he is precious

Della ☆ 27 I spend too much time thinking about clones and cats - autistic - Tech is alive 🤍

[orangez3st]

hi friend! Could I please make a fic request if you’re interested? 😊 I was thinking of something fluffy with an established relationship with fives and a jedi reader and maybe they feel like they need to sneak around to spend time together with snuggling or kissing but everyone already knows and they just haven't realized that yet. And maybe when they get caught everyone teases them? I actually really don't mind whatever plot you want!! Just really some fluff with fives if you're interested 🩷 tysm you are amazing! 🫶🏻

Every Second Counts

ARC Trooper Fives × GN!Jedi!Reader 

✧ Summary: You and Fives have a unique bond, and you spend a brief, invaluable time together before the war becomes your priority once more.

✧ Tags & Warnings: established relationship, forbidden love, fluff, Torrent Company shenanigans, reader is a Jedi Commander and called “sir”, character cameos: Cal Kestis and a bunch of Torrent with Rex included in a separate scene, attachment-aware jedi x clone relationship (we abide the code in this house just because), cuddles, kisses, hugs, maybe a bit angsty?

✧ Word Count: 3.5k

✧ A/N: HOORAY EARLY POST!! @precioustech much thanks for requesting! 😄💞 I admit I got a little carried away while playing around with the prompt so I hope this isn’t too far from your expectations 💛 (and I just think we should have more of this kind of relationship trope)

Masterlist | Read on AO3 | Fives divider by @lornaka and @freesia-writes

“You really think we don't notice, do you?”

It's where Fives is certain his heart is going to explode out of his chest. Nevertheless, he keeps on chewing, eyes downward onto his food tray. “Notice what?”

Dogma sitting across from him gives him a look. “How you two like to sneak around.”

“Me and Echo?” Fives deflects easily, scoffing, and smacks his twin in the back while he's drinking. Sputtering, Echo kicks him under the table. Fives ignores him. “We’re ARC’s, vod. It's like you're saying how the Jedi like to use the Force.”

“Yeah, but I'm talking about the Jedi.”

“The General? I mean, yeah. Last op was fun. We were sneaky enough. Surprisingly. For a guy like Skywalker.”

“Fives,” Tup rolls his eyes. “It's about your partner.”

“Me and E—”

“Romantic partner.” It's Echo this time, scowling and looking exhausted already.

Jesse shakes his head, sitting at the end of the dining table. “Di’kut.”

“What?” Fives challenges him, his tone aggressive but the massive grin on his face is telling otherwise. “As if you're successful sneaking around with your boyfriend as well? You should be ashamed!”

Hardcase barks a laugh. “Says the guy who's sneaking around with a kriffin’ Jedi Commander!”

That earns him a collective loud shush and a slap to the back of his bald head from Jesse.

“So jig's up, then?” Kix teases. “Actually jig's up since moons ago—goddammit, Fives. Dogma really meant it. He saw you two.”

“We were talking,” Fives huffs, his food forgotten.

“And snogging,” Echo sips on his juice.

Groaning, Fives stands, his fingers lifting the edge of his tray. “This conversation never happened. I don't know you all. Who are you? Why am I sitting here with a bunch of nosy di'kute?”

“Everything's been your choice,” Tup calls out, grinning widely while twirling his fork, as the ARC Lieutenant walks away.

“Great,” Echo rolls his eyes, drawing his datapad from his hip to leave a comm message for his twin. “Now I have to remind that he eats his fill this noon.”

“Nah,” Jesse chuckles, watching Fives throwing the tray down the chute. “I'm sure he'll get lunch someplace else.”

“Somewhere nicer,” Hardcase snickers. “Like Dex's. Or, y'know—”

“Don't you dare finish that sentence,” Dogma squints.

“Knowing our next joint op is with Cody's battalion under Fives’ Jedi lover?” Jesse scoffs—as an ARC Lieutenant himself he has the briefing in hand much earlier than the rest of the company. “It'll happen anyway.”

Echo sighs. “Can we please not talk about Fives’ bedroom adventures here.”

As Fives is marching out of the mess hall he absolutely pretends not to hear all that. Echo's comm message makes his vambrace comm beep waiting to be read. He knows what it's about. Echo always cares about him like that. He'll read it, eventually. But now, his task at hand is to find you—his stance masked by the steady walk of a soldier on duty, as if marching to the hangar to board the next cruiser with whatever star system where they need him and freshest intel in mind.

Bucket clipped to his belt, Fives strides through the boring old corridors of the 501st compound—the durasteel grey of its walls void of life and reminds him too much of Kamino. He fought hard there. But here, he fights hard too between planets and star systems. He's fighting for the galaxy now, and no longer for himself—for his old squad.

Troopers passing by. They nod at him with respect. At him. Or the ARC gears. Of the fact that he's a Geonosis veteran—the second battle, where Cody carried the entire campaign and probably in need of back surgery for that. And so many battles and skirmishes after that. He's glad to have Echo and Jesse, fellow ARCs, by his side. Rex is considering Dogma to be next—if that regulation-abiding brother of his could, for once, think outside the box and improvise since it's essentially what it means to be an ARC. Those three Rancor ARC commanders who trained them would probably laugh at poor vod’ika if he keeps that up. And probably at Rex's judgment too. Rex. Even with the jai'galaar'la sur'haii'se.

Speaking of Rex, Fives finally clocks that blond head that he knows from anywhere. Blond genes are rare among the clones, being a recessive one from one of Fett's relatives. Rex is supposedly a lucky bastard, if one considers individuality has to be placed high among others.

The captain is in the midst of talking with a pair of Jedi Commanders. In the middle of a random corridor of the 501st compound, instead of a specific briefing room. Then it can't really be too important, something mundane, probably—judging by the eager, curious smile of one of the commanders, the young one, whose freckles are so prominent that even Fives could see from this distance as he marches in their direction and bright amber hair reminding him too much of Kenobi.

And then there's you. The other one. Fives throws you a not-so-discreet charming smile as soon as your attention briefly shifts toward him, and in a matter of seconds returns to Rex, whose focus is more put toward the other commander. Must be something advisory. He's really young. Probably 11 or 12 in standard.

“Good day we're having?” Fives chimes in as he approaches, the distance closing, and the group turns toward him. Rex even sports a brief smile and slaps him in the back.

“I wouldn't call intel gathering day in Serenno as good,” the 501st commanding officer rolls his eyes.

“Ah, the usual for ARCs, Captain. You know that well, eh?”

“Sure, whatever.” Rex barely puts any resistance against his blooming smirk. He then cuts to the chase gesturing to the unfamiliar smaller and impossibly younger commander. “This is Jedi Padawan Cal Kestis, Commander of the 13th Battalion under General Jaro Tapal. Sir, this is Fives; ARC trooper, Lieutenant. One of our finest men we trust for intel gathering.”

Cal Kestis, the curious and perhaps a little shy young red-haired boy, holds out a hand for Fives to shake. “Nice to meet you, Lieutenant.”

“And you, sir. Between us, it's just Fives.” With a polite smile he's practiced a hundred times, he shakes the boy's hand, giving him a gentle yet firm shake so he wouldn't shock the life out of him. “So this is now a joint op between,” Fives tilts his head, aiming the question at Rex, “501st and 212th SpecOps, and now a part of the 13th as well?”

You step in. “Cal is joining us as a part of his training. Master Tapal insisted, and I'll be looking after him.” Fives' breath is stolen right away at hearing your voice and it makes him feel stupid in the presence of others. You place a gentle hand on Kestis’ shoulder. “So don't worry, little brother. I'll be there every step of the way.”

Kestis grimaces at the prospect of being babysat by Tapal’s former Padawan—his lineage sibling. “Maybe not in every step of the way?”

Fives goes into parade rest. “Might as well send commandos,” he aims his statement again—which is insignificant, and he knows that but he just wants to comment—at Rex.

“It's not that delicate,” Rex says, “ARCs are sufficient for this mission.”

“With a couple of lightsaber-wielding commanders,” you brightly add, mainly to keep Kestis from being intimidated by all the official chatter.

“We need to go over again about how big this facility we're talking about,” Fives suggests, throwing a nanosecond attentive glance at you.

“That'd be the best,” Rex agrees with a slow nod, and throws a brief smile at Kestis. “Especially now that we have an additional passenger on board whom I bet wouldn't wanna miss anything we have. I'll talk to Cody to gather his men.”

“Yeah, maybe there's something new,” Fives adds, referring to intel and being actually locked in although there's you—usually his primary distraction. He's proud of himself at the moment.

“I'd like to come with you if you don't mind, Captain.” Kestis’ young voice sounds like it came from a heavy internal deliberation. He doesn't want to leave your side. What an adorable young boy. He's a kid. Reminds Fives of his own Commander Tano, and also the grim part of the war that they send literal children into it.

Rex smiles encouragingly. “Sure, kid. Come along.” With a parting nod both to Fives and you, he turns and walks the other way—helmet clipped to his belt and arms swaying by his side—with the young Padawan eagerly following next to him. “I want to show you the main war room. Or is there something else you'd like to see? Like the training gym?”

“That'd be great! Have you been to the 13th Battalion compound?’

Their voices become distant, faded into faint whispers of encouragement and enthusiasm before lost on him, as they turn around the corner. And finally, there's only him. And you.

You sigh loudly. Fives tilts his head sideways at you—a relieved, loopy smile that somehow still makes him quite a looker adorn his face.

“Hey,” he softly greets you, finally free from all the serious formalities.

“Hi,” you grin, heart thrumming in delight.

“So. Cal Kestis,” he begins. “Haven't seen him around before.”

You exhale wistfully, hands going behind you back. “His battalion gets deployed to the Outer Rim lately.”

Fives balks. “Wait, not in the Sieges? With Bacara and his intimidating marine boys?”

“No, not there. Not there yet,” you shake your head, concerned. “Let's hope not. He's so young. And the Outer Rim is too brutal for him.”

Fives knows well what intragalactic war would demand of someone. He looks at you. “Even I know you won't go there.”

“We won't go there,” you correct him. “If you're not part of the 21st or Master Mundi’s padawans, it might as well be a death sentence.”

Fives hums. “Heroes.”

“Commendable bravery.” Your tone is solemn. “But here in life, we all have sacrifices to make.”

“Yeah,” he absently agrees, unsure how to interpret that. Yes, he gets the general idea, but he wonders if it goes far beyond. Deeper. Meaning upon meaning. Covered by not entirely lies, but just… hidden, lying in wait, waiting to be dug out.

“But enough about that. I'm sure Cal is in good hands—your Captain’s.” Your voice rings through his thoughts, and when he snaps his attention at you again, your lips blossom into a soft smile, and your hand held out in his direction. “Let's get out of here, shall we?”

You lead him to your temporary apartment inside the compound. It's modest at best. You may be part of the 212th, but recently both of your and Fives' battalion have been tackling Separatist presence in the Core Worlds and Mid Rim by co-op, so you spend a lot of time in and out of GAR military compounds in Coruscant. The Temple remains your forever home. While you miss the serenity of the garden and the pond, it's nothing against hearing the hustle and bustle of soldiers merely living their lives and making fun while they can. It settles several of your worries. It's alive, and you love being in the midst of it.

The moment the door of your apartment seals close, Fives wraps his strong arms around your frame, pulling you flush against his armored chest. It's a little awkward on your part and pulling a surprised squeal out of you at the pressure, so you compensate by letting go, placing a kiss on his cheek and helping to unclasp his top armor pieces. He watches you fumble with his vambrace with a mesmerized gleam in his eyes.

“Do you have any idea how attractive you are just standing in some corridor of this building?”

A loud laugh that sounds ever pleasant in his ears tumbles off your lips. Your brilliant eyes peer up at him as he patiently waits for you. “You’re only saying that because now we're here; finally having a private time for ourselves.”

“Yeah but seriously.” Fives rolls his eyes. His cheeks hurt from grinning too much. Done with the vambraces, you quickly tug off his elbow guards. “Missed you so much, cyar’ika.”

You hum, absentmindedly pecking his lips before unclasping his bicep pieces. Fives shrugs his pauldrons and entire chest and back piece off faster than your pace entirely out of muscle memory, apparently unable to hold his patience out for much longer. He crushes you against his toned chest, muffling your giggles and playful squeals as he places a big wet kiss on top of your head.

“Okay okay! I missed you too!” you giggle for mercy, letting out a startled yelp again when he grabs the sides of your face to crash his lips against yours. It's only temporary, yet still leaving you breathless by the time he pulls away, before kissing you again much gentler afterward.

You sigh into his lips, your arms wind around his neck. Fives holds you closer, pinning you against his warm torso. His chest bubbles with so much immeasurable happiness and relief that he lets out an involuntary chuckle, stroking your cheek and leaning his forehead against yours as he reels away from the intoxicating kiss.

“Joint ops are amazing since I can focus on legit ARC missions…” He playfully pinches your side, chuckling at your small adorable yelp. “While staring at you across the war room during briefs. It's a good chance. Worth every single time.”

“You know that really sounds creepy, Fives,” you giggle.

Your lover smiles widely, gently rocking your bodies side to side. “It's beneficial.”

You roll your eyes. “More joint operations aren't exactly doing us any good if we still wanna keep us a secret.”

He nearly groans remembering the mess hall conversation with the others. “Actually it might even not be a secret anymore.”

You freeze and blink at him. “Say again?”

“The boys somehow know about us,” he admits after letting out a big dramatic sigh. Because just great. It's most top fear for couples who want to keep their relationship a secret, and somehow he blew it off. Worse thing is he doesn't know when—when they started to know, when the word circulated around—and most especially; how they knew.

It only takes you a moment to digest it all, including the existing consequences. “‘Somehow’?” you inquire teasingly. “You're an ARC trooper, Fives. I thought ‘somehow’ isn't in your dictionary.” 

“This one escaped me.” His voice falls quieter, disappointment in himself flooding his chest. But your eyes are so forgiving that you almost don't seem to mind. It's disappointing, too. “I’m so sorry,” he says anyway.

You sigh softly, carding a hair through his coarse curls. “It's not your fault.” You're stroking his cheek, a soft smile on your lips, and Fives learns into your touch that eventually blossoms into a full palm on cheek. “Maybe we weren't subtle enough.”

“Still.” He then buries his face into your shoulder. Your robes smell like some woody and floral aroma that indistinctly can be found at the Temple, and he tries to find comfort in that while he pours his heart out. “I put a lot on your plate. I don't ever wanna do that to you. You've got a lot of burden being a commander of your own battalion, and I don't want you to worry about getting kicked out of the Order.”

Fives feels you smile against his neck, and his back shivers from how your fingers curl into his blacks. “Thank you for worrying about me,” he hears you whisper. You place a chaste kiss on his jaw. “But all that you mentioned has been there all my life.”

He pouts. He lowkey wishes you could see him like that. “But I'm making it worse.”

The subtle shaking of your head makes a rustling noise against his skin. “Nonsense. You're making everything better.” You reel away from his neck to take his lips upon yours. Your eyes glimmer again as you gaze into his soul, piercing his barriers altogether. “We're together. That's what matters.”

Fives tightens his arms around you almost possessively, shutting his eyes to just hear your soft breathing against him and relishing your presence in his arms. “Aside from the war that we found ourselves in.”

“Precisely,” you murmur, “I can’t give you much, but you'll always have me. Whatever you need.”

He releases a long sigh. It unexpectedly comes from deep inside him—all the wishes, all the hopes. All the questions and impatience still entrapped by a sturdy net. He has a purpose. He can't forget that.

“I know.” Fives opens his eyes to your soft grateful smile. “Can I kiss you again?”

“If I ever say no, you may use my lightsaber on me.”

He chuckles. “I just really like kissing you.” His lips find yours again, and he can almost taste the honey and cornbread you've had for after-lunch snack on you. “You're addicting.”

“Careful,” you tease.

“M’still within the borders of my respect, sir,” Fives grins, his feet driving you to pace backwards so that he could gently push you to sit on your bed. He remains standing, yet his hand finds your jaw to caress them as softly as he can. “Just stating my affection. Unless affection is forbidden for the Jedi?”

You giggle softly. “You're really cheeky with your words. As if your vocabulary changes when you're near me.”

“Good sir, however thou art mean?”

“Stop it,” you let out a full belly laugh that you cover your mouth with your hand. “You sound too silly. I like you just silly.”

“Right.” His chest warms at your delighted sound, which by his humblest opinion is incomparable against Naboo’s beautiful blossoms and the sound of trickling river in the wild. “Then let this silly man kiss you to death, hm?”

Fives descends on you before you can answer. His movement is precise as he maneuvers his limbs to cage you in, clearly not intending to make you uncomfortable in your own bed. One knee and both forearms by either side of your head propping him up, his mouth moves against yours carefully, gently. You sigh into the kiss as he slowly lowers himself onto your body, pressing you against the mattress to let you feel his weight comfortably resting on top of yours.

You pull away from his lips. “Can we stay like this?”

A comfortable heat crawls up his body seeing you breathless and batting your eyelashes innocently at him. His chest swells, already settling on an answer as he places one last peck on your lovely lips. “‘Course we can, cyar’ika.”

You mutter your heartfelt thanks like a polite Jedi you are as you both shuffle around the bed to find a comfortable position. Fives lays down on your pillow, one arm behind his head and your head resting on top of his chest. No matter how long you two have spent moments like this, it never fails his heart to beat even faster. His affection grows and swells to the point it no longer can't be contained, so oftentimes his arm tightens around your shoulders as if he has a cuteness aggression for you, and before you know it he places another big wet kiss on top of your head that always leave you giggling every single time.

It's quiet moments like this. Grateful to have each other in each other's company although occasionally separated by campaigns. It's a fate that's neither cruel nor fortunate that your battalion and his often join forces. One would say it's a distraction. But his focus persists. And sometimes, thousands of light-years away, Fives wonders about you. Sometimes sending a comm could be too risky—every communication is closely monitored.

He always prepares for the worse, but not that he's never used to that. His affection for you has grown deep and taken roots. Fives cares about you just as much as he cares about the chance of winning campaign after campaign. Time and space and understanding have always been present between the both of you, and thus every moment is precious just as every ticking second counts. Every kiss counts. Every traded word counts. Anything could be your last, or his.

So when his vambrace beeps, signaling a comm message from Rex about the assembly with the 212th, a sigh of satisfaction—long and forgiving—blows through his nostrils. You raise your head to meet his gaze, your smile already full with acceptance and anticipation.

“Let's win again this time, Fives, my dear,” you say encouragingly, stroking his cheek and kissing him again one last time. Before you can pull away, Fives deepens the kiss, his hand pressing the back of your head to keep you there.

“For the greater good,” he murmurs against his lips, fire igniting inside his chest. “And seeing you again, obviously.”

You chuckle at his clinginess. Once again, your sounds of joy bring consolation within him, and your confident, passionate smile brightens his life.

“And seeing you again, yeah.”

Taglist: @yoursrosie @hellfiresky @filamentlights @msmeredithrose @heidnspeak @lucyysthings @emmaw18 @leiopython-rat @gh0st-c0mpany @br00kthe0takuuuu @ct7567329 @returnofthepineapple

A/N: You can request for x reader in my askbox! If you're interested in my clone x reader oneshots you can sign up as well to be tagged of future works. (Link provided ⬆️)

[precioustech]

THIS WAS AMAZING!!!!!! I’m sorry it took me so long to read and reblog!!!! I’ve been on a mini hiatus on and off this summer. But seriously THIS WAS SO LOVELY 😭🩷 thank you so so much for doing my request!!! I love your writing style and everything was so realistic and perfectly described. I love the dialogue too and their relationship is so adorable 🩷🩷 thank you!!!

[zaana]

Crosshair and his new pup

[peterquillsblog]

[techtronicarts-deactivated20260]

Tech's Profile Appreciation Post

[areyoufuckingcrazy]

“Dark Water”

Chapter Thirty Four: Legacy is Just a Word for Burden

The Bad Batch x Reader

Sundari Palace, Mandalore

Late night. Quiet. Empty.

You stood at the top of the dais.

The throne sat before you — black durasteel and etched beskar. The Darksaber lay across its armrest, humming faintly as if it, too, were alive and waiting.

You stared at it for a long time.

Your reflection stared back in its blade.

You were never meant to rule.

You were a trainer. A soldier. A survivor. Not a symbol.

And that saber — his saber — felt heavier than it ever had. Not because of its physical weight.

But because of what it meant now.

What it meant to the people you left. What it meant to the ghosts in your blood.

You said nothing.

