Chapter Text
The Kaminoans, Fox reflects, had been frustratingly good at their jobs.
Create the perfect soldier. Some of it, he supposes, must have been easy. Start with the DNA of a skilled warrior, add additional strength, endurance, resilience. Train the resultant clones relentlessly from the day they were decanted. Cull any without the skill to keep up to the ruthless standards of perfection.
Already, that's enough to design perfect warriors. But the Republic didn't need a million warriors; it needs soldiers. And despite their many similar traits, a soldier is a different sort of beast altogether.
Fox makes a mental list of it, in free moments between his endless responsibilities. All the qualities that made Jango Fett a poor soldier. All the things the Kaminoans, with their bioengineering and genetic modifications, had needed to fix.
First: Compliance with regulations.
Fox gets his blaster out, takes it apart on muscle memory, and begins to clean each component.
Jango Fett had been a dangerously loose canon. In response, the Kaminoans had added an almost obsessive desire for symmetry, adherance to rules, cleanliness and perfect order. Cleaning a blaster, as Fox is doing now, feels good. Like a little itch in the back of his mind going away. The same itch that grows in discomfort whenever his armor goes unpolished, whenever a salute is imperfect or a march out of strict rhythm.
Fox's blaster hadn't left its holster since the same time yesterday, when he'd taken it apart to clean it, just as he's doing now. The paperwork and official appearances required of the Marshall Commander of the Coruscant Guard leave very little occasion for the firefights Fox had been built for. But not cleaning his blaster would leave Fox on edge. So, he lets himself relax into the soothing motions. Then the acrid-yet-pleasant scent of armor polish, as he scrubs at a breastplate that's already sparkling. He was on edge plenty these days; he'd learned the hard way not to neglect these little routines.
Second: Ability to work in a unit.
Polishing each successive component of his armor, placing them in regulation order, Fox looks around the bunkroom.
As Marshall Commander, Fox was entitled to his own sleeping quarters. Whatever natborn had assigned them to him clearly hadn't read the list of clone behavioral modifications in any detail. Jango Fett had been too often a loner; so the Kaminoans had programmed their creations with a pathological need for others of their own kind. It had only taken two sleepless nights for Fox to overcome the frission of discomfort at violating regulation, and squeeze into his fellow officers' tiny bunkroom. There, packed like sardines with the comforting presence of his brothers, the built-in soothing mechanisms of his biology allow Fox his precious hours of sound sleep.
Third: Feedback motivation.
"Good work," Fox says casually the next day, as one of his soldiers drops off a report on the mounting pile on his desk. He sees the armored shoulders straighten from already-perfect posture, sense the grin under the helmet.
It was a fairly intuitive mechanic to build in. Soldiers should be eager to please and quick to correct mistakes. Fox knew it had made the trainer's lives much easier, having pupils hard-wired to respond to every critique they gave. Fox knows all too well the flood of positive hormones stemming from a "well done" in the mouth of a Senator or superior, and the rush of negative ones whenever (far more frequently) someone berates his and the Guard's incompetence.
It's one of Fox's self-imposed duties. As head of the Coruscant Guard, he is also its face. He's made sure he's the one to hear all complaints, even if it eats into his limited time, makes his guts twist involuntarily with each angry, entitled word. It doesn't matter how inane the grievance, how stupid the natborn making it. Fox can't help the way it hurts him. Built-in, bred-in, it doesn't matter. There's nothing he can do but stomach the inadequacy, the squirming shame and guilt that some damn scientist had put there.
At least he keeps all the criticism as his to bear. As Commander, he does his duty. He protects his men.
Finally: Obey Orders.
Last and most important of all the clone's engineered traits. Oh, there were others, small tweaks to the Prime's genetic code. Clones love battle, the ozone-smell of firing blasters, the adrenaline rush of a brush with death. They wake on hair-triggers, always alert for ambush, and sleep just as quickly, programmed for catnaps more than a full night's sleep. Little things.
Clones crave orders.
It was a wise move on the part of the Kaminoans, keeping them so easily controllable. It isn't a compulsion, not quite. Disobeying is possible, even if the resultant disapproval usually feels like a kick to the gut. But when a superior, any superior in the GAR's strict hierarchy, gives an order, and a clone obeys…
It feels like floating. A sort of foggy, all-encompassing, cotton-candy feeling. Like sunlight, like drugs, like music or sex or religion. Clones need none of those, only orders. Worries fade, fears vanish. What need does a clone have to fear oncoming death, when their General sends them into the line of fire?
