Arc Trooper - Blog Posts

Still love em

Fives is Graceful and Clumsy AF

He either stumbles like a newborn foal

or is as smooth as flowing water.

There is no in-between. Seriously, look at this nerd. Flawless execution.

Fumbling dweeb.

He can dodge blasters like a pro

but can’t stay on his feet.

Do a barrel roll!

Even when he does land on his feet, he kind of flops over and needs help standing.

His close-range coordination is abysmal (baby where are you aiming exactly?). But he doesn’t always get decked in the face.

Sometimes he’s tripped and then gets decked in the face (he really needs to stop trying to punch commando droids).

He has better aim with his feet

except when he doesn’t

DO NOT TELL ME HE TRIPPED CUZ OF THE EXPLOSION he was well on his way to face-planting even before the detonator went off. Someone protect this panicky dork.

Bonus: “Deadeye” Hardcase taking care of Business™ while Fives flails like a drunken nuna.

(more Fives stuff)

This “sketch” has taken me 6 hours. I really need to learn to chill; not everything needs to be publishing quality 😂

So, I'm rewatching The Clone Wars and.....it is much more depressing the second time around.

"You showed me something today. You're exactly the kind if men I need in the 501st." - Rex ("Rookies")

“Crimson Huntress” pt.1

Summary: Togruta bounty hunter Sha’rali Jurok takes a solo job to retrieve a rogue clone on Felucia. With her two deadly droids—an aggressive astromech and a lethal butler unit—she walks into a Separatist trap and uncovers a mission far more dangerous than advertised.

OC Main Character list:

Sha’rali Jurok – Togruta bounty hunter; cold, calculating, highly skilled.

R9 – Aggressive and foul-tempered Purple and gold plated astromech droid with a flair for destruction and sarcasm.

K4-VN7 – Polished, eloquent, and terrifyingly efficient combat butler droid. Built from scratch to kill with elegance.

CT-4023 – An ARC trooper deserter from Umbara, traumatized and hiding dark secrets.

⸻

No one ever looked up in places like this.

Too many shadows. Too many reasons to keep your head down. The air inside the station’s lower ring was a stew of recycled carbon, rotgut fumes, and quiet desperation. Pipes wept steam like open wounds. Light was an afterthought.

But high above the foot traffic, perched on a rusted catwalk like a vulture watching prey, stood a silhouette draped in black.

Sha’rali Jurok didn’t move.

Six-foot-three of poised muscle and scarred armor, she waited with the stillness of a born predator. The dim lights kissed the edges of her obsidian chestplate, brushed against the bronze trim curling over her pauldrons like war glyphs. Her montrals swept high and long, twin spires framed in shadow. Her coral-pink skin peeked through weathered gaps in her gear, etched with fierce white markings.

She didn’t flinch when the blasterfire echoed from three decks below.

She was waiting.

A sharp series of binary chirps cut through the noise in her helmet feed.

“Target acquired. Location pinging now.”

The message came from a rolling menace of purple and gold—a heavily customized astromech droid barreling down a side corridor at breakneck speed. It screeched in fury as a pair of thugs tried to intercept it, deployed a shock arm, and lit one of them up with a jolt strong enough to drop a Wookiee. The second man turned to run. The droid revved louder, popped out a sawblade, and chased after him with a gleeful wail.

Sha’rali sighed. “Subtlety’s dead, then.”

The third figure, K4-VN7, stepped up beside her like a ghost in polished rose gold. Humanoid in build, tall and slim, the droid moved with the elegant posture of a high-born noble—only he wasn’t meant to serve tea. His chassis was streamlined, his hands too steady, his frame too balanced. Every inch of him suggested killing disguised as courtesy.

“Your astromech appears to be under the impression this is a battlefield,” the rose-gold droid observed in a smooth, accented voice. “Not a scouting operation.”

“R9 thinks everything is a battlefield,” she replied flatly.

“A charming trait,” he said. “If you’re in the habit of raising buildings to the ground.”

Sha’rali glanced sideways. “Remind me which one of you decapitated a Pyke courier because he insulted your coat?”

“I didn’t decapitate him,” the droid said with casual precision. “I surgically separated his head from his spine. And I had asked him nicely.”

She allowed herself half a smirk. It was gone as quickly as it came.

They dropped together into the industrial underlevels. The station below stank of synthspice, oil, and urine. Slave collars glinted from shadowed alleyways. Scum and suffering layered the walls like rust.

Her boots hit the metal with a clang.

R9 zoomed around the corner, screeching wildly, the smoldering remains of something twitching in its wake. The droid rotated its dome toward Sha’rali, deployed a data-spike, and slammed it into a nearby console with the enthusiasm of a child stabbing a fork into cake.

A holomap flickered to life.

Target marked.

“Well,” the K4-VN7 said, brushing invisible dust from his long coat. “Shall we go commit some light murder?”

Sha’rali drew her rifle from her back and cocked the charging pin.

“No,” she said, voice low and edged. “We commit justice. Murder’s just the payment method.”

⸻

The corridor reeked of ammonia and blood.

They moved in silence now—no more banter. Sha’rali’s boots made no sound on the grated floor, her movements honed by years of tracking quarry through worse places than this. Her armor blended with the shadows, matte black plates drinking in the station’s flickering emergency light.