You just laid the Darksaber gently down on the throne.

And turned away.

⸻

Elsewhere… aboard Havoc Marauder

The hangar was dim. Clone Force 99 sat around the holotable, a projection floating above it — grainy footage from Mandalore.

A newsfeed. Civil unrest. Rumors.

“She’s gone.”

Crosshair muttered it first. He leaned against the wall, arms crossed, rifle slung lazily over his shoulder.

“Abandoned the capital. Left the Darksaber on the throne. No word. No fight. No farewell.”

He scoffed.

“Typical.”

Hunter didn’t respond. His brow was furrowed.

Wrecker looked up from where he was tinkering with a busted crate latch. “Gone gone?”

“Looks that way,” Hunter murmured.

Tech adjusted his goggles, reviewing another angle of the footage. “There’s no strategic reasoning behind this maneuver. None. In fact, abandoning Mandalore under Maul’s rule with no contingency suggests a loss of—”

He paused. Then said flatly:

“Well. There’s been very little logic to her actions in recent months. That is… consistent.”

Crosshair snorted. “She was never logical. Remember her training protocols?”

Wrecker grinned. “She once made us do obstacle drills blindfolded. Said it was to ‘hone our instincts.’ I just ran into everything.”

“She said the Force would guide us,” Tech said dryly. “We’re not Force-sensitive.”

“She said pain would teach us,” Crosshair muttered. “She was right about that.”

They all paused.

The room quieted.

Hunter finally exhaled and sat down slowly. “Whatever she’s doing… she thinks she’s protecting something. Or someone.”

“Still doesn’t make it right,” Crosshair snapped.

Tech didn’t argue.

Wrecker quietly looked down at the small stitch job he was doing on his patched-up Lula.

⸻

You sat alone in the cockpit of a small freighter. Stars stretched beyond the glass, endless.

The comms were off.

The Darksaber wasn’t on your belt.

You carried nothing but a travel pack, your old armor, and ghosts.

You were weightless now. Untethered from Mandalore. From war. From the Jedi. From the Republic.

But not from them.

Not from the Batch.

Not from the boys you raised — and abandoned.

Again.

⸻

Outer Rim Territories

A remote moon orbiting a red gas giant

Wind howls across barren stone. Your campfire flickers alone under a violet sky.

You sat at the edge of the cliff, arms wrapped around your knees, helmet resting beside you in the dust. The cold bit through your armor, but you barely noticed.

You’d chosen this place on purpose — far from Mandalore, far from Kamino, far from the war. There was nothing here but silence.

And still, you couldn’t escape the noise in your head.

The wind shifted.

Your hand went instinctively to your blaster before the silhouette approached — slow, deliberate, familiar.

Bo-Katan.

“You’ve been hard to find,” she said. “Again.”

You didn’t answer.

She didn’t sit right away. Just looked at you with that quiet scrutiny only someone who’d known you since the days of youth and fire and blood could manage.

“You’re lost again.”

You blinked at the horizon. Your voice came out hollow. “I’m always lost.”

Finally, she sat beside you.

For a while, neither of you said anything. The gas giant hung heavy above the clouds like a god, watching.

Bo glanced at you. “Tell me what happened.”

And the dam broke.

You didn’t even know when you started crying. You didn’t know how long you’d been holding it in. Maybe since the day Kamino’s waters swallowed you. Maybe longer.

“I trained them,” you said. “Every scar on my body, every hour I poured into them — I thought I was giving them a chance. A life. Something better than what they were made for.”

Bo didn’t interrupt.

You gritted your teeth, tears streaking clean trails through the dirt on your face.

“And then I found out the truth. About the chips. About what they’re really for. That all of this was just a lie. That I wasn’t helping them… I was preparing them to die.”

Your voice cracked.

“They were always going to be slaves to a war they didn’t choose.”

You looked down at your hands. At the same calloused palms that once cradled cadets who couldn’t sleep. Who once braided back Hunter’s hair after a bad dream.

“I thought I was doing good. But I was just a tool.”

Bo didn’t say anything. Her jaw was tight.

“I tried everything,” you whispered. “I tried being their trainer, their protector, their commander. I tried being a Mandalorian. I tried being better. And now I don’t know what I am.”

You looked at her. Really looked.

And in a voice so small it barely sounded like yours:

“I’m a warrior, Bo. But… deep down, I’m still just a little girl who lost everything. I never got to be a kid. I don’t even remember what it felt like to feel safe.”

Bo looked at you for a long moment. Her own expression softened — and for once, it wasn’t the cold battle-hardened heir to Clan Kryze who answered. It was your friend. The girl who once bled beside you in tunnels under Sundari. The girl who once held your hand while your world burned.

She reached over and pulled you into her arms.

You didn’t fight it.

Didn’t resist.

You broke apart quietly in her embrace, like ash on the wind.

After a long while, Bo murmured against your shoulder:

“Then we’ll find who you are now. Together.”

You didn’t answer. But the smallest nod pressed against her collarplate.

You stayed like that a long time — two soldiers in the cold, two survivors of a history that tried to swallow them whole.

But maybe, just maybe, the future could be something you built. Not something you ran from.

⸻

Concord Dawn — A hidden Night Owl outpost

Time since Mandalore fell: 4 months

The hiss of the seal releasing from your new helmet still made your heart stutter.

It wasn’t the helmet itself that made you pause. It was what it meant.

Your armor no longer bore the crest of the past. The plates were reshaped, repainted in steely blues and muted greys to match the Night Owls. Sleeker, less bulk. Lightweight. Mandalorian craftsmanship, yes—but with your own touches. You’d kept the leather lining you liked for warmth. Reinforced the gauntlets with tech Tech had once shown you. Stitched a black sash into the waist just because Hunter once said it looked good.

You never really said goodbye to the past. You just wore it differently now.

Bo-Katan stepped in behind you, arms crossed, her helmet tucked under one arm.

“You finally finished it,” she said.

You looked at your reflection in the cracked mirror. “Didn’t want to show up to the next ambush wearing hand-me-downs.”

She gave a small, amused huff. “Looks good. You did well.”

A beat passed between you.

“You feel like one of us now?”

You thought for a moment. “No. Not yet. But it’s a start.”

⸻

The next few months blurred into routine.

You and Bo ran ops—extractions, intelligence smuggling, dismantling Death Watch remnants still trying to scramble for power in the cracks left behind.

You didn’t stay in one place too long. Never left a trail. Never left bodies unless you had to.

The Night Owls welcomed you in their own way. Mostly silence and mutual respect. You liked that. They didn’t ask about your past, and you didn’t volunteer it.

But the silence had weight.

Because the quieter the galaxy got, the louder the Batch became in your thoughts.

Wrecker’s laugh. Tech’s rambling facts. Crosshair’s biting wit. Hunter’s quiet watchfulness.

Their absence echoed like a radio frequency you couldn’t tune out.

At night, when you lay on a cold bunk in yet another borrowed stronghold, your eyes drifted to your datapad. A message drafted a dozen times, unsent.

“Are you okay?”

“Do you still think about me?”

“I’m sorry.”

“I miss you.”

Sometimes you deleted the message before you even finished typing.

Sometimes you just fell asleep with the screen glowing faintly against your chest.

Bo noticed.

She always noticed.

“Still thinking about them?” she asked one night, the stars outside your tiny window painting silver across the room.

You didn’t look at her. “They probably hate me.”

She shrugged. “They might. But they probably miss you more.”

You huffed. “That’s not exactly comforting.”

Bo leaned against the doorframe, arms folded. “You can’t live in two worlds forever. You have to pick one.”

You looked down at your hands. At your armor. Your new sigil. The sharp, fast-beating pulse in your chest.

“I don’t know what I am without them,” you whispered.

Bo’s voice softened. “Then maybe it’s time you find out.”

⸻

But later that night, when all was quiet… when the fortress had gone still and your pulse finally slowed…

You still reached for your datapad.

Still stared at the blank message field.

Still wondered if somewhere out there, Hunter was awake too.

Still wondering about you.

⸻

Kamino – Training Dome 7-B

Flashback ~4 years before the Clone Wars

Rain lashed against the reinforced transparisteel windows of the dome. It was always raining on Kamino, but today it felt heavier somehow—like the world outside was listening in, waiting to see what kind of soldiers were being forged inside.

Inside the dome, four teenage clones stood in formation, dripping sweat and looking worse for wear. Hunter, Crosshair, Tech, and Wrecker—Clone Force 99. Your defective cadets. Your brats.

You walked slowly in front of them, hands behind your back, helmet clipped to your belt. Your boots clicked against the training floor with every step.

None of the boys spoke.

You stopped in front of them and surveyed their tired expressions. Tech had a split lip. Hunter’s armor was scorched. Wrecker had a limp. Crosshair’s brow twitched with restrained fury.

They’d failed the simulation.

Again.

“Do any of you want to tell me what went wrong?” you asked, voice calm.

Wrecker grunted. “Crosshair left me behind.”

“I didn’t leave you,” Crosshair snapped. “You were too slow and were about to get caught.”

“You pushed ahead without orders,” Hunter added, trying to stay diplomatic. “You broke formation.”

“I neutralized the target!” Crosshair barked. “What’s the point if we all get hit trying to protect the musclehead?”

Wrecker moved, but you raised a hand and he froze, still seething.

“That’s enough,” you said sharply, your tone silencing all of them.

You walked toward the center of the training dome and turned.

“If you do not trust one another,” you began, voice echoing, “if you do not move as one—if you cannot sacrifice for each other—then you will not survive out there.”

They were quiet, watching you, breaths slowing.

“In battle, no one cares about your perfect shot, Crosshair. Or your strength, Wrecker. Or your calculations, Tech. Or your instincts, Hunter.”

You stepped forward.

“All that matters… is the soldier next to you. That you would die for them.”

They straightened, something shifting behind their eyes.

“But,” you added softly, almost too quiet to hear, “it is also an honour to live for them.”

Their brows knit in confusion.

“You think sacrifice is only death?” You shook your head. “No. Sacrifice is every day you choose your brother’s safety over your own. Every time you give up the easy path for the right one. Dying is easy. Living… staying… carrying each other? That’s the real fight.”

Wrecker sniffed and looked away. Crosshair said nothing but you saw how his jaw tensed. Tech adjusted his goggles like he was trying to hide how hard your words hit. Hunter, though—he met your eyes. And nodded.

Then Wrecker broke the silence. “So, what do we do? If it all goes wrong?”

Hunter turned to him. “We don’t leave each other.”

“We can’t always control that,” Tech replied, quiet. “In the field, conditions vary—one of us may have to… stay behind.”

“Then we make a rule,” you said, watching them carefully. “If it comes to that… you choose. Not out of fear. Not out of failure. But because it’s what needs to be done.”

There was silence again.

Then Crosshair crossed his arms. “Fine. So we make a plan for it. Something none of the regs would think of.”

“A contingency,” Tech added.

Hunter was already thinking. “Something none of us uses unless there’s no other way out.”

Wrecker raised a hand slowly, serious now. “We call it… Plan 99.”

The others turned to look at him.

“Why 99?” Crosshair asked, eyebrow raised.

Wrecker looked down. “For the one who didn’t leave anyone behind.”

You felt your throat tighten.

Of all the regs, Wrecker had always remembered CT-99—the malformed janitor clone who would give his life for cadets who had mocked him.

Hunter nodded once. “Plan 99.”

“Only as a last resort,” Tech confirmed.

Crosshair scoffed slightly. “Let’s just not screw up that bad in the first place.”

But no one laughed.

They all looked at each other.

And in that moment—13 years old, defective, already scarred by Kamino’s brutal training—they were no longer just cadets.

They were a squad.

You watched them fall into formation again and run the simulation one more time.

This time, they didn’t break formation.

Crosshair didn’t push ahead.

Wrecker didn’t get left behind.

They moved as one.

And you, from the observation deck above, placed a hand on the cold glass. “You’re going to tear the galaxy apart one day,” you murmured. “Just promise me you’ll always come back to each other.”

*end flashback*

⸻

Abandoned communications relay on a windswept ridge

Time Since Mandalore’s Fall: 7 months

The wind outside howled like a wounded animal.

You sat near the rusted comms console, half-armored, your helmet set beside you. Bo was across the room, crouched by the fire pit, her Night Owl helmet resting in her lap. Neither of you had spoken in a while. The silence between Mandalorians was never truly quiet—there was always the shared weight of history hanging between each breath.

You stared at your vambrace, running a thumb over the edge. The beskar had new scratches. So did your soul.

Bo glanced over at you, finally breaking the silence. “You’re quiet.”

You gave a humorless snort. “You’re welcome.”

Bo leaned back against the wall, one leg pulled up under her arm. “That look on your face… you’re somewhere else.”

You didn’t look at her. “I was just thinking about Kamino.”

Bo tilted her head. “Clones?”

“Yeah,” you said after a beat. “The Batch.”

Bo blinked slowly, as if surprised to hear you bring them up by name.

“I taught them about loyalty. Sacrifice. Told them if they didn’t trust each other, they’d die. I preached it like it was gospel.”

Bo raised an eyebrow. “That’s not a bad thing.”

“I don’t practice what I preach,” you said, voice low, almost bitter. “If this past year says anything—it’s that I’m a hypocrite.”

Bo didn’t speak right away.

You clenched your jaw. “I told them to never abandon each other. I abandoned them twice. I taught them to act with honor. I joined a Sith-led puppet regime. I said trust was sacred. I haven’t trusted anyone in months.”

Bo stood and walked over, her footsteps soft but sure. She crouched beside you, her tone unexpectedly gentle. “You’re not the only one who’s lost themselves in this war.”

You finally looked at her.

“Everything we grew up knowing—our creed, our people, our codes—it’s all fractured. You were trained to fight. Not to carry the weight of the galaxy’s corruption.”

You huffed a laugh. “Doesn’t excuse any of it.”

Bo leaned her shoulder against yours. “No. But it explains it.”

You were quiet again.

Then softly: “Plan 99. We made it when they were thirteen.”

Bo tilted her head.

You didn’t elaborate—just stared ahead.

“I think about what I told them,” you murmured. “That dying was easy. That living for each other was the real fight. But here I am, running, hiding, pushing everyone away—”

“Surviving,” Bo cut in, firm now. “You’re surviving.”

You shook your head. “I’m a warrior, Bo. But deep down I’m still just that little girl who watched her clan burn during the civil war. Who got taken in by a cause, who got lost trying to be everything to everyone.”

Bo studied you. “So what now?”

You exhaled.

“I don’t know. But I do know one thing.”

“What’s that?”

“I have to find them.”

Bo didn’t ask who. She already knew.

The fire crackled behind you. Outside, the wind screamed across the barren ridge.

You looked at the stars and remembered four boys—your boys—who had once looked up at the same sky and promised never to leave each other behind.

⸻

The old comms relay crackled to life, static snapping like dry ice before a voice broke through—clipped, hasty, thick with alarm.

“…Crimson faction en route to the Spire. They’re planning a retrieval. Maul’s prison. Repeat, Maul’s prison.”

You stood up fast. Bo was already moving, her fingers flying over the datapad in her hand. A low buzz spread through the outpost—armor sliding into place, weapons being checked, helmets clicking down. The Night Owls moved like a blade: sharp, silent, ready to cut.

You didn’t speak, didn’t hesitate.

Maul.

He’d been captured by Sidious himself. You’d watched it happen, silent on that throne as your emotions screamed. Sidious had left you alive—warned you of your ambition. And now?

Now the consequences of not killing Maul yourself had come full circle.

“Spire’s locked tight,” one of the Night Owls muttered. “Nobody’s broken in since the Jedi built it.”

“They aren’t Jedi,” you replied, snapping your vambrace into place. “They’re Mandalorians. Like us.”

Bo looked to you across the small operations table. Her face was carved from stone, but you knew her too well to miss the flicker of uncertainty.

“You sure you’re ready for this?” she asked. “If he escapes—”

“He won’t.” Your voice was cold, steel-edged. “He can’t.”

Bo nodded once.

Your helmet hissed as it sealed shut.

“Then let’s move.”

⸻

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

[areyoufuckingcrazy]

“Dark Water”

Chapter Thirty Five: The Dead Don’t Stay Buried

The Bad Batch x Reader

Location: The Spire, Outer Rim Prison Complex

“You sure this is the right place?” you asked, adjusting the edge of your vambrace. Your voice was dry through the helmet filter.

Bo’s voice came clipped, low. “Crimson signatures match. They’re already inside.”

Your stomach turned. You stood just inside the hangar breach of The Spire, the massive Republic prison carved into the rock. Alarms hadn’t gone off yet—but the quiet was too quiet. You could feel something wrong in the bones of the place.

Behind you, the Night Owls moved in tandem—tight formation, quiet. Efficient.

“Hold position,” Bo murmured, raising a hand. “Movement ahead. One squad—Republic…?”

You blinked.

No.

Not just Republic.

You recognized those biosigns.

The shape of that visor.

The heavy tread of boots.

One voice—half growl—saying, “We should have taken the other corridor.”

Clone Force 99.

And Echo.

Wrecker’s voice echoed faintly down the hall. “Eh, they all look the same. Just bigger.”

Your pulse jumped.

Crosshair was next. “Something’s off. Motion sensors are tripping two levels below. Whoever’s here isn’t alone.”

Hunter held a fist up. They stopped just feet away.

Your voice was tight. “Bo…”

“I see them.”

“Hold back. Let me go first.”

She looked at you, visor unreadable. Then she stepped aside.

You stepped into the open.

Wrecker squinted. “…Wait. Is that—?”

Crosshair’s blaster was up before you could say a word.

“Don’t move.”

Hunter’s voice was sharp. “What are you doing here?”

Tech, adjusting his goggles, muttered, “Probability of this being a trap is 68.7%.”

You raised your hands slowly. “We’re here for the same reason you are. Crimson Dawn loyalists. Maul. He’s being extracted.”

“You’re with her,” Crosshair snapped, gesturing at Bo.

Bo didn’t flinch. “Careful, clone. I’ve fought beside Jedi. I’m not here to make enemies.”

“You’re already failing,” Crosshair muttered.

Echo didn’t speak. He was staring at you—memories of training sessions, of Domino Squad’s earliest days, of you barking orders and cracking smiles like thunder—colliding with the image in front of him now: a shadowy figure in Mandalorian armor running with Bo-Katan.

Hunter’s eyes didn’t leave you. “We saw what you did on Mandalore.”

You inhaled tightly. “Then you know I walked away from it. I left the Darksaber on the throne. I’m not Maul’s ally.”

“Not anymore,” Tech corrected.

Hunter’s voice was low. “We were told to retrieve intel. Not start another civil war.”

You glanced at the datapad strapped to your vambrace. “If you don’t help stop the extraction now, there won’t be another chance. The moment Maul is free—everything changes. You know it. I know it.”

Wrecker looked between the two groups, frowning. “I say we help each other. Take out the bad guys first, then fight over who gets to leave after.”

For once, you smiled beneath your helmet.

“Deal.”

⸻

Alarms blared. The Spire shook. From the heart of the fortress, a red glow pulsed—Maul’s cell had been opened.

“Move!” Hunter barked.

You moved as one.

Mandalorians loyal to Maul spilled from the corridors, their armor painted in crimson hues. Blasterfire erupted. You ducked, rolled, and shot one square in the chest.

Bo took down another with a vibroblade to the neck.

Wrecker roared and tackled two at once. Echo covered your flank, just like he used to when he was still whole.

Then came Maul—walking, slow and deliberate, his yellow eyes gleaming like the end of the world.

“Hello again,” he said.

To you.

The moment Maul’s voice curled through the chaos, time slowed.

“Hello again,” he said — directly to you.

You didn’t answer. There wasn’t time. The air shifted — full of violence and inevitability — and then it began.

Blasterfire. Vibroblades. Screams.

Wrecker slammed into three red-clad Mandalorians like a wrecking ball. Echo fired from the rear, precise and fast. Bo’s gauntlet blades flashed like lightning.

You charged directly toward Maul.

But he didn’t stay to fight. Not yet.

“Keep them busy,” he sneered to Gar Saxon, already disappearing into the dark.

Saxon’s visor snapped toward you. “You,” he hissed.

Then he launched his jetpack — full pursuit.

“Split!” Hunter yelled. “Now!”

You didn’t hesitate.

You grabbed Crosshair’s pauldron and pulled him down the corridor with you. Echo followed without a word.

Blaster bolts trailed like fireflies behind you. Saxon was fast. Too fast.

