Decided To Try Writing Fan Fiction Again, Let’s See How Long It Last This Time Ahaha

“Uncalculated Variables”

Tech x Jedi!Reader

Summary: Clone Wars-era op with the Bad Batch. Jedi reader + Quinlan Vos bestie assisting the op.

⸻

If Tech had known he’d be spending the mission with two unorthodox Jedi, he might have requested recalibration for his brain implant.

Vos was already a variable he’d accounted for—reckless, talented, infuriatingly good, unpredictable. But you?

You were something else entirely.

You strolled off the gunship like the war was a camping trip, a lightsaber strapped to your hip and a ridiculous grin on your face as you greeted Wrecker with a high five mid-jump.

“Miss me, big guy?”

Wrecker beamed. “You always make it more fun!”

Vos followed close behind, flipping a thermal detonator in one hand like it was a toy. “They let you off Coruscant without me? I’m hurt.”

You glanced over your shoulder. “Please. You’d just get jealous when I steal all the glory.”

Vos grinned. “You wish.”

Tech stared. “I fail to see how this level of casualness is appropriate for a battlefield.”

You turned to him with a slow smile. “Ah, you must be Tech.”

He straightened instinctively. “Yes. You are correct.”

You offered a hand—not stiff or formal, but open, easy. There was mischief in your eyes. “I’ve read your file. You’re the one with the brains and the dry commentary.”

He hesitated before taking your hand. “That is… not inaccurate.”

You leaned in, voice low. “I like brains.”

He blinked. “As do most species. It is vital for survival.”

Vos coughed loudly behind you—possibly to hide a laugh.

Wrecker elbowed Hunter. “I like this Jedi.”

Tech ignored them, adjusting his goggles. “We are operating on a strict schedule. I’d prefer we keep distractions—”

“Lighten up, Tech,” you teased, falling into step beside him. “If you smiled any less, we’d have to start checking for signs of carbon freezing.”

“I assure you, I am functioning within optimal emotional parameters.”

You hummed thoughtfully. “Sounds lonely.”

He shot you a side glance, but your tone was playful, not unkind.

“I don’t understand you,” he muttered.

You grinned. “Most don’t. That’s half the fun.”

⸻

Later, during recon, Vos and Wrecker were off chasing a “weird energy reading,” Crosshair was perched up somewhere, and Hunter had gone ahead to secure the route. That left you and Tech crouched behind cover, scanning a Separatist outpost through the macrobinoculars.

“Y’know,” you said casually, “if you ever wanted to break all your rules and do something reckless, I’m very available.”

Tech frowned. “I don’t require your availability. This mission is already well underway.”

You stifled a laugh. “Not what I meant.”

He blinked, confused. “Was it a code? I didn’t detect one.”

You turned to him, resting your chin on your hand. “You’re cute when you’re confused.”

His ears turned slightly pink.

“I’m not confused,” he replied quickly. “Merely… recalibrating.”

You laughed again, soft and warm. “You’re fun, Tech. Even if you don’t know it.”

He didn’t reply. Just stared out at the outpost, glasses slightly fogged. Processing. Buffering.

You winked as you stood. “Come on, Brain Boy. Let’s go break some droids.”

And behind you, Tech mumbled—

“…I don’t understand you.”

But oh, he wanted to.

⸻

“Move your pretty brain, Tech!”

Your shout cut through the blaster fire as you Force-shoved a B1 battle droid clean off the ridge. The droid hit the canyon wall with a clang before falling into a satisfying silence.

Tech barely managed to duck behind the rock as two more shots ricocheted past his goggles.

“I’m attempting to calculate the terrain advantages, not—”

You dropped beside him, lightsaber humming with heat. “Flirt later, calculate less. We’re getting spicy out here.”

“I am not flirting—”

“You will be,” you said sweetly, spinning to deflect a bolt. “Just haven’t hit the right button yet.”

“Force help me,” Crosshair muttered over comms. “I’m in hell.”

Vos cackled somewhere on the ridge. “This is why I bring her on ops.”

You winked in Tech’s direction. “Besides, I like it when smart boys get flustered.”

“I am not—” he started, only to cut himself off when you leapt over the boulder and ran directly into blaster fire.

“Wait—don’t—!”

But you were already slicing through droids, movements chaotic and fluid. A little wild, a little beautiful. Vos followed behind you with a war cry and a detonator.

“Stop being reckless in combat!” Tech snapped, ducking as sparks flew overhead.

Wrecker hollered from behind cover. “She’s so cool, right?!”

Tech was still reeling from how your braid moved like a whip when you spun, when a Super Battle Droid on the ridge zeroed in on his location.

He didn’t see it. But you did.

“Tech!”

You moved fast—a leap, a slide down the gravel slope, and then a blinding crack of energy as you shoved him to the ground and blocked the bolt meant for his chest with your saber.

The shockwave sent you both tumbling behind a ledge.

For a second, there was only the buzz of his ears and the hum of your saber still hot in the air.

You looked down at him—arms braced on either side of his shoulders, breathing hard, body pressed against his.

His goggles were crooked. His heart was absolutely not functioning in optimal parameters.

“You good?” you asked, voice low.

“I…” Tech swallowed. “Yes. Thanks to you.”

You leaned a little closer. “That’s two times I’ve saved your life this week. You might owe me.”

“I… suppose I do.”

You smiled. “We’ll figure out the payment plan later.”

Vos dropped beside you, covered in soot and grinning. “I saw that. That was hot. I’d kiss you for that save.”

“Why are they like this,” the sniper muttered and then glanced over to Tech. “Can’t believe I’m third-wheeling a courtship in the middle of a kriffing warzone.”

“Fourth-wheeling,” Vos corrected. “I’m emotionally invested.”

You grinned as you helped Tech up. “Don’t worry, brain boy. They’re only teasing”

You patted his chest, then turned back toward the canyon, saber blazing back to life.

“We’ll talk later. Right now? Droids first. Feelings… maybe after explosives.”

And then you were off again, a whirlwind of Force and fire.

Tech stood frozen, fingers twitching at his belt.

Vos clapped him on the back. “Welcome to the mess, genius.”

⸻

You were sitting cross-legged on the Marauder’s ramp, tossing pebbles at Wrecker’s helmet while he tried to balance a crate on one hand.

Vos was beside you, chewing on dried fruit like it was the best thing he’d ever tasted. He elbowed you after a particularly impressive throw.

“You ever gonna tell Tech you’re into him?” Vos asked, mouth half-full.

You smirked. “And ruin the comedy of him trying to math his way through courtship? No thanks.”

Wrecker laughed. “He is actin’ weird lately. Said I was being ‘emotionally invasive’ for askin’ if he liked you!”

Vos grinned. “He’s got it bad.”

“And I am loving it,” you replied, spinning a pebble in your fingers. “Every time I flirt, he acts like I just challenged his understanding of gravity.”

Right on cue, Tech walked down the ramp, datapad clutched in hand, goggles slightly askew. He stopped in front of you, cleared his throat.

“I… performed a series of diagnostics regarding interpersonal compatibility,” he said, utterly serious. “According to twenty-seven factors—including personality, adaptability, combat style, and dietary preferences—we are a statistically promising match.”

Vos dropped his fruit.

You blinked. “Did you just… scientifically determine that we should date?”

“I—well—yes,” Tech said. “But only if you’re interested. Which—based on your heart rate and verbal cues—I suspect you might be.”

Vos exploded into laughter, falling back on the ramp.

“Oh my Maker,” he wheezed. “You absolute nerd.”

You grinned at Tech. “That might be the most romantic math I’ve ever heard.”

Tech pushed his glasses up. “I thought you’d appreciate the data.”

“I do,” you said, standing and brushing your hands off. “But next time, try leading with something like: ‘I think you’re beautiful and I’d like to kiss you.’”

Tech turned crimson. “I—yes. Noted.”

“Relax,” you teased, stepping closer. “I’m not gonna kiss you.”

His expression fell a little.

“Yet,” you added.

From behind the crates, Crosshair exhaled loudly. “Maker, just kiss already or go back to sexually tense banter. This is painful.”

You turned. “Aw, Cross. You jealous you’re not the one I’m throwing pebbles at?”

He scowled. “I’d rather be shot.”

Vos stood and slung an arm around your shoulders. “Honestly, same.”

You nudged him. “You’re just mad you’re not the prettiest Jedi in the room anymore.”

Vos gasped dramatically. “Rude. And false.”

Tech, meanwhile, was still buffering.

“I may need to recalibrate my approach,” he murmured, mostly to himself.

“Or,” you said, tapping his datapad, “you could just ask me to spend time with you. No variables required.”

He paused, then looked up at you, eyes suddenly very soft.

“…Would you like to accompany me on a walk through the canyon ridge at 1900 hours? Statistically, it would be—”

You leaned in, smirking. “Careful, Tech. That almost sounded like a date.”

He adjusted his goggles. “I was… hoping it would be.”

Vos made a gagging noise. Crosshair muttered something that sounded suspiciously like, “nerds.”

And you?

You just smiled.

⸻

1900 hours hit, and you were waiting by the canyon overlook, robes loose and windswept, arms crossed like you hadn’t just spent twenty minutes trying to decide if you looked “dateable.”

You sensed him before you saw him—Tech’s unique mental frequency, all angles and tension and humming data flow. He approached precisely on time, goggles slightly askew, holding… a field scanner?

“Is that for scanning terrain,” you asked, grinning, “or just a really dramatic way to say you’re nervous?”

“I—” Tech adjusted his grip. “It is a tool for environmental analysis and—possibly—also distraction.”

You snorted. “So yes.”

The two of you walked along the ridge trail, the orange twilight casting soft shadows on the canyon walls. Silence settled, not uncomfortable, just… charged. Like the pause before a storm—or a kiss.

“So,” you said finally, “have you been practicing your flirting?”

Tech looked over, hesitant. “I did… research.”

“Oh no.”

He cleared his throat. “Your presence activates all of my… neurological functions.”

You blinked. “That… was almost sexy.”

“Almost?”

“You lost me at neurological.”

Tech looked disappointed. You reached over, brushing your fingers over his arm. “Don’t worry, I like the weird.”

“I am attempting,” he said, more softly this time, “to understand how to… express what I feel.”

You tilted your head. “And what do you feel?”

He turned toward you fully now. “I feel that your presence both stabilizes and disorients me. That your actions on the battlefield—reckless though they are—captivate me. That your voice lingers in my thoughts long after transmission ends. And that when you saved my life… I was afraid, not of death, but of losing the chance to tell you any of this.”

Your breath caught.

“…Tech,” you said, gently.

“I am aware,” he rushed to add, “that emotions are complex, and Jedi traditionally—”

You stepped forward and kissed him.

It wasn’t long or intense, just a warm press of lips. Steady. Sure.

When you pulled back, his goggles were fogged.

“Shutting up works too,” you whispered.

From somewhere nearby, a stick snapped.

You both turned just in time to hear Vos swear and fall directly out of a bush.

“I WASN’T SPYING,” he yelled.

“Maker above—” Tech muttered.

Crosshair’s voice crackled over the comm: “I told him you’d hear his dumbass breathing.”

Wrecker’s voice came next: “I think it’s sweet! Tech’s got a girlfriend!”

Vos was on his feet, brushing himself off. “Sorry—carry on. Proud of you, Tech. Didn’t think you had it in you.”

You groaned. “I am going to murder all of you.”

Tech looked dazed.

“Can we… do that again?” he asked quietly.

You smiled, tugging him close. “Yeah. This time with less audience.”

Well… I thought it was obvious.

“The Quiet Rebellion”

Captain Howzer x Twi’lek Reader

⸻

Freedom was a strange thing.

You could be chained for years—shackled, broken, silenced—and still not feel as free as you did when you sprinted through the jungle with a stolen blaster and your heart racing like it had somewhere to go.

You’d fought to be here.

Fought to exist.

Now you fought for something.

Cham Syndulla had given you a cause. A home. A voice. And you’d die before you let anyone take that away again.

Which made your situation with Captain Howzer… complicated.

You first saw him standing tall in the Ryloth city square, surrounded by clone troopers in gleaming armor. He wasn’t barking orders like the others. He watched. Measured. Thought.

You hated him immediately.

Until you didn’t.

The first time you really spoke, it was because of Hera.

“Put me down!” Hera screamed, dangling from the edge of a roof she wasn’t supposed to be on.

You scrambled to reach her—but Howzer got there first, catching her mid-fall and cradling her against his chest.

“Hera,” he said, calm and soft, “you alright, kid?”

She blinked at him. “Yeah… you have a really strong arm.”

“Perks of the job.”

You expected him to arrest her. Lecture her. Instead, he handed her off to you, nodded once, and said:

“She’s bold. Reminds me of someone.”

It was the first time he looked at you like he saw you—not a rebel, not a threat, but someone.

You didn’t know how to feel about that.

⸻

Weeks passed.

The Empire’s grip tightened. Ryloth tensed. So did you.

But Howzer—he didn’t act like a loyal dog. He asked questions. Protected civilians. Argued with Admiral Rampart in front of everyone.

And when you crossed paths again—this time in secret, near an old Separatist outpost—you confronted him.

“You gonna shoot me now, Captain?” you asked, blaster raised.

He didn’t flinch. “No. I came to talk.”

You laughed bitterly. “Clones don’t talk. They obey.”

“I’m trying not to.”

That stopped you cold.

You lowered your weapon, cautiously.

“I’ve seen what the Empire is doing,” he said, stepping closer. “I don’t agree with it. I think you don’t either.”

“I was a slave,” you spat. “I know what tyranny looks like.”

He didn’t argue.

“I’ve been watching you,” he added. “Fighting. Protecting people. Risking everything for them. You don’t run. You don’t hide. You remind me of why I started wearing this armor in the first place.”

Your breath hitched.

And just like that, the tension between you snapped—not with violence, but something gentler. Warmer.

Something that felt like understanding.

⸻

From then on, you met in secret.

He smuggled you information—troop movements, transport schedules, weak points in the blockade.

You brought Hera to some of the meetings. She liked to sit on a crate, Chopper at her side, giving snarky commentary.

“Are you two in love yet?” she asked one night, kicking her legs.

You choked on your drink. Howzer actually blushed.

“I—I don’t think soldiers are allowed to be in love,” he said awkwardly.

“Then it’s a good thing I’m not a soldier,” you muttered.

Hera just shrugged. “I think you should kiss. You look at her like my dad looks at my mom.”

You and Howzer shared a long, stunned silence. Chopper beeped something crude.

“I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that,” Howzer muttered.

But later, when the night was quiet and you were alone with him, the firelight dancing off his armor, you finally asked,

“Why are you doing this? Risking everything?”

He looked at you, eyes soft, jaw clenched.

“Because you showed me something real,” he said. “And I want to fight for it—for you—instead of some banner that doesn’t mean anything anymore.”

You leaned in, heart thudding.

And when you kissed him, it wasn’t soft. It was earned.

Fierce. Honest. Full of fire and freedom and all the things you’d both been denied for too long.

You weren’t free of danger.

You weren’t safe.

But you had something better.

You had each other.

And even in the heart of an Empire, that was rebellion enough.

⸻

“My Boys, My Warriors” pt.3

Clone Commanders x Reader (Platonic/Motherly)

⸻

The fires in the Kalevalan mountains burned low, the cold wind howling through the high passes. The Death Watch camp was bustling—more recruits, more stolen weapons, more rumors.

And then, the arrival.

Obi-Wan Kenobi and Duchess Satine Kryze.

Uninvited.

You stood with Vizsla on the high ridge as he drew the blade from his hip. The Darksaber hissed to life like a living flame—black as night, glowing at the edges like the promise of death.

The effect on the Mandalorians below was instant: awe, devotion, fevered whispers.

But your stomach twisted.

“This isn’t the way,” you muttered under your breath.

