“Red Lines” Pt.6

I love how you write Tech! Could I request something with him and a super clumsy and oblivious reader please? Thank you!

Thank you! Sometimes I feel like I write him too robotic like ahaha

⸻

“Statistical Probability of Love”

Tech x Reader

⸻

Tech had calculated—twice, actually—that if he complimented you at least three times a day, you might eventually understand he was flirting. The odds weren’t stellar (34.7%, to be exact), but he was determined to try.

“Your ocular symmetry is… exceptionally pleasing,” he said one afternoon, eyes never leaving his datapad.

You blinked up at him, mid-attempt to carry a large crate that was clearly too heavy for you. “Uh… thanks? Are you saying my eyeballs match?”

“Precisely.”

You smiled, almost tripping over your own feet as you finally got the crate to the other side of the Marauder. “Cool. I like symmetry. Good for… art. And, like… walking straight.”

Tech stared after you, baffled. That had been his best one yet. He even rehearsed it.

⸻

Later, you were in the cockpit, absolutely tangled in the cords you were trying to organize. Wrecker had asked you to help. He did not, however, explain how not to fall into a mess of wires like some kind of malfunctioning protocol droid.

“You seem to find yourself in precarious entanglements at an impressively consistent rate,” Tech noted, crouching beside you with a slight smirk.

You groaned dramatically. “It’s a talent. Maybe I should join a circus.”

“I find it… endearing,” he muttered.

You were too busy trying to untangle your foot from a power cable to hear him.

⸻

It got worse.

He started trying “casual” physical contact. A light touch on the shoulder here, a hand on your back when guiding you through the hull. Subtle. Calculated. Measured. He was certain you’d notice.

You? You thought he was just awkward and accidentally touchy.

Once, he brushed your hand while passing you a tool. You jolted, dropped the hydrospanner on your foot, then thanked him for it.

“You—you thanked me?” Tech asked later, clearly flustered. “I caused minor bodily harm!”

“Yeah, but it kinda woke me up. I was zoning out hard.”

He turned away, muttering something about “social cues being an imprecise science.”

⸻

Hunter noticed first. “You gonna tell her you like her or keep complimenting her neural pathways until she dies of old age?”

“I am trying to initiate courtship gradually,” Tech replied, defensive. “She is just… uniquely unresponsive to conventional—or unconventional—methods.”

“She’s got no idea,” Echo chimed in, amused. “You could tell her she was beautiful in binary and she’d thank you for a firmware update.”

⸻

Eventually, Tech snapped.

“Your clumsiness is statistically improbable and yet, inexplicably, I find myself drawn to it. To you. In a—romantic sense.”

You blinked at him from the floor, where you’d just slipped on your own jacket.

“Oh,” you said. “Wait. You’re… flirting with me?”

“I have been flirting with you.”

“For how long?”

“Seventeen days, four hours, and—”

“Tech. You should’ve just said something.”

“I did! Your neural symmetry, the entanglement commentary, the guiding hand—”

“Okay, yeah, that’s on me,” you admitted, grinning sheepishly. “I’m a bit slow.”

“Not slow,” he corrected. “Just… delightfully oblivious.”

“…Was that another flirt?”

“Affirmative.”

You laughed. “Okay, I’m catching on now.”

“Statistically overdue,” he muttered.

But you leaned over, kissed his cheek, and said, “Worth the wait?”

His ears turned red. “Yes. Highly.”

⸻

“Crimson Huntress” pt.1

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

OC Main Character list:

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

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

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

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

⸻

No one ever looked up in places like this.

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

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

Sha’rali Jurok didn’t move.

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

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

She was waiting.

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

“Target acquired. Location pinging now.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Her boots hit the metal with a clang.

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

A holomap flickered to life.

Target marked.

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

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

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

⸻

The corridor reeked of ammonia and blood.

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

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

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

She raised her left hand—a silent signal.

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

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

Sha’rali nodded once.

Go.

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

—and died.

Darkness swallowed the hallway.

Screams echoed before the first shot was even fired.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“He’s in there,” she said.

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

Sha’rali didn’t answer.

She kicked the hatch in.

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

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

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

His finger twitched on the trigger.

She shot first.

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

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

The Black Sun enforcer whimpered.

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

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

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

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

R9 cheered.

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

⸻

The suns were cruel today.

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

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

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

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

They didn’t knock.

The guards knew who she was.

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

“Nice to be remembered,” she muttered.

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

Sha’rali strode through the rot like she belonged.

Because she did.

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

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

She turned slowly.

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

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

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

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

“Better than selling spice to backwater Rodians.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sha’rali said nothing.

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

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

A low chuckle from Embo. Respect.

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

Jabba bellowed again, more amused than ever.

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

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

She felt the next hunt coming.

She always did.

⸻

Bossk had laughed. Loudly. Cruelly.

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

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

“Good way to get killed,” Bossk growled.

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

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

Let them scoff.

They weren’t getting paid.

⸻

Felucia stank of wet rot and death.

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

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

Which it was.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sha’rali dropped into cover.

