Chapter Text

☽ Fog of War ☾

A Star Wars Story

✦Prologue✦

Kamino

Day and night had little meaning here in the sterile confines of Tipoca City. In the winding tubes and vaulted domes, the clinical lights hummed cold and constant over the network of laboratories and training facilities. Darkness was a rare respite. 
A respite Hex had found. 
Solitary and hunched, he sat in the barracks beneath the rows upon rows of sleeping capsules. His shoulders shuddered as he stared down at the medal in his palm—such a small thing.
Such a steep cost. 
Hex swept his thumb over the brassy face of his token, still trying to shed the crushing weight that seemed to be smothering him from all sides. He barely recognized his hand as his own. The warm tawny skin and pale nails. They were his brother’s hands.

A projected voice chimed from all around, placid and apathetic:
“All First Generation Troopers report to the Atrium immediately.” 

Hex pushed himself to his feet and tucked the medal into his tunic. His brothers were filing past in their identical red garb. He slipped into step at the end of the procession. Their boots fell on the pristine metal floors in sync from a lifetime of drills. 

Beyond the dim barracks was one of the winding glass pathways. A Kaminoan approached, walking in the opposite direction with a group of cadets marching along behind. The Kaminoan dwarfed Hex and his companions as it walked with otherworldy grace, like something drifting through water. Its bone-white skin seemed almost bioluminescent in the harsh artificial light, but its black eyes stared ahead, paying no mind to Hex. 
Though it never turned its crested head nor even twisted its long, slender neck to acknowledge him, a cold dread prickled Hex’s skin as the Kaminoan passed him. The cadets paraded past with the synchronized obedience of tethered mastiffs. Hex watched the boys. 
They were youthful and more identical than natural-born twins. The ever-present florescent light played off the dark curly hair of his kin and threw an eerie pallor upon their skin. One boy met his gaze with the same hooded brown eyes any of the others might have. 
Hex averted his attention from the youth and gazed through the windowed corridor walls.
Through the glass, towers of growth chambers rotated mechanically. The liquid in the pods glowed a sickly teal, silhouetting the fetuses within. Kaminoans moved languidly between the terminals, assessing the progress of their creations. 
That sinking, stifling sensation settled around him again, and Hex focused on the path ahead. 
The heavy, airtight doors swished open at their approach, and they passed through the opening into another glass tube. The illusion of otherworldy cleanliness was broken here by the crushing green ocean beyond the glass, pressing in on all sides. 
It was heavy. Hungry. 
The water blotted out any sign of a sky above and gaped endlessly down beneath them into a murky abyss. Dark shadows lurched in the deep, sluggish, colossal things that Hex had never clearly seen.  
Hex followed his brothers through the narrow shaft of air to the lift that would raise them from the depths. They ascended, though no windows were here to assure them that the water was behind them. Instead, it was more of the same. Halls and labs, armouries and arenas. 
A city of productivity and perfection, but a city in name only. 

─── 𓆩⟡𓆪 ───

The atrium was vast. The viewports rising floors above seemed like mere lights on the sleek black walls. Around him, rows upon rows of troopers stood at attention. Blocks of identical men in tunics and pressure suits, armour and uniforms, all gazing up as the holographic projection flickered alive above them. 
An aged human man, sallow-skinned with eyes as pale as ice, spoke in a regal and paternal voice from some distant world Hex had only read about. 
“...with great reluctance that I have agreed to this calling...”
Hex gazed past the hologram to focus on the observation deck above. 
“...I love democracy. I love the Republic...”
He recognized the dark gaze and ribbed cranial fin of the Kaminoan president along with the Chief Medical Scientist.
“...The power you give me I will lay down when this crisis has abated...” 
Accompanying President Lama Su was a stranger. A tiny wizened off-worlder with green skin and long pointed ears hunched over a walking stick and garbed in roughspun robes... 
Jedi.
The hologram’s voice lifted with a strengthened edge of command:
“And as my first act with this new authority, I will create a Grand Army of the Republic to counter the increasing threats of the Separatists.”
The clones saluted as one, but even as his body made the motion, Hex’s gaze remained fixed on the leader of the elusive Jedi Knights. 

─── 𓆩⟡𓆪 ───

The pressurized undersuit was form-fitting. A utilitarian black emblazoned with a steely Republic Cog across the chest, it clung to the clones’ bodies like synthetic skin. Hex encased himself in pearly plastoid armour. He paused a moment as he turned his helmet over in his hands. The smooth white dome was adorned with a crested fin reminiscent of a Kaminoan, but the black visor cut a sleek T in the faceplate like the Mandalorian warriors of legend. But which were they? Kaminoan or Mandalorian? 
Hex tilted the helmet and caught his face reflected in the opaque visor. His mismatched eyes stared back at him. The right was a dark and steady brown, as it should be, the other a striking silvery teal. 
A mark of his deficiency. 
Hex sunk into the dark confines of his helmet and let the hiss of pressure block out the mechanical hum of the facility. It was a welcome escape from the oppressive light, but a sickening desperation to touch his face and an irrational sensation of breathlessness had him gripping the wall for support. 
You were bred for this. Hex reminded himself. For the Republic. For the Jedi. 

The bay doors opened upon a tempest. The ocean thrashed and roared as it rose and fell around the domes and pillars. The landing platforms were bordered with lights, but the hissing wind and flashes of lightning made visibility shoddy at best. The ramps and catwalks were slick with water as the rain hammered the steel, but Hex’s boots never faltered as he raced alongside his brothers toward the gunship. It lowered with a violent whirring, and the clones leapt aboard without missing a step. 
They rose, and Hex gazed down at the cloning factories shrinking beneath him in the writhing sea. 
He gripped the strap hangings and dangled through the open door to cast his sights skyward. The mercurial grey clouds roiled and shuddered with thunder. From within the storm, a vast starship emerged, and Hex became as small and insignificant as space dust in its wake. The undercarriage opened its maw, and the gunship climbed the turbulent sky to be engulfed. 
At last, he would fulfil his purpose.

At last, he would be free. 

─── 𓆩⟡𓆪 ───

Chapter Text

☽ Preface ☾

✧ Content Warnings and Themes ✧

Themes are mainly about the Consequences of Power, Emotional Intimacy, Injustice, Duty, and Inequality
Canon Compliant with some references from Legends that don't conflict with Canon.
(majority original characters with plot-relevant canon character appearances)

I was unsatisfied with the number of properly developed clone troopers, the depth of clone/Jedi dynamics, and the lack of legitimately sympathetic Separatists—especially alien separatists—in current canon.
So I decided to explore that myself.
What do the clones really think about the war? Of separatism and imperialism? Do they see themselves as human or something else? And how exactly would under-prepared Jedi cope with the brutality of war and the sudden power hoisted upon them due to the draft? 
What would happen should Jedi and clones be placed in undercover work together where the boundaries of rank are blurred?

Adult Content/Mature Themes
As this is a Star Wars story showing the transition of the Republic into the Empire and the brutality of the Separatist Army, there will be graphic depictions of war crimes, friendly fire, disease, violence, disfigurement, death, and the mistreatment of people based on species and/or gender.

The Galactic Empire is an expansionist fascist regime led by cultists. I will be exploring the reality of that without sugarcoating it. 
Contains discussions of genocide, religious discrimination, cultural trauma, ethnic subjugation, apartheid, xenophobia, enslavement and human/alien trafficking, drug trafficking (Spice), weapon smuggling, terrorism/insurrection, racial/species supremacy, exploitation and colonialism, and the normalization of boys and men as expendable in war.

Separatist perspectives on the Clone Wars will be explored, but the Jedi are not demonized. They are a diverse culture, and I will never suggest that they deserved Order 66, even if this story is occasionally critical of the Jedi High Council’s decisions throughout the war. 

Some foul language but Star Wars-style language. Most curse words are in Huttese, Mando’a, or Twi’leki/Ryl. Modern real-world slang and swears are avoided for the most part unless they’ve been used in canon.

The primary romance will have a considerable power imbalance, which will be discussed and deconstructed (as will clone treatment as a whole). 
There will be heavy sexual tension and sexual content, with power-play and provocative language. Sexual acts between M/F, M/M, and F/F are alluded to if not outright shown. Due to the power imbalance, one might consider the primary romance a case of dubious consent. While clear consent will always be established, debate as to whether a clone trooper could ever actually consent to a Jedi is a topic of discussion within the relationship itself. 

No clonecest whatsoever. 

TLDR: 

It's an Anti-War Star Warrr

...it's heavy, but it'll also be fun, I promise.

Additional Information 

This work is written in Canadian English. 
This work is Part One of an already outlined and plotted Three Part Story. 
Part One can be read as a standalone piece, but I do fully intend to continue it in parts two and three (but I’m a slow writer, apologies in advance)

Sometimes characters (mainly Hex) will speak another language, such as Mando’a. Essential words will be translated either directly or through context clues, but other dialogue won’t be translated if the POV character does not understand the language.
You can look up a Mando’a translator if you want to know exactly what he’s saying, but know that if it’s important information it will be explained in the text. 
I will also include a Star Wars Slang Key below that you can come back to at your leisure, as there are a lot of clone trooper, Mandalorian and Jedi terms/slang. 

This story is written so it can be understood by those not intimately familiar with Star Wars, but there will be loads of references and nods to lore for those in the know, including the High Republic Era (my favourite era). 

