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Title: Still Just a Rat in a Cage

Sev (Delta Squad) x Reader

He was covered in blood the first time you saw him.

Not his. Probably not even human. You weren’t sure. You were just a bartender on Ord Mantell, working a hole-in-the-wall bar tucked under the crumbling skeleton of an old shipping yard, where the lights flickered and the rain never really stopped.

The kind of place where soldiers came to disappear and drifters stopped pretending to care.

But Sev?

He didn’t disappear.

He stood out.

He ordered without hesitation. “Whiskey. Real if you’ve got it. Synthetic if you want me to break something.”

You gave him the real stuff. Poured it slow, hand steady, even though he looked like he’d just torn his way through a war zone.

“Rough night?” you asked.

Sev stared at the glass. “What night isn’t?”

Then he downed it and left.

That was six months ago.

Since then, Delta Squad had started showing up after ops in the sector. You figured they had something black ops going on nearby—classified runs, deep infiltration, the kind that turned good soldiers into ghosts.

Scorch always laughed too loud. Fixer looked like he’d short-circuit if someone tried to talk to him. Boss barely said a word unless someone needed shutting down.

But Sev?

He watched you.

Always from the shadows. Always with those eyes—like he was cataloguing your movements, weighing them against something dark he couldn’t explain.

Tonight, it was just him.

Rain pounded on the rooftop. Rust leaked down the walls. A dying holosign outside buzzed like it was gasping for breath. Sev sat at the bar, hunched forward, a smear of something red on the side of his gauntlet.

Armor scratched. Helmet off. Blood on his knuckles.

“Was it bad?” you asked.

He didn’t look at you. “They always scream. Doesn’t matter who they are.”

You paused, a bottle in hand. “You okay?”

He let out a dry laugh. “You always ask that like it’s a real question.”

You leaned forward. “And you always answer like you’re not human.”

That got his attention. He looked at you now—eyes sharp, dark. “You think I’m human?”

“I think you bleed like one,” you said. “And drink like one. And come back here like you’re looking for something.”

He stared at you. Hard. Like he was daring you to flinch. You didn’t.

Finally, he said, “I don’t know why I come back here.”

You leaned your arms on the bar. “Maybe you’re tired of being a weapon.”

His jaw flexed. That was too close to the bone.

“I was made to kill,” he muttered.

“But that’s not all you are.”

He shook his head. “You don’t get it. None of you civvies do. You think we’re heroes. Soldiers. Whatever karking fairytale makes you sleep better at night. But out there? We’re rats in a cage. Dying for people who forget our names the second the war ends.”

You didn’t move.

Then softly, you said, “I don’t forget yours.”

Sev blinked. Slow. Like the words caught him off guard and hit something he didn’t realize was still bleeding.

You reached out, resting your hand lightly on his wrist. His arm was tense under the armor, coiled like a trap—but he didn’t pull away.

“You scare me,” you admitted.

He looked down at your hand. “Good. You should be scared of people like me.”

“But I’m not,” you whispered. “Not really.”

Silence.

Then Sev stood. Close. Too close. His breath was hot against your cheek. You could smell the blood, the dust, the war that never seemed to leave his skin.

“Why?” he asked, voice low and frayed. “Why the hell not?”

You met his eyes.

“Because even rats deserve to be free.”

He didn’t kiss you.

He just stared like he didn’t know what to do with the feeling rising in his chest. Like you’d opened a door he thought was welded shut.

Then he leaned in—just enough to rest his forehead against yours, rough and desperate—and for a second, he breathed.

i made this instead of doing the things ive been "forgetting" to do

What Remains

Captain Rex x Reader

Warnings: Injury, emotional vulnerability, PTSD, heavy angst, post-war trauma.

⸻

You’d found the distress signal by accident.

A flicker on a broken console. Weak. Nearly buried under layers of static, bouncing endlessly off dead satellites like a ghost signal. Most people wouldn’t have noticed it.

But you weren’t most people.

And the frequency?

It was clone code.

You tracked it to a crumbling outpost on a desolate moon—half buried in dust storms, long abandoned by the Republic, forgotten by the Empire.

Your ship touched down rough. You didn’t wait for the storm to pass. You ran.

And then you heard him.

At first, it was just static. Then faint words bled through the interference—raspy, broken, desperate.

“Hello?…This is CT-7567…Rex…please—”

Static.

“…can’t…move…legs—I need—”

More static. Then a choked, cracking breath.

“I don’t wanna die like this…”

Your heart stopped.

You sprinted through the busted corridors, blaster drawn, shouting his name.

“Rex!”

Then you heard it.

Closer now.

“Please…somebody…I—”

His voice was barely human—childlike, even. Like pain had stripped away all the command, all the strength, all the control he used to wear like armor.

And finally—you found him.

Pinned beneath collapsed durasteel. Blood everywhere. One leg crushed, helmet off, face pale with shock and dirt. His chestplate was cracked straight through.

His eyes were glassy. He didn’t see you yet.

“Help…help…please…Jesse…Kic…Fives—” His voice cracked. “…Anakin?”

Your heart shattered.

You dropped your blaster and knelt beside him. “Rex—Rex, it’s me.”

His eyes flicked toward you, unfocused. “Y-you’re not…I can’t…I c-can’t feel my legs…”

You cupped his cheek. “It’s okay. I’m here. I’ve got you.”

His fingers twitched like he was trying to reach for you. “D-don’t leave. Please…don’t leave me.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” you whispered, throat tight. “You’re safe now. Just hold on.”

Tears blurred your vision as you started clearing the debris, carefully, trying not to make it worse. He winced, hissed, bit down a scream.

“Hurts…”

“I know. I know, Rex. I’ve got you.”

You triggered your comm for evac, barely holding it together. Your hands were shaking. You’d never seen him like this. Not Rex. Not your Rex.

He had always been the strong one. The steady one. The soldier who stood when everyone else fell.

But now?

Now he was just a man.

Bleeding. Scared. Alone.

You gathered him into your arms when the debris was off, whispering to him over and over—“I’ve got you, I’ve got you”—like a lifeline. His blood soaked your jacket, but you didn’t care. He buried his face against your shoulder, barely conscious.

“I—I thought I was dead,” he mumbled. “I kept calling…no one came…no one came…”

You closed your eyes.

“Well, I did,” you whispered into his hair. “I came for you.”

⸻

He woke up in pieces.

A white ceiling. The smell of antiseptic. A faint hum of low-grade shielding. The dull, distant pain in his leg—muted by the good stuff, but still there.

And your voice.

He could hear you before he could turn his head.

“I know you’re awake, Rex.”

He blinked. You were sitting beside his cot, reading something, legs pulled up under you, soft shirt half-wrinkled. You looked like you hadn’t slept much. He hated that.

“How long?”

“Three days since I found you. Two since the surgery. You’ve been in and out.”

He nodded, slowly. “You… stayed.”

You closed your book. “Of course I did.”

He turned his head away from you. “You shouldn’t have.”

There was no heat in it. No real push. Just… guilt.

You didn’t answer at first. You watched his hands—trembling slightly, like they were remembering something he hadn’t said out loud yet.

Rex had always been good at holding the line. At being unshakable. Calm. Controlled.

But he wasn’t now.

He was tired. The kind of tired that lives under your skin. That no bacta tank or stim shot can fix.

“I called for them,” he said suddenly. Quiet. His voice hollow.

You said nothing. Let him go on.

“I thought I was going to die. I was calling for people who’ve been dead for years. I knew they were dead. But I kept saying their names.”

You reached for his hand.

He didn’t pull away.

“I heard your voice last,” he whispered. “And I thought… maybe I was already gone.”

“You’re not.”

He nodded again. Then after a pause—“Maybe I should be.”

