Me: This Scene Is Stupid.

“Grumpy Hearts and Sunshine Shoulders”

Wrecker x Female Reader

⸻

The ocean was too blue. The sky was too clear. The people were too… happy.

It annoyed you.

Not because it was bad—it wasn’t. Pabu was a dream. A sanctuary. A rare piece of untouched paradise in a galaxy still licking its wounds. But after everything you’d seen, done, survived, the cheerfulness of it all hit you like sunburn on old scars.

So when Wrecker waved at you the first morning you arrived—big smile, bigger voice, bouncing down the stone steps like a gundark on caf—you nearly turned around and left.

But you didn’t.

You stayed. You unpacked. You avoided him for two days.

And then?

He showed up outside your door with a grin and a crate of fresh fruit.

“You need help settin’ up?” he asked, already peeking past your shoulder like he owned the place.

You crossed your arms. “You just looking for an excuse to snoop?”

Wrecker blinked, then grinned wider. “Only a little.”

You tried not to smile. You failed. He saw.

“You smiled! I saw it, so no denying it!” he said, delighted, as if he’d won a war.

“That wasn’t a smile. That was… mild amusement. Don’t get cocky.”

“Oh, your smile is so beautiful!” he declared, plopping the crate on your counter like he lived there. “I’d love to see it more often.”

You raised a brow. “Flattery? Really?”

“Not flattery,” he said, serious for a second. “Just the truth.”

And just like that, your walls cracked a little.

⸻

A week passed. Then two. You stopped flinching when he knocked. You started helping him haul supplies. You let him drag you into town gatherings, always with the same grin and the same cheer.

“You’re definitely the only person I would do this for,” you grumbled once, dragging your boots through the sand on the way to a lantern festival.

“I know!” Wrecker beamed, looping a thick arm around your shoulder. “I’m special.”

“You’re loud.”

“I’m charming.”

You snorted. “You’re ridiculous.”

“You smiled again.”

“Damn it.”

⸻

One night, you found yourself sitting beside him on the docks. The moon cast silver streaks across the water, and Wrecker was humming some out-of-tune melody you didn’t recognize.

“You ever stop being cheerful?” you asked quietly.

He shrugged. “Used to. After Crosshair left, and after Echo… yeah. I had some bad days. Real bad. But Omega helped. So did Pabu.”

You nodded slowly.

He looked at you, more thoughtful now. “You got bad days too, huh?”

You didn’t answer right away.

Then, quietly: “Sometimes it feels wrong to enjoy peace. Like I haven’t earned it.”

Wrecker shifted closer. His hand brushed yours, warm and solid. “You don’t gotta earn peace. You just gotta accept it.”

You looked at him, brow tight. “You make it sound easy.”

He grinned. “Nah. It ain’t. But I’m here. Omega’s here. You’re not alone.”

You swallowed the lump in your throat.

“I’ll do it,” you whispered after a long pause, “but only because you asked me to.”

“Do what?”

You finally leaned your head against his shoulder.

“Try. To enjoy it. This place. You.”

Wrecker’s face turned redder than a sunset. “Well, hey, no pressure, but—I really like it when you smile.”

You chuckled.

Then, finally—finally—you smiled again.

“Red Lines” pt.4

Ryio Chuchi x Commander Fox x Reader x Sergeant Hound

The doors hissed closed behind you, muting Coruscant’s constant thrum. Your heels clicked against the marble tiling—white-veined, blood-dark stone imported from home, etched with quiet pride.

The apartment was dim, tasteful, and cold—just the way you preferred it. You dropped your cloak onto the back of a chaise and walked straight for your desk.

The datapads were already stacked like bricks of guilt.

You sank into the high-backed chair, activated the holoscreen, and scrolled through messages from governors, planetary councils, and military liaisons. The usual blend of corruption, ego, and veiled threats disguised as diplomacy.

Too much to do. Never enough time.

“Perhaps you should consider a protocol droid,” murmured Maera, your senior handmaiden, gliding in with a cup of steaming blackleaf tea. “One of the newer models. They can help prioritize correspondence and handle… the more tedious tasks.”

You looked at her over the rim of your cup. “So you mean let a metal snitch sit in my office all day?”

“They’re quite helpful,” she said, folding her hands. “Especially with translations, cross-senate scheduling, cultural briefings—”

“I know what they do.”

Maera gave you a patient look—the kind she’d perfected over years of serving someone who never stopped. “You don’t have to do everything yourself.”

“Of course I do,” you said, already scanning through another briefing. “Because no one else does it right.”

The chime of your apartment door interrupted further commentary.

You didn’t look up. “Let them in.”

Maera bowed, then vanished toward the front foyer.

You heard the faint murmur of pleasantries, the soft wheeze of servos, and then—

“Oh, this place again,” came the indignant voice of a droid. “Why does it always smell faintly of molten durasteel and latent judgment?”

“C-3PO,” came Padmé’s warning voice, graceful and composed even when exasperated.

You turned slightly in your chair to face your guests. Senator Amidala, as ever, was luminous in Naboo silk, gold accents at her collar and sleeves. Anakin followed just behind her, less formal, hands in his belt, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else.

C-3PO trailed in with careful offense, wringing his hands as if expecting you to insult him on sight.

You stood slowly, arching a brow. “I’d say it’s a surprise, but I’ve been too tired to lie today.”

Padmé gave you a sharp smile—more real than most. “We came to discuss the fallout from the Senate hearing. Your… performance with Senator Kessen.”

Anakin was already smirking. “You mean the part where she lit his reputation on fire and danced in the ashes?”

“I didn’t dance,” you said mildly. “I just pointed out the arson had been self-inflicted.”

Padmé pressed her lips together. “It was a bold move. Some say reckless.”

“And others say effective.”

“Others,” Padmé said carefully, “are wondering if you’re trying to provoke more conflict than resolution.”

You rolled your eyes and gestured to the chair opposite your desk. “Sit down, Senator. You’ll get a cramp standing on that moral high ground all night.”

She exhaled, and—credit to her—actually sat.

You watched her for a moment, then lazily turned your gaze to C-3PO, who was busy inspecting a vase and making soft noises of horror at the lack of polish.

“So,” you said abruptly. “Do you enjoy having a protocol droid?”

Padmé blinked. “Pardon?”

You leaned forward, expression sly and disarming. “C-3PO. Is he worth the constant commentary and fragility? Or do you keep him around to make you feel more composed by comparison?”

C-3PO squawked. “I beg your pardon, Senator, I am an exceptionally rare and invaluable translation and etiquette droid—”

Padmé raised a hand, silencing him gently. “I find him useful. Occasionally irritating, but… helpful.”

“Hmm.” You leaned back. “I suppose it’s easier when you don’t mind being listened to.”

Anakin stifled a laugh. Padmé gave him a warning glance.

You shifted slightly in your chair, eyeing her again.

“You didn’t come here just for diplomacy. What’s the real reason?”

“I did want to talk about Kessen,” Padmé said evenly. “But… yes. There’s more. I’m concerned about the alliances you’re forming. With Skywalker. With… certain Guard officers.”

“Fox,” you supplied, smiling faintly.

Her expression flickered. “You’re not subtle.”

“I’ve never needed to be,” you said. “Subtlety is for people whose power isn’t visible.”

Padmé’s voice softened. “Be careful. People are watching you more closely than ever. You’ve made enemies, and you’re not on neutral ground anymore.”

You stood slowly, brushing nonexistent dust off your skirt. “I’ve never had neutral ground.”

Behind her, Anakin leaned on the back of the couch with a half-smirk. “Told you she’d say something like that.”

Padmé sighed.

The light in your home office softened as the sun began to vanish behind the metallic skyline. Coruscant’s artificial twilight crept in, and shadows elongated against the marble floor, the sharp silhouette of the Senate still looming in the distance through your tall windows.

Padmé stood now, hands folded neatly in front of her, expression calm, composed—but not cold.

“For what it’s worth,” she said quietly, “we’ve never seen eye-to-eye in the Senate. Our values differ, and our approaches even more so.”

You arched a brow. “A gracious understatement.”

She continued without rising to the bait. “But I still want you to be safe.”

That made you blink, just for a moment. A flicker of something softened your features, though it disappeared just as quickly.

Padmé took a breath, glancing sidelong at Anakin before she added, “And while I don’t agree with the friendship you and Skywalker seem to have built, I understand why you formed it.”

You tilted your head. “You disapprove?”

“I worry,” she corrected. “He has a habit of getting drawn into… chaos. You carry more of it than most.”

You gave a slow, dark smile. “I thought he liked that.”

“He does,” Anakin chimed in from the corner, hands clasped behind his back.

Padmé gave him a sharp glance. He shrugged like a delinquent Padawan.

“But regardless,” Padmé said firmly, refocusing on you, “he’ll protect you, if you need it. That’s what he does. Whether I agree or not.”

You regarded her in silence for a long moment. Then you said, with just enough edge to be honest but not cruel, “It’s strange, Amidala. I don’t think we’ve ever spoken this long without one of us trying to crush the other in a committee vote.”

Padmé gave a small, tired laugh. “Well. There’s a first time for everything.”

You nodded once. “Your concern is noted. And… accepted.”

Padmé inclined her head, graceful as ever. Then, with one final look, she turned and made for the door.

C-3PO clanked after her. “Oh thank the Maker. Honestly, Senator, I don’t think I was designed for this level of tension!”

Anakin lingered a little longer, offering a subtle grin as he passed you.

“Don’t do anything reckless while I’m gone.”

You smirked. “You make it sound like a challenge.”

The apartment fell into stillness once more, the doors hissing shut behind Senator Amidala and her entourage. Outside, Coruscant’s traffic lanes shimmered like veins of light against the dusk. Inside, you remained at your desk, arms crossed loosely, head tilted back to stare at the ceiling as the silence swelled around you.

