The Republic stands. The Jedi live. And our clones? They're chilling with their generals on Coruscant, while Anakin complains about paperwork and Ahsoka steals training sessions with Rex.
Welcome to the
delulu-but-safe Star Wars AU
Clothing & Fashion in the Clone-Wars-Post-AU: Part 1 |…| Part 2 |…| Part 3
The CT-Cassa:
You move in completely unaware into a rather large, government-subsidized housing complex, somewhere on Coruscant – nicely located, lots of concrete, but with a view. And then you realize: All your neighbors are... clones.
Follow the path of “Zee”, the completely normal but sweet nat-born, that moves into the apartment building full of clones.
Life in the CT-Cassa
What it means to live with clones in an apartment complex
CT-Casa: Hallway-to-Hallway Overview |…| Corridor Expansion: The Specialists are coming |…| The Bad Batch moves in
Zee’s First Day at “CT-Cassa”
CT-Casa" – Life Among 1000 Brothers (and You in the Middle)
Zee & Mephistopheles: The Battle for Attention Begins
Zee‘s first morning run with Wolffe
—>Operation: No morning run for Zee
—>Operation: Revenge of the Wolffe
CT-Cassa: The No Flirting Policy
—>Fox’s confidential flirting offender list |…| Vol. 2
The day they lost their emotional support civvie |…| Part 2
Clones vs. Men ☕️
And they were roommates |…| part 2
Tup and… Tub?
The rehabilitation centre
—> Zee and the rehab centre
The Zee-days
Written by anonymous
Ao3 invasion
Zee has other friends?!
More coming soon…
Ps: feel free to write me or ask questions about the AU. I’m still new to writing, so I’m open for feedback or just an open discussion or ideas.
Also: english is not my first language, so beware mistakes. 🫶🏻
I started a small taglist. If you want to be added, all you need to do is ask.
Important: EVERYONE is welcome here. We don’t discriminate or be offensive towards anyone. This blog is for fun and to share funny AU’s. Different opinions and ideas will be respected, so everyone can enjoy the posts and have fun.
Love your works, and I especially adore the safe Star Wars au. Could we see some soft parts of the clones with the civvy and just some heartwarming moments? I also feel like she has made a close friend group, including Mara and maybe 2 other girls and everyone loves hanging with the clones and each friend has their clone the one they connect with the most. They do like a bi-weekly whole building dinner/bonding and that’s how Zees friends meet everyone.
Love your writings, I wanna see so much 🫶🫶🫶
Sissy’s Masterlist
First of all, thank you for the kind words! I’m definitely not planning on stopping to write cause my head is filled with ideas! I had so much fun writing this and inventing new characters. Zee absolutely needed some Civvie friends. 🫶🏻
I love this because it makes Zee’s world feel much bigger. The clones are her family, but they aren’t her entire life. She has university, classmates, deadlines, embarrassing presentations, girls’ nights, and friends who slowly become part of this enormous, ridiculous family.
I’d imagine it as something like this:
⸻
One thing the clones learned very quickly after Zee moved into the apartment complex was that civilians collected people differently than soldiers did.
Clones met their brothers on Kamino.
They trained together.
Fought together.
Nearly every important relationship in their lives had been forged under orders, discipline, and war.
Zee, meanwhile, had somehow accumulated friends by accidentally running into someone while running out of the wrong lecture, walking into a pond while fleeing an aggressive duck, and offering someone half of her sandwich because she’d packed too much food.
It made absolutely no sense.
Yet somehow…
It worked.
When she first moved into the apartment building, the clones were convinced they’d become her entire social circle.
Then university started again.
And suddenly, every few days, she’d disappear for lectures before coming home with stories.
“Tony nearly got us thrown out of the library because she started arguing with someone about dragons.”
“Andy somehow got media credentials for a professional speeder race.”
“Mara made me remember to eat lunch.”
It became routine.
The clones didn’t know these people.
They just… existed.
Almost like recurring characters in stories.
Until one building dinner changed everything.
⸻
Building dinners had started as Rex’s idea.
Well…
Technically, it had started because Hardcase had attempted to cook enough pasta for their floor and accidentally produced enough to feed a Venator.
Rather than waste it, everyone had gathered in the communal hall.
Someone brought desserts.
Someone else brought drinks.
By the end of the evening, Rex had quietly suggested they should do this regularly.
Now, every other Saturday, one battalion hosted.
The menus rotated.
The responsibility rotated.
The inevitable kitchen disasters remained constant.
It had become tradition.
⸻
“I’m bringing friends.”
That was all Zee announced over breakfast.
Every conversation in the room stopped.
Fox slowly lowered his caf.
“…Plural.”
“Yep.”
“You have more?”
“I’ve literally told you about them for months.”
Hardcase frowned.
“I thought they were hypothetical.”
“…Hardcase.”
“What?”
“You’ve met Mara.”
“Yeah.”
“I have classes.”
“I know.”
“I’ve mentioned Tony approximately two hundred times.”
Echo looked thoughtful.
“…The fantasy one?”
“Yes.”
“And Andy is…”
“The photographer.”
“Hm.”
He nodded.
“I remember.”
Hardcase still looked suspicious.
“…They’re real?”
“They’re very real.”
⸻
The apartment building collectively spent the rest of the day preparing far more than necessary.
Nobody admitted it.
But everyone did.
The common hall got cleaned twice.
Someone polished the tables.
Tub baked fresh bread.
The Wolfpack argued about whether they should wear armour.
Fox absolutely forbade it.
“They’re guests.”
“But armour is nice.”
“No.”
“It’s formal.”
“No.”
⸻
The girls arrived together.
Mara came first.
She had her own access code by now.
She simply walked out of Zee’s and her apartment carrying homemade brownies.
Several clones greeted her before she’d even reached the elevator.
“Hi Mara.”
“Evening.”
“Trace is downstairs.”
“I figured.”
She smiled.
She’d become familiar enough with the building that she no longer looked like a guest.
She looked…
Home.
⸻
The second woman looked completely different.
Tall.
Athletic.
Dark-haired.
She carried herself with the quiet confidence of someone who knew exactly what she was capable of.
Not intimidating.
Grounded.
She wore jeans, sturdy boots and a fitted shirt beneath a leather jacket.
Over one shoulder hung a messenger bag.
Several handmade costume sketches poked out beside what appeared to be an absurdly thick fantasy novel.
She paused inside the lobby.
Looked around.
“…So this is the famous building.”
Zee grinned.
“Welcome to my circus.”
The woman snorted.
“I expected more explosions.”
“Give it five minutes.”
She turned toward the clones.
“So.”
“I’ve heard a lot about you.”
Zee clapped dramatically.
“Everyone!”
She pointed.
“This is Antonia.”
Tony immediately sighed.
“…Nobody calls me Antonia.”
“Which is exactly why I do.”
Tony rolled her eyes before offering a small wave.
“Tony.”
“Environmental sciences.”
“Third year.”
“I spend far too much money on fantasy books and cosplay materials.”
She glanced around.
“And apparently today I’m meeting several hundred genetically identical veterans.”
Tony shrugs her shoulders unbothered.
“Life’s weird.”
⸻
The first thing everyone noticed about Tony wasn’t her appearance.
It was that she seemed utterly unbothered.
Several dozen clone troopers were looking at her.
She simply looked back.
Calmly.
Curiously.
Like meeting hundreds of identical men was unusual, but not particularly alarming.
She shook Rex’s hand firmly.
Met Cody without hesitation.
Introduced herself to Wolffe as though he weren’t one of the Republic’s most intimidating commanders.
Then she noticed Echo had a paperback tucked beneath one arm.
Her eyes immediately narrowed.
“…Is that The Siege of Keldabe?”
Echo blinked.
“…Yes.”
“You’ve read it?”
“…Three times.”
She stared.
Then looked at Zee.
“You never told me your family was full of nerds.”
“We’re selectively nerdy.”
Tony ignored her.
Turning back to Echo, she asked, “Did you like the ending?”
Echo hesitated.
“…No.”
Tony pointed triumphantly.
“Correct answer.”
The two of them disappeared into conversation almost immediately.
By the end of the evening they were passionately debating fictional kingdoms while Sinker and Tub quietly listened, occasionally contributing surprisingly insightful opinions about world-building.
⸻
If Tony was steady, Andrea was chaos wrapped in designer clothing.
She arrived five minutes later because she’d stopped outside to photograph the sunset reflecting off the apartment building.
The first thing anyone noticed about Andy was that she looked like she’d stepped straight out of a fashion holomagazine.
Perfect hair.
Perfect eyeliner.
Perfect smile.
An expensive camera around her neck.
She somehow made casual clothes look expensive.
She walked into the lobby, raised her camera…
Click.
Flash.
Hardcase blinked.
“…Did you just photograph us?”
Andy looked at the display.
“…Oh, that’s adorable.”
“What is?”
“You all looked at the flash at exactly the same time.”
She held up the picture.
Every single clone had the identical confused expression.
She laughed.
“I’m keeping that.”
Zee groaned.
“Andy…”
“What? I’m documenting history.”
⸻
Andrea had one extraordinary talent.
She could start conversations with absolutely anyone.
Within ten minutes:
She knew Hound owned Grizzer.
She knew Jesse secretly liked baking.
She knew Gregor had proposed to Zee more than once.
She knew Tub had won the building’s cookie competition three months running.
She simply… asked.
And people answered.
Not because she interrogated them.
Because she made talking feel easy.
“So.”
She smiled at Hound.
“You actually ride speeders?”
“Mhm.”
“I photograph races.”
“No way.”
She was already scrolling through her camera.
“I’ve covered the Coruscant Open three years running.”
Hound leaned closer.
“…These are incredible.”
“I know.”
“No, seriously.”
She grinned.
“I won second place in an interplanetary photography competition.”
“You’re kidding.”
“I’m not.”
Within minutes the two of them were discussing engines, racers, camera lenses and race circuits like old friends.
Later, Hound would quietly admit to Rex that she’d taken the best photograph he’d ever seen of a speeder drifting through a rain-soaked corner.
⸻
Unlike Tony, who collected hobbies, Andy collected stories.
She knew everything happening on campus.
Not because she spread gossip maliciously.
Because people naturally told her things.
She remembered birthdays.
Recognized faces.
Could point at a random student across the cafeteria and casually remark,
“He switched majors last week because he failed chemistry twice.”
“How do you know that?”
“He cried in front of me while buying coffee.”
“…Fair enough.”
She also had absolutely no filter.
Halfway through dinner, someone turned on the holo-screen above the hall showing highlights from a professional Coruscant speeder race.
Andy looked up.
Immediately pointed.
“There.”
Everyone followed her finger.
“What?”
“The rider in blue.”
“What about him?”
“I could absolutely make terrible life decisions for that man.”
The table fell silent.
Fox, who had chosen that exact moment to walk past carrying a tray of drinks, stopped.
Looked at the screen.
Looked at Andy.
Continued walking.
“I don’t believe paperwork exists for that statement.”
Thorn nearly inhaled his drink.
⸻
Then there was Mara.
Who balanced the other three without ever trying. She was the glue between them.
If Zee entered a room like a meteor shower…
Andy like a spotlight…
Tony like someone who already knew where the exits were…
Mara simply made every room feel brighter.
She noticed things.
When Zee forgot to eat.
When Tony pushed herself too hard at the gym.
When Andy’s cheerful chatter became just a little forced.
She remembered everyone’s favourite tea.
Everyone’s birthdays.
Everyone’s exam schedules.
She carried spare painkillers, hair ties and tissues because, in her words,
“Someone always needs one.”
Trace often joked that Mara had quietly adopted the entire apartment building.
Nobody disagreed.
⸻
It didn’t take long before patterns emerged.
Tony could almost always be found wherever Echo was.
Sometimes Rex joined them.
Sometimes Wolffe.
They discussed fantasy novels, strategy games, Mandalorian history, fitness workouts, costume design and whether dragons would survive in different planetary atmospheres.
Echo eventually admitted that Tony’s handmade armour for conventions was “structurally impressive.”
Tony lived off that compliment for weeks.
⸻
Andy naturally gravitated toward the Coruscant Guard.
Not because of police work.
Because they owned the best speeders.
Hound introduced her to every clone who modified engines as a hobby.
Thorn volunteered to model for photographs because, according to him,
“If I’m getting photographed, I want to look heroic.”
Andy immediately made him stand next to Grizzer.
“The massiff improves the composition.”
“It improves everything.”
She also became the unofficial building photographer.
Graduations.
Birthdays.
Rehabilitation milestones.
New pets.
Gardening competitions.
Every building dinner.
Her photographs filled the hallways until the apartment complex slowly transformed into something the clones had never possessed before:
A family photo album.
⸻
Mara, unsurprisingly, spent most of her evenings with Trace.
But somehow…
Everyone else drifted toward her too.
Tub often helped her bake.
Patch asked her advice about university applications.
Latch liked sitting quietly with her because she never pressured conversations.
If someone had a difficult day…
They usually ended up drinking tea with Mara.
⸻
As for Zee…
She wandered between all three groups.
Interrupting serious fantasy debates to steal fries.
Photobombing Andy’s carefully composed pictures.
Dragging Mara onto the dance floor during building celebrations.
The clones eventually realized something.
Each friend loved a different version of Zee.
Tony loved the disaster who challenged her to climbing competitions despite losing every single one.
Andy loved the woman who would enthusiastically join spontaneous adventures without asking sensible questions first.
Mara loved the quiet version that only appeared late at night over mugs of tea after the chaos had settled.
And somehow…
All three friendships made Zee a little more herself.
By the end of the semester, nobody introduced them as “Zee’s university friends” anymore.
Tub simply asked,
“Is Tony coming tonight?”
Hound wondered if Andy wanted to attend the next speeder race.
Nobody ever managed to determine who infected the apartment complex.
Zee blamed Thorn.
Thorn blamed the holonet.
Fox blamed “the decline of civilization.”
Patch blamed free time.
Gregor blamed destiny.
The truth was probably some combination of all five.
It started quietly enough.
After the unfortunate AO3 Incident, Zee had made the mistake of trying to explain fanfiction to a room full of curious clones.
“It isn’t just romance,” she’d said, desperately trying to defend one of her favorite hobbies.
“There are adventure stories.”
“Alternate universes.”
“Mysteries.”
“Comedies.”
“People rewrite endings they didn’t like.”
“They explore characters.”
“They ask ‘what if?’”
The apartment had gone suspiciously quiet.
Looking back, she should have recognized that silence.
It was the sound of several thousand identical brains simultaneously having the same terrible idea.
⸻
A week later, Tech discovered that AO3 had gained approximately three hundred new accounts.
All of them had been created from Republic IP addresses.
He assumed it was a coincidence.
Then he looked at the usernames.
DefinitelyNotCommanderFox
HardcaseExplodesThings
CT-6116_Writes
CoffeeIsACharacter
TheRealCommanderGregor
TheRealCommanderGregor2
TheRealCommanderGregorPleaseReadThisOne
Tech quietly closed his datapad.
Then reopened it.
The accounts were still there.
“…Hunter.”
Hunter looked up from sharpening a knife.
“Hm?”
“I believe the GAR has discovered creative writing.”
Hunter frowned.
“…Should we be worried?”
Tech scrolled further.
“I honestly cannot tell.”
⸻
Hardcase became famous first.
Not because he was good.
Because he was enthusiastic.
His debut story was titled:
You, Me and My Beloved Z6 Rotary Blaster
It was tagged:
Fluff.
Friends to Lovers.
Mutual Pining.
Slow Burn.
Weapon Appreciation.
Nobody had expected much.
Until they read it.
It wasn’t really a romance.
Not intentionally.
It was four hundred thousand words of Hardcase lovingly describing every scratch, every repair, every mission he’d survived with his beloved Z6.
He gave the blaster dialogue.
The blaster had opinions.
The blaster comforted him after difficult missions.
There was an entire chapter where he painstakingly cleaned every component while reflecting on trust.
The comments were overwhelmingly supportive.
“I cried when Chapter 67 revealed she’d been damaged on Umbara.”
“I cannot believe you’ve made me emotionally invested in a machine gun.”
“This is somehow healthier than half the romances on this website.”
Hardcase printed every comment.
⸻
The Coruscant Guard developed a niche.
Nobody was surprised.
Every single story somehow involved paperwork.
Stone wrote detective mysteries.
Thorn continued his increasingly famous coffee romances.