Vizsla grinned, eyes gleaming. “It’s our way now.”

You didn’t answer. Not yet.

When Kenobi and Satine confronted Vizsla, words were exchanged. Accusations. Pleas.

Then lightsabers.

Vizsla went for Kenobi—sloppy, showy. It was never about skill with him. It was about spectacle.

You intervened. Not to protect Vizsla. But to test Kenobi. To understand.

Your beskad clashed against his blade, sparks flying. He was strong, but not unkind. Precise.

“You trained the clone commanders,” he said mid-duel, surprised. “You’re her.”

You didn’t answer. Only pushed him harder.

He deflected and stepped back, breathing heavy. “They still speak of you.”

Your guard faltered. Just a beat. But he saw it.

“Cody is my Commander.”

You let them go. Kenobi and Satine escaped into the mountains under cover of night. Vizsla fumed. Called it weakness. Called you soft.

You didn’t respond.

But later, in secret, others came to you—Death Watch members uneasy with the fanaticism growing in Vizsla’s wake. You weren’t the only one with doubts.

You weren’t alone.

Not yet.

⸻

“General?” Cody asked, voice low.

Obi-Wan glanced up from the datapad, still damp from the rain on Kamino. The war had kept them moving—campaign to campaign—but this conversation had waited long enough.

“What happened on Kalevala,” Cody said. “You recognized someone.”

Obi-Wan studied him a moment, then nodded. “Yes.”

Cody looked down, exhaling.

“I think…” Kenobi paused, unsure how to soften the blow. “I think it was your buir.”

Cody’s breath hitched. He didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe. For a long moment, he said nothing.

“I didn’t believe it at first,” Kenobi went on gently. “But her fighting style. Her presence. It was unmistakable.”

Cody sat on the crate beside him, helmet in his lap. “She used to sing to us,” he said quietly. “Used to say we’d be legends.”

Obi-Wan’s voice softened. “I don’t think she’s lost. Not entirely.”

“She joined the Death Watch.”

“She didn’t kill me when she could have.”

Cody blinked hard. “She always said if you had to fight… you fight for something worth dying for. Maybe she thinks she’s doing that.”

Obi-Wan nodded. “Maybe. Or maybe she’s trying to protect something she already lost.”

Later That Night

Cody stood outside his quarters, datapad in hand. He stared at the encrypted channel. No new messages. Nothing in months.

But still… he keyed in a short phrase.

Just two words.

Still there?

He sent it.

And waited.

The barracks were quiet tonight.

Too quiet.

The kind of quiet that only happened right before everything changed.

Cody sat on the edge of his bunk, polishing his helmet even though it was already spotless. The other troopers in his unit were mostly asleep, some murmuring in dreams, others shifting restlessly. Outside, thunder rolled low across the skies.

And then—

Ping.

His datapad lit up.

An encrypted file.

No message. No words. No source.

He stared at it.

He knew that signature. Knew the rhythm of its encryption—she’d taught it to them. Said it was how Mandalorians passed messages in the old days. Heartbeats in code. A kind of song.

And now…

A file.

Cody clicked play.

And the room was filled with a voice from his childhood.

“Do you still dream? Do you, do you sleep still?

I fill my pockets full of stones and sink

Thе river will flow, and the sun will shine 'cause

Mama will be there in the mornin'”

Her voice was soft, low, carrying that rough edge it always had—like wind against beskar. He remembered hearing it in the cadet bunks, late at night, when the storms outside made even the toughest of them curl tighter under their blankets. He remembered her kneeling beside the youngest, brushing a hand over their short buzzed hair, humming softly.

He remembered how it made them feel safe. Like they were home.

And now, years later, on the edge of the Clone Wars…

He was hearing it again.

“Slumber, child, slumber, and dream, dream, dream

The river murdered you and now it takes me

Dream, my baby

Mama will be there in the mornin'”

He blinked, chest tight.

Cody didn’t cry. Not in front of his men. Not in front of anyone.

But tonight, he pressed the datapad to his chest and closed his eyes.

You okay, sir?”

It was Waxer, leaning in from his bunk. Boil sat up too, eyes curious.

Cody cleared his throat. “Fine.”

Boil tilted his head. “Was that…?”

Cody nodded once. “Yeah.”

The others didn’t press. But slowly, one by one, troopers across the barracks stirred. Listening.

No one spoke.

They just let her voice fill the room.

⸻

On Mandalore’s moon, the woman who had sent the file stood beneath the stars.

Helmet tucked under her arm.

She watched the horizon and murmured to herself, “Fight smart. Fight together. And come back.”

She would never send them words.

They already knew them.

But she could still sing them to sleep.

⸻

The fire crackled low in the mouth of the cave, throwing shadows across the jagged stone walls. Outside, the frost of the moon’s night crept in, but inside, the warmth of the flames and the quiet hum of her voice kept it at bay.

She sat cross-legged by the fire, her helmet resting beside her, eyes unfocused as she sang under her breath. The melody was soft, familiar, drifting like smoke.

Behind her, a few Death Watch recruits murmured amongst themselves, throwing glances her way, unsure of what to make of the rare lullaby from a warrior like her.

One of them approached. Young. Sharp-eyed. Barely out of adolescence, with a chip on his shoulder and something to prove.

“Buir,” he said cautiously, the word catching awkwardly in his throat. “That song. You sing it a lot.”

She didn’t look at him. Not right away. She just nodded, still staring into the flames.

“Who was it for?” he asked. “Someone on Mandalore?”

Her voice came low, worn. “No.”

The recruit waited. He didn’t sit, but he didn’t leave either. After a moment, she gestured for him to join her by the fire. He sat slowly, hands resting on his knees, trying to act like he wasn’t still scared of her.

She let the silence sit a little longer before she answered.

“I trained soldiers once. Before the war broke out. Children, really. Grown in tubes, bred for battle. They were mine to shape… my responsibility.”

“You mean the clones?” he asked, surprised. “The clones?”

She nodded slowly.

“They were… good boys,” she said, a soft smile tugging at her lips. “Too good for what the galaxy would ask of them.”

“You cared about them,” the recruit said, almost like it was an accusation.

“I still do,” she replied without hesitation.

He looked at her—this woman in weathered beskar who fought harder than anyone in Death Watch, who’d left behind her name and her history to walk the path of insurgency. The woman who could break bones without blinking… and yet sang lullabies to shadows.

“They’re fighting for the Republic now,” he said. “Isn’t that… the enemy?”

She looked at him then. Really looked at him.

“I didn’t train enemies,” she said. “I trained survivors. Sons. And no matter where they are, or who they fight for, they are mine.”

The recruit shifted uncomfortably.

“I thought you joined Death Watch to protect Mandalore,” he said. “To fight the pacifists, the weakness Satine brought.”

“I did,” she said quietly. “But that doesn’t mean I stopped loving the people I left behind. Sometimes war splits you down the middle. Sometimes you fight with one half of your soul… while mourning with the other.”

The fire crackled between them.

After a long pause, the recruit finally asked, “Do you think they remember you?”

She smiled, just a little.

“I hope they remember the song.”

⸻

The air on Mandalore was thin and sterile—peaceful in a way that felt almost unnatural.

Walking through Sundari’s wide, shining corridors in full armor again, the reader felt the stares of pacifist advisors, senators, and citizens alike. A Mandalorian warrior hadn’t walked these halls in years. Not since they were exiled—branded relics of a bloody past the new government had tried to bury.

She kept walking.

Each step echoed with restraint, but not regret.

When she reached the palace gates, the guards blocked her path, hands twitching toward the stun batons at their sides.

“I seek audience with the Duchess Satine,” she said, voice even. “Tell her an old warrior has come home to bend the knee.”

The guards exchanged skeptical glances, but one of them relayed the message through their comms. A beat passed. Then another.

Then: “The Duchess will see you.”

Satine Kryze sat tall on her throne, draped in royal silks, her expression unreadable.

The reader approached slowly, helmet in hand, her armor still painted in the battle-worn shades of Death Watch—though the sigil had been scorched off.

Satine’s eyes narrowed. “You walk into my court bearing the same steel that once stood with Vizsla and his radicals. Why should I hear a word from your mouth?”

The reader dropped to one knee.

Not in submission.

In promise.

“I left them.”

Satine arched a brow. “And I’m meant to believe that?”

“You’ve heard what Vizsla plans. He wields the Darksaber like a hammer, believing Mandalore’s strength is only measured in fire and conquest.” Her voice was low but sure. “But true strength is not brutality. It’s knowing when not to strike. It’s survival. Legacy.”

Satine rose from her throne slowly. “That sounds more like my philosophy than that of a sworn Mandalorian.”

The reader’s head lifted.

“I am sworn to the Creed,” she said. “The whole Creed. Not just the warmongering chants of the fallen, but the heart of it—the protection of our people. The survival of our world. That is the way.”

Satine studied her.

Something in her eyes softened.

“You pledge yourself to me?”

“I pledge myself to Mandalore,” the reader answered. “And right now… you are the only one keeping her heart beating.”

A long pause.

Then Satine stepped forward, extended a hand.

“Then come,” she said. “If you would stand for peace, walk beside me. I leave for Coruscant in the morning.”

⸻

The duchess’s starcruiser hummed steadily through hyperspace, bound for Coruscant. Peace had no place in the stars anymore—pirates, bounty hunters, Separatist saboteurs—any one of them could strike at any time. Satine’s diplomatic voyage needed more than security.

It needed Jedi.

And hidden among the entourage was a shadow in Beskar.

You.

You stood silently behind the duchess, armor painted anew—neutral tones, a far cry from your old Death Watch markings. Most on board didn’t recognize you, especially with the helmet on. But Obi-Wan had looked twice when he boarded. Said nothing. Just gave you a subtle nod—acknowledgement… and warning.

You were a guest here.

But you were also something dangerous.

t started when the droid attacked. The assassin model, slinking through the ventilation shafts like a ghost.

The ship rocked as explosions tore through the hull—one hit dangerously close to the engines. Screams echoed down the halls.

As the Jedi and clone troopers mobilized, you were already moving, your beskad drawn from your hip in a practiced motion. The moment you cut through the access panel and leapt into the ducts after the droid, Obi-Wan barked, “She’s with us—don’t stop her!”

You burst from the duct with a grunt, landing in a crouch between clone troopers and the assassin droid that had been pinning them down. In one quick move, you flipped the beskad in your hand and hurled it—metal slicing through the droid’s neck and sending sparks flying.

The clones blinked, surprised.

Then one of them spoke, stunned.

“…Buir?”

Your eyes met his.

Cody.

He looked older now. Sharper. War-worn. But the way he said that word—the softness beneath the gravel in his voice—stopped your heart for a beat.

“Cody,” you breathed.

Before you could say more, another explosion rocked the ship and the Jedi shouted orders. You both surged back into motion, fighting side by side as if no time had passed. Rex appeared at your flank, helmet on but unmistakable.

“Never thought I’d see you again,” he said through the comms.

“You look taller,” you shot back.

“Still can’t outshoot me,” he quipped.

“Let’s test that once we survive this.”

Later, when the droid was destroyed and the ship stabilized, you stood with your back against the durasteel wall, helmet off, sweat dripping down your brow.

Cody approached slowly. His armor was scraped, singed.

He stood in front of you silently.

“You left,” he said.

You nodded. “I had to. It wasn’t safe. Not with the Kaminoans growing colder… not with what was coming.”

His jaw clenched. But then he exhaled slowly, nodding.

“You’re here now,” he said. “That’s all that matters.”

A pause.

“You were right, you know,” he added quietly. “We weren’t ready for the galaxy. But we survived. Because of what you gave us.”

You looked at him—really looked at him—and placed your hand on his chest plate.

“I’m proud of you, Cody. All of you.”

Rex joined, helmet tucked under one arm, a crooked grin on his face. “Buir’s gonna make us get all sappy, huh?”

“I’ll arm-wrestle you to shut you up,” you smirked.

They laughed.

For the first time in years.

⸻

Coruscant never changed.

Even from orbit, it looked like a city swallowing itself—buildings stacked on buildings, lights never fading, shadows never still. You stood by the Duchess’s side as her diplomatic cruiser descended toward the Senate landing pad, flanked by Jedi, Senators, and clone guards, all navigating the choreography of politics and danger.

The moment your boots hit the durasteel of the Senate rotunda, you felt it—that tingle down the back of your neck.

You weren’t welcome here.

But you didn’t need to be.

You were here for Mandalore.

And for them.

As Duchess Satine prepared to speak, you fell back slightly—watching her take the grand platform before the Senate assembly, her calm, steady voice echoing through the chamber. She spoke of peace. Of neutrality. Of independence.

The words stirred an old ache in you—half pride, half grief. She was strong in her own way. You respected that now.

But while the chamber listened, your eyes scanned.

And locked on him.

Standing at attention near the perimeter, crimson armor gleaming under the Senate lights, was Marshal Commander Fox. He hadn’t seen you yet. Too focused, too professional. But you approached him like a ghost walking out of the past.

“Still standing tall, I see,” you said, voice low enough not to draw attention.

Fox turned, his sharp gaze meeting yours—and then widening. “No kriffing way.”

You smirked.

He stared, then let out a small huff of disbelief. “You vanish for years and that’s the first thing you say?”

“You didn’t need me anymore,” you said. “You were always going to be something.”

Fox’s jaw tightened, emotion flickering. “We needed you more than you think.”

“Marshal Commander,” you said, mock-formal. “Look at you. I leave for a couple years, and you’re babysitting Senators now. Impressive.”

He rolled his eyes but smiled. “I thought I was hallucinating. You’re supposed to be dead, or exiled, or something dramatic.”

“Only in spirit,” you replied. “Congratulations, Fox. You earned that armor.”

He hesitated.

Then gave you a quiet nod. “It’s not the same without you.”

“It’s not supposed to be,” you said softly. “You were always meant to outgrow me.”

He looked away for a second, then back, voice lower. “The others talk about you sometimes. Cody. Rex. Bly. Even Wolffe, and that man doesn’t talk about anyone.”

“Tell them I remember every one of them.”

“You’ll tell them yourself,” he said, then added, almost too quickly, “Right?”

You didn’t answer. Just touched his shoulder lightly. “You did good, Fox. Better than good. You lead now. That means you carry the burden… but you also get to set the tone. The next generation of vode? They’re watching you.”

He blinked a few times. “You always were the only one who said things like that.”

“And meant it,” you added.

He nodded, slower this time. “It’s good to see you. You look… older.”

You smirked. “Try keeping your head above water in a sea of Vizsla fanatics and tell me how fresh you look after.”

“Fair.”

⸻

The danger came in silence.

You and the Duchess had returned to the Senate landing platform, flanked by Jedi and clone escort. The diplomatic skyspeeder waited, gleaming in the light.

The moment Satine stepped into the speeder, a faint whine filled the air—subtle, but wrong.

Your instincts screamed.

“Don’t start the engine!” you barked, lunging forward—too late.

The speeder blasted off—far too fast, veering wildly.

“Something’s wrong with the repulsors!” Anakin shouted. “The nav systems are locked!”

You were already sprinting toward a nearby speeder bike, Obi-Wan mounting another. “We have to catch her!”

Fox was shouting into his comms, coordinating pursuit and clearance through air lanes.

You and Obi-Wan flew through the sky, weaving around towers as Satine’s speeder dipped and jolted erratically.

Your voice cut through the comms, “Hold her steady, I’m going in.”

Obi-Wan gaped. “You’ll crash!”

“Yeah. Probably.”

You leapt from the bike.

Time slowed.

Your gauntlet mag-grip latched onto the spiraling speeder as you crashed hard against the hull. Satine inside looked up, startled.

You smashed the manual override, pried open the control panel, and yanked the sabotage node free—sparks flew, and the speeder jerked before leveling out.

By the time it landed, your shoulder was dislocated and you were covered in soot.

