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Chapter Text

Too many men were dead, and Bly felt that any moment he would be next. 

The mission on Quell had been a disaster, with General Skywalker injured and half of Bly's brothers killed. Their clankers had a new weapon that was ruthless, and now Bly was stuck with Skywalker's padawan behind a boulder, using the giant mass to shield themselves from blaster shots. 

“What are we going to do?” Tano asked, whipping her head around to look at him. All she had was her lightsaber, and it was clutched to her chest. “Go around them?”

“General Aayla said that reinforcements will be arriving shortly, we just need to hold our position,” He replied, peeking over the rock. 

A tank was approaching them with at least a platoon of B1’s in front of it.  Even with a Jedi, Bly didn’t want to risk it. 

“Our position is about to get flattened out,” Tano muttered, igniting her lightsaber. “We can afford to let them move up just a bit, but we’re going to die if we wait here.” Bly knew she was right, with the reinforcements they would have no problem with this. They just had to get out of the way.

“Alright,” Bly muttered, getting into a crouch. “We’ll go through the trees, and wait. Hope you know how to climb.” Tano shot him a look, the white mark where her eyebrow would be raised. 

“I’m literally a Togruta,” She said. “Of course I know how to climb.” Bly rolled his eyes under his helmet and raised his hand, signaling her to follow him. 

They crawled to the end of the boulder, before waiting. The droids were stupid, it wouldn’t take long for them to argue with each other and then give Bly and Tano the moment to get to the trees. 

“Hey! Where did you get that mark from?” One of the stupid clankers yelled. 

“Haha, it’s my battle scar! I’m a war hero!”

“War hero? You got that scratch from falling off a crate.” 

Bly looked back at Tano, flicking his hand forward, telling her to run. She nodded and darted off towards the trees, completely undetected. 

“How do you know where I got this from? I got it after battling against a Jedi! I was brave while you guys were by the tank!”

‘Kraffing pieces of crap,’ Bly thought as he followed Tano who was already up on the tree. He used his grappling gun to swing onto the branch. He landed with a soft thud, waiting a moment, before swinging to another branch with Tano. They got a few trees away before stopping, staying silent until the platoon seemed to have gotten further away. 

“Good job kid,” Bly said, putting his grappling gun away. “Now we just have to wait.”

Tano nodded, sitting down on the branch and letting her legs hang. “If Skyguy was here, we probably would’ve attacked the droids from here.”

Bly raised an eyebrow from under his helmet. Skywalker was insane, but that insane? 

“I don’t think Skywalker is doing anything like that for a while,” Bly stated. “The medics are probably hovering over him as we speak.” If there was something that was more fierce than a Jedi, it would be a medic. Those guys were crafted in hell. 

“Kix and Corric strapped me to the stretcher one time!” Tano said excitedly, turning to him. Her legs began to swing softly. “It was a scrape! A kriffing scrape and they threaten to knock me out! I didn’t even know the stretchers had straps on them!”

“When I was a cadet, I broke my arm and they didn’t let anyone touch me,” Bly told her, lips twitching upwards at the memory. “Wolffe was pissed, Fox said that they sedated him but I don’t think anything can sedate Wolffe when he’s got a fire lit under his shebs.” 

“You’re friends with Wolffe?” Tano asked. 

“We’re batch brothers, him, Ponds, Gre, Cody, Fox, and I. Known them for as long as I can remember.” 

“So Commander Fox is like your twin?” Tano said, making a face. “Seriously? He’s so, I don’t know, sad? And you seem ok. Cody’s ok too.”

Bly let out a laugh. “What about Wolffe? You’ve known him for a while right?”

“Wolffe berates me for everything! I can see how he and Fox are from the same batch, Cody said they’re both nitpicky!” Bly smiled to himself. He hadn’t spoken to Fox in a little bit, he made a mental note to contact his vod the minute they reached Coruscant. 

“Yeah, Fox is a nitpick,” He admitted, thinking fondly of his brother. “Wolffe always has something to say about him, but Cody’s right, they’re both nitpicky. I once saw them take down Ponds just with their words. They kept following him around, telling him to get new armor that he threw his old helmet at them before getting a new one.”

“Wolffe made me want to shove my lightsaber up his shebbs,” Tano muttered, making a face. “He can’t shut up, and he’s a hypocrite! He’ll tell Master Plo that he’s going to lock him in the medbay but won’t go to get his blaster wound checked!” She continued to rant, naming numerous times that Wolffe was apparently a hypocrite. Bly stayed silent, feeling a little bit of relief in his chest. 

Aayla had expressed concern about Tano, saying that she was too stressed over Skywalker's injuries. It didn’t take Bly long to realize she was right. He was glad he could help, even if it meant bashing Wolffe and Fox in the process. 

‘Is it bashing if it’s the truth?’ Bly thought, before turning to look back at the platoon.

He felt his heart drop when he noticed that tank pointed at them. 

His mouth opened, hand reaching out to push her but it was too late. One of the droids yelled fire, and the shot was headed towards them.

“MOVE!” Bly screamed, pushing her off as the blast hit them. He heard her scream as they went flying through the trees. Bly landed on the ground, hearing a crunch and pain spreading through his shoulder. His head was ringing as he pushed himself up, his entire body burning as she heard more blasts come from behind him. 

He couldn’t see in one of his eyes, yet he was still able to see Tano’s body lying just a few feet in front of him. She was shaking, but not getting up. 

“Tano,” Bly whispered, reaching her despite the pain in his body. “Hey, come on, look at me.” He let go of his arm, touching her body and he felt his heart stop. 

She had a tree branch sticking out of her stomach. There was blood dripping from her mouth and her arm was bent in an unnatural way. 

“H-Hurts—B-Bly—” she rasped, her voice breaking as blood bubbled up, choking her words. Fat, helpless tears spilled down her face, wide eyes locked on him, pleading. “I-I can’t… it hurts—”

Bly felt sick. He didn’t know what to do, what could he even do?

“Kriff,” He muttered, swallowing the lump that had grown in his throat. “Ok, no it’s ok. We’re going to get you help, ok?” She didn’t say anything, just continued to stare at him with those big blue eyes. 

"This is Commander Bly," he rasped into his comlink, gritting his teeth against the pain. "Commander Tano and I were struck by enemy fire—a tank round. Commander Tano’s injuries are critical. Requesting immediate medevac support." There was a distorted response, and Bly realized that his comlink was broken. 

“Osik,” Bly muttered, squeezing his eyes shut. He reopened them and there was so much more blood. “Tano, can you please say something.” He got no response. “Ahsoka, Ahsoka I need you to say something to me.” Her eyes seemed to refocus and she let out a whimper.

He needed to get her help, she was going to die if he didn’t find a medic. Bly felt a sense of unease hit after thinking that. 

Bly would have to leave her there to find a medic, his arm was in no condition to carry her, and even if it was he didn't want to even dare to move her, not when there was a branch sticking out of her stomach.

“I’m going to get you help,” Bly forced out, letting out a shudder as he forced his arm to move. A pain began to spread through his ribs, indicating that they were definitely broken. “But you need to stay awake for me, ok?” 

He felt his stomach drop when she didn’t respond, but when he looked down to her unbroken arm he saw she was pushing her lightsabers towards him.

Through rasping breaths, she struggled, blood bubbling at her lips, "T-Take…this," she managed, voice barely a whisper. "P-Please…take them." A shuddering gasp escaped, her hand trembling as she held out the object. "G-Give this…to Anakin… it’s…not… your…fault…"

Bly stared at her, his heart pounding as her breathing slowed, each rise and fall of her chest more fragile than the last. "No, kriff, kid... no, don’t do this," he choked out, gripping her hand tightly as her lightsabers slipped from his grasp, hitting the ground with a dull thud. "Please... don’t do this." His voice was barely more than a broken whisper. "Ahsoka, please." She let out one final, shuddering gasp, her eyes widening in a last fleeting spark of life—then her whole body stilled, her hand going limp in his.

Bly’s breath hitched as the realization hit him. 

She was gone. 

Only now has her body grown cold did he see how tiny she was, tiny and lifeless.

His teeth began to clatter together as he heard the tank come closer, his own death was merely hidden by the trees that he was just blown off of. 

Bly had to get out of there, even though at the moment he felt as if he didn’t deserve to live, not when the padawan lay dead on the ground in front of him. He thought about just falling to the ground next to her, letting his rubs puncture his lungs and he can choke to death on his own  blood. 

But then he thought of Wolffe and Cody, of Rex, of Aayla.

They deserved to know how Ahsoka died, they deserved to be able to blame him for all of this. 

“I’m sorry,” Bly whispered, using his good arm to push himself up. He let out a hiss, feeling pain shoot throughout his entire body. “I’m so sorry Ahsoka.” He picked up her lightsabers, remember her final words. 

He would be back for her body. 

Anakin’s eyes snapped open.

His head was ringing as he stared up at the ceiling, mind adjusting to the fact that he was no longer on Quell. He recognized the smell of the medical office, and a warm feeling filled his chest.
He pushed himself up so his back was against the pillow, taking in the hideous hospital gown he was in, the machines, and Obi-wan’s slumped over figure. 

Anakin was taken aback, not expecting his Master to be asleep here. He knew that the man cared but with the state of the war, this was unexpected. 

There was no one else in the room, no Kix or Corric, no medical droid, not even Ahsoka.

He felt his eyes widen. 

‘Ahsoka.’  

She had been so worried about him, the last thing he remembered was her going off to do recon with Commander Bly. 

“Obi-wan,” Anakin said, voice soft, touching his Master’s sleeping figure with his foot. “Hey, wake up.” The man did not stir. Anakin kicked him a little harder. “Wake up.”

Obi-wan jolted awake, sitting up straight. Anakin took in the older man’s red eyes, ruffled hair, and crumpled clothes. 

“Anakin,” His master murmured, rubbing his eyes. “You’re awake.”

“Yeah,” Anakin replied, frowning. There was something wrong, Obi-wan was never this disgruntled. “You ok? How long have you been here?”

Obi-wan froze, his eyes widening before he answered in a shaky voice. “Two days it seems.”

“I was out for two days?”

“I’m afraid so,” Obi-wan replied with a sigh. “Anakin, I need to tell you something, it’s important.”

“I just woke up from a two day coma,” Anakin stated, raising an eyebrow. “Whatever it is, I’m sure it can wait. I need to check on the men and Snips.” Obi-wan seemed to take in a painful breath upon hearing that.

Anakin frowned, before closing his eyes and trying to reach Ahsoka through their bond. Maybe she could come in here and drag Obi-wan out before he bore him to death with council business. He felt his stomach twist when he couldn't feel his padawan at all.

“Anakin please.” He looked up at his Master. “I wanted to be the one to tell you this, mainly because I know how you’ll react but I don’t think anyone else currently is in the headspace to explain this to you.” He suddenly felt panic flood his veins as he nodded his head, holding himself back from making any comments. 

Obi-Wan’s voice was low, strained. “Ahsoka’s gone, Anakin. She was killed on Quell.”

A tense, suffocating silence settled between them as the words hung in the air. Anakin’s chest tightened, his breaths coming short and shallow. “What?” he managed, his voice barely audible. “What do you mean she was killed?”

“She was caught in a tank blast. Anakin, I’m–”

But Anakin was already on his feet, ignoring the wires tethered to him. “Anakin, sit down,” Obi-Wan urged, voice edged with worry.

Anakin shook his head, ripping out the IV without a flinch. “You’re lying to me,” he said, his voice cold and fierce. “She wouldn’t… she couldn’t just—no. Ahsoka isn’t dead.” His fists clenched, his gaze sharp and defiant, as though sheer willpower could bend reality to his will.

Obi-wan’s voice was stern yet trembled. “Anakin, you need to sit down, you haven’t been cleared.”

“I’m not sitting down until I see her,” Anakin snapped, his metal hand bawling into a fist. “You can’t just say she’s dead. Because she’s not, she’s fine. She told me that she would come back to make sure I recover- so she can’t be dead because if she was-,” His voice broke off into a hitch, a sob making its way to the front of his throat. 

That means she’s gone. That means his padawan was gone. 

Anakin refused to believe that. 

“Where’s Rex?” He asked, voice demanding and sharp. “I want to hear it from him, he wouldn’t lie to me about this.”

Obi-wan looked shaken up, then he stood up and stepped outside, saying a few words, then coming back in with a familiar blond.

It took Anakin less than a few seconds to register the look on Rex’s face, confirming the truth. 

Rex’s face was a mask of raw, unfiltered grief. His eyes were red-rimmed, haunted, with tear tracks etched into his cheeks, drying in the stale air of the room. His gaze unfocused and distant, hands gripping his helmet so tightly they trembled. Still, even in the grip of overwhelming loss. He didn’t say anything to him, just stared at him with a shaky gaze, still trying to act like the perfect soldier. 

“No,” Anakin whispered, his eyes beginning to burn. “Rex don’t tell me-,” His voice hitched. “Please don’t tell me it’s true.”

Rex’s mouth opened, but nothing came out. He shut it and visibly swallowed, turning his head to the floor. When he looked back up his eyes were filled with guilt, shame, and despair. Anakin waited for him to deny what Obi-wan had said, he waited for him to say that Ahsoka was in the cafe with Fives, trying to take the last of the caf, even though Anakin banned her from drinking it. But the room stayed silent, Rex’s haunting gaze still baring into Anakin’s soul.

“Anakin,” Obi-wan said, bringing a hand to his shoulder. “I am so, so deeply sorry.”

“Rex, tell me what happened.”

Rex’s voice wavered, barely audible, as he finally spoke. “Sir,” he managed, his tone fractured and raw, like he was forcing each word through a tight choke in his throat. “Ahs-Commander Tano was killed after… after she and Commander Bly were hit by a tank round.” He paused, and the room was silent but for the shallow, shaking breaths of both men. It was as though he was grasping for strength, struggling to gather himself, to find the words to continue, even if each one would tear at him. “Commander Tano received…severe injuries,” Rex continued, his voice unsteady, the weight of what he was saying evident in his haunted expression. “She… she didn’t make it.” His eyes dropped, fixed on the floor, but the sorrow and guilt were plain on his face. “I-I’m sorry, sir.”

Anakin felt his breathing begin to quicken as his hands formed into fists. He looked at Rex’s shaken form, then to Obi-wan's exhausted one. He tried to control himself, to not snap at them because he could feel their grief, but he couldn't help it.

“Where is she?” He said through gritted teeth, inhaling sharply through his nose. “Take me to her, now.” Rex’s whole body shuddered as Obi-wan stepped in front of him, placing a hand on Anakin’s arm. 

“We can’t do that Anakin,” His master told him softly. 

“Don’t touch me,” Anakin snapped, pushing Obi-wan off of him. “I-kriff, the last thing I told her was that she wasn’t going to beat my kriffing kill count.” The last thing I said to her. Anakin felt sick. That can’t be right. 

Ahsoka would come in and tell him that she indeed did beat his kill count, and then make him cough up twenty credits so she could buy treats. 

Ahsoka would come back to him, would hug him, she would be there. 

She had to be.

“Captain, you can step out for a moment,” Obi-wan stated. Rex nodded and walked out. Obi-wan sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Anakin please.”

“I need to say goodbye to her,” Anakin said, his jaw trembling. “I can’t- Obi-wan I have to. Where is she?”

“Anakin,” His master snapped, some of the softness in his voice leaving. “I have been-,” His mouth closed, as if his tongue had spikes on it. “We don’t have her body.”

Pure rage flooded through Anakin’s veins as he took a step back from Obi-wan. He couldn’t breathe. It hurt to breathe. His hand squeezed the air tightly, his mind making it believe he had his lightsaber there. 

“When Commander Bly met with the reinforcements, they attacked the droid's platoon. But the tank had completely destroyed the area where she was killed,” Obi-wan explained. “Aayla spent a whole day looking for Ahsoka, believe me Anakin everyone did everything they could but-,”

Anakin kicked the chair Obi-wan had been sitting on over, letting out a noise that could only be described as a mix of a rage filled roar and desperate cry. “Bullshit!” He got near the older man's face, feeling his stomach twisting. “No one did anything Obi-wan! No one did anything and she kriffing died! How the hell did Bly not see the kriffing tank aiming at them? How did he let her get hit? How is he here and she isn’t? He’s more experienced than her, how did he let her die?”

“Anakin this is not Commander Bly’s fault,” Obi-wan stated, narrowing his eyes at him. “He and Ahsoka were trapped and waiting for backup. They were left stranded. He moved Ahsoka to wear he thought they both would be safe.”

“So then it’s Aaylas fault?”

Obi-wan stared at him, his body shaking, before he let his forehead rest in his hand. He let out a sigh, as if this was a task to him. 

“Don’t do that to me Obi-wan,” Anakin spat, the rage inside of him just growing and growing. “Don’t stand there and kriffing act like this is something that’s a pain for you. Ahsoka is dead. She’s dead and-,”

“This is a pain for me too, Anakin!” Obi-Wan practically shouted, his hands flying into the air in a rare display of frustration. His eyes were wide, glinting with a mixture of anger and heartbreak. “It’s a pain for me because she’s dead, because I’m watching you fall apart over her being gone!”

His voice cracked, but he pressed on, his words spilling out faster, each one laden with emotion he could no longer contain. “Aayla came to me the moment she touched down, barely able to speak. She was shaken , Anakin. I made the decision to inform the Council myself because I wanted her to rest after what she witnessed. I have been grieving too.” His voice rose, his face twisting with anguish as he stepped closer to Anakin. 

“But I am not letting my grief push me into playing the blame game!” he continued, his tone both sharp and pleading. “Because that is not what we need right now! Ahsoka deserves more than her memory being reduced to a tool for us to fight with each other!”

Obi-Wan’s hands fell to his sides, trembling slightly as he drew in a shaky breath. He visibly tried to collect himself, his shoulders heaving as he steadied his voice. “I’m sorry, Anakin,” he said, his tone quieter now, but no less raw. “I’m sorry that I failed her. I’m sorry that you have to carry this weight. I failed her too—don’t think for a moment I haven’t been tormented by that.”

His gaze softened, though the tears threatening to spill from his eyes remained stubbornly unshed. “But I cannot let you lose yourself to this grief, Anakin. I cannot.” His voice cracked again, the façade breaking as a single tear slipped down his face. “Ahsoka wouldn’t want that.”

The room fell into an aching silence, Obi-Wan’s last words lingering in the air like an unspoken plea. He stood there, his breath shallow, his eyes fixed on the floor as if looking at Anakin would break him completely. But the tears began to fall anyway, betraying the stoic mask he so desperately clung to.

Unable to face him, Obi-Wan turned his head, his profile catching the light of the room. The tracks of tears glistened on his face, carving through the lines of weariness and guilt etched deep into his features. He didn’t wipe them away, didn’t try to hide them anymore. He simply stood there, vulnerable, exposed.

Anakin stood frozen, the whirlwind of emotions inside him grinding to a halt as he watched the man he once thought unshakable crumble before him. Obi-Wan, his mentor, his brother, his friend—he was crying. And for a moment, Anakin’s anger and grief were eclipsed by the sheer weight of that realization. 

He would never forget the sight of Obi-Wan’s tears, and somehow, it hurt almost as much as losing Ahsoka.

Anakin couldn‘t say anything else, instead he held a teary glare at the wall.

“One of the healers will be in here to clear you,” Obi-wan stated, collecting himself. “After that we can talk about funeral preparations.” And then he left. 

Anakin felt the tears spill over as he sat back down on the bed, his face in his hands. 

“Wolffe don’t do anything stupid,” Cody muttered as they made their way to the medical bay. 

Bly had just returned from his mission on Quell, and through the pipeline they had heard a lot of men had died. Bly was apparently injured too. Cody tried to ask Rex about it, but the younger clone hadn’t answered him, and for some reason both General Plo-koon and Kenobi had just dropped off the face of the planet since the star corps, along with some of the 501st, returned. 

Their actions had made Cody feel uneasy. This would not be the first time the republic had lost a lot of men, nor would it be the last. Rex’s reaction he can excuse, but the Jedi, something was off. 

“I’m not doing anything,” Wolffe stated, sending him an annoyed look. “Just want to make sure he has all his limbs, then ask him what the hell happened.” They usually gave each other time to grieve when things like this happened. However Wolffe lost his patience a day ago and Ponds told Cody to go with him to make sure he didn’t kill a medic droid. 

They stooped in front of the bay’s door, Wolffe letting out a huff before it opened. 

It was empty, minus for Bly who was sitting up on the bed, his right arm in a sling. He had a few stitches on his face, along with a large bruise. Cody winced, before stepping forward. 

Bly looked like he was in pain, making Cody wonder what kind’ve meds were they giving him. 

“Glad to see that you’re alive,” Wolffe stated, letting the door close behind them. “Gar skraan osik lo mhi, vod!” Bly didn’t reply. “Skywalker's been out of commission, Soka hasn’t answered any of my messages, and for some reason Rex hasn’t written a mission report yet, what the hell happened?” 

Bly looked sick, like his intestines were about to spill out from his mouth. His jaw was trembling as he stared at Wolffe, just Wolffe. 

“Are you ok?” Cody asked, looking around for a medic droid but there was none. “I can go get someone if you want-,”

“They didn’t tell you yet?” Bly asked, cutting him off. His voice came off with a strong rasp, and Cody passed him the water cup. Bly didn’t accept it, instead he just kept staring at Wolffe. 

​​”Tell us what?” Wolffe asked, crossing his arms. “I just told you, no one’s told us anything. That’s why we're here.”

“Also because we were worried about you,” Cody added, sending Wolffe a glare. The man ignored it.

Bly’s teeth sunk into his bottom lip as he tilted his head back, eyes squeezing shut. The noises that came out of his mouth sounded like a heartbreaking groan as he seemed to force himself back up. The uneasiness in Cody was now at full swing as he debated whether to call for a medic droid. 

Something wasn’t right here, this was clearly more than just Bly’s body. Whatever had happened on Quell had hurt his mind. 

"Ni ceta, Wol’kika,” Bly whispered, swallowing audibly. “It’s all my fault.”

Now Wolffe had an expression that mirrored Cody’s. “Bly you can’t just say all of that and not give me an explanation.” Bly seemed to have trouble breathing now. 

“I’m going to get a medic,” Cody muttered, his heart ready to burst out of chest. He began to turn around when Bly managed to speak with his dry throat.

“Ahsoka’s dead.”

Cody froze.

The words slammed into him like a physical blow, knocking the air from his lungs. His heart thudded in his chest, but it sounded distant, drowned out by the strange, hollow ringing in his ears. The sterile smell of the medical bay suddenly turned suffocating, choking him as he stared blankly at the ground. He couldn’t think, couldn’t even summon the strength to turn around and face Bly, to ask him if this was some cruel mistake.

Ahsoka’s dead.

The words echoed endlessly in his mind, each repetition carving deeper into him. His throat tightened, and he felt his chest constrict as if the grief itself was trying to crush him from the inside.

“What?” Wolffe’s voice broke through the ringing, sharp and unsteady, but Cody couldn’t move. He wanted to reach out, to say something, to do anything to comfort Wolffe—or maybe even himself—but his body refused to obey. He was paralyzed, rooted to the spot as memories began to flood his mind, unbidden and unstoppable.

He saw her again, the first time they’d met. She was so young, so small, barely reaching his chest, with wide, curious eyes and that cocky little grin that seemed far too confident for someone her size. He’d thought she wouldn’t last a week, let alone survive the war. But Ahsoka had proved him wrong, time and time again, until he’d stopped doubting her at all. 

His breath hitched as the realization hit him like a fresh blow. She isn’t small anymore.

She isn’t anything anymore.

Ahsoka was.

Cody felt his face grow wet, and he raised a hand to wipe the tears that he didn’t even know were forming. 

“Bly what the hell are you talking about,” Wolffe snapped, and Cody finally found the ability to move again. He turned around and saw that the man was closer to Bly’s bed. Bly didn’t answer, instead he closed his eyes and tilted his head up. “Answer me!”

“I’m sorry,” Bly whispered, his voice barely audible, his gaze fixed on the floor, as though looking at them might break him entirely.

Cody’s hands clenched into fists, trembling at his sides. “Wolffe… sit down,” he managed, his voice thick and strained, the words barely making it past the lump in his throat. His heart ached, and his fists felt useless, like they couldn’t hold back the tidal wave of grief threatening to crush them all.

But Wolffe didn’t move. His jaw was tight, his eyes burning with anger and denial as they locked onto Cody. “I’m not doing anything until he starts to karking tell me what is going on,” Wolffe shot back, his voice sharp and trembling at the edges, betraying the cracks in his composure. His hands balled into fists as he took a step closer, his glare fierce and desperate. “’Soka isn’t dead. She’s strong.”

Cody flinched at the conviction in Wolffe’s voice, the raw defiance as if sheer willpower could undo the truth.

“I talked to her before the mission,” Wolffe pressed on, his voice rising, cracking. “She said she was coming back. She said we were going to play cards when she got back.” His breaths were ragged now, his face contorted in anger, but Cody could see it—the cracks widening, the denial shattering beneath the weight of reality. “So don’t karking tell me to sit down, Cody. Don’t you dare.”

The room was heavy with silence, broken only by Wolffe’s ragged breaths as he stared Cody down, his fury a fragile mask for the fear and grief simmering just beneath the surface. Bly’s shoulders sagged, his head dropping lower as if Wolffe’s words only deepened the weight pressing down on him.

Cody wanted to say something, he needed to say something, but the words were lodged in his throat, suffocating him. He could only watch as Wolffe’s defiance wavered, the weight of his own words sinking in, piece by painful piece. The silence stretched, heavy and unbearable, before Wolffe’s fists unclenched, his arms falling limply to his sides.

“No,” Wolffe whispered, his voice breaking, almost inaudible now. “No, she can’t be…” His knees buckled slightly, but he didn’t fall—just stood there, trembling, his face a mixture of disbelief and devastation as his world began to crack apart. “Oh stars.” He drew in a sharp breath, and Cody could tell he was crying by the tears that hit the floor. “She wouldn’t. Bly please don’t tell me-,”

The room went silent, minus Wolffe's struggle to breathe. Cody stared at his brothers, he stared at Wolffe’s crumbling soul and Bly’s defeated form. 

“I’m sorry,” Bly repeated again, it seemed like he could no longer form any other words. Yet every time he said it, it felt like he was stabbing Cody in the stomach. Cody didn’t want Bly to be sorry, he didn’t want him to be sorry for Ahsoka being dead because Ahsoka shouldn’t be dead. 

She should be in the bed next to Bly’s arguing with Wolffe about how she was fine and bringing up a time Wolffe or Cody got injured so she could call them hypocrites again. 

Ahsoka should be alive. 

Cycles Later: Immediately after Boba Fett tries to Murder Mace Windu.

Hunter’s nose scrunched under his helmet as he watched Wrecker hurl yet another kriffing droid into its companion, sending the pair clattering into a heap of sparking limbs.

“Real nice, Wrecker,” Crosshair muttered, his tone dripping with sarcasm. He kept his blaster trained ahead, even though most of the droids were now just smoldering scraps on the floor. The so-called "genius scientist" they were supposed to find had bolted the moment they breached the base, leaving behind a trail of overturned equipment and little else.

Not that it mattered. Their orders weren’t to capture anyone anyway—just to destroy the facility and retrieve whatever intel they could. The mission sounded straightforward enough when it was pitched. The base was small, secluded, and according to intel, held nothing of particular significance. Hunter had assumed it would be a simple in-and-out job.

That was till Omega insisted on coming in with them.

Hunter had immediately vetoed it, saying she needed to stay on the ship. But somehow, every single member of his team had decided to mutiny that day. They’d all chimed in, claiming the mission was too easy to be dangerous and that Omega could handle herself.

Hunter had bitten back his frustration, knowing he was outvoted, but the unease lingered in his chest. Missions like this always seemed simple until they weren’t. And now, as he glanced over to where Omega crouched behind a piece of debris, blaster in hand, his instincts buzzed with that familiar tension. Something about this place felt… off. 

The quiet after the fight was too still, too heavy. Hunter’s enhanced senses prickled, every sound in the room magnified—the faint hum of the destroyed droids’ circuits, the creak of settling debris, and Omega’s steady breathing from her hiding spot. He shifted his weight, scanning the room again.

“Tech,” he called, voice low but commanding. “Find the data we need, fast. We’re not sticking around.”

“Already working on it,” Tech replied, his fingers flying over a datapad he’d pulled from the remains of a console.

Hunter’s grip tightened on his vibroblade as he scanned the shadows. Simple missions didn’t exist—not for them. And he wasn’t about to let today prove him right at Omega’s expense.

The door opened with a soft hiss, revealing a small, dimly lit room. It was bare except for a cot pressed against the wall and—

Hunter froze.

The floor was littered with shattered baby dolls, their heads smashed open, their glassy eyes staring blankly at nothing. The scene was wrong. The air felt wrong.

“Interesting,” Tech muttered, stepping carefully into the room as he adjusted his goggles. “I did not account for a child to be on the base. Separatists generally avoid involving children in their operations due to—”

“Hunter,” Omega’s soft voice cut Tech off mid-sentence.

Hunter turned sharply. She was staring into the corner of the room, her wide eyes locked on a patch of pitch-black shadows that seemed unnaturally deep, as if they were swallowing the dim light entirely. Her face was pale, but her expression was more curious than fearful.

“There’s someone there,” she whispered, her voice trembling just slightly.

Hunter’s gut clenched. His instincts screamed at him that the room was empty, that there was no presence to detect. But Omega wouldn’t lie, and her sensitivity to things they couldn’t perceive often proved unnervingly accurate.

Immediately, their blasters came up, Crosshair stepping closer to Omega protectively.

“I’m not seeing anything,” Crosshair muttered, his sharp eyes scanning the corner, weapon raised. “Kid, what the hell are you seeing?”

Omega didn’t flinch. Instead, she tilted her head slightly, as if listening to something only she could hear. “It’s… she’s a girl,” she said softly, the curiosity growing in her voice. “She’s not going to hurt us.”

“Stay back, Omega,” Hunter ordered, his voice stern, his grip tightening on his blaster. “Get behind me— now. ”

But she ignored him.

“Don’t be afraid,” Omega said gently, stepping toward the shadows. Her hand reached out, trembling but resolute. “It’s okay… You’re safe.”

“Omega, get back! ” Hunter snapped, his voice echoing harshly in the small room.

She didn’t stop. Her fingers disappeared into the darkness, and for a moment, nothing happened. Then, the shadows began to waver, as though a faint breeze was blowing through them. Slowly, they dissolved, evaporating like smoke.

The room grew impossibly still, and they saw her.

A figure crouched in the corner, huddled against the wall. Her skin was pale and streaked with grime, and her lekku and montrals were red and white. Her eyes glowed a deep, unnatural crimson, fixed on the ground as she rocked slightly, whispering to herself. The words were strange, guttural, and rhythmic—Hunter didn’t recognize the language. 

“Brainiac, can you understand her?” Crosshair hissed, his voice low but sharp as he kept his blaster trained on the girl. His eyes darted between the figure in the corner and Omega, his posture tense.

Tech frowned, adjusting his goggles as he observed the scene. “No, I’m afraid not,” he admitted, his voice laced with frustration. “The language appears to be an archaic dialect of the Nightsister tongue. It’s far beyond my expertise.”

The girl couldn’t have been older than fifteen. Her small frame, her crouched posture, and the haunted look in her glowing red eyes made Hunter’s stomach twist painfully. She looked fragile, broken, a stark contrast to the eerie presence that seemed to radiate from her.

Omega hadn’t moved back. She knelt close to the girl, her soft voice breaking through the suffocating tension in the room. “It’s okay,” she whispered, her tone gentle, steady. “We’re going to help you.”

Hunter’s throat tightened. His instinct screamed to pull Omega back, to shield her from whatever dark force was in that corner, but something in the way Omega spoke stopped him. She wasn’t afraid. Her compassion cut through the oppressive stillness like a beacon.

“You can understand her?” Hunter asked, his voice a mix of caution and disbelief.

“No,” Omega said simply, her eyes still locked on the togruta’s face. “But I don’t need to. It’s clear she’s afraid.”

