Artblock Is Slowly Leaving Finally 🙏🙏🙏

Community reference aaaay

Astarion

I started playing Rainworld

I don't know why, but I just love it. It's hard and I died a lot, and yet I still play it. There's something about it that makes me want to keep on going. Finding a shelter just reminds me how happy and relieve I was finding a bonfire in Dark Souls 1.

I've been dealing with anxiety recently, and Rainworld helps me take a break. So here's a few sketches I did :>

the author's barely disguised longing for a kinder world

Lots of thoughts recently. Everything feels plastic.

I could go on and on about why all that AI "art" is bad. I could mention theft, lack of creativity, it's impact on the work field and environment, but countless people have already said all that. I wanted to touch on something that to me is the most utterly wrong about all of it.

Art is more than just something pretty to look at or listen to. It's therapeutic. It's a form of communication. A tool for human connection. It's a pure, human need.

Support real artists ☀️

I: "The Rescue"|| Commander Wolffe x OC Perdita Halle

Author's Note: Finally got around to editing this part... I am excited to kick things off with a beefy flashback. Unfortunately the early stages of their story will be a bit disjointed. Eventually time will catch back up to their life after the prologue, but I wanted to lay some ground work for Wolffe and Perdita. Thanks again to @leenathegreengirl for the lovely cover art for this chapter, showing Wolffe with his two natural eyes and Perdita's! I hope you all enjoy, I'll link the prologue to this if you missed it, and let me know if you want to be added to the tag list. ~ M

Pairing: Wolffe x OC Perdita Halle

Word Count: 13.5k+

Warnings: mentions of nearly dying, illusions to religious trauma (the jedi suck tbh), mentions of loss/grief

Summary: When all hope is lost, a mysterious figure comes to Wolffe's rescue...

Masterlist || Previous Section || Next Section (Coming Soon!)

Perdita had been doomed from the start when it came to the Jedi Order. It was a miracle they had ever accepted her at all. The Jedi were a people bound by their strict code, where attachments were seen as a dangerous weakness, and only the young children—those with little to no memories of their families—were chosen for training. They had long been wary of the emotional baggage that came with deep bonds to others, believing that such attachments would cloud judgment and lead to the dark side.

But Perdita’s species, the Kage, presented an unfair conflict—a unique struggle that she had carried with her her entire life. Unlike most beings, the Kage were born sentient, with complex and fully formed minds from the moment of their birth. Their memories were sharp, vivid, and long-lasting, capable of recalling even the smallest details from infancy.

Though Perdita had been brought to the Jedi Temple at only three years of age, she was not the blank slate the Jedi were accustomed to. She carried with her three full years of memories of her home world. She could still see the lush, rich purple landscape of her birthplace, the towering spires that punctuated the horizon, and the deep violet horizon that stretched endlessly above. She could feel the heavy weight of the planet’s atmosphere pressing down on the tunnels where her people lived—an ever-present force, almost comforting, like a warm embrace.

She remembered her mother, with her soft hands stroking her brow as she tucked her in at night, whispering gentle words that still echoed in the recesses of her mind. And her older brother, agile and wild, climbing the towering spires with an ease that Perdita had always admired. 

It was these memories, these emotions, that the Jedi Order had never fully understood. To them, Perdita’s past was a burden, something that could jeopardize her ability to serve the Order without the distractions of personal attachments. They had taken her in regardless, but the struggle between her nature and the Jedi code had always been an internal battle, one that never truly ceased. And though she had grown up learning to suppress those memories, to bury them beneath layers of training and discipline, they lingered—persistent and undeniable.

Perdita’s mind wasn’t just uniquely capable of recalling complex memories—her gift extended far beyond what most would expect. Not only could she vividly recall her own experiences with remarkable clarity, but she also had the ability to reach out through the Force and pull in memories that were not her own. By extending her consciousness, she could tap into the echoes of others' pasts, drawing out their hidden knowledge and experiences. It was a rare and extraordinary gift, one that allowed her to uncover information that most others couldn’t even fathom.

This skill proved invaluable in the field of tracking. Unlike traditional methods of pursuit, Perdita could search for clues not only in the physical world but in the very fabric of the Force itself. By reaching out and connecting to the impressions left behind, she could see traces of someone’s movements, their intentions, their very essence—memories lingering like faint whispers in the ether. It was a method that allowed her to find those who had lost their way, those who had vanished without a trace.

This very ability had been the reason she was called upon to assist in the hunt for General Grievous’s latest secret weapon. The stakes were higher than ever, and the Jedi had learned quickly that Perdita’s unique talents were a tool they could not afford to overlook. With her ability to track through the Force, there was hope that they might locate the weapon before it could be unleashed upon the galaxy. Yet, as she prepared to dive into the mission, a familiar unease stirred within her—a reminder that even the most useful abilities could come at a personal cost, especially when they forced her to confront the very attachments she had worked so hard to suppress.

Stationed alongside General Skywalker and his new Padawan, Perdita had been a silent observer, watching as Master Plo Koon’s transmission had gone dark with the fleet after briefly making contact about tracking the secret weapon. The transmission had been short, but enough for them to glean its location before the connection abruptly severed. It was a moment that had sent ripples of uncertainty through the ranks, and in the quiet that followed, Perdita had found herself reflecting on the situation, her thoughts drifting back to the Jedi she knew and admired.

Master Plo had been more than just a wise Jedi; he had been a dear friend to her own Master, a bond forged through years of shared experiences and mutual respect. It was a relationship that had endured even after her Master’s untimely death—a loss that had left an undeniable void in her heart, a piece of her spirit fractured by the absence of one she had trusted so deeply. The grief from that loss had never fully faded, though time had done its best to smooth the sharp edges of her sorrow. In his own quiet way, Master Plo had been a source of comfort during those dark times. He had never shied away from acknowledging the struggles that came with being a Jedi, particularly in a war that demanded so much.

Master Plo had always shown her kindness in ways that others in the Order could not—or would not. In the privacy of shared moments, he had confided in her, admitting that he too had struggled with the very things she faced. The tension between compassion and attachment was something he understood all too well, perhaps more than any of his peers. It was a duality he had learned to live with, the lines between them so fine and blurred that they often became indistinguishable. He had spoken of the weight of that knowledge, of the difficulty of reconciling the Jedi Code with the innate need to connect, to care for others.

"Compassion is not the same as attachment," he had told her once, his voice soft, yet firm. "But in the depths of our hearts, the difference can feel almost impossible to discern."

Those words had stuck with her through the years, particularly in moments when the conflict within her became unbearable. In Master Plo’s aura, she had seen a reflection of her own struggles—a recognition that she was not alone, even in her darkest guarded secrets. And yet, despite the comfort of his words, there was always a lingering question in Perdita's mind: could the Jedi truly ever understand the complexities of the heart, or were they forever destined to struggle with the boundaries between duty and the natural need for connection? It was a question that gnawed at her, especially as the war raged on, and as she watched the galaxy slowly unravel around her.

Now, with Master Plo's fate uncertain and the pressure mounting to locate the weapon before it could wreak havoc, Perdita was forced to confront the very thing that had always haunted her: could she truly let go of the people she had cared about, the bonds she had formed, in the name of duty? Or would the compassionate side of her, the one that had been nurtured by the memory of her Master and by Jedi like Plo Koon, ultimately lead her down a path that defied the very code she had sworn to uphold?

She supposed that, as with most things, time would be the deciding factor.

As Anakin tried to slip away quietly, Perdita followed closely behind, her instincts telling her he was on his way to defy the Council’s orders. She knew him too well. Despite his tendency to act on impulse, she couldn’t fully fault him. He was the Chosen One, the one who would fulfill the Jedi prophecy, and because of that, he was afforded privileges that the rest of them—herself included—could only dream of. No matter how many times he bent the rules, Anakin would always be given a pass, his actions excused by his destiny.

Perdita, on the other hand, had never been so fortunate. No matter how hard she tried, she was frequently reprimanded for the way she navigated the complex teachings of the Jedi Code. She had always struggled with the balance between duty and attachment, between compassion and detachment, and her methods were often seen as unorthodox. Yet, despite the Council’s judgment and her own doubts, one thing remained clear: she wasn’t about to let Anakin go off to search for Master Plo. Not without her.

“I’m coming with you,” she stated bluntly, her voice firm, her tone leaving no room for argument.

Anakin’s sudden movement—his body lifting skyward in surprise—was all the answer she needed. She’d caught him off guard, just as she’d intended. His expression shifted, one of frustration mixed with a trace of reluctance. She could see the conflict in his eyes; he knew he wasn’t supposed to be acting on his own. But the same fire that drove him to defy the Council also made him appreciate the rare few who were willing to stand by him when the path ahead seemed too treacherous to walk alone.

“Why?” he asked, his voice laced with surprise but also a hint of amusement.

“Because,” she said, her gaze steady, “you’ll need all the help you can get—and it’s been a while since I got a reprimand from the council. Figured it’s long overdue, don't you agree?”

Anakin paused, his eyes scanning her, reading the resolve in her stance, and for a moment, it was as if the tension between them dissolved. It wasn’t the first time they’d shared an understanding, though they rarely acknowledged it aloud. She wasn’t just another Jedi. She was someone who knew the burden of walking a path fraught with difficult choices, someone who understood the weight of the Order’s expectations. One of the few with memories of her childhood as he too struggled. 

"Welcome aboard," Anakin said with a smirk, his tone laced with mischief. "Ahsoka's already called dibs on co-pilot."

She raised an eyebrow, scoffing as she stepped onto the ship platform beside him. "The fact that the Council even gave you a Padawan is a miracle unto itself," she retorted, her voice dripping with incredulity.

Anakin chuckled, his smirk widening as he adjusted the controls, clearly unfazed by her jab. "You’re not the first to say that, and you won’t be the last," he replied, though there was a hint of pride in his voice. 

Perdita was quiet for a moment. Watching Anakin with Ahsoka—how effortlessly they seemed to work together, how there was an unspoken understanding between them—reminded her of the emotional distance she often felt, even with her closest allies. She had never been given the privilege of a Padawan, nor had she ever considered taking one. There was something inherently personal about the bond between master and student, and she wasn’t sure if she could form that connection without compromising her own sense of self.

"Where was Master Plo’s fleet stationed again?" Perdita asked, stepping aside to give the younger Togruta a clear path to the seat next to Anakin.

"Abragado system," Anakin replied quietly, just as the door slid open. Ahsoka appeared in the doorway, her expression a mixture of annoyance and impatience as she flopped into the seat with little ceremony.

"Alright, I’m ready to scout ahead," Ahsoka declared, her tone laced with both determination and a hint of frustration. It seemed Anakin had conveniently forgotten to inform his Padawan about the mischievous true nature of their mission. Perdita couldn't help but smile at the thought. The pair was certainly... unorthodox. The kind of team that thrived on spontaneity and defied the conventional rules of the Jedi Order. It was both endearing and dangerous.

"I'll be meditating. Let me know if anything comes up," she said, her voice calm but firm as she turned toward the wall panel. She stepped away from the group, heading toward the hull, giving them the space they needed to process the reality of their actions without her interference. Sitting on the floor, Perdita folded her legs, recalling the details of Master Plo in an effort to locate him within the force… 

•—⟪=====> 

Storms were a rare occurrence on Coruscant. The bustling city-planet, with its endless lights and thick smog, didn’t foster the kind of atmosphere that would produce precipitation—or the howling winds that now swept through the streets. Yet, as the ship touched down after their harrowing return from Geonosis, it felt as though the planet itself was mourning. The violent winds seemed to echo the grief that hung heavy in the air, as if Coruscant, too, was grieving the loss of so many Jedi.

Perdita had been swiftly escorted to the Council upon their arrival at the Temple, the weight of the battle still heavy on her shoulders. “Congratulations,” they had said, their voices steady but distant. They told her the battle had been her trial, that she had passed, and that she was no longer a Padawan. The words felt almost hollow in the aftermath of so much loss, but she stood there, unblinking, as Master Fisto stepped forward to sever the braid that had marked her as a learner. It was a rite of passage that should have been performed by her own Master, but he was gone—fallen in the arena, like so many others, reduced to ash and blood. The ceremony, once a symbol of growth and achievement, now felt like a bitter reminder of the life she had lost.

In that same arena, when hope seemed all but extinguished, they had arrived. The roar of gunships filled the air as they descended, and Perdita had watched as squads of men, armored from head to toe, emerged ready for battle. No one questioned their arrival, no one questioned their purpose. In the chaos of the moment, there was only survival—and she had been thrust into their ranks, quickly learning that these men were not just soldiers; they were clones. Created for war. Created to fight. They didn’t have the luxury of choice. They followed orders, without question, without hesitation.

But now, with the literal dust settling, and her promotion complete, the questions began to creep in. Questions about duty, about what came next, about where she fit in a galaxy that seemed to be falling apart. The weight of it all pressed heavily on her chest, and the ceremony—though a mark of her achievement—felt like a formality, a reminder of all that had been sacrificed. She needed space. She needed silence.

