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⸻
The Outer Rim. A nowhere planet with a forgettable name. A bar that stank of spilled liquor and dreams that died in the dust. The kind of place where no one asked questions and everyone had something to hide.
Perfect.
You stepped through the door, your boots leaving gritty impressions on the warped floorboards. The air inside was thick with smoke, body heat, and the sour scent of desperation. The music was low, sluggish. There was laughter—loud, drunk, desperate—and the unmistakable tension of blasters under tables.
You spotted them before they spotted you.
Kenobi. Clean robes despite the grime. Always did like to pretend he wasn’t in the gutter with the rest of you.
Skywalker. Brooding in the corner like he owned the galaxy.
Ahsoka. Sharp-eyed, too observant.
And then the clones.
Commander Cody, sitting at the bar, looking like he was trying to blend in but failing miserably. That rigid spine was a dead giveaway.
Captain Rex, by the sabacc table, helmet at his side, hand near his belt. He looked right at home in this kind of chaos.
And of course, they hadn’t noticed you yet. Not yet.
Their target sat in a booth at the far end, sweating bullets. A former Seppie bigshot gone rogue, data chip hidden in his belt, secrets worth a fleet. Everyone wanted him.
And you’d been paid a lot to make sure he didn’t leave this dump alive.
So you didn’t hesitate.
One clean shot between the eyes.
The bar froze. Then erupted.
Blasters were drawn, tables flipped, civilians ducked. The rogue Seppie’s lifeless body slumped in the booth as chaos swallowed the room.
You ducked a shot, returned fire, elbowed a low-level bounty hunter in the face (probably the idiot who’d been hired to extract the Seppie), and spun—only to feel the hard press of a stun round hit your shoulder. Your world blinked white.
⸻
You woke up cuffed, sitting across from the same bounty hunter you clocked earlier. He looked pissed, bleeding from his nose.
“You broke it,” he snarled.
“Yeah?” You smirked. “Want me to break the other half for symmetry?”
“Enough,” Cody growled from beside the shuttle door.
You turned your head lazily toward him. “Commander. Still as charming as ever.”
“And you’re still a pain in my shebs,” Rex muttered, arms folded as he leaned against the wall opposite you.
You gave him a wink. “Thought you liked that about me.”
Skywalker wasn’t as amused. “You just jeopardized months of intel.”
Kenobi, to his credit, looked more tired than angry. “Why did you kill him?”
You shrugged. “Because someone paid me to.”
“That’s your only reason?” Ahsoka asked, arms crossed.
“I’m a bounty hunter, kid. What did you expect—moral qualms?”
The shuttle rattled slightly as it took off. You leaned back in your restraints, smirking at the other bounty hunter who was still fuming.
“If you keep glaring at me like that, I’m gonna start thinking you like the pain,” you said.
“I’m gonna gut you.”
“You can try. They’ll probably stop you halfway through. Probably.”
⸻
When the shuttle touched down and they dragged you toward the brig, you kept up the banter, kept smiling through it. They threw you into a cell—right across from someone you hadn’t seen in a while.
Cad Bane.
He sat on the cot, arms folded, hat gone. He looked up slowly, red eyes gleaming.
“Well, well. Look who finally got caught.”
You leaned against the bars, grinning. “Still bitter I outshot you on Lothal?”
He gave a dry chuckle. “Nah. Just funny seein’ you in a cage. Guess even you couldn’t run forever.”
“I’m not running,” you said. “Just biding my time.”
Cad raised a brow. “That’s what they all say.”
From behind you, you heard Rex mutter to Cody, “This is going to be a long debrief.”
Cody replied, “We should’ve left her on Taris.”
You smirked. “You missed me, admit it.”
They didn’t answer—but you swore you saw the corner of Cody’s mouth twitch. Rex didn’t look away fast enough.
Yeah.
This wasn’t over.
⸻
The cell was cold. Imperial-grade, sterile, humming with the low sound of energy fields. The kind of place designed to keep people like you in line.
You sat on the bench, arms draped casually over your knees, studying your chipped nails while the other bounty hunter—Dren or Dray, whatever his karking name was—paced like a caged nexu.
He stopped in front of you. “When we get out of here—”
You cut him off without looking up. “You’re going to try to kill me. Yeah, yeah. You’ve said it five times already. Sixth time’s the charm?”
He growled low in his throat.
Cad Bane laughed from his cell. “If he doesn’t do it, I might.”
You smiled sweetly. “Aww, Bane. Missed me that much?”
He smirked. “Not as much as I missed your karkin’ messes.”
Before Dray could lunge, the door hissed open.
Commander Cody stepped in first, helmet off, expression carved from stone. Rex followed close behind, also helmetless, his eyes scanning the room like he expected you to pull a trick just for fun.
And oh, you wanted to.
“Let’s make this simple,” Cody said. “One at a time.”
He gestured to Dray, who sneered at you before being dragged out by two troopers.
⸻
They threw him into the chair, cuffed to the table. Skywalker stood near the door, arms crossed. Ahsoka leaned in the corner. Kenobi took a seat opposite him.
Cody and Rex remained silent but close.
“So,” Kenobi started, polite as ever. “Why were you sent after the separatist?”
Dray spat blood onto the floor. “Someone big. Black Sun, maybe. Zygerrians. Don’t know. Don’t care. I don’t ask.”
“But you were told to bring him back alive,” Ahsoka pressed.
Dray shrugged. “My job. Pretty sure hers was the opposite.” He jerked his chin toward the door.
Skywalker’s brow twitched. “And you didn’t think to stop her?”
“Have you tried stopping her?” Dray barked a bitter laugh. “She doesn’t stop until the job’s done.”
Kenobi exchanged a look with Cody. “And what do you think her goal really is?”
Dray smirked. “Chaos. She lives for it.”
⸻
They didn’t even bother dragging you. You walked.
Rex stayed close. His arm brushed yours once in the hallway. Neither of you said anything, but the contact lingered.
They sat you in the room, uncuffed your hands—but you didn’t miss the stun baton nearby.
Kenobi this time sat across from you. Ahsoka and Skywalker flanked the wall. Cody stood by the door. Rex leaned against the table, arms folded, watching you carefully.
“Who hired you?” Kenobi asked.
You shrugged. “Don’t know. Credits came clean. Dead drop. Professional middle-man.”
“What were your instructions?”
You smirked. “Make sure the Seppie doesn’t leave the bar alive. Job well done, I’d say.”
“You jeopardized months of intelligence,” Skywalker snapped.
You tilted your head, mock-innocent. “Aw. You poor things. Didn’t have a backup plan?”
Rex cut in, voice low. “Why take that job?”
“Because it paid better than babysitting cadets,” you replied, eyes locking with his.
Cody’s jaw tensed. “You knew we’d be there.”
You let the silence stretch.
Kenobi sighed. “You’re playing a dangerous game.”
You leaned forward, grin sharp. “I’ve always played dangerous. And the best part? I win.”
Cody stepped closer. “Not this time.”
You looked up at him. The air shifted. That heat. That damn history.
“You sure about that, Commander?”
He didn’t answer.
But he didn’t break eye contact either.
⸻
Later: In the Cells Again
“You’re going to get us all killed,” Dray snapped.
“Only you,” you replied sweetly.
“Keep talkin’,” Cad Bane drawled, “and I’ll kill ya both just to sleep in peace.”
You laughed. “You’re too old and slow, Bane.”
He smirked. “You sure? Maybe I’m just waitin’ for the right moment.”
You stood and leaned against the bars. “You want out, don’t you?”
Bane looked up slowly. “You plannin’ somethin’?”
“Maybe. But I’m gonna need you not to shoot me first.”
Dray scoffed. “You’re conspiring with him?”
You turned. “I’d rather get spaced with Bane than babysit you for another karking hour.”
“You’d die before we even got to the hangar.”
“I’d die after stabbing you in the eye,” you snapped.
“Enough!” Cody’s voice cracked through the corridor. “You’re all on thin ice.”
Rex followed behind him, eyes flicking between you and Cad Bane. “What are they whispering about?”
“Escape,” Bane said easily.
“Sabacc,” you said at the same time, deadpan.
Cody sighed. “Stars help me.”
You flashed him a grin. “Come on, Commander. You never did like me quiet.”
Cody stared at you, tired and tense. “You’re going to make this hell, aren’t you?”
You leaned in through the bars. “Only for you.”
Behind him, Rex didn’t laugh. But he looked away—like maybe he remembered too much.
And it wasn’t over.
Not by a long shot.
⸻
He came to your cell alone. Helmet under one arm, posture like durasteel—guarded, unreadable. But his eyes… they lingered.
“I don’t get you,” he said finally.
You arched a brow, leaning against the wall. “That’s the fun, isn’t it?”
“You could’ve walked a different path.”
“Couldn’t we all?”
He stepped closer to the bars, voice lower. “You’re good. You’ve always been good. But you waste it chasing the next high, the next payday.”
You met his eyes. “And you waste yours dying for a war you didn’t start.”
Silence crackled between you.
“You know I almost trusted you once?” he said, quieter now. “Back on Ryloth.”
You smiled sadly. “I trusted you too. That’s why it hurt.”
Cody’s jaw clenched. He stepped back.
“Good night,” he muttered.
But as he walked away, you whispered after him, “I liked you best when you didn’t follow orders.”
He paused. Just for a second.
And then he was gone.
⸻
Night cycle hummed over the Republic cruiser like a lullaby—dimmed lights, soft hums of systems in idle. Most troopers were off duty, leaving only the skeleton crew watching the prisoners. Which made it the perfect time.
You sat on the bench in your cell, silent, eyes cast down—but your mind was spinning like a rigged sabacc deck.
From the cell across the hall, Cad Bane shifted. “So. We doin’ this or not?”
You glanced up. “I’m in. As long as you don’t shoot me in the back.”
He chuckled darkly. “Only if you give me a reason.”
“You always find reasons.”
⸻
It started with a cough. A sound code—three stuttered bursts and a hum.
You shifted the small sharp sliver of metal you’d hidden in your boot sole. Slipped it into the lock of your cuffs. Click.
Bane did the same. Quick, smooth. Silent.
Then came the bang—explosive discharge from a faulty conduit Bane had rigged with the power from his bed frame over the past two nights.
Smoke filled the hall.
Guards shouted.
The cell shields dropped.
You were on your feet in seconds, vaulting out, slamming a stolen baton into a clone trooper’s head. Bane rolled beside you, gunning another down with a blaster stolen mid-scrap.
Dren/Dray, the other bounty hunter, stumbled into the hall behind you. “What the hell is going on?!”
“Keep up,” you snapped, firing at a control panel to unlock the main access hatch.
But he didn’t keep up.
He panicked.
He tripped the silent alarm.
And you watched, stunned, as he shot toward you in his confusion—blaster bolt nearly missing Bane, grazing your arm.
“You idiot,” you hissed.
Bane growled. “He’s gonna get us killed.”
You didn’t hesitate.
You turned and shot him point-blank in the chest.
Dren gasped, staggered, eyes wide. “You—”
“Should’ve stayed in your cage.”
He dropped. Dead weight. Smoke and blood.
Bane didn’t comment. Just nodded.
You both bolted.
⸻
Later—after the alarms died, after the blast doors sealed, after you slipped into a half-abandoned maintenance shaft and disappeared into the dark—Rex found you.
He always found you.
You were nursing your arm in an old hangar, steam hissing from busted pipes, blaster on your lap.
He didn’t raise his weapon. Just stood there. Watching.
“Was it worth it?” he asked.
“Surviving usually is.”
He took a few steps closer. His armor scraped the floor. His eyes, so damn tired, locked on yours.
“You didn’t have to kill him.”
You sighed. “He was going to blow the whole thing. He already tried to shoot me.”
“He was scared.”
“So was I.” You looked up. “I still am.”
That caught him off guard. He blinked. “You?”
You gave him a tired smile. “I’m not made of stone, Rex.”
He knelt in front of you, gaze softer now. “I know.”
Your hands brushed when he passed you a med patch. You didn’t move away.
“You could come back,” he said, voice so low you almost missed it.
“Come back to what?” you asked, searching his face. “The war? The orders? The cage?”
He didn’t answer.
But he didn’t stop looking.
And you didn’t stop hoping he’d say something that would make you stay.
Instead, you stood. Pulled your hood up.
“If you see Cody…” you started, then paused. “Tell him I liked the way he looked at me. Even when he hated it.”
You turned.
Rex didn’t stop you.
But his voice followed you, low and sure.
“You still owe me a drink.”
You didn’t turn back.
But your smile did.
⸻
The outer rim planet fell behind you in a smear of stars and scorched debris. The freighter Cad Bane had “borrowed” from some now-dead smuggler creaked through hyperspace like a dying animal, but it flew. That’s all you needed.
You leaned against the console, arms crossed, one leg kicked up. Bane was at the controls, hat tilted low, cigar smoldering at the edge of his teeth.
“You always bring the drama,” he muttered without looking at you.
You smirked. “You miss it.”
“Miss the pay. Not the company.”
“You’re full of shit.”
He chuckled. “And you’re still too loud for stealth work.”
You both knew it was banter. The real conversation sat thick between the lines.
You killed a Republic target. In front of the Republic. You got out. And now… now you were heading straight for the heart of it all.
“You sure about this client of yours?” Bane asked finally.
You looked out the viewport. “He pays well. Doesn’t ask too many questions.”
“Too many questions?” Bane repeated with a slow grin. “That’s usually my line.”
You didn’t answer.
⸻
The freighter touched down in a private bay tucked into the shadow of the Senate. No inspection. No questions. It was already cleared.
You didn’t ask how.
Bane didn’t follow. “I ain’t steppin’ foot back on this dirtball unless someone’s bleeding for it,” he muttered, lighting a fresh cigar.
“Suit yourself.”
He gave you one last look as you descended the ramp. “Watch your back, girl.”
You flashed him a smile over your shoulder. “Always do.”
The hangar door sealed shut behind you with a hiss like a final breath.
You weren’t escorted.
You didn’t need to be.
You knew the route—hallways hidden in plain sight, guarded only by shadows and silence. A turbolift opened to a private suite carved beneath the Senate tower. Cold. Ornate. Smelling faintly of incense and age.
He stood there waiting—Chancellor Palpatine.
A soft smile curved his lips. The kind of smile you should never trust.
“My dear,” he said warmly, stepping toward you, “I trust the target was… eliminated?”
You bowed your head slightly. “Clean shot. Left no trace.”
“I’m sure they saw it differently,” he murmured, amused. “Tell me—how did our Jedi friends take the loss?”
“They were angry. Confused. Lost the asset and control.”
Palpatine smiled wider. “Excellent.”
You said nothing.
He stepped closer, his eyes sharper now. “You’ve done well. But I must caution you, my dear—you’ve caught the attention of some very dangerous people. Commander Cody. Captain Rex. Jedi Skywalker…”
“I can handle them.”
He tilted his head. “I’m certain you think so.”
There was something about him—like he could peel the skin from your bones with just a glance.
He reached into his cloak and handed you a small black chip. “Your payment. And… a little something more.”
You took it, eyes narrowing. “What’s the bonus?”
“A new target,” he said softly. “But not yet. When the time comes, I will summon you.”
“And if I’m busy?”
His eyes gleamed like ice in the dark.
“You won’t be.”
You stepped back into the shadows of the Coruscant underworld, chip in hand, heart pounding. Not fear—no. Something worse.
Anticipation.
You’d just made a deal with the devil.
And he was wearing the face of the Republic.
Timeline: Post-Order 66
⸻
You loved Rex.
That was the problem.
Loving someone like Rex—someone who bled loyalty, who carried honor like a burden on his back—it meant every lie had weight. Every omission chipped a little deeper.
And you’d made a lot of omissions.
Like the fact that the long supply runs and offworld errands you took were less “freelance logistics” and more “tracking people with credits on their heads.”
Or that the blaster you kept in the back of your locker wasn’t for show.
Or that your work boots weren’t scuffed from cargo bays—they were scuffed from being ankle-deep in the Outer Rim’s worst places, chasing scum worse than you.
Rex didn’t know.
And you weren’t ready for him to.
Not because you didn’t trust him, but because you knew him. Knew how he’d look at you if he found out. Not with disgust, but disappointment.
You couldn’t take that. So, you didn’t give him the chance.
He thought you were away for work. You let him believe it.
He let you come home when you could. No questions asked.
And every time he greeted you with that quiet smile, that warm hand at your waist, the trust in his eyes made something in your chest twist sharp and guilty.
⸻
“Target’s down there,” Hunter said, pointing toward the jagged canyon mouth. “Five mercs guarding him. We take them quiet, get in, get out.”
The squad nodded. You crouched beside Rex, hidden behind a crumbling rock wall. Your rifle was primed, your eyes scanning the dust-blown valley below.
From your position, you could see them—mercs, alright. Sloppy formation. No discipline. One of them had their helmet on backwards. You’d seen cleaner work from drunk Rodians.
Wrecker shifted beside you. “Bet I could take ‘em all with just my fists.”
“Only if they die from secondhand embarrassment,” you muttered.
One of the mercs—tall, broad, self-important—stood by the fire and began what could only be described as a speech.
“I’m done being a pawn in someone else’s game!” he bellowed, pacing like he was auditioning for a holodrama. “Time we made our own rules!”
The others grunted. One clapped. Another belched.
You groaned. “Oh, stars. That one again?”
Rex raised a brow. “Again?”
You waved vaguely toward the group. “Every washed-up gun for hire says that eventually. It’s like a rite of passage. They pretend they’re the main character when really, they’re just some rent-a-pawn with delusions of depth.”
Wrecker laughed. “You really don’t like mercs.”
You snorted. “I don’t like hypocrites.”
Rex studied you, something quiet behind his eyes. “You’ve been around this kind of crew before?”
You hesitated just long enough for it to matter. Then: “Yeah. Once or twice. Cargo jobs. Protection gigs. Nothing worth writing home about.”
He nodded, but he didn’t look away right away.
He was starting to ask questions.
Not out loud. Not yet.
But they were there—building behind his eyes, behind every careful glance. You could feel it.
You had to keep it together. Had to keep the story straight.
Because Rex trusted you.
And if he ever found out that while he was building something real with you, you were still out there playing a very different game—hunting, lying, hiding—you didn’t know what that would do.
To him.
To both of you.
⸻
The plan was clean. Simple.
Split the group. Neutralize the mercs. Grab the ex-Imperial and get the hell out.
Of course, it stopped being simple the moment you dropped down from the ridge and landed three meters away from someone who kinda used to know your face.
He was grizzled, thick-skulled, and reeked of old spice and bad choices.
And unfortunately, he was staring right at you.
“Wait a damn second,” he growled, squinting through the dust. “I know you.”
You didn’t flinch, didn’t look away. “You don’t.”
“No—nah, I do. You’re that ghost-runner from—” His eyes lit up. “Lortha 7. The docks. You dropped a guy with a blade to the eye and vanished before the payout even—”
A hard CRACK echoed as the butt of your blaster met the side of his head. He dropped like a sack of nerf shit.
Wrecker whistled. “Kark. Remind me not to piss you off.”
Echo stepped over the merc, nudging his unconscious body. “Well, that was subtle.”
You brushed dust off your jacket like nothing happened. “Guy was clearly hallucinating.”
Rex’s voice cut in low behind you. “Lortha 7?”
You didn’t look at him. “You want to talk geography now?”
“No. I want to talk about why a bottom-tier merc from the Outer Rim thinks he’s worked with you.”
Hunter called out from ahead. “We’ve got the target. Let’s move.”
Bless you, Hunter.
You swept ahead of the group, boots kicking up dirt, but you could feel Rex’s gaze on your back. Curious. Calculating. Not angry—yet—but you knew that look. You’d seen him stare down traitors with softer eyes.
Beside you, Omega jogged to keep up, wide-eyed and beaming. “You were amazing! That guy looked like he was gonna cry before you even hit him!”
You gave her a half-grin. “Good. That means I’m losing my touch. Usually they cry after.”
Omega laughed like it was the best thing she’d heard all week.
Rex—not so much.
⸻
The fire crackled low. Everyone was scattered—Wrecker snoring, Tech nose-deep in a datapad, Howzer half-dozing upright. Hunter was on watch. Omega was curled up beside Gonky.
You were cleaning your blaster.
Rex watched you for a long time before speaking.
“That’s a Relby-K23,” he said. “Not common outside Mandalore or… bounty hunters.”
You didn’t look up. “Got it from a friend.”
“Friend with a bounty license?”
Your fingers paused on the slide. Just for a second.
He caught it.
You kept your voice steady. “What are you getting at, Rex?”
He stepped closer, crouched beside you. His voice was quiet. “You knew how those mercs would move. What they’d say. You called the leader’s bluff before he even opened his mouth.”
“I’ve worked dirty jobs. Doesn’t make me a merc.”
“No,” he agreed. “But then there’s your weapon. The vibroblade in your boot. The way you never flinch at high-value ops. The fact that you never tell me where you’re going when you ‘travel for work’.”
You finally looked at him.
And gods, the way he was looking at you—soft, but betrayed. Like he already knew the truth, but didn’t want to hear it.
You hated that look more than anything.
“I’m not the enemy, Rex.”
“I didn’t say you were.” He nodded slowly. “But I think there’s a part of you I don’t know.”
There it was. No accusation. Just quiet heartbreak.
You exhaled. “I didn’t want to lie. But… I didn’t want to lose what we had either.”
“You still working?” he asked, not harsh, just real.
You didn’t answer.
Which was its own kind of answer.
From the firelight, Omega stirred. “Rex?”
He looked over, gave her a quiet “go back to sleep,” and she did.
When he looked back at you, he was still the man you loved. But there was distance now.
Not anger. Just space.
And you weren’t sure how to cross it yet.
⸻
The cantina on Vradros IV reeked of sweat, desperation, and synth-spice. Which is to say, it smelled exactly like a place Wolffe would pick for a “quiet recon op.”
You leaned against the bar, twirling your drink with one hand, your blaster slung low on your hip like a challenge. You felt him before you saw him—Commander Wolffe moved like a ghost in armor, all steel and unspoken tension.
“You missed our meeting,” he said, voice low and gruff behind that half-scorched vocabulator.
You smirked. “I was busy. Didn’t realize I needed your permission to have a life.”
“You don’t.” He paused. “Just seems like yours always conveniently conflicts with mine.”
You turned, sipping your drink lazily. “Aw. You miss me, Commander?”
Wolffe didn’t flinch, but the corner of his mouth twitched like it wanted to. “You’re a pain in my shebs.”
“And yet,” you drawled, “here you are.”
He looked tired. No—past tired. He looked hollowed out, like someone who’d been running on fumes since the war ended, and no one remembered to tell him he could stop.
You tilted your head. “You sleep at all?”
“Enough.”
“Eat?”
“When I remember.”
“Touch anyone lately?”
That got his attention.
His gaze flicked to yours, sharp and startled—but not offended. Never offended. Not with you.
“That’s a hell of a question.”
You shrugged. “It’s a hell of a galaxy.”
He was quiet for a beat, jaw tight.
Then, out of nowhere, he said, “You gonna hit me, or just keep talking?”
You blinked. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me.” He stepped closer, chest brushing yours. “You’ve been itching for a fight since I walked in.”
“No, you’ve been begging for one.” You looked him up and down. “Why?”
“Maybe I deserve it.”
“Oh, don’t get all martyr on me, Commander.” You narrowed your eyes. “What’s really going on?”
He didn’t answer. Just stared at you, every inch of him coiled and unreadable.
And then he said, almost too quiet: “I just want to feel something.”
Ah.
There it was.
The crack in the armor.
Not in his phrasing—Wolffe would never be that direct—but in the weight behind the words. You’d seen it before. In soldiers who lost brothers. In children who never got hugged enough. In yourself, sometimes, when the nights were long and the stars too loud.
“Fine,” you said, stepping in close. “You wanna get hit?”
He nodded once, stiff.
You swung. Not hard—but enough to snap his head to the side.
The cantina didn’t even blink. No one cared. It was that kind of place.
Wolffe exhaled, slow and shaky. Turned his head back toward you.
And smiled.
A real one. Lopsided. Crooked. Full of pain and something almost like relief.
You grabbed the front of his armor and pulled him down to your level. “Next time you need to be touched, maybe try asking, instead of playing wounded karking bantha.”
He leaned in, voice rough. “Would you say yes?”
You kissed him.
It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t sweet.
It was raw. Like striking flint to stone.
His hands came to your waist, holding on like he didn’t trust the ground to stay solid. You felt the tremor in him—not fear. Not hesitation. Just need.
You pulled back, just enough to murmur against his mouth: “Touch-starved bastard.”
He looked at you like you’d reached inside him and flipped a switch he forgot existed. “I deserved that punch.”
“You’ll deserve the next one too.”
He smirked. “Looking forward to it.”
⸻
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
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! Your writing is superb and I love your fic with the reader and Crosshair bantering. Do you think you could do a Crosshair x Fem!reader where she finally gets him flustered and blushing? Maybe a bit of spice at the end if that’s ok? Xx
Crosshair x Fem!Reader
Warnings: No explicit smut, but it’s definitely mature
⸻
Crosshair was used to being in control—of his aim, of his surroundings, of people. He liked it that way.
What he didn’t like was how you always had a retort ready for him, sharp as the toothpick between his teeth.
“Your stalking’s getting obvious, sharpshooter,” you drawled, slinging your rifle over your shoulder as he fell into step beside you. “Didn’t know you liked watching me walk that much.”
“I wasn’t watching you walk,” he muttered.
You raised an eyebrow. “So you were watching my ass. Got it.”
He glanced away, jaw tight, a faint flush creeping up his neck.
Score one.
“You’re lucky I’m into grumpy, brooding types who pretend they don’t care.”
“I don’t.”
“Mmhm,” you said, voice thick with amusement. “That why you always hover when I’m patching up, or growl when I flirt with other clones?”
He stopped walking. You didn’t. Not until he grabbed your wrist, tugging you back with just enough force to make it known he was done playing.
“I don’t growl.”
“Oh, honey,” you smirked, stepping in close. “You practically purr when you’re jealous.”
His eyes narrowed, but his pulse jumped beneath your fingertips. You hadn’t meant to touch his chest—but your hand was there now, and he wasn’t moving.
“Careful,” he warned, voice low.
You tilted your head. “Why? You gonna shoot me?”
“No. But I might do something you’ll like.”
You gave him a slow, wicked grin. “That’s the idea.”
And that’s when it happened—the blush. Subtle at first, just a dusting of pink across those high cheekbones. But you saw it. He knew you saw it.
“You’re blushing,” you whispered, grinning like you’d just landed a perfect headshot.
He scoffed. “It’s hot in here.”
“We’re on Hoth.”
Silence. You let it stretch. Delicious, victorious silence.
“…You gonna keep staring, or—”
You silenced him with a kiss—soft, heated, and just enough tongue to make his breath hitch. His hand gripped your waist in reflex, grounding, needing.
“You gonna let me keep talking like that,” you breathed against his lips, “or are you finally gonna shut me up properly?”
He backed you into the nearest wall faster than you could blink, lips crashing against yours harder this time, heat surging between you both like a live wire. When he pulled back, his voice was husky, feral.
“Be careful what you ask for.”
You smirked, heart hammering. “Right on target.”
The wall was cold at your back, but Crosshair was not.
His body pressed flush to yours, lean and strong, caging you in with one hand braced above your head and the other gripping your hip like you might slip through his fingers if he didn’t anchor you.
“You’ve got a real smart mouth,” he muttered, voice dark and ragged.
“I know,” you breathed, dragging your nails lightly down the front of his blacks. “You like it.”
He growled—a low, almost feral sound—then tilted your chin up with his gloved fingers and kissed you again. This time, there was no holding back. Teeth, tongue, heat. He kissed like he fought—focused, controlled, but with a dangerous edge that said he might snap.
You wanted him to snap.
Your fingers slipped beneath the hem of his shirt, dragging along the sharp dip of his waist. His abs flexed beneath your touch, and his breath caught.
“What’s wrong, Cross?” you purred, nipping at his jaw. “You usually have so much to say.”
“I’m busy shutting you up,” he rasped.
And oh—he did.
His hands were everywhere now, sliding up your thighs, gripping your hips, tugging you closer. You rolled your hips against his and felt just how not unaffected he was. The air between you grew hot, heavy, thick with need.
“You wanna keep teasing,” he whispered in your ear, breath hot against your skin, “I’ll make good on every threat I’ve ever made.”
Your eyes fluttered shut at the promise laced in his tone. He sounded dangerous. And you? You’d never wanted anything more.
“I dare you.”
He chuckled, low and rough, and it did something to you.
“You don’t know what you’re asking for.”
“Oh, I do,” you said, curling your fingers in his shirt and pulling him closer. “And I want all of it.”
He kissed you again, slower this time—possessive, claiming, his. His teeth grazed your bottom lip as he pulled away, eyes locked on yours, pupils blown wide with heat.
“Later,” he murmured, brushing his mouth over yours. “When we’re not seconds from being interrupted by someone like Wrecker.”
You groaned. “He would walk in right now.”
“Which is why,” he said, voice sharp and wicked, “you’re going to think about this all day until I do something about it.”
He stepped back, leaving you breathless, flushed, and absolutely wrecked.
And the smirk he shot you?
It said he knew exactly what he’d done.
I love how you write Tech! Could I request something with him and a super clumsy and oblivious reader please? Thank you!
Thank you! Sometimes I feel like I write him too robotic like ahaha
⸻
Tech x Reader
⸻
Tech had calculated—twice, actually—that if he complimented you at least three times a day, you might eventually understand he was flirting. The odds weren’t stellar (34.7%, to be exact), but he was determined to try.
“Your ocular symmetry is… exceptionally pleasing,” he said one afternoon, eyes never leaving his datapad.
You blinked up at him, mid-attempt to carry a large crate that was clearly too heavy for you. “Uh… thanks? Are you saying my eyeballs match?”
“Precisely.”
You smiled, almost tripping over your own feet as you finally got the crate to the other side of the Marauder. “Cool. I like symmetry. Good for… art. And, like… walking straight.”
Tech stared after you, baffled. That had been his best one yet. He even rehearsed it.
⸻
Later, you were in the cockpit, absolutely tangled in the cords you were trying to organize. Wrecker had asked you to help. He did not, however, explain how not to fall into a mess of wires like some kind of malfunctioning protocol droid.
“You seem to find yourself in precarious entanglements at an impressively consistent rate,” Tech noted, crouching beside you with a slight smirk.
You groaned dramatically. “It’s a talent. Maybe I should join a circus.”
“I find it… endearing,” he muttered.
You were too busy trying to untangle your foot from a power cable to hear him.
⸻
It got worse.
He started trying “casual” physical contact. A light touch on the shoulder here, a hand on your back when guiding you through the hull. Subtle. Calculated. Measured. He was certain you’d notice.
You? You thought he was just awkward and accidentally touchy.
Once, he brushed your hand while passing you a tool. You jolted, dropped the hydrospanner on your foot, then thanked him for it.
“You—you thanked me?” Tech asked later, clearly flustered. “I caused minor bodily harm!”
“Yeah, but it kinda woke me up. I was zoning out hard.”
He turned away, muttering something about “social cues being an imprecise science.”
⸻
Hunter noticed first. “You gonna tell her you like her or keep complimenting her neural pathways until she dies of old age?”
