THIS

“Vertical Evac”

Sev x Reader

The Senate landing pad still stank of charred durasteel when the four commandos in Katarn armor strode out of the dawn mist. Boots hit duracrete in perfect cadence, and every aide around you startled, skittering out of their way like spooked tookas.

The one in the center stopped in front of you.

“Senator,” the vocoder rasped, calm as a metronome, “Delta Squad assumes your protection detail.”

You’d asked for one discreet guard after the Separatist torpedoes punched holes in your shuttle last night. Instead you’d been delivered a miniature shock battalion.

“I requested subtle,” you said dryly, sweeping your gaze over identical T‑visors. “Instead I’ve been issued four portable war crimes.”

A bark of laughter crackled through the comms. The clone on the left—armor scorched black at the shoulders—tapped two fingers to his helmet. “Portable war crime, that’s a new one, Senator. I’m Scorch. Demo expert. You break it, I blow it.”

“Stand down, Scorch,” the leader murmured. “I’m Boss. These are Fixer and Sev.”

The tallest—Sev—inclined his helmet a millimeter. “We’ll try not to stain the carpets.”

You almost smiled.

⸻

Your suite looked less like a workspace and more like a forward operating base. Scorch crawled through the ceiling vents, humming while he tucked micro‑det charges behind every ornate sconce. Fixer was wrist‑deep in the security terminal, ripping out obsolete boards and muttering about “code that predates the Jedi Order.” Boss paced, mapping angles of fire that only a clone commando would notice.

Sev took the window.

He didn’t move, didn’t even sway—just stood with the DC‑17m sniper attachment snug against his shoulder, visor tracking the boulevard five stories below.

You returned from the kitchenette with a tray of caf. “I assume troopers run on caffeine the way senators run on spite.”

Fixer declined with a grunt. Scorch popped down from a vent to snag two cups—one for himself, one he tried to hand to Sev by clinking the rim against the sniper’s elbow. Sev accepted without breaking sight‑line.

“Thanks,” he muttered. The voice behind the filter was low, gravel under ice.

You leaned against the sill beside him. “How long can you stare at traffic before you see stars?”

“Long as it takes.”

“Healthy.”

He gave a quiet huff that might have been a laugh. “Health is secondary. Mission first.”

Your lips twitched. “Let’s keep them aligned, Trooper.”

He finally turned his head. The visor reflected your own weary expression. “Call me Sev.”

“So,” you ventured, “Sev. What’s that actually short for? Your brothers keep calling you ‘Oh‑Seven.’ ”

A low rasp filtered through his vocoder. “Serial: RC‑1207. Clones don’t waste syllables—turns into ‘Zero‑Seven,’ then ‘Sev.’ Vau tried to rename me once—Strill‑bait—but Sev stuck.”

“Efficient,” you mused. “I was hoping for something poetic.”

“Closest thing to poetry we got,” he answered, “was Sergeant Walon Vau reading after‑action reports aloud and marking every missed shot in red. I preferred numbers.”

You huffed a laugh. “Numbers never filibuster.”

“Exactly.” He tipped the caf under his helmet, then added with a shrug you felt more than saw: “Still, seven isn’t a bad omen. Seven Geonosian snipers on my first real op. They’re the stripes.”

Your gaze dipped to the dried‑maroon slashes across his plate. Those kills were in the official record—no campfire exaggeration, just Sev doing Sev. “Better trophy than a Senate commendation,” you said.

“Commendations don’t stop blaster bolts,” he agreed. “Armor paint might. Enemies aim for the bright bit.”

“Note to self—add high‑visibility stripes to every lobbyist I want removed.”

He chuckled, deep and short. “You handle it with speeches, I handle it with DC charges. Same outcome; mine’s louder.”

The ceiling vent banged open and Scorch—all riot‑yellow hazard marks—dropped in upside‑down. “Louder? Did someone say louder? Because I have a three‑det primer that’ll make democracy sing.”

Sev kept his rifle steady, unamused. “You done wiring the vents?”

“Finished! Whole place is a merry little grave waiting to happen.” Scorch swung like a loth‑monkey. “What’s the banter—numerology and murder? Count me in. My favorite number’s forty‑seven—arms, legs, whatever’s left.”

Fixer snapped from the terminal, voice flat. “Scorch, your ‘festive’ cabling is shorting the main feed. Touch another conductor and I’ll teach you binary via blunt‑force trauma.”

“Harsh love, Fix.” Scorch saluted invertedly…and clipped a coil. Screens died, lights cut; the building’s distant alarm groaned awake.

Pen‑light clicked—Sev’s, white beam spearing the dark. “Stay with me, Senator.” He toggled comms. “Boss, primary’s down in the principal’s suite—unknown cause, probably Scorch.”

Boss answered, calm and clipped. “Assume breach until proven Scorch Error. Fixer: backups. Scorch: vent lockdown. Sev, keep the package intact.”

“Copy.” Sev shifted, square in front of you. Above, Scorch’s grin hovered in the torch.

“Bright side,” Scorch quipped, “if hostiles come now, they won’t see the scorch marks!”

“Touch that wire again,” Fixer warned in the dark, “and the next blackout’s permanent—for you.”

The auxiliary kicked in; light flooded back. Scorch fled up the duct, chastened but humming. Boss appeared in the doorway, orange visor band bright.

“Clear. Scorch is off det‑detail,” he declared.

Sev’s low chuckle rumbled. “Discipline, Delta‑style.”

You toasted him with the caf. “To functional anarchy. First amendment: electrified committee chairs.”

He gave a tiny nod. “Second amendment: motion passes with high‑explosive majority.”

A distant “I CAN SUPPLY THOSE” echoed from the shaft.

Side‑by‑side at the window, you both let the city’s neon river roll past, sharing bruised humor and the mutual certainty that, whatever happened next, you’d handle it—whether by votes or by very precise blaster fire.

⸻

Sleep never really came. You were half‑draped across a stack of datapads when every pane of transparisteel in the lounge shattered inward at once—a prismatic roar of sound and stinging air.

A glare‑white projectile streaked through the breach, thunked against the far wall, and bloomed into a spiderweb of crackling ion static. Lights died. Grav‑conduits hiccupped. Gravity itself seemed to wobble.

“Contact, east aspect—breach charges and ion!” Boss’s voice snapped from the darkness, all business. He’d been on silent watch in the corridor.

Sev materialised out of the gloom between you and the ruined window, rifle already hot. “Droid jump‑squad—minimum six. Senator, with me.”

You barely had time to register the whirring hiss of BX‑series commando droids vaulting the balcony rail before Sev’s gauntlet closed around your forearm.

Boss kicked the apartment’s panic door open with enough force to shear its hinges, emergency chemlights flickering along his orange‑striped armour.

“Fixer, Scorch—status?” he barked into squad‑comms while shoving a palm‑sized beacon into your hand. An amber arrow blinked on its surface: PROX‑CODE DELTA.

“Dining area’s a toaster, Boss. I’m boxed—two droids.”

“Vent shafts compromised—make that three,” Scorch added, laughing like it was Life Day.

“Hold and delay,” Boss ordered. “We’re exfil Alpha with the principal.”

Sev herded you down the service hall, DC‑17m coughing scarlet bolts that popped droid skulls as they rounded corners. A ricochet sizzled past your ear; you felt the heat, smelled scorched upholstery.

“Keep your head ducked,” he growled. “That helmet budget of yours is still pending.”

You shot back, breathless, “Filed under agricultural subsidies—nobody reads those.”

“Smart.” He clipped a spare vibroblade from his thigh and pressed it into your palm. “If it comes to close‑quarters—stab the gap at the jaw hinge.”

“Charming bedside manner, Sev.”

“Better than a funeral eulogy.”

The maintenance lift doors yawned open—just in time to reveal the empty shaft beyond. Gravity stabilisers flickered; wind howled up the vertical tunnel.

Boss lobbed a glow‑stick; it spiralled downward, showing two hundred metres of nothing before emergency nets. “Main lift’s offline. We rappel.”

A cable launcher thunked against the upper frame. Sev snapped the line to your belt, then to his own. “Clip in and step off on my count. Boss goes first.”

Blaster‑fire rattled down the corridor—Fixer’s voice on comms: “Third droid down, corridor secure.”

“Copy, Fix,” Boss replied. Then to you, calm and steady: “Three… two… one.” He vanished over the edge.

Sev guided you after him. The world flipped; you were suddenly running down a wall of permacrete, black void on either side, cable humming overhead. You focused on Boss’s glowing armour below, and on Sev’s hand firm between your shoulder blades.

Halfway down, a BX droid leaned out a blown‑open access door and fired upward. The cable near your hip sparked.

Sev twisted mid‑descent, rifle spitting crimson. The droid’s chest plate caved; it pinwheeled into darkness.

“Cable integrity?” Boss called.

“Nominal,” Sev grunted. To you: “Still with me?”

“Not filing that helmet request after all,” you gasped.

“Good. Would’ve been a waste of paperwork.”

Boots hit deck plating beside Boss. An auxiliary hangar gaped before you—service speeders, loading cranes, and, at the far end, a battered LAAT/i gunship painted civilian grey.

Boss punched the hatch codes. “Borrowing that. Scorch, Fixer—vector to my beacon.”

Scorch: “Roger—bringing the fireworks!”

Fixer: “And the repair bill.”

Sev swept the bay, visor pinging heat‑sigs. “Two more droids on the gantry.”

“I’ll drive,” you said, surprising yourself.

Sev angled his helmet. “Can you?”

“Committee on Combat Logistics. I made sure senators kept their pilot’s certs current.”

Boss tossed you the cockpit datakey. “Then fly it like you filibuster—fast and ruthless.”

⸻

The gunship thundered out of the sub‑level exit just as Scorch vaulted aboard, demo‑satchel first, Fixer broken‑armed behind him. Sev slammed the side hatch; Boss took the troop bay guns.

City lights blurred past. Sirens dopplered below. Somewhere behind, your shattered apartment flickered with fresh explosions—Scorch’s parting gift.

Sev crouched beside the cockpit, shoulder braced against the bulkhead. “Secondary safe‑house is eighteen klicks. We’ll clear traffic for you.”

You tightened your grip on the yoke. “Appreciate it. Next housing allowance better cover blast windows.”

“That, or we install the windows we like—three metres thick, transparisteel.” His tone was almost light. “Adds character.”

You glanced back, met his visor. “And here I thought I was the expensive one in this arrangement.”

“Worth every credit, Senator,” he said—and for the first time you heard a smile in RC‑1207’s gravelled voice.

Outside, the dawn line crept over Coruscant’s horizon—crimson, like Sev’s war‑paint—while Delta Squad regrouped in the hold, bruised but intact. The war would send more droids, more nights like this, but for now you flew toward the rising light, the commando’s words lingering like an unspoken promise.

⸻

The scarlet bloom of predawn still clung to Sev’s visor as Delta Squad escorted you across the durasteel bridgeway toward the Sienar Senatorial Cutter waiting in docking cradle G‑43.

You’d only decided an hour ago—papers signed, aide‑team recalled—that it was time to go home: to the domed foundries of your world, to the committees that actually listened. Coruscant could keep its marble tombs.

Fixer had already swept the cutter’s nav‑core; Scorch grumbled that the fuel cells were “too clean, suspiciously sober.” Boss, always by the datapad, had plotted the twenty‑six‑hour jump. Sev walked at your left flank, rifle slung but senses wired tight.

“I still think the Senate Medical Board could clear you in two days,” he said through the vocoder, voice low.

“And I think if I stay two days more, the war will veto me permanently.” You managed a wry smile. “Besides, your safe‑house couch is murderous on the lumbar.”

“Could requisition a better couch.”

“You’d blow it up for target practice.”

“Fair.”

A claxon whooped overhead, routine pre‑launch. Hangar crews gave thumbs‑up as they sealed the cutter’s boarding ramp, crimson Republic insignia catching the light.

Scorch jogged back from the refuel pylon, yellow armor bright against the grey deck. “All green—ship’s thirstier than a cadet, but she’s topped.”

Boss nodded. “Mount up. We launch in eleven.”

You rested a hand on the cool hull, exhaled. Going home. For the first time in weeks, the knot behind your ribs loosened.

A muffled whump—more vibration than sound—rippled underfoot. You frowned; Sev’s helmet snapped toward the cutter. An instant later a second, deeper concussion rolled across the ring. Cries echoed; deck crew scattered.

Sev’s shout hit like blaster fire: “DOWN!”

He tackled you behind a cargo skid just as the Senatorial Cutter blossomed into white‑hot shrapnel. The blast‑wave hammered the gangway, ripping durasteel like foil. Chunks of hull screamed overhead, flaming arcs against the pale sky.

Boss’s orders barked through squad‑comms—“Perimeter! Trawl for secondaries!”—even as Fixer dragged a stunned tech from the collapsing ramp. Scorch ran straight into the haze, thermal scanner up, searching for unexploded ordnance.