Hunter exchanged a glance with Tech and Crosshair. Omega’s words were confident, but everything about the scene set his nerves on edge. The girl’s whispers had quieted, but her lips still moved faintly, her crimson eyes flickering between Omega and the ground, as if she were caught in some internal battle.

The longer Hunter looked, the more wrong everything felt. He didn’t know who this girl was or what had happened to her, but she wasn’t just some frightened child. There was something darker at play, and it sent a chill crawling up his spine.

Still, Omega didn’t move. Her hand hovered just inches from the girl’s shoulder, her voice soft and unwavering. “You don’t have to be afraid anymore,” she said gently. “We’re here to help you. I promise.”

The girl’s movements stilled, her glowing eyes flicking up to meet Omega’s for the briefest moment. Hunter held his breath, his hand twitching toward his blaster as the room seemed to grow colder. 

“What do we do with her?” Wrecker asked. “Call the Republic?”

“Of course we call them, she’s a separatist lab rat,” Crosshair answered, and for some reason it made Hunter feel uneasy that he was still holding his blaster up at the girl. He however still nodded, hand moving to turn on his com. 

“Wait,” Omega said softly, her hand still hovering over the girl in the shadows. She didn’t look back at them, her small frame tense, her voice steady but trembling slightly with something deeper—something Hunter recognized as empathy.

Hunter frowned beneath his helmet. “What do you mean, ‘wait’?” he asked, his voice cautious.

He glanced toward the corner where the girl crouched, shrouded in darkness, and his heart gave a sharp jolt. The shadows seemed to have grown, shifting unnaturally, spreading out like a living thing. They stretched closer to him, to the others, and the room’s temperature seemed to drop.

“Those shadows are getting worse,” Crosshair muttered, his sharp voice cutting through the eerie silence as he raised his blaster toward them.

“Crosshair, don’t,” Hunter snapped, but his voice sounded thin even to his own ears. He wasn’t sure if it was fear or unease—or both.

Omega didn’t flinch. She stayed perfectly still, her focus entirely on the girl. “You can’t call the Republic,” she murmured, her voice quiet but certain.

Hunter stiffened. “Kid, I can’t just ignore this because she’s scared. The Republic needs to know—”

“And then what?” Omega interrupted, finally turning to look at him. Her expression was calm, but her eyes burned with something fierce and vulnerable all at once. “Then they take her? Lock her away? Study her until there’s nothing left of her? Crosshair’s right. To them, she’s just a lab rat. If we give her to the Republic, they’ll ship her to Kamino and test her until she dies. That’s not fair.”

Her words hit Hunter harder than he expected, but before he could speak, Omega turned back to the girl, crouching lower so she could meet her at eye level, even through the shadows.

“She’s scared, Hunter,” Omega whispered, her voice soft and achingly gentle. “She’s scared like I was.”

The words hung in the air, striking a chord deep inside Hunter. He watched as Omega slowly extended her hand toward the shadows, not in defiance, but in reassurance.

“I know what it feels like,” Omega continued, her voice trembling with sincerity. “To feel like you’re just a thing. To feel like no one sees you as a person. To feel like no one’s going to protect you, like you’re completely alone.” Her fingers hovered just inches away from the darkness. “I don’t want her to feel like that. Not when we can help her.”

Hunter swallowed hard, his throat dry. The kid had been through more than any of them liked to admit, and hearing those words come from her now made his stomach twist painfully. He could see the girl trembling in the shadows, and for the first time, it wasn’t the unnatural darkness or the eerie quiet that stood out—it was her fear.

Omega turned her head slightly, looking at him over her shoulder. “Please,” she whispered, her voice cracking. “Don’t make her feel like she’s not worth saving. She’s innocent, Hunter. She’s just scared.”

The room was silent except for the faint sound of Omega’s breathing and the quiet shudder of the girl in the corner. Hunter clenched his jaw, his instincts screaming at him to make the safe call, to contact the Republic, to follow protocol.

But as he looked at Omega, at the quiet determination in her eyes, he felt his resolve falter. She wasn’t just asking him to protect this girl—she was asking him to protect the part of himself that still believed in doing what was right, not just what was easy.

And damn it, she was right.

“Don’t tell me you’re thinking what I think you’re thinking,” Crosshair muttered, his blaster lowering slightly, though the irritation in his voice was evident even through his helmet. “Hunter, we’re already hiding one kid from the Republic. We can’t hide two—especially one we can’t even karking understand.”

“We don’t have to hide her!” Omega argued, spinning around to face him. “Just keep her until we find a better place for her to be! Please!”

Crosshair scoffed. “Wrecker, please, for once in your life, tell me you’re going to be sane about this.”

Wrecker chuckled, and even with his helmet on, Hunter could hear the grin in his voice. “I don’t see a problem with it. Omega likes her, and Tech’ll probably find a way to talk to her.”

“Right,” Crosshair snapped, turning to where Tech had been standing earlier. “Tech, chime in anytime. What do you think we’re supposed to do with—” He stopped mid-sentence, his head tilting slightly. “Wait. Where the hell is Tech?”

“He’s not here,” Hunter muttered, his eyes darting around the room. “He walked out a while ago.”

“What do you mean he walked out ?” Crosshair asked, irritation dripping from his voice. “We’ve got a kriffing shadow girl in the corner, and he decides to take a stroll?”

Omega crossed her arms, glaring at him. “Don’t call her that!”

Crosshair groaned. “Fine. But I’m going to find him. You stay here with shadow girl.”

“I said don’t call her that! ”

Before Crosshair could retort, the door slid open behind them, and they all turned to see Tech walking in casually, datapad in hand.

“You don’t need to look for me,” Tech said matter-of-factly, ignoring the tension in the room. “I was retrieving data from the facility’s central files. I assumed the situation here was under control.”

“Great timing,” Crosshair muttered. “We’re trying to figure out what to do with shadow girl—”

“ Stop calling her that! ” Omega interrupted, her voice sharp.

Tech glanced at her briefly before turning his attention to Hunter. “Actually, I found something relevant to the girl. The facility was constructed specifically for her.” He tapped on his datapad, and a holo-projection flickered to life, displaying a personnel file.

Hunter leaned in to examine the screen, his stomach sinking as he read the text. Crosshair muttered something under his breath in Mando’a, the words biting and bitter: “ Osik’la skotah… ”

“What the hell,” Hunter managed, his voice barely above a whisper. His throat felt tight, his heartbeat loud in his ears.

And then he saw it. The name.

Name: Ahsoka Tano.

Hunter felt his blood run cold. He glanced at Crosshair, who had taken a step closer to the holo, staring at the name as though it might rearrange itself into something else if he looked hard enough.

“Tech…” Hunter’s voice cracked as he forced the words out. “Are you sure the file isn’t corrupt?”

“Positive,” Tech replied, his tone steady despite the unease in his posture. “The data is clean. I double-checked it. Unfortunately, I was just as taken aback as you all are.”

“Shab,” Crosshair muttered, the Mandalorian curse slipping through his teeth. “You’ve got to be kriffing kidding me. This isn’t just some random girl—we’re looking at a Jedi Commander who was reported dead months ago. Dead. ”

Hunter’s stomach twisted as memories of the Republic’s report on Quell flooded back. They’d all seen it, the footage of the tank blast that supposedly killed Commander Tano. They’d all thought the same thing: That could be Omega someday, if we’re not careful enough.

“We can’t keep this to ourselves,” Crosshair continued, his voice low but firm. “We have to report this. The Republic needs to know.”

“You promised we wouldn’t!” Omega cried, stepping between him and the projection.

“I didn’t promise anything,” Crosshair shot back, his tone sharp. “Omega, you can’t honestly think we’re not going to tell the Republic that their dead Jedi Commander is somehow alive. Do you even understand what this means?”

“She. Is. Scared,” Omega snapped, her small hands balled into fists at her sides. “We can’t tell anyone about her until she’s not scared anymore.”

Crosshair let out a frustrated huff. “Omega—”

“The Republic fears what they don’t understand!” Omega’s voice cracked, but she didn’t back down, glaring up at him even as her hands trembled. “They’ll be scared of her, and they’ll kill her! You can’t just let that happen!”

Hunter stepped forward, placing a hand on Omega’s shoulder. “Kid—”

“No!” she shouted, shrugging him off. “She’s just like me, Hunter! They’ll lock her up, they’ll hurt her, and she’ll die scared and alone, and it’ll be our fault! ”

The room fell silent, the weight of Omega’s words settling over them like a heavy cloud. Hunter glanced at the shadows still lingering in the corner, at the girl crouched within them, her small figure trembling.

Crosshair muttered another curse under his breath, but he didn’t raise his blaster again. For the first time in a long while, Hunter saw hesitation in him.

“She’s just a kid,” Omega said, her voice softer now, filled with desperation. “And you guys are supposed to help kids. Isn’t that what you promised me?”

Hunter closed his eyes briefly, his chest tightening. He knew Omega was right. And damn it, they’d already crossed enough lines to keep her safe. What was one more?

“All right,” Hunter said finally, his voice quiet but resolute. “We don’t tell the Republic. Not yet.”

Omega exhaled shakily, her shoulders slumping in relief.

Crosshair groaned, shaking his head. “You’re all shabla insane,” he muttered. But he didn’t argue further.

The shadows had dissipated completely now, revealing the girl’s appearance. She looked like Ahsoka Tano— almost . Her montrals and lekku were red and white, an eerie, unnatural contrast to the familiar blue and white pattern they’d all seen in the holos. Her eyes were red, glowing faintly in the dim light. Hunter couldn’t shake the feeling that something about her was off , though he couldn’t put his finger on it. He decided to leave that to Tech to figure out later.

“Wrecker,” Hunter said, jerking his head toward the girl.

Wrecker caught the hint and slowly stepped toward her, his large frame moving as gently as he could manage. “Come on now,” he said softly, crouching slightly as he stretched his arms out toward her. “We’re getting you out of here, okay?”

The girl looked up at him with those big, unsettling red eyes, her lips still moving in a quiet, ceaseless whisper. Hunter couldn’t make out the words, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to. After a moment of hesitation, the girl reached for Wrecker’s hand. He pulled her up with ease, cradling her carefully in his massive arms. She wrapped her thin legs around him and rested her head on his shoulder, her whispers quieting as she settled against him.

Wrecker nodded to Hunter, the faintest flicker of reassurance in his posture, and began to walk toward the exit with the girl in tow.

Hunter let out a long, tired sigh, his shoulders sagging under the weight of everything that had just happened. Before he could take a step, he felt a small tug at his arm. He looked down to see Omega standing there, her face lit up with a smile of quiet gratitude.

“Thank you,” she said simply, her voice filled with sincerity. Then she turned and hurried after Wrecker, keeping close to his side as he carried the girl out of the room.

Hunter lingered for a moment, his eyes sweeping across the space they were leaving behind. His gaze landed on the broken baby dolls scattered across the floor, their smashed heads and vacant eyes staring up at him. Slowly, he bent down and picked one up, turning it over in his hands.

What the hell had they done to this kid?

“Hunter, we’re leaving,” Crosshair barked from the hallway, his voice sharp and impatient.

Hunter didn’t respond immediately. He glanced back at the room one last time, the doll still in his hand. Whatever horrors had created the girl now resting on Wrecker’s shoulder, they’d left their mark not only on her but on this place. It reeked of pain, of something dark and unnatural that didn’t belong in the galaxy.

Finally, he nodded and stepped out, the baby doll still clutched tightly in his grasp. He just hoped that whatever demons had harmed Ahsoka Tano stayed locked in this forsaken place—and didn’t follow them out.

Chapter Text

Fox sat at his desk, staring at the datapad in front of him. He was determined to get something done with it this time.

But that was the same thing he had told himself an hour ago.

In that hour, all he had accomplished was clicking the pen that Ponds had gifted him—again. He must've clicked it a few hundred times by now.

Kriff, he was exhausted. There were at least sixteen more reports he had to go through, then he had to prep the night guard for duty. Only then, when everything was done, could he finally do the one thing he wanted to—go check on Ponds.

It had barely been a few days since that kid, Boba Fett, had tried to kill Windu. While Fox didn't give a kriff about the Jedi, hearing that his brother Ponds had been forced to face that kid with a blaster to his head shook him to his core.

Fox had already been on edge. Ahsoka Tano’s death had wrecked everyone. He hadn’t known her personally—only Cody and Wolffe had really known her—but the aftermath of her death still haunted him. He’d seen the helmet footage that Bly had recorded. The agony in the poor kid’s eyes, watching as Ahsoka’s arm was twisted in an unnatural angle, a branch lodged in her stomach. Bly’s desperate pleas for her to stay alive. The worst part, though, was when Bly was forced to leave her behind to get help. When he returned, there was no body. The blast from the tank had torn everything apart—there was nothing left of her to bury or burn. She was just gone.

Fourteen years old.

That death had broken his brothers.

Wolffe was constantly angry now. Thorn had told him stories about how Wolffe would snap for no reason, just lose his temper over little things. Fox couldn’t blame him. Wolffe had known Ahsoka since she was a child.

Could he even say that? She was still a child when she died.

Cody was unraveling too, trying to hold himself together, but Fox could see the strain. Bly was barely holding on—guilt eating him alive. The burden of losing his men along with Ahsoka was poisoning him, turning him into someone Fox didn’t recognize. And then there were Ponds and Gree, both stretched thin, already struggling with the weight of their own grief and trauma.

Now Ponds was in medical after that kid’s stunt—Boba Fett’s stunt. Fox still couldn’t wrap his mind around how the hell Boba had even gotten that far. He thought the Jedi could sense things. How did they not realize that the one clone cadet who was scarily good with a blaster might be a little off?

But Fox would be the one in the wrong if he pointed that out. Thire had made sure to remind him of that.

Fox stared back down at the datapad and groaned, setting the pen aside. Enough of this. He was going to see Ponds. The night shift could wait—Stone was probably already covering for him anyway. The man never missed an opportunity to volunteer.

With a heavy sigh, Fox pushed himself up from his desk, ignoring the ache in his legs from the day's work. He trudged toward the door, determined to do something useful for once.

The door slid open with a soft hiss, and Fox froze at the sight in front of him. Gree stood there, grinning like an idiot.

Fox jumped.

Gree’s expression shifted into a mock frown. “I’m not that kriffing ugly.”

“Language,” came a familiar voice—Ponds.

Fox blinked in disbelief. “Ponds?”

“There's a child here,” Ponds added, sounding far too casual for someone who was supposed to be resting.

“I’m fourteen, not kriffing two,” a young voice snapped from somewhere behind Gree.

What the hell?

Fox shoved Gree aside with both hands, stepping into the hallway to get a better look—and immediately wished he hadn’t. There they were. The rest of his batchmates, standing around with a child.

Fox closed his eyes, counted to five, and opened them again. Nope. Still there. He closed them once more, hoping this was some sleep-deprived hallucination. When he opened them again, the sight hadn’t changed.

“Is that… Boba Fett?” Fox asked, voice flat as he stared at the scowling child.

Wolffe, of all people, snorted. He looked calmer than Fox had seen him in weeks. “Glad to see working for the Chancellor hasn’t completely fried your brain.”

Fox pointed at the kid. “Why is Boba Fett here?”

“This,” Ponds said with far too much pride, “is what we like to call a side project.”

“ We ?” Fox asked, already reGreetting the question.

“Yeah, all of us,” Ponds replied with a grin. “Well, maybe not Rex. We told Cody to tell him, but Cody hasn’t said much.”

Fox glanced over and realized Cody was, in fact, standing right there, staring intently at the wall as if it held the meaning of life.

“Ponds,” Fox began slowly, dragging his gaze back to his brother. “Why did you bring the kid who held a karking blaster to your head—to my office ? And why are you even with him in the first place?”

Bly was the one to answer, his voice calm but firm. “They were going to execute him, Fox. We managed to convince the Jedi to pardon him if we put him through a rehabilitation program.”

Fox narrowed his eyes. “You want to put the child who tried to kill our brother into a rehabilitation program?” His voice dropped, thick with disbelief. “He’s not an addict—he’s a k’oyacyi .”

“He’s not a psycho, Fox,” Ponds interjected quickly, his tone softer than usual. Behind him, Wolffe shook his head, mouthing the words he 100% is .

“Look, he’s only ever been around bad influences,” Ponds continued. “He doesn’t deserve to die for his upbringing.”

Fox pressed his hands against his temples, squeezing his eyes shut as a wave of frustration washed over him. “Oh my gods, you all sound insane,” he muttered under his breath. “He tried to kill you. Am I the only one who remembers that?”

“But he didn’t,” Ponds said, his voice firm but carrying a hint of hope. “He didn’t do it, Fox. That means something.”

“I am right here!” Boba snapped, a scowl forming on his face. Before Fox could respond, Wolffe smacked the back of his head with an exasperated sigh.

“Shut up,” Bly said without even looking at Fett, his voice cold but unbothered. “The Jedi already gave their approval—” Fox wasn’t interested in what the Jedi had to say right now. Bly continued, “—but we don’t have a program, or whatever the kark Ponds pitched.”

Fox blinked, disbelief written across his face. “Wait, what?”

Before he could get an answer, Ponds moved Fett toward Cody, who was still lost in his own thoughts, staring blankly at the wall. “Watch both of them,” Ponds ordered Bly, who gave a tired, annoyed look but nodded and went to take his place.

Ponds then pushed Fox back into his office, ushering Gree in with him, the door hissing shut behind them.

Fox turned on them immediately. “I don’t have time for this,” he said, voice low and seething with anger. “What the kark is going on?”

Gree stepped forward, his usual grin replaced by something more serious. “Fox, they were going to kill him,” he said quietly. “Vod, we can’t let another kid die. We didn’t even think of this at first, but if that kid had been executed, it would’ve wrecked them.” He glanced at Fox, making sure the weight of his words landed. “Another kid, Fox. Another one gone.”

Fox froze, his anger giving way to a tight knot in his chest. They weren’t talking about Boba anymore. They were talking about Tano. The wound was still fresh, too fresh. Mentioning her name—mentioning what happened—would shatter the fragile calm that Cody, Wolffe, and Bly had left. Fox knew that.

Gree took a step closer, his voice softer now, but the hurt clear in his eyes. “We can’t do that again, Fox. We can’t let that happen. Not again.”

Fox was silent, his thoughts a tangled mess. He hated it. He hated feeling like he was caught between his duty and his brothers. He couldn’t afford to care about Boba Fett, but he couldn’t ignore what they were asking of him either. And damn it, part of him did care. Part of him understood.

Gree’s voice broke through his thoughts again, quiet but urgent. “Look, we know you’re overworked. We know you’re the one who stays on Coruscant and takes the brunt of everything. But we’ve got to do this, Fox. For them. For the ones who are still here. We’re asking you to take care of him because—because we don’t want another kid to die. Not on our watch.”

Fox’s gaze softened for a moment, his heart heavy with the weight of their request. But the part of him that had already seen too much—seen too many brothers fall—fought the impulse to aGreee. “I’m not your babysitter,” he muttered, the words feeling hollow even as they left his mouth.

Gree sighed, stepping back toward the door. “I know you don’t want to be, but that’s how it is now. We all have our reasons, Fox. Just—just think about it. For them.”

It was just him and Ponds now, the silence of the office thick around them. Fox leaned back against his desk, arms crossed, while Ponds stood a few steps away, his face lined with exhaustion but softened by something else—hope, maybe.

Sometimes, Fox wondered if Ponds had some kind of mutation. His brother was calmer than the rest of them, annoyingly so. Probably kinder, too, which made him the kind of person Fox found both infuriating and hard to say no to.

“You really want this, don’t you?” Fox muttered, his voice low but edged with irritation.

Ponds smiled, a small, knowing smile that made Fox’s irritation spike further. “Yeah,” he said simply. Then, with a wicked glint in his eyes, he added, “And if you don’t take the kid, I’ll give him to Thorn and let you deal with that .”

Fox’s eyes narrowed, his glare sharp enough to cut durasteel. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“Oh, I would.”

“If you even try, I’ll blow up this entire karking planet,” Fox deadpanned, his tone deadly serious. But then he let out a long, resigned sigh, the kind that felt like it came from his very soul. “Fine.”

Ponds blinked, his brow furrowing in disbelief. “What?”

“I’ll take the kid,” Fox said, his voice flat and begrudging, as if the words physically pained him.

Ponds stared at him for a moment, as if he couldn’t believe what he’d just heard. Then he let out a deep sigh of relief, his shoulders relaxing. “Thank you,” he said sincerely, and before Fox could change his mind, Ponds was opening the door.

Outside, chaos reigned. Fett was being scolded by Bly for some apparent misdeed, his expression caught somewhere between annoyance and defiance. Meanwhile, Wolffe and Gree were trying to get a reaction out of Cody, waving their fingers in front of his face like kids testing a statue. Cody, predictably, ignored them.

Fox groaned. This is my life now.

“Boba, come here,” Ponds called out, his voice calm but firm.

Fett turned to him with a sharp glare. “What?”

“Say hello to Commander Fox,” Ponds said, gesturing toward him. “He’ll be in charge of your program.”

Fox felt his eye twitch. Fett didn’t say hello. He just glared harder, his defiance palpable.

Fox forced himself to respond, his voice clipped. “Hello, Fett.”

“His name is Boba,” Ponds corrected, his tone pointed.

“You don’t get to call me that,” Fett snapped, his voice brimming with venom.

“Wasn’t planning on it,” Fox replied dryly, folding his arms. Fett’s glare only deepened, his face twisting into an expression of pure disdain.

Fox sighed inwardly. The Maker really, really must despise him.

As a medic, Kix had been taught how to heal everything he could—and how to accept it when he couldn’t. That was the hardest part of being a medic: learning to face reality and keep moving forward.

But now, that training seemed to have failed him entirely. He sat at the table, staring blankly at his datapad.

Grief.

The Galactic Republic’s official dictionary defined grief as “deep sorrow, especially that caused by someone’s death.”

The explanation felt insultingly simple. A neat little word for something impossibly heavy. It wasn’t something you could patch with bacta or stitch up with precision. Grief didn’t heal the way wounds did.

Because of that, everyone was stuck. Stuck in the void Ahsoka had left behind, wallowing in pain no one seemed able to escape.

The battalion was sick with grief. Mission after mission passed, and even when they succeeded, nothing changed. Victory was hollow. Their triumphs felt meaningless, their spirits eroded by her absence.

Kix and Coric had started rewatching the footage from Commander Bly’s helmet—footage of Ahsoka’s death. Frame by frame, they dissected her final moments, analyzing every detail of her injuries. Each time, they searched desperately for a way they could have saved her.

Again, and again, and again.

No matter how many times they replayed it, they never found an answer.

There was no cure for this. Not for Ahsoka. Not for the battalion. Not even for themselves.

Her death felt like a plague, infecting everyone she had ever been around  and slowly destroying them from the inside out.

It wasn’t fair.

“Kix.”

The voice startled him. Kix looked up to see Helix sitting across from him, a tray of food in front of him. The 212th medic wore a sad smile, his expression soft with understanding.

“Your food’s gotten cold,” Helix said gently.

Kix blinked and glanced down at his untouched plate. For a moment, he just stared at it, trying to remember where he was.

Oh. Coruscant.

They were grounded for now while General Skywalker handled some mess involving a clone attempting to kill Master Windu. Skywalker had refused to let his men deploy without him, so the battalion was stuck here until further notice.

Months ago, Kix might have been happy about that. Time on Coruscant meant rest, time to reconnect with others—he would’ve been glad to catch up with friends like Helix.

Now, though, even small talk felt like a monumental effort.

“I wasn’t hungry anyway,” Kix muttered, pushing his tray aside. His voice was dry, rough, and utterly devoid of energy.

“You should eat,” Helix said, frowning. He glanced around the room. “Where’s Coric?”

“Library,” Kix replied flatly.

Coric had buried himself in research, locked away with every biology text he could get his hands on. Both medics had realized too late how little they knew about Togruta anatomy.

It had hit them hard.

Even if they had been there, even if they’d had a chance to save Ahsoka, their ignorance would have rendered them helpless.

They had failed her.

“You really should eat,” Helix said again, his concern more insistent this time. “You and the rest of your battalion look like walking corpses.”

“Not hungry,” Kix said curtly.

“Kix, come on—”

“I don’t see why my or my battalion’s food intake is any of your concern,” Kix snapped, the words sharp and biting before he could stop himself. “You’ve got your own men to worry about.”

Helix’s face fell, and guilt immediately twisted in Kix’s stomach.

With a sigh, Kix closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. “I’m—kark, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that. I’ve just been... tired.”

“Not eating can cause that,” Helix quipped, his attempt at humor falling flat. He sighed and rested his chin on his hand. “It’s okay. I get it. You must be exhausted.”

“Yeah,” Kix muttered. He needed to steer the conversation away from himself. “How are you?”

Helix hesitated for a moment before shrugging. “Could be better,” he admitted. “Things have been... weird.”

Kix frowned. “Weird how?”

Helix poked at his food, avoiding Kix’s gaze. “General Kenobi and Commander Cody. They’ve been acting strange. I mean, we’ve lost men before. We’ve all been through some really brutal stuff. But ever since—” He froze mid-sentence, his eyes widening in realization.

Kix watched as Helix’s expression shifted, and he felt a pang in his chest. He knew exactly where this was going.

“Never mind,” Helix said quickly, dropping his gaze back to his tray.

Kix leaned forward, his voice low but firm. “What were you going to say?”

“It’s nothing,” Helix muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. “Just... stupid stuff.”

“Helix,” Kix said sharply. “You were going to talk about her, weren’t you?”

Helix flinched, his hand dropping to his lap.

“You can talk about her,” Kix said, his voice softening. “It would be a crime not to talk about her.”

Helix let out a bitter laugh. “Tell that to Cody,” he muttered. “I don’t think I’ve heard him say a full sentence outside of debriefings since Quell. He just... stares. And it’s like he’s not really seeing anything. And Kenobi’s even worse—one minute he’s fine, and the next, he’s working himself into the ground. Like he doesn’t trust anyone else to handle anything.”

He sighed and looked up at Kix, his expression weary. “I sound karking stupid, don’t I? You probably have it worse—with Skywalker and the rest.”

Kix clenched his jaw, his hands tightening into fists under the table. Helix didn’t understand. No one really could.

"I kept thinking about you guys," Helix murmured, his voice low and hesitant. "We all did, especially after we saw the 104th. Kriff, those guys looked so—so angry. That word doesn’t even cover it. But seeing them, all we could think about was you. All of you."

Kix stared at the table, his grip tightening around the datapad in his hands.

“I’m going to be honest with you,” Helix continued carefully. “We’re worried.”

Kix glanced up, his brow furrowed. “What?”

“Not just about you,” Helix clarified. “All of you. The 501st, the Wolfpack, Skywalker, Plo Koon, Cody, Kenobi, Commander Bly too.” He let out a heavy sigh, running a hand through his hair. “It’s... it’s kind of why I came over here to talk. Medic to medic.”

Kix shook his head, trying to push the conversation away before it spiraled further. “Helix, I appreciate it, but I don’t think we should talk about this.” He forced himself to keep his voice steady, though the weight of exhaustion was creeping into his tone. “She died, okay? Like you said, we’ve lost men before. This isn’t any different.”

Helix opened his mouth, but Kix didn’t let him speak.

“We’re not upset about her death, Helix,” Kix continued, his voice rising slightly. “We’re tired. We’re karking exhausted because this war doesn’t end. It just keeps going. We keep going. And every time we go back out there, more people die. More men, more brothers, and we can’t save them! But we don’t get to stop. We just have to keep going and going and going until one day it’s our turn to be killed. And when that day comes, the only thing we can hope for is that we go easier than Ahsoka did—or any of the men whose blood we’ve had on our hands.”

He stopped abruptly, his words choking off as his breath caught.

The mess hall had gone quiet. Other clones were staring at him now, their faces etched with worry and alarm.

Helix looked stunned, his expression softening into concern.

Kix’s hands trembled as he realized his face felt wet.

He was crying.

“Osik,” he whispered, hastily wiping at his face with the back of his hand.

“Kix,” Helix said softly, his voice full of sympathy. “Kix, I’m so sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Kix muttered, rising from the table so quickly his chair scraped loudly against the floor. “Listen, I need to go find Coric, so—”

“Kix.”

The way Helix said his name made him pause.

Kix looked at him, his shoulders tense, his hands clenched at his sides. “What.”

Helix’s eyes were filled with something deeper than worry now—something that made Kix’s throat tighten.

“Take care of yourself,” Helix said gently. “Please.”

Kix didn’t respond. He turned and left the mess hall without another word.

Tech stared at the data on his screen, his eyes scanning every line, analyzing the details with precision.

"So," Hunter’s voice came from behind him, low and expectant. "Got anything?"

"Yes," Tech replied, his voice calm but tinged with concentration. "But nothing yet about how she’s alive." His eyes narrowed further. "I’ll go over this more thoroughly and then report back."

Hunter didn’t say anything at first. He just patted Tech’s shoulder before walking away, leaving the broken baby doll he’d picked up from the girl’s cell on the desk beside him.

The girl. Ahsoka Tano.

She was sitting quietly on their ship, still in the hospital gown they had found her in only an hour ago.

How she was alive, how she seemed different, and how she could no longer speak Basic—those were the questions Tech was determined to answer.

It had been Omega who had pleaded for Ahsoka to come with them, to not be handed over to the Republic, but Tech wasn’t ashamed to admit that he too was curious about the girl. Curious enough that he hadn’t felt an urgency to notify the Republic just yet.

Then again, no one had asked for his opinion. Not that it mattered. Tech wasn’t the type to keep his thoughts to himself.

"Are you hungry?" Omega’s voice broke his train of thought, gentle and kind, as she addressed Ahsoka. "We have crackers, the salty kind." Ahsoka didn’t respond, continuing to whisper softly under her breath. "I’ll get you some," Omega added with a smile.

"Hm," Hunter muttered, sounding skeptical as he glanced over his shoulder. "She didn’t even say yes."

"Yes, she did," Omega countered, unfazed.

"Omega, she hasn’t said a single thing we can understand since we found her," Hunter replied, the frustration in his tone building. "I can understand her," Omega said matter-of-factly.

"Just give her the crackers," Crosshair interjected, his tone a sigh of resignation.

"I’ll get them," Wrecker chimed in from across the room, his footsteps heavy as he moved about. "Why do we have so many crackers?"

"Because Omega liked them, so Hunter bought in bulk, and now we’re stuck with them," Crosshair stated, a touch of dry humor in his voice.

"I did not buy them in bulk! The woman just gave me the rest for free," Hunter muttered, clearly exasperated. Tech heard the cabinet door creak open, followed by the sound of plastic crinkling.

"Here you go," Wrecker called, handing Omega the crackers. She murmured a quick thanks before moving to give them to Ahsoka.

Tech ignored the small exchange, his attention still fixed on the data before him.

He was determined to get into Ahsoka’s medical records, hoping they would provide answers. His eyes scanned the various folders, some labeled "Security" and "Transportation," but then he paused.

One folder stood out: PROJECT DNS .

The title seemed irrelevant, but that didn’t stop Tech from opening it.

As the files loaded, Tech’s eyes widened slightly. It was months of research, mostly notes from the head scientist at the facility.

He began reading aloud, more to himself than anyone else in the room.

" Report: Subject DNA Analysis – Initial Findings
Subject Identified: Ahsoka Tano
Date of Discovery: 23:45 Standard Time, Dathomir
Reporting Officer: Dr. Garinth Lumas, Lead Genetic Researcher, Separatist Scientific Division "

Dathomir. Tech knew only a little about the planet—he had heard of the Nightsisters, though they intrigued him.

" Subject was discovered by Separatist forces on the planet Dathomir. According to TF-1726, the subject was confirmed dead, but upon closer examination, it was clear that she exhibited a unique bio-signature. Further investigation revealed she had been transported to Dathomir shortly after her presumed death. The circumstances surrounding her survival remain unclear, but the subject is now classified as alive and exhibiting extraordinary capabilities. "

Tech’s heart skipped a beat.

He kept reading, his eyes moving rapidly over the text.

" Initial tests indicate the subject’s Force signature has been heavily altered, now resembling characteristics seen only in the Nightsisters of Dathomir. Genetic markers suggest a connection to Force-sensitive entities of significant power. Further analysis is needed to fully comprehend her abilities. "

Tech’s breath caught as he read further, his mind racing. The subject... Ahsoka... she was connected to the Nightsisters, to something far darker than they could have anticipated.

