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“Red and Loyal” pt.5

Commander Fox x Senator Reader

The return to Coruscant should have felt like a victory.

Instead, it tasted like ashes in your mouth.

You stood before the full Senate chamber — still bruised, still hollow — draped in formal attire that barely hid the exhaustion in your bones.

Commander Cody flanked you silently, your last tether to strength.

Fox was somewhere in the shadows of the Grand Convocation Chamber, helmet tucked under one arm, his gaze burning into you.

You didn’t look at him.

Not yet.

Not yet.

You cleared your throat, and the chatter of the senators died to a low hush.

When you spoke, your voice was steady. Cold. Taught from days of battle and betrayal.

“To the esteemed representatives of the Republic,” you began, inclining your head. “I extend my planet’s gratitude for the forces sent to reclaim our homes from Separatist occupation.”

A murmur of self-congratulation rippled through the stands. You bit the inside of your cheek, holding your fury back.

“However,” you continued, sharp enough that the room froze again, “gratitude does not rebuild cities. It does not heal fields burned by droid armies, nor bring back the lives we lost waiting for help that almost came too late.”

Silence.

Not even Chancellor Palpatine shifted in his high seat.

“My people will need supplies. Infrastructure. Medicine.”

You swept your gaze across them, daring anyone to look away.

“And while we thank you for your soldiers,” — your voice caught, for just a heartbeat — “we will not survive on thanks alone.”

A low ripple of discomfort rolled through the chamber.

You bowed — low, measured, distant — and stepped back from the podium, spine straight even as every movement ached.

Only once you had retreated behind the Senators’ line did your composure slip.

And standing at the edge, waiting like a ghost, was him.

Commander Fox.

Red armor battered, jaw tight, brown eyes pinned on you with a look that you hated — hated — because it wasn’t anger.

It was guilt.

Real and raw.

You walked past him without a word.

But he followed.

In the shadows of the antechamber, where the Senate guards stood discreetly at a distance, you finally turned on him, voice low and cutting.

“You left,” you said.

No title. No honorific. Just that wound laid bare between you.

Fox’s hands clenched at his sides. “I had orders. It wasn’t—”

“It wasn’t your choice?” you bit out, trembling with the force of keeping your voice steady. “And that makes it better? My people died waiting for help that you walked away from.”

He flinched like you’d struck him.

Good. Let him feel it.

Still — Fox didn’t move, didn’t retreat. His voice, when it came, was rough, the words dragged from somewhere deep:

“I wanted to come back.”

“Too late,” you whispered.

You turned away, blinking hard. You wouldn’t cry here. Not where the whole Senate could see you fall apart.

You were stronger than that.

A beat.

Then Fox, softer. “I never stopped thinking about you. Never stopped fighting to come back.”

You swallowed hard, fists curling at your sides.

You didn’t trust yourself to answer.

Not yet.

Maybe not ever.

But as you stalked away, Fox didn’t try to stop you.

He just watched you go — like a man condemned, armor gleaming under the Senate lights, loyal to the end.

Even if you never forgave him.

⸻

The Senate chamber had emptied out slowly — a sluggish, uneasy tide of robes and whispered conversations.

Fox stood back, helmet tucked under one arm, watching from the shadows like a ghost no one dared acknowledge.

He hadn’t moved since she walked away.

Couldn’t.

Footsteps approached, sharp and familiar.

Fox didn’t look up until a voice spoke beside him.

“She’s tougher than any of them give her credit for,” Cody said.

Quiet. Measured. Like he was offering a fact, not an opinion.

Fox exhaled harshly through his nose, jaw tight.

“I know.”

Of course he knew. It was the knowing that gutted him.

Cody shifted his weight, glancing once toward the now-empty Senate floor. His armor still bore scorch marks from the fighting back on her homeworld. A badge of honor, but also a reminder.

“You did what you had to,” Cody said, voice low.

Orders.

The same damn word that haunted all of them.

Fox barked a soft, humorless laugh. “That’s the problem, vod. I always do what I’m ordered to do.”

He looked down at his hands — scarred, steady, good at killing, bad at saving the people who mattered.

There was a long silence between them, the weight of wars and regrets too heavy for easy words.

Finally, Fox cleared his throat, voice rough.

“Thank you.”

Cody blinked, caught off guard by the rawness in Fox’s tone.

“For getting her out,” Fox said. “For keeping your word. When I couldn’t.”

Cody’s face softened just a fraction.

“Wasn’t just duty,” he said. “You think you’re good at hiding it, Fox, but… we all saw it.”

Fox stiffened, but Cody shook his head before he could snap back.

“No shame in it. She’s worth caring about.”

A pause. Then, dryly, “Even if she scares half the Senate out of their robes.”

Fox huffed a quiet, broken laugh.

The first real sound he’d made in hours that didn’t taste like blood and failure.

Cody clapped a hand on his shoulder — a rare gesture between them, heavy with meaning.

“She’s alive,” Cody said. “That’s what matters. The rest… you’ll figure it out.”

Fox wasn’t so sure. But he nodded anyway.

Because loyalty was stitched into their bones.

And Fox had already decided a long time ago, He’d follow her anywhere.

Even if right now, she wouldn’t let him.

⸻

The office was dim, save for the warm, late-afternoon light spilling through the high windows.

It felt too big, too empty — too official.

You hated it.

You paced once, twice, and stared down at the two glasses you’d set out on the table.

A bottle of something strong and expensive waited between them — a peace offering you weren’t sure you deserved to make.

When the door commed quietly, you startled. You knew who it was.

“Enter,” you said, voice steady.

Commander Fox stepped in, helmet tucked under one arm, armor still worn and sharp.

But his whole posture — the tense set of his shoulders, the way his gaze found the floor first — made him look anything but invincible.

You swallowed thickly.

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

You should have prepared something eloquent.

You should have had a speech about duty and forgiveness and whatever politicians were supposed to say.

Instead, what came out was simple. Quiet.

“Sit,” you said, nodding toward the two chairs by your desk.

Fox hesitated — just for a second — then crossed the room with heavy steps and lowered himself into the seat across from you.

You caught the faint scrape of armor against metal.

The way he didn’t meet your eyes.

You picked up the bottle and poured, the soft glug of liquid filling the heavy silence.

When you slid one glass toward him, his hand hovered — a brief flicker of indecision — before he finally took it.

A small, reluctant smile pulled at the corner of your mouth.

“You know,” you said, lightly, “I offered you a drink once before. You refused.”

Fox’s mouth twisted — something like guilt, something like apology.

“I thought… it wouldn’t be appropriate,” he said gruffly.

“And… I didn’t deserve it.”

You sipped your own glass, savoring the burn down your throat.

Maybe neither of you deserved anything. Maybe that wasn’t the point anymore.

“You followed orders,” you said finally. “I know that.”

You set the glass down gently. “I… I just—” You shook your head, frustration knotting your chest. “It was easier to blame you than face what actually happened.”

Fox looked up at that — really looked — and the pain in his dark eyes was almost too much to bear.

“I wanted to come back,” he said, voice raw. “I wanted to fight. I—” He broke off, jaw working. “I thought about you every damn day I was gone.”

The confession punched the air out of the room.

You stared at him, heart thudding against your ribs.

Fox held your gaze, unflinching now, even as the shame and longing twisted over his face.

“You scare me sometimes,” you admitted, so quietly it was almost a whisper.

“Good,” he said without missing a beat, and for the first time in what felt like forever — you laughed.

Soft. Shaky. Real.

Fox’s lips quirked into something small and hopeful.

He raised his glass slightly, like a soldier making a silent vow.

You clinked yours gently against his, the faint tap of glass-on-glass the only sound in the room.

No forgiveness yet. No easy endings.

But for the first time since your world fell apart, something inside you shifted — a thread pulled tight not with anger, but with something else.

Hope.

Maybe loyalty could heal, too.

And Fox — sitting across from you, battered and unbowed — would wait as long as you needed.

Because he had already chosen you.

Previous Part

“Red and Loyal” pt.4

Commander Fox x Senator Reader

They brought her out at dusk.

The sky above the capital bled violet and gold, and the light made her look almost ethereal as she was marched up the execution platform. Chained. Stoic. Dignified even in ruin.

Crowds were forced to gather—citizens herded into the central square at blaster-point. Droids lined the rooftops. Separatist banners hung in place of the planet’s colors, waving like a threat in the wind.

She climbed the steps herself. Unassisted.

And when she reached the top, she paused—not for fear. But to look at them. Her People.

Their eyes were wide with despair, faces hollow from weeks of fear. Some wept. Others stood still. Waiting. Hoping. A broadcast droid hovered beside the stage, recording every breath. Streaming it across the planet.

A voice crackled through the speakers: “The prisoner has been granted final words.”

And that’s when she stepped forward.

Back straight. Chin raised. Wrists still bound in front of her.

The wind caught her hair as she spoke.

Clear. Commanding. Unshaken.

“To those watching—this is not the end. Not of me, and not of our world.”

“The Separatists think that by putting me to death, they are ending our resistance. But they have forgotten something: power taken by force is fragile. It fears truth. It fears unity. It fears voices like mine, and hearts like yours.”

“They want me to kneel. They want me to beg. But I will not.”

“I will not validate tyranny with silence.”

“You are not alone. You are not broken. And this planet—my home—is not theirs to take.”

“Let my death be the last one they claim. Let it mark the moment we stop fearing them.”

“Let it mark the beginning.”

The droids shifted.

The crowd held its breath.

She smiled, just a little—chin still raised, defiant.

“Now do what you came to do.”

⸻

Inside the lead gunship, the air was thick with silence—not calm. No one dared speak.

General Kenobi stood near the holoprojector at the center of the cabin, his arms crossed, lips pressed into a grim line. The flickering holo-feed of the senator’s execution streamed in front of him, unstable from planetary interference—but still very real.

Commander Cody stood beside him, helmet in the crook of his arm, eyes fixed.

The Senator stood tall at the execution stage, her final words still ringing through the feed like a siren in every clone’s chest.

Then—movement.

A droid officer stepped forward. The executioner. Mechanical. Cold. Lifting the electro-guillotine’s lever with clinical efficiency.

A hush fell over the crowd in the square. And the gunship. Cody’s hand curled tight around his helmet.

Kenobi’s voice was low, nearly a whisper “Punch it. Full speed. No stealth.”

“Sir, we’re still—”

“I said punch it.”

The gunship lurched forward, engines screaming. Through the cockpit, the capital city loomed on the horizon—flames and smoke rising in dark plumes, Separatist cruisers blotting the sky.

The other ships of the 212th fell into formation behind them.

Then— Back on the holo, the droid’s hand reached for the trigger.

Cody spoke, rough and urgent:

“ETA?!”

“Forty-five seconds!”

“That’s too long!” Cody snapped, slamming his helmet on.

Kenobi looked at him.

And Cody looked back, voice hard and cracking.

“We’re not losing her. Not today.”

The droid’s arm lifted. The crowd gasped—some screamed. The Senator did not flinch.

And then— A shriek cut through the sky.

Not from the crowd. But from the air above.

Gunships.

The sky erupted in sound and fire. The first blaster bolts rained down on the droid ranks from above—precision strikes that sent sparks and scrap flying. Clones rappelled from hatches, dropping in formation onto the stage and into the square, weapons drawn.

The executioner droid turned its head toward the noise—too slow.

Cody landed hard, blaster raised, shot clean through its neck.

“Move!” he barked, before even touching ground fully.

He was at her side in seconds, cutting her binders off with a vibroblade, catching her by the elbow as explosions tore through the square.

She stared at him, breathless—confused, stunned.

“Told a friend I’d bring you home,” he said, already pulling her toward the evac point.

She could barely hear over the thunder of battle, but—

“Fox?” she managed to ask.

Cody gave her a sharp look.

“He’s waiting.”

The capital was a storm.

The skies above roared with the thunder of Republic gunships, a flurry of blaster fire lighting up the heavens. Clones dropped from the ships like falling stars, armor gleaming through the smoke. The ground was a mess of war cries and destruction. Explosions lit up the streets as they tore through the Separatist droids, reclaiming what had once been the heart of a peaceful planet.

Commander Cody led the charge through the square, his blaster spitting rapid fire as he moved with precision. The 212th behind him was a wall of determined soldiers, every step driven by the need to push back the invaders.

The Senator was not far behind, protected now by Cody and a handful of soldiers. She had been silent after their initial exchange, still catching up to the fact that she had not just been freed, but had escaped. That moment, the seconds between life and death, still played in her mind. But now, her survival was in her hands—her people were counting on her to lead.

Cody’s voice cut through the chaos.

“Keep moving! We retake the streets, now!”

He fired again, taking down a B1 battle droid that had been lining up to fire on them. The clatter of its parts hitting the ground was quickly drowned out by the next round of blaster fire.

The droids were falling fast—at first, it had been a gamble, a sudden drop on the city with the 212th spearheading the attack. The Separatists had been too scattered, too slow to adapt.

Kenobi’s gunship circled low, dodging enemy fire, as the General looked toward the street where Cody had just led a successful push.

“Cody, report,” Kenobi called over comms, his voice calm but laced with urgency.

“We’re advancing into the city center, General,” Cody’s voice crackled through the comm.

“The Separatists are holding strong, but we’re pushing through. We have Senator [Y/N] with us.”

Kenobi paused, a hint of something like relief crossing his face.

“Understood. We’ll clear the way from here. Hold your position.”

The Senator was breathless but unwavering as they moved. She could feel her pulse pounding in her chest as they cut through alleyways and streets, the sounds of blaster fire and explosions echoing around them.

“We’re close,” Cody said, glancing over his shoulder. He had a protective edge in his eyes now, the intensity in his posture evident. “We’ll get you to safety, but you need to stay down.”

She nodded, moving faster, more instinctive than ever. She had always been a symbol of hope, but now, in the face of overwhelming danger, her defiance turned into raw strength.

Her eyes flashed as she scanned the buildings ahead of them.

“We must take back the government building. We need to signal the people of this planet.”

Cody didn’t argue. There was no time for it. They continued their advance, cutting through Separatist forces as they went.

As they neared the government building, they were met with resistance.

A small battalion of droids stood guard, the tallest among them a heavily armored AAT. The droid commander barked orders as blaster fire erupted in every direction.

“Cover fire!” Cody yelled.

The squad spread out, with Thire, Stone, and the others taking positions to cover the senator. The sound of blaster fire echoed back and forth, the crash of explosions reverberating in the streets.

Cody moved first, leaping into the fray with blaster raised, cutting through the advancing droids. His men followed suit, the ground littered with the bodies of fallen droids and debris.

And then, from above—the unmistakable roar of an incoming Republic ship.

The 212th’s gunship descended rapidly, flanking the droids from the rear and creating chaos in their ranks.

Kenobi’s voice rang out over comms, firm and commanding.

“Cody, the building is clear. Move the senator there. We’ll handle the remaining forces.”

Without hesitation, Cody gestured to the senator.

“This way, Senator,” he said, his tone softer now.

She nodded, allowing herself to be guided into the government building’s entrance. The sounds of the battle faded for a moment as they crossed the threshold.

The Republic forces held their ground.

Minutes later, the Separatists began to retreat, their lines weakening under the relentless pressure from Kenobi and his men.

As the last of the droids fell and the gunships circled overhead, the city slowly began to settle. The fires still burned, the sky still blackened with smoke—but for the first time in weeks, there was something that felt like hope.

Cody took a moment, his blaster still at the ready, scanning the surroundings for any remaining threats. The senator stood tall beside him, her eyes locked on the city outside the window.

“We’ve done it,” she murmured, though her voice lacked the triumph one might expect.

“Not yet,” Cody said, his gaze steady. “But we will.”

⸻

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

“Brothers in the Making” pt.4

Command Squad x Reader

The new training was brutal.

You made good on your warning.

Every morning started with live-fire simulations — no safeties. No shortcuts. Hand-to-hand drills until they couldn’t lift their arms. Obstacle courses under pelting rain and wind so strong it knocked them off balance. You pushed them until they bled, and then made them do it again.

And they got better.

Fox stopped hesitating.

Bacara stopped grinning.

Wolffe started thinking before acting.

Cody led with silence and strength.

Rex? Rex was starting to look like a leader.

You saw it in the way the others followed him when things got hard.

But even as your cadets got sharper, meaner, closer — something shifted outside your control.

Kamino got crowded.

You noticed it in the hangars first. Rough-looking men and women in mismatched armor, chewing on ration sticks and watching the cadets like predators sizing up meat.

Bounty hunters.

The Kaminoans had started bringing them in — not for your cadets, but for the rank-and-file troopers.

Cheap, nasty freelancers. People who'd kill for credits and leak secrets for less.

You weren’t the only one who noticed.

You slammed your tray down in the mess beside Jango, Kal Skirata, and Walon Vau.

Skirata didn’t even look up from sharpening his blade. “So. You see them too.”

“They stink like trouble,” you muttered.

Jango grunted. “Kaminoans don’t care. They want results. Faster, cheaper.”

“They’re not Mandalorian,” Vau said coldly. “No honor. No code. Just teeth.”

You leaned back in your seat, arms crossed. “They’re whispering to the clones. Getting too friendly.”

“Probably scoping them out,” Kal muttered. “Seeing who’s soft. Who’ll break first.”

Jango’s voice was low and lethal. “If one of them talks — if any of them breathes a word to the Separatists—”

“We're done,” you finished for him.

Silence settled over the table like a weight.

You glanced around the mess. One of the hunters was laughing with a group of standard cadets, tossing them pieces of gear like candy. Testing their limits. Grooming.

Your blood boiled.

“They’re not going near my boys,” you said quietly.

Kal looked over, sharp-eyed. “You planning something?”

“I’m planning to watch,” you replied. “And if they so much as look at my cadets sideways—”

“You’ll gut them,” Vau said. “Good.”

That night, as the storm beat against the training dome, you walked past the dorms. The lights were dim, but you could hear muffled voices inside.

“—you really think we’re ready?”

“Doesn’t matter. Buir thinks we are.”

“Yeah but… what if those bounty hunters—”

You stopped outside the door. Knocked once.

The room went dead quiet.

You stepped in.

The cadets snapped to attention.

You gave them a look. “You worried about the new visitors?”

They didn’t answer.

Rex stepped forward. “We don’t trust them.”

“Good,” you said. “Neither do I.”

They relaxed — just slightly.

“You,” you added, “have one advantage those other clones don’t.”

“What’s that?” Bacara asked.

You looked each of them in the eye.

“You know who you are. You know who you trust. You know what you’re fighting for.”

Fox swallowed. “And the others?”

“They’ll learn,” you said. “Or they’ll fall.”

A long silence followed.

Then Cody said quietly, “We won’t let them touch the brothers.”

You gave a small, proud nod. “That’s what makes you more than soldiers.”

You looked to each of them in turn.

“You’re protectors.”

———

The first hit came during evening drills.

You weren’t there. You’d been pulled into a debrief with Jango and the Kaminoan Prime. That’s why it happened. Because you weren’t watching.

Because they were.

The bounty hunters had been circling the younger cadets all week. The ones just starting to taste their own strength — just old enough to be cocky, not old enough to know when to shut up.

The hunters pushed them harder than protocol allowed. Made them spar past exhaustion. Made them fight dirty. Gave them real knives instead of training ones.

Neyo ended up with a dislocated shoulder.

Gree broke two ribs.

Bly passed out from dehydration.

And the worst?

Thorn.

One of the bounty hunters slammed him face-first into the training deck.

Hard enough to split his forehead open and leave him unconscious for thirty terrifying seconds.

By the time you arrived, Thorn was being carried out by two med droids, blood streaking down his temple, barely coherent.

The bounty hunter just stood there, arms folded, like nothing had happened.

You didn’t say a word.

You decked him.

One punch — a sharp right hook to the jaw. Dropped him cold.

Kal held you back before you could go in for another.

“You’re done,” you snarled at the Kaminoans who came running. “Get these kriffing animals off my training floor.”

“We were merely increasing the resilience of the standard units,” one of the white-robed scientists said coolly.

You stepped toward her.

“You try to touch any of mine,” you growled, “and you’ll see just how resilient I am.”

———

Later that night, the cadets met in the shadows of the observation deck. Not just your five — all of them.

Cody. Rex. Bacara. Fox. Wolffe.

Neyo. Keeli. Gree. Thorn. Stone. Bly.

Monk. Doom. Appo. Ponds.

Even a few of the younger ones — still waiting to earn names.

They were tense. Quiet. Watching the door. Waiting.

Keeli spoke first. “They’ll come back.”

Fox crossed his arms. “Then we hit them first.”

“Without Buir?” Rex asked, wary.

“She can’t be everywhere,” Wolffe muttered.

Monk frowned. “This isn’t a sim. These guys aren’t playing.”

Neyo leaned against the wall. “Neither are we.”

They sat in silence for a moment. Rain drummed against the glass overhead.

Finally, Gree spoke. “We don’t have to fight them.”

They all turned.

“We just have to outsmart them.”

They waited for their moment.

It came two days later. A late-night combat session with three of the bounty hunters, deep in one of the isolated auxiliary domes. No cams. No observers. Just a handful of cadets, and three heavily armed mercs ready to “teach them a lesson.”

They never saw it coming.

Rex faked an injury — stumbled, cried out, fell to one knee.

Bly drew the hunter in close, under the guise of helping him.

Gree triggered the power outage.

Fox, Neyo, and Bacara moved in from the shadows like ghosts.

Monk and Doom stole their gear.

Keeli hit them with a stun baton he “borrowed” from the supply closet.

By the time the lights came back on, the bounty hunters were zip-tied to the floor, unconscious or groaning, surrounded by sixteen bruised, grinning cadets.

They didn’t tell the Kaminoans what happened.

Neither did the hunters.

The next day, those bounty trainers were gone.

You knew something had happened. Jango did too.

You pulled Rex aside, arms crossed. “We didn’t do anything.”

“I didn’t ask,” you said.

He stood a little straighter. “Then I won’t tell.”

You smiled.

For a second, you almost said it.

Almost.

But not yet.

Instead, you gave him a nod.

“Well done, kid.”

———

Tipoca City was never supposed to feel like a warzone.

But that night — under blacked-out skies and howling wind — the storm broke inside the walls.

It started with Jango leaving.

He met you, Kal Skirata, and Walon Vau on the upper platform, rain hammering down in waves, cloak rippling behind him.

“Got called offworld,” he said without preamble. “Client I can’t ignore.”

You frowned. “Problem?”

He glanced at the Kaminoan tower, where sterile lights still glowed behind long windows.

“Yeah. Ten of those kriffing bounty scum are still here. Kaminoans won’t remove them.”

Kal spat on the ground. “Let me take care of it.”

“You, Vau, and her,” Jango said, nodding to you. “Handle it before I get back.”

He walked off without waiting for a reply.

The next few hours passed too quietly.

You and Kal did recon.

Vau slipped through maintenance corridors.

Then — the lights flickered.

The main comms cut out.

And every blast door in Tipoca City slammed shut.

———

In the Mess hall Neyo was mid-bite into a ration bar when it happened.

The lights dimmed. The far wall sparked. The room went deathly silent.

There were thirty cadets inside — the full command unit. And five Republic Commando cadets, seated near the back. All in training blacks, all unarmed.

Then the doors slid open.

Ten bounty hunters walked in.

Wearing full armor. Fully armed.

The first one tossed a stun grenade across the room.

The cadets scrambled — diving behind tables, flipping trays, shielding younger brothers.

A loud, metallic slam.

The doors locked again.

But this time, from outside.

A voice crackled over the mess intercom.

“Don’t worry, boys,” you said, voice steady, cold. “We’re here.”

One by one, the lights above the bounty hunters started popping.

Out of the shadows stepped you, Kal Skirata, and Walon Vau.

Three Mandalorians. Blasters drawn. Knives sheathed. No fear.

“Let’s clean up our mess,” Vau muttered.

The fight wasn’t clean.

It was fast. Ugly. Vicious.

You moved first — disarmed the closest hunter with a twist of your wrist and drove your elbow into his throat.

Kal went for the one reaching toward the Commando cadets, snapped his knee and disarmed him with a headbutt.

Vau took two down in five seconds. Bone-snapping, brutal.

The cadets rallied. Neyo and Bacara flanked the room, herding the younger ones behind upended tables. Rex shoved Keeli out of harm’s way and grabbed a downed shock baton.

Thorn cracked a chair over a hunter’s back.

Bly and Gree tag-teamed one into unconsciousness with nothing but boots and fists.

But then—

One of them grabbed Cody.

Knife to his throat.

Your blood ran cold.

“No one move,” the hunter snarled, voice wild. “Open the door. Now.”

You stepped forward slowly, hands up, helmet off.

“Let him go,” you said, voice low.

“Back off!” he yelled. “I’ll do it!”

Then — he started cutting.

Cody didn’t scream. Didn’t cry out.

Just clenched his jaw as blood ran down his brow and over his eye.

You saw red.

You lunged.

One shot — straight through the hunter’s shoulder — and he dropped the blade.

Before he hit the ground, you were there, catching Cody as he fell.

He blinked up at you, blood running down his face, trembling.

You cupped the back of his head gently, voice soft but steady. “It’s alright. I’ve got you.”

Kal secured the last hunter. Vau stood guard at the door. The mess was a wreck of overturned tables, scorch marks, and groaning mercenaries.

You looked down at Cody.

The top of his brow and temple was sliced deep. Ugly.

He winced as you cleaned it.

“That’s going to scar,” you said quietly.

Cody met your gaze — steady now, strong, even through the pain.

“I don’t care.”

You smiled faintly.

“Good. You earned it.”

The mess hall had long since fallen silent.

The medics came and went. The unconscious bounty hunters had been dragged off to confinement cells. The lights flickered gently above, casting a soft blue hue over the now-empty space.

The only ones left were you and your cadets.

Twenty-three young men. Battle-scarred, bloodied, tired.

And very, very proud.

You sat on a table, legs swinging, helmet in your lap. A few bruises blooming on your jaw, a cut on your knuckle — nothing you hadn’t dealt with before. Nothing you wouldn’t do again in a heartbeat for them.

They lingered near you, some sitting, some leaning against overturned chairs, some standing silently — waiting for you to speak.

You looked at each one of them.

Wolffe, arms crossed but still wincing slightly from a bruise on his side.

Rex, perched beside Bly, both quiet but alert.

Fox, pacing a little like he still had adrenaline to burn.

Bacara and Neyo flanking the younger cadets instinctively.

Keeli, Gree, Doom, Thorn, Monk, Appo — all watching you.

Cody, sitting close by, with fresh stitches across his brow. His scar. His mark.

You let the silence hang a little longer, then finally exhaled and said, “You did well.”

They didn’t respond — not right away — but you could see the pride simmering behind their eyes.

You stood and walked slowly in front of them, glancing from face to face.

“You’ve trained hard for months. You’ve pushed yourselves, pushed each other. But today…” You paused. “Today was something different.”

They listened closely, the weight of your words pulling them in.

“You were outnumbered. Unarmed. Surprised.” Your voice softened. “But you didn’t break. You protected each other. You adapted. You fought smart. And you stood your ground.”

Your gaze swept across the room again, and this time, there was no commander in your expression — only pride. And something close to love.

“You showed courage. And resilience. And heart.”

You walked back toward Cody, resting a hand lightly on his shoulder.

“If this is the future of the Republic Army…” you smiled faintly, “then the galaxy’s in better hands than it knows.”

You looked at all of them again.

“I’m proud of you. Every single one of you.”

For a moment, the room was silent again.

Then a quiet voice piped up from behind Rex.

“Does this mean we get to sleep in tomorrow?”

You rolled your eyes. “Not a chance.”

Laughter broke through the tension — real, loud, echoing off the walls.

Fox clapped Rex on the back.

Cody leaned lightly against you and didn’t say a word — he didn’t have to.

You stayed there a while longer, sitting with them, listening to the soft hum of rain against the dome. For now, there was no war. No Kaminoans. No Jedi.

Just your boys. Just your family.

And in the stillness after the storm, it was enough.

—————

*Time Skip*

The storm had been relentless for days — even by Kamino standards.

But today, there was something different in the air. The kind of stillness that only came before things broke apart.

You felt it the second the long corridor doors opened.

You were walking back from the firing range, datapad in one hand, helmet under your arm — drenched from the rain, mud on your boots, blaster at your hip.

And that’s when you saw him.

Tall, cloaked in damp robes, ginger hair swept back, beard trimmed neatly — Obi-Wan Kenobi.

He stood beside the Kaminoan administrator, Taun We, as she gestured down the corridor, her voice echoing in that soft, ethereal way.

You blinked. “Well, well.”

Obi-Wan turned at the sound of your voice, brow arching in surprise.

“Didn’t expect to see you here,” you said, smirking lightly.

“Likewise,” Kenobi said, a faint smile tugging at his mouth. “Though I should’ve known—where there’s chaos, you’re never far behind.”

You walked up to him, nodding politely to Taun We, who dipped her head and continued speaking about clone maturation cycles.

“Nice robes,” you said. “Still playing Jedi or are you finally moonlighting as a diplomat?”

“Depends on the day,” he quipped. “And you? Still collecting foundlings?”

That made you pause.

You glanced at the clone cadets moving through the hall up ahead — your boys. Young, serious, sharp-eyed. Already starting to look like soldiers.

“They’re not foundlings anymore,” you said, quieter now. “They never were.”

Kenobi’s smile faded slightly. “They’re… the clones?”

You nodded. “Each one.”

“And you’ve been… training them?”

You looked back at him. “Raising them.”

That gave him pause.

He walked a few paces in silence before saying, “And what do you think of them?”

You smiled to yourself. “Braver than most warriors I’ve met. Fiercer than any squad I’ve served with. Smarter than they get credit for. Loyal to a fault.”

Obi-Wan’s expression softened. “They’re children.”

“Not anymore,” you said. “They don’t get the chance to be.”

He studied you a long moment. “They trust you.”

“I’d die for them,” you said simply. “They know that.”

He nodded slowly, then leaned in, voice lower. “I need to ask you something.”

You met his eyes.

“A man named Jango Fett,” he said. “He’s been identified as the clone template. The Kaminoans say he was recruited by a Jedi. But no Jedi I know would authorize a clone army in secret.”

You held his gaze. “Jango’s a good man.”

“That’s not what I’ve heard.”

You exhaled. “He’s… complicated. He believes in strength. In legacy. In survival. He was proud to be chosen.”

Kenobi tilted his head. “And now?”

You looked down the corridor, where the rain slashed against the long window.

“Now?” you said. “He’s been taking jobs that… don’t sit right with me. His clients are powerful. Dangerous.”

Obi-Wan folded his arms. “Separatists?”

You didn’t answer.

Instead, you said, “Jango’s alone in what he’s made. But not in the burden. He just won’t let anyone carry it with him.”

Obi-Wan looked at you, long and careful. “And if he’s working for Dooku?”

“Then I’ll stop him,” you said. Quiet. Unshakable. “Even if it breaks everything.”

There was silence between you for a moment. Only the soft hum of the lights and the sound of rain.

Then Kenobi said, “We may all be asked to choose sides soon.”

You gave him a faint smile. “I already did.”

And with that, you turned and walked down the corridor — toward the cadets. Toward your boys. Toward the storm you could feel coming.

————

The hangar was alive with the sound of marching boots and humming gunships. The Kaminoan platforms gleamed under the harsh light of early morning, and the storm above was quieter than usual — almost like Kamino itself was holding its breath.

You stood near the gunships with your helmet tucked under your arm, the rain catching in your hair, your armor polished but worn. This was it.

Your boys — your commanders and captains — were suiting up, double-checking blasters, loading onto transports in units of ten, fifty, a hundred. The moment they’d been bred for was finally here.

And you hated every second of it.

“Buir!”

You turned as Cody jogged up to you, followed quickly by Fox, Rex, Wolffe, Bacara, Bly, Gree, Keeli, Doom, Appo, Thorn, Neyo, Monk, Stone, Ponds — all of them. Every one of them now bearing their names. Every one of them about to step into a galaxy on fire.

“You’re not coming with us?” Rex asked, brow furrowed beneath his helmet.