“I am trying to initiate courtship gradually,” Tech replied, defensive. “She is just… uniquely unresponsive to conventional—or unconventional—methods.”
“She’s got no idea,” Echo chimed in, amused. “You could tell her she was beautiful in binary and she’d thank you for a firmware update.”
⸻
Eventually, Tech snapped.
“Your clumsiness is statistically improbable and yet, inexplicably, I find myself drawn to it. To you. In a—romantic sense.”
You blinked at him from the floor, where you’d just slipped on your own jacket.
“Oh,” you said. “Wait. You’re… flirting with me?”
“I have been flirting with you.”
“For how long?”
“Seventeen days, four hours, and—”
“Tech. You should’ve just said something.”
“I did! Your neural symmetry, the entanglement commentary, the guiding hand—”
“Okay, yeah, that’s on me,” you admitted, grinning sheepishly. “I’m a bit slow.”
“Not slow,” he corrected. “Just… delightfully oblivious.”
“…Was that another flirt?”
“Affirmative.”
You laughed. “Okay, I’m catching on now.”
“Statistically overdue,” he muttered.
But you leaned over, kissed his cheek, and said, “Worth the wait?”
His ears turned red. “Yes. Highly.”
⸻
Warnings: Death
⸻
The room was silent save for the rustling of robes and the faint hum of hoverchairs shifting in place. The Jedi Council chamber was vast, intimidating, and awash in golden morning light—but you stood in the center like a wraith returned from war, shackled and disarmed, your beskar armor dulled by ash and grief.
Master Windu’s voice was sharp, clipped. “You attempted to assassinate the Chancellor of the Republic.”
You said nothing at first.
“He is a threat,” you replied finally, your voice calm but tired, laced with something far deeper—haunted rage, maternal despair. “I’ve seen his true face.”
The Council shifted. Windu’s eyes narrowed.
“You accuse the Supreme Chancellor of deception?”
You didn’t look away. “I don’t accuse. I know. He’s manipulating this war. Playing both sides. He won’t stop until it destroys everything—including your Order.”
Obi-Wan, standing near the window, tensed. You saw the flicker in his eyes. Doubt. Pain. A memory of you at Satine’s side. Protective. Loyal. Fierce. Now here, branded a traitor.
Master Yoda, ancient and watchful, finally spoke.
“Hm. Evidence, do you have?”
“No. Just truth no one wants to hear.”
You took a breath. “But ask yourselves… how did he rise so quickly, so quietly? How did a million sons born for war appear at just the right time?”
That hit a nerve.
The room was heavy. Silent.
Yoda’s ears twitched. “Your words… clouded by fear, they are. But not wrong, perhaps…”
You looked him dead in the eye. “I fought in the wars that shattered Mandalore. I know what evil smells like before it has a name. And it reeks from him.”
Windu finally stood. “That’s enough.”
⸻
They didn’t sentence you. Not yet.
But they locked you away.
Solitary. Cold. A durasteel cell with only your memories and ghosts to keep you company. Your beskad, your helmet—gone. All you had was your silence.
And your voice.
You sat on the narrow bench, back against the wall, and closed your eyes.
And then—
You hummed.
Low. Soft. Familiar.
That lullaby.
“You may not know me because I changed
But mama will not stop lookin' for her baby
When the river takes, the river gives
And mama will search as long as she lives”
You didn’t know anyone was listening.
Fox sat alone in the darkened security station, staring at the holo-feed from your cell.
He’d patched in a secure line. Untraceable.
And quietly… he’d sent the link out.
To every one of your boys who’d ever looked up at you with those wide, wondering eyes.
Wolffe. Bacara. Cody. Rex. Neyo. Thorn. Hound. Doom. Gree. Bly. Ponds. Even the ones far from Coruscant. The ones with scars and stories and old memories of you ruffling their hair and calling them “vod’ika.”
They all watched. Quietly. No one spoke.
They watched their buir—now chained and branded a traitor—sit alone, and hum the song she used to sing when their bones ached from training. When they cried at night and you sat on their beds and promised they were more than weapons.
The melody reached them like a forgotten heartbeat.
Wolffe sat on his bunk, clenching his fists.
Bacara stared at the screen until tears blurred his vision.
Cody turned off his comm after the fifth replay—couldn’t bear to hear it again, but couldn’t not remember.
She was still fighting for them.
Even now.
⸻
The thunder of artillery filled the air. The ground quaked beneath each tread of their bikes. Dust painted the sky in shades of rust and smoke.
Commander Neyo stood at the edge of a ruined ridge, visor glowing crimson, posture carved in stone.
He didn’t flinch when the ground shook.
He didn’t turn when blasterfire cracked through the comms.
He was always composed.
But something was wrong.
He hadn’t spoken in three hours.
His troops didn’t question it. They followed orders, watched his gestures, executed movements like clockwork.
But his Jedi General noticed.
General Stass Allie approached, her silhouette cutting through the dust cloud. She said nothing at first—only stood beside him, watching the horizon of another broken world.
Finally, her voice, calm and knowing:
“You haven’t said a word since we left the rendezvous. That’s unlike you.”
Neyo didn’t move. “There’s nothing to say, General.”
“There’s always something,” she said softly. “Especially when someone’s hurting.”
He stiffened.
She didn’t push. Just stood with him, patient. Let the silence stretch like a held breath.
Then—
“There was a woman,” he said finally, the words dry and brittle, like he’d scraped them off a forgotten shelf. “A Mandalorian. She trained us. Before the war.”
Stass turned, curious.
“She wasn’t like the Kaminoans,” he said. “She saw us. Treated us like we mattered. Like we weren’t just gear for the Grand Army. She—”
His jaw clenched. “She was our buir.”
Stass blinked. “Your mother?”
He nodded once.
“What happened to her?”
“She was arrested. Tried to kill the Chancellor.”
The Jedi’s eyes widened. “And you believe she would do that?”
“I don’t know what I believe anymore,” Neyo muttered.
He finally turned to her, his voice low. Raw.
“She used to sing to us, General. A lullaby. I hadn’t thought about it in years. But last night… Fox sent it out. To all of us. A commlink file, just her voice, humming the song.”
He looked away, something flickering behind the red glow of his visor.
“I couldn’t sleep after that. I couldn’t breathe.”
“You miss her,” Stass said gently.
“She was the first person who told us we were more than this.” He gestured to the battlefield, the armor, the broken sky. “And now she’s locked away. Branded a traitor. And I’m here, doing exactly what she feared.”
Stass placed a hand on his shoulder. “Your choices still matter, Neyo. What you feel matters.”
He didn’t reply.
But the silence wasn’t hollow anymore.
It was full of ghosts and lullabies and a thousand questions he’d never dared ask before.
⸻
The lights in her cell flickered faintly, a quiet rhythm in the stale, recycled air. Her wrists rested on her knees, ankles crossed, body still—except for the soft hum that slipped past her lips.
The song echoed faintly in the walls, brushing through the cold steel like a memory refusing to fade.
A quiet chime at the door.
She stopped humming.
The door hissed open.
Mace Windu stepped inside, arms folded beneath the weight of his dark robe. He said nothing at first, just looked at her—like he was trying to see beyond the armor, the Mandalorian blood, the criminal label stamped across her file.
She looked back. No fear. Just tired eyes.
“I was wondering which one of the high-and-mighty Jedi would come first,” she murmured, voice rough but dry with sarcasm. “Let me guess. You’re here to interrogate me like the rest?”
“No,” Mace said simply. “I came because I understand.”
She raised an eyebrow.
“I had a Padawan once. Depa Billaba. She was strong. Proud. Brilliant. A better Jedi than I’ll ever be,” he said, stepping closer. “And I loved her like my own.”
He stopped just outside her reach. “When she went to war, I thought I could prepare her. That I could keep her from the worst of it. But war doesn’t care who trained you. Or how much someone loves you.”
The reader tilted her head, studying him now with less suspicion. “So you came to offer sympathy?”
“I came to offer truth,” he said.
She stood slowly, shackled wrists hanging between them. Her voice dropped. “I trained them. I fought for them. I protected them from Kaminoans who saw them as cattle and from a war they were born into without choice. You tellin’ me I should’ve let them go? Like it’s nothing?”
“No,” Mace said, firm but gentle. “But I am telling you—they’re not boys anymore. They’re soldiers. Men. Commanders of legions. They face things you trained them for. And they stand because of what you gave them. Your job is done.”
Her jaw tightened. Her voice cracked.
“They’re still my little boys.”
Mace was quiet for a moment. Then said, “They always will be.”
He sat on the edge of the bench across from her, letting the silence fill in the cracks.
“You can’t stop what’s coming,” he said eventually. “But you can trust in what you built. And maybe—just maybe—you still have a part to play. But not if you let vengeance blind you.”
She looked away, staring at the wall—at nothing.
“You still believe in the Republic?” she asked.
“I believe in people,” Mace replied. “And I believe in second chances. Even for you.”
She scoffed. “That’ll make one of us.”
He stood. “Your story isn’t over.”
As he turned to leave, her voice came after him—quieter this time.
“Windu…”
He looked back.
“If anything happens to them—I’ll burn this galaxy to the ground.”
He didn’t smile. But there was something softer in his eyes.
“I’d expect nothing less.”
⸻
The metal door hissed shut behind Mace Windu. He took a deep breath. That woman—she was fury wrapped in armor, iron forged by war, motherhood, and betrayal. She reminded him of his younger self in a strange, haunting way. But she was right: if anything touched those clones—her boys—she’d scorch the stars.
He turned the corner of the sterile hallway and found Commander Fox standing at his post, helmet off, arms folded tight across his chest, back against the wall like he’d been waiting to be angry.
“Commander Fox,” Mace said with a nod.
Fox didn’t move. “General Windu.”
A pause.
“You’ve been watching,” Mace said.
“I made sure they could all see her. Thought they deserved it,” Fox replied, his voice flat but edged. “And I wasn’t watching you.”
Mace studied the clone’s expression. Cold. Worn. Eyes like someone who hadn’t slept right in years. A soldier pressed too hard, too long.
“She means something to you.”
“She means everything to us.” Fox looked away, jaw clenched. “She was the only one who saw us before the armor.”
“You don’t trust Jedi,” Mace said plainly.
“No, sir,” Fox said without hesitation. “And after what I’ve seen—what I’ve been ordered to do—I don’t think I ever will.”
Another pause.
“You think I’m here to use her. Same as the Kaminoans did.”
“I don’t think,” Fox said. “I know.”
There was no venom in it. Just weariness. Truth from a man who’d walked through hell with a gun and a number instead of a name.
“I’m not here to control her,” Mace said. “But I won’t let her destroy herself.”
“You won’t have to. The Republic already did that.”
Mace’s gaze hardened slightly. “You’re not wrong. But the war isn’t over yet. And she may still have a role to play.”
Fox pushed off the wall. “Yeah, well. When you figure out what that role is, maybe tell the Chancellor. Because he’s the one that locked her up like an animal for protecting us.”
He grabbed his helmet and slid it on.
Mace took a step forward. “She doesn’t see herself as a hero.”
“She doesn’t need to,” Fox replied through the vocoder. “We already do.”
With that, Fox walked away, crimson armor disappearing into the shadows of the corridor. Mace stood alone, the silence heavier now, full of all the things they hadn’t said.
⸻
The light from Coruscant’s upper levels spilled in through the large window panes, casting long, clean shadows across the briefing room. A war table flickered in the center, displaying the projected terrain of Utapau, with Grievous’ last known coordinates.
Commander Cody stood at the edge of it, helmet tucked under his arm, lips set in a thin, unreadable line. His armor was freshly polished, but the circles under his eyes betrayed sleeplessness.
Obi-Wan Kenobi entered the room quietly, robes billowing gently behind him.
“You’re early,” Kenobi said, voice light, but with a trace of concern beneath it.
“So are you, sir,” Cody replied without turning.
Kenobi walked up beside him and studied the projection for a long moment. “You seem troubled, Commander.”
Cody hesitated. “I’ve been having trouble… focusing, General. The men are ready. We’ve prepared. But something feels wrong. Off.”
Kenobi glanced sideways at him, then moved to sit at the edge of the war table.
“You’ve never brought doubts to me before.”
“I didn’t think they mattered before,” Cody said. “Now—I’m not so sure.”
The Jedi waited, giving him space.
Cody inhaled slowly, then said, “It’s her.”
Kenobi raised an eyebrow. “Your… Mandalorian?”
“My buir,” Cody corrected quietly. “She would’ve hated that title, but she earned it.”
Kenobi nodded solemnly. “I’ve had the pleasure of meeting and fighting alongside her. She was a warrior who trained you before the war.”
“She trained us to survive the war,” Cody said, voice strained. “Not just fight it. She said… she said we weren’t bred for someone else’s throne. That we were more than their weapons. She called us her children.”
Kenobi leaned back, expression softening. “She saw what we didn’t.”
“She tried to kill the Chancellor.”
That silence hit hard between them.
“She didn’t give a reason,” Cody went on. “Just that he was a threat to her boys. That’s all she ever said. Not to the Jedi. Not to the Senate. Just… us.”
Kenobi folded his hands. “I believe her. I shouldn’t, but I do.”
Cody looked at him, surprised.
Kenobi’s eyes were tired. “There’s a… darkness growing in the Senate. In the Force. Master Yoda feels it too. Perhaps your Mandalorian simply saw it with mortal eyes. Sometimes that’s all it takes.”
Cody clenched his jaw. “I want to believe she was wrong. That the Republic is worth this. That you Jedi—” he paused, “—that you’re fighting the good fight.”
Kenobi looked away, thoughtful. “We are. But we’ve lost so much of ourselves in the fighting. I sometimes wonder if we’ve already lost what we were trying to protect.”
The silence stretched.
“I wish she could’ve seen us now,” Cody said, almost bitterly. “Maybe then she wouldn’t have tried to burn the galaxy down to save us.”
“She might have anyway,” Kenobi replied. “Mothers rarely wait for permission to protect their children.”
Cody blinked hard and nodded. “You’ll be careful, sir?”
Kenobi smiled faintly. “Always.”
Cody straightened, put his helmet on. “Then so will I.”
⸻
The storm of war was always preceded by silence.
Kenobi led the assault like a figure of light—focused, poised, graceful even in the chaos of fire and collapsing duracrete. General Grievous was dead. The battle was won.
Cody watched from a cliffside vantage point as the Jedi descended into the underbelly of the sinkhole city. It should’ve felt like a victory.
But instead…
He paced away from his men. The battle chatter crackled in his ear; Wounded evac requests, ammo tallies, the final mop-up reports. He tuned it out.
And then his comm buzzed.
A direct transmission. Not encrypted. Not even a voice. Just a code.
EXECUTE ORDER 66.
His blood ran cold. His HUD flickered with new directives. Jedi. Traitors. Terminate.
The message repeated. Execute Order 66.
Cody didn’t move.
The other clones around him began shifting. One of them called his name. “Commander?”
He didn’t answer. His mind spiraled. Her face. The Mandalorian woman who used to train him, who used to wipe the grime off his cheek and tell him, “You are not just a weapon. You are my boy.”
Her voice echoed in him now like a ghost:
“You will always be my little boys, even when you stand taller than me in armor. And if the day ever comes where someone tells you to kill without question, I hope you remember my voice first.”
Cody clenched his fists.
“Commander?” one of the troopers asked again, this time louder. “Do we engage?”
Kenobi was on his lizard mount—heading toward the surface. A perfect target.
His hand hovered over the detonator for the cannon.
Seconds ticked by.
The image of her again. Singing in the dark barracks. That lullaby.
He pressed the detonator.
The explosion lit up the sinkhole. The beast howled. Kenobi fell.
And Cody’s heart shattered.
He stood still for a long time after. Staring at the smoke.
⸻
In the deep, dark of her cell, she stopped humming.
Something had happened. She felt it in her bones. Her chest tightened. Her hands gripped the bench beneath her.
She didn’t know what—but something had been taken from her.
⸻
Time doesn’t pass in the depths of the detention block. It congeals.
She could hear whispers. Whispers of something terrible—distant screams in the lower levels, the echo of warships streaking overhead. Something had shifted in the galaxy’s bones. She felt it like a tremor in her own marrow.
And then she stopped feeling them.
Her boys.
One by one, their presence—so familiar to her soul, so deeply tethered it was like knowing the beat of her own heart—disappeared. Or worse, went quiet.
She pressed her forehead against the cell wall, trying to reach them. Neyo. Bacara. Rex. Wolffe. Fox. Cody.
Gone.
The humming in her throat died.
⸻
The sound of boots. Precise. Purposeful. Too many.
She stood, slow and cautious.
The door opened with a mechanical hiss. Blue light spilled into the room. And standing at the threshold was him—his face now ruined and blistered, cloaked in shadow and power.
Chancellor Palpatine. No. Sidious.
Behind him stood Commander Fox—helmet off, his face pale, unreadable, strained.
“Such loyalty,” Sidious said softly. “Even when betrayed.”
She stepped forward, fists clenched. “What do you want?”
“I came to honor our… agreement. The clones, your precious sons—they have served their purpose, as you have served yours.”
Her voice dropped into a snarl. “You said they’d have freedom. You said they’d be safe.”
“I said they’d be prepared.” A smirk curled on his ruined face. “But of course… that was never truly your concern, was it? You needed a purpose. A legacy. And now, dear Mandalorian, you have it. A galaxy reborn—on the backs of your sons.”
Fox flinched.
He stepped forward, but she noticed the twitch in his jaw, the tremble in his hand as it hovered near his sidearm. His face was tight, like something inside was breaking—trying to claw its way to the surface.
She looked at him, pleading. “Fox. Ori’vod. Don’t let him do this to you.”
His eyes flickered.
“She’s in on it,” Sidious said softly, as if coaxing a child. “She knew. From the beginning. The Mandalorian woman you trusted, who called you her son. She helped me create this.”
Fox’s breath caught, his expression cracked, raw confusion blooming in his face like a wound. He looked at her—searching, desperate.
“Tell me it’s not true,” he whispered. “Tell me you didn’t… help him.”
Her voice cracked like old armor. “I didn’t know what he truly was… not until it was too late.”
Sidious spoke before she could continue. “But she stayed, Fox. She trained you for this. The weapon she made you into—was always meant to serve me.”
Fox shook his head. “You said you’d protect us. You said we were yours.”
Tears stung her eyes as she reached for him, but the guards raised their rifles.
“You still are,” she whispered. “Always.”
Fox turned away—ashamed, broken.
Sidious gave her one last look. “You should be proud. Few in this galaxy will ever shape destiny like you have. You created the perfect soldiers. And now, they belong to me.”
The doors closed behind him. Fox didn’t look back.
She dropped to her knees, hollow.
She had trained them to survive.
She never thought she’d have to teach them how to remember.
⸻
There were whispers again.
But these weren’t the trembling rumors of war—no, this was fear, crawling in hushed voices down the sterile white corridors of the detention center. The woman in cell 2187 was gone.
No signs of a breach. No weapons found. Just a sealed door… and an empty room.
She moved through the shadows of the lower levels like a ghost—her armor no longer Mandalorian, not Imperial, just black and scorched, a patchwork of memory and rebellion. Her face was gaunt, her eyes sharper than they’d ever been.
She was dying.
Not from wounds, not yet. But from the weight of betrayal. Of knowing her boys—her sons—were now weapons in the hands of the monster she once served in ignorance.
She wouldn’t allow it any longer.
She struck at twilight.
No theatrics. No grand speech. Just steel and flame.
Explosions ripped through the senante’s lower levels, drawing troopers away as she ascended through emergency lift shafts and ancient, forgotten maintenance passages. Her body ached—wounds reopening, muscles screaming—but her purpose burned hotter than pain.
When she finally reached the Emperor’s chamber, she didn’t hesitate.
She threw the door open, weapons drawn—
Only to find the air grow colder.
And him standing there.
A towering shadow of rage and machinery—Darth Vader.
She didn’t know who he was—not truly. Just another nightmare conjured by Sidious.
“You will not touch him,” Vader intoned, voice as deep and hollow as a tomb.
She snarled, gripping her blades. “You’re just another puppet.”
She attacked.
It wasn’t a fight. It was a last stand.
She darted, spun, struck—but he was relentless. Her blades sparked against his armor, and the lightsaber was a streak of red death in the air. He disarmed her in seconds, crushing one blade in his fist, the other sent clattering to the floor.
But she didn’t stop.
She grabbed a vibroknife from her boot and lunged—screaming the names of her sons.
And then—nothing.
The red blade pierced through her chest.
She staggered, eyes wide, choking on the air.
Vader held her there, impaled, silent.
“I was their mother,” she rasped. “They were mine.”
“You are nothing now,” he said coldly—and let her fall.
⸻
News spread in whispers—first in shadowy halls of high command, then quietly through encrypted clone comm channels.
They all heard it.
Commander Cody, stationed at an outer rim garrison, held the news report in shaking hands. The woman he once saw as indestructible—his buir—was gone. Killed by the Empire she had once served, the same one that had twisted him.
He didn’t cry.
But he didn’t speak for days.
Commander Wolffe, stoic and silent, slammed his fist into the wall of his quarters hard enough to fracture the durasteel. When his men asked what happened, he said nothing. He only muttered her name once, like a prayer, like a curse.
Fox, still on Coruscant, didn’t speak to anyone. He stood outside her former cell, empty now, silent. The humming he once hated hearing was gone. So was the warmth behind it.
He had made the report. He had confirmed her corpse.
And when no one was looking, he put a small knife through the wall of the Emperor’s propaganda poster.
And Rex.
Rex sat alone on a quiet, forgotten moon. Hiding. Free.
He listened to the old lullaby once more, from a broken recording tucked into his armor.
He didn’t move for hours.
He just let it play.
Her voice—soft, ancient, loving.
Their buir… was gone.
But the fire she left behind—still burned in all of them.
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5
Warnings: Death
⸻
The moonlight over Sundari always looked colder than it should.
Steel towers pierced the clouds like spears. And though the city gleamed with the grace of pacifism, you could feel it cracking beneath your boots.
You stood just behind Duchess Satine in the high chambers, your presence a silent sentinel as she addressed her council.
Another shipment hijacked.
Another uprising quelled—barely.
Another rumor whispered: Death Watch grows bolder.
When she dismissed the ministers, Satine stayed behind, standing at the window. You didn’t speak. Not at first.
“I feel them watching me,” she finally said, voice quiet. “The people. As though they’re waiting for me to break.”
You took a slow step forward. “You haven’t broken.”
“But I might,” she admitted.
You remained still, letting the quiet settle.
“You disapprove,” she said, glancing over her shoulder. “I can see it in your eyes.”
“I disapprove of what’s coming,” you said. “And what we’re not doing about it.”
Satine turned fully. “You think I’m weak.”
“No.” Your voice was firm. “I think you’re idealistic. That’s not weakness. But it can be dangerous.”
“You sound like my enemies.”
You stepped closer, voice low. “Your enemies want you dead. I want you prepared.”
Her jaw tensed. “We don’t need weapons to prepare. We need resolve.”
“We need warriors,” you snapped, the edge of your heritage flaring. “We need eyes on the streets, ears in the shadows. Satine, you can’t ignore the storm just because your balcony faces the sun.”
For a moment, you saw it in her eyes—that mix of fear and pride. Then she softened.
“I didn’t bring you here to fight my wars.”
“No,” you said. “You brought me here to keep you alive.”
A long silence. Then, in a whisper:
“Will you protect me even if I’m wrong?”
You reached forward, resting a gloved hand on her shoulder.
“I will protect you even if the planet burns. But I won’t lie to you about the smoke.”
She nodded, barely. Then turned back to the window.
You left her there.
⸻
The cracks ran deep beneath the capital. Whispers of Death Watch had grown louder, but so too had something darker. Outsiders spotted. Ships with no flags docking at midnight. Faces half-shadowed by stolen Mandalorian helms.
You walked the alleys in silence, cloak drawn, watching the people. They looked thinner. More afraid.
They felt like you did in your youth—when the True Mandalorians fell, and pacifists took the throne.
It was happening again.
Only this time, you stood beside the throne.
⸻
Sundari had never been louder.
Crowds surged below the palace walls. Explosions had bloomed like flowers of fire across the city. The Death Watch had returned—not as shadows now, but as an army, and you knew in your blood this wasn’t the cause you once believed in.
You stormed into the war room with your cloak soaked in ash.
Bo-Katan stood tense, arms crossed, her helmet tucked under one arm, jaw tight.
“Is this your idea of taking back Mandalore?” you growled. “Terrorizing civilians and letting offworlders roam our streets?”
Bo snapped, “It’s Pre’s idea. I just follow orders.”
“You’re smart enough to know better.”
She met your eyes. “And you’re too blind to see it’s already too late. This planet doesn’t belong to either of us anymore.”
Before you could reply, Vizsla strode in, flanked by his guards, armed and smug.
“Careful, old friend,” he said to you. “You’re starting to sound like the Duchess.”
You turned to face him fully. “She at least had a vision. You? You brought the devils of the outer rim to our door.”
“You think I trust Maul?” Vizsla scoffed. “He’s a tool. A borrowed blade. Nothing more.”
“You’ve never been able to hold a blade you didn’t break,” you said, stepping closer, voice low and dangerous. “And you dare call yourself Mand’alor.”
That was the final push.
Vizsla signaled for the guards to stand down. He drew the Darksaber—its hum filled the chamber like a heartbeat of fate.
“You want to test my claim?” he snarled.
You drew your beskad blade from your back, steel whispering against your armor.
“I don’t want the throne,” you said. “But I won’t let you stain the Creed.”
The battle was swift and brutal. Sparks lit the floor as steel met obsidian light. Vizsla fought with fury but lacked precision—he was stronger than he had been, but still undisciplined. You moved like water, like memory, like the old days on the moon—fluid, sharp, unstoppable.
He faltered.
And then—they stepped out of the shadows.
Maul and Savage Opress, watching from the high walkway above the throne room. Silent. Observing.
When Vizsla saw them, he struck harder, desperate to prove something. That’s when you disarmed him—sent the Darksaber flying from his hand, the weapon hissing as it skidded across the floor.
Vizsla landed hard. He panted, looking up—humiliated, bested.
You turned away.
But it wasn’t over.
Chains clamped around your wrists before you even reached the stairs. Death Watch soldiers—those loyal to Maul—grabbed you without warning. You struggled, but too many held you down.
Maul descended the steps of the throne, black robes fluttering, yellow eyes glowing like dying suns.
He walked past you.
“To be bested in front of your own… how disappointing,” Maul said coldly to Vizsla.
Vizsla staggered to his feet. “You’re nothing. A freak. You’ll never lead Mandalore.”
Maul ignited his saber.
He and Vizsla fought in a blur of red and black and desperate defiance. But Maul was faster. Stronger. Born in a storm of hate and violence.
You could only watch, forced to your knees, wrists bound, as Maul plunged the blade through Vizsla’s chest.
The Death Watch leader crumpled.
The Darksaber now belonged to the Sith.
Gasps rippled through the chamber.
Some kneeled. Others hesitated.
Then Bo-Katan raised her blaster.
“This is not our way!” she shouted. “He is not Mandalorian!”
Several warriors rallied to her cry. They turned. Fired. Chaos erupted. Bo and her loyalists broke away, escaping into the halls.
You remained.
You didn’t run.
Maul approached you slowly, the Darksaber glowing dim in his hand.
He crouched, speaking softly, dangerously.
“I see strength in you,” he said. “Not like the weaklings who fled. You could live. Serve something greater. The galaxy will fall into chaos… and only the strong will survive.”
He tilted his head.
“Tell me, warrior—will you live?”
Or…
“Will you die with your honor?”
“Kill me”
Maul hesitated for a moment, before ordering you to be taken to a cell.
The cell was dark.
Damp stone and the smell of old blood clung to the air. You sat in silence, bruised and bound, staring at the flicker of light outside the bars. A sound shifted behind you—soft, delicate, out of place.
Satine. Still regal, even in ruin. Her dress torn, her golden hair tangled, but her spine as straight as ever.
“You’re still alive,” she said softly, voice hoarse from hours of silence.
You looked over, slowly.
“For now.”
There was a pause between you, heavy with everything you’d both lost.
“You should’ve left Mandalore when you had the chance,” she murmured.
You shook your head. “I made a promise, Duchess. And I keep my word.”
Satine gave a humorless smile. “Even after all our disagreements?”
You smiled too. “Especially after those.”
She lowered her head. “They’re going to kill me, aren’t they?”
You looked her in the eye.
“Not if I can stop it.”
⸻
They dragged you both from your cell.
Through the palace you once helped defend. Through the halls still stained with Vizsla’s blood. The Death Watch stood at attention, masks blank and cold as ever. Maul waited in the throne room like a spider in his web.
And then he arrived.
Kenobi.
Disguised, desperate, but unmistakable. The moment Satine saw him, her composure nearly cracked.
You were forced to kneel beside her, chains cutting into your wrists.
The confrontation played out as in the holos.
Maul relished every second.
Kenobi’s face was a war in motion—grief, fury, helplessness. You watched Maul drag him forward, speak of revenge, of his loss, of the cycle of suffering.
And then—like a blade through your own chest—
Maul killed her.
Satine fell forward into Obi-Wan’s arms.
You lunged, screaming through your teeth, but the guards held you fast.
“Don’t let it be for nothing!” you shouted at Kenobi. “GO!”
He escaped—barely.
And in the chaos, you broke free too, a riot in your heart. Blasters lit up the corridors as you vanished into the undercity, cutting through alleys and shadows like a ghost of war.
⸻
The city was choking under red skies.
Mandalore burned beneath Maul’s grip, its soul flickering in the ash of the fallen. You stood in the undercity alone, battered, bleeding, and unbroken. The taste of failure stung your tongue—Satine was dead. Your boys were scattered in war. You’d given everything. And it hadn’t been enough.
You dropped to one knee in the shadows, inputting a code you swore never to use again. A transmission pinged back almost instantly.
A hooded figure appeared on your holopad.
Darth Sidious.
His face was half-shrouded, but the chill of his presence was unmistakable.
“You’ve finally come to me,” he said, almost amused. “Has your compassion failed you?”
You clenched your jaw. “Maul has taken Mandalore. He murdered Satine. He threatens the balance we prepared for.”
Sidious tilted his head, folding his hands beneath his robes.
“I warned you sentiment would weaken you.”
“And I was wrong,” you growled. “I want him dead. I want them both dead.”
There was a silence. A grin crept onto his face, snake-like and slow.
“You’ve been… most loyal, child of Mandalore. As Jango was before you. Very well. I shall assist you. Maul’s ambitions risk unraveling everything.”
⸻
Maul sat the throne, the Darksaber in hand. Savage stood at his side, beastlike and snarling. The walls still smelled of Satine’s blood.
Then the shadows twisted. Power warped the air like fire on oil.
Sidious stepped from the dark like a phantom of death, with you behind him—armor blackened, eyes sharp with grief and rage.
Maul stood, stunned. “Master…?”
Sidious said nothing.
Then he struck.
The throne room erupted in chaos.
Lightsabers screamed.
Maul’s blades clashed against red lightning, his rage no match for Sidious’s precision. Savage lunged for you, raw and powerful—but you were already moving.
You remembered your old training.
You remembered the cadets.
You remembered Satine’s blood on your hands.
