“The Lesser Of Two Wars” Pt.7

this place sucks im gonna drink six beers and jack off

@melodicwriter I'm borrowing your meme to start a tag post, hope that's okay! 😁

So, my writer friends...

What's a line/scene you've written that you're REALLY proud of?

(Doesn't have to be Shakespeare, just one that makes you feel like everything you've written to get to that point in the story is worth it 😄)

No pressure tags: @lifblogs @niobiumao3 @kybercrystals94 @archivewriter1ont @gonky-kong @indigofyrebird @fanfoolishness @ireadwithmyears @royallykt @apocalyp-tech-a and anyone else who wants to share!!!

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For me, the first one that comes to mind is a specific exchange between (Star Wars) Bad Batch's Hunter and Crosshair. Picturing this scene - and hitting on the last few sentences shared here (in bold) - is what convinced me to turn some of my post-season 3 finale Hunter headcanons into a full fanfic. (I'm including some of the initial dialogue from the scene for further context.)

“I wasn’t there for him.”

Crosshair spoke quietly, and Hunter almost flinched at the words – he could guess where this was going. “Crosshair, don’t…”

“I’m the sniper. I’m supposed to watch your backs. I wasn’t there to watch his.”

“His death was not your fault,” Hunter insisted.

“I… I know that now,” Crosshair said, briefly dropping his gaze before looking up again at the memorial, though now not seeming to really see it. “Even if I had been there to help you all find Hemlock, Tech might have died anyway. Still, I failed all of you. I’m trying to make up for it. Omega says Tech wanted us to live and be happy, so… I’m trying. I’m trying to live up to what he sacrificed himself for. But that doesn’t change the fact that I failed him, I wasn’t there for him, and now he’s gone, I can’t make it up to him, and I’m going to have to live with that for the rest of my life.”

Crosshair was relating his own personal thoughts and feelings; yet it was as if he had reached into Hunter’s brain and pulled out all the darkest thoughts lurking there, giving them substance in words. But those thoughts shouldn’t belong to Crosshair, those words shouldn’t be coming from Crosshair’s mouth; that guilt was Hunter’s to own, and Hunter’s alone.

“Crosshair, I am – was – the sergeant. I’m supposed to lead. Protecting you all is my responsibility.”

“And you have,” the other replied, now looking Hunter square in the face. “You still do. You’re not watching just our backs, either – you’re… you’re everywhere all at once, all the time, protecting us. We’re going to make our own decisions, Hunter, and you couldn’t stop Tech from making his; but you were there for him all the time. You were there with him. And that matters.”

Hi! I hope this ok but I was wondering if you could do a spicy fic with Tech, maybe he gets flustered whenever she’s near and his brothers try to help by getting you do stuff and help him.

Hope you have a great weekend!

“Terminally Yours”

Tech x Reader

Tech was a genius—analytical, composed, articulate.

Until you walked into a room.

You’d joined the Bad Batch on a temporary mission as a communications specialist. The job should have been straightforward. Decode enemy transmissions, secure Republic relays, leave. What you hadn’t planned for was the quiet, bespectacled clone who dropped his hydrospanner every time you got too close.

You leaned over the console, fingers flying across the keypad as you rerouted the relay node Tech had said was “performing with suboptimal efficiency.” You were deep into the override sequence when a clatter behind you made you jump.

Clank.

Tech’s hydrospanner had hit the floor. Again.

You turned, brows raised. “You okay there, Tech?”

He cleared his throat, pushing his goggles up the bridge of his nose as he bent down awkwardly to retrieve the tool. “Yes. Quite. Merely dropped it due to… a temporary lapse in grip strength.”

Hunter’s voice echoed from the cockpit. “More like a temporary lapse in brain function. That’s the fourth time today.”

You smirked and returned to the console. Tech didn’t reply.

⸻

You sat beside Omega, poking at your rations. Tech was on the far end of the table, clearly trying not to look your way while also tracking your every move like a nervous datapad with legs.

“You know,” Omega said loudly, “Tech said he wants help cleaning the data arrays in the cockpit. He said you’re the only one who knows how to handle them.”

Your brow arched. “He did?”

At the other end of the table, Tech choked on his food.

Echo smirked. “Pretty sure that’s not what he said, Omega.”

“It is,” she insisted with wide, innocent eyes. “I asked him who he’d want help from, and he said her name first.”

Wrecker grinned. “And then he blushed!”

“I did not,” Tech muttered, voice strangled.

You bit back a grin. “Well, I am good with arrays…”

Hunter looked at Tech, then at you, then back at his food like it was the most fascinating thing in the galaxy.

⸻

You found Tech alone at the terminal, his fingers flying over the keys. You stepped up beside him, arms brushing.

He froze mid-keystroke.

“I figured I’d help with the arrays,” you said, voice low, letting your hand rest against the console a little closer than necessary. “Since you said I was the best candidate.”

His ears turned red. “That was… an extrapolated hypothetical. I did not anticipate you would take Omega’s report so… literally.”

You leaned in, letting your shoulder press against his. “Is that going to be a problem?”

He inhaled sharply. “I—no. Not at all.”

You brushed your fingers along the edge of the screen, pretending to study the data. “Because I don’t mind helping you, Tech. I actually like working close to you. You’re… brilliant. Kind of cute when you’re flustered, too.”

He blinked behind his goggles. “I—um—I do not often receive comments of that nature—cute, I mean. That is to say—thank you.”

His fingers twitched nervously. You reached over to rest your hand over his.

“You’re welcome. And if you ever want to drop your hydrospanner again to get my attention, Tech, just say something next time.”

“…I’ll keep that in mind.”

⸻

Wrecker, Omega, and Echo crouched behind a supply crate, straining to hear.

“Did she touch his hand?” Omega whispered excitedly.

“Pretty sure she did more than that,” Echo muttered.

Wrecker pumped a fist in the air. “I told you! Get her close enough and boom—Tech-meltdown!”

They high-fived, right before the door to the cockpit opened and you walked out.

You stopped.

They froze.

“…Were you all spying?”

“Uh,” Omega said.

Echo cleared his throat. “More like… observing.”

“Scientific purposes,” Wrecker added. “Real important stuff.”

You rolled your eyes and walked away—but you didn’t miss the grin Echo gave Tech as he slipped inside the cockpit next.

“You owe me ten credits.”

Tech pushed his goggles up. “Worth every credit.”

“Crimson Huntress” pt.6

Summary: A rogue ARC trooper and a ruthless Togruta bounty hunter form an uneasy alliance, dodging Jedi, Death Watch, and their pasts as war rages across the galaxy.

The ship groaned as it came out of hyperspace, systems still temperamental from the patchwork repairs 4023 had attempted. Sha’rali took the helm as soon as they were clear of the Republic cruiser, muttering about stabilizer recalibrations and how “he’s never flying my ship again.”

The coordinates she picked were obscure—an old moon on the edge of a dying system, a place where ex-cons, fugitives, and ghosts went to disappear.

Perfect.

They landed in the shadow of jagged cliffs, surrounded by rust-colored soil and broken mining equipment left to decay decades ago. K4 and R9 stayed with the ship.

Inside the ship, in the silence after the engines powered down, Sha’rali opened a long storage crate at the foot of her sleeping quarters.

Inside: backup armor. Scuffed. Dusty. Older. Functional, but uninspired.

She ran her hand over the plates—simple matte silver and black, not the black-and-deep-crimson of her real set. That set had been hers, painstakingly custom-forged over the years. She’d scavenged some of the plating from a wrecked Trandoshan warship. Other parts were Mandalorian-forged. The entire set had been a life built into armor.

Now it was ash.

CT-4023 stood in the doorway, helmet in hand, but for once, silent.

She didn’t acknowledge him at first. She just started pulling the plates on—bit by bit. No ceremony. Just necessity. Each click and lock of the armor echoed hollow in the room.

“Doesn’t feel right,” she muttered, staring at the pauldron in her hands. “It’s not mine. This was made for someone else. For a different me.”

4023 stepped closer, his voice low. “You’re still you.”

Sha’rali shook her head. “No. I’m the version of me that got chained up in a cage and forced to kill for show.” She fitted the chestplate, jaw tight. “That me doesn’t deserve the armor I lost.”

“You didn’t lose it,” he said. “It was taken.”

Her hands stilled.

He added, quieter, “And they didn’t take you.”

That got her attention.

She turned, eyes narrowed. “You don’t know what it’s like. That collar wasn’t just electricity. It was every kriffing choice I ever made catching up to me. Every mission. Every betrayal. Every time I looked the other way.”

4023 didn’t flinch. “You made it out.”

“I survived.” She fastened the last strap. “That doesn’t mean I’m still whole.”

He finally stepped close enough that their shadows overlapped. “None of us are.”

Sha’rali looked up at him—really looked. He didn’t wear his helmet now. She saw the streak of healing bruises under his eye, the tired cut across his temple. And the way his jaw clenched not from tension—but from restraint.

“If you’re about to say something comforting,” she warned, “don’t.”

He held up both hands. “Wouldn’t dream of it. I was going to say we need a drink.”

That made her snort. “Now that I’ll accept.”

