Tech X Mechanic Reader

I say shit like "If my memory serves me" knowing damn well it serves the dark lord

this place sucks im gonna drink six beers and jack off

“Storm and Starlight”

Sev x Jedi Reader

It had been twenty-nine days since she went missing.

Sev knew the exact count, though he never said it aloud. He didn’t like counting things unless they were kills. Death was predictable. Comfortable. But her? She was something else.

They lost contact with her squad during an op on Felucia. Dense jungle. Hostile locals. Separatist interference. Command called it. KIA, presumed.

Sev didn’t believe it. Not because of some Jedi faith, but because she was the one thing in his life that didn’t shatter under pressure.

She annoyed the hell out of him. Bubbly, bright, constantly chirping about “hope” and “trust in the Force.” It should have driven him up the walls. But somehow, it worked. She worked.

And now she was gone.

So when the door to the debriefing room slid open and he saw her silhouette—filthy robes, a torn sleeve, a limp in her step—his mind blanked.

She paused in the doorway. Her hair was caked in mud and ash, but her smile still hit like a thermal detonator.

“Miss me?”

There was a beat.

Then another.

Sev crossed his arms and exhaled through his nose, slow and sharp. “I had wondered where my headache went.”

She laughed—light and unexpected, like rain in a war zone—and limped closer. “Is that how you greet everyone who comes back from the dead?”

“I’ve only seen you do it. Once.” He eyed her up and down. “You look like hell.”

“Hell’s got better lighting.”

Sev reached out, pulled her closer by the belt of her torn robe. “Where the kriff were you?”

“Trapped. Separatist scout patrol hit us hard. I got out, the others didn’t. I’ve been trekking across half the jungle, dodging droids and eating… well, I think it was fruit. Could’ve been eggs.”

“Should’ve been you that got eaten.”

She leaned her forehead against his chest plate. “Aw. You did miss me.”

Sev went still.

Her warmth, her voice, even the scent of jungle rot clinging to her—none of it should’ve made his heart stutter like that. And yet.

“I didn’t miss you,” he said, voice lower. “I just got used to the quiet.”

She looked up, eyes glittering like starlight. “Liar.”

And he was.

Because for twenty-nine days, he hadn’t slept right. The jokes didn’t land. The blood didn’t thrill. He kept expecting her voice in his comm, her humming in the medbay, her absolutely infuriating habit of giving everyone in Delta Squad an encouraging nickname.

Now she was back. Cracked and bruised—but still sunshine, somehow.

“You’re gonna die smiling one day,” he muttered. “And I’ll be the one dragging your corpse back just so I can punch it.”

She smiled, softer this time. “Then I guess I’ll die knowing you cared.”

Sev sighed and pulled her fully into his arms. “Next time you disappear, I’m tying a tracking beacon to your ankle.”

“Promise?”

“Don’t tempt me.”

me when the plot won't plot like it should

“It’s On Again”

Commander Bly x Jedi!Reader

⸻

There were moments—even in war—that felt still.

In the jungle shadows of Saleucami, as the sun threatened to rise, the camp was a blur of hushed voices and clicking equipment. But for you, standing at the edge of it all, it felt like the world had paused. Just long enough to breathe. Just long enough to feel the weight of your purpose settling heavy on your shoulders again.

You always stood alone when you could. Not out of pride. Not out of habit. But because solitude had always made more sense than letting others carry the burden with you.

You’d never been one to chase recognition. The battles you fought were never about victory. You fought because others couldn’t. You carried pain so others didn’t have to.

And still, the loneliness crept in—like frost under your skin. You were a Jedi. A general. A friend. A weapon.

But never just… you.

⸻

“You’ve got that look again,” Aayla said, stepping beside you in the fading moonlight. Her blue skin shimmered under the pale light, her voice teasing but knowing.

“What look?” you murmured, not looking away from the horizon.

“That one where you pretend you’re not breaking apart inside,” she said softly. “I know it better than you think.”

You let out a breath, slow and careful. “If we break, who picks up the pieces for everyone else?”

“Who picks up your pieces?” she asked.

You didn’t answer.

She turned fully to you, voice stronger now. “You’re not alone. Not really. I see the way Bly looks at you.”

That earned her a glance, half amused, half exhausted. “Bly is… complicated.”

Aayla smiled faintly. “So are you.”

⸻

Commander Bly had always been disciplined, precise, and steady—a wall in a storm. You respected that about him. Needed it, even. In your world of sacrifice and selflessness, he was one of the few constants who didn’t ask anything of you… except that you live.

He watched you the way soldiers watch for landmines—carefully, constantly, with the knowledge that one misstep could end it all.

He wasn’t vocal with his concern. He didn’t have to be. It was in the way he stood between you and danger, just a fraction closer to the line of fire. The way he followed your orders, but his eyes always scanned you first after every blast. The way he touched your shoulder when you didn’t realize you were trembling.

It was in the moments between missions—when your hands brushed in passing, when his armor was at your back as you meditated in silence, when he stayed up longer than necessary just to match your exhaustion.

You both carried the same truth: you couldn’t afford selfishness.

But love? Love didn’t wait for permission.

⸻

The ambush came fast.

You didn’t think. You never thought when lives were at stake.

The supply convoy hit the mines. Fire erupted. Screams followed. Troopers scattered.

You threw yourself into the blaze. Your saber lit the way. You pulled one soldier from the wreckage, then another. Smoke filled your lungs, but you kept moving.

Bly was shouting behind you. He didn’t wait either. He followed you into the flames, gunning down droids with lethal precision, cursing under his breath as you took a hit to the arm shielding a clone from shrapnel.

“That’s enough!” he growled, catching you as your legs faltered.

“I’m not done,” you rasped.

“You are to me,” he snapped. “You’re enough. You’re alive. That’s all I care about right now.”

But you couldn’t stop. You never stopped. Your life wasn’t yours to guard. Not when theirs hung in the balance.

⸻

Later, when the battlefield went still again, you sat by the med tent, arm wrapped in bacta gauze, head heavy with more than just exhaustion.

Bly knelt beside you, helmet off, eyes burning with frustration and something deeper.

“You think you have to carry the whole damn galaxy,” he said. “But I need you to hear this—you matter too. Not just your sacrifice. Not just your service. You.”

You swallowed hard, guilt rising like a tide. “I can’t stand by and do nothing. I won’t. If I can save them—”

“You saved me,” he said, quiet and fierce. “Every day, you make this war mean something. But if it costs you your life—then what am I even fighting for?”

You looked at him then, and for the first time, let him see it—the cold, lonely part of you that had grown too familiar. The part that wondered if you’d ever be more than just a shield for others.

“I’m tired, Bly,” you whispered. “I’m so tired of being the one who runs into the fire.”

“Then let someone run into it for you.” He reached for your hand, gloved fingers curling gently around yours. “You don’t have to be alone in this.”

A tear slipped down your cheek. You hadn’t meant to let it.

But Bly just wiped it away, his touch reverent. “You’ve already given enough. Let someone fight for you.”

⸻

The next morning, the wind shifted again, colder than before.

But when you stood at the front of the battalion, Bly was beside you.

And for once, you didn’t stand alone.

“War on Two Fronts” pt.5

Captain Rex x Reader x Commander Bacara

The Council chamber lights dimmed as the debrief concluded. Bacara and Master Ki-Adi-Mundi exited in synchronized silence, the General’s long strides matching the Commander’s clipped, militant pace. Their boots echoed through the empty corridor.

They didn’t speak until the door to Mundi’s private quarters hissed closed behind them.

“I expected more restraint from her,” Mundi said, lowering his hood and brushing dust from the hem of his robe. “She continues to act with more heart than mind.”

“She held the position,” Bacara answered, standing still, helmet tucked under his arm. “Her plan worked.”

“Despite contradicting my orders. Again.”

Bacara’s brow twitched.

