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Summary: A rogue ARC trooper and a ruthless Togruta bounty hunter form an uneasy alliance, dodging Jedi, Death Watch, and their pasts as war rages across the galaxy.
CT-4023 once had a name. A stupid one, maybe. But not a joke. His brothers gave it to him, and he wore it with pride.
They used to call him “Havoc.”
*Flashback*
The silence that day was like being buried alive. The mist on Umbara curled like claws.
It started with the air—heavy, choked with smoke and the chemical stench of burnt plastoid and cordite. Umbara was a graveyard before the first body hit the dirt.
He stood in the trench, helmet off, sweat streaking through black camo paint. His fingers shook against his DC-15. He didn’t know if it was fear or adrenaline or both. Probably both.
He wasn’t a rookie. Had served since Geonosis. But this? This was something else.
The sky never cleared. The sun never rose. They fought blind in the fog, in the dark, against an enemy they could barely see—until it turned out the enemy was themselves.
He remembered that moment too clearly.
The comm call. The confusion. The order.
Fire. On the approaching battalion.
They’re Umbarans in disguise.
No time to hesitate, trooper.
The first shot was fired. He didn’t know by who. Then it became a massacre.
It wasn’t until they closed the distance that they saw the helmets. The blue stripes. The 501st.
Their brothers.
He’d vomited in his helmet.
Later, when they found out Krell had manipulated them, that he was playing both sides—using them like pawns in a nightmare—it didn’t matter. The bodies didn’t un-die. The screams didn’t fade.
When it was over, they were commended for following orders.
For their loyalty.
For their “success.”
Something inside him broke.
He stayed quiet. Always quiet. But something… detached.
Later, during cleanup, he walked out into the forest and stared at the scorched battlefield. Ash fell like snow.
A sergeant came up beside him.
“We survived.”
“Did we?”
The next day, he volunteered for a deep recon mission off-grid. Just him. A week. He never came back.
They thought he was dead.
He let them think that.
*Flashback Ended*
He stared into the cup of tea that K4 had made earlier, now gone cold. The hum of the ship filled the silence.
Sha’rali watched him from the other side of the table, saying nothing.
“You ever kill someone you weren’t supposed to?” he asked suddenly.
She blinked. “I’m a bounty hunter.”
“I don’t mean for money. I mean by accident. Orders. Fog of war.”
Her silence stretched longer this time.
“I’ve tortured people who didn’t deserve it,” she said at last. “Does that count?”
He gave a humorless huff.
“I was loyal. I believed in it. Every order. Every command.” He looked at her, eyes bleak. “And it turned me into a murderer.”
“You’re not the only one.”
He studied her face, unsure if she meant herself—or every clone who ever wore a number.
“You didn’t desert because you were weak,” Sha’rali said. “You left because you couldn’t live with what they made you do.”
He didn’t answer.
Just looked down at his gloved hands, now black and silver.
“Maybe I don’t deserve a new name,” he said softly. “Maybe I deserve to stay a number.”
Sha’rali leaned forward, her voice low.
“Then pick a number they don’t know.”
CT-4023 sat in the small galley of Sha’rali’s ship, elbows on the durasteel table, his hands still faintly marked with old bloodstains—some visible, most not.
He hadn’t said a word in minutes.
Sha’rali leaned against the bulkhead, arms crossed, eyes narrowed—not in judgment, but consideration. Her long montrals cast shadows over the dim galley light, and her pale facial markings seemed more stark now, like war paint rather than tradition.
“I was wondering when you’d talk,” she said finally, voice low. “You hide it well. But your eyes give you away.”
4023 didn’t look up. “How so?”
“They’re quiet,” she said. “Too quiet. Like someone turned all the noise off inside, and just left you with static.”
He finally lifted his gaze. “You sound like you know the feeling.”
Sha’rali gave a short, bitter laugh. “I do.”
She pushed off the wall and moved to sit across from him. She set a steaming cup of stim down between them—probably from K4’s endless tea service—but didn’t touch it.
“I’m not like most Togruta,” she said. “Not even close.”