" Additional testing will include magickal applications, necromantic potential, and physical augmentation through dark-side influence. These tests are essential to fully understand the new potential that this subject may present."

Tech sat back, his mind spinning. He turned to look at Ahsoka again, who was being fed crackers by Omega, her eyes distant and unfocused.

Ahsoka Tano. A Nightsister.

His fingers twitched as he processed the information. The girl was far more than what she appeared.

Hunter must have noticed his reaction because he stepped forward, his voice low.

"What did you find?" he asked, his tone cautious.

Tech hesitated, torn between sharing his findings now or waiting until he had more information.

"I’m not done yet," he said, turning back to the screen.

"Follow-up Report: Subject's New Abilities – Extensive Analysis Subject Identified: Ahsoka Tano

 Date of Analysis: 47:22 Standard Time, Desix 

Reporting Officer: Dr. Garinth Lumas, Lead Genetic Researcher, Separatist Scientific Division Analysis and Detailed Findings: The subject, now exhibiting clear signs of transformation due to her exposure to the magicks of Dathomir, demonstrates a wide range of abilities. These abilities, previously unseen in any other subject of her kind, closely align with those displayed by the notorious Night Sisters. The following abilities have been thoroughly documented:"
Tech felt his heart begin to race. 

" Dark Side Sorcery: The subject can channel the dark side through ritualistic gestures, manipulating the environment with sheer will. Her control over elemental forces is particularly concerning—she has been observed commanding fire, wind, and even the very ground beneath her feet. This manifestation of power suggests deep-rooted, ancient sorcery, likely granted by Dathomir itself. 

Force-based Magic: The subject exhibits an uncanny aptitude for Force-based illusions. One notable event involved the creation of spectral figures, seemingly manipulating reality around her. This ability allows her to confuse enemies, disorient allies, or create false visions to mask her true intentions. Additionally, she is able to curse individuals, a sign of her control over both the physical and spiritual realms. 

Necromancy: In an unexpected development, the subject has displayed necromantic abilities. During a recent test, she was able to reanimate a recently deceased creature, breathing life back into its cadaverous form. The creature, though mindless, followed her commands as if it were still living. This necromantic talent is a hallmark of the Night Sisters' power, and further studies are required to determine how deeply this ability runs within her. 

Life Force Manipulation: The subject has demonstrated the ability to manipulate the life forces of others. Through a combination of subtle gestures and whispered incantations, she can drain the energy of living beings, leaving them weakened or, in some cases, comatose. This power is both dangerous and difficult to contain, and further studies into its limits are critical for understanding its potential uses in combat and interrogation. 

Telepathic and Illusionary Communication: The subject has the ability to communicate telepathically with those nearby, often using this power to create distractions or manipulate the thoughts of others. In one instance, she compelled a subordinate to betray his leader, using only her voice within his mind. Additionally, she can create complex illusions to deceive and confuse those around her, masking her presence or manipulating their perception of reality. 

Enhanced Physical Capabilities: On top of her magical abilities, the subject has shown enhancements in physical prowess. Her agility and speed far exceed that of typical Force-sensitive individuals, suggesting that the dark magicks of Dathomir have augmented her physical form. It is theorized that these enhancements may allow her to perform feats of strength and speed that could rival some of the galaxy’s most elite soldiers. 

Dathomirian Beast Control: Perhaps one of the most alarming abilities is her newfound connection to the dangerous fauna of Dathomir. The subject has demonstrated the ability to command the local wildlife, particularly the large and hostile creatures that roam the planet’s surface. In one test, she was able to summon a rancor-like creature, which she directed to attack a designated target. This connection to Dathomir’s creatures must be studied further to understand its full range and limitations. 

Energy Bolts and Dark Projectiles: While not yet fully tested in combat, the subject has shown the ability to fire dark energy blasts from her hands. These bursts of concentrated dark side energy are potent, capable of destroying small structures and disabling equipment. They appear to be an extension of her Force magic, manifesting as projectiles that she can summon on command.

  Force Healing: While this aspect of her power is less reliable and more chaotic, the subject has shown a twisted form of Force healing. Unlike the conventional Jedi methods, her healing comes at a cost—often draining her own vitality or leaving a lingering dark energy in the healed individual. This power, though imperfect, demonstrates the corruptive nature of her connection to Dathomirian magic. 

Cursing and Hexing: The subject’s ability to place curses upon others has proven to be both effective and terrifying. She can invoke powerful hexes that cause physical ailments or bad luck to fall upon those targeted. These hexes can range from simple misfortune to debilitating illness, making her an effective threat in situations requiring subtlety or precision. 

Mental and Physical Domination: The subject's most disturbing ability, perhaps, is her power to mentally dominate others. While it has not yet been fully realized, preliminary tests show that she can influence others’ actions, convincing them to do her bidding, even against their will. This power over others' minds seems tied to her use of both Force telepathy and dark-side magicks, making it difficult to resist or even comprehend in some cases. She does not seem keen on using this ability much. Did not use it on Subject DNSB.

  Conclusions: The subject’s abilities are truly unparalleled, surpassing those of other Force users we have encountered. Her transformation into a Night Sister—whether voluntary or a result of her exposure to Dathomir—has imbued her with powers that pose a significant threat to our operations. Her connection to the dark side, combined with her necromantic and physical enhancements, makes her a unique and highly dangerous individual. It is imperative that we continue to monitor her proGreess and assess her capabilities in controlled environments. We must also determine whether her abilities are a result of the dark magicks of Dathomir or if she has the potential to grow even stronger through further exposure to the planet’s mystical forces.

Supplementary Report: Subject’s Vocalization and Physical Transformation

Subject Identified: Ahsoka Tano

Date of Analysis: 62:15 Standard Time, Desix

Reporting Officer: Dr. Garinth Lumas, Lead Genetic Researcher, Separatist Scientific Division

“ Summary of New Findings:

Further tests on the subject have provided disturbing insights into her vocalization, mental state, and ongoing physical transformation. It appears that her connection to Dathomirian magicks is far deeper and more complex than previously anticipated, and new aspects of her condition must be addressed in order to comprehend the full scope of her abilities and limitations.”

Tech’s heart raced as he continued reading. The report was as much a puzzle as it was a revelation. Ahsoka Tano, now more than just a former Jedi, had become something else entirely. The magicks of Dathomir were changing her in ways that even he struggled to comprehend. The data, the tests, it was all far beyond anything in his experience.

He leaned back in his chair, taking a deep breath. The thought of her physical transformation intrigued him—her powers weren’t just an evolution of the Force; they were something ancient, almost… alive. The vocalization section, describing how her voice could alter the very fabric of reality, was especially alarming. He could almost hear her calling out through the report—her power, her connection to something far older than the Jedi or the Sith.

"She went from a Jedi to a Night Sister," Tech muttered, shaking his head. "She died, came back, and now... this." He let out a long sigh, feeling the weight of it all.

Ahsoka had become more than they ever expected. More than anyone could control.

And now, trapped in a Separatist lab, she was nothing but a test subject. But how long before she realized the true depth of her power?

Tech leaned forward again, tapping his fingers on the desk. There was more to this than just data—it was a puzzle, one he wasn’t sure he was ready to solve.

Vocalization and Mental State:
The subject does not speak conventionally but whispers in an ancient Dathomirian dialect. These whispers appear to be a form of meditation, allowing her to suppress the volatile magicks coursing through her. This practice suggests she is mentally aware, though afraid of her own power. Her body language and avoidance of using her abilities confirm this fear, implying an internal struggle to maintain control over forces she barely understands.

Physical Transformation:
The subject’s lekku have changed from blue and white to red and white, mirroring Night Sister traits tied to Dathomir’s magicks. Her eyes have turned red, not Sith yellow, which defies standard dark side markers. This suggests her transformation is tied to Dathomirian magicks rather than Sith corruption, signifying a unique balance of dark energy and self-control.

Conclusion:
The subject’s changes—both physical and mental—indicate a powerful bond with Dathomir’s magicks. However, her fear and reluctance to fully wield her power suggest she remains uncertain and dangerous. Further observation is required to assess her potential and risks."

So Ahsoka was aware? Unless the Separatists had gotten it wrong, Ahsoka didn’t seem to be all there. But Omega, however, claimed she could understand her—every word.

Was it a thing of trust? Was Ahsoka mentally there enough to trust someone her own gender, someone close to her age? Or had her whispers been less about language and more about connection—an instinctual bond forged between two girls caught in a galaxy that never gave them a chance to be children?

Tech let out a sigh, leaning back in his chair. The thought lingered, itching at the edge of his analytical mind. Trust. Connection. These weren’t qualities he often studied, but in Ahsoka’s case, they seemed as significant as her physical transformation.

Still, there was more to read, and Tech’s insatiable curiosity pulled him back into the report.

Fascinating. All too fascinating.

Report: Subject Reproductive Experimentation

Date: 183:09 Standard Time, Dathomir

Lead Researcher: Dr. Garinth Lumas

Summary of Attempts to Extract Genetic Material

The subject has proven unsuitable for deployment as a weapon due to her unpredictability and refusal to cooperate. Despite her exceptional abilities, including the destructive application of Dathomirian magicks to eliminate droids, she cannot be controlled or directed effectively. As a result, the project has shifted focus to the possibility of harvesting her genetic material to develop more compliant subjects.

Efforts were made to induce the subject to form an emotional connection with the concept of motherhood. Psychological conditioning through the provision of life-like infant simulacra ("training dolls") failed completely. The subject displayed open hostility to the conditioning, smashing each doll provided to her.

Physical experimentation involved repeated attempts to ensure the subject’s reproduction. Despite advanced measures, the subject’s control over her magicks disrupted these processes. Each time gestation was confirmed, she would channel her powers to forcibly terminate the pregnancy. Following every instance, her body underwent rapid self-repair, an extraordinary regenerative ability unique to her physiology.

Current Status of Experimentation:

As of the latest entry, 182 confirmed reproductive cycles have failed within approximately six months. The subject appears aware of the experimentation and actively resists, further demonstrating her disdain for her captors and the project’s objectives. Despite this resistance, her body continues to exhibit unparalleled resilience, returning to a baseline state each time. This phenomenon warrants deeper study, as it may hold untapped potential unrelated to the project’s primary goals.

Conclusion:

The subject remains unsuitable for the Separatist war effort in her current form. Psychological and biological measures have failed to yield results, and her extraordinary resistance to both physical and mental coercion indicates that she will not be a viable asset. While her magicks and regenerative abilities remain fascinating, further investment in this project may yield diminishing returns. Alternate approaches or subjects may need to be considered.

End of Report

Omega and Ahsoka sat near the barracks, away from the others. Hunter had assumed Omega was showing Ahsoka her clothes, but it didn’t seem like Ahsoka was paying attention, let alone reacting. The girl barely touched her food—just a few crackers—before turning her head away. After that, Omega just kept talking, rattling on about whatever popped into her head. Ahsoka didn’t seem to mind, though; she just kept whispering softly to herself, her words unintelligible.

“I feel like she should shower,” Wrecker said, leaning near Tech’s desk, arms folded. “Kinda feel bad she's still in those clothes.”

“She can shower the minute we know what we’re dealing with,” Hunter replied, his arms crossed tightly over his chest. He sounded more frustrated than concerned. “Speaking of... Tech, what do you have?”

Tech didn’t respond right away. Instead, he stared at the screen, his fingers twitching over the controls. His focus was so intense that it almost felt like he wasn’t aware of the room around him.

“Kriff, don’t tell me he’s broken,” Crosshair muttered from the corner of the room. Wrecker knocked gently on Tech’s head, causing the man to flinch. “Tech, be present. Mentally present.”

“Right.” Tech blinked, looking back at the others. He took off his glasses and began cleaning them with a cloth. “We’re at a safe distance from Omega, so I can now go into detail about what I’ve found.” He slipped his glasses back on, then gestured to the others. “Please, sit.”

Hunter and Crosshair exchanged a brief look before sitting down, both clearly uncertain about what Tech was about to reveal.

Tech clicked the screen, and Ahsoka’s image appeared once more. "I was able to access files related to something called Project DNS, which I can only surmise means Darthomir Night Sister."

Hunter frowned. "A Night Sister?" That didn’t make sense.

Tech continued without hesitation. "Her whispering is Dathomiri. She’s essentially meditating to keep her magick in check."

“Like a witch?” Crosshair asked, his voice dripping with skepticism.

"A Night Sister," Tech corrected, his voice firm.

Hunter froze. The implications of what he just heard were too much to ignore.

“What?” he managed to croak, his stomach twisting with unease. "Tech, aren’t Night Sisters dangerous?"

"They can be, but—"

"Osik, Tech, there is no ‘but,’” Crosshair snapped, cutting him off. "We should’ve just given her to the Republic. This is too complicated.”

“If you would let me finish,” Tech said, his tone sharp now. "All of her abilities are listed here. Knowing them will help us understand how to control the situation."

"Abilities?" Wrecker repeated. "So, she’s like a wizard or something?"

“Just read the list,” Tech urged, stepping aside to give them a clearer view of the screen.

Hunter’s stomach sank as he saw the list. Each ability was more disturbing than the last. The further he read, the more the weight of it hit him. But the final bullet point was the one that truly shook him.

“She needs to go,” Hunter snapped, stepping back from the screen, his voice tense with disbelief. “Mental and physical domination? Tech, are you karking kidding me?”

Tech didn’t flinch. “No.”

Hunter’s breath caught in his throat. “Tech, this is literal confirmation she’s dangerous,” he said, his voice strained with urgency. “I’m contacting the Republic. We can’t have her here. What if she does something to Omega?”

“She won’t,” Tech replied, his voice surprisingly calm. “She’s had chances before. Believe me.”

“Tech—”

“Let me speak!” Tech’s tone was sharp, and for a moment, it caught everyone off guard. Hunter’s mouth snapped shut, and even Crosshair narrowed his eyes. Wrecker shifted uncomfortably, glancing at Tech and then back at Hunter, clearly uncertain.

Tech seemed to hesitate, his fingers twitching as if forcing himself to speak. When he finally did, his voice was quiet but firm. “She won’t do anything to us.” He exhaled sharply, clicking the screen again. A new folder opened. “The data led me to another project they started… after deciding she wasn’t useful as a weapon.”

Hunter’s stomach twisted. He didn’t like where this was going. “So, you’re saying she’s not controllable,” Crosshair said flatly, though his usual edge was missing, replaced by something softer, uneasier.

Tech didn’t answer. He seemed to gather himself before continuing, his gaze fixed on the screen. “It was a breeding project,” he said finally, his voice tight. “They wanted to get her pregnant and use her children as weapons for the Separatists.”

Hunter froze, his breath catching in his throat.

Wrecker slammed his fist onto the desk, the sound echoing in the small space. “What?” His voice shook with anger. “You’re saying they—”

Tech cut in, his voice grim. “She was raped at least 182 times over six months. That’s one, maybe more, every single day.” He paused, struggling with the words. “The only documented use of her magick during that time was to force her body to miscarry any child she was carrying.”

Hunter felt like the air had been sucked out of the room.

Tech turned to him then, his expression stark, his voice trembling but determined. “She had over 182 chances to use her magick to stop them—and didn’t. Not once. So no,” he said, his voice rising slightly, “I do not believe she would ever use her abilities to manipulate or harm us. Not when she wouldn’t even use them to save herself from what they did to her.”

The silence that followed was unbearable.

“Karking monsters,” Crosshair muttered, his voice low and full of venom. “We should’ve done worse to them. A lot worse.”

“AGreeed,” Tech said, adjusting his glasses with a trembling hand. “But right now, the best thing we can do is help her.”

Hunter shook his head, the frustration bubbling over. “Tech, we can’t help her! We’re soldiers, not therapists! This is beyond us!” His voice cracked slightly as he continued, his hands balling into fists. “Think about what this has done to her—mentally, emotionally. We’re not equipped for this!”

“She trusts us,” Tech argued, his tone sharp now, cutting through Hunter’s frustration. “That’s why Omega can understand her—because Ahsoka trusts her. If we hand her off to anyone else, that trust will shatter. And if that happens, she’ll be labeled as a threat.” He looked Hunter dead in the eye. “She’ll be executed. You know that as well as I do. Right now, we are her only chance at survival and healing.”

Hunter looked away, his jaw clenched tight, his thoughts a whirlwind of guilt, anger, and helplessness. Wrecker sat down heavily, burying his face in his hands, while Crosshair leaned back against the wall, staring at the ceiling with a hard expression.

Hunter’s voice was barely above a whisper when he finally spoke. “Kriff.”

“Poor kid,” Wrecker whispered, his voice uncharacteristically soft. “Every single day, for six months.”

“And then forcing herself to miscarry,” Crosshair muttered, his tone laced with unease. He shuddered, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’m guessing that’s why all those broken dolls are in her room?”

“Yes,” Tech replied, his tone clinical but tinged with sadness. “The dolls were meant to encourage her to find some appeal in motherhood. But each time they gave her one, she destroyed it.”

Silence fell over the room again, heavy and oppressive.

Hunter let out a shaky breath, his thoughts spiraling as he closed his eyes. He wanted to help this girl. Stars, he wanted to help her so badly. But the weight of what she’d endured crushed him. How could anyone recover from something like that?

That kind of trauma wasn’t something that could just be healed. Not fully.

She would never be the same again, never feel safe in her own skin. She’d always carry the fear—always be haunted by the shadows of what had been done to her.

“Hunter.”

His eyes snapped open. The others were staring at him, waiting for him to make the call.

“What do we do?” Wrecker asked, his voice breaking slightly.

Hunter stared at them, feeling the weight of the decision settle heavily on his shoulders.

Ahsoka had been condemned—trapped in a prison of despair, her mind shackled by the horrors she’d endured. If they handed her over to anyone else, she’d either be seen as a threat and executed, or left to drown in that darkness alone.

He clenched his fists, his resolve hardening.

“We’ll keep her,” he said firmly.

Crosshair raised a brow, but there was no argument. Wrecker nodded, and Tech’s posture eased just slightly.

She might never escape the memories, might never fully heal. But that didn’t mean they couldn’t try.

If there was even the slightest chance they could help her find a way to feel safe again, to live without that crushing fear, they had to take it.

They had to try.

Chapter Text

Ahsoka's funeral had been small and quick.

At first, there wasn’t going to be one, simply because they didn’t have a body to burn. But Plo Koon and Obi-Wan made sure she would be honored.

All they had to burn was her one dress—the simple blue one she’d hidden away in her room. She had loved it. Anakin thought Padmé had given it to her.

The burning was swift. Anakin kept her lightsaber, a silent tribute.

What he remembered most about the funeral was the cold.

Despite the fire crackling only feet away from him, despite the heat that should’ve soaked through his skin, he felt cold—bitterly, unrelentingly cold.

No matter what he did, no matter how many times Padmé held him, or how many times the heat of battle burned him, the cold never went away.

Ahsoka had been his warmth, his blanket of comfort and security. And now she was gone, leaving him to freeze.

"Ani."

He looked up, startled. Padmé stood before him, her expression a mixture of sadness and understanding.

"You weren’t listening, were you?"

"You caught me there," Anakin admitted, sitting up straighter from where he had slumped in his chair across from her desk. "Sorry, Angel."

Padmé smiled faintly. "Don’t be. You’ve been through a lot. Saving Master Windu’s life—it’s a big thing."

But Anakin could only think of the one thing he couldn’t save.

He looked down at his lap, feeling a lump grow in his throat.

"Ani, you’re doing it again."

"Doing what?"

"Zoning out," Padmé said softly. "What’s going on with you?"

Anakin’s heart twisted. He knew what the answer was.

"I think you already know the answer to that," he murmured, his voice tight with grief.

Padmé’s eyes softened with pity, and she nodded slowly. "Ani... I’m sorry."

"Why are you sorry?" Anakin asked, his voice a little sharper than he intended. "You didn’t get her killed, did you? It was me."

"Ani—"

"Don’t try to tell me I’m wrong," he snapped. His voice trembled, raw with guilt. "I got her killed. I got injured, I couldn’t protect her, and because of that, her body got blown to bits by a tank that Aayla took down in four seconds!"

"Ani," Padmé sighed, but not in frustration. More in sorrow. "The Council reviewed the footage. It was an accident. A regrettable accident. Commander Bly and Ahsoka were in a difficult position—"

"They wouldn’t have been there if I hadn’t been karking injured," Anakin repeated, his hands trembling as he clenched them into fists. "It’s my fault. I shouldn’t have taken her as a Padawan. I could never keep her safe."

"Anakin, Ahsoka cared for you so much," Padmé said, her voice full of tenderness. "She would never want you to blame yourself."

"She’s dead, Padmé," Anakin stated flatly, his heart heavy. "She doesn’t want anything. All the hopes and dreams she had—they were killed the minute the Council decided it was a good idea to put her in this war."

The room fell silent after that. Anakin stared at the ceiling, arms crossed, while Padmé looked at him with deep sorrow.

He was angry—furious, in fact.

He had lost people before, he had known the sting of death and the gnawing emptiness it left. But Ahsoka’s death felt different. It felt worse.

Worse than the pain of battle, worse than the harsh words shouted at him from all sides.

He had failed her.

Just like how he had failed his mother.

Anakin bit the inside of his cheek, trying to choke back the tears, before looking back at Padmé. She was dabbing her eyes with a tissue, her face full of quiet grief.

"I feel guilty, too, Ani," Padmé said softly, her voice thick with emotion. "As a senator, as a woman with a heart... seeing children, like Ahsoka, being sent off to fight in a war that never ends—it hurts. And Ahsoka... she was a life the Republic failed."

She paused, letting out a deep sigh. "But, Ani, something I’ve learned from being here, from everything that’s happened... is that you have to let yourself grieve."

"I am—"

"No, you’re not." Padmé interrupted gently, her gaze unwavering. "I don’t have the Force, I can’t hear your thoughts, but I know because I love you. You’re not grieving, Anakin, and it’s hurting you."

"I’ve done all the grieving I need to do," Anakin said bitterly. "I’ve meditated. I’ve cleared my head. But it’s still not changing the fact that she’s gone, Padmé."

"Anakin, grieving isn’t just pain," she said softly, her voice steady but filled with compassion. "It’s love. It’s the love you have for her that you can’t give her anymore. Grief doesn’t go away. It stays with you, reminding you how much you love someone, even if they’re not here."

Anakin closed his eyes, a single tear slipping down his cheek.

"You don’t need to remove the grief, Ani. You have to accept it. Let it remind you of your love for her, and let that love help you heal."

The room was quiet, save for the soft sound of Padmé’s breathing and Anakin’s ragged exhale. The pain hadn’t gone away, not completely. But there was something healing in those words. Something that reminded him that he didn’t have to carry this burden alone.

Maybe, just maybe, he could learn to carry the grief in a way that allowed him to move forward.

But not today. Today, the pain was still too raw.

"Thanks," Anakin whispered, standing up and pressing a soft kiss to Padmé's cheek. "I have a meeting with Obi-Wan about that kid who tried to kill Windu, but I’ll stop by later, I promise."

Padmé smiled at him, nodding in understanding, her gaze lingering on him with quiet concern.

And then he left.

Rex was waiting outside as usual, his posture straight, hands clasped behind his back. He gave a slight nod as they started walking together.

"You alright, General?" Rex asked, not meeting his gaze.

"I’m fine, Rex."

"Sir, you look like you were crying."

"Let it go, Rex."

"Sir."

They continued walking in silence, the rhythmic sound of their boots echoing in the hallway.

Anakin glanced over at Rex, who kept his eyes fixed forward. He couldn’t help but notice the subtle tension in the man's shoulders, the quiet weight he carried even under that helmet.

Anakin had checked in with his men nearly every day for two months after Ahsoka’s death. He had watched them closely, the faint cracks in their facades, the way they barely held it together. Kix and Coric had spent hours poring over the footage of Ahsoka’s death, trying to make sense of it, but only coming to more painful realizations.

Fives had stopped cracking jokes. Echo had become even more meticulous in following orders—nearly obsessively so, like he was trying to control something he couldn’t. Jesse blamed himself. And Rex… Rex hated himself.

It made Anakin furious.

His men, his brothers, didn’t deserve that guilt. They hadn’t done anything wrong, yet they carried the weight of a death that had been caused by the Republic’s failure, by the Orders that sent them all to war.

And yet, here Anakin was—the only one truly groveling. There was no discussion about the safety of Padawans, about the safety of children in a war they never asked for. No one had changed the system that had taken Ahsoka from them.

Ahsoka’s death had brought nothing but silence. Nothing had changed.

Anakin’s jaw tightened. He didn’t want to go to that meeting with Obi-Wan. He didn’t want to pretend like everything was fine when it wasn’t. He wanted to be with his men, with the ones who felt the same grief and anger he did.

He tapped his commlink.

"I can’t make it," he said, his voice flat.

Obi-Wan responded almost immediately. "Something come up?"

Anakin glanced at Rex, who raised an eyebrow, confused.

"Yeah," Anakin replied curtly, then cut off the comm. He looked at Rex. "Where are the men?"

"In the barracks, sir," Rex answered. "I think Boil gave Dogman a deck of cards, and they're playing in there."

Anakin allowed himself a small smile.

"Let’s join them then."

Ahsoka tugged at the hem of Omega’s tunic, which fit snugly but comfortably on her smaller frame. Omega, standing beside her, beamed with pride.

“You look good,” Omega said, adjusting her own hair as she glanced at Ahsoka. “I think we’re about the same size!” Omega never thought she’d be friends with someone her age, let alone a girl that is. It didn’t matter to her that the rest couldn’t understand Ahsoka.
Omega wanted her here. 

Ahsoka tilted her head slightly, her crimson eyes flickering down to the tunic before offering a faint nod. She whispered something under her breath in Dathomiri, her voice soft and melodic, though the words were incomprehensible to Omega. Omega didn’t mind; just having Ahsoka around was enough.

They were on Dantooine now, the wind carrying the scent of grass and earth as it swept across the plains. The Batch had set up a makeshift camp to test Ahsoka’s abilities—her magick , as Tech insisted on calling it. The stark contrast between her haunting appearance and her silent, almost passive demeanor unsettled the others, but Omega didn’t care.

Ahsoka had done things Omega couldn’t understand: she had summoned a glowing, ghostly Tooka for her to play with earlier, an illusion so real it felt like the creature had warmth and weight. It was the first time Omega had seen something that felt truly… magical. She adored it.

Now, though, Tech had taken over, his datapad clutched tightly in one hand as he stood several feet away from Ahsoka. She stood barefoot on the soft ground, her red-and-white lekku trailing down her back, her posture unnervingly still as she stared at the earth beneath her feet. Her lips moved faintly, whispering what Omega recognized as more of the Dathomiri chants she used to keep her powers at bay.

“Alright, Ahsoka,” Tech began, adjusting his goggles as he swiped on his datapad. “I want you to demonstrate your... Dark Side Sorcery.”

Hunter, standing behind Omega with his arm slung casually over her shoulder, exchanged a skeptical glance with Wrecker, who leaned against a nearby tree. Crosshair, perched lazily on a crate with his rifle resting across his knees, let out a low scoff.

“She’s not a science project, Tech,” Hunter muttered, his tone holding an edge of protectiveness.

“On the contrary,” Tech countered, not looking up, “her abilities demand study. This is unprecedented. Imagine the implications if we can—"

“Spare us the lecture,” Crosshair interrupted, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “You’re just excited to poke at something you don’t understand.”

“I am not ‘poking.’ This is research.”

Ahsoka, seemingly unaware of their exchange, remained eerily still, her whispers growing softer as if she were sinking deeper into herself. Omega, tucked under Hunter’s arm, frowned slightly.

“Does she… have to do this?” she asked hesitantly.

Hunter squeezed her shoulder reassuringly. “It’s okay, kid. If she’s not up for it, she’ll let us know.” Would she though?

Tech, oblivious to the tension, pressed a few more buttons on his datapad. “Ahsoka, whenever you’re ready.”

There was a pause—a heavy, palpable silence that made the air feel thicker. Ahsoka raised her head slowly, her eyes locking onto Tech with an intensity that made him take a cautious step back. She stretched out her arms, her fingers curling into deliberate, ritualistic gestures. Her whispering grew louder, the guttural tones of Dathomiri cutting through the stillness like a knife.

And then it began.

The ground beneath her bare feet darkened, the grass withering as though drained of life. The air seemed to hum with energy, vibrating with an unnatural resonance. A faint, fiery glow emanated from Ahsoka’s hands, spreading outward in jagged tendrils that licked at the edges of the ground like living flames.

Omega gasped as the wind picked up, swirling violently around them. Loose debris and dust whipped into the air, forming a cyclone that radiated outward from Ahsoka. The temperature dropped suddenly, a biting chill that contrasted with the fiery energy emanating from her.

“She’s manipulating the elements,” Tech murmured, his voice tight with awe and apprehension as he typed furiously on his datapad. “Fire… wind… the ground itself. Fascinating.”

“Yeah, fascinating,” Crosshair muttered, his voice low. “Right up until she burns the whole place down.”

Ahsoka’s fingers moved fluidly, as though she were weaving the elements together with invisible threads. Flames erupted from the ground in jagged lines, encircling her in a ring of fire. The wind howled louder, and with a sharp, commanding gesture, she caused the earth beneath her to crack and shift, forming jagged spires of rock that shot up around her.

Omega clung to Hunter, her eyes wide with both fear and wonder. “She’s amazing…”

“She’s dangerous,” Crosshair muttered.

“Crosshair, that’s enough,” Hunter snapped, though his own unease was evident.

Ahsoka’s whispers slowed, her hands dropping to her sides as the elemental chaos she had summoned began to dissipate. The flames extinguished themselves, the wind died down, and the jagged rocks crumbled back into the earth. She stood in the center of the now-scorched ground, her chest rising and falling with steady breaths.

Tech hesitated before stepping closer. “Extraordinary. This level of elemental manipulation is… unparalleled. The precision, the control—"

“She’s not something to marvel at,” Hunter cut in, his tone sharp. He walked forward, standing protectively between Tech and Ahsoka. “You okay, kid?”

Ahsoka blinked slowly at him, her crimson eyes unreadable. She whispered something faint in Dathomiri, her voice soft and distant. Hunter didn’t understand the words, but the emotion behind them—the weariness, the sadness—was clear.

Omega slipped out from under Hunter’s arm and ran to Ahsoka, grabbing her hand gently. “That was incredible,” she said earnestly. “But… are you okay? You can tell me, you know.”

Ahsoka looked down at Omega, her crimson eyes softening. She whispered something, her free hand making a small, graceful gesture that felt oddly soothing. Omega smiled and squeezed her hand.

Even though Ahsoka didn’t speak Basic, Omega understood her perfectly. There was something in the way she moved, in the quiet hum of her voice, that made everything clear.

"Omega, please step back," Tech called, his tone polite but firm. "We’re ready to proceed with the next test. Force-based magic. Specifically, illusions."

Reluctantly, Omega let go of Ahsoka’s hand and returned to her spot beside Hunter.

“She already showed us that tooka thing earlier,” Wrecker grumbled, his frown deepening. “Can’t we just skip this part? Do something else?”

“That was part of her illustrative communication,” Tech corrected, adjusting his goggles. “Or… wait. No, I misspoke. That demonstration was Force-based magic. What we’re about to witness now is an advanced form of illustrative communication.”

Omega grinned and leaned toward Hunter, whispering, “I think Ahsoka broke Tech.”

Hunter chuckled, shaking his head. “What makes you think Tech wasn’t already broken?”

“Very funny,” Tech muttered, clearly unimpressed. He turned back to Ahsoka, datapad in hand. “Ahsoka, you may begin.”

Ahsoka’s head tilted toward the sky, her gaze distant as she let out a soft hum. Her bare feet shifted, toes pressing lightly into the dirt as she rose onto her tiptoes. Then, her eyes snapped back to them, blood irises glowing faintly.

The air around them changed—heavier, colder. Shadows twisted unnaturally, pooling into a shape that grew larger and more menacing by the second. A low, guttural growl echoed across the clearing as a monstrous figure emerged from the darkness.