And an anonymous Guard trooper writing under the name CaffIsMyCoPilot accidentally became one of AO3’s most beloved comedy authors.
His masterpiece was:
Seven Cups of Caf and One Existential Crisis
It followed an unnamed Guard trooper hopelessly in love with the caf machine on Level Four.
Not metaphorically.
Literally.
The caf machine was written like a difficult romantic partner.
It refused to cooperate.
It broke at inconvenient moments.
It dispensed terrible caf whenever the protagonist forgot to clean it.
Readers adored it.
Nobody ever discovered the author was Thire.
Not even Thorn.
⸻
The 212th interpreted fanfiction as an opportunity for revenge.
Boil wrote exactly one story.
It was called:
The Curious Haunting of Unit Pebble.
Every single chapter accused Waxer of being responsible.
Waxer immediately responded by writing the sequel.
Pebble’s Revenge: A Botanical Tragedy
In which Boil’s beloved plant left him to pursue a healthier relationship with Pebble.
The comment section devolved into a full-scale argument between members of the 212th.
Outside readers assumed it was incredibly dedicated roleplay.
It wasn’t.
Boil and Waxer were simply arguing through literature.
Cody eventually discovered both stories.
He sighed.
Left exactly one comment.
“Canonically inaccurate.”
Neither of them ever recovered.
⸻
The Wolfpack treated writing like after-action reports.
Every sentence was concise.
Every description practical.
Until Sinker published:
The Blanket Offensive.
A gripping domestic drama in which Commander Wolffe accidentally adopted twelve blankets over the course of one Coruscanti winter and became emotionally incapable of throwing any away.
Nobody expected it to become wildly popular.
Readers described it as:
“Surprisingly moving.”
“A beautiful meditation on healing.”
“The blanket symbolism destroyed me.”
Wolffe quietly bought Sinker lunch the next day.
Neither of them acknowledged why.
⸻
Then Gregor discovered tags.
Nobody should have allowed Gregor near tags.
His first story had ninety-seven of them.
The title alone required scrolling.
My Future Wife Definitely Loves Me, This Is Not Delusion, Captain Rex Stop Editing My Summary
The story itself lasted approximately three paragraphs.
The remaining seventy pages consisted of author’s notes.
Every chapter ended with:
Author’s Note: Zee if you’re reading this, dinner on Thursday?
Zee replied exactly once.
“Gregor, I’m literally sitting across from you.”
Gregor printed the reply.
Framed it.
Claimed it was “progress.”
⸻
Commander Bacara quietly read all of these developments over tea.
He found the hobby… pleasant.
Creative.
Unexpectedly therapeutic.
Patch assumed the commander might eventually try writing something himself.
He was wrong.
Commander Bacara had no interest in publishing.
Instead, he filled a leather notebook.
No usernames.
No uploads.
No audience.
Just stories.
Short ones.
Thoughtful ones.
Sometimes about Kamino.
Sometimes about the Marines.
Sometimes about Copper chasing autumn leaves.
Sometimes about Miss Zee falling asleep over university books with Mephisto draped across her shoulders.
He never showed anyone.
Not because he was embarrassed.
Simply because they were written for himself.
Patch discovered the notebook entirely by accident months later when Bacara asked him to fetch a report from his desk.
The notebook had slipped open.
Just enough for Patch to glimpse the first page.
The handwriting was impossibly neat.
The title read:
Things Worth Remembering.
Patch didn’t read further.
He quietly closed it again.
Some stories, he thought, didn’t need an audience.
⸻
Then there was Fox.
Everyone wondered if Fox would ever write.
Fox insisted he had no interest whatsoever.
Writing fiction was inefficient.
Impractical.
A poor use of government resources.
Three months later, Tech noticed a brand-new anonymous account.
No profile picture.
No biography.
One story.
Twenty-three thousand words.
Title:
Standard Operating Procedure 14-B: If Your Idiot Brother Has Somehow Fallen Through A Skylight Again
It was a painfully accurate comedy about the Coruscant Guard dealing with increasingly ridiculous emergencies while one exhausted commander attempted to maintain order.
Nobody knew who wrote it.
Except Thorn.
Because Fox had accidentally cited the Republic Emergency Response Manual in Chapter Three.
Only one person in the entire GAR voluntarily quoted legislation in fiction.
Because Commander Fox had, somehow, accidentally become an internet phenomenon.
It had started innocently enough.
Some university student had snapped a blurry holopic of Fox at four in the morning, standing outside Guard Headquarters with his helmet tucked under one arm and a cup of caf in the other.
The caption had read:
“Saw this exhausted clone commander glaring at traffic like it had personally insulted his ancestors.”
The image had gone viral.
Someone had dubbed him The Caf Commander.
Someone else had made memes.
Then artists got involved.
And finally…
The fanfiction writers arrived.
Zee had discovered this entirely by accident while scrolling one evening.
She’d laughed so hard she nearly fell off the couch.
Because apparently the internet had collectively decided that Commander Fox was physically incapable of expressing affection through words.
Instead…
He communicated exclusively through coffee.
One story was titled:
Five Times Commander Fox Bought Someone Caf (And The One Time It Meant “I Love You”)
The summary read:
Marshal Commander Fox has exactly three emotional states: tired, caffeinated and concerned. Unfortunately for everyone around him, these are all expressed by silently placing caf cups in front of people and walking away before they can say thank you.
Another had somehow reached two hundred thousand words.
The Language of Caf
Nobody realizes Commander Fox has been courting the same person for three years because everyone mistakes his increasingly elaborate coffee orders for standard Guard paperwork.
There was even an absurd slow burn.
Extra Shot, No Sugar
She keeps stealing the Marshal Commander’s reserved seat at the café every Tuesday morning. He keeps pretending it annoys him. Neither of them notices they’re already in love.
Zee had been wheezing by the end.
“They’ve turned him into an emotionally constipated coffee pigeon.”
Mara had looked over her shoulder.
“…why is that weirdly accurate?”
“It shouldn’t be!”
“It really shouldn’t.”
⸻
Three weeks later, Thorn was dying.
Not literally.
Emotionally.
Because Fox had walked into the office holding a datapad.
“Commander.”
“Sir?”
Fox looked thoughtful.
Which was infinitely more terrifying than angry.
“I have discovered literature.”
Thorn froze.
“…Congratulations?”
Fox placed the datapad on the desk.
“There appear to be numerous fictional stories concerning me.”
Every instinct Thorn possessed screamed.
Run.
Instead, he looked down.
Saw the title.
Immediately recognized it.
And felt his soul leave his body.
Because he knew every single one.
He’d written them.
Not under Commander Thorn, obviously.
He wasn’t suicidal.
He wrote under the username:
CaffinatedCoruscantGuard
With two Fs.
The typo had annoyed him for years.
Fox sat down opposite him.
“I have been reading.”
Thorn wondered if jumping out of the window would hurt.
Probably.
Still preferable.
Fox continued.
“I find them surprisingly pleasant.”
Thorn blinked.
“…Sir?”
“They are inaccurate.”
“…Yes?”
“I have never deliberately purchased caf as a declaration of affection.”
“…No, sir.”
“However…”
Fox frowned thoughtfully.
“…it is a practical method.”
Thorn’s brain stopped functioning.
Fox tapped one story.
“This author appears to possess an intimate understanding of Guard logistics.”
Thorn stopped breathing.
“The paperwork references are correct.”
Silence.
“And the shift rotations.”
Silence.
“The emergency ration regulations.”
Silence.
“The procedure for Senate security escorts.”
Silence.
Fox leaned back in his chair.
“I suspect the author has served in the Guard.”
Thorn briefly considered confessing to every crime he’d ever committed.
Can we get a part 2 of „and then they were roommates” and what happens with their feelings for each other (you decide what would happen and how they’d confess it to each of them) . Love your works sm and I hope new ones are to come
Sissy’s Masterlist
First of all thank you! I have been quite busy recently, but that didn’t stop me from writing new stories. They just weren’t completely finished yet, but there is definitely more to come! —with much love, your Sissy🫶🏻
And they were roommates… part two
The first thing Mara learned about living with Zee was that nothing in the apartment made sense.
Not because it was dirty.
Not because it was disorganized.
No.
There was organization.
It was just…
Zee organization.
Which was not the same thing as normal people organization.
For example, there was apparently a specific mug reserved for emotional crises.
Another for assignment-induced suffering.
One for “I survived a group project.”
And one with an ugly tooka on it which Zee had declared “the mug of shame” and used whenever she made questionable life decisions.
Mara had no idea what qualified as a questionable life decision.
Then she witnessed Zee attempting to cook pasta in the kettle because she didn’t want to dirty another pot.
She understood immediately.
The second thing she learned was that the clones had apparently decided she belonged to them.
Not in a creepy way.
Not in an overwhelming way.
But in the strange, affectionate manner of brothers who had suddenly acquired another civvie.
And nobody was more excited about this development than Waxer.
“Oh! Mara!”
She looked up from her textbook.
Waxer stood in the doorway holding cookies.
“Cookies?”
“Where did you get those?”
“Boil made them.”
Mara accepted one cautiously.
It was delicious.
“These are amazing.”
Waxer beamed like she’d just awarded him a medal.
“I’ll tell him!”
And before she could stop him, he was gone.
Thirty seconds later, Boil appeared.
Trying and failing to look casual.
“Waxer said you liked the cookies.”
“They were really good.”
Boil nodded once.
Then twice.
Then awkwardly offered her the entire container.
“You should have more.”
By the end of the evening she somehow possessed three containers of cookies and had no idea how this had happened.
⸻
At first, Mara was always apologizing.
Sorry for using the shower.
Sorry for eating food.
Sorry for sitting on the couch.
Sorry for existing in the general vicinity.
The apologies came automatically.
Years of being told she was difficult had done that.
And the clones hated it.
Not hated her.
Hated hearing it.
Because every apology felt wrong.
Like seeing Rex wear pink.
Or Fox smile genuinely.
Something fundamentally unnatural.
“Sorry.”
“No.”
“Sorry.”
“No.”
“Sorry.”
“No.”
Eventually Fives snapped.
Not angrily.
Just dramatically.
“Mara, if you apologize for breathing one more time, I am going to cry.”
She blinked.
“What?”
“I mean it.”
“Fives—”
“I’m sensitive!”
“You are not.”
“I am now!”
Rex pinched the bridge of his nose.
“Fives.”
“No, Rex, this is serious. She’s apologizing because she sat down.”
“I know.”
“She asked permission to use the microwave.”
“I know.”
“She thanked me for opening a door.”
“I know!”
“And she apologized to Mephisto because she accidentally sat on his toy.”
From the couch, Zee looked up.
“To be fair, he was very offended.”
Mephisto chirped angrily.
Fives pointed triumphantly.
“See?”
Poor Mara just stared.
And then, unexpectedly—
She laughed.
Not politely.
Not softly.
Really laughed.
And every clone in the room froze.
Because that was new.
And then Fives started crying.
Because of course he did.
“I made her laugh!”
“Fives, stop sobbing.”
“It’s beautiful, Rex!”
⸻
Trace, meanwhile, was doomed.
Absolutely doomed.
Because somewhere between helping her carry books and lending her notes from the clone rehab classes and sitting with her during movie nights, he had fallen hopelessly in love.
Which everyone knew.
Everyone.
Except Mara.
And Trace.
Who was in denial.
“She’s nice.”
“Trace.”
“She’s pretty.”
“Not this again...”
“She likes my tea.”
“That’s the third time in the last five hours...”
“She called me sweet.”
“TRACE.”
Waxer buried his face in his hands.
“Please.”
Boil was suffering.
The entire 212th was suffering.
Because Trace apparently had all the romantic instincts of a particularly anxious tooka.
He would spend three hours gathering the courage to compliment Mara’s sweater.
Then panic halfway through.
“I like your—”
Pause.
Visible terror.
“—wall.”
“…wall?”
“Good wall.”
And then he’d flee.
Literally flee.
Mara was bewildered.
“Did I say something wrong?”
“No,” Boil answered, staring into the distance.
“Trace is simply stupid.”
⸻
But slowly, little by little, the walls around Mara began to crack.
Not because anyone forced them down.
Because nobody did.
They simply…
Stayed.
Which was unfamiliar.
If Mara had a bad day?
Nobody got angry.
If she was quiet?
Nobody demanded explanations.
If she wanted company?
Someone appeared.
If she wanted space?
Everyone respected it.
And that confused her.
Because she’d become so used to relationships being conditional.
So used to affection being transactional.
That she didn’t know what to do with kindness that expected nothing in return.
One evening she found herself crying over burnt toast.
Not because of the toast.
Never the toast.
And immediately she expected annoyance.
Frustration.
Exasperation.
Instead, she found Tup.
Soft, sweet Tup.
Who blinked in concern.
“Bad day?”
And that was it.
No judgment.
No questions.
Just concern.
And somehow that made her cry harder.
Within ten minutes the kitchen had become a disaster.
Waxer had tea.
Boil had tissues.
Tub had somehow acquired three blankets.
Fives was offering emotional support despite being emotionally unstable himself.
And Rex, poor Rex, was looking around in panic.
“What do people do?”
“Rex, she’s crying, not bleeding.”
“I know that!”
“Then stop looking like that!”
“I DON’T KNOW WHAT THE PROCEDURE IS!”
Mara laughed through her tears.
And suddenly Rex relaxed.
“Good.”
“What?”
“You’re laughing.”
“Rex, I was crying.”
“And now you’re laughing.”
Like that explained everything.
Maybe to Rex, it did.
⸻
Trace finally broke about four months after Mara moved in.
Not mentally.
Romantically.
Because Zee had enough.
“Trace.”
“Yes?”
“You’re asking her out.”
Trace dropped his spoon.
“What.”
“Today.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“No.”
“Trace.”
“No.”
“Trace.”
“No.”
Fox looked up from his caf.
“She’s going to outlive us all.”
“I KNOW.”
“Ask the woman out.”
“NO.”
Fox sighed.
“Pathetic.”
“Fox!”
“You’ve been making heart eyes for months.”
“I HAVE NOT.”
“You carried six boxes because she said one was heavy.”
“That’s called manners.”
“You learned baking.”
“That’s called—”
“You hate baking.”
“…”
“And you cried when she had the flu.”
“THAT WAS PRIVATE.”
“Nothing is private when Fives exists.”
“TRUE!” Fives yelled from another room.
Trace considered death.
⸻
What finally destroyed him was completely accidental.
Mara had fallen asleep studying.
Curled on the couch.
Book in her lap.
Blanket slipping.
And Trace quietly covered her with it again.
Thinking nobody noticed.
Unfortunately, Fox had.
Of course he had.
Fox noticed everything.
And being Fox, he chose violence.
The next morning he walked into breakfast and announced:
“Good morning, Mara. Did you know Sergeant Trace stared at you for twelve minutes while smiling like an idiot?”
Trace choked.
Waxer fell off his chair.
Boil screamed.
Tub inhaled his cereal.
And Mara turned bright red.
“FOX!”
“What?”
“YOU MENACE!”
“I am providing information.”
“YOU ARE EVIL.”
“Objectively.”
Everyone expected disaster.
Instead
Mara laughed.
Then she looked at Trace.
Poor, horrified Trace.
Who looked seconds away from requesting reassignment to another galaxy.
And very softly she asked,
“You smiled at me?”
Trace wished for death.
Immediate death.
“Fox is lying.”
“He isn’t.”
“Fox!”
“Sorry. Fourteen minutes.”
“FOX!”
Mara giggled.
Actually giggled.
And Trace stopped functioning.
Because Mara was smiling.
At him.
Not politely.
Not because she had to.
But warmly.
Affectionately.
And suddenly she understood.
Understood why Waxer kept smirking.
Why Boil sighed dramatically.
Why Zee seemed perpetually amused.
Why Fox was a menace.
Trace liked her.
Trace really liked her.
And perhaps She liked him too.
Which meant the entire apartment complex became unbearable.
Because now they had two problems.
One:
Mara and Trace were in love.
And two:
Fox knew.
And if there was one thing the Marshal Commander loved more than caf and psychological warfare, then it was ruining his brothers’ peace in the most affectionate way possible.
Poor Trace never stood a chance.
⸻
By the time they finally confessed, everyone except Trace and Mara had known for months.
Not suspected.
Known.
Boil knew.
Waxer knew.
Tub knew.
Fives had known since approximately three business seconds after Mara moved in and had been insufferable about it ever since.