“She isn’t your padawan, Master Jedi.”

Mundi turned, eyes narrowing. “She is not yours either.”

A beat passed between them—tense, unsaid.

Bacara continued evenly. “With all due respect, General, her instincts saved lives. She has a rapport with native systems we lack. That’s why she was sent.”

Mundi stepped closer. “Her defiance encourages division. Among the men. Between us. If she continues to override my command in the field, I will petition for her removal.”

Bacara’s jaw tightened. “Petition it, then.”

A flicker of irritation crossed Mundi’s features—but he said nothing further. The door opened behind them without warning.

“Interesting conversation,” Mace Windu said calmly, stepping into the threshold with arms folded behind his back. “Especially in my temple.”

Mundi straightened. Bacara turned slightly, his posture still.

“Mace,” Mundi said tersely, “I wasn’t aware you were within earshot.”

“You weren’t.” Mace’s gaze was unreadable. “But I am now.”

Bacara shifted subtly as Mundi excused himself with a nod. The door shut behind him, leaving Windu and the Marshal Commander alone.

“I assume that wasn’t the first time he’s said something like that.”

“No, General.”

Mace studied Bacara in silence for a long time.

“She frustrates you.”

“Yes.”

“She challenges you.”

“She challenges everyone.”

Mace didn’t smile, but the corner of his mouth moved. “Good.”

Bacara blinked.

“You were eavesdropping on my conversation with her,”Windu said. “She told me.”

Bacara gave no excuse.

“You took offense.”

Still no reply.

“I’m not asking you to like her, Commander,” Windu continued. “But I trained her. I know every strength and every flaw. And I sent her out there not just to win battles—but to become something more than what the war wants her to be.”

Bacara’s eyes finally lifted to meet his.

“She’ll never become that if everyone keeps expecting her to fit a mold she was never made for.”

Mace turned to leave, then paused.

“She thinks you hate her.”

“I don’t.”

“You should tell her that.”

“I’ll consider it, sir.”

Mace nodded once, sharp and precise. “You’re dismissed, Commander.”

As Bacara stepped into the corridor, he felt the weight of the conversation settle heavier than any armor.

He didn’t hate her. He wasn’t sure what he felt at all.

But he knew something had shifted—and Mace Windu was watching it unfold.

⸻

Coruscant was loud in a way Aleen could never be. Mechanical hums. Shuttles roaring overhead. The ever-present press of voices—clones, officers, droids, senators.

You hated how quickly it swallowed everything you’d just worked for.

The campaign on Aleen had ended with fewer casualties than projected, the native population protected, and General Mundi oddly… complimentary during debriefings. A rare win.

But here, back in the sterile hallways of Republic infrastructure, you felt the shift. The ripple of tension that had nothing to do with the war.

You leaned against the wall outside a conference room, arms crossed, still half in your field gear, watching clone officers file past.

Bacara was across from you, just as silent as ever, helmet clipped to his side.

Not speaking. Not glaring. Not walking away, either.

“I figured you’d vanish again,” you said finally. “Go back to pretending you tolerate me out of obligation.”

He didn’t look over, but his voice was quieter than usual. “I don’t pretend.”

You glanced at him, heart already threatening to betray you by skipping ahead. “No?”

“I told you. I don’t hate you.”

You chuckled softly. “That’s not quite the same as liking me.”

He met your gaze. “No. It’s not.”

Before you could answer, heavy boots rounded the corner—familiar, steady, a presence that always made your chest twist.

Rex.

He paused when he saw you, a half-smile forming. “General.”

“Captain.” You stood straighter, smile automatic.

His eyes flicked briefly to Bacara. The air thickened.

“Didn’t expect you back so soon,” Rex added, his voice just a little too calm.

“Neither did I. Aleen wrapped early. Mundi actually gave me something resembling a compliment.”

“That’s a headline,” Rex joked. But his eyes didn’t leave Bacara.

The other clone commander said nothing. Just stood at your side, unreadable as always.

Ahsoka rounded the corner next, blue-and-white montrals catching the light. She stopped, blinking at the scene—then gave a little nod, as if the Force had just whispered something to her.

“Uh oh,” she said lightly.

You arched a brow. “Uh oh?”

“I think you three need a minute.”

She all but dragged Rex away, glancing back once, her expression somewhere between amusement and concern.

You turned to Bacara, who hadn’t moved.

“Well,” you said, too casually. “That’s going to be awkward later.”

Bacara exhaled slowly. “He’s important to you.”

You frowned. “So are you.”

That made him flinch. Just barely. A breath, a twitch of his jaw.

“I don’t know how to be that,” he said.

“You don’t have to know how. You just have to try.”

He looked at you again—really looked. Then, slowly, he nodded.

“I’m trying.”

You smiled, a bit softer than before. “Good.”

In the distance, you could feel Rex’s presence like a steady pulse. Familiar. Safe.

And beside you, Bacara. Solid. Controlled. Finally cracking open just a little.

Two men. Opposite hearts. And you, suspended in the gravity between them.

⸻

You weren’t sure how long you’d been walking the halls of the base, looking for somewhere quiet. It was one of those nights where sleep hovered but never landed—your thoughts full of too many voices, too many faces.

Rex’s door was open.

He was sitting at the edge of his bunk, still in partial armor, head low, hands loosely clasped. A man built for war—always steady, always composed.

You knocked on the doorframe.

He looked up, unsurprised. “Couldn’t sleep?”

You stepped inside. “I don’t know if I even tried.”

A pause, then a small smile. “Me neither.”

He motioned to the empty bunk across from him. You sat, the air quiet between you. Close, but not too close. Not yet.

“I keep thinking about Aleen,” you said eventually. “And Bacara. And the way I keep orbiting around people I shouldn’t.”

Rex didn’t answer right away. His gaze was locked on the floor.

“I didn’t think you and Bacara were…” he trailed off, then shook his head. “Doesn’t matter.”

“You want it to.”

His eyes met yours—raw, honest. “Yeah. I do.”

It was like oxygen filled the room again.

You rose from the bunk, stepped closer, until there was barely a breath between you. His jaw flexed, but he didn’t back away.

“I don’t know how to do this either,” you whispered. “Not with clones. Not with Jedi codes looming over everything. Not with… you.”

He stood slowly. “I don’t care about codes.”

Your heart beat wildly in your chest as he lifted a hand, thumb brushing lightly over your cheek. You closed your eyes, leaning into his touch.

“Rex,” you breathed. “I—”

The door slid open.

You both jumped apart.

Anakin stood in the doorway, arms crossed, one eyebrow arched.

There was a beat of charged silence before he said, completely deadpan, “Well. Don’t stop on my account.”

You stared, flustered. Rex was already stepping back, straightening like he’d been caught sneaking out of class.

Anakin smirked, stepping into the room. “Relax. I’m not one to judge about… attachments.” The word practically dripped sarcasm.

You glared at him. “How long were you standing there?”

“Long enough to consider knocking. Decided against it.”

Rex cleared his throat. “General—”

Anakin held up a hand. “You’re both adults. You’ve survived more battles than I can count. Just… try not to get caught by someone less forgiving than me.”

You crossed your arms. “Like Master Windu?”

Anakin shrugged, amused. “Exactly.”

And then, his expression softened just a little. “Just be careful, okay? Both of you. This war doesn’t make room for many second chances.”

With that, he turned and left, the door hissing shut behind him.

You and Rex stood in the silence that followed, hearts still racing.

“Next time,” Rex said, voice lower, rougher, “I’m locking the door.”

You smiled—because of course he would.

And yet, the moment had shifted. It hadn’t broken… but it had changed.

Still, you took a step closer.

“Next time,” you whispered, “don’t stop.”

⸻

Mace Windu stood at the high window of the Council chamber, watching Coruscant sprawl beneath him in endless lines of light. His hands were folded behind his back, posture rigid, gaze unreadable.

