“One Too Many”

reference below

Hiya! I just wanted to know if you song requests for fics before I asked!

-🤍

Heya! I certainly do x

“Crimson Huntress” pt.4

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 stars outside the cockpit stretched like silver thread.

K4 stood behind her with arms folded, posture straight as ever, while R9 whirred and beeped irritably at the navicomputer.

CT-4023—no name yet, not really—was in the back compartment, hunched over a collection of scavenged armor plates and paint canisters. The former Death Watch gear had been repainted, reshaped, stripped of its past. Now it gleamed black and silver, and he was adding gold trims by hand.

Thin lines along the gauntlets. A thin gold ring around the helmet’s visor. Lines across the chest plate that traced down to the waist, like some stylized sigil not yet realized.

Sha’rali leaned in the doorway, arms crossed. She tilted her head slightly, examining his work with a curious smirk.

“You’re getting good with that brush,” she said. “You ever consider art school?”

CT-4023 snorted softly, not looking up. “Didn’t really have elective credits in Kamino.”

“You’re making it your own. That’s important.” Her voice turned thoughtful. “But it’s missing something.”

He paused, brush held in mid-air. “What?”

She tapped the side of the helmet. “A sigil.”

“A what?”

“A mark. Something to show people who you are.” She strode in and rapped a knuckle against the chest plate. “This says ‘I’m not Death Watch.’ Good. Now it needs to say you. Your legend. Your kill mark.”

He raised an eyebrow. “That’s a little dramatic.”

“You’re in a dramatic profession.”

K4 entered, setting a tray of caf and protein ration cubes on the workbench like a disapproving butler.

“Don’t encourage her,” the droid said flatly. “She’s referring to ‘kill marks’ again. Last time, she convinced a Rodian to fight a massiff pack for aesthetic purposes.”

“That Rodian survived,” Sha’rali said.

“Barely. Missing two fingers now.”

CT-4023 chuckled, leaning back slightly. “So what are you suggesting? I kill a Nexu or something?”

Sha’rali’s grin widened. “I was thinking bigger.”

R9 gave a loud, gleeful chirp.

K4 straightened. “She means a rancor.”

CT-4023 blinked.

Sha’rali gave an exaggerated shrug. “If you want a real sigil, you’ve got to earn it. Nothing screams ‘I survived’ like carving your crest from the hide of a rancor.”

“That is an excellent way to get him killed,” K4 said without pause.

R9 let out a string of beeps, none of them polite.

“He thinks it’d be entertaining,” K4 translated.

CT-4023 glanced between the two droids, then back to Sha’rali. “You’re not serious.”

“I’m always serious,” she said. “Unless I’m not. Which is almost always.”

He shook his head. “How would you even find a rancor?”

Sha’rali turned, tapping a few keys on the ship’s console. A bounty notice flickered up on the screen, the text in rough Huttese.

BOUNTY NOTICE

Location: Vanqor

Target: Rampaging Rancor (Unauthorized Biological Transport)

Payment: 14,000 credits, alive or dead.

Bonus: Removal of damage caused to Hutt mining facility.

“Lucky day,” she said.

CT-4023 stared at her, incredulous. “You’re joking.”

“Perfect combo. Get paid and get a sigil.”

“Get killed,” K4 corrected. “Get eaten.”

R9 chirped encouragingly and rolled in a little celebratory circle.

The clone leaned back in the seat, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

“I haven’t even picked a name yet, and you want to throw me at a rancor.”

“That’s how legacies are made,” Sha’rali said. “Trial by teeth.”

He gave her a long look, then glanced at the armor he was customizing. The gold, the sleek silver lines. A life being rewritten.

“…If I die,” he muttered, “you better name me something cool.”

Sha’rali grinned like a wolf. “Deal.”

K4 sighed heavily and walked off. “This is going to end in flames and evisceration.”

Behind him, R9 beeped again—gleefully.

⸻

The ship set down hard against a craggy plateau overlooking the remains of the Hutt mining facility—scorched earth, collapsed scaffolds, and deep claw marks in durasteel walls. Sha’rali stepped off the ramp with her helmet tucked under one arm, cloak snapping behind her in the dry wind. CT-4023 followed, fully armored and now gleaming with fresh black, silver, and just enough gold to catch the sun.

R9 trailed behind, scanning the area with his photoreceptor. K4 lingered at the ramp, arms crossed.

“I do not approve of this location,” the droid muttered.

Sha’rali grinned over her shoulder. “You don’t approve of most places.”

“This one smells of feral biology and lawsuits.”

They descended into the ruins, weaving past shattered mine carts and burned-out equipment. Sha’rali crouched near a huge claw mark in a support column, then ran gloved fingers across the torn metal.

“Definitely a rancor,” she muttered. “But…”

“But what?” CT-4023 asked.

She glanced at him, then pointed toward the perimeter fence—what was left of it. Several posts had been knocked flat at an angle far too low for an adult rancor.

“It’s small. Or young.”

“Can a baby rancor really do this much damage?”

“If it’s scared enough,” she said, standing. “But if this is the one that got loose from transport, it’s barely out of its nesting pen. Hardly worth a fight.”

He frowned. “So no sigil?”

Sha’rali’s smirk returned. “You don’t earn your legacy punching toddlers. We’ll find you a real beast.” She tossed him a wink. “For now, let’s bag this one and get paid.”

A low growl interrupted her.

They both turned. From the remains of a collapsed control station emerged the rancor—gray-skinned, covered in soot and oil, no taller than Sha’rali’s shoulder. The creature bellowed a shrill, unsure roar and pawed at the ground with thick, oversized claws.

“…Adorable,” Sha’rali whispered.

“Not the word I’d use,” CT-4023 muttered, raising his blaster.

Before either of them moved, a sound cracked across the ruin—a slow, deliberate clap.

“Now that was real sweet. But I don’t think that beast belongs to either of you.”

Both bounty hunter and clone whirled.

Cad Bane stood atop a rusted crane boom above them, wide-brimmed hat casting long shadows, twin blasters already drawn and idle at his sides.

R9 emitted a rapid stream of hostile beeping.

Sha’rali narrowed her eyes. “Bane.”

