Clone Wars - Blog Posts

Mandalore Reunited? (spoilers)

After marinating in the ending of this season the last three days I think another issue I have is over how people are just... okay with the darksaber being destroyed that easily. I've seen people argue about the symbolism of it no longer being needed to reunite Mandalorians and lead, but I honestly think it'll do the opposite and I'll be surprised if I'm wrong with any upcoming season/show that reflects on the planet's future.

Bo-Katan led to the planet's current state after disagreeing with her pacifist sister on how they should rule the planet. For Satine, it was with peace. For Bo, it was through their warrior heritage. The problem with Bo now being Mand'alore after so long of trying is that... we still haven't seen her character growth. She hasn't atoned for what she's done nor has she been honest and open about her actions with the people who's about to rule. The show could/should have had Bo mention Satine and, in a single sentence, both honor her dead sister's wishes and show her growth by verbally confirming that she was going to lead by combining their ideas of democracy to form a perfect balance of both. Bo-Katan just last season was still racist with terroristic tendencies and that doesn't just... go away. There was a reason why her fleet abandoned her the moment she couldn't get back the darksaber for the Nth time.

So my problem overall with it is that we don't KNOW if Bo has reunited Mandalore yet. Lighting the forge, Axe battle crying his nationalistic pride, and the Mandalorian version of clapping doesn't equate to peace amongst Mandalorians. If anything, it reminded me of how we all united to help one another during and shortly after the horrors of 9/11. For a moment, we all were just people helping each other. Then came the surge of xenophobia and Islamophobia that presented itself in a way that we hadn't seen before and it only got worse since. Yes we had xenophobia, religious prejudice, and racism before; but everything after 9/11 just felt... different. More intense.

Will that happen with Mandalore? It may not. But I have a hard time believing, after so many years of division and prejudice, that the Mandalorians from Din's covert, Bo's fleet, and the Survivors would magically get along no problem. There's already Mandalorians, like the survivors, who were there before the Purge and their nostalgia may make accepting any different political outcome difficult. You have Bo's fleet who believe you have to be pureblood to rule or be considered a Mandalorian, and then you have Din's covert whose strict ideas of The Way are reminiscent of a spiritual community that anyone can be baptized into and not born into. If that were the case we wouldn't have wars or conflict, or even have future conflicts in Star Wars.

Are Mandos going to be okay with others not wearing their helmets all the time? Are Mandos going to be okay with sharing space with people who never take off their helmets? What is the weight of Ragnor's baptism for those not in the covert? And if there's no darksaber anymore to determine who the ruler is, then what are the plans moving forward for leadership? There's technically never been an established order of leadership, the planet had always been led by Warlords and Satine was (I believe) the first to inherit her father's titles after his death and that was extremely controversial. Paz and Axe couldn't even peacefully argue over a game of SW chess, it's naive to assume a moment of unification to take back a planet will erase that decades long prejudice. Not even Din has been able to get over his droid thing that he's had since he was a kid.

Honestly, putting it to words, I won't be surprised if this caused another civil war. The prior one was fought between the New Mandalorian peace movement and traditional nationalists (Satine vs Bo) and with three very different sects of Mandalorians uniting on the planet for the first time in years, I can't fathom the peace lasting long. I can't imagine people not arguing about what The Way is, or overcoming decades long prejudice and resentment after the purge all because they got a planet back.

It's sweet and idealistic to imagine this would be the case, Mandalore as a planet deserves it. Future Mandalorians deserve to not live under warlord leadership. But that would require Bo to not only overcome her own prejudices and the lack of patience she has for diplomacy (ex: the robot bar and the Ugnaughts), and it'll take time for us to see if she learned anything from Din and his people during her time with his covert. And although Bo not needing the darksaber to rule or unite the planet and its people is a sweet idea rich in symbolism, it's naive to accept it as a final truth when Mandalore and Bo-Katan's complex histories loom over the future of the planet regardless of turned leaves and open minds.

Again, I might be completely wrong. Maybe they took the easy way out and decided, for once, Star Wars can just leave out the Wars part regarding Mandalore? Maybe Bo did learn her lessons and with The Armorer she's able to find a middle ground for everyone? Maybe everyone is able to put things aside for the planet and won't need Din and Grogu to come and play diplomat between everyone again? I guess we'll see, and despite all of this, I am excited and curious to see the future of Mandalore moving forward in this show and others (and movies!) that take place in the future.

Proposal: The Kaminoans found Jango Fett to be a prime subject for cloning not only for his mental and physical prowess and training, but also because he was asexual and they wanted their army to not form relationships with civilians. They did not count on the fact that sexuality, much like M-count, cannot be replicated.

Thus leading to the abundance of hidden relationships formed throughout the clone ranks with Jedi, senators, and civies.

THIS LOOKS SO FRICKING GOOOOOOD!

TUKK TALES: The Rescue - A Clone Wars Fan Film | Teaser Trailer

I knew nothing about this and it’s just awesome! What a dedication to a fandom!

This was originally planned for the Ahsoka-finale but the latest featuring a fight, Vader-appearances and Clone Wars-flashbacks, I had to upload it now and come up with something new for the finale, maybe Ahsoka the White, once I get more to work with.

when you spend too much time fighting clankers

*on the Negotiator*

Obi-Wan : Cody, meet me at 1300 hours we need to to discuss the next campaign

Cody, distracted, working on flimsiwork : Roger roger

Obi -Wan : What?

Cody : What?

Bad Boys

Yeah, I like bad boys.

Bad Boys like Anakin Skywalker who rebelled against the “Non Committal Attachment Styles” of his day was defiant by getting married and having a family. Yeah, that kind of bad boys.

These are the prints that are currently available for preorder at my shop but only till october 31st!

Prints do not include automatic selfdestruction features so you and your home are safe

Ahsoka vs Maul because may the 4th is here!!

Le Darth Maul. Lil animation that I did when the hype for clone wars last season was as high as the moon. Insta: @ines_vazq

Chapter 13 was fire.

stuff they actually let happen on Star Wars: The Clone Wars

Godzilla tried to eat Chancellor Palpatine

Darth Maul came back from the dead as a crime boss with robot legs and had a giant angry brother named Savage

Jabba the Hutt’s uncle was an offensive gay stereotype

Palpatine had a gigantic forehead for literally no reason

Zombie episode

They named a Jedi “I’m Gonna Die” and then killed him

Some senator had a sex robot

All the Twi’leks had French accents

Ahsoka got hunted for sport

Anakin had to do elaborate BDSM roleplay with an evil cat lady

Dooku was almost murdered by the Macbeth witches

Hondo Ohnaka

Yoda made contact with Qui-Gon Jinn’s ghost but the other Jedi just thought he had dementia

0.07 seconds after leaving the Jedi Order, Ahsoka crashed her motorcycle, got a girlfriend, and ended up smuggling drugs for the mob

Anakin and Obi-Wan met the physical incarnations of the Dark and Light Sides of the Force and they looked like a goth drama queen and his cottagecore sister and both of them were furries

Ahsoka got bit by an evil rat which made her evil for awhile

Jar Jar killed a guy

This made me so sad

things I want from the new clone wars series

some amazing fight scenes give me them lightsaber whooshes

obi wan being sarcastic

obi wan being done with everyone’s shit

some cool obi wan fight scene

Anakin being somewhat happy and pure must protect

the comeback of snips and skyguy

everyone getting hugs

Ahsoka being badass

stupid banter between the clones

stupid banter between the Jedi

stupid banter between the Jedi and their respective clones

501st, 212th and the wolffe pack going on a mission together 

more plo koon and kit fisto I love them pls give them an episode

plo koon and ahsoka reuniting I love them so much

rex being done with Anakin’s shit but going along with it anyway

rex and Cody going on adventures together

no more sadness for my clone children pls they’ve already gone through so much

the Jedi council not doing shit

yoda 

asajj ventress

pirates

more padme and Anakin scenes 

no solo jar jar or c3po episodes pls

space battles 

Anakin flying pls it’s my weakness

obi wan, anakin and ahsoka kicking ass together like the good old days

CLONES

some closure pls and thank you

I summited this and it got posted this is the best day of my life

Hunter: If you bite it and you die, it’s poisonous. If it bites you and you die, it’s venomous.

Omega: What if it bites me and it dies!?

Tech: Then you’re poisonous. Maker, Omega, learn to listen.

Wrecker: What if it bites itself and I die?

Echo: That’s voodoo.

Crosshair: What if it bites me and someone else dies?

Tech: That’s correlation, not causation.

Wrecker: What if we bite each other, and neither of us die?

Echo: That’s kinky.

Hunter: Oh my God.

Asajj Ventress Concept Art (originally Sith Villain from Star Wars: Episode II: Attack of the Clones)

Dessins-minutes :)

Détournement-hommage des affiches originales à l'occasion des 10 ans de Je veux être un Jedi, la fabuleuse série de strips réalisée par Uttini, à consulter ici : http://www.starwars-universe.com/bd-swu-serie-2-je-veux-etre-un-jedi.html

Nouvel extrait imaginaire du Journal des Whills :)

Fait pour un challenge fan-art Star Wars :)

Oh my gosh I love your writing! I was wondering if you could do a story with Wrecker and a f!jedireader? Where the reader saves his life and he falls in love with her.

Heart of the Wreckage

Wrecker x Female Jedi!Reader

You didn’t ask to be assigned to Clone Force 99.

You preferred structure. Discipline. A command chain you didn’t have to second-guess every five minutes. Instead, you got five walking exceptions to Republic standard procedure—and one of them was already trying to balance a blaster rifle on his nose when you entered the hangar.

The docking bay echoed with the metallic thrum of shifting armor and quiet tension. You stood at the base of the Marauder’s ramp, arms folded, cloak stirring around your boots. Clone Force 99 loomed ahead like a puzzle you hadn’t quite solved—Hunter’s brooding intensity, Tech’s sharp tongue, Crosshair’s narrowed eyes, and then there was Wrecker, already waving enthusiastically at you as if you were old friends.

You blinked. “He’s…very expressive.”

“Get used to it,” Hunter said, deadpan. “He’s also stronger than anyone you’ve ever met, and more loyal.”

“I’ll take your word for it.”

This wasn’t your first joint operation with clones, but it was the first time you were paired with them. The “defective” batch. You’d read the reports. Tactical improvisation. Non-reg protocol. Explosive results.

Wrecker bounded forward. “You’re the Jedi, huh? I like your robes—got that windblown, mysterious vibe!”

You raised an eyebrow. “Thank you, I think?”

He gave a grin so wide it made you instinctively smile back.

⸻

The jungle was alive with rot, buzzes, and heat. The Marauder was docked a klick out. You adjusted your lightsaber on your belt and took point through the underbrush, boots silent, posture confident.

“Y’know,” you said over your shoulder, “I’ve read the reports on your squad. Impressive. In a ‘dangerously unregulated’ kind of way.”

“Some of us take that as a compliment,” Tech murmured, tapping at his datapad.

Wrecker, however, just grinned. “You should see us when things blow up. That’s when we really shine.”

You smirked. “I’m not impressed by explosions. I’m impressed by control.”

The moment the words left your mouth, blaster fire rained down from a hidden perimeter.

“Ambush!” Hunter barked.

You didn’t hesitate. Lightsaber flared to life, spinning in a fluid arc as you dropped into the fray. You cut through the first turret with a lazy flourish, pivoting to take out a second.

Behind you, Wrecker charged into enemy fire with a feral roar, ripping a tree trunk out of the ground to use as cover. It was absurd. It was stupid. It worked.

And then it happened—a concussive blast erupted from underfoot.

“Wrecker!” you shouted as he disappeared in a bloom of smoke and dirt.

You dove toward him without thinking. The smoke parted to reveal him half-buried in debris, face bloodied, armor cracked.

No time for the Force. No time for hesitation.

You dropped beside him, heaving metal plating off his chest, fingers scrabbling for a pulse. “You absolute brute,” you hissed, breath tight. “Why didn’t you check for mines?”

He groaned. “Didn’t think… they were sneaky enough…”

His eyelids fluttered.

“Stay with me, big guy,” you muttered, dragging him up with far more strength than your size suggested. “You don’t get to die on my mission.”

A blaster bolt screamed toward you from above.

You whipped your saber upward behind your back, deflecting the shot cleanly. Another followed. Then five.

They were targeting him.

You positioned yourself between Wrecker and the enemy without thinking. Your saber spun in tight arcs, catching bolts from all sides. The jungle lit up in rhythmic flashes of violet and red.

Crosshair’s voice crackled over comms. “Snipers—north treeline!”

“I see them,” you snapped. “But they’re not getting past me.”

One droid tried to flank you from the left—its aim dead-set on Wrecker’s exposed chest. You lunged forward and hurled your saber like a boomerang, slicing through its head. The hilt curved back into your palm as you returned to your guard position over Wrecker.

A glint of movement—a second droideka unfolded ten meters away, shield igniting with a hum.

You narrowed your eyes.

“Alright,” you muttered. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”

The droideka fired. Rapid-fire bolts slammed into your defenses. You slid forward on instinct, redirecting each bolt into the tree line. You advanced one step at a time, deflecting, pushing, keeping it busy—until suddenly, a heavy explosion cracked the jungle from the opposite side.

Hunter and Crosshair emerged from the flank.

The droideka went down in fire and shrapnel.

You dropped to your knees, panting, your saber still lit in one hand. Then you turned back to Wrecker.

He groaned.

“Stars above,” you exhaled.

“Did…” His voice rasped, dazed. “Did I miss the fun?”

You gave a breathless, relieved laugh.

“You almost were the fun.”

His eyes opened sluggishly, and he blinked at you.

“You stayed?” he croaked.

You stared at him. “Of course I stayed.”

He tried to sit up, wincing immediately. You caught him by the shoulder and pressed him back down.

“Easy,” you said. “I just deflected enough blaster fire to light a city block. Don’t make me fight you too.”

⸻

Wrecker was stable—barely. The field medkit had done what it could. You sat on the ramp of the ship later that evening, arms crossed, watching as he stubbornly limped his way toward you with his torso still wrapped in gauze.

“Shouldn’t you be lying down?” you said.

He grinned, sheepish. “Wanted to say thanks.”

You glanced at him. “For getting blown up?”

“For pulling me out. You didn’t have to.”

“You’re part of the squad,” you replied coolly. “And I don’t leave people behind.”

“But you really went for it,” he said, sinking down beside you. “Didn’t think a Jedi would care that much about a guy like me.”

You snorted. “You think I risk my life for just anyone? Please.”

He looked startled.

You smirked. “You’re lucky I have a soft spot for wrecking balls with big dumb hearts.”

That earned a booming laugh from him. “Aw, c’mon—I ain’t that dumb.”

“I said big dumb heart, not brain. You fought well. Just… try not to step on anything next time.”

He tilted his head, watching you more seriously now. “You’re different from what I expected. Thought Jedi were supposed to be all calm and quiet.”

“I am calm,” you replied loftily. “I just happen to be excellent. And if I don’t remind people of that, who will?”

Wrecker blinked. Then grinned so wide it made something in your chest twist a little. “You’re funny.”

You looked away, suddenly aware of the warmth in your cheeks. “Don’t get used to it.”

“Too late.”

Silence fell. Comfortable, maybe even a little intimate.

“You really scared me back there,” you admitted finally, voice lower now.

“Scared myself too,” he said. “But it helped, havin’ you there.”

He looked at you then—not with the usual goofy enthusiasm, but something softer. Real. “I like that you don’t treat me like I’m just the muscle.”

You didn’t respond right away. Just nodded, watching a Felucian bird glide overhead.

“…I like that you let me save you,” you said eventually. “Don’t make it a habit.”

Wrecker chuckled and bumped your shoulder with his.

“No promises.”

Hiya lovely! I was wondering if you could do a Bad Batch X blind force sensitive Reader where they did the painting of her on their ship but since she can’t see she doesn’t mention it but the bit are flustered because she’s like their version of a celeb crush because of unorthodox on the battle field.

Very much enjoy reading your stories! 🧡🧡

“Echoes of a Legend”

The Bad Batch x Blind Jedi!Reader

Even before the Order made it official with her rank, she moved through warzones like a rumor given form. Jedi Master [Y/N], field strategist and warrior monk of the Outer Rim campaigns, was a living contradiction—unpredictable, untouchable, devastating.

And blind.

Not metaphorically. Physically. Her eyes were pale and unseeing, but the Force made her a weapon no enemy wanted to face. Not when her saber moved like liquid flame, her bare feet danced across fields of blaster fire, and her instincts cut sharper than any tactical droid could calculate.

Clone troopers told stories of her—how she once Force-flipped an AAT into a ravine because “it was in her way.” How she never issued orders, only spoke suggestions, and somehow her men moved with perfect synchronicity around her. How she’d once been shot clean through the shoulder and kept fighting, citing “mild discomfort.”

To Clone Force 99, she was something between a war icon and a celebrity crush.

They’d never met her. Not officially. But they’d studied her campaigns. Memorized her maneuvers. And after Tech had painstakingly stitched together footage from her battlefield cams, Wrecker had pitched the idea: “We should paint her on the Marauder.”

It had started as a joke.

But then they’d done it.

Nose art, like the old warbirds from Kamino’s ancient archives. Cloak swirling. Lightsaber ignited. Body poised in mid-air, wind tossing her hair. There were probably more elegant ways to honor a Jedi Master. But elegance had never been Clone Force 99’s strong suit.

