You won't believe who I caught taking some well-deserved time off! Callie and Gregor have finally hit the pause button. After all the tireless dedication and hard work they pour into the Clone Underground Rebellion, it's safe to say they've absolutely earned this break. Even our most formidable heroes need a moment to recharge those batteries!
Here they are enjoying brilliant blue skies, the gentle hum of Beaky's Brethren soaring overhead, and the most breathtaking coastline you could imagine.
It’s pretty adorable, too. Even after all their adventures and years together, Gregor is still clearly trying to impress his one true love, Callie. Some things never change, and it's clear their bond is as strong as ever!
Oh, and if you're wondering who managed to snap such a perfect picture, it's our eagle-eyed Val! With her incredible precision and keen vision as a sniper, it's no surprise she's able to take such a great shot! 💜💕
Our story began when Clone Commando Gregor was presumed lost after his courageous sacrifice on Abafar. I had recently been assigned as a medic to the 104th battalion. And when a faint signal indicated his survival, I knew I had to intervene—no matter the cost.
Written by MAE || Illustrated by LEENA
Edited by CT-5645 “Boomer”
Warnings: Descriptions of injuries
He sighed again. Since the moment Callie stepped into his sterile and meticulously organized office aboard the Venator, Commander Wolffe had let out seven audible sighs, each more irritated than the last. She had been keeping track. Better to silently count than speak up and risk all out war. This latest exhale, heavy and sharp, twisted his mouth into a sneer and his brow into a deeper scowl. It also brought the count to eight.
“Commander-”
“Silence,” he snapped, voice low and edged like durasteel.
He didn’t look up from the data tablet in his hand. The report he reviewed cast a dim glow in the sterile lighting, lines of tactical information scrolling under the rapid scan of his mismatched eyes. The cybernetic one moved in quick, unnatural flicks —faster than the human eye beside it. The effect was… unsettling. Disjointed. Like watching a clock ticking out of rhythm with itself.
It explained the constant tension in Wolffe’s brow, the deep-set crease that never seemed to leave his face. He needed a recalibration, that much was obvious. Callie suspected it was the source of the tension headaches he refused to acknowledge. She could do it in minutes. But the odds of Wolffe letting her — or anyone — near his prosthetic were slim to none. He was fiercely private about it. Possessive, even.
“But-”
“Don’t test my patience. It’s already worn thinner than ration-paper, Lieutenant,” Wolffe growled.
Then he reached without ceremony for the steaming cup of caf she’d placed on the corner of his desk. He didn’t thank her, of course. He never did. The fact that he reached for it at all said enough. Callie had learned quickly: never show up to his office empty-handed. He drank the caf in long, scalding gulps like a man at war with his own exhaustion. The burning fluid, his munitions. His scalded throat, the collateral damage.
Callie’s jaw snapped shut with a click. She hadn’t realized she’d been gaping until that moment, frozen in place as her eyes locked on the Commander’s weathered, tan hands gripping the pen like it had personally offended him. The silence in the room stretched taut, broken only by the scratch of the stylist against flimsi. Every controlled movement he made radiated barely restrained fury.
She’d been summoned the moment she exited the intensive care unit. No time to clean up, her uniform still dirty. Report immediately. Do not delay. The trooper who escorted her — Sinker — hadn’t said a word the entire walk to Wolffe’s office. His gaze avoided hers with deliberate effort. He kept glancing toward the hallway’s corners, the walls, anywhere but at her. That, more than anything, told her just how bad this was.
They hadn’t cuffed her, not yet at least, but it felt close. The silence, the unsaid weight in the air, the precision with which the escort was arranged, it wasn’t protocol. It was prelude. She knew what she’d done. It had been a calculated risk. One she’d made under pressure, with lives on the line and instinct screaming louder than protocol. But defying a direct order, defying his order, that wasn’t the kind of thing that got swept under the durasteel floor of a starship. Especially not when the entire fleet had witnessed it. Not when high-ranking officers were present.