Ahead, a red blinking dot pulsed on her HUD. The target. Traced by R9’s slicing from a local maintenance hub.

The man she was hunting had once been muscle for the Black Sun. Not subtle, not smart—but sadistic. He’d skipped out on a deal with Jabba the Hutt, and when a Hutt calls for blood, you don’t ask questions. You just bring it.

She raised her left hand—a silent signal.

Behind her, the rose-gold butler droid stilled instantly. It tilted its head, listening to the faint echo of movement up ahead. The sound of heavy boots, a muttered curse, a weapon being checked. Then two. Maybe three others with him.

R9, crouched low and dirty beside a leaky pipe, emitted a shrill string of chirps that could only be described as vulgar enthusiasm.

Sha’rali nodded once.

Go.

The astromech shot forward like a hyperspace dart, wheels squealing and shock arms primed. He launched a small probe into the ceiling vent with a clink, and seconds later, every overhead light in the corridor surged, flared—

—and died.

Darkness swallowed the hallway.

Screams echoed before the first shot was even fired.

Sha’rali dropped into a roll, came up with her rifle raised, and shot a Nikto thug clean through the chest. The impact lit up the corridor in a flash of orange and smoke. She advanced without hesitation, slapping a stun grenade onto a bulkhead and spinning off the wall as it blew.

A Klatooinian charged her with a vibro-axe. She ducked under the swing and drove her elbow into his throat, then leveled her blaster and dropped him at point-blank range.

Behind her, K4-VN7 moved like death on a dancefloor.

“Please remain still,” he said, grabbing a screaming Devaronian by the shoulders and driving him into the floor hard enough to dent the plating. The droid flicked a vibro-blade from his wrist and plunged it through the back of the man’s neck. “Thank you for your cooperation.”

R9 let out a triumphant screech and blew a hole in the bulkhead, exposing a rusted hatch beyond. Sparks rained down.

Sha’rali stepped over the corpses, her rifle trained forward. Her lekku shifted behind her as she approached the hatch.

“He’s in there,” she said.

The butler droid dusted blood from his chassis. “Shall I knock?”

Sha’rali didn’t answer.

She kicked the hatch in.

The room beyond was small, low-lit, hot. A half-stripped power core hummed in the corner. The Black Sun lieutenant crouched behind a stack of crates, wide-eyed and sweating, a heavy blaster in his shaking hands.

“Y-you don’t have to do this,” he stammered, as Sha’rali stepped inside, calm and slow. “I can pay. I can outbid Jabba—whatever he’s offering you, I’ll double—triple it.”

She didn’t blink. “He’s not paying me to talk.”

His finger twitched on the trigger.

She shot first.

A single bolt punched through his wrist, sending the blaster spinning. He howled in pain, collapsing backward against the wall, blood running over his fingers.

R9 rolled in and deployed a small, brutal-looking saw. He revved it threateningly, beeping what might’ve been the astromech equivalent of “I dare you to move.”

The Black Sun enforcer whimpered.

Sha’rali crouched in front of him, face calm, voice like a vibroblade sheathed in silk.

“Jabba wanted you alive.” A beat. “But he didn’t say how much.”

She lifted her comlink. “Target secured. Prep the binders. We’re delivering to Tattoine.”

K4-VN7 tilted his head. “Shall I extract a souvenir for Lord Jabba? Perhaps an ear?”

R9 cheered.

Sha’rali stood. “Keep him breathing. For now.”

⸻

The suns were cruel today.

Tatooine’s twin stars hung like molten coins above the dune sea, turning armor into ovens and sweat into salt crust. Even with a heat-absorption cloak draped over her shoulders, Sha’rali could feel her lekku ache from the sunburn beneath.

R9 screeched in protest as its treads kicked up dust. The astromech, slathered in a new layer of carbon scoring and dried blood, had refused to ride in the hold. He rolled beside her like a tiny war-god on wheels, his purple and gold frame gleaming in the sunlight like a dare to the galaxy.

Behind them, K4-VN7 hauled a repulsor-gurney with their prisoner strapped to it—still barely conscious, mouth gagged, one arm missing. It was wrapped, of course. This was still business.

The gates to Jabba’s palace loomed ahead, cracked open just wide enough for her to smell roasted meat and hear the bassline of a Hutt’s indulgent soundtrack: booming drums, offbeat strings, alien instruments that sounded like violence in slow motion.

They didn’t knock.

The guards knew who she was.

Two Weequays parted with wary expressions. One muttered into a wrist comm. Another took one look at R9’s spinning buzzsaw attachment and immediately backed up.

“Nice to be remembered,” she muttered.

Inside the palace the heat didn’t leave. It just changed form—from desert furnace to thick, sour, flesh-heated humidity. The great hall was alive with noise, low-slung thugs, enforcers, offworld dancers, a few droids rigged with restraining bolts and serving trays.

Sha’rali strode through the rot like she belonged.

Because she did.

Then she heard it—a voice that made her jaw clench.

“Well, well. Didn’t think they let ghosts back in here.”

She turned slowly.

Leaning against one of the archways was a woman she’d shot once—in the shoulder, on Ord Mantell.

This was Latts Razzi, wrapped in black silks and armor pieces, her electro-whip coiled lazily at her hip.