Your breath caught.

“I’m not… I don’t know who I am anymore,” he continued. “The war’s over. The men are scattered. My brothers are dead or… worse. I spent years holding it all together and now it’s all just—”

He clenched his jaw. “Gone.”

You rubbed your thumb over his knuckles.

“Sometimes I wake up thinking I’m still on Umbara,” he said after a long moment. “Other times I forget Fives is gone. Or Jesse. And then it hits me again. And again. And it’s like dying over and over.”

You got up slowly, sitting on the edge of the cot, so close your knees brushed.

“You’re still here, Rex. And you don’t have to carry this alone anymore.”

He looked at you then.

Really looked at you.

You, with sleep-deprived eyes and your voice so soft it made something inside him tremble. You, who found him when no one else was listening. You, who stayed.

His voice cracked. “I don’t know how to let go of it.”

“You don’t have to. Not all at once. Not even forever. But maybe… just for tonight?”

You slid beside him, gently, until his head could rest against your shoulder.

He was shaking.

It wasn’t obvious. It wasn’t loud. But it was real.

You wrapped your arm around him.

He didn’t say anything after that.

He didn’t need to.

⸻

Later, long after he fell asleep—finally at peace for the first time in years—you whispered against his temple:

“I came for you, Rex. I’ll always come for you.”

And you stayed, holding him through the silence, while the storm raged somewhere far away.

“Stitches and Secrets”

Kix x Jedi Reader

Warnings: injury

The smell of caf, oil, and clone armor clung to the air as you strolled into the briefing tent, half a pastry in your hand and absolutely no shame in your step. Anakin was already leaning over the holotable with Ahsoka at his side, mid-conversation with Rex about insertion points and droid resistance.

“There she is,” Anakin said, smirking as you bit into your breakfast. “Glad you could make it. We were all really worried you might be doing something important, like sleeping in.”

You gave him an exaggerated bow, crumbs falling from your lips. “The Force told me to take five. Who am I to argue with destiny?”

Ahsoka laughed. “She’s worse than you, Master.”

“I’m standing right here,” Anakin said dryly.

“And I’m complimenting you,” you shot back, tossing the last of your pastry into your mouth. “You’re rubbing off on me, Skywalker. I’m starting to think I’m unfit for Jedi Council politics.”

“That makes two of us,” Anakin muttered.

Rex cleared his throat gently. “Briefing, General?”

“Right,” Anakin said. “Serious faces. Tactical minds. Let’s go.”

You stood beside Ahsoka, arms crossed, watching the blue holographic map flicker into life. The target: a droid manufacturing facility buried beneath a city block on this dusty, nowhere Separatist planet. Classic war story setup—deep insertion, sabotage, get-out-before-the-ceiling-caves-in sort of plan.

Anakin pointed to three key locations. “Ahsoka, you’ll take your Squad through the northern tunnel system. I’ll come in from the west. You,” he glanced at you, “get to lead Torrent Company. Rex is heading point. Kix is your field medic.”

“Excellent,” you said brightly. “If I get blown up, I know exactly whose name to scream out.” And winked at Kix.

Kix, who’d been standing with perfect form behind Rex, blinked and glanced your way.

“Don’t flatter him,” Anakin said, grinning. “It goes to his head.”

“I think he deserves it,” you said with a shrug.

“Force help us,” Ahsoka muttered with a smile.

Kix said nothing, but you knew he heard it. The corner of his mouth twitched. Just a little.

Anakin resumed the plan rundown. “Once we’ve cleared the tunnel entrance, regroup at the main lift shaft, plant the charges, and extract. Simple. Clean. Hopefully fast.”

“Hopefully,” you echoed. “But if it isn’t, I call dibs on the most dramatic death scene.”

“No one’s dying,” Rex said, exasperated.

You leaned toward Ahsoka and whispered, “He’s no fun at all.”

⸻

Things went sideways by hour three.

The drop had gone smoothly. Your team slipped through the tunnel entrance with minimal resistance. You moved like water through the dark—saber humming, the Force buzzing at your fingertips, and Kix never more than a few meters behind.

The issue? Droid reinforcements. Heavier than expected. A trap inside the sublevels. When the floor collapsed under you and half your squad, you barely had time to throw up a Force shield before the shrapnel cut through you like knives.

You hit the ground hard. Your saber skidded away, and a jagged spike of pain tore through your side.

“General!” Kix’s voice came sharp and clear, echoing through the smoke.

You coughed, tried to sit up, and gasped. Your hand came away red.

Kix dropped beside you in seconds, already snapping open his medkit. His gloves were steady. His jaw was clenched. “You’re lucky it missed your vital organs.”

“Define lucky,” you rasped.

“Alive.”

“You’re sweet,” you mumbled, swaying slightly.

“Try not to pass out,” he said, voice tight as he pressed a bacta patch over the worst of the wound. “You need to stay awake.”

“Trying,” you slurred. “But you’re very distracting.”

He blinked down at you. “What?”

“Your eyes. They’re the worst. Too blue. And your voice is soothing. It’s unfair. You should come with a warning label.”

You felt his hands pause for a fraction of a second.

“Considering you can’t see my eyes, and the fact they are brown not blue. You’re delirious,” he muttered, but you could hear the faintest crack of a smile in his voice.

“I am not,” you insisted, blinking up at him. “In the past 3 minutes I’ve thought about kissing you like, five times. Maybe six. Who knows. Jedi don’t count those things.”

Kix worked in silence for a moment, patching you up, checking your pulse, muttering about shock and bacta levels. You didn’t stop talking.

“You always there for them,” you murmured. “Always patient. Always there. And you never say anything. But I can see it. I see you. You’re kind, Kix. Gentle. That’s rare in this war.”

Kix looked at you then. Really looked. And something in his eyes softened—like a thaw he hadn’t allowed himself before.

“I’m not gentle,” he said quietly. “I’m trained to fix people. That’s all.”

“You’ve certainly fixed me,” you whispered.

He didn’t respond to that. He just pulled you close enough to hoist you into his arms, careful not to jostle your wounds.

“Rex, I’ve got the general. She’s stable but needs evac,” he said into the comm, already moving.

You leaned your head against his shoulder, groggy and fading. “You smell like antiseptic and courage.”

“You’re gonna be so embarrassed when you wake up.”

“I’m already embarrassed. I haven’t kissed you yet.”

Kix let out a breath that might’ve been a laugh—or maybe something softer. “Maybe next time, starlight. When you’re not bleeding out.”

⸻

You woke up in the medbay. Groggy. Alive. Sore as hell.

The lights were dimmed, and someone was sitting beside you, back straight, arms crossed. Kix.

“You stayed,” you rasped.

He glanced at you. “I wanted to see if you’d survive.”

“And…?”

His voice was quiet, but firm. “I’m glad you did.”

There was a long pause. Then, with a smirk:

“So, did you mean any of it?” he asked. “The eyes. The courage. The part about kissing me?”

You smiled, exhausted but warm all over.

“Oh yeah. Every word.”

Kix leaned forward slowly, carefully, one hand brushing your cheek.

“Then let’s see if you’re a better kisser than a patient.”

You definitely were.

⸻

You’d barely been discharged from the medbay when Skywalker and Ahsoka appeared at your door like vultures circling a wounded animal.

“Well, well, well,” Anakin drawled, arms crossed and grin far too smug. “Look who decided to flirt her way through a near-death experience.”

Ahsoka stood beside him, trying and failing to look serious. “Rex told us everything. Said you were practically writing a love poem while bleeding out.”

You groaned, covering your face with one hand. “Does no one in this battalion understand the concept of privacy?”