He had been quiet during the last half of the briefing. Even Yoda had glanced his way once or twice, sensing his distraction.

The briefing ended. The chamber emptied. Only Obi-Wan lingered.

“You’re distracted,” Obi-Wan said casually, tone light, but not mocking.

Mace didn’t turn. “She’s hiding something.”

Obi-Wan didn’t need to ask who she was.

“Your former Padawan is a Knight now. Independent. Capable. Perhaps you’re reading too much into it.”

“She’s… different,” Mace said slowly, frowning. “Something’s shifted. Not in battle. Not in duty. But in her presence. The Force around her feels… pulled.”

Obi-Wan’s eyebrows rose slightly. “You think she’s forming attachments?”

“I know she is.”

That earned a quiet sigh from Kenobi. “And this is a problem because…?”

Mace turned then, expression flat. “Because she’s too much like Skywalker.”

Obi-Wan barked a short laugh before he could stop himself. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“She walks the line,” Mace said, voice low. “Emotion, impulse, recklessness. I accepted it as her master. I even respected it. But I didn’t teach her to love—I taught her to survive.”

here was silence for a moment.

“And yet…” Obi-Wan said thoughtfully, “she still smiles when you’re around. Still calls you her family.”

Mace looked away.

“I’m not condemning her,” he said. “I just… I can feel it. The way she holds herself. Like there’s someone else she’s protecting now. Like she’s already chosen someone.”

“You know who?”

“No,” Mace admitted. “Not yet. But I will.”

⸻

You sat alone beneath one of the massive trees, hood pulled up, trying to meditate but failing.

You felt him before you heard him.

“I taught you not to slouch,” Mace said behind you.

You smirked. “I distinctly remember you teaching me how to disarm a Dathomirian assassin at the age of eleven. Posture didn’t come up.”

Mace sat beside you with a long, deep sigh. “You’ve changed.”

You didn’t answer.

“I’m not angry,” he continued, tone unreadable. “But I sense a disturbance around you. Like the Force is being… shared.”

Your stomach dropped. Not because you were guilty—not exactly—but because you knew he’d never bring this up unless he felt it deeply.

“I’m not in danger,” you said quietly.

“That’s not what I asked.”

You looked at him, then away. “I’ve seen so many die, Master. It’s hard to not care. To not feel.”

“You can care,” Mace said. “But if your feelings endanger your clarity, or the mission—”

“They don’t,” you cut in, sharper than intended. “I haven’t broken. I haven’t fallen.”

Mace was quiet for a long moment.

“I’m not asking for names,” he said eventually. “But if it’s a clone… be careful. You already live in a world built to destroy everything you care about. Don’t give the war something else to take from you.”

Your throat tightened.

“I’ll always be your family,” he added, voice softer. “But I can’t protect you from your own heart.”

And with that, he stood and left, the shadows of the Temple stretching long behind him.

⸻

You stood on the edge of the Temple’s landing platform, overlooking the city lights that shimmered like restless stars. The night was thick with soundless wind, your cloak pulled tight around you as the Force stirred in warning—familiar, heavy footsteps approaching.

You didn’t need to turn. “I thought you’d gone back to GAR Command.”

Bacara stopped a few paces behind you. Silence clung to him, like it always did, but this time it pulsed with something unsaid—uneasy, unrelenting.

“I should have,” he said finally. “But I didn’t.”

You turned, arms folded, studying the commander who had never looked more torn—still in his blacks, helmet in hand, jaw tight with restraint. His eyes didn’t meet yours at first.

“Why are you here, Bacara?”

“I overheard Windu talking to Kenobi,” he said, stepping forward, voice strained. “About you. About something changing in you.”

“And you came to see if it was about you?” you asked, more bitter than you meant.

“And you came to see if it was about you?” you asked, more bitter than you meant.

His eyes snapped to yours. “No. I came because… I needed to know.”

The silence stretched.

You exhaled slowly. “Know what?”

He took another step, until you were within arm’s reach. “Why you’re in my head. Why I haven’t slept since we left Aleen. Why the idea of you with him—Rex—makes me want to break protocol, orders, everything.”

You froze.

“I don’t hate you,” Bacara said, the words sounding like they’d been ripped from somewhere deep and long-buried. “I’ve never hated you. You just… get under my skin.”

“I wasn’t trying to,” you whispered.

“I know,” he snapped, and then faltered, jaw working. “You were just being… you. Loud. Impulsive. Always standing up for the men, even when it meant challenging Jedi. Even when it meant challenging me.”

Your heart pounded.

“I didn’t know what to do with someone like you,” he admitted, voice low now. “I still don’t.”

You reached up slowly, fingertips brushing the edge of his vambrace. “Then don’t think. Just feel.”

His eyes searched yours—dark, tormented, warring with everything he was taught to suppress.

And then he moved.

The kiss wasn’t gentle.

It was raw, unfiltered, all heat and tension and fire. His hand curled around the back of your neck, yours gripped his sleeve as your cloaks whipped in the night air. It was a kiss born of war and silence, of frustration and longing, and the impossibility of it all.

When you broke apart, both breathless, he didn’t speak at first.

But his forehead pressed to yours, and for the first time since you met him, Bacara let himself be still in your presence.

“You’ll be the death of me,” he said quietly.

You almost smiled. “Then we’re even.”

⸻

You were restless.

The training droids lay in sparking heaps around you. Sweat clung to your skin, your lightsaber still humming faintly as you tried to outpace the storm brewing in your mind.

Rex’s quiet steadiness.

Bacara’s raw, barely-contained hunger.

The kiss haunted you.

Bacara had torn a piece of himself open for you—just for a moment. And that moment had scorched you.

But Rex? He saw you. Understood you. Listened. Respected you. And you felt safe in his shadow.

But do you want safety? Or something that burns?

You didn’t get to dwell. The door to the training room hissed open.

Rex stood in the threshold, eyes scanning the wreckage, then finding you. He looked tired. Tense. His shoulders tight beneath his armor.

“I figured I’d find you here,” he said.

You deactivated your saber. “Not hiding, just… thinking.”

“You’ve been avoiding me.”

“I haven’t.”

“You have.”

There was no accusation in his voice, but something underneath it—a quiet, almost desperate undertone.

“I’ve had a lot to think about.”

He stepped closer, stopping just a breath away. “Was it him?”

You met his eyes. “Rex—”

“You don’t owe me an explanation,” he cut in, voice controlled. Too controlled. “But I need to know what I’m walking into.”

Your breath caught.

“He kissed you.”

It wasn’t a question.

You swallowed. “Yes.”

He looked away, jaw working. Then:

“Did you kiss him back?”

The silence between you was louder than any battle you’d fought.

“Yes,” you whispered.

The answer struck him like a blow. His eyes closed, just for a second. “And what does that mean? For us?”

“I don’t know,” you admitted. “I wish I did.”

Before he could speak again, the door hissed open again.

Bacara.

You felt the energy in the room shift—like a lightsaber igniting in a dry field.

His gaze went immediately to Rex. Then to you. The unspoken claim in his stance was unmistakable.

“Captain,” he said coolly.

“Commander,” Rex returned, just as cold.

Neither moved. Neither blinked.

You stepped between them instinctively. “Stop.”

“She can choose for herself, you know,” Rex said, eyes never leaving Bacara’s.

“I don’t recall asking you,” Bacara said sharply, voice low and dangerous.

“I’m not some object you two get to fight over,” you snapped. “I’m a Jedi. Your general. And I deserve better than this.”

Both men quieted.

But the air between them crackled with something toxic. Territorial. Like two wolves circling the same prey.

“I didn’t ask for this,” you said, voice softer now. “I didn’t want any of it to get this messy.”

“You didn’t have to ask,” Rex said. “Some things just… happen.”

“And some things,” Bacara said, stepping forward, voice firm, “are worth fighting for.”

You stared between them, breath shallow.

You had no answers. No clarity. Only chaos.