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

She whispered, “Disable it. Quietly.”

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

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

“Nicely done,” she murmured.

“I do enjoy precision.”

An hour later, they found the outpost.

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

Sha’rali narrowed her eyes.

The deserter wasn’t just hiding from bounty hunters.

He was protected.

Or… captured.

“Options?” the rose-gold droid asked.

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

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

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

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

Her quarry.

Still alive.

That’s when the sniper droid fired.

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

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

Alarms blared.

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

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

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

The jungle screamed.

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

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

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

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

“R9, left!” she barked.

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

The jungle screamed.

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

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

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

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

“R9, left!” she barked.

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

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

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

“Permission to escalate?” K4 asked smoothly.

“Granted,” Sha’rali said.

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

Still, they kept coming.

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

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

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

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

The final push came fast and hard.

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

And there he was.

CT-4023.

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

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

Sha’rali stepped forward, weapon lowered.

“CT-4023. You’re coming with us.”

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

“Neither are you,” she replied.

They didn’t make it far.

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

R9 screeched in horror as his dome sparked.

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

She hit the dirt.

⸻

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

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

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

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

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

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

They were being taken off-world.

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

⸻

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

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

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

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

CT-4023.

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

She studied him openly now.

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

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

Nothing.

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

Still no answer.

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

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

That got a flicker.

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

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

“You came alone?”

“Wasn’t planning to share your bounty.”

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

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

He looked away.

“Your name,” she prompted.

“Doesn’t matter.”

Her brow furrowed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

He didn’t answer.

“You were hiding from your past.”

Still nothing.

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

Outside the cell, the lights flickered red.

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

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

Sha’rali blinked.

Saleucami wasn’t a Separatist stronghold.

It was a staging world.

Something was wrong.

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

“They’re not taking us to a prison.”

⸻

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

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

CT-4023 was dragged from the transport first.

He didn’t fight. Didn’t flinch.

Only his eyes moved—watching, cataloging, waiting.

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

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

The clone didn’t speak.

“CT-4023, verify encryption key.”

Nothing.

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

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

Still—no words.

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

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

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

When they pulled him out, the technicians were muttering.

“He wants to die.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Answer the question.”

Sha’rali yawned.

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

She laughed. “Oh stars, no.”

“Then for whom?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

The B1 made a confused beep. She ignored it.

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

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

“Because I do it for fun.”

The interrogator stiffened.

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

Silence.

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

The room went cold.

The Neimoidian slowly stepped back.

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

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

The lights dimmed. The hum of the room paused.

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

⸻

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

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

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

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

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

“You want to die?”

His jaw twitched. Still no answer.

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

Finally, finally, he looked at her.

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

She smiled faintly. “To waste their time.”

A pause.

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

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

⸻

Coruscant. Jedi Temple.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“A complication,” Mace muttered.

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

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

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

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

⸻

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

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

“Target status?” asked Boss.

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

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

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

“Copy that,” said Boss.

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

“Who are the Jedi?” Sev asked.

The doors behind them hissed open.

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

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

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

Boss gave a tight nod. “Copy that.”

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

⸻

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

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

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

“I know,” CT-4023 muttered.

“You think someone’s coming for you?”

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

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

More silence.

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

Something was shifting.

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

Delta Squad was coming.

And only one of them mattered to the Republic.

⸻

Next Part

“Crossfire” pt.5

Commander Cody x Reader x Captain Rex

The glow of neon signs cut jagged shadows into her face as she pushed open the doors to 79’s. The music hit like a punch to the chest—thick, thrumming, alive. She hadn’t meant to end up here.

But when she’d gotten off the transport, alone and empty-handed, with the kid now a ‘Republic asset’ and Palpatine’s cold praise still ringing in her ears, this was the only place her feet knew how to take her.

The clone bar was alive with movement and noise, filled with off-duty troopers trying to forget the war for a few short hours. They laughed, danced, drank like their lives depended on it.

She just wanted to disappear into it all.

The bartender handed her something neon and stupid. She drank it fast, then another. And another. The buzz settled in her limbs like comfort. Like numbness.

He was just a kid. Force-sensitive, and full of light. And I handed him over to Palpatine.

She tried not to think about it. So she drank more.

And then—they walked in.

She saw them before they saw her. Cody, in civvies but still too clean-cut, golden-brown eyes scanning the room like he couldn’t turn off the commander inside him. And Rex, just a few steps behind, his shoulders broad, jaw tight, wearing the weight of command like a second skin.

She blinked slowly, trying to decide if this was real or just the alcohol playing tricks.

It was real.

They saw her. Stopped short. Eyes locked.

And then they came to her—Cody first, Rex just behind.

“You’re alive,” Cody said, voice low, controlled, but his gaze moved across her face like he was checking for wounds.

They were both staring. They weren’t angry—not really. They were trying to hide the storm of questions behind their eyes. She didn’t owe them anything. But that didn’t stop the guilt from slinking down her spine.