Their purpose is to obey, and their creators ensured just how deeply they would crave it.
Or maybe Fox is exhaggerating the bio-engineered effects. Maybe it really doesn't feel that good — orders had been so common back on Kamino, surely they hadn't clouded his mind whenever he got the chance to obey them? Perhaps the pleasure was really quite small, and it's only Fox's own memory magnifying them to some surreal status.
There's no way to be sure. It's been almost two years since Fox had received or obeyed a direct order.
This was not to say Fox can do what he wants with his time. Far from it; he has duties, responsibilities, requests and assignments aplenty. There is no want of demands on Fox's time; yet somehow, none of it comes in the form of actual orders.
Fox is fairly sure he's the only clone in the GAR who had this problem. Certainly he's the only one in the Guard. Anyone of subordinate rank can easily receive orders from another clone, happy to provide for a brother in need. Fox is certainly liberal with them, small things like "deliver this form" or "be there at 0900 hours." He's especially conscientious with his fellow Commanders, Stone and Thorn. As Marshall Commander, he's one of their few direct superiors, and thus is careful to make sure they get enough direct orders from him that their brain chemistry never becomes a problem.
Because that is the problem, really. As High Marshall Commander, Fox has no clone superiors in the army. He obeys the senators and other important government natborns as a matter of course, but they aren't actually part of the GAR hierarchy. (The Kaminoans, not being idiots, had made sure their deadly clone army was only engineered to obey the people they're supposed to obey. A stranger on the street could give orders all day long and nothing would come of it.)
(Somewhere in the back of Fox's mind, he wonders what will become of them when the war ends. Would there be some sort of workaround, if they all became civilians? Would the need for obedience be engineered away, perhaps along with their accelerated aging? The rest of him knows it's a stupid question. There will be no 'after the war,' not for the clones. They'd been made for it. If there was no war, no army to serve in, the Republic would ensure there were also no clones. No one left to interfere with its precious peace.)
The problem for Fox — or one of his problems, anyways — is that his only direct superiors as far as his brain chemistry is concerned, are members of the Jedi Order, and the Supreme Chancellor of the Republic. The Guard does not have a Jedi General. And despite sharing a planet with the temple, the Chancellor's office had ensured that the Coruscant Guard never have contact with any Jedi beyond the absolutely necessary. None of them have given Fox an order since the war began.
Which left only the Supreme Chancellor himself.
Fox knows his duty is to serve the man. He would, without a moment's thought, sacrifice his life to prevent the slightest chance of the Chancellor's injury. Fox belongs to the Chancellor, just as all his brothers do, even if their contract had officially been commissioned by the Jedi Order.
None of this was enough to keep Fox from wanting to punch the man in the face.
It's so many innocuous little things. "You may come in," Palpatine would say, when Fox knocked on his office door. Taken alone, the last two words would be an order; taken together, they are not. "It would be delightful if you would…" and "I do so hope you can find the time to…" were repeated ad nauseum, so there was not a single damn order. From the one person Fox could get them from. For years.
Sometimes, Fox swears the man is doing it on purpose. It can't be just a politician's charm and talent for dissembling that did this. Two years, and not so much as a "sit down" or a "come here." Everything is couched in so much polite language, every order so carefully wrapped in sugar-coating, and Fox could almost, but not quite, taste it.
The other day, Palpatine had told Fox to "go see my secretary when you leave." Fox had been about to nod his assent, had the promised endorphins so close to the surface-
And then Palpatine added, "if you would be so kind," just as Fox had one foot out the door. It had been crushing. If Fox didn't know better, he'd swear that Palpatine was laughing at him.
So, Fox had found other ways. Lacking a clone's most crucial self-regulation mechanism, he settled for others. Like cleaning his blaster and armor, as he's doing now. Like staying close to his other brothers whenever possible. Like following every single rule and regulation down to the damn letter — or, as some of his brothers put it, "having a stick so far up his own ass he can brush his teeth with it."
Fox doesn't care. Let them try two years without basic endorphins, and then try judging Fox's coping mechanisms.