Your ears rang. Liquid fire licked the wreck thirty meters away; atmosphere pull whipped the flames sideways until emergency force‑screens slammed down.

Sev’s weight still covered you, armour shielding against stray shards. Heat washed over the two of you; the copper tang of scorched electronics filled your lungs.

He leaned close, voice pitched for your ears only. “Senator, you all right?”

Heart hammering, you forced a nod. “Yes.” The word came thin. “Our ship—”

“Gone,” he said, absolute. “Someone timed a shaped charge for pre‑board.”

You felt the knot snap tight again—rage this time, not fear. “That hangar was Level Three clearance. Only Republic personnel.”

“Or someone wearing their code cylinder.” Sev’s visor reflected the inferno. “Saboteur’s still out there.”

Fire‑suppression foam oozed from ceiling vents; med‑droids hissed down the smoke‑curtains. Boss herded survivors past you, every gesture clipped, professional.

“Saboteur planted thermal baradium in the starboard fuel neck,” Fixer reported, one gauntlet cradling his bandaged arm. “Timed off the pressure equaliser—no remote signal.”

Scorch skidded up, visor flecked with soot. “Found partial detonator casing. Separatist‑pattern, but tractable.”

Boss looked to you. “Senator, the ring isn’t secure. I recommend immediate extraction to Defender‑class corvette Vigilant—Command has a cabin we can hard‑seal.”

You opened your mouth—I still have to reach my planet—but Sev cut across gently, “Your world can wait eight more hours. You can’t if there’s a second bomber.”

You met his visor, saw your own shaken reflection. A breath in, out. “Corvette it is.”

The Vigilant detached from the ring on emergency vector, hyperdrives spooling. Through the small viewport the docking cradle burned, a smear of smoke against the stratosphere.

You sat on a cot, jacket singed, palms trembling. Sev posted at the door, Boss conferring with the bridge. Fixer typed one‑handed at a forensic padd; Scorch fussed, pulling charred slivers from his pauldrons.

“You know the irony,” Scorch called across the room, irrepressible even now. “Hangars scare me more than battlefields. Too many things that go ‘boom’ when they’re supposed to behave.”

Fixer grunted. “Statistically still safer than letting you cook ration bars.”

You managed a weak laugh, rubbing temples. “Gentlemen, please—one trauma at a time.”

Sev stepped forward, offered a flask of electrolyte water. “Sip slowly.”

You obeyed, then asked, “Anyone else hurt?”

“Minor burns only,” Boss answered, approaching. “But the Separatists just escalated. Cutter’s manifest leaked thirty minutes ago—only a very short list knew you’d leave today.”

“Which means,” Sev finished, “there’s a mole in Republic logistics.”

Silence pressed in, broken by the corvette’s hyperdrive howl—the stars outside stretched to lines.

You set the flask aside, straightened. “So we find them.”

Boss inclined his helmet. “That’s the plan.”

Sev’s voice dropped, meant only for you. “And until we do, no transports. No public schedules. We move when we control every variable.”

A beat. Then you asked, quietly fierce, “Does that include better couches?”

The sniper’s helmet tipped, the faintest nod. “And blast windows thick enough for a rancor.”

Despite everything—the smoke, the dead crew, the gut‑deep dread—you felt a spark of something steadier than fear. Delta had you. And you weren’t done fighting.

Outside, hyperspace opened like a blue fracture, swallowing the Vigilant—but not the promise Sev had made, soft as a sniper’s breath: They’d failed to kill you twice. Third time would never come.

⸻

The Vigilant slipped into hyperspace hours ago, but sleep never boarded with the rest of you.

When the muted corridor lights dimmed for ship‑night, you found yourself drifting—restless—until the muffled clank of a familiar gait guided your steps.

Most racks were dark, humming behind containment fields, yet one bench lamp burned low. Sev sat there, helmet off, the harsh light carving shadows along the scar that split his right temple. He was field‑stripping the DC‑17m with the same care a jeweler gives crystal.

You halted at the threshold. “Couldn’t sleep either?”

Crimson eyes flicked up—tired, alert, softening when they found you. “Blaster lubricant’s cheaper than sedatives.”

You ventured closer, palms tucked in your sleeves to hide the tremor still living there. “I wanted to thank you. You put yourself between me and—” You gestured at empty air that smelled faintly of ionized smoke. “Everything.”

He reassembled the last actuator, set the rifle aside. “That’s the job.”

“I know when duty ends and choice begins.” You lowered onto the next bench. “Saving me was duty. Staying here polishing gun parts at three a.m.—that’s choice.”

For a moment the only sound was the distant thrum of hyperdrive coils. Sev’s gaze dropped to your hands. “You’re still shaking.”

“Adrenaline’s a stubborn tenant.”

He reached into a med‑pouch, produced a flat stim patch. “Cortical calmative. Won’t knock you out—just tells the nerves the shooting’s done.”

You accepted it, hesitated. “Could put it on my own neck, but I imagine you’re more precise.”

His expression did something rare—softened into a hint of a smile. He peeled the backing, brushed your hair aside with surprising gentleness, and pressed the patch below your ear. Heat bloomed, then a slow coolness spread through muscle and marrow alike.

“Better?” he asked, thumb lingering against your pulse as if counting the beats to be sure.

“Getting there.” You studied the scar on his temple—white against tan skin, the kind Kamino med‑droids never fully erased. “Geonosis?”

He nodded once. “Turret ricochet. Left a mark. Reminds me to keep my head down.”

“You kept mine down today.”

A silence stretched, warm instead of awkward, until he said, low: “When the cutter blew, time slowed. Thought—if that’s the last thing I do, it’s enough.”

Your breath hitched. “Don’t say that.”

“It’s true.” His hand dropped to the bench between you, open‑palmed—an invitation without expectation.

You laid your fingers across his. Armor‑calloused knuckles felt like forged durasteel, but the grip he returned was careful, almost reverent.

“I’m glad,” you whispered, “that ‘enough’ didn’t end there.”

His lips curved—a small, earnest thing. “Me too, cyar’ika.” The Mandalorian endearment slipped out before he caught it; color touched his cheeks. “Sorry”.

“Don’t be.” You squeezed his hand. “I speak fluent subtext.”

From the passageway came Scorch’s distant voice complaining about ration bars; somewhere Fixer muttered diagnostics. But inside the armory a hush settled—two steady heartbeats, the scent of cleaning solvent, the promise of unexploded tomorrows.

Sev reclaimed his rifle, but his other hand never left yours. “Stay a while. The patch works better with company.”

You leaned your shoulder to his, felt the tremor finally subside, and decided the armory was, for tonight, the safest place in the galaxy.

“Name First, Then Trouble”

Fives x Female Reader

Warnings: Implied Smut, sexually suggestive

⸻

The air inside 79’s was a hazy blend of spice, sweat, and that old metallic tang of plastoid armor. It was always loud—always full of regs laughing too hard, singing off-key, and clinking glasses with hands that still shook from the front lines. But tonight?

Tonight, you had a spotlight and the attention of half the bar. Most importantly, you had his.

From the small raised stage near the piano, your eyes flicked toward the familiar ARC trooper leaning against the bar. Helmet under one arm, legs crossed at the ankle, blue-striped armor scuffed like it’d seen hell and swaggered out untouched. You knew that look. You’d seen it before—weeks ago, months ago. Fives always came back, and he always watched you like he was starving.

And tonight was no different.

Your set ended to a chorus of cheers. You slid off the piano top, high heels clicking against the floor, hips swaying just enough to keep his eyes hooked.

Fives didn’t even try to hide the grin that curled across his face as you approached.

“Well, well,” he said, voice low and teasing, “I think you were singing just for me.”

You smirked. “If I was, you wouldn’t be standing over there, Trooper.”

He stepped closer without hesitation. “Careful. Say things like that and I’ll assume you missed me.”

You leaned one elbow against the bar. “What if I did?”

Fives looked floored for all of two seconds before he recovered with a cocky grin. “Then I’d say we’re finally on the same page.”

“Is that what you tell all the girls at the front line?”

He laughed. “Only the ones who can make regs forget they’re one bad day from a battlefield.”

From beside him, Echo groaned audibly into his drink. “Stars, Fives, please—just one conversation where you don’t flirt like your life depends on it.”

“Jealous I’ve got better lines than you?” Fives teased, bumping Echo’s shoulder.

“No,” Echo deadpanned. “Jealous of my ability to have shame.”

You laughed, and even Echo cracked a smile at that.

“Don’t mind him,” Fives said, focusing on you again. “He’s just bitter no one sings for him.”

You sipped your drink, voice playful. “And what makes you think I was singing for you?”

Fives stepped in closer—just close enough that you could smell the faint scent of cleanser and battlefield dust clinging to him. “Because,” he said, voice quiet but confident, “you’re looking at me like you already made up your mind.”

Your gaze held his for a long moment. The tension hummed like music between verses—hot and coiled, teasing the drop.

“Maybe I have,” you said softly, setting your glass down.

His eyes widened just a touch. “Yeah?”

You tilted your head, lips curling into a half-smile. “You want to find out?”

Fives blinked. “Find out what?”

You leaned in, brushing your fingers lightly over the edge of his pauldron as you murmured near his ear:

“If you want to come back to my apartment.”

Fives went completely still. Echo actually choked on his drink behind him.

“Stars above,” Echo muttered under his breath, turning away. “I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that.”

But Fives? He looked like you’d just handed him victory on a silver tray.

“You’re serious?” he asked, tone equal parts awe and smug disbelief.

You shrugged, playing casual. “I don’t make offers I don’t intend to follow through on, ARC trooper.”

Fives grinned—bright, reckless, and so damn him.

“Lead the way, sweetheart.”

And just like that, you were out the door—with the best kind of trouble following one step behind you.

⸻

The room was warm.

Not just from the heat of tangled limbs and lingering sweat, but from the quiet hum of comfort that followed a particularly good decision. Outside, Coruscant flickered in the distance—speeders zipping by in streaks of light, a low thrum of traffic buzzing like the aftermath of a firefight.

Inside, Fives lay flat on his back in your bed, armor long gone and bedsheets pooled around his hips. He looked like he was trying to decide whether to stretch or sprint away.

You rolled onto your side, propping your head up with one hand and staring down at the man who had flirted with the confidence of a thousand battle droids—and was now staring at the ceiling like it held the answers to the universe.

“So,” you said, amused, “you always go quiet after?”

Fives blinked. “No! I mean—only when I’m… y’know.”

“Emotionally overwhelmed by your own success?”

He let out a weak laugh, dragging a hand through his hair. “Stars, you’re dangerous.”

“I warned you,” you said, poking his bare chest. “You didn’t listen.”

“I did. I just didn’t care.” He looked at you then, eyes softer. “You’re… not what I expected.”

“Because I invited you home? Or because I made you nervous for once?”

Fives groaned. “Both.”

A silence settled again, this one a little heavier—like something was unsaid. He shifted, rubbing the back of his neck, then blurted out:

“Okay, listen. I’m so embarrassed I didn’t ask before, but… what’s your name?”

You blinked. “Are you serious?”

Fives winced. “I meant to ask! But then there was the bar, and the music, and then you invited me home and my brain just… shut down, okay?”

You stared at him. “We slept together, and you don’t even know my name.”

“I know your voice,” he offered. “And your laugh. And your—uh—flexibility.”

You grabbed the pillow and whacked him in the face.

He laughed against the cotton, muffled. “Okay, okay! Truce!”

“My name!” you said firmly.

“Right,” he said, sitting up slightly. “Please. I’m begging.”

You eyed him, then finally said it: “[Y/N].”

Fives whispered it like a secret. “Yeah. That fits.”

You arched a brow. “And what’s your name, Trooper?”

He paused. “You don’t know?”

“Of course I do,” you smirked. “I just wanted to see if you’d finally offer it without bragging about being an ARC.”

He rolled his eyes. “It’s Fives.”

“Fives,” you repeated. “Fives and [Y/N]. Cute. Tragic.”

“I vote tragic,” he said, falling back dramatically into the pillows.

⸻

Echo was waiting for him.

Not with questions. Not with judgment. No—worse. With smug silence.

Fives entered the room whistling, undersuit halfway zipped, hair a little too messy to pass inspection. Echo didn’t even look up from his datapad.

“So,” Echo said, still reading. “Did you have fun last night?”

Fives coughed. “Define fun.”

Echo finally glanced up. “Did you ever ask her name?”

Fives groaned. “How do you know about that?”

“Because, I know you.” Echo said casually, “her name is [Y/N]. She’s sung at 79’s for months. I’ve talked to her before.”

“You what?”

“She’s nice. Friendly. Has great taste in Corellian whiskey.”

“You’ve talked to her?” Fives said, scandalized.

“Multiple times.”

“And you never told me?”

Echo grinned. “Thought you were a professional flirt. Didn’t realize you were just a dumbass with armor.”

