Born in the gutters of Coruscant, Orin Kade and Caeris Varek learned early that survival meant watching your own back. When the Empire rose, they traded the streets for a uniform, a blaster, and the false promise of a better life.
Assigned to Wraith Nine — a covert squad of outcasts and leftovers — they fought in the shadows of a war no one was meant to see. But in a system built on fear and control, soldiers are as disposable as the orders they follow.
hi so this is kinda crazy because i don't share my personal life, but my dad dropped the bomb on me before he dropped me off of work but he's no longer supporting me financially when it comes to my school tuition. My job doesn't give me more hours sadly and it's not enough for even the down payment we put out!
so i made a kofi! on instagram you can commission me for art/for bracelets although supplies ARE LIMITED KEEP IN MIND- i really need this money, even reblogging helps!
It's nice to write fanfic for Star Wars because no matter how illogical my writing gets sometimes, at least Palpatine didn't return somehow. The bar is truly on the floor.
Orin growled the words as he yanked off his stormtrooper helmet and tossed it to the floor, the plastoid clattering against the metal decking of the barracks. He dropped onto his bunk with a heavy thud, armor still caked in dirt and ash.
Caeris huffed but didn’t take the bait. He pulled off his helmet and set it carefully on the bunk across from Orin’s. His brown hair clung to his forehead with sweat. Normally, Orin liked having Caeris nearby — it was familiar, solid. But right now, it made his skin crawl.
He rubbed a gloved hand down his face, weariness etched into every line. Finally, he laid back, one arm draped across his eyes, the other hanging off the side of the bunk.
Caeris watched him, brown eyes wary, before silently starting to strip off the rest of his armor.
They’d just returned from a mission on Kashyyyk, sent to put down a pocket of resistance. Now, they were back aboard the cruiser they’d trained on — if it could be called training. Six months ago, after the Republic fell and the Empire rose in its place, Caeris had come to him with a brilliant idea.
‘They’re phasing out the Clones, Orin. They need warm bodies. This is our ticket out of the Undercity.’
Even after their major score years ago, managing to climb into the Uscru levels, they were still stuck. No matter how hard they worked, how many jobs they picked up, or how dirty the work got, they’d only managed to climb a single level in three years. Orin knew, deep down, that Caeris had a point — they couldn’t keep living like that. If they did, they’d die down there, faceless in the depths of Coruscant.
But was enlisting as soldiers really their only way out?
Orin hadn’t wanted to. Not for a second. But Caeris was stubborn. He made it clear he was enlisting with or without him.
And brothers stick together.
The training had been insultingly easy — disturbingly so. Orin and Caeris tore through it without breaking a sweat. It worried them how little it took to earn that armor, how fast they were handed a blaster and sent off-world.
Since then, they’d been on assignment after assignment. Some days weren’t bad. Others… made them both stare at the ceiling of their bunks for hours, waiting for sleep that never came.
The Empire gave them food. Shelter. A way off Coruscant’s gutters. And for now, neither of them could afford to question the price.
Not yet.
Orin dropped the arm that had been covering his eyes and sat up once more, his gaze finding Caeris across the dimly lit barracks room. He opened his mouth, ready to vent again about their situation, to unload the frustration coiled tight in his chest, but the sharp crackle of the PA system cut him off.
“TK-7821 and TK-7822, report to the Admiral’s office immediately.”
The announcement repeated twice more, the sterile tone echoing through the barracks.
Orin’s eyes locked with Caeris’s, both of them frozen for a heartbeat. That was them. Their numbers. No mistaking it.
Caeris swallowed hard, his face twisting. Orin felt his own pulse kick up, but his expression stayed cold. He dropped his legs over the side of his bunk, grabbing his helmet in one hand and pulling it on with practiced ease.
Caeris hurried to strap his armor back on, still stumbling through fastening the chestplate as Orin moved for the door.
“I swear if this is about—” Caeris started, voice low as he watched Orin move.
“Don’t,” Orin cut him off, his voice flat and sharp through the helmet’s voice modulator.
The blinding white halls of the cruiser felt even more oppressive than usual as the two marched side by side, their boots echoing off the polished floors. Neither spoke. Both of their minds were racing a mile a minute.
Had they done something wrong?
Had the Empire found out about the Wookiee civilians Orin had let slip away on Kashyyyk? Or the Rebel soldier Caeris had deliberately missed his shot on seven rotations ago on some backwater outpost?
Both knew how unforgiving the Empire was. A single misstep, one whisper of disloyalty, and you vanished. Simple as that.