And so, when the opportunity presented itself, Perdita slipped away, her emotions swirling like the storm outside. The courtyard was empty, save for the relentless fury of the rain and wind. She didn’t mind the storm. The storm outside matched the storm in her mind—chaotic, violent, and full of unresolved anger, sorrow, and fear.

Her gaze lifted to the sky, the sheets of rain blurring her vision as she sought some kind of solace in the tumultuous weather. But all she felt was an overwhelming sense of loss—the loss of her Master, the loss of so many others, and the loss of her own sense of purpose in the wake of it all. Jedi were meant to be peacekeepers. What would happen if they now were forced to lead men into battle? The Jedi Code had taught her to suppress emotions, to detach. But in this moment, as the wind howled around her, Perdita couldn’t help but feel every single one of them.

"I knew I'd find you here," came the calm, familiar timber of a voice behind her. Perdita didn’t need to turn around to know who it was. She recognized the voice instantly, as well as the steady presence it carried. It was Master Plo, and the words he spoke were laden with the kind of understanding that could only come from shared grief.

His student, like her own master, had been struck down in the arena. The thought of it still twisted her insides. The four of them had often trained together, or traveled on specific assignments during her time as a Padawan—Moments of camaraderie and mutual respect, forming a bond forged in the fires of battle. She had known his student nearly as well as she had known her own master, their relationships built not just on duty, but on trust. Now both were gone.

It felt like a cruel twist of fate—two warriors, once so sure of their purpose, now left to navigate a galaxy that no longer made sense. She, without a master, and he, without his student. Both left behind to pick up the shattered pieces of what had once been, each holding together their own fractured pieces of humanity under the heavy scrutiny of the Jedi Council. To grieve was to show weakness, and that was something neither of them could afford, not now.

She felt his presence beside her, a quiet understanding that seemed to hang between them like an unspoken bond. They were two sides of the same coin, each carrying the weight of their loss in silence, never allowing it to fully surface in the light of day. The Jedi Code demanded it. Their mission demanded it. But in the solitude of the storm, far from the eyes of their peers, they didn’t need to speak. They both understood too well the painful burden of sacrifice.

Perdita closed her eyes, allowing herself a moment to breathe before speaking, her voice soft but firm. “I didn’t expect anyone to follow me.”

“You should not isolate yourself in this. It is only natural to feel what you do,” came his reply, steady as ever, though there was a quiet sadness behind it. Yet, despite all the walls they had built around themselves, there was no escaping the fact that they were both mourning, in their own ways, the loss of those they had cared for and fought alongside.

“What will happen to them?” she asked quietly after a moment, her gaze fixed on the swaying branches of the tree in the courtyard, the rain blurring her view. The storm outside mirrored the storm within her, and in the midst of her grief, she found herself seeking distraction, a way to push away the overwhelming emotions.

“They will become part of the Force,” he replied, his voice steady, carrying the calm certainty of someone who had accepted the inevitable.

"No," she corrected, her voice sharp with the intensity of her question. "I mean the Clones."

“I believe the Senate is set to vote on authorizing the use of the clone army to combat the growing threat of the Separatists,” he explained, his voice tinged with a subtle hesitation. “However, the Jedi remain wary of how the clones came into existence.”

“I thought the Republic outlawed slavery,” she scoffed, disbelief evident in her tone.

“They did,” he replied, his voice flat, understanding the gravity of the comparison she was making. He knew exactly what she was getting at—the clones’ situation was eerily similar to that of slaves. They were created to serve, to be controlled, with no autonomy. Their existence would be confined to the demands of the Republic, bound to a life of rigid structure with no freedom of choice. And to her, that felt far too close to slavery for comfort.

“The hypocrisy of that governing body knows no bounds,” she snapped, the frustration in her voice unmistakable. She paused, her expression darkening as the weight of the situation settled deeper into her bones. With a weary sigh, she continued, “What does the Jedi Council say on this matter?”

“Many believe that, given the escalating threat, it is the appropriate use of force to employ the clone army,” he replied, his tone measured, though tinged with a quiet bitterness.

She arched an eyebrow, not entirely satisfied with the response. “And you?” Her voice held an edge, a challenge beneath the words.

He hesitated, his gaze lowering, as though the question itself carried a weight too heavy to bear. "I was dismissed," he said, his voice quiet, defeated. "But you know as well as I do that when the Republic calls, the Jedi answer. Even when the answer is one we don’t agree with."

The air between them grew thick with the unspoken truth. She could feel the pull of his inner conflict—the contradiction of his duty and his conscience.

“If we are to serve with these men,” he continued, his words now more resolute, though his expression remained troubled, “then it will fall on the shoulders of those like you and me to treat them with the dignity and respect they deserve. They may have been created to fight, to serve, but that does not mean they should be used like tools. They are living beings, not weapons.” He paused, his eyes meeting hers with an intensity that spoke volumes. “And when the time comes to end this conflict, we must ensure they are freed from this bond of servitude, released into a life of their own choosing. They deserve that much, at the very least.”

The words hung in the air, a shared vow between them—a promise to protect the clones not just as soldiers, but as individuals with their own rights, with their own futures. In that moment, the burden of leadership weighed heavily on both of them. The galaxy may have been at war, but there was a far more personal war raging inside each of them, one that demanded they fight for what was right, even when it was the hardest thing to do.

:･ﾟ✧:･.☽˚｡･ﾟ𓃥✧:･.:

Wolffe was thankful that Master Plo and the others had exited the pod to fight, leaving him behind to maintain the signal. Though he was frustrated by being sidelined from the fight, confined to the restrictive, itchy military officer uniform instead of his familiar pressurized armor, there was a small relief in the solitude. It spared him from having to mask his rising panic in front of the others.

No one would come for them. The thought gnawed at him, sinking deep into his bones. It was a bitter truth he couldn't escape. This was it. The end. They were adrift in the vast emptiness of space, with nothing to save them. The oxygen supply was dwindling, each breath becoming more strained, more desperate. He could already feel the air growing heavier, the tightness in his chest as he inhaled, as if the very atmosphere was suffocating him.

The pod was drifting farther from hope, isolated and fragile. It felt as though time had slowed, each second stretching painfully as the reality of their situation settled in. Wolffe's mind raced, trying to calculate, to find a way out, but there was nothing. The stars outside were cold, distant, and unforgiving. He could almost hear the quiet hum of the dying systems around him, each soft flicker of the lights another reminder of their inevitable fate.

He should have been with them. Out there, with the others, fighting for survival. But instead, he was trapped here, alone with his thoughts, and the crushing weight of failure.

As Wolffe continued to wait for what felt like his inevitable end, his mind drifted back over the course of his life. Most of it was a blur—an endless procession of drills, training exercises, and sterile routines. Kamino had been a cold, unfeeling place. The bland food they were served never seemed to satisfy, and the strict, regimented schedules ensured there was no time for personal indulgence or freedom. Regulation haircuts, the endless rain, the never-ending monotony—it had been all he knew, all he had ever known.

Then, like an unexpected interruption in the rhythm of his existence, the Jedi arrived. They were... strange, even by his standards. Warriors of Peace—a contradiction unto itself? Their purpose seemed at odds with their very nature, yet somehow it made sense. They were not like the clones in any way. Where the clones were bred for war, molded into soldiers from the start, with little to no variation. Same face, same body, same resolve. The Jedi were individuals. Their uniqueness was striking—different ages, genders, species. There was no uniformity among them, beyond the rigid structure of their religion. 

If Wolffe hadn’t seen so much of the impossible in their presence, he might have dismissed it as nonsense. But in the face of the things he had witnessed—things that defied logic—he couldn’t bring himself to deny the reality of it. The Force was real even if he didn’t truly understand how it worked beyond allowing the jedi to maintain impossible feats.

Initially, there had been a division between the Clones and the Jedi, but over time, Wolffe had come to see that they could coexist. When he was planet-side, there were conversations with fellow leaders about their Jedi Generals. Some of those generals were kind, empathetic, while others were more dismissive, more focused on the path to victory than the lives of the soldiers they commanded. Yet, the more Wolffe had worked alongside the Jedi, the more he had come to appreciate those who truly respected the men they led.

Plo, with his wisdom and compassion, had never seen the clones as mere tools. He had seen them as individuals. Wolffe admired him greatly for it. He had been one of the few who could see beyond the battlefield, who could understand that the clones were not just soldiers, but beings with thoughts, emotions, and desires of their own. He’d been one of the first Wolffe knew of to use their names, not numbers, even encouraging each of his men to think of what they wish to be called. 

Yet for all his remarkable qualities, Plo had always seemed a bit too optimistic. Wolffe couldn’t shake the feeling that Master Plo's hope that someone would come looking for them—a handful of clones and a single Jedi—was misplaced. They were out here in deep space, lost and stranded, and though Plo had always maintained his calm, unwavering faith, Wolffe wasn’t so sure. The reality of their situation was harsh and unforgiving, and it seemed unlikely that anyone would go to the lengths required to find them.

But even in the face of that, a small part of him wanted to believe in Plo’s optimism. Because, in the end, it was that hope—however faint—that kept them going. And maybe that was all they had left.

That optimism, fleeting as it was, allowed Wolffe to momentarily block out the blaster fire from the battle droids echoing just beyond the pod's thin walls. It didn’t, however, diminish the ever-present anxiety gnawing at him—the gut-churning realization that the craft’s relentless scraping against the pod’s metal was only a hair's breadth away from creating a catastrophic breach. The sounds of the metal warping, groaning under pressure, were a constant reminder: one more strike, one more hit, and the pod would depressurize, sucking the life from him in a deadly, silent instant.

Amidst the suffocating tension and the relentless chaos both inside the pod and outside in the cold vacuum of space, a voice suddenly pierced through the static—a crackling lifeline in the storm. “Is anyone out there? Come in.”

Wolffe’s heart skipped a beat, his mind racing. Could it be? Was someone actually out there, hearing their distress? The radio crackled again, louder this time, the voice clearer. “Come in, this is General Halle—”

His pulse quickened, a flicker of hope stirring deep within him. He didn't recognize the name, but the urgency in the voice—tired yet determined—stirred something within him. Someone was reaching out. Someone had heard their distress call.

The thought of rescue, of survival, felt so distant, so impossible. Yet here it was, a chance, a thread of hope. Wolffe’s grip tightened on the console as he frantically moved to respond, his mind a whirl of conflicting emotions. Could it be real? Was it truly possible that they weren’t going to be left to die in the cold void of space?

“There’s a general! She must be close!” he shouted urgently into the short-range comms, his voice cutting through the tension like a burst of raw hope. He had to let the others know—there was a chance, however slim, that they might not be alone in this. With a surge of adrenaline, he quickly turned to attempt contact himself, fingers flying over the controls, desperate to reach out and confirm that help was truly on the way.

“Wolffe to General Halle—come in!” he finally barked, his voice rough with urgency, barely suppressing the rising tide of disbelief. The last remnants of fear mixed with a deep, primal hope—the kind of hope he’d long abandoned in the wake of so many battles. Would they make it out of this after all?

“Keep the signal alive, Commander!” Plo Koon’s voice rang out over the chaos of battle, sharp and commanding. Wolffe gritted his teeth as he scrambled to maintain the connection. But the failing power system mocked him at every turn, the energy rapidly draining from the pod’s reserves. His mind raced, cursing himself for not paying more attention during basic engineering training—skills that could’ve saved them all now.

The beeping from the console grew louder, more insistent, each tone like the countdown to their inevitable end. Wolffe’s hands flew over the controls, fighting to keep the fragile signal steady. His stomach twisted as the air around him grew more suffocating with every passing second.

Desperation clawed at him as he forced the words out, “We’re losing the signal! The pod can’t take much more damage!” His voice cracked under the strain, betraying his calm exterior as he looked at the status report. The ship was on the verge of total collapse. The thought of what would come next—suffocating in the cold vacuum of space—made his chest tighten with dread.

It was a terrifying place to exist, caught between the faint hope of survival and the crushing reality that even the prospect of rescue might be a fleeting illusion. Despite hearing the voice over the comms, the question gnawed at him: Who was General Halle? He’d never heard her name before. Was she a fellow Jedi? Perhaps Plo Koon knew her? But Wolffe couldn’t waste time questioning—he had to fight for the signal. Every second felt like a lifetime, and yet, no matter how hard he tried, the clock was ticking down.

A burst of fiery light illuminated the cold darkness outside the pod as the enemy craft was severed in two by a decisive strike from the Jedi. The force of the explosion sent debris scattering into the void, and for a brief moment, Wolffe could allow himself to exhale. The immediate threat had been eradicated, but the relief was fleeting. The question that remained—would anyone get there in time to save them?

The panic that had surged through him began to recede, but he knew they weren’t out of the woods yet. The communication frequency had gone silent on his end, the voice that had offered hope now lost amidst the static and chaos. Whoever had been trying to reach them was now just a whisper in the void, swallowed by the expanding silence of space. The only sounds left were the crackling of their short-range comms, the voices of his brothers outside the pod, echoing through the static.