“Not when the drama’s this good,” Ahsoka said, plopping herself at the foot of your bed. “I mean, you told Kix he smells like courage. Who says that?”

“It was the blood loss talking.”

Anakin raised a brow. “You also apparently told him his eyes were ‘too blue.’ That doesn’t even make sense. Too blue? His eyes are brown!”

“Must’ve been the armor” you snapped, gesturing vaguely toward the corridor. “It’s aggravating. Like being judged by a beach.”

They both burst out laughing.

“Stars,” Ahsoka wheezed, wiping her eyes. “You’re lucky Master Yoda wasn’t in the room. You’d be Force-grounded for breaking the code.”

Anakin wiggled his brows. “Technically, I’m not allowed to judge.”

You shot him a look. “Please. You’re the last person who gets to bring up the Jedi Code.”

He didn’t deny it.

“Anyway,” Ahsoka said, sitting up straighter with a sly smile. “What we want to know is: did you get the kiss?”

You gave them both a very satisfied, very smug smile.

“I did.”

Silence.

Anakin blinked. “Wait. What?”

“You kissed Kix?” Ahsoka practically squealed, grabbing your arm. “When?”

“In the medbay. Post-stitches. Very romantic. Smelled like disinfectant and trauma bonding.”

Anakin shook his head in mock disbelief. “Force help us. You’re worse than I am.”

“I know,” you said with a smirk. “And unlike you, I don’t pretend to be subtle.”

Ahsoka howled with laughter.

Outside, you could’ve sworn you heard clone boots squeaking away from the medbay window. Probably Jesse or Fives listening in. Again.

“You’re never gonna live this down,” Anakin said, grinning wide.

You leaned back, smug and satisfied. “I don’t plan to.”

⸻

Fives and Jesse stumbled into the barracks like two kids who’d just found contraband candy in the Temple. Breathless, grinning, eyes wide with glee.

“Kix,” Jesse gasped, skidding to a stop in front of the medic’s bunk. “Tell me it’s true.”

Kix looked up from cleaning his kit, brow raised. “Tell you what’s true?”

“Oh, don’t play innocent,” Fives said, practically vibrating with energy. “We heard it. Straight from her own mouth.”

“She kissed you!” Jesse blurted. “Right in the medbay!”

Kix blinked once. “You were eavesdropping?”

Fives held up a hand. “Strategically positioned for morale updates.”

“You mean you pressed your faces to the window like nosey cadets,” Kix muttered, already regretting every life choice that led him here.

Fives flopped onto a bunk like he’d just been awarded a medal. “Kissing a Jedi… while she was still half-dead. That’s next-level.”

“She called you a ‘war angel in plastoid,’” Jesse said with a grin. “That’s poetry, Kix. Pure poetry.”

Kix groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “I was saving her life.”

“Yeah, and then saving her lips,” Fives added.

Jesse smacked his arm. “That doesn’t even make sense.”

“Doesn’t have to,” Fives said proudly. “It’s romance.”

Kix opened his mouth to fire back—but then the door slid open, and in walked Rex.

“Why are you two shouting like regs on a first patrol—” He paused mid-sentence, eyes narrowing at the scene. Fives smirking. Jesse grinning. Kix looking like he wanted to dissolve into bacta.

Rex raised a brow. “Am I walking into a war crime or a love story?”

Jesse pointed at Kix. “Our boy kissed the General.”

Rex blinked. Once. Then twice.

Then, completely deadpan, he said, “About time.”

Kix’s jaw dropped. “Rex!”

Fives lost it. “I knew you knew! I knew it!”

Rex crossed his arms, smiling just enough to twist the knife. “She’s been making eyes at him the whole campaign. Whole battalion’s been waiting for someone to make a move. Just didn’t expect it to happen during triage.”

Jesse gasped. “You knew and didn’t tell us?!”

Rex shrugged. “Didn’t want to ruin the suspense.”

Fives snorted. “Cold, Rex. Cold.”

Kix looked like he was seriously considering injecting himself with a sedative. “I hate all of you.”

Rex clapped him on the shoulder. “You’ll live, lover boy.”

Jesse wheezed.

“Alright, alright,” Rex said finally, stepping back toward the door. “Joke time’s over. Back to your posts before I have you cleaning carbon scoring with your tongues.”

Fives groaned. “He always ruins the fun.”

Jesse saluted with a grin. “On it, Captain Matchmaker.”

They left laughing, boots thudding down the corridor, and Kix sat in the silence for a moment, staring down at his gloves.

Then, quietly, under his breath:

“…War angel in plastoid?”

He smiled. Just a little.

Helllo! I was wondering if you could a spicy bad batch x fem!reader where she used to be a dancer/singer in like a sleezy club, did what was best for easy money. But an op comes up and she needs to it again and the boys didn’t know she had a history of it and are like “oh shit” find it hot but get jealous of the other men. Idk if this makes sense 😅

love your wring! Xx

“Undercover Temptation”

Bad Batch x Fem!Reader | Spice + Jealousy

⸻

The mission sounded simple enough.

Infiltrate a seedy club on Pantora. Gather intel on a black-market arms dealer that frequented the place. Blend in. Make contact. Get out.

Cid had been vague about the details, just that it required “a certain skill set.” And when her eyes landed on you, there was a flicker of something like smugness.

“You’ll fit right in, sweetheart,” she’d said. “Used to be your scene, didn’t it?”

The Batch didn’t know what she meant by that. But you did.

You’d left that part of your life behind when you joined up with Clone Force 99. The sleezy clubs, the music, the makeup, the stage lights — the easy money, the wandering hands. You’d done what you had to. You were good at it. Too good.

Omega had stayed behind, thank the Maker.

⸻

The club on Pantora was everything you remembered from your past life — sweat-slick air, glitter, smoke, and the kind of stares that made your skin crawl in ways you’d long buried.

Cid hadn’t exactly warned the Batch what she was getting them into. Just said it was a “special assignment” and only you could pull it off.

You hadn’t worn this in a long time — short, shimmering dress clinging to every curve, makeup smoky and sharp, hair teased and wild. A performer. A seductress. A mask you’d once worn to survive.

But stepping out into the room full of hardened clones, nothing could’ve prepared you for the heat in their eyes.

Hunter looked you up and down, slow and deliberate, his brows furrowed like he was trying to remember how to breathe.

Wrecker’s jaw dropped, cheeks flushed. “Maker, baby…”

Echo stared like he’d short-circuited.

Tech made an odd choking sound behind his datapad.

And then there was Crosshair.

He had a toothpick between his lips, eyes dragging over your legs, slow and dark. “Didn’t know you used to work a stage,” he murmured, voice like smoke. “That explains a lot.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” you smirked.

He grinned. “Means now I know why the hell I’ve been dreamin’ about you on your knees.”

Echo made a noise of protest. Wrecker looked like he was about to explode. Hunter didn’t say anything — but his fists were clenched.

You went on stage anyway. Because this was the mission.

You knew how to move. Knew how to keep attention. The intel target was in the VIP booth — you’d been instructed to lure him out, get close, plant a tracker, and distract him while Tech accessed his datapad remotely.

But the Batch? Yeah, they were distracted too.

Crosshair watched from the shadows, his shoulders tense, jaw tight. He was normally smooth, sarcastic — but this? This had him on edge.

Hunter paced by the back exit like a caged animal.

Wrecker glared at every man who so much as breathed in your direction.

Echo kept muttering, “She shouldn’t have to do this,” under his breath.

Tech… he was sweating. You were pretty sure his goggles fogged up.

The moment it all went to hell was when a drunk mercenary tried to grab you mid-performance.

Your eyes had locked with Hunter’s for a split second — a silent signal — when a hand yanked you roughly by the waist, spinning you mid-dance. You tensed immediately, smile faltering.

