Chapter Text
Getting intel in these troubled times was a trial and a half, often costed a metaphorical arm and a leg, and sometimes even literally. A couple clones who would not be named would gleefully recount the time a vod in ‘Guess-Which’ Company had discreetly followed their Jedi into a fact-finding solo mission and promptly learned that their beloved General had the same kind of luck alone as he did at any other time. Their extraction included a harrowing rooftop chase, a jetpack and a makeshift sword, the latter of which was embedded deep in a brother’s thigh by the end of it all. It continued to be a hit at the drinking games that had everyone take a throat-blistering shot every time General Kenobi saved a brother’s life in a story.
The totally non-existent drinking games. Yup.
“Don’t bother, Commander,” Cody heard from his left. “It takes a long time to make true shields of the mind. The more insistently you try to deny something, the more your thoughts circle round back to it. Very useful interrogation tactic, but not ideal for keeping secrets from a Jedi.”
With a tiny sigh, Cody gave up. It wasn’t like Kenobi was ignorant of all the stuff soldiers did off-duty, not with the way he pointedly never did surprise inspections.
“Yes, sir. Let’s hope this contact of yours can’t keep a secret either so we’ll be off this rock ASAP.” He paused as Kenobi snorted. “Sir, I’d like to repeat that I don’t like this location. It’s too far from the main hyperspace lanes. Isolated. Backup is dangerously far away.”
“Backup is at the shuttle, barely ten minutes away, Cody,” Kenobi retorted blithely as he guided the Commander past a sharp corner, spilling them onto a busy street dominated by an open-air cantina along one edge. It had a gazebo all the way around - its only concession to the constant drizzle - and a couple short queues that led to duracrete structures with doors that periodically opened to release pounding WarpBeat-style club music and the occasional partygoer stumbling up the stairs. A cheerful, bright sign repeated over every pseudo-doorway: Bad Weather. A little on the nose, but not the worst Cody had seen.
He had never felt more out of place. Except for the rain. That was familiar.
“Relax,” Kenobi reassured him. “I’m doing the talking, you’re the muscle. Going undercover is all about confidence. And it’s Jakken, remember?”
Right. Kenobi’s cover as an opportunistic smuggler. Cody’s was ‘Kylo Gand’, the second blandest Mid-Rim name in existence. A half-mask over his nose and mouth - and tight-fitting clothing - were equally as ubiquitous to anonymous humanoid mercenaries of middling competency. Kenobi was in similar nondescript apparel, except his hinted at recent wealth and an origin in the Outer Rim.
Breathe out. Breathe in. Cody was ready. Ken-Jakken loosened his muscles into a different and noticeably more slouched posture, gave him a smirk and sauntered over to the bar.
The bartender was a Near-Human with some pretty obvious non-Human ancestry visible. Their eyes were a striking dark gold, their bare arms markedly different colours, with a healed cut splitting their lips. Said cut became more pronounced as the bartender smiled, friendly-like. Their hands didn’t stop mixing the elaborate drink a customer leaning against the bar was evidently waiting for.
“Be with you in a minute,” they said in a pleasant tenor with the mildest of Rim accents, then started doing more elaborate tricks like spinning the mixer on an elbow and emptying it in a dainty glass with a flourish, even setting it briefly on fire seemingly with a snap of their fingers. An impressive display of control; the green (and slightly… sparkly?) Twi-lek client seemed to be far more interested in the bartender than their showy skills, however. “Here you go, Kalim. Once again, with all the trimmings.”
“Urgh, Desmond!” the Twi-lek lifted the glass to unsuccessfully hide a coy pout behind the translucent liquid. “You don’t need to sound so long-suffering! I know you enjoy it as much as I do.”
“For a given value of ‘enjoy’, sure. Doing the tricky ones is my specialty, after all. And I do enjoy the tip you always give me,” the bartender hinted with a dark brow pointedly lifted in the direction of the bar-top console.
Kalim the sparkly Twi-lek took this in stride and fondly shook his head. His combo Ident-cred chip connected with a practiced motion and after the amount was entered, a beep announced the transaction. His drink was already at the half-way point and he stared mournfully at it, then downed the rest.