“Sha’rali,” he said, voice smooth and mocking. “Still making a mess of the galaxy one body at a time?”

“Still dressing like an antique?”

He chuckled. “You got jokes. Still running with droids and damaged goods, I see.” His glowing red eyes flicked to CT-4023. “Or is this one just for decoration?”

CT-4023 subtly angled his stance. His grip on his blaster tightened, but Sha’rali lifted a hand.

“Easy,” she muttered. “Don’t give him a reason.”

“Oh, he won’t need one,” Bane said, leaping lightly from the crane and landing with a dusty thud. “I’ve got a claim on that rancor. Took the job same as you. Fair game.”

“We saw it first,” Sha’rali said. “We do the work, we take the creds.”

“You ain’t taken anything unless you’re faster than me, darlin’.”

“You remember what happened last time you called me that?”

“I do,” he said, drawing one blaster slowly. “Still got the burn mark.”

The baby rancor let out a pitiful moan, clearly confused by all the shouting and guns.

K4’s voice crackled over comms:

“Permission to vaporize the cowboy?”

“No,” Sha’rali said under her breath. “Yet.”

CT-4023 stepped forward, his voice quiet but direct. “You want a fight, you’ll get one. But if you’re smart, you’ll back off.”

Bane cocked his head. “Oh? Clone with a backbone. That’s new.”

“He’s not a clone anymore,” Sha’rali said. “He’s mine.”

Bane smiled faintly. “That’s cute.”

Then, blasters lifted. The air tensed.

The baby rancor screamed—and bolted.

“Dank ferrik,” Sha’rali muttered, grabbing CT-4023 by the arm. “Move!”

They took off after the fleeing beast, Bane shouting curses as he followed. Blaster fire cracked overhead. The chase had begun.

The baby rancor might have been small, but it was fast.

It barreled through the cracked remains of Vanqor’s refinery sector, sending up sprays of dust and ash with every thundering step. Sha’rali sprinted after it, cloak flying behind her, boots slamming down on twisted metal and scorched duracrete.

Behind her, CT-4023 kept pace easily, blaster ready—but not firing. Too risky. The beast was unpredictable, and so was the Duros hot on their trail.

Cad Bane vaulted down from a higher walkway with his typical fluid grace, twin LL-30s gleaming in the sunlight.

“Back off, Bane!” Sha’rali barked, skidding around a collapsed wall.

“You first,” he called, voice rich with laughter. “Or is this the kind of job where you just chase things and look good?”

CT-4023 fired a warning shot at the ground near Bane’s feet. “You want a reason, you’ll get one.”

The Duros twirled a pistol on one finger and grinned. “There he is. Knew there had to be some spine under all that polish.”

A sudden roar cut through the banter as the rancor skidded into a half-collapsed loading dock. It turned with alarming agility and slammed its bulk into a rusted hauler, flipping the entire vehicle like it was made of paper.

“Definitely not harmless,” CT-4023 muttered.

“Good instincts,” Sha’rali said as she ducked behind a support beam. “Next time, don’t wait so long to shoot.”

“I was assessing the threat.”

“You’re always going to be outgunned, clone. Don’t wait for the threat to assess you.”

The rancor tore through crates of crushed ore, dust clouding the air. Bane fired a pair of stun rounds that went wide, one of them shattering against a crate beside Sha’rali’s head.

“Watch it!” she snapped.

“Your face’ll heal just fine,” Bane called. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

“You’re still mad about the throat thing, huh?”

CT-4023 blinked. “Throat thing?”

Sha’rali grinned.

He gave her a sharp look, breathing hard as they ducked behind another broken wall. “You seem to know every bounty hunter.”

“Networking. I get around.”

“That’s not comforting.”

Before she could respond, the rancor burst through the wall just ahead of them. It had a piece of durasteel stuck to its horned crest and a smear of blood on one shoulder—but it wasn’t limping. If anything, it was more aggressive now.

It reared back and let out a bellow that rattled the air.

Sha’rali dropped low and rolled to the side, blaster out. CT-4023 lunged forward, landing atop a storage container and drawing the creature’s attention.

“Hey!” he shouted, waving his arms. “Come on, you overgrown tooka!”

The rancor lunged toward him.

As it did, he tossed a flash pellet from his belt. The grenade burst in its face, sending the rancor reeling—temporarily stunned.

“Not bad,” Sha’rali said, running up beside him. “You fight like an ARC again.”

“I was an ARC,” he shot back, vaulting down. “Doesn’t exactly leave you.”

“You sure about that?”

Another blast tore through the haze—Bane was back, boots skidding across rubble. He aimed a net launcher at the beast’s legs, but it jerked sideways, the net missing by a meter.

“Slippery little thing!” Bane snarled. “Almost like it wants to make my life difficult.”

“Must be karma,” Sha’rali muttered, motioning to CT-4023. “Let’s flank it. You take left, I go up.”

He nodded, darting off with precision. She scaled a metal scaffold, bracing herself against the top beam, calculating.

Bane took a shot. It hit.

The stun round finally struck true, seizing the baby rancor’s back leg—and it screeched.

Not in pain. In rage.

It turned, lifted a pile of scrap with one clawed hand, and hurled it like a missile. Sha’rali ducked. Bane wasn’t as fast.

The debris clipped his shoulder and sent him flying into a pile of twisted girders.

“Serves you right,” she muttered, leaping from the scaffolding and landing hard beside CT-4023.

He was already adjusting his blaster’s charge, set to nonlethal.

“Plan?”

“We tire it out,” she said. “Hit and move. No kill shots. It’s the bounty.”

“And if Bane tries again?”

“We shoot him in the leg.”

He cracked a grin.

The two charged again—tandem precision. Sha’rali moved like a shadow; CT-4023, like a ghost of war, deadly and silent. The rancor slammed its fists down in fury, but they were never where it expected.

It was slower now. Panting. Enraged.

They worked as a unit—hunter and reborn soldier—flashing around the beast like twin blades.

Finally, a shot from CT-4023’s blaster hit just right, just under the shoulder. The creature stumbled, blinked, and fell to one side, snorting and curling into itself.

Down.

Still breathing.

