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filamentlights · 23 hours ago

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ohHHH MY GODDDDDDJCHSFOFIDNSOCKDFCIDJOH HELLO??? THIS FIC?? EXCUSE ME WHILE I JUST LOSE IT FOR A BIT!!

Like omg I love a good ole detective mystery and this is just *divine*. Thorn is flawless as always, and I ADORE his and Lesiil's friendship. Also speaking of, Lesiil is just so badass!! In Fox's (correct) words, watching her "slam the other back down with intellectual savagery that makes them look dumb in the end" is delight. And the fact that Fox is getting all smug and shit watching her go on a tear is hilarious. He's so close to just being like "that's my girl"

Also the caf being the big turning point for fox to like her is hysterical. She knows the way to his cold black heart and it's that me espresso.

And I loved the psychoanalysis she did it felt so legit. I was like DAMN girl, u right it does reek of rage and anticlone sentiment. Thirty murders goddamn. Also her being like "yeah u DIDNT brief me but hey, time is OF THE ESSENCE WHEN PPL ARE GETTING MURDERED" is just gold. Like Stone c'mon, u can shove protocol up ur shebs mate.

"Fox realizes his face muscles are creasing – he's been beaming at her." I FUCKING CACKLED LMAOOO. IT'S LIKE FOX DISCOVERING JOY FOR THE FIRST TIME. HE DIDN'T REALIZE HE COULD SMILE OR SOMETHING. HE'S LIKE "HUH, MY FACE FEELS FUNNY" AND HE'S FUCKING SMILING AHAHA

"Some of those remind Fox of himself." he's Rex's brother alright. Enter Obama meme of him giving himself a medal.

Anyhow, I ADORED this entry. From Lesiil's banter with Fox, his uptight "doesn't know how to fucking smile, also follow protocol" demeanor broken the MINUTE he sniffs that artisan caf, the way you characterize and portray Lesiil to be so badass but also cool and professional, and just all of Thorn. I LOVED IT AHHHHH

Coruscant's Finest Detective

Entry to @clonexocweek - 02.10.25: Introduction | Event Masterlist

Part 1 of 5 | Next to Part 2 ↦

Summary: Following the mysterious series of murders that involved countless shock troopers, Marshal Commander Fox, on behalf of the Coruscant Guard, had been advocated to seek the famous natborn investigator Detective Lesiil Thrace from CSF Criminal Investigations Department for her exceptional expertise. Tags & Warnings: serial killer case, typical murder investigation, brief graphic condition of murdered victim, author watches true crime (on regular basis) for reference, intellectually bamf oc (incl. her rambling), inaccurate criminal investigation Pairing: Fox × Det. Lesiil Thrace (OFC Crime Investigator) Word Count: 8.2k A/N: Huzzah, posting 6 hrs earlier from schedule! First of my three clone x oc pairings spanning from Day 1 to Day 4/5 – allow me to introduce you to my child born out of my fixation on true crime videos. I have fun studying body languages in interrogation footages (tho I perfectly know how unreliable that is), so that inspires me to make Lesiil and her story with the Coruscant Guard involved. Also Lesiil is read LESS-EEL. Enjoy!

𝑰𝒕'𝒔 𝒂 𝒉𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒏𝒆𝒔𝒔, 𝒌𝒊𝒏𝒅𝒏𝒆𝒔𝒔, 𝒄𝒓𝒖𝒎𝒃𝒔 𝒆𝒏𝒐𝒖𝒈𝒉 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒚𝒐𝒏𝒆

— Eat Your Young - Hozier [X]

Standing atop the landing pad underneath the artificial warm Coruscant weather, Marshal Commander Fox watches the door of the transport gunship slide open.

It isn’t usual for them to issue a gunship for civilian transport, nor did they ever do, but they are the Coruscant Guard.

And their guest, after all, is an ad hoc recruit to aid in their investigation over a series of murder that's been occuring in the last three months – the ill-fated victims being Fox’s own shock troopers. Even as resourceful as they get with abundant security footage, plus the ones from the victims’ HUD; their own investigation, quite frankly, has been leading nowhere. With the pressing demand to solve the case, someone had to call the shots.

The investigator steps out, raising a bronze-toned hand to momentarily shade her eyes from the sun. With them being on the top landing pad of the building, the slight breeze sends her curly dark hair that’s bound over one shoulder aflutter. Fox notices one of her arms tucked into a sling. She catches him observing her, even though he’s got his helmet on dutifully that it supposedly gives away nothing, and briskly makes her way over.

“Ah. Morning, Marshal!” she greets him with a polite smile, taking his offered hand and shaking it. “So kind of you to welcome me personally.”

Fox nods, replacing his hands behind his back. “Just abiding protocols, Inspector Thrace. Welcome to Coruscant Guard Headquarters.”

A brief glint of amusement flies across storm grey eyes. “Thank you, sir,” she says, subtly shrugging, “And it's Detective, actually. Inspector Thrace is my father.”

Fox swallows his embarrassment. “Of course, Detective Thrace,” he mutters stiffly, loud enough for his voice to carry out through his bucket’s vocoder. He nods towards the sling. “What happened to the arm?”

She glances down. “Unfortunate physical altercation in what was supposed to be a good ole by-the-book crime scene investigation,” she explains, smirking ever so slightly, “Turns out, the culprit was hiding in the attic the whole time.”

“So you were ambushed.”

“Got hit, wrist shattered.” Fox notices a slight uplift in her tone to mask her sheer embarrassment. “But the others managed to prevent him from escaping and eventually subdued him.”

Fox nods along, a glance to over her shoulder watching one of his men pushing a hover cart of her necessities out from the gunship.