“Well then,” Kalim mused. “It’s time for all good boys to go to bed, I suppose.”
Desmond snorted. “Sure. Be a good boy for once, then, and actually go home, Kalim. I don’t need any hook-up related drama today, okay?”
“Fine,” Kalim whined, setting the glass down on the counter too haphazardly for him to be entirely sober anymore. “Just today, for you. See you next week, Desmond.”
Kalim’s (definitely sparkly) hand gave an over-the-shoulder wave as he turned sharply and promptly ran straight into Kenobi. Jakken, Force damn it. They both swayed a little with the bump, Jakken definitely more for show than Kalim, but steadied themselves by grabbing onto the other’s jacket.
“Whoa there, friend,” Jakken smirked, his Outer Rim accent just strong enough to sound genuine. Kalim seemed to blink past a bit of a haze, then hid a smile behind a hand and stepped back while turning to speak in a sing-song over his shoulder.
“Desmond… are you sure I can’t-”
“Give the man his wallet and get outta here, menace,” the barkeep said dryly, expression tinted with a small amount of threat now alongside the amusement. “You might tip good, but not that good.”
“No fun, sugar lips.”
Cody choked a bit as the Twi-lek winked and threw Jakken’s accessory wallet at the bartender, smoothly exiting the gazebo to one side before either Cody and Kenobi – damn it, whatever – could recover. Cody made a shamefully delayed fumble to his thigh-holster but the Force-damned thief had already vanished into the veil of the grey downpour. Growling slightly, he left his blaster undrawn but carefully pressed the name ‘Kalim’ into his mind as he turned back to the bar.
No chairs at the counter – discouraging harassment of the staff, that was always a good sign. Circular high tables with matching stools populated the majority of the space under the gazebo with a couple cushioned chairs clumped here and there for the odd longer-term customer. Very transitory, the space. It wasn’t great for Cody’s blood pressure, seeing all those different angles of approach.
A cough from Desmond got Kenobi to lean on the bar to accept his wallet with a sigh. Cody noticed that the quick-snap release was undone; the Near-Human had taken a few liberties while they were distracted. Cody frantically tried to remember what was in it and came up blank. Kenobi only flicked through it and made no ruckus about anything being gone and the bartender didn’t seem like an incompetent guy who made mistakes like leaving wallets undone after a rummaging, so Cody was forced to conclude that some kind of karking mind-game was at play here that he had no hope of untangling.
“Thanks,” Kenobi said, looking right into Desmond’s eyes. “Nice trick with the fire.”
“Thanks,” the bartender echoed, confident and alert. “What can I get you?”
Cody blinked at the blunt diversion and felt the air around Jakken tense with curiosity. Desmond just kept staring at him with slightly lowered eyelids, the golden shine flashing in the weak overhead light. Cody very loudly didn’t think about how prolonged eye contact could signal sexual or romantic interest between humanoids. Thankfully, Kenobi blinked first and only then deigned to casually glance around the rest of the - actually fairly empty - establishment.
“Oh, I’m here to meet a guy,” Jakken said idly. “You know how it is. Can I get a little something to while away the waiting time?”
Desmond didn’t even blink and reached under the bar - making Cody twitch for his holster again - to slowly lift a bottle with both hands while making uncomfortable eye contact with Cody this time. A quick smile offered him forgiveness, which inexorably drew Cody’s gaze back to the bartender’s scarred lips. The smile twitched into a knowing smirk as Cody ripped his eyes away to stare at the milling people, nominally doing his job and scanning them for potential trouble.
A few more - organic and droid - bartenders reigned further down the counter, spread to give maximum coverage to the slowly increasing masses. Most people had obviously arrived from the depths of the club to wind down after an intense dancing session. The establishment was large enough that the clientele was a surprisingly diverse mix of humanoids: mostly Humans, lots of Twi-lek, some water-dwellers like Nautolans, even the odd non-oxygen-breather. Normal for a no-name Mid-Rim planet of dubious heritage.
The unfortunately familiar sound of liquid pouring into a receptable brought Cody’s attention back to Jakken and Desmond. There was now a tiny shot of some kind of pungent brown alcohol sitting in front of a bemused Jakken. Desmond stashed the bottle with the same smooth motions he had lifted it with. Cody’s mind insisted that there was something familiar about the bartender, but his rational mind knew that he had never seen anyone like them before.