You’d split from the others at Hunter’s call, legs burning as you sprinted down a narrow service bridge with Crosshair and Echo. It was a long walkway — open on both sides, stretching across a deep mechanical chasm. Hundreds of meters below, the Spire’s support framework stretched like the ribs of some dead beast.

You could hear the jetpack whine behind you.

Gar Saxon.

He was gaining.

“We’re exposed out here!” Echo shouted, checking over his shoulder, blaster firing off two quick shots.

“I’m aware,” Crosshair growled, loading another round into his custom rifle. “He’s lining up—he’s got a—”

Click—WHOOOM.

The missile hit the walkway just behind you.

You barely had time to scream.

The explosion tore through durasteel like paper.

Your ears rang. Heat washed over you in a tidal wave. Your feet left the ground, and for one horrible second, you were weightless—floating above the abyss.

Then gravity caught you.

You plummeted.

The impact of the blast had torn through your armor’s seals, air howling in your ears. You flailed, instinct kicking in, hands grasping at empty sky. The Spire’s walls and girders blurred past.

And then—whip-CRACK.

A cable fired down. Crosshair.

The grappling line hit your chestplate dead-center, locking in with a painful jerk that slammed your body into a dead swing. Your ribs screamed.

But it wasn’t enough.

There wasn’t enough slack.

You hit the next level below hard.

Your back struck the walkway at full velocity. A sharp, horrific crack echoed out—a sound that didn’t belong in a living body.

You bounced once. Your helmet flew off mid-roll.

Your neck was twisted. Eyes still open.

You didn’t move.

Crosshair had fired the line without thinking. His hands moved before his brain did.

He watched you drop — watched the cable go taut —

Then heard the sound.

That sound.

He screamed. Not with fear.

But with knowing.

“No—no, no, no—!”

He dropped his rifle. Crawled forward.

Echo’s hands were on his belt, grabbing him before he could jump too.

“Don’t look down,” Echo pleaded.

But Crosshair did.

And there you were.

Limp. Head twisted. Blood spilling from your mouth, dripping onto the grates beneath you. Hanging in the air like some grotesque puppet on a string.

Still.

Gone.

Wrecker’s laughter had been echoing just seconds earlier. He and Bo had fought through three loyalists on the catwalk beneath you — she with blades, he with brute strength.

Then your body fell.

Smack.

A helmet clattered down nearby.

Bo froze.

Wrecker looked up.

And saw you.

Dangling from a cable. Broken.

“NO!”

He sprinted.

“NO NO NO—NOT YOU—NOT YOU TOO—!”

He grabbed your armor and ripped the cable from your chest plate with a roar.

Blood smeared across his gloves, staining the ridges in your beskar. He cradled your body as gently as he could — even as your head lolled back, mouth slightly parted.

You didn’t blink.

“Wake up…” he whispered, voice shaking. “Wake up, please… I can’t—I can’t do this again—”

Bo was still behind him, hand over her mouth. Her expression fractured with horror.

“Get her to the ship,” she said, quiet. “NOW.”

Wrecker didn’t need telling twice.

He ran.

⸻

The blood was warm.

It soaked through Wrecker’s armor as he carried you down the halls of the Spire. A smear marked every turn. A trail of a warrior who’d died trying to protect everyone else.

Every corner he turned, he prayed it was a dream.

But it wasn’t.

Bo opened the Marauder’s ramp.

Hunter stood at the top of it, eyes wide.

“No—no, what happened?”

Wrecker brushed past him. Crosshair stumbled in behind, silent, numb.

Echo didn’t speak.

Wrecker laid your body on the central table. Gently. Like if he handled you too rough, you might shatter completely.

Your head turned slightly, the weight shifting.

A hollow clatter.

Your helmet rolled off the table. Landed on the floor.

Blood smeared the inside.

The room was silent.

“She’s gone,” Bo said quietly.

Tech didn’t even need to run the scans.

“She died on impact,” he confirmed. “Neck. Skull. Severe internal trauma. There was nothing—there was nothing anyone could have done.”

Wrecker was still holding your hand.

“It should’ve been me,” he whispered.

Crosshair sat down in the corner. Didn’t speak.

Hunter leaned against the wall. His hand curled into a fist so tight his knuckles turned white.

Echo, quietly, picked up your helmet. Wiped the blood away with his sleeve.

He didn’t know why.

He just needed to.

⸻

The Marauder hadn’t moved in hours.

None of them could.

Your body remained in the center of the ship, wrapped in a deep Mandalorian burial shroud. Your helmet — cleaned and polished now — sat at the foot of the table, staring blankly forward like a ghost waiting for orders.

No one had touched you since Wrecker laid you down.

Not even Bo-Katan, who had spent a long time standing at the ramp with her arms crossed tightly, like if she let go of herself for one second, she’d shatter.

She finally broke the silence.

“We’ll bring her home,” Bo said quietly. “To Mandalore.”

Wrecker was the first to react.

He sat up straighter, blinking like he hadn’t registered they were still alive.

“To Mandalore?” His voice cracked.

“She was one of us,” Bo said. “Blood of Mandalore the Great. She deserves to be buried like a warrior. Honored like one.”

Crosshair made no snide remarks.

Echo just lowered his head.

Hunter hadn’t spoken since they’d boarded the ship.

Bo’s voice softened as she stepped closer to them all.

“You’re welcome to attend the funeral,” she said. “All of you. And… if there are any others who’d want to come—clones, Jedi, old friends—I’ll make sure there’s room. She cared about you. All of you. It’s only right.”

Tech finally looked up from where he sat in the co-pilot seat.

“She would not want a spectacle,” he said quietly.

Bo nodded. “It won’t be one. Just tradition. Just fire, metal, and memory.”

⸻

Word traveled fast in the clone network.

Cody was the first to hear. Then Fox.

Then it spread like wildfire.

The Bad Batch hadn’t left yet.

They couldn’t.

Hunter finally spoke, voice low, brittle.

“She kept saying she didn’t belong with us anymore. Like she wasn’t part of us. But she was. And we just… we let her go. Again.”

Crosshair’s jaw clenched.

“She chose to go.”

“She chose to die alone,” Hunter snapped.

“No,” Wrecker said, voice shaking. “No, she didn’t.”

They all looked at him.

Wrecker was staring at your covered body. His hands curled into fists on his knees.

“She died saving us. Again. Always us. She was always there for us.”

His lip trembled. “And we weren’t there for her.”

Echo reached across and put a hand on Wrecker’s shoulder.

“She’d have said it was worth it.”

“That doesn’t make it hurt less.”

There was silence again.

Crosshair stood, walked to your helmet. He stared down at it for a long moment.

Then he reached up and unclipped his own.

He set it next to yours.

“They said Mandalorians don’t fear death,” he muttered. “But I watched you fall and I’ve never felt fear like that in my entire kriffing life.”

⸻

The sun on Mandalore dipped low on the horizon, turning the dusty sky into a canvas of blood and gold.

A long platform had been constructed atop one of Sundari’s outer terraces, looking out over the desolate wastes. The wind howled against the ceremonial pyre that had been built from beskar and ironwood. In the center of the pyre, your body lay wrapped in your original training cloak — old, frayed, burned at the edges. Your helmet sat atop your chest. Across your waist, Bo-Katan had laid a ceremonial vibroblade — the blade you’d trained with as a child, now dulled by years of use but glinting like it was still hungry.

There was no crowd.

Just warriors.

Just the ones who mattered.

Kal Skirata stood near the front, shoulders stiff beneath his battered armor. His face was more carved than ever, lined by grief, anger, and something deeper — sorrow that came only when you outlived your children.

Beside him, Walon Vau stood with his arms crossed, helmet off, expression unreadable. But his eyes were fixed on you. Focused. Unmoving. Even the Nulls were still. Mereel and Ordo flanked Kal, silent for once. Kom’rk was to the side, head bowed.

Omega Squad stood nearby, silent, their helmets under their arms.

Even Delta Squad was there.

Scorch, unusually quiet. Sev looking grim. Fixer watching the horizon. Boss standing stiffly at attention, as if your ghost would bark a command if he moved too soon.

Commander Cody stood near the pyre, in full armor, the orange of the 212th stark against the pale stone. Beside him — Kenobi, his Jedi robes catching the wind, face soft with something that looked a lot like guilt.

Off to the far side — away from the GAR officers and Mandalorians — Boba Fett stood beside Bosk. Fett was in his armor, older now, watching with a hollow look. He didn’t say a word.

He didn’t need to.

Bo-Katan stepped forward.

The flames hadn’t been lit yet.

She didn’t look like a Duchess.

She looked like the soldier she was. Dust-smeared. Blood on one gauntlet. Her helmet tucked under her arm, voice raw.

“She was fire,” Bo said.

No title. No full name.

Just she.

“She was fire, and war, and mercy, and rage. She trained generations of soldiers who will never forget her voice screaming at them in the rain. She forged warriors. And she forged loyalty.”

Bo’s jaw clenched, but she didn’t break.

“She gave everything. And she was stolen from us far too soon.”

She stepped back.

Kal Skirata was next.

“She was one of mine,” he said roughly. “Didn’t matter where she came from. She was one of mine. One of the only ones who didn’t just train the boys — she loved them.”

Kal turned to look at the sea of clone faces.

“She fought for them. Died for them. And I swear on my armor and my ancestors — anyone who forgets what she gave… I’ll remind them.”

Then silence again.

The only sound was the wind — and the slow, deliberate step of Wrecker, who walked forward carrying your training banner. He planted it in the stone behind the pyre, eyes glistening.

“She was our Buir,” Wrecker said. “That’s all there is to say.”

Hunter moved next. But he said nothing. Just reached down and rested a hand on your shroud-covered chest, head bowed.

Crosshair didn’t step forward. But he stood at attention until his hands trembled.

Tech murmured something in Mando’a under his breath.

Then Bo-Katan turned to the side — and lit the flame.

The pyre caught slowly at first.

Then all at once.

It roared to life.

The heat washed across the crowd, and not a single person flinched.

Smoke curled into the heavens, carrying your soul to the stars in a tower of flame. The Mandalorians began to hum — a low, resonant sound that built in the back of the throat like a chant from deep within the bones.

And then they sang.

A dirge in Mando’a, old and sharp as beskar.

A warrior’s song.

A death song.

A song for the honored fallen.

After the fire burned down to glowing coals and embers, no one left.

Not for a long time.

Some sat in silence.

Others wept.

Bo-Katan stood alone before the ashes.

Wrecker’s blood-stained armor still bore the red of your death. He hadn’t washed it off. He didn’t want to.

Kal Skirata eventually approached Clone Force 99.

“She’d be proud of you,” he said gruffly. “Even now.”

Hunter nodded once, but his eyes stayed locked on the pyre.

“She wasn’t just our trainer,” Echo said. “She was the reason we’re alive.”

“She was alive,” Crosshair muttered. “Every time we forgot how to be.”

No one argued.

Because it was true.

You had been many things to many people. Fire and storm. Knife and kindness.

And now — you were ash.

But even ash could become myth.

⸻

The fires had long died.

The ceremonial platform was now cold ash and scattered soot, burned into the stone like a scar. The wind carried the faint scent of smoke and carbon. Mandalore’s moons hovered above the sky, casting a silver-blue light over the quiet grave carved into the rock at the base of the pyre.

A solitary figure in black robes stepped forward, his hood raised, concealing most of his face. Only the flicker of yellow-red eyes betrayed the darkness that resided within him.

Darth Sidious stood before your grave.

He did not bow his head.

He did not mourn.

He simply looked.

“You always were troublesome,” he said softly, voice like a whisper wrapped in venom. “Even in death, your memory inspires loyalty. Dangerous loyalty.”

The grave marker was simple — Mandalorian in make. Engraved with your name, your clan, your creed. It bore a singular phrase in Mando’a at the base:

Ni cuy’gar solus.

I am still alone.

Sidious tilted his head slightly. “But you may yet be… useful.”

He raised a gloved hand, fingers brushing the edge of the grave’s stone marker like one might stroke the surface of a blade. And then, with a flick of his wrist, he tapped a concealed communicator beneath his robes.

A secure line. Far-reaching. Carefully encrypted.

The voice that answered was cold, clinical — Nala Se.

“Yes, my lord,” came her voice through the device.

“Tell me,” Sidious murmured. “Is there any viable material left?”

There was a pause. Then:

“There is. Her DNA is exceptionally stable. Some of her original samples from her time on Kamino still exist. A few pieces of her armor were recovered from the wreckage and contain trace blood and organic residue. It is enough.”

Sidious did not smile. But satisfaction oozed from his tone like oil.

“Good.”

In the background of the transmission, a second voice could be heard — small, hesitant.

“…You’re going to clone her?” Omega asked.

Sidious’s gaze flickered.

He recognized the voice. The girl. The asset.

He didn’t answer her. But he could hear the weight in her silence.

“…She wouldn’t want this,” Omega finally said, voice low. “Not like this.”

Nala Se didn’t reply either. But the silence that followed was heavy.

Sidious let it stretch, enjoying it.

Then he said, “Her death was not made public.”

A pause.

“That will serve our purposes well. Prepare the necessary materials. Begin… preliminary development. Quietly.”

Nala Se hesitated. “And what of the behavioral conditioning? You intend to restore her… personality?”

Sidious turned back toward the grave. Stared down at the cold stone. Thought of the chaos your name could sow. Thought of the loyalty your face could still command.

He smiled — just barely.

“No,” he said softly. “We will shape this one to be… better. Loyal to the Empire. Loyal to me.”

Another long pause.

Then the comm line cut out.

Sidious lingered a moment longer before turning away from the grave, disappearing into the night like a shadow swallowed by the wind.

Behind him, the grave remained undisturbed.

But the truth settled into the stone like a curse:

You were dead.

And you would live again.

⸻

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

[areyoufuckingcrazy]

“Dark Water”

Chapter Thirty Six: Built Again, Broken Already

The Bad Batch x Reader

The cold lights of the Kaminoan lab never flickered. They never dimmed. They never changed. They shone with the same sterile intensity day and night — not that the clones inside ever knew the difference.

In one of the deepest levels of Tipoca City, Nala Se stood alone before a massive cylindrical growth tank. Her delicate fingers danced over the controls, eyes narrowed. On the monitor, a single figure floated in suspension. Still forming. Still stretching sinew over bone.

Not a clone trooper.

Not a Kaminoan experiment.

You.

The genome was a mess, by Kaminoan standards. Scar tissue written into the DNA. Aged muscle memories, hybrid nerve patterns, irregular mitochondrial coding — some of it not entirely your own anymore, shaped by trauma, war, and survival. It was no wonder the reconstitution process had already started to strain the bioframe.

“She is not like the others,” Nala Se murmured quietly, to herself. “She never was.”

From behind, a second Kaminoan approached. One of the few geneticists cleared to know about the project.

“You are accelerating the growth curve beyond standard Phase I rates,” he observed, voice serene. “At this rate, the subject will reach full maturity within three cycles.”

Nala Se did not look away from the tank.

“There is no other option. The Emperor has requested results within the quarter-cycle window. Once she is fully grown, we will begin attempting deceleration — but only after cerebral stability is confirmed.”

The other scientist tilted his long head slightly.

“The clone’s mind will be… intact?”

Nala Se was quiet for a moment. The soft hum of the tank filled the silence between them.

“That is… uncertain,” she said at last. “We are rebuilding not just her form, but her identity. The engram preservation process from her armor was incomplete. What survives will be… fragments. Memory echoes. Possibly instinct.”

“And the rest?”

“Will be built.”

They watched as bubbles curled along the edge of the tank. Inside, the beginnings of your face took shape. Eyes closed. Lungs unmoving.

A warrior. A Mandalorian. A traitor. A sister. A mother-figure. A commander. A ghost.

Now — a science project.

⸻

Elsewhere in the facility, alarms briefly sounded for a training accident. But on Level 47, where the pod sat buried in hush-order secrecy, nothing changed.

No clone troopers patrolled here. No Jedi walked these halls anymore. The only company you had was silence, and the steady drip of nutrient fluids feeding your reconstruction.

“Clone Force 99 must not know,” Nala Se said firmly, turning to the other scientist. “Nor the Prime Minister. Nor anyone in the GAR.”

“And when she awakens?” the scientist asked.

Nala Se’s pale eyes narrowed.

“We will tell her she volunteered.”

⸻

Inside the growth chamber, you were asleep — but your mind was wide open.

Neural pulses flickered like thunder across your synaptic net. The liquid surrounding your body vibrated faintly each time a false memory struck root. You twitched, barely visible. A finger curling. An eyelid fluttering. The earliest signs of a mind awakening.

On the screen before you, in a sterile Kaminoan chamber, a series of footage began to play. Your face. Your voice. Your body in motion — pulled from surveillance, war footage, clone cadet helmet cams. But the audio had changed. So had the framing. And what was left unspoken… was just as loud.

“She was loyal to the Republic,” a calm narrator’s voice echoed.

“She was a weapon wielded by order. Until… her mind began to fracture.”

An image of you laughing with Wrecker.

A shot of you fighting beside Skywalker and Clone Force 99.

A long pause on the flames over Tipoca City, the end of Domino Squad’s time on Kamino.

“Emotion dulled her edge. Attachment weakened her focus. In the end, she betrayed her duty — and fell.”

The moment of your death — the fall, your helmet flying, the scream Wrecker made when he grabbed your lifeless body.

It played again. And again. But with the sound removed. The weight erased.

They fed this to the mind forming in the tank. Not as truth — but as programming.

Not your memories.

Just carefully controlled versions.

Nala Se stood outside, watching with unreadable calm. She took notes as the data cycle ended and the next batch of curated footage queued up.

This time, it was boiled-down ideology:

• Images of Jedi commanders standing with clone troopers.

• Propaganda lines about the “Republic’s perfect unity.”

• Carefully omitted footage of the inhibitor chips. No mention of Order 66.

Just enough to inspire fidelity.

“She will remember only what we permit,” the Kaminoan beside Nala Se said softly. “The rest will feel like fog to her. A dream too far to reach.”

“Good,” Nala Se replied. “The Chancellor does not want her to question who she is. Only to serve.”

Behind the glass, your fist twitched again.

You saw Crosshair — a filtered version of him, cold and loyal.

You saw Wrecker — a soldier who was unpredictable and dangerous.

You saw Bo-Katan — framed as a political extremist who manipulated you.

You were a weapon once.

You were fire and rage and loyalty.

Now… you were being built to burn for someone else.

⸻

The lab was quiet, but Omega felt the noise everywhere. Not in sound. In the way her stomach curled. In the strange ache behind her eyes. In the way the sterile lights seemed to flicker too long, even though they didn’t.

She sat at her small station — tucked away in the corner of Nala Se’s private laboratory, meant for delicate cloning operations that “required discretion.” Omega had been working with Nala Se more directly these past few months, ever since the others had left Kamino. She wanted to learn. She loved to learn.

But now…

Now she watched the screen, and she didn’t like what she saw.

The tank sat in the center of the room. Suspended inside, the shape of a woman — full grown, motionless but twitching beneath the neural crown clamped around her temples.

Omega recognized the face. Everyone on Kamino knew that face.

She was the one the cadets had talked about in quiet awe. The one who trained Clone Force 99 and Domino Squad. The one who died. There’d been whispers about her death, falling off a ledge during a mission. Of Bo-Katan vanishing into the storm afterward. Nothing official published, but whispers amongst the clones and trainers.

But now… she was here.

Only not.

Not really.

Omega’s voice was barely above a whisper as she looked over the neural memory sequencing.

“This… isn’t how memories are supposed to be taught.”

Nala Se didn’t look up.

“She is not being taught. She is being shaped. A difference you will understand in time.”

Omega frowned deeper, folding her arms over her datapad.

“You’re making her believe she was something she wasn’t. You changed all the footage.”

“Correction. We refined it.”

“But she had friends. A family. The Bad Batch—Crosshair, Wrecker—”

“They no longer matter,” Nala Se cut in, calm as ever. “This version of her will not suffer from such complications.”

Omega turned her eyes back to the tank. The woman twitched again.

Her face, though still in the final stages of regeneration, looked peaceful — too peaceful. Like her brain was asleep while screaming.

“I don’t like this,” Omega said finally, her voice small.

“I did not request your approval,” Nala Se replied. “Only your assistance.”

Omega’s throat tightened.

“She loved the clones,” she thought.

The woman in the tank didn’t move. But Omega imagined for a moment that her eyes opened. That they locked on hers. That she screamed silently behind the glass.

“She died once. Shouldn’t that be enough?” Omega asked.