Omega’s eyes widened. The creature was massive, his skin a sickly shade of yellow and marked with black tribal patterns. Two sharp horns curved from his head, and his broad shoulders carried armor that looked more like jagged, darkened steel than something functional. His glowing yellow eyes burned with rage, and every movement of his hulking frame radiated danger.

“Who... what is that?” Omega whispered, gripping Hunter’s arm tightly.

Hunter didn’t answer. His hand instinctively went to his vibroblade, his body tense. The others were equally frozen, staring at the beast in silent apprehension.

The creature let out a snarl, stepping toward Ahsoka. Omega’s heart raced, but before she could even think to warn her, new figures materialized out of the shadows.

The first was a tall figure in flowing robes, his masked face calm yet commanding. He carried a blue-bladed lightsaber that hummed softly as he stepped forward with quiet purpose.

Another appeared beside him—a younger man with unruly blond hair and an intense expression. His lightsaber ignited with a snap-hiss, glowing blue as he charged at the beast with unrelenting ferocity.

More figures joined them—soldiers clad in white armor, their helmets marked with unique blue designs. One of them stepped to the front, barking orders with a voice filled with authority. He wore a pauldron and a distinct kama, his presence striking even without seeing his face.

Behind them, another clone appeared, his armor darker and more intimidating. His helmet bore the scarred visage of a wolf, and he moved with precision as he raised his blaster, ready to fire.

The battle unfolded with dizzying speed. The Jedi worked in tandem, their movements fluid as they attacked the creature with precision. The clones provided cover fire, their coordination flawless as they chipped away at the beast’s defenses.

Finally, with a roar, the creature fell to its knees, its massive body disintegrating into ash and fading into the wind. The clearing was silent once more, save for the faint hum of the Jedi’s lightsabers.

The clone with the wolf-painted helmet stepped forward, removing his helmet to reveal a grizzled face with sharp features. His yellow-green eyes scanned the group before landing on Hunter.

“Thank you for saving her,” the clone said, his voice firm but laced with emotion.

Hunter whispered the name under his breath, almost in disbelief. “Wolffe.”

Before Omega could ask who Wolffe was, the illusion faded. The Jedi, the clones, and the battlefield dissolved into nothing, leaving only Ahsoka standing quietly in the center of the clearing. She was staring at the sky again, her whispers soft and rhythmic, like a melody only she could hear.

Tech broke the silence, his voice filled with awe. “Incredible. She used her illusions to thank us.”

Omega’s heart ached as she turned to Hunter. “Who were those people?”

Hunter’s voice was low but steady. “The one who spoke was Commander Wolffe of the 104th. The other clones were from the 501st, and the Jedi... General Plo Koon and General Skywalker.”

“Wasn’t Ahsoka Commander Skywalker’s second-in-command?” Wrecker asked, his voice tinged with sadness.

“Correct,” Tech said quietly.

Omega’s chest tightened. It was so clear Ahsoka missed them—her men, her generals. The illusion had been a glimpse into her heart, a silent message of longing for the family she’d been taken away from.

She glanced at Ahsoka again, hoping they could one day find a place for her where she could truly belong. Somewhere better than the Republic, better than this war.

Tech cleared his throat, breaking the heavy mood. “Right, moving on. I was considering testing necromancy next—an absolutely fascinating concept, though I’m currently lacking the proper materials—”

“Don’t even think about it,” Crosshair muttered darkly.

Hunter groaned. “Tech, knock it off.”

"I will not," Tech replied, his voice firm yet surprisingly calm. "Necromancy is, without a doubt, a fascinating field of study. You will not dampen my interest in it. However," he added, glancing at the group, "since we lack the necessary materials, we shall move on to the next test."

The others exchanged glances, a mixture of resignation and curiosity.

Tech adjusted his goggles as he glanced at Ahsoka. “Now, for a demonstration of the energy bolts. These bursts of dark energy are a manifestation of the Force that, for all intents and purposes, are like projectiles. However, they are more than simple blasts—they are an extension of the subject’s Force magic. When concentrated, they become potent bursts capable of disabling equipment, taking down small structures, or potentially inflicting considerable harm.”

Tech motioned to the crates they had borrowed from nearby farmers, neatly stacked in a row. “We’ll use these as targets for the demonstration.”

Ahsoka stepped forward, her expression pensive, her brow furrowed as she stretched her hands out. She closed her eyes briefly, and when she opened them again, there was a shift—a ripple in the air around her. The ambient temperature seemed to drop slightly, the surrounding air thickening with the Force.

With a quiet hum, Ahsoka’s hands sparked, and suddenly, dark energy shot from her palms with a hiss, slamming into the first crate with explosive force. The crate splintered instantly, pieces flying in all directions, leaving a smoldering pile of debris.

Omega’s eyes widened as she watched the energy surge from Ahsoka’s hands, crackling with dark power. The impact left a deep scorch mark on the ground, the echoes of the blast still vibrating in the air.

Wrecker let out a low whistle, his eyes gleaming with excitement. "No wonder the karking clankers thought she’d work as a weapon," he said, clearly impressed. "She could take out a whole ship with that!"

Ahsoka let out a small, distressed whimper, her hands trembling slightly as she stared at the destruction she’d caused. She slowly sank to the ground, sitting with her legs crossed, and looked at her hands as though they had betrayed her. Her expression was distant, and the color drained from her face.

Omega frowned, glancing at Hunter and Crosshair. Both shared a look—one that spoke volumes of unspoken understanding.

“Tech,” Hunter said, his voice a mix of patience and authority, “we’re done for today. Everyone needs rest.”

Tech blinked, taken aback by Hunter's abrupt interruption. "But there’s still more to—"

“Tech,” Hunter’s tone was final. “We’re done. I said enough.”

The room went silent, the only sound being the soft hum of the surrounding equipment. Omega turned to Ahsoka, who was still gazing at her hands, the energy bolts lingering in the air like a ghost of her actions. She walked over and crouched down beside her, gently placing a hand on Ahsoka’s shoulder.

“It’s okay,” Omega whispered, her voice tender. “We’re done for today.”

Ahsoka didn’t respond. She simply whimpered again, her hands rubbing at her wrists. Omega noticed the raw, irritated skin—marks left from the cuffs the Separatists had bound her with. A deep ache settled in her chest, and she instinctively pulled Ahsoka into a small, comforting embrace.

Then, it hit her like a thunderclap.

“I don’t think she should do any more tests,” Omega said suddenly, her voice quiet but resolute. The room fell still, the others looking at her as though she’d just spoken in a foreign language. “We just broke her out of a lab. A lab where she was probably being tested, if Tech found that file on her.” She felt a pang of frustration rise in her chest. No one had told her what was in that file yet. “It’s not fair on her,” she continued, her words coming faster now. “She’s probably having... I don’t know... flashbacks or something. Memories of the lab. Of the Separatists.”

The room froze. The older clones stiffened, a subtle tension creeping across their faces. None of them had told Omega about what was on Ahsoka's file, just that she was a night sister. It frustrated her.

Omega could feel their eyes on her, but she didn’t back down. “I just... don’t think she deserves this. Not after everything she’s been through.”

Crosshair was the first to speak, his voice icy but measured. "Omega, Tech is doing all of this for our safety. We agreed to take her in, but we need to understand exactly what she can do and how she might use it. To protect us, if nothing else."

Omega’s eyes hardened as she held Ahsoka’s hand tighter. “She’s not going to hurt us,” she said, her voice filled with unshakable certainty. “She won’t.”

“We don’t think she’s a monster, Omega,” Hunter said quietly, his voice tinged with frustration. “We’re just trying to—”

“Then stop testing her,” Omega interrupted, her voice rising. She was starting to tremble, but not with fear— with anger, sadness, frustration. “You’re acting just like the Kaminoans. Just testing her, pushing her like she’s some kind of... of lab experiment! Just like how they did with us!”

The words hung in the air, thick and heavy. Silence fell over the group, so deep it almost suffocated them. Hunter exhaled sharply, his hand running over his face, and the others exchanged looks laden with hurt, guilt, and regret.

Omega stared at the ground, her heart pounding in her chest. She hadn’t meant to accuse them so sharply, but it was the truth, wasn’t it? It was clear to her now—Ahsoka wasn’t broken. She was more than just an asset or a weapon. And they had to realize that.

Hunter sighed heavily, a weary sound that carried the weight of responsibility. “Omega,” he said, his voice softening, “take Ahsoka inside for a bit. We’ll go see if any farmer will spare us some food.”

Omega nodded, the fight draining out of her. She carefully helped Ahsoka to her feet, still clutching her hand. The others didn’t speak, their faces solemn as they turned away.

For three days, the Guard had been saddled with the unenviable task of watching Boba Fett.

For three days, Stone had known nothing even remotely close to peace.

Thorn, as expected, had latched onto the kid. Whether it was out of genuine interest or just a desire to annoy everyone else, no one could say for certain. The one certainty? Thorn wasn’t letting up anytime soon. When Canvas had optimistically handed Boba a few sheets of paper to draw on, Boba had balled one up and chucked it right back at him with a precision that almost made Thorn proud. That left Gamble firmly banned from interacting with Boba—a disaster waiting to happen if there ever was one.

Mindreader had offered his quiet two credits, noting Boba was “just adjusting.” Stone had deadpanned in response: No kriffing osik.

He’d half-considered tossing Boba to Virus and Step just to see how that would end up. Stone's money? On Boba winning whatever chaos erupted.

Initially, Fox had been content leaving Boba in Thorn’s care. But by the end of the second day, it became clear that Fox’s patience had a limit. Now, Boba trailed him everywhere like a particularly grumpy shadow.

Stone sighed as he sat with Thire and Thorn in Fox’s office, going over monthly arrest reports. Fox was seated behind his desk, datapad in hand, while Boba slouched in a chair beside him, arms crossed and a scowl etched onto his face. Thorn had joked earlier about Boba being Fox’s “mini-me,” which had nearly resulted in the kid launching himself across the room. Only Thire and Hound had stopped him.

Fox glanced up from his datapad. “I’d like to note this month has been relatively quiet,” he said, swiping through another page. “Fewer men in the drunk tank.”

Stone nodded. The past few months had seen too many brothers drinking their way through grief at 79’s. One particularly memorable night, he’d watched Hound and Thorn drag a completely unresisting Commander Cody into the tank.

“Job well done, I’d say,” Thorn chimed in, grinning.

Thire sighed, his tone dry. “Job well done because you let the drunks escape or because you were too kriffing drunk yourself to arrest anyone?”

Boba snorted, and Stone caught the faintest twitch of amusement on his lips.

“Kid, you know for a fact that I don’t drink while on duty,” Thorn retorted, turning to Fox. “Go on, tell him. I’ve been sober.”

Fox leaned back, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Thorn, I’m convinced the Kaminoans pumped spice straight into your veins when they made you.”

Thorn opened his mouth to protest, but Fox raised a hand, cutting him off. “Thire, what’s the report from Feathertouch?”

Thire hesitated, his gaze darting nervously toward Boba.

“Thire, for stars’ sake, get a grip,” Fox muttered, his tone sharp.

Thire straightened. “Apologies, sir,” he said, clearing his throat. “The report from Feathertouch is... sensitive. I’m not sure if—”

“Just hand it over,” Fox interrupted with a weary sigh. Thire passed the datapad across the desk, and Fox set it aside on his growing stack of “to-do” items.

From beside him, Boba groaned loudly, dragging everyone’s attention back to him.

Fox turned his head slowly, his voice dangerously calm. “Do you have something to say, Fett?”

The kid’s scowl morphed into a smirk. “Yeah. You’re all kriffing losers.”

The room went silent. Stone was sure he saw smoke practically billowing from Fox’s ears.

Boba, undeterred, leaned forward slightly. “I mean, all you clones are miserable, but you four? You’re the worst. Stuck on this planet, your whole lives wasted as slaves to senators. I’ve contributed more to the galaxy than you ever will, and I’m a kid. You’re just flesh droids.”

Stone clenched his jaw, forcing himself to keep his temper in check. Thorn’s earlier amusement had vanished, his glare fixed firmly on the boy.

The tension in the room stretched until Fox finally spoke, his voice ice-cold. “You three are dismissed.”

“Sir—” Thorn started to protest.

“Now, Thorn,” Fox snapped, his hand curled into a tight fist on the desk.

Stone exchanged a glance with Thire before both stood, tugging a reluctant Thorn along with them.

As the door slid shut behind them, Stone muttered, “If Fox doesn’t throttle the kid, I might.”

Boba stared Fox straight in the eye, his expression defiant, refusing to flinch under the weight of the man’s piercing blue gaze. Let the clone glare all he wanted. It didn’t matter. None of them mattered. They were all the same—brainwashed, flesh-and-bone droids with opinions as worthless as their fabricated existence.

He shifted in his seat, the silence stretching far too long for his liking.

"Are you going to say something, or are you just going to keep staring like someone shoved a blaster up your shebs?" Boba snapped, leaning back with an exaggerated air of indifference.

Fox’s expression didn’t change, but his arms crossed over his broad chest, his posture radiating restrained authority. When he finally spoke, his voice was cold and deliberate. "You had no right to talk to my men like that—or to speak about clones in general like that."

Boba rolled his eyes and opened his mouth to retort, but Fox’s sharp tone cut him off. "Ni venarir epar ibac. Shi ni ." (You will stay quiet and let me speak. Only me.)

The Mando’a made Boba’s head snap up, his nose scrunching in irritation and faint surprise. Fox could speak Mando’a? That was… unexpected. But he refused to let it show, his glare unwavering.

"These men are honorable," Fox continued, his voice low but firm, the kind of voice that left no room for argument. "Every single one of them. Just because you grew up differently doesn’t change that fact. It’s about time you learned to show some respect, Fett."

"Respect?" Boba scoffed, venom lacing the word. "Why should I respect clones? You're just cheap copies pretending to be real men."

Fox leaned forward then, his forearms resting on the edge of his desk as his glare hardened into something dangerous. "I don’t care if you respect me. Frankly, I don’t care if you ever like us. What I care about is you understanding something, so let me make it clear: it’s because of my brothers that you’re even alive right now."

Boba blinked, momentarily thrown off balance.

"Ponds could’ve requested your execution after what you pulled, and no one would’ve batted an eye," Fox said, his tone growing colder. "But he didn’t. He vouched for you, because he’s a good man. Because Bly, Wolffe, and the rest of them are already carrying too many scars from watching someone they care about die—and they couldn’t bear the thought of letting another kid go to waste."

A familiar, painful weight settled in Boba’s chest at the mention of death, but Fox wasn’t done.

"So you’re here. You’re alive. And as far as I’m concerned, you’re stuck with me. If you want to make it through this without being dragged out by your ears, you’d better start showing some respect. Otherwise, I’ll make sure you learn how. Understood?"

Boba clenched his fists so tightly his nails dug into his palms. His entire body screamed at him to fight back, to hit this smug, karking bastard and wipe that condescending tone from his voice. But he couldn’t. Not here. Not now.

So he gritted his teeth and nodded, the motion stiff and jerky.

Fox leaned back in his chair, his focus already shifting to the datapads on his desk. Dismissive. Detached. As if Boba was just another line item to be dealt with in the endless sea of bureaucratic nonsense Fox had somehow accepted as his life.

The sight of it made Boba’s stomach churn.

This man wore his father’s face. And yet here he was, doing something Jango Fett never would—bowing his head, serving as some mindless cog in a machine.

Boba’s gaze fell to the floor, his vision blurring as his thoughts spiraled.

Why was he stuck here? Why couldn’t he do anything right?

He’d failed the job. He’d failed his father’s legacy.

What would his father say if he could see him now—an angry, useless kid who couldn’t even stand up to a clone?

The sting in his eyes deepened, and he blinked rapidly, willing the feeling away.

Stupid. Weak. Just like they thought he was.

Maybe twenty minutes passed before Fox stood up, placing the papers back into a neat stack with the precision of someone who had spent years organizing meaningless data.

"Get up," he said, his tone leaving no room for argument. "We're getting dinner."

"I'm not hungry."

Fox didn’t flinch. "Well, I am. And you’re not supposed to be anywhere without me, so get up."

Boba shot him a glare that could’ve melted metal, but he didn’t fight it. He stood up, feeling the weight of the stupid ankle monitor around his leg. The damn thing went off with every step he took, like it was trying to remind him that he was caged. It locked most of the doors, only letting him go to specific places—the mess hall, the bathroom, Fox’s office. If they didn’t want him to go anywhere, they should’ve left him in the cell where they put him in the first place.

They walked in silence down the corridor. Boba stared at the wall to the left, his eyes trained on the small imperfections in the paint. He didn’t want Fox to see that his eyes were red from earlier. He didn’t want to look any weaker than he already did.

The quiet between them was heavy, suffocating even, but Boba couldn’t be bothered to fill it. He wasn’t here to talk. He was just here to go through the motions, to let whatever came next happen.

They reached the mess hall, and Boba’s stomach twisted. He hated it here. The room was filled with clones—all wearing his father’s face. His father’s voice. His father’s armor. Every one of them was a stain on Jango Fett's legacy, and the thought made his chest tighten.

“Move faster,” Fox said, his voice cutting through the silence. He grabbed Boba’s arm and nudged him forward, pulling him into the mess hall. A few clones turned to stare, giving Boba mixed looks, but most just glanced at him once before going back to their meals.

It was soup day.

Boba didn’t mind soup. He liked soup. But tonight? He wasn’t hungry.

He trailed behind Fox, watching as the clone grabbed two trays instead of one.

"What are you doing?" Boba muttered, his voice low to avoid drawing attention.

Fox didn’t even look at him. "Your stomach’s louder than Grizzler’s growl."

Boba’s face flushed a deep red, but he tried to suppress it. “I told you I’m not hungry.”

Fox ignored him. He placed a bowl onto the tray and started ladling soup, like he hadn’t heard a word Boba had just said.

“I told you I’m not hungry,” Boba repeated, frustration seeping into his voice.

Fox finally looked up, his expression stone-cold. "People are going to stare at you if you keep repeating yourself. I don’t want them staring at me, and I know you don’t want them staring at you, so shut up and take your karking soup."

Boba didn’t respond, though the urge to snap back was gnawing at him. Instead, he just glared as Fox handed him the tray. He could feel the weight of the clones’ eyes on him, the silent judgment lingering in the air. But he took the tray, because what else was he supposed to do?

Fox led the way to an empty table in the far corner of the room. The place was full of clones, but none of them looked at them long enough to care. Fox didn’t want to sit with them, and Boba was more than fine with that. The less attention he got, the better.

They sat down, and for a moment, neither of them spoke.

Finally, Boba broke the silence. “Don’t you want to go sit with your brothers?” he asked, sarcastic on the word brothers , like it was some kind of joke.

Fox stirred his soup absentmindedly, his eyes focused on the swirling liquid. “They don’t want me to sit with them. I don’t want to sit with them. I’m fine here.”

Boba tilted his head, genuinely curious now. “What do you mean?”

Fox looked up briefly, locking eyes with him. “Most of these clones are below my rank. They’re not in the Guard. I’ve earned myself a reputation.”

“Reputation?” Boba raised an eyebrow. "Of being a soulless bastard?"

Fox’s eyes didn’t waver, his voice as steady as before. "Yes."

Boba froze, momentarily caught off guard.

Fox blew on his soup, as though the whole conversation had been a casual exchange about the weather. He didn’t even look phased.

"You can’t just admit to things like that," Boba said, his voice tight. He set his spoon down, suddenly less interested in eating. “What happened to ‘every clone is an honorable man’?”

Fox’s gaze flickered over the room for a brief moment before he answered, his voice clipped. “An honorable man can still be a soulless bastard.” He leaned back slightly in his seat, like the statement didn’t mean anything to him. “And that is what I am.”

Boba blinked, swallowing the knot in his throat. “You’re far from honorable.”

Fox’s lips twitched, but his expression didn’t change. "And you’re far from being a bounty hunter." He brought the spoon to his mouth slowly, as though savoring the taste. This guy ate so damn slowly it was maddening. “Two can play that game.”

The urge to throw the soup in Fox’s face burned in Boba’s chest, but he knew he wouldn’t. He could’ve. He probably should’ve. But he didn’t. Because this—this war of words, this tension between them—was the only thing Boba had left.

So instead, he just took another bite of soup, the heat from the bowl matching the simmering rage inside him.

He hated the fact he was hungry.

Chapter Text

"General," Helix said, standing to acknowledge Obi-Wan as he entered the lounge. He gave a respectful nod before sitting back down.

"Helix," Obi-Wan replied, offering a faint smile that barely masked his weariness. "I hope you're making the most of your break."

"As much as I can, sir," Helix said, watching as Obi-Wan lowered himself into the chair opposite him.

The general looked exhausted.

Of course, Obi-Wan always carried an undertone of exhaustion—it was as much a part of him as his robes or his clipped Coruscanti accent. But now, it seemed... heavier. His eyes were shadowed, his movements slower, as if every step added weight he couldn't shake off.

Helix considered saying something but hesitated. He'd already dealt with Kix’s explosive grief earlier—he wasn’t sure he had the patience, or the courage, to prod Obi-Wan Kenobi of all people.

Obi-Wan broke the silence first. "My meeting with Anakin was canceled," he said, leaning back with a sigh. "By Anakin himself, no less. I can only imagine what sort of trouble he's getting into now."

Helix tilted his head thoughtfully. "I’d assume he’s with the 501st."

Then he paused, lips pressing together. No, that wasn’t right. He’d seen the 501st recently—they looked like men barely holding themselves together. Like ghosts. The same could be said of the Wolfpack. None of them had the energy for mischief anymore.

"Hm," Obi-Wan murmured, closing his eyes briefly. "I heard about your encounter with Kix earlier."

Helix froze.

"You don’t need to share the details," Obi-Wan assured him, his tone soft. "But I was told it was... loud. How are you holding up?"

"I’m fine, sir," Helix replied quickly. Too quickly. "Kix... he’s just—he’s grieving. They all are. I pushed too hard, and he reacted. I deserved it."

"Grief doesn’t justify everything," Obi-Wan said gently. "But it speaks well of you to show understanding."

Helix stared at him, frowning. Obi-Wan’s words were true enough—but the problem was that Obi-Wan himself didn’t seem to live by them.

The general had been... erratic since Commander Tano’s death. One moment, calm to the point of detachment; the next, burying himself in work so obsessively it bordered on self-destruction. And when anyone dared to ask if he was all right? He always gave the same answer: that he was "handling it" in his own way.

It wasn’t convincing.

Helix’s thoughts drifted to Commander Cody, who’d been hollowed out by the same loss. Cody rarely spoke now, even in briefings, his clipped professionalism reduced to a cold shell. He’d only grown worse after they’d all been forced to watch that footage.

The cursed footage.

Helix clenched his fists. A part of him wished Commander Bly had destroyed it—shattered his helmet, erased the recording, anything to spare them all from reliving it. Watching her final moments had been like tearing open a wound that would never heal.

The memory burned, twisting into anger.

"Helix," Obi-Wan said softly, his eyes sharp. "You’re a smart man. You know I can sense your emotions. You’re angry."

Helix stared at the table, jaw tightening. "That I am, sir."

Obi-Wan shifted, leaning forward slightly. "I know our dynamic isn’t always... personal. But as your general, and as someone who cares, you can speak to me."

Helix hesitated, biting the inside of his cheek. He weighed his words, searching for a careful way to express himself.

Instead, what came out was:

"I think you’re a hypocrite."

Silence.

Helix’s eyes widened in horror. Of all the ways to say it—he’d just called General Kenobi a hypocrite .

Obi-Wan arched an eyebrow, more curious than offended. "Go on."

Helix swallowed hard, his throat dry. There was no turning back now. "You said grief doesn’t justify everything," he began, his voice trembling slightly, "but you’ve been using your grief to justify hurting yourself."

Obi-Wan’s expression faltered, his composure cracking just enough to show a flicker of surprise.

"You haven’t been resting when you should," Helix continued, his voice gaining strength. "One moment you’re calm, and the next you’re throwing yourself into work like you’re trying to outrun something. And every time someone asks if you’re all right, you brush it off, saying you’re ‘handling it.’ But you’re not. You’re just... breaking yourself. And you’re using grief as an excuse to let it happen."

Obi-Wan said nothing at first, his gaze dropping to the table. The silence stretched, heavy and suffocating.

Helix braced himself for a reprimand, for any sign that he’d gone too far.

Instead, Obi-Wan exhaled, his shoulders sagging. "Perhaps," he admitted quietly, "you’re not entirely wrong."

Helix blinked, caught off guard.

Obi-Wan lifted his gaze, and for a moment, the mask of Jedi serenity slipped entirely. "Grief is... insidious," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "It convinces you that endurance is enough. That if you simply keep moving forward, the pain will eventually lose its power over you. But you’re right. Endurance is not the same as healing."

Helix stared, unsure how to respond. The general’s vulnerability was both unsettling and humanizing.

"You’ve given me much to reflect on," Obi-Wan said, offering a faint, weary smile. "Thank you, Helix. Truly."

Helix nodded slowly, still processing.

For the first time, he thought, Obi-Wan Kenobi didn’t look quite so untouchable.

Crosshair Was Not Having a Good Time.

This mission—if you could even call this circus act a mission—was testing every ounce of patience Crosshair had. And for a man with his personality, there wasn’t much to begin with.

Dantooine was usually the kind of backwater planet he could tolerate. It was quiet. Remote. Barely on the map. But this time, he was stuck babysitting a supposed-to-be-dead Togruta, who also happened to be a Nightsister now. A karking Nightsister .

Red and white instead of blue and white.
Practically radiating "witch energy."
And staring at him like she could see directly into his soul.

Crosshair leaned back in his chair, arms crossed. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to put a blaster to Hunter’s head for leaving him alone with her—or straight into his own mouth for not coming up with an excuse to leave with the rest of the team.

They’d all gone off to "get supplies." Supplies, Hunter had said, that apparently required Omega’s critical opinion. Because nothing said "survival essentials" like Omega debating fashion choices for a traumatized Nightsister.

Crosshair glanced sideways at Ahsoka. She was sitting on a crate, her hands folded neatly in her lap, staring at him. Still staring at him.

He shifted in his seat, craning his neck like he was checking the room. Her gaze followed him, unblinking.

Great.

Crosshair exhaled sharply through his nose. ‘Tech’s lucky Hunter dragged him along,’ he thought. ‘If I had to hear one more word about testing her necromancy, I’d’ve shot him. We already let him test the rest of her creepy karking powers—why does he need to raise the dead?’

Ahsoka tilted her head, as if she’d heard him.

Crosshair froze for a moment. No way she actually heard that.

He shook it off, forcing himself to relax. The staring was bad enough, but the whispering? That was worse. Her lips were moving now, soundless murmurs tumbling out like she was in her own world.

To be fair, that was an improvement. When they’d first rescued her, she hadn’t even seemed present. Seeing her whispering and staring was at least a step up from her dead-eyed silence.

Still creepy as kark, though.

Crosshair tried not to think about the file they’d read on her—the one Omega hadn’t been allowed to see, though Crosshair suspected she’d overheard anyway. The one that detailed how the Separatists had treated Ahsoka like some kind of lab experiment. The "breeding program." The miscarriages she’d forced herself to endure.

He felt for her. He really did. He’d shoot every last scientist who’d hurt her without hesitation. But that didn’t change the fact that having her here was like carrying a thermal detonator in his pocket. She could kill them all if she wanted to. Or worse—she could use that Nightsister magic to control them.

"She’s just a kid," Omega had argued. And somehow, Omega always got her way.

Now here they were.

Crosshair narrowed his eyes at Ahsoka again, moving his head side to side. Her gaze followed him.

"Maker," he muttered, dragging a hand down his face. "Why don’t you do something instead of just... staring ?"

She blinked at him, uncomprehending.

He scanned the ship, desperate for anything that could distract her. His eyes landed on a piece of scrap flimsi and a marker. Perfect.

He snatched them up and handed them to her. "Here. Do something."

She stared at the paper, her lips moving faintly again. Crosshair swore he heard her whispering to the karking marker.

"Come on, kid," he said, rubbing his temple. "Draw something. Anything."

She glanced at the paper but didn’t move.

Crosshair groaned and grabbed another marker. With a quick flick of his wrist, he drew a crude stick figure, complete with a curly line on top to mimic Omega’s hair, and scrawled "Omega" above it.

"See? Like that."

Ahsoka stared at the drawing.

For a moment, Crosshair thought she was going to ignore him again. Then, slowly, she picked up the marker and began to draw.

Crosshair had barely let his head fall back, savoring the rare silence, when he grew bored. A miracle, really—getting her to stop staring at him—and now he couldn’t even enjoy it. Typical.

His eyes cracked open, glancing at Tano. She was holding the paper up toward him, waiting silently, her crimson-red skin blending with the marker’s color.

Had she been finished this whole time and just didn’t say anything?
Because, right, she can’t karking talk, he reminded himself. Brilliant deduction, Crosshair. He sighed and reached for the paper, plucking it from her hands.

Her face was unreadable, as it often was, but the way she stared at him—wide-eyed, expectant—suggested this was important. Big deal. Life-changing masterpiece.

Except... it wasn’t.

The drawing was a mess. Limbs flailed out like noodles; one leg was shorter than the other, the arms were uneven, and the stick—no, wait—a blaster, was practically a rectangle. The figure itself wore black armor, the details crude and jagged.

Crosshair squinted. What the kark was he even looking at?

He turned the paper sideways. Then upside-down. Then back again. The realization crept up slowly, like a bad joke.

"Oh, Maker, is this me?"
Another glance. Another squint. "No, no way."
Another tilt of the head. " It’s me. Oh, karking hell, it’s me, isn’t it?"

He groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose as the embarrassment set in. “It’s me. It’s karking me.”

He looked up at Ahsoka, who was now tilting her head at him like he was the idiot in this scenario. She’d even labeled it—big, sloppy letters scrawled at the top of the page: CROSSHAIR.

“ Hilarious, ” he muttered dryly, dropping the paper onto the crate next to him. “You really captured my essence, especially that one leg shorter than the other. Nailed it.”

The words tumbled out before he could stop himself, but she didn’t seem offended. In fact, she just reached for the paper again, grabbed another marker, and started drawing with renewed purpose.

Crosshair slumped back in his seat. At least it kept her busy.

Minutes passed. He tried not to watch her work, but curiosity got the better of him.

The second drawing was... something else.

Butterflies, bright and colorful, floated around the stick-figure version of him. Grass stretched below his awkward legs, and what he assumed was a tree loomed in the background—its branches lopsided, but recognizable.

This one was better. Not good, but better.

Crosshair picked up the page and stared at it, unsure what to make of it.

“So now I’m standing in a field surrounded by butterflies?” he asked, quirking a brow at her. “Guess I should feel flattered.” He handed the paper back to her. “Do me a favor and draw Wrecker in something stupid, I want to put it up on the wall.”

Ahsoka’s hands slammed onto the paper with a sharp thud. The sound startled Crosshair, and his entire body stiffened. Whatever faint humor had been floating in the air vanished in an instant, replaced by tension so thick it felt like a weight pressing on his chest.

He frowned, his gaze darting to her hands. The only other time he’d seen her move with that kind of urgency was when she was demonstrating her powers—and those moments weren’t exactly comforting.

No one had asked her to demonstrate anything, though. Unless Tech had somehow shrunk himself to microscopic size and was whispering instructions into her ear, this was entirely her doing.

Crosshair sat up straight, his hand instinctively drifting toward his blaster. He didn’t want to hurt her—not really. Omega would never forgive him, and the thought of her devastation if anything happened to Ahsoka was enough to make him hesitate. But hesitation could be deadly. He couldn’t afford that.

Because Ahsoka was a threat.

When her hands began to glow green, he raised his blaster, his jaw tightening. He wasn’t going to shoot her—not unless he had to—but Maker, he hoped it wouldn’t come to that.

Then the drawing began to glow, and Crosshair’s breath hitched.

The lines on the paper lifted off the page, reshaping themselves in midair. The stick figure of himself, the butterflies, the grass—all of it shifted into something more realistic. And then, impossibly, it moved.

The butterflies landed on the animated version of his armor, their delicate wings fluttering as the grass swayed gently beneath them. It repeated in a loop, over and over, like some surreal piece of living art.

Crosshair stared, his stomach twisting into knots.

