“Crimson Huntress” Pt.1
“Crimson Huntress” pt.1
Summary: Togruta bounty hunter Sha’rali Jurok takes a solo job to retrieve a rogue clone on Felucia. With her two deadly droids—an aggressive astromech and a lethal butler unit—she walks into a Separatist trap and uncovers a mission far more dangerous than advertised.
OC Main Character list:
Sha’rali Jurok – Togruta bounty hunter; cold, calculating, highly skilled.
R9 – Aggressive and foul-tempered Purple and gold plated astromech droid with a flair for destruction and sarcasm.
K4-VN7 – Polished, eloquent, and terrifyingly efficient combat butler droid. Built from scratch to kill with elegance.
CT-4023 – An ARC trooper deserter from Umbara, traumatized and hiding dark secrets.
⸻
No one ever looked up in places like this.
Too many shadows. Too many reasons to keep your head down. The air inside the station’s lower ring was a stew of recycled carbon, rotgut fumes, and quiet desperation. Pipes wept steam like open wounds. Light was an afterthought.
But high above the foot traffic, perched on a rusted catwalk like a vulture watching prey, stood a silhouette draped in black.
Sha’rali Jurok didn’t move.
Six-foot-three of poised muscle and scarred armor, she waited with the stillness of a born predator. The dim lights kissed the edges of her obsidian chestplate, brushed against the bronze trim curling over her pauldrons like war glyphs. Her montrals swept high and long, twin spires framed in shadow. Her coral-pink skin peeked through weathered gaps in her gear, etched with fierce white markings.
She didn’t flinch when the blasterfire echoed from three decks below.
She was waiting.
A sharp series of binary chirps cut through the noise in her helmet feed.
“Target acquired. Location pinging now.”
The message came from a rolling menace of purple and gold—a heavily customized astromech droid barreling down a side corridor at breakneck speed. It screeched in fury as a pair of thugs tried to intercept it, deployed a shock arm, and lit one of them up with a jolt strong enough to drop a Wookiee. The second man turned to run. The droid revved louder, popped out a sawblade, and chased after him with a gleeful wail.
Sha’rali sighed. “Subtlety’s dead, then.”
The third figure, K4-VN7, stepped up beside her like a ghost in polished rose gold. Humanoid in build, tall and slim, the droid moved with the elegant posture of a high-born noble—only he wasn’t meant to serve tea. His chassis was streamlined, his hands too steady, his frame too balanced. Every inch of him suggested killing disguised as courtesy.
“Your astromech appears to be under the impression this is a battlefield,” the rose-gold droid observed in a smooth, accented voice. “Not a scouting operation.”
“R9 thinks everything is a battlefield,” she replied flatly.
“A charming trait,” he said. “If you’re in the habit of raising buildings to the ground.”
Sha’rali glanced sideways. “Remind me which one of you decapitated a Pyke courier because he insulted your coat?”
“I didn’t decapitate him,” the droid said with casual precision. “I surgically separated his head from his spine. And I had asked him nicely.”
She allowed herself half a smirk. It was gone as quickly as it came.
They dropped together into the industrial underlevels. The station below stank of synthspice, oil, and urine. Slave collars glinted from shadowed alleyways. Scum and suffering layered the walls like rust.
Her boots hit the metal with a clang.
R9 zoomed around the corner, screeching wildly, the smoldering remains of something twitching in its wake. The droid rotated its dome toward Sha’rali, deployed a data-spike, and slammed it into a nearby console with the enthusiasm of a child stabbing a fork into cake.
A holomap flickered to life.
Target marked.
“Well,” the K4-VN7 said, brushing invisible dust from his long coat. “Shall we go commit some light murder?”
Sha’rali drew her rifle from her back and cocked the charging pin.
“No,” she said, voice low and edged. “We commit justice. Murder’s just the payment method.”
⸻
The corridor reeked of ammonia and blood.
They moved in silence now—no more banter. Sha’rali’s boots made no sound on the grated floor, her movements honed by years of tracking quarry through worse places than this. Her armor blended with the shadows, matte black plates drinking in the station’s flickering emergency light.
Ahead, a red blinking dot pulsed on her HUD. The target. Traced by R9’s slicing from a local maintenance hub.
The man she was hunting had once been muscle for the Black Sun. Not subtle, not smart—but sadistic. He’d skipped out on a deal with Jabba the Hutt, and when a Hutt calls for blood, you don’t ask questions. You just bring it.
She raised her left hand—a silent signal.
Behind her, the rose-gold butler droid stilled instantly. It tilted its head, listening to the faint echo of movement up ahead. The sound of heavy boots, a muttered curse, a weapon being checked. Then two. Maybe three others with him.
R9, crouched low and dirty beside a leaky pipe, emitted a shrill string of chirps that could only be described as vulgar enthusiasm.
Sha’rali nodded once.
Go.
The astromech shot forward like a hyperspace dart, wheels squealing and shock arms primed. He launched a small probe into the ceiling vent with a clink, and seconds later, every overhead light in the corridor surged, flared—
—and died.
Darkness swallowed the hallway.
Screams echoed before the first shot was even fired.
Sha’rali dropped into a roll, came up with her rifle raised, and shot a Nikto thug clean through the chest. The impact lit up the corridor in a flash of orange and smoke. She advanced without hesitation, slapping a stun grenade onto a bulkhead and spinning off the wall as it blew.
A Klatooinian charged her with a vibro-axe. She ducked under the swing and drove her elbow into his throat, then leveled her blaster and dropped him at point-blank range.
Behind her, K4-VN7 moved like death on a dancefloor.
“Please remain still,” he said, grabbing a screaming Devaronian by the shoulders and driving him into the floor hard enough to dent the plating. The droid flicked a vibro-blade from his wrist and plunged it through the back of the man’s neck. “Thank you for your cooperation.”
R9 let out a triumphant screech and blew a hole in the bulkhead, exposing a rusted hatch beyond. Sparks rained down.
Sha’rali stepped over the corpses, her rifle trained forward. Her lekku shifted behind her as she approached the hatch.
“He’s in there,” she said.
The butler droid dusted blood from his chassis. “Shall I knock?”
Sha’rali didn’t answer.
She kicked the hatch in.
The room beyond was small, low-lit, hot. A half-stripped power core hummed in the corner. The Black Sun lieutenant crouched behind a stack of crates, wide-eyed and sweating, a heavy blaster in his shaking hands.
“Y-you don’t have to do this,” he stammered, as Sha’rali stepped inside, calm and slow. “I can pay. I can outbid Jabba—whatever he’s offering you, I’ll double—triple it.”
She didn’t blink. “He’s not paying me to talk.”
His finger twitched on the trigger.
She shot first.
A single bolt punched through his wrist, sending the blaster spinning. He howled in pain, collapsing backward against the wall, blood running over his fingers.
R9 rolled in and deployed a small, brutal-looking saw. He revved it threateningly, beeping what might’ve been the astromech equivalent of “I dare you to move.”
The Black Sun enforcer whimpered.
Sha’rali crouched in front of him, face calm, voice like a vibroblade sheathed in silk.
“Jabba wanted you alive.” A beat. “But he didn’t say how much.”
She lifted her comlink. “Target secured. Prep the binders. We’re delivering to Tattoine.”
K4-VN7 tilted his head. “Shall I extract a souvenir for Lord Jabba? Perhaps an ear?”
R9 cheered.
Sha’rali stood. “Keep him breathing. For now.”
⸻
The suns were cruel today.
Tatooine’s twin stars hung like molten coins above the dune sea, turning armor into ovens and sweat into salt crust. Even with a heat-absorption cloak draped over her shoulders, Sha’rali could feel her lekku ache from the sunburn beneath.
R9 screeched in protest as its treads kicked up dust. The astromech, slathered in a new layer of carbon scoring and dried blood, had refused to ride in the hold. He rolled beside her like a tiny war-god on wheels, his purple and gold frame gleaming in the sunlight like a dare to the galaxy.
Behind them, K4-VN7 hauled a repulsor-gurney with their prisoner strapped to it—still barely conscious, mouth gagged, one arm missing. It was wrapped, of course. This was still business.
The gates to Jabba’s palace loomed ahead, cracked open just wide enough for her to smell roasted meat and hear the bassline of a Hutt’s indulgent soundtrack: booming drums, offbeat strings, alien instruments that sounded like violence in slow motion.
They didn’t knock.
The guards knew who she was.
Two Weequays parted with wary expressions. One muttered into a wrist comm. Another took one look at R9’s spinning buzzsaw attachment and immediately backed up.
“Nice to be remembered,” she muttered.
Inside the palace the heat didn’t leave. It just changed form—from desert furnace to thick, sour, flesh-heated humidity. The great hall was alive with noise, low-slung thugs, enforcers, offworld dancers, a few droids rigged with restraining bolts and serving trays.
Sha’rali strode through the rot like she belonged.
Because she did.
Then she heard it—a voice that made her jaw clench.
“Well, well. Didn’t think they let ghosts back in here.”
She turned slowly.
Leaning against one of the archways was a woman she’d shot once—in the shoulder, on Ord Mantell.
This was Latts Razzi, wrapped in black silks and armor pieces, her electro-whip coiled lazily at her hip.
“What do you want, Razzi?” Sha’rali asked.
Latts grinned. “Word was you were dead. Or retired. Or retired and dead. But here you are, dragging in meat for the slug.”
“Better than selling spice to backwater Rodians.”
Another voice joined in—deep, accented, amused. Embo.
His wide-brimmed hat cast a shadow over his eyes, but the tilt of his head suggested approval. His pet anooba growled low at R9, who spun his dome in a slow circle of warning.
“Charming crowd,” the rose-gold droid intoned behind her. “Do let me know when I should start breaking limbs.”
Jabba’s booming laugh saved them from escalation. He sat atop his throne now, drool wetting the furs beneath him, jowls rippling with joy as he saw the prisoner wheeled forward.
“Sha’rali Jurok,” the Hutt oozed in Huttese. “My red ghost returns.”
She inclined her head slightly. “I brought what you asked for.”
K4-VN7 gave the prisoner a casual shove, causing the body to slide and thud into the steps of the throne. The guards flinched. Jabba’s tail twitched, delighted.
The Nikto handler stepped up, scanned the target’s biochip, and gave a nod.
Jabba chuckled. “You always deliver. Perhaps next time, I send you after someone worth your skill.”
Sha’rali said nothing.
Latts leaned in again. “You know Jabba’s got a job coming up on Felucia, right? Clone deserter. Former ARC. Very high-value. Heard Bossk wants it.”