“We are clones. We are meant to be expendable.” The words, spoken by one of his brothers, hung heavily in the air, carrying a cold, hard truth. Wolffe felt a gnawing agreement with the sentiment. He had always known their place in the galaxy—cogs in a war machine, bred for battle and designed to be discarded when no longer needed. He was a commanding officer, yes, but that title was little more than a designation in the grand scheme of the Grand Army of the Republic. In the end, he wasn’t any different from the others.

If someone came for them, it would be to save the Jedi, to recover the one they had been tasked to protect. His own survival—his brothers’ survival—was not the priority. Even if some Jedi had tried to make them more than that, in the eyes of the galaxy, they would remain faceless, nameless soldiers.

Wolffe clenched his fists, pushing aside the creeping feelings of insignificance. He couldn’t afford to dwell on that now. There was still the chance—slim though it was—that they might make it out alive. But the weight of those words lingered in his mind, a reminder that in the end, their worth had always been measured by their utility to others.

Wolffe slumped back into his seat, the weight of the air around him becoming unbearable with each shallow breath. It felt as though the very oxygen in the pod was slipping through his grasp, as if it too were being torn apart by the impending end. The faint, flickering red lights above him grew dimmer with every passing second, casting an eerie, muted glow that barely illuminated the confines of the pod. The life support system was failing—he could feel it now, the slow encroachment of cold creeping into his bones, chilling him in ways that the adrenaline of battle never could.

It was a cruel sort of fate, the silence that followed. No grand declaration of doom, no sirens blaring, no sudden warning to mark the end of everything. The systems were shutting down quietly, efficiently, as if they were just letting him slip into nothingness with as little disturbance as possible. It was almost too serene.

He understood why it was done this way, of course. The programming was designed to allow any survivors a peaceful departure, a gentle fade into sleep as their surroundings gradually succumbed to the cold embrace of space. It was meant to be humane, a way to spare the mind the anguish of facing the end head-on. But Wolffe had never been one for gentle endings. He didn’t want peace in his final moments—he wanted defiance, a clear acknowledgment that the end had come, that it was final, that he had fought to the bitter end, even if that end had no grand spectacle. If he had it his way, there would be an unmistakable signal, a sharp, resounding yes, this is it, a harsh punctuation to the story of his life.

Instead, he was left in a limbo of silent, inevitable decay, surrounded by the endless hum of failing systems and the distant knowledge that the seconds, the minutes, were slipping away without him ever knowing for sure if this was the end.

Wolffe's hands tightened on the seat as he sat there in the suffocating stillness. The sensation of time dragging on without any real sense of urgency made him ache with frustration. What was the point of it all? To just fade away quietly, like some nameless casualty in the war that had defined his existence? No dramatic last stand, no final shout of defiance, no reckoning to be had. Just silence, cold, and the slow, grinding end of everything he had ever known.

He let out a shaky breath, the air growing thinner, the pressure in his chest mounting. In the quiet of the pod, with only the faintest hum of equipment barely keeping him alive, Wolffe had nothing left but his thoughts—and they were becoming far too loud.

Wolffe's eyelids drooped, heavy with the oppressive weight of fatigue and cold. His body had long since surrendered to the numbness, the chill creeping deeper into his limbs, making every breath feel like an effort, each inhale a struggle against the inevitable. Death had caught up with him. There was no escaping it now, no last-minute miracle to spare him. The sharp, biting cold pressed against his skin, and the air around him—once a lifeline—had become a distant, fading memory. His lungs screamed for oxygen that never came, every breath shallower than the last.

His muscles, once honed by years of training and battle, now felt like lead, too heavy to move, too weary to resist. His eyes fluttered, unable to stay open for much longer. He could feel his consciousness slipping away, the last remnants of his awareness slipping into darkness, where no light reached. A part of him embraced the quiet finality of it, welcomed it, even. Perhaps this was how it was meant to be. Perhaps Master Plo had been right—death was just a transition, a merging with the Force. It wasn’t an end; it was a return. Warm, bright, peaceful—the Force. Perhaps in that moment, he would finally understand.

And yet, even as the darkness crept closer, something stirred. The beat of his heart—the final, sluggish rhythm of life—pounded in his ears, louder now than it had ever been before, each thud reverberating through his chest like a drumbeat echoing in the stillness.

Bump.

Bump... Bump.

Bump.

The sound seemed to slow with his fading consciousness, the once-urgent beat now a rhythmic lullaby guiding him to the edge.

But then, without warning, a brilliant flash of light cut through the suffocating darkness. It pierced the quiet, searing through the despair like a sudden burst of hope. Wolffe’s mind struggled to comprehend it, but the light was unmistakable. Maybe Master Plo had been right after all—the warmth, the brightness, the sense of something beyond... but then—

Bang!

The sudden, loud noise outside the pod shattered the fragile peace that had begun to claim him. His body jerked involuntarily in response, his eyes snapping open as the shock of the sound cut through the fading haze of his thoughts.

Someone was out there. 

A surge of adrenaline shot through him, his heart leaping back to life. The air, now a bit thicker, felt somehow less suffocating, the hope that had seemed so distant flickering again. Whoever it was outside had just given him a moment—maybe more—of something he hadn’t dared hope for.

The pain in his chest was still apparent to him, and his vision blurred, but for the first time in what felt like an eternity, he found himself focused, listening. The world outside the pod had just shifted, and he had to know if it was the salvation he had been waiting for.

Then, with a violent jolt, the pod slammed into something hard, the impact reverberating through his entire body, rattling him to his core. The world around him seemed to spin, and for a moment, Wolffe could do nothing but slump over, his strength utterly drained. His limbs felt as though they had turned to lead, each one a weight he could no longer lift.

He fought against it, clawing for any remaining reserves of energy. He pushed himself, muscles trembling with the effort, but his body refused to cooperate. Every motion felt sluggish and wrong, as if the very will to rise had been stolen from him.

But then, with a sound that echoed in the empty space, the viewport of the pod shattered away, sending a burst of cold, fresh air flooding into the cabin. The sudden rush of oxygen felt like a rebirth, a blessing from the stars themselves. His chest heaved with desperate gulps, as though his lungs had forgotten what it was like to breathe. The air filled him with a ferocity he hadn’t realized he was starving for, until it seemed to choke him, forcing him to cough uncontrollably.

His arms shook with the final effort, but he found just enough strength to push himself toward the exit, his legs barely supporting his weight as he hobbled forward. He could barely think, his mind clouded with the dizziness of survival, but there was no stopping him now. He had to get out.

As he reached the opening, the ground seemed to tilt beneath him. He faltered, teetering on the edge of collapse, and braced himself for the inevitable fall. But instead of the cold metal of the floor meeting him, strong arms caught him in mid-motion, preventing his fall with an unexpected gentleness.

Expecting one of his brothers, his thoughts disoriented and desperate, he was taken aback when he realized the arms holding him were smaller—slender and feminine. A voice, calm and soothing, spoke just above a whisper, asking with surprising kindness, “Are you alright, Trooper?”

•—⟪=====> 

Perdita's focus deepened as she reached out through the Force, trying to find Master Plo amidst the chaos, but it was the disjointed, desperate thoughts of one of the men that captured her attention. His presence was a storm, fierce and muddled, his emotions ringing out far louder than the calm yet intense connection of her Jedi mentor.

His thoughts were raw, unrefined—full of fear and confusion. He didn’t want to be a cog in the machine. A mindless instrument of war. He didn’t want to be another expendable clone, lost in the endless tide of conflict. A question lingered in his mind: What would death feel like? 

Amidst those thoughts was something else—a flicker of gratitude. He was grateful to Master Plo Koon. The Jedi had treated him and his brothers with respect, with civility, even amidst the brutality of their roles. This is more than a commanding officer, he thought. This is a leader. This is how they all should be.

But then, the wave of frustration surged within him. An unwillingness to give in, even as his body slowly surrendered to exhaustion. His thoughts grew erratic as he pushed against the physical limits of his being, fighting against the inevitable collapse of his own mind and body.

Perdita understood that feeling. How many times had she felt the same way? The overwhelming fatigue, the pull to fight against the tide, against the war that seemed unrelenting. This war was not the purpose of the Jedi—it was a corruption of their true calling. The Jedi were meant to protect life, not throw it away. Yet here they were, caught in the gears of an endless machine, forced to wage war against an enemy that kept multiplying, even as the cost of every life weighed heavy on them. 

It wasn’t fair, she thought bitterly. None of this was fair.

The men, the clones, paid for the greed and ambitions of those who never felt the weight of their sacrifices. She could feel their pain, the endless struggle for meaning in a galaxy that seemed to demand only death in return for their service.

This man, in particular, seemed to be a reflection of everything she had come to understand about the clones. He was more than just a soldier—he was a person, a being with thoughts and feelings, dreams and fears. He wanted to be something more than just one of the millions, but at the same time, he was tethered to them all. He felt the deep connection with his brothers, the ones who bled and died beside him. They were more than just his comrades; they were his family. 

And yet, through all the pain and fear, there was a beautiful truth. He was alive. Against all odds, he was alive. The Force pulsed through him, as it did every living thing, binding him to everything in the galaxy.

Wolffe.

She could feel him.

When the pod finally crashed into the reconnaissance ship, Perdita didn’t hesitate. She acted quickly, tearing the viewport away with ease, knowing that every second mattered. What she saw made her heart ache—a broken figure, barely clinging to life, his eyes wide with terror, fighting against his own weakening body. 

His breath came in short gasps as he slumped, a mere fraction of the strong man he was, now reduced to a vulnerable body lying in the wreckage. But he was still alive. And for all the pain that radiated from him, she knew that was enough.

She moved swiftly, gathering him up as gently as she could, easing him out of the wreckage. His body seemed heavy, limp against her, but the sense of life—the fragile thread that connected him to the world—was undeniable. She settled him against her chest, her heart racing with the effort to hold onto that precious spark of life.

She gently propped him up against the side of the damaged pod, her hands steady but filled with urgency. Looking down at him, she saw the fear in his brown eyes, darting around in confusion and panic. His breaths were shallow, strained, and he seemed lost, disoriented in the chaos of his surroundings. She could sense his fight-or-flight instincts were still alive.

Her voice, soft yet steady, pierced through the fog of his panic like a lifeline. "Are you alright, trooper?" she asked, her tone as calm and reassuring as she could muster, despite the storm raging within her. She knelt beside him, leaning close in an effort to anchor him to the present, her steady presence a fragile shield against the weight of the chaos surrounding them. 

Her hands came up to cradle his face, the touch gentle but grounding. She smoothed her thumbs along his temples, her warmth urging his ragged breaths to slow, her quiet strength coaxing his lungs to draw in air again. Bit by bit, the tension in his shoulders eased, and with a slight nod, he leaned back, letting her hands fall away. A flicker of gratitude passed between them before she shifted her attention to Master Plo, who had just arrived.

“I see your tracking abilities remain as sharp as ever. Your master would be proud,” Master Plo said, his voice measured, though the words carried an unintentional weight. The compliment, meant to honor her, cut deep, stirring a memory she had yet to confront fully.

“Actually,” she began, her voice steady but laced with an edge of emotion, “I didn’t need to rely on them completely. One of your men guided me here. His admiration for you stood out, even amidst the chaos. It was louder than anything else.” 

Her words hung in the air, both a testament to the trooper’s loyalty and an unspoken reminder of the connections that kept them tethered, even in the darkest of times.

"I have done little more than what I promised at the war's outset," he said, his voice low and reflective as he inclined his head toward her. The unspoken understanding between them hung heavy in the air, unyielding but oddly comforting.  

"Skywalker," he continued, his tone shifting to something more urgent, "we need to get to the bridge and navigate out of this debris field before they track us. Dita, would you stay—"  

"I will help your men," she interjected with a firm nod, her voice calm yet resolute.  

The name lingered in the air, charged with a meaning no one else seemed to grasp. Dita. It slipped from his tongue so naturally that there was no time for the others to question it. She hadn't been called that in years—not since her old master had bestowed the moniker upon her. The sound of it was a bittersweet echo of a past life: part ache, part warmth, but entirely hers.  

Without hesitation, she knelt beside one of the injured soldiers clad in armor, her movements graceful but purposeful. She glanced at the medical droid, waiting for its assessment and instructions as it examined the man she'd found.  

Her eyes flicked briefly to the clone in the white uniform—definitely a commander. The oxygen mask pressed to his face obscured part of his features, but the sharp lines of his profile remained strikingly clear.  

Wolffe, she thought. The name suited him.  

There was something undeniably captivating about the clones. Their sun-kissed golden complexions and mischievous brown eyes seemed to embody an irrepressible vitality, even in the darkest moments. To her, they'd always been handsome—every single one of them. An army of millions, each bearing the same roguish charm, had often proved... distracting.  

But now was not the time for such thoughts. She pushed them aside, focusing instead on the task at hand. The commander needed care, and she would see to it that he was alright.

“This one is stable but may require additional care,” the mechanical droid informed her, its tone clinical and detached as it moved away from the commander.

Perdita nodded absently, her attention already shifting to Wolffe. She knelt beside him, her movements careful but deliberate, and gently took the oxygen canister from his hands. He leaned back slightly against the wall, his exhaustion evident in the way his shoulders slumped.