Footsteps padded softly across the marble, and Maera re-entered the study. She moved with careful grace, but she was watching you closely—too closely for comfort.

“You held your temper,” she said mildly.

You smirked, eyes still on the ceiling. “I’m evolving.”

“I almost miss the yelling.”

You finally looked down. “Don’t get sentimental.”

Maera glanced at the datapads still stacked on the desk, then turned her attention back to you. “What’s on the agenda for tomorrow?”

You exhaled through your nose and stood, smoothing the front of your robes with a practiced flick of your fingers.

“We’re going shopping.”

Maera blinked. “Shopping?”

You gave her a devilish smile—cool, amused, but exhausted around the edges. “For a protocol droid.”

She blinked again, just once more slowly. “I thought you hated protocol droids.”

“I do,” you agreed. “But I hate having to draft a thousand reply letters to planetary governors even more.”

She blinked again. “Is this because Senator Amidala made hers look useful?”

“It’s because I’ve learned that war criminals don’t schedule their own executions and Kessen’s supporters won’t shut up in my inbox.” You paused, then added with a shrug, “And fine, maybe I’m tired of forgetting which language the Kray’tok trade delegation prefers.”

Maera offered a rare grin, genuine but subtle. “I’ll call the droid district and start vetting models.”

“Do that,” you said. “Make sure whatever we get can take sass, curse in Huttese, and redact documents on command.”

“And maybe something that doesn’t faint when you pull a blaster on someone mid-sentence?”

“Exactly.”

She left with a knowing nod, and you stood alone for a beat longer, your eyes drifting to the window, to the glowing silhouette of the Senate dome.

You murmured under your breath:

“Let’s see if protocol can keep up.”

⸻

Mid-morning sunlight filtered through the transparisteel roof of Coruscant’s droid district. Neon signs buzzed, offering quick repairs and overpriced firmware updates. The air stank of ionized metal and fast food.

You stood between two handmaidens: Maera, your ever-calm shadow, and young Ila, who looked like she’d been plucked from a finishing school and hadn’t yet realized she was in a war-torn galaxy. Ila was already staring wide-eyed at a droid with one arm replaced by a kitchen whisk.

“Are they all this… rusty?” she asked, wrinkling her nose.

“Only the cheap ones,” you replied dryly.

The first shop was a disappointment. The protocol droid bowed so low it knocked its head on the counter. The second tried to upsell you a ‘companion droid’ that made Ila blush violently. By the fourth shop, you were regretting everything.

“Maybe we just commission one from Kuat,” Maera muttered.

“Why? So it can bankrupt us while correcting my grammar?”

Then, in the fifth cramped storefront, you found it.

VX-7. The protocol droid stood motionless—sleek plating dulled by years, but optics sharp and intelligent. It didn’t grovel, didn’t babble. When you asked if it could handle over three dozen planetary dialects, it replied in all of them. When you asked if it could manage your schedule, redact sensitive communications, and tell a governor to kark off in six ways without causing a diplomatic incident, it smiled faintly and said:

“Of course, Senator. I specialize in tactfully worded hostility.”

You turned to Maera. “I’m keeping this one.”

Then something small rammed into your shin.

You looked down to see a battered astromech droid—paint chipped, dome scratched, one leg replaced with an old cargo hauler’s stabilizer. It beeped at you. Aggressively.

“What’s this?” you asked, raising a brow.

The shopkeeper looked apologetic. “R9-VD. Mean little bastard. Picks fights with power converters. Nearly blew a hole in my storage unit last week.”

Ila gasped. “Oh stars—he’s twitching!”

The droid growled.

You grinned. “I’ll take him.”

The shopkeeper blinked. “You will?”

“Buy one, bleed one free. Sounds like a bargain.”

“I was hoping you’d say that,” he muttered, already dragging the crate of restraining bolts out from behind the counter. “Take him before he sets fire to my register again.”

Maera stared at you. “You’re collecting feral droids now?”

“I collect useful things.”

You exited into the street, the new protocol droid gliding beside you, R9 clanking along behind like a stubby little demon. Ila was still muttering prayers under her breath. You were halfway through admiring your new acquisitions when a familiar bark echoed from across the thoroughfare.

“Senator!”

You turned to find Sergeant Hound, helmet off, walking toward you in full armor—Grizzer trotting loyally at his side.

“Well, well,” you said. “Look who I find when I’m burdened with two droids and a fainting noble.”

Hound laughed, scratching behind Grizzer’s ear. “Running errands?”

“Recruiting staff,” you said, nodding toward the droids. “The tall one speaks over a thousand languages. The short one hates everything.”

Grizzer growled affectionately at the astromech, who let out an aggressive beep in return.

“Careful,” Hound chuckled. “Grizzer likes him.”

You watched the way he stood—relaxed but alert, protective but never patronizing. When he met your eyes, there was no awkwardness, no nervous fumbling.

No obliviousness.

“Walking your route?” you asked.

“North patrol. You’re in my sector.”

“How fortunate for me,” you said, letting your tone shift slightly—warm, measured, curious. Not performative.

Just real.

Hound smiled, a little wider than usual. “Need an escort home again, Senator?”

“Only if Grizzer promises not to chew on R9’s restraining bolt.”

The droid made a noise like it was loading a weapon. Grizzer barked once, delighted.

Hound looked between you, the droids, your handmaidens—then back to you.

“I think I could be persuaded.”

You smiled. And for the first time in a while, it reached your eyes.

⸻

The doors to your apartment hissed open with a smooth sigh of hydraulics. The droids rolled and clicked in after you, their sensors flicking to scan the space—uninvited, instinctual, and irritating.

“Ila,” you called before your cloak hit the back of the nearest chair. “Make sure the astromech doesn’t electrocute anything.”

“Yes, Senator!” she said quickly, scrambling after the droid as it began sniffing around the comm terminal like it wanted to chew through the wires.

“Maera,” you continued, already tugging off your gloves. “I want them both repainted, polished, and calibrated by tomorrow morning.”

Maera raised a brow. “The astromech too?”

“I want it looking like it belongs to a senator, not some spice-smuggler from Nal Hutta.”

“The protocol droid seems compliant,” Maera said dryly. “The other one just tried to bite the upholstery.”

You turned and narrowed your eyes at R9-VD, who stared back—optics glowing, dome twitching.

“I don’t care if it wants to die in rusted anonymity. It’s going to shine. And we’ll scrub the attitude off if we have to sandblast it.”

Maera only nodded, too used to this by now. She snapped her fingers toward the cleaning droids and pulled out a datapad to begin scheduling repairs and a polish crew.

You poured yourself a glass of something dark and expensive and leaned against the balcony frame. The city buzzed beyond the transparisteel, a sleepless, greedy animal that had become your second home.

The protocol droid finally stepped forward, voice even.

“Shall I begin familiarizing myself with your schedule, Senator?”

“Start with everything I’ve put off since the Kessen disaster.”

“That could take a while.”

“Good,” you said with a small smile. “That means I’ll finally be caught up.”

As the droids were ushered away for cleaning, you took a sip of your drink, eyes never leaving the skyline.

Everything was sharpening.

Even your toys.

⸻

Coruscant’s dusk cast long shadows over the Guard barracks. Inside the command room, Fox stood over a data console, reviewing the latest internal report—a thinly veiled attempt to stay busy, to stay removed. The hum of troop activity outside was constant, comforting. Controlled.

Hound leaned against the far wall, arms folded, helmet clipped to his belt. He’d been unusually quiet on patrol. Fox noticed.

“You’ve been around the senator a lot lately,” Fox said, voice neutral, still scanning the holoscreen. “She using you for access?”

Hound’s brow ticked upward, slow and unimpressed. “That a serious question?”

Fox finally looked up. “She doesn’t keep people close unless she can gain from it.”

“She doesn’t exactly keep you far.”

That made Fox pause.

Hound pushed off the wall and stepped forward, tone low. “You ever think she’s not using either of us?”

“She’s a politician,” Fox said bluntly. “That’s what they do.”

“And you’re a commander,” Hound shot back. “You’re supposed to see the battlefield. But somehow you can’t see that both those senators—Chuchi and her—don’t just want your vote in a hearing. They want you. And you—kriffing hell, Fox—you’re so deep in denial, it’s tragic.”

Fox opened his mouth, but nothing came. His jaw tensed. His fingers curled tighter over the edge of the console.

Before the tension could crack the air entirely—

“Commander Fox.”

The voice was delicate, practiced, kind. Senator Chuchi stepped into the command room, her pale blue presence a breath of cold air between the two men.

Hound stepped aside, silent.

Chuchi held out a small datapad. “These are the updated refugee settlement numbers. I thought it best to deliver them personally.”

Fox took it, fingers brushing hers for half a second too long. “Appreciated, Senator.”

Chuchi’s eyes lingered on him, soft but calculating. “I also hoped to ask you about additional patrol rotations near the lower levels. I’ve had…concerns.”

Her tone was careful, concern genuine—but her glance toward Hound didn’t go unnoticed.

Hound met it with polite detachment, but behind his eyes, something shifted. He excused himself quietly and stepped past them, boots heavy on the stone floor. Neither of them saw the way his jaw clenched or the storm in his expression as he exited.

Fox stood frozen a moment longer, datapad in hand, Chuchi watching him.

Something had changed.

The lines were no longer clean.

He used to know what battlefield he stood on.

Now… he wasn’t so sure.

⸻

It wasn’t like you were following Fox.

You just happened to be heading toward the main Guard corridor with a report in hand. The protocol droid clanked behind you, reciting lines of political updates from other mid-rim systems while your new astromech—newly repainted in deep senate gold and high-gloss black—scuttled along beside it, muttering occasional threats at passing security cameras.

