Oc Fanfiction - Blog Posts

I have changed Tulip’s design a bit, she’s curvier and has shorter hair. I’m working on the first installment of the Shadow Apprentice AU for y’all and also for me because it’s been a bit of a passion project

New chapter of The shards of fate that cut the skin apart is out neow!

Chiyoko goes to meet Akechi as promised to find out more about their situation.

But something is not right...

Two sketchy Umes cuz I started antidepressants today

I'm still not a 100% and I have some orders to take care of, but I'm starting to think the covers over as well as planning next chapters

Style switch.

Been feeling down lately but these two manage to still slip thru my depression

Drawing them kinda makes me forget everything ngl

Also new chapter posted!

Here is a snippet:

“...Your connection to the Metaverse, your reaction to the call- How much do you know about this situation?!” Akira felt agitated. Even to him it felt out of character, but he finally heard from Akechi and he can’t even see his face, can’t hear his voice, can’t ask him who did this to him?! And not to mention the Metaverse returning after Yaldabaoth was defeated. 

“I can’t tell you, I’m sorry…” Chiyoko refused to look at him, she was trembling slightly.

“Why?! Shit… Why?! Are you being threatened? By who?!” The guy couldn’t find a place for himself, his body was turning in anger and confusion from this situation.

“You could say that. But in reality I… I don’t want to put you on the radar too. It’s… a very dangerous situation to be in.” She turned her head away and then Akira noticed something familiar on her neck.

“This…” 

I would really appreciate checking it out, I will draw a proper cover when I get back to my former self hehe~

Nothing like sitting in Taco Bell for two hours eating and planning out a fanfiction with your best friend

me for the past week and i'm so fucking maddd

STOP👏TAGGING👏XREADER👏IF👏YOU👏USE👏AN👏OC👏NOBODY👏 FUCKING👏ASKED👏FOR👏THAT👏OKAY???

The wrong thing is not the fact that you write a story with an oc, no, that's not the real problem, really.

IT'S JUST THE FACT THAT YOU USE THE WRONG TAG SO YOU HOPE MORE PEOPLE READ YOUR STORY. BUT BELIEVE ME IT'S JUST FUCKING ANNOYING 'CAUSE WE AREN'T ABLE TO FIND THE RIGHT FICS IF YOU KEEP DOING THIS!!!

There are people who like to read more stories with ocs than reader inserts, so use the fucking right tag go reach that community and stop spamming your stories among ours.

I don't think you get it but, you know, the purpose of fanfics with reader insert is to make the reader imagine her/himself as the mc of the story. The best part of these fics is the fact that EVERYONE can be included in them.

SO WHY THE FUCK DO YOU HAVE TO RUIN THEM BY MAKING THE MC A PERSON THAT LOOKS COMPLETELY DIFFERENT FROM THE READER AND EVEN HAS A NAME THAT IS NOT THEIRS?

Not to be dramatic but i hate y'all.

And the fact that it's always the same fandoms and we all know who we're talking about...

Introducing my Yellowjackets OC…Chloe Matthews!

*FCs- Zendaya and Thandiwe Newton

Updated: 4/29/25

**Background**

Chloe is Lottie Matthews’ cousin. She is the daughter of Malcolm’s sister, Veronica, and a heavily intoxicated one-night stand. Veronica doesn’t remember who Chloe's father is. Veronica is considered the “embarrassment” of the Matthews family due to her addictions and lack of success in life. He was a successful businessman with family name to uphold, after all.

Chloe was born on March 9, 1977, almost a year before Lottie. She was held back in the 2nd grade for truancy because of her mother's negligent behavior. She had to repeat the year and ended up in Lottie's grade with the core varsity characters.

Lottie's parents became Chloe's guardians to keep her out of foster care after her mother’s lifestyle was discovered by social workers in truancy court. Mr. Matthews thought it was the best thing to keep more public incidences from happening in the future. Still, Chloe bounced back and forth between her mother's house and Lottie's.

Malcolm had little interest in Chloe, concerned only with “damage control.” Despite being very different, Chloe and Lottie were close and took care of each other in the absence of parental interest and guidance.