He said nothing, so she continued.
“We’re supposed to be communal. Peaceful. Guided by spirit. Our connection to each other and the land is everything. Most of us find calm just by being near one another. But I don’t. I never have.”
Her voice lowered.
“I don’t feel serenity. I feel… disconnected. Like something in me didn’t wire right. Where others found balance, I found blades. Rage. Violence.”
She looked him dead in the eye.
“There’s a defect in me.”
He blinked slowly. “Maybe it’s not a defect.”
“Oh, don’t romanticize it,” she scoffed. “I kill people for money. I enjoy it sometimes. Not because it’s just—it rarely is—but because it’s easy. Because it makes the noise stop. Even if only for a little while.”
He nodded.
“That… sounds familiar,” he murmured.
They sat in silence. No sympathy, no pity—just recognition.
After a long moment, she leaned back and exhaled.
“I used to think maybe I was Force-touched,” she muttered. “Some genetic thing. An imbalance. But the Jedi came to my village once when I was young. Scanned everyone.”
“They scanned you?”
She nodded. “Said I wasn’t Force-sensitive. But the Knight who tested me looked at me for a long time. Like he saw something he didn’t want to.”
He didn’t ask what she meant. He already knew.
A pause.
Sha’rali looked at him again, more openly now. “Whatever broke you… I think it broke me too. Just in a different shape.”
4023’s lips twitched—almost a smile. Almost.
He nodded again. “We’re good at pretending we’re not the ones who need saving.”
She smirked faintly. “Speak for yourself. I never needed saving. I just needed someone to aim at.”
A pause.
4023 looked at her for a long moment, then finally asked, “And now?”
She held his gaze.
“Now I’m not sure what I need.”
⸻
The Jedi Council room was dimmed with twilight. The room was quiet but tense, evening sun casting long shadows through the high arched windows. Some Masters were seated, others stood, gathered in a semi-circle around the central holoprojector. In the center flickered the grim face of the Trandoshan informant Cid—grainy, but clear enough.
“She’s not here anymore,” Cid rasped. “Was never supposed to be. I didn’t send her a job. Someone used my name. Set her up, maybe. She came asking about it… and she wasn’t alone.”
That was the part the Council had fixated on.
“She had him with her,” Mace Windu said, standing with his arms crossed. “The clone.”
Master Plo Koon tilted his head. “The one from Saleucami?”
“Same body type. Same gait. Same refusal to register. Cid said he didn’t give a name. But the description matches CT-4023.”
“CT-4023…” Obi-Wan leaned forward slightly, expression hardening. “That was the ARC we tried to extract during the intelligence breach. Delta Squad was pulled out under fire. He was taken by a bounty hunter—this same Togruta.”
Shaak Ti nodded gravely from her hologram feed. “We believed he was compromised. Assumed he’d be transferred offworld. Perhaps dissected. And yet—he survived.”
“He didn’t just survive,” Windu said darkly. “He vanished. With her.”
Kit Fisto stood by the edge of the chamber, arms folded behind his back, quiet until now.
“And now he’s resurfaced,” Kit said. “On Ord Mantell. With the bounty hunter. After killing a Death Watch Mandalorian in open combat. Witnesses say she fought him hand-to-hand and took his armor.”
“The clone helped?” Koth asked.
“We don’t know,” Kit replied. “But the report says she nearly lost. Someone intervened. No footage.”
Yoda exhaled a slow breath. “A choice he made. To go with her.”
“Which suggests she didn’t capture him,” Obi-Wan murmured. “She persuaded him.”
“Or worse,” Windu added. “Whatever’s in his head, it was enough for her to extract him from a live Separatist stronghold and disappear. She might not know the value of what she’s carrying… or she might know exactly what he’s worth.”
Master Yoda’s ears tilted downward. “Curious, this bond. Curious, the timing. Dangerous, the silence since Saleucami.”
“There’s more,” Kit said. “Cid has now gone to ground. She said she’d report the sighting to us if we left her alone, but she’s clearly nervous. She saw something she didn’t like.”