Orin flexed his gloved hands as they walked, feeling the tension in his shoulders coil tighter with each step.
They approached the turbolift at the end of the corridor, the two of them standing in stiff silence as it hummed open.
Neither said a word.
Brothers stick together.
Even now.
Even through the tint of his helmet, the blinding light reflecting off the white corridors made Orin squint, his eyes straining against the glare. He tensed as they rounded the final corner leading to the Admiral’s office.
They came to a stop before the door. Orin turned to his right, glancing down at Caeris, whose head barely reached his chin.
“You ready?” Orin asked, rolling his shoulders back in an attempt to shake off the tension coiled in his chest. Nerves wouldn’t help anyone right now — he needed to stay sharp.
Caeris tilted his head up toward him. They couldn’t see each other’s faces through their helmets, but they didn’t need to. They always knew.
“Absolutely not,” Caeris replied dryly, letting out a humorless, forced chuckle.
Orin didn’t answer. He tore his gaze away from his friend and fixed it on the door ahead, the polished surface offering no comfort.
His armor felt heavier than it had minutes before, like it was trying to drag him down, pinning him to the deck plates beneath his boots.
Orin shook the thought from his head, raising a hand to give Caeris a firm, reassuring pat on the shoulder. He gestured toward the door. Caeris hesitated for a beat, then stalked forward, his fingers hovering over the control panel.
He glanced back at Orin.
Orin gave a slow, steady nod.
With a quiet sigh, Caeris turned and tapped in the access code. The panel chirped in response, and with a low, hydraulic hiss, the doors slid open.
The two regained their composure in an instant, shedding their nerves like old skin. In their place stood two perfect Imperial troopers — stoic, steady, ready to follow orders without hesitation.
They walked in step into the room, their boots striking the polished floor in unison. Stopping before the Admiral’s oversized desk, they snapped to attention.
The room was circular, and empty. Painfully so. No banners, no holos, no clutter. Just the desk, it was massive, monolithic, far larger than any one person could need.
Unlike the blinding, sterile white of the cruiser’s hallways, this room was painted in deep blacks, from the floor to the ceiling. The only light came from the wall of windows behind the desk, offering a view of the cold emptiness of space. A handful of distant stars shimmered like dying embers in the void.
“You called for us, Admiral Sovus?” Caeris spoke.
Orin hated that voice. The ‘Imperial voice,’ as Caeris called it. Cold, clipped, stripped of all the warmth Orin knew so well. It dropped half an octave, flattened at the edges, and came out with the brittle sharpness of a command console tone.
The Admiral stood facing the viewport, hands clasped behind his back. At the sound of Caeris’ words, he gave a quiet hum of acknowledgment, then turned to face them.
He was an older man — face lined with deep-set wrinkles, skin sagging from years of gravity and power. What little hair remained was a thin, pale white, combed neatly back. His uniform was immaculate, every seam pressed, every badge aligned with surgical precision.
The Admiral’s eyes raked over them, slow and scrutinizing. He said nothing for a long, heavy moment.
Orin and Caeris remained at attention, feet planted, hands clasped at the small of their backs. From beneath his helmet, Orin’s glare hardened. For once, he was grateful for the visor — it saved him the effort of pretending.
He flicked a sidelong glance at Caeris, who stood tall beside him, unreadable as ever. Orin wondered what was running through his head.
Finally, the Admiral spoke. His voice was low and deliberate, every word carrying weight.
“I’ve heard… many things about you two.”
He stepped out from behind his absurdly large desk, the echo of his boots sharp in the oppressive silence.
He stood now only a few feet from them.
“Two Undercity dogs who enlisted as Stormtroopers,” the Admiral began, his voice rough and grating, like a malfunctioning voice modulator straining through static. “Flew through training. Consistently outperformed the rest of their battalion.”
He paced slowly in front of them, each step deliberate, his boots striking the floor with a dull, metallic weight.
At the word dogs, Orin saw Caeris tense — a stiff hitch in his shoulders, a flash of barely checked anger in his posture. Orin moved quickly, giving him a sharp, subtle nudge with his elbow when the Admiral’s gaze was elsewhere. Enough to snap him out of it.
Caeris shifted, returning to regulation posture.
“It is because of these… ‘accomplishments’,” the Admiral drawled, the word thick with mockery, as if he hardly believed it himself, “that the Empire has decided to reassign you both.”
He came to a stop, fixing them a sharp look.
The two didn’t speak, waiting for the Admiral to continue. They didn’t have to wait long — the soft hiss of the door opening behind them cut through the heavy silence like a vibroblade.
