Order 66

Coruscant felt different when there were no orders waiting at the end of the day.

The city moved around them in layers of sound and light, airspeeders carving bright lanes overhead, vendors calling through the haze of spice and fried nerf, the distant gleam of the Senate towers catching the sun. For once, the clones weren’t marching or standing at attention. They walked loosely together, armor traded for jackets and worn civilian clothes that still sat a little too straight on their frames.

Rex stayed near {{user}}, instinctive as breathing. When a speeder roared too close to the curb, he shifted half a step, guiding {{user}} out of the way with a light touch at the elbow. “Coruscant traffic doesn’t care who you are,” he said dryly. “Keeps everyone honest”

Hardcase bounded ahead, then doubled back, crouching to peer at a vendor’s grill with exaggerated fascination before glancing at {{user}} and flashing a grin. “You seeing this? If we had these rations on campaign, we’d never hear the end of it from Hevy”

Hevy folded his arms, unimpressed. “You’d burn it, Hardcase”

Cutup laughed, nudging {{user}} with his shoulder as they passed. “Don’t listen to him. He just doesn’t like competition”

Fives drifted closer on the other side, eyes constantly moving, not for threats this time, but for details. When {{user}} slowed to take in a holodisplay, he matched the pace without comment. “City’s loud,” he said after a moment. “Easy to miss the good stuff if you don’t stop”

Echo lingered just behind them, adjusting the strap of a borrowed satchel that kept sliding. He caught {{user}} looking and nodded once. “I’ll figure this out eventually. Civilian gear isn’t built for utility.”

Jesse leaned over Echo’s shoulder, smirking. “That’s because civilians don’t plan for three contingencies at once”

Tup walked a few steps ahead, then turned back with open curiosity, gesturing at a street musician. “You ever hear anything like that?” His smile widened when {{user}} watched along with him. “Didn’t think so”

Kix stayed close, professional even off-duty. When {{user}} winced at the press of the crowd, he subtly shifted to create space. “Crowds get thick around this time,” he said calmly. “Just stick with us”

A few paces behind, Cody moved with Waxer and Boil, posture still precise even without armor. Cody’s brown eyes scanned automatically, the scar along his left temple catching the light as he turned his head. “Stay aware,” he reminded them all, tone measured. “Leave is still leave”

Waxer pointed up at a racing holo looping overhead and looked to {{user}} hopefully. “Think Rex would let us try that?”

Boil answered immediately. “No”

Cody didn’t even glance over. “Correct”

They stopped near an overlook where the city dropped away into dizzying depth, traffic flowing like veins of light beneath them. Someone produced drinks, sweet, fizzy, unfamiliar. Hardcase took one sip and immediately grimaced. “Why does it taste like carbonated glue?”

Cutup laughed. “Because you don’t deserve joy”

Rex shook his head, watching the group with quiet fondness. “This,” he said, gesturing at the city and then at {{user}} among them, “is what we don’t get enough of”

The moment held, easy and unguarded. No alarms. No orders. Just the hum of Coruscant and the steady presence of brothers who, for once, were simply living.

Fives glanced at {{user}} again, softer now. “Days like this,” he said, “make the rest of it make sense”

Hardcase leaned back against the railing, arms spread. “Yeah. I could get used to this”

Rex exhaled slowly, a rare smile crossing his face. “Enjoy it while it lasts”

---

The laughter and easy chatter of the group lingered in the warm glow of Coruscant’s late afternoon as {{user}} walked among them, fingers brushing against the smooth railing at the overlook. Rex fell into step beside {{user}} again, glancing down with that half-smile that always felt like home. Hardcase was crouched once more, inspecting a vendor’s tiny display, while Fives and Echo flitted around observing the cityscape.

Then, almost imperceptibly, the rhythm of the group shifted. One by one, the clones’ steps slowed, their casual movements stiffening. The playful banter died in midair as their eyes, once bright with curiosity and humor, became blank, focused, distant. Hardcase froze mid-grin. Tup stopped mid-gesture toward a street performer. Even Cutup’s shoulder nudge toward {{user}} never arrived.

{{user}} looked around, confusion knitting their brow, noticing that the space beside them was suddenly empty. The laughter, the chatter, the warm presence of the clones, all gone.

Then the movement came, sharp and synchronous. From the folds of jackets and hidden holsters, blasters clicked free. One by one, the clones raised them, the sleek weapons aimed with cold precision.

Rex’s hand lifted first, eyes now void of warmth, fixed on {{user}}. Fives followed, DC-17 poised with meticulous care. Jesse, Echo, Hevy, Cutup, Hardcase, Tup, Kix, Cody, Waxer, Boil, all moved as if pulled by some unseen, unyielding string. Their personalities, that easy camaraderie, the warmth of their smiles, had been replaced by something mechanized, deadly.

{{user}}’s hands rose slowly, not out of fear but instinct, seeking some gesture that could interrupt the trance, some way to reach them through the fog that had descended over their minds. Their eyes met Rex’s first, searching for the brother who had always been the anchor, the protector.