Fives pointed a finger. “You’re lucky I’m still emotionally glowing from this morning.”

Echo raised a brow. “Oh, you’re glowing, alright. Like a reg who forgot the basics.”

Fives flopped into his bunk. “You’re cruel.”

“I’m accurate.”

Fives groaned into his pillow. “[Y/N],” he mumbled, testing it again like it was sacred. “Stars… I really like her.”

Echo just chuckled and returned to his datapad.

“You’re doomed,” he said lightly. “Better learn her last name next.”

“She has a last name?”

omega

Palpatine: Sneezes

Fox, hiding in his vents, aiming a sniper through the slats: Bless you.

Palpatine, looking up: God?

Fox, cocking the sniper: You won't be seeing him where your going.

“Red and Loyal” pt.5

Commander Fox x Senator Reader

The return to Coruscant should have felt like a victory.

Instead, it tasted like ashes in your mouth.

You stood before the full Senate chamber — still bruised, still hollow — draped in formal attire that barely hid the exhaustion in your bones.

Commander Cody flanked you silently, your last tether to strength.

Fox was somewhere in the shadows of the Grand Convocation Chamber, helmet tucked under one arm, his gaze burning into you.

You didn’t look at him.

Not yet.

Not yet.

You cleared your throat, and the chatter of the senators died to a low hush.

When you spoke, your voice was steady. Cold. Taught from days of battle and betrayal.

“To the esteemed representatives of the Republic,” you began, inclining your head. “I extend my planet’s gratitude for the forces sent to reclaim our homes from Separatist occupation.”

A murmur of self-congratulation rippled through the stands. You bit the inside of your cheek, holding your fury back.

“However,” you continued, sharp enough that the room froze again, “gratitude does not rebuild cities. It does not heal fields burned by droid armies, nor bring back the lives we lost waiting for help that almost came too late.”

Silence.

Not even Chancellor Palpatine shifted in his high seat.

“My people will need supplies. Infrastructure. Medicine.”

You swept your gaze across them, daring anyone to look away.

“And while we thank you for your soldiers,” — your voice caught, for just a heartbeat — “we will not survive on thanks alone.”

A low ripple of discomfort rolled through the chamber.

You bowed — low, measured, distant — and stepped back from the podium, spine straight even as every movement ached.

Only once you had retreated behind the Senators’ line did your composure slip.

And standing at the edge, waiting like a ghost, was him.

Commander Fox.

Red armor battered, jaw tight, brown eyes pinned on you with a look that you hated — hated — because it wasn’t anger.

It was guilt.

Real and raw.

You walked past him without a word.

But he followed.

In the shadows of the antechamber, where the Senate guards stood discreetly at a distance, you finally turned on him, voice low and cutting.

“You left,” you said.

No title. No honorific. Just that wound laid bare between you.

Fox’s hands clenched at his sides. “I had orders. It wasn’t—”

“It wasn’t your choice?” you bit out, trembling with the force of keeping your voice steady. “And that makes it better? My people died waiting for help that you walked away from.”

He flinched like you’d struck him.

Good. Let him feel it.

Still — Fox didn’t move, didn’t retreat. His voice, when it came, was rough, the words dragged from somewhere deep:

“I wanted to come back.”

“Too late,” you whispered.

You turned away, blinking hard. You wouldn’t cry here. Not where the whole Senate could see you fall apart.

You were stronger than that.

A beat.

Then Fox, softer. “I never stopped thinking about you. Never stopped fighting to come back.”

You swallowed hard, fists curling at your sides.

You didn’t trust yourself to answer.

Not yet.

Maybe not ever.

But as you stalked away, Fox didn’t try to stop you.

He just watched you go — like a man condemned, armor gleaming under the Senate lights, loyal to the end.

Even if you never forgave him.

⸻

The Senate chamber had emptied out slowly — a sluggish, uneasy tide of robes and whispered conversations.

Fox stood back, helmet tucked under one arm, watching from the shadows like a ghost no one dared acknowledge.

He hadn’t moved since she walked away.

Couldn’t.

Footsteps approached, sharp and familiar.

Fox didn’t look up until a voice spoke beside him.

“She’s tougher than any of them give her credit for,” Cody said.

Quiet. Measured. Like he was offering a fact, not an opinion.

Fox exhaled harshly through his nose, jaw tight.

“I know.”

Of course he knew. It was the knowing that gutted him.

Cody shifted his weight, glancing once toward the now-empty Senate floor. His armor still bore scorch marks from the fighting back on her homeworld. A badge of honor, but also a reminder.

“You did what you had to,” Cody said, voice low.

Orders.

The same damn word that haunted all of them.

Fox barked a soft, humorless laugh. “That’s the problem, vod. I always do what I’m ordered to do.”

He looked down at his hands — scarred, steady, good at killing, bad at saving the people who mattered.

There was a long silence between them, the weight of wars and regrets too heavy for easy words.

Finally, Fox cleared his throat, voice rough.

“Thank you.”

Cody blinked, caught off guard by the rawness in Fox’s tone.

“For getting her out,” Fox said. “For keeping your word. When I couldn’t.”

Cody’s face softened just a fraction.

“Wasn’t just duty,” he said. “You think you’re good at hiding it, Fox, but… we all saw it.”

Fox stiffened, but Cody shook his head before he could snap back.

“No shame in it. She’s worth caring about.”

A pause. Then, dryly, “Even if she scares half the Senate out of their robes.”

Fox huffed a quiet, broken laugh.

The first real sound he’d made in hours that didn’t taste like blood and failure.

Cody clapped a hand on his shoulder — a rare gesture between them, heavy with meaning.

“She’s alive,” Cody said. “That’s what matters. The rest… you’ll figure it out.”

Fox wasn’t so sure. But he nodded anyway.

Because loyalty was stitched into their bones.

And Fox had already decided a long time ago, He’d follow her anywhere.

Even if right now, she wouldn’t let him.

⸻

The office was dim, save for the warm, late-afternoon light spilling through the high windows.

It felt too big, too empty — too official.

You hated it.

You paced once, twice, and stared down at the two glasses you’d set out on the table.

A bottle of something strong and expensive waited between them — a peace offering you weren’t sure you deserved to make.

When the door commed quietly, you startled. You knew who it was.

“Enter,” you said, voice steady.

Commander Fox stepped in, helmet tucked under one arm, armor still worn and sharp.

But his whole posture — the tense set of his shoulders, the way his gaze found the floor first — made him look anything but invincible.

You swallowed thickly.

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

You should have prepared something eloquent.

You should have had a speech about duty and forgiveness and whatever politicians were supposed to say.

Instead, what came out was simple. Quiet.

“Sit,” you said, nodding toward the two chairs by your desk.

Fox hesitated — just for a second — then crossed the room with heavy steps and lowered himself into the seat across from you.

You caught the faint scrape of armor against metal.

The way he didn’t meet your eyes.

You picked up the bottle and poured, the soft glug of liquid filling the heavy silence.

When you slid one glass toward him, his hand hovered — a brief flicker of indecision — before he finally took it.

A small, reluctant smile pulled at the corner of your mouth.

“You know,” you said, lightly, “I offered you a drink once before. You refused.”

Fox’s mouth twisted — something like guilt, something like apology.

“I thought… it wouldn’t be appropriate,” he said gruffly.

“And… I didn’t deserve it.”

You sipped your own glass, savoring the burn down your throat.

Maybe neither of you deserved anything. Maybe that wasn’t the point anymore.

“You followed orders,” you said finally. “I know that.”

You set the glass down gently. “I… I just—” You shook your head, frustration knotting your chest. “It was easier to blame you than face what actually happened.”

Fox looked up at that — really looked — and the pain in his dark eyes was almost too much to bear.

“I wanted to come back,” he said, voice raw. “I wanted to fight. I—” He broke off, jaw working. “I thought about you every damn day I was gone.”

The confession punched the air out of the room.

You stared at him, heart thudding against your ribs.

Fox held your gaze, unflinching now, even as the shame and longing twisted over his face.

“You scare me sometimes,” you admitted, so quietly it was almost a whisper.

“Good,” he said without missing a beat, and for the first time in what felt like forever — you laughed.

Soft. Shaky. Real.

Fox’s lips quirked into something small and hopeful.

He raised his glass slightly, like a soldier making a silent vow.

You clinked yours gently against his, the faint tap of glass-on-glass the only sound in the room.

No forgiveness yet. No easy endings.

But for the first time since your world fell apart, something inside you shifted — a thread pulled tight not with anger, but with something else.

Hope.

Maybe loyalty could heal, too.

And Fox — sitting across from you, battered and unbowed — would wait as long as you needed.

Because he had already chosen you.

Previous Part

“War on Two Fronts” pt.7

Captain Rex x Reader x Commander Bacara

War had a way of compressing time—days blurred into nights, missions into months. And somewhere in the quiet pockets between battles, between orders and hyperspace jumps, something had bloomed between the you and Bacara.

It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t easy.

But it was real.

They didn’t speak of love. Not openly. That would be too dangerous. Too foolish. But in the stolen moments—fingers brushing during debriefings, wordless glances across a war room, a hand on the small of her back as they passed each other in narrow corridors—it was undeniable.

He wasn’t good with words, not like Rex had been. Bacara showed his affection in action: the way he checked her gear before missions without asking, or how he always stood between her and enemy fire, whether she needed it or not. He never said “I love you.” But when she bled, he bled too.

She caught herself smiling as she boarded the cruiser for Mygeeto. Her datapad buzzed with her new orders—assist Master Ki-Adi-Mundi and Commander Bacara for the Fourth Siege. The final push.

She hadn’t seen Bacara in weeks. The campaign on Aleen had separated them again, followed by a skirmish in the mid-rim, but her heart pulled northward like a magnet toward Mygeeto. Her fingers tightened around her travel case as she stepped aboard the assault cruiser, heart quickening.

When she entered the command deck, Bacara stood over a strategic map display, armored and severe as ever. Mundi stood beside him, still every bit the stoic Master she remembered, though his greeting was warmer this time.

“General,” Mundi said with a nod. “Good to have you back.”

Bacara said nothing at first, just glanced up—his expression unreadable. But then, a flicker. The tiniest softening in his eyes that only she would notice.

“General,” he echoed in his clipped tone, nodding once.

Later, when the debrief was done and the hallways had quieted for the night, she found him waiting near the barracks. They stood in silence at first, just listening to the hum of the ship, the distant thrum of hyperdrive.

“You came back,” he said.

“Did you think I wouldn’t?”

He gave the barest of shrugs, then looked at her. Really looked.

“I missed you,” she said quietly.

His jaw flexed. “We can’t do this here.”

“I know.” She stepped closer, close enough to feel the heat from his armor. “But I needed to see you before everything starts again.”

There, in the half-shadowed corridor, his hand brushed hers. A silent agreement.

That night, she didn’t return to her quarters.

They didn’t speak of the war. They didn’t speak of what might happen next. They existed only in that moment, a breath of peace before the storm.

In the dim lighting of the officer’s quarters, he kissed her again—firmer this time, as if grounding himself in the only certainty the war hadn’t taken from him.

When she fell asleep curled into his side, Bacara stayed awake for hours, staring at the ceiling.

Because tomorrow, they dropped on Mygeeto.

And nothing would be the same after that.

⸻

Mygeeto was a graveyard.

Shards of glass and collapsed towers jutted from the ice like bones. The wind howled endlessly, scouring the broken streets with frozen dust. The Fourth Siege had begun days ago, and already the Republic’s grip was tightening.

The reader moved through the war-torn ruins beside Bacara, her boots crunching through frost, her senses prickling with unease she couldn’t name.

Even Bacara seemed quieter than usual.

Their squad had pushed deep into the southern district, routing droid forces and holding position near the abandoned Muun vaults. Mundi was coordinating an assault to breach the city’s primary data center. Every minute was another layer of pressure, another reason her gut twisted tighter.

And then, the transmission came through.

It was late. The squad had returned to their mobile command shelter to regroup and patch injuries. Bacara was at the long-range transmitter when the encrypted message chimed in. She approached just as he turned, helmet off, eyes dark.

“It’s confirmed,” he said.

“What is?”

“Kenobi.” A beat. “He killed General Grievous.”

The words didn’t register at first.

The breath in her chest caught. “So… it’s over?”

“Almost.”

She sat slowly, bracing her elbows on her knees. “We’ve been fighting this war for three years. And now it just… ends?”

Bacara didn’t sit. He stood near the entrance flap, staring out into the howling cold.

“I don’t think it ends. Not really.” His voice was low. “Something’s coming.”

She looked up at him. “You feel it too.”

He nodded.

The Force was thick, oppressive. The kind of quiet that comes before a scream.

“Have you heard from Mundi?” she asked.

“Briefly. He wants us to hold until his unit circles back to regroup. We deploy again in the morning.” He paused, then added, “He was… unsettled.”