“So…” She lifted her drink lazily. “What brings the Republic’s golden boys here tonight? Hoping to find someone to help you forget how screwed everything is?”

“You were gone for months,” Rex said quietly. “And you didn’t answer a single comm.”

Cody added, “You could’ve told us you were alive.”

She glanced between them. “Why? So you two could fight over who gets to scold me first?”

That stung. She saw it in Cody’s jaw, the twitch in Rex’s brow. She hadn’t meant it. Or maybe she had.

The music shifted to something slower, darker. The kind of song that made people sway too close.

Cody surprised her by offering a hand. “Dance with me.”

She laughed, bitter. “Feeling sentimental, Commander?”

He didn’t smile. Just held out his hand again.

She took it.

On the dance floor, Cody kept one hand steady on her hip, the other barely brushing her back. He was tense—like he didn’t trust himself. She moved closer, body brushing his. Just enough to test him.

“You’re trouble,” he murmured, eyes locked on hers.

“You like trouble,” she shot back.

He kissed her.

It wasn’t rough or desperate. It was slow—cautious. Like he’d waited too long and didn’t want to screw it up. She kissed him back, lips brushing his softly, dangerously, until someone bumped into them and she stumbled, heart suddenly pounding.

She pulled away. “I need air.”

She didn’t look back as she weaved through the crowd and pushed out into the alley.

The night air was damp. She pressed her back against the wall, tilted her head up, breathing hard. The buzz in her chest had turned sharp now. Fractured.

“What was that about?” a voice asked behind her.

She turned.

Rex.

Of course.

He stood in the mouth of the alley, arms crossed, eyes dark.

“Jealous?” she asked, half-laughing, half-daring him to admit it.

He stepped closer. “You shouldn’t play with him.”

Her smirk faded. “I’m not playing.”

“You kissed him. After months of silence, you show up drunk and just—”

“What, you mad I didn’t kiss you first?”

He didn’t flinch. “You’re not okay.”

Something cracked in her.

“I’m trying,” she whispered. “I don’t know how to do any of this. The war, the kid, you. I never signed up for this mess.”

They stared at each other in the quiet.

Then Rex crossed the space in three strides and kissed her.

It wasn’t gentle. It was fire. Frustration. Longing. Everything unsaid between them. She clutched his shirt, fingers tangled in the fabric. When he pulled away, his breath was ragged.

“I’ve been thinking about you every damn day,” he said.

Her heart slammed in her chest. “Then why didn’t you come find me?”

“Because I didn’t want to find you dead.”

The words dropped like lead.

She stepped back, swallowed hard. “I didn’t mean to hurt either of you.”

“You still did.”

She nodded. “I know.”

He left her standing there, alone in the alley, unsure which kiss she regretted more—and which one she wanted again.

⸻

“You kissed her?” Cody’s voice cut the dark like a vibroblade.

Rex didn’t even flinch. “You did too.”

Cody let out a bitter laugh. “Yeah. I did. Because I’ve been worrying about her for months. Because I thought she might be dead. Because when I saw her again, I felt like I could finally breathe.”

“She kissed me back.”

“She kissed me back, too,” Cody snapped. “You think this is some kind of pissing contest?”

Rex stepped forward, voice lower now, rawer. “No. I think it’s too late for either of us to play noble.”

There was a pause—long and quiet. Neither of them looked at the other.

“She doesn’t belong to us,” Cody said, jaw clenched.

“No,” Rex agreed. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t want her to.”

Cody nodded slowly. “Then we’re both idiots.”

“Yeah,” Rex muttered. “But we’re in it now.”

Silence.

They didn’t say anything else. They couldn’t. There was no answer—no right move. Only damage done and more to come.

⸻

Her head was trying to kill her.

It had to be.

The pounding behind her eyes felt like someone had set off a thermal detonator inside her skull, and her mouth was dry enough to make Tatooine jealous. She rolled over, groaning, pulling the blanket over her face.

And then she noticed it.

Breathing.

Not hers.

She froze.

Lifted the blanket.

And there—laying on top of the covers, one arm behind his head, the other holding a data pad, perfectly at ease—was Kit Fisto.

She bolted upright with a groan, clutching her temples. “Please tell me we didn’t…”

Kit set the datapad aside. “No. You were very vocal about not wanting anyone in your bed unless it was Commander Cody or Captain Rex.” He smirked, just slightly. “You said, and I quote, ‘If I can’t have both, I don’t want either. But I do want both.’”

Kit’s lips pulled into a serene grin. “You passed out the first time halfway through crying about your crops.”

She blinked. “What?”

“I found you stumbling through the lower levels, completely smashed,” he said, voice maddeningly calm. “I walked you home. You insisted I stay because the ‘walls were conspiring against you’ and also because you thought I was ‘probably the only Jedi who doesn’t want to vivisect you.’”

“…Sounds about right,” she muttered.

“You also tried to get me to do a dramatic reading of your bounty logs.”

She groaned again. “Kill me.”

“I would’ve, but then you started crying again.”

“Okay!” She threw the blanket off and swung her legs over the bed. “Thank you for your public service, Master Fisto. You may go now.”

