Chapter Text
8 BBY
The Fifteenth Brother wakes up as he always does. Sweat wets the back of his neck and his shirt sticks to his skin, hot and uncomfortable. The flashes of a nightmare catch on the edges of his memory and the Force claws at him, unyielding and angry.
He heaves himself out of his bunk, uses the fresher perfunctorily and brushes his teeth over the small white sink. He dresses, the black robes falling around him with ease and familiarity.
The mess hall is awash with quiet activity and the Fifteenth Brother sits down alone at a table in the far left corner, waiting for the droid to bring him his porridge. Behind him, in the Force, he feels the Fourteenth Brother enter the commissary. He does not join him at his table, choosing instead one on the opposite side. It doesn’t matter. They have a mission briefing together later in an hour, they will see each other then.
He eats without tasting the food, not that there ever is much to taste in Imperial issued breakfasts. When his bowl is empty, he stands, leaving the mess and making his way to Briefing Room Number Six.
It is, like the mornings before it, a normal one.
Briefing Room Six, like all the general mission briefing rooms, is grey cold metal, just a holo display, desk, and chairs. There are no windows, just concrete walls and cool recycled air.
The admin droid greets him with a slightly shaky salute and the procurement of a handheld pad before it gestures towards the holo display and shuffles out of the room. The door opens again, only seconds after the droid leaves and the Fifteenth Brother sighs as the Fourteenth Brother arrives, one minute late.
Unless meeting a higher-up, the Fourteenth Brother is always between one and three minutes late, without fail, to every single mission briefing.
“You’re late.” He snaps.
The Fourteenth Brother shrugs, radiating distaste and boredom in the Force, before he slides into a chair in front of the holo display and holds out a hand in wordless command for the pad. The Fifteenth Brother swallows his annoyance, anger simmering just beneath the surface, but hands it to him easily.
The 14th Brother pulls up the mission briefing on the holo screen. A green planet, coordinates, and written instructions. The Fifteenth Brother leans in slightly to get a closer look.
“Are you going to loom there the whole time?” The Fourteenth Brother snarks.
The Fifteenth Brother ignores him, reading over his shoulder.
It’s nothing particularly notable. A backwater planet in the Cularin System, no Imperial presence in the area, anyone stationed there had been pulled back at the end of the War, the location and endemic inhabitants written off as unimportant. Now, there’s a possible Force-sensitive person detected in the north of the primary planet. A rainforest planet, wet and humid — their gear and ship is waiting in Hangar Fifty. No need for capture. Dispose of them and return promptly.
The Fourteenth Brother pushes his chair back abruptly, probably hoping to catch him in the shins, but the Fifteenth Brother moves back fluidly, out of the way. He grits his teeth, anger coiling into his thoughts. He pushes it down.
They walk, in step with each other, to the door. “Meet me at Hangar Fifty in a standard hour.” The Fifteenth Brother instructs as they pass the bunk corridor, the Fourteenth Brother peels away without a word.
An hour later, exactly two minutes late, he boards their ship, sliding into the co-pilot’s seat without a greeting.
To the Fifteenth and Fourteenth Brothers, there is nothing notable about this day.
Thame shifts in the pilot’s seat in an attempt to bring some feeling back into his legs. The void of hyperspace streaks out ahead of him as he checks the coordinates and adjusts the autopilot. Flying isn’t his strongest skill, but Nano had claimed the need to sleep, understandable but inconvenient, and the result is Thame wishing he was curled up in his bunk rather than sat at the pilot's chair.
He doesn’t have to stay completely alert and in the cockpit, that is what autopilot is for, after all, and MRS-5 is beeping contented binary at the state of the ship in general. But there’s been an itch under his skin since they left base, a sense of something coming in the Force that he’d be an idiot to ignore. He hasn’t survived the last decade by ignoring that sort of thing.
They’re headed to a backwater forest planet, rumors of a Force-sensitive child in need of assistance. In the whole of their usual trips, it’s generally on track to be a normal run. Thame rubs his hands, roughly, over his face, and pushes the backs of his thumbs into his eyes, in an attempt to rub out the sleepiness. The exhaustion, he won’t be able to shake, hasn’t been able to shake since that night. Jun is always pushing him to sleep more, to meditate more, but really, nothing helps and Jun is a hypocrite.
In the end, neither he nor Jun sleep particularly well even on the best of nights.
In the Force, the occupants of the ship are calm. Nano is deep asleep, and Pepper as well, the whirring of the engines and the rhythm of space travel always helps them sleep. Thame also used to find it comforting, before. Jun tosses and turns in his bunk, unsettled in the Force, the echoes of a nightmare spark fear around him. The ship is peaceful.
Thame sighs, leaning his head back on the headrest and lowers his hands into his lap. He grips the fabric of his pants and reassures himself when it pulls on the comfortable weight of his lightsaber. Anxiety still bubbles in his chest.
His mug of caff has long gone cold when he sips at it, the familiar bitter taste grounding him.
He checks the navigation display, eight standard hours until they hit the edge of the Cularin System, four until Nano is back on shift.
The Force hums, bright and nervous. Thame grits his teeth.
Something is wrong.