Sha’rali arched a brow. “Let Bossk try. I finish what others choke on.”
A low chuckle from Embo. Respect.
“Will there be refreshments?” the rose-gold droid asked politely. “My photoreceptors are fogging.”
Jabba bellowed again, more amused than ever.
“Take what you will. The palace is open tonight…”
Sha’rali turned away from the Hutt’s throne, credits heavy in her pouch, enemies and allies alike at her back. The Clone Wars raged on far beyond these walls, but here in Jabba’s court, loyalty was a negotiation and violence a language everyone spoke.
She felt the next hunt coming.
She always did.
⸻
Bossk had laughed. Loudly. Cruelly.
“You’re taking that Felucia job alone?” he snarled, all fangs and thick claws. “Hah! You’ll end up part of the jungle. Buried in some sarlacc-wannabe’s gullet.”
Sha’rali hadn’t blinked. “I don’t split paychecks.”
“Good way to get killed,” Bossk growled.
Boba Fett, barely Twelve and still wearing armor too big for him, added, “Maybe she likes dying slow. Heard those Felucian beasts like to drag it out.”
She hadn’t dignified that with an answer. Just turned on her heel and left.
Let them scoff.
They weren’t getting paid.
⸻
Felucia stank of wet rot and death.
Every breath of air was thick with spores. Giant fungal towers loomed above the jungle floor, sweating bioluminescence and feeding on the decay below. Vines hung like nooses. The sun filtered in weak and green.
Sha’rali moved like she belonged to the planet—low, quiet, sharp-eyed. Her armor had already taken on a fine film of blue pollen, but she didn’t bother wiping it. It would just come back. The whole world felt alive, like it was watching her from every direction.
Which it was.
She adjusted the satchel on her back and muttered, “Still no signal?”
R9, rolling carefully over a tangle of oversized roots, let out a grumpy bloop and extended a scanner dish. Static. The astromech pulsed red. Interference from deep-energy Separatist tech. Something big was here.
K4 walking a step behind her with perfect posture, scanned the treeline. “I believe something is tracking us,” he said pleasantly. “And I don’t mean the bugs.”
Sha’rali didn’t slow her pace. “Let them. I’m not the one bleeding.”
The clone deserter she was tracking had reportedly gone rogue after an OP on Umbara. CT-4023, vanished into the jungle months ago. Word was, he’d lost his whole squad in one night. No bodycams. No comm logs. Just silence and redacted reports.
That meant trauma. That meant instability. And unstable soldiers were dangerous, especially to people like Jabba who had loose investments in black-market clone tech.
R9 let out a shrill alarm—motion detected, thirty meters ahead.
Sha’rali dropped into cover.
“Scouting droid,” the butler droid confirmed a moment later, eyes glowing faint blue. “Separatist make. Old model, but still deadly if it screams.”
She whispered, “Disable it. Quietly.”
The droid drew a slim, needle-like dart from his sleeve and flicked his wrist. Pssst-thunk.
The droid overhead twitched once—then crashed to the ground in silence.
“Nicely done,” she murmured.
“I do enjoy precision.”
An hour later, they found the outpost.
Half-hidden under a ridge of bioluminescent mushrooms, the Separatist bunker hummed with unnatural energy. Camouflaged tanks sat idle. Patrols of B1 battle droids marched in lazy loops. But there were heavier units too—spindly, gleaming super battle droids and a tactical droid barking orders in binary to something inside.
Sha’rali narrowed her eyes.
The deserter wasn’t just hiding from bounty hunters.
He was protected.
Or… captured.
“Options?” the rose-gold droid asked.
“Go in loud,” R9 offered via a cheery, escalating sequence of beeps, spinning a small grenade launcher from his chassis.
“Tempting,” Sha’rali replied. “But I want eyes on him first.”
She drew a pair of electrobinoculars and scoped the inner compound.
There—cellblock nine. A humanoid figure, tall, scarred, seated on the floor with a head in his hands. Tatty clone armor. Partial ARC insignia. No helmet.
Her quarry.
Still alive.
That’s when the sniper droid fired.
The bolt kissed her pauldron—scraping past with a hiss of melted metal. She dove, rolled, fired twice—striking the sniper’s perch and causing a detonation that set a quarter of the jungle ablaze.
The Separatist camp lit up like a kicked hornet’s nest.
Alarms blared.
“Stealth,” the rose-gold droid sighed. “A fleeting dream.”
R9 screamed in binary, launched a wrist-rocket, and blasted a pair of B1s to pieces.
Sha’rali slapped a charge to her rifle and broke into a sprint. “We’re going in loud after all.”
The jungle screamed.
Plasma bolts cracked through the air like lightning in a storm. Trees burst into flame. The blue-green foliage glowed eerily under blaster light, casting jagged shadows across the uneven ground.
Sha’rali moved like water—fast, silent, deadly.
She dropped low behind a bulbous root, ripped a flash-charge from her belt, and lobbed it underhand. It bounced twice, then burst with a thunderclap of white.
The line of B1s went down screeching in scrambled code, sensors fried.
“R9, left!” she barked.
The astromech shrieked in challenge and surged forward, a buzzsaw whirling from one compartment while its flame nozzle hissed out the other. It hit a squad of advancing droids like a demon-possessed cannonball, slicing through one’s leg and immolating another’s head with a casual fwoosh.
The jungle screamed.
Plasma bolts cracked through the air like lightning in a storm. Trees burst into flame. The blue-green foliage glowed eerily under blaster light, casting jagged shadows across the uneven ground.
Sha’rali moved like water—fast, silent, deadly.
She dropped low behind a bulbous root, ripped a flash-charge from her belt, and lobbed it underhand. It bounced twice, then burst with a thunderclap of white.
The line of B1s went down screeching in scrambled code, sensors fried.
“R9, left!” she barked.
The astromech shrieked in challenge and surged forward, a buzzsaw whirling from one compartment while its flame nozzle hissed out the other. It hit a squad of advancing droids like a demon-possessed cannonball, slicing through one’s leg and immolating another’s head with a casual fwoosh.
Behind her, K4-VN7 moved with the grace of a blade dancer.
The droid’s rose-gold frame glinted with controlled menace, fingers twitching as his internal targeting locked onto the super battle droid rounding the ridge.
“Permission to escalate?” K4 asked smoothly.
“Granted,” Sha’rali said.
A micro-rocket fired from his wrist. The impact threw the super battle droid into the fungal wall with such force it split the caps open, oozing bright green pus onto its burning carcass.
Still, they kept coming.
From the ridge above, a tactical droid gave new orders in harsh binary. More fire rained down—precision bolts, cutting through trees and laying suppression zones around the cell block where the deserter was kept.
“CT-4023,” Sha’rali said aloud, ducking low and sliding beneath a crumbling log. “Still alive, still locked up.”
“You intend to extract him mid-firefight?” K4 asked, stepping over her and calmly shattering a B1’s neck with one open palm. “That seems… optimistic.”
“Not extract,” she grunted, firing two shots over her shoulder. “Drag.”
The final push came fast and hard.
K4 ripped open the bunker’s rear access panel. R9 hacked into the door seal with a spray of sparks and shrill swearing in binary. Inside, the cell block was dark, flickering, full of dead power conduits.
And there he was.
CT-4023.
Slumped in the corner of a containment cell, armor half gone, arm in a crude sling made from trooper plating and bloody cloth. Eyes sunken. Jaw bristled with patchy stubble. A long scar curved under one eye, old and raw like a failed surgery.
He looked up at them as the door opened, gaze unfocused. Not afraid. Not confused. Just… tired.
Sha’rali stepped forward, weapon lowered.
“CT-4023. You’re coming with us.”
He didn’t move. Just said, flatly, “You’re not supposed to be here.”
“Neither are you,” she replied.
They didn’t make it far.
It was the seismic charge that did it—one of the new models, the ones that didn’t boom so much as erase. The ground behind them warped with sudden light, the shockwave launching Sha’rali and K4 into a tangle of pulsing vines.
R9 screeched in horror as his dome sparked.
Before she could rise, something heavy struck her temple—metal, hard, fast.
She hit the dirt.
⸻
She woke cuffed in a holding cell aboard a Separatist prison barge. The air smelled like oil and chloroform. Her head throbbed with a low, punishing ache.
R9 was in a stasis lock across from her, magnetized to the floor.
K4 sat beside her, unpowered but intact. For now.
CT-4023 was hunched against the far wall, silent, his eyes closed like he’d already accepted this as fate.
A pair of B2s clanked past the cell’s viewplate.
Overhead, the ship’s engines roared to life—course set, coordinates locked.
They were being taken off-world.
And whatever the original job had been… this had just become something much bigger.
⸻
The hum of the Separatist prison barge was constant and low, like a predator breathing just out of sight.
Sha’rali sat cross-legged in the middle of the cell, arms resting casually on her knees, even though her wrists were still bound with mag-cuffs. She’d already tried dislocating her thumb—twice. The cuffs just re-tightened with every move.
R9 was still magnetized to the wall across from her, only his central eye active, pulsing red like an irritated wound. K4-VN7 sat beside him, rebooting slowly—his internal systems taxed from damage during the firefight.
The only other occupant, slouched in the back corner, hadn’t spoken since the ship lifted off.
CT-4023.
His armor was a battered mix of Phase I and II, scraped and dulled. No insignia. Just a partial ARC tattoo on one bicep and the dull glint of his CT number, etched into the plastoid by hand. His eyes were half-lidded, watching the floor like it might open up and swallow him.
She studied him openly now.
Broad shoulders. Tension in the jaw. A man used to holding the line. But the hollowness in his expression said he’d lost everything that mattered.
“Pretty quiet for someone with a bounty on his head,” she said.
Nothing.
She leaned back slightly. “You gonna tell me why you were holed up on Felucia in a Separatist bunker?”
Still no answer.
She sighed. “Alright, fine. I’ll go first.”
Her voice lowered. “Job came from Jabba. He’s got an interest in clone deserters lately—especially ones with ARC credentials. Seems he thinks there’s something valuable in that pretty little head of yours. Codes. Maps. Maybe just memories he can sell to the highest bidder. Who knows.”
That got a flicker.
CT-4023 raised his gaze, slow and sharp. “You work for the Hutts?”
Sha’rali smiled without humor. “I work for credits. Hutts pay well for ghosts like you.”
“You came alone?”
“Wasn’t planning to share your bounty.”
He gave a soft, bitter laugh. It died in his throat almost instantly.
A long silence passed before she asked, quieter now, “What do I call you?”
He looked away.