POV will be specified like so:

✧ Character Name

This is a Third Person Limited work with multiple Point of View Characters. 
Mainly Hex, Saryn, and Cypher, with additional POVs now and then.
The POVs are biased and potentially unreliable narrators. 
M/F for primary relationship, M/M for secondary relationship. 
The primary relationship is a slow-burn mutual pining mess, and the secondary is a whirlwind romance of chaos and impulse.
All three primary protagonists are bisexual. 

The clones are coded as Maori/POC with Kiwi accents.
The primary Jedi, Saryn, is a Sephi, but I imagine that if she were in live-action, she would be portrayed by a Chinese actress. 

Name Pronunciation: 

Saryn: ss-AIR-in
Ritvika Torr: rit-VEE-kah  tore
Qiang Fan Gali: chee-YONG  fohn  GAH-lee
Whetū: veh-TOO

Chapter Text

✦Jotnari Prime✦

The Outer rim

Two Weeks ago

“They’re coming!”

Rease looked up from his radio transponder and caught sight of his sister sprinting up the trench in her overlarge jacket. Her round, sienna face was streaked with blood. She wove through the ranks of farmers and shopkeepers who now donned ill-fitting combat gear, sure-footed on the uneven trench floor. She barrelled into him and grabbed his arm, huffing for breath.

“They’re coming,” she rasped again, tugging his sleeve.

He rubbed a smear of blood on her cheek with his thumb. It was still wet. “T’Reeya,” he began, but she batted his hand away.

“It’s not mine,” she said, “Did you hear me, Rease? The Separatists have breached the pass.”

The chill morning air stole the breath from his lungs. “You’re sure?”

She nodded. “They shot Thilo. The minefield took out some of the smaller ones, but there’s hundreds of SBDs. The mines barely dented their chassis. They’ll cross the plateau in less than an hour.”

He swallowed, forcing his expression to remain neutral. T’Reeya needed him to be brave like Dad would’ve been.

He forced a smile. “Let’s take a look.”

He pulled from her grasp and climbed the frosted mud wall of the embankment. Laying on his stomach, Rease peered over the snowcapped rise and scanned the tundra. The wind kicked up small snow twisters that twirled drunkenly across the frozen grass. The cold snap had come on suddenly and two months early. He tried not to think about what it would mean for the harvest. He focused instead on the foggy tundra. He squinted. There was no sign of the invading army. T’Reeya crawled up the barricade to lay beside him, sending a shower of gravel and ice into the trench below.

“They were just crossing the ice flats near the glacier when I headed back,” she told him.

Her dark, crimped hair curled against her cheeks and temples beneath her too-big helmet. She looked like a little girl again in Dad’s military gear. It was as if they were engaged in an old game of make-believe, pretending to be off on some Wild Space adventure. Rease shoved his stiff fingers into his lapel and pulled out his macrobinoculars.

“Show me,” he said as he passed them to his sister.

T’Reeya peered through the visor, adjusting the dial as she surveyed the misty plateau.

“I don’t understand this.” Her voice had an edge of anger that was foreign to him. “Why attack Jotnari? We’re just farmers.”

“Yeah.” Rease smiled bitterly. “Vratixian farmers.”

“They wouldn’t target the crop,” she said dismissively, “Everyone needs bacta—especially during war.”

“Not droids. They don’t bleed.”

T’Reeya lowered the macrobinoculars, her dark eyes haunted. “If they breach these fortifications and burn the Vratixian...”

Rease turned his sights towards the sprawling fields of tall, frostbitten grain. It was just another subspecies of barley to the untrained eye, but to the critically wounded all across the war-torn galaxy , it was everything .

“We’ll hold the line,” Rease assured her, “the Separatists won’t kill our crop.” His mouth hardened into a thin line as the unnatural wind stung his cheeks. “But this cold snap might.”

T’Reeya’s chin quivered, but she gave him a determined nod.

“Here.” She handed him the macrobinoculars. “Mark ten point four.”

Rease looked through the sights and adjusted the grainy scopes, zooming in on the gleaming wall of ice in the distance. In the reflected glare of the glacier was the distinctive inhuman march of the droid army. Dread twisted in his gut as he lowered his scopes . He pursed his lips and tucked the macrobinoculars back into his jacket.

“Guess we’d better rally the troops, eh, sis?”

“The troops?” she echoed incredulously. “Rease, the only things any of us have shot are scurriers and burr-condors.”

“Yeah.” Rease smiled. “And both are hard to hit. We’ve had good practice with moving targets!”

T’Reeya shook her head, and her too-big helmet fell forward, blocking her eyes. She pushed it back and shot him a dark look.

“You think Marla can kill a battle droid?” she asked him dubiously.

“I think Marla is tougher than she looks,” he said.

T’Reeya made a noncommittal noise.

“Come on, sis! Think of it as a Frontier quest. They’re just Wild Space Raiders from those old holos.”

She managed a smile, and that was all he needed. Rease grinned and tipped her too-big helmet back into her eyes.

“Rease!” She shoved him away and struggled to right her helmet.

He laughed, rolled over and slid back down the embankment on his back. Marla brushed past him with a basket of tibanna cartridges, her long head tails wrapped in strips of hempmesh to protect them from the cold. Just last week, she’d used that basket to bring them tarts to celebrate T’Reeya’s acceptance letter. Now, she was carting ammunition. He refused to let that get to him. This was just another Wild Space game of make-believe.

“Marla,” he called after her, and the Twi’lek paused.

“Need more ammo?” Her kindly, wrinkled face offered him an encouraging smile.

“The Separatists are here,” he told her, “make sure everyone’s in position along the trench. We can’t let them get to the crop.”

“The crop?” Marla frowned. “What about the town?”

“That too,” he said, though they both knew which of the two the Senate would value more.

The Grand Army would secure the crop. But the people? Their only hope was the Jedi.

Marla nodded and hurried off through the dugout. Rease watched her go and forced himself to believe she was tougher than she looked.

T’Reeya shuffled down the trench wall to land beside him. She blew fluffy ringlets out of her face and threw him a chastising look. Rease chuckled and crouched in front of the radio transponder. It was an old model, janky and misshapen from years of repairs and retrofits—but it had never let him down. He pulled his cramped hands to his mouth and puffed hot steam onto his fingers, urging the cold away. He needed warmth, needed dexterity. T’Reeya knelt beside him as he fiddled with the dials and switches to tune the static.

“Any luck?” she asked.

“It’s transmitting our distress signal,” he assured her as he adjusted the radial dish, “but we haven’t gotten a response from the Core.”

“Do you think the Republic got our message?” she asked him, and again, she seemed like a little girl. His baby sister who’d always turned to him for protection and reassurance. “Do you think they’ll come for us?”

“Of course.” He stood and tucked a stray curl back under her helmet. “We just need to hold the line until the Jedi get here.”

She searched his eyes, and he hoped he looked more confident than he felt. He slung his arm around her shoulder and pulled her against his chest where she couldn’t see his face.

“Trust me, sis. The Jedi will clear out the droids, and you’ll be off to Coruscant in time for your first semester.”

“Yeah.” She gave a shaky laugh. “Soon you’ll have to stop treating me like your kid sister and start calling me ‘doctor.’”

Rease rested his chin on her helmet and swallowed the growing lump in his throat. Over the edge of the trench, the wintry light reflected off the line of advancing droids.

“My sister, the xenobiologist,” he boasted, “with your brains and my farming skills, there’ll be no planet we can’t cultivate. We’ll be growing bacta on the mudflats of Roon!”

T’Reeya snorted. “I don’t think that’s possible.”

“You’ll find a way,” he said as the distant clang of metal carried on the wind. "Doctor T'Reeya Akilu."

Her arms wrapped around his middle, and she squeezed. The last time she’d hugged him that tight had been at Dad’s cremation. He squeezed back. There’d be no funerals this time. The Jedi would come. They always saved the day in the Wild Space tales.

There came a shout from further up the trench, and a volley of blazing red plasma cut through the blustery air. Rease jerked T’Reeya to the ground. He landed hard, grinding his kneecap into the frozen mud with an audible crunch.

“Rease,” she said, voice tight with fear.

Rease grabbed their rifles and shoved one into his sister’s hands. “We hold the line.”

Her small hands shook as she gripped the rifle tight. “For the Republic,” she said.

“For the Jedi,” Rease agreed.

They dashed to the wall and scrambled up the ice and mud. Laying prone on the lip of the dugout, Rease readied his blaster rifle and stared down the enemy. The droids were inhuman, bipedal things with long bug-like faces that bore down on them like a plague of locusts.

Rease glanced at his sister, but her focus was unbreakable. She open-fired. Rease followed suit, flinching from the kickback as his rifle blasted bolts of plasma across the tundra. The droids made no effort to dodge or seek cover. They advanced endlessly and stepped over their fallen with a grind of gears. They were made to overwhelm and did their job well.

All down the barricade, farmers tumbled back into the trench with smoking holes in their bodies. But they held the line. The cacophony of blaster fire drowned out the whine of the growing storm. Droids were felled again and again, but still they kept coming. Closer and closer, death bared down upon them.

“There’s too many,” T’Reeya shouted over the clamour of gunshots.

“Hold the line!” Rease yelled back.

Another body hit the trench floor, and another and another.

“The Jedi will come!”

Red lances of plasma flashed past Rease’s head as he emptied his rifle. He fumbled for another cartridge of gas as Marla fell backwards down the trench wall.