The guy was laughing, leering, pulling you flush against him.

And Hunter moved like a damn predator.

One second he was at the exit, the next, he was slamming the guy into the stage floor, snarling, “Don’t. Touch. Her.”

You barely had time to react before Crosshair had his rifle out, providing overwatch from the rafters, eyes sharp and deadly.

Echo pulled you behind him protectively.

Wrecker cracked his knuckles with a grin that didn’t reach his eyes. “You touched the wrong girl, pal.”

Tech looked like he wanted to kill the man — but also couldn’t stop blinking at you in that outfit.

The bar erupted into chaos.

Shots rang out.

You ducked low as the crowd screamed and scattered. Your target made a run for it — but not before Tech tagged his datapad. Crosshair clipped his shoulder with a clean shot. Wrecker handled two mercs trying to flank you.

You moved to help Hunter — but he was down.

Your heart dropped.

You rushed to his side, kneeling beside him. “Hunter!”

He was bleeding — blaster bolt to the shoulder, unfocused eyes still locked on you. “’M fine,” he rasped. “Saw… saw that guy grab you. Should’ve—shit—moved faster.”

You pressed a hand to the wound. “Don’t be an idiot. I’ve had worse hands on me. We’re getting you out.”

“Not while you’re still dressed like that,” he muttered weakly.

Behind you, Crosshair took out another would-be attacker, and growled through clenched teeth, “If anyone else touches her tonight, I’m leaving bodies.”

Echo lifted Hunter over his shoulder while Wrecker covered the retreat. Tech dragged you out by the hand, pulling you through a back hallway while still rattling off data from the merc’s pad.

“You… that performance,” Tech blurted, breathless. “I’ll be reviewing the security footage later. For… mission purposes.”

You just grinned, eyes flicking to where Crosshair covered the rear, rifle smoking.

Back on the ship, patched up and safe, Hunter leaned against the medbay wall, arm in a sling.

“You didn’t have to do that,” he said.

You leaned in, brushing hair from his face. “Yes, I did. It was the job.”

“Next time,” he growled, “you wear that in our quarters. For us. No one else.”

Wrecker appeared in the doorway. “You gonna do another show, babe? I got credits.”

Echo followed. “Don’t encourage her.”

Tech was already setting up a holoprojector. “I have some… strategic questions about your technique.”

Crosshair just smirked from the shadows, toothpick twitching.

“Next time,” he said, “I’m bringing handcuffs.”

Your smile turned wicked. “Oh? For the targets?”

His smirk widened. “No.”

Hi! I hope this ok but I was wondering if you could do a spicy fic with Tech, maybe he gets flustered whenever she’s near and his brothers try to help by getting you do stuff and help him.

Hope you have a great weekend!

“Terminally Yours”

Tech x Reader

Tech was a genius—analytical, composed, articulate.

Until you walked into a room.

You’d joined the Bad Batch on a temporary mission as a communications specialist. The job should have been straightforward. Decode enemy transmissions, secure Republic relays, leave. What you hadn’t planned for was the quiet, bespectacled clone who dropped his hydrospanner every time you got too close.

You leaned over the console, fingers flying across the keypad as you rerouted the relay node Tech had said was “performing with suboptimal efficiency.” You were deep into the override sequence when a clatter behind you made you jump.

Clank.

Tech’s hydrospanner had hit the floor. Again.

You turned, brows raised. “You okay there, Tech?”

He cleared his throat, pushing his goggles up the bridge of his nose as he bent down awkwardly to retrieve the tool. “Yes. Quite. Merely dropped it due to… a temporary lapse in grip strength.”

Hunter’s voice echoed from the cockpit. “More like a temporary lapse in brain function. That’s the fourth time today.”

You smirked and returned to the console. Tech didn’t reply.

⸻

You sat beside Omega, poking at your rations. Tech was on the far end of the table, clearly trying not to look your way while also tracking your every move like a nervous datapad with legs.

“You know,” Omega said loudly, “Tech said he wants help cleaning the data arrays in the cockpit. He said you’re the only one who knows how to handle them.”

Your brow arched. “He did?”

At the other end of the table, Tech choked on his food.

Echo smirked. “Pretty sure that’s not what he said, Omega.”

“It is,” she insisted with wide, innocent eyes. “I asked him who he’d want help from, and he said her name first.”

Wrecker grinned. “And then he blushed!”

“I did not,” Tech muttered, voice strangled.

You bit back a grin. “Well, I am good with arrays…”

Hunter looked at Tech, then at you, then back at his food like it was the most fascinating thing in the galaxy.

⸻

You found Tech alone at the terminal, his fingers flying over the keys. You stepped up beside him, arms brushing.

He froze mid-keystroke.

“I figured I’d help with the arrays,” you said, voice low, letting your hand rest against the console a little closer than necessary. “Since you said I was the best candidate.”

His ears turned red. “That was… an extrapolated hypothetical. I did not anticipate you would take Omega’s report so… literally.”

You leaned in, letting your shoulder press against his. “Is that going to be a problem?”

He inhaled sharply. “I—no. Not at all.”

You brushed your fingers along the edge of the screen, pretending to study the data. “Because I don’t mind helping you, Tech. I actually like working close to you. You’re… brilliant. Kind of cute when you’re flustered, too.”

He blinked behind his goggles. “I—um—I do not often receive comments of that nature—cute, I mean. That is to say—thank you.”

His fingers twitched nervously. You reached over to rest your hand over his.

“You’re welcome. And if you ever want to drop your hydrospanner again to get my attention, Tech, just say something next time.”

“…I’ll keep that in mind.”

⸻

Wrecker, Omega, and Echo crouched behind a supply crate, straining to hear.

“Did she touch his hand?” Omega whispered excitedly.

“Pretty sure she did more than that,” Echo muttered.

Wrecker pumped a fist in the air. “I told you! Get her close enough and boom—Tech-meltdown!”

They high-fived, right before the door to the cockpit opened and you walked out.

You stopped.

They froze.

“…Were you all spying?”

“Uh,” Omega said.

Echo cleared his throat. “More like… observing.”

“Scientific purposes,” Wrecker added. “Real important stuff.”

You rolled your eyes and walked away—but you didn’t miss the grin Echo gave Tech as he slipped inside the cockpit next.

“You owe me ten credits.”

Tech pushed his goggles up. “Worth every credit.”

“Crimson Huntress” pt.3

Summary: A rogue ARC trooper and a ruthless Togruta bounty hunter form an uneasy alliance, dodging Jedi, Death Watch, and their pasts as war rages across the galaxy.

CT-4023 once had a name. A stupid one, maybe. But not a joke. His brothers gave it to him, and he wore it with pride.

They used to call him “Havoc.”

*Flashback*

The silence that day was like being buried alive. The mist on Umbara curled like claws.

It started with the air—heavy, choked with smoke and the chemical stench of burnt plastoid and cordite. Umbara was a graveyard before the first body hit the dirt.

He stood in the trench, helmet off, sweat streaking through black camo paint. His fingers shook against his DC-15. He didn’t know if it was fear or adrenaline or both. Probably both.

He wasn’t a rookie. Had served since Geonosis. But this? This was something else.

The sky never cleared. The sun never rose. They fought blind in the fog, in the dark, against an enemy they could barely see—until it turned out the enemy was themselves.

He remembered that moment too clearly.

The comm call. The confusion. The order.

Fire. On the approaching battalion.

They’re Umbarans in disguise.

No time to hesitate, trooper.

The first shot was fired. He didn’t know by who. Then it became a massacre.

It wasn’t until they closed the distance that they saw the helmets. The blue stripes. The 501st.

Their brothers.

He’d vomited in his helmet.

