“The Lesser Of Two Wars” Pt.11
“The Lesser of Two Wars” pt.11
Commander Fox x Reader X Commander Thorn
The sun streamed softly through the skylights of the café nestled high in the Coruscant Senate District, the sky hazy but warm. For once, the city didn’t feel like durasteel and duty—it felt like a reprieve.
She sat at the center of a wide, cushioned booth, coffee in hand, a real pastry on her plate, and a few senators she trusted across from her.
Padmé Amidala was all soft smiles and elegant composure, draped in airy lilac silks. Mon Mothma sipped quietly at her tea, nodding along to a story about a misfiled vote and a rogue Ithorian delegate. For a moment, she allowed herself to forget the war, the complications, and the heartbreak waiting back at HQ.
“Honestly,” Padmé was saying, brushing a strand of hair from her face, “I think it’s only a matter of time before Senator Ask Aak tries to propose another committee solely to investigate snack break durations.”
“And I will die on the floor before I vote yes on that,” the senator deadpanned.
Everyone laughed.
Near the corner of the table, GH-9 sat stiffly in a borrowed chair, arms crossed.
Across from him stood C-3PO, who had been in a monologue about Senate etiquette protocols for the past eight minutes. “And as I was saying, I once witnessed a Rodian ambassador eat a napkin, and I said to him—politely of course—that—”
“I will self-destruct if he keeps talking,” GH-9 whispered across the table.
R7 chirped in agreement, not helping.
Padmé turned just in time to see GH-9 lean slowly to the left in his chair. Inch by inch. Clearly trying to slide behind the potted plant beside them.
“Is he—?” she began.
“Yes,” the senator said, watching her droid with utter betrayal. “GH-9, you’re not stealth-programmed. You sound like a toolbox falling down stairs.”
“I’m preservation-programmed,” he said flatly, halfway concealed behind a fern. “Preserving my sanity.”
C-3PO peered after him, clearly unaware. “Oh dear, did I say something to offend your companion?”
“You haven’t not offended him,” the senator muttered, sipping her caf with a grimace. “GH, back in your chair before I reassign you to Senator Orn Free Taa.”
GH-9 hissed audibly and reappeared.
The others laughed again, and it felt real. It wasn’t forced diplomacy or battlefield gallows humor—it was easy.
She leaned back in her seat, her fingers absently brushing over the edge of her cup, eyes softening.
This was the first bit of normality she’d tasted in… Force, she didn’t know how long. No bombs, no war, no heartbreak waiting just behind a hallway corner.
Just brunch. And friends. And her ridiculous, problematic, fiercely loyal droids.
“Thank you,” she said quietly to Padmé and Mon.
Padmé smiled. “You deserve it. Whatever’s waiting after this—take this moment. Let it be real.”
She nodded, and for once, she let herself believe it.
The Senate Gardens were quiet that afternoon, a rare lull between committee meetings and security alerts. A breeze wound through the paths lined with silver-leafed trees and flowerbeds shaped like old planetary seals, bringing with it the scent of something vaguely floral and aggressively fertilized.
The senator strolled slowly, arms behind her back, letting the peace settle on her shoulders like a shawl. GH-9 followed dutifully a step behind, ever the loyal—if snide—shadow. R7 zipped ahead, occasionally stopping to examine flowers or scan the base of a tree for reasons known only to himself.
“You know,” she said, glancing sideways at her protocol droid, “I take back every time I said you talked too much.”
GH-9 tilted his metal head. “Growth. I’m proud of you.”
“It’s just…” she sighed, then cracked a smile. “Thank the Maker you’re not like Padmé’s droid.”
“C-3PO.” GH-9 shuddered audibly. “His vocabulary is a weapon. And I say that as someone fluent in Huttese and forty-seven forms of insult.”
Behind them, R7 gave a sharp beep-beep-whoop, then a low, almost conspiratorial bwreeeet.
GH-9 translated immediately. “He says he considered pushing Threepio off the balcony. Twice.”
The senator stopped walking. “R7. You didn’t.”
R7 spun his dome proudly and beeped again.
“He would’ve landed in the ornamental koi pond,” GH added. “Not fatal. Possibly therapeutic.”
She snorted and shook her head, then leaned down and patted the astromech on the dome. “You’re going to get us barred from every brunch if you keep this up.”
R7 chirped in what could only be described as gleeful defiance.
They walked on, shoes soft against the stone path. GH-9 silently adjusted his internal temperature, scanning the area with a casual eye, always alert even on a leisurely stroll. R7 nudged a flowerpot for no apparent reason and then spun away before anyone could catch him.
The senator paused under a willow-fronded archway, taking in the stillness of the city from this rare, green perch.
“Just for today,” she murmured, mostly to herself. “Let the galaxy run without me.”
Her droids flanked her quietly, one too sarcastic to say it aloud, the other too chaotic to sit still, but in their own strange way—they understood.
And for now, that was enough.
The quiet didn’t last.
The senator turned at the sound of approaching voices—one smooth and long-suffering, the other excited and young.
“—I’m just saying, Master, if Anakin can sneak out of his diplomatic duties, then maybe you should let me—”
“Padawan,” Kenobi’s voice was firm but amused, “if I must endure these soul-draining conversations, then so must you. Consider it training in patience.”
R7 gave a warning beep as the pair came into view, and GH-9 let out a long sigh that sounded entirely put-upon.
“Oh no,” GH muttered.
The senator smirked as Obi-Wan and Ahsoka stepped through the garden archway. Obi-Wan wore the tired expression of a man responsible for someone else’s teenager, while Ahsoka looked far too happy to be anywhere not involving politics.
“Senator,” Obi-Wan greeted her with a shallow bow, tone clipped but polite. “Apologies for the intrusion. Someone insisted on a detour through the gardens.”
“I said I heard R7 whirring and figured you were nearby,” Ahsoka said with a sheepish smile, stepping forward. “And I was right. He’s hard to miss.”
R7 let out a smug breep-breep.
“Of course he is,” GH-9 muttered. “He’s a four-wheeled menace with an ego the size of Kessel.”
The senator gave Ahsoka a warm smile. “It’s good to see you again. Still tormenting your masters, I hope?”
Ahsoka grinned. “Always.”
“And Anakin?”
“Gone,” Obi-Wan said flatly. “I’m certain he’s off flying something he wasn’t cleared to take.”
“Again?”
“Again.”
GH-9 gave an ahem. “Is it too late to apply for reassignment to the Jedi Temple? I feel I would fit in with the sarcasm and poorly timed emotional breakdowns.”
“Tempting,” Obi-Wan replied dryly. “But we’re quite full.”
The senator laughed softly. For all their chaos, this was the first time in a long while she’d felt truly…herself. Among friends. Just for a moment.
Ahsoka glanced at her, then at the droids, then elbowed Obi-Wan. “You see what happens when people actually like their astromechs?”
“I’m not convinced liking R7 is safe,” Obi-Wan replied.
“I’m right here,” the senator said.
“You nicknamed your astromech after a murder droid prototype,” Kenobi said pointedly.
“And?”
R7 beeped proudly.
They all walked together down the garden path, the sun cutting through the trees, the war momentarily at bay. Just a Jedi, a padawan, a senator, and two terrible droids sharing a rare pocket of peace.
⸻
The Senate rotunda was unusually quiet for mid-morning, the marble floors reflecting the soft golden light from the skylights overhead. Most of the Senators had retreated to their offices or were buried in committees, leaving the hallways hushed and peaceful.
She walked in silence, heels clicking softly, R7 trundling beside her with a low, rhythmic whirr.
It was rare to be alone without GH-9’s snide commentary, and even rarer to move through the Senate without being glared at, whispered about, or stopped by someone fishing for gossip about her war record. But for now, just for a little while, there was quiet.
Until she rounded the corner and nearly walked straight into Commander Fox.
He stopped short. So did she.
Her breath caught slightly in her throat—not just from the surprise, but from the look in his eyes. There was something unreadable behind the stoicism, something softer than usual. They stood there, face to face in the empty corridor.
“Senator,” he greeted, voice low and slightly rough.
“Commander.” Her voice came out steadier than she expected.
R7 beeped once in greeting. Fox gave the droid a slow nod, eyes never really leaving her.
“How’s your arm?” he asked, glancing briefly at the faded bruise near her elbow—one he shouldn’t have even noticed.
“Healing. You notice things like that?”
“I notice a lot of things,” he said simply.