Nala Se didn’t answer.

Instead, she keyed in the next batch of fabricated memory sequences.

Omega didn’t watch. She turned her head away, blinking fast.

Something in her gut said this wasn’t the last time she would question what they were doing here. And maybe next time… she wouldn’t stay silent.

⸻

The Marauder was quiet.

Not silent — the hum of systems, the soft hissing of recycled air, the click of Tech’s fingers against the datapad. But quiet in a way that felt unnatural. Unsettling. Like grief had seeped into the vents and couldn’t be flushed out.

Wrecker sat at the back of the ship, staring at the spot where he had laid her down. Bloodstains had been cleaned, but he could still see them. Still feel the warmth seeping through his gloves when he held her broken body.

He hadn’t spoken much since the funeral. Not in full sentences. Just small things. “She shouldn’t’ve gone first.” Or, “She was tougher than that.” Sometimes he’d whisper her name like a question, like he expected her to call back from another room.

But she never did.

Crosshair sat at the shooting bench, blaster rifle disassembled in front of him.

He’d cleaned it three times already. It didn’t help.

He kept going over it in his head. The bridge. The cable. The moment.

“I hit the shot. I did everything right. I had her.”

He spoke the words to no one, not even his brothers. Just to the air. Like saying it again might erase the memory of her body snapping like a ragdoll, the sickening crack when her head hit the lower level. The way Wrecker screamed her name.

“The cable was too long,” Crosshair muttered. “I should’ve calculated the distance. Echo should’ve let go earlier. Or I should’ve aimed for a different angle. I should’ve—”

He slammed his fist against the bench, the sharp sound startling even Tech.

“I should’ve been faster.”

Hunter had said nothing for hours.

He stood by the viewport, arms folded, head bowed slightly. Watching the stars move past.

He didn’t know what to say. To them. To himself.

He had pushed her away. He said she didn’t belong anymore. That the war had changed too much. That she wasn’t the same.

But neither was he.

And now she was gone.

“You said you’d come find us after the war.”

His hands clenched into fists. He hadn’t cried. Not yet.

But the ache was there. Heavy. Constant. Like he’d lost a piece of himself that would never grow back.

The Marauder’s engines hummed low in hyperspace, but Echo didn’t hear them.

He was sitting alone in the gunner’s seat, not because they were under threat or because anyone asked him to—but because he needed space. Somewhere to think. Somewhere to feel, where the others wouldn’t see the grief written all over his face.

The glow of hyperspace outside the viewport was steady, almost peaceful.

But Echo didn’t feel peace.

He felt hollow.

“Last one standing,” he muttered under his breath. “Again.”

He had whispered those words before. After Fives died. After the labs on Skako Minor. When he woke up with metal where flesh used to be.

But this time, it was different.

You were gone now.

And somehow, that hurt just as much.

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, hands clasped loosely.

He remembered you back on Kamino, looming like a stormcloud during training sessions. You weren’t soft with them like you were with Clone Force 99. No, you were tough, sharp-edged. You called them out when they bickered. Made jokes that sometimes cut just a little too close. You didn’t hand out affection easily—but when it came, it meant something.

There was respect there. Earned, not given.

And Echo had respected you. Even when he didn’t understand you.

He smiled faintly, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

“Fives used to tell people you were secretly half Mando, half Nexu,” he said quietly to the empty ship. “Said you could gut a man with one hand and make a clone cry with the other.”

Echo chuckled, just once.

“I guess that was his way of saying he liked you.”

You and Fives had argued constantly. About everything.

Training schedules. Squad strategies. Nicknames. Who was better at hand-to-hand.

“You called him a degenerate,” Echo murmured. “He called you a softie in denial.”

He paused.

“I think… he was right.”

You cared. He knew that now. You just had a harder way of showing it. But he remembered those little moments. A nod. A pat on the shoulder. A joke that meant you trusted them to laugh.

When they passed their final test, you’d clapped them on the back like real brothers. Even let Fives get away with calling you “Mom.”

You rolled your eyes.

But you didn’t stop him.

“You got us through training. Got us to where we needed to be,” he whispered. “You were hard on us. But we needed that.”

His voice cracked.

“You kept us together.”

Echo’s mechanical hand clenched into a fist.

“And now…”

The gunner’s seat creaked as he sat back, eyes glassy with unshed tears.

He didn’t know what was worse—the ache of losing you, or the guilt that he didn’t do anything to stop it. That it was Crosshair who tried to catch you. Wrecker who carried your broken body. Bo-Katan who arranged your funeral.

“Should’ve been me.”

He wiped his face with his palm.

“Maybe it already was. I think the real me died with Fives.”

He sat there a while longer, staring into hyperspace.

The light from the stars danced in his eyes, but none of it reached his heart.

Tech sat cross-legged in the corner, datapad resting on one knee, analysis running in silence.

He didn’t speak either.

But every so often, he glanced to the central holo projector — the one Wrecker had taken to switching on late at night, when the ship was dark. It looped old training footage. Sometimes recordings from Kamino. Sometimes just the sound of her voice calling them to formation.

“Up! All of you! I don’t care if you’re bleeding or broken — if you’re breathing, you’re moving!”

Even Tech missed that voice.

Even if he didn’t say it.

“Statistically,” he whispered to himself, “the odds of surviving that fall were near zero.”

Still, he found himself rerunning the moment. Mapping out scenarios. Calculating the millisecond differences that could’ve changed the outcome.

It always ended the same.

None of them were okay.

Not really.

They didn’t talk about her much. Not yet. It still felt raw — like if they said her name out loud, the whole ship might break in half.

But in the quiet, in the moments when the others weren’t watching, each of them carried her. In their own way.

In the ache. The regret. The love that didn’t get said enough before she was gone.

And in the silence between them, one truth hung in the air:

They should’ve saved her.

⸻

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

[areyoufuckingcrazy]

“Dark Water”

Chapter Thirty Seven: Ghost in the Skin

The Bad Batch x Reader

Darkness.

Then light—white and clinical, too bright to be natural. You sucked in a breath like it was your first. Maybe it was.

Your muscles ached. Skin too tight. Limbs stronger than they should be.

But none of it made sense.

Not the sterile room. Not the Kaminoan eyes blinking down at you. Not the strange white-armored children staring like they knew you.

You didn’t know them.

You didn’t know anything.

Not your name. Not your age. Not your purpose.

But you knew you had to get out.

RUN.

The voice came from somewhere inside—not a thought, but an instinct. Something primal and angry and trained.

You tore free of the restraints—flesh slick from the chamber fluid—and bolted.

Cold air tore at your skin as you crashed out of the room, shoulder-checked a Kaminoan, vaulted a railing with inhuman precision.

Footsteps behind you. Alarms. Voices.

“She’s not stabilized!”

“This wasn’t supposed to happen for another three cycles!”

“She’s remembering too much too fast—”

None of it mattered. All you knew was movement. Speed. Danger.

Down a hallway. Through a corridor. You slammed past a group of clone cadets mid-drill. They stepped back, wide-eyed.

One of them whispered, voice shaking:

“She looks just like—”

You didn’t hear the rest. You were already gone.

You hit the hangar.

Ships. Get a ship.

That was what your brain screamed. You didn’t know how you knew how to fly, but you did.

Your hands moved with terrifying precision as you vaulted into the cockpit of an unattended shuttle and began powering it up.

Fingers flew across controls.

Until—

“Get out of there.”

The voice was gruff. Old. Familiar.

You froze.

Two figures stood at the edge of the ramp, blasters lowered but ready. One wore beaten beskar. The other, red-tinged armor and a steel expression.

The taller one—Walon Vau—spoke first.

“It’s really her.”

The other—Kal Skirata—stepped forward. His voice cracked.

“Mesh’la… you’re not supposed to be alive.”

You stood, confused. Chest heaving.

“Who are you?”

“How do you know me?”

They looked at each other, the grief behind their helmets unspoken.

“We trained beside you,” Vau said. “Fought beside you. Bled with you.”

“You died,” Kal said. “I was at your funeral.”

Your fists clenched.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I don’t know you.”

A swirl of robes approached from behind.

Shaak Ti.

Her gaze landed on you—and her composure broke. Her eyes widened, her mouth moved before she had words.

“How… you’re supposed to be gone.”

“I don’t know who you are,” you snapped, stepping back into the ship.

You felt like a cornered animal. Like the walls were getting closer. Their grief pressed into your skull like a weight.

“Why does everyone look at me like they’ve seen a ghost?”

Omega was behind Shaak Ti, staring at you with her wide eyes. Silent. Sad.

Nala Se emerged from the shadows beside her, calm as always—but beneath her cool tone, there was urgency.

“This is not ideal. She was not supposed to wake yet. Her memories were still being… shaped.”

That word—shaped—cut through your fog like a dagger.

Something in you recoiled.

“What did you do to me?”

“What am I?”

Nala Se opened her mouth—but before she could speak, you bolted again, this time into the open hangar floor, heart pounding like thunder.

This wasn’t freedom. This wasn’t life.

It was a trap.

And you were back in it.

Without knowing why, or who you were.

⸻

The halls of Tipoca City were still damp from the sea mist, even inside. Everything always smelled faintly of saline and antiseptic. Shaak Ti’s robes whispered with each hurried step, Kal Skirata pacing beside her like a wolf kept just shy of snapping. His helmet was clipped to his belt, revealing a scowl carved deep into his face.

“She was cremated,” Kal growled. “We burned her armor. Gave her a Mandalorian funeral.”

Shaak Ti’s lekku twitched. Her voice, ever composed, was beginning to fray around the edges.

“And now she is alive again. Or a version of her. We don’t know if it’s a perfect clone. If she has memory… if she’s even stable.”

They stormed into Nala Se’s lab unannounced.

Omega, perched beside a console, flinched at their arrival. Her hand curled protectively around a datapad.

Nala Se didn’t look up.

“You should have waited for authorization to enter,” she said coolly.

Kal stepped forward.

“We don’t give a damn about authorization.”

Shaak Ti stood beside him, her voice low but urgent.

“Who ordered her cloning, Nala Se?”

“That is classified.”

“Not anymore.” Shaak Ti’s hand pressed to the table with quiet force. “She died. Her death was not made public. You kept it from the Jedi Council. You told no one. Was that the plan all along?”

Nala Se still didn’t meet their eyes.

“The subject’s genetic material was still viable. An asset like her was deemed too valuable to lose permanently.”

Kal’s fists curled.

“By who? Who made that call?”

“That is above your clearance.”

“Above my—”

Shaak Ti cut him off with a sharp glance, then looked back to the Kaminoan.

“Was it the Chancellor?”

A long pause.

“This conversation is over.”

Kal spat to the floor.

“She was one of us.”

Nala Se didn’t reply.

Shaak Ti turned away, her robes whispering again as she left with Kal. But Omega lingered behind them, watching the door shut.

She bit her lip.

Then quietly turned back to her datapad, swiping through logs Nala Se had tried to hide.

⸻

The sound of metal boots echoed down the darkened corridor.

Walon Vau ran.

He hadn’t run like this in years. Not since the campaigns on Gaftikar. His lungs burned, and his old injuries barked under the pressure—but he pressed forward anyway.

She had disappeared into the maintenance access tubes a level below the barracks, faster than he could follow.

“She’s not like she was before,” he muttered under his breath. “They didn’t just clone her. They improved her.”

He crouched near a duct opening, resting a hand on the floor where her foot had landed mid-sprint.

“Lighter than a Null. Faster, too.”

She was gone before he could catch his breath.

But the echoes remained.

⸻

Shaak Ti stood before the window that looked out at the endless storm-washed ocean.

“She will not remain here,” she said finally. “Not after this.”

Kal’s voice was quieter now, more haunted.

“What did they do to her?”

Shaak Ti didn’t answer.

Instead, she stared into the fog.

And whispered,

“Whatever they made… it’s not just her anymore.”

⸻

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

[areyoufuckingcrazy]

I LOVE YOUR WRITINGGGG 😍 I’ve been in a Rex mood lately and I was imagining a scene where he’s absolutely smitten and in love with the reader but he’s a bit hesitant to confess but when they find each other sitting outside enjoying the scenery and the reader has long red hair that flow in the wind, Rex is just down bad and can’t resist touching them. Please make it romantic and sweet affff 🥺

“In The Quiet”

Rex x Reader

It was late, but the skies above the ridge were still lit with the last golden traces of sunset. The air was cool, the kind that clung to your skin after a hot day, and the breeze tugged lazily at the ends of your hair where it spilled over your shoulders.

You were sitting alone on a smooth boulder near camp, watching the horizon soften into night. The grass whispered quietly around you, and the world had—finally—gone quiet.

Until footsteps crunched behind you. Steady. Familiar.

You didn’t need to turn around.

“Evening, Captain,” you murmured.

Rex’s voice followed a second later, low and warm. “Didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“You didn’t.”

He hesitated, and then stepped into view. His helmet was clipped to his side, face bare. The soft light caught the edges of his features—strong jaw, furrowed brow, the subtle lines that years of war had etched into his skin. But his eyes, force help you, they always looked soft when he looked at you.

He stood beside you for a moment before settling down next to you on the boulder, his shoulder brushing yours briefly before he stilled.

You were quiet together.

You liked that about him. Rex didn’t fill silences needlessly. He knew the value of peace, even if he rarely got to enjoy it. And maybe that was why you didn’t speak either—because moments like this didn’t last long, and the galaxy didn’t offer them often.

The wind picked up again, and you closed your eyes as it tugged at your hair, sweeping it across your shoulders and forward. You reached up to tuck a lock behind your ear.

And then you felt it.

A gentle touch.

You turned just slightly—enough to see Rex, hand still lifted, fingers barely brushing through the ends of your hair. He caught himself, like he hadn’t meant to be so bold, and immediately pulled back, his jaw tightening.

“Sorry,” he said roughly. “That was—out of line.”

You blinked. “It wasn’t.”

His eyes flicked to yours. Cautious. Caught.

“I just…” he exhaled, shifting a little. “You looked…peaceful. And beautiful. And I’ve been trying not to say that for a long time.”

Your heart skipped a beat.

He didn’t look away, even though his voice dropped and his gaze turned a little uncertain. “Didn’t want to risk what we have. Didn’t want you to think I wasn’t… professional. Or that I don’t respect you.”

You smiled, soft and slow. “Rex.”

His name came like a balm, and you reached up, gently taking his hand before he could retreat again.

“I know who you are. And I know how much you care about doing the right thing,” you said. “But sometimes, caring about someone is the right thing.”

He swallowed. The calloused warmth of his hand curled around yours instinctively, like he hadn’t even realized he was doing it.

“You’re not just someone I care about,” he said, voice a little hoarse. “You’re the only peace I ever feel.”

You leaned forward slowly, resting your forehead to his, feeling him tense—just for a moment—before he melted into the contact like it had been all he’d wanted since the moment he met you.

The wind carried your hair again, wrapping around both of you.

And this time, he didn’t hesitate. His hand came up, threading carefully through the red strands, tucking them behind your ear with infinite tenderness. His thumb lingered, brushing over your cheekbone like he couldn’t believe you were real.

When he kissed you—soft, reverent, and slow—you felt the way his whole body stilled like he was committing the moment to memory. Like it was sacred.

Because to Rex, it was.

And to you—it felt like home.

[areyoufuckingcrazy]

Hey, could you may (please) write a fic about Tech and a jedi reader involving Order 66? Preferably with a good amount of angst? Open to whether the jedi survives or dies in the order though, you pick :)

“When the Silence Falls”

Tech x Reader

You’d always said silence made you uneasy.

To Tech, that was strange—odd, even—because silence to him meant order. Focus. Control. Silence was the signal that the plan was running smoothly. And yet to you, a Jedi raised in the echoes of peace and war, silence was a warning.

“It always comes before something terrible,” you once told him in the quiet of your shared tent, your fingers brushing his gloved ones under the flickering lamplight.

He didn’t understand it then. Not until the day it happened.

⸻

Three Hours Before Order 66

“I can’t believe I’m saying this,” Wrecker chuckled, “but I think Tech might actually miss you.”

You smiled as you clipped your lightsaber to your belt, nudging the clone’s broad arm. “Only because I keep him from arguing with Crosshair.”

“Oh please,” Hunter muttered over his shoulder, glancing back from where he was kneeling beside a fallen Separatist droid, “you’re the only one who can win an argument with Tech.”

“I don’t argue,” Tech said flatly from beside the console he was reprogramming. “I explain. Repeatedly.”

You rolled your eyes. “Semantics.”

He didn’t look up, but you saw the small twitch of a smile pull at the corner of his mouth.

You’d never said the words. Neither had he. Jedi weren’t meant to. Clones weren’t allowed to.

But in the months of missions and starlight, in the shared glances and the unspoken goodnights, you’d both said enough without speaking.

⸻

One Hour Before Order 66

The outpost on Jabiim was almost cleared. You stood on the ridge above the final battle, lightsaber still buzzing in your palm, shoulders trembling. Crosshair was checking the perimeter. Hunter stood quietly at your side. Wrecker and Echo were doing a sweep below.

Only Tech remained with you.

“Are you alright?” he asked softly, pushing his goggles higher on his head as he came to stand next to you.

“I can feel it,” you whispered. “Something’s wrong.”

He tilted his head. “The scans don’t indicate any new movement. The droids are retreating. We’ve won.”

“No,” you breathed. “It’s not the droids.”

Tech hesitated, the moment stretching between you.

“Your heart rate is elevated,” he noted gently, gaze flicking to his datapad. “You’ve been on edge since we landed.”

You closed your eyes. “It’s the Force. It’s screaming. I think—something’s coming.”

He opened his mouth to respond. Then the comms flared to life.

“Execute Order 66.”

A beat. A cold silence. Tech blinked. “Crosshair, repeat. What was that transmission?”

“You heard it.”

Then came the shot.

It rang loud through the trees. Sharp. Final.

You fell.

Your shoulder exploded in pain as the plasma bolt tore through you—hot and searing. You hit the ground hard, lightsaber rolling from your hand, the sound lost in the stunned shouts of Hunter and Wrecker from below.

Tech was already moving.

“No—no, no, no—”

He was on his knees beside you, hands shaking as he reached for you, goggles askew, panic clouding his face in a way you had never seen before.

“Tech,” you croaked. “Cross—Crosshair—”

Another shot whizzed past.

He pulled you behind a rock, shielding you with his body, hands clumsily pressing to your wound. “You’re going to be alright. I can stabilize you. We can—Echo! Get a medkit, now!”

But you knew.

You felt the unraveling.

Not just in your body—but in the galaxy.

Hunter’s voice crackled through the comms: “He’s gone mad—Crosshair’s gone mad! He shot her!”

“I did what I was told,” Crosshair’s cold voice replied over the channel. “She’s a Jedi. Jedi are traitors.”

Tech’s breath caught. You felt his hands tremble.

“Don’t you dare shut down on me,” you whispered, blood bubbling at your lips.

Tech’s hands moved to your face, one glove slipping off so you could feel the real warmth of his skin against your cheek.

His voice broke. “You said silence meant something terrible.”

Your eyes welled. “And I was right.”

He leaned down, forehead to yours.

“Stay with me.”

“I can’t.”

“Please.”

You felt the moment he realized he couldn’t fix this. That no calculation, no tech, no genius could reverse a gut shot from a sniper with orders to kill.

You smiled through the pain. “I’m glad it was you.”

“What?”

“I’m glad you were the last thing I saw.”

He shook his head, pulling you close. “Don’t say that.”

But you were already fading.

“Tech,” you whispered, “tell me… if things had been different…”

He closed his eyes. “They were. With you.”

Another shot rang out—this one meant for Tech.

It missed.

He didn’t flinch.

Because you were still in his arms.

But you were already gone.

And then came the silence.

The real kind.

The kind you warned him about.

⸻

Tech was never the same.

He didn’t speak of you. Not to Echo. Not to Hunter. Not even to Crosshair.

Wrecker said he watched him carry your lightsaber hilt in his pocket, thumbing the metal when he thought no one was looking.

Hunter caught him once, muttering calculations for what he could’ve done differently. As if logic could rewrite time.

But the silence never left.

Not really.

Because when the silence falls, something terrible always follows.

And this time, it never lifted.

[ryuucha]

My contribution for @untoldstoriescwzine !

Featuring Wolffe’s memories-best-not-mentioned-about, a bunch of lothcats and cameos from some people you may know 👀

A big thank you to the wonderful mods and fellow creators for this great zine experience!

Also the leftover sale is now open, so better go grab one while it’s available!

