Commander Neyo x Senator Reader
⸻
You weren’t what the Senate expected.
You laughed too loud, danced too hard, and didn’t mind a drink before a midnight vote. You were also scarily good at passing legislation with a hangover.
Neyo didn’t know what to do with you.
He’d been assigned to guard you temporarily—something about threats, instability, blah blah. You didn’t care. What mattered was that he had a cool speeder, a gravelly voice, and those wraparound tactical visors that made your stomach flutter in ways you couldn’t explain.
He followed you everywhere.
And you made sure to give him a show.
“So what’s your opinion on martinis, Commander?” you asked one night, leaning across the bar table.
“I don’t drink.”
“Of course you don’t. You’ve got that whole ‘I eat war for breakfast’ look.”
He didn’t respond. Just stared. Probably judging you. Or calculating your odds of surviving the dance floor in six-inch heels.
“Come on,” you grinned, tipping your glass back. “You’re always so serious. Loosen up. Life’s short.”
“Life’s valuable,” he said flatly. “Especially yours. You should treat it that way.”
You pouted. “Are you flirting with me or threatening me?”
“Neither,” he replied. “Just trying to keep you alive.”
“How noble.”
That night, you dragged him to The Blue Nova—a Senate-frequented lounge pulsing with lights and low beats. Senators Chuchi and Mon Mothma were already there, nursing cocktails and giggling over some poor intern’s fashion sense.
Neyo stood rigid by the wall, arms crossed, helmet on. You danced.
You danced like no one was watching—except Neyo definitely was. You saw the subtle shift in his stance every time someone got too close to you. Every time someone brushed your waist, he tensed. When one particularly bold diplomat tried to pull you close, Neyo was there in seconds.
“She’s done dancing,” he said coolly.
You smirked as the man scurried off.
“Jealous?” you teased.
“No.”
“You hesitated.”
“I hesitated to answer a ridiculous question.”
You walked up, lips close to his helmet, breath warm.
“I think you like the chaos, Commander,” you whispered. “You just don’t know how to handle it.”
He stared at you for a long moment. Then, to your complete shock—he took his helmet off.
Face sharp. Stern. Battle-scarred. Beautiful.
“I handle a lot of things,” he said softly. “I don’t make a habit of chasing Senators around nightclubs.”
“And yet…”
He stepped closer. Close enough for you to feel the war in him, vibrating under the skin.
“You’re not what I expected,” he said.
You grinned. “Good.”
He didn’t kiss you—not yet. He wasn’t the type. But his gloved hand brushed yours beneath the table, quiet and electric.
And later, when you slipped into your speeder with him and leaned your head on his shoulder, he let you.
Because even soldiers like Neyo had a weakness for bright lights, fast music—and senators who didn’t play by the rules.
⸻
You woke up on your office couch, face down, wearing one boot and someone else’s scarf.
Your stomach roiled.
There was the taste of shame, spice liquor, and possibly fried nuna wings coating your mouth like regret.
“Ungh,” you groaned, clutching your head as if it were a ticking thermal detonator. Your presentation to the Senate chamber was in—oh kriff—thirty-two minutes.
You stumbled toward the refresher, tripped over Chuchi’s shawl, and made it to the toilet just in time to vomit your dignity into oblivion.
Twenty minutes later you were brushing your teeth with one hand, swiping through datapads with the other, your hair tied back in a half-dried bun, steam curling around your face like battlefield smoke.
You were dying.
And still—you were determined to win.
A sharp knock came at the door.
“Senator,” Commander Neyo’s voice rang, low and deadpan as ever.
You staggered to the entry and opened it slightly, eyes bloodshot, breath minty, skin blotchy.
He blinked.
“You look—”
“Don’t finish that sentence,” you rasped, voice hoarse.
He nodded. “Fair.”
He stepped in, glancing around the wreckage—empty drink glasses, a senate-issue heel stuck in a potted plant, a half-written speech blinking on your datapad.
Neyo exhaled slowly through his nose. “We need to go soon.”
You collapsed onto your vanity. “Then fetch the war paint, Commander.”
To his mild horror, you started multitasking like a woman possessed. Concealer. Hair curler. Eyeliner sharper than your tongue. Hydration drops. A stim tab. Robes pressed. Shoes polished.
By the time you swept out of the room, datapad in hand, a vision in deep indigo velvet with subtle shimmer at the cuffs, you looked flawless.
Not a trace of the hungover banshee who almost passed out in the shower. Not a single clue that you’d had one foot in the grave twenty minutes ago.
Neyo stared at you in stunned silence as the turbolift doors opened.
“What?” you asked innocently, breezing past.
“When I first saw you,” he said, voice tight. “You were pale. Trembling. Sweating.”
“I was warmed up.”
He blinked. “You threw up.”
“And now I’m ready to lead a planetary reform discussion.”
He said nothing, but you could feel the tension behind his visor. Not irritation—something else.
Awe, maybe. Or confusion. Or grudging admiration.
He escorted you into the Senate chamber, back straight, flanking you like a shadow. You entered to hushed murmurs from other senators. You took the platform.
Lights brightened. All eyes on you.
You smiled.
Then you spoke.
Commanding. Persuasive. Engaged. Like you hadn’t danced barefoot on a bar counter hours earlier. Like your liver wasn’t currently filing for emancipation.
When it ended, with soft applause and nods of agreement, you stepped down coolly. Neyo followed close behind.
In the corridor, he finally said:
“You’re… something else.”
You smirked. “Are you flirting or threatening me?”
He almost smiled. Almost.
“Neither,” he muttered. “Just trying to keep up.”
⸻
The hovercar ride back to your apartment was silent.
You leaned against the window, sunglasses on despite the overcast Coruscant sky, hand gripping a hydration tablet like it owed you money. Neyo sat beside you, unnervingly still, as usual.
“You pulled it off,” he said finally, breaking the silence.
You didn’t even open your eyes. “Barely. I think I lost consciousness for a moment during Taa’s rebuttal.”
“I noticed,” he replied calmly. “Your left eye twitched in morse code.”
“Did I say ‘sustainable galactic reform through bipartisan unity’?”
“Yes.”
“Impressive.”
“Also a lie.”
You smiled weakly. “I’m not a miracle worker. Just a hot mess with good timing.”
When the speeder landed, Neyo helped you out like a proper guard—but the moment the lift doors closed in your apartment building, your knees buckled slightly.
“Stars,” you groaned, pulling off your shoes like they were weapons.
Neyo caught your elbow, steadying you with practiced hands. You didn’t look at him—couldn’t. Your head was pounding too hard, your bones liquifying.
He didn’t say anything. Just supported you as you limped down the hallway.
Your apartment was clean—thanks to your overpaid droid—but still smelled faintly of scented oil, warm fabrics, and overpriced wine.
The door shut behind you.
And you dropped your datapad like a dying soldier discarding a blaster.
Without preamble, you dragged yourself to your bed and belly-flopped face-first into it with the grace of a crashed starship.
“Urrrghhh,” you groaned into your sheets. “Tell the Senate I died nobly.”
Neyo stood in the doorway for a long second.
Then—
“You forgot to remove your hairpins,” he said.
You made a muffled whining sound.
“You’ll stab yourself.”
“Let the assassination succeed,” you moaned.
But he moved closer. Carefully. Gently.
And began removing the decorative pins from your hair.
One by one.
You stayed perfectly still, secretly stunned. He was… delicate. Surprising.
His gloved fingers swept your hair back from your temple, warm through the fabric, steady and sure.
“Better,” he said softly.
You peeked up at him, mascara smudged, lips dry, eyes bloodshot.
“You’re being weirdly sweet.”
“I’m not sweet.”
“Well, you’re weird then.”
A long pause. He didn’t move away.
Then he added, almost reluctantly, “You did well today.”
You smiled, eyes fluttering shut. “That almost sounded like a compliment, Commander.”
He hesitated.
Then, “Rest. I’ll stand guard.”
Your heart thudded softly against your ribs.
You didn’t respond. Just let yourself finally sleep, Neyo’s presence a silent shadow at your door.
You knew he wouldn’t leave.
And that—for once—felt like safety.
⸻
It was past 0200 when you stirred.
The sheets tangled around your legs like a battlefield, your head finally calm but your throat dry as sand. You padded barefoot across the apartment, wincing at the cold floor and the slight ache still lingering behind your eyes.
You found Neyo right where you expected him.
Standing just outside your bedroom door.
Helmet on. Blaster slung. Spine straight.
Unmoving.
“Have you been standing there this whole time?” you asked, voice low and raspy.
“Yes.”
You blinked at him. “Kriff, Neyo. At least sit. I’m not a senator worth slipping a disc over.”
“Your safety doesn’t rest well on upholstery.”
You snorted softly, leaning against the doorframe. “Still all thorns and durasteel, huh?”
“I’m consistent.”
“Irritatingly so.”
You were about to tease him more when you noticed something shift behind him—just past the window’s faint reflection.
Your eyes snapped to it. Too fast.
Neyo noticed.
Then everything happened at once.
A flash of movement—glass shattering—a stun dart zipping past your ear—
And Neyo tackled you to the ground.
The world blurred. You hit the floor, tucked under his armored weight as a blaster bolt sizzled into the wall where your head had been.
Another shot. Close.
Neyo rolled off you and into cover in one swift, practiced movement. “Stay down!”
You didn’t need to be told twice.
A figure dropped through the busted window—a sleek, masked bounty hunter, compact and fast. They moved like they’d done this a hundred times.
They hadn’t met Neyo before.
He opened fire, short, brutal bursts. Not flashy. Efficient.
The bounty hunter ducked behind a column, tossing a flash charge—blinding light filled the apartment, and you covered your head as the sound cracked through your skull.
Then silence.
Then Neyo’s voice, low, deadly. “You made a mistake.”
You peeked up just in time to see him lunge—shoulder first—into the attacker, sending them crashing through your dining table.
The fight was brutal, close-range. Fists. Elbows. Armor slamming against furniture.
You watched through wide eyes, heart hammering in your ribs.
The bounty hunter went down with a hard grunt—stunned and unconscious before they even hit the floor.
Smoke. Dust. Silence.
Neyo stood over the wreckage, breathing hard, visor glinting in the broken light.
You slowly got up from behind the couch, staring at your shattered window, your ruined table, your torn carpet… and the one thing that somehow remained miraculously untouched:
Your liquor cabinet.