Their silence was heavy but not uncomfortable. The tension between them wasn’t sharp—it was something else. Quieter. Close.
Fox shifted slightly. “I’ve been meaning to speak with you again… alone.”
She tilted her head. “About?”
His eyes searched hers. “About a few things. But none I can say properly here.”
A breathless pause lingered between them. Her lips parted to respond—just as a sharp bzzzzt and a startled, panicked wheeze echoed down the hall.
Fox’s head whipped toward the noise.
“What—?”
They both turned in time to see Senator Orn Free Taa stumble out of a side chamber, smoke curling from his heavy robes and one eye twitching violently.
Behind him, R7 retracted a small taser arm, beeping in what sounded suspiciously like satisfaction.
“You… you monster!” Orn Free Taa wailed. “That droid attacked me!”
“R7!” she gasped, both horrified and not remotely surprised. “What did you do?”
R7 gave a low, smug trill, followed by a short sequence of beeps that translated loosely to: He touched me. Twice. I warned him.
Fox blinked slowly, then turned to her. “Is this a normal day for you?”
“Less normal than you’d think, more than I’d like.”
Orn Free Taa continued to sputter. “I will have that thing decommissioned!”
R7 flashed red for just a second.
Fox stepped forward smoothly, posture stiff with authority. “Senator Free Taa, if you’d like to file a formal complaint, I suggest doing so through the appropriate channels. In the meantime, perhaps don’t antagonize sensitive hardware.”
Orn huffed and stormed off, muttering about assassins and droid uprisings.
Fox glanced back at her, then at R7. “He’s got personality.”
“He’s got issues.”
Fox gave the faintest, fleeting smile. “He fits in well with the rest of your entourage, then.”
She didn’t argue.
He lingered a moment longer, and when he spoke again, it was quieter.
“When you’re ready… come find me.”
And just like that, he walked away, leaving her with the scent of durasteel and something human.
R7 beeped once. She looked down.
“No,” she muttered, “you don’t get praise for tasing Taa.”
R7 whirred indignantly.
“…But thanks.”
⸻
The moment the senator stepped through the doors of her apartment, the tension began to slip from her shoulders.
Coruscant’s towering skyline glowed outside her windows, the buzz of speeders distant, like bees in a jar. Inside, however, her apartment was a rare sanctuary of quiet. The lights had been dimmed to a warm amber hue, and something actually smelled good.
“GH,” she called, slipping off her shoes. “Did you get the groceries I asked for?”
The protocol droid stepped into view with his usual self-important flourish, holding a wooden spoon like a scepter.
“Indeed, Senator. Organic produce only. Locally sourced. And I took the liberty of preparing a traditional dish from your homeworld. You’re welcome.”
She blinked. “You cooked?”
“Someone has to ensure you don’t wither away on cheap caf and political backstabbing. Now sit. Eat. Hydrate.”
“Did you poison it?”
“Only with love and an appropriate sodium content.”
She smirked and dropped onto the couch, letting her head fall back. R7 beeped in from his corner near the charging station, where he was currently judging the wine selection GH-9 had apparently pulled out.
Dinner was good—suspiciously good, considering GH’s history of being more bark than bite when it came to domestic duties. She’d almost forgotten how nice it was to sit, eat warm food, and not worry about her planet’s future or which clone might punch another one next.
That is, until GH-9 spoke again.
“By the way, Master Vos has been standing on your balcony for the past hour.”
She nearly choked on her wine. “What?”
“I refused to let him in. He tried to sweet-talk me, claimed he had urgent Jedi business, but I could sense it was likely just gossip. Or feelings. Or both.”
“GH,” she groaned, standing.
“I told him you were not available for nonsense. He insisted on waiting anyway. Shall I continue denying him entry?”
She padded toward the balcony doors, glass catching the light. Sure enough, Quinlan Vos was outside—hood up, arms folded, leaning against the railing like a kicked puppy pretending to be a sulky teenager.
He knocked once, with exaggerated slowness.
She stared at him through the glass. R7 wheeled up behind her, beeped once, and extended his taser arm with far too much enthusiasm.
“No,” she sighed. “We’re not tasing Vos.”
R7 beeped again, very pointedly.
“Not tonight.”
She cracked the door open just enough to glare at the man leaning far too comfortably on her private balcony. “You know normal people knock on doors.”
“I did,” Vos said, gesturing to GH through the glass. “He hissed at me and threw a ladle.”
“I did not hiss,” GH called from the kitchen. “I was firm, composed, and wielding kitchenware appropriately.”
She opened the door wider. “What do you want?”
Vos smiled sheepishly. “Just wanted to see how your day went. I heard through various channels there may have been… tasering?”
She narrowed her eyes. “You’re not coming in.”
“I won’t touch anything. I swear.”
“GH,” she called, already regretting this, “make up the couch.”
“I will not,” GH sniffed, “but I will sanitize it after.”
Vos grinned wide as he stepped inside, boots clunking softly. “I knew you missed me.”
“I didn’t.”
R7 beeped softly from beside her, his taser still not fully retracted.
“…Okay, maybe a little,” she muttered, walking back toward her half-eaten dinner. “But if you breathe too loud, I’m letting R7 handle it.”
R7 chirped in bloodthirsty agreement.
⸻
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“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
once again i love how star wars takes place in a massive galaxy with thousands of planets and billions of people, and yet every bounty hunter knows each other personally
“Red Lines” pt.2
Commander Fox x Reader
The silence of your office was deceptive.
Outside the transparisteel windows, Coruscant glittered like a serpent coiled around its secrets—unblinking, beautiful, and always listening. Inside, the low buzz of your private holoterminal grew louder, more urgent.
You closed the thick file in front of you—another half-legal mining contract you’d need to publicly denounce and quietly reroute—and leaned forward. You keyed in your security clearance, and the image that appeared wasn’t what you expected.
Your senior planetary attaché flickered into view, pale-faced and breathing hard.
“Senator,” he said without preamble, “we have a situation. Prison Compound Nine—compromised. Four fugitives escaped.”
You frowned, blood going cold. “Which fugitives?”
“Level-Seven threats. Political dissidents. Former intelligence operatives. Rumor is… they’re already offworld. Possibly Coruscant-bound.”
You sat back slowly, every thought sharpening to a blade’s edge. “That information stays contained until I say otherwise. Send me all identicodes and criminal profiles now.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
The transmission ended. You stared at the terminal for a beat longer, then stood, pulling your cloak from the back of the chair. There was only one place this belonged: in the hands of Coruscant’s best-armed babysitters.
And if that just so happened to bring you face-to-face with a certain thick-headed, utterly blind red-armored commander?
All the better.
⸻
The Corrie Guard precinct near the Senate was buzzing with the quiet energy of military protocol. You were met outside the checkpoint by two familiar faces.
“Senator [L/N],” Sergeant Hound greeted you, visor dipping respectfully.
Beside him, Stone offered a nod. “Didn’t expect to see you here, ma’am. Something wrong?”
“Very,” you said crisply, handing over a sealed datapad. “Level-Seven fugitives from my home system. Recently escaped. Highly trained, extremely dangerous, and possibly on Coruscant as we speak.”
Hound’s brow furrowed behind the helmet. “That’s a hell of a situation.”
“They’re targeting something,” you said. “Or someone. My planet’s intelligence division flagged odd comm-traffic patterns aligning with a senator’s office hours—mine.”
Stone shifted, suddenly sharper. “So it’s personal.”
You nodded. “Possibly revenge. Or leverage. Either way, I’m not taking chances.”
As they scanned the datapad, footsteps echoed from the far hall—more measured, more commanding.
Fox.
You turned just in time to see him and Commander Thorn walking down the corridor, deep in conversation.
Thorn spotted you first, expression flickering with mild surprise. “Senator [L/N]. You’re out of your element.”
Fox glanced over—and immediately straightened. “Senator.”
Thorn raised a brow at the datapad in Stone’s hands. “Trouble?”
“Trouble likes to follow me,” you said smoothly. “This time it’s not my fault.”
Fox approached, glancing at the display. His eyes skimmed the alert, the images, the profiles—danger written in every line.
“Level-Sevens,” he said. “You should have come straight to me.”
You smiled, something sharp curling at the edges. “I did.”
He blinked. “You… did.”
You tilted your head. “I thought noticing things was your new skillset.”
Thorn let out a quiet chuckle behind you. Hound tried to look innocent. Stone was grinning outright.
Fox cleared his throat. “We’ll open an internal security file. Assign additional patrols near your office and residence.”