And now, they were docking on Coruscant.

And she was waiting for them.

“She’s here.”

Hunter stared at the holopad in his hand. Her silhouette stood at the base of the landing platform, backlit by the setting sun, cloak fluttering in the breeze.

“Right,” Echo muttered. “No turning back now.”

“She doesn’t know about the painting,” Crosshair said. It wasn’t a question.

“She’s blind,” Tech replied. “So in all likelihood, no.”

Wrecker, sweating, mumbled, “What if she feels it through the Force?”

No one answered that.

The ramp lowered.

She didn’t move as they descended, but they all felt it—that ripple in the air, like entering the calm center of a storm. She stood still, chin slightly tilted, as if listening to their boots on durasteel. Her hands were clasped loosely behind her back. No lightsaber in sight. But the power radiating off her was unmistakable.

Then she smiled.

“I thought I felt wild energy approaching,” she said, voice warm, low, and confident. “Clone Force 99.”

The voice didn’t match the chaos they’d expected. It was calm. Even soothing.

They all saluted, more out of reflex than formality.

“Master Jedi,” Hunter said, his voice lower than usual.

“‘Master’ is excessive,” you said, tilting your head. “You’re the ones with the art exhibit.”

Hunter’s face went slack. Echo coughed. Tech blinked. Crosshair’s toothpick fell.

Wrecker choked on his own spit.

“…Art?” Echo asked, voice high.

You turned toward the ship—just slightly off to the side.

“The painting. On the nose of your ship. I hear it’s flattering.”

Hunter’s jaw clenched. “You… saw it?”

“No. I heard it. The padawan of the Ninth Battalion told me. With great enthusiasm.”

Wrecker groaned and dropped his helmet onto the ground with a thunk.

“I haven’t looked,” you added gently. “Don’t worry.”

That… only made it worse.

“I wasn’t aware I’d become wartime propaganda,” you continued, starting toward them with measured steps. “But it’s not the strangest thing I’ve encountered.”

Crosshair muttered, “Could’ve fooled me. You yeeted a super tactical droid off a cliff on Umbara.”

“I did,” you replied, smiling faintly. “He was being condescending.”

They walked with you through the plaza toward the Temple, though it felt more like a parade of sheep behind a lion. Despite your calm presence, none of them could relax. Especially not when you turned your head toward them mid-stride and said:

“Which one of you painted it?”

Silence.

Tech cleared his throat. “It was… a collaborative effort. Conceptually mine. Execution—shared.”

You grinned. “Collaborative pin-up Jedi portraiture. You’re pioneers.”

“I’m sorry,” Echo said sincerely. “We meant it as a tribute.”

“I know.” You touched his elbow lightly as you passed. “That’s why I’m not offended.”

Hunter, walking beside you, couldn’t help but glance down. You didn’t wear boots. Just light wrap-around cloth sandals. Not exactly standard issue for a battlefield. But then again, you were anything but standard.

“You don’t need to walk on eggshells around me,” you said to him softly.

“We painted you on our ship,” he replied, the words gravel-rough. “Forgive me if I’m not sure what I can say.”

You turned toward him, unseeing eyes oddly precise. “Say what you mean.”

Wrecker—trailing behind with his helmet under one arm—whispered, “She’s terrifying.”

“Terrifyingly interesting,” Tech whispered back.

“She can hear you,” you called over your shoulder.

Wrecker squeaked.

By the time they reached the Temple steps, all five were sweating—some from nerves, some from heat, some from the sheer existential dread of having their war-crush walking next to them and being nice about the whole embarrassing mural situation.

“You’re staying onboard the Marauder for this mission, aren’t you?” you asked as they paused near the gates.

Hunter nodded. “Yes, Master Jedi.”

“Then I suppose I’ll be seeing myself every time I board.”

Sheer panic.

“But don’t worry,” you added with a smirk, sensing it. “I’ll pretend I don’t know what it looks like.”

Crosshair grumbled, “Or we could repaint it.”

“Don’t,” you said, suddenly serious. “It’s nice to be remembered for something other than war reports.”

And then you were gone—ascending the Temple steps with grace that shouldn’t have belonged to someone without sight, cloak trailing like shadow behind fire.

The Batch stared after you.

“She’s—” Wrecker began.

“I know,” Hunter said, almost reverently.

Echo exhaled. “We’re in trouble.”

Can i request a fox x reader where he's super soft towards them, not like in a ooc way but where he's just nicer and more relaxed with them than anyone else. And maybe the corrie guard overhears him being soft and they burst into the room like "who are you and what have you done with fox?" lmao

Loveyourwritingmydarlingokeybyeeee <3

“Soft Spot”

Commander Fox x Reader

The Commander of the Coruscant Guard was many things: stern, intense, inflexible, direct, and famously immune to nonsense.

Except, apparently, when it came to you.

No one really noticed it at first. Fox wasn’t exactly the hand-holding type. His version of affection was a nod of acknowledgment or the way he’d always check to see if you made it back to your quarters safely after Senate briefings. But lately, the cracks in the durasteel facade were getting harder to ignore.

Like now.

You were perched on the edge of his desk in the command center, arms crossed lazily while he keyed in reports with one hand and let the other rest lightly—casually—on your thigh.

His voice, low and gravelly, was uncharacteristically gentle.

“You didn’t sleep much last night,” he murmured, not looking at you but very much not hiding his concern. “You’ve got that look in your eye again.”

“I’m fine,” you replied, giving a little smirk. “That’s just how my face looks when a certain commander forgets to bring caf.”

Fox exhaled a quiet laugh. A laugh. “That’s mutiny talk. You want to end up in a holding cell?”

“With you? Might be worth it.”

He stopped typing. Finally looked up. “Careful. I might take you up on that.”

You were just about to tease him back when the door burst open so violently that one of the wall panels actually rattled.

Thorn, Hound, Stone, and Thire stood there like they’d just walked in on a crime scene.

Stone was the first to speak, horrified: “WHO ARE YOU AND WHAT HAVE YOU DONE WITH FOX?!”

Fox blinked. “Excuse me?”

Hound squinted suspiciously. “No, no, something’s not right. He laughed. I heard it. He laughed. He touched someone willingly. I’m calling medbay—Fox, are you concussed?”

Thorn pointed an accusing finger. “That was flirtation! You flirted, Fox! In Basic! With smiling! You’re a danger to the chain of command!”

Thire just slowly turned to you, deadpan. “How long has this been going on?”

You lifted your hands, grinning. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Fox stood, dead calm. “Get out.”

“No,” Hound said flatly, arms crossed. “Not until you admit you’re in love and also apologize for emotionally terrorizing us with your… softness. I mean, stars, Fox. You said she looked tired like you care. That’s romantic horror.”

Thorn leaned against the doorframe like this was the most entertaining thing he’d seen all cycle. “Is this why you actually smiled yesterday when she waved at you across the hall? I thought you were having a stroke.”

“I’m calling a medic anyway,” Stone added. “Just in case.”

You bit your lip to stifle a laugh. Fox just pinched the bridge of his nose.

“I am going to file so many disciplinary reports,” he muttered.

“And we’ll burn them all,” Thire chirped.

Hound grinned. “C’mon, just admit it, vod. You like her.”

“I never denied it,” Fox replied, surprisingly quiet. His eyes met yours. “I just didn’t think it was any of your business.”

The room went dead silent.

Then Thorn wheezed. “He said it. He said it out loud. Commander Fox has feelings.”

You leaned into Fox’s side, bumping your shoulder into his. “You might want to start locking your door if you’re gonna keep being sweet on me like this.”

“I will now,” he muttered, glaring at the four guards still standing there. “Get. Out.”

Stone waved as he backed out, still looking like he’d witnessed a live explosion.

Thire saluted dramatically. “We’ll leave you to your romantic crimes, sir.”

“I’m telling Jet,” Thorn added gleefully.

Fox groaned and sank back into his chair, rubbing a hand over his face.

You leaned down to kiss his temple. “You okay, Commander?”

He grabbed your hand and pressed it to his chest like it grounded him. “Only because you’re still here.”

From the hallway: “SICKENING!”

Fox raised his blaster. “I will shoot them.”

You just smiled and kissed him again.

“Crimson Huntress” pt.6

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

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

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

Perfect.

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

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

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

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

Now it was ash.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Her hands stilled.

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

That got her attention.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

⸻

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

Perfect.

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

A quiet settled in after the second round.

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

“About what?”

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

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

“Try me.”

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

“You left your brothers.”

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

The silence stretched taut between them.

“Was it worth it?” she asked quietly.

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

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

⸻

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

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

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

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

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

Footfalls. A scuffle. Grunts. A frightened yelp.

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

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

4023 stepped between the kid and the thugs without hesitation.

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

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

“It does now.”

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

And then went flying.

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

4023 blinked, turning to the boy.

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

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

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

Inside, under flickering lights, they caught their breath.

“You okay?” 4023 asked.

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

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

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

“You a thief?”

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

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

The boy didn’t answer at first.

“Used to be. Kinda.”

4023 didn’t press. The silence was enough.

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

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

The boy looked up. “You left too?”

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

Another pause.

“What’s your name?” 4023 asked.

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

“Kael what?”

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

“Fair enough.”

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

“Something like that.”

Just then, the outer ramp hissed open again.

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

4023 didn’t flinch. “That’s Kael.”

“We are not keeping strays.”

“Too late. He’s here now.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

⸻

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

“Uuughhh.”

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

“K4,” she rasped. “Tell me I’m dead.”

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

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

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

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

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

She accepted it with a grunt, sipping cautiously.

And then stopped mid-sip, eyes narrowing.

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

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

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

Sha’rali glared. “He’s still here?”

“Indeed.”

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

“Your compassion is overwhelming,” K4 deadpanned.

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

The droid’s head swiveled. “Pardon?”

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

R9 beeped in protest.

Sha’rali scowled. “Don’t sass me.”

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

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

There was a moment of stunned silence.

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

⸻

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The part clicked free.

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

“Good. Clean it like I showed you.”

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

“You always teach like this?”

“Only when it matters.”

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

Sha’rali.

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

“Hope you know how to aim, stray.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sha’rali’s smile faded, just slightly.

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

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

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

The boy nodded, tentative but resolute.

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

4023 exhaled. “This is a mistake.”

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

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

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

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

⸻

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

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

ael looked from the weapon to her, brow raised.

“Is this legal?”

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

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

“Point it downrange, smartass.”

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

“Off.”

“Trigger?”

“Pull it when you’re ready.”

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

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

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

She raised an eyebrow. “Try shooting instead.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’ve been to bars?”

“I’ve been thrown out of bars.”

Sha’rali stared at him.

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

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

“That’s what the gun’s for, right?”

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

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

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

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

“I don’t yell,” she said.

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

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

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

R9 beeped irritably from the ridge.

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

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

Kael fired one last shot. Dead center.

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

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

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

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t not say it.”

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

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

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

“You take that back, you glorified kettle.”

⸻

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“He insisted,” 4023 said flatly.

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

“I told you to stay on the ship.”

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

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

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

K4 muttered, “No argument there.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Uh-huh.”

“Swear to all the stars, nothing shady.”

“I never said shady.”

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

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

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

“Can’t wait.”

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

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

“Someone’s paying them to.”

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

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

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

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

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

She didn’t trust easy.

And this kid?

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

He was something.

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

⸻

It was supposed to be a simple bounty.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She stopped, turning to face him.

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

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

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

The silence stretched.

Until the trap closed.

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

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

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

She fired again—and took a hit.

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

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

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

“Assuming we don’t die before then.”

“Yeah, minor detail.”

They made a break for it.

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

“Sha’rali!”

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

He didn’t move.

The enforcer raised his blaster—aiming for her head.

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

The merc raised his axe—and then he screamed.

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

Sha’rali’s eyes widened.

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

He stepped forward. His hand went to his belt.

Two lightsabers ignited with a twin snap-hiss.

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

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

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

Then, it was over.

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

He crouched beside her.

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

“You’re—” she choked out. “A Jedi.”

He flinched, hesitated. “Was.”

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

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

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

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

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

Kael didn’t answer.

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

Still silence.

“Which did you get first?”

His jaw clenched. “…Yellow.”

“And the other?”

“…Later.”

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

He looked away.

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

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

“So what does it mean?” she whispered.

Kael met her gaze.

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

She stared at him.

Not a kid. Not really. Not anymore.

“Who are you?” she murmured.

He didn’t answer.

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

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

“Why?”

Kael stared forward, hands tight on the rail.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Not completely.

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

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

“Maker—what happened?!”

Kael didn’t stop. “She’s hit bad.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She gave him a lazy half-glare.

“I’ve been shot before.”

“You say that like it’s impressive.”

“It is impressive.”

Kael snorted.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sha’rali let the silence stretch for a moment.

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

Kael paused with the wrap halfway around her ribs.

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

“She needs to rest.”

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

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

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

4023 nodded.

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

“You keeping secrets from me now, too?”

His helmet tilted. “Always have been.”

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

“No. It’s not.”

They let that hang there between them.

⸻

Previous Part | Next Part

“Crimson Huntress” pt.5

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 hum of the nav systems filled the cockpit like a second heartbeat. Sha’rali lounged in the pilot’s chair, legs kicked up on the console, a bitter half-smile ghosting her lips as she twirled a datachip between her clawed fingers. K4 was seated at his usual post, arms neatly folded, optics quietly calculating a dozen hypotheticals per second. CT-4023, cloaked in the black-and-gold silhouette of his stolen Death Watch armor, leaned against the doorway—silent, watching, always thinking.

R9 beeped irritably behind them, displeased with the turbulence in their hyperspace jump.

“We’ve got a message,” Sha’rali announced finally, holding the chip up. “Cid wants to cash in a favor.”

K4 didn’t look away from the dash. “Has she ever not wanted to cash in a favor?”

“What’s the job?” 4023 asked, stepping forward. His voice was filtered through a soft modulator, a new addition he’d insisted on since they crossed paths with the Jedi.

Sha’rali hesitated. “Extraction. A high-value target hiding out near the Pyke mining sector on Oba Diah. Bring him in alive. No questions.”

Silence stretched.

“Absolutely not,” K4 said immediately.

“The last time we dealt with the Pykes, I beheaded and gutted their entire envoy.”

Sha’rali’s smile was hollow. “Yeah. I remember.”

She stared at the chip, lekku twitching in thought. “But this… smells off. Cid says it’s clean, but she never says who the bounty actually goes to. She just wants us to bring them to a contact near the mining ridges. High pay, low profile. Too good to be real.”

R9 chirped something pessimistic.

“See? Even the murder-bucket agrees,” K4 muttered.

4023 folded his arms. “Could be a trap.”

“Of course it’s a trap,” Sha’rali said, tossing the chip onto the dash. “But that doesn’t mean we can’t spring it our way.”

She stood, voice sharp. “We’ve done worse. We go in smart, fast, and prepared. I’m not walking away from that kind of payout unless we’re bleeding for it.”

⸻

The descent into Oba Diah was storm-torn, the planet’s perpetual haze wrapping around the ship like greasy smoke. They broke through cloud cover to reveal jagged mountains of crumbling rock and a sprawling field of collapsed spice tunnels and rusted outposts, choked with vines and half-sunken in mud.

“I’ve got visuals on the coordinates,” 4023 reported, peering through the scopes. “Looks like a freight depot—long abandoned. No obvious defenses.”

“That means the defenses are under it,” K4 muttered, powering up the ship’s turrets just in case.

They landed on a flat ridge about half a klick from the depot. The wind howled. R9 rolled out first, sensors scanning, chirping warnings as they moved toward the structure.

No sign of the bounty.

Sha’rali stopped, raising a hand. “Wait—something’s wrong.”

Blaster fire ripped through the fog before she finished the sentence. Three, maybe four snipers opened up from higher ground, forcing them to scatter. From below, shadows moved—masked Pyke enforcers emerging from the tunnels.

“It’s a karking ambush!” 4023 snapped, taking cover behind a crumbling support strut and returning fire with expert precision.

“Cid set us up!” Sha’rali growled, drawing her blade and igniting her carbine in the same motion. “Or the Pykes want revenge for last time.”

K4 was already in the thick of it, carving a brutal path through the encroaching attackers. R9 let out a warble and overloaded a Pyke’s rifle with a sneaky spike of electricity before zipping away.

“We’re flanked!” 4023 shouted. “We need to fall back to the ship!”

Sha’rali was already running to cover them, moving like a phantom across the mud-slicked ground. A blast clipped her shoulder, spinning her, but she stayed upright—barely.

They made it halfway up the slope toward the ridge when the ground gave way beneath her.

The slide was sudden—violent. Sha’rali screamed as the ledge crumbled beneath her boots, her body tumbling down a steep incline of slick stone and wet earth. She slammed hard into the wall of a ravine, her world blinking white for a moment.

Mud filled her mouth and nose. Her limbs ached. The world tilted, then faded entirely.

She woke to darkness, the taste of iron in her mouth.

The rain had stopped, replaced by the cold fog of early night. She was half-submerged in muck, one arm twisted beneath her, the other reaching weakly for a blaster that was no longer there.

A low growl reached her ears—followed by footsteps. She tried to sit up.

ZZZT! A blue stun bolt hit her chest and locked her muscles.

Her head rolled back. Shadows loomed overhead—tall, spindly shapes with cruel eyes and weapons drawn. Zygerrians.

“Well, well,” one of them sneered. “Look what the mud dragged in.”