“Why didn't they treat you in a bacta tank?” he asks again, noting how obviously dumb that is, even if by her own choice.

“Because I’m having an appointment with the Coruscant Guard the next day,” the detective lets out a chuckle, “I sort my priorities. Work comes first. Bacta can wait. This'll do for a while until I decide to schedule an appointment when the coming days seem free.”

Fox resists the urge to roll his eyes. Just great. In his hands now is a stubborn detective who prioritizes work over their physical wellbeing. Who knows what more of her personality is yet to come out.

“Sorry I'm late!”

Fox turns around to the voice. Upon looking who’s running towards them, he audibly sighs, his voice filtering through the vocoder gruffly.

“Unforgiven, Commander Thorn,” Detective Thrace quips before he could chide, the action done so casually with a wide grin that gets Fox slightly surprised.

Thorn lets out a noise similar to a whine that makes Fox shudder a little in disgust. “Aww, don't be like that, Les,” he laughs, clasping her good forearm in greeting. He turns to Fox and nods. “Sir. Apologies for running a little late. Got to straighten up some shinies on the way.”

Fox grunts a reply. He waves a finger between the two. “So you two know each other personally?” he demands. Though he knows Thorn had been the one most vocal in their particularly decisive meeting, he’d only thought he and the natborn detective were strictly professional acquaintances.

“We’re keeping comms two days prior, and yeah,” Thorn answers colloquially, “And I bumped into her on my caf run a few months ago.”

The detective lightly shoves an elbow into Thorn’s ribs. “A delightful accident that involved spilling yours all over my white top.”

Thorn brings a hand to the back of his neck. “Sorry.”

She throws a smile his way. ��Now that I’m happy to land myself up here to aid in CG special investigation, that might be as good as my forgiveness.”

Fox straightens up and mentally swats the warm and casual fog away, remembering the current circumstances. While he admits he enjoys knowing his batchmate acquires himself perhaps some friends outside their ranks, the casual yet punctual cue from the detective steers him back to the grim, pressing matters.

The detective gestures forward. “Shall we, Commanders?”

Fox nods wordlessly, motioning them to follow him back out the landing pad and into the building. He hears Thorn muttering to the detective, “You go on ahead with Fox. I'll handle your hover cart.”

He sneers inside his helmet. They’ve got a shock trooper for that already. Is Thorn trying to woo her or something with that act of service?

He leads them through a series of hallways and an elevator ride, and more hallways, passing by a few troopers either standing by or in their downtime.

“Do you think your injury would hinder your work today?” Fox asks the detective.

“Negative, sir,” she answers, “I'm perfectly capable of doing flimsiwork with just one arm.”

Fox looks at her a second too long. He bites back a sigh. “We have bacta tank in our medwing. I can comm our CMO so we can treat you firsthand if it's not in use.”

The detective nods curtly. “That’s very kind, but instead of brooding for hours in the medwing, I'd like to start my first day in the Coruscant Guard working,”

Fox keeps his eye straight forward. “You may as well do both.”

“You're saying I'm dipping the hand?”

“Dipping the hand.”

She lets out an amused noise. “That's actually a sound idea,” she quips, “But until I agree to accept your offer, I'd like to see my office first.”

The edge of his lip lifts momentarily. So far in their conversation, he's been taking notes of the detective's Coruscanti accent and the littlest roundness in it – a telltale of someone who definitely lives topside.

He quickens his pace. “Right up this way, Detective.”

“You know,” Thorn says later after Fox left, his helmet off as he's helping to unpack the crates, “you can just call him Commander.”

Lesiil hums in acknowledgment while adjusting her sling. “I call him Marshal to tell him apart from you lot.”

“Yeah, anyway,” he says, “If you ever accidentally call him by his name when he's on his good side, he'll let it slide.”

“And if he isn't?”

“He'll make it clear it's your problem, too.” He throws a playful yet sympathetic smile her way. “What I mean is, don't mind him. He's like that. Almost everyone's scared of him, anyway. Too demanding, too stern. But honestly? It's just his physical exhaustion.”

Lesiil pauses in her effort in unpacking the other crate. She turns around to him. “So he rarely rests?”

“A sleeping Fox is a myth nowadays in the CGHQ,” he sighs, looking like he’s taken the plunge himself to look after his marshal commander several times. “He's dedicated. We respect him. Respect and loyalty is everything to us clones. He makes sure everything is in perfect order, he tolerates no failure, he's the one head of our corps planet-wide. I'm sure you understand. So, sleep is never on his mind.”

She goes quiet for a moment, conflicting between the Marshal's condition and all the positive outcomes that would've come from a properly run circadian rhythm. “But… surely he realizes how dangerous that is?”

Thorn shakes his head, chuckling. “You tell him.”

For the past half an hour after arriving, so far so great, she thinks. The Marshal Commander has been welcoming, and Thorn's presence is such a friendly comfort. As a foreign presence in a clone-only institution, it suffices just enough.

There's something about the Marshal, though. Lesiil does notice he doesn't treat her any differently – but then again she wouldn't go far to think about what's supposed to fit as ‘different’ in its context. She notes his gait; hands behind his back, shoulders back – signs of being observant of his surroundings, ready at any moment's notice while being neutral.

And clone trooper helmets. Those buckets prevent her from reading facial expressions and making a verdict of what these people actually think.

It saddens her sometimes. How these soldiers are put to marshal themselves behind masks of indifference and identical stoicism.

“You know him a lot, Thorn,” she prompts again, “What do you think is his first impression of me?”

“Really?” The commander's tone is high-pitched in surprise. “That's what you're worried about?”