Later, when they found out Krell had manipulated them, that he was playing both sides—using them like pawns in a nightmare—it didn’t matter. The bodies didn’t un-die. The screams didn’t fade.

When it was over, they were commended for following orders.

For their loyalty.

For their “success.”

Something inside him broke.

He stayed quiet. Always quiet. But something… detached.

Later, during cleanup, he walked out into the forest and stared at the scorched battlefield. Ash fell like snow.

A sergeant came up beside him.

“We survived.”

“Did we?”

The next day, he volunteered for a deep recon mission off-grid. Just him. A week. He never came back.

They thought he was dead.

He let them think that.

*Flashback Ended*

He stared into the cup of tea that K4 had made earlier, now gone cold. The hum of the ship filled the silence.

Sha’rali watched him from the other side of the table, saying nothing.

“You ever kill someone you weren’t supposed to?” he asked suddenly.

She blinked. “I’m a bounty hunter.”

“I don’t mean for money. I mean by accident. Orders. Fog of war.”

Her silence stretched longer this time.

“I’ve tortured people who didn’t deserve it,” she said at last. “Does that count?”

He gave a humorless huff.

“I was loyal. I believed in it. Every order. Every command.” He looked at her, eyes bleak. “And it turned me into a murderer.”

“You’re not the only one.”

He studied her face, unsure if she meant herself—or every clone who ever wore a number.

“You didn’t desert because you were weak,” Sha’rali said. “You left because you couldn’t live with what they made you do.”

He didn’t answer.

Just looked down at his gloved hands, now black and silver.

“Maybe I don’t deserve a new name,” he said softly. “Maybe I deserve to stay a number.”

Sha’rali leaned forward, her voice low.

“Then pick a number they don’t know.”

CT-4023 sat in the small galley of Sha’rali’s ship, elbows on the durasteel table, his hands still faintly marked with old bloodstains—some visible, most not.

He hadn’t said a word in minutes.

Sha’rali leaned against the bulkhead, arms crossed, eyes narrowed—not in judgment, but consideration. Her long montrals cast shadows over the dim galley light, and her pale facial markings seemed more stark now, like war paint rather than tradition.

“I was wondering when you’d talk,” she said finally, voice low. “You hide it well. But your eyes give you away.”

4023 didn’t look up. “How so?”

“They’re quiet,” she said. “Too quiet. Like someone turned all the noise off inside, and just left you with static.”

He finally lifted his gaze. “You sound like you know the feeling.”

Sha’rali gave a short, bitter laugh. “I do.”

She pushed off the wall and moved to sit across from him. She set a steaming cup of stim down between them—probably from K4’s endless tea service—but didn’t touch it.

“I’m not like most Togruta,” she said. “Not even close.”

He said nothing, so she continued.

“We’re supposed to be communal. Peaceful. Guided by spirit. Our connection to each other and the land is everything. Most of us find calm just by being near one another. But I don’t. I never have.”

Her voice lowered.

“I don’t feel serenity. I feel… disconnected. Like something in me didn’t wire right. Where others found balance, I found blades. Rage. Violence.”

She looked him dead in the eye.

“There’s a defect in me.”

He blinked slowly. “Maybe it’s not a defect.”

“Oh, don’t romanticize it,” she scoffed. “I kill people for money. I enjoy it sometimes. Not because it’s just—it rarely is—but because it’s easy. Because it makes the noise stop. Even if only for a little while.”

He nodded.

“That… sounds familiar,” he murmured.

They sat in silence. No sympathy, no pity—just recognition.

After a long moment, she leaned back and exhaled.

“I used to think maybe I was Force-touched,” she muttered. “Some genetic thing. An imbalance. But the Jedi came to my village once when I was young. Scanned everyone.”

“They scanned you?”

She nodded. “Said I wasn’t Force-sensitive. But the Knight who tested me looked at me for a long time. Like he saw something he didn’t want to.”

He didn’t ask what she meant. He already knew.

A pause.

Sha’rali looked at him again, more openly now. “Whatever broke you… I think it broke me too. Just in a different shape.”

4023’s lips twitched—almost a smile. Almost.

He nodded again. “We’re good at pretending we’re not the ones who need saving.”

She smirked faintly. “Speak for yourself. I never needed saving. I just needed someone to aim at.”

A pause.

4023 looked at her for a long moment, then finally asked, “And now?”

She held his gaze.

“Now I’m not sure what I need.”

⸻

The Jedi Council room was dimmed with twilight. The room was quiet but tense, evening sun casting long shadows through the high arched windows. Some Masters were seated, others stood, gathered in a semi-circle around the central holoprojector. In the center flickered the grim face of the Trandoshan informant Cid—grainy, but clear enough.

“She’s not here anymore,” Cid rasped. “Was never supposed to be. I didn’t send her a job. Someone used my name. Set her up, maybe. She came asking about it… and she wasn’t alone.”

That was the part the Council had fixated on.

“She had him with her,” Mace Windu said, standing with his arms crossed. “The clone.”

Master Plo Koon tilted his head. “The one from Saleucami?”

“Same body type. Same gait. Same refusal to register. Cid said he didn’t give a name. But the description matches CT-4023.”

“CT-4023…” Obi-Wan leaned forward slightly, expression hardening. “That was the ARC we tried to extract during the intelligence breach. Delta Squad was pulled out under fire. He was taken by a bounty hunter—this same Togruta.”

Shaak Ti nodded gravely from her hologram feed. “We believed he was compromised. Assumed he’d be transferred offworld. Perhaps dissected. And yet—he survived.”

“He didn’t just survive,” Windu said darkly. “He vanished. With her.”

Kit Fisto stood by the edge of the chamber, arms folded behind his back, quiet until now.

“And now he’s resurfaced,” Kit said. “On Ord Mantell. With the bounty hunter. After killing a Death Watch Mandalorian in open combat. Witnesses say she fought him hand-to-hand and took his armor.”

“The clone helped?” Koth asked.

“We don’t know,” Kit replied. “But the report says she nearly lost. Someone intervened. No footage.”

Yoda exhaled a slow breath. “A choice he made. To go with her.”

“Which suggests she didn’t capture him,” Obi-Wan murmured. “She persuaded him.”

“Or worse,” Windu added. “Whatever’s in his head, it was enough for her to extract him from a live Separatist stronghold and disappear. She might not know the value of what she’s carrying… or she might know exactly what he’s worth.”

Master Yoda’s ears tilted downward. “Curious, this bond. Curious, the timing. Dangerous, the silence since Saleucami.”

“There’s more,” Kit said. “Cid has now gone to ground. She said she’d report the sighting to us if we left her alone, but she’s clearly nervous. She saw something she didn’t like.”

Mace nodded once. “Then we move. Kit Fisto. Eeth Koth. Go to Ord Mantell. See if the trail’s still warm. We need to know what the bounty hunter is planning. And if the clone’s still alive.”

Shaak Ti’s gaze lingered on the empty space in the chamber where the clone’s name might have once been honored. “If it is 4023… he was among the last assigned to Umbara.”

That earned a beat of silence.

“A reason to break,” Plo Koon said softly.

“A reason to run,” Windu agreed. “But no reason to stay missing. No reason to hide—unless he’s protecting something.”

“Or someone,” Koth added.

Yoda’s voice cut through like a blade. “A ghost. From a war of ghosts. Find him. Find them both.”

Kit bowed his head. “We’ll leave tonight.”

As the Masters began to turn away and the room dimmed again into shadow, the holoprojector winked off, leaving behind only silence and the faint hum of the Temple’s energy field.

⸻

The sun of Ord Mantell were sinking behind rusted cityscapes as Kit Fisto and Eeth Koth moved quietly through the narrow alleys of the industrial quarter. The air stank of oil, sweat, and molten metal. It was loud—always loud here—and perfect for hiding.