“Your name,” she prompted.
“Doesn’t matter.”
Her brow furrowed.
He added, flatly, “Everyone who knew it’s dead now.”
The words landed heavy, like the click of a sealed coffin.
She didn’t respond immediately. Just stared at him. Not in pity—but in understanding. Loss had a shape, and it wore the same tired expression across species, planets, and wars.
“CT-4023, then,” she said. “Not much of a name, but it’ll do.”
He leaned his head back against the wall and closed his eyes again. “Don’t get comfortable with it.”
Sha’rali leaned forward slightly, her voice lower, more curious than confrontational. “You weren’t hiding from the war.”
He didn’t answer.
“You were hiding from your past.”
Still nothing.
She exhaled slowly and leaned her head back against the cold durasteel wall. “Yeah,” she murmured. “Aren’t we all.”
Outside the cell, the lights flickered red.
The intercom crackled in Binary. K4’s eyes reactivated in a flash of sapphire light.
“We’re coming out of hyperspace,” he said calmly, voice newly rebooted. “Judging by the vector… I believe we’re approaching Saleucami.”
Sha’rali blinked.
Saleucami wasn’t a Separatist stronghold.
It was a staging world.
Something was wrong.
CT-4023’s eyes opened again—fully, alert now. His voice dropped to a whisper.
“They’re not taking us to a prison.”
⸻
The air in the Saleucami compound was thick with recycled heat and chemical burn.
A Separatist facility, buried deep beneath the arid surface—off-grid, quiet, designed not for prisoners of war, but for assets. There were no prison cells. Just sterile rooms, surgical lights, and soundproof walls.
CT-4023 was dragged from the transport first.
He didn’t fight. Didn’t flinch.
Only his eyes moved—watching, cataloging, waiting.
They strapped him into a durasteel chair bolted to the floor. Arms pinned wide. Legs secured. Cables snaked down from the ceiling and tapped into the restraint frame, powering the table with an ominous, pulsing hum.
The technician droid’s voice was emotionless. “You are in possession of Republic intelligence. Please verify encryption key.”
The clone didn’t speak.
“CT-4023, verify encryption key.”
Nothing.
The voltage hit his spine in white-hot arcs, burning through his nervous system like wildfire.
He didn’t scream. His jaw clenched tight. Every muscle in his body seized. The smell of scorched skin filled the room.
Still—no words.
Again. And again. The machine changed tactics: neural pulses. Flash-cranial scans. Biofeedback loop interrogation.
He didn’t give them a name. Not a number. Not a lie. Nothing.
By the fourth hour, he was bleeding from the mouth, both eyes bloodshot, breathing shallow. But still alive. Still silent.
When they pulled him out, the technicians were muttering.
“He wants to die.”
Sha’rali watched him slump to the floor of the holding chamber.
She was already cuffed to the interrogation slab, reclining like it was a lounge chair instead of a torture frame. Her expression didn’t flinch.
“Take notes,” she said flatly. “He’s not gonna break. He’s past that.”
A B1 clanked forward. “State your mission. Why did you extract CT-4023 from the bunker?”
She raised one brow lazily. “You think that’s extraction?”
“Answer the question.”
Sha’rali yawned.
A taller, insectoid Neimoidian stepped in now—robed in black, clearly the one in charge. His voice was rasping, with oily menace. “You work for the Republic?”
She laughed. “Oh stars, no.”
“Then for whom?”
“Someone who values what’s in his head,” she replied. “A client with… flexible morals and deep pockets.”
The Neimoidian frowned. “What intelligence does CT-4023 possess?”
Sha’rali smirked. “You tried four hours and a spinal voltage rack to find out. I’m just the delivery service, remember?”
A pause. Then the interrogator leaned closer. “You will tell us your employer. And your mission.”
She studied him for a beat, then tilted her head—expression cool, unreadable.
“Let me tell you something about torture,” she began, voice eerily calm. “It’s not about the truth. It never is. It’s about control. Dominance. Breaking people until they’ll say anything just to make it stop.”
The B1 made a confused beep. She ignored it.
“You want answers, but you’re using the wrong method. Torture’s messy. Inconsistent. You think you’re getting gold but most of the time it’s just blood-soaked garbage. Want to know how I know?”
She leaned forward against her restraints, her voice dropping into something darker.
“Because I do it for fun.”
The interrogator stiffened.
“I’ve peeled lies out of the toughest mercs on Nar Shaddaa. Pried secrets out of smugglers, spies, even Jedi. You know what most people confess to under duress?” Her eyes narrowed. “That they believe the moon’s made of cheese. That they’re married to droids. That they can hear worms sing.”
Silence.
“Torture’s not reliable,” she finished coolly. “But it is entertaining.”
The room went cold.
The Neimoidian slowly stepped back.
Sha’rali sat back, smiling with something halfway between pride and threat.
“Go on then. Shock me. Burn me. Cut me open. I’ll tell you the same thing your droid could’ve: I’m here for the credits. No flag, no cause. Just the thrill of the hunt.”
The lights dimmed. The hum of the room paused.
The interrogator turned and gestured to the droids. “Return her to holding. Increase surveillance. She’s not bluffing.”
⸻
Back in the holding room, CT-4023 hadn’t moved.
Sha’rali was thrown in with a hiss of hydraulics. She rolled onto her knees, sore but intact.
They sat in silence for a while. The hum of distant machinery echoed like a heartbeat.
“You didn’t break,” she said eventually.
He didn’t look at her. “Didn’t need to.”
“You want to die?”
His jaw twitched. Still no answer.
She leaned her head back against the wall again, voice lower now. Less sharp. “You think whatever’s in your head isn’t worth protecting. But someone else thinks it is.”
Finally, finally, he looked at her.
His voice was hoarse. “Why’d you talk like that in there?”
She smiled faintly. “To waste their time.”
A pause.
“…thanks,” he muttered, almost too quiet to hear.
Sha’rali tilted her head toward him. “Don’t get comfortable with it.”
⸻
Coruscant. Jedi Temple.
Rain slid down the outer transparisteel panes of the High Council chamber, streaking the glass like tears. The mood inside was colder.
Master Plo Koon leaned forward, his voice gravel-soft. “The confirmation comes directly from our intelligence outpost on Felucia. CT-4023 has been taken alive by Separatist forces.”
Across from him, Mace Windu folded his hands. “That clone was listed as KIA on Umbara.”
“Apparently,” Ki-Adi-Mundi said, “he survived. Went dark.”
“And the bounty hunter?” asked Master Saesee Tiin.
Plo’s voice dropped. “Identified as a Togruta named Sha’rali Jurok. Wanted in five systems. Independent. Dangerous. Not affiliated with the Republic or Separatists, but… she retrieved CT-4023 before they were both captured in the firefight.”
“A complication,” Mace muttered.
“She’s irrelevant,” said Master Windu. “CT-4023 is the priority. An ARC with classified field data, possibly firsthand intel from Umbara’s black ops campaign? If that information is extracted, the Separatists could exploit it system-wide.”
Yoda nodded slowly, fingers laced. “Retrieve him… we must.”
“And what of the bounty hunter?” Obi-Wan’s voice was softer, curious rather than concerned.
“She’s not our problem,” Mace replied. “If she gets in the way—Delta Squad will handle it.”
⸻
The lights dimmed as a hologram of Saleucami rotated slowly above the table. Delta Squad stood at attention—Scorch cracking his knuckles, Sev adjusting his rifle strap, Fixer dead silent, and Boss straight-backed with his helmet under one arm.
“Mission is simple,” said the admiral at the head of the table. “CT-4023 is alive and being held underground at a Separatist facility. Deep scan picked up irregular ion shielding—it’s well-hidden, but not impenetrable.”
“Target status?” asked Boss.
“Unknown physical condition, but signs of recent neural interference suggest they’re attempting to extract intel. You are to enter, retrieve the clone, and exfil. Silent if possible. Loud if necessary.”
“What about the bounty hunter?” Fixer asked dryly.
“Non-priority. You are authorized to eliminate if she poses a threat to recovery.”
“Copy that,” said Boss.
The admiral continued. “Delta, you will not be alone. Jedi support is being deployed to reinforce your extraction window—but do not rely on them for the initial op.”
“Who are the Jedi?” Sev asked.
The doors behind them hissed open.
Two Jedi entered. The first, a tall, lean Zabrak with a rigid posture and calculating gaze—Master Eeth Koth. The other, a calm, composed Nautolan with piercing blue eyes and lightsaber scars along his arms—Kit Fisto.
“We’ll intercept any reinforcements from orbit or planetary staging areas,” Kit said warmly, but with weight behind the smile. “If they’re moving the prisoner off-world, we’ll stop it.”
“We’re not here to babysit,” Eeth Koth added. “Delta leads the infiltration. We’ll clean up what follows.”
Boss gave a tight nod. “Copy that.”
The admiral gestured to the map again. “You insert at 0200. Stealth first. If that fails… don’t leave any survivors. Not with what’s in that clone’s head.”
⸻
In the dim light of the cell, CT-4023 leaned back against the wall, wrists bruised, jaw clenched, his eyes locked on nothing.
Sha’rali Jurok sat cross-legged on the floor, idly carving something into the wall with a chipped scrap of durasteel.
“They’re not done with us,” she said idly.
“I know,” CT-4023 muttered.
“You think someone’s coming for you?”
He didn’t respond right away. A long silence. Then, “Maybe.”
She scoffed. “Guess you’re lucky. They don’t come for people like me.”
More silence.
Outside the holding cell, a B2 battle droid stomped into position. A red light blinked above the cell door.
Something was shifting.
High above the planet, far beyond the clouds and smog, a stealth transport emerged from hyperspace—black against the stars.
Delta Squad was coming.
And only one of them mattered to the Republic.
⸻
Next Part
More Posts from Areyoufuckingcrazy and Others
Hiya! I absolutely love your writing and always look forward to your posts
I saw that request about the commanders catching you with their helmets on and I was wondering if you could do that but with the bad batch?
Again, love your writing. I hope you have a great day/night!
Hey! Thank you so much—that means a lot to me! 💖
I actually was planning to include the Bad Batch too but wanted to start with just the commanders first.
⸻
HUNTER
You weren’t expecting to get caught.
You were standing in the cockpit, wearing Hunter’s helmet—not for mischief, really, but because you were genuinely curious how he functioned with his enhanced senses dulled. You wanted to know what it was like to see through his eyes. To feel what he felt.
The helmet was heavy. Too heavy.
He walked in mid-thought, and you froze.