She sighs. “Not worried. Just curious. I'd know, but I need some more words of affirmation here. Plus your helmet prevents me from spotting any facial expression to back up my initial assessment.”

Thorn had been gaping incredulously at her as she said that. “You're practically an A-list celebrity in all of Coruscant police ranks!” he boasts, “Kriff, you're famous, Les! You're the talk of the week among the Corries, y'know? All that, and you're worried about the Coruscant Guard Marshal Commander’s first impression of you?”

Lesiil stares at him, both hands on her hip as she demands further, “You know he's practically my CO now, so yes, and I'd love to know.”

Thorn rolls his eyes skyward at her stubbornness. “Well, when I vouched for you, he seemed pretty much convinced,” he says, “He's determined to catch this serial killer and solve and close the case, so I'd say he'd put some good credits on you.”

She hums, urging him to continue.

“Well,” he shrugs, “Tooka’s ain't out of the bag yet. I can tell you tomorrow if Fox and I get to talk later today.”

“Of course,” she smiles. Both then continue to unpack and set things down where the detective wants. Not ten minutes later, they’ve moved the empty crates away to one of the corners. Glancing around her office, Lesiil rubs her hand together and hums in satisfaction. “This looks decent enough.”

“For now,” Thorn gives out a smile of his own, “You need some decorations here and there.”

“Already on my to-do list,” she winks at him. “Now, would you please be a dear and fetch me everything you've got in this case?”

Thorn blinks. “But we haven't briefed you yet.”

Lesiil looks at him incredulously. “Well I wanna start right away, Commander, because you stated ‘urgent matters’ in your request letter last week, so help me here, yes?”

“Droid repair delivery for a, uh, Lesiil Thrace.”

After sparing a second more of his helmeted apathetic look towards the delivery guy, Fox turns to watch the front desk officer tapping away on the holoterminal. It beeps.

“No delivery confirmation from the detective, sir.”

“What?!” the delivery guy blurts out, “I swear to Maker the address is headed to the Corrie headquarters.”

“And this is the Corrie headquarters. She’s here,” Fox deadpans. He faces the desk officer again. “Comm her to come down and pick up her package.”

“Yes, sir.”

The poor delivery guy shifts uncomfortably. “Well, sorry for this, but I don't think I can stay any longer. I've got more to deliver.” He thrusts his datapad towards Fox. “Would you just please sign here as prove that someone’s received it?”

Fox glares down at the datapad, the delivery confirmation form glaring back at him, before dutifully deadpanning, “I can't do that.”

And that'll be the exact moment where Thorn comes out of nowhere. Again. Twice today.

“Here, I'll sign it,” he offers traitorously.

With the stylus and the datapad in hand, he offers a series of vigorous head nods as he drinks in the content of the form with a ridiculous amount of meticulousness. Fox watches his commander jotting down his CC number before returning the things back. The delivery man flies out the door without so much as a second glance, the package quite ceremoniously left by both commanders’ feet. The air about the front desk goes silently awkward for a while.

Until Thorn squats down to unclasp the locks on the tiny crate.

Fox clicks his tongue in reprimand. “The hell are you doing, Thorn?”

Thorn glances up at him before continuing his endeavors to peel off the many layers of safety wrap inside the crate. “This is just Lesiil’s droid,” he casually explains.

Fox blinks. How close they are that the detective presumably trusts Thorn to unbox her delivery is beyond him. That, or Thorn just acts out of kindness. If opening someone else's package is called kindness. But since it's for security purposes and the front desk is not a delivered package post, that'd be sensible to do.

With a soft grunt, Thorn picks up a small bipedal droid with a rectangular head and large pair of lenses from the crate. He gets to his feet in reined excitement. “A BD unit! Always aids in her investigation. Had to be broken previously, somehow.”

“Detective Thrace hasn't responded, sir,” the desk officer behind them chimes in.

Thorn sighs audibly, clutching the offline droid close to his torso. “I'll get this up, then.”

Fox’s hand on Thorn’s arm stops the latter. “I want confirmation that’s her droid. Run a scan on its serial numbers,” he says to another strooper on stand by. He turns back to Thorn. “Put it down and power it on.”

“...sir?”

“You heard me.”

Thorn stares at him almost incredulously for another second before reluctantly putting the droid down right on the desk. He fumbles for some kind of switch for a good minute or so, until the trooper with the scanner aids him while starting to run the ordered scan.

The small droid goes online with a rousing beep, its lenses blinking to life. Its bipedal legs extend and remind Fox of some avian creature. Throughout his life, he’s never seen this kind of droid before, not in the Senate Building or even in the GARHQ.

The BD unit tilts its rectangular head down, examining and wiggling its feet and beeping out all the way a little noisily, the binary voices filling the dull lobby.

Thorn crouches down to its level and catches its attention. “Hey, BD-6.” Fox can hear the excited grin in his brother’s voice. “Remember me? It’s Thorn.”

Its lens whirs in examination for three long seconds, before chirping and hopping up and down on its feet.

Thorn chuckles. “I'll take that as a yes.”

It then whirls around, taking its surroundings almost questioningly.

“You're in the Coruscant Guard Headquarters,” Thorn mindfully provides, “Lesiil works here now for a time being.”

The trooper with the scans steps forward and begins to check all over it. The droid beeps in alarm.

“Don’t worry,” Thorn puts a hand out to calm it down, “They’re just checking you over for a bit.”

Fox can’t contain his snickers any longer. “Since when you’re speaking binary, vod?”