Mace nodded once. “Then we move. Kit Fisto. Eeth Koth. Go to Ord Mantell. See if the trail’s still warm. We need to know what the bounty hunter is planning. And if the clone’s still alive.”
Shaak Ti’s gaze lingered on the empty space in the chamber where the clone’s name might have once been honored. “If it is 4023… he was among the last assigned to Umbara.”
That earned a beat of silence.
“A reason to break,” Plo Koon said softly.
“A reason to run,” Windu agreed. “But no reason to stay missing. No reason to hide—unless he’s protecting something.”
“Or someone,” Koth added.
Yoda’s voice cut through like a blade. “A ghost. From a war of ghosts. Find him. Find them both.”
Kit bowed his head. “We’ll leave tonight.”
As the Masters began to turn away and the room dimmed again into shadow, the holoprojector winked off, leaving behind only silence and the faint hum of the Temple’s energy field.
⸻
The sun of Ord Mantell were sinking behind rusted cityscapes as Kit Fisto and Eeth Koth moved quietly through the narrow alleys of the industrial quarter. The air stank of oil, sweat, and molten metal. It was loud—always loud here—and perfect for hiding.
They didn’t wear robes here. Jedi cloaks would be like blood in the water.
Death Watch was already sniffing.
At the end of a cracked alley, a crowd gathered around scorch marks and torn duracrete. Bloodstains were still being cleaned from the wall by a nervous rodian janitor. He worked under the sharp eye of two Mandalorians in blue armor, their visors reflecting the flickering street lights.
“Third time we’ve come by this area,” Koth murmured, low and clipped.
Kit nodded. “No fresh leads. But the smell of fear hasn’t gone anywhere.”
The two Jedi lingered just out of sight, watching as a third Mandalorian approached. His armor was heavier, jetpack hissing slightly as he stepped forward—clearly the one in charge. His voice barked sharp in Mando’a, silencing the chatter from the onlookers.
“That one’s been here since the first report,” Kit whispered, gesturing with his chin toward a thin Zabrak street vendor watching from behind a broken cart.
Koth approached first.
“We have a few questions.”
The Zabrak’s eyes darted toward the Mandalorians.
“I didn’t see nothing. Nothing,” he said quickly. “Look—everyone’s got a blaster down here, yeah? People die every night.”
“Not by Mandalorian hands,” Koth replied coolly. “And not to Mandalorians either. Someone fought one of their elites. And won.”
Kit stepped forward, his smile warm and easy. “We’re not Death Watch. We’re just trying to find someone. A Togruta bounty hunter. Tall, coral pink skin, long montrals. Accompanied by two droids—one purple astromech and a rather impolite butler-type.”
The Zabrak hesitated, then slowly shook his head. “No… don’t know any bounty hunter like that.”
“You do know something,” Kit said gently. “Even if you don’t realize it. Try again.”
After a tense pause, the vendor’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Someone said she fought the Mando. That she took his armor. Left the body in the trash compactor down two levels.”
Koth’s eyes narrowed. “That’s bold. Even for her.”
“But here’s the thing,” the Zabrak continued, leaning closer. “Whoever helped her—no one saw his face. Some say he fought like a Jedi, but used a blaster. One guy swore he heard him shout military code in the fight. Real clean and quiet, like he knew how to move. But when it was over, nothing. No footage, no trace. Gone.”
“No one saw his face?” Kit echoed.
The vendor nodded.
“Then they don’t know,” Koth said under his breath.
Kit looked toward the Mandalorians again. “Death Watch still in the dark.”
“For now.”
They slipped away, vanishing into the crowd like vapor. They passed another alley, where a pair of Death Watch grunts interrogated a pair of street kids who just shook their heads in terrified silence.
Once out of earshot, Koth turned toward his fellow Jedi.
“If they knew it was a clone under that armor, they’d burn this district to the ground. No witnesses is the only reason they haven’t already.”
“We can’t stay much longer,” Kit replied. “She’s already gone. All traces lead cold.”
Koth nodded grimly. “But they’re leaving a trail of ghosts.”
