It's Commander Tano, Not Padawan

Chapter 22

Note: First off, sorry for taking so long and I thank Assassino18 for their feedback. Second, this is Fives POV. You technically don't have to read this for the overall plot of the story, but it sets the stage to understand his later role. Third, as always, comments bring a smile to my face. 

The two day journey through hyperspace was uneventful, the pilots and Fives often keeping to their respective areas: the cockpit and the cabin.

His typical athletic energy seemed to have seeped out of him and he laid in his bunk, mind still stuck on Coruscant. And Kamino. And Ringo Vinda. Everything that had occurred for the past week was playing on repeat in his mind.

Tup killing the Jedi.

Tup dying under his hands on Kamino.

Nala Se's deception that had – has – even Jedi Master Shaak Ti fooled.

That Chancellor Palpatine had orchestrated a plan to kill the Jedi.

To make the clones kill their own Jedi. Their Generals and Commanders. Their friends. Their family.

That he was now a dead man, framed for trying to kill the Chancellor.

Which, admittedly, he had been trying to kill the Chancellor, but for the Republic. For his brothers.

That only Rex and Commander Tano knew he was alive. That only they believed him.

And now he was an unnamed clone deserter on his way to Shili to live among civilians like a coward, while his brothers continued to fight and die in a pointless war.

It had all been for nothing.

Every single death. Everything single sacrifice. Their very existence was for nothing.

The utter meaninglessness of Echo's death hit him like a blaster bolt straight to the chest, over and over and over again.

Fives was sure the throbbing in his hand were smashed, bruised knuckles from where he had pounded them into the unyielding durasteel only to bite the flesh of his thumb to keep from letting his anguished screams filter into the corridor.

He clenched his jaw tight, squeezing his eyes shut to stem the stinging rise of tears.

Palpatine was going to pay.

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Bogden, he could tell, didn't get a whole lot in the way of legitimate business. The spaceport he had been left in was relatively sparse as far as population went, but Fives was decidedly uncomfortable without his blasters and armor.

One of the pilots – Hayen – had been kind enough to donate some spare clothes and, after giving Fives an odd look for his request, a scarf.

Which left the man in a worn pair of khaki-colored pants, roughly painted over black shin-guards and boots, a faded green tunic over his blacks, and the brown cloth wrapped around his face with less than a hundred credits to his name.

Which means I'll either be trading work for passage or following the Commander's suggestion.

Boots kicking up dust as he treaded through what seemed like a muggy, evening air, it didn't take the clone long to find a bar. However, that seemed to be the only thing that went smoothly.

His drink was outrageously expensive and tasted more of water than the tihaar he ordered. And within twenty minutes of him sitting there, listening in peace, some Weequay felt the need to try and threaten him with a blaster with his buddies egging him on across the scum-hole.