⸻

The place was dim, seedy, and pulsing with synth-blues and smoke. The bartender was a bored Givin who didn’t ask questions, and the drinks were made with something that likely wasn’t fit for organic consumption.

Perfect.

They sat in the back, under the hum of an old repulsor fan. She drank something pink and deadly-looking. He had something dark and bitter.

A quiet settled in after the second round.

“You don’t talk much about it,” she said, glancing sideways.

“About what?”

“The things you did. The war. Why you left.”

4023 tapped the rim of his glass. “Not much to say that hasn’t already been said in blood.”

“Try me.”

He took a breath, then shrugged. “I followed every order. Did every mission. Survived where others didn’t. Got my ARC designation after pulling a squad out of a sunken droid ambush during the Second Battle of Christophis. Commander Cody called me a kriffing hero.” His mouth twitched, humorless. “Didn’t feel like one.”

“You left your brothers.”

“I left what was left of them.” He finally looked her in the eyes. “And then I found you.”

The silence stretched taut between them.

“Was it worth it?” she asked quietly.

He didn’t blink. “Ask me again in a year.”

She drained her glass and signaled for another. “I’ll hold you to it.”

⸻

Sha’rali had decided that pain was best drowned in the bottom of a glass. Or several.

K4 didn’t object. The droid was many things—lethal, unpredictable, brutally sarcastic—but on rare occasions, he understood when to sit still. He stayed at the corner booth with her, occasionally offering commentary like, “That’s the seventh. You’ll regret the seventh,” or “I am now calculating your blood toxicity level.”

She waved him off with an exaggerated roll of her eyes. “You programmed to nag, or is it just your charming personality?”

He tilted his head. “I’ll let the bacta tank answer that question tomorrow.”

CT-4023 walked back through the dusty thoroughfare of Station, the moonlight cutting jagged shadows between rusted buildings and rock spires. He was nearly at the ship when he heard it.

Footfalls. A scuffle. Grunts. A frightened yelp.

Then—“Get back here, you little kriffer!”

He turned instinctively. A cluster of armed thugs were chasing a young boy through the alleys—a teen, no older than fifteen. The kid had tan skin, sand-blond curls, and a stitched jacket hanging off one shoulder. Panic radiated off him in waves.

4023 stepped between the kid and the thugs without hesitation.

“Wrong alley,” he said, reaching for his blaster.

One of the thugs sneered. “Move, pal. This don’t concern you.”

“It does now.”

The first swing came fast. 4023 ducked it, grabbed the attacker’s wrist, and twisted until the thug screamed and dropped his blade. A second thug lunged, but caught a knee to the gut. The third raised a blaster—

And then went flying.

A wave of invisible force hurled him back against the wall, hard enough to knock him cold.

4023 blinked, turning to the boy.

The kid stood there, shaking, one hand half-raised. His eyes were wide. He’d meant to do it—but not well.

“Come on,” the clone said, grabbing the boy’s arm. “Move.”

They sprinted through the shadows, dodging old repulsor units and abandoned droid parts, until the ship came into view. 4023 punched the security code, and the ramp hissed open.

Inside, under flickering lights, they caught their breath.

“You okay?” 4023 asked.

The boy nodded slowly. “Thanks. For stepping in.”

“I’ve seen worse. What did they want?”

The kid hesitated. “I… might’ve taken something. Credits. A ration card.”

“You a thief?”

“Sometimes,” the boy admitted. Then, quieter, “Mostly just hungry.”

4023 leaned against the bulkhead, arms folded. “That Force trick… you trained?”

The boy didn’t answer at first.

“Used to be. Kinda.”

4023 didn’t press. The silence was enough.

“They… they threw me out,” the boy finally said, eyes down. “My Master. He—he wasn’t what the Jedi are supposed to be. He hurt people. He liked it.” A breath, shaky and raw. “Said I wasn’t strong enough. Said I was useless. So I left.”

“I’ve heard worse reasons to walk away,” 4023 said.

The boy looked up. “You left too?”

The clone nodded once. “Yeah. Whole different story, but… yeah.”

Another pause.

“What’s your name?” 4023 asked.

The kid tilted his head. “Name’s Kael.”

“Kael what?”

“Just Kael. Not sure the rest matters anymore.”

“Fair enough.”

Kael dropped onto the ship’s bench, looking around. “You live here?”

“Something like that.”

Just then, the outer ramp hissed open again.

Sha’rali stumbled in, holding her head like it might fall off. “Why is everything loud,” she groaned, before noticing Kael. Her gaze narrowed. “What is that?”

4023 didn’t flinch. “That’s Kael.”

“We are not keeping strays.”

“Too late. He’s here now.”

She turned to K4, who had just entered behind her. “Did you let him bring a kid onto my ship?”

“I was monitoring your bloodstream. The child was not a threat.”

Sha’rali gave 4023 a withering look. “Tell me you didn’t just take in someone you don’t know.”

4023 crossed his arms. “You took me in.”

“That was different. You’re—” she stopped, reconsidering. Then groaned and waved it off. “Fine. But he’s not staying long.”

Kael said nothing. He watched her with cautious eyes, not revealing anything of what he truly was. Sha’rali didn’t press. She was still too hungover. Too exhausted.

“Just don’t let him touch anything,” she muttered, disappearing into the ship’s corridor.

Once she was gone, Kael looked at 4023. “Are you going to tell her?”

“No,” the clone said. “And for now, she doesn’t need to know.”

Kael nodded. “Thanks. For letting me stay.”

“Don’t thank me yet. Just stay out of sight. Don’t use the Force unless you have to.”

Kael cracked a small smile. “Yes, sir.”

4023 smirked faintly. “Don’t call me sir.”

⸻

Sha’rali Jurok awoke to the sharp stab of light from a cabin viewport and the unforgiving throb of what felt like a vibrohammer lodged behind her eyes.

“Uuughhh.”

Her montrals were ringing. Her mouth tasted like carbon scoring and regret. She flopped onto her back and groaned at the ceiling.

“K4,” she rasped. “Tell me I’m dead.”

The droid’s voice crackled through the intercom, maddeningly cheery. “Unfortunately not. Though based on the volume of your slurred speech and how many times you told the barkeep that you ‘invented violence,’ I’d say you earned the hangover.”

She shoved herself up, regretting it instantly. “Tea. Hot. Strong. Or I’ll melt your legs off.”

“Coming right up,” K4 replied, unbothered as ever.

Sha’rali stumbled into the refresher, splashing water on her face and peeling off last night’s shirt. Her head pounded, her limbs ached, and there was an odd bruise on her shoulder she didn’t remember earning. Probably from the crate she tripped over during her theatrical return to the ship.

By the time she made it to the common area—wearing loose, oversized pants and one of 4023’s black undershirts—K4 was already waiting with a steaming cup of pungent leaf-brew tea.

She accepted it with a grunt, sipping cautiously.

And then stopped mid-sip, eyes narrowing.

“Why,” she said slowly, “is there a teenager sleeping on my couch?”

Kael was sprawled across the cushions, limbs tangled in a spare blanket, head tucked under his arm like a sleeping Tooka cub. His sandy-blond curls flopped into his eyes.

K4 didn’t look up from his task of reorganizing his tools. “That would be the stray you didn’t want us to keep. The one you promptly forgot about after declaring the floor was trying to murder you.”

Sha’rali glared. “He’s still here?”

“Indeed.”

She rubbed her temples. “Right. Fine. Whatever. We are not a daycare.” Then she glanced at the couch again and sighed. “…He’s too small for the cargo hold.”

“Your compassion is overwhelming,” K4 deadpanned.

“I’m not letting him take my quarters,” she muttered. “He’ll take yours.”

The droid’s head swiveled. “Pardon?”

She pointed at him, then at the little astromech who chirped innocently from a corner terminal. “You two. Share. R9 doesn’t need his own room. Neither do you. You’re droids.”

R9 beeped in protest.

Sha’rali scowled. “Don’t sass me.”

“I would protest,” K4 said dryly, “but frankly, R9’s been keeping a hydrospanner collection in his coolant reservoir. I’d prefer not to be next to something that might detonate.”

She leaned on the table, cradling the tea like a lifeline. “Make it work. The kid gets your bunk.”

There was a moment of stunned silence.

“Wait,” she said. “R9 better not have touched my vintage bourbon stash.”

⸻

The heat on Florrum was the kind that pressed in from all sides, dry and sharp with the scent of scorched minerals and ozone. Red dust coated the jagged outcroppings surrounding ship, and the suns heat beat down overhead like they were trying to bake the world flat.

Florrum wasn’t hospitable, but it was quiet. Isolated. Perfect for lying low.

Kael was sitting cross-legged in the shade of the ship’s landing struts, sleeves rolled up, fiddling with a stripped-down blaster pistol. R9 sat nearby projecting a schematic of the weapon, chirping and beeping out helpful commentary.

CT-4023 knelt beside a makeshift workbench, watching Kael. The kid was cautious, fingers nimble but hesitant.

“Don’t force it,” 4023 said, voice modulated by the helm. “Treat it like a lock, not a wall.”

“You’re not jerking the cartridge release clean,” 4023 murmured. “It’s a smooth press and twist, not a snap.”