Now, sitting rigid under his scrutiny, she was about to face whatever consequences a man like Wolffe, one of the most respected commanders in the entire Grand Army of the Republic, deemed appropriate. Her throat felt dry, but she didn’t dare swallow. Not yet. The silence between them was razor-thin, stretched to its breaking point. Finally, Wolffe exhaled, not another sigh of frustration, but something heavier.
“At least tell me he’s stable,” he muttered, low and gravelly.
His eyes finally lifted to meet hers, still hard as durasteel but the edge had dulled. Not quite soft, but no longer sharpened to cut. It wasn’t a truce. Nor was it mercy. A crack had formed in his wall.
Callie opened her mouth, hesitant. “Sir-”
“I asked you a question, Lieutenant Kestral,” he cut in, sharper again. Formal. Cold.
The sudden shift back to protocol hit harder than a slap. She straightened instinctively, spine stiffening as though bracing for impact. The use of her rank wasn’t just a reminder of the chain of command, it was a warning. A boundary being reasserted.
“He is stable,” she replied, voice clipped but steady.
The words lingered in the air between them, more fragile than she’d intended. Because despite her answer, they both knew ‘stable’ didn’t mean ‘safe.’ It didn’t mean ‘out of the woods.’ It just meant not dead. Not yet. From the look in Wolffe’s eyes as he looked away, she knew he understood it.
Wolffe was silent again. The kind of silence that made the skin between her shoulder blades itch and the hair on the back of her neck raised. He didn’t look down at the report this time. Instead, he slowly set the stylus aside with care, then placed the tablet on the desk in front of him face down. The gesture was small, but felt significant. His gaze, sharp and unwavering, locked onto her like targeting coordinates settling on a mark. Not hostile but intense enough to make her pulse quicken.
“Why?” he asked at last.
Just one word, which carried with it more weight than the drawn out reprimand she’d been expecting. No rank this time. No barking orders. Just a raw, quiet demand for truth. Callie felt the air leave her lungs in a slow, cautious breath. Her throat was still tight, but she forced herself to meet his eyes. The cybernetic one flickered slightly, adjusting focus. The dark human one narrowed, waiting.
“I made a judgment call. I had intel you didn’t. Real-time updates. If I’d waited for permission we would’ve lost him.” she said evenly, but her voice betrayed a trace of something she hadn’t had time to process. She noticed his jaw tighten. So she added, “I didn’t do it to undermine you, I did it because his sacrifice saved all our lives.”
A long, heavy silence settled between them. Wolffe didn’t speak, didn’t move. For a moment, she couldn’t tell if she’d made things better or worse. Then, he leaned back in his chair, eyes still fixed on her like he was trying to read past the surface and down into the core of her.
“You broke rank,” Wolffe said.
“I know,” Callie replied.
“In front of my men. In front of senior officers.” He said.
“I know,” she repeated, her voice barely above a whisper now.
He didn’t raise his voice. Didn’t lash out. He didn’t need to. His silence was louder than shouting. And still, she stood her ground. Because no matter how much trouble she was in now, she’d make the same call again.
“We have rules. Structure. Protocol. Order. I can’t have medics deploying themselves on instinct and a prayer, hoping to save one man.” Wolffe said, his voice quiet but unwavering. His tone steady. Each word landed with the force of something carved in stone.
Then Wolffe picked up the tablet again, posture returning to rigid formality, but the moment of focus--of almost human connection--still lingered in the air between them. She tensed, expecting the worst. A formal dismissal from her post. No, a disciplinary removal. The Grand Army didn’t tend to tolerate insubordination, especially not when it happened in front of witnesses. Instead, he read from the screen, voice neutral and clinical.