They didn’t wear robes here. Jedi cloaks would be like blood in the water.

Death Watch was already sniffing.

At the end of a cracked alley, a crowd gathered around scorch marks and torn duracrete. Bloodstains were still being cleaned from the wall by a nervous rodian janitor. He worked under the sharp eye of two Mandalorians in blue armor, their visors reflecting the flickering street lights.

“Third time we’ve come by this area,” Koth murmured, low and clipped.

Kit nodded. “No fresh leads. But the smell of fear hasn’t gone anywhere.”

The two Jedi lingered just out of sight, watching as a third Mandalorian approached. His armor was heavier, jetpack hissing slightly as he stepped forward—clearly the one in charge. His voice barked sharp in Mando’a, silencing the chatter from the onlookers.

“That one’s been here since the first report,” Kit whispered, gesturing with his chin toward a thin Zabrak street vendor watching from behind a broken cart.

Koth approached first.

“We have a few questions.”

The Zabrak’s eyes darted toward the Mandalorians.

“I didn’t see nothing. Nothing,” he said quickly. “Look—everyone’s got a blaster down here, yeah? People die every night.”

“Not by Mandalorian hands,” Koth replied coolly. “And not to Mandalorians either. Someone fought one of their elites. And won.”

Kit stepped forward, his smile warm and easy. “We’re not Death Watch. We’re just trying to find someone. A Togruta bounty hunter. Tall, coral pink skin, long montrals. Accompanied by two droids—one purple astromech and a rather impolite butler-type.”

The Zabrak hesitated, then slowly shook his head. “No… don’t know any bounty hunter like that.”

“You do know something,” Kit said gently. “Even if you don’t realize it. Try again.”

After a tense pause, the vendor’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Someone said she fought the Mando. That she took his armor. Left the body in the trash compactor down two levels.”

Koth’s eyes narrowed. “That’s bold. Even for her.”

“But here’s the thing,” the Zabrak continued, leaning closer. “Whoever helped her—no one saw his face. Some say he fought like a Jedi, but used a blaster. One guy swore he heard him shout military code in the fight. Real clean and quiet, like he knew how to move. But when it was over, nothing. No footage, no trace. Gone.”

“No one saw his face?” Kit echoed.

The vendor nodded.

“Then they don’t know,” Koth said under his breath.

Kit looked toward the Mandalorians again. “Death Watch still in the dark.”

“For now.”

They slipped away, vanishing into the crowd like vapor. They passed another alley, where a pair of Death Watch grunts interrogated a pair of street kids who just shook their heads in terrified silence.

Once out of earshot, Koth turned toward his fellow Jedi.

“If they knew it was a clone under that armor, they’d burn this district to the ground. No witnesses is the only reason they haven’t already.”

“We can’t stay much longer,” Kit replied. “She’s already gone. All traces lead cold.”

Koth nodded grimly. “But they’re leaving a trail of ghosts.”

“We’ll find her,” Kit said, eyes narrowed. “We’ll find him too.”

Somewhere above them, unnoticed by either Jedi or Mandalorian, a familiar purple astromech dome blinked once behind a rusted pipe—then quietly rolled back into the shadows.

Kit Fisto’s boots crunched across broken glass in the gutted remains of an old comms relay tower. The metal frame above groaned with wind, swaying gently as shadows flickered beneath the half-moon light. Eeth Koth swept the ruins with his saber hilt gripped tight in one hand, unlit but ready.

“This tower was reactivated three days ago,” Kit murmured, running his fingers over a half-melted panel. “Then shut off again, abruptly. No trace in the central net.”

“Off-grid hardware,” Koth replied. “Could be old slicer work, or could be our bounty hunter. Maybe both.”

Then—click.

Koth turned sharply. “Did you hear that?”

Kit lifted a hand, motioning for silence. From beneath a warped support beam, something shifted, too small for a person—then rolled away with a faint whirr of servos.

“Droid.” Kit’s voice dropped to a whisper, and he moved instantly. With a graceful sweep of his hand, a panel was Force-flung from the floor, revealing the last flicker of a dome disappearing into the ventilation ducts.

“Purple,” Koth muttered. “Fast.”

“That matches the description of her astromech,” Kit confirmed.

⸻

Sha’rali’s lekku twitched as she paced the cockpit, nails tapping rhythmically on her armour plating. K4 stood near the control panel, ever stately, ever calm—until he spoke.

“R9 reports that the Jedi are now actively scanning the upper sector. I estimate they will locate him within seven minutes.”

“I told that little rust-ball to keep its distance,” she hissed, fangs bared in frustration. “I should’ve left him with you.”

“You left him to spy on Death Watch,” K4 replied with maddening evenness. “Not Jedi.”

Her claws clenched into fists.

A sharp beep pulsed in the cockpit—a direct feed from R9.

:: THEY SAW ME. TWO JEDI. BLACK ROBES. ONE HAS TENTACLES. PANICKED LEVEL 4. INITIATING EVASIVE ROLLING. ::

:: DUCT SYSTEM COMPROMISED. ::

Sha’rali swore in Togruti—harsh syllables rarely heard outside her mouth. Then in Huttese. Then something old and violent from a long-forgotten hunting language.

She stopped mid-rant.

“I never wiped his memory,” she said aloud.

K4 inclined his head. “Correct. Nor mine.”

Her eyes snapped to the droid. “You’ve got decades of jobs, contacts, hits—he’s got logs on half the galactic underworld.” Her voice turned ice cold. “And he’s got logs on 4023.”

“You did intend to wipe us several times,” K4 said helpfully. “You just never followed through.”

Sha’rali let out a breath between her fangs. “Because I got sentimental. Because I’m stupid.”

The clone—4023—entered the cockpit, helmet tucked under one arm. “What’s going on?”

She rounded on him. “My droid’s been spotted. The Jedi are sniffing his tracks.”

He stilled. “Do they know it’s yours?”

“Maybe. Doesn’t matter. If they catch him, they’ll tear him apart. Every data string, every encrypted log, every…” She stopped. Her jaw worked.

“You’re going back.” It wasn’t a question.

K4 interjected, “May I remind you both that this is, objectively speaking, moronic.”

“Yeah, well.” Sha’rali growled. “I’m a moron who doesn’t want her brains uploaded to the Jedi archives.”

She began strapping her weapons back into place. Hidden vibroblade in the boot. Double-blaster rig to her hips. Backup vibrodagger at the small of her back. 4023 watched her work, face unreadable.

“You don’t have to do this,” he said finally.

She paused.

“No. I do.”

A sudden silence passed between them. Then her hand tapped the comms panel, locking coordinates.

“Get the ship ready to move the second I’m back.”

“And if you’re not?” the clone asked.

K4 answered for her. “Then we burn the evidence and flee. Standard procedure. Perhaps even play the funeral dirge for her if we’re feeling sentimental.”

Sha’rali offered a dry smile. “You are sentimental. You just hate it.”

As the ramp lowered, she paused and glanced back toward 4023.

“Don’t wait long. If I’m not back in twenty, leave.”

Then she vanished into the misty orange night of Ord Mantell, chasing shadows… and secrets.

⸻

R9 careened down a narrow duct, his purple dome clanging with every turn. The golden trim along his chassis caught sparks from loose wiring overhead. Blasts of hot air whooshed through the maintenance vents as he rolled at breakneck speed, fleeing the two organic Force-users hot on his tail.

:: CURRENT STATUS: SCREWED. ::

He took a sharp left, nearly tipping over.

:: ERROR: ADJUST GYROSCOPIC BALANCE. ::

Behind him, a hiss of lightsabers igniting echoed faintly through the ductwork. The sound prickled his auditory sensors like static.