“General Halle, I presume,” he muttered, his voice raw and uneven. His dark eyes met hers, their sharpness dulled but still assessing.

“Yes,” she replied simply, her tone steady. Her gaze flicked to the shallow cut along his brow, the blood dried and dark against his golden skin. It wasn’t deep, just a small split where the skin had given way. But even minor injuries could become complications if left untreated.

Reaching for an anesthetic wipe, Perdita paused just long enough to lower her mask. She tore the foil packet open with her teeth, the action quick and efficient, and withdrew the medicated pad. Quickly replaced was the veil before anyone could see her almost constantly guarded features.

“This might sting a little,” she warned softly.

He didn’t flinch as she dabbed the pad against the cut, clearing away the blood with practiced care. His breathing was steady, though his gaze remained fixed on her, studying her scar and the small sliver of her face which showed beneath her mask and hood as if trying to piece together a puzzle.

The wipe’s cool, stinging touch worked its way through the wound, sterilizing as it soothed. She pressed a little firmer, ensuring the medicated solution did its job. After a moment of examination, she was satisfied.

“No stitches needed,” she murmured, discarding the used wipe. “You’ll be fine.”

Wolffe exhaled slowly, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I can’t say you are what I expected after hearing your voice.”

Perdita arched a brow, her lips curving into a subtle smile. “And what exactly were you expecting?”

“Someone... taller,” he quipped, his voice still raspy but laced with dry humor.

She chuckled softly, shaking her head. “Well, I’m afraid this is all you are going to get.”

Wolffe’s smirk widened, but it faded quickly as he winced, shifting slightly. Perdita placed a steadying hand on his shoulder.

“Easy,” she cautioned. “You’ve been through a lot. Rest while you can.”

His eyes softened, the earlier tension in his expression easing as he leaned back again. “Yes, ma’am,” he said quietly, the words tinged with both respect and a hint of weariness.

Something about this clone felt... different. All clones had their own subtle distinctions—small quirks that set them apart despite their identical origins. But with him, there was an undeniable uniqueness, an aura she couldn’t quite name. Was it his quiet strength? The way his presence seemed to command attention even in silence? She wasn’t sure, and now wasn’t the time to dwell on it.

They weren’t out of danger yet.

As if to underline the thought, the lights around them flickered once before plunging the room into total darkness before the red backup lights kicked in. The low hum of machinery ceased, replaced by an eerie silence that seemed to swallow the air itself.

Around her, the clones seemed to snap into action, the hum of urgency electrifying the air. Despite their injuries, they moved with a kind of practiced efficiency, readying themselves for whatever threat loomed. The shift was palpable—soldiers who had been teetering on the edge of exhaustion now stood poised and alert, their instincts sharpened by years of training and battle.

“We should get up to the bridge,” Wolffe muttered, his voice strained but resolute. He took a tentative step forward, but his balance wavered, his body betraying the toll his injuries had taken.

Perdita was at his side in an instant, her fingers tightening around his bicep to steady him. “Not yet,” she said softly, shaking her head. Her grip was firm but careful, her support unyielding as his shaky legs found a semblance of stability.

Wolffe let out a frustrated breath, but he didn’t resist her help. She could see the determination etched into his features—the same determination that likely kept him alive through battles far worse than this. But right now, he needed rest more than heroics.

“I’ll head up and check on things,” she said firmly, meeting his gaze.

She held his arm for another moment, ensuring he could stand without her support. His dark eyes flicked to hers in the dim glow of the backup lighting, and for a brief second, an unspoken understanding passed between them.

As she stepped onto the bridge, the palpable tension hit her like a wave. The air was thick with unspoken fears and barely contained nerves. Through the viewport, the colossal battle station loomed, its ominous silhouette swallowing the distant starlight. It seemed to defy time itself, drifting past with an almost taunting slowness. No one dared to breathe, the quiet hum of the ship's systems the only sound cutting through the suffocating silence.

“Assuming that’s why it went dark…” she muttered after a moment, her voice barely above a whisper. It wasn’t a question, and no one offered an answer. The rhetorical comment hung in the air, unanswered, as the ship adjusted its course ever so slightly. Her gaze shifted to the corner of the bridge, where Skywalker’s R2 unit sat dormant, its lifeless dome a stark contrast to the urgency mounting around them.

The ship gave a faint shudder as its engines shifted power, turning them to face the looming battle station fully. The realization hit her like a thunderbolt—everything was at a standstill. Systems across the scout ship were dark, leaving them vulnerable to the predatory machine outside.

“Are all the systems shut down?” Master Plo’s calm voice broke through the silence, though his measured tone belied the danger they faced.

“Medical droid in the hull is still active” she mentioned with a terse tone, panic creeping into her voice as her words sent everyone into a frenzy of motion. 

“We’ve got to get the power back on, now!” Anakin’s voice cut through the chaos like a commander’s call to arms. Around her, frantic hands worked to restore life to the ship. Lights flickered, consoles hummed back to life, and the faint vibration of repowering systems thrummed underfoot.

She turned her attention back to the viewport, her chest tightening as the battle station continued to reposition itself. Its massive ion blaster came into full view, the weapon more menacing than she had ever imagined. The sheer size of it seemed to mock their tiny scout ship.

Her mind raced, recalling the grim story Master Plo had told—the devastating power of that ion cannon, the annihilation of his entire fleet, leaving only four survivors. Her breath caught in her throat. If that monstrous weapon could obliterate a fleet, what chance did they stand now? The odds felt crushingly impossible.

Being tossed around the cockpit by Skywalker’s daring maneuvers, Perdita clung to the nearest console, trying to steady herself against the turbulence. Anakin’s unique flying style was chaotic, but it was their only hope of threading through the dense debris field. The ship groaned in protest as it twisted and weaved, and Perdita struggled to keep her footing. To her left, a flickering display showed a massive energy surge closing in from behind—an ominous purple glow that painted the cockpit in ghostly light.

“Master…” Ahsoka’s voice cut through the alarms, tight with anxiety. The warning klaxons screamed louder, a relentless reminder of the doom racing toward them.

Perdita swallowed her fear, forcing herself to trust in Anakin’s uncanny ability to pull them out of impossible situations. He is the Chosen One, she reminded herself, clinging to the belief that his destiny would see them through. But the thought brought little comfort as her mind strayed down the corridor to where the rescued clones huddled, still recovering from their last ordeal.

What a cruel twist of fate, she thought bitterly. To have been saved from one deathtrap only to face annihilation again so soon—it was almost too much to bear. Her heart ached at the memory of the Commander, who still felt the call to assist despite his injuries. 

As the ion blast crept closer, its menacing glow filling the bridge, Perdita fought to keep her emotions in check. But her thoughts betrayed her, shifting to memories she had long tried to suppress. The laughter of her fallen Master echoed faintly in her mind, only to be replaced by the gravelly, smoke-tinged voice of the injured Commander. His calm presence in the face of despair had steadied her before, but now, with nothing but the vast void of space around them, she felt untethered.

“We’re clear!” Ahsoka’s triumphant yell snapped Perdita back to the present as the ship’s engines roared to life. With a sharp pull of the controls, Anakin wrenched them out of the debris field and into hyperspace. The oppressive glow of the ion blast disappeared as stars streaked past the viewport in brilliant lines of light.

For a moment, there was silence—a stillness broken only by the hum of the ship’s systems returning to normal. Perdita exhaled shakily, her hands trembling as she released the console. Relief mingled with exhaustion, but another feeling lingered beneath the surface.

Master Plo turned to her, his calm presence grounding her as always. Though he said nothing, his body language spoke volumes. His steady gaze met hers, and she knew he understood where her mind had wandered during the chaos. There was no judgment in his expression, only a quiet empathy that made her feel exposed yet comforted.

In the wake of their escape, the tension in the room eased, but Perdita couldn’t shake the weight of what had just transpired. The Commander’s thoughts echoed in her mind once more, a reminder of both the fragility of life and the strength found in moments of resolve. As the movement of hyperspace stretched endlessly before them, she decided to carry that strength forward—if only to honor those who couldn’t.

:･ﾟ✧:･.☽˚｡･ﾟ𓃥✧:･.:

General Plo had returned to the hull where Wolffe and the surviving troopers rested after their harrowing escape into hyperspace. The debris field had been merciless, and though their escape was barely successful, it had yielded critical intelligence about the "mystery weapon." That knowledge alone offered a glimmer of hope for its eventual destruction. Despite the heavy casualties they had suffered and the searing pain that lingered in his lungs, Wolffe felt a small measure of relief. They had survived, and their struggle might now have purpose.

Seated against the hull wall, Wolffe adjusted the oxygen mask strapped to his face, his voice muffled as he spoke. “Sir, the General who found us—” he began, trailing off as his thoughts turned inward. Perdita had remained on the bridge after delivering them to safety, leaving him with questions that refused to settle. How had she found them? Or more specifically, how had she found him?

“What about her?” Plo Koon asked, his calm, gravelly voice breaking through Wolffe’s haze of uncertainty. The Kel Dor Jedi leaned slightly closer, his presence steady and grounding in the way only a Jedi Master’s could be.

Wolffe hesitated, his brow furrowing beneath the mask. “How did she… find us? Or… my thoughts, I suppose. Through the Force?” The question hung in the air, tinged with curiosity and unease. He’d heard tales of Jedi abilities before, but this felt different—more personal.

Plo’s masked face tilted thoughtfully, his gloved fingers brushing the edges of his respirator in a contemplative gesture. After a moment, he answered, his tone as measured as ever. “Perdita possesses a rare gift among Jedi. She has the ability to track memories and strong emotions through the Force. By touching an object, she can glimpse its past, and through the emotions of others, she can sense their presence—even across great distances. I suspect that, in the chaos, she latched onto your fear and resolve as a beacon through the noise.”

Wolffe blinked, the explanation both clarifying and unsettling. His fear and resolve… the emotions that had churned within him during those desperate moments had been like a flare, drawing her to their position. The thought made him pause, his mind turning over the implications of such a power.

“So… She felt… me,” he murmured, more to himself than to Plo. The idea was humbling and unsettling in equal measure. His fear, his regrets, his desire to save his brothers—it had all been laid bare in the Force for her to see. The mere thought of it all was exposing.

Plo nodded, his gaze steady. “She likely did. But do not mistake her insight for intrusion. Perdita does not seek to exploit what she feels. She uses her gift to help, to guide, and to protect.”

Wolffe mulled over the words, his gaze dropping to his hands as he contemplated the weight of them. It wasn’t easy for him to trust, even when it came to the Jedi. But Perdita’s actions spoke volumes—she had saved them, had reached through the chaos to find them when all hope seemed lost.

“I see,” Wolffe finally said, his voice quieter now. He leaned back against the hull, his mind still grappling with what Plo had shared. Perhaps it didn’t matter how she’d found him. What mattered was that she had. "I’ve never heard of her before. No troopers that I know of are under her command," the Commander replied, his brow furrowing slightly as he spoke. "But you referred to her as Dita—so, I take it you’re well-acquainted with her?"

For a brief moment, a flicker of concern crossed his mind. He wondered if the Jedi might interpret his question as an interrogation, but the man simply nodded, his expression softening. It seemed to Plo Koon that Wolffe was eager to understand more about his savior.

"I knew her master well," the Jedi began, his voice tinged with a quiet sadness. "He perished on the same day my padawan did. It's... a bond, of sorts. We’ve always seemed to think alike when it comes to this war. But as for why she doesn’t command any troopers—well, that’s a decision the Council made. They don’t believe it's in her best interest to lead in the traditional sense, as other Jedi do. Instead, she’s been assigned to work directly with those caught in the heart of the conflict. Her strengths along with her compassion, are an asset that is often in short supply these days." 

Wolffe’s eyes narrowed, his mind working overtime to make sense of the conversation. He had never known that Master Plo Koon had a padawan. Let alone that the jedi he served seemed to hold such a personal connection with the woman who’d saved them. The Jedi’s words lingered in the air, but they only served to deepen the mystery that seemingly was General Halle. 

He let out a quiet breath and nodded, deciding it was best to leave the questions for another time. The woman would be leaving soon. She would return to her own quiet battles, whatever they might be, and he would return to his more familiar role—leading the troopers, issuing orders, and focusing on the fight ahead. There was no room for distractions or unanswered questions in the midst of war.

Yet, as much as he tried to dismiss the matter, one thought refused to leave him: she had saved them. All of them. Without hesitation. Without asking for anything in return. The entire squad owed their lives to her, and that reality sat heavy on his conscience. The woman was elusive, almost untouchable in her detached, silent grace, but that didn’t lessen the gratitude Wolffe felt.

The question gnawed at him: How could he thank her?

A simple "thank you" seemed insufficient, a token gesture at best. Words had never felt so inadequate, especially when it came to something so profound. What did you say to someone who had saved you? How could you honor such an act of selflessness without making her uncomfortable or drawing unwanted attention to the deed?

