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Soul Lies Chapter 12

Chapter 12

Title: Tell Me That Your Soul Lies Now

Relationship: Sev/OC/Scorch

Rating: Teen

Characters: Jessa, Sev, Scorch, a smattering of commandos and nulls

Warnings: None

Summary: It's time to shine girl. The boys talk about The Rules.

Thank you all for your patience. as you know life happens and I'm so happy to get back to this story. Thank @fractiouskat for being an A+ cheerleader and thank you to @royalhandmaidens for the greatest banner ever!

What role should she play? Jessa wonders idly as she and her Mandalorian bodyguard move

up through the queue to check in and receive her bidding number. Wal’buir had discussed her options and the pros and cons each entailed. The first option had been the bubbly, dumb socialite, someone who wasn’t taken seriously and was easily looked over. The problem with that was that no one would take her seriously. In order to complete her given objective, she needed to be seen as a legitimate buyer and not a brainless waif playing with her Daddy’s money.

The second option had her channeling her own history, her mothers ability to look down her nose and her father’s ability to become the most important person in any room. Mix that with her recently acquired buir’s imperious, cool nature and she had a pretty good idea of the character she’d need to portray.

As they reach the front of the loose line Jessa is halted by a sour looking young man.

“Ma’am, we need to check for weapons.” The man in front of her towers, dressed in Imperial gray, he’s thin with birdlike features that give his face a tight, pinched look. He was put upon and not above letting the galaxy at large know his poor mood. He must have drawn the short straw. She couldn’t really blame him for the poor attitude he radiated. He was a soldier not a doorman. He probably hadn’t had the option of saying “no” and that had landed him babysitting elite for the evening.

“Do I look like someone who would carry a weapon?” Her arms cross loosely over her chest and her painted lips curl in disgust for good measure. The door man cringes before he can school his features.

Yes, option two felt better.

The gray-clad imperial attendant makes little attempt to hide the contempt in his eyes. He persists.

“House rules. I’m sure you understand.” Technically she did, but she also didn’t care. The thought of throwing out a “do you know who I am?” does cross her mind, but it feels like that’s a card she can only play once and get away with it. It would be a shame to waste it on someone that didn’t matter.

“Fine.” she huffs, making no move to hide her disdain. The Imp moves cautiously to kneel in front of her. He eyes her like a hungry nexu eyes a mouse. It’s a strange feeling. The attendant's hand wrapping around her ankle jolts her violently from any thoughts she’d have further on it. She kicks out and the man's grip tightens.

“No pat down. No entry.” The grin he’s trying to smother makes her feel like the power’s shifted and her heart rate changes in compliance, beating faster in her chest.

Luckily for Jessa, a Mandalorian bodyguard came with certain perks. The first, Jessa notes is the sudden and immediate halt of the man’s hands as he looks up and- Jessa doesn’t need to look over her shoulder, she can feel Mereel there at her back. She looks anyway. Intimidating is not a strong enough word to describe a clone commando in full Mandalorian beskar’gam. The t-visor lends a certain menace to the already imposing figure Mereel cuts.

“The lady doesn’t need a pat down.”

“I-”

“You were just finishing up.”

“Yeah. Fine. What about you then?” The man's gaze lingers as he draws back up to his full spindly height. Jessa’s reminded of a toothpick and she doesn’t attempt to stifle the smile that crosses her face. The imp’s eyes narrow but Mereel is inserting himself between the two.

“I’m Mandalorian. I have weapons to check. Obviously.”

—---------------------

“Well that was delightful.” Mereel grumbles as they enter into the makeshift ballroom set up for the auction. A twi’lek waiter passes, and he reaches out and snags a flute of something bubbly from his tray. At her side again, he presses the stem into Jessa’s hand.

“Take a drink and relax.”

Jessa bristles as a string quartet situated off in the corner tunes up. His words feel accusing and it brings up her hackles.

“I’m fine.” She asserts, taking an absent-minded sip. The bubbles tickle at her nose as the dry drink slips down her throat. She preferred it sweet. She takes another swallow.

“Relax.”

“Don’t tell me to relax.” She can hear the amusement lacing his voice.

“Would you rather I make that an order?”