“No,” you said softly. “Not this time.”

They exchanged looks. Several stepped closer.

“Why?” Wolffe asked.

You smiled faintly. “Because I’ve fulfilled my contract. My time here is done.”

“But we still need you,” Bly said. “You’re our—”

“I’m your buir,” you interrupted, voice firm. “And that means knowing when to let you stand on your own.”

They fell quiet.

You stepped forward and looked at each one of them — your gaze lingering on every face you had once taught to punch, to shoot, to think, to feel. They were men now. Soldiers. Leaders.

And still, in your heart, they were the boys who once snuck into your quarters late at night, scared of their own future.

“You’re ready,” you told them. “I’ve seen it. You’ve trained for this. Bled for this. Earned this. You are commanders and captains of the Grand Army of the Republic. You are the best this galaxy will ever see.”

Cody stepped forward, his voice tight. “Where will you go?”

You looked up at the storm.

“Where I’m needed.”

A beat passed.

“Don’t think for a second I won’t be watching,” you said, flicking your commlink. “I’ll be on a secure line the whole time. Monitoring every channel, every order. I’ll know the second you misbehave.”

That drew a few smiles. Even a quiet chuckle from Thorn.

Fox stepped forward, standing at attention. “Permission to hug the buir?”

You rolled your eyes, but opened your arms anyway.

They came in like a wave.

Armor scraped armor as they all stepped in — clumsy and loud and warm, a heap of brothers trying to act tough but holding on just long enough to not feel like kids again.

You held them all.

And then, like true soldiers, they pulled back — each nodding once before heading to their ships. Helmets on. Rifles in hand.

Cody was the last to go. He looked back at you as the ramp began to rise.

“Stay safe,” he said.

You gave a small nod.

“We’ll make you proud.”

“You already did.”

Then the gunships roared, rising one by one into the sky, and disappeared into the storm.

And you were left on the platform, alone.

But not really.

Because your voice was already tuned into their frequencies, your eyes scanning the holo feeds.

And your heart — your heart went with them.

————

She never returned to Kamino.

The rain still haunted her dreams sometimes, the echo of thunder over steel platforms, the scent of blaster oil and sea salt clinging to her skin. But when she left, she left for good.

The cadets she had raised — the ones who had once looked to her like a sister, a mentor, a buir — were no longer wide-eyed boys in numbered armor.

They were commanders now. Captains. Leaders of men.

And the war made them legends.

From the shadows of Coruscant to the deserts of Ryloth, from Umbara’s twisted jungles to the burning fields of Saleucami — she watched. She listened. She followed every mission report she could intercept, every coded message she wasn’t supposed to hear.

She couldn’t be with them. But she knew where they were. Every. Single. Day.

Bacara led brutal campaigns on Mygeeto.

Fox walked a knife’s edge keeping peace in the heart of chaos on Coruscant.

Cody fought with unwavering precision at Kenobi’s side.

Wolffe’s transmissions grew fewer, rougher. He was changing — harder, colder.

Rex’s loyalty to his General turned to quiet defiance. She recognized it in his voice. She’d taught him to think for himself.

Keeli, Thorn, Gree, Ponds, Neyo, Doom, Bly, Stone, Monk, Appo… all of them. She tracked them, stored every piece of data, every victory, every loss. Not as a commander. Not as a strategist.

As their buir.

She moved from system to system — never settling. Always watching. A ghost in the shadows of the war she helped raise. Never interfering. Just there.

But she knew.

She knew when Rex's tone cracked after Umbara.

She knew when Cody stopped speaking on open comms.

She knew when Pond’s name was pulled from a casualty list, but no one would say what happened.

She knew when Thorn’s file was locked behind High Council access.

And one by one, her boys began to fall silent.

Not dead. Not gone.

Just… lost.

To the war. To the darkness creeping into the cracks.

She sat in silence some nights, the old helmet resting beside her. Their names etched into the inside — 23 in total.

They weren’t clones to her. They were sons. Brothers. The best of the best.

She had given them names.

But the galaxy had given them numbers again.

So she remembered.

She remembered who they were before the armor, before the orders, before the war took their laughter and turned it into steel.

She remembered their first sparring matches. Their mess hall brawls. Their ridiculous, stupid banter.

She remembered Fox making them salute her.

She remembered Wolffe biting her hand like a brat and earning his name.

She remembered all of it.

Because someone had to.

Because one day, when the war ended — if any of them were left — she would find them.

And she would say the names again.

Out loud.

And remind them of who they really were.

——————

Previous Chapter

“Brothers in the Making” pt.3

Command Squad x Reader

The fortress was carved straight into the mountainside — dark metal and cold stone, its towers punching through the mist like jagged teeth. Separatist banners snapped in the wind, and scout droids buzzed along the perimeter like angry insects.

You crouched with Obi-Wan behind a ridge just above the valley floor. The cadets were lined up beside you, low and quiet, eyes locked on the compound.

Anakin was, unsurprisingly, nowhere to be seen.

“Alright,” you whispered, tapping your datapad. “I count four main patrol paths. One blind spot. Minimal aerial surveillance.”

Kenobi nodded. “We can use the cliffside tunnel. I’ve seen this kind of layout before — there’s usually an access vent leading into the communications wing.”

You turned to your boys. “No heroics. Stay behind cover, stick to the plan, and no loud noises. Got it?”

They all nodded.

Except for Bacara, who raised a hand like he had a question.

You narrowed your eyes. “If this is about blowing something up—”

“I wasn’t gonna say that.”

“No loud noises.”

“Fine.”

Just as you leaned in to start your descent, a distant buzz and then a crash echoed from the other side of the fortress wall.

Everyone froze.

Obi-Wan sighed deeply. “That wasn’t us, was it?”

You didn’t answer — because right then, Anakin skidded down the slope, cloak half-burnt, covered in dust and grinning like an idiot.

“Hey!” he called, too loud. “Good news! I found a side entrance—”

A siren wailed.

Turrets rotated.

Searchlights snapped to life and started scanning the cliffs.

You turned, face blank. “Did you trigger an alarm?”

Anakin pointed behind him. “Technically? The droid did.”

Rex, next to you, groaned into his gloves. “We’re all gonna die.”

Kenobi was already getting up, lightsaber in hand, perfectly composed as chaos exploded below.

“Plans change,” he muttered. “We improvise.”

“Oh yes,” you said flatly, drawing your blaster. “Let’s all just improvise our way into a heavily armed Separatist base. That’s definitely how I planned to spend my day.”

He gave you a look as you both started moving down the slope.

“You know,” Obi-Wan said over the rising noise, “I never thought I’d see the day you would be the voice of reason.”

You ducked behind a boulder, covering the cadets as they followed in. “Yeah, well, someone has to be the adult while your Padawan’s off starting a land war with a power converter.”

He chuckled under his breath. “You could always take him. Add him to your little army of foundlings.”

You gave him a flat look. “I already have five too many.”

Behind you, Fox tripped over his own boots and nearly bowled into Cody.

Kenobi raised an eyebrow.

You added: “And they bite.”

————

Inside the base, it was colder than the mountain winds outside — all durasteel corridors and flickering lights, the buzz of power conduits echoing through the walls like a warning.

You crouched behind a support pillar as another pair of droid sentries clanked past. The group had slipped in through the broken emergency access hatch Anakin had accidentally discovered — half of it still smoldering from whatever he'd done to override the lock.

You turned to Obi-Wan in a sharp whisper. “Splitting up is a terrible idea.”

“It’s efficient,” he replied calmly, peering around the corner. “You and I retrieve the senator’s daughter. Anakin and your foundlings run a perimeter diversion.”

“They’re kids.”

“It’s efficient,” he replied calmly, peering around the corner. “You and I retrieve the senator’s daughter. Anakin and your cadets run a perimeter diversion.”

“They’re kids.”

“Your kids,” he said smoothly. “And as you’ve reminded me — foundlings are expected to fight.”

You clenched your jaw. “They’re not ready for this.”

He met your eyes. “Neither were we, once.”

That stopped you cold.

He lowered his voice, just a touch. “They need the experience. He needs the responsibility.”

You looked across the corridor — to where Anakin was gesturing wildly with his hands, trying to give the cadets some kind of whispered briefing. Bacara was clearly ignoring him. Wolffe already had a stun grenade in hand.

You exhaled through your nose. “If they die—”

“They won’t.”

You gave him one last glare, then looked back at the boys. “If anything goes wrong, scream.”

Fox raised a hand. “Like—?”

“I will hear you. I will end whoever hurt you. Just scream.”

The cadets nodded, suddenly a lot more serious.

Anakin gave a quick salute. “We’ll meet you back at the east exit.”

Obi-Wan glanced at you. “Shall we?”

You rolled your eyes and moved out, both of you slipping into the shadowed hallway like water down a blade.

———

Your part of the mission was quick and clean. Every step was coordinated — you swept forward through dark halls while Obi-Wan silently disabled security systems, his movements graceful and lethal.

You’d never worked with a Jedi like this before — and you had to admit, it was… oddly satisfying.

No words were wasted. He moved, you moved. You dropped a droid with a blaster shot, he caught its partner’s blaster arm mid-swing and twisted it clean off. The two of you cleared the detention block in under four minutes.

“Cell 14,” Obi-Wan said, checking the datapad he pulled from a guard’s belt.

You were already unlocking the panel.

Inside, the senator’s daughter was scared but unharmed — pale, dressed in rich fabric, bound at the wrists.

“I’ve got her,” you said, pulling her close and cutting the ties.

She stared up at you. “Who are you?”

You gave her a faint smile. “Someone your mother owes a drink.”

———

Elsewhere, it was less smooth.

Anakin’s plan — and you used the word plan very loosely — had apparently included sneaking into the droid depot and causing a “small, contained distraction.”

That turned into blowing up a weapons rack, stealing a tank, and getting stuck in a three-way chase down the hallway with spider droids, sirens, and Wolffe yelling, “I SAID I WASN’T GONNA BLOW ANYTHING UP, BUT THEN HE HANDED ME A DETONATOR—”

“I thought it was a flashlight!” Anakin shouted back.

Rex was clutching the controls of the tank like his life depended on it. Bacara was on top of the thing firing wildly and screaming gleefully. Cody and Fox were halfway hanging out of the hatch, shouting directions and laughing hysterically.

“THIS IS NOT STEALTH!” Fox screamed.

“I’M DISTRACTING THEM!” Bacara grinned. “DISTRACTION MISSION SUCCESSFUL!”

“DEFINITELY not ready,” you muttered, back with Obi-Wan as you made your way to the rendezvous.

You could hear the tank before you even saw them.

Obi-Wan glanced sideways at you with a completely straight face. “Would now be a bad time to say you were right?”

You stared at the smoke trail in the distance. “I hate you.”

———

The escape was… a mess.

They made it out, of course. Somehow.

With a half-destroyed tank rolling in front of the group as cover, explosions at their backs, and Anakin cheering like they’d just won a podrace, the cadets had sprinted across the canyon with blaster bolts chasing their heels.

You’d covered the senator’s daughter with your own body the whole way.

Kenobi had deflected shot after shot, graceful and impassive, the calm center of a storm.

Once they’d finally cleared the base and reconnected with the ship, you spent the first ten minutes pacing the ramp with your helmet tucked under your arm, muttering curses in three different languages.

Then, after a full headcount and emergency takeoff, you finally collapsed into a seat in the main hold.

Everyone was quiet.

Even Anakin.

The cadets sat in a circle, scratched and bruised, letting adrenaline drain from their systems. You watched them from your spot, arms crossed, boots heavy on the floor.

Cody was staring at his hands like they didn’t belong to him.

Fox hadn’t said a word.

Bacara was still grinning, but it was thinner now.

You leaned forward, voice low. “You all did good.”

Five pairs of eyes turned to you.

“Not perfect. Not clean. But good,” you said, and your voice softened, just a touch. “You followed orders. You adapted. You survived.”

Wolffe swallowed, eyes flicking to the floor.

You stood, stepping forward, and placed a hand on the back of Cody’s neck — warm and grounding.

“You saw war today. The real thing. Not just drills. Not just training. And you all made it out.”

There was silence again.

Then Bacara mumbled, “Even if Skywalker tried to kill us all.”

“I heard that,” Anakin called from the cockpit.

“Good.”

You turned toward the boys again. “Rest up. You earned it.”

As they started to settle into sleep wherever they could — curled in corners of the hold, some using their packs as pillows — you moved quietly to the front of the ship.

Kenobi was leaning against the wall, arms crossed, watching the stars pass through the viewports.

“You think they’re alright?” you asked, keeping your voice low.

He glanced at you. “They will be.”

You tilted your head. “So. What happened to your ship, exactly?”

He didn’t blink. “Mysterious failure.”

“Uh huh.”

“Sabotage, maybe.”

“Right.”

“Couldn’t possibly have been someone crash landing our ship.”

You sighed. “You Jedi are the worst.”

“I get that a lot.”

———

You hated the smell of Coruscant. Too clean. Too bright. Like chrome and false smiles.

But the senator’s estate was quiet, at least. High above the clouds, the landing platform was bordered by hanging gardens and silent droids, the building towering like a temple to wealth and secrecy.

You disembarked with the senator’s daughter at your side — safe, whole, and grateful.

The senator met you personally, eyes shining with relief. They pulled you into a tight embrace and whispered, “I owe you everything.”

Then they looked at your five cadets, lined up neatly and looking everywhere but directly at the senator.

“These boys…” the senator said slowly. “Are they—?”

You cut in smoothly. “Foundlings. Mine.”

A pause.

The senator raised an eyebrow. “Fascinating. They’re… sharp. Disciplined.”

“Lucky genes,” you said, smiling coolly.

Behind you, Fox was mouthing don’t say anything at Wolffe, who was visibly biting his tongue.

The senator looked thoughtful. “You know… there may be a place for them in security, when the time is right. We could find funding. Official channels.”

Your blood went cold.

But you smiled anyway.

“I’ll think about it.”

The senator nodded, clearly meaning well — but clearly dangerous.

You filed it away. Another warning.

They were not ready to be seen.

Not yet.

That night, back on the ship, the boys sat on the floor around you again, waiting for your orders.

But you just looked at them — really looked at them.

Wolffe’s bruise under his eye. Rex’s busted knuckles. Bacara’s scraped cheek. Cody’s silence. Fox’s slumped shoulders.

You said nothing at first.

Then, softly: “You did good.”

Five sets of eyes flicked up.

You gave them a small nod. “Get some rest. More training tomorrow.”

“Yes, buir,” they all said at once.

And you didn’t correct them.

Not this time.

————

Kamino had never felt this quiet.

Rain still lashed against the glass corridors. The white lights still hummed. Clones still trained, marched, sparred. But the air carried a tension now — tight and sterile, like the Kaminoans were watching every step.

Because they were.

The cadets noticed it first.

Extra cameras in the mess hall.

Silent observers hovering near the training chambers.

One of the newer units mentioned being taken aside and scanned after sparring.

And then, there was the way the five field cadets were treated.

Rex, Cody, Bacara, Fox, and Wolffe.

They were whispered about now — envied, doubted, even resented.

Rex heard a pair of cadets muttering behind his back in the armory.

“Think they’re better than us.”

“Just ‘cause they left Kamino.”

Bacara caught a shove in the hallway.

Fox started training harder, angrier.

You noticed it — how they stuck close together now. A small, tight unit. Good for war. Bad for brothers.

You were in the middle of correcting Bacara’s form during a sparring drill when you saw Jango watching from the overlook.

He didn’t call out to you. Just tilted his head, a silent signal.

You followed.

He was leaning against the wall in a private corridor, arms crossed.

“They’re pissed,” he said, voice low and steady.

You didn’t need to ask who.

“The Kaminoans?”

He nodded once. “Didn’t like you taking your cadets off-world. Especially not without their approval. You rattled their control.”

You leaned your back against the wall, arms folded. “That was your idea.”

He huffed a short breath of amusement. “They’re already talking about locking down field excursions. Increased isolation protocols.”

Your jaw tensed. “They’re kids. Not droids.”

“They’re property,” he said bitterly. “According to Kamino.”

You looked down at the floor, teeth clenched.

“They’re more than that,” you muttered.

He gave you a look. “Then you better teach them to act like it. Before this place eats them alive.”

————

Later that day, it happened.

Two cadets shoved Fox after a sparring match. Said he thought he was too good for the rest of them now.

Fox didn’t fight back.

But Wolffe did.

Cody pulled him off before it escalated, but not before everyone saw.

The whole training floor went dead silent.

You walked into the middle of it.

And no one said a word.

You turned, looking around at all of them — rows of half-grown clones, armor scuffed, breath caught.

“Line up.”

They did.

All of them. Even the ones still panting from the fight.

You stood in front of them, helmet tucked under your arm, rain streaking down the windows behind you.

“I’ve been too soft on you.”

A murmur rippled through the room.

You raised your voice.

“I wanted you to feel like brothers. I wanted you to find your names. To find yourselves. But that doesn’t mean forgetting what you are.”

You started to pace, slow and sharp.

“You are soldiers. You are Mandalorian-trained. You are disciplined. And above all — you are loyal.”

A pause.

“Not to me. To each other.”

They watched you like they were trying to breathe your words in.

“This?” You pointed at the dried blood on Wolffe’s lip. “This jealousy? This division? It’s not strength. It’s weakness. And weakness gets you killed.”

You stopped walking, facing them head-on.

“I don’t care who went off-world. I don’t care who hasn’t earned a name yet. You are brothers. And from today on, the training gets harder. The drills get longer. The expectations rise.”

A long, steady beat.

“Earn your place. Earn your name. Earn each other.”

No one moved.

No one dared.

You dropped your voice just enough.

“This is your warning. Tomorrow — the real training begins.”

You turned on your heel and walked out.

Behind you, they stood taller.

Silent.

Together.

————

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

“Brothers in the Making” pt.2

Command Squad x Reader

The morning air in the training yard smelled of damp plastoid and ozone — same as always. Rain tapped on the roof of the covered walkway, steady but soft, like the storm hadn’t made up its mind about the day yet.

You stood at the head of the formation, arms behind your back, cloak heavy with humidity.

Twenty-three had become twenty-two.

Not because you'd lost one, but because one of them had stepped forward.

And he'd earned a name.

They stood in perfect formation, shoulder to shoulder. No movement, no talking — but the tension was there, humming like static in the air.

You stood in front of them, helmet tucked under one arm, boots soaked to the ankle.

“Yesterday, one of you showed me something I’ve been waiting to see,” you said calmly. “Not just talent. Not just tactics. But who he is.”

Your eyes landed on the cadet to your right. The one who no longer stood in the line.

CC-1010.

He stood tall, hands clasped behind his back, helmet under his arm. Quiet. Unshaken.

“He faced fear without shame. Not because he wanted a name — but because he needed to be more for his brothers. And that,” you said, voice steady, “is how a name is earned.”

You nodded to him.

“From now on, he is Fox.”

Silence.

But not empty silence. No — this silence was sharp.

Across the line, you saw heads twitch, eyes shift. You felt the ripple move through them.

CC-2224 tilted his head just slightly — like he was re-evaluating something.

CT-7567 didn’t move at all, but his jaw tightened beneath the helmet. You could almost feel him processing it.

CC-5869 crossed his arms, the first to break stance.

“Didn’t know crying in your bunk earned names now,” he muttered.

Fox raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t know tripping over your squadmate during breach drills made you an expert.”

A quiet snort came from CC-1138, who immediately tried to play it off.

You stepped in before it escalated.

“Cut it,” you said. “Jealousy won’t earn you a name. Neither will pissing contests. If anything, Fox getting named means I’m watching even closer now.”

CT-1477 mumbled something to CC-5052. Probably a bet.

CC-2224 and CC-5869 shared a look — not resentment, not yet. Just… hunger. Quiet determination.

CC-1138 nodded once to himself.

You let them have the moment — that weight of realization that the bar had been raised.

You turned on your heel, voice sharp again.

“Sim room. City block scenario. Squad-on-squad. You want a name?”

You gestured to the exit with your helmet.

“Earn it.”

They moved faster than usual.

The sim was rougher than usual.

Squads pushed harder, moved sharper, communicated with fewer mistakes. CT-7567 ran point on his squad and executed a textbook breach — one you hadn’t even taught yet. CC-2224 called a flawless redirect mid-scenario when the objective shifted. CC-5052 and CC-5869 still bickered, but their cover-fire patterns were getting tighter.

They were trying.

You could see it.

But only one of them had a name.

And they all knew it.

———

That night, the rain had returned in full — harder now, pelting the side of the instructor wing like blasterfire on durasteel.

You leaned against a support pillar outside the rec hall, caf in hand, gear still half-on. The ache in your shoulders hadn’t left since morning.

Footsteps approached — a limp in one.

Kal Skirata.

“You look like osik,” he said by way of greeting.

“Same to you,” you replied, sipping your caf.

He grinned and leaned beside you, stretching out the stiffness in his back. “One of my cadets set off a training charge in the wrong direction today. Took out the wrong team.”

You smirked. “Friendly fire?”

“Not so friendly when I was the one watching from behind.”

Another set of steps approached — slower, more deliberate.

Walon Vau. Cloaked in quiet as always.

“I warned RC-1262 about overcommitting,” he said. “He overcommitted.”

You glanced at him. “He live?”

“He learned.”

Kal chuckled. “Same thing.”

The three of you stood in silence for a moment, listening to the rain.

“I named one,” you said finally.

They both turned toward you.

“CC-1010,” you added. “He’s Fox now.”

Kal nodded slowly. “Good lad. Level-headed. Thinks with more than just his training.”

“Steady,” Vau agreed. “He’ll survive.”

You watched the rain streak down the glass window across from you, arms folded. “The others are watching him differently now.”

“Of course they are,” Kal muttered. “They know now. It’s real.”

“They’re chasing it,” you said. “All of them. Not for ego — not yet. But… they want to be seen.”

“That’s what names do,” Kal said. “Turn numbers into souls.”

Vau’s gaze was unreadable as always, but his voice was low. “And once they believe they’re real, they start fearing what happens when that gets taken away.”

You didn’t say anything at first. Just nodded. Slowly. Thoughtfully.

“I keep thinking…” you said. “We’re making them better than us. Smarter. Sharper. Kinder, even.”

“And sending them to die,” Kal finished for you.

None of you flinched.

You just stood there, shoulder to shoulder, three Mandalorians staring down a storm, holding onto something quiet and sacred — a little hope that maybe, just maybe, these boys would be remembered as more than numbers.

———

The hand-to-hand training deck smelled like sweat, scuffed plastoid, and the faint charge of electroshock stun mats. You stood at the center of the ring, barefoot, sleeves rolled up, ready.

The cadets ringed the mat in a tight circle, helmets off, eyes sharp.

It was their first advanced combat session — and they were nervous.

You weren’t.

You cracked your knuckles and addressed them plainly.

“You won’t always have a blaster. Or your brothers. Sometimes, it’s just you and an enemy with a blade, or fists, or nothing at all. So today we find out what you can do with your body and your rage.”

Your gaze swept across them.

“Who’ll be my first opponent.”

CC-3636 stepped forward without hesitation.

“I’ll go.”

You raised a brow. He’d always been intense. Focused. A little too rigid in structure. Like he was trying to will himself into leadership before his body was even finished growing.

“Alright,” you said, nodding. “Into the ring.”

He moved like a soldier. Precision in every step. But there was something else today — a glint of desperation.

He wanted something.

No — needed it.

You squared off, feet planted, hands loose at your sides.

“You sure about this?” you asked lowly.

“Yes, Instructor.”

You gave him the first move.

He came in strong — good footwork, disciplined strikes. You let him test you, blocked and redirected, watched his form fall apart when you slipped past his guard and tapped his ribs.

He reset fast — eyes narrowing.

Second round, he came harder. Less measured. Frustrated now.

He lunged — you sidestepped — swept his leg — he hit the mat.

He snarled.

You backed off. “Keep your stance balanced. You’re leading too much with your shoulder.”

“I know!” he snapped, climbing to his feet.

That desperation — it was leaking out now.

He charged.

You moved to disarm — caught his arm, twisted — and then—

Pain.

You flinched, just for a second.

He’d bitten your hand.

Not playfully. Not out of reflex.

Desperately.

Hard enough to draw blood.

The room went dead silent.

You stared down at him, jaw tight, hand bleeding. He stared back, chest heaving, eyes wild like a cornered animal.

The look in his eyes wasn’t arrogance.

It was fear.

Please let this be enough.

You didn’t hit him. Didn’t yell.

You stepped back. Flexed your fingers. Blood dripped to the mat.

“You’re reckless,” you said quietly. “You lost your temper. You disrespected your opponent.”

He opened his mouth to speak—an apology, maybe—but you cut him off.

“But you didn’t quit.”

His expression shifted. Confused. Hopeful. Scared to be either.

You stepped forward again, standing close enough for your voice to drop.

“You’d rather be hated than forgotten. You’d rather bleed than fail. And even when you’re outmatched, you refuse to let go of the fight.”

You met his eyes.

“That’s why your name is Wolffe.”

Around the ring, cadets exhaled — some in disbelief, some in understanding.

CC-2224 blinked, quiet. CC-5052 shifted his stance, just slightly. CT-7567 looked away.

Fox, standing behind them all, gave a small, proud nod.

Wolffe looked like he couldn’t breathe. “I—Instructor, I didn’t mean—”

“I know,” you said simply.

You held out your other hand.

He took it.

You helped him to his feet.

“You’re not done yet. But you’ve started something that’ll never be taken from you.”

He nodded, slow. Steady.

The wolf had been born in blood and instinct. And he’d wear that name like a scar.

Later, after the medics patched your hand and the cadets had been dismissed, you stood in the corridor, staring out at the storm-churned ocean through the long viewing panels.

You didn’t hear Fox approach, but you felt him beside you.

“He deserved it,” he said quietly.

You nodded.

“He did.”

Fox folded his arms.

“Do you think we’ll all have to bleed to earn ours?”

You glanced at him.

“No,” you said. “But I think the ones who don’t will wish they had.”

He thought about that for a long time.

And didn’t disagree.

———

The days began to blur together.

Training turned into instinct. Wounds turned into scars. The boys — your boys — grew sharper. Stronger. Quieter when it counted. Louder when it didn’t.

And one by one, they earned their names.

Not all at once. Never in a rush.

Each name was a moment.

Each name was *earned.*

***

**CC-1139** was next.

It happened during a silent extraction drill. He lost his comm halfway through and didn’t say a word — just adapted, took point, and pulled his whole squad through three klicks of hostile terrain using only hand signals and trust. He didn’t ask to be recognized. But the second they hit the exfil marker, he dropped to one knee — not from fatigue, but to check his brother’s sprained ankle.

You named him Bacara right there in the mud.

CC-2224 followed.

The sim had collapsed. A storm cut power to the whole compound mid-exercise. No lights. No alarms. Nothing but chaos. But 2224 kept moving. He rallied the others without hesitation, without fear. He *led* — not by yelling, but by being the kind of soldier others would follow into darkness.

You named him Cody at sunrise.

He didn’t say anything — but you saw the way he stood straighter after.

CT-7567 earned his during a full-force melee sim. Another cadet went down hard — knocked out cold. 7567 could’ve finished the drill. Could’ve taken the win. Instead, he stopped, picked up his brother, and carried him through the finish.

Later that night, he knocked on your door.

“I didn’t do it to earn a name.”

You smiled and said, “That’s why you did.”

*Rex.*

He nodded once and left, proud but quiet — same as always.

CC-8826 didn’t want a name. Said he didn’t need one.

But when a flash-flood hit during an outdoor recon sim, he was the first one to drag three younger cadets out of a current strong enough to tear armor. He lost his helmet in the process. Nearly drowned.

You found him on the bank, coughing water, already checking the others’ vitals before his own.

“You’ve got more heart than half the GAR already,” you said, dropping to your knees beside him. “Your name is Neyo.”

He didn't argue. Just nodded once.

CC-4477 never liked attention. But he moved like fire when things got real. Explosive sim — half the field in disarray — and 4477 kept it together like a warhound. Fast, deadly, and focused.

You named him Thorn.

He smirked. Said, “About time.”

CC-6454 was a stubborn one. Constantly pushing limits. But when a real med evac team came in for a demo, one of the medics dropped from heatstroke. 6454 took over triage without being told. Knew the protocols better than the demo officer.

“Didn’t think you had the patience,” you said.

“I didn’t,” he admitted. “But I watched. Like you said.”

You smiled.

“Ponds.”

CC-5804 earned his during a live-fire run. One of his brothers panicked — froze up mid-field. 5804 didn’t yell, didn’t shame him. Just moved in front, took two rounds to the armor, and got him out safe.

You named him Keeli. He wore it like armor after that.

CC-5869 was a mouthy one. Constantly bickering. Constantly poking.

But during a sim gone sideways, when a blast shorted your training console and dropped half the safety measures, he jumped into the fire zone to pull a brother out. Burned his arm. Didn’t stop until the sim shut down.

When you sat by his cot that night, he looked up and asked, “Still think I’m just talk?”

“No,” you said. “Your name is Stone.”

CC-1004 shone brightest when things were barely holding together. During a malfunctioning terrain sim, when the floor caved and chaos reigned, he kept calm, coordinated, and improvised a bridge to extract half the squad.

“Doom,” you said afterward. “Because you walked through it and didn’t blink.”

CC-5767 liked to move alone. Observant, quiet, leaned into recon drills more than most. But when his squad got pinned by a faulty sim turret, he flanked it by himself, took it down, and dragged three brothers out of the smoke.

“Monk,” you said after. “Because you wait, and then strike.”

He gave a small, thoughtful nod. Said nothing.

CC-1003 was relentless in recon exercises. Fast. Tactical. And weirdly curious — always scanning, always asking questions others didn’t think to. He figured out how to reroute a failed evac sim by hacking the system — without permission.

You made him do five laps. Then you named him Gree.

He said, “Worth it.”

CC-1119 didn’t stand out for a long time — until a night drill went off-script and real fire suppression was needed. He coordinated the younger cadets, risked getting himself locked out of the hangar doors, and stayed behind to make sure no one was missed.

“Appo,” you said quietly that night.

He looked like it meant everything.

CC-5052 earned his name last.

He’d spent weeks in the shadow of the others. Quieter than most. Never the fastest, or strongest, or boldest. But he was always there.

Always steady.

Always watching.

And when one of the younger cadets broke during endurance trials, it was 5052 who stayed up all night walking him through drills until dawn. Not for praise. Not to be seen.

Just because he refused to let a brother fall behind.

“Bly,” you said, the next morning during roll.

He blinked. Looked up. “Why?”

You smiled. “Because loyalty isn’t loud.”

And then, one day… they were all named.

All twenty-three.

No more numbers.

No more designations.

Just men.

You stood before them one morning, same rain overhead, same wind off the ocean.

Only now — the line standing before you wasn’t a batch of identical cadets.

They were Rex. Cody. Fox. Wolffe. Bly. Thorn. Ponds. Neyo. Stone. Bacara. Keeli.

And so many others.

Your boys.

Your soldiers.

Your brothers.

Your family.

---

The message came in just after dawn.

You were still groggy, still pulling on your boots when the alert pinged on your private comm. Priority channel. Encrypted. Not Kaminoan. Not Republic military.

Senate clearance.

You keyed it open.

A flickering blue hologram shimmered to life above your desk — a familiar face. Older than the last time you’d seen her, sharp-edged with worry. One of the few Senators you still had any respect for.

High-ranking. Untouchable. A name that carried weight in every corner of the galaxy.

“She’s gone,” the senator said, voice tight and low. “They took her. Bounty hunters — well-organized, professional. They broke into our Koryan estate and vanished without a trace. Local security's useless. The Senate can’t intervene… not officially.”

You frowned, blood already running cold. “How long ago?”

“Thirty-six hours. Please. I know you’re not in that life anymore — but I need you. You were the best I ever knew.”

You didn’t say anything.

You didn’t need to.

You were already grabbing your gear.

You were halfway through prepping your field pack — weapons checked, armor strapped, boots laced — when you heard the door hiss open behind you.

“You’re going somewhere,” Jango said.