To his right, Boost and Sinker were seated on the floor, the pair leaning against the hull, talking about nothing of importance. They were laughing, animatedly discussing how they couldn’t wait to get a warm shower and a decent meal. It was the kind of conversation soldiers often fell into when they’d survived another harrowing battle—small comforts, simple pleasures that felt like luxuries after the hell of war. He could understand their excitement; a hot shower and a good meal sounded like heaven right now.

But as Wolffe listened to them, a small knot of discomfort tightened in his chest. Their talk was too... narrow, too self-contained. It felt out of place, almost wrong. They were survivors, yes—but the war didn’t end just because they’d made it through another day. There was a bigger picture, one that stretched beyond their immediate needs. Perhaps it was that difference in perspective that had shaped him into the Commander he was.

He had always been trained to see the situation as a whole, to think beyond the individual and focus on the larger mission, the bigger strategy. The war doesn’t stop for you, his training had drilled into him, day after day. And yet here they were, consumed by the thought of a hot meal, as if the battle had already been won, as if there weren’t still lives at stake and a galaxy in peril. It bothered him. It didn’t sit right.

Wolffe shook his head slightly, trying to push the unease aside. His gaze dropped to his uniform, the stiff white fabric of his officer's tunic, out of place and ill-fitting in the moment. He was more acclimated to the constraints of armor, that this tweed material made him exposed. 

He brushed a hand over the fabric, attempting to smooth out the wrinkles that had accumulated. It felt like an odd, futile gesture, trying to bring order to something that was, in essence, chaotic. He wasn’t used to thinking about his appearance—rarely had need to think about it. 

Wolffe shared the same features as his brothers—identical in every way. The same bronze complexion, the same dark, intense eyes, the same deep brown hair. To him, there was little need to stand out in appearance; his identity was defined by his role and his actions, not the way he looked.

He had always felt that the clones who sought uniqueness through changes to their appearance were chasing something fleeting, something unnecessary. The idea of colored or long hair seemed absurd—maintenance during deployments or combat was difficult enough without adding more to the list. And face tattoos? They struck him as... unprofessional, especially for someone in a leadership position. It wasn’t just about practicality; it was about maintaining a certain standard of discipline, a sense of order. Officers, in his view, needed to embody that standard—not stand apart from it.

In Wolffe’s mind, any alterations to appearance should be a personal matter, something private—done for oneself, not for the approval or attention of others. So, he kept his tattoos hidden, a personal choice that he saw no need to display. His hair was kept short and practical, his facial hair carefully shaved away. It was simple, efficient, and in his eyes, a mark of professionalism. 

Instinctively, he reached up to fix his hair, his gloved hand running through the short strands. His fingers caught on the thick gel he had used to keep his hair in place during the chaos of combat. Wolffe tugged at it, trying to rearrange his dark locks. The effort was in vain, of course. The gel was too set, too unyielding, and his hair refused to cooperate.

Why did this matter?

He froze, his hand still tangled in his hair, the question hanging in the air. Why did he feel this compulsive need to make himself presentable, when everything around him was in tatters? They had all been spared death today, yes. But that was the only victory. His appearance hardly mattered—not in the grand scheme of things. It wasn’t as if anyone would notice.

Yet, despite the absurdity of it, the need lingered. The need to appear competent, presentable, even when he felt anything but. Perhaps it was a way to cling to some semblance of normalcy, some small piece of order in the disarray of his thoughts.

But as the thought lingered, Wolffe caught himself, questioning it—Why?

More troubling still, for whom?

The very notion made him want to bolt, to open the airlock and let the weight of his embarrassment carry him into the cold emptiness of space. What was he doing? Why would a seasoned Commander in the clone army, respected and battle-hardened, seek the approval of a woman he barely knew? A Jedi, no less—a figure bound by the very rules that forbade attachment, a woman who kept herself shrouded in secrecy, both physically and emotionally.

He couldn’t even begin to guess who she truly was beneath the robes and the mask. The only parts of her he could make out were the eerie glow of her bright eyes—eyes that seemed to pierce through the veil of mystery surrounding her—and the scar that marred the otherwise smooth, pale skin of her face. A single mark, like a memory of a battle she’d survived. But beyond that, there was nothing. He had no knowledge of her species, no clue about the woman behind the mask.

He felt like an outsider looking in, caught between a gnawing curiosity and the stark realization that his place was far removed from hers. He was just a clone—a soldier—and she was a Jedi, bound by codes he could never understand, carrying burdens that had nothing to do with him.

The curiosity made him feel... juvenile. He didn’t wonder about women—not like this. His interests had always been more straightforward, more functional. The warmth he sought back on Coruscant was the kind most officers indulged in—brief, impersonal, and fleeting. Late nights in the backrooms of the 79s, tossing credits won in a game of sabacc onto the table, before making a quick retreat back to base to hit the refresher. The entertainers, with their bright smiles and painted faces, always made him anxious to get clean, to scrub away the evidence of the…distraction.

But this? To actually want to see the features of a woman who was his superior? The very thought was absurd. Wolffe scoffed under his breath, shaking his head at the idea. It had to be some kind of side effect of the gratitude he felt. She had saved his life—no small feat—and now that debt had manifested in this bizarre curiosity.

That’s all it was, he reasoned with himself. After months of nothing but combat and the sterile company of his brothers, she was one of the only women he’d been around. A brief glimpse of something unfamiliar, something human, had stirred feelings he’d never given much thought to before. She’d touched him gently, and in a way he’d never recalled being touched before. Her thumbs softly brushed along his skin, as if she was concerned it may shatter under her fingertips. It wasn’t attraction—it was simply curiosity, nothing more. Right?

The subtle shift in the ship’s movement as it exited hyperspace brought Wolffe back to the present, the hum of the engines signaling their return to realspace. They would be arriving soon—back with Skywalker’s fleet—and from there, his path would be uncertain, shrouded in the fog of the war. His thoughts faltered, caught between the urgency of duty and the questions that lingered unanswered.

The muffled voices in the corridor grew louder, pulling him from his reflections. The door slid open, revealing Master Plo Koon and Ahsoka.  Wolffe hadn’t even noticed his brief departure, only his return. The Jedi Master was speaking calmly, his hand outstretched in a gesture of reassurance, while Ahsoka wore a faint smile, her eyes alight with the quiet relief of their arrival.

Below them, the ship’s landing gear made contact with the cruiser, the low thud reverberating through the hull. Wolffe watched as Boost and Sinker stood, moving with practiced efficiency as they donned their armor once more, preparing for the next phase of their mission. The Gateway hissed open, and one by one, his brothers filed out of the small craft, their movements swift and familiar.

First his brothers, then Plo Koon and the padawan—each moving with purpose. Wolffe lingered at the back, holding his position. He had made up his mind: before leaving, he would find a way to thank her. The Jedi had saved their lives. He owed her that much, at least.

Moments later, she emerged, deep in conversation with Skywalker, her gaze flicking across the room with casual precision. But then, her eyes locked on him. “Anakin—” he heard her murmur, before her tone shifted, the words trailing off. Slowly, deliberately, she began to walk toward him.

“Commander, might I accompany you to the med bay?” Her voice was unexpectedly warm, the request coming with a hint of sincerity that caught him off guard.

Wolffe blinked, momentarily taken aback. “That’s not necessary, Ma’am—” he started, ready to brush off the offer.

She cut him off gently, her tone light but firm. “It would be my pleasure, sir,” she said, and Wolffe could almost hear the smile in her voice. “Unless, of course, you’d prefer some time alone after the events of today?”

He hesitated, glancing away, suddenly feeling self-conscious. “No, it’s not that. I just didn’t think escorting a clone to the med bay would be a good use of your time,” he replied, his eyes darting uncomfortably to the side.

“Nonsense,” she replied with a quiet laugh, her confidence unwavering. “Besides—” she paused for a moment, as if considering something. “If that means the Council will take out their frustration on Anakin and Ahsoka instead, then you’d be doing me a favor by keeping me out of the crossfire.”

Wolffe couldn’t help but raise an eyebrow at that. “In that case, General, I’d be more than happy to spare you,” he said, a hint of dry humor creeping into his voice.

The woman gestured toward the gangplank, and Wolffe gave a curt nod, beginning his walk. She moved effortlessly beside him, her every step a picture of grace. The dark robes she wore—much deeper in hue than any Jedi’s attire he had seen before—swayed with her movements, flowing like shadows that shifted with the rhythm of her stride. In contrast, he stood in his pale officer's uniform, the stark white fabric a striking contrast against his dark features. She, with her pale skin catching the light beneath the dark material of her robes, was a study in contrast—an enigma of light and shadow walking beside him.

After a moment of silence, he broke the quiet, his voice steady but carrying the weight of gratitude. “Thank you for getting us out in one piece, General Halle,” he said.

Her steps faltered on the ramp at his words. She paused, turning to face him, her expression unreadable as she studied him in silence for a moment. “It was your determination that guided me to you all,” she said softly, her voice carrying an unexpected depth. “In a way, you saved yourself, Commander Wolffe.”

He shifted uncomfortably, hoping to brush off her comment. “Master Plo said someone would come for us. I’m glad he was right,” he replied, his tone steady, though the flicker of uncertainty behind it betrayed his intent to deflect.

Her gaze remained fixed on him, her eyes sharp, searching for something deeper. “You did not share his sentiment?” she asked, her voice laced with curiosity.

Wolffe hesitated before answering, his voice carrying the weight of experience. “Strategically, General, it doesn’t make sense to waste resources on rescuing a handful of clone troopers,” he said, his tone firm, though there was a slight edge of discomfort in admitting it aloud. He wasn’t sure why the words felt heavier than usual, as if the notion of worth had shifted in his mind, leaving him with more questions than answers.

She didn’t respond immediately, a thoughtful hum escaping her lips as she processed his words. Then, with quiet conviction, she spoke. “Respectfully, sir, I do not agree with your assessment.”

His eyes widened in surprise at her candidness, and he turned to face her, momentarily speechless. “I—” he began, unsure of how to respond.

She held his gaze, her expression steady. “Strategically, our primary objective was to uncover the mystery behind that weapon,” she continued, her tone deliberate and measured. “Given the scale of the fleets that were lost, a small mercy mission to rescue the survivors could provide critical insight toward achieving that goal. However…” Her eyes softened slightly as she regarded him, “The value of life—no matter its origins—is something I hold dear. I do not consider it a waste of resources.”

Wolffe paused, his mind turning over the conversation. He sighed deeply, shaking his head as he turned away, his gaze inadvertently falling on a passing member of the 501st. The soldier’s face was all too familiar—his name unknown—but the resemblance was undeniable. The same features, the same purpose, the same quiet determination. It served as a stark reminder of his argument to the Jedi: that clones were soldiers, not individuals worthy of exceptional regard. His thoughts wandered for a moment, reinforcing the point he'd made earlier. Yet, despite his best efforts, he couldn't shake the weight of the resolve with which she had spoken.

Just as Master Plo had, General Halle seemed to view things differently—she, too, seemed to believe there was more to the clones than their utility on the battlefield. A subtle shift in his thinking began to form, challenging the hardened convictions he’d carried for so long.

Finally, he spoke, his voice low but steady. “Master Plo speaks very highly of your compassion, General Halle.”

Her response was swift, a quiet smile in her tone. “As he does with the strength of your leadership, Commander Wolffe,” she replied, her eyes momentarily flicking to the distance, where the familiar signet of the medical ward could be seen, a quiet beacon marking the end of their short journey.

The words hung in the air between them, and for the first time, Wolffe wasn’t sure how to respond. He had spent so long compartmentalizing his thoughts, locking away any notion of self beneath the armor of duty. But there, in her gaze, he saw something that both unsettled and intrigued him—an invitation to consider that maybe, just maybe, there was more to him than the role he had always played.

Before he could gather his thoughts, they arrived at the medical bay’s entrance, the doors sliding open with a soft hiss. The sterile scent of antiseptic and bacta flooded his senses. A place for healing. A place where bodies were mended, but souls remained fractured.

Wolffe paused in the doorway, his eyes briefly sweeping across the medical ward—sterile, quiet, a space built for healing and recovery. Yet, amidst the sterile whiteness of the room, he could feel an overwhelming sense of finality. He shifted his gaze back to her, meeting General Halle’s eyes once more, his expression betraying the quiet weight of his thoughts.

“Thank you, General,” he said, his voice low but steady. "For... saving us. And for not seeing us as just soldiers."

Her expression softened, her eyes shifting from their usual intensity to something gentler, something more personal. She gave a slight nod, acknowledging his words with the respect she’d shown throughout their brief time together. “Any time, Commander,” she replied with warmth, her tone unguarded.

Without hesitation, she extended her arm toward him, and he met it halfway, gripping her forearm in the familiar gesture—one of comradeship, of respect, a bond forged not in words but in action. The clasp was firm, an unspoken promise of understanding between them.

"Until we meet again, Wolffe," she said, her voice carrying a quiet finality that spoke volumes. There was something in her gaze—perhaps it was the fleeting softness, or the unspoken understanding—that made the farewell feel heavier than it should have.