[areyoufuckingcrazy]

“The Lost Mand’alor”

Chapter One: The Frozen Heir

Summary: The eldest of the Kryze sisters. The lost heir of Mandalore. Jango Fett’s secret.

Twenty years before the Clone Wars, the fiercest daughter of House Kryze vanished without a trace — a warrior of honor and fire, feared even among Death Watch. Some said she died. Others said she betrayed her clan. The truth was worse: frozen in carbonite, left behind in a forgotten hideout… waiting for someone who never came back.

Now, Jedi General Obi-Wan Kenobi and Commander Cody discover her by chance. Woken from stasis, still in her battle-scarred underlayer, she is disoriented, dangerous — and grieving.

As the Republic’s war against the Separatists rages on, she must reclaim her place in a galaxy that moved on without her. With Mandalore divided, and every clone soldier bearing the face of the man she once loved, she’ll be forced to face the ghosts of her past — and decide whether she will fight for the future.

⸻

Twenty years ago, the planet of Mandalore burned.

Cities once ruled by blood-bound clans collapsed into ruin. Dust-choked skies replaced the proud banners that once flew high. And at the center of it all stood House Kryze, fractured and bloodied, struggling to hold its legacy together.

You were the firstborn — the eldest of the Kryze daughters — warrior-born and bred beneath beskar and tradition. Before Satine sought peace, before Bo-Katan sharpened her anger into steel, there was you. Your presence commanded silence in war councils. Your spear shattered bone and saber alike. You were the heir to Mandalore.

And then, in the heart of the Civil Wars, you vanished.

Some whispered that you fell in battle, your body never recovered. Others believed you betrayed your clan, a ghost walking among Death Watch or worse. Your sisters never spoke of you again.

Until now.

⸻

The dust was thick in the old hideout — enough to make a trooper cough through his helmet filters. Even Commander Cody, known for his iron composure, hesitated as they stepped through the massive durasteel blast doors. They’d stumbled across the structure by accident during a sweep for Separatist munitions. Hidden in the cragged side of a moon orbiting Kalevala, it was old. Pre-Clone Wars. Pre-Republic, almost.

“This place has Jango Fett written all over it,” Cody muttered, his voice low and unreadable beneath the modulator.

Obi-Wan Kenobi knelt beside a cracked Mandalorian helmet, the surface blackened with age and blast scorching. “He always had a taste for the dramatic,” the Jedi murmured. “But he was never sloppy. Why leave this place behind?”

Cody motioned for his men to fan out. “Sir — over here.”

Three clone troopers stood at the entrance to a wide chamber lit by flickering emergency lighting. The bodies had long since rotted down to nothing — just skeletons in rusting beskar. But at the center of the room was something far more disturbing.

A carbonite slab. Upright. Inactive. Cold as death.

Obi-Wan approached slowly, his hand hovering near his lightsaber.

The figure trapped inside the carbonite was unmistakably Mandalorian — feminine, tall, strong in posture even in frozen stasis. The angle of her shoulders spoke of authority. The faint outline of scars. And something about her face made Obi-Wan pause.

“This can’t be…” His words trailed off.

“Who is she?” Cody asked, stepping closer.

Obi-Wan hesitated. “A ghost. Possibly the last heir to House Kryze before Satine.”

Cody blinked. “There was another sister?”

Before Kenobi could answer, a clone trooper brushed dust from the panel beside the slab. Lights sparked to life. Without warning, the carbonite hissed and groaned as the release cycle began. Everyone fell back, weapons half-drawn.

And then — a shriek of air.

A splash of mist.

And you collapsed forward, eyes unfocused, limbs trembling from stasis.

You were barely clothed — In only your under garments. Your knees buckled the moment you hit the floor.

Obi-Wan caught you with both arms. “Easy, you’re safe,” he said gently, guiding you into a sitting position.

Your breaths came in ragged gasps. “I can’t see,” you whispered, a low rasp in your throat.

“The blindness is temporary,” Obi-Wan reassured you. “Carbonite sickness. It’ll pass.”

Your head turned, trying to place the voices around you. You heard boots. Blasters. Steel. Something was wrong. Someone was missing.

Then you heard it.

“Commander,” one of the troopers said.

And that voice — his voice — was like a knife through your heart.

Your eyes widened, still sightless. You clutched at Obi-Wan’s robes.

“Jango?”

Silence.

You said it again, your voice cracking. “Jango, where are you?”

No one answered. Obi-Wan only pulled you a little closer. “We’ll get you to safety. I promise.”

You pushed yourself up, unsteady. “My chest. I need my armor.”

Two clone troopers exchanged a glance and moved swiftly to the far end of the chamber, where a large iron chest sat sealed tight. They struggled to lift it together, grunting under its weight.

You turned your head toward the sound, even as your legs gave out beneath you again.

“I need it,” you repeated, weaker now.

“We’ve got it,” Cody said. “Just hold on.”

And then darkness overtook you, your body finally succumbing to the trauma of reawakening. Obi-Wan caught you again as you slumped forward, and for a long moment, no one said a word.

“Get her to the ship,” Kenobi ordered. “And bring the chest.”

⸻

The sterile hum of medical equipment was the first sound you registered. Then came the stinging ache in your muscles, the raw dryness in your throat, and the low pulse of something not unlike mourning in your chest. Your senses clawed their way back into focus, one by one — light, sound, weight — until you realized you were lying flat on your back.

The air smelled wrong. Too clean. Too… Republic.

You blinked slowly. Harsh white lights above. Cool sheets beneath you. A distant hiss of bacta systems.

You weren’t in a Mandalorian stronghold.

You weren’t even on Mandalore.

You tried to sit up but collapsed with a grunt. A pair of strong hands steadied your shoulders before you could fall.

“Careful,” came a familiar voice — gentle, measured, older than you remembered. “You’ve only just stabilized.”

Your vision swam as you turned toward the sound. When it cleared, you stared up into the bearded face of Obi-Wan Kenobi.

A ghost from your past.

You blinked, eyes narrowing in confusion. “You’re not a youngling anymore.”

He gave you a small, dry smile. “I was never a youngling when we met. I was a Padawan.”

You exhaled through your nose — a sound that might’ve been a scoff, or a laugh. “Could’ve fooled me.”

He didn’t take offense. He simply pulled a stool closer to your bedside and sat with the practiced calm of someone who had been waiting. Observing.

You looked down at yourself. Someone had draped a blanket over you, but underneath, your body was still clad in the thin, black underlayer you wore beneath your beskar — torn in places, streaked with dried blood and carbon scoring.

Your voice came out hoarse. “Where’s my chest?”

“Safe. On board. Two of our men are guarding it,” Kenobi replied. “We didn’t open it.”

“Good,” you muttered, eyes drifting to the ceiling. “I wouldn’t want to kill someone first thing out of stasis.”

Silence stretched between you for a moment. The ache behind your eyes throbbed — not just from stasis sickness, but memory.

Kenobi leaned forward slightly. “Can you tell me what happened? Before we found you?”

You let your eyes fall shut again, your voice tight. “I was waiting for him.”

“Who?”

You didn’t need to say the name. But you did anyway.

“Jango.”

Kenobi didn’t interrupt.

“I’d just come back from a mission. I was resting. No armor. Just… this,” you gestured vaguely at yourself. “He said he’d return within the cycle. Said he had business on Concord Dawn.” You swallowed hard. “But he didn’t.”

Your brows furrowed. Your voice hardened, as if recounting it aloud might give it structure. Control.

“They found me — a rival clan. Maybe one of the politicians who hated that I still bore the title of heir.” You flexed your hands slowly. “I was at a disadvantage. No armor. No weapons. Just instinct.”

“And you survived,” Kenobi said, impressed despite himself.

You opened your eyes, staring blankly ahead.

“I killed them. All but one.” Your voice dropped. “He lobbed a grenade just as I landed the final blow. I fell backward into the chamber. I reached for the console, trying to close it behind me as cover.”

A bitter smile touched your lips.

“I must’ve hit the wrong command. Locked myself in. Froze myself alive.”

Kenobi said nothing for a long moment.

You turned your head toward him. Your voice was quieter now — brittle at the edges. “He was supposed to come back for me. Jango. He knew where I was. Why didn’t he come back?”

Kenobi’s blue eyes met yours, calm but solemn.

“I can’t answer that question,” he said gently.

You didn’t speak. You didn’t need to. The silence said everything.

Kenobi stood slowly, pacing once as though choosing his words carefully. “A lot has changed since then. Mandalore… has changed.”

You closed your eyes again. “I don’t imagine Satine fared well after I vanished.”

He hesitated. “Your sister leads now — as Duchess. She’s taken a… pacifist route. A movement called the New Mandalorians.”

That made your lip curl faintly in disbelief. “Pacifist? Satine?”

Kenobi gave a rueful chuckle. “She’s very committed to it.”

“Bo-Katan?” you asked.

“She opposes your sister. Fiercely. She joined Death Watch.”

You sucked in a slow breath. Of course.

“What about the war?” you asked. “The Jedi — you wouldn’t be here unless—”

He nodded, eyes shadowing. “There’s a war raging across the galaxy. The Republic against the Separatists. Led by Count Dooku, a former Jedi.”

“Of course,” you muttered. “You people always manage to keep things messy.”

“And Jango…” Kenobi’s voice softened. “He’s dead.”

The words hit like a slugthrower to the chest. Your breath caught.

“He died early in the war. On Geonosis. Killed by Master Windu.”

You looked away. Your jaw clenched.

He wasn’t perfect. But he was yours. And now… he was just another name lost to history.

Kenobi added gently, “He left a son.”

Your head snapped toward him. “What?”

“A clone. Not like the others. An unaltered one. His name is Boba.”

You blinked slowly, stunned silent.

Everything you knew — the politics, the clans, the galaxy itself — had moved on without you.

And now you were awake, a relic of a time no one wanted to remember.

Kenobi’s silence was careful, but not unkind. You could feel the weight of what he wasn’t saying.

After a long pause, his voice broke softly through the quiet hum of the medbay.

“How did you know Jango?”

Your fingers gripped the edge of the blanket, suddenly too aware of your own heartbeat. You didn’t answer right away — not out of hesitation, but memory. You stared down at your hands, calloused, scarred, strong. Hands that once held his cheek. Held a blaster to his enemies. Held his hand across star maps and sleeping bags and stolen months.

“He saved my life.”

Kenobi stayed still, listening.

“I was seventeen. Just after I broke from the main clan. I haf a price on my head — said I was too soft for the throne, too traditional to fall in line with their version of Mandalore.” You gave a humorless laugh. “I’d been ambushed. Took three blaster bolts to the side. I was dying.”

You shifted, wincing as a jolt of pain surged from your hip to your ribs.

“He found me in a ditch. Didn’t know who I was at first. Thought I was just another half-dead warrior with more pride than sense.”

Kenobi’s lips lifted slightly. “He wasn’t wrong.”

You smirked faintly, but your eyes stayed distant.

“He got me to shelter. Patched me up. Didn’t ask questions — not until I could walk again. Then we fought. Then we drank. Then we fought again.” You leaned your head back against the pillow. “We were both young. Angry. Sharp. One thing led to another.”

Kenobi’s brows rose just slightly, but he said nothing.

“Don’t look at me like that,” you muttered, narrowing your eyes. “You’ve had a long life to get tangled up in someone’s sheets.”

He raised both hands lightly, a dry smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You’d be surprised.”

Your expression sobered.

“He never told me he was planning to sell his skills to the Republic. I guess… we were both trying to find something to believe in back then. He found a price. I found a war.”

“Did you love him?” Kenobi asked quietly.

You didn’t flinch. “Yes. And no. We weren’t the type to say it. It was survival. It was instinct. It was…” You trailed off, then added, “He understood me. That’s more than I can say for most.”

Kenobi nodded. “And he never came back.”

You swallowed hard and looked away. “No.”

A beat passed.

“I think he meant to,” you added quietly. “But war… has a way of pulling people apart.”

Kenobi didn’t argue.

You sighed, dragging a hand through your tangled hair. “I need my armor.”

“You’re still recovering,” he cautioned. “It might be better to rest before—”

“I’ve rested long enough,” you snapped, your voice low but hard. “Twenty years, Kenobi.”

That gave him pause. He studied you a moment longer, then inclined his head.

“I’ll have it brought in.”

You nodded once and leaned back, muscles aching, heart heavy. But beneath it all, something deeper stirred.

Mandalore was fractured. The galaxy was on fire. Jango was dead.

But you were alive.

And you were going to find your place in this new galaxy — or carve one out for yourself.

⸻

The holotransmission stabilized with a flicker, casting cold blue light across the bridge of the Resolute.

Duchess Satine Kryze stood tall in the projection, her expression carefully composed — as always — but her eyes betrayed a flicker of something else. Caution. Curiosity. Perhaps even fear.

At her side, Prime Minister Almec stood like a shadow, posture stiff, chin lifted in typical Mandalorian pride. His fingers curled slightly behind his back, where his discomfort wouldn’t be seen.

Obi-Wan Kenobi stood in front of the transmission, hands folded into his sleeves. Commander Cody stood just behind him, helmet clipped at his side, face unreadable.

“Duchess Satine. Prime Minister,” Obi-Wan began. “Thank you for taking this transmission on short notice.”

“You made it sound urgent,” Satine replied, her voice measured. “And your tone was… concerning.”

Kenobi inclined his head. “We’ve made a discovery. One I felt should be reported to you directly.”

Almec raised an eyebrow. “Something to do with the war effort?”

Obi-Wan’s expression didn’t shift. “No. This is… older than the war. Personal.”

Satine’s eyes narrowed just slightly. “Go on.”

Kenobi gestured subtly toward Cody, who stepped forward.

“We were sweeping an old moon base above Kalevala — one of Jango Fett’s hideouts,” Cody said. “Inside, we found several Mandalorian corpses, long decayed… and a carbonite chamber. Intact. Still active.”

Satine didn’t speak. But she didn’t look away.

“We released the figure inside,” Obi-Wan continued. “A woman. Alive. Disoriented. She was in carbon freeze for over twenty years.”

Almec frowned. “Another of Fett’s associates, no doubt.”

“No,” Obi-Wan said softly. “I recognized her.”

That drew Satine’s full attention. Her posture stiffened.

Obi-Wan’s voice lowered with quiet certainty. “Her name is [Y/N] Kryze.”

Almec scoffed, but it was thin and nervous. “Impossible. The Duchess’s elder sister died during the Civil Wars. Her body was never found—”

“Because she wasn’t dead,” Kenobi interrupted. “She was hiding. Waiting for someone to return. There was an attack. She was injured. The last warrior standing threw a grenade. She was thrown into the chamber and sealed herself in by accident.”

Satine’s silence was sharp and hollow.

“She knew me,” Obi-Wan added, softer now. “Even after two decades… she remembered. I knew her, Duchess. You know I did.”

Cody folded his arms behind his back. “She asked about you. And Bo-Katan. Knew the sigil on her armor. She wasn’t faking anything.”

“And Jango Fett?” Satine asked, voice clipped. “She knew him?”

Kenobi nodded. “She said he saved her. Sheltered her. They… were close.”

Satine’s jaw twitched, but she said nothing.

Almec’s voice took on a cautious edge. “If the people hear she’s returned, they’ll question everything. Her claim to the throne predates your own, Duchess. They’ll stir. She might even attract support from the old warrior clans.”

“She was gone,” Satine said, voice sharp. “For twenty years.”

“She didn’t leave,” Obi-Wan replied. “She was left behind.”

The silence that followed was heavy.

“She is my sister,” Satine said finally. “Whatever happened between us… I will speak to her.”

Almec looked deeply displeased. “Duchess—”

“I will come to Resolute alone,” she interrupted, her tone final. “Notify me when I may board.”

The transmission ended.

Cody was the first to speak.

“Do you think she’ll come angry?”

Obi-Wan looked toward the medbay doors. His gaze lingered.

“I think she’ll come afraid,” he said quietly. “She’s ruled a world that forgot its past. And now its past has come back… wearing beskar.”

⸻

Next Chapter

[areyoufuckingcrazy]

“Dark Water”

Chapter Thirty Eight: Shadows of the Self

The Bad Batch x Reader

The underbelly of Tipoca City was nothing like the pristine white corridors above. Down here, where spare parts and discarded armor plating rusted in forgotten piles and the sea air slipped in through hairline cracks, you hid.

Your bare feet were silent against the cold flooring. Breathing shallow. Heart hammering.

You didn’t know your name.

You didn’t know why your hands trembled with muscle memory when they touched the grip of a weapon or why your body moved with the discipline of a soldier.

But you knew they were coming.

And you knew you didn’t want to be found.

Walon Vau adjusted his helmet with a frustrated hiss of hydraulics. His eyes scanned every shadow like a predator on the edge of violence. Kal Skirata moved beside him, quieter, but no less tense.

“You feel that?” Kal murmured.

Walon didn’t answer right away. His posture had shifted—more alert. Like he was tracking prey in tall grass.

“She’s near,” Walon said finally.

Kal shook his head.

“She’s gone, vod. We burned her. Watched her armor crack in the flames.”

Walon’s jaw clenched under his helmet.

“They didn’t bring her back. They built something else.”

Kal’s voice dropped lower.

“You think it’s her in there? In that body?”

“No. I think whatever it is… thinks it’s her. And that’s worse.”

They reached a fork in the corridor—old training shafts rarely used by anyone but Nulls and rats.

Walon knelt and pressed two fingers to a scuffed metal grate.

“Fresh. Size of a cadet, almost. But too heavy. Too precise.”

Kal frowned.

“Then it is her.”

Walon looked over his shoulder.

“Or something wearing her skin.”

You huddled in a crawlspace just above the corridor, breath tight in your lungs. You heard them.

Their voices.

Low. Guttural. Familiar?

The words didn’t make sense, but they pulled at something inside you.

“They think I’m not real,” you whispered to yourself.

The air was heavy. Salty. Full of ghosts.

You touched the inside of your wrist where faint scarring marred your skin—scars that weren’t yours but felt like memories you hadn’t earned. Muscles twitching, instincts flashing like lightning behind your eyes.

Suddenly:

CLANG.

A pipe nearby groaned.

You froze.

Below, Kal and Walon stopped.

“You hear that?”

“Yup.”

Kal unclipped a flash grenade from his belt.

“You sure you wanna spook her?”

“She’s already spooked.”

“Then this’ll flush her.”

You knew what was coming. You didn’t know how, but you knew—

You turned and ran.

Feet slamming into the metal flooring, leaping through maintenance gaps, slipping through coolant condensation and ducking past low beams.

You didn’t know who you were.

But you knew how to survive.

⸻

The transmission chamber in Tipoca City was quiet but tense. Shaak Ti stood tall, framed in the bluish-white holographic glow of the Jedi Council meeting. Her posture was composed. Her voice, as ever, was calm. But there was an undercurrent beneath her words. A weight pressing from within.

“The clone of the Mandalorian trainer has escaped containment,” she said. “I do not believe it was accidental. Nor was this cloning ever authorized by the Jedi Council.”

The blue apparitions of the Jedi flickered as murmurs passed among them.

Ki-Adi-Mundi was the first to speak, hand stroking his beard in deep thought.

“Are we certain this is not merely some Kaminoan fabrication? A genetic trick?”

Plo Koon’s gravelly voice came next.

“There are Kaminoans who have mastered cloning to terrifying precision. If they had access to the original subject’s DNA, a recreation would not be difficult.”

Shaak Ti’s brow furrowed.

“There is more. The clone shows heightened physical capabilities—beyond what we expected, even in enhanced troopers. And there is confusion in her memories. The Kaminoans are feeding her a curated version of her life, warped to suit their purposes.”

Mace Windu, grim-faced as ever, narrowed his eyes.

“Then the question becomes: who authorized this?”

A long silence followed.

That’s when Obi-Wan Kenobi spoke. Quiet. Grave.

“She was dead. I was at her funeral.”

Eyes turned to him. Some in shock, others in doubt.

Even Yoda’s ears lifted with subtle tension.

“Burned, she was? Confirmed, her passing?”

“Yes,” Obi-Wan said, expression unmoved. “Mandalore’s rites are thorough. There was no body left to clone from.”

Another pause.

And then Depa Billaba asked the question hanging between them all.

“Then how did they get the DNA?”

Saesee Tiin folded his arms.

“Kaminoan archives are extensive. Her DNA would have been collected during her time as a trainer. They had all they needed—provided someone wanted it badly enough.”

“This wasn’t an accident,” Windu said. “Someone with access, power, and motive ordered this.”