“Perfect,” you said. “Though I’d feel even safer with you around, Commander.”
His silence was almost impressive.
Thorn looked between the two of you, a slow, knowing smile spreading across his face. “Fox, you might want to run a few extra drills. Something tells me you’re going to be… distracted.”
“Commander Thorn,” Fox said, voice ice-cold. “Noted.”
You turned to Fox, voice lower now. “These fugitives are clever. They’ll adapt. You may need someone who knows how they think.”
“You?” he asked.
You gave him a look that could melt glass. “I’m not just a senator, Commander. I’m a survivor. And I don’t play fair.”
He held your gaze.
And again… said nothing.
You smiled. Of course he didn’t. The perfect soldier.
But one day? You’d crack that armor. Even if it killed you.
Fox’s jaw was set like stone behind his helmet. When he finally spoke, the words dropped with the weight of command.
“No, Senator,” he said flatly. “This is a Guard matter now. You’re not to involve yourself in the investigation further.”
The sharp, satisfied click of his words should’ve ended it. Should’ve sent you back to your office to stew in silence.
Instead, it made you smile.
“Mm,” you hummed, crossing your arms slowly. “I don’t recall asking permission, Commander.”
Stone glanced at Hound with barely concealed amusement. Thorn shifted his weight, arms folded, eyes dancing between the two of you with the air of someone watching a high-speed speeder crash.
Fox didn’t flinch. “Your involvement would compromise security and escalate risk. You’re a high-value target—”
“And that makes me an even higher priority to be looped in,” you cut in, voice silk over steel. “You want to contain risk? Then keep me informed.”
Fox’s silence bristled like a drawn blade.
You took a step closer, voice softening just enough to imply intimacy while still pressing hard against his control. “I understand your chain of command, Commander. But I wasn’t asking to be in the field.”
You leaned in just slightly, enough to force him to register the space between you.
“I’m telling you,” you murmured, “that the moment those fugitives are captured—or killed—I expect to be notified. Immediately. Do you understand me?”
There was a subtle twitch in his stance—barely noticeable to anyone else, but you caught it.
He was used to command. Not negotiation.
Not you.
Thorn let out a long, slow whistle. “Well, kark. Should we leave you two alone, or…?”
Fox didn’t move a muscle. “Understood,” he said eventually. “You’ll be notified.”
You offered him a slow, almost sultry smile. “Good. I knew you could be reasonable.”
Then you turned on your heel, cloak swirling, brushing his vambrace with just the whisper of contact.
“Keep your comms open, Commander,” you called over your shoulder. “You might miss me.”
Fox stared after you, helmet tucked under one arm, face unreadable. Thorn stepped in beside him, arms crossed loosely.
“She’s a wildfire,” Thorn said, his voice low. “And you, vod… you’re the dry brush.”
Fox let out a breath that was neither amused nor frustrated—just heavy.
“She’s dangerous,” he muttered.
“Which part?” Thorn asked, grinning. “The intel, the fugitives, or the way she looks at you like she’s already won?”
Fox didn’t answer.
Because honestly?
He wasn’t sure.
⸻
The operations room was lit only by a few soft holoscreens, each projecting sectors of Coruscant’s underlevels and the networked security grid. The city never slept, and neither did the Guard—not with a potential Level-Seven threat loose.
Fox stood at the main display table, eyes scanning red-highlighted routes and names. His jaw worked in quiet rhythm, processing, calculating, assigning.
Thorn leaned against the far wall, helmet off, arms crossed, watching him.
“Okay,” Thorn said eventually, “let’s talk about it.”
Fox didn’t look up. “About what?”
“About the fact that two senators—two, Fox—keep finding excuses to orbit around you like you’re the damn sun.”
Fox didn’t pause in his typing. “They’re politicians. They orbit whoever’s most useful.”
Thorn snorted. “That what you think this is? Strategic kissing up?”
Fox nodded once. “Senator [L/N] plays the long game. She pushes limits, stirs chaos, then waits to see who blinks. Getting in good with the Guard gives her a protective buffer. She knows how valuable we are in a city like this.”
“And Chuchi?”
Fox hesitated. Just a second.
“She’s more direct. But she’s still a senator. Don’t let the soft voice fool you—she’s calculating too. They all are.”
Thorn pushed off the wall and stepped closer. “You really think they’re both suddenly invested in you because they want to cash in political favors?”
Fox gave him a look. “We’re enforcers, Thorn. Leverage. If a senator ends up needing a security report buried or a background skipped on a staffer, who do they think will make that disappear quietly?”
“Right,” Thorn said slowly. “Because Riyo Chuchi is famous for corruption.”
Fox didn’t reply.
“And Senator [L/N] practically breathes ethics, right?” Thorn added, deadpan.
Fox allowed the faintest twitch of his mouth—almost a smirk, if you squinted hard enough.
“She breathes something,” he said under his breath.
Thorn barked a laugh. “Okay, now we’re getting somewhere.”
Fox turned back to the holo. “Neither of them is interested in me, Thorn. They’re playing a game. One loud, one quiet. Same goal.”
“And what goal is that?” Thorn pressed, watching him closely.
Fox tapped a point on the map. “Control.”
“Funny,” Thorn said. “From where I’m standing, it’s not them trying to control you… It’s you trying to control the story you tell yourself.”
Fox didn’t answer.
Because what could he say?
That you, with your blade-sharp grin and eyes like traps, weren’t manipulating him—that you were something else entirely? That Chuchi, kind and composed, looked at him like she meant it?
No. That wasn’t part of the file.
So instead, he changed the subject.
“Assign units to levels 1315 through 1320. Full perimeter sweep. If these fugitives surface, I want them surrounded before they can draw breath.”
Thorn sighed, shaking his head as he pulled his helmet back on. “You’re a kriffing idiot, Fox.”
Fox didn’t respond. Not to that.
He had work to do.
And feelings?
Those were someone else’s mission.
⸻
The Guard’s central command was a hive of movement—troopers reporting in from the lower levels, holoscreens flickering with faces flagged for surveillance, and the quiet undercurrent of discipline humming through every corridor.
Chuchi’s arrival was quiet. Intentional. No Senate aides, no parade of protocol. Just a simple dark-blue cloak, datapad in hand, and a cup of steaming caf that she carried carefully through the armored sea of troopers.
She earned a few surprised glances.
Not many senators walked into the Guard’s domain alone.
But Chuchi wasn’t just any senator.
She spotted Fox just outside the debriefing chamber, helmet tucked under his arm, deep in conversation with Sergeant Boomer. His expression was all sharp lines and worn intensity—he hadn’t slept, that much was obvious.
“Commander Fox,” she said gently.
He turned, startled by her presence. “Senator Chuchi.”
“I heard about the alert,” she said, extending the cup toward him. “I thought you might need this more than I do.”
Fox blinked, hesitated… then accepted the caf with a nod. “Appreciated.”
Chuchi gave a soft smile. “You look like you haven’t slept.”
He didn’t respond to that. Instead, he took a measured sip—cautious, as if caf were unfamiliar ground.
“I imagine the search has consumed your every waking moment,” she said gently.
“Level-Sevens don’t give us much room to breathe,” he admitted. “We’re covering three sectors simultaneously.”
She nodded. “If there’s anything I can do to assist…”
Fox shook his head. “This is Guard jurisdiction. We’ll handle it.”
Chuchi’s smile didn’t falter. “I don’t doubt you will. But sometimes… support comes in quieter forms.”
She didn’t press further. Instead, she stepped closer—just enough to close the conversational space, not the physical one. Her voice lowered.
“You’ve never seemed the type who allows himself to be supported, Commander.”
Fox looked at her, eyebrows just slightly drawn. “I wasn’t trained for that.”
“No,” she said softly. “You were trained to protect others. Not to be seen. Not to be known.”
He said nothing.
So she went on.
“You’ve stood by the Chancellor more times than I can count. Protected the Senate through more crises than half its members realize. And yet… you’re always in the background.”
Fox shifted slightly, as if the weight of her gaze was more difficult to carry than his armor.
“I just wanted you to know,” Chuchi said quietly, “that I see you. As more than just the red and white armor. As more than a commander.”
His grip on the caf cup tightened.
“You don’t have to say anything,” she added quickly, catching the flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. “I know it’s not easy to believe someone might care… without wanting something in return.”
Fox’s voice was quiet, careful. “You’re a senator.”
“I am,” she agreed. “But that doesn’t mean I’m incapable of compassion.”
Silence stretched between them.