You limped over.
From the wreckage and the chaos, one lonely, very expensive bottle sat upright and proud, like a survivor of war.
You picked it up reverently, uncorked it, and took a long swig.
Then you held it out to Neyo.
“Drink?” you offered hoarsely.
He stared at you for a moment—visor unreadable. Then, slowly, he removed his helmet, setting it on the countertop with a heavy thud.
He took the bottle from your hand.
Took a sip.
Didn’t even flinch.
You whistled. “Tougher than I thought.”
He handed it back. “You don’t know the half of it.”
You grinned, despite the mess around you, your pulse still racing.
“Well,” you said, leaning against the ruined wall. “If this is going to be a regular occurrence, I’m going to need better windows. And more of that bottle.”
He glanced down at the unconscious bounty hunter, then back at you.
“I’m not going anywhere.”
That shouldn’t have made your breath catch.
But it did.
⸻
You were sprawled on your couch with a blanket around your shoulders like a dethroned monarch, cradling a caf mug and trying not to move too much.
Neyo stood a few meters away, helmet back on, deep in conversation with a squad of Coruscant Guard troopers who had secured the perimeter and taken the unconscious bounty hunter into custody. One of them was talking into a datapad, another bagging evidence.
Your apartment looked like a warzone.
Scorch marks on the walls. Smashed glass. Your poor dining table in pieces. A chair impaled by a vibroblade. And somewhere, inexplicably, a boot had ended up in the chandelier.
The door buzzed.
You groaned.
“Tell them I’m dead.”
Neyo didn’t even turn.
The door buzzed again.
You hissed and dragged yourself up with the grace of a dying tooka.
The door slid open.
“Holy kriff—what happened in here?” gasped Senator Chuchi, her eyes wide, sunglasses on despite the dim lighting.
Behind her, Bail Organa and Mon Mothma followed in, blinking like the lights offended them.
Bail took one look around and sighed deeply. “Did you throw a party after the party?”
Riyo covered her mouth. “Oh stars, is that blood?”
“No,” you rasped, sipping caf. “It’s the soul of my décor, leaking out.”
Neyo, still conversing with the Guard, ignored the comment.
Riyo winced, kneeling beside the splintered dining table. “This was antique…”
“So was my liver,” you muttered.
Another Guard trooper approached Neyo. “Sir, we’ve confirmed the bounty was hired off-world. Probably just a scare tactic—or someone testing security.”
“They tested the wrong kriffing senator,” you said from the couch, raising your caf like a battle flag.
Bail crossed his arms. “You’re not staying here.”
“I can’t just vanish in the middle of a political firestorm. I have three meetings today and a vote on trade tariffs.”
“You nearly died.”
“I nearly died hot, Bail. There’s a difference.”
He looked to Neyo. “Can you keep her alive through all this?”
Neyo gave a single nod. “Yes.”
You snorted. “He’s too stubborn to let me die. It’d mess with his stats.”
The Guard filed out slowly, leaving behind scorched walls, broken decor, and the lingering smell of smoke and citrus-scented panic.
Your friends started cleaning instinctively—stacking plates, lifting fallen cushions.
Mon handed you the bottle from last night. “This survived too.”
You stared at it.
Then smiled.
“Guess I’ll call that a diplomatic win.”
⸻
The assassination attempt made the front page of every news feed.
“Assault in the Upper Rings: Senator Survives Bounty Attack in Her Apartment.”
“Corruption? Retaliation? Speculation Rises After Attack on Popular Senator.”
“Bounty Hunter Subdued by Marshall Commander in Daring Apartment Ambush.”
Your face was everywhere—mid-speech, mid-stride, mid-bloody hangover.
They didn’t know that part, of course. But you did.
In the wake of it all, security protocols were rewritten overnight. A flurry of emergency Senate meetings, security panels, and sharp-toothed reporters hunting soundbites. You barely slept. When you did, it was light. Restless. Searching for a presence that wasn’t there.
Neyo had gone back to barracks immediately after the incident. De-briefed. Filed reports. Gave statements.
And now, word had come down.
He was being reassigned.
⸻
The knock on your door was unnecessary.
You already knew it was him.
You opened the door slowly—draped in a robe, caf in hand, rings under your eyes that even the finest Coruscanti powder couldn’t hide.
Neyo stood there in full armor, helmet tucked under one arm.
“I got the memo,” you said before he could speak.
He gave a short nod. “Senate security is shifting to full internal protocol. Coruscant Guard, under Commander Thorn, will oversee protection from now on.”
“Ironic, considering you’re the reason I’m not dead.”
“My orders weren’t to stay,” he said plainly.
You leaned against the doorframe, studying him. His armor had new scuffs. He was cleaned, pressed, regulation-ready… but the quiet between you hummed with something unsaid.
“You going back to the front?” you asked, already knowing.
He nodded.
You stared at him, your throat tight.
“I’m not one for speeches, Neyo. Or long goodbyes. Or… feelings. But I’m pissed.”
That caught his attention.
“Why?”
“Because you’re walking away like none of this mattered. Like I’m just another senator on your route. Another mission. And you know what? I wasn’t. Not to you.”
His eyes dropped for a moment.
Then rose again—meeting yours.
“Of all my deployments,” he said slowly, carefully, like the words were foreign, “this was the first time I didn’t feel like I was wasting time.”
Your breath hitched.
“I didn’t know how to say that,” he added. “Until now.”
You laughed, wet and quiet. “You’ve got a strange way of being soft.”
“I don’t do soft,” he replied, mouth tugging at the corner in what might have been—might have been—a smile.
“Right,” you murmured. “Just war and discipline and smashing bounty hunters into my furniture.”
He stepped closer, lowering his voice.
“If it were up to me,” he said, “I’d stay.”
Your heart stung.
“I know.”
Silence.
Then, on instinct—or maybe defiance—you reached up, fingers brushing his cheek just beside the helmet line. He didn’t move.
And for the briefest second, he leaned into your touch.
Then pulled away.
Duty won again.
“Goodbye, Senator.”
You stood in the doorway long after the lift closed behind him.
Outside, a new Guard squad took position at your apartment.
Inside, you poured the last of the bottle from the night before into a glass.
And toasted to what almost was.
happy Monday friend! Can I request some angst and fluff with wrecker that ends in cuddles please? I could use a giant hug today! Thank you so much for being awesome
You didn’t mean to snap at him.
It wasn’t Wrecker’s fault. It wasn’t anyone’s fault, really. The day had just been too much—the mission gone sideways, another evac too close to the edge, too many people screaming, not enough time. You’d gotten separated. Lost track of him. Thought—just for a moment—you’d lost him for good.
And when he came back, grinning like he always did, banged up but fine…
You’d yelled.
“Don’t do that to me again!”
His smile faded instantly, eyes wide like a kicked tooka.
“I—I didn’t mean to—”
“I thought you were dead, Wrecker!”
Silence followed your words like a stormcloud.
You didn’t wait for him to respond. Just turned on your heel and left the ship’s ramp, sitting down hard on a nearby crate, hands shaking, throat tight. You weren’t even mad at him. You were scared. You were so damn scared.
And then you heard the heavy footsteps.
Slow. Hesitant.
You didn’t look up, but you felt the weight of him settle next to you. Big. Warm. Safe.
“…M’sorry,” Wrecker said quietly.
You blinked. Looked up.
He was staring at the ground, fingers picking at his gloves, like he thought you might still snap. Like he was afraid you wouldn’t want him close.
That hurt more than anything else.
“No,” you whispered, voice cracking. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have yelled. I just… you scared me, Wrecker.”
His brow furrowed. “I didn’t mean to. I was just trying to hold the line ‘til Hunter pulled you out. Wasn’t gonna let ‘em get near you.”
“I know,” you said, throat tight. “That’s the problem.”
He looked at you then—really looked. And whatever he saw on your face must’ve broken something in him, because the next second you were swept into the warmest, strongest hug you’d ever known.
“I’m right here,” he said into your hair. “I’m big enough to hold anything you’re feeling, alright? Scared, sad, mad—don’t matter. Just don’t shut me out.”
You clung to him. Just melted into that broad chest, buried your face in his neck and breathed. He smelled like metal and burn marks and something warm and safe. Like home.
“I don’t want to lose you,” you said, voice muffled.
“You won’t,” he promised. “Not if I got anything to say about it.”
He shifted, adjusting you easily in his lap until you were curled into him like a child, his arms wrapped around you like a fortress. He rocked you gently—just a little—and hummed something soft under his breath. You didn’t know the tune. You didn’t need to.
Time passed. Neither of you moved.
Eventually, he whispered, “You good now?”
You nodded against his chest. “Better now.”
“Good,” he said, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “’Cause I ain’t lettin’ go for a while.”
And he didn’t.
The rocking slowed, and his hand settled at the back of your head, big fingers threading through your hair with slow, careful strokes. Your breathing evened out against his chest, your fingers still curled in his shirt like you were afraid he’d disappear if you let go.
He noticed.
He always noticed.
Wrecker didn’t say anything—just held you tighter, chin resting on your head like it belonged there. Like you belonged there.
“You sleepin’?” he murmured after a while, voice hushed and tender.
No answer.
A soft smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. He shifted his grip, effortlessly lifting you into his arms like you weighed nothing, like you were precious. Your cheek rested against his shoulder, breath warm against his skin.
The others were quiet in their bunks. Tech was reading. Echo nodded in greeting. Hunter glanced over but didn’t say a word—he just smiled, soft and knowing, and went back to sharpening his knife.
Wrecker nudged the door to your shared space open with his boot and brought you inside.
The lights were low. The sheets were turned down.
He set you down on the bed with all the care in the galaxy, brushing a hand over your hair, tucking the blanket around you. You stirred slightly—just enough to mumble his name in a sleep-heavy voice.
“Wreck…”
“I’m here,” he said, instantly, quietly. “I’m right here, sweetheart.”
You reached for him blindly. “Don’t go.”
His heart cracked in two. “Not goin’ anywhere.”
He climbed into bed beside you, the mattress dipping beneath his size, and pulled you into him like a gravity well. One arm beneath your head, the other wrapped securely around your waist, your head nestled beneath his chin.
Your body relaxed completely—safe, warm, wrapped in the scent and strength of him.
You were already asleep again.
