“What is so difficult about this, Commander? I give you a task, I expect you to fulfill it.”
“Sir, I—”
The Chancellor stands from his desk chair. He’s completely composed, not a hair or fold of fabric out of place. All that’s missing is his simpering little smile. He’s furious now, furious with Fox for failing yet again, so soon after his last correction that his scalp’s still tender where the Red Guard had dragged him out of the office by the hair. Really, his glare is nothing special. Fox has seen worse. Something about the eyes, though… “Silence, Commander. I do not require the input of a faulty piece of equipment.”
Fox casts his gaze down to the floor. How does the Chancellor always manage to wash the blood out of the rug? “Of course, Master. I apologize.”
“Good.” The Chancellor stalks forward and before Fox can so much as blink, he’s right in front of him putting two cold fingers under Fox’s chin and tipping his head up to meet the Chancellor’s eyes. “There we are. Keep looking at me, pet. Now, remember. This is your own fault.”
The brand is new. Fox would have remembered something like this. He would have remembered the feeling of his skin melting and running down his back, or maybe that’s blood, he can’t tell because everything is just the burning and—
“That’s enough for the moment, gentlemen.”
The brand retreats.
He realizes he’s failed to maintain eye contact just as the Chancellor’s hand cracks across his face. It wouldn’t be so bad, he thinks, if not for the rings he always wears. He forces his burning eyes open and up into the Chancellor’s impassive face.
“Another failure, Commander. Keep it up and it’s back to the factory with you.” He glances over Fox’s shoulder. “Is the knife quite ready?”
“Commander?”
The knife?
“Commander?”
Oh, it’s hot, too. That’s the last coherent thought he has before his mind collapses into the black hole they’ve just opened in his shoulder. He screams so loudly he tastes blood.
“Fox, can you hear me?”
He can’t hear anything, not over the roaring of his blood in his ears.
“Fox!”
—And then everything falls away.
He’s… what?
He’s in a small room. Someone—the Jedi Healer—Che—is leaning over him, leaning because he’s sitting down, feels practically frozen to this chair—
“Commander, are you back with me?”
Where’s the door? He can’t see around her. He can feel the remnants of the Force in his head, swirling in his skull and pounding against the backs of his eyes. His back and shoulder burn.
Another voice from behind Che. “We need to finish the interview.”
Che whips around and Fox jerks back so quickly the chair tips up on its back legs. For a moment, he’s in limbo. He crashes onto his burning back just as Che snaps, “You need to get out,” and there’s the sound of an angry breath and Fox can hardly see through the disorientation and the pain and that’s bad and dangerous and he scrambles backwards until his back hits the wall and he stays there.
He doesn’t have a weapon, they’ve all been systematically disarmed in preparation for these interviews, but a door slams and he figures whatever he can get his hands on will have to be good enough. A pen that’s rolled in his direction makes a good enough approximation of a shiv for now.
This is not how the interviews were supposed to go. Fox was supposed to help in their investigation. He was supposed to comply and give them whatever information they asked for.
(They weren’t supposed to torture him.)
He wasn’t supposed to act so defective.
You’ve done it now, Fox, he thinks. The Jedi wouldn’t tolerate this. He clearly wasn’t of any help to the investigation, and since he wasn’t any help to the war either, and they’d probably known all of this ahead of time since they’re karking mind readers and they’ve seen his years of pleading reports and requisitions, they probably just brought him here to make one last pass at his mind before putting him down.
He wishes he’d told Thire and Stone goodbye.
The door slams again. He flinches and it hurts to be this tense, but he can’t help it.
“Fox?”
What?
“Hey, Fox, it’s me.”
“Thire.”
“Yeah, it’s me. It’s Thire. I’ve got you.”
Fox’s eyes are still open (maintain eye contact), but he can’t see for shit. It’s a good thing Thire reaches out first, because Fox would never have found him on his own and now that he’s got Thire’s hand in his he’s sure he would die without it.
“Thire,” he sobs again, because now that he’s started all he can do is sob and clutch at Thire’s wrist and try to drag him closer. It’s not working very well. He’s still so weak from the Chancellor’s last punishment…
“Okay, Fox, it’s okay, I’ve got you. Come’ere, I’ve got you.”
He says that, but then his hand leaves Fox’s.
“N-no, please don’t—please don’t leave me here with him,” Fox pants. “Thire, please.”
“I’m not, Fox, hang on.”
It’s a small eternity to hang on for, but then Thire’s wrapping himself around Fox and he’s so warm and Fox suddenly realizes that, beyond the burning, he is very very cold.
“I’ve got you, Fox. I’ve got you.”