You met Savage head-on—vibroblade against brute force. You danced past his swings, striking deep into his shoulder, his gut. He roared, grabbed your throat—but you twisted free and drove your blade through his heart.
He died wide-eyed and silent, falling to the stone like a shattered statue.
⸻
Maul screamed in anguish. Sidious struck him down, sparing his life but breaking his spirit.
You approached, blood and ash streaking your armor.
“Let me kill him,” you said, voice shaking. “Let me avenge Satine. Let me finish this.”
Sidious turned to you, eyes glowing yellow in the flickering light.
“No.”
You stepped forward. “He’ll come back.”
“He may,” Sidious said calmly. “But his place in the grand design has shifted. I need him alive.”
You trembled, fists clenched.
“I warned you before,” Sidious said, stepping close. “Do not mistake your usefulness for control. You are a warrior. A weapon. And like all weapons—you are only as valuable as your discipline.”
You swallowed the rage. The grief. The fire in your soul.
And you stepped back.
“I did this for Mandalore.”
He nodded. “Then Mandalore has been… corrected.”
⸻
Later, as Maul was dragged away in chains and the throne room lay in ruin, you stood alone in the silence, helmet tucked under your arm.
You looked out at Sundari. And you whispered the lullaby.
For your cadets.
For Satine.
For the part of you that had died in that room, with Savage’s last breath.
You had survived again.
But the woman who stood now was no mother, no protector.
She was vengeance.
And she had only just begun.
⸻
You tried to vanish.
From Sundari to the Outer Rim, from the blood-slicked throne room to backwater spaceports, you moved like a ghost. You changed armor, changed names, stayed away from the war, from politics, from everything. Just a whisper of your lullaby and the memory of your boys kept you alive.
But you knew it wouldn’t last.
⸻
The transmission came days later. Cold. Commanding.
Sidious.
“You vanished,” his voice echoed in your dim quarters. “You forget your place, warrior.”
You said nothing.
“I gave you your vengeance. I spared your life. And now, I call upon you. There is work to be done.”
You turned off the holoprojector.
Another message followed. And another. Then…
A warning.
“If you will not obey, perhaps I should ensure your clones—your precious sons—remain obedient. I wonder how… stable they are. I wonder if the Kaminoans would let me tweak the ones they call ‘defective.’”
That was it. The breaking point.
⸻
The stars blurred past as you sat still in the pilot’s seat, armor old and scuffed, but freshly polished—prepared. You hadn’t flown under your own name in years, but the navicomp still recognized your imprint.
No transmission. No warning. Just the coordinates punched in. Republic Senate District.
Your hands were steady. Your pulse was not.
In the dark of the cockpit, you pressed a gloved hand to your chest where the small, battered chip lay tucked beneath the plates—an old holotrack, no longer played. The Altamaha-Ha. The lullaby. You never listened to it anymore.
Not after he threatened them.
He had the power. The access. The means. And the intent.
“Your precious clones will be the key to everything.”
“Compliant. Obedient. Disposable.”
You couldn’t wait for justice. Couldn’t pray for it. You had to become it.
Your fighter came in beneath the main traffic lanes, through a stormfront—lightning illuminating the hull in flashes. Republic patrol ships buzzed overhead, but you kept low, slipping through security nets with old codes Jango had left you years ago. Codes not even the Jedi knew he had.
You landed on Platform Cresh-17, a forgotten maintenance deck halfway up the Senate Tower. No guards. No scanners. Just a locked door, a ventilation tunnel, and a war path.
Your beskad was strapped to your back, disguised under a loose, civilian cloak. Blaster at your hip. Hidden vibrodaggers in your boots.
You knew the schedule. You had it memorized. You’d been preparing.
Chancellor Palpatine would be meeting with Jedi Masters for a closed briefing in the eastern chamber.
You wouldn’t get another shot.
The halls were quieter than expected. Clones patrolled in pairs—Coruscant Guard, all in red. You knew their formations. You trained the ones who trained them.
You didn’t want to kill them. But if they stood in your way—
A guard turned the corner ahead. You froze behind a pillar.
Fox.
You saw him first. He didn’t see you. You waited, breath caught in your throat. His armor gleamed beneath the Senate lights, Marshal stripe proud on his pauldron. Your boy. You almost stepped out then. Almost…
But then you remembered the threat. All of them were at risk.
You pressed on.
You breached the service corridor—wrenched the security lock off with brute strength and shoved your way in.
The Chancellor was already there.
He stood at the center of the domed office, hands folded, gaze distant.
He turned as you entered, as if he’d been expecting you.
“Ah,” he said softly. “I was wondering when you’d break.”
Your blaster was already raised. “They’re not yours,” you hissed. “They’re not machines. Not things. You don’t get to play god with their lives.”
He smiled.
“I gave them purpose. I gave them legacy. What have you given them?”
Your finger squeezed the trigger.
But then—
Ignited sabers.
The Jedi were already there. Three of them.
Master Plo Koon, Shaak Ti, and Kenobi.
They had sensed your intent.
You turned, striking first—deflecting, dodging, pushing through. Not to escape, not to run. You fought to get to him. To finish what you came to do.
But the Jedi were too skilled. Too fast.
Obi-Wan knocked the beskad from your hand. Plo Koon hit you with a stun bolt. You went down hard, your head cracking against the marble floor.
As you lost consciousness, the Chancellor knelt beside you.
He leaned in close.
“Next time,” he whispered, “I won’t be so merciful. If you threaten my plans again… your precious clones will be the first to suffer.”
⸻
Your eyes snapped open to the sound of durasteel doors hissing shut.
Your arms were shackled. Your weapons gone.
Fox stepped into the room, helmet under one arm.
He stared at you a long time.
“You tried to assassinate the Chancellor.”
You didn’t speak.
He pulled the chair across from you and sat down. He looked tired. Conflicted. But not angry.
“…Why?”
You met his gaze, finally. No fear. No hesitation.
“Because he’s a danger to you. To all of you.”
Fox narrowed his eyes. “That’s not an answer.”
“Yes, it is.”
“You nearly killed Republic guards. You attacked Jedi.”
“I was trying to protect my sons,” you said, voice trembling. “I can’t explain it. You won’t believe me. But I know what’s coming. And I won’t let him use you—not like this.”
Fox looked down.
For a long moment, the room was silent.
Then quietly, almost brokenly:
“…You shouldn’t have come here.”
You gave a sad smile. “I never should’ve left Kamino.”
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5
⸻
The fires in the Kalevalan mountains burned low, the cold wind howling through the high passes. The Death Watch camp was bustling—more recruits, more stolen weapons, more rumors.
And then, the arrival.
Obi-Wan Kenobi and Duchess Satine Kryze.
Uninvited.
You stood with Vizsla on the high ridge as he drew the blade from his hip. The Darksaber hissed to life like a living flame—black as night, glowing at the edges like the promise of death.
The effect on the Mandalorians below was instant: awe, devotion, fevered whispers.
But your stomach twisted.
“This isn’t the way,” you muttered under your breath.
Vizsla grinned, eyes gleaming. “It’s our way now.”
You didn’t answer. Not yet.
When Kenobi and Satine confronted Vizsla, words were exchanged. Accusations. Pleas.
Then lightsabers.
Vizsla went for Kenobi—sloppy, showy. It was never about skill with him. It was about spectacle.
You intervened. Not to protect Vizsla. But to test Kenobi. To understand.
Your beskad clashed against his blade, sparks flying. He was strong, but not unkind. Precise.
“You trained the clone commanders,” he said mid-duel, surprised. “You’re her.”
You didn’t answer. Only pushed him harder.
He deflected and stepped back, breathing heavy. “They still speak of you.”
Your guard faltered. Just a beat. But he saw it.
“Cody is my Commander.”
You let them go. Kenobi and Satine escaped into the mountains under cover of night. Vizsla fumed. Called it weakness. Called you soft.
You didn’t respond.
But later, in secret, others came to you—Death Watch members uneasy with the fanaticism growing in Vizsla’s wake. You weren’t the only one with doubts.
You weren’t alone.
Not yet.
⸻
“General?” Cody asked, voice low.
Obi-Wan glanced up from the datapad, still damp from the rain on Kamino. The war had kept them moving—campaign to campaign—but this conversation had waited long enough.
“What happened on Kalevala,” Cody said. “You recognized someone.”
Obi-Wan studied him a moment, then nodded. “Yes.”
Cody looked down, exhaling.
“I think…” Kenobi paused, unsure how to soften the blow. “I think it was your buir.”
Cody’s breath hitched. He didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe. For a long moment, he said nothing.
“I didn’t believe it at first,” Kenobi went on gently. “But her fighting style. Her presence. It was unmistakable.”
Cody sat on the crate beside him, helmet in his lap. “She used to sing to us,” he said quietly. “Used to say we’d be legends.”
Obi-Wan’s voice softened. “I don’t think she’s lost. Not entirely.”
“She joined the Death Watch.”
“She didn’t kill me when she could have.”
Cody blinked hard. “She always said if you had to fight… you fight for something worth dying for. Maybe she thinks she’s doing that.”
Obi-Wan nodded. “Maybe. Or maybe she’s trying to protect something she already lost.”
Later That Night
Cody stood outside his quarters, datapad in hand. He stared at the encrypted channel. No new messages. Nothing in months.
But still… he keyed in a short phrase.
Just two words.
Still there?
He sent it.
And waited.
The barracks were quiet tonight.
Too quiet.
The kind of quiet that only happened right before everything changed.
Cody sat on the edge of his bunk, polishing his helmet even though it was already spotless. The other troopers in his unit were mostly asleep, some murmuring in dreams, others shifting restlessly. Outside, thunder rolled low across the skies.
And then—
Ping.
His datapad lit up.
An encrypted file.
No message. No words. No source.
He stared at it.
He knew that signature. Knew the rhythm of its encryption—she’d taught it to them. Said it was how Mandalorians passed messages in the old days. Heartbeats in code. A kind of song.
And now…
A file.
Cody clicked play.
And the room was filled with a voice from his childhood.
“Do you still dream? Do you, do you sleep still?
I fill my pockets full of stones and sink
Thе river will flow, and the sun will shine 'cause
Mama will be there in the mornin'”
Her voice was soft, low, carrying that rough edge it always had—like wind against beskar. He remembered hearing it in the cadet bunks, late at night, when the storms outside made even the toughest of them curl tighter under their blankets. He remembered her kneeling beside the youngest, brushing a hand over their short buzzed hair, humming softly.
He remembered how it made them feel safe. Like they were home.
And now, years later, on the edge of the Clone Wars…
He was hearing it again.
“Slumber, child, slumber, and dream, dream, dream
The river murdered you and now it takes me
Dream, my baby
Mama will be there in the mornin'”
He blinked, chest tight.
Cody didn’t cry. Not in front of his men. Not in front of anyone.
But tonight, he pressed the datapad to his chest and closed his eyes.
You okay, sir?”
It was Waxer, leaning in from his bunk. Boil sat up too, eyes curious.
Cody cleared his throat. “Fine.”
Boil tilted his head. “Was that…?”
Cody nodded once. “Yeah.”
The others didn’t press. But slowly, one by one, troopers across the barracks stirred. Listening.
No one spoke.
They just let her voice fill the room.
⸻
On Mandalore’s moon, the woman who had sent the file stood beneath the stars.
Helmet tucked under her arm.
She watched the horizon and murmured to herself, “Fight smart. Fight together. And come back.”
She would never send them words.
They already knew them.
But she could still sing them to sleep.
⸻
The fire crackled low in the mouth of the cave, throwing shadows across the jagged stone walls. Outside, the frost of the moon’s night crept in, but inside, the warmth of the flames and the quiet hum of her voice kept it at bay.
She sat cross-legged by the fire, her helmet resting beside her, eyes unfocused as she sang under her breath. The melody was soft, familiar, drifting like smoke.
Behind her, a few Death Watch recruits murmured amongst themselves, throwing glances her way, unsure of what to make of the rare lullaby from a warrior like her.
One of them approached. Young. Sharp-eyed. Barely out of adolescence, with a chip on his shoulder and something to prove.
“Buir,” he said cautiously, the word catching awkwardly in his throat. “That song. You sing it a lot.”
She didn’t look at him. Not right away. She just nodded, still staring into the flames.
“Who was it for?” he asked. “Someone on Mandalore?”
Her voice came low, worn. “No.”
The recruit waited. He didn’t sit, but he didn’t leave either. After a moment, she gestured for him to join her by the fire. He sat slowly, hands resting on his knees, trying to act like he wasn’t still scared of her.
She let the silence sit a little longer before she answered.
“I trained soldiers once. Before the war broke out. Children, really. Grown in tubes, bred for battle. They were mine to shape… my responsibility.”
“You mean the clones?” he asked, surprised. “The clones?”
She nodded slowly.
“They were… good boys,” she said, a soft smile tugging at her lips. “Too good for what the galaxy would ask of them.”
“You cared about them,” the recruit said, almost like it was an accusation.
“I still do,” she replied without hesitation.
He looked at her—this woman in weathered beskar who fought harder than anyone in Death Watch, who’d left behind her name and her history to walk the path of insurgency. The woman who could break bones without blinking… and yet sang lullabies to shadows.
“They’re fighting for the Republic now,” he said. “Isn’t that… the enemy?”
She looked at him then. Really looked at him.
“I didn’t train enemies,” she said. “I trained survivors. Sons. And no matter where they are, or who they fight for, they are mine.”
The recruit shifted uncomfortably.
“I thought you joined Death Watch to protect Mandalore,” he said. “To fight the pacifists, the weakness Satine brought.”
“I did,” she said quietly. “But that doesn’t mean I stopped loving the people I left behind. Sometimes war splits you down the middle. Sometimes you fight with one half of your soul… while mourning with the other.”
The fire crackled between them.
After a long pause, the recruit finally asked, “Do you think they remember you?”
She smiled, just a little.
“I hope they remember the song.”
⸻
The air on Mandalore was thin and sterile—peaceful in a way that felt almost unnatural.
Walking through Sundari’s wide, shining corridors in full armor again, the reader felt the stares of pacifist advisors, senators, and citizens alike. A Mandalorian warrior hadn’t walked these halls in years. Not since they were exiled—branded relics of a bloody past the new government had tried to bury.
She kept walking.
Each step echoed with restraint, but not regret.
When she reached the palace gates, the guards blocked her path, hands twitching toward the stun batons at their sides.
“I seek audience with the Duchess Satine,” she said, voice even. “Tell her an old warrior has come home to bend the knee.”
The guards exchanged skeptical glances, but one of them relayed the message through their comms. A beat passed. Then another.
Then: “The Duchess will see you.”
Satine Kryze sat tall on her throne, draped in royal silks, her expression unreadable.
The reader approached slowly, helmet in hand, her armor still painted in the battle-worn shades of Death Watch—though the sigil had been scorched off.
Satine’s eyes narrowed. “You walk into my court bearing the same steel that once stood with Vizsla and his radicals. Why should I hear a word from your mouth?”
The reader dropped to one knee.
Not in submission.
In promise.
“I left them.”
Satine arched a brow. “And I’m meant to believe that?”
“You’ve heard what Vizsla plans. He wields the Darksaber like a hammer, believing Mandalore’s strength is only measured in fire and conquest.” Her voice was low but sure. “But true strength is not brutality. It’s knowing when not to strike. It’s survival. Legacy.”
Satine rose from her throne slowly. “That sounds more like my philosophy than that of a sworn Mandalorian.”
The reader’s head lifted.
“I am sworn to the Creed,” she said. “The whole Creed. Not just the warmongering chants of the fallen, but the heart of it—the protection of our people. The survival of our world. That is the way.”
Satine studied her.
Something in her eyes softened.
“You pledge yourself to me?”
“I pledge myself to Mandalore,” the reader answered. “And right now… you are the only one keeping her heart beating.”
A long pause.
Then Satine stepped forward, extended a hand.
“Then come,” she said. “If you would stand for peace, walk beside me. I leave for Coruscant in the morning.”
⸻
The duchess’s starcruiser hummed steadily through hyperspace, bound for Coruscant. Peace had no place in the stars anymore—pirates, bounty hunters, Separatist saboteurs—any one of them could strike at any time. Satine’s diplomatic voyage needed more than security.
It needed Jedi.
And hidden among the entourage was a shadow in Beskar.
You.
You stood silently behind the duchess, armor painted anew—neutral tones, a far cry from your old Death Watch markings. Most on board didn’t recognize you, especially with the helmet on. But Obi-Wan had looked twice when he boarded. Said nothing. Just gave you a subtle nod—acknowledgement… and warning.
You were a guest here.
But you were also something dangerous.
t started when the droid attacked. The assassin model, slinking through the ventilation shafts like a ghost.
The ship rocked as explosions tore through the hull—one hit dangerously close to the engines. Screams echoed down the halls.
As the Jedi and clone troopers mobilized, you were already moving, your beskad drawn from your hip in a practiced motion. The moment you cut through the access panel and leapt into the ducts after the droid, Obi-Wan barked, “She’s with us—don’t stop her!”
You burst from the duct with a grunt, landing in a crouch between clone troopers and the assassin droid that had been pinning them down. In one quick move, you flipped the beskad in your hand and hurled it—metal slicing through the droid’s neck and sending sparks flying.
The clones blinked, surprised.
Then one of them spoke, stunned.
“…Buir?”
Your eyes met his.
Cody.
He looked older now. Sharper. War-worn. But the way he said that word—the softness beneath the gravel in his voice—stopped your heart for a beat.
“Cody,” you breathed.
Before you could say more, another explosion rocked the ship and the Jedi shouted orders. You both surged back into motion, fighting side by side as if no time had passed. Rex appeared at your flank, helmet on but unmistakable.
“Never thought I’d see you again,” he said through the comms.
“You look taller,” you shot back.
“Still can’t outshoot me,” he quipped.
“Let’s test that once we survive this.”
Later, when the droid was destroyed and the ship stabilized, you stood with your back against the durasteel wall, helmet off, sweat dripping down your brow.
Cody approached slowly. His armor was scraped, singed.
He stood in front of you silently.
“You left,” he said.
You nodded. “I had to. It wasn’t safe. Not with the Kaminoans growing colder… not with what was coming.”
His jaw clenched. But then he exhaled slowly, nodding.
“You’re here now,” he said. “That’s all that matters.”
A pause.
“You were right, you know,” he added quietly. “We weren’t ready for the galaxy. But we survived. Because of what you gave us.”
You looked at him—really looked at him—and placed your hand on his chest plate.
“I’m proud of you, Cody. All of you.”
Rex joined, helmet tucked under one arm, a crooked grin on his face. “Buir’s gonna make us get all sappy, huh?”
“I’ll arm-wrestle you to shut you up,” you smirked.
They laughed.
For the first time in years.
⸻
Coruscant never changed.
Even from orbit, it looked like a city swallowing itself—buildings stacked on buildings, lights never fading, shadows never still. You stood by the Duchess’s side as her diplomatic cruiser descended toward the Senate landing pad, flanked by Jedi, Senators, and clone guards, all navigating the choreography of politics and danger.
The moment your boots hit the durasteel of the Senate rotunda, you felt it—that tingle down the back of your neck.
You weren’t welcome here.
But you didn’t need to be.
You were here for Mandalore.
And for them.
As Duchess Satine prepared to speak, you fell back slightly—watching her take the grand platform before the Senate assembly, her calm, steady voice echoing through the chamber. She spoke of peace. Of neutrality. Of independence.
The words stirred an old ache in you—half pride, half grief. She was strong in her own way. You respected that now.
But while the chamber listened, your eyes scanned.
And locked on him.
Standing at attention near the perimeter, crimson armor gleaming under the Senate lights, was Marshal Commander Fox. He hadn’t seen you yet. Too focused, too professional. But you approached him like a ghost walking out of the past.
“Still standing tall, I see,” you said, voice low enough not to draw attention.
Fox turned, his sharp gaze meeting yours—and then widening. “No kriffing way.”
You smirked.
He stared, then let out a small huff of disbelief. “You vanish for years and that’s the first thing you say?”
“You didn’t need me anymore,” you said. “You were always going to be something.”
Fox’s jaw tightened, emotion flickering. “We needed you more than you think.”
“Marshal Commander,” you said, mock-formal. “Look at you. I leave for a couple years, and you’re babysitting Senators now. Impressive.”
He rolled his eyes but smiled. “I thought I was hallucinating. You’re supposed to be dead, or exiled, or something dramatic.”
“Only in spirit,” you replied. “Congratulations, Fox. You earned that armor.”
He hesitated.
Then gave you a quiet nod. “It’s not the same without you.”
“It’s not supposed to be,” you said softly. “You were always meant to outgrow me.”
He looked away for a second, then back, voice lower. “The others talk about you sometimes. Cody. Rex. Bly. Even Wolffe, and that man doesn’t talk about anyone.”
“Tell them I remember every one of them.”
“You’ll tell them yourself,” he said, then added, almost too quickly, “Right?”
You didn’t answer. Just touched his shoulder lightly. “You did good, Fox. Better than good. You lead now. That means you carry the burden… but you also get to set the tone. The next generation of vode? They’re watching you.”
He blinked a few times. “You always were the only one who said things like that.”
“And meant it,” you added.
He nodded, slower this time. “It’s good to see you. You look… older.”
You smirked. “Try keeping your head above water in a sea of Vizsla fanatics and tell me how fresh you look after.”
“Fair.”
⸻
The danger came in silence.
You and the Duchess had returned to the Senate landing platform, flanked by Jedi and clone escort. The diplomatic skyspeeder waited, gleaming in the light.
The moment Satine stepped into the speeder, a faint whine filled the air—subtle, but wrong.
Your instincts screamed.
“Don’t start the engine!” you barked, lunging forward—too late.
The speeder blasted off—far too fast, veering wildly.
“Something’s wrong with the repulsors!” Anakin shouted. “The nav systems are locked!”
You were already sprinting toward a nearby speeder bike, Obi-Wan mounting another. “We have to catch her!”
Fox was shouting into his comms, coordinating pursuit and clearance through air lanes.
You and Obi-Wan flew through the sky, weaving around towers as Satine’s speeder dipped and jolted erratically.
Your voice cut through the comms, “Hold her steady, I’m going in.”
Obi-Wan gaped. “You’ll crash!”
“Yeah. Probably.”
You leapt from the bike.
Time slowed.
Your gauntlet mag-grip latched onto the spiraling speeder as you crashed hard against the hull. Satine inside looked up, startled.
You smashed the manual override, pried open the control panel, and yanked the sabotage node free—sparks flew, and the speeder jerked before leveling out.
By the time it landed, your shoulder was dislocated and you were covered in soot.
Later, in the quiet aftermath, you sat against a stone column inside the Senate’s private halls, shoulder hastily reset, your armor scorched. Satine was alive, thanks to you. Obi-Wan sat on the edge of a bench nearby, breathing slow and deep.
“She saved you,” he told Satine softly.
“She tends to do that,” Satine said with a tired smile.
You looked up at him, brows raised. “Surprised?”
He shook his head. “Not at all.”
Fox approached quietly, handing you a fresh water flask.
“You didn’t have to jump out of a speeder,” he muttered.
You took a long drink. “Didn’t want you to miss out on another tragedy.”
He rolled his eyes and leaned against the wall beside you. “You’re the worst role model, you know that?”
You nudged his shin with your boot. “Yet somehow, you turned out alright.”
He gave you a rare smile. “Welcome home. At least for now.”
⸻
The speeder explosion had rattled the city, but Satine had emerged alive. Shaken, but composed.
You hadn’t left her side once.
Now, with the Senate’s mess behind her—for now—Satine prepared to return to Mandalore. You stood outside the diplomatic chambers, speaking softly with Fox while waiting for her departure documents to be signed. That’s when he said it:
“They’re here. Wolffe and Bacara. I told them you were on-planet.”
Your breath caught.
“I wasn’t sure if I should have, but—”
“No,” you said quickly. “Thank you.”
He didn’t press further. He just gave you a nod and walked off to oversee the Senate Guard rotation.
You didn’t wait.
⸻
The military side of Coruscant always had a different air—colder, louder, filled with tension that clung to the skin like storm-wet armor.
You found them in a quiet corridor beside their departing ship. Wolffe leaned against a crate, arms crossed, helmet at his side, expression unreadable as ever. Bacara sat on a lower bench, hunched, hands folded between his knees.
They looked up at the same time.
It took less than a heartbeat before Bacara stood and crossed the space to you.
“Buir.”
You wrapped your arms around him before he could finish exhaling the word. It was like hugging a rock—solid and unyielding—but you felt the slight tremble in his breath. That was enough.
“You’ve grown,” you said.
“You say that every time.”
“Because you always do.”
Wolffe approached more cautiously, arms still crossed, but the faint flicker of softness in his expression gave him away.
“You didn’t think to send a message?” he asked.
“I couldn’t,” you said honestly. “Too much would’ve come with it. You boys had to become who you’re meant to be without me hovering.”
“We were better with you hovering,” Bacara muttered.
Wolffe gave a grunt. “I thought you were dead, for a while.”
“I know,” you said, quieter. “That was the idea, at first.”
Wolffe stepped forward, finally breaking that last bit of space between you. His brow was tense, eyes shadowed.
“We talked about you. Even now. When things get bad.”
“You remember the lullaby?” you asked.
Bacara scoffed. “You think we’d forget?”
You grinned.
“Where are you headed?” Bacara asked, nodding to your sidearm and armor, half-concealed beneath a diplomatic cloak.
“Back to Mandalore. With the Duchess.”
Wolffe gave you a long, searching look. “Back with the pacifists?”
“No,” you said. “Not as one of them. As her sword. Her shield. She’s not perfect—but her fight is worth something. And if Mandalore’s going to survive this war, it’ll need more than weapons. It’ll need balance.”
Wolffe’s jaw ticked. “And if you’re wrong?”
“Then I’d rather die standing beside hope than kneeling beside zealotry.”
Bacara snorted. “Still stubborn.”
“Still your buir.”
You embraced them both, tighter this time.
“I’m proud of you,” you whispered.
They didn’t say anything. They didn’t have to.
As you turned to leave, your boots echoing against the durasteel floor, you let your voice rise—soft and familiar.
The lullaby.
Altamaha-Ha.
A haunting thread of melody that followed them into war before.
Now, it lingered behind you like a ghost in the mist.
Wolffe didn’t look away. Bacara closed his eyes.
They would carry that sound into every battle.
Just like they carried you.
⸻
The return to Mandalore was quiet. Satine had dismissed her guards—except for you. You stood at her side now, not as a threat, not as a rebel, not as a Death Watch traitor, but as a Mandalorian, reborn in purpose.
It hadn’t been easy convincing the Council to allow it. The Duchess had vouched for you, which meant more than words. But still, whispers followed in your wake. Once a warrior, always a weapon. You heard them. You ignored them.
Inside the domed city, pacifism still ruled. A beautiful, cold kind of peace. No blades. No armor. No fire.
You wore your beskar anyway.
“You’re unsettling them,” Satine said quietly beside you, overlooking the city from the palace balcony.
“I’m protecting them.”
“They don’t see it that way.”
“They will, when someone decides to test your boundaries again.”
She looked at you, eyes soft but steeled. “You’re still so steeped in it. War. Blood. Even your presence is a threat to them.”
“I’m not a threat to you, Satine.”
“No,” she said, voice nearly a whisper. “Not to me.”
A pause. Her hand rested gently against the railing. “You could have joined Vizsla. His path would’ve made more sense for someone like you.”
“I did,” you admitted. “But sense doesn’t mean truth. His war is born of pride. Yours… is born of hope. That’s harder. But stronger.”
She turned toward you. “You really believe that?”
You nodded once. “Only the strongest shall rule Mandalore. And I’ve fought in enough wars to know that strength is more than the blade you carry. It’s knowing when to sheathe it.”
A long silence settled between you. She looked away, clearly fighting some retort, but in the end… she let it go.
“I’m glad you’re here,” Satine said softly.
You didn’t smile, but your silence meant everything.
⸻
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4
⸻
The lights didn’t feel as warm.
Maybe they never had been.
But after she left, the halls of Tipoca City felt hollow in a different way. Like the soul had been scraped out of them. Like they were just walls and water and cold metal now.
Jango Fett resumed full-time oversight of their training. And if the Kaminoans had wanted detachment, they got it in him.
No singing. No softness.
No one tucked in their blankets when they were feverish or whispered old Mandalorian stories when they had nightmares about being expendable.
They still trained hard. But now the bruises were deeper. The reprimands sharper. There was no one to tell the Kaminoans no.
No one to put a gentle hand on a trembling shoulder and say, “You’re not just a copy. You’re mine.”
Jango didn’t speak much during drills. His corrections came in clipped Mando’a, and his disapproval was silent, sharp, and heavy.
He wasn’t cruel. But he was hard.
Cody adjusted first. He always did. He kept his head down, corrected the younger ones, mirrored Jango’s movements until they were perfect.
Rex stopped smiling as much.
Fox picked more fights—quick, aggressive scraps in the barracks or the showers. He never started them. But he finished them.
Wolffe snapped at the medics when they didn’t move fast enough for Bacara’s healing leg. He’d never snapped at anyone before.
Bacara, for his part, tried to push through the pain, even when his knee buckled mid-sprint. He’d learned from you that strength wasn’t silence—it was persistence. But without you, his quiet stubbornness started to look more like self-destruction.
Neyo went the other direction. Withdrawn. Robotic. Like if he just became what the Kaminoans wanted, they’d leave him alone.
Only Bly still held onto that spark—but even he was getting quieter at night.
The nights were the worst.
No singing. No soft leather footsteps. No warm hand brushing their hair back when they thought no one noticed they were crying.
Fox tried to hum one of your lullabies once. It broke halfway through, cracked like a bad transmitter.
He punched the wall until Rex pulled him back.
“She wouldn’t have let them treat us like this.”
That was what Bly said one night, sitting up in his bunk with his legs swinging. His armor was off. His face was raw with exhaustion and anger.
“She’d be fighting them,” Rex agreed. “Hell, she’d be knocking skulls together.”
“She never would’ve let that training droid keep hitting Bacara while he was down,” Neyo muttered, staring at the ceiling.
Fox was pacing. “They made her leave. Like she didn’t matter.”
“She mattered,” Wolffe growled. “She was everything.”
“She said we were hers,” Cody whispered. He hadn’t spoken in a while.
They all looked at him.
“She meant it.” His voice cracked. “Didn’t she?”
“Of course she did,” Bacara rasped from his bunk. “That’s why they got rid of her.”
There was silence for a long time.
Then Rex stood up and walked to the comm wall. Quietly, carefully, he rewired the input and accessed the hidden channel she’d taught them—one she said to only use when they really needed her.
He didn’t send a message.
He just played the recording.
A static-tinged echo of her voice filled the barracks. Singing. The old lullaby—Altamaha-ha—crackling like it was underwater, like it had traveled galaxies to reach them.
The boys sat. Still. Silent.
Listening.
⸻
The rain on Kamino hadn’t changed in all these years. Same grey wash across the transparisteel windows. Same endless waves pounding the sea like war drums.
But inside the hangars—inside the ready bays—everything had changed.
Your boys weren’t boys anymore.
They were men now. Soldiers. Commanders. Helmets under their arms, armor polished, their unit numbers etched into the plastoid like banners. The Republic had come, and the war had begun.
The Battle of Geonosis was just hours away.