“I’ll… see to the patrol reports,” he said after a beat, taking a step back.
“Of course,” Chuchi said with a graceful nod. “Thank you for the work you do, Commander.”
She didn’t watch him walk away. She didn’t need to.
The caf cup still steamed in his hand.
And that was enough—for now.
⸻
The light in your office was dim, filtered through Coruscant’s constant twilight haze. You sat at your desk, datapad in hand, appearing the perfect picture of a diligent senator.
But your posture was too still. Too deliberate.
Because you could feel them.
The air had shifted—too quiet. The usual hum of outer security was gone. Either bypassed or silenced.
You didn’t look up. Instead, you keyed a silent alert under your desk—one flick of your finger against the embedded panel, and the Guard’s emergency line was pinged. No lights. No sound. Just data.
Then you continued working. Quiet. Calm. Like prey that hadn’t realized the snare was already closing.
“I know you’re here,” you said aloud, tapping your stylus against the desk. “You may as well stop playing ghost.”
No answer.
“Unless you’re scared,” you added, voice cool and measured. “I get it. I’d be terrified of me too.”
Silence again.
Then—movement.
From the shadowed arch near the bookshelves, two figures stepped into view. Dark clothing, military-grade sidearms. Faces you recognized from the prison files: former intelligence officers, turned insurgents.
“Senator [L/N],” the first said, voice low and amused. “You’ve grown sharper since your time at home.”
“You’ve grown sloppier,” you replied, still seated. “Three seconds late on your entrance. I almost got bored.”
The second man sneered. “You always did love the sound of your own voice.”
“And you always hated being outwitted. Funny how little’s changed.”
The leader raised his blaster, leveling it at your chest. “We didn’t come to talk.”
“No,” you said, leaning back in your chair. “You came to threaten. To make a statement. Isn’t that what you always wanted? Your glorious revolution of one?”
He stepped closer. “We’ll leave a message they won’t ignore.”
“I don’t think you realize,” you said, voice velvet and steel, “that this isn’t my first time with a gun pointed at me.”
“We’re not politicians, [L/N]. We’re executioners.”
You smiled.
“Cute.”
And then, without breaking eye contact, you slid your hand to the underside of your desk, thumb brushing against the pressure lock.
The drawer snapped open.
Before they could react, your concealed blaster was up and firing.
The shot hit the second insurgent square in the chest—burned through his armor and dropped him cold. The first shouted and dove for cover, return fire slicing across your desk, sparks flying.
You ducked low, rolled sideways, fired again. Missed.
“Should’ve aimed higher,” he snarled.
“Should’ve stayed dead,” you shot back.
The blast doors behind you hissed open with a thunderous echo.
Red armor flooded in—Guard troopers, weapons drawn.
Fox was at the lead, eyes sharp, voice a command. “Stand down! Drop your weapon!”
The insurgent froze, wild-eyed.
“Now!” Stone barked.
He hesitated… then dropped the blaster with a clatter and raised his hands.
Two troopers rushed him, slamming him to the ground and cuffing him with swift, brutal efficiency.
You stood slowly, brushing dust and ash from your robes. Your desk was scorched, half your datapads destroyed—but your eyes glittered like victory.
Fox approached, surveying the wreckage. “You’re injured?”
“Only my decor,” you said, voice breezy. “Though I wouldn’t mind a stiff drink.”
He stared at you. “You could’ve been killed.”
“I was bait,” you said coolly. “And it worked.”
His jaw clenched. “That was reckless.”
“That was necessary.”
“You should’ve let us handle it.”
“I did,” you said, meeting his gaze. “Eventually.”
He said nothing, just studied you with that unreadable expression of his.
But this time… something shifted.
Because now he’d seen you in action.
Not just as a mouthpiece in the Senate—but as someone who could kill, survive, and smile while doing it.
And maybe—just maybe—that stuck with him.
Even if he couldn’t admit it yet.
⸻
Your office still bore the scars of the assault—walls patched hastily, scorch marks half-scrubbed from the floor, the faint odor of blaster fire clinging to the air like the memory of a scream.
You sat behind a temporary desk, legs crossed, reviewing a datachip containing the criminal record of the man who now sat in Guard custody—hands shackled, rights revoked, dignity already gone.
The knock came soft, followed by the hiss of the door.
Senator Chuchi stepped in first, flanked by Bail Organa, Mon Mothma, and Padmé Amidala. Their expressions were taut, somewhere between concern and condemnation.
You didn’t bother standing. You simply looked up, calm as ever.
“We came as soon as we heard,” Chuchi said. “Are you—?”
“Fine,” you interrupted, voice clipped and dry. “Some scorch marks. Ruined upholstery. One corpse. One live capture.”
Padmé’s eyes widened. “You killed one of them yourself?”
“With a desk blaster,” you said. “Excellent reaction time, if I do say so myself.”
Bail stepped forward. “And the surviving fugitive? What’s the process now?”
You set down the datapad and met his gaze evenly. “Extradition. He’ll be transported back to my homeworld within the next standard cycle.”
Chuchi blinked. “That quickly?”
“Expedited process,” you said smoothly. “Emergency clause. Due to the direct assassination attempt.”
Mon Mothma’s voice tightened. “And what will happen once he’s returned?”
You leaned back in your chair, folding your hands. “He’ll be tried for war crimes. The verdict won’t take long. We’ve got extensive documentation.”
“And the sentence?” Bail asked, already bracing.
“Execution,” you said, flat and final. “Public, of course. We’ve already begun preparations.”
Silence.
Padmé’s face paled. “You can’t be serious.”
You smiled thinly. “Deadly.”
“That’s barbaric,” Mon snapped. “He surrendered. He’s a prisoner now.”
“He’s a monster,” you replied. “One who orchestrated mass executions, bombed medical shelters, and personally ordered the deaths of over four hundred civilians on my world. Surrender doesn’t bleach his sins.”
Chuchi stepped forward. “There must be a process—”
“There is,” you cut in. “He’ll be tried under our planetary law, as is our right under interplanetary accords. And I’ll be overseeing the proceedings personally.”
“You’re making a spectacle out of this,” Bail said, disgusted.
“No,” you said calmly. “I’m making a warning.”
“To who?” Padmé demanded. “Everyone who disagrees with you?”
“To everyone who thinks I’ll hesitate,” you said. “Who thinks power means we have to play nice while murderers laugh in our faces.”
Mon’s eyes narrowed. “And what will the people think of a senator who sanctions public execution?”
You stood, slowly, the heat in your gaze simmering just beneath the surface. “They’ll think I finally gave them justice. And if they want more? I’ll build the stage myself.”
A stunned silence followed.
No one knew what to say.
You picked up the extradition order and signed it with a practiced flick of your stylus.
“I’d offer caf,” you said as you slipped it into a courier tube, “but I’ve got a war criminal to ship and an execution schedule to finalize.”
You walked out without waiting for permission—cloak swaying, boots clicking like a countdown.
Behind you, the moral senators were left standing in the ash of their expectations.
And Chuchi?
She watched you leave, lips parted in silent disbelief.
Not because you’d shocked her.
But because she couldn’t decide if she wanted to save you—
—or if she just wanted to know what it felt like to burn like you did.
⸻
The Guard’s HQ buzzed with low-level activity, but Fox’s office was calm—silent save for the faint hum of surveillance holos and the occasional clipped murmur from the comms console.
He stood by the window when you arrived, arms folded behind his back, posture locked in that familiar brace of discipline. He didn’t turn when the door hissed open.
But he didn’t need to.
“Senator,” he said without looking.
“Commander.”
You crossed the threshold slowly, letting the door seal behind you with a soft hiss. No grand entrance. No entourage. Just you.
And the news that was already spreading through the Senate like wildfire.
He finally turned.
Expression unreadable. Just that damn mask of duty, soldered so tight it nearly passed for indifference. But his eyes—those betrayed a flicker of something else. Not judgment. Not pity.
Something harder to name.
“So it’s true,” he said quietly.
You raised an eyebrow. “You’d know better than most. Your troopers ran the background check. You processed the transfer yourself.”
He gave a slight nod. “Doesn’t mean I expected the… outcome.”
“You mean the execution.”
He hesitated. “It’s not my place to comment.”
“Isn’t it?” You stepped closer, boots soft against the polished floor. “You’re in charge of security for the most powerful government body in the Republic. You keep the peace. You enforce the law. Surely you have thoughts when one of us decides to sharpen justice into something a little more… terminal.”