And two men willing to burn for you.

The silence was oppressive. No one spoke, but the weight of unspoken things pressed against your chest like a closing fist.

You stepped back, eyes moving between the two of them. Their postures were rigid—pride, anger, jealousy… possession. You hadn’t seen it before, not like this. Not so raw.

But now it was ugly.

“Do you two even hear yourselves?” Your voice was sharp—cutting like shattered glass. “You’re acting like I’m a trophy. Like I’m something to win.”

Neither answered.

That was worse.

You could feel it coming off them in waves—territoriality, rivalry, something primal.

“You think I want this? You think I asked for it? You think watching the two of you size each other up like animals is what I dreamed of when I became a Jedi?”

You hated the way your voice cracked. The hurt that leaked through the fury.

Rex’s brows furrowed—his mouth opened slightly, as if to explain, to offer some gentle word to ground the fire—but you didn’t give him the chance.

And Bacara—Bacara just stood there, arms crossed, jaw tight, refusing to retreat, refusing to feel. That wall was back, stronger than ever, and it felt like a slap.

“I’ve fought beside you. I’ve nearly died beside you. Both of you. And still—you can’t see me. Not really. You only see each other. This—” you gestured between them, “—this pissing contest? It’s not love. It’s not loyalty. It’s not even care. It’s ego. And it makes me sick.”

The hurt was hot now, crawling up your throat.

“I thought you were different,” you said softly to Rex.

He flinched. Just barely.

Then your gaze snapped to Bacara. “And you—maybe I wanted to believe there was more under the armor. But if this is what’s beneath it?” Your lip curled. “Maybe I was wrong.”

You pushed past them, the door hissing open at your approach.

Neither followed.

You didn’t want them to.

For the first time in months, you wanted out.

Out of this room.

Out of their war.

Out of whatever twisted, tangled thing was growing between the three of you.

You didn’t even know what you felt anymore.

You just knew this wasn’t what love was supposed to look like.

And right now, the idea of either of them touching you—holding you—felt like ash in your mouth.

The door slammed shut behind her, leaving only the quiet hum of the training room’s systems—and the echo of everything she said.

Rex stood still, breathing hard, fists clenched at his sides. Bacara hadn’t moved either, like he was carved from stone.

The silence didn’t last.

“You gonna throw a punch, or just stand there brooding?” Rex muttered, without looking at him.

Bacara’s jaw twitched. “Wouldn’t be the worst idea.”

“You’re proving her right, you know.”

That got him. Bacara’s head turned sharply, a flicker of fire behind his eyes. “I don’t need a lecture from a clone who couldn’t keep his feelings in check.”

Rex stepped forward, shoulders squared. “And you think you did? You think shutting her out, giving her crumbs of emotion, and then snapping the second someone else showed interest—that’s any better?”

Bacara’s fists curled.

“I don’t talk,” he said flatly. “I act. I protect. I don’t have time for your soft Republic niceties.”

“No,” Rex snapped, “you have time to throw your weight around. You have time to glare and scowl and push people away until it’s too late.”

That hit harder than intended.

For a second, Rex almost backed down—but the look in Bacara’s eyes was enough to push him forward again.

“You think this is about me stealing her from you? She walked out, Commander. On both of us. Because we made her feel like a thing to fight over. Not a person.”

Bacara turned his back, pacing. “You don’t understand.”

“Try me.”

There was a long beat. Bacara’s hands were on his hips now, his head low, voice rough.

“I don’t know how to… do this,” he admitted, bitter. “I’m trained for war. For tactics. Not…” He shook his head. “Not feelings. Not wanting something I’m not supposed to want.”

“She’s not a mission,” Rex said. “She’s a person. And maybe if we’d both remembered that earlier…”

Bacara turned, face hard again. “You’re still talking like it’s over.”

There was silence.

Then Rex looked away. “Isn’t it?”

The quiet returned—cold, heavy, and full of the ache of something breaking.

Both of them knew they’d pushed her away.

Neither of them knew how to fix it.

But worse—deep down—they weren’t sure they deserved to.

⸻

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

“Crimson Huntress” pt.4

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 stars outside the cockpit stretched like silver thread.

K4 stood behind her with arms folded, posture straight as ever, while R9 whirred and beeped irritably at the navicomputer.

CT-4023—no name yet, not really—was in the back compartment, hunched over a collection of scavenged armor plates and paint canisters. The former Death Watch gear had been repainted, reshaped, stripped of its past. Now it gleamed black and silver, and he was adding gold trims by hand.

Thin lines along the gauntlets. A thin gold ring around the helmet’s visor. Lines across the chest plate that traced down to the waist, like some stylized sigil not yet realized.

Sha’rali leaned in the doorway, arms crossed. She tilted her head slightly, examining his work with a curious smirk.

“You’re getting good with that brush,” she said. “You ever consider art school?”

CT-4023 snorted softly, not looking up. “Didn’t really have elective credits in Kamino.”

“You’re making it your own. That’s important.” Her voice turned thoughtful. “But it’s missing something.”

He paused, brush held in mid-air. “What?”

She tapped the side of the helmet. “A sigil.”

“A what?”

“A mark. Something to show people who you are.” She strode in and rapped a knuckle against the chest plate. “This says ‘I’m not Death Watch.’ Good. Now it needs to say you. Your legend. Your kill mark.”

He raised an eyebrow. “That’s a little dramatic.”

“You’re in a dramatic profession.”

K4 entered, setting a tray of caf and protein ration cubes on the workbench like a disapproving butler.

“Don’t encourage her,” the droid said flatly. “She’s referring to ‘kill marks’ again. Last time, she convinced a Rodian to fight a massiff pack for aesthetic purposes.”

“That Rodian survived,” Sha’rali said.

“Barely. Missing two fingers now.”

CT-4023 chuckled, leaning back slightly. “So what are you suggesting? I kill a Nexu or something?”

Sha’rali’s grin widened. “I was thinking bigger.”

R9 gave a loud, gleeful chirp.

K4 straightened. “She means a rancor.”

CT-4023 blinked.

Sha’rali gave an exaggerated shrug. “If you want a real sigil, you’ve got to earn it. Nothing screams ‘I survived’ like carving your crest from the hide of a rancor.”

“That is an excellent way to get him killed,” K4 said without pause.

R9 let out a string of beeps, none of them polite.

“He thinks it’d be entertaining,” K4 translated.

CT-4023 glanced between the two droids, then back to Sha’rali. “You’re not serious.”

“I’m always serious,” she said. “Unless I’m not. Which is almost always.”

He shook his head. “How would you even find a rancor?”

Sha’rali turned, tapping a few keys on the ship’s console. A bounty notice flickered up on the screen, the text in rough Huttese.

BOUNTY NOTICE

Location: Vanqor

Target: Rampaging Rancor (Unauthorized Biological Transport)

Payment: 14,000 credits, alive or dead.

Bonus: Removal of damage caused to Hutt mining facility.

“Lucky day,” she said.

CT-4023 stared at her, incredulous. “You’re joking.”

“Perfect combo. Get paid and get a sigil.”

“Get killed,” K4 corrected. “Get eaten.”

R9 chirped encouragingly and rolled in a little celebratory circle.

The clone leaned back in the seat, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

“I haven’t even picked a name yet, and you want to throw me at a rancor.”

“That’s how legacies are made,” Sha’rali said. “Trial by teeth.”

He gave her a long look, then glanced at the armor he was customizing. The gold, the sleek silver lines. A life being rewritten.

“…If I die,” he muttered, “you better name me something cool.”

Sha’rali grinned like a wolf. “Deal.”

K4 sighed heavily and walked off. “This is going to end in flames and evisceration.”

Behind him, R9 beeped again—gleefully.