Later, in the quiet aftermath, you sat against a stone column inside the Senate’s private halls, shoulder hastily reset, your armor scorched. Satine was alive, thanks to you. Obi-Wan sat on the edge of a bench nearby, breathing slow and deep.

“She saved you,” he told Satine softly.

“She tends to do that,” Satine said with a tired smile.

You looked up at him, brows raised. “Surprised?”

He shook his head. “Not at all.”

Fox approached quietly, handing you a fresh water flask.

“You didn’t have to jump out of a speeder,” he muttered.

You took a long drink. “Didn’t want you to miss out on another tragedy.”

He rolled his eyes and leaned against the wall beside you. “You’re the worst role model, you know that?”

You nudged his shin with your boot. “Yet somehow, you turned out alright.”

He gave you a rare smile. “Welcome home. At least for now.”

⸻

The speeder explosion had rattled the city, but Satine had emerged alive. Shaken, but composed.

You hadn’t left her side once.

Now, with the Senate’s mess behind her—for now—Satine prepared to return to Mandalore. You stood outside the diplomatic chambers, speaking softly with Fox while waiting for her departure documents to be signed. That’s when he said it:

“They’re here. Wolffe and Bacara. I told them you were on-planet.”

Your breath caught.

“I wasn’t sure if I should have, but—”

“No,” you said quickly. “Thank you.”

He didn’t press further. He just gave you a nod and walked off to oversee the Senate Guard rotation.

You didn’t wait.

⸻

The military side of Coruscant always had a different air—colder, louder, filled with tension that clung to the skin like storm-wet armor.

You found them in a quiet corridor beside their departing ship. Wolffe leaned against a crate, arms crossed, helmet at his side, expression unreadable as ever. Bacara sat on a lower bench, hunched, hands folded between his knees.

They looked up at the same time.

It took less than a heartbeat before Bacara stood and crossed the space to you.

“Buir.”

You wrapped your arms around him before he could finish exhaling the word. It was like hugging a rock—solid and unyielding—but you felt the slight tremble in his breath. That was enough.

“You’ve grown,” you said.

“You say that every time.”

“Because you always do.”

Wolffe approached more cautiously, arms still crossed, but the faint flicker of softness in his expression gave him away.

“You didn’t think to send a message?” he asked.

“I couldn’t,” you said honestly. “Too much would’ve come with it. You boys had to become who you’re meant to be without me hovering.”

“We were better with you hovering,” Bacara muttered.

Wolffe gave a grunt. “I thought you were dead, for a while.”

“I know,” you said, quieter. “That was the idea, at first.”

Wolffe stepped forward, finally breaking that last bit of space between you. His brow was tense, eyes shadowed.

“We talked about you. Even now. When things get bad.”

“You remember the lullaby?” you asked.

Bacara scoffed. “You think we’d forget?”

You grinned.

“Where are you headed?” Bacara asked, nodding to your sidearm and armor, half-concealed beneath a diplomatic cloak.

“Back to Mandalore. With the Duchess.”

Wolffe gave you a long, searching look. “Back with the pacifists?”

“No,” you said. “Not as one of them. As her sword. Her shield. She’s not perfect—but her fight is worth something. And if Mandalore’s going to survive this war, it’ll need more than weapons. It’ll need balance.”

Wolffe’s jaw ticked. “And if you’re wrong?”

“Then I’d rather die standing beside hope than kneeling beside zealotry.”

Bacara snorted. “Still stubborn.”

“Still your buir.”

You embraced them both, tighter this time.

“I’m proud of you,” you whispered.

They didn’t say anything. They didn’t have to.

As you turned to leave, your boots echoing against the durasteel floor, you let your voice rise—soft and familiar.

The lullaby.

Altamaha-Ha.

A haunting thread of melody that followed them into war before.

Now, it lingered behind you like a ghost in the mist.

Wolffe didn’t look away. Bacara closed his eyes.

They would carry that sound into every battle.

Just like they carried you.

⸻

The return to Mandalore was quiet. Satine had dismissed her guards—except for you. You stood at her side now, not as a threat, not as a rebel, not as a Death Watch traitor, but as a Mandalorian, reborn in purpose.

It hadn’t been easy convincing the Council to allow it. The Duchess had vouched for you, which meant more than words. But still, whispers followed in your wake. Once a warrior, always a weapon. You heard them. You ignored them.

Inside the domed city, pacifism still ruled. A beautiful, cold kind of peace. No blades. No armor. No fire.

You wore your beskar anyway.

“You’re unsettling them,” Satine said quietly beside you, overlooking the city from the palace balcony.

“I’m protecting them.”

“They don’t see it that way.”

“They will, when someone decides to test your boundaries again.”

She looked at you, eyes soft but steeled. “You’re still so steeped in it. War. Blood. Even your presence is a threat to them.”

“I’m not a threat to you, Satine.”

“No,” she said, voice nearly a whisper. “Not to me.”

A pause. Her hand rested gently against the railing. “You could have joined Vizsla. His path would’ve made more sense for someone like you.”

“I did,” you admitted. “But sense doesn’t mean truth. His war is born of pride. Yours… is born of hope. That’s harder. But stronger.”

She turned toward you. “You really believe that?”

You nodded once. “Only the strongest shall rule Mandalore. And I’ve fought in enough wars to know that strength is more than the blade you carry. It’s knowing when to sheathe it.”

A long silence settled between you. She looked away, clearly fighting some retort, but in the end… she let it go.

“I’m glad you’re here,” Satine said softly.

You didn’t smile, but your silence meant everything.

⸻

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4

I saw your fic “What’s that smell” and thought it was absolutely beautiful! I was wondering what would be the rest of the batches reactions to the new smells. I can’t imagine what their ship would smell like and then having it change and maybe even be cleaner. You’re the best! Xx

Their ship would 100% smell like oil, sweat, blaster residue, old caf, dusty armor polish, and wet dog on a good day.

Here is what I believe the rest of the batches reactions are.

Crosshair

The first time he notices it, he’s practically scowling.

He hates things he can’t immediately explain, and suddenly the ship doesn’t smell like burnt wiring and recycled air anymore — it smells like…

something soft.

Something warm.

Something he can’t stop breathing in.

He’s so annoyed about it he follows you around for an entire day, sniffing the air like a pissed-off lothcat, trying to figure out if it’s you or if someone installed a karking air freshener.

When he finally realizes it’s you, he just stands there staring at you for a long second, lips pressed into a tight line.

Then he mutters:

“You smell… distracting.”

Like it’s a personal insult.

Will absolutely lean in closer than necessary just to breathe you in — but if you catch him, he’ll immediately go “Hmph” and pretend you’re the weird one.

Wrecker

Wrecker’s the first to flat-out say it.

He scoops you up into a bone-crushing hug one day, immediately sniffs, and then pulls back with wide, amazed eyes.

“Whoa! You smell amazing! Like… like sunshine! And pastries! And soap!”

He is obsessed after that. Every time you walk by, he inhales dramatically like a toddler discovering their favorite candy.

“Can we keep ya?” he jokes — but he means it. You’re like a walking comfort blanket for him.

The Marauder slowly starts smelling better too because Wrecker starts cleaning more — purely because he wants the nice smell to stick around.

Tech

Tech notices immediately, but being Tech, he processes it differently.

“Interesting,” he says aloud the first time you pass him. “The olfactory change is quite pleasant.”

Then he starts… researching it.

He runs calculations about human pheromones and attraction rates. He theorizes that your presence might lower the crew’s stress levels by up to 23%.

He doesn’t even realize he’s orbiting closer to you during missions until Wrecker points it out.

Embarrassed, he adjusts his goggles and mutters something about “optimal proximity for psychological benefits.”

Translation: You smell good and it’s making his brain short-circuit, help.

Echo

Echo notices it like a punch to the face because he’s so hyperaware of sensory input now.

The Marauder always smells like metal and grime — he’s used to it — but you?

You smell like rain hitting dry ground. Like something clean and alive and real.

It shakes him a little.

Reminds him of before — before the war, before everything.

He tries to be subtle about it, but you catch him lingering near you sometimes, jaw tight like he’s trying not to let himself want it.

One day you brush past him and he closes his eyes for half a second, just breathing you in.

He doesn’t say anything about it for a long time.

Until maybe you tease him — and he finally admits, voice low and rough:

“You make this whole ship feel… less like a graveyard.”

Which might be the most devastatingly sweet thing Echo could ever say.

You are SO TALENTED!!!! I love reading your fics so much. There is something so comforting and perfect about how you write. I can’t put my finger on how to explain what I mean other than I really love your style and how you describe things and write the characters. You always start the fics off in a unique way and I love how to interpret people’s ideas into your style!! Would it be okay if I make a tech request please? I was thinking about something kind of idiots to lovers where they are both obviously interested in each other but haven’t made that step yet and everyone is relaxing on the beach (because they deserve it) and reader can’t stop staring at tech and is super obvious and helpless about it. Maybe he gets all flustered and shy about it and the others are teasing them and pushing them together? If you want of course only if you feel inspired! Thank you 💗💗💗 so much love for you and your fics!

That means so much—thank you! Seriously, I’m really honored by your words, truly means a lot 🤍

“Heat Index”

Tech x Reader

The beach wasn’t part of the mission.

It was just…there. Unoccupied. Warm. Irresistible.

Clone Force 99 had been rerouted after a failed rendezvous with Cid’s contact, and with no immediate threats or intel to chase down, Hunter declared something miraculous:

“Stand down for the day. You’ve earned it.”

And that’s how you found yourself on a quiet, sun-drenched coast with the sound of waves in your ears, sand between your toes, and a distinct inability to stop staring at Tech.

You told yourself you were being subtle. Sitting beside him while he recalibrated his datapad, watching him tap at the screen with focused precision, eyes half-hidden behind his signature goggles. You probably looked like you were zoning out—beachy daydreaming, normal and relaxed.

But inside? Inside you were on fire.

It was embarrassing, really, the way your stomach flipped every time he pushed his glasses up or muttered to himself. The man could be describing planetary topography and you’d nod along like he was whispering sweet nothings.

And you weren’t slick. Not even a little.

“Y/N, you’re staring again,” Echo said, not even trying to be discreet as he passed by with a makeshift towel slung around his neck. His prosthetic hand glinted in the sun as he pointed an accusatory thumb your way.

“I’m not,” you mumbled, heat rushing to your face.

“You are,” Wrecker chimed in from where he was wrestling with Omega in the shallows. “Even I noticed. And I was busy winning.”

“You were not!” Omega shouted, shoving at Wrecker’s broad chest as he laughed and face-planted into the surf.

You groaned and covered your face. This was fine. Totally fine. They were just teasing. They always teased.

But Tech?

Oblivious.

He didn’t even look up, still scrolling through data with maddening focus, the sunlight glinting off his goggles. You watched as he adjusted his posture on the towel beneath him, arms flexing under the light linen of his casual shirt—of course he rolled his sleeves. Of course.

“You know,” Crosshair drawled from behind you, “he’s been stealing glances at you all day.”

You jumped.

“What?”

“Mm.” Crosshair didn’t elaborate. He just took a slow sip from the coconut drink Wrecker had found earlier and tilted his head, smirking. “Took you long enough to notice.”

You turned back to Tech quickly, trying not to look like you were checking—but yes. His head was angled just a bit too stiffly toward his datapad, like he’d jerked his gaze away the moment you turned. His fingers weren’t moving. He was paused.

Flustered?

That couldn’t be right. This was Tech. The man had calculated the thermal resistance of Wrecker’s cooking experiments and quoted entire military texts without blinking. Emotion wasn’t his operating system.

…But his ears were a bit pink.

You squinted. No way.

“Hunter,” you hissed toward the Batch’s defacto leader, hoping for confirmation.

He looked up from where he was lounging with a smug expression that had definitely been inherited from Crosshair at some point.

“He likes you. Don’t ask me to interpret how—but yeah. You’re just as obvious as he is.”

You buried your face in your hands again.

This was a mess. A ridiculous, tangled, sun-soaked mess.

And yet—

“Y/N?” Tech’s voice was right beside you. Quiet. Tentative. You startled a little—when had he moved closer?

“I—I didn’t mean to disturb you,” he said, and you watched his throat bob as he swallowed hard. “But I noticed a discrepancy in your hydration levels. You haven’t had water in two hours and thirty-seven minutes.”

You blinked. “You’re…tracking my water intake?”

“Well, I’ve been tracking everyone’s. But yours in particular was… below optimal parameters.”

You stared.

He cleared his throat.

“I made this for you,” he added, holding out a homemade drink container fashioned from a modified canteen and what looked like part of a fruit rind. “It’s rehydration-optimized. With, um… taste. I believe that matters to you?”

Your heart did a completely traitorous little leap. “You made me a beach drink?”

His ears turned very pink. “Yes.”

Crosshair made a gagging sound from somewhere behind you.

You took the drink, fingers brushing Tech’s. He didn’t pull away.

“Thanks,” you said softly. “That’s… really sweet.”

He stared at you for a second, expression flickering behind his goggles.

“Would you—” he blurted, then stopped himself. “Would you… be interested in accompanying me on a walk along the beach? For scientific reasons.”

“Scientific reasons?”

“Yes. I’d like to examine the tidal patterns. But also… I’d like to spend time with you.”

You almost laughed in relief, and it was so him, so endearing and awkward and precise, that you couldn’t say no.

“Yeah,” you said, and smiled. “I’d like that.”

The walk started slow.

He kept his hands behind his back at first, clearly trying to keep things casual, but he couldn’t help rattling off bits of data about the tides and the weather patterns. You nodded, asked just enough to keep him talking—but you were watching him more than anything else.

His brow furrowed when he talked, like every thought had to be carefully handled and shaped before it left his mouth. But he got passionate. Excited. Animated.

He gestured toward a tide pool and nearly tripped over a rock, catching himself with a flustered noise that made you giggle. His cheeks turned pink again.

“This is ridiculous,” he muttered suddenly.

“What is?”

He turned to you, still awkward, but determined. “I’ve run the probabilities. Of outcomes. Of this… situation.”

“This situation being…?”

“You and me,” he said, like it was a confession he’d been holding in for weeks. “Statistically, the indicators are positive. Even when accounting for external variables and potential mission constraints.”

You bit your lip. “Tech—are you saying what I think you’re saying?”

He hesitated. Then: “I like you. Very much. In a not entirely logical way.”

Your breath caught.

“You do?”

“I have for some time,” he admitted. “I didn’t say anything because I assumed the feelings were not… mutual. And I didn’t want to make things awkward among the squad.”

“Oh,” you said, voice breathy. “You absolute idiot.”

He blinked.

“I like you too,” you said, taking a step closer. “In a totally not-logical-at-all way. Everyone else figured it out ages ago.”

Tech looked stunned.

You took his hand—he startled, but didn’t pull away.

“I wanted to tell you,” you said. “But I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

“I am, in fact,” he said slowly, “very comfortable at the moment.”

The silence stretched between you, warm and fizzing with promise.

And then—

“Finally!”

You both turned. Wrecker and Echo were standing waist-deep in the surf, cheering.

“I owe you five credits,” Crosshair muttered to Hunter.

You groaned, but couldn’t stop smiling.

“Let them gloat,” Tech said softly, fingers brushing yours again. “We have better things to do.”

“Like?”

“Another kilometer of beach to explore. And perhaps later… dinner. Just the two of us.”

Your stomach fluttered.

“Sounds perfect.”

⸻

Dinner arrived in pieces.

Wrecker had scavenged half the ingredients from the nearby forest—safe and edible, confirmed by Hunter—and Omega, ever the creative one, had helped wrap them in broad leaves and skewer them over a makeshift spit. Echo insisted on seasoning, mumbling something about dignity, and Crosshair contributed by not poisoning the mood with snark.

But you and Tech?

You barely noticed.