Rex adjusted the strap on his shoulder plate, glancing sideways at Bly.
“You ready for this?” he asked.
“As I’ll ever be,” Bly said, but his grin was tight.
Bacara checked his weapon, pausing briefly when the scar on his knee twinged. He never spoke of that injury anymore. But Cody still remembered.
Fox said nothing, helmet already locked in place.
Wolffe kept fidgeting with his gauntlet, the way he did when he was angry but didn’t want to talk about it.
Neyo leaned silently against the wall, eyes distant, barely blinking.
They were leaving. And she wasn’t here.
Cody stood apart from them, watching the gunships being prepped for launch. He wasn’t on the deployment list for Geonosis. His unit was to remain on Kamino. He told himself he wasn’t bitter. But he was.
He wanted to go. To fight beside them. To see what all this training was truly for.
And to make her proud.
But maybe this was his final lesson—to be the one who stayed behind, to remember.
⸻
Cody blinked, eyes snapping back to the hangar.
Rex was helping Bacara up the ramp of one of the LAAT gunships. Bly and Fox followed, barking orders to their squads. Wolffe paused and glanced back at Cody. Just once.
They didn’t say goodbye.
But they nodded. Like brothers. Like sons.
Cody stood alone as the gunships roared to life, lifting off in waves. The lights dimmed as they rose into the storm, swallowed by the clouds, by war, by the future.
And then they were gone.
She wasn’t there to see them off.
Wasn’t there to adjust their pauldrons, or whisper a quiet prayer to whatever gods had ever watched Mandalorians bleed.
Wasn’t there to call them her boys.
But they carried her with them anyway.
In the way they moved. The way they protected each other. The way they looked fear in the eye and didn’t flinch.
They were ready.
She’d made sure of that.
⸻
The stars had always looked sharper from Mandalore’s moon. Colder. Brighter. Less filtered through the atmosphere of diplomacy and pacifism.
She stood at the edge of the cliffs, cloak billowing behind her, hand resting on the hilt of her beskad. Her home was carved into the rock behind her—simple, hidden, lonely. She liked it that way.
Or… she used to.
Now, the silence grated.
The galaxy was changing again.
And this time, she wasn’t in it.
Not yet.
The sound of approaching engines echoed across the canyon long before the ship touched down. Sleek, dark, familiar.
She didn’t move. Just watched as the vessel landed and the ramp lowered.
He came alone.
Pre Vizsla.
Always so sure of himself. Always dressed like a shadow wearing Mandalorian iron.
“You’re hard to find,” he said, stepping toward her.
“You weren’t invited,” she replied, voice cool.
He smiled. “I come bearing opportunity.”
She didn’t return the smile. “You’ve come trying to recruit me again.”
“I’ve come with timing,” he corrected. “War has returned to the galaxy. The Jedi are distracted. And Satine—your beloved Duchess—still preaches peace while Mandalore rots from the inside out.”
She said nothing.
“I saw what you did with the clones,” he added, tone shifting. “You made them warriors. Not just soldiers. You made them believe they were worth something.”
“They are worth something.”
Vizsla tilted his head. “Then come and fight for your own.”
She turned, eyes burning. “Don’t mistake my silence for agreement, Pre.”
“Mistake your inaction for cowardice, then?”
He was testing her. Like he always did. And damn him, it was working.
⸻
She sat in her home, beskar laid out before her. She hadn’t worn full armor in years. Just enough to train, to spar. Not to fight.
Not since they’d made her leave Kamino.
Not since her boys.
The comm receiver sat in the corner. Quiet. Dead.
No messages. No voices. No lullabies.
She lit a flame in the hearth and sat with her old weapons. Blades, rifles, her battered vambraces. Things that had seen more blood than most soldiers ever would.
Her fingers brushed the edge of her helmet.
Was Mandalore dying?
Was she wrong to have left?
She remembered standing before the boys—tiny, stubborn, brilliant. Shouting orders in the training halls. Singing when they couldn’t sleep. Watching them grow. Watching them become.
She wasn’t there to protect them now. To protect anyone.
Satine’s voice echoed in her memory—“The cycle of violence must end.”
But Satine didn’t raise a thousand sons who were bred for war.
At dawn, she returned to the cliffs.
Vizsla was still there. Camped nearby. Waiting.
She stood beside his ship, helmet under one arm, braid coiled tight behind her.
“Don’t think I believe in your cause,” she said.
“You’re still here,” he replied.
“I’m here for Mandalore.”
“Then we want the same thing.”
“No,” she said, stepping onto the ramp. “We don’t. But I’ll fight. I’ll watch. If Mandalore can be saved, I’ll make sure it is. And if you try to burn it down—”
“You’ll kill me?”
“I’ll bury you.”
⸻
Unbeknownst to her, far across the galaxy, in a Republic base camp on Geonosis, Rex opened his comm receiver.
A soft blinking light glowed.
Encrypted channel. The one she’d taught them.
A message was sent.
No words. Just a ping. A heartbeat.
She would know what it meant.
They were alive.
They were fighting.
And somewhere in her gut, on that cold moon, she felt it.
⸻
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 |
Song: “Altamaha-Ha” – Olivier Devriviere & Stacey Subero
Setting: Kamino, pre-Clone Wars, training the clone commanders
A/N - I thought I would give the clones some motherly love because they absolutely deserve it.
⸻
Arrival
Kamino was a graveyard floating on water. Not one built from bones or tombstones, but of silence and steel, of sterile white walls and cloned futures.
You arrived at dawn—or what passed for dawn here, beneath an endless, thunderstruck sky. The rain hit your Beskar like a thousand tiny fists, relentless and cold. There was no welcome party. No ceremony. Just a hangar platform soaked in wind and spray, and one familiar silhouette waiting for you like a ghost from your past.
“Didn’t think you’d come,” Jango Fett said, arms crossed, armor dulled by salt and time.
“You asked,” you answered, stepping off the transport. “And Mandalorians don’t abandon their own.”
He gave a small, tired nod. “This place… it’s not what I wanted it to be.”
You followed him through the elevated corridors, your bootfalls echoing alongside his. You passed clone infants in incubation pods—unmoving, unaware—lined up like products, not people. Your throat tightened.
“Kaminoans see them as assets,” he muttered. “Nothing more.”
You scowled. “And you?”
Jango didn’t answer.
You didn’t need him to. That was why you were here.
⸻
Training the Future Commanders
They were just boys.
Tiny, sharp-eyed, disciplined—but boys nonetheless. They saluted when they saw you, confused by your armor, your presence, your refusal to speak in the Kaminoan-approved tone.
“Are you another handler?” one asked—Cody, maybe, even then with that skeptical glare.
“No,” you replied, removing your helmet, letting your war-worn face meet theirs. “I’m a warrior. And I’m here to make you warriors. The kind Kamino can’t mold. The kind no one can break.”
At first, they didn’t trust you. Fox flinched when you corrected his form. Bly mimicked your movements but refused eye contact. Rex tried to impress you too much, like a pup desperate to please.
But over time, that changed.
You didn’t teach them like the Kaminoans did. You taught them like they mattered. Every mistake was a lesson. Every success, a celebration. You learned their quirks—how Wolffe grumbled when he was nervous, how Cody chewed the inside of his cheek when strategizing, how Bly stared too long at the sky, longing for something even he couldn’t name.
They grew under your care. They grew into theirs.
And somewhere along the line, the title changed.
“Buir,” Rex said one day, barely a whisper.
You froze.
“Sorry,” he added quickly, flustered. “I didn’t mean—”
But you crouched and ruffled his hair, voice thick. “No. I like it.”
After that, the name stuck.
⸻
The Way You Loved Them
You taught them how to fight, yes. But also how to think, how to feel. You made them memorize the stars, not just coordinates. You forced them to sit in circles and talk when they lost a training sim—why they failed, what it meant.
“You are not cannon fodder,” you said once, your voice carrying through the sparring hall. “You are sons of Mandalore. You are mine. You will not die for a Republic that won’t mourn you. You will survive. Together.”
They believed you. And because they believed, they began to believe in themselves.
⸻
Singing in the Dark
Late at night, when the Kaminoans powered down the lights and the labs buzzed quiet, you slipped into the barracks. They were small again in those moments—curled under grey blankets, limbs tangled, some still holding training rifles in their sleep.
You never planned to sing. It started one night when Bly woke from a nightmare, gasping for air, tears clinging to his lashes. You held him, like a child—because he was one—and without thinking, you sang.
“Slumber, child, slumber, and dream, dream, dream
Let the river carry you back to me
Dream, my baby, 'cause
Mama will be there in the mornin'”
The melody, foreign and low, drifted over the bunks like a lullaby born from the sea itself. It wasn’t Mandalorian. It was older. From your mother, perhaps, or her mother before her. It didn’t matter.
Soon, the others began to stir at the sound—some sitting up, listening. Some quietly pretending to still be asleep.
You sang to them until the rain outside became less frightening. Until their eyes closed again.
And after that, you kept doing it.
⸻
The Warning
“Don’t get in their way,” Jango warned one night as you stood by the viewing glass, watching your boys spar in the simulator below. “The Kaminoans. They won’t like it.”
“They already don’t,” you muttered. “I’ve seen the way they talk about them. Subjects. Tests. Like they’re things.”
“They are things to them,” he said. “And if you make too much noise, you’ll be the next thing they discard.”
You turned to face him, cold fury in your chest. “Then let them try.”
He didn’t push further. Maybe because he knew—deep down—he couldn’t stop you either.
⸻
Kamino was all rain and repetition. It pounded the platform windows like war drums, never letting up, a constant rhythm that seeped into the bones. But inside the training complex, your boys—your commanders—were becoming weapons. And they were doing it with teeth bared.
You ran them hard. Harder than the Kaminoans would’ve allowed. You forced them to fight one-on-one until they bled, then patch each other up. You made them run drills in full gear until even Fox, the most stubborn of them, nearly passed out. But you also cooked for them when they succeeded. You gave them downtime when they earned it. You let them joke, laugh, fight like brothers.
And they were brothers. Every one of them.
“You hit like a Jawa,” Neyo grunted, dodging a blow from Bacara.
“At least I don’t look like one,” Bacara shot back, swinging his training staff with a grunt.
The others laughed from the sidelines. Cody leaned against the wall with his arms crossed, smirking. Rex and Fox were trading bets in whispers.
“Credits on Neyo,” Bly muttered, grinning. “He’s wiry.”
“You’re all idiots,” Wolffe growled. “Bacara’s been waiting to punch him since last week.”
You let them have their moment. You sat on the edge of the platform, helmet off, watching them like a mother bird daring anyone to touch her nest.
The sparring match turned fast. Bacara landed a hit to Neyo’s ribs—but Neyo pivoted and brought his staff down hard across Bacara’s knee. There was a loud crack. Bacara cried out and dropped.
The laughter died.
You were at his side in an instant, shouting for a med droid even as you crouched beside him, checking his leg. His face was twisted in pain, jaw clenched to keep from crying out again.
“It’s just a fracture,” the Kaminoan tech said from above, indifferent. “He’ll heal.”
You glared up at them. “He’s not just a number. He’s a kid.”
“They are not—”
“He is mine,” you snapped, standing between Bacara and the tech. “And if I hear one more word from your sterile little mouth, I will see how fast you bleed.”
The Kaminoan backed away.
You turned back to Bacara, softer now. Your hand brushed the sweat from his brow.
“Deep breaths, cyar’ika. You’re alright.”
He tried to speak, teeth gritted. “I’m—fine.”
“No, you’re not,” you said gently, voice warm but firm. “And you don’t have to pretend for me.”
The other boys were quiet. They had seen broken bones, sure. But not softness like this. Not someone kneeling beside one of them with care in her eyes.
You stayed by Bacara’s side while the medics patched him up. You held his hand when they set the bone, and he let you.
Later, when he was tucked into his bunk with his leg in a brace, you sat beside him and hummed. Just softly. The rain tapping the window, your voice somewhere between a lullaby and a promise.
He didn’t cry. But he did sleep.
⸻
You didn’t just teach them how to fight. You taught them how to live—how to survive.
You made them argue tactical problems around a dinner table. You made them learn each other’s tells—so they could watch each other’s backs on the battlefield. You made them memorize where the Kaminoans kept the override chips, in case something ever went wrong.
You never said why, but they trusted you.
And sometimes, they’d tease one another just to make you laugh.
“You’re so slow, Wolffe,” Bly groaned, flopping onto the floor after a run. “It’s like watching a Star Destroyer try to jog.”
“You want to say that to my face?” Wolffe growled, looming.
“No thanks,” Bly wheezed. “My ribs still remember last week.”
Fox tossed him a ration bar. “Eat up, drama queen.”
Rex smirked. “You’re all mouth, Fox.”
“I will end you, rookie.”
“Boys,” you interrupted, raising a brow. “If you have enough energy to whine, I clearly didn’t run you hard enough.”
Groans. Laughter. Playful swearing.
“Ten more laps,” you added, smiling.
Cries of “Nooo, buir!” echoed down the corridor.
⸻
When You Sang
Sometimes they asked for it. Sometimes they didn’t need to.
The song came when things were too quiet—after a nightmare, after a long day, after they’d lost a spar or a brother.
You’d walk between their bunks, singing low as the rain hit the glass.
“Last night under bright strange stars
We left behind the men that caged you and me
Runnin' toward a promise land
Mama will be there in the mornin'”
They’d pretend not to be listening. But you’d see it—the way Rex’s fists unclenched, how Neyo’s brow relaxed, how Wolffe finally let himself close his eyes.
You knew, deep down, you were raising boys for slaughter.
But you’d be damned if they didn’t feel loved before they went.
⸻
The sterile corridors of Tipoca City echoed beneath your boots. Even when the halls were silent, you could feel the Kaminoans’ eyes—watchful, cold, and calculating. They didn’t like you here. Not anymore.
When you’d first arrived, brought in under Jango’s word and credentials, they’d accepted your presence as a utility—an expert warrior to train the Alpha batch. But lately? You were a complication. You cared too much.
And they didn’t like complications.
⸻
The Meeting
You stood at attention in front of Lama Su and Taun We. The pale lights above made your armor gleam. You didn’t bow. You didn’t smile.
“You were observed interfering with medical protocol,” Lama Su said, his voice devoid of emotion. “This is not within your designated parameters.”
“One of my boys was hurt,” you said flatly.
“He is a clone. Replaceable. As they all are.”
Your fists curled at your sides.
“Do not forget your role,” Lama Su continued. “Your methods are not standard. Excessive independence. Emotional entanglement. Your presence disrupts efficiency.”
You stepped forward, slowly, deliberately. “You want soldiers who’ll die for you. I’m giving you soldiers who’ll choose to fight. There’s a difference. One that matters.”
There was a pause, then:
“You were not created for this program,” Lama Su said with quiet disapproval. “Do not overestimate your position.”
You didn’t respond.
You simply turned and walked out.
⸻
He was waiting for you in the observation room overlooking Training Sector 3. The boys were down there—Cody and Fox were running scenario drills, Rex was lining up shots on a target range, Bly was tossing insults at Neyo while dodging training droids.
They didn’t see you. But watching them moved something fierce and dangerous in your chest.
Jango spoke without looking at you. “They’re getting strong.”
“They’re getting better,” you corrected.
He turned to face you, arms folded, helm clipped to his belt. “You’re making them soft.”
You scoffed. “You don’t believe that.”
A beat. “No,” he admitted. “But the Kaminoans do.”
You shrugged. “Let them.”
“You’re pissing them off.”
You turned your head, met his gaze with something sharp and sad in your eyes. “They treat these kids like hardware. Tools. Like you’re the only one who matters.”
“I am the template,” he said, with a ghost of a smile.
“They’re more than your copies,” you said. “They’re people.”
Jango studied you for a long moment. Then his voice dropped. “They’re going to start pushing back, ner vod. On you. Hard.”
You looked back down at the boys. Bacara was limping slightly—still healing—but still trying to prove himself.
You exhaled slowly, then said, “I’m not leaving.”
“They’ll make you.”
“Not until they’re ready.”
Jango shook his head. “That might never happen.”
You glanced at him. “Then I guess I’m staying forever.”
⸻
That night, you sang again.
You walked through the bunks, slow and steady. The boys were half-asleep—worn out from drills, bandaged, bruised, but safe. Their expressions softened when you passed by. Neyo, usually tense, had his arms thrown over his head in peaceful surrender. Bly was snoring into his pillow. Bacara’s fingers were still wrapped around the edge of his blanket, leg elevated, but his face was calm.
You stood at the center of the dorm, lowered your voice, and sang like the sea itself had whispered the melody to you.
“Trust nothin' and no one in this strange, strange land
Be a mouse and do not use your voice
River tore us apart, but I'm not too far 'cause
Mama will be there in thе mornin'”
Somewhere behind you, a voice murmured, “We’re glad you didn’t leave, buir.”
You didn’t turn to see who said it.
You just kept singing.
⸻
They didn’t even look you in the eye when they handed you the dismissal.
Lama Su’s voice was as flat and clinical as ever. “Your assignment to the training program is concluded, effective immediately. A transport will arrive within the hour.”
No discussion. No room for argument. Just sterile words and sterile reasoning.
“Why?” you asked, though you already knew.
Taun We’s expression didn’t change. “Your attachment to the clones is counterproductive. It encourages instability. Disobedience.”
You laughed bitterly. “Disobedience? They’d die for you, and you don’t even know their names.”
“You’ve served your purpose.”
You stepped forward. “No. I haven’t. They’re not ready.”
“They are sufficient for combat deployment.”
You stared at them, ice in your veins. “Sufficient,” you repeated. “You mean disposable.”
“You are dismissed.”
⸻
You packed slowly.
Your hands were steady, but your heart roared like it used to back on Mandalore, in the heart of battle. That same ache. That same helplessness, standing in front of something too big to fight, and realizing you still had to try.
You left behind your bunk, your wall of messy holos and scraps of training reports scrawled in shorthand. You left behind a half-written lullaby tucked under your cot. But you took your armor.
You always took your armor.
You were nearly done when a voice cut through the door.
“Can I come in?”
It was Cody.
You didn’t turn around. “Door’s open.”
He stepped in quietly, glancing around the room like it was sacred ground. You saw his hands twitch slightly—he never fidgeted. But tonight, he was restless.
“They told us you were leaving,” he said, almost like it wasn’t real until he said it out loud. “Why?”
“Because I care too much,” you said simply.
Cody sat down on your footlocker, elbows on his knees. His eyes were dark, searching.
“What happens to us now?”
You finally looked at him. Really looked. He was trying to hold it together. He always had to—he was the eldest in a way, the natural leader. But underneath it, you saw the boy. The child.
“Are we ready?” he asked.
You walked over and sat beside him, your shoulder brushing his.
“No,” you said. “You’re not.”
That hit him harder than comfort might have.
“But,” you added, “you’re as ready as you can be. You’ve got the training. The instincts. You’ve got each other.”
Cody was quiet for a long time. Then, softly: “I’m scared.”
You nodded. “Good. So was I. Every time I stepped onto a battlefield, I was scared.”
His eyes flicked to you in surprise.
You gave a soft huff of breath. “You think Mandalorians don’t feel fear? We feel it more. We just learn to carry it.”
He looked down. “What was your war like?”
You leaned back slightly, staring at the ceiling.
“I fought on the burning sands of Sundari’s borders, in the mines, the wastelands. I’ve lost friends to blade and blaster, to poison and betrayal. I’ve heard the war drums shake the skies and still gone forward, knowing I’d never see the next sunrise. And when it was over…” You paused, bitter. “The warriors were banished.”
Cody frowned. “Banished?”
You nodded. “The new regime—pacifists. Duchess Satine. She took the throne, and we were cast off. Sent to the moon. All the heroes of Mandalore… left behind like rusted armor.”
“That’s not fair.”
“No,” you agreed. “But that’s war. You don’t always get a homecoming.”
He was silent, digesting it.
Then you said, more gently, “But you do get to decide who you are in it. And after it. If there’s an after.”
Cody’s voice cracked just a little. “You were our home.”
You turned to him, and for the first time, let him see the tears brimming in your eyes. “You still are.”
You pulled him into a hug—tight, armor creaking, like the world might tear you both apart if you let go.
⸻
You walked through the training hall one last time. Your boys were all there, lined up, watching you.
Silent.
Even the Kaminoans didn’t stop you from speaking.
You met each pair of eyes—Wolffe, Fox, Rex, Bacara, Neyo, Bly, Cody.
“My warriors,” you said softly, “you were never mine to keep. But you were mine to love. And you still are.”
You stepped forward, placed your hand on Cody’s shoulder, then moved down the line, touching each one like a prayer.
“Be strong. Be smart. Be good to each other. And remember: no matter what anyone says… you are not property. You are brothers.”
You left without turning back.
Because if you did—you wouldn’t have left at all.
Part 2
⸻
She wasn’t just their trainer. She was the trainer. The hard-ass Mandalorian bounty hunter who whipped the clone cadets into shape, showed them how to survive, and maybe, quietly, showed them something like love.
They weren’t supposed to fall for her.
She wasn’t supposed to leave.
But they did. And she did.
Now she’s back—in chains. On trial. And neither of them has forgiven her. But neither of them has stopped feeling, either.
⸻
Wolffe was gone.
Off to a frontline somewhere, chasing a ghost on someone else’s leash. He hadn’t said goodbye. Just stood in her cell, said her name like it tasted like blood, and left.
She told herself it didn’t sting.
Told herself that right up until the door hissed open again.
This time, it was him.
Fox.
She felt him before she saw him—every hair on the back of her neck standing at attention. She didn’t lift her head until she heard the soft clink of his boots on the duracrete.
“You always did have the heaviest damn footsteps.”
No answer.
Just the soft hum of the ray shield between them and the weight of six years of unfinished conversations.
She sat back against the wall of her cell, tilting her head to study him through the barrier. “You used to take your helmet off when you saw me.”
Fox didn’t move.
“You smiled, too,” she added. “Even blushed once.”
Still nothing.
She leaned forward. “Why don’t you take it off now, Fox? Scared I’ll see what I did to you?”
That one hit.
His shoulders shifted. Just enough.
“I loved you both,” she said, voice softer. “You and Wolffe. It wasn’t just training. You know that.”
“You walked away.”
“I had to.”
“No,” Fox said, voice hard behind the visor. “You chose to. We needed you. And you ran.”
He stepped closer to the shield.
“You trained us to survive, to lead, to kill. You were everything. You looked at us like we were people before anyone else ever did. And then you were gone. No note. No goodbye. Just gone.”
She stood now. Toe to toe with him on opposite sides of the shield.
“Don’t pretend like it was easy for me.”
“I’m not pretending anything,” Fox bit out. “But every time I close my eyes, I see the cadet barracks. I see you, pulling us out of bed, making us fight through mud and stun blasts and live fire. And every time I put this helmet on, I remember the woman who made me who I am.”
“And you hate her now?”
“No,” he said, almost too quiet.
“I wish I did.”
The silence between them wasn’t empty—it was heavy, loud, aching.
Then the lights flickered. Once. Twice.
Fox’s helmet snapped up.
“You planning something?” he demanded.
She blinked, surprised. “Not me.”
An explosion rocked the building.
Fox swore and turned toward the hall—too late.
The backup power cut in, and the shield between them dropped.
She moved first.
Elbow. Throat. Disarm.
Fox recovered instantly. Mandalorian training burned into his bones—her training.
They fought dirty. Brutal. No flourish. No wasted motion. Just rage and history and sweat.
He slammed her into the wall, forearm to her neck. “Don’t—”
She headbutted him. “Too late.”
He threw her to the ground. She rolled, kicked out, caught his knee. He staggered. She was up in an instant, swinging.
He caught her wrist. “You left us.”
She broke the hold, breathless. “And you never stopped loving me.”
That cracked him.
She tackled him.
They hit the floor hard.
His helmet came loose, skittering across the ground.
And for a heartbeat—
There he was.
Fox.
Red-faced. Bloodied lip. Eyes blazing with pain and love and fury.
He flipped her. Pinned her down.
“This is what you wanted?” he growled. “To be hunted? To fight me?”
“No,” she whispered. “But I’m not dying in a cell.”
Her elbow caught his jaw. He reeled. She moved fast, straddling him, fist raised—
And paused.
Just for a second.
He looked up at her like she was the sun and the storm.
So she closed her fist.
And knocked him out cold.
⸻
She ran.
Again.
Bleeding. Gasping. Free.
But not the same.
Not anymore.
Because this time, she left something behind.
And it wasn’t just her past.
It was him.
⸻
(Flashback - Kamino)
It was raining.
Then again, it was always raining on Kamino.
She stood in the simulation room, arms crossed, helmet tucked under one arm, a long line of adolescent clones in front of her. Twelve cadets. Identical on the outside. Nervous. Curious. Eager.
She hated this part. The part where they still looked like kids.
She paced down the line like a wolf sizing up prey. They were still, silent, disciplined.
Good.
But she could already see it—the cracks, the personality slipping through despite their efforts to appear identical. That one on the end with the defiant chin tilt. The one in the middle hiding a limp. The one watching her like he already didn’t trust her.
She knew it the second they marched in—twelve cadets, lean and lethal for their age. Sharper than the usual shinies. These weren’t grunts-in-the-making. These were the Commanders. The ones Kamino’s high brass whispered about like they were investments more than soldiers.
She smirked. “You all have CT numbers. Serial designations. Statistics.”
No one spoke.
She dropped her helmet onto a nearby crate and leaned forward. “That’s not enough for me.”
Eyes tracked her, alert.
“You want to earn my respect? You survive this program, you get through my gauntlet? You don’t just get to be soldiers. You get to be people. And people need names.”
A flicker of something passed between them—confusion, curiosity, maybe even hope.
“But I don’t hand them out like sweets. Names have weight. You’ll earn yours. One by one.”
She paused.
“And I won’t name you like some shiny ARC trainer handing out joke callsigns for laughs. Your name will be the first thing someone hears before they die. Make it count.”
“You survive my program, you’ll earn a name,” she said. “A real one. Something from the old worlds. Something that means something. Not because you need a nickname to feel special—because names have teeth. They bite. They leave a scar.”
The silence was sharp. But the room listened.
The first week nearly broke them.
She saw it in their bruised knuckles, in the fire behind their eyes. None of them quit.
So she came in holding a data slate. Her list.
“CT-2224,” she said, nodding to the clone who was always coordinating, always calm under fire. “I’m calling you Cody.”
A pause.
“Named after an old soldier from history. Scout, tactician, survivor. He fought under another man’s flag but always kept his own code. You? You’ll know when to follow and when to break the chain.”
CT-2224 tilted his chin, something like pride in his eyes.
“CT-1004,” she called next. “Gree.”
He quirked a brow.
“Named after an Astronomer. A mind ahead of his time. You like to challenge the rules. You think differently. That’ll get you killed—or it’ll save your whole damn battalion. Your call.”
He smirked.
“CT-6052,” she said, turning to the one with the fastest draw in the sim tests. “Bly.”
“Bly?” he echoed.
“Named after a naval officer. Brutal. Unrelenting. Survived mutinies and shipwrecks. Your squad will challenge you someday. You’ll either lead them through the storm—or end up alone.”
He went quiet.
“CT-1138.” She stepped toward the quietest of the bunch. “Bacara.”
That got his attention.
“Name’s from an old warrior sect,” she said. “Real bastard in the heat of battle. No fear, no hesitation. You’ve got that in you—but you’ll need something to tether you. Rage alone won’t get you far.”
“CT-8826,” she barked. “Neyo.”
He didn’t flinch.
“Named after a colonial general in a lost war. Known for precision and cruelty in equal measure. You fight with cold logic. That’s useful. But one day it’s going to cost you something you didn’t know you valued.”
His stare didn’t break.
She nodded to herself.
Then she stopped in front of CT-1010.
This one was different. Always stepping in front of the others. Always first into the fire.
“You,” she said. “You’re Fox.”
He tilted his head. Curious. Suspicious.
“Not the animal,” she said. “The man. He tried to blow up a corrupt regime. People remember him as a traitor. But he died for what he believed in. He wanted to burn the world down so something better could rise.”
Fox looked at her like he wasn’t sure whether to be proud or afraid.
Good.
And finally—
CT-3636.
She exhaled. Quiet.
“You’re Wolffe. Spelled with two f’s.”
He arched a brow.
“You ever heard of General Wolffe? He died leading a battle he won. Knew it would kill him. Did it anyway. That’s who you are. You’d die for the ones you lead. But you’re not just a soldier. You’re a ghost in the making. You see things the others don’t.”
Something flickered across Wolffe’s expression. Not quite gratitude. Not yet. But something personal. Something deep.
She stepped back and looked at them all.
“You’re not just commanders now. You’re names with weight. Remember where they come from. Because someday—someone’s going to ask.”
She didn’t say why she chose those names.
But Fox knew.
And Wolffe… Wolffe felt it like a blade between his ribs.
⸻
That night, neither of them slept.
Fox sat on his bunk, staring at the nameplate freshly etched on his chest armor.
Wolffe couldn’t stop replaying the sound of her voice, the precision of her words.
It wasn’t just what she called them.
It was how she saw them.
Not clones.
Not numbers.
Men.
And in that moment—before war, before death, before heartbreak—both of them realized something:
They would have followed her anywhere.
⸻
“Target last seen heading westbound on foot. She’s injured,” Thorn’s voice snapped through the comms, sharp and clear as a vibroblade. “Bleeding. She won’t get far.”
Commander Fox didn’t respond right away.
He didn’t need to.
He was already moving—boots pounding against ferrocrete, crimson armor flashing in the underglow of gutter lights. His DC-17s were hot. Loaded. He’d cleared the last alley by himself. Found the blood trail smeared across a rusted wall. Confirmed it wasn’t fresh. Confirmed she was smart enough to double back.
Fox’s jaw tensed behind the helmet. That voice. That memory. He hated that it still echoed.
He hated what she’d made him feel back then—what she still made him feel now.
“She was ours,” Thorn said suddenly, voice low on a private channel. “She trained us. Named us. And now she’s—”
“A liability,” Fox snapped.
A pause.
Then Thorn said, “So are you.”
She’d been moving for thirty-six hours straight.
Blood caked her gloves. Her ribs were cracked. One eye nearly swollen shut. And still—still—she’d smiled when she saw the Guard flooding the streets for her.
“Miss me, boys?” she whispered, ducking into an old speeder lot, sliding through a maintenance tunnel like she’d been born in the underworld.
Fox was five minutes behind her. Thorn was closer.
She was running out of time.
So she did what she swore she wouldn’t.
She pressed a long-dead frequency into her wrist comm and whispered:
“You still owe me.”
⸻
Fox was waiting for her at the extraction point.
He stood in front of the old freight elevator. Helmet on. Blaster raised. Shoulders squared. He hadn’t spoken in five minutes. Hadn’t moved in ten.
When she limped into view, he didn’t aim. Not yet.
“You’re bleeding,” he said, voice flat.
“You’re still wearing your helmet,” she rasped.
He didn’t answer.
“Why?” she asked. “Why don’t you ever take it off anymore?”
That hit something.
He didn’t move, but the silence that followed was heavier than armor.
“You think if you bury the man I trained, the one I named, then maybe you don’t have to feel what you felt?” she asked, stepping closer. “Or maybe—maybe you think the helmet will stop you from loving the woman you’re supposed to kill.”