“Rease—” T’Reeya began, but then the grind of droidekas rumbled through the frozen ground.

The armoured droids rolled to the front line and unfurled. They ignited their spherical forcefields, forming a shield wall, and fired. Rease slammed his cartridge into place and blasted back. But he made no impact. They couldn’t break through the droidekas defences.

“Hold the line!” Rease bellowed.

All around them, farmers screamed as the droids filled them with plasma. The radio transponder garbled static; then a voice broke through in the lilted accent of the Core:

“ Jotnari Prime. This is Jedi Master Ki Adi Mundi. Your distress message has been received; Republic aid is on the way. ”

“Hear that, T’Reeya? The Jedi are coming!” He laughed so hard his head spun. But she didn’t answer. “T’Reeya?”

She was still lying prone beside him, rifle braced against her shoulder, but she’d gone very still. She was staring blindly across the tundra. He looked across the plateau, following her gaze, but the scene of devastation was unchanged.

“ Civilians are advised to seek shelter, ” the Jedi’s voice continued over the radio, “ do not engage the enemy. Clone troopers are en route. ”

“T’Reeya.” He jostled his sister, and the rifle fell from her arms.

Rease caught her cheek and turned her head to face him. All that remained of the left side of his sister’s face was plasma-boiled flesh and exposed bone. He stared at her.

“The Jedi are coming,” he told her again, “the Jedi are coming to save us.”

The red flashes of blaster-fire reflected on her glassy eyes. The mechanical clank and whir of servos neared, but Rease couldn’t look away from his sister’s melted face.

“Now we can go to Coruscant,” he told her.

Starfighters streaked through the sky above, leaving a shuddering crack of air in their wake. Voices raised in a raucous cheer throughout the trench as blue plasma joined the red, but Rease was barely conscious of the change. He pushed onto his knees, pulling T’Reeya upright alongside him. Her head lolled, and her helmet fell into her face.

“You’re gonna be the first Akilu to get a doctorate.” He straightened her helmet, and his hand came away from the metal sticky and red.

Then a blazing hot punch impacted Rease’s diaphragm, winding him. He broke his eyes away from T’Reeya to stare at the smouldering burn in his chest. There came a sudden screech of melting metal, and Rease looked up to see the gleaming carapace of a droid cleaved in half by a lightsaber. A massive Besalisk stood before him with double-bladed lightsabers in each of his four hands. His robes rippled in the rising wind, and his white armour shone like the snow.

“Jedi,” Rease said.

The man nodded his crested, reptilian head.

“We held the line,” Rease told him, “we held the line for the Jedi.”

“You did well,” the Jedi said. He looked down at T’Reeya. “Both of you.”

Rease gazed back down at his sister as his eyes began to cloud. “She’s a doctor,” he said.

“A doctor?” The Jedi repeated from far away.

“Doctor T’Reeya Akilu.” Rease’s head grew heavy as he looked back across the fields of Vratixian. “We’re going to grow bacta on Roon.”

The crop swayed languidly as the clouds blotted out the sun. Rease’s thoughts muddied, and he fell backwards into the trench. The Jedi stood above him against a stormy sky laced with plasma as the radio crackled in the snow.

“ May the Force be with you all. ”

─── 𓆩⟡𓆪 ───

Chapter Text

✦Chapter One✦

The Trench

Jotnari Prime; Surface

22 BBY; 3 Years Before Order 66

✧Hex

He’d seen his own corpse countless times.

The worst had been the gundark attack. When the blood and limbs were strewn across the glittering stone and the stench of organs and hide was all around. He could still recall the sight of the severed fingers on the ground next to his boots and the rancid smell of death clogging his sinuses.

No. Maybe not.

The mangle-mire of Devaron might have been worse. The bodies had been unretrievable then, sinking in the mud, swelling, and stinking from the damp.

Yes. That was probably the worst.

Here, they were frozen. Some were burned by plasma first, but now they were stiff and glossy with ice.

It’s better that way, Hex assured himself. They don’t stink when they’re cold.

His own face was gazing back at him, half buried in the snow caking the trench wall. His skin was grey now, not brown, his eyes as murky and opaque as the stormy sky above. The ice enamelling the plastoid of the corpse’s armour made distinguishing who he was a challenge. Hex studied his face for a hint and came up empty. Even he struggled to tell the clones apart when they were frostbitten and decayed. But one thing was certain: there was no mystery about how he’d look as a corpse.

Icy tongues of wind kicked up the grit and snow and sent it skittering over the rim of the trench. A shower of soiled ice doused Hex’s armour, and he flexed his gloved fingers against the cold. He leaned heavily against the wall to evade the worst of the wind chill. The dug-out passages were reinforced with sandbags and the hollowed-out chitin of dismantled battle droids. The air came through the vents of his helmet to rob his breath of warmth. He pushed to his feet and convinced himself that walking would warm him up.

The ground was an uneven mess of frozen mud, misshapen from leagues of footsteps and astromech treads. Powdery grey snow pooled in the divets and gullies only to be kicked up by a biting eddie and settled again elsewhere. Hex picked his way along the gnarled earth. A twisted ankle now would mean death. He stepped over the carcass of another brother, still encased in white and wine armour. He reminded himself that the cold would keep the fallen from ripening and didn’t look back.

The lights were dimmed under the hissing dark of the night, but the feeble amber glow of a heat lamp marked the bunker. The privilege of warmth was above his station, however. He trudged onward past troopers, alive and dead, huddled against the cold. A cavern had been carved into the wall of the trench and filled with bodies of the dead. There were civilians among the clones, folk they’d been too late to save. For weeks they’d waited as droids steadily thinned their number, praying for this storm to pass. But it never would. This was no early freeze, it was a mechanically induced winter that kept them trapped among the dead. Hex tipped his head back and gazed at the writhing clouds. The Jedi were up there, laying siege from orbit. But they wouldn’t outlast the droids. Soon, the rations would be spent, and cold and hunger would finish what the Separatists had started.

“Hex!”

Hex caught sight of a scout strolling through the trench towards him, stepping over refuse and cadavers. His wine and black armour was little more than a shadow in the snowy dark, but Hex knew him by his swagger.

“Cypher.”

As Cy neared, his dark visor caught the light over the balaclava that insulated his vents.

“Hey, bro,” Cypher said, “Been looking all over for you.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeh,” Cy chirped, “Came to deliver some good news.”

Hex smiled beneath his helm. “That’s a thing?”

“Your luck’s gone and flipped!” Cypher announced, “It seems the Lieutenant wants you in the bunker.”

Hex scoffed. “How’s that good luck, Cy?”

“You get to say hello to the heater.”

Hex chuckled and flexed his stiff fingers.

“‘Course you do still gotta see the Lieutenant,” Cy admitted, “so good news and bad news. Bit of a mixed bag now that I think about it.”

Hex jostled his brother. “You sure you’re not the cause of my bad luck?”

“I’m just the messenger, bro.”

Hex gazed past him to the dim glow of the heat lamp and stifled a sigh. “Any idea what he wants?”

Cypher shrugged. “Your bet’s as good as mine. You know how the higher-ups are.”

“Uh-huh. And how’s that?”

“Communication skills notoriously decrease in proportion to rank,” Cy waffled, “That’s why the Jedi are so elusive.”

“You’ve never even seen a Jedi,” Hex said.

“Exactly,” Cy insisted, “Elusive.”

“Right. Well, I’d better report then.” Hex started towards the bunker, and Cy swerved to fall into step beside him.

“I’ve heard about Jedi,” Cypher went on, “and if you ask me, the only thing that could balance the cosmic scales with your cursed ass around is a Jedi.”

“Hm. I’ll do my best not to hex you, Cy.”

“You saying you weren’t trying your best all the other times?” Cypher jibed.

Hex gave a low growl through his vents.

“Relax, bro.” Cy waved a hand. “I know it wasn’t on you. But you’ve gotta admit the horizon isn’t looking too bright for us.”

“Yeah,” Hex said, “at least the heater is.”

─── 𓆩⟡𓆪 ───

The warmth of the heat lamp barely reached Hex’s skin through his pressurized undersuit and frosted plate mail, but the soft orange glow was a welcome change nonetheless. Lieutenant Dyre was pouring over a flickering holomap amidst the disorganized crates and supplies. A thermal blanket was draped over his shoulders like a cape. A paratrooper in unpainted armour stirred at his side as Hex and Cypher tapped the snow from their boots.

“Seal the door,” Dyre said without looking up, “the draft is a serious drain on the power cells.”

Cy prodded the jerry-rigged control panel, and the door gave a hiss as it locked.

“Lieutenant,” Hex said with a salute, “ARC Trooper Thirteen-Thirty responding to your summons, sir.”

Dyre tore his sunken eyes from the map. “Ah. Sergeant Hex. Seems Cypher managed to find you after all.”

“Chur,” Cy said.

Dyre straightened and scrubbed his hand along his stubbly jaw. The map wasn’t of the trenches, Hex noted; it was the tundra. He glanced over at the paratrooper. He picked out scuffs and wear on his armour. Despite the lack of paint, this trooper was seasoned, and he wore a black armourweave kama from his belt, denoting a level of prestige and specialization. The signature terraced helm of the air-drop clones obscured his expression completely, but he certainly wasn’t Nova Corps.

“Who’s the shiny?” Cy asked.

“I’m no shiny,” the paratrooper growled.