Kit rose with Jedi smoothness, unfazed. “You told me you trusted me, last night.”

She paused.

“And you said you didn’t know if you trusted the others anymore. Not even yourself.”

That sat in the room for a beat too long.

She turned to look at him, eyes bloodshot but suddenly sober. “Did I say why?”

He shook his head. “No. You fell asleep on the floor halfway through telling me about a defective hydrospanner.”

She let out a weak laugh.

Kit stepped toward her, not close, but close enough to offer peace.

“I don’t think you’re the enemy,” he said softly. “But I do think you’re lost. And I think you’re trying to keep the war from turning you into something else.”

She stared at him, the noise of last night crashing down like static. Rex. Cody. The kid. Palpatine. The Council.

Kit stood and poured her a glass of water. “You cried. You yelled. You kissed one of the clones on a dance floor and kissed the other in an alley. And then you tried to fight a waitress because she wouldn’t give you more shots.”

Everything was bleeding together.

“Why didn’t you just leave me in the gutter where I belonged?”

“Because, despite my early concerns, I don’t think you belong in a gutter.”

She sipped the water. “I’m sorry.”

He gave her a nod. “I’ll leave you to sleep it off. But… maybe don’t wait too long to talk to the people you care about. This mess? It only gets worse if you let it rot.”

“I should’ve stayed gone,” she whispered.

Kit didn’t argue. He just nodded once and said, “But you didn’t.”

And then he left.

Leaving her alone in the echo of too many choices—and a very, very bad hangover.

⸻

Silence took over the apartment, broken only by the kettle still screaming on the stove. She didn’t move. Just stared at the ceiling. The weight of the night was heavy. The confusion heavier. Every memory came in splinters—Rex’s hand on her waist, Cody’s voice in her ear, the heat of lips, the taste of regret.

A knock at the door pulled her from the spiral.

She froze.

It knocked again. Three times. Familiar.

She crossed to the door and opened it slowly.

Rex stood there, hands in the pockets of his civvies. No armor. No helmet. Just tired eyes and a quiet storm in his chest.

“…Hey,” she rasped, voice still ruined from alcohol and heartbreak.

He gave her a once-over. “You look like hell.”

“Feel worse.” She stepped aside without another word.

He walked in slowly. Glanced around like he was expecting someone else. “You alone?”

“Kit Fisto left an hour ago. He was just being decent.” She watched his jaw twitch. “Nothing happened.”

He didn’t look at her. Just stared at the empty bottle on the counter. “Everyone’s talking.”

“I know.”

He finally turned. “You kissed me.”

She swallowed. “Yeah.”

“Then you kissed Cody.”

“…Yeah.”

He took a breath, like he’d been holding it for too long. “You can’t keep doing this.”

“I didn’t plan to.”

He looked at her then—really looked at her. Like he was searching for something beneath the haze and the jokes and the armor she wore.

“What do you want?” he asked.

She looked down. “I don’t know.”

“You can’t keep hurting us while you figure it out.”

“I’m not trying to,” she whispered.

“Then stop running.”

Silence.

She didn’t know what to say. Not yet.

Rex turned to leave.

But at the door, he paused. “When you figure it out… when you really know—come find me. If it’s not me, I’ll live. But don’t kiss me again unless you’re sure.”

Then he left.

And for the first time in months, she didn’t want to run.

She wanted to stay. And clean the pieces she’d scattered.

⸻

Whispers traveled fast in the Temple.

Faster than transports.

Faster than truth.

By the time Master Kit Fisto stepped into the Council chambers, most of the senior Jedi were already seated—and they were looking at him with measured, expectant expressions.

Even Master Yoda’s ears twitched a little too knowingly.

Mace Windu’s stare was sharp as a lightsaber. “We’ve heard some… interesting accounts of your whereabouts last night.”

Kit didn’t blink. “Then I assume you already know I spent the evening ensuring a very drunk bounty hunter didn’t choke on her own regrets.”

Murmurs among the Masters. Ki-Adi-Mundi’s brow furrowed. “This isn’t the first time she’s been seen involving herself with members of the Republic.”

Luminara’s tone was clipped. “Nor the first time she’s manipulated proximity for influence.”

Obi-Wan folded his arms, but said nothing.

“She didn’t manipulate anything,” Kit said evenly. “She confided in me. The kind of honesty we’ve been demanding from her.”

Mace tilted his head. “And?”

Kit looked at him directly. “She’s in love with both of them—Commander Cody and Captain Rex. But that’s not what concerns her most.”

Now Obi-Wan stirred. “Go on.”

Kit’s voice was low. “She’s terrified of the Chancellor.”

Yoda’s ears perked. “Hmmm. Afraid, she is?”

“She didn’t say it directly. But I could hear it. She’s afraid of what she knows… and what he might do if she doesn’t play along.”

“That doesn’t mean she isn’t dangerous,” Ki-Adi-Mundi warned.