He rolled out of the vent shaft into the open skeleton of a collapsed warehouse rooftop and immediately initiated a low-power visual dampener. A shimmering flicker of cloaking shimmered over his dome. Temporary. Imperfect.

And just in time.

Kit Fisto dropped from a higher level with the grace of falling water. He landed softly, eyes narrowed.

Eeth Koth followed, his saber active but lowered.

“He’s somewhere here,” Koth said. “I felt him pass through that duct.”

Kit’s eyes swept across the darkness. “He’s hiding. Clever droid.”

They split up, Kit moving in a wide arc around the edge of the roof, Koth stepping forward slowly. R9 barely dared beep. His systems were whirring in overdrive.

:: SITUATION: EXTREMELY SCREWED. ::

But then—footsteps. Not Jedi.

Clanking. Heavier.

Down on the streets below, the sound of three figures moving in perfect paramilitary formation. Black and blue armor. Jagged symbols on the chest plates. Jetpacks. Antennas.

Death Watch.

“Thought I saw something drop,” one muttered.

Another paused and looked upward toward the roof.

“The Jedi are here,” he said. “Kit Fisto. That’s him.”

A third voice, sharper: “You sure?”

The first nodded. “I saw him on once during some riots. That’s a Jedi Council Master.”

The second bounty hunter grunted. “And he’s chasing a droid like his life depends on it. What if that tin can has something we don’t?”

“Or someone.” The leader’s voice turned hungry. “The man who killed our brother.”

They disappeared into the warehouse below, slipping inside like ghosts.

Up on the roof, Kit Fisto froze.

“I felt that,” he whispered. “There’s more down there.”

Koth raised a brow. “Separatists?”

“No… something else. Watching.”

From beneath a crate, R9 watched everything. And as silently as his aging servos would allow, he activated his last-resort subroutine.

:: PRIORITY PING TO UNIT K4 – IMMEDIATE EXTRACTION REQUIRED. INTRUSION MULTIPLIER: +3 ::

Then he started rolling again—fast.

A flicker of movement caught Kit’s eye.

“There!”

He leapt. His green saber flared to life.

R9 took the impact and spun down a cargo chute, bouncing off steel walls and into an open alley. He skidded across duracrete and slammed into a pile of garbage.

Behind him, booted footsteps approached.

A door burst open—but not Kit’s.

Death Watch soldiers stormed the alley, weapons drawn. One knelt where R9 had landed. Another looked toward the rooftop above, scanning.

“Still want to follow the Jedi?” one of them said.

The leader growled. “No. We follow the droid. He’s running from the Jedi too.”

They turned and began tracking his route. Carefully. Coordinated.

Kit Fisto appeared in the alley seconds later, just missing them. He crouched by the scrape marks on the duracrete.

“Someone else is following him,” he said aloud.

Koth looked around, tense. “Death Watch?”

Kit nodded slowly. “Possibly.”

“But why?”

Kit didn’t answer. His gaze turned distant, thoughtful. “We need to report this. Now.”

They took off in the other direction, unaware that down the street, R9 had ducked into a half-buried loading dock, hiding behind a dead speeder. His circuits buzzed.

:: SHA’RALI, IF YOU’RE LISTENING… GET ME OUT OF HERE. ::

⸻

The stars above Ord Mantell burned cold and distant, a velvet ceiling cracked by neon haze and industrial smoke. Sha’rali Jurok perched on the ledge of a rusted scaffolding beam ten stories above the street, her lekku twitching with impatience. The red tint of her coral-pink skin shimmered faintly under the glow of a nearby spotlight, her white facial markings harshly defined in the night.

K4’s voice buzzed in her ear.

“Your plan is recklessness disguised as bravery, Mistress.”

“It’s worked before.”

“Statistically, it’s worked 31.7% of the time. Hardly inspiring odds.”

She adjusted the power cell in her blaster rifle, then scanned the rooftop below. R9’s heat signature blinked weakly in her HUD. Surrounded. Four Death Watch enforcers closing in.

Breathe in.

Sharpen the chaos.

She dropped like a stone.

Landing behind the first Mandalorian, she didn’t bother being quiet—her electrified gauntlet crackled as it slammed into his spine. He spasmed and fell forward, armor clanking. The others whirled just as she dove into them with a roar, blaster firing one-handed, saber dagger in the other.

One shot sizzled off her shoulder pauldron—stunned, not dead, but it pissed her off. Her lekku swayed as she ducked under a wild jetpack swipe and sliced a belt cord—sending the hunter tumbling sideways off the roof.

“R9!” she barked.

The droid squealed in binary, his dome rattling as he zipped toward her. The last two Mandalorians regrouped, advancing with synchronized precision, firing. Too close.

Then—

A blur of green and blue light.

Kit Fisto surged from the shadow like a tide, lightsaber spinning, deflecting bolts in radiant arcs. Eeth Koth followed, hammering one Death Watch fighter into the rooftop with a Force-augmented slam.

Sha’rali blinked, mid-slash.

“…Didn’t expect you two.”

Kit offered a grin even in the chaos. “We didn’t expect to help you.”

The rooftop trembled. More Death Watch approaching—six, maybe eight, from adjacent buildings. A few took flight, closing the distance fast.

“Mistress,” K4 said through comms. “You have approximately twenty seconds before an unpleasant level of Mandalorian reinforcements converge.”

“Bring the ship. Now!”

The rooftop began to burn—one of the fleeing jetpackers had tossed an incendiary before dying, and now the upper decks were crackling with fire.

Sha’rali grabbed R9 under one arm, lunging toward the edge with the Jedi in tow.

Jetpacks buzzed in the air behind them.

Kit flung out a hand—Force-pushing three of them back—but even he looked winded.

A sleek shadow dropped from the clouds with roaring engines and a bark of metallic thrusters.

K4 piloting with refined menace.

“Landing on fire-laden rooftops was not in my original programming.”

The side hatch blew open.

Sha’rali grabbed the nearest Jedi—Koth—and yanked him bodily through the air with a grapple cable. Kit followed with a Force-assisted leap.

She was the last to jump—nearly clipped by a blaster bolt as she hurled herself toward the hatch. Kit caught her by the wrist and yanked her in, just as K4 pulled the ship skyward, engines screaming.

Behind them, the rooftop exploded in sparks and fire.

Inside the ship, silence reigned for one long second.

Sha’rali dropped R9 with a grunt. “That was close.”

Koth glanced between them, tense. “You could’ve left us.”

“Believe me, I thought about it.”

Kit chuckled. “Why didn’t you?”

Sha’rali’s sharp smile didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Guess I’m going soft.”

From the cockpit, K4 chimed:

“Observation confirmed. Mistress has displayed increased emotional indulgence, borderline sentimentality. Recommend immediate psychological review.”

Sha’rali rolled her eyes. “Shut up and plot a course to deep space. No trails, no trackers.”

As she leaned against the wall, arms crossed, the two Jedi looked at her with new eyes—unsure what they’d just been part of, or what game she was really playing.

Even she wasn’t quite sure anymore.

⸻

The hum of The ship’s engines was the only sound for a long moment. The Jedi sat across from their unexpected rescuers in the ship’s dimmed briefing room, if it could even be called that—Sha’rali had refitted the cramped space with mismatched chairs and a jury-rigged holotable now running diagnostics.

Sha’rali sat with her boots up on the table, seemingly unbothered, one lekku lazily coiled over her shoulder. Across from her, the clone—CT-4023—stood with arms crossed, helmet now tucked beneath one arm, black-and-silver Mandalorian armor freshly scorched from their rooftop scuffle. His posture was tense, wary, and silent.