Pure coincidence, really.

You slowed when you rounded the corner near the war room. There they were—Fox and Chuchi.

She stood closer than usual. Too close.

Her hand brushed his vambrace as she handed him something. Fox didn’t pull away. He didn’t lean in either. Just… stood there. Controlled. Focused. But not untouched.

You paused. Watched. Tilted your head.

For a second, you hated her grace. Her softness. The way she made proximity seem natural instead of tactical. And how Fox didn’t seem to flinch from it.

A glimmer of something crawled up your spine—irritation? Jealousy? No. You didn’t have the luxury of that.

Before you could form a thought sharp enough to fling like a dagger—

CLANK—whiiiiiiiiirRRRRRZK—BEEP BEEP BEEP.

R9-VD rounded the corner like a demon loosed from hell’s server room, chased by your newly programmed protocol droid, whose polished plating gleamed like a diplomatic dagger.

“Senator!” the protocol droid trilled. “Your schedule is running precisely six minutes behind! Shall we move?”

Fox turned instantly at the racket, his expression shifting from unreadable to just vaguely resigned.

Chuchi stepped back from him with that serene smile she always wore in public, just a whisper too composed.

“Ah,” you said smoothly as you strode into view, “Don’t let me interrupt.”

“Senator,” Fox greeted you, stiff but polite. Chuchi nodded.

You let your gaze flick between them, slowly. One brow raised, mouth curved like you already knew the answer to a question no one asked. “Looks like everyone’s getting awfully familiar lately.”

“Professional coordination,” Chuchi replied, not missing a beat.

“Mm,” you hummed, eyes on Fox. “Is that what they’re calling it now?”

Fox’s brow twitched. Chuchi’s smile remained.

You snapped your fingers, and both droids froze. “Let’s go. We’ve got senators to ignore and corruption to thin out.”

As you swept past, you didn’t miss the way Fox glanced at you—just for a heartbeat.

Not enough.

Never enough.

But still… something.

⸻

The rotunda thundered with voices—some raised in passion, others carefully modulated with practiced deceit. The topic today was dangerous, volatile: the proposal for the accelerated production of a new wave of clone battalions.

You stood with one arm draped lazily along the back of your bench, expression unreadable but gaze sharp as vibroglass. Across the chamber, Chuchi had just taken the floor.

“I speak not against the clones themselves,” Chuchi said clearly, firmly. “But against the idea that we can continue this endless production without consequence. We are bankrupting our future.”

Your fingers tapped against the railing, the only sign of interest until you leaned forward to activate your mic.

“For once,” you said, voice cutting smoothly through the chamber, “I find myself in agreement with my esteemed colleague from Pantora.”

A ripple of surprise swept through the seats like a silent explosion. A rare alliance—unthinkable.

You continued. “We’re manufacturing soldiers like credits grow on trees. They don’t. The Banking Clan is already circling like carrion. Every new battalion is another rope around the Republic’s neck.”

That set the chamber ablaze.

Senator Ask Aak from Malastare sputtered his disagreement. “Our survival depends on maintaining numerical superiority!”

“And what happens when we can’t feed those numbers, Senator?” you snapped. “Do we sell your planet’s moons next?”

As chaos unfolded, the usual suspects fell into line—corrupt senators offering their support for more clone production, their pockets no doubt already lined with promises from arms manufacturers and banking lobbyists.

After the session ended, you stood shoulder to shoulder with Chuchi outside the rotunda. She looked exhausted but satisfied.

“Strange day,” she said quietly. “Stranger allies.”

You sipped from a flask you definitely weren’t supposed to have in the Senate building. “Don’t get used to it.”

But before she could respond—

“Senators,” came the purring, bloated voice of Orn Free Taa, waddling over with the smugness of someone who believed he owned the floor he walked on. “Your sudden alliance is… fascinating. One might wonder what prompted it. A common bedfellow, perhaps?”

You opened your mouth—but your protocol droid stepped forward first, blocking your path like a prim, glossy wall.

“Senator Taa,” the droid began in clipped, neutral tones. “While my mistress would be more than happy to humor your curious obsession with projecting your insecurities onto others, she is currently preoccupied with not strangling you with her own Senate robes.”

Taa blinked, thrown off by the droid’s tone. “Excuse me?”

The protocol unit didn’t miss a beat. “Forgive me, Senator. That was the polite version. I am still calibrating my diplomatic protocols, but I’ve been programmed specifically to identify corruption, incompetence, and conversational redundancy. You seem to be triggering all three.”

A sharp wheeze escaped Taa’s throat. “Why, I never—!”

“I suspect you have,” the droid interjected coolly, “and quite often.”

You didn’t even try to hide your smirk. “Don’t worry, Senator. He’s new. Still ironing out his filters. But I must say—he has excellent instincts.”

Chuchi choked on a laugh she tried very hard to disguise as a cough. Taa huffed and stormed off in an indignant swirl of silks and jowls.

Your droid turned to you. “Mistress, was I too subtle?”

“Perfect,” you said, patting its durasteel head. “I’ll make sure you get an oil bath laced with Corellian spice.”

Beside you, Chuchi finally let her laugh out. “I never thought I’d say this, but I may actually like your droid.”

“High praise coming from you.”

You both stood there for a quiet moment, mutual respect buried beneath mutual exhaustion.

“Today was strange,” she murmured again. “But… maybe not entirely bad.”

You tilted your head. “Don’t tell me you’re warming up to me, Chuchi.”

She gave you a look—wry, but not cold. “I’m starting to wonder if the galaxy would survive it if I did.”

Before you could respond, your astromech barreled out of the shadows, shrieking some new string of mechanical curses at a cleaning droid it had apparently declared war against.

You sighed. “And there goes diplomacy.”

Chuchi smiled. “Maybe the Senate could use more of that.”

Maybe.

⸻

The Grand Atrium of the Senate tower glittered with chandeliers imported from Alderaan, light dancing off glass and gold like it had something to celebrate. The banquet was a delicate affair—sponsored by the Supreme Chancellor himself, under the guise of “Republic Unity” and “Cross-Branch Collaboration.”

You could smell the tension in the air the moment you stepped in.

Long tables overflowed with artful dishes and finer wines. Senators mingled with Jedi, Guard officers, and military brass. Laughter drifted across the space, hollow and too loud. You walked in dressed to kill, as always—not in literal armor, but close enough. Your eyes swept the crowd. Scanned. Not for enemies. Just… two men.

You found them both within seconds.

Fox stood near the far arch, stoic in formal Guard reds, talking with Mace Windu and Master Yoda. Chuchi was at his side, hands clasped politely, expression open, deferential. Her eyes weren’t on Windu.

They were on Fox.

Across the room, Hound leaned against a support pillar near the musicians, his posture deceptively casual. Grizzer lay at his feet like a shadow. Hound’s eyes found yours immediately. He didn’t look away.

For a few beats, neither did you.

“You’re staring again,” your handmaiden whispered as she passed, wine in one hand.

“I’m assessing military distribution,” you replied flatly, plucking the glass.

“Liar.”

You smiled over the rim.

The Jedi presence tonight was thick. Kenobi, cloaked in his usual piety. Skywalker, prowling the crowd like he’d rather be anywhere else. Even Plo Koon and Shaak Ti made appearances, the Council exuding quiet power.

You didn’t care about them. Not really.

You moved.

Chuchi’s voice reached your ears as you approached the table where she and Fox stood. “I just think the Guard needs greater Senate oversight—not control, but transparency. For their safety.”

Fox nodded. “A fair point, Senator.”

“I’m shocked,” you drawled, appearing at his other side. “You usually flinch when people imply oversight.”

Chuchi’s smile cooled half a degree. “Some of us don’t believe in oversight being synonymous with domination.”

You sipped your wine. “I don’t dominate anyone who doesn’t want to be.”

Fox choked on his drink. Windu raised a brow and promptly walked away.

Chuchi’s stare could have frosted glass. “You’re impossible.”

“Debatable,” you replied. Then, sweetly, “Careful, Senator. You’re starting to sound jealous.”

Before Fox could open his mouth—likely to misinterpret all of this—Hound appeared beside you.

“Senator,” he said, his voice a little low, a little warm. “I didn’t know you’d be here.”

You tilted toward him just slightly. “Trying to avoid me?”

“Not a chance.”

Fox’s eyes flicked toward you both. Sharp. Confused.

Chuchi noticed. Her gaze narrowed.

The conversation fractured as other senators arrived—Mon Mothma offered a cool nod, Padmé a quiet, guarded greeting. Bail approached with that politician’s smile and a quick, dry joke about the wine being better than the Senate votes.

But your attention split.

Fox’s shoulders were tense. He wasn’t making eye contact. Not with Chuchi. Not with you.

You leaned closer to Hound instead. “Tell me, Sergeant. Ever get tired of playing guard dog?”

“Not if the person I’m guarding’s worth the chase.”

That pulled a quiet snort from you. Fox heard it.

Chuchi, lips pressed in a fine line, excused herself and stepped aside—clearly trying to regain the upper hand.

The music swelled. Jedi floated between circles of influence. No one else seemed to notice that the air had gone charged, electric. A love square strung tight.

You stood between them, half a heartbeat from chaos.

And somewhere deep down, you enjoyed it.

The lights in the atrium dimmed just slightly as a new musical ensemble began to play—string instruments from Naboo, delicate and formal. On the surface, everything was polished elegance. Beneath, cracks were spreading.

Chuchi had excused herself from your circle not out of disinterest, but strategy. She’d caught sight of your handmaidens lingering near a refreshments table, their gowns modest and their eyes sweeping the room with practiced subtlety.

“Excuse me,” she said with a gentle smile as she approached. “You’re the senator’s attendants, yes?”