Dyre snorted and nodded towards the paratrooper. “Corporal Grim here is from General Krell’s legion. He trekked out here with orders from the Jedi.”

“What do the Jedi want?” Hex asked.

“The General’s on the march,” Grim said.

“He’s launching an offensive,” Dyre explained, “the clankers have amassed at the power plant to recharge. He wants to take them out in one fell swoop before they have a chance to split their forces again.”

Hex stared at the map. “The plant’s in open tundra,” he said, “we’ll be killed in the open before we reach the gates.”

Dyre inhaled wearily. “We’ll split the scouts into two groups,” he said, “the droids will focus fire on the bulk of our forces while we resupply the flanks and rally the men into a pincer.”

Hex glanced over at Cypher. Cy shifted his shoulders, and Hex knew he was thinking the same thing.

“Did General Krell receive reinforcements from the Nova Corps in orbit?” Hex asked Dyre.

Dyre shook his head. “Nothing can get through that storm.”

“A Jedi could,” Cypher said.

“The Jedi don’t know you’re here,” Grim rasped, “Krell expected I’d find a graveyard.”

“So he’s making this frontal assault with or without us?” Hex asked.

Dyre grimaced. “We’ll give them a fighting chance.”

“We’ll die,” Hex said flatly.

Dyre ran a hand through his short curls and glowered at the map. “I’m assigning you to lead the second group.”

Hex closed his eyes and took a slow breath. “Sir, with respect, I’ve been barred from leadership.”

“Blacklisted, maybe,” Dyre said, “but not forbidden.”

Hex gazed across the hologram at the lieutenant. The map lit his face in sharp relief, hardening all his features and deepening the shadows beneath his eyes.

“I know what happened on Vanqor,” Dyre said, “but you completed the mission.”

“And I’m the last trooper of my rank you have left,” Hex said.

Dyre gave a weary smile. “And that.”

“You’re an ARC trooper, bro!” Cy nudged him in the ribs. “Best of the best.”

Hex chuckled. “When do we start our death march?”

“First light.”

─── 𓆩⟡𓆪 ───

Chapter Text

✦Chapter Two✦

Intercepted

Jotnari Prime; Orbit

✧Saryn

The starship’s bridge was dim, lit in the muted tones of red and blue. Buttons and gauges glowed in the terminals where the clones, clad in sleek grey uniforms, worked in silent coordination. Above them was the bridge proper, an elevated floor where the vast viewports gave an awe-inspiring view of the frozen planet below.  
Padawan Saryn swept along the deck; her worn leather boots were soundless on the durasteel floor as she passed above the officers. She reached the viewport and let her breath out in an agitated huff. 
There is no passion; there is serenity.
She stared down at the roiling world below and folded her fingers over the pommel of her lightsaber. She could feel it, even from orbit, if she quieted her mind... she could feel them dying. 
There is no death; there is the Force.
Every moment that passed, their defeat crept closer. Something needed to give, whether it was a break in the storm, the enemy lines, or, as Master Mundi had reminded her, a break in the transmission interference. Saryn’s fingers tightened on her hilt, her knuckles bleaching. She needed to be of use, needed to prevent more needless death. She didn’t know how much longer she could endure feeling so many spirits returning to the Force.

Jedi Knight Ritvika Torr entered the Bridge with her Captain, Alor, at her side, and Saryn’s throat tightened at the sight of her. The flickering light of the holograms played off her gold-capped crown of horns as she strode across the deck.  

“You’re alive!” Saryn said breathlessly.

The Zabrak stopped abruptly, shoulders squared, and folded her muscled arms behind her back. Her olive skin was laced with thin black tattoos that seemed like fissures of space.
“Looks that way,” Torr replied. Her voice was steady with the precise, clipped accent of the Core Worlds.

“The Force was with you,” Saryn said.

“Tell that to the storm.”

They looked out the viewport to the roiling atmosphere below. The tightness in Saryn’s throat refused to subside. Beside her, Torr seemed impossibly tall and powerful. With her pale cranial horns enamelled in gold and her solid, battle-ready arms bound in sparring wraps, she looked like she’d just stepped victorious from a royal arena. But looks were deceiving in such dark days. The war would take anyone, even Jedi.

“Storm or no, I’m glad you survived,” Saryn said.

“The same can’t be said for all my pilots,” Torr grated.

Saryn glanced past Torr to Captain Alor to meet his tired brown eyes. 
“Who’d you lose?” she asked. 

“Thankfully, we only lost three,” Torr said.

“Aileron, Thach, and Rudder,” Alor supplied in a voice gritty with fatigue.

Torr nodded distantly. “Any word from the surface?” she asked Saryn without facing her.

Saryn held Alor’s eyes a moment longer before answering her. “Your old Master’s tired of the siege,” she said, “He’s launching a full frontal assault on the droid army.” 

Torr glowered. “Casualties will be high.”

Saryn nodded. 

“It’s a sound decision, though,” Torr said, rolling her shoulders back and raising her chin, “with the odds stacked against us as they are.”

Alor caught Saryn’s eye again, and they shared a look of discomfort. 

“The Separatists produce droids faster than we can match,” Torr said.

“We match them in dead,” Saryn said.

Torr’s eyes hardened. “They’ll soon outnumber us in that regard as well,” she vowed, “if the Force is just.”

“Sir,” Alor said, his heels clicking together as he straightened his stance, “I should update General Mundi on our losses.” 

Torr nodded curtly. “You’re dismissed, Captain.” 

Alor saluted. “General Torr. Commander Saryn.” 

“Make sure you and the boys get some rest, Alor,” Saryn told him, “You did well.”  

Alor managed a weary smile. “Yes, sir.” 

He departed for the navigation room, and as soon as he was out of earshot, Torr shot Saryn a reproachful look. 
“Mind yourself,” she warned.

Saryn stifled a sigh. “What did I do now?”

“You’re his commanding officer,” Torr reminded her yet again. “Respect the chain of command and call him by his rank.” 
Saryn’s long pointed ears swivelled back in annoyance. Krell’s protégé, through and through.
“Using the clones’ names won’t cause the Republic to fall,” she said mildly, “If anything, showing them some kindness will improve morale.” 

“Familiarity is a slippery slope,” Torr insisted, “We can’t afford attachment or preferential bias. You need to be prepared to send these soldiers to their deaths. Call him ‘captain.’” 

“His name is ‘Alor,’” Saryn said, “It essentially means captain.” She smiled up at Torr. “So I don’t see the issue.”

Torr glared back at her, jaw clenched. “Alor means captain?” she said, unconvinced, “In what? Kaminoan?”

Saryn snorted. “In Mando’a.” 

Torr’s sharp brows furrowed, creasing the lotus-shaped tattoo on her forehead.

“Their template was Mandalorian,” Saryn said, “Some try to connect to their heritage.”

Torr scoffed. “Where do you come up with these stories?” 

Saryn sighed and redirected her attention to the planet below, but her own lilac face was reflected in the glass, obstructing her view. 

“I didn’t come up with it,” she said, “They told me.” 

“Really? They’ve told you about their ‘heritage’?” 

Saryn gazed past her mirrored face at the stormy world below. “You could try to talk with them about something other than battle plans and casualty numbers.” 

Torr shook her head dismissively, making her dark hair sway. “Fraternizing with lower rank personnel is prohibited,” she said.

“General Torr.” Alor came up short and stood sharply to attention. 

Torr barely acknowledged him. “Captain?”

“There’s a transmission for you from General Krell.” 

“Very well. I’ll take it here.” 

Alor dipped his head before adding, “and General Mundi wanted me to remind Commander Saryn that she’s supposed to be in the navigation room.” 
He glanced past Torr to Saryn, and his posture softened slightly. Torr caught the exchange and sucked her teeth. 

“She’ll be there shortly,” Torr told him before Saryn could respond.

“Yes, sir.” 
Alor lingered a moment, his eyes straying towards Saryn again. Saryn took a breath through her teeth in anticipation.

“Anything else?” Torr demanded, just as Saryn expected.

Alor startled. “Ah. No, sir—”

“Well then?” 
The captain was more rigid than carbonite beneath her piercing eyes. 

“Cut him a break, Ritvi,” Saryn said. 

Torr turned her wrath onto the Padawan instead. 

Saryn couldn’t help but smile. “You’ll give the man a stress ulcer.”

Torr gave Saryn a look that could curdle milk.  

“I’ll be waiting for you in the navigation room,” Alor said in a low voice, “Excuse me, General.” He retreated.

“‘General.’” Saryn echoed, still smiling.

Torr exhaled roughly. “You doubt my knighthood?”

Saryn’s smile widened. “Your skill? Never. The timing...” 

“Too many Jedi died on Geonosis,” Torr said, “We needed to bolster our numbers.”

Saryn made a noncommittal noise.

“You know, you’d be knighted by now if you’d respect authority and stop consorting with the clones.”

Saryn’s smile faded, and she plucked the suede cord at her throat. She looked back at the glass, eyes unfocused. 
“I’m not ready,” she said.

“Don’t underestimate your strength,” Torr said adamantly, “You can handle the Trials.”

Saryn shook her head, her fingers worrying the frayed cord. “It’s not a matter of strength, Ritvi. I still have more to learn about the Force and...” She quieted, her mind straying back to the Temple and Master Sen’s tomb. “I should get back to work before I disappoint Master Mundi again.”