“…Really?” Jakken said. “Isn’t that a mite petty of you, Desmond?”
The bartender wrinkled their brow and ran a hand over a close-shorn scalp. “I don’t… know what you mean? You asked for A Little Something, that’s A Little Something.”
“Oh.”
Jakken apparently didn’t do sheepish, so he shrugged and downed the shot. Except it wasn’t a shot, as was made clear very quickly. Kenobi coughed, going steadily redder as Cody, alarmed, stepped closer to do… something. Pat his back if he was choking, maybe. Comm for backup if there was frothing.
“Oh karking hells!” Desmond yelped rather loudly. “Are you okay? Any recent non-Human ancestry? Zabraks sometimes have bad reactions - I thought you knew what you were asking! You don’t down A Little Something, dude, small sips, small sips.”
Kenobi seemed to be incapable of words yet, so Cody floundered to cover for them both. He channelled Boil as he placed a hand on Jakken’s shoulder. Hopefully it looked like it was comforting with a dash of ‘I-told-you-so’.
“He’s a lightweight. Got dared by a crewmember, you know how that goes. I’m Gand, by the way,” Cody made a jerky movement that aborted a reflexive - why - salute into a dorky wave. “This idiot is Jakken. You mind if I ask your pronouns?”
Desmond, still snatching looks at Jakken, shook their head in mixed negation and incredulity. “He/him.”
With a final pat on Jakken’s shoulder and a nod of thanks, Cody turned back around to stand with his back to the counter.
“Not a lightweight,” Jakken managed to squeeze out and kriff, his voice sounded like he’d been smoking deathsticks all day, every day for at least a decade. The Jedi cleared his throat in an obviously painful, wet cough, but at least his voice regained some life. “I prefer Corel brandy, actually.”
Desmond leaned back a bit with a low whistle through his teeth. He had gotten over the shock quickly after seeing Kenobi straighten, though the gleaming golden eyes were still slightly too wide. Cody watched via a convenient mirror as the bartender ran a hand over his head again in an obvious nervous tic.
“Corellian, huh? I’m guessing more Northern stills than warehouse moonshine, no one prefers that swill. Hmm. Rather upscale for this place and not one for casuals, either. You a hidden hedonist?”
Kenobi had recovered enough that he could send Desmond an amused smirk. “Not hidden all that much. I do like the finer things, just don’t get a lot of them.”
“Hear, hear,” Desmond murmured as his hands fiddled with a glass and a few different bottles brought to the counter from the display cabinet behind him. “An apology, then. Here.”
With a clink, Kenobi had a drink in front of him again. This one was fancier, smoking faintly and with a colour gradient from dark blue to yellow. It also had a lot more volume than A Little Something.
“Thanks?” Jakken said, his hesitation letting Kenobi shine through for a moment. “I, ah, think I’ve had enough liquid excitement today, though. It’s… pretty?”
“It’s non-alcoholic,” Desmond corrected with a snort. His hands had found a rag to fiddle with despite all the glasses probably getting ferried to an industrial dishwasher somewhere. It was endearing.
Cody quickly got back to analysing the other patrons. The crowd was thinning; partygoers were committing to the club and casual drinkers vacating to one of the many disreputable hotels around the cantina. With every person leaving Cody got simultaneously annoyed that they were not the contact and relieved that there was one less origin of direct danger. It made for a strange mess of emotions that he tried to rein in, falling into an easy meditation aided by the quiet patter of rain from above providing a well-known backdrop.
“…seem to be a no-show,” Desmond was saying when Cody tuned back in. “Shame. Maybe I can help? I hear things, too.”
“I bet you do,” Jakken replied, all that Kenobi charisma distilled into offensive cheerfulness; Cody could recognise the strain in his voice only by virtue of attending the same hours-long meetings as his poor General. “Bartenders make for good confidants. Do you have a set price?”
“Of course not,” Desmond said mildly. “I’m not an amateur.”
Kenobi shrugged agreeably, then visibly made up his mind. “Had to try. Well, I’m looking for some hard data on blockades. Uncomfortably close ones.”