She pointedly ignores him. The room is large with a low-slung stage at the front. They’ve done an excellent job making it feel like something other than what it is. Jessa can’t even begin to imagine why a military outpost required a crystal chandelier or red velvet panels padding the walls.

Tiny enclaves of participants to the festivities have gathered in various circles about the room. Jessa studies, remembering what she’d been told. While Kal had seen this as a snatch-and-grab rescue mission, Walon had been very clear that there was more to be accomplished on top of the mission at hand. Who were the Imperials in bed with? How did their networks function? Little details she could bring back could be invaluable in deciphering it all and, in the larger scheme of things, keep them all safe.

The Mandalore system was rapidly approaching a tipping point- years of neutrality could not save them from the pressures the new Galactic regime was beginning to exert. Fenn Shysa was a good Mand’alor but years of the Kryze sisters infighting had created a rift that wasn’t soon healed. Mandalore would either crack or it would become something far more resilient, far stronger then it had ever been, but it would not happen without work. That work began with intelligence.

The Pyke contingent is easy to pick out, standing in a semicircle speaking quietly amongst themselves. Their fish-like features were distinct and they could be mistaken for nothing else. In a sea of human participants they stood out like a sore thumb. Spice lords and drug runners, Jessa was sure their sights would be set on the half dozen decommissioned Imperial ships set to hit the auction block. While she was wary, the Pyke’s were not an immediate concern.

Jessa notes their orientation and the way their tiny almond-like eyes focus across the room. A pair of human guests, a man and a young woman, converse quietly. The woman has an arm wrapped around his forearm as he guides her toward the front of the room. She can’t place them on the side profile alone. As if drawn by her gaze the man’s head turns and Jessa recognizes him from one of her Buir’s holos. Dryden Vos of Crimson Dawn.

“Some heavy hitters here tonight.” Mereel’s voice catches up with her thoughts. Jessa hums quietly.

“There’s no shame in saying you can’t do this.”

Jessa takes a slow drink from her fluted glass. "If I didn’t know better, I’d say you had a wager out that I couldn’t do this,” she offers dryly. “There’s all the shame and you know it. Stop worrying about me and let’s do this.”

Mereel says nothing else, be it from a place of self preservation or another conversation in his comms she’s not privy to. Jessa doesn’t care. She’s set in this course and there’s no other option but to see it through to the end.

The string quartet finishes their warmup and begins playing soft classical music. She recognizes it as something distinctly inner rim- Chandrillan. They may be in the system, but nothing about tonight was for Mandalorians. To her side a group begins to form, looking distinctly less crime syndicate and far more too-much-money-for-their-own-good. It’s what she’s been waiting for.

“Miss, may I?” A passing waiter gestures to her mostly empty glass. Jessa hands it over, fighting the urge to not wastefully abandon the last mouthful. In return he hands her a fresh one. She gives a small nod of thanks before casually making her way to the new group.

Don’t stand out. That’s what Wal’buir had said. These people offered the best option to remain unmemorable, as, outside of inflated bank accounts, they were entirely unremarkable themselves. Rich human men and their far-younger trophies; an ancient beady-eyed heiress; the exact people she’d been brought up to be one of.

That time seemed so long ago. She was a different person now, but she remembered. Skirata and Walon had counted on the fact and she was loath to disappoint her new-found aliit.

She doesn’t need to look to see Mereel taking up position a few feet behind her. He knew his job better than she knew hers. She trusted him with that. He may be playing the dutiful bodyguard, but she knew he and Scorch had words about it days ago- the same way she knew she was safe as long as she followed the plan.

“Lovely evening, isn’t it?” A man who seemed to be a round, amalgamous shape in a suit asks in greeting. On his arm his wife shifts, her eyes scanning the crowd with a boredom that Jessa can relate to.

“It really is. They’ve set the tone for such an interesting event. I’m thoroughly impressed.”

“Right.” He glances behind her and then makes a point of looking about her, “Are you here on your own then?”

Jessa bristles, “My father trusts my judgment.” That was true, her Buir had said as much.

“And who is your father?”