─── 𓆩⟡𓆪 ───

Torr’s second in command was waiting at the holotable, his helmet under his arm.
Alor, like all his clone brethren, was ruggedly beautiful. His skin was a rich bronze, and his short, undercut hair was dark and curly. He had a broad, gently hooked nose and full lips. His steady, hooded eyes looked black in low light but as vibrant as honeyed mead in the sun. Right now, they swirled, steely and dark in the murky glow of the navigation room. 
Those dark eyes had become so familiar over the last couple of months. At first, the clones had been hard to tell apart with their matching white plate and identical sonorous voices. But now Saryn could distinguish them by intonation and expression, from gait and tone. The difference from clone to clone was more than a matter of quirks. They were as distinct from one another as natural-born twins. 
It certainly helped that they’d started varying their appearances since coming under Jedi command. Alor was no exception. The centre of his cuirass bore a hexagonal diamond painted in the Nova Corps hues of black and wine. It was a Mandalorian symbol. A ka’rta beskar, or so she’d once been told. It marked him as a warrior of Mandalore, like the man from whose genes he’d been grown.
Saryn rested her hands on the holotable and looked across at the captain. What she liked best about Alor’s face were his tattoos. From his temples to the crow’s feet creasing his cheekbones, he’d dotted his skin with stars. Alor caught her looking, and his mouth twisted into a bemused smile.

“Captain,” Saryn said with mock seriousness.

Alor’s smile broadened. “Commander.”

A small white seeker droid crawled across the terminal on four spider-like limbs. It warbled at Saryn, and she ran her fingers idly over its head, stroking the radial disc on its dome. The droid cooed and climbed her arm like a Kowakian monkey-lizard. Saryn swept her heavy silver hair aside as the droid settled on her shoulder, chirping and whirring.

“I wasn’t gone long, Icy,” she said to the probe. 
The droid whined. Its glowing photoreceptors gave Saryn a look far too akin to a massiff pup.

Alor chuckled. “Osik. General Torr’s astromech never gets that clingy,” he said, “I think you spoil that IC-Eleven, sir.”

IC warbled defensively, and Alor’s chuckle became a rough laugh. The doors swished open, and Torr entered the room, her face stony with stress.

Alor cleared his throat, and his spine stiffened. 
“General,” he said gruffly.

Saryn repressed a smile.

Torr stalked across the room and glared around at them. Her maroon robes looked near-black in the dimness, and her gold adornments gleamed like kyber.
“Master Krell says the Separatists have taken the power plant,” she said.

Saryn straightened, her fingers coming off the table to brace against her abdomen. Her waistbelt suddenly felt suffocating.
“And the colony?” Saryn prompted.

Torr shook her head as she joined them at the table. “It’s a city-wide blackout.”

“In these temperatures?” Saryn chewed the insides of her cheeks. 

“They’d cut power to the civilians?” Alor’s voice was sharp with barely tempered outrage. “What use is the city to them if all the workers are dead?” 

“Are they trying to force a surrender by means of freezing people to death?” Saryn wondered aloud.
Torr pressed a control panel with a long, clawed finger, and a topographical map of the besieged city and surrounding tundra was projected from the table. 

“They’d still have to get through our troopers stationed in the outer city barricades,” Torr reminded them.
Saryn swept her eyes over the deep trenches encircling the city’s west flank, counting the bunkers and cannons. It wasn’t nearly enough. They would be overrun. 

“It doesn’t make sense,” Alor said as Saryn scrutinized the fortifications, “Droids are worse off in the snow. The Separatists will be slowed down in their march. An aerial attack on the city would be their best move.” 

“They must know they can’t take our navy,” said Torr.

Saryn shook her head. “No. Alor’s right. I sense something more. They’re using the cloud cover for more than just disorienting our starcrafts. We’re missing something.” 
She scanned the holomap with rising unease. 

“This planet is a Rim World, not Core,” she recounted, “It’s not outfitted with planetary weather controls this advanced. How are the Separatists amassing this storm?” 

“They could be using a more rudimentary form of cloud seeding,” Alor said.

“Perhaps.” Saryn considered that. “Using aircraft to inject the atmosphere, then?”

“No.” Torr drummed her nails on the terminal. “I don’t think they’re cloud seeding aerially.”

“No?” Saryn echoed.

“I sensed no other craft in the storm.” 

Saryn pushed off the table again and started to pace, Icy wobbling on her shoulders.
“So what then?” she asked, “Missiles or ground generation?” 

Torr frowned, deep in thought. Saryn passed behind Alor, her head only reaching his shoulder. The starship’s engines were shuddering through her soles. The vibrations matched her nerves.
“My bet would be ground dispersal,” Torr said.

Saryn paced back to the table. “Then we triangulate the centre of each blizzard. Can we get a meteorological scan of the storm patterns? The towers would be in the eye.” 

“Even if we do, what then?” Torr leaned back and folded her powerful arms across her chest. “We can’t get a starfighter through the tempest.”

Saryn tapped the projector in the centre of the table. “Descend through the eye.”

Torr snorted derisively. “You think they’d leave the towers undefended? They’d detect our ships and shoot them down in an instant.”

“Not a ship,” Saryn said, fixing her eyes on Torr’s, “Jedi. You and me.”

Torr held her eyes steadily. 

“Sir...” Alor began.

“Faith falls were a pillar of my training under Sen,” she said to Torr, “Remember Neimoidia?”

“A fool’s gambit,” Torr said.

“The Force will guide us,” Saryn insisted, “and we’ll be too small to be tracked by the Separatists.”

Torr gave her a cold, hard stare. “You already had this in mind.”

“Maybe.”

Torr’s eyes narrowed. “Did you run this by the masters?”

Saryn broke away to look back at the map. “They want me up here cracking encryption and boosting signals.”

“Then you should know better than recommending this.”

“But it could work,” Saryn pushed, “You know it could.”

“I won’t disobey the Masters.” 

Saryn splayed her fingers on the map and bowed her head. “Well then,” she said with careful calm, “what’s your plan?”

Torr’s nails plucked her arm wraps as she analyzed the map. 

“We do our best to narrow down the location of the towers and send the scouts to deal with it,” she decided.

Saryn lifted her head, and her hair tumbled over her shoulder, catching the hologram light and turning blue. She stared at Torr.

“The ground forces are already spread thin defending the city,” she said, ears back, “We can’t afford to divert some to scout for the towers.”

“And even if we could,” Alor cut in, “we’ve lost contact with most of our forces. An entire Nova Corps division is radio silent in the trenches.”

“So we have no way to know the state of the barricades?” Saryn asked.

He shook his head.

“If we can’t get reinforcements to the ground, then the entire planet will be lost,” Torr said.

“And if we don’t know where our men are or how many still live, we won’t know where to deploy those reinforcements,” Saryn added. 

The three of them dissected the map. Then IC warbled on Saryn’s back, breaking the silence.

Saryn’s brows knitted. “You’re right, Icy,” she said, “We need to amplify our transmission range.” 

“What are you thinking?” Alor asked.

Saryn twirled her long, thin Padawan braid between her fingers, her mind racing.
“The interference has crippled our coordination efforts, but it must be impeding the Separatists just as much.” Her eyes flicked to IC. “...unless.” She knelt and pried open the panel under the terminal. “They must be using a different frequency to communicate, something that isn’t impacted by this synthetic storm.” She shifted onto her back and crawled under the desk to rewire the system. “My Master coordinated often with smugglers and syndicate informants,” she told them from inside the mess of circuits and wires, “He had a fair few tricks for detecting encrypted transmissions and broadening comms...”

The seeker droid crawled up Saryn’s abdomen and shone a light onto the wires. 

“Thanks, Icy.” She started rewiring cables, ignoring the spits of electricity. 

“This lost Nova Corps regiment...” Torr queried Alor as Saryn tinkered.

“They were last confirmed to be here, along the west gate near the glacier, but that was days ago. From what I gather, there was a lot of heavy battle in the area and the storm hit it pretty hard, too.”

“This could just be a case of damaged comms, or they could have already been wiped out,” Torr said.

“There’s no way to know for sure.”

“Unless we send someone in person.”

“There,” Saryn said with a huff. She slid out of the terminal and sat back on her calves. “I’ve got it prepped. Do your thing, Icy.” 

The droid scomped into the rewired neurons of the terminal as Saryn pushed herself back onto her feet.

“If we can at least gain access to the Separatists’ transmissions, maybe we can find the cloud seeders,” she said as she smoothed her robes.

Torr’s irises flickered back and forth as she studied the map, trying to discern where the towers could be. Her dark hair reflected the light, making it look like glossy obsidian. She wore it pulled into a firm top knot like her old Master’s. It was sleek and precise, save for the two loose strands that swayed from her hairline to get in her eyes. Saryn liked the loose strands. They reminded her of the less meticulous Torr from their youth. 

IC jabbered in a rapid flurry of digitized beeps and whines. 

Saryn’s skin prickled at its urgency. “Can you decrypt it?” 

IC chirped in affirmation.
A hologram flickered on, replacing the map. It was grainy, and a low hum of static garbled the sound, but Saryn could make out a cloaked humanoid shape. 

“Clean it up, Icy,” she said. 

The droid complained but did as it was told. The hologram flickered again and reappeared clearer this time, though the speaker’s voice was still slightly distorted. Saryn could now determine that the speaker was a woman. Her pallid face was cast in shadow from her heavy hood, but her angular jaw and dark lips were vaguely discernible. Her voice was low and husky when she spoke. 