But he didn’t sleep for a while. He just lay there, holding you, watching your chest rise and fall with every breath. A gentle giant wrapped around the most important person in his world.
And when he did sleep, it was with a soft smile, because for once he knew you were safe.
And you knew you were loved.
⸻
The cantina on Vradros IV reeked of sweat, desperation, and synth-spice. Which is to say, it smelled exactly like a place Wolffe would pick for a “quiet recon op.”
You leaned against the bar, twirling your drink with one hand, your blaster slung low on your hip like a challenge. You felt him before you saw him—Commander Wolffe moved like a ghost in armor, all steel and unspoken tension.
“You missed our meeting,” he said, voice low and gruff behind that half-scorched vocabulator.
You smirked. “I was busy. Didn’t realize I needed your permission to have a life.”
“You don’t.” He paused. “Just seems like yours always conveniently conflicts with mine.”
You turned, sipping your drink lazily. “Aw. You miss me, Commander?”
Wolffe didn’t flinch, but the corner of his mouth twitched like it wanted to. “You’re a pain in my shebs.”
“And yet,” you drawled, “here you are.”
He looked tired. No—past tired. He looked hollowed out, like someone who’d been running on fumes since the war ended, and no one remembered to tell him he could stop.
You tilted your head. “You sleep at all?”
“Enough.”
“Eat?”
“When I remember.”
“Touch anyone lately?”
That got his attention.
His gaze flicked to yours, sharp and startled—but not offended. Never offended. Not with you.
“That’s a hell of a question.”
You shrugged. “It’s a hell of a galaxy.”
He was quiet for a beat, jaw tight.
Then, out of nowhere, he said, “You gonna hit me, or just keep talking?”
You blinked. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me.” He stepped closer, chest brushing yours. “You’ve been itching for a fight since I walked in.”
“No, you’ve been begging for one.” You looked him up and down. “Why?”
“Maybe I deserve it.”
“Oh, don’t get all martyr on me, Commander.” You narrowed your eyes. “What’s really going on?”
He didn’t answer. Just stared at you, every inch of him coiled and unreadable.
And then he said, almost too quiet: “I just want to feel something.”
Ah.
There it was.
The crack in the armor.
Not in his phrasing—Wolffe would never be that direct—but in the weight behind the words. You’d seen it before. In soldiers who lost brothers. In children who never got hugged enough. In yourself, sometimes, when the nights were long and the stars too loud.
“Fine,” you said, stepping in close. “You wanna get hit?”
He nodded once, stiff.
You swung. Not hard—but enough to snap his head to the side.
The cantina didn’t even blink. No one cared. It was that kind of place.
Wolffe exhaled, slow and shaky. Turned his head back toward you.
And smiled.
A real one. Lopsided. Crooked. Full of pain and something almost like relief.
You grabbed the front of his armor and pulled him down to your level. “Next time you need to be touched, maybe try asking, instead of playing wounded karking bantha.”
He leaned in, voice rough. “Would you say yes?”
You kissed him.
It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t sweet.
It was raw. Like striking flint to stone.
His hands came to your waist, holding on like he didn’t trust the ground to stay solid. You felt the tremor in him—not fear. Not hesitation. Just need.
You pulled back, just enough to murmur against his mouth: “Touch-starved bastard.”
He looked at you like you’d reached inside him and flipped a switch he forgot existed. “I deserved that punch.”
“You’ll deserve the next one too.”
He smirked. “Looking forward to it.”
⸻
Summary: Clone Wars-era op with the Bad Batch. Jedi reader + Quinlan Vos bestie assisting the op.
⸻
If Tech had known he’d be spending the mission with two unorthodox Jedi, he might have requested recalibration for his brain implant.
Vos was already a variable he’d accounted for—reckless, talented, infuriatingly good, unpredictable. But you?
You were something else entirely.
You strolled off the gunship like the war was a camping trip, a lightsaber strapped to your hip and a ridiculous grin on your face as you greeted Wrecker with a high five mid-jump.
“Miss me, big guy?”
Wrecker beamed. “You always make it more fun!”
Vos followed close behind, flipping a thermal detonator in one hand like it was a toy. “They let you off Coruscant without me? I’m hurt.”
You glanced over your shoulder. “Please. You’d just get jealous when I steal all the glory.”
Vos grinned. “You wish.”
Tech stared. “I fail to see how this level of casualness is appropriate for a battlefield.”
You turned to him with a slow smile. “Ah, you must be Tech.”
He straightened instinctively. “Yes. You are correct.”
You offered a hand—not stiff or formal, but open, easy. There was mischief in your eyes. “I’ve read your file. You’re the one with the brains and the dry commentary.”
He hesitated before taking your hand. “That is… not inaccurate.”
You leaned in, voice low. “I like brains.”
He blinked. “As do most species. It is vital for survival.”
Vos coughed loudly behind you—possibly to hide a laugh.
Wrecker elbowed Hunter. “I like this Jedi.”
Tech ignored them, adjusting his goggles. “We are operating on a strict schedule. I’d prefer we keep distractions—”
“Lighten up, Tech,” you teased, falling into step beside him. “If you smiled any less, we’d have to start checking for signs of carbon freezing.”
“I assure you, I am functioning within optimal emotional parameters.”
You hummed thoughtfully. “Sounds lonely.”
He shot you a side glance, but your tone was playful, not unkind.
“I don’t understand you,” he muttered.
You grinned. “Most don’t. That’s half the fun.”
⸻
Later, during recon, Vos and Wrecker were off chasing a “weird energy reading,” Crosshair was perched up somewhere, and Hunter had gone ahead to secure the route. That left you and Tech crouched behind cover, scanning a Separatist outpost through the macrobinoculars.
“Y’know,” you said casually, “if you ever wanted to break all your rules and do something reckless, I’m very available.”
Tech frowned. “I don’t require your availability. This mission is already well underway.”
You stifled a laugh. “Not what I meant.”
He blinked, confused. “Was it a code? I didn’t detect one.”
You turned to him, resting your chin on your hand. “You’re cute when you’re confused.”
His ears turned slightly pink.
“I’m not confused,” he replied quickly. “Merely… recalibrating.”
You laughed again, soft and warm. “You’re fun, Tech. Even if you don’t know it.”
He didn’t reply. Just stared out at the outpost, glasses slightly fogged. Processing. Buffering.
You winked as you stood. “Come on, Brain Boy. Let’s go break some droids.”
And behind you, Tech mumbled—
“…I don’t understand you.”
But oh, he wanted to.
⸻
“Move your pretty brain, Tech!”
Your shout cut through the blaster fire as you Force-shoved a B1 battle droid clean off the ridge. The droid hit the canyon wall with a clang before falling into a satisfying silence.
Tech barely managed to duck behind the rock as two more shots ricocheted past his goggles.
“I’m attempting to calculate the terrain advantages, not—”
You dropped beside him, lightsaber humming with heat. “Flirt later, calculate less. We’re getting spicy out here.”
“I am not flirting—”
“You will be,” you said sweetly, spinning to deflect a bolt. “Just haven’t hit the right button yet.”
“Force help me,” Crosshair muttered over comms. “I’m in hell.”
Vos cackled somewhere on the ridge. “This is why I bring her on ops.”
You winked in Tech’s direction. “Besides, I like it when smart boys get flustered.”
“I am not—” he started, only to cut himself off when you leapt over the boulder and ran directly into blaster fire.
“Wait—don’t—!”
But you were already slicing through droids, movements chaotic and fluid. A little wild, a little beautiful. Vos followed behind you with a war cry and a detonator.
“Stop being reckless in combat!” Tech snapped, ducking as sparks flew overhead.
Wrecker hollered from behind cover. “She’s so cool, right?!”
Tech was still reeling from how your braid moved like a whip when you spun, when a Super Battle Droid on the ridge zeroed in on his location.
He didn’t see it. But you did.
“Tech!”
You moved fast—a leap, a slide down the gravel slope, and then a blinding crack of energy as you shoved him to the ground and blocked the bolt meant for his chest with your saber.
The shockwave sent you both tumbling behind a ledge.
For a second, there was only the buzz of his ears and the hum of your saber still hot in the air.
You looked down at him—arms braced on either side of his shoulders, breathing hard, body pressed against his.
His goggles were crooked. His heart was absolutely not functioning in optimal parameters.
“You good?” you asked, voice low.
“I…” Tech swallowed. “Yes. Thanks to you.”
You leaned a little closer. “That’s two times I’ve saved your life this week. You might owe me.”
“I… suppose I do.”
You smiled. “We’ll figure out the payment plan later.”
Vos dropped beside you, covered in soot and grinning. “I saw that. That was hot. I’d kiss you for that save.”
“Why are they like this,” the sniper muttered and then glanced over to Tech. “Can’t believe I’m third-wheeling a courtship in the middle of a kriffing warzone.”
“Fourth-wheeling,” Vos corrected. “I’m emotionally invested.”
You grinned as you helped Tech up. “Don’t worry, brain boy. They’re only teasing”
You patted his chest, then turned back toward the canyon, saber blazing back to life.
“We’ll talk later. Right now? Droids first. Feelings… maybe after explosives.”
And then you were off again, a whirlwind of Force and fire.
Tech stood frozen, fingers twitching at his belt.
Vos clapped him on the back. “Welcome to the mess, genius.”
⸻
You were sitting cross-legged on the Marauder’s ramp, tossing pebbles at Wrecker’s helmet while he tried to balance a crate on one hand.
Vos was beside you, chewing on dried fruit like it was the best thing he’d ever tasted. He elbowed you after a particularly impressive throw.
“You ever gonna tell Tech you’re into him?” Vos asked, mouth half-full.
You smirked. “And ruin the comedy of him trying to math his way through courtship? No thanks.”
Wrecker laughed. “He is actin’ weird lately. Said I was being ‘emotionally invasive’ for askin’ if he liked you!”
Vos grinned. “He’s got it bad.”
“And I am loving it,” you replied, spinning a pebble in your fingers. “Every time I flirt, he acts like I just challenged his understanding of gravity.”
Right on cue, Tech walked down the ramp, datapad clutched in hand, goggles slightly askew. He stopped in front of you, cleared his throat.
“I… performed a series of diagnostics regarding interpersonal compatibility,” he said, utterly serious. “According to twenty-seven factors—including personality, adaptability, combat style, and dietary preferences—we are a statistically promising match.”