Thorn looks at him straight on, the helmet helpfully provides a deadpan expression. “I don’t. Just a feeling. He looks anxious– oh, hey!” Upon completing the check, the droid had jumped onto his back with a trill. “He likes getting to people’s backs once allowed,” Thorn chuckles, reaching a hand backward to pat its head, “Hey, Beedee-bud. Yeah, good to see you again.”

“Commanders,” the scans trooper announces, “It’s registered as Detective Lesiil Thrace’s droid. BD series, sixth model.”

Thorn deadpanningly tilts his head at Fox, the droid on his back following the motion a second after.

Fox lets out a snort and waves them off.

The droid beeps again, and suddenly Fox gets hit by a vertical ray of red light coming from its lens. Once he's done scanning, he lets out a questioning beep from Thorn’s back.

“This is Marshal Commander Fox of the Coruscant Guard. He leads our corps,” Thorn introduces. At Fox’s inquiring stance, Thorn shrugs. “I think he's putting you in his memory banks.”

“And you know it just how?”

“He just met you and he just scanned you. You're, uh, noticeable, sir. You have distinct markings on your armor. The droid’s just doing his thing.” Thorn tilts his head slightly. “Right, Beedee?”

BD-6 lets out a confirming trill.

“Satisfied, sir?” Fox is certain of the shit-eating grin manifesting behind Thorn’s helmet right now. “He looks like you, though.”

He does have crimson red paint on its entire rectangular head.

Fox sighs harshly. “Don’t start, Thorn. I’ve got a lot on my mind, my caf machine broke, I have a meeting with the Chancellor before lunch break, it's not even 1100 and I'm tired.”

Thorn snickers. “Sir, yes sir.”

“I’ll take him up to her office,” Fox says. He points a finger to the droid. “You, follow me.”

One short goodbye between the BD unit and his batchmate later, Fox leads the droid to the main elevator area. His pace is surprisingly quick, swerving around and through seas of walking feet seamlessly and shooting down empty corridors with a beeping noise.

Fox is grateful for the quiet elevator ride. Besides that it’s empty throughout the ascend, the droid is too busy observing the planet-wide city through the transparisteel view panel. Fox throws subtle glances to check he's still there. The droid is just so kriffing small he’s almost afraid it would suddenly vanish out of existence. Well, not that small, but maybe it’s because he’s never seen it. The situation is a bit bizarre for him.

He catches Fox staring too long.

Then, he beeps loudly at him, scurrying by his feet hopping and nudging the rectangular head towards his back almost pleadingly.

“No,” he says coldly.

The droid boops in disappointment, his head dropping.

From the elevator area, the walk to the detective's office is short. The droid easily keeps up with his wider strides, seemingly excited to meet with his owner again. Fox is really set to get it back to his owner, and to demand why she hasn't been answering her comm.

The door swishes open almost instantly after he knocks, and it makes him flinch when the detective stands in front of him in an unexpected proximity, a sight of storm grey eyes and dark bronze skin and bound dark curly hair over one shoulder abruptly greeting him. Kark, he needs caf. He prays to whatever divine being there is that she didn't notice him jumping out of his skin.

“You’ll have to forgive me, Marshal. I was drowning in work,” Thrace says sincerely, commlink in hand, seemingly having only just read the messages.

The excited, long trill that comes out of the droid shakes Fox out of his trance. Detective Thrace lets out a small pleased laugh when she crouches down and extends her uninjured arm, and Fox watches how she's letting the little droid run up her arm and settling onto her back the way he did to Thorn moments ago.

“Good to have you back, Beedee,” she grins, earning a series of happy beeps from the droid. Thrace gently turns back to Fox, a modest smile slides into her lips. “Thank you for bringing BD-6 up, Marshal.”

Despite earning himself a view of a happy reunion between the droid and the owner, Fox gets reminded of the little predicament in the lobby.

��Please inform the front desk every time you’re having an incoming package, Detective. I nearly had to summon a bomb disarming unit just to make sure this isn't a bomb threat or any sort.”

Well it isn't true, but it usually serves well enough as a warning to his troopers.

Thrace acknowledges seriously, nodding once and sending him a look of apology. “Yes, sir. I'll be careful. It won't happen again.”

Fox murmurs a silent acknowledgement as he cranes his neck over the detective's shoulder, spotting piles of datapad on her table, empty crates of her things tucked into a corner, and a totally operating caf machine on the side table.

“Yeah, Beedee, new work here. Take your time scanning and prodding, will you?” He didn't notice the detective had stepped back into her office and showed her droid around. After letting BD-6 jump down from her shoulder, Thrace turns around, noting Fox still standing there expressionlessly.

She regains his precious attention when she marches towards her totally operating caf machine.

“Caf, Marshal?”

“Please,” he replies too quickly. In an instant, he hates it. He sounds desperate and he hates it, kriff’s sake.

Fox steps in, the door sliding close behind him. As the detective is busying herself making a fresh cup for him, he takes the graciously given opportunity to glance around the room. Despite being on the middle floor of the building, the first wall offers a decent span of busy Coruscant skyline through transparisteel, the vast compound of GARHQ a modest size in the distance within the military district. It provides so much natural light, something Fox thinks an average natborn would appreciate.

There are small mementos scattered around the room. A small artificial pot of plant on the desk, her holocomputer, and holostills of various people that Fox guesses as her natborn family and coworkers. The pile of Corrie datapads, however, intrigues him the most.

“Starting?” he prompts, “We haven't even briefed you on anything yet.”

Thrace glances at him. “I understand, but seeing now that I took it into my hands myself due to the nature of the urgency, the brief you're talking about now, though no less necessary, has turned into a mere formality.”

At the audacious proposition, Fox scowls in annoyance. He isn't ready for insubordination this early. Just great.