You’d spent the entire afternoon orbiting one another, caught in the gravitational pull of what had finally been said and shared. And when Tech suggested you take your food to the far end of the beach—just the two of you—there was no hesitation.

You walked in silence at first, the smell of salt and roasted fruit mingling with the low roar of the tide. The sand cooled beneath your feet as the sun dipped lower, shadows stretching long and purple-blue across the coast. When you reached a quiet, rocky cove framed by tidepools and a sloping dune, Tech paused.

“This will do,” he said.

You laid out the blanket Omega had packed, and he helped you unpack the food with the same precision he brought to every mission. Only this time, you noticed the small things—the way his fingers brushed yours when handing you a wrapped meal, the quiet way he lingered near your side as if anchoring himself.

You sat cross-legged beside him on the blanket. He adjusted his goggles. Again.

“You can take those off, you know,” you said gently.

“I—well, yes, I could, but…”

“But?”

“I prefer to see you clearly.”

Your breath caught. He wasn’t even trying to be smooth. That was the worst part—it was just honesty, simple and unaffected, and it made your chest feel like it had been sun-warmed from the inside out.

He must’ve noticed your reaction because he fumbled with his fork.

“I apologize. Was that too forward?”

“No,” you said quickly. “Just… unexpected.”

A small smile touched his lips. He nudged his glasses up slightly anyway, so you could see more of his eyes.

“Then I shall try to surprise you more often.”

The meal was delicious—maybe not restaurant quality, but easily one of the best things you’d tasted in weeks. The food was secondary, though. The real warmth came from being beside Tech, talking about nothing and everything. His shoulders relaxed the longer you chatted, especially when you teased him lightly about how long it had taken for him to make a move.

“I calculated risk scenarios,” he said indignantly, mouth twitching at the corners.

“Uh-huh. And how’d that go?”

“Well, clearly, I underestimated you.”

You laughed. “You really did.”

After dinner, the sky deepened into indigo, and stars began to prick through the darkness.

You lay back on the blanket with a contented sigh, staring up at the galaxy above. Beside you, Tech adjusted his posture, lying just close enough for your arms to brush.

“The constellations are different from Kamino’s sector,” he murmured. “See that cluster? That’s the Aurigae Trine. It’s only visible from this hemisphere.”

You turned your head to look at him.

“And the one over there?” you asked, pointing.

He followed your gaze, expression thoughtful. “That’s informal. Not officially charted. But some smugglers call it The Serpent’s Tongue.”

“Romantic,” you teased.

“Perhaps not. But…”

He hesitated, then shifted slightly, turning onto his side to face you fully.

“I once thought romance was a variable I would never encounter with clarity,” he said. “It seemed inefficient. Distracting.”

You raised an eyebrow. “And now?”

“Now I find it… illuminating. Like gravitational lensing. Everything bends, but you can see further.”

Your chest tightened with something sweet and aching.

“You always talk like that?” you asked quietly.

He tilted his head. “Do you prefer I don’t?”

“No,” you whispered. “I love it. I love how you see things.”

His gaze softened, and this time, it was his hand that reached for yours.

“I may not always say the right words,” he murmured. “But I will always mean them.”

You laced your fingers with his.

“I know.”

The sky stretched endless above you, starlight threading between the waves and wind. And for once, there was no war. No danger. Just you, and him, and a night that felt like it had waited for years to happen.

“Crimson Huntress” pt.6

Summary: A rogue ARC trooper and a ruthless Togruta bounty hunter form an uneasy alliance, dodging Jedi, Death Watch, and their pasts as war rages across the galaxy.

The ship groaned as it came out of hyperspace, systems still temperamental from the patchwork repairs 4023 had attempted. Sha’rali took the helm as soon as they were clear of the Republic cruiser, muttering about stabilizer recalibrations and how “he’s never flying my ship again.”

The coordinates she picked were obscure—an old moon on the edge of a dying system, a place where ex-cons, fugitives, and ghosts went to disappear.

Perfect.

They landed in the shadow of jagged cliffs, surrounded by rust-colored soil and broken mining equipment left to decay decades ago. K4 and R9 stayed with the ship.

Inside the ship, in the silence after the engines powered down, Sha’rali opened a long storage crate at the foot of her sleeping quarters.

Inside: backup armor. Scuffed. Dusty. Older. Functional, but uninspired.

She ran her hand over the plates—simple matte silver and black, not the black-and-deep-crimson of her real set. That set had been hers, painstakingly custom-forged over the years. She’d scavenged some of the plating from a wrecked Trandoshan warship. Other parts were Mandalorian-forged. The entire set had been a life built into armor.

Now it was ash.

CT-4023 stood in the doorway, helmet in hand, but for once, silent.

She didn’t acknowledge him at first. She just started pulling the plates on—bit by bit. No ceremony. Just necessity. Each click and lock of the armor echoed hollow in the room.

“Doesn’t feel right,” she muttered, staring at the pauldron in her hands. “It’s not mine. This was made for someone else. For a different me.”

4023 stepped closer, his voice low. “You’re still you.”

Sha’rali shook her head. “No. I’m the version of me that got chained up in a cage and forced to kill for show.” She fitted the chestplate, jaw tight. “That me doesn’t deserve the armor I lost.”

“You didn’t lose it,” he said. “It was taken.”

Her hands stilled.

He added, quieter, “And they didn’t take you.”

That got her attention.

She turned, eyes narrowed. “You don’t know what it’s like. That collar wasn’t just electricity. It was every kriffing choice I ever made catching up to me. Every mission. Every betrayal. Every time I looked the other way.”

4023 didn’t flinch. “You made it out.”

“I survived.” She fastened the last strap. “That doesn’t mean I’m still whole.”

He finally stepped close enough that their shadows overlapped. “None of us are.”

Sha’rali looked up at him—really looked. He didn’t wear his helmet now. She saw the streak of healing bruises under his eye, the tired cut across his temple. And the way his jaw clenched not from tension—but from restraint.

“If you’re about to say something comforting,” she warned, “don’t.”

He held up both hands. “Wouldn’t dream of it. I was going to say we need a drink.”

That made her snort. “Now that I’ll accept.”

⸻

The place was dim, seedy, and pulsing with synth-blues and smoke. The bartender was a bored Givin who didn’t ask questions, and the drinks were made with something that likely wasn’t fit for organic consumption.

Perfect.

They sat in the back, under the hum of an old repulsor fan. She drank something pink and deadly-looking. He had something dark and bitter.

A quiet settled in after the second round.

“You don’t talk much about it,” she said, glancing sideways.

“About what?”

“The things you did. The war. Why you left.”

4023 tapped the rim of his glass. “Not much to say that hasn’t already been said in blood.”

“Try me.”

He took a breath, then shrugged. “I followed every order. Did every mission. Survived where others didn’t. Got my ARC designation after pulling a squad out of a sunken droid ambush during the Second Battle of Christophis. Commander Cody called me a kriffing hero.” His mouth twitched, humorless. “Didn’t feel like one.”

“You left your brothers.”

“I left what was left of them.” He finally looked her in the eyes. “And then I found you.”

The silence stretched taut between them.

“Was it worth it?” she asked quietly.

He didn’t blink. “Ask me again in a year.”

She drained her glass and signaled for another. “I’ll hold you to it.”

⸻

Sha’rali had decided that pain was best drowned in the bottom of a glass. Or several.

K4 didn’t object. The droid was many things—lethal, unpredictable, brutally sarcastic—but on rare occasions, he understood when to sit still. He stayed at the corner booth with her, occasionally offering commentary like, “That’s the seventh. You’ll regret the seventh,” or “I am now calculating your blood toxicity level.”

She waved him off with an exaggerated roll of her eyes. “You programmed to nag, or is it just your charming personality?”

He tilted his head. “I’ll let the bacta tank answer that question tomorrow.”

CT-4023 walked back through the dusty thoroughfare of Station, the moonlight cutting jagged shadows between rusted buildings and rock spires. He was nearly at the ship when he heard it.

Footfalls. A scuffle. Grunts. A frightened yelp.

Then—“Get back here, you little kriffer!”

He turned instinctively. A cluster of armed thugs were chasing a young boy through the alleys—a teen, no older than fifteen. The kid had tan skin, sand-blond curls, and a stitched jacket hanging off one shoulder. Panic radiated off him in waves.

4023 stepped between the kid and the thugs without hesitation.

“Wrong alley,” he said, reaching for his blaster.

One of the thugs sneered. “Move, pal. This don’t concern you.”

“It does now.”

The first swing came fast. 4023 ducked it, grabbed the attacker’s wrist, and twisted until the thug screamed and dropped his blade. A second thug lunged, but caught a knee to the gut. The third raised a blaster—

And then went flying.

A wave of invisible force hurled him back against the wall, hard enough to knock him cold.

4023 blinked, turning to the boy.

The kid stood there, shaking, one hand half-raised. His eyes were wide. He’d meant to do it—but not well.

“Come on,” the clone said, grabbing the boy’s arm. “Move.”

They sprinted through the shadows, dodging old repulsor units and abandoned droid parts, until the ship came into view. 4023 punched the security code, and the ramp hissed open.

Inside, under flickering lights, they caught their breath.

“You okay?” 4023 asked.

The boy nodded slowly. “Thanks. For stepping in.”

“I’ve seen worse. What did they want?”

The kid hesitated. “I… might’ve taken something. Credits. A ration card.”

“You a thief?”

“Sometimes,” the boy admitted. Then, quieter, “Mostly just hungry.”

4023 leaned against the bulkhead, arms folded. “That Force trick… you trained?”

The boy didn’t answer at first.

“Used to be. Kinda.”

4023 didn’t press. The silence was enough.

“They… they threw me out,” the boy finally said, eyes down. “My Master. He—he wasn’t what the Jedi are supposed to be. He hurt people. He liked it.” A breath, shaky and raw. “Said I wasn’t strong enough. Said I was useless. So I left.”

“I’ve heard worse reasons to walk away,” 4023 said.

The boy looked up. “You left too?”

The clone nodded once. “Yeah. Whole different story, but… yeah.”

Another pause.

“What’s your name?” 4023 asked.

The kid tilted his head. “Name’s Kael.”

“Kael what?”

“Just Kael. Not sure the rest matters anymore.”

“Fair enough.”

Kael dropped onto the ship’s bench, looking around. “You live here?”

“Something like that.”

Just then, the outer ramp hissed open again.

Sha’rali stumbled in, holding her head like it might fall off. “Why is everything loud,” she groaned, before noticing Kael. Her gaze narrowed. “What is that?”

4023 didn’t flinch. “That’s Kael.”

“We are not keeping strays.”

“Too late. He’s here now.”

She turned to K4, who had just entered behind her. “Did you let him bring a kid onto my ship?”

“I was monitoring your bloodstream. The child was not a threat.”

Sha’rali gave 4023 a withering look. “Tell me you didn’t just take in someone you don’t know.”

4023 crossed his arms. “You took me in.”

“That was different. You’re—” she stopped, reconsidering. Then groaned and waved it off. “Fine. But he’s not staying long.”

Kael said nothing. He watched her with cautious eyes, not revealing anything of what he truly was. Sha’rali didn’t press. She was still too hungover. Too exhausted.

“Just don’t let him touch anything,” she muttered, disappearing into the ship’s corridor.

Once she was gone, Kael looked at 4023. “Are you going to tell her?”

“No,” the clone said. “And for now, she doesn’t need to know.”

Kael nodded. “Thanks. For letting me stay.”

“Don’t thank me yet. Just stay out of sight. Don’t use the Force unless you have to.”

Kael cracked a small smile. “Yes, sir.”

4023 smirked faintly. “Don’t call me sir.”

⸻

Sha’rali Jurok awoke to the sharp stab of light from a cabin viewport and the unforgiving throb of what felt like a vibrohammer lodged behind her eyes.

“Uuughhh.”

Her montrals were ringing. Her mouth tasted like carbon scoring and regret. She flopped onto her back and groaned at the ceiling.

“K4,” she rasped. “Tell me I’m dead.”

The droid’s voice crackled through the intercom, maddeningly cheery. “Unfortunately not. Though based on the volume of your slurred speech and how many times you told the barkeep that you ‘invented violence,’ I’d say you earned the hangover.”

She shoved herself up, regretting it instantly. “Tea. Hot. Strong. Or I’ll melt your legs off.”

“Coming right up,” K4 replied, unbothered as ever.

Sha’rali stumbled into the refresher, splashing water on her face and peeling off last night’s shirt. Her head pounded, her limbs ached, and there was an odd bruise on her shoulder she didn’t remember earning. Probably from the crate she tripped over during her theatrical return to the ship.

By the time she made it to the common area—wearing loose, oversized pants and one of 4023’s black undershirts—K4 was already waiting with a steaming cup of pungent leaf-brew tea.

She accepted it with a grunt, sipping cautiously.

And then stopped mid-sip, eyes narrowing.

“Why,” she said slowly, “is there a teenager sleeping on my couch?”

Kael was sprawled across the cushions, limbs tangled in a spare blanket, head tucked under his arm like a sleeping Tooka cub. His sandy-blond curls flopped into his eyes.

K4 didn’t look up from his task of reorganizing his tools. “That would be the stray you didn’t want us to keep. The one you promptly forgot about after declaring the floor was trying to murder you.”

Sha’rali glared. “He’s still here?”

“Indeed.”

She rubbed her temples. “Right. Fine. Whatever. We are not a daycare.” Then she glanced at the couch again and sighed. “…He’s too small for the cargo hold.”

“Your compassion is overwhelming,” K4 deadpanned.

“I’m not letting him take my quarters,” she muttered. “He’ll take yours.”

The droid’s head swiveled. “Pardon?”

She pointed at him, then at the little astromech who chirped innocently from a corner terminal. “You two. Share. R9 doesn’t need his own room. Neither do you. You’re droids.”

R9 beeped in protest.

Sha’rali scowled. “Don’t sass me.”

“I would protest,” K4 said dryly, “but frankly, R9’s been keeping a hydrospanner collection in his coolant reservoir. I’d prefer not to be next to something that might detonate.”

She leaned on the table, cradling the tea like a lifeline. “Make it work. The kid gets your bunk.”

There was a moment of stunned silence.

“Wait,” she said. “R9 better not have touched my vintage bourbon stash.”

⸻

The heat on Florrum was the kind that pressed in from all sides, dry and sharp with the scent of scorched minerals and ozone. Red dust coated the jagged outcroppings surrounding ship, and the suns heat beat down overhead like they were trying to bake the world flat.

Florrum wasn’t hospitable, but it was quiet. Isolated. Perfect for lying low.

Kael was sitting cross-legged in the shade of the ship’s landing struts, sleeves rolled up, fiddling with a stripped-down blaster pistol. R9 sat nearby projecting a schematic of the weapon, chirping and beeping out helpful commentary.

CT-4023 knelt beside a makeshift workbench, watching Kael. The kid was cautious, fingers nimble but hesitant.

“Don’t force it,” 4023 said, voice modulated by the helm. “Treat it like a lock, not a wall.”

“You’re not jerking the cartridge release clean,” 4023 murmured. “It’s a smooth press and twist, not a snap.”

Kael frowned, then tried again—this time more precise.

The part clicked free.

Kael exhaled slowly and twisted the energy chamber. “Got it.”

“Good. Clean it like I showed you.”

R9 chirped a series of quick, approving beeps, projecting a schematic overhead for reference. Kael grinned at the droid, then glanced at 4023.

“You always teach like this?”

“Only when it matters.”

Kael opened his mouth to ask something more, but the sound of boots crunching over grit snapped both of them to attention.

Sha’rali.

She held a blaster rifle nearly as long as the boy was tall. She tossed it through the air with a casual spin. Kael caught it—barely.

“Hope you know how to aim, stray.”