Vos dropped his fruit.
You blinked. “Did you just… scientifically determine that we should date?”
“I—well—yes,” Tech said. “But only if you’re interested. Which—based on your heart rate and verbal cues—I suspect you might be.”
Vos exploded into laughter, falling back on the ramp.
“Oh my Maker,” he wheezed. “You absolute nerd.”
You grinned at Tech. “That might be the most romantic math I’ve ever heard.”
Tech pushed his glasses up. “I thought you’d appreciate the data.”
“I do,” you said, standing and brushing your hands off. “But next time, try leading with something like: ‘I think you’re beautiful and I’d like to kiss you.’”
Tech turned crimson. “I—yes. Noted.”
“Relax,” you teased, stepping closer. “I’m not gonna kiss you.”
His expression fell a little.
“Yet,” you added.
From behind the crates, Crosshair exhaled loudly. “Maker, just kiss already or go back to sexually tense banter. This is painful.”
You turned. “Aw, Cross. You jealous you’re not the one I’m throwing pebbles at?”
He scowled. “I’d rather be shot.”
Vos stood and slung an arm around your shoulders. “Honestly, same.”
You nudged him. “You’re just mad you’re not the prettiest Jedi in the room anymore.”
Vos gasped dramatically. “Rude. And false.”
Tech, meanwhile, was still buffering.
“I may need to recalibrate my approach,” he murmured, mostly to himself.
“Or,” you said, tapping his datapad, “you could just ask me to spend time with you. No variables required.”
He paused, then looked up at you, eyes suddenly very soft.
“…Would you like to accompany me on a walk through the canyon ridge at 1900 hours? Statistically, it would be—”
You leaned in, smirking. “Careful, Tech. That almost sounded like a date.”
He adjusted his goggles. “I was… hoping it would be.”
Vos made a gagging noise. Crosshair muttered something that sounded suspiciously like, “nerds.”
And you?
You just smiled.
⸻
1900 hours hit, and you were waiting by the canyon overlook, robes loose and windswept, arms crossed like you hadn’t just spent twenty minutes trying to decide if you looked “dateable.”
You sensed him before you saw him—Tech’s unique mental frequency, all angles and tension and humming data flow. He approached precisely on time, goggles slightly askew, holding… a field scanner?
“Is that for scanning terrain,” you asked, grinning, “or just a really dramatic way to say you’re nervous?”
“I—” Tech adjusted his grip. “It is a tool for environmental analysis and—possibly—also distraction.”
You snorted. “So yes.”
The two of you walked along the ridge trail, the orange twilight casting soft shadows on the canyon walls. Silence settled, not uncomfortable, just… charged. Like the pause before a storm—or a kiss.
“So,” you said finally, “have you been practicing your flirting?”
Tech looked over, hesitant. “I did… research.”
“Oh no.”
He cleared his throat. “Your presence activates all of my… neurological functions.”
You blinked. “That… was almost sexy.”
“Almost?”
“You lost me at neurological.”
Tech looked disappointed. You reached over, brushing your fingers over his arm. “Don’t worry, I like the weird.”
“I am attempting,” he said, more softly this time, “to understand how to… express what I feel.”
You tilted your head. “And what do you feel?”
He turned toward you fully now. “I feel that your presence both stabilizes and disorients me. That your actions on the battlefield—reckless though they are—captivate me. That your voice lingers in my thoughts long after transmission ends. And that when you saved my life… I was afraid, not of death, but of losing the chance to tell you any of this.”
Your breath caught.
“…Tech,” you said, gently.
“I am aware,” he rushed to add, “that emotions are complex, and Jedi traditionally—”
You stepped forward and kissed him.
It wasn’t long or intense, just a warm press of lips. Steady. Sure.
When you pulled back, his goggles were fogged.
“Shutting up works too,” you whispered.
From somewhere nearby, a stick snapped.
You both turned just in time to hear Vos swear and fall directly out of a bush.
“I WASN’T SPYING,” he yelled.
“Maker above—” Tech muttered.
Crosshair’s voice crackled over the comm: “I told him you’d hear his dumbass breathing.”
Wrecker’s voice came next: “I think it’s sweet! Tech’s got a girlfriend!”
Vos was on his feet, brushing himself off. “Sorry—carry on. Proud of you, Tech. Didn’t think you had it in you.”
You groaned. “I am going to murder all of you.”
Tech looked dazed.
“Can we… do that again?” he asked quietly.
You smiled, tugging him close. “Yeah. This time with less audience.”
He was covered in blood the first time you saw him.
Not his. Probably not even human. You weren’t sure. You were just a bartender on Ord Mantell, working a hole-in-the-wall bar tucked under the crumbling skeleton of an old shipping yard, where the lights flickered and the rain never really stopped.
The kind of place where soldiers came to disappear and drifters stopped pretending to care.
But Sev?
He didn’t disappear.
He stood out.
He ordered without hesitation. “Whiskey. Real if you’ve got it. Synthetic if you want me to break something.”
You gave him the real stuff. Poured it slow, hand steady, even though he looked like he’d just torn his way through a war zone.
“Rough night?” you asked.
Sev stared at the glass. “What night isn’t?”
Then he downed it and left.
That was six months ago.
Since then, Delta Squad had started showing up after ops in the sector. You figured they had something black ops going on nearby—classified runs, deep infiltration, the kind that turned good soldiers into ghosts.
Scorch always laughed too loud. Fixer looked like he’d short-circuit if someone tried to talk to him. Boss barely said a word unless someone needed shutting down.
But Sev?
He watched you.
Always from the shadows. Always with those eyes—like he was cataloguing your movements, weighing them against something dark he couldn’t explain.
Tonight, it was just him.
Rain pounded on the rooftop. Rust leaked down the walls. A dying holosign outside buzzed like it was gasping for breath. Sev sat at the bar, hunched forward, a smear of something red on the side of his gauntlet.
Armor scratched. Helmet off. Blood on his knuckles.
“Was it bad?” you asked.
He didn’t look at you. “They always scream. Doesn’t matter who they are.”
You paused, a bottle in hand. “You okay?”
He let out a dry laugh. “You always ask that like it’s a real question.”
You leaned forward. “And you always answer like you’re not human.”
That got his attention. He looked at you now—eyes sharp, dark. “You think I’m human?”
“I think you bleed like one,” you said. “And drink like one. And come back here like you’re looking for something.”
He stared at you. Hard. Like he was daring you to flinch. You didn’t.
Finally, he said, “I don’t know why I come back here.”
You leaned your arms on the bar. “Maybe you’re tired of being a weapon.”
His jaw flexed. That was too close to the bone.
“I was made to kill,” he muttered.
“But that’s not all you are.”
He shook his head. “You don’t get it. None of you civvies do. You think we’re heroes. Soldiers. Whatever karking fairytale makes you sleep better at night. But out there? We’re rats in a cage. Dying for people who forget our names the second the war ends.”
You didn’t move.
Then softly, you said, “I don’t forget yours.”
Sev blinked. Slow. Like the words caught him off guard and hit something he didn’t realize was still bleeding.
You reached out, resting your hand lightly on his wrist. His arm was tense under the armor, coiled like a trap—but he didn’t pull away.
“You scare me,” you admitted.
He looked down at your hand. “Good. You should be scared of people like me.”
“But I’m not,” you whispered. “Not really.”
Silence.
Then Sev stood. Close. Too close. His breath was hot against your cheek. You could smell the blood, the dust, the war that never seemed to leave his skin.
“Why?” he asked, voice low and frayed. “Why the hell not?”
You met his eyes.
“Because even rats deserve to be free.”
He didn’t kiss you.
He just stared like he didn’t know what to do with the feeling rising in his chest. Like you’d opened a door he thought was welded shut.
Then he leaned in—just enough to rest his forehead against yours, rough and desperate—and for a second, he breathed.
Warnings: inner conflict, Dark Side temptation, brief mentions of violence and war. Inspired by the song “meet me in the woods” by Lord Huron
⸻
The war had changed you.
You could feel it in the way your saber moved—too fast, too forceful. You felt it in your voice, now lower, sharper when giving orders. And you felt it in the way the Force wrapped around you lately—not like a comforting current, but a rising tide, dark and deep.
You hadn’t meditated in days.
You didn’t want to.
Instead, you wandered into the woods after the battle, far from the bodies, the smoldering tanks, and the smothering weight of Republic victory. The trees here were ancient and gnarled, the canopy so thick that the light barely broke through. It felt like walking into another world—one that didn’t know your name, or your rank, or your failures.
And still, somehow, he found you.
“You’re not supposed to be out here alone,” Cody said behind you, voice low, familiar. His helmet was under one arm, the other hand resting casually on the DC-17 at his hip. He looked like he always did—composed, focused, but you knew the worry in his eyes.
You didn’t turn around. “A lot of things I’m not supposed to be.”
Silence stretched between you like mist in the trees.
“I felt you slipping,” he said quietly. “Even before this last mission. I thought… maybe if I gave you space…”
You let out a bitter laugh. “I don’t need space. I need the war to stop.”
He stepped closer. You heard the soft crunch of damp leaves under his boots. “It won’t. Not for a long time.”
“I know,” you whispered. “And that’s the problem.”
You turned to face him finally. His eyes locked on yours. You saw how tired he was, how long the war had weighed on him, too. But Cody was a soldier—he didn’t break. You weren’t sure if that was strength or something else entirely.
“I killed someone today,” you said. “Someone who tried to surrender. I didn’t even hesitate. It felt… right. Like the Force wanted it.”
His brows furrowed. “The Force doesn’t want blood.”
“Then what is it that’s whispering to me? Making me feel stronger every time I give in?”
Cody didn’t answer immediately. He just closed the distance, slow and steady, until you could feel the heat of him, grounding you.
“I don’t know much about the Force,” he said. “But I know you. And I know you’re not lost. Not yet.”
You shook your head. “You’re wrong. I’ve seen what’s inside me. There’s something dark. Something hungry.”
His hand touched your arm—gently, like you were something fragile and wild. “Then let me walk with you into it. Into the woods. Into whatever this is. You don’t have to face it alone.”
You stared at him, breath caught in your throat.
“You’re not afraid?” you asked.
“I’m afraid of losing you,” he said simply.
Something inside you cracked—just a little. Enough to let in the light. You leaned your forehead against his chest, and for a long moment, he held you there, arms steady around your shoulders, as if he could keep the darkness at bay just by holding on tight enough.