“...on my way now to collect the prototype,” the woman drawled, “Have it ready to test on the surface. If this experiment proves effective, I’ll be sure to inform Lord Dooku.”
Saryn gazed wide-eyed at the hooded woman. The eerie blue hologram hovered before them like a shade and seemed to have leeched all the warmth from the room. 
“This weapon will put an end to the threat of clone troopers,” the hologram mused.

A sickly, cold dread gnawed Saryn’s senses. She looked to Torr and knew she felt it too. Her eyes were sharp and narrow as she stared at the phantom. 

“Trace it,” Torr ordered.

IC warbled, and the hooded woman was replaced by a projected star chart. The signal source pinged in orbit around Jotnari Prime. 

“Where is she going?” she demanded.

IC whined. 

“Well, can you figure out where her message was being sent to?” she pressed.

IC started whirring and working away beneath the terminal. 

Saryn exhaled. Trying to regain a sense of equilibrium.

“I want to see that message again,” Alor said.

The hologram replayed, and Saryn caught sight of him through the projected woman. His face was dark with concern.

“A weapon that targets clones?” he said, low and strained.

She’d regained her composure and found her voice. “Get Master Mundi, would you?” 

“Yes, sir.” Alor strode swiftly from the room, his armoured boots drumming on the deck.

Torr faced Saryn. “You sensed it too,” Torr said. It wasn’t a question.

“Yes.” 

“Could that be the one we’ve heard about?” Torr wondered, “The assassin?” 

Saryn studied the woman’s shadowed face. “Whoever she is, she’s steeped in darkness.” 

The doors slid open, and the Cerean Jedi Master appeared, his earth-toned robes swishing behind him as he strode in. 

“Show me,” Master Mundi commanded.

IC replayed the message, and Mundi’s sallow face darkened with each word the woman spoke. 

“An agent of Dooku,” he said, “So she’s the one leading this attack. I feared as much.” He threaded his fingers through his white beard, thoughts storming behind his eyes. Then he looked back to Saryn and Torr. “I’ll inform the High Jedi Council. Torr, relay this message to Master Krell.”

Torr nodded curtly. 

“Ready some of your Condors to pursue this agent,” he went on, “We must delay her in obtaining this weapon.” 

“Yes, Master,” Torr said.

Saryn stepped forward. “Master, wait.”

Mundi's eyes met hers. “Padawan?”

“We shouldn’t send clones,” she said.

Mundi’s long white brows drew together as he studied her. 

“This agent of Dooku said the weapon will put an end to the clones,” Saryn said, “We must assume that it’s a particular risk to them. The wiser course of action here would be to send a non-clone.”

“Send you, you mean?” 

Saryn hesitated. “It doesn’t have to be me, Master, but a Jedi would be best.” 

Mundi nodded slowly. “I understand your concerns, Padawan. I’ll discuss this with the Council. I’m sure they can deploy some Jedi from the Temple to pursue the agent and her weapon.” 

“From the Temple? But, Master, aid from the Core won’t arrive in time.”

Alor shifted and said, “Commander Saryn has a point, General Mundi.”

Mundi glanced over his shoulder at the captain, contemplating. 

“The Separatist agent will get away,” Alor insisted.

“Time is against us,” Saryn pressed, “Send me, Master. My duties here are done and if I can’t lead the scouts on the ground, then allow me to at least do this.”

“I can’t risk a Padawan,” Mundi said. 

“Better to risk one life to save many,” Saryn countered. 

Mundi searched her eyes. “Be mindful of your emotions, young one,” he advised, “they muddy you. Just as rain ruins a weak roof, so too does passion ruin a weak mind.”

Saryn swallowed. “Yes, Master.” 

Mundi’s eyes softened. “You will have your chance to prove yourself, Padawan,” he said, “but I can make no decision without first convening with the Council.”

Saryn opened her mouth to object, but Alor caught her eye, and she thought better of it.

Mundi glanced around the room and then dipped his elongated head. “Resume your duties,” he said and then swept from the room, his long white ponytail trailing behind him. 
Saryn clutched her robe, wringing it in frustration as she stared after him. She could feel Torr eyeing her with something between sympathy and condescension. 

“You should be more acquiescent,” Torr said.

Saryn dropped her robe and turned to glare at the holotable. “Acquiescence won’t stop this weapon from reaching the surface," she said, "Acquiescence won’t get me through that storm.” 

“Saryn,” Torr warned.

Saryn looked up at her. “You’re supposed to be contacting Master Krell.” 

Torr’s eyes narrowed, and she considered Saryn for a moment. Then she turned and headed for the bridge. 

“Captain,” she barked, “With me.” 

As Torr and Alor departed, IC emerged from beneath the terminal, and the Separatist woman dissolved back into the map. Saryn gazed down at the ghostly projection of the trenches and weighed the consequences in her mind. 

─── 𓆩⟡𓆪 ───

The hangar was loud with the thud of boots and whir of machinery as mechanic clones, astromechs, and load-lifter droids readied the starfighters and gunships. Saryn glided across the deck with feigned confidence, letting her charcoal cloak billow behind her with authority.

IC warbled as it repositioned its perch on her shoulders. 

“Relax,” she told it.
She passed a clone dressed in a utilitarian jumpsuit and orange vest. He ducked out of her way, pressing a datapad to his chest. She raised her chin, her silver hair stirring with each step as it swirled down her back, and strode brazenly toward Master Mundi’s starfighter. She came to a stop beside the mechanic. The clone glanced up from his readout and stared at her through his goggles.

“Commander Saryn,” he said uncertainly.
She studied the mechanic for a moment, racking her brain. Then it came to her. “‘Torx,’ wasn’t it?”

The clone flushed. “Yes, sir.” 

“You’ve done a marvellous job prepping Master Mundi’s Interceptor, Torx,” she told him. It was true. The ship was in perfect working order.

Torx dipped his head graciously. “Thank you, sir.” 

Saryn scanned the sleek single-person craft, doing her best to maintain her mask of confidence.
“Are the hyperspace rings in place in case he needs them?” she asked.

“Yes, Commander.” 
Saryn extended her hand, and Torx quickly handed over his datapad. She flipped it over and pretended to read it. 
“Between you and me,” she said, dropping her volume so he had to lean in to hear her, “there’s a bottle of spotchka hidden under the incense diffuser in the meditation room.” She looked up and saw her fake smile in his goggles. “I think you and the mechanics earned some.” 

Torx shot a furtive look toward the lift. 

“Go on, luv,” she urged conspiratorially, “I won’t tell.” 

Torx grinned and hastened away. He caught another mechanic by the elbow and murmured in his ear. The two headed for the lift, leaving Saryn alone with the starfighter. She dropped her smile and set the datapad on a supply crate. She jostled the droid on her shoulder.

“Hurry,” she hissed to IC.

IC scrambled from her shoulder and onto the glossy red and white hull. It scampered across the ship and crawled into the astromech dock. The domed head peered back out, fixing her with its large blue photoreceptor and whined.

“I know it’s too big,” Saryn said hastily, “Just magnetize and lock yourself in.” 
IC beeped in protest.

“We can always bring an astromech along.” 

IC intoned, and Saryn sighed in exasperation.

“They’re not bullies. You pick fights. And then you lose those fights.”

There was an indiscernible stream of beeps and warbles from the dock, and Saryn plunged her fingers into her hair.
“Fine,” she groaned, “Ride in the cockpit with me then. I don’t care—just hurry.”

“Commander.” 

Saryn jumped and whipped around in a flurry of fabric. 

“Alor!” she exclaimed before dropping her voice. “Captain. Shouldn’t you be on the bridge?” 

“Shouldn’t you be in the navigation room?” Alor replied.

Saryn pursed her lips. He loomed above her, his sleepless eyes trailing over her face. His eyeline strayed past her, and his forehead creased.

“This is General Mundi’s starfighter,” he said.

“Yes,” Saryn said, trying to forge more confidence, “Mine wasn’t prepped, and Torr’s will likely be in use soon, so...” 

He sighed. “Look, I know why this has to be done, but why you?” His dark brows drew together. “And why like this?” 

Saryn dropped the pretense. “You know why,” she said.

“But you’re supposed to be in intelligence and navigation.”

She shrugged that off. “Icy and I hacked the Separatists’ communications. With that frequency, the technicians should be able to extend our comms. But until we break that cloud cover, I can’t even do my duty as a Commander on the surface.” Saryn sighed and steeled her resolve. “But I can do this.” 

“On your own?” 

“No.” Saryn’s smile returned, real this time. “I’ll have Icy with me.” 

IC cooed.

The smile he returned was strained. “I’d offer to go with you—”

“You’re Torr’s captain,” she said, “not mine.”

“Be that as it may...” his dark eyes were heavy with concern. “I’d assist you if I weren’t a clone.” 

“It’ll be fine, Alor,” she assured him.

Saryn climbed onto the starfighter’s wing. Alor gazed up at her, his jaw tense with discomfort. She offered him her most comforting smile.

“I’ll be fine,” she insisted, “No need to worry.” 

He scoffed. “I’m gonna worry, sir.” 

Saryn laughed lightly as she settled into the cockpit. IC clambered in after her, scomping into the controls. She wondered if her laugh had been to ease his worries or her own.

“I’ll cover for you,” Alor said.

“That’s not necessary.”

“I insist, sir.” 

Saryn eyed him dubiously. “You’re going to lie to Master Mundi?” 