⸻

The ship set down hard against a craggy plateau overlooking the remains of the Hutt mining facility—scorched earth, collapsed scaffolds, and deep claw marks in durasteel walls. Sha’rali stepped off the ramp with her helmet tucked under one arm, cloak snapping behind her in the dry wind. CT-4023 followed, fully armored and now gleaming with fresh black, silver, and just enough gold to catch the sun.

R9 trailed behind, scanning the area with his photoreceptor. K4 lingered at the ramp, arms crossed.

“I do not approve of this location,” the droid muttered.

Sha’rali grinned over her shoulder. “You don’t approve of most places.”

“This one smells of feral biology and lawsuits.”

They descended into the ruins, weaving past shattered mine carts and burned-out equipment. Sha’rali crouched near a huge claw mark in a support column, then ran gloved fingers across the torn metal.

“Definitely a rancor,” she muttered. “But…”

“But what?” CT-4023 asked.

She glanced at him, then pointed toward the perimeter fence—what was left of it. Several posts had been knocked flat at an angle far too low for an adult rancor.

“It’s small. Or young.”

“Can a baby rancor really do this much damage?”

“If it’s scared enough,” she said, standing. “But if this is the one that got loose from transport, it’s barely out of its nesting pen. Hardly worth a fight.”

He frowned. “So no sigil?”

Sha’rali’s smirk returned. “You don’t earn your legacy punching toddlers. We’ll find you a real beast.” She tossed him a wink. “For now, let’s bag this one and get paid.”

A low growl interrupted her.

They both turned. From the remains of a collapsed control station emerged the rancor—gray-skinned, covered in soot and oil, no taller than Sha’rali’s shoulder. The creature bellowed a shrill, unsure roar and pawed at the ground with thick, oversized claws.

“…Adorable,” Sha’rali whispered.

“Not the word I’d use,” CT-4023 muttered, raising his blaster.

Before either of them moved, a sound cracked across the ruin—a slow, deliberate clap.

“Now that was real sweet. But I don’t think that beast belongs to either of you.”

Both bounty hunter and clone whirled.

Cad Bane stood atop a rusted crane boom above them, wide-brimmed hat casting long shadows, twin blasters already drawn and idle at his sides.

R9 emitted a rapid stream of hostile beeping.

Sha’rali narrowed her eyes. “Bane.”

“Sha’rali,” he said, voice smooth and mocking. “Still making a mess of the galaxy one body at a time?”

“Still dressing like an antique?”

He chuckled. “You got jokes. Still running with droids and damaged goods, I see.” His glowing red eyes flicked to CT-4023. “Or is this one just for decoration?”

CT-4023 subtly angled his stance. His grip on his blaster tightened, but Sha’rali lifted a hand.

“Easy,” she muttered. “Don’t give him a reason.”

“Oh, he won’t need one,” Bane said, leaping lightly from the crane and landing with a dusty thud. “I’ve got a claim on that rancor. Took the job same as you. Fair game.”

“We saw it first,” Sha’rali said. “We do the work, we take the creds.”

“You ain’t taken anything unless you’re faster than me, darlin’.”

“You remember what happened last time you called me that?”

“I do,” he said, drawing one blaster slowly. “Still got the burn mark.”

The baby rancor let out a pitiful moan, clearly confused by all the shouting and guns.

K4’s voice crackled over comms:

“Permission to vaporize the cowboy?”

“No,” Sha’rali said under her breath. “Yet.”

CT-4023 stepped forward, his voice quiet but direct. “You want a fight, you’ll get one. But if you’re smart, you’ll back off.”

Bane cocked his head. “Oh? Clone with a backbone. That’s new.”

“He’s not a clone anymore,” Sha’rali said. “He’s mine.”

Bane smiled faintly. “That’s cute.”

Then, blasters lifted. The air tensed.

The baby rancor screamed—and bolted.

“Dank ferrik,” Sha’rali muttered, grabbing CT-4023 by the arm. “Move!”

They took off after the fleeing beast, Bane shouting curses as he followed. Blaster fire cracked overhead. The chase had begun.

The baby rancor might have been small, but it was fast.

It barreled through the cracked remains of Vanqor’s refinery sector, sending up sprays of dust and ash with every thundering step. Sha’rali sprinted after it, cloak flying behind her, boots slamming down on twisted metal and scorched duracrete.

Behind her, CT-4023 kept pace easily, blaster ready—but not firing. Too risky. The beast was unpredictable, and so was the Duros hot on their trail.

Cad Bane vaulted down from a higher walkway with his typical fluid grace, twin LL-30s gleaming in the sunlight.

“Back off, Bane!” Sha’rali barked, skidding around a collapsed wall.

“You first,” he called, voice rich with laughter. “Or is this the kind of job where you just chase things and look good?”

CT-4023 fired a warning shot at the ground near Bane’s feet. “You want a reason, you’ll get one.”

The Duros twirled a pistol on one finger and grinned. “There he is. Knew there had to be some spine under all that polish.”

A sudden roar cut through the banter as the rancor skidded into a half-collapsed loading dock. It turned with alarming agility and slammed its bulk into a rusted hauler, flipping the entire vehicle like it was made of paper.

“Definitely not harmless,” CT-4023 muttered.

“Good instincts,” Sha’rali said as she ducked behind a support beam. “Next time, don’t wait so long to shoot.”

“I was assessing the threat.”

“You’re always going to be outgunned, clone. Don’t wait for the threat to assess you.”

The rancor tore through crates of crushed ore, dust clouding the air. Bane fired a pair of stun rounds that went wide, one of them shattering against a crate beside Sha’rali’s head.

“Watch it!” she snapped.

“Your face’ll heal just fine,” Bane called. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

“You’re still mad about the throat thing, huh?”

CT-4023 blinked. “Throat thing?”

Sha’rali grinned.

He gave her a sharp look, breathing hard as they ducked behind another broken wall. “You seem to know every bounty hunter.”

“Networking. I get around.”

“That’s not comforting.”

Before she could respond, the rancor burst through the wall just ahead of them. It had a piece of durasteel stuck to its horned crest and a smear of blood on one shoulder—but it wasn’t limping. If anything, it was more aggressive now.

It reared back and let out a bellow that rattled the air.

Sha’rali dropped low and rolled to the side, blaster out. CT-4023 lunged forward, landing atop a storage container and drawing the creature’s attention.

“Hey!” he shouted, waving his arms. “Come on, you overgrown tooka!”

The rancor lunged toward him.

As it did, he tossed a flash pellet from his belt. The grenade burst in its face, sending the rancor reeling—temporarily stunned.

“Not bad,” Sha’rali said, running up beside him. “You fight like an ARC again.”

“I was an ARC,” he shot back, vaulting down. “Doesn’t exactly leave you.”

“You sure about that?”

Another blast tore through the haze—Bane was back, boots skidding across rubble. He aimed a net launcher at the beast’s legs, but it jerked sideways, the net missing by a meter.

“Slippery little thing!” Bane snarled. “Almost like it wants to make my life difficult.”

“Must be karma,” Sha’rali muttered, motioning to CT-4023. “Let’s flank it. You take left, I go up.”

He nodded, darting off with precision. She scaled a metal scaffold, bracing herself against the top beam, calculating.

Bane took a shot. It hit.

The stun round finally struck true, seizing the baby rancor’s back leg—and it screeched.

Not in pain. In rage.

It turned, lifted a pile of scrap with one clawed hand, and hurled it like a missile. Sha’rali ducked. Bane wasn’t as fast.

The debris clipped his shoulder and sent him flying into a pile of twisted girders.

“Serves you right,” she muttered, leaping from the scaffolding and landing hard beside CT-4023.

He was already adjusting his blaster’s charge, set to nonlethal.

“Plan?”

“We tire it out,” she said. “Hit and move. No kill shots. It’s the bounty.”

“And if Bane tries again?”

“We shoot him in the leg.”

He cracked a grin.

The two charged again—tandem precision. Sha’rali moved like a shadow; CT-4023, like a ghost of war, deadly and silent. The rancor slammed its fists down in fury, but they were never where it expected.