Sha’rali stood over it, blaster lowered. Her eyes flicked to CT-4023.

“That… was teamwork.”

He shrugged. “Told you. ARC instincts.”

“Starting to think I should keep you around.”

“You already are.”

She laughed once, low and genuine.

Behind them, Bane groaned from the scrap pile.

CT-4023 nodded toward him. “Want me to shoot him in the leg anyway?”

Sha’rali smirked. “Tempting. But let him walk it off.”

R9 rolled up through the debris, trilling something smug and judgmental.

“You missed the fun,” CT-4023 said.

R9 beeped and showed a grainy hologram of Bane getting clobbered.

“I stand corrected,” he muttered.

Sha’rali placed a hand on the clone’s pauldron. “Let’s get this beast secured and get off this rock.”

He looked at her, eyes searching. “Hey… you ever think maybe you’re starting to trust me?”

She paused, then leaned in with a smirk.

“No. But you’re fun to have around.”

⸻

The drop site was a wreck of rusted platforms and storm-pitted walls, tucked in the shadow of a collapsed hangar. Sha’rali crouched beside the groaning frame of the baby rancor, still unconscious, still breathing hard. CT-4023 stood nearby, helmet off, glancing between the beast and their battered surroundings.

“You think your ship’s equipped to hold a rancor?” he asked, voice dry.

Sha’rali stood, brushing grit from her armor. “If it isn’t, K4 will figure it out. He likes problem-solving. Especially when the problem is violent.”

A mechanical growl came through the comms. K4’s voice filtered in over the channel, crisp and irritated:

“If this thing eats my upholstery, I’m turning it into boots.”

CT-4023 snorted. “You’d have to catch it first.”

“I caught you, didn’t I?”

Sha’rali rolled her eyes and tapped the comm off. “Let’s move before someone gets clever.”

As if summoned by bad karma, a long shadow fell over the landing pad behind them.

Cad Bane stepped into view, bruised, covered in soot, and not smiling anymore.

Two of his droids flanked him, both armed. He looked straight at Sha’rali, and then to CT-4023 with slow, calculated disapproval.

“You always did cheat well,” he said. “Still no class.”

“You’re just mad I’m better,” Sha’rali replied, unphased, blaster at her side—but loose, ready.

CT-4023 moved forward instinctively, placing himself half between her and the Duros.

Bane’s eyes didn’t miss it. “Got yourself a new watchdog, huh? Looks Republic. Smells like one, too.”

“Not Republic anymore,” the clone said flatly.

“Oh, right. Deserter.” Bane spat the word like a curse. “You know what they pay for one of your kind these days? Not as much as a Jedi, but enough.”

“I don’t care what you think I’m worth,” CT-4023 replied, voice steady. “You’d still have to take me alive.”

Bane cocked his head. “Who said anything about alive?”

A long silence stretched. Then: the high whine of a charging rifle.

But not from Bane.

From above.

K4 stood atop the ship’s gangway, rifle in hand, optics glowing gold in the dusk.

“Three hostiles locked. Suggest standing down before I redecorate the area with Duros-colored paste.”

CT-4023 stepped forward. “You heard him.”

Sha’rali added, “Walk away, Bane. You lost.”

Bane stared at the three of them—then past them, at the ship. The beast. The clone. The droid overhead. And finally… Sha’rali.

The weight of the loss settled in his posture. And still, he smiled.

“Still reckless. Still lucky.”

She grinned. “And still ahead.”

Bane muttered something in Duros under his breath, holstered his pistols, and turned.

“Next time,” he called over his shoulder, “you won’t have your pet clone or your smart-mouthed droid to save you.”

Sha’rali didn’t answer.

She didn’t have to.

They watched him vanish into the rusted ruins, silent except for the distant clang of droid footsteps fading with him.

CT-4023 finally exhaled. “He doesn’t lose often.”

“No,” Sha’rali agreed, nudging the rancor with her boot. “But when he does… stars, it’s satisfying.”

They dragged the sleeping creature onto a maglift. It groaned but didn’t wake. K4 guided them in from the ramp, already prepping the cargo bay containment field.

“If it moves, I’m putting it in carbonite.”

“Just sedate it again if it twitches,” Sha’rali said.

CT-4023 helped lower the beast onto the containment pad, then paused beside it. For a moment, he simply stared.

“What?” Sha’rali asked, wiping blood from her forehead.

He looked at her, then the ship around them. “You realize I’ve helped you tranquilize a rancor, outmaneuver Cad Bane, and survive a job that should’ve gotten us both killed.”

She grinned and leaned in, voice dry. “So, what you’re saying is…”

He sighed. “I guess I’m sticking around.”

“Says the man who almost painted a target on his chest last week,” K4 muttered from the cockpit.

R9 chirped happily from the corridor, replaying footage of the rancor crushing a speeder.

CT-4023 watched it for a second and shook his head. “Remind me to reprogram that one.”

Sha’rali smirked and clapped a hand to his shoulder. “Welcome to the life, trooper.”

He smirked back, already thinking about the sigil he’d carve next.

⸻

Tatooine’s twin suns scorched down on the durasteel hull of Sha’rali’s ship as it touched down outside Jabba’s palace. The ship’s systems whined in protest at the sand and heat. CT-4023 stood at the airlock, armor dark and gleaming in the harsh light, the sigil on his pauldron not yet painted—blank, unclaimed.

Sha’rali fastened the final restraint on the crate that held the sedated baby rancor, her jaw tense.

“Keep your helmet on,” she warned as she keyed open the hatch.

“Why?”

She turned, voice low. “Jabba had a bounty on your head a few rotations ago. You were Republic property—‘runaway government clone,’ worth a few thousand credits dead. He might not remember, but some of his lackeys will.”

CT-4023 looked at her carefully. “And you think bringing a rancor here is a better idea?”

She flashed him a sharp grin. “He likes rancors. Plus, they’re the ones who posted the bounty on the rancor, remember? If we don’t deliver, someone else will—and worse, we lose our payout.”

The airlock hissed open and the thick heat of Tatooine hit them like a wall. The gates to Jabba’s fortress loomed ahead, half-buried in sunbaked stone. CT-4023 followed behind her as they dragged the heavy sled forward—R9 chirping irritably in the back, and K4 remaining behind to monitor the ship.