Kael frowned, then tried again—this time more precise.

The part clicked free.

Kael exhaled slowly and twisted the energy chamber. “Got it.”

“Good. Clean it like I showed you.”

R9 chirped a series of quick, approving beeps, projecting a schematic overhead for reference. Kael grinned at the droid, then glanced at 4023.

“You always teach like this?”

“Only when it matters.”

Kael opened his mouth to ask something more, but the sound of boots crunching over grit snapped both of them to attention.

Sha’rali.

She held a blaster rifle nearly as long as the boy was tall. She tossed it through the air with a casual spin. Kael caught it—barely.

“Hope you know how to aim, stray.”

Kael gawked at the blaster, then back at her. “Uh—I mean, not really—”

4023 rose to his feet. “You can’t just give him a weapon.”

Sha’rali gave him a slow look. “He’s been here two days and already fixed my nav console and bypassed two encrypted locks. He’s not stupid. He can learn.”

“That’s not the point,” 4023 said, stepping closer. “He’s a kid. You don’t train a kid by tossing him a gun.”

“Oh, so now you’re the moral compass?” She grinned mockingly. “Since when do deserters play guardian?”

He stiffened. “Since I decided I wouldn’t let more lives get thrown away because someone thought they were expendable.”

Sha’rali’s smile faded, just slightly.

Kael watched, silent, clutching the blaster awkwardly in both hands.

R9 let out a long, low beep, like he was enjoying the tension. K4 strolled up from behind the ship, pausing just long enough to deadpan, “Are we doing family drama this early?”

“Don’t tempt me,” Sha’rali muttered. Then, to Kael “You want to learn or not?”

The boy nodded, tentative but resolute.

“Then come on. I’ll show you how to not shoot your own face off.”

4023 exhaled. “This is a mistake.”

Sha’rali walked past him with a smirk. “Relax, Captain. If he shoots himself, I’ll let you say ‘I told you so.’”

As Kael followed her toward the rocky outcroppings where a row of makeshift targets waited, 4023 stayed back, hands clenched at his sides.

K4 leaned in next to him. “You’re starting to sound like a dad.”

4023 didn’t look away. “Someone has to.”

⸻

The makeshift firing range was a strip of cracked, sun-baked stone carved between jagged rock outcroppings behind their ship. A line of discarded droid torsos and rusted durasteel plating had been set up for target practice. Kael stood awkwardly in the sand, clutching the oversized blaster like it might bite him.

“Alright, kid. Let’s see if you’re as sharp as your mouth.”

ael looked from the weapon to her, brow raised.

“Is this legal?”

“We’re bounty hunters,” she said. “That’s not a word we use much.”

“Cool,” Kael said. “That’s not concerning at all.”

“Point it downrange, smartass.”

Kael shifted his feet, lifting the blaster like he’d seen on old holos. “So, uh… safety?”

“Off.”

“Trigger?”

“Pull it when you’re ready.”

He squinted at a downed B2 head, stuck on a spike about twenty meters out. “Right. No pressure.”

Sha’rali crossed her arms. “You’re holding that like it’s gonna ask you to dance.”

He exaggerated a twirl with the blaster. “Hey, I’m charming when I try.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Try shooting instead.”

Kael fired. The bolt missed wide and smacked into a distant rock, spooking a nest of small birds.

“Boom,” he said. “Perfect warning shot. That rock won’t mess with us again.”

Sha’rali walked up and repositioned his arms. “You’re overcorrecting. Wrist straight. Elbow low. Plant your feet like you’re ready to fight, not faint.”

“You do realize I’m fifteen, right?” Kael muttered. “Not all of us are built like you.”

She glanced at him. “Good. Less surface area to hit.”

He grinned and took another shot. This time, he clipped the shoulder of the droid head.

“Nice,” Sha’rali said. “Almost impressive.”

“‘Almost impressive’ is literally how I introduce myself at bars,” Kael deadpanned.

“You’ve been to bars?”

“I’ve been thrown out of bars.”

Sha’rali stared at him.

He shrugged. “It was for being too adorable.”

She took a half-step back and barked a laugh. “Stars help me. You’re gonna get us all shot.”

“That’s what the gun’s for, right?”

Sha’rali made a sound between a sigh and a snort, then gestured to another target. “Try again. Faster this time.”

He fired three bolts in quick succession. Two hit, one went wide.

“Not bad,” she said, genuine this time.

Kael lowered the weapon and gave her a crooked smile. “See? Fast learner. And bonus—you didn’t have to yell.”

“I don’t yell,” she said.

He blinked. “That’s so untrue. You yell with your face.”

Sha’rali pointed a finger at him. “You keep sassing, I’ll make you scrub carbon scoring off R9’s undercarriage.”

“I already did that once!” he protested. “I think he’s just dirty on purpose.”

R9 beeped irritably from the ridge.

Kael mimicked the droid with a nasal whine: “Beep-boop, I’m superior to organic life forms. Please validate me.”

Sha’rali chuckled under her breath. “You’re insufferable.”

Kael fired one last shot. Dead center.

Then, casually: “So… this means I’m officially dangerous now, right?”

She tilted her head. “You were already dangerous. Just in a different way.”

Kael’s smile faltered, just slightly. But it returned fast. “Aww. You do like me.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t not say it.”

She walked past him, grabbing the blaster from his hands. “Come on. Let’s see if you’re better at cleaning it than firing it.”

Kael followed, calling out, “I can clean stuff! Especially messes I make! Which is most messes!”

R9 trilled something in binary. Sha’rali didn’t catch it, but Kael did.

“You take that back, you glorified kettle.”

⸻

The cantina on florrum was loud, smoky, and smelled like stale drinks and scorched metal—just the kind of place Sha’rali felt most at home in.

She was leaned against a booth, sifting through bounty listings on a small holopad, K4 standing at her shoulder, red eyes scanning rapidly. R9 beeped from beside them, impatient.

“No, we’re not picking that one,” she muttered, flicking past a listing that promised triple pay for a political extraction job on Serenno. “I like my head where it is.”

K4 tilted his head. “You do tend to lead with it.”

Before Sha’rali could respond, the cantina’s entry chime buzzed.

4023 ducked through the doorway, armor worn and dusty, rifle slung over his back. Behind him, Kael trailed with a grin and hands in his pockets.

Sha’rali straightened. “What’s he doing here?”

“He insisted,” 4023 said flatly.

Kael raised his hand. “Hi. I’m insisting.”

“I told you to stay on the ship.”

“You also told R9 to stop locking the refresher door when you’re hungover,” Kael said. “We all ignore things.”

Sha’rali sighed. “You’re not coming on a job.”

“I can help,” Kael said. “I’m fast, quiet, and pretty good at distracting people by being incredibly annoying.”

K4 muttered, “No argument there.”

4023 stepped closer to her, voice low. “I’ll watch him. He won’t cause trouble.”

“That’s a bold promise for someone I watched nearly fall off the ship ramp yesterday,” she said dryly.

4023’s helmet tilted, annoyed. “He’s not a liability.”

That caught her attention. Not a liability was a very specific kind of defense. Her eyes narrowed at them both.

Kael sat at the booth and grabbed a discarded cup, sniffed it, and made a face. “That smells like regret.”

Sha’rali rounded the table. “You two are keeping something from me.”

4023 didn’t answer. His silence was like a wall.

Sha’rali leaned down to Kael. “Where exactly did 4023 find you?”

Kael blinked. “Oh, you know. Around. Classic back-alley rescue story. Bandits. Dramatic chase. Stuff blew up.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Swear to all the stars, nothing shady.”

“I never said shady.”

“Then I’m doing great!” He finger-gunned her and winked.

K4 let out a groaning whir, and R9 spun a slow, judging circle.

Sha’rali stood upright. “You stay close. One wrong move, and I’ll duct-tape you to the bulkhead.”

“Can’t wait.”

4023 handed her a datapad. “Got something. Cargo heist on Dorin. Neutral zone—Zann Consortium’s getting too bold.”

She raised a brow. “Zann? They don’t normally mess with this sector.”

“Someone’s paying them to.”

Sha’rali studied the bounty details. Mid-risk, high-reward. Could be clean—if they were fast.

“Fine,” she said. “We take it. But you”—she jabbed a finger at Kael—“stay quiet, stay low, and stay behind me.”

Kael saluted, then immediately knocked over the empty cup. “Totally professional.”

4023 shook his head slightly, but didn’t hide the faint trace of amusement under the visor.

As they left the cantina, Sha’rali walked just behind the two of them, watching.

She didn’t trust easy.

And this kid?

This kid moved like he’d been trained. Reacted like he’d seen real action. And that grin he wore like armor—there was hurt under there, hidden deep.

He was something.

And if 4023 thought she wouldn’t figure out what… he was wrong.

⸻

It was supposed to be a simple bounty.

In and out. No theatrics. Just a mid-tier weapons smuggler hiding out in the underbelly of Dorin’s forgotten industrial sector—neutral ground claimed by neither the Separatists nor the Republic. Sha’rali had walked into war zones for less.

Now, her side hurt. Her boots crunched over broken glass and cinders. The clouds above them swirled with gray gas from broken chimneys, and the red light of Dorin’s sky cast a bruised glow across everything.