You didn’t look up. “Got a message. A senator’s daughter was taken. Bounty hunters — Separatist-connected. I’m going after them.”

“Alone?”

You slung your rifle over your shoulder. “Works better that way.”

“No,” he said plainly.

You looked over at him. “What?”

“You’re not going alone.”

“I’m not dragging anyone else into this.”

“You are,” he said. “You’re taking some of your cadets.”

You blinked at him like he’d grown another head. “This isn’t a training sim, Jango. It’s a live recovery op — probably hostile.”

“Exactly. It’s time they get a taste of the real thing.”

“They’re cadets.”

“They’re soldiers,” he shot back. “Ones you’ve trained. This isn’t about checking boxes for the Kaminoans. This is about seeing if they’re ready. If you’ve made them ready.”

You stepped forward, voice low and hard. “This is a kidnapping. A bounty op. There will be blasterfire. Blood. Civilians in play. If I take them out there and they break—”

“They won’t,” he said, eyes steady. “You wouldn’t have gotten them this far if they would.”

You stared at him. But you knew it.

Just like always, his word was final.

You blew out a breath. “Fine.”

“Five. No more.”

You muttered under your breath, “Babysitting soldiers while hunting kidnappers. This is going to be a nightmare.”

But you were already thinking.

Already choosing.

Who could handle this? Who should see this?

You knew exactly who.

Not because they were perfect.

But because they were ready.

You didn’t say their names. Not yet.

But in your gut, you already knew who was coming with you.

And you knew this was going to change everything.

The training yard buzzed with movement — cadets running drills, instructors shouting commands, rain streaking off armor and plastoid like it always did on Kamino.

You stood at the edge of the yard, arms folded, helmet clipped to your belt. You scanned the field — and with a sharp whistle, you cut through the chaos.

“Everyone, on me!”

The clones snapped to it immediately, forming up in front of you with military precision. Twenty-three pairs of eyes locked forward.

You could see it already — the way they stood straighter now. The way they moved more like commanders than trainees.

You let the silence settle, just for a second.

Then you said it.

“I need five volunteers.”

That got their attention.

Some shifted subtly, glancing at one another. A few eyebrows raised. Wolffe crossed his arms like he was already halfway into the mission, whatever it was.

You kept going.

“This isn’t a training sim. This isn’t target practice. This is a real mission. Outside Kamino.”

Now they were focused. No shifting. No glancing. Just twenty-three frozen faces, locked on your words.

“You won’t be going as clones,” you continued. “You’ll be civilians. Mercenaries, bounty hunters, whatever you need to pass for. But you cannot let anyone know what you are — not that you’re clones, and definitely not that you’re part of a Republic army.”

The rain kept falling.

“This mission is classified at the highest level,” you said. “Even the Kaminoans aren’t cleared for the details. If you’re caught, I can’t guarantee the Republic will come for you. That’s how deep this runs.”

You scanned the line, locking eyes with the ones you trusted most.

“You’ll be entering a system with active Separatist surveillance. We’re tracking a high-value target. There will be civilians. Possibly bounty hunters. Possibly worse. If you’re picked, you follow my lead — and you don’t make any moves unless I say so.”

More silence.

Then, a voice.

Fox stepped forward. “I volunteer.”

No hesitation.

You nodded.

Wolffe stepped up next, already wearing that cocky half-smirk. “Wouldn’t let him have all the fun.”

Cody followed. “We’re ready.”

Then Rex. “Count me in.”

Bacara didn’t even say anything. Just stepped forward, helmet under his arm.

You looked over the five of them — standing tall, serious, already different from the others still in line.

These weren’t just cadets anymore.

They were something else now.

You gave a sharp nod. “Good. Gear up. Plainclothes armor. Non-standard issue. We move in one hour.”

They turned without a word, heading for the barracks.

Behind you, the others stood silent, watching — half with envy, half with pride.

You knew this mission was going to change everything.

And you had a feeling…

So did they.

————

The ship landed just outside the village — a quiet, fog-drenched place carved into the cliffs. Wooden structures, half-covered in moss and time, leaned over narrow paths where old traders and quiet-eyed farmers moved without urgency.

You led the boys in — disguised, geared in light armor that wouldn’t raise suspicion. Helmets off. Faces exposed. They stayed close but casual, spread just enough to keep eyes on every angle.

Fox and Cody scanned the streets in near-sync. Rex fell into step beside you, glancing now and then toward the distant mountains rising beyond the village, half-shrouded in cloud.

You asked questions.

You kept it light, polite — an old friend in search of a missing child.

No one said much at first. But eventually, a hunched old woman at the fish stall whispered something about seeing off-worlders — rough-looking ones — headed toward the mountain pass.

“Talk to the bridgekeeper,” she added. “They say no one’s crossed in days. Not since the dragon came back.”

You frowned. “Dragon?”

She only nodded.

The kind of nod that said don’t ask questions you don’t want answers to.

It took an hour to reach the bridge.

The river roared below it — wide and dark, cutting through the canyon like a scar. The bridge itself was old stone, slick with moss, barely holding itself together in the storm-drenched wind.

But that wasn’t what made you stop.

An old man — half-cloaked, leaning on a gnarled staff — stood at the entrance to the bridge.

“You don’t want to cross,” he rasped, his voice as weathered as the cliffside. “Not now. The Separatists disturbed the river. The dragon’s awake.”

You raised a brow. “The what now?”

“The river dragon,” he said. “A storm-born serpent. It guards the crossing. Won’t let anything through since the droids came.”

You waved a dismissive hand. “Right. Thanks, old man.”

He pointed behind you. “Then explain that.”

You turned.

The river exploded.

A massive shape surged up from the depths — sleek and serpentine, covered in gleaming, wet-black scales. It arched high above the bridge, water cascading off its body in sheets. Its eyes crackled with violet light.

Then, with a sound like the sky breaking, it let loose a blast of lightning, straight into the air.

Every one of the boys dropped instinctively, weapons half-drawn.

Wolffe: “That’s a kriffing dragon.”

Rex: “It shoots lightning.”

Bacara: “We’re gonna die.”

You stayed perfectly still — even as your heart thundered in your ribs.

The boys turned to you, wide-eyed.

Fox spoke first. “...So, uh. What’s the plan, boss?”

You swallowed. Your palms were sweating.

You forced a slow breath through your nose and set your jaw.

“The plan,” you said, “is that you all stay back…”

You unclipped your cloak.

“...and I go talk to the damn dragon.”

Cody blinked. “You’re not serious.”

“I’m always serious,” you muttered, stalking toward the bridge. “Stupid kids. Stupid bridge. Stupid lightning dragon.”

“Pretty sure this violates field protocol,” Rex called out nervously.

You didn’t look back. “I am field protocol.”

But your stomach turned the closer you got.

The dragon watched you.

Unmoving. Silent.

Like a storm waiting to happen.

You were halfway across the stone path when a familiar voice echoed from the far end of the bridge.

“Well. That’s certainly not a face I expected to see out here.”

You froze.

That voice.

You turned toward it.

There — standing with his arms crossed, robes soaked with rain, a lightsaber on his hip and that signature, wry half-smile on his face — stood Obi-Wan Kenobi.

He looked older than the last time you saw him.

A little more tired. A little more burdened.

But still — him.

“Kenobi,” you breathed, relief and disbelief mingling in your chest.

He nodded once. “It’s been a long time.”

You walked toward him, dragon temporarily forgotten. “Didn’t expect to run into a Jedi on the edge of nowhere.”

“I could say the same for you.”

You slowed. Your voice softened. “...I heard about Qui-Gon. I’m sorry, Obi-Wan.”

For a moment, the smirk faded.

His eyes dropped, and he nodded, quiet. “Thank you.”

Silence stretched between you for a breath.

Then the dragon growled again — lightning crackling up its spine like a warning.

You sighed. “So. Uh. Any chance your Jedi calm-animal nonsense works on that thing?”

Obi-Wan raised a brow. “Careful. You’ll hurt its feelings.”

You looked at him.

He looked at the dragon.

And the two of you, almost at the same time, muttered:

“This is going to suck.”

The dragon hadn’t moved again.

Neither had you.

The two of you stood on opposite sides of the bridge now — the water below roaring, lightning curling lazily through the air above like warning smoke.

Obi-Wan let out a long, exhausted breath.

“I’m too old for this.”

You smirked. “You’re like thirty-five.”

“And that’s still too old for giant lightning-breathing reptiles.”

You chuckled under your breath. “Still the same sarcastic Jedi I remember.”

He glanced at you. “Still the same reckless Mandalorian who nearly blew up half a speeder depot on Kalevala.”

“That was a bad day,” you admitted. “Didn’t help that you were the one who knocked over the detonator.”

He gave a faint grin. “I deny everything.”

The dragon shifted slightly — scales glowing faintly with electricity. You both tensed, but it didn’t move to strike.

“So,” you said casually, “you here on Jedi business?”

“Actually,” Obi-Wan said, “I’m here for the same reason you are. A certain senator sent word. Missing daughter. Possible Separatist involvement.”

You blinked. “Let me guess. She called you right after calling me.”

“Probably,” he said. “Though I don’t usually work missing person cases. Not alone.”

Your brow lifted. “Not alone?”

Obi-Wan nodded. “I brought my Padawan.”

You stared at him. “You? A Padawan?”

“He’s fifteen,” Obi-Wan said. “Still a handful. Always running off. I left him in the village to gather intel, and—”

A roar of thunder cut him off.

And then, chaos.

A blur of motion streaked across the cliffside — gold and brown and fury — and in the next instant, a boy launched himself off the edge of a building, flipping clean over the river and landing hard on the bridge in a spray of sparks.

Lightsaber ignited.

Blue.

The dragon screeched, rearing back, lightning flashing across its body.

Obi-Wan’s head fell back slightly. “Force, not again.”

“That’s him?” you asked, already unholstering your sidearm.

“Yes,” Obi-Wan sighed. “That’s Anakin.”

You didn’t wait.

You sprinted.

So did he.

The two of you launched onto the bridge just as Anakin’s blade crashed against the dragon’s lightning-charged hide, sending sparks and static flying. The creature lashed out, tail whipping through stone — you ducked low and rolled, blaster up, firing carefully placed shots near the joints in its armor-thick scales.

Obi-Wan surged forward, saber slicing through a strike meant for Anakin.

“Padawan!” he barked. “You were supposed to observe!”

“It was charging up!” Anakin yelled. “You were talking!”

“I was stalling!”

“Same thing!”

You slid beneath the dragon’s legs, grabbing a fallen cable from the wreckage and looping it quickly around one of the creature’s hind limbs. “Less yelling, more wrangling!”

From the cliffs, the five cadets watched in awe.

Cody was the first to speak. “Is that… is that what Jedi do all the time?”

“Apparently,” Rex muttered, eyes wide. “That kid’s fifteen.”

Wolffe let out a low whistle. “He fights like he was born with that saber in his hand.”

Fox didn’t say anything — but you could see the way his fists were clenched tight with excitement.

Bacara crossed his arms. “I need to fight alongside someone like that someday.”

Rex nodded slowly. “We will.”

They all looked at him.

And none of them disagreed.

Back on the bridge, the dragon reared up for one final strike — but Obi-Wan raised his hand, and with a focused pulse of the Force, blasted the creature back just enough for Anakin to leap high and carve a clean, non-lethal slash across its side.

The beast shrieked, arcing lightning into the sky — and then with a final, furious hiss, it dived back into the river and vanished beneath the surface.

Silence fell.

All three of you stood there, breathing hard, half-covered in dust and water and ash.

Then Obi-Wan turned to you.

“Are you ever not in the middle of something insane?”

You wiped blood off your lip. “Nope.”

He glanced at the five cadets watching from the cliff. “And those?”

You hesitated.

Then, with a straight face “Foundlings. Mine.”

He gave you a long look. “You expect me to believe that?”

“You don’t think I’m a mother figure?”

His expression didn’t change. “...Right. Foundlings it is.”

You both turned to look at Anakin — already poking the smoldering scorch marks on the bridge with the tip of his saber.

“Your Padawan’s intense,” you said.

Obi-Wan exhaled slowly. “You have no idea.”

————

The air grew thinner as they climbed, the path winding upward through rocky slopes and moss-covered ledges. The thunderclouds had drifted off toward the horizon, but the scent of rain still clung to the earth, rich and cold.

The dragon hadn’t returned.

But the tension never quite left.

Obi-Wan walked ahead, silent, robes shifting in the mountain wind. Anakin wasn’t far behind, bounding between rocks like he had more energy than sense.

You brought up the rear, your five cadets close behind — feet steady, eyes sharp, but quiet in a way they never usually were.

When the path widened out near an outcropping, you tapped Rex on the shoulder. “Hold up.”

They stopped, forming a loose semicircle around you as the Jedi moved out of earshot.

You glanced after them once, then turned back to your boys.

“This is important,” you said, low and firm. “I know you're excited. I know this is your first time in the field. But listen to me.”

They straightened without thinking.

“I am your buir now,” you said. “For this mission — and from here on.”

There was a pause.

Then Cody’s voice broke it, soft but certain: “We already think of you that way.”

You smiled — tight and small, but real.

“Good,” you said. “Then this will make sense.”

Your voice hardened just a little, instinctively Mandalorian now — the part of you that Jango saw when he chose you for this job.

“I am your buir. You are my foundlings. We are clan. Until the Jedi know what we are — until the Republic knows — we stay as that. Nothing more.”

They all nodded slowly.

Even Wolffe didn’t crack a joke this time.

“You don’t speak about Kamino. You don’t mention the GAR. You don’t talk about your designations. We are nothing but mercs with a shared name and a found-family story.”

Fox narrowed his eyes. “What if they ask?”

You looked him straight on. “You lie.”

The wind blew over the ledge.

You touched your fist to your chest — Mando’ade.

They mirrored it without hesitation.

Your voice lowered.

“Good.”

Further ahead, Anakin was skipping rocks into the canyon and trying to start a conversation.

“So…” he said, drawing out the word as he slowed his pace until he matched theirs. “You guys are like a squad or something?”

No answer.

He smiled anyway. “That was pretty impressive, the way you kept formation on the ridge. The short one with the scar — you’ve definitely had training. Who’s your trainer?”

Still nothing.

Bacara, walking closest to him, finally turned just a little and said, bluntly:

“Our buir said not to speak to you.”

Anakin blinked. “...Wait, what?”

“You’re Jedi. Not part of the clan,” Bacara replied.

An awkward silence followed.

Cody looked straight ahead. Rex frowned slightly. Wolffe cleared his throat. Fox just rolled his eyes.

Anakin’s face fell a little, and for a moment he looked… kind of like the teenager he actually was.

He hung back, falling behind the group, eyes flicking between them and Obi-Wan up ahead.

You, still watching from behind, caught the whole thing.

And sighed quietly to yourself.

You’d explain to them later.

That the galaxy wasn’t always so black and white.

That sometimes Jedi could be family, too.

But for now?

They were foundlings.

And foundlings followed the clan.

No matter what.

————

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

“Brothers in the Making” pt.1

Command Squad x reader

The Kaminoan rain never stopped. It pounded endlessly against the sleek platform outside Tipoca City, a cold and hollow sound that seemed to echo the clinical detachment of the place. Even standing in full beskar, the chill somehow crept in — not through the armor, but somewhere deeper.

You stood on the edge of the landing pad, arms crossed, helmet clipped to your belt, dark hair damp with saltwater mist. This place felt wrong. Too sterile. Too… quiet. Even the air smelled like antiseptic and damp steel. But you'd come because he had asked.

Footsteps. Precise. Heavy. You didn’t need to turn around to know who it was.

“Su cuy’gar,” Jango Fett said in that gravel-deep voice, stopping beside you. He didn’t smile. He rarely did. But something in his eyes told you he was glad to see you.

You gave a nod. “Didn’t think you’d come calling, Fett. Figured you liked working alone.”

“I do.” He glanced out at the sea, then back at you. “But this… this isn’t something I can do alone.”

You raised a brow. “Clones?”

He nodded once. “Ten thousand strong already. All of them made from me.”

You let out a slow breath. “You never struck me as the paternal type.”

“I’m not,” he said. “But they’ll need more than Kaminoan routines and simulations. They need real training. Real people. Mandalorians.”

You studied him for a moment. “And you want me to babysit them?”

His lips twitched — almost a smirk. “No. I want you to help forge commanders. The Kaminoans have preselected cadets they think show leadership potential. I want them to have someone who can teach them more than drills. Someone they’ll listen to. Someone they’ll respect.”

“And that someone is me?”

“They’re kids,” he said quietly. “They’ll be soldiers in a few years. But right now, they need a guide. A warrior. And someone who remembers what it means to be Mandalorian.”

You looked at him, thoughtful. “What about Skirata? Or Vau?”

“They’re here. Kal’s working with Nulls. Vau’s got his own batch. But I need you to take this one. They’re special, and they’re watching everything. The others are rougher around the edges. You’ve got… a way.”

You exhaled slowly, eyes scanning the grey horizon. He wasn’t wrong. You’d trained younglings before. Fostered war orphans on Concord Dawn, taught them how to survive, how to fight. This was different, but maybe not by much.

Finally, you looked back at him. “Alright. I’ll do it.”

He nodded again, and for a moment — just a moment — you saw gratitude flicker in his expression.

---

The hallways inside Tipoca were too white. Too clean. Too... wrong. Like they were afraid dirt might somehow corrupt the clones.

Jango led you through the corridors toward the training barracks. “They’re all designated cadets, but these ones are pre-coded for advanced training. Commanders and captains, if the Kaminoans have it their way.”

He stopped before a wide blast door. “You’ll be living in the barracks. You eat with them. Train with them. Earn their respect.”

You raised an eyebrow. “I’m not that much older than them.”

“No,” he said. “But they’ll see you as a superior anyway. That’ll matter.”

With a hiss, the door opened.

Inside were about two dozen boys, aged around nine or ten, all with identical faces — his face. But their expressions varied. Curious. Alert. Some stiff, trying to look tough. Others hiding behind wide eyes.

They straightened the moment they saw Jango. You stepped in behind him, hands on your hips, a smirk tugging at your lips.

“Cadets,” Jango said, his voice sharp and commanding. “This is your new instructor. She’s Mandalorian. She’s been in more fights than you’ve had meals. She’s here to make sure you don’t get yourselves killed before the war even starts.”

The boys’ eyes widened slightly at that.

You stepped forward, giving them a once-over. “Name’s [Y/N]. You don’t need to salute me, and I’m not here to yell at you every time you mess up. But I will push you. Hard. Because I’m not interested in making you follow orders. I’m interested in making you leaders.”

There was a long pause. Then, one of them — a little shorter than the rest — raised his hand.

“Yes?” you said.

“Are you going to teach us Mando’a?”

You grinned. “First lesson starts tomorrow. Right after we run the perimeter course. In full gear.”

A few groaned. Some grinned. One boy, standing just a little taller, gave a silent nod of approval.

You had a feeling that one would be your troublemaker. The kind who’d grow up to wear yellow.

“Get some sleep,” you said. “You’re mine now.”

As the lights dimmed and the boys returned to their bunks, murmuring quietly among themselves, Jango watched you with that unreadable expression of his.

“You think they’ll listen?” he asked quietly.

You nodded. “They already are.”

And in that moment, surrounded by the future soldiers of a galaxy-wide war, you didn’t feel like a babysitter. You felt like something else.

A guide to warriors yet forged.

And maybe — just maybe — the one thing standing between them and the emptiness that awaited.

---

The Kamino rain pounded on the durasteel above, a dull rhythmic hammer that never seemed to end. It echoed through the open training yard, where the clone cadets stood at attention, armor damp, expressions locked into disciplined stillness.

They were still young. Barely ten. Not quite boys, not quite soldiers — something in between. Something manufactured, yet undeniably alive.

You stood in front of them, arms crossed, cloak shifting with the wind.

These were the Kaminoans’ selections. Future commanders. Leaders. Advanced training candidates, chosen by behavior patterns, genetic nuance, projected loyalty metrics — whatever sterile system the aiwha-huggers had cooked up in their labs.

But you weren’t interested in the science. You were interested in them.

You stepped forward, slow and deliberate.

“You’ve been trained,” you began. “You know your formations. Your tactics. How to handle a blaster and break down a droid line. You’re sharp. Efficient. You’ve passed every metric the Kaminoans put in front of you.”

They stayed still.

“But I’m not them,” you said. “I don’t care about their spreadsheets and projections. I care about who you are when everything breaks down. When orders aren’t clear. When it’s your call.”

A few eyes flicked to you. Subtle. Curious.

You stopped in front of the tallest in the line. Sharp jaw. Controlled stance. Commanding presence already starting to form.

“You. Designation?”

“CC-2224, Instructor.”

You moved to the next one. The one with the fast eyes — always scanning, always calculating.

“CT-7567.”

Another.

“CC-1010.”

“CC-5052.”

“CC-5869.”

“CC-4477.”

It was like listening to a datapad reading off serial codes. Precise. Identical. Empty.

You looked down the line again — at all of them. All these boys with the same face, but not the same fire behind their eyes. Not if you knew how to look.

And you did.

You let the silence stretch.

“I know that’s what they call you,” you said quietly. “Your CCs and CTs. Your numbers. But let me tell you something. Numbers are easy. You lose a number, you assign a new one. But a name? That’s earned. That’s kept.”

A shift in the air. Barely noticeable, but it was there.

They were listening now. Not because they had to. Because they *wanted* to understand what you meant.

You didn’t say more. Not yet. You weren’t ready to name them. They weren’t ready to carry it.

But you were watching.

You glanced at CC-2224 again — precise, sharp, already holding himself like a commander. He’d be the first. Eventually. But not yet.

CT-7567 — the quiet focus, the twitch of awareness every time someone moved. Tactician in the making. You could feel it.

CC-1010 — the shield. No emotion on the surface, but his squad respected him, followed him without hesitation. That meant something.

And the smaller ones — the ones who tried harder to stand out, to be something more than the face next to them. They would rise too. Some through grit. Some through pain. Some through sheer, unrelenting heart.

You stepped back, letting your gaze sweep across the line.

“One day,” you said, voice calm but clear, “you’ll have names. Not because I give them to you, but because you’ll earn them. Through blood. Through choice. Through fire. And when you do… they’ll mean something.”

The wind howled between you all, tugging at your cloak, flapping against the plastoid armor of twenty-three boys trying to be men.

“Until then — on the field. Four perimeter laps. In full gear. Then squad sim rotations. Move.”

They ran hard.

Harder than they needed to.

Because for the first time, you hadn’t seen twenty-three clones.

You’d seen twenty-three stories waiting to be told.

---

The rain was still coming down in sheets, but no one noticed anymore. The training sim was running full tilt inside Tipoca’s open-air field chamber — a perfect recreation of a small ruined city block. Crumbling walls, wrecked speeders, low visibility.

Perfect chaos.

You stood above the sim on the observation platform, arms crossed, helmet tucked under one arm. Down below, your cadets were mid-exercise: split into two squads, one to defend a location, the other to take it. Non-lethal stun rounds, full armor, comms restricted to local chatter only.

They were doing well — mostly.

“CT-7567, you’ve got a flank wide open,” you muttered, watching his marker blip across the holo. “Come on…”

A blur of movement below — one of the smaller clones dove through a gap in the wall, skidding behind cover and popping off two clean stuns. A third clone — one of his own squad — shouted through the comms, “You weren’t supposed to breach yet!”

The smaller one’s voice came through half a second later. “You’re too slow, ner vod!”

You smirked.

Below, the chaos grew. Blasterfire crackled against shields, tactics fell apart, a few cadets started improvising wildly. A few… maybe too wildly.

“CC-5052,” you snapped into the comm. “What are you doing on the roof?”

A pause.

“Recon, Instructor.”

“There’s no recon objective.”

“Thought it’d look cool.”

You closed your eyes, exhaled. “It doesn’t. Now get down!”

Another pause.

“I’ve got good balance.”

You pressed your fingers to your temple.

A second voice cut in — this one from the other team. “He doesn’t have good balance.”

“I do!”

“Last week you fell off a bunk.”

“That was sabotage—”

“Enough!” you barked through the comm, trying to hold off a laugh. “ I swear, if I have to come down there…”

You leaned over the railing, watching as CT-7567 moved into position. He’d adapted quickly — circled his squad around, set up a pincer, and was moments away from breaching the enemy defense. Tactical. Efficient. Sharp.

You watched the moment unfold — the way he made a silent hand signal, the way the squad moved as one, trusting him without a word. They cleared the position in seconds.

And he didn’t celebrate.

He just started checking on the stunned cadets.

You smiled to yourself. Not yet, you thought. But soon.

Later, when the sim ended and they were all dragging themselves out of the chamber — soaked, tired, armor scuffed — you leaned against the bulkhead by the exit, arms crossed.

CC-5052 walked by first, helmet under his arm, smug as ever. “Still think I looked cool.”

You raised a brow. “Keep this up and I’ll name you ‘Clown’.”

A cadet snorted behind him. “Told you.”

5052 flipped him off behind his back — you saw it.

CT-7567 was next. Quiet. Focused. His brow furrowed like he was still playing through the whole thing in his head. You gave him a nod, subtle. He didn’t react much — but the way his shoulders squared said he noticed.

CC-2224 followed, calm and methodical, giving a half-report before you even asked. “Squad cohesion broke down mid-sim. We’ll run fireteam drills tomorrow, break the habits.”

“You’re not wrong,” you said. “But your breach response was solid.”

He gave a nod, firm and confident. “We’re learning.”

“I can see that.”

They filed past, dripping water, bickering quietly. Someone slapped someone’s helmet off. Someone else tried to act innocent. You let it all happen.

Because this — this was the good part. The growing pains. The chaos before clarity. The laughter between brothers.

They weren’t ready for names yet.

But they were getting closer.

And when the day came — when one of them truly showed you who he was — you’d give him the first name.

And it would mean something.

---

Kamino’s storms didn’t rest, but the facility did.

Lights dimmed in the barracks, casting long shadows across the corridor as you walked the cadets back to their bunks. Their chatter had softened into yawns and half-whispered jokes. The chaos of the sim was gone, replaced by the quiet fatigue of young soldiers trying not to admit they were still just boys.

You moved beside them like a silent sentinel, hands tucked behind your back, helmet clipped to your belt. You stopped at their dormitory door, letting them file in — one by one — muttered "Instructor," and "Night, ma’am," as they passed.

“You’re not getting extra stimcaf tomorrow if you stay up talking all night,” you warned as the last few ducked inside.

CC-5052 gave you a tired smirk. “Even if it’s tactical debrief?”

“You say ‘tactical’ like it’ll stop me from making you do perimeter drills in the rain.”

A few chuckles, then a wave of yawns as they climbed into the bunks. Blankets tugged over armor-clad bodies, helmets set neatly at bedsides. The rain beat a gentle rhythm outside.

You lingered at the doorway a moment longer, watching as their movement slowed, heads rested back, breath evened out.

And then you turned.

Your own quarters were spartan — a small room not far from theirs, but far enough to give them space. You sat on your bunk, pulled off your boots, leaned forward with a sigh. It wasn’t exhaustion so much as weight. Of command. Of care. Of responsibility for twenty-three lives that had never known anyone but you who treated them like they were something more.

You didn’t hear the door open at first — it slid open quiet, hesitant. It was the breath that gave him away. Soft. Uneven.

You glanced up, hand instinctively reaching toward the blaster on your bedside.

CC-1010 stood there.

Helmet off. Shoulders stiff. Eyes uncertain in the low light. Not afraid of you — not exactly. Just… afraid.

“Couldn’t sleep?” you asked, voice low.

He nodded, once. His hands were clenched into tight fists at his sides.

“Didn’t want the others to see,” he said finally. “They’d think something’s wrong.”

You stood slowly, motioned him in. “Close the door.”

He obeyed.

You sat back on the edge of the bed, letting the silence settle before you spoke again. “Wanna tell me what’s on your mind?”

He didn’t answer right away.

“What if I mess up?”

You turned slightly to look at him. His brow was furrowed. His jaw clenched hard. “Not in sims. In real combat. What if I give an order and someone dies? What if I don’t see something, or I freeze, and my brothers—”

His voice cracked and stopped.

You stood again — close enough to reach out, but you didn’t touch him. Not yet.

“1010,” you said quietly, “you’re already thinking about how your choices affect others. That alone makes you better than half the commanders I’ve seen.”

“That doesn’t make it easier,” he said. “I’m supposed to protect them. What if I can’t?”

You looked at him — really looked.

Behind the calm, behind the training, behind the cloned perfection, there was a kid terrified of not being enough.

You stepped closer.

“You remember what I said about names?”

He nodded slowly.

“They’re not just earned in battle. They’re earned in who you are. And I’ve watched you since the first day.”

You didn’t hesitate this time — you placed a hand gently on his shoulder.

“You carry more than the others realize. You hold it all in so they don’t have to. You think before you speak. You lead without needing the spotlight. You protect your brothers before yourself. That makes you a shield.”

You looked him in the eyes.

“And you’re strong enough to take the hit.”

A beat of silence. Then another.

“That’s why your name is Fox.”

His breath caught. For a second, he looked like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to feel something about it. Then his shoulders dropped — not in defeat, but in relief.

“…Fox,” he repeated, testing it. “That’s me?”

You nodded. “That’s you.”

He didn’t cry. He didn’t need to. But he gave you a look you’d never forget — one of raw, unfiltered trust. The kind that meant you weren’t just his instructor.

You were *his person.*

“Get some sleep,” you said softly. “You’ve earned it.”

He turned to go, then hesitated. “Thank you… for seeing me.”

You smiled.

“Always.”

When the door slid shut behind him, you sat back down on the bed and leaned back against the wall. The rain drummed steady outside.

Fox.

The first to earn his name.

One down.

Twenty-two to go.

---

Next Chapter

“Red and Loyal” pt.3

Commander Fox x Senator Reader

Three weeks later.

The map table was flickering again, a small glitch from overuse. Red dots pulsed across the countryside—each one marking a loss. Small towns. Villages. Agricultural hubs. All hit hard and fast by Separatist forces. Civilians displaced. Some never accounted for.

The capital was still untouched. For now.

But it felt like waiting for the axe to fall.

You stood at the balcony of the palace’s war room, overlooking the city streets far below. From here, everything looked calm—citizens moving about their day, guards stationed at checkpoints, air traffic kept low and tight. But the mood had shifted.

The fear was no longer quiet.

It was loud now. Angry. Restless.

“I hear them,” you murmured, mostly to yourself. “They want blood. Answers. Safety. And I don’t know how much longer I can promise any of it.”

“You’re not the only one they’re looking to.”

Fox’s voice was low as he approached from behind. You didn’t turn around, but the sound of his boots—heavy, deliberate—was familiar now. Comforting in a way you’d never admit aloud.

“You’ve been visible,” he continued, standing just beside you, close enough that your arm almost brushed his. “At food drops. Patrols. Hospitals. You’ve given them hope.”

You laughed under your breath, bitter. “Hope doesn’t stop blasters.”

“Neither does silence.”

You finally turned your head toward him. His helmet was clipped to his belt, his expression stony but sharp. Exhausted. He hadn’t slept much lately. Neither had you.

“Fox…” you hesitated. “How long do we have?”

He didn’t sugarcoat it.

“They’ve started moving artillery through the passes. Droids are massing just outside the western hills. A few days, maybe. A week if we’re lucky.”

You swallowed hard, throat dry. “And the Senate?”

“No word.”

You nodded stiffly, the weight of it all crashing again onto your chest. The silence that followed was too heavy. Too full of what you couldn’t say.

“Can I ask you something?” you said softly.

Fox didn’t respond, but you felt his attention shift to you completely.

“If I die here… does that make me foolish? Or brave?”

He looked at you for a long moment, eyes unreadable.

“Both.”

You stared back at him. The shadows under his eyes. The scar just beneath his jaw. The faint tremor in his hand before he clenched it into a fist.

You wanted to reach for him. You didn’t.

He turned his head back to the city below. “I won’t let that happen.”

You believed him.

And for a moment, that was enough.