Fox met your gaze steadily. “I’ve seen worse done for less.”
That caught you off guard—not because of what he said, but because of how simply he said it. No hesitation. No theatrics.
Just fact.
You tilted your head. “So you don’t disapprove?”
He looked down briefly, jaw tense. “It’s not about approval. I can’t blame you for wanting blood. Not after what he did.” A pause. “But I was bred for protocol. Not for vengeance.”
You gave a wry smile. “Then it’s a good thing I wasn’t.”
Fox looked at you again, searching—though for what, you couldn’t say.
He finally spoke, voice lower now. “You could’ve left it to a tribunal.”
“I could’ve,” you admitted. “But tribunals don’t speak to grieving families. They don’t look children in the eye and say, ‘We remember what they did to you.’” You stepped in just a little closer. “But a public execution? That does.”
Fox didn’t flinch.
But he didn’t move, either.
A long silence passed between you, taut and electric.
Then you reached for your datapad, keyed something in, and glanced up again.
“I’ll be leaving within the cycle,” you said. “Finalizing everything on my end.”
His voice was quieter now. “And after?”
You smiled. Not cruel, not soft—just sharp.
“I’ll be seeing you in a week.”
He didn’t respond.
You turned to leave.
But just before the door opened, he spoke.
“Senator.”
You glanced back.
“I don’t know if what you’re doing is justice,” he said. “But I know you’re not doing it out of weakness.”
You looked at him for a beat longer.
Then you nodded, just once.
“I never do.”
And then you left, cloak trailing behind like a shadow that never needed the light.
⸻
The ship hummed with the steady lull of hyperspace, stars streaking into lines beyond the viewports. It was the kind of quiet most would call peaceful.
But peace was a foreign language aboard this vessel.
You sat in the command lounge, sipping strong liquor from a crystal glass, the kind produced exclusively by your planet’s border provinces. It tasted like burning and bitter roots.
Fitting.
The two Jedi seated across from you couldn’t have been more different, though both wore concern like armor.
Kenobi was upright and composed, legs crossed, his fingers laced in his lap. Anakin sprawled, arms draped over the chair back, a shadow smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“You still have time to change your mind,” Kenobi said gently.
You didn’t bother looking up. “No. I don’t.”
“It’s not too late for a trial. A tribunal through the Republic, something with transparency.”
“Obi-Wan,” Anakin cut in, voice bored, “you know that wouldn’t stick. Half those tribunals are performative at best. He’d be out in five years under some technicality.”
Kenobi shot him a look. “And that justifies state-sanctioned public killing?”
“I’m not justifying it,” Anakin said. “I’m just saying… I get it.”
You finally looked up, eyes cool. “I don’t need either of you to justify it. This isn’t your decision. You’re here as escorts, not advisors.”
“That may be,” Kenobi said, tone frustratingly calm, “but we’re Jedi. It’s our duty to speak when we see paths leading to darkness.”
You leaned back in your chair, holding his gaze. “My planet was born in darkness. Raised in blood and ruin. Still today, it’s ruled by warlords and syndicates that think justice is something bought with blade and coin.”
Kenobi frowned. “But you’re not them.”
You tilted your head. “A public execution is nothing compared to the horrors most of my people have endured. At least this death comes with a verdict.”
Anakin was watching you now, intrigued, leaning forward slightly.
Kenobi looked pained. “You can’t build peace through fear.”
You smiled, slow and cold. “You cannot sell dreams to someone who has walked through nightmares.”
That silenced them both for a beat.
The hum of the engines filled the space. Then, softer, you added:
“When you’re not fed love from a silver spoon, you learn to lick it off knives.”
Kenobi flinched. Not physically—but in that subtle tightening of his jaw, that flicker behind his eyes.
You didn’t enjoy it.
But you didn’t shy away from it either.
“You want to talk of ideals,” you continued, voice quiet but sharp, “but ideals don’t stop warlords. They don’t scare insurgents. And they certainly don’t bring back the families that thing murdered in my name.”
Anakin nodded slowly, almost imperceptibly.
“I’m not here to make you comfortable,” you finished. “I’m here to make a point.”
Kenobi opened his mouth, hesitated, then closed it.
He knew he wouldn’t change your mind.
And deep down, a part of him feared you might be right.
“You’re confusing retribution for justice,” Obi-Wan said, tone sharp but calm, like a man trying to hold onto the edge of a cliff while the rocks crumbled beneath him.
You didn’t rise to the bait.
Anakin did.
“She’s doing what the Republic won’t,” he snapped. “What it can’t.”
Kenobi’s brow furrowed. “She’s about to put a man to death in front of a crowd.”
“He slaughtered civilians, Obi-Wan. Entire villages. She’s not executing a man—she’s putting down a rabid dog.”
“That’s not our place.”
“It’s not yours,” Anakin said darkly, “but don’t presume to speak for everyone.”
You leaned forward, voice low and deliberate. “I’m not doing this because I want to. I’m doing it because someone has to.”
Kenobi looked at you with something dangerously close to pity.
“Justice,” he said, “shouldn’t come from hatred.”
You met his gaze, unflinching. “And yet here we are—riding toward it in a Republic ship, escorted by Jedi who can’t agree on what it even means.”
But before he could reply the red flash of alarms cut through the room like a blade.
“Security breach,” a mechanical voice droned. “Cell block override. Prisoner containment compromised.”
You were already moving.
The Jedi rose in sync beside you, cloaks whipping as they turned down the corridor.
“Stay behind us,” Kenobi ordered.
You didn’t.
The three of you reached the lower deck fast, guards already running in the opposite direction, blasters raised. “He’s loose!” one yelled. “Deck 3, sector C—he’s going for the main hall!”
Your blood ran cold.
That was your route.
You pivoted, cloak flaring behind you as you ran the opposite way—Anakin and Obi-Wan close behind. You passed scorch marks. Broken panels. A dead guard slumped by the bulkhead, throat slashed with something jagged.
You slowed.
And then you saw him.
He stood at the end of the corridor, blaster in one hand, stolen vibroblade in the other. His face was twisted in fury, blood already drying across his temple.
“Senator,” he sneered. “Thought I’d come say goodbye.”
He fired.
You dove.
Searing pain lanced your shoulder as the bolt grazed you—burning, but not fatal. You hit the ground, rolled behind a crate.
Obi-Wan moved first, saber igniting in a clean hum of blue.
“Don’t do this,” he warned.
The prisoner laughed. “You think I’m afraid of death?”
“No,” Anakin said, stepping forward, saber hissing to life—brighter, more furious. “But you should be afraid of me.”
And then the prisoner lunged.
The hallway became chaos—blaster fire, blade against saber, the scream of metal and the hiss of near-misses. You pressed your hand to your wound, blood seeping through your fingers, watching through a haze of pain and fury.
Kenobi parried and dodged, trying to disarm.
Anakin didn’t bother.
His strikes were violent. Purposeful. He fought like a man unbothered by consequence.
A blur—metal clashing, sparks flying.
Anakin drove his saber through the prisoner’s chest.
The man gasped.
Stiffened.
And crumpled to the floor, smoke rising from the wound, eyes staring at nothing.
Silence fell.
You breathed hard, trying to steady your vision.
Kenobi stepped back, saber slowly disengaging, expression grim.
Anakin stood over the body, chest rising and falling.
He looked back at you—not regretful.
Just… resolved.
“You okay?” he asked.
You nodded, clutching your shoulder. “I will be.”
Obi-Wan crouched beside the corpse, checking for a pulse he already knew wasn’t there. “This wasn’t supposed to happen.”
“No,” you said coldly, “but it saves me the paperwork.”
Anakin gave the ghost of a grin.
Kenobi didn’t.
He looked up at you with haunted eyes, and for the first time in hours—maybe ever—he had nothing to say.
Not because he agreed.
But because he finally understood:
Some people were born into dreams.
You were forged in nightmares.
⸻
Previous Part | Next Part
i finished playing republic commando last week and just cannot stop thinking ab them
Foxy again 😀 Click for higher quality >.> I'm unsure why it looks blurry on my tablet..
Commander Fox x Singer/PA Reader pt. 2
There was an unspoken tradition at the Coruscant Guard offices: the moment you showed up, coffee cups paused mid-air, datapads lowered, and someone inevitably muttered, "Oh look, she's still alive."
You strolled in two weeks late, absolutely glowing.
"Didn't know we were giving out extended vacations now," Trina said, her words clipped like a blaster bolt. "Maybe I should fake a spiritual awakening and disappear too."