As they approached, the gates creaked open, and a Gamorrean guard grunted before stepping aside. They were ushered into the vast, dim throne room by a hissing Twi’lek majordomo. The stink of spice, sweat, and rotting meat hung in the air. Sha’rali walked differently here—shoulders broader, stride slower, swagger more exaggerated. Her eyes were colder, smile sharper.

CT-4023 recognized the change instantly.

This wasn’t the woman he fought beside. This was Sha’rali the hunter. This was who she was before him.

Jabba lounged on his dais, bloated and wheezing, surrounded by sycophants and criminals. Music thumped in the background, too loud and chaotic. The sled with the rancor came to a halt, and the crate groaned as the beast stirred inside.

The Hutt let out a deep chuckle, slurred through slime.

“Sha’rali Jurok… bringing me gifts again, are you?”

She bowed low, but not respectfully—more theatrically. “Not gifts, Your Excellency. Merchandise. A baby rancor, caught on Vanqor. Aggressive, untrained. I believe your people were the ones asking.”

A ripple of intrigue spread through the chamber. Several beings leaned forward.

Jabba’s massive tongue slid across his lips.

“Yes… the bounty was ours.”

CT-4023 scanned the room—twelve guards, some with Hutt Cartel markings. He didn’t like the odds.

Jabba gestured, and a chest of credits was dragged forward, a heavy thud against the stone.

“Payment. Generous. As requested.”

Before they could collect, a tall Trandoshan slithered into view.

Bossk.

He eyed Sha’rali, nostrils flaring, tongue flicking. “Didn’t think you had the guts to show your face here.”

She didn’t smile. “Didn’t think you’d still have yours.”

And then—another shape emerged from the crowd.

A boy. Twelve, maybe thirteen. Battered green Mandalorian armor, a blaster far too large for his frame slung low. Boba Fett.

He eyed CT-4023 with suspicion, then glanced at Sha’rali.

“That armor doesn’t look like yours.”

Sha’rali tilted her head. “Does now.”

CT-4023’s jaw tightened under the helmet. His hand hovered close to his blaster.

Boba looked at the clone longer, gaze calculating, almost… knowing.

Sha’rali held the younger Fett’s gaze. “You planning on collecting, kid?”

Boba shrugged. “Not unless there’s still a bounty.”

She leaned forward slightly. “There’s not.”

Tension pulsed for a long moment.

And then—Jabba let out a rumbling laugh that echoed through the throne room. He slammed a chubby hand on a panel, and droids wheeled the crate away with the young rancor.

“Your business is done, Sha’rali. Go.”

She inclined her head. “Gladly.”

They turned and walked out—slowly, deliberately. CT-4023 followed, his heart pounding beneath his armor. Only once the ship’s doors sealed behind them did he exhale.

On the ramp, he turned to her. “That… was not fun.”

Sha’rali shrugged, not breaking stride. “Palace jobs never are.”

“You’re different in there,” he said. “Cold. Calculated.”

“Necessary.”

He studied her a long moment. “You’ve done a lot to keep me alive.”

Sha’rali gave him a look, sharp and unreadable. “Don’t let it go to your head.”

R9 beeped as it wheeled up the ramp.

⸻

The holotable flickered in the middle of the ship’s lounge, casting green-blue light over the metal floor. CT-4023 sat across from it, arms folded, as CID’s scaly face materialized in grainy hologram. Her voice rasped through the static.

“Sha’rali. Got a job for you. High-value intel, Separatist origin. Interested?”

Sha’rali didn’t respond right away. She stood to the side, arms crossed, one brow raised. She’d never taken a job that directly brushed up against the war—never wanted to. It was one thing to skirt the edges, pick off cartel bounties, or rob a warlord. But a mission involving Separatist intel? That was new ground.

Suspicious ground.

“Where’s this data?” she asked, eyes narrowing.

“Hidden in a vault on Vucora. Some shadow installation the Separatists set up during the early days of the war, went dark two years ago. Word is the place is waking up again—maybe just droids, maybe more. Someone wants eyes on it.”

“What’s the payout?”

“Fifteen thousand. Half up front, half after extraction. I’ll upload the location files and security specs.”

Sha’rali glanced to CT-4023. He’d been quiet, watching the projection with an odd kind of familiarity. When she met his eyes, he just gave a short nod.

“Let’s do it,” he said. “I know what to expect. Their vaults follow certain protocols—recursive redundancies, external relays, droid patrols. I was trained for this kind of thing.”

Sha’rali blinked at him, just once.

“Thought you were trained to blow things up.”

He shrugged. “Only after we broke in.”

A low chuckle rumbled in her throat. “Fine. K4, R9—get the data off Cid and start planning the infiltration.”

R9 chirped and spun toward the holotable. K4 bowed slightly. “As you wish. I’ll begin compiling relevant schematics and countermeasures.”

Sha’rali grabbed her sidearm and slid it into its holster.

“I’ll be back in an hour.”

CT-4023 frowned. “Where are you going?”

“Cid wants to talk face-to-face. Probably wants me to sign my life away. Or threaten me, which she loves more.”

CT-4023 frowned. “Is that a joke?”

“No,” Sha’rali replied flatly. “That’s Cid.”

⸻

The private booth was humid and dim, stinking of grease, cheap liquor, and warm reptile. Cid poured a drink into a chipped glass and slid it across the table as Sha’rali dropped into the seat opposite her.

“Still running around with the clone?” Cid rasped. Her yellow eyes gleamed under the low light.

Sha’rali picked up the drink, gave it a sniff, and downed half in one go. “He’s useful.”

“You don’t usually keep your assets this long.”

Sha’rali leaned back, her expression unreadable. “He hasn’t tried to kill me yet.”

Cid gave a dry chuckle. “You could’ve ditched him after Ord Mantell. Would’ve been smart.”

Sha’rali’s voice lost its humor. “You could’ve not sold us out. But here we are.”

Cid rolled her eyes. “Information’s a commodity, sweetheart. He was intel. Valuable intel.”

“You sold it to the Republic.”

“I sell to whoever pays. You know that.”