The woods were still around you. The war was far behind—for now.
And maybe, just maybe, if you kept walking, you’d find a way out of the forest together.
⸻
It was another night at 79’s, the bar where the clones and the occasional visitor came to unwind after a long day of battle. The flickering lights cast shadows on the grungy walls, but the lively chatter, laughter, and clinking of glasses created a comforting hum in the background. You leaned against the bar, swirling your drink, eyes scanning the room when your gaze landed on a familiar face.
Commander Wolffe, as always, had a commanding presence even when he was off-duty, but tonight he was uncharacteristically relaxed. His armor was discarded in favor of the usual clone-issue tank top and fatigues, his black-and-grey hair tousled in a way that made him look rugged, even more so than usual. You’d bumped into him here plenty of times, always with the same playful banter and flirtatious remarks that made you look forward to your time at 79’s.
Tonight, however, something was different. You weren’t alone.
A new face—a clone commander you didn’t recognize—was sitting at a nearby table, chatting you up with ease. His dark hair was shaved close, a subtle scar above his eyebrow, and his grin was disarming, though his overconfidence was starting to wear on your patience. You were just humoring him for the moment, enjoying the banter and not entirely bothered by the attention. After all, it was 79’s, and a little flirtation never hurt anyone.
It was harmless enough, or at least you thought so, until you noticed Wolffe watching the exchange from a distance.
It wasn’t the first time you’d been flirted with by clones here, but you could sense Wolffe’s usual relaxed demeanor had shifted. The intensity in his eyes was unmistakable as he made his way over to you, standing a little too close, his presence commanding the room.
You flashed him a smile, unfazed by the tension that had suddenly thickened between them. “What’s up, Wolffe? You seem a little tense tonight.”
“Everything alright here?” Wolffe’s tone was sharp, his eyes flicking to Cody, who was now giving him a questioning look. He then turned his gaze back to you, his expression softening for a moment before he added, “Is this guy bothering you?”
You raised an eyebrow, a mischievous grin pulling at your lips. “No,” you teased, “we’re just having a drink.”
Wolffe’s jaw tightened as he turned to Cody, who hadn’t broken his cool demeanor. “Well, he’s bothering me,” Wolffe said, and before anyone could react, he delivered a quick, sharp punch to Cody’s jaw.
Cody staggered slightly, more out of surprise than anything, his usual calm expression barely cracking. He recovered quickly, though, smirking as he rubbed his shoulder. “Well, that’s one way to say hello, Wolffe,” Cody said, voice tinged with amusement.
“Just a friendly reminder,” Wolffe grumbled
The room fell silent for a brief moment before laughter erupted from the nearby tables, the other clones eyeing the two commanders like they were about to see something more entertaining than a training session. The bartender, however, wasn’t as amused.
“You three! Out!” The bartender called, waving a hand at the trio of you, his patience running thin.
Wolffe flashed Cody a final look, an unspoken challenge in his eyes, before he gave a half-smile in your direction. “Guess we’re kicked out,” he muttered, already stepping toward the door.
Outside, the cool night air hit you, the chaos of the bar quickly fading behind you as you all stood on the street. You couldn’t help but laugh at the absurdity of it all.
“Well, that was interesting,” you said, grinning. “Couldn’t help myself, you know? It’s hard to resist a little harmless flirtation with handsome clones.”
Wolffe smirked, crossing his arms over his chest. “You’re trouble,” he muttered, though there was an unmistakable warmth in his eyes. “Next time, try not to get two clones in a punch-up over you.”
Cody, rubbing his jaw with a slight wince, chuckled. “I’ve had worse, Wolffe. But maybe you’ll want to keep that temper in check next time.”
You grinned, raising an eyebrow. “Yeah, I’ll have to think about it. I mean, you’re both so handsome. It’s hard not to get a little distracted.”
Wolffe shot Cody another look, then glanced at you with a half-smile. “Well, I suppose it’s good to know where I stand,” he said dryly. “But just remember, no one’s going to flirt with you as much as I do. So maybe I’ll keep punching my way to your heart.”
Cody snorted, shaking his head. “Brotherly rivalry at its finest, huh?”
You laughed, amused by the two of them. “Yeah, looks like it.” You gave Wolffe a playful look. “But I have to admit, I like the way you fight for my attention.”
Wolffe grinned, his usual cool demeanor returning. “Good,” he said, voice low and steady. “Because I’m not going to let anyone else take it.”
The three of you shared a brief, comfortable silence, and though the situation had been far from ordinary, there was a sense of camaraderie that you wouldn’t have traded for anything. And even though it had been an unexpected turn of events, you couldn’t help but enjoy the playful rivalry—especially when it involved such intriguing company.
“You two are something else,” you said, shaking your head, a smile tugging at your lips. “But it looks like I’m going to have to pick a side, huh?”
Wolffe gave you a smirk that told you everything you needed to know. “I’m already on your side,” he said, his voice full of quiet confidence.
Cody chuckled, stepping away with a wink. “Don’t think I’ll let you forget this, Wolffe.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Wolffe shot back with a grin. And with that, the three of you parted ways for the night, the bond of camaraderie—and the subtle, unspoken rivalry—lingering between you all.
Summary: By day, she’s a chaotic assistant in the Coruscant Guard; by night, a smoky-voiced singer who captivates even the most disciplined clones—especially Commander Fox. But when a botched assignment, a bounty hunter’s warning, she realizes the spotlight might just get her killed.
_ _ _ _
The lights of Coruscant were always loud. Flashing neon signs, sirens echoing through levels, speeders zipping like angry wasps. But nothing ever drowned out the voice of the girl at the mic.
She leaned into it like she was born there, bathed in deep blue and violet lights at 99's bar, voice smoky and honey-sweet. She didn't sing like someone performing—she sang like she was telling secrets. And every clone in the place leaned in to hear them.
Fox never stayed for the full set. Not really. He'd linger just outside the threshold long enough to catch the tail end of her voice wrapping around the words of a love song or a low bluesy rebellion tune before disappearing into the shadows, unreadable as ever.
He knew her name.
He knew too much, if he was honest with himself.
---
By some minor miracle of cosmic misalignment, she showed up to work the next day.
Coruscant Guard HQ was sterile and sharp—exactly the opposite of her. The moment she stepped through the entrance, dragging a caf that was more sugar than stimulant, every other assistant looked up like they were seeing a ghost they didn't like.
"She lives," one of them muttered under their breath.
She gave a mock-curtsy, her usual smirk tugging at her lips. "I aim to disappoint."
Her desk was dusty. Her holopad had messages backed up from a week ago. And Fox's office door was—blessedly—closed.
She plopped into her chair, kicking off her boots and spinning once in her chair before sipping her caf and pretending to care about her job.
Unfortunately, today was not going to let her coast.
One of the other assistants—a tight-bunned brunette with a permanently clenched jaw—strolled over, datapad in hand and an expression that said *we're about to screw you over and enjoy it.*
"You're up," the woman said. "Cad Bane's in holding. He needs to be walked through his rights, legal rep options, the whole thing."
The reader blinked. "You want *me* to go talk to *Cad Bane?* The bounty hunter with the murder-happy fingers and sexy lizard eyes?"
"Commander Fox signed off on it."
*Bullshit,* she thought. But aloud, she said, "Well, at least it won't be boring."
---
Security in the lower levels of Guard HQ was tight, and the guards scanned her badge twice—partly because she never came down here, partly because nobody believed she had clearance.
"Try not to get killed," one said dryly as he buzzed her into the cell block.
"Aw, you do care," she winked.
The room was cold. Lit only by flickering fluorescents, with reinforced transparisteel separating her from the infamous Duros bounty hunter. He sat, cuffs in place, slouched like he owned the room even in chains.
"Well, well," Cad Bane drawled, red eyes narrowing with amusement. "Don't recognize you. They finally lettin' in pretty faces to read us our bedtime stories?"
She ignored the spike of fear in her chest and sat across from him, activating the datapad. "Cad Bane. You are being held by the Coruscant Guard for multiple counts of—well, a lot. I'm supposed to inform you of your legal rights and representation—"
"Save it," he said, voice low. "You're not just an assistant."
Her brow twitched. "Excuse me?"
"You smell like city smoke and spice trails. Not paper. Not politics. I've seen girls like you in cantinas two moons from Coruscant, drinkin' with outlaws and singin' like heartbreak's a language." His smile widened. "And I've seen that face. You got a past. And it's catchin' up."
She stood, blood running colder than the cell. "We're done here."
"Hope the Commander's watchin'," Cad added lazily. "He's got eyes on you. Like you're his favorite secret."
She turned and walked—*fast*.
---
Fox was waiting at the end of the hallway when she emerged, helm on, arms crossed, motionless like a statue.
"Commander," she said, voice trying to stay casual even as adrenaline buzzed in her fingers. "Didn't think I rated high enough for personal escorts."
"Why were you down there alone?" His voice was calm. Too calm.
"You signed off on it."
"I didn't."
Her stomach sank. The air between them thickened, tension clicking into place like a blaster being loaded.
"I'll speak to the others," Fox said, stepping closer. "But next time you walk into a room with someone like Cad Bane, you *tell me* first."
She raised a brow. "Since when do you care what I do?"
"I don't," he said too fast.
But she caught it—*the tiny flicker of something human beneath the armor.*
She tilted her head, smirk tugging at her lips again. "If you're going to keep me alive, Commander, I'm going to need to see you at the next open mic night."
Fox turned away.
"I don't attend bars," he said over his shoulder.
"Good," she called back. "Because I'm not singing for the others."
He paused. Just once. Barely. Then he walked on.
She didn't need to see his face to know he was smiling.
---
She walked back into the offices wearing oversized shades, yesterday's eyeliner, and the confidence of someone who refused to admit she probably shouldn't have tequila before 4 a.m.
The moment she crossed the threshold, tight-bun Trina zeroed in.
"Hope you enjoyed your field trip," Trina said, arms folded, sarcasm sharp enough to cut durasteel.
"I did, actually. Made a new friend. His hobbies include threats and murder. You'd get along great," the reader shot back, grabbing her caf and sipping without breaking eye contact.
Trina sneered. "You weren't supposed to go alone. But I guess you're just reckless enough to survive it."