“Didn’t think we’d find anything this far out,” said one.

“Togruta,” said another, examining her lekku. “The boss pays double for rare ones. Especially the exotic warriors.”

“She armed?”

“Not anymore.”

They roughly pulled her upright, manacles clicking around her wrists. A sack was drawn over her head.

“Let’s not waste time,” said their leader. “She’ll fetch a good price, and the rain’ll hide our tracks.”

Sha’rali, numb and helpless, listened as her captors dragged her through the mud, away from the ridge where her crew still fought to survive.

The last thing she heard before unconsciousness returned was the sound of manacles clicking shut and the hiss of a slaver ship’s ramp.

Sha’rali came to with a jolt, every nerve alight with sharp, biting pain.

The collar around her neck sizzled again, just enough to warn her: move wrong, and it would do worse. Her vision swam. Her body ached. She lay curled in the cold corner of a small durasteel cage, no larger than a weapons locker. Her head throbbed and her arms had been chained to the floor beneath her knees.

She blinked and realized, with an instant spike of fury, that she was wearing something else. Something not hers.

A sheer cloth top barely held together with golden clasps, hanging loose over her chest. A belt of jangling beads and threadbare silk wrapped low on her hips, a mockery of Togrutan ceremonial wraps—cut, tattered, revealing far more than concealing. Gold bangles adorned her wrists and ankles like leashes waiting for a pull.

Worse than all of it was the humiliation.

Her gear—gone. Her weapons, stripped. Her battle-worn leathers replaced with something insulting.

She let out a low growl, a primal sound, the only power she had left.

The sound of a collar shocking someone else brought her head up sharply.

Across the dim hold of the Zygerrian ship, other cages lined the walls. There were a few other slaves—no one she recognized.

From across the dimly lit slave hold, a small voice whispered, “Don’t move too much. The collar goes off again.”

Sha’rali turned her head with effort, spotting a tiny Twi’lek girl—barely into adolescence. Her bright lavender skin had been bruised and scuffed, and she wore a nearly identical outfit. Her expression was hollow.

Sha’rali softened, even through the pain. “Name?”

“Romi,” the girl said, eyes flicking to the guards stationed down the corridor. “They picked me up on Serennno. You?”

Sha’rali didn’t answer immediately. Her identity was armor, teeth, pride. Here, stripped of all that, she was raw. Exposed.

“I’m Sha’rali,” she said eventually, voice husky.

Romi shifted forward in her cage, chains clinking. “They said we’re being taken to Kadavo. The market.”

Sha’rali tensed. Kadavo. The Zygerrian slave capital. A place of chains and cruelty, known throughout the galaxy.

More cages filled the edges of the hold. One of them held a half-unconscious Weequay. Another, a silent Bothan who hadn’t spoken once since she’d woken. But one cage—reinforced and locked with magnetic bindings—held more movement than the rest.

Sha’rali turned slightly, squinting through the flickering lights.

Clones.

Four of them, huddled in a cell large enough to barely contain them. No armor, no gear, just dark underlayers and grim expressions. They didn’t look at her. They didn’t speak to her. But she could tell they were military—how they sat, how they breathed. Watchful.

One had a cybernetic eye and a scar down his face.

He sat perfectly still, arms crossed over his knees. Beside him were two others who looked like they were meant to work as a pair—one smaller, wiry, the other more broad. And one sat farther in the back, staring down at the floor with a blank expression.

Captured days ago, she guessed. Brought in from somewhere else. Probably a different hunt altogether.

They didn’t know her. She didn’t know them. That was fine.

Her jaw clenched as she tried again to shift, and the collar lit her nerves like firecrackers.

“Don’t,” Romi whispered. “They enjoy it when we scream.”

Sha’rali didn’t scream. She refused. But stars, she saw the edges of her vision blur.

“How long have we been in space?” she asked through gritted teeth.

“A day maybe?” Romi shrugged, small shoulders trembling.

There was a soft voice, raspy with age, from the cell beside her.

“Another Togruta… it’s been a long time since I’ve seen one so wild-eyed.”

Sha’rali turned slowly. An elder Togruta woman sat quietly in the cage next to hers. Wrinkled face, faded markings. One lekku shortened by a blade.

“I’m not wild,” Sha’rali muttered.

“You were when they dragged you in,” the elder replied. “You bit one, didn’t you?”

“Maybe.”

The woman gave a weary smile. “Keep your fire. But don’t waste it. Zygerrians like to break the ones who burn brightest.”

“I’m not going to break.”

“I hope not,” the woman said softly. “Not all of us made it.”

Sha’rali fell into silence, watching the floor. One breath. Then another.

She tried to calculate. Figure out how far they were from Vanqor. Whether CT-4023 was alive. Whether K4 had escaped. Whether R9 was tracking her.

R9 will come, she told herself again. He always comes.

There was a sudden rattle. Movement. The clones stirred in their cell, but didn’t rise.

From the corridor came bootsteps—Zygerrian guards, sneering as they inspected their ‘merchandise.’ One paused at Sha’rali’s cage, scanning her through the bars.

The sneer widened. “Pretty little thing. You’ll sell high.”

She didn’t say anything. Just stared him down, even as her chains bit in.

The guard shocked her again anyway, just for fun.

Sha’rali grit her teeth, her whole body seizing—but she still didn’t scream.

As her vision dimmed around the edges, she whispered, “You better come soon, 4023… before I kill someone with my bare hands.”

And somewhere, beyond metal hulls and dark space, her partner was already hunting.

They would find her.

Or they would burn half the galaxy trying.

⸻

The hiss of pressurized air released the docking clamps.

The slave ship shuddered as it touched down on the rust-colored landing pad of Zygerria’s capital city, the skyline stained by dusk and industry. Somewhere beyond the bulkhead, the smell of ash and spice wafted in through the filters. The chains on Sha’rali’s wrists bit tighter with each shift of the ship’s descent.

She crouched low, silent. The young Twi’lek beside her trembled with every movement. Romi hadn’t spoken since the collar shocked her last—she stared at the floor, lips moving in prayer to gods Sha’rali didn’t know.

They were about to be marched into a nightmare.

But fate, as it often did, changed the game.

Footsteps echoed down the metal ramp—heavier than Zygerrian boots, sharper. Cleaner. The guards suddenly went rigid. No whip-cracks. No laughter.

One of them hissed. “He’s here.”

The cell bay door opened, and silence fell.

Count Dooku stepped aboard the slave barge with the self-assured stillness of a man who owned the galaxy. His cloak barely brushed the filthy floors, his expression unchanged by the scent of sweat and blood in the air. Two MagnaGuards flanked him, pikes gleaming with precision.

Sha’rali’s jaw clenched.

No karking way.

She stayed quiet, head bowed. But her eyes tracked his every step.

Dooku passed by the cages one by one, as if inspecting exotic animals at market. His sharp gaze barely flickered across the weaker slaves—until he reached the reinforced cell.

The clones.

He paused, the corners of his mouth curling faintly with distaste. “Four clones, captured far from the front lines. Republic property, now reclaimed.” His hand lifted and he gestured. “Take them. They’ll be of use.”

The MagnaGuards activated the containment field, marched in, and extracted the four troopers one by one—silent, grim, defeated but not broken. The one with the cybernetic eye locked eyes with Sha’rali as he passed. There was no recognition. No trust. But something primal passed between them: a shared need to survive.

Then Dooku stopped in front of her cage.

Sha’rali didn’t look away.

His gaze swept over her, from the cracked collar to the flimsy silks that failed to hide the bruises. And then—recognition.

“Ah. Now that is a surprise.” Dooku’s voice was velvet and venom. “The bounty hunter who infiltrated my Saleucami facility and escaped with my asset.”

Sha’rali said nothing, but the muscles in her jaw flexed.

“You’re lucky to be alive,” Dooku mused. “But fortune, I see, has a cruel sense of humor.”

He gestured once more. “Take her. I have… great plans.”

⸻

Dooku’s ship jumped through hyperspace. Crossed to a new Outer Rim world far beyond the standard slave routes.

A planet called Garvoth.

She saw it as they broke atmosphere—dusty terrain split by massive black structures, an arena the size of a city nestled in the heart of its capital. A gladiator world. One built for bloodsport and spectacle. One of Dooku’s quiet experiments in influence and economic power.

And it would be her prison.

The ship landed inside the holding bay beneath the arena. The clones were taken to confinement cells with reinforced durasteel. Sha’rali, however, was dragged toward another chamber—spacious, decorated in cold stone and banners. A viewing box for the Count.

Dooku waited for her.

“This world respects only strength,” he said as the guards shackled her to the wall. “And so will you.”

“You want me to fight for you?” she sneered.

He raised a brow. “I want you to bleed for me.”

He turned away, surveying the arena through the window. “You’ll earn me coin, of course. The crowd will adore you. A rare Togruta—violent, cunning, exotic. But more importantly, you will learn discipline. You will suffer humiliation. And through that, understand your place.”

“I won’t wear this,” she growled, yanking against the chains. “I want my armor.”

Dooku didn’t even turn to her. “You will wear what I allow. That slave garb suits you. Let it be a reminder of your failure.”

“You’re making a mistake,” she spat.

Finally, Dooku turned. And this time, his voice was edged with steel.

“No. You did, when you thought you could steal from me and vanish into the stars. Now you’ll fight in my arena for the amusement of others, and when the time comes, you will kneel. Or you will die screaming.”

Sha’rali stared him down, her teeth bared. But the cold in her chest sank deeper than defiance.

She’d survived a lot. She would survive this.

But when they dragged her into the gladiator pits—clad in silk and chains, forced to stand before a roaring crowd—she realized that survival might no longer be enough.

Not this time.

⸻

The ring of chains and the roar of bloodthirsty crowds still echoed in her ears long after the arena closed for the night.

Sha’rali stood against the stone wall of the shared cell, blood drying on her collarbone. The faint shimmer of lights cast tall shadows from the barred ceiling overhead. Her pulse had steadied hours ago. The fresh bruises—earned in a match against a Trandoshan dual-wielder—were still blooming. But she’d won. Again.

Of course she had.

Winning meant survival.

Losing meant becoming the crowd’s next “bonus attraction.”

She wasn’t interested in the latter.

Across the cell, the four clones sat—silent as they always were after the torture sessions. Each one bore signs of interrogation: bruises around neural ports, cracked lips, blood-caked brows. They were tough—made to withstand this. But even the strongest men could only take so much.

Commander Wolffe leaned back against the wall, his one remaining eye watching her like a predator unsure if it recognized another of its kind. Boost and Sinker had become background noise, withdrawn into a shared misery. But Comet—he looked different tonight.

He was staring at her. Hard.

“You knew him.”

Sha’rali turned her head slightly, not bothering to ask who.

“That clone deserter. CT-4023.”

Her breath caught, just for a second. Just long enough for Comet to notice.

She shrugged lazily. “Did. Once.”

“What happened to him?”

The question hung in the air, heavy and quiet.

Wolffe’s eye twitched. Boost glanced up.

Sha’rali lowered herself onto the stone floor, one leg stretched out, her arm draped over her knee. “I killed him.”

Comet blinked. “What?”

“He was wounded. Couldn’t go on. Didn’t want to be captured. Didn’t want to be brought back to the Republic like some karking piece of malfunctioning tech. Said it was better to go out free.” She let out a cold, humorless laugh. “So I put a blaster to the back of his head and gave him what he asked for.”

She didn’t blink. Didn’t flinch. Delivered it like truth.

Silence.

A low exhale from Wolffe.

“That was still a brother,” he said. Quiet. Even.

Sha’rali tilted her head. “Was he?”

Wolffe’s stare darkened. “I didn’t agree with him. Didn’t respect what he did. But he made a choice. Same as any of us.”

Sha’rali’s expression hardened. “That’s where you’re wrong.”

Now she stood again, the weariness leaving her limbs, something sharper stirring underneath.

“You think people make choices? That when they hit the crossroads, they look both ways and decide where they go?”

She stepped toward them. Not aggressive—just close. Just enough to make the words bite.

“We don’t steer our lives. We follow roads already paved. Decisions made for us. And we walk them because someone else put us there.”

Comet frowned. “He chose to leave. That was his road.”

“No,” she snapped. “That wasn’t his road. That was the ditch he fell into after someone else put a wall in his way.”

Now they were all looking at her. Even Sinker.

She gestured to each of them. “You were born in tanks, raised for war. Never got to choose your name. Never got to choose your purpose. You were pointed like weapons and told to fight for peace. And if you said no? If you broke formation?” She stepped back. “Suddenly you weren’t worth saving.”

Boost’s mouth opened, but Wolffe’s voice cut through first.

“Not every path is made for us. Some we build.”

She looked at him. Really looked.

And for a moment, Sha’rali’s fire dimmed—just a flicker.

“Maybe,” she said softly. “But some of us don’t have bricks. Just dust and bones.”

No one replied.

Later, when the lights dimmed and the cell returned to silence, Comet turned his face toward the wall, thoughtful.

“She didn’t kill him,” he muttered to no one in particular.

Wolffe didn’t answer. But the faintest movement in his jaw suggested he was thinking the same thing.

Somewhere in the arena halls, cheers erupted for the next match.

Sha’rali stared at the ceiling, chains rattling softly with every breath.

And somewhere deep in her chest, guilt gnawed like a parasite.

The scent of sweat, metal, and blood clung to the air like a second skin.

Sha’rali sat cross-legged on the cold durasteel floor of the holding cell beneath the arena, her back pressed against the wall, chin tilted upward as she listened to the muffled screams of the crowd above. The cell was wide and shared with others—warriors of every species, scarred and broken, pacing like caged beasts awaiting their turn in the pit.

To her left, a Nikto sharpened a serrated blade on a stone with slow, deliberate strokes. To her right, a horned Weequay chanted something in his native tongue, smearing blood across his chest like a ritual. They didn’t look at her. No one did.

Except the Mirialan in the far corner.

Sha’rali had fought her two matches ago and broken her arm in three places. The Mirialan hadn’t looked away from her since.

She didn’t care.

She was tired. Tired of collars and cages. Tired of being a spectacle.

You’re not broken. Not yet.

The thought was weak, but it held her together.

The clang of the outer doors yanked her from her thoughts.

Two guards entered, clad in dark red plating. They didn’t speak. Didn’t need to.

The other warriors moved aside, murmuring low in their respective languages. Sha’rali didn’t bother to move.

But the man who entered behind the guards made her rise to her feet.

Dark armor, blue and grey, the familiar marking of the Death Watch sigil on the shoulder plate. His T-visored helmet gleamed under the flickering lights.

“Hello, darling,” the voice behind the modulator sneered.

She didn’t flinch.

“Didn’t expect to see one of you again,” she said evenly.

The Mandalorian took a step closer. “Didn’t expect to find you like this.” He tilted his head, gaze raking over the slave outfit Dooku still made her wear into every match. “Seems fortune finally found a way to humble you.”

Sha’rali clenched her fists behind her back. “If you’re here to talk about my fashion choices, I’m sure you can find a market vendor somewhere.”

He laughed.

“Came to deliver a message,” he said. “Some of our brothers didn’t take kindly to what you did to a few of ours on Ord Mantell. Word travels.”

“Tell them they should’ve picked a fight with someone their own size,” she spat.

“Funny thing about revenge…” he leaned in, the edges of his armor scraping the bars. “It’s patient. Dooku may have you now, but he’ll sell you eventually. Maybe to the Hutts. Maybe to someone else. Or maybe… to us.”

Sha’rali’s eyes narrowed.

“Don’t bother trying to kill me now,” he added, voice low. “Not in here. Not under Dooku’s nose. But when you’re off the leash…” He clicked his tongue. “We’ll see how many fights that pretty face wins without armor.”

Then he left. No dramatic flourish. No parting threat.

Just silence.

And the smoldering hatred burning in her chest.

Time passed. Maybe hours.

The noise from above never stopped—cheers, screams, roars of victory or defeat.

The holding cell emptied one by one as the matches ticked on. Eventually, only a few remained—Sha’rali among them.

She leaned her head back, closing her eyes just for a moment.

And then—

A flicker of movement at the corner of her vision.

She opened her eyes and blinked once.

A hooded figure had slipped past the perimeter guards, barely more than a shadow in the corridor beyond the cells.

Then a second. Taller, cloaked in brown and grey, masked in a rebreather that made no sound.

Her breath caught.

The first figure moved closer, carefully approaching her cell. The face beneath the hood lifted.

Green skin. Black eyes. Tentacles.

Kit Fisto.

He didn’t speak. Just looked at her.

“You’re bold,” she whispered.

He smiled faintly. “We could say the same of you.”

Her eyes darted to the figure behind him—Plo Koon. She didn’t recognize him, not yet, but she registered his presence as someone important.

“What are you doing here?”

Kit’s voice lowered. “Tracking rumors. Slave trafficking routes. Missing clones.”

That gave her pause.

She took a single step forward, speaking just low enough for only him to hear.

“I know where four of them are. Republic clones. One of them might be someone important. But I want out of here. I get out—they get out.”

Plo Koon approached the bars, gazing at her with quiet intensity.

“You’re not in a position to negotiate,” he said.

“Neither are you,” she shot back. “You’re sneaking around an Outer Rim arena like thieves instead of storming the place like Jedi. That tells me you’re not ready for a full assault. I’m your best lead.”

Kit exhaled slowly. “She’s not wrong.”

Plo nodded reluctantly.