It was slower now. Panting. Enraged.

They worked as a unit—hunter and reborn soldier—flashing around the beast like twin blades.

Finally, a shot from CT-4023’s blaster hit just right, just under the shoulder. The creature stumbled, blinked, and fell to one side, snorting and curling into itself.

Down.

Still breathing.

Sha’rali stood over it, blaster lowered. Her eyes flicked to CT-4023.

“That… was teamwork.”

He shrugged. “Told you. ARC instincts.”

“Starting to think I should keep you around.”

“You already are.”

She laughed once, low and genuine.

Behind them, Bane groaned from the scrap pile.

CT-4023 nodded toward him. “Want me to shoot him in the leg anyway?”

Sha’rali smirked. “Tempting. But let him walk it off.”

R9 rolled up through the debris, trilling something smug and judgmental.

“You missed the fun,” CT-4023 said.

R9 beeped and showed a grainy hologram of Bane getting clobbered.

“I stand corrected,” he muttered.

Sha’rali placed a hand on the clone’s pauldron. “Let’s get this beast secured and get off this rock.”

He looked at her, eyes searching. “Hey… you ever think maybe you’re starting to trust me?”

She paused, then leaned in with a smirk.

“No. But you’re fun to have around.”

⸻

The drop site was a wreck of rusted platforms and storm-pitted walls, tucked in the shadow of a collapsed hangar. Sha’rali crouched beside the groaning frame of the baby rancor, still unconscious, still breathing hard. CT-4023 stood nearby, helmet off, glancing between the beast and their battered surroundings.

“You think your ship’s equipped to hold a rancor?” he asked, voice dry.

Sha’rali stood, brushing grit from her armor. “If it isn’t, K4 will figure it out. He likes problem-solving. Especially when the problem is violent.”

A mechanical growl came through the comms. K4’s voice filtered in over the channel, crisp and irritated:

“If this thing eats my upholstery, I’m turning it into boots.”

CT-4023 snorted. “You’d have to catch it first.”

“I caught you, didn’t I?”

Sha’rali rolled her eyes and tapped the comm off. “Let’s move before someone gets clever.”

As if summoned by bad karma, a long shadow fell over the landing pad behind them.

Cad Bane stepped into view, bruised, covered in soot, and not smiling anymore.

Two of his droids flanked him, both armed. He looked straight at Sha’rali, and then to CT-4023 with slow, calculated disapproval.

“You always did cheat well,” he said. “Still no class.”

“You’re just mad I’m better,” Sha’rali replied, unphased, blaster at her side—but loose, ready.

CT-4023 moved forward instinctively, placing himself half between her and the Duros.

Bane’s eyes didn’t miss it. “Got yourself a new watchdog, huh? Looks Republic. Smells like one, too.”

“Not Republic anymore,” the clone said flatly.

“Oh, right. Deserter.” Bane spat the word like a curse. “You know what they pay for one of your kind these days? Not as much as a Jedi, but enough.”

“I don’t care what you think I’m worth,” CT-4023 replied, voice steady. “You’d still have to take me alive.”

Bane cocked his head. “Who said anything about alive?”

A long silence stretched. Then: the high whine of a charging rifle.

But not from Bane.

From above.

K4 stood atop the ship’s gangway, rifle in hand, optics glowing gold in the dusk.

“Three hostiles locked. Suggest standing down before I redecorate the area with Duros-colored paste.”

CT-4023 stepped forward. “You heard him.”

Sha’rali added, “Walk away, Bane. You lost.”

Bane stared at the three of them—then past them, at the ship. The beast. The clone. The droid overhead. And finally… Sha’rali.

The weight of the loss settled in his posture. And still, he smiled.

“Still reckless. Still lucky.”

She grinned. “And still ahead.”

Bane muttered something in Duros under his breath, holstered his pistols, and turned.

“Next time,” he called over his shoulder, “you won’t have your pet clone or your smart-mouthed droid to save you.”

Sha’rali didn’t answer.

She didn’t have to.

They watched him vanish into the rusted ruins, silent except for the distant clang of droid footsteps fading with him.

CT-4023 finally exhaled. “He doesn’t lose often.”

“No,” Sha’rali agreed, nudging the rancor with her boot. “But when he does… stars, it’s satisfying.”

They dragged the sleeping creature onto a maglift. It groaned but didn’t wake. K4 guided them in from the ramp, already prepping the cargo bay containment field.

“If it moves, I’m putting it in carbonite.”

“Just sedate it again if it twitches,” Sha’rali said.

CT-4023 helped lower the beast onto the containment pad, then paused beside it. For a moment, he simply stared.

“What?” Sha’rali asked, wiping blood from her forehead.

He looked at her, then the ship around them. “You realize I’ve helped you tranquilize a rancor, outmaneuver Cad Bane, and survive a job that should’ve gotten us both killed.”

She grinned and leaned in, voice dry. “So, what you’re saying is…”

He sighed. “I guess I’m sticking around.”

“Says the man who almost painted a target on his chest last week,” K4 muttered from the cockpit.

R9 chirped happily from the corridor, replaying footage of the rancor crushing a speeder.

CT-4023 watched it for a second and shook his head. “Remind me to reprogram that one.”

Sha’rali smirked and clapped a hand to his shoulder. “Welcome to the life, trooper.”

He smirked back, already thinking about the sigil he’d carve next.

⸻

Tatooine’s twin suns scorched down on the durasteel hull of Sha’rali’s ship as it touched down outside Jabba’s palace. The ship’s systems whined in protest at the sand and heat. CT-4023 stood at the airlock, armor dark and gleaming in the harsh light, the sigil on his pauldron not yet painted—blank, unclaimed.

Sha’rali fastened the final restraint on the crate that held the sedated baby rancor, her jaw tense.

“Keep your helmet on,” she warned as she keyed open the hatch.

“Why?”

She turned, voice low. “Jabba had a bounty on your head a few rotations ago. You were Republic property—‘runaway government clone,’ worth a few thousand credits dead. He might not remember, but some of his lackeys will.”

CT-4023 looked at her carefully. “And you think bringing a rancor here is a better idea?”

She flashed him a sharp grin. “He likes rancors. Plus, they’re the ones who posted the bounty on the rancor, remember? If we don’t deliver, someone else will—and worse, we lose our payout.”

The airlock hissed open and the thick heat of Tatooine hit them like a wall. The gates to Jabba’s fortress loomed ahead, half-buried in sunbaked stone. CT-4023 followed behind her as they dragged the heavy sled forward—R9 chirping irritably in the back, and K4 remaining behind to monitor the ship.

As they approached, the gates creaked open, and a Gamorrean guard grunted before stepping aside. They were ushered into the vast, dim throne room by a hissing Twi’lek majordomo. The stink of spice, sweat, and rotting meat hung in the air. Sha’rali walked differently here—shoulders broader, stride slower, swagger more exaggerated. Her eyes were colder, smile sharper.

CT-4023 recognized the change instantly.

This wasn’t the woman he fought beside. This was Sha’rali the hunter. This was who she was before him.

Jabba lounged on his dais, bloated and wheezing, surrounded by sycophants and criminals. Music thumped in the background, too loud and chaotic. The sled with the rancor came to a halt, and the crate groaned as the beast stirred inside.

The Hutt let out a deep chuckle, slurred through slime.

“Sha’rali Jurok… bringing me gifts again, are you?”

She bowed low, but not respectfully—more theatrically. “Not gifts, Your Excellency. Merchandise. A baby rancor, caught on Vanqor. Aggressive, untrained. I believe your people were the ones asking.”

A ripple of intrigue spread through the chamber. Several beings leaned forward.

Jabba’s massive tongue slid across his lips.

“Yes… the bounty was ours.”

CT-4023 scanned the room—twelve guards, some with Hutt Cartel markings. He didn’t like the odds.