A mug of hot caf is suddenly thrusted in his direction. Steam rises from the red-colored drinkware and wafts through his helmet's breath filter, deliciously overwhelming him with sweet promises of surviving the long day. Its enticing aroma is nothing like mud water sprouting out from his caf machine or the one in the mess hall. It's rich, nutty, and dancing all over his taste buds already.

Thrace’s storm grey eyes fixate on his visor, as if piercing through it and straight into his eyes. “Though, if you've got any input, sir, be it trivial thoughts or factual, please send it over.”

He suddenly forgets what he's annoyed at.

“Understood,” he mutters, accepting the mug carefully with both hands. About that input, he does remember putting a personal commentary in a few of those cases due to the bizarre nature of some.

Fox shakes out of his trance, trying to not fall into the caf’s inviting aroma again. He clears his throat. “We'll be having a meeting with the entire CG command at 1500, Detective,” he says somewhat softly, the usual sternness in his tone already dissipating. This beautiful damn caf. “You're required to attend. You'll have to formally introduce yourself to everyone.”

Thrace’s dark brows furrow. “Why, it's in the middle of my peak work hour.”

Fox allows himself a sigh. “It's set. And I won't take any complaints.”

“I have already emerged deep in my progress, as you can see,” Thrace gestures around her table, datapads scattered all over it and BD-6 is downloading the data into its memory banks. The detective looks at him almost pleadingly, though her polite tone remains the same. “And as you perhaps may understand, a break of another activity in the middle of progress may hinder and slow it down.”

Fox lets out a breathy scoff. “And not a shattered wrist on a sling, Detective?”

“And not a sleepless and constantly caffeinated shell of a body, Marshal?” Thrace shoots back with a lift of her eyebrow. Fox inhales a breath. She glowers him down. “But I'm working, aren't I?”

“And so am I, Detective Thrace,” he grits his teeth, already feeling a migraine forming. “You're going to introduce yourself to command in this meeting. Share your portfolio, your previous cases, your methods. When we called the shots to whether or not to recruit you ad hoc, some were skeptical. Roughly put, you'll have to prove yourself that bringing you in today isn't a bad decision the entire command of the Coruscant Guard has made.”

Thrace breaks her glare, the hardness on her countenance breaking apart as well and softening as she nods in acknowledgment.

Fox puffs out his chest, satisfied with her reaction. “Commander Thorn was persistent and fought to the end to convince everyone.”

“Thanks to him, I'm here. And I'm honored,” she says back without missing a beat, the corner of her lips lifting momentarily.

“The honor is ours,” he replies easily. With a single nod, he departs towards the door, “I'll come by and escort you to the meeting room. 1500, Detective.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

The second the door closes behind him, Fox clicks off his helmet, the pressurization giving away with a hiss. Curls of dark hair fall into his eyes, yet it doesn't hinder him from the dark exotic drink in his hands. He lifts the mug to his nose, almost moaning to the exquisite aroma. Then, he catches the printed Aurebesh around the side of the mug.

#1 Person of Interest

And at that moment, for the first time that day, he lets out a laugh. At some poor excuse of a casual police pun, no less.

Once the Marshal Commander walks out the door, Lesiil allows herself a deep sigh. “And there goes my second favorite mug.” She then shrugs, turning to her ever loyal companion. “Did you hear that, Beedee? We have to prove ourselves.”

BD-6 lets out a series of boops.

“Of course we're taking that as a challenge. Aren't we always?” Lesiil grins, slurping her caf and turning back to the datapad pile on her table. “Now that you've scanned all of these, I need you to run a match scan for me. It's perfect timing that they've finished repairing you today.”

Hours fly by with more skimming and more logging. In the past three months while still at the CSF, Lesiil had heard about a serial murder in which the Corrie shock troopers had fallen prey to. She did try to poke around for more details, but seeing it was guarded behind the very walls she's currently in right now, she is easily, quite simply, invigorated, showering herself with all the details.

BD-6 keeps her company, chirping a few possible inputs of his own based on the data he’d downloaded earlier from the humongous pile of datapads.

Between the hours, with BD-6’s guidance (who had acquired a holomap of this very building including the ventilation and sewer system and the sublevels – the very notion that screams plausible deniability for when suddenly a shock trooper would knock on her door and ask around about a minor security breach – so she never asks Beedee just how and when and the ethics and the like), she takes the elevator down to the mess hall at lunch time.

It's bustling with sans helmet troopers, queuing for their share of meal that day and picking at them once sat. Lesiil grabs her own tray and scoops accordingly, mindful to show some neutrality in her countenance to not offend these troopers about the choice of food. She's had military-grade rations several times, anyway. When she takes a bite at the one in front of her, honestly, that's not the worst she's tried.

Several troopers pass by her lone table, politely asking her business. Those who know her, or more like, know her fame, well, they don't hesitate to ask for her autograph or holostills with her. The last thing she wants is to make bad impressions, and she wants to make an impression that she enjoys being here despite the bleak serial murder case, so Lesiil takes each and every request kindly until they're satisfied and her food unfortunately has gone cold.

After that, a quick elevator ride back to her office, BD-6 loyally perching on her back.

Then, more skimming and more logging.

A knock resounds at the door, and a quick glance at the chrono tells her that it's time.

“How many are you on the command board?” Lesiil asks the Marshal Commander as they march side by side heading for the designated meeting room, somewhere a few floors down from her office.

“64 commanders plus myself,” the Marshal answers curtly, his helmeted head straight on ahead.

Lesiil hums. “Did you like the caf?” she asks. It's one of those artisan blends she likes to pick up every now and then.