Sha’rali stepped closer still, voice taut. “Just… get me out of here. I’m running out of fights to win.”

Kit’s smile dimmed. “We will. Just not now.”

“Why?”

He glanced toward the corridor again. “Because pulling you now would compromise the mission. Dooku’s still close. And you’ll draw too much attention.”

Sha’rali looked at him like he was handing her a death sentence.

Kit added quietly, “But I give you my word: we will come back. Hold on.”

She stepped back, slowly. Her arms folded.

“I’m good at holding on.”

Then they were gone—slipping away into the shadows as easily as they came.

She sank back down to the cell floor.

Alone again.

But this time, not without hope.

⸻

The cracked walls of the ruin gave little shelter from the heat, but it was quiet—perfect for plotting the kind of infiltration mission the Jedi Council wouldn’t officially sanction.

Kit Fisto leaned against a half-collapsed arch, studying the star map sprawled across the makeshift table. The arena was a fortress in disguise: subterranean barracks, automated defenses, paid mercs, slavers, and now—intel suggested—a cell of captured clone troopers being prepped for transport off-world.

“We’ll need a distraction,” Kit said at last, tendrils twitching thoughtfully.

Plo Koon’s arms folded as he approached. “One loud enough to distract Dooku’s guards and half the arena?”

Kit smiled. “You know who’s in the cell block beneath the arena floor?”

“Sha’rali,” Plo answered without hesitation. “She’s become rather… visible.”

“She’s also angry, armed, and impossible to control. Dooku should’ve known better.”

“She’s dangerous.”

Kit’s grin deepened. “That’s what makes her perfect.”

Plo didn’t answer immediately. He watched Kit carefully, as if looking for something beyond the words.

“You admire her.”

“She’s useful,” Kit said too quickly.

“Careful, old friend,” Plo murmured. “We’ve both seen what attachment can do.”

Kit gave a noncommittal shrug. “I’m not attached. I’m… curious. And I trust she’ll survive.”

Plo’s head tilted slightly. “You don’t want her to just survive. You want her to burn the whole place down.”

Kit’s smile turned sly. “And give us just enough cover to do what we came for.”

⸻

Sha’rali sat alone against the wall, knees tucked, arms resting atop them. Her bare skin shimmered with sweat and grime, the thin silk of her slave outfit clinging to her frame in the damp underground air. Bruises lined her arms, her ribs ached, and her hands were still raw from her last match.

But her eyes… her eyes were still sharp.

A droid voice crackled over the speaker. “Sha’rali. Prepare for combat. Arena Gate C.”

She rose slowly, bones stiff, and cracked her knuckles one at a time. As she followed the guard droids, a whisper caught her ear. She turned—and froze.

A Death Watch warrior leaned against the shadows, helmet off, sneering.

“You were harder to find than expected,” he said coolly. “Dooku’s prize pet. A pity. I preferred you in armor.”

Sha’rali’s jaw clenched. “If you’re here to talk, don’t waste my time.”

“Not talking. Threatening,” he said with a smirk. “You deserve to suffer before we gut you.”

Her stare didn’t flinch. “Try.”

He stepped close. “I will.”

The guard droids called for her again. The Death Watch warrior melted back into the shadows, leaving her with the low growl of the arena gate grinding open.

The roar of the crowd hit her like a wall of heat. Torchlight flickered off rusted metal. The stands were packed—mercs, slavers, offworld nobles, and worse.

And in the pit—waiting—was him.

Death Watch armor. Blade drawn. Familiar.

Her jaw tightened.

Above them, Kit and Plo stood cloaked among the nobles in the upper tiers, watching. Kit’s fingers twitched near his hilt. “If this goes wrong…”

Plo interrupted, “Then we make sure it doesn’t.”

“She doesn’t know we’re moving now,” Kit said quietly.

“Let her fight,” Plo replied. “We need that chaos.”

Kit’s eyes narrowed. “She’s going to hate us for this.”

“Perhaps. But hate is not our concern today.”

The clash was brutal. The Mandalorian came in swinging, heavy and arrogant, and Sha’rali danced out of reach, barefoot, using her environment. She slammed his head into the rusted arena wall, reversed his grip on his own blade, and gutted him—but then—

The collar.

Agony flared through her entire body. Her scream was swallowed by the crowd.

From above, Kit’s smile vanished.

Enough.

He reached out through the Force—quiet, quick, like a breath—and twisted.

The collar’s circuits sparked and ruptured. It snapped open and fell.

Sha’rali gasped in sudden relief—and rose like a fury reborn.

One clean stroke of the beskad.

The Mandalorian dropped in a heap.

And four more descended from the stands, armed and livid.

Blaster fire cracked as Sha’rali flipped behind a column, one of her attackers landing face-first in the sand. The crowd screamed as security tried to contain the fight, but Death Watch didn’t care.

Kit and Plo vanished from the stands, cloaks flaring as they dropped into the tunnels.

Guards shouted—then screamed—as blue and yellow sabers ignited.

In the clone cell block, Comet jolted awake at the sound of a lightsaber humming through durasteel.

“Is that…?”

The door blew open. Kit stepped through. “You boys want out?”

Wolffe, bound but alert, gave a dry grunt. “Took you long enough.”

⸻

Sha’rali fought like hell. Her body screamed in protest, but she gave no ground. She flipped one of the Death Watch warriors into the stands, stole his blaster, and fired two shots into another’s knee.

She didn’t look up, but she felt them.

Felt the Jedi move like shadows behind her. Felt the clones disappear through secret tunnels.

She wasn’t the priority.

But she had bought them every second they needed.

And Kit had freed her. If only for now.

The last warrior lunged—Sha’rali caught his arm mid-swing and drove her blade into his neck.

The crowd roared as he dropped.

She stood alone. Bloody. Breathing hard.

She didn’t smile. She just waited for the next battle.

The collar was gone.

The weight of it—the constant pressure at her neck, the memory of electric agony—was finally gone. Her skin bore the blistered outline like a brand, but it no longer hummed against her throat. That tiny mercy meant everything.

But she was still in the arena.

Still a prisoner. Still unarmed. And now, very much a target.

As the last of the Death Watch bodies were dragged away by the chaos of the crowd, Sha’rali slipped through the corridor before the guards regrouped. Blood and sand caked her bare feet as she limped toward the outer gates, ducking behind blast doors and stone columns, every inch of her body aching—but free.

Her thoughts raced. Find a way out. Don’t wait for help. No one’s coming back. Move.

She reached a side hangar—partially open, barely guarded in the confusion. Inside: a pair of light speeders, smoke still curling from one’s engine where its last rider had crash-landed.

Sha’rali didn’t hesitate.

She jumped into the intact speeder, hotwired it with fingers still shaking from adrenaline, and punched the throttle.

The gates burst open with a scream of metal and dust.

The rocky terrain of Garvoth’s volcanic surface stretched before her—red stone, jagged peaks, and pockets of glowing lava carving a dangerous path forward. Wind whipped against her face, the pit silks still clinging uselessly to her skin.

And behind her—they came.

Two MagnaGuards.

Sleek, relentless, and faster than they had any right to be.

Blaster bolts tore past her head as she swerved down into a ravine, hoping the rock formations would slow them. Sparks flew from her speeder’s rear. One glancing hit. The engine coughed.

Her fingers tightened on the controls. “C’mon, not now—”

One MagnaGuard landed beside her with a heavy clang, gripping the side of her speeder like a metal parasite.

Sha’rali screamed and slammed the controls, flipping the speeder into a side barrel roll. The droid tumbled, crashing against the rocks in a spray of sparks.

The second guard launched a grappling hook toward her back—

BOOM.

A blaster cannon lit up the sky. The droid exploded mid-air.

Above her—salvation.

A Republic gunship streaked over the cliffs, sleek and low, with Kit Fisto manning the side cannon, his eyes scanning. Plo Koon piloted with grim precision, the clones—Wolffe, Sinker, Boost, and Comet—visible in the open ramp, all braced for pickup.

Kit saw her, flashed that grin of his, and shouted over comms, “We’ve got her!”

Plo dipped low, opening the bay.

Sha’rali gunned the failing speeder up the final slope, launched it off a ridge, and leapt.

For one moment—nothing.

Then strong arms caught her dragging her in mid-air as the others pulled them both into the open gunship ramp. The MagnaGuard’s severed head followed a moment later, blasted out of the sky by Comet.

They hit the deck hard.

“Welcome aboard,” Wolffe muttered dryly, barely hiding his disdain.

Sha’rali rolled onto her back, panting, bloodied and half-naked, but smiling.

Kit leaned over her, panting too. Their eyes locked, close—too close.

“Get her a damn blanket,” Sinker snapped, tossing a medkit at Comet.

Plo glanced back from the cockpit. “Hold on. This planet’s not going to let us leave without a few last fireworks.”

The ship turned, rising. The volcanic ridge ahead began to crack, tremble—fighters scrambling, sirens wailing behind them.

But inside the gunship, in that brief moment between chaos and freedom—Sha’rali let herself believe she might actually be free.

⸻

The Resolute loomed above Garvoth like a silent judgment—sleek, bristling with weapons, and painted in sharp Republic red. The Jedi’s extraction ship docked at the cruiser’s forward hangar, and for the first time in weeks, Sha’rali Jurok felt the sterile chill of Republic metal beneath her feet instead of ash and blood.

She stood tall despite the exhaustion, battle-worn but alive. Her coral-pink skin still bore the scuffed bruises of the arena, and the humiliating slave silks clung to her body like a mocking second skin. No armor. No boots. No weapons. No dignity.

Not yet.

The Jedi disembarked first—Kit Fisto and Plo Koon exchanging murmured words with the clone troopers as the hangar’s personnel snapped to attention. No one quite knew what to make of Sha’rali, but eyes lingered. Murmurs followed.

Her long, dark montrals and white-marked lekku swung low behind her as she walked, every movement a show of endurance and grace, her head held high despite everything. Her presence was unmistakable—an imposing silhouette of strength and survival wrapped in silks designed to degrade.

The moment she reached the interior hallways of the cruiser, she turned sharply to the nearest clone officer.

“I need access to your long-range comms,” she said with an edge in her voice that brokered no argument. “Now.”

Plo Koon, standing nearby, nodded once. “Grant her full access. She has earned that and more.”

The communications officer left the room after setting her up. The doors hissed shut.

Sha’rali leaned over the console, sharp teeth gritted. She punched in the code sequence from memory, praying the encryption still held.

The holocomm sparked to life.

A crackle—then static—then the familiar voice of K4 rang through the speakers with uncharacteristic relief.

“Thank the black holes of Malastare. You’re alive.”

Sha’rali exhaled. “Good to hear you too, K.”

A rustle behind him. K4’s head turned.

“R9 just blasted a hole in the med bay door. I’ll assume it was celebratory.”

Then, quieter:

“You disappeared, Sha. I thought we lost you. And… your clone’s about to reprogram me and R9 out of pure grief and boredom.”

Sha’rali blinked. “He what?”

“He said he’d turn me into a cooking droid if I didn’t stop trying to slice into Pyke intel files while he was pacing. He’s a menace.”

Another clattering crash, then CT-4023’s voice in the background:

“Tell her to stop dying and I’ll stop trying to teach you to make caf.”

Sha’rali laughed. Actually laughed, full-throated and real.

“Tell him we’re en route. Only tea is permitted on my ship. Try not to break anything else.”

K4 paused.

“…Can’t promise that.”

When she emerged again to prepare for departure, Kit Fisto caught her arm gently at the elbow.

“Are you sure you don’t want something else to wear?” he asked, eyes flicking to the ripped silks still barely hanging from her form.

“I want my ship. My crew. And my armor,” she replied, stepping past him.

But he didn’t move right away.

“I’ll see that your armor is returned to you. But… I hope you understand this war’s getting messier. Even our rescues.”

Sha’rali glanced at him. “You Jedi always think there’s a clean way to bleed. There isn’t.”

Kit’s expression flickered with something—regret? Or something else?

But neither of them said it.

⸻

The ship looked like it had barely survived.

The starboard wing was scorched, one of the landing thrusters had a distinct hole in it, and a trail of carbon scoring marked the underbelly.

Sha’rali stared, then turned slowly toward the ramp where K4 and R9 stood side-by-side like misbehaving children.

K4 pointed to the clone, who was leaning against the hatch in his stolen armor, helmet on, arms crossed—quiet.

“You let him fly it?”

“I was busy dismembering Pyke agents,” K4 deadpanned. “He decided basic flight training could wait.”

CT-4023 finally spoke, voice slightly modulated through the vocoder he still insisted on wearing in Republic space. “You got captured. I had to improvise.”

Sha’rali narrowed her eyes. “You crashed my ship.”

R9 chirped a delighted, vicious sound—likely agreeing.

He shrugged. “We lived.”

But she stepped closer, pausing a mere foot from him. She tilted her head, watching the way he shifted under her gaze, posture rigid.

Even through the helmet, she could feel it.

The bare silks, the sight of her—freed but still wearing the chains of her capture—made something in him twitch. He was trying not to look, but he was also not looking away.

“Got something to say, soldier?” she asked coolly.

CT-4023 cleared his throat. “Just glad you’re back.”

Something in her hardened. “I’m not the same one who left.”

A long silence stretched. Then he said, quiet, “I know.”

Behind them, K4 muttered to R9.

R9’s response was a series of crude, affirming beeps.

⸻

Previous part | Next Part

“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.

⸻

Previous Part | Next Part

“Crimson Huntress” pt.3

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.

CT-4023 once had a name. A stupid one, maybe. But not a joke. His brothers gave it to him, and he wore it with pride.

They used to call him “Havoc.”

*Flashback*

The silence that day was like being buried alive. The mist on Umbara curled like claws.

It started with the air—heavy, choked with smoke and the chemical stench of burnt plastoid and cordite. Umbara was a graveyard before the first body hit the dirt.

He stood in the trench, helmet off, sweat streaking through black camo paint. His fingers shook against his DC-15. He didn’t know if it was fear or adrenaline or both. Probably both.

He wasn’t a rookie. Had served since Geonosis. But this? This was something else.

The sky never cleared. The sun never rose. They fought blind in the fog, in the dark, against an enemy they could barely see—until it turned out the enemy was themselves.

He remembered that moment too clearly.

The comm call. The confusion. The order.

Fire. On the approaching battalion.

They’re Umbarans in disguise.

No time to hesitate, trooper.

The first shot was fired. He didn’t know by who. Then it became a massacre.

It wasn’t until they closed the distance that they saw the helmets. The blue stripes. The 501st.

Their brothers.

He’d vomited in his helmet.

Later, when they found out Krell had manipulated them, that he was playing both sides—using them like pawns in a nightmare—it didn’t matter. The bodies didn’t un-die. The screams didn’t fade.

When it was over, they were commended for following orders.

For their loyalty.

For their “success.”

Something inside him broke.

He stayed quiet. Always quiet. But something… detached.

Later, during cleanup, he walked out into the forest and stared at the scorched battlefield. Ash fell like snow.

A sergeant came up beside him.

“We survived.”

“Did we?”

The next day, he volunteered for a deep recon mission off-grid. Just him. A week. He never came back.

They thought he was dead.

He let them think that.

*Flashback Ended*

He stared into the cup of tea that K4 had made earlier, now gone cold. The hum of the ship filled the silence.

Sha’rali watched him from the other side of the table, saying nothing.

“You ever kill someone you weren’t supposed to?” he asked suddenly.

She blinked. “I’m a bounty hunter.”

“I don’t mean for money. I mean by accident. Orders. Fog of war.”

Her silence stretched longer this time.

“I’ve tortured people who didn’t deserve it,” she said at last. “Does that count?”

He gave a humorless huff.

“I was loyal. I believed in it. Every order. Every command.” He looked at her, eyes bleak. “And it turned me into a murderer.”

“You’re not the only one.”

He studied her face, unsure if she meant herself—or every clone who ever wore a number.

“You didn’t desert because you were weak,” Sha’rali said. “You left because you couldn’t live with what they made you do.”

He didn’t answer.

Just looked down at his gloved hands, now black and silver.

“Maybe I don’t deserve a new name,” he said softly. “Maybe I deserve to stay a number.”

Sha’rali leaned forward, her voice low.

“Then pick a number they don’t know.”

CT-4023 sat in the small galley of Sha’rali’s ship, elbows on the durasteel table, his hands still faintly marked with old bloodstains—some visible, most not.

He hadn’t said a word in minutes.

Sha’rali leaned against the bulkhead, arms crossed, eyes narrowed—not in judgment, but consideration. Her long montrals cast shadows over the dim galley light, and her pale facial markings seemed more stark now, like war paint rather than tradition.

“I was wondering when you’d talk,” she said finally, voice low. “You hide it well. But your eyes give you away.”

4023 didn’t look up. “How so?”

“They’re quiet,” she said. “Too quiet. Like someone turned all the noise off inside, and just left you with static.”

He finally lifted his gaze. “You sound like you know the feeling.”

Sha’rali gave a short, bitter laugh. “I do.”

She pushed off the wall and moved to sit across from him. She set a steaming cup of stim down between them—probably from K4’s endless tea service—but didn’t touch it.

“I’m not like most Togruta,” she said. “Not even close.”

He said nothing, so she continued.

“We’re supposed to be communal. Peaceful. Guided by spirit. Our connection to each other and the land is everything. Most of us find calm just by being near one another. But I don’t. I never have.”

Her voice lowered.