“It means she’s been alone in the middle of a political war, with no clear side to stand on,” Kit replied firmly. “We sent her into the shadows and now condemn her for adapting to them.”

“She took a child from a warzone,” Luminara said. “Lied about how she got him. Hid from the Republic.”

“Because she was ordered to,” Kit said, sharper now. “And when that order changed—to something unthinkable—she defied it. She saved him.”

Silence followed that.

Windu was quiet for a moment, then asked, “Do you believe her loyalty lies with us?”

Kit hesitated. Then nodded. “I believe her loyalty lies with the people she cares about. And right now… that includes two of our most trusted commanders and Captains.”

Obi-Wan finally spoke. “The Chancellor won’t like this.”

“No,” Windu agreed, standing. “But he doesn’t get to dictate how we perceive loyalty. Or love.”

Yoda’s voice, gentle but sure, followed: “The dark side clouds much. But clearer, the truth becomes. Watch her, we will. But trust her, we must begin to consider.”

Kit bowed his head. “Thank you.”

As the Council slowly began to adjourn, Windu approached him quietly.

“You’ve changed your mind about her.”

“I have,” Kit admitted. “Because I stopped looking at her record… and started listening to her heart.”

Windu nodded once. “We’ll see if that heart leads her back to us—or away for good.”

⸻

She had just finished showering off the night—physically, anyway. The emotional fog still clung like smoke in her lungs. Her clothes were clean, the kettle quiet, and the apartment smelled faintly of burned caf.

When the knock came again, softer this time, she already knew who it was.

She opened the door, and there stood Commander Cody. Arms crossed. Still in his armor minus the helmet. His posture was less “soldier on a mission” and more “man at the edge of patience.”

He gave her a once-over. “You look better.”

She gave a tired smile. “You should’ve seen me this morning.”

“I did. In the alley.”

That shut her up.

He stepped inside, letting the door hiss shut behind him. He didn’t bother walking further in—just stood there, facing her like she was on trial. And in a way, she was.

“You kissed me,” he said flatly.

“I did.”

“You kissed Rex.”

She nodded. “I know.”

He exhaled through his nose. “Do you want us to fight over you?”

“No.” Her voice cracked like old glass. “Never.”

Cody tilted his head. “Then what are you doing?”

“I don’t know.”

“Yes, you do.” He stepped forward. His tone was low—not angry, not accusing—just tired and honest. “You know exactly what you’re doing. You run when it gets too real. You lie when someone gets too close. You play both sides of everything so no one ever gets close enough to hurt you.”

She looked away.

“I don’t care who you choose,” he said, voice gentler now. “Rex, me, no one. I care that you keep lying. You keep manipulating people. You keep running. You say you care about us, but you treat us like we’re temporary. Like we’ll disappear the second things get hard.”

She stepped back, eyes welling up. “I’m trying, Cody. I didn’t mean for it to get this complicated.”

“Everything gets complicated with you.” He uncrossed his arms. “And I can handle complicated. But I won’t be your second choice. And neither will Rex.”

Silence.

Her throat was raw. “You’re not a second choice. You’re… you’re Cody.”

“Then stop treating me like a backup plan.”

That cut deeper than she expected.

He moved toward the door, then paused.

“For what it’s worth… I don’t regret kissing you. I’ve wanted to for a long time. But if it’s not real—don’t do it again.”

The door opened.

“Cody.”

He stopped.

“I’m scared.”

“I know,” he said softly, not turning around. “So am I. But we don’t get to use that as an excuse forever.”

Then he was gone.

And she stood there, in her too-clean apartment, surrounded by silence and the scent of burned caf, wishing she could burn away the shame just as easily.

Prev part | Next Part

Commander Fox x Singer/PA Reader pt. 2

There was an unspoken tradition at the Coruscant Guard offices: the moment you showed up, coffee cups paused mid-air, datapads lowered, and someone inevitably muttered, "Oh look, she's still alive."

You strolled in two weeks late, absolutely glowing.

"Didn't know we were giving out extended vacations now," Trina said, her words clipped like a blaster bolt. "Maybe I should fake a spiritual awakening and disappear too."

You peeled off your sunglasses and smiled sweetly. "You should. Maybe they'll find your personality out there."

Snickers echoed through the hall.

Trina's eyes narrowed into twin black holes of corporate rage. "Commander Fox has been asking where you were."

That gave you the slightest pause. "Oh? Worried I was dead?"

She shrugged. "Or hoping."

You shot her a wink and breezed past, fully aware your hair looked too perfect for someone who just "found herself in nature."

---

Fox found you twenty minutes later, posted up at your desk with your boots on said desk, sipping caf and flipping through a holo-mag like someone who was not, in fact, two weeks behind on reports.

He stood silently at your side until you acknowledged him.

"Commander," you said brightly. "Miss me?"

"You disappeared. Again."

You looked up at him with the most innocent expression in the galaxy. "Went on a spiritual retreat."

He raised an eyebrow. "To where?"

"Kashyyyk. Hung out with some Wookiees. Meditated. Learned how to nap in trees."

Fox stared. You kept sipping your caf.