But what it all amounts to is this: No matter how many workarounds they try, no matter how many blasters Fox cleaned or how many fire-fights Stone sent him into when the need got too bad, Fox was rapidly approaching his limit. Clones had been built to obey orders, and there was only so well Fox could get along without them. Either the Chancellor would grow a sense of empathy (unlikely) or a Jedi would come along and order him about (even less likely), or Fox will just have to go on like this forever. He doesn't know if he can stomach the thought.
“I don’t like clones.”
These are the first words Quinlan Vos ever says to the Coruscant Guard, spoken to the commanders as he sweeps into the office where Fox, Stone, and Thorn are all working. They’ve had enough notice from the rest of the Guard to put their helmets on before the new Jedi entered, but little else.
‘Real crowd-pleaser, this one,’ Thorn messages the other two, taking advantage of the privacy their helmet comms afford them.
“Best I can tell, you’re good for war and nothing else. I don’t like that, and I don’t trust it. Don’t think I’m in here because I respect you, because I don’t.”
‘Knows just how to work an audience,’ Stone texts back. Fox doesn’t bother with the snark, just stares disdainfully at Vos where he’s currently lounging against the doorway like he owns the place.
“Still,” Vos says distastefully, “it is war, and I’ve been told I need a weapon. So I’m here under orders from the Jedi Council to requisition a skilled clone for a confidential mission.”
“We require forms C2-F3 through C2-F7 to requisition the aid of a Guard,” Fox says in blankest monotone.
Vos stares. If anything, he looks more offended by the robotic reply than if Fox had tried calling him out on his bullshit. Good. Following regs it is.
“I just told you, I’m under orders from the Jedi High Council,” he says slowly, as if talking to a particularly stupid droid. “Mace Windu said I need a clone for backup. I thought following orders was your one selling point?”
As if this damn Vos knows shit about ‘following orders.’ About the way Fox itched for it. Still, Fox hasn’t been assigned to the Senate for two years and learned nothing. He can stonewall assholes with the best of them.
“In which case High General Windu will be required to co-sign subsections Cresh through Onith of the requisition forms,” Fox replies blankly, letting himself feel the familiar edge from following regulations to the letter. It’s what us meat-droids are best at, after all. “We can send you all relevant forms with the necessary additional signatures highlighted, General Vos. Please allow for three to five days of processing time.”
“You?”
The distaste in Vos’s voice is clear, as Fox steps stands waiting to accompany the Jedi on his mission. Vos seems to have a particular dislike for Fox, more than his base-level dislike for clones on principle. Fox is rather proud of that, in a twisted way. It seems he’s done well, sending Vos back to redo the same forms three separate times, while always maintaining the same mask of perfect bureaucratic professionalism.
“Marshall Commander CC-1010, at your service, General,” Fox says, keeping the mocking edge buried deep.
Vos makes a face. “Of all the clones, you give me the worst one?”
Stone is a little less good than Fox at keeping his dislike on the inside. “The Marshall Command is the most highly decorated clone in the GAR, with outstanding skills in all areas you require, sir.”
Fox does appreciate the support, even if it’s somewhat undermined by the fact that Stone’s the one who volunteered him for this job with Vos in the first place.
“Me?” Fox asks in disgust. “You want to send me out, with him?”
“It’s just one mission,” Stone says absentmindedly. “You’ve been needing to get out from behind the desk anyways.”
This, at least, is true. Fox can feel the itch building up again, the one that says he needed to follow orders or at least get into a blaster fight yesterday, if not sooner. There’s only so far that repeatedly polishing already-spotless armor can get him, and Fox knows it.
“That doesn’t mean I’ve got to do it with Vos,” Fox says instead of disagreeing. “Man’s a tit. I wouldn’t deserve to spend time with him if I’d just let in the entire droid army.”
Stone sighs and puts down his datapad. “Yes, he’s a tit. Yes, he thinks we’re meatdroids. But he’s a Jedi.”
“So?”
“So he’s got rank over you. How hard do you think it’ll be to get an order out of someone who thinks we’re objects? Grit your teeth the whole time if you have to. Just get what you need from him and get out.”
Fox glares at Stone. “I hate that idea.”
Stone, instead of glaring back, just looks tired. “It’s been two years, Fox. You need this.”
Fuck Stone. Fuck Vos. Fuck the Kaminoans, for giving him this fucked-up brain chemistry in the first place. “If this doesn’t work, you’re taking my senate shifts for a month.”
“Deal.”