“You will receive a formal mark of disciplinary action on your service record. You will be suspended from field deployment for thirty standard rotations. You will undergo an updated psychological evaluation before you are cleared for independent medical operations. And—” he paused, briefly glancing up at her “—you will attend continued leadership debriefings to determine if you will be permanently reassigned.”
Callie blinked. That was it? No demotion? No official permanent reassignment? Not even a formal tribunal? In GAR terms, it was barely more than a slap on the wrist. Maybe a firm talking-to. Her mind scrambled to make sense of it. This wasn’t what she'd expected. It wasn’t even close.
“But sir-“
“I advise you to think very carefully before you finish that sentence, Callie,” Wolffe said, cutting her off with a groan as he rubbed the bridge of his nose.
He didn’t even look up. She froze at the use of her first name. Callie, not Lieutenant Kestral. It wasn’t an accident. It wasn’t protocol. It was personal.
“That seems like... a light punishment,” she said cautiously.
He looked up sharply, the edge of his cybernetic eye catching the overhead light. “Do you want me to increase it?” he snapped.
“No, sir. I just…” She hesitated, studying his face, trying to read the thoughts behind his expression. “I’m just… confused.”
Wolffe didn’t reply. His gaze held hers for a moment longer, and then dropped back to the tablet. Not a dismissal, not quite. The silence pressed in again, dense, uncertain. Then Wolffe spoke, his tone clipped, all business. “If anyone asks, you were granted retroactive permission under Tactical Protective Directive 0-9.”
Callie blinked. “What?”
“He survived,” Wolffe replied. His gaze remained fixed on the tablet and his voice grew more deliberate. “If Separatist intelligence had caught wind of that, he’d have been marked as a high-value target. A liability. You have been retroactively granted authority to intervene, on the grounds of protecting a compromised asset.”
He paused, then looked up, waiting until her eyes met his. That same sharp stare, softened only by the gravity behind it. “But don’t ever do it again,” his voice dropped a notch, call and cold. “You’ll be out of here faster than you can say kriff. Got it?”
Callie swallowed. “Yes, sir,” she said, her nod slow and deliberate.
“You’re dismissed. Report back to your patient. I expect a full medical workup on his progress before end-of-cycle.” He said.
She hesitated. “I thought we were transferring him to an Outer Rim med facility and redeploying with the fleet?”
“We are,” Wolffe replied, setting the tablet aside once more. “You are staying with the trooper.”
Her breath caught. “Sir?”
“Not my call,” he said, already looking back down at the screen. “Orders came in while you were en route to my office. You're to remain at the station and oversee his treatment personally.”
Callie’s thoughts raced, the implications slamming into her one after another. If she stayed behind, she’d be cut off from her team. From the front. From the war.
Wolffe continued, eyes still fixed on the screen in front of him, “You’ll rejoin us once he reaches Recovery Level Three. Until then, station duty.”
Callie stood frozen for a breath too long, the words settling in her mind like dust. She wasn’t sure how to respond. She wasn’t even sure what response would be appropriate. Eventually, she managed a small nod. “Thank you, Commander.” She said.
“Don’t thank me,” he responded.
“But, sir--”
Wolffe finally glanced up, his gaze steady. “Look. You went out of your way to help one of us. That matters, even if you went about it the wrong way.” A beat passed. His lips twitched, not quite a smile, more like a grim acknowledgment. “We’ll call it even. Alright?”
Callie blinked. For a man like Wolffe, that was the closest thing to forgiveness she was ever going to get.
“Okay,” she said softly.
“You’re dismissed.” He said.
Callie nodded again and then turned before he could change his mind. Her boots echoed lightly against the polished floor as she crossed the room and reached the door. She didn’t look back. If she did, she might start asking questions neither of them had answers to.
Once she was through the threshold, the tension she’d been carrying finally began to crack. This last rotation — everything from the mission, to the medbay, to now — settled on her. The weight of it slumped her shoulders, hunched her back. Why? Why did she do it? What was she thinking? And what would happen now?
