Chapter Twelve: The Hand Fate Deals You

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20 BBY Coruscant

"I sent these men with you to keep you safe!"

"Am I not alive and well, sir?" The snark has slipped into my tone more each day. On Kamino they teach you the Jedi are something to be respected. Force wielders, protectors of peace. Good guys.

The amount of spittle on my face from General Nidor's yelling has me convinced otherwise. Jedi are no different than these sith that oppose them. They have power, and they abuse it all the same.

General Nidor about faces and scoffs. "You dare defy me."

"I asked to work alone, unless you've forgotten promising me that."

"Alone does not mean unaided."

"All due respect, sir. I'll disagree."

Nidor flashes a disgruntled glare. "Get out of my sight, clone."

I bow my head and mock a salute. Then I leave. Our arguments have grown into a habit. The General seems to think I need backup wherever I go, and that means every mission I have to take Headshot, Raf, and Booker with me. Nidor doesn't realize all he's doing is putting more men in harm's way. I make sure to correct his errors when I can.

Sometimes I'm not sure how I harbored any respect for the man. For any of the Jedi. They use us like expendable pawns. No one cared then, and no one will care now, so why he pretends to care about my life, I'll never know. Maybe it's just another way of showing off his power.

Kriffing force. It's deluding them to the point they can't even see the ground beneath their boots. A bunch of sages should have never been put in charge of a war.

I stalk down the block. I've gained other habits here on Coruscant, mostly so I don't have to spend time in the barracks. There's plenty of gossip around my tenuous relationship with the General and I'd rather not hear it. I'd rather not see the empty bunks either.

Thankfully the Casino isn't far. The dim lights flicker on and off. I slip inside and a haze of smoke covers everything. There's solace in the fact that half the people here are too stoned to care who I am, what I do, or why I'm here. We're all just doing what we do best. Drowning our sorrows in misplaced confidence.

I slip into a table at the back. The usual faces wait for me. A Rodian with a discoloured face and a scarred eye. A Wookie with matted fur, surprisingly gentle guy for his type, and some humans too. The old man with the droid eye looks at me.

"Back again?"

"Just so I can take your money?"

"What's a clone got to spend money on?"

The Rodian snickers. "Girls."

I slam my boot on his foot and he yelps. "I'm just holding it all hostage," I snap back. "So you can't go spending it on booze."

They break into raucous laughter and I smirk. A droid comes over to deal. The hand isn't great, but I can make it better. Sabbac is an easy game if you know what you're doing and no one cheats. But someone's always cheating. Usually it's Rodo, the man with the droid eye. He hasn't cheated his way to a win yet, though.

I glance at my cards again. Funny how life deals you a hand and you either get a winning or losing one. If only I was as good at life as I was gambling. Maybe then I'd get out of this hellhole, away from that kriffing General, and find something to do with my earnings. Maybe I'd get the rest of the Dar'Aliit, as the other three have been calling us, out of this war machine too.

The future end of this war is a million parsecs from anyone's mind, though. Maybe it'll never end. We've got the Seps on the run from some sectors and they've got us with our tail between our legs in others. It's bound to keep going, bloody and brutal.

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