So now Fox is here, delving the lower levels on a mission, and perhaps the only person less happy about it than him is Quinlan Vos.
"Do your idiot regs cover a situation like this?" Vos asks, as they both step through raw sewage to track their quarry.
"Directive 62-B, subclause besh, General," Fox says, in perfect monotone. He's doing better than Vos with the sewage, as his armor protects him from the worst of it. On the other hand, Vos isn't saddled with a near-pathologic need to keep said armor clean.
"What does that one say? The only clone sent to wade through shit should be the one who is a piece of-"
Technically, Fox is not supposed to interrupt a superior officer. Even more technically, he does not care, not when said officer is Quinlan fucking Vos. He'd bet all the credits he doesn't have on Vos not knowing that rule, or any other.
Viciously surpressing the twinge of discomfort at breaking a reg, Fox begins reciting the entirety of Directive 62-B, including all six of its subclasses, in a stoic word-for-word drone. At least reciting from the manual helps him feel a little bit better, and the glare Vos shoots him makes him feel a lot better. Still, he's going to have a lot of armor polishing to do tonight.
That, at least will be some relief. Because of course Vos, worthless shitstain on the world that he was, couldn't be kriffed to do the one thing Fox had agreed to this mission to get him to do. Vos managed to spew expletives, insults, a few anti-clone slurs, and even a few cases of actually useful and mission-relevant advice — but not one order. Because of karking course he hadn't.
"Why not give me a proper name, clone?" Vos taunted him with now. "I know you lot have them. Or are you too proper of a war machine for that?
“Regulations dictate proper forms of address at all times,” Fox replies primly. As if he'd give Vos his name. As if following regs isn’t the only thing keeping Fox even a little bit sane right now. As if Vos couldn’t help with that, if he weren’t too much of an asshole to do the one thing he was supposed to and the one thing Fox needed him to-
“Screw regulations,” Vos says with that bullshit smirk. “Here, tell you what. The problem with ‘CC-1010 is that I can’t make any good pet names from it. But I’ll drop the whole issue if you just use one for me instead.”
Fox grits his teeth beneath his bucket.
“Go on,” Vos says nastily. “Call me ‘sweetheart.’”
It’s an order. It’s a damn order – the first one Fox has had in years – and like hell is he going to follow it.
“With all due respect,” Fox says, his tone of voice conveying that this is absolutely none, “I’d rather fuck you with a rusty fork. General.”
And this might have been the biggest damn mistake of his life, because now Quinlan Vos thinks this is a game.
The first time Quinlan does give him an order – the first time Fox obeys – all he can think is, he’s glad it wasn’t in the middle of the mission.
“Come over here for a second, clone.”
Quinlan spits it out so casually, calling him ‘clone’ since he refuses to use Fox’s ident code. And it’s so familiar a word that Fox complies unthinkingly, for a second doesn’t even realize. Doesn’t realize-
Then it comes crashing over him like a tsunami, the force of it almost sending him to his knees. It’s- it’s not supposed to be like this, he knows, remembers from back on Kamino, when orders came as easy as breathing. They had never affected him like this then, but now it’s been two damn years since he felt this, and-
It feels good.
Better than good. Better than the blaster fights Stone sends him into, better than a bone-deep massage when every muscle is tense and knotted like a damn tree. Better than proper food after a month of half-rations.
Fox obeyed an order. He can practically feel his heart rate slowing, the tension unwinding from his shoulders and spine. He’s done as a Jedi General commanded, just as he’s meant to. Just as he’s made for.
“What was that?”
For once, Vos’s voice isn’t mocking or rude. Instead he sounds uncertain, and maybe the tiniest bit – concerned?
“Look at me, Commander,” Vos orders, suddenly standing much closer than Fox remembered, near enough to steady Fox’s almost wobbly legs.
Fox obeys on instinct. He’s more aware of himself this time, but the wave of bio-engineered contentment still floods every one of his senses as he does as he’s told.
This time, though, he’s looking at Vos. Standing too close, seeing the way brown eyes darken, the way lips part, ever so slightly, as the bastard realizes what sort of effect his words have had.
“Oh,” Vos whispers, and Fox hates the sound of it. Even as he craves the voice that just gave him what he so desperately needs. “Oh, you like that, don’t you, little clone?”
Even in the haze of contentment Fox’s brain chemistry is currently forcing on him, Fox remembers how much he hates the man in front of him.
