I Made This Instead Of Doing The Things Ive Been "forgetting" To Do

Sergeant Hunter x Mandalorian Reader - pt.2

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.

---

I saw your fic “What’s that smell” and thought it was absolutely beautiful! I was wondering what would be the rest of the batches reactions to the new smells. I can’t imagine what their ship would smell like and then having it change and maybe even be cleaner. You’re the best! Xx

Their ship would 100% smell like oil, sweat, blaster residue, old caf, dusty armor polish, and wet dog on a good day.

Here is what I believe the rest of the batches reactions are.

Crosshair

The first time he notices it, he’s practically scowling.

He hates things he can’t immediately explain, and suddenly the ship doesn’t smell like burnt wiring and recycled air anymore — it smells like…

something soft.

Something warm.

Something he can’t stop breathing in.

He’s so annoyed about it he follows you around for an entire day, sniffing the air like a pissed-off lothcat, trying to figure out if it’s you or if someone installed a karking air freshener.

When he finally realizes it’s you, he just stands there staring at you for a long second, lips pressed into a tight line.

Then he mutters:

“You smell… distracting.”

Like it’s a personal insult.

Will absolutely lean in closer than necessary just to breathe you in — but if you catch him, he’ll immediately go “Hmph” and pretend you’re the weird one.

Wrecker

Wrecker’s the first to flat-out say it.

He scoops you up into a bone-crushing hug one day, immediately sniffs, and then pulls back with wide, amazed eyes.

“Whoa! You smell amazing! Like… like sunshine! And pastries! And soap!”

He is obsessed after that. Every time you walk by, he inhales dramatically like a toddler discovering their favorite candy.

“Can we keep ya?” he jokes — but he means it. You’re like a walking comfort blanket for him.

The Marauder slowly starts smelling better too because Wrecker starts cleaning more — purely because he wants the nice smell to stick around.

Tech

Tech notices immediately, but being Tech, he processes it differently.

“Interesting,” he says aloud the first time you pass him. “The olfactory change is quite pleasant.”

Then he starts… researching it.

He runs calculations about human pheromones and attraction rates. He theorizes that your presence might lower the crew’s stress levels by up to 23%.

He doesn’t even realize he’s orbiting closer to you during missions until Wrecker points it out.

Embarrassed, he adjusts his goggles and mutters something about “optimal proximity for psychological benefits.”

Translation: You smell good and it’s making his brain short-circuit, help.

Echo

Echo notices it like a punch to the face because he’s so hyperaware of sensory input now.

The Marauder always smells like metal and grime — he’s used to it — but you?

You smell like rain hitting dry ground. Like something clean and alive and real.

It shakes him a little.

Reminds him of before — before the war, before everything.

He tries to be subtle about it, but you catch him lingering near you sometimes, jaw tight like he’s trying not to let himself want it.

One day you brush past him and he closes his eyes for half a second, just breathing you in.

He doesn’t say anything about it for a long time.

Until maybe you tease him — and he finally admits, voice low and rough:

“You make this whole ship feel… less like a graveyard.”

Which might be the most devastatingly sweet thing Echo could ever say.

stop asking “is this good?” and start asking “did it cause emotional damage?” that’s how you know.

“Crimson Huntress” pt.1

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

OC Main Character list:

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

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

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

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

⸻

No one ever looked up in places like this.

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

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

Sha’rali Jurok didn’t move.

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

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

She was waiting.

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

“Target acquired. Location pinging now.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Her boots hit the metal with a clang.

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

A holomap flickered to life.

Target marked.

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

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

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

⸻

The corridor reeked of ammonia and blood.

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

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

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

She raised her left hand—a silent signal.

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

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

Sha’rali nodded once.

Go.

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

—and died.

Darkness swallowed the hallway.

Screams echoed before the first shot was even fired.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“He’s in there,” she said.

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

Sha’rali didn’t answer.

She kicked the hatch in.

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

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

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

His finger twitched on the trigger.

She shot first.

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

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

The Black Sun enforcer whimpered.

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

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

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

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

R9 cheered.

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

⸻

The suns were cruel today.

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

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

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

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

They didn’t knock.

The guards knew who she was.

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

“Nice to be remembered,” she muttered.

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

Sha’rali strode through the rot like she belonged.

Because she did.

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

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

She turned slowly.

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

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

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

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

“Better than selling spice to backwater Rodians.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sha’rali said nothing.

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

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

A low chuckle from Embo. Respect.

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

Jabba bellowed again, more amused than ever.

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

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

She felt the next hunt coming.

She always did.

⸻

Bossk had laughed. Loudly. Cruelly.

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

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

“Good way to get killed,” Bossk growled.