Your senior handmaiden, Maera offered only a nod. Ila, eager to please and twice as naive, curtsied.

“She’s fortunate to have you,” Chuchi continued, a kindness in her voice. “It can’t be easy, assisting someone so… involved in such controversial matters.”

“It isn’t,” said the younger girl quickly. “But she’s not what people say. She just—”

“She just doesn’t care who she angers, as long as it moves the line,” the elder interrupted. “It’s her strength. And her flaw.”

Chuchi tilted her head. “You’re fiercely loyal.”

“We don’t have the luxury of softness where we’re from, Senator Chuchi,” the elder said simply. “Not all planets grow up in peace.”

Before Chuchi could respond, a sudden flare of static caught attention nearby.

Your protocol droid—newly repainted and proud in fresh navy and chrome—was engaged in a verbal deathmatch with none other than C-3PO.

“I assure you,” Threepio huffed, “I have been fluent in over six million forms of communication since before you were assembled, and—”

“Perhaps,” your droid cut in smoothly, “but proficiency does not equal relevance. One might be fluent in six million forms of conversation and still be incapable of saying anything useful.”

“Well, I never—!”

“Correct. And that, sir, is the problem.”

Nearby Jedi Council members were visibly trying not to react, though Plo Koon’s mask did a poor job of hiding the amused twitch at the edge of his mouth.

Amid the chaos, you had drifted from the center. Politics buzzed behind you. You found yourself near the balcony edge—narrow, cordoned off, affording a view of Coruscant’s skyline.

Fox found you there.

You knew it was him before he spoke—he moved like precision, shadow and control in equal measure.

“Senator.”

You didn’t turn, not right away. “Commander.”

He stepped beside you, stiff in his formal armor, helmet clipped to his belt.

“I noticed your… astromech’s absence tonight.”

You smirked faintly. “Yes, well. I’d like to avoid sparking an incident with the Jedi Council over a ‘misunderstanding.’ He has a habit of setting things on fire and claiming self-defense.”

Fox made a sound—something between a huff and a grunt. Amused. Maybe.

You turned your head slightly, catching his expression. “Disappointed? I thought you didn’t approve of my companions.”

“I don’t,” he admitted. “But I’m…used to them.”

That was, for Fox, practically a declaration of fondness.

“I’d say the same about you,” you said, voice quieter now. “I don’t approve of you either. But I’ve gotten used to you.”

His jaw flexed. He didn’t answer. Not directly. But his eyes lingered longer than they should have.

Then—

“Senator,” Chuchi’s voice cut across the air like a scalpel.

You turned to find her approaching, poised and polished. Behind her, your protocol droid and C-3PO were still trading passive-aggressive historical references. Hound watched the balcony from a distance, arms crossed, unreadable.

Fox straightened the moment Chuchi arrived. You stepped back just a little.

And the triangle turned into a square again.

Tight.

Tense.

And ready to collapse.

⸻

Beyond the golden arches of the Senate Hall, music swelled and faded like waves. Goblets clinked. Laughter rolled off the lips of polished politicians and robed generals. But not everyone was celebrating.

Behind an alcove veiled by rich burgundy drapes, four Jedi stood in quiet counsel.

Mace Windu, ever the sentinel of Order, stood at the head of the half-circle, his gaze fixed beyond the banquet like he could see the fractures forming beneath the marble.

“His behavior has changed,” Windu said. “Subtly. But not insignificantly.”

“He still reports for duty,” Plo Koon offered, voice gravel-smooth but thoughtful. “Still acts with discipline.”

“And yet,” Shaak Ti murmured, “I have observed Commander Fox linger longer than usual at Senate functions. His patrol patterns shift more often when certain senators are present. And he has taken… liberties with Senator Ryio’s assignments.”

“Nothing has breached protocol,” Anakin interjected. “Fox is loyal. He’s the best the Guard has.”

Shaak Ti gave him a long look. “And yet, there is more than one clone whose loyalty might now be divided.”

Anakin’s jaw twitched.

“This isn’t Kamino,” Windu said coolly. “We cannot afford emotional compromise in the Guard—not now, not when tensions are already splintering the Senate. These clones were not bred for palace intrigue.”

Plo Koon folded his arms. “And yet we bring them into the heart of it.”

“We trained them to follow orders,” Shaak Ti added gently. “Not hearts.”

Anakin looked between them, the shadows of his past bleeding into the tension. He didn’t need to ask who else they were talking about. It wasn’t just Fox. Hound had been seen near Senator [Y/N]’s apartment. Thorn, too, had lingered far longer than necessary when she’d been attacked.

“She’s dangerous,” Mace continued, tone edged in steel. “Not reckless—but calculating. Clever. Her alliances shift like smoke, and I do not trust her attention toward Fox or the others.”

“She’s done nothing wrong,” Anakin said.

“Yet,” Windu countered. “Keep watch, Skywalker. If she’s tangled them in personal threads, it must be cut. Quickly.”

⸻

You sipped from your glass of deep red wine, half-listening to a cluster of outer rim delegates arguing over fleet taxation. But your eyes wandered, again, to the crimson armor across the room.

Fox.

He was speaking with Mon Mothma and Bail Organa. Calm. Professional. Controlled, as always.

But his gaze flickered toward you now and then—unreadable, unreadably Fox. And just behind him, your polished protocol droid hovered patiently, Maera and Ila whispering about a dessert tray.

The Council was watching. You could feel it.

⸻

The air inside the Jedi Councilchamber was tense, still, and too quiet. Four members of the Coruscant Guard stood before the Jedi Council’s senior representatives: Fox, Thorn, Stone, and Hound, all sharp in posture, their expressions unreadable behind the stoic training of a million battlefield hours.

Opposite them, stood Masters Mace Windu, Shaak Ti, Plo Koon, and a late-arriving Anakin Skywalker, who kept to the shadows of the room.

“This is not an accusation,” Master Windu began, tone steely. “But a reminder. You are peacekeepers. Defenders of the Republic. Not participants in the political games of its Senate.”

Shaak Ti added gently, “We’ve noted a… shift. Certain guards developing close ties to senators. Attachments. Loyalties. Intimacies. We remind you that such relationships blur lines—lines that should never have been crossed.”

Plo Koon looked to them with quiet concern. “It is not about love, nor about loyalty. It is about danger. Risk. The Republic cannot afford to have its protectors compromised by personal bonds.”

Hound flinched. Barely. Fox didn’t move, but Thorn cast him a pointed glance.

“We won’t name names,” Windu said, “but this is your only warning. Choose duty.”

Dismissed, the clones saluted and filed out, silent as ghosts—yet burdened more heavily than ever.

⸻

It was nearly midnight when the knock came. You weren’t expecting anyone—Maera had already sent off the last reports, and Ila was curled up with a datapad on the couch.

Maera opened the door, only to blink as Anakin Skywalker strolled in, cloak trailing and R2-D2 chirping along behind him.

“Don’t tell me the Jedi are doing door-to-door interrogations now,” you said, not bothering to stand from your desk.

“Just figured you should hear it from someone who doesn’t speak in riddles and judgment,” Anakin replied. “They warned the Guard today.”

You looked up slowly.

“About me?”

“About all of it. You. Chuchi. Hound. Fox.”

You leaned back in your chair, lacing your fingers together. “So the Council knows?”

“They suspect,” he clarified. “But they’ve already made up their minds. No direct interference. But they’ll start pulling strings. Reassignments. Surveillance. Sudden policy shifts.”

You exhaled slowly. “Let me guess. The clones are the ones punished.”

Anakin’s jaw tightened. “Always.”

He came closer, leaning against the wall by your window. “Whatever this is, [Y/N], if you want to protect them—you keep it behind closed doors. Don’t give the Council an excuse.”

Your eyes narrowed, flicking up to him. “And what would you know about secret relationships with forbidden attachments?”

Anakin looked out over the Coruscant skyline. “More than you think.”

R2-D2 gave a sympathetic beep. At his side, your own droid—R9—rolled out from the side hall, curious as ever. Shockingly, the grumpy little astromech gave R2 a pleased warble. The two machines chirped at each other in low binary, exchanging stories, gossip, perhaps a murder plot. You couldn’t tell.

“Great,” you muttered. “My homicidal trash can made a friend.”

VX-7 entered as well, standing sentinel near the door and giving R2 a quick scan before offering a polite, professional greeting. “Designation confirmed. Diplomatic assistant, Anakin Skywalker. Cleared for temporary access.”

“You really upgraded them,” Anakin noted.

“They’re smarter than most senators,” you said with a dry smirk. “And less dangerous.”

He moved to leave, but hesitated. “Just… be careful. I know you think you don’t owe anyone anything—but Hound’s already in too deep. And Fox? He’s starting to crack.”

“Fox doesn’t even know he’s in love,” you said coolly.

“Exactly,” Anakin said. “That makes him more dangerous than the rest of us.”

You gave him a look. “Including you?”

Anakin’s lips quirked. “Especially me.”

Then he and R2 were gone, and the apartment fell quiet again—except for the low, strangely comforting chatter of astromechs speaking in beeps and secrets.

⸻

Previous Part | Next Part

My darling I've said this before but you deserve so many more likes, every time i read one of your fics im genuinely expecting it to have thousands of likes on it and it usually has like 20? If i could like every single one of your works 100 times i would :)

Okay but imagine Rex's reactions to the reader wearing his helmet. Like, he walks in and the readers like 🧍‍♀️ and he's like 🧍‍♀️. And then everyone around them is confused bc why is this even happening in the first place (maybe its a prank? Idk 👉👈)

Also i know i said Rex but if you want to include any others please do lol i would love to see your interpretation of this with others

<3

Ahhh you’re the absolute sweetest—thank you so much for the kind words, seriously!! I couldn’t resist this prompt , so I went ahead and did the whole command batch’s reactions too.