Sha’rali set her glass down with a sharp clink.

“You and I have an understanding, Cid. But if you ever sell me out again—if I find out you bring heat down on me—don’t expect me to show up for drinks next time.”

Cid didn’t blink. “Relax. I’m still alive, aren’t I? I do what I need to do to stay that way. And if keeping the Republic happy buys me another year, so be it.”

Sha’rali stared at her, unflinching.

“You’d sell anyone out to save your scaly hide.”

Cid gave a thin smile. “Damn right I would. And don’t act like you’re any different. We do what we have to. We always have.”

Sha’rali finished her drink and stood.

“Send the final access key to my ship.”

Cid raised her glass. “Don’t die, Jurok.”

⸻

Back aboard the ship, K4 was already deep into mapping the infiltration route to the Separatist vault. R9 chirped a steady stream of suggested entry points, and CT-4023 stood over the holotable, adjusting droid patrol routes and slicing protocols from memory.

Sha’rali watched him for a moment. It struck her again—he belonged in this kind of environment. Tactical. Efficient. Sharp. Even without his clone designation, without the armor he used to wear, he was still a weapon honed for this kind of work.

That unnerved her more than she’d admit.

“Looks like you’re in your element,” she muttered.

CT-4023 glanced over, his expression unreadable beneath the shadows.

“Let’s just say old habits die hard.”

⸻

The Separatist vault complex jutted from the side of a rocky cliff on Vucora’s dark side, the sky above black and starless. Only the flicker of malfunctioning perimeter lights gave any indication the base was still online. What should’ve been a graveyard of old tech buzzed faintly with shielded power signatures and long-range comm static.

Sha’rali crouched at the edge of a crag overlooking the access route—an old maglift shaft welded shut. Her black and crimson armor blended perfectly into the rock.

K4 hovered behind her, humming softly. R9 was already halfway down the cliff, magnetic locks clinging to rusted piping. CT-4023 stood next to her, helmet on, modified to hide the remnants of its Death Watch origins. The new gold detailing was subdued in the shadows, but it caught a glint of moonlight now and then like a quiet pulse.

He adjusted the voice modulator inside his helmet. “Test. One. Two.”

Sha’rali gave him a quick glance. “Good enough. Don’t talk unless you have to.”

He nodded. “You think we’ll really run into anyone?”

She let out a slow breath, fingers tightening on her carbine. “I picked up a Republic signal on the long-range scanner this morning. I didn’t want to spook you, but… something’s off. K4, what did that encrypted ping resolve as?”

K4 tapped a few keys on his forearm datapad. “Garbled signature, but buried under that noise was a Republic tactical beacon. A very recent one.”

CT-4023 stiffened.

“I thought this was a forgotten base.”

“It was,” Sha’rali said. “Until now.”

R9 beeped twice. A warning.

K4’s tone dropped. “We’ve got six warm bodies approaching the northwest hangar. Five human, one Togruta. Jedi.”

CT-4023 tensed. “Anakin.”

Sha’rali looked over at him sharply. “You know the squad?”

He hesitated. “Skywalker, Tano, Rex. The rest could be anyone.”

Sha’rali’s hand went to her blaster but didn’t draw. “Fantastic. That’s half the Republic’s worst nightmare squad. Just what I wanted.”

“I can handle it,” CT-4023 said.

“You’re going to stay out of their way,” Sha’rali snapped. “Helmet stays on. Modulator on. No nicknames, no slip-ups. We don’t know what Kit Fisto and Eeth Koth told the Republic. They may think you’re dead—or they may think you’re still out there. We can’t risk it.”

He nodded slowly. “Understood.”

“I’m serious,” she said, grabbing his shoulder. “If Rex recognizes you, if Skywalker so much as suspects, we are both karking done.”

He looked away. “I know.”

They slipped into the base through a rusted maintenance conduit on the far side of the cliff, bypassing the active hangar. Lights flickered and droids twitched in long-forgotten alcoves, half-powered and unresponsive.

The vaults were down two levels, buried under what looked like a mining wing that had collapsed in on itself. Sha’rali and K4 moved like ghosts. CT-4023 hung back slightly, his posture alert but purposeful.

K4 piped up softly. “Republic presence is closer than I estimated. A security system just logged a slicing breach near Subsection Twelve.”

“That’s the vault wing,” Sha’rali muttered. “Of course it is.”

They took a side route—old scaffolding, hanging cables, twisted metal. K4 led the way, decrypting each access point as they moved. R9 deployed ahead on a repulsor trail, scouting.

Over comms, faint voices came through.

“Keep your eyes open, Jesse. If these droids are online, there’s a reason.”

“You sure there’s intel here, General?”

“It’s not intel I’m looking for,” came Skywalker’s voice. “It’s movement. Something activated this base. And it wasn’t us.”

CT-4023 froze as Rex’s voice followed. He didn’t breathe.

“You think it’s a trap, sir?”

“Everything’s a trap, Tup,” Fives cut in. “That’s the fun part.”

Sha’rali looked back at 4023. “You good?”

He gave a tight nod. “Fine.”

They pushed deeper, K4 bypassing old turrets and sending fake signals to maintenance drones. The Jedi team was moving in the same direction but from the other side.

Sha’rali opened a secure hatch to a vault junction. “We’ve got ten minutes max before they converge here. We get in, get the files, and we go.”

CT-4023 slid into position beside her. “Or?”

“Or we run into your old family.”

The vault was colder than the rest of the facility—preserved by an emergency power grid designed to keep datacores stable. K4 cracked the encrypted node, R9 plugged in, and data began copying to a secure chip.

Sha’rali stood watch, carbine up.

CT-4023 moved closer to a dusty wall covered in etchings—old campaign markings, Clone War deployments, maps of Separatist offensives.

The Separatist mainframe crackled as R9’s manipulator arm whirred furiously inside the terminal. Green light spilled across the chamber’s walls while Sha’rali crouched beside the droid, blaster drawn, eyes flicking toward the door.

“Anything?” she hissed.

“Encrypted layers,” R9 chirped smugly. “Primitive. But layered like an onion. You ever peeled an onion, meatbag?”

Sha’rali narrowed her eyes. “Peel faster.”