Kael gawked at the blaster, then back at her. “Uh—I mean, not really—”

4023 rose to his feet. “You can’t just give him a weapon.”

Sha’rali gave him a slow look. “He’s been here two days and already fixed my nav console and bypassed two encrypted locks. He’s not stupid. He can learn.”

“That’s not the point,” 4023 said, stepping closer. “He’s a kid. You don’t train a kid by tossing him a gun.”

“Oh, so now you’re the moral compass?” She grinned mockingly. “Since when do deserters play guardian?”

He stiffened. “Since I decided I wouldn’t let more lives get thrown away because someone thought they were expendable.”

Sha’rali’s smile faded, just slightly.

Kael watched, silent, clutching the blaster awkwardly in both hands.

R9 let out a long, low beep, like he was enjoying the tension. K4 strolled up from behind the ship, pausing just long enough to deadpan, “Are we doing family drama this early?”

“Don’t tempt me,” Sha’rali muttered. Then, to Kael “You want to learn or not?”

The boy nodded, tentative but resolute.

“Then come on. I’ll show you how to not shoot your own face off.”

4023 exhaled. “This is a mistake.”

Sha’rali walked past him with a smirk. “Relax, Captain. If he shoots himself, I’ll let you say ‘I told you so.’”

As Kael followed her toward the rocky outcroppings where a row of makeshift targets waited, 4023 stayed back, hands clenched at his sides.

K4 leaned in next to him. “You’re starting to sound like a dad.”

4023 didn’t look away. “Someone has to.”

⸻

The makeshift firing range was a strip of cracked, sun-baked stone carved between jagged rock outcroppings behind their ship. A line of discarded droid torsos and rusted durasteel plating had been set up for target practice. Kael stood awkwardly in the sand, clutching the oversized blaster like it might bite him.

“Alright, kid. Let’s see if you’re as sharp as your mouth.”

ael looked from the weapon to her, brow raised.

“Is this legal?”

“We’re bounty hunters,” she said. “That’s not a word we use much.”

“Cool,” Kael said. “That’s not concerning at all.”

“Point it downrange, smartass.”

Kael shifted his feet, lifting the blaster like he’d seen on old holos. “So, uh… safety?”

“Off.”

“Trigger?”

“Pull it when you’re ready.”

He squinted at a downed B2 head, stuck on a spike about twenty meters out. “Right. No pressure.”

Sha’rali crossed her arms. “You’re holding that like it’s gonna ask you to dance.”

He exaggerated a twirl with the blaster. “Hey, I’m charming when I try.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Try shooting instead.”

Kael fired. The bolt missed wide and smacked into a distant rock, spooking a nest of small birds.

“Boom,” he said. “Perfect warning shot. That rock won’t mess with us again.”

Sha’rali walked up and repositioned his arms. “You’re overcorrecting. Wrist straight. Elbow low. Plant your feet like you’re ready to fight, not faint.”

“You do realize I’m fifteen, right?” Kael muttered. “Not all of us are built like you.”

She glanced at him. “Good. Less surface area to hit.”

He grinned and took another shot. This time, he clipped the shoulder of the droid head.

“Nice,” Sha’rali said. “Almost impressive.”

“‘Almost impressive’ is literally how I introduce myself at bars,” Kael deadpanned.

“You’ve been to bars?”

“I’ve been thrown out of bars.”

Sha’rali stared at him.

He shrugged. “It was for being too adorable.”

She took a half-step back and barked a laugh. “Stars help me. You’re gonna get us all shot.”

“That’s what the gun’s for, right?”

Sha’rali made a sound between a sigh and a snort, then gestured to another target. “Try again. Faster this time.”

He fired three bolts in quick succession. Two hit, one went wide.

“Not bad,” she said, genuine this time.

Kael lowered the weapon and gave her a crooked smile. “See? Fast learner. And bonus—you didn’t have to yell.”

“I don’t yell,” she said.

He blinked. “That’s so untrue. You yell with your face.”

Sha’rali pointed a finger at him. “You keep sassing, I’ll make you scrub carbon scoring off R9’s undercarriage.”

“I already did that once!” he protested. “I think he’s just dirty on purpose.”

R9 beeped irritably from the ridge.

Kael mimicked the droid with a nasal whine: “Beep-boop, I’m superior to organic life forms. Please validate me.”

Sha’rali chuckled under her breath. “You’re insufferable.”

Kael fired one last shot. Dead center.

Then, casually: “So… this means I’m officially dangerous now, right?”

She tilted her head. “You were already dangerous. Just in a different way.”

Kael’s smile faltered, just slightly. But it returned fast. “Aww. You do like me.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t not say it.”

She walked past him, grabbing the blaster from his hands. “Come on. Let’s see if you’re better at cleaning it than firing it.”

Kael followed, calling out, “I can clean stuff! Especially messes I make! Which is most messes!”

R9 trilled something in binary. Sha’rali didn’t catch it, but Kael did.

“You take that back, you glorified kettle.”

⸻

The cantina on florrum was loud, smoky, and smelled like stale drinks and scorched metal—just the kind of place Sha’rali felt most at home in.

She was leaned against a booth, sifting through bounty listings on a small holopad, K4 standing at her shoulder, red eyes scanning rapidly. R9 beeped from beside them, impatient.

“No, we’re not picking that one,” she muttered, flicking past a listing that promised triple pay for a political extraction job on Serenno. “I like my head where it is.”

K4 tilted his head. “You do tend to lead with it.”

Before Sha’rali could respond, the cantina’s entry chime buzzed.

4023 ducked through the doorway, armor worn and dusty, rifle slung over his back. Behind him, Kael trailed with a grin and hands in his pockets.

Sha’rali straightened. “What’s he doing here?”

“He insisted,” 4023 said flatly.

Kael raised his hand. “Hi. I’m insisting.”

“I told you to stay on the ship.”

“You also told R9 to stop locking the refresher door when you’re hungover,” Kael said. “We all ignore things.”

Sha’rali sighed. “You’re not coming on a job.”

“I can help,” Kael said. “I’m fast, quiet, and pretty good at distracting people by being incredibly annoying.”

K4 muttered, “No argument there.”

4023 stepped closer to her, voice low. “I’ll watch him. He won’t cause trouble.”

“That’s a bold promise for someone I watched nearly fall off the ship ramp yesterday,” she said dryly.

4023’s helmet tilted, annoyed. “He’s not a liability.”

That caught her attention. Not a liability was a very specific kind of defense. Her eyes narrowed at them both.

Kael sat at the booth and grabbed a discarded cup, sniffed it, and made a face. “That smells like regret.”

Sha’rali rounded the table. “You two are keeping something from me.”

4023 didn’t answer. His silence was like a wall.

Sha’rali leaned down to Kael. “Where exactly did 4023 find you?”

Kael blinked. “Oh, you know. Around. Classic back-alley rescue story. Bandits. Dramatic chase. Stuff blew up.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Swear to all the stars, nothing shady.”

“I never said shady.”

“Then I’m doing great!” He finger-gunned her and winked.

K4 let out a groaning whir, and R9 spun a slow, judging circle.

Sha’rali stood upright. “You stay close. One wrong move, and I’ll duct-tape you to the bulkhead.”

“Can’t wait.”

4023 handed her a datapad. “Got something. Cargo heist on Dorin. Neutral zone—Zann Consortium’s getting too bold.”

She raised a brow. “Zann? They don’t normally mess with this sector.”

“Someone’s paying them to.”

Sha’rali studied the bounty details. Mid-risk, high-reward. Could be clean—if they were fast.

“Fine,” she said. “We take it. But you”—she jabbed a finger at Kael—“stay quiet, stay low, and stay behind me.”

Kael saluted, then immediately knocked over the empty cup. “Totally professional.”

4023 shook his head slightly, but didn’t hide the faint trace of amusement under the visor.

As they left the cantina, Sha’rali walked just behind the two of them, watching.

She didn’t trust easy.

And this kid?

This kid moved like he’d been trained. Reacted like he’d seen real action. And that grin he wore like armor—there was hurt under there, hidden deep.

He was something.

And if 4023 thought she wouldn’t figure out what… he was wrong.

⸻

It was supposed to be a simple bounty.

In and out. No theatrics. Just a mid-tier weapons smuggler hiding out in the underbelly of Dorin’s forgotten industrial sector—neutral ground claimed by neither the Separatists nor the Republic. Sha’rali had walked into war zones for less.

Now, her side hurt. Her boots crunched over broken glass and cinders. The clouds above them swirled with gray gas from broken chimneys, and the red light of Dorin’s sky cast a bruised glow across everything.

They’d split up hours ago. 4023, R9, and K4 were tailing the target’s security detail—three armed Nikto guarding crates marked with faint Black Sun sigils. Kael had insisted on sticking with her. She hadn’t wanted it, but for reasons she hadn’t yet sorted through, she let him come.

And now he was walking beside her, hands shoved in the pockets of his oversized jacket, expression casual in a way that didn’t quite fit his age—or maybe that was the trick. Everything about the boy seemed too smooth, too knowing.

“Ever seen anything like this before?” she asked as they passed under an old shuttle engine converted into a tavern canopy.

“Smelled worse,” Kael replied with a smirk. “But yeah. This place is a pit.”

Sha’rali chuckled. “For someone who’s supposed to be watching and learning, you talk like you’ve done this before.”

Kael kicked a loose bolt across the ground. “Maybe I’ve just got a fast learning curve. Or maybe I’m just smarter than you think.”

She stopped, turning to face him.

“Kid, you act like someone who’s been hunted before.”

His face didn’t flinch. He just blinked. “Haven’t we all?”

Sha’rali studied him for a second longer before she kept walking. A warmth had built in her chest recently—some misplaced sense of protectiveness. He annoyed her, sure, but he also reminded her of things she didn’t want to remember. Losses she never signed up to carry.

The silence stretched.

Until the trap closed.

From above, crates fell—smoke bombs first, then sonic grenades. They exploded in a concussive whine, sending dust and debris into the air. Sha’rali instinctively shoved Kael down behind cover, drawing her blaster with a hiss.

Four figures emerged—Zann mercenaries, helmets with glowing red visors, vibro-axes and slugthrowers.

“Down!” she yelled, blasting two shots toward their flanks.

She fired again—and took a hit.

Not a direct one, but enough. A slug tore across her hip, slicing through the lighter armor like flimsiplast. She went down hard, breath ripped from her lungs.

Kael was beside her in an instant. Kael’s eyes scanned the area. There—a suspended cable transport system. Metal cages dangling above the rooftops, used to ferry supply crates between the outpost levels. Most were empty.

“That,” he said, pointing. “If we can get to one of those—”

“Assuming we don’t die before then.”

“Yeah, minor detail.”

They made a break for it.

Sha’rali took point, gunning down two Zann enforcers, but not the third. He got the drop on her, slammed her against a wall with a shock baton. She dropped to one knee, dazed, her blood pooling fast now.

“Sha’rali!”

She clutched her side. “Get out—run, Kael—!”

He didn’t move.

The enforcer raised his blaster—aiming for her head.

Sha’rali raised her blaster, hand shaking, blood pouring through her fingers.

The merc raised his axe—and then he screamed.

Lightning danced across his body, exploding from Kael’s outstretched hand with a crack like thunder. The merc convulsed and dropped, weapon clattering beside him.

Sha’rali’s eyes widened.

Kael stood over her, breathing hard. His expression wasn’t smug this time. It was wild. Torn. Like he’d just let something out he’d promised never to use.

He stepped forward. His hand went to his belt.

Two lightsabers ignited with a twin snap-hiss.

One glowed yellow, bright and unyielding like the twin suns over Tatooine. The other shimmered purple, its glow almost oily in the fog, deep and royal.

Sha’rali couldn’t speak. Could barely breathe.

Kael deflected a bolt as another merc tried to fire, then twisted with terrifying speed and slashed across the man’s chest. The body dropped without a sound.

Then, it was over.

Sha’rali lay half-slumped, blood soaking her side, staring at him as he turned to her. The sabers deactivated and returned to his belt in silence.

He crouched beside her.

“I’ll explain later,” he said quickly. “You’re losing a lot of blood. I need to move you.”

“You’re—” she choked out. “A Jedi.”

He flinched, hesitated. “Was.”

She grabbed his wrist weakly. He helped her to her feet, slinging her good arm over his shoulder. They staggered to the edge and jumped into the open transport cage just as it passed. The door slammed behind them. Kael jammed the control panel—sending it careening down the cable line at full speed.

Sha’rali collapsed into the cage floor, blood soaking the bottom. Kael knelt beside her, ripping part of his tunic to bind her wound.

“Not ideal,” he muttered. “But you’ll live.”

She winced, then looked up at him. The lightsabers now hung on his belt—deactivated, but undeniable.

“I don’t know much about Jedi,” she rasped. “But… saber colors. They mean things, don’t they?”

Kael didn’t answer.

She pointed weakly. “Yellow… purple. That doesn’t seem normal.”

Still silence.

“Which did you get first?”

His jaw clenched. “…Yellow.”

“And the other?”

“…Later.”

“Purple means dark side influence,” she said. “Right? You can’t lie. Not about this.”

He looked away.

“I didn’t ask for it,” he said finally. “I—made a choice. Took a path no one wanted me to take. I… made it mine.”

The wind howled through the cage as they zipped over rooftops and chasms, the speed making her dizzy.

“So what does it mean?” she whispered.

Kael met her gaze.

“It means I’ve seen too much. And I still want to do good. Even if the Force and the Council think I’m not allowed to anymore.”

She stared at him.

Not a kid. Not really. Not anymore.

“Who are you?” she murmured.

He didn’t answer.

They reached the platform. The wind screamed around them as Kael hit the manual override. The cable whined, beginning its crawl toward the canyon’s rim.

Sha’rali, dazed from blood loss, leaned against the bars.

“Why?”

Kael stared forward, hands tight on the rail.

“Because I was taught to follow the light. But the people who taught me… they lived in the dark. And when I saw that… I had to walk away.”

The wind howled through the gaps in the cage. Sha’rali’s eyes fluttered.

“Still think we shouldn’t have kept the stray?” he asked softly, smirking down at her.

She snorted weakly. “You’re still an annoying little shavit.”

“Yeah. But now I’ve got two lightsabers.”

The zipline cage scraped against its upper dock with a violent jolt, and Kael barely had time to steady her before the doors rattled open. He hoisted Sha’rali into his arms again with the kind of gentle strength that betrayed just how fast he was growing up.

Her skin was hot with blood loss, her lekku twitching faintly in pain, but her grip on consciousness didn’t falter.

Not completely.

They sprinted through ash-colored corridors until the silhouette of her ship—scorched, dented, but functional—came into view on the landing pad. K4 and R9 were already lowering the ramp.

4023 emerged from the shadows beside the ship, blaster still drawn. He paused the moment he saw Kael cradling Sha’rali, her side soaked crimson.

“Maker—what happened?!”

Kael didn’t stop. “She’s hit bad.”

“She needs a medkit, now.” 4023 turned toward K4. “Inside—top shelf—move!”

K4 hustled up the ramp, R9 warbling in alarm and taking his usual initiative of zapping the lighting controls to signal high alert mode. The ship’s belly glowed dim red as Kael carried her up the ramp, then carefully lowered her onto the medical bunk.

She groaned and shifted, eyes fluttering open enough to make out the silhouette of 4023 looming above her.

“You know…” she croaked, voice raspy but laced with dry humor, “I think I finally figured out why you picked up the stray Jedi.”

4023’s helmet tilted down at her, pausing mid-injection of bacta stabilizer. “…What?”

“That whole mysterious loner vibe. The broody soldier act. The secret-keeping.” Her grin was faint but unmistakable. “You two are the same brand of trouble. It’s almost sweet.”

Kael raised his eyebrows from where he leaned against the wall, arms crossed. “Should I be flattered or offended?”

