Bad Batch/Clone Force 99 Material List 🖤♠️💀🩸💋◾️

the self-indulgent fanfiction will continue until morale improves

No lie, reading these chapters has made me fall back in love with the clones and inspired me to write fanfics about them again

Liar Liar (Part 7/?)

Part 7 - The Truth // <<< Part Six

🫧 Pairings: Commander Fox X Female!Reader

🫧 word count: 4.5k

🫧Chapter Summary: With questions and gossip spiralling out of control, Fox takes action and takes you on a date to break the news. However, it doesn't go exactly to plan.

🫧Chapter Warnings: safe for work, flirty texts, flirting, reader wearing a red dress, heavy angst, crying, heartbreak, trust issues, comfort, accidental confessions.

    "Hound, can I have a word?" It was the next day, and during your lunch break, you spotted Hound lingering by the counter, balancing a tray of food while waiting for the next available seat. The moment you saw him, the urge to speak to him flared up, overriding your initial plan to just grab something to eat and return to your desk.

Excusing yourself, you wove through the crowd of officers and troopers, brushing past shoulders until you reached him just before he could sit down.

The Sergeant blinked in surprise at your sudden appearance—though even more at the clear irritation in your tone. That alone was enough to catch his attention. You weren’t usually one to sound so bothered.

Adjusting his grip on his tray, he arched a brow. “Everything alright?”

You ignored the question and tilted your head, gesturing for him to follow. Hound hesitated briefly but ultimately sighed and followed you out of earshot of the bustling mess hall.

Once you were in a quiet enough spot, you turned to face him, arms crossed. “Want to tell me why Thire and Stone think me and Commander Fox are a ‘thing’?”

His mouth opened, then promptly closed. He awkwardly glanced to the side, shifting on his feet like a guilty cadet caught sneaking extra rations. “Yeah… about that… that’s, uh, my error.”

“Yeah, it is, ” you echoed sharply. “Why would you say something like that? What even made you think that in the first place?”

He let out an uncomfortable chuckle, rubbing the back of his neck. “It was just an observation.”

“An observation ?” You huffed, throwing your hands in the air. “Hound, me and Fox barely speak. ”

“I know, I know,” he said quickly, shifting his tray from one hand to the other, “I just… I don’t know, I thought I noticed something.”

You gave him a flat stare. “Like what?”

He hesitated, choosing his next words carefully. “Like the way he looks at you.”

Your brows shot up. “The way he looks at me?”

“Forget I said anything,” he muttered, shaking his head. “I shouldn’t have said anything in the first place.”

You sighed, pressing a hand to your forehead. “Well, does Fox know about this ridiculous gossip?”

Hound frowned. “Of course not.”

“Good. And I don’t want him to know.”

The last thing you needed was for Commander Fox to hear about this. The man already carried the weight of Coruscant’s security on his shoulders—he did not need to be burdened with some absurd rumor about the two of you.

But then, a thought struck you.

You lowered your hand, eyes narrowing slightly as a memory resurfaced—Fox and Hound, standing in the hangar yesterday. It had looked… tense. Almost heated.

Frowning, you tilted your head. “That reminds me, what was that about yesterday?”

Hound stiffened, lips pressing into a firm line. “What was what about?”

“The conversation you had with Fox in the hangar.” You studied him carefully. “Looked serious. ”

There was conflict in his gaze. Hesitation. But after a moment, he sighed and shook his head. “Nothing worth worrying about. A patrol went wrong. That’s all.”

You watched him closely, trying to gauge whether or not that was the whole truth.

But eventually, you nodded. “Alright,” you said, relieved that at least it wasn’t about you.

Hound exhaled, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly. “Sorry about the gossip. I really didn’t mean for it to spread.”

You rolled your eyes, but the irritation had mostly faded. “Just… maybe keep your ‘ observations’ to yourself next time.” You mutter, using air quotations.

He held up his hands. “Duly noted.”

⋅⋅───⊱༺  🦊 ༻⊰───⋅⋅

Fox was a kriffing mess.

The situation with you was spiralling out of control—a beautiful disaster he couldn’t bring himself to stop.

He had tangled himself in a lie so foolish, so reckless , it made his stomach churn. But the way you spoke to him, the way you laughed, the way you flirted with Whisky … Stars, he had never wanted anything more.

And then, there was that officer .

Fox had seen the way the man looked at you in the hangar. It was painfully obvious—squared shoulders, a little too eager, the way his eyes lingered when you smiled. Kriff, it almost hurt.  

It shouldn’t have affected him. It had no right to affect him. But it did. A hot coil of something ugly, possessive, wrapped around his ribs at the sight. Another man looking at you the way he did.

And then there was Hound.

Fox clenched his jaw as his mind replayed the words from the hangar.

"You haven’t told her? I swear, Fox, if you don’t in the next few days, I will. She deserves better.”

He hated how involved Hound was in this. Hated that he was right .

He needed to tell you the truth. But how selfish would it be if he stretched this out just a little longer?

Even now, hidden in a dimly lit storage closet—far away from the constant questions about Rik Waldar , away from his brothers, away from you —he found himself rereading your messages from last night. Stars, he was smitten.

And from your replies, so were you.

He squeezed his eyes shut, exhaling sharply through his nose. “No. Stop it, Fox,” he muttered under his breath.

Yet, later that night, when the barracks had gone quiet and all his brothers were sleeping, he still found himself sneaking back to his office. Just to sit there, datapad in hand, waiting for your next message.

And tonight was no exception.

So, any pretty girls at the new base?

A smirk tugged at his lips at your message. Were you the jealous type?

None as pretty as you.

It didn’t take long for you to respond.

Ugh. You are smooth. Ever been told that before?

Once or twice. Why? Is it working?

He leaned back in his chair, waiting, knowing you’d take a moment to compose yourself. Sure enough, a minute later you reply.

Maybe. But I already like you, so you don’t have to try that hard.

Fox’s heart stopped. For a brief second, he forgot how to breathe. His hand tightened around the datapad, reading the words over and over again.

You already liked him.

Shit.

His fingers hovered over the keys, mind racing with what to say and how to respond without giving away too much. But before he could, another message came through.

Hound said something weird to me today, by the way.

His stomach twisted.

Weird how?

Apparently, he thinks I have a thing for Commander Fox.

Fox stiffened, eyes locked onto the screen, pulse thrumming in his ears.

Do you?

Your reply came fast. Too fast.

Pfft. Not a chance. He’s uptight and irritable all the time. It’s exhausting just being near him. He even walked me back to the station the other day and I felt so awkward.

Fox felt that one like a punch to the gut.

Damn. You really didn’t like him. Not as Fox, anyway.

He swallowed hard, forcing himself to keep his tone casual.

What if he’s just misunderstood?

Then he should try being less of an arse. Not my problem.

Fox exhaled slowly through his nose, tapping his fingers against the desk before taking a big gulp of caf. Stars, maybe he should have let you go on a caf run. That machine really is terrible. Anyway, he wasn’t sure why he asked what came next—maybe because, despite everything, he wanted to hear your answer: Is it just the attitude? Or are looks a factor too?

A pause. Then—

Dunno. Never seen his face, so I couldn’t say.

Fox stared at your message for a long moment. The truth sat heavy in his chest, but he still found himself typing.

Do looks matter?