That alone chilled her. If Mundi was unsettled, it meant something was very wrong.

That night, they didn’t sleep.

She sat beside Bacara outside the tent, cloaked against the wind, their shoulders brushing.

“Whatever’s coming,” she said, “we’ll face it together.”

He looked at her for a long moment.

“No matter what?”

She didn’t flinch. “No matter what.”

And somewhere far away, across the stars, a coded transmission began its journey to clone commanders across the galaxy.

Execute Order 66.

But it hadn’t reached them yet.

Not yet.

⸻

The morning was bitter cold.

Frost crackled beneath their boots as they moved out in formation, the clouds above Mygeeto hanging low and grey, like a lid waiting to seal the planet shut. The reader walked just behind Master Mundi and beside Bacara, her cloak drawn tight against the wind.

Mundi was speaking, his voice cutting through the comms. “This push will be final. The Separatist defense grid is thinning—we press forward, clear the vault entrance, and signal the cruiser for extraction.”

The reader nodded slightly. Bacara said nothing, but she could feel the tension in him—coiled tighter than usual.

They advanced through the ruins in a steady column. Mundi led the charge across a narrow bridge, lined on both sides with jagged drops and half-fallen towers. The droids emerged first, as expected. The clones fanned out, taking cover and returning fire in sharp, well-practiced bursts.

It felt normal.

But something was wrong. She didn’t know why, didn’t know how—but the Force around her buzzed like lightning trapped beneath her skin.

Then, it happened.

A static shiver through the comms. A code, sharp and cold.

“Execute Order 66.”

Her head snapped to Bacara. He was silent. His helmet was already on.

Mundi turned. “Come on! We must push—!”

The first bolt hit him in the back.

She froze.

The second bolt pierced Mundi’s chest, dropping him to his knees. He reached out, shocked. More fire rained from above, precise, emotionless, cutting him down mid-step.

The clones didn’t hesitate. Bacara didn’t hesitate.

Her breath caught in her throat, the world slowing to a nightmare crawl. “Bacara—?” she whispered.

He turned.

And opened fire.

She moved on instinct. A Force-shoved wall of ice rose between them as she leapt off the bridge’s edge, tucking and rolling onto a lower ledge as blasterfire trailed her path.

No hesitation. No mercy.

Her squad. Her men.

Him.

She fled, ducking through ruined alleys and broken vaults, chased by the echoes of boots and bolts and the question clawing at her chest:

Why?

Nothing made sense. No signal. No warning. Just sudden betrayal like a switch flipped in their minds. Like she’d never mattered. Like they’d never fought beside her.

She kept running until her legs burned and her heart broke.

Mygeeto burned around her.

The vault city trembled with explosions and echoing blasterfire. The sky had darkened with the smoke of betrayal, and her boots slipped on shattered crystal as she ran through what remained of the inner ruins.

She had no plan. No backup. No Jedi.

Only survival.

The Force screamed through her veins, adrenaline burning hotter than frostbite. Behind her, the clones advanced in perfect formation—ruthless, silent, efficient. Just as they’d been trained to be. Just as she’d trusted them to be.

Her saber ignited in a flash of defiance. She didn’t want to kill them—Force, she didn’t—but they gave her no choice.

Two troopers rounded the corner, rifles raised. With a spin and a sharp, choked breath, her blade cut through one blaster, then the clone behind it. The second she disarmed with a flick of the Force, sending him slamming into a pillar. He didn’t rise.

“Forgive me,” she muttered, but there was no time for grief.

She sprinted through the lower vault district, rubble crunching beneath her. Her starfighter wasn’t far—hidden in a hangar bay northeast of the city edge. She was almost there.

Almost.

Then he found her.

Bacara.

He dropped in from above like a specter of death, slamming her to the ground with brutal precision. Her saber clattered across the ice. His weight bore down on her, a knee to her chest, his DC-15 aimed square at her head.

His visor glinted in the frost-glow, his silence more terrifying than a scream.

She stared up at him, panting, hurt. “You were mine,” she rasped.

No answer.

His finger moved toward the trigger.

The Force pulsed.

She thrust her hand upward and a wave of raw power flung him off her, launching him into a support beam with a sound like breaking stone. He dropped, groaning, armor dented, stunned.

She didn’t stop to look. She grabbed her saber and ran.

Two more troopers blocked her path to the hangar. She deflected one bolt, then two—but the third she sent back into the chest of the clone who fired it. His body fell beside her as she charged the next, slashing his weapon before delivering a stunning kick that sent him flying.

The hangar doors groaned open.

She threw herself into the cockpit of her fighter, fingers flying over the controls, engines screaming to life.

Blasterfire pinged against the hull as more troopers swarmed the bay. She closed her eyes, guided by instinct, by pain, by loss—and took off into the cold, storm-choked skies.

Mygeeto shrank behind her.

And with it, the last pieces of everything she’d trusted.

⸻

The stars blurred past her cockpit like tears on transparisteel.

She didn’t know how long she’d been flying—minutes, hours. Her hands trembled against the yoke, white-knuckled, blood-slicked. The silence in the cockpit was deafening. No clones, no saber hum, no Bacara breathing just behind her. Just the thin rasp of her own breath and the stinging wound of betrayal burning behind her ribs.

Mygeeto was gone. Bacara was gone.

They were all gone.

She barely made it through hyperspace. Her navigation systems stuttered, and she’d been forced to fly blind, guided only by instinct and muscle memory.

The planet she chose wasn’t much—Polis Massa. An old medical station and mining outpost on the edge of the system. Remote. Quiet. Forgotten.

Safe.

Her ship touched down with a shudder, systems coughing and sparking. She slumped against the controls, body aching, mind fractured.

She stumbled out into the cold, sterile facility. No guards raised weapons at her, no sirens screamed Jedi. Just quiet personnel, startled by her bloodied robes and wild, hollow stare.

They gave her a room. She didn’t ask for one.

The medics patched the worst of her wounds. Someone gave her water. A blanket. A moment.

She didn’t remember falling asleep.

When she woke, everything hurt. Her skin, her bones, her heart. She sat upright on the small cot, still in half armor, saber clipped loosely at her hip. Her communicator blinked on the nearby table—flashing red.

Encrypted message.

She nearly dropped it trying to pick it up. The code was familiar. Old. Republic-grade clearance. She swallowed and activated it.

The holoprojector buzzed—and then there he was.

Kenobi.

His projection flickered in the dark, singed, exhausted, speaking quickly and low.

“This is Obi-Wan Kenobi. I regret to report that both our Jedi Order and the Republic have fallen. With the dark shadow of the Empire rising to take their place…”

Her stomach clenched.

“…The clone troopers have turned against us. I’m afraid this message is a warning and a reminder: any surviving Jedi, do not return to the Temple. That time is over. Trust in the Force.”

He paused, breathing hard.

“We will each find our own path forward now. May the Force be with you.”

The message ended. Just a small flicker of blue light, fading into silence.

She stared at the projector long after it dimmed, her face unreadable. Then she whispered, as if the stars might still be listening:

“…What did we do to deserve this?”

⸻

Coruscant.

The city-world pulsed under a grey sky, its endless towers casting long shadows over the Senate District. Republic banners were being torn down and replaced with crimson. No one called it the Republic anymore. Not truly. Not after the declaration.

Bacara stood at attention in a high-security debriefing chamber, helmet under his arm, armor still caked in the dust and ice of Mygeeto. His face was unreadable, but something in his eyes—something usually precise and locked in—seemed… dislodged.

His mission was complete. Jedi General Ki-Adi-Mundi was dead.

He had reported it cleanly, efficiently. Nothing of hesitation, nothing of how she escaped. Only that she turned traitor, resisted, killed his men. That she was lost in the chaos of the siege.

The brass accepted it. They always did. Too much war. Too many traitors.

He was dismissed with a curt nod from an officer in dark new uniform. The Empire moved quickly. No more Jedi. No more second guesses.

He exited the chamber with stiff precision, walking the stark halls of the former GAR command center—now flooded with black-clad officers, techs, and white-armored troopers with fresh paint jobs. A few bore markings he recognized, some didn’t. The old legions were being divided, repurposed. Branded anew.

He turned a corner and nearly collided with two familiar faces in a side hallway.

“Commander Wolffe. Cody.”

Wolffe gave him a once-over, eye narrowed. “Bacara. You’re back from Mygeeto.”

“Confirmed. Mundi is dead. Target neutralized.”

Cody didn’t smile. He rarely did these days. “And the other Jedi?”

“Escaped,” Bacara said curtly. “Presumed dead. Ship went down in atmosphere. Unconfirmed.”

Wolffe raised a brow, but let it go.

The conversation would have ended there—cold and flat—but a datapad in Cody’s hand flashed. He frowned, tapped the screen, then muttered, “Damn…”

“What is it?” Bacara asked.

Cody handed him the pad.

“Captain CT-7567 — Status: KIA. Location: Classified. Time: Immediately post-Order 66.”

Bacara stared at the words, his throat tightening before he could stop it.

Wolffe crossed his arms, jaw tight. “It’s spreading fast. Some say Ashoka killed him. Some say it was Maul. No one knows. But there were no survivors.”

Cody shook his head. “Doesn’t matter anymore. He’s gone.”

Bacara looked away, jaw grinding. Rex was dead. That’s what the record said.

He should’ve felt… nothing. Relief, maybe. One less problem. One less thorn in his side.

But the silence between the three of them said otherwise.

“Shame,” Wolffe muttered. “He was one of the good ones.”

She loved him.

The thought hit Bacara like a gut punch, but he gave no sign.

He offered a stiff nod. “He did his duty.”

And walked away.

⸻

The Outer Rim.

No one looked twice at the battered Y-wing that landed half-crooked in the backlot of Ord Mantell’s grimiest district. The ship hadn’t flown since. She’d let the local rust take it. A relic no one asked about. One more ghost among the debris of a fallen Republic.

Three months.

That’s how long she’d been hiding on this dusty, low-grade world, tucked into the shadows of a run-down cantina operated by a sharp-tongued Trandoshan named Cid. Cid wasn’t friendly—but she wasn’t curious either. That alone made her safer here than anywhere near Coruscant.

The cantina was dim, the stench of stale ale thick in the air. Smoke curled from a broken vent in the ceiling. Old Clone War propaganda still clung to a wall like a molted skin. No one talked about the war anymore. They drank to forget it.

She moved quietly between tables, clearing empty mugs, wiping down grime, keeping her head down. Her once-pristine Jedi robes had been traded for utility pants, a threadbare top, and a scuffed jacket a size too big. Her lightsaber was hidden—disassembled and buried in a cloth bundle under the floorboards of her bunk behind the kitchen. Sometimes she reached for it at night, half-asleep, still expecting it to be on her belt.

Every day she woke up expecting to feel the warmth of the Force beside her.

And every day, she didn’t.

She missed them. All of them. Even him.

Bacara.

His face still haunted her. The betrayal. The way his blaster hadn’t even hesitated when he gunned down Mundi. The way he’d turned on her—stone-faced and unfeeling, as if their moments together had meant nothing. She hadn’t had time to ask why. Only to run. To survive.

And Rex… she didn’t even know if he was alive. The transmission from Kenobi hadn’t mentioned him. The Temple was gone. The Jedi were gone. She was gone.

No one had come looking. Not the clones. Not the Empire. Not Bacara.

Not Rex.

Not even Mace—though maybe she’d never expected him to.

At first, she’d been sure someone would come. That the galaxy couldn’t forget her so quickly. But three months had passed. No wanted posters. No troopers sweeping the streets. No shadows at her door.

Nothing.

She was no one here.

She wiped the same table twice before realizing she’d been staring through it, lost in memory. The war felt like another lifetime.

But even the Force had gone quiet. As if it, too, had moved on.

“Hey!” Cid’s sharp voice cracked through the cantina. “You forget how to carry a tray, or you just feel like decorating my floor with spilled ale again?”

She blinked. “Sorry.”

Cid snorted. “You’re always sorry.”

She didn’t argue. There wasn’t much of herself left to defend anymore.

The streets outside were quieter than usual. A dust storm had rolled in from the western flats, coating everything in a layer of filth. She stepped out back after her shift, sitting on a crate and staring up at a sky smothered by clouds.

It was strange how peaceful nothing could be.

No orders. No battles. No war.

No one looking for her. No one needing her. No one remembering her.

It should have felt like freedom.

But it didn’t.

⸻

The bell above the cantina door jingled.

She didn’t react. Not visibly. But her breath hitched in her chest. She heard the unmistakable weight of clone trooper boots on the wooden floor—too heavy to be locals, too careful to be drunks.

She didn’t need to look. She knew those steps by heart. Years of war had taught her how clones moved—each one slightly different, and yet the same at the core. And somehow… somehow they were here.

In Cid’s.

In her nowhere.

She ducked behind the bar a little more, scrubbing the same patch of wood with trembling fingers, her face hidden beneath a cap and the dull glow of the overhead lights.