⸻

The command centre was dimly lit, the only illumination coming from the flickering holoprojector and the red glow of the city’s early warning system now running constant cycles.

You stood at the far end of the war room, watching the tactical updates scroll—one after another. Probes spotted at the city’s outer rim. Civilian clusters evacuating from rural holdouts. Streets quieter than they’d ever been.

Everyone knew.

The siege was hours away. Maybe less.

Fox was across the room, standing still with his hands clasped behind his back as a secure holo-comm crackled to life. Thire, Stone, and Hound were all there too—helmeted, silent, braced.

“Transmission confirmed,” the clone technician said. “Republic command, direct line.”

Fox’s lips pressed into a thin line as the Chancellor’s insignia bloomed across the console.

And then, the voice. Cold. Controlled.

“Commander Fox.”

He straightened. “Chancellor Palpatine, sir.”

“I’ve been monitoring the situation. I regret to inform you that the Senate cannot afford to lose one of Coruscant’s most vital protection divisions in a conflict that, regrettably, has not yet reached high-priority status.”

Fox’s jaw tensed. “With respect, sir—the capital will fall without additional defense. Civilians will die.”

“I understand your concern, Commander,” the Chancellor said, his tone maddeningly calm. “But this assignment was temporary. A symbol of good faith. It was never intended to put the Coruscant Guard in direct engagement.”

Fox didn’t reply, but his silence was heavy.

“You will return to Coruscant immediately,” Palpatine continued. “This is not a request. That planet will not survive your deaths. And Coruscant cannot afford to lose you. Do you understand?”

Fox looked down, his voice tightly controlled.

“…Understood, sir.”

The transmission ended in a cold flicker.

The silence that followed was thunderous.

You approached the group, confusion written across your face. “What was that?”

Fox turned toward you, his expression unreadable. “Orders. We’re being recalled.”

You stared at him, stunned. “What?”

Thire shifted uneasily. Stone looked away.

You shook your head, a storm rising behind your eyes. “You can’t leave. We’re hours from a siege, Fox. The entire reason you were here was to protect the capital—”

“And we did,” he said quietly. “We bought you time. We held the line as long as they’d allow.”

“No,” you snapped. “Don’t you dare throw that excuse at me like it’s enough. You stood in front of my people. You promised—you promised me—”

He flinched. The others turned away, giving you both a sliver of privacy that barely mattered now.

“I didn’t want this,” he said, voice rough. “But my duty is to Coruscant. I don’t get to choose where I’m sent. You know that.”

You stared at him, the weight of three weeks—the fights, the hope, the unspoken words—crushing all at once. “Then you should’ve never come at all.”

Fox looked like you’d shot him.

You turned away before he could see your eyes burn. Before he could see the betrayal written so clearly across your face. “Go, then. Follow your duty. I hope it keeps you warm when this place burns.”

He didn’t stop you when you walked away.

But you didn’t see the way his hand twitched at his side, like he was reaching for you without permission. Or the pain etched deep into his face—one he’d never show anyone else.

Not even you.

⸻

The landing pad on Coruscant was too clean.

Too quiet.

Too sterile, after weeks of war-scarred dirt and the sound of air raid sirens pulsing in the background like a heartbeat.

Fox disembarked first, helmet in hand, his armor dusted with soot and ash that felt wrong here—wrong against the smooth marble of the Senate platforms. Behind him, Thire, Stone, and Hound followed, silent at first.

Until the doors of the hangar slid closed and that silence exploded.

“What the hell was that?” Stone barked, ripping off his helmet and throwing it to the ground. “We abandoned them.”

“We followed orders,” Fox snapped back.

“Screw the orders,” Hound growled. “You saw what was coming. That planet was going to fall within the week.”

“And we were told we’re too valuable to risk,” Thire added, bitter. “So we just… left.”

Fox’s teeth ground together. “We are not generals. We don’t decide where we go—we enforce.”

“Yeah?” Stone stepped forward, chest tight with frustration. “Then why do you look like someone ripped your heart out, Fox?”

That shut him up.

For a moment.

He turned on his heel, walking out before he said something he’d regret, the echo of his boots trailing behind him like guilt.

Fox didn’t knock. He just walked straight into Commander Thorn’s office, where the younger clone was still suited up and tinkering with the power cell on his blaster.

Thorn looked up and didn’t miss a beat. “Well, well. If it isn’t the Chancellor’s golden leash.”

Fox closed the door behind him. “I need five minutes without sarcasm.”

Thorn shrugged. “Tough. You came to me.”

Fox exhaled, leaning against the far wall, arms folded tight. “I left a city to burn.”

Thorn paused, finally looking up.

“Wanna run that by me again?”

Fox’s jaw clenched. “I got pulled off a world about to be sieged. The Senator begged for help. The Chancellor ordered us back before the shooting even started.”

Thorn set his blaster down slowly.

“You obeyed, didn’t you?”

“What else could I do?”

“I don’t know,” Thorn said, voice low. “Maybe not leave a planet full of civilians to die?”

Fox glared. “You think I had a choice?”

“No,” Thorn said bluntly. “But I think you wanted one. And that’s the difference.”

Fox looked away. “She—she trusted me. And I—”

“You failed her,” Thorn finished for him. “Yeah. You did.”

The air between them thickened.

But then Thorn leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.

“You know what makes you a good commander, Fox? You actually give a damn. But you bury it so deep under regs and orders and rules that you forget you’re a person too. You feel this because you should. And because, maybe for once, you met someone who made you wish you could choose.”

Fox didn’t answer.

Didn’t need to.

“You’re not wrong for caring,” Thorn continued. “But don’t pretend like you didn’t want to stay. Don’t pretend like she didn’t get under your skin. And don’t stand here looking for absolution. You left. And now you have to decide what the hell you’re gonna do about it.”

Fox stood in the quiet for a long time, every breath in his lungs feeling heavier than the last.

Finally, he turned toward the door.

“…Thanks.”

“Don’t thank me,” Thorn said. “Just don’t come crying when you decide to fight for something and it breaks your damn heart.”

⸻

The sky was the color of copper—burning, cracked, smothered in the black breath of war.

From the high balcony of Parliament House, you stood alone.

Below you, the capital city was crumbling. Buildings gutted. Smoke spiraling into the sky like dying prayers. The sounds of explosions echoed from every district—shelling, droid fire, the crackling whine of buildings collapsing into themselves. Your people screamed. And still, you stood.

You could’ve run.

The secret passage beneath the archives still functioned—your aides had begged you to use it. But you refused.

You would not crawl underground while your planet fell above.

When the droids stormed the Parliament, you were still there. You stood at the center of the marble chamber, hands behind your back, your senate robes torn from smoke and grime, your face fierce and unyielding.

The lead tactical droid analyzed you with a flick of its sensor.

“Senator. You are now under the protection of the Confederacy of Independent Systems.”

You didn’t move. “Protection?”

“Your system has been liberated. You will broadcast a message of cooperation to your people. Effective immediately.”

The words felt like venom in your ears.

Two commando droids grabbed your arms, steering you toward the chamber’s grand podium, where your world had once debated laws and trade, justice and reform.

Now it was a prison.

The cameras were already activated. A live broadcast.

You felt the script shoved into your hand—hollow lines written by cowards and liars.

The lights came on.

You stepped up.

Paused.

And dropped the script to the floor.

The droids moved slightly, weapons shifting, but the lead tactical droid gestured for them to wait. Curious. Watching.

You faced the camera.

And then you spoke.

“To the people of this world, hear me now. I stand before you not in surrender, but in defiance. The Separatists believe they have conquered us. That they can break our spirits with fear, and claim our loyalty with fire. But I am still standing.”

You stepped forward, voice rising, the smoke of your burning city curling in the background.

“We did not ask for this war. We did not invite their tyranny. And yet, they came. They scorched our homes. They threatened our children. And now they want us to kneel.”

You stared directly into the lens.

“I will not kneel.”

The tactical droid twitched. Several battle droids raised their blasters—but still, the broadcast continued.

“I may wear chains. I may stand here in a city torn apart. But I will never speak lies to you. I will never call this invasion a liberation. I will never call these machines saviors. The Separatists have not freed us. They have invaded us.”

You were trembling, but you didn’t stop.

“If I die for these words, so be it. At least I’ll die with my people. Not above them.”

You turned away from the camera. “Cut the feed.”

The droids surged forward. One struck you across the face with a metal hand and forced you to your knees.

Blood dripped from your mouth as the tactical droid loomed over you.

“That was not the message we authorized.”

You lifted your chin, defiant even through the pain.

“I suppose I never was good at following scripts.”

The broadcast ended in static.

⸻

The Senate Rotunda roared with outrage.

Holograms flickered across the great chamber—smoke-streaked ruins, the burning capital, and her face, bloodied but proud, replaying over and over again on the center display. The audio was muted now, but they didn’t need the words anymore.

They’d all heard them.

“I will not kneel.”

Senators shouted over one another.

Some demanded sanctions. Others accused the Separatists of war crimes. More still wanted a closed-door meeting with the Chancellor. No one could agree on a solution, but all could agree on one thing:

She had become a problem—and a symbol.

And not one easily silenced.

High above the Senate floor, in the polished marble halls outside the observation balconies, Fox stood alone.

Helmet under his arm.

Watching.

He hadn’t moved since the footage aired. His brothers had gathered at first—Thire, Stone, Hound—but one by one, they’d left when the noise of politics drowned out the only voice that had mattered.

Fox hadn’t left.

He couldn’t.

There she was—her image replaying again, defiant and brave, speaking through blood and fire. Unflinching. Unbroken.

The same woman who had pressed a drink into his hand weeks ago and called him loyal like it meant something.

“She didn’t even blink,” a voice murmured from behind him.

Fox turned slightly. Senator Bail Organa now stood beside him, face solemn.

“She knew what they’d do,” Organa continued, quietly. “And she said it anyway. She looked into that camera and chose truth.”

Fox nodded once. “She stood taller than half the Senate ever has.”

Organa’s mouth tightened. “And now she’s their problem.”

“She’s more than that,” Fox said. His voice was rougher than he intended. “She’s… a symbol now. Maybe even a martyr.”

Bail glanced over at him.

“You care for her.”

Fox didn’t answer right away. His jaw worked for a moment before he said, simply, “I failed her.”

“Not yet,” Organa said gently. “But if you let them forget her—then you do.”

Fox’s gaze drifted back to the flickering hologram of her battered face, eyes burning with conviction, voice ringing in his memory:

“I may wear chains… but I will never speak lies to you.”

If she burned for her people, Fox swore to himself then, he’d make sure the whole damn Republic saw the smoke.

⸻

The cell was white.

Too white. Not a single crack in the walls, not a scratch on the durasteel floor. No windows. No noise beyond the hum of distant generators and the quiet, steady pulse of a camera in the corner.

The Separatists called it a holding chamber.

You called it what it was: a cage.

They hadn’t touched you since the broadcast. Not physically. But the rest—they brought in food and left it untouched for days. They pumped the room full of lights that never dimmed. They brought silence and then the cloying pressure of recorded crowds chanting in a language you didn’t understand. Propaganda blasted in short bursts.

Then came the requests.

The offers.

A comfortable suite. Clothing. Protection. Return to your position of influence, they said. All you had to do was cooperate. Just read the lines. Tell your people that you saw the light. That the Republic abandoned them, and the Confederacy was your new salvation.

You said nothing.

Then they sent him in.

A pale, smooth-faced Neimoidian with manicured nails and a reek of expensive spice. He wore a smile that felt like a threat. He sat across from you at a metal table, fingers laced.

“We do not wish for things to escalate,” he said softly. “The Confederacy values your intellect. Your leadership. Your charisma. You could do so much more if you simply stepped into the right light.”

You stared at him. “There is no light in this place.”

He didn’t lose the smile. “Then create it. Say the words, Senator. Bring peace to your people. Your world is lost to the Republic, but it doesn’t have to be lost to you.”

You leaned forward, voice low and sharp. “Peace bought with a muzzle isn’t peace. It’s obedience. And I don’t bend.”

The Neimoidian’s smile faltered.

“You still believe someone’s coming to save you?” he asked.

You didn’t respond.

“Very well.” He stood and adjusted the sleeves of his robe. “Then we will bring peace another way.”

⸻

You were dragged from your cell two days later.

Paraded through the cracked halls of Parliament, bound in chains.

Droids stood at attention along the corridor. Their red photoreceptors blinked in time with the hollow clank of your boots. Outside, you heard the drone of ships overhead and the dull, distant panic of the crowd being herded into the city square.

The Separatists had arranged an audience.

A warning.

They wanted your execution public.

You were led up the stone steps of the Parliament balcony—the same one where you had stood and broadcast your defiance.

Now, a platform had been raised.

A guillotine of shimmering energy.

A podium to record your final words.

The tactical droid turned to you as the crowd began to hush.

“Final opportunity. Comply. Kneel, and you live.”

You lifted your chin. The chains bit into your wrists. “I will never kneel.”

The crowd heard you.

They remembered.

The city remembered.

Even if the Republic forgot you… even if no one came…

You would die standing.

⸻

The war room on Coruscant was filled with fire.

Not literal flame, but political heat—raw and heavy.

Three Jedi stood in the center, flanked by holograms of the burning capital city, the Separatist’s mock trial preparations, and one final, damning image:

The Senator, shackled and unbowed, standing before her people, moments before execution.

Chancellor Palpatine’s fingers steepled beneath his chin, unreadable as ever. But the furrow in his brow deepened with each word.

Mace Windu’s voice cut like a vibroblade. “This is no longer a matter of planetary resources. It’s a moral failure of the Senate—and of this office.”

Luminara Unduli, serene but stern, added, “We allowed this to happen by remaining neutral. The Senator stood for peace. For integrity. And she is being made an example for her courage.”

Obi-Wan Kenobi, arms crossed, took a step forward. “We know where they’re holding her. The capital has not fallen beyond reach. With your authorization, Chancellor, the 212th can retake it. But we must act now.”

Palpatine’s gaze slid to the flickering hologram again. The city in flames. The people in chains. Her.

He sighed, slowly. “I underestimated the impact of her voice. Perhaps… we all did.”

There was silence.

Then, finally, the Chancellor’s voice rose with forced calm.

“You have your clearance, General Kenobi. Regain control of the planet. Retrieve the Senator. Do not allow her execution to proceed.”

Obi-Wan nodded sharply. “We’ll leave within the hour.”

In the shadows near the back of the chamber, Fox stood silent.

Helmet tucked under his arm, armor polished to discipline, but his jaw clenched tightly. His brothers were gone—scattered after their forced withdrawal—but Fox had stayed. Had watched. Had listened. Had waited.

Beside him stood Commander Cody, arms folded, face grim beneath the overhead lights.

Fox didn’t look over when he spoke, just said, low and bitter, “Took them long enough.”

Cody’s voice was just as quiet. “Politics always move slower than war.”

Fox huffed. “She should never have been left alone. Not like that.”

“She wasn’t,” Cody said.

That made Fox turn.

Cody finally looked over, steady and sure. “You stayed. You remembered. And I’ll make sure she comes home.”

Fox’s lips parted, words catching in his throat.

Cody gave him a small, knowing nod.

“I’ll bring her back, vod. You have my word.”

Previous Part | Next Part

“Red and Loyal” pt.2

Commander Fox x Senator Reader

The ship had gone still.

Most of the squad was asleep or at their rotating stations, the buzz of activity finally reduced to soft footsteps and quiet system hums. You couldn’t sleep. Your mind was too full. Of war. Of your people. Of him.

You stepped into the small mess area, wrapped in a light shawl, datapad abandoned for now. The stars shimmered through the viewports—quiet reminders that home was still a jump away.

Fox stood near the corner of the room, arms folded, armor still on, posture straight as a blaster barrel. He didn’t sleep either, apparently.

“Commander,” you said softly.

He looked up. “Senator.”

You crossed over to the small counter, pouring two glasses of the modest liquor you’d brought from home—a deep, rich amber spirit your father once called “liquid courage.” You turned and held out a glass to him.

“A peace offering,” you said. “Or a truce. Or a bribe. I haven’t decided yet.”

His eyes flicked from the drink to your face. “I’m on duty.”

“I figured,” you murmured. “But I thought I’d try anyway.”

He didn’t take it. You didn’t seem surprised.

Instead, you set it beside him and leaned back against the opposite wall, cradling your own drink between your fingers. “Do you ever turn it off?”

Fox was quiet for a moment. “The job?”

You nodded.

“No.” He said it without hesitation. “If I do, people get hurt.”

You watched him carefully. “That’s a heavy way to live.”

He gave a small shrug. “It’s the only way I know how.”

Another beat of silence.

“Why did you do it?” you asked. “Come on this mission. Really.”

Fox’s jaw tightened slightly. “It’s my job.”

You raised an eyebrow. “So you personally assign yourself to every Senator in distress?”

He hesitated. For once, his gaze flicked away.

“I’ve seen how the Senate works,” he said. “Most of them wouldn’t even look at a trooper if we were bleeding out in front of them. But you… you stayed after the session. You fought for people who can’t fight for themselves. You saw us.”

Your throat tightened unexpectedly.

“And I didn’t want you to walk into danger alone.”

You stared at him for a long moment, glass forgotten in your hand. “That doesn’t sound like just your job, Commander.”

His eyes finally met yours again—steadier now. More open. And, stars help you, so full of weight he didn’t know how to express out loud.

“No,” he said finally. “It doesn’t.”

The silence between you changed—no longer empty, but thick with understanding. The kind you didn’t speak of because it was too real.

You stepped forward slowly, picking up the untouched glass you’d offered him earlier.

“Still on duty?” you asked softly, brushing your fingers against his as you took the drink back in your other hand.

Fox didn’t answer.

But he didn’t pull away, either.

You finally excused yourself, your steps quiet as you retreated toward your quarters with a whispered “Goodnight, Commander.”

Fox didn’t respond. Couldn’t.

His gaze lingered where you’d just stood, your scent still in the air—soft, warm, like something grounding amidst all the cold metal and chaos.

The untouched glass in your hands, the brush of your fingers on his glove, the way you looked at him like you saw him—not just the armor, not just the title.

He exhaled sharply through his nose, jaw clenched so hard it ached.

He didn’t do feelings. Not on duty. Not ever.

And yet.

“Thought I smelled something burning.”

Fox didn’t need to look to know it was Hound. Grizzer padded quietly beside him, tongue lolling lazily, clearly amused.

Fox muttered, “Shouldn’t you be asleep?”

“Could say the same about you.” Hound stepped into the light, arms folded over his chest, eyebrow raised. “So. You gonna talk about it?”

“There’s nothing to talk about.”

“Uh-huh.” Hound’s tone was flat, unimpressed. “You stood there like a statue for five minutes after she left. You’re not even blinking. Pretty sure even Grizzer picked up on it.”

The strill let out a low chuff, like it agreed.

Fox turned his face away. “Drop it.”

“I would,” Hound said casually, “but it’s hard to ignore the fact that our famously emotionless commander suddenly cares very much about one specific Senator.”

“She’s… different.”

“Ohhh, so we are talking about it now?” Hound smirked.

Fox didn’t answer.

Hound stepped closer, lowering his voice—not mocking now, just honest. “Look, vod… We’ve all seen how they treat us. The senators. The brass. Most of them wouldn’t notice if we vanished tomorrow. But she sees you.”

Fox’s jaw flexed again, the ache behind his eyes growing sharper.

“She sees you, Fox,” Hound repeated gently. “And I think that scares the hell out of you.”

A long silence stretched between them.

Then, quietly, Fox murmured, “I can’t afford to feel anything. Not right now. Not while she’s in danger.”

Hound studied him for a moment, then nodded slowly. “Yeah. I get that.” He turned to leave. “But when it’s all over, and you still can’t breathe unless you’re near her? Don’t act surprised.”

Fox didn’t move.

Didn’t respond.

Didn’t deny it.

⸻

The ship touched down just outside the capital’s perimeter, the soft hiss of the landing gear punctuated by the high-pitched whine of distant warning sirens—testing protocols, for now. Not real.

Not yet.

The skies were overcast, a thick grey ceiling hanging low over the city like a held breath. Your home was still standing, still calm, but tension clung to the air like static.

Fox stood at the bottom of the ramp, visor angled outward, scanning the buildings and courtyards that framed the landing pad. Thire, Stone, and Hound fanned out without instruction. The city guard was present—under-trained, under-equipped, but trying.

You stepped off the ramp and immediately straightened your posture as a familiar man approached—Governor Dalen, flanked by two aides and a pale-faced city official clutching a datapad like a lifeline.

“Senator,” Dalen said, his voice tight but relieved. “You came back.”

You offered a small smile, but your eyes were already on the buildings, the people, the quiet way citizens walked just a little too quickly, too aware.

“Of course I came,” you said. “I told you I would.”

“I didn’t think they’d let you,” he admitted.

“They didn’t,” you said plainly. “But I wasn’t asking.”

Fox’s eyes shifted slightly, his stance tensing at the edge of your voice. That edge had returned—sharp, determined, the voice of someone who belonged here, in the dirt with her people.

You took a breath. “We stood before the Senate. I made our case. I begged.”

Dalen didn’t speak.

You shook your head. “But they’re stretched thin. We’re not a priority. They said they’d ‘review the situation’ once the Outer Rim sieges ease.”

Dalen’s face hardened. “So they’ll help us when there’s nothing left to save.”

“That’s the game,” you said bitterly. “Politics.”

Behind you, Fox’s shoulders shifted—just barely—but enough that you knew he heard. Knew he understood.

“But,” you added, lifting your chin, “we’re not alone. Commander Fox and his squad have been assigned to protect the capital until reinforcements can be spared.”

The governor’s gaze flicked past you, eyeing the bright red armor, the silent, imposing soldiers who looked more like war machines than men.

“They’re few in number,” you said, “but I’d trust one of them over a hundred guardsmen.”

Fox stepped forward then, speaking for the first time. “We’ll secure the palace perimeter and establish fallback zones in the city. If the Separatists make a move, we’ll hold them as long as needed.”

You didn’t miss the subtle weight behind his words: We’ll hold them off long enough for you to survive.

And somehow, even in all that steel and stoicism, it made your heart ache.

The governor gave a hesitant nod, but the weariness in his posture didn’t fade. “We’ll do what we can to prepare, but if they attack…”

“We hold,” you said simply.

Fox turned his head slightly, just enough to look at you. “And we protect.”

You gave him a small, fierce smile. “I know you will.”

⸻

The market square was quieter than you remembered.

Stalls were still open, vendors selling fruit and fabric and hot bread, but the usual bustle was muted. People spoke in hushed voices, glancing nervously at the skies every few minutes as if expecting Separatist ships to appear at any second.

You didn’t take a speeder. You walked.

You wanted them to see you—not as some distant official behind Senate walls, but as someone who came home. Someone who stayed.

“Senator,” an older woman called, her hands tight around a child’s shoulders. “Is it true? That the Republic isn’t coming?”

You crouched to the child’s eye level, your expression gentle. “They are coming,” you said carefully. “Just not yet. But we’re not alone. We have soldiers here. Good ones.”

Behind you, Fox lingered in the shadow of a nearby wall, helmet on, arms folded. Watching. Always.

A young man stepped forward, anger shining in his eyes. “We heard rumors. That they think we’re not worth the effort.”

“They’re wrong,” you said, rising to face him. “You are worth the effort. I went to the Senate myself. I fought for this place. And I will keep fighting until we get what we need. But until then… we hold the line.”

Murmurs spread through the crowd. A few people clapped, quietly. Some didn’t. But they listened.

And they saw you.

After several more conversations—reassurances, promises, words you hoped you could keep—you stepped into the alley behind the square for a breath of quiet. The pressure was starting to catch up with you, sharp and cold in your lungs.

Fox was already there, leaning against the wall, helmet off, his expression unreadable.

“You shouldn’t have come out without a perimeter,” he said.

You tilted your head. “You were the perimeter.”

“That’s not the point,” he muttered, stepping closer. “If they attack, the capital will be first. The square could be turned to ash in minutes. You can’t be in the middle of a crowd when it happens.”

“They needed to see me.”

“I need you alive.”

The words came out harsher than he intended—too fast, too sharp—and he immediately looked away like he wished he could take them back.

You stared at him, heart catching in your throat.

His jaw clenched. “Your death won’t inspire anyone.”

Silence.

“You’re worried about me,” you said quietly, stepping forward.

“I’m responsible for you,” he corrected, but there was no strength behind it.

You reached out, fingers brushing the gauntlet on his arm. “You don’t have to lie, Fox. Not to me.”

He looked down at your hand on his armor, at the softness in your voice that disarmed him more than any weapon ever could.

“This is going to get worse before it gets better,” he said. “And if you keep walking into the fire…”

You smiled sadly. “You’ll follow me in?”

He didn’t speak.

He didn’t have to.

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

“Red and Loyal” pt.1

Commander Fox x Senator Reader

Your voice echoed in the Senate chamber, sharp and laced with desperation.

“They are massing on our borders. Do you understand what that means? My people are not soldiers. If the Separatists come, we won’t stand a chance.”

Bail Organa looked at you with soft regret. Padmé Amidala gave you a sympathetic nod. Even Mon Mothma lowered her eyes.

But sympathy didn’t stop invasions.

Mas Amedda cleared his throat, voice cold. “Senator, the Grand Army’s resources are stretched thin. Reinforcements are already dispatched to Felucia and Mygeeto. We cannot spare more.”

You felt like you’d been struck.

“So we are to be sacrificed?” you snapped, voice rising. “Left to be slaughtered while this chamber debates logistics?”

Whispers erupted. Chancellor Palpatine raised a hand, calm and unbothered. “We understand your concern, Senator. But this is war. Sacrifices must be made.”

You wanted to scream.

Instead, you bowed stiffly and left the chamber before your fury bled into something less diplomatic.

⸻

You didn’t notice him at first—too blinded by anger, by heartbreak, by the fear that your people were going to die for nothing.

But as you stormed through the marble corridors of the Senate building, your shoulder collided with armor.

Red.

Hard.

You looked up—into the steady, unreadable face of Commander Fox.

He barely moved. His arm reached out instinctively, steadying you. “Senator.”

You blinked. You hadn’t realized you were trembling.

“Commander,” you said, voice sharper than you meant.

Fox tilted his head slightly. “Rough session?”

You laughed bitterly. “Only if you consider being told to watch your world burn while they debate budgets rough.”

He said nothing. Not at first. Just watched you, eyes tracking every twitch of emotion on your face.

“I’m sorry,” you muttered, shaking your head. “You don’t need to hear that. You’ve got your own war to fight.”

“I listen better than most senators,” he said quietly.

You blinked.

Fox’s voice was never warm. It was always firm, controlled. Professional.

But this—this was different.

You leaned against the wall, fighting the tears building behind your eyes. “I’m a senator and I’m still powerless.”

“You care,” Fox said, after a beat. “That already makes you different.”

You looked at him. “Do you ever get used to it?”

He was silent. His jaw tensed.

“No,” he said. “But you learn to live with it. Or you break.”

You didn’t realize your hand had drifted close to his until your fingers brushed the back of his glove. A mistake. Or maybe not.

He looked down at your hand, then back at you.

The air between you was taut. Too intimate for a Senate hallway. Too dangerous for two people on opposite sides of a professional line.

And yet…

“If there’s anything I can do,” Fox said, voice low, “for your people… or for you…”

You looked up at him, studying the man beneath the red armor. The one with the tired eyes and careful words. The one who could have kept walking but didn’t.

“You already have,” you whispered.

And then you were gone—leaving Fox standing there, staring at the spot where you’d been.

Fingers still tingling.

⸻

The shuttle’s engines hummed low, a mechanical purr echoing through the Senate docks. The air was thick with fuel, heat, and tension. Your transport was nearly ready—small, lightly defended, and insufficient for what lay ahead, but it would take you home.

You stared out across the city skyline, heart pounding.

They said you were making a mistake. They said returning to your home world was suicide.

But it was your world.

And if it was going to fall, it wouldn’t do so without you standing beside it.

You heard the footsteps before you saw them—measured, purposeful.

Then: the unmistakable voice of Chancellor Palpatine, oiled and theatrical.

“Ah, Senator. So determined.” He approached, flanked by crimson-robed guards and the sharper silhouettes of red Coruscant Guard armor.

Commander Fox stood behind him, helm off, unreadable as ever.

You straightened. “Chancellor.”

“I’ve come to offer you a final word of advice,” Palpatine said smoothly, folding his hands. “Returning to your planet now would be… ill-advised. The situation is deteriorating rapidly.”

You lifted your chin. “Which is why I must be there. My people are scared. They need to see someone hasn’t abandoned them.”

Palpatine sighed, as if burdened by your courage. “Yes, I suspected as much.”

He turned slightly, gesturing behind him.

“I anticipated you would refuse counsel, so I’ve taken the liberty of organizing a security detail to accompany you.”

Your brows furrowed.

“Commander Fox, accompanied by his men” he said, voice silk. “And a squad of my most loyal Guardsmen. Until the Senate can act, they will serve as your protection detail.”

Your eyes snapped to Fox, stunned. He met your gaze with that same unreadable intensity—but his stance was different. Less rigid. Like he had volunteered.

“I…” You turned to Palpatine. “Thank you, Chancellor.”

He gave you a benign smile. “Don’t thank me. Thank Commander Fox. He was the one who insisted your safety be taken seriously.”

Your breath caught.

Palpatine gave a slight bow and turned, robes billowing as he departed with his guards, leaving the dock strangely quiet again.

You looked at Fox.

“You insisted?”

He stepped forward, stopping just shy of arm’s reach. “You’re not a soldier. You shouldn’t have to walk into a war zone alone.”

“Neither should you,” you said softly.

He blinked. “It’s different.”

“Is it?”

You held his gaze for a moment too long.

Fox shifted, jaw tight. “My orders are to protect you. And I intend to do that.”

There was something in his voice. Something unspoken.

“I’m not helpless, you know,” you said, voice a little gentler. “But I’m… glad it’s you.”

His eyes flickered.

“You’ll be staying close, then?” you asked, half teasing, half aching to hear the answer.

“Yes,” he said. No hesitation. “Wherever you are, I’ll be close.”

The words lingered between you. Heavy. Charged.

You nodded slowly, stepping toward the shuttle ramp. “Well then, Commander. Shall we?”

He followed you silently. And when you boarded that ship—uncertain of what awaited—you didn’t feel so alone anymore.

⸻

The ship was mid-hyperspace, engines humming steadily, the stars stretched thin and white outside the viewport like strands of pulled light.

You sat quietly near the front cabin, reading reports from home—civilians evacuating cities, militia forming in panic. Your fingers were white-knuckled around the datapad, but you didn’t notice. Not when your ears were quietly tuned to the conversation just beyond the corridor.

Fox’s men weren’t exactly quiet.

⸻

“Okay,” Thire muttered, not even trying to keep his voice down. “So let me get this straight. You volunteered us for this mission?”

“You hate senators,” Stone chimed in, boots kicked up on a storage crate. “Like… passionately.”

“And politics,” Hound added, his strill sniffing at a nearby panel before letting out a low growl. “And public speaking. And long transport rides. This is literally all your nightmares rolled into one.”

“I didn’t volunteer,” Fox said flatly.

“Didn’t you, though?” Thire drawled.

“We were assigned.”

“You asked to be assigned,” Hound smirked. “Big difference.”

“Orders are orders,” Fox said, clearly trying to end it.

“Right,” Stone said. “And the fact that she’s smart, brave, and has eyes that could melt a blaster coil—totally unrelated.”

Fox didn’t respond.

There was a pause.

“You’re not denying it,” Hound grinned, teeth flashing.

“You’re all on report,” Fox muttered darkly.

“Oh no,” Thire said with mock horror. “You’re going to write me up for noticing you have a crush?”

Fox growled.

“Come on, vod,” Stone said, voice a little gentler. “She’s not like the others. She actually gives a damn. And she looked gutted after the Senate meeting. Anyone could see that.”

“She’s brave,” Fox admitted, low. “She shouldn’t have to do this alone.”

They all went quiet for a beat.

Then Thire leaned in, grinning. “We’re just saying. If you start calling her cyar’ika, we’ll know what’s up.”