“I don’t feel serenity. I feel… disconnected. Like something in me didn’t wire right. Where others found balance, I found blades. Rage. Violence.”

She looked him dead in the eye.

“There’s a defect in me.”

He blinked slowly. “Maybe it’s not a defect.”

“Oh, don’t romanticize it,” she scoffed. “I kill people for money. I enjoy it sometimes. Not because it’s just—it rarely is—but because it’s easy. Because it makes the noise stop. Even if only for a little while.”

He nodded.

“That… sounds familiar,” he murmured.

They sat in silence. No sympathy, no pity—just recognition.

After a long moment, she leaned back and exhaled.

“I used to think maybe I was Force-touched,” she muttered. “Some genetic thing. An imbalance. But the Jedi came to my village once when I was young. Scanned everyone.”

“They scanned you?”

She nodded. “Said I wasn’t Force-sensitive. But the Knight who tested me looked at me for a long time. Like he saw something he didn’t want to.”

He didn’t ask what she meant. He already knew.

A pause.

Sha’rali looked at him again, more openly now. “Whatever broke you… I think it broke me too. Just in a different shape.”

4023’s lips twitched—almost a smile. Almost.

He nodded again. “We’re good at pretending we’re not the ones who need saving.”

She smirked faintly. “Speak for yourself. I never needed saving. I just needed someone to aim at.”

A pause.

4023 looked at her for a long moment, then finally asked, “And now?”

She held his gaze.

“Now I’m not sure what I need.”

⸻

The Jedi Council room was dimmed with twilight. The room was quiet but tense, evening sun casting long shadows through the high arched windows. Some Masters were seated, others stood, gathered in a semi-circle around the central holoprojector. In the center flickered the grim face of the Trandoshan informant Cid—grainy, but clear enough.

“She’s not here anymore,” Cid rasped. “Was never supposed to be. I didn’t send her a job. Someone used my name. Set her up, maybe. She came asking about it… and she wasn’t alone.”

That was the part the Council had fixated on.

“She had him with her,” Mace Windu said, standing with his arms crossed. “The clone.”

Master Plo Koon tilted his head. “The one from Saleucami?”

“Same body type. Same gait. Same refusal to register. Cid said he didn’t give a name. But the description matches CT-4023.”

“CT-4023…” Obi-Wan leaned forward slightly, expression hardening. “That was the ARC we tried to extract during the intelligence breach. Delta Squad was pulled out under fire. He was taken by a bounty hunter—this same Togruta.”

Shaak Ti nodded gravely from her hologram feed. “We believed he was compromised. Assumed he’d be transferred offworld. Perhaps dissected. And yet—he survived.”

“He didn’t just survive,” Windu said darkly. “He vanished. With her.”

Kit Fisto stood by the edge of the chamber, arms folded behind his back, quiet until now.

“And now he’s resurfaced,” Kit said. “On Ord Mantell. With the bounty hunter. After killing a Death Watch Mandalorian in open combat. Witnesses say she fought him hand-to-hand and took his armor.”

“The clone helped?” Koth asked.

“We don’t know,” Kit replied. “But the report says she nearly lost. Someone intervened. No footage.”

Yoda exhaled a slow breath. “A choice he made. To go with her.”

“Which suggests she didn’t capture him,” Obi-Wan murmured. “She persuaded him.”

“Or worse,” Windu added. “Whatever’s in his head, it was enough for her to extract him from a live Separatist stronghold and disappear. She might not know the value of what she’s carrying… or she might know exactly what he’s worth.”

Master Yoda’s ears tilted downward. “Curious, this bond. Curious, the timing. Dangerous, the silence since Saleucami.”

“There’s more,” Kit said. “Cid has now gone to ground. She said she’d report the sighting to us if we left her alone, but she’s clearly nervous. She saw something she didn’t like.”

Mace nodded once. “Then we move. Kit Fisto. Eeth Koth. Go to Ord Mantell. See if the trail’s still warm. We need to know what the bounty hunter is planning. And if the clone’s still alive.”

Shaak Ti’s gaze lingered on the empty space in the chamber where the clone’s name might have once been honored. “If it is 4023… he was among the last assigned to Umbara.”

That earned a beat of silence.

“A reason to break,” Plo Koon said softly.

“A reason to run,” Windu agreed. “But no reason to stay missing. No reason to hide—unless he’s protecting something.”

“Or someone,” Koth added.

Yoda’s voice cut through like a blade. “A ghost. From a war of ghosts. Find him. Find them both.”

Kit bowed his head. “We’ll leave tonight.”

As the Masters began to turn away and the room dimmed again into shadow, the holoprojector winked off, leaving behind only silence and the faint hum of the Temple’s energy field.

⸻

The sun of Ord Mantell were sinking behind rusted cityscapes as Kit Fisto and Eeth Koth moved quietly through the narrow alleys of the industrial quarter. The air stank of oil, sweat, and molten metal. It was loud—always loud here—and perfect for hiding.

They didn’t wear robes here. Jedi cloaks would be like blood in the water.

Death Watch was already sniffing.

At the end of a cracked alley, a crowd gathered around scorch marks and torn duracrete. Bloodstains were still being cleaned from the wall by a nervous rodian janitor. He worked under the sharp eye of two Mandalorians in blue armor, their visors reflecting the flickering street lights.

“Third time we’ve come by this area,” Koth murmured, low and clipped.

Kit nodded. “No fresh leads. But the smell of fear hasn’t gone anywhere.”

The two Jedi lingered just out of sight, watching as a third Mandalorian approached. His armor was heavier, jetpack hissing slightly as he stepped forward—clearly the one in charge. His voice barked sharp in Mando’a, silencing the chatter from the onlookers.

“That one’s been here since the first report,” Kit whispered, gesturing with his chin toward a thin Zabrak street vendor watching from behind a broken cart.

Koth approached first.

“We have a few questions.”

The Zabrak’s eyes darted toward the Mandalorians.

“I didn’t see nothing. Nothing,” he said quickly. “Look—everyone’s got a blaster down here, yeah? People die every night.”

“Not by Mandalorian hands,” Koth replied coolly. “And not to Mandalorians either. Someone fought one of their elites. And won.”

Kit stepped forward, his smile warm and easy. “We’re not Death Watch. We’re just trying to find someone. A Togruta bounty hunter. Tall, coral pink skin, long montrals. Accompanied by two droids—one purple astromech and a rather impolite butler-type.”

The Zabrak hesitated, then slowly shook his head. “No… don’t know any bounty hunter like that.”

“You do know something,” Kit said gently. “Even if you don’t realize it. Try again.”

After a tense pause, the vendor’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Someone said she fought the Mando. That she took his armor. Left the body in the trash compactor down two levels.”

Koth’s eyes narrowed. “That’s bold. Even for her.”

“But here’s the thing,” the Zabrak continued, leaning closer. “Whoever helped her—no one saw his face. Some say he fought like a Jedi, but used a blaster. One guy swore he heard him shout military code in the fight. Real clean and quiet, like he knew how to move. But when it was over, nothing. No footage, no trace. Gone.”

“No one saw his face?” Kit echoed.

The vendor nodded.

“Then they don’t know,” Koth said under his breath.

Kit looked toward the Mandalorians again. “Death Watch still in the dark.”

“For now.”

They slipped away, vanishing into the crowd like vapor. They passed another alley, where a pair of Death Watch grunts interrogated a pair of street kids who just shook their heads in terrified silence.

Once out of earshot, Koth turned toward his fellow Jedi.

“If they knew it was a clone under that armor, they’d burn this district to the ground. No witnesses is the only reason they haven’t already.”

“We can’t stay much longer,” Kit replied. “She’s already gone. All traces lead cold.”

Koth nodded grimly. “But they’re leaving a trail of ghosts.”

“We’ll find her,” Kit said, eyes narrowed. “We’ll find him too.”

Somewhere above them, unnoticed by either Jedi or Mandalorian, a familiar purple astromech dome blinked once behind a rusted pipe—then quietly rolled back into the shadows.

Kit Fisto’s boots crunched across broken glass in the gutted remains of an old comms relay tower. The metal frame above groaned with wind, swaying gently as shadows flickered beneath the half-moon light. Eeth Koth swept the ruins with his saber hilt gripped tight in one hand, unlit but ready.

“This tower was reactivated three days ago,” Kit murmured, running his fingers over a half-melted panel. “Then shut off again, abruptly. No trace in the central net.”

“Off-grid hardware,” Koth replied. “Could be old slicer work, or could be our bounty hunter. Maybe both.”

Then—click.

Koth turned sharply. “Did you hear that?”

Kit lifted a hand, motioning for silence. From beneath a warped support beam, something shifted, too small for a person—then rolled away with a faint whirr of servos.

“Droid.” Kit’s voice dropped to a whisper, and he moved instantly. With a graceful sweep of his hand, a panel was Force-flung from the floor, revealing the last flicker of a dome disappearing into the ventilation ducts.

“Purple,” Koth muttered. “Fast.”

“That matches the description of her astromech,” Kit confirmed.

⸻

Sha’rali’s lekku twitched as she paced the cockpit, nails tapping rhythmically on her armour plating. K4 stood near the control panel, ever stately, ever calm—until he spoke.

“R9 reports that the Jedi are now actively scanning the upper sector. I estimate they will locate him within seven minutes.”

“I told that little rust-ball to keep its distance,” she hissed, fangs bared in frustration. “I should’ve left him with you.”

“You left him to spy on Death Watch,” K4 replied with maddening evenness. “Not Jedi.”

Her claws clenched into fists.

A sharp beep pulsed in the cockpit—a direct feed from R9.

:: THEY SAW ME. TWO JEDI. BLACK ROBES. ONE HAS TENTACLES. PANICKED LEVEL 4. INITIATING EVASIVE ROLLING. ::

:: DUCT SYSTEM COMPROMISED. ::

Sha’rali swore in Togruti—harsh syllables rarely heard outside her mouth. Then in Huttese. Then something old and violent from a long-forgotten hunting language.

She stopped mid-rant.

“I never wiped his memory,” she said aloud.

K4 inclined his head. “Correct. Nor mine.”

Her eyes snapped to the droid. “You’ve got decades of jobs, contacts, hits—he’s got logs on half the galactic underworld.” Her voice turned ice cold. “And he’s got logs on 4023.”

“You did intend to wipe us several times,” K4 said helpfully. “You just never followed through.”

Sha’rali let out a breath between her fangs. “Because I got sentimental. Because I’m stupid.”

The clone—4023—entered the cockpit, helmet tucked under one arm. “What’s going on?”

She rounded on him. “My droid’s been spotted. The Jedi are sniffing his tracks.”

He stilled. “Do they know it’s yours?”

“Maybe. Doesn’t matter. If they catch him, they’ll tear him apart. Every data string, every encrypted log, every…” She stopped. Her jaw worked.

“You’re going back.” It wasn’t a question.

K4 interjected, “May I remind you both that this is, objectively speaking, moronic.”

“Yeah, well.” Sha’rali growled. “I’m a moron who doesn’t want her brains uploaded to the Jedi archives.”

She began strapping her weapons back into place. Hidden vibroblade in the boot. Double-blaster rig to her hips. Backup vibrodagger at the small of her back. 4023 watched her work, face unreadable.

“You don’t have to do this,” he said finally.

She paused.

“No. I do.”

A sudden silence passed between them. Then her hand tapped the comms panel, locking coordinates.

“Get the ship ready to move the second I’m back.”

“And if you’re not?” the clone asked.

K4 answered for her. “Then we burn the evidence and flee. Standard procedure. Perhaps even play the funeral dirge for her if we’re feeling sentimental.”

Sha’rali offered a dry smile. “You are sentimental. You just hate it.”

As the ramp lowered, she paused and glanced back toward 4023.

“Don’t wait long. If I’m not back in twenty, leave.”

Then she vanished into the misty orange night of Ord Mantell, chasing shadows… and secrets.

⸻

R9 careened down a narrow duct, his purple dome clanging with every turn. The golden trim along his chassis caught sparks from loose wiring overhead. Blasts of hot air whooshed through the maintenance vents as he rolled at breakneck speed, fleeing the two organic Force-users hot on his tail.

:: CURRENT STATUS: SCREWED. ::

He took a sharp left, nearly tipping over.

:: ERROR: ADJUST GYROSCOPIC BALANCE. ::

Behind him, a hiss of lightsabers igniting echoed faintly through the ductwork. The sound prickled his auditory sensors like static.

He rolled out of the vent shaft into the open skeleton of a collapsed warehouse rooftop and immediately initiated a low-power visual dampener. A shimmering flicker of cloaking shimmered over his dome. Temporary. Imperfect.

And just in time.

Kit Fisto dropped from a higher level with the grace of falling water. He landed softly, eyes narrowed.

Eeth Koth followed, his saber active but lowered.

“He’s somewhere here,” Koth said. “I felt him pass through that duct.”

Kit’s eyes swept across the darkness. “He’s hiding. Clever droid.”

They split up, Kit moving in a wide arc around the edge of the roof, Koth stepping forward slowly. R9 barely dared beep. His systems were whirring in overdrive.

:: SITUATION: EXTREMELY SCREWED. ::

But then—footsteps. Not Jedi.

Clanking. Heavier.

Down on the streets below, the sound of three figures moving in perfect paramilitary formation. Black and blue armor. Jagged symbols on the chest plates. Jetpacks. Antennas.

Death Watch.

“Thought I saw something drop,” one muttered.

Another paused and looked upward toward the roof.

“The Jedi are here,” he said. “Kit Fisto. That’s him.”

A third voice, sharper: “You sure?”

The first nodded. “I saw him on once during some riots. That’s a Jedi Council Master.”

The second bounty hunter grunted. “And he’s chasing a droid like his life depends on it. What if that tin can has something we don’t?”

“Or someone.” The leader’s voice turned hungry. “The man who killed our brother.”

They disappeared into the warehouse below, slipping inside like ghosts.

Up on the roof, Kit Fisto froze.

“I felt that,” he whispered. “There’s more down there.”

Koth raised a brow. “Separatists?”

“No… something else. Watching.”

From beneath a crate, R9 watched everything. And as silently as his aging servos would allow, he activated his last-resort subroutine.

:: PRIORITY PING TO UNIT K4 – IMMEDIATE EXTRACTION REQUIRED. INTRUSION MULTIPLIER: +3 ::

Then he started rolling again—fast.

A flicker of movement caught Kit’s eye.

“There!”

He leapt. His green saber flared to life.

R9 took the impact and spun down a cargo chute, bouncing off steel walls and into an open alley. He skidded across duracrete and slammed into a pile of garbage.

Behind him, booted footsteps approached.

A door burst open—but not Kit’s.

Death Watch soldiers stormed the alley, weapons drawn. One knelt where R9 had landed. Another looked toward the rooftop above, scanning.

“Still want to follow the Jedi?” one of them said.

The leader growled. “No. We follow the droid. He’s running from the Jedi too.”

They turned and began tracking his route. Carefully. Coordinated.

Kit Fisto appeared in the alley seconds later, just missing them. He crouched by the scrape marks on the duracrete.

“Someone else is following him,” he said aloud.

Koth looked around, tense. “Death Watch?”

Kit nodded slowly. “Possibly.”

“But why?”

Kit didn’t answer. His gaze turned distant, thoughtful. “We need to report this. Now.”

They took off in the other direction, unaware that down the street, R9 had ducked into a half-buried loading dock, hiding behind a dead speeder. His circuits buzzed.

:: SHA’RALI, IF YOU’RE LISTENING… GET ME OUT OF HERE. ::

⸻

The stars above Ord Mantell burned cold and distant, a velvet ceiling cracked by neon haze and industrial smoke. Sha’rali Jurok perched on the ledge of a rusted scaffolding beam ten stories above the street, her lekku twitching with impatience. The red tint of her coral-pink skin shimmered faintly under the glow of a nearby spotlight, her white facial markings harshly defined in the night.

K4’s voice buzzed in her ear.

“Your plan is recklessness disguised as bravery, Mistress.”

“It’s worked before.”

“Statistically, it’s worked 31.7% of the time. Hardly inspiring odds.”

She adjusted the power cell in her blaster rifle, then scanned the rooftop below. R9’s heat signature blinked weakly in her HUD. Surrounded. Four Death Watch enforcers closing in.

Breathe in.

Sharpen the chaos.

She dropped like a stone.

Landing behind the first Mandalorian, she didn’t bother being quiet—her electrified gauntlet crackled as it slammed into his spine. He spasmed and fell forward, armor clanking. The others whirled just as she dove into them with a roar, blaster firing one-handed, saber dagger in the other.

One shot sizzled off her shoulder pauldron—stunned, not dead, but it pissed her off. Her lekku swayed as she ducked under a wild jetpack swipe and sliced a belt cord—sending the hunter tumbling sideways off the roof.

“R9!” she barked.

The droid squealed in binary, his dome rattling as he zipped toward her. The last two Mandalorians regrouped, advancing with synchronized precision, firing. Too close.

Then—

A blur of green and blue light.

Kit Fisto surged from the shadow like a tide, lightsaber spinning, deflecting bolts in radiant arcs. Eeth Koth followed, hammering one Death Watch fighter into the rooftop with a Force-augmented slam.

Sha’rali blinked, mid-slash.

“…Didn’t expect you two.”

Kit offered a grin even in the chaos. “We didn’t expect to help you.”

The rooftop trembled. More Death Watch approaching—six, maybe eight, from adjacent buildings. A few took flight, closing the distance fast.