Not really. But it’s nice to put a face to a name.

He runs a hand over his face, groaning softly into it. Right, he had to get this over and done with. 

Meanwhile back at your place, you lay sprawled out on your stomach, datapad clutched between your hands, grinning so hard it almost hurt.

Do you want to go on a date with me tomorrow?

The words had sent your heart into a fluttering mess, your feet instinctively kicking the air behind you as your mind instantly leapt to one question: What the hell am I going to wear?

Your fingers flew over the keyboard as you typed out a response, still biting back a smile.

Not going to ditch me this time?

His reply was immediate.

I promise.

You exhaled softly, rolling onto your back as your eyes flickered toward your wardrobe. You weren’t sure what kind of date Whisky had in mind, but that didn’t stop you from mentally sorting through every outfit you owned, already imagining what he’d like.

What kind of date did you have in mind?

One where I wine and dine you.

Your grin grew as you typed back.

I hope there’s dessert.

There will be.

Stars . If he kept this up, you were going to be insufferable tomorrow.

But as your excitement buzzed, a nagging thought tugged at the back of your mind. The hangar.

That moment when he had rushed off like something urgent was happening; only for you to later find out that there hadn’t been an issue at all. No escaped prisoner, no commotion. And then there was the thing he had been meaning to tell you.

You chewed your lip before hesitantly typing,

Will you tell me what you wanted to? Back in the meadow?

There was a slight pause before he replied.

Yes, I will. Please don’t worry. It will be okay.

You really hoped so.

Your stomach twisted slightly at the possibilities. He’d assured you there was no other woman, so that ruled out one terrifying thought. But what if it was something worse? Was he ill? Was there something serious he wasn’t telling you?

You grimaced, quickly pushing the thought aside before you could spiral.

Instead, you let your fingers brush over the keys, heart lightening as you typed,

You know, you really make me happy.

His response came quickly.

Good. Because you make me happy too.

That warm, giddy feeling spread through your chest, and before you could stop yourself, you let your fingers hover before typing something a little more… bold.

If the date goes well… maybe I’ll reward you.

There was a pause for a small moment. You feared maybe you were too bold but then:

Yeah? And what kind of reward are we talking about?

You grinned wickedly, rolling onto your side, fingers teasing the screen as you debated just how far you wanted to push him.

Oh, you know. Something worth being good for.

This time, the pause was longer.

Then, finally—

You’re going to be the death of me, sweetheart.

And you laughed, fully, out loud, feeling your cheeks heat at the thought of Whisky, wherever he was, probably losing his mind right now.

But what you didn’t know was that Fox was losing his mind.

Fox leaned back in his chair, his head tipping against the wall as he let out a slow, controlled breath through his nose. His datapad rested against his stomach, his free hand dragging down his face in frustration.

Or maybe desperation.

Because, stars, you were killing him. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair. And it was his fault.

The way you flirted with him—unknowingly flirting with Fox —had him spiraling into dangerous waters. He felt warm, restless, an ache settling low in his stomach as his body reacted far too eagerly to the teasing words on the screen.

And that last message?

"Something worth being good for." He repeats in a whisper. His jaw clenched as he exhaled sharply, the heat of it crawling down his spine. He needed to stop this. He needed to stop before he said something incredibly stupid. 

I have to go.

Your response was instant.

So soon?

Yeah. Before I say something I shouldn’t.

Fox ran a hand through his hair, trying to will away the heat still simmering under his skin. Yep, he was certainly turned on right now.

Meet me tomorrow at 1900, west sector entrance. Dress nice.

Oh? Dress nice? Are you taking me somewhere fancy, Whisky?

Fox smirked, fingers gliding smoothly over the screen.

You’ll see. Sweet dreams, sweetheart.

He was just about to shut off the datapad when a new message came through.

Wait!

His thumb hovered over the screen. He exhaled slowly, waiting, heart thudding just a little faster than it should.

I miss seeing you.

A quiet chuckle rumbled in his chest as he leaned back in his chair, his smirk returning.

Seeing me? Sweetheart, how do you think I feel? I can’t even see your beautiful face.

Smooth. He had to give himself credit—he was good at this. The easy flirting, the charm, the teasing. It was second nature by now.

But the moment your next message appeared, the confidence wavered.

Do you want to see me?

His breath hitched. His tongue pressed against the inside of his cheek as warmth spread in his chest…and a little lower.

That was flirty. And enticing.

His hand flexed against his thigh before quickly tapping out a response, keeping it light.

See you, how?

The three dots appeared for what felt like forever and a day until:

Don’t be thinking naughty thoughts, Whisky. Only my face.

Fox let out a breath he hadn’t realised he was holding. Kriff. That was a relief. Not that he would have gone through with it if it had been something more, but still… He wasn’t sure how much self-control he had left after tonight’s teasing.

Then, a new message. A file attachment. Fox swallowed thickly as his thumb hovered for half a second before tapping it open.

And stars above—

His breath stalled in his throat.

It was just a picture of your face, nothing more, nothing scandalous—just you in bed, your head resting on your pillow, strands of hair messy around your face, lips parted ever so slightly, eyes soft and warm.

Beautiful.

Perfect.

He blinked, his chest tightening with something he didn’t want to name. Instead, his fingers moved on instinct.

You’re perfect.

And with that, he shut off the datapad, tossing it onto his desk before dragging his hands down his face with a long, suffering groan.

Tomorrow was going to kill him.

⋅⋅───⊱༺  🦊 ༻⊰───⋅⋅

1900 hours. Dressed to impress. West Sector. Gift in back pocket.

Fox paced, his hands shoved deep into his pockets, his white button-up crisp against his toned frame. The sleeves were neatly rolled up, a careful balance of refined and relaxed, but the way he kept shifting his weight gave away his nerves.

He had been replaying this moment for hours. What to say. How to act. How not to mess this up. All because he had accepted a note from you at 79’s.

"What was I thinking?" He muttered under his breath.

“Hey, handsome.”

Fox turned so fast he nearly stumbled, eyes widening.

And kriff, he was glad he did.

There you stood, bathed in the golden glow of Coruscant’s streetlights, dressed in deep red—the colours of the Guard. The dress hugged your figure in a way that made his throat go dry, and your heels only added to the effortless confidence you carried.

For a moment, he could only stare.

“Wow,” he breathed, the word slipping out before he could stop it.

The smile you gave him in return? Yeah, he was in trouble.

“Oh, stop it,” you teased, stepping closer, hands tucked behind your back. “You look very dashing, Whisky .”

He exhaled a soft chuckle, rubbing his hands together as if that would stop the heat creeping up his neck. “Thanks,” he murmured. Clearing his throat, he extended an arm. “Shall we?”

You took it without hesitation, slipping your hand into the crook of his elbow, the warmth of your touch searing through the fabric of his sleeve. Your perfume drifted close—light, sweet, and enough to scramble his thoughts.

As he flagged down a cab, you glanced at him curiously when he rattled off an address.

“Somewhere special?”

Fox smirked. “Somewhere deserving of you.”

Your stomach flipped in excitement.

The ride was short, but that didn’t stop him from slipping an arm around your shoulders, pulling you into his side. It was easy, effortless—like this had always been a habit between you. Soft conversation flowed between the two of you, words dipped in laughter and teasing as the city lights blurred outside the window.