It felt like the galaxy had shifted a few degrees out of alignment and she had to make sense of it. Station duty. Isolation from yet another legion she’d grown closer to. She’d be on her own again. Except, that wasn’t true…
The trooper.
He would have died on Abafar. If not for her that is. Her mind drifted. Her thoughts focused on the moments after the explosion.
The ship trembled from the aftershock of the explosion when it happened. Sirens faded. The chaos had quieted just enough for reality to set in, but Callie hadn’t even gotten that far. She was standing in a corridor outside the medbay, dazed, when the little WAC droid had bounded up to her, his small mechanical limbs clicking with urgency.
“Medic!” he chirped, almost cheerfully, as if he were announcing a victory and not a disaster. “A clone saved us! Quite the heroic display, really!”
Callie barely heard him over the rush in her ears. Her mind had snagged on two words: saved us. Her stomach twisted. She’d assumed, maybe even hoped, that someone had already responded. That recovery teams were already mobilizing. That comms were relaying coordinates. That someone was doing something. But no.
When she checked the mission logs, her numb fingers tapping through the data, there was nothing. No deployment orders. No medevac notice. No beacon signals sent planetside. No one had gone after him. That lack of action, more than the explosion or the droid’s rambling, was what broke her.
She didn’t remember making the decision. One minute she was staring at the screen in disbelief, the next she was in the hangar bay, climbing into one of the auxiliary transports. She had barely trained on the controls, and flew the damn thing running on pure instinct. Her hands shook as she keyed in a basic descent pattern, her breathing shallow and mechanical as she coaxed the vessel into launching. All she had was a vague approximation of where the squad had been last seen and a few topographic references from the WAC droid's rambling. It wasn’t much.
The surface of the planet was still scarred, still bleeding in its own way. Smoke curled from the remains of the skirmish, rising in slow tendrils that painted the horizon in shades of gray. Ash stuck to her boots as she moved through the outskirts of what barely qualified as a settlement, the air thick with the acrid sting of scorched metal and something worse, something human. And then she saw him. Collapsed amid the rubble and ruin, armor scorched and broken, but unmistakably alive.
The trooper wasn’t moving much, just the shallow rise and fall of his chest under the plastoid plates of his armor, a twitch of fingers that hadn’t yet given up. His helmet had been knocked off, and blood traced a dark line down the side of his face, mixing with soot. His eyes were glassy, unfocused, but open.
Callie dropped to her knees beside him without a second thought. Only the bare essentials in her med kit. No field support. Just her hands and her training and the raw, consuming instinct that she had to do something.
She did it because no one else had.
Because in a war where lives were tallied like numbers on a screen, someone had to remember that every number had a name.
And his, was Gregor.
✦ . ⁺ 卌 ⁺ . ✦
The world had tilted askew.
Or maybe he had.
It was hard to tell with the gray sky spinning like that.
The ground beneath him was uneven, cold through the ruined armor at his back. Ash stuck to his skin, to his throat, to his tongue, bitter and metallic. Every breath came thin and hot, like he was dragging air through smoke and glass. His ears rang. Constantly. Like something inside his head had burst and never stopped screaming. The last thing he remembered clearly was the explosion. Heat, a blinding and violent light, and then silence. Not the kind that comes from peace, but the kind that follows when everything else has been torn away.
And now there were fragments. Snatches of sensation. The pulse of pain in his ribs, sharp and hot. The weight in his chest could have been a collapsed lung, or could just be fear. He didn’t know. Couldn’t think straight. His vision swam whenever he opened his eyes, distorted by sweat and blood and concussion.
Light stabbed into his skull when he tried to move. His limbs felt disconnected, like he’d been unplugged and scattered. He couldn’t even remember if the mission had been a success. All he knew was that he was likely going to die here. He had planned to die. That last push, throwing himself between the droid squad and the blast radius, well, he knew he wouldn't survive it. He did it because there hadn’t been time to think. He had a mission. His last, as he saw it. Get those important out of the fray.