Chloe has been best friends with Natalie Scatorccio since they first met as children, with Kevyn Tan joining them in high school.

Chloe is not on the soccer team. She is the first chair cellist in the Wiskayok High School orchestra and plays the violin, piano, drums, bass guitar, and guitar with equal talent. She also has perfect pitch.

Chloe is a lesbian and has been out since the 7th-8th grade.

Chloe and Van are friends. They met while Chloe was doing music for AV club projects. Van confides in her and, of course Chloe is a vault. She is used to keeping other peoples’ secrets.

Chloe and Van’s friendship is one of the reasons that Tai hates Chloe. She wasn’t sure why for a bit until she finally worked it out. It threw a wrench in her and Van’s friendship because Chloe didn’t want to cause problems in Van and Tai’s secret relationship.

Chloe is generally not a hater, but she hates Tai. She hates Tai’s self-righteous, condescending, aggressive general personality. The way she makes Van hide. Chloe doesn’t put up with Tai’s shit, which makes Tai hate her even more.

Chloe is Wiskayok HS’ main drug dealer because of the access she has to her mother’s never ending drug supply. She is in it for the money. She and Lottie want out of Wiskayok as soon as they graduate and Chloe wants them to be able to easily set up a nice life for themselves without money being an issue.

She also loves the fast, easy money to buy any musical equipment she wants.

She is obsessed with Alice in Chains and can play every single guitar solo in each AIC song since their founding. Her friends call her "wannabe” in direct reference to her worship and idolatry of Jerry Cantrell. They know she takes it as a compliment. It caught on as an insult from people who don’t like her for whatever reason, but she doesn’t care.

Lottie and Nat always call her ‘Lo. They are the only two people allowed to call her that.

She ends up on the plane because Lottie's father (who chartered the private plane) insisted that Chloe be allowed on the Nationals trip to get both girls out of his house. His one demand of Chloe, as always, was to make sure Lottie take her meds on schedule.

Chloe was happy to get out of NJ and watch her cousin and best friend become National Champions.

**Trapped in the Wilderness**

In the wilderness, Chloe becomes a trapper. She learns how to make traps for small animals and goes with Natalie and Travis every day to check, reset, and set up new traps.

She brought her guitar on the trip, of course. It sustained minor damage that she is eventually able to fix when they find the cabin. It became a source of entertainment and morale for herself and the group.

Chloe has a friends-with-benefits relationship with Melissa until Melissa begins to obsess over Shauna.

Chloe's relationship with Lottie in the wilderness becomes strained as she knows Lottie is off her meds, but no one else is aware of her condition.

Chloe’s loyalty to Lottie also puts strain on her friendship with Nat at times.

Eventually, she realizes she can't get through to Lottie. Chloe will have to figure out how to minimize damage to the group while remaining loyal to and taking care of her cousin. If she can.

Chloe tries to become closer to Van, but she doesn’t want to cause problems between Van and Tai. So she spends as much time with Van as she can when Tai is not around.

Chloe doesn’t pay much attention to Taissa in the wilderness. Occasionally they get into major disagreements. Chloe will almost go feral when Tai goes after Lottie. They do develop a mutual respect for each other out of necessity, as they are both very capable individuals.

**Post-Rescue**

After rescue, Chloe goes back with Lottie to really care for her. Chloe’s mother believed she was dead and continues to act as if she is.

Chloe’s alcohol and drug use is semiregular at this point and she doesn’t use hard drugs.

While spending time in New Jersey, she runs into a newly single Van and they become closer. When she is not with Lottie, Chloe is with Van, Natalie, and/or Travis.

Chloe and Van quickly start a relationship. Van’s mother is just as useless as Chloe’s, so Van stays with Chloe to help her with Lottie most of the time.

Once Lottie's parents commit her to the institution, Chloe and Van move to NYC. They live off the money that she made dealing drugs in HS.

She goes to visit Lottie as often as possible and takes bartending jobs at popular NYC bars and clubs to make connections and network within the music scene.

Van eventually gets involved on the tech side of the NYC indie movie scene.