Neither dared to turn. They kept their gazes locked forward, holding their rigid stances.
“You called for me, sir?” a voice spoke from behind them — deeper than most, carrying a calm, commanding confidence that felt out of place in the sterile, oppressive air of the room.
Orin’s brow furrowed beneath his helmet. He knew that voice. Or… no, not quite knew it. Recognized it. It brushed against something buried in the back of his mind, but he couldn’t place it.
The Admiral gave a small nod, motioning for the newcomer to step further into the room.
Orin tensed as the man passed on his left. His armor was unlike anything Orin had seen — black as deep space, trimmed with dark blue, its surface scarred with blaster burns and scoring. Not polished, not pristine — lived-in armor, the kind that told stories without a word.
The man was tall, not quite Orin’s height, but broad, built for war. He moved with the ease of someone who’d survived far too much.
The newcomer stopped beside the Admiral, his visor fixed on the two stormtroopers before him.
His helmet, like the rest of his kit, bore the marks of countless battles. Scratches, faded paint, and hastily added personal insignia scattered across the surface.
“Captain Striker,” the Admiral gestured toward him, then motioned lazily at Orin and Caeris. “Meet your new recruits.”
The words hit Orin like a gut punch. He felt Caeris stiffen beside him, and his own stomach twisted.
Then, Striker reached up, unfastened his helmet, and lifted it off, tucking it beneath his arm.
A clone trooper.
Of course. That’s why the voice was so familiar. Orin had heard it a thousand times growing up on Coruscant. Whether it was clone troopers on routine patrol, guards keeping kids like him and Caeris from sneaking into the upper levels, or echoing through the crackling PA system in the Undercity, delivering the daily news from a world far above their own.
It was the voice of authority. Of control. Of the Republic… and now, the Empire.
Orin scowled beneath the cover of his helmet. He’d heard the stories — what the clones had done to the Jedi. While he’d never been a fan of the Republic, even he was filled with disbelief when he learned how easily the clones had turned on the Jedi who’d fought beside them for so long.
It didn’t sit right with him.
Truth was, Orin didn’t like clones much.
He was pulled from his thoughts by the sound of the clone’s voice.
“You two, come with me,” the man said plainly, already turning on his heel and making his way toward the door. He didn’t spare the two another glance, pulling his helmet back on as he walked.
Orin hesitated, glancing toward Caeris to gauge his reaction — but his friend was already moving, following the clone captain without a second thought. Orin snapped out of his daze and hurried after them, stepping back into the blinding white of the hallway.
His gaze settled on Striker’s back as they walked. The man was built like a tank, solid and imposing.
Quickening his pace, Orin fell in beside Caeris. He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice.
“What do you think this is about?”
It came out more anxious than he intended. Caeris gave him a light nudge with his elbow, glancing up through his visor.
“I’m sure it’s nothing. Just keep your cool,” Caeris said, his voice calm. Though Orin wasn’t sure if he was trying to reassure him — or himself.
The three reached a door in a section of the ship Orin and Caeris had never seen before. Orin straightened instinctively, watching as Striker quickly punched in an access code. The door slid open with a hiss.
They stepped inside.
Orin’s breath hitched.
It was a barracks of sorts, five soldiers were gathered within, all clad in armor similar to Striker’s — matte black with dark blue accents, marked and worn like battle-scarred relics. Helmets off and rested nearby, revealing faces hardened by experience.
One of them was a clone. But unlike any clone Orin had seen before, this man’s hair was a stark, pale white. It made his familiar face seem almost otherworldly. He sat on one of the nearby bunks, arms crossed over his chest, but stood the moment he noticed the three of them enter.
In the corner, a woman sat cleaning an unfamiliar sniper rifle. It was large, sleek, and deadly in a way Orin couldn’t help but find… beautiful. Their eyes met for a heartbeat before Orin quickly looked away, moving to study the rest.
Three more men sat around a table, a half-finished game between them. One was tall — about Orin’s height — with shaggy brown hair. Another had a long, brutal scar running across his face, slicing through one milky, blinded eye. His blonde hair was a tangle of curls. The last was younger, maybe Orin and Caeris’ age. Dark skin, black hair, a face unmarked by scars but etched with quiet tension.
It was a crew unlike any unit Orin had ever seen.
Orin reached up and slowly removed his helmet, resting it in the crook of his arm as he tried to gather his thoughts. Caeris followed suit, the two locking eyes for a moment — both just as confused, just as nervous.