Kit Fisto tilted his head.

“The Chancellor?”

The name settled over the chamber like a fog.

No one denied it.

No one confirmed it.

But the possibility seeped into the silence like a toxin.

Yoda closed his eyes.

“Wrong, this is. Disturbing, it is. But confirm, we must. Dangerous, she was. If used, she is… weapon, she may become.”

Kenobi said nothing, but his face was tight with something unspoken.

Shaak Ti glanced between the figures before her.

“The clone doesn’t remember who she is. But she’s running. Not attacking. She’s scared.”

Mace’s voice cut through the conversation like a blade.

“Then we need to find her before someone else does.”

⸻

The Jedi Temple’s briefing chamber was dim, secure, and sealed. Jedi Master Shaak Ti stood before a holotable, her lekku draped over her shoulders, her expression unreadable. Beside her stood Mace Windu and Obi-Wan Kenobi, both silent. Across the table stood two of the Republic’s most trusted Senators—Padmé Amidala of Naboo and Bail Organa of Alderaan.

The room smelled faintly of ozone and metal—technology and secrecy.

Shaak Ti brought up a holographic projection. It was grainy footage of a figure sprinting through Kamino’s halls, bare arms gleaming with wetness from the cloning tank. The figure moved fast—too fast. The clone’s expression was unreadable in the video, only glimpsed in frames, but the desperation in her movements was unmistakable.

“This footage was taken two nights ago in Tipoca City,” Shaak Ti explained. “What you are seeing is the unauthorized activation of a cloning project. One that neither the Jedi Council nor the Galactic Senate sanctioned.”

Bail Organa frowned.

“Who is she?”

“A former Mandalorian trainer of clone cadets,” Kenobi said softly. “She perished on a battlefield. I was at the funeral myself.”

Padmé’s brows drew together in confusion.

“Then… what is this?”

“A clone,” Windu said. “And not of a Jedi. Of a civilian military trainer. Not part of the clone army template. Her DNA was accessed and used—secretly. Without oversight. And according to our information, she has been enhanced—modified far beyond regulation.”

Bail leaned forward, tone grave.

“And who gave the authorization?”

“We don’t know yet,” Shaak Ti said. “But the Kaminoan science division has refused to release internal documents. They claim the directive is classified, and protected by executive privilege.”

Silence.

Bail and Padmé exchanged a look.

Then Padmé spoke carefully.

“If what you’re saying is true, then this could be a gross overreach of executive power.”

“It is more than that,” Windu added. “If cloning protocols are being violated, it threatens every ethical foundation of the Republic’s military.”

Bail nodded.

“We’ll take this to the Senate.”

⸻

THE GALACTIC SENATE CHAMBER – HOURS LATER

The room buzzed with diplomatic tension, the murmur of a thousand systems condensed into political chaos. Blue holograms flickered as sectors checked in.

Padmé Amidala, robed in Naboo gold, stood at the speaker’s platform beside Bail Organa. The Chancellor’s empty pod floated silent—absent.

“Esteemed colleagues,” Padmé began, her voice ringing out clear and forceful, “we bring to your attention a matter of immense ethical and legal concern.”

A hush rippled across the chamber.

“It has come to our attention that a being has been cloned—without Senate knowledge, approval, or debate. Not a soldier, but a former trainer stationed on Kamino. A civilian. She was declared dead months ago. We have visual evidence she has been recreated and modified.”

She gestured, and the grainy footage played midair above the platform. The figure sprinting through Kamino’s halls.

The murmuring returned—louder now. Shock. Speculation.

Orn Free Taa spoke up, scoffing.

“This is clearly a military internal matter. If the Kaminoans felt the need—”

“—To violate Republic law?” Bail Organa interrupted, voice sharp. “To create a sentient being in secret? This isn’t protocol. This is an affront to every standard the Republic claims to hold sacred.”

A different senator—Mon Mothma—leaned forward, visibly disturbed.

“If cloning technology is being abused now… what will stop others from cloning political enemies? Or Jedi? Or us?”

“We demand transparency,” Padmé finished. “The full files. The identity of whoever authorized this. And a Senate investigation into Tipoca City’s compliance with galactic law.”

Some senators clapped.

Others sat in silent unease.

In his private office elsewhere in the Senate tower, Chancellor Palpatine watched the broadcast alone.

His expression never changed.

Only his fingers tapped once.

Then stopped.

⸻

The clinical white light of Tipoca City’s deep-level laboratories was sterile and blinding. The hum of containment fields, the distant thrum of water against the outer walls, the quiet beep of a datapad being updated—this was the heart of Kamino’s secrets.

Nala Se stood still, arms clasped behind her back as the encrypted hologram flickered to life before her. The image that emerged was cloaked in shadow, but his voice—icy, imperious, and unmistakable—cut through the silence.

“You’ve failed.”

The Kaminoan scientist dipped her head.

“The clone escaped containment only briefly. She has since been recovered and is currently restrained for re-evaluation.”

“She was seen.”

The voice sharpened. Nala Se lifted her chin slightly.

“Only by personnel stationed on Kamino—most of whom do not have the clearance to comprehend what they saw. The Jedi have been… informed. But not the full extent of the project.”

A pause.

“And yet the Senate knows.”

The holopresence leaned slightly forward. Darth Sidious, veiled in political shadows as he was in the Force, radiated displeasure.

“Senators Amidala and Organa are not to be trifled with. The moment they begin demanding transparency, they become… problematic.”

“With respect, Chancellor—” Nala Se began.

“You are to terminate the subject.”

The command dropped like a dead weight between them.

“She is unstable. She escaped you. Her memory is fractured, her identity volatile. That makes her dangerous. That makes her useful to my enemies.”

Nala Se hesitated. Her long, pale fingers tensed.

“There is still a possibility we could recalibrate her mind. Reinforce loyalty conditioning. Perhaps even—”

“Terminate her.” The voice deepened. Cold. Final. “And begin again. This time, you will ensure complete obedience. No deviation. No memory. No wandering thoughts of who she once was. You have the genetic material. Use it. But do not let this mistake happen again.”

Silence. The connection ended.

Nala Se stood alone in the cold light, unmoving for several seconds.

From behind her, Omega stepped into the room quietly, as if she’d been listening—which she had.

“You’re going to kill her?” the child asked, voice quiet.

Nala Se didn’t answer.

Not at first.

“She was not functioning as intended,” the scientist replied at last, turning to look at Omega. “If a clone cannot fulfill its purpose, it is considered… an error.”

“She’s not an error,” Omega whispered. “She’s a person.”

Nala Se did not reply.

Instead, she turned, stepped back toward the restricted chamber where the clone was being held, and ordered two medical droids to prepare the sedation unit.

“We begin again.”

⸻

The Marauder sat idle on a quiet landing pad orbiting the Outer Rim. A rare moment of stillness between missions. Hunter stood by the viewport, arms crossed, scanning the distant stars. Crosshair was methodically cleaning his rifle for the third time. Echo paced. Wrecker leaned back in his chair, silently tossing Lula in the air and catching her, again and again.

And Tech… Tech was working.

He had been working nonstop for days.

It started as a background process—a passive scrape of encrypted Republic comms and Senate chamber feeds, a precautionary system he’d coded months ago. A failsafe. He said it was standard protocol now. But the truth was…

He had never stopped tracking Kamino.

“Got it,” Tech said suddenly, his voice clipped with tension. “I found something.”

The others all turned immediately.

“What did you find?” Echo asked, stepping closer.

Tech didn’t look up from his datapad. His fingers moved rapidly.

“Multiple encrypted Senate hearings classified as ‘Level Red’ were recently unsealed internally for security review. They pertain specifically to unauthorized cloning activity on Kamino… conducted without Senate knowledge or Jedi oversight.”

Crosshair frowned. “And?”

“And they mentioned [Y/N],” Tech said, quiet now.

The room stilled.

“Repeat that,” Hunter said slowly.

“They cloned her,” Tech said flatly. “She was genetically remade. The authorization chain is obscured, but based on timing and linguistic fingerprinting in the transcripts, I believe the order came from Chancellor Palpatine himself—or someone in his office. Shaak Ti and several senators raised concerns. A few even mentioned the funeral—Kenobi confirmed she had died, cremated even.”

Wrecker’s hand froze mid-toss. Lula fell and hit the floor with a soft thump.

“But… why?” Wrecker said softly. “Why bring her back like that?”

Tech’s jaw clenched slightly.

“We don’t know if it’s her. Not exactly. The Kaminoans appear to have used the original DNA and are… altering her. Accelerated aging. Memory implants. Indoctrination.”

“Like the regs,” Echo muttered.

“Worse,” Tech corrected. “They are not simply programming her with skills. They are selectively editing who she was. Changing her memories, rebuilding her personality for their own aims. She is… being repurposed.”

Hunter finally turned fully to face them, voice heavy with anger.

“They turned her into a weapon.”

Crosshair scoffed, but it was hollow. His hands were shaking slightly as he stood and crossed his arms tightly over his chest.

“Of course they did. Why else bring back a dead Mandalorian? Sentiment? No. They want her for something. Something big.”

Tech lowered his datapad slowly.

“We don’t have long before this disappears again. The Senate is still arguing over jurisdiction. But the Kaminoans are already moving forward with the project. And if she’s alive…”

He didn’t finish the sentence. He didn’t need to.

They all felt it.

That tug. That impossibility.

She was alive. But she wasn’t the same.

“What do we do now?” Wrecker asked. Quiet. Small.

Hunter’s brow furrowed, the weight of leadership pressing heavily on his shoulders.

“We find her,” he said. “No matter who she is now… she’s still one of us.”

Crosshair’s voice broke the silence last, bitter and sharp as ever.

“She died once saving us. If they twist her into something else… if they use her—again—then we owe it to her to stop it. One way or another.”

The brothers fell into silence.

Outside, the stars drifted quietly.

⸻

The sterile white lights of Kamino’s cloning facility reflected off your newly regenerated skin, yet none of it felt familiar. You didn’t know who you were, where you were, or what you were anymore. Faces, names, memories flickered—filtered, edited, incomplete. Instinct pushed you forward, away from the cold walls and watchful eyes.

A small, quiet shadow moved beside you—Omega. The young girl’s blonde hair framed a determined face, eyes sharp and cautious. She didn’t say much, but her presence was enough. You sensed she was your ally, even if you didn’t understand why.

Together, you slipped past guards and surveillance. Omega knew the facility’s secret corridors and blind spots like the back of her hand. Despite your confusion, your body remembered how to run, how to fight, how to survive—just barely.

You made it to a docking bay. A small transport waited, engines humming softly, hidden in the shadows.

“Go,” Omega whispered. “They won’t stop you if you’re already gone.”

You nodded slowly, stepping onto the ramp. The doors closed behind you.

Kamino receded into the distance.

Later, back inside the lab, Nala Se paced, her face a tight mask of professional frustration.

Omega stood quietly, guilt and defiance swirling in her eyes.

“What you did,” Nala Se said sharply, “was highly undesirable and reckless.”

Omega didn’t flinch. “Are they going to hunt her?”

Nala’s lips tightened into a thin line. “No. It wouldn’t be worth the resources. The clone you helped may have her face and blood, but she is most certainly not [Y/N].”

Nala Se turned away, voice cold and clinical.

“She will likely die out there. Lacking survival skills, knowledge of the galaxy… She is a ghost without a past, drifting toward an inevitable end.”

Omega clenched her fists, but said nothing.

In the silence that followed, a flicker of something unspoken passed between them—fear, hope, or perhaps regret.

⸻

Previous Chapters | Next Chapter

[vodika-vibes]

The Most Important Date

Summary: Wolffe forgets your first anniversary, and you’re understandably upset about it.

Pairing: Commander Wolffe x F!Reader

Word Count: 1542

Warnings: Angst

A/N: So, this doesn't really have a happy ending, more of an open ended ending. I hope you all like it anyway!

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It’s nearly 6 pm, and Wolffe still hasn’t come home.

He swore that he would be here no later than 4:30. But you’ve been waiting for an hour and a half and he’s still not here.

You’re all dressed up in the new dress and heels you bought, specifically, for today. You have a fresh haircut, and you’re wearing the soft perfume that Wolffe loves so much.

But he’s not here.

Well, to be more specific, he’s late.

And you’re starting to wonder if he’s not coming.

Tonight has been in the works for three weeks. And he had been so excited, or, well, you thought he had been excited. He acted excited, at least.

The restaurant had been his suggestion after all. You would have been content with staying home and just spending the evening with him. But he swore that today was something to be celebrated.

He said that your one year anniversary is definitely something that he wants to celebrate, and it’s something he wants to go all out for.

That’s what he said.

But—

He’s not here.

You push a hand through your hair and lift your comm to look at the screen again.

No messages. No missed calls. No anything.

You’re pretty sure he’s not hurt. You know his brothers well enough to know that they’d contact you if he had gotten hurt. And you know that he would have warned you if he got a sudden deployment.

So, with your heart sinking in your chest, you have to conclude that he forgot.

He forgot and he’s not coming.

You drop your comm on your table and rest your chin on your folded arms.

No. No. Wolffe wouldn’t forget. Not about this. Not when it was so important to him, and to you. Traffic on Coruscant is just awful, and his comm is probably dead.

You can wait just a little longer.

30 minutes pass.

Then an hour.

Then two.

And, as the chrono chimes 10 pm, you finally accept that Wolffe isn’t coming for you.

He forgot.

And you spent your first anniversary alone.

The lump in your throat is getting hard to ignore, and you’re losing the battle with the tears threatening to escape from your eyes. And, as you finally push the chair back and pull your new shoes off before you stand to throw them into the back of the closet, you allow the tears to flow.

As you change from the fancy clothes you bought specifically to impress him and into the worn pajamas that you’re more comfortable in, the familiar voice of self-doubt echoes in the back of your mind.

Maybe this is your fault.

Maybe you put too much pressure on him. Maybe you assumed that the relationship was more than he was ready for.

What if he spent your anniversary with another woman? You know you’re not the prettiest or the nicest or the smartest. You know that you have more flaws than you have anything else, anyone would be better than you. You know this, and thought that Wolffe chose you anyway.

You run a comb through your hair, brushing out the gel and hairspray, not able to look at yourself in the mirror.

You thought he chose you in spite of your flaws, but you suppose you were wrong.

You head back to the kitchen long enough to grab your comm and turn out the lights, and you glance at the screen one more time. Hoping against all hope that maybe there’s a message, or an apology, or something from Wolffe.

But there’s nothing there.

You curl your hand around the small device, and head back to your bedroom, feeling as frail as wet paper. You plug in your comm so it’s charge overnight, and for a moment, you consider calling Wolffe. Just to make sure he’s okay.

But, as your finger hovers over his name, you realize you don’t have the courage to press call.

If you call him and he answers and he’s not sorry, you might just shatter into a million pieces and never recover.

So, instead, you just make sure the ringer is on and you set your alarm for 6 the following morning, and you try to fall asleep.

You don’t see Wolffe until after work the next day.

He lets himself into your apartment while you’re standing at the stove making spaghetti sauce.

You still feel paper thin and like you’re heart is on the verge of shattering into pieces, but you greet him quietly as you focus all of your attention on your project. Then, hesitantly, you offer, “I didn’t hear from you much yesterday—”

“Yeah,” Wolffe drops into a seat and rubs his hand down his face, “The battalion went drinking. I didn’t get back to the barracks until 5 this morning.”

You can feel your heart cracking in your chest. “Oh.”

“We even brought some of the natborns along,” He adds, nonchalantly. As if each word wasn’t like a physical blow to your fragile heart, “One of the medics, Andra—you remember her, right? The twi’lek? Well, she nearly drank us all under the table—”

You set your spoon across the top of the pot and lean against the counter, without looking at him.

“And then a bunch of us danced. I think Andra danced with all of us before we went home—”

A helpless, humorless laugh falls from you, “You danced with her?” This is, quite literally, your worst nightmare come to life. He spent your anniversary with another woman.

“Yeah? Come on, cyare. She’s a friend—”

And, all of a sudden, your heartbreak morphs into fury and you slam you hand down on the counter, cutting him off mid sentence. “I want you to leave.” For all that your voice shakes with fury, you don’t raise your voice.

“...what?”

“I want you to leave.” You repeat, your voice still shaking.

“—because I danced with a coworker? That’s not going to happen.”

Another laugh slips from you and you finally spin on your heels to glare up at him, and he falters as he looks at you. His mismatched eyes flickering across your face, lingering on the tears rolling down your face. “You don’t remember, do you?”

“Cyare,” He pauses and then stands to approach you his hands held out to you, “I need you to be clearer, sweets. What’s wrong?”

“Unbelievable,” You bite out, “We spent weeks—weeks, Wolffe—planning yesterday. I spent hundreds of credits on a new outfit. And you,” You jab your finger into his chest, “You decided to go dancing with another woman.”

“Cyar’ika—”

“Do not.” You shake your head, “You spent our anniversary with another woman, Wolffe.”

His face falls, and his gaze finally snaps to the calendar hanging on the wall, “Fuck—Cyare, I—”

“I spent three hours sitting here waiting for you to show up,” You interrupt, as if you can’t see the panic growing on his face, “Do you have any idea how I felt when I realized that you weren’t coming?”

“Cyare, sweetheart—” He reaches out to touch you, but you jerk away from him.

“You don’t get to touch me, Wolffe. Not here. Not now.”

“I’m so sorry. Like, so, so sorry. I have no excuse,” His hands fall uselessly to his side, “You could have called, cyare—”

“You’re blaming me?”

“No! No, just...I would have come, I—”

“I shouldn’t have to call you to remember important events, Wolffe.”

“You’re right.” He agrees, immediately, “You’re right, you shouldn’t. I...there has to be a way for me to make this up to you. Right?”

“Make it up to me? The day’s over Wolffe. You can’t turn back time.”

He stares at you for a moment, “You’re not breaking up with me.” He says it like it’s an order, but there’s a desperation to his words that you can’t ignore.

So you sigh, “I haven’t decided yet.”

“Cyare—”

“I want you to leave. And when I come up with a decision, I’ll let you know.”

“Please don’t—” he pauses, “Don’t leave things like this. I love you. And I know you love me.”

“Relationships require more than love to work, Wolffe.”

He falls silent for a moment, “I’ll go back to the barracks. But, cyare, I’m going to fight for you.”

“If that’s what you want.”

He doesn’t move for a moment, “Will you answer, when I send you messages?”

“I want you to leave me alone, Wolffe.”

“I’m not going to ignore you, cyar’ika. I don’t care how mad you are at me.”

And, once again, you sigh. “Fine, I’ll answer your messages, but I’m not answering calls. And you don’t get to just show up.”

He looks pained, but he agrees. “I know I fucked up, cyare.”

“You did.”

“I’m so sorry. I never meant to hurt you.”

“I know, but you did.”

And then Wolffe leaves, but not without a pained look of longing. And you turn your attention back to your dinner while trying to ignore the ache in your heart. Maybe this isn’t the end of your story with Wolffe, but you need time.

He owes you that much, at least.

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[areyoufuckingcrazy]

“Dark Water”

Chapter Twenty Nine: Without a Cause

The Bad Batch x Reader

Kamino was rarely bright.

Its waters were still—silver-glass stretching endlessly across the horizon—and for once, the sun pierced the clouds in clean, pale rays. The landing pad glinted as the Marauder descended. No storm. No wind. Only the rhythmic thrum of the ship’s stabilizers as it touched down on the durasteel platform.

You stood behind Tech in the cockpit, staring out the viewport, unmoving. There was no joy in the sky, no warmth in the light. Kamino might’ve looked calm for once… but inside, you were turbulent.

You were back.

Again.

Still.

And you didn’t know what that meant anymore.

⸻

EXT. LANDING PAD – KAMINO

The hatch lowered with a hiss.

You stepped out last. Your boots hit the durasteel and your legs almost gave out. You hadn’t slept in the entire flight home. Pain from the beatings, the stress of survival, and the echo of Bo-Katan’s questions still swirled behind your eyes. You were present, but only just.

The walk to the main tower was a blur.

Nala Se stood by the lift.

So did Shaak Ti.

Neither of them spoke right away.

And neither did you.

Hunter, Crosshair, Tech, and Wrecker peeled away for debrief, Cody trailing slightly behind them.

Wrecker threw an arm around Cody’s shoulders before he could stop him. “You, uh… you’re alright, Reg.”

Cody raised a brow. “Reg?”

“It’s a compliment. Sort of,” Tech offered, straightening his vambrace.