They’d split up hours ago. 4023, R9, and K4 were tailing the target’s security detail—three armed Nikto guarding crates marked with faint Black Sun sigils. Kael had insisted on sticking with her. She hadn’t wanted it, but for reasons she hadn’t yet sorted through, she let him come.

And now he was walking beside her, hands shoved in the pockets of his oversized jacket, expression casual in a way that didn’t quite fit his age—or maybe that was the trick. Everything about the boy seemed too smooth, too knowing.

“Ever seen anything like this before?” she asked as they passed under an old shuttle engine converted into a tavern canopy.

“Smelled worse,” Kael replied with a smirk. “But yeah. This place is a pit.”

Sha’rali chuckled. “For someone who’s supposed to be watching and learning, you talk like you’ve done this before.”

Kael kicked a loose bolt across the ground. “Maybe I’ve just got a fast learning curve. Or maybe I’m just smarter than you think.”

She stopped, turning to face him.

“Kid, you act like someone who’s been hunted before.”

His face didn’t flinch. He just blinked. “Haven’t we all?”

Sha’rali studied him for a second longer before she kept walking. A warmth had built in her chest recently—some misplaced sense of protectiveness. He annoyed her, sure, but he also reminded her of things she didn’t want to remember. Losses she never signed up to carry.

The silence stretched.

Until the trap closed.

From above, crates fell—smoke bombs first, then sonic grenades. They exploded in a concussive whine, sending dust and debris into the air. Sha’rali instinctively shoved Kael down behind cover, drawing her blaster with a hiss.

Four figures emerged—Zann mercenaries, helmets with glowing red visors, vibro-axes and slugthrowers.

“Down!” she yelled, blasting two shots toward their flanks.

She fired again—and took a hit.

Not a direct one, but enough. A slug tore across her hip, slicing through the lighter armor like flimsiplast. She went down hard, breath ripped from her lungs.

Kael was beside her in an instant. Kael’s eyes scanned the area. There—a suspended cable transport system. Metal cages dangling above the rooftops, used to ferry supply crates between the outpost levels. Most were empty.

“That,” he said, pointing. “If we can get to one of those—”

“Assuming we don’t die before then.”

“Yeah, minor detail.”

They made a break for it.

Sha’rali took point, gunning down two Zann enforcers, but not the third. He got the drop on her, slammed her against a wall with a shock baton. She dropped to one knee, dazed, her blood pooling fast now.

“Sha’rali!”

She clutched her side. “Get out—run, Kael—!”

He didn’t move.

The enforcer raised his blaster—aiming for her head.

Sha’rali raised her blaster, hand shaking, blood pouring through her fingers.

The merc raised his axe—and then he screamed.

Lightning danced across his body, exploding from Kael’s outstretched hand with a crack like thunder. The merc convulsed and dropped, weapon clattering beside him.

Sha’rali’s eyes widened.

Kael stood over her, breathing hard. His expression wasn’t smug this time. It was wild. Torn. Like he’d just let something out he’d promised never to use.

He stepped forward. His hand went to his belt.

Two lightsabers ignited with a twin snap-hiss.

One glowed yellow, bright and unyielding like the twin suns over Tatooine. The other shimmered purple, its glow almost oily in the fog, deep and royal.

Sha’rali couldn’t speak. Could barely breathe.

Kael deflected a bolt as another merc tried to fire, then twisted with terrifying speed and slashed across the man’s chest. The body dropped without a sound.

Then, it was over.

Sha’rali lay half-slumped, blood soaking her side, staring at him as he turned to her. The sabers deactivated and returned to his belt in silence.

He crouched beside her.

“I’ll explain later,” he said quickly. “You’re losing a lot of blood. I need to move you.”

“You’re—” she choked out. “A Jedi.”

He flinched, hesitated. “Was.”

She grabbed his wrist weakly. He helped her to her feet, slinging her good arm over his shoulder. They staggered to the edge and jumped into the open transport cage just as it passed. The door slammed behind them. Kael jammed the control panel—sending it careening down the cable line at full speed.

Sha’rali collapsed into the cage floor, blood soaking the bottom. Kael knelt beside her, ripping part of his tunic to bind her wound.

“Not ideal,” he muttered. “But you’ll live.”

She winced, then looked up at him. The lightsabers now hung on his belt—deactivated, but undeniable.

“I don’t know much about Jedi,” she rasped. “But… saber colors. They mean things, don’t they?”

Kael didn’t answer.

She pointed weakly. “Yellow… purple. That doesn’t seem normal.”

Still silence.

“Which did you get first?”

His jaw clenched. “…Yellow.”

“And the other?”

“…Later.”

“Purple means dark side influence,” she said. “Right? You can’t lie. Not about this.”

He looked away.

“I didn’t ask for it,” he said finally. “I—made a choice. Took a path no one wanted me to take. I… made it mine.”

The wind howled through the cage as they zipped over rooftops and chasms, the speed making her dizzy.

“So what does it mean?” she whispered.

Kael met her gaze.

“It means I’ve seen too much. And I still want to do good. Even if the Force and the Council think I’m not allowed to anymore.”

She stared at him.

Not a kid. Not really. Not anymore.

“Who are you?” she murmured.

He didn’t answer.

They reached the platform. The wind screamed around them as Kael hit the manual override. The cable whined, beginning its crawl toward the canyon’s rim.

Sha’rali, dazed from blood loss, leaned against the bars.

“Why?”

Kael stared forward, hands tight on the rail.

“Because I was taught to follow the light. But the people who taught me… they lived in the dark. And when I saw that… I had to walk away.”

The wind howled through the gaps in the cage. Sha’rali’s eyes fluttered.

“Still think we shouldn’t have kept the stray?” he asked softly, smirking down at her.

She snorted weakly. “You’re still an annoying little shavit.”

“Yeah. But now I’ve got two lightsabers.”

The zipline cage scraped against its upper dock with a violent jolt, and Kael barely had time to steady her before the doors rattled open. He hoisted Sha’rali into his arms again with the kind of gentle strength that betrayed just how fast he was growing up.

Her skin was hot with blood loss, her lekku twitching faintly in pain, but her grip on consciousness didn’t falter.

Not completely.

They sprinted through ash-colored corridors until the silhouette of her ship—scorched, dented, but functional—came into view on the landing pad. K4 and R9 were already lowering the ramp.

4023 emerged from the shadows beside the ship, blaster still drawn. He paused the moment he saw Kael cradling Sha’rali, her side soaked crimson.

“Maker—what happened?!”

Kael didn’t stop. “She’s hit bad.”

“She needs a medkit, now.” 4023 turned toward K4. “Inside—top shelf—move!”

K4 hustled up the ramp, R9 warbling in alarm and taking his usual initiative of zapping the lighting controls to signal high alert mode. The ship’s belly glowed dim red as Kael carried her up the ramp, then carefully lowered her onto the medical bunk.

She groaned and shifted, eyes fluttering open enough to make out the silhouette of 4023 looming above her.

“You know…” she croaked, voice raspy but laced with dry humor, “I think I finally figured out why you picked up the stray Jedi.”

4023’s helmet tilted down at her, pausing mid-injection of bacta stabilizer. “…What?”

“That whole mysterious loner vibe. The broody soldier act. The secret-keeping.” Her grin was faint but unmistakable. “You two are the same brand of trouble. It’s almost sweet.”

Kael raised his eyebrows from where he leaned against the wall, arms crossed. “Should I be flattered or offended?”

“Take your pick,” Sha’rali muttered, wincing as the stabilizer kicked in. “I don’t care, just don’t get blood on my floor.”

4023 straightened up, muttering something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like “You’re the one bleeding out,” before setting the injector aside.

She gave him a lazy half-glare.

“I’ve been shot before.”

“You say that like it’s impressive.”

“It is impressive.”

Kael snorted.

4023 exhaled. “You’re lucky that wasn’t a direct hit. The bounty’s in the cargo hold, alive—barely. K4 and R9 locked him down before he could bite his own tongue off.”

“Did he have a tongue?” Sha’rali muttered. “He looked like a Dug who’d lost a bar fight with a vibrosaw.”

Kael moved to grab a fresh medwrap and leaned in to help. His hands were steady, but his eyes flicked down to her wound with an unspoken heaviness.

“You saved me,” she said softly, too soft for anyone else but him to hear.

He blinked, his tone shifting. “Of course I did.”

“You used lightning.” She squinted at him. “I’ve heard of Sith doing that.“

He didn’t answer. Not directly. Just helped her sit up enough to rewrap the gauze around her side.

Sha’rali let the silence stretch for a moment.

Then, slowly, “You’re not just a runaway. Not just some padawan who got lost in the war.”

Kael paused with the wrap halfway around her ribs.

4023 interrupted, stepping in just enough to break the moment.

“She needs to rest.”

Sha’rali leaned her head back against the bulkhead, voice dropping. “Yeah, yeah. Protect the kid’s secrets.”

Kael’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t rise to the bait.

“I’ll make myself useful,” he said instead. “Check the engines. K4 said the starboard stabilizer was whining again.”

4023 nodded.