When you arrived, your breath caught.

Fox helped you out of the cab, his hand resting lightly on the small of your back as he guided you forward. The restaurant was breathtaking. Twinkling fairy lights draped across wooden beams, casting a golden glow over the space. Trellises overflowed with soft blossoms, their fragrance mingling with the cool evening air. A fountain gurgled softly in the center of the courtyard, its quiet song blending with the hum of conversation.

He had gone all out.

Fox pulled out your chair, waiting for you to settle before taking his own.

“Well, Whisky ,” you giggled, resting your arms on the table, “you’re full of surprises.”

He smirked, pouring you both a glass of wine from a bottle swiftly delivered by a server. “You think so?”

“I know so.” You raised your glass, tapping it lightly against his before taking a sip. “How many girls have you brought here?”

His brow lifted slightly. “Would you believe me if I said none?”

You narrowed your eyes, playful. “I don’t know. You are a smooth talker.”

Fox chuckled, shaking his head as he glanced down at the menu. You watched him for a moment, admiring the way the dim lighting softened his features, how the corners of his mouth twitched when he was focused.

Then, something shifted.

His shoulders tensed, fingers tightening around the menu, his usual air of confidence faltering ever so slightly.

Your smile faded, just a touch. “Hey,” you said softly, reaching across the table to place your hand over his. “You okay?”

Fox blinked, snapping back to the moment. He looked at your hand—warm, steady, grounding—before clearing his throat and reaching for his drink.

“Y-yeah,” he said, voice not quite as smooth as before. He took a long sip, setting the glass down carefully. “Sorry. Just… nervous.”

You squeezed his hand gently before pulling back, offering him a reassuring smile. “It’s just me, Whisky. Nobody else.”

His jaw tightened for a moment, like he was biting back words.

You were. He wasn’t.

Then, he exhaled slowly and sat up straighter. “I know,” he murmured. “And I’m lucky you are.”

The tension melted just as quickly as it had come, and soon enough, conversation flowed again. The wine disappeared steadily, the appetisers arrived, and between bites, you found yourself giggling at his dry humour, your foot grazing his leg beneath the table.

“Careful,” Fox murmured, smirking against the rim of his glass.

You tilted your head, feigning innocence. “Careful of what?”

His smirk deepened. “You know exactly what.”

“Mm. Do I?” You dragged the tip of your shoe just a little higher up his calf, watching the way his fingers twitched against his glass.

Fox exhaled sharply, setting his drink down with deliberate care.

“You’re playing with fire,” he warned, voice lower now.

You bit back a smile, taking a slow sip of wine. “Then I hope you’re fireproof.”

His fingers drummed against the table, gaze locked onto yours—dark, unreadable, utterly consumed. Then, with a quick glance around, as if double-checking your privacy, he reached into his back pocket.

“Before I forget…” he started, voice softer now, something almost uncertain laced within it. “I should give you your gift.”

You sat up a little straighter, warmth rushing to your cheeks as he placed a small, square box in front of you.

Your fingers brushed over the lid, heartbeat picking up. “A gift?”

Fox rubbed the back of his neck, eyes flickering to yours before he nodded. “It’s nothing huge, but…” He opened the box, revealing a delicate bracelet inside—a single red gem dangling from the thin band.

“Oh, Whisky,” you breathed, a grin appearing as you carefully lifted it from the box. The craftsmanship was exquisite, the weight of it cool against your skin. “It’s beautiful. Thank you.”

The tension in his shoulders eased at the sincerity in your voice. “Beautiful,” he murmured, fingers ghosting over your wrist as he latched it on for you, “like you.”

It was easy to get lost in this, lost in him.

For a little while, nothing else mattered.

For a little while, everything was perfect.

And then, in an instant, it wasn’t.

Your eyes drift over Fox’s shoulder, catching sight of a familiar figure. “Oh, hey! It’s Pia. You okay if I go say hi?”

Fox glanced back too, spotting Pia by the reception desk. She hadn't seen either of you yet, focused on whatever she was waiting for. “Sure,” he said lightly. “Just don’t go running off on me.”

You humoured him with a smile, brushing a hand over his shoulder as you passed.

“Pia?”

She turned at the sound of your voice, her face lighting up instantly. “Hey, you!” She pulled you into a quick hug, then leaned back, eyeing you with approval. “Damn, girl, you look sexy.”

You laughed, giving her a mock twirl. “Doing my best. I’m on a date.”

“Oh, same! Though mine’s late.” She rolled her eyes but grinned anyway. “Who’s the lucky guy?”

You nodded back toward your table. Pia’s gaze followed, her brows lifting slightly.

“Well, well,” she mused, chuckling. “Didn’t think the Commander had it in him.”

Your smile remains but sudden confusion surfaces.

“Hm?”

Pia glanced at you, still grinning. “I mean, I saw you two all cosy at 79’s. Figured you had a thing for him.”

You blinked, tilting your head. “Sure, but Whisky isn’t a Commander .”

Something shifted in Pia’s expression.

She looked back at Fox still sitting there, unaware, completely at ease. Then back at you.

“…Whisky?”

A cold unease settled over you. “Yeah.”

Pia’s lips parted, her arms crossing over her chest. “I don’t think I’ve ever met a Whisky ,” she said carefully. “And that? That isn’t one.”

Your stomach turned. “What are you saying?”

She hesitated, then exhaled. “That’s Fox. ”

The world around you dulled into nothing. Your mouth opened, but no words came. “Say that again.”

Pia’s confidence wavered, her grin long gone. “Love… I told you who he was that night.” Her brows knit together. “I thought you knew .”

No.

No, she hadn’t told you. She had been about to, but then a patron had called for her, and the moment had slipped away. You had never questioned it. Had never thought to.

It wasn’t true. It couldn’t be.

Your head shook, a sickening drop in your stomach. “He… he told me his name was Whisky.”

Pia shifted uncomfortably, glancing between you and the man you thought you knew. “Wait—m-maybe it is,” she fumbled, grasping for something, anything to take back what she had just said. “I mean, he’s a clone, right? They all look the same, maybe—”

Her desperate excuse fell apart the second the next voice cut through the restaurant.

“ Fox! What are you doing here?”

Your blood ran cold.

Pia spun first, but you couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe.

The voice belonged to Thire. He was walking straight toward your table, waving like it was nothing.

Fox stood quickly, his entire body stiff, hand raising in a useless attempt to silence his brother.

It was too late.

You felt him look at you.

Your eyes locked onto his, and in that moment, your heart shattered.

Everything you had built, every moment, every word— a lie.

A sharp breath lodged in your throat. You didn’t speak. Couldn’t. The weight in your chest threatened to crush you, and all you could do was turn on your heel and walk.

No— run.

Pia called your name, but you barely heard her. The restaurant blurred past, the cool air of the street hitting your face as you pushed through the doors. Your heart pounded in your ears, drowning out the noise of passing speeders and distant chatter.

Somewhere behind you, voices rose in argument—Pia’s unmistakable fury, sharp and cutting.

And then—

“ Wait! ”

Your breath hitched, legs faltering as you came to an abrupt stop.

Footsteps. Heels against pavement. Pia.

She caught up, panting slightly, hands gripping your wrists the second she reached you.