His lips tightened, and the furrow between his brows deepened. “...if I have to.” 

Saryn snorted. “The Kaminoans didn’t train you boys to lie.” 

“We’re quick learners, sir,” he said. 

She gave him one last smile of reassurance. “I’ll be back before you know it, luv.” 

The airtight canopy slid closed, and the starfighter hissed as it pressurized—Saryn’s ears popped. She glanced through the transparisteel at the captain lingering in the hangar. His face was lined with unease as Saryn powered up the fighter. His worry dragged an ache of guilt from her chest, but she pushed it down. She returned her attention to the controls, activated the HUD and scanned the star chart. She took a bracing breath. She didn’t need to coddle him. No clone trooper could help her now, but she would still prevent death, as was her duty as a Jedi. 

“Let’s go, Icy.” 

The droid cooed, and Saryn launched the fighter.

They glid through the pale cyan glow of the ray shields and into the silent expanse of space beyond. They rose above the colossal starship and drifted into a hyperspace ring suspended in the void. They docked within the ring with a dull metallic clank. Behind her, the frozen world of Jotnari Prime floated helplessly in the dark. Beneath the swirling blizzard soldiers were rejoining the Force. No prototype weapon would hasten their deaths so long as the Jedi remained. 
Saryn input the coordinates of the general vicinity of the transmission's endpoint and let IC formulate their route. The droid cooed, and Saryn gripped the controls tight. She pushed forward, and everything lurched. They jumped, and the stars around her streaked and smeared as they were pulled from reality into the kaleidoscopic tunnel of hyperspace. 

─── 𓆩⟡𓆪 ───

Chapter Text

✦Chapter Three✦

Infiltrated

Space; The Outer Rim

✧Saryn

They dropped from hyperspace, and reality shuddered back into view. Suddenly motionless in the lazy, sparkling abyss, Saryn stared down their target. Before them was an asteroid field drifting aimlessly in the aether.

“We’re still in the sector,” she noted, flicking her eyes over the star chart. The signal pinged soundlessly on the HUD, luring them into the maze of rock and ice. She scanned the Enemy Proximity Array and found the scopes were clear.

“No signs we’ve been locked onto,” Saryn said, “do you scan anything out there?”

IC chirped, radial disk rotating on the dome of its head. It calculated for a moment before warbling.

“A space station?” Her eyes narrowed. “What affiliation?”

But then it drifted into view, and she no longer needed the droid’s answer. The station was a collection of spires and hives, oblong and coppery. Eerie green and violet lights flickered from the viewports.

“Techno Union.”

An elegant starfighter with a scarlet solar sail glided soundlessly into the hangar’s open jaws. Only a sheer green ray shield separated the hangar from the vacuum of space.

“That must be our quarry,” Saryn said, “Master Dooku’s agent.” She could vaguely see the shadow of the starcraft through the force field.

Saryn swerved the starfighter away from the station and carefully landed it on an asteroid, locking the struts down on the porous surface. Space debris lazed past to bump against the shielded hull of the station. She tapped the terminal with restless fingers. They were running out of time.

“What’s the composition of this asteroid?” Saryn asked the droid.

IC chittered and beeped, circuits whirring.

“Alright,” she said, “I want you to power down everything but essential life support systems.” She shed her charcoal cloak and removed the bandolier she’d concealed beneath. “We’re going to ride this rock through their sensors. Let the heavy metals within hide our signal. Like Master Kenobi did in the Abrion Sector.”

Saryn set her lightsaber, the bandolier, and its collection of explosives on the seat. She then twisted in the cockpit to reach the storage compartment behind her. IC warbled and started powering down the ship, scomp rotating in the terminal as it worked. Saryn dragged a grey flight suit from the compartment and hastily worked it over her boots.

“We’ll need a smidge of propulsion,” she grunted as she stuffed her tabard robe into her waistbelt. “Just enough to propel us towards the hangar.”

IC intoned.

“ Relax ,” Saryn advised, a bit sharper than she’d intended. “The Force is with us.”

IC coordinated a small jet from the ship, nudging the asteroid forward through the void before powering down the engines. They floated soundlessly. Saryn fastened up her suit and pressurized it. IC garbled at her, and she returned a reluctant smile.

“No. You’re right,” she said as they drifted closer to the looming station, “Clone gear would’ve been better. Next time, I’ll steal a Y-Wing.”

The droid made a garbled cackle of laughter.

Saryn reached under her seat and produced the emergency respirator. It would only give her twenty minutes of oxygen, but she would have nowhere near that long without a full helmet. She secured it in place and configured the hoses into her suit. She took a sharp breath of stale air and looped the bandolier over her shoulder. Sweeping her thick silver hair into a bun, she put on the thick mantel cap, flattening her ears against her head, and sealed it tight.

The asteroid bumped against the space station, just below the hangar bay. The energy shield rippled like oiled water across the durasteel hull. Saryn latched her hilt to the bandolier and shrugged her cloak back on.

“We get one shot, Icy,” she whispered to her droid.

IC chirped and turned the controls. Saryn let out her breath.

The canopy hissed open, and she was weightless. Her stomach was floating in her gut, and she was hot and cold all at once. She grasped the droid and hugged it against her chest. Ten seconds. That’s all they had.

One.

Saryn focused the Force in and around her and launched herself from the cockpit.

Two.

IC engaged its jets.

Three.

They connected with the hull, and the probe anchored its front legs to the steel with a magnetic hum. Saryn’s gloves clung to the droid’s tiny carapace.

Four.

They climbed. Saryn’s skin was tight and tingling. Sucking—swelling—all at once.

Five.

She was light, but everything was heavy. Great hands had encased her and begun to squeeze.

Six.

Pressure.

Seven.

They crested the wall and peered over the ledge, but Saryn’s eyes were clouded. IC was her tether, the only thing keeping her from tumbling soundlessly into oblivion.

Eight.

The droid towed her through the shield, and she was jerked violently to the floor. She lay sprawled, stunned, trembling. Then she shoved onto her hands and knees and stared through the fogged visor of the breath mask.

IC had pulled her through the shield behind a repulsorlift laden with crates. Saryn depressurized and pulled the mask and mantle free. The artificial gravity left her slow and sluggish after she’d flirted with the vacuum of space. She blinked rapidly. Her face was puffy and her eyes dry, but she had no time to acclimate.

She peered past the crates and spotted a patrol of battle droids clanking across the hangar. Their sleek, brassy shells reflected the murky green lights of the bay, making them seem like great bipedal insects. They marched past the agent’s starship. On closer inspection, Saryn recognized the craft as a Ginivex-Class Fanblade—a Geonosian creation, like the droids.

The woman must be the assassin the Jedi Masters spoke of.

Saryn scanned the hold. Shuttles, cargo, depowered battle droids... It looked like any other Separatist hangar, and yet. There was a gnawing chill, a prickling on the edge of her senses as though a nexu had caught her scent and was lurking just out of sight. She sensed death.

Saryn closed her eyes and focused on the Force. It hummed within her, around her, harmonizing with the kyber she carried with her. Her crystal sang within her lightsaber hilt, soothing and grounding.

There is no emotion; there is peace.

She was here in the moment, awake and ready to serve.

She flicked open her eyes and detached a thermal detonator from her bandolier. This station was manned by droids, yet even still, the Force was present. She focused on the rumbling essence of the galaxy all around and called it to her aid. The detonator rotated on her palm and then floated as she had done beyond the ray shield. It levitated before her, and she willed it onward, sending it hovering across the hold. She held out her hand, guiding its course, visualizing its path. She urged it onto the hull of the Fanblade and closed her hand, squeezing the detonator’s magnetic clamp into place.

Saryn exhaled and let the Force ebb away.

“See a way past the battle droids?” she asked IC-11.

The probe was scanning the hold. It chirped and pawed an appendage upwards. Saryn followed the gesture and spotted the grated cover of a maintenance shaft.

“Perfect.”

She reached through the Force and pulled. The grate creaked and the metal bent. She wrested it from the wall with a violent jerk and sent it flying to the other end of the hanger. The vent crashed into some crates with a clamour. The battle droids marched off to investigate. Seizing her chance, Saryn dashed up the wall and scrambled into the vent.

The maintenance shaft was narrow and stank of fuel and plasma. Saryn was forced to clamber through the winding warren of cables and tubes on all fours. IC wormed its way under her and scurried off ahead. It projected a beam of blue light, scanning and displaying a topographical hologram before itself as it went. Saryn crawled after it through the bowels of the station. The pipes hissed acrid fumes that made her eyes water. Above her, the massive bulk of the station groaned.

IC directed its ray of light upward through a narrow tube. It whirred.

“Up there?” Saryn said, wishing she’d heard it wrong.

IC chirped and engaged its repulsers, hovering up.

Saryn sighed and contorted her body at the bend. She pulled her legs beneath her and writhed up into the shaft. There were no rungs for handholds here. It was intended for astromechs and mouse droids, not a Sephi.

She grasped a pipe by its fitting, braced her feet on the wall of the shaft, and heaved herself upward after the droid. The tubing was oily and rusted, making her hands slide treacherously down the length, but the traction of her gloves held her up. They climbed for what felt like an age. It was slow going, hauling herself metre by metre up through the decks. Saryn took a measured breath of noxious air and craned her neck to peer after IC-11’s distant glow. The droid stopped and anchored itself to a mass of cables.

“What’s wrong?” Saryn called as she neared.