Fox knew.
Which was unfortunate for everyone involved.
And Zee?
Zee had known from the moment Trace nearly dropped an entire stack of boxes on his own foot because Mara smiled at him.
Poor Trace never stood a chance.
The only people unaware of the painfully obvious situation were Trace and Mara themselves.
Which was impressive.
Truly.
A feat worthy of scientific study.
Tech had once spent twenty minutes trying to explain it.
“Objectively, they are displaying all signs of mutual romantic affection.”
Crosshair had snorted.
“They’re idiots.”
“Correct.”
Wrecker had simply hugged both of them.
Hunter had sighed.
And Echo had quietly asked if it was too late to put them in the same room and lock the door.
Fox had considered it.
Seriously.
But Thorn had confiscated his plans.
⸻
Mara had been living with Zee for almost seven months.
The guest room no longer felt like a guest room.
Her books had spread across the apartment.
She and Zee had developed a system where one made coffee while the other complained about university.
Mephisto had officially decided Mara was acceptable.
Which meant he only bit her occasionally.
She had movie nights with the boys.
Boil had taught her how to bake.
Waxer sent her funny animal videos.
Tub brought tea whenever she looked stressed.
And somehow she’d become part of this strange, ridiculous family.
Which terrified her.
Not because she didn’t love them.
Because she did.
But because she’d spent so long believing people eventually got tired of her.
That kindness still felt temporary.
And then there was Trace.
Sweet.
Gentle.
Ridiculously kind Trace.
Who remembered how she liked her tea.
Who always carried the heavy grocery bags.
Who listened.
Who made her laugh.
Who blushed whenever she complimented him.
Who looked at her like she hung the stars.
Which was ridiculous.
Because she was just Mara.
Just the girl with too much baggage and a toxic past.
Just the girl who’d shown up with a suitcase and nowhere else to go.
Surely Trace deserved someone better.
Which was exactly what Trace thought about himself.
Surely Mara deserved someone better.
Someone smoother.
Someone less awkward.
Someone who didn’t accidentally compliment walls.
Someone who didn’t panic every time she touched his hand.
Someone who wasn’t stupid enough to fall in love with his best friend’s friend.
Trace had convinced himself she was simply being nice.
Because Mara was kind.
Mara smiled at everyone.
Mara hugged Tub when he cried.
Mara helped Zee with assignments.
Mara brought Patch thank-you cards.
Of course she was nice.
That didn’t mean she liked him.
Right?
Poor idiot.
⸻
Fox finally snapped.
Not dramatically.
Not loudly.
Which somehow made it worse.
He simply walked into breakfast one morning.
Looked at Trace.
Looked at Mara.
Looked back at Trace.
And said,
“Your suffering has become irritating.”
Trace blinked.
“What?”
“Ask her out.”
Silence.
Mara nearly inhaled her cereal.
Trace turned scarlet.
“Fox!”
“You stare.”
“I do not.”
“You carried six grocery bags because she said one looked heavy.”
“That was manners!”
“You learned to knit.”
“…”
“You hate knitting.”
“…”
“You nearly started a fight with Fives because he stole the last strawberry yogurt and Mara likes strawberry yogurt.”
“It was the principle!”
Fox took a sip of caf.
“Pathetic.”
“FOX!”
Mara was red.
Trace was red.
Tub had hidden behind his tea.
Waxer was suffering.
Boil had given up on life.
And Zee, the traitor, was trying not to laugh.
⸻
Nothing happened.
Of course.
Because Trace was a coward.
And Mara was convinced he could never like her.
Until one evening.
It wasn’t special.
No dramatic sunset.
No romantic music.
No grand gesture.
Just life.
Zee had fallen asleep over her assignment again.
Mephisto was sprawled on top of her.
Tub was reading.
Fives and Hardcase were arguing over a game.
Fox was terrorizing Cody over comm.
Normal.
Mara sat on the balcony.
Curled beneath a blanket.
Looking tired.
Trace found her there.
“Hey.”
She smiled.
“Hey.”
“Mind if I sit?”
“Never.”
And Trace’s heart did that stupid thing again.
The one where it practically melted.
They sat in comfortable silence.
Watching Coruscant.
Listening to distant traffic.
Eventually Mara sighed.
“I still keep expecting it.”
“What?”
“The yelling.”
Trace frowned.
“From my old roommate.”
She smiled weakly.
“I know it sounds silly.”
“It doesn’t.”
“Sometimes I leave dishes in the sink and I panic.”
Trace’s heart broke a little.
“Nobody’s angry.”
“I know.”
“But I still expect it.”
She looked down.
“I still feel guilty sometimes.”
“For what?”
“For being here.”
Trace stared at her.
Actually stared.
“Mara.”
She didn’t look up.
“I know everyone says I belong here, but—”
“Mara.”
Her voice became quieter.
“Zee’s done so much.”
“And?”
“And I don’t want to be a burden.”
Trace looked horrified.
A genuinely offended kind of horrified.
Like she’d just insulted his favorite blanket.
“Mara.”
She finally looked at him.
And Trace said the words with such absolute sincerity that she almost cried.
“You’ve never been a burden.”
He looked bewildered that she’d even think it.
“You know what Waxer asked me last week?”
She blinked.
“What?”
“If you’d like matching sweaters for Life Day.”
“…what?”
“Boil keeps baking your favorite cookies.”
Her eyes widened.
“Tub made a list of teas you like.”
“What?”
“Fives nearly fought a man because he said your favorite holofilm was boring.”
Mara burst out laughing.
“He what?”
“He considered it a personal insult.”
“And Zee?”
Trace smiled.
“Zee already calls you her sister.”
Mara’s eyes watered.
“And me?”
His voice softened.
“I don’t remember what this place was like before you.”
Oh.
Oh.
Trace froze.
Because that had slipped out.
His eyes widened.
Panic.
Horror.
Immediate regret.
“No, wait, I—”
He stood up so quickly he almost tripped over the blanket.
“I didn’t mean—not that I don’t—I mean—”
Mara stared.
Trace looked seconds away from throwing himself off the balcony.
“Trace?”
“I’ve ruined everything.”
“No.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Trace.”
“You don’t have to say anything.”
“Trace.”
“I understand.”
“TRACE.”
He stopped.
Poor thing looked ready to cry.
And Mara realized something.
For months she’d been wondering.
Wondering if she imagined the smiles.
The blushing.
The tea.
The little acts of kindness.
And here he was.
Terrified.
Because he thought he’d made her uncomfortable.
Not angry.
Not entitled.
Not expecting anything.
Just worried about her.
And suddenly she saw him clearly.
Sweet Trace.
Kind Trace.
The man who learned baking because she liked cookies.
Who remembered her favorite flowers.
Who blushed when she touched his hand.
Who looked at her like she mattered.
And maybe… maybe she has been in love with him for a while too.
“Trace.”
“…yes?”
“I really hope you meant it.”
He blinked.
“What?”
She smiled nervously.
“Because that would be embarrassing otherwise.”
His brain stopped.
“What?”
“I said I hope you meant it.”
He stared.
And stared.
And stared.
Crosshair once claimed clone troopers didn’t blue-screen.
Crosshair had never seen Trace.
“I—”
Blue screen.
“I—”
Still loading.
“I—”
Mara giggled.
“Trace?”
“You like me?”
And Mara laughed.
Actually laughed.
“Trace.”
“You like me?”
“Yes.”
“Me?”
“Yes.”
“Really me?”
“Trace.”
“Not someone else?”
“Trace.”
“Actually me?”
Mara was laughing so hard tears appeared.
“YES!”
Trace made a sound.
Not a word.
Just a sound.
And then very carefully.
Very gently.
He hugged her.
As though she might disappear.
And Mara hugged him back.
And for the first time in years she felt safe.
Truly safe.
Loved.
Wanted.
Home.
⸻
They kept it secret.
For approximately fourteen hours.
Because Fives saw them holding hands.
And screamed so loudly that Wolffe thought someone had died.
Within ten minutes the entire apartment knew.
Tub cried.
Waxer cried.
Boil hugged Trace so hard he nearly died.
Rex congratulated them.
Zee cried.
Mephisto demanded snacks.
And Fox—
Fox simply looked at the happy couple.
Took a sip of caf.
And smirked.
“Fourteen months.”
Trace groaned.
“Fox.”
“I won the betting pool.”
“FOX!”
“Commander Cody owes me fifty credits.”
From across the comm, Cody shouted:
“YOU CHEATED!”
“I merely observed.”
“You manipulated events!”
“Semantics.”
And while everyone argued…
Mara smiled.
Trace smiled.
And neither noticed.
Because they were too busy looking at each other.
Poor idiots.
Everyone else had simply been waiting for them to catch up.
Mara had brought dessert, Trace was pretending not to sit next to her on purpose, and Mephisto was trying to commit crimes against Boil’s roast.
Everything was peaceful.
Which should have been everyone’s first warning.
Because Fives was suspiciously quiet.
Rex was sighing dramatically.
And Waxer looked like he was preparing himself emotionally.
Zee narrowed her eyes.
“What?”
Nobody answered.
“What?”
Fives sniffled.
Actually sniffled.
“We just think…”
“No.”
“…that maybe…”
“No.”
“…you don’t love us anymore.”
Silence.
Zee stared.
Mara stared.
Trace stopped chewing.
Even Mephisto paused.
“…what.”
Waxer sighed sadly.
“You’ve been so busy.”
“Waxer, I saw you twenty minutes ago.”
“But emotionally.”
“Emotionally?”
Rex nodded solemnly.
“Emotionally.”
Zee looked around.
The 501st had somehow gathered.
The 212th were all present.
Half the Wolfpack was lurking.
And Fox—
Fox was drinking caf with the expression of a man attending the theatre.
The bastard.
“You are all ridiculous.”
“We know,” Fives agreed sadly.
“But we suffer.”
“From what?”
“Neglect.”
“FIVES.”
Tub looked heartbroken.
“We miss you.”
“Tub, you live three staircases away.”
“But spiritually.”
Mara buried her face in her hands.
Trace looked fascinated.
Fox looked delighted.
“Proceed, ARC Trooper Fives. Present your evidence.”
“Thank you, Commander.”
Zee pointed.
“Don’t encourage him!”
Fox took another sip of caf.
“Counterpoint: it’s funny.”
Fives stood dramatically.
“The 501st has not had a movie night in—”
He checked his datapad.
“—eight days.”
“Eight days?!”
“We almost perished.”
“FIVES!”
Boil crossed his arms.
“The 212th haven’t gone grocery shopping with you in over a week.”
“You don’t need supervision while buying vegetables!”
“We like supervision.”
The Wolfpack looked wounded.
“We haven’t watched documentaries with you.”
“Wolffe, that was six days ago.”
“Exactly.”
“And Fox sees me literally every day.”
Everyone turned.
Fox blinked.
“I am simply here for the entertainment.”
“Liar.”
“Correct.”
Eventually, after ten more minutes of emotional manipulation and Tub looking one sad expression away from tears, Zee surrendered.
“Fine!”
The room froze.
“Fine?”
“I’ll spend one whole day with each battalion.”
The apartment exploded.
Fives nearly ascended.
Waxer hugged Boil.
Boost screamed.
Tub actually cried.
Fox choked on his caf.
“You are crying?”
Tub wiped his eyes.
“Happy tears.”
Mara whispered to Trace:
“Are they always like this?”
Trace smiled.
“Worse.”
“How?”
“We haven’t reached birthdays yet.”
Mara looked afraid.
Reasonable.
And so it was decided.
Monday belonged to the 501st.
Tuesday to the 212th.
Wednesday to the Wolfpack.
Thursday to the Coruscant Guard.
Nobody trusted the others.
Timetables were created.
Fox notarized them.
Nobody knew why.
Fox didn’t know either.
But it felt official.
⸻
Monday with the 501st turned out to be a mistake.
Not because Zee didn’t love them.
She did.
But because the 501st had interpreted “spend time together” as “kidnap the civvie for an entire day.”
At eight in the morning, Hardcase appeared.
With confetti.
“Operation Fun has begun!”
“Hardcase, it’s eight!”
“Exactly!”
By eight-thirty, Zee had somehow been dragged to breakfast.
By ten, she was playing Dejarik with Echo.
By noon, she’d lost three games to Rex and one to a smug little menace named Fives.
By fourteen hundred, they were building pillow forts.
By sixteen hundred, Anakin had joined.
By seventeen hundred, the fort had somehow become a military campaign.
“Hardcase breached the eastern wall!”
“Counterattack!”
“Protect the snacks!”
“Skywalker cheated!”
“I DID NOT!”
“You used the Force!”
“IT’S A PILLOW!”
By evening, Rex was asleep.
Fives was upside down on the couch.
Hardcase had vanished beneath several blankets.
And Zee found herself smiling.
Because they were ridiculous.
Her ridiculous boys.
⸻
Tuesday belonged to the 212th.
Which meant chaos of a completely different kind.
The 212th liked domestic things.
And gossip.
Good grief, they gossiped.
They were old grandmothers trapped inside clone bodies.
Boil wanted grocery shopping.
Waxer wanted lunch.
Cody just wanted peace.
Poor fool.
By eleven in the morning, Zee and the boys had spent forty-five minutes debating tomatoes.
Forty-five minutes.
Cody looked ready to defect.
“They’re tomatoes.”
“These ones are better.”
“They are identical.”
“No, Commander.”
Waxer gasped.
“That one is bruised!”
Cody pinched the bridge of his nose.
“We fought Separatists.”
“We know.”
“And this is what breaks you?”
“Commander, standards matter.”
At lunch, Cody made the mistake of mentioning a new caf shop.
The next thing he knew, six brothers and one civvie were ranking pastries.
He suffered.
Nobody cared.
And by evening, Cody found himself sitting on the balcony with Zee while Boil and Waxer argued over houseplants.
“…they’re strange.”
Zee smiled.
“They really are.”
“Thank you.”
“What for?”
“For putting up with them.”
“Cody.”
“Hm?”
“They’re family.”
And Cody looked suspiciously emotional.
Which Boil absolutely never teased him about.
Ever.
⸻
Wednesday belonged to the Wolfpack.
And the Wolfpack had plans.
Bad plans.
Plans made by Boost.
Which meant Wolffe had a migraine before breakfast.
“Boost.”
“Yes, Commander?”
“Why are there maps?”
“Adventure.”
“No.”
“Adventure!”
They ended up visiting museums.
Then bookstores.
Then a nature reserve.
Because the Wolfpack secretly liked quiet things.
And because Plo Koon had somehow joined them halfway through.
Naturally.
He was their buir.
The boys adored him.
And Zee loved watching them become softer around him.
At one point she looked back.
And saw Sinker explaining birds to Plo Koon.
Boost arguing with a squirrel.
Comet buying souvenirs.
And Wolffe pretending he wasn’t carrying everyone’s bags.
He caught her smiling.
“What.”
“Nothing.”
“Don’t.”
“You’re carrying all the bags.”
“They’re inefficient.”
“Sure.”
“Stop smiling.”
“You love them.”
“No.”
“Wolffe.”
“…yes.”
⸻
Thursday belonged to the Coruscant Guard.
And everyone prayed.
Because Fox had organized it.
Which meant nobody knew what horrors awaited.
Even Thorn looked nervous.
Zee arrived expecting disaster.
Instead, Fox had prepared—
A list.
Naturally.
A terrifyingly organized list.
Breakfast.
Bookstore.
Caf.
Museum.
Lunch.
Nap.
“Fox.”
“Yes?”
“Why is nap scheduled?”
“Efficiency.”
“You scheduled a nap.”
“You require rest.”
“I’m not a child.”
“And?”
“Fox.”
“Did you know seventy-three percent of your naps are accidental?”
“…you tracked my naps?”
“No.”
“Fox.”
“…perhaps.”
By lunchtime, Zee had learned that the Coruscant Guard collectively survived on caf, spite, and Fox’s increasingly questionable leadership.
By afternoon, Thorn had taught her card games.
Stone had bought her tea.
Hound had brought Grizzer.
And Fox, terrifyingly enough seemed happy.
Relaxed.
Almost peaceful.
Which was rare.
They sat on a bench overlooking Coruscant.
Neither speaking.
Fox drinking caf.
Zee drinking tea.
Comfortable silence.
Eventually Fox spoke.
“You know.”
“Hm?”
“They’re ridiculous.”
“They are.”
“Needy.”
“Very.”