“I don’t understand,” you choked, a sob clawing its way to the surface. Your hands covered your mouth, shaking. “Why would he do this?”

Pia’s own frustration simmered beneath her concern, her jaw tight. “I don’t know, love.” She squeezed your hands. “I don’t have a clue what was going through his mind.”

The tears came too fast, hot and relentless. You tried to wipe them away, but it was useless. The pain of it, the humiliation —it burned like fire beneath your skin.

Pia didn’t hesitate. She pulled you close, her arms wrapping around you as you broke. “D-did he want to hurt me?” Your voice was barely there, raw and shaking. “I don’t— I don’t get it. ”

She exhaled a slow, miserable sigh, resting her chin atop your head. “I… I couldn’t tell you.”

But you could tell her.

And oh, did you have answers. “He never liked me,” you whispered, hiccuping between sobs. “Fox—he was always rude to me. It’s like he wanted to play with me.”

A look flickered across Pia’s face. One you couldn’t read.

“Would he do that?” she asked, voice hesitant. “Really?”

You pulled back slightly, pressing a trembling hand over your chest, trying to steady your breath. “W-why lie about who he was? He always talked about Fox—Fox this, Fox that.” Your stomach twisted. “Was he just—just trying to figure out what I didn’t like about him? Was this some kind of—of sick joke?”

It didn’t make sense. None of it made sense.

Your mind raced in circles, spinning, grasping for answers you didn’t have. “Am I a bad person?” you asked, barely above a whisper.

Pia didn’t hesitate. “No.” She shook her head, voice firm. “You’re a kind-hearted person, and some idiot wanted to test that.”

It should have been comforting. It wasn’t.

Because none of it changed the truth.

“Oh—oh, stars. ” A fresh wave of dread crashed over you. “Thire! He’s going to tell everyone . ” Your breath came faster, panic swelling. “I can’t—I can’t —”

“Shh.” Pia took a deep breath, rubbing your arms in soothing circles. “I’ll make sure he doesn’t say a thing.” She reached into her bag, fishing out her key fob and pressing it into your trembling hands. “Go back to my place. I’ll be right behind you. You remember where I live?”

Your fingers curled around the fob, mind swimming. You nodded shakily. “O-okay. I think so. What are you doing?”

Pia scoffs. Tying her hair up, she adjusted her bag on her shoulder.

“Giving Fox another piece of my mind before he comes looking for you.”

🫧 Next Part Coming Soon

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“Command and Consequence pt.2”

Fox x reader x Wolffe

⸻

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.

“Crimson Huntress” pt.3

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

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

They used to call him “Havoc.”

*Flashback*

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

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

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

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

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

He remembered that moment too clearly.

The comm call. The confusion. The order.

Fire. On the approaching battalion.

They’re Umbarans in disguise.

No time to hesitate, trooper.

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

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

Their brothers.

He’d vomited in his helmet.

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

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

For their loyalty.

For their “success.”

Something inside him broke.

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

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

A sergeant came up beside him.

“We survived.”

“Did we?”

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

They thought he was dead.

He let them think that.

*Flashback Ended*

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

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

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

She blinked. “I’m a bounty hunter.”

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

Her silence stretched longer this time.

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

He gave a humorless huff.

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

“You’re not the only one.”

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

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

He didn’t answer.

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

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

Sha’rali leaned forward, her voice low.

“Then pick a number they don’t know.”

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

He hadn’t said a word in minutes.

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

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

4023 didn’t look up. “How so?”

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

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

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

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

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

He said nothing, so she continued.

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

Her voice lowered.

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

She looked him dead in the eye.

“There’s a defect in me.”

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

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

He nodded.

“That… sounds familiar,” he murmured.

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

After a long moment, she leaned back and exhaled.

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

“They scanned you?”

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

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

A pause.

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

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

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

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

A pause.

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

She held his gaze.

“Now I’m not sure what I need.”

⸻

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

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

That was the part the Council had fixated on.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“The clone helped?” Koth asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That earned a beat of silence.

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

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

“Or someone,” Koth added.

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

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

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

⸻

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

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

Death Watch was already sniffing.

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

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

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

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

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

Koth approached first.

“We have a few questions.”

The Zabrak’s eyes darted toward the Mandalorians.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No one saw his face?” Kit echoed.

The vendor nodded.

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

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

“For now.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then—click.

Koth turned sharply. “Did you hear that?”

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

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

“Purple,” Koth muttered. “Fast.”

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

⸻

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

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

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

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

Her claws clenched into fists.

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

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

:: DUCT SYSTEM COMPROMISED. ::

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

She stopped mid-rant.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She paused.

“No. I do.”

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

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

“And if you’re not?” the clone asked.

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

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

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

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

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

⸻

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

:: CURRENT STATUS: SCREWED. ::

He took a sharp left, nearly tipping over.

:: ERROR: ADJUST GYROSCOPIC BALANCE. ::

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

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

And just in time.

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

Eeth Koth followed, his saber active but lowered.

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

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

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

:: SITUATION: EXTREMELY SCREWED. ::

But then—footsteps. Not Jedi.

Clanking. Heavier.

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

Death Watch.

“Thought I saw something drop,” one muttered.

Another paused and looked upward toward the roof.

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

A third voice, sharper: “You sure?”

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

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

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

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

Up on the roof, Kit Fisto froze.

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

Koth raised a brow. “Separatists?”

“No… something else. Watching.”

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

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

Then he started rolling again—fast.

A flicker of movement caught Kit’s eye.

“There!”

He leapt. His green saber flared to life.

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

Behind him, booted footsteps approached.

A door burst open—but not Kit’s.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Koth looked around, tense. “Death Watch?”

Kit nodded slowly. “Possibly.”

“But why?”

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

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

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

⸻

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

K4’s voice buzzed in her ear.

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

“It’s worked before.”

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

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

Breathe in.

Sharpen the chaos.

She dropped like a stone.

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

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

“R9!” she barked.

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

Then—

A blur of green and blue light.

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

Sha’rali blinked, mid-slash.

“…Didn’t expect you two.”

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

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

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

“Bring the ship. Now!”

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

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

Jetpacks buzzed in the air behind them.

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

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

K4 piloting with refined menace.

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

The side hatch blew open.

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

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

Behind them, the rooftop exploded in sparks and fire.

Inside the ship, silence reigned for one long second.

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

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

“Believe me, I thought about it.”

Kit chuckled. “Why didn’t you?”

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

From the cockpit, K4 chimed:

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

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

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

Even she wasn’t quite sure anymore.

⸻

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Jedi turned their attention to him.

He didn’t flinch under their gaze.

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

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

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

He nodded once. “What’s left of it.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He took a breath. “To be nobody.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

K4’s voice echoed from the cockpit:

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

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

⸻

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

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

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

Silence settled like dust across the chamber.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fox didn’t answer.

Obi-Wan’s eyes darkened.

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

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

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

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

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

A long silence followed.

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

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

Fisto gave a solemn nod. “It is.”

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

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

“I knew what he became.”

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

Fox said nothing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Jedi were satisfied with the explanation.

The Republic would not search further.

But not everyone believed in ghosts.

Some knew they were still walking among them.

⸻

Previous Part | Next Part

“Crossfire” pt.5

Commander Cody x Reader x Captain Rex

The glow of neon signs cut jagged shadows into her face as she pushed open the doors to 79’s. The music hit like a punch to the chest—thick, thrumming, alive. She hadn’t meant to end up here.