⸻

CAPTAIN REX

He’d just finished a debrief. He was tired, armor scuffed, and brain fogged from a long string of missions. All he wanted was to collect his helmet and find a quiet place to decompress.

Instead, he opened the door to the barracks and found you standing in the middle of the room.

Wearing his helmet.

You weren’t doing anything. Just standing there, arms at your sides, posture too stiff, visor pointed directly at the door like you’d been caught red-handed.

Rex froze mid-step. His eyes flicked to your body, then to the helmet, then back again. The room was dead silent.

You didn’t speak. Neither did he.

It felt like some kind of unspoken standoff.

When he finally found his voice, it came out neutral but clipped. “Is there a reason you’re wearing my helmet?”

You reached up and lifted it just slightly off your head, enough to reveal your eyes. “I was trying to understand what it’s like… carrying all this responsibility. All the weight. I figured the helmet was part of it.”

Rex blinked.

He should have been annoyed. His helmet was an extension of his identity, not something he usually let anyone touch, let alone wear. But something in your voice—sincere, tinged with dry humor—softened the moment.

He exhaled through his nose. “It’s heavier than it looks.”

You slid the helmet off entirely and held it to your chest. “Yeah. I didn’t expect that.”

Rex crossed the room and took it from your hands, eyes lingering on your face a moment longer than necessary. “You can ask next time. I might still say no, but… you can ask.”

You gave him a faint smile. “Noted, Captain.”

Later, Rex would sit on the edge of his bunk, polishing the helmet with extra care, thinking about the way you’d stood there. How serious you’d looked. And how much more complicated everything felt now.

⸻

COMMANDER CODY

Cody wasn’t used to surprises. He didn’t like them.

So when he walked into the clone officer quarters and found you perched on his bunk—wearing his helmet and staring at the floor like some kind of haunted statue—his brain stalled for a moment.

You didn’t look up.

You didn’t say a word.

Cody stood in the doorway, arms folded, expression unreadable. It was impossible to tell what he was thinking—likely the same thing you were: how did this situation even come to exist?

Eventually, he cleared his throat. “Am I interrupting something?”

You slowly lifted your head. “No. I just… wanted to know what it was like. To be you.”

He arched an eyebrow. “By wearing my helmet?”

You lifted it off, your hair a little mussed from the fit. “It felt… commanding. Intimidating. Also slightly claustrophobic.”

Cody crossed the room, took the helmet from your hands, and inspected it like you might’ve done something to compromise its integrity. “That’s about accurate.”

You stood. “Did I at least look cool?”

Cody gave a short, quiet laugh, the kind that rarely made it past his lips. “You looked like you were trying very hard to be me. But points for effort.”

He turned to go, helmet under one arm. As he walked out, he muttered, “Don’t tell Kenobi.”

You smirked. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

⸻

COMMANDER FOX

Fox was already in a foul mood. The Senate hearings had run late. A group of Senators had argued about appropriations for nearly three hours. The bureaucrats hadn’t approved the funding he needed, and to make things worse, someone had tried to hand him a fruit basket on the way out.

He just wanted to grab his datapad and leave.

Instead, he stepped into his office and stopped cold.

You were behind his desk, arms folded. His helmet was on your head, slightly crooked from the weight.

Fox did not say anything.

You didn’t, either.

You watched each other like two predators in a silent, high-stakes standoff.

Finally, he broke the silence. “Is this a joke?”

“No.”

He narrowed his eyes. “Then explain.”

You pulled the helmet off and set it gently on the desk. “I wanted to see if it felt as heavy as it looks. Thought maybe I’d understand what it’s like… to be you.”

Fox blinked. His voice dropped lower. “That helmet’s been in more battles than most Senators have meetings.”

You met his gaze, dead serious. “Exactly. That’s why I put it on.”

He walked over and took the helmet in both hands. For a moment, he didn’t speak. Just stood there, the edge of the desk between you, his gloved fingers tracing a scratch across the paint.

“You look good in red,” he said at last, so quietly you barely caught it.

Then he was gone.

You stood alone, trying not to think too hard about the heat blooming in your chest.

⸻

COMMANDER WOLFFE

You’d made the mistake of trying it out in the open—when Wolffe was still around.

You thought he was in a meeting. He wasn’t.

The moment he stepped into the hallway and saw you marching in a slow circle, wearing his helmet and muttering, “I don’t trust anyone. Not even my own shadow. Jedi are the worst,” it was already too late to escape.

You froze mid-step when you noticed him watching you.

Wolffe didn’t say a word.

You pivoted awkwardly. “I was… doing a character study.”

“You were mocking me.”

“Not entirely.”

He crossed his arms, expression hard, but his voice was lighter than you expected. “You’re lucky I like you.”

You pulled the helmet off. “It’s a compliment. You’ve got presence.”

Wolffe walked forward, took the helmet, and gave you a look somewhere between amused and exasperated. “You forgot the part where I sigh and glare at everything in sight.”

You nodded, solemn. “Next time, I’ll prepare better.”

He rolled his eyes, turned to leave, and muttered over his shoulder, “Next time, do it where I can’t see you.”

But he was smiling.

⸻

COMMANDER BLY

You were crouched on the floor of the gunship hangar when Bly found you.

You hadn’t meant for him to catch you. It was supposed to be a private moment—a little playful impersonation you were going to spring on him later.

But there you were, wearing his helmet, whispering dramatically into the echoing space of the hangar, “General Secura, I would die for you. I would let the whole world burn if you asked.”

You turned and saw him standing behind you.

There was no saving this.

“Hi,” you said, voice muffled behind the helmet.

Bly stared. “What… exactly are you doing?”

You straightened, taking off the helmet. “I was… immersing myself in your worldview. For empathy purposes.”

He squinted. “You were crawling around whispering to yourself in my voice.”

You nodded. “It’s called method acting.”

Bly took the helmet from you like it was fragile. “Next time, try asking.”

“Would you have let me?”

He paused. “…Probably not.”

“Then I regret nothing.”

Bly looked at the helmet, then at you. His expression was unreadable—but his voice was warmer when he said, “Try not to let General Secura catch you doing that. Or she will ask questions.”

⸻

COMMANDER THORN

You were caught mid-spin, dramatically turning to aim Thorn’s DC-17 blaster at an imaginary threat.

His helmet covered your face, tilted slightly sideways from the weight. You didn’t realize he’d walked into the room until you heard the low, unimpressed voice behind you.

“Unless you’re planning to fight off an uprising by yourself, I’d recommend not touching my gear.”

You froze.

Lowered the blaster.

Removed the helmet slowly.

“…Hi.”

Thorn’s arms were crossed, and though his tone was flat, his eyes glittered with amusement. “You could’ve just asked.”

“I figured you’d say no.”

“I would’ve. But at least I wouldn’t have walked in on… whatever that was.”

You held up the helmet like an offering. “Do I at least get points for form?”

Thorn stepped forward, plucked the helmet from your hands, and gave you a once-over that lingered slightly too long. “You’re lucky I like chaos.”

And then he walked off, still shaking his head, muttering, “Force help me, they’re getting bolder.”

⸻

COMMANDER NEYO

You weren’t even doing anything dramatic this time. Just sitting on a crate in the hangar bay, wearing Commander Neyo’s helmet with a calmness that probably made it weirder.

He entered mid-conversation with a deck officer and paused mid-sentence when he saw you.

Neyo’s reputation was infamous—no-nonsense, silent, rarely seen without his helmet. So when you tried it on just to see what the fuss was about, you didn’t expect him to walk in.

Now he was staring at you.

Expressionless.

Silent.

Unmoving.

You slowly lifted the helmet off. “Commander.”

“Where did you find it?”

“…In your locker.”

He blinked once. “You broke into my locker?”

“…Hypothetically.”

The deck officer excused himself quickly.

Neyo walked over, took the helmet without saying a word, and stared down at you for a long moment. Then, just as you were starting to sweat—

“I hope you didn’t try the voice modulator. It’s calibrated to my pitch.”

You blinked. “…So you’re not mad?”

“I didn’t say that.”

Then he walked away.

You didn’t know if you were about to get reported or flirted with. And somehow, that was very Neyo.

⸻

COMMANDER GREE

You’d barely slipped the helmet on when Gree stepped into the staging area, datapad in hand, ready to give a mission briefing.

He stopped. His gaze snapped up.

You, standing in the center of the room in his jungle-green helmet, stared back at him like a guilty cadet.

There was a long pause.

“Is that… my helmet?” he asked, like he needed verbal confirmation of what his eyes were clearly seeing.

You nodded slowly. “It’s surprisingly comfortable.”

He tilted his head. “You know it’s loaded with recon tech calibrated to my ocular patterns?”

“…No.”

“Technically, that means it could backfire and scramble your brain if you activated it.”

“…I didn’t touch any buttons.”

Gree blinked, then grinned. “Good. I’d hate to scrape you off the floor. Again.”

You took the helmet off and passed it back. “That’s… oddly sweet.”

Gree shrugged. “Only because it’s you.”

The next day, he left a field helmet—not his own—on your bunk with a sticky note: “Test this one. Lower risk of neural frying.”

⸻

COMMANDER BACARA

You’d always known Bacara was a little intense.

So maybe wearing his helmet was a bad idea.

You didn’t expect him to walk into the armory while you were trying it on. You especially didn’t expect him to freeze mid-stride and go completely still—like a wolf spotting prey.

“Take it off,” he said, voice sharp.

You complied immediately.

“I wasn’t trying to be disrespectful,” you added quickly, holding it out with both hands. “Just curious.”

He took it from you in silence. His expression didn’t change. But his hands moved carefully, almost reverently.