“It’s not because it’s you,” he manages to spit out. “We’re made like this. Obedient, sure, but any Jedi would do.” Then, because Vos’s eyes are still dancing with pleasure, “I’d still leave you dead in an alleyway if I could, General.”
It does nothing to quash the slow grin spreading Vos’s face. “Of course you would, darling,” he says, voice low and amused. “But I can feel just how good that was for you, you know? Are you saying you wouldn’t like me to do it again?”
And kriff, Fox can’t say that, not to a walking lie-detector Jedi. Not when his spine is still tingling from the first two orders, not when he’s not sure he’ll be able to forgive himself for turning down a third.
Still, he’ll be damned if he gives Vos the satisfaction. He glares, and says nothing, and lets the damn empath Jedi draw his own conclusions.
Vos just looks at him, seeming to find Fox’s stubbornness more entertaining than anything, still standing far too close.
“Tell me your name.”
Fox doesn’t have to obey. He could keep his silence, could tell the damn bastard Vos to fuck off to whatever hellhole he spawned from. He could step away right now, wants to so he’s not stuck looking at Vos’s smug fucking face.
But as long as Fox keeps eyes on Vos, he gets the echo of obedience-pleasure from Vos’s last command. And the new order is harmless, for all Vos is clearly toying with him. It’s been so long since he could obey…
“CC-1010. Fox.”
“Fox?” Vos takes his time with the name, savoring it on his tongue, relishing his little victory. Fox wants to punch the word out of his mouth. “Mmmm. I think it suits you, little Foxy.” Then Vos’s smile returns, sharp and predatory. “Now, tell me my name, Foxy.”
“Quinlan Vos,” Fox says, and feels the wash of obedience-contentment once more. Force, but he hates this man.
The sound of a commotion from outside breaks the moment. Vos steps back, out of Fox’s line of sight, and Fox lets the stress of Coruscant flood back into him. Fox dons his helmet; Vos drops the grin. They both settle back into their roles.
“Well, I’ve got to run, Fox,” Vos says casually, tossing out Fox’s name with no trace of his earlier fascination for it. “Still, you really are quite fun for a clone, aren't you? I think I finally see what the others like in you. Think you'll be up for a repeat performance sometime soon?”
And before Fox can growl out a response, the damn bastard of a Jedi is gone.
“How many?”
It’s the first question Stone asks Fox, when the mission is fully over and Fox returns to the Guard. Even through armor, Stone can see the set of Fox’s spine, the tension in his shoulders already lesser than before, the slightest tilt of his bucket giving him away.
“Don’t know what you mean,” Fox says shortly, as he returns to his desk.
Stone just rolls his eyes. “Anyone can see you just got your fix. How many orders did Vos give you?”
“It’s not a fix,” Fox says as he clunks his helmet into its perfect spot on the corner of his desk. He hates when Stone talks about it like an addiction. Like Fox can’t function without orders. Like he can’t control his own brain chemistry.
Except you can’t, a nasty voice whispers in his head. It’s just Vos who controls that.
“Five,” Fox spits out, as much to distract himself from the voice in his head as anything else. “Five orders, but I only obeyed four of them. He’s a piece of shit.”
Thorn, sitting in the other corner of the room at his desk, lets out a low whistle. “Five orders in two years, and you turned one of them down? Damn, Fox.”
Fox doesn’t say anything. All he can think of is the way Thorn just said his name, and how Vos had made the very word sound like an invitation. He needs Vos out of his system, now.
“I’ve got flimsiwork to catch up on,” Fox says stiffly, pretending he doesn’t see the look Stone and Thorn exchange on the other side of the room.
"So tell me," Quinlan says casually, lounging against the wall of the deserted Corrie HQ room they're both in, in a way that makes Fox want to smack some adquate posture into him. "Did the Kaminoans build any other levers into you, the way they did with orders?"
Then, before Fox can tell him to kriff off-
"That is an order, by the way. I really do want to know."
Fox runs through the now-familiar calculation in his head. Does he really want to fuck over Vos more than he wants the relief of obeying another order? The answer, as is the case depressingly often, is no.
"Yes, they built in others," Fox says shortly, because each word feels so good.
There's a pause, in which Vos waits for an elaboration which isn't forthcoming. Just because Fox has decided to be obedient, doesn't mean he has to be helpful.