“Take your pick,” Sha’rali muttered, wincing as the stabilizer kicked in. “I don’t care, just don’t get blood on my floor.”

4023 straightened up, muttering something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like “You’re the one bleeding out,” before setting the injector aside.

She gave him a lazy half-glare.

“I’ve been shot before.”

“You say that like it’s impressive.”

“It is impressive.”

Kael snorted.

4023 exhaled. “You’re lucky that wasn’t a direct hit. The bounty’s in the cargo hold, alive—barely. K4 and R9 locked him down before he could bite his own tongue off.”

“Did he have a tongue?” Sha’rali muttered. “He looked like a Dug who’d lost a bar fight with a vibrosaw.”

Kael moved to grab a fresh medwrap and leaned in to help. His hands were steady, but his eyes flicked down to her wound with an unspoken heaviness.

“You saved me,” she said softly, too soft for anyone else but him to hear.

He blinked, his tone shifting. “Of course I did.”

“You used lightning.” She squinted at him. “I’ve heard of Sith doing that.“

He didn’t answer. Not directly. Just helped her sit up enough to rewrap the gauze around her side.

Sha’rali let the silence stretch for a moment.

Then, slowly, “You’re not just a runaway. Not just some padawan who got lost in the war.”

Kael paused with the wrap halfway around her ribs.

4023 interrupted, stepping in just enough to break the moment.

“She needs to rest.”

Sha’rali leaned her head back against the bulkhead, voice dropping. “Yeah, yeah. Protect the kid’s secrets.”

Kael’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t rise to the bait.

“I’ll make myself useful,” he said instead. “Check the engines. K4 said the starboard stabilizer was whining again.”

4023 nodded.

As Kael walked off, Sha’rali’s gaze followed him for a long beat before flicking up to 4023.

“You keeping secrets from me now, too?”

His helmet tilted. “Always have been.”

Her lips quirked despite the pain. “That’s not reassuring.”

“No. It’s not.”

They let that hang there between them.

⸻

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Hi, I saw request are open so I hope sending this is okay:). I had an idea that been lingering and I’d like to see if you could write it, possibly? Imagine a reader getting jealous about the friendship between Tech and Phee. I guess in this scenario reader and tech are an established couple? It honestly could go anyway you’d like it to:) My thoughts on this aren’t fully fleshed out so feel free to go crazy with this!:) I just love jealous tropes.

“More Than Calculations”

Tech x Jealous Reader

You didn’t mean to watch them.

It just… kept happening.

You were sitting at the workbench, fiddling with a half-stripped blaster that didn’t need fixing. From the corner of your eye, you could see them—Phee perched on a crate, animated, leaning closer to Tech as he adjusted something on his datapad.

She laughed again, this carefree, almost flirty kind of laugh that curled around your spine like a hook.

“That’s incredible,” she said, bumping her shoulder lightly into his. “You know more about lost hyperspace lanes than some of the old-timers back on Skara Nal.”

Tech pushed his goggles up, his voice as even as always. “Well, yes. I’ve extensively studied astro-cartography from several civilizations. Your planet’s archival inconsistencies, however, are particularly fascinating—”

“Oh, I know. That’s why I like talking to you.” Phee grinned, her hand brushing against his arm.

You clenched your jaw.

She didn’t mean anything by it, right? She was just… being Phee. Loud, curious, magnetic.

But still.

It didn’t sit right. The way she touched him. The way Tech didn’t even flinch or notice. You knew he wasn’t wired like other people—emotions weren’t instinctive for him. He didn’t register subtle cues, or the way someone’s gaze lingered just a moment too long. And he sure as hell didn’t understand flirting, not unless it came with a schematic.

But that didn’t make it hurt any less.

Later that night, after Phee had left for wherever she stored herself when not draped across your crew’s day-to-day, you found Tech alone in the cockpit, typing furiously into his datapad.

You stood there for a moment, arms folded, watching him.

He didn’t look up. “I am currently cataloging several of Phee’s findings regarding Nabooan artifacts. Some of the data is poorly organized, but she has a surprising eye for—”

“You two seem close,” you interrupted, trying to sound neutral. The words landed heavy.

Tech finally looked up.

“Who?” he asked.

“Phee.”

He blinked. “Ah. I suppose. We have engaged in mutual information exchange on several occasions. Her questions, though often imprecise, are not unintelligent.”

You sat beside him, slowly. “You don’t… think she’s being a little too friendly?”

He tilted his head, confused. “Friendly?”

You sighed. “Touchy. Flirty. You don’t notice the way she leans into you? Or calls you ‘Brown eyes’?”

Tech frowned slightly, processing. “She is expressive. That is her personality.”

“Yeah, well, it’s starting to feel like she’s trying to rewrite your personality while she’s at it.”

There was silence. You hated how small your voice had gotten.

“I just… I don’t like the way she looks at you.”

Tech regarded you with quiet intensity, the kind he reserved for situations he didn’t quite know how to calculate. “Are you implying you feel… threatened?”

You stared at your hands. “I don’t know. Maybe. She’s got this charm, this thing that draws people in. And I… I know I’m not always easy. I’m not flirty or magnetic. I just— I love you. A lot. And I guess I just… worry that it’s not enough to keep someone’s attention.”

His brow furrowed, and then he reached out, gently brushing your hand with his. “You are not somebody, cyare. You are my person. I do not compare you to others. There is no calculation in that. No contest. You… are the constant.”

You looked up, heart catching.

“Then why don’t you ever push her away?” you asked quietly. “Even just a little?”

Tech took a moment. “Because it never occurred to me that she might need to be pushed away. But if it makes you uncomfortable—”

“It does.”

“—then I will create distance. Immediately.”

You blinked. “Really?”

“Of course,” he said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the galaxy. “Your comfort is more important than her enthusiasm.”

You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding. He squeezed your hand. “Next time, just tell me. I know I miss things. But I will always listen to you.”

Just then, as if summoned, Phee’s voice rang out down the hall: “Hey Brown Eyes, you got a minute?”

You tensed instinctively, but Tech didn’t even glance at the door. His gaze stayed on you, steady and unshakable.

“I’m currently engaged,” he called back. “Perhaps later.”

There was a pause. Then a short, “Huh. Alright.”

You could almost hear the smile behind it.

When the silence settled again, Tech leaned in and said softly, “May I continue cataloging your facial expressions now? I find them far more interesting.”

You rolled your eyes and kissed him, right on the mouth.

“Only if you add ‘jealous’ to the data bank,” you teased.

He kissed you again. “Already done.”

“Red Lines” pt.2

Commander Fox x Reader

The silence of your office was deceptive.

Outside the transparisteel windows, Coruscant glittered like a serpent coiled around its secrets—unblinking, beautiful, and always listening. Inside, the low buzz of your private holoterminal grew louder, more urgent.

You closed the thick file in front of you—another half-legal mining contract you’d need to publicly denounce and quietly reroute—and leaned forward. You keyed in your security clearance, and the image that appeared wasn’t what you expected.

Your senior planetary attaché flickered into view, pale-faced and breathing hard.

“Senator,” he said without preamble, “we have a situation. Prison Compound Nine—compromised. Four fugitives escaped.”

You frowned, blood going cold. “Which fugitives?”

“Level-Seven threats. Political dissidents. Former intelligence operatives. Rumor is… they’re already offworld. Possibly Coruscant-bound.”

You sat back slowly, every thought sharpening to a blade’s edge. “That information stays contained until I say otherwise. Send me all identicodes and criminal profiles now.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

The transmission ended. You stared at the terminal for a beat longer, then stood, pulling your cloak from the back of the chair. There was only one place this belonged: in the hands of Coruscant’s best-armed babysitters.

And if that just so happened to bring you face-to-face with a certain thick-headed, utterly blind red-armored commander?

All the better.

⸻

The Corrie Guard precinct near the Senate was buzzing with the quiet energy of military protocol. You were met outside the checkpoint by two familiar faces.

“Senator [L/N],” Sergeant Hound greeted you, visor dipping respectfully.

Beside him, Stone offered a nod. “Didn’t expect to see you here, ma’am. Something wrong?”

“Very,” you said crisply, handing over a sealed datapad. “Level-Seven fugitives from my home system. Recently escaped. Highly trained, extremely dangerous, and possibly on Coruscant as we speak.”

Hound’s brow furrowed behind the helmet. “That’s a hell of a situation.”

“They’re targeting something,” you said. “Or someone. My planet’s intelligence division flagged odd comm-traffic patterns aligning with a senator’s office hours—mine.”

Stone shifted, suddenly sharper. “So it’s personal.”

You nodded. “Possibly revenge. Or leverage. Either way, I’m not taking chances.”

As they scanned the datapad, footsteps echoed from the far hall—more measured, more commanding.

Fox.

You turned just in time to see him and Commander Thorn walking down the corridor, deep in conversation.

Thorn spotted you first, expression flickering with mild surprise. “Senator [L/N]. You’re out of your element.”

Fox glanced over—and immediately straightened. “Senator.”

Thorn raised a brow at the datapad in Stone’s hands. “Trouble?”

“Trouble likes to follow me,” you said smoothly. “This time it’s not my fault.”

Fox approached, glancing at the display. His eyes skimmed the alert, the images, the profiles—danger written in every line.

“Level-Sevens,” he said. “You should have come straight to me.”

You smiled, something sharp curling at the edges. “I did.”

He blinked. “You… did.”

You tilted your head. “I thought noticing things was your new skillset.”

Thorn let out a quiet chuckle behind you. Hound tried to look innocent. Stone was grinning outright.

Fox cleared his throat. “We’ll open an internal security file. Assign additional patrols near your office and residence.”

“Perfect,” you said. “Though I’d feel even safer with you around, Commander.”

His silence was almost impressive.

Thorn looked between the two of you, a slow, knowing smile spreading across his face. “Fox, you might want to run a few extra drills. Something tells me you’re going to be… distracted.”

“Commander Thorn,” Fox said, voice ice-cold. “Noted.”

You turned to Fox, voice lower now. “These fugitives are clever. They’ll adapt. You may need someone who knows how they think.”

“You?” he asked.

You gave him a look that could melt glass. “I’m not just a senator, Commander. I’m a survivor. And I don’t play fair.”

He held your gaze.

And again… said nothing.

You smiled. Of course he didn’t. The perfect soldier.

But one day? You’d crack that armor. Even if it killed you.

Fox’s jaw was set like stone behind his helmet. When he finally spoke, the words dropped with the weight of command.

“No, Senator,” he said flatly. “This is a Guard matter now. You’re not to involve yourself in the investigation further.”

The sharp, satisfied click of his words should’ve ended it. Should’ve sent you back to your office to stew in silence.

Instead, it made you smile.

“Mm,” you hummed, crossing your arms slowly. “I don’t recall asking permission, Commander.”

Stone glanced at Hound with barely concealed amusement. Thorn shifted his weight, arms folded, eyes dancing between the two of you with the air of someone watching a high-speed speeder crash.

Fox didn’t flinch. “Your involvement would compromise security and escalate risk. You’re a high-value target—”

“And that makes me an even higher priority to be looped in,” you cut in, voice silk over steel. “You want to contain risk? Then keep me informed.”

Fox’s silence bristled like a drawn blade.

You took a step closer, voice softening just enough to imply intimacy while still pressing hard against his control. “I understand your chain of command, Commander. But I wasn’t asking to be in the field.”

You leaned in just slightly, enough to force him to register the space between you.

“I’m telling you,” you murmured, “that the moment those fugitives are captured—or killed—I expect to be notified. Immediately. Do you understand me?”

There was a subtle twitch in his stance—barely noticeable to anyone else, but you caught it.

He was used to command. Not negotiation.

Not you.

Thorn let out a long, slow whistle. “Well, kark. Should we leave you two alone, or…?”

Fox didn’t move a muscle. “Understood,” he said eventually. “You’ll be notified.”

You offered him a slow, almost sultry smile. “Good. I knew you could be reasonable.”

Then you turned on your heel, cloak swirling, brushing his vambrace with just the whisper of contact.

“Keep your comms open, Commander,” you called over your shoulder. “You might miss me.”

Fox stared after you, helmet tucked under one arm, face unreadable. Thorn stepped in beside him, arms crossed loosely.

“She’s a wildfire,” Thorn said, his voice low. “And you, vod… you’re the dry brush.”

Fox let out a breath that was neither amused nor frustrated—just heavy.

“She’s dangerous,” he muttered.

“Which part?” Thorn asked, grinning. “The intel, the fugitives, or the way she looks at you like she’s already won?”

Fox didn’t answer.

Because honestly?

He wasn’t sure.

⸻

The operations room was lit only by a few soft holoscreens, each projecting sectors of Coruscant’s underlevels and the networked security grid. The city never slept, and neither did the Guard—not with a potential Level-Seven threat loose.

Fox stood at the main display table, eyes scanning red-highlighted routes and names. His jaw worked in quiet rhythm, processing, calculating, assigning.

Thorn leaned against the far wall, helmet off, arms crossed, watching him.

“Okay,” Thorn said eventually, “let’s talk about it.”

Fox didn’t look up. “About what?”

“About the fact that two senators—two, Fox—keep finding excuses to orbit around you like you’re the damn sun.”

Fox didn’t pause in his typing. “They’re politicians. They orbit whoever’s most useful.”

Thorn snorted. “That what you think this is? Strategic kissing up?”

Fox nodded once. “Senator [L/N] plays the long game. She pushes limits, stirs chaos, then waits to see who blinks. Getting in good with the Guard gives her a protective buffer. She knows how valuable we are in a city like this.”

“And Chuchi?”

Fox hesitated. Just a second.

“She’s more direct. But she’s still a senator. Don’t let the soft voice fool you—she’s calculating too. They all are.”

Thorn pushed off the wall and stepped closer. “You really think they’re both suddenly invested in you because they want to cash in political favors?”

Fox gave him a look. “We’re enforcers, Thorn. Leverage. If a senator ends up needing a security report buried or a background skipped on a staffer, who do they think will make that disappear quietly?”

“Right,” Thorn said slowly. “Because Riyo Chuchi is famous for corruption.”

Fox didn’t reply.

“And Senator [L/N] practically breathes ethics, right?” Thorn added, deadpan.

Fox allowed the faintest twitch of his mouth—almost a smirk, if you squinted hard enough.

“She breathes something,” he said under his breath.

Thorn barked a laugh. “Okay, now we’re getting somewhere.”

Fox turned back to the holo. “Neither of them is interested in me, Thorn. They’re playing a game. One loud, one quiet. Same goal.”

“And what goal is that?” Thorn pressed, watching him closely.

Fox tapped a point on the map. “Control.”

“Funny,” Thorn said. “From where I’m standing, it’s not them trying to control you… It’s you trying to control the story you tell yourself.”

Fox didn’t answer.

Because what could he say?

That you, with your blade-sharp grin and eyes like traps, weren’t manipulating him—that you were something else entirely? That Chuchi, kind and composed, looked at him like she meant it?

No. That wasn’t part of the file.

So instead, he changed the subject.

“Assign units to levels 1315 through 1320. Full perimeter sweep. If these fugitives surface, I want them surrounded before they can draw breath.”

Thorn sighed, shaking his head as he pulled his helmet back on. “You’re a kriffing idiot, Fox.”

Fox didn’t respond. Not to that.

He had work to do.

And feelings?

Those were someone else’s mission.

⸻

The Guard’s central command was a hive of movement—troopers reporting in from the lower levels, holoscreens flickering with faces flagged for surveillance, and the quiet undercurrent of discipline humming through every corridor.

Chuchi’s arrival was quiet. Intentional. No Senate aides, no parade of protocol. Just a simple dark-blue cloak, datapad in hand, and a cup of steaming caf that she carried carefully through the armored sea of troopers.

She earned a few surprised glances.

Not many senators walked into the Guard’s domain alone.

But Chuchi wasn’t just any senator.