Hunter didn’t speak. He just stood there, half in shadow, his brow furrowing slowly like he was processing an entirely new battlefield situation.
You didn’t say anything either. You just… stood there. Helmet on. Stiff-backed. Guilty.
Finally, he stepped forward.
“…That’s mine.”
You took it off and held it out sheepishly. “I wanted to see what you see. It’s filtered. Muffled. How do you live like this?”
Hunter took the helmet from your hands and gave you a long, unreadable look.
“I don’t. I adapt.”
Then he brushed past you—close, deliberate—and you swore his fingers grazed yours just a little longer than necessary.
⸻
WRECKER
“Whoa!”
You heard the booming voice before you could even turn.
You were in the loading bay, helmet pulled low over your face as you tried to figure out how the heck Wrecker even saw through it with one eye. It was like wearing a bucket with a tunnel vision problem.
He charged over with the biggest grin you’d ever seen.
“Look at you! You’re me!”
You pulled the helmet off, grinning. “I don’t know how you walk around with this thing. It’s like being inside a durasteel trash can.”
“I know, right? But it looks great on you!”
He took the helmet back, turning it in his hands, then gave you a wide-eyed look.
“You wanna try my pauldron next?! Or lift something heavy?!”
You laughed. “Maybe next time, big guy.”
Wrecker beamed. “You’re so getting the full Wrecker experience.”
You weren’t sure what that meant, but you were both strangely okay with it.
⸻
TECH
You had only meant to try it on for a second.
But you made the mistake of reading one of his datapads while wearing it. And once the internal HUD booted up? Well, curiosity took over.
Tech returned from the cockpit to find you hunched over in the corner, still wearing his helmet and scanning system diagnostics.
His voice was clipped. “You’re tampering with active interface systems.”
“I’m learning,” you shot back, not looking up.
He blinked, then stepped closer, fingers twitching in that nervous way he did when he wasn’t sure if he should be impressed or horrified.
“You activated my visual overlay filters.”
“I figured out the encryption pattern.”
Now that caught his attention.
He slowly knelt beside you. “How long have you had it on?”
“…Twenty-three minutes?”
He swallowed. “And you’re not… disoriented?”
“Nope. Just slightly overstimulated.”
There was a pause.
Then, quietly: “You may keep it on. Temporarily.”
You turned. “You trust me with your helmet?”
He cleared his throat. “Don’t make it a habit.”
But he was already adjusting the fit at the sides of your head.
⸻
ECHO
Echo did not find it cute.
He found it concerning.
The helmet wasn’t just gear. It was part of his reconstructed identity—a thing he wore not because he wanted to, but because he had to.
So when he saw you on the edge of his bunk, wearing it—your legs swinging slightly, gaze distant—his chest tightened.
“What are you doing?” he asked, voice rougher than he meant it to be.
You looked up, startled. “I didn’t mean to be disrespectful. I was just… wondering what it’s like. Living with this.”
He stepped forward slowly, kneeling to your eye level. “It’s not something I’d want you to understand.”
You pulled the helmet off, placed it in his hands. “I didn’t think about that.”
He let out a quiet breath, then shook his head. “No. You did. That’s why you’re here thinking about it.”
You gave a soft smile. “I wanted to know you better.”
He swallowed hard. “You already do.”
⸻
CROSSHAIR
You knew exactly what you were doing.
And that was the problem.
You sat in the sniper’s perch in the Marauder, elbow on one knee, head tilted just slightly as you stared down at the deck below—wearing his helmet.
You heard the footstep. The sigh.
“Really?” His voice was lazy, drawled out like he wasn’t fazed, but there was a subtle tension underneath.
You didn’t look at him. “I wanted to see what it was like. Looking down on the rest of the world.”
He chuckled once, dry and sharp. “And? Is it satisfying?”
“No. It’s lonely.”
Crosshair was quiet for a long moment. Then he climbed the ladder halfway, leaned against the edge of the platform.
“Don’t get comfortable in it.”
You turned your head, voice just a little softer. “Why not?”
“Because if you wear it any longer, I might start to like it.”
You handed it back.
But you were both thinking about that line for the rest of the day.
i finished playing republic commando last week and just cannot stop thinking ab them
Some things I made
Bad Batch/Clone Force 99 Material List 🖤♠️💀🩸💋◾️
|❤️ = Romantic | 🌶️= smut or smut implied |🏡= platonic |
The Bad Batch
- x Jedi Reader “About time you showed up” 🏡
- x Reader “permission to feel” 🏡
- x Fem!Reader “ours” ❤️/🏡
- x Fem!Reader “Seconds”🏡
- x Fem!Reader “undercover temptation” 🌶️
- x reader “Say that again?”❤️
- x reader “Echoes in Dust” ❤️🏡
- x Reader “Secrets in the Shadow”
- “The Scent of Home”🏡
- Helmet Chaos ❤️🏡
Hunter
- x Mandalorian Reader pt.1❤️
- x Mandalorian Reader pt. 2❤️
- x Pabu Reader❤️
- x reader “good looking”❤️
- x reader “Ride” 🌶️
- x reader “What is that smell”❤️
- x Plus sized reader “All the parts of you” ❤️
- x Reader “Flower Tactics”
Tech
- x mechanic reader ❤️
- x Jedi Reader “uncalculated variables”❤️
- x Reader “Theoretical Feelings” ❤️
- x Reader “Statistical Probability of Love” ❤️
- x Reader “Sweet Circuits” ❤️
- x Reader “you talk too much (and I like it)”
- x Fem reader “Recalibration” 🌶️
- x Jealous Reader “More than Calculations”
- x Reader “There are other ways”
-“Exactly Us” ❤️
- “The Fall Doesn’t End You” 🏡/❤️
- “Heat Index” ❤️
- “Terminally Yours” ❤️
Wrecker
- x Shop keeper reader❤️
- x Reader “I wanna wreck our friendship”❤️
- x Reader “Grumpy Hearts and Sunshine Shoulders”❤️
- x reader “Big enough to hold you”❤️
- x Torguta Reader “The Sound of Your Voice”❤️
- “Heart of the Wreckage” ❤️
Echo
- x Senator!Reader❤️
- x reader “safe with you”❤️
- “Operation: Stay Forever” ❤️
Crosshair
- x reader “The Stillness Between Waves❤️
- x reader “just like the rest”❤️
- x Fem!Reader “Right on Target” 🌶️
- “Sharp Eyes” ❤️
Captain Howzer
- x Twi’lek Reader “Quiet Rebellion”❤️
- “A safe place to fall” ❤️
Overall Material List
“is this character good or bad” “is this ship unproblematic or not” “is this arc deserving of redemption or not” girl…
“Red Lines” pt.4
Ryio Chuchi x Commander Fox x Reader x Sergeant Hound
The doors hissed closed behind you, muting Coruscant’s constant thrum. Your heels clicked against the marble tiling—white-veined, blood-dark stone imported from home, etched with quiet pride.
The apartment was dim, tasteful, and cold—just the way you preferred it. You dropped your cloak onto the back of a chaise and walked straight for your desk.
The datapads were already stacked like bricks of guilt.
You sank into the high-backed chair, activated the holoscreen, and scrolled through messages from governors, planetary councils, and military liaisons. The usual blend of corruption, ego, and veiled threats disguised as diplomacy.
Too much to do. Never enough time.
“Perhaps you should consider a protocol droid,” murmured Maera, your senior handmaiden, gliding in with a cup of steaming blackleaf tea. “One of the newer models. They can help prioritize correspondence and handle… the more tedious tasks.”
You looked at her over the rim of your cup. “So you mean let a metal snitch sit in my office all day?”
“They’re quite helpful,” she said, folding her hands. “Especially with translations, cross-senate scheduling, cultural briefings—”
“I know what they do.”
Maera gave you a patient look—the kind she’d perfected over years of serving someone who never stopped. “You don’t have to do everything yourself.”
“Of course I do,” you said, already scanning through another briefing. “Because no one else does it right.”
The chime of your apartment door interrupted further commentary.
You didn’t look up. “Let them in.”
Maera bowed, then vanished toward the front foyer.
You heard the faint murmur of pleasantries, the soft wheeze of servos, and then—
“Oh, this place again,” came the indignant voice of a droid. “Why does it always smell faintly of molten durasteel and latent judgment?”
“C-3PO,” came Padmé’s warning voice, graceful and composed even when exasperated.
You turned slightly in your chair to face your guests. Senator Amidala, as ever, was luminous in Naboo silk, gold accents at her collar and sleeves. Anakin followed just behind her, less formal, hands in his belt, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else.
C-3PO trailed in with careful offense, wringing his hands as if expecting you to insult him on sight.
You stood slowly, arching a brow. “I’d say it’s a surprise, but I’ve been too tired to lie today.”
Padmé gave you a sharp smile—more real than most. “We came to discuss the fallout from the Senate hearing. Your… performance with Senator Kessen.”
Anakin was already smirking. “You mean the part where she lit his reputation on fire and danced in the ashes?”
“I didn’t dance,” you said mildly. “I just pointed out the arson had been self-inflicted.”
Padmé pressed her lips together. “It was a bold move. Some say reckless.”
“And others say effective.”
“Others,” Padmé said carefully, “are wondering if you’re trying to provoke more conflict than resolution.”
You rolled your eyes and gestured to the chair opposite your desk. “Sit down, Senator. You’ll get a cramp standing on that moral high ground all night.”
She exhaled, and—credit to her—actually sat.
You watched her for a moment, then lazily turned your gaze to C-3PO, who was busy inspecting a vase and making soft noises of horror at the lack of polish.
“So,” you said abruptly. “Do you enjoy having a protocol droid?”
Padmé blinked. “Pardon?”
You leaned forward, expression sly and disarming. “C-3PO. Is he worth the constant commentary and fragility? Or do you keep him around to make you feel more composed by comparison?”
C-3PO squawked. “I beg your pardon, Senator, I am an exceptionally rare and invaluable translation and etiquette droid—”
Padmé raised a hand, silencing him gently. “I find him useful. Occasionally irritating, but… helpful.”
“Hmm.” You leaned back. “I suppose it’s easier when you don’t mind being listened to.”
Anakin stifled a laugh. Padmé gave him a warning glance.
You shifted slightly in your chair, eyeing her again.
“You didn’t come here just for diplomacy. What’s the real reason?”
“I did want to talk about Kessen,” Padmé said evenly. “But… yes. There’s more. I’m concerned about the alliances you’re forming. With Skywalker. With… certain Guard officers.”
“Fox,” you supplied, smiling faintly.
Her expression flickered. “You’re not subtle.”