She’s honestly been waiting for this since they’d landed. Both Jessa and Walon had pored over the gossip sheets, him begrudgingly and her like she had when she’d been young. They’d found the Chandrillan family, heirs to a munitions fortune, in short work. Elderly patriarch that rarely left home and erstwhile daughter who was just as elusive. Unphotographed since childhood due to an unfortunate spice habit that had her family covertly shipping her off to rehab facilities on the regular, she’d been a perfect cover.

‘The Count of Wester.’

The man of shapes nods his head. Jessa offers him a droll smile as she glances over her shoulder.

“I’m hoping to find something special for my security. Mandalorians are well and good but,” she lowers her voice conspiratorially. “As I’m sure you know, they’re only loyal to money.”

A hearty chuckle wheezes from the man, “I’m sure money is no issue to your Father.”

“Agreed but I don’t feel like being extorted for my own safety by unscrupulous business practices.” She ignores the grumble from Mereel behind her, leaving her feeling quite pleased with herself indeed.

“Clever girl.”

“Very. Thank you.”

———————

They went dark before they hit atmo, emergency lighting casting a dim glow about the bay. The Duke slides smoothly through space with Kom’rk at the controls. Sev stares ahead, eyes locked on a small red safety light. At his side Scorch fidgets. He’s been doing it since they left the airfield. It’s a genuine surprise he hasn’t been asked what was eating him yet. Maybe he was learning some patience. Maybe he should just assume Sev knew-

‘I screwed the bantha with this one.’

Atin doesn’t seem to notice the statement, but he’s become an expert at ignoring anything without a Skirata last name. Corr, though, allows his eyes to twitch to them. Scorch ignores it, focusing on his brother's lowly grumbled statement.

“Whadda ya mean?” Scorch feels itchy about the whole thing.

“Nevermind. Changed my mind. It’s fine.” Sev mutters gruffly, his head rocking back to find a new point of focus on the ceiling. Scorch has whiplash from the sudden change of tune.

“That’s great. Not my question.”

The Duke rattles quietly as they transition from the black of space further into the moon's atmosphere. They’d lay low, out of range of the outposts scanners until absolutely necessary. Scorch uses his boots to hold tight the bag of detonators between them as they threaten to vibrate away.

“Sev?”

“I didn’t-“ a rough burst of air is forced through his lips, “I didn’t say why.”

“You didn’t…” Scorch lets the answer swirl in the air between them until, ‘You didn’t tell her why we were giving them.”

“Nope.”

Scorch slumps into the jump seat. Fek. That wasn’t ideal.

“Sev’s telling who what?” Corr asks with all the tact of exuberant massiff pup. Great. That was just what they needed. Rule 10 had been created for a reason. Keep Kal out of it. As much as Scorch found common ground with the former demolitions expert he also knew right where he’d run when they hit the tarmac. There was nothing Kal Skirata loved more than being in the know. Strike that, there was nothing Kal Skirata loved more than sticking his nose in business that didn’t concern him. Their (hopeful) relationship with Jessa was not something that needed the Skirata touch. He wasn’t even sure it was going to survive their touch.

“Nothing that concerns you.”

“But-“

“I gave Laseema the ugliest Lekku harness known to man for a courting gift.” Atin husks out a laugh. Scorch catches a small grin and a shake of the other commando's head. “She wore it too. Didn’t have the heart to tell me it was too small and the dye stained her skin.” There’s a fond look in place as he stares into the middle distance in front of him. “You can’t do much worse than that.”

“Can if she doesn’t know they were courting gifts.” Scorch zips his lips when Sev speaks. If he knew his brother- which he did- he was already feeling the sour twist of failure in his gut. There wasn’t much to say to change that.

Atin waves him off, “she’ll figure it out and you’ll be chasing around tiny psychopaths in no time.”

It’s a struggle to ignore Corr obviously storing the intel away but no more so than trying to pretend he couldn’t picture Jessa with ikaad of her own. That was an image he needed to be shove haphazardly into a box and pretend didn’t exist.

He catches Sev’s eye. His face is impassable. He makes a note to throw some dets in that particular mental box.

—————

“Who are you?”

Jessa raises a perfectly arched brow at the heavily modulated voice. Mereel towers over her right shoulder, her imposing bodyguard/handler.

“Not sure what that’s supposed to mean.” She takes a lingering sip of sparkling wine. Small talk with the wife of an Imperial connected merchant had been enlightening. Seems there was a lot of interest in a retired beskar mine in Sundari.