"They're big on inner peace," you added, deadpan. "Also, apparently I snore."

He didn't smile. But he also didn't press. Just that slow blink of his, the way his gaze lingered a little too long like he was cataloguing bruises or new scars.

"You weren't hurt?" he asked.

You softened. Just a little. "No, Commander. I wasn't hurt."

He nodded once and walked away.

*He cared.*

He'd never say it. But it was there.

---

Later that week, you returned from your mandatory ethics seminar—snoozefest—only to find your desk had been mysteriously moved... into the hallway.

Trina passed by with a smug little strut. "You missed a lot of meetings. We needed the space."

You leaned back in your new spot. "You know, if this is your way of flirting, I'm flattered."

"I'd rather kiss a Hutt."

You gasped. "Don't tempt me with a good time."

---

That night, you sang again at 79's. A slower set this time. Sadder. You weren't sure why—maybe something about Fox's voice that day still stuck with you.

And just like always... he was there.

Helmet off. Silent in the corner.

You sang to him without saying it. And when you left the club through the back again, this time you didn't get far before his voice stopped you.

"Wait."

You turned. "Following me again?"

He stepped closer. Not quite in your space. But close enough that you could see the faint tension in his jaw.

"I thought something happened," he said quietly.

You swallowed. "Fox—"

"Next time, just tell someone."

You blinked. "Why?"

A long pause.

"Because if something *did* happen," he said, "I'd want to know."

And then, like he couldn't bear to say more, he turned and walked into the night.

You watched him go, heart tight, a laugh threatening to rise in your throat just to cover the way your chest ached.

Aurra Sing had said you were valuable.

Fox... made you feel seen.

And somewhere in the distance, under the glow of Coruscant's neon skyline, a shadow watched.

Waiting.

---

The next morning, your desk was still in the hallway.

Trina had redecorated the spot where it used to be with a potted plant and a framed motivational poster that read "Discipline Defines You." You were considering setting it on fire.

"Morning, Sunshine," you chirped as you walked past her with your caf. "How's the tyrannical dictatorship going?"

Trina didn't even flinch. "At least I show up for work."

"Oh, please. If you were a droid, you'd overheat from micromanaging."

And there it was—that smirk from the other assistant.

Kess.

She leaned over her desk like she was watching a drama unfold in real time. "Okay, okay, play nice, girls. It's not even second caf yet."

Trina rolled her eyes. "Pick a side, Kess."

Kess grinned. "I like the view from the middle."

You narrowed your eyes. "You said Trina once threatened to replace your shampoo with grease trap water."

"She was joking," Kess said quickly.

"I was not," Trina snapped.

"I mean... still better than your perfume," you added under your breath.

Kess audibly choked on her tea.

---

Later that day, Commander Fox called you into his office.

The tension in the room dropped the moment you stepped inside, replaced by something electric and quiet. He didn't say anything at first, just stared at you like he was trying to decide if you were a puzzle or a headache.

"You vanished for two weeks," he finally said. "Now your overdue reports are two months overdue."

"I'll get to them," you said lightly, flopping into the chair opposite him. "Eventually."

Fox pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Also," you added, "Trina moved my desk into the hallway. Which I'm 80% sure is illegal."

"I'll talk to her."

You blinked. "You will?"

"She's not your superior."

A strange warmth bloomed in your chest. You masked it with sarcasm. "So chivalrous, Commander."

He gave you a look, one corner of his mouth twitching. "Just don't give me a reason to regret it."

---

That night at 79's the lights were low and your voice was velvet as you sang something slow and sultry. The bar was busy, but you spotted him—Fox, helmet off again, watching like he always did. Quiet. Unmoving. Yours, just for the length of a song.

You left through the back after your set, wrapping your coat tighter around yourself as the cool Coruscant air bit at your skin.

You didn't hear the footsteps until it was too late.

A hand slammed against the wall near your head, and a sharp voice coiled around you like a whip.

"Well, well. Songbirds off duty again."

Aurra Sing.

Her chalk-white skin shimmered in the streetlight, that deadly antenna gleaming above her forehead. She smiled without warmth.

"I've been watching you," she said. "You've got... potential."

You stepped back, heart hammering. "I'm not interested."

"No?" She clicked her tongue. "You work with the Guard. You're close with the Marshal Commander. You wander the galaxy without ever leaving a trace. I could use someone like that."

"I'm not a bounty hunter."

She leaned in closer, voice dropping. "Yet."

Your fingers twitched near your concealed weapon. Aurra's eyes flicked down and back, amused.

"Relax. I'm not here to kill you," she said. "Just... reminding you that people are watching. And not just me."

She melted back into the shadows before you could respond.

You stood alone in the alley, breath shaky, heart pounding.

You weren't scared.

But you were very, very awake.

---

The next morning, Trina took one look at you dragging yourself into work late with dark circles under your eyes and said, "Did the retreat monks kick you out for being annoying?"

Kess tried to stifle her laugh and failed.