“Dramatic.”
“Extremely.”
“Emotionally unstable.”
“Fox.”
“That one was Fives.”
“Fair.”
Silence again.
Then quietly:
“They love you.”
Zee smiled.
“I know.”
“And they know you love them.”
“Then why all this?”
Fox took another sip.
“Because they’re idiots.”
“And you?”
Fox smirked.
“I am observing the idiots.”
“Liar.”
“Correct.”
Then, after a moment:
“…thank you.”
Zee blinked.
“For what?”
Fox looked away.
“As Marshal Commander, I am required to maintain discipline.”
“Fox—”
“And somehow, despite all logic, they smile more now.”
His voice softened.
“They laugh.”
A pause.
“They heal.”
Another pause.
“And some of us forgot that was possible.”
Zee smiled.
“You’re welcome.”
Fox adjusted his kama.
Looking suspiciously uncomfortable.
“Never speak of this.”
“Of course.”
“Good.”
“Because emotional vulnerability is against regulations?”
“Exactly.”
“And the regulations exist?”
“No.”
They sat quietly after that.
Watching speeders.
Drinking tea and caf.
And somewhere across Coruscant, the 501st, 212th and Wolfpack were already complaining.
Because four days wasn’t enough.
And really the greatest tragedy in Zee’s life was not university.
Or exams.
Or Mephisto’s crimes.
It was that she had somehow acquired several hundred clingy clone troopers.
And they all thought they deserved exclusive visitation rights to their emotional support civvie.
Which, unfortunately for her, they absolutely did.
The problem with clone troopers was simple.
They talked.
Constantly.
Not just within battalions.
No.
⸻
Apparently every clone in the Republic possessed some kind of mysterious brotherly hivemind that allowed gossip to spread faster than hyperspace travel.
Which meant that by Friday morning, everyone knew.
And by everyone, Zee meant everyone.
Because she walked into the kitchen and immediately found Commander Bly sitting at her table.
Not unusual.
Bly visited often.
What was unusual was his expression.
The man looked betrayed.
Deeply betrayed.
He was drinking tea with the solemnity of a widower.
Zee froze.
“…Bly?”
He sighed heavily.
“Oh, good morning.”
“…what happened?”
Another sigh.
“I suppose I’m simply unimportant.”
Zee blinked.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Bly.”
“No, no.”
He stared dramatically into his tea.
“Enjoy your time with the others.”
“…”
“I’ll survive.”
“BLY.”
“Commander Fox informed me about the schedule.”
Zee slowly turned.
Fox sat in the corner with his caf.
The bastard raised his mug.
“Information sharing.”
“FOX!”
“Transparency is important.”
“You caused this.”
“Correct.”
Bly looked heartbroken.
“My boys and I understand.”
“No, you don’t.”
“We know where we stand.”
“Bly, stop sounding like a divorced husband.”
“Too late.”
Fox nearly inhaled his caf.
⸻
Then Howzer called.
Which was unfortunate.
Because Howzer was beautiful.
And beautiful people should not be allowed to weaponize sadness.
His magnificent hair alone was unfair.
“Hello, Zee.”
“…Howzer.”
“Good to hear from you.”
“...”
“My men send their regards.”
“Howzer.”
“We understand.”
“HOWZER.”
A pause.
“Though Sketch cried.”
“What?!”
“He was emotional.”
“Who is Sketch?”
“A sergeant.”
“And why is he crying?”
“He misses you.”
“I met him twice!”
“He gets attached.”
Fox, overhearing from across the room, thoughtfully noted something down.
“What are you writing?”
“New clone.”
“FOX.”
“Sketch. Emotional.”
“FOX.”
⸻
Then came Gregor.
Or rather… Gregor exploded into the apartment.
“ZEE!”
And attached himself to her like a particularly enthusiastic backpack.
“YOU FORGOT US!”
“Gregor!”
“We have feelings!”
“You saw me last week!”
“THAT’S NOT THE POINT!”
His own little group of survivors from the 212th Special Operations Brigade had apparently adopted Zee months ago.
Including Gear.
An older ARC who liked knitting.
Bouncer.
Who collected strange mugs.
And Snip.
Who wrote romance novels and denied it violently.
They all looked offended.
“I am not angry,” Snip announced. “I’m disappointed.”
“You’re literally writing in your little notebook.”
“No, I’m not.”
“Snip.”
“…it’s for emotional support.”
⸻
Then came Neyo.
Neyo, who had somehow mastered the art of looking disappointed without changing his expression.
Which was terrifying.
Commander Neyo simply stood in the doorway.
Silent.
Staring.
“…Neyo.”
Silence.
“Neyo.”
Silence.
“Neyo!”
“…we have matching jackets.”
“What?”
“The jacket.”
“…”
“You said they were nice.”
“…”
“My boys still wear them.”
Zee covered her face.
“You have boys?”
“Of course.”
And apparently the 91st Recon Corps included:
Tracker, who loved birds.
Rivet, who built tiny ship models.
And Kicker, whose hobby was collecting ugly sweaters.
All three were devastated.
⸻
But nothing…Nothing… Compared to Commander Bacara.
Because Bacara did not complain.
No.
Bacara suffered.
Quietly.
Tragically.
With dignity!
Which somehow made it worse.
Zee entered the kitchen and found him drinking tea.
Because the original battalions had all had their days.
The 501st had built pillow forts.
The 212th had gone grocery shopping and somehow turned tomatoes into a military operation.
The Wolfpack had adopted three birds and two documentaries.
The Coruscant Guard had subjected her to Fox’s terrifyingly organized schedule.
Bly’s boys had taught her about flowers.
Howzer’s men had taken her swimming.
The Galactic Marines had fed her enough muffins to sustain an army.
The Bad Batch had traumatized a goose.
And Gregor’s boys had nearly gotten banned from an arcade.
Surely, she thought, surely that was enough.
Surely the clones had gotten it out of their systems.
Surely.
Fox had merely looked at her with something suspiciously close to pity.
Which should have been a warning.
⸻
The trouble started with Commander Colt.
Because apparently Kamino had discovered social media.
Or rather The clones had.
And somehow pictures of Zee’s various outings had spread.
There was a photo of Wrecker wearing zoo merchandise.
Another of Bacara with Daisy asleep in his lap.
A picture of Fox looking almost happy.
And one deeply embarrassing image of Rex asleep in a pillow fort with “Property of the 501st” written on his forehead, which Hardcase had naturally uploaded.
And somewhere on Kamino Commander Colt saw them.
⸻
The comm call came at two in the morning.
Zee answered because she thought someone was dying.
Instead she found herself staring at Commander Colt.
And three shiny cadets.
Who all looked betrayed.
“G-good evening?”
Colt folded his arms.
“We need to talk.”
“…”
“You took Commander Bacara flower shopping.”
“…”
“And Commander Bly gardening.”
“…”
“And Commander Fox to a museum.”
“…”
“The cadets have concerns.”
One of the shinies burst into tears.
Actual tears.
“We want a civvie too!”
Zee blinked.
“Commander Colt?”
“Yes?”
“Are your cadets crying?”
“Correct.”
“Why?”
“They are emotional.”
The second cadet sniffled.
“Commander Bacara has muffins.”
The third whispered: “Commander Fox got a nap.”
Zee covered her face.
⸻
The next day, she found Rex and Fox discussing something, which was terrifying. Because when Rex and Fox agreed on things, civilizations suffered.
“What’s going on?”
“Nothing.”
Fox smiled.
Nothing good had ever followed those words.
“Fox.”
“Commander Colt wishes to schedule a day.”
“What.”
“He has prepared paperwork.”
“What.”
“He faxed it.”
“FOX!”
“Transparency.”
⸻
Then Alpha-17 arrived.
Because of course he did.
Alpha looked offended, which was impressive because Alpha always looked offended.
“You forgot the ARCs.”
“I did not know you wanted a day!”
“We have feelings.”
“No, you don’t.”
“We do now.”
Behind him stood a collection of ARCs.
Hammer, who built ships in bottles.
Cinch, who adored baking competitions.
And Quirk, who had somehow developed a passion for knitting ugly sweaters.
Quirk looked personally betrayed.
“I made you socks.”
Zee gasped.
“You made me socks?”
His expression softened.
“Yes.”
“Oh, sweetheart.”
Alpha rolled his eyes.
“She’s adopted another one.”
⸻
Then Commander Gree appeared.
Not in person.
Via holo.
Alongside several men from the 41st Elite Corps.
Including Sprout, who liked mushrooms.
Fern, who named trees.
And Moss, who had once cried because a butterfly landed on him.
They all looked devastated.
“We heard Commander Bly got flowers.”
Zee stared. “…”
“And Commander Wolffe got documentaries.”
“…”
“We have forests.”
“Commander Gree.”
“Yes?”
“Are your men pouting?”
Sprout sniffled.
“We have mushrooms.”
⸻
Then Doom’s Unit called.
And Doom himself looked embarrassed.
Very embarrassed.
“We do not require a day.”
“Okay.”
“…”
“…”
“…unless one was available.”
Behind him, Mixer immediately waved.
Comet from Doom’s unit—not Wolffe’s Comet, who was offended by the existence of another Comet—was bouncing excitedly.
And Slickshot had apparently brought cookies.
⸻
Then the Kamino Guards.
Then the Senate Commandos.
Then some clone security unit from Corellia.
Then medical staff.
Then clone pilots.
Then—
“Wolffe, why are there pilots here?”
“They heard about the zoo.”
⸻
Even Jedi got dragged into it.
Plo Koon walked into the apartment and found twenty clones arguing over a schedule board.
He quietly backed out.
Unfortunately, Boost spotted him.
“BUIR!”
Poor Plo froze.
“Yes?”
“Do you want a day too?”
Plo blinked.
“…am I allowed?”
The room went silent.
Because Plo Koon, sweet, beloved buir of the Wolfpack, looked genuinely hopeful.
Zee burst into tears.
“YOU ABSOLUTELY GET A DAY!”
Boost started crying.
Sinker cried.
Wolffe denied crying.
Everyone ignored him.
⸻
Obi-Wan found out next.
Mostly because Cody accidentally mentioned it.
“I have Thursdays.”
“You have what?”
“Zee Day.”
Obi-Wan nearly dropped his tea.
“You people schedule friendship?”
“Obviously.”
Anakin looked betrayed.
“We don’t have a day!”
Padmé, who was Chancellor in this universe and had learned long ago not to question the clones, calmly looked over her datapad.
“Saturday.”
Anakin gasped.
“We have Saturday?”
“No. I have Saturday.”
“Padmé!”
“Anakin.”
“The emotional support civvie is for everyone!”
⸻
Eventually the schedule board grew so large that Tech had to create software.
Actual software. With colour coding.
Priorities.
And emergency cuddle clauses.
Fox insisted on regulations.
Rex tried to maintain order.
Cody developed migraines.
Wolffe drank.
Bly planted flowers.
Howzer’s hair remained magnificent.
And somewhere, somehow—
Commander Colt arrived on Coruscant.
With twenty cadets.
Who all stood in formation.
Holding flowers.
And one little shiny stepped forward nervously.
“Miss Zee?”
“Yes?”
“We made friendship bracelets.”
Zee immediately burst into tears.
Colt looked alarmed.
“Did we do something wrong?”
“No!”
“She’s leaking!”
The cadets panicked.
Fox appeared out of nowhere.
“Normal. Continue.”
And somehow, Somewhere, In a galaxy recovering from war, thousands of clone troopers had reached the collective conclusion that they deserved visitation rights to one chaotic university student with mismatched socks and a caf addiction.
And perhaps the strangest part of all was that Zee, despite complaining constantly, had already started looking for a bigger calendar.
Because really.
What was one more battalion?
At this point, she was fairly certain the entire Grand Army was trying to adopt her.
And judging by Fox’s spreadsheet—
The entire Grand Army was currently on the waiting list.
There are proper channels. Forms, interviews, background checks, a structured onboarding process designed to make sure volunteers understand what they’re walking into.
Zee shows up with a tote bag, a travel mug of caf, and a schedule she absolutely made up herself.
“I heard you needed help,” she tells the very tired coordinator at the front desk.
“We have a volunteer intake process—”
“I brought yarn.”
There is a pause.
“…what kind of yarn?”
“Soft,” Zee says confidently, like that answers anything.
That is how it starts.
⸻
The first group she meets does not know what to do with her.
They’ve been briefed on therapists, instructors, specialists, trainers. People with clear roles, clear expectations, clear boundaries.
Zee walks in like she accidentally took a wrong turn on the way to class.
“Hi,” she says, dropping her bag onto the table with a soft thump. “I’m Zee.”
Silence.
They look at her.
She looks at them.
“…okay, tough crowd,” she mutters, taking a sip of caf. “That’s fine. We’ll warm up.”
⸻
There are five of them in the room that day.
Catcher is standing, because sitting makes his prosthetic stiff.
Muzzle is near the wall, eyes already tracking exits.
Rook is staring at her hands like he’s analyzing movement patterns.
Bracer is positioned exactly where he can see every door.
Kade is the only one who reacts immediately.
“…you’re not military,” he says.
“Correct.”
“…you’re not a therapist.”
“Nope.”
“…then why are you here?”
Zee shrugs. “To teach you how to not burn water.”
There is a beat.
“…water doesn’t burn,” Rook says.
Zee points at him. “Excellent. You’re already ahead of the curve.”
⸻
She pulls something out of her bag.
Bright yarn.
Crochet hooks.
More yarn.
Too much yarn.
An unreasonable amount of yarn.
⸻
Kade leans forward slightly. “…is that rope?”
“It’s yarn.”
“…what’s the difference?”
“One is for tying things up, the other is for making cute things.”
Rook, without hesitation: “Both can be used for restraint.”
Zee pauses.
“Kinky… but we are not doing that.”
⸻
She hands things out anyway.
No one takes them at first.
They just look.
“Okay,” Zee says, clapping once. “New rule. You’re all going to try it.”
“No,” Catcher says immediately.
“Yes.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“No.”
Zee tilts her head. “You trained for war.”
“Yes.”
“You survived active combat.”
“Yes.”
“You can hold a hook and not panic.”
Catcher narrows his eyes.
“…this is different.”
⸻
Muzzle is still watching.
Not the yarn.
Zee.
She notices.
Of course she does.
She doesn’t push.
She just sets a ball of yarn near him.
Not too close.
Not too far.
“Optional,” she says lightly.
⸻
Then she sits down cross-legged on the floor.
“Okay, step one. This is a chain stitch.”
⸻
Ten minutes later—
it is chaos.
⸻
Kade has somehow tied his yarn into something that resembles a trap.
Rook is holding the hook like a tool, too precise, too controlled, moving too fast and getting tangled.
Catcher is refusing to admit he’s struggling.
Muzzle hasn’t touched the yarn—but he hasn’t left either.
Bracer is staring at the loop like it might attack him.
⸻
“This is stupid,” Catcher mutters.
“It’s a scarf,” Zee replies.
“It’s not a scarf.”
“It will be.”
“It looks like a malfunction.”
“That’s because you’re rushing.”
“I’m not rushing.”
“You’re absolutely rushing.”
⸻
Kade holds up his creation. “…what did I make.”
Zee leans over.
Squints.
“…that’s a mistake.”
He beams. “I knew it.”
⸻
Rook frowns at his hands. “…it keeps slipping.”
“You’re gripping too hard.”
“I’m controlling it.”
“You’re strangling it.”
He looks mildly offended.
Zee reaches over, gently adjusts his fingers.
“Like this.”
Softer.
Less force.
More control, not more strength.
Rook tries again.
This time it works.
Just slightly.
But enough.
He goes very still.
“…oh.”
Zee grins. “See? You’re not breaking it.”
⸻
Across the room, Muzzle finally reaches for the yarn.
Slowly.
Like it might react.
He doesn’t start crocheting.
He just… holds it.
Zee doesn’t comment.
⸻
By the end of the session, no one has made anything useful.
There is:
tangled yarn
half-formed chains
something that might be a knot
and one very questionable “scarf”
⸻
Zee looks at the mess.
Then at them.
“Great job.”
“…we failed,” Catcher says.
“No, you didn’t.”
“We didn’t make anything.”
“You tried something new.”
“That’s not the same thing.”
“It is here.”
There’s a pause.
They don’t argue.
⸻
The next week, she takes them to a supermarket.
That is somehow worse.