As Kael walked off, Sha’rali’s gaze followed him for a long beat before flicking up to 4023.

“You keeping secrets from me now, too?”

His helmet tilted. “Always have been.”

Her lips quirked despite the pain. “That’s not reassuring.”

“No. It’s not.”

They let that hang there between them.

⸻

Previous Part | Next Part

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

You gonna let a bitch with Spider Man- Into the Spider Verse in her top 4 speak to you that way??

“The Lesser of Two Wars” pt.12

Commander Fox x Reader X Commander Thorn

Vos had eventually dozed off on the couch after recounting his entire day in painstaking detail, mid-rant about Kenobi’s latest sarcastic remark. GH-9 had draped a throw blanket over him like a passive-aggressive truce, muttering about “freeloading Force-wielders,” while R7 beeped threats softly from across the room.

The senator stood by the kitchen sink, sipping water and staring out into the hazy city night. The lights of Coruscant stretched infinitely, a galaxy unto itself—one that never paused, even when she desperately needed to.

And then—three knocks.

Soft, deliberate. From the main door this time.

She glanced at the droids. R7, without being asked, wheeled over to peek at the hallway cam.

The screen lit up.

Fox.

Alone. No helmet. No men.

She didn’t hesitate.

She opened the door, and for a moment, neither of them said anything. His eyes were tired, rimmed with something unreadable. Not quite regret. Not quite resolve.

His eyes shifted over her shoulder, likely clocking Vos asleep on the couch.

“I won’t stay long.”

“You can,” she said quietly, stepping aside.

Fox entered like a man walking into enemy territory—not with fear, but with precision. Everything about him was still: his breath, his hands, the way his gaze lingered on her before dropping to the floor.

“I wasn’t sure if I should come,” he said. “After everything.”

“You always think too much before doing what you want.”

He gave a dry, soft laugh. “Maybe.”

The room was dim, her empty wineglass still on the table, the half-eaten leftovers now covered by GH’s impeccable sense of order. R7 retreated into the shadows. GH quietly powered down in the corner, muttering, “If I hear one bedspring creak, I’m deleting myself.”

“I couldn’t stop thinking about you,” she said, voice low.

Fox’s jaw twitched.

He crossed the space between them in two quiet steps. Her hands found his shoulders—tension in the muscle, coiled like a spring. His forehead pressed to hers, his breath warm.

“Tell me to leave,” he said hoarsely. “And I will.”

“I don’t want you to.”

She kissed him.

It wasn’t hurried or desperate—it was slow, sure, deliberate. The kind of kiss that came after months of missteps, guarded words, and chances nearly lost. His hands cupped her jaw as if anchoring himself. Her fingers found the hem of his blacks, tugging him gently forward.

They stumbled toward the bedroom, the city behind them still humming.

Clothes were shed without rush—just the gradual unveiling of want. Of unspoken truths. Of the weight they both carried and the tiny moment they let themselves set it down.

He was careful. Reverent. She was unapologetically sure of him.

And when it was over, when they were curled together in the dark, his hand found hers beneath the covers. A breath passed. A wordless promise lingered in the space between heartbeats.

For once, neither of them said a thing.

There was no need.

⸻

Soft morning light filtered through the sheer curtains, painting long golden stripes across the bed and the bodies tangled beneath the sheets.

Fox stirred first—slow, careful. His arm was wrapped around her waist, her face tucked into the crook of his neck, breathing even and warm against his skin. For a man who was always half-tense, half-suspicious, he had let himself fully relax—for once.

He looked down at her, brushed a strand of hair from her forehead, and exhaled quietly.

Safe.

Here, in this impossible little pocket of stillness, he felt safe.

She shifted slightly, nuzzling into him, and he tightened his hold instinctively.

“You’re still here,” she murmured, voice hoarse with sleep.

“Didn’t want to leave,” he replied, just above a whisper. “Didn’t want this to be just once.”

“It won’t be,” she said, fingers tracing a lazy line across his chest. “Unless you snore. That’s a dealbreaker.”

He smirked. “You snore.”

“Lies.”

There was a loud clatter from the main living area, followed by GH-9’s distinctly judgmental voice.

“He stayed the whole night. I must say, I didn’t expect the Commander to be the clingy one. And here I was rooting for Thorn’s rebound arc.”

“GH,” the senator groaned, pressing her face into Fox’s chest. “Why did I give you a voice box again?”

“Because without him, you’d have no one to judge your choices properly.”

More noise. A loud thump. R7’s panicked, angry beeping echoed into the bedroom.

Fox lifted his head. “Is someone—?”

“Vos,” she sighed.

A pause. “Of course.”

R7 let out a sharp screech followed by the sound of something sparking.

From the living room, Vos yelled “You psychotic bin of bolts! That nearly hit my hair!”

More angry beeps.

“You can’t just light me on fire!”

Fox sat up as GH-9 came into the bedroom and calmly announced, “Vos has been warned. R7 has logged multiple offenses. Honestly, I’m surprised he hasn’t been tased already.”

Fox gave her a look. “Do I want to know what R7’s made of?”

“No,” she said immediately.

Outside the bedroom door, Quinlan’s voice carried “I just came to say good morning! And maybe… ask how many rounds you two—OKAY I’M GOING.”

A snap of static and the sound of flailing robes later, Vos presumably ran for his life, with R7 in hot pursuit.

Fox laid back down slowly, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Why is your life like this?”

She grinned into the pillow. “Keeps me young.”

He glanced at her. “You’re going to be the death of me.”

“Don’t tempt me,” she whispered, leaning over to kiss his jaw. “Now. Lie back down, Commander. We’re pretending the galaxy doesn’t exist for five more minutes.”

Outside, GH’s voice rang again.

“I’ll make caf. And breakfast. For two.”

⸻

“Alright,” Stone said, setting down his tray in the mess with a heavy clunk, “am I the only one who noticed Fox didn’t come back to the barracks last night?”

Thire raised a brow and sat beside him. “You’re not. His bunk hasn’t been touched. Hound, anything on your end?”

Hound glanced up from feeding Grizzer bits of smoked meat under the table. “He left with us last night, remember? Said he was heading home. Then poof. No helmet, no comms. Nothing.”

Stone leaned in, frowning. “That man is never late. And definitely never unaccounted for.”

“Unless…” Thire started, a sly grin growing. “He wasn’t alone.”

All three went silent for a second.

Then:

“Oh no.”

“Oh stars.”

“Oh hells.”

Their synchronized realisation was only made worse when Thorn walked by, paused mid-step, and slowly turned back to face them.

“What are you lot whispering about?” he asked, tone suspiciously flat.

Thire cleared his throat. “Just… wondering where Fox was last night.”

“Why?”

“Because no one’s seen him. Didn’t report in. Didn’t come home.”

Stone added carefully, “You wouldn’t happen to know where he was, would you?”

Thorn didn’t answer. He stared. And then, very slowly, that seed of doubt began to unfurl in his chest like a poison bloom.

He hadn’t seen her since the senator came back from her homeworld. And Fox had been… twitchy. Avoidant.

His jaw tightened. “You don’t think he was with—?”

“Morning, gentlemen!”

Quinlan Vos breezed in, still half-draped in his robe, hair tousled like he hadn’t slept a minute—and somehow smug as ever.

He dropped into a seat, reached for a mug of caf, and grinned. “You are not going to believe what I heard last night.”

Thire narrowed his eyes. “From where?”

Vos took a long sip of caf, then tapped his temple. “Senator’s couch. You’d be surprised how little soundproofing those walls have.”

There was a long, awful pause.

“You slept on her couch?” Stone asked, appalled.

Vos wiggled his fingers. “Slept is a strong word. Meditated with dramatic flair, more like. Anyway—Fox dropped by around midnight. Stayed the night. Definitely didn’t leave until early morning. I heard… things.” He waggled his brows.

Thorn’s blood went cold.

“You’re saying they—?”

“I’m saying,” Vos interrupted with a smirk, “there was some very rhythmic furniture movement, and I was not going to interrupt round two. Or was it three?”

Hound groaned. “Oh maker.”

Thire blinked. “I’m gonna throw up.”

Grizzer barked once, unhelpfully.

And Thorn—he just stood there. Stiff. Quiet. Jaw clenched so hard it ached.

Vos finally noticed. “Oh. Thorn. You okay, buddy?”

The commander turned and left without a word.

Vos blinked. “Was it something I said?”

Stone and Thire glared.

Hound just muttered, “You’re the worst, Vos.”

Vos grinned. “I try.”

Thorn didn’t remember much of the walk out of the mess hall.

His boots hit the corridor floor harder than necessary, hands clenched into fists at his sides. It felt like pressure was building in his chest—hot, dense, and impossible to ignore. Every step echoed like a heartbeat in his ears, and not a single one of those karking words from Vos would stop replaying.

Rhythmic furniture movement.

Round two. Or was it three?

He stopped in the hallway outside the barracks and pressed both hands against the durasteel wall, breathing hard through his nose.

It shouldn’t matter.

She wasn’t his.

But he’d had her. At least for a night. One goddamn night where he’d seen her smile against the morning sun, tangled in the sheets with him. Where it felt like something peaceful and warm was possible.