The droid guttered irritably, and Saryn squinted through the steam. The access hatch was closed. She took another foul breath and lodged herself in the tube with her back pressed hard against the wall. She chose not to think about the fall should she slip. She fumbled her fingers along the hatch, searching for a handle, but came up empty.

“It must be opened through a terminal,” she said.

IC beeped sarcastically, and Saryn ignored it.

There was no way she could ignite her lightsaber in such a cramped space. She’d probably hit a fuel line and die of immolation. Not a pleasant thought, but it was one way to destroy the station if all else failed.

“Icy, can you slice the circuits?”

The droid warbled and scanned the wires.

Saryn’s body was cramping. The grinding of mechanical systems vibrated the greasy metal around her. Her head was heavy, and her limbs weak. She knew the exposure to the vacuum had burst capillaries in her eyes and skin, and dangling over a sheer drop wasn’t doing much to help her recover.

“Don’t mean to rush you, luv, but I’m not sure how much longer I can hold myself up here.”

IC whirred and sheared a cable with its appendage. The cable spat sparks as the droid cut another. It started fusing wires and prying back corroded sheets of metal. It hummed a mechanized ditty Sen used to sing as it worked.

Saryn’s boot slipped a centimetre on the wall. The fumes were making her dizzy.

“ Icy …”

The hatch slid open with a click of gears, and Saryn shoved herself through. She surfaced in a control room and blinked in the sickly green light.

A humanoid RA-7 protocol droid was at the terminal. It turned its large, bug-like face on the Jedi crawling out of the floor and exclaimed in horror.

“Icy!” It was all Saryn had to say for the probe to act.

Before the protocol droid could sound the alarm, IC launched from Saryn’s shoulders and landed on it like a spider. The small probe gripped the RA-7’s head with its appendages, sending the droid into a complete panic. Unperturbed by the struggling, IC stabbed its scomp into the back of the RA’s head with a spit of sparks. The protocol droid’s voice became garbled, and its lights flickered and dimmed. It slumped against the terminal.

“You sliced it?” Saryn asked as she smoothed out her cloak.

IC chirped.

“Good job, luv.” She swept across to the terminal. “Access its memory bank and find out what’s going on here. We need to destroy the weapon.”

She booted up the computer terminal, and IC warbled the access codes.

“The laboratory is on the deck directly below us,” Saryn said.

IC chirped a suggestion, but Saryn shook her head.

“No,” she said, “the lift will be monitored, and I’d rather not run across battle droids or that Separatist Agent. Wipe that droid’s memory.”

Saryn attached a detonator to the terminal and turned to assess the deck. She strode across the durasteel and surveyed the construction. She stomped, and the metal gave a hollow clang. IC chirped from the depowered protocol droid as Saryn pulled the tarnished hilt from the bandolier. She felt her crystal singing through her leather grip and almost smiled.

She ignited her lightsaber and bathed the room in teal as her sword came alive in a blaze of light. She stabbed the hot plasma blade into the floor, and the durasteel shrieked. The metal warped and glowed. She cut through, carving a bevelled circle beneath her boots. The floor groaned and then dropped. Saryn rode the broken flooring to the deck below. They landed with a deep, metallic boom.

She doused her blade, and the room was plunged into semidarkness. Only a shaft of the fluorescent green from the control room above offered any visibility. The room was cold and sterile. Saryn’s breath misted before her face. The cold didn’t quite reach her through her layers of cloak, flight suit, and robes, but her cheeks tingled and pinkened from the chill.

IC hovered down after her and landed on her shoulders, chirping.

“Refrigerated. Yes. I can feel that. What are they storing here? Tibanna gas?”

IC-11 crawled from one shoulder to the other, scanning. The blue light it cast illuminated rows of beds lining the walls. They took in bed after bed with humanoid shapes asleep beneath the sheets. No. Not asleep. Saryn sensed no life here—only cold.

“This is a morgue,” she said.

She approached the nearest bed and tugged back the sheet. The corpse was human. He was stiff and frigid. The dark, hooded eyes were open and glassed over, his broad nose drew no breath, and his tawny skin was now pallid and bloodless.

A clone.

It was Alor’s face. Bacara’s face. It was Weaver, Sketch, and Briggs. All the men she’d fought alongside thus far gazed back at her from those dead eyes.

Saryn turned sharply to the cadaver behind her. She pulled back the sheet. Clone. She dashed to another body, then another and another.

Clones, all of them clones.

“What is this?”

IC scanned the bodies, analyzing them, then warbled.

“Sickness?” she echoed, “This isn’t a medical station. It’s a weapons facility they—” Saryn stared into the dead eyes. “ Oh no. ”

She reignited her sabre and raised it aloft to spread the light. The morgue was vast. The beds stretched the span of the room. She counted more than a hundred before her throat grew tight. Grated ventilation along the walls puffed icy air into the space. She spotted a door at the far end of the room and swept towards it. She hit the control panel with the pommel of her sword, and it shot open. Beyond lay the laboratory.

Vials and beakers cluttered the surfaces, and mechanized appendages hung from the ceiling for automated testing. A metal slab of an operating table lay empty with the restraints hanging open and a depowered med-droid was compacted into a charging booth inlaid in the wall.

“Icy,” Saryn began as before, and the droid scuttled off to probe its mind.

She scanned the readouts, taking in the unthinkable extent of experiments that had taken place. She doused her blade and switched on the primary terminal. Screens displaying X-rays of clotted lungs and microscopic images of mutated cells produced the majority of the light, giving the lab a sickly pallor.

The screen lit up, and green text began scrolling before her eyes. Saryn read rapidly, and each word brought with it more horror. Breathing uneasily, she activated her comm, transmitting through IC’s long range transponder and waited.

After what felt like hours, Master Mundi answered.

He flickered to life, projected by the probe to join her in the cold room with Captain Alor and Commander Bacara at his side.

“ Padawan Saryn, ” the Cerean said, and his expression made her quail with guilt.

“Master Mundi,” she said with practiced calm.

“ You disobeyed a direct order— ”

“With respect, Master, there’s no time for that. I’ve tracked Dooku’s agent to a Techno Union station. I’ve found the weapon.”

Mundi’s disappointment was set aside. “ What have you found? ”

“Master,” Saryn said, “it’s a virus.”

“ Come again? ”

“They’ve manufactured a weaponized virus that targets the DNA of our troopers,” she said, “They’re using the cloud seeders to simulate a controlled environment for a wide-scale experiment.”

Mundi’s eyes grew sharp. “ So, the storm? ”

Saryn nodded. “They plan on deploying the virus on the planet as a field test to see how well it spreads in extreme conditions.”

“ That’s why they want it cold, ” Alor said.

“ General Mundi, ” Bacara said, “ This weapon must be destroyed. ”

“ Yes. ” Mundi stroked his beard, his eyes heavy with worry. “ Yes, of course it must. There’s no time to waste. Padawan? ”

“Yes, Master. I brought thermal detonators. Icy’s wiped the protocol droid’s memory, and we have access to the laboratory’s terminal to do a full system erasure.”

“ Good. ”

“This explains why the Separatists allowed some of our forces to land before deploying the cloud cover,” Alor said bitterly, “They needed lab rats. ”

“ We should alert General Krell of this development, ” Bacara said.

“ He’s already ordered the march on the power plant, ” Alor replied, “ He’s out of range. ”

“ But those men down there have no idea what’s coming for them, ” Bacara stressed.

“It won’t catch them,” Saryn swore. She primed another explosive, fixing it in place on the laboratory terminal.

“ Ensure all traces of this bioweapon are destroyed, ” Mundi commanded as Saryn input the order to erase all computer data.

“I will, Master,” she vowed.

But that was when she saw him. He was tucked away in the corner, curled up behind his knees, hidden from her by a wall of glass. Saryn’s breath was stolen as though she’d fallen back into space.

“Master,” she said, “one of the clones is still alive.”

Mundi’s response barely registered as she stared at the quarantined clone.

“ Is he infected? ”

“I think so, Master.”

Mundi was quiet for what felt like an eternity. “ Put him down, Padawan. ”

Saryn tore her eyes from the clone to stare at the Jedi Master.

“He’s unarmed,” she protested, “he’s sick.”

“ This illness threatens the entire army, ” Mundi reasoned. “ Keep him alive, and you endanger every trooper in the galaxy, even the cadets back on Kamino. You know it’s better to take one life to save the lives of many. Don’t risk everything for one clone. ”

Saryn cut the transmission.

Take? Jedi don’t take life. They protect it.

She pressed the command to wipe the terminal and started towards the containment cell as if in a trance. She sunk to her knees before him.

“Hey,” she said softly, “hey, luv, can you hear me?”

His head was shaved, leaving only a faint silvery stubble on his scalp. She might’ve believed him to be another among the dead if he hadn’t lifted his face to look at her.

“Yes,” he rasped, “I can hear you, Jedi.”

Those familiar brown eyes were sunken into his skull, and his naturally tawny complexion was washed out, sallow and pale. Raised, blackened veins throbbed at his temples and throat. He was shirtless and emaciated, his broad ribcage making his waist seem even tinier.

“Do you have a name, luv?” she asked.

“Clipper,” he told her.

He reached for Saryn from behind the glass. She placed her hand on the window dividing them, and he pressed his palm to hers.

“I’m going to get you out of here, Clipper.”

Her hand was cold.

─── 𓆩⟡𓆪 ───