“We’ll find her,” Kit said, eyes narrowed. “We’ll find him too.”
Somewhere above them, unnoticed by either Jedi or Mandalorian, a familiar purple astromech dome blinked once behind a rusted pipe—then quietly rolled back into the shadows.
Kit Fisto’s boots crunched across broken glass in the gutted remains of an old comms relay tower. The metal frame above groaned with wind, swaying gently as shadows flickered beneath the half-moon light. Eeth Koth swept the ruins with his saber hilt gripped tight in one hand, unlit but ready.
“This tower was reactivated three days ago,” Kit murmured, running his fingers over a half-melted panel. “Then shut off again, abruptly. No trace in the central net.”
“Off-grid hardware,” Koth replied. “Could be old slicer work, or could be our bounty hunter. Maybe both.”
Then—click.
Koth turned sharply. “Did you hear that?”
Kit lifted a hand, motioning for silence. From beneath a warped support beam, something shifted, too small for a person—then rolled away with a faint whirr of servos.
“Droid.” Kit’s voice dropped to a whisper, and he moved instantly. With a graceful sweep of his hand, a panel was Force-flung from the floor, revealing the last flicker of a dome disappearing into the ventilation ducts.
“Purple,” Koth muttered. “Fast.”
“That matches the description of her astromech,” Kit confirmed.
⸻
Sha’rali’s lekku twitched as she paced the cockpit, nails tapping rhythmically on her armour plating. K4 stood near the control panel, ever stately, ever calm—until he spoke.
“R9 reports that the Jedi are now actively scanning the upper sector. I estimate they will locate him within seven minutes.”
“I told that little rust-ball to keep its distance,” she hissed, fangs bared in frustration. “I should’ve left him with you.”
“You left him to spy on Death Watch,” K4 replied with maddening evenness. “Not Jedi.”
Her claws clenched into fists.
A sharp beep pulsed in the cockpit—a direct feed from R9.
:: THEY SAW ME. TWO JEDI. BLACK ROBES. ONE HAS TENTACLES. PANICKED LEVEL 4. INITIATING EVASIVE ROLLING. ::
:: DUCT SYSTEM COMPROMISED. ::
Sha’rali swore in Togruti—harsh syllables rarely heard outside her mouth. Then in Huttese. Then something old and violent from a long-forgotten hunting language.
She stopped mid-rant.
“I never wiped his memory,” she said aloud.
K4 inclined his head. “Correct. Nor mine.”
Her eyes snapped to the droid. “You’ve got decades of jobs, contacts, hits—he’s got logs on half the galactic underworld.” Her voice turned ice cold. “And he’s got logs on 4023.”
“You did intend to wipe us several times,” K4 said helpfully. “You just never followed through.”
Sha’rali let out a breath between her fangs. “Because I got sentimental. Because I’m stupid.”
The clone—4023—entered the cockpit, helmet tucked under one arm. “What’s going on?”
She rounded on him. “My droid’s been spotted. The Jedi are sniffing his tracks.”
He stilled. “Do they know it’s yours?”
“Maybe. Doesn’t matter. If they catch him, they’ll tear him apart. Every data string, every encrypted log, every…” She stopped. Her jaw worked.
“You’re going back.” It wasn’t a question.
K4 interjected, “May I remind you both that this is, objectively speaking, moronic.”
“Yeah, well.” Sha’rali growled. “I’m a moron who doesn’t want her brains uploaded to the Jedi archives.”
She began strapping her weapons back into place. Hidden vibroblade in the boot. Double-blaster rig to her hips. Backup vibrodagger at the small of her back. 4023 watched her work, face unreadable.
“You don’t have to do this,” he said finally.
She paused.
“No. I do.”
A sudden silence passed between them. Then her hand tapped the comms panel, locking coordinates.
“Get the ship ready to move the second I’m back.”
“And if you’re not?” the clone asked.
K4 answered for her. “Then we burn the evidence and flee. Standard procedure. Perhaps even play the funeral dirge for her if we’re feeling sentimental.”
Sha’rali offered a dry smile. “You are sentimental. You just hate it.”