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

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

Let them scoff.

They weren’t getting paid.

⸻

Felucia stank of wet rot and death.

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

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

Which it was.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sha’rali dropped into cover.

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

She whispered, “Disable it. Quietly.”

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

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

“Nicely done,” she murmured.

“I do enjoy precision.”

An hour later, they found the outpost.

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

Sha’rali narrowed her eyes.

The deserter wasn’t just hiding from bounty hunters.

He was protected.

Or… captured.

“Options?” the rose-gold droid asked.

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

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

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

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

Her quarry.

Still alive.

That’s when the sniper droid fired.

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

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

Alarms blared.

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

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

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

The jungle screamed.

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

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

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

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

“R9, left!” she barked.

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

The jungle screamed.

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

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

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

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

“R9, left!” she barked.

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

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

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

“Permission to escalate?” K4 asked smoothly.

“Granted,” Sha’rali said.

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

Still, they kept coming.

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

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

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

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

The final push came fast and hard.

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

And there he was.

CT-4023.

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

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

Sha’rali stepped forward, weapon lowered.

“CT-4023. You’re coming with us.”

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

“Neither are you,” she replied.

They didn’t make it far.

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

R9 screeched in horror as his dome sparked.

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

She hit the dirt.

⸻

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

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

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

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

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

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

They were being taken off-world.

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

⸻

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

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

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

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

CT-4023.

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

She studied him openly now.

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

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

Nothing.

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

Still no answer.

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

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

That got a flicker.

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

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

“You came alone?”

“Wasn’t planning to share your bounty.”

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

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

He looked away.

“Your name,” she prompted.

“Doesn’t matter.”

Her brow furrowed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

He didn’t answer.

“You were hiding from your past.”

Still nothing.

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

Outside the cell, the lights flickered red.

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

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

Sha’rali blinked.

Saleucami wasn’t a Separatist stronghold.

It was a staging world.

Something was wrong.

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

“They’re not taking us to a prison.”

⸻

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

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

CT-4023 was dragged from the transport first.

He didn’t fight. Didn’t flinch.

Only his eyes moved—watching, cataloging, waiting.

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

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

The clone didn’t speak.

“CT-4023, verify encryption key.”

Nothing.

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

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

Still—no words.

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

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

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

When they pulled him out, the technicians were muttering.

“He wants to die.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Answer the question.”

Sha’rali yawned.

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

She laughed. “Oh stars, no.”

“Then for whom?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

The B1 made a confused beep. She ignored it.

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

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

“Because I do it for fun.”

The interrogator stiffened.

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

Silence.

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

The room went cold.

The Neimoidian slowly stepped back.

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

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

The lights dimmed. The hum of the room paused.

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

⸻

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

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

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

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

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

“You want to die?”

His jaw twitched. Still no answer.

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

Finally, finally, he looked at her.

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

She smiled faintly. “To waste their time.”

A pause.

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

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

⸻

Coruscant. Jedi Temple.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“A complication,” Mace muttered.

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

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

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

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

⸻

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

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

“Target status?” asked Boss.

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

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

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

“Copy that,” said Boss.

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

“Who are the Jedi?” Sev asked.

The doors behind them hissed open.

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

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

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

Boss gave a tight nod. “Copy that.”

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

⸻

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

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

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

“I know,” CT-4023 muttered.

“You think someone’s coming for you?”

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

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

More silence.

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

Something was shifting.

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

Delta Squad was coming.

And only one of them mattered to the Republic.

⸻

Next Part

Thranduil weekly bitch mood 🫣

Hiya! Since you do song fic requests I was wondering if you could do a Rex X reader with the song Smile by Uncle Kracker? Hope this is ok! You’re the best! Xx -🤍

“Smile”

Captain Rex x Reader

The battle was over, the stars above silent witnesses to the quiet aftermath. The field lights flickered, the hum of med droids and murmurs of relief blending into a lullaby of war’s end — at least for tonight.

You found him alone near the gunship, helmet off, back turned, shoulders tight with exhaustion. Captain Rex. Leader. Brother. Soldier. And lately… something more.

“Hey,” you said softly, brushing your hand along his arm as you stepped beside him.

He turned, and despite the dirt smudged across his face, the faint blood along his jaw, and the deep shadows beneath his eyes — he smiled.

A slow, crooked thing. Honest. Rare.

“Didn’t think you’d still be up,” he said.

“I could say the same for you.”

You watched each other in silence for a breath, the night pressing close around you both. You’d seen that look before — not pain, not exactly. More like weariness that went bone-deep. The kind that made you want to reach in and hold someone’s soul together.

“You’re always around when I need it most,” Rex said suddenly, voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t think I’ve told you how much that means.”