“What do you want, Razzi?” Sha’rali asked.

Latts grinned. “Word was you were dead. Or retired. Or retired and dead. But here you are, dragging in meat for the slug.”

“Better than selling spice to backwater Rodians.”

Another voice joined in—deep, accented, amused. Embo.

His wide-brimmed hat cast a shadow over his eyes, but the tilt of his head suggested approval. His pet anooba growled low at R9, who spun his dome in a slow circle of warning.

“Charming crowd,” the rose-gold droid intoned behind her. “Do let me know when I should start breaking limbs.”

Jabba’s booming laugh saved them from escalation. He sat atop his throne now, drool wetting the furs beneath him, jowls rippling with joy as he saw the prisoner wheeled forward.

“Sha’rali Jurok,” the Hutt oozed in Huttese. “My red ghost returns.”

She inclined her head slightly. “I brought what you asked for.”

K4-VN7 gave the prisoner a casual shove, causing the body to slide and thud into the steps of the throne. The guards flinched. Jabba’s tail twitched, delighted.

The Nikto handler stepped up, scanned the target’s biochip, and gave a nod.

Jabba chuckled. “You always deliver. Perhaps next time, I send you after someone worth your skill.”

Sha’rali said nothing.

Latts leaned in again. “You know Jabba’s got a job coming up on Felucia, right? Clone deserter. Former ARC. Very high-value. Heard Bossk wants it.”

Sha’rali arched a brow. “Let Bossk try. I finish what others choke on.”

A low chuckle from Embo. Respect.

“Will there be refreshments?” the rose-gold droid asked politely. “My photoreceptors are fogging.”

Jabba bellowed again, more amused than ever.

“Take what you will. The palace is open tonight…”

Sha’rali turned away from the Hutt’s throne, credits heavy in her pouch, enemies and allies alike at her back. The Clone Wars raged on far beyond these walls, but here in Jabba’s court, loyalty was a negotiation and violence a language everyone spoke.

She felt the next hunt coming.

She always did.

⸻

Bossk had laughed. Loudly. Cruelly.

“You’re taking that Felucia job alone?” he snarled, all fangs and thick claws. “Hah! You’ll end up part of the jungle. Buried in some sarlacc-wannabe’s gullet.”

Sha’rali hadn’t blinked. “I don’t split paychecks.”

“Good way to get killed,” Bossk growled.

Boba Fett, barely Twelve and still wearing armor too big for him, added, “Maybe she likes dying slow. Heard those Felucian beasts like to drag it out.”

She hadn’t dignified that with an answer. Just turned on her heel and left.

Let them scoff.

They weren’t getting paid.

⸻

Felucia stank of wet rot and death.

Every breath of air was thick with spores. Giant fungal towers loomed above the jungle floor, sweating bioluminescence and feeding on the decay below. Vines hung like nooses. The sun filtered in weak and green.

Sha’rali moved like she belonged to the planet—low, quiet, sharp-eyed. Her armor had already taken on a fine film of blue pollen, but she didn’t bother wiping it. It would just come back. The whole world felt alive, like it was watching her from every direction.

Which it was.

She adjusted the satchel on her back and muttered, “Still no signal?”

R9, rolling carefully over a tangle of oversized roots, let out a grumpy bloop and extended a scanner dish. Static. The astromech pulsed red. Interference from deep-energy Separatist tech. Something big was here.

K4 walking a step behind her with perfect posture, scanned the treeline. “I believe something is tracking us,” he said pleasantly. “And I don’t mean the bugs.”

Sha’rali didn’t slow her pace. “Let them. I’m not the one bleeding.”

The clone deserter she was tracking had reportedly gone rogue after an OP on Umbara. CT-4023, vanished into the jungle months ago. Word was, he’d lost his whole squad in one night. No bodycams. No comm logs. Just silence and redacted reports.

That meant trauma. That meant instability. And unstable soldiers were dangerous, especially to people like Jabba who had loose investments in black-market clone tech.

R9 let out a shrill alarm—motion detected, thirty meters ahead.

Sha’rali dropped into cover.

“Scouting droid,” the butler droid confirmed a moment later, eyes glowing faint blue. “Separatist make. Old model, but still deadly if it screams.”

She whispered, “Disable it. Quietly.”

The droid drew a slim, needle-like dart from his sleeve and flicked his wrist. Pssst-thunk.

The droid overhead twitched once—then crashed to the ground in silence.

“Nicely done,” she murmured.

“I do enjoy precision.”

An hour later, they found the outpost.

Half-hidden under a ridge of bioluminescent mushrooms, the Separatist bunker hummed with unnatural energy. Camouflaged tanks sat idle. Patrols of B1 battle droids marched in lazy loops. But there were heavier units too—spindly, gleaming super battle droids and a tactical droid barking orders in binary to something inside.

Sha’rali narrowed her eyes.

The deserter wasn’t just hiding from bounty hunters.

He was protected.

Or… captured.

“Options?” the rose-gold droid asked.

“Go in loud,” R9 offered via a cheery, escalating sequence of beeps, spinning a small grenade launcher from his chassis.

“Tempting,” Sha’rali replied. “But I want eyes on him first.”

She drew a pair of electrobinoculars and scoped the inner compound.