Chloe starts using hard drugs.

Chloe eventually starts a post-grunge, experimental alt-rock band that is met with success. A lot of her songs are ones she wrote during her time in the wilderness. Though only she really knows that.

Chloe's band, Ransom Banging, puts out a few albums and goes on the tour for them. Van comes along sometimes.

Chloe and Van have a happy relationship for the first couple of years. It eventually becomes tumultuous for a lot of reasons- Chloe’s descent into regular hard drug use, Chloe’s touring schedules, Van’s reaction when she finds out that Tai came out anyway and married Simone, and their general trauma from their time stranded. They eventually break up for good and part ways.

Natalie and Chloe are still best friends. Despite their chaotic lifestyles and drama, they find ways to visit each other at least a few times a year.

**2021-Present**

Chloe is in some legal trouble and has been staying off the grid with Lottie, with her intentional community/cult compound.

Chloe is still a stoner and will have a drink every once in a while. She is sober otherwise.

Chloe is in a real relationship with Lisa.

After her band broke up and her life really started to fall apart, she took Lottie’s advice and decided to see a psychiatrist that Lottie’s psychiatrist recommended for her. This is how she knew that Lottie was hallucinating those visits with the “substitute” doctor because her real doctor definitely was in town.

Lottie brings Chloe to the ranch when Travis calls and desperately tries to talk both of them out of it. She helps Lottie, but the results remain the same.

Chloe is surprised to see Van and Tai back together, but when Chloe was done with someone romantically, she was done. She decided to stay out of it and just observed with general amusement. At this point in her life, Chloe had already given up on real relationships.

Chloe is happy to find out Nat is out of rehab. Chloe wasn’t sent a postcard, but when she finds out about the blackmail, she pretends with a fake postcard to be able to spend some more time with Nat. She also wanted a break from the boredom of Lottie’s community.

Chloe pretty much drops off the map after Natalie dies and Lottie is institutionalized again. She moves into the Matthews’ penthouse to wait for Lottie.

Callie is a fan of Chloe’s former band. Shauna tries to keep her away from Callie too.

Chloe is the one who finds her body in the buildings’ basement. She was trying to find her to back her up on the apology.

Chloe aggressively works with Misty to solve Lottie’s murder. Chloe was always nice to Misty because Misty was nice to her, but they do become better friends because they bond over losing Nat.

As they have reunited as adults, Chloe and Tai have been able to get along, even with her and Van’s history.

Chloe meets with Tai and Misty after Van dies and 100% agrees with Tai that everything that has happened has been Shauna’s fault.

Chloe’s best friend, the only person she has ever truly loved, and her cousin are all dead because of Shauna and she will pay.

Chloe reunites with Melissa. It will not be a happy one because Melissa killed Van.

That's all I have figured out so far.

BLACKOUT — A RICH? STORY

This is just a silly story about my oc, guys. Felt like uploading it, ig... it's not very good.b

Divider by @strangergraphics !!

TW: IMPLICATIONS OF SUICIDAL THOUGHTS, MATURE LANGUAGE,

NOTHING—

The room was almost dark, save for the glow of a computer screen somewhere near the middle of the continuous rows of desks, or whatever moonlight filtered in from outside. Richard Haddon was dead, or at least he felt like it.

Endless nights stuck in the same room, at the same computer, typing the same things out every single day for twelve freaking hours had worn him down. Who the hell put someone on a night shift at an office? His fingers felt numb, like they were about to drop off completely. The dull hum of the AC sounded overhead, blowing cool air at the back of Rich's neck, wrapping him a tight embrace.

All things considered, Rich should've been dead.

That dead end office job was the bane of his life, the thing that made him never want to wake up. The thing he was sure was going to kill him.

But he was still inexplicably alive.

Rich lay slumped in his chair, his eyes blankly focused on the screen in front of him. An alarm clock, the type you can get really cheap from the store, sat close by on the desk, counting down the minutes to freedom.

Rich didn't look at it.