Fox raised his blaster.
“I’m not that man anymore.”
“And I’m not the woman who left you behind,” she said.
Then she charged him.
They hit the ground hard.
She drove her elbow into his side, but he blocked it—twisted—slammed her onto the deck. She kicked his knee, flipped him over, caught a glimpse of his face beneath the shifting helmet seal—eyes wild. Angry. Broken.
Their fight wasn’t clean. It wasn’t choreographed.
It was personal.
Every strike was a memory. Every chokehold a betrayal.
She got the upper hand—until Fox caught her wrist, yanked her forward, and headbutted her hard enough to split her lip.
“Stay down,” he growled.
But she was already back on her feet, staggering.
“You first.”
She lunged. He met her.
For one second, he nearly won.
And then—
The roar of repulsors screamed overhead.
A ship—low and mean—swooped in like a vulture. Slave I.
Fox’s head snapped up.
From the cockpit, Boba Fett gave a two-fingered salute.
From the ramp, Bossk snarled: “Hurry up, darlin’. We’re on a timer.”
She spun, landed one final kick to Fox’s side, and leapt.
He caught her foot—just for a second.
Their eyes locked.
She whispered, “You’ll have to be faster than that, Commander.”
Fox’s grip slipped.
She vanished into the belly of the ship.
The ship shot skyward, cutting between the towers of Coruscant, gone in a blink.
Fox lay back on the duracrete, chest heaving, blood in his mouth.
Thorn’s voice crackled in his comm:
“You get her?”
Fox didn’t answer.
He just stared at the sky, helmet still on, and muttered:
“Next time.”
⸻
The hum of hyperspace thrummed through her ribs like a heartbeat she hadn’t trusted in years.
She sat on the edge of the med-bench, wiping blood from her mouth, cheek split open from Fox’s headbutt. Boba threw her a rag without looking.
“You look like shab.”
She gave a low, painful laugh. “Better than dead. Thanks for the pickup.”
Boba didn’t answer right away. He just leaned back in the co-pilot’s chair, helmet off, arms crossed over his chest like a teenager who wasn’t quite ready to say what he meant.
“You could’ve called sooner, you know,” he finally muttered. “Would’ve come faster.”
“I know,” she said, quiet.
Bosk snorted from the cockpit. “Sentimental karkin’ clones. Always needin’ someone to save their shebs.”
She ignored him.
Boba didn’t. “Stow it, lizard.”
After a beat, he glanced back at her. “You’re not going back, are you?”
She didn’t answer.
“You should stay,” Boba said. “The crew’s solid. And you’re… you were like an older sister. On Kamino. When it was just me and those cold halls. You didn’t treat me like a copy.”
That one hit her like a vibroblade to the gut.
“I couldn’t stand seeing your face,” she admitted. “All I saw was Jango.”
He looked away. “Yeah. Well… I am him.”
She stood, stepped over to him, and rested a bruised hand on his shoulder.
“You’re better. You got his spine, his stubbornness. But you’ve got your own code, too. Jango… Jango would’ve left me behind if it suited him. You didn’t.”
He looked at her, lip twitching. “Yeah, well. You trained half the commanders in the GAR. You think I was about to let Fox be the one to kill you?”
She smirked. “Sentimental.”
He rolled his eyes. “Shut up.”
She moved toward the ramp. “Thank you, Boba. But I can’t stay.”
“You don’t have to run forever.”
“No,” she said, voice thick. “Just long enough to finish what I started.”
And with that, she slipped through the rear hatch, into the wind, into whatever system they dropped her in next.
⸻
Wolffe stood silent, arms folded, helmet tucked under one arm. Thorn sat across from him, jaw tight, armor scraped and bloodied.
Plo Koon entered without fanfare, his robes trailing dust from the Outer Rim.
“You two look like you’ve seen a ghost,” the Kel Dor said mildly.
“She might as well be,” Thorn muttered.
“We had her,” Wolffe said. “Fox did. And she slipped through his fingers.”
Plo regarded them both for a long moment.
“I assume there is tension because Fox and Thorn were in charge of the op?”
Wolffe’s jaw tightened.
Thorn spoke first. “She’s dangerous. She’s working with bounty hunters now. It’s only a matter of time before she turns that knife toward the Republic.”
“Perhaps,” Plo murmured, folding his hands. “Or perhaps she is a wounded soldier, betrayed by the very people she once called vode.”
Wolffe’s shoulders stiffened.
“She made her choice,” he said flatly.
“And yet,” Plo said, gently, “I sense hesitation in you, Commander. Pain.”
Wolffe didn’t respond.
“She is off-world now,” the Jedi continued, glancing at a tactical holo. “Potentially aligned with Separatist sympathizers. The Senate will push for her recapture. But I believe it would be wiser… more effective… for the 104th to take point on tracking her.”
Thorn straightened. “The Guard’s been assigned—”
“And you failed,” Plo said, not unkindly. “Let Wolffe try. Perhaps what’s needed now is not more firepower… but familiarity.”
Wolffe met Plo’s gaze. “You’re using this as a chance to fix me.”
“I’m giving you a chance,” Plo corrected. “To understand. To remember who she really is. Not what she became.”
Silence.
Then Wolffe slowly nodded.
“Then I’ll bring her in.”
Plo’s gaze softened beneath his mask.
“Or maybe,” he said, turning to leave, “you’ll let her bring you back.”
⸻
The atmosphere stank like rust and rot. Arix-7 was a graveyard of ships and skeletons—metal, bone, old wreckage from a thousand forgotten battles. The 104th picked through it like wolves in a burial field.
Wolffe moved ahead of the squad, visor low, silent.
Boost sidled up beside him. “You know, this place kinda reminds me of her. Sharp, full of ghosts, and ready to kill you if you step wrong.”
Sinker snorted. “Yeah, but she smelled better.”
“Cut the chatter,” Wolffe growled, tone clipped.
Boost shrugged. “Just saying. Weird to be tracking the person who taught you how to hold a blaster.”
“Worse to be planning how to shoot her,” Sinker added, quieter.
Wolffe didn’t respond.
He just kept moving.
They found her in the remains of a Republic frigate, buried deep in the moon’s crust, converted into a hideout. Cracked floors, scattered gear, a heat signature blinking faint and wounded—but moving.
She knew they were coming.
She was waiting.
⸻
They found her in the wreck of an old Separatist cruiser, rusted deep into the jagged crust of the moon. Sinker and Boost had gone in first—quick, confident, all muscle and old banter. That didn’t save them from being outmaneuvered and knocked out cold.
Wolffe found their unconscious bodies first. And then, her.
She stepped into the light like a shadow peeling off the wall—hood pulled low, face scraped and bloodied but eyes still burning.
“You always send the pups in first?” she asked. “Or were they just stupid enough to come on their own?”
Wolffe charged her without a word.
Hand-to-hand. Just like she trained him.
But she didn’t hold back this time—and neither did he.
She was still faster. Still sharper. Still cruel with her movements, a blade honed by years outside the Republic’s rule.
But Wolffe had strength and control, and he’d stopped pulling punches years ago.
They traded blows. She bloodied his mouth. He cracked her ribs. He pinned her. She slipped free.
Then came him.
The air shifted—sharp with ozone and tension—and suddenly Plo Coon was between them. Calm. Powerful. Alien eyes behind his antiox mask, watching her without familiarity, without sentiment.
“Step down,” Plo said.
She bristled. “Another Jedi. Wonderful. Let me guess—here to ‘redeem’ me?”
“I don’t know you,” Plo answered. “But I know what you’ve done. And I know you were once theirs.”
“I was never yours.”
“Good,” Plo said, igniting his saber. “Then this will be easier.”
They fought.
The air crackled.
She struck first—fast and brutal, close-range, aiming to disable before he could bring the Force to bear. But Plo Coon had fought Sith, droids, beasts. He wasn’t unprepared for feral grace and dirty tricks.
He parried. Dodged. Let her come to him.
“You’re angry,” he said through gritted teeth. “But not lost.”
She lunged. “You don’t know me.”
“No. But I sense your pain. You’re not just running. You’re bleeding.”
“Pain is what’s kept me alive!”
He knocked her off balance, sent her tumbling. She scrambled, but he held her in place with a subtle lift of the hand, the Force pinning her in a crouch.
“Enough,” he said, not unkindly.
She panted, teeth grit, shoulders trembling.
“I don’t know why you left them. I don’t care. I only ask you stop now, before someone dies who doesn’t need to.”
Her gaze flicked past him, to Wolffe—who stood in silence, jaw tight, one eye focused and guarded.
“You Jedi think you know everything,” she hissed. “But you don’t know what it’s like to train them. To love them. And to choose between them.”
That made Plo pause.
“I chose nothing,” she said. “And it still broke them.”
The silence that followed was colder than the void outside.
Plo stared at her for a long moment.
Then, slowly—he stepped back.
Released the Force.
“You’ll run again,” he said, saber still lit. “But I won’t be the one to kill someone trying to hold herself together.”
She blinked.
“You’re… letting me go?”
“I’m giving you a moment,” he said. “What you do with it is yours to answer for.”
Wolffe took a step forward.
Plo stopped him with a look.
“She’s off world. Unarmed. And—” his voice lowered, “—no longer a priority.”
Wolffe’s fists clenched.
She didn’t wait.
She bolted into the wreckage, shadows swallowing her whole. Gone again.
This time, no one followed.
Post-Order 66, early Imperial Era
⸻
They called her a terrorist now.
Once upon a time, they called her General. Jedi. Friend.
But those days were ash.
The Jedi Order was gone—betrayed by its own soldiers, hunted by the Empire it helped birth, and erased from history like an inconvenient stain. Those who survived scattered like broken glass across the galaxy, hiding in shadows, smothering their light, hoping to live long enough to spark something again.
But not you.
You didn’t run. You didn’t bow. You didn’t hide.
You fought.
A lonely hero. Trying to fight too many battles.
Openly. Proudly. Recklessly, some would say. But you didn’t care. If they wanted to call you a terrorist, then let them. You were dangerous. Not because of your power, but because of your refusal to give up.
You lit your saber like a beacon in the dark. You attacked Imperial convoys. Freed enslaved workers. Raided supply depots. Stole data. Inspired whispers across the Outer Rim.
They posted your face on wanted screens with the words:
HIGHLY DANGEROUS. JEDI TERRORIST. KILL ON SIGHT.
And you laughed. Because for the first time in a long time, you felt alive.
But even fire can burn cold. Especially when you burn alone.
“Life likes to blow the cold wind…
Sometimes it freezes my shadow.”
⸻
The battle on Gorse was a blur of smoke, fire, and screams.
Another raid. Another desperate gamble. But this one wasn’t like the others.
Because he was there.
Commander Cody.
You saw him the moment he stepped out of the dropship. Clad in black-trimmed Imperial armor, a commander’s pauldron on his shoulder, his movements precise, efficient, familiar.
It hit you like a punch to the gut.
You froze, mid-fight, your saber humming in your grip.
He saw you too. His helmet tilted. A heartbeat of stillness passed between you across the chaos.
And just like that, time rewound.
Missions. Long nights. Campsite coffee and war-room arguments. His voice in your comm: “Copy that, General.”
His voice in your dreams: “Stay alive. I’ll watch your back.”
But that was before. Before the betrayal. Before the chips. Before everything.
Now?
He raised his blaster rifle.
You didn’t move.
He didn’t shoot.
The stormtroopers around him hesitated, uncertain.
“Stand down,” Cody barked, his voice cold, sharp, and absolute. The troopers obeyed instantly.
You took one slow step forward.
“Cody,” you said, voice low.
His grip tightened, knuckles white beneath plastoid.
“You should’ve disappeared with the rest,” he said.
“I don’t know how to be quiet,” you answered, lifting your chin. “In the midst of all this darkness… I must sacrifice my ego for the greater good. There isn’t room for selfish..”
He said nothing.
For one awful second, you thought he might arrest you.
Instead, he turned and ordered a retreat.
He didn’t even look back.
⸻
Weeks passed.
You tried to forget. You kept fighting. You told yourself that the man you remembered was gone. Replaced by protocol. Stripped of soul.
But still… something gnawed at you.
The way he hadn’t shot. The way he’d told his men to stand down. The way his voice trembled just slightly when he said your name.
You started scanning intercepted comms during downtime.
Just in case.
And then, one night, across a crackling, half-jammed signal from a rebel slicer…
“—Commander Cody. AWOL.
Deserted post.
Last seen heading into the Outer Rim.
Do not engage without support.
Consider highly dangerous.”
You stopped breathing.
He left.
He left.
Everything blurred after that—coordinates, favors, stolen codes, sleepless nights. You chased shadows across half the galaxy. You didn’t know what you’d say if you found him.
But you knew you had to.
⸻
You found him on a dead moon. The kind no one bothered with anymore—cold, quiet, abandoned.
The outpost was half-crumbled. The fire inside even more so.
He was sitting beside it, helmet off, hunched forward, hands resting on his knees. His face looked older. Harder. Tired in a way that sleep couldn’t fix.
You stepped into the firelight without a word.
His head lifted. He didn’t reach for a weapon.
“Took you long enough,” Cody said quietly.
You swallowed. “You left.”
“You were right,” he replied. “You didn’t hide. I did. I stayed in the system because I thought it was safer. Cleaner. But it’s just slower death.”
Silence stretched between you. Wind howled outside, cold enough to steal breath.
“I thought I lost you,” you whispered.
Cody’s voice cracked just slightly. “I thought I destroyed you.”
You moved toward him, every step heavy.
“Why didn’t you shoot me?” you asked.
He looked at you—really looked. Like he was memorizing you again.
“Because even after everything… I couldn’t. I wouldn’t.”
You sat across from him, the flickering light catching on your saber hilt.
“You’ve got nowhere to go,” you said softly. “Neither do I.”
He let out a slow breath. “Then maybe we stay nowhere. Together.”
You stared at the flames, and for the first time in years, they felt warm.
“I’m still a wanted terrorist,” you reminded him.
Cody’s mouth quirked, just slightly. “Guess that makes me a traitor.”
You glanced at him. “I think I missed you.”
He met your eyes. “I know I missed you.”
And for a moment, the galaxy fell away. No war. No orders. Just two people sitting in the ruins of everything, quietly choosing each other anyway.
You’re writing is amazing! I had two things
1: What is a trope you love writing?
2: Can there be a Bad batch x reader, where she’s loves to cook. When she joins them she cooks for them and they love her cooking (once they get used to having something other than ration bars). Maybe she even sends them with packed lunches for when they go off.
Thank you x
I don’t have a trope in particular I like writing, but I’m a sucker for a good enemies to lovers or anything angsty or tragic
⸻
⸻
They weren’t sure what to make of you at first.
A civilian-turned-ally. Handy in a fight, steady under pressure, and weirdly good at organizing their storage crates. But most of all, you cooked. Like, really cooked.
No one had expected it—not after surviving off ration bars, battlefield meals, and the occasional mystery stew Crosshair pretended didn’t come from a can. But then you’d shown up with a patched-together portable burner and the stubborn attitude of someone determined to make something edible from nothing. And you did.
The first time you cooked, it had stunned them into silence.
The scent of simmering broth wafted through the corridors of the Marauder, followed by spices and roasted meat and something buttery that made Wrecker’s eyes water.
Tech was the first to speak, nose twitching. “That is not protein paste.”
“Unless someone’s finally weaponized it,” Echo said, cautiously hopeful.
Hunter didn’t say anything at first. Just leaned in the doorway of the galley with arms crossed, watching the way you moved—calm, focused, humming to yourself as you stirred a bubbling pot. There was something disarming about the scene. Domestic. Gentle. Strange.
Crosshair gave a low whistle from where he lounged. “Are we keeping this one?”
No one answered. But no one said no.
⸻
It became tradition fast.
You cooked whenever there was downtime, wherever there were ingredients. You scavenged herbs on jungle moons, traded for spices in backwater towns, stretched every credit and crumb into something warm. Something human. You’d hand them plates and bowls and containers like they were weapons before a battle—only these made them feel… grounded.
Every day you could. Breakfasts on quiet mornings. Late dinners after brutal missions. You adapted what ingredients you had, learned what they each liked—Tech hated onions but loved citrus, Crosshair liked spicy food that burned the tongue, Echo had a sweet tooth he tried to hide, and Hunter… Hunter liked comfort food. He’d never say it out loud, but you caught the softness in his expression whenever you made something simple and warm. Like home.
They never asked you to. But they stopped saying no.
Eventually, you started packing lunches for them. Personalized. Thoughtful.
Crosshair’s were spicy and wrapped with a snarky note.
Wrecker’s came with double servings and a warning label.
Tech’s included clean utensils and clear labels, because of course they did.
Echo’s always had a little dessert tucked in the side
Hunter’s would just have little doodle/picture you’d drawn
⸻
They’d left you behind this time. Not because you couldn’t handle yourself, but because someone had to stay with Omega. She wasn’t ready for this mission, and neither were you—still recovering from the last one, a blaster graze healing at your ribs.
The ship was quiet. Omega wandered in around dinner time, drawn by the smell of whatever you were cooking.
She climbed up onto the counter like it was the most natural thing in the world, chin resting on her hands as she watched you slice vegetables and stir broth.
“That smells better than anything I’ve ever had on Kamino,” she said dreamily.
You smiled. “I’ll take that as the highest of compliments.”
She watched you for a while, head tilting. “You always look really happy when you cook.”
“I am.”
“Why?”
You thought about it as you stirred. “Because food makes people feel safe. Even in the middle of a war, a good meal can remind you what it’s like to be human.”
Omega was quiet for a beat. Then: “You make them feel safe.”
You didn’t answer right away.
She squinted up at you. “You really care about them, huh?”
You nodded. “They’ve been through hell. They deserve someone to care.”
She grinned slowly. “You’ve got a crush on one of them.”
You almost dropped the spoon.
“Excuse me?”
She giggled. “I knew it!”
You tried (and failed) to play it cool. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Oh, come on,” she said, sliding off the counter. “You pack lunches. You make special snacks. You stitched Wrecker’s sleeve when it ripped, even though he didn’t ask. You added hot sauce to Crosshair’s meal because he once said it tasted better. You kept Tech’s favorite tea even though no one else drinks it. And you stayed up all night once just to make sure Echo’s respirator didn’t fail after that dust storm.”
She paused, smirking. “One of those meant more.”
You turned back to the pot. “You are way too observant.”
She laughed. “So, who is it? Wrecker?”
“No.”
“Tech?”
“Definitely not.”
“Echo?”
“Closer.”
“Crosshair?”
You gave her a look.
She grinned wide. “Fine, fine. I won’t guess. For now.”
You stirred the pot again and said, softly, “It doesn’t matter.”
Omega’s voice was gentler. “Why not?”
You shrugged. “Because maybe it’s safer this way. Just being part of this… this crew. This little found family. It’s enough.”
She looked at you for a long moment. Then she slid onto a nearby stool and rested her chin in her hand again.
“They’ll be back soon,” she said. “You gonna tell them dinner’s ready?”
You smiled quietly, not looking up. “They’ll smell it.”
Hi! I was wondering if you could do a Bad Batch x Fem!Reader where they haven’t realized how much they like her and having her apart of the team because they didn’t want to get attached but then they see her with other clones having fun and being tactical and huggy with them. I’m a sucker for jealous tropes and the “she’s ours” stuff! Thank you! Xx
Featuring: Commander Wolffe, Boost, Sinker (104th)
⸻
The Bad Batch didn’t realize how much they liked having you around—until you weren’t just around them anymore.
You’d been reassigned temporarily to assist the 104th Battalion for a joint operation, something about terrain recon and hostile base infiltration. The job was meant to be routine. Easy. Quick. But it had stretched to three weeks, and that was three weeks too long for Clone Force 99.
“She’s fine,” Tech said for the third time that day, eyes on his datapad but noticeably less focused than usual.
“Of course she’s fine,” Crosshair muttered. “She’s annoying. Won’t shut up. Talks too much. Laughs at stupid jokes.”
“She does make the barracks less quiet,” Echo added, but his words sounded more like a confession than a complaint.
Hunter remained quiet, brooding in the corner, arms crossed. Wrecker finally broke the silence.
“I miss her.”
No one argued.
⸻
When they finally returned to Anaxes to regroup, they weren’t expecting to find you on the tarmac—leaning against a gunship, laughing with Commander Wolffe and his men.
You had your arm slung around Sinker’s shoulder, mid-sparring banter, sweat-slicked and flushed from training. Boost was tossing a ration bar at you like it was a long-running inside joke, and Wolffe—stoic, grumpy Wolffe—was standing beside you with the faintest upward tug at the corner of his mouth.
You laughed and said something that made the entire squad snort.
Wrecker stopped dead in his tracks. “Wait—are they hugging her?”
Crosshair’s scowl darkened. “Why the hell is she touching Sinker?”
“She’s laughing,” Echo muttered. “At his joke.”
Hunter’s jaw ticked. “Let’s go.”
⸻
You saw them before they could storm up and cause a scene—which, let’s be real, was already inevitable.
“Hey!” you called out cheerfully, waving them over. “Look who finally decided to show up. I was beginning to think you all forgot about me.”
“We didn’t,” Hunter said. The rest of them were staring daggers past you at the Wolfpack.
Wolffe raised a brow and drawled, “We took real good care of her. Didn’t we, boys?”
“Too good,” Sinker smirked. “She’s basically one of us now.”
“She is one of us,” Boost added, throwing his arm around your shoulders with obnoxious ease. “Got the bite to match.”
You didn’t see it, but every member of the Bad Batch visibly twitched.
“She’s not a stray,” Crosshair hissed, stepping forward.
“Could’ve fooled us,” Wolffe shot back, “considering how quick you were to let her slip away.”
“Wasn’t our choice,” Tech said stiffly.
“You sure?” Sinker smirked. “Didn’t seem like you were fighting too hard to keep her.”
You raised your eyebrows. “Okay, woah, no testosterone fights on the landing pad, please.”
Wrecker pointed dramatically. “You hugged him!”
You blinked. “You’ve hugged me!”
“Yeah but that’s different!” he whined.
“Why?” you challenged.
Silence.
Hunter stepped forward, voice lower now. “Because you’re ours.”
Your breath caught.
Wolffe’s grin turned downright wolfish. “Took ‘em long enough.”
You looked between both squads, caught between amusement and surprise. “So let me get this straight… the 104th is adopting me, the Bad Batch is reclaiming me, and I didn’t even get a say?”
“You always get a say,” Hunter said, quieter now. “But we want you to know how we feel.”
“And how’s that?”
Wrecker was first. “I missed you.”
“I hated not having you around,” Echo added.
“Everything was quiet,” Tech admitted.
“You’re mine,” Crosshair said, almost growled. “Ours.”
Your eyes flicked to Wolffe and his boys.
Wolffe shrugged. “Guess we’ll let you go this time.”
Sinker grinned. “But if they mess up, you know where to find us.”
You snorted. “What is this, the clone version of a custody battle?”
Boost winked. “Only if it means you come back for visitation rights.”
You laughed. “Alright, alright. I’ll go home. But I am visiting the 104th again. You guys are a riot.”
Hunter stepped closer, head tilting. “As long as you come back to us.”
You smiled, softening. “Always.”
The air between you and the Batch shifted—less tension, more heat, more home. Hunter didn’t touch you, not yet, but his presence lingered close, electric.
You turned back toward Wolffe and the others, grinning. “Thanks for everything, boys.”
Sinker gave you a two-finger salute. “Don’t be a stranger.”
“Yeah,” Boost chimed in, winking. “Just remember which pack took you in first.”
You rolled your eyes, walking backward toward your original squad. “You’re all insufferable.”
“And you love it,” Wolffe called after you.
echoed behind you.
Then, low—too low for most ears, but not for Hunter’s enhanced senses—Wolffe muttered to his boys, voice almost casual:
“She’s still got a bit of wolf in her now. Let’s hope they can keep up.”
Hunter stopped walking.
His head tilted just enough to catch the last of the words. Not angry. Not threatened. Just… cold.
Possessive.
His jaw flexed.
Crosshair noticed first. “Problem?”
Hunter didn’t answer right away. His gaze flicked to your back—laughing with Wrecker about something stupid—and then back to the 104th retreating into the barracks.
“No,” he said finally. “No problem.”
But when he looked forward again, his voice was steel-wrapped velvet.
“They can howl all they want.”
He caught up to you in two strides.
“We’re the ones she’s running with.”
⸻
There were moments—even in war—that felt still.
In the jungle shadows of Saleucami, as the sun threatened to rise, the camp was a blur of hushed voices and clicking equipment. But for you, standing at the edge of it all, it felt like the world had paused. Just long enough to breathe. Just long enough to feel the weight of your purpose settling heavy on your shoulders again.
You always stood alone when you could. Not out of pride. Not out of habit. But because solitude had always made more sense than letting others carry the burden with you.
You’d never been one to chase recognition. The battles you fought were never about victory. You fought because others couldn’t. You carried pain so others didn’t have to.
And still, the loneliness crept in—like frost under your skin. You were a Jedi. A general. A friend. A weapon.
But never just… you.
⸻
“You’ve got that look again,” Aayla said, stepping beside you in the fading moonlight. Her blue skin shimmered under the pale light, her voice teasing but knowing.
“What look?” you murmured, not looking away from the horizon.
“That one where you pretend you’re not breaking apart inside,” she said softly. “I know it better than you think.”
You let out a breath, slow and careful. “If we break, who picks up the pieces for everyone else?”
“Who picks up your pieces?” she asked.
You didn’t answer.
She turned fully to you, voice stronger now. “You’re not alone. Not really. I see the way Bly looks at you.”
That earned her a glance, half amused, half exhausted. “Bly is… complicated.”
Aayla smiled faintly. “So are you.”
⸻
Commander Bly had always been disciplined, precise, and steady—a wall in a storm. You respected that about him. Needed it, even. In your world of sacrifice and selflessness, he was one of the few constants who didn’t ask anything of you… except that you live.
He watched you the way soldiers watch for landmines—carefully, constantly, with the knowledge that one misstep could end it all.
He wasn’t vocal with his concern. He didn’t have to be. It was in the way he stood between you and danger, just a fraction closer to the line of fire. The way he followed your orders, but his eyes always scanned you first after every blast. The way he touched your shoulder when you didn’t realize you were trembling.
It was in the moments between missions—when your hands brushed in passing, when his armor was at your back as you meditated in silence, when he stayed up longer than necessary just to match your exhaustion.
You both carried the same truth: you couldn’t afford selfishness.
But love? Love didn’t wait for permission.
⸻
The ambush came fast.
You didn’t think. You never thought when lives were at stake.
The supply convoy hit the mines. Fire erupted. Screams followed. Troopers scattered.
You threw yourself into the blaze. Your saber lit the way. You pulled one soldier from the wreckage, then another. Smoke filled your lungs, but you kept moving.
Bly was shouting behind you. He didn’t wait either. He followed you into the flames, gunning down droids with lethal precision, cursing under his breath as you took a hit to the arm shielding a clone from shrapnel.
“That’s enough!” he growled, catching you as your legs faltered.
“I’m not done,” you rasped.
“You are to me,” he snapped. “You’re enough. You’re alive. That’s all I care about right now.”
But you couldn’t stop. You never stopped. Your life wasn’t yours to guard. Not when theirs hung in the balance.
⸻
Later, when the battlefield went still again, you sat by the med tent, arm wrapped in bacta gauze, head heavy with more than just exhaustion.
Bly knelt beside you, helmet off, eyes burning with frustration and something deeper.
“You think you have to carry the whole damn galaxy,” he said. “But I need you to hear this—you matter too. Not just your sacrifice. Not just your service. You.”
You swallowed hard, guilt rising like a tide. “I can’t stand by and do nothing. I won’t. If I can save them—”
“You saved me,” he said, quiet and fierce. “Every day, you make this war mean something. But if it costs you your life—then what am I even fighting for?”
You looked at him then, and for the first time, let him see it—the cold, lonely part of you that had grown too familiar. The part that wondered if you’d ever be more than just a shield for others.
“I’m tired, Bly,” you whispered. “I’m so tired of being the one who runs into the fire.”
“Then let someone run into it for you.” He reached for your hand, gloved fingers curling gently around yours. “You don’t have to be alone in this.”
A tear slipped down your cheek. You hadn’t meant to let it.
But Bly just wiped it away, his touch reverent. “You’ve already given enough. Let someone fight for you.”
⸻
The next morning, the wind shifted again, colder than before.
But when you stood at the front of the battalion, Bly was beside you.
And for once, you didn’t stand alone.
Hi! I have a request for Wolffe x fem!reader. They have a established relationship but Wolffe has been a little distant since order 66 happened... one night when he's sleeping in the readers coruscant apartment, she decides to ask him about it. Wolffe sort of pushes her away, thinking he's too broken and has already done too much bad, but she stays no matter what. She soothes him with some love and cuddles?
“Still Yours”
Commander Wolffe x Fem!Reader
⸻
The city lights of Coruscant cast a soft glow through the wide windows of your apartment, dancing across Wolffe’s armor where it lay discarded on the floor.
He lay on your bed now, back turned, shirt half-pulled on, one arm slung under his head like a shield.
You watched him breathe.
Even in sleep, it wasn’t easy. His breaths were shallow, uneven. Like he never really relaxed anymore. Like his body didn’t know how.
Since the end of the war—and the day everything changed—he’d been distant. Still present. Still Wolffe. But quieter. Withdrawn. Touch-starved but pulling away when you tried.
You couldn’t take it anymore.
You slid into bed beside him, soft and careful.
“Wolffe,” you whispered.
He didn’t open his eye.
“Are you awake?”
A beat of silence.
Then, “Yeah.”
You reached out, brushing your fingers across the back of his shoulder. “You’ve been… far away lately.”
He tensed under your touch. “I’ve just been tired.”
“No. You’re not tired. You’re hurting.” You sat up beside him, pulling the sheets with you. “You barely look at me anymore. You flinch when I say your name. You hold me like I’m something you’re about to lose.”
Wolffe turned over slowly, sitting up and running a hand down his face.
“Mesh’la, don’t do this right now.”
“I have to,” you said. “You think I don’t notice how hard you’ve been trying to pretend you’re fine? You sleep in my bed like a ghost.”
His jaw clenched. “What do you want me to say? That I followed orders that led to Jedi dying? That I don’t know what was real and what was the chip? That I still see it—them—when I close my eye?”
He stood, taking a few steps away like he could outrun it.
“I’m not who I used to be. I’m not your Wolffe anymore. I’m just—what’s left.”
You stood, quietly wrapping the sheet around yourself as you crossed the room to him.
“I don’t need the man you used to be. I love the man you are. Even when he’s broken. Even when he’s hurting.”
He shook his head. “You’re a senator. You’re out there fighting for clone rights beside Chuchi, risking your damn career. You still believe we’re worth saving. That I’m worth saving.”
“I do.”
“You’re wrong.”
You stepped in front of him, tilting his chin up until he had no choice but to look at you.
“I’m never wrong about you.”
Wolffe’s breath hitched, his hands trembling faintly at his sides.
“I let them die,” he said, voice breaking. “I didn’t even try to stop it. I just—followed orders like I always do. Like a good little soldier.”
“You didn’t have a choice.”
“Does that matter?” he rasped. “They’re still gone. I still pulled the trigger.”