As the ramp lowered, she paused and glanced back toward 4023.
“Don’t wait long. If I’m not back in twenty, leave.”
Then she vanished into the misty orange night of Ord Mantell, chasing shadows… and secrets.
⸻
R9 careened down a narrow duct, his purple dome clanging with every turn. The golden trim along his chassis caught sparks from loose wiring overhead. Blasts of hot air whooshed through the maintenance vents as he rolled at breakneck speed, fleeing the two organic Force-users hot on his tail.
:: CURRENT STATUS: SCREWED. ::
He took a sharp left, nearly tipping over.
:: ERROR: ADJUST GYROSCOPIC BALANCE. ::
Behind him, a hiss of lightsabers igniting echoed faintly through the ductwork. The sound prickled his auditory sensors like static.
He rolled out of the vent shaft into the open skeleton of a collapsed warehouse rooftop and immediately initiated a low-power visual dampener. A shimmering flicker of cloaking shimmered over his dome. Temporary. Imperfect.
And just in time.
Kit Fisto dropped from a higher level with the grace of falling water. He landed softly, eyes narrowed.
Eeth Koth followed, his saber active but lowered.
“He’s somewhere here,” Koth said. “I felt him pass through that duct.”
Kit’s eyes swept across the darkness. “He’s hiding. Clever droid.”
They split up, Kit moving in a wide arc around the edge of the roof, Koth stepping forward slowly. R9 barely dared beep. His systems were whirring in overdrive.
:: SITUATION: EXTREMELY SCREWED. ::
But then—footsteps. Not Jedi.
Clanking. Heavier.
Down on the streets below, the sound of three figures moving in perfect paramilitary formation. Black and blue armor. Jagged symbols on the chest plates. Jetpacks. Antennas.
Death Watch.
“Thought I saw something drop,” one muttered.
Another paused and looked upward toward the roof.
“The Jedi are here,” he said. “Kit Fisto. That’s him.”
A third voice, sharper: “You sure?”
The first nodded. “I saw him on once during some riots. That’s a Jedi Council Master.”
The second bounty hunter grunted. “And he’s chasing a droid like his life depends on it. What if that tin can has something we don’t?”
“Or someone.” The leader’s voice turned hungry. “The man who killed our brother.”
They disappeared into the warehouse below, slipping inside like ghosts.
Up on the roof, Kit Fisto froze.
“I felt that,” he whispered. “There’s more down there.”
Koth raised a brow. “Separatists?”
“No… something else. Watching.”
From beneath a crate, R9 watched everything. And as silently as his aging servos would allow, he activated his last-resort subroutine.
:: PRIORITY PING TO UNIT K4 – IMMEDIATE EXTRACTION REQUIRED. INTRUSION MULTIPLIER: +3 ::
Then he started rolling again—fast.
A flicker of movement caught Kit’s eye.
“There!”
He leapt. His green saber flared to life.
R9 took the impact and spun down a cargo chute, bouncing off steel walls and into an open alley. He skidded across duracrete and slammed into a pile of garbage.
Behind him, booted footsteps approached.
A door burst open—but not Kit’s.
Death Watch soldiers stormed the alley, weapons drawn. One knelt where R9 had landed. Another looked toward the rooftop above, scanning.
“Still want to follow the Jedi?” one of them said.
The leader growled. “No. We follow the droid. He’s running from the Jedi too.”
They turned and began tracking his route. Carefully. Coordinated.
Kit Fisto appeared in the alley seconds later, just missing them. He crouched by the scrape marks on the duracrete.
“Someone else is following him,” he said aloud.
Koth looked around, tense. “Death Watch?”
Kit nodded slowly. “Possibly.”
“But why?”
Kit didn’t answer. His gaze turned distant, thoughtful. “We need to report this. Now.”
They took off in the other direction, unaware that down the street, R9 had ducked into a half-buried loading dock, hiding behind a dead speeder. His circuits buzzed.