You peeled off your sunglasses and smiled sweetly. "You should. Maybe they'll find your personality out there."
Snickers echoed through the hall.
Trina's eyes narrowed into twin black holes of corporate rage. "Commander Fox has been asking where you were."
That gave you the slightest pause. "Oh? Worried I was dead?"
She shrugged. "Or hoping."
You shot her a wink and breezed past, fully aware your hair looked too perfect for someone who just "found herself in nature."
---
Fox found you twenty minutes later, posted up at your desk with your boots on said desk, sipping caf and flipping through a holo-mag like someone who was not, in fact, two weeks behind on reports.
He stood silently at your side until you acknowledged him.
"Commander," you said brightly. "Miss me?"
"You disappeared. Again."
You looked up at him with the most innocent expression in the galaxy. "Went on a spiritual retreat."
He raised an eyebrow. "To where?"
"Kashyyyk. Hung out with some Wookiees. Meditated. Learned how to nap in trees."
Fox stared. You kept sipping your caf.
"They're big on inner peace," you added, deadpan. "Also, apparently I snore."
He didn't smile. But he also didn't press. Just that slow blink of his, the way his gaze lingered a little too long like he was cataloguing bruises or new scars.
"You weren't hurt?" he asked.
You softened. Just a little. "No, Commander. I wasn't hurt."
He nodded once and walked away.
*He cared.*
He'd never say it. But it was there.
---
Later that week, you returned from your mandatory ethics seminar—snoozefest—only to find your desk had been mysteriously moved... into the hallway.
Trina passed by with a smug little strut. "You missed a lot of meetings. We needed the space."
You leaned back in your new spot. "You know, if this is your way of flirting, I'm flattered."
"I'd rather kiss a Hutt."
You gasped. "Don't tempt me with a good time."
---
That night, you sang again at 79's. A slower set this time. Sadder. You weren't sure why—maybe something about Fox's voice that day still stuck with you.
And just like always... he was there.
Helmet off. Silent in the corner.
You sang to him without saying it. And when you left the club through the back again, this time you didn't get far before his voice stopped you.
"Wait."
You turned. "Following me again?"
He stepped closer. Not quite in your space. But close enough that you could see the faint tension in his jaw.
"I thought something happened," he said quietly.
You swallowed. "Fox—"
"Next time, just tell someone."
You blinked. "Why?"
A long pause.
"Because if something *did* happen," he said, "I'd want to know."
And then, like he couldn't bear to say more, he turned and walked into the night.
You watched him go, heart tight, a laugh threatening to rise in your throat just to cover the way your chest ached.
Aurra Sing had said you were valuable.
Fox... made you feel seen.
And somewhere in the distance, under the glow of Coruscant's neon skyline, a shadow watched.
Waiting.
---
The next morning, your desk was still in the hallway.
Trina had redecorated the spot where it used to be with a potted plant and a framed motivational poster that read "Discipline Defines You." You were considering setting it on fire.
"Morning, Sunshine," you chirped as you walked past her with your caf. "How's the tyrannical dictatorship going?"
Trina didn't even flinch. "At least I show up for work."
"Oh, please. If you were a droid, you'd overheat from micromanaging."
And there it was—that smirk from the other assistant.
Kess.
She leaned over her desk like she was watching a drama unfold in real time. "Okay, okay, play nice, girls. It's not even second caf yet."
Trina rolled her eyes. "Pick a side, Kess."
Kess grinned. "I like the view from the middle."
You narrowed your eyes. "You said Trina once threatened to replace your shampoo with grease trap water."
"She was joking," Kess said quickly.
"I was not," Trina snapped.
"I mean... still better than your perfume," you added under your breath.
Kess audibly choked on her tea.
---
Later that day, Commander Fox called you into his office.
The tension in the room dropped the moment you stepped inside, replaced by something electric and quiet. He didn't say anything at first, just stared at you like he was trying to decide if you were a puzzle or a headache.
"You vanished for two weeks," he finally said. "Now your overdue reports are two months overdue."
"I'll get to them," you said lightly, flopping into the chair opposite him. "Eventually."
Fox pinched the bridge of his nose.
"Also," you added, "Trina moved my desk into the hallway. Which I'm 80% sure is illegal."
"I'll talk to her."
You blinked. "You will?"
"She's not your superior."
A strange warmth bloomed in your chest. You masked it with sarcasm. "So chivalrous, Commander."
He gave you a look, one corner of his mouth twitching. "Just don't give me a reason to regret it."
---
That night at 79's the lights were low and your voice was velvet as you sang something slow and sultry. The bar was busy, but you spotted him—Fox, helmet off again, watching like he always did. Quiet. Unmoving. Yours, just for the length of a song.
You left through the back after your set, wrapping your coat tighter around yourself as the cool Coruscant air bit at your skin.
You didn't hear the footsteps until it was too late.
A hand slammed against the wall near your head, and a sharp voice coiled around you like a whip.
"Well, well. Songbirds off duty again."
Aurra Sing.
Her chalk-white skin shimmered in the streetlight, that deadly antenna gleaming above her forehead. She smiled without warmth.
"I've been watching you," she said. "You've got... potential."
You stepped back, heart hammering. "I'm not interested."
"No?" She clicked her tongue. "You work with the Guard. You're close with the Marshal Commander. You wander the galaxy without ever leaving a trace. I could use someone like that."
"I'm not a bounty hunter."
She leaned in closer, voice dropping. "Yet."
Your fingers twitched near your concealed weapon. Aurra's eyes flicked down and back, amused.
"Relax. I'm not here to kill you," she said. "Just... reminding you that people are watching. And not just me."
She melted back into the shadows before you could respond.
You stood alone in the alley, breath shaky, heart pounding.
You weren't scared.
But you were very, very awake.
---
The next morning, Trina took one look at you dragging yourself into work late with dark circles under your eyes and said, "Did the retreat monks kick you out for being annoying?"
Kess tried to stifle her laugh and failed.
You just smirked. "If you must know, I was nearly murdered by a galactic legend last night. What did *you* do, Trina? Color-code the caf pods again?"
Fox passed by just as you said it, pausing only to glance at you—an unreadable look in his eyes.
You gave him a half-smile.
He didn't return it.
But his hand twitched near his blaster.
He'd heard. And that meant he knew something was off.
You were starting to wonder if you were the one being watched… or the one being protected.
---
“Crossfire” pt.6
Commander Cody x Reader x Captain Rex
The night air was still, too quiet for Coruscant. As if the city itself held its breath. The reader sat on the stone edge of a koi pond in the Jedi Temple gardens, picking at the frayed edge of her sleeve.
She hadn’t come here to pray. Or meditate. She came because she couldn’t breathe in her apartment anymore.
Kit Fisto approached silently, boots barely making a sound against the stones. She didn’t flinch when he spoke.
“You found the quietest corner of the Temple.”
“I didn’t think Jedi gardens were known for wild parties.”
He chuckled, easing down beside her, his presence—warm, calm, steady. It was infuriating how grounded he always was.
“You look better than this morning,” he said.
“I look like someone who kissed two men, woke up next to a Jedi Master, and has no idea what the hell she’s doing with her life.”
Kit’s smile widened. “I wasn’t going to say it.”
She rolled her eyes. “Thanks for getting me home.”
“I didn’t do it for thanks.”
They sat in silence, the pond rippling as a fish darted beneath the surface.
She sighed. “Do I seem like a monster to you?”
“No.”
“Even after everything?”
“I think you’ve been carrying too many secrets for too long. That doesn’t make you a monster. It makes you tired.”
She looked at him. “Do you tell that to all the girls who stumble into your arms drunk off their head?”
“No,” he said. “Only the ones who cry about clone commanders in their sleep.”
Her throat tightened. “Of course I did.”
“You said you love them both.”
She dropped her head into her hands. “Stars, I’m a mess.”
“That’s not news.”
They both laughed, but it faded quickly.
Kit’s voice turned more serious. “You trust the Chancellor. But you fear him.”
“I do,” she whispered. “More than anything.”
Before Kit could respond, another voice echoed softly from behind.
“You’re not the only one.”
She turned sharply to see Mace Windu standing a few steps away, arms crossed, his gaze steady but not unkind.
“Didn’t realize this was going to be a group therapy session,” she muttered.
Windu stepped forward. “Kit told me what you said last night. About your fear. Your confusion. Your… feelings for the clones.”
“Wonderful,” she muttered.