What the hell was she getting at?

Before he could ask, the crudely drawn figure of Omega—the one he’d scribbled earlier as a joke—rose from the page and toddled over to the animated Crosshair. The little figure hugged him, its tiny arms wrapping around his legs, as the butterflies circled them both.

His grip on the blaster slackened.

Ahsoka rested her hands back onto her lap, and the glowing figures returned to the paper, as if nothing had happened. She looked up at him with the same unreadable expression, her face as blank as ever.

Crosshair didn’t know what to think. Was this a message? A plea? A threat?

‘Yeah, because a drawing of Omega hugging me is clearly a threat.’

He exhaled sharply, lowering the blaster entirely. “Okay, listen,” he muttered, flipping the paper over to a clean side. “I know you can write. You spelled my name earlier. No more of... that.” He gestured vaguely to the paper. “It’s karking creepy, and you know it.”

He grabbed the marker and quickly scribbled a sentence. Hello, my name is Crosshair.

“Rewrite that,” he said, sliding the paper and marker toward her. “But with your own name.”

Ahsoka stared at him, her fingers twitching slightly, before she picked up the marker. She began writing, slower than he expected, the letters jagged and uneven. He noticed how her hand trembled as she worked, her movements uncertain, as if she didn’t quite trust her ability to do this.

Crosshair watched with growing unease. When she finally stopped and set the marker down, he leaned forward to inspect her work. The sentence was mostly there, but she had frozen at the name.

“Come on,” he urged softly. “Just finish it. You know your name.”

She didn’t move.

“You do know your name,” he pressed, a touch more firmly. “You had that illusion of Wolffe say it.”

But knowing your name and knowing how to spell it weren’t the same thing.

The realization hit him like a slap to the face.

Of course. Of course. She’d been a prisoner for months—treated like an object, not a person. Those scum who’d tortured her wouldn’t have cared about giving her tools to write or time to practice. To them, she was nothing but a means to an end.

When was the last time she even wrote something?

He let out a slow breath, guilt gnawing at his insides. How had he not seen it sooner?

“Okay,” he whispered, his tone softer now. “It’s fine. We’ll take it slow.”

He moved closer to her, cautiously, and picked up the marker. Carefully, he wrote her name: Ahsoka.

“See? Like that.” He pushed the paper and marker back to her. “Just practice your first name. Take your time.”

She hesitated for a moment, then picked up the marker again, her movements shaky but determined. Crosshair stayed silent, watching her work, his heart heavier than it had been in years.

It had been several days since Boba had arrived, and though Fox had initially found the kid's presence grating, he was starting to appreciate it. It was strange—Fox, who had always despised distractions, was finding some comfort in this one. As much as it went against his usual instincts, Boba had managed to slip under his skin in a way that was almost welcome.

Fox had left the kid in Stone's capable hands, trusting his fellow officer to keep things calm while he met with Feathertouch. The report he had gotten from the medic had been troubling, and Fox needed answers.

He glanced around the corridor, making sure no one was nearby before stepping into the storage room. Feathertouch stood there, arms crossed, a grim expression carved into his face. It was strange to see him like this—usually so calm and collected, even in the worst of situations. But now, the weight of something heavier hung over him.

"Sir," Feathertouch greeted, his voice quieter than usual.

"Feathertouch," Fox nodded in response, his throat tight. He wasn't sure what to expect, but he already had a bad feeling about this.

"I assume you’ve read the report?" Feathertouch asked.

Fox forced himself to nod. He had read it, and it had made his stomach churn. Memory loss among the men. It wasn't just a few forgetful moments—it was more severe than that. Whole days gone, entire tasks forgotten. And what was worse, some of the men were terrified of being recommissioned, of being deemed unfit for duty. So, they came to Feathertouch, confiding in him the things they'd been hiding.

Not many knew about it—just the ones who were suffering, Feathertouch, and now, Fox. They kept it quiet, trying to avoid drawing attention, especially from those who might report it.

"It’s not good, sir," Feathertouch's voice was steady but edged with frustration. "I can’t find anything. I've run every test I can think of—scans, blood work, everything within my power without making it official, but nothing. I’m... I’m at a loss."

Fox didn't blame him. The medic was usually the picture of composure, but this had him shaken.

"No theories?" Fox asked, his voice low.

Feathertouch shook his head slowly. "Nothing concrete. I asked if any of them had suffered head injuries recently, but they all denied it. The problem is... what if they did, and they just don’t remember?"

Fox's stomach twisted at the thought. "There are around twenty men with these issues," he said, voice tight. "If twenty men had randomly sustained head injuries, we’d have heard something. You’d have seen something. They trust you."

Feathertouch nodded. "I’m testing a theory—maybe there’s some kind of gas in the bunks, or maybe it’s something in the water supply. I even considered talking to the other medics, seeing if anyone else has noticed anything unusual with their men, but..." His voice faltered. "The Jedi might—"

"The Jedi wouldn’t know anything about this," Fox snapped, his frustration bubbling to the surface. "And you cannot talk to the other medics about this. It’s too risky. If this gets out, if it gets to the wrong people..." His voice trailed off as the gravity of the situation hit him fully.

Feathertouch was visibly struggling with the situation. He had always been the kind of medic who didn’t force his advice, but when it came to the men under his care, his words had an undeniable weight. And now, even he felt helpless.

Fox took a deep breath, trying to steady himself. "We need to keep this under wraps. If there’s a chance this could spread, we can’t let anyone else find out. We handle it ourselves, quietly."

Feathertouch's eyes darkened, and he gave a sharp nod. "Understood, sir. I’ll keep looking into it, but I can’t guarantee I’ll find anything."

Fox clenched his fists, fighting the urge to slam his hand against the wall. "Just keep me updated," he said tightly. "I don’t care how small the detail is—anything could be the breakthrough we need."

As Feathertouch turned to leave, Fox lingered in the silence, staring at the floor. His mind raced with the implications. Twenty men. Memory loss. A possible threat that no one could see, no one could understand. And the worst part? There was no clear solution in sight.

The door shut behind him, leaving Fox in suffocating silence. His thoughts churned relentlessly.

What was he supposed to do?

Could he even do anything about this? The grim truth sat heavy on his chest: he couldn’t. He had no power.

That was the reality of being a clone, wasn’t it? Watching your brothers die, treated as weapons instead of men, and being utterly powerless to stop it.

His comlink buzzed, pulling him from his spiraling thoughts. He sighed, tapping it. "Fox, here."

"Sir," Thorn’s voice crackled over the line. "You’re requested in the war room. It’s urgent." There was no mistaking the seriousness in Thorn’s tone.

"Understood," Fox replied, cutting the connection with a weary sigh. He left the room, his boots thudding against the floor.

The walk to the war room was brief, probably because he’d practically sprinted there. When he arrived, his unease only grew. Inside, General Skywalker, General Kenobi, Rex, Cody, and several other high-ranking officers were gathered. A holocommunicator projected the images of Commander Colt and Shaak Ti, their expressions mirroring the tension in the room.

"Commander," Kenobi greeted, nodding to him. Cody didn’t even glance up, his posture stiff and distant, a shadow of his usual composed self. Fox noticed—it was impossible not to—but said nothing.

"Thank you for joining us," Kenobi continued, though the gratitude felt hollow under the circumstances. "We’ve intercepted a message from the Separatists. They’re preparing an assault on Kamino."

"Grievous again," Skywalker growled, his anger palpable. The tension radiating from him was enough to make the entire room feel charged. "This time, with Ventress. They’re throwing everything they have at Kamino. We’re lucky we intercepted their communication."

Kenobi shot Skywalker a warning look before continuing. "The Republic is sending reinforcements to bolster the blockade. However, there’s another matter to address." He paused, visibly uncomfortable. "The 501st has been operating without a Commander for far too long."

Fox caught the subtle shift in Skywalker’s posture—the way his hands clenched into fists. The raw tension in the room became almost unbearable.

"We don’t need a new Commander," Skywalker snapped. "Rex and I have been managing just fine without one. If it comes down to it, Rex can handle the role."

"Anakin," Kenobi said, his voice firm but not unkind, "the Council has made it clear that the 501st requires a Commander. While Captain Rex is exceptional, he is not formally equipped to take on that rank. And assigning a Padawan is not an option at this time."

Fox felt the unspoken weight behind Kenobi’s words: Tano . He didn’t need to hear her name to know she was on everyone’s mind. The loss was written across Skywalker’s face, as raw as an open wound.

Kenobi turned to Fox then, and Fox didn’t like the look in his eyes.

"That’s where you come in, Commander."

Fox’s stomach sank. "Sir?"

"For this mission, we’re requesting that you temporarily join the 501st as their Commander," Kenobi said, his tone measured. "Just for this operation."

Fox felt as if the floor had dropped out from beneath him.

"It would only be for this mission," Kenobi assured him. "But if it goes well, we may call upon you for other critical operations in the future."

Kenobi glanced at Cody, who still hadn’t moved. "I hope this isn’t... too much of a burden."

Fox felt his jaw tighten. Too much of a burden?

Sure, it wasn’t like he’d been dealing with a chaotic kid clone, managing a program to rehabilitate Boba Fett, or grappling with the fact that his men were experiencing unexplained memory loss. Nothing stressful about any of that.

But he was a clone. Clones didn’t say no.

"Of course, sir," Fox replied, his voice steady despite the turmoil inside. He cleared his throat. "I’m honored to be considered."

"Thank you, Commander," Shaak Ti said, her holographic image radiating calm authority. "Your commitment is appreciated."

Fox nodded. "Generals, I do have one concern." His gaze swept over the room, noting the way Cody seemed almost lifeless in his seat. "You’re all aware of the program Boba Fett is part of. I’m leading it, and I don’t believe it would be wise to leave him behind—or to bring him along."

"We’ve discussed that," Shaak Ti replied, her tone firm. "Part of Boba Fett’s rehabilitation involves helping him understand his place within the Republic. Seeing the Republic in action may prove beneficial for him. While his behavior with the cadets on the ship was noted, it wasn’t deemed disruptive enough to exclude him from this opportunity. This environment might be what he needs to grow." That made no sense but ok.

Fox swallowed the sharp retort that rose in his throat. Instead, he gave a curt nod. "Understood, General."

"Good," Kenobi said, his voice steady but grim. "We will depart as soon as possible. Master Ti, if Grievous launches his attack before reinforcements arrive, do you and your forces have the resources to hold them off?"

Shaak Ti’s hologram flickered slightly as she crossed her arms, her expression sharp but composed. "We’ll do everything we can, but it won’t be easy. The issue lies not in our resolve but in their strategy. If the Separatists are attacking Kamino, they’ll have contingencies in place to delay or intercept reinforcements. You’ll need to ensure you arrive before they tighten their grip."

"Then what are we waiting for?" Skywalker interjected, his impatience plain. "If Grievous is already moving, we should be mobilizing immediately."

Fox’s jaw tightened. Everything was moving too fast. He barely had time to process what was happening, let alone prepare. Leaving now would mean Feathertouch would be left alone to manage the worsening memory issues within the Guard. That wasn’t fair—not to Feathertouch, not to the men.

But fairness didn’t matter. Fox knew that much. 

Skywalker leaned forward, his tone commanding. "We’ll deploy in three stages. First, we’ll send scouts ahead to assess the Separatist fleet. Their findings will help us determine our point of entry." He gestured to Rex and Cody. "You’ll coordinate with the naval forces to lead the blockade’s initial defense."

Kenobi picked up from there, his voice calm but firm. "Once the blockade is stabilized, Commander Fox will lead the 501st to reinforce Kamino’s ground defenses. Your mission will be to secure the cloning facilities and protect the genetic material at all costs. Grievous and Ventress will likely prioritize those targets."

"Meanwhile," Shaak Ti added, "my forces will hold the primary facilities. We’ll establish fallback points to prevent the Separatists from advancing too far, but we’ll need precise coordination from your fleet to keep their reinforcements at bay."

Fox spoke up, his voice measured despite the storm brewing inside him. "What about the cadets? If the facilities are breached, they’ll be defenseless."

Kenobi nodded gravely. "A valid concern. Commander Colt has already started evacuating the youngest cadets to safer areas within Tipoca City. However, should the worst happen, ensuring their safety will become your secondary priority."

Skywalker crossed his arms, clearly dissatisfied. "Secondary? Protecting the future of the Republic’s army should be the priority."

"We’re protecting the Republic’s future by holding Kamino," Kenobi countered, his tone sharpening. "If we lose the planet, the Separatists gain not only a strategic advantage but also the Republic’s genetic blueprint. That cannot happen."

The room fell silent for a moment, tension crackling like a live wire. Finally, Skywalker exhaled sharply and relented, though his frustration was obvious.

"We move out at 0400," Skywalker announced, his tone brooking no argument. "Get your men ready. Dismissed."

As the others began to filter out, Fox lingered for a moment, his mind racing. Leaving now meant abandoning one crisis for another, trading one impossible situation for another. But that was the reality of his existence, wasn’t it?

He squared his shoulders and turned to leave. Orders were orders. He’d do what he always did: follow them.

When Hunter and the rest of the squad returned to the ship, it had only been two hours. Datooine’s terrain made travel slow, but Hunter had insisted on getting back as soon as possible. The whole time they were gone, he’d had this gnawing feeling that if they took too long, they’d return to find the ship on fire, Crosshair locked in combat with some farmer, and Ahsoka being dragged off by slavers.

Instead, they walked in to find Crosshair sitting with Ahsoka, taping drawings to the wall.

"Huh," Wrecker grunted, scratching his head. "Are we on the wrong ship?"

Hunter groaned. "Yes, Wrecker. This is our ship."

"But then what is that ?" Wrecker pointed at the sight of Crosshair and Ahsoka, sitting side by side, seemingly… calm. "That’s not right."

"Wrecker, shut up," Crosshair muttered, glancing up from where he was pinning another drawing to the wall. "I doubt you were useful."

"I picked out some of her clothes!" Wrecker shot back indignantly.

"Fascinating," Crosshair deadpanned.

Before Hunter could step in, Omega dashed forward, her excitement bubbling over. "Can we show her what we got?" she asked eagerly, already moving toward Ahsoka. "We didn’t get too much, but they’re so pretty! You’ll love them—come on!" She took Ahsoka’s hand gently, and Hunter tensed out of habit, ready for Ahsoka to flinch or pull away.

But she didn’t.

She hesitated, sure, but there was no panic—no rigid tension in her shoulders, no darting eyes searching for an escape. Even more telling, Crosshair didn’t look on edge either. He wasn’t watching Ahsoka like she was a ticking time bomb anymore.

"Omega, don’t overwhelm her," Hunter warned.

"I’m not!" she called over her shoulder before disappearing down the corridor with Ahsoka in tow.

Once they were gone, Tech wandered over to the wall, inspecting the drawings with his usual clinical curiosity. "Is this supposed to be me?" He squinted at one of the sketches. "I do not believe my left arm is shorter than my right, but perhaps I need to conduct a new medical examination."

Hunter sighed. "Tech—"

"Crosshair, you are a terrible artist," Tech concluded.

"It literally says ‘Made by Ahsoka’ on the bottom," Crosshair muttered.

"Yes, but in your handwriting," Tech replied without missing a beat.

Hunter expected Crosshair to snap back, but instead, his expression shifted. He hesitated, then sighed.

"What?" Hunter asked.

Crosshair made a face. Then another. Hunter narrowed his eyes.

"Crosshair, I’m not a Jedi. Just say it. "

Crosshair scowled, clearly reluctant, before finally turning to Tech. "Listen to me."

"I am always listening," Tech replied automatically.

Hunter ignored that. He’s just going to ignore that.

Crosshair exhaled through his nose. "I think you should, I don’t know… do a basic skills test on Ahsoka. Reading, writing—nothing crazy like last time."

Before Tech could even respond, Hunter cut in. " No more tests. I told you all that already."

"Hunter," Crosshair snapped, frustration seeping into his tone, "she can’t karking write properly."

The room went still.

Crosshair ran a hand over his face, taking a breath before continuing. " I tried to get her to write—to communicate on paper instead of her whole illusion thing. She holds the stylus like a four-year-old. When I asked her to spell her own name, she didn’t know how. Not because she forgot—because she never learned. If something isn’t written out in front of her, she can’t spell it." He lifted one of the papers. "So we’ve just been drawing. She traces the letters I write down, but she doesn’t recognize a lot of them on her own." His grip on the paper tightened, his voice dropping lower. "Kriffing Separatist scum probably never let her write. Just kept her locked up, kept—" He cut himself off, jaw clenching. " Kept her like that until she went mute."

Hunter’s stomach twisted.

They knew the basics of what had happened to her—what they thought were the basics.

And yet, every time they learned something new…

It never got easier.

It never stopped hitting just the same.

Tech cleared his throat, drawing Hunter back to reality. "If that’s the case, I could create a test to assess her current knowledge."

"Wait a minute," Wrecker interrupted, his voice hesitant. "I don't think it’s fair to test her like that. Won’t that just embarrass her?"

"She’s not all there," Crosshair remarked flatly, as if that were an acceptable explanation. "Well, maybe she’s there a little bit, but I doubt she’d be embarrassed if Tech were to test her."

Hunter exhaled through his nose, feeling the weight of the conversation. "I said no more tests."

"But—"

"No," Hunter cut him off, his tone firm. "She doesn’t like them. We took her in. She willingly allowed us to test her before, and maybe she’d be okay with it again, but we need to consider her feelings. Omega’s right—we just got her out of a lab where she was tested non-stop. She’s a person, and we need to treat her like one." He let the words hang for a moment. "If she can’t write, then we’ll teach her. But no more tests."

Tech opened his mouth to protest, but was cut off by Omega’s enthusiastic voice, echoing through the room.

"Everyone get ready!" she called, rushing back in. She flicked off the lights and turned on a flashlight, holding it to the door like a spotlight. "For the amazing Ahsoka!"

A few moments passed in awkward silence, and Wrecker snorted quietly.

Omega frowned and poked her head into the doorway. "Ahsoka, that’s your cue! You have to walk out now!" She waved her hand, gesturing at the empty space where Ahsoka was supposed to make her grand entrance. Then she cleared her throat, trying again. "The amazing Ahsoka!"

Ahsoka emerged slowly from the shadows, wearing a fitted jacket with padded shoulders, a black undershirt, dark pants with red accents, a utility belt, gloves, and knee-high brown boots with protective pads. The outfit was practical but stylish. Her expression was just as blank as it had been since they rescued her from the lab.

"Do a spin!" Omega urged, tossing the flashlight to Crosshair, who sighed but held it dutifully. Omega stepped forward, gently taking Ahsoka’s hand and lifting it to encourage a pose. Ahsoka hesitated, but after a moment, she performed a slow twirl. It was clumsy—awkward—but it was a twirl nonetheless.

Wrecker burst into applause, and Hunter couldn’t help but grin, the warmth of the moment briefly easing the tension that had hung over them since they arrived.

"Thank you, thank you!" Omega cheered, bowing dramatically, while Ahsoka remained standing straight. Omega didn’t seem to mind. "Now, wait right there while the amazing Ahsoka puts on her next outfit!" She ushered Ahsoka off to change, clearly caught up in the excitement of the moment.

Hunter watched them go, feeling a sense of relief. Despite the constant challenges, Omega’s bright energy seemed to bring something positive out of Ahsoka, even if it was only temporary. He glanced at Crosshair, who was still holding the flashlight, his expression unreadable.

Music began to play, likely Omega’s doing, and Wrecker let out a hoot, clapping along to the beat. Hunter smiled despite the heaviness of the day and took a step closer to Crosshair, lowering his voice.

"We’ll teach her how to write," he said quietly, the weight of the responsibility settling in his chest.

Crosshair snorted, a smirk barely playing at his lips. "I don’t care that much."

Hunter raised an eyebrow, unconvinced.

They both knew he was lying.

The "fashion show" continued for another half hour, with Omega excitedly presenting the four outfits they had gotten for Ahsoka—one for nightwear, another for warm weather, and a dress that Omega had found. The clothes were comfortable, nothing too flashy, but they suited Ahsoka’s quiet demeanor well.

As the last outfit was admired, the ship’s comm unit crackled to life, cutting through the moment. Everyone froze. Eyes darted to Ahsoka, who had once again become distant, her gaze unfocused.

"I’ll take her," Wrecker said, standing up. Ahsoka, now in her nightwear, didn’t resist as he effortlessly picked her up. "Come on, kiddo. Omega, you too." Omega followed behind, her enthusiasm not dimmed by the sudden interruption.

"Karking hell," Hunter muttered under his breath, irritation rising. "Everyone, just let me talk. And Tech, for the love of the Maker, be quiet." Tech didn’t say anything, but his expression told Hunter that he wasn’t pleased with being scolded.

Hunter clicked the comm, his mind already racing with the possibilities. Commander Colt’s face appeared on the screen.

"Boys," Colt greeted, his tone serious. Hunter and the others nodded in response, waiting for the news.

"I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news," Colt continued.

Hunter’s stomach dropped, his muscles tightening in anticipation.

"You’re being called back to Kamino to help assist in a blockade."

Chapter Text

Kamino always exuded an unsettling strangeness. Every memory that flooded Echo’s mind carried a shadow—a reminder of friends lost and battles fought. Returning here felt profoundly hollow. There was no Cutup, no Droidbait, no Hevy. The emptiness was a raw, constant injustice, yet as a soldier Echo had little time for lament. Survival was his duty: he was alive while many, like Ahsoka and his brothers, had perished. Their sacrifices demanded that he press on, giving meaning to each fallen comrade beyond mere statistics in a relentless war.

Now, Echo walked in silence beside Fives, trailed by the brooding presence of Boba “Karking” Fett and shadowed by Commander Fox—the very clone whose reputation made half the Jedi nervous. They’d just landed on Kamino, and while blockade preparations unfolded, Fives and Echo were granted a rare moment to roam. In typical Fives fashion, he volunteered to escort Fett—perhaps to mingle him with those closer to his age. And, as always, where Fett trod, Fox was never far behind.

“And those are cadets,” Fives announced with a casual sweep of his arm toward a cluster of wide-eyed trainees. “You were one of them, weren’t you?”

Fett’s glare could curdle fresh milk, and Echo inwardly sighed. Fives’ knack for stirring trouble was a ticking time bomb.
“Maker, Fives, why do you talk to him like he’s a toddler?” Echo muttered under his breath.

“Well, Echo, why don’t you try talking to him?” came the brisk retort.

“I’m right here,” Fett snapped, his tone clipped. “And I was never a cadet.”

“Sure you weren’t,” Fives replied with a mischievous glint. “But rumor has it you were the best of your batch.”

“I wasn’t some kriffing cadet,” Fett shot back. “I had no batch. I’m not a karking droid like the rest of you.”

Before tensions could escalate further, Fox interjected sharply, “All three of you, quiet down. I let you enjoy a walk on Kamino—not to pick fights with troopers.”

Fett wasn’t having it. “And you’re the genius who brought me to a literal blockade. Clearly, brilliance isn’t your forte.”

Fox paused, exasperation lacing his tone. “I did not—” He exhaled slowly. “Let’s just move on, please.”

Echo nodded, and the group resumed their stroll. He kept sneaking glances at Fox, trying to decode the mystery behind his unflinching demeanor. Every clone knew who Fox was, yet this felt like only his first—or was it second?—encounter with him. Fox had missed the small memorial the clones had set up for Ahsoka, but Echo’s memories of that time were already blurred.

Lost in thought, Echo wondered: Did Fox harbor any anxiety about the blockade or about Kamino itself? Did he, like a few others, secretly loathe this dismal place? Or was his worry reserved for the looming threat of General Grievous now that they were off Coruscant? Perhaps, as the running theory went, Fox simply felt nothing at all. Jesse had whispered that Fox was nothing more than a Republic experiment—a droid masquerading as a clone.

In that moment, though, amid the tension and banter, a peculiar spark of hope began to bloom within him.

Then a familiar call cut through his reverie.
“99!” Fives called out, quickening his pace.

“Fives,” replied 99 warmly. “Echo, good to see you both.”
A small smile tugged at Echo’s lips.

Casting one last glance behind him, he noted that Fox’s expression remained as inscrutable as ever, while Fett’s face, for just a fleeting moment, betrayed a touch of sadness before he turned away.

"Don't tell me the rest of you got separated?" 99 asked, eyes flicking between them. "Then again, probably for the best. I don’t think the galaxy could handle Fives and Hevy in the same place for too long."

Echo’s stomach twisted.

"Hevy, Droidbait, and Cutup were killed," he said quietly.

"Died like heroes," Fives added, his voice steadier than Echo’s.

99’s expression faltered for just a moment before he gave a slow, solemn nod. “Then I’m glad you two are still here.” His eyes shifted to the boy standing stiffly beside them. “And I see this must be the infamous Boba Fett.”

Fett didn’t respond.

"You know about him?" Fives asked.

"We all do," 99 said simply. "About his program." Then, lowering his voice, he added, "Gives a lot of men here hope."

Hope?

"Hope?" Fett echoed, frowning. "For what?"

"That the Republic will give us a chance," 99 said. "That if we fall, they'll let us stand up again."

Echo felt his breath hitch.

For once, even Fox and Fett looked taken aback. Fives, of course, just grinned.

Silence settled over them, but Echo couldn’t help but notice how much more confident 99 seemed since the last time they’d seen him. He had always been resilient, but now… now he carried himself with something else. Echo wasn’t sure if it was pride or just stubbornness, but it made him glad.

"And you must be Commander Fox," 99 said, turning to the officer in red. "Good to meet you."

Then he glanced at Echo, Fives, and Fett. "I know because his armor is red."

Right.
Echo blinked. Maker, was Fives’ brain rot rubbing off on him? How had it not immediately clicked? Was he actually becoming as dumb as Fives? Stars, that was a terrifying thought.

Fox, oblivious to Echo’s minor existential crisis, gave a nod. "And it’s good to meet you too, sir."

99’s lips curled into a grin. "Sir? That’s got a nice ring to it."

He turned back to them, giving a small wave. "Well, boys, I need to get going. Hopefully, I’ll see you all again before you leave."

"We’ll come find you," Fives promised.

99 nodded before shuffling off, disappearing into the Kaminoan halls.

Fox exhaled sharply, glancing at the time. "Boba and I should head back. Enjoy yourselves."

Omega sat beside Ahsoka, her fingers absently tracing patterns against the coarse fabric of her own pants as she watched Hunter scowl at the navigation system. His jaw was tight, his shoulders squared in that way that meant things were bad. Really bad.

“What are we going to do?” Omega asked, her voice quieter than usual.

“That’s what I’m trying to figure out,” Hunter muttered, his focus never leaving the map.

Omega swallowed hard, her stomach churning. Slowly, carefully, she reached over and placed her hand atop Ahsoka’s. The girl didn’t flinch this time. That was progress. A few days ago, she would have pulled away, whispering frantically in Dathomiri like she was trying to ward off a curse.

She still whispered, still seemed lost somewhere far away, but now she didn’t recoil from Omega’s touch. That had to mean something.

Then there were the drawings. They didn’t make much sense—scribbled shapes, jagged symbols, sometimes things that looked like people but weren’t—but they were something. She was doing something other than just… staring.

“We’re literally bringing her back to another lab,” Crosshair muttered from where he leaned against the wall, arms crossed. “It’s like the universe is screaming at us to hand her over to the Republic.”

“You promised—” Omega snapped, her chest tightening.

“I’m not saying we actually give her to them, I’m just pointing out the irony.” Crosshair’s tone was as dry as ever.

Omega’s mouth clamped shut, but frustration bubbled beneath her skin.

“Even if we were giving her back, no way we’re leaving her on Kamino,” Wrecker grumbled. “Goin’ from one lab to another? That’s not fair.”

“Yeah, but how the hell are we supposed to fight, hide her, and stop the Republic—who are already scanning every ship for Separatists—from finding out we’ve got her?” Hunter rubbed a hand down his face, looking more exhausted by the second. “They’re going to check everything.”

Omega frowned, biting her lip hard enough that it stung. They couldn’t lose Ahsoka. Not now. Not ever.

She glanced toward Tech and saw the familiar crease in his brow—the same one he always got when his brain was going a mile a minute. He was trying to solve the same problem.

Then it hit her.

“We can use the secret platform,” Omega blurted.

Every head in the room snapped toward her.

“What the hell are you talking about?” Crosshair asked, narrowing his eyes.

“Nala Se has a secret platform,” Omega explained quickly, her words rushing out before she lost her nerve. “It leads to her private lab. If Kamino’s under attack, she won’t be there, and the platform can only be accessed by me and a few others. If I can contact her, she’ll let us dock there without the ship being checked.”

Silence filled the cockpit.

"Omega, Kamino is going to be under attack," Hunter said, his voice low and steady, the way it always was when he was trying to be patient. "They’ll be checking every ship—"

"Not my ship," Omega cut in. "Nala Se will let us through."

None of them looked convinced. She could see it in the way Hunter’s jaw tightened, in the way Wrecker scratched the back of his head like he was already uncomfortable with where this was going. Even Crosshair, who usually looked bored with everything, narrowed his eyes.

Omega turned to Tech. If anyone could back her up, it was him.

"Tech, please."

Tech hesitated, adjusting his goggles. "It could work," he admitted after a beat. "If Nala Se doesn’t check the ship, we can leave Ahsoka aboard. Nala Se will be preoccupied, which means Omega could remain here as well. However, the risks are considerable. The Separatists could attack, the Republic could still conduct a random inspection. Statistically, the odds are against us."

"Ahsoka can literally do magic," Omega argued. "She can hide herself if they search the ship, and she can defend herself if we’re attacked."

"Yes, she can conceal herself," Tech said, still measured. "But we do not know if she understands the need to defend herself. Remember, she allowed us to take her despite not knowing who we were."

"She let us take her because we look like her family," Omega shot back. "And if I stay with her, I can tell her when she needs to fight back. Please."

Hunter exhaled sharply. "Omega, we can’t leave you on the ship alone. Not during a karking attack."

"There will be guards at the port," she insisted, trying to keep her voice steady, even as frustration clawed at her chest. "And Ahsoka—are you even listening to me?"

"Omega, I am listening to you," Hunter said, pinching the bridge of his nose. "But your safety comes first."

He took a sharp breath, and she could already tell what was coming next.

"We’ve had this conversation so many times."

"And every time," Omega said, crossing her arms, "you end up listening to me—and nothing goes wrong."

Hunter still looked unsure, and Omega braced herself for another round of arguing.

But then, with a sigh, he relented. "Fine. But Omega, if anything happens, you run . You don’t fight, you don’t hesitate—you take Ahsoka and you get inside. Save yourselves. Do you understand me?"

Omega grinned. Victory.

"Thank you," she said quickly.

"But," Hunter added, fixing her with a look, " we need to make sure Ahsoka knows she has to defend herself." He turned to the Togruta girl. "Ahsoka, did you get that?"

Silence. As always.

Hunter let out a long sigh before turning to Crosshair. "Can you get her to write it out?"

Crosshair snorted. "I’ve barely taught her how to write her own name. What makes you think she’s gonna be jotting down her thoughts like some poet?"

"We can try yes or no questions," Tech suggested, stepping forward. He crouched slightly in front of Ahsoka, making sure she could see him clearly. "Ahsoka, we’re going to ask you questions. Shake your head like this—" he demonstrated a side-to-side motion, "for no. And like this—" he nodded up and down, "for yes. Do you understand?"

For a moment, she was still.

Then, slowly, she nodded.

"Good," Tech said, adjusting his goggles. "Are you able to use your magick to defend yourself or others?"

She shook her head. No.

Omega frowned.

"Can you tell us why?" Tech asked.

Nothing. No movement.

"Are you afraid?"

A nod.

"Of the mission?"

She shook her head. No.

"Of yourself?"

A nod.

"Of your powers?"

Another nod.

Tech sighed and leaned back. "I see."

"Then we can just give her a blaster," Wrecker suggested.

"Oh, yeah," Crosshair said dryly. "Because giving a girl who can’t even talk and zones out half the time a blaster sounds like a brilliant idea."

"I’m just saying," Wrecker huffed, "she used to do cartwheels with a lightsaber. She can handle a blaster."

Omega, not wanting to waste time, pulled her blaster from her holster and offered it to Ahsoka.