“Cid?” a calm, steady voice asked.

That one—Hunter.

Cid didn’t even look up from her datapad. “That depends on who’s asking.”

“We were told you could help us.”

“By who?” Cid’s tone was suspicious, as always.

“Echo,” Hunter said, motioning slightly.

She froze. Her heart stopped for a moment.

Echo.

She dared a glance over her shoulder.

There he was—taller now, armor more modified, with half of his head and legs taken by cybernetics. He looked different. Paler. Haunted. But it was him. And he was staring.

Right at her.

Her stomach dropped.

But he didn’t say anything. His expression barely changed, just narrowed eyes and a twitch of something she couldn’t name. Recognition, maybe. Or disbelief.

Either way—he wasn’t saying her name. And she didn’t dare say his.

She ducked her head again and retreated to the back counter, trying to blend in.

The squad spread out, letting Cid do her usual banter. Tech scanned things. Wrecker picked something up and nearly broke it. Omega stood in wide-eyed awe of the dingy place.

And then, like a quiet ripple in the Force, she felt Omega’s presence behind her.

“Hi,” the girl said.

The reader turned just slightly, trying not to panic. “Hi.”

“You work for Cid?”

She nodded, hoping it was enough.

“I’m Omega.”

The girl was painfully sweet. The kind of pure the galaxy hadn’t seen in years.

“You got a name?”

“…Lena,” the reader lied smoothly, her voice steady despite the burn behind her eyes.

“That’s pretty,” Omega said, hopping up onto the stool across from her. “Are you from around here?”

“Something like that.” She kept her eyes down.

Omega tilted her head. “You feel sad.”

That startled her. “Excuse me?”

“I just meant—your eyes look sad,” Omega said quickly. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

The reader forced a smile. “You didn’t.”

Echo walked by again. His gaze lingered on her for one long second. But again, he said nothing.

She didn’t know if he was sparing her or trying to figure her out. Maybe both.

She went back to cleaning.

And for the first time in months, her hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

⸻

Echo watched her from the corner of the cantina as she quietly wiped down a table in the far back, avoiding all eye contact, keeping her presence small.

Too small.

He leaned slightly toward Tech, lowering his voice so Cid and the others wouldn’t catch it. “Do you recognize her?”

Tech didn’t even glance up from his datapad. “The worker? No.”

“She looks familiar,” Echo said, arms crossing over his chest plate. “I’m not sure from where, but… I think she’s a Jedi. Or—was.”

That got Tech’s attention. He looked up, eyes narrowing slightly behind his lenses. “A Jedi?”

“She fought with the 501st a few times. A long time ago,” Echo said. “I was still… me.”

Tech considered that for a long moment, then looked over toward her discreetly. “You’re certain?”

“No. That’s what’s bothering me. I can’t tell if she’s someone I actually remember or if it’s a glitch in my head from… everything.” He gestured vaguely to his augmentations.

Tech nodded slowly, turning his attention back to the datapad. “I’ll run a scan. Discreetly. If she is a former Jedi or officer, her face might still be buried in the Republic’s archived comm logs. Assuming the Empire hasn’t wiped everything yet.”

Echo nodded once, still watching her.

She never once looked back.

Tech sat back slightly, the datapad in his lap casting a faint glow on his face. The scan had taken time—far more than he liked. Most of the Jedi archives were either firewalled or fragmented. But a clever backdoor through an old 501st tactical log had revealed what he needed.

The image was slightly grainy, pulled from a recording during a battle on Christophis. A Jedi—young, lightsaber ignited, issuing commands beside Captain Rex.

Her.

Tech adjusted his goggles, double-checking the facial markers. Ninety-nine-point-seven percent match.

He glanced across the cantina where she was wiping down a counter with feigned disinterest, like she hadn’t felt the moment his eyes landed on her. But he knew better. Jedi always felt when they were being watched.

He stood and approached casually, careful not to spook her. “I take it this isn’t your preferred line of work.”

She stiffened slightly, then looked over at him with cool neutrality. “Not really, no. But it’s honest.”

“Curious,” Tech said. “That honesty would be your refuge. Especially for someone like you.”

She paused. The rag in her hand stilled. “Someone like me?”

“A Jedi Knight,” he replied plainly. “Confirmed through tactical footage of Christophis. You served alongside Captain Rex.”

Her throat worked once, jaw tightening. “You shouldn’t be looking into me.”

“I’m naturally curious,” he said, calm and even. “And cautious. After all, fugitives tend to attract the Empire’s attention.”

“You’re fugitives too,” she said flatly. “Aren’t you?”

He didn’t deny it.

“Then why out me?” she asked, voice quieter, with the weight of exhaustion clinging to it.

“I didn’t say I would. But perhaps… we could be of use to each other.”

That made her blink. “You want to align with a Jedi?”

Tech pushed his goggles up slightly. “You have experience. Strategic value. And the Empire has already labeled us traitors. I see no logical reason not to align with someone equally hunted—especially someone who once fought for the same Republic we did.”

She didn’t answer right away. Her fingers tightened around the rag before setting it down.

“I’m not who I used to be,” she said.

Tech tilted his head. “Neither are we.”

⸻

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

Hi! I had an idea for a Bad Batch or even 501st x Fem!Reader where the reader has a rather large chest and when it gets hot she wears more revealing items and the boys get distracted and flustered? I love the stuttering and blushing boys and confidence reader stuff. Nothing too explicit or so maybe just flirting and teasing. Hope this is ok! If not I totally understand! Xx

“Too Hot to Handle”

Fem!Reader x The Bad Batch

You had a feeling the Republic’s definition of “temperate” varied wildly from your own. The jungle planet was a boiling mess of humidity and unrelenting heat—and your standard gear? Suffocating. So, you did what any sane woman would do: ditched the jacket, rolled up your tank top, and tied your hair up to survive the heat.

The result? Your… assets were on full display.

“Maker,” you heard someone mutter behind you.

You glanced back over your shoulder, smirking. Tech had walked face-first into a tree branch. Crosshair snorted.

“I told you to look where you’re going.”

“I was looking,” Tech replied, voice just a little too high-pitched to be believable, glasses fogging.

Hunter cleared his throat and tried very hard to keep his eyes on the map in his hands. “Alright. Let’s move out.”

“I don’t mind staying here a bit longer,” Echo said, then instantly regretted it when you raised an eyebrow at him.

“Oh?” you asked, strolling up to him. “Because of the view?”

Echo flushed crimson from ears to collarbone. “I—I didn’t—I meant the trees. The foliage. The scenery. The mission. Definitely not you.” He looked like he wanted the jungle to swallow him whole.

Crosshair rolled his eyes, muttering something about “bunch of kriffin’ cadets.”

You leaned toward him, hands on your hips. “Not enjoying the view, sniper?”

He gave you a cool look. “I’ve seen better.”

But the twitch at the corner of his mouth told you otherwise.

Wrecker, on the other hand, had absolutely no filter.

“You look awesome!” he beamed. “Kinda like one of those holonet dancers! Only cooler. And better armed!”

You laughed. “Thanks, Wreck. At least someone appreciates fashion.”

Hunter still hadn’t said anything. You stepped closer, just close enough that your shadow fell over him.

“Something wrong, Sarge?”

His gaze finally met yours. His pupils were slightly dilated. “You’re, uh… distracting.”

You grinned. “Good.”

He cleared his throat. “Let’s keep moving. Before someone passes out.”

You turned, leading the squad again with an extra sway in your hips—just for fun.

Behind you, a chorus of groans, a snapped branch, and Tech asking if overheating counted as a medical emergency confirmed one thing:

Mission accomplished.

⸻

You knew exactly what you were doing.

The jungle’s heat hadn’t let up, but neither had the effect your outfit was having on the squad. Sweat clung to your skin, your tank top clinging in all the right (or wrong) places. Every time you adjusted the strap or tugged your top down slightly to cool off, you heard someone behind you trip, cough, or mutter a strangled curse.

Crosshair was chewing on the toothpick like it owed him credits. Echo’s scomp link clinked against his chest plate as he tried and failed to keep his eyes off you. Tech had adjusted his goggles four times in the last minute and was now walking with a datapad suspiciously close to his face—like he was trying to use it as a shield.

And Hunter?

Hunter looked like he was in hell.

You’d catch him watching you—eyes flickering up and down, then away, jaw tight, nostrils flaring like he was trying to rein himself in.

“Everything alright, Sarge?” you asked sweetly, dabbing sweat from your neck and catching his gaze as it dropped.

His voice cracked. “Fine. Just… focused on the terrain.”

“Funny,” you said, stepping close, letting your voice dip low. “I thought the terrain was behind you.”

Crosshair choked.

Hunter exhaled, flustered and trying not to visibly short-circuit. “Focus, all of you. We’ve got a job to do.”

“Hard to focus,” Echo muttered under his breath. “Some of us are… visually impaired by distraction.”

“Visual impairment is no excuse for tactical inefficiency,” Tech said quickly, though his goggles were definitely still fogged.

“You need help cleaning those, Tech?” you offered, reaching for his face.

He actually jumped back. “N-No! That is—unnecessary! I am quite—capable!”

“Ohhh, she’s killing ‘em,” Wrecker laughed, totally unfazed. “This is better than a bar fight!”

“Speak for yourself,” Crosshair growled, barely maintaining composure as you brushed past him.

You were leading again now, hips swaying slightly more than necessary, hair sticking to your damp neck in a way that was definitely catching eyes. You tugged your top lower again and heard an audible thunk—someone had walked into another branch.

“Seriously?” you called over your shoulder, amused.

There was silence, then a shame-filled voice: “…Echo.”

You bit back a laugh.

Hunter suddenly barked, “Break time. Ten minutes.”

The squad dropped like they’d been released from a death march.

You stretched languidly, arms up, chest forward, fully aware of the eyes glued to you.

“Maker,” Hunter muttered, dragging a hand down his face. “I’m gonna lose my mind.”

You leaned in close, hand on your hip, voice like honey. “Want some water, Sergeant?”

He blinked at you. Twice. “If I say yes, are you going to pour it over yourself again?”

“…Maybe.”

He turned a deeper shade of red than his bandana. “You’re evil.”

“You like it.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.”

And just like that—you turned and walked away, leaving five broken clones behind you, questioning every life choice that had led them to this mission.

me when the plot won't plot like it should

I love how you write Tech! Could I request something with him and a super clumsy and oblivious reader please? Thank you!

Thank you! Sometimes I feel like I write him too robotic like ahaha

⸻

“Statistical Probability of Love”

Tech x Reader

⸻

Tech had calculated—twice, actually—that if he complimented you at least three times a day, you might eventually understand he was flirting. The odds weren’t stellar (34.7%, to be exact), but he was determined to try.

“Your ocular symmetry is… exceptionally pleasing,” he said one afternoon, eyes never leaving his datapad.

You blinked up at him, mid-attempt to carry a large crate that was clearly too heavy for you. “Uh… thanks? Are you saying my eyeballs match?”

“Precisely.”

You smiled, almost tripping over your own feet as you finally got the crate to the other side of the Marauder. “Cool. I like symmetry. Good for… art. And, like… walking straight.”

Tech stared after you, baffled. That had been his best one yet. He even rehearsed it.

⸻

Later, you were in the cockpit, absolutely tangled in the cords you were trying to organize. Wrecker had asked you to help. He did not, however, explain how not to fall into a mess of wires like some kind of malfunctioning protocol droid.

“You seem to find yourself in precarious entanglements at an impressively consistent rate,” Tech noted, crouching beside you with a slight smirk.

You groaned dramatically. “It’s a talent. Maybe I should join a circus.”

“I find it… endearing,” he muttered.

You were too busy trying to untangle your foot from a power cable to hear him.

⸻

It got worse.

He started trying “casual” physical contact. A light touch on the shoulder here, a hand on your back when guiding you through the hull. Subtle. Calculated. Measured. He was certain you’d notice.

You? You thought he was just awkward and accidentally touchy.

Once, he brushed your hand while passing you a tool. You jolted, dropped the hydrospanner on your foot, then thanked him for it.

“You—you thanked me?” Tech asked later, clearly flustered. “I caused minor bodily harm!”

“Yeah, but it kinda woke me up. I was zoning out hard.”

He turned away, muttering something about “social cues being an imprecise science.”

⸻

Hunter noticed first. “You gonna tell her you like her or keep complimenting her neural pathways until she dies of old age?”

“I am trying to initiate courtship gradually,” Tech replied, defensive. “She is just… uniquely unresponsive to conventional—or unconventional—methods.”

“She’s got no idea,” Echo chimed in, amused. “You could tell her she was beautiful in binary and she’d thank you for a firmware update.”

⸻

Eventually, Tech snapped.

“Your clumsiness is statistically improbable and yet, inexplicably, I find myself drawn to it. To you. In a—romantic sense.”

You blinked at him from the floor, where you’d just slipped on your own jacket.