“That helmet’s been through Geonosis,” he said quietly. “Through mud and fire. My brothers died wearing helmets just like it.”

You swallowed. “I’m sorry.”

He looked up. “I know. Just… don’t try it again. Not without asking.”

You gave a small nod. “I won’t.”

As he turned to leave, he paused. “You did look decent in it, though.”

He left before you could respond.

⸻

COMMANDER DOOM

You’d slipped Doom’s helmet on while helping reorganize the command tent. He wasn’t around—or so you thought.

You were mid-sentence in a very bad impression of his voice when you heard someone behind you.

“Is that how I sound to you?”

You turned, startled, and found Doom leaning against the tent flap with one brow raised.

You straightened awkwardly. “I was, uh, trying to get into your mindset.”

He snorted. “My mindset?”

“You know. Calm. Steady. Smiling in the face of doom—ironically.”

He walked over, arms folded, and tilted his head as you pulled the helmet off. “Did it work?”

“I think I’ve achieved inner peace.”

He chuckled. “Keep the helmet. It suits you.”

You stared.

“I’m joking,” he added, already walking away.

You weren’t so sure.

⸻

Foxy again 😀 Click for higher quality >.> I'm unsure why it looks blurry on my tablet..

I had a crazy thought today: What if Echo wasn't the only part of the Algorithm? What if the Techno Union had another person (Reader) hooked up at a separate location? They would have both Echo and Reader work together to solve complex strategic problems. What kind of relationship would form between the two, and what would happen after Echo was rescued?

“A Ghost in the Circuit”

Echo x Reader

The first time you heard his voice, it was distorted—filtered through wires, machinery, and pain.

“Who are you?”

You blinked through the sluggish haze of chemical sedation. The light above you flickered, casting your enclosure in sickly green. For a moment, you thought it was another hallucination. The Techno Union’s experimental sedatives had a way of blending reality with memory.

But the voice came again, clearer this time.

“You’re… not one of them.”

“No,” you rasped, throat raw. “And you?”

He paused. Then, quietly, like a truth long buried:

“CT-1409. Echo.”

That name—Echo—stirred something in the recesses of your mind. A ghost of a clone you’d heard rumored to be dead. Lost on the Citadel. But if he was here… then you weren’t alone in this twisted hell.

They Called It the Algorithm.

The Techno Union had no use for your body—just your mind. Your military experience, your understanding of Jedi tactics, your intuition. You’d been captured during a failed mission on Raxus, and while you expected torture or death, you hadn’t expected this: to be strung up like some living datastream, brain siphoned and cross-linked to an interface you didn’t understand.

They called it a miracle of modern war-efficiency. You called it a cage.

And Echo… he was the other half of it.

You weren’t in the same room—your pods were separated—but your minds were connected via the neural interface. Whenever they activated the system, your consciousness merged with his, just enough to collaborate on what they called “Strategic Simulations.” War games. Problem solving. Target prioritization.

You both knew the truth: they were using your combined intellect to predict Republic troop movements. Every algorithm you helped solve, every solution you helped generate, killed people you once called comrades.

“I hate this,” you whispered one day, during a low-activity cycle when the painkillers dulled your tongue. “I hate being part of this.”

A pause. Then his voice—steady but soft.

“So do I. But I think better when you’re here.”

You blinked. “…Thanks?”

“No, I mean it.” There was an awkward silence. “When I thought I was the only one… I was slipping. Couldn’t hold onto myself. But then you came. You reminded me who I am. Even in here.”

You swallowed, chest aching at the vulnerability in his voice.

“You’re not just a number, Echo,” you said. “You’re a person. And I see you.”

He didn’t answer right away.

“I see you too.”

⸻

Over Time, a Bond Formed.

There were days the interface ran endlessly—your minds linked for hours, pressed together in shared thought. You knew when he was angry, when he was calm, when he wanted to scream. You learned the rhythm of his reasoning, the cadence of his sarcasm, the echo of grief.

You shared stories in the dead zones. When the machines weren’t listening.

He told you about the 501st. About Fives. About Rex.

You told him about the Temple, your Master, your reckless flying.

Sometimes, you joked about escaping together. About finding a beach somewhere.

“Too many clones for me to trust the ocean,” he’d mutter. “One tide shift and half of them are trying to build a battalion out of sand.”

You’d laughed, a rusty sound. It felt foreign in your throat.

But that laughter became a kind of resistance. So did your connection.

The Techno Union noticed.

They began separating your sessions. Isolating your minds. Severing the link.

The day they cut the neural tether entirely, Echo’s voice disappeared from your thoughts like a light going out. You screamed against the restraints, powerless.

He was gone.

Days Passed. Then Weeks.

You started talking to yourself. Pretending he could still hear. Whispering plans you’d never execute, memories you weren’t sure were yours anymore.

Your mind began to unravel.

Until one day, the alarm blared.

You jerked awake as the facility shook. Outside your pod, Skakoans ran like ants. The machinery sparked. Your interface glitched.

And in the flicker of emergency lights—

A face.

Metal and flesh. Scarred and beautiful.

“Echo?” Your voice broke.

His eyes widened. “You—”

And then the moment was gone. Soldiers stormed in behind him. A trooper in matte black and red—Clone Force 99, you recognized them in a flash—pulled him back.

“They have another one,” Echo shouted. “She’s hooked into the system—she’s part of it!”

The taller clone, Hunter, paused. “Where?”

“There!” Echo pointed. “Don’t leave her!”

You tried to scream, but the interface surged, flooding your mind with static. Your body spasmed. Everything went white.

⸻

You Woke Up in a Medical Bay.

For a terrifying second, you thought it was still the Techno Union—until you saw the blue stripes on the armor around you.

The 501st.

And standing beside your cot, his Scomp link resting awkwardly against his side, was Echo.

Alive.

Free.

He looked thinner than you remembered. Hollow-eyed. As if he still didn’t quite believe it was real.

Neither did you.

“Hey,” you whispered, tears stinging.

He swallowed. “Hey.”

He crossed to you, hands trembling slightly as he reached for yours.

“I told them not to leave you,” he said. “I—I made them go back.”

“I knew you would.”

He laughed—a shaky, broken sound—and sat beside you.

“I thought I lost you,” he admitted. “When they cut the tether, I thought—”

“I know,” you murmured. “I felt it too.”

For a long moment, neither of you spoke. There was no need. You’d already shared your minds. Now all that remained was your hearts.

But Freedom Wasn’t Simple.

You were debriefed for days. The Jedi Council wanted answers. The Republic wanted data. Rex and Anakin debriefed Echo constantly, praising his resilience while ignoring the toll.

The 501st welcomed you cautiously. You weren’t a clone, not a general, just… someone in between. A survivor like Echo. A curiosity. A symbol.

The worst part? The silence between you and Echo.

Not intentional. Not cruel.

Just… fragile.

He was different now. Wary. Reserved.

You tried to reach him. But he kept walls up.

He still spoke to Rex and Jesse and the occasional whisper to Fives’ ghost, but you could tell—something had changed. Like being out of the system had broken something inside him.

One night, after lights-out in the barracks, you found him alone in the hangar.

“I miss the link,” you said.

He turned, surprised. “What?”

“I miss knowing what you felt. What you were thinking. Now… I don’t know how to reach you.”

His face twisted—pain, guilt, grief.

“I don’t want you to see what I am now,” he said. “I’m not the man you met in there. I’m more machine than—”

“Don’t say that.”

He looked at you, exhausted. “You don’t understand.”

“I do,” you said, stepping closer. “I was there. They took everything from both of us. But that connection we had? That wasn’t because of wires or data streams. That was real. And it still is.”

He stared at you like a drowning man seeing shore.

And then—finally—he let you hold him.

He didn’t kiss you. Not yet. The pain was still too fresh.

But when you curled into him that night, metal against flesh, scars against scars, you both knew: the war wasn’t over.

But you weren’t alone anymore.

“The Lesser of Two Wars” pt.10

Commander Fox x Reader X Commander Thorn

The transmission hit her desk with all the weight of a blaster bolt.

Her planet. Under threat.

The Separatists were making moves—fleet signatures near the outer perimeter of her system, whispers of droid deployment, unrest stoked in territories that hadn’t seen true peace in years. She knew the signs. She’d lived through them once.

And she was not going to watch her world burn again.

She stood before the Senate with a voice louder than it had ever been.

The Senate chambers were suffocating. The cries of war, politics, and pleas for support blurred into white noise as the senator stood at the center, resolute and burning with purpose.

“My planet is under threat,” she said, voice clear, powerful. “We have no fleet, no shield generator, no standing army worth more than a gesture. We were promised protection when we joined this Republic. Will you now let us burn for being forgotten?”

A pause followed. Murmurs stirred. Eyes averted.

“Request denied,” one senator muttered.

“You owe us this!” she shouted, her words echoing through the chambers. “I gave everything I had to stabilize my planet. My people know what war costs. They know what it takes to survive it. But they shouldn’t have to do it alone.”

Some senators looked away. Others whispered. A few nodded, expressions grim with understanding or guilt.

Chancellor Palpatine raised a single hand, silencing the room.

“You will have one battalion,” he said at last, voice velvet and dangerous. “We do not have more to spare.”

Her gut twisted, but she bowed her head. “Thank you, Chancellor.”

No one looked at her when she nodded in silence, but the steel in her spine was unmistakable.

The descent back to her homeworld was cold, unceremonious.

Commander Neyo stood at the head of the troop transport, motionless, arms behind his back, helmet fixed forward. Every movement of his men was calculated, seamless. The 91st Reconnaissance Corps was surgical in nature—swift, efficient, detached.

Master Stass Allie stood nearby, hands folded in front of her. She radiated composed strength, yet there was a gentleness to her that seemed at odds with Neyo’s blunt precision.