“Mistress,” K4 said through comms. “You have approximately twenty seconds before an unpleasant level of Mandalorian reinforcements converge.”

“Bring the ship. Now!”

The rooftop began to burn—one of the fleeing jetpackers had tossed an incendiary before dying, and now the upper decks were crackling with fire.

Sha’rali grabbed R9 under one arm, lunging toward the edge with the Jedi in tow.

Jetpacks buzzed in the air behind them.

Kit flung out a hand—Force-pushing three of them back—but even he looked winded.

A sleek shadow dropped from the clouds with roaring engines and a bark of metallic thrusters.

K4 piloting with refined menace.

“Landing on fire-laden rooftops was not in my original programming.”

The side hatch blew open.

Sha’rali grabbed the nearest Jedi—Koth—and yanked him bodily through the air with a grapple cable. Kit followed with a Force-assisted leap.

She was the last to jump—nearly clipped by a blaster bolt as she hurled herself toward the hatch. Kit caught her by the wrist and yanked her in, just as K4 pulled the ship skyward, engines screaming.

Behind them, the rooftop exploded in sparks and fire.

Inside the ship, silence reigned for one long second.

Sha’rali dropped R9 with a grunt. “That was close.”

Koth glanced between them, tense. “You could’ve left us.”

“Believe me, I thought about it.”

Kit chuckled. “Why didn’t you?”

Sha’rali’s sharp smile didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Guess I’m going soft.”

From the cockpit, K4 chimed:

“Observation confirmed. Mistress has displayed increased emotional indulgence, borderline sentimentality. Recommend immediate psychological review.”

Sha’rali rolled her eyes. “Shut up and plot a course to deep space. No trails, no trackers.”

As she leaned against the wall, arms crossed, the two Jedi looked at her with new eyes—unsure what they’d just been part of, or what game she was really playing.

Even she wasn’t quite sure anymore.

⸻

The hum of The ship’s engines was the only sound for a long moment. The Jedi sat across from their unexpected rescuers in the ship’s dimmed briefing room, if it could even be called that—Sha’rali had refitted the cramped space with mismatched chairs and a jury-rigged holotable now running diagnostics.

Sha’rali sat with her boots up on the table, seemingly unbothered, one lekku lazily coiled over her shoulder. Across from her, the clone—CT-4023—stood with arms crossed, helmet now tucked beneath one arm, black-and-silver Mandalorian armor freshly scorched from their rooftop scuffle. His posture was tense, wary, and silent.

Kit Fisto broke the silence first, voice calm but firm. “We’re not here to detain you. Either of you. We just want the truth.”

“Funny,” Sha’rali said, not smiling. “That’s usually what people say before trying to kill me.”

Eeth Koth leaned forward, hands laced together. “This isn’t an inquisition. We were sent to recover a deserter. That was the mission.”

She gestured toward the clone. “You can’t recover what’s already gone.”

The Jedi turned their attention to him.

He didn’t flinch under their gaze.

Koth narrowed his eyes slightly. “CT-4023… you’re not exactly making this easy.”

“I’m not him anymore,” the clone said at last. His voice was gravel—deep, tired, and burdened. “Whatever version of that number was assigned to Kamino, it died on Umbara.”

Kit regarded him for a long, thoughtful moment. “You were part of the 212th?”

He nodded once. “What’s left of it.”

“Why leave?” Koth asked gently. “Why disappear?”

4023 hesitated. His eyes flicked toward Sha’rali, who gave him a subtle nod.

“You’ve never felt it, have you?” he said quietly. “That… hollow snap in your head when you realize the people giving you orders stopped being right a long time ago? When you start to think that maybe… you’re not meant to survive the war you were made for?”

Kit’s gaze softened. “You chose freedom.”

“No,” 4023 said. “I chose not to die in someone else’s lie.”

Sha’rali stood, walking toward the corner cabinet. She keyed in a command, and a medical scanner flickered to life.

“I assume you’ll want proof,” she muttered. “That he’s not Republic property anymore.”

From a holotray, a full scan of the clone’s body projected in grainy, rotating detail.

“Cloning markers? Burned. Biochips? Removed. CT barcode? Surgically flayed and regenerated.” Her voice was clinical, almost bored. “Even the facial markers have been subtly altered—minor surgical shifts to the cheekbones and jawline. Nothing that would raise flags on facial recognition unless you really knew what you were looking for.”

Kit Fisto examined the scan with mild surprise. “This is… thorough.”

“He wanted out,” she said, shrugging. “He asked. I obliged.”

Eeth Koth stood slowly. “But why keep him with you? What purpose does he serve?”

Sha’rali leaned one hip against the table and gave the Jedi a long, unreadable look.

“I don’t need a purpose to show someone mercy. Rare as it is.”

4023’s voice cut in low. “She could’ve sold me out a dozen times by now. To the Separatists. To Jabba. She didn’t.”

Koth turned his attention to him. “And what do you want?”

He took a breath. “To be nobody.”

There was silence. The kind that filled the space when everyone realized there was no easy solution.

After a beat, Kit Fisto turned off the scan and stepped back. “There’s no traceable connection to the Republic anymore. No chain of command, no markers, no active file. CT-4023… doesn’t exist.”

Sha’rali arched a brow. “So we’re done here?”

Koth hesitated. “The Council won’t be pleased.”

“Good,” she said dryly. “I was beginning to worry.”

Kit Fisto nodded slowly. “We’ll report that the deserter is… unrecoverable.”

“Dead,” she said. “That’s usually easier for them to hear.”

He inclined his head, then turned to the clone. “You chose your path. I hope it brings you peace.”

4023’s expression barely changed. “It hasn’t yet.”

The Jedi rose and prepared to disembark at the next neutral outpost, neither chasing nor warning. Just… leaving. Because there was nothing else to be done.

As they filed toward the docking bay, Sha’rali remained by the doorway, arms crossed, watching them go.

“You know,” Kit said without turning, “whatever this is you’re doing—it doesn’t seem like you anymore.”

Sha’rali didn’t respond. Just smirked faintly. “Yeah… I get that a lot lately.”

When the Jedi were gone and the ship was sealed, R9 gave a warbled snort and beeped something foul in Binary from the corridor.

K4’s voice echoed from the cockpit:

“So. Shall I ready the guns in case the peacekeepers change their mind?”

Sha’rali exhaled slowly and headed down the corridor. “No. For once… I think they’re really letting go.”

⸻

The GAR war room dimmed as Master Kit Fisto’s hologram flickered into full resolution. Eeth Koth’s projection stood beside him, arms folded, expression somber.

“We searched the surrounding sectors thoroughly,” Eeth said. “But there was… nothing to recover.”

Kit nodded. “The signs were conclusive. If he survived Ord Mantell, he didn’t stay. He’s long gone. No traceable identifiers, no Republic gear. He’s not the man you knew anymore.”

Silence settled like dust across the chamber.

Obi-Wan Kenobi stood at the center of the gathered assembly, a hand to his beard, visibly subdued.

“CT-4023,” he murmured. “He was one of ours. 212th ARC.”

“He fought under me,” Cody added, voice low and deliberate. “Bright kid. Loud. Smartass. Called himself Havoc.”

A quiet ripple of chuckles passed among the clones seated in the rear—muted, nostalgic, strained.

“He was always fidgeting,” Rex added with a rare, soft smile. “Said it helped him shoot straighter.”

“He made every shot count,” Bacara said. “I saw him clear a whole ridge on Mygeeto. Grenade pin in his teeth.”

“Never took cover,” Wolffe muttered. “Cocky little di’kut. But brave.”

Fox crossed his arms, leaning against a marble pillar near the edge of the chamber. “Brave or not, he deserted. All we’re doing now is telling war stories about a traitor.”

Rex turned slowly to look at him. “Were you on Umbara, Commander?”

Fox didn’t answer.

Obi-Wan’s eyes darkened.

“He was last seen after that campaign,” he said quietly. “A lot of good men went home from Umbara different. Some… never did.”

“He didn’t go home,” Cody said flatly. “He walked into the jungle one night after Krell fell. Left his armor behind. All he took was his rifle and a backpack.”

“He left a message, didn’t he?” Rex asked.

Cody nodded. “On the inside of his chest plate. Scratched in with a vibroblade.”

Rex remembered it too. He quoted it aloud. “I won’t die in another man’s war.”

A long silence followed.

Eeth Koth finally broke it. “There is no body to recover. No tags. No serials. Whatever life CT-4023 had, it ended in that jungle—or sometime soon after.”

“Is that your official report?” Obi-Wan asked, tone carefully measured.

Fisto gave a solemn nod. “It is.”

Fox scoffed quietly, turning away. “Coward’s death.”

“You don’t know that,” Howzer replied, voice steely. “You didn’t know him.”

“I knew what he became.”

“No,” Rex said sharply. “You know what he left behind. There’s a difference.”

Fox said nothing.

Obi-Wan exhaled slowly. “He was one of mine. One of many. He earned the ARC designation. Saved my life once. I mourn him now, the same as I would any fallen brother.”

Cody gave a curt nod. “If he’s gone, he’s gone. No shame in death. We all meet it one day.”

“But he didn’t go down fighting,” Bacara stated.

“Maybe he did,” Cody said. “Just not on a battlefield.”

The Council meeting dispersed quietly. Some stayed behind, murmuring. Others left in silence, helmets under their arms.

Rex lingered a little longer, staring out the high Council windows at the speeder traffic beyond.

“He was a brother,” he said quietly. “Even if he’s gone, I hope he found peace out there. Wherever he went.”

Howzer gave a quiet hum. “If anyone deserved it… maybe it was him.”

Wolffe folded his arms. “I don’t agree with the desertion, it’s a cowards way out.”

Fox, for all his bitterness, remained still and quiet for a long moment.

Only Obi-Wan noticed the flicker of conflict in his eyes before he turned and left without another word.

The Jedi were satisfied with the explanation.

The Republic would not search further.

But not everyone believed in ghosts.

Some knew they were still walking among them.

⸻

Previous Part | Next Part

Hiya! I absolutely love your writing and always look forward to your posts

I saw that request about the commanders catching you with their helmets on and I was wondering if you could do that but with the bad batch?

Again, love your writing. I hope you have a great day/night!

Hey! Thank you so much—that means a lot to me! 💖

I actually was planning to include the Bad Batch too but wanted to start with just the commanders first.

⸻

HUNTER

You weren’t expecting to get caught.

You were standing in the cockpit, wearing Hunter’s helmet—not for mischief, really, but because you were genuinely curious how he functioned with his enhanced senses dulled. You wanted to know what it was like to see through his eyes. To feel what he felt.

The helmet was heavy. Too heavy.

He walked in mid-thought, and you froze.

Hunter didn’t speak. He just stood there, half in shadow, his brow furrowing slowly like he was processing an entirely new battlefield situation.

You didn’t say anything either. You just… stood there. Helmet on. Stiff-backed. Guilty.

Finally, he stepped forward.

“…That’s mine.”

You took it off and held it out sheepishly. “I wanted to see what you see. It’s filtered. Muffled. How do you live like this?”

Hunter took the helmet from your hands and gave you a long, unreadable look.

“I don’t. I adapt.”

Then he brushed past you—close, deliberate—and you swore his fingers grazed yours just a little longer than necessary.

⸻

WRECKER

“Whoa!”

You heard the booming voice before you could even turn.

You were in the loading bay, helmet pulled low over your face as you tried to figure out how the heck Wrecker even saw through it with one eye. It was like wearing a bucket with a tunnel vision problem.

He charged over with the biggest grin you’d ever seen.

“Look at you! You’re me!”

You pulled the helmet off, grinning. “I don’t know how you walk around with this thing. It’s like being inside a durasteel trash can.”

“I know, right? But it looks great on you!”

He took the helmet back, turning it in his hands, then gave you a wide-eyed look.

“You wanna try my pauldron next?! Or lift something heavy?!”

You laughed. “Maybe next time, big guy.”

Wrecker beamed. “You’re so getting the full Wrecker experience.”

You weren’t sure what that meant, but you were both strangely okay with it.

⸻

TECH

You had only meant to try it on for a second.

But you made the mistake of reading one of his datapads while wearing it. And once the internal HUD booted up? Well, curiosity took over.

Tech returned from the cockpit to find you hunched over in the corner, still wearing his helmet and scanning system diagnostics.

His voice was clipped. “You’re tampering with active interface systems.”

“I’m learning,” you shot back, not looking up.

He blinked, then stepped closer, fingers twitching in that nervous way he did when he wasn’t sure if he should be impressed or horrified.

“You activated my visual overlay filters.”

“I figured out the encryption pattern.”

Now that caught his attention.

He slowly knelt beside you. “How long have you had it on?”

“…Twenty-three minutes?”

He swallowed. “And you’re not… disoriented?”

“Nope. Just slightly overstimulated.”

There was a pause.

Then, quietly: “You may keep it on. Temporarily.”

You turned. “You trust me with your helmet?”

He cleared his throat. “Don’t make it a habit.”

But he was already adjusting the fit at the sides of your head.

⸻

ECHO

Echo did not find it cute.

He found it concerning.

The helmet wasn’t just gear. It was part of his reconstructed identity—a thing he wore not because he wanted to, but because he had to.

So when he saw you on the edge of his bunk, wearing it—your legs swinging slightly, gaze distant—his chest tightened.

“What are you doing?” he asked, voice rougher than he meant it to be.

You looked up, startled. “I didn’t mean to be disrespectful. I was just… wondering what it’s like. Living with this.”

He stepped forward slowly, kneeling to your eye level. “It’s not something I’d want you to understand.”

You pulled the helmet off, placed it in his hands. “I didn’t think about that.”

He let out a quiet breath, then shook his head. “No. You did. That’s why you’re here thinking about it.”

You gave a soft smile. “I wanted to know you better.”

He swallowed hard. “You already do.”

⸻

CROSSHAIR

You knew exactly what you were doing.

And that was the problem.

You sat in the sniper’s perch in the Marauder, elbow on one knee, head tilted just slightly as you stared down at the deck below—wearing his helmet.

You heard the footstep. The sigh.

“Really?” His voice was lazy, drawled out like he wasn’t fazed, but there was a subtle tension underneath.

You didn’t look at him. “I wanted to see what it was like. Looking down on the rest of the world.”

He chuckled once, dry and sharp. “And? Is it satisfying?”

“No. It’s lonely.”

Crosshair was quiet for a long moment. Then he climbed the ladder halfway, leaned against the edge of the platform.

“Don’t get comfortable in it.”

You turned your head, voice just a little softer. “Why not?”

“Because if you wear it any longer, I might start to like it.”

You handed it back.

But you were both thinking about that line for the rest of the day.

“Crimson Huntress” pt.2

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.

⸻

The entire compound thrummed like it was alive—humming with power, vibrating from the deep core generators buried beneath layers of basalt and durasteel. Down in the holding blocks, beneath blinking red lights and exposed pipes slick with condensation, CT-4023 stared at the wall like he could burn through it by will alone.

The cell next to his remained quiet. Too quiet.

Until the silence was broken by a sharp clink.

Sha’rali Jurok’s cuffs hit the floor with a faint echo. She stretched her arms with an almost feline roll of her shoulders, the subtle pop of her joints barely audible beneath the whine of atmospheric recycling. A thin-bladed shiv spun between her fingers, dull with age but deadly in the right hands.

“You’re free,” the clone muttered, voice low and raw.

“Wasn’t a matter of if,” she replied. “Just when.”

She crouched beside the droid access panel in her cell. A few quick taps of her knuckles in a pattern—metal meeting metal. Then a pause.

Nothing.

And then: chirp, chirp-BANG—a furious electronic growl echoed through the vents above.

“Oh,” she said with a smirk, “someone’s mad I left them topside.”

⸻

“Moving into Position,” whispered Boss, voice clipped through Delta Squad’s secure comms.

Fixer tapped the side of his helmet and rerouted a power feed from the junction box, cutting lights to the southeast wing. Darkness spread like ink down the corridor.

“Visual disruption active. Main grid’s destabilized. You’ve got ten minutes before they trace the splice.”

“Plenty,” said Scorch as he patted a charge onto the support column. “Place is built like a house of cards. We could sneeze and bring it down.”

“Let’s not,” Fixer said.

Sev swept ahead, motion sensor in one hand, DC-17m rifle in the other. His voice rasped over the comms. “Life signs in Block Seven. Two confirmed. One’s the target. The other—guess.”

Boss adjusted his grip. “Target retrieval is priority. If the bounty hunter gets in the way, neutralize her.”

“Copy,” they said as one.

⸻

Outside the main cell doors, the purple-and-gold astromech screeched out of a maintenance chute, its claw arm extended and sparking with aggressive glee. Its dome spun as it hurled a jolt of electricity into the chest of a nearby B2 super battle droid. The droid shorted mid-turn, collapsed in a heap of sparking limbs.

Two more B1s turned in confusion.

“What was that?”

The astromech beeped once, menacingly. Then its flamethrower activated.

Both droids went up screaming.

Inside the cell, Sha’rali stood in the doorway, blaster looted from a droid already in hand. Her lekku twitched with anticipation.

CT-4023 pushed himself upright. “You called that thing?”

She smirked. “He doesn’t like being left behind.”

As if on cue, the droid spat a plasma bolt into the ceiling, blowing open the ventilation shaft. A second later, the rose-gold killer butler droid dropped from the dark, landing like a predator.