Fox shoved the heel of his hand against his temple and groaned.

You were definitely not supposed to have heard any of that.

And yet… here you were, biting back a smile and pretending to be Very Deeply Focused on your datapad, heart fluttering unhelpfully in your chest.

He cared.

He was trying not to—but he cared.

And for someone like Fox, who lived his life behind armor and discipline, that meant everything.

Next Part

Hi! I saw you took requests and I was wondering if you could do a Command Squad x Fem!Reader where she’s a general but not because she’s a Jedi but because she actually served in wars before this and they want her respect and flirt with her. And of course any of your flourishes ;)

You’re the best! Xx

“Steel & Stardust”

Fem!Reader x Command Squad (Cody, Wolffe, Fox, Neyo, Bacara, Gree, Bly, and Ponds)

⸻

You weren’t a Jedi. Never wore the robes, never had the Force. You didn’t need it.

Your command had been earned the hard way—blood, shrapnel, and scars in wars no one even bothered to archive anymore. When the Republic came knocking, you told them you didn’t serve causes—you served soldiers. And somehow, that landed you here.

Not in front of them. With them.

The elite. The best the Republic had to offer.

And from the second you stepped into that war room, every helmet turned your way. And when the helmets came off—yeah, that was a problem. Because they were all infuriatingly hot, and even worse, they knew it.

Cody was the first to speak, his voice calm, neutral, but his eyes sharp. “General. You’ll forgive the question, but… what exactly are your qualifications?”

You just smirked, tossing your old service jacket onto the table with a dull thud. “Two border wars, five urban insurgencies, and a ten-year campaign in the Outer Rim before the Jedi decided the galaxy needed saving. That enough for you, Commander?”

Wolffe snorted, amused. “She’s got more battlefield time than half the Jedi Council.”

“She’s not wrong,” Bacara grunted, arms crossed, voice gravelly. “Seen her file. Most of us got bred for war. She just never left it.”

“I like her,” Bly grinned, leaning on the table with a little too much casual charm. “Can we keep her?”

“Not like that, Bly,” Fox muttered, though he didn’t exactly disagree.

“I didn’t say anything,” Bly said with a wicked grin. “Yet.”

You sighed. “Are you always like this, or is it just when there’s a woman in the room who outranks you?”

Gree chuckled. “You outrank us technically. Not in spirit.”

Neyo hadn’t said a word yet, just stared at you like he was dissecting your tactical potential, or possibly imagining your funeral. Could go either way with Neyo.

Ponds gave you a respectful nod. “We’ve worked under a lot of Jedi. Not all of them know what they’re doing. We’d follow you, General.”

And that—that was what mattered.

⸻

You caught them watching you more often than not. In the field, in the war room, during briefings. It wasn’t just the usual soldier-to-general dynamic. No, it was different. Heat in Cody’s gaze when you gave orders. That glint in Wolffe’s eye when you called him out in front of the others. The way Fox lingered just a bit too long when you handed him back his datapad.

Even Neyo—cold, calculating Neyo—started standing just a little too close.

“You know they’re all trying to impress you, right?” Gree asked one night while you were cleaning your gear, his voice low and amused.

You didn’t even glance up. “Trying and failing.”

Bly leaned against your doorway. “Is that a challenge?”

⸻

After you saved their shebs in a firefight—ripping a blaster from a fallen commando and dropping six droids in twelve seconds flat—you were pretty sure something shifted.

They wanted your respect. You already had theirs.

But they wanted more.

So they fought beside you. Ate with you. Got protective in the field. Made excuses to talk to you after hours. Fought over who got assigned to your team. And every now and then… they flirted like it was a competitive sport.

Cody did subtle praise and brooding glances. Always has your back.

Wolffe. The grumpy softie. Pretends he hates you. Would kill anyone who hurt you.

Fox was stoic, but flirty in a dry, sardonic way. Deep down, he’s soft, but you’d have to earn it.

Neyo protective in a weird way. Doesn’t speak much but always notices when you’re off. Secretly touched you remembered his name.

Bacara extremely blunt, intense. A man of few words—but his loyalty is loud.

Gree slightly flirty and professional. Gives you space but always drops a line like, “You ever need a break, General… I know a place.”

Bly was shameless. Teases you endlessly but respects you deeply. Would absolutely fight anyone who disrespects you.

Ponds was quiet support. Loyal. Observes everything. The first one to ask how you’re doing when no one else notices.

And you?

You don’t fall easily. You’ve seen too much.

But if you were going to fall—

It might just be for one of them.

Or all of them.

⸻

79’s was already loud when you walked in. Music thrumming through your bones, the low hum of clone banter and laughter rising and falling like waves. You hadn’t planned to come here. You’d just wanted one damn drink. One moment not steeped in war, planning, or death.

You ran right into Commander Bly. Well, more like his chest.

“General,” he said, and the smile that bloomed on his face was entirely too pretty. He looked you over, gaze lingering just a little too long. “Didn’t know you came here.”

“I don’t,” you replied, stepping back. “Just needed to breathe.”

“You came to a GAR bar to breathe?” Gree chimed in from behind him, drink in hand and eyebrows raised. “You’re worse at relaxing than Fox.”

Speak of the devil—Fox was at the bar, sharp suit shirt unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves rolled up. He lifted his glass in greeting and turned away to order another round. You could feel his eyes on you though, like a sniper sight you couldn’t shake.

“You here alone?” Bly asked, leaning against the wall like he knew what he was doing.

“I was,” you replied flatly.

“Tragic,” Gree said, stepping closer, voice smoother than it had any right to be. “This place is full of trouble tonight.”

“Is that what you are, Gree? Trouble?”

“You’ll have to find out.”

And just like that, Cody, Wolffe, Bacara, Ponds, and Neyo filtered in from the second level, coming down the steps like they were part of a slow-motion holodrama.

Cody looked you over once, eyes flickering to the drink in your hand. “Didn’t think we’d see you here.”

“I was hoping I wouldn’t see you here,” you replied, teasing, heat behind the words.

Wolffe smirked. “Too bad.”

Ponds gave a low whistle. “She’s gonna kill one of you tonight.”

“I volunteer,” Bly said without hesitation.

Bacara rolled his eyes and took a slow sip of his drink, staring at you over the rim of the glass like he was thinking something entirely inappropriate—and probably correct.

And Neyo—stone-cold, unreadable—just nodded. “You clean up well, General.”

That made a few of them pause. Compliments from Neyo were about as rare as a Tatooine blizzard.

You were suddenly hyper-aware of how your shirt clung to your skin, how the lights in the bar made everything seem lower, warmer, closer.

Fox appeared beside you without a sound, holding out a drink. “On me.”

You hesitated. “You trying to get me drunk, Commander?”

“If I were, I’d start with something stronger,” he said, voice low, his knuckles brushing yours as you took it.

“Careful,” you said, raising an eyebrow. “You might be starting something you can’t finish.”

“I always finish what I start,” Fox replied smoothly, dead serious.

The tension snapped tight like a tripwire.

Cody moved closer behind you, his breath brushing your neck. “You should be careful with us, General.”

Wolffe stepped in next to him, eyes gleaming. “Or don’t. We like dangerous.”

Gree leaned in from the other side. “And we play well together.”

“You all are shameless,” you muttered, taking a sip just to hide your smirk.

“No,” Ponds said with a shrug. “Just very, very interested.”

You looked around—at eight sets of eyes, different in every way except one thing: they wanted you. Wanted to impress you, challenge you, make you forget—if only for one night—that the galaxy was falling apart outside these walls.

You downed the rest of your drink and smiled, slow and dangerous. “Alright, boys. Try and keep up.”

The night was just beginning.

The music had shifted. Slowed. Lower bass, seductive rhythm. Clone troopers were still everywhere, but the spotlight wasn’t on them anymore.

It was on you.

You hadn’t planned to be the center of the room, but when you started moving through the crowd—hips swaying just enough, eyes catching every glance—you had their undivided attention. Especially when Commander Bly snuck up behind you and took your hand.

“Dance with me,” he said, already guiding you onto the floor like he’d waited years for the excuse.

You let him.

Bly danced like he fought—confident, smooth, close. One hand gripped your hip, the other held yours. His gold armor was traded for casual blacks, but the heat rolling off him was all battle-born adrenaline and want.

“You keep looking at me like that,” you murmured in his ear, “and I’ll start thinking you’re falling for me.”

He faltered—actually faltered. Blinked once, then twice.

You leaned in, lips grazing his jaw. “What’s the matter, Bly? Didn’t think I could flirt back?”

He opened his mouth. Nothing came out.

You slipped away with a smirk.

Gree was next—casual, clever, always too smooth for his own good.

“Careful,” you said, nursing a drink beside him at the bar. “You look like you’re planning something.”

“Just wondering how someone like you keeps every commander in the GAR wrapped around your finger.”

You leaned in, gaze dark. “Who says I don’t already have you wrapped around mine?”

He choked on his drink.

You patted his back, sweet as sin. “I’ll be gentle.”

⸻

Fox looked like he was ready for a war crime when you sat beside him.

“I thought you hated attention,” you said, sipping from your glass.

“I do.”

“And yet,” you murmured, brushing your knee against his, “you keep watching me like I’m a damn threat.”

Fox’s eyes flickered. His jaw clenched. “You are.”

You leaned close. “Then do something about it.”

He looked away. Tight. Tense.

Flustered.

⸻

Neyo didn’t flinch when you approached—but his grip on his glass tightened when you laid your hand lightly on his chest.

“You don’t say much,” you whispered, “but I bet you think about me more than you should.”

His eyes were locked on yours. Still silent.

“You going to prove me wrong?”

He looked down, just for a second. Then turned and walked away—only to stop, just out of reach, and glance back like he wanted you to follow.

God, he was dangerous.

Ponds approached and gave you a smile like calm water hiding a riptide.

“Having fun?” he asked.

“I am now.”

You rested a hand on his arm, feeling the strength there. “You ever going to stop being the sweet one?”

His smile dipped just slightly, darker now. “Only if you ask nicely.”

You stepped closer, voice low. “What if I beg?”

He stared at you like you’d kicked him in the chest.

Bacara barely moved when you brushed his hand at the table, except for the twitch in his jaw.

“You don’t talk much either.”

“I talk when there’s something worth saying.”

You tilted your head. “Then say something. Right now.”

Bacara met your gaze for a long, charged moment. Then—

“You’re dangerous.”

You smirked. “Took you that long to figure it out?”

He shifted in his seat, suddenly needing a long drink.

⸻

Wolffe was already grumpy when you got to him, sitting in the corner like he’d rather be anywhere else—but the second you sat on the arm of his chair, his whole body went rigid.

“What?” he grunted.

“Nothing,” you said sweetly, playing with the edge of his collar. “You just always look like you want to throw me against a wall.”

He inhaled sharply. “Don’t test me.”

“Oh, I am.”

And just for fun, you kissed his cheek. Quick. Sharp. Possessive.

Wolffe went absolutely still. “You’re a menace.”

“You like that.”

⸻

Cody found you at the end of the night—when your guard was just a little lowered, your drink half-finished.

“You were playing us all along,” he said, leaning on the bar beside you, eyes burning.

“Not playing,” you replied. “Just reminding you who’s in charge.”

He chuckled, low and slow. “Then dance with me.”

You didn’t resist when he pulled you back onto the floor, slower this time. Closer.

“You like control,” he murmured in your ear.

You turned in his arms, meeting his gaze dead-on. “Only when they’re strong enough to take it from me.”

Cody stared at you like he wanted to drag you out of the bar and ruin you.

And maybe… just maybe… you’d let him.

You hadn’t meant to start a war in 79’s—but then again, you’d never played fair, had you?

The music was sultry, all slow bass and sin. The lights were low. You’d been dancing with Cody for all of three minutes, and you could already feel the eyes on you. His eyes.

Fox had been brooding at the bar, nursing his whiskey, watching you like a hawk all night. You’d shared a moment earlier, sure—a drink, a brush of skin, words that lingered.

But now you were wrapped up in Cody.

Hands at your waist, lips near your ear, warm breath as he murmured, “You’re playing a dangerous game, General.”

You looked up at him, smug. “Only if someone plays back.”

Cody smirked. “Oh, I’m playing.”

He pulled you in tighter, hand trailing down your spine, and that was it—that was the trigger.

You didn’t see Fox at first—you felt him.

Storming across the floor like a man possessed. Controlled, measured fury wrapped in sleek civilian clothes. A few troopers nearby saw him coming and stepped aside like instinct told them don’t be in his way.

You barely had time to blink before—

“Enough.”

His voice cracked like a blaster shot.

Cody’s hand stiffened at your hip. You turned slowly—heart pounding—to find Fox right in front of you.

Eyes dark. Jaw clenched. Dangerous.

“What’s your problem?” Cody asked, tone calm but wary.

Fox didn’t look at him. Not once. His eyes were on you. “This what you came for?” he asked, voice low and bitter. “To play us against each other like it’s all some kind of game?”

You tilted your head, meeting his fury with wicked calm. “Jealousy doesn’t suit you, Commander.”

His hand shot out—not rough, not cruel—but demanding. His fingers wrapped around your wrist and tugged you a step closer. “I’m not jealous.”

“No?” you asked, breath catching slightly.

“I’m done pretending you’re just another officer.” His voice dipped, raw and sharp. “I see you dancing with him like that and I want to put my fist through the wall.”

A slow hush had fallen across the floor.

You stepped into Fox’s space, bodies nearly touching. “So do something about it.”

For a second, he didn’t breathe.

Then—

His hand slid to your waist. Possessive. Hot. “Dance with me,” he ordered. Not asked. Ordered.

You could have said no.

But you didn’t.

You let him lead you back to the center of the floor, every trooper watching now, every step like a declaration. Fox danced like he wanted to erase Cody’s hands from your skin. He kept you close. Too close. The kind of close that whispered mine without ever saying a word.

“Next time,” he growled in your ear, “I won’t be so polite.”

You smirked against his neck. “That was polite?”

He held you tighter. “You haven’t seen me lose control yet.”

And part of you—twisted, wild, aching—wanted him to.

⸻

A/N

No idea where I was going with this tbh, think I went down my own little route and it ended up liked this 🫤

“My Boys, My Warriors” pt.5

Clone Commanders x Reader (Platonic/Motherly)

Warnings: Death

⸻

The room was silent save for the rustling of robes and the faint hum of hoverchairs shifting in place. The Jedi Council chamber was vast, intimidating, and awash in golden morning light—but you stood in the center like a wraith returned from war, shackled and disarmed, your beskar armor dulled by ash and grief.

Master Windu’s voice was sharp, clipped. “You attempted to assassinate the Chancellor of the Republic.”

You said nothing at first.

“He is a threat,” you replied finally, your voice calm but tired, laced with something far deeper—haunted rage, maternal despair. “I’ve seen his true face.”

The Council shifted. Windu’s eyes narrowed.

“You accuse the Supreme Chancellor of deception?”

You didn’t look away. “I don’t accuse. I know. He’s manipulating this war. Playing both sides. He won’t stop until it destroys everything—including your Order.”

Obi-Wan, standing near the window, tensed. You saw the flicker in his eyes. Doubt. Pain. A memory of you at Satine’s side. Protective. Loyal. Fierce. Now here, branded a traitor.

Master Yoda, ancient and watchful, finally spoke.

“Hm. Evidence, do you have?”

“No. Just truth no one wants to hear.”

You took a breath. “But ask yourselves… how did he rise so quickly, so quietly? How did a million sons born for war appear at just the right time?”

That hit a nerve.

The room was heavy. Silent.

Yoda’s ears twitched. “Your words… clouded by fear, they are. But not wrong, perhaps…”

You looked him dead in the eye. “I fought in the wars that shattered Mandalore. I know what evil smells like before it has a name. And it reeks from him.”

Windu finally stood. “That’s enough.”

⸻

They didn’t sentence you. Not yet.

But they locked you away.

Solitary. Cold. A durasteel cell with only your memories and ghosts to keep you company. Your beskad, your helmet—gone. All you had was your silence.

And your voice.

You sat on the narrow bench, back against the wall, and closed your eyes.

And then—

You hummed.

Low. Soft. Familiar.

That lullaby.

“You may not know me because I changed

But mama will not stop lookin' for her baby

When the river takes, the river gives

And mama will search as long as she lives”

You didn’t know anyone was listening.

Fox sat alone in the darkened security station, staring at the holo-feed from your cell.

He’d patched in a secure line. Untraceable.

And quietly… he’d sent the link out.

To every one of your boys who’d ever looked up at you with those wide, wondering eyes.

Wolffe. Bacara. Cody. Rex. Neyo. Thorn. Hound. Doom. Gree. Bly. Ponds. Even the ones far from Coruscant. The ones with scars and stories and old memories of you ruffling their hair and calling them “vod’ika.”

They all watched. Quietly. No one spoke.

They watched their buir—now chained and branded a traitor—sit alone, and hum the song she used to sing when their bones ached from training. When they cried at night and you sat on their beds and promised they were more than weapons.

The melody reached them like a forgotten heartbeat.

Wolffe sat on his bunk, clenching his fists.

Bacara stared at the screen until tears blurred his vision.

Cody turned off his comm after the fifth replay—couldn’t bear to hear it again, but couldn’t not remember.

She was still fighting for them.

Even now.

⸻

The thunder of artillery filled the air. The ground quaked beneath each tread of their bikes. Dust painted the sky in shades of rust and smoke.

Commander Neyo stood at the edge of a ruined ridge, visor glowing crimson, posture carved in stone.

He didn’t flinch when the ground shook.

He didn’t turn when blasterfire cracked through the comms.

He was always composed.

But something was wrong.

He hadn’t spoken in three hours.

His troops didn’t question it. They followed orders, watched his gestures, executed movements like clockwork.

But his Jedi General noticed.

General Stass Allie approached, her silhouette cutting through the dust cloud. She said nothing at first—only stood beside him, watching the horizon of another broken world.

Finally, her voice, calm and knowing:

“You haven’t said a word since we left the rendezvous. That’s unlike you.”

Neyo didn’t move. “There’s nothing to say, General.”

“There’s always something,” she said softly. “Especially when someone’s hurting.”

He stiffened.

She didn’t push. Just stood with him, patient. Let the silence stretch like a held breath.

Then—

“There was a woman,” he said finally, the words dry and brittle, like he’d scraped them off a forgotten shelf. “A Mandalorian. She trained us. Before the war.”

Stass turned, curious.

“She wasn’t like the Kaminoans,” he said. “She saw us. Treated us like we mattered. Like we weren’t just gear for the Grand Army. She—”

His jaw clenched. “She was our buir.”

Stass blinked. “Your mother?”

He nodded once.

“What happened to her?”

“She was arrested. Tried to kill the Chancellor.”

The Jedi’s eyes widened. “And you believe she would do that?”

“I don’t know what I believe anymore,” Neyo muttered.

He finally turned to her, his voice low. Raw.

“She used to sing to us, General. A lullaby. I hadn’t thought about it in years. But last night… Fox sent it out. To all of us. A commlink file, just her voice, humming the song.”

He looked away, something flickering behind the red glow of his visor.

“I couldn’t sleep after that. I couldn’t breathe.”

“You miss her,” Stass said gently.

“She was the first person who told us we were more than this.” He gestured to the battlefield, the armor, the broken sky. “And now she’s locked away. Branded a traitor. And I’m here, doing exactly what she feared.”

Stass placed a hand on his shoulder. “Your choices still matter, Neyo. What you feel matters.”

He didn’t reply.

But the silence wasn’t hollow anymore.

It was full of ghosts and lullabies and a thousand questions he’d never dared ask before.

⸻

The lights in her cell flickered faintly, a quiet rhythm in the stale, recycled air. Her wrists rested on her knees, ankles crossed, body still—except for the soft hum that slipped past her lips.

The song echoed faintly in the walls, brushing through the cold steel like a memory refusing to fade.

A quiet chime at the door.

She stopped humming.

The door hissed open.

Mace Windu stepped inside, arms folded beneath the weight of his dark robe. He said nothing at first, just looked at her—like he was trying to see beyond the armor, the Mandalorian blood, the criminal label stamped across her file.

She looked back. No fear. Just tired eyes.

“I was wondering which one of the high-and-mighty Jedi would come first,” she murmured, voice rough but dry with sarcasm. “Let me guess. You’re here to interrogate me like the rest?”

“No,” Mace said simply. “I came because I understand.”

She raised an eyebrow.

“I had a Padawan once. Depa Billaba. She was strong. Proud. Brilliant. A better Jedi than I’ll ever be,” he said, stepping closer. “And I loved her like my own.”

He stopped just outside her reach. “When she went to war, I thought I could prepare her. That I could keep her from the worst of it. But war doesn’t care who trained you. Or how much someone loves you.”

The reader tilted her head, studying him now with less suspicion. “So you came to offer sympathy?”

“I came to offer truth,” he said.

She stood slowly, shackled wrists hanging between them. Her voice dropped. “I trained them. I fought for them. I protected them from Kaminoans who saw them as cattle and from a war they were born into without choice. You tellin’ me I should’ve let them go? Like it’s nothing?”

“No,” Mace said, firm but gentle. “But I am telling you—they’re not boys anymore. They’re soldiers. Men. Commanders of legions. They face things you trained them for. And they stand because of what you gave them. Your job is done.”

Her jaw tightened. Her voice cracked.

“They’re still my little boys.”

Mace was quiet for a moment. Then said, “They always will be.”

He sat on the edge of the bench across from her, letting the silence fill in the cracks.

“You can’t stop what’s coming,” he said eventually. “But you can trust in what you built. And maybe—just maybe—you still have a part to play. But not if you let vengeance blind you.”

She looked away, staring at the wall—at nothing.

“You still believe in the Republic?” she asked.

“I believe in people,” Mace replied. “And I believe in second chances. Even for you.”

She scoffed. “That’ll make one of us.”

He stood. “Your story isn’t over.”

As he turned to leave, her voice came after him—quieter this time.

“Windu…”

He looked back.

“If anything happens to them—I’ll burn this galaxy to the ground.”

He didn’t smile. But there was something softer in his eyes.

“I’d expect nothing less.”

⸻

The metal door hissed shut behind Mace Windu. He took a deep breath. That woman—she was fury wrapped in armor, iron forged by war, motherhood, and betrayal. She reminded him of his younger self in a strange, haunting way. But she was right: if anything touched those clones—her boys—she’d scorch the stars.

He turned the corner of the sterile hallway and found Commander Fox standing at his post, helmet off, arms folded tight across his chest, back against the wall like he’d been waiting to be angry.

“Commander Fox,” Mace said with a nod.

Fox didn’t move. “General Windu.”

A pause.

“You’ve been watching,” Mace said.

“I made sure they could all see her. Thought they deserved it,” Fox replied, his voice flat but edged. “And I wasn’t watching you.”

Mace studied the clone’s expression. Cold. Worn. Eyes like someone who hadn’t slept right in years. A soldier pressed too hard, too long.

“She means something to you.”

“She means everything to us.” Fox looked away, jaw clenched. “She was the only one who saw us before the armor.”

“You don’t trust Jedi,” Mace said plainly.

“No, sir,” Fox said without hesitation. “And after what I’ve seen—what I’ve been ordered to do—I don’t think I ever will.”

Another pause.

“You think I’m here to use her. Same as the Kaminoans did.”

“I don’t think,” Fox said. “I know.”

There was no venom in it. Just weariness. Truth from a man who’d walked through hell with a gun and a number instead of a name.

“I’m not here to control her,” Mace said. “But I won’t let her destroy herself.”

“You won’t have to. The Republic already did that.”

Mace’s gaze hardened slightly. “You’re not wrong. But the war isn’t over yet. And she may still have a role to play.”

Fox pushed off the wall. “Yeah, well. When you figure out what that role is, maybe tell the Chancellor. Because he’s the one that locked her up like an animal for protecting us.”

He grabbed his helmet and slid it on.

Mace took a step forward. “She doesn’t see herself as a hero.”

“She doesn’t need to,” Fox replied through the vocoder. “We already do.”

With that, Fox walked away, crimson armor disappearing into the shadows of the corridor. Mace stood alone, the silence heavier now, full of all the things they hadn’t said.

⸻

The light from Coruscant’s upper levels spilled in through the large window panes, casting long, clean shadows across the briefing room. A war table flickered in the center, displaying the projected terrain of Utapau, with Grievous’ last known coordinates.

Commander Cody stood at the edge of it, helmet tucked under his arm, lips set in a thin, unreadable line. His armor was freshly polished, but the circles under his eyes betrayed sleeplessness.

Obi-Wan Kenobi entered the room quietly, robes billowing gently behind him.

“You’re early,” Kenobi said, voice light, but with a trace of concern beneath it.

“So are you, sir,” Cody replied without turning.

Kenobi walked up beside him and studied the projection for a long moment. “You seem troubled, Commander.”

Cody hesitated. “I’ve been having trouble… focusing, General. The men are ready. We’ve prepared. But something feels wrong. Off.”

Kenobi glanced sideways at him, then moved to sit at the edge of the war table.

“You’ve never brought doubts to me before.”

“I didn’t think they mattered before,” Cody said. “Now—I’m not so sure.”

The Jedi waited, giving him space.

Cody inhaled slowly, then said, “It’s her.”

Kenobi raised an eyebrow. “Your… Mandalorian?”

“My buir,” Cody corrected quietly. “She would’ve hated that title, but she earned it.”

Kenobi nodded solemnly. “I’ve had the pleasure of meeting and fighting alongside her. She was a warrior who trained you before the war.”

“She trained us to survive the war,” Cody said, voice strained. “Not just fight it. She said… she said we weren’t bred for someone else’s throne. That we were more than their weapons. She called us her children.”

Kenobi leaned back, expression softening. “She saw what we didn’t.”

“She tried to kill the Chancellor.”

That silence hit hard between them.

“She didn’t give a reason,” Cody went on. “Just that he was a threat to her boys. That’s all she ever said. Not to the Jedi. Not to the Senate. Just… us.”

Kenobi folded his hands. “I believe her. I shouldn’t, but I do.”

Cody looked at him, surprised.

Kenobi’s eyes were tired. “There’s a… darkness growing in the Senate. In the Force. Master Yoda feels it too. Perhaps your Mandalorian simply saw it with mortal eyes. Sometimes that’s all it takes.”

Cody clenched his jaw. “I want to believe she was wrong. That the Republic is worth this. That you Jedi—” he paused, “—that you’re fighting the good fight.”

Kenobi looked away, thoughtful. “We are. But we’ve lost so much of ourselves in the fighting. I sometimes wonder if we’ve already lost what we were trying to protect.”

The silence stretched.

“I wish she could’ve seen us now,” Cody said, almost bitterly. “Maybe then she wouldn’t have tried to burn the galaxy down to save us.”

“She might have anyway,” Kenobi replied. “Mothers rarely wait for permission to protect their children.”

Cody blinked hard and nodded. “You’ll be careful, sir?”

Kenobi smiled faintly. “Always.”

Cody straightened, put his helmet on. “Then so will I.”

⸻

The storm of war was always preceded by silence.

Kenobi led the assault like a figure of light—focused, poised, graceful even in the chaos of fire and collapsing duracrete. General Grievous was dead. The battle was won.

Cody watched from a cliffside vantage point as the Jedi descended into the underbelly of the sinkhole city. It should’ve felt like a victory.

But instead…

He paced away from his men. The battle chatter crackled in his ear; Wounded evac requests, ammo tallies, the final mop-up reports. He tuned it out.

And then his comm buzzed.

A direct transmission. Not encrypted. Not even a voice. Just a code.

EXECUTE ORDER 66.

His blood ran cold. His HUD flickered with new directives. Jedi. Traitors. Terminate.

The message repeated. Execute Order 66.

Cody didn’t move.

The other clones around him began shifting. One of them called his name. “Commander?”

He didn’t answer. His mind spiraled. Her face. The Mandalorian woman who used to train him, who used to wipe the grime off his cheek and tell him, “You are not just a weapon. You are my boy.”

Her voice echoed in him now like a ghost:

“You will always be my little boys, even when you stand taller than me in armor. And if the day ever comes where someone tells you to kill without question, I hope you remember my voice first.”

Cody clenched his fists.

“Commander?” one of the troopers asked again, this time louder. “Do we engage?”

Kenobi was on his lizard mount—heading toward the surface. A perfect target.

His hand hovered over the detonator for the cannon.

Seconds ticked by.

The image of her again. Singing in the dark barracks. That lullaby.

He pressed the detonator.

The explosion lit up the sinkhole. The beast howled. Kenobi fell.

And Cody’s heart shattered.

He stood still for a long time after. Staring at the smoke.

⸻

In the deep, dark of her cell, she stopped humming.

Something had happened. She felt it in her bones. Her chest tightened. Her hands gripped the bench beneath her.

She didn’t know what—but something had been taken from her.

⸻

Time doesn’t pass in the depths of the detention block. It congeals.

She could hear whispers. Whispers of something terrible—distant screams in the lower levels, the echo of warships streaking overhead. Something had shifted in the galaxy’s bones. She felt it like a tremor in her own marrow.

And then she stopped feeling them.

Her boys.

One by one, their presence—so familiar to her soul, so deeply tethered it was like knowing the beat of her own heart—disappeared. Or worse, went quiet.

She pressed her forehead against the cell wall, trying to reach them. Neyo. Bacara. Rex. Wolffe. Fox. Cody.

Gone.

The humming in her throat died.

⸻

The sound of boots. Precise. Purposeful. Too many.

She stood, slow and cautious.

The door opened with a mechanical hiss. Blue light spilled into the room. And standing at the threshold was him—his face now ruined and blistered, cloaked in shadow and power.

Chancellor Palpatine. No. Sidious.

Behind him stood Commander Fox—helmet off, his face pale, unreadable, strained.

“Such loyalty,” Sidious said softly. “Even when betrayed.”

She stepped forward, fists clenched. “What do you want?”

“I came to honor our… agreement. The clones, your precious sons—they have served their purpose, as you have served yours.”

Her voice dropped into a snarl. “You said they’d have freedom. You said they’d be safe.”

“I said they’d be prepared.” A smirk curled on his ruined face. “But of course… that was never truly your concern, was it? You needed a purpose. A legacy. And now, dear Mandalorian, you have it. A galaxy reborn—on the backs of your sons.”

Fox flinched.

He stepped forward, but she noticed the twitch in his jaw, the tremble in his hand as it hovered near his sidearm. His face was tight, like something inside was breaking—trying to claw its way to the surface.

She looked at him, pleading. “Fox. Ori’vod. Don’t let him do this to you.”

His eyes flickered.

“She’s in on it,” Sidious said softly, as if coaxing a child. “She knew. From the beginning. The Mandalorian woman you trusted, who called you her son. She helped me create this.”

Fox’s breath caught, his expression cracked, raw confusion blooming in his face like a wound. He looked at her—searching, desperate.

“Tell me it’s not true,” he whispered. “Tell me you didn’t… help him.”

Her voice cracked like old armor. “I didn’t know what he truly was… not until it was too late.”

Sidious spoke before she could continue. “But she stayed, Fox. She trained you for this. The weapon she made you into—was always meant to serve me.”

Fox shook his head. “You said you’d protect us. You said we were yours.”

Tears stung her eyes as she reached for him, but the guards raised their rifles.

“You still are,” she whispered. “Always.”

Fox turned away—ashamed, broken.

Sidious gave her one last look. “You should be proud. Few in this galaxy will ever shape destiny like you have. You created the perfect soldiers. And now, they belong to me.”

The doors closed behind him. Fox didn’t look back.

She dropped to her knees, hollow.

She had trained them to survive.

She never thought she’d have to teach them how to remember.

⸻

There were whispers again.

But these weren’t the trembling rumors of war—no, this was fear, crawling in hushed voices down the sterile white corridors of the detention center. The woman in cell 2187 was gone.

No signs of a breach. No weapons found. Just a sealed door… and an empty room.

She moved through the shadows of the lower levels like a ghost—her armor no longer Mandalorian, not Imperial, just black and scorched, a patchwork of memory and rebellion. Her face was gaunt, her eyes sharper than they’d ever been.