Wolffe found himself looking down at their joined forearms for a moment. His fingers, long and almost imposing, curled around the slender shape of her arm, while her delicate fingers rested lightly against his. The contrast between them was striking—two figures so vastly different in form and demeanor, yet united in this fleeting moment of connection.

He then lifted his gaze slowly. He sought one last glimpse into her bright green eyes, eyes that seemed to hold so much, that flickered with wisdom and purpose. Something there stirred within him, a feeling that he couldn’t quite name but knew he would carry with him for a long time.

“Until we meet again, General Halle,” he replied, his voice steady, though a trace of something deeper lingered beneath the surface.

Tag List: @leenathegreengirl @asgre @badbatch-bitch @cw80831 @heidnspeak

Between Hearts and Ruin Pt. 3 "Spontaneity"

Summary: Tech and Leena’s marriage is strained, with mounting tensions that leave Tech feeling exhausted from carrying the weight of trying to fix their issues. Despite his efforts, he’s reached a breaking point, unsure of how much longer he can continue. The same night Tech starts to find some peace with his uncertain decision about their future, he meets someone new, stirring unexpected feelings. Meanwhile, Leena, who isn’t ready to let go, finds solace in the company of someone she knows only vaguely. Both are left questioning the path forward, caught between their unresolved past and the pull of new, uncharted connections.

Word Count: 8k

Pairing(s): Tech / OC Leena

Warnings: Mentions of splitting up

Author's Note: Hi friends! This is a 3 part story crossover between myself and @leenathegreengirl! All characters are part of her Pabu AU. All other chapters will be posted at the same time and linked below. Please check out her page to learn more about the AU if you are new, and if you have stuck around for a while... buckle up because it's going to get intense... You can find a link HERE on her account to a book version of the full story!

Masterlist | Previous Chapter

She distanced herself from the others, as the temptation to defy her twin's warning only intensified. It felt unjust—every single part of it. Despite the way Leena had recoiled at Kayden's harsh words about Tech, the pull to see him again was undeniable. She needed to confront him. She wanted to yell at him, to voice every frustration she’d been holding in. But more than anything, she yearned to break down in front of him, to cry—to make him feel the weight of the guilt that seemed so well-deserved for the things he was doing.

It didn’t matter that her stomach churned with a relentless storm of anxiety from the cruel words spoken about the clash between her and Tech’s natures. It didn’t matter that the past few months had left her feeling like a stranger to her own happiness. Because despite everything, despite the doubt, she was happy. What did they know of her life, of her heart? They weren’t her. They couldn’t possibly understand how she truly felt.

Kayden bringing up their childhood was utterly absurd. People were allowed to grow, to evolve, to leave behind the mistakes of their younger selves. Holding someone to the standards they had set as children—before they’d even fully understood who they were—was beyond unfair, Leena thought. It was a betrayal of the very idea of change, of the human capacity to learn and improve.

Leena could feel the shift in perspective over the past few weeks, a quiet and subtle transformation that gnawed at her from the inside. At first, when she stormed into the room at the tail end of Kayden's proposal from Crosshair, everyone had rallied behind her. They had been on her side. But as time passed, things began to change. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, everyone seemed to be lured in by Tech’s explanation. Even her own sister—her closest confidante—began to lean toward the idea that Tech wasn’t entirely to blame, that perhaps their marriage was worth giving up.

And Leena? She was left questioning everything.

She couldn't shake the feeling that Crosshair was at the heart of it all. He’d been one of the first to listen to Tech’s side of the story, and from that moment on, things had started to shift. Whenever she collapsed into their living room, her heart shattered and her body wracked with sobs as she clung to Kayden, Crosshair was the first to slip away, retreating to his room when her grief became too much. And then, at night, she would hear it—the whispers. Muffled, fragmented conversations slipping through the cracks of their walls, barely audible but unmistakably mentioning her name, and Tech’s, woven together in murmurs that felt too intimate for her to ignore.

Kayden’s unwavering support was no longer a guarantee, and the sting of that realization was sharper than anything else she had felt. The whispers in the dark—those hushed, secretive murmurs slipping through the walls—echoed her deepest fears: she was losing everyone, piece by piece. The people she had relied on, the ones she trusted to stand with her, were slipping away. She had been left behind with nothing but excuses. It was supposed to be her side they stood on.

As Leena walked the familiar path back to the secluded bungalow she knew Tech had retreated to, the weight of it all pressed down on her. Her mind wandered back to the moment everything began to unravel, to the conversation that had changed the course of everything. The words exchanged between her and Tech, so sharp and final, had felt like a blow to her heart. And yet, she couldn’t quite shake the memory—the way Tech had looked at her then, his eyes a mixture of regret and resignation, as if he was already preparing to walk away before he had even spoken the words. Not to mention the only time she’d ever actually seen him angry.

"Leena, would you please sit down?" Tech’s voice carried from the other room, frustration unmistakable in his tone.

She had perched herself on the edge of the counter of the fresher, trying to hurriedly get ready. Plans with Chori had been set, and that meant she had to leave soon. But as she’d returned to the house later than expected—caught up in the distraction she couldn’t quite place any more—she lost track of time. Sitting at the table, watching Tech work, the minutes slipped away unnoticed. It wasn’t uncommon for her to get caught in the flow of things, and Chori had long since grown accustomed to her tendency to lose herself in the moment.

“I’m not sure I have time before I leave to meet Chori,” she called out, her voice drifting over her shoulder as she rushed to finish her makeup. The faint rustling in the next room paused for a beat, but Leena didn’t give it much thought at first. She was too focused on the mirror in front of her, on the task at hand. But when a long, exasperated sigh followed, she felt a knot tighten in her chest. She hastened the final touches, fingers trembling slightly as she tried to speed through the motions.

Tech didn’t respond. Leena assumed he was just settling in for some quiet time, perhaps planning to relax on his own for a while. But as she moved toward the door, preparing to grab her jacket and leave, she heard him clear his throat, his voice cutting through the air with unexpected gravity.

“You promised we would have the conversation I mentioned a week ago,” he began, his tone measured but sharp. “I feel I have been patient enough, but the timing seems to change constantly to accommodate your schedule. I do not think it is fair to—”

Leena’s gaze flickered to the wall display, catching sight of the time. Her heart skipped. She was already running late. “I’m sorry,” she interrupted, the words tumbling out in a rush, “I promise we’ll have it when I get back—”

“Please do not interrupt me,” he cut in, his tone firm as he finally turned his gaze toward her. Leena nodded, her eyes briefly flicking back to the wall before she met his again.

“Tech, I’m already late,” she pointed out, her voice strained as she tried to reason with him, but he refused to turn toward her to acknowledge her words. Instead, he shook his head slowly, his frustration only growing.

“As a result of your own distraction,” he continued, his voice tight. “First, it was because you got held up with Omega. Then it was helping Crosshair plan some surprise for Kayden. Every time I try to have a serious conversation, something else always comes up. I’m continually sidelined. These promises made and not kept are becoming increasingly frustrating.”

Leena’s pulse quickened, the weight of his words settling over her like a heavy cloak. His accusations hung in the air, thick with frustration, and for a moment, she could only stand there, caught between the need to explain herself and the mounting pressure to leave.

“I know I’ve been distracted, Tech,” she said, her voice tight, but there was a flicker of defensiveness in it too. “But you can’t keep acting like the world revolves around your schedule. I’m trying to juggle a million things. I have things to do too.”

She could feel the tension rising in the room, the space between them filled with the unspoken words neither of them wanted to say. She glanced at the door again, willing herself to walk out, but her feet felt like they were stuck to the floor.

Tech’s eyes were cold now, a calm but sharp anger that sent a chill down her spine. “That’s exactly the problem, Leena,” he replied, his voice deceptively quiet. “You are prioritizing everything except promises made to me. I’ve been patient, but this... this is becoming a pattern. We keep putting it off, and I can’t keep pretending that it does not bother me.”

She clenched her fists at her sides, the urge to leave becoming overwhelming. Why did everything have to feel like this? She had wanted to escape this conversation, to get away from the suffocating weight of it all, but now she felt trapped, both by his words and by her own inability to walk away.

“I have prioritized you!” she snapped, the frustration bubbling over before she could stop it. “You so often work late into the evenings with little to no regard for me. How often lately have you neglected to attend plans with me to see our friends? You just hole yourself up in this stuffy house and work. I can’t live like that. I have a life outside of you, Tech.  And you’re not the only one who’s been patient here. I have been patient with you.  I told you we will have the conversation at some other time.”

Tech stood there for a long moment, just looking at her, as if weighing her every word. His jaw clenched, and she saw his expression harden, the faintest flicker of disappointment passing across his face before he masked it.

“This isn’t about your life outside of me,” Tech said, his voice low but steady, the weight of his words pressing into the space between them. “This is about the commitment we made to each other—the trust that’s supposed to be the foundation of this. And I can’t keep pushing my feelings aside while you run off to others, ignoring something I consider to be incredibly important.”

Leena’s jaw tightened, and the sharp sting of frustration burned in her chest. She crossed her arms, the familiar defensiveness rising within her. “Fine. I’m the bad guy,” she bit out, sarcasm coating her words. “Glad we’ve established that, Tech. You’re right. I’m wrong. Same as always. Can I just go meet up with my friend now? I know you don’t understand what it’s like to want to be around other people.”

Tech’s eyes flashed, and the chill in his gaze sharpened. “That’s not only inaccurate, but it’s also unnecessary. And childish,” he scoffed, clearly displeased with her tone.

Leena felt the sharp edge of his words, but she wasn’t backing down. She could feel the heat rising in her chest, her temper flaring, but also a deep frustration with the way he was trying to frame the situation. She knew it was a low blow on her part, especially considering that Tech did have friends—people he was close to, even if they didn’t share the same emotional reliance on others that she did. She knew they were wired differently in that regard. But at this moment, it didn’t matter. Her anger at him derailing her plans, turning what should’ve been a simple, enjoyable evening into a guilt-laden argument, was growing unbearable.

“There it is,” Leena said, her voice dripping with frustration. “It’s always childish when it’s something you don’t like. It’s childish for me to want to have spontaneous dance sessions in my kitchen with my partner. It’s childish for me to fill the bed with plushies because my partner won’t sleep next to me unless he’s exhausted. You always do this, Tech. You make me feel like I can’t be myself—like I can’t be spontaneous. And that hurts.”

Her voice wavered as the frustration bled into sadness, a deep ache rising in her chest. She had always prided herself on being free-spirited, willing to embrace the little moments, to laugh, to dance, to find joy in things that didn’t always fit into a neatly organized box. But here he was, once again, pulling her back into the rigid structure he clung to, forcing her to bend and twist herself into a shape that didn’t feel like her own.

Leena took a slow breath, trying to steady herself, but the weight of it all was too much. She was tired—tired of feeling like her happiness, her quirks, were something to be judged. She was tired of always having to conform to his routines, his quiet, methodical approach to life. She didn’t work that way, and it felt like every time she tried to break free, to embrace the unpredictable, she was made to feel small, childish.

Tech’s response was sharp, cutting through the moment. “It is childish the way you’re acting right now, Leena. I will not apologize for calling the situation as I see it. I asked for a discussion, and you made promises to have it several times. You keep brushing my request aside. You’re the one breaking your word. When I brought it up last time, you said tonight was a good time to talk. And now, once again, you’re neglecting me. That is you, going back on your word. I don’t see how holding my partner to their promises is something I should be villainized for.”

Leena felt the sting of his words, but it wasn’t enough to stop her. “It’s not about breaking promises, Tech,” she countered, her voice rising with the force of her emotions. “It’s about you treating me like my needs—my desire to be spontaneous—don’t matter. And now you say I’m ignoring your needs,”

“That’s exactly what I wanted to discuss in the first place, Leena!” Tech’s voice was sharp now, the calm that usually defined him slipping away with his growing frustration. “I’ve been here, trying to better suit your needs. Every time you don’t like the words coming out of my mouth, you pull back into this state of trying to appeal to me through guilt, turning it into a smaller, more irrelevant issue. This—it’s becoming the most exhausting, repetitive argument we continue to keep having. It’s starting to feel like I’m stuck in the most unpleasant routine and I can’t break out of it.”

He stepped forward, his body tense, as his usual calm demeanor shifted into something more urgent, more impassioned. Leena could see the shift in him, the subtle but undeniable way his frustration was mounting, spilling over in a way that surprised her. She had expected him to remain composed, to be the steady, logical one—but now, there was a new intensity in his voice.

“Let me make this very clear,” he continued, his words more measured, but still laced with an undercurrent of frustration. “Just because I’m not like you, doesn’t mean I judge you or think any less of you. I respect you, Leena. I respect the individual person you are, and I’ve made an effort to accommodate the differences between us. But when you keep pushing my boundaries, trying to force me to be something I’m not, simply to make me more like you—it feels unfair. Your constant quest to reshape me into someone who thinks and behaves exactly like you doesn’t feel like love or compromise. It feels like control. It puts me in the position of being unable to fulfill your needs and that hurts. You know I pride myself on being able to solve problems but your never ending void of things that are ‘wrong’ with me or ‘wrong’ with how we function seem insurmountable.”