:: SHA’RALI, IF YOU’RE LISTENING… GET ME OUT OF HERE. ::
⸻
The stars above Ord Mantell burned cold and distant, a velvet ceiling cracked by neon haze and industrial smoke. Sha’rali Jurok perched on the ledge of a rusted scaffolding beam ten stories above the street, her lekku twitching with impatience. The red tint of her coral-pink skin shimmered faintly under the glow of a nearby spotlight, her white facial markings harshly defined in the night.
K4’s voice buzzed in her ear.
“Your plan is recklessness disguised as bravery, Mistress.”
“It’s worked before.”
“Statistically, it’s worked 31.7% of the time. Hardly inspiring odds.”
She adjusted the power cell in her blaster rifle, then scanned the rooftop below. R9’s heat signature blinked weakly in her HUD. Surrounded. Four Death Watch enforcers closing in.
Breathe in.
Sharpen the chaos.
She dropped like a stone.
Landing behind the first Mandalorian, she didn’t bother being quiet—her electrified gauntlet crackled as it slammed into his spine. He spasmed and fell forward, armor clanking. The others whirled just as she dove into them with a roar, blaster firing one-handed, saber dagger in the other.
One shot sizzled off her shoulder pauldron—stunned, not dead, but it pissed her off. Her lekku swayed as she ducked under a wild jetpack swipe and sliced a belt cord—sending the hunter tumbling sideways off the roof.
“R9!” she barked.
The droid squealed in binary, his dome rattling as he zipped toward her. The last two Mandalorians regrouped, advancing with synchronized precision, firing. Too close.
Then—
A blur of green and blue light.
Kit Fisto surged from the shadow like a tide, lightsaber spinning, deflecting bolts in radiant arcs. Eeth Koth followed, hammering one Death Watch fighter into the rooftop with a Force-augmented slam.
Sha’rali blinked, mid-slash.
“…Didn’t expect you two.”
Kit offered a grin even in the chaos. “We didn’t expect to help you.”
The rooftop trembled. More Death Watch approaching—six, maybe eight, from adjacent buildings. A few took flight, closing the distance fast.
“Mistress,” K4 said through comms. “You have approximately twenty seconds before an unpleasant level of Mandalorian reinforcements converge.”
“Bring the ship. Now!”
The rooftop began to burn—one of the fleeing jetpackers had tossed an incendiary before dying, and now the upper decks were crackling with fire.
Sha’rali grabbed R9 under one arm, lunging toward the edge with the Jedi in tow.
Jetpacks buzzed in the air behind them.
Kit flung out a hand—Force-pushing three of them back—but even he looked winded.
A sleek shadow dropped from the clouds with roaring engines and a bark of metallic thrusters.
K4 piloting with refined menace.
“Landing on fire-laden rooftops was not in my original programming.”
The side hatch blew open.
Sha’rali grabbed the nearest Jedi—Koth—and yanked him bodily through the air with a grapple cable. Kit followed with a Force-assisted leap.
She was the last to jump—nearly clipped by a blaster bolt as she hurled herself toward the hatch. Kit caught her by the wrist and yanked her in, just as K4 pulled the ship skyward, engines screaming.
Behind them, the rooftop exploded in sparks and fire.
Inside the ship, silence reigned for one long second.
Sha’rali dropped R9 with a grunt. “That was close.”
Koth glanced between them, tense. “You could’ve left us.”
“Believe me, I thought about it.”
Kit chuckled. “Why didn’t you?”
Sha’rali’s sharp smile didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Guess I’m going soft.”
From the cockpit, K4 chimed:
“Observation confirmed. Mistress has displayed increased emotional indulgence, borderline sentimentality. Recommend immediate psychological review.”
Sha’rali rolled her eyes. “Shut up and plot a course to deep space. No trails, no trackers.”
As she leaned against the wall, arms crossed, the two Jedi looked at her with new eyes—unsure what they’d just been part of, or what game she was really playing.
Even she wasn’t quite sure anymore.
⸻
The hum of The ship’s engines was the only sound for a long moment. The Jedi sat across from their unexpected rescuers in the ship’s dimmed briefing room, if it could even be called that—Sha’rali had refitted the cramped space with mismatched chairs and a jury-rigged holotable now running diagnostics.