She was dying.

Not from wounds, not yet. But from the weight of betrayal. Of knowing her boys—her sons—were now weapons in the hands of the monster she once served in ignorance.

She wouldn’t allow it any longer.

She struck at twilight.

No theatrics. No grand speech. Just steel and flame.

Explosions ripped through the senante’s lower levels, drawing troopers away as she ascended through emergency lift shafts and ancient, forgotten maintenance passages. Her body ached—wounds reopening, muscles screaming—but her purpose burned hotter than pain.

When she finally reached the Emperor’s chamber, she didn’t hesitate.

She threw the door open, weapons drawn—

Only to find the air grow colder.

And him standing there.

A towering shadow of rage and machinery—Darth Vader.

She didn’t know who he was—not truly. Just another nightmare conjured by Sidious.

“You will not touch him,” Vader intoned, voice as deep and hollow as a tomb.

She snarled, gripping her blades. “You’re just another puppet.”

She attacked.

It wasn’t a fight. It was a last stand.

She darted, spun, struck—but he was relentless. Her blades sparked against his armor, and the lightsaber was a streak of red death in the air. He disarmed her in seconds, crushing one blade in his fist, the other sent clattering to the floor.

But she didn’t stop.

She grabbed a vibroknife from her boot and lunged—screaming the names of her sons.

And then—nothing.

The red blade pierced through her chest.

She staggered, eyes wide, choking on the air.

Vader held her there, impaled, silent.

“I was their mother,” she rasped. “They were mine.”

“You are nothing now,” he said coldly—and let her fall.

⸻

News spread in whispers—first in shadowy halls of high command, then quietly through encrypted clone comm channels.

They all heard it.

Commander Cody, stationed at an outer rim garrison, held the news report in shaking hands. The woman he once saw as indestructible—his buir—was gone. Killed by the Empire she had once served, the same one that had twisted him.

He didn’t cry.

But he didn’t speak for days.

Commander Wolffe, stoic and silent, slammed his fist into the wall of his quarters hard enough to fracture the durasteel. When his men asked what happened, he said nothing. He only muttered her name once, like a prayer, like a curse.

Fox, still on Coruscant, didn’t speak to anyone. He stood outside her former cell, empty now, silent. The humming he once hated hearing was gone. So was the warmth behind it.

He had made the report. He had confirmed her corpse.

And when no one was looking, he put a small knife through the wall of the Emperor’s propaganda poster.

And Rex.

Rex sat alone on a quiet, forgotten moon. Hiding. Free.

He listened to the old lullaby once more, from a broken recording tucked into his armor.

He didn’t move for hours.

He just let it play.

Her voice—soft, ancient, loving.

Their buir… was gone.

But the fire she left behind—still burned in all of them.

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5

“My Boys, My Warriors” pt.4

Clone Commanders x Reader (Platonic/Motherly)

Warnings: Death

⸻

The moonlight over Sundari always looked colder than it should.

Steel towers pierced the clouds like spears. And though the city gleamed with the grace of pacifism, you could feel it cracking beneath your boots.

You stood just behind Duchess Satine in the high chambers, your presence a silent sentinel as she addressed her council.

Another shipment hijacked.

Another uprising quelled—barely.

Another rumor whispered: Death Watch grows bolder.

When she dismissed the ministers, Satine stayed behind, standing at the window. You didn’t speak. Not at first.

“I feel them watching me,” she finally said, voice quiet. “The people. As though they’re waiting for me to break.”

You took a slow step forward. “You haven’t broken.”

“But I might,” she admitted.

You remained still, letting the quiet settle.

“You disapprove,” she said, glancing over her shoulder. “I can see it in your eyes.”

“I disapprove of what’s coming,” you said. “And what we’re not doing about it.”

Satine turned fully. “You think I’m weak.”

“No.” Your voice was firm. “I think you’re idealistic. That’s not weakness. But it can be dangerous.”

“You sound like my enemies.”

You stepped closer, voice low. “Your enemies want you dead. I want you prepared.”

Her jaw tensed. “We don’t need weapons to prepare. We need resolve.”

“We need warriors,” you snapped, the edge of your heritage flaring. “We need eyes on the streets, ears in the shadows. Satine, you can’t ignore the storm just because your balcony faces the sun.”

For a moment, you saw it in her eyes—that mix of fear and pride. Then she softened.

“I didn’t bring you here to fight my wars.”

“No,” you said. “You brought me here to keep you alive.”

A long silence. Then, in a whisper:

“Will you protect me even if I’m wrong?”

You reached forward, resting a gloved hand on her shoulder.

“I will protect you even if the planet burns. But I won’t lie to you about the smoke.”

She nodded, barely. Then turned back to the window.

You left her there.

⸻

The cracks ran deep beneath the capital. Whispers of Death Watch had grown louder, but so too had something darker. Outsiders spotted. Ships with no flags docking at midnight. Faces half-shadowed by stolen Mandalorian helms.

You walked the alleys in silence, cloak drawn, watching the people. They looked thinner. More afraid.

They felt like you did in your youth—when the True Mandalorians fell, and pacifists took the throne.

It was happening again.

Only this time, you stood beside the throne.

⸻

Sundari had never been louder.

Crowds surged below the palace walls. Explosions had bloomed like flowers of fire across the city. The Death Watch had returned—not as shadows now, but as an army, and you knew in your blood this wasn’t the cause you once believed in.

You stormed into the war room with your cloak soaked in ash.

Bo-Katan stood tense, arms crossed, her helmet tucked under one arm, jaw tight.

“Is this your idea of taking back Mandalore?” you growled. “Terrorizing civilians and letting offworlders roam our streets?”

Bo snapped, “It’s Pre’s idea. I just follow orders.”

“You’re smart enough to know better.”

She met your eyes. “And you’re too blind to see it’s already too late. This planet doesn’t belong to either of us anymore.”

Before you could reply, Vizsla strode in, flanked by his guards, armed and smug.

“Careful, old friend,” he said to you. “You’re starting to sound like the Duchess.”

You turned to face him fully. “She at least had a vision. You? You brought the devils of the outer rim to our door.”

“You think I trust Maul?” Vizsla scoffed. “He’s a tool. A borrowed blade. Nothing more.”

“You’ve never been able to hold a blade you didn’t break,” you said, stepping closer, voice low and dangerous. “And you dare call yourself Mand’alor.”

That was the final push.

Vizsla signaled for the guards to stand down. He drew the Darksaber—its hum filled the chamber like a heartbeat of fate.

“You want to test my claim?” he snarled.

You drew your beskad blade from your back, steel whispering against your armor.

“I don’t want the throne,” you said. “But I won’t let you stain the Creed.”

The battle was swift and brutal. Sparks lit the floor as steel met obsidian light. Vizsla fought with fury but lacked precision—he was stronger than he had been, but still undisciplined. You moved like water, like memory, like the old days on the moon—fluid, sharp, unstoppable.

He faltered.

And then—they stepped out of the shadows.

Maul and Savage Opress, watching from the high walkway above the throne room. Silent. Observing.

When Vizsla saw them, he struck harder, desperate to prove something. That’s when you disarmed him—sent the Darksaber flying from his hand, the weapon hissing as it skidded across the floor.

Vizsla landed hard. He panted, looking up—humiliated, bested.

You turned away.

But it wasn’t over.

Chains clamped around your wrists before you even reached the stairs. Death Watch soldiers—those loyal to Maul—grabbed you without warning. You struggled, but too many held you down.

Maul descended the steps of the throne, black robes fluttering, yellow eyes glowing like dying suns.

He walked past you.

“To be bested in front of your own… how disappointing,” Maul said coldly to Vizsla.

Vizsla staggered to his feet. “You’re nothing. A freak. You’ll never lead Mandalore.”

Maul ignited his saber.

He and Vizsla fought in a blur of red and black and desperate defiance. But Maul was faster. Stronger. Born in a storm of hate and violence.

You could only watch, forced to your knees, wrists bound, as Maul plunged the blade through Vizsla’s chest.

The Death Watch leader crumpled.

The Darksaber now belonged to the Sith.

Gasps rippled through the chamber.

Some kneeled. Others hesitated.

Then Bo-Katan raised her blaster.

“This is not our way!” she shouted. “He is not Mandalorian!”

Several warriors rallied to her cry. They turned. Fired. Chaos erupted. Bo and her loyalists broke away, escaping into the halls.

You remained.

You didn’t run.

Maul approached you slowly, the Darksaber glowing dim in his hand.

He crouched, speaking softly, dangerously.

“I see strength in you,” he said. “Not like the weaklings who fled. You could live. Serve something greater. The galaxy will fall into chaos… and only the strong will survive.”

He tilted his head.

“Tell me, warrior—will you live?”

Or…

“Will you die with your honor?”

“Kill me”

Maul hesitated for a moment, before ordering you to be taken to a cell.

The cell was dark.

Damp stone and the smell of old blood clung to the air. You sat in silence, bruised and bound, staring at the flicker of light outside the bars. A sound shifted behind you—soft, delicate, out of place.

Satine. Still regal, even in ruin. Her dress torn, her golden hair tangled, but her spine as straight as ever.

“You’re still alive,” she said softly, voice hoarse from hours of silence.

You looked over, slowly.

“For now.”

There was a pause between you, heavy with everything you’d both lost.

“You should’ve left Mandalore when you had the chance,” she murmured.

You shook your head. “I made a promise, Duchess. And I keep my word.”

Satine gave a humorless smile. “Even after all our disagreements?”

You smiled too. “Especially after those.”

She lowered her head. “They’re going to kill me, aren’t they?”

You looked her in the eye.

“Not if I can stop it.”

⸻

They dragged you both from your cell.

Through the palace you once helped defend. Through the halls still stained with Vizsla’s blood. The Death Watch stood at attention, masks blank and cold as ever. Maul waited in the throne room like a spider in his web.

And then he arrived.

Kenobi.

Disguised, desperate, but unmistakable. The moment Satine saw him, her composure nearly cracked.

You were forced to kneel beside her, chains cutting into your wrists.

The confrontation played out as in the holos.

Maul relished every second.

Kenobi’s face was a war in motion—grief, fury, helplessness. You watched Maul drag him forward, speak of revenge, of his loss, of the cycle of suffering.

And then—like a blade through your own chest—

Maul killed her.

Satine fell forward into Obi-Wan’s arms.

You lunged, screaming through your teeth, but the guards held you fast.

“Don’t let it be for nothing!” you shouted at Kenobi. “GO!”

He escaped—barely.

And in the chaos, you broke free too, a riot in your heart. Blasters lit up the corridors as you vanished into the undercity, cutting through alleys and shadows like a ghost of war.

⸻

The city was choking under red skies.

Mandalore burned beneath Maul’s grip, its soul flickering in the ash of the fallen. You stood in the undercity alone, battered, bleeding, and unbroken. The taste of failure stung your tongue—Satine was dead. Your boys were scattered in war. You’d given everything. And it hadn’t been enough.

You dropped to one knee in the shadows, inputting a code you swore never to use again. A transmission pinged back almost instantly.

A hooded figure appeared on your holopad.

Darth Sidious.

His face was half-shrouded, but the chill of his presence was unmistakable.

“You’ve finally come to me,” he said, almost amused. “Has your compassion failed you?”

You clenched your jaw. “Maul has taken Mandalore. He murdered Satine. He threatens the balance we prepared for.”

Sidious tilted his head, folding his hands beneath his robes.

“I warned you sentiment would weaken you.”

“And I was wrong,” you growled. “I want him dead. I want them both dead.”

There was a silence. A grin crept onto his face, snake-like and slow.

“You’ve been… most loyal, child of Mandalore. As Jango was before you. Very well. I shall assist you. Maul’s ambitions risk unraveling everything.”

⸻

Maul sat the throne, the Darksaber in hand. Savage stood at his side, beastlike and snarling. The walls still smelled of Satine’s blood.

Then the shadows twisted. Power warped the air like fire on oil.

Sidious stepped from the dark like a phantom of death, with you behind him—armor blackened, eyes sharp with grief and rage.

Maul stood, stunned. “Master…?”

Sidious said nothing.

Then he struck.

The throne room erupted in chaos.

Lightsabers screamed.

Maul’s blades clashed against red lightning, his rage no match for Sidious’s precision. Savage lunged for you, raw and powerful—but you were already moving.

You remembered your old training.

You remembered the cadets.

You remembered Satine’s blood on your hands.

You met Savage head-on—vibroblade against brute force. You danced past his swings, striking deep into his shoulder, his gut. He roared, grabbed your throat—but you twisted free and drove your blade through his heart.

He died wide-eyed and silent, falling to the stone like a shattered statue.

⸻

Maul screamed in anguish. Sidious struck him down, sparing his life but breaking his spirit.

You approached, blood and ash streaking your armor.

“Let me kill him,” you said, voice shaking. “Let me avenge Satine. Let me finish this.”

Sidious turned to you, eyes glowing yellow in the flickering light.

“No.”

You stepped forward. “He’ll come back.”

“He may,” Sidious said calmly. “But his place in the grand design has shifted. I need him alive.”

You trembled, fists clenched.

“I warned you before,” Sidious said, stepping close. “Do not mistake your usefulness for control. You are a warrior. A weapon. And like all weapons—you are only as valuable as your discipline.”

You swallowed the rage. The grief. The fire in your soul.

And you stepped back.

“I did this for Mandalore.”

He nodded. “Then Mandalore has been… corrected.”

⸻

Later, as Maul was dragged away in chains and the throne room lay in ruin, you stood alone in the silence, helmet tucked under your arm.

You looked out at Sundari. And you whispered the lullaby.

For your cadets.

For Satine.

For the part of you that had died in that room, with Savage’s last breath.

You had survived again.

But the woman who stood now was no mother, no protector.

She was vengeance.

And she had only just begun.

⸻

You tried to vanish.

From Sundari to the Outer Rim, from the blood-slicked throne room to backwater spaceports, you moved like a ghost. You changed armor, changed names, stayed away from the war, from politics, from everything. Just a whisper of your lullaby and the memory of your boys kept you alive.

But you knew it wouldn’t last.

⸻

The transmission came days later. Cold. Commanding.

Sidious.

“You vanished,” his voice echoed in your dim quarters. “You forget your place, warrior.”

You said nothing.

“I gave you your vengeance. I spared your life. And now, I call upon you. There is work to be done.”

You turned off the holoprojector.

Another message followed. And another. Then…

A warning.

“If you will not obey, perhaps I should ensure your clones—your precious sons—remain obedient. I wonder how… stable they are. I wonder if the Kaminoans would let me tweak the ones they call ‘defective.’”

That was it. The breaking point.

⸻

The stars blurred past as you sat still in the pilot’s seat, armor old and scuffed, but freshly polished—prepared. You hadn’t flown under your own name in years, but the navicomp still recognized your imprint.

No transmission. No warning. Just the coordinates punched in. Republic Senate District.

Your hands were steady. Your pulse was not.

In the dark of the cockpit, you pressed a gloved hand to your chest where the small, battered chip lay tucked beneath the plates—an old holotrack, no longer played. The Altamaha-Ha. The lullaby. You never listened to it anymore.

Not after he threatened them.

He had the power. The access. The means. And the intent.

“Your precious clones will be the key to everything.”

“Compliant. Obedient. Disposable.”

You couldn’t wait for justice. Couldn’t pray for it. You had to become it.

Your fighter came in beneath the main traffic lanes, through a stormfront—lightning illuminating the hull in flashes. Republic patrol ships buzzed overhead, but you kept low, slipping through security nets with old codes Jango had left you years ago. Codes not even the Jedi knew he had.

You landed on Platform Cresh-17, a forgotten maintenance deck halfway up the Senate Tower. No guards. No scanners. Just a locked door, a ventilation tunnel, and a war path.

Your beskad was strapped to your back, disguised under a loose, civilian cloak. Blaster at your hip. Hidden vibrodaggers in your boots.

You knew the schedule. You had it memorized. You’d been preparing.

Chancellor Palpatine would be meeting with Jedi Masters for a closed briefing in the eastern chamber.

You wouldn’t get another shot.

The halls were quieter than expected. Clones patrolled in pairs—Coruscant Guard, all in red. You knew their formations. You trained the ones who trained them.

You didn’t want to kill them. But if they stood in your way—

A guard turned the corner ahead. You froze behind a pillar.

Fox.

You saw him first. He didn’t see you. You waited, breath caught in your throat. His armor gleamed beneath the Senate lights, Marshal stripe proud on his pauldron. Your boy. You almost stepped out then. Almost…

But then you remembered the threat. All of them were at risk.

You pressed on.

You breached the service corridor—wrenched the security lock off with brute strength and shoved your way in.

The Chancellor was already there.

He stood at the center of the domed office, hands folded, gaze distant.

He turned as you entered, as if he’d been expecting you.

“Ah,” he said softly. “I was wondering when you’d break.”

Your blaster was already raised. “They’re not yours,” you hissed. “They’re not machines. Not things. You don’t get to play god with their lives.”

He smiled.

“I gave them purpose. I gave them legacy. What have you given them?”

Your finger squeezed the trigger.

But then—

Ignited sabers.

The Jedi were already there. Three of them.

Master Plo Koon, Shaak Ti, and Kenobi.

They had sensed your intent.

You turned, striking first—deflecting, dodging, pushing through. Not to escape, not to run. You fought to get to him. To finish what you came to do.

But the Jedi were too skilled. Too fast.

Obi-Wan knocked the beskad from your hand. Plo Koon hit you with a stun bolt. You went down hard, your head cracking against the marble floor.

As you lost consciousness, the Chancellor knelt beside you.

He leaned in close.

“Next time,” he whispered, “I won’t be so merciful. If you threaten my plans again… your precious clones will be the first to suffer.”

⸻

Your eyes snapped open to the sound of durasteel doors hissing shut.

Your arms were shackled. Your weapons gone.

Fox stepped into the room, helmet under one arm.

He stared at you a long time.

“You tried to assassinate the Chancellor.”

You didn’t speak.

He pulled the chair across from you and sat down. He looked tired. Conflicted. But not angry.

“…Why?”

You met his gaze, finally. No fear. No hesitation.

“Because he’s a danger to you. To all of you.”

Fox narrowed his eyes. “That’s not an answer.”

“Yes, it is.”

“You nearly killed Republic guards. You attacked Jedi.”

“I was trying to protect my sons,” you said, voice trembling. “I can’t explain it. You won’t believe me. But I know what’s coming. And I won’t let him use you—not like this.”

Fox looked down.

For a long moment, the room was silent.

Then quietly, almost brokenly:

“…You shouldn’t have come here.”

You gave a sad smile. “I never should’ve left Kamino.”

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5

“My Boys, My Warriors” pt.2

Clone Commanders x Reader (Platonic/Motherly)

⸻

The lights didn’t feel as warm.

Maybe they never had been.

But after she left, the halls of Tipoca City felt hollow in a different way. Like the soul had been scraped out of them. Like they were just walls and water and cold metal now.

Jango Fett resumed full-time oversight of their training. And if the Kaminoans had wanted detachment, they got it in him.

No singing. No softness.

No one tucked in their blankets when they were feverish or whispered old Mandalorian stories when they had nightmares about being expendable.

They still trained hard. But now the bruises were deeper. The reprimands sharper. There was no one to tell the Kaminoans no.

No one to put a gentle hand on a trembling shoulder and say, “You’re not just a copy. You’re mine.”

Jango didn’t speak much during drills. His corrections came in clipped Mando’a, and his disapproval was silent, sharp, and heavy.

He wasn’t cruel. But he was hard.

Cody adjusted first. He always did. He kept his head down, corrected the younger ones, mirrored Jango’s movements until they were perfect.

Rex stopped smiling as much.

Fox picked more fights—quick, aggressive scraps in the barracks or the showers. He never started them. But he finished them.

Wolffe snapped at the medics when they didn’t move fast enough for Bacara’s healing leg. He’d never snapped at anyone before.

Bacara, for his part, tried to push through the pain, even when his knee buckled mid-sprint. He’d learned from you that strength wasn’t silence—it was persistence. But without you, his quiet stubbornness started to look more like self-destruction.

Neyo went the other direction. Withdrawn. Robotic. Like if he just became what the Kaminoans wanted, they’d leave him alone.

Only Bly still held onto that spark—but even he was getting quieter at night.

The nights were the worst.

No singing. No soft leather footsteps. No warm hand brushing their hair back when they thought no one noticed they were crying.

Fox tried to hum one of your lullabies once. It broke halfway through, cracked like a bad transmitter.

He punched the wall until Rex pulled him back.

“She wouldn’t have let them treat us like this.”

That was what Bly said one night, sitting up in his bunk with his legs swinging. His armor was off. His face was raw with exhaustion and anger.

“She’d be fighting them,” Rex agreed. “Hell, she’d be knocking skulls together.”

“She never would’ve let that training droid keep hitting Bacara while he was down,” Neyo muttered, staring at the ceiling.

Fox was pacing. “They made her leave. Like she didn’t matter.”

“She mattered,” Wolffe growled. “She was everything.”

“She said we were hers,” Cody whispered. He hadn’t spoken in a while.

They all looked at him.

“She meant it.” His voice cracked. “Didn’t she?”

“Of course she did,” Bacara rasped from his bunk. “That’s why they got rid of her.”

There was silence for a long time.

Then Rex stood up and walked to the comm wall. Quietly, carefully, he rewired the input and accessed the hidden channel she’d taught them—one she said to only use when they really needed her.

He didn’t send a message.

He just played the recording.

A static-tinged echo of her voice filled the barracks. Singing. The old lullaby—Altamaha-ha—crackling like it was underwater, like it had traveled galaxies to reach them.

The boys sat. Still. Silent.

Listening.

⸻

The rain on Kamino hadn’t changed in all these years. Same grey wash across the transparisteel windows. Same endless waves pounding the sea like war drums.

But inside the hangars—inside the ready bays—everything had changed.

Your boys weren’t boys anymore.

They were men now. Soldiers. Commanders. Helmets under their arms, armor polished, their unit numbers etched into the plastoid like banners. The Republic had come, and the war had begun.

The Battle of Geonosis was just hours away.

Rex adjusted the strap on his shoulder plate, glancing sideways at Bly.

“You ready for this?” he asked.

“As I’ll ever be,” Bly said, but his grin was tight.

Bacara checked his weapon, pausing briefly when the scar on his knee twinged. He never spoke of that injury anymore. But Cody still remembered.

Fox said nothing, helmet already locked in place.

Wolffe kept fidgeting with his gauntlet, the way he did when he was angry but didn’t want to talk about it.

Neyo leaned silently against the wall, eyes distant, barely blinking.

They were leaving. And she wasn’t here.

Cody stood apart from them, watching the gunships being prepped for launch. He wasn’t on the deployment list for Geonosis. His unit was to remain on Kamino. He told himself he wasn’t bitter. But he was.

He wanted to go. To fight beside them. To see what all this training was truly for.

And to make her proud.

But maybe this was his final lesson—to be the one who stayed behind, to remember.

⸻

Cody blinked, eyes snapping back to the hangar.

Rex was helping Bacara up the ramp of one of the LAAT gunships. Bly and Fox followed, barking orders to their squads. Wolffe paused and glanced back at Cody. Just once.

They didn’t say goodbye.

But they nodded. Like brothers. Like sons.

Cody stood alone as the gunships roared to life, lifting off in waves. The lights dimmed as they rose into the storm, swallowed by the clouds, by war, by the future.

And then they were gone.

She wasn’t there to see them off.

Wasn’t there to adjust their pauldrons, or whisper a quiet prayer to whatever gods had ever watched Mandalorians bleed.

Wasn’t there to call them her boys.

But they carried her with them anyway.

In the way they moved. The way they protected each other. The way they looked fear in the eye and didn’t flinch.

They were ready.

She’d made sure of that.

⸻

The stars had always looked sharper from Mandalore’s moon. Colder. Brighter. Less filtered through the atmosphere of diplomacy and pacifism.

She stood at the edge of the cliffs, cloak billowing behind her, hand resting on the hilt of her beskad. Her home was carved into the rock behind her—simple, hidden, lonely. She liked it that way.

Or… she used to.

Now, the silence grated.

The galaxy was changing again.

And this time, she wasn’t in it.

Not yet.

The sound of approaching engines echoed across the canyon long before the ship touched down. Sleek, dark, familiar.

She didn’t move. Just watched as the vessel landed and the ramp lowered.

He came alone.

Pre Vizsla.

Always so sure of himself. Always dressed like a shadow wearing Mandalorian iron.

“You’re hard to find,” he said, stepping toward her.

“You weren’t invited,” she replied, voice cool.

He smiled. “I come bearing opportunity.”

She didn’t return the smile. “You’ve come trying to recruit me again.”

“I’ve come with timing,” he corrected. “War has returned to the galaxy. The Jedi are distracted. And Satine—your beloved Duchess—still preaches peace while Mandalore rots from the inside out.”

She said nothing.

“I saw what you did with the clones,” he added, tone shifting. “You made them warriors. Not just soldiers. You made them believe they were worth something.”

“They are worth something.”

Vizsla tilted his head. “Then come and fight for your own.”

She turned, eyes burning. “Don’t mistake my silence for agreement, Pre.”

“Mistake your inaction for cowardice, then?”

He was testing her. Like he always did. And damn him, it was working.

⸻

She sat in her home, beskar laid out before her. She hadn’t worn full armor in years. Just enough to train, to spar. Not to fight.

Not since they’d made her leave Kamino.

Not since her boys.

The comm receiver sat in the corner. Quiet. Dead.

No messages. No voices. No lullabies.

She lit a flame in the hearth and sat with her old weapons. Blades, rifles, her battered vambraces. Things that had seen more blood than most soldiers ever would.

Her fingers brushed the edge of her helmet.

Was Mandalore dying?

Was she wrong to have left?

She remembered standing before the boys—tiny, stubborn, brilliant. Shouting orders in the training halls. Singing when they couldn’t sleep. Watching them grow. Watching them become.

She wasn’t there to protect them now. To protect anyone.

Satine’s voice echoed in her memory—“The cycle of violence must end.”

But Satine didn’t raise a thousand sons who were bred for war.

At dawn, she returned to the cliffs.

Vizsla was still there. Camped nearby. Waiting.

She stood beside his ship, helmet under one arm, braid coiled tight behind her.

“Don’t think I believe in your cause,” she said.

“You’re still here,” he replied.

“I’m here for Mandalore.”

“Then we want the same thing.”

“No,” she said, stepping onto the ramp. “We don’t. But I’ll fight. I’ll watch. If Mandalore can be saved, I’ll make sure it is. And if you try to burn it down—”

“You’ll kill me?”

“I’ll bury you.”

⸻

Unbeknownst to her, far across the galaxy, in a Republic base camp on Geonosis, Rex opened his comm receiver.

A soft blinking light glowed.

Encrypted channel. The one she’d taught them.

A message was sent.

No words. Just a ping. A heartbeat.

She would know what it meant.

They were alive.

They were fighting.

And somewhere in her gut, on that cold moon, she felt it.

⸻

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 |

“My Boys, My Warriors”

Clone Commanders x Reader (Platonic/Motherly) pt.1

Song: “Altamaha-Ha” – Olivier Devriviere & Stacey Subero

Setting: Kamino, pre-Clone Wars, training the clone commanders

A/N - I thought I would give the clones some motherly love because they absolutely deserve it.

⸻

Arrival

Kamino was a graveyard floating on water. Not one built from bones or tombstones, but of silence and steel, of sterile white walls and cloned futures.

You arrived at dawn—or what passed for dawn here, beneath an endless, thunderstruck sky. The rain hit your Beskar like a thousand tiny fists, relentless and cold. There was no welcome party. No ceremony. Just a hangar platform soaked in wind and spray, and one familiar silhouette waiting for you like a ghost from your past.

“Didn’t think you’d come,” Jango Fett said, arms crossed, armor dulled by salt and time.

“You asked,” you answered, stepping off the transport. “And Mandalorians don’t abandon their own.”

He gave a small, tired nod. “This place… it’s not what I wanted it to be.”

You followed him through the elevated corridors, your bootfalls echoing alongside his. You passed clone infants in incubation pods—unmoving, unaware—lined up like products, not people. Your throat tightened.

“Kaminoans see them as assets,” he muttered. “Nothing more.”

You scowled. “And you?”

Jango didn’t answer.

You didn’t need him to. That was why you were here.

⸻

Training the Future Commanders

They were just boys.

Tiny, sharp-eyed, disciplined—but boys nonetheless. They saluted when they saw you, confused by your armor, your presence, your refusal to speak in the Kaminoan-approved tone.

“Are you another handler?” one asked—Cody, maybe, even then with that skeptical glare.

“No,” you replied, removing your helmet, letting your war-worn face meet theirs. “I’m a warrior. And I’m here to make you warriors. The kind Kamino can’t mold. The kind no one can break.”

At first, they didn’t trust you. Fox flinched when you corrected his form. Bly mimicked your movements but refused eye contact. Rex tried to impress you too much, like a pup desperate to please.

But over time, that changed.

You didn’t teach them like the Kaminoans did. You taught them like they mattered. Every mistake was a lesson. Every success, a celebration. You learned their quirks—how Wolffe grumbled when he was nervous, how Cody chewed the inside of his cheek when strategizing, how Bly stared too long at the sky, longing for something even he couldn’t name.

They grew under your care. They grew into theirs.

And somewhere along the line, the title changed.

“Buir,” Rex said one day, barely a whisper.

You froze.

“Sorry,” he added quickly, flustered. “I didn’t mean—”

But you crouched and ruffled his hair, voice thick. “No. I like it.”

After that, the name stuck.

⸻

The Way You Loved Them

You taught them how to fight, yes. But also how to think, how to feel. You made them memorize the stars, not just coordinates. You forced them to sit in circles and talk when they lost a training sim—why they failed, what it meant.

“You are not cannon fodder,” you said once, your voice carrying through the sparring hall. “You are sons of Mandalore. You are mine. You will not die for a Republic that won’t mourn you. You will survive. Together.”

They believed you. And because they believed, they began to believe in themselves.

⸻

Singing in the Dark

Late at night, when the Kaminoans powered down the lights and the labs buzzed quiet, you slipped into the barracks. They were small again in those moments—curled under grey blankets, limbs tangled, some still holding training rifles in their sleep.

You never planned to sing. It started one night when Bly woke from a nightmare, gasping for air, tears clinging to his lashes. You held him, like a child—because he was one—and without thinking, you sang.

“Slumber, child, slumber, and dream, dream, dream

Let the river carry you back to me

Dream, my baby, 'cause

Mama will be there in the mornin'”

The melody, foreign and low, drifted over the bunks like a lullaby born from the sea itself. It wasn’t Mandalorian. It was older. From your mother, perhaps, or her mother before her. It didn’t matter.

Soon, the others began to stir at the sound—some sitting up, listening. Some quietly pretending to still be asleep.

You sang to them until the rain outside became less frightening. Until their eyes closed again.

And after that, you kept doing it.

⸻

The Warning

“Don’t get in their way,” Jango warned one night as you stood by the viewing glass, watching your boys spar in the simulator below. “The Kaminoans. They won’t like it.”

“They already don’t,” you muttered. “I’ve seen the way they talk about them. Subjects. Tests. Like they’re things.”

“They are things to them,” he said. “And if you make too much noise, you’ll be the next thing they discard.”

You turned to face him, cold fury in your chest. “Then let them try.”

He didn’t push further. Maybe because he knew—deep down—he couldn’t stop you either.

⸻

Kamino was all rain and repetition. It pounded the platform windows like war drums, never letting up, a constant rhythm that seeped into the bones. But inside the training complex, your boys—your commanders—were becoming weapons. And they were doing it with teeth bared.

You ran them hard. Harder than the Kaminoans would’ve allowed. You forced them to fight one-on-one until they bled, then patch each other up. You made them run drills in full gear until even Fox, the most stubborn of them, nearly passed out. But you also cooked for them when they succeeded. You gave them downtime when they earned it. You let them joke, laugh, fight like brothers.

And they were brothers. Every one of them.

“You hit like a Jawa,” Neyo grunted, dodging a blow from Bacara.