The reader stepped closer, voice dropping. "You sent me because you thought I'd panic. You wanted a show."
"Well, if Commander Fox cares so much, maybe he should stop playing bodyguard and just transfer you to front-line entertainment," Trina snapped.
"Jealousy isn't a good look on you."
"It's not jealousy. It's resentment. You don't work, you vanish for days, and yet he always clears your screw-ups."
She leaned in. "Maybe he just likes me better."
Trina's jaw clenched, "Since you're suddenly here, again, congratulations—you're finishing the Cad Bane intake. Legal processing. Standard rights. You can handle reading, yeah?"
The reader smiled sweetly. "Absolutely. Hooked on Phonics."
---
Two security scans and a passive-aggressive threat from a sergeant later, she was back in the lower cells, now much more aware of just how many surveillance cams were watching her.
Cad Bane looked even more smug than before.
"Well, ain't this a pleasant surprise," he drawled, shackles clicking as he shifted in his seat. "You just can't stay away from me, huh?"
She dropped into the chair across from him, datapad in hand, face expressionless.
"Cad Bane," she began, voice clipped and professional, "you are currently being held under charges of murder, kidnapping, sabotage, resisting arrest, impersonating a Jedi, and approximately thirty-seven other counts I don't have time to read. I am required by Republic protocol to inform you of the following."
He tilted his head, red eyes watching her like a predator amused by a small animal reading from a script.
"You have the right to remain silent," she continued. "You are entitled to legal representation. If you do not have a representative of your own, the Republic will provide you with one."
Bane snorted. "You mean one of those clean little lawyer droids with sticks up their circuits? Pass."
She didn't blink. "Do you currently have your own legal representation?"
"I'll let you know when I feel like cooperating."
She tapped on the datapad, noting his response.
"Further information about the trial process and detention terms will be provided at your next hearing."
"You're not very warm," he mused.
"I'm not here to be."
"Pity. I liked earliers sass."
She stood up. "Try not to escape before sentencing."
"Tell your Commander I said hello."
That stopped her. Just for a second.
Bane smiled wider. "What? You thought no one noticed?"
She didn't give him the satisfaction of a reply. She left with her heart thudding harder than she wanted to admit.
That night, 79's was packed wall to wall with off-duty clones, local droids trying to dance, and smugglers pretending not to be smugglers. She stood under the lights, voice curling around a jazz-infused battle hymn she'd rewritten to sound like a love song.
And there, in the shadows by the bar, armor glinting like red wine under lights—
Commander Fox.
She didn't falter. Not when her eyes met his. Not when her voice dipped into a sultry bridge, not when he didn't look away once.
After the show, she took the back exit—like always. And like always, she sensed the wrongness first.
A chill up her spine. A presence behind her, too quiet, too deliberate.
She spun. "You're not a fan, are you?"
The woman stepped out of the shadows with a predator's grace.
Aurra Sing.
"You're more interesting than I expected," she said. "Tied to the Guard. Friendly with a Commander. Eyes and ears on all the right rooms."
"I don't know what you're talking about."
Aurra's lip curled. "Doesn't matter. You're on my radar now."
And she vanished.
Back in her apartment, she barely kicked off her boots when there was a knock at the door. She checked the screen.
Fox.
Still in full armor. Still unreadable.
"I saw her," he said before she could speak. "Aurra Sing. She was following you."
"I noticed," she said, trying to sound casual. "What, did you tail me all the way from 79's?"
"I don't trust bounty hunters."
"Not even the ones who sing?"
He didn't answer. Either he didn't get the joke, or he was to concerned to laugh.
"You came to my show," she said softly. "Why?"
"I was off-duty."
"Sure. That's why you were in full armor. Just blending in."
A beat passed. Then he said, "You were good."
"I'm always good."
Another silence stretched between them. Less awkward, more charged.
"You're not safe," Fox said finally. "You shouldn't be alone."
"Yeah? You offering to babysit me?"
He almost smiled. Almost. Then, wordless, he stepped back into the corridor.
The door closed.
But for a moment longer, she stood there, heartbeat loud, his words echoing in her mind.
You're not safe.
And for the first time in a long time, she believed it.
———
Part 2
*warnings* - death
And then, there was Wolffe.
Commander Wolffe—one of the few clones who had earned your trust completely—stood in the corner, his helmet in hand, his broad shoulders relaxing for the first time today. His gaze met yours, and for a moment, neither of you spoke, content simply to share the quiet that filled the space between you.
Despite the war and the strict boundaries of your roles, you had always felt something more for him. It started as camaraderie—two soldiers who understood the price of duty—but over time, the bond deepened into something more complicated, something you could never speak of aloud.
"How are the men?" you finally asked, your voice breaking the silence.
Wolffe's lips curved into a half-smile, though there was a sadness behind his eyes. "They're good. Holding steady. As long as I'm around, they know what's expected." His gaze softened, but there was something unreadable about his expression. "What about you, Jedi? Are you holding steady?"
Your heart fluttered slightly at the sound of your title—Jedi. It still felt strange to hear it from him. You were no longer the young Padawan of Master Plo Koon, his silent guidance ever-present, but now you were a Jedi Knight, responsible for countless lives. But it didn't make the distance between you and Wolffe any easier to bear.
You didn't know how to answer him, how to explain that, while you were a Knight of the Order, part of you was constantly torn between duty and the feelings you had for him. It was forbidden—Jedi and soldiers were not meant to share such attachments—but those lines had blurred long ago.
"I'm..." You paused, searching for the right words. "I'm here, Wolffe. Just trying to keep us all alive."
His gaze never wavered from yours, and the weight of his look made your pulse quicken. There was a silent understanding between you, a quiet admission that neither of you could ever truly voice aloud. You wanted to be close to him, to be more than comrades, but the Jedi Code—your duty—kept you at arm's length.
He stepped closer, the usual tension in his posture relaxing just a fraction. "I know what you want, Jedi," he murmured, his voice low, almost a whisper. "But I can't have you distracted. We've been through too much for that."
You swallowed, the knot in your throat tightening. "And I can't ignore what I feel," you replied quietly. "But I won't let it affect my duty, Wolffe. Not now."
He chuckled softly, but it lacked its usual humor. "The war's not kind to people like us."
The silence hung between you for a long moment, both of you standing there, unsure of what to say next. But the unspoken truth between you lingered, undeniable, even in the midst of the endless war.
Then, you both heard the sharp hiss of the door opening, and you quickly broke your gaze, stepping back as though the moment had never happened. Wolffe returned to his usual stoic demeanor, but there was still a flicker in his eyes.
It was always like this—moments stolen in between the chaos, stolen moments that both of you knew couldn't last.
The mission had been successful, the Separatist threat neutralized. Yet, a strange heaviness filled the air as you returned to the cruiser. You couldn't shake the feeling that something was about to change—something was coming, something that neither you nor Wolffe could stop.
As the day wore on, you found yourself drawn to the Jedi temple for brief meditation. But then, the unmistakable buzzing of your commlink interrupted the rare moment of peace.
Before you could even comprehend it, the cold realization hit like a tidal wave. The clones, your brothers, the soldiers who fought beside you—they were ordered to execute all Jedi. Including you.
You didn't hesitate. Your instincts kicked in, and you sprinted through the hallways, hoping against hope that somehow, the clones wouldn't be able to carry out the order. Wolffe, however, was waiting in the shadows, and the moment you laid eyes on him, your breath caught in your throat.
"Wolffe," you called, voice trembling but determined. "You have to listen to me—this isn't you."
His eyes flickered for a moment, uncertainty clouding his usually steadfast gaze. "I have no choice, Jedi," he said, his voice a hollow echo.
The words hit you like a blow to the chest, but you refused to back down. "Wolffe, please—this isn't you. This is an order, an order you can't control. You're not just a soldier. You're more than this."
His helmeted face was a mask, but you could see the hesitation in his stance, the way his hands shook as they held his weapon. For a split second, you thought he might break free from the mind control, might step away and abandon the mission to kill you. But that hesitation was fleeting.
"I'm sorry," he muttered, voice strained as though the words themselves were foreign to him. "I'm sorry... but I have to do this."
Your lightsaber ignited with a snap-hiss, and you tried to reach him, tried to make him understand, but the clones—your brothers—were already moving in, following the orders they were given, following the programming they couldn't fight.
Wolffe fired, the blaster bolt striking you square in the chest. You barely had time to react, your body forced into the unforgiving cold of the ship's hull.
You gasped, your vision blurring as the world tilted, everything fading into darkness. Your last thought was of Wolffe—of the man who had meant so much to you, the man you loved, and the man you knew would never have the chance to love you back. You reached out with your hand, trying to call out to him, but no words came.
Wolffe stood frozen in place, his heart shattering as he watched you fall, the weight of the blaster's shot sinking deep into his soul. He had never wanted this. Never wanted to hurt you. But the order... the order had been too strong, too powerful.
As the last of the life left your eyes, Wolffe's knees buckled, his helmet clattering to the floor as he collapsed beside your body. His hands trembled as they hovered over you, unable to fix the damage, unable to undo the pain.
"I'm sorry," he whispered again, the guilt crushing him from within.
But the war, the Order—nothing could undo what had been done. And Wolffe was left alone, stricken with guilt and a heart full of love he could never express. His final regret was that he'd never told you how much you meant to him before it was too late.
The bustling streets of Coruscant were a blur of light, noise, and endless movement. The Bad Batch had been given a rare shore leave, and Hunter had eagerly taken the opportunity to get a bit of downtime away from the usual chaos of war. It wasn't often they were allowed to relax, but even soldiers like them needed a break.
As they wandered the lower levels of Coruscant, they found their way to 99's, a popular clone bar. It was loud, filled with clones from different units, and the occasional few off-duty soldiers mingling in the mix. Hunter felt the familiar weight of the day's stress melt away as he sank into a chair at one of the tables with his squadmates, taking in the relaxed atmosphere. They'd earned this, after all.
Hunter leaned back in his chair, absentmindedly scanning the room, when something—or rather, *someone*—caught his eye. A woman, dressed in civilian clothes, her dark hair swept back in a simple ponytail, moved gracefully through the crowd. She was laughing with a few off-duty soldiers, her carefree attitude contagious. There was something about her presence that stood out in the crowded bar, a certain energy that seemed to draw attention without her even trying.