And Fox—

Fox always took everything in stride. Cold, quiet, controlled Fox. Until suddenly, he didn’t. Until he showed up where he wasn’t expected and stayed the night.

Thorn’s hand slammed into the wall with a metallic clang. A few clones walking past glanced at him but didn’t dare speak. Not with the look on his face.

He hadn’t thought he’d be jealous of Fox. Not him. Not the cold, haunted commander who held himself so far back from everyone that even his own brothers walked on eggshells around him. But now, all Thorn could picture was her mouth on Fox’s, her body against his, those sharp eyes going soft the way they had only once before—when she looked at Thorn.

He pressed the heel of his palm to his eye socket, trying to force the thoughts away.

Maybe it was just physical. A mistake. A moment. Maybe Fox wouldn’t even mention it again.

But deep down, Thorn knew.

Fox didn’t do casual. Fox didn’t indulge unless he meant something by it. And the way he’d been looking at her lately… the way he’d softened.

Thorn turned abruptly and headed toward the training wing. He needed to hit something. Sparring droids, punching bags, stone walls—anything.

He couldn’t walk this off. Not this time.

He couldn’t stand the idea of losing her.

Not to him.

⸻

The sun had begun to dip below the skyline, casting the Senate District in a soft golden glow. It was quiet—eerily so, for Coruscant—and for once, she welcomed the stillness.

She was sitting on her balcony, a cup of tea long forgotten beside her. R7 beeped quietly from the corner, then rolled back inside, sensing her need to be alone.

The knock came anyway.

She didn’t even look. “Door’s open.”

It hissed open a second later, and Thorn stood there in full red armor, helmet under one arm, his hair mussed, his expression unreadable.

She looked up at him slowly. “I figured you’d be storming through the training halls.”

“I did.” His voice was lower than usual. “Didn’t help.”

She gave him a soft, bitter smile. “Then I suppose I’ll be your next attempt at relief.”

“That’s not why I’m here.”

There was a beat of silence. The tension between them felt like it had a pulse of its own.

She stood, arms folding across her chest. “I never lied to you, Thorn.”

“I know.”

“I told you I couldn’t choose. That I cared about you both.” Her voice cracked a little at the edges, raw with the weight of it. “That hasn’t changed.”

“I didn’t come here to demand anything,” he said quietly. “I just… I needed to see you. I needed to know if it meant something. What happened between us. Or if I was just—”

“You weren’t just anything.” Her eyes locked with his. “Don’t do that to yourself. Don’t do that to me.”

He took a step closer. “Then what am I?”

She hesitated. “You’re someone I care about. Someone I trusted with more than I’ve trusted anyone in a long time. But that doesn’t mean I don’t care for him, too. This isn’t… easy.”

He closed the last bit of distance, standing just inches away now. “I’m not asking for easy. I never wanted perfect. Just something real.”

Her lips parted, a shaky breath escaping her. “Thorn…”

And then his lips were on hers.

It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t patient. It was desperate, almost painful—like if he didn’t kiss her now, if he didn’t feel her, he’d fall apart entirely.

She let him.

For a few suspended seconds, she let herself fall into the gravity of him—the anger, the confusion, the ache of not being enough and wanting too much. Her fingers curled into his armor, his hands gripping her waist like she was the last solid thing in the galaxy.

But she pulled back first.

His forehead pressed against hers, breath uneven.

“I can’t promise you anything,” she whispered, barely able to speak past the emotion in her throat.

“I’m not asking for a promise,” he murmured. “Just don’t shut me out.”

She nodded, slowly. “I won’t.”

Neither of them moved for a while. The city buzzed far beneath them, but up here, they were just two people—trying to make sense of a storm neither had control over.

⸻

The room was quiet, save for the faint hum of the Coruscant skyline outside and the soft rustling of sheets as Thorn shifted beside her. She was curled against him, her fingers tracing the edge of his armor, the weight of his body warm and familiar next to hers.

For the moment, the chaos of the galaxy seemed miles away. The Senate, the battles, the confusion with Fox, it all felt distant. All that remained was the steady rhythm of Thorn’s breath and the warmth of his presence.

She sighed, not wanting to break the silence. But she had to.

“Where will you go?” Her voice was barely above a whisper, the words fragile as they left her lips.

Thorn’s hand found hers, gently squeezing. “Padmé’s mission. There’s a squad of us assigned to protect her, make sure nothing goes wrong while she’s there.” His voice was casual, like this was just another assignment, another day in the life of a soldier.

But she could hear the edge in his tone, the unspoken weight of what it meant. She couldn’t help but feel a tightness in her chest.

“You’re going with her?” Her voice trembled slightly.

He nodded. “I’ll be with her, watching over her and the others. No one will get through me.”

But she knew the truth. The reality of war was far darker than the comfort of his words.

A quiet moment passed between them, the distance between their hearts widening with the inevitable separation.

She turned her face to the side to look at him, her fingers grazing his jaw. “Be careful.”

“I always am,” he said, but there was a sadness behind his smile, a knowing that neither of them could ignore.

Her stomach churned. She didn’t want him to leave. She didn’t want to watch him walk away, knowing how fragile life was in the galaxy they lived in.

“I wish I could go with you,” she murmured. “Not as a senator… just as me. I want to be by your side, Thorn.”

His fingers brushed her cheek, a tenderness in his touch that betrayed the soldier he was. “I know. I wish you could, too. But I can’t ask you to leave your duties.”

There it was—the line between them. The weight of who she was and what she had to do, and the soldier who had nothing but his duty to give.

“I’ll be back before you know it,” he promised, though the doubt lingered in his eyes. There was something in his gaze—a flicker of fear, of uncertainty—that unsettled her.

He was trying to reassure her, but she could feel it in her gut. She didn’t want to let him go. Not like this. Not with war still raging, not knowing what the future would hold.

But what could she do? She couldn’t keep him with her. And as much as she hated to admit it, she knew she couldn’t stand in the way of his duty either.

She nodded, her lips trembling as she kissed him again, softer this time. “Come back to me, Thorn. Promise me.”

He kissed her back, deeply, holding her close as if trying to make the moment last forever.

“I promise. I’ll come back to you. I’ll always come back.”

You lay there for a while longer, not speaking, just holding onto each other as the time ticked away. The feeling of his heartbeat beneath her fingers, the warmth of his body next to hers, was the only thing that anchored her to this fleeting moment of peace.

⸻

The next morning, the air felt heavy. Thorn, dressed in his full armor, stood by the door. His helmet sat at his side, and for once, the mask didn’t seem like a symbol of his strength. It seemed like a weight.

“I’ll be back soon,” he said quietly, looking at her one last time before the mission.

The time they had spent together—intimate, raw, fleeting—had been enough to make him hesitate. He wanted to hold her longer. To delay the mission, to stay here in the quiet with her for just a few more hours. But he couldn’t. Duty called, as it always did.

She nodded, standing in the doorway with her arms crossed over her chest.

She could feel her heart beating erratically. There was a bitter taste in her mouth, the unspoken fear gnawing at her insides.

She watched him walk down the hallway, her heart heavy with a sense of dread that she couldn’t shake. And as the door closed behind him, she tried to push the worry aside. She had to. For his sake.

The sound of the door sealing shut behind him echoed through the apartment. It was the sound of finality.

And as Thorn left her behind, she had no idea that this goodbye might be the last time she’d see him alive.

⸻

The mission was supposed to be routine. Thorn and his squad were assigned to protect Padmé, but as they soon discovered, nothing in the War ever went according to plan.

In the chaos, Thorn found himself surrounded, his blaster raised, a fierce determination in his eyes. But even the most skilled of soldiers could only hold out for so long.

⸻

Back on Coruscant, the days dragged on. The Senate halls were filled with the usual bustle, but the senator couldn’t shake the feeling of something missing. Thorn’s absence weighed on her.

She was in her office, sorting through reports and data pads that had piled up during her absence. The windows were open, letting in the soft glow of Coruscant’s afternoon sun, though it offered little warmth.

R7 chirped as he rolled past, dragging a half-toppled stack of flimsiplast behind him like a stubborn child refusing to clean up. GH-9 muttered something sarcastic in binary about the senator’s inability to delegate.

She was halfway through dictating a speech when the door chimed.

“Come in,” she called without looking up.

The door opened. She didn’t expect to look up and see Fox standing there.

The moment she saw his face, she knew.

He wasn’t in full armor. No helmet, no blaster. Just the weight of something unspeakable dragging his shoulders low. His eyes—those always-sharp, unreadable eyes—were glassy.

“Senator,” he said softly, almost like he wished he didn’t have to speak at all.

Her heart dropped.

“What is it?” she asked, the datapad slipping from her hands, forgotten on the desk.

Fox stepped inside and the door closed behind him with a quiet hiss.

“It’s Thorn.”

The words struck like a punch to the chest. She froze. Her stomach twisted.

“No.”

“He was escorting Senator Amidala They were ambushed. He held the line.” Fox’s voice was steady, trained. But beneath it, something trembled. “He fought like hell.”

Her knees buckled, and she sat down hard in her chair, as if the air had been knocked out of her.