“I advise you not to disembark with the vanguard,” Stass said evenly. “Let the initial scan and sweep conclude before you step into an active zone.”

“This is my home,” the senator replied, eyes fixed on the viewport. “And I won’t return to it behind a wall of armor.”

Neyo turned slightly. “Then stay out of our way. We’re not here to make emotional reunions.”

The senator didn’t flinch.

“I didn’t ask you to be.”

The ship pierced the cloud cover, revealing the battered surface below. Her capital city—once a war zone, now partially rebuilt—spread like a scar across red earth. Familiar buildings stood among ruins and reconstruction. It hadn’t healed. Not fully. Not yet.

The shuttle landed. Dust curled around the hull as the ramp lowered.

Neyo’s troops deployed immediately, securing the perimeter with wordless discipline. The senator stepped down, her boots hitting home soil for the first time since she had sworn herself to diplomacy instead of command.

She took a breath.

The air still held the tang of iron, of scorched ground and old blood. Her eyes burned, not from wind.

She walked out ahead of the Jedi, ahead of the soldiers. Alone.

The wind carried voices—hushed, reverent, fearful. Civilians and civil guards had gathered to watch from a distance. Her return wasn’t met with cheers. Only silence. Recognition.

And wariness.

“She’s back,” someone murmured.

Another whispered, “After everything she did?”

Master Stass Allie watched carefully. “You knew this wouldn’t be easy.”

“I didn’t come back for easy,” the senator said, her voice firm. “I came back because I have to. Because I won’t let this place fall again.”

Commander Neyo gave no comment. His orders were simple: defend the system, follow the Jedi, and keep the senator from becoming a casualty or a liability.

As they moved out to establish the command post, the senator stood atop a ridge just beyond the city. She looked out over the familiar lands—the riverbed turned battleground, the hills where she buried her dead, the skyline marked with the skeletons of buildings still bearing her war scars.

For a moment, she didn’t feel like a senator.

She felt like a commander again.

Only this time, she wasn’t sure which version of her was more dangerous.

⸻

The makeshift command tent was pitched atop a fortified overlook, giving the 91st a wide tactical view of the lowland valley just outside the capital city. Dust clung to every surface, and holomaps flickered under the dim lights as Stass Allie, Commander Neyo, and the senator gathered around the central table.

Stass was calm as ever, a quiet storm of wisdom and strategy. Neyo stood rigid beside her, visor lowered, hands clasped behind his back.

The senator, though wearing no armor, held a presence that could bend the room.

“We’re expecting a heavy push through the mountain pass. Based on Seppie patterns, they’ll aim to box in the capital and strangle supply lines. We need to flank before they dig in,” Stass said, pointing to the high ridges on the eastern approach.

“The ridge is tactically sound,” Neyo added. “Minimal resistance, optimal vantage. If we come down from the temple heights here—” he gestured, tapping the map with precision, “—we’ll break their formation before they reach the capital walls.”

“No.”

The word cut sharp through the low hum of the command tent.

Neyo’s head tilted. “Pardon?”

The senator leaned in, steady but resolute. “That approach takes us through Virean Plateau.”

“Yes,” Neyo said flatly. “It’s elevated, provides cover, and we can route artillery through the lower trails.”

“It’s sacred ground.”

Stass glanced at the senator, then back to the map. “Sacred or not, the Separatists won’t hesitate to use it.”

“I know,” the senator replied. “But I also know what happens when that soil is soaked with blood. I made that mistake once. I won’t make it again.”

Neyo didn’t react immediately. The silence hung for a moment too long.

“So we disregard the optimal path because of sentiment?” he asked, voice devoid of tone.

“It’s not sentiment,” she answered. “It’s consequence. Virean Plateau is more than earth—it’s memory. It’s where we buried our dead after the first uprising. My own people nearly turned on me for allowing it to become a battlefield. If we desecrate it again, there may be no peace left to return to.”

Stass Allie offered a glance of measured approval.

“Alternative?” she asked.

The senator reached across the table, tapping a narrow canyon west of the capital. “We pull them in here—tight quarters, limited maneuvering. Use a bottleneck tactic with mines set along the walls. They’ll have no choice but to cluster. When they do, we collapse the ridgeline.”

“A canyon ambush is high-risk,” Neyo said. “We’ll lose men.”

“We’ll lose more if we trample sacred ground and spark another civil uprising in the middle of a war. You don’t win with the cleanest plan. You win with the one that leaves something behind to rebuild.”

Stass nodded slowly. “She’s right.”

Neyo didn’t argue. He only leaned back, helmet fixed on the senator.

“I’ll adjust the approach. But don’t expect the enemy to respect your boundaries.”

“I don’t,” she replied. “That’s why we’ll strike first.”

Stass looked between them—soldier, Jedi, and the politician who once ruled like a warlord. There was no denying it.

The senator wasn’t a commander anymore.

But the commander was still very much alive.

⸻

The canyon was harsh and narrow, carved by centuries of wind and fury. Now it would become the place they’d make their stand.

The senator walked the length of the rocky pass beside Neyo and a few of his officers, outlining trap points with the kind of confidence most senators never possessed. Her voice was sure. Her boots didn’t falter. Her fingers grazed the canyon wall as she surveyed the terrain—like she was greeting an old friend rather than scouting a battleground.

Neyo had seen Jedi generals hesitate more than she did.

“We’ll place remote charges here,” she said, stopping near a brittle overhang. “If the droids push too fast, we bring the rocks down and funnel them into kill zones here—” she pointed again, “—and here. Then your men pick them off with sniper fire from the high spines.”

“Clever,” said one of the clones, glancing at Neyo.

“Risky,” Neyo replied, but his tone wasn’t cold. Just observant.

She turned to face him fully. “Victory demands risk. I thought you understood that better than anyone.”

Neyo’s visor met her eyes. There was silence, then: “You speak like a soldier.”

“I was one,” she said. “The galaxy just prefers to forget that part.”

Over the next few hours, she moved among the men—kneeling beside them, helping place mines, checking line of sight through scopes, confirming relay ranges with engineers. Stass Allie watched with a calm kind of pride, saying nothing. Neyo observed with calculated interest.

She laughed once—soft, almost involuntary—when a younger clone dropped a charge too early and scrambled after it. She helped him reset it. She got her hands dirty.

She didn’t give orders from a chair. She stood with them in the dust.

Neyo found himself watching more than he should. Not because he didn’t trust her—but because something had shifted. Slightly. Quietly. In a way he didn’t welcome.

Respect.

It crept in slowly. Earned with sweat and grit. She didn’t demand it. She claimed it.

And somewhere beneath that iron discipline of his, Neyo began to wonder—

If she looked at him the way she did Thorn or Fox… would he really be so different from them?

It disturbed him.

He didn’t want to admire her. Not like that.

But when she stood atop the ridge that night, wind catching her hair, the stars reflecting in her eyes as she looked over the battlefield they were shaping together, Neyo didn’t see a senator.

He saw a force.

He saw someone worth following.

And he suddenly understood just a little more about Fox—and hated that understanding with every part of himself.

The trap was set.

From the top of the canyon ridges, the 91st Reconnaissance Corps lay in wait, eyes sharp behind visors, rifles trained on the winding path below. Beside them, one hundred of the senator’s own planetary guard stood tall, armor painted in the deep ochre and black of her homeland, their spears and blasters at the ready. The senator stood at the head of her people, clad in their ancestral war armor—obsidian plates trimmed with silver and red, a high-collared cape catching the canyon wind like a banner.

She was a vision of history reborn.

General Stass Allie stood with Neyo above, watching the enemy approach—a column of Separatist tanks and droid squads snaking into the narrow death trap.

“All units,” Neyo’s voice crackled over comms. “Hold position.”

The canyon trembled with the metallic march of the droids.

Then—detonation.

Explosions thundered down the cliffside as rock and fire collapsed over the lead tanks, just as planned. Droids scattered, confused, rerouting, pushing forward into the choke point—and then the 91st opened fire.

Sniper bolts rained from above.

The senator’s people surged from behind the outcroppings with war cries, cutting into the confused line of droids. She led them—blade drawn, cloak flowing behind her—fierce and unrelenting. For a moment, the tide was perfect.

And then it broke.

A spider droid crested an unscouted rise from the rear—missed in recon. It fired before anyone could react.

The blast hit near the senator.

She was thrown through the air, landing hard against a rock with a crack that echoed over the battlefield.

“SENATOR!” one of her guards screamed, his voice raw and desperate as he ran toward her, but she was already pushing herself up on shaking arms, blood running from her temple.

“ADVANCE, GOD DAMMIT!” she shouted, hoarse and furious. “They’re right there! Don’t you dare stop now!”

Her people faltered only for a moment.

Then they roared as one and charged again, stepping over her, past her, and into the storm of fire and metal.

From above, Neyo watched, jaw clenched beneath his helmet. Stass Allie placed a hand on his shoulder as if to calm him—but it wasn’t his rage she was tempering.

It was something else.

The senator stood—bloodied, staggering—but unbroken. She took up her sword again and limped forward, refusing to let anyone see her fall.

And the canyon echoed with the sound of war and loyalty—and the scream of a woman who would not be made small by pain.

Her leg burned. Her side screamed with every breath. But the senator forced herself upright, gripping her sword tight enough for her knuckles to pale beneath her gloves. The dust stung her eyes. Blaster fire carved bright streaks through the canyon air. Her guard surged ahead of her—but she refused to let them lead alone.

Not here. Not again.

She limped forward, blade dragging against the stone until the blood from her brow soaked into her collar. The pain grounded her, reminded her she was alive—reminded her that she had to be.

A Separatist droid rounded the corner—a commando unit. It raised its blaster.

Too slow.