Sha’rali sat with her boots up on the table, seemingly unbothered, one lekku lazily coiled over her shoulder. Across from her, the clone—CT-4023—stood with arms crossed, helmet now tucked beneath one arm, black-and-silver Mandalorian armor freshly scorched from their rooftop scuffle. His posture was tense, wary, and silent.
Kit Fisto broke the silence first, voice calm but firm. “We’re not here to detain you. Either of you. We just want the truth.”
“Funny,” Sha’rali said, not smiling. “That’s usually what people say before trying to kill me.”
Eeth Koth leaned forward, hands laced together. “This isn’t an inquisition. We were sent to recover a deserter. That was the mission.”
She gestured toward the clone. “You can’t recover what’s already gone.”
The Jedi turned their attention to him.
He didn’t flinch under their gaze.
Koth narrowed his eyes slightly. “CT-4023… you’re not exactly making this easy.”
“I’m not him anymore,” the clone said at last. His voice was gravel—deep, tired, and burdened. “Whatever version of that number was assigned to Kamino, it died on Umbara.”
Kit regarded him for a long, thoughtful moment. “You were part of the 212th?”
He nodded once. “What’s left of it.”
“Why leave?” Koth asked gently. “Why disappear?”
4023 hesitated. His eyes flicked toward Sha’rali, who gave him a subtle nod.
“You’ve never felt it, have you?” he said quietly. “That… hollow snap in your head when you realize the people giving you orders stopped being right a long time ago? When you start to think that maybe… you’re not meant to survive the war you were made for?”
Kit’s gaze softened. “You chose freedom.”
“No,” 4023 said. “I chose not to die in someone else’s lie.”
Sha’rali stood, walking toward the corner cabinet. She keyed in a command, and a medical scanner flickered to life.
“I assume you’ll want proof,” she muttered. “That he’s not Republic property anymore.”
From a holotray, a full scan of the clone’s body projected in grainy, rotating detail.
“Cloning markers? Burned. Biochips? Removed. CT barcode? Surgically flayed and regenerated.” Her voice was clinical, almost bored. “Even the facial markers have been subtly altered—minor surgical shifts to the cheekbones and jawline. Nothing that would raise flags on facial recognition unless you really knew what you were looking for.”
Kit Fisto examined the scan with mild surprise. “This is… thorough.”
“He wanted out,” she said, shrugging. “He asked. I obliged.”
Eeth Koth stood slowly. “But why keep him with you? What purpose does he serve?”
Sha’rali leaned one hip against the table and gave the Jedi a long, unreadable look.
“I don’t need a purpose to show someone mercy. Rare as it is.”
4023’s voice cut in low. “She could’ve sold me out a dozen times by now. To the Separatists. To Jabba. She didn’t.”
Koth turned his attention to him. “And what do you want?”
He took a breath. “To be nobody.”
There was silence. The kind that filled the space when everyone realized there was no easy solution.
After a beat, Kit Fisto turned off the scan and stepped back. “There’s no traceable connection to the Republic anymore. No chain of command, no markers, no active file. CT-4023… doesn’t exist.”
Sha’rali arched a brow. “So we’re done here?”
Koth hesitated. “The Council won’t be pleased.”
“Good,” she said dryly. “I was beginning to worry.”
Kit Fisto nodded slowly. “We’ll report that the deserter is… unrecoverable.”
“Dead,” she said. “That’s usually easier for them to hear.”
He inclined his head, then turned to the clone. “You chose your path. I hope it brings you peace.”
4023’s expression barely changed. “It hasn’t yet.”
The Jedi rose and prepared to disembark at the next neutral outpost, neither chasing nor warning. Just… leaving. Because there was nothing else to be done.
As they filed toward the docking bay, Sha’rali remained by the doorway, arms crossed, watching them go.
“You know,” Kit said without turning, “whatever this is you’re doing—it doesn’t seem like you anymore.”
Sha’rali didn’t respond. Just smirked faintly. “Yeah… I get that a lot lately.”