You wrapped your arms around him, burying your face in his chest, speaking against his skin.
“You’re not a weapon, Wolffe. You’re a man. One who has done everything he could to survive. And I know you. I know the way you fought for your brothers. I know how much you loved them. I know how hard it’s been for you to stay.”
His arms slowly, reluctantly, came around you. Tight. Desperate.
“I don’t want to lose you,” he said quietly. “But I don’t know how to keep you either. I’m not what you deserve.”
You pulled back just enough to kiss the scar at the edge of his temple, then rested your forehead against his.
“Then let me decide what I deserve. And I choose you.”
He let out a shaky breath, pressing his face into your neck like he was finally letting himself feel.
You guided him back to bed, pulling the covers over the both of you, holding him close—his arms around your waist this time.
You whispered, “I’m still here, Wolffe. And I’m not going anywhere.”
And for the first time in weeks, he slept without flinching.
⸻
hello! this is my first time sending any sort of request so i hope this is the right place! i absolutely love your writing and was wondering if you could write Hunter x a plus sized f reader (more specifically a reader struggling with loving her body). maybe sfw with a hint of suggestiveness? thank you!! <3
⸻
You stared at your reflection in the mirror of the Marauder’s fresher, scowling as you tugged at your shirt. It clung to the softest parts of you. The waistband of your pants had folded over—again—and if you stood a certain way, your stomach looked—
“Like a whole moon orbiting around me,” you muttered under your breath, smirking bitterly. “Galactic gravitational pull and all.”
It was your thing, after all. Make the joke before anyone else could. Keep it light. Pretend you didn’t care. Pretend you didn’t hurt.
You didn’t hear Hunter step in.
“You always talk about yourself like that when you think no one’s listening?”
Your heart skipped, stomach sinking faster than gravity.
You turned. “Well, yeah. Someone’s gotta say it. Might as well be me before someone beats me to the punchline.”
He didn’t laugh. Not even a twitch of a smirk.
“Don’t do that,” he said, voice low and steady.
You raised an eyebrow, trying to brush past him. “It’s just a joke, Sarge.”
His hand came up, gentle but firm, stopping you before you could flee.
“It’s not funny,” he said. “Not to me.”
You tried to shrug it off, even as your throat tightened. “Relax. I’m not fishing for compliments. I’m just realistic, you know? Built like a bantha in body armor. It’s fine.”
He blinked slowly. Once.
Then, “Don’t say that about my girl.”
Your breath caught. “I’m not—”
“You are,” he interrupted. “I haven’t said it yet, but you are.”
Your protest fizzled somewhere in your chest.
He stepped closer, and now his hand was on your waist—your soft waist, the one you avoided letting anyone touch—like it belonged there.
“Do you know how hard it is for me to keep my hands off you when you wear that shirt?”
You blinked. “You mean the shirt that makes me look like a wrapped ration pack?”
“I mean the shirt that hugs you in all the right places,” he murmured, sliding his hand along the curve of your hip like it was art. “The one that reminds me exactly how good you’d feel in my arms. Or on my lap. Or under me.”
Your cheeks burned. “Hunter…”
“I love how you look,” he said. “But more than that, I love you. All the parts you try to cover. All the jokes you use to hide the things you’re still learning to live with.”
His tone was quiet. Serious.
“You don’t need to pretend with me.”
Your throat ached. Your hands twitched at your sides like they didn’t know whether to cover your face or grab his.
“I don’t know how to believe you,” you admitted softly.
“That’s okay,” he said. “Let me believe it for both of us until you can.”
You stared at him, all your words gone, and he kissed you—slow, reverent, grounding.
And for the first time in a long time, you didn’t feel like something to fix.
You felt like someone wanted.
⸻
Later that night, you made another joke about needing “extra rations to fuel all this real estate,” and he didn’t hesitate.
He pulled you flush against him, kissed your neck, and growled in your ear:
“I hope you’ve got extra, sweetheart. I plan to spend all night exploring every damn inch of you.”
⸻
A/N - kind self inserted here, I’m a bigger girl and tend to make the jokes before anyone else can, not that most do
Hiiii! Could you do a Bad Batch x Fem!Reader where she’s like their new general (a force user but not a Jedi) where she’s trying to keep her distance to stay professional and to not fall for them but maybe she wakes up from a nightmare or has a really bad day and she goes to wrecker and sees if those hugs are still available? The others obviously see and a bunch of cute confessions? Love all the additions you add too!! Love all your work! Xx
The Clone Force 99 barracks were quiet for once.
No late-night sparring, no Tech rattling off schematics, no arguments about snacks between Wrecker and Echo. Even Crosshair wasn’t brooding out loud. Just silence—and the hum of hyperspace.
You should have been grateful. Instead, you sat on your bunk with your face buried in your hands, heart hammering from the aftershocks of a nightmare you couldn’t quite shake.
You weren’t a Jedi. You never claimed to be. Not trained in their ways, not chained to their rules. You were something… other. The people on your homeworld called you “Witchblade.” A war hero. A force of nature. The Republic called you General.
But tonight, you were just a woman shaking in the dark, trying not to feel too much.
And failing.
The vision—whatever it was—had left your skin cold and your chest too tight. It wasn’t just war. It was loss. Familiar faces, falling.
You told yourself it was just stress. Just echoes from the Force. Nothing real.
But you couldn’t stay in this room.
Your feet found the floor before your mind caught up. You moved through the ship barefoot, shoulders hunched, arms crossed like you could hide the vulnerability leaking from your ribs.
Wrecker’s door was cracked open. Dim lights. Soft snoring. His massive frame curled on a bunk made way too small.
You hesitated. So many reasons not to do this. Not to cross that line. Not to give in.
But still—you whispered, “Wrecker?”
He stirred. Blinking. Yawning. “Hey, General…” His voice was warm and rough, like gravel and sunlight. “You okay?”
You didn’t answer at first. Then: “Are those hugs… still available?”
He was already opening his arms before you finished.
You didn’t cry. Not really. But when your face pressed against his chest and his arms wrapped around you like a fortress, you breathed in a way you hadn’t in days. Weeks. Maybe ever.
“You’re shaking,” he murmured.
You nodded against him. “It’s fine.”
“It’s not.”
You felt the bed shift behind you, and only then realized others had stirred. You didn’t need to turn to know Hunter was standing in the doorway now, gaze sharp but not judging. Crosshair leaned against the frame, arms crossed but brows drawn together. Echo hovered behind him, concern etched into the lines around his eyes. Tech, as usual, said nothing—but his gaze softened when it landed on you.
“I didn’t mean to wake you,” you mumbled, pulling back.
Wrecker held you a second longer, then let go gently. “It’s okay. You’re allowed.”
You sat back. The silence wasn’t uncomfortable now. Just… full. With things unsaid.
Hunter stepped in first. Sat across from you, elbows on his knees. “You don’t have to carry everything by yourself, you know.”
“I’m your commanding officer,” you said quietly.
“You’re you,” Crosshair replied, from the doorway. “That outranks any title.”
“I wasn’t trying to—” you started, but Echo interrupted gently.
“You were trying not to fall for us. We noticed.”
You blinked. “What?”
Wrecker chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah, you’re not as subtle as you think, General.”
Tech pushed his goggles up. “Statistically, we have all exhibited signs of attachment. It is entirely mutual.”
Your heart stuttered.
Hunter leaned closer. “We don’t expect anything. We just… we care. And if you want this—want us—you’re not alone.”
You looked at them. Really looked.
These men—outcasts, experiments, your greatest allies—they weren’t just soldiers under your command. They were your anchor. And maybe you were theirs.
You exhaled, tension uncoiling from your shoulders like a storm breaking.
“Then… maybe I’ll stop pretending I don’t want you.”
Hunter smiled softly. “That’d be a good start.”
Crosshair rolled his eyes. “Finally.”
Wrecker just wrapped his arm around your shoulder again, and you leaned into it like it was the safest place in the galaxy.
Wrecker never stopped holding you.
He rested his chin on your head now, gently rocking you. “You don’t have to say anything,” he rumbled. “Not tonight. You can just stay.”
That simple.
You can just stay.
And so you did.
You stayed.
Sat nestled between the one who understood your silence (Echo), the one who sensed your pain (Hunter), the one who read your walls like blueprints (Tech), the one who’d never admit he cared but always acted like he did (Crosshair), and the one who’d give you the biggest piece of his heart without needing anything back (Wrecker).
Eventually, someone—maybe Echo, maybe Tech—tossed a blanket over your shoulders. Wrecker shifted, cradling your body like it was made of starlight and trauma. Hunter sat beside you, his hand finding your knee, thumb stroking softly in rhythm with your breath.
You drifted off like that.
Not in your quarters.
Not alone.
But safe, for once.
Warm, held, and finally—finally—seen.
ARC Trooper Fives x Sith Assassin!Reader
⸻
Hidden in the caverns of a storm-ridden world, the Separatist outpost buzzed with dark energy. Most didn’t know this base existed—most weren’t meant to.
You patrolled its halls like a shadow: cloaked in darkness, lightsaber at your hip, Count Dooku’s orders in your comm. You weren’t just his assassin. You were his favorite one—fast, brilliant, and loyal. Or so he thought.
The GAR must’ve caught wind of this place, because they’d sent two of their finest headaches in armor: ARC Troopers Echo and Fives.
One was bleeding. The other was missing. And your patience?
Wearing very thin.
⸻
You pressed Echo against the cold metal of a cell wall, your red blade crackling inches from his cheek.
His expression was equal parts pain and smugness. “You sure this isn’t personal?”
“Would it make a difference if it was?”
“Not really. I just like to know how far up the creep scale we’re going.”
You leaned in, amused. “Where is your partner?”
Echo raised a brow. “Fives? Trust me, he won’t let you take him alive.”
You tilted your head, amused. “Is he really that dangerous?”
Echo actually snorted. “No. He just has the worst luck I’ve ever seen. I once watched him fall down a set of stairs and somehow set off every detonator in the room. We weren’t even carrying that many.”
You blinked.
Echo nodded sagely. “The man’s a one-man catastrophe. If he’s still loose in here, odds are he’s somehow about to crash a starfighter into the medbay by accident.”
You smiled—despite yourself. “I’ll be sure to leave a fire extinguisher out for him.”
⸻
Fives was, predictably, not following the plan.
He was crawling through a duct that was way too small for his armor, holding a deactivated blaster, and whispering threats to Echo’s comm signal.
“Echo, if you’re not dead, I’m gonna kick your osik for getting caught,” he muttered. “Also, I may or may not have just dropped a thermal detonator in the hangar bay. Might wanna move.”
No response.
He sighed. “Great. Now I’m talking to myself.”
A cold voice echoed from below: “You’re not very stealthy.”
His eyes widened. “Oh—nope—”
You launched your saber.
Fives dropped like a sack of bricks through the grate, rolling with a very undignified grunt onto the hallway floor, armor scuffed, ego intact.
He grinned up at you from his heap. “Fancy meeting you here.”
You stalked forward, eyes narrowed, saber blazing. “You broke into a classified base.”
“Well technically, Echo broke in. I just… fell in.”
He scrambled to his feet, brushing dirt off his pauldron. “Look, do we have to fight? Because I’d rather just stare at you for a bit. You’ve got the whole angry-warlord look down, and I gotta say—it’s doing things for me.”
You blinked.
“…Did you just flirt with me mid-arrest?”
“Oh sweetheart, that wasn’t even my best line.”
You attacked.
The duel was fast and reckless.
You moved like smoke—twisting, striking, your saber slicing through the air with lethal precision. Fives fought dirty—improvised, unpredictable, ducking under your blade and throwing whatever he could find your way: a tray, a datapad, a coffee mug.
“Seriously?” you growled, batting it aside.
He grinned. “Didn’t hit you, did it?”
You kicked him hard in the chest. He flew back, slammed into a crate, and groaned. “Okay, that one’s fair.”
You advanced, steps slow and measured.
Fives coughed, wiped blood from his lip, and looked up at you with defiant heat in his eyes.
“Go ahead,” he rasped. “Kill me. Bet I’ll still look better dead than half the seppies in this base.”
You stopped.
Laughed.
Actually laughed.
He blinked. “…Was that a smile?”
“No.”
“It was. You smiled.”
You rolled your eyes. “You’re insane.”
Fives pushed to his feet, panting. “Takes one to fight one.”
You circled each other, breathing hard.
“Why didn’t you run?” you asked.
Fives tilted his head. “Maybe I wanted to see what a Sith assassin looked like up close.”
“Disappointed?”
He smiled. “No. You’re terrifyingly hot. It’s messing with my aim.”
You exhaled sharply through your nose. This idiot. This attractive, sharp-tongued, insufferable idiot.
You deactivated your saber. “You’re lucky I find your stupidity charming.”
“You’re lucky I can’t feel my ribs.”
“…You didn’t break anything.”
“I break everything. It’s kind of my thing.”
You studied him for a long moment, head tilted.
Then you spoke, soft and curious: “Why does he call you Fives?”
Fives gave a crooked grin. “Because my number is CT-5555. Or maybe because I only ever have five brain cells working at any given moment.”
“…That tracks.”
⸻
You shoved Fives into the room beside Echo, who was now sitting up and mildly annoyed.
Echo blinked. “Oh kriff. You’re still alive.”
Fives grinned. “She likes me.”
Echo stared at you, then him. “You’re unbelievable.”
You smirked and crossed your arms. “He tried to fight me with a mop.”
“It was tactical,” Fives shot back.
“You fell over your own foot.”
“It was a strategic stumble!”
Echo groaned. “I’m surrounded by morons.”
You leaned against the door, eyes flicking between them. “Tell me, ARC Trooper—how long before the Republic sends a team for you?”
Fives shrugged. “Long enough for you to fall in love with me.”
You narrowed your eyes.
He winked.
And Maker help you—you didn’t immediately stab him.
⸻
The cell was dim and humming with tension. Echo paced like a caged animal, checking the cuffs on his wrists every few minutes. Fives leaned against the wall like he was on leave at 79’s, smirking every time you looked at him.
And you?
You’d made the mistake of hesitating. The mistake of not killing them when you had the chance.
Something about that idiotic grin. Something about the way Fives joked with death like they were old friends.
It irritated you.
It fascinated you.
You turned your back on them and checked the comm unit outside the cell. The transmission coming through wasn’t Separatist.
“—this is General Skywalker, approaching target coordinates. Standby for breach.”
Your blood ran cold.
No. Not now.
You tapped the panel. “What kind of breach? How far out?”
The droid on the other end fizzled. “Jedi cruiser approaching from the lower stratosphere. Their forces have jammed exterior defenses. Two gunships inbound.”
You spun around. Fives was watching you carefully now.
“You’re nervous,” he said softly.
You ignored him. “You said the Republic wouldn’t come.”
“I said long enough for you to fall for me,” he said, grinning. “Apparently they’re faster than I thought.”
You pulled open the cell and grabbed his collar.
“Whoa—”
You shoved him into the wall, pinning him with your arm against his chest.
“You know what’s about to happen, don’t you?”
Fives didn’t flinch. “Looks like the cavalry’s here.”
“Your Jedi are going to tear this place apart.”
“Yeah. And if I were you, I’d get real comfortable with the idea of changing sides.”
You glared. “I don’t have a side.”
Fives smirked. “No, you have a job. You follow orders. You’re good at it. But I’ve seen that look before. You’re not sold on this war anymore.”
You hesitated.
He tilted his head. “Come with us.”
“Don’t be ridiculous—”
“I’m serious. You’re strong, terrifying, weirdly hot—Echo agrees with me.”
Echo shouted from the cell, “I do not!”
“You’re not like the others,” Fives continued. “You hesitated. You didn’t kill us. And I don’t think that’s just curiosity.”
You looked at him—really looked.
And he wasn’t wrong.
But before you could speak, the walls shook. A violent tremor rattled the floor. Sirens flared.
They were here.
“Get down!” you shouted, instinct pulling you faster than thought.
The ceiling cracked open above, and the cell block exploded into fire and debris.
Gunfire.
Smoke.
Blue and white armor filled the halls.
You pulled your saber and moved, deflecting blaster bolts while droids scrambled to regroup.
Fives grabbed Echo, ripping the restraints off his wrists.
Echo stared. “You sure about this?”
Fives looked at you, still holding your saber like it wouldn’t touch him.
“Pretty sure.”
You blocked a bolt that would’ve taken off his head and glared. “You’re going to owe me for this.”
“Oh, trust me,” he grinned, “I’m already planning the thank-you speech.”
You turned your back on the fight—on everything—and ran beside them through the collapsing base.
⸻
Outside the base.
The fight was chaos. The 501st swarmed the compound like a storm. AT-RTs thundered through mud and smoke, and blasterfire lit up the sky like fireworks.
You ducked behind a transport with Fives and Echo, heart hammering.
“You’ve got to be joking,” you muttered.
Marching toward the base was Skywalker himself, saber drawn, flanked by Ahsoka Tano and Captain Rex.
You exhaled slowly. “I just betrayed the Separatists for that guy?”
Fives beamed. “Jealous?”
You shoved his helmet back on. “Shut up and run.”
⸻
Later. On the Venator.
You sat alone in the medbay, cloak scorched, hands trembling.
You hadn’t spoken since you boarded the ship.
Echo had gone to debrief. Fives… had stayed.
“You alright?” he asked quietly.
You didn’t answer.
He stepped closer. “You saved us.”
You laughed bitterly. “I doomed myself.”
“You did the right thing.”
“I don’t even know what the right thing is anymore.”
He knelt in front of you. “You didn’t hesitate back there. You chose.”
You looked down. “I’m not like you.”
Fives gently reached for your hand. “No. You’re not. You’re smarter.”
You blinked at him.
“I mean that,” he said, eyes warm now. “You’re terrifying. And brave. And brilliant. And also—can I kiss you now or do I need to duel you again first?”
You actually laughed—a real laugh.
Fives leaned in. “Is that a yes?”
“…Just shut up and kiss me.”
⸻
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.
Warnings: Implied Smut, sexually suggestive
⸻
The air inside 79’s was a hazy blend of spice, sweat, and that old metallic tang of plastoid armor. It was always loud—always full of regs laughing too hard, singing off-key, and clinking glasses with hands that still shook from the front lines. But tonight?
Tonight, you had a spotlight and the attention of half the bar. Most importantly, you had his.
From the small raised stage near the piano, your eyes flicked toward the familiar ARC trooper leaning against the bar. Helmet under one arm, legs crossed at the ankle, blue-striped armor scuffed like it’d seen hell and swaggered out untouched. You knew that look. You’d seen it before—weeks ago, months ago. Fives always came back, and he always watched you like he was starving.
And tonight was no different.
Your set ended to a chorus of cheers. You slid off the piano top, high heels clicking against the floor, hips swaying just enough to keep his eyes hooked.
Fives didn’t even try to hide the grin that curled across his face as you approached.
“Well, well,” he said, voice low and teasing, “I think you were singing just for me.”
You smirked. “If I was, you wouldn’t be standing over there, Trooper.”
He stepped closer without hesitation. “Careful. Say things like that and I’ll assume you missed me.”
You leaned one elbow against the bar. “What if I did?”
Fives looked floored for all of two seconds before he recovered with a cocky grin. “Then I’d say we’re finally on the same page.”
“Is that what you tell all the girls at the front line?”
He laughed. “Only the ones who can make regs forget they’re one bad day from a battlefield.”
From beside him, Echo groaned audibly into his drink. “Stars, Fives, please—just one conversation where you don’t flirt like your life depends on it.”
“Jealous I’ve got better lines than you?” Fives teased, bumping Echo’s shoulder.
“No,” Echo deadpanned. “Jealous of my ability to have shame.”
You laughed, and even Echo cracked a smile at that.
“Don’t mind him,” Fives said, focusing on you again. “He’s just bitter no one sings for him.”
You sipped your drink, voice playful. “And what makes you think I was singing for you?”
Fives stepped in closer—just close enough that you could smell the faint scent of cleanser and battlefield dust clinging to him. “Because,” he said, voice quiet but confident, “you’re looking at me like you already made up your mind.”
Your gaze held his for a long moment. The tension hummed like music between verses—hot and coiled, teasing the drop.
“Maybe I have,” you said softly, setting your glass down.
His eyes widened just a touch. “Yeah?”
You tilted your head, lips curling into a half-smile. “You want to find out?”
Fives blinked. “Find out what?”
You leaned in, brushing your fingers lightly over the edge of his pauldron as you murmured near his ear:
“If you want to come back to my apartment.”
Fives went completely still. Echo actually choked on his drink behind him.
“Stars above,” Echo muttered under his breath, turning away. “I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that.”
But Fives? He looked like you’d just handed him victory on a silver tray.
“You’re serious?” he asked, tone equal parts awe and smug disbelief.
You shrugged, playing casual. “I don’t make offers I don’t intend to follow through on, ARC trooper.”
Fives grinned—bright, reckless, and so damn him.
“Lead the way, sweetheart.”
And just like that, you were out the door—with the best kind of trouble following one step behind you.
⸻
The room was warm.
Not just from the heat of tangled limbs and lingering sweat, but from the quiet hum of comfort that followed a particularly good decision. Outside, Coruscant flickered in the distance—speeders zipping by in streaks of light, a low thrum of traffic buzzing like the aftermath of a firefight.
Inside, Fives lay flat on his back in your bed, armor long gone and bedsheets pooled around his hips. He looked like he was trying to decide whether to stretch or sprint away.
You rolled onto your side, propping your head up with one hand and staring down at the man who had flirted with the confidence of a thousand battle droids—and was now staring at the ceiling like it held the answers to the universe.
“So,” you said, amused, “you always go quiet after?”
Fives blinked. “No! I mean—only when I’m… y’know.”
“Emotionally overwhelmed by your own success?”
He let out a weak laugh, dragging a hand through his hair. “Stars, you’re dangerous.”
“I warned you,” you said, poking his bare chest. “You didn’t listen.”
“I did. I just didn’t care.” He looked at you then, eyes softer. “You’re… not what I expected.”
“Because I invited you home? Or because I made you nervous for once?”
Fives groaned. “Both.”
A silence settled again, this one a little heavier—like something was unsaid. He shifted, rubbing the back of his neck, then blurted out:
“Okay, listen. I’m so embarrassed I didn’t ask before, but… what’s your name?”
You blinked. “Are you serious?”
Fives winced. “I meant to ask! But then there was the bar, and the music, and then you invited me home and my brain just… shut down, okay?”
You stared at him. “We slept together, and you don’t even know my name.”
“I know your voice,” he offered. “And your laugh. And your—uh—flexibility.”
You grabbed the pillow and whacked him in the face.
He laughed against the cotton, muffled. “Okay, okay! Truce!”
“My name!” you said firmly.
“Right,” he said, sitting up slightly. “Please. I’m begging.”
You eyed him, then finally said it: “[Y/N].”
Fives whispered it like a secret. “Yeah. That fits.”
You arched a brow. “And what’s your name, Trooper?”
He paused. “You don’t know?”
“Of course I do,” you smirked. “I just wanted to see if you’d finally offer it without bragging about being an ARC.”
He rolled his eyes. “It’s Fives.”
“Fives,” you repeated. “Fives and [Y/N]. Cute. Tragic.”
“I vote tragic,” he said, falling back dramatically into the pillows.
⸻
Echo was waiting for him.
Not with questions. Not with judgment. No—worse. With smug silence.
Fives entered the room whistling, undersuit halfway zipped, hair a little too messy to pass inspection. Echo didn’t even look up from his datapad.
“So,” Echo said, still reading. “Did you have fun last night?”
Fives coughed. “Define fun.”
Echo finally glanced up. “Did you ever ask her name?”
Fives groaned. “How do you know about that?”
“Because, I know you.” Echo said casually, “her name is [Y/N]. She’s sung at 79’s for months. I’ve talked to her before.”
“You what?”
“She’s nice. Friendly. Has great taste in Corellian whiskey.”
“You’ve talked to her?” Fives said, scandalized.
“Multiple times.”
“And you never told me?”
Echo grinned. “Thought you were a professional flirt. Didn’t realize you were just a dumbass with armor.”
Fives pointed a finger. “You’re lucky I’m still emotionally glowing from this morning.”
Echo raised a brow. “Oh, you’re glowing, alright. Like a reg who forgot the basics.”
Fives flopped into his bunk. “You’re cruel.”
“I’m accurate.”
Fives groaned into his pillow. “[Y/N],” he mumbled, testing it again like it was sacred. “Stars… I really like her.”
Echo just chuckled and returned to his datapad.
“You’re doomed,” he said lightly. “Better learn her last name next.”
“She has a last name?”
⸻
“Tech, you’re smarter than you look,” you said, fingers flying across the datapad as you recalibrated the long-range scanner’s neural relays.
Tech didn’t even glance up. “Is that a compliment for my intelligence or an insult for my appearance?”
You smirked, biting the inside of your cheek. “Maybe both. You’ll never know.”
That got him. He looked at you over the rim of his goggles, blinking once. “You are remarkably cryptic for someone so precise in data analysis.”
“And you’re remarkably dense for someone with a photographic memory.”
He opened his mouth—no doubt to deliver a factually loaded rebuttal—but Omega’s groan from the doorway cut him off.
“Ugh, will you two just kiss already?”
Wrecker let out a bark of laughter from the other side of the room. “They’re both so smart and yet so stupid. It’s kinda impressive, honestly.”
Hunter passed by without even looking up from his weapon check. “I give it three more arguments before one of them short-circuits.”
Echo, lounging at the gunner’s console, rolled his eyes. “I’ve seen better communication from malfunctioning droids.”
You turned bright red. “We’re not—! I mean, it’s not like that.”
Tech, completely deadpan: “I fail to see the logic in a kiss solving anything.”
“Oh my stars,” you muttered, pinching the bridge of your nose. “You’d think two geniuses wouldn’t be so emotionally… constipated.”
Omega laughed as she flopped into a chair. “Is that what it’s called?”
“Yes,” you said, shooting Tech a sidelong glance. “He’s got a whole datacard full of tactical strategy, but apparently no folder for feelings.”
“I have folders,” Tech protested, indignant. “I just haven’t… opened them.”
You crossed your arms and leaned back in your seat. “Well, maybe you should. Before I go flirt with Echo just to see if he can keep up.”
Tech’s goggles glinted as he straightened, spine stiff. “That would be inefficient. Echo’s humor is marginally less compatible with yours. Statistically, I am the superior match.”
The room went dead silent.
Even Hunter looked up.
“…What?” Tech asked, genuinely confused. “Was that not the correct response?”
You blinked, lips parting, but nothing came out at first. Finally, you leaned forward, resting your elbows on the table.
“Tech,” you said slowly. “Are you… trying to court me via statistics?”
“Well, that is the language I am most fluent in,” he said, as if it were obvious. “I have also calculated the probability of your reciprocal affection to be relatively high, based on prolonged eye contact, increased heart rate during proximity, and your tendency to brush your hair back when speaking to me.”
Your face went completely warm. “You noticed that?”
“I notice everything about you,” he said plainly. “I simply haven’t known what to do with the information.”
Your heart stuttered—because for all his clinical language, there was vulnerability behind it. Soft. Honest. Tech didn’t lie. He just struggled to feel out loud.
You offered a small smile. “You don’t have to do anything… except meet me halfway.”
He tilted his head. “Can you define halfway in this context?”
You stood up, stepped in front of him, and placed your hand gently on the side of his face—just enough pressure for his breath to catch. He froze like a statue.
“This,” you whispered, “is halfway.”
“Oh,” Tech said softly, eyes wide behind his goggles. “I see.”
And then—slowly, cautiously, with all the finesse of a man defusing a bomb—he leaned forward and kissed you.
Echo let out a low whistle. Wrecker whooped. Omega cheered.
Hunter smirked to himself. “About time.”
When you pulled back, Tech looked dazed. Awestruck.
You grinned and nudged his shoulder. “See? That wasn’t so hard.”
Tech adjusted his goggles. “I must say… I found it remarkably agreeable.”
“You’re so weird,” you whispered, grinning.
He smiled back. “Yes. But apparently, I am your kind of weird.”
⸻
The base had fallen into chaos. The sharp beeping of alarms echoed through the corridors, sending waves of tension throughout the facility. It was a rare moment of vulnerability for the Republic, and the last thing anyone had expected was Cad Bane, the notorious bounty hunter, to escape from his containment cell.
The guard stationed at his cell had been lax, and the mistake had proven costly. The high-alert klaxon sounded through the base as soon as Bane's cell had been breached, and every clone in the vicinity had scrambled to act. The corridors buzzed with the hurried footsteps of soldiers moving to secure the area, but the fugitive had already disappeared into the shadows.
Fox had been among the first to respond, his focus sharp as ever. His instincts were honed for situations like this—situation after situation where quick thinking was required. He'd immediately ordered a lockdown, sending squads to lock down the base and search every inch of the facility, but Bane had always been a step ahead.
Thorn, ever the stoic and capable commander, had taken charge of the search team. He was methodical, ensuring every room, every vent, every corner of the base was scoured. His calm, commanding presence calmed the other clones as they executed their assignments, and the search continued with the precision only a seasoned commander could bring.
As for you, you were, as usual, observing from the sidelines. The office had cleared out, with most of the staff focused on the lockdown. It wasn't often the facility was on such high alert, and you'd been relegated to helping with the more menial tasks. Even so, you couldn't help but be drawn into the chaos.
Through the halls, you had heard Fox's voice, barking orders into his comm as he led the charge to track Bane's escape route. It was the kind of mission Fox thrived in—the kind that required focus and relentless determination. But as the hours ticked on, you could tell he was growing more frustrated. Bane was slipping through their fingers.
It wasn't until the sun began to set, casting long shadows across the base, that Fox returned. His boots clicked sharply against the floor, his jaw set, his face as hard as stone. He was visibly irritated, his focus laser-sharp, but the frustration was palpable. He had always been able to handle these types of situations, but Bane was something else—slippery, cunning, and relentless.
"You should've seen the way he slipped past us," Fox muttered to Thorn as he strode into the command center, his eyes never leaving the glowing screens in front of him. "He's too good. We're gonna have to rework our entire strategy if we're going to catch him."
Thorn didn't reply immediately, though you could tell he shared the same frustration. "He's still here. We'll find him. No one's getting out of this base."
Fox glanced at him sharply, his eyes betraying a rare vulnerability. "That's not the problem," he said, the words more clipped than usual. "The problem is he's playing us. I'll need to stay focused, Thorn. This won't be over until he's back in his cell."
The tension in the air thickened, the base still on high alert. The clones moved efficiently, conducting their sweep of the area, but Fox's mind was elsewhere. The escape had rattled him in a way that wasn't typical. Maybe it was because Bane had outsmarted them—or maybe because he had already begun thinking of what could come next. Whatever it was, Fox wasn't about to let it distract him from the task at hand.
As the day wore on, the base remained under lockdown, but you knew Fox would need a break. That night, you had something to offer him that he didn't expect.
***
The stage at 79's was dimly lit, the familiar hum of the bar filling the space. The crowd had gathered, and you could feel the pulse of anticipation in the air as you stepped onto the stage. The drinks were flowing, the conversations were louder than usual, and the usual mix of soldiers and off-duty personnel filled the room. But tonight, you weren't just going to be a face in the crowd. You were going to perform, as you always did—letting the music take over and letting the world around you fade.