You smiled, heart tugging.

“You don’t have to,” you replied. “I know.”

He took a half-step closer, eyes searching yours like he was afraid the war would take you too if he blinked. But you weren’t going anywhere. Not tonight.

“I never thought I’d have this,” he said, his voice a low rasp. “Someone who makes me forget… even if just for a moment.”

You reached up, cupping his face gently, thumb brushing the edge of the scar near his eye.

“You don’t have to forget,” you said. “Just… let me be the good part.”

Rex leaned into your touch. For once, he let go of the weight, let you be the anchor.

“You make me smile,” he murmured, voice cracking like it surprised even him. “Without even trying.”

Your heart ached and lifted at once. That song you’d played for him once — just once — on a shared night off at 79’s, came back to you. He hadn’t said a word when it played. But you’d seen it: the way his fingers stilled around his drink, the flicker in his eyes. He’d been listening.

And now he remembered.

“I’m not going to promise I’ll always be okay,” Rex said, brow furrowing slightly. “But I want to try. With you.”

You leaned in, resting your forehead against his.

“We’ll be okay together,” you said.

And there, under the stars and the dust of a hundred wars, Rex smiled again.

Just for you.

⸻

Arc Trooper Fives x Bounty Hunter Reader pt.2

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

Do you ever just go about your day, sip your little drink, open your little email, and then remember that Hardcase—our chaos ADHD king, our walking serotonin shot, our human thermal detonator—sacrificed himself with a grin and a quip so his brothers could escape? That he went out in a blaze of glory, piloting a stolen ship with literally no plan except “blow stuff up real good,” and the last thing he said was "live to fight another day boys, live to fight another day"???

Hardcase, who never stopped calling his brothers “sir” even when they told him to quit it. Hardcase, who probably never got promoted because he was “reckless.” Hardcase, who loved flying and loud noises and sunshine and probably didn’t understand why no one ever let him just have fun—and then he died for everyone else. Just. Like. That.

Do you ever remember Echo? Sweet, by-the-books, “regulations exist for a reason” Echo who lost everything and kept surviving anyway? Echo who got blown up during a rescue mission, turned into a cybernetic lab rat, hooked up to machines like a tool, stripped of his name, his agency, his brotherhood—and he still came back.

He came back and found out Fives was gone. He came back and the war was ending only to find out there was no end to begin with. He came back and nothing was the same, and he still kept going. That man has literally had half his body replaced with cyber-grade hardware and he's still more human than some Jedi.

Do you ever think about Fives? Fives who figured it out. Fives who knew about the chips. Fives who died saying the truth. He didn’t go down in glory. He wasn’t martyred. He bled out in a hangar, shaking and crying and trying to tell the people he trusted that everything was a lie. And NOBODY BELIEVED HIM. They said he lost his mind. THEY. SAID. HE LOST. HIS MIND.

Fives who just wanted to be loyal. Who just wanted to protect his brothers. Who died trying to save them all and didn’t live to see a single one freed.

Do you remember Jesse? That sweet, noble ARC trooper who wore the Republic symbol on his face like a badge of honor and who looked absolutely shattered when he turned on Ahsoka. He didn’t want to. You could see it. You could feel the war inside him. But the chip won. Because "good soldiers follow orders".

Do you remember Tup? That sweet, soft-spoken clone who glitched first. Who killed two jedi, because “Good soldiers follow orders,” like he was possessed. Because he was. Because the war broke him open before anyone was ready.

Do you ever remember Waxer and Boil? Waxer who kept an eye on a scared little Twi'lek girl Numa through a war zone. Waxer who died seeing his brothers were turning against each other because of Krell and his lies, and who apologized with his dying breath?

Do you remember that clones had names? Do you remember that they named themselves? That they forged their identities with paint and banter and nicknames and loyalty and found joy in being individuals even when everything about their existence was designed to erase that?

Do you remember that they aged twice as fast and weren’t supposed to live long enough to get tired?

That the GAR never intended to care for them after the war? That there was no post-war plan? That the Empire swept them aside for cheaper labor?

That Rex had to watch his brothers turn, die, disappear, and he STILL fought in the rebellion with a heart twice the size of Coruscant???

Do you ever think about how the clones were raised in pods, trained like blaster fodder, taught to say “Yes sir” and never think twice, and still found ways to be brave and kind and funny and GOOD???

DO YOU???

Anyway. I’m normal. Totally fine. Just sitting here naming my coffee cups after 501st troopers and crying into my caf. Would die for every single one of them. Even Dogma. ESPECIALLY Dogma. And Rex. And Fives. And Hardcase. And Echo. And Waxer. And-