Kit Fisto broke the silence first, voice calm but firm. “We’re not here to detain you. Either of you. We just want the truth.”

“Funny,” Sha’rali said, not smiling. “That’s usually what people say before trying to kill me.”

Eeth Koth leaned forward, hands laced together. “This isn’t an inquisition. We were sent to recover a deserter. That was the mission.”

She gestured toward the clone. “You can’t recover what’s already gone.”

The Jedi turned their attention to him.

He didn’t flinch under their gaze.

Koth narrowed his eyes slightly. “CT-4023… you’re not exactly making this easy.”

“I’m not him anymore,” the clone said at last. His voice was gravel—deep, tired, and burdened. “Whatever version of that number was assigned to Kamino, it died on Umbara.”

Kit regarded him for a long, thoughtful moment. “You were part of the 212th?”

He nodded once. “What’s left of it.”

“Why leave?” Koth asked gently. “Why disappear?”

4023 hesitated. His eyes flicked toward Sha’rali, who gave him a subtle nod.

“You’ve never felt it, have you?” he said quietly. “That… hollow snap in your head when you realize the people giving you orders stopped being right a long time ago? When you start to think that maybe… you’re not meant to survive the war you were made for?”

Kit’s gaze softened. “You chose freedom.”

“No,” 4023 said. “I chose not to die in someone else’s lie.”

Sha’rali stood, walking toward the corner cabinet. She keyed in a command, and a medical scanner flickered to life.

“I assume you’ll want proof,” she muttered. “That he’s not Republic property anymore.”

From a holotray, a full scan of the clone’s body projected in grainy, rotating detail.

“Cloning markers? Burned. Biochips? Removed. CT barcode? Surgically flayed and regenerated.” Her voice was clinical, almost bored. “Even the facial markers have been subtly altered—minor surgical shifts to the cheekbones and jawline. Nothing that would raise flags on facial recognition unless you really knew what you were looking for.”

Kit Fisto examined the scan with mild surprise. “This is… thorough.”

“He wanted out,” she said, shrugging. “He asked. I obliged.”

Eeth Koth stood slowly. “But why keep him with you? What purpose does he serve?”

Sha’rali leaned one hip against the table and gave the Jedi a long, unreadable look.

“I don’t need a purpose to show someone mercy. Rare as it is.”

4023’s voice cut in low. “She could’ve sold me out a dozen times by now. To the Separatists. To Jabba. She didn’t.”

Koth turned his attention to him. “And what do you want?”

He took a breath. “To be nobody.”

There was silence. The kind that filled the space when everyone realized there was no easy solution.

After a beat, Kit Fisto turned off the scan and stepped back. “There’s no traceable connection to the Republic anymore. No chain of command, no markers, no active file. CT-4023… doesn’t exist.”

Sha’rali arched a brow. “So we’re done here?”

Koth hesitated. “The Council won’t be pleased.”

“Good,” she said dryly. “I was beginning to worry.”

Kit Fisto nodded slowly. “We’ll report that the deserter is… unrecoverable.”

“Dead,” she said. “That’s usually easier for them to hear.”

He inclined his head, then turned to the clone. “You chose your path. I hope it brings you peace.”

4023’s expression barely changed. “It hasn’t yet.”

The Jedi rose and prepared to disembark at the next neutral outpost, neither chasing nor warning. Just… leaving. Because there was nothing else to be done.

As they filed toward the docking bay, Sha’rali remained by the doorway, arms crossed, watching them go.

“You know,” Kit said without turning, “whatever this is you’re doing—it doesn’t seem like you anymore.”

Sha’rali didn’t respond. Just smirked faintly. “Yeah… I get that a lot lately.”

When the Jedi were gone and the ship was sealed, R9 gave a warbled snort and beeped something foul in Binary from the corridor.

K4’s voice echoed from the cockpit:

“So. Shall I ready the guns in case the peacekeepers change their mind?”

Sha’rali exhaled slowly and headed down the corridor. “No. For once… I think they’re really letting go.”

⸻

The GAR war room dimmed as Master Kit Fisto’s hologram flickered into full resolution. Eeth Koth’s projection stood beside him, arms folded, expression somber.

“We searched the surrounding sectors thoroughly,” Eeth said. “But there was… nothing to recover.”

Kit nodded. “The signs were conclusive. If he survived Ord Mantell, he didn’t stay. He’s long gone. No traceable identifiers, no Republic gear. He’s not the man you knew anymore.”

Silence settled like dust across the chamber.

Obi-Wan Kenobi stood at the center of the gathered assembly, a hand to his beard, visibly subdued.

“CT-4023,” he murmured. “He was one of ours. 212th ARC.”

“He fought under me,” Cody added, voice low and deliberate. “Bright kid. Loud. Smartass. Called himself Havoc.”

A quiet ripple of chuckles passed among the clones seated in the rear—muted, nostalgic, strained.

“He was always fidgeting,” Rex added with a rare, soft smile. “Said it helped him shoot straighter.”

“He made every shot count,” Bacara said. “I saw him clear a whole ridge on Mygeeto. Grenade pin in his teeth.”

“Never took cover,” Wolffe muttered. “Cocky little di’kut. But brave.”

Fox crossed his arms, leaning against a marble pillar near the edge of the chamber. “Brave or not, he deserted. All we’re doing now is telling war stories about a traitor.”

Rex turned slowly to look at him. “Were you on Umbara, Commander?”

Fox didn’t answer.

Obi-Wan’s eyes darkened.

“He was last seen after that campaign,” he said quietly. “A lot of good men went home from Umbara different. Some… never did.”

“He didn’t go home,” Cody said flatly. “He walked into the jungle one night after Krell fell. Left his armor behind. All he took was his rifle and a backpack.”

“He left a message, didn’t he?” Rex asked.

Cody nodded. “On the inside of his chest plate. Scratched in with a vibroblade.”

Rex remembered it too. He quoted it aloud. “I won’t die in another man’s war.”

A long silence followed.

Eeth Koth finally broke it. “There is no body to recover. No tags. No serials. Whatever life CT-4023 had, it ended in that jungle—or sometime soon after.”

“Is that your official report?” Obi-Wan asked, tone carefully measured.

Fisto gave a solemn nod. “It is.”

Fox scoffed quietly, turning away. “Coward’s death.”

“You don’t know that,” Howzer replied, voice steely. “You didn’t know him.”

“I knew what he became.”

“No,” Rex said sharply. “You know what he left behind. There’s a difference.”

Fox said nothing.

Obi-Wan exhaled slowly. “He was one of mine. One of many. He earned the ARC designation. Saved my life once. I mourn him now, the same as I would any fallen brother.”

Cody gave a curt nod. “If he’s gone, he’s gone. No shame in death. We all meet it one day.”

“But he didn’t go down fighting,” Bacara stated.

“Maybe he did,” Cody said. “Just not on a battlefield.”

The Council meeting dispersed quietly. Some stayed behind, murmuring. Others left in silence, helmets under their arms.

Rex lingered a little longer, staring out the high Council windows at the speeder traffic beyond.

“He was a brother,” he said quietly. “Even if he’s gone, I hope he found peace out there. Wherever he went.”

Howzer gave a quiet hum. “If anyone deserved it… maybe it was him.”

Wolffe folded his arms. “I don’t agree with the desertion, it’s a cowards way out.”

Fox, for all his bitterness, remained still and quiet for a long moment.

Only Obi-Wan noticed the flicker of conflict in his eyes before he turned and left without another word.

The Jedi were satisfied with the explanation.

The Republic would not search further.

But not everyone believed in ghosts.

Some knew they were still walking among them.

⸻

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stop asking “is this good?” and start asking “did it cause emotional damage?” that’s how you know.