When you took the stage, the room quieted, and the eyes of those in the bar turned toward you. A guitar hung around your neck, your fingers brushing over the strings as you tuned it just before you began. It was almost like you could feel the weight of Fox's gaze on you, even though you didn't look for him.
You'd spotted him earlier when you entered, standing near the back of the room. His usual stoic presence made him blend into the shadows, but there was no mistaking him. Commander Fox had made his way to 79's, a rare moment of him stepping outside of his usual duties, and you knew exactly why he was there.
He was here to watch you.
You started your set, letting the rhythm of the music flow through you. The crowd was hooked, as they always were, but tonight, there was something different. As the song progressed, you caught his eye—he wasn't just watching anymore. His gaze had softened, and for a moment, he wasn't the hardened commander. He was just Fox—someone who had chosen to be here, to be with you, in this space.
After the final note rang out, the crowd applauded, and you stepped down from the stage. Fox was already at the bar, a drink in hand, though he hadn't touched it. His eyes tracked you as you made your way over, a brief nod to acknowledge his presence before he looked at you directly.
"That was..." Fox began, his voice low, yet genuine. He searched for the right words, his usual confidence slipping as he softened. "I didn't expect that."
You grinned, your heart racing. "What? That I could hold a tune? You doubt me, Fox?"
His lips twitched in what almost resembled a smile. "I didn't doubt you." His eyes lingered on you, a shift in his expression. "You're more than I imagined."
It was the quiet admission you hadn't expected, but it was everything you needed to hear. Fox had always been careful with his words, but tonight, the mask had slipped, just enough to see something raw underneath.
You stepped closer to him, the moment charged with a tension neither of you could ignore. The crowd's noise faded into the background as you stood before him, the space between you almost electrified.
Without thinking, you reached up, fingers brushing lightly against his jaw. He didn't pull away; instead, his eyes darkened, and his hand rested gently on your waist, a silent invitation.
And then, with no more words needed, you kissed him—slow, tentative at first, but deepening as the weight of everything between you came rushing to the surface. Fox's hand moved to your back, pulling you closer, his kiss almost desperate, as though he were trying to make up for lost time. When you finally pulled away, both of you were breathless.
"Fox..." you whispered, your voice soft, yet full of meaning.
"I've always wanted to say this," he murmured, his forehead resting against yours. "I don't know when it happened... but I care about you. More than I should."
You couldn't stop the smile that tugged at your lips. "I care about you too, Fox."
And in that moment, surrounded by the music and the chaos of 79's, nothing else mattered. Not the war, not the Republic, not the danger that always loomed just outside the door. All that mattered was the person standing in front of you—the person who had finally let down their walls and confessed the truth.
The escape had been contained, but you knew this moment—this feeling—wouldn't escape either.
The lights of Coruscant buzzed in their never-ending hum, a sharp contrast to the stillness that surrounded you as you made your way through the narrow halls of the Coruscant Guard's administrative building. The click of your boots echoed off the walls, and the air was thick with the usual tension.
As you passed by the cubicles, you could feel the weight of eyes on you—Trina's, mostly. She was at her desk, pretending to focus on a datapad but failing to hide the sharp, cutting glance she shot your way. You had no idea what her deal was, but it was like every move you made was another opportunity for her to find fault.
Kess, the other assistant, had been trying to remain neutral—sometimes siding with Trina, sometimes siding with you. But today, it was clear where she stood. She gave you a little shrug, an apologetic look, and then quickly turned her attention to Trina.
"I don't get it, Kess. Why do you always side with her?" Trina hissed, loud enough for you to hear, but not quite loud enough to be overtly disrespectful.
Kess tried to defuse the situation with a laugh, but it was hollow. "I just think we should all get along, that's all."
"Oh, please," Trina scoffed. "I think we all know whose side you're really on."
You rolled your eyes and turned to leave, not wanting to engage in their petty rivalry any longer. But then, the doors slid open to reveal Commander Fox standing in the hallway, his usual stoic demeanor unwavering as he crossed his arms over his chest.
"You're needed," Fox said simply, his voice low, betraying no hint of emotion.
You followed him into the briefing room, where the walls were covered in reports and intelligence updates. There was a strange energy in the air today, one you couldn't quite put your finger on. Fox stood by a table littered with datapads, his face hardening as he looked at one of the reports.
"Everything okay, Fox?" you asked casually, leaning against the table.
He didn't look at you, but his voice was thick with something you couldn't quite read. "It's nothing."
"You sure?" you pressed, your gaze narrowing.
Fox turned to face you, his eyes briefly meeting yours before he glanced away, his jaw tight. "You mentioned something earlier. About being nearly murdered by a galactic legend last night. What did you mean by that?"
For a split second, his stoic mask cracked, the faintest trace of concern flitting across his face before he locked it down again. But it didn't go unnoticed by you.
You hesitated. The mention of Aurra Sing, the bounty hunter, still lingered in your mind. You'd barely escaped her grasp, but her motives were still unclear. You'd been too shaken to process it at the time, but now the gravity of the situation was settling in.
"I—" You swallowed hard. "It's nothing, Fox. Just a run-in with a bounty hunter. Aurra Sing"
His face hardened at the mention of her.
"I'm not sure why she's after me, but... she was too close. I didn't think I'd make it out of there last night." You shrugged, trying to brush off the gravity of it all, but you could see the concern building behind his eyes. "I wasn't exactly planning on being in the line of fire, if you catch my drift."
Fox's posture didn't shift, but you could sense the tension in his stance. "You should have told me," he said, his voice betraying more emotion than usual.
You snorted. "I didn't think it would be a big deal, Fox. It's just a bounty hunter."
His gaze softened for just a moment, but it quickly turned back to its usual stoic intensity. "You're not just some bystander. You're important. Don't make light of things like this again. Understood?"
You nodded, meeting his gaze for a moment. "Understood."
The conversation was cut short as the door to the briefing room slammed open, and Trina entered, her eyes flashing with that usual arrogance. "Did I hear something about a bounty hunter?" she sneered, her gaze landing on you with more than a touch of disdain. "What, are you some kind of target now? Seems like trouble follows you everywhere."
Kess lingered in the doorway, but she was much quieter today, hanging back like she wasn't sure where her loyalties lay. It was like she was trying to gauge the room before making her move.
Fox's eyes flashed with annoyance, but his voice remained calm, controlled. "Trina, that's enough."
Trina narrowed her eyes at him. "You can't seriously be buying into her little story, can you? A galactic legend hunting her down? I don't know about you, but it sounds like someone's fishing for sympathy."
Fox turned his gaze back to you for a moment, and then back to Trina. "You'll need to mind your tone, Trina. This is a serious matter."
Trina huffed, clearly not impressed, but she didn't say anything else. She gave you a final look of contempt before storming out of the room, leaving the air heavy with her disdain.
Kess shifted uncomfortably in the doorway, watching the exchange. "Is everything okay?" she asked, her voice quiet, almost unsure.
Fox glanced at you, then back at Kess. "For now. But we'll be keeping a close eye on things. Don't take your safety lightly, not with Aurra Sing around." He paused before adding, "If anything else happens, you come to me."
You nodded, feeling the weight of his words, but also the strange comfort of having someone like Fox looking out for you—even if it wasn't in the way you had expected.
As you walked back to your desk, the tension in the office hadn't died down. Trina and Kess were still at each other's throats, but something had changed in the dynamic. And somewhere in the background, you couldn't shake the feeling that Aurra Sing's shadow still loomed over you, and it was only a matter of time before she made her next move.
But for now, you had to survive the office politics—and the bounty hunter.
_ _ _
The hum of Coruscant's busy atmosphere felt oddly quiet as you returned to the office. It was a stark contrast to the calm, serene days you'd spent on Naboo. Your cousin's hospitality had been a much-needed reprieve, and the peaceful landscapes of Naboo had offered the perfect escape from the usual chaos. You couldn't help but feel recharged, the stress of office politics and bounty hunters temporarily forgotten.
You'd left without telling anyone, of course. The usual message to Fox had been a casual *"By the way, I'm off-world, visiting my cousin. I'll be back around this time."* No leave request, no formalities. It was just how you operated. And now, here you were—back, and very much prepared to deal with the aftermath of your absence.
As you entered the office, the first thing you noticed was the silence. It hung thick in the air, broken only by the soft click of your boots against the floor. You spotted Trina immediately, her eyes narrowing as she glanced up at you, her arms crossed.
"Oh, look who finally graces us with her presence," Trina sneered, her voice dripping with sarcasm as she threw a pile of reports onto your desk. "What, were you living the good life on Naboo while the rest of us were stuck here, keeping things running?"
You didn't even flinch at her attitude. Instead, you casually dropped your bag on the desk and powered up your datapad, skimming through messages as though her words weren't even worth your attention.
Kess, standing by her desk, raised an eyebrow but remained quiet, not wanting to escalate things further. She was always caught between trying to keep the peace and avoiding the conflict that always seemed to bubble up around Trina.
But then the door slid open, and in walked Thorn, Thire, and Hound—three of the most notorious clones for adding fuel to the office drama. Thorn, in particular, was known for his stoic demeanor, but he was more than willing to throw in a comment or two, just to watch the chaos unfold.
Thorn leaned against the doorframe with a raised eyebrow, his voice as dry as ever. "Well, well, look who's back from her little getaway," he said, his eyes scanning the room. "I'm sure Naboo was *just* what the doctor ordered."
Hound, standing near the back of the room, smirked and crossed his arms. "Yeah, must've been real rough out there. Too bad the rest of us couldn't get the same luxury treatment."
Thire chuckled, shooting you a teasing glance. "I hope you at least got some time to relax. Sounds like a vacation we could all use."
You barely looked up as you replied, still focused on your datapad. "Oh, it was great. Thanks for asking."
Trina, unable to resist taking another shot, leaned in, her voice sharp. "Must've been nice to disappear for a week. Some of us have responsibilities around here, you know."
You let out a quiet sigh, rolling your eyes. "I'm sure you've been holding down the fort, Trina," you said with exaggerated sweetness, giving her a quick, condescending smile.
Thorn, clearly enjoying the tension, glanced at the clones before turning back to you with a small smirk. "I think she's just jealous she didn't get a taste of the *relaxing* life you got to have," he teased, his tone completely deadpan.
But there was a shift in his expression, a flicker of something more serious when he glanced at Fox, who had silently entered the room and was now standing near the doorway. Thorn knew better than to press too far. The clones may have loved watching office drama, but they also knew where the line was—and that line was Commander Fox.
Fox gave no outward sign of having heard the comments, but there was something in the air that shifted the mood. Thorn, always in control of his own stoic composure, simply raised an eyebrow and backed off, sensing Fox's presence. He gave one last glance in your direction before turning to the rest of the room.
"We'll leave you to it, then," Thorn said, his tone neutral as he motioned to the clones. "But next time you decide to vanish for a while, let us know, yeah?"
The clones, now looking cautiously at Fox, quickly filtered out of the room, but not without throwing a few more playful glances your way. They were clearly amused by the little spectacle they'd just witnessed. Thorn, despite his reserved nature, couldn't resist a little chaos, and watching Trina's sour face as you returned was too good a moment to miss.
Once the clones had left, the tension in the room became almost palpable. Trina's smug smile faded as she shot you another look. "Must be nice to have that much freedom," she said, but her voice had lost a little of its bite. The reality was, she was on the defensive now, unsure of how to react to the clones' comments.
Kess took a step back from the situation, unsure of where to align herself today. She shifted from one foot to the other, glancing between Trina and you, caught in the middle of their rivalry.
You leaned back in your chair, eyes still locked on your datapad, completely unfazed by the tension. "It is nice," you said, the words casual, but there was an edge to your tone. "But if you need anything, you know where to find me."
Trina opened her mouth to retort, but was cut off by Fox's voice, now much more authoritative. "That's enough, Trina," he said, his tone calm but firm. "I've had enough of the games today. Everyone, focus on the tasks at hand."
Trina huffed, muttering under her breath before turning back to her desk, clearly not done but not willing to escalate things further. Kess, sensing the shift, returned to her own work, though she kept glancing at you and the ongoing office drama with a hint of curiosity.
Fox looked at you for a moment, his gaze steady, as if weighing something in the air between you. But he said nothing more, and you knew better than to press him.
The rest of the day passed in a haze of passive-aggressive glances, subtle jabs, and quiet interactions. But as the hours ticked by, you felt a sense of amusement, even pride, that the office still couldn't figure you out—despite the clones' attempts to stir the pot, the undercurrent of rivalry, and the ever-present drama.
As long as you had your freedom, nothing could keep you down. Not even the endless office politics.
Hi! Could I request a Crosshair x Reader? The reader was a medic in the GAR and would occasionally be called to treat the Bad Batch and loved to over-the-top flirt with Crosshair. After Order 66, the reader treats him after the fall of Kamino, and is reunited again on Tantiss?
Thank you for the request!
Because I’m evil I made this really sad and tragic - hope you enjoy!
⸻
Warnings: Injury, death, angst
When you first met Crosshair, he was bleeding all over your medbay floor.
Not dramatically, of course. That wasn’t his style. He’d taken a blaster graze to the ribs, shrugged it off, and sat on the edge of your cot like he couldn’t care less if he passed out.
“You should’ve come in hours ago,” you said, kneeling to check the wound. “This is going to scar.”
Crosshair’s eyes barely flicked toward you. “Scars don’t matter.”
You raised a brow. “To you, maybe. I, on the other hand, take pride in my handiwork.”
His lip curled in the barest ghost of amusement. You took it as encouragement.
You started showing up whenever they did. Crosshair got injured just enough to give you an excuse to flirt outrageously. You called him things like “sniper sweetheart,” “sharp shot,” and once, when you were feeling particularly bold, “cross and handsome.”
He rolled his eyes, glared, told you to shut up more times than you could count—but he never really pushed you away.
You weren’t blind. You saw the way his gaze lingered when you turned to walk away. The way he always sat a little too still when you touched him—like he was trying not to feel something.
⸻
You pressed the gauze a little firmer than necessary against Crosshair’s side.
“Careful,” he grunted.
You smirked, dabbing the bacta. “Sorry, sniper. Didn’t realize your pain tolerance was that low.”
Crosshair didn’t dignify that with a response. Just narrowed his eyes at you and clenched his jaw.
You loved getting under his skin. The other clones were easy to treat. Grateful. Polite. But Crosshair? He glared like you’d personally insulted his rifle every time you patched him up.
It made him interesting.
“You know,” you added, taping down the final dressing with a wink, “if you ever want me to kiss it better, just say the word.”
Crosshair exhaled sharply through his nose—something between irritation and disbelief.
“You ever shut up?”
You leaned in close, your voice dropping to a purr. “Not for you.”
And then you walked off, grinning to yourself, because Crosshair might’ve looked annoyed, but you caught it—the way his eyes lingered just a second too long.
You never expected anything from it. It was just a game. A slow, stupid, hopeful kind of game.
And then the war ended.
⸻
The transition from the Republic to the Empire didn’t faze you at first.
Same job. Same uniform. New symbol on your chest.
You weren’t naïve, just tired. The war had dragged on for years. Maybe peace, even under control, wasn’t the worst thing.
Besides, you were just a medic. You weren’t in charge of policies or invasions. You fixed what was broken. Saved who you could. And in your mind, the war was finally over.
You didn’t question the new rules. Not then. Not when Crosshair disappeared. Not even when Kamino began to feel… emptier.
When the call came in that Crosshair had returned—injured during the fall of Kamino—you were the one they requested. Of course you were.
You told yourself it didn’t matter. That you were just a medic, doing your job. Nothing more.
But when you saw him again, lying on that cold table, soaked in sea water and rage, something shifted.
“You’re quiet,” you said as you cleaned blood from his temple.
He didn’t answer.
“You could say something. Like ‘Hi, I missed you,’ or even just a classy grunt.”
Crosshair stared at the ceiling like he’d rather be anywhere else.
“I thought you were dead,” you admitted softly, your voice losing the humor. “And then I thought… maybe that would’ve been easier.”
His gaze finally cut to yours—sharp and cold. “Didn’t stop you from joining them.”
You stiffened.
“I didn’t know what was happening, Cross,” you said. “None of us did. I didn’t even see the Jedi fall. I was in a medtent treating troopers shot by their own.”
He said nothing.
“I stayed. I helped. I didn’t know you’d… chosen to stay too. Not like this.”
His voice was quiet, bitter. “So you’re leaving again?”
“I wasn’t supposed to be here at all. They only brought me in to stabilize you.”
He scoffed. “Figures. You’re just like the rest.”
That sentence struck you harder than any wound you’d treated.
Your hand froze on his bandage. Your throat tightened.
You stepped back.
“You think I didn’t care?” you said, barely more than a whisper. “I flirted with you for years, you emotionally constipated bastard. You could’ve said something. You could’ve stayed.”
He didn’t answer. He just looked away.
And this time, you were the one to leave.
⸻
The Imperial Research Facility on Tantiss was hell in sterile form.
You hated it the moment you arrived. The black walls. The quiet whispers. The clones in cages. The scientists with dead eyes.
But you told yourself you had no choice. You’d seen too much to be let go. You’d signed too many lines, accepted too many transfers.
And if you were going to be stuck in this nightmare, you might as well try to help the ones left inside it.
So you stitched up soldiers with no names. You treated mutations the Empire refused to acknowledge. You whispered comforts to dying experiments when no one else would.
And then one day—you saw him again.
You found him slumped against a wall, one arm dragging uselessly, his uniform half-burned.
“Crosshair.”
He blinked blearily. When he saw your face, he flinched like you’d hit him.
“Oh,” he said. “Of course. You.”
“I should’ve guessed you’d find a way to almost die again.”
You knelt beside him, voice low. “Let me help you.”
He didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just watched you with a raw, wounded anger that made your stomach twist.
“You knew I was here,” you said. “Didn’t you?”
“I heard rumors,” he rasped. “Didn’t believe it. Figured if you were here, you’d have visited. Unless that was too much effort.”
You stared at him. “You think I wanted this?”
“You chose this,” he said coldly. “You always do.”
You wanted to scream. To shake him. To make him see what this place had done to you. What the Empire really was. But Crosshair didn’t want sympathy. He wanted someone to hate.
And you were easy to hate.
Even if the way his fingers brushed yours when you patched his shoulder said otherwise.
Even if you still smelled like the cheap soap he used to mock, and he still remembered exactly how you smiled when you wrapped his wounds.
Even if he was still in love with you—and still convinced that meant nothing.
⸻
Tantiss was built to be soulless—white halls, dead lights, silence where screams should’ve been. You learned how to survive here by becoming invisible.
But now you were doing something dangerous. Stupid, even.
You were trusting again.
Crosshair hadn’t spoken much after that first time you treated him—just short questions, sarcastic comments, clipped observations. But he stopped flinching when you approached. Stopped spitting daggers every time your fingers brushed his skin.
And sometimes, on the rare nights when the lights dimmed and the cameras looked the other way, he’d ask things.
“Did you know what they were doing here?”
“Do you regret staying?”
“Why did you help me?”
You answered every question honestly, because lies were for people who didn’t already carry each other’s ghosts.
And then came her—a ghost you didn’t expect.
Omega.
They brought her in bruised, shackled, but defiant. You knew who she was—of course you did. You knew what she meant to Crosshair even if he’d never say it.
The first time you saw her, you crouched beside her cot and said:
“Name’s [Y/N]. I’m not here to hurt you.”
Omega didn’t trust you, not at first. But you earned it, one moment at a time.
You fixed her shoulder. Snuck her extra food. Sat with her at night when the lights made her cry.
Crosshair was the one who really got her to open up.
She’d whisper across the room in the dark.
“You look grumpy, but you’re not really.”
Crosshair muttered something like “Keep telling yourself that.”
She smiled.
You’d watch them from the corner of the lab. A tired soldier and a fierce little kid, clinging to the only family they had left.
You started planning.
You spent weeks preparing—disabling door locks, stealing access codes, memorizing shift schedules. You taught Omega how to sneak. You warned Crosshair how many guards you couldn’t distract.
The night came fast.
Crosshair didn’t ask questions—he moved like a man with nothing to lose. Omega stuck to his side like a shadow. You guided them through hallways, down lifts, past sleeping monsters in bacta tanks.
You reached the final corridor, the one that led to the hangar.
That’s when he stopped.
“Where’s your gear?” Crosshair asked. “We don’t have time to backtrack.”
You shook your head. “I’m not going.”
He stared at you like you’d just said the sky was falling.
“What the hell do you mean, you’re not going?”
“I’m on every manifest. Every shift schedule. Every system. I don’t make it out. Not without putting you both at risk.”
Omega grabbed your hand. “But we can’t just leave you!”
You smiled—God, it hurt to smile. “You have to. You’re the only ones who still have a shot.”
Crosshair stepped forward, chest heaving. “You’re out of your mind.”
“Maybe,” you said softly, “but I’m making the call.”
He didn’t say anything for a long time. Just stared. Like he wanted to remember everything about you—your face, your scent, your voice when you weren’t bleeding or angry.
And then, quietly:
“I should’ve said something. Before. Kamino. You deserved more than—”
“I knew,” you said. “I always knew.”
You kissed him. Once. Brief. Like a secret passed between souls.
“Get her out,” you whispered.
And then you ran back toward the alarms.
⸻
The cuffs chafed against your wrists, biting into raw skin. The interrogation room was colder than usual—designed to break people long before the scalpel touched skin.
You weren’t broken.
Not yet.
Dr. Royce Hemlock entered like he always did: calm, unbothered, surgical. He closed the door behind him with a quiet hiss. No guards. He didn’t need them.
He looked at you like a specimen already tagged for dissection.
“Dr. [Y/L/N],” he said softly, hands clasped behind his back. “You’ve been busy.”
You didn’t speak.
He circled you, like a predator measuring bone width and muscle density.
“You falsified clearance reports. Tampered with door access logs. Administered unauthorized sedation doses. Facilitated the escape of two highly valuable assets. All while wearing the Empire’s crest on your coat.”
You tilted your chin up. “You forgot ‘ate the last slice of cake in the mess.’”
Hemlock’s smile was thin, sterile.
“I misjudged you,” he said. “I assumed your compliance stemmed from belief. But it seems it was convenience.”
“It was survival,” you corrected. “Until I realized survival meant becoming the monster.”
He stopped behind you, his voice like ice against your neck.
“Do you know what fascinates me, Doctor?” he asked. “Loyalty. The anatomy of it. How some will kill for it. Die for it. And how others—like you—will throw it away for a defective clone and a girl with a soft voice and wild eyes.”
Your voice didn’t shake.
“They had more humanity than anyone in this facility.”
Hemlock’s footsteps were deliberate as he moved back in front of you. He looked down like you were an experiment that had failed on the table.
“Your medical clearance is revoked. Your name will be stripped from the archives. You will die here, and no one will remember you.”
You met his gaze. “Then you’ll never know how I did it.”
That made his mouth twitch. Just slightly.
“You think you’re clever,” he said. “But you’re just like all the rest. Sentimental. Weak. Replaceable.”
You leaned forward, blood on your lip, defiance burning in your chest.
“No,” you said. “I’m unforgettable.”
Hemlock pressed the execution order into the datapad.
“Take her to Sector E,” he told the guard at the door. “Immediate termination.”
As the guards hauled you to your feet, you locked eyes with Hemlock one last time.
“You’ll lose,” you said. “Maybe not today. Maybe not tomorrow. But someone will bring this place to the ground.”
He tilted his head, amused.
“And who will that be? The sniper who tried to kill his brothers? The child?”
You smiled through bloodied teeth.
“They’re more than you’ll ever be.”
⸻
They didn’t let you say goodbye.
They didn’t let you scream.
But you didn’t beg.
You thought of Crosshair. Of Omega. Of the escape you made possible.
And you went quietly.
Because monsters didn’t get the satisfaction of your fear.
⸻
Later, through intercepted comms, Crosshair would hear the clinical report:
“Subject [Y/N] – execution carried out. Cause of death: biological termination. Body transferred to incineration chamber.”
He replayed that sentence ten times before he crushed the headset in his hand.
Hunter didn’t say anything.
Wrecker just placed a heavy hand on his brother’s shoulder.
And Crosshair—who hadn’t prayed in his life—looked out at the stars, and wished he believed in something that could carry your soul home.
Omg! I saw you take requests! I love your work especially bad batch! I was thinking a Hunter x Fem!Reader where the reader is new to the ship, like medic or maybe even a soldier? But she uses like perfumes and obviously a different soap and he’s obsessed with trying to figure out what she smells like and with how nice it smells? You’re amazing! :))
Absolutely - sometimes I run out of ideas so love getting request! I hope you like it x
⸻
⸻
The Marauder had always smelled like metal, boot polish, and testosterone. Maybe a little like burnt caf on bad days. It wasn’t bad—it was just what Hunter was used to. Predictable. Familiar.
Until you showed up.
Fresh off an assignment with a battalion on Christophis, you were the newest addition to Clone Force 99—medic, technically, but you could hold your own in a fight too. The regs had spoken highly of your skills. That’s all Hunter needed to approve the transfer.
What he hadn’t anticipated was you.
Not your skills, not your sharp tongue or how fast you could stitch a man back together mid-firefight.
No, what Hunter hadn’t anticipated—what was currently driving him up the kriffing wall—was how good you smelled.
⸻
It started on the first day.
You’d walked up the ramp in your gear, throwing a satchel over your shoulder, hair pulled back, confidence in your step. The moment you passed him, it hit Hunter like a punch to the senses.
Sweet. Warm. Not too strong. Not floral, not fruity. Something clean. Something… familiar but elusive. He couldn’t place it.
His head had snapped toward you like a damn hound on instinct.
You hadn’t noticed—too busy joking with Tech about the medbay setup.
Hunter had clenched his jaw and focused. Or tried to. You walked past him again and—there it was. A whisper of something rich and soft. Stars, what was that?
⸻
The next few days were worse.
Every time you were near, his senses lit up like a battle alert. The scent of your soap after a shower. The subtle perfume that lingered on your neck and collarbone when you leaned over the holotable. Even the way your gear smelled—fresh, clean, nothing like the usual musty armor worn too long.
Hunter could track someone through a jungle with a five-day head start, but your scent was all he could think about, and you were right there—constantly in his space, brushing shoulders, handing him bandages, laughing at something Wrecker said.
He was losing it.
⸻
He caught you in the galley one night, the ship quiet, everyone else asleep.
You were perched on the counter in sleepwear and a hoodie, cradling a cup of caf like it held the secrets of the galaxy. The scent hit him again—stronger this time. No armor, no barrier. Just you, soft and warm and godsdamn intoxicating.
“You okay?” you asked, eyes flicking up to meet his.
Hunter blinked. “Yeah. Just… couldn’t sleep.”
You tilted your head. “Too much stimcaf or just the usual war trauma?”
He smirked. “Bit of both.”
You chuckled, then held out the cup. “Want some?”
He stepped forward—and nearly flinched when the scent hit him again. His jaw tightened.
“You good?” you asked, raising a brow.
“I, uh…” He cleared his throat. “Can I ask you something?”
“Sure.”
“What do you wear?”
You blinked. “Excuse me?”
Hunter rubbed the back of his neck, ears flushing. “I mean, you smell… different. Not in a bad way! Just… I can’t place it.”
You stared at him for a beat—then burst into laughter. “Is that what’s been bothering you?”
He scowled, only mildly embarrassed. “It’s been driving me nuts. I can’t figure it out.”
You hopped off the counter, still laughing, and came to stand close. Too close. He tensed when you leaned in just a little, tilting your head.
“It’s amber and sandalwood. Little bit of vanilla. And my soap’s just some fancy one I stole from an officer’s shower kit. Want me to make you a batch?”
Hunter’s brain short-circuited.
The scent was right there—intimate, surrounding him, and your voice was low, teasing.
“I—uh…” he stammered, then pulled back just slightly. “No. No, I think I’ll go insane if everything smells like you.”
You smiled slowly, eyes dark with amusement. “So… it’s a problem?”
He gave you a flat look. “Yes.”
You leaned in again, grinning. “Guess you’ll just have to get used to it, Sarge.”
Hunter’s voice was gravel. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”
⸻
⸻
The ramp of the Marauder hissed as it lowered, groaning under the weight of exhausted boots and heavier egos. Smoke clung to armor plates and robes alike, the remnants of their latest skirmish still staining their clothes and lungs. But they were alive, in one piece, and Wrecker had already claimed that meant it was time for a snack.
“I told you,” Wrecker declared, stomping down the ramp with a grin that was a little too smug for someone who’d nearly face-planted during the evac, “nothing brings people closer than a near-death experience! Team bonding, baby.”
“Tell that to the squad of clankers you flattened like pancakes,” Tech muttered, adjusting his goggles. “They didn’t seem especially enthusiastic about our cohesion.”
Behind them, Echo trudged down with his helmet tucked under one arm, glancing behind him for you. His expression softened the moment his eyes met yours. You were brushing ash off your tunic and tucking your lightsaber back into your belt, brow furrowed in focus as always—but you felt his gaze and looked up with the smallest smile.
“Nice work back there,” Echo said, and though his voice was soft, it cut through the banter around you. “You saved my shebs. Again.”
You shrugged, trying to hide the way your heart jumped at the way he looked at you—like you were the whole kriffing galaxy. “You would’ve done the same for me.”
“I already have,” he said, voice low, his smile a little crooked. You bumped shoulders with him, rolling your eyes with a grin that gave you away.
Hunter, catching the exchange from the edge of the ramp, raised a brow. “You two always this obvious?”
“Oh, it’s worse than that,” Wrecker chimed in, loud enough to turn heads. “She’s totally his girlfriend.”
You froze mid-step. Echo’s expression twitched like his brain had blue-screened for a second.
“I—what—Wrecker!” he hissed, ears practically glowing red.
Wrecker threw up his hands, unbothered. “What? Everyone sees it! I mean, c’mon! They were making goo-goo eyes while taking down that tank together. That’s not ‘standard Jedi–clone operational procedure,’ that’s ‘save-the-galaxy-together’ couple stuff!”
Crosshair snorted from where he leaned against the ship. “You’re all idiots,” he said flatly. “That’s unrealistic. She’s not just a Jedi—she’s Old Republic trained. The whole code is sacred thing, remember?”
You gave Crosshair a look and stepped forward with arms crossed, voice cool and amused. “So you’re saying I can’t be both a warrior and a woman with depth?”
Crosshair stared at you for a moment, blinked once, and turned away. “Didn’t say that.”
Echo cleared his throat and stepped between you and the others, half-shielding you like instinct. “Can we not discuss Jedi doctrine like we’re gossiping in the barracks?”
“Oh, now he’s shy,” Tech said, tilting his head.
Wrecker grinned at you. “She didn’t say no, though.”
“Wrecker—” Echo growled, but you touched his arm, and he stopped short.
You looked up at him, just for a second. “Let them talk. We know what this is.”
Echo studied you—carefully, gently—like he was afraid you’d vanish if he blinked too fast. Then he nodded, just once. “Yeah. We do.”
The team fell into a comfortable rhythm after that, still teasing, still tossing back jabs and laughs, but it all faded a little in your periphery as Echo walked beside you. And maybe the Jedi code was sacred. Maybe there were rules. But as the sun dipped low over the landing pad and he smiled down at you like you were the one thing anchoring him to this chaotic galaxy, you weren’t thinking about rules.