“You’re a natural.”

His tone lets her know it’s not necessarily a compliment. She doesn’t offer acknowledgement. If he wanted to pay backhanded compliments she’d pay them back with silence.

You know your worth. Wal’buirs voice echoes in her head.

She gazes past the small crowds of people and the rows of red velvet chairs to the stage at the front of the room. People are beginning to congregate as holobooks are passed out, presumably lots and their corresponding numbers. The room she’d been auctioned off in had lacked the opulence of the one she now stood in. The thought comes to her, intrusive and unwanted. She’d been to one other auction in her life- but she’d been the merchandise.

She finishes the wine in her hand, setting the glass on a table as she makes her way to the front of the room. She hears a soft huff through Mereel’s vocoder. To everyone watching, he worked for her and she was not about to ask his permission for anything, lest that carefully cultivated ruse be damaged.

A matte gunmetal droid begins handing out holobooks to the gathered crowds. Jessa takes a proffered tablet as a curtain to the left of the stage is pulled back. A disembodied voice smoothly announces the beginning of the preview. According to the holobook the auction would begin twenty minutes after the preview. She skims the contents. Rules. Schedule. Payment options. All seemingly above the board.

“I want to see if my money is well spent here.” She announces to the armored Mando behind her. She’s prim and haughty. “I assume you’ll be able to comment on the quality?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She smiles to herself, dipping her chin to hide her amusement at the Null’s tight response. Scorch would enjoy watching her acting. She’s sure of it. But now is not the time to let the thought of him warm her heart. She spots the rows of merchandise lined up and steals herself. They still had work to do.

She strolls, languid as a cat, toward the gathering crowds. She keeps her features neutral and passive, looking nothing more than the slightly bored debutante she’d assigned herself to play.

The first cluster of auction-goers has set up shop around various displays of weaponry. Heavy guns, smaller blasters, thermal detonators. Her boys would be in heaven. Her fingers graze the durasteel lid of a munitions crate as she moves toward more desirable merchandise.

“Could do a lot of damage with those.” Mereel’s reassuring presence is close. She can feel the bulk of him at her back.

“Looking to do a little shopping of your own?”

“If the situation presents itself.”

She smiles despite herself.

It disappears quickly as it appears. The mission objective- objectives loom ahead. A row of men stand at parade rest. Clones. Five In total, identical as physically possible though small differences in build and stature are noticeable even with them at rest.

‘Different classes” Mereel offers quietly as if he can see the question on her face. “Two standard spec troopers. Next two- probably pilot class. Last one is a commando.”

“Anyone you know?” She glances at him and catches a shrug.

“They’re keeping them more in regs. GAR frowned on individuality but most generals didn’t bother to enforce regulations. Our glorious new Empire seems to feel differently.”

Jessa steps closer, stopping in front of the first captive in-line. He stares ahead with eyes familiar but dead. They don’t twitch to her as she takes in his appearance. He looks average in every way. Confusion and some other unnamed emotion flit at the edge of her consciousness. They were told there’d be more commandos . Maybe they were tucked away with the others in reserve? She takes a step further down the line, past the second trooper and to what Mereel had claimed were the pilots. She pays little attention, flipping through the holopad to find the list of goods.

“Skid, Cap, Kivo, Rev, Merri…” the pilot she’s come to a stop in front of is mumbling to himself in a rapid, quaking voice. He’s worse for wear, obviously in poorer condition than the others around him. He’s thin and the high and tight haircut they all sported only accentuates his stark cheekbones and the dip at his silvered temples.

“Poor kid.” Mereel sighs, now at her side.

“What’s wrong with him?”

The pilot continues his rapid nonsensical mumbling.

“Look at his eyes. All their eyes.” He tips his helmet down the line. “They drugged them like fathiers.” Disgust laces his words. Jessa feels the sick pull of it bubbling in her own stomach.

“It wasn’t good enough to put restraining collars on. They gave them all tranqs too.”

The holopad offers a small blurb on each item for auction. Each of these men’s lives broken down into a line or two touting their usefulness, “what does this mean?”