There—cellblock nine. A humanoid figure, tall, scarred, seated on the floor with a head in his hands. Tatty clone armor. Partial ARC insignia. No helmet.

Her quarry.

Still alive.

That’s when the sniper droid fired.

The bolt kissed her pauldron—scraping past with a hiss of melted metal. She dove, rolled, fired twice—striking the sniper’s perch and causing a detonation that set a quarter of the jungle ablaze.

The Separatist camp lit up like a kicked hornet’s nest.

Alarms blared.

“Stealth,” the rose-gold droid sighed. “A fleeting dream.”

R9 screamed in binary, launched a wrist-rocket, and blasted a pair of B1s to pieces.

Sha’rali slapped a charge to her rifle and broke into a sprint. “We’re going in loud after all.”

The jungle screamed.

Plasma bolts cracked through the air like lightning in a storm. Trees burst into flame. The blue-green foliage glowed eerily under blaster light, casting jagged shadows across the uneven ground.

Sha’rali moved like water—fast, silent, deadly.

She dropped low behind a bulbous root, ripped a flash-charge from her belt, and lobbed it underhand. It bounced twice, then burst with a thunderclap of white.

The line of B1s went down screeching in scrambled code, sensors fried.

“R9, left!” she barked.

The astromech shrieked in challenge and surged forward, a buzzsaw whirling from one compartment while its flame nozzle hissed out the other. It hit a squad of advancing droids like a demon-possessed cannonball, slicing through one’s leg and immolating another’s head with a casual fwoosh.

The jungle screamed.

Plasma bolts cracked through the air like lightning in a storm. Trees burst into flame. The blue-green foliage glowed eerily under blaster light, casting jagged shadows across the uneven ground.

Sha’rali moved like water—fast, silent, deadly.

She dropped low behind a bulbous root, ripped a flash-charge from her belt, and lobbed it underhand. It bounced twice, then burst with a thunderclap of white.

The line of B1s went down screeching in scrambled code, sensors fried.

“R9, left!” she barked.

The astromech shrieked in challenge and surged forward, a buzzsaw whirling from one compartment while its flame nozzle hissed out the other. It hit a squad of advancing droids like a demon-possessed cannonball, slicing through one’s leg and immolating another’s head with a casual fwoosh.

Behind her, K4-VN7 moved with the grace of a blade dancer.

The droid’s rose-gold frame glinted with controlled menace, fingers twitching as his internal targeting locked onto the super battle droid rounding the ridge.

“Permission to escalate?” K4 asked smoothly.

“Granted,” Sha’rali said.

A micro-rocket fired from his wrist. The impact threw the super battle droid into the fungal wall with such force it split the caps open, oozing bright green pus onto its burning carcass.

Still, they kept coming.

From the ridge above, a tactical droid gave new orders in harsh binary. More fire rained down—precision bolts, cutting through trees and laying suppression zones around the cell block where the deserter was kept.

“CT-4023,” Sha’rali said aloud, ducking low and sliding beneath a crumbling log. “Still alive, still locked up.”

“You intend to extract him mid-firefight?” K4 asked, stepping over her and calmly shattering a B1’s neck with one open palm. “That seems… optimistic.”

“Not extract,” she grunted, firing two shots over her shoulder. “Drag.”

The final push came fast and hard.

K4 ripped open the bunker’s rear access panel. R9 hacked into the door seal with a spray of sparks and shrill swearing in binary. Inside, the cell block was dark, flickering, full of dead power conduits.

And there he was.

CT-4023.

Slumped in the corner of a containment cell, armor half gone, arm in a crude sling made from trooper plating and bloody cloth. Eyes sunken. Jaw bristled with patchy stubble. A long scar curved under one eye, old and raw like a failed surgery.

He looked up at them as the door opened, gaze unfocused. Not afraid. Not confused. Just… tired.

Sha’rali stepped forward, weapon lowered.

“CT-4023. You’re coming with us.”

He didn’t move. Just said, flatly, “You’re not supposed to be here.”

“Neither are you,” she replied.

They didn’t make it far.

It was the seismic charge that did it—one of the new models, the ones that didn’t boom so much as erase. The ground behind them warped with sudden light, the shockwave launching Sha’rali and K4 into a tangle of pulsing vines.

R9 screeched in horror as his dome sparked.

Before she could rise, something heavy struck her temple—metal, hard, fast.

She hit the dirt.

⸻

She woke cuffed in a holding cell aboard a Separatist prison barge. The air smelled like oil and chloroform. Her head throbbed with a low, punishing ache.

R9 was in a stasis lock across from her, magnetized to the floor.

K4 sat beside her, unpowered but intact. For now.

CT-4023 was hunched against the far wall, silent, his eyes closed like he’d already accepted this as fate.

A pair of B2s clanked past the cell’s viewplate.

Overhead, the ship’s engines roared to life—course set, coordinates locked.

They were being taken off-world.

And whatever the original job had been… this had just become something much bigger.

⸻

The hum of the Separatist prison barge was constant and low, like a predator breathing just out of sight.

Sha’rali sat cross-legged in the middle of the cell, arms resting casually on her knees, even though her wrists were still bound with mag-cuffs. She’d already tried dislocating her thumb—twice. The cuffs just re-tightened with every move.