Above them, K4’s calm voice crackled through the comms:

“Security patrols have doubled. The Jedi must have triggered alarms in the south sector. Ten hostiles converging on your location in ninety seconds.”

She muttered a curse.

4023, stationed at the northern corridor with his helmet on and voice modulator active, responded quickly. “I’ll cut off their advance. Hold this point. Don’t move until R9 pulls the data.”

Sha’rali glanced over her shoulder. “Keep your head down. If any of them catch a glimpse—”

“I know,” he interrupted. “Helmet stays on.”

He slinked into the shadows without another word.

The old CT-4023 was gone—this version of him, wearing black and silver repurposed Death Watch armor laced with his own colors, didn’t belong to the Republic anymore. He belonged to no one. But that didn’t mean he wasn’t lethal.

Two droids rounded the corridor corner—4023 stepped from the darkness, quiet and brutal. His vibroblade slid through the first one’s neck joint. The second didn’t even get to fire.

Meanwhile, back in the server room, R9 let out a low, triumphant beep.

“Got it. Data packet acquired. Core command lines copied. No alarms tripped.” A pause. “Well, not from us.”

Sha’rali’s comm buzzed again. “We’ve got trouble,” K4 said smoothly. “Skywalker and his squad are converging. If they find this server cracked, they’ll know someone else is here.”

Sha’rali activated her shoulder mic. “Everyone fall back to exfil point delta.”

4023 was already moving—slipping past motionless droid husks, evading the flicker of blue blades in the hallway. He paused once, just once, as he caught a glimpse through a distant grate.

Fives.

He stood beside Ahsoka, his DC-17s drawn, watching Skywalker argue with Rex about taking the east corridor. The voices stirred ghosts.

Memories of barracks laughter. Of daring missions. Of joking over rations and watching each other’s backs.

Now… he was nothing but a shadow.

“4023,” Sha’rali’s voice cut in urgently. “Move.”

He did.

⸻

The team reassembled at the old mining shaft they’d used for insertion. R9 detached from the mainframe, rolled back under K4’s cover, and together they descended the narrow escape lift. Above them, shouts rang out, boots storming the hall.

Sha’rali dropped beside him last. “We got it. R9 says there’s mention of a movement. Something big. High-level tactical orders. Could be good leverage for Cid.”

“Could be a war crime list too,” 4023 muttered, tapping the encrypted drive into K4’s care.

“We’ll let her worry about that.”

As they disappeared into the shaft and the light above them narrowed, 4023 sat in silence—jaw clenched under the helmet. He hadn’t seen Skywalker’s face, hadn’t dared get that close. But he’d felt the weight of it.

He remembered the war. The camaraderie. The brotherhood.

But he also remembered Umbara.

⸻

Outside, Sha’rali’s ship lifted into the dusk, cloaking engaged. They slipped off-world before GAR command could trace their incursion.

“We need to lay low for a few days,” Sha’rali said as she slumped into the co-pilot’s seat. “Once we deliver this to Cid, we move fast. If the Jedi know we were there…”

“They didn’t see me,” 4023 said flatly. “But I saw them.”

She turned to him, saw the clenched fists in his lap.

“You alright?”

He didn’t answer for a long moment. “They’re still good soldiers.”

“Some of them,” she said.

Then quieter, she added, “But that doesn’t mean they wouldn’t have shot you if they knew who you were.”

He didn’t respond.

K4 returned with R9 behind him, dropping a datapad onto the console. “Analysis underway. Data includes strategic orders, fleet movements, and two encrypted names I don’t recognize.”

Sha’rali exhaled. “That’s the next problem.”

They were ghosts again, slipping through systems and secrets—one step ahead of the war, one step behind its consequences.

⸻

Previous Part | Next Part

Rebels Wolffe x Reader

Summary: Wolffe x Medic!Reader set post-Order 66 during the Rebels era. Listened to the song “somewhere only we know” by Keane and made me think of old man Wolffe.

⸻

The sky of Seelos burned orange as another sun dipped beneath the jagged horizon. The Ghost had landed hours ago, stirring the sand, dust, and old ghosts from their resting places.

You stood at the edge of the clearing, arms crossed, scanning the ramshackle AT-TE turned-home ahead. Your breath caught when you saw him—helmet under one arm, same eye scar, same heavy gait. But time had added weight to his shoulders and silver to his hair.

Wolffe.

He hadn’t seen you yet. Or maybe he had and just didn’t believe it. You smiled.

“Well, kark me,” you called, stepping forward, “either I’m dreaming or the years have not been kind to you, old man.”

He froze mid-step. His one eye widened, flickering with something too raw to be masked. His voice was gravel when he finally spoke.

“Medic?”

You raised an eyebrow. “Still calling me that after all this time? Not even a ‘hey, great to see you, thought you were dead’?”

He dropped his helmet, closing the distance in long, heavy steps. You didn’t realize you were trembling until he reached you—until his gloved hand gently took your arm like he wasn’t sure if you’d disappear.

“You left,” he said. Not accusing. Just fact.

“So did you,” you whispered. “War ended. Republic died. So many of us died with it.”

A moment passed where neither of you breathed. The wind whistled over cracked metal and dry earth. The sun dipped a little lower.

Wolffe’s eye searched your face like it had answers to questions he never dared to ask. “Why now?” he said. “Why here?”

You glanced back toward the Ghost, where Sabine and Zeb were offloading supplies, Hera and Kanan deep in discussion. “I’m with them now. The Ghost crew. Ezra brought us out here. Said there were… good men worth finding.”

Wolffe looked away. “Not sure that’s true anymore.”

You touched his cheek—scarred, weathered, familiar. “Still wearing your guilt like a second set of armor, huh?”

“Maybe.”

“I remember when you used to smile,” you murmured. “Used to fight like hell, patch your brothers up, then sit with me under stars on Ryloth like the war wasn’t chewing us to pieces.”

His silence was heavy, but he didn’t pull away. Just watched you with that quiet intensity he always had.

“I’ve thought about you,” you said. “Over the years. Wondered if you made it. Wondered if you found peace somewhere.”

“This is the closest I got,” he said, glancing back at the AT-TE. “It’s not much.”