There was a slight pause as tinny music Cody had failed to register before got squeezed from outdated speakers at the back of the bar. A shift in the atmosphere was evident, but Cody couldn’t tell in what direction. He hadn’t expected his General to just up and say what they were looking for, but maybe the Jedi was getting Force-vibes that Cody was entirely ignorant of.
“Hard data, eh? Rumours are no good, then?” Desmond murmured with a hand rising to rub his bare chin.
Cody tried not to jerk in surprise. The chin-touch was a disturbingly familiar gesture Cody usually saw on bearded people such as Kenobi. Interesting that this smooth-cheeked man had the same tic. Either he had copied Kenobi’s token thinking-pose in a random event of unconscious mimicry, or the bartender had recently been a lot hairier about the face. Cody didn’t know why he was focussing on such a small detail, but he couldn’t seem to stop. Thankfully, Desmond was soon done contemplating.
“I have what you want, if only theoretically right now. A slicer of my acquaintance is wholly capable of acquiring the information you want,” Desmond told them in a completely new cadence. It was eerily like speaking to a new person, although technically they were. An experienced businessman; no longer the easy-going, talented bartender. “…Though, if I know them, my slicer is already sitting on this information and merely waiting for an opportune moment.”
Jakken didn’t speak. Although Cody had a rather good unyielding façade, he admired Kenobi in his accompanying serenity. He was always much too alert to pull off the ‘patience-for-however-long-it-takes’ part. Not many knew it, but Commander Cody was an impatient shabuir who just hid it extremely well.
“Alright,” Desmond finally decided. His eyes lifted to include Cody in their glistening, assessing stare. “Two hundred fifty thousand Pub creds for the blockade data: ship movements, personnel assignments, manifests, the whole Boonta Eve.”
Jakken raised an incredulous eyebrow, but Cody carefully didn’t shrug. As a clone trooper, money didn’t really factor into his role as Commander, aside from healthcare and requisition situations. The worth of currency fluctuated so much - especially on these kinds of backwater planets - the number flew so far over his head it was practically in high orbit. He knew how much a drink cost on Coruscant, but that was the extent of it outside military matters.
Jakken obviously knew more.
“Are ye kriffin’ having me on?” Kenobi deliberately let loose on the Outer Rim accent, presumably to sound like he was getting pissed off. “Pub creds out here are getting thin on the ground. Every’ne knows the rarer they are, the more they’re worth. Fifty thousand, no more. You share that between you ‘n’ yer mystery slicer however ye like.”
“Kark you,” Desmond said, but his tone didn’t sound angry. In fact, it sounded like the man was getting into the spirit of the haggle. “Pub creds are getting scarce out here ‘cause no one has a kriffing clue if the Republic will even be there to support them in a few years. There’s a war on, you know. You seen the conversion between Pub and Corel, yet? Or Pub and kriffing wupiupi? My info is reliable and so current you can smell the broken firewalls; it’s worth at least two hundred thou.”
“Oh yeah?” Kenobi squinted at the bartender, then raked an obvious up-and-down-and-up assessment. “Don’t sound like it, to be honest. Sounds a bit like a scam I once did myself, actually. I got a slicer of my own and they ha’nt managed to break the Seppie bastards.”
Cody had no idea where Kenobi was pulling these lines from, even though he had seen this song and dance before. You wouldn’t think him capable, judging from the snooty Core-worlder etiquette he usually kept to, but Kenobi was turning out to have quite the repertoire. His ‘Outer Rim mercenary been-round-the-spiral-twice’ attitude didn’t even seem put on; it was that smooth. Except for the Little Something hiccup, of course.
Stars, Cody would be the hero of the off-duty troopers for weeks to come if he compiled this entire escapade into story form and timed the reveal just right.
“Well, I’ll bet your slicer isn’t Cresh-Cresh.”
Kenobi appeared to stop breathing.
Cody, curious and bored with checking out utterly harmless customers, turned side-on. There was a charge there, between the two men. It didn’t seem hostile, but it did seem important. Their interaction was getting interesting. Well. More interesting. Kriff.