“Oh,” you said. “Wait. You’re… flirting with me?”

“I have been flirting with you.”

“For how long?”

“Seventeen days, four hours, and—”

“Tech. You should’ve just said something.”

“I did! Your neural symmetry, the entanglement commentary, the guiding hand—”

“Okay, yeah, that’s on me,” you admitted, grinning sheepishly. “I’m a bit slow.”

“Not slow,” he corrected. “Just… delightfully oblivious.”

“…Was that another flirt?”

“Affirmative.”

You laughed. “Okay, I’m catching on now.”

“Statistically overdue,” he muttered.

But you leaned over, kissed his cheek, and said, “Worth the wait?”

His ears turned red. “Yes. Highly.”

⸻

“Crimson Huntress” pt.2

Summary: Togruta bounty hunter Sha’rali Jurok takes a solo job to retrieve a rogue clone on Felucia. With her two deadly droids—an aggressive astromech and a lethal butler unit—she walks into a Separatist trap and uncovers a mission far more dangerous than advertised.

⸻

The entire compound thrummed like it was alive—humming with power, vibrating from the deep core generators buried beneath layers of basalt and durasteel. Down in the holding blocks, beneath blinking red lights and exposed pipes slick with condensation, CT-4023 stared at the wall like he could burn through it by will alone.

The cell next to his remained quiet. Too quiet.

Until the silence was broken by a sharp clink.

Sha’rali Jurok’s cuffs hit the floor with a faint echo. She stretched her arms with an almost feline roll of her shoulders, the subtle pop of her joints barely audible beneath the whine of atmospheric recycling. A thin-bladed shiv spun between her fingers, dull with age but deadly in the right hands.

“You’re free,” the clone muttered, voice low and raw.

“Wasn’t a matter of if,” she replied. “Just when.”

She crouched beside the droid access panel in her cell. A few quick taps of her knuckles in a pattern—metal meeting metal. Then a pause.

Nothing.

And then: chirp, chirp-BANG—a furious electronic growl echoed through the vents above.

“Oh,” she said with a smirk, “someone’s mad I left them topside.”

⸻

“Moving into Position,” whispered Boss, voice clipped through Delta Squad’s secure comms.

Fixer tapped the side of his helmet and rerouted a power feed from the junction box, cutting lights to the southeast wing. Darkness spread like ink down the corridor.

“Visual disruption active. Main grid’s destabilized. You’ve got ten minutes before they trace the splice.”

“Plenty,” said Scorch as he patted a charge onto the support column. “Place is built like a house of cards. We could sneeze and bring it down.”

“Let’s not,” Fixer said.

Sev swept ahead, motion sensor in one hand, DC-17m rifle in the other. His voice rasped over the comms. “Life signs in Block Seven. Two confirmed. One’s the target. The other—guess.”

Boss adjusted his grip. “Target retrieval is priority. If the bounty hunter gets in the way, neutralize her.”

“Copy,” they said as one.

⸻

Outside the main cell doors, the purple-and-gold astromech screeched out of a maintenance chute, its claw arm extended and sparking with aggressive glee. Its dome spun as it hurled a jolt of electricity into the chest of a nearby B2 super battle droid. The droid shorted mid-turn, collapsed in a heap of sparking limbs.

Two more B1s turned in confusion.

“What was that?”

The astromech beeped once, menacingly. Then its flamethrower activated.

Both droids went up screaming.

Inside the cell, Sha’rali stood in the doorway, blaster looted from a droid already in hand. Her lekku twitched with anticipation.

CT-4023 pushed himself upright. “You called that thing?”

She smirked. “He doesn’t like being left behind.”

As if on cue, the droid spat a plasma bolt into the ceiling, blowing open the ventilation shaft. A second later, the rose-gold killer butler droid dropped from the dark, landing like a predator.

Its smooth, modulated voice dripped civility. “Madam Jurok. I took the liberty of terminating a half-dozen combat units on the way in. You’ll find the perimeter slightly… more navigable.”

“Lovely,” she purred. “How about a path out?”

“Working on it. Resistance is heavy aboveground, and… we have company.”

⸻

Delta Squad flanked the corridor with lethal precision. Sev watched the corner, his rifle trained on the shadows.

“Reading increased EM activity near the holding cells,” Fixer said. “Something’s scrambling systems.”

“Droid interference,” Scorch said. “Probably that damn astromech.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Boss replied. “We push through.”

They breached the door.

Inside stood the ARC and the bounty hunter—armed, alert, mid-exit.

“Step away from the clone,” Boss ordered, weapon raised.

The ARC took one half-step back… then pivoted toward Sha’rali.

“Please,” he said. “Don’t let them take me.”

Everyone froze.

Sha’rali stared at him.

He didn’t blink. His eyes, storm-grey and haunted, were fixed on her like she was the last solid ground in a storm.

“You don’t understand—if I go back, I won’t leave again. They’ll strip my mind, my name. They’ll take everything. I’ll disappear and no one will care.”

Sha’rali’s fingers tightened on her blaster.

“Sounds familiar,” she muttered.

Boss stepped forward. “Last warning, hunter. Stand down. He’s coming with us.”

The ARC moved closer to her. “Better to run,” he whispered. “You know that. Please.”

A long pause. Delta Squad’s weapons never dropped.

Sha’rali closed her eyes for a heartbeat.

Then she raised her blaster—and fired at the lights.

Darkness swallowed the corridor.

Scorch and Sev ducked behind a crate as a plasma grenade went off near their position. Sha’rali, sprinting with the ARC trooper beside her, vaulted a collapsing support strut just ahead of the flame.

“Where the hell are they going?” Scorch yelled.

“Doesn’t matter,” Boss snapped. “Cut them off—Force knows what’s in that clone’s head.”

The rose-gold droid rounded on Fixer with blinding speed, throwing him off balance. It bowed before smashing a blast door open with one elegant, terrifying strike.

CT-4023 clutched his side—he’d taken a grazing hit to the ribs.

“You still good?” she shouted.

“Not dead,” he growled. “Yet.”

“Then move, soldier.”

Lights flared red as klaxons erupted across the base. B2 droids activated in droves, spider droids marched into hangar bays, and turrets powered up in high alert.

In the central command tower, a tactical droid snapped to attention. “Unknown explosion in Block Seven. Security forces mobilizing. All personnel to defense positions.”

⸻

Kit Fisto and Eeth Koth stood back-to-back as the first wave of droids descended from the ridge.

The Nautolan smiled faintly. “Well. Someone’s thrown a party.”

“We are not guests,” Eeth Koth said, igniting his green blade. “We are the storm.”

The clash of lightsabers against durasteel echoed across the canyon.

⸻

A Separatist gunship descended ahead of them, doors opening with a shriek of hydraulic fury.

Turrets turned toward them.

“Not that way!” the ARC barked.

Sha’rali spun to cover him—but then Delta Squad broke through the other side of the hangar.

Behind them—two glowing lightsabers.

They were surrounded.

And every faction wanted something different.

“Any ideas?” he asked.

She activated the detonator she’d planted on their way through.

The walls exploded behind them.

“Run,” she said.

Smoke surged from the blown-out wall like a living thing—hot, thick, curling with black soot and the scent of burning circuitry. Sha’rali didn’t wait to see who was alive behind it. She grabbed the ARC’s arm, half-dragged, half-shoved him through the gap, boots crunching over debris as they hit the sloping edge of the canyon beyond.

A volley of red blaster bolts screamed past their heads. The ARC stumbled, nearly going down before the bounty hunter caught him with one arm.

“Keep going!” she barked, eyes darting back toward the chaos.

Delta Squad had scattered in the explosion, but they were regrouping fast. Boss was already shouting orders through his helmet. Above them, Kit Fisto and Eeth Koth were engaged mid-leap, deflecting fire from a full squad of B2s. The sky was alive with movement—buzz droids, vulture droids, Separatist reinforcements. Too many pieces moving at once.

And K4 was gone.

Sha’rali’s eyes narrowed, lekku twitching behind her.

He’d vanished right before they breached the inner hangar.

Typical.

“Where are we going?” the ARC gasped, clutching his side. He was bleeding again—his undersuit damp with red.

“Down,” Sha’rali said. “Until they can’t follow.”

She vaulted down a broken ravine edge, boots sliding through gravel and mossy dust. The sunlight barely filtered through the overgrowth here. Saleucami’s dense fungal canopies loomed overhead, vines hanging like nooses from the cliffs.

Behind them, a thermal detonator went off—too close.

“They’re gaining,” he warned.

Sha’rali fired blindly behind her and kept moving.

“You’re going to get us both killed!”

“That’s the idea,” she snapped.

The ARC trooper finally collapsed at the edge of a flooded trench, gasping. Sha’rali dropped beside him, ducking beneath a cluster of fungal overgrowth.

“We can’t outrun them.”

“No,” she agreed. “But we can hide.”

“We won’t last long. Not with that tracker they tagged me with.”

She turned sharply to him. “Tracker?”

He nodded, grimacing. “Buried in my spine. I’ve tried digging it out—no luck. That’s how they always find me.”

Sha’rali reached to her belt and pulled out a vibroblade. “Then I’ll dig harder.”

“Are you insane?!”

“I torture people for a living. Don’t tempt me.”

⸻

K4 moved like a shadow between droid patrols. No clanking. No noise. Just an eerily smooth stride, long coat trailing, posture perfectly relaxed.

He came upon the back line of the landing field where a row of light transports had been left in minimal standby. Maintenance droids chittered. A Geonosian officer barked in a clipped tone.

K4 stepped into the clearing.

“Excuse me,” he said, bowing politely.

The Geonosian turned—just in time for the droid’s hand to rip through his thorax. Blood sprayed.

Before the others could react, K4 had one droid’s head in his palm and crushed it like fruit. A third raised its weapon—

K4 shot it between the eyes with the Geonosian’s pistol.

He paused. Smiled faintly.

“Securing vehicle,” he muttered, and opened the cockpit of the nearest transport.

⸻

Sha’rali finished cauterizing the incision with her blade. The ARC bit down on his glove to keep from screaming, muscles trembling.

“Tracker’s out,” she said. “They’ll still be on our last ping, but that gives us a few minutes.”

R9 chirped in disgust.

“Where’s your other psycho droid?”

She looked up.

Then, like a phantom, K4’s voice crackled to life in her commlink.

“Madam. I have acquired a ship. If you’d be so kind as to meet me at the coordinates I’ve transmitted, I will delay pursuit.”

“You took your time,” she replied.

“A gentleman never rushes murder.”

They left the atmosphere moments later, their stolen vessel avoiding pursuit thanks to K4’s expert programming and a few decoy beacons.

Sha’rali finally leaned back against the wall of the cabin, exhaling slowly.

The ARC looked at her with bloodshot eyes.

“So what now?”

She met his gaze, steady and unreadable.

“Now,” she said, “we get my ship from Felucia.”

⸻

They touched down just as the sun began to rise, painting the fungal canopy in blues and violets. Towering mushroom-like growths loomed over the clearing, and somewhere distant, a herd of guttural beasts bellowed in the mist.

Sha’rali stepped off the ramp first, blaster in hand, sweeping the clearing.

Still secure.

She had left her original ship parked here days ago, camouflaged beneath an active cloaking net and a decoy transponder field. The Republic had been too busy running drills with their battalion on the other side of the continent. The Separatists had been too fixated on their research complex.

No one had found it.

K4 descended behind her, adjusting the cuffs of his coat.

“I must say, I didn’t anticipate returning to this jungle rot,” he said dryly.

“You weren’t supposed to,” Sha’rali muttered.

Behind them, the ARC trooper limped down the ramp of the stolen Separatist vessel. He looked worse than before—bloodied, bruised, dried dirt caking the seams of his blacks. He hadn’t said a word since orbit.

Sha’rali jerked a thumb toward the old ship. Sleeker. Compact. Smuggler-built.

“Home sweet kriffing home.”

The interior was warm with dim light and the gentle hum of systems reactivating after stasis. K4 moved with graceful familiarity, bringing systems online, checking sensors, recharging the astromech. The purple and gold droid spun its dome grumpily and beeped a string of curses at the Separatist vessel they’d left behind.

“We’re not keeping it,” Sha’rali called.

The astromech swore again—louder.

The ARC trooper sat stiffly on the medbay slab as Sha’rali began the scan. A focused beam traced his body slowly, displaying internal data over a pale blue holomap beside the table.

She crossed her arms.

“You’ve got metal buried in you like a cache of war crime confessions.”

“I’m aware,” he muttered.

She toggled through the scan layers—skeletal, muscular, neural—until the image blinked red.

His right forearm lit up with embedded code, just below the bone.

Sha’rali leaned closer, watching the scan hone in.

“There,” she said. “Looks like an identity chip—your CT number and a destination marker.”

He flinched.

“Remove it,” he said quietly. “Erase it first.”