And to everyone’s shock, Ahsoka grabbed it immediately, and she pointed it straight up without hesitation.

Hunter immediately plucked it from her hands. "Okay then."

"Wait!" Omega protested. "Let's see if she actually knows how to use it."

Crosshair scoffed, arms crossed. "Do you want her to shoot one of us or something?"

"Well, no, obviously—"

"Because I feel like that’s where this is going."

Hunter sighed, inspecting the blaster before looking back at Ahsoka. "Alright, fine. But we do this carefully." He held the weapon up, making sure she was paying attention. "Ahsoka, can you show us how you’d hold this properly?"

Ahsoka blinked, then slowly extended her hands. Hunter placed the blaster back in them, watching closely.

This time, she gripped it properly. Steady. Secure.

No shaking. No hesitation.

Omega watched as Ahsoka’s fingers instinctively adjusted around the trigger guard, like muscle memory was still buried somewhere inside her.

Hunter frowned. "Okay... that’s actually not bad."

"She’s holding it better than some of the shinies," Wrecker muttered.

Tech tilted his head. "Perhaps there is something left of her training."

"Or maybe she’s about to karking shoot one of us," Crosshair muttered.

Ahsoka suddenly moved, shifting her grip slightly—

Hunter tensed, ready to intervene—

And then she turned the blaster away from them. The way she moved, the way she positioned herself—Omega recognized it.

It wasn’t just that Ahsoka knew how to hold a blaster.

She remembered .

Fox bit into his lower lip, his sharp eyes locked on the doors of the medical facility as they slid open and shut. Beings filtered in and out, droids humming past in mechanical indifference. He remained still, waiting, watching.

Beside him, Boba sat slumped against the wall, legs stretched out, looking thoroughly unimpressed.

"Are you actually going to go in there," Boba drawled, "or are we just going to sit here until the Separatists kill us?"

"Shut up," Fox muttered.

The last droid exited the facility, and Fox gave a sharp tilt of his head. Boba pushed himself to his feet, and together, they stepped inside.

At first, being on this miserable excuse for a planet irritated Fox to no end. He had no patience for Kamino or the ghosts it stirred in his mind. But then, an opportunity presented itself—one that made this karking mission worth something.

It wasn’t just one clone with memory problems. It was a pattern . A significant number of his men reported gaps, inconsistencies, things that didn’t add up. Which meant there had to be more out there.

And at least one of them had to have been reported to the Kaminoans.

If he could dig up a record, even the smallest scrap of evidence, Feathertouch could work with it.

Fox wasn’t naive—he knew exactly how the Kaminoans dealt with ‘defective’ clones. They destroyed them. But before they did, they would have documented it. The Kaminoans were methodical, obsessive. And if they’d seen enough anomalies, they would have investigated.

And that was what Fox was here to find

Swiftly, Fox and Boba slipped into the medical facility. Fox knew dragging the kid along was a risk, but he didn’t have much of a choice. Still, if Boba tried to rat on him later, the Republic would have their doubts. Who were they going to believe? A highly decorated commander, or a kid who tried to assassinate Mace Windu and was raised by Jango Fett?

Yeah. That’s what he thought.

The facility wasn’t empty. Kaminoans drifted between stations, droids hummed as they worked, and a few clones moved about, all likely preparing for the blockade.

Fox clenched his jaw. This wasn’t going to be easy.

If what that older clone had told him was true, then bringing Boba here was the worst move he could’ve made. People would recognize him. They’d talk. And once the Republic got wind that Boba Fett had been spotted wandering around Kamino? That’d be all the proof they needed to start asking questions Fox really didn’t want to answer.

How had he not thought of this sooner?

Was this what he got for spending too much time around Thorn?

Fox glanced at Boba and let out a sharp breath.

“Turn around,” he whispered.

Boba squinted at him. “Huh?”

“I said, turn around.”

“I heard you.”

“So do it.”

“Why?”

“Because I said so.”

Boba shot him a glare but, with a huff, turned toward the door.

Fox quickly scanned the room, eyes landing on a pile of cadet uniforms stuffed into a hamper—probably left behind by some injured kid. It wasn’t a perfect plan, but it was something.

He sighed, grabbed the clothes, then marched over, seized Boba by the arm, and dragged him toward the medical facility’s refresher.

“What the hell are you doing?” Boba hissed as Fox shoved him inside and shut the door.

Fox tossed the cadet uniform at him. “Get changed.”

Boba caught the clothes and scowled. “Did you just steal some kid’s uniform?”

“You should be familiar with the concept of stealing,” Fox said flatly. “Now go into the stall and change.”

Boba folded his arms. “I’m not wearing some smelly cadet’s uniform just because you told me to. Tell me why first.”

Fox clenched his jaw. Normally, he wouldn’t tolerate this. Normally, he’d just grab the kid by the scruff of the neck and drag him along whether he liked it or not.

But he couldn’t afford to leave Boba behind. That would cause even more trouble.

And he needed to find these records. Needed to get answers. Needed to save his men.

He exhaled sharply. “Fine.”

Boba blinked. “Really?”

“Yes, really,” Fox snapped. “Now shut up so we can get this over with.”

Boba pulled a face but stayed quiet.

Fox took a second to gather his thoughts. Stars, he hated talking about this.

“My men,” he started, then stopped. He tried again. “There’s something going on with them. Memory problems. Not just two or three of them—a lot .”

Boba, to his credit, didn’t interrupt. He was actually listening.

“I need to find records,” Fox continued, his voice lower now. “Because I know in my gut this isn’t just happening to my men. There has to be more. And the Kaminoans? They’d know about it. If I can find proof, if I can find anything, then maybe I can keep my men from getting killed.”

Silence stretched between them.

Then, with a sigh, Boba snatched the cadet uniform and marched into the stall.

Fox allowed himself the smallest flicker of relief. Step one: complete. Now, onto the hard part.

Boba emerged from the stall faster than Fox had expected, adjusting the cadet uniform with practiced ease.

"I've already worn this stupid thing before, di'kut," Boba muttered, clearly unimpressed.

Fox sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. " Let’s go, Boba. "

He turned and carefully cracked open the refresher door, peering out. Nothing had changed. No raised alarms, no sudden shifts in behavior from the clones or Kaminoans outside. Good. He had to get his head back in the game—too many mistakes today. Mistakes that could’ve led to failure.

He motioned for Boba to follow. "Stay close and quiet," he whispered. "I'll do any talking."

"Yeah, because you're so karking charming."

Fox ignored that.

"Wait," Boba said suddenly.

Fox turned, his patience already wearing thin. "What?"

"The records you're looking for," Boba said, crossing his arms. "They're not just gonna be sitting out in the open, not on the regular computers or databases."

Fox narrowed his eyes. "I know that."

"Do you?" Boba arched a brow. "Because if you actually knew how this place works, you’d know they wouldn’t keep something as big as clones having memory issues somewhere easy to access."

Fox clenched his jaw. "They’ll keep it locked away in a private office database—or somewhere related to it. I’ve already thought of that."

"Yeah, and private offices need keycards, genius."

Fox leveled a glare at him. "Thank you so much for your contribution to this, Boba. But I already have a keycard."

Boba looked mildly surprised at that.

Fox didn’t elaborate. Colt had swiped it for him earlier. He’d used Cody’s situation as an excuse—told Colt he wanted to check the database to see what the Kaminoans actually did for clones struggling with depression instead of just quietly ‘retiring’ them. Colt, of course, had been more than happy to help.

" Now can we go?" Fox muttered.

"I’m going, I’m going," Boba grumbled, falling into step beside him.

They moved down the hallway, keeping pace, nodding at anyone who glanced their way. The facility was in motion, preparing the medbay for incoming casualties.

Fox risked a glance at the kid walking beside him.

His stomach twisted.

He just hoped Boba wouldn’t end up being one of the ones lying in those beds.

Obi-Wan felt his stomach sink as Anakin reported in.

The battle had begun. Separatist ships were closing in, and the Republic’s forces were fully engaged. Anakin had taken most of the 501st into space, leaving Commander Fox in charge on the ground.

Fox, to his credit, had left Boba cuffed and heavily guarded before deploying. It was a decision Obi-Wan was grateful for. The original plan had been for the boy to witness the Republic in action—outside of, well, killing his father—but they couldn’t risk it. Not now.

And yet, even with that concern handled, he still felt ill.

The way Anakin and the 501st were slaughtering the Separatists was... unsettling. Even for them.

It had been growing worse for some time now. Ever since Quell, they had become ruthless.

Brutal.

Dark.

And Obi-Wan feared he was the only one who sensed it.

He chewed the inside of his lip as he felt a familiar presence approaching. He turned just as Fox reached him.

"Commander."

"Sir," Fox replied crisply. "General Skywalker reports that he and his men have eliminated a significant number of Separatist ships. Some Republic vessels sustained damage, but nothing severe, sir."

Obi-Wan frowned. That… didn’t seem right.

Fox raised an eyebrow, waiting for a response.

Obi-Wan exhaled. "Something feels off. I’ll need to conduct an investigation for security purposes. While I’m gone, you and Cody are in charge. Make sure everyone here remains on high alert—this is far from over."

Fox nodded sharply. "Understood, sir."

Obi-Wan turned, striding away, but the pit in his stomach only grew deeper.

Helix’s words echoed in his mind.

And Obi-Wan, much as he hated to admit it, knew the medic was right.

He was self-destructing.

The why of it all… he wasn’t sure. Maybe it was the war. Maybe it was Ahsoka’s youth—her innocence—shattered before it had even been given a chance to grow.

Maybe it was the fact that the war had stolen Ahsoka’s youth, just as it had stolen everything else she was meant to be.

Or maybe, after all these years, he had simply— finally —lost it.

Obi-Wan stepped into the control room, his eyes immediately scanning the map displaying the debris field. The wreckage from the Separatist ships was scattered across the surface, some pieces still burning as they plummeted through the atmosphere.

It was too easy.

Yes, Anakin and his men were remarkable. The 501st was one of the most effective units in the entire Republic military. But this?

This didn’t feel right.

Something was wrong.

Obi-Wan clicked his comm. "Anakin, I’m heading down to inspect the wreckage of the ships you’ve taken down."

There was a brief pause, then Anakin’s voice crackled through, overlaid with the sound of distant blaster fire. "Master, why ?" A small explosion echoed on the other end. "I’m going to press forward."

"Anakin, wait ," Obi-Wan said sharply. "This is too easy. Not even Grievous would attack so recklessly."

"Master," Anakin said impatiently, "the battle is up here , not down there."

"I fear Obi-Wan may be right," Shaak Ti’s voice joined in. "The debris from the ships may be hiding something. We cannot take any chances."

There was a frustrated yell in the background, followed by Anakin’s exasperated groan. But it wasn’t his usual put-upon Jedi Knight groan—it was rawer. Angrier.

"Fine," Anakin finally snapped. "I don’t care . But when you come back from your little swim and the battle’s already over, don’t expect me to be waiting there for you with a towel."

The comm abruptly cut out.

Obi-Wan sighed, rubbing his temples.

"He’s certainly grown quite the temper," Shaak Ti observed.

"He always had one," Obi-Wan muttered. " Circumstances have simply unraveled his emotions."

Shaak Ti nodded, but there was a quiet understanding in her expression. They both knew Anakin had always teetered on the edge—but war had stripped away whatever self-control he had left.

"But I’ll need a ship," Obi-Wan said, refocusing.

"Colt can take you to one," Shaak Ti replied, nodding at the ARC trooper standing beside her.

Colt straightened. "I’ll have one prepped for you, General."

Obi-Wan gave a grateful nod, but the unease gnawed at him.

Something was wrong.

And he was going to find out what.

Chapter Text

Crosshair clenched his jaw as the all-too-familiar Kaminoan air filled his lungs.

It had been awhile, but the sterile, artificial scent still made his skin crawl.

They had landed just before the fighters were launched, and—by some miracle—Omega’s plan had worked. Nala Se had trusted her, and the ship hadn’t even been scanned.

So they had left, slipping into the facility while Omega and Ahsoka remained behind.

Crosshair would not admit that the idea of those two being alone on a ship, with an incoming battle overhead, made his stomach twist.

"Skywalker seems to have handled most of it," Hunter muttered, eyes locked on the monitor. They would be separated soon—once Commander Fox and Cody finished assigning positions. "Not shocking."

Crosshair stayed silent.

Wrecker, however, spoke up—his voice unusually low. "Wasn’t he with Ahsoka?"

Crosshair shot him a sharp glare. " Wrecker, be quiet. If someone hears you—"

"You can talk about her."

They all froze.

Shaak Ti stood before them, Commander Colt at her side.

"General," Hunter said immediately, snapping to attention. "Sir—"

"At ease," Shaak Ti replied, her tone calm, but firm. "Do not waste your strength on anxiety in my presence."

‘Yeah,’ Crosshair thought, ‘ because that’s so easy.’

The Jedi’s sharp gaze swept over them. "I did not know you all knew Padawan Tano."

Crosshair fought the urge to scowl. Could she not say Ahsoka’s name like she was just another fallen Jedi?

"We did, sir," Hunter said smoothly.

Crosshair forced himself to stay still. Careful. One wrong move, one wrong look , and she’d sense it. And if she did—if she suspected anything —that was it. They were dead.

"We met her before, on a mission," Hunter continued. "Omega took a liking to her."

That wasn’t a lie.

Everything Hunter had said was true.

It was just missing a lot of context.

Shaak Ti nodded slowly. "I see." Her voice was thoughtful. "You do not need to fear speaking of the dead. Padawan Tano was a lively and beautiful spirit—one that thrives in our words and memories. She is with us."

Oh, you have no idea.

"I assume Omega is safe?" she asked.

"Yes, sir," Hunter replied. "This is not a place for her—or any child, really."

Crosshair flicked a glance at him.

Shaak Ti’s expression shifted—subtle, but enough for Crosshair to catch. Sadness. Regret.

"This war is no place for a child," she murmured. "One would think the Republic had learned that lesson, but it seems not." A pause. "Thank you for keeping her safe."

"It’s our job, sir," Hunter said simply.

Shaak ti nodded, a light smile gracing her face, before she let out a deep breath. "I will see you all again," She said, before turning and walking away.

Only when she was completely out of sight did Crosshair exhale.

"I think that went well," Tech stated matter-of-factly. "Statistically, that could have been worse."

"Thanks, Tech," Hunter sighed.

Before he could say anything else, his comm buzzed. He tapped it, already expecting the call. "That would be Cody."

"Cody," Hunter answered.

The voice that crackled through was blank yet somehow exhausted.

"Hunter."

"Cody."

"I’ll make this quick," Cody continued, his tone clipped and efficient. "Hunter, you’ll be with General Shaak Ti, overseeing defensive operations in Tipoca City’s central cloning facility. Commander Fox will be there to assist you."

Hunter nodded, even though Cody couldn’t see him.

"Tech," Cody went on, "you’re assigned to the command center. General Kenobi is expected to join you, but he has been… sidetracked."

There was tension in his voice at that. Sidetracked. That meant something was wrong.

Cody didn’t dwell on it. "Wrecker, you’re at the city perimeter with Captain Rex and a unit from the 501st. Crosshair, a map will be sent to you with your positions. You’ll be with troopers Fives and Echo, along with a team from Kamino’s own security forces."

"Understood," Hunter replied.

The comm cut out, leaving a heavy silence in its place.

Hunter turned to Tech. "You might be the best one out of all of us to keep an eye on the girls. Think you can handle it?"

Tech nodded. "I will maintain communication with Omega. However, if the comms go down, she will be blind . "

"Then we better do a good karking job to keep that from happening," Wrecker said, a grin splitting his face.

Crosshair didn’t grin.

Didn’t joke.

Didn’t move.

Something still felt off.

Like the battle was already over, and they just didn’t know it yet.

Like they had already lost something.

Crosshair adjusted his rifle, rolling his shoulders. He couldn’t shake the feeling, but there was no time to dwell over it . He had a job to do.

And he had the uneasy suspicion that before this was over—

That pit in his gut would prove him right.

Obi-Wan’s ship descended into the dark waters of Kamino, the vast ocean swallowing him whole.

It had taken longer than expected to actually find a ship—most had been locked down for security reasons. Understandable, given the battle above. But after a bit of persistence, a droid finally decided to help him access one, and now he was here, submerged in the depths.

Kamino’s native creatures swam alongside him, their bioluminescent bodies weaving through the deep. Under different circumstances, he might have taken a moment to appreciate the beauty of it.

But right now, his mind was elsewhere.

"This is General Kenobi," he said into his comm. "I have descended into the water. So far, I see nothing."

He waited for Anakin’s reply, fully expecting either some sarcastic remark or a burst of frustration about him wasting time.

Instead, a different voice crackled through.

"Understood, General. This is Tech."

Obi-Wan blinked. Tech?

"My apologies," he replied, adjusting the ship’s controls. "But who are you? You are not the voice I was expecting to hear."

"I was assigned to the command center, sir," Tech answered, his tone clipped yet polite. "I am a member of Clone Force 99."

Ah. Now Obi-Wan remembered.

"Then hello , Tech," he said. "I assume you’ve been briefed on my current task?"

"I was informed that you have a hypothesis, sir," Tech replied. " And I, for one, find it to be very plausible. I am eager to assist in any way I’m able to, Sir."

Obi-Wan exhaled slowly. It was good to have someone who wasn’t dismissing this as paranoia.

"Then let’s get to work," he murmured, eyes scanning the deep. "Something is down here. We just have to find it."

The ship continued its descent, the light above shrinking into a distant, pale shimmer.

"Sir, is it possible for you to transmit any live feed?" Tech asked over the comm. "I would like to scan the area from here."

"I'm afraid not," Obi-Wan admitted. "I, unfortunately, do not know how to work these things—"

"Then I will figure it out for you."

Obi-Wan raised an eyebrow at that, his lips twitching slightly. He wasn’t used to clones being quite this blunt with him.

But his amusement vanished as something caught his eye.

Light.

"Wait a moment," Obi-Wan said, his focus narrowing. "I see something."

He piloted the ship closer, the murky depths becoming clearer. And that’s when he realized what was happening.

Octuptarra droids.

They weren’t just scavenging the wreckage of downed Separatist ships.

They were reassembling them.

Obi-Wan's breath caught in his throat.

"Unfortunately, I have been proven correct," he muttered. "I have located the Separatists' underwater assault force."

"Understood, General," Tech replied. "Would you like me to send reinforcements?"

But before Obi-Wan could answer, one of the Octodroids turned.

And pointed directly at him.

His stomach twisted.

"I fear it’s a bit too late for that," he muttered.

The droid leapt onto his ship with startling speed.

"Tech," Obi-Wan said sharply, bracing himself. "You must alert everyone. Now."

"General—"

The comm cut out.

And Obi-Wan was on his own.

More Octodroids latched onto the ship, their metal limbs scraping against the hull. The entire frame lurched as they tried to tear it apart.

Obi-Wan gritted his teeth, gripping the controls tightly as he veered hard to the left.

Then his gaze flicked upward.

The glass canopy above him—

It was cracking.

A thin line of cold water dripped onto his forehead.

He exhaled sharply. He needed to survive this.

His fingers flew over the ship's controls, slamming the detachment button.

With a violent hiss, the majority of the ship was ejected, leaving only the emergency escape pod. The moment it detached, the pod’s automatic systems engaged, launching him toward the surface.

The water pressed around him.

The glass groaned.

Another crack splintered across it.

And the cold began to seep in.

"Anakin, I’ll be taking a page out of your book," Obi-Wan muttered, as if the man could actually hear him.

With a sharp exhale, he pressed the panel and ejected himself from the pod.

The water rushed against him, swallowing him whole as he activated his lightsaber. A familiar blue glow illuminated the murky depths as he pushed himself upward, legs kicking, the Force propelling him faster.

Red fire bolts streaked past him, cutting through the water like burning lances. If any of them actually hit him, he didn’t know. Didn’t care.

His lungs burned.

His vision blurred.

He was not going to die here.

Then—movement.

Aiwhas.

The majestic creatures soared above, their sleek forms cutting through the ocean effortlessly.

That’s it.

Obi-Wan surged upward with the last of his strength, his fingers just managing to grasp onto the tail of the last Aiwhas.

The creature didn’t even falter, carrying him upward, higher and higher, away from the chaos below.

The moment his head broke through the water, Obi-Wan sucked in a desperate gasp of air, coughing as he clung to the creature’s side.

"Thanks for the lift," he managed, patting its smooth hide.

The Aiwhas let out a low, rumbling call, and Obi-Wan sighed, already preparing himself for the next part of the fight.

Then he looked up—toward Tipoca City.

His stomach twisted.

The droids were already attacking.

He didn’t hesitate.

"Anakin," he barked into his comm, urgency cutting through his voice. "All units, report back to the ground. The city is under attack! "

Boba hated the Republic.

But he hated the Separatists just as much—maybe even more.

So there was no way in hell he was going to sit here quietly while a bunch of stupid clankers blew up the facility around him. Or worse— kill him before he found a way out of this mess.

Fox was a di’kut if he thought cuffing him in a med room was a good idea.

Then again, Boba wasn’t entirely convinced Fox’s head was in it anymore. Not after watching the man come dangerously close to smashing a computer screen when the medical archives turn with nothing. He'd never seen a clone get that close to losing it in real time.

Another boom shook the room, and Boba fought the urge to flinch.

He’d thought this was going to be fine. That guy—what was his name again? Guywalker? Piewalker? He couldn’t remember. Fox had referred to the guy as a toxic cuyir in Mando’a. Yeah, that one. Apparently he’d wiped out the Separatist ships in orbit. So how , exactly, had the mighty Republic let an entire underwater assault slip by ?

Boba ground his teeth together.

He was not going to die here.

The room was nearly empty now—just a few droids moving about, likely on standby. Everyone else had either repositioned or gone to fight. That meant no more guards. No more Fox.

He scanned the space, eyes sharp despite the pressure pounding behind his skull.

Then, quietly, Boba let out a slow breath and pushed himself up to his feet. His arms were still bound behind his back, the cuffs Fox had slapped on him tight and unrelenting. But he had an idea.

He eyed one of the maintenance droids across the room.

If he could just lure one over— fry it, spark it, something —he might be able to short the cuffs.

He wasn’t going to sit here and just wait to be saved.

He never had.

He never would.

“Hey,” Boba called out, his voice casual—too casual.

A couple of the droids turned toward him, but only one began to roll over, its scanner light blinking as it approached.

“Help me out, will you?”

The droid let out a soft mechanical chirp as it ran a scan over him. “My systems indicate you are in optimal health. No assistance required.”

Boba raised an eyebrow. “These cuffs are going to mess up my shoulder joints and cut off circulation.” He turned slightly to show the awkward angle of his bound arms. “I need you to take them off.”

“We cannot comply,” the droid replied. “You are restrained under the orders of—”

“I know who gave the order,” Boba interrupted sharply. “But let’s say the Separatists get in here. These cuffs? They’re gonna make you useless. I’m your only shot at survival.”

The droid hesitated, its head twitching slightly.

“We will have guards soon,” it said, clearly unconvinced.

“A lot can happen between now and soon, ” Boba said, his voice cold now. “Like you getting turned into scrap metal. Now, do you want a chance to live, or do you want to wait for ‘soon’ and find out if your limbs float?”

The droid paused. Calculating.

Good.

Boba kept his eyes locked on it.

“Your call, metalhead.”

The droids glanced at each other, their mechanical processors clearly weighing the risk.

Boba didn’t blink. Just stared.

Finally, one of them let out a small chime. “Alright.”

The second droid wheeled closer, extending a small tool toward his cuffs.

“I’ll also need to leave to get a weapon,” Boba added smoothly. “I’ll patrol the perimeter while you two stay here and keep prepping. I’ll grab a few guards too—just in case.”

“Understood,” the droid replied without a hint of suspicion.

There was a faint click —and the cuffs fell away.

Boba immediately brought his hands forward, rubbing his wrists with a quiet sigh. He hadn’t been exaggerating; those things hurt.

He turned to the door, pausing just a second before stepping forward. It hissed open, and the hallway beyond greeted him with chaos.

Distant shouting. Footsteps pounding. The whine and snap of blaster fire echoing through the sterile walls.

But no droid voices. No mechanical marching.

Either the clankers were still held back, or they took one look at Fox and decided they didn’t want to deal with that.

Didn’t matter. He needed a weapon. Now.

Boba slipped into the hall, hugging the wall as he turned right. He had a rough idea of the layout of Kamino—he’d been here once, when he was undercover. They had visited the weapons arsenal then. Just once.

But once was all he needed.

He picked up speed, moving low and fast.

Boba shoved down the spike of fear crawling up his spine as the hallway lights turned a flashing, angry red. Sirens wailed overhead, and the foundation of the building shook beneath his boots like something massive had just landed on top of them.

Cadets rushed past him in waves, a stampede of panicked bodies. Instinctively, he joined them, blending into the chaos.

"Move to your barracks—come on!" a clone in blue armor bellowed. "Let’s go, move! "

Yeah, Boba thought bitterly, great plan—lock all the kids in a box while the ceiling caves in.
No karking way he was getting to a weapon like this.

Too many people. Too much noise. Too many chances to be recognized.

Another tremor rippled through the building, and Boba looked up—

Just in time to see a massive tentacled droid slam into the structure above.

Metal tore apart like paper as the droid drilled its way inside, sending sparks and debris flying. Cadets screamed, scattering in all directions.

Boba didn’t hesitate. He bolted.

He sprinted down the corridor as blaster fire erupted behind him, troopers opening fire on the descending droid. He ducked under a fallen support beam, then skidded around a corner—only to see a line of clankers marching straight toward him from the opposite end.

Stupid clones. Stupid Fox. What the hell were they doing?

He cursed under his breath and whipped around, taking another hallway—one he barely remembered from years ago. His feet moved faster than his thoughts now, instinct turning into action.

Finally, after one more sharp left—he saw it.

A hangar.

A small one, probably meant for quick medical evac. But a few ships were still docked, forgotten in the scramble.

Boba sprinted to the nearest fighter, heart pounding as he threw himself up the ramp and into the cockpit. The ship whined to life beneath his fingers as he powered up the systems, his hands moving with precision Jango had drilled into him long ago.

The hangar doors cracked open.

Blaster fire echoed through the sky.

Boba slammed the throttle forward, shooting into the stormy Kamino sky—

And aimed his ship straight at the tentacled droids crawling over the city.

“If you want something done right…” he muttered, gripping the controls, “do it yourself.”

He opened fire.

The tentacled droid spun its massive head toward Boba's ship as he fired again, then again—blaster bolts slamming into its thick plating. Sparks burst from its joints. The karking thing reeled , tentacles flailing as it tried to anchor itself to a platform.

Not today.

Boba’s fingers flew across the controls, rerouting power to the forward cannons. He locked on and hit it again—dead center. The droid lurched, and he grinned viciously. That thing was going down.

Then the ship’s comm crackled.

"Boba, what the hell do you think you’re doing?"

How the kark did Fox already know it was him?

"Being the only person here who knows how to use their brain," Boba snapped, slamming the trigger again. "Or did the karking lizard people forget to give you any when they brewed you up in those tubes?"

"Boba, we’re not doing this now," Fox barked. "Get back down here before you hurt someone—or yourself."

"The only ones getting hurt are the droids!" Boba growled, yanking the controls and doing a tight roll to avoid incoming fire. A flurry of red bolts shot past where his ship had been just a second earlier.

"Boba, get down here!"

"Yeah right because you guys have been doing such a fantastic job.”

Fighter droids broke through the clouds, engines screaming as they zeroed in on him. Boba’s hands danced across the controls, pulling the fighter into a sharp climb as blaster fire rained down around him.

He looped behind one and fired, the enemy ship bursting into flames and spiraling toward the ocean below. Two more took its place, locking on.

"You are a kid, Boba!" Fox yelled. "You don’t belong in a fighter jet, battling droids! Get back down here now!"

"You’re not my Commander, " Boba shouted over the roar of the engines, yanking the throttle and diving hard. “I don’t have to listen to you! And I’m not going to sit here and let the Separatists win!”

"Fighting the Separatists isn’t your job, Boba, it’s—"

BOOM.

A blast rocked the side of the ship. The cockpit lit up red as the right engine stuttered. Alarms screamed. Smoke hissed from the panel.

Boba yelled, jerking the yoke to stabilize. Over the comm, Fox’s voice shouted something garbled—his tone panicked—but then the signal cut completely.

He was alone.

Fine.

He’d always been alone. This wasn’t anything new.

Boba scanned the damage readout. The right engine was hit, hard—losing power fast. But he still had time. Enough time to make one more strike.

One of the massive tentacled droids was still latched to the edge of the cloning facility, tearing into the walls.

Boba could try to flee. Punch the emergency evac. Get clear. Save himself.

His breath hitched.

He looked down—at Kamino, at the chaos below. The storm. The flooding. The platforms riddled with fire.

Troopers— clones —were still fighting.

He hated them. They were walking insults. Copies of his father, factory-made imitations pretending to be soldiers.

But who was he to run?

Who was he if he abandoned a battlefield to save his own skin?

What would people say if they heard that Jango Fett’s son ran from a fight?

That wasn’t what he was taught.

That wasn’t who he was.

Boba adjusted his grip. The fire warning blared, but he didn’t flinch.

He turned the ship around.

"One more shot," he muttered. "Let’s make it count."

And he dove.

Boba fired relentlessly, his teeth gritted, eyes narrowed in furious focus. The targeting system blinked red, but he didn’t let up—just kept hammering the trigger.

The massive tentacled droid shrieked in its death throes, metal limbs flailing as it lost its grip on the facility.

Then— boom . It tore free, crashing into the churning sea below.

Boba grinned, heart thudding.

Two for two.

But the celebration lasted all of two seconds.

Behind him— more incoming. Fighter droids, sleek and fast, coming in tight formation. A whole damn squadron.

He banked hard to the left, the side of the ship sputtering as flames danced across his right wing.

Think, think, think.

He couldn’t outrun them. Not with a dying engine. He couldn’t outgun them either—not all of them.

But maybe…

He glanced at the map—nothing helpful, no clear paths.

But what if he let them think they got him?

He could loop around, force them into a tight angle, and eject. Let the ship go down in flames, draw them off.

It has to be quick. Very, very quick.

He cut power to the rear thrusters, making the ship dip suddenly. The droids adjusted—predictably. He spun the fighter in a violent arc, locking into a tight formation between two cliffs of debris. Blaster fire exploded around him.

Now.

Boba slammed the eject button.

The canopy blew off—

The G-force yanked him back—

And the burning ship rocketed forward , unmanned, streaking into the stormy sky—drawing every droid like bait on a hook.

He couldn’t see where he was falling. Wind roared in his ears, rain slicing his face. He fumbled for his chute controls—

Too low. Too fast.

Shit—

Below him, something appeared— a platform . Not one of the open ones, but a concealed slab tucked between support structures, barely large enough for a ship to land on.

A flash. A glint of metal. A square shape hidden in the ocean fog.

Then—

CRASH.

The impact slammed through his body like a sonic boom.

Metal groaned. Sparks flew. Something crunched.

Then—stillness.

Rex stood, soaked to the bone, blaster in hand, watching Fox scream into his comm like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to reality.

He’d seen that look before. The look that said, another kid dead .
Another name, another hollow ceremony.
Another funeral with no body.

And once again, he had to ask himself— Why did I let this happen?

"Sir."

Rex blinked, turning. Dogma stood nearby, helmet under one arm.

"General Grievous and Ventress have been spotted," Dogma reported. "General Kenobi and Skywalker ordered us to hold them off."

Rex glanced at Fox, who had gone quiet, back in the moment now. Armor scratched. Jaw locked. That cold gleam in his eyes.

"Do what you can to hold them off," Fox ordered. "Grievous will be a beast—unpredictable and cruel. Ventress is a snake. Don’t let your guard down for a second. We contain them. Hold the line."

"Where’s General Ti?"

"Guarding the central facility with Hunter and her team," Fox said tightly. He wanted to say more, but Rex cut in.

"Sir… if you want to check in with Tech, to see where Fett’s ship landed—you should."

Fox looked at him sharply.

That same look. That same empty expression Bly wore when he returned without Ahsoka.

Ahsoka.