Its smooth, modulated voice dripped civility. “Madam Jurok. I took the liberty of terminating a half-dozen combat units on the way in. You’ll find the perimeter slightly… more navigable.”

“Lovely,” she purred. “How about a path out?”

“Working on it. Resistance is heavy aboveground, and… we have company.”

⸻

Delta Squad flanked the corridor with lethal precision. Sev watched the corner, his rifle trained on the shadows.

“Reading increased EM activity near the holding cells,” Fixer said. “Something’s scrambling systems.”

“Droid interference,” Scorch said. “Probably that damn astromech.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Boss replied. “We push through.”

They breached the door.

Inside stood the ARC and the bounty hunter—armed, alert, mid-exit.

“Step away from the clone,” Boss ordered, weapon raised.

The ARC took one half-step back… then pivoted toward Sha’rali.

“Please,” he said. “Don’t let them take me.”

Everyone froze.

Sha’rali stared at him.

He didn’t blink. His eyes, storm-grey and haunted, were fixed on her like she was the last solid ground in a storm.

“You don’t understand—if I go back, I won’t leave again. They’ll strip my mind, my name. They’ll take everything. I’ll disappear and no one will care.”

Sha’rali’s fingers tightened on her blaster.

“Sounds familiar,” she muttered.

Boss stepped forward. “Last warning, hunter. Stand down. He’s coming with us.”

The ARC moved closer to her. “Better to run,” he whispered. “You know that. Please.”

A long pause. Delta Squad’s weapons never dropped.

Sha’rali closed her eyes for a heartbeat.

Then she raised her blaster—and fired at the lights.

Darkness swallowed the corridor.

Scorch and Sev ducked behind a crate as a plasma grenade went off near their position. Sha’rali, sprinting with the ARC trooper beside her, vaulted a collapsing support strut just ahead of the flame.

“Where the hell are they going?” Scorch yelled.

“Doesn’t matter,” Boss snapped. “Cut them off—Force knows what’s in that clone’s head.”

The rose-gold droid rounded on Fixer with blinding speed, throwing him off balance. It bowed before smashing a blast door open with one elegant, terrifying strike.

CT-4023 clutched his side—he’d taken a grazing hit to the ribs.

“You still good?” she shouted.

“Not dead,” he growled. “Yet.”

“Then move, soldier.”

Lights flared red as klaxons erupted across the base. B2 droids activated in droves, spider droids marched into hangar bays, and turrets powered up in high alert.

In the central command tower, a tactical droid snapped to attention. “Unknown explosion in Block Seven. Security forces mobilizing. All personnel to defense positions.”

⸻

Kit Fisto and Eeth Koth stood back-to-back as the first wave of droids descended from the ridge.

The Nautolan smiled faintly. “Well. Someone’s thrown a party.”

“We are not guests,” Eeth Koth said, igniting his green blade. “We are the storm.”

The clash of lightsabers against durasteel echoed across the canyon.

⸻

A Separatist gunship descended ahead of them, doors opening with a shriek of hydraulic fury.

Turrets turned toward them.

“Not that way!” the ARC barked.

Sha’rali spun to cover him—but then Delta Squad broke through the other side of the hangar.

Behind them—two glowing lightsabers.

They were surrounded.

And every faction wanted something different.

“Any ideas?” he asked.

She activated the detonator she’d planted on their way through.

The walls exploded behind them.

“Run,” she said.

Smoke surged from the blown-out wall like a living thing—hot, thick, curling with black soot and the scent of burning circuitry. Sha’rali didn’t wait to see who was alive behind it. She grabbed the ARC’s arm, half-dragged, half-shoved him through the gap, boots crunching over debris as they hit the sloping edge of the canyon beyond.

A volley of red blaster bolts screamed past their heads. The ARC stumbled, nearly going down before the bounty hunter caught him with one arm.

“Keep going!” she barked, eyes darting back toward the chaos.

Delta Squad had scattered in the explosion, but they were regrouping fast. Boss was already shouting orders through his helmet. Above them, Kit Fisto and Eeth Koth were engaged mid-leap, deflecting fire from a full squad of B2s. The sky was alive with movement—buzz droids, vulture droids, Separatist reinforcements. Too many pieces moving at once.

And K4 was gone.

Sha’rali’s eyes narrowed, lekku twitching behind her.

He’d vanished right before they breached the inner hangar.

Typical.

“Where are we going?” the ARC gasped, clutching his side. He was bleeding again—his undersuit damp with red.

“Down,” Sha’rali said. “Until they can’t follow.”

She vaulted down a broken ravine edge, boots sliding through gravel and mossy dust. The sunlight barely filtered through the overgrowth here. Saleucami’s dense fungal canopies loomed overhead, vines hanging like nooses from the cliffs.

Behind them, a thermal detonator went off—too close.

“They’re gaining,” he warned.

Sha’rali fired blindly behind her and kept moving.

“You’re going to get us both killed!”

“That’s the idea,” she snapped.

The ARC trooper finally collapsed at the edge of a flooded trench, gasping. Sha’rali dropped beside him, ducking beneath a cluster of fungal overgrowth.

“We can’t outrun them.”

“No,” she agreed. “But we can hide.”

“We won’t last long. Not with that tracker they tagged me with.”

She turned sharply to him. “Tracker?”

He nodded, grimacing. “Buried in my spine. I’ve tried digging it out—no luck. That’s how they always find me.”

Sha’rali reached to her belt and pulled out a vibroblade. “Then I’ll dig harder.”

“Are you insane?!”

“I torture people for a living. Don’t tempt me.”

⸻

K4 moved like a shadow between droid patrols. No clanking. No noise. Just an eerily smooth stride, long coat trailing, posture perfectly relaxed.

He came upon the back line of the landing field where a row of light transports had been left in minimal standby. Maintenance droids chittered. A Geonosian officer barked in a clipped tone.

K4 stepped into the clearing.

“Excuse me,” he said, bowing politely.

The Geonosian turned—just in time for the droid’s hand to rip through his thorax. Blood sprayed.

Before the others could react, K4 had one droid’s head in his palm and crushed it like fruit. A third raised its weapon—

K4 shot it between the eyes with the Geonosian’s pistol.

He paused. Smiled faintly.

“Securing vehicle,” he muttered, and opened the cockpit of the nearest transport.

⸻

Sha’rali finished cauterizing the incision with her blade. The ARC bit down on his glove to keep from screaming, muscles trembling.

“Tracker’s out,” she said. “They’ll still be on our last ping, but that gives us a few minutes.”

R9 chirped in disgust.

“Where’s your other psycho droid?”

She looked up.

Then, like a phantom, K4’s voice crackled to life in her commlink.

“Madam. I have acquired a ship. If you’d be so kind as to meet me at the coordinates I’ve transmitted, I will delay pursuit.”

“You took your time,” she replied.

“A gentleman never rushes murder.”

They left the atmosphere moments later, their stolen vessel avoiding pursuit thanks to K4’s expert programming and a few decoy beacons.

Sha’rali finally leaned back against the wall of the cabin, exhaling slowly.

The ARC looked at her with bloodshot eyes.

“So what now?”

She met his gaze, steady and unreadable.

“Now,” she said, “we get my ship from Felucia.”

⸻

They touched down just as the sun began to rise, painting the fungal canopy in blues and violets. Towering mushroom-like growths loomed over the clearing, and somewhere distant, a herd of guttural beasts bellowed in the mist.

Sha’rali stepped off the ramp first, blaster in hand, sweeping the clearing.

Still secure.

She had left her original ship parked here days ago, camouflaged beneath an active cloaking net and a decoy transponder field. The Republic had been too busy running drills with their battalion on the other side of the continent. The Separatists had been too fixated on their research complex.

No one had found it.

K4 descended behind her, adjusting the cuffs of his coat.

“I must say, I didn’t anticipate returning to this jungle rot,” he said dryly.

“You weren’t supposed to,” Sha’rali muttered.

Behind them, the ARC trooper limped down the ramp of the stolen Separatist vessel. He looked worse than before—bloodied, bruised, dried dirt caking the seams of his blacks. He hadn’t said a word since orbit.

Sha’rali jerked a thumb toward the old ship. Sleeker. Compact. Smuggler-built.

“Home sweet kriffing home.”

The interior was warm with dim light and the gentle hum of systems reactivating after stasis. K4 moved with graceful familiarity, bringing systems online, checking sensors, recharging the astromech. The purple and gold droid spun its dome grumpily and beeped a string of curses at the Separatist vessel they’d left behind.

“We’re not keeping it,” Sha’rali called.

The astromech swore again—louder.

The ARC trooper sat stiffly on the medbay slab as Sha’rali began the scan. A focused beam traced his body slowly, displaying internal data over a pale blue holomap beside the table.

She crossed her arms.

“You’ve got metal buried in you like a cache of war crime confessions.”

“I’m aware,” he muttered.

She toggled through the scan layers—skeletal, muscular, neural—until the image blinked red.

His right forearm lit up with embedded code, just below the bone.

Sha’rali leaned closer, watching the scan hone in.

“There,” she said. “Looks like an identity chip—your CT number and a destination marker.”

He flinched.

“Remove it,” he said quietly. “Erase it first.”

K4 was already stepping forward, fingers unfolding into tools with surgical precision. He paused beside the table, expression unreadable behind his pristine etiquette.

“Are you certain, sir?” K4 asked, voice almost soft. “Identity is one of the last things they leave you with.”

The clone looked at him—raw, hollow-eyed.

“I don’t want it anymore. Any of it.”

K4 gave a slight nod and got to work.

Sha’rali watched the data scroll as the chip decrypted under K4’s tools. Coordinates—somewhere near Raxus. And the CT number.

No name. Just that.

The droid wiped the chip clean. Then, deftly, he cut it out and sealed the wound with a medpatch and bacta stim.

He was quieter after that. Still and exhausted, but awake.

Sha’rali returned after reviewing perimeter scans, carrying a fresh stim and a handheld scanner.

“We’re not done,” she said.

He grunted. “What now?”

“Something in your head.”

His back went straight.

“You said you didn’t want to be controlled,” she said. “So I checked for the chip.”

His lips parted, but no words came.

She tapped the side of her own temple. “Inhibitor. It’s buried deep, but it’s there.”

Silence.

He looked away.

“How bad is it?” he asked.

She sat beside him and held up the scan—it showed the glimmer of a tiny device near his brain.

“Delicate. But not impossible.”

He didn’t answer.

“Do it,” he said at last. “Rip it out.”

Sha’rali sterilized the tools. K4 assisted without comment, hands clean, silent, methodical. Even the astromech—normally impossible to shut up—stayed quiet this time, as if sensing the weight of what was about to happen.

She worked carefully.

Slowly.

Muscle, nerve, brain tissue—this wasn’t a bounty job or some half-drunk limb stitch in a backalley hangar. This was personal.

When she finally pulled the chip free, it was slick with blood and neural tissue, still twitching faintly in her forceps.

She dropped it into a tray of acid and watched it dissolve.

The ARC didn’t speak for a long time.

He sat on the floor now, wrapped in a thermal blanket, sipping nutrient broth like a ghost.

Sha’rali crouched across from him.

“You got a name?”

He shook his head.

“Everyone who knew it’s dead.”

She tilted her head. “Then make a new one.”

“No point.”

“You’ve got no chip. No tag. You’re untraceable now. Fresh start.”

He looked up at her, eyes strange and open in a way they hadn’t been before.

“I just want to be nobody.”

Sha’rali smirked faintly.

“Then you’re in the right line of work.”

The ship hummed around them, alive again. Outside, the Felucian jungle moved and breathed and churned in the light of a fading sun.

Above them, in the growing dark of space, the Republic and the Separatists would still be searching.

But here?

In this stolen moment?

They were nobody.

The broth had long gone cold, but he still held the cup, fingers curled around the heatless metal like it offered an answer.

Sha’rali sat cross-legged across from him, picking at a stim patch on her gauntlet. She wasn’t watching him, not really. Her gaze was distant—calculating, patient, giving him time.

That unnerved him more than torture ever had.

He lifted his head finally, voice low, uncertain but with that familiar soldier’s steel buried underneath.

“You said I’m in the right line of work.”

Sha’rali didn’t respond.

He looked at her directly now, shadows clinging to his jaw, a thin scar catching the medbay lights beneath his cheekbone.

“What makes you think I’ll stay with you?”

Her brow rose. “I don’t.”

He blinked.

She tossed aside the stim wrap and leaned back against the crate behind her, arms draped lazily over her bent knees. “I don’t expect loyalty. Least of all from a clone who’s just had his leash cut.”

“…Right.”

“Why would you?” she added. “You’ve been doing what others wanted your whole life. If you want to vanish, you’re free to walk. I won’t stop you.”

The quiet between them stretched.

Then he spoke again, a little more bitterly now, like the question had been chewing its way through his gut for hours.

“Why would I become a bounty hunter?”

Sha’rali’s head tilted slightly, eyes narrowing in the half-light.

“I don’t know. Why not?” she replied evenly. “What else are you going to do?”

He had no answer.

She leaned forward, elbows on her knees. “You think the Republic wants you back? They sent an entire squad of elite commandos and two Jedi just to clean up the mess your brain might’ve made. They didn’t come to rescue you. They came to recover an asset.”

His jaw clenched.

“It’s very rare I show kindness,” she said flatly. “You got lucky. And you being a clone? It’s unlikely anyone else in this galaxy will ever give you that again.”

Her words struck like blaster bolts. Not cruel—just true.

“You were made to be expendable. Designed for war. Trained to be disposable.” Her voice turned rougher, sharper now. “But this line of work? It might just make you somebody. Someone with a price. Someone who decides their own worth.”

He swallowed.

Sha’rali stood, brushing dust from her armor.

“You can piss it all away and disappear if you want. That’s your right now.” She nodded toward the cockpit corridor. “But I’m heading to Ord Mantell. Got a job waiting. You’re welcome to come. Or not.”

As she turned to leave, a smooth mechanical voice floated in:

“My lady.”

K4 entered the room carrying a tray with two mugs of steaming tea. The contrast between his butler-esque grace and his deadly gleaming servos was still unsettling.

“I’ve prepared something mild, given your poor nutritional intake,” he told the trooper, placing the mug beside him. “Sha’rali’s blend, of course. You’ll hate it.”

The trooper looked at him in mild disbelief. “You made tea?”

“I boiled water and poured it into a cup with dried leaves. Do try to keep up,” K4 said dryly, adjusting the tray with prim care.

R9 wheeled in behind him with a long string of indignant binary chatter. Its dome was already scorched from the Felucia jungle, and its welding torch was still extended in what could only be described as a challenge to K4’s civility.

K4 didn’t even glance at the astromech. “No, R9, you may not install missile pods in the cargo bay again. We discussed this.”

R9 beeped angrily and spun in a circle before storming back toward the hallway, thumping into the wall for emphasis.

K4 turned back to the trooper. “We’ll be heading to Ord Mantell shortly. One of Sha’rali’s contacts has a request, and—regrettably—it pays well.”

“Regrettably?” the clone asked.

“I find credits tedious. But necessary.”

K4 gave him a cool nod. “You’ve got one hour. Either stay or go. But please, decide without bleeding on the furniture.”

He turned and exited, coat fluttering like a nobleman in retreat.

Sha’rali hadn’t looked back during the exchange.

The clone sat in silence for another moment, steam from the tea curling around his fingers.

No name. No rank. No orders.

Just one moment. One choice.

He raised the cup to his lips and took a sip.

It was bitter as hell.

But it was his.

⸻

The stars stretched long and lazy through the cockpit viewport, the hyperspace corridor casting pale light over the controls and illuminating the quiet hum of the ship’s systems. Sha’rali lounged in the pilot’s seat, boots up on the dash, arms behind her head, lekku coiled loosely over her shoulders.

There was a quiet shuffle behind her.

She didn’t turn around. “Took you long enough.”

The clone stepped into the cockpit and sank into the co-pilot’s chair. His armor was gone—cleaned, stashed away. Just a black undersuit now. Comfortable, functional. Unbranded.

No symbol. No name.

Sha’rali glanced sideways, smirking faintly. “So. You’re sticking around.”

He shrugged, noncommittal, eyes trained on the lights streaking past the viewport. “For now.”

She tilted her head, scanning his profile like a puzzle she couldn’t quite solve. “Well, if you’re going to haunt my cockpit, you’ll need a name.”

“I have a name,” he said stiffly.

“CT-something isn’t a name,” she replied, stretching out with a lazy groan. “It’s a batch number.”

He didn’t reply.

She let the silence stretch for all of three seconds before launching into it: “How about Stalker?”

He gave her a deadpan look.

“No? Okay, brooding mystery man. Let’s try Scorch.”

“That’s taken,” he muttered.

“Grim. Ghost. Omen?”

He exhaled hard through his nose. “I’m not a karking dog.”

“You sure bark like one.” Her smirk turned toothy.

He turned back to the stars.

She lowered her boots and leaned forward, elbows resting on her knees. “Look, I get it. You’ve been a number your whole life. But the second you cut ties with the Republic, you stopped being inventory. You need something. Doesn’t have to be permanent. Doesn’t even have to be clever. Just… something to call you.”

He was quiet for a long beat. “I’ll pick one when I’m ready.”

Sha’rali grinned, satisfied. “That’s fair.”

Then the cockpit door whooshed open with a hiss of disdain.