Jabba gestured, and a chest of credits was dragged forward, a heavy thud against the stone.

“Payment. Generous. As requested.”

Before they could collect, a tall Trandoshan slithered into view.

Bossk.

He eyed Sha’rali, nostrils flaring, tongue flicking. “Didn’t think you had the guts to show your face here.”

She didn’t smile. “Didn’t think you’d still have yours.”

And then—another shape emerged from the crowd.

A boy. Twelve, maybe thirteen. Battered green Mandalorian armor, a blaster far too large for his frame slung low. Boba Fett.

He eyed CT-4023 with suspicion, then glanced at Sha’rali.

“That armor doesn’t look like yours.”

Sha’rali tilted her head. “Does now.”

CT-4023’s jaw tightened under the helmet. His hand hovered close to his blaster.

Boba looked at the clone longer, gaze calculating, almost… knowing.

Sha’rali held the younger Fett’s gaze. “You planning on collecting, kid?”

Boba shrugged. “Not unless there’s still a bounty.”

She leaned forward slightly. “There’s not.”

Tension pulsed for a long moment.

And then—Jabba let out a rumbling laugh that echoed through the throne room. He slammed a chubby hand on a panel, and droids wheeled the crate away with the young rancor.

“Your business is done, Sha’rali. Go.”

She inclined her head. “Gladly.”

They turned and walked out—slowly, deliberately. CT-4023 followed, his heart pounding beneath his armor. Only once the ship’s doors sealed behind them did he exhale.

On the ramp, he turned to her. “That… was not fun.”

Sha’rali shrugged, not breaking stride. “Palace jobs never are.”

“You’re different in there,” he said. “Cold. Calculated.”

“Necessary.”

He studied her a long moment. “You’ve done a lot to keep me alive.”

Sha’rali gave him a look, sharp and unreadable. “Don’t let it go to your head.”

R9 beeped as it wheeled up the ramp.

⸻

The holotable flickered in the middle of the ship’s lounge, casting green-blue light over the metal floor. CT-4023 sat across from it, arms folded, as CID’s scaly face materialized in grainy hologram. Her voice rasped through the static.

“Sha’rali. Got a job for you. High-value intel, Separatist origin. Interested?”

Sha’rali didn’t respond right away. She stood to the side, arms crossed, one brow raised. She’d never taken a job that directly brushed up against the war—never wanted to. It was one thing to skirt the edges, pick off cartel bounties, or rob a warlord. But a mission involving Separatist intel? That was new ground.

Suspicious ground.

“Where’s this data?” she asked, eyes narrowing.

“Hidden in a vault on Vucora. Some shadow installation the Separatists set up during the early days of the war, went dark two years ago. Word is the place is waking up again—maybe just droids, maybe more. Someone wants eyes on it.”

“What’s the payout?”

“Fifteen thousand. Half up front, half after extraction. I’ll upload the location files and security specs.”

Sha’rali glanced to CT-4023. He’d been quiet, watching the projection with an odd kind of familiarity. When she met his eyes, he just gave a short nod.

“Let’s do it,” he said. “I know what to expect. Their vaults follow certain protocols—recursive redundancies, external relays, droid patrols. I was trained for this kind of thing.”

Sha’rali blinked at him, just once.

“Thought you were trained to blow things up.”

He shrugged. “Only after we broke in.”

A low chuckle rumbled in her throat. “Fine. K4, R9—get the data off Cid and start planning the infiltration.”

R9 chirped and spun toward the holotable. K4 bowed slightly. “As you wish. I’ll begin compiling relevant schematics and countermeasures.”

Sha’rali grabbed her sidearm and slid it into its holster.

“I’ll be back in an hour.”

CT-4023 frowned. “Where are you going?”

“Cid wants to talk face-to-face. Probably wants me to sign my life away. Or threaten me, which she loves more.”

CT-4023 frowned. “Is that a joke?”

“No,” Sha’rali replied flatly. “That’s Cid.”

⸻

The private booth was humid and dim, stinking of grease, cheap liquor, and warm reptile. Cid poured a drink into a chipped glass and slid it across the table as Sha’rali dropped into the seat opposite her.

“Still running around with the clone?” Cid rasped. Her yellow eyes gleamed under the low light.

Sha’rali picked up the drink, gave it a sniff, and downed half in one go. “He’s useful.”

“You don’t usually keep your assets this long.”

Sha’rali leaned back, her expression unreadable. “He hasn’t tried to kill me yet.”

Cid gave a dry chuckle. “You could’ve ditched him after Ord Mantell. Would’ve been smart.”

Sha’rali’s voice lost its humor. “You could’ve not sold us out. But here we are.”

Cid rolled her eyes. “Information’s a commodity, sweetheart. He was intel. Valuable intel.”

“You sold it to the Republic.”

“I sell to whoever pays. You know that.”

Sha’rali set her glass down with a sharp clink.

“You and I have an understanding, Cid. But if you ever sell me out again—if I find out you bring heat down on me—don’t expect me to show up for drinks next time.”

Cid didn’t blink. “Relax. I’m still alive, aren’t I? I do what I need to do to stay that way. And if keeping the Republic happy buys me another year, so be it.”

Sha’rali stared at her, unflinching.

“You’d sell anyone out to save your scaly hide.”

Cid gave a thin smile. “Damn right I would. And don’t act like you’re any different. We do what we have to. We always have.”

Sha’rali finished her drink and stood.

“Send the final access key to my ship.”

Cid raised her glass. “Don’t die, Jurok.”

⸻

Back aboard the ship, K4 was already deep into mapping the infiltration route to the Separatist vault. R9 chirped a steady stream of suggested entry points, and CT-4023 stood over the holotable, adjusting droid patrol routes and slicing protocols from memory.

Sha’rali watched him for a moment. It struck her again—he belonged in this kind of environment. Tactical. Efficient. Sharp. Even without his clone designation, without the armor he used to wear, he was still a weapon honed for this kind of work.

That unnerved her more than she’d admit.

“Looks like you’re in your element,” she muttered.

CT-4023 glanced over, his expression unreadable beneath the shadows.

“Let’s just say old habits die hard.”

⸻

The Separatist vault complex jutted from the side of a rocky cliff on Vucora’s dark side, the sky above black and starless. Only the flicker of malfunctioning perimeter lights gave any indication the base was still online. What should’ve been a graveyard of old tech buzzed faintly with shielded power signatures and long-range comm static.

Sha’rali crouched at the edge of a crag overlooking the access route—an old maglift shaft welded shut. Her black and crimson armor blended perfectly into the rock.

K4 hovered behind her, humming softly. R9 was already halfway down the cliff, magnetic locks clinging to rusted piping. CT-4023 stood next to her, helmet on, modified to hide the remnants of its Death Watch origins. The new gold detailing was subdued in the shadows, but it caught a glint of moonlight now and then like a quiet pulse.

He adjusted the voice modulator inside his helmet. “Test. One. Two.”

Sha’rali gave him a quick glance. “Good enough. Don’t talk unless you have to.”

He nodded. “You think we’ll really run into anyone?”

She let out a slow breath, fingers tightening on her carbine. “I picked up a Republic signal on the long-range scanner this morning. I didn’t want to spook you, but… something’s off. K4, what did that encrypted ping resolve as?”

K4 tapped a few keys on his forearm datapad. “Garbled signature, but buried under that noise was a Republic tactical beacon. A very recent one.”

CT-4023 stiffened.

“I thought this was a forgotten base.”

“It was,” Sha’rali said. “Until now.”

R9 beeped twice. A warning.

K4’s tone dropped. “We’ve got six warm bodies approaching the northwest hangar. Five human, one Togruta. Jedi.”

CT-4023 tensed. “Anakin.”

Sha’rali looked over at him sharply. “You know the squad?”

He hesitated. “Skywalker, Tano, Rex. The rest could be anyone.”