Bracer didn’t come with them and Zee says that is absolutely okay. She is glad he left the quiet room in the first place.
“Okay,” Zee says, grabbing a basket. “Mission: groceries.”
Kade perks up immediately. “Finally. A mission.”
“It’s not that kind of mission.”
“It’s a supply run.”
“…fine. It’s a supply run.”
⸻
They enter the store.
And freeze.
⸻
There are too many choices.
Too many people.
Too much noise.
Too much… everything.
⸻
Zee notices instantly.
“Okay,” she says, softer now. “Stick close.”
They do.
Not because they have to.
Because it feels safer.
⸻
“Step one,” Zee continues, picking up a loaf of bread. “You look at what you actually need.”
Catcher frowns. “Food.”
“Yes, but what kind of food.”
“…edible.”
Zee sighs. “We’re working on that.”
⸻
Kade grabs something random.
“Do we need this?”
Zee looks.
“…that’s glitter glue.”
“…for morale,” he argues.
⸻
Rook is staring at a shelf.
“…why are there so many options?”
“Because people like choice.”
“…this is inefficient.”
“It’s life.”
⸻
Muzzle stays close.
Not touching anything.
But not leaving.
⸻
Zee doesn’t rush them.
She explains things as they go.
expiration dates
price differences
what’s actually worth buying
what is absolutely a scam
⸻
“Do not buy pre-cut fruit,” she says firmly.
“Why?”
“It’s overpriced.”
“…noted.”
⸻
At checkout, Kade proudly places items on the counter.
Including the glitter glue.
Zee stares at it.
“…you’re paying for that yourself.”
He hesitates.
“…worth it.”
⸻
By the time they leave, it’s not just groceries.
It’s something else.
Less tension.
More talking.
A little more ease.
⸻
Later, back at the center, they sit together.
Bags at their feet.
Catcher looks at his hands.
“…I didn’t hate it.”
Zee grins.
“High praise.”
Rook nods slightly. “…it required a different kind of control.”
The official name is something long and bureaucratic like
“Republic Transitional Reintegration Facility for Clone Veterans.”
No one calls it that.
The clones call it:
“The In-Between.”
Because that’s what it is.
Not war.
Not civilian life.
Not who they were.
Not yet who they’re supposed to become.
⸻
The building sits on the edge of a quieter district on Coruscant. Not hidden, but not central either. Close enough to access hospitals and specialists. Far enough that the noise of the city doesn’t overwhelm the ones who can’t handle crowds anymore.
Inside, it doesn’t feel like a military facility.
That’s intentional.
No polished metal floors. No echoing halls.
Instead:
warm lighting
softer materials
real furniture instead of barracks-style setups
wide corridors (for mobility training)
quiet rooms with sound dampening
therapy rooms that don’t look like interrogation spaces
There are still routines.
But they’re different.
Less about orders.
More about rebuilding.
⸻
What they actually do there
Not just “healing.”
That’s too vague.
This place is about relearning how to exist.
Some of the programs include:
Prosthetic training
Learning to use artificial limbs that were designed for combat, now adapted for everyday life.
Chronic pain management
Because not everything healed cleanly.
PTSD therapy
Not just talking—also exposure control, grounding techniques, and controlled environments.
Civilian life training
How to handle money. Food. Transportation. Silence. Choice.
Service dog integration programs
For clones who benefit from structured external support.
Social reintegration
Because many clones don’t know how to interact outside of command structures.
⸻
New Clones
Catcher
Catcher walks with a controlled limp and a right leg prosthetic that was clearly built for battlefield stability, not comfort.
He hates it.
Not the leg itself—he’s adapted to that faster than expected—but the way it makes him noticeable.
Before, he blended.
Now people look.
He spends hours in the mobility room, practicing things that should be simple:
walking without compensating too much
turning without bracing
standing still without locking his posture
He doesn’t like being watched.
Unfortunately, learning requires observation.
His assigned specialist is patient in a way that initially annoys him.
“Again,” they say.
“I did it.”
“You compensated.”
“I didn’t.”
“You shifted your weight early.”
Latch exhales sharply.
“…again,” he mutters.
⸻
Muzzle
No visible injuries.
That’s the problem.
Muzzle looks fine.
Moves fine.
Speaks fine—when he speaks.
Which is rarely.
He doesn’t like enclosed spaces with too many people.
Doesn’t like sudden noise.
Doesn’t like being approached from behind.
He sleeps poorly.
When he does sleep, it’s shallow.
He startles awake fast.
Always ready.
Always expecting something.
His program isn’t physical.
It’s slower.
Harder to measure.
They work with him on:
grounding exercises
controlled breathing
identifying triggers
building routines that don’t revolve around threat assessment
He sits in group sessions but doesn’t speak.
Not at first.
Then one day, another clone drops a metal cup.
It hits the floor.
Too loud.
Too sharp.
Muzzle flinches so hard he nearly falls out of his chair.
No one laughs.
No one comments.
That matters.
He stays.
⸻
Rook
Rook lost his left arm above the elbow.
His replacement is newer than Latch’s—sleeker, more adaptive, but also more complex.
He’s good with it.
Too good.
He learned fast.
Optimized movement.
Adjusted grip strength.
Refined precision.
He treats it like equipment.
Like a weapon.
That’s the problem.
Because when they put something soft in his hand—a cup, fabric, something fragile—he grips too tight.
Not because he can’t control it.
Because he doesn’t trust that he can.
His sessions focus on:
fine motor control under low stress
trusting his own movements
slowing down
He hates going slow.
⸻
Bracer
Bracer doesn’t leave the quiet room much.
He doesn’t like open spaces anymore.
The sky feels wrong.
Too big.
Too exposed.
He prefers enclosed environments where he can see every wall, every exit, every corner.
He sits with his back to the wall.
Always.
Staff don’t force him out immediately.
Instead, they expand his world slowly.
First:
doorway
then hallway
then short walks
then supervised time in open rooms
Every step is negotiated.
Every step is progress.
⸻
Kade
Kade talks.
A lot.
Too much.
He fills silence before it can settle.
Jokes. Stories. Half-true, half-made-up nonsense.
He is the opposite of Muzzle.
But it’s the same problem.
Silence makes him spiral.
Because when it’s quiet, his thoughts catch up.
So they work with him differently.
They don’t shut him down.
They teach him how to:
sit in quiet without panic
let conversations end
recognize when he’s deflecting
The first time he sits through ten seconds of silence without talking, he looks genuinely unsettled.
“…that felt wrong,” he admits.
“It felt unfamiliar,” his therapist corrects.
⸻
The Service Dog Program
This is where things shift.
Because for some clones, structure alone isn’t enough.
They need something:
constant
responsive
grounding
alive
Not orders.
Not commands.
Connection.
⸻
Catcher gets paired first.
A large, calm dog with steady eyes and slow movements.
At first, he resists.
“I don’t need this.”
“You don’t need it,” the trainer says. “It might help.”
Catcher doesn’t respond.
The dog sits beside him anyway.
Not demanding.
Not intrusive.
Just there.
⸻
Muzzle takes longer.
He doesn’t trust easily.
But the first time the dog notices his breathing change and nudges his hand he freezes.
Then slowly he lets it happen.
⸻
The Atmosphere
It’s not perfect.
Some days are bad.
Some clones leave early.
Some don’t engage.
Some struggle more than others.
Progress isn’t linear.
There are setbacks.
Frustration.
Anger.
Silence.
⸻
But there are also small victories.
Catcher walking without bracing.
Muzzle staying in a room longer than before.
Rook picking up a fragile object without crushing it.
Bracer standing in an open space for a full minute.
Kade choosing not to fill the silence.
⸻
And in between all of that there is something new.
Not soldiers.
Not yet civilians.
But something closer to people learning how to live again.
@tazmbc1 oh my dear friend, you have just inspired one of the best ideas I have ever had and has me cackling! I immediately had to write it! Thank you! ☺️
Tup and… Tub?
That has to be just a small misspelling right? It’s not!
Because Tup and Tub are absolutely two different people.
Completely different.
Entirely separate individuals.
The problem is that no one believes this at first.
Including the GAR administration.
Including the Jedi.
Including the delivery services.
Including Zee.
Especially Zee.
⸻
Tub belongs to the 212th.
He’s taller than Tup, broader in the shoulders (but not that is was very obvious otherwise the Kaminoans wouldn’t have cleared him to leave), and possesses approximately the same energy as an overexcited golden retriever.
He’s the kind of clone who just appears.
Need help moving furniture? Tub.
Building shelves? Tub.
Carrying six grocery bags because Zee underestimated how much tea she drinks? Tub.
Tub has never met a problem he couldn’t solve by lifting it.
Meanwhile Tup is…
Well.
Tup.
Gentle.
Soft-spoken.
Emotionally intelligent.
The kind of person who somehow knows you’re having a bad day before you do.
Their only shared trait is that both are sweethearts and have a tear tattoo, but on opposite sides.
And unfortunately their names.
⸻
The disaster begins with paperwork.
Because somewhere deep in the Republic bureaucracy, some poor clerk receives:
Transfer Request: Tub
And assumes someone made a typo.
Naturally, they correct it.
⸻
Two weeks later, Tub receives a therapy appointment intended for Tup.
Tub walks into the office.
Helix looks up.
Then down.
Then up again.
“…you’re taller.”
Tub smiles.
“Thanks!”
“…wasn’t your tattoo on the other side?”
“Uh… no?”
“…Tup.”
“I’m Tub.”
Helix stares.
“…no.”
“Yep!”
“…no.”
“Want my ID?”
“…yes.”
Helix spends ten minutes trying to comprehend that there are apparently two clones whose names differ by a single vowel.
⸻
Meanwhile, Tup is standing in the mess hall wondering why he has somehow been assigned heavy lifting duty.
“Commander Cody wants twelve crates moved.”
Tup blinks.
“…I think you want Tub.”
“No, the orders say Tup.”
“…are you sure?”
The trooper checks.
“Tup.”
“…that’s not me.”
“You are Tup.”
“Yes.”
“Then—”
“Tub.”
“What.”
“Different clone.”
“What.”
“Different clone.”
“…”
“…”
“…there’s two of you?”
“No.”
“Wait.”
“Two names.”
“WHAT DOES THAT MEAN?”
⸻
Eventually, they meet.
And somehow it’s worse.
Because they get along wonderfully.
Tub immediately wraps Tup in a hug.
“Brother!”
Tup laughs.
“Hello, Tub.”
“I’ve wanted to meet you!”
“So have I.”
“You seem nice!”
“You too.”
“People mix us up!”
“Frequently.”
“It’s funny!”
“…sometimes.”
⸻
Zee walks into this scene.
Sees two nearly identical men hugging, which is nothing new, but does one look like Tup and the other looks like… also Tup?
She Stops.
Backs up.
Walks in again.
“…there are two of you.”
Tub waves enthusiastically.
“Hi!”
Zee points.
“No.”
Tup smiles.
“Yes.”
“No.”
Tub grins.
“Yep.”
“No.”
“You already know me!”
“I refuse.”
“You helped me build the shelf!”
“No.”
“That was me!”
“No.”
“Tub likes woodworking.”
“NO.”
⸻
Poor Zee spends an entire week accidentally confusing them.
“Tup, can you—”
“That’s Tub.”
“Sorry.”
“Don’t worry.”
Five minutes later.
“Tub, can you—”
“That’s Tup.”
“I hate both of you.”
“Love you too, Zee.”
⸻
The clones think this is hilarious.
Especially Fives.
Fives, naturally, starts introducing them as “the vowel brothers.”
Rex threatens him.
It doesn’t work.
⸻
Then Anakin gets involved.
“Weren’t you shorter yesterday?”
Tub looks delighted.
“Nope!”
“…Tup?”
“Wrong one.”
“What.”
“He’s Tub.”
“…”
“…”
“Obi-Wan!”
⸻
Obi-Wan arrives.
Looks at Tub.
Looks at Tup.
“…oh dear.”
“General Kenobi, he’s confused again,” Tub says cheerfully.
“I can see that.”
⸻
The Jedi eventually learn.
Mostly.
Except for Anakin.
Who never truly recovers.
“Hey, Tup.”
“That’s Tub.”
“Sorry.”
Two hours later.
“Hey, Tub.”
“That’s Tup.”
“THIS IS A CONSPIRACY.”
⸻
Fox finds the whole situation deeply amusing.
Because Fox is evil.
⸻
He intentionally swaps their names on their name tags. (Everyone is wearing a name tag for Mara to learn their names faster and to avoid confusion.)
Not enough to cause problems.
Just enough to create chaos.
Tup discovers this because suddenly everyone keeps congratulating him on finishing a bookshelf.
Tub discovers it because people are asking him about emotional support plushies.
⸻
They confront Fox together.
“Commander Fox.”
Fox looks up from his caf.
“Yes?”
“Our name tags.”
“What about them?”
“They’ve been switched.”
Fox examines them.
“…curious.”
“They’re switched.”
“Are they?”
“Yes.”
“Hm.”
“…”
“…”
“Commander Fox.”
“What unfortunate administrative oversight.”
Everyone knows.
Nobody can prove it.
⸻
But the greatest victim of all is Mephisto.
Because Mephi adores Tup.
Tup is soft.
Warm.
Excellent for naps.
Tub, however, plays.
Tub throws toys.
Tub builds cardboard castles.
Tub somehow convinced Mephisto that climbing on top of cupboards is a valid hobby.
And now the cat gets confused.
⸻
One day Mephi leaps into Tub’s lap expecting cuddles.
Finds playtime.
Excellent.
Next day he jumps into Tup’s lap expecting chaos.
Receives gentle petting.
Also excellent.
Eventually Mephisto simply decides both are acceptable servants.
⸻
Which leads to the horrifying sight of:
Tub building a new shelf.
Tup reading quietly.
And Mephisto stretched between them like some spoiled furry bridge.
⸻
And despite all the confusion, all the paperwork disasters, and all the suffering inflicted upon the galaxy’s administrative systems—
Tup and Tub are absolutely delighted to have found each other.
Even if Zee still occasionally points at one and goes:
“…which vowel are you again?”
And Tub, every single time, replies cheerfully:
“The handsome one!”
While Tup laughs so hard he nearly spills his tea.
Hi! Not a request, just a funny thought I had and I wanted to share!
So my OC, Ostana, (who is in a fanfic on AO3 🤭), is older and becomes the surrogate mother to the clones close to her. I’m giggling over here thinking of Ostana walking into your AU and kinda just…adopting the whole building, including Zee. I feel that the clones in your AU would have no idea what to do being smothered with parental affection all of a sudden lol.
As always, I love your work, and I always check in every few days to see if something new has been added! Take care!
I know about your fanfic! I still have to read it but it’s marked for me to read later.☺️
I love this idea because I always imagine Zee’s relationship to the clones as a chaotic sibling-like dynamic. Zee would probably also be confused if someone were to smother her with so much affection. She is already overwhelmed by the clone cuddle pile (which she secretly adores now). The clones often follow Zee’s example or ask Zee for advice about Civvie every day life and parental affection is completely new to them. It would be lovely for them to have a parental figure.
And thank you for the kind words. I love your ideas and requests!🫶🏻🥰
haven’t heard from you in a while. Ofc keep it up with the fics about safe Star Wars, love them and your English is perfect. I have an idea where the civvy has a fellow student from her class that needs a place to stay due to her current place being toxic and not a good living space. She lets her stay with her and the clones and lets have one of them develop feelings for her maybe (you choose how it goes).
Keep up with the stories, they’re amazing and good reads
Sissy’s Masterlist
Thank you very much! Also, I’m sorry. I have been quite busy with university, but I have not forgotten about you all. I love this idea. It has so much potential! I took the liberty of introducing a new clone, but I won’t say too much. I just thought that after living in a toxic environment, the classmate needs someone calm and stable since adjusting to the clone apartment complex is already chaotic enough. I hope you’ll like it!
Also if any of you are currently in a toxic living situation, please don’t hesitate to ask others for help. With much love, your Sissy.🫶🏻
And they where roommates
Not only do the clones immediately decide that New Civvie is the most exciting thing to happen all month, but because poor Zee makes the catastrophic mistake of saying:
“A friend from uni might need a place to stay for a while.”
And suddenly two hundred men who’ve spent their lives living in barracks collectively decide they’re hosting.
⸻
Zee’s friend is named Mara.