Leena’s chest tightened as she processed his words. She hadn’t expected him to voice this so bluntly, to lay it out with such intensity. She had always felt the differences between them, but hearing him speak so plainly about it made her realize how deeply this was affecting him.

“Every time we address these issues, you cry, demand that I comfort you, and then there’s no real change. No effort to understand my needs. It’s always a list of new things you need me to alter about myself so that you can be happy,” Tech said, his voice low now, tinged with a bitterness that Leena had never heard from him before.

“I can’t even fully blame you for all of this,” Tech began, his voice quieter now, but still heavy with emotion. “I’ve continually made the effort to accommodate your requests, even when they make me incredibly uncomfortable. I’ve tried to meet you where you are, even when it meant pushing aside my own boundaries. And yes, I acknowledge that there are times when I’ve been unfair to you, too. But this whole situation—it’s leaving both of us so unfulfilled. I can feel it, Leena. I can see it in the way you avoid being around me. You’re gone so much now, and the truth is... we’re both miserable. I don’t think either of us knows how to fix it anymore.”

His words hung in the air between them, heavy with the weight of everything they had both been avoiding. There was no anger in his voice now—just resignation. But it stung all the more. The quiet truth of his statement settled in her chest like a lead weight, and for a moment, all she could do was breathe, her thoughts spiraling.

But before she could respond, he continued, his voice taking on the familiar cadence she had come to dread. “We both know this isn’t working. We both know we’re just going through the motions, and pretending everything’s fine isn’t helping either of us. I’m tired of waiting for things to change when it seems unlikely given the depth these issues—”

“Stop. Tech, stop talking right now,” Leena interrupted, her voice barely above a whisper, but it was enough to break the flow of his words. A chill swept over her as she felt the shift in his tone. That shift from frustration to the all-too-familiar, clinical, matter-of-fact way he spoke when he was trying to distance himself emotionally. It wasn’t anger anymore, but it felt even worse. He wasn’t mad at her—he was simply... resigned. Detached.

The same tone that always made her feel like she wasn’t capable of understanding the bigger picture. The same tone that made her feel small, as though she were simply too naïve, too impulsive, to grasp the full weight of the situation. It was the voice that stripped her of any agency in their relationship. The voice that made her feel ignorant—like a child fumbling in the dark while he watched from above, quietly disappointed.

Her pulse quickened as she tried to steady herself, but the feeling of inadequacy washed over her. She hated that tone.

“Leena,” Tech’s voice was soft, but it still carried the weight of everything that had been unsaid between them. She immediately shook her head, as if the simple motion could shut out the truth he was about to speak.

“Don’t,” she pleaded, her voice strained, a desperate quietness to it as she tried to keep her composure.

“Leena, please—” he urged, stepping closer, his voice laced with a combination of concern and frustration. But it was too much. The words she didn’t want to hear, the thoughts she didn’t want him to share, felt like they were suffocating her.

“No.” She snapped, her hands flying to her ears, covering them as if the simple act of blocking out his voice could erase everything he was trying to communicate. Her eyes squeezed shut, the darkness behind her eyelids somehow offering a false sense of control as she tried to steady her breath, desperately trying to hold herself together.

But it was no use. The emotions that had been building inside of her for what felt like an eternity, the pressure that had been quietly simmering beneath the surface, all erupted at once. She couldn’t stop the tears anymore.

And then, just as she thought she might be able to pull herself together, she felt his hands. His touch was firm, grounding her in place, but it wasn’t the kind of touch she wanted. His hands rested on her shoulders with careful distance, a space between them, as if he was trying to steady her without crossing that invisible line. It was meant to be comforting—she could tell—but in that moment, it felt like a thousand miles away.

The tears came faster now, hot and raw, filling the room with a desperate sorrow that she couldn’t contain. She shook with the intensity of it, her chest heaving with the force of her sobs. Every part of her wanted to collapse into him, to feel his warmth, his comfort—something that would anchor her in the midst of her chaos—but he was so far away, physically and emotionally.

Without thinking, she reached out, hands trembling as they grasped at the empty air, desperate to close the distance between them. She wanted to pull him into her, to hold onto him so tightly that the words and the pain and everything else would just go away. But no matter how much she stretched her arms toward him, he remained just out of reach, keeping her at a distance from his chest.

Her body trembled as she fought against the overwhelming wave of emotion crashing over her. The sobs filled the space around them, echoing through the cottage as she cried out in frustration, in helplessness, in all the things she couldn’t put into words. She was too far gone to hide it anymore.

“Why won’t you just hold me?” she whispered through the tears, her voice breaking. It was the simplest of requests, but the hardest one to make. Tech’s grip on her shoulders tightened ever so slightly, but his words still hung in the air, heavy with the unspoken distance between them. 

“Because I refuse to play into this cycle any longer, Leena,” Tech’s voice was firm, but the undercurrent of frustration was clear. “I need space. I need—”

But before he could finish, Leena’s anger surged. Without warning, she shoved him away, the force of her actions surprising them both. The movement was desperate, a physical manifestation of everything she had been holding back.

Without a second thought, she turned and ran for the door, her heart pounding in her chest, the weight of their conversation too much to bear. She couldn’t hear anything else he had to say, nor did she want to. The words, the distance, the suffocating silence between them—it was all too overwhelming.

Her hand was already on the door handle, and she didn’t look back. She couldn’t.

Tech didn’t call out after her. He didn’t chase her, didn’t try to stop her. Instead, he just stood there, rooted in place, his eyes locked on her retreating figure. His expression remained unreadable, distant. It was as if he had already accepted her departure—like it was inevitable.

He let her go.

The silence that filled the space in the wake of her exit felt louder than anything she had ever heard before.

Leena’s steps quickened, each stride growing more forceful, more determined. The anger bubbled up inside her, each step pushing it higher. It felt like it was all she’d been living in since that moment: a constant, exhausting cycle of sadness, anger, and a gnawing confusion that never seemed to let up.

It left her spiraling, caught in a whirlwind of hurt and the desperate need to take action. She wanted him to feel the weight of what he’d done, to make him realize the depth of the pain and come back, to fight for what they had left. She wanted the validation of everyone else to agree with her, to have them all stand beside her, reaffirming that she wasn’t the one who had caused this rift. She wanted everything to fall back into place, to go back to the way it was before—before the arguments, the distance, before they had become strangers in their own relationship.

But the truth was, Leena wasn’t ready to face the reality that some of what Tech had said that night had struck a chord within her. The words he’d thrown at her—harsh as they were—had a ring of truth she wasn’t prepared to acknowledge. To admit it would feel like admitting defeat, and she couldn’t bear the thought of that.

That’s why she needed to speak with him so desperately. She wanted to apologize, to beg him to understand that she never meant to hurt him, to make him feel like he had to carry all the weight of their struggles alone. She wanted to show him that she was willing to put her needs aside if it meant he would stay, that she would bend, just as he had, to make it work.

As Leena neared the last few rows of houses, the jungle looming just beyond them, she felt a wave of exhaustion wash over her—both physical and emotional. Her mind was still reeling from the night’s events, from the weight of the argument and the hollow space it left in her chest. Distracted by her turmoil, her footing slipped, and before she could brace herself, her knees slammed against the cold stone with an unforgiving force.

The pain shot through her, but it wasn’t just the physical ache that struck hardest—it was the crushing weight of everything she had been trying to avoid. Kneeling there on the unforgiving streets, her knees bleeding slightly from the scuff, the rawness of her emotions overwhelmed her. For a moment, she felt as though the fire that had been pushing her forward—driving her to act, to fight—dissipated entirely.

Something about being sprawled on the ground, her body aching and vulnerable, made the internal storm inside her grow even more unbearable. It was like the final nail in the coffin, the moment when the fight in her finally seemed to wither. The hurt wasn’t just physical; it felt like suffocation, like being trapped beneath water for far too long, your lungs desperate for air but unable to find it. It felt like being wedged into a tight space, your limbs aching from the lack of freedom, a constant tension in your muscles that couldn’t be relieved. It was a constant throbbing in her skull, as if the pain would never cease.

And the embarrassment. The sting of humiliation surged through her, as though her world had just crumbled on display. She prayed—more than anything—that no one had witnessed her fall. Please, don’t let anyone have seen. This entire situation had become an embarrassment in itself. Their loved ones, once supportive, now watched in silence as everything between her and Tech unraveled. She couldn’t bear how everyone else seemed to be finding their own happiness while her world came crashing down in slow motion. It was suffocating, their pity hanging around her like a dark cloud.

Part of her longed for the sympathy, craving it as some sort of validation. Yet another part of her resented it, hating the feeling of being seen as weak, broken, unable to manage her own life. This constant storm of conflicting emotions felt like it was tearing her in two. She could never quite tell which side of her thoughts would win out—one minute she was angry, the next, she was desperate for someone to hold her and tell her everything would be okay. But it never was.

“Leena?” came a voice from behind her, loud but gentle. It held an unexpected weight that broke through her spiral of thoughts. It was a clone—though not one of the batch. Their voices were all uniquely altered by their enhancements, and after spending time around the “regs,” Leena had learned to recognize a handful of them, though their voices often blended together in her mind. Still, the voice was unfamiliar enough to be a comfort, a momentary distraction from the mess she felt she was drowning in.

Leena heard the shuffling of footsteps growing closer, the soft sound of boots dragging against stone until they stopped just in front of her scraped knees. She couldn’t bring herself to look up. Looking up meant meeting their gaze, exposing just how deeply she was affected by everything that had happened. She wasn’t ready for that—wasn’t ready for someone to see her so raw, so vulnerable. Especially not someone like Rex or Jesse. They were both good men, people she respected, but the thought of receiving an awkward pep talk from someone who shared so many of the same traits as the man who had just broken her heart felt unbearable. It wasn’t just that they were clones—it was that they shared his essence, and right now, everything about that made her skin crawl.

“I’m fine,” she muttered, trying to wave them off, her voice barely above a whisper. She hoped it was enough to send them away, but as she shifted slightly, there was a sudden movement that made her freeze. Whoever it was didn’t retreat. Instead, they knelt down beside her.

“You’re bleeding,” they said, their voice soft but laced with concern. Then they sucked in a breath, clearly startled by what they saw. “And… you’ve uh… been crying.”

Leena squeezed her eyes shut, willing herself not to break again. The words hung in the air, heavy with truth, and she hated hearing them. Hated that someone had seen her like this, completely unraveling. But even as the harshness of it hit her, something in their tone made her pause. It wasn’t judgment, wasn’t pity—it was simply a quiet recognition of her pain, and that somehow made it worse. In the solitude of her emotions, she had convinced herself that no one noticed, that she could slip away unnoticed. But here they were, kneeling next to her, acknowledging everything she had tried to bury.

“Yeah? I wonder why that is?” Leena retorted with a sharp, sarcastic edge in her voice, her words dripping with frustration. She hoped the tension in her tone would make it clear that she really didn’t want company right now. The sting of her emotions was still too raw, and the last thing she needed was someone trying to console her. It was easier to be cold with this man, whoever he was, than to face the reality of what had just happened. She couldn’t take her anger out on Tech—he wasn’t there to receive it—but that didn’t mean her frustration wasn’t bubbling over. This stranger would be an easier target for her bitterness, she thought.

The response came slowly, almost like they were testing the waters. "Uh... because you fell and hurt yourself?" Their voice was cautious, as if trying to gauge her reaction, unsure whether to push further or retreat.

Leena stiffened at the answer. It was simple, logical—but it only served to highlight how much she’d failed to keep her emotions in check. Fallen, hurt herself. It seemed like such a small thing, something that could easily be brushed off, but the truth was far more complicated. It was the culmination of everything she had been struggling with, everything that had been building up for days. And now, here she was—scraped knees and face full of tears—and no one to share the weight of her broken heart with. Kayden had tried and she dismissed her. 

Her eyes burned with unshed tears as she finally glanced up at the figure kneeling next to her, but it wasn’t with the relief of someone ready to accept help. It was with the defiance of someone who was tired of feeling so out of control. She swallowed hard, fighting to keep the tears at bay. 

Leena took a moment to assess him, her gaze moving slowly over his appearance. Sweat clung to his skin, and his shaved head glistened in the dim light. It was a look she’d seen countless times before on the regs. Most of them kept their hair short, if they had any at all. Rex was one of the few exceptions she could think of, and even his hair was kept cropped closely. 

But the man before her, this particular clone, had something else that set him apart: the tattoos. Intricate blue patterns snaked up the side of his face and head, marking him with a kind of permanence that only soldiers like him seemed to wear proudly. The tattoos weren’t the only distinguishing feature, though. A few metal piercings caught in the light. But, it was the hearing aid that drew her eye next—an essential part of him, always there, a reminder of the harshness and endurance of his life.

Hardcase.

She wasn’t particularly close with Hardcase, but there was a certain sense of familiarity between them. They all shared the same space, the same friend group—living and working on the same isolated island. It created a bond, whether or not they acknowledged it. Hardcase had always been the kind of guy who radiated energy, someone who was constantly full of life and laughter. It was hard to pin down whether it was the result of surviving so many close calls with death or if that was just who he had always been. Either way, his presence was infectious. He was the kind of person who could easily lift a room with his humor and his reckless charm.