“I’ve never needed to be,” you said. “Subtlety is for people whose power isn’t visible.”
Padmé’s voice softened. “Be careful. People are watching you more closely than ever. You’ve made enemies, and you’re not on neutral ground anymore.”
You stood slowly, brushing nonexistent dust off your skirt. “I’ve never had neutral ground.”
Behind her, Anakin leaned on the back of the couch with a half-smirk. “Told you she’d say something like that.”
Padmé sighed.
The light in your home office softened as the sun began to vanish behind the metallic skyline. Coruscant’s artificial twilight crept in, and shadows elongated against the marble floor, the sharp silhouette of the Senate still looming in the distance through your tall windows.
Padmé stood now, hands folded neatly in front of her, expression calm, composed—but not cold.
“For what it’s worth,” she said quietly, “we’ve never seen eye-to-eye in the Senate. Our values differ, and our approaches even more so.”
You arched a brow. “A gracious understatement.”
She continued without rising to the bait. “But I still want you to be safe.”
That made you blink, just for a moment. A flicker of something softened your features, though it disappeared just as quickly.
Padmé took a breath, glancing sidelong at Anakin before she added, “And while I don’t agree with the friendship you and Skywalker seem to have built, I understand why you formed it.”
You tilted your head. “You disapprove?”
“I worry,” she corrected. “He has a habit of getting drawn into… chaos. You carry more of it than most.”
You gave a slow, dark smile. “I thought he liked that.”
“He does,” Anakin chimed in from the corner, hands clasped behind his back.
Padmé gave him a sharp glance. He shrugged like a delinquent Padawan.
“But regardless,” Padmé said firmly, refocusing on you, “he’ll protect you, if you need it. That’s what he does. Whether I agree or not.”
You regarded her in silence for a long moment. Then you said, with just enough edge to be honest but not cruel, “It’s strange, Amidala. I don’t think we’ve ever spoken this long without one of us trying to crush the other in a committee vote.”
Padmé gave a small, tired laugh. “Well. There’s a first time for everything.”
You nodded once. “Your concern is noted. And… accepted.”
Padmé inclined her head, graceful as ever. Then, with one final look, she turned and made for the door.
C-3PO clanked after her. “Oh thank the Maker. Honestly, Senator, I don’t think I was designed for this level of tension!”
Anakin lingered a little longer, offering a subtle grin as he passed you.
“Don’t do anything reckless while I’m gone.”
You smirked. “You make it sound like a challenge.”
The apartment fell into stillness once more, the doors hissing shut behind Senator Amidala and her entourage. Outside, Coruscant’s traffic lanes shimmered like veins of light against the dusk. Inside, you remained at your desk, arms crossed loosely, head tilted back to stare at the ceiling as the silence swelled around you.
Footsteps padded softly across the marble, and Maera re-entered the study. She moved with careful grace, but she was watching you closely—too closely for comfort.
“You held your temper,” she said mildly.
You smirked, eyes still on the ceiling. “I’m evolving.”
“I almost miss the yelling.”
You finally looked down. “Don’t get sentimental.”
Maera glanced at the datapads still stacked on the desk, then turned her attention back to you. “What’s on the agenda for tomorrow?”
You exhaled through your nose and stood, smoothing the front of your robes with a practiced flick of your fingers.
“We’re going shopping.”
Maera blinked. “Shopping?”
You gave her a devilish smile—cool, amused, but exhausted around the edges. “For a protocol droid.”
She blinked again, just once more slowly. “I thought you hated protocol droids.”
“I do,” you agreed. “But I hate having to draft a thousand reply letters to planetary governors even more.”
She blinked again. “Is this because Senator Amidala made hers look useful?”
“It’s because I’ve learned that war criminals don’t schedule their own executions and Kessen’s supporters won’t shut up in my inbox.” You paused, then added with a shrug, “And fine, maybe I’m tired of forgetting which language the Kray’tok trade delegation prefers.”
Maera offered a rare grin, genuine but subtle. “I’ll call the droid district and start vetting models.”
“Do that,” you said. “Make sure whatever we get can take sass, curse in Huttese, and redact documents on command.”
“And maybe something that doesn’t faint when you pull a blaster on someone mid-sentence?”
“Exactly.”
She left with a knowing nod, and you stood alone for a beat longer, your eyes drifting to the window, to the glowing silhouette of the Senate dome.
You murmured under your breath:
“Let’s see if protocol can keep up.”
⸻
Mid-morning sunlight filtered through the transparisteel roof of Coruscant’s droid district. Neon signs buzzed, offering quick repairs and overpriced firmware updates. The air stank of ionized metal and fast food.
You stood between two handmaidens: Maera, your ever-calm shadow, and young Ila, who looked like she’d been plucked from a finishing school and hadn’t yet realized she was in a war-torn galaxy. Ila was already staring wide-eyed at a droid with one arm replaced by a kitchen whisk.
“Are they all this… rusty?” she asked, wrinkling her nose.
“Only the cheap ones,” you replied dryly.
The first shop was a disappointment. The protocol droid bowed so low it knocked its head on the counter. The second tried to upsell you a ‘companion droid’ that made Ila blush violently. By the fourth shop, you were regretting everything.
“Maybe we just commission one from Kuat,” Maera muttered.
“Why? So it can bankrupt us while correcting my grammar?”
Then, in the fifth cramped storefront, you found it.
VX-7. The protocol droid stood motionless—sleek plating dulled by years, but optics sharp and intelligent. It didn’t grovel, didn’t babble. When you asked if it could handle over three dozen planetary dialects, it replied in all of them. When you asked if it could manage your schedule, redact sensitive communications, and tell a governor to kark off in six ways without causing a diplomatic incident, it smiled faintly and said:
“Of course, Senator. I specialize in tactfully worded hostility.”
You turned to Maera. “I’m keeping this one.”
Then something small rammed into your shin.
You looked down to see a battered astromech droid—paint chipped, dome scratched, one leg replaced with an old cargo hauler’s stabilizer. It beeped at you. Aggressively.
“What’s this?” you asked, raising a brow.
The shopkeeper looked apologetic. “R9-VD. Mean little bastard. Picks fights with power converters. Nearly blew a hole in my storage unit last week.”
Ila gasped. “Oh stars—he’s twitching!”
The droid growled.
You grinned. “I’ll take him.”
The shopkeeper blinked. “You will?”
“Buy one, bleed one free. Sounds like a bargain.”
“I was hoping you’d say that,” he muttered, already dragging the crate of restraining bolts out from behind the counter. “Take him before he sets fire to my register again.”
Maera stared at you. “You’re collecting feral droids now?”
“I collect useful things.”
You exited into the street, the new protocol droid gliding beside you, R9 clanking along behind like a stubby little demon. Ila was still muttering prayers under her breath. You were halfway through admiring your new acquisitions when a familiar bark echoed from across the thoroughfare.
“Senator!”
You turned to find Sergeant Hound, helmet off, walking toward you in full armor—Grizzer trotting loyally at his side.
“Well, well,” you said. “Look who I find when I’m burdened with two droids and a fainting noble.”
Hound laughed, scratching behind Grizzer’s ear. “Running errands?”
“Recruiting staff,” you said, nodding toward the droids. “The tall one speaks over a thousand languages. The short one hates everything.”
Grizzer growled affectionately at the astromech, who let out an aggressive beep in return.
“Careful,” Hound chuckled. “Grizzer likes him.”
You watched the way he stood—relaxed but alert, protective but never patronizing. When he met your eyes, there was no awkwardness, no nervous fumbling.
No obliviousness.
“Walking your route?” you asked.
“North patrol. You’re in my sector.”
“How fortunate for me,” you said, letting your tone shift slightly—warm, measured, curious. Not performative.
Just real.
Hound smiled, a little wider than usual. “Need an escort home again, Senator?”
“Only if Grizzer promises not to chew on R9’s restraining bolt.”
The droid made a noise like it was loading a weapon. Grizzer barked once, delighted.
Hound looked between you, the droids, your handmaidens—then back to you.
“I think I could be persuaded.”
You smiled. And for the first time in a while, it reached your eyes.
⸻
The doors to your apartment hissed open with a smooth sigh of hydraulics. The droids rolled and clicked in after you, their sensors flicking to scan the space—uninvited, instinctual, and irritating.
“Ila,” you called before your cloak hit the back of the nearest chair. “Make sure the astromech doesn’t electrocute anything.”
“Yes, Senator!” she said quickly, scrambling after the droid as it began sniffing around the comm terminal like it wanted to chew through the wires.
“Maera,” you continued, already tugging off your gloves. “I want them both repainted, polished, and calibrated by tomorrow morning.”
Maera raised a brow. “The astromech too?”
“I want it looking like it belongs to a senator, not some spice-smuggler from Nal Hutta.”
“The protocol droid seems compliant,” Maera said dryly. “The other one just tried to bite the upholstery.”
You turned and narrowed your eyes at R9-VD, who stared back—optics glowing, dome twitching.
“I don’t care if it wants to die in rusted anonymity. It’s going to shine. And we’ll scrub the attitude off if we have to sandblast it.”
Maera only nodded, too used to this by now. She snapped her fingers toward the cleaning droids and pulled out a datapad to begin scheduling repairs and a polish crew.
You poured yourself a glass of something dark and expensive and leaned against the balcony frame. The city buzzed beyond the transparisteel, a sleepless, greedy animal that had become your second home.
The protocol droid finally stepped forward, voice even.
“Shall I begin familiarizing myself with your schedule, Senator?”
“Start with everything I’ve put off since the Kessen disaster.”
“That could take a while.”
“Good,” you said with a small smile. “That means I’ll finally be caught up.”
As the droids were ushered away for cleaning, you took a sip of your drink, eyes never leaving the skyline.
Everything was sharpening.
Even your toys.
⸻
Coruscant’s dusk cast long shadows over the Guard barracks. Inside the command room, Fox stood over a data console, reviewing the latest internal report—a thinly veiled attempt to stay busy, to stay removed. The hum of troop activity outside was constant, comforting. Controlled.
Hound leaned against the far wall, arms folded, helmet clipped to his belt. He’d been unusually quiet on patrol. Fox noticed.
“You’ve been around the senator a lot lately,” Fox said, voice neutral, still scanning the holoscreen. “She using you for access?”
Hound’s brow ticked upward, slow and unimpressed. “That a serious question?”
Fox finally looked up. “She doesn’t keep people close unless she can gain from it.”
“She doesn’t exactly keep you far.”
That made Fox pause.