Striker moved to the center of the room, setting his own helmet down on an empty spot at the table where the three men sat. He cleared his throat with a rough cough before gesturing toward Orin and Caeris, who still lingered awkwardly by the door, their bright white armor a glaring contrast against the matte black and deep blue of the others.
“Everybody,” Striker began, his voice steady, “meet your new squad mates.”
The white-haired clone didn’t bother hiding his reaction. He scoffed, loud and clear, openly glaring at the two Coruscanti. Orin’s jaw clenched as he shot a glare right back, instinctively stepping forward — only for Caeris to throw an arm out in front of him, stopping him in his tracks.
Orin glanced at Caeris, holding his gaze for a moment before letting out a sharp breath and stepping back, though his glare never wavered.
Striker watched the exchange with a furrowed brow, his attention locking onto the pale-haired clone.
“Drayk.”
His voice was low, sharp, and commanding. The clone — Drayk, as Striker called him — grunted, but didn’t argue. He backed off, moving to drop himself onto a bunk in the far corner of the room, still throwing the occasional glare their way.
He was younger than Orin had expected, probably one of the last batches bred before the war ended. Not much older than them, biologically, anyway — but the weight he carried in his stare made him seem years ahead.
Striker brought a hand up, rubbing his eyes tiredly — like this was something he had to deal with far too often. Dropping his hand, he looked between Orin and Caeris. “Stand at attention and introduce yourselves, boys.”
The two were caught off guard for a moment, but quickly straightened up. Caeris spoke first. “Caeris Varek, sir!”
Orin followed right after. “Orin Kade, sir!”
The taller man at the table stood with a scoff, brown hair falling over his eyes until he pushed it back. He approached the two, arms crossed, sizing them up. Orin was right — they were the same height, eye to eye. And it took everything in Orin’s power not to step up and put this guy in his place. But orders were orders. He stayed at attention.
“Varek and Kade, is it?” the man said, turning to Caeris and looking him up and down.
“What’d you do to get that, Tiny?”
He was talking about Caeris’ scar — the one that ran from his right shoulder up to his jaw. Orin bit the inside of his cheek. Caeris hated when people mentioned it. And this guy was about to find out what happens when people do.
Caeris’ brown eyes narrowed into a glare. “Want me to give you a matching one?” he shot back, chin tilting up, not letting the man’s height intimidate him for a second.
Caeris wasn’t short by any means — he was just constantly surrounded by tall people. He had a strong build too, probably stronger than Orin in just about every way.
The man seemed a little caught off guard by Caeris’ response. His eyes widened, then his scowl broke into a wide grin. He raised a hand, and Orin’s gaze snapped to it, ready to move if he had to — but the man just gave Caeris a playful shrug.
“Just messing with you, kid. Name’s Karn.”
Karn held out his hand, and Caeris reached for it, gripping it hard. He flashed a wide grin, though it wasn’t friendly in the slightest — if anything, it was a little unhinged. Not that this guy could tell. Orin recognized that look. Caeris didn’t like this guy one bit.
One by one, the last three members introduced themselves. The woman, Mirae, had black hair that fell just to her shoulders and mossy green eyes. She kept her introduction short and simple, offering a handshake to both of them and a few quiet words of welcome.
The blonde man with the facial scar was Vess — probably the friendliest of the bunch. He had an easy grin and a sharp sense of humor, and while Orin didn’t mind him, he could already tell the guy was a little off. The man clearly had an unhealthy obsession with explosives, something he wasn’t shy about mentioning more than once.
The last one was Grev, the combat medic. He didn’t bother standing to shake their hands, but offered a kind smile from where he sat before going right back to whatever it was he was fiddling with at the table. He struck Orin as the quiet type.
Orin and Caeris were directed to their assigned bunks by Striker. They were the standard bunk-bed style, lined up along the walls of the barracks. Each of them also got a locker for their armor and weapons — or rather, their new armor and weapons, which were already waiting inside. When Orin asked what they were supposed to do with their old gear, Striker just shrugged and walked off. So, they stuffed it under the bottom bunk and called it a day.
Now dressed in their blacks, Orin and Caeris exchanged a glance.
“This isn’t how I thought our day would go,” Orin muttered under his breath, catching Drayk glaring at him from across the room.
He shot the clone a scowl but turned back when Caeris spoke.
“Tell me about it,” Caeris grumbled, fingers absently tracing the scar along his jaw. “This was the last thing I expected.”
Orin sighed, letting his eyes wander around the barracks. “Wraith Nine, huh?”