Twenty-three, studying archaeology, perpetually tired, and currently dealing with a truly awful roommate situation that has turned into something far more toxic than annoying. Nothing physically dangerous, thankfully, but enough that she’s exhausted, anxious, and desperate to leave.
Zee hears about it during lunch.
Naturally, her response is immediate.
“You can stay with me.”
Mara nearly chokes on her drink.
“What?”
“I have a guest room.”
“You live with…”
“Clones.”
“Clones.”
“Technically around clones.”
“Zee.”
“Technically, technically, I have my own floor.”
“Zee.”
“And lots of spare blankets.”
⸻
Mara arrives two days later.
Which means there are two days for the clones to prepare.
This is a mistake.
⸻
Because somehow the entire building hears about it.
The 212th hears.
The Guard hears.
The 104th hears.
Howzer’s floor hears.
Bly’s floor hears.
Even Bacara’s terrifying boys somehow hear.
And the collective reaction is:
NEW CIVVIE.
⸻
The guest room itself is…
Well.
Zee’s apartment has always reflected Zee.
Meaning the room currently contains:
three boxes labeled “IMPORTANT STUFF” (none actually important)
seventeen houseplants
two broken lamps she swears she’ll fix someday
crafting supplies
approximately six hundred tea bags
old university notes
Mephisto’s favorite cardboard fortress
and one mysterious basket nobody remembers buying.
⸻
“It’s not that bad,” Zee insists.
Fox walks in.
Looks around.
Walks back out.
Returns with Hound.
“…marshal commander’s orders.”
“What orders?”
“Declutter.”
⸻
Within an hour the room resembles an active military operation.
Boxes are being sorted.
Waxer is carrying furniture.
Boil is complaining.
Tup is hanging around trying to help.
The 104th have somehow detected construction.
“They’re moving furniture.”
“Someone’s building.”
“There are shelves.”
“We can help.”
“No,” Zee says.
Five minutes later, Commander Wolffe finds half his men already inside.
⸻
Meanwhile, absolutely every clone is showing off.
Not intentionally.
Well.
Mostly not intentionally.
“Allow me.”
“No, I’ll carry it.”
“I have this.”
“Negative, I have it.”
“I can carry two.”
“I can carry three.”
⸻
Mara arrives early.
And walks into the sight of:
two members of the Wolfpack carrying an entire bookshelf.
Tup balancing four boxes.
Boil arguing with a lamp.
Waxer dusting.
Hound assembling something upside down.
Fox supervising with a caf.
⸻
Fox sees her first.
“Ah. New Civvie.”
Mara freezes.
Fox raises an eyebrow.
“…welcome.”
Then he takes a sip of caf and calmly announces:
“Everyone, stop trying to impress the guest.”
Twenty clones immediately stop.
Then realize what he said.
“We aren’t!”
“Negative.”
“False accusation.”
“Commander!”
Fox just smiles into his cup.
Because Fox is a menace.
⸻
Mara spends the first hour utterly overwhelmed.
Not because anyone is rude.
Quite the opposite.
They’re too nice.
Someone carries her bags.
Someone else makes tea.
Waxer remembers her name after hearing it once.
Boil gives her the best blanket because “the heating system on this floor is weird.”
Tup asks whether she likes plushies because “we have extras.”
And then she meets him.
⸻
His name is Trace.
One of Bly’s men.
A sergeant.
Quiet.
Not shy exactly.
Just… peaceful.
Which is impressive considering he belongs to one of the most chaotic floors in the complex.
Trace isn’t particularly famous.
Doesn’t know half the galaxy.
Doesn’t have dramatic stories.
He’s just… Trace.
And he’s immediately smitten.
Not that anyone knows.
Except Fox.
Because Fox knows everything.
⸻
Mara is struggling with one of her boxes.
Trace appears.
“Need help?”
“Oh, thanks.”
“No trouble.”
And that’s it.
Nothing dramatic.
Nothing movie-worthy.
Just a smile.
⸻
Unfortunately, the next day, Bly notices.
Bly has many talents.
Being subtle is not one of them.
(After all his relationship to Aayla has been the second worst hidden secret in the GAR. Anakin and Padme’s marriage is the first.)
“You like her.”
Trace nearly falls off his chair.
“What?!”
“You smiled.”
“I smile.”
“Not like that.”
⸻
Within ten minutes all of Bly’s floor knows.
Within thirty minutes Thorn somehow knows.
Within an hour the entire Guard knows. (Thorn is a total gossip. He can keep nothing to himself.)
By evening, Cody knows.
Which means Zee knows.
Which means the poor man is doomed.
⸻
She doesn’t say anything.
At first.
But she does notice.
Trace always happens to appear when Mara is carrying groceries.
Or when she needs help with her datapad.
Or when she complains about university assignments.
Or when Mephisto decides to commit crimes.
Especially Mephisto.
Because Mephisto adores Mara.
Which is suspicious enough.
But Mephisto also adores Trace.
Which is practically miraculous.
⸻
The demon cat that has personally declared war on veterinary medicine, curtains, and three houseplants willingly curls up in Trace’s lap.
Nobody understands.
Least of all Trace.
“He likes you,” Mara says.
Trace looks terrified.
“He does.”
“That’s good.”
“…is it?”
“Yes?”
“He bit Commander Bacara.”
“Apparently he has standards.”
Mara laughs.
And Trace forgets how words work.
⸻
Zee leaves them be for a while. She notices that a walking green flag is good for Mara now, but she keeps an eye on Trace.
Eventually she corners him in the kitchen.
He’s making caf.
Or attempting to.
“So.”
Trace freezes.
“So?”
“You like Mara.”
“No.”
“Trace.”
“No.”
“Trace.”
“…perhaps.”
“Trace.”
“…yes.”
Zee beams. “Aw.”
Trace looks genuinely alarmed. “Please don’t.”
“Oh, I’m absolutely going to.”
⸻
And that is how Trace finds himself subjected to the terrifying combination of:
Zee.
Fox. (He is just there for shit and giggles.)
Bly.
Waxer.
Four people who find his suffering adorable.
Poor man never stood a chance.
⸻
Meanwhile, Mara slowly begins healing.
Not because the bad situation magically disappears.
Not because life suddenly becomes easy.
But because she comes home to:
A cat that screams at her.
Tea waiting in the cupboard.
A chaotic university student who leaves socks everywhere.
And an entire apartment building full of soldiers who, despite all evidence to the contrary, have somehow become family.
And somewhere between shared dinners, ridiculous movie nights, and Mephisto stealing socks…
She begins to realize that perhaps this strange little corner of Coruscant is starting to feel like home.
And perhaps a certain quiet sergeant with kind eyes and terrible flirting skills has begun to feel rather important too.
Though watching him attempt romance is rapidly becoming everyone’s favorite form of entertainment.
I've returned! I was wondering if you'd be up to writing something like Zee is leaving her pole class to go grab lunch with one (or more) of the boys and gets harassed by a stranger who won't take no for an answer.
Upon seeing the boys she yells, "Sorry, I don't think my boyfriend would appreciate that!" While vaguely gesturing in the direction of the clones. Cue clone confusion and Zee having to explain why she did it. And now all the girls in Zee's class know that the clones are safe and can help them if they're ever in a similar situation.
Sissy’s Masterlist
So… I’ve been a bit busy lately. University is a pain, but of course I can’t neglect my lovely clones and even lovelier followers for long.
I have to admit that this request took me a bit longer because it’s such a serious subject. Every woman has an experience similar to this or knows a woman who has. Please stay safe out there. I still hope that you all like the story and you should always remember “No.” is a full sentence. With much love, your Sissy. 🫶🏻
Trigger warning: Harassment, man that can’t accept the word ‘no’
Clones vs Men☕️
⸻
It starts after pole class.
Zee’s class has just ended, and everyone is gathering their things.
The studio is full of chatter, water bottles being packed away, people discussing assignments, bruises, and whether they’re going to survive tomorrow’s conditioning exercises.
Zee is pulling on her hoodie when her comm vibrates.
Commander Grumpy Sunshine
(Cody’s contact name.)
⸻
Commander Grumpy Sunshine:
Outside.
Zee:
That’s creepy.
Commander Grumpy Sunshine:
Lunch.
Zee:
Better.
⸻
By the time she exits the university building, Cody isn’t alone.
Of course he isn’t.
Cody is there.
Waxer is there.
Boil is there.
And somehow Fives has appeared despite not being invited.
Again.
⸻
The clones are waiting near a small café across the street.
Zee immediately spots them.
The problem is that somebody else spots her first.
“Hey.”
Zee keeps walking.
“Hey, beautiful.”
Ah.
One of those.
Zee internally sighs.
She doesn’t even stop.
“Sorry, but I’m not interested.”
Normally that should be the end of it.
Usually it is.
Not today.
The man speeds up slightly.
“Oh, come on.”
“No.”
“Just one conversation.”
“No.”
“It’s a compliment.”
“No.”
⸻
The clones are still across the street.
Far enough away that they can’t hear yet.
Close enough that Zee can see them.
⸻
Unfortunately the stranger is now matching her pace.
“You’re being rude.”
“No.”
“What’s your name?”
“No.”
The man actually laughs.
Like this is some cute little game.
Zee’s eye twitches.
Across the street she sees Cody noticing something.
Not enough to intervene.
Just enough to pay attention.
The stranger steps slightly into her path.
Not touching.
Not blocking completely.
But enough.
⸻
“Come on.”
Zee is done.
Absolutely done.
She raises her voice.
Points vaguely toward the clones.
And loudly says:
“Sorry, I don’t think my boyfriend would appreciate that.”
The man freezes.
“Your boyfriend?”
Zee points again.
Unfortunately there are four clones standing there.
The stranger follows her gesture.
His eyes land on Cody.
Then Boil.
Then Waxer.
Then Fives.
⸻
All four are now looking directly at him.
The man visibly recalculates his life choices.
Particularly because clone troopers have a tendency to stare at people like they’re evaluating tactical weaknesses.
“Uh.”
Cody narrows his eyes slightly.
“Uh…”
Waxer folds his arms.
The stranger immediately decides he has somewhere else to be.
“Oh.”
Pause.
“Sorry.”
Then he leaves.
Very quickly.
Zee waits until he’s gone.
⸻
Then she walks across the street.
The clones are staring.
“Hi.”
Silence.
“Zee.”
“Yes, Cody.”
“You have a boyfriend?”
“No.”
More silence.
Fives looks offended.
“Then why did you point at us?”
“Because he wouldn’t leave me alone.”
The four clones exchange looks.
“…what.”
Zee blinks.
“He was harassing me.”
“Why.”
“…because I exist?”
The confusion somehow increases.
Boil frowns.
“You said no.”
“Yes.”
“He continued.”
“Yes.”
“But you said no.”
“Correct.”
“He ignored that.”
“Correct.”
⸻
The clones stare.
Because that makes absolutely no sense to them.
Military culture is many things.
Perfect isn’t one of them.
But “no” is generally a complete sentence.
Orders.
Boundaries.
Instructions.
⸻
You stop.
The idea of continuing after somebody clearly says no feels deeply wrong.
Fives looks genuinely baffled.
“That’s stupid.”
“Yes.”
“He knew you weren’t interested.”
“Yes.”
“Then why continue?”
Zee throws up her hands.
“If I knew that, I’d solve half the galaxy’s problems.”
Waxer looks horrified.
Actually horrified.
“That happens often?”
Zee hesitates.
“…sometimes.”
Four clone expressions simultaneously become dangerous.
“Sometimes?”
“…”
“Zee.”
“…yes?”
“Sometimes?”
“Not all the time.”
The silence is worse now.
Because now they’re realizing this isn’t a one-off incident.
It’s a thing.
A recurring thing.
A thing Zee is casual about because she’s used to it.
Which somehow makes it worse.
Lunch becomes an educational experience.
Not for Zee.
For the clones.
Specifically: Things Women Deal With That Apparently Need Explaining To Clone Troopers.
By dessert, Waxer looks personally offended by civilization.
Boil keeps interrupting with:
“People actually do that?”
And Fives has entered the dangerous phase where he thinks he’s helping.
“We should make cards.”
“What.”
“Cards.”
“What kind of cards?”
Fives sits up straighter.
“Official cards.”
“Fives.”
“Little cards women can carry.”
“Fives.”
“They hand them over.”
“Fives.”
The grin gets wider.
“‘Congratulations. You are making me uncomfortable. A clone trooper has been notified.’”
“FIVES.”
Unfortunately Waxer starts grinning cheekily.
And then Boil.
And then somehow Cody smirks.
Which means the idea is now alive.
⸻
The real problem comes the following week.
Because Zee’s pole class notices.
Every single woman in the class notices.
Specifically the part where four clone troopers immediately paid attention the moment Zee looked uncomfortable.
⸻
The next class ends.
Everyone is packing up.
One of the students hesitates.
Then approaches Zee.
“Those clone friends of yours.”
“Uh-oh.”
The woman laughs.
“No, seriously.”
She glances toward the window where several familiar armored figures are waiting.
Again.
“…they’re safe.”
It’s not really a question.
It’s an observation.
Zee smiles.
“Yeah.”
The woman nods.
“I figured.”
Another student joins in.
Then another.
⸻
Soon half the class is talking about it.
Because word spread.
Not the boyfriend part.
That got corrected quickly.
Mostly.
No.
The part that spread was:
If you’re in trouble and there are clone troopers around, tell them.
Because apparently the clones take that very seriously.
Extremely seriously.
Almost alarmingly seriously.
⸻
By the end of the month, several of Zee’s classmates know:
* Rex by name.
* Cody by reputation.
* Waxer because he remembers everybody.
* Boil because he always looks annoyed.
* Fives because he’s impossible to forget.
⸻
And occasionally, if someone feels unsafe walking home after an evening class, a clone somehow appears.
Nobody is entirely sure how.
One day Zee asks Cody about it.
“Are you assigning escorts?”
Cody looks away.
“No.”
“You’re absolutely assigning escorts.”
“No.”
“Cody.”
“Coincidentally, several troopers were already heading in the same direction.”
“Commander.”
“Coincidentally.”
⸻
Across the room, Rex immediately pretends not to hear.
Waxer is smiling.
Boil looks guilty.
Fives looks proud.
Zee sighs.
“You’ve adopted my entire class.”
“Correction,” says Fives.
“We’ve adopted an entire population of civilians.”
And somehow, despite everything, that is exactly what happened.
Hey! Your English is really good so don’t feel like it isn’t. I love reading your stories and the safe Star Wars stories are amazing. Can you do a story where Zee goes on a trip with her uni off world, maybe lime Kashyyyk for her Environmental Science class, and she forgets to tell her fellow clones and they spiral into worry that they can’t find her. Maybe even some Jedi Anakin or Obi-Wan worry too. Thank you so much 🙏
Sissy‘s Masterlist
Thank you! I really appreciate this sweet words and feedback. I love this idea and so much fun writing this. 🫶🏻🥰
The day they misplaced their civvie
Zee doesn’t plan to disappear.
That’s the important part.
She fully intended to tell them.
⸻
It’s just—
she gets the email late
the trip is announced short notice
she has to pack
she has to print things
she has to charge everything
she has to not forget Mephi’s food schedule
she has to leave notes for watering the plants (very important, the plants have names and feelings)
and somewhere between stuffing clothes into a bag and arguing with herself about how many books one person realistically needs for a short academic trip…
she forgets.
⸻
The morning she leaves, the building is quiet. Too quiet.
No patrol outside her door. No early risers in the kitchen. No one to intercept her with questions or unsolicited escort offers.
Zee pauses in the hallway, bag slung over her shoulder.
“…huh.”
It feels wrong.
Like she’s getting away with something.
She hesitates.
Considers going back.
Considers leaving a message.
Then her transport pings her.
You’re late.
“…right.”
She adjusts her bag, glances once down the hallway and leaves.
⸻
Kashyyyk smells different.
That’s the first thing she notices when she steps off the transport properly. Not the trees—though those are impossible to miss—but the air. Thick, warm, alive in a way Coruscant never is. It hums. It breathes. It feels like stepping into something that has existed long before her and will continue long after.
It is beautiful.
Not just “nice” or “interesting.”
Beautiful in a way that makes her stop mid-step the moment she arrives.
Massive trees stretching impossibly high. Layers of green stacked on green. The air thick, warm, alive. Everything feels bigger here. Older.
Zee just stands there for a second, bag slipping slightly off her shoulder, eyes wide.
“…oh,” she says quietly.