K4 was already stepping forward, fingers unfolding into tools with surgical precision. He paused beside the table, expression unreadable behind his pristine etiquette.

“Are you certain, sir?” K4 asked, voice almost soft. “Identity is one of the last things they leave you with.”

The clone looked at him—raw, hollow-eyed.

“I don’t want it anymore. Any of it.”

K4 gave a slight nod and got to work.

Sha’rali watched the data scroll as the chip decrypted under K4’s tools. Coordinates—somewhere near Raxus. And the CT number.

No name. Just that.

The droid wiped the chip clean. Then, deftly, he cut it out and sealed the wound with a medpatch and bacta stim.

He was quieter after that. Still and exhausted, but awake.

Sha’rali returned after reviewing perimeter scans, carrying a fresh stim and a handheld scanner.

“We’re not done,” she said.

He grunted. “What now?”

“Something in your head.”

His back went straight.

“You said you didn’t want to be controlled,” she said. “So I checked for the chip.”

His lips parted, but no words came.

She tapped the side of her own temple. “Inhibitor. It’s buried deep, but it’s there.”

Silence.

He looked away.

“How bad is it?” he asked.

She sat beside him and held up the scan—it showed the glimmer of a tiny device near his brain.

“Delicate. But not impossible.”

He didn’t answer.

“Do it,” he said at last. “Rip it out.”

Sha’rali sterilized the tools. K4 assisted without comment, hands clean, silent, methodical. Even the astromech—normally impossible to shut up—stayed quiet this time, as if sensing the weight of what was about to happen.

She worked carefully.

Slowly.

Muscle, nerve, brain tissue—this wasn’t a bounty job or some half-drunk limb stitch in a backalley hangar. This was personal.

When she finally pulled the chip free, it was slick with blood and neural tissue, still twitching faintly in her forceps.

She dropped it into a tray of acid and watched it dissolve.

The ARC didn’t speak for a long time.

He sat on the floor now, wrapped in a thermal blanket, sipping nutrient broth like a ghost.

Sha’rali crouched across from him.

“You got a name?”

He shook his head.

“Everyone who knew it’s dead.”

She tilted her head. “Then make a new one.”

“No point.”

“You’ve got no chip. No tag. You’re untraceable now. Fresh start.”

He looked up at her, eyes strange and open in a way they hadn’t been before.

“I just want to be nobody.”

Sha’rali smirked faintly.

“Then you’re in the right line of work.”

The ship hummed around them, alive again. Outside, the Felucian jungle moved and breathed and churned in the light of a fading sun.

Above them, in the growing dark of space, the Republic and the Separatists would still be searching.

But here?

In this stolen moment?

They were nobody.

The broth had long gone cold, but he still held the cup, fingers curled around the heatless metal like it offered an answer.

Sha’rali sat cross-legged across from him, picking at a stim patch on her gauntlet. She wasn’t watching him, not really. Her gaze was distant—calculating, patient, giving him time.

That unnerved him more than torture ever had.

He lifted his head finally, voice low, uncertain but with that familiar soldier’s steel buried underneath.

“You said I’m in the right line of work.”

Sha’rali didn’t respond.

He looked at her directly now, shadows clinging to his jaw, a thin scar catching the medbay lights beneath his cheekbone.

“What makes you think I’ll stay with you?”

Her brow rose. “I don’t.”

He blinked.

She tossed aside the stim wrap and leaned back against the crate behind her, arms draped lazily over her bent knees. “I don’t expect loyalty. Least of all from a clone who’s just had his leash cut.”

“…Right.”

“Why would you?” she added. “You’ve been doing what others wanted your whole life. If you want to vanish, you’re free to walk. I won’t stop you.”

The quiet between them stretched.

Then he spoke again, a little more bitterly now, like the question had been chewing its way through his gut for hours.

“Why would I become a bounty hunter?”

Sha’rali’s head tilted slightly, eyes narrowing in the half-light.

“I don’t know. Why not?” she replied evenly. “What else are you going to do?”

He had no answer.

She leaned forward, elbows on her knees. “You think the Republic wants you back? They sent an entire squad of elite commandos and two Jedi just to clean up the mess your brain might’ve made. They didn’t come to rescue you. They came to recover an asset.”

His jaw clenched.

“It’s very rare I show kindness,” she said flatly. “You got lucky. And you being a clone? It’s unlikely anyone else in this galaxy will ever give you that again.”

Her words struck like blaster bolts. Not cruel—just true.

“You were made to be expendable. Designed for war. Trained to be disposable.” Her voice turned rougher, sharper now. “But this line of work? It might just make you somebody. Someone with a price. Someone who decides their own worth.”

He swallowed.

Sha’rali stood, brushing dust from her armor.

“You can piss it all away and disappear if you want. That’s your right now.” She nodded toward the cockpit corridor. “But I’m heading to Ord Mantell. Got a job waiting. You’re welcome to come. Or not.”

As she turned to leave, a smooth mechanical voice floated in:

“My lady.”

K4 entered the room carrying a tray with two mugs of steaming tea. The contrast between his butler-esque grace and his deadly gleaming servos was still unsettling.

“I’ve prepared something mild, given your poor nutritional intake,” he told the trooper, placing the mug beside him. “Sha’rali’s blend, of course. You’ll hate it.”

The trooper looked at him in mild disbelief. “You made tea?”

“I boiled water and poured it into a cup with dried leaves. Do try to keep up,” K4 said dryly, adjusting the tray with prim care.

R9 wheeled in behind him with a long string of indignant binary chatter. Its dome was already scorched from the Felucia jungle, and its welding torch was still extended in what could only be described as a challenge to K4’s civility.

K4 didn’t even glance at the astromech. “No, R9, you may not install missile pods in the cargo bay again. We discussed this.”

R9 beeped angrily and spun in a circle before storming back toward the hallway, thumping into the wall for emphasis.

K4 turned back to the trooper. “We’ll be heading to Ord Mantell shortly. One of Sha’rali’s contacts has a request, and—regrettably—it pays well.”

“Regrettably?” the clone asked.

“I find credits tedious. But necessary.”

K4 gave him a cool nod. “You’ve got one hour. Either stay or go. But please, decide without bleeding on the furniture.”

He turned and exited, coat fluttering like a nobleman in retreat.

Sha’rali hadn’t looked back during the exchange.

The clone sat in silence for another moment, steam from the tea curling around his fingers.

No name. No rank. No orders.

Just one moment. One choice.

He raised the cup to his lips and took a sip.

It was bitter as hell.

But it was his.

⸻

The stars stretched long and lazy through the cockpit viewport, the hyperspace corridor casting pale light over the controls and illuminating the quiet hum of the ship’s systems. Sha’rali lounged in the pilot’s seat, boots up on the dash, arms behind her head, lekku coiled loosely over her shoulders.

There was a quiet shuffle behind her.

She didn’t turn around. “Took you long enough.”

The clone stepped into the cockpit and sank into the co-pilot’s chair. His armor was gone—cleaned, stashed away. Just a black undersuit now. Comfortable, functional. Unbranded.

No symbol. No name.

Sha’rali glanced sideways, smirking faintly. “So. You’re sticking around.”

He shrugged, noncommittal, eyes trained on the lights streaking past the viewport. “For now.”

She tilted her head, scanning his profile like a puzzle she couldn’t quite solve. “Well, if you’re going to haunt my cockpit, you’ll need a name.”

“I have a name,” he said stiffly.

“CT-something isn’t a name,” she replied, stretching out with a lazy groan. “It’s a batch number.”

He didn’t reply.

She let the silence stretch for all of three seconds before launching into it: “How about Stalker?”

He gave her a deadpan look.

“No? Okay, brooding mystery man. Let’s try Scorch.”

“That’s taken,” he muttered.

“Grim. Ghost. Omen?”

He exhaled hard through his nose. “I’m not a karking dog.”

“You sure bark like one.” Her smirk turned toothy.

He turned back to the stars.

She lowered her boots and leaned forward, elbows resting on her knees. “Look, I get it. You’ve been a number your whole life. But the second you cut ties with the Republic, you stopped being inventory. You need something. Doesn’t have to be permanent. Doesn’t even have to be clever. Just… something to call you.”

He was quiet for a long beat. “I’ll pick one when I’m ready.”

Sha’rali grinned, satisfied. “That’s fair.”

Then the cockpit door whooshed open with a hiss of disdain.

K4 stood in the doorway, perfectly poised in a stiff-legged elegance, arms crossed behind his back like a judge about to sentence someone.

“I see the nameless meatbag has occupied my seat.”

The clone looked at him, unimpressed. “There’s no name on it.”

“There was. I had it engraved, but that aggressive grease-stain of an astromech melted it off during one of its fits.”

Sha’rali stifled a laugh.

K4 stepped forward with the precision of a butler and the threat level of a vibroblade. “Move. Or be moved.”

The clone didn’t budge. “You going to throw me out an airlock too?”

“Tempting,” K4 replied. “But no. I’d prefer to avoid cleaning that much clone out of the upholstery.”

Sha’rali snorted. “Boys, play nice.”

The trooper stood slowly, eyes still locked on K4. “You’re really something.”

“I am many things,” K4 replied with a curt nod, sliding into his seat with a dancer’s grace. “Chief among them: irreplaceable.”

The clone wandered to the back of the cockpit, arms crossed, observing the banter unfold like some outsider at a theater show.

Sha’rali turned toward the nav screen, keying in atmospheric approach data. “We’ll be hitting Ord Mantell space in about ten. R9’s already downloaded the contact’s coordinates—neutral zone, outskirts of Worlport. Small job, fast payout.”

K4 glanced over his shoulder. “Low-risk. Possibly boring. That usually means a trap.”

“Probably,” she said easily. “But traps are where the fun is.”

The clone gave her a sidelong look. “You live like this all the time?”

Sha’rali grinned. “I’d die of boredom otherwise.”

The ship rocked gently as hyperspace dissolved around them. Stars snapped back into singular points of light, and the blue-brown marble of Ord Mantell filled the view.

Sha’rali leaned forward in her seat, eyes narrowing.

“Showtime.”

⸻

Ord Mantell was always dusty.

Sha’rali disembarked the ship, breathing in the warm, arid air as the twin suns of the planet bathed the landscape in pale gold. The outskirts of Worlport were quiet this time of day—only the low drone of speeders in the distance, the occasional scrap droid trundling past, and the wind tugging at tarps strung between rusting shipping crates.

Their meeting point was a wide alley between two abandoned warehouses, shielded from aerial scanners but open enough to see an ambush coming. Or so the coordinates claimed.

K4 scanned the perimeter with narrowed optics. “I already dislike this.”

Sha’rali cracked her neck and adjusted her blaster pistol. “You dislike everything.”

“False,” K4 said flatly. “I enjoy chamomile tea and the distant sounds of R9 screaming.”

R9, presently wheeling ahead to scan the loading bay doors, let out a warbling snort of protest.

“Not now,” the ARC trooper muttered to the astromech as he followed close behind.

R9 spun its dome a half-click, gave him a sharp toot of indignation, then paused when he reached out and gently rested a hand against its dome.

“…Sorry,” the trooper said quietly, brushing some scorch marks with his thumb. “You saved my shebs more than once back there. Guess I should treat you less like equipment.”

R9 warbled something smug.

The clone chuckled softly. “Don’t get cocky.”

R9 nudged against his knee like a small metal rancor demanding affection.

Sha’rali caught the moment out of the corner of her eye but didn’t say a word.

They reached the center of the clearing and waited. The plan was simple: quick trade-off, information packet for credits, with the Trandoshan broker Cid as the middleman. Low stakes. Clean job.

Except Cid wasn’t here.

Instead, a squat Rodian stood in her place, flanked by two humans in patchwork armor and a Nikto with a heavy repeater slung over his shoulder.

Sha’rali’s hand dropped to her sidearm, casual but not lazy.

“You’re not Cid,” she said evenly.

The Rodian blinked. “Cid sends apologies. She got… tied up. Said we’d handle the handoff.”

“That’s not how she works.”

“Changed policy.”

Sha’rali didn’t like this. The Rodian was sweating despite the dry wind, and the Nikto’s finger twitched just a bit too close to the trigger guard.

Behind her, she felt the shift in stance from both her crew and the clone. Silent, poised. Waiting for her call.

“Let me be real clear,” Sha’rali said, stepping forward, eyes cold. “Either Cid walks around that corner in the next twenty seconds, or I start melting kneecaps until someone gives me a better answer.”

The Rodian looked nervous now. One of the humans raised their weapon slightly, and that was all it took.

Sha’rali’s blaster cleared leather in a blink.

The Nikto dropped first, a clean bolt through his shoulder as he staggered back into the crates.

K4 drew his vibroblade with smooth grace, lunging forward and disarming the nearest gunman before slamming him into a wall hard enough to knock the breath from his lungs.

The clone took cover behind a crate and laid down precise suppressive fire, pinning the remaining thug in place.