So when he heard the footsteps, quick and light across the shattered terrain, he thought maybe his brain was misfiring. A hallucination, the last dying spark conjuring images of a rescue he didn’t deserve. Then the steps kept coming. Closer. Real.
He tried to lift his head but only managed to twitch. The pain sharpened, and the world narrowed to a pulse behind his eyes. He gasped, at least he thought he did. It came out broken, more like a wheeze. He couldn’t call for help. Couldn’t warn them if the droids were still nearby.
A pair of hands landed on his chest, tentative but firm, pressing lightly against the cracked plates of his armor. Not searching for weapons. Not looting. Assessing. There was pressure along the line of his collarbone. Fingers slipped under his pauldron. They stopped at the side of his neck. Pulse check. The contact was clinical, but not cold. She was gentle, despite the urgency in her movements.
He blinked, vision clearing for the briefest moment. Just long enough to see a blurred silhouette against the rising smoke, crouched over him like a shadow given shape. Light framed her from behind, haloing the figure in gold, though it was broken by the dark outline of her frame. Shorter than him. No helmet. He couldn’t make out her face. A voice reached him. Soft, then firmer. He couldn’t process the words, only the rhythm. Steady. Focused. Human. She was speaking to him. Or maybe to herself. Her voice cracked once, but it didn’t break.
Then he felt the sting of medspray against his side, the quick jerk of fabric as she tore open a sealed pack. Field dressing. She worked fast, sealing wounds, stabilizing where she could. Her hands trembled slightly when they touched bare skin. Nerves, probably. Still, she never stopped moving. She could’ve left. Could’ve waited for a real med team, waited for backup. She didn’t. She had come alone. The droid… the one with the round head and endless commentary, hadn’t he been on the ship? Had he told her? He couldn’t hold the thought long enough. It slipped away like oil through fingers.
He tried to move again, to say something, anything, but his mouth didn’t cooperate. His jaw worked, but only a rasp escaped. She looked down. She had noticed. Her hand gripped the strap of his chestplate, bracing him as she shifted. The angle gave him one last glimpse of her face, just a glimpse, but he caught the glint of something silver pinned to her collar. A medic’s badge. GAR. Her eyes, too. They were sharp and tired and burning with something that looked a lot like anger. Anger that he’d been left behind. Anger that no one else had come.
She had.
She wasn’t part of his squad. He didn’t know her name. He couldn’t even see her clearly. In that moment, as the world spun sideways again and his consciousness slipped into the dark, that didn't matter. Someone came back for him.
In a galaxy where soldiers were built to be expendable, that meant everything.
Hiiiii! I am sorry for lack of shirtless clones posting! But here is Clone Captain / Clone Commando Gregor!
So, let’s address the elephant in the room. It is I, Helen Gena. As you can see, I changed my name. I can’t go into detail, but for anything fandom related, and for my own wellbeing, will be under Kristal-Star (or some variation). HelenGena still exists, but only for my irl photography (since my family follows that part of my life). For all tagging lists, I would prefer people to tag Kristal-Star. Maybe down the line I’ll fully explain why the change, but for now, I choose not to.
But onto the drawing, I have NO CLUE if this looks like Gregor. I just… I prefer longer hair Gregor so I’ll probably draw that version later. Other than his hair, I think I didn’t do so hot on this one so any insight for future Gregor would be appreciated. But for now, I think this one is done.
Moreso, they never even try to explain it. He’s just there. In tbb its bad, but in Rebels, where they first revive him, its worse. He’s just THERE. I feel like if I had been watching when it aired, i wouldve been waiting for my explanation. Was I supposed to read one of the books or something?
Remember how I'm painting Fixer on the wall? He's almost finished! But I thought I'd post my TCW Gregor I painted because I'm super proud of him, and I love him.