One of her classmates laughs. “First time off-world?”
Zee nods slowly. “Yeah.”
“Wait until you see the upper canopy.”
Her classmates are already talking, excited, pointing things out, comparing notes.
Zee just stands there for a second.
“…okay,” she mutters. “Worth it.”
⸻
She throws herself into the trip.
Field notes. Samples. Observations. Walking through dense foliage and trying not to trip over roots. Listening to lectures while staring up at trees that look like they’ve been there longer than most civilizations.
She laughs more.
Talks more.
For once, she is just a student.
Zee is having the time of her life.
That’s the problem.
⸻
By midday, she’s halfway up a massive Wroshyr tree platform, crouched over her datapad, scribbling notes faster than she can keep up with her own thoughts.
“This ecosystem is insane,” she mutters, pushing a strand of hair out of her face. “Like—vertically layered biodiversity shouldn’t even function this well—”
“You’re talking to yourself again,” someone says behind her.
“I’m processing,” Zee replies without looking up.
“You’re vibrating.”
“I’m learning.”
⸻
She forgets time.
She forgets meals.
She forgets that she exists anywhere else but here.
She walks along suspended platforms, looks down into layers of green so dense it feels like staring into an ocean, listens to lectures she actually cares about, and laughs—really laughs—when someone nearly trips over a root and tries to pretend they meant to do that.
At one point she lies flat on her back on a wooden platform, notebook on her chest, staring up through leaves at slivers of sky.
“…I’m never going back,” she declares.
“You say that now,” her classmate snorts.
“No, I mean it. I’m becoming one with the trees.”
“You’d last three days.”
“Rude. I’d last four.”
⸻
Back on Coruscant—
It takes exactly six hours for someone to notice something is wrong. It’s Tup. Of course it is.
Tup knocks on her door.
No answer.
He tilts his head slightly, listening.
Inside, Mephi lets out a deeply offended, accusatory yowl.
Tup frowns.
“…Zee?”
⸻
By the time he realizes something is off, it’s already too late.
Because he makes the mistake of telling the others.
“She’s not in her apartment,” Tup says.
Rex looks up. “She’s at uni.”
“…her bag is gone.”
“That still means she’s at uni.”
“…she didn’t tell anyone.”
Rex pauses.
Across the room, Fives slowly lowers his caf.
“…okay,” he says. “That’s weird.”
⸻
Meanwhile, Zee is dangling her legs off the edge of a platform, kicking them slightly as she listens to a lecture about native flora.
She takes notes.
She asks questions.
She is thriving.
⸻
Back in the apartment complex—
the Guard finds out.
Fox doesn’t even look up at first. “She’s out.”
“She didn’t tell anyone,” Hound says.
Fox pauses.
“…what.”
Thire leans against the wall. “No note. No message. Nothing.”
Fox slowly sets his datapad down.
“…she always tells someone.”
That’s when it spreads.
⸻
The 212th is next.
“She’s missing,” Boil says immediately.
“She is not missing,” Cody replies.
“She is not here.”
“That does not make her missing.”
“She didn’t tell anyone where she went.”
Cody’s jaw tightens.
“…check the usual places.”
That is how it begins.
⸻
Because “usual places” apparently includes:
the kitchen
the balcony
the gym
the 501st common room
the 104th floor
the 212th floor
the roof
…and then—
⸻
“…did you check the washer?”
Silence.
Everyone turns to Waxer.
“…why would she be in the washer?,” Cody asks slowly.
Waxer crosses his arms. “You don’t know.”
Fives lights up immediately. “No, no, check it.”
“That is ridiculous.”
“You don’t know that.”
They check the washer.
Zee is not in the washer.
“Okay, but imagine if she was?,” Fives says.
Cody pinches the bridge of his nose.
It gets worse.
⸻
“Check the fridge,” Jesse suggests.
“The fridge.”
“Yes.”
“Why would she be in the fridge?”
“She likes snacks.”
“That does not mean she is in the fridge.”
They check anyway.
Zee is not in the fridge.
⸻
Boil opens the caf container.
“…this is getting out of hand.”
Fives leans over his shoulder. “Is she in there?”
“No, she is not in the caf.”
“Are you sure?”
“I am holding the caf.”
“That doesn’t mean—”
Cody closes the lid sharply.
“That’s enough.”
It is not enough.
Because now the panic has spread.
⸻
The Guard gathers.
The 212th gathers.
The 501st gathers.
Everyone is talking at once.
“She could be hurt.”
“She could be lost.”
“She could be—”
“She could be asleep somewhere.”
“For twelve hours?”
“She’s a student.”
“That is not a defense.”
⸻
Then the worst possible thing happens.
The Plo’s Bros find out.
They go very quiet.
That’s how you know it’s bad.
“She’s gone,” one of them says.
“We can’t find her,” another adds.
There’s a pause.
Then, almost in unison:
“…we need to tell General Plo.”
⸻
Across the city—
Plo Koon is meditating.
He opens one eye slowly as a group of very distressed clones approaches calling for their buir.
“…something is wrong,” he says calmly.
“Yes,” they reply immediately.
“It’s Zee.”
⸻
Back in the apartment—
Anakin Skywalker arrives at speed.
“What do you mean she’s missing.”
“She’s not missing,” Cody says automatically.
“She’s not here.”
“That’s not the same thing.”
“She didn’t tell anyone where she went.”
Anakin stops.
“…what.”
He turns in a slow circle like she might just be standing somewhere out of sight.
“She wouldn’t just leave.”
“That’s what we’re saying.”
“She would have said something.”
Now he’s pacing.
Fast.
“This doesn’t feel right.”
“It’s been less than a day,” Rex says.
“That’s not the point.”
“It is a little bit the point.”
“She’s not answering.”
“Did you try calling her.”
“Yes.”
“…and.”
“…I forgot to actually press send.”
Rex stares at him.
“…Anakin.”
⸻
Meanwhile, Obi-Wan Kenobi arrives.
He takes in the scene in one glance.
The clones.
The tension.
Anakin pacing like a storm about to happen.
“…what seems to be the issue.”
“We lost Zee,” Fives says.
“We did not lose her,” Cody snaps.
“She’s not where she’s supposed to be,” Jesse adds.
“She’s an adult,” Obi-Wan says gently.
“She’s our adult,” Anakin replies immediately.
Obi-Wan pauses.
“…I don’t believe that’s how that works.”
He steps forward anyway.
Calm.
Measured.
“Let’s think this through. When was she last seen.”
“…yesterday,” Tup says quietly.
“And she did not inform anyone of her plans.”
“No.”
Obi-Wan hums softly.
“…that is unusual.”
That’s all it takes.
Because now even Obi-Wan is acknowledging it.
Anakin runs a hand through his hair. “We should go look for her.”
“Where,” Rex asks.
“Everywhere.”
“That’s not a plan.”
“It’s a start.”
Across the room—
Fox stands still.
Watching.
Listening.
Saying nothing.
But his eyes flick, again and again, toward her door.
⸻
Back on Kashyyyk—
Zee is laughing.
Actually laughing.
She’s sitting cross-legged on a platform, surrounded by datapads, leaves, samples, and half-finished notes, while someone tries to explain something and fails spectacularly.
“No, no, you just said the exact same thing again,” she says, grinning.
“It’s a complex concept.”
“It’s not, you’re just bad at explaining.”
“Rude.”
“Accurate.”
She leans back on her hands, sunlight filtering through the leaves above her.
Not because he was the bravest. Not because he was the most dramatic. Simply because he was the one most offended by weirdness in his own kitchen.
It started on a Tuesday morning, just after zero six hundred, when the building was still half-asleep and the 212th floor smelled like caf, toast, and whatever weird protein paste Waxer insisted on calling “breakfast spread.”
Boil came into the kitchen in socks and a sleeveless shirt, still grumpy from waking up too early, and set about making his first mug of caff like it was a sacred ritual.
Mug on the counter. Powder in. Water on. Stir. Breathe.
Everything was as it should be.
He turned around for maybe two seconds to grab the sweetener from the shelf.
When he looked back, the mug was gone.
Not fallen over. Not knocked off the counter. Not in the sink.
Gone.
Boil stood there, spoon still in his hand.
Then he looked down.
Exactly where the mug had been, sitting neatly in the faint ring of condensation it had left behind, was a rock.
Smooth. Small. Painted face. Little black eyes and a tiny expression that somehow looked smug despite being three lines of paint.
Boil blinked.
He looked under the counter. He looked on the floor. He even looked in the sink, because maybe, somehow, his brain had skipped a step and the mug had moved. It hadn’t.
The mug was nowhere.
The rock remained.
Boil set the spoon down very carefully.
Then he turned and walked straight out of the kitchen, down the hall, and pounded on Waxer’s door with the urgency of a man reporting active combat.
Waxer opened it blearily, hair a mess, shirt half-buttoned. “If this is about the caf machine again, I swear—”
“My mug vanished.”
Waxer stared at him.
“My mug vanished,” Boil repeated, dead serious. “And now there’s a rock where it was.”
There was a beat.
Then Waxer, still half asleep, said, “What.”
Boil pointed toward the kitchen. “Come see.”
Waxer followed him in.
And stopped.
Because the mug was back.
Right there.
Exactly where Boil always left it, still steaming faintly, spoon beside it, as though nothing had happened at all.
No rock.
No sign that anything had been wrong.
Waxer looked at the mug. Then at Boil. Then back at the mug.
Boil stared at the counter like it had just betrayed him personally.
“It was gone,” he said.
Waxer folded his arms. “Mhm.”
“It was.”
“Boil.”
“I am not making this up.”
Waxer walked over, picked up the mug, checked the contents, then set it back down. “So let me get this straight. Your mug vanished, a rock appeared, and then before I got here everything reset itself.”
“Yes.”
Waxer looked at him for a long moment.
Then, with the solemnity of a medic delivering grim news, he said, “You need more sleep.”
Boil looked offended. “I need you to believe me.”
Waxer patted his shoulder. “I believe that you believe you saw a haunted mug.”
“It wasn’t the mug that was haunted.”
“That somehow makes it worse.”
Boil turned away and reached for his caff with the stiff, offended posture of a man who knew he was right and was going to be miserable about it for the rest of the day.
Waxer, meanwhile, went back to his room entirely unconvinced.
That should have been the end of it.
It wasn’t.
———
Two days later, Waxer did laundry.
Now, Waxer liked routine. He liked the comfort of boring, predictable chores. Laundry was simple. Divide by color, divide by fabric, throw in the machine, ignore until done.
He opened the washer after the cycle and frowned immediately.
Something was wrong.
He pulled out one of Boil’s undershirts. Pink.
Not light pink. Not maybe-it-used-to-be-white-but-the-wash-was-bad pink.
Pink pink.
He stared at it in disbelief. Dug deeper. Another shirt. Pink. Socks. Pink. Underwear. Very pink.
“Boil,” he called, voice oddly flat. “You need to come here.”
Boil shuffled in with a datapad in hand. “If this is about detergent again, I already said I don’t trust the lemon one.”
Waxer held up the shirt.
Boil stared.
“What,” he said slowly, “did you do.”
“I didn’t do anything.”
“You absolutely did something.”
“I separated the colors!”
“Then why are my clothes the color of a senator’s niece’s birthday cake?”
Waxer reached back into the machine and froze.
Waxer reached back into the machine and felt something small and soft caught between two towels. He pulled it out.
A sock.
Just one.
Black at the heel, absurdly bright pink at the toe, with tiny yellow tookas wearing sunglasses knitted into the side.
Waxer stared at it.
Boil leaned closer. “What in the kriff is that.”
Waxer held it up between two fingers. “That is not mine.”
Boil squinted. “That’s Zee’s.”
“How do you know that immediately.”
“She walked into the mess yesterday wearing two different socks. One had little planets on it. The other one looked like it had a screaming fruit on it. This is absolutely hers.”
Waxer looked down at the machine full of ruined laundry. Then at the sock.
Then, very slowly, he lifted his eyes.
There, on top of the washing machine, perfectly dry and sitting as though it had been supervising the whole thing, was the rock.
Boil made a sound that should not have come out of a grown man.
Waxer backed away from the machine. “No. No, no, no. That was not there before.”
Boil grabbed the edge of the counter. “Don’t touch it.”
“I wasn’t going to touch it!”
“Good!”
“Why is it dry?”
“I don’t know!”
“Why is it here?”
“I don’t know!”
“Why does it keep doing this?”
Boil pointed. “You see it now.”
Waxer did not look away from it. “I see it.”
“You see it.”
“I see it.”
“You believe me.”
Waxer swallowed. “I believe something.”
The rock sat there, its little painted face fixed in that same tiny expression.
Boil looked from the rock to the sock, then to the laundry, then back to the rock.
“…it framed Zee.”
Waxer turned his head. “What.”
“The sock turned the clothes pink. But the rock is here. It wants us to think something.”
Waxer stared at him. “You cannot seriously be assigning motive to a pebble.”
Boil looked at him with all the righteous certainty of a man who had been doubted once and vindicated. “I was right about the mug.”
Waxer hated that he couldn’t argue with that.
That was when Cody got involved.
Not because they wanted him to. Quite the opposite, actually. They debated not telling him at all, because Cody had the unique ability to make you feel stupid with one look and a slight narrowing of the eyes.
Unfortunately, he walked into the laundry room before they could agree on a cover story.
He took in the scene in one glance. Boil pale. Waxer tense. Pink clothing hanging halfway out of the washer. A rock, his rock, on the washer.
Cody was silent for a full five seconds.
Then: “Explain.”
Boil pointed. “We’re being haunted.”
Cody looked at him.
Then at Waxer.
Then at the washing machine.
Then back at Boil.
“No.”
Waxer folded his arms. “That’s your official response?”
“Yes.”
“There’s a rock in the laundry.”
“I can see that.”
“It wasn’t there before.”
“Then one of you put it there.”
Boil’s outrage was immediate. “Why would I dye my own shirts pink and then hide a rock in the machine?”
Cody glanced at the shirts. “To create a narrative.”
Boil put a hand to his chest. “Commander, I am offended.”
“You’ll recover.”
He stepped forward, reached into the washer, picked up the rock, and held it at eye level.
There was absolutely nothing remarkable about it.
Except that it was there.
He turned it over once. Twice. No note. No explanation. No adhesive or sign it had been stuck to anything. Just smooth stone and that tiny painted face.
“It’s a rock,” he said firmly.
Then he set it down on top of the machine and left.
That should have ended it.
It did not.
———
Because the next morning, Boil found it in his plant.
Now, Boil was weirdly attached to this plant. It lived on the kitchen windowsill. He watered it every other day, spoke to it under his breath when he thought no one was listening, and had once threatened Hardcase with bodily harm for using its pot to store pens.
It was healthy. Thriving, even.
Until Boil walked into the kitchen and found the leaves limp, one drooping sadly over the side like it had given up on life.
Boil stopped cold.
“No.”
He crossed the room in three strides and crouched in front of the windowsill.
The soil looked… disturbed.
He squinted.
Then, slowly, very slowly, he reached in and parted the drooping leaves.
There it was.
Half-buried in the dirt, nestled right in the center of the pot like some ancient cursed relic, was Unit Pebble.
Boil stood up so fast he banged his knee on the chair behind him.
Waxer came running at the noise. “What happened?”
Boil pointed mutely.
Waxer leaned in. Saw it. Straightened.
“Oh, that’s not good.”
“That’s my plant.”
“Yes.”
“It killed my plant.”
“Maybe not intentionally.”
Boil turned to him. “How do you accidentally murder a plant while inside its pot?”
Waxer opened his mouth.
Closed it.
Then said, very quietly, “I think it’s personal.”
By this point, the 212th had stopped laughing.
Not panicking. Not yet.
But they had crossed the threshold from “someone is messing with us” into “something is deeply wrong.”
———
And Cody—
Cody was now looking for the rock.
Not officially.
Never officially.
But everyone saw it.
He’d enter a room and his eyes would flick automatically to surfaces, counters, shelves, corners.
He’d pause at doorways just slightly too long.
He’d open cabinets with the expression of a man preparing to be disappointed by reality.
If anyone called him on it, he denied it immediately.
“I am not looking for anything.”
Boil watched him check the top of the refrigerator. “Then what are you doing.”
“Observing my surroundings.”
“Why did you move the fruit bowl.”
“It was obstructing my view.”
“Of what.”
Cody did not answer.
Because there was no answer that wouldn’t sound like: the rock might be behind it.