Karking hell, Rex thought, what I wouldn’t give for her to be here, to be anywhere.

"I already did," Fox muttered. "Tech’s working on it but—"

There was nothing else to say.

“Then let’s move.”

They didn’t wait. They charged.

The platforms of Kamino were a warzone, slick with rain and shrapnel, blood and fire. Lightning ripped across the sky, and the ocean roared beneath their boots. Blaster fire sparked against steel as the clones surged forward, shoulder to shoulder, brothers along brothers in the storm.

Rex was at the front.
Helmet dark with soot.
Blaster raised, every movement precise. Efficient. Ruthless.

Explosions bloomed around him. Droids poured out of drop ships. B1s in endless ranks. BX commandos leaping from the shadows. Spider droids firing from elevated ledges.

Jesse’s voice cracked through the comm. “ On your six! ”

Rex dropped low, sliding beneath a spider droid’s legs, planting a thermal charge as he rolled into cover.

The blast was thunderous. The droid shattered into molten scrap—but Rex didn’t flinch.

He couldn’t. He wouldn’t.

Not anymore.

There was a time, right after Ahsoka’s “death,” when he couldn’t move at all. Could barely breathe.
He kept thinking she’d show up behind him, crack a joke, call him “Rexster” and pretend like everything was normal.

But she never did.

And eventually, that hope rotted into something else.

Now he fought harder. Faster. Deadlier.
Like if he killed enough droids, he could drown her ghost in fire and steel.

A droideka spun toward them, shields flaring. Jesse slid under its arc, tossed an ion grenade, and sent it crashing in a pile of twisted limbs.

The squad pushed tighter. Fiercer. Wolves in the rain.

Ventress shimmered in the distance—graceful and lethal, her sabers carving through men like they were paper.

Grievous loomed, a monstrous silhouette scaling the outer wall, mechanical limbs cracking as he roared down from the thunderclouds.

But the 501st didn’t stop.

They never stopped.

Because that’s what she would’ve done.

And if Ahsoka Tano really was gone—then every single shot was a scream to the Force that she mattered. That she was real. That she was theirs .

Rex ducked behind a burning post, trying to catch his breath as the sky lit with another bolt of lightning.

And for just a moment— a heartbeat —he saw her.

Blood-soaked.
Standing straight.
Staring at him.

Then the image vanished, swallowed by smoke.

"Sir," Echo’s voice buzzed through the comms. "Fives, Crosshair, and I are in position. Ready to go."

Fox’s voice snapped back. "Good. Hold your ground. I want every last droid scrapped, I want Grievous dismantled like the defective hardware he is, and I want Ventress skinned and hissing back to whatever pit spat her out."

Rex swore he heard Hardcase laugh over the line.

"Shut up, Hardcase!" Tup hissed.

Rex glanced at Cody—his brother's helmet cracked, armor singed. But there was a smile on his face.

The first one in a long, long time.

And then the battlefield exploded.

Grievous leapt down, sabers spinning. Clones flew like dolls as he landed, roaring. Ventress spun across the ledges, slicing three troopers in one fluid move before vanishing into the smoke.

"Push forward!" Rex shouted, opening fire.

"NOW!" Fox bellowed beside him, rallying the men with fury in his voice.

And in the chaos, the rain, the fire—Rex felt it.

Not hope. Not yet.

But something close.

Something like vengeance .
Something like memory .
Something like Ahsoka.

And that…

That was enough to keep fighting.

Chapter Text

Ahsoka had noticed it first—before Omega did.

The sounds outside had grown louder: crashes, concussive thuds, metal twisting under pressure. But neither of them said anything at first. They just sat still in the quiet hum of the ship’s hold, blasters in hand, eyes flicking toward the walls every time something shuddered.

They were both too scared to speak.

After a while, Omega tried to lighten the mood. She pointed out that the blasters they were given didn’t match—hers looked newer, Ahsoka’s was clearly repurposed. She pulled out the wrinkled worksheets Tech had made to help Ahsoka relearn writing, half of which Crosshair had ripped up while yelling, " Tech, why the hell would you make her write out every type of karking acidic compound like she’s taking a chemistry exam from hell? "

They giggled once, softly, even Ahsoka in her own way—a tiny breath that almost sounded like a laugh.

Then the sound came.

A sharp, violent boom.

It wasn’t a crash in the distance—this was close .

Too close.

The ship rocked slightly, a shockwave passing through the platform as something flew overhead, followed by the echo of blasterfire.

Then—another bang. Loud. Direct. Right in front of them.

They froze.

Well—Omega froze. Ahsoka was always silent, always still.

But this stillness felt different.

Omega clutched her blaster tight. Her mind ran through everything Tech, Hunter, and Crosshair had taught her. Where to shoot. When to run. How to breathe. But nothing was helping.

Droids, she thought. The droids found us.

That wasn’t the worst part—Omega could defend them. And Ahsoka? Ahsoka had a good grip on the blaster now. She wasn’t helpless.

But if they ran into the lab, they’d reveal it . They’d lose the one place no one could reach.

They’d have to run into the city instead. And hope.

Too many plans, too little time. Omega’s heart raced too fast to keep up.

She turned to Ahsoka, praying for guidance, praying for something—maybe even one of her whispers, anything at all—

And then Ahsoka stepped forward.

Omega’s eyes widened.

She didn’t speak, couldn’t. Her mouth opened, but her throat was too tight. She just watched.

Ahsoka walked slowly to the ship door. Lifted her hand.

A soft glow gathered on her palm.

The door hissed open.

"No—Ahsoka!" Omega finally managed, barely more than a hoarse cry. "Ahsoka, what are you doing?!"

Ahsoka didn’t answer. She didn’t even look back. She just walked out.

Was she going to fight?
Or—Omega’s stomach twisted—was she… going to join them ?

No.

No. Ahsoka wouldn’t. Not after everything. Not after what they did to her.

Omega forced her legs to move, stumbling after her, breath tight in her lungs.

Then she saw it.

Not droids.

Not a squad of Separatists.

A ship. A small, scorched Republic fighter.

Crashed.

Right in front of them.

Ahsoka stood perfectly still in the rain, her glowing hands raised as she stared at the wreckage.

Omega rushed to her side, breath catching in her throat. No enemies. No immediate danger.

"Ahsoka?" she whispered. "What’s going on? Come on, show me."

Still, Ahsoka didn’t speak. Her hands just glowed brighter.

And then—

The wreckage began to move.

Not with violence. Not torn apart. But lifted , slowly, carefully. Like invisible fingers were unthreading it piece by piece.

Omega watched, wide-eyed, as the cockpit peeled open.

She realized it then.

Ahsoka had sensed someone. That’s why she’d left. That’s what drew her out here, even in the middle of a battle.

And then she saw him.

A young clone slumped in the pilot’s seat, blood running down from a gash at his temple. He was unconscious, burned, soaked—

But he was breathing.

Ahsoka had found him.

Omega’s breath hitched.

She didn’t know who he was.

Ahsoka didn’t either.

But he was alive.

“That’s what you were trying to tell me,” Omega whispered, her eyes wide as she turned to Ahsoka.

There was no reply—not in words, anyway. Ahsoka’s hands still glowed, steady and unwavering, her face blank as always. But she didn’t stop.

That was enough.

“Can you hold it a bit longer?” Omega asked, already moving toward the wreckage. “I’ll get him out, and we can patch him up with the med kit.”

No response again. Just the low, pulsing hum of her magick, like something deep in the earth had decided to hum back.

Omega approached the smoldering ship, fingers trembling slightly as she reached the cockpit. The boy—clone, definitely a clone—was slumped forward. Blood matted the side of his face. His chest rose and fell slowly.

Still breathing.

She gently pulled him free, checking for broken bones as best she could without gear. He stirred faintly, a twitch of the hand, a soft groan—but didn’t wake.

Good sign or bad sign?

She didn’t know. She’d have to ask Tech— she needed to call Tech, like now.

“Okay, got him,” Omega grunted as she adjusted the weight. “Stars, this kid is heavy. Soka, can you help me out here?”

Ahsoka lifted her hand, and the pressure lightened immediately. With effort—and some serious willpower—they got him back onto the ship and onto one of the benches.

Omega laid him down carefully, checked his pulse—still steady—and then turned to Ahsoka.

“Okay, Ahsoka,” she said softly. “You’ve done a lot, but if he wakes up, he can’t see you, alright? You need to hide.”

Ahsoka didn’t move.

“Ahsoka, I mean it. We have to be careful. ”

Ahsoka turned her head slowly to look at the clone, then back at Omega.

And then… she stepped forward.

“Ahsoka—” Omega started, alarm rising.

But Ahsoka was already kneeling beside him, her hands glowing brighter than before—no longer soft or warm.

They were alive.

Emerald fire licked along her fingers, glowing vines of mist curling around her wrists. Her eyes—normally wide and red—darkened further, a faint, pulsing light behind them. She looked older. Timeless. Like something ancient had opened inside her.

“Ahsoka—”

Ahsoka laid her glowing palms gently on the clone’s chest.

The light burst across his body in rippling waves. Like spring melting through frost.

The green fire rolled over his armor, finding every crack, every wound, every fault. The smoke slipped between fractures, curling around his ribs, his throat, his skull.

The wound on his head glowed—the blood slowed, dried, then disappeared entirely as the skin closed in glowing threads. His breathing evened out. His body twitched, not in pain—but in alignment. Bones shifting. Tendons reknitting. His color returned, death retreating from where it had been creeping.

And all the while, Ahsoka whispered.

Dathomiri. Louder than ever before. No longer a whisper—but a chant. A storm trapped in a voice.

Omega backed up, wide-eyed. The green mist wrapped around the clone like a cocoon.

And then—

The boy’s eyes snapped open.

He gasped, body jerking up as if pulled from underwater. The sudden motion startled Omega so hard she nearly dropped her blaster.

Ahsoka flinched, stepping back, her hands fading to nothing. The green fire vanished like a breath blown out.

“Oh my stars,” Omega whispered, eyes darting between Ahsoka and the clone.

The clone was doing the same. Staring at Omega. Then Ahsoka. Then Omega again.

And then he said, voice rough, dazed—

“What the kriff .”

Silence .

Thick, electric silence.

They all stared at each other, eyes darting and tense—well, not Ahsoka. She was staring at… something . Maybe nothing. Maybe the future. Maybe the Force. Who karking knew at this point?

“Um,” Omega tried, offering a small, awkward hand. “Okay—”

“Who the kark are you two?” the clone boy snapped, pushing himself upright and blinking rapidly like he was still trying to figure out if this was real. He turned sharply to Ahsoka. “And what the hell was she doing to me?”

“Saving your life, you asshole ,” Omega shot back, frowning. “Don’t talk to us like that.”

“Well, I’m sorry ,” the boy snapped, voice rising with sarcasm, “next time I crash a fighter jet to escape an entire sky full of droids trying to kill me, and I wake up thinking I’m dead only to find some weird girl glowing green and touching my chest, I’ll make sure to be real polite about it.”

Omega blinked. “Wait— what? You were fleeing the Separatists?”

The boy’s eyes flared with offense. “I was not fleeing! I was helping them! Those stupid clones and Jedi are karking worthless —"

Omega’s face fell. “The clones and Jedi are not worthless! And you’re a clone! So you’re calling yourself worthless!”

“I am not a clone!”

“You’re in cadet clothes, you look like a clone—”

“I AM NOT A KARKING CLONE!”

Omega’s mouth snapped shut. The rage in his voice rang through the ship like a blaster bolt.

His fists were clenched. His chest heaved. There were tears threatening at the edges of his eyes.

“I’m not a clone,” he growled, softer this time. “Don’t you dare call me that.”

“I’m going to defend the clones,” Omega said, jaw tight. “The clones are my brothers. I am a clone.”

He froze, mid-breath. “But… you’re a girl.”

“I know. ”

“And… you’re a clone?”

“Yup. I’m just… different from the rest. I’m an unaltered clone.”

The boy stared at her like she’d just kicked over his entire belief system.

Then, slowly, he stood. Took a step closer.

They stared at each other.

“…Kriff,” he muttered. “You’re like me, then?”

Like me.

Omega’s eyes widened. Realization hit like a sonic charge.

“YOU’RE BOBA FETT!” she gasped, spinning to Ahsoka. “Soka, do you know who this is—”

Ahsoka winced. Just a tiny flinch though.

“You don’t have to karking scream,” Boba grimaced, rubbing his ear.

“I heard about you!” Omega was beaming now, adrenaline overriding fear. “You’re Jango Fett’s son! We’re like siblings —”

“We are not siblings.”

“Shut up.”

“…Can you please tell me what the hell she was doing to me,” Boba said, gesturing back to Ahsoka, who had quietly backed up into the shadowy corner of the ship. “Like, now. ”

“Why don’t you tell me what you were doing helping the Republic,” Omega snapped. “Last I heard, you were in jail for trying to kill a Jedi.”

He blinked. “I wasn’t helping the Republic.”

Omega squinted. “Last I checked, you were in jail for trying to kill a Jedi.”

Boba raised a brow. “And last I checked, you were twelve and holding a blaster like it’s a stuffed tooka.”

“I’m fourteen. ”

“No, you’re not. ”

“Yes. I. Am.”

“Well, I’m fourteen, too.”

“That means we’re twins. ”

“ Shut up. ”

“No, you shut up!” Omega snapped. Then caught herself. “Wait—no, don’t. Sit down and start talking. Like. Now.”

Boba stared at her. Blinked once. Then dropped onto the bench with a heavy exhale.

“The Republic put me in some stupid program to ‘make me a better person,’” Boba muttered, arms crossed as he glared down at the floor. “Code for turning me into another mindless meat droid.”

“ Stop insulting the clones! ” Omega snapped.

“Do you want me to talk, or are you gonna dictate everything I say?” he shot back.

Omega fell quiet.

“Right. Anyway—what’s his name—Fox. Commander Fox of the Guard. He was assigned to ‘watch over me’ and lead this stupid program since he’s stationed on Coruscant most of the time. But then the Jedi said Skywalker needed a commander or something, so they dragged me here and—”

He stopped.

A small butterfly had landed on his hand.

And then another. And another.

Blue and red butterflies, glowing faintly like reflections of rain and fire.

Omega’s eyes widened. She turned to Ahsoka, who was standing near the shadows, watching Boba. And her expression—

Was that longing ?

Wait. Ew . Omega tilted her head.

“Soka?” she asked gently, walking over. “Are you okay?”

“Don’t tell me she’s some kind of crazy witch,” Boba muttered.

“ Shut up, ” Omega shot back. She reached for Ahsoka’s hand. “Ahsoka, what’s wrong?”

Ahsoka whimpered. A low, almost inaudible sound, but it made Omega flinch.

“Come on, why don’t you try writing it out again?” Omega coaxed, pulling Ahsoka toward the small table where Tech’s worksheets were still spread out. Most of them were torn or scribbled over—Crosshair hadn’t exactly been patient—but some remained. Tech had said the act of writing, even just names, might help her remember.

Ahsoka’s fingers hovered.

“What's going on?” Boba called from the other side of the room, still surrounded by butterflies. “Hey, is this like… an attack or something? Are they going to eat me?”

“They’re not going to eat you,” Omega said. “Ahsoka isn’t like that.”

“So I was right , it is her.”

Omega ignored him. She laid out the papers and watched as Ahsoka’s glowing hand moved, her whispers growing louder.

Then—her fingers snatched one of the papers.

A sketch. Four stick-figure-like people labeled in shaky writing beneath:

Skyguy, Obi, Rexter, and Cod.

Skyguy.

Skywalker.

“He talked about General Skywalker,” Omega murmured. “Your old master.”

Ahsoka didn’t respond—but more butterflies appeared, wings shimmering as they filled the small space with color and silence.

Ahsoka missed him.

Then, carefully, she tapped another drawing. One of Tech tending to Wrecker’s injured leg. Back and forth, her hand moved—between the drawing of Skywalker, and the one of Tech and Wrecker.

Back and forth.

“She’s asking if they’re okay,” Omega whispered. “Skywalker. Kenobi. Rex. Cody.”

Boba looked uncertain. He shifted. “I mean… last I checked—which was, like, never ‘cause I didn’t care—they were alive. I didn’t hear anything bad. Oh, and those two weirdos Echo and Fives? Still kicking.”

Omega let out a breath. Relief poured through her as she gently patted Ahsoka’s head. “See? They’re alright.”

More butterflies floated in. Boba swatted halfheartedly at one.

“These aren’t going away, are they?” he muttered.

“Just continue your story, ” Omega said.

Boba glared at her. “ Yeah, so—Skywalker needed someone, and because Fox had to babysit me, I got dragged here. Then Fox went off on this secret mission ‘cause his men were forgetting stuff, and we were snooping in the med facility. But then he got pulled away and left me cuffed. In a room. Like I’m some kind of prisoner. So I said kriff that, broke out, grabbed a fighter, and actually did something useful. ”

He sighed, rubbing the side of his head.

“Droids clipped me, I took a few down with me, was ready to crash into the sea and hope for the best. Then I saw this platform under the city. Thought maybe I could land it. Must’ve clipped your ship or something on the way down. Don’t really remember.”

He looked up, blinking slowly. “And now I’m here.”

Butterflies still fluttered quietly around him.

Ahsoka stared. Omega stared.

"Your turn," Boba said, arms crossed like he was already bored, but the way he kept glancing at Ahsoka said otherwise.

"Okay, well," Omega started, shifting to sit straighter. “We’re with Clone Force 99. The special clones.”

“She doesn’t look like a clone.”

“I’m getting there,” Omega snapped, shooting him a glare. “This is Ahsoka. She, um... died? Well—not really —”

“I know who she is,” Boba cut in, gaze flicking back to Ahsoka.

There was something in his tone. Not mocking. Not sarcastic. Something else. Curiosity, maybe. Or something closer to awe.

“Well, kinda,” he added quickly, tearing his eyes away.

“So you don’t know,” Omega said flatly.

“You would know if I knew, if you let me speak.”

“But you don’t let me speak.”

“ Maker , are you always this annoying?” Boba groaned. Then he added, almost like an afterthought, “I know of her. The karking clones that dragged me to Fox wouldn’t shut up about her. They were, like... depressed or something.”

Omega frowned. That tracked. Ahsoka was someone you didn’t just mourn—you carried . Like weight. Like guilt. She lived in people’s silences, in the things they didn’t say.

That being said… Omega probably shouldn’t have been telling Boba anything about Ahsoka. Not when he knew people like Fox. Not when he came from the circles that whispered about her like she was a ghost story.

But what choice did she have?

“Well, continuing,” Omega said, folding her arms. “We stormed this lab, and we found her. We took her in. And she has these, like, really cool powers. And that’s it.”

“That’s it?”

“Yup.”

“You’re lying,” Boba said immediately. “No way that’s it.”

Omega opened her mouth to argue when—

BANG.

A loud noise echoed from somewhere outside. Metal on metal. Too close.

They all went still.

Omega glanced back at Ahsoka. She hadn’t moved. Still sitting in her corner, eyes distant, whispering softly in Dathomiri like the ship wasn’t shuddering around them.

“We need to get out of here,” Boba said, already pacing to the entrance. “Those droids probably saw where I crashed. They’ll be scanning the area.”

“This platform is hidden,” Omega insisted. “They’d need the exact coordinates.”

“And I found it while spinning out of control in a karking fighter jet,” Boba said. “We can’t risk it. You know more than me. Do you wanna die here or be safe somewhere else?”

“I can’t just take you inside,” Omega argued. “I don’t have permission.”

Boba turned slowly to stare at her.

“Do you ever hear yourself?”

Yes. Yes she did.

And right now, she sounded really, really stupid.

If they left now , they’d make it to Nala Se’s lab safely.

Omega knew that much.

But if they did , Boba would know about the lab. About the place no one was supposed to know existed outside of Clone Force 99, Nala Se, and her,

And they’d be leaving the ship. The one place they were explicitly told not to leave unless absolutely necessary.

But… they’d already let Boba on the ship. And Ahsoka had already used her magic right in front of him. The rules were already halfway broken. The butterflies were a dead giveaway if any Jedi were still tracking Force signatures.

She should call Tech. She really should.

But if what Boba had described was even half true—if the Republic was barely holding it together up there—then Tech was probably trying to rewire an entire war.

So, Omega sighed, defeated. “Okay. I know somewhere we can hide. But you have to promise me you won’t tell anyone about it.”

Boba gave her a look. Not mocking—more… skeptical.

“ Promise me. ”

“Okay, okay, I promise,” he muttered. “What is it?”

“You’ll see.”

She turned, powering down the ship, then started quickly gathering everything they might need—emergency supplies, datapads, the few half-burned worksheets, the medical kit. If they were leaving, and the ship got blown up, everything had to come with them.

She glanced over at Ahsoka.

Still in the same spot. Still unmoving.

“Can you carry her?” Omega asked, hoisting a bag over her shoulder. “I’ve got to take everything else.”

Boba blinked. And then, to her surprise, he turned red.

“ Carry her? Me? She can walk.”

“Not unless she’s directed to,” Omega said simply, checking the last med kit for supplies. “Or if she senses something. She’ll move if she senses something. But we’ll be taking the maintenance tubes to the lab, and she’s never been through them. It might be weird for her. She needs someone to hold her.”

Boba hesitated. Then countered, “What if I carry the stuff?”

Omega turned, looking him dead in the eye. “Why would I trust you with our stuff?”

“You’re trusting me with your witch. ”

“She’s not a witch, she’s my friend ,” Omega snapped. “And this stuff is data. Now be a man and help her.”

Boba looked like he was ready to argue.

But instead, he mumbled something under his breath and walked over to Ahsoka, visibly unsure of where exactly he was supposed to grab her from.

Omega didn’t help. She just smirked to herself, turned, and whispered, “Thought so.”

From the corner of her eye, she saw Boba gingerly reach out—awkward as hell—and lift Ahsoka like she was made of glass and explosives.

Butterflies flickered around them again.

Omega didn’t comment.

Fives, Echo, and Crosshair were perched on a crumbling balcony, crouched behind what little cover they had left. The air was thick with smoke and the sharp whine of blasterfire as waves of droids descended below them.

"We can take these guys out," Echo said, adjusting his grip on his rifle. "Just keep firing."

Crosshair didn’t respond—his focus was dead-set, eyes locked down his scope, jaw tight.

Fives gritted his teeth. This position wasn’t going to hold. They needed higher ground, better angles, some sort of chokepoint. Anything better than this half-exploded slab of duracrete.

There was a shuffle to his right, and he turned instinctively, blaster raised—only to see 99 climbing up the incline with a duffel bag on his back.

"I brought you boys some more ammo," 99 said, crouching low with a slight wheeze.

"99," Fives said, ducking beside him. "We need a better position. We’re pinned here, we can’t hold this forever."

99 opened his mouth to reply—when a blaster bolt screamed past Fives’ ear and scorched the wall behind 99.

They both turned.

A squad of B2s had broken through the haze, one already dropping to the platform.

"Kriff!" Fives cursed, grabbing 99 and yanking him down behind cover. “ Droids! ”

"The grenades!" 99 yelled, pointing at the bag he'd been carrying.

Fives dove, unzipped it, and grabbed the first cylinder he could find. He popped the cap, yanked the pin, and chucked it over the edge.

BOOM.

The blast shook the balcony—and when the smoke cleared, the droids were scrap.

"Great," Crosshair muttered, lining up another shot. "How the hell did they get up here?"

“There’s more!” 99 shouted, pointing again.

Weapons raised, ready to fire—

Only for cadets to stumble out of the smoke, coughing and wide-eyed.

"Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me," Echo muttered, lowering his weapon. He stepped forward. “What are you guys doing here?”

“We got separated from our group!” one of the cadets said, stepping forward. The kid didn’t look older than twelve.

"Then we’ll have to get you back to them," Fives said, slinging his blaster onto his back. “Where were they taking you?”

"The barracks."

99’s eyes lit up. "I know the best way there. There's an access tunnel underneath the side platform—cuts straight through."

"Great. Then let’s move," Fives said, gesturing forward.

"We can’t abandon our position!" Echo said, turning sharply. He gestured out toward the battle below. "We were given orders , Fives!"

"Orders that’ll make us karking paperweights , " Crosshair snapped. “We can either get these kids to safety, or sit here and get melted down by those glorified walking toaster ovens.”

Echo hesitated. The air around them was rumbling now—somewhere below, the droids were pushing past the last barricades.

But Crosshair was right. They’d be slaughtered sitting here. And the cadets couldn’t defend themselves.

"...Alright," Echo said, nodding.

“Let’s move then!” 99 barked, already leading the way with surprising speed.

Fives cast one last glance back at the crumbling ledge, at the swarm of droids pushing forward, breaking through their final defenses.

He hated this feeling—that pull . Like he was giving up. Like they could’ve done more.

But they couldn’t save the platform and the kids. One or the other.

 The halls of Kamino glowed an eerie red, shadows flickering against the walls as Ventress moved like a ghost through the carnage.

Another clone lunged at her.

With a twist of her wrist and a flare of the Force, she slammed him into the wall—hard enough to knock him out cold.

But not kill.

She couldn’t kill them.

Not this time.

“Your skills are impressive,” came the rasp behind her. “Almost like my own, assassin.”

Ventress didn’t stop walking. “We may both have trained under Count Dooku,” she said coolly, “but don’t mistake that for equality, General.”

Grievous’s claws clacked against the durasteel floor as he stalked behind her. “And yet I command this assault. I —not you—am in charge here. And you’re letting these meatbags live—”

“Because you know,” she interrupted without turning, “the only chance we have of retrieving that girl ... is me .”

She halted.

“You brought me here to retrieve the clone DNA and your test subject. So go play with your droids, General. I’ll handle what matters.”

She turned away again—but metal fingers clamped around her wrist, cold and unyielding.

Grievous loomed.

“Should I assign you a droid escort?”

Ventress slowly turned her head. Her lips curved into a smirk as she leaned close, her voice like silk soaked in venom. “My dear General... there's nothing you have that I want.”

Nothing left, she thought bitterly. You already lost the only thing I cared for.

And now so had she.

It had been too long.

Too many cycles since anyone in the Separatist leadership had heard a whisper of Ahsoka Tano.

The girl— no , the child —had been taken from that lab like an animal. A failed experiment. Broken. And it had all been Ventress’s fault.

She had failed to protect her.

Failed to keep her safe from the Nightsisters. From the Separatists. From the Republic that had stolen her away like thieves in the night.

Most assumed Ahsoka was now hidden somewhere on Kamino. Perhaps reconditioned. Perhaps purged.

Ventress didn’t care about the clone DNA. Or Dooku’s idiotic orders.

Her true mission was simple.

Get Grievous outnumbered. Create chaos. Be the distraction.

And find Ahsoka.

Rescue her.

And then run.

Far away from both sides. Away from the war, the Jedi, the Sith, the laboratories, the Force itself.

They’d be free.

And no one—no one—would ever hurt Ahsoka again.

That was why she refused to kill the clones.

So when Ahsoka looked back—if her broken mind ever recovered—she wouldn’t see bodies in the halls. Wouldn’t smell death in the air.

Even in her shattered state, even with the Force fractured inside her, she still loved them.

She still loved the Republic’s human droids.

And for that—for her—Ventress would not harm a single clone.

No matter how many stood in her way.

She moved swiftly through the corridors—fluid, silent, lethal.

The battle was reaching its crescendo. Chaos would be her cover. If Ahsoka was truly here—if the intel was right—she would be guarded, likely by a Jedi.

Ventress froze mid-stride.

A cold ripple in the Force crawled up her spine.

She turned slowly.

There he was.

Anakin Skywalker.

Framed in smoke and flickering red light. Face shadowed, lightsaber hissing to life in that familiar, violent blue.

Her jaw clenched.

“And here I thought I could slip out without a farewell,” she said, tone honeyed with venom.

“You weren’t going to leave without saying goodbye,” Skywalker said, stepping forward, voice low and dangerous. “How rude.”

Her smirk dropped.

No time for this.

Her sabers snapped to life with a flash of crimson.

He charged first—because of course he did—like a thunderclap. Their blades crashed, sparks flying, his strikes brutal and relentless. She barely twisted away, flipping over his head and landing light on her feet.

He was faster than she remembered.

But still so karking reckless.

She raised a hand and hurled him backward with the Force—straight into the wall. Stone cracked, armor scraped, but he was already rising.

She didn’t wait.

She bolted.

Running wasn’t weakness. Not today.

Ventress tore through the corridor, rain and alarms crashing together as she burst onto the open Kaminoan platform. Wind howled. Ash and smoke churned in the air. She skidded to a stop just as a flaming Octuptarra droid collapsed from above, its wreckage spraying sparks across the walkway.

Behind her—

“You can’t run from me, Ventress!” Skywalker’s voice roared, savage and wild. “You’re just like every other Separatist coward—you take, you run, you hide!”

She turned slowly, eyes blazing, sabers re-igniting.

“And you’re just like every arrogant Jedi,” she snapped. “You pretend to be protectors—while you throw children into war and call it peace.”

He lunged, snarling. “Don’t you dare talk about Ahsoka!”

“She was never yours to command,” Ventress hissed, ducking beneath his blade and slashing low. “You locked her in a cage the second you had her again. You’re just like the Separatists—no, you’re worse. ”

He faltered.

Just for a second.

“What the hell are you talking about?” he barked, confused—but that crack in his armor was all she needed.

She spun, kicking him square in the chest. The blow launched him into the railing, metal groaning under the impact.

Now. Run.

But before she could move—

She froze midair.

Her throat constricted, air ripped from her lungs as she was yanked back by the Force.

Her feet left the ground.

She was choking.

Skywalker’s saber flared, now just inches from her face, his eyes wild— unhinged .

“What the hell do you mean?” he screamed, his voice raw and cracking. “What do you know about Ahsoka?!”

She couldn’t breathe.

Couldn’t think.

His rage burned into her. But beneath it—grief. Guilt. A soul unraveling under its own weight.

She tasted his fear.

The same fear that let Ahsoka die.

The same fear that might burn the galaxy down.

His grip tightened.

“ Speak, you vile karking monster, ” he spat, teeth bared. “You festering, Sith-sucking parasite—you don’t get to say her name!”

Then—

“General, down!”

A blur of armor tackled him to the side—Ventress hit the platform floor hard as a blast from a B2 slammed into the wall behind them.

“ Wrecker! ” another clone barked. “ What the kark was that?! ”

“Sorry!” came another’s voice, too far and too loud.

Ventress didn’t wait.

She dragged herself up, chest burning, throat raw. Her eyes stung with tears she refused to let fall.

I’m sorry, Ahsoka, she thought, shame flooding her limbs. I was too late. Again.

Then she saw it—a flight pod sweeping low through the storm.

She ran.

With a final leap, she landed hard on the ramp as it opened, and dove inside, vanishing into the sky.

And the storm raged on.

Boba stared in awe at the inside of Nala Se’s secret lab.

He’d been in here for a few minutes now—but he still couldn’t stop looking.

Maybe this is what Fox was trying to find.

“How come you knew about all of this?” he asked, glancing at Omega. She was sitting on the floor to the right, Ahsoka’s head resting quietly on her shoulder.

“Nala Se likes me,” Omega replied. “I helped—well, used to help—her with stuff. When I was stationed here.”

“How come you get to go off-planet?”

“Because I’m just that amazing.”

“Yeah, right,” Boba scoffed. “You probably annoyed your way onto the ship.”

Omega glared at him, but her expression softened when she looked back at Ahsoka.

“Listen,” she said quietly. “I don’t know how long we’re gonna be down here. But when we get out—”

“ If we get out.”

“Shut up. When we get out, you can’t tell anyone about this place. Or about Ahsoka.”

Boba blinked. “Why?”

“Well, I told you how we found her, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Well… the Republic doesn’t know she’s alive,” Omega said, staring straight into his eyes. “And they can’t know. Not yet. No one can. And they definitely can’t know about this lab.”

His mouth parted, stunned. “Why the hell not? You said she cares about people here, right? Why keep her from them?”

“Because—” Omega sighed and gently moved Ahsoka upright before standing. She walked to Boba, arms crossed. “Look around. What do you think happens to someone like her when the Republic finds out? She rose from the dead, Boba.”

“Don’t call me that,” he snapped, glaring.