“I’m not here to scold you,” Windu said. “But I need to understand. Why do you keep aligning yourself with the Chancellor if you don’t trust him?”
“Because I don’t know what happens if I don’t,” she admitted. “He knows everything about me. He saved me once—or at least made me think he did. I’ve done things for him I can’t take back. And I’m scared if I stop playing the part, he’ll destroy me.”
Kit’s hand rested gently on her back. Windu’s expression softened—not pity, but something close.
“You’re not alone anymore,” Windu said. “We may not know what you are to him, but you’re not just his anymore. You’re part of something else now. The clones trust you. Some of the Jedi trust you. Don’t waste that.”
She met his eyes. “I don’t know how to be anything but what I’ve been.”
“Then start small,” Kit said. “Be honest.”
“That’s terrifying.”
“Most truths are.”
Windu gave a slight nod, then turned to leave.
Before he did, he added, “You’ve still got a choice. Don’t wait until it’s taken from you.”
She sat there for a while after he left, Kit still beside her.
“Truth hurts,” she murmured.
Kit gave a small smile. “So does love.”
⸻
She didn’t take the main lift. Didn’t want to run into anyone. After her talk with Kit and Windu, she was raw—peeling open layers she’d kept tightly shut for years. Now, every footstep echoed like a secret she hadn’t meant to tell.
She was halfway through the lower halls when a voice pulled her to a stop.
“You always run off when things get real?”
She froze.
Rex.
He stepped out of the shadows near the archway, arms crossed, helmet in hand, dressed down in fatigues. No armor. No rank. Just him. And that was the problem.
“I wasn’t running,” she said quietly.
“You never are,” he replied. “You disappear. You lie. You kiss me, then you kiss Cody, then you run again and act like none of it ever happened.”
She turned toward him, lips parted in protest—but he wasn’t done.
“I don’t care about what happened at 79’s,” he said. “Not like that. I care that I don’t know where I stand with you. And I don’t think you know either.”
“That’s not fair—”
“No. What’s not fair is you looking at me like you want to stay, then leaving before I can ask you to.”
She looked away. “I didn’t ask for any of this.”
“I know,” Rex said, stepping closer. “But you’ve got it. All of it. You have me. And Cody. And the damn Jedi Council watching your every move. And that kid you saved, even if he’s gone now. You’ve got hearts in your hands, and you’re squeezing them like you don’t realize they’re breakable.”
She flinched.
“You don’t get to keep pushing us away and pulling us close when it suits you,” he added, softer this time. “Pick something. Anyone. Or don’t. Just stop pretending it doesn’t mean something.”
The silence settled between them, heavy and sharp.
“I’m trying,” she finally whispered. “I’m not used to being wanted. Not like this. I don’t know what to do with it.”
Rex stepped closer. Close enough she could feel the heat from him, the frustration in the way he held his jaw so tight.
“Start by not lying,” he said. “To me. To Cody. To yourself.”
She met his eyes. “If I tell you I’m scared of what happens if I choose one of you…?”
“I’d say you’re human.”
“What if I choose wrong?”
“You won’t.”
“How do you know?”
“Because you already know who it is,” he said, and for once, he didn’t say anything more. Didn’t push. Just looked at her like he was waiting for her to catch up.
She blinked, her mouth opening to speak—but footsteps echoed behind them.
Cody.
He stepped into the corridor, freezing at the sight of them. His eyes flicked between them, jaw tightening just a fraction.
Rex didn’t move.
Neither did she.
“You two done?” Cody asked coolly.
“Not even close,” Rex said.
Cody’s gaze locked with hers. “Then maybe it’s time I had a turn.”
The hallway felt too small for the weight in the air.
She looked between them—Rex, steady and wounded, and Cody, cold and unreadable, his arms crossed like a shield.
Cody broke the silence first.
“So,” he said, voice low. “What’s your excuse this time?”
“Cody—” she started.
“No, really. I want to know. You ran off, again. Lied to the Jedi Council. Lied to us. And you show back up at 79’s like nothing happened.” His tone was calm, but there was something brittle underneath. “So what is it this time?”
She exhaled, stepping forward. “I didn’t know what else to do. I had to protect that kid. And if I told anyone—even you—it would’ve put him in more danger.”
“You think I wouldn’t have protected him?” Cody asked, hurt flashing behind his eyes. “You think we wouldn’t have helped you?”
“I couldn’t risk it.”
“You didn’t trust us.”
“I didn’t trust anyone.”
That landed heavier than she expected.
Rex shifted, jaw clenched. “She didn’t even answer my comms, Cody. Not once.”
“I know.”
The silence swelled again—until she took a step closer to both of them.
“I’m sorry.”
The words were small, but real. Fragile, like they might shatter if she tried to backtrack.
Cody’s posture eased, just slightly. “We’re not looking for perfect,” he said quietly. “We’re just tired of being temporary.”
Her heart cracked open—again.
And then—
“Well isn’t this cozy.”
Quinlan Vos strolled around the corner like he was walking into a lounge instead of an emotional standoff.
“Oh great,” Cody muttered under his breath.
Right behind Quinlan came Kenobi, hands folded in front of him like he hadn’t just walked in on the messiest love triangle in the Temple.
“I sensed tension,” Kenobi said lightly. “But I wasn’t expecting it to be this personal.”
“Obi-Wan,” she said with a groan, pinching the bridge of her nose. “This really isn’t your kind of conversation.”
“And yet here I am,” he replied smoothly.
Quinlan leaned against the wall, eyes dancing with mischief. “So who’s it gonna be? Helmet One or Helmet Two?”
Rex looked like he was about to start throwing punches.
Cody sighed. “I will actually kill you, Vos.”
Vos raised his hands. “Hey, no need for violence. Unless it’s a duel for affection. In which case, I’ve got credits on the shiny one.”
“I swear to the stars—” she started.
Kenobi held up a hand, stepping between them. “Enough. We’re not here for… whatever this is. The Council requested an update on the three of you. We came to ensure you’re not tearing each other apart.”
Quinlan smirked. “Looks like she’s doing the emotional tearing, Obi.”
“Quinlan.”
“Alright, alright,” Vos said, grinning as he backed away. “But if someone gets stabbed over this? I better be invited.”
“Out,” she said, pointing. “Both of you.”
Kenobi gave a soft chuckle and turned to leave, but not before glancing over his shoulder.
“For what it’s worth,” he said, tone more serious now, “sometimes the hardest thing isn’t choosing between two people—it’s choosing yourself. Just don’t take too long. Wars don’t wait for hearts to decide.”
And with that, he disappeared down the corridor, dragging Quinlan along with him like an annoying older brother babysitting a younger one hopped up on spice.
The hallway fell quiet again.
Cody looked at her.
Rex didn’t move.
She let out a shaky breath.
“I don’t know how to choose.”
“You don’t have to right now,” Cody said, stepping closer. “But stop pretending we don’t matter to you.”
“You do,” she whispered. “You both do.”
Rex finally spoke. “Then stop running.”
⸻
The air in her apartment was too still.
It felt wrong, being somewhere safe. Somewhere silent. Somewhere without the constant hum of danger or the weight of another lie slung over her shoulders like armor.
She sat on the floor, knees pulled to her chest, the lights dimmed.
A glass of something strong sat untouched on the nearby table.
Her thoughts weren’t on Rex. Or Cody. Not really. Not even on the awkward, lingering heat of Kit Fisto’s presence that still clung to the corners of her memory like steam on glass.
They kept drifting—to the kid.
To the boy with the too-serious eyes and the hands that fidgeted when he thought she wasn’t looking. Who had followed her across half the galaxy, trusting her with a kind of blind faith she didn’t think she deserved.
To the one she couldn’t kill.
To the one she’d almost raised.
She could still hear his voice, the way he’d called her “boss” like it was a title and a joke all in one. The way he looked when they’d watched the suns set over Kashyyyk, his feet dangling off a root bridge too high for a child to be comfortable on.
“Why do people kill people like me?” he’d asked once.
She didn’t answer then.
She didn’t have an answer now.
She rubbed her temples, feeling the weight of every choice she’d made—every body she’d stepped over, every path she’d walked blindly, every whispered promise to herself that she could control this, steer it, fix it.
And now the boy was back in Republic custody.
Safer, maybe.
But she didn’t believe that—not really.
Palpatine had plans again. She could feel it. The shadows were curling inward, and she knew enough to know his approval was just another kind of leash.
Maybe Windu was right to be wary.
Maybe Kit was a fool for softening.