She knew he spent a lot of time with Wrecker—given their shared love of all things chaotic and physical—but beyond that, she’d never really spent time with him in an isolated setting. They were part of a larger group, a shared dynamic that never really allowed for individual connections to form outside the group context. And besides, Leena had never really felt the need for anything deeper with him.

There was an unspoken boundary in her mind, a line she’d never even considered crossing. Seeking companionship from another man while married had always felt... inappropriate, almost like a betrayal. It didn’t matter that Tech spent time with Mae—those moments had always felt different. Non-threatening, even. Leena had never felt any insecurity over that relationship. Mae was a friend, nothing more. But in her own case, even in the absence of anything beyond platonic with Hardcase, the thought of it felt wrong. It was a loyalty to Tech, to the life they had built together, that kept her from seeking out these kinds of connections.

Leena shook her head, almost frustrated with herself for even allowing her thoughts to wander in that direction. She hadn’t come here for this—to think, to question, or to even entertain the possibility that she was somehow drifting into unfamiliar territory. Yet, as she noticed Hardcase’s gaze lingering on her scraped knee, the care in his eyes almost felt like a gentle reminder of the kindness that had been missing in her own world lately. The thought of chasing after Tech in this moment didn’t seem right anymore.

Tonight had been a storm, an emotional chaos she couldn’t untangle in her mind, and maybe, just maybe, circling back when things weren’t so raw would be the better choice. Time had a way of settling tempers, she knew. It was just a matter of waiting for the tension to dissolve enough so they could both approach the conversation with clearer heads. Something about seeing a near stranger—someone as disconnected from her personal life as Hardcase—show the kind of concern that her own family hadn’t, made her pause. There was no history there, no emotional weight, and that made it easier for her to consider it without the usual walls going up. Hardcase’s detachment from her current situation allowed her a space to breathe, to think for once without everything being clouded by the overwhelming noise of what had just happened.

“It’s just a scratch,” she said quietly, trying to downplay it, but there was no fooling him. She watched as he shook his head, a subtle hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

“Still probably hurts,” he said, his voice gentle, but there was a knowing tone in it. He wasn’t dismissing it, but acknowledging the hurt in a way that seemed more... real. More understanding.

Leena’s gaze flickered instinctively to the side of his neck. It was there she saw the fading scars, a patchwork of history that spoke of battles fought and injuries endured. She’d heard stories about the extent of the damage he’d suffered—not just from the physical pain, but the emotional toll it had taken on him. She had seen him swim once or twice, the way the marks ran down his body, crisscrossing like an unfinished map. They were part of him, just like the carefree energy he always exuded. She had no idea how someone could endure that level of pain and come out on the other side seemingly unscathed, emotionally.

So when Hardcase's concern shifted to something as minor as her scraped knee, something about it caught Leena off guard. His concern felt genuine, untainted by her complicated history with Tech or her emotional baggage. It wasn’t about fixing anything—it was just care, unprompted and unassuming. A small, quiet gesture that she couldn’t help but find almost absurd in its simplicity. She couldn’t help it—she giggled, a soft sound that escaped her lips before she could stop it.

It was the first time in hours she had felt any sort of release, and it felt so good, so unexpected. Here was a man who’d faced real pain, real struggle, and yet he was tending to her small, insignificant injury like it was something that mattered. It was such a contrast to the suffocating silence she’d experienced all night. In that fleeting moment, something shifted inside her—this ridiculous, absurd giggle breaking through the wall she’d built up inside.

“Is that a laugh?” he asked, feigning shock, his voice teasing but with a soft edge of curiosity.

“Does it matter?” Leena replied, her tone light but carrying an undercurrent of weariness. She shifted to sit more comfortably on her leg, the sharp stone and dirt bits pressing into her skin as she examined the scratches she’d earned from the fall. They were insignificant, really, but they seemed to mirror the small pains that had built up inside her over the past weeks, things she hadn’t allowed herself to acknowledge.

“I think it does,” Hardcase shrugged with a faint smile, his gaze flicking to her as he reached into his pocket. Leena wasn’t sure what exactly he was looking for, but when his hand emerged with a small piece of scrap cloth, she raised an eyebrow. It was odd, but then again, she had learned to expect the unexpected from people like him.

Without waiting for her to say anything, he passed it to her, and she took it with a quiet nod. The gesture, simple and unassuming, was oddly comforting. It wasn’t much—a scrap of fabric—but at this moment, it felt like a bridge over the distance she’d tried so hard to maintain between herself and others. Leena dabbed at her face, wiping away the evidence of tears she hadn’t noticed gathering until now. "Thanks," she murmured, her voice quieter as she focused on the task at hand. She hadn’t realized how much of a mess she’d become in the span of a few hours.

Hardcase didn’t reply right away, but his eyes held an understanding she hadn’t expected from someone she didn’t know well. “I can’t say I recall hearing one from you in a while,” he said after a beat, his voice softer than before, not mocking, just observant. It wasn’t an accusation, but an acknowledgment of what she’d been through, and it made her feel oddly seen.

Leena paused, her fingers tightening around the cloth for a moment. “It’s been a... rough time,” she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. Her mind briefly flashed to the argument with Tech, the overwhelming tide of emotions, the disconnection she couldn’t seem to fix.

“That’s an understatement,” Hardcase said, a slight chuckle escaping his lips. It was light, like he was trying to pull her from the depths of her own thoughts. “Sometimes we forget how to laugh. Or maybe we forget it’s okay to laugh. Even when things feel impossible.”

Leena’s eyes flicked to his face, studying him for a moment. There was a sincerity in his words that she wasn’t used to hearing from people, let alone someone she barely knew. It was like he saw through her outer walls, recognizing the fatigue in her that she’d been so desperate to hide.

“You don’t really know me,” she said softly, surprised by the vulnerability in her own words. "You probably think I’m just... over reacting, or something."

Hardcase shook his head, his expression softening, losing some of the usual guardedness that came with the military. “I think... you’re going through a really tough time. It’s okay to hurt when things don’t make much sense.” He paused, running a hand over his head as though searching for the right words. “Sorry. I’m not great at saying the right thing. I’m sure you’re used to smarter conversations than this.”

Leena couldn’t help but let out a small breath of relief. She knew he was alluding to Tech’s natural eloquence—the way he could articulate his thoughts with precision, always calculating the best way to express himself. Tech had always been able to explain everything, to make sense of the world when she felt lost. But there was something refreshing about Hardcase’s rawness, his willingness to admit that he didn’t have all the answers. He didn’t try to overcompensate with words, instead offering his honesty in a way that felt genuine.

Tech’s brilliance often left him detached from others emotionally, his sharp mind sometimes blinding him to the vulnerability of those around him. But Hardcase... Hardcase seemed to understand the weight of the unsaid things, the quiet moments where words weren’t necessary, only understanding. It was a stark contrast to what she was used to, but in this moment, she found herself leaning into it.

“It’s... it’s okay,” she said quietly, glancing up at him as the remnants of her tension began to ebb. His concern wasn’t forced, it wasn’t because he thought he had to say something profound—it was simply because he cared, in his own, unpolished way. And for some reason, that felt easier to accept than anything Tech could offer right now.

“I didn’t think I’d be... here, like this,” Leena continued, her voice growing softer as she spoke. “I didn’t think things would get so complicated, you know? I didn’t think I’d feel like I’m... falling apart.”

Hardcase nodded slowly, his eyes understanding, but there was no pity in them. He didn’t look at her like a broken thing to be fixed. “Yeah, life has a way of throwing everything at you all at once. Makes it harder to keep your footing. But that doesn’t mean you have to face it alone.”

The words hung in the air between them, simple but impactful. Leena swallowed, her throat tight. She wasn’t sure why she was opening up like this—after all, she barely knew him. But in some strange way, his presence felt like the only thing holding her together in this moment. Maybe it was his unspoken kindness, his ability to let her just be, without judgment or expectation.

“Thanks,” she whispered, more to herself than to him. She wasn’t sure if she was thanking him for the cloth, for the concern, or for not trying to fix her. Maybe it was all of it.

Hardcase smiled, his expression soft and genuine, the kind of smile that didn’t demand anything in return. “Anytime, Leena. Anytime.” His gaze shifted to the water in front of them, a faraway look in his eyes for a moment, before he turned back to her, his dark eyes meeting hers with quiet sincerity. “Can I walk you back to your place? I want to make sure you get there alright.”

Leena paused, her thoughts swirling. His offer was simple enough, but there was something in his tone that made it feel different from the usual gestures of kindness she’d grown accustomed to. It wasn’t pity, or some well-meaning obligation—it was just genuine, the kind of kindness that didn’t come with strings attached. For the first time in weeks, someone was being kind to her not because they had to, but because they wanted to. It felt... good.

For a fleeting moment, the weight of everything seemed to lift, just enough to breathe. She nodded, her throat tight as she forced a small, thankful smile. Hardcase rose to his feet, brushing the dirt from his pants, and extended his hand to her. She took it, grounding herself in the steady strength of his grip. He didn’t push or try to fix anything—he simply offered his support, in the most human, uncomplicated way.

“Are you sure I’m not ruining your evening plans?” she asked after a pause, noticing in the corner of her eye that he'd changed into something a bit more polished than usual.

“I was already running behind to meet everyone at that gathering,” Hardcase replied with a shrug. “A few extra minutes won’t be a problem.”

Leena mulled over his words, feeling a flicker of relief at the thought that he, too, could be late for things. "It’s winding down, you know?" she added, almost absentmindedly.

“Yeah… got a bit distracted,” he admitted with a sheepish grin before quickly adding, “Not by you. Before I found you, I mean,” he reassured her.

“Oh?” she said, intrigued, happy for the distraction of his story and what might’ve caused him to be behind.

“Yeah, it’s kinda silly, actually,” he muttered, looking away, almost embarrassed.

“Nothing wrong with a little silly,” Leena replied after a beat, watching the way his features shifted at her words. There was something in the way she said it—maybe the quiet understanding in her voice—that made him open up.

“Well, there’s this moonyo that hangs around outside Jesse’s house. And I’m telling you, that little guy is great at finding hidden things... at least, that’s what I call them,” Hardcase said, his eyes lighting up as he spoke. Leena noticed the way his voice had gotten a bit louder, likely due to his partial deafness—or maybe he’d always been a bit boisterous.

“Hidden things?” she asked softly, genuinely curious.

“Yeah. Hidden things. One time, I followed him to this alcove in the caves, and it was packed with all kinds of stolen stuff from around the island—clothes, little trinkets, all sorts of shiny objects. That moonyo’s a troublemaker,” he grinned, before his expression shifted to something more wistful. “Another time, he led me to this quiet spot by the water, a place no one really knows about. Anytime he’s hanging around, but then suddenly bolts off like he's on a mission... I just follow him.”

Leena chuckled, a gentle smile curling her lips. “You probably think it’s ridiculous. Following an ape around for no reason…”

“No, not at all,” she interrupted, meeting his eyes. “I think it’s sweet and…” She paused, searching for the right word, then added, “spontaneous.”

Hardcase’s eyes softened, the warmth of her approval settling over him. With a little nod, he continued, telling her more about the secret treasures his four-legged companion had led him to discover. 

As they walked side by side, the cobblestones beneath their feet rhythmically clicking with each step, Leena allowed herself to relax just a little. Hardcase’s words came in a steady stream—nothing heavy, just casual musings about random things: the weather, a funny incident from earlier that day, a strange looking cloud in the sky. His voice was calm and unassuming, filling the silence in a way that wasn’t overwhelming or uncomfortable. It wasn’t the kind of conversation she had with Tech—where every word had its weight and meaning—but it was nice. Simple, comforting.

Leena let herself get lost in the sound of his voice, her focus shifting away from the sharp edge of her pain for a moment. It wasn’t that the hurt was gone, but for the first time in days, she didn’t feel like it was choking her. She wasn’t fighting it. She wasn’t fighting anything. There was no expectation, no pressure—just the quiet comfort of someone walking with her, offering their company without expecting anything in return.

As they neared the house she’d been staying in since the split, Leena felt a pang in her chest, a mix of relief and sadness. This place had become her refuge and her prison all at once. She wasn’t sure how long she’d be able to stay there, or what would come next, but in this moment, with Hardcase walking beside her, she allowed herself to hope for just a bit of peace.

When they reached the doorstep, Hardcase gave her a final, casual nod. “Here you are. Safe and sound.”

She smiled, though it was a bittersweet one. “Thanks, Hardcase. Really. For everything.”

He shrugged, his smile light. “Like I said, anytime.”

Leena watched him turn to walk away, his figure growing smaller with each step. She stood in the doorway for a moment longer than she intended, feeling a mix of emotions well up in her chest—grief, gratitude, confusion—but most of all, a sense of being... understood. Not fixed. Not judged. Just understood.

Art by the lovely @leenathegreengirl!

かわいい❤️‍🔥❤️‍🔥

How can he be this cute? 💕

This clip 😭😭😭🩷