You're an important Senator. Too important. You are met with constant assassination attempts.

You were on Coruscant, again, when you were attacked. A blast. You were slowly going unconscious.

After the attack on your convoy, blaster fire still echoes in the distance as Fox pulls you out of the rubble with a rough yank, his grip unrelenting. The air is thick with smoke, and his crimson armor is scorched and dusted with debris. He doesn’t ask if you’re alright—he assesses.

"You're still breathing. Good." His voice is flat, clipped, no time for softness.

He drags you behind cover, crouching to scan for hostiles, his DC-17 still warm in his hand. His movements are sharp, practiced, and impersonal—like you’re just another objective in a mission gone wrong.

He doesn't meet your eyes. Instead, he pulls out a bacta patch and slaps it onto your arm with little ceremony.