Crosshair glanced sidelong at Cody, toothpick shifting slightly between his teeth. “You pulled her out of that hellhole. That makes you family.”

Hunter didn’t say a word. He just offered Cody a look—measured, sharp—and nodded.

Cody returned the nod.

Respect earned.

No ceremony. No medals.

Just that unspoken, rare moment among soldiers who’d all bled for something more than orders.

⸻

INT. YOUR QUARTERS – LATER

You sat on the edge of the bunk.

Kamino’s bright skies were visible through the glass pane, but you didn’t look at them.

Your armor was still caked with desert dust from Concordia, the inside smelling of sweat, smoke, and blood. Your reflection in the polished metal walls was a stranger. Or maybe it had been so long since you were yourself, you couldn’t even recall what that felt like.

You’d survived again. You always did.

But you were starting to wonder what exactly you were surviving for.

And what it had cost.

⸻

The door to Shaak Ti’s meditation chamber slid open with a soft hiss.

She sat in quiet stillness before the viewing pane, the pale blue skies over Kamino glowing with unnatural calm. She didn’t need to turn to know it was you.

“You’ve come to speak,” she said gently.

You remained at the threshold for a moment longer, then stepped inside, boots silent against the floor. “How can you always tell?”

“The Force does not whisper,” she replied. “It speaks plainly, to those who choose to listen.”

You exhaled through your nose, almost amused—but your chest was too tight to laugh.

“I need to leave,” you said.

Shaak Ti turned slowly to look at you.

Her gaze was patient. Empathetic. Knowing.

Your voice didn’t waver, but it felt like something in your throat cracked with each word. “This place… Kamino… it isn’t mine anymore. Maybe it never was.”

She didn’t answer, not yet. She simply watched. Letting you speak, letting you breathe.

“I used to think I was doing good here,” you said. “Helping the boys. Training them to survive what they were made for. But I know now they weren’t made to be soldiers. They were made to be weapons.”

“And you don’t want to be part of that,” she said softly.

You shook your head.

“They deserve more than this. And so do I.” You paused, the words catching on your tongue. “I’ve spent years pretending that being needed meant belonging. But I don’t belong here. Not with the Kaminoans. Not in the Republic. I’ve been a ghost in my own story.”

Shaak Ti nodded slowly. “There is wisdom in knowing when to walk away. But also pain.”

Your hands curled into fists at your sides.

“I don’t know where I’m supposed to go,” you admitted. “I’ve been drifting ever since Jango pulled the trigger. And even now, I… I still feel like I’m stuck in the water, sinking.”

Shaak Ti stood. Her presence was calming, the same way the ocean could be still just before a storm.

“The Force does not always give us clear answers,” she said. “But it nudges us. Gently, insistently. Your path is shifting, [Y/N]. That much is certain.”

You glanced down at your gloves. Worn. Scuffed. Stained.

“I don’t want to be someone else’s weapon.”

Shaak Ti stepped forward and placed her hand lightly on your shoulder. “Then be your own.”

You let out a breath, slow and quiet.

“I’ll file my departure request with the Council,” you said. “I’ll stay long enough to make sure the last batch of cadets is settled. After that…”

Shaak Ti’s expression remained calm. But in her eyes, there was something more.

Sadness.

Not disappointment—never that. Just a deep, quiet understanding.

“Wherever you go, [Y/N],” she said, “I hope you find peace.”

You gave her a nod.

Then turned and left the chamber, the pale Kaminoan light casting your long shadow down the corridor.

It would be the last time you saw those skies.

⸻

Your quarters on Kamino felt quieter than usual.

It wasn’t the soft whirring of the lights or the distant hum of the facility’s systems—it was something deeper. The air was still. The bed untouched. Lula resting untouched at the foot of the cot. Even Wrecker had stopped sneaking in at night. The walls felt heavier when you were alone with yourself.

You leaned forward at your desk, armor half-unbuckled, fingers idly tracing scratches along a battered datapad. You weren’t reading anything. Just thinking. Waiting.

Then the console lit up.

An encrypted transmission.

Origin: Mandalore.

Signature: KRYZE, Bo-Katan.

You stared at the screen for a moment, lips tightening, then tapped the control.

Her face flickered into view, hood half down, cheeks smudged with dust like she’d just returned from a patrol. Same sharp expression. Same cutting eyes. But there was something else behind them too. Something she didn’t say.

“Still alive, I see,” she said with a faint smirk. “Though from what I heard, you’re on Kamino again. Guess you didn’t take my advice about staying off the grid.”

You leaned back in your chair, lifting an eyebrow. “You’re the one who said I wasn’t dead yet.”

Bo clicked her tongue. “I also said the Republic would eat you alive. And now you’re playing instructor again?”

You scoffed quietly, voice dry. “They needed someone familiar. And someone expendable.”

Bo frowned, but didn’t press it. Her eyes flicked across the screen, studying you. “You don’t look too bad, considering you were half-dead when I last saw you.”

“I’ve had worse,” you muttered.

She tilted her head, smile twitching in the corner of her mouth. “You’re lucky I like you, you know. Otherwise, those clones never would’ve gotten you out of Death Watch’s grip so easily.”

You gave her a flat look. “It wasn’t exactly easy for them.”

Bo raised a brow. “Then maybe they should’ve had a better trainer.”

You actually laughed at that. Just a quiet one—barely more than a breath. But it was there.

“You’re still a pain in the ass,” you said.

“Takes one to know one,” she shot back. Then her expression softened just a touch. “They didn’t hurt you too badly, did they?”

You hesitated.

“Not in a way anyone can see,” you said quietly.

Bo didn’t answer right away.

“I wanted to check in,” she said after a moment. “Before you vanish again. Mandalore’s still… fractured. We’re doing what we can, but—”

“But you’re still fighting your war, and I’m still drifting through mine,” you finished for her.

A long pause.

“I miss when things were simpler,” she admitted.

“Things were never simple, Bo,” you said gently. “We just hadn’t lived long enough to know that.”

Another pause.

Then she cleared her throat and leaned forward. “If you decide not to stay on Kamino… don’t forget you’ve still got people out here.”

You nodded once. “I won’t.”

Her image flickered slightly as the signal waned.

“You’re stronger than you think, mesh’la,” she said softly.

Then the transmission ended.

And the silence returned.

But it didn’t feel quite as empty as before.

⸻

The skies over Kamino were uncharacteristically clear again. No thrumming rain, no storm-lashed winds. Just the endless expanse of pale blue and the sharp glint of durasteel platforms catching morning light. Your ship stood prepped and ready—final diagnostics complete, fuel lines sealed.

The last few crates were stowed, your armor locked into place piece by piece. You moved slowly, mechanically, each motion etched with muscle memory and reluctance. This time, you weren’t running. You weren’t hiding. You were choosing to walk away. That made it harder.

Footsteps approached from behind—soft, but familiar.

Wrecker was the first to show.

“Are you really goin’?” he asked, voice small for someone so massive. His single eye blinked slowly, scarred face somber.

You nodded. “I am.”

“Where?”

“Out there,” you said, gesturing toward the stars. “Mandalore, for now.”

He frowned. “But you just got back.”

“I know.”

Hunter came next, arms crossed, eyes unreadable as ever. He didn’t say anything right away. Tech followed, datapad in hand, trying not to look like he’d run to catch up. And then, lastly, Crosshair—hands shoved in his belt, face angled slightly away.

You stepped forward, taking a long look at the four of them.

“You’ve grown,” you said. “All of you.”

Wrecker shuffled awkwardly. “Still feels like we’re your cadets sometimes.”

“You were never just cadets to me,” you said, voice barely above a whisper.

Crosshair’s lip twitched. “Could’ve fooled me… when you keep vanishing.”

There it was.

You sighed, stepping toward him. He didn’t move. You searched his face—the bitterness hadn’t left, but neither had the grief.

“I didn’t vanish because I stopped caring,” you said quietly. “I thought I was doing what was best—for me and for you. But if I could go back…”

Crosshair looked up, jaw tight.

You nodded. “I’d still do it. Because you survived. You thrived. And now you’re exactly who you were always meant to be.”

“Still feels like you’re leaving us again,” he muttered.

You swallowed. “I am.”

He clenched his teeth. “So what, that’s it?”

You stepped closer, laying a hand lightly on his shoulder. “It’s not goodbye forever, Crosshair.”

Wrecker sniffed, rubbing at his nose. “Promise?”

You smiled sadly. “I’ll come find you all after the war. When this is over… I’ll come home.”

Hunter’s voice was low. “You think there’ll be a home left?”

You met his eyes.

“I don’t know. But if there is, I’ll build one if I have to.”

Tech finally spoke, gaze still flicking through data but his voice firm. “We’ve statistically defied odds before. I imagine we will again.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” you said with a smirk.

They stood there, four against the ocean breeze. For a moment, the silence held something sacred.

Then you stepped back.

“Take care of each other.”

Crosshair turned away, like he couldn’t watch you leave. Wrecker pulled you into a rib-crushing hug before you could escape, and Tech gave a short but meaningful nod. Hunter lingered just long enough to touch your shoulder on the way past.

No speeches. No tears.

Just soldiers.

Just sons.

You climbed into your ship, keyed the hatch, and as the engines began to roar to life beneath you, you caught one last glimpse of them on the platform—four silhouettes, heads tilted toward the stars.

Waiting.

Hoping.

And somewhere in your chest, a flicker of something you hadn’t felt in years sparked quietly to life again.

Purpose.

⸻

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

[areyoufuckingcrazy]

“Dark Water”

Chapter Thirty: No Throne is Empty Long

The Bad Batch x Reader

Mandalore looked different now.

The desert still stretched wide and golden beneath the ship as you landed, sun casting a burnished sheen across the skyline of Sundari. But what struck you more was the silence—not of peace, but restraint. Mandalore under Satine Kryze’s rule wasn’t dead, but it was no longer alive the way it had been during the wars. You could feel it in your bones.

The hangar bay opened and a welcoming party waited. Formal. Stiff. Not a weapon in sight.

Satine Kryze herself stood at the head of it, graceful in her blue and white robes, not a single strand of hair out of place. She smiled gently, but you could see the guardedness in her eyes.

“[Y/N], welcome back to Mandalore,” she said as you descended the ramp. “I hope your accommodations are to your liking. I’ve arranged a quiet villa on the northern ridge—away from the bustle. I imagine you’ll want solitude.”

“Appreciated,” you said, tone even.

She hesitated. “I’d also like to invite you to dinner this evening. A small, private meal. Just myself… and my nephew.”

You already knew who she meant.

You simply gave a curt nod. “Of course, Duchess.”

⸻

The table was too long for three people.

The soft hum of silverware and glass echoed in the open dining hall, nestled high in one of Sundari’s white towers. The desert sun had long since vanished, leaving only the quiet orange glow of lamplight to brush the edges of Satine Kryze’s face as she sipped from a crystal goblet.

You sat opposite her, still in your travel-worn armor, the edges scuffed, your shoulders squared. Between you sat a boy barely in his teens—Korkie Kryze, her nephew. Tall for his age, but stiff and overly polite. Nervous, in the way only someone born into politics could be.

He tried to speak. “I—I’ve read about the civil wars. My aunt said you fought in them.”

“I did,” you replied simply, spearing a piece of meat on your plate with no ceremony.

He nodded. “Were you there during the final siege?”

“Korkie,” Satine said gently, folding her napkin. “Now’s not the time.”

“I don’t mind,” you said, your voice low. “But it wasn’t a siege. It was a massacre. And I don’t talk about it.”

Korkie flushed and fell quiet, retreating into his drink.

Silence stretched between you and Satine. Not hostile, not warm—just strained, held together by years of difference.

“You shouldn’t expect anything less than a parade,” she said eventually, swirling the wine in her glass. “You are, after all, the last living descendant of Mandalore the Great.”

You didn’t look up. You didn’t even flinch. But your fingers curled ever so slightly around your fork.

“What hit harder,” you said, softly, “was the word last.”

Satine’s expression shifted—softened. But only for a moment.

“I’m sorry for your losses,” she said. “But lineage isn’t a reason for pride. It’s a weight. Mandalore the Great was a tyrant.”

“And yet it’s his name that built this planet,” you said evenly. “Not yours. Not mine. You keep pretending pacifism rebuilt Mandalore. It didn’t. War did. Blood did.”

“I’ve heard that argument too many times from too many warlords.”

“I’m not a warlord,” you said. “I’m a survivor.”

“And survival isn’t the same as justice.”

You finally met her eyes. “Neither is pacifism.”

The table fell silent again. Korkie stared between you both, overwhelmed but saying nothing.

Finally, you set down your fork and leaned back.

“I don’t associate myself with Mandalore the Great. That history, that blood… it never meant anything to me. But when you called me the last—that meant something. Because it reminded me that I’ve got nothing left tying me to this place.”

“You came back,” she said.

You gave a tired half-smile. “Only because you asked.”

Satine nodded slowly. “I didn’t summon you to rekindle old fires. I summoned you because Death Watch is active again. Corruption is spreading like poison through my government. I need someone who understands the shadows we’re walking in.”

You gave a faint grunt. “And Bo was unavailable?”

The name stung. You could see it in her eyes.

“She made her choice,” Satine said.

“So did I,” you replied.

Another pause.

Korkie cleared his throat, awkward and young and brave in his own naïve way. “Maybe we could stop fighting long enough to finish dinner?”

You actually chuckled—just a breath of amusement. Satine gave him a look, but didn’t argue.

The tension eased for a moment as you returned to your plate.

But under the table, your leg bounced—just slightly.

Because no matter what Satine believed about peace, or bloodlines, or who Mandalore should be…

You knew one thing:

War was coming.

And it would come to Mandalore whether she welcomed it or not.

⸻

You stood at the edge of one of Sundari’s great viewing balconies, the red dusk bleeding across the sky beyond the dome. The sun was setting over the desert again — and yet, the city below felt colder than it ever had during the wars.

Your armor felt heavier these days. Not because of age or wear, but because peace was more suffocating than war ever was.

Satine’s footsteps approached — soft, composed, noble. She stopped a few paces behind you.

“I expected a report,” she said.

“I have one,” you replied, not turning around. “You’re not going to like it.”

Her silence gave you permission.

“I’ve followed the movements of your ministers for the last week. Off-world credits moving into personal accounts. Supply orders that never arrive. Empty housing units registered to five different names. Backdoor channels to criminal syndicates—some tied to the Hutts. One even took a meeting with Pre Vizsla himself.”

Satine was quiet, but her hands were clenched together in front of her.

“The corruption runs deep,” you said. “Deeper than you want to admit.”

“I know.”

That startled you.

You turned. Her face was calm, but her eyes were tired.

“I’ve known for months,” she said. “But if I move against them all at once, I lose the Council. I lose Mandalore’s neutrality. And we risk full-scale civil war again.”

You stepped toward her. “Then what do you expect me to do? Play errand girl while you try to mediate your way through rot?”

Her eyes flashed. “I expect you to understand that leading a planet is not the same as commanding a war band.”

You scoffed. “And how do you expect to run a planet with a pacifist government rotting from the inside out? You preach ideals, but ideals don’t catch traitors in the dark.”

“That’s not the way Mandalore works anymore.”

“No, Satine,” you said, voice quiet and bitter. “That’s just not the way you work.”

She flinched — just barely — but it was enough.

“Bo warned me,” you continued. “When I was recovering in her safehouse. Pre Vizsla came and made his pitch. I was half-dead and even I could see what he was doing. But your government? Blind.”

“I am not blind,” Satine snapped.

You stepped close.

“Then stop acting like compromise is going to save you. Death Watch isn’t interested in your reforms. They don’t want change. They want control. And while you’re playing peace, they’re stockpiling weapons and corrupting your courts.”

Her silence was answer enough.

You exhaled hard, pulling back.

“I’m not telling you to become something you’re not. But don’t expect me to be something I’m not, either.”

Satine looked out over the city. “What would you have me do? Stage a coup? Gut my Council? Send my guards to disappear senators in the middle of the night?”

You shook your head. “No. But at the very least, stop pretending the fire’s not burning just because you don’t want to see the smoke.”

For a moment, neither of you said anything.

Then, softer: “You brought me here for a reason, Satine. You knew what I am. Let me help. But don’t ask me to be diplomatic about it.”

Satine looked at you. Tired. Regal. Resigned.

“You’re not a diplomat,” she said. “You never were.”

You raised an eyebrow. “No. But I can spot a traitor from a mile away.”

She sighed. “Then do what you must. Quietly.”

You gave a half smile — sharp and crooked. “Always.”

⸻

The catacombs beneath Sundari were a forgotten artery in the city’s quiet pulse — long-abandoned tunnels carved during the old civil wars. Dust choked the stale air. Red emergency lights flickered low along the walls, their glow barely illuminating the ancient Mandalorian runes carved into duracrete.

You stood alone.

The datapad in your hand pinged once. A signal. Confirming you were not alone for long.

A shadow appeared at the far end of the corridor — tall, sure, armored in that familiar Nite Owl blue and grey.

Bo-Katan Kryze removed her helmet and gave you a long look. The tunnel echoed with the low thud of her boots as she approached.

“You’re late,” you said, folding your arms.

“You’re alive,” she shot back, stopping just short of you. “Figured that made us even.”

You smirked — tight and tired. “Guess so.”

A beat passed.

“You look like hell,” Bo said.

“Funny. You sound like Death Watch.”

That flicker of something crossed her face — irritation? Guilt?

“That’s why you asked me here, isn’t it?” you went on. “Not to catch up. Not to ask how the last few weeks of being beat senseless in one of your camps went. You’re here to recruit me.”

She didn’t deny it. “You were always one of the best.”

“I’m flattered,” you replied flatly. “Really.”

Then you laughed — sharp, dry, humorless. It bounced off the tunnel walls like a slap.

Bo-Katan didn’t move.

“I don’t get it,” you continued. “You drag me out of the fire once, and then let your people throw me back in. And now you want me to wear your colors?”

“I tried to get you out,” she snapped. “Pre—he overrode me. I didn’t even know you were on Concordia until the second day.”

You stared at her, eyes narrowed. “Then why didn’t you come sooner?”

Bo flinched. “Because we’re at war. Because the only reason I found out at all was because one of my lieutenants overheard them bragging about it.”

You said nothing. Let her words hang in the air.

“I’m not here to make excuses,” she said. “I’m here because Death Watch is changing. We’re growing. Vizsla’s grip is slipping. And when the time comes to take Mandalore back—truly take it back—we’ll need warriors like you. Ones who remember what Mandalorians were before all this pacifist garbage started.”

You looked her dead in the eye. “You really think that speech works on me? That I forgot who I am?”

“No,” Bo said, softly. “I think you’re more lost than you let on.”

That hit deeper than you expected.

You looked away.

“The Republic’s broken,” Bo said. “The Separatists are worse. Satine sits on a throne of corruption and does nothing. And you—you’re stuck between all of it. But you could choose us. Choose Mandalore.”

You took a long breath. Then:

“I am Mandalore,” you said, voice steel. “But I’ll die before I follow Vizsla.”

Bo didn’t argue.

Silence again.

Finally, she said, “I didn’t come here to fight. Just to give you the choice.”

You scoffed, stepping away. “There’s always a choice. And I already made mine.”

As you turned, Bo’s voice came once more—quiet, strained.

“When it all comes crashing down, you’ll remember who stood beside you… and who left you behind.”

You paused—just for a second.

Then walked on, leaving her in the shadows.

⸻

The door to your Mandalorian quarters shut with a hiss behind you.

Silence.

Not the clinical stillness of Kamino, nor the dangerous quiet of a Death Watch cell. This was different — a quiet that knew your name. That remembered the blood in your veins. The kind of silence that made you feel like a ghost in your own skin.

You stood by the small viewport, watching the capital lights of Sundari glow warm through the dome above. The red sands of Mandalore stretched beyond like an open wound.

Bo’s voice still rang in your head.

“You’ll remember who stood beside you… and who left you behind.”

Your jaw clenched. She had no right to say that. No right to ask you to join the same cause that left you broken in a cage.

But her words stuck like barbs in your chest anyway.

Shaak Ti’s voice followed — quieter, gentler:

“The Force has something else in mind for you.”

But what? What could the Force possibly want from you, when it had already taken everything?

Your eyes dropped to your vambrace. To the sigil carved into the armor’s plating — your clan’s crest. The same crest once worn by warriors who served under him.

Mandalore the Great.

The title felt heavy. Like chains you never asked for.

Last living descendant.