She spotted Fox just outside the debriefing chamber, helmet tucked under his arm, deep in conversation with Sergeant Boomer. His expression was all sharp lines and worn intensity—he hadn’t slept, that much was obvious.

“Commander Fox,” she said gently.

He turned, startled by her presence. “Senator Chuchi.”

“I heard about the alert,” she said, extending the cup toward him. “I thought you might need this more than I do.”

Fox blinked, hesitated… then accepted the caf with a nod. “Appreciated.”

Chuchi gave a soft smile. “You look like you haven’t slept.”

He didn’t respond to that. Instead, he took a measured sip—cautious, as if caf were unfamiliar ground.

“I imagine the search has consumed your every waking moment,” she said gently.

“Level-Sevens don’t give us much room to breathe,” he admitted. “We’re covering three sectors simultaneously.”

She nodded. “If there’s anything I can do to assist…”

Fox shook his head. “This is Guard jurisdiction. We’ll handle it.”

Chuchi’s smile didn’t falter. “I don’t doubt you will. But sometimes… support comes in quieter forms.”

She didn’t press further. Instead, she stepped closer—just enough to close the conversational space, not the physical one. Her voice lowered.

“You’ve never seemed the type who allows himself to be supported, Commander.”

Fox looked at her, eyebrows just slightly drawn. “I wasn’t trained for that.”

“No,” she said softly. “You were trained to protect others. Not to be seen. Not to be known.”

He said nothing.

So she went on.

“You’ve stood by the Chancellor more times than I can count. Protected the Senate through more crises than half its members realize. And yet… you’re always in the background.”

Fox shifted slightly, as if the weight of her gaze was more difficult to carry than his armor.

“I just wanted you to know,” Chuchi said quietly, “that I see you. As more than just the red and white armor. As more than a commander.”

His grip on the caf cup tightened.

“You don’t have to say anything,” she added quickly, catching the flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. “I know it’s not easy to believe someone might care… without wanting something in return.”

Fox’s voice was quiet, careful. “You’re a senator.”

“I am,” she agreed. “But that doesn’t mean I’m incapable of compassion.”

Silence stretched between them.

“I’ll… see to the patrol reports,” he said after a beat, taking a step back.

“Of course,” Chuchi said with a graceful nod. “Thank you for the work you do, Commander.”

She didn’t watch him walk away. She didn’t need to.

The caf cup still steamed in his hand.

And that was enough—for now.

⸻

The light in your office was dim, filtered through Coruscant’s constant twilight haze. You sat at your desk, datapad in hand, appearing the perfect picture of a diligent senator.

But your posture was too still. Too deliberate.

Because you could feel them.

The air had shifted—too quiet. The usual hum of outer security was gone. Either bypassed or silenced.

You didn’t look up. Instead, you keyed a silent alert under your desk—one flick of your finger against the embedded panel, and the Guard’s emergency line was pinged. No lights. No sound. Just data.

Then you continued working. Quiet. Calm. Like prey that hadn’t realized the snare was already closing.

“I know you’re here,” you said aloud, tapping your stylus against the desk. “You may as well stop playing ghost.”

No answer.

“Unless you’re scared,” you added, voice cool and measured. “I get it. I’d be terrified of me too.”

Silence again.

Then—movement.

From the shadowed arch near the bookshelves, two figures stepped into view. Dark clothing, military-grade sidearms. Faces you recognized from the prison files: former intelligence officers, turned insurgents.

“Senator [L/N],” the first said, voice low and amused. “You’ve grown sharper since your time at home.”

“You’ve grown sloppier,” you replied, still seated. “Three seconds late on your entrance. I almost got bored.”

The second man sneered. “You always did love the sound of your own voice.”

“And you always hated being outwitted. Funny how little’s changed.”

The leader raised his blaster, leveling it at your chest. “We didn’t come to talk.”

“No,” you said, leaning back in your chair. “You came to threaten. To make a statement. Isn’t that what you always wanted? Your glorious revolution of one?”

He stepped closer. “We’ll leave a message they won’t ignore.”

“I don’t think you realize,” you said, voice velvet and steel, “that this isn’t my first time with a gun pointed at me.”

“We’re not politicians, [L/N]. We’re executioners.”

You smiled.

“Cute.”

And then, without breaking eye contact, you slid your hand to the underside of your desk, thumb brushing against the pressure lock.

The drawer snapped open.

Before they could react, your concealed blaster was up and firing.

The shot hit the second insurgent square in the chest—burned through his armor and dropped him cold. The first shouted and dove for cover, return fire slicing across your desk, sparks flying.

You ducked low, rolled sideways, fired again. Missed.

“Should’ve aimed higher,” he snarled.

“Should’ve stayed dead,” you shot back.

The blast doors behind you hissed open with a thunderous echo.

Red armor flooded in—Guard troopers, weapons drawn.

Fox was at the lead, eyes sharp, voice a command. “Stand down! Drop your weapon!”

The insurgent froze, wild-eyed.

“Now!” Stone barked.

He hesitated… then dropped the blaster with a clatter and raised his hands.

Two troopers rushed him, slamming him to the ground and cuffing him with swift, brutal efficiency.

You stood slowly, brushing dust and ash from your robes. Your desk was scorched, half your datapads destroyed—but your eyes glittered like victory.

Fox approached, surveying the wreckage. “You’re injured?”

“Only my decor,” you said, voice breezy. “Though I wouldn’t mind a stiff drink.”

He stared at you. “You could’ve been killed.”

“I was bait,” you said coolly. “And it worked.”

His jaw clenched. “That was reckless.”

“That was necessary.”

“You should’ve let us handle it.”

“I did,” you said, meeting his gaze. “Eventually.”

He said nothing, just studied you with that unreadable expression of his.

But this time… something shifted.

Because now he’d seen you in action.

Not just as a mouthpiece in the Senate—but as someone who could kill, survive, and smile while doing it.

And maybe—just maybe—that stuck with him.

Even if he couldn’t admit it yet.

⸻

Your office still bore the scars of the assault—walls patched hastily, scorch marks half-scrubbed from the floor, the faint odor of blaster fire clinging to the air like the memory of a scream.

You sat behind a temporary desk, legs crossed, reviewing a datachip containing the criminal record of the man who now sat in Guard custody—hands shackled, rights revoked, dignity already gone.

The knock came soft, followed by the hiss of the door.

Senator Chuchi stepped in first, flanked by Bail Organa, Mon Mothma, and Padmé Amidala. Their expressions were taut, somewhere between concern and condemnation.

You didn’t bother standing. You simply looked up, calm as ever.

“We came as soon as we heard,” Chuchi said. “Are you—?”

“Fine,” you interrupted, voice clipped and dry. “Some scorch marks. Ruined upholstery. One corpse. One live capture.”

Padmé’s eyes widened. “You killed one of them yourself?”

“With a desk blaster,” you said. “Excellent reaction time, if I do say so myself.”

Bail stepped forward. “And the surviving fugitive? What’s the process now?”

You set down the datapad and met his gaze evenly. “Extradition. He’ll be transported back to my homeworld within the next standard cycle.”

Chuchi blinked. “That quickly?”

“Expedited process,” you said smoothly. “Emergency clause. Due to the direct assassination attempt.”

Mon Mothma’s voice tightened. “And what will happen once he’s returned?”

You leaned back in your chair, folding your hands. “He’ll be tried for war crimes. The verdict won’t take long. We’ve got extensive documentation.”

“And the sentence?” Bail asked, already bracing.

“Execution,” you said, flat and final. “Public, of course. We’ve already begun preparations.”

Silence.

Padmé’s face paled. “You can’t be serious.”

You smiled thinly. “Deadly.”

“That’s barbaric,” Mon snapped. “He surrendered. He’s a prisoner now.”

“He’s a monster,” you replied. “One who orchestrated mass executions, bombed medical shelters, and personally ordered the deaths of over four hundred civilians on my world. Surrender doesn’t bleach his sins.”

Chuchi stepped forward. “There must be a process—”

“There is,” you cut in. “He’ll be tried under our planetary law, as is our right under interplanetary accords. And I’ll be overseeing the proceedings personally.”

“You’re making a spectacle out of this,” Bail said, disgusted.

“No,” you said calmly. “I’m making a warning.”

“To who?” Padmé demanded. “Everyone who disagrees with you?”

“To everyone who thinks I’ll hesitate,” you said. “Who thinks power means we have to play nice while murderers laugh in our faces.”

Mon’s eyes narrowed. “And what will the people think of a senator who sanctions public execution?”

You stood, slowly, the heat in your gaze simmering just beneath the surface. “They’ll think I finally gave them justice. And if they want more? I’ll build the stage myself.”

A stunned silence followed.

No one knew what to say.

You picked up the extradition order and signed it with a practiced flick of your stylus.

“I’d offer caf,” you said as you slipped it into a courier tube, “but I’ve got a war criminal to ship and an execution schedule to finalize.”

You walked out without waiting for permission—cloak swaying, boots clicking like a countdown.

Behind you, the moral senators were left standing in the ash of their expectations.

And Chuchi?

She watched you leave, lips parted in silent disbelief.

Not because you’d shocked her.

But because she couldn’t decide if she wanted to save you—

—or if she just wanted to know what it felt like to burn like you did.

⸻

The Guard’s HQ buzzed with low-level activity, but Fox’s office was calm—silent save for the faint hum of surveillance holos and the occasional clipped murmur from the comms console.

He stood by the window when you arrived, arms folded behind his back, posture locked in that familiar brace of discipline. He didn’t turn when the door hissed open.

But he didn’t need to.

“Senator,” he said without looking.

“Commander.”

You crossed the threshold slowly, letting the door seal behind you with a soft hiss. No grand entrance. No entourage. Just you.

And the news that was already spreading through the Senate like wildfire.

He finally turned.

Expression unreadable. Just that damn mask of duty, soldered so tight it nearly passed for indifference. But his eyes—those betrayed a flicker of something else. Not judgment. Not pity.

Something harder to name.

“So it’s true,” he said quietly.

You raised an eyebrow. “You’d know better than most. Your troopers ran the background check. You processed the transfer yourself.”

He gave a slight nod. “Doesn’t mean I expected the… outcome.”

“You mean the execution.”

He hesitated. “It’s not my place to comment.”

“Isn’t it?” You stepped closer, boots soft against the polished floor. “You’re in charge of security for the most powerful government body in the Republic. You keep the peace. You enforce the law. Surely you have thoughts when one of us decides to sharpen justice into something a little more… terminal.”

Fox met your gaze steadily. “I’ve seen worse done for less.”

That caught you off guard—not because of what he said, but because of how simply he said it. No hesitation. No theatrics.

Just fact.

You tilted your head. “So you don’t disapprove?”

He looked down briefly, jaw tense. “It’s not about approval. I can’t blame you for wanting blood. Not after what he did.” A pause. “But I was bred for protocol. Not for vengeance.”

You gave a wry smile. “Then it’s a good thing I wasn’t.”

Fox looked at you again, searching—though for what, you couldn’t say.

He finally spoke, voice lower now. “You could’ve left it to a tribunal.”

“I could’ve,” you admitted. “But tribunals don’t speak to grieving families. They don’t look children in the eye and say, ‘We remember what they did to you.’” You stepped in just a little closer. “But a public execution? That does.”

Fox didn’t flinch.

But he didn’t move, either.

A long silence passed between you, taut and electric.

Then you reached for your datapad, keyed something in, and glanced up again.

“I’ll be leaving within the cycle,” you said. “Finalizing everything on my end.”

His voice was quieter now. “And after?”

You smiled. Not cruel, not soft—just sharp.

“I’ll be seeing you in a week.”

He didn’t respond.

You turned to leave.

But just before the door opened, he spoke.

“Senator.”

You glanced back.

“I don’t know if what you’re doing is justice,” he said. “But I know you’re not doing it out of weakness.”

You looked at him for a beat longer.

Then you nodded, just once.

“I never do.”

And then you left, cloak trailing behind like a shadow that never needed the light.

⸻

The ship hummed with the steady lull of hyperspace, stars streaking into lines beyond the viewports. It was the kind of quiet most would call peaceful.

But peace was a foreign language aboard this vessel.

You sat in the command lounge, sipping strong liquor from a crystal glass, the kind produced exclusively by your planet’s border provinces. It tasted like burning and bitter roots.

Fitting.

The two Jedi seated across from you couldn’t have been more different, though both wore concern like armor.

Kenobi was upright and composed, legs crossed, his fingers laced in his lap. Anakin sprawled, arms draped over the chair back, a shadow smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“You still have time to change your mind,” Kenobi said gently.

You didn’t bother looking up. “No. I don’t.”

“It’s not too late for a trial. A tribunal through the Republic, something with transparency.”

“Obi-Wan,” Anakin cut in, voice bored, “you know that wouldn’t stick. Half those tribunals are performative at best. He’d be out in five years under some technicality.”

Kenobi shot him a look. “And that justifies state-sanctioned public killing?”

“I’m not justifying it,” Anakin said. “I’m just saying… I get it.”

You finally looked up, eyes cool. “I don’t need either of you to justify it. This isn’t your decision. You’re here as escorts, not advisors.”

“That may be,” Kenobi said, tone frustratingly calm, “but we’re Jedi. It’s our duty to speak when we see paths leading to darkness.”

You leaned back in your chair, holding his gaze. “My planet was born in darkness. Raised in blood and ruin. Still today, it’s ruled by warlords and syndicates that think justice is something bought with blade and coin.”

Kenobi frowned. “But you’re not them.”

You tilted your head. “A public execution is nothing compared to the horrors most of my people have endured. At least this death comes with a verdict.”

Anakin was watching you now, intrigued, leaning forward slightly.

Kenobi looked pained. “You can’t build peace through fear.”

You smiled, slow and cold. “You cannot sell dreams to someone who has walked through nightmares.”

That silenced them both for a beat.

The hum of the engines filled the space. Then, softer, you added:

“When you’re not fed love from a silver spoon, you learn to lick it off knives.”

Kenobi flinched. Not physically—but in that subtle tightening of his jaw, that flicker behind his eyes.

You didn’t enjoy it.

But you didn’t shy away from it either.

“You want to talk of ideals,” you continued, voice quiet but sharp, “but ideals don’t stop warlords. They don’t scare insurgents. And they certainly don’t bring back the families that thing murdered in my name.”

Anakin nodded slowly, almost imperceptibly.

“I’m not here to make you comfortable,” you finished. “I’m here to make a point.”

Kenobi opened his mouth, hesitated, then closed it.

He knew he wouldn’t change your mind.

And deep down, a part of him feared you might be right.

“You’re confusing retribution for justice,” Obi-Wan said, tone sharp but calm, like a man trying to hold onto the edge of a cliff while the rocks crumbled beneath him.

You didn’t rise to the bait.

Anakin did.

“She’s doing what the Republic won’t,” he snapped. “What it can’t.”

Kenobi’s brow furrowed. “She’s about to put a man to death in front of a crowd.”

“He slaughtered civilians, Obi-Wan. Entire villages. She’s not executing a man—she’s putting down a rabid dog.”

“That’s not our place.”

“It’s not yours,” Anakin said darkly, “but don’t presume to speak for everyone.”

You leaned forward, voice low and deliberate. “I’m not doing this because I want to. I’m doing it because someone has to.”

Kenobi looked at you with something dangerously close to pity.

“Justice,” he said, “shouldn’t come from hatred.”

You met his gaze, unflinching. “And yet here we are—riding toward it in a Republic ship, escorted by Jedi who can’t agree on what it even means.”

But before he could reply the red flash of alarms cut through the room like a blade.

“Security breach,” a mechanical voice droned. “Cell block override. Prisoner containment compromised.”

You were already moving.

The Jedi rose in sync beside you, cloaks whipping as they turned down the corridor.