The Marshal throws a glance at her, almost in surprise, as if caught off guard by the question.

“It's… good,” he replies, before adding, “Thank you, Detective. I'll make sure to return the mug.”

Lesiil merely nods in return, and they talk no more past that, both enjoying the silence, safe for BD-6’s curious boops every time he catches a passing trooper's bewildered glance.

The meeting room is packed once they arrive. What's better is, they all have already taken off their helmets, talking among themselves either in quiet or in a playfully boisterous manner, showing all these facial expression variants of glee, seriousness, and gloom.

Lesiil is reinvigorated and almost giddily sweeps her gaze across the room, mentally taking notes of their reaction as both her and the Marshal Commander stride further into the room.

Thorn calls for her, waving her over and patting down the empty seat beside him. She abides, grinning, BD-6 trilling in excitement upon seeing the commander, whose several coils of dyed russet hair escape its bun stop his head, adorning his hairline messily.

“Hey, Beedee-bud,” Thorn instantly pats the droid's rectangular head once he perches on his spot on the desk.

After a few introductions to the commanders around her with Thorn's prompt (she now knows some of them are pretty close to the Marshal and practically forms a clique with him), Lesiil settles into her seat with eyes to the front of the stage, only to fail to be mindful of her own facial expressions to the sight up in front.

Her lips part. Her eyebrows, raised. The Marshal Commander, with the usual stance of his hands behind his back, sweeps his gaze around the room sharply. It is only then she realizes his crimson bucket is absent from its usual place.

Dark curls sit on top of his head, slicked back and away from his forehead by the necessary combing of gloved fingers, grey streaks of hair adorning his temples, each silvery strands a sign of constant wariness in corporate work and planet-wide security. Faded lines of scars mar his tawny face – a slash across his nose and a gash on his left cheek. Five day old stubble and the faint dark bags under his eyes that echo the very air of weariness and the hectic nature of his lasting career. Even then, his amber brown eyes don't fail his blasé countenance; always sharp, always critical, sparking with indefinite authority.

The Marshal leads the introduction briefly and goes past it quickly, almost startling Lesiil out of her seat since she's used to many welcoming speeches before getting to the main course.

But now, she's among clones. And that spells enough difference.

“I know I've only been here for a few hours, but that doesn't hinder me to say that I'm honored to be recruited ad hoc to work with the Coruscant Guard,” Lesiil begins promptly after being taken to the floor. The Marshal has retreated to his designated seat that happens to be just next to hers.

With another vigilant glance around the room, spotting every nonverbal cues at her talking, Lesiil inhales a soft breath before continuing, “In the grim circumstances of this serial murder case, I promise I shall do my best to help, and to serve justice for the souls of your lost brothers.”

Thorn is starting to clap his hands, ever showing support and making the others follow suit. Lesiil now could see some excitement and relief in few of those faces – looks like they know of her notoriousness.

And…

Lesiil knows that's her cue to step off the stage, plus the Marshal himself is starting to get off his seat to join her, but if she's not mistaken, he did tell her to prove herself.

“Now about this serial killer case, whose perpetrator has been labeled with the nickname The Corrie Butcher…” she begins unwaveringly, trailing off to catch the commanders she knows. Thorn is expressing every kind of being surprised while the Marshal has settled back into his seat and is smirking so subtly she almost misses it.

So, Lesiil graciously takes that as her cue.

“Not long after I settled in my office, I asked Commander Thorn to pull up everything there is about this case.”

“We haven't briefed you yet,” the Marshal pipes in, seemingly to disclaim to the audience in the room.

Lesiil’s stare bears down on him hard. “Yes, you already said that a few hours ago in my office upon finding out and again, Marshal, I apologize.” It invites a few chuckles from the audience. She exhales softly. “But what's one or two protocol breaches if compared to peace and justice served quickly? It's only a matter of time.”

Thorn discreetly gives her two thumbs up from his seat, and Lesiil throws a smile his way.

She starts to pace to regain her confidence. “I've skimmed through and reviewed at least an eighth of 160 or so case files along with some of the footage, enough to place a profile on our killer with a great level of confidence,” Lesiil orients thoughtfully, “So the Corrie Butcher's profile, unsurprisingly and quite anticlimactically, is an anti-clone middle-class natborn male worker. Unfortunately I haven't been able to provide more than this finding yet.”

A hand comes up from the crowd.

“I get anti-clone,” the clone commander states once Lesiil permits him, “But middle-class worker?”

“Out of all 160 or so of HUD footage, I ran a match scan on the timestamps at the time of the murders. Narrowed down, our killer goes with the murder between 1700 hours and midnight. 1700 is a typical time for most middle-class workers to get off work.” Lesiil inhales a sharp breath. “Not to mention the advantageous cover of the dark. So, our killer ventures and prowls the streets of Coruscant to hunt for unsuspecting shock troopers when he gets off work.”

Lesiil notes how it sparks some reactions. Some are nodding thoughtfully, some others are frowning to grasp.

“There's a reason why I brought up about him being an anti-clone,” she picks up again, “And it's not about how he despises your very existence in general as stated by the statistically huge number of other Coruscant citizens who feel the same.”

“So what would that be, then?” someone from the audience shouts.

Lesiil ponders for a while. “I have confidence that you'd somehow know about serial killers. I do know this because of my study and experience being involved in several serial murder cases.”

Yeah you're great, someone remarks loudly, inviting another round of chuckles. Lesiil smiles appreciatively at the spot she thinks it came from. Well, at least some of them know who she is and what she can do.