“It’s something,” you offered. “Somewhere only we know.”

A tired smirk tugged at his lips. “Still quoting that old song you used to hum in the medbay?”

You shrugged. “Catchy. And depressing. Fit the vibe.”

He chuckled—actually chuckled. It was a rare sound, worn and dry but still alive. “You really haven’t changed.”

You leaned in, nudging his shoulder. “You have. More lines. More grump. Less hair.”

“I shaved it.”

“Sure, sure. That’s what they all say.”

He shook his head, muttering a fond “damn smartass” under his breath.

The sun was nearly gone now, and the stars began to appear, faint and blinking like the ghosts of all you’d lost.

You stepped closer, chest brushing his armor. “You think we could find that peace again?” you asked, soft. “Maybe not like before, but… something close?”

He didn’t answer right away. But his hand found yours—calloused, warm, grounding.

“Stay a while,” he said. “Just… stay.”

You squeezed his hand.

“For now,” you said. “I’ll stay.”

And under a Seelos sky, two remnants of a broken galaxy found the smallest sliver of something whole. A memory made real. A place only you two remembered.

Somewhere only you knew.

⸻

say it with me now:

wrecker👏is👏not👏stupid👏

he is actually pretty smart, you don’t become a demolitions expert without being smart

he is also like 100% the most emotionally intelligent of the entire batch

just because he has a childlike wonder and love of life doesn’t mean he’s dumb

“Recalibration”

Tech x Fem!Reader

Warnings: Suggestive content, spicy tension, clothing still on, touches and innuendo, mild dominance/control themes

You’d noticed it before—how Tech’s fingers twitched just slightly when you leaned over him to grab a datapad. How his jaw clenched when you touched his shoulder in passing. The way his eyes—behind those lenses—followed you a fraction too long.

You didn’t push. Not at first. But you knew.

You knew.

And you waited.

Until now.

The Marauder was parked and quiet. Everyone else was either sleeping or out doing recon. You stayed behind under the excuse of “gear maintenance,” but Tech knew that was a lie. You could see it in the way he hadn’t looked up from his diagnostics once since you sat down across from him. But the corner of his mouth twitched like he was waiting for something.

The tension was coiled between you like a tripwire.

You stretched, slowly, arms overhead—shirt lifting just slightly at the waist—and Tech’s eyes flicked upward before he caught himself and looked back down.

But not fast enough.

You smiled.

“Problem, Tech?”

He adjusted his goggles. “No. Merely running recalibrations on the navigation matrix. Your movement caught my periphery.”

“My movement?”

He paused. “…yes.”

You stood and crossed to him, leaning on the console, your hip nearly brushing his shoulder.

“I don’t think it’s the matrix that needs recalibrating.”

He stilled.

When he looked up this time, there was something… not clinical in his expression. Something sharp. Focused. Hungry.

“You’re provoking a reaction,” he said, voice low.

“I know.”

He rose slowly, the air between you crackling with heat. He stepped forward—and kept stepping until your back hit the bulkhead behind you. The flat metal cooled your skin where your spine met it. His hand came up beside your head, not touching but close enough to make your breath catch.

“I’ve been very patient,” he murmured, eyes scanning yours like he was mapping terrain.

“Too patient,” you said, voice a whisper.

His hand ghosted up your arm. “You want satisfaction.”

It wasn’t a question.

You didn’t answer. You didn’t have to.

He leaned in, lips brushing your jaw—not quite kissing, not yet. His hand slipped around your waist, fingers splayed, controlling without force.

“I’m accustomed to solving problems with precision,” he said, mouth at your ear now, voice as steady as a scalpel. “And I have studied you—extensively.”

You let out a sound that wasn’t quite a laugh.

“You’ve been studying me?”

“I observe everything,” he said simply. “The way your breath hitches when I remove my gloves. The way your pupils dilate when I speak close to your ear. The way you pretend not to notice when I watch you.”

His hand moved lower—fingertips dragging slowly, teasing over fabric.

“I’ve considered all variables,” he went on. “The tension. The time. The proximity. And I’ve concluded…”

His lips finally pressed to yours—precise, controlled, until you responded with something not controlled at all. Then he let go. Just a little.

You moaned against his mouth, hands gripping the front of his gear, pulling him in. His kiss deepened, mouth commanding now, and he pressed you harder into the wall, like he’d been waiting months for this.

Maybe he had.

When he pulled back, barely, he breathed:

“I am very thorough.”

You laughed, a little breathless, a little wrecked.

“I can tell.”

Tech’s hand curved along the inside of your thigh, over clothes, but still enough to make you shudder.

He tilted his head. “Your reaction suggests positive feedback.”

You kissed him again—harder this time—and gasped against his mouth. “Keep going and I’ll give you a damn thesis.”

His smirk was quick and hot and wicked.

“Excellent. I do enjoy peer-reviewed results.”

And then he was kissing you again, touch deliberate, every movement calculated for maximum effect—like you were another piece of tech he had mastered. Only this time, you were the one burning under his hands, unraveling under precision.

No chaos.

No wild passion.

Just sharp edges.

Purpose.

Satisfaction.

“Shadows of Theed”

Boss (RC-1138) x Reader

Theed’s skyline shimmered under the afternoon sun, its golden domes reflecting the light in a display of serene beauty. Yet beneath this tranquil facade, tension simmered. The recent assassination attempts on Queen Jamillia and Senator Padmé Amidala had prompted the Royal Security Forces to request additional protection from the Republic.

You stood at attention in the palace courtyard, your crimson uniform crisp, hand resting on the hilt of your blaster. As a member of the Royal Naboo Guard, your duty was to protect the monarchy and its representatives. Today, that duty extended to welcoming the Republic’s elite clone commando unit: Delta Squad.

The low hum of a Republic gunship grew louder as it descended, kicking up dust and causing your cape to flutter. The ramp lowered, revealing four armored figures stepping out in formation.

Leading them was RC-1138, known as Boss. His orange-striped armor bore the marks of countless battles, and his posture exuded authority.

Behind him, RC-1140, or Fixer, moved with calculated precision. His green-accented armor was immaculate, and his visor scanned the surroundings methodically.