R9 zipped forward, emitted a piercing shriek, and sent a shock prod up into the Rodian’s ribs. The poor fool convulsed and dropped like a sack of duracrete.

Thirty seconds. It was over.

Sha’rali stepped through the smoke, picking up the small datachip from the Rodian’s belt pouch. She held it up to the light, turning it in her fingers.

“Yeah,” she muttered. “Cid never showed.”

The clone approached, eyes sharp. “Trap?”

“Feels like it.”

K4 nudged one of the groaning mercs with his boot. “Pathetic attempt at one, though.”

Sha’rali gave a quick two-finger whistle. “Let’s move before reinforcements start sniffing around. I don’t like jobs that lie.”

They headed back toward the ship. As the loading ramp closed behind them, and R9 let out another satisfied electronic cackle, the clone glanced at Sha’rali.

“You think Cid’s in trouble?”

Sha’rali’s eyes narrowed.

“I think we’ve just been hired for something a lot bigger than we signed up for.”

The door to Cid’s Parlor groaned open, stale air curling around their boots as Sha’rali stepped through the archway. The cantina looked the same as it always had—low lighting, dirty tables, blaster scarring along the walls like some kind of history book no one wanted to read.

R9 whirred softly beside her, rotating its dome as if scanning for snipers. The clone kept his head low and hooded, shadows veiling most of his face.

Cid was in the back booth, hunched over a datapad with a half-finished glass of Corellian black in one hand and an expression like she’d bitten into something alive.

Sha’rali didn’t wait for permission. She slid into the booth across from her, legs crossed, blaster out and resting on the table—not pointed, but not concealed either. The clone stood behind her, silent, unreadable.

K4 remained by the door. Looming. Glowing optics politely predatory.

Cid didn’t look up.

“Well, this is a surprise. Thought I told you to stay gone.”

“You sent me a job,” Sha’rali said flatly.

“I didn’t send you anything.”

Sha’rali’s eyes narrowed. She slid the decrypted datachip across the table with a light click. “This came with your encryption key. Your coordinates. Your payout tags.”

Cid picked it up, glanced at it, snorted. “You ever consider maybe someone else is using my name?”

“I’ve made enemies,” Sha’rali allowed. “But not the kind who play bookkeeping this clean.”

Cid finally looked at her—and then past her, toward the hooded clone. Her brow lifted, expression changing.

“Well,” she muttered. “Ain’t that something.”

The clone remained motionless.

“You bring me one of them, huh?” Cid leaned forward, voice lowering. “That’s not just any grunt. You got yourself a ghost. They been looking for that one.”

Sha’rali didn’t flinch. “He’s with me.”

“That supposed to mean something?” Cid took a long drink. “After the stunt you pulled last time, you’re lucky I don’t sell your pretty pink ass to the Pykes.”

“You’d try.” Sha’rali leaned closer. “But I don’t think you want to see what my droids do to traitors.”

K4 cleared his throat from the doorway, utterly polite. “She’s correct. It’s… messy.”

Cid rolled her eyes, then looked at the clone again. “What’s your name, buckethead?”

He didn’t answer.

Sha’rali stood. “We’re done here.”

As they walked out, Cid watched them go, her stubby fingers already sliding a new commlink from her pocket.

The line was secure.

:: “Yeah. It’s me.” ::

A pause.

:: “The pink one’s alive. She’s got the clone.” ::

Another pause.

:: “No, he doesn’t have a name. He’s not talking. But it’s him. You’ll want to act fast. She’s in Ord Mantell space, but she won’t stay put for long.” ::

A click. Line dead.

Cid tossed back the last of her drink and let out a long breath.

“She always was too bold for her own good.”

⸻

The sun was lower now, casting long shadows across the grime-stained streets of Worlport. The cantina door slammed behind them with a hiss, and R9 let out a suspicious bleep as it scanned the alleyway, already on edge.

The clone walked beside Sha’rali in silence for a few beats before finally speaking.

“What did you do to the Pykes?”

Sha’rali didn’t look at him, just smirked faintly. “I didn’t. K4 did.”

Behind them, the tall silver droid gave a prim nod. “They insulted my etiquette. I simply reminded them that proper conduct is essential… especially when negotiating ransom with a vibroblade to one’s throat.”

R9 cackled.

The clone side-eyed K4. “You’re not a butler.”

“I am a butler,” K4 replied, mock-offended. “I was built from scratch to kill, politely.”

Sha’rali chuckled. “You’ll get used to them. Or you’ll die. Probably one or the other.”

They turned down a side alley toward the hangar levels. The city never felt safe, but it felt less safe now, like every shadow held someone waiting for a bounty to clear.

“We need to find you new armor,” she said suddenly. “Something that doesn’t scream ‘I’m a clone deserter, please apprehend me for treason and experimentation.’”

He gave her a long look. “You just want me in a helmet.”

“I want you in a helmet no one recognizes,” she shot back. “And yes. Aesthetics are a bonus.”

He huffed out a quiet laugh, then sobered. “You think Cid’ll sell us out?”

Sha’rali’s smile faded. “If I know Cid? She already did. By the time we’re off-planet, someone’ll be gunning for us. Could be the Republic. Could be the Pykes. Could be the damned Crimson Suns for all I know.”

The clone’s jaw flexed.

“We refuel,” she continued, “we grab food, and we’re off this rock. No lingering.”

“Got a destination?”

“No,” she admitted. “But I’ve got contacts. Places that don’t ask questions, and people who like me more than they like war. That’s enough.”

They turned a corner, stepping into the bustling edge of the bazaar, the scent of charred meats and engine coolant thick in the air.

Sha’rali paused for a moment, watching the crowd. R9 was already zipping toward a food stall with the enthusiasm of a toddler and the manners of a junkyard loth-cat. K4 sighed and followed, weapon at his side but posture casual.

The clone lingered beside her. “You didn’t have to help me, you know.”

Sha’rali tilted her head, lekku twitching with amusement. “I know. Still did.”

“Why?”

She looked up at him, sharp-eyed. “You asked me that already. The galaxy treats clones like tools. I’ve broken tools before—none of them bled. You did. That makes you different.”

He looked away.

Sha’rali bumped his arm with her own. “C’mon, buckethead. Let’s get you a helmet that actually fits your brooding personality.”

⸻

The marketplace on the lower decks of Worlport reeked of oil, unwashed bodies, and desperation. This wasn’t where you bought weapons. This was where you took them.

Sha’rali’s eyes scanned the crowd lazily, arms crossed, lekku twitching in irritation.

“You call this shopping?” the clone asked from behind his hood.

“I call it resourcing,” she said. “I see a weak target with good gear, I make it mine. Simpler than bartering with credits I don’t have.”

“I thought you were looking for armor,” he muttered.

“I am. And I’m picky.”

Her gaze settled on a group near the far end of the alley—a trio of bounty hunters lounging near a food stall. One wore a clunky but reinforced cuirass, too bulky. Another had Twi’lek-style duraplast plating, nothing that would fit. But the third…

She stopped walking. Her eyes narrowed.

The third was a Mandalorian.

Midnight blue beskar with red accents. Sleek. Scarred. Visor shaped like a frown. A stylized kyr’bes on one pauldron. Death Watch.

“That one,” Sha’rali said quietly.

The clone stopped beside her, tense. “He’s Death Watch. You know what they are.”

“Archaic terrorists playing Mandalorian dress-up,” she replied.

“They’re still dangerous. And they’ll know if we kill one of theirs.”

Sha’rali smirked. “Then we make sure no one knows it was us.”

He stepped in front of her, voice low and urgent. “This is different. You can’t just kill a Mando and take his armor like you’re picking out boots.”

She tilted her head. “Why not?”

“Because it means something. It’s not just plating—it’s their identity.”

“Right,” she said flatly. “And you’re a clone of a Mandalorian. So maybe you’re entitled to it.”

He went still.

Sha’rali didn’t wait for him to argue. She was already moving.

They waited until the Mandalorian separated from his group, ducking into a quieter side alley where local fences hawked off-brand spice and stolen kyber.

Sha’rali struck first.

A quick vibroblade slash to the leg, aimed to cripple. The Mando pivoted fast, parried with a gauntlet and drove his knee into her gut. Her armor absorbed most of it—but the man was fast, clearly trained. Death Watch didn’t promote dead weight.

The clone stood back, fists clenched, teeth gritted.

Sha’rali landed a few more hits, but the Mandalorian activated a jet burst from his vambrace, knocking her backward. She hit the durasteel wall hard, her twin blades skittering out of reach.

The Mando stalked toward her, blade in hand, helmet staring expressionless.

Then a blaster bolt caught him in the side of the knee.

He stumbled. Spun. The clone was already charging.

It was fast, brutal. The clone tackled him from behind, fists slamming into the helmet again and again until the beskar cracked at the seam. Then he wrenched the helmet off entirely and drove the butt of his rifle into the man’s skull.

The alley fell silent.

Sha’rali got to her feet slowly, holding her ribs. “You gonna scold me now?”

The clone didn’t answer. He stood over the body, breathing heavily.

“We strip the armor,” she said. “K4’ll scrub it clean, R9 will paint it. No one will know it was Death Watch.”

He didn’t move. “This is wrong.”

“You helped,” she reminded him. “That makes you complicit.”

He stared at her. “I helped because you were dying. That doesn’t mean I agree with you.”

“Not asking you to.”

Back at the ship, K4 took the pieces without question. R9 scanned for blood and grime. They worked in practiced silence while the clone sat by the viewport, holding the scorched helmet in his hands.

“I’m dishonoring their culture,” he muttered.

Sha’rali dropped into the seat beside him. “You’re a clone of a Mandalorian. That gives you as much right as any of them. Maybe more.”

He didn’t answer right away.

“You don’t owe the people who made you,” she said quietly. “You don’t owe the ones who left you behind, either. You get to choose who you are. And right now, you’re mine.”

He glanced at her. “That supposed to be comforting?”

Sha’rali smiled faintly. “I thought it sounded better than property.”

K4 approached, carrying the first repainted chest plate. Sleek black, silver accents, no insignia. Clean.

“No identity,” K4 said as he handed it over. “Just how you like it.”

⸻

The cargo bay was quiet, save for the occasional mechanical chirp from R9 and the click-click of K4’s tools being returned to their compartments. The Mandalorian armor had been fully stripped, sterilized, reconfigured, and freshly painted—black and silver with clean lines, devoid of crests or affiliation. A blank slate.

The clone stood in front of the armor set now, pieces laid out across the table like relics of a man who never existed.

Sha’rali lounged nearby, arms crossed, silently watching him.

“Well?” she said after a beat. “Put it on.”

He hesitated, jaw tightening, and then—without another word—began to strap the pieces onto his body.

Torso first. It felt heavier than it looked.

The shin guards were snug, but flexible. The vambraces clicked into place, perfectly aligned. The helmet—he saved for last.

He stared at it for a long time, then finally pulled it over his head. The hiss of the seal echoed in the cargo bay.

He turned toward Sha’rali, now fully armored.

“Well,” she said, walking a slow circle around him. “You wear it well.”

“I don’t feel like I do,” his voice echoed slightly through the modulator. “Feels like I stole someone else’s soul.”

“That’s because you did,” K4 said flatly, walking up with a tray and setting it aside. “And I just spent four hours repainting it, so kindly conduct yourself with a shred of respect.”

Sha’rali raised a brow. “K4, did you just scold him?”

“If you want an artist’s interpretation of his fragile rebirth, fine,” K4 said, gesturing at the armor. “But I’d prefer my work not be discarded just because the soldier has a sudden attack of conscience.”

The clone removed the helmet and looked at K4 with narrowed eyes. “I was considering repainting it.”

“To what? Blue? Red? Polka dots?” K4 clanked one metal hand on the chest plate. “This neutral palette hides identity. It protects you. It lets you vanish.”

“He’s right,” Sha’rali said. “This isn’t for show—it’s camouflage. You want color, buy a flag.”

The clone looked down at the armor again, flexing one gloved hand.

“It’s not about the paint,” he said quietly. “It’s about what it means. Every time I wore armor before, it was because someone told me to. Now I’m just deciding to… what, play dress-up as something I’m not?”

“No one’s telling you to be something you’re not,” Sha’rali said. “I’m saying you get to choose what you are. And right now, that armor doesn’t say clone. Doesn’t say Republic. Doesn’t even say Mando. It says ghost.”

He nodded slowly, still staring at the chest piece. “A ghost, huh.”

R9 gave a sarcastic warble from the corner. The clone looked up, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Even the droid thinks I’m dramatic.”

“He also thinks K4 should’ve painted flames on the side,” Sha’rali said.

R9 gave a smug beep.

K4 clicked his metal fingers together. “I will eject that astromech from the airlock.”

Sha’rali smiled faintly. “You ready to be someone?”

He thought about that for a long second.

Then he slipped the helmet back on.

“Let’s find out.”

⸻

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