“The thing about serial killers,” she begins after a moment, “is that they have the same trademark and typically the same motive when they go for the kill. Our killer goes for the shanks. Thirty stab wounds on average 95% of the time. After they died, he'd run his knife into their forehead and carve the word ‘why?’. A message of anguish. The Corrie Butcher is an attention-seeking individual with personal vendetta in his agenda. A killer who seeks attention for their heinous act to be noticed by the public and the police is typically a trait or symptom of, say, about three different mental disorders, but I digress. This is a validated disturbed individual, though I think it doesn't need a thorough personal judgement to notice.”

The images are harrowing. Lesiil has grown to be used to the sight of blood and body horrors that follow her steps everywhere she goes, but even seeing another holostill of a fallen victim lying in the pool of their own blood still leaves her head blank for a moment, like walking with a hollow stomach and cotton-stuffed ears, no matter how calm she tries to be.

“But… that's kinda just describing every single anti-clone natborns out there,” another from the audience states hesitantly. “Kind of.”

“But not everyone kills shock troopers. Not even 160 times,” Lesiil rebuts firmly, “Nor stabbing them thirty times. One might be a crime of passion, two or three might be premeditated murder, but thirty? Thirty is overkill. Thirty is too much. They drive their knife in, over and over, even after the victim has passed.”

She pauses to give them a moment as some begin to draw deep, distressed breaths and clench their fists. Their brothers sitting next to them offer some words and comforting pats to the back.

She knows they're all tightly knitted, being brothers in arms and in blood. And those fallen men must be the very ones under their commands. This must be affecting them too much. However, no one abruptly marches out of the room. They're all hanging on, putting on solemn expressions, though perhaps a part of the reason is to respect the one currently talking on stage.

“Thirty is driven by extreme emotions, and not just for the sheer murderous thrill of it,” she continues, gentler this time, being mindful of those who still haven't looked up from their feet. ”I place my bets on, perhaps, a particular revengeful motive. There has to be a reason why the Corrie Butcher goes for the overkill, and with that carved message, he wants attention. He needs to deliver his revenge. The catalyst that leads our killer to do so is yet to be discovered, but I'm confident that we will manage to unravel this part by part.”

The Marshal Commander meets her gaze.

Lesiil takes notes of his arms, folded across his chest, and his foot over his knee, red-trimmed black kama spilling around him and onto the seat. Is he cold? The room is warm enough. Closed off demeanor, then. Defensive. But what for? Is he still skeptical?

She breaks his gaze, placing the Marshal's expression in the back burner.

“If everybody has gathered their bearings, I'd like to continue for a few more moments.” Lesiil rubs her hands together. She turns to her droid still perching on Thorn's desk. “BD-6?”

The droid boops in attention, drawing everyone's attention to it.

“Come up here and show the class, please,” she waves her good hand over, “And pull up that footage.”

BD-6 scurries along the table, passing Thorn and the Marshal Commander and completely unaware of the latter's following eyes.

Its holoprojector lens activates, casting a blue projection of an HUD footage it had downloaded from one of the datapads earlier. Lesiil begins to direct it to fast forward and rewind to get to the perfect frame she spotted earlier while trying her best to steel herself. This is, after all, merely seconds before the HUD feed got abruptly cut off, assuming the helmet had been forcefully removed without properly disengaging the feed and internal comm systems.

Seconds later, BD-6 manages to pause on a particular frame they'd been looking for. Among the blurred motions indicating a clear struggle between the victim and the Corrie Butcher, is close-up of a hooded figure, lower part of the face covered with a mask to obscure his identity, leaving his eyes and forehead to peek through the hood, along with stray strands of blond hair sweeping across his forehead.

“This is one of the clearest moments we could get about the culprit from HUD point of view,” Lesiil finally presents, “I'd like to personally thank whoever this man is for not wearing any eye covering because it's easier for me to do my job, but that would be inappropriate. Now,” she points, “His eyes. His stare. His look. Full of anger, full of passion, he's manic. Not exactly excitement nor for the mere thrill unlike most serial killers diagnosed with psychopathy, but there's a very distinctive rage in his eyes. This, I think, aligns with those thirty overkill stab wounds.”

“Detective.”

Another raised arm. This time it's coming from the front row. It's the one two seats down from Thorn with a shaved head. He was introduced as Commander Stone earlier, and had been the one overseeing the investigation before she got called in.

“With all due respect, this profiling method of yours is highly unusual, not to mention unconventional,” Commander Stone argues, “It's based on assumptions and not concrete evidence. We're looking for security footage, any traces of DNA, and the likes to help us identify this serial killer. Not assumptions.”

“My analysis isn't based on assumptions,” Lesiil asserts neutrally, as it's not her first Kessel Run to face such doubts, “I've managed to compare this to serial killer cases I had my hands in. I have the baseline experience to recognize a serial killer's motive.”

Commander Stone had been acknowledging her with nods as she spoke, waiting for her to finish before rebutting, “It’s only due to all your behavioral analysis, which lacks concrete evidence such as the killer's statement, cannot be taken for granted. You’re not a licensed psychologist, you are a detective.”

Lesiil watches how Thorn and the Marshal crane their necks over to glare warningly at the other commander.

Right. How dare he, right.

She takes a deep breath. “And a detective seeks deeply to find a killer's motive,” she counters, “It can always be done presumptively by reading their emotions, and if we’re also able to identify not only how they act, but their nonverbal cues as well.”

Commander Stone lets out a low scoff. “Nonverbal cues are subjective and thus not valid.”

She exhales. “Wrong. They could be valid, helping you to build an initial profile of the perpetrator.”

“Why are you so insistent about this behavioral analysis thing?”

“Why, because of my Lorrdian lineage, of course.”