“And if you think the Republic is so bad,” he continued, “why are you even here? Why not just run?”

“I don’t think the Republic is bad!” Omega shot back. “I just think that with Ahsoka... they’d panic. And I’m here because the clones are my family—and no way am I letting Kamino fall to the Separatists!”

Boba stared at her like she’d grown a second head.

“Come on,” Omega said, quieter now. “You’d go back for someone you loved, too. Wouldn’t you?”

His hands curled into fists.

She had no idea what she was talking about.

“Going back doesn’t mean you’re helping,” he snapped. “It doesn’t matter if we’re here or not—people still die. Unless we pick up a blaster ourselves, we’re not doing kriffing anything. You think hiding in that ship with your karking witch helped anyone?”

“I was keeping her safe.”

“From what? ” he yelled. “She could’ve been out there saving lives! Instead, you kept her locked away—like some Jedi. You made her sit and watch while people she cared about were getting slaughtered!”

Omega’s glare was ice. “I thought you didn’t care about the clones.”

“Caring isn’t the same as telling the truth,” he said sharply. “Sticking around doesn’t make you a hero. It makes you a coward. You’re just a scared kid pretending she’s helping while people die out there!”

His mouth snapped shut.

Tears were forming.

He cursed himself for letting them.

Omega’s expression shifted. From anger to shock, to something worse.

Pity.

“Boba—”

“Don’t.”

A butterfly landed on his arm.

Again.

Just like on the ship.

He looked down. Purple and white wings. Then glanced up at Ahsoka, whose eyes were wide and glassy, staring at them both.

“What the hell is she doing?” he asked.

“Trying to comfort you,” Omega whispered, voice soft. Another butterfly—a pale grey—landed on his hand.

Then more. Blue, silver, lavender—swirling in front of him.

Boba’s heart pounded.

The butterflies were forming a shape.

A helmet.

Not just any helmet.

His father’s helmet.

His breath caught. “What—what is this?” he whispered, barely able to speak. “Omega… get her to stop.”

“Just shut up,” Omega said gently. “And watch her. Ahsoka understands grief. She has it herself. Just… let her do this.”

The butterflies twisted. The helmet turned toward him. It began to move.

Toward him.

He stumbled back, but then—warmth.

Arms.

Arms wrapped around his torso.

Not the crushing embrace of some Force vision or dream.

But steady. Gentle. Real.

He smelled it—armor polish, leather, faint smoke.

He felt it—the heartbeat. The calm. The silence he hadn’t known since Geonosis.

In the middle of the storm of butterflies, his father held him.

Boba let the sobs escape.

He didn’t try to see Jango’s face.

He didn’t need to.

He just clung to the feeling.

Letting the arms tighten around him.

And for the first time in years… he let someone hold him.

Chapter Text

"Ventress escaped," Shaak Ti stated, voice composed, but her shoulders heavy with strain. "And Boba Fett… appears to have perished."

Hunter’s stomach twisted.

He stood beside her, guarding the prime DNA and cloning chambers along with a few other troopers. Of his team, the only one he’d heard from was Tech—just enough to confirm that General Kenobi had somehow survived whatever chaos was tearing through the lower city levels.

No word from Ahsoka.

No word from Omega.

And now Ventress, a known killer, was sparing clones?

That wasn’t comforting. That was disturbing.

The cloning facility itself had held strong so far. No major breaches. No signs of direct sabotage. Hunter couldn't sense anything nearby, and by the way Shaak Ti's focus never wavered, she hadn't either.

But that didn’t calm him.

"General," Hunter said carefully, voice low. "You must have thoughts."

"I do, Hunter," Shaak Ti replied, serene as always. "But this is not the time to dwell on them. We must stay focused."

Hunter met her gaze, doing his best to keep his mind quiet.

He doubted she'd read him. Not unless she wanted to. But if she sensed even a flicker of his thoughts—about Ahsoka, about Omega—it could ruin everything.

Still, he had to try. Subtly.

"Sometimes talking through strong thoughts helps focus," he said, channeling his inner Tech—gods help him.

Shaak Ti gave him a sideways glance, then turned her attention to the other clones nearby. Most of them were seated, helmets off, listening.

"Very well," she said after a pause. "Speak."

Hunter resisted the urge to grimace. He meant her.

Too late now.

"...Colt," Hunter said slowly. "He survived his encounter with Ventress."

"She spared him," Shaak Ti confirmed. “Which, I am grateful for. He is a good man.”

"Any idea why she would do that?"

Shaak Ti’s expression didn’t flicker. “No theory. Not even a hypothesis. Ventress is unpredictable. That’s always been her greatest danger.”

“Still… she’s never passed up the chance to kill a clone before.”

“And now she has. Which, again, fits the pattern: unpredictability. Whatever the reason, both she and General Grievous allowed it. We’ll conduct full health and psych evaluations on every clone she spared.”

Hunter silently prayed Ventress hadn’t crossed paths with anyone from his batch.

No way Tech would pass a psych eval.

No one was ready for that brain.

“You must be worried about Omega,” Shaak Ti said suddenly, voice softer. “After what happened to Boba.”

Hunter stiffened, then nodded. “I always worry about Omega. She’s…” Too much like me, he almost said. “She’s something else. But she’s strong. I have faith she’s safe.”

Shaak Ti offered a rare smile. “With how you and your brothers have raised her, I believe that. That girl is a fighter.”

Hunter exhaled a breath of tension. “Yeah. She is.” And a protector. Just like the rest of them.

Then the comms hissed to life.

“This is Commander Fox. Outer city defenses have breached the perimeter. Droids are pushing in. Grievous is still on the ground. No new sightings of Ventress. We need more men out here—now.”

Hunter turned to Shaak Ti, eyes sharp.

Tech’s voice came next.

“I’ll see who I can re-route to assist you. Stand by.”

Hunter’s fingers twitched at his sides. Tech sounded strained.

“General Skywalker’s unit will be dispatched to support outer defenses,” Tech added.

A pause.

Then Anakin’s voice cracked over the line:

“I’m going after Ventress.”

Shaak Ti’s eyes snapped wide. She hit her comm at once.

“Anakin, no. Go to Commander Fox—”

“She knows something. I have to find her.”

Obi-Wan’s voice came in fast.

“This is General Kenobi. I’ve got visual on Grievous. Anakin, leave Ventress. We take down Grievous, the droid army falls with him.”

“I don’t—”

Shaak Ti lowered her comm, eyes flinty now. “Hunter.”

He was already moving.

“I fear Anakin will not listen,” she said. “Take men and assist either General Kenobi or Commander Fox. Whichever front needs you more.”

“General—”

“Go.” Her tone left no room for debate. “We’ll hold the facility. If Ventress returns, trust me—Anakin won’t be far behind.”

Hunter didn’t waste another second. He gave her a nod and sprinted out, helmet locking into place.

Crosshair gritted his teeth as he slid into the barracks. Ahead were the cadets, and ahead of them were Fives and Echo. Behind him—99. And behind 99? The three newest additions to this chaos parade: Havoc, Rex, and Cody.

More men who apparently knew Ahsoka.

Or, at least, claimed to.

Then again, was drawing some sketches and saying a name really the same as knowing someone?

“General Kenobi has eyes on Grievous,” Cody said once they hit the floor. The cadets looked up at him, eyes wide—not just from the news, but from the way Cody’s voice sounded dead. Like he was already halfway to whatever hell this war dragged them into.

“Which means droids are closing in,” Cody finished. “Which means: a fight.”

“We can take them,” Fives said immediately.

Echo sighed. Loudly.

“Not here,” Rex snapped. “Not with the kids.”

“We don’t have anywhere else to go unless you’d rather go play scavenger and leave the cadets exposed,” Crosshair said flatly.

“I’m not putting children in the line of fire.”

“They’re part of the Republic,” Crosshair muttered. “They don’t get spared from the fire. You’d know that.”

That last sentence dropped like a dead weight.

Osik.

Why the hell did he say that?

Everyone had turned. Havoc looked confused—but Fives, Echo, Cody, and Rex?

Maker help him.

Fives’ jaw was tight as he stepped forward, practically vibrating.

“What the kark does that mean?” he growled.

Crosshair met his glare. “Ignore it.”

“No,” Echo cut in, voice low and sharp. “You started it. So finish it. What did you mean?”

“I think Crosshair’s done enough talking,” Havoc said quickly, sliding between them. “Let’s just focus.”

Fives kept glaring. Echo scoffed and turned his back.

Rex hadn’t moved. Still staring. Burning.

Cody hadn’t either, though his expression was different—haunted. Like that one line had sent him tumbling back through some memory he couldn’t escape.

“You didn’t even kriffing know her,” Fives muttered bitterly.

“Fives,” Havoc warned. “Enough.”

“Tell him to karking apologize!”

“We don’t have the time for this, boys,” 99 said, voice gruff. “Whatever this is—it waits till after we survive. Focus up.”

The room dropped into silence. Crosshair stared at Rex. Rex stared back with murder in his eyes.

“Crosshair and Fives both have a point,” Havoc said. “We can’t go out there. If we run, we leave the cadets behind.”

Rex’s head snapped to him.

“I know,” Havoc added. “It’s not ideal. But we have no choice.”

“We can help!” one of the cadets called out.

Crosshair almost forgot they were there.

“This isn’t a sweet shop,” Rex said. “And the answer is no.”

“But standing here doing nothing is worse!”

Crosshair studied the kid. Loud. Determined. Familiar.

He lived with two kids. One was whatever the kark Omega was. The other… whatever the hell Ahsoka had been. He knew full well that kids didn’t function under lockdown—they worked better when they felt like part of the fight.

“Fine,” Crosshair said.

Everyone turned.

“You lot,” he pointed at the cadets, “grab anything you can use to defend yourselves. Now.”

The cadets’ eyes lit up. They scattered.

“What are you doing?” Cody barked. “We can’t—”

“Trust me,” Crosshair said. “Be pissed at me, hate me later—but be alive to do it. It’s way more satisfying that way.”

“They’re kids.”

A loud bang echoed from somewhere outside. The cadets flinched.

“Well,” Havoc muttered, “we’re outta time.”

“There’s gotta be a better way,” Echo said, scanning the room.

99 was already moving, eyes narrowed. He paused.

“I have an idea,” he said slowly.

Crosshair raised an eyebrow. “Well go on, Old Man. Enlighten us.”

They were still in the lab, just the three of them.

Except now more silent.

After what Ahsoka did with Boba, it had gone dead quiet.

Omega could tell Boba didn’t like his emotions being all out in the open like that. But then again… she doubted Ahsoka even understood that.

So now they sat—Boba across from them, Ahsoka still whispering to herself.

Every few moments, Omega would glance up at Boba, just to see if maybe he was going to say something. Instead, all she found was him sitting there, arms crossed, completely zoned out in thought.

Which was kind of funny, because she remembered one time General Secura told her that boys don’t think.

Well. Except Tech.

Tech is always thinking. Most of the time he's thinking so much that he loops back around and somehow forgets to think properly at all.

Omega felt a small smile grow on her face before it dropped again. She was so worried about all of them.

The Batch, the Jedi, the other clones—everyone on this planet. She had no idea what was going on outside, and it was killing her.

She closed her eyes and leaned her head back.

One day she’d be able to be out there. Helping them. Fighting with them.

That’s if the war doesn’t end by then.

Which she kinda hoped it would.

She’d rather live with her family in peace than fight by their side.

“Listen.”

Omega’s head snapped upright at the sound of Boba’s voice.

He was staring right at her now, jaw set, looking serious.

“What?” she asked.

“Let’s make a deal.”

“Why?”

He gave her the most done look in the galaxy. “What do you mean why?”

“We haven’t spoken in like a million hours and the first thing you say is ‘let’s make a deal’? I’m going to be confused.”

“Maybe you’re confused because you’re dumb.”

“Says the boy who crashed a ship.”

“I was fighting—okay, shut up!” Boba hissed, glaring. “You’re so irritating. I’m trying to talk to you!”

“I didn’t tell you not to talk, I just said why,” Omega shot back. “You’re the one who started arguing.”

“Shut up! I’m trying to strike a deal with you so just—just listen!” He looked like he was two seconds from grabbing his own hair. “Look. You don’t want anyone knowing about—” He jerked a thumb toward Ahsoka. “—your ghost-witch sparkle brain friend, right?”

Omega’s stomach twisted, but her mouth still worked. “Don’t call her that.”

“Shut up!”

“Stop insulting her!”

“Listen to me! I’m saying I won’t tell anyone about her if you help me out.”

Omega narrowed her eyes. “We literally brought you back from the dead. We already helped you.”

“No,” Boba corrected, holding up a finger like she was the idiot. “She brought me back from the dead. And I wasn’t even dead, by the way! But you didn’t do anything. So technically I owe her a favor. But she didn’t ask me to keep her a secret—you did.”

Omega stared at him.

She wanted to smack him.

Hard.

But her stomach kept doing that thing where it flipped upside down, and she didn’t like it.

“How can I trust you?” she asked. “You could be lying.”

“Okay, so you’re not that stupid,” Boba said. “But I’m not lying.”

“That’s what a liar would say.”

“Look, I know it’s hard to believe me,” he said, leaning forward a bit. “But I swear—if you help me out, I won’t tell a single soul about her.”

Omega glanced at Ahsoka—and then something sparked.

An idea.

“I have an idea,” she muttered.

She turned to Ahsoka, who was still whispering softly, knees curled against her chest.

“Ahsoka,” Omega called gently. No response. That was normal.

She tried again, a little louder. “Ahsoka! Come over here, please?”

Ahsoka finally looked up, her gaze distant but… present. Still whispering to herself, she stood and padded over, bare feet quiet against the floor.

“Okay, good,” Omega said, giving her a small smile. She gently took Ahsoka’s hands—happy when she didn’t flinch like before.

“We need you to do a spell,” she said softly.

“Wait, what?” Boba barked. “No! No spell!”

“Boba, be quiet.”

“I do not consent to being Force-witched on!”

“Then I don’t consent to helping you.”

“Well then I consent to telling everyone about your friend over here—”

“Osik!” Omega snapped. “I’m going to have her do like a promise spell, or something. She’s really powerful. So she’ll, like, bind us in an agreement and if one of us breaks the deal, we’ll turn into a cat or something.”

“And what if she decides to kill us instead?! Then what?”

“Ahsoka wouldn’t do that. If she wanted you dead, she would’ve left you in that acid pool. Now shut up and let me talk to her.”

Omega looked back at Ahsoka, heart pounding. How in all the stars was she supposed to reach her?

Words hadn’t worked.
Touch hadn’t worked.
Ahsoka was still trapped—adrift in some foggy place only she could see.

Omega’s eyes scanned the room in panic… until they landed on the box.

The little crate they’d salvaged from the wrecked ship.

Inside: Ahsoka’s drawings.
Practice sheets she’d done with Tech and Crosshair.
Half-used paper.
A handful of dried-out markers.

Omega launched herself at it.

She dropped to her knees, ripped the box open, and clawed through the contents until she found a working marker and a blank page. Then she started scribbling like her life depended on it.

Boba stared. “You’re gonna draw her a deal?”

“Yes,” Omega said flatly. “That’s exactly what I’m gonna do. Now shut up.”

He threw his hands up. “This is the stupidest—”

“Shut up!”

Omega plopped down cross-legged, pen flying. She had no idea what she was drawing, only that it had to make sense to Ahsoka. That was the point. It didn’t need to be pretty—it needed to be her.

First came a stick figure of Omega. Big curls, bigger smile.

Then Boba. Angry eyes. Arms crossed. Hair that looked like it lost a fight with a lightsaber.

Then Ahsoka. Wide eyes, big montrals, hands glowing with stars and swirls. Omega added a red heart in the center of her chest—not a mushy heart, but one that meant family. Home. Safe. Promise.

Then a mouth with a big black X through it.

“No telling secrets,” Omega muttered, drawing an arrow from Boba to the X.

She kept going. A skull for “bad.” A glowing orb for “good.” A giant circle around the three of them, like a shield.

And finally… she drew Boba breaking the deal—and turning into a cat.

An angry cat.

With fangs.

Behind her, Boba let out a scandalized scoff.

“Are you kidding me? A cat?”

“Yes. We need a punishment. Harsh, but not cruel.”

“I’d rather explode.”

“Well, too bad. You’re a cat.”

“I like cats!”

“Then maybe don’t break the deal and you won’t find out how much you don’t like being one.”

Omega held up the paper and turned to Ahsoka, scooting closer.

“Ahsoka,” she whispered. “Look. Do you understand?”

Ahsoka stared, unblinking.

Omega’s stomach sank. Please, please, please—

Then—

Quick. Sudden. Scary.

Ahsoka’s hand lashed out, snatching Omega’s wrist.

Omega gasped—but didn’t pull away.

The whispers returned, louder now, curling around them like wind in the trees.

And before Boba could blink, Ahsoka’s other hand seized his wrist too.

“Hey—wait, hold on—!” he yelped, trying to tug back. But it was too late.

Ahsoka’s eyes rolled back.

Her body glowed faintly—light at her fingers, curling into their skin. The whispering surged to a soft roar, vibrating in the air around them. It wasn’t Nightsister magic. It wasn’t dark. It was…warm. Steady.

Good.

Then the light flared—just once—before sinking into their wrists.

And when it faded, a mark remained.

Small. Gentle. Shaped like a circle wrapped in a starburst, like the Republic symbol crossed with a stylized Jedi crest. Not ugly or painful. Almost like it had always been there.

The mark pulsed faintly once on each of their wrists… then went still.

“What the kriff,” Boba breathed, staring at it.

“It’s a pact,” Omega whispered. Her voice trembled with awe. “It’s real.”

They both turned to Ahsoka.

She was blinking slowly now. Still dazed. Still half-gone.

But her fingers were loosening, and for just a second… just one…

She smiled.

_______

Obi-Wan Kenobi had seen many things in his life.
Yoda. War. Skywalker.
Very little shocked him anymore.

And yet—there was Wrecker, hurtling out of the Kaminoan sky like a comet forged from muscle and recklessness, landing directly on General Grievous mid-monologue.

Grievous screeched, voice sparking with static rage. Wrecker whooped in victory.
Something crunched. Obi-Wan couldn’t tell if it was durasteel or his grip on reality.

Grievous, battered and trailing sparks, still managed to scramble off the platform—missing at least one limb and most of his pride.
Obi-Wan remained frozen, lightsaber humming low, blinking once. Then again.

He was almost certain his eyebrows had been permanently raised since that moment.

“Wrecker,” he said, voice a notch above strained civility, “while I commend your... initiative, I must strongly recommend that you never do that again.”

“Copy that, General!” Wrecker called from across the deck, beaming as he flung a super battle droid into a wall like it owed him money.

Obi-Wan exhaled through his nose.
A nap. A drink. Possibly both. Maybe in that order.

The battle, for now, had stilled. The platforms were clear. Grievous and Ventress had vanished into the mist—like ghosts.

But Obi-Wan had long since learned the nature of this war:
Silence was a lie. Stillness was a trap. Certainty was the first step toward getting kicked in the face.

His comlink crackled to life.

“General Kenobi, are you intact?”
Tech’s voice, sharp and clinical as ever, cut through the static.

“Tech. Good to hear your voice,” Obi-Wan replied, rubbing his temple.

“I assume Wrecker reached you?”

Obi-Wan looked at Wrecker, who was now trying to punch a sealed blast door open with both fists. And giggling.

“He made an impression,” Obi-Wan said diplomatically.

“Hunter was diverted to assist Commander Fox,” Tech explained. “Wrecker was the most immediate option for reinforcement.”

“Well,” Obi-Wan said dryly, “he did manage to interrupt Grievous mid-speech. That alone has earned my gratitude.”

“You hear that?” Wrecker bellowed. “General said I saved the day!”

Obi-Wan pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Tech,” he continued, switching tones, “what’s the status of the others?”

“General Skywalker is uninjured. He did not encounter Ventress. However, multiple reports suggest the 501st chased him across two platforms. Possibly exaggerated. Awaiting confirmation.”

“Commander Fox is stable. Commander Cody, Crosshair, and several others coordinated with cadets to secure Sector Twelve—”

Obi-Wan’s eye twitched. “Cadets?”

“Yes. The younger clones, surprisingly effective. General Ti is—ah, she’s still in surgical rotation. Kaminoan medics believe she’ll recover with minimal neurological—”

“Understood,” Obi-Wan cut in gently but firmly. “Prioritize contact with General Ti and Coruscant Update me once you've confirmed city-wide stabilization.”

“Acknowledged, General.” Tech’s voice dropped off.

The silence returned.

And with it—the weight.

His ribs throbbed. He was bone-tired. He’d nearly drowned, wrestled droids in flooded chambers, ridden a goddamn creature, and then chased Grievous across rain-slick metal walkways under fire.

Even Jedi had limits.

Obi-Wan activated his comlink again. “Anakin, report.”

A few seconds passed.

“Anakin.”

“I’m busy.”

“Not too busy to respond,” Obi-Wan replied, tone sharp. “Are you injured?”

“No,” came Anakin’s terse voice. “I just—I don’t want to talk right now, Master.”

“You’ll have to explain yourself eventually,” Obi-Wan said. “The Council will demand an account of why you ran off after Ventress.”

“Yeah, well—maybe the Council needs to hear what she said.”

“Something was off today.”

“I’ve heard rumors,” Obi-Wan said carefully. “That she spared the clones.”

“Not just that.” Anakin’s voice dropped lower. “We’ll have to check the helmet footage. But she said something about Ahsoka.”

Obi-Wan’s stomach turned.

“Anakin, Ahsoka is a delicate subject—”

“No. It wasn’t vague. It wasn’t just her name. It was like...she knew something. Something real,” Anakin said. “I’ll brief you when I can. I have to go.”

“May the Force be with you, Anakin.” Obi-Wan let the line drop.

He stood still for a long moment, staring out into the fog-drenched skyline. Droids lay in broken pieces around him, silent witnesses to yet another violent day.

They weren’t done here.
He still had work to do.

“Wrecker,” he called. “We’re moving out. This sector’s clear.”

“One more left!” Wrecker yelled, pointing. “You get this one, General! Try throwing it like I do!”

Obi-Wan shot him a withering look—then turned toward the figure Wrecker had noticed.

It wasn’t a droid.

It was a boy.

A cadet?

No—something was off.

Obi-Wan’s senses flared. Something dark. Something wrong.
Not the Dark Side—but adjacent. Twisted. Cloaked. Unnatural.

“State your name,” he called, hand hovering near his saber.

The figure flinched, his posture stiff. There was fear in his stance—but something colder underneath.

Obi-Wan stepped closer.

The boy wasn’t in cadet armor. Not standard-issue.

Then recognition dawned.

His stomach sank.

“…Boba Fett,” Obi-Wan murmured.

The boy stiffened. Then muttered, “Yeah. I’m alive.”

Last report had Boba’s ship going down in the chaos—no confirmed body. Now here he was. Bruised, caked in rain and ash. Alive.

Too alive.

“Right,” Obi-Wan said slowly. “We’ll get you to medical. Let’s move.”

He gently placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder, guiding him forward.

But he didn’t miss it.

The subtle tension in Boba’s frame.
The way his gaze refused to meet Obi-Wan’s.
The invisible taint—not Sith, not Jedi. Something older. Something that made the Force recoil.

Magick.

The boy had been touched by it.

And wherever Boba Fett had been…
Someone had found him first.

Cody sat in the medical room of Kamino. He’d already been patched up, but he stayed, waiting for Fox to get the clear.

Obi-Wan had confirmed he himself was alive and unharmed. That meant Cody could finally make sure Fox was okay—because he knew full well the Jedi wouldn’t be thoughtful enough to tell him.

“You don’t have to wait in here with me,” Fox muttered, hissing slightly as the medical droid tended to his wounds. “I’m fine.”

“Fox, you’ve never been on the field like this before,” Cody stated. “Don’t even try to make me leave.”

Fox didn’t reply, and Cody felt the fog in his mind start creeping in again.

Boba Fett was presumed dead. And as much as Cody tried to be mentally and emotionally present—tried to go back to the way things were before Ahsoka died—it was almost impossible. The guilt was destroying him from the inside. And the anxiety that Fox would unravel the way Bly did was tightening its grip on him.

How could he tell Fox it wasn’t his fault? That Boba dying didn’t land solely on his shoulders?

It hadn’t worked for Bly. No matter how many times people said it wasn’t his fault that Ahsoka had been killed—even Anakin had said it—Bly still lived with it. Still broke under the weight.

And now Fox.

No matter how hard Fox acted, no matter how stone-faced he played it, Cody knew this was going to haunt him.

But what were the right words?

Cody couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a real conversation. With anyone. His own voice felt unfamiliar. Nothing he could say changed anything, so why bother speaking at all?

“Get out of your head, Cody,” Fox said, eyes closed. “I’m fine.”

“What are you talking about?”

“This is the most you’ve said to me since—” Fox stopped. “In a while. Don’t go quiet again just because your brain decided to spiral.”

“I’m worried about you,” Cody muttered. “You can talk to me.”

“That’d be useless.”

“Fox.”

“What do you want me to say?” Fox snapped. “I’m sad about the kid. There. But this is nothing more than a failure on my part to do my job. I was an idiot for thinking handcuffing him would make him sit.” He paused, staring down at his lap. “I just didn’t think he’d get on a ship and fight for the karking Republic. I knew he wasn’t gonna sit still, I knew it. I just wish—”

“He got away?” Cody finished for him. Fox didn’t reply.

He tilted his head back against the wall, the medical droids leaving in silence.

“It’s ridiculous.”

“Talk to me, Fox.”

“I’ll sound insane.”

“We’re clones of Jango Fett. We all sound insane.”

Fox gave a weak huff but didn’t laugh. He exhaled sharply through his nose.

“He could’ve been a good kid,” Fox muttered.

And that was it.

The door to the medical room slid open.

Colt stepped in, looking like hell but alive, and offered a lopsided smile. Cody sat up straighter instinctively, and a flicker of something — maybe hope — cut through the fog that had dulled him for weeks.

“Good to see you both in one piece,” Colt said.

“You too,” Cody replied, voice quiet. “Didn’t think—”

“Didn’t believe it?” Colt finished, dropping into a chair nearby. “Yeah. Neither did I. But here I am. Apparently, that psycho girl of yours has a soft spot.”

“That’s what makes her terrifying,” Fox muttered.

Colt raised a brow and looked at him. “Okay, that’s it — I’m calling the med droid back. Fox making jokes? You’re clearly concussed.”

“Don’t make me throw something at you,” Fox grumbled.

Colt snorted and waved it off. “Relax. I’ll be out of your hair in a second. Just came to tell you — Boba’s cleared. He’s being discharged to go back with you to Coruscant.”

Everything went still.

Fox’s spine straightened despite the sharp wince that followed. “What do you mean, cleared?”

“You found his body?” Cody asked, already dreading the answer.

“Body and soul.”

“Colt,” Fox said, slowly, dangerously. “What the hell are you talking about?”

Colt blinked, then paled. “…Osik.”

“Use your words, court jester,” Fox snapped, voice low and deadly.

“Stars, you’re a pain when you’re injured,” Colt muttered. “I thought you were told. Guess with everything going to hell, it got missed.”

“Told what?” Cody demanded, suddenly breathless.

Colt looked between them, finally steadying. “He’s alive.”

Silence.

“Kenobi found him,” Colt continued. “Dragged him out himself. The kid’s scratched up but whole. No permanent damage. He’s… fine.”

Cody stared. “You’re serious.” Of course Obi-wan found him. 

“As a heart attack.”

And that was when it hit.

Cody saw it first — the subtle shift in Fox’s shoulders, the tension leaking out like a held breath finally released. The corners of his mouth twitched, not quite a smile, but not far off.

Alive.

Boba Fett was alive.

Cody swallowed hard. “Of course it was Kenobi.”

“Yeah,” Colt said. “He’s with the Jedi now. I can bring him in, if you want.”

Cody half expected Fox to say no — to bury it, act like it didn’t matter.

But Fox just nodded.

“…Yeah,” he said. “Bring him. And make sure he eats something. He’s probably starving.”

For a moment, no one said anything. Then Cody let himself lean back and closed his eyes.

Boba was alive.

Not everyone got saved. Not Ahsoka. Not everyone Cody had failed.

But this time… someone came back.

And for the first time in what felt like years, he let that be enough.

The ship was somehow still in one piece.

But the bigger miracle — the one that actually mattered — was that both Ahsoka and Omega were still inside it.

"Hunter! Tech!" Omega’s voice rang out the second she spotted them. She bolted down the ramp, practically throwing herself into Hunter’s chest. "You guys are okay!"

Hunter caught her in his arms with a small grunt. "We’re fine. Mostly."

Tech stepped closer, glancing up the ramp. Ahsoka was still there — standing just past the threshold, fingers curled around the edge of the wall like she wasn’t sure if stepping outside would make her vanish.

Good. She hadn’t tried to follow Omega out.

They couldn’t risk that.

"Omega," Hunter said, lowering her gently. "Everything go alright?"

She nodded. “Mhm. Super smooth. No problems.”

Tech scanned the surrounding area — the platform was just as they left it, but he didn’t relax. Not yet.

"Where are Wrecker and Crosshair?" Omega asked, brushing some dust off her jacket.

“Wrecker decided aerial assault was a great idea,” Tech said, pushing up his goggles. “And Crosshair is currently being praised for not committing war crimes.”

Omega’s eyes lit up. “He’s not happy about that, is he?”

“No. Absolutely not.”

She grinned — a proper, full Omega grin — before glancing back at the ship.

"Ahsoka did a good job,” she said. “We stayed in the whole time. She didn’t try to leave once."

Hunter’s gaze flicked back to the ship. Ahsoka hadn’t moved. Her eyes were wide, but vacant — not scared, just… elsewhere. She was mouthing something, lips barely parting. A language no one recognized. Nightsister dialect, Tech had confirmed, though even he had trouble placing it.

"Did she…" Hunter began.

“Do any magic?” Omega cut in. “Not really. I told her to mess with the cameras just in case, and she did it all sneaky — no trace, I think. That’s it.”

Tech and Hunter exchanged a glance.

Quiet magic. No wild flares. No screaming.

It was… progress, maybe.

“When do we leave?” Omega asked. Her tone shifted — sharper now, protective. “I don’t want her here any longer.”

“Once we’re cleared,” Hunter said. He looked to Tech.

“Soon,” Tech confirmed. “We’re unaffiliated. No injuries. As soon as Crosshair and Wrecker return, we’ll depart.”

“Good.” Omega nodded, satisfied — until her brow furrowed. “Wait.”

Hunter braced. “What now?”

“Ahsoka’s markers are drying out.”

“…What?”

“Her markers.” Omega turned, hands on her hips. “She needs more. How is she supposed to practice writing if they’re all dead?”

Tech blinked. “We can get more later.”

“But she needs them now.”

“We’ll tell Crosshair to grab them.”

Omega scoffed. “Crosshair is going to be in a foul mood. He’ll ignore you and glare at a wall.”

“Then we’ll tell Wrecker.”

“Wrecker’s gonna forget halfway through the door. You know he will.”

Hunter pinched the bridge of his nose. “Believe me when I say this, Omega — if I tell Crosshair to bring a marker, he’ll bring one. Even if it kills him.”

Omega didn’t look convinced. She turned back toward the ramp.

Ahsoka was still there. Standing perfectly still. Her head tilted slightly like she was listening to something only she could hear. Her lips were still moving — whispering in that language that felt like ghosts brushing the skin.

And in her hands, cradled like treasure, was a dried-out pink marker. The cap was missing. The ink was gone. But she held it gently, as if it still worked. As if she didn’t know — or didn’t care.

Hunter followed Omega’s gaze and exhaled slowly.

“I’ll tell Crosshair,” he said. “And if he forgets, I’ll turn the ship around myself.”

Omega didn’t smile — not really — but she softened. “Thanks.”

A gust of wind stirred the dust around their feet.

From the ramp, Ahsoka blinked.

Then, faintly — like wind through old stone — she whispered something none of them understood.

But she smiled, just a little, and held her marker tighter.

And the clones didn’t move.

Not one of them said it out loud, but they all felt it — the warmth and ache of it, like a bruise under armor.

Whatever parts of her were gone… something was still in there.

And it wanted to stay.