"And those levers are…?" Vos prompts.
Fox stays silent.
Vos sighs. "I order you to tell me what the other levers are, Fox."
Once again, the mental calculation. Once again, the decision to take what he wants from Vos's damn idiotic self.
"Cleanliness," Fox says, terse yet crisp. "Following regs. Blaster fights, explosions, perfect marching order." He pauses for a fraction of a second, not sure he wants to tell Vos this last one, but still riding the obedience high from each prior word he's said. "Praise."
Vos had been looking thoughtful at each item in Fox's litany, clearly piecing together some of why Fox is as stick-up-the-ass as he is. Then Fox says the last words, and Vos's eyes light up in a way that makes Fox regret every single one of his life's choices.
"Praise?" Vos says, delighted beyond all proportion. "Clones have a built-in praise kink?"
"It's not a kink," Fox says with a glare. He tries not to respond to Vos unless it's either mission-relevant, or something he can get an order out of. Unfortunately, Vos is too good at getting under Fox's skin. "And if you dare use it against any other clone, Vos, I swear to every star system that I will hunt you down-"
"Oh, I won't," Vos says, in that way that means mischief. Fox frantically scans what he'd just said for loopholes, then curses himself. Had he really-? "I won't use it against any other clone at all. Just you, my good little Foxy."
Fuck Quinlan Vos. Fuck the Kaminoans. Fuck every bit of Force-given empathy that let Vos know just how good that felt-
"If it wasn't treason, I'd kill you with my bare hands," Fox says, and even though Vos knows he's telling the truth, it doesn't detract from the surge of -'good'-praise-good clone- that they'd both felt shoot through Fox like one of the less-illegal drugs.
"Good clone," Vos muses, and that feels even better. The Jedi using his name is one thing — something always tinged with the resentment of Vos forcing it out of him in the first place, even if it had ultimately been Fox's choice. But 'good clone' — somewhere in Fox's hindbrain, somewhere deep and built-in, he knows one of the Jedi just decided he was good at what he's made for. Good clone means good investment, good purchase, means the Kaminoans did a good job at creating him and Fox did a good job at being trained-
Fox hates how good that feels.
"Do that again and I'll punch out your throat," Fox growls.
Vos just laughs. "Of course you will, Foxy. Tell me again, how long did you go without orders before I came along?"
"Twenty-one months," Fox grinds out. Even the floaty relaxation of obeying an order can't stop him from gritting his teeth.
"Right," Vos says musingly. "And am I right in assuming that did something to your brain chemistry? None of the other clones I've met are as uptight about rules as you are, and you did say that was a lever. And I can't imagine you all react so … distractingly, the first time a General comes along and gives an order. If nothing else, that would be an impediment on the battlefield."
Fox doesn't say anything. He'd rather eat glass than admit that Vos is right on all counts.
"Tell me I'm right," Vos says casually.
Fox does so. Eating glass is outweighed by finally having a glut of orders.
Vos gives a thoughtful hum. Of course, he can sense that Fox was telling the truth, that all his own assumptions were completely correct. "Well, I'm hardly going to deprive you of your addiction, now am I?" Vos says.
Fox wants to snap that it isn't an addiction. He doesn't do so; it's far more important to follow Vos's current train of thought to its end.
"I'll keep giving you orders, Foxy, since you need them," Vos says. Fox exhales slightly, glad he stayed silent. "And I won't give any praise if you really don't want it."
That too is a relief. Fox technically can get praise from other people than Vos, it's just rather rare. But for all it feels good, he doesn't need it the way he needs obedience. An absence of praise won't fuck with his brain chemistry like a drought of orders will. And the extra endorphins aren't worth the fact that Fox doesn't get a choice in how he responds to praise. At least with orders, he can always choose not to obey. However rare that's become, the choice is still his. At least it lets him pretend to be in control of his own damn engineering.
"At least, I'll save the praise until you really want it," Vos taunts. "I'm sure one day you'll beg me for it, and then I'll be quite happy to oblige."
"One day after the heat-death of the universe," Fox snarls. "I'm never going to kriffing beg you, Vos."
"Of course you won't," Vos agrees with a smirk. "Now, run along. I've got important work to be doing."
Fox thinks it would be rather important work for him to shoot Vos in the leg. Unfortunately, the lure of the order is stronger, and he does, indeed, 'run along.'