Maybe she’d always been a weapon. Just one that had gone a little bit rogue.
She stood up, slowly. Restless.
The floor was cold under her feet.
She wandered to the window. Coruscant glowed like a promise she never believed in.
And still… her hand went to her chest, fingers brushing the chain she wore. The one the boy had made her. Twisted wire and beads and a piece of scrap metal etched with a crude smiley face.
He’d given it to her after their first week on the farm.
“For luck,” he’d said.
She should have thrown it away. Burned it.
But she never did.
And as the lights of the city blinked in rhythm with her quiet regret, she found herself whispering into the night.
“I hope they’re being kind to you, kid.”
She wasn’t sure if she was talking to him… or to the ghosts that never stopped following her.
⸻
The transmission came through at dawn. She hadn’t slept.
Palpatine’s voice was calm, syrupy sweet as always. “There’s a matter requiring your unique talents,” he said. “You’ll rendezvous with General Skywalker and his battalion. Details will follow.”
No time to think. No time to refuse.
So she didn’t.
⸻
The hangar was already buzzing when she arrived, helmet under her arm, armor pieced together hastily, mismatched from past missions. The 501st was preparing for deployment, their blue-striped armor shining like blades in the rising sun.
She caught Rex’s gaze across the room. He looked tired. He always did lately.
Anakin stood with a datapad, barking orders. Ahsoka stood near him, arms crossed, lekku twitching with unease the moment the reader approached.
“You’re late,” Skywalker said without looking up.
“I’m here,” she replied coolly.
“Then suit up and get ready. We leave in ten.”
She moved to prep her gear, but Ahsoka intercepted her with a tone too casual to be friendly. “Still working for the Chancellor, huh?”
The reader didn’t answer, just gave her a sideways glance and kept walking.
“I mean,” Ahsoka continued, following, “after everything that’s happened—you being gone, the Jedi Council questioning your motives, Palpatine conveniently keeping you around while trusting no one else. Doesn’t any of that seem off to you?”
The reader paused, slowly turning toward her. Her voice was quiet, but heavy. “You think I don’t ask myself the same questions?”
“Then maybe it’s time you stop pretending you’re above all of this,” Ahsoka snapped. “You play all sides. You lie. You vanish. And now you’re back like nothing happened.”
The reader took a step forward, gaze locked on the younger woman. “You think I want this? You think this is a game to me? You were raised in this war. Trained for it. You have people who believe in you, a name that means something. I was bought. I was used. You want to give me a reality check, kid? I live in it.”
Ahsoka blinked, momentarily stunned.
“You’re lucky,” the reader added. “You still think there’s a clean side to stand on.”
With that, she brushed past Ahsoka and made her way toward the LAAT gunship.
Rex was already inside, waiting.
She sat across from him, eyes closed, palms resting on her knees as if trying to keep her heart from falling out of her chest.
“You alright?” he asked after a while.
“No,” she said honestly.
He nodded like that answer made perfect sense. Like he wasn’t alright either.
The gunship lifted. The world blurred outside.
Another mission. Another role to play.
But this time, the pawn wasn’t so willing. And she was starting to learn how to bite.
⸻
The LAAT rocked hard as it breached atmosphere, the roar of wind and engines loud enough to drown out thoughts, fears—names she couldn’t stop saying in her head. Cody. Rex. The kid.
But beside her, General Skywalker sat unfazed, legs spread, arms braced loosely on his knees, like he was born for turbulence. He glanced at her mid-bounce and smirked.
“Bet you missed this,” he said, loud enough to be heard over the rumble.
She scoffed, tucking a few loose strands of hair under her helmet. “Missed being shot at? Only thing I miss more is spice mines and low-rent bounty gigs.”
Anakin grinned. “See? I knew you were fun.”
And to her own surprise… she laughed.
He didn’t ask where she’d been, didn’t pry about the Chancellor, didn’t even hint at what everyone else couldn’t shut up about. Just treated her like a soldier. Like a comrade.
When they hit the ground—dust choking the air, blaster fire already echoing in the distance—he took point without hesitation. She fell in beside him, blasters drawn, movements fluid, practiced. They didn’t need to speak to understand one another.
Flank, move, clear. He gave hand signals, and she followed instinctively. His saber lit up the smoke like a beacon, cutting through battle droids as easily as breath.
They moved through a warzone like ghosts—an unlikely but effective pair. She covered his blind spots, he powered through hers. The 501st swept behind them like a blue tide, and for the first time in months, she felt something almost like useful again.
At the edge of the battlefield, they ducked behind a crumbling wall to regroup.
Anakin exhaled. “You know, I get it,” he said suddenly.
She looked at him, brow furrowed under her helmet.
“Running. Hiding. Playing a part so big you forget who you actually are underneath it.”
A long pause. She stared out over the smoke-covered field, unsure of how to respond.
“You ever think about leaving it all behind?” he asked. “Just… disappearing?”
She glanced over at him, lips twitching. “I did disappear.”
He chuckled, eyes crinkling. “Yeah. But not the way you wanted to.”
She didn’t respond, but the truth of it burned behind her ribs.
A voice came crackling through comms—Rex, coordinating the rear line. The reader’s pulse skipped without reason. She forced herself to focus.
“Let’s go,” Anakin said, pushing up from cover and drawing his saber again. “Back to the chaos.”
She followed, silently grateful for the moment.
He hadn’t asked about Cody. Or Rex. Or the kid.
He hadn’t made her explain herself.
And for now, that made him the easiest person in the galaxy to be around.
⸻
The adrenaline was still thrumming in her blood as she pulled off her helmet and leaned against a sun-scorched wall. The air smelled like ash and ion discharge, and her armor was coated in dust and dried blood—not all of it hers.
She barely had a second to exhale before Ahsoka appeared like a shadow in the corner of her eye.
“You’re not going to disappear again, are you?” Ahsoka asked flatly.
The reader blinked, slow and tired. “Not planning on it.”
Ahsoka folded her arms, her lekku twitching ever so slightly. “I don’t get it. You show up, cause chaos—emotionally and otherwise—leave, then come back like nothing happened.”
“I don’t owe you an explanation.”
“No,” Ahsoka agreed, “but you owe someone one. Cody? Rex? The Council? The Chancellor? You burned every side of the board and expect to keep playing the game.”
The reader narrowed her eyes, pushing off the wall. “I don’t expect anything.”
“I can’t tell if you’re loyal or just really good at pretending.”
Before she could snap something cutting back, a calm voice intervened behind them.
“That’s enough, Snips.”
Anakin strode into view, hands on his belt, expression unreadable. Ahsoka glanced between the two of them, jaw tight, but ultimately nodded and walked off with a muttered, “Fine. But she’s not off the hook.”
Once she was gone, the reader exhaled through her nose. “She’s got a mean right hook. Bet she’s even worse when she’s got words.”
“She’s protective,” Anakin said with a shrug. “But she’s not wrong. Just… a little blunt.”
They stood in silence for a while, watching the twilight settle in soft purples and oranges across the broken landscape. She looked over at him, surprised to see him still there, just… waiting.
“No lecture?” she asked.
“Nope.”
“No cryptic Jedi wisdom?”
“I’m fresh out,” he said with a smirk. “You want some unsolicited advice instead?”
She gave him a dry look. “Why not. Go for it.”
Anakin leaned against the same wall she had been using as support. “You’re a mess.”
“Thanks.”
“But so is everyone. That’s the secret no one talks about. We’re all running on fumes, bad decisions, and half-formed ideas of what we think is right.”
She let out a breath of a laugh. “And here I thought you Jedi were supposed to be the poster boy of moral certainty.”
He shrugged. “Not me. Never was.”
Silence again. This time, more comfortable.
“I liked fighting with you today,” she admitted, surprising herself more than him.
He smiled. “I like fighting with you too.”
She studied his profile. “You’re not like the others.”
“That’s probably both a compliment and an insult.”
“Take it however you want.”
They both chuckled softly.
“Thanks for not asking about the Chancellor. Or the others. Or—”
“You don’t have to talk about it unless you want to,” Anakin said simply. “Not with me.”
She looked down at her hands, cut up and shaking slightly. “I don’t even know what I’d say.”
“Then don’t say anything yet,” he said. “Just… be here. For once.”
Her chest ached at the simplicity of it. She nodded, almost imperceptibly.
And for a moment, just a moment, she was someone without secrets.
⸻
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I say shit like "If my memory serves me" knowing damn well it serves the dark lord
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