When the Jedi were gone and the ship was sealed, R9 gave a warbled snort and beeped something foul in Binary from the corridor.
K4’s voice echoed from the cockpit:
“So. Shall I ready the guns in case the peacekeepers change their mind?”
Sha’rali exhaled slowly and headed down the corridor. “No. For once… I think they’re really letting go.”
⸻
The GAR war room dimmed as Master Kit Fisto’s hologram flickered into full resolution. Eeth Koth’s projection stood beside him, arms folded, expression somber.
“We searched the surrounding sectors thoroughly,” Eeth said. “But there was… nothing to recover.”
Kit nodded. “The signs were conclusive. If he survived Ord Mantell, he didn’t stay. He’s long gone. No traceable identifiers, no Republic gear. He’s not the man you knew anymore.”
Silence settled like dust across the chamber.
Obi-Wan Kenobi stood at the center of the gathered assembly, a hand to his beard, visibly subdued.
“CT-4023,” he murmured. “He was one of ours. 212th ARC.”
“He fought under me,” Cody added, voice low and deliberate. “Bright kid. Loud. Smartass. Called himself Havoc.”
A quiet ripple of chuckles passed among the clones seated in the rear—muted, nostalgic, strained.
“He was always fidgeting,” Rex added with a rare, soft smile. “Said it helped him shoot straighter.”
“He made every shot count,” Bacara said. “I saw him clear a whole ridge on Mygeeto. Grenade pin in his teeth.”
“Never took cover,” Wolffe muttered. “Cocky little di’kut. But brave.”
Fox crossed his arms, leaning against a marble pillar near the edge of the chamber. “Brave or not, he deserted. All we’re doing now is telling war stories about a traitor.”
Rex turned slowly to look at him. “Were you on Umbara, Commander?”
Fox didn’t answer.
Obi-Wan’s eyes darkened.
“He was last seen after that campaign,” he said quietly. “A lot of good men went home from Umbara different. Some… never did.”
“He didn’t go home,” Cody said flatly. “He walked into the jungle one night after Krell fell. Left his armor behind. All he took was his rifle and a backpack.”
“He left a message, didn’t he?” Rex asked.
Cody nodded. “On the inside of his chest plate. Scratched in with a vibroblade.”
Rex remembered it too. He quoted it aloud. “I won’t die in another man’s war.”
A long silence followed.
Eeth Koth finally broke it. “There is no body to recover. No tags. No serials. Whatever life CT-4023 had, it ended in that jungle—or sometime soon after.”
“Is that your official report?” Obi-Wan asked, tone carefully measured.
Fisto gave a solemn nod. “It is.”
Fox scoffed quietly, turning away. “Coward’s death.”
“You don’t know that,” Howzer replied, voice steely. “You didn’t know him.”
“I knew what he became.”
“No,” Rex said sharply. “You know what he left behind. There’s a difference.”
Fox said nothing.
Obi-Wan exhaled slowly. “He was one of mine. One of many. He earned the ARC designation. Saved my life once. I mourn him now, the same as I would any fallen brother.”
Cody gave a curt nod. “If he’s gone, he’s gone. No shame in death. We all meet it one day.”
“But he didn’t go down fighting,” Bacara stated.
“Maybe he did,” Cody said. “Just not on a battlefield.”
The Council meeting dispersed quietly. Some stayed behind, murmuring. Others left in silence, helmets under their arms.
Rex lingered a little longer, staring out the high Council windows at the speeder traffic beyond.
“He was a brother,” he said quietly. “Even if he’s gone, I hope he found peace out there. Wherever he went.”
Howzer gave a quiet hum. “If anyone deserved it… maybe it was him.”
Wolffe folded his arms. “I don’t agree with the desertion, it’s a cowards way out.”
Fox, for all his bitterness, remained still and quiet for a long moment.
Only Obi-Wan noticed the flicker of conflict in his eyes before he turned and left without another word.
The Jedi were satisfied with the explanation.
The Republic would not search further.
But not everyone believed in ghosts.
Some knew they were still walking among them.
⸻
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