He sighed, shutting his eyes and running a hand through his already unruly hair. Despite the cold, his shirt was undone by the top few buttons, his tie hanging loosely around his neck like a scarf. He felt like one of those drunk middle-aged dads who sat on the porch with a can of Special Brew and watched their kids play in the street.

His eyes opened and drifted towards the open window. If he craned his neck for enough, Rich could see the stream of cars below. It was always busy at night, he found, wherever he lived. He found that here in Jefferson City, it was just about as loud as you'd expect it to be in London. Though he didn't have much room to comment on that. He'd been about twice for school trips.

It was far.

Almost... speaking to him.

The office had always got him down. From the moment he stepped in for that God forsaken interview to now, sitting in that stupid chair and wasting away. Hoping for something better.

A second chance.

It came to Rich suddenly, in his exhaustion infused mania: he'd never, ever got what he wanted out of life. Did he even know what he wanted? He didn't need to answer that. Because he never had.

Until now.

A sudden crash brought Rich to his senses, jerking him up into a sitting position and tearing his eyes away from the window. He looked around desperately for the source of the sound, something which had dropped. Something to tell him that he was alright.

The room felt smaller somehow. Darker. Rich had broken into a sweat despite the cold air from the AC, and he could feel his heart as it pounding against his ribs, trying to break free.

'Don't be stupid, Richard.' He told himself. Jesus, he must've been afraid if he was full naming himself, 'You're fine. You're ok. You're on your own. 2 more hours. That's all you have to do, thats—'

Rich's monitor turned off.

He jumped back in his seat with a yelp, feeling that ineffable sense of dread sinking its teeth into his heart and clinging to it. His eyes were wide, and to his horror, as he looked around. He could no longer see the windows. The only light source was the alarm clock on the desk.

4:27 AM

Rich grabbed his mouse, swishing it back and forth, desperately willing his computer to turn back on, "No! Come on, no, no, no—FUCK—! "

Rich experienced minor heart failure as the alarm clock started to ring. That was ridiculous. It was set for 6:00 AM. He pressed the stop button, but it was only getting louder. It was the only thing he could hear.

He looked around desperately. He may have been imagining it, but he couldn't see spots of white popping around in the dark. They seemed tinbe giving out light, which calmed his nerves ever so slightly. But then he hear the AC thunk as it turned off, and he looked up.

Holy shit.

A massive white eye stared back at him, lighting up a mass of what looked like thick, black slime. And teeth. So many fucking teeth.

Rich was frozen. He couldn't move. His eyes were wide. However, the creature could move just fine, and whatever God awful scream ripped its way out of Rich's mouth was quickly silenced by the thing lunging and forcing its way down his throat.

He sort of wanted to be dead.

Guys, I'm actually working on a Rayman fanfic.

It's name will be: "The coffin of Blua and Rayman".

me for the past week and i'm so fucking maddd

STOP👏TAGGING👏XREADER👏IF👏YOU👏USE👏AN👏OC👏NOBODY👏 FUCKING👏ASKED👏FOR👏THAT👏OKAY???

The wrong thing is not the fact that you write a story with an oc, no, that's not the real problem, really.

IT'S JUST THE FACT THAT YOU USE THE WRONG TAG SO YOU HOPE MORE PEOPLE READ YOUR STORY. BUT BELIEVE ME IT'S JUST FUCKING ANNOYING 'CAUSE WE AREN'T ABLE TO FIND THE RIGHT FICS IF YOU KEEP DOING THIS!!!

There are people who like to read more stories with ocs than reader inserts, so use the fucking right tag go reach that community and stop spamming your stories among ours.

I don't think you get it but, you know, the purpose of fanfics with reader insert is to make the reader imagine her/himself as the mc of the story. The best part of these fics is the fact that EVERYONE can be included in them.

SO WHY THE FUCK DO YOU HAVE TO RUIN THEM BY MAKING THE MC A PERSON THAT LOOKS COMPLETELY DIFFERENT FROM THE READER AND EVEN HAS A NAME THAT IS NOT THEIRS?

Not to be dramatic but i hate y'all.

And the fact that it's always the same fandoms and we all know who we're talking about...

“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.

⸻

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