“At least I don’t look like one,” Bacara shot back, swinging his training staff with a grunt.

The others laughed from the sidelines. Cody leaned against the wall with his arms crossed, smirking. Rex and Fox were trading bets in whispers.

“Credits on Neyo,” Bly muttered, grinning. “He’s wiry.”

“You’re all idiots,” Wolffe growled. “Bacara’s been waiting to punch him since last week.”

You let them have their moment. You sat on the edge of the platform, helmet off, watching them like a mother bird daring anyone to touch her nest.

The sparring match turned fast. Bacara landed a hit to Neyo’s ribs—but Neyo pivoted and brought his staff down hard across Bacara’s knee. There was a loud crack. Bacara cried out and dropped.

The laughter died.

You were at his side in an instant, shouting for a med droid even as you crouched beside him, checking his leg. His face was twisted in pain, jaw clenched to keep from crying out again.

“It’s just a fracture,” the Kaminoan tech said from above, indifferent. “He’ll heal.”

You glared up at them. “He’s not just a number. He’s a kid.”

“They are not—”

“He is mine,” you snapped, standing between Bacara and the tech. “And if I hear one more word from your sterile little mouth, I will see how fast you bleed.”

The Kaminoan backed away.

You turned back to Bacara, softer now. Your hand brushed the sweat from his brow.

“Deep breaths, cyar’ika. You’re alright.”

He tried to speak, teeth gritted. “I’m—fine.”

“No, you’re not,” you said gently, voice warm but firm. “And you don’t have to pretend for me.”

The other boys were quiet. They had seen broken bones, sure. But not softness like this. Not someone kneeling beside one of them with care in her eyes.

You stayed by Bacara’s side while the medics patched him up. You held his hand when they set the bone, and he let you.

Later, when he was tucked into his bunk with his leg in a brace, you sat beside him and hummed. Just softly. The rain tapping the window, your voice somewhere between a lullaby and a promise.

He didn’t cry. But he did sleep.

⸻

You didn’t just teach them how to fight. You taught them how to live—how to survive.

You made them argue tactical problems around a dinner table. You made them learn each other’s tells—so they could watch each other’s backs on the battlefield. You made them memorize where the Kaminoans kept the override chips, in case something ever went wrong.

You never said why, but they trusted you.

And sometimes, they’d tease one another just to make you laugh.

“You’re so slow, Wolffe,” Bly groaned, flopping onto the floor after a run. “It’s like watching a Star Destroyer try to jog.”

“You want to say that to my face?” Wolffe growled, looming.

“No thanks,” Bly wheezed. “My ribs still remember last week.”

Fox tossed him a ration bar. “Eat up, drama queen.”

Rex smirked. “You’re all mouth, Fox.”

“I will end you, rookie.”

“Boys,” you interrupted, raising a brow. “If you have enough energy to whine, I clearly didn’t run you hard enough.”

Groans. Laughter. Playful swearing.

“Ten more laps,” you added, smiling.

Cries of “Nooo, buir!” echoed down the corridor.

⸻

When You Sang

Sometimes they asked for it. Sometimes they didn’t need to.

The song came when things were too quiet—after a nightmare, after a long day, after they’d lost a spar or a brother.

You’d walk between their bunks, singing low as the rain hit the glass.

“Last night under bright strange stars

We left behind the men that caged you and me

Runnin' toward a promise land

Mama will be there in the mornin'”

They’d pretend not to be listening. But you’d see it—the way Rex’s fists unclenched, how Neyo’s brow relaxed, how Wolffe finally let himself close his eyes.

You knew, deep down, you were raising boys for slaughter.

But you’d be damned if they didn’t feel loved before they went.

⸻

The sterile corridors of Tipoca City echoed beneath your boots. Even when the halls were silent, you could feel the Kaminoans’ eyes—watchful, cold, and calculating. They didn’t like you here. Not anymore.

When you’d first arrived, brought in under Jango’s word and credentials, they’d accepted your presence as a utility—an expert warrior to train the Alpha batch. But lately? You were a complication. You cared too much.

And they didn’t like complications.

⸻

The Meeting

You stood at attention in front of Lama Su and Taun We. The pale lights above made your armor gleam. You didn’t bow. You didn’t smile.

“You were observed interfering with medical protocol,” Lama Su said, his voice devoid of emotion. “This is not within your designated parameters.”

“One of my boys was hurt,” you said flatly.

“He is a clone. Replaceable. As they all are.”

Your fists curled at your sides.

“Do not forget your role,” Lama Su continued. “Your methods are not standard. Excessive independence. Emotional entanglement. Your presence disrupts efficiency.”

You stepped forward, slowly, deliberately. “You want soldiers who’ll die for you. I’m giving you soldiers who’ll choose to fight. There’s a difference. One that matters.”

There was a pause, then:

“You were not created for this program,” Lama Su said with quiet disapproval. “Do not overestimate your position.”

You didn’t respond.

You simply turned and walked out.

⸻

He was waiting for you in the observation room overlooking Training Sector 3. The boys were down there—Cody and Fox were running scenario drills, Rex was lining up shots on a target range, Bly was tossing insults at Neyo while dodging training droids.

They didn’t see you. But watching them moved something fierce and dangerous in your chest.

Jango spoke without looking at you. “They’re getting strong.”

“They’re getting better,” you corrected.

He turned to face you, arms folded, helm clipped to his belt. “You’re making them soft.”

You scoffed. “You don’t believe that.”

A beat. “No,” he admitted. “But the Kaminoans do.”

You shrugged. “Let them.”

“You’re pissing them off.”

You turned your head, met his gaze with something sharp and sad in your eyes. “They treat these kids like hardware. Tools. Like you’re the only one who matters.”

“I am the template,” he said, with a ghost of a smile.

“They’re more than your copies,” you said. “They’re people.”

Jango studied you for a long moment. Then his voice dropped. “They’re going to start pushing back, ner vod. On you. Hard.”

You looked back down at the boys. Bacara was limping slightly—still healing—but still trying to prove himself.

You exhaled slowly, then said, “I’m not leaving.”

“They’ll make you.”

“Not until they’re ready.”

Jango shook his head. “That might never happen.”

You glanced at him. “Then I guess I’m staying forever.”

⸻

That night, you sang again.

You walked through the bunks, slow and steady. The boys were half-asleep—worn out from drills, bandaged, bruised, but safe. Their expressions softened when you passed by. Neyo, usually tense, had his arms thrown over his head in peaceful surrender. Bly was snoring into his pillow. Bacara’s fingers were still wrapped around the edge of his blanket, leg elevated, but his face was calm.

You stood at the center of the dorm, lowered your voice, and sang like the sea itself had whispered the melody to you.

“Trust nothin' and no one in this strange, strange land

Be a mouse and do not use your voice

River tore us apart, but I'm not too far 'cause

Mama will be there in thе mornin'”

Somewhere behind you, a voice murmured, “We’re glad you didn’t leave, buir.”

You didn’t turn to see who said it.

You just kept singing.

⸻

They didn’t even look you in the eye when they handed you the dismissal.

Lama Su’s voice was as flat and clinical as ever. “Your assignment to the training program is concluded, effective immediately. A transport will arrive within the hour.”

No discussion. No room for argument. Just sterile words and sterile reasoning.

“Why?” you asked, though you already knew.

Taun We’s expression didn’t change. “Your attachment to the clones is counterproductive. It encourages instability. Disobedience.”

You laughed bitterly. “Disobedience? They’d die for you, and you don’t even know their names.”

“You’ve served your purpose.”

You stepped forward. “No. I haven’t. They’re not ready.”

“They are sufficient for combat deployment.”

You stared at them, ice in your veins. “Sufficient,” you repeated. “You mean disposable.”

“You are dismissed.”

⸻

You packed slowly.

Your hands were steady, but your heart roared like it used to back on Mandalore, in the heart of battle. That same ache. That same helplessness, standing in front of something too big to fight, and realizing you still had to try.

You left behind your bunk, your wall of messy holos and scraps of training reports scrawled in shorthand. You left behind a half-written lullaby tucked under your cot. But you took your armor.

You always took your armor.

You were nearly done when a voice cut through the door.

“Can I come in?”

It was Cody.

You didn’t turn around. “Door’s open.”

He stepped in quietly, glancing around the room like it was sacred ground. You saw his hands twitch slightly—he never fidgeted. But tonight, he was restless.

“They told us you were leaving,” he said, almost like it wasn’t real until he said it out loud. “Why?”

“Because I care too much,” you said simply.

Cody sat down on your footlocker, elbows on his knees. His eyes were dark, searching.

“What happens to us now?”

You finally looked at him. Really looked. He was trying to hold it together. He always had to—he was the eldest in a way, the natural leader. But underneath it, you saw the boy. The child.

“Are we ready?” he asked.

You walked over and sat beside him, your shoulder brushing his.

“No,” you said. “You’re not.”

That hit him harder than comfort might have.

“But,” you added, “you’re as ready as you can be. You’ve got the training. The instincts. You’ve got each other.”

Cody was quiet for a long time. Then, softly: “I’m scared.”

You nodded. “Good. So was I. Every time I stepped onto a battlefield, I was scared.”

His eyes flicked to you in surprise.

You gave a soft huff of breath. “You think Mandalorians don’t feel fear? We feel it more. We just learn to carry it.”

He looked down. “What was your war like?”

You leaned back slightly, staring at the ceiling.

“I fought on the burning sands of Sundari’s borders, in the mines, the wastelands. I’ve lost friends to blade and blaster, to poison and betrayal. I’ve heard the war drums shake the skies and still gone forward, knowing I’d never see the next sunrise. And when it was over…” You paused, bitter. “The warriors were banished.”

Cody frowned. “Banished?”

You nodded. “The new regime—pacifists. Duchess Satine. She took the throne, and we were cast off. Sent to the moon. All the heroes of Mandalore… left behind like rusted armor.”

“That’s not fair.”

“No,” you agreed. “But that’s war. You don’t always get a homecoming.”

He was silent, digesting it.

Then you said, more gently, “But you do get to decide who you are in it. And after it. If there’s an after.”

Cody’s voice cracked just a little. “You were our home.”

You turned to him, and for the first time, let him see the tears brimming in your eyes. “You still are.”

You pulled him into a hug—tight, armor creaking, like the world might tear you both apart if you let go.

⸻

You walked through the training hall one last time. Your boys were all there, lined up, watching you.

Silent.

Even the Kaminoans didn’t stop you from speaking.

You met each pair of eyes—Wolffe, Fox, Rex, Bacara, Neyo, Bly, Cody.

“My warriors,” you said softly, “you were never mine to keep. But you were mine to love. And you still are.”

You stepped forward, placed your hand on Cody’s shoulder, then moved down the line, touching each one like a prayer.

“Be strong. Be smart. Be good to each other. And remember: no matter what anyone says… you are not property. You are brothers.”

You left without turning back.

Because if you did—you wouldn’t have left at all.

Part 2

“Command and Consequence pt.2”

Fox x reader x Wolffe

⸻

She wasn’t just their trainer. She was the trainer. The hard-ass Mandalorian bounty hunter who whipped the clone cadets into shape, showed them how to survive, and maybe, quietly, showed them something like love.

They weren’t supposed to fall for her.

She wasn’t supposed to leave.

But they did. And she did.

Now she’s back—in chains. On trial. And neither of them has forgiven her. But neither of them has stopped feeling, either.

⸻

Wolffe was gone.

Off to a frontline somewhere, chasing a ghost on someone else’s leash. He hadn’t said goodbye. Just stood in her cell, said her name like it tasted like blood, and left.

She told herself it didn’t sting.

Told herself that right up until the door hissed open again.

This time, it was him.

Fox.

She felt him before she saw him—every hair on the back of her neck standing at attention. She didn’t lift her head until she heard the soft clink of his boots on the duracrete.

“You always did have the heaviest damn footsteps.”

No answer.

Just the soft hum of the ray shield between them and the weight of six years of unfinished conversations.

She sat back against the wall of her cell, tilting her head to study him through the barrier. “You used to take your helmet off when you saw me.”

Fox didn’t move.

“You smiled, too,” she added. “Even blushed once.”

Still nothing.

She leaned forward. “Why don’t you take it off now, Fox? Scared I’ll see what I did to you?”

That one hit.

His shoulders shifted. Just enough.

“I loved you both,” she said, voice softer. “You and Wolffe. It wasn’t just training. You know that.”

“You walked away.”

“I had to.”

“No,” Fox said, voice hard behind the visor. “You chose to. We needed you. And you ran.”

He stepped closer to the shield.

“You trained us to survive, to lead, to kill. You were everything. You looked at us like we were people before anyone else ever did. And then you were gone. No note. No goodbye. Just gone.”

She stood now. Toe to toe with him on opposite sides of the shield.

“Don’t pretend like it was easy for me.”

“I’m not pretending anything,” Fox bit out. “But every time I close my eyes, I see the cadet barracks. I see you, pulling us out of bed, making us fight through mud and stun blasts and live fire. And every time I put this helmet on, I remember the woman who made me who I am.”

“And you hate her now?”

“No,” he said, almost too quiet.

“I wish I did.”

The silence between them wasn’t empty—it was heavy, loud, aching.

Then the lights flickered. Once. Twice.

Fox’s helmet snapped up.

“You planning something?” he demanded.

She blinked, surprised. “Not me.”

An explosion rocked the building.

Fox swore and turned toward the hall—too late.

The backup power cut in, and the shield between them dropped.

She moved first.

Elbow. Throat. Disarm.

Fox recovered instantly. Mandalorian training burned into his bones—her training.

They fought dirty. Brutal. No flourish. No wasted motion. Just rage and history and sweat.

He slammed her into the wall, forearm to her neck. “Don’t—”

She headbutted him. “Too late.”

He threw her to the ground. She rolled, kicked out, caught his knee. He staggered. She was up in an instant, swinging.

He caught her wrist. “You left us.”

She broke the hold, breathless. “And you never stopped loving me.”

That cracked him.

She tackled him.

They hit the floor hard.

His helmet came loose, skittering across the ground.

And for a heartbeat—

There he was.

Fox.

Red-faced. Bloodied lip. Eyes blazing with pain and love and fury.

He flipped her. Pinned her down.

“This is what you wanted?” he growled. “To be hunted? To fight me?”

“No,” she whispered. “But I’m not dying in a cell.”

Her elbow caught his jaw. He reeled. She moved fast, straddling him, fist raised—

And paused.

Just for a second.

He looked up at her like she was the sun and the storm.

So she closed her fist.

And knocked him out cold.

⸻

She ran.

Again.

Bleeding. Gasping. Free.

But not the same.

Not anymore.

Because this time, she left something behind.

And it wasn’t just her past.

It was him.

⸻

(Flashback - Kamino)

It was raining.

Then again, it was always raining on Kamino.

She stood in the simulation room, arms crossed, helmet tucked under one arm, a long line of adolescent clones in front of her. Twelve cadets. Identical on the outside. Nervous. Curious. Eager.

She hated this part. The part where they still looked like kids.

She paced down the line like a wolf sizing up prey. They were still, silent, disciplined.

Good.

But she could already see it—the cracks, the personality slipping through despite their efforts to appear identical. That one on the end with the defiant chin tilt. The one in the middle hiding a limp. The one watching her like he already didn’t trust her.

She knew it the second they marched in—twelve cadets, lean and lethal for their age. Sharper than the usual shinies. These weren’t grunts-in-the-making. These were the Commanders. The ones Kamino’s high brass whispered about like they were investments more than soldiers.

She smirked. “You all have CT numbers. Serial designations. Statistics.”

No one spoke.

She dropped her helmet onto a nearby crate and leaned forward. “That’s not enough for me.”

Eyes tracked her, alert.

“You want to earn my respect? You survive this program, you get through my gauntlet? You don’t just get to be soldiers. You get to be people. And people need names.”

A flicker of something passed between them—confusion, curiosity, maybe even hope.

“But I don’t hand them out like sweets. Names have weight. You’ll earn yours. One by one.”

She paused.

“And I won’t name you like some shiny ARC trainer handing out joke callsigns for laughs. Your name will be the first thing someone hears before they die. Make it count.”

“You survive my program, you’ll earn a name,” she said. “A real one. Something from the old worlds. Something that means something. Not because you need a nickname to feel special—because names have teeth. They bite. They leave a scar.”

The silence was sharp. But the room listened.

The first week nearly broke them.

She saw it in their bruised knuckles, in the fire behind their eyes. None of them quit.

So she came in holding a data slate. Her list.

“CT-2224,” she said, nodding to the clone who was always coordinating, always calm under fire. “I’m calling you Cody.”

A pause.

“Named after an old soldier from history. Scout, tactician, survivor. He fought under another man’s flag but always kept his own code. You? You’ll know when to follow and when to break the chain.”

CT-2224 tilted his chin, something like pride in his eyes.

“CT-1004,” she called next. “Gree.”

He quirked a brow.

“Named after an Astronomer. A mind ahead of his time. You like to challenge the rules. You think differently. That’ll get you killed—or it’ll save your whole damn battalion. Your call.”

He smirked.

“CT-6052,” she said, turning to the one with the fastest draw in the sim tests. “Bly.”

“Bly?” he echoed.

“Named after a naval officer. Brutal. Unrelenting. Survived mutinies and shipwrecks. Your squad will challenge you someday. You’ll either lead them through the storm—or end up alone.”

He went quiet.

“CT-1138.” She stepped toward the quietest of the bunch. “Bacara.”

That got his attention.

“Name’s from an old warrior sect,” she said. “Real bastard in the heat of battle. No fear, no hesitation. You’ve got that in you—but you’ll need something to tether you. Rage alone won’t get you far.”

“CT-8826,” she barked. “Neyo.”

He didn’t flinch.

“Named after a colonial general in a lost war. Known for precision and cruelty in equal measure. You fight with cold logic. That’s useful. But one day it’s going to cost you something you didn’t know you valued.”

His stare didn’t break.

She nodded to herself.

Then she stopped in front of CT-1010.

This one was different. Always stepping in front of the others. Always first into the fire.

“You,” she said. “You’re Fox.”

He tilted his head. Curious. Suspicious.

“Not the animal,” she said. “The man. He tried to blow up a corrupt regime. People remember him as a traitor. But he died for what he believed in. He wanted to burn the world down so something better could rise.”

Fox looked at her like he wasn’t sure whether to be proud or afraid.

Good.

And finally—

CT-3636.

She exhaled. Quiet.

“You’re Wolffe. Spelled with two f’s.”

He arched a brow.

“You ever heard of General Wolffe? He died leading a battle he won. Knew it would kill him. Did it anyway. That’s who you are. You’d die for the ones you lead. But you’re not just a soldier. You’re a ghost in the making. You see things the others don’t.”

Something flickered across Wolffe’s expression. Not quite gratitude. Not yet. But something personal. Something deep.

She stepped back and looked at them all.

“You’re not just commanders now. You’re names with weight. Remember where they come from. Because someday—someone’s going to ask.”

She didn’t say why she chose those names.

But Fox knew.

And Wolffe… Wolffe felt it like a blade between his ribs.

⸻

That night, neither of them slept.

Fox sat on his bunk, staring at the nameplate freshly etched on his chest armor.

Wolffe couldn’t stop replaying the sound of her voice, the precision of her words.

It wasn’t just what she called them.

It was how she saw them.

Not clones.

Not numbers.

Men.

And in that moment—before war, before death, before heartbreak—both of them realized something:

They would have followed her anywhere.

⸻

“Target last seen heading westbound on foot. She’s injured,” Thorn’s voice snapped through the comms, sharp and clear as a vibroblade. “Bleeding. She won’t get far.”

Commander Fox didn’t respond right away.

He didn’t need to.

He was already moving—boots pounding against ferrocrete, crimson armor flashing in the underglow of gutter lights. His DC-17s were hot. Loaded. He’d cleared the last alley by himself. Found the blood trail smeared across a rusted wall. Confirmed it wasn’t fresh. Confirmed she was smart enough to double back.

Fox’s jaw tensed behind the helmet. That voice. That memory. He hated that it still echoed.

He hated what she’d made him feel back then—what she still made him feel now.

“She was ours,” Thorn said suddenly, voice low on a private channel. “She trained us. Named us. And now she’s—”

“A liability,” Fox snapped.

A pause.

Then Thorn said, “So are you.”

She’d been moving for thirty-six hours straight.

Blood caked her gloves. Her ribs were cracked. One eye nearly swollen shut. And still—still—she’d smiled when she saw the Guard flooding the streets for her.

“Miss me, boys?” she whispered, ducking into an old speeder lot, sliding through a maintenance tunnel like she’d been born in the underworld.

Fox was five minutes behind her. Thorn was closer.

She was running out of time.

So she did what she swore she wouldn’t.

She pressed a long-dead frequency into her wrist comm and whispered:

“You still owe me.”

⸻

Fox was waiting for her at the extraction point.

He stood in front of the old freight elevator. Helmet on. Blaster raised. Shoulders squared. He hadn’t spoken in five minutes. Hadn’t moved in ten.

When she limped into view, he didn’t aim. Not yet.

“You’re bleeding,” he said, voice flat.

“You’re still wearing your helmet,” she rasped.

He didn’t answer.

“Why?” she asked. “Why don’t you ever take it off anymore?”

That hit something.

He didn’t move, but the silence that followed was heavier than armor.

“You think if you bury the man I trained, the one I named, then maybe you don’t have to feel what you felt?” she asked, stepping closer. “Or maybe—maybe you think the helmet will stop you from loving the woman you’re supposed to kill.”

Fox raised his blaster.

“I’m not that man anymore.”

“And I’m not the woman who left you behind,” she said.

Then she charged him.

They hit the ground hard.

She drove her elbow into his side, but he blocked it—twisted—slammed her onto the deck. She kicked his knee, flipped him over, caught a glimpse of his face beneath the shifting helmet seal—eyes wild. Angry. Broken.

Their fight wasn’t clean. It wasn’t choreographed.

It was personal.

Every strike was a memory. Every chokehold a betrayal.

She got the upper hand—until Fox caught her wrist, yanked her forward, and headbutted her hard enough to split her lip.

“Stay down,” he growled.

But she was already back on her feet, staggering.

“You first.”

She lunged. He met her.

For one second, he nearly won.

And then—

The roar of repulsors screamed overhead.

A ship—low and mean—swooped in like a vulture. Slave I.

Fox’s head snapped up.

From the cockpit, Boba Fett gave a two-fingered salute.

From the ramp, Bossk snarled: “Hurry up, darlin’. We’re on a timer.”

She spun, landed one final kick to Fox’s side, and leapt.

He caught her foot—just for a second.

Their eyes locked.

She whispered, “You’ll have to be faster than that, Commander.”

Fox’s grip slipped.

She vanished into the belly of the ship.

The ship shot skyward, cutting between the towers of Coruscant, gone in a blink.

Fox lay back on the duracrete, chest heaving, blood in his mouth.

Thorn’s voice crackled in his comm:

“You get her?”

Fox didn’t answer.

He just stared at the sky, helmet still on, and muttered:

“Next time.”

⸻

The hum of hyperspace thrummed through her ribs like a heartbeat she hadn’t trusted in years.

She sat on the edge of the med-bench, wiping blood from her mouth, cheek split open from Fox’s headbutt. Boba threw her a rag without looking.

“You look like shab.”

She gave a low, painful laugh. “Better than dead. Thanks for the pickup.”

Boba didn’t answer right away. He just leaned back in the co-pilot’s chair, helmet off, arms crossed over his chest like a teenager who wasn’t quite ready to say what he meant.

“You could’ve called sooner, you know,” he finally muttered. “Would’ve come faster.”

“I know,” she said, quiet.

Bosk snorted from the cockpit. “Sentimental karkin’ clones. Always needin’ someone to save their shebs.”

She ignored him.

Boba didn’t. “Stow it, lizard.”

After a beat, he glanced back at her. “You’re not going back, are you?”

She didn’t answer.

“You should stay,” Boba said. “The crew’s solid. And you’re… you were like an older sister. On Kamino. When it was just me and those cold halls. You didn’t treat me like a copy.”

That one hit her like a vibroblade to the gut.

“I couldn’t stand seeing your face,” she admitted. “All I saw was Jango.”

He looked away. “Yeah. Well… I am him.”

She stood, stepped over to him, and rested a bruised hand on his shoulder.

“You’re better. You got his spine, his stubbornness. But you’ve got your own code, too. Jango… Jango would’ve left me behind if it suited him. You didn’t.”

He looked at her, lip twitching. “Yeah, well. You trained half the commanders in the GAR. You think I was about to let Fox be the one to kill you?”

She smirked. “Sentimental.”

He rolled his eyes. “Shut up.”

She moved toward the ramp. “Thank you, Boba. But I can’t stay.”

“You don’t have to run forever.”

“No,” she said, voice thick. “Just long enough to finish what I started.”

And with that, she slipped through the rear hatch, into the wind, into whatever system they dropped her in next.

⸻

Wolffe stood silent, arms folded, helmet tucked under one arm. Thorn sat across from him, jaw tight, armor scraped and bloodied.

Plo Koon entered without fanfare, his robes trailing dust from the Outer Rim.

“You two look like you’ve seen a ghost,” the Kel Dor said mildly.

“She might as well be,” Thorn muttered.

“We had her,” Wolffe said. “Fox did. And she slipped through his fingers.”

Plo regarded them both for a long moment.

“I assume there is tension because Fox and Thorn were in charge of the op?”

Wolffe’s jaw tightened.

Thorn spoke first. “She’s dangerous. She’s working with bounty hunters now. It’s only a matter of time before she turns that knife toward the Republic.”

“Perhaps,” Plo murmured, folding his hands. “Or perhaps she is a wounded soldier, betrayed by the very people she once called vode.”

Wolffe’s shoulders stiffened.

“She made her choice,” he said flatly.

“And yet,” Plo said, gently, “I sense hesitation in you, Commander. Pain.”

Wolffe didn’t respond.

“She is off-world now,” the Jedi continued, glancing at a tactical holo. “Potentially aligned with Separatist sympathizers. The Senate will push for her recapture. But I believe it would be wiser… more effective… for the 104th to take point on tracking her.”

Thorn straightened. “The Guard’s been assigned—”

“And you failed,” Plo said, not unkindly. “Let Wolffe try. Perhaps what’s needed now is not more firepower… but familiarity.”

Wolffe met Plo’s gaze. “You’re using this as a chance to fix me.”

“I’m giving you a chance,” Plo corrected. “To understand. To remember who she really is. Not what she became.”

Silence.

Then Wolffe slowly nodded.

“Then I’ll bring her in.”

Plo’s gaze softened beneath his mask.

“Or maybe,” he said, turning to leave, “you’ll let her bring you back.”

⸻

The atmosphere stank like rust and rot. Arix-7 was a graveyard of ships and skeletons—metal, bone, old wreckage from a thousand forgotten battles. The 104th picked through it like wolves in a burial field.

Wolffe moved ahead of the squad, visor low, silent.

Boost sidled up beside him. “You know, this place kinda reminds me of her. Sharp, full of ghosts, and ready to kill you if you step wrong.”

Sinker snorted. “Yeah, but she smelled better.”

“Cut the chatter,” Wolffe growled, tone clipped.

Boost shrugged. “Just saying. Weird to be tracking the person who taught you how to hold a blaster.”

“Worse to be planning how to shoot her,” Sinker added, quieter.

Wolffe didn’t respond.

He just kept moving.

They found her in the remains of a Republic frigate, buried deep in the moon’s crust, converted into a hideout. Cracked floors, scattered gear, a heat signature blinking faint and wounded—but moving.

She knew they were coming.

She was waiting.

⸻

They found her in the wreck of an old Separatist cruiser, rusted deep into the jagged crust of the moon. Sinker and Boost had gone in first—quick, confident, all muscle and old banter. That didn’t save them from being outmaneuvered and knocked out cold.

Wolffe found their unconscious bodies first. And then, her.

She stepped into the light like a shadow peeling off the wall—hood pulled low, face scraped and bloodied but eyes still burning.

“You always send the pups in first?” she asked. “Or were they just stupid enough to come on their own?”

Wolffe charged her without a word.

Hand-to-hand. Just like she trained him.

But she didn’t hold back this time—and neither did he.

She was still faster. Still sharper. Still cruel with her movements, a blade honed by years outside the Republic’s rule.

But Wolffe had strength and control, and he’d stopped pulling punches years ago.

They traded blows. She bloodied his mouth. He cracked her ribs. He pinned her. She slipped free.

Then came him.

The air shifted—sharp with ozone and tension—and suddenly Plo Coon was between them. Calm. Powerful. Alien eyes behind his antiox mask, watching her without familiarity, without sentiment.

“Step down,” Plo said.

She bristled. “Another Jedi. Wonderful. Let me guess—here to ‘redeem’ me?”

“I don’t know you,” Plo answered. “But I know what you’ve done. And I know you were once theirs.”

“I was never yours.”

“Good,” Plo said, igniting his saber. “Then this will be easier.”

They fought.

The air crackled.

She struck first—fast and brutal, close-range, aiming to disable before he could bring the Force to bear. But Plo Coon had fought Sith, droids, beasts. He wasn’t unprepared for feral grace and dirty tricks.

He parried. Dodged. Let her come to him.

“You’re angry,” he said through gritted teeth. “But not lost.”

She lunged. “You don’t know me.”

“No. But I sense your pain. You’re not just running. You’re bleeding.”

“Pain is what’s kept me alive!”

He knocked her off balance, sent her tumbling. She scrambled, but he held her in place with a subtle lift of the hand, the Force pinning her in a crouch.

“Enough,” he said, not unkindly.

She panted, teeth grit, shoulders trembling.

“I don’t know why you left them. I don’t care. I only ask you stop now, before someone dies who doesn’t need to.”

Her gaze flicked past him, to Wolffe—who stood in silence, jaw tight, one eye focused and guarded.

“You Jedi think you know everything,” she hissed. “But you don’t know what it’s like to train them. To love them. And to choose between them.”

That made Plo pause.

“I chose nothing,” she said. “And it still broke them.”

The silence that followed was colder than the void outside.

Plo stared at her for a long moment.

Then, slowly—he stepped back.

Released the Force.

“You’ll run again,” he said, saber still lit. “But I won’t be the one to kill someone trying to hold herself together.”

She blinked.

“You’re… letting me go?”

“I’m giving you a moment,” he said. “What you do with it is yours to answer for.”

Wolffe took a step forward.

Plo stopped him with a look.

“She’s off world. Unarmed. And—” his voice lowered, “—no longer a priority.”

Wolffe’s fists clenched.

She didn’t wait.

She bolted into the wreckage, shadows swallowing her whole. Gone again.

This time, no one followed.

Commander Fox x Singer/PA Reader pt.4

The base had fallen into chaos. The sharp beeping of alarms echoed through the corridors, sending waves of tension throughout the facility. It was a rare moment of vulnerability for the Republic, and the last thing anyone had expected was Cad Bane, the notorious bounty hunter, to escape from his containment cell.

The guard stationed at his cell had been lax, and the mistake had proven costly. The high-alert klaxon sounded through the base as soon as Bane's cell had been breached, and every clone in the vicinity had scrambled to act. The corridors buzzed with the hurried footsteps of soldiers moving to secure the area, but the fugitive had already disappeared into the shadows.

Fox had been among the first to respond, his focus sharp as ever. His instincts were honed for situations like this—situation after situation where quick thinking was required. He'd immediately ordered a lockdown, sending squads to lock down the base and search every inch of the facility, but Bane had always been a step ahead.

Thorn, ever the stoic and capable commander, had taken charge of the search team. He was methodical, ensuring every room, every vent, every corner of the base was scoured. His calm, commanding presence calmed the other clones as they executed their assignments, and the search continued with the precision only a seasoned commander could bring.

As for you, you were, as usual, observing from the sidelines. The office had cleared out, with most of the staff focused on the lockdown. It wasn't often the facility was on such high alert, and you'd been relegated to helping with the more menial tasks. Even so, you couldn't help but be drawn into the chaos.

Through the halls, you had heard Fox's voice, barking orders into his comm as he led the charge to track Bane's escape route. It was the kind of mission Fox thrived in—the kind that required focus and relentless determination. But as the hours ticked on, you could tell he was growing more frustrated. Bane was slipping through their fingers.

