. It’s lies and exaggerations, whispered suggestions meant to catch fire and spread false information of one’s enemies. Abruptly he wonders, if maybe his –and so many other’s– preconception of the Guard is someone else’s creation.
Intentional.
It feels like a treason to be thinking like this. But as long as it’s only in Boil’s mind, no one needs to know.
Right?
Hesitantly, he sits down on a rickety chair.
“Thank you.”
The Corrie nods, his shoulders loosening minutely. Boil realises he’d like to see his face again – and is simultaneously ashamed that he took a glimpse last night, like a greedy half-drunk di’kut like he was, looking without permission (he knows the Corries don’t generally show their faces. Sometimes they, him, the 212th, joked about it while bored in transit onboard the General’s destroyer. He feels kinda bad about the joking, now. They must have a reason).
Heavy steps march towards the door and Commander Cody emerges, shoving the door open as wide as it can go without making a dent. Boil curses under his breath because he’d just decided he could maybe ask–
“We’re leaving. The Senator you had your little scuffle with last night started to ask after you. Thank fuck Fox was able to smooth over your stupid little stunt.” Boil swallows because Cody isn’t really making him worry less but making the beginnings of anxious paranoia in his mind skyrocket instead.
The Corrie is still, his frame radiating bored indifference but Boil notices the tiniest tremble of his left hand.
He’d like to take that hand. Squeeze gently. Tell the man it’s going to be alright.
Something is wrong with him.
Cody shakes the shiny awake and as he sits up, groggy and trying to hastily straighten his wrinkled clothes, Commander Fox’s visored gaze slides over them, zeroing in on the trooper still in the room.
“Waxer. Sorry. Your double just turned into a triple shift.”
Boil makes a sound, to his embarrassment. Like a meep.
The Corrie, Waxer (he’s got a name now!) doesn’t say anything, only pushes himself away from the doorframe and into the corridor. Several other Corries emerge through another and Boil is momentarily dazed at the identically painted mass of red-white decorated with heavy assault rifles and other weaponry obviously meant to be used in the middle of the heart of the Republic.
Waxer seems unphased, though.
“Stims?”
“Yeah. Take two.” Commander Fox raises his voice. ”Alright, men. On me – there’s been several explosions on Level 1200.”
Boil is left staring stupidly after the Corries as Fox leads the way, kama swaying, Waxer and three other soldiers trailing behind.
He thinks he hears a soft “...was nice meeting you,” until there’s not even the echo of their heavy boots left.
“Come on, men. Let’s go.” Boil walks behind his own Commander and is barely able to see Fox leading his men into a vehicle, several similar one’s embarking with flashing lights. Into the depths of Coruscant, where an explosion (definitely not a cosy, easy post?) apparently has taken place.
“...likewise,” Boil whispers and watches the last of the transport as it dives down, the last rays of the setting suns reflecting on its durasteel sides.
It tints everything deep, bright red.
Like the paint on the Guard’s armour.
Boil wishes this isn’t the last he saw that particular Corrie.
Waxer.