R9 was still magnetized to the wall across from her, only his central eye active, pulsing red like an irritated wound. K4-VN7 sat beside him, rebooting slowly—his internal systems taxed from damage during the firefight.

The only other occupant, slouched in the back corner, hadn’t spoken since the ship lifted off.

CT-4023.

His armor was a battered mix of Phase I and II, scraped and dulled. No insignia. Just a partial ARC tattoo on one bicep and the dull glint of his CT number, etched into the plastoid by hand. His eyes were half-lidded, watching the floor like it might open up and swallow him.

She studied him openly now.

Broad shoulders. Tension in the jaw. A man used to holding the line. But the hollowness in his expression said he’d lost everything that mattered.

“Pretty quiet for someone with a bounty on his head,” she said.

Nothing.

She leaned back slightly. “You gonna tell me why you were holed up on Felucia in a Separatist bunker?”

Still no answer.

She sighed. “Alright, fine. I’ll go first.”

Her voice lowered. “Job came from Jabba. He’s got an interest in clone deserters lately—especially ones with ARC credentials. Seems he thinks there’s something valuable in that pretty little head of yours. Codes. Maps. Maybe just memories he can sell to the highest bidder. Who knows.”

That got a flicker.

CT-4023 raised his gaze, slow and sharp. “You work for the Hutts?”

Sha’rali smiled without humor. “I work for credits. Hutts pay well for ghosts like you.”

“You came alone?”

“Wasn’t planning to share your bounty.”

He gave a soft, bitter laugh. It died in his throat almost instantly.

A long silence passed before she asked, quieter now, “What do I call you?”

He looked away.

“Your name,” she prompted.

“Doesn’t matter.”

Her brow furrowed.

He added, flatly, “Everyone who knew it’s dead now.”

The words landed heavy, like the click of a sealed coffin.

She didn’t respond immediately. Just stared at him. Not in pity—but in understanding. Loss had a shape, and it wore the same tired expression across species, planets, and wars.

“CT-4023, then,” she said. “Not much of a name, but it’ll do.”

He leaned his head back against the wall and closed his eyes again. “Don’t get comfortable with it.”

Sha’rali leaned forward slightly, her voice lower, more curious than confrontational. “You weren’t hiding from the war.”

He didn’t answer.

“You were hiding from your past.”

Still nothing.

She exhaled slowly and leaned her head back against the cold durasteel wall. “Yeah,” she murmured. “Aren’t we all.”

Outside the cell, the lights flickered red.

The intercom crackled in Binary. K4’s eyes reactivated in a flash of sapphire light.

“We’re coming out of hyperspace,” he said calmly, voice newly rebooted. “Judging by the vector… I believe we’re approaching Saleucami.”

Sha’rali blinked.

Saleucami wasn’t a Separatist stronghold.

It was a staging world.

Something was wrong.

CT-4023’s eyes opened again—fully, alert now. His voice dropped to a whisper.

“They’re not taking us to a prison.”

⸻

The air in the Saleucami compound was thick with recycled heat and chemical burn.

A Separatist facility, buried deep beneath the arid surface—off-grid, quiet, designed not for prisoners of war, but for assets. There were no prison cells. Just sterile rooms, surgical lights, and soundproof walls.

CT-4023 was dragged from the transport first.

He didn’t fight. Didn’t flinch.

Only his eyes moved—watching, cataloging, waiting.

They strapped him into a durasteel chair bolted to the floor. Arms pinned wide. Legs secured. Cables snaked down from the ceiling and tapped into the restraint frame, powering the table with an ominous, pulsing hum.

The technician droid’s voice was emotionless. “You are in possession of Republic intelligence. Please verify encryption key.”

The clone didn’t speak.

“CT-4023, verify encryption key.”

Nothing.

The voltage hit his spine in white-hot arcs, burning through his nervous system like wildfire.

He didn’t scream. His jaw clenched tight. Every muscle in his body seized. The smell of scorched skin filled the room.

Still—no words.

Again. And again. The machine changed tactics: neural pulses. Flash-cranial scans. Biofeedback loop interrogation.

He didn’t give them a name. Not a number. Not a lie. Nothing.

By the fourth hour, he was bleeding from the mouth, both eyes bloodshot, breathing shallow. But still alive. Still silent.

When they pulled him out, the technicians were muttering.

“He wants to die.”

Sha’rali watched him slump to the floor of the holding chamber.

She was already cuffed to the interrogation slab, reclining like it was a lounge chair instead of a torture frame. Her expression didn’t flinch.

“Take notes,” she said flatly. “He’s not gonna break. He’s past that.”

A B1 clanked forward. “State your mission. Why did you extract CT-4023 from the bunker?”

She raised one brow lazily. “You think that’s extraction?”

“Answer the question.”

Sha’rali yawned.

A taller, insectoid Neimoidian stepped in now—robed in black, clearly the one in charge. His voice was rasping, with oily menace. “You work for the Republic?”

She laughed. “Oh stars, no.”

“Then for whom?”

“Someone who values what’s in his head,” she replied. “A client with… flexible morals and deep pockets.”

The Neimoidian frowned. “What intelligence does CT-4023 possess?”

Sha’rali smirked. “You tried four hours and a spinal voltage rack to find out. I’m just the delivery service, remember?”