You just smirked. "If you must know, I was nearly murdered by a galactic legend last night. What did *you* do, Trina? Color-code the caf pods again?"

Fox passed by just as you said it, pausing only to glance at you—an unreadable look in his eyes.

You gave him a half-smile.

He didn't return it.

But his hand twitched near his blaster.

He'd heard. And that meant he knew something was off.

You were starting to wonder if you were the one being watched… or the one being protected.

---

Directive Breach

Boss (Delta Squad) x Reader

Warnings: injuries, suggestive content,l

⸻

The jungle was thick with steam and smoke, the scent of burning metal and charred flesh choking the air. Delta Squad’s evac had been shot down. You were the only survivor from your recon team. Boss had taken command of the op—naturally.

“Stick close,” he ordered, his voice rasping through the modulator, sharp like durasteel dragged across stone.

You rolled your eyes, already moving. “I didn’t survive a crashing gunship to get babysat by a buckethead.”

He turned just enough to look at you, that T-shaped visor catching the fading light. “I don’t babysit. I lead.”

“And I slice,” you shot back, shouldering your pack. “Let me do my job.”

“We already have a slicer” he respond, before he turned forward again. But you could feel him watching you—tracking your movements with that eerie commando focus. It had been two days of this now: evading patrols, patching up your leg, sleeping back-to-back under foliage so thick you couldn’t see the stars.

Tonight, it rained. Not the cooling kind—this rain was warm, heavy, pressing the jungle into silence. You sat in a hollowed-out tree, tuning your equipment while Boss kept watch. When he finally returned to your makeshift camp, you didn’t look up.

“How bad’s your leg?”

“Fine.”

“You’re limping harder than yesterday.”

“You’re observant. I’m touched.”

“Stop being stubborn,” he muttered, kneeling in front of you. His gauntlet brushed your knee as he examined the torn fabric and swelling underneath. “You need rest.”

“You need to stop looking at me like that,” you whispered.

Silence stretched. You met his gaze, even if you couldn’t see his eyes behind the visor. Something heavy passed between you. Maybe it was the danger. Maybe it was the exhaustion. Or maybe it was the way he’d hauled you out of that wreckage, swearing he’d get you home.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he said finally, voice lower. “You’re not one of us.”

“No. I’m not. But I’m here now.” You leaned closer, your voice daring. “And so are you.”

His breath caught, almost imperceptible beneath the rain. Then—he reached up and disengaged the seal on his helmet. The hiss of depressurization was drowned out by your heartbeat.

And when he took it off, you saw him—finally. Tanned skin streaked with grime and blood. Jaw tight. Eyes locked on yours like they were burning through you.

“Tell me to stop,” he said.

You didn’t. You leaned in.

He kissed you hard—like everything he’d been holding back had snapped. His gloves were rough on your skin, tugging you closer, anchoring you to him like he was afraid you’d disappear. You curled your fingers into the collar of his armor and pulled until you could feel the heat of his body beneath the plastoid.

“I’ve got one night,” he murmured against your throat. “One night before I’m a soldier again.”

“Then make it count,” you whispered.

And he did.

⸻

The war would keep going. The Republic would keep taking. But in a jungle no one would remember, under a rain no one would care about, Boss let himself be something other than a number—and you let yourself fall for a soldier who wasn’t supposed to love.

⸻

reference below

me when the plot won't plot like it should

“is this character good or bad” “is this ship unproblematic or not” “is this arc deserving of redemption or not” girl…

Ghosts of the Game

Rex x Bounty Hunter!Reader

Timeline: Post-Order 66

⸻

You loved Rex.

That was the problem.

Loving someone like Rex—someone who bled loyalty, who carried honor like a burden on his back—it meant every lie had weight. Every omission chipped a little deeper.

And you’d made a lot of omissions.

Like the fact that the long supply runs and offworld errands you took were less “freelance logistics” and more “tracking people with credits on their heads.”

Or that the blaster you kept in the back of your locker wasn’t for show.

Or that your work boots weren’t scuffed from cargo bays—they were scuffed from being ankle-deep in the Outer Rim’s worst places, chasing scum worse than you.

Rex didn’t know.

And you weren’t ready for him to.

Not because you didn’t trust him, but because you knew him. Knew how he’d look at you if he found out. Not with disgust, but disappointment.

You couldn’t take that. So, you didn’t give him the chance.

He thought you were away for work. You let him believe it.

He let you come home when you could. No questions asked.

And every time he greeted you with that quiet smile, that warm hand at your waist, the trust in his eyes made something in your chest twist sharp and guilty.

⸻

“Target’s down there,” Hunter said, pointing toward the jagged canyon mouth. “Five mercs guarding him. We take them quiet, get in, get out.”

The squad nodded. You crouched beside Rex, hidden behind a crumbling rock wall. Your rifle was primed, your eyes scanning the dust-blown valley below.

From your position, you could see them—mercs, alright. Sloppy formation. No discipline. One of them had their helmet on backwards. You’d seen cleaner work from drunk Rodians.

Wrecker shifted beside you. “Bet I could take ‘em all with just my fists.”