“Your slicer is Creed-Crane?” Jakken used the correct amount of astonishment and suspicion in his voice for such an announcement. Cody, having finally recognised the entity they were talking about – and having finally realised that Desmond probably wasn’t talking about the clone commander acronym – choked on his spit. Was this guy for real?
“What the kriff.”
As the two jerked their heads over to stare at him, Cody realised it had been his mouth which had said the words. Well, march onwards, trooper.
“What the kriff. Every slicer in the karking galaxy wants to know who Cresh-Cresh is, and you just blab that you not only know them, but know how to get data from them?” Cody’s voice stayed at vicious hissing levels because otherwise he would be yelling. “What the kriff is wrong with you? You don’t even know us. We could just kidnap you and see where that leads us!”
“Cody,” Kenobi said urgently, then halted when both of them realised which name he had used. Kriffing double kark.
“Cody?” Desmond, remarkably unaffected by the implicit threat, glanced at the Jedi who deflated with a confused and frustrated sigh.
“Nickname. Looks like muscle, actually a slicer. Worked so many times. Every time, really. Anyway,” Kenobi salvaged the conversation and continued with what looked like completely genuine incredulity. “Creed-Crane. S’pposedly sliced into the Republic Senate Building to lift secret camera footage. The one who managed to slice into the Trade Federation a couple years back. The one who dumped a load of legit poodoo onto the voidnet ‘bout the weapons they were supposedly using for ‘defence’ but were selling and using for a profit. That Cresh-Cresh?”
Not to mention that every starsdamn commander in the GAR had joked at one time or another that they were the mystery genius behind the slicing. Some who had no inside knowledge of how his name had come about had even been brave enough to walk up to Cody and outright ask if it was him.
The bartender was nodding to the litany, smirk stretching the scar roguishly. “That’s the one.”
“Many people don’ believe issa person,” Jakken pointed out, trying to trip him up. “Too fast. Too thorough. Must be a group. Or a network o’ slicer droids.”
Desmond didn’t stop looking amused, but his gaze sharpened, and his brows lowered a bit more. Caution, Cody translated.
“I’m not going to give away anything about them. Anonymity is their life. But if you know about Creed-Crane, you know the quality they bring to the table. Creds are half before, half on delivery. Final exchange will give you a sneak-peek at the goods. If it’s not up to par, we can halve the second payment, no sweat.”
Extortionate, if it’s a bluff; two hundred thousand was over double the amount Kenobi had said they had on hand to barter with. Generous, if they’re going out on a limb and it’s actually Cresh-Cresh. Suspiciously so.
Kenobi agreed. “That’s rather givin’ of you. What’s the catch?”
Desmond ducked his head as if sheepish, but Cody saw that he was fervently looking down the bar and noting the closest patrons. When he spoke again, he had lowered his voice enough to be inaudible from that distance, and Cody was very glad he had.
“If you don’t mind business with ‘criminals’, then we don’t mind having a connection to the Jedi. Could be useful.”
Jakken didn’t snap upright, but his relaxed slouch went tense. Cody’s breathing automatically became battle-even. Oh kriff.
“Don’t worry so much,” Desmond advised, as if that would help them relax. “I would hardly have said anything if it weren’t true, would I? Cresh-Cresh is listening. Has been listening all along. Sorry about that, except not really. We’re alive because we’re paranoid. Speaking of, we finally got a face match under all that prosthetic. Kenobi, huh? I’m honoured.”
Desmond slowly reached up to rub his hand over short scalp bristles and at the end of the motion tugged his earlobe a bit. He turned his head slightly and Cody inhaled sharply at the beautiful tech hidden in the curve of Desmond’s ear, matching his skin tone perfectly. That kind of tech was commercially available exactly nowhere. It was custom. Possibly a unique Cresh-Cresh design, if they were as close as they made it sound. Cody was irrationally jealous for a quarter-second.
Then, Desmond’s last statement penetrated Cody’s awareness and his back snapped soldier-straight.
“Calm down, calm down,” Desmond waved at them. He was saying it exasperatedly, but both hands were visible, and his sleeves had been rolled up to his elbows the whole evening. Cody did calm down enough to recognise this was probably intentional. “Sorry. We really are interested in your deal. Not that we’ll work for you, that’s definitely a no-go, but that stupid blockade is stopping relief efforts from getting through and we want it gone yesterday.”