———
That evening, Wooley came back from patrol and found his boots neatly lined up outside his room.
He had left them inside.
He knew he had left them inside.
He always left them inside, next to the bunk, toes facing the wall, because that was where they belonged.
Now they were in the hall.
Perfectly polished.
Perfectly aligned.
And sitting on top of the left boot like some tiny judge?
The rock.
Wooley stared at it with the exhausted expression of a man who had seen real war and somehow found this worse.
“No,” he said quietly.
He looked around the hallway. Empty.
He stepped forward, picked up the rock with two fingers like it might explode, and turned toward Cody’s quarters.
Cody opened the door before he knocked.
Wooley held up the rock. “Explain this.”
Cody looked at it.
Then at Wooley.
Then back at it.
“…where did you find it.”
“On my boot.”
“That is not an explanation.”
“It’s not my explanation to give.”
Wooley narrowed his eyes. “You’re doing it too now.”
“I am not doing anything.”
“You keep asking where it shows up.”
“I am tracking a pattern.”
Wooley stared at him. “…you are hunting it.”
Cody’s expression did not change. “No.”
“Commander.”
“No.”
“Then why is there a list on your datapad titled ‘Pebble Sightings’”
Cody closed the door.
Wooley remained in the hallway for another full minute, boots in hand, seriously reconsidering every decision he had made that led him to this exact moment.
———
The next incident happened at dinner.
Cody was there. Again.
That was the part that made it harder to dismiss.
They were all at the table. Normal meal. Normal conversation. Well, normal for them, which meant Waxer and Boil bickering over seasoning, Wooley trying to eat in peace, and Cody pretending none of them were real.
Cody reached for the salt.
His hand stopped halfway.
The salt shaker was gone.
In its place, dead center on the table, was the rock.
No one had seen it happen.
No one had moved.
They all froze.
Boil looked from the empty spot where the shaker should have been to the rock. “Did everyone see that?”
“Yes,” Waxer said immediately.
Wooley said, “I saw enough.”
Cody did not move.
He simply looked at the rock for a long, terrible second.
Then he turned his head—very slowly—and looked at Boil.
“If this is a prank,” he said calmly, “I will make the rest of your month unbearable.”
Boil looked genuinely wounded. “Why is it always me?”
“Because you’re the most likely.”
“I am being tormented!”
“You are being dramatic.”
Waxer leaned in. “Cody.”
Cody did not look away from Boil. “What.”
Waxer pointed.
The salt shaker was now sitting on Cody’s chair.
No one had moved it.
Cody stared at it.
Then at the rock.
Then at his own chair.
Then back at the rock.
“It’s still a prank,” he said, but there was a slight crack in the certainty now. Tiny. Barely there. But there.
Boil saw it and pounced instantly. “You don’t know that.”
“Yes, I do.”
“Then explain the chair.”
“Someone moved it.”
“While all of us were staring at the table?”
Cody paused.
Boil folded his arms. “Exactly.”
The room went very quiet.
Then Wooley stood up, picked up his tray, and said, “I’m eating with the 501st.”
No one stopped him.
Not after the shower incident.
———
Because if there was one event that pushed the 212th from uneasy to genuinely unnerved, it was that.
Crys was showering. Singing, because he always sang in the shower and no one had managed to stop him yet.
He was halfway through a very dramatic rendition of some old marching song when the water cut out.
Just—stopped.
Crys frowned and knocked the handle. “Guys, if you touched the plumbing again—”
Nothing.
He sighed, reached for the curtain, and pulled it back.
On the floor mat, directly outside the shower, sat Unit Pebble.
Dry.
Watching.
Crys made eye contact with it for one long second, then reached very calmly for the towel, wrapped it around his waist, and walked out into the hall dripping wet.
Boil looked up from his datapad and frowned. “Why are you—”
“It was in the bathroom.”
Boil went still. “…the rock.”
“Yes.”
“In the shower room.”
“Yes.”
“While you were in there.”
“Yes.”
Boil stood up immediately. “No.”
“That was my reaction, too.”
Cody was fetched.
Because of course he was.
He entered the bathroom, looked at the rock, looked at Waxer, and said, “You brought me here because of this.”
“It was in the shower room.”
Cody’s expression did not change. “It’s still a rock.”
Crys threw both hands up. “Why does that sentence mean anything to you anymore?”
Cody crouched, picked the rock up, examined it, set it on the counter.
“Someone is placing this in inconvenient locations. That is all.”
Boil crossed his arms. “Then why always us?”
Cody stood. “Because you react.”
That should have ended the discussion.
It would have, too, if the lights in the bathroom hadn’t flickered right then.
Once.
Twice.
And when they steadied again—
the rock was no longer on the counter.
It was on the sink.
Right next to Cody’s hand.
Cody didn’t move.
Didn’t blink.
Didn’t breathe, maybe.
Then he said, very evenly, “No one says a word about this.”
Should I be sleeping? Yes. Do I have university classes tomorrow morning? Also yes. Am I cackling in my bed because of what I just wrote? Absolutely. Please enjoy!😊
Emotional support unit for Cody
⸻
Cody should have seen it coming.
That was the first mistake.
⸻
It had been two days since Latch got Sentinel.
Two days of:
• clones respectfully giving the dog space
• Fives attempting to befriend the dog and being professionally ignored
• Rex quietly observing like he was studying a new form of warfare
• and Cody—
Cody maintaining perfect composure.
“I never said I wanted one,” he reminded them for the third time that day.
Crys didn’t even look up.
“You filled out half the form.”
“I was evaluating the system.”
“You wrote ‘excellent posture support’ under potential benefits.”
“That was a hypothetical.”
Zee, sitting cross-legged on the couch, watching all of this unfold, said nothing.
Which in hindsight was mistake number two.
That evening, she disappeared.
No one noticed at first.
Which was impressive, considering Zee usually left a trail of commentary wherever she went.
She came back an hour later.
Carrying something.
“Cody,” she said.
Every instinct in Cody’s body told him to say no.
He didn’t.
“…yes?”
Zee walked into the room with the calm confidence of someone about to commit a crime.
“I got you something.”
Immediate suspicion.
“I don’t require—”
“Too late.”
She placed it in his hands.
Cody looked down.
It was—
a rock.
Not just any rock.
A smooth, palm-sized stone.
Carefully selected.
With a little painted face on it.
Two dots for eyes.
A tiny line for a mouth.
And, written in neat, deliberate script:
“Emotional Support Unit”
Silence.
Absolute.
Dead.
Silence.
Boil choked. Actually choked.
Waxer made a sound like someone had just struck him.
Cody stared at the rock.
Then at Zee.
Then back at the rock.
“…what,” he said slowly, “is this.”
Zee clasped her hands behind her back. Beaming.
“It’s your emotional support companion.”
Boil lost it.
“No—no—no—” he wheezed, doubling over, “she gave you a rock—”
“It’s not just a rock,” Zee said immediately. “It’s trained.”
Cody blinked.
“…trained.”
“Yes.”
“How.”
Zee didn’t hesitate.
“It provides grounding.”
Crys hit the wall.
Waxer slid down onto the floor.
Boil turned away. Shoulders shaking.
Cody looked at the rock again.
“…it does not move.”
“It doesn’t need to.”
“It does not respond.”
“It’s emotionally available.”
“That is not a function.”
“It is now.”
Cody pinched the bridge of his nose.
“This is unnecessary.”
Zee leaned in slightly.
Lowered her voice.
“You said you wanted posture support.”
Cody froze.
“…I said that as a hypothetical.”
“Well,” she said brightly, “now you can hold it while you stand and reflect.”
Waxer was no longer breathing.
Rex had turned away.
Fully.
Shoulders shaking in complete betrayal of command decorum.
Cody looked at the rock again.
Long.
Hard.
“…what is its designation.”
Zee’s eyes lit up.
“You can name it.”
Another pause.
Another long, deeply internalized moment of processing.
Then Cody straightened.
Held the rock properly.
Secure.
Balanced.
“…this is Unit Pebble.”
The room exploded.
“UNIT PEBBLE—”
“NO—HE NAMED IT—”
“HE ACCEPTED IT—”
Zee clapped her hands once.
Victorious.
“Yes, Commander.”
Cody ignored all of them.
Completely.
And set Unit Pebble carefully on the table beside him.
Within reach.
Just in case.
⸻
Later… much later
Zee passed by his quarters.
The door was slightly open.
Inside, Cody sat at his desk. Reading. Working. Focused.
And next to his datapad—
Unit Pebble.
Perfectly positioned.
Zee leaned against the wall.
Smiling.
Because for all his protests… he hadn’t thrown it away.
Oh, Fox wanted to comment so badly, but then he got the idea to do something even more funny. In my opinion Fox likes being a little shit. He causes people minor inconveniences, but no one can ever prove it was him. He could’ve murdered Palpatine and no one would’ve know.
So he decides to mess with his brother and this little rock would help him.
⸻
Cody didn’t notice it at first.
Which, in hindsight, was impressive.
Because Fox had already been there.
⸻
The rock, Unit Pebble, was not where Cody had left it.
He paused mid-report.
Looked down at the table.
He was precise. Always. Everything had a place. Angles mattered. Spacing mattered.
And Unit Pebble?
Had been aligned perfectly with the edge of his datapad.
Now it was rotated. Slightly. Three degrees to the left.
Cody stared at it. Longer than necessary. “…odd.”
He adjusted it back.
Perfect alignment.
Returned to his report.
⸻
Fox watched from the doorway.
Silent.
Hands behind his back.
Expression neutral.
No one would have noticed him.
No one ever did, unless he wanted them to.
He waited.
Counted silently.
Three.
Two.
One.
⸻
Cody reached for his datapad again.
Paused.
The rock. Tilted. Again. This time forward.
Cody blinked. “…I just corrected that.”
Behind him Fox moves. Soundless. Efficient.
The ghost of a man who had spent too long in hallways and shadows and command structures that rewarded silence.
He stepped past Cody.
Close enough to be felt.
Not close enough to be noticed.
“…Cody.”
Cody didn’t turn. “Yes, Fox?”
Fox leaned slightly over the table. Looked at the rock. Tilted his head. “…is this your support unit?”
“Yes.”
Fox reached out.
Very carefully.
Very deliberately.
And rotated it ninety degrees.
Cody turned.
Slowly.
“…what are you doing.”
Fox straightened. Hands behind his back again. Expression composed. “Assessment.”
“…of a rock.”
“Of your reliance on it.”
Cody looked at the rock.
Now facing sideways.
Its little painted face staring into the void.
“…it was aligned.”
Fox hummed. “Was it?”
Cody stared at him. “Yes.”
Fox nodded once. “Interesting.”
Silence.
Fox stepped away. Toward the door.
“…continue, Commander.”
And left.
Cody looked back at the table.
The rock.
Still wrong.
He fixed it again.
Perfect.
Turned back to his work.
⸻
Ten seconds later—
“…no.”
It had moved.
Again.
Cody stood up immediately.
The room was empty. Too empty.
He stepped into the hallway.
Fox was there. Of course he was. Leaning against the wall, sipping caf like he hadn’t just committed a crime.
“…Fox.”
Fox glanced at him. Calm. Unbothered.
“Cody.”
“…did you move it again?”
Fox took another sip. “Move what?”
Cody stared. “My support unit.”
Fox blinked. Once.
“…you’re asking me,” he said slowly, “if I interfered with a rock.”
“…yes.”
Fox lowered his caf. Met his gaze. Perfectly serious.
“Commander, I have been on patrol for the last ten minutes.”
Cody hesitated. “…you were just inside.”
Fox tilted his head. “Was I?”
Silence.
“…yes.”
Fox considered that. Then shrugged. “I must have stepped out.”
“…you rotated it.”
Fox’s expression didn’t change. Not even slightly.
“I assure you,” he said, voice smooth as glass, “I have no operational interest in your… support unit.”
Cody narrowed his eyes. “…it moved.”
Fox nodded.
“Curious.”
A pause.
Then, just as he pushed off the wall to leave— “…you might consider,” Fox added casually, “that it’s attempting to communicate.”
Cody froze. “…it’s a rock.”
Fox took another sip of caf. Did not look back.
“Is it?”
And walked away.
⸻
Inside Cody returned to his desk.
Sat down.
Looked at Unit Pebble.
It was still.
Silent.
Unmoving.
Exactly as it should be.
He stared at it.
Long.
Hard.
Then very carefully he rotated it.
“…if you are attempting to communicate,” he muttered under his breath, “this is not effective.”
⸻
Behind the wall
Fox stopped walking.
Smiled.
And kept going.
Because no one, absolutely no one, would ever believe it was him and he just got an idea on how to mess with the entire 212th….
Should I be sleeping? Yes. Do I have university classes tomorrow morning? Also yes. Am I cackling in my bed because of what I just wrote? Absolutely. Please enjoy!😊
Emotional support unit for Cody
⸻
Cody should have seen it coming.
That was the first mistake.
⸻
It had been two days since Latch got Sentinel.
Two days of:
• clones respectfully giving the dog space
• Fives attempting to befriend the dog and being professionally ignored
• Rex quietly observing like he was studying a new form of warfare
• and Cody—
Cody maintaining perfect composure.
“I never said I wanted one,” he reminded them for the third time that day.
Crys didn’t even look up.
“You filled out half the form.”
“I was evaluating the system.”
“You wrote ‘excellent posture support’ under potential benefits.”
“That was a hypothetical.”
Zee, sitting cross-legged on the couch, watching all of this unfold, said nothing.
Which in hindsight was mistake number two.
That evening, she disappeared.
No one noticed at first.
Which was impressive, considering Zee usually left a trail of commentary wherever she went.
She came back an hour later.
Carrying something.
“Cody,” she said.
Every instinct in Cody’s body told him to say no.
He didn’t.
“…yes?”
Zee walked into the room with the calm confidence of someone about to commit a crime.
“I got you something.”
Immediate suspicion.
“I don’t require—”
“Too late.”
She placed it in his hands.
Cody looked down.
It was—
a rock.
Not just any rock.
A smooth, palm-sized stone.
Carefully selected.
With a little painted face on it.
Two dots for eyes.
A tiny line for a mouth.
And, written in neat, deliberate script:
“Emotional Support Unit”
Silence.
Absolute.
Dead.
Silence.
Boil choked. Actually choked.
Waxer made a sound like someone had just struck him.
Cody stared at the rock.
Then at Zee.
Then back at the rock.
“…what,” he said slowly, “is this.”
Zee clasped her hands behind her back. Beaming.
“It’s your emotional support companion.”
Boil lost it.
“No—no—no—” he wheezed, doubling over, “she gave you a rock—”
“It’s not just a rock,” Zee said immediately. “It’s trained.”
Cody blinked.
“…trained.”
“Yes.”
“How.”
Zee didn’t hesitate.
“It provides grounding.”
Crys hit the wall.
Waxer slid down onto the floor.
Boil turned away. Shoulders shaking.
Cody looked at the rock again.
“…it does not move.”
“It doesn’t need to.”
“It does not respond.”
“It’s emotionally available.”
“That is not a function.”
“It is now.”
Cody pinched the bridge of his nose.
“This is unnecessary.”
Zee leaned in slightly.
Lowered her voice.
“You said you wanted posture support.”
Cody froze.
“…I said that as a hypothetical.”
“Well,” she said brightly, “now you can hold it while you stand and reflect.”
Waxer was no longer breathing.
Rex had turned away.
Fully.
Shoulders shaking in complete betrayal of command decorum.
Cody looked at the rock again.
Long.
Hard.
“…what is its designation.”
Zee’s eyes lit up.
“You can name it.”
Another pause.
Another long, deeply internalized moment of processing.
Then Cody straightened.
Held the rock properly.
Secure.
Balanced.
“…this is Unit Pebble.”
The room exploded.
“UNIT PEBBLE—”
“NO—HE NAMED IT—”
“HE ACCEPTED IT—”
Zee clapped her hands once.
Victorious.
“Yes, Commander.”
Cody ignored all of them.
Completely.
And set Unit Pebble carefully on the table beside him.
Within reach.
Just in case.
⸻
Later… much later
Zee passed by his quarters.
The door was slightly open.
Inside, Cody sat at his desk. Reading. Working. Focused.
And next to his datapad—
Unit Pebble.
Perfectly positioned.
Zee leaned against the wall.
Smiling.
Because for all his protests… he hadn’t thrown it away.