K4 stood in the doorway, perfectly poised in a stiff-legged elegance, arms crossed behind his back like a judge about to sentence someone.

“I see the nameless meatbag has occupied my seat.”

The clone looked at him, unimpressed. “There’s no name on it.”

“There was. I had it engraved, but that aggressive grease-stain of an astromech melted it off during one of its fits.”

Sha’rali stifled a laugh.

K4 stepped forward with the precision of a butler and the threat level of a vibroblade. “Move. Or be moved.”

The clone didn’t budge. “You going to throw me out an airlock too?”

“Tempting,” K4 replied. “But no. I’d prefer to avoid cleaning that much clone out of the upholstery.”

Sha’rali snorted. “Boys, play nice.”

The trooper stood slowly, eyes still locked on K4. “You’re really something.”

“I am many things,” K4 replied with a curt nod, sliding into his seat with a dancer’s grace. “Chief among them: irreplaceable.”

The clone wandered to the back of the cockpit, arms crossed, observing the banter unfold like some outsider at a theater show.

Sha’rali turned toward the nav screen, keying in atmospheric approach data. “We’ll be hitting Ord Mantell space in about ten. R9’s already downloaded the contact’s coordinates—neutral zone, outskirts of Worlport. Small job, fast payout.”

K4 glanced over his shoulder. “Low-risk. Possibly boring. That usually means a trap.”

“Probably,” she said easily. “But traps are where the fun is.”

The clone gave her a sidelong look. “You live like this all the time?”

Sha’rali grinned. “I’d die of boredom otherwise.”

The ship rocked gently as hyperspace dissolved around them. Stars snapped back into singular points of light, and the blue-brown marble of Ord Mantell filled the view.

Sha’rali leaned forward in her seat, eyes narrowing.

“Showtime.”

⸻

Ord Mantell was always dusty.

Sha’rali disembarked the ship, breathing in the warm, arid air as the twin suns of the planet bathed the landscape in pale gold. The outskirts of Worlport were quiet this time of day—only the low drone of speeders in the distance, the occasional scrap droid trundling past, and the wind tugging at tarps strung between rusting shipping crates.

Their meeting point was a wide alley between two abandoned warehouses, shielded from aerial scanners but open enough to see an ambush coming. Or so the coordinates claimed.

K4 scanned the perimeter with narrowed optics. “I already dislike this.”

Sha’rali cracked her neck and adjusted her blaster pistol. “You dislike everything.”

“False,” K4 said flatly. “I enjoy chamomile tea and the distant sounds of R9 screaming.”

R9, presently wheeling ahead to scan the loading bay doors, let out a warbling snort of protest.

“Not now,” the ARC trooper muttered to the astromech as he followed close behind.

R9 spun its dome a half-click, gave him a sharp toot of indignation, then paused when he reached out and gently rested a hand against its dome.

“…Sorry,” the trooper said quietly, brushing some scorch marks with his thumb. “You saved my shebs more than once back there. Guess I should treat you less like equipment.”

R9 warbled something smug.

The clone chuckled softly. “Don’t get cocky.”

R9 nudged against his knee like a small metal rancor demanding affection.

Sha’rali caught the moment out of the corner of her eye but didn’t say a word.

They reached the center of the clearing and waited. The plan was simple: quick trade-off, information packet for credits, with the Trandoshan broker Cid as the middleman. Low stakes. Clean job.

Except Cid wasn’t here.

Instead, a squat Rodian stood in her place, flanked by two humans in patchwork armor and a Nikto with a heavy repeater slung over his shoulder.

Sha’rali’s hand dropped to her sidearm, casual but not lazy.

“You’re not Cid,” she said evenly.

The Rodian blinked. “Cid sends apologies. She got… tied up. Said we’d handle the handoff.”

“That’s not how she works.”

“Changed policy.”

Sha’rali didn’t like this. The Rodian was sweating despite the dry wind, and the Nikto’s finger twitched just a bit too close to the trigger guard.

Behind her, she felt the shift in stance from both her crew and the clone. Silent, poised. Waiting for her call.

“Let me be real clear,” Sha’rali said, stepping forward, eyes cold. “Either Cid walks around that corner in the next twenty seconds, or I start melting kneecaps until someone gives me a better answer.”

The Rodian looked nervous now. One of the humans raised their weapon slightly, and that was all it took.

Sha’rali’s blaster cleared leather in a blink.

The Nikto dropped first, a clean bolt through his shoulder as he staggered back into the crates.

K4 drew his vibroblade with smooth grace, lunging forward and disarming the nearest gunman before slamming him into a wall hard enough to knock the breath from his lungs.

The clone took cover behind a crate and laid down precise suppressive fire, pinning the remaining thug in place.

R9 zipped forward, emitted a piercing shriek, and sent a shock prod up into the Rodian’s ribs. The poor fool convulsed and dropped like a sack of duracrete.

Thirty seconds. It was over.

Sha’rali stepped through the smoke, picking up the small datachip from the Rodian’s belt pouch. She held it up to the light, turning it in her fingers.

“Yeah,” she muttered. “Cid never showed.”

The clone approached, eyes sharp. “Trap?”

“Feels like it.”

K4 nudged one of the groaning mercs with his boot. “Pathetic attempt at one, though.”

Sha’rali gave a quick two-finger whistle. “Let’s move before reinforcements start sniffing around. I don’t like jobs that lie.”

They headed back toward the ship. As the loading ramp closed behind them, and R9 let out another satisfied electronic cackle, the clone glanced at Sha’rali.

“You think Cid’s in trouble?”

Sha’rali’s eyes narrowed.

“I think we’ve just been hired for something a lot bigger than we signed up for.”

The door to Cid’s Parlor groaned open, stale air curling around their boots as Sha’rali stepped through the archway. The cantina looked the same as it always had—low lighting, dirty tables, blaster scarring along the walls like some kind of history book no one wanted to read.

R9 whirred softly beside her, rotating its dome as if scanning for snipers. The clone kept his head low and hooded, shadows veiling most of his face.

Cid was in the back booth, hunched over a datapad with a half-finished glass of Corellian black in one hand and an expression like she’d bitten into something alive.

Sha’rali didn’t wait for permission. She slid into the booth across from her, legs crossed, blaster out and resting on the table—not pointed, but not concealed either. The clone stood behind her, silent, unreadable.

K4 remained by the door. Looming. Glowing optics politely predatory.

Cid didn’t look up.

“Well, this is a surprise. Thought I told you to stay gone.”

“You sent me a job,” Sha’rali said flatly.

“I didn’t send you anything.”

Sha’rali’s eyes narrowed. She slid the decrypted datachip across the table with a light click. “This came with your encryption key. Your coordinates. Your payout tags.”

Cid picked it up, glanced at it, snorted. “You ever consider maybe someone else is using my name?”

“I’ve made enemies,” Sha’rali allowed. “But not the kind who play bookkeeping this clean.”

Cid finally looked at her—and then past her, toward the hooded clone. Her brow lifted, expression changing.

“Well,” she muttered. “Ain’t that something.”

The clone remained motionless.

“You bring me one of them, huh?” Cid leaned forward, voice lowering. “That’s not just any grunt. You got yourself a ghost. They been looking for that one.”

Sha’rali didn’t flinch. “He’s with me.”

“That supposed to mean something?” Cid took a long drink. “After the stunt you pulled last time, you’re lucky I don’t sell your pretty pink ass to the Pykes.”

“You’d try.” Sha’rali leaned closer. “But I don’t think you want to see what my droids do to traitors.”

K4 cleared his throat from the doorway, utterly polite. “She’s correct. It’s… messy.”

Cid rolled her eyes, then looked at the clone again. “What’s your name, buckethead?”

He didn’t answer.

Sha’rali stood. “We’re done here.”

As they walked out, Cid watched them go, her stubby fingers already sliding a new commlink from her pocket.

The line was secure.

:: “Yeah. It’s me.” ::

A pause.

:: “The pink one’s alive. She’s got the clone.” ::

Another pause.

:: “No, he doesn’t have a name. He’s not talking. But it’s him. You’ll want to act fast. She’s in Ord Mantell space, but she won’t stay put for long.” ::

A click. Line dead.

Cid tossed back the last of her drink and let out a long breath.

“She always was too bold for her own good.”

⸻

The sun was lower now, casting long shadows across the grime-stained streets of Worlport. The cantina door slammed behind them with a hiss, and R9 let out a suspicious bleep as it scanned the alleyway, already on edge.

The clone walked beside Sha’rali in silence for a few beats before finally speaking.

“What did you do to the Pykes?”

Sha’rali didn’t look at him, just smirked faintly. “I didn’t. K4 did.”

Behind them, the tall silver droid gave a prim nod. “They insulted my etiquette. I simply reminded them that proper conduct is essential… especially when negotiating ransom with a vibroblade to one’s throat.”

R9 cackled.

The clone side-eyed K4. “You’re not a butler.”

“I am a butler,” K4 replied, mock-offended. “I was built from scratch to kill, politely.”

Sha’rali chuckled. “You’ll get used to them. Or you’ll die. Probably one or the other.”

They turned down a side alley toward the hangar levels. The city never felt safe, but it felt less safe now, like every shadow held someone waiting for a bounty to clear.

“We need to find you new armor,” she said suddenly. “Something that doesn’t scream ‘I’m a clone deserter, please apprehend me for treason and experimentation.’”

He gave her a long look. “You just want me in a helmet.”

“I want you in a helmet no one recognizes,” she shot back. “And yes. Aesthetics are a bonus.”

He huffed out a quiet laugh, then sobered. “You think Cid’ll sell us out?”

Sha’rali’s smile faded. “If I know Cid? She already did. By the time we’re off-planet, someone’ll be gunning for us. Could be the Republic. Could be the Pykes. Could be the damned Crimson Suns for all I know.”

The clone’s jaw flexed.

“We refuel,” she continued, “we grab food, and we’re off this rock. No lingering.”

“Got a destination?”

“No,” she admitted. “But I’ve got contacts. Places that don’t ask questions, and people who like me more than they like war. That’s enough.”

They turned a corner, stepping into the bustling edge of the bazaar, the scent of charred meats and engine coolant thick in the air.

Sha’rali paused for a moment, watching the crowd. R9 was already zipping toward a food stall with the enthusiasm of a toddler and the manners of a junkyard loth-cat. K4 sighed and followed, weapon at his side but posture casual.

The clone lingered beside her. “You didn’t have to help me, you know.”

Sha’rali tilted her head, lekku twitching with amusement. “I know. Still did.”

“Why?”

She looked up at him, sharp-eyed. “You asked me that already. The galaxy treats clones like tools. I’ve broken tools before—none of them bled. You did. That makes you different.”

He looked away.

Sha’rali bumped his arm with her own. “C’mon, buckethead. Let’s get you a helmet that actually fits your brooding personality.”

⸻

The marketplace on the lower decks of Worlport reeked of oil, unwashed bodies, and desperation. This wasn’t where you bought weapons. This was where you took them.

Sha’rali’s eyes scanned the crowd lazily, arms crossed, lekku twitching in irritation.

“You call this shopping?” the clone asked from behind his hood.

“I call it resourcing,” she said. “I see a weak target with good gear, I make it mine. Simpler than bartering with credits I don’t have.”

“I thought you were looking for armor,” he muttered.

“I am. And I’m picky.”

Her gaze settled on a group near the far end of the alley—a trio of bounty hunters lounging near a food stall. One wore a clunky but reinforced cuirass, too bulky. Another had Twi’lek-style duraplast plating, nothing that would fit. But the third…

She stopped walking. Her eyes narrowed.

The third was a Mandalorian.

Midnight blue beskar with red accents. Sleek. Scarred. Visor shaped like a frown. A stylized kyr’bes on one pauldron. Death Watch.

“That one,” Sha’rali said quietly.

The clone stopped beside her, tense. “He’s Death Watch. You know what they are.”

“Archaic terrorists playing Mandalorian dress-up,” she replied.

“They’re still dangerous. And they’ll know if we kill one of theirs.”

Sha’rali smirked. “Then we make sure no one knows it was us.”

He stepped in front of her, voice low and urgent. “This is different. You can’t just kill a Mando and take his armor like you’re picking out boots.”

She tilted her head. “Why not?”

“Because it means something. It’s not just plating—it’s their identity.”

“Right,” she said flatly. “And you’re a clone of a Mandalorian. So maybe you’re entitled to it.”

He went still.

Sha’rali didn’t wait for him to argue. She was already moving.

They waited until the Mandalorian separated from his group, ducking into a quieter side alley where local fences hawked off-brand spice and stolen kyber.

Sha’rali struck first.

A quick vibroblade slash to the leg, aimed to cripple. The Mando pivoted fast, parried with a gauntlet and drove his knee into her gut. Her armor absorbed most of it—but the man was fast, clearly trained. Death Watch didn’t promote dead weight.

The clone stood back, fists clenched, teeth gritted.

Sha’rali landed a few more hits, but the Mandalorian activated a jet burst from his vambrace, knocking her backward. She hit the durasteel wall hard, her twin blades skittering out of reach.

The Mando stalked toward her, blade in hand, helmet staring expressionless.

Then a blaster bolt caught him in the side of the knee.

He stumbled. Spun. The clone was already charging.

It was fast, brutal. The clone tackled him from behind, fists slamming into the helmet again and again until the beskar cracked at the seam. Then he wrenched the helmet off entirely and drove the butt of his rifle into the man’s skull.

The alley fell silent.

Sha’rali got to her feet slowly, holding her ribs. “You gonna scold me now?”

The clone didn’t answer. He stood over the body, breathing heavily.

“We strip the armor,” she said. “K4’ll scrub it clean, R9 will paint it. No one will know it was Death Watch.”

He didn’t move. “This is wrong.”

“You helped,” she reminded him. “That makes you complicit.”

He stared at her. “I helped because you were dying. That doesn’t mean I agree with you.”

“Not asking you to.”

Back at the ship, K4 took the pieces without question. R9 scanned for blood and grime. They worked in practiced silence while the clone sat by the viewport, holding the scorched helmet in his hands.

“I’m dishonoring their culture,” he muttered.

Sha’rali dropped into the seat beside him. “You’re a clone of a Mandalorian. That gives you as much right as any of them. Maybe more.”

He didn’t answer right away.

“You don’t owe the people who made you,” she said quietly. “You don’t owe the ones who left you behind, either. You get to choose who you are. And right now, you’re mine.”

He glanced at her. “That supposed to be comforting?”

Sha’rali smiled faintly. “I thought it sounded better than property.”

K4 approached, carrying the first repainted chest plate. Sleek black, silver accents, no insignia. Clean.

“No identity,” K4 said as he handed it over. “Just how you like it.”

⸻

The cargo bay was quiet, save for the occasional mechanical chirp from R9 and the click-click of K4’s tools being returned to their compartments. The Mandalorian armor had been fully stripped, sterilized, reconfigured, and freshly painted—black and silver with clean lines, devoid of crests or affiliation. A blank slate.

The clone stood in front of the armor set now, pieces laid out across the table like relics of a man who never existed.

Sha’rali lounged nearby, arms crossed, silently watching him.

“Well?” she said after a beat. “Put it on.”

He hesitated, jaw tightening, and then—without another word—began to strap the pieces onto his body.

Torso first. It felt heavier than it looked.

The shin guards were snug, but flexible. The vambraces clicked into place, perfectly aligned. The helmet—he saved for last.

He stared at it for a long time, then finally pulled it over his head. The hiss of the seal echoed in the cargo bay.

He turned toward Sha’rali, now fully armored.

“Well,” she said, walking a slow circle around him. “You wear it well.”

“I don’t feel like I do,” his voice echoed slightly through the modulator. “Feels like I stole someone else’s soul.”

“That’s because you did,” K4 said flatly, walking up with a tray and setting it aside. “And I just spent four hours repainting it, so kindly conduct yourself with a shred of respect.”

Sha’rali raised a brow. “K4, did you just scold him?”

“If you want an artist’s interpretation of his fragile rebirth, fine,” K4 said, gesturing at the armor. “But I’d prefer my work not be discarded just because the soldier has a sudden attack of conscience.”

The clone removed the helmet and looked at K4 with narrowed eyes. “I was considering repainting it.”

“To what? Blue? Red? Polka dots?” K4 clanked one metal hand on the chest plate. “This neutral palette hides identity. It protects you. It lets you vanish.”

“He’s right,” Sha’rali said. “This isn’t for show—it’s camouflage. You want color, buy a flag.”

The clone looked down at the armor again, flexing one gloved hand.

“It’s not about the paint,” he said quietly. “It’s about what it means. Every time I wore armor before, it was because someone told me to. Now I’m just deciding to… what, play dress-up as something I’m not?”

“No one’s telling you to be something you’re not,” Sha’rali said. “I’m saying you get to choose what you are. And right now, that armor doesn’t say clone. Doesn’t say Republic. Doesn’t even say Mando. It says ghost.”

He nodded slowly, still staring at the chest piece. “A ghost, huh.”

R9 gave a sarcastic warble from the corner. The clone looked up, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Even the droid thinks I’m dramatic.”

“He also thinks K4 should’ve painted flames on the side,” Sha’rali said.

R9 gave a smug beep.

K4 clicked his metal fingers together. “I will eject that astromech from the airlock.”

Sha’rali smiled faintly. “You ready to be someone?”

He thought about that for a long second.

Then he slipped the helmet back on.

“Let’s find out.”

⸻

Previous Part | Next Part

“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.

⸻

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