A pause. Then the interrogator leaned closer. “You will tell us your employer. And your mission.”

She studied him for a beat, then tilted her head—expression cool, unreadable.

“Let me tell you something about torture,” she began, voice eerily calm. “It’s not about the truth. It never is. It’s about control. Dominance. Breaking people until they’ll say anything just to make it stop.”

The B1 made a confused beep. She ignored it.

“You want answers, but you’re using the wrong method. Torture’s messy. Inconsistent. You think you’re getting gold but most of the time it’s just blood-soaked garbage. Want to know how I know?”

She leaned forward against her restraints, her voice dropping into something darker.

“Because I do it for fun.”

The interrogator stiffened.

“I’ve peeled lies out of the toughest mercs on Nar Shaddaa. Pried secrets out of smugglers, spies, even Jedi. You know what most people confess to under duress?” Her eyes narrowed. “That they believe the moon’s made of cheese. That they’re married to droids. That they can hear worms sing.”

Silence.

“Torture’s not reliable,” she finished coolly. “But it is entertaining.”

The room went cold.

The Neimoidian slowly stepped back.

Sha’rali sat back, smiling with something halfway between pride and threat.

“Go on then. Shock me. Burn me. Cut me open. I’ll tell you the same thing your droid could’ve: I’m here for the credits. No flag, no cause. Just the thrill of the hunt.”

The lights dimmed. The hum of the room paused.

The interrogator turned and gestured to the droids. “Return her to holding. Increase surveillance. She’s not bluffing.”

⸻

Back in the holding room, CT-4023 hadn’t moved.

Sha’rali was thrown in with a hiss of hydraulics. She rolled onto her knees, sore but intact.

They sat in silence for a while. The hum of distant machinery echoed like a heartbeat.

“You didn’t break,” she said eventually.

He didn’t look at her. “Didn’t need to.”

“You want to die?”

His jaw twitched. Still no answer.

She leaned her head back against the wall again, voice lower now. Less sharp. “You think whatever’s in your head isn’t worth protecting. But someone else thinks it is.”

Finally, finally, he looked at her.

His voice was hoarse. “Why’d you talk like that in there?”

She smiled faintly. “To waste their time.”

A pause.

“…thanks,” he muttered, almost too quiet to hear.

Sha’rali tilted her head toward him. “Don’t get comfortable with it.”

⸻

Coruscant. Jedi Temple.

Rain slid down the outer transparisteel panes of the High Council chamber, streaking the glass like tears. The mood inside was colder.

Master Plo Koon leaned forward, his voice gravel-soft. “The confirmation comes directly from our intelligence outpost on Felucia. CT-4023 has been taken alive by Separatist forces.”

Across from him, Mace Windu folded his hands. “That clone was listed as KIA on Umbara.”

“Apparently,” Ki-Adi-Mundi said, “he survived. Went dark.”

“And the bounty hunter?” asked Master Saesee Tiin.

Plo’s voice dropped. “Identified as a Togruta named Sha’rali Jurok. Wanted in five systems. Independent. Dangerous. Not affiliated with the Republic or Separatists, but… she retrieved CT-4023 before they were both captured in the firefight.”

“A complication,” Mace muttered.

“She’s irrelevant,” said Master Windu. “CT-4023 is the priority. An ARC with classified field data, possibly firsthand intel from Umbara’s black ops campaign? If that information is extracted, the Separatists could exploit it system-wide.”

Yoda nodded slowly, fingers laced. “Retrieve him… we must.”

“And what of the bounty hunter?” Obi-Wan’s voice was softer, curious rather than concerned.

“She’s not our problem,” Mace replied. “If she gets in the way—Delta Squad will handle it.”

⸻

The lights dimmed as a hologram of Saleucami rotated slowly above the table. Delta Squad stood at attention—Scorch cracking his knuckles, Sev adjusting his rifle strap, Fixer dead silent, and Boss straight-backed with his helmet under one arm.

“Mission is simple,” said the admiral at the head of the table. “CT-4023 is alive and being held underground at a Separatist facility. Deep scan picked up irregular ion shielding—it’s well-hidden, but not impenetrable.”

“Target status?” asked Boss.

“Unknown physical condition, but signs of recent neural interference suggest they’re attempting to extract intel. You are to enter, retrieve the clone, and exfil. Silent if possible. Loud if necessary.”

“What about the bounty hunter?” Fixer asked dryly.

“Non-priority. You are authorized to eliminate if she poses a threat to recovery.”

“Copy that,” said Boss.

The admiral continued. “Delta, you will not be alone. Jedi support is being deployed to reinforce your extraction window—but do not rely on them for the initial op.”

“Who are the Jedi?” Sev asked.

The doors behind them hissed open.

Two Jedi entered. The first, a tall, lean Zabrak with a rigid posture and calculating gaze—Master Eeth Koth. The other, a calm, composed Nautolan with piercing blue eyes and lightsaber scars along his arms—Kit Fisto.

“We’ll intercept any reinforcements from orbit or planetary staging areas,” Kit said warmly, but with weight behind the smile. “If they’re moving the prisoner off-world, we’ll stop it.”

“We’re not here to babysit,” Eeth Koth added. “Delta leads the infiltration. We’ll clean up what follows.”

Boss gave a tight nod. “Copy that.”