But when she’d gotten off the transport, alone and empty-handed, with the kid now a ‘Republic asset’ and Palpatine’s cold praise still ringing in her ears, this was the only place her feet knew how to take her.

The clone bar was alive with movement and noise, filled with off-duty troopers trying to forget the war for a few short hours. They laughed, danced, drank like their lives depended on it.

She just wanted to disappear into it all.

The bartender handed her something neon and stupid. She drank it fast, then another. And another. The buzz settled in her limbs like comfort. Like numbness.

He was just a kid. Force-sensitive, and full of light. And I handed him over to Palpatine.

She tried not to think about it. So she drank more.

And then—they walked in.

She saw them before they saw her. Cody, in civvies but still too clean-cut, golden-brown eyes scanning the room like he couldn’t turn off the commander inside him. And Rex, just a few steps behind, his shoulders broad, jaw tight, wearing the weight of command like a second skin.

She blinked slowly, trying to decide if this was real or just the alcohol playing tricks.

It was real.

They saw her. Stopped short. Eyes locked.

And then they came to her—Cody first, Rex just behind.

“You’re alive,” Cody said, voice low, controlled, but his gaze moved across her face like he was checking for wounds.

They were both staring. They weren’t angry—not really. They were trying to hide the storm of questions behind their eyes. She didn’t owe them anything. But that didn’t stop the guilt from slinking down her spine.

“So…” She lifted her drink lazily. “What brings the Republic’s golden boys here tonight? Hoping to find someone to help you forget how screwed everything is?”

“You were gone for months,” Rex said quietly. “And you didn’t answer a single comm.”

Cody added, “You could’ve told us you were alive.”

She glanced between them. “Why? So you two could fight over who gets to scold me first?”

That stung. She saw it in Cody’s jaw, the twitch in Rex’s brow. She hadn’t meant it. Or maybe she had.

The music shifted to something slower, darker. The kind of song that made people sway too close.

Cody surprised her by offering a hand. “Dance with me.”

She laughed, bitter. “Feeling sentimental, Commander?”

He didn’t smile. Just held out his hand again.

She took it.

On the dance floor, Cody kept one hand steady on her hip, the other barely brushing her back. He was tense—like he didn’t trust himself. She moved closer, body brushing his. Just enough to test him.

“You’re trouble,” he murmured, eyes locked on hers.

“You like trouble,” she shot back.

He kissed her.

It wasn’t rough or desperate. It was slow—cautious. Like he’d waited too long and didn’t want to screw it up. She kissed him back, lips brushing his softly, dangerously, until someone bumped into them and she stumbled, heart suddenly pounding.

She pulled away. “I need air.”

She didn’t look back as she weaved through the crowd and pushed out into the alley.

The night air was damp. She pressed her back against the wall, tilted her head up, breathing hard. The buzz in her chest had turned sharp now. Fractured.

“What was that about?” a voice asked behind her.

She turned.

Rex.

Of course.

He stood in the mouth of the alley, arms crossed, eyes dark.

“Jealous?” she asked, half-laughing, half-daring him to admit it.

He stepped closer. “You shouldn’t play with him.”

Her smirk faded. “I’m not playing.”

“You kissed him. After months of silence, you show up drunk and just—”

“What, you mad I didn’t kiss you first?”

He didn’t flinch. “You’re not okay.”

Something cracked in her.

“I’m trying,” she whispered. “I don’t know how to do any of this. The war, the kid, you. I never signed up for this mess.”

They stared at each other in the quiet.

Then Rex crossed the space in three strides and kissed her.

It wasn’t gentle. It was fire. Frustration. Longing. Everything unsaid between them. She clutched his shirt, fingers tangled in the fabric. When he pulled away, his breath was ragged.

“I’ve been thinking about you every damn day,” he said.

Her heart slammed in her chest. “Then why didn’t you come find me?”

“Because I didn’t want to find you dead.”

The words dropped like lead.

She stepped back, swallowed hard. “I didn’t mean to hurt either of you.”

“You still did.”

She nodded. “I know.”

He left her standing there, alone in the alley, unsure which kiss she regretted more—and which one she wanted again.

⸻

“You kissed her?” Cody’s voice cut the dark like a vibroblade.

Rex didn’t even flinch. “You did too.”

Cody let out a bitter laugh. “Yeah. I did. Because I’ve been worrying about her for months. Because I thought she might be dead. Because when I saw her again, I felt like I could finally breathe.”

“She kissed me back.”

“She kissed me back, too,” Cody snapped. “You think this is some kind of pissing contest?”

Rex stepped forward, voice lower now, rawer. “No. I think it’s too late for either of us to play noble.”

There was a pause—long and quiet. Neither of them looked at the other.

“She doesn’t belong to us,” Cody said, jaw clenched.

“No,” Rex agreed. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t want her to.”

Cody nodded slowly. “Then we’re both idiots.”

“Yeah,” Rex muttered. “But we’re in it now.”

Silence.

They didn’t say anything else. They couldn’t. There was no answer—no right move. Only damage done and more to come.

⸻

Her head was trying to kill her.

It had to be.

The pounding behind her eyes felt like someone had set off a thermal detonator inside her skull, and her mouth was dry enough to make Tatooine jealous. She rolled over, groaning, pulling the blanket over her face.

And then she noticed it.

Breathing.

Not hers.

She froze.

Lifted the blanket.

And there—laying on top of the covers, one arm behind his head, the other holding a data pad, perfectly at ease—was Kit Fisto.

She bolted upright with a groan, clutching her temples. “Please tell me we didn’t…”

Kit set the datapad aside. “No. You were very vocal about not wanting anyone in your bed unless it was Commander Cody or Captain Rex.” He smirked, just slightly. “You said, and I quote, ‘If I can’t have both, I don’t want either. But I do want both.’”

Kit’s lips pulled into a serene grin. “You passed out the first time halfway through crying about your crops.”

She blinked. “What?”

“I found you stumbling through the lower levels, completely smashed,” he said, voice maddeningly calm. “I walked you home. You insisted I stay because the ‘walls were conspiring against you’ and also because you thought I was ‘probably the only Jedi who doesn’t want to vivisect you.’”

“…Sounds about right,” she muttered.

“You also tried to get me to do a dramatic reading of your bounty logs.”

She groaned again. “Kill me.”

“I would’ve, but then you started crying again.”

“Okay!” She threw the blanket off and swung her legs over the bed. “Thank you for your public service, Master Fisto. You may go now.”

Kit rose with Jedi smoothness, unfazed. “You told me you trusted me, last night.”

She paused.

“And you said you didn’t know if you trusted the others anymore. Not even yourself.”

That sat in the room for a beat too long.

She turned to look at him, eyes bloodshot but suddenly sober. “Did I say why?”

He shook his head. “No. You fell asleep on the floor halfway through telling me about a defective hydrospanner.”

She let out a weak laugh.

Kit stepped toward her, not close, but close enough to offer peace.

“I don’t think you’re the enemy,” he said softly. “But I do think you’re lost. And I think you’re trying to keep the war from turning you into something else.”

She stared at him, the noise of last night crashing down like static. Rex. Cody. The kid. Palpatine. The Council.