She points at the number following each description. The broken pilot has an 0458 behind his. Mereel takes the pad, his hands dwarfing it as he scrolls.

“Son of a bitch…”

“What?”

“It’s his serial number. All of their serial numbers.”

Jessa scans the list and the seemingly nonsense numbers. One sticks out. Wal’buir had scolded Sev and Scorch days before, using their numbers like other parents would use the middle name of a contrary child.

If Four-Oh were here we wouldn’t have this issue.

Scorch’s expression had soured at the mention and her brows had furrowed in confusion. Wal’buir had noted and seemed to take pleasure in repeating what had made the demolitions expert so uncomfortable.

Eleven Forty, one of their lost brothers.

The second glass of champagne threatens to make a reappearance as her eyes travel to the last man in line.

One of two lost brothers.

1140

Fixer.

——————-

‘Clear!’ Scorch’s crisp voice rings through the comms of the three commandos at his back. The adrenaline from the fast rope still pumped gleefully through his veins as the exterior door gives an electric pop as the bright flash of micro dets flare to life. The four commandos ready for entry as the faint lights of the Duke above, disappear from sight. They were on their own til rendezvous.

Sev and Corr slide past him as he gathers his supplies back into his kit. Atin covers his shebs, blasters at the ready.

It’s a clean breach. Buir would approve, he thinks in passing, swinging his pack back on and moving into the wide hallway. The muzzle fire of a blaster rings out with comforting familiarity. One down.

The gray clad Imp lays at Corr’s feet as the commando crouches down and does a cursory check of his pockets. He palms a keycard. Sev holds steady behind him.

With only the soft clatter of his beskar’gam, the former commando rises and gives Sev a nod. A rumbling, ‘move out’ echoes through their comms.

A few long strides eat up the distance between them, Scorch slotting in behind him as they stalk down their predetermined route.

“May as well head back to the yaim, Scorch’ika. I’ve got the golden ticket.” Scorch can imagine the smug smile on the younger clone's face as he holds the keycard between gloved fingers.

“Yeah, if you want to do it the boring way. I thought you knew better?” They fan out from their hallway to the open T of the next, Sev and Atin sweeping right while he and Corr clear the left.

“The boring way means I don’t risk these fancy new hands.”

Scorch guffaws. “The loss of your sense of adventure concerns and saddens me.”

Atin chuckles.

“You can’t hold it against me that I like to feel my own-“ the banter is cut short as a door a foot in front of Corr slides open with a shink. White plastoid invades the passage.

Sev’s large frame is already prepared. His arm raises and the butt of his blaster. comes down across the front first troopers helmet with enough force to crack the plastoid. As they crumble, Sev steps into the other's space, his beskar clad arm snaps up and makes contact between the edge of the unfortunate sentient's helmet and neck.

Scorch flinches at the clatter of armor as the second trooper slides down the corridor wall.

“Gonna ruin the surprise, vod.”

Sev’s buyce turns toward him. “Sorry”. His voice is as flat as the expression Scorch knows he wears underneath.

Moving forward, Scorch takes a knee with his vod’e safely covering him. The first trooper has a fracture running up the length of his helmet. Katarn would never. He loved his beskar’gam, it made him feel like he was part of something greater. His katarn had done the same once and he’d grieve (just a little) the loss of that part of his life.

Without his usual flair, he pulls the useless helmet off. The trooper is out cold. Scorch takes in his appearance. Pale skin. A smattering of freckles over the bridge of their nose. Light brown hair.

He moves on to the next, unceremoniously yanking the helmet from the storm troopers head. He finds skin shades lighter than his own, thin blonde hair and a smattering of matching stubble along their jaw.

He lets the ruined helmet fall with a clatter next to the trooper. Rising to his full height he aims his blaster and places two bolts center mass before giving the first trooper a matching set.

Corr stares at the two lifeless stormtroopers, ‘what was that about?’’

‘Needed to make sure I wasn’t sending vod’e’ marching’ Scorch explains. Another set of plastoid rounds the corner and Sev answers the clatter of cheap armor with two quickly placed bolts dead center.

“Rule 17 is in effect now.”

“About that,” Corrs voice asks through their comms. “What’s rule number one?”

Atin, Sev, and Scorch answer in unison, “Eat your vegetables.”

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