It wasn't until the sun began to set, casting long shadows across the base, that Fox returned. His boots clicked sharply against the floor, his jaw set, his face as hard as stone. He was visibly irritated, his focus laser-sharp, but the frustration was palpable. He had always been able to handle these types of situations, but Bane was something else—slippery, cunning, and relentless.

"You should've seen the way he slipped past us," Fox muttered to Thorn as he strode into the command center, his eyes never leaving the glowing screens in front of him. "He's too good. We're gonna have to rework our entire strategy if we're going to catch him."

Thorn didn't reply immediately, though you could tell he shared the same frustration. "He's still here. We'll find him. No one's getting out of this base."

Fox glanced at him sharply, his eyes betraying a rare vulnerability. "That's not the problem," he said, the words more clipped than usual. "The problem is he's playing us. I'll need to stay focused, Thorn. This won't be over until he's back in his cell."

The tension in the air thickened, the base still on high alert. The clones moved efficiently, conducting their sweep of the area, but Fox's mind was elsewhere. The escape had rattled him in a way that wasn't typical. Maybe it was because Bane had outsmarted them—or maybe because he had already begun thinking of what could come next. Whatever it was, Fox wasn't about to let it distract him from the task at hand.

As the day wore on, the base remained under lockdown, but you knew Fox would need a break. That night, you had something to offer him that he didn't expect.

***

The stage at 79's was dimly lit, the familiar hum of the bar filling the space. The crowd had gathered, and you could feel the pulse of anticipation in the air as you stepped onto the stage. The drinks were flowing, the conversations were louder than usual, and the usual mix of soldiers and off-duty personnel filled the room. But tonight, you weren't just going to be a face in the crowd. You were going to perform, as you always did—letting the music take over and letting the world around you fade.

When you took the stage, the room quieted, and the eyes of those in the bar turned toward you. A guitar hung around your neck, your fingers brushing over the strings as you tuned it just before you began. It was almost like you could feel the weight of Fox's gaze on you, even though you didn't look for him.

You'd spotted him earlier when you entered, standing near the back of the room. His usual stoic presence made him blend into the shadows, but there was no mistaking him. Commander Fox had made his way to 79's, a rare moment of him stepping outside of his usual duties, and you knew exactly why he was there.

He was here to watch you.

You started your set, letting the rhythm of the music flow through you. The crowd was hooked, as they always were, but tonight, there was something different. As the song progressed, you caught his eye—he wasn't just watching anymore. His gaze had softened, and for a moment, he wasn't the hardened commander. He was just Fox—someone who had chosen to be here, to be with you, in this space.

After the final note rang out, the crowd applauded, and you stepped down from the stage. Fox was already at the bar, a drink in hand, though he hadn't touched it. His eyes tracked you as you made your way over, a brief nod to acknowledge his presence before he looked at you directly.

"That was..." Fox began, his voice low, yet genuine. He searched for the right words, his usual confidence slipping as he softened. "I didn't expect that."

You grinned, your heart racing. "What? That I could hold a tune? You doubt me, Fox?"

His lips twitched in what almost resembled a smile. "I didn't doubt you." His eyes lingered on you, a shift in his expression. "You're more than I imagined."

It was the quiet admission you hadn't expected, but it was everything you needed to hear. Fox had always been careful with his words, but tonight, the mask had slipped, just enough to see something raw underneath.

You stepped closer to him, the moment charged with a tension neither of you could ignore. The crowd's noise faded into the background as you stood before him, the space between you almost electrified.

Without thinking, you reached up, fingers brushing lightly against his jaw. He didn't pull away; instead, his eyes darkened, and his hand rested gently on your waist, a silent invitation.

And then, with no more words needed, you kissed him—slow, tentative at first, but deepening as the weight of everything between you came rushing to the surface. Fox's hand moved to your back, pulling you closer, his kiss almost desperate, as though he were trying to make up for lost time. When you finally pulled away, both of you were breathless.

"Fox..." you whispered, your voice soft, yet full of meaning.

"I've always wanted to say this," he murmured, his forehead resting against yours. "I don't know when it happened... but I care about you. More than I should."

You couldn't stop the smile that tugged at your lips. "I care about you too, Fox."

And in that moment, surrounded by the music and the chaos of 79's, nothing else mattered. Not the war, not the Republic, not the danger that always loomed just outside the door. All that mattered was the person standing in front of you—the person who had finally let down their walls and confessed the truth.

The escape had been contained, but you knew this moment—this feeling—wouldn't escape either.

Commander Fox x Singer/PA Reader pt.3

The lights of Coruscant buzzed in their never-ending hum, a sharp contrast to the stillness that surrounded you as you made your way through the narrow halls of the Coruscant Guard's administrative building. The click of your boots echoed off the walls, and the air was thick with the usual tension.

As you passed by the cubicles, you could feel the weight of eyes on you—Trina's, mostly. She was at her desk, pretending to focus on a datapad but failing to hide the sharp, cutting glance she shot your way. You had no idea what her deal was, but it was like every move you made was another opportunity for her to find fault.

Kess, the other assistant, had been trying to remain neutral—sometimes siding with Trina, sometimes siding with you. But today, it was clear where she stood. She gave you a little shrug, an apologetic look, and then quickly turned her attention to Trina.

"I don't get it, Kess. Why do you always side with her?" Trina hissed, loud enough for you to hear, but not quite loud enough to be overtly disrespectful.

Kess tried to defuse the situation with a laugh, but it was hollow. "I just think we should all get along, that's all."

"Oh, please," Trina scoffed. "I think we all know whose side you're really on."

You rolled your eyes and turned to leave, not wanting to engage in their petty rivalry any longer. But then, the doors slid open to reveal Commander Fox standing in the hallway, his usual stoic demeanor unwavering as he crossed his arms over his chest.

"You're needed," Fox said simply, his voice low, betraying no hint of emotion.

You followed him into the briefing room, where the walls were covered in reports and intelligence updates. There was a strange energy in the air today, one you couldn't quite put your finger on. Fox stood by a table littered with datapads, his face hardening as he looked at one of the reports.

"Everything okay, Fox?" you asked casually, leaning against the table.

He didn't look at you, but his voice was thick with something you couldn't quite read. "It's nothing."

"You sure?" you pressed, your gaze narrowing.

Fox turned to face you, his eyes briefly meeting yours before he glanced away, his jaw tight. "You mentioned something earlier. About being nearly murdered by a galactic legend last night. What did you mean by that?"

For a split second, his stoic mask cracked, the faintest trace of concern flitting across his face before he locked it down again. But it didn't go unnoticed by you.

You hesitated. The mention of Aurra Sing, the bounty hunter, still lingered in your mind. You'd barely escaped her grasp, but her motives were still unclear. You'd been too shaken to process it at the time, but now the gravity of the situation was settling in.

"I—" You swallowed hard. "It's nothing, Fox. Just a run-in with a bounty hunter. Aurra Sing"

His face hardened at the mention of her.

"I'm not sure why she's after me, but... she was too close. I didn't think I'd make it out of there last night." You shrugged, trying to brush off the gravity of it all, but you could see the concern building behind his eyes. "I wasn't exactly planning on being in the line of fire, if you catch my drift."

Fox's posture didn't shift, but you could sense the tension in his stance. "You should have told me," he said, his voice betraying more emotion than usual.

You snorted. "I didn't think it would be a big deal, Fox. It's just a bounty hunter."

His gaze softened for just a moment, but it quickly turned back to its usual stoic intensity. "You're not just some bystander. You're important. Don't make light of things like this again. Understood?"

You nodded, meeting his gaze for a moment. "Understood."

The conversation was cut short as the door to the briefing room slammed open, and Trina entered, her eyes flashing with that usual arrogance. "Did I hear something about a bounty hunter?" she sneered, her gaze landing on you with more than a touch of disdain. "What, are you some kind of target now? Seems like trouble follows you everywhere."

Kess lingered in the doorway, but she was much quieter today, hanging back like she wasn't sure where her loyalties lay. It was like she was trying to gauge the room before making her move.

Fox's eyes flashed with annoyance, but his voice remained calm, controlled. "Trina, that's enough."

Trina narrowed her eyes at him. "You can't seriously be buying into her little story, can you? A galactic legend hunting her down? I don't know about you, but it sounds like someone's fishing for sympathy."

Fox turned his gaze back to you for a moment, and then back to Trina. "You'll need to mind your tone, Trina. This is a serious matter."

Trina huffed, clearly not impressed, but she didn't say anything else. She gave you a final look of contempt before storming out of the room, leaving the air heavy with her disdain.

Kess shifted uncomfortably in the doorway, watching the exchange. "Is everything okay?" she asked, her voice quiet, almost unsure.

Fox glanced at you, then back at Kess. "For now. But we'll be keeping a close eye on things. Don't take your safety lightly, not with Aurra Sing around." He paused before adding, "If anything else happens, you come to me."

You nodded, feeling the weight of his words, but also the strange comfort of having someone like Fox looking out for you—even if it wasn't in the way you had expected.

As you walked back to your desk, the tension in the office hadn't died down. Trina and Kess were still at each other's throats, but something had changed in the dynamic. And somewhere in the background, you couldn't shake the feeling that Aurra Sing's shadow still loomed over you, and it was only a matter of time before she made her next move.

But for now, you had to survive the office politics—and the bounty hunter.

_ _ _

The hum of Coruscant's busy atmosphere felt oddly quiet as you returned to the office. It was a stark contrast to the calm, serene days you'd spent on Naboo. Your cousin's hospitality had been a much-needed reprieve, and the peaceful landscapes of Naboo had offered the perfect escape from the usual chaos. You couldn't help but feel recharged, the stress of office politics and bounty hunters temporarily forgotten.

You'd left without telling anyone, of course. The usual message to Fox had been a casual *"By the way, I'm off-world, visiting my cousin. I'll be back around this time."* No leave request, no formalities. It was just how you operated. And now, here you were—back, and very much prepared to deal with the aftermath of your absence.

As you entered the office, the first thing you noticed was the silence. It hung thick in the air, broken only by the soft click of your boots against the floor. You spotted Trina immediately, her eyes narrowing as she glanced up at you, her arms crossed.

"Oh, look who finally graces us with her presence," Trina sneered, her voice dripping with sarcasm as she threw a pile of reports onto your desk. "What, were you living the good life on Naboo while the rest of us were stuck here, keeping things running?"

You didn't even flinch at her attitude. Instead, you casually dropped your bag on the desk and powered up your datapad, skimming through messages as though her words weren't even worth your attention.

Kess, standing by her desk, raised an eyebrow but remained quiet, not wanting to escalate things further. She was always caught between trying to keep the peace and avoiding the conflict that always seemed to bubble up around Trina.

But then the door slid open, and in walked Thorn, Thire, and Hound—three of the most notorious clones for adding fuel to the office drama. Thorn, in particular, was known for his stoic demeanor, but he was more than willing to throw in a comment or two, just to watch the chaos unfold.

Thorn leaned against the doorframe with a raised eyebrow, his voice as dry as ever. "Well, well, look who's back from her little getaway," he said, his eyes scanning the room. "I'm sure Naboo was *just* what the doctor ordered."

Hound, standing near the back of the room, smirked and crossed his arms. "Yeah, must've been real rough out there. Too bad the rest of us couldn't get the same luxury treatment."

Thire chuckled, shooting you a teasing glance. "I hope you at least got some time to relax. Sounds like a vacation we could all use."

You barely looked up as you replied, still focused on your datapad. "Oh, it was great. Thanks for asking."

Trina, unable to resist taking another shot, leaned in, her voice sharp. "Must've been nice to disappear for a week. Some of us have responsibilities around here, you know."

You let out a quiet sigh, rolling your eyes. "I'm sure you've been holding down the fort, Trina," you said with exaggerated sweetness, giving her a quick, condescending smile.

Thorn, clearly enjoying the tension, glanced at the clones before turning back to you with a small smirk. "I think she's just jealous she didn't get a taste of the *relaxing* life you got to have," he teased, his tone completely deadpan.

But there was a shift in his expression, a flicker of something more serious when he glanced at Fox, who had silently entered the room and was now standing near the doorway. Thorn knew better than to press too far. The clones may have loved watching office drama, but they also knew where the line was—and that line was Commander Fox.

Fox gave no outward sign of having heard the comments, but there was something in the air that shifted the mood. Thorn, always in control of his own stoic composure, simply raised an eyebrow and backed off, sensing Fox's presence. He gave one last glance in your direction before turning to the rest of the room.

"We'll leave you to it, then," Thorn said, his tone neutral as he motioned to the clones. "But next time you decide to vanish for a while, let us know, yeah?"

The clones, now looking cautiously at Fox, quickly filtered out of the room, but not without throwing a few more playful glances your way. They were clearly amused by the little spectacle they'd just witnessed. Thorn, despite his reserved nature, couldn't resist a little chaos, and watching Trina's sour face as you returned was too good a moment to miss.

Once the clones had left, the tension in the room became almost palpable. Trina's smug smile faded as she shot you another look. "Must be nice to have that much freedom," she said, but her voice had lost a little of its bite. The reality was, she was on the defensive now, unsure of how to react to the clones' comments.

Kess took a step back from the situation, unsure of where to align herself today. She shifted from one foot to the other, glancing between Trina and you, caught in the middle of their rivalry.

You leaned back in your chair, eyes still locked on your datapad, completely unfazed by the tension. "It is nice," you said, the words casual, but there was an edge to your tone. "But if you need anything, you know where to find me."

Trina opened her mouth to retort, but was cut off by Fox's voice, now much more authoritative. "That's enough, Trina," he said, his tone calm but firm. "I've had enough of the games today. Everyone, focus on the tasks at hand."

Trina huffed, muttering under her breath before turning back to her desk, clearly not done but not willing to escalate things further. Kess, sensing the shift, returned to her own work, though she kept glancing at you and the ongoing office drama with a hint of curiosity.

Fox looked at you for a moment, his gaze steady, as if weighing something in the air between you. But he said nothing more, and you knew better than to press him.

The rest of the day passed in a haze of passive-aggressive glances, subtle jabs, and quiet interactions. But as the hours ticked by, you felt a sense of amusement, even pride, that the office still couldn't figure you out—despite the clones' attempts to stir the pot, the undercurrent of rivalry, and the ever-present drama.

As long as you had your freedom, nothing could keep you down. Not even the endless office politics.

Commander Fox x Singer/PA Reader pt. 2

There was an unspoken tradition at the Coruscant Guard offices: the moment you showed up, coffee cups paused mid-air, datapads lowered, and someone inevitably muttered, "Oh look, she's still alive."

You strolled in two weeks late, absolutely glowing.

"Didn't know we were giving out extended vacations now," Trina said, her words clipped like a blaster bolt. "Maybe I should fake a spiritual awakening and disappear too."

You peeled off your sunglasses and smiled sweetly. "You should. Maybe they'll find your personality out there."

Snickers echoed through the hall.

Trina's eyes narrowed into twin black holes of corporate rage. "Commander Fox has been asking where you were."

That gave you the slightest pause. "Oh? Worried I was dead?"

She shrugged. "Or hoping."

You shot her a wink and breezed past, fully aware your hair looked too perfect for someone who just "found herself in nature."

---

Fox found you twenty minutes later, posted up at your desk with your boots on said desk, sipping caf and flipping through a holo-mag like someone who was not, in fact, two weeks behind on reports.

He stood silently at your side until you acknowledged him.

"Commander," you said brightly. "Miss me?"

"You disappeared. Again."

You looked up at him with the most innocent expression in the galaxy. "Went on a spiritual retreat."

He raised an eyebrow. "To where?"

"Kashyyyk. Hung out with some Wookiees. Meditated. Learned how to nap in trees."

Fox stared. You kept sipping your caf.

"They're big on inner peace," you added, deadpan. "Also, apparently I snore."

He didn't smile. But he also didn't press. Just that slow blink of his, the way his gaze lingered a little too long like he was cataloguing bruises or new scars.

"You weren't hurt?" he asked.

You softened. Just a little. "No, Commander. I wasn't hurt."

He nodded once and walked away.

*He cared.*

He'd never say it. But it was there.

---

Later that week, you returned from your mandatory ethics seminar—snoozefest—only to find your desk had been mysteriously moved... into the hallway.

Trina passed by with a smug little strut. "You missed a lot of meetings. We needed the space."

You leaned back in your new spot. "You know, if this is your way of flirting, I'm flattered."

"I'd rather kiss a Hutt."

You gasped. "Don't tempt me with a good time."

---

That night, you sang again at 79's. A slower set this time. Sadder. You weren't sure why—maybe something about Fox's voice that day still stuck with you.

And just like always... he was there.

Helmet off. Silent in the corner.

You sang to him without saying it. And when you left the club through the back again, this time you didn't get far before his voice stopped you.

"Wait."

You turned. "Following me again?"

He stepped closer. Not quite in your space. But close enough that you could see the faint tension in his jaw.

"I thought something happened," he said quietly.

You swallowed. "Fox—"

"Next time, just tell someone."

You blinked. "Why?"

A long pause.

"Because if something *did* happen," he said, "I'd want to know."

And then, like he couldn't bear to say more, he turned and walked into the night.

You watched him go, heart tight, a laugh threatening to rise in your throat just to cover the way your chest ached.

Aurra Sing had said you were valuable.

Fox... made you feel seen.

And somewhere in the distance, under the glow of Coruscant's neon skyline, a shadow watched.

Waiting.

---

The next morning, your desk was still in the hallway.

Trina had redecorated the spot where it used to be with a potted plant and a framed motivational poster that read "Discipline Defines You." You were considering setting it on fire.

"Morning, Sunshine," you chirped as you walked past her with your caf. "How's the tyrannical dictatorship going?"

Trina didn't even flinch. "At least I show up for work."

"Oh, please. If you were a droid, you'd overheat from micromanaging."

And there it was—that smirk from the other assistant.

Kess.

She leaned over her desk like she was watching a drama unfold in real time. "Okay, okay, play nice, girls. It's not even second caf yet."

Trina rolled her eyes. "Pick a side, Kess."

Kess grinned. "I like the view from the middle."

You narrowed your eyes. "You said Trina once threatened to replace your shampoo with grease trap water."

"She was joking," Kess said quickly.

"I was not," Trina snapped.

"I mean... still better than your perfume," you added under your breath.

Kess audibly choked on her tea.

---

Later that day, Commander Fox called you into his office.

The tension in the room dropped the moment you stepped inside, replaced by something electric and quiet. He didn't say anything at first, just stared at you like he was trying to decide if you were a puzzle or a headache.

"You vanished for two weeks," he finally said. "Now your overdue reports are two months overdue."

"I'll get to them," you said lightly, flopping into the chair opposite him. "Eventually."

Fox pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Also," you added, "Trina moved my desk into the hallway. Which I'm 80% sure is illegal."

"I'll talk to her."

You blinked. "You will?"

"She's not your superior."

A strange warmth bloomed in your chest. You masked it with sarcasm. "So chivalrous, Commander."

He gave you a look, one corner of his mouth twitching. "Just don't give me a reason to regret it."

---

That night at 79's the lights were low and your voice was velvet as you sang something slow and sultry. The bar was busy, but you spotted him—Fox, helmet off again, watching like he always did. Quiet. Unmoving. Yours, just for the length of a song.

You left through the back after your set, wrapping your coat tighter around yourself as the cool Coruscant air bit at your skin.

You didn't hear the footsteps until it was too late.

A hand slammed against the wall near your head, and a sharp voice coiled around you like a whip.

"Well, well. Songbirds off duty again."

Aurra Sing.

Her chalk-white skin shimmered in the streetlight, that deadly antenna gleaming above her forehead. She smiled without warmth.

"I've been watching you," she said. "You've got... potential."

You stepped back, heart hammering. "I'm not interested."

"No?" She clicked her tongue. "You work with the Guard. You're close with the Marshal Commander. You wander the galaxy without ever leaving a trace. I could use someone like that."

"I'm not a bounty hunter."

She leaned in closer, voice dropping. "Yet."

Your fingers twitched near your concealed weapon. Aurra's eyes flicked down and back, amused.

"Relax. I'm not here to kill you," she said. "Just... reminding you that people are watching. And not just me."

She melted back into the shadows before you could respond.

You stood alone in the alley, breath shaky, heart pounding.

You weren't scared.

But you were very, very awake.

---

The next morning, Trina took one look at you dragging yourself into work late with dark circles under your eyes and said, "Did the retreat monks kick you out for being annoying?"

Kess tried to stifle her laugh and failed.

You just smirked. "If you must know, I was nearly murdered by a galactic legend last night. What did *you* do, Trina? Color-code the caf pods again?"

Fox passed by just as you said it, pausing only to glance at you—an unreadable look in his eyes.

You gave him a half-smile.

He didn't return it.

But his hand twitched near his blaster.

He'd heard. And that meant he knew something was off.

You were starting to wonder if you were the one being watched… or the one being protected.

---

Title: Command and Consequence

Fox x Reader x Wolffe

Summary: Your a friend of Jango Fett’s, he had asked you to come to Kamino to help train clone cadets, more specifically the cadets who were pre selected as commanders. Pre-Clone Wars. Pretty much just a love triangle between my fav clones. Bit angsty towards the end.

⸻

You hadn’t even wanted the job.

Kamino was cold, clinical, and crawling with wide-eyed clones who couldn’t shoot straight or punch worth a damn. But Jango had asked. And when Jango Fett asked, you didn’t exactly say no.

So, you found yourself here, drowning in rain and the hollow clatter of trooper boots on durasteel, overseeing the elite cadets being fast-tracked to become clone commanders.

They weren’t commanders yet. Not officially. But the Kaminoans had flagged a few standouts early—Fox, Wolffe, Cody, Bly, Neyo, Gree—and they were yours now.

Jango called them assets.

You called them projects.

Most of them respected you. Some feared you. And then there were those two.

Fox and Wolffe.

Walking disasters. Brilliant tacticians. Fiercely loyal. And completely, irredeemably idiotic when it came to you.

They’d been vying for your attention since day one—squabbling, sparring, brawling—and you’d brushed it off. Flirting wasn’t new to you. You knew how to shut it down. But these two? These two were stubborn. And clever. And just reckless enough to keep you on your toes.

You stood now at the edge of one of the open training rings, arms folded, T-visor reflecting a dozen cadets going through various drills. Cody was holding his own in a two-on-one blaster sim. Bly was shouting orders like he thought he owned the place. Gree was crouched in the mud, recalibrating his training rifle mid-drill.

But your eyes were on Fox and Wolffe, again.

They were arguing by the supply crates, the tension between them so thick it might’ve passed as heat if Kamino weren’t freezing.

“I’m telling you,” Wolffe was growling, “she was talking to me yesterday.”

“Right,” Fox drawled. “She called you ‘uncoordinated and overconfident.’ Sounds like flirting to me.”

“You don’t get it, she’s Mandalorian. That’s basically a compliment.”

“Boys.” Your voice sliced through the rain like a vibroblade.

They both snapped to attention so fast they nearly knocked heads.

“Get in the ring.” You didn’t even raise your voice. “Now.”

Fox and Wolffe exchanged a look—equal parts dread and defiance.

“Yes, instructor,” they muttered.

“I want five laps if either of you so much as winks.”

You tossed a training staff toward Fox. He caught it clumsily and frowned. “What, no sim?”

“Nope. You’re with me.”

Somewhere behind you, you heard Bly mutter, “He’s dead.”

“Pay attention to your drill, cadet,” you barked.

Fox stepped into the ring with the same confidence he wore into every disaster. “Try not to go easy on me, yeah?”

You didn’t dignify that with a response.

The fight started fast. Fox was quick, smooth, used his weight well—but you’d trained on Sundari’s cliffs, in Death Watch gauntlets, and in the company of monsters who made even Jango look tame.

Fox didn’t stand a chance.

He lasted maybe three minutes before you dropped him with a shoulder feint and a sweep that sent him crashing into the mat.

“Dead,” you said flatly, planting your boot on his chest.

Fox groaned. “You always this brutal with your favorites?”

“You’re not my favorite.”

“Oof.”

Then—Wolffe shoved past the other cadets and stepped into the ring.

“That’s enough,” he said, voice tight. “He’s training, not being punished.”

You cocked your head. “You volunteering?”

“I’m not letting you flatten my brother without a fight.”

You smirked behind the visor. “Your funeral.”

What followed was nothing short of combat comedy.

Wolffe was sharper than Fox. Calculated. But he was still a cadet. You pushed him hard—Mando-style, merciless, unrelenting. Rain slicked the mat, thunder cracked outside, and your staff never slowed.

Wolffe held his own longer.

But he was still losing.

Then, desperate—he lunged.

And bit you.

Right on the bicep.

“Kriffing—”

You staggered back, jerking your arm away, teeth clenching as the pain bloomed under your armor.

“Did you just—did you bite me?!”

Wolffe, still crouched and panting, looked horrified. “You weren’t stopping!”

Fox, flat on his back, howled with laughter. “You feral loth-cat! What, was headbutting too civilized?”

You peeled your glove off and stared at the bite. “You drew blood,” you growled. “I liked this undersuit.”

“Instinct,” Wolffe muttered.

“Idiot,” you shot back.

By now, the other cadets had gathered around the ring, wide-eyed and whispering. You turned slowly to the group.

“Let this be a lesson. I don’t care if you’re a cadet, a commander, or kriffing Supreme Chancellor himself—if you bite me, I bite back.”

Fox wheezed. “She’s not joking. I’ve seen her take out two bounty hunters with a broken fork.”

You jabbed a finger at him. “Fifteen laps, Fox. For running your mouth.”

Fox dragged himself upright and groaned, limping toward the track.

Wolffe started to follow.

You grabbed his pauldron.

“Don’t ever use your teeth in a fight again, unless you’re actually dying.”

“Yes, instructor.”

“…And next time, if you are gonna bite, aim higher.”

He blinked.

And you walked off, bleeding, storming, and already plotting their next humiliation.

Commanders?

Kriff.

They were barely house-trained.

⸻

The morning after the Bite Incident started like most—grey skies, howling wind, and Kaminoan side-eyes.

You strode onto the training deck in full gear, fresh bandage wrapped over the healing bite mark on your arm. The clones were already lined up, posture rigid, eyes straight. You could feel the tension radiating from the group like a bad smell. No doubt they’d all heard the rumors.

One of them bit you. And lived.

You stopped in front of them, hands behind your back. “Which of you thought it was smart to bet on me losing?”

Half the group tensed. Cody coughed.

You didn’t wait for an answer. “Double rations go to the one who bet I’d win and that one of you idiots would end up chewing on my armor.”

That got a chuckle—nervous, brief—but it broke the tension. Good. You weren’t here to baby them. You were here to make them legends.

“Group drills today. Partner up.”

Predictably, Fox beelined for your side. “So. How’s the arm?” he asked, lips twitching.

You turned slightly, giving him just enough of a smirk. “Tender. Wanna kiss it better?”

Fox visibly froze. For the first time in all the months you’d trained him, he blinked like a man who’d just taken a thermal detonator to the soul.

Wolffe, watching from across the training floor, snapped his training blade in half.

Like, literally snapped it.

You didn’t even react.

Cody whistled low. “He’s gonna kill someone.”

“Hope it’s not me,” Fox muttered under his breath, heart rate visibly climbing.

You raised your voice. “Wolffe. Grab a new blade and meet me in the ring. Fox, go help Gree with his stance. The last time I saw someone hold a blaster like that, they were five and trying to eat it.”

Fox, now flustered beyond recognition, stumbled off. Wolffe stalked over, eyes dark.

“You flirting with him now?” he asked, low and sharp, as you passed him a fresh blade.

You leaned in—just close enough for your voice to dip like smoke. “He flirted first.”

“And you flirted back.”

You tilted your head. “You gonna bite me again if I do it twice?”

Wolffe looked like he might combust.

The spar started aggressive—Wolffe striking fast, sharp, his technique tighter than usual, anger giving him extra momentum. You blocked him easily, letting him wear himself out. Letting him stew.

“Jealousy looks good on you,” you taunted, hooking his leg mid-swing and sweeping him to the mat with a sharp twist.

He landed with a grunt, breathless. You knelt beside him, blade tip pressed to his chestplate.

“I flirt with the one who keeps his teeth to himself,” you said, tone casual. “Consider that motivation.”

Wolffe didn’t answer. He just stared at you, cheeks flushed, jaw clenched so tight you swore you could hear it grinding through the floor.

By the time drills ended, Fox was glowing. Wolffe was feral. And you?

You were thriving.

Let them fight over you. Let them stew, and sulk, and throw punches at each other behind the mess hall.

This was war training. They’d better get used to losing battles.

Especially the ones with their own hearts.

⸻

You were late.

Not tactically late. Intentionally late.

The cadets were already lined up, soaked to the bone from outdoor drills—Kamino’s rain coming in sideways like daggers. You made your entrance like a storm, dripping wet and smirking like you hadn’t made half the room lose sleep last night.

Fox was waiting at the front, eyes locked on you. He didn’t salute. He didn’t even smirk. He just looked—calm, steady, sharp.

And you felt it. That shift.

Wolffe was off to the side, glaring holes into the back of Fox’s head. You caught it all in a sweep of your gaze.

“Who wants a live-spar match to start the morning?” you called.

Several cadets groaned. Cody actually muttered something about defecting to Kaminoan administration.

But Fox? Fox stepped forward. “I do.”

You tilted your head. “Sure you want that smoke, pretty boy?”

He smiled, slow and dangerous. “You think I didn’t train for this?”

You narrowed your eyes, intrigued.

The match was brutal. Not because Fox was stronger—but because Fox was different. Controlled. Confident. Calculated. He didn’t let your taunts shake him. He dodged quicker, pushed harder. When he caught your leg and sent you crashing to the mat, the cadets gasped.

Even Wolffe made a strangled noise like a dying animal.

You coughed, winded, pinned under Fox’s knee, his hand resting against your collarbone.

“Yield?” he asked.

You blinked up at him. “Don’t get cocky.”

“Already did,” he said, low enough for only you to hear. “You like it.”

You shoved him off you with a grin, rolling to your feet.

“Not bad,” you admitted. “But I’m still prettier.”

Fox actually laughed.

Wolffe walked off the mat.

Straight to the armory.

Because of course he did.

Later, when the others had cleared out and you were wiping sweat from your brow, you felt that familiar weight behind you—boots heavier than a clone’s, presence impossible to ignore.

“Jango,” you greeted, not turning.

“You’re playing with them.”

You wiped your blade clean. “I’m training them.”

“You’re toying with them,” he said, voice flat. “They’re assets. Not toys. Not lovers. Not soldiers you can break for fun.”

You turned, arching a brow. “I know the difference between a weapon and a man, Fett.”

He stepped closer. “Then stop pulling the trigger when you don’t mean to shoot.”

That one hit—low and sharp.

You swallowed hard, eyes narrowing. “They’re soldiers, Jango. If a little heartbreak cracks them, the war will kill them faster.”

“They need guidance. Not confusion.”

“And what about me?” you asked, arms crossing. “What do I need?”

His eyes didn’t soften. “You need to choose. Or leave them both alone.”

You didn’t answer.

He left you with the silence.

That night, you found Fox alone in the mess, bruised, hungry, and tired.

“You did good today,” you said quietly.

He didn’t look up from his tray. “So did you. Playing with me until Wolffe snapped?”

“Wolffe snapped because he thinks I’m yours.”

Fox looked up now, slow and dangerous. “Are you?”

You leaned in. Close. Almost touching. “I could be.”

Fox’s jaw clenched. “Then stop making him think he has a chance.”

You didn’t reply.

Not right away.

And that pause? That breath of hesitation?

That was the crack in everything.

⸻

You stopped showing up to the mess.

You didn’t call on Fox or Wolffe for sparring. You rotated them into group drills only. You stopped lingering after hours. No more teasing remarks. No more slow smirks and heat behind your eyes.

No more touch.

It was easier, at first. For you.

They were cadets. Not yours. Not meant to be anything more.

Jango’s voice echoed every time you started to second-guess yourself.