“He didn’t—he didn’t make it,” Fox finished, the words hanging in the air like smoke after an explosion.

Silence.

R7 rolled up beside her, quietly for once, and GH-9 hovered in the background, hands twitching nervously.

She didn’t speak. Didn’t cry. Just sat there with her hands clenched in her lap, her nails biting into her palms. She stared at the wall, eyes unfocused.

“I shouldn’t have let him go alone.”

Fox took a step closer, voice low. “There’s nothing you could’ve done.”

She looked up at him sharply, and for a brief moment, he saw all of it—the love, the guilt, the devastation.

“You don’t know that.”

“No,” he said gently. “But I know he wouldn’t want you blaming yourself.”

Her jaw trembled. “He promised me. He said he’d come back.”

Fox moved then, silent but certain. He knelt beside her chair, placing one gloved hand over hers. It was the first time she’d seen him like this—unguarded, vulnerable.

“I didn’t want to be the one to tell you,” he admitted. “But I knew… it had to be me.”

She looked at him, truly looked. And something in her cracked.

Tears welled up and finally fell. Not loud, not dramatic. Just quiet, helpless grief.

Fox stayed where he was, grounding her with his hand, offering nothing but his presence and the unspoken ache of his own loss. Thorn had been one of them—his brother, his friend. And now, just another ghost in the long line behind them.

“I loved him,” she said hoarsely, the words torn from her chest. “And I never got to tell him.”

Fox nodded, his thumb brushing gently over her fingers. “He knew.”

They sat there like that for a long time. No titles, no ranks, no roles—just two people mourning a man who had mattered more than words could ever say.

⸻

It was late.

The city outside her window was alive with light, but her apartment was dark, save for the soft hum of R7 recharging in the corner and the occasional flicker of Coruscant speeders casting pale shadows across the room.

She stood at the balcony, robe drawn tight around her, fingers curled around a mug of untouched caf long since gone cold. The wind carried faint echoes of the night—traffic, laughter, the mechanical heartbeat of a world that never paused.

Behind her, she heard the soft hiss of her door sliding open.

She didn’t turn.

“I didn’t lock it, did I?” she murmured, her voice distant.

“No.” Fox’s voice was quiet, steady as ever, but softer somehow. “Didn’t think you’d want to be alone.”

She didn’t answer right away. Just stood there, watching nothing, letting the silence stretch between them like a fragile thread.

“I told you I couldn’t choose,” she said at last, her voice breaking around the edges. “Between you and him. I—I cared too much for you both.”

Fox stepped closer, but didn’t touch her.

“I know.”

Her throat tightened, and she finally turned to face him. His helmet was tucked under one arm, and without it, he looked tired. Hollowed out. But there was a warmth in his gaze, something real—something she wasn’t sure how to accept right now.

“The galaxy chose for me,” she whispered, bitterness thick on her tongue. “And it was cruel.”

Fox nodded once, eyes lowering. “It always is.”

They stood there in silence again. The wind picked up, brushing her hair into her face. She closed her eyes.

“He died protecting someone else,” she said. “Of course he did.”

“That’s who he was.”

“I didn’t get to say goodbye.”

Neither did Fox.

But Fox didn’t say it. He only looked at her with a quiet pain that mirrored her own.

After a while, she moved, just enough to stand beside him instead of across from him. Their shoulders nearly touched. And for the first time since the news had broken her in two, she let herself lean—just slightly—against him.

Fox didn’t move. Didn’t startle. He simply stayed.

The two of them stood there, side by side, in a moment that felt suspended in time. No war. No orders. No decisions to make.

Just grief. Just memory. Just a little peace, wrapped in shared silence and what could have been.

In the days that followed Thorn’s death, something shifted between her and Fox—but it wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t loud. It was in the small things.

He didn’t knock anymore.

She didn’t ask him to leave.

He never asked if he could stay, and she never told him no. When she broke into tears mid-sentence in a meeting with Bail and Mon, she felt Fox’s gloved hand rest lightly on her back—quiet, grounding, unspoken. When she returned to her apartment after long hours in the Senate, he was often already there, helmet on the table, sitting silently with R7 humming nearby and GH-9 making snide remarks about his choice in boots.

Their intimacy wasn’t the same as it once was. It wasn’t born of flirtation, or the tension of forbidden glances. It was quiet. Fragile. Real.

She didn’t laugh as much anymore, and Fox didn’t try to make her. But when she smiled—those rare, slow, exhausted smiles—he was always looking.

One night, weeks later, she woke to find herself tangled in her sheets, her heart racing from a dream she couldn’t remember. The bed beside her was empty, but she heard the sound of movement from the other room. When she padded out, she found him on the balcony, just like she had been that night.

He didn’t notice her at first. He was staring out at the city, the lights reflected in the faint lines beneath his eyes.

“I keep thinking about what he’d say if he saw us now,” she said quietly.

Fox didn’t flinch. “He’d be pissed.”

That got a breath of a laugh from her. “Yeah. He would.”

She stepped beside him, this time without hesitation. He looked at her—not with guilt or doubt, but something gentler.

“I’m not trying to take his place,” Fox said. “I wouldn’t do that. I couldn’t.”

“I know.”

“But I’m here. And I care about you.”

She nodded, voice soft. “And I care about you.”

The silence between them wasn’t heavy anymore. It was something else now. Shared understanding. Mutual grief. A kind of bond forged not through heat or fire, but through the slow, enduring ache of loss.

She reached for his hand, and this time, he took it.

⸻

It had been months—long, heavy months since the galaxy fell into silence.

The war had ended, but the peace that followed felt like a lie whispered in a storm. The Republic was no more. The Jedi were gone. The Senate now served an Emperor.

And Fox… was still hers.

Somehow, in the ruins of everything, they had survived—together. Their love had grown not with grand gestures or declarations, but in quiet mornings and guarded nights. The droids still bickered. The city still roared. But in their home, they found a rhythm.

She had feared he’d be swept away by the tides of this new Empire. Feared that one day he wouldn’t come back. And that fear… never quite left her.

It settled in her bones like frost.

That morning, she sat on the edge of their bed, dressing in silence. Fox stood near the window, fastening his chest plate, his helmet cradled beneath his arm. The early Coruscant light bathed them both in a pale hue, sterile and cold.

He was going to the Jedi Temple.

“Why you?” she asked softly, not for the first time.

“Because the Emperor trusts me,” he said. It wasn’t pride—it was resignation. “And because I follow orders.”

She swallowed. “You followed orders during the war too. And look where we are now.”

He turned to face her, his expression unreadable, as always. But then he stepped forward, kneeling slightly in front of her. He took her hands in his, calloused fingers brushing against hers.

“I’ll come back to you,” he said quietly. “I always come back.”

“That’s not what I’m afraid of,” she whispered. “I’m afraid of what’s left of you when you do.”

He didn’t answer—not right away. Instead, he leaned in, pressing his forehead to hers, the silence stretching between them like a wire ready to snap.

“You saved what was left of me once,” he murmured. “Whatever happens in that temple… I’ll still be him. I’ll still be yours.”

She nodded, eyes burning. “You’d better be.”

He kissed her, slow and deep, and for a moment the galaxy outside didn’t exist. No Empire. No purge. Just them. Just love, worn but unyielding.

Then, without another word, he picked up his helmet, straightened, and walked out the door.

She stood alone, the echo of his footsteps retreating down the hall.

And for the first time in weeks, the senator who had survived the war—who had outlived Thorn, Padmé, and a thousand dreams—sat in silence and prayed.

⸻

The senator sat in the same chair by the window, her fingers wrapped around a cup of now-cold tea.

The sun had long risen. She hadn’t moved.

It had been hours since Fox left for the Jedi Temple. She had done this before—waited for him to come home, waited for news, waited for the sound of armored boots in the hallway followed by that quiet, familiar knock.

But this time, it never came.

Instead, a Senate aide delivered the news. Cold. Efficient. Detached.

Commander Fox is dead.

Her world stopped spinning.

She hadn’t cried. Not at first. Just sat there. Staring. Breathing through the tremor that clawed its way up her throat. She waited for someone to say it was a mistake. That the report had been wrong. That he’d walk through the door like he always did, maybe with a bruise or a weary joke.

But he didn’t.

GH-9 paced the floor, helpless for once. R7 sat by the door, unmoving, eerily quiet—no beeps, no complaints. Just stillness.

“He forgot,” she whispered at last, her voice dry and cracking.

GH-9 paused, turning his photoreceptors to her. “Pardon, senator?”

“He forgot to tell them… about Vader. He didn’t warn his men. He walked in blind, trusting too much. He…” She laughed, a dry, heartbroken sound. “Fox. He followed the rules. Right to the end.”

She folded in on herself, pressing her forehead to her knees. Her voice came out muffled, trembling. “He left me too.”

No one tried to tell her it would be okay. Not this time. Even the droids stayed silent.

She had lost Thorn to the war. Padmé to politics and truth. The Jedi to treason and betrayal.

And now Fox.

The man who had once been all steel and restraint, who had learned to laugh again in her arms, who held her when the galaxy grew too loud, who said he’d come back… and meant it.

He meant it.

But even Fox couldn’t survive this new galaxy.