Hunter couldn't quite place it, but his eyes lingered a moment longer before he turned his attention back to his comrades. "I'll be right back," he muttered, standing up and slipping through the crowd towards the bar.
The woman noticed him immediately, her gaze locking with his for just a brief moment. Something flickered in her eyes, a flash of recognition so quick that it almost didn't register in the chaos of the bar. But to Hunter, it felt like a gut instinct. He couldn't shake the feeling that he'd seen her before, but he pushed it aside. It wasn't as if he made it a habit to keep track of every face he saw.
Reaching the bar, Hunter leaned against it and ordered a drink, scanning the room once again. He wasn't used to these civilian crowds, and he quickly realized he was a little out of place. His rough military demeanor didn't quite blend with the casual energy of the bar. But, as usual, he didn't mind standing out.
The woman from earlier moved toward the bar, a playful smile tugging at her lips as she sidled up next to him. "Another soldier on shore leave?" she asked, her voice low but warm. There was a teasing glint in her eye, as though she had all the time in the world and was just here to enjoy the moment.
Hunter smiled, his usual wariness easing slightly. "You could say that. First time I've had some real downtime in a while."
She raised an eyebrow, leaning closer to the bar as she grinned. "Must be nice," she said, giving him a sidelong glance. "I don't get much of that, myself. Always busy."
Hunter chuckled, unsure of whether she meant that as a joke or something more serious, but decided to roll with it. "I can imagine. You seem... well, busy right now," he said, motioning to the group of soldiers she had been talking with earlier.
She shrugged nonchalantly. "Just making the most of it. A girl's gotta have her fun, right?"
There was something about her confidence, her carefree attitude, that made Hunter want to know more. The sense of familiarity nagged at him, and yet he couldn't put his finger on why. She was different from most people he met on shore leave—mysterious, elusive even, yet approachable.
"How about you?" she asked, her eyes scanning his face with a look of curiosity. "What's your story? You don't seem like the usual type of soldier. Something about you is... different."
Hunter took a sip from his drink, trying not to let his thoughts get the better of him. "I'm with a special unit," he replied, choosing his words carefully. He didn't want to give too much away. "But yeah, I guess I'm a little different from the standard soldiers you see around here."
The woman laughed lightly. "I can tell. You carry yourself like you've seen more than your fair share of... action."
Hunter's lips quirked into a smile. "Something like that."
A moment passed, the air between them charged with an odd, unspoken tension. Hunter didn't know why, but he felt an inexplicable draw to her, a sense of familiarity that he couldn't shake. But before he could say anything else, one of the other soldiers from her group called out to her, signaling her to join them.
"Looks like they're calling me back," she said, turning to face him with a casual wink. "But it was nice meeting you, soldier. Maybe I'll see you around."
Hunter nodded, his mind still racing with that strange sense of recognition. "Yeah, maybe."
As she turned to walk away, a thought flashed through Hunter's mind—something about her seemed so familiar, so deeply embedded in his memory. But before he could dwell on it, the group of soldiers she'd been with crowded her, and she was lost to the noise of the bar.
---
Later that night, Hunter sat back at the table with the rest of the Bad Batch, the quiet murmur of conversation surrounding him. But his thoughts kept drifting back to the woman he'd met at the bar. There was no mistaking it—she had *definitely* seemed familiar.
He couldn't place her, though. It was a feeling that gnawed at him, like a puzzle piece that refused to fit, no matter how much he tried. But there was no time to dwell on it. The mission would come soon enough, and he'd have to be focused.
But somewhere, deep down, something told him that this wasn't the last time he would see her.
---
**Meanwhile,** the woman—the Mandalorian bounty hunter—watched Hunter from across the room, her eyes narrowing as she took another sip from her glass. She knew that he wouldn't recognize her, not with her face uncovered and her armor gone.
But *she* recognized him instantly. The man who had saved her life. The man she had crossed paths with before—the man she had promised herself to forget.
She leaned back in her chair, a smirk tugging at the corner of her lips. For now, she was content to keep her secret. There was no need for him to know the truth—not yet. Not until she was ready.
And besides, part of her found a strange thrill in seeing him again, so close, but unaware. It was easier this way—keeping the past buried, and enjoying the present for what it was. Just two people having a good time.
But deep down, she knew this was only the beginning. The past had a way of catching up with them all.
---
Some battles hit close to home—others hit the home itself.
Kamino—the birthplace of the Grand Army—was once considered untouchable. But the Separatists didn't care about sentiment or sacred ground. They wanted to strike at the heart, where the Republic bled.
A scrambled transmission had come through less than forty-eight hours ago: Kamino was next.
The birthplace of the clones. The very artery of the Republic war machine. If Kamino fell, so did everything they fought for.
Every hand was called back to defend it—including Echo and Fives.
"Feels weird being back," Echo said, eyes flicking up toward the grey Kaminoan ceiling.
"Yeah," Fives replied. "It's like coming back to visit an ex who once shot you in the face for blinking too loud."
"...You sure we're talking about Kamino and not her?"
Fives smirked, but didn't answer.
Fives was the first to notice her.
He'd just made some smartass comment to Echo about how all the regs still walked like they had sticks up their shebs when something made him stop mid-step.
A voice. That voice.
Playful. Sharp-edged. Familiar.
He turned—and there she was.
Sitting on a bunk with a cadet. Helmet off, body relaxed, back propped against the wall like she owned the place. Her fingers flicked lazily at a datapad while the cadet beside her looked one cough away from combusting.
Her laugh rang out, low and smug. "You zap a training droid like that again and the I'm gonna use your head for target practice."
The cadet groaned. "You said it was fine!"
"I said try it, not fry it. There's a difference, sunshine."
Echo stopped beside Fives, following his line of sight. His expression flattened.
"She hasn't changed."
"She got hotter," Fives said, then winced as Echo elbowed him. "Kidding. Kidding."
They watched a moment longer. She hadn't noticed them yet, too busy teasing the poor kid who looked like he might pass out from either embarrassment or adoration.
Fives smirked. "Place just got a hell of a lot more interesting."
Fives and Echo didn't move. Just watched. Like spectators waiting for a grenade to go off.
Another cadet on the adjacent bunk stood up, then jumped onto the mattress, trying to show off—springing up and down with dramatic, exaggerated bounces. The bedframe groaned beneath his boots, plastoid rattling.
"Cadet!" she snapped, not even looking up from her datapad. "Quit jumping on the bed!"
The cadet didn't listen.
Of course he didn't.
He landed with a loud creak, then flung his arms out theatrically. "C'mon, you're not as scary as everyone says you are."
Fives winced.
Echo muttered under his breath. "Dead man walking."
Still leaning back against the wall, she finally lifted her eyes to the bouncing cadet. Calm. Lazy. Almost bored.
"You sure about that?" she asked.
The kid gave a half-laugh. "What're you gonna do? Glare me into submission?"
Without breaking eye contact, she reached into her belt, pulled her blaster, flicked it to stun—and fired. One clean shot.
The cadet seized midair like he hit an invisible wall. Then he collapsed, limp and unconscious, mid-jump.
Chaos erupted. The other cadets scrambled to catch him before he crashed to the floor. They caught him by the chestplate, barely avoiding a loud thud. His head lolled, tongue out, stunned to the void and back.
She holstered her blaster like it was just another Tuesday.
"That'll teach you to bounce around when I'm trying to teach someone how not to get shot."
From across the room, Fives cupped both hands around his mouth. "You stunning cadets again?" he shouted. "That's bringing back some real traumatic memories, sweetheart!"
Her head whipped around.
The casual posture straightened. That lazy look sharpened into something a little more dangerous, a little more feral.
Then she smirked. "Fives."
"Missed me?"
She jumped down and stepped over the still-unconscious cadet like he was nothing more than an inconvenient floor lamp. The others made space quick—none of them made eye contact.
Fives and Echo were already waiting for her near the bunks. Fives leaned against the wall, arms folded, helmet clipped to his belt. Smirking like he hadn't aged a day. Like seeing her again didn't just punch the air out of his lungs.
She stopped in front of them, one brow arched.
"Didn't expect to see you two," she said, voice smooth but edged. "Last I heard, you were off doing very classified things in very important places."
Fives gave a mock shrug. "Separatists don't care much for my schedule. Thought I'd swing by, relive some trauma, and see if you were still casually beating up cadets for fun in your free time."
She smiled—too sharp to be sweet.
"They bounce on my bed, they get stunned. Rules haven't changed."
Fives tilted his head, grin widening. "I missed your charming hospitality."
She stepped a little closer, just inside his space. "You missed a lot of things."
"Oh?" His eyes flicked over her, slow, searching. "Anything worth catching up on?"
She looked him up and down, then tapped his chestplate lightly with two fingers. "You still talk too much."
He caught her hand before she could drop it. Held it there for half a second longer than necessary.
"And you still shoot first."
She leaned in, just a little. "That's why I'm still alive."
Echo cleared his throat behind them—pointedly.
They both turned.
"What?" she said.
Echo just gave a dry look. "Should I leave you two to flirt or are we going to address the fact that the outer perimeter is about to be hit in less than 24 hours?"
She blinked, then sighed. "Right. That."
Fives leaned a little closer to her ear, voice lower now. "Raincheck on the verbal sparring?"
She smirked. "You'd better survive the next 24 hours, then."
He winked. "For you? I'll try."
__ __ __ __
The war room was tense. Holograms flickered with incoming scans of Separatist movement, ships breaching the upper atmosphere, debris fields thickening around Kamino like a noose. The reader stood beside General Skywalker, arms folded, gaze narrowed.
"You'll be assisting General Skywalker during the space assault," Master Shaak Ti said, her calm voice cutting through the static hum of the tactical map. "The Separatists are attempting a full-scale assault."
"Finally," the reader muttered, strapping her gloves tighter.
Skywalker cracked a grin. "You just want an excuse to blow something up."
She smirked. "You say that like it's a bad thing."
Skywalker glanced at the reader, a crooked smile playing at the edge of his mouth. "You good with a starfighter, or am I going to have to babysit?"
She smirked. "I'll race you up there"
They launched fast—fighter squadrons tearing up through the storm clouds. Kamino's airspace was a firestorm of blaster bolts and explosions, enemy ships descending in coordinated waves. She and Skywalker split off, weaving through Vultures and skimming the wreckage fields that circled the planet.