Kit stood and poured her a glass of water. “You cried. You yelled. You kissed one of the clones on a dance floor and kissed the other in an alley. And then you tried to fight a waitress because she wouldn’t give you more shots.”

Everything was bleeding together.

“Why didn’t you just leave me in the gutter where I belonged?”

“Because, despite my early concerns, I don’t think you belong in a gutter.”

She sipped the water. “I’m sorry.”

He gave her a nod. “I’ll leave you to sleep it off. But… maybe don’t wait too long to talk to the people you care about. This mess? It only gets worse if you let it rot.”

“I should’ve stayed gone,” she whispered.

Kit didn’t argue. He just nodded once and said, “But you didn’t.”

And then he left.

Leaving her alone in the echo of too many choices—and a very, very bad hangover.

⸻

Silence took over the apartment, broken only by the kettle still screaming on the stove. She didn’t move. Just stared at the ceiling. The weight of the night was heavy. The confusion heavier. Every memory came in splinters—Rex’s hand on her waist, Cody’s voice in her ear, the heat of lips, the taste of regret.

A knock at the door pulled her from the spiral.

She froze.

It knocked again. Three times. Familiar.

She crossed to the door and opened it slowly.

Rex stood there, hands in the pockets of his civvies. No armor. No helmet. Just tired eyes and a quiet storm in his chest.

“…Hey,” she rasped, voice still ruined from alcohol and heartbreak.

He gave her a once-over. “You look like hell.”

“Feel worse.” She stepped aside without another word.

He walked in slowly. Glanced around like he was expecting someone else. “You alone?”

“Kit Fisto left an hour ago. He was just being decent.” She watched his jaw twitch. “Nothing happened.”

He didn’t look at her. Just stared at the empty bottle on the counter. “Everyone’s talking.”

“I know.”

He finally turned. “You kissed me.”

She swallowed. “Yeah.”

“Then you kissed Cody.”

“…Yeah.”

He took a breath, like he’d been holding it for too long. “You can’t keep doing this.”

“I didn’t plan to.”

He looked at her then—really looked at her. Like he was searching for something beneath the haze and the jokes and the armor she wore.

“What do you want?” he asked.

She looked down. “I don’t know.”

“You can’t keep hurting us while you figure it out.”

“I’m not trying to,” she whispered.

“Then stop running.”

Silence.

She didn’t know what to say. Not yet.

Rex turned to leave.

But at the door, he paused. “When you figure it out… when you really know—come find me. If it’s not me, I’ll live. But don’t kiss me again unless you’re sure.”

Then he left.

And for the first time in months, she didn’t want to run.

She wanted to stay. And clean the pieces she’d scattered.

⸻

Whispers traveled fast in the Temple.

Faster than transports.

Faster than truth.

By the time Master Kit Fisto stepped into the Council chambers, most of the senior Jedi were already seated—and they were looking at him with measured, expectant expressions.

Even Master Yoda’s ears twitched a little too knowingly.

Mace Windu’s stare was sharp as a lightsaber. “We’ve heard some… interesting accounts of your whereabouts last night.”

Kit didn’t blink. “Then I assume you already know I spent the evening ensuring a very drunk bounty hunter didn’t choke on her own regrets.”

Murmurs among the Masters. Ki-Adi-Mundi’s brow furrowed. “This isn’t the first time she’s been seen involving herself with members of the Republic.”

Luminara’s tone was clipped. “Nor the first time she’s manipulated proximity for influence.”

Obi-Wan folded his arms, but said nothing.

“She didn’t manipulate anything,” Kit said evenly. “She confided in me. The kind of honesty we’ve been demanding from her.”

Mace tilted his head. “And?”

Kit looked at him directly. “She’s in love with both of them—Commander Cody and Captain Rex. But that’s not what concerns her most.”

Now Obi-Wan stirred. “Go on.”

Kit’s voice was low. “She’s terrified of the Chancellor.”

Yoda’s ears perked. “Hmmm. Afraid, she is?”

“She didn’t say it directly. But I could hear it. She’s afraid of what she knows… and what he might do if she doesn’t play along.”

“That doesn’t mean she isn’t dangerous,” Ki-Adi-Mundi warned.

“It means she’s been alone in the middle of a political war, with no clear side to stand on,” Kit replied firmly. “We sent her into the shadows and now condemn her for adapting to them.”

“She took a child from a warzone,” Luminara said. “Lied about how she got him. Hid from the Republic.”

“Because she was ordered to,” Kit said, sharper now. “And when that order changed—to something unthinkable—she defied it. She saved him.”

Silence followed that.

Windu was quiet for a moment, then asked, “Do you believe her loyalty lies with us?”

Kit hesitated. Then nodded. “I believe her loyalty lies with the people she cares about. And right now… that includes two of our most trusted commanders and Captains.”

Obi-Wan finally spoke. “The Chancellor won’t like this.”

“No,” Windu agreed, standing. “But he doesn’t get to dictate how we perceive loyalty. Or love.”

Yoda’s voice, gentle but sure, followed: “The dark side clouds much. But clearer, the truth becomes. Watch her, we will. But trust her, we must begin to consider.”

Kit bowed his head. “Thank you.”

As the Council slowly began to adjourn, Windu approached him quietly.

“You’ve changed your mind about her.”

“I have,” Kit admitted. “Because I stopped looking at her record… and started listening to her heart.”

Windu nodded once. “We’ll see if that heart leads her back to us—or away for good.”

⸻

She had just finished showering off the night—physically, anyway. The emotional fog still clung like smoke in her lungs. Her clothes were clean, the kettle quiet, and the apartment smelled faintly of burned caf.

When the knock came again, softer this time, she already knew who it was.

She opened the door, and there stood Commander Cody. Arms crossed. Still in his armor minus the helmet. His posture was less “soldier on a mission” and more “man at the edge of patience.”

He gave her a once-over. “You look better.”

She gave a tired smile. “You should’ve seen me this morning.”

“I did. In the alley.”

That shut her up.

He stepped inside, letting the door hiss shut behind him. He didn’t bother walking further in—just stood there, facing her like she was on trial. And in a way, she was.

“You kissed me,” he said flatly.

“I did.”

“You kissed Rex.”

She nodded. “I know.”

He exhaled through his nose. “Do you want us to fight over you?”

“No.” Her voice cracked like old glass. “Never.”

Cody tilted his head. “Then what are you doing?”

“I don’t know.”

“Yes, you do.” He stepped forward. His tone was low—not angry, not accusing—just tired and honest. “You know exactly what you’re doing. You run when it gets too real. You lie when someone gets too close. You play both sides of everything so no one ever gets close enough to hurt you.”

She looked away.

“I don’t care who you choose,” he said, voice gentler now. “Rex, me, no one. I care that you keep lying. You keep manipulating people. You keep running. You say you care about us, but you treat us like we’re temporary. Like we’ll disappear the second things get hard.”

She stepped back, eyes welling up. “I’m trying, Cody. I didn’t mean for it to get this complicated.”

“Everything gets complicated with you.” He uncrossed his arms. “And I can handle complicated. But I won’t be your second choice. And neither will Rex.”

Silence.

Her throat was raw. “You’re not a second choice. You’re… you’re Cody.”

“Then stop treating me like a backup plan.”

That cut deeper than she expected.