The entire room suddenly breaks out into loud chatters of amazement.

Yes, well… it's a close guarded secret. Not even every personel in CSF knows. The public – the media that documents her – has no idea.

“Being a part-Lorrdian provided me the gracious opportunity to train and learn from them. I am a master nonverbal communications analyzer, if that wasn't clear enough,” Lesiil clarifies. She does catch some confused looks among these men. Moreover, it's actually documented in her portfolio.

“I've been trained to read people for half of my life, so much so that I am capable of telling the difference between ambiguity and sincerity,” she declares, “And that is exactly why I make an excellent detective even among my peers. Have I mentioned my specialty is interrogation? One incriminating move of the hands, and I can pull the guilty or not guilty verdict and throw life imprisonment without parole in their face right there and then had I been the judge.”

Fox is feeling so kriffing smug right now.

Not only does he generally enjoy watching people losing their shit and slam the other back down with intellectual savagery that makes them look dumb in the end, but he's chuffed he put his foot down yesterday to bring in Lesiil Thrace.

“So, that's the entire anti-clone behavioral analysis of the Corrie Butcher for you. All I ask is your full support. And with all that said, we can move on with the investigation and hopefully subdue this serial killer before the increasing number of victims bears too much,” she concludes firmly, and she turns in his direction, meeting his gaze in faint bewilderment.

Fox realizes his face muscles are creasing – he's been beaming at her.

“That is all, Marshal Commander,” Thrace cues him with her own contented smile, “Thank you for letting me have the floor.”

He then closes the session and dismisses everyone as fast as he can, knowing the others and himself have matters to do.

Fox lets his gaze trail the detective as she exits the room with her droid on her back alongside the other commanders, engaging in small conversation about some of her notorious cases.

“So,” Thorn starts, approaching Fox on the stage, “Start throwing in your opinions, vod. What do you think of her?”

Fox hooks his fingers into his belt and shrugs. “Didn't know she's a Lorrdian.”

Thorn sighs. “Yeah, me neither. I'm as surprised as you are.”

“Really?”

“She told me her home planet is Alderaan. So yeah, her being part Lorrdian is a sure shock.”

Fox stores that piece of information in his brain. “Is she a member of one of the noble houses or something?” he wonders, gesturing with his hand, “With that… formal tone. Courteous speaking mannerisms and whatnot.”

“Her record didn't say anything about that,” Thorn shakes his head, unsurprised. He continues to prod as Fox gathers his helmet. “So. What do you think?”

“I reckon she'd be a challenge to our internal network and to outside forces,” Fox admits.

“‘Our internal network’?” Thorn snorts.

“Thorn,” Fox begins almost sharply, “did you see how she went against protocol?”

“To work faster, Fox,” his batchmate defends with an amused look in his face, “And we asked for her help, remember? We want this case solved, and she wants nothing but identifying the Corrie Butcher and having him detained.”

Fox is silent for a moment before stating, “She's in Corrie territory.”

“Uh huh.”

“Doesn't mean she can do whatever she likes.”

“You're her CO.”

“Unfortunately.”

“That's cold, sir.”

“She’s stubborn as kark,” Fox sighs, leading out of the meeting room, “Refused a bacta tank when I offered just because she didn't want to brood in the medwing.”

Thorn catches up beside him, bucket clutched under his arm. “Stubborn is the first thing that comes to your mind? Mine is friendly,” he says, “Talks when the situation is fit for her to. Knows her boundaries. Wouldn't prod your privacy.”

“So is it ‘friendly’ or those three points that flew across that head of yours?”

“All of the above, but across time and time again,” Thorn remarks cheekily, “What else?”

Fox suddenly remembers their first meeting he'd just learned about this morning. Thorn, the son of a droid, accidentally spilled caf on her.

“Her caf is nice,” Fox finds himself mumbling, before donning his bucket because he's about to mull. Face obscurity is the very first thing he needs.

“Oh so that's her mug?” Thorn laughs, having noticed the red drinkware with the person of interest pun on Fox's table earlier that day. “Makes sense. You'll never come up with that kind of joke, you're too gruff.”

Yeah, that's right. Fox does admit he's gruff and stern and stiff and whatever krayt spit his brothers come up with about his uptight personal branding. The contrast makes him wonder about that pun line on the red mug; did she come up with that and commission that thing or is it a gift from a cheeky friend? She looks like the kind of person that does have that kind of friend. Thorn, for example.

Lesiil Thrace is courteous. Utter professional. Blunt around the edges. Resilient, though sometimes it comes as annoying because of how smart the words that come out of her mouth are. Duty-bound. Focused.

Some of those remind Fox of himself.

He understands those traits, drawing him to be considering being a little lenient to her in the future.

But declaring her appreciation to be working with them, what could that possibly mean? Coming from a shared background of law-upholding authorities, perhaps, then yes, Fox can understand.

But she's a natborn. In fact, the one and only natborn in the clone-only institution called the Coruscant Guard.

Why the honor that simply manifests by working with… clones?

Whatever that is, Lesiil Thrace has gained Marshall Commander Fox's respect already.

“Stubborn. Workaholic,” are the things that fly out of his mouth instead, “An apparent professional, but if she goes against even the most basic protocols again, m’gonna go ballistic.”

Thorn snorts. “Ain’t that you, vod? Maybe you and her do have something in common.”

Fox kicks his shin. “Shut your shebs up.”

And shut his brother's shebs did, and Fox is grateful because he thinks he's captivated by the detective, but of course, as the most dutiful Marshal Commander of his corps, he would downplay and bury that bit of feeling deep into the earth and pray someone wouldn't notice the soil has been upturned.

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