She lunged forward with a cry and cleaved the droid clean through the chestplate, sparks flying as it collapsed.

“Fall back to the rally point!” one of the clones called, but she didn’t. She moved forward instead, shoulder to shoulder with the men and women of her world, guiding them through the chaos, calling orders, ducking fire.

From the ridge, Neyo watched. “Is she insane?”

“She’s winning,” Stass Allie replied, eyes narrowed beneath her hood. “Don’t pretend you’re not impressed.”

He said nothing.

Below, a final wave of droids tried to regroup—but it was too late. The choke point had collapsed behind them in rubble, and the senator’s forces flanked them from both sides.

Trapped.

The 91st swept down from the cliffs like silent ghosts—precise, efficient, ruthless. The senator’s guard hit from the ground, coordinated, focused, fighting like people with something to prove.

With something to protect.

She reached the center just in time to plunge her blade into the last B2 battle droid before it could fire. It slumped, dead weight and scorched metal, collapsing at her feet.

Then—silence.

The canyon held its breath.

The last of the droids fell, and the only sound was the crackle of smoking wreckage and the harsh breaths of soldiers.

They’d won.

The senator stood among the wreckage, blood trickling down her face, her people all around her—some wounded, some helping others to their feet. She breathed heavily, sword lowered, shoulders sagging.

Neyo descended from the cliffs with a small team, Stass Allie close behind. His armor was immaculate, untouched by battle. Hers was battered, scorched, soaked.

And yet she looked stronger than ever.

Their eyes met across the dust and ruin.

He gave a short, tight nod.

“You disobeyed every strategic rule in the book,” he said, voice flat.

“And I saved my people,” she replied, barely above a rasp.

Another pause.

Then, quiet—barely perceptible—Neyo muttered, “…Noted.”

⸻

The city beyond the canyon lit up in firelight and song.

Victory drums echoed off the walls of the ancient stone hall as the people of her planet celebrated the blood they shed—and the blood they did not. Bonfires lined the streets. Horns blared. Men and women danced barefoot in the dust, tankards raised high. Her world had survived another war. And like always, they honored it with noise and joy and wine.

The clones of the 91st were invited—expected—to join. They looked stunned at first, caught off guard by the raw emotion and warmth thrown at them. But it didn’t take long before some of them loosened up, helmets off, cups in hand. A few were pulled into dances. One poor trooper got kissed on the mouth by a war widow three times his age.

Commander Neyo remained on the outskirts. Always watching. Always apart.

The senator—dressed down in soft, flowing local fabrics now stained with wine and dust, her war paint only half faded—was plastered. Laughing one moment, arguing with an elder the next, trying to teach a clone how to chant over the firepit after that.

Eventually, she broke from the crowd. She spotted Neyo standing at the edge of the firelight, arms folded, as if even now he couldn’t relax.

She staggered up to him, hair wild, eyes sharp even beneath the drunken haze.

“Neyo,” she said, slurring just slightly, “why are you always standing so still? Don’t you ever feel anything?”

“I feel plenty,” he replied. “I just don’t need to dance about it.”

She narrowed her eyes and jabbed a finger at him. “You’re a cold bastard.”

“Correct.”

She stepped closer, closer than she normally would. “You made Fox apologise.”

He didn’t answer.

Her gaze flicked over his helmet. “He wouldn’t have done that. Not without something—big. What did you say to him?”

A pause.

“He was out of line,” Neyo finally said. “I reminded him what his rank means.”

“That’s not all,” she pushed. “What did you really say?”

He looked at her then, just barely, as if debating whether to speak at all. Finally:

“I told him that if he was going to act like a lovesick cadet, then he should resign his commission and go write poetry. Otherwise, he needed to remember he’s a marshal commander. And act like it.”

She blinked. “That’s exactly what you said?”

“No,” Neyo said, dryly. “What I actually said would’ve made your generals back during the war flinch.”

She snorted. “I like you more when you’re drunk.”

“I don’t get drunk.”

She leaned in, bold with wine. “Maybe if you did, you’d understand why I’m not angry with him.”

He stared at her, unreadable.

“I’m not angry,” she repeated. “But he didn’t tell me how he felt. You scared him into making amends, but you can’t make him say it.” She tilted her head. “And now you’ve got him cornered. And you’re mad at him for it.”

“You don’t know anything about me,” Neyo said quietly.

“No,” she said, “but you keep looking at me like you wish I didn’t belong to someone else.”

The silence hung for a moment.

Then Neyo stepped back. “Enjoy your celebration, Senator.”

He turned and walked away.

She stood there for a long moment—then swayed on her feet, laughing softly to herself, and staggered back toward the fire.

⸻

Her head throbbed like war drums.

The sun was too bright. The sheets were too scratchy. Her mouth tasted like smoke and fermented fruit. And worst of all—

“—and furthermore, Senator, I must note that your behavior last night was entirely unbecoming of your station—”

“GH-9,” she croaked from the bed, voice raw, “if you say one more word, I will bury your smug golden head in the canyon and file it as a tragic mining accident.”

The protocol droid paused. “I was merely expressing concern, Senator—”

The beeping started next.

Sharp, furious chirps in a tone that could only be described as personally offended.

“Don’t you start,” she groaned, flopping a pillow over her head. “R7, I don’t have time for your attitude. I left you here because I value my life.”

The astromech bleeped something that sounded like a slur.

GH-9 tilted its shiny head. “I believe he just suggested you value nothing and have the moral fiber of a womp rat.”

“Tell him he’s not wrong.”

R7 gave a triumphant whistle and spun in a little angry circle.

She dragged herself out of bed like a corpse rising from the grave. Her hair was a disaster. Her ceremonial paint from the night before had smeared into a mess of black streaks and gold glitter. Her armor lay in a forgotten pile across the room, boots kicked halfway under the dresser.

“You two weren’t supposed to come back with me,” she mumbled as she washed her face with cold water. “That’s why I left you. GH, you talk too much, and R7, you nearly tasered Senator Ask Aak the last time we were in session.”

The astromech beeped proudly.

“I told you he wasn’t a Separatist.”

R7’s dome swiveled in defiance.

GH-9 cleared its vocabulator. “Might I remind you, Senator, that both of us are programmed for loyal service, and your reckless abandon in leaving us behind—”

She flicked water at it.

“Don’t test me,” she muttered, pulling on her fresh tunic.

The shuttle was due to depart in two hours. Neyo and his battalion had already begun packing. The war drums had long gone quiet, and now, only the dull hush of cleanup remained outside her window.

She looked around the modest bedroom—her old bedroom. It hadn’t changed. Neither had the ache in her chest when she looked at it. Not grief. Not nostalgia. Something heavier. Something unnamed.

Behind her, GH-9 stood stiffly, arms behind his back like a tutor waiting for his student to fail.

R7, on the other hand, rolled up beside her and nudged her leg.

She sighed and rested a hand on his dome.

“Fine,” she muttered. “You can both come. Just promise me one of you won’t mouth off in front of the Chancellor, and the other won’t stab anyone.”

R7 whirred.

“That wasn’t a no.”

⸻

The landing platform gleamed in the pale Coruscanti sun, all cold durasteel and blinding reflection. The moment the ramp descended, she could already see the unmistakable figures of Fox and Thorn standing at the base—arms crossed, boots braced, both of them looking equal parts tense and eager.

Her stomach flipped. The droids rolled down behind her.

Fox got to her first, posture rigid, helmet tucked under his arm. “Senator.”

His voice was that low, professional gravel—too careful. Like he wasn’t sure how to greet her now. Like the war, the chaos, and everything unsaid was standing between them.

Thorn was right behind him. He looked less cautious, his gaze dragging over her face, her still-healing arm. “You look like hell,” he said with a small grin.

“Still better than you with your shirt off,” she muttered, smirking up at him.

Thorn’s grin widened. “That’s not what you said on—”

BANG.

A harsh metallic clang interrupted whatever comeback he had lined up. The three of them turned just in time to see her astromech, R7, ramming into Thorn’s shin with a furious burst of mechanical outrage.

“R7!” she barked, storming over. “What did I say about assaulting people?”

The droid chirped angrily and spun his dome toward her, then toward Fox, then let out a long series of beeps that sounded vaguely like profanity. Thorn took a step back, wincing and muttering something about “murder buckets.”

“I think he’s upset no one moved out of his way,” GH-9 said unhelpfully from behind her, arms folded in disdain. “I did warn him to wait, but he believes officers should respect seniority.”

“He’s a droid,” Thorn snapped, rubbing his leg. “A violent one.”

Fox was eyeing R7 with both brows raised. “You didn’t mention you were traveling with an explosive.”

“Fox,” she said, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Don’t provoke him. He’s got a fuse shorter than a thermal detonator and a kill count I don’t want to know.”

“Probably a higher one than mine,” Thorn muttered.

The astromech let out a smug beep.

Fox gave a subtle nod to GH-9. “And what’s his problem?”

“I talk too much,” GH-9 supplied proudly.

“You do,” the Senator stated.

The senator gave up, dragging a hand down her face. “Can we just go? Please? Before he tases someone and it becomes a diplomatic incident?”

Fox stepped aside. Thorn limped with exaggerated pain. R7 spun in satisfaction and zipped ahead like a victorious little gremlin.

She exhaled and muttered under her breath, “I should’ve left them again.”

⸻

Previous Part | Next Part

Lyco woke up and chose violence

i need to be fucked like he would die without it

The cast of the Original Trilogy had cliched, boring character concepts that were executed wonderfully enough for it not to matter. 

 The cast of the Prequel Trilogy had interesting concepts that were executed poorly enough to make them seem utterly stupid. 

The cast of the Sequel Trilogy had amazing, thought-provoking concepts that were executed in the town square and put up on pikes as a warning to others.