He moved toward the door, then paused.

“For what it’s worth… I don’t regret kissing you. I’ve wanted to for a long time. But if it’s not real—don’t do it again.”

The door opened.

“Cody.”

He stopped.

“I’m scared.”

“I know,” he said softly, not turning around. “So am I. But we don’t get to use that as an excuse forever.”

Then he was gone.

And she stood there, in her too-clean apartment, surrounded by silence and the scent of burned caf, wishing she could burn away the shame just as easily.

Prev part | Next Part

Radiant. 

this is the peak of my artistic career

“War on Two Fronts” pt.6

Captain Rex x Reader x Commander Bacara

⸻

The Coruscant skyline blurred outside the high-rise window, but she wasn’t really looking at it.

Lights moved. Ships passed. Life carried on.

And yet, she sat still—perched on the edge of the cot in the temporary quarters she’d been granted for this brief return. Her armor was half-off, discarded in pieces across the room. Her saber lay untouched on the table beside her. Fingers twisted the edge of her undersleeve, tugging it, letting go, tugging again.

Her breathing had finally steadied.

But the storm inside hadn’t.

That training room scene played again and again behind her eyes—the shouting, the aggression, the way they’d both stood there like she was some sort of prize. Like her heart was something to be won, not understood.

And for a moment, she hated them both.

Not just for what they did.

But for making her feel small.

For making her doubt herself.

She closed her eyes, leaning forward to rest her arms on her knees. Stars, how had it come to this? She’d survived battles. Held diplomatic ground under fire. She’d stood toe-to-toe with Council members. And yet the moment her heart became involved—she unraveled.

She thought of Bacara first. Of the kiss. The rawness of it. How he touched her like he didn’t know if he’d ever get the chance again.

And yet—he barely said anything. He kept her at a distance until the moment emotion exploded out of him like blaster fire.

Then Rex. Steady. Soft. Listening. But no less possessive when pushed. He was a better man, she thought. A better soldier. But still… a soldier. Still bound by something that meant she’d always be second to the cause.

Were either of them truly what she wanted?

Or had she been so starved for something that felt real in the chaos of war, that she clung to anything that looked like affection?

She stood and crossed the room, pacing, trying to shake the ache out of her bones. Her hand brushed the window frame.

And quietly, bitterly, she whispered to herself—

“Maybe I don’t want either of them.”

Maybe she wanted peace.

Maybe she wanted clarity.

Maybe she wanted herself back.

A knock startled her—sharp and fast.

But she didn’t move.

Not yet.

The knock came again—measured, firm, but not forceful.

She sighed, rolling her eyes with a groan. “If either of you came back to apologize, you’ve got ten seconds before I throw something heavy.”

“No need for theatrics,” came the unmistakable voice from the other side. “It’s just me.”

Her spine straightened like a snapped cord. “Master?”

“I’m coming in,” he said plainly.

The door hissed open before she could answer. Mace Windu stepped in, his presence as steady as the Force itself, robes still crisp despite the lateness of the hour, a subtle frown pressing between his brows as he regarded her. There was no lecture, no judgment, not yet. Only concern veiled beneath the usual stone exterior.

“You don’t look like someone who’s meditating,” he observed.

“I wasn’t,” she replied dryly, arms folded.

“I figured.” He stepped farther inside, his eyes scanning the scattered armor pieces, the half-torn undersleeve she hadn’t realized she was still tugging at. “You look like someone unraveling.”

“I’m not.” Her voice was too quick.

He said nothing.

She sighed, letting the breath shudder out of her as she dropped heavily back onto the edge of the cot.

“I didn’t call for advice,” she muttered.

“I didn’t say you did,” Mace replied simply. He stepped over to the small chair across from her and sat, folding his arms into the sleeves of his robe. “But I heard enough to know something’s shifted.”

Her jaw clenched. “I’m sure you’ve heard plenty by now.”

“I’m not here as a Council member.” His tone was different now—quieter, gentler. “I’m here because you’re my Padawan. No title changes that.”

Something in her broke at that. Just a crack.

“I don’t know what I’m doing, Master.”

“I think you do. I just think you’re afraid to do it.”

She looked at him, eyes sharp. “You think I’m afraid to choose?”

“No,” he said, and it was immediate. “I think you’re afraid to not choose. To walk away. To be alone.”

That struck something deep.

She stared at the floor.

“I don’t want them fighting over me. Like I’m some kind of… prize. And I definitely don’t want to be part of some toxic love triangle during a war.”

“You’ve always led with your heart,” Mace said. “And your heart’s always been too big for the battlefield.”

She blinked, stunned by the softness of it. Mace Windu, the most unshakeable Jedi on the Council, calling her heart too big.

“Doesn’t feel like a strength right now.”

“It is. Even when it hurts. Especially when it hurts.” He leaned forward, elbows on knees. “You’ll figure this out. But don’t let them decide who you are. And don’t let anyone take your peace—not even someone who loves you.”

Her eyes burned now, but she blinked fast to keep them dry.

“Thanks… Master”

He smiled then. A small one. Barely a twitch of his lips—but she saw it.

“I’ll be in the Temple tomorrow. If you need to talk again—just talk—you know where to find me.”

He stood, gave her one last look, then left as quietly as he’d come.

And this time, the silence in the room felt a little less loud.

⸻

The city outside her window glowed in shifting hues of speeders and skyline, lights tracing invisible lines like veins in durasteel. She hadn’t moved much since Mace left—too exhausted to think, too unsettled to sleep. Her mind was loud. Still hurt. Still confused. Still… waiting.

And then came the knock.

Not sharp. Not gentle. Just… steady.

She didn’t answer. She didn’t have the strength to.

The door opened anyway. The audacity made her want to hurl something again—but when she looked up, it wasn’t who she expected.

Bacara stepped inside, helmet tucked under one arm, armor scuffed from some earlier skirmish. His expression was unreadable as always—eyes too sharp, jaw too tense—but there was something in his stance. Hesitation.

She scoffed and turned back toward the window. “You know, I figured you’d be the last one to come knocking.”

He didn’t respond at first. Just stood there, watching her like she was a particularly complex tactical situation. Finally, he set his helmet down on the small table and crossed the room with slow, deliberate steps.

“You didn’t deserve what happened earlier.”

The silence that followed was thick.

“You mean the shouting? The posturing? The way you and Rex acted like I was some kind of prize to be won in a sparring match?” Her voice was calm now, but it carried an edge. “You both embarrassed yourselves. And me.”

“I know,” he said plainly. “That’s why I’m here.”

She turned to face him, arms crossed.

“You don’t do apologies, Bacara.”

“No,” he agreed. “But I can try.”

That stunned her into stillness. He wasn’t joking. Not hiding behind orders or ranks or deflections. There was no sharp military snap to his tone, no bark. Just gravel and honesty.

“I’ve spent most of my life cutting off emotions that slow a man down,” he said. “Guilt. Regret. Affection. All of it. I had to. Mundi—he doesn’t train his men to be… soft.”

“No, he doesn’t,” she muttered. “He trains them to be machines.”

Bacara looked away. “I followed that lead for a long time. It made me strong. It made me efficient. But it also made me a stranger to myself.”

She tilted her head, eyes narrowing. “And what am I in this equation?”