Sha’rali’s hand went to her blaster but didn’t draw. “Fantastic. That’s half the Republic’s worst nightmare squad. Just what I wanted.”

“I can handle it,” CT-4023 said.

“You’re going to stay out of their way,” Sha’rali snapped. “Helmet stays on. Modulator on. No nicknames, no slip-ups. We don’t know what Kit Fisto and Eeth Koth told the Republic. They may think you’re dead—or they may think you’re still out there. We can’t risk it.”

He nodded slowly. “Understood.”

“I’m serious,” she said, grabbing his shoulder. “If Rex recognizes you, if Skywalker so much as suspects, we are both karking done.”

He looked away. “I know.”

They slipped into the base through a rusted maintenance conduit on the far side of the cliff, bypassing the active hangar. Lights flickered and droids twitched in long-forgotten alcoves, half-powered and unresponsive.

The vaults were down two levels, buried under what looked like a mining wing that had collapsed in on itself. Sha’rali and K4 moved like ghosts. CT-4023 hung back slightly, his posture alert but purposeful.

K4 piped up softly. “Republic presence is closer than I estimated. A security system just logged a slicing breach near Subsection Twelve.”

“That’s the vault wing,” Sha’rali muttered. “Of course it is.”

They took a side route—old scaffolding, hanging cables, twisted metal. K4 led the way, decrypting each access point as they moved. R9 deployed ahead on a repulsor trail, scouting.

Over comms, faint voices came through.

“Keep your eyes open, Jesse. If these droids are online, there’s a reason.”

“You sure there’s intel here, General?”

“It’s not intel I’m looking for,” came Skywalker’s voice. “It’s movement. Something activated this base. And it wasn’t us.”

CT-4023 froze as Rex’s voice followed. He didn’t breathe.

“You think it’s a trap, sir?”

“Everything’s a trap, Tup,” Fives cut in. “That’s the fun part.”

Sha’rali looked back at 4023. “You good?”

He gave a tight nod. “Fine.”

They pushed deeper, K4 bypassing old turrets and sending fake signals to maintenance drones. The Jedi team was moving in the same direction but from the other side.

Sha’rali opened a secure hatch to a vault junction. “We’ve got ten minutes max before they converge here. We get in, get the files, and we go.”

CT-4023 slid into position beside her. “Or?”

“Or we run into your old family.”

The vault was colder than the rest of the facility—preserved by an emergency power grid designed to keep datacores stable. K4 cracked the encrypted node, R9 plugged in, and data began copying to a secure chip.

Sha’rali stood watch, carbine up.

CT-4023 moved closer to a dusty wall covered in etchings—old campaign markings, Clone War deployments, maps of Separatist offensives.

The Separatist mainframe crackled as R9’s manipulator arm whirred furiously inside the terminal. Green light spilled across the chamber’s walls while Sha’rali crouched beside the droid, blaster drawn, eyes flicking toward the door.

“Anything?” she hissed.

“Encrypted layers,” R9 chirped smugly. “Primitive. But layered like an onion. You ever peeled an onion, meatbag?”

Sha’rali narrowed her eyes. “Peel faster.”

Above them, K4’s calm voice crackled through the comms:

“Security patrols have doubled. The Jedi must have triggered alarms in the south sector. Ten hostiles converging on your location in ninety seconds.”

She muttered a curse.

4023, stationed at the northern corridor with his helmet on and voice modulator active, responded quickly. “I’ll cut off their advance. Hold this point. Don’t move until R9 pulls the data.”

Sha’rali glanced over her shoulder. “Keep your head down. If any of them catch a glimpse—”

“I know,” he interrupted. “Helmet stays on.”

He slinked into the shadows without another word.

The old CT-4023 was gone—this version of him, wearing black and silver repurposed Death Watch armor laced with his own colors, didn’t belong to the Republic anymore. He belonged to no one. But that didn’t mean he wasn’t lethal.

Two droids rounded the corridor corner—4023 stepped from the darkness, quiet and brutal. His vibroblade slid through the first one’s neck joint. The second didn’t even get to fire.

Meanwhile, back in the server room, R9 let out a low, triumphant beep.

“Got it. Data packet acquired. Core command lines copied. No alarms tripped.” A pause. “Well, not from us.”

Sha’rali’s comm buzzed again. “We’ve got trouble,” K4 said smoothly. “Skywalker and his squad are converging. If they find this server cracked, they’ll know someone else is here.”

Sha’rali activated her shoulder mic. “Everyone fall back to exfil point delta.”

4023 was already moving—slipping past motionless droid husks, evading the flicker of blue blades in the hallway. He paused once, just once, as he caught a glimpse through a distant grate.

Fives.

He stood beside Ahsoka, his DC-17s drawn, watching Skywalker argue with Rex about taking the east corridor. The voices stirred ghosts.

Memories of barracks laughter. Of daring missions. Of joking over rations and watching each other’s backs.

Now… he was nothing but a shadow.

“4023,” Sha’rali’s voice cut in urgently. “Move.”

He did.

⸻

The team reassembled at the old mining shaft they’d used for insertion. R9 detached from the mainframe, rolled back under K4’s cover, and together they descended the narrow escape lift. Above them, shouts rang out, boots storming the hall.

Sha’rali dropped beside him last. “We got it. R9 says there’s mention of a movement. Something big. High-level tactical orders. Could be good leverage for Cid.”

“Could be a war crime list too,” 4023 muttered, tapping the encrypted drive into K4’s care.

“We’ll let her worry about that.”

As they disappeared into the shaft and the light above them narrowed, 4023 sat in silence—jaw clenched under the helmet. He hadn’t seen Skywalker’s face, hadn’t dared get that close. But he’d felt the weight of it.

He remembered the war. The camaraderie. The brotherhood.

But he also remembered Umbara.

⸻

Outside, Sha’rali’s ship lifted into the dusk, cloaking engaged. They slipped off-world before GAR command could trace their incursion.

“We need to lay low for a few days,” Sha’rali said as she slumped into the co-pilot’s seat. “Once we deliver this to Cid, we move fast. If the Jedi know we were there…”

“They didn’t see me,” 4023 said flatly. “But I saw them.”

She turned to him, saw the clenched fists in his lap.

“You alright?”

He didn’t answer for a long moment. “They’re still good soldiers.”

“Some of them,” she said.

Then quieter, she added, “But that doesn’t mean they wouldn’t have shot you if they knew who you were.”

He didn’t respond.

K4 returned with R9 behind him, dropping a datapad onto the console. “Analysis underway. Data includes strategic orders, fleet movements, and two encrypted names I don’t recognize.”

Sha’rali exhaled. “That’s the next problem.”

They were ghosts again, slipping through systems and secrets—one step ahead of the war, one step behind its consequences.

⸻

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Star Wars: Bad batch - Luscious Locks

[The Bad Batch are sitting down at a table to eat an actual meal] Crosshair: [absolutely disgusted] Hunter, I swear. If I find ONE MORE HAIR in my food… Hunter: Jealous of my luscious locks? 😏 Crosshair: That’s it! I’m shaving you bald. [Under his breath] Never had to deal with this in the empire. Omega: Don’t! Hunter’s senses will be dulled! Hunter: Yeah, Crosshair. Listen to the kid. My- wait. What? Omega: Hunter’s hair amplifies his senses by acting as an extension of his nervous system. Hunter: Oh, really? 😑 What about smell? Omega: Nose hair. Hunter: Sight? Omega: Eyelashes. Hunter: Hearing? Omega: Ear hair. Hunter: …Fashion sense? Echo: Pft! That ‘tactical’ scarf says otherwise. Hunter: It messes with facial recognition! Echo: How? We share the same face. [Hunter and Echo start bickering] Crosshair, to Tech: She’s kidding, right? Tech: Wrecker, don’t touch that! [Leaves without answering] Crosshair: She’s kidding, right?!