To Fixer’s left was RC-1207, Sev. His armor bore red markings resembling blood splatter, a reflection of his grim sense of humor and reputation as a fierce sniper.

Bringing up the rear was RC-1262, Scorch. His armor was marked with yellow accents, and he carried himself with a relaxed confidence.

As they approached, Boss stepped forward, his helmet concealing his expression.

“Sergeant RC-1138, reporting in,” he stated, his voice modulated through the helmet’s speaker. “Delta Squad is at your service.”

You offered a formal nod. “Welcome to Theed, Sergeant. I’m Lieutenant [Y/N], Royal Naboo Guard. We’ve been briefed on your assignment.”

Boss inclined his head slightly. “Understood. Our primary objective is to ensure the safety of Queen Jamillia and Senator Amidala.”

“Correct,” you affirmed. “We’ll coordinate patrols and share intelligence. Your squad will be integrated into our security protocols.”

Behind Boss, Scorch leaned slightly toward Sev and whispered, “Think they have any good caf here?”

Sev replied dryly, “As long as it doesn’t taste like ration packs, I’ll consider it a luxury.”

Fixer, without looking up from his wrist-mounted datapad, interjected, “Focus, Deltas. We’re here for a mission, not a vacation.”

Boss turned his head slightly. “Maintain discipline. We’re guests here.”

You raised an eyebrow, a hint of amusement tugging at your lips. “Your squad has a unique dynamic.”

Boss’s tone remained neutral. “We operate efficiently.”

⸻

Over the next few days, Delta Squad integrated into the palace’s security framework. Joint patrols were established, and you found yourself frequently paired with Boss. His stoic nature made conversation sparse, but his presence was reassuring.

One evening, during a perimeter check, you decided to break the silence.

“Your squadmates have distinct personalities,” you observed.

Boss glanced at you. “They’re effective.”

“I’ve noticed,” you replied. “Scorch’s humor, Sev’s intensity, Fixer’s precision. And you—you’re the anchor.”

He paused, considering your words. “Leadership requires stability.”

You nodded. “It’s commendable.”

A brief silence settled before he spoke again. “Your team is well-trained.”

“Thank you,” you said. “We take pride in our duty.”

As the patrol continued, a comfortable silence enveloped you both, the foundation of mutual respect beginning to form.

⸻

The days turned into weeks, and the collaboration between your unit and Delta Squad deepened. Shared meals and joint exercises fostered camaraderie. Scorch’s jokes became a familiar background noise, Sev’s rare smirks were victories, and Fixer’s occasional nods signaled approval.

With Boss, the connection grew subtly. Shared glances during briefings, synchronized movements during drills, and the occasional exchange of dry humor.

One night, after a successful operation thwarting an assassination attempt, you found yourselves alone on a balcony overlooking Theed.

“The city’s peaceful tonight,” you remarked.

Boss nodded. “A welcome change.”

You turned to him. “Do you ever think about life beyond the war?”

He was silent for a moment. “Sometimes. But duty comes first.”

You smiled softly. “Always the soldier.”

He looked at you, his gaze intense. “It’s who I am.”

“And yet,” you said, stepping closer, “there’s more to you.”

He didn’t respond verbally, but the way his hand brushed against yours spoke volumes.

The city lights glittered below like the reflection of a thousand quiet thoughts. The silence between you and Boss wasn’t strained—it was gentle, natural. It had become that way over the last few weeks. You stood shoulder to shoulder, close enough to feel the warmth of his armor radiating softly through the Naboo evening chill.

His helmet was still on, the ever-present barrier between his world and yours. But something in his posture shifted, a subtle drop in his shoulders, a small exhale that sounded more like a sigh than static.

Then—quietly—he said, “It’s strange.”

You turned to look at him. “What is?”

“Peace.” A beat. “This planet. The quiet.” He paused, like he was deciding whether to say more. “I’m used to marching into warzones. Places that smell like carbon and blood. Where the air’s thick with ash and tension. But here… it’s almost too quiet. Makes you feel like… something could go wrong any second.”

You studied him for a moment, surprised he was sharing this. “Maybe it’s not that something will go wrong. Maybe it’s just that you’ve never known anything but chaos.”

There was a pause. Then, slowly, his hands came up to his helmet. You heard the hiss of pressure release before he pulled it off and cradled it against his side.

This was the first time you’d seen his face. You had imagined it—many times—but the reality was softer than you’d expected. Strong features, yes, but tired eyes. Eyes that had seen too much, too fast. He looked younger without the helmet, and older all at once.

He didn’t look at you right away. His gaze stayed fixed on the skyline.

“I don’t usually take it off,” he admitted. “Feels… exposed.”

You smiled gently. “You don’t have to explain. But thank you for trusting me.”

His eyes finally met yours then, sharp and searching, but not cold. “You’re different from the officers I’ve worked with before.”

“Good different?” you teased softly.

He didn’t smile, exactly—but something softened around his mouth. “Real different.”

You leaned against the railing beside him, your fingers brushing his. This time, he didn’t move away. He turned his hand slightly until his gloved pinky hooked around yours.

“I don’t know what happens after this assignment,” you said quietly. “But I know I’ll remember this. You.”

He nodded once. “Same.”

The moment stretched—not romantic in the overly dramatic way holodramas would tell it, but intimate in its honesty. The weight of your fingers against each other. The hush of the Naboo breeze. The flickering of torchlight behind you, and the way his gaze lingered on your face like he was memorizing it.

And then, with the kind of quiet confidence that came from someone who rarely acted on impulse, Boss leaned in slightly—slowly, giving you time to stop him if you wanted. His forehead came to rest gently against yours. It was a simple thing. No kiss, no dramatics. Just contact. Shared breath. A moment stolen from the endless march of duty.

“I can’t afford to be soft,” he murmured, voice barely above a whisper. “But you make me want to be.”

You closed your eyes, forehead still pressed to his. “Then let this be the place where you can.”

His hand, calloused and heavy, rose to cup the side of your neck for a second before falling away. Not because he didn’t want more—but because he wasn’t ready yet. And maybe you weren’t either. But that was okay. It was enough.

Tonight, it was enough.

“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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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.

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