“Only if they die from secondhand embarrassment,” you muttered.

One of the mercs—tall, broad, self-important—stood by the fire and began what could only be described as a speech.

“I’m done being a pawn in someone else’s game!” he bellowed, pacing like he was auditioning for a holodrama. “Time we made our own rules!”

The others grunted. One clapped. Another belched.

You groaned. “Oh, stars. That one again?”

Rex raised a brow. “Again?”

You waved vaguely toward the group. “Every washed-up gun for hire says that eventually. It’s like a rite of passage. They pretend they’re the main character when really, they’re just some rent-a-pawn with delusions of depth.”

Wrecker laughed. “You really don’t like mercs.”

You snorted. “I don’t like hypocrites.”

Rex studied you, something quiet behind his eyes. “You’ve been around this kind of crew before?”

You hesitated just long enough for it to matter. Then: “Yeah. Once or twice. Cargo jobs. Protection gigs. Nothing worth writing home about.”

He nodded, but he didn’t look away right away.

He was starting to ask questions.

Not out loud. Not yet.

But they were there—building behind his eyes, behind every careful glance. You could feel it.

You had to keep it together. Had to keep the story straight.

Because Rex trusted you.

And if he ever found out that while he was building something real with you, you were still out there playing a very different game—hunting, lying, hiding—you didn’t know what that would do.

To him.

To both of you.

⸻

The plan was clean. Simple.

Split the group. Neutralize the mercs. Grab the ex-Imperial and get the hell out.

Of course, it stopped being simple the moment you dropped down from the ridge and landed three meters away from someone who kinda used to know your face.

He was grizzled, thick-skulled, and reeked of old spice and bad choices.

And unfortunately, he was staring right at you.

“Wait a damn second,” he growled, squinting through the dust. “I know you.”

You didn’t flinch, didn’t look away. “You don’t.”

“No—nah, I do. You’re that ghost-runner from—” His eyes lit up. “Lortha 7. The docks. You dropped a guy with a blade to the eye and vanished before the payout even—”

A hard CRACK echoed as the butt of your blaster met the side of his head. He dropped like a sack of nerf shit.

Wrecker whistled. “Kark. Remind me not to piss you off.”

Echo stepped over the merc, nudging his unconscious body. “Well, that was subtle.”

You brushed dust off your jacket like nothing happened. “Guy was clearly hallucinating.”

Rex’s voice cut in low behind you. “Lortha 7?”

You didn’t look at him. “You want to talk geography now?”

“No. I want to talk about why a bottom-tier merc from the Outer Rim thinks he’s worked with you.”

Hunter called out from ahead. “We’ve got the target. Let’s move.”

Bless you, Hunter.

You swept ahead of the group, boots kicking up dirt, but you could feel Rex’s gaze on your back. Curious. Calculating. Not angry—yet—but you knew that look. You’d seen him stare down traitors with softer eyes.

Beside you, Omega jogged to keep up, wide-eyed and beaming. “You were amazing! That guy looked like he was gonna cry before you even hit him!”

You gave her a half-grin. “Good. That means I’m losing my touch. Usually they cry after.”

Omega laughed like it was the best thing she’d heard all week.

Rex—not so much.

⸻

The fire crackled low. Everyone was scattered—Wrecker snoring, Tech nose-deep in a datapad, Howzer half-dozing upright. Hunter was on watch. Omega was curled up beside Gonky.

You were cleaning your blaster.

Rex watched you for a long time before speaking.

“That’s a Relby-K23,” he said. “Not common outside Mandalore or… bounty hunters.”

You didn’t look up. “Got it from a friend.”

“Friend with a bounty license?”

Your fingers paused on the slide. Just for a second.

He caught it.

You kept your voice steady. “What are you getting at, Rex?”

He stepped closer, crouched beside you. His voice was quiet. “You knew how those mercs would move. What they’d say. You called the leader’s bluff before he even opened his mouth.”

“I’ve worked dirty jobs. Doesn’t make me a merc.”

“No,” he agreed. “But then there’s your weapon. The vibroblade in your boot. The way you never flinch at high-value ops. The fact that you never tell me where you’re going when you ‘travel for work’.”

You finally looked at him.

And gods, the way he was looking at you—soft, but betrayed. Like he already knew the truth, but didn’t want to hear it.

You hated that look more than anything.

“I’m not the enemy, Rex.”

“I didn’t say you were.” He nodded slowly. “But I think there’s a part of you I don’t know.”

There it was. No accusation. Just quiet heartbreak.

You exhaled. “I didn’t want to lie. But… I didn’t want to lose what we had either.”

“You still working?” he asked, not harsh, just real.

You didn’t answer.

Which was its own kind of answer.

From the firelight, Omega stirred. “Rex?”

He looked over, gave her a quiet “go back to sleep,” and she did.

When he looked back at you, he was still the man you loved. But there was distance now.

Not anger. Just space.

And you weren’t sure how to cross it yet.

Decided to try writing fan fiction again, let’s see how long it last this time ahaha