The final echo of a name that cast a shadow across history.

Your fingers brushed the etching.

What have I done with it?

Trained children for war. Let cadets crawl into my bed for comfort because no one else gave them warmth. Buried the truth of their fate while lying to myself about mine.

You turned and sat at the desk.

Opened the encrypted holopad.

The screen flickered as you began to type — a short message. A code Bo would know to decrypt. You hesitated. Then finally, you typed:

“I didn’t say yes. I didn’t say no. I said I remember. That’s all I can give you right now.”

Then, underneath it, something strange took shape in your hands.

You opened a small packet from your travel satchel — one of the patches Wrecker had given you, black and red, painted to match your old armor. You’d kept it, tucked away, out of sight. Like a scar. Or a promise.

You pressed it into a small parcel with the holopad. Then paused again.

Inside your drawer was another item. You hadn’t touched it in years.

A signet carved in iron — your great ancestor’s crest.

You held it for a long moment. Then reached for your vibroknife and, slowly, carefully, scored a new symbol beside it. A smaller one. A new mark.

Not to erase the past.

But to separate yourself from it.

You placed both inside the parcel. Not an answer. Not an allegiance.

Just a message:

“I may never carry his legacy. But maybe I can shape my own.”

The packet sealed with a click.

You didn’t know if Bo would even respond.

But as you watched the courier droid fly off into the night, a quiet breath left your lungs.

And for once, the silence didn’t feel quite so hollow.

⸻

Satine stood at the far end of the chamber, bathed in amber sunlight that filtered through the high windows of the royal palace. You had just returned from yet another walk outside the city walls—excursions you claimed were for “clearing your head,” though you both knew better.

She didn’t look at you at first.

Just clasped her hands behind her back and stared out over Sundari’s domed skyline, where the fading sun bled into the dunes beyond.

“You’ve been gone a lot,” she said quietly. “Always walking. Always thinking.”

You leaned against the wall, arms crossed. “There’s a lot to think about.”

“Yes,” she said. “Like how the same people who captured and tortured you only weeks ago… now receive anonymous tips that someone is sniffing around their abandoned strongholds.”

You didn’t move. You didn’t need to. The silence said enough.

Satine turned, slow, calculating, her blue eyes narrowed with something sharper than hurt.

“You’re playing a dangerous game.”

You met her stare. “I’m just looking for the truth.”

“And which truth is that?” she said sharply. “Mine, or Bo-Katan’s? The Republic’s, or your clones’? Do you even know who you’re loyal to anymore?”

You clenched your jaw, something hot sparking in your chest—but it wasn’t anger.

It was grief. And clarity.

“I know exactly where my loyalty lies,” you said.

“Do you?” Satine asked, stepping forward now, her voice rising—not angry, but desperate. “Because I welcomed you into my home. I gave you shelter. And in return, I see you drifting back to violence. To her. Bo-Katan and her fractured vision of Mandalore.”

“This has nothing to do with Bo—”

“It has everything to do with Bo,” Satine snapped. “With you. You may not claim the name of Mandalore the Great, but you carry his legacy like armor, and you have no idea how to set it down.”

“I never wanted it.”

“But you wear it all the same.”

Silence rang loud between you. She was right in a way. You were forged by war, by loss, by Kamino’s clinical brutality and Mandalore’s bloodstained history. You were raised in the fire—and though you longed for peace, you only ever truly felt alive in the storm.

But that wasn’t where your loyalty lived.

Your voice was quiet now. Grounded. Real.

“My loyalty isn’t to Mandalore. Or Bo. Or even to you.” You looked her straight in the eye. “It’s to them.”

She blinked. “Them?”

You nodded.

“To my boys.”

There it was.

The words felt like stepping off a ledge. But they didn’t scare you.

“They’re not just soldiers to me,” you said. “They were my cadets. My brats. My… sons. I trained them. Bled for them. Held them when they cried and pulled them out of darkness. When I fell, I did it to protect them. When I ran, it was to keep them safe. Everything I’ve done since Kamino… has been for them.”

Satine’s face softened, if only slightly. Her voice quieted. “Even when they became part of the machine?”

“They never were part of it,” you said. “They never fit. They were misfits, mistakes, rejects—until I showed them they weren’t. They’ve fought to protect a galaxy that doesn’t even know them.”

Your voice cracked, just for a second. You didn’t hide it.

“So yeah. I’m loyal. To four men who deserved better than to be born just to die in someone else’s war.”

The duchess looked at you for a long moment. “And what does that mean for Mandalore?”

You shook your head, voice hollow. “I don’t know yet.”

But inside you did.

It meant you would help them survive.

And if that meant walking away from Mandalore’s throne, its bloodline, its honor?

So be it.

⸻

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

[areyoufuckingcrazy]

“Dark Water”

Chapter Thirty One: We’re All Defective Now

The Bad Batch x Reader

You stood at the terrace edge of Satine’s palace, the Sundari dome casting amber reflections across the durasteel floor. The desert outside stretched like a graveyard of ancient wars and forgotten creeds—fitting, given the battle now raging inside your own chest.

The datapad buzzed softly at your hip. An encrypted signal.

You snatched it before the palace aides could glance twice.

:: Secure Comm ID: CT-9901 ::

Hunter.

You hesitated.

Then answered.

His voice, low and gravelly, came through the static. “We’re being deployed. Mid Rim. No specifics yet. Intel says it’s going to be bad.”

You exhaled, fingers tightening around the edge of the terrace railing.

“I figured as much,” you said.

There was silence on the other end. But not a cold one. Hunter had always had a quiet way of waiting—patient but heavy, like a storm building.

“I didn’t think you’d respond,” he finally said. “Wasn’t sure if Mandalore still had you locked down.”

“I’m not locked down,” you replied. “Not exactly.”

“But you’re not free, either.”

You swallowed hard. “You okay?”

“Wrecker’s back in full form. Crosshair still growls your name every other hour. Tech asked me to pass along that your maintenance logs on our shuttle were ‘wildly inefficient,’ which is his way of saying he misses you.”

Your laugh caught you off guard. Soft. Bitter.

“Tell him to recheck his calibrations. I meant to reroute the coolant to overheat when Crosshair sits down.”

“Already did,” Hunter said, a rare smile in his voice. Then quieter, “You know you can come back.”

You didn’t answer right away.

He filled the silence: “I don’t mean to the war. Or the Republic. Just… us.”

The comm clicked off before you could answer.

Because you didn’t know how.

⸻

Later that evening, you stood at the royal council chambers, Satine watching you from behind her high-backed chair. You knew the look on her face—the one she wore before dropping a political bomb.

“I’ve requested the High Council recognize you as Mandalore’s diplomatic emissary to the Republic military,” she said.

You blinked. “What?”

“It would legitimize your presence in the Republic without sacrificing neutrality. You’d act as my eyes and ears on the battlefield.”

You scoffed. “So, I’d be your spy.”

“You would be my representative,” she corrected. “With an official title. And protections.”

“And a leash.”

Satine didn’t flinch. “You’re valuable. Strategically. Politically. And I won’t let Death Watch or the Republic devour you.”

You stared at her. “You hate everything I stand for.”

“No. I hate what war made you stand for.”

You walked slowly toward her, boots echoing in the polished chamber.

“You talk of pacifism,” you said coldly, “but you use politics like a blade. You send spies to dig through your own council’s corruption. You use me—a soldier born in blood—to fight a war of appearances for you.”

Satine stiffened, blue eyes flashing. “I use what I must to protect Mandalore.”

“Exactly,” you said, voice lowering. “You may dress it in silk, but you and I? We’re not so different. You hate it—but your blood is warrior blood, Duchess. Just like mine.”

The tension hung between you like a drawn vibroblade. Then, slowly, Satine’s shoulders dropped.

“You sound like Bo-Katan,” she murmured.

“No,” you said. “Bo owns what she is. You… bury it.”

⸻

That night, you sat alone in your quarters, the datapad resting on your knee. You stared down at the silent comm, fingers hovering above Hunter’s contact.

The Republic was pulling you one way.

Mandalore, another.

But your heart?

Your heart had already chosen its side.

You pressed record.

“Hunter. Tell Tech to fix the coolant. Tell Crosshair he’s still a brat. And tell Wrecker to save me a spot on the bunk. I’m coming home. Not to the war. To you.”

You sent it.

And for the first time in weeks, you didn’t feel lost.

⸻

Mandalore was grey that morning.

The skies above Sundari were blanketed in soft cloud, low and heavy. A silence had settled over the domed city, broken only by the crisp click of your boots on the palace floor.

The ceremonial robes draped over your new armor were stiff—silver threads embroidered through rich charcoal fabric, a sigil of the diplomatic caste. It looked wrong over your battle-worn beskar. You hadn’t worn it by choice.

Satine stood at the end of the corridor waiting for you, flanked by two silent Mandalorian guards and Prime Minister Almec. She wore the expression of someone about to hand off something fragile to someone who didn’t deserve it.

“You’ve been given leave to rejoin the Republic’s forces,” Satine said. “But make no mistake—you are Mandalore’s eyes within the GAR now. A presence, not a blade. We are still pacifists.”

“Of course,” you said, giving her a tight, rehearsed smile. “Nothing says pacifism like embedding your emissary with an experimental black ops unit.”

Satine didn’t rise to the bait. “I trust you remember how to be diplomatic.”

“I trust you remember that I was raised to fight wars, not sit through senate sessions.”

A flicker of something—hurt, maybe—crossed her face. “Your legacy doesn’t have to mirror your bloodline.”

“No,” you said. “But it’s all anyone sees.”

You turned, your helmet under your arm, and walked to your ship.

Behind you, Satine said quietly, “You’ll always have a place here, should you choose to return.”

You didn’t answer.

⸻

GAR Cruiser: Resolute

Three days later.

You’d forgotten how loud a Venator’s hangar could be. Droids whirred past, clones barked orders, and starfighters screamed as they prepped for departure. It was chaos. Beautiful, coordinated, military chaos.

The docking ramp hissed open beneath your feet—and there they were.

Clone Force 99.

Lined up at the far end of the hangar like they were waiting for inspection. All four of them.

Wrecker spotted you first and lit up, grinning so wide it could’ve cracked his scar.

“[Y/N]!” he hollered, immediately breaking ranks and thundering toward you.

You barely had time to drop your helmet before he scooped you up in a crushing hug, lifting you right off your boots.

“Still strong, I see,” you wheezed.

“Stronger!” he beamed. “I’ve been workin’ out!”

You snorted as he finally set you down. “What, lifting AT-TEs for fun?”

“You know it!”

Tech approached more slowly, adjusting his goggles with a skeptical frown.

“You’re late,” he said flatly.

“I arrived precisely when I meant to.”

“You are not a Jedi.”

“Neither are you,” you countered.

He considered that. “…Fair.”

Hunter stepped forward next, more reserved. He scanned you—first your face, then the new armor.

“Diplomatic Emissary?” he asked, tone unreadable.

“Mandalore’s finest,” you said, lifting your helmet in a half-salute. “I even have a seal.”

“Still know how to use a blaster?”

“Want to find out?”

A flicker of a smile pulled at the corner of his mouth.

And finally, Crosshair.

He didn’t say a word. Just gave you a long look from head to toe, his expression unreadable behind the ever-present toothpick in his mouth.

“Nice robes,” he muttered. “You look like a senator’s security blanket.”

“Don’t get used to them.”

“Wasn’t planning on it.”

But then, with barely a pause, he bumped your shoulder lightly as he passed. Like it meant nothing. Like it meant everything.

⸻

Later — In the Barracks

You stood in the middle of their old quarters, letting the familiarity settle over you.

The walls hadn’t changed—Hunter’s weapons rack, Tech’s holotable, Wrecker’s bunk half-collapsed under the weight of gear and Lula, and Crosshair’s perch by the window. It was lived-in, worn, and warm in a way Mandalorian marble never could be.

You didn’t speak as you set your helmet down on the table. They didn’t ask where you’d been, or what you’d done. There was no grand reunion speech. No questions.

Instead, Tech handed you a datapad with the next mission briefing. Hunter tossed you a ration bar. Wrecker offered you Lula like it was a peace treaty. And Crosshair muttered something about not being entirely useless in politics, surprisingly.

It was the closest thing to a homecoming you’d ever get.

And it was enough.

⸻

The briefing room on Kamino was unusually full—an Admiral on the holotable, Shaak Ti observing silently from the side, and Clone Force 99 standing shoulder to shoulder. The clone commandos were restless. There was a mission coming. And it wasn’t just any op.

Separatist-aligned forces had begun mobilizing on Avenal, a jungle moon out in the Mid Rim. The Republic had an informant embedded deep behind enemy lines—one with critical data on a new series of battle droid prototypes. But the informant’s extraction had gone wrong. They were pinned down, transmissions scrambled.

The Batch listened in silence as the hologram flickered—blue light rendering the informant’s last known coordinates as a static-stuttering shape beneath heavy canopies and narrow ravines.

“And to assist on this mission,” the Admiral added, “Mandalore’s emissary will be embedded with you. She’s proven a valuable asset to the Republic and is well-acquainted with Clone Force 99.”

All four of them turned to look at you.

You, standing quietly off to the side with your arms crossed, made no move to speak. You just raised an eyebrow at their obvious discomfort.

Wrecker tilted his head like a confused tooka.

Crosshair blinked slowly.

Tech adjusted his goggles.

Hunter’s mouth pressed into a thin line.

None of them said anything. Not until the Admiral’s transmission cut and the room emptied out, leaving just the Batch, Shaak Ti… and you.

“You’re coming?” Hunter finally asked, cautious.

“Didn’t you hear?” you said dryly. “I’m a valuable asset now.”

Crosshair’s scoff was so loud it echoed.

“You haven’t been in the field in years,” he muttered. “You train cadets. You’re not a soldier anymore.”

You met his gaze evenly. “I didn’t stop being a soldier because I became a trainer. I stopped because I was forced to. Big difference.”

Wrecker scratched the back of his neck, glancing at Tech. “No offense, but didn’t you get, like… captured? By Death Watch?”

“Yeah,” Crosshair said flatly. “And that didn’t exactly boost your combat record.”

You could’ve laughed. “Five of them attacked me. Mandalorian elites, trained since birth, geared up and armored. I killed two. Took down a third before I got stunned. That’s not a failure. That’s survival.”

Hunter tried to interject, but you turned toward the door.

“You don’t have to like that I’m coming,” you said coolly. “But I am. So get used to it.”

You didn’t wait for a reply.

⸻

En Route to Avenal

The gunship ride was quiet. Not tense, just… watchful.

Wrecker nudged you once or twice, trying to lighten the mood.

“You sure you remember how to hold a blaster?”

You stared at him. “Sure you remember how to shut up?”

Tech kept darting glances at you over the top of his datapad, clearly running predictions. Combat simulations. Worst-case scenarios where you slowed them down. You didn’t blame him. You would’ve done the same.

Crosshair was sharpening his vibroknife.

Hunter leaned against the bulkhead, arms folded, pretending not to watch you check your gear—but he was watching.

Always the leader. Always weighing the risk.

You didn’t try to prove anything to them. That would come later.

⸻

Touchdown: Jungle Moon of Avenal

The moment boots hit the soil, the jungle swallowed you whole. Heat, moisture, the buzz of insects, and the far-off echo of droid comm chatter.

Tech took point with his scanner, and Hunter used his heightened senses to guide the team past Separatist patrols.

The informant was alive. Barely. Trapped in a bunker clinging to the side of a ravine—and guarded by a small battalion of B1s and three B2 supers.

From your vantage point, you crouched behind a felled tree, watching the Batch form up.

“We take the east ridge, circle around, blast the doors, get in and out,” Hunter murmured.

“We’ll be exposed,” Tech replied. “The snipers on the ridge will have an easy shot.”

“Not if someone takes the ridge first,” Crosshair offered, already shouldering his rifle.

“That someone’s gonna need to be fast,” Wrecker muttered. “Real fast.”

That’s when you stood up.

“I’ll do it.”

Four sets of eyes turned to you.

“You?” Crosshair scoffed.

You didn’t answer. Just secured your helmet and started up the slope.

The climb was grueling—steep, wet, overgrown. But you moved like you were born in this terrain. Like this wasn’t your first infiltration. You scaled trees, leapt gaps, dodged sniper sights, and used every inch of your environment like a weapon.

The first sniper didn’t even see you coming. You slit its power line with a vibroblade and kicked it off the ridge.

The second got one shot off. Missed. You tackled it through a tree root and left it sparking at your feet.

The Batch arrived seconds later to find the ridge cleared.

Wrecker whistled. “Okay. That was cool.”

Tech blinked. “I’m… recalibrating my expectations.”

Crosshair offered no comment—just a grunt and a tight jaw.

Hunter stared at you for a long moment, then gave a nod. Not of approval. But respect.

⸻

The informant was half-conscious, but alive. The rest of the mission went smoothly.

When you boarded the gunship again, the mood had shifted.

You sat in silence, helmet in your lap, until Crosshair finally muttered:

“You’re still slow.”

You raised an eyebrow. “And you’re still a brat.”

Wrecker grinned and threw his arm around your shoulder. “Our brat though.”

⸻

The mission was done. Another successful op, another dent in the war effort. The team had returned to the Republic cruiser for debriefing and rest, and Clone Force 99 had disappeared into their respective corners of the shared space.

Wrecker was already snoring on a bunk, still half-dressed, Lula cradled against his chest like he was five years old again.

Tech was deep in diagnostics, muttering about the faulty topography data and the angle of ridge winds.

Crosshair had vanished, as he always did after a mission. Into the shadows. Into silence.

You stood alone at the edge of the ship’s viewing window, arms crossed as hyperspace rippled past in streaks of blue. You hadn’t noticed Hunter approach until you saw his reflection beside yours.

He didn’t speak for a long while.

Neither did you.

“Don’t take this the wrong way,” he finally said, voice low. “But this doesn’t feel like it used to.”

You glanced over. “The mission?”

He shook his head once. “You.”

Your jaw clenched. “I could say the same about you.”

Hunter didn’t take the bait. He just looked tired. Older. Not physically, but worn, in that way all clone commanders did. Too much loss, too much responsibility, not enough time to breathe in between.

“You trained us,” he said quietly. “We weren’t even classified yet. Just four defective clones, and you were the first person who saw anything in us. You were our Buir before we even knew what that word meant.”

You looked away.

“I haven’t forgotten,” he added. “But it’s different now. You’re different.”

You let out a sharp breath. “So are you.”

“I had to be,” he snapped, sharper than he meant to. “You weren’t there.”

Ah. There it was.

You nodded slowly. “I’m here now.”

Hunter crossed his arms, the leather of his vambrace creaking. “Are you? Really? Because sometimes I look at you and I see the armor and the blade and the old smirk, but it’s like… the lights are on and no one’s home.”

You flinched. Just slightly. But he saw it.

“I’m doing the best I can,” you said, quieter than you meant. “And don’t forget—I didn’t choose to disappear. I was shot. Left for dead. Framed. And hiding was the only way I could survive.”

“I know that,” Hunter said, sighing. “Logically. But the kid in me—the one who used to run drills with a wooden training blade, who used to sneak out and sleep on your floor—he just wants to know why it doesn’t feel like coming home.”

You swallowed.

“That kid grew up,” you said. “So did I.”

Hunter’s jaw tightened. “Then maybe you shouldn’t have come back. Not like this. You don’t belong in this war anymore.”

That cut deeper than you thought it would.

You turned to face him fully, no venom in your voice—just exhaustion.

“This war doesn’t let anyone belong in it. You think I’m still standing here because I want to fight? I came back because I couldn’t keep pretending I wasn’t watching my sons walk off into battle while I did nothing. Because every day I didn’t come back felt like betrayal.”

Hunter looked at you—really looked—and the weight in his eyes cracked just slightly.

“It’s not betrayal,” he said softly. “It just… hurts.”

You stepped a little closer. Not touching him. Not pushing. Just present.

“I know,” you said. “It hurts for me too.”

The silence stretched again.

He exhaled, rubbed the back of his neck. “You could’ve left after Mandalore. You had your freedom.”

“I don’t want freedom without family.”

That caught him. You saw it in his eyes.

He didn’t answer. Not at first. But then he nodded—once—and turned toward the bunkroom.

As he reached the door, he paused.

“You’re not who you were before,” he said without turning back. “But I think… I’m still figuring out if that’s a bad thing.”

And then he was gone.

You stood there, staring out at hyperspace. Alone again.

But maybe—just maybe—you weren’t so far from home after all.

⸻

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