The admiral gestured to the map again. “You insert at 0200. Stealth first. If that fails… don’t leave any survivors. Not with what’s in that clone’s head.”

⸻

In the dim light of the cell, CT-4023 leaned back against the wall, wrists bruised, jaw clenched, his eyes locked on nothing.

Sha’rali Jurok sat cross-legged on the floor, idly carving something into the wall with a chipped scrap of durasteel.

“They’re not done with us,” she said idly.

“I know,” CT-4023 muttered.

“You think someone’s coming for you?”

He didn’t respond right away. A long silence. Then, “Maybe.”

She scoffed. “Guess you’re lucky. They don’t come for people like me.”

More silence.

Outside the holding cell, a B2 battle droid stomped into position. A red light blinked above the cell door.

Something was shifting.

High above the planet, far beyond the clouds and smog, a stealth transport emerged from hyperspace—black against the stars.

Delta Squad was coming.

And only one of them mattered to the Republic.

⸻

Next Part

“The Worst Luck”

ARC Trooper Fives x Sith Assassin!Reader

⸻

Hidden in the caverns of a storm-ridden world, the Separatist outpost buzzed with dark energy. Most didn’t know this base existed—most weren’t meant to.

You patrolled its halls like a shadow: cloaked in darkness, lightsaber at your hip, Count Dooku’s orders in your comm. You weren’t just his assassin. You were his favorite one—fast, brilliant, and loyal. Or so he thought.

The GAR must’ve caught wind of this place, because they’d sent two of their finest headaches in armor: ARC Troopers Echo and Fives.

One was bleeding. The other was missing. And your patience?

Wearing very thin.

⸻

You pressed Echo against the cold metal of a cell wall, your red blade crackling inches from his cheek.

His expression was equal parts pain and smugness. “You sure this isn’t personal?”

“Would it make a difference if it was?”

“Not really. I just like to know how far up the creep scale we’re going.”

You leaned in, amused. “Where is your partner?”

Echo raised a brow. “Fives? Trust me, he won’t let you take him alive.”

You tilted your head, amused. “Is he really that dangerous?”

Echo actually snorted. “No. He just has the worst luck I’ve ever seen. I once watched him fall down a set of stairs and somehow set off every detonator in the room. We weren’t even carrying that many.”

You blinked.

Echo nodded sagely. “The man’s a one-man catastrophe. If he’s still loose in here, odds are he’s somehow about to crash a starfighter into the medbay by accident.”

You smiled—despite yourself. “I’ll be sure to leave a fire extinguisher out for him.”

⸻

Fives was, predictably, not following the plan.

He was crawling through a duct that was way too small for his armor, holding a deactivated blaster, and whispering threats to Echo’s comm signal.

“Echo, if you’re not dead, I’m gonna kick your osik for getting caught,” he muttered. “Also, I may or may not have just dropped a thermal detonator in the hangar bay. Might wanna move.”

No response.

He sighed. “Great. Now I’m talking to myself.”

A cold voice echoed from below: “You’re not very stealthy.”

His eyes widened. “Oh—nope—”

You launched your saber.

Fives dropped like a sack of bricks through the grate, rolling with a very undignified grunt onto the hallway floor, armor scuffed, ego intact.

He grinned up at you from his heap. “Fancy meeting you here.”

You stalked forward, eyes narrowed, saber blazing. “You broke into a classified base.”

“Well technically, Echo broke in. I just… fell in.”

He scrambled to his feet, brushing dirt off his pauldron. “Look, do we have to fight? Because I’d rather just stare at you for a bit. You’ve got the whole angry-warlord look down, and I gotta say—it’s doing things for me.”

You blinked.

“…Did you just flirt with me mid-arrest?”

“Oh sweetheart, that wasn’t even my best line.”

You attacked.

The duel was fast and reckless.

You moved like smoke—twisting, striking, your saber slicing through the air with lethal precision. Fives fought dirty—improvised, unpredictable, ducking under your blade and throwing whatever he could find your way: a tray, a datapad, a coffee mug.

“Seriously?” you growled, batting it aside.

He grinned. “Didn’t hit you, did it?”

You kicked him hard in the chest. He flew back, slammed into a crate, and groaned. “Okay, that one’s fair.”

You advanced, steps slow and measured.

Fives coughed, wiped blood from his lip, and looked up at you with defiant heat in his eyes.

“Go ahead,” he rasped. “Kill me. Bet I’ll still look better dead than half the seppies in this base.”

You stopped.

Laughed.

Actually laughed.

He blinked. “…Was that a smile?”

“No.”

“It was. You smiled.”

You rolled your eyes. “You’re insane.”

Fives pushed to his feet, panting. “Takes one to fight one.”

You circled each other, breathing hard.

“Why didn’t you run?” you asked.

Fives tilted his head. “Maybe I wanted to see what a Sith assassin looked like up close.”

“Disappointed?”

He smiled. “No. You’re terrifyingly hot. It’s messing with my aim.”

You exhaled sharply through your nose. This idiot. This attractive, sharp-tongued, insufferable idiot.

You deactivated your saber. “You’re lucky I find your stupidity charming.”

“You’re lucky I can’t feel my ribs.”

“…You didn’t break anything.”

“I break everything. It’s kind of my thing.”