“If you’re really Cresh-Cresh, you can have it gone by doing it yourself. Fake a recall, or a reassignment. That must be well within your capabilities,” Kenobi commented slowly, presumably talking to whoever was on the other end of the tech.
Desmond grimaced, then paused. He was obviously listening to a longer reply as he played with his rag. Suddenly the small silences that had appeared between questions and answers were no longer thoughtful, but anticipatory. Stars, Cody really should have expected this. It was technically a Kenobi-solo-mission, even if Ghost Company had invited themselves along.
“Okay, so apparently, we could make it go away, but it’d take months, and even then it’s a long shot because of the way the sentient command chain works. Failsafes and whatnot. Setting up the perfect scenario takes effort. Easier and more reliable to hire a disruption from the professionals – that’s a quote directly from Cresh-Cresh, by the way,” Desmond interrupted himself, “feel special. Anyway, the deal was two hundred. You still on for that? We can discuss further business at the final exchange and if by then you’ve decided to stay far away, that’s fair enough; we part as strangers.”
Cody glanced at Kenobi, who from his facial expression was quickly assimilating this sudden change in circumstances, then felt his mouth move without his permission.
“You ever do any heavy-touch stuff? Creds, or whatever?”
Desmond didn’t even need a pause this time. “Nah. It’s all light-touch for Cresh-Cresh. Data, whispers, nudges. Sometimes we do people favours, but we vet everything and if it shows too much void, we retaliate. Some on-the-level stuff as well, a few times. Under a pseudonym, of kriffing course.”
The last part was said to the air that Cody interpreted was meant more for the people sitting at the other end of the comm-tech. Seriously, very nice.
“Good,” Kenobi said in a clipped tone that bordered on Core crisp, fiddling with something under his jacket. “We can do the half-n-half, but only up to sixty. I also need two days to authorise the second payment, I can’t get it without explanations. Either sixty today and maybe one hundred later, or nothing.”
“Ah, accountability,” Desmond said wisely. “The downside of a small group of sentients having control over the larger whole.”
“It’s not control,” Kenobi automatically retorted, because that was a frequent argument he had with Comm- General Skywalker, blanching as he caught himself. A glance at Cody so fast he wasn’t sure it had happened told the clone the Jedi was not quite at the equilibrium he appeared to be in. “Ahem.”
Desmond stared at them with a golden, half-lidded gaze. Then he blinked.
“Alright, one-sixty, then. I’m from Aacee,” Desmond said as a non sequitur. “That’s what with the eyes. Not the skin, though, that was something else.”
Cody frowned in confusion.
“You were staring, Cody,” Jakken explained dryly. He turned back to the bartender, still alert but not battle-ready any longer. Casually, he slid a standard solid-cred chip across the bar and it vanished upon Desmond’s person after being visible for barely half a second. “We have a deal. Meeting at Fourthday, noon local time? I’ll have something set by then.”
“Great. We’ll have the stuff by then, too,” Desmond affirmed and scribbled something onto the rag with an ink stylus that appeared from nowhere. “Here are coordinates for a clearing nearby. Don’t really want to do an exchange here, right?” He casually placed the rag onto the counter in front of Kenobi and put one hand in the pocket of his white jacket. “I’ve technically been off shift for a while now, so I’ll be going home. You’d better call off your fellows ‘cause they’re on the verge of running in blasters hot any second now. And really, don’t bother following me. I’ll lose you at the first corner.”
With a wink, he strode a little further along the bar and slid over it with the same smooth efficiency Cody had noted earlier. Strange how Cody didn’t remember that he had noticed until he had seen it in evidence again; Desmond’s fluid movements looked a lot like a Jedi’s. Kenobi got out a comm and tilted his head after the tall, white-clad figure. Cody nodded grimly and stayed closer to Desmond’s heels than the recommended thirty paces.
And yet, at the first corner he was met with only the stink of piss and the perpetual drizzle. After the encounter they had just had, Cody could either chuckle or scream, so he kicked some refuse away to clatter further into the alley and huffed. Karking hells. Kriffing solo missions. Kriffing Kenobi missions.
…Made a pretty good story for the next drinking night, though.