"That's a lot of debris..." she muttered, eyes narrowing. "Not bad," she murmured, spinning her fighter between the smoking hulls of fallen debris. "We might actually win this one."
"You sound disappointed," Anakin said over comms, grinning through the channel.
Kenobi's voice cut through the comms, sharp and strained: "They're using the debris."
The channel went silent for a second.
"What?" She asked.
"They're using the debris fields to disguise troop transports," Kenobi repeated, irritation rising.
"He's just being dramatic," she muttered.
"Probably jealous we've been mopping them up faster than he has." Anakin added.
But then another "chunk" of floating debris broke open right in front of her, revealing a fully operational droid deployment pod. Her sensors screamed. The pod fired its boosters and shot down toward the city.
"Okay, that's new."
"Kenobi's right," Anakin growled. "They're already inside the city."
The reader gritted her teeth, flipped her ship into a steep dive, and kicked the throttle.
"Tipoca's about to get very crowded."
__ _ _ __
The city shook as another pod hit the platform. Rain pelted the metal walkways as she leapt out of her fighter and sprinted through the Kaminoan halls, Anakin just ahead. Sirens wailed. Clones and droids clashed at every turn. She ducked under blasterfire, slid around a corner—only to skid to a halt.
General Grievous stood just down the corridor, his cloak billowing, metal feet clanking on the floor. He turned his head toward her with that bone-white grin and a low, guttural laugh.
"Well, well..." he rasped, stepping into the light. "Who do we have here?"
Her blaster was up before he finished the sentence. The first few shots sparked off his plating, and then his sabers ignited—four in a blur of green and blue light. He charged.
She dove sideways, rolling under his sweeping strikes. One saber missed her by inches, slashing the wall and sending sparks flying. She came up low and kicked at his leg, only to get thrown back into a wall by one of his secondary arms.
Pain cracked through her ribs. She coughed and spat blood—but she was grinning.
She waited for the swing—and then moved. A twist, a duck, a slam of her vambrace against his wrist. Sparks flew, and one of his sabers dropped. She kicked it away before flipping up, landing a punch straight into his chest plate.
Another saber fell. His remaining blades whirled around her, but she was too fast, too close. Grievous lunged, but she met him head-on. Her forearm armor hissed—and from the sides of her gauntlets, twin knives slid out with a sharp metallic snap.
Her next punch drove the blade into one of his arms. His screech was guttural, inhuman. She ducked under a swing, came up behind him, and drove both blades into his back, carving a sharp X before twisting away again.
"Do you bleed, General," she breathed.
"You will," he spat.
—and then a blaster bolt cracked through the air, slamming into the floor between them.
Kenobi launched himself into the corridor, saber blazing.
"Get out of here!" he shouted.
She hesitated, still breathing hard, soaked in rain and blood and satisfaction.
Grievous roared and charged Kenobi. Their blades collided in a thunderous crash of energy. She turned and ran—dodging blasterfire, sliding through smoke-filled hallways.
She rounded another corner and practically crashed into Echo and Fives, weapons drawn, flanked by Cody and Rex.
"Hey!" Fives barked. "You alive?"
"Barely," she panted, smirking. "You miss me?"
"Always," Fives grinned, even as he loaded another power pack. "You bringing all the drama or just some of it?"
She rolled her shoulder, blood dripping from a cut at her temple.
"Grievous is back there. Kenobi's dancing with him."
Rex cursed under his breath. Cody looked grim.
_ _ _ _
Blaster bolts flew past in every direction, lighting the darkened barracks in flashes of red and blue. Cadets, barely out of training, were taking cover behind flipped bunks, returning fire with borrowed rifles. They were tired, scorched, but holding.
Fives and Echo moved through the smoke-filled corridor, flanking Captain Rex and Commander Cody. The reader was with them, blaster still hot from earlier skirmishes, armor scorched and dented. She was limping slightly, but there was a grin on her face.
"Clear that hall!" Rex ordered.
Blaster bolts seared the air as B1s and B2s advanced through the shattered entry.
One cadet ducked to reload, glanced over at the reader.
"General Grievous. You just fought him, didn't you?"
She exhaled, still crouched. "Yeah."
"You didn't even have a saber."
"Didn't need one."
"You survived?"
She cocked her head mid-firefight, casually. "There's a reason they had me training commandos."
A B2 burst into the doorway—she spun and hit it point blank with a bolt that sent it sparking back through the frame.
Echo ducked behind cover beside her. "How'd it go?"
"Hand-to-hand," she said between shots.
Fives peeked out from behind a flipped bunk. "You punched Grievous?"
"With knives."
"Where the hell did the knives come from?" Echo asked.
"Forearm compartment," she said casually. "He didn't seem to like it."
"You're insane," Fives muttered, watching her with a crooked smile. "Kind of hot, not gonna lie."
"Don't flirt in front of the cadets," she replied dryly, but her tone was lighter now.
"Probably didn't even break a sweat."Fives said, shooting her a lopsided grin.
She flashed a crooked smile back at him. "Wouldn't want to make the general feel bad."
"He still breathing?" one of the cadets asked, checking his ammo.
"For now," she said. "Kenobi stepped in before I could finish it."
"Of course he did," Cody muttered.
Another wave of droids pushed through—cadets and troopers moved as one.
"Let 'em come!" Fives shouted. "This is what we trained for!"
"You're training them now?" she teased, ducking beside him to fire.
"Only the ones that survive."
"Then you better hope I don't shoot you first."
Echo groaned behind them. "Are we seriously doing this now?"
They all ducked as an explosion shook the barracks, smoke flooding through the corridor. Screams, fire, more blaster fire. Cadets held tight, not a single one backing down.
Through the chaos, 99 appeared, hauling ammo crates toward the front lines, barely flinching as a bolt slammed into the wall beside him.
"Here!" 99 called, setting another crate down with a grunt. "Take these—don't let up!"
The reader ducked behind the cover of a half-melted support beam, reloading as she shouted, "You've done enough, 99! Get to safety!"
But he didn't stop. He never did.
Fives broke cover to grab more ammo, dragging the crate back toward the cadets. "We're low! Keep moving!"
"99!" Echo called, "Fall back!"
A B2 unit turned the corner—heavy cannon glowing.
It fired.
The shot slammed into the wall behind 99. He staggered, then dropped to one knee. Another blast hit nearby, sending shrapnel into his chest.
"No!" Fives shouted, blasting the B2 down. Echo and the reader rushed to 99's side.
She dropped to her knees beside him, grabbing his shoulder gently. His breathing was shallow.
"You're gonna be alright, 99," Echo said, voice tight.
Fives crouched beside them, eyes locked on the old clone's face. "You did good. You did real good, soldier."
99 gave a weak smile. "I... I was trying to help..."
"You did help," the reader said softly. "You saved lives today."
"W-was... I a good soldier?" 99 rasped, blinking slowly.
"The best," Fives whispered. "You were one of us."
His hand fell limp. The light in his eyes faded.
The hallway quieted. Even the cadets paused—every one of them frozen in respect.
No one spoke. The only sound was the fading echo of distant blaster fire.
Rex approached slowly, helmet in hand, eyes lowered. "He didn't have to go out like this."
"But he chose to," Cody said. "He chose to stand."
The reader stood, jaw tight, fists clenched. "Let's make sure his death means something."
Fives looked up at her. "We will."
Then the comm crackled. Anakin's voice filtered through. "Commanders—we need reinforcements near the south platform. We're being overrun."
Cody clicked on his receiver. "Copy that. Moving now."
The group turned to move out. But for one moment longer, they looked back at 99—at the clone who had no number, no war name, but all the heart in the world.
Then they left the hall, blasters drawn, ready to fight in his honor.
_ _ _ _
The ceremony was simple, but it held so much weight. The clones stood in formation, their pristine armor gleaming under the lights of the command center. The air was charged with pride and anticipation as the two cadets who had proven themselves time and time again were about to be promoted to ARC Troopers.
Fives and Echo stood at attention, looking sharp as ever, despite the weight of their past battles. The reader stood off to the side, arms crossed and her eyes scanning the room, though she was focused mostly on Fives. Her lips twitched into a smile as she watched him stand there—so confident now, but she knew the struggle it had taken for him to get here.
Rex stood before them, his voice strong as he spoke to the gathered men.
"Today, we promote two of the finest soldiers I've ever had the honor to serve with. Echo and Fives, you've proven yourselves time and time again. You've earned this. And from now on, you will lead with us, shoulder to shoulder."
He paused, nodding at each of them. "Congratulations, gentlemen. You are both now ARC Troopers"
Fives and Echo exchanged glances, a look of both disbelief and excitement crossing their faces. Then, they stood tall as Rex handed them the ARC Trooper insignias.
The two men saluted, their chests swelling with pride. The rest of the clones clapped, the sound echoing in the hall.
The reader stepped forward, a smirk curling on her lips. She reached out to give Fives a solid clap on the shoulder, her voice low enough only for him to hear.
"Nice work, Fives. You didn't screw it up after all," she teased.
He shot her a grin, leaning in closer. "I told you I'd make it, didn't I?"
"Yeah, but I didn't expect you to make it with your head still attached to your shoulders," she shot back, her smile playful. "Guess that's worth a reward."
The rest of the clones dispersed, leaving Fives and the reader standing near the edge of the room. Echo had already disappeared into the crowd, no doubt celebrating with the others. But Fives stayed close to the reader, a glimmer of something deeper in his eyes.
"I'll be sure to keep that in mind," Fives replied
"You're getting dangerously confident now, huh?"
"Maybe," Fives said with a grin.
The reader leaned in, and with a playful gleam in her eyes, she brushed a hand against his cheek, before kissing him quickly on the lips. It was brief, but the lingering heat between them made it clear they both felt the weight of that moment.
Pulling away just slightly, the reader met his eyes, her voice soft and teasing. "Don't let it go to your head. I might just have to knock you down a peg again."
Fives's grin widened, though there was a spark of something serious in his expression now. "I'll be careful. I'll be back before you know it."
"Better be," she replied, her tone playful, but her eyes holding a trace of something more sincere.
Fives nodded, stepping back with his usual swagger. "I'll hold you to that."
He turned to leave, but before he did, he glanced over his shoulder, giving her one last look. The reader watched him disappear into the crowd, a part of her wishing she could hold onto that moment a little longer, but knowing that it was only the beginning of something bigger.
_ _ _ _
Part 1