You studied him for a long moment, head tilted.

Then you spoke, soft and curious: “Why does he call you Fives?”

Fives gave a crooked grin. “Because my number is CT-5555. Or maybe because I only ever have five brain cells working at any given moment.”

“…That tracks.”

⸻

You shoved Fives into the room beside Echo, who was now sitting up and mildly annoyed.

Echo blinked. “Oh kriff. You’re still alive.”

Fives grinned. “She likes me.”

Echo stared at you, then him. “You’re unbelievable.”

You smirked and crossed your arms. “He tried to fight me with a mop.”

“It was tactical,” Fives shot back.

“You fell over your own foot.”

“It was a strategic stumble!”

Echo groaned. “I’m surrounded by morons.”

You leaned against the door, eyes flicking between them. “Tell me, ARC Trooper—how long before the Republic sends a team for you?”

Fives shrugged. “Long enough for you to fall in love with me.”

You narrowed your eyes.

He winked.

And Maker help you—you didn’t immediately stab him.

⸻

The cell was dim and humming with tension. Echo paced like a caged animal, checking the cuffs on his wrists every few minutes. Fives leaned against the wall like he was on leave at 79’s, smirking every time you looked at him.

And you?

You’d made the mistake of hesitating. The mistake of not killing them when you had the chance.

Something about that idiotic grin. Something about the way Fives joked with death like they were old friends.

It irritated you.

It fascinated you.

You turned your back on them and checked the comm unit outside the cell. The transmission coming through wasn’t Separatist.

“—this is General Skywalker, approaching target coordinates. Standby for breach.”

Your blood ran cold.

No. Not now.

You tapped the panel. “What kind of breach? How far out?”

The droid on the other end fizzled. “Jedi cruiser approaching from the lower stratosphere. Their forces have jammed exterior defenses. Two gunships inbound.”

You spun around. Fives was watching you carefully now.

“You’re nervous,” he said softly.

You ignored him. “You said the Republic wouldn’t come.”

“I said long enough for you to fall for me,” he said, grinning. “Apparently they’re faster than I thought.”

You pulled open the cell and grabbed his collar.

“Whoa—”

You shoved him into the wall, pinning him with your arm against his chest.

“You know what’s about to happen, don’t you?”

Fives didn’t flinch. “Looks like the cavalry’s here.”

“Your Jedi are going to tear this place apart.”

“Yeah. And if I were you, I’d get real comfortable with the idea of changing sides.”

You glared. “I don’t have a side.”

Fives smirked. “No, you have a job. You follow orders. You’re good at it. But I’ve seen that look before. You’re not sold on this war anymore.”

You hesitated.

He tilted his head. “Come with us.”

“Don’t be ridiculous—”

“I’m serious. You’re strong, terrifying, weirdly hot—Echo agrees with me.”

Echo shouted from the cell, “I do not!”

“You’re not like the others,” Fives continued. “You hesitated. You didn’t kill us. And I don’t think that’s just curiosity.”

You looked at him—really looked.

And he wasn’t wrong.

But before you could speak, the walls shook. A violent tremor rattled the floor. Sirens flared.

They were here.

“Get down!” you shouted, instinct pulling you faster than thought.

The ceiling cracked open above, and the cell block exploded into fire and debris.

Gunfire.

Smoke.

Blue and white armor filled the halls.

You pulled your saber and moved, deflecting blaster bolts while droids scrambled to regroup.

Fives grabbed Echo, ripping the restraints off his wrists.

Echo stared. “You sure about this?”

Fives looked at you, still holding your saber like it wouldn’t touch him.

“Pretty sure.”

You blocked a bolt that would’ve taken off his head and glared. “You’re going to owe me for this.”

“Oh, trust me,” he grinned, “I’m already planning the thank-you speech.”

You turned your back on the fight—on everything—and ran beside them through the collapsing base.

⸻

Outside the base.

The fight was chaos. The 501st swarmed the compound like a storm. AT-RTs thundered through mud and smoke, and blasterfire lit up the sky like fireworks.

You ducked behind a transport with Fives and Echo, heart hammering.

“You’ve got to be joking,” you muttered.

Marching toward the base was Skywalker himself, saber drawn, flanked by Ahsoka Tano and Captain Rex.

You exhaled slowly. “I just betrayed the Separatists for that guy?”

Fives beamed. “Jealous?”

You shoved his helmet back on. “Shut up and run.”

⸻

Later. On the Venator.

You sat alone in the medbay, cloak scorched, hands trembling.

You hadn’t spoken since you boarded the ship.

Echo had gone to debrief. Fives… had stayed.

“You alright?” he asked quietly.

You didn’t answer.

He stepped closer. “You saved us.”

You laughed bitterly. “I doomed myself.”

“You did the right thing.”

“I don’t even know what the right thing is anymore.”

He knelt in front of you. “You didn’t hesitate back there. You chose.”

You looked down. “I’m not like you.”

Fives gently reached for your hand. “No. You’re not. You’re smarter.”

You blinked at him.

“I mean that,” he said, eyes warm now. “You’re terrifying. And brave. And brilliant. And also—can I kiss you now or do I need to duel you again first?”

You actually laughed—a real laugh.

Fives leaned in. “Is that a yes?”

“…Just shut up and kiss me.”