“Stay behind us,” Kenobi ordered.

You didn’t.

The three of you reached the lower deck fast, guards already running in the opposite direction, blasters raised. “He’s loose!” one yelled. “Deck 3, sector C—he’s going for the main hall!”

Your blood ran cold.

That was your route.

You pivoted, cloak flaring behind you as you ran the opposite way—Anakin and Obi-Wan close behind. You passed scorch marks. Broken panels. A dead guard slumped by the bulkhead, throat slashed with something jagged.

You slowed.

And then you saw him.

He stood at the end of the corridor, blaster in one hand, stolen vibroblade in the other. His face was twisted in fury, blood already drying across his temple.

“Senator,” he sneered. “Thought I’d come say goodbye.”

He fired.

You dove.

Searing pain lanced your shoulder as the bolt grazed you—burning, but not fatal. You hit the ground, rolled behind a crate.

Obi-Wan moved first, saber igniting in a clean hum of blue.

“Don’t do this,” he warned.

The prisoner laughed. “You think I’m afraid of death?”

“No,” Anakin said, stepping forward, saber hissing to life—brighter, more furious. “But you should be afraid of me.”

And then the prisoner lunged.

The hallway became chaos—blaster fire, blade against saber, the scream of metal and the hiss of near-misses. You pressed your hand to your wound, blood seeping through your fingers, watching through a haze of pain and fury.

Kenobi parried and dodged, trying to disarm.

Anakin didn’t bother.

His strikes were violent. Purposeful. He fought like a man unbothered by consequence.

A blur—metal clashing, sparks flying.

Anakin drove his saber through the prisoner’s chest.

The man gasped.

Stiffened.

And crumpled to the floor, smoke rising from the wound, eyes staring at nothing.

Silence fell.

You breathed hard, trying to steady your vision.

Kenobi stepped back, saber slowly disengaging, expression grim.

Anakin stood over the body, chest rising and falling.

He looked back at you—not regretful.

Just… resolved.

“You okay?” he asked.

You nodded, clutching your shoulder. “I will be.”

Obi-Wan crouched beside the corpse, checking for a pulse he already knew wasn’t there. “This wasn’t supposed to happen.”

“No,” you said coldly, “but it saves me the paperwork.”

Anakin gave the ghost of a grin.

Kenobi didn’t.

He looked up at you with haunted eyes, and for the first time in hours—maybe ever—he had nothing to say.

Not because he agreed.

But because he finally understood:

Some people were born into dreams.

You were forged in nightmares.

⸻

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“The Lesser of Two Wars” pt.11

Commander Fox x Reader X Commander Thorn

The sun streamed softly through the skylights of the café nestled high in the Coruscant Senate District, the sky hazy but warm. For once, the city didn’t feel like durasteel and duty—it felt like a reprieve.

She sat at the center of a wide, cushioned booth, coffee in hand, a real pastry on her plate, and a few senators she trusted across from her.

Padmé Amidala was all soft smiles and elegant composure, draped in airy lilac silks. Mon Mothma sipped quietly at her tea, nodding along to a story about a misfiled vote and a rogue Ithorian delegate. For a moment, she allowed herself to forget the war, the complications, and the heartbreak waiting back at HQ.

“Honestly,” Padmé was saying, brushing a strand of hair from her face, “I think it’s only a matter of time before Senator Ask Aak tries to propose another committee solely to investigate snack break durations.”

“And I will die on the floor before I vote yes on that,” the senator deadpanned.

Everyone laughed.

Near the corner of the table, GH-9 sat stiffly in a borrowed chair, arms crossed.

Across from him stood C-3PO, who had been in a monologue about Senate etiquette protocols for the past eight minutes. “And as I was saying, I once witnessed a Rodian ambassador eat a napkin, and I said to him—politely of course—that—”

“I will self-destruct if he keeps talking,” GH-9 whispered across the table.

R7 chirped in agreement, not helping.

Padmé turned just in time to see GH-9 lean slowly to the left in his chair. Inch by inch. Clearly trying to slide behind the potted plant beside them.

“Is he—?” she began.

“Yes,” the senator said, watching her droid with utter betrayal. “GH-9, you’re not stealth-programmed. You sound like a toolbox falling down stairs.”

“I’m preservation-programmed,” he said flatly, halfway concealed behind a fern. “Preserving my sanity.”

C-3PO peered after him, clearly unaware. “Oh dear, did I say something to offend your companion?”

“You haven’t not offended him,” the senator muttered, sipping her caf with a grimace. “GH, back in your chair before I reassign you to Senator Orn Free Taa.”

GH-9 hissed audibly and reappeared.

The others laughed again, and it felt real. It wasn’t forced diplomacy or battlefield gallows humor—it was easy.

She leaned back in her seat, her fingers absently brushing over the edge of her cup, eyes softening.

This was the first bit of normality she’d tasted in… Force, she didn’t know how long. No bombs, no war, no heartbreak waiting just behind a hallway corner.

Just brunch. And friends. And her ridiculous, problematic, fiercely loyal droids.

“Thank you,” she said quietly to Padmé and Mon.

Padmé smiled. “You deserve it. Whatever’s waiting after this—take this moment. Let it be real.”

She nodded, and for once, she let herself believe it.

The Senate Gardens were quiet that afternoon, a rare lull between committee meetings and security alerts. A breeze wound through the paths lined with silver-leafed trees and flowerbeds shaped like old planetary seals, bringing with it the scent of something vaguely floral and aggressively fertilized.

The senator strolled slowly, arms behind her back, letting the peace settle on her shoulders like a shawl. GH-9 followed dutifully a step behind, ever the loyal—if snide—shadow. R7 zipped ahead, occasionally stopping to examine flowers or scan the base of a tree for reasons known only to himself.

“You know,” she said, glancing sideways at her protocol droid, “I take back every time I said you talked too much.”

GH-9 tilted his metal head. “Growth. I’m proud of you.”

“It’s just…” she sighed, then cracked a smile. “Thank the Maker you’re not like Padmé’s droid.”

“C-3PO.” GH-9 shuddered audibly. “His vocabulary is a weapon. And I say that as someone fluent in Huttese and forty-seven forms of insult.”

Behind them, R7 gave a sharp beep-beep-whoop, then a low, almost conspiratorial bwreeeet.

GH-9 translated immediately. “He says he considered pushing Threepio off the balcony. Twice.”

The senator stopped walking. “R7. You didn’t.”

R7 spun his dome proudly and beeped again.

“He would’ve landed in the ornamental koi pond,” GH added. “Not fatal. Possibly therapeutic.”

She snorted and shook her head, then leaned down and patted the astromech on the dome. “You’re going to get us barred from every brunch if you keep this up.”

R7 chirped in what could only be described as gleeful defiance.

They walked on, shoes soft against the stone path. GH-9 silently adjusted his internal temperature, scanning the area with a casual eye, always alert even on a leisurely stroll. R7 nudged a flowerpot for no apparent reason and then spun away before anyone could catch him.

The senator paused under a willow-fronded archway, taking in the stillness of the city from this rare, green perch.

“Just for today,” she murmured, mostly to herself. “Let the galaxy run without me.”

Her droids flanked her quietly, one too sarcastic to say it aloud, the other too chaotic to sit still, but in their own strange way—they understood.

And for now, that was enough.

The quiet didn’t last.

The senator turned at the sound of approaching voices—one smooth and long-suffering, the other excited and young.

“—I’m just saying, Master, if Anakin can sneak out of his diplomatic duties, then maybe you should let me—”

“Padawan,” Kenobi’s voice was firm but amused, “if I must endure these soul-draining conversations, then so must you. Consider it training in patience.”

R7 gave a warning beep as the pair came into view, and GH-9 let out a long sigh that sounded entirely put-upon.

“Oh no,” GH muttered.

The senator smirked as Obi-Wan and Ahsoka stepped through the garden archway. Obi-Wan wore the tired expression of a man responsible for someone else’s teenager, while Ahsoka looked far too happy to be anywhere not involving politics.

“Senator,” Obi-Wan greeted her with a shallow bow, tone clipped but polite. “Apologies for the intrusion. Someone insisted on a detour through the gardens.”

“I said I heard R7 whirring and figured you were nearby,” Ahsoka said with a sheepish smile, stepping forward. “And I was right. He’s hard to miss.”

R7 let out a smug breep-breep.

“Of course he is,” GH-9 muttered. “He’s a four-wheeled menace with an ego the size of Kessel.”

The senator gave Ahsoka a warm smile. “It’s good to see you again. Still tormenting your masters, I hope?”

Ahsoka grinned. “Always.”

“And Anakin?”

“Gone,” Obi-Wan said flatly. “I’m certain he’s off flying something he wasn’t cleared to take.”

“Again?”

“Again.”

GH-9 gave an ahem. “Is it too late to apply for reassignment to the Jedi Temple? I feel I would fit in with the sarcasm and poorly timed emotional breakdowns.”

“Tempting,” Obi-Wan replied dryly. “But we’re quite full.”

The senator laughed softly. For all their chaos, this was the first time in a long while she’d felt truly…herself. Among friends. Just for a moment.

Ahsoka glanced at her, then at the droids, then elbowed Obi-Wan. “You see what happens when people actually like their astromechs?”

“I’m not convinced liking R7 is safe,” Obi-Wan replied.

“I’m right here,” the senator said.

“You nicknamed your astromech after a murder droid prototype,” Kenobi said pointedly.

“And?”

R7 beeped proudly.

They all walked together down the garden path, the sun cutting through the trees, the war momentarily at bay. Just a Jedi, a padawan, a senator, and two terrible droids sharing a rare pocket of peace.

⸻

The Senate rotunda was unusually quiet for mid-morning, the marble floors reflecting the soft golden light from the skylights overhead. Most of the Senators had retreated to their offices or were buried in committees, leaving the hallways hushed and peaceful.

She walked in silence, heels clicking softly, R7 trundling beside her with a low, rhythmic whirr.

It was rare to be alone without GH-9’s snide commentary, and even rarer to move through the Senate without being glared at, whispered about, or stopped by someone fishing for gossip about her war record. But for now, just for a little while, there was quiet.

Until she rounded the corner and nearly walked straight into Commander Fox.

He stopped short. So did she.

Her breath caught slightly in her throat—not just from the surprise, but from the look in his eyes. There was something unreadable behind the stoicism, something softer than usual. They stood there, face to face in the empty corridor.

“Senator,” he greeted, voice low and slightly rough.

“Commander.” Her voice came out steadier than she expected.

R7 beeped once in greeting. Fox gave the droid a slow nod, eyes never really leaving her.

“How’s your arm?” he asked, glancing briefly at the faded bruise near her elbow—one he shouldn’t have even noticed.

“Healing. You notice things like that?”

“I notice a lot of things,” he said simply.

Their silence was heavy but not uncomfortable. The tension between them wasn’t sharp—it was something else. Quieter. Close.

Fox shifted slightly. “I’ve been meaning to speak with you again… alone.”

She tilted her head. “About?”

His eyes searched hers. “About a few things. But none I can say properly here.”

A breathless pause lingered between them. Her lips parted to respond—just as a sharp bzzzzt and a startled, panicked wheeze echoed down the hall.

Fox’s head whipped toward the noise.

“What—?”

They both turned in time to see Senator Orn Free Taa stumble out of a side chamber, smoke curling from his heavy robes and one eye twitching violently.

Behind him, R7 retracted a small taser arm, beeping in what sounded suspiciously like satisfaction.

“You… you monster!” Orn Free Taa wailed. “That droid attacked me!”

“R7!” she gasped, both horrified and not remotely surprised. “What did you do?”

R7 gave a low, smug trill, followed by a short sequence of beeps that translated loosely to: He touched me. Twice. I warned him.

Fox blinked slowly, then turned to her. “Is this a normal day for you?”

“Less normal than you’d think, more than I’d like.”

Orn Free Taa continued to sputter. “I will have that thing decommissioned!”

R7 flashed red for just a second.

Fox stepped forward smoothly, posture stiff with authority. “Senator Free Taa, if you’d like to file a formal complaint, I suggest doing so through the appropriate channels. In the meantime, perhaps don’t antagonize sensitive hardware.”

Orn huffed and stormed off, muttering about assassins and droid uprisings.

Fox glanced back at her, then at R7. “He’s got personality.”

“He’s got issues.”

Fox gave the faintest, fleeting smile. “He fits in well with the rest of your entourage, then.”

She didn’t argue.

He lingered a moment longer, and when he spoke again, it was quieter.

“When you’re ready… come find me.”

And just like that, he walked away, leaving her with the scent of durasteel and something human.

R7 beeped once. She looked down.

“No,” she muttered, “you don’t get praise for tasing Taa.”

R7 whirred indignantly.

“…But thanks.”

⸻

The moment the senator stepped through the doors of her apartment, the tension began to slip from her shoulders.

Coruscant’s towering skyline glowed outside her windows, the buzz of speeders distant, like bees in a jar. Inside, however, her apartment was a rare sanctuary of quiet. The lights had been dimmed to a warm amber hue, and something actually smelled good.

“GH,” she called, slipping off her shoes. “Did you get the groceries I asked for?”

The protocol droid stepped into view with his usual self-important flourish, holding a wooden spoon like a scepter.

“Indeed, Senator. Organic produce only. Locally sourced. And I took the liberty of preparing a traditional dish from your homeworld. You’re welcome.”

She blinked. “You cooked?”

“Someone has to ensure you don’t wither away on cheap caf and political backstabbing. Now sit. Eat. Hydrate.”

“Did you poison it?”

“Only with love and an appropriate sodium content.”

She smirked and dropped onto the couch, letting her head fall back. R7 beeped in from his corner near the charging station, where he was currently judging the wine selection GH-9 had apparently pulled out.

Dinner was good—suspiciously good, considering GH’s history of being more bark than bite when it came to domestic duties. She’d almost forgotten how nice it was to sit, eat warm food, and not worry about her planet’s future or which clone might punch another one next.

That is, until GH-9 spoke again.

“By the way, Master Vos has been standing on your balcony for the past hour.”

She nearly choked on her wine. “What?”

“I refused to let him in. He tried to sweet-talk me, claimed he had urgent Jedi business, but I could sense it was likely just gossip. Or feelings. Or both.”

“GH,” she groaned, standing.

“I told him you were not available for nonsense. He insisted on waiting anyway. Shall I continue denying him entry?”

She padded toward the balcony doors, glass catching the light. Sure enough, Quinlan Vos was outside—hood up, arms folded, leaning against the railing like a kicked puppy pretending to be a sulky teenager.

He knocked once, with exaggerated slowness.

She stared at him through the glass. R7 wheeled up behind her, beeped once, and extended his taser arm with far too much enthusiasm.

“No,” she sighed. “We’re not tasing Vos.”

R7 beeped again, very pointedly.

“Not tonight.”

She cracked the door open just enough to glare at the man leaning far too comfortably on her private balcony. “You know normal people knock on doors.”

“I did,” Vos said, gesturing to GH through the glass. “He hissed at me and threw a ladle.”

“I did not hiss,” GH called from the kitchen. “I was firm, composed, and wielding kitchenware appropriately.”

She opened the door wider. “What do you want?”

Vos smiled sheepishly. “Just wanted to see how your day went. I heard through various channels there may have been… tasering?”

She narrowed her eyes. “You’re not coming in.”

“I won’t touch anything. I swear.”

“GH,” she called, already regretting this, “make up the couch.”

“I will not,” GH sniffed, “but I will sanitize it after.”

Vos grinned wide as he stepped inside, boots clunking softly. “I knew you missed me.”

“I didn’t.”

R7 beeped softly from beside her, his taser still not fully retracted.

“…Okay, maybe a little,” she muttered, walking back toward her half-eaten dinner. “But if you breathe too loud, I’m letting R7 handle it.”

R7 chirped in bloodthirsty agreement.

⸻

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