You were thinking: Maybe we can survive this. Together.
⸻
The stars outside the viewport blinked like distant memories. The Marauder hummed with its usual low thrum, the rest of the squad either asleep or pretending to be. It was one of those rare, fragile moments—when the galaxy felt like it was holding its breath, just long enough for two people to realize they weren’t alone in it.
Echo sat on one of the benches in the common room, armor stripped down to the basics, a cup of something warm in his hand. You stepped in barefoot, robes loose and hair still damp from a rushed rinse, like you were shedding the battlefield piece by piece.
He looked up. “Couldn’t sleep either?”
You shook your head, padding over to sit beside him. The silence between you was companionable, soft. You both knew how loud your thoughts got at night.
After a while, you pulled something from the inner pocket of your robes—a small, weathered talisman on a leather cord. Gold and deep bronze etched with faint runes, worn smooth by time and touch. Echo tilted his head.
“What’s that?”
You held it between your fingers for a second, then placed it gently in his hands.
“It’s… old. Really old,” you said. “It was given to me when I became a Padawan. Back long before the war, before the Jedi and the old Order became a memory. My master said it would keep me anchored. It’s seen every part of my life since—battlefields, meditations, exile, heartbreak, my Millenia long carbon freeze prisonment.”
Echo turned it over in his hand, thumb brushing the ancient symbols. “Why are you giving it to me?”
“Because I don’t think I need to be anchored anymore,” you said, voice quiet but sure. “Not in the past, anyway. You remind me that I’m still here. That I still get to be here. And if anyone should carry a piece of where I came from into the future… it’s you.”
His fingers stilled. He looked at you like you were some impossible thing—like someone who should’ve been gone centuries ago, yet was sitting beside him, breathing the same air, bleeding in the same war.
“I don’t know what to say,” he murmured.
You smiled softly. “Just don’t lose it.”
Echo slipped the talisman over his head carefully, reverently, and tucked it under his chest plate. When he looked back at you, there was something heavy in his eyes—something like wonder, something like love.
“You always talk like you’re a ghost,” he said. “But you’re not. You’re flesh and blood, and you’re here. With us. With me. You don’t have to drift anymore.”
Your heart caught. You reached up and brushed your fingertips against his jaw, and he leaned into it without hesitation.
“I don’t feel like a ghost when I’m with you,” you whispered. “I feel… alive.”
Echo leaned in, resting his forehead against yours, his breath warm. “Then let’s keep it that way.”
And in the stillness of the Marauder, with the stars watching in silence, it felt like maybe—just maybe—the galaxy wasn’t all war and death and shadows.
It could be this, too.
It could be you and him.
⸻
Part 1
Warnings: injuries, suggestive content,l
⸻
The jungle was thick with steam and smoke, the scent of burning metal and charred flesh choking the air. Delta Squad’s evac had been shot down. You were the only survivor from your recon team. Boss had taken command of the op—naturally.
“Stick close,” he ordered, his voice rasping through the modulator, sharp like durasteel dragged across stone.
You rolled your eyes, already moving. “I didn’t survive a crashing gunship to get babysat by a buckethead.”
He turned just enough to look at you, that T-shaped visor catching the fading light. “I don’t babysit. I lead.”
“And I slice,” you shot back, shouldering your pack. “Let me do my job.”
“We already have a slicer” he respond, before he turned forward again. But you could feel him watching you—tracking your movements with that eerie commando focus. It had been two days of this now: evading patrols, patching up your leg, sleeping back-to-back under foliage so thick you couldn’t see the stars.
Tonight, it rained. Not the cooling kind—this rain was warm, heavy, pressing the jungle into silence. You sat in a hollowed-out tree, tuning your equipment while Boss kept watch. When he finally returned to your makeshift camp, you didn’t look up.
“How bad’s your leg?”
“Fine.”
“You’re limping harder than yesterday.”
“You’re observant. I’m touched.”
“Stop being stubborn,” he muttered, kneeling in front of you. His gauntlet brushed your knee as he examined the torn fabric and swelling underneath. “You need rest.”
“You need to stop looking at me like that,” you whispered.
Silence stretched. You met his gaze, even if you couldn’t see his eyes behind the visor. Something heavy passed between you. Maybe it was the danger. Maybe it was the exhaustion. Or maybe it was the way he’d hauled you out of that wreckage, swearing he’d get you home.
“You shouldn’t be here,” he said finally, voice lower. “You’re not one of us.”
“No. I’m not. But I’m here now.” You leaned closer, your voice daring. “And so are you.”
His breath caught, almost imperceptible beneath the rain. Then—he reached up and disengaged the seal on his helmet. The hiss of depressurization was drowned out by your heartbeat.
And when he took it off, you saw him—finally. Tanned skin streaked with grime and blood. Jaw tight. Eyes locked on yours like they were burning through you.
“Tell me to stop,” he said.
You didn’t. You leaned in.
He kissed you hard—like everything he’d been holding back had snapped. His gloves were rough on your skin, tugging you closer, anchoring you to him like he was afraid you’d disappear. You curled your fingers into the collar of his armor and pulled until you could feel the heat of his body beneath the plastoid.
“I’ve got one night,” he murmured against your throat. “One night before I’m a soldier again.”
“Then make it count,” you whispered.
And he did.
⸻
The war would keep going. The Republic would keep taking. But in a jungle no one would remember, under a rain no one would care about, Boss let himself be something other than a number—and you let yourself fall for a soldier who wasn’t supposed to love.
⸻
“Only One Target”
Enemies to lovers. Slow burn. Tension, action, and banter-heavy.
⸻
Red lights flashed down the corridors as you rand through the Resolute. Alarms howled like wounded animals. Klaxons screamed warnings that had come too late.
You moved like a shadow, your twin blades igniting in a blur of crimson, slicing through the bulkhead doors as if the metal were paper. The heat of your lightsabers glowed against the durasteel corridor walls, the hum a deadly harmony beside the shriek of chaos.
Asajj Ventress moved beside you with elegant brutality, deflecting blaster fire, her snarling grin twisted with pleasure.
“The bridge is ahead,” she hissed.
“I know.” You moved low, quick. Efficient. No wasted energy.
Unlike Ventress, you weren’t here for blood. You were here for one thing.
Skywalker.
Your boots echoed against the floor as the pair of you tore through the security wing. Clone troopers scrambled to set up a defensive line, but Ventress was already leaping through the air, spinning and slashing with savage glee. You ducked left, deflecting two stun blasts aimed at your side and pressing through the chaos.
Your comm crackled with Dooku’s voice: “Your objective is Skywalker. Eliminate him if possible. Delay him if not.”
Simple. Clean.
But Jedi never made things easy.
A roar of deflected fire and steel clashed ahead—the bridge was sealed tight, but Skywalker was already on the move. You could feel it. That sickening shine in the Force. Hot-headed. Reckless.
Perfect.
Ventress cackled as she carved her way through a unit of troopers. “Skywalker’s mine, little assassin.”
You didn’t bother replying. She was always talking. Always posturing.
But Skywalker—he came for you.
He landed in front of you like a meteor, lightsaber igniting in that garish Jedi blue. His padawan flanked him, smaller but no less lethal.
“Stop right there!” Ahsoka barked.
“You should run, youngling,” you said calmly, blades still humming in your grip. “You’re not my target.”
“Good,” Anakin growled. “Because I’m yours.”
Your blades clashed.
He was every bit as unhinged and unpredictable as the reports had claimed. Each swing was raw power. Unfocused. A battering ram of fury and precision. But you weren’t trained for brute force—you danced. You flowed. And you matched him blow for blow.
Behind you, Ventress laughed, engaging Ahsoka. “Don’t get killed, darling!” she called to you.
You didn’t have time to respond. Skywalker was pressing harder now, rage simmering just beneath his skin.
“Who sent you?” he snarled.
“Ask your Council,” you hissed, pushing his blade aside with a sharp twist and driving a kick into his side. “Maybe they already knew.”
His anger was your shield, your rhythm. You circled him like a predator, redirecting each strike. But he was wearing you down. Sweat beaded on your brow. Your ribs ached from a graze. The hum of the ship told you more clones were closing in.
This wasn’t going to plan.
Suddenly, Ventress snarled. “We’re pulling out!”
“What?” you snapped, narrowly dodging a swing that would’ve taken your shoulder.
“The ship is crawling with clones! We’re surrounded!”
You turned—but it was already too late.
A stun blast hit your back like a hammer, and you crumpled to the floor with a gasp. Your vision sparked, flickering red and white.
Through the haze, you saw Ventress leap into the air, somersaulting toward an escape hatch. “Try not to die, sweetling!” she called before vanishing into the smoke.
Coward.
You tried to rise—only to find yourself staring down the barrel of several blaster rifles. White and blue armor surrounded you.
And in front of them stood a clone captain.
Helmet off. Jaw clenched. Eyes sharp.
He didn’t look at you like a person.
He looked at you like the monster under the bed had crawled into the daylight.
You smirked through the pain.
“Captain,” you rasped, voice dry and tinged with blood. “Nice to finally meet face-to-face.”
He didn’t answer.
But he didn’t shoot you either.
⸻
The cell was cold. Not the biting kind of cold, but that artificial kind—clinical, heartless, and designed to make you uncomfortable without leaving bruises.
You sat calmly, arms cuffed to the table in front of you, ankles bound beneath. Bruised. Bleeding. But your chin was high and your mouth curved in something far too close to a smirk.
Across from you stood Anakin Skywalker, pacing like a caged animal.
“Why were you here?” he demanded. Again.
You gave a long, slow blink. “Nice to see you’re up and walking. That kick to the ribs must’ve hurt.”
He stopped pacing, turned on you.
“Who sent you?”
“You already know the answer to that,” you replied sweetly. “But you’re not interested in truth, are you? Only revenge.”
He bristled. You leaned forward, eyes gleaming with amusement.
“You’re predictable, Skywalker. So much fire, so little control. I don’t even need the Force to see through you.”
He slammed his hand down on the table. You didn’t flinch.
“I will get answers out of you.”
You tilted your head, voice dropping like silk.
“Is that a threat? Or a promise?”
His jaw clenched. “I don’t play games with Sith.”
“Oh, but I do love when Jedi pretend they don’t have teeth. You came at me like a storm, Skywalker. That was personal. So… who did you lose?”
He stared at you for a long, tense beat.
Then he turned sharply and stormed toward the door.
“Rex!” he barked, voice echoing. The clone captain was already waiting outside.
Anakin didn’t look back. “She’s done talking. Make sure she doesn’t try anything.”
The door hissed shut behind him, leaving you in quiet, satisfied amusement.
⸻
Captain Rex entered the room like a soldier born from the word discipline itself. Helmet off. Blaster at his side.
You watched him with interest. The curve of his jaw. The quiet rage simmering beneath the armor. Fascinating.
“Still scowling,” you murmured, leaning forward. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you missed me.”
Rex didn’t move.
“I don’t have time for your games.”
“No?” You arched a brow, voice smooth. “I thought I might be growing on you.”
“You’re lucky to still be breathing.”
You chuckled lowly, the sound almost intimate. “So I’ve been told. And yet… here I am. Alive. Tied down. At your mercy.”
Rex narrowed his eyes, but you saw it—the flicker. Just a twitch. Something unreadable passing through him.
“I’m not interested in whatever this is,” he said.
“Are you sure?” Your voice dropped to a velvet hush. “Because you keep coming back.”
Rex stepped forward, setting your stun-cuffed hands more firmly on the table.
“I’m only here because the General told me to keep you contained.”
You leaned in as far as the cuffs would allow. Close enough for him to feel the whisper of your breath against his cheek.
“And here I thought you were starting to enjoy our chats.”
He looked down at you—fierce, unreadable.
Then his voice dropped, cold and quiet.
“I’ve lost too many good men to people like you.”
Your smirk softened. Just a bit.
“I told you already,” you said, quieter now. “I didn’t kill your brothers. Not one.”
“Convenient.”
“True.”
The silence stretched between you like a taut wire. Dangerous. Tense.
“I’m not who you think I am, Captain,” you said finally. “But I won’t pretend I’m innocent.”
He didn’t reply. Just turned, walking toward the door.
You watched him, something unreadable flickering in your gaze.
“You can lock the cell, Rex,” you called after him. “But you’ll be back.”
He paused in the doorway, head tilted.
“Mark my words, Captain… you’ll come back. Even if you don’t know why.”
The door hissed closed behind him.
But you knew.
You always knew.
⸻
Captain Rex hadn’t come back.
Not once.
And it was driving you crazy.
Not because you missed him—no, that would be ridiculous. But there was something about the way he looked at you. That loathing. That fire. That control. You’d tasted the edge of his patience, danced along the blade of his restraint. You wanted to see what would happen if it snapped.
But instead, all you got were cold meals, cold walls, and clones who wouldn’t meet your eye.
Something had changed.
The cruiser was quieter than usual. Too quiet.
You sat in your cell, half-meditating, half-stalking the Force for answers—when the lights flickered. Once. Twice.
Then the alarms started.
Again.
You stood.
Outside your cell, down the corridor, came the distinct snarl of sabers cutting metal.
Then the scream of a clone dying.
You felt it before you saw her—Asajj Ventress.
So dramatic.
She moved like smoke—feral and graceful and cruel. Cutting down everything in her path.
“(Y/N), darling,” she sang, dragging her saber across the bulkhead. “Dooku thinks you’ve said too much.”
You arched a brow. “I’ve been locked up for two days.”
She grinned wickedly through the security glass. “He’s not much for trust.”
You stepped back as the wall next to your cell exploded inwards, shrapnel slicing through the air. A second later, the blast door behind Ventress burst open—and Rex charged through with a small squad, blasters raised.
“Don’t let her escape!” he barked. “Ventress is here—get the prisoner secured!”
Ventress hissed. “So much fuss.”
She threw out her hand, sending two clones flying down the hallway. Blaster fire lit up the corridor. You ducked as sparks rained from the ceiling.
Chaos.
And in chaos… came opportunity.
Your bindings were fried in the blast. Ventress might’ve been here to kill you—but she’d cracked open the door for your escape.
And you intended to walk through it.
You sprinted through the smoke just as Rex spotted you.
“Hey!” he shouted. “Stop—!”
But you were already lunging at him.
The fight was brutal.
He was stronger than you remembered. Faster. Smart. He fought with precision, training, and raw determination.
But you were sharper.
He aimed a blow to your ribs—you twisted, elbowed his jaw, then landed a swift kick that knocked him to the floor. He groaned, dazed.
You stood over him, panting, blood dripping from a cut above your brow. He looked up at you, chest heaving.
Disgust and fury warred in his eyes.
You knelt down beside him, fingers brushing the edge of his pauldron, and whispered:
“You really are hard to resist, Captain.”
Before he could speak, you leaned in—lips brushing his cheek in a slow, mocking kiss.
He flinched like you’d slapped him.
You smirked, breath warm at his ear.
“Tell Skywalker I’ll be seeing him soon.”
And with that, you were gone—vanishing into the smoke and fire.
Rex slammed his fist into the floor, jaw tight.
“Damn it.”
⸻
The shuttle descended through the clouds like a dagger slicing through silk.
You stood in the shadows of the ship’s hold, arms crossed, silent as Ventress piloted the last stretch home. Her usual smugness was absent. She hadn’t spoken since the escape. A rare show of restraint—for her.
You’d barely had time to process it all. The cell. The explosion. The fight with Rex.
The kiss.
You could still feel the heat of his skin under your lips. Could still see the fury in his eyes when you left him there, bruised and stunned.
Why you’d done it, you weren’t sure.
Maybe it was to mock him.
Or maybe it was something else.
You pushed the thought away.
The ship landed with a soft thrum. Dooku was already waiting.
He sat on his elevated seat, shrouded in darkness, back straight, fingers steepled. Regal. Cold.
The air buzzed with tension as you stepped before him, Ventress half a pace behind.
He stared at you for a long moment, then finally spoke.
“So,” he said, voice deep, smooth, laced with disapproval. “You return.”
“Alive,” you replied, offering a slight bow.
“For now.”
Ventress stepped forward. “Skywalker and his men nearly had her. I had to extract her myself.”
You snorted. “You also tried to gut me in the process.”
Dooku’s gaze slid to you, unmoved. “Your mission was simple: eliminate Skywalker.”
“I almost had him,” you said. “He’s just… more unhinged than I remembered.”
Dooku’s eyes narrowed. “And yet you engaged no clones. Left them alive. Odd, for an assassin.”
You met his stare. “They weren’t the target.”
“They were in your way.”
You were quiet.
Dooku stood, descending the steps like a judge preparing a sentence.
“You toyed with them.”
The words sliced like ice.
“You played a game you were not ordered to play. Especially with that clone—Captain Rex.”
You tensed.
Ventress glanced at you from the corner of her eye, smiling faintly.
Dooku continued. “Your emotions are tainted. Distracted. You lingered in the Force, and I felt the fracture.”
Your voice was soft but steady. “I completed the mission.”
“You failed the objective.”
His voice rose like thunder.
“You kissed the enemy.”
You blinked once. Slowly.
“I did,” you said.
Ventress gave a small, wicked chuckle. Dooku, however, was not amused.
He stepped closer.
“If you’ve grown soft… if you’ve begun to let sentiment guide you…”
“I haven’t.”
He leaned in, towering.
“You walk a knife’s edge, assassin. The dark side does not abide confusion.”
You tilted your head, voice low. “And yet it thrives on conflict.”
He studied you in silence. Measured. Calculating.
“Then make no mistake,” he said at last. “If you wish to remain useful… stop playing with your food.”
He turned, walking back to the shadows of his seat.
“Next time, you kill him.”
You didn’t answer.
Because you weren’t sure you could.
⸻
The holomap flickered blue, glowing across the surface of the table. Separatist movements. Naval placements. An entire campaign laid bare in lines and symbols.
Rex wasn’t looking at any of it.
He stood at attention, eyes fixed forward, jaw clenched.
But his thoughts were elsewhere.
Back in that hallway.
Back in the smoke.
Back to her lips brushing his cheek like a brand.
It made no sense. She was an assassin. A killer. She should’ve slit his throat when she had the chance.
Instead, she kissed him.
And now she was out there.
Alive.
And he hated that he kept thinking about her.
Across the room, Skywalker watched him with his arms crossed, expression unreadable.
“…You’ve barely spoken since the attack,” Anakin said at last, breaking the silence.
Rex blinked out of his haze. “Sir?”
“I said,” Anakin repeated, stepping forward, “you’ve been quiet.”
Rex shifted. “Just processing.”
“Hm.”
Skywalker studied him with that Jedi look—the one that peeled you apart without touching you.
“She messed with your head,” he said casually.
Rex stiffened. “No, sir.”
“She kissed you, didn’t she?”
That made him flinch. Just slightly. Just enough.
Anakin grinned, triumphant.
“Rex… my most dependable, rule-bound, chain-of-command clone… got kissed by a Sith.”
Rex scowled. “It wasn’t like that.”
“Wasn’t it?” Anakin leaned on the table. “You’ve been off since it happened. You volunteered to lead the recon mission to track her. You haven’t even joked with Fives.”
“That’s not evidence of anything.”
“You’re obsessed,” Anakin said bluntly. “And obsession leads to mistakes.”
Rex stepped forward. “I won’t make a mistake.”
Skywalker’s brow furrowed.
“Then tell me the truth. What happened in that hallway? Before she escaped.”
A pause. Tense. Thick.
Rex looked away.
“I hesitated.”
Anakin’s eyes narrowed. “Why?”
“…I don’t know.”
It was the only honest thing he could say.
Skywalker exhaled, running a hand through his hair. “I get it,” he muttered. “You see something in her that doesn’t make sense. It throws you off. Makes you wonder if the whole enemy line is as black-and-white as they drilled into us.”
He looked at Rex again, this time with less judgment. More understanding.
“I’ve been there,” he added quietly. “Trust me.”
Rex met his gaze. “What do I do?”
Anakin stepped forward, voice low and deadly serious.
“You find her.”
A beat.
“And next time… you don’t let her walk away.”
Rex nodded once.
But he wasn’t sure which part of that command he’d actually follow.
⸻
“Sir, you’re gonna wanna hear this,” Fives said, stepping into the room with Jesse right behind him, both looking far too smug for just a routine debrief.
Rex didn’t even glance up from where he was cleaning his blaster. “If it’s another story about how you two flirted your way through an outpost again, I’m not interested.”
Fives smirked. “This time it wasn’t me doing the flirting.”
Jesse elbowed him, grin wide. “She’s alive, Rex. The Sith.”
That got his attention.
Rex set the blaster down slowly. “Where?”
“Outer rim—some cragged little rock of a world,” Fives said, tossing a datapad onto the bunk. “Scouts clocked her landing in a stolen Separatist fighter. Alone. No guards. No backup. Like she’s hiding.”
“She is hiding,” Jesse added, more serious now. “She’s off comms. No Dooku, no Ventress, no Separatist chatter. It’s like she vanished off the map and doesn’t want anyone to find her.”
Rex stared at the datapad. Her face flickered on the holo.
Still dangerous. Still wanted. Still—
He clenched his jaw.
“She’s bait.”
“You think it’s a trap?” Fives asked.
“She got away once,” Rex said. “She could be luring us in again.”
But he wasn’t sure he believed that.
Because something about the reports didn’t match the woman he’d fought. The woman who’d kissed him like a dare and disappeared in smoke.
She wouldn’t hide.
Not unless she was hiding from them too.
⸻
You stood at the edge of the jagged cliff, cloak wrapped tight around your shoulders as the wind howled against the rocks below. Blaster in hand. Saber hidden. Breath shallow.
Every shadow was a threat.
Every sound could be them.
You hadn’t slept in days.
Dooku’s disappointment had been quiet—crushing in its indifference. He hadn’t hunted you.
He hadn’t even tried.
You were nothing to him now.
Ventress had left you for dead. The Separatist cause—what little you’d clung to of it—was gone.
And yet, part of you was relieved.
No more commands. No more darkness threading your every breath.
But freedom came with silence. And silence, with ghosts.
You kept expecting to feel him—Dooku’s presence, that icy command in the back of your skull.
Instead, all you felt was that clone captain’s eyes on you, burned into your memory.
Rex.
You hated how often your thoughts returned to him.
To his defiance.
His strength.
His disgust.
That heat in his stare when you kissed him.
You’d told yourself it was just a game.
So why did it still make your chest ache?
You swallowed hard.
And then you felt it.
A presence in the Force. Close. Familiar.
And getting closer.
“They found me.”
⸻
Rex stared out the viewport, helmet clutched in his hands.
“Think she’ll fight?” Jesse asked behind him.
Fives leaned back with a grin. “She’ll flirt first.”
Rex ignored them.
“She’s changed,” he said, more to himself than to them.
Jesse raised a brow. “You sure about that?”
“No.”
But something told him this wasn’t the same assassin who once whispered threats like poetry and left him bleeding on the deck.
This woman was running.
And maybe—just maybe—she was running from herself.
⸻
The air was thin. Cold. The kind that bit into your lungs and forced you to breathe slow or not at all.
Rex moved like a shadow, rifle low, boots silent on the cracked stone. The trail was faint—half-buried footprints, a heat signature already fading. Whoever she was now… she was trying not to be found.
She should’ve known better.
She was good.
But he was better.
A flash of movement to his right.
He turned, fast—blaster raised, ready to fire.
And there she was.
Perched on the edge of the cliff like some half-feral creature, cloak torn, hair wild in the wind. Her saber was clipped at her hip, untouched. Not lit. Not raised.
She didn’t flinch when he pointed the blaster at her.
In fact—she looked tired.
“…Rex,” you said, voice rough, wind-swept.
The way his name sounded from your mouth—it sent something low and confused curling in his gut.
“Drop the weapon,” he barked.
You raised your hands. Slowly.
“I’m unarmed.”
“Don’t lie to me.”
You tilted your head, voice softer. “If I wanted to kill you, Captain, you’d already be bleeding.”
“And if I wanted to take you in,” he countered, stepping forward, “you’d already be cuffed.”
You smiled—sharp. Tired. “Then why aren’t I?”
Rex didn’t answer.
He studied you.
No backup. No escape route. No fight.
This wasn’t an ambush.
This wasn’t a trap.
This was… surrender.
“Where’s your army?” he asked.
“Gone.”
“Dooku?”
You scoffed. “Didn’t even notice I left.”
“And Ventress?”
A beat. Your jaw tightened. “She tried to kill me.”
That, at least, made sense.
Rex lowered the blaster just an inch.
“I’m not with them anymore,” you said, voice low.
“Why should I believe you?”
You looked at him.
Not smiling. Not teasing.
Just looking.
“I don’t care if you do.”
Another beat of silence.
And then, you stepped forward—only once, hands still raised.
“Just don’t call it in,” you said. “Not yet.”
He stared at you.
One word. One plea.
“Please.”
It wasn’t seductive.
It wasn’t tactical.
It was real.
And Rex felt something twist in his chest—guilt or rage or something else entirely.
The wind howled between you.
And he… didn’t pull the trigger.
Rex’s hand hovered over his comm. He could feel her eyes on him—watching, weighing. She wasn’t smiling anymore.
The truth sat thick between them.
“501st recon team,” he said into the transmitter. “Target trail went cold. Tracks disappear into the ridge. Visibility’s dropping—might have to call it for the night.”
There was a pause.
Then static cracked and—
“You lost her?” Fives’ voice came through, incredulous.
“Lost or let go?” Jesse muttered, too close to the mic.
Rex closed his eyes briefly. “Negative. She’s not here. We’ll regroup in the morning.”
Before they could push back, he shut off the comm and tucked it into his belt.
When he turned, she was already walking toward the small cave behind the outcrop, half-collapsed from age, half-hidden by a rockfall.
“Storm’s rolling in,” you said. “If you’re going to arrest me, you’d better do it inside.”
Rex followed without a word.
⸻
The wind screamed outside, carrying dust and rain in harsh gusts. But inside, the air was still—tense. Dry. The flickering firelight cast your shadows long against the stone.
You sat cross-legged near the flames, cloak shed, arms bare beneath the loose black tunic. Scars crossed your skin like old lightning—some faded, others fresh. A lifetime of battles carved in silence.
Rex sat across from you, blaster close, helmet beside him. Watching.
Always watching.
“You don’t trust me,” you said quietly.
“No.”
“Good.”
You smirked, dragging a finger along the edge of the cup you were warming with tea.
“But you didn’t call me in.”
“I should have.”
“But you didn’t.”
You looked up. Eyes meeting his.
And for the first time, neither of you looked away.
“I’m not your enemy anymore, Rex.”
“You don’t get to decide that.”
“No. But I can stop pretending I’m something I’m not.”
You exhaled, slowly.
“I left Dooku. I left the war. Not because I grew a conscience—but because I realized I was disposable. Replaceable. Just another weapon to him. Just another broken thing.”
Rex’s fingers twitched at that. He knew what that felt like.
You leaned back, gaze drifting to the fire. “I always thought loyalty was earned by killing for someone. But it turns out, it’s just something you can lose when you stop being useful.”
The cave was silent, save for the crackle of flames.
Then—
“You were never useful to me,” Rex said flatly.
You huffed a dry laugh. “No. I was a headache.”
“A dangerous one.”
“And yet… you didn’t shoot.”
You tilted your head, curious. “Why?”
Rex looked at you then. Really looked.
You weren’t the same woman who’d cut down Jedi guards in the halls of the Resolute. You were raw now. Scuffed. Not harmless—but maybe human.
“I don’t know,” he admitted.
“That’s honest,” you said softly. “I thought clones weren’t allowed to be.”
He flinched at that.
“I didn’t kill your brothers,” you added, more serious now. “I swore I never would.”
Rex didn’t respond right away.
Then, finally—
“I believe you.”
The words hung in the air like a confession.
You looked at him again, eyes darker now. “You gonna let me go in the morning?”
He hesitated.
“…I don’t know yet.”
Another pause.
Then you leaned forward, across the firelight, voice low.
“I still think about you, you know. About that kiss.”
His jaw tightened. “You only did that to get under my skin.”
You smiled. “Did it work?”
He didn’t answer.
You were closer now. Too close.
And maybe it was the firelight. Or the silence. Or the ache of too many choices unmade.
But Rex didn’t move when you reached out.
Your fingers grazed the edge of his jaw, feather-light. “You ever wonder if this would’ve been different… if we weren’t on opposite sides?”
He met your gaze.
“I don’t have time to wonder.”
“Maybe you should start.”
You leaned in—close enough to steal his breath.
Then, at the last second, you pulled back.
“Get some rest, Captain,” you said, curling into your cloak near the fire.
Rex sat stiff as stone, heart pounding like war drums in his chest.
And outside, the storm raged.
⸻
Fives squinted up at the ridge through his electrobinoculars.
“No way he lost the trail,” he muttered.
Jesse nodded. “You felt it too, right? The way he said it? That pause.”
Fives smirked. “He found her.”
“And didn’t bring her in.”
They shared a look.
“Think we’re gonna see her again?” Jesse asked.
Fives clicked his tongue.
“I think he hopes not.”
⸻
The storm had passed.
The wind was still sharp, but the sky was clearing—streaks of pale blue bleeding into the clouds like a fresh wound, wide and open. Sunlight spilled over the stone like a promise. Cold, but clean.
You stood near the edge of the ridge, cloak fluttering behind you, face turned toward the sunrise.
Rex approached, slow. Steady. Blaster holstered. Helmet tucked under one arm.
You didn’t look back at first. Just spoke, voice low.
“They’ll know soon enough.”
“I know.”
“They’ll think you let me go.”
“I did.”
Finally, you turned to him.
Eyes locked. That unspoken thing still between you—never named. Never safe enough to be.
“But you’ll lie for me?” you asked, more curious than hopeful.
“No,” he said, firm. “But I’ll say I hesitated.”
You smiled, just a little. “That’s fair.”
There was a beat of silence.
Then you stepped forward. Closer.
“This is the part where I disappear again.”
He didn’t stop you.
Didn’t step forward.
Didn’t say stay.
Because he couldn’t.
You leaned in, eyes searching his.
“I meant what I said, Captain,” you murmured. “About thinking of you.”
And before he could say a word, you pressed a soft kiss to his cheek—right over the scar that ran along his jaw. It lingered longer than the first. Not teasing this time. Not taunting.
Just real.
Warm.
A goodbye.
Rex didn’t move. Couldn’t.
And then you were gone.
Cloak over your shoulders, vanishing into the canyon beyond. No sound. No trace.
Like you’d never been there at all.
Except he’d never forget.
⸻
Jesse looked up first. “Incoming.”
Fives leaned on a crate, chewing rations. “He better not say she vanished.”
Rex stepped through the brush, helmet under his arm, face unreadable.
“You lose the trail again?” Jesse asked dryly.
“She was never there,” Rex said.
Fives snorted. “Yeah, sure. The wind just happened to blow out tracks in one direction.”
“I didn’t find her,” Rex said again, firmer. “She’s gone.”
They watched him.
Said nothing.
Jesse raised an eyebrow, but Fives elbowed him, letting it go.
And as Rex walked past them, calm and steady and very clearly not okay—Fives caught a glimpse of something under his ear.
A smear.
No, not a smear.
Lipstick.
Fives blinked.
Then grinned like a menace.
But before he could say a word, Rex tossed his helmet back on.
And muttered without looking back—
“Don’t.”