Hours passed.

She lay down on the bed, curling into the spot where he used to sleep. The sheets still smelled like him—warm leather, dust, and something sharp and clean like the wind before rain.

Her hand found his pillow and clutched it to her chest.

And finally—finally—she cried.

⸻

News of Fox’s death reached her like an echo—distant, half-believed, but devastating all the same. He was just gone. No funeral. No body. No honors. Only silence.

She tried to go back to her life. Attending hollow Senate sessions filled with sycophants and fear. Sitting in on Imperial briefings delivered with too much steel and too little soul. Every corridor she walked felt colder. Every face around her wore a mask.

He had died protecting that machine. And now, it turned as if he’d never existed.

She grieved in private. She didn’t scream. She didn’t fall apart. She simply… withdrew. Fox had once told her that the Empire’s greatest weapon wasn’t force—it was apathy. It made people stop feeling. She remembered that.

But she wouldn’t stop feeling.

So when survivors of distant systems quietly sought her out… she listened.

When a child refugee from Garel slipped her a hand-drawn map of a new labor camp… she didn’t throw it away.

When a clone deserter arrived at her estate with wounds on his back and no name, she gave him food. And a place to rest.

It was only help, she told herself.

But helping turned into organizing. Organizing turned into funding. Funding turned into sabotage. Quietly. Carefully. No grand speeches. No banners. No cause, not officially. Just steps. One after another.

She still spoke in the Senate, but her voice was quieter now. Calculated. She didn’t argue. She watched. Noticed who kept their heads down and who looked over their shoulders. Who clenched their fists beneath the table.

And then she began connecting them.

They weren’t a rebellion. Not yet.

They were just people who remembered.

⸻

*time skip*

The banners were gone.

Where once the towering buildings of Coruscant bore the stark emblem of the Empire, now they flew the soft golds and blues of the New Republic. It had taken years. Blood, betrayal, sacrifice. But the machine had been broken.

She stood on a balcony overlooking the Senate Plaza, the same one where she’d once greeted Padmé, where she’d once stood beside Thorn, where Fox had kissed her in the early light of a safer time.

Everything was quieter now.

Not because there wasn’t work to do—there was always work—but because the fear had lifted. People laughed in the streets again.

Her hair was streaked with grey now, skin lined with years that had not always been kind. But her eyes… they were still sharp, still tired, still watching.

She didn’t hold a seat in the new Senate. She had turned it down. She said she’d done her time, spoken enough, lost too much. The new leaders were young, hopeful, idealistic. She didn’t want to shape them. She just wanted them to do better.

Some called her a war hero. Others, a relic. A few, a ghost.

She was all of them. And none.

On quiet mornings, she would walk the Senate gardens. GH-9 still chattered beside her. R7 wheeled along just ahead, ever feisty, ever suspicious, always scanning for threats that might never come.

Sometimes, she swore she saw a flash of red and white armor in the crowd. Sometimes, she turned too fast, thinking she’d heard a voice she knew.

But no. They were gone. Thorn. Fox. So many others.

And yet, she remained.

When asked if it was worth it, she never gave the same answer twice.

Sometimes she said yes.

Sometimes she said no.

And sometimes, she just looked out over the city and said,

“Ask me again tomorrow.”

Previous part

A/N

I didn’t know how to end this, so I ended it bittersweet/tragic. I absolutely hate this ending ahahaha.

“Brothers in the Making” pt.4

Command Squad x Reader

The new training was brutal.

You made good on your warning.

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

And they got better.

Fox stopped hesitating.

Bacara stopped grinning.

Wolffe started thinking before acting.

Cody led with silence and strength.

Rex? Rex was starting to look like a leader.

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

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

Kamino got crowded.

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

Bounty hunters.

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

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

You weren’t the only one who noticed.

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

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

“They stink like trouble,” you muttered.

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

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

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

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

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

“We're done,” you finished for him.

Silence settled over the table like a weight.

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

Your blood boiled.

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

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

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

“You’ll gut them,” Vau said. “Good.”

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

“—you really think we’re ready?”

“Doesn’t matter. Buir thinks we are.”

“Yeah but… what if those bounty hunters—”

You stopped outside the door. Knocked once.

The room went dead quiet.

You stepped in.

The cadets snapped to attention.

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

They didn’t answer.

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

“Good,” you said. “Neither do I.”

They relaxed — just slightly.

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

“What’s that?” Bacara asked.

You looked each of them in the eye.

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

Fox swallowed. “And the others?”

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

A long silence followed.

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

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

You looked to each of them in turn.

“You’re protectors.”

———

The first hit came during evening drills.

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

Because they were.

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

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

Neyo ended up with a dislocated shoulder.

Gree broke two ribs.

Bly passed out from dehydration.

And the worst?

Thorn.

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

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

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

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

You didn’t say a word.

You decked him.

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

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

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

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

You stepped toward her.

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

———

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

Cody. Rex. Bacara. Fox. Wolffe.

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

Monk. Doom. Appo. Ponds.

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

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

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

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

“Without Buir?” Rex asked, wary.

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

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

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

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

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

They all turned.

“We just have to outsmart them.”

They waited for their moment.

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

They never saw it coming.

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

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

Gree triggered the power outage.

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

Monk and Doom stole their gear.

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

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

They didn’t tell the Kaminoans what happened.

Neither did the hunters.

The next day, those bounty trainers were gone.

You knew something had happened. Jango did too.

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

“I didn’t ask,” you said.

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

You smiled.

For a second, you almost said it.

Almost.

But not yet.

Instead, you gave him a nod.

“Well done, kid.”

———

Tipoca City was never supposed to feel like a warzone.

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

It started with Jango leaving.

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

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

You frowned. “Problem?”

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

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

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

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

He walked off without waiting for a reply.

The next few hours passed too quietly.

You and Kal did recon.

Vau slipped through maintenance corridors.

Then — the lights flickered.

The main comms cut out.

And every blast door in Tipoca City slammed shut.

———

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

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

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

Then the doors slid open.

Ten bounty hunters walked in.

Wearing full armor. Fully armed.

The first one tossed a stun grenade across the room.

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

A loud, metallic slam.

The doors locked again.

But this time, from outside.

A voice crackled over the mess intercom.

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

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

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

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

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

The fight wasn’t clean.

It was fast. Ugly. Vicious.

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

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

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

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

Thorn cracked a chair over a hunter’s back.

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

But then—

One of them grabbed Cody.

Knife to his throat.

Your blood ran cold.

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

You stepped forward slowly, hands up, helmet off.

“Let him go,” you said, voice low.

“Back off!” he yelled. “I’ll do it!”

Then — he started cutting.

Cody didn’t scream. Didn’t cry out.

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

You saw red.

You lunged.

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

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

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

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

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

You looked down at Cody.

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

He winced as you cleaned it.

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

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

“I don’t care.”

You smiled faintly.

“Good. You earned it.”

The mess hall had long since fallen silent.

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

The only ones left were you and your cadets.

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

And very, very proud.

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

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

You looked at each one of them.

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

Rex, perched beside Bly, both quiet but alert.

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

Bacara and Neyo flanking the younger cadets instinctively.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You looked at all of them again.

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

For a moment, the room was silent again.

Then a quiet voice piped up from behind Rex.

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

You rolled your eyes. “Not a chance.”

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

Fox clapped Rex on the back.

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

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

Just your boys. Just your family.

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

—————

*Time Skip*

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

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

You felt it the second the long corridor doors opened.

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

And that’s when you saw him.

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

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

You blinked. “Well, well.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

That made you pause.

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

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

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

You nodded. “Each one.”

“And you’ve been… training them?”

You looked back at him. “Raising them.”

That gave him pause.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You met his eyes.

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

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

“That’s not what I’ve heard.”

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

Kenobi tilted his head. “And now?”

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

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

Obi-Wan folded his arms. “Separatists?”

You didn’t answer.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

————

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

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

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

And you hated every second of it.

“Buir!”

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

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

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

They exchanged looks. Several stepped closer.

“Why?” Wolffe asked.

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

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

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

They fell quiet.

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

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

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

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

You looked up at the storm.

“Where I’m needed.”

A beat passed.

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

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

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

You rolled your eyes, but opened your arms anyway.

They came in like a wave.

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

You held them all.

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

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

“Stay safe,” he said.

You gave a small nod.

“We’ll make you proud.”

“You already did.”

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

And you were left on the platform, alone.

But not really.

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

And your heart — your heart went with them.

————

She never returned to Kamino.

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

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

They were commanders now. Captains. Leaders of men.

And the war made them legends.

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

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

Bacara led brutal campaigns on Mygeeto.

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

Cody fought with unwavering precision at Kenobi’s side.

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

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

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

As their buir.

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

But she knew.

She knew when Rex's tone cracked after Umbara.

She knew when Cody stopped speaking on open comms.

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

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

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

Not dead. Not gone.

Just… lost.

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

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

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

She had given them names.

But the galaxy had given them numbers again.

So she remembered.

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

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

She remembered Fox making them salute her.

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

She remembered all of it.

Because someone had to.

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

And she would say the names again.

Out loud.

And remind them of who they really were.

——————

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