Hound pushed off the wall and stepped forward, tone low. “You ever think she’s not using either of us?”
“She’s a politician,” Fox said bluntly. “That’s what they do.”
“And you’re a commander,” Hound shot back. “You’re supposed to see the battlefield. But somehow you can’t see that both those senators—Chuchi and her—don’t just want your vote in a hearing. They want you. And you—kriffing hell, Fox—you’re so deep in denial, it’s tragic.”
Fox opened his mouth, but nothing came. His jaw tensed. His fingers curled tighter over the edge of the console.
Before the tension could crack the air entirely—
“Commander Fox.”
The voice was delicate, practiced, kind. Senator Chuchi stepped into the command room, her pale blue presence a breath of cold air between the two men.
Hound stepped aside, silent.
Chuchi held out a small datapad. “These are the updated refugee settlement numbers. I thought it best to deliver them personally.”
Fox took it, fingers brushing hers for half a second too long. “Appreciated, Senator.”
Chuchi’s eyes lingered on him, soft but calculating. “I also hoped to ask you about additional patrol rotations near the lower levels. I’ve had…concerns.”
Her tone was careful, concern genuine—but her glance toward Hound didn’t go unnoticed.
Hound met it with polite detachment, but behind his eyes, something shifted. He excused himself quietly and stepped past them, boots heavy on the stone floor. Neither of them saw the way his jaw clenched or the storm in his expression as he exited.
Fox stood frozen a moment longer, datapad in hand, Chuchi watching him.
Something had changed.
The lines were no longer clean.
He used to know what battlefield he stood on.
Now… he wasn’t so sure.
⸻
It wasn’t like you were following Fox.
You just happened to be heading toward the main Guard corridor with a report in hand. The protocol droid clanked behind you, reciting lines of political updates from other mid-rim systems while your new astromech—newly repainted in deep senate gold and high-gloss black—scuttled along beside it, muttering occasional threats at passing security cameras.
Pure coincidence, really.
You slowed when you rounded the corner near the war room. There they were—Fox and Chuchi.
She stood closer than usual. Too close.
Her hand brushed his vambrace as she handed him something. Fox didn’t pull away. He didn’t lean in either. Just… stood there. Controlled. Focused. But not untouched.
You paused. Watched. Tilted your head.
For a second, you hated her grace. Her softness. The way she made proximity seem natural instead of tactical. And how Fox didn’t seem to flinch from it.
A glimmer of something crawled up your spine—irritation? Jealousy? No. You didn’t have the luxury of that.
Before you could form a thought sharp enough to fling like a dagger—
CLANK—whiiiiiiiiirRRRRRZK—BEEP BEEP BEEP.
R9-VD rounded the corner like a demon loosed from hell’s server room, chased by your newly programmed protocol droid, whose polished plating gleamed like a diplomatic dagger.
“Senator!” the protocol droid trilled. “Your schedule is running precisely six minutes behind! Shall we move?”
Fox turned instantly at the racket, his expression shifting from unreadable to just vaguely resigned.
Chuchi stepped back from him with that serene smile she always wore in public, just a whisper too composed.
“Ah,” you said smoothly as you strode into view, “Don’t let me interrupt.”
“Senator,” Fox greeted you, stiff but polite. Chuchi nodded.
You let your gaze flick between them, slowly. One brow raised, mouth curved like you already knew the answer to a question no one asked. “Looks like everyone’s getting awfully familiar lately.”
“Professional coordination,” Chuchi replied, not missing a beat.
“Mm,” you hummed, eyes on Fox. “Is that what they’re calling it now?”
Fox’s brow twitched. Chuchi’s smile remained.
You snapped your fingers, and both droids froze. “Let’s go. We’ve got senators to ignore and corruption to thin out.”
As you swept past, you didn’t miss the way Fox glanced at you—just for a heartbeat.
Not enough.
Never enough.
But still… something.
⸻
The rotunda thundered with voices—some raised in passion, others carefully modulated with practiced deceit. The topic today was dangerous, volatile: the proposal for the accelerated production of a new wave of clone battalions.
You stood with one arm draped lazily along the back of your bench, expression unreadable but gaze sharp as vibroglass. Across the chamber, Chuchi had just taken the floor.
“I speak not against the clones themselves,” Chuchi said clearly, firmly. “But against the idea that we can continue this endless production without consequence. We are bankrupting our future.”
Your fingers tapped against the railing, the only sign of interest until you leaned forward to activate your mic.
“For once,” you said, voice cutting smoothly through the chamber, “I find myself in agreement with my esteemed colleague from Pantora.”
A ripple of surprise swept through the seats like a silent explosion. A rare alliance—unthinkable.
You continued. “We’re manufacturing soldiers like credits grow on trees. They don’t. The Banking Clan is already circling like carrion. Every new battalion is another rope around the Republic’s neck.”
That set the chamber ablaze.
Senator Ask Aak from Malastare sputtered his disagreement. “Our survival depends on maintaining numerical superiority!”
“And what happens when we can’t feed those numbers, Senator?” you snapped. “Do we sell your planet’s moons next?”
As chaos unfolded, the usual suspects fell into line—corrupt senators offering their support for more clone production, their pockets no doubt already lined with promises from arms manufacturers and banking lobbyists.
After the session ended, you stood shoulder to shoulder with Chuchi outside the rotunda. She looked exhausted but satisfied.
“Strange day,” she said quietly. “Stranger allies.”
You sipped from a flask you definitely weren’t supposed to have in the Senate building. “Don’t get used to it.”
But before she could respond—
“Senators,” came the purring, bloated voice of Orn Free Taa, waddling over with the smugness of someone who believed he owned the floor he walked on. “Your sudden alliance is… fascinating. One might wonder what prompted it. A common bedfellow, perhaps?”
You opened your mouth—but your protocol droid stepped forward first, blocking your path like a prim, glossy wall.
“Senator Taa,” the droid began in clipped, neutral tones. “While my mistress would be more than happy to humor your curious obsession with projecting your insecurities onto others, she is currently preoccupied with not strangling you with her own Senate robes.”
Taa blinked, thrown off by the droid’s tone. “Excuse me?”
The protocol unit didn’t miss a beat. “Forgive me, Senator. That was the polite version. I am still calibrating my diplomatic protocols, but I’ve been programmed specifically to identify corruption, incompetence, and conversational redundancy. You seem to be triggering all three.”
A sharp wheeze escaped Taa’s throat. “Why, I never—!”
“I suspect you have,” the droid interjected coolly, “and quite often.”
You didn’t even try to hide your smirk. “Don’t worry, Senator. He’s new. Still ironing out his filters. But I must say—he has excellent instincts.”
Chuchi choked on a laugh she tried very hard to disguise as a cough. Taa huffed and stormed off in an indignant swirl of silks and jowls.
Your droid turned to you. “Mistress, was I too subtle?”
“Perfect,” you said, patting its durasteel head. “I’ll make sure you get an oil bath laced with Corellian spice.”
Beside you, Chuchi finally let her laugh out. “I never thought I’d say this, but I may actually like your droid.”
“High praise coming from you.”
You both stood there for a quiet moment, mutual respect buried beneath mutual exhaustion.
“Today was strange,” she murmured again. “But… maybe not entirely bad.”
You tilted your head. “Don’t tell me you’re warming up to me, Chuchi.”
She gave you a look—wry, but not cold. “I’m starting to wonder if the galaxy would survive it if I did.”
Before you could respond, your astromech barreled out of the shadows, shrieking some new string of mechanical curses at a cleaning droid it had apparently declared war against.
You sighed. “And there goes diplomacy.”
Chuchi smiled. “Maybe the Senate could use more of that.”
Maybe.
⸻
The Grand Atrium of the Senate tower glittered with chandeliers imported from Alderaan, light dancing off glass and gold like it had something to celebrate. The banquet was a delicate affair—sponsored by the Supreme Chancellor himself, under the guise of “Republic Unity” and “Cross-Branch Collaboration.”
You could smell the tension in the air the moment you stepped in.
Long tables overflowed with artful dishes and finer wines. Senators mingled with Jedi, Guard officers, and military brass. Laughter drifted across the space, hollow and too loud. You walked in dressed to kill, as always—not in literal armor, but close enough. Your eyes swept the crowd. Scanned. Not for enemies. Just… two men.
You found them both within seconds.
Fox stood near the far arch, stoic in formal Guard reds, talking with Mace Windu and Master Yoda. Chuchi was at his side, hands clasped politely, expression open, deferential. Her eyes weren’t on Windu.
They were on Fox.
Across the room, Hound leaned against a support pillar near the musicians, his posture deceptively casual. Grizzer lay at his feet like a shadow. Hound’s eyes found yours immediately. He didn’t look away.
For a few beats, neither did you.
“You’re staring again,” your handmaiden whispered as she passed, wine in one hand.
“I’m assessing military distribution,” you replied flatly, plucking the glass.
“Liar.”
You smiled over the rim.
The Jedi presence tonight was thick. Kenobi, cloaked in his usual piety. Skywalker, prowling the crowd like he’d rather be anywhere else. Even Plo Koon and Shaak Ti made appearances, the Council exuding quiet power.
You didn’t care about them. Not really.
You moved.
Chuchi’s voice reached your ears as you approached the table where she and Fox stood. “I just think the Guard needs greater Senate oversight—not control, but transparency. For their safety.”
Fox nodded. “A fair point, Senator.”
“I’m shocked,” you drawled, appearing at his other side. “You usually flinch when people imply oversight.”
Chuchi’s smile cooled half a degree. “Some of us don’t believe in oversight being synonymous with domination.”
You sipped your wine. “I don’t dominate anyone who doesn’t want to be.”
Fox choked on his drink. Windu raised a brow and promptly walked away.
Chuchi’s stare could have frosted glass. “You’re impossible.”
“Debatable,” you replied. Then, sweetly, “Careful, Senator. You’re starting to sound jealous.”
Before Fox could open his mouth—likely to misinterpret all of this—Hound appeared beside you.
“Senator,” he said, his voice a little low, a little warm. “I didn’t know you’d be here.”
You tilted toward him just slightly. “Trying to avoid me?”
“Not a chance.”
Fox’s eyes flicked toward you both. Sharp. Confused.
Chuchi noticed. Her gaze narrowed.
The conversation fractured as other senators arrived—Mon Mothma offered a cool nod, Padmé a quiet, guarded greeting. Bail approached with that politician’s smile and a quick, dry joke about the wine being better than the Senate votes.
But your attention split.
Fox’s shoulders were tense. He wasn’t making eye contact. Not with Chuchi. Not with you.