“The reminder that I’m still human.” His voice was quieter now. “That I feel more around you than I’ve felt since Kamino.”

That cracked something in her. Something she’d been gripping tight since the moment things started spiraling.

She swallowed. “You were horrible to me. Not just today. Since the beginning.”

“I know,” he said again. “But I never hated you.”

Her breath hitched.

“I was listening, that night with Windu. I heard everything.” He met her eyes now. “I didn’t come here to beg. And I didn’t come here to fight. I just needed you to know—I don’t want to be the man who makes you doubt your worth. I don’t want to be that Commander. Not with you.”

Her heart was thudding against her ribs. She hated how much he still had that effect on her. Hated that his voice, his damn sincerity, could crack through months of cold.

“I don’t know if I can trust you,” she said softly. “Not yet.”

“I wouldn’t ask you to,” he replied. “But I’m still here.”

He stepped closer—slow, careful—and brushed his hand against hers. His fingers were cold from the night air. She didn’t pull away.

“You kissed me,” she whispered.

“I’d do it again.”

Her eyes flicked up to meet his, something defiant and fragile behind them. “Then do it right this time.”

He did.

This one wasn’t reckless. It wasn’t bitter or angry or desperate. It was slow. It was deliberate. It was raw in a way that hurt and healed at the same time.

When they pulled apart, they didn’t speak. They didn’t need to.

He didn’t stay the night. That wasn’t who they were yet. But when the door closed behind him, the quiet left behind felt different.

Hopeful.

⸻

He knew before she said anything.

He could feel it the second he stepped into her quarters—before the door hissed closed behind him, before she turned to face him, before her eyes even lifted from the floor.

It was in the air. That stillness. The kind of silence that follows a storm and leaves nothing untouched.

Rex stood there a moment, helmet cradled under his arm, expression unreadable. “You’ve made a choice.”

She nodded. Her mouth opened, closed, then finally managed, “I didn’t mean for it to get like this.”

He gave a small, sad smile. “I know.”

“I didn’t want to hurt you.”

“You didn’t.” He said it quickly—too quickly.

Her brow creased, but he held her gaze with that steady calm she’d always admired. “You were never mine to keep,” he said gently. “You don’t owe me anything.”

“But I love you.” The words escaped like breath, hoarse and aching. “You need to know that.”

He exhaled through his nose. Looked away for just a second, then met her eyes again.

“I know that too.”

She took a step closer, but stopped herself. “I didn’t want to string you along. I couldn’t keep doing this to you—this back and forth. I chose Bacara. But that doesn’t mean what we had wasn’t real.”

Rex nodded once, slowly. His throat worked. “He’s not better than me.”

“I know.”

“But you’re better with him?”

She blinked hard. “I don’t know what I am with him. I just know… I don’t want to live in limbo anymore.”

For a moment, he looked like he might say something more. But instead, he stepped forward, reached out, and tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. The gentleness of it unraveled her.

“You were always going to break my heart,” he said softly. “I just hoped I’d be enough to stop it from happening.”

She blinked fast. Tears clung to her lashes.

“Rex…”

He shook his head. “Don’t say you’re sorry. You never led me on. We’re soldiers. We steal what moments we can before the war takes them away. You gave me more than I ever expected.”

And then he leaned forward and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to her forehead.

When he stepped back, something in her chest fractured.

“I’ll see you on the next campaign,” he said, voice rough, but steady.

And then he was gone.

She stood there long after the door closed, arms wrapped tight around herself. She didn’t know what she felt more—relief, regret, or the slow, dawning fear that she’d lost something that could never be replaced.

⸻

The halls of the barracks were quiet this late, a kind of peace Rex had never trusted. Silence was just a disguise war wore before it struck again. But this—this wasn’t the battlefield.

This was heartbreak.

He sat on the edge of his bunk, armor half-stripped, chest plate tossed aside, vambraces on the floor. His gloves were clenched in one hand, thumb rubbing worn fabric. Like holding on might keep him from slipping into something dark and stupid.

Jesse passed him once without saying a word. Not because he didn’t care—but because even Jesse knew when something hurt too much for words.

She chose Bacara.

The thought came unbidden, like a knife twisted in his side.

He didn’t hate Bacara. Not really.

But Force, he envied him. Envied the way she softened when she looked at the Commander. Envied the way Bacara could be cold, brutal even, and still… she reached for him. Still found something worth saving in that hard shell of a man.

Rex had bled for her. Laughed with her. Been vulnerable in ways he hadn’t been with anyone else. He’d offered her the part of himself that he didn’t even understand most days.

And she had loved him. She had. That much he didn’t doubt.

But love wasn’t always enough. Not when you’re trying to love two people, and one of them pulls your gravity just a little harder.

He sighed, leaned forward, forearms braced against his knees. Helmet resting between his boots.

“Captain,” a voice said softly from the doorway.

It was Ahsoka.

He didn’t look up. “You shouldn’t be out this late.”

She stepped inside anyway, the door sliding shut behind her.

“I felt it. Through the Force. You’re… not alright.”

He smiled bitterly. “You’re getting better at that.”

Ahsoka folded her arms. “She picked Bacara.”

It wasn’t a question.

“No point in pretending otherwise,” he said. His voice was quiet. Raw.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” He lifted his head. His eyes looked older than they should have. “She made a choice. She deserves that. They both do.”

Ahsoka sat on the bunk across from him. “But that doesn’t mean you don’t feel it.”

“No,” Rex said. “It doesn’t.”

There was a long silence between them.

“I always thought you’d end up with someone like her,” Ahsoka said, almost wistfully. “Strong. Sharp. Stubborn.”

He let out a dry chuckle. “Yeah. Me too.”

She leaned forward, her expression gentle but firm. “You didn’t lose her, Rex. You loved her. That counts for something.”

Rex looked at her—this young, impossibly wise Padawan who had seen too much already. “Maybe. But it doesn’t change the fact that I’m alone again.”

“No,” Ahsoka agreed softly. “But it means your heart still works. And that’s something most of us can’t say anymore.”

He looked down at the gloves in his hand. At the callouses on his fingers. At everything he still had to carry.

“I’ll be fine,” he said, mostly to himself.

And maybe, someday, he would be.

But not tonight.

⸻

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Star Wars: Bad batch - Luscious Locks

[The Bad Batch are sitting down at a table to eat an actual meal] Crosshair: [absolutely disgusted] Hunter, I swear. If I find ONE MORE HAIR in my food… Hunter: Jealous of my luscious locks? 😏 Crosshair: That’s it! I’m shaving you bald. [Under his breath] Never had to deal with this in the empire. Omega: Don’t! Hunter’s senses will be dulled! Hunter: Yeah, Crosshair. Listen to the kid. My- wait. What? Omega: Hunter’s hair amplifies his senses by acting as an extension of his nervous system. Hunter: Oh, really? 😑 What about smell? Omega: Nose hair. Hunter: Sight? Omega: Eyelashes. Hunter: Hearing? Omega: Ear hair. Hunter: …Fashion sense? Echo: Pft! That ‘tactical’ scarf says otherwise. Hunter: It messes with facial recognition! Echo: How? We share the same face. [Hunter and Echo start bickering] Crosshair, to Tech: She’s kidding, right? Tech: Wrecker, don’t touch that! [Leaves without answering] Crosshair: She’s kidding, right?!