You leaned closer to Hound instead. “Tell me, Sergeant. Ever get tired of playing guard dog?”
“Not if the person I’m guarding’s worth the chase.”
That pulled a quiet snort from you. Fox heard it.
Chuchi, lips pressed in a fine line, excused herself and stepped aside—clearly trying to regain the upper hand.
The music swelled. Jedi floated between circles of influence. No one else seemed to notice that the air had gone charged, electric. A love square strung tight.
You stood between them, half a heartbeat from chaos.
And somewhere deep down, you enjoyed it.
The lights in the atrium dimmed just slightly as a new musical ensemble began to play—string instruments from Naboo, delicate and formal. On the surface, everything was polished elegance. Beneath, cracks were spreading.
Chuchi had excused herself from your circle not out of disinterest, but strategy. She’d caught sight of your handmaidens lingering near a refreshments table, their gowns modest and their eyes sweeping the room with practiced subtlety.
“Excuse me,” she said with a gentle smile as she approached. “You’re the senator’s attendants, yes?”
Your senior handmaiden, Maera offered only a nod. Ila, eager to please and twice as naive, curtsied.
“She’s fortunate to have you,” Chuchi continued, a kindness in her voice. “It can’t be easy, assisting someone so… involved in such controversial matters.”
“It isn’t,” said the younger girl quickly. “But she’s not what people say. She just—”
“She just doesn’t care who she angers, as long as it moves the line,” the elder interrupted. “It’s her strength. And her flaw.”
Chuchi tilted her head. “You’re fiercely loyal.”
“We don’t have the luxury of softness where we’re from, Senator Chuchi,” the elder said simply. “Not all planets grow up in peace.”
Before Chuchi could respond, a sudden flare of static caught attention nearby.
Your protocol droid—newly repainted and proud in fresh navy and chrome—was engaged in a verbal deathmatch with none other than C-3PO.
“I assure you,” Threepio huffed, “I have been fluent in over six million forms of communication since before you were assembled, and—”
“Perhaps,” your droid cut in smoothly, “but proficiency does not equal relevance. One might be fluent in six million forms of conversation and still be incapable of saying anything useful.”
“Well, I never—!”
“Correct. And that, sir, is the problem.”
Nearby Jedi Council members were visibly trying not to react, though Plo Koon’s mask did a poor job of hiding the amused twitch at the edge of his mouth.
Amid the chaos, you had drifted from the center. Politics buzzed behind you. You found yourself near the balcony edge—narrow, cordoned off, affording a view of Coruscant’s skyline.
Fox found you there.
You knew it was him before he spoke—he moved like precision, shadow and control in equal measure.
“Senator.”
You didn’t turn, not right away. “Commander.”
He stepped beside you, stiff in his formal armor, helmet clipped to his belt.
“I noticed your… astromech’s absence tonight.”
You smirked faintly. “Yes, well. I’d like to avoid sparking an incident with the Jedi Council over a ‘misunderstanding.’ He has a habit of setting things on fire and claiming self-defense.”
Fox made a sound—something between a huff and a grunt. Amused. Maybe.
You turned your head slightly, catching his expression. “Disappointed? I thought you didn’t approve of my companions.”
“I don’t,” he admitted. “But I’m…used to them.”
That was, for Fox, practically a declaration of fondness.
“I’d say the same about you,” you said, voice quieter now. “I don’t approve of you either. But I’ve gotten used to you.”
His jaw flexed. He didn’t answer. Not directly. But his eyes lingered longer than they should have.
Then—
“Senator,” Chuchi’s voice cut across the air like a scalpel.
You turned to find her approaching, poised and polished. Behind her, your protocol droid and C-3PO were still trading passive-aggressive historical references. Hound watched the balcony from a distance, arms crossed, unreadable.
Fox straightened the moment Chuchi arrived. You stepped back just a little.
And the triangle turned into a square again.
Tight.
Tense.
And ready to collapse.
⸻
Beyond the golden arches of the Senate Hall, music swelled and faded like waves. Goblets clinked. Laughter rolled off the lips of polished politicians and robed generals. But not everyone was celebrating.
Behind an alcove veiled by rich burgundy drapes, four Jedi stood in quiet counsel.
Mace Windu, ever the sentinel of Order, stood at the head of the half-circle, his gaze fixed beyond the banquet like he could see the fractures forming beneath the marble.
“His behavior has changed,” Windu said. “Subtly. But not insignificantly.”
“He still reports for duty,” Plo Koon offered, voice gravel-smooth but thoughtful. “Still acts with discipline.”
“And yet,” Shaak Ti murmured, “I have observed Commander Fox linger longer than usual at Senate functions. His patrol patterns shift more often when certain senators are present. And he has taken… liberties with Senator Ryio’s assignments.”
“Nothing has breached protocol,” Anakin interjected. “Fox is loyal. He’s the best the Guard has.”
Shaak Ti gave him a long look. “And yet, there is more than one clone whose loyalty might now be divided.”
Anakin’s jaw twitched.
“This isn’t Kamino,” Windu said coolly. “We cannot afford emotional compromise in the Guard—not now, not when tensions are already splintering the Senate. These clones were not bred for palace intrigue.”
Plo Koon folded his arms. “And yet we bring them into the heart of it.”
“We trained them to follow orders,” Shaak Ti added gently. “Not hearts.”
Anakin looked between them, the shadows of his past bleeding into the tension. He didn’t need to ask who else they were talking about. It wasn’t just Fox. Hound had been seen near Senator [Y/N]’s apartment. Thorn, too, had lingered far longer than necessary when she’d been attacked.
“She’s dangerous,” Mace continued, tone edged in steel. “Not reckless—but calculating. Clever. Her alliances shift like smoke, and I do not trust her attention toward Fox or the others.”
“She’s done nothing wrong,” Anakin said.
“Yet,” Windu countered. “Keep watch, Skywalker. If she’s tangled them in personal threads, it must be cut. Quickly.”
⸻
You sipped from your glass of deep red wine, half-listening to a cluster of outer rim delegates arguing over fleet taxation. But your eyes wandered, again, to the crimson armor across the room.
Fox.
He was speaking with Mon Mothma and Bail Organa. Calm. Professional. Controlled, as always.
But his gaze flickered toward you now and then—unreadable, unreadably Fox. And just behind him, your polished protocol droid hovered patiently, Maera and Ila whispering about a dessert tray.
The Council was watching. You could feel it.
⸻
The air inside the Jedi Councilchamber was tense, still, and too quiet. Four members of the Coruscant Guard stood before the Jedi Council’s senior representatives: Fox, Thorn, Stone, and Hound, all sharp in posture, their expressions unreadable behind the stoic training of a million battlefield hours.
Opposite them, stood Masters Mace Windu, Shaak Ti, Plo Koon, and a late-arriving Anakin Skywalker, who kept to the shadows of the room.
“This is not an accusation,” Master Windu began, tone steely. “But a reminder. You are peacekeepers. Defenders of the Republic. Not participants in the political games of its Senate.”
Shaak Ti added gently, “We’ve noted a… shift. Certain guards developing close ties to senators. Attachments. Loyalties. Intimacies. We remind you that such relationships blur lines—lines that should never have been crossed.”
Plo Koon looked to them with quiet concern. “It is not about love, nor about loyalty. It is about danger. Risk. The Republic cannot afford to have its protectors compromised by personal bonds.”
Hound flinched. Barely. Fox didn’t move, but Thorn cast him a pointed glance.
“We won’t name names,” Windu said, “but this is your only warning. Choose duty.”
Dismissed, the clones saluted and filed out, silent as ghosts—yet burdened more heavily than ever.
⸻
It was nearly midnight when the knock came. You weren’t expecting anyone—Maera had already sent off the last reports, and Ila was curled up with a datapad on the couch.
Maera opened the door, only to blink as Anakin Skywalker strolled in, cloak trailing and R2-D2 chirping along behind him.
“Don’t tell me the Jedi are doing door-to-door interrogations now,” you said, not bothering to stand from your desk.
“Just figured you should hear it from someone who doesn’t speak in riddles and judgment,” Anakin replied. “They warned the Guard today.”
You looked up slowly.
“About me?”
“About all of it. You. Chuchi. Hound. Fox.”
You leaned back in your chair, lacing your fingers together. “So the Council knows?”
“They suspect,” he clarified. “But they’ve already made up their minds. No direct interference. But they’ll start pulling strings. Reassignments. Surveillance. Sudden policy shifts.”
You exhaled slowly. “Let me guess. The clones are the ones punished.”
Anakin’s jaw tightened. “Always.”
He came closer, leaning against the wall by your window. “Whatever this is, [Y/N], if you want to protect them—you keep it behind closed doors. Don’t give the Council an excuse.”
Your eyes narrowed, flicking up to him. “And what would you know about secret relationships with forbidden attachments?”
Anakin looked out over the Coruscant skyline. “More than you think.”
R2-D2 gave a sympathetic beep. At his side, your own droid—R9—rolled out from the side hall, curious as ever. Shockingly, the grumpy little astromech gave R2 a pleased warble. The two machines chirped at each other in low binary, exchanging stories, gossip, perhaps a murder plot. You couldn’t tell.
“Great,” you muttered. “My homicidal trash can made a friend.”
VX-7 entered as well, standing sentinel near the door and giving R2 a quick scan before offering a polite, professional greeting. “Designation confirmed. Diplomatic assistant, Anakin Skywalker. Cleared for temporary access.”
“You really upgraded them,” Anakin noted.
“They’re smarter than most senators,” you said with a dry smirk. “And less dangerous.”
He moved to leave, but hesitated. “Just… be careful. I know you think you don’t owe anyone anything—but Hound’s already in too deep. And Fox? He’s starting to crack.”
“Fox doesn’t even know he’s in love,” you said coolly.
“Exactly,” Anakin said. “That makes him more dangerous than the rest of us.”
You gave him a look. “Including you?”
Anakin’s lips quirked. “Especially me.”
Then he and R2 were gone, and the apartment fell quiet again—except for the low, strangely comforting chatter of astromechs speaking in beeps and secrets.
⸻
Previous Part | Next Part
mon mothma getting wasted and dancing to space pop music because one of her oldest friends is about to get assassinated and she feels guilty while her cousin sits and mopes because she just saw her situationship for the first time in ages and it was only because she's here to carry out said assassination. andor is AWESOME.
“Stitches and Secrets”
Kix x Jedi Reader
Warnings: injury
The smell of caf, oil, and clone armor clung to the air as you strolled into the briefing tent, half a pastry in your hand and absolutely no shame in your step. Anakin was already leaning over the holotable with Ahsoka at his side, mid-conversation with Rex about insertion points and droid resistance.
“There she is,” Anakin said, smirking as you bit into your breakfast. “Glad you could make it. We were all really worried you might be doing something important, like sleeping in.”
You gave him an exaggerated bow, crumbs falling from your lips. “The Force told me to take five. Who am I to argue with destiny?”
Ahsoka laughed. “She’s worse than you, Master.”
“I’m standing right here,” Anakin said dryly.
“And I’m complimenting you,” you shot back, tossing the last of your pastry into your mouth. “You’re rubbing off on me, Skywalker. I’m starting to think I’m unfit for Jedi Council politics.”
“That makes two of us,” Anakin muttered.
Rex cleared his throat gently. “Briefing, General?”
“Right,” Anakin said. “Serious faces. Tactical minds. Let’s go.”
You stood beside Ahsoka, arms crossed, watching the blue holographic map flicker into life. The target: a droid manufacturing facility buried beneath a city block on this dusty, nowhere Separatist planet. Classic war story setup—deep insertion, sabotage, get-out-before-the-ceiling-caves-in sort of plan.
Anakin pointed to three key locations. “Ahsoka, you’ll take your Squad through the northern tunnel system. I’ll come in from the west. You,” he glanced at you, “get to lead Torrent Company. Rex is heading point. Kix is your field medic.”
“Excellent,” you said brightly. “If I get blown up, I know exactly whose name to scream out.” And winked at Kix.
Kix, who’d been standing with perfect form behind Rex, blinked and glanced your way.
“Don’t flatter him,” Anakin said, grinning. “It goes to his head.”
“I think he deserves it,” you said with a shrug.
“Force help us,” Ahsoka muttered with a smile.
Kix said nothing, but you knew he heard it. The corner of his mouth twitched. Just a little.
Anakin resumed the plan rundown. “Once we’ve cleared the tunnel entrance, regroup at the main lift shaft, plant the charges, and extract. Simple. Clean. Hopefully fast.”
“Hopefully,” you echoed. “But if it isn’t, I call dibs on the most dramatic death scene.”
“No one’s dying,” Rex said, exasperated.
You leaned toward Ahsoka and whispered, “He’s no fun at all.”
⸻
Things went sideways by hour three.
The drop had gone smoothly. Your team slipped through the tunnel entrance with minimal resistance. You moved like water through the dark—saber humming, the Force buzzing at your fingertips, and Kix never more than a few meters behind.
The issue? Droid reinforcements. Heavier than expected. A trap inside the sublevels. When the floor collapsed under you and half your squad, you barely had time to throw up a Force shield before the shrapnel cut through you like knives.
You hit the ground hard. Your saber skidded away, and a jagged spike of pain tore through your side.
“General!” Kix’s voice came sharp and clear, echoing through the smoke.
You coughed, tried to sit up, and gasped. Your hand came away red.
Kix dropped beside you in seconds, already snapping open his medkit. His gloves were steady. His jaw was clenched. “You’re lucky it missed your vital organs.”
“Define lucky,” you rasped.
“Alive.”
“You’re sweet,” you mumbled, swaying slightly.
“Try not to pass out,” he said, voice tight as he pressed a bacta patch over the worst of the wound. “You need to stay awake.”
“Trying,” you slurred. “But you’re very distracting.”
He blinked down at you. “What?”
“Your eyes. They’re the worst. Too blue. And your voice is soothing. It’s unfair. You should come with a warning label.”
You felt his hands pause for a fraction of a second.
“Considering you can’t see my eyes, and the fact they are brown not blue. You’re delirious,” he muttered, but you could hear the faintest crack of a smile in his voice.
“I am not,” you insisted, blinking up at him. “In the past 3 minutes I’ve thought about kissing you like, five times. Maybe six. Who knows. Jedi don’t count those things.”
Kix worked in silence for a moment, patching you up, checking your pulse, muttering about shock and bacta levels. You didn’t stop talking.
“You always there for them,” you murmured. “Always patient. Always there. And you never say anything. But I can see it. I see you. You’re kind, Kix. Gentle. That’s rare in this war.”
Kix looked at you then. Really looked. And something in his eyes softened—like a thaw he hadn’t allowed himself before.
“I’m not gentle,” he said quietly. “I’m trained to fix people. That’s all.”
“You’ve certainly fixed me,” you whispered.
He didn’t respond to that. He just pulled you close enough to hoist you into his arms, careful not to jostle your wounds.
“Rex, I’ve got the general. She’s stable but needs evac,” he said into the comm, already moving.
You leaned your head against his shoulder, groggy and fading. “You smell like antiseptic and courage.”
“You’re gonna be so embarrassed when you wake up.”
“I’m already embarrassed. I haven’t kissed you yet.”
Kix let out a breath that might’ve been a laugh—or maybe something softer. “Maybe next time, starlight. When you’re not bleeding out.”
⸻
You woke up in the medbay. Groggy. Alive. Sore as hell.
The lights were dimmed, and someone was sitting beside you, back straight, arms crossed. Kix.
“You stayed,” you rasped.
He glanced at you. “I wanted to see if you’d survive.”
“And…?”
His voice was quiet, but firm. “I’m glad you did.”
There was a long pause. Then, with a smirk:
“So, did you mean any of it?” he asked. “The eyes. The courage. The part about kissing me?”
You smiled, exhausted but warm all over.
“Oh yeah. Every word.”
Kix leaned forward slowly, carefully, one hand brushing your cheek.
“Then let’s see if you’re a better kisser than a patient.”
You definitely were.
⸻
You’d barely been discharged from the medbay when Skywalker and Ahsoka appeared at your door like vultures circling a wounded animal.
“Well, well, well,” Anakin drawled, arms crossed and grin far too smug. “Look who decided to flirt her way through a near-death experience.”
Ahsoka stood beside him, trying and failing to look serious. “Rex told us everything. Said you were practically writing a love poem while bleeding out.”
You groaned, covering your face with one hand. “Does no one in this battalion understand the concept of privacy?”
“Not when the drama’s this good,” Ahsoka said, plopping herself at the foot of your bed. “I mean, you told Kix he smells like courage. Who says that?”
“It was the blood loss talking.”
Anakin raised a brow. “You also apparently told him his eyes were ‘too blue.’ That doesn’t even make sense. Too blue? His eyes are brown!”
“Must’ve been the armor” you snapped, gesturing vaguely toward the corridor. “It’s aggravating. Like being judged by a beach.”
They both burst out laughing.
“Stars,” Ahsoka wheezed, wiping her eyes. “You’re lucky Master Yoda wasn’t in the room. You’d be Force-grounded for breaking the code.”
Anakin wiggled his brows. “Technically, I’m not allowed to judge.”
You shot him a look. “Please. You’re the last person who gets to bring up the Jedi Code.”
He didn’t deny it.
“Anyway,” Ahsoka said, sitting up straighter with a sly smile. “What we want to know is: did you get the kiss?”
You gave them both a very satisfied, very smug smile.
“I did.”
Silence.
Anakin blinked. “Wait. What?”
“You kissed Kix?” Ahsoka practically squealed, grabbing your arm. “When?”
“In the medbay. Post-stitches. Very romantic. Smelled like disinfectant and trauma bonding.”
Anakin shook his head in mock disbelief. “Force help us. You’re worse than I am.”
“I know,” you said with a smirk. “And unlike you, I don’t pretend to be subtle.”
Ahsoka howled with laughter.
Outside, you could’ve sworn you heard clone boots squeaking away from the medbay window. Probably Jesse or Fives listening in. Again.
“You’re never gonna live this down,” Anakin said, grinning wide.
You leaned back, smug and satisfied. “I don’t plan to.”
⸻
Fives and Jesse stumbled into the barracks like two kids who’d just found contraband candy in the Temple. Breathless, grinning, eyes wide with glee.
“Kix,” Jesse gasped, skidding to a stop in front of the medic’s bunk. “Tell me it’s true.”
Kix looked up from cleaning his kit, brow raised. “Tell you what’s true?”
“Oh, don’t play innocent,” Fives said, practically vibrating with energy. “We heard it. Straight from her own mouth.”
“She kissed you!” Jesse blurted. “Right in the medbay!”
Kix blinked once. “You were eavesdropping?”
Fives held up a hand. “Strategically positioned for morale updates.”
“You mean you pressed your faces to the window like nosey cadets,” Kix muttered, already regretting every life choice that led him here.
Fives flopped onto a bunk like he’d just been awarded a medal. “Kissing a Jedi… while she was still half-dead. That’s next-level.”
“She called you a ‘war angel in plastoid,’” Jesse said with a grin. “That’s poetry, Kix. Pure poetry.”
Kix groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “I was saving her life.”
“Yeah, and then saving her lips,” Fives added.
Jesse smacked his arm. “That doesn’t even make sense.”
“Doesn’t have to,” Fives said proudly. “It’s romance.”
Kix opened his mouth to fire back—but then the door slid open, and in walked Rex.
“Why are you two shouting like regs on a first patrol—” He paused mid-sentence, eyes narrowing at the scene. Fives smirking. Jesse grinning. Kix looking like he wanted to dissolve into bacta.
Rex raised a brow. “Am I walking into a war crime or a love story?”
Jesse pointed at Kix. “Our boy kissed the General.”
Rex blinked. Once. Then twice.
Then, completely deadpan, he said, “About time.”
Kix’s jaw dropped. “Rex!”
Fives lost it. “I knew you knew! I knew it!”
Rex crossed his arms, smiling just enough to twist the knife. “She’s been making eyes at him the whole campaign. Whole battalion’s been waiting for someone to make a move. Just didn’t expect it to happen during triage.”
Jesse gasped. “You knew and didn’t tell us?!”
Rex shrugged. “Didn’t want to ruin the suspense.”
Fives snorted. “Cold, Rex. Cold.”
Kix looked like he was seriously considering injecting himself with a sedative. “I hate all of you.”
Rex clapped him on the shoulder. “You’ll live, lover boy.”
Jesse wheezed.
“Alright, alright,” Rex said finally, stepping back toward the door. “Joke time’s over. Back to your posts before I have you cleaning carbon scoring with your tongues.”
Fives groaned. “He always ruins the fun.”
Jesse saluted with a grin. “On it, Captain Matchmaker.”
They left laughing, boots thudding down the corridor, and Kix sat in the silence for a moment, staring down at his gloves.
Then, quietly